The trumpets blared, and the crowd erupted into a fit powerful enough to shake the arena.
“Our first five men are united by their quest for knowledge, art, and truth. These men long to dazzle The Savior with their wit, to stimulate Her mind, to enrapture Her by unlocking the confines of Her heart.” A grin spread across Wembleton’s plump cheeks. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you the Savants!”
A gate opened at the opposite end of the arena, and for the first time, Tobias could barely see one of the other competitors—his first opponent.
“Our first competitor and first Savant, I present to you, Isaac!”
A short fellow marched from the cell, his deep olive skin splattered with freckles, his hair blackish brown. He stood on the center podium and held his chin high, awaiting his laurel.
“The Jester!” Wembleton shouted.
Another roar from the crowd, and the Jester made his way to the side of the arena. Moments later, a second gate opened, and Wembleton’s voice sounded again.
“Our second competitor, Hansel!”
The next man looked soft and delicate, his hair white-blond and skin fair, and when he took his stance on the stone slab, he seemed out of place in the wild arena.
“The Poet!”
Tobias went tense. The Jester. The Poet. He told himself to feel relieved, that his opponents were weak and thus the odds were in his favor, yet he couldn’t shake his anxiety. These men were Savants, after all—and so was he.
“Next, we have Raphael!”
A third man entered the arena, one with rich, brown skin, long, lean features, and a face dripping with apathy.
“The Intellect!”
And again the crowd cheered, though Tobias figured they’d cheer for anyone at this point. Before he could bemoan the audience any longer, another gate opened.
“Without further ado, Milo!”
Tobias’s stomach dropped. Milo had been selected—Milo, of all people. He looked ridiculous in his armor, like a child playing with oversized props, and though he took to the podium with the utmost confidence, it seemed hardly justifiable.
“The Benevolent!”
Damn you, Milo. Tobias wasn’t sure how to feel about the revelation—if he should be relieved to have an ally in the tournament or fear for Milo’s life—but one emotion stood prominent over all others: unmitigated dread.
The gate in front of him shook, unlocking from the sand with a clank. Slowly, it rose into the ceiling, creaking with its ascent and displaying Tobias for all to see.
“And now, our final Savant. I present to you, Tobias!”
The applause hit him like a shock wave. Tobias headed into the arena, his shoulders stiffening as the sun poured over him. The cheering intensified with each step he took, and though he tried to ignore it, the sound became deafening, consuming. There was no pride in this moment, no honor, yet his chin rose with authority, heeding the call of the ferocious crowd. Slow-moving seconds passed before he placed both feet on the podium, and Wembleton’s voice sounded from above.
“The Artist!”
How creative. The cries of the people had become violent, as if they were proclaiming their bloodlust, demanding Tobias’s death for their amusement. Without a hint of enthusiasm, he trudged toward his fellow Savants and took his place beside a beaming Milo, who spoke to him out of the corner of his mouth.
“I see you’ve managed to relocate your sac.”
“Shut up, Milo.”
Wembleton threw his arms overhead. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Savants!”
Another roar resounded from the pews, and Milo spun toward Tobias, not bothering to hide his excitement. “This is brilliant. I can’t believe you entered!”
“I’m a bit surprised myself,” Tobias mumbled.
“Do you know what this means? We get to compete together!”
“Or it means we’ll have to kill one another.”
Milo frowned. “God, you’re always so cynical.”
The cheering evolved, morphing into a single phrase. Soon enough Tobias could make it out, and he swallowed a groan, wishing he would disappear into a puddle in the sand.
“What are they all saying?” Milo said.
Tobias growled under his breath. “Bait.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’re the first to die.”
BAIT, BAIT, BAIT. The word pulsed through him, taunting him, and he balled his hands into fists.
Wembleton continued with his dramatics, rambling on about the Stalwarts—“Men of honor and hard work,” as if the Savants were neither of those things. As he babbled, Milo gazed up into the audience.
“What are you doing?” Tobias asked.
“Looking for my family. Do you think they’re here?”
Tobias went cold. What if my family’s here?
“What if your family’s here?”
Tobias grumbled, his shoulders curling under the weight of the audience’s gaze. “Stop it, Milo.”
“I can search for them if you’d like. Do you think they’d come?”
“I don’t want to know.”
“I could find them for you—”
“I don’t want to know.”
Milo glanced over Tobias’s glower and shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Tobias stood in silence as the Stalwarts were announced: the Brave was first, followed by the Farmer and the Physician, but Tobias was too distracted to care. Next came the Cetus and the Hunter—the latter was certainly the largest man thus far—and still Tobias thought of nothing but the crowd. Were his mother and sister there? Were they watching him at that very moment?
A swell of squealing tore from the audience. Wembleton had announced the Lords, “Men of culture, class, and striking masculinity,” and the Savants at Tobias’s side groaned with mutual disgust.
“Oh hell, these guys,” Milo scoffed. “The pretty ones. No substance, just coin and cock. What woman wants coin and cock?”
The Jester laughed at the end of the line. “All of them. That’s like asking what man wants wine and tits.”
The Lords began filing from their respective cells. The Noble and the Regal were the first to emerge, and the women in the pews swooned over their strong builds. The Prince was next, followed by the Cavalier, and though each appeared as dashing as his laurel implied, it was the final Lord who stirred the audience into an uproar. The Adonis took to the podium, his body like chiseled marble, and he smiled up at the stands, flipping his golden-brown locks from his face and sending the women into madness.
Milo gasped. “Dear God in the heavens.”
“What?” Tobias said.
“What do you mean what? That man is the embodiment of physical perfection.” Milo let out a defeated sigh. “God, I hope his cock is small. Who am I kidding? It’s probably perfect. I hate him already.”
“For our final category, we have not ordinary men, but warriors.” Wembleton’s words bounced off the stone walls. “These men aim to prove themselves to our Savior, not through charm, but through power. Will they impress Her with their strength? Will She feel protected in their arms? Ladies and gentlemen, the Beasts!”