plowed his fist into Antaeus’s bloodied gut, sending him curling forward, gripping at his open wound.
Away. Tobias materialized beside the competitors’ pew, turned on his heel, and sprinted toward his adversary yet again.
To the side. Skidding to a halt, he scooped up a handful of sand and tossed it in the Giant’s eyes. A shrill cry escaped Antaeus, but Tobias wasn’t stopping.
Away.
Heart firing, Tobias bolted forward. Antaeus tottered back and forth, one hand clutching his gut, the other clawing at his eyes, and his ankles buckled. Tobias slid to his knees.
In front of him.
White light pulsed through him, and then he was sliding toward Antaeus—beneath Antaeus, as the Beast was falling over him. Tobias thrust his sword up, and a massive weight landed on his blade.
Did it work?
He looked up at Antaeus’s aghast expression, then down at the sword in his hands, which disappeared deep into the Giant’s stomach.
Tobias’s hands shook, perhaps from the adrenaline, or the weight of Antaeus, or the fact that he had stabbed a man at all—or maybe it was the fact that he, against all odds, was still living.
Antaeus snarled, his voice thick with blood. “You little cunt.”
His stare went vacant, and his body slumped onto the sword—and onto Tobias, threatening to suffocate him. With a grunt, Tobias mustered his remaining strength, rolling the Giant aside before staggering to his feet. He breathed in.
I’m alive.
The noise of the crowd filtered back into his consciousness. His gaze shot toward the pews, landing on his mother and sister, their hands clasped over their mouths and cheeks wet with tears. They didn’t see me die.
But they had seen him kill.
“The Artist stands as victor!” Wembleton cheered.
Tobias ignored him, focused on his mother, on Naomi. Are they well? Naomi’s skin looks warm. Is she taking in sun? She’s out of the cottage, after all. He kissed his two fingers and pointed them at his sister, the crowd roaring in response.
“Artist!” Wembleton grinned, his arms wide. “You live to fight another day in our esteemed tournament. You live to fight for The Savior’s heart!”
The Savior. Cosima stood at Wembleton’s side, wearing a knowing smirk.
“Kneel,” Wembleton said, “for The Savior, and if the fates deem you worthy, for your future Bride.”
Tobias did as told, cringing as his knee touched the ground. My Bride. Soon his mind was elsewhere, and so was his gaze, traveling to his holding cell.
To Leila.
She stood in the shadows, her amber eyes perfectly clear even from a distance. A calm flowed through him, cooling his veins that once burned like fire, and when Leila began to smile, he couldn’t help but do the same.
“Everyone, join me in celebrating the Artist!”
I’m alive. He rose to his feet, staring at Leila until she darted away. The noise of the crowd consumed him, leaving him with their chant.
“ARTIST. ARTIST. ARTIST. ARTIST.”
Tobias trudged through the dark tunnel. Every twinge and ache sent the battle barreling into his mind: the swing of Antaeus’s bardiche, the blade swiping his chest. His blood had long since dried on his skin, leaving reddish patches among the filth and sweat, all signs of pain, exhaustion. But none of that mattered.
He was standing. He had survived.
Cheering filled his ears. The other men followed his lead into the sanctuary, grabbing his shoulders and ruffling his hair, but he said nothing, did nothing but place one foot in front of the other.
“God, that was madness!” Caesar laughed.
“I can’t believe it,” Beau said. “Even now, I still can’t believe it!”
One foot in front of the other—and then his feet lifted from the floor as Flynn and Orion hoisted him onto their shoulders. A grin fought its way across Tobias’s face, not for the praise, but for the air in his lungs, the blood on his lips, and every god-awful sensation coursing through him.
I’m alive.
The men staggered to a halt at the head of the sanctuary. Pippa stood by the fire pit, gesturing at the spread beside her: jugs of wine and slabs of meat.
Caesar squeezed Beau’s shoulder. “Tonight, we celebrate.”
And they did, bingeing on meat and gulping down wine until their faces were red and their voices slurred. It wasn’t long before the sanctuary was in a state of spirited chaos, the men laughing and stumbling like imbeciles. Many pestered Tobias with questions—“When did She bless you? How did it happen?”—to which he feigned ignorance. Eventually the attention dwindled, and while the others took advantage of the indulgences, Tobias sat quietly by the fire pit, relishing his survival.