Tobias cringed. A long, bloody gash ran straight across his flesh—right through Leila’s clay handprints. So much for being untouchable. Trying to calm his nerves, he took in a deep breath and stared at the sky above. The battle had only just begun, and already he was injured.
Pounding footsteps sounded behind him as Antaeus barreled his way.
Tobias bolted right as Antaeus plowed through the mirror, shards flying in his wake. Without options, he zigzagged through the arena, hoping to throw the Giant off course, but the sound of glass shattering followed him; Antaeus obliterated every mirror in his path, leaving a trail of destruction along the sand. For God’s sake, what’s your plan? There wasn’t time to think, as Antaeus made his way in front of Tobias, charging straight toward him.
Skidding to a stop, Tobias blocked Antaeus’s assault with his sword. Be quick, but Antaeus was quicker, wielding his weapon as if it were an extension of his body. Antaeus’s skill was unparalleled, his strength savage, and his blade sliced across Tobias’s ribs, leaving him wet with blood.
Another hit.
The crowd roared, and Antaeus flipped his bardiche, thrusting its grip against Tobias’s eye.
Pain exploded through his skull, forcing his eyes shut. Next came a hit to the mouth, his body whipping to the side—and his gladius flying from his hand.
Shit! His jaw throbbed, his mouth filling with blood, yet all that was an afterthought. I dropped my weapon. He opened his eyes, the act alone nearly as painful as the assault, and watched as Antaeus swung his weapon, aiming for his head.
Time crept by, the world around him at a standstill. He had felt this way before—several times, in fact. Here it goes; my life is about to flash before my eyes.
Except it didn’t. Instead he saw his mother and sister sitting in the pews, their bleak expressions. He didn’t know how they fared, if the allowance served them well or if they were suffering all the same. Will my death serve any purpose? He saw Leila waiting in the holding cell, her large eyes, her long, dark hair. I didn’t even get to kiss her. And again he saw the bardiche hurtling toward him. No, his life wasn’t flashing before his eyes; this was entirely different. But that damn bardiche was still coming his way, and he closed his eyes. Get away. Get away. Get the fuck AWAY.
The audience gasped, but Tobias focused on the feeling of nothing—no blade cracking into his skull, no untimely death. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, only to find more nothing—no Antaeus, just stone walls and a slew of mirrors. The holding cell sat behind him, yet it shouldn’t have been there. No, he had been clear across the arena moments ago. Antaeus stood in the distance, his face twisted with confusion—a feeling they shared.
Wembleton gaped at Tobias and cleared his throat. “It seems the Artist is, um… It appears the Artist has, uh…”
Tobias glanced over his shoulder at the holding cell, and a pair of amber eyes connected with his. Leila pointed a trembling finger at her chest, and Tobias looked down at his own—at the clay handprints.
The Savior’s blessing.
The crowd stirred, then cheered, brought to life by whatever miracle they had witnessed. A whisper of optimism bled through him, though it was foggy, mixed with shock and fear and the screaming of his beaten body.
Antaeus’s lips parted stupidly. “How’d you do that?”
I have no idea. But Tobias stood firm, as if the act—whatever it was—had been completely intentional. “Do what?”
“Don’t fuck with me, you lousy shit. You disappeared. In a…in a cloud, or something.”
Tobias studied Antaeus’s sweaty brow, his reddened cheeks—his shame. Use it against him. “In a cloud?”
“In a black cloud. In a shadow.”
“I disappeared in a shadow? Listen to yourself. You sound silly.”
“You fucking shit, I know what I saw.”
“Are you certain?”
“I know what I saw.”
“I do believe you’re confused.” Tobias cocked his head at the mirrors. “It was the mirrors, no doubt. You were confused by the mirrors.”
“Fuck you, you little cunt. I know what you’re doing, and fuck you.” Antaeus’s eyes panned to the ground, landing on the gladius at his feet. “It’s of no matter. You’ve got your little black cloud…” he picked up Tobias’s gladius, “…and I’ve got your limp pisser of a weapon.”
Shit. This isn’t good. Tobias looked at the handprints on his chest—see yourself there, and it