assumed so, as all he could hear were the surging flames. Heat pulsed against his back, and the scent of burning wood stung his nostrils, catalyzing him to run faster, to channel all his strength. Light filled the tunnel, the darkness lifted by the glow of the fire, revealing a portal far in the distance.
The sanctuary.
Adrenaline shot through him, turning his fear to fuel. His body was worn, his eyes stinging from the sweat and smoke, yet suddenly he couldn’t feel it; all he felt was power, a strength and control he’d never known before.
Tobias barreled into the sanctuary, toppling into a pile with the other men. Still the tyrannical blaze charged straight toward them, but it stopped abruptly at the portal, blocked by an invisible barrier.
The men froze, watching in slack-jawed bewilderment as the flames died. Eventually the barrier lifted, sending smoke tumbling into the sanctuary, the labyrinth’s kindling reduced to charcoal. Slowly, Tobias pulled himself from the floor; no pains, no exhaustion, and even his wounded thigh was behaving. The day’s trials hadn’t yet taken their toll, or perhaps he was simply adjusting.
Beau glanced between the men. “Can you believe it? No one died today.”
“That’s because your friends weren’t here to pick us off,” Flynn said.
The men muttered uncomfortably before gazing out at the sanctuary—much larger than the last with a fire pit and a spit in its center, the tents spacious, easily tall enough to stand in. Caesar planted his hands on his hips. “Finally. It’s about time they treat us with some respect.”
A rumbling tore through the space. The wall disintegrated, revealing another hidden stairwell, and in it stood the Proctor.
“God, not this cunt,” Neil grumbled.
The Proctor made his way into the sanctuary, scanning the men as if he were counting them. “The first week of this tournament is nearly over. For your perseverance, a reward: comfort in the form of larger tents, suitable beds, and fire for cooking. Enjoy these accommodations, for they are not a right, but a privilege granted for your devotion to our one true Savior.” His lips flattened. “Please note there are eight tents: seven for you, and one for The Savior’s court. A request made by the Healer so the ladies can work without disturbance. It seems some of you have been especially unpleasant.”
Neil let out a snort-laugh, a smug smirk on his face.
“Now for the true purpose of my visit. You’ve survived the labyrinth for another day. But the night is young, and your trials are far from over.” The Proctor’s eyes narrowed. “Welcome to your third challenge.”
Silence. Tobias waited for something to happen—for the walls to open, for some ungodly horror to reveal itself—but there was only stillness.
“Nothing’s happened.” Beau glanced at his allies. “Did I miss it?”
“This challenge will not assess your physicality, but your ingenuity. Your ability to enrapture The Savior with the most basic of resources.”
As the Proctor spoke, a string of servant girls in white dresses waltzed through the portal, standing on either side of him with their heads bowed.
“Each of you will prepare a gift,” the Proctor said. “A token of affection to bestow upon Her Holiness. Whether it’s handmade or an act of care is entirely your decision. You have all evening to prepare this gift, and you will present it to The Savior tomorrow morn.”
Conviction surged through Tobias. I can paint.
“You each may ask for one item—an aid in your endeavor. The options are limitless, but you can only choose one, and you must make this choice now.”
Without so much as a farewell, the Proctor disappeared through his portal, leaving the men with the servant girls.
Neil chuckled. “Too bad I can’t just put my cock on a silver platter.”
The girls scattered amongst the men, and instantly Tobias was struck with anxiety. I can paint—except he needed brushes, canvas, and the paint itself, and he was only allowed one item of assistance.
“What aid do you require?”
A servant girl stood at his side, her eyes boring through his. Glancing around the sanctuary, he searched for a clue, a sign, something to point him in the right direction. Nothing, so he looked over his shoulder at the labyrinth, at the grey stone and black brick, at the piles of ash and charcoal littering the floor.
Charcoal.
Charcoal drawings.
He spun toward the servant. “Canvas.”
The girl faltered. “Canvas?”
“For drawings, paintings. You know, for art.”
Caesar groaned. “Oh hell, the Artist is going to create art.”
“We’re all fucked,” Neil said. “He’s going to win. It’s in his laurel.”