though Tobias tried to feign confidence, he couldn’t help but anxiously study the red ribbons zigzagging ahead of them. Just when he feared they’d have to navigate the obstacle arm in arm, Leila examined the wall, running her fingertips along its surface before pressing firmly against a single brick.
The silk dropped from the walls, falling into piles on the floor.
“Well that’s convenient,” Tobias muttered.
Kicking the ribbons out of their path, Leila led the way through the tunnel. Tobias half-expected the shooting arrows to make an appearance, yet there was nothing—no lethal impaling, no blood. It wasn’t long before both the sanctuary and the obstacle were far behind them, and once again Leila’s fingers danced along the wall, settling on a brick before pushing down. The wall caved in, revealing a hidden stairwell made of hard, grey stone.
“See?” she said. “We’re still alive.”
The two hobbled up the stairs, met by a cool, evening breeze. Sitting along the top step, they situated themselves beside opposite walls; Tobias leaned against the stone surface, staring at the latched gate overhead and the crystal stars sparkling between the bars.
“What is this?”
“One of the many paths to the surface,” Leila said. “They’re scattered throughout the labyrinth so the Proctor can come and go as he pleases.”
“And you, of course.”
Leila didn’t respond, and Tobias focused on the sky above. He couldn’t help it, as after his time underground, the sight of it was foreign, as was the fresh air, the moonlight.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Leila followed his gaze to the black above. “I’m like you, you know. I don’t sleep much. It started out for the usual reasons: fear, nightmares. I felt haunted, really. But now… I don’t know, perhaps I’ve adapted. But I rather like the darkness.”
Tobias smiled. “Just as your name suggests.”
Quiet filled the stairwell, and again Tobias stared up at the sky, longing to be standing above the gate rather than sitting beneath it.
“You can’t leave,” Leila said. “I’d open it for you—let you run off—but Brontes would track you, and you’d be charged with desertion.”
His eyes darted to hers. “You’d let me go? Really?”
“I’d let all of you go. If I could. This tournament, it’s vile. Just like its creator.”
“The Sovereign… You must really hate him.”
Leila didn’t answer. She fiddled with her cloak pocket, pulling out a peach. “Here.” She handed it to Tobias. “Eat.”
The peach looked delicious, and God, he was hungry, but Tobias eyed Leila skeptically. “Is it safe?”
She plucked the peach from his grasp and bit into it. “Tastes safe to me.” She tossed it back to him.
Chuckling, Tobias tore into the fruit. Leila nibbled at her own peach as well, then abruptly unfastened her black cloak, letting it drop from her shoulders.
Tobias froze. He had never seen Leila without her cloak, and he found himself more curious than he had expected. She was small and svelte, her figure perfectly accented by the cinched waist and flowing skirt of her heather dress, its straps plunging between her breasts. Don’t look at her breasts. His gaze darted up to her face where it belonged.
Her face—he had seen it before, but for some reason it was clearer, as if he were only just seeing her for the first time. Her features were at odds with one another, her ghostly skin rivaling her dark-chocolate locks, her sharp cheekbones in opposition to her pillowy lips, yet the dichotomy suited her. Her hair flowed in long, full streams far down her back, catching the moonlight along its way, and her eyes were large and amber gold, with the tiniest freckle sitting above her left cheek.
Tobias’s eyelids fluttered. He was staring—but Leila was doing the same, squinting as if there was something on her mind.
“You’re staring at me.”
“I’m thinking,” she said.
“Thinking what?”
“That you don’t look like an artist.”
He shrugged. “I’m no artist.”
“Is that so? Your laurel suggests otherwise.”
“I’m a laborer. I work in the sugarcane fields.” He rested his head against the wall. “I was an artist. Almost. I was almost an artist.”
“Care to explain?”
Tobias stared down at his peach, rotating it between his fingers, not wanting to look Leila in the eye.
“It’s all right. I suppose it’s personal—”
“I was an apprentice,” he said.
Leila wavered. “Oh? For whom?”
“Petros Elia.”
“Petros Elia?” Her eyebrows shot up. “His work hangs in the palace, you know.”
“I know. He’s a legend.”
“I imagine it’s very hard to secure an apprenticeship with him.”
“It was. I worked under his teaching for, oh, I don’t know…” He thought for a moment. “Two years? Maybe longer.