you know.”
“Thank you,” Tobias said. Zander squirmed against him, and he grimaced. “This is rather uncomfortable.”
A hand gripped at the back of his neck, pulling him from one platform to another. Enzo scowled, cocking his head at the faraway barrier. “You. Move.”
Tobias headed for the fence, the ongoing commotion gnawing at his patience. Men wailed around him while little pigs snapped at his ankles, and slowly his breathing turned heavy—no, angry. Another pig nipped at him, and he stumbled onto a narrower platform, glaring down at the foul creature as if it had slighted him.
Red paint.
He had forgotten about it, but now it was impossible to ignore. He leaned forward, focusing on a single pig.
Words?
Sloppy red letters were scrawled across the pig’s back. He strained his eyes, reading over the text.
The Prince.
He turned to another pig, and another message. The Brave. Another. The Dog. The Hunter. The Prince again, and even more duplicates, each pig carrying its own laurel. His eyes landed on a small, spotted pig, and his throat tightened.
The Artist.
“Out of my way!”
Neil shoved Tobias, collapsing him to the floor. With a groan, Tobias flipped onto his back, gaping at the stampede of pigs hurtling toward him.
They raced with an unexpected fury, their fangs bared, their black eyes wells of ravenous idiocy. A single swine barreled to the front of the pack—God, this one was huge, its fangs like tusks—and it squealed a war cry as it charged toward him.
Flynn slid in front of Tobias and slammed his fist into the hog’s snout, sending it flopping onto its side. Tobias stared back at him, perplexed, as Flynn hoisted him to his feet.
“Did you just punch a pig in the face?”
“I punched a pig in the face,” Flynn said. “Let’s go.”
The two sprinted ahead, lunging at the grid fence and clawing their way up. The pigs propped their hooves onto the wooden planks, squealing as if enraged over having been thwarted, and Tobias’s insides clenched at the sight of their laurels. The Noble. The Artist. He turned away, jumping to safety.
A splat sounded behind him; Bjorne tumbled over the fence, falling flat on his belly, and Beau followed suit, landing on top of him. All the men had reached the other side, each in his own state of recovery, yet their eyes collectively ventured to the grid fence as the pigs rammed into it.
“What was the point of all that?” Zander glanced at the others. “Has the Sovereign gone mad?”
“He’s mad all right,” Caesar muttered. “He’s demented is what he is.”
“You watch your words when you speak of the Sovereign,” Garrick said.
“He’s mocking us,” Caesar spat. “The sick fuck has us running from pigs. Scrambling with our tails between our legs, making asses of ourselves.”
“You forget where we are.” Flynn lowered his shoulders, standing tall. “This is the Sovereign’s Tournament, a competition forged from honor.”
“Did you not see our laurels scrawled across those damn hogs?” Caesar pointed toward the fence. “Well I saw them. The Regal. The Adonis. The fucking Prince. And you know whose laurels I didn’t see? Those three beastly shits with the Sovereign’s blessing. Men who just so happen to be free from this torture, because they’re off sucking on The Savior’s tits right fucking now!”
Flynn crossed his arms. “Strange, I didn’t realize you had any qualms with the Beasts. You looked like old chums last night.”
“Oh, piss off,” Neil sneered. “We can play the game how we please. If you want to align yourself with Savants, then so be it. But we’d rather side with men.”
“Oh, will you both just shut up. Bickering about alliances, and for what purpose? We’re doomed to fail.” Caesar paced the floor, holding his mangled hand against his chest. “This wasn’t an obstacle. It was a message. Brontes—he fucking mocks us. The one-eyed cunt, he thinks us all fools.”
The men squirmed, though the tension quickly lost Tobias’s interest. The tunnel was different, lined in stacks of wood and bundles of twigs. Kindling? A short distance ahead, a mess of red coated the floor.
“Guys.” He nodded at the instructions.
Neil let out a groan. “God, what now?”
Tobias hurried through the tunnel, stopping just shy of the painted message.
RUN
“What does it say?” Beau asked.
Tobias looked back at the others—and then they disappeared, the torches dying at once, leaving the tunnel in darkness.
“Run!”
A boom erupted in the distance, followed by a burst of orange—a raging fire billowing toward them.
Tobias sprinted down the tunnel, plunging into the blackness. The others followed him—at least he