“I understand.” Tobias looked back at Cosima. “And please believe me when I say I am so, so sorry—”
“Enough!” the Proctor barked.
Tobias’s words died, but his insides screamed, tortured by his mounting shame.
“Kneel, Artist.”
He did as told, plainly aware of the Proctor’s critical glare traveling over him.
“You’re dismissed.”
He rose from the floor and headed back into the holding cell, returning with far less dignity than when he had first arrived.
Tobias rejoined his comrades, the world around him fading from his consciousness. The scene played in his mind, sending him wincing with each repetition, but the single most agonizing vision was the look on Leila’s face and the sheer fact that she had borne witness to his shame.
The very last man reemerged in the holding cell, boasting of his grand display—the challenge was over. Tobias stared at the portal, waiting for the revelation of his fate, and finally the Proctor appeared.
“Follow me. All of you.”
The men eagerly filed behind him, but Tobias didn’t share even a fraction of their enthusiasm. Each step he took felt like his last, as if he willingly headed straight to his death. Soon he stood within the line of men staring at those familiar faces—at Cosima, who wore a demure smile, and at Leila, her eyes lit with anger.
“Your challenge is finished,” the Proctor said. “The Savior has reviewed the gifts presented, and a winner has been chosen.”
Heads turned Tobias’s way, and he shrank under the weight of their stares.
“The winner of today’s challenge…is the Prince.”
The room filled with curious whispers. Flynn’s head perked up, and he shook the shock from his face, replacing it with a confident grin.
“Your reward is extended time in The Savior’s company. You will be summoned shortly, this afternoon.”
“And I look forward to it.” Flynn flashed a smile at Cosima.
The men stirred, preparing to leave, but Tobias kept still. It isn’t over.
“Now, for more pressing matters.” The Proctor’s voice came out hard, booming. “This challenge, unlike some of the others, wasn’t designed to have a loser. However, in light of recent events, changes have been made. One of you has failed to complete today’s challenge, and thus steps have been taken to…correct this matter.”
Another flurry of whispers, except this one was peppered with surprise, confusion. Tobias closed his eyes. It’s only going to get worse.
“Any man here today must be fiercely devoted to the tournament. Willing to risk his life, to do all that is asked of him for the sole purpose of pleasing our Savior.” The Proctor scowled. “If this doesn’t describe you—if you are unwilling to lay down your life for the Woman before you—then you are unfit for the Sovereign’s Tournament. You are unworthy.”
Leila’s eyes brimmed with anxiety, the sight enough to cripple him.
“Right now, I present you with a task. Each of you will have the chance to nominate a single competitor, one whom you believe is unworthy of this tournament.” The Proctor turned to Tobias, glaring. “And we’ll start with the Artist, seeing as he was the only man unable to complete today’s challenge.”
Each and every gaze darted in Tobias’s direction, and he cringed. This is the single most humiliating moment of my life.
“Artist,” the Proctor snapped. “Step forward.”
Tobias did as he was told, half-wishing he would collapse to the floor, dead in that very moment. Prying eyes followed him, but he refused to look their way.
“Who do you believe is most unworthy of this tournament?”
Tobias fought past his chagrin, focusing on the question. Most unworthy, but so many men fit that description. Neil, with his lecherous comments, Drake, a heinous killer, and of course Kaleo, the vilest man he had ever known, but when his gaze panned to Leila, a decision effortlessly spilled from his mouth.
“The Giant.”
The men glanced between Tobias and Antaeus—the first man nominated.
“And what is your reasoning?” the Proctor said.
“He’s admitted time and again that he isn’t here for The Savior. He’s referred to Her in lewd terms, has openly confessed he cares not for Her but for coin and glory exclusively.” Anger swelled within him, his blood simmering. “And his contempt extends past words, as he has murdered a man for defending The Savior’s honor and assaulted a woman of The Savior’s court—”
“You fucking shit,” Antaeus hissed.
“Silence,” the Proctor spat. “Artist, you may step back.”
Tobias obeyed, avoiding the gazes of his competition, but Antaeus’s stare was inescapable.
“Giant, since your name has been called, you are next to speak.” The Proctor waited as Antaeus made his way to the