Chapter 9 #3
Sunlight blasted over him as he marched down the grassy hillside. Flynn stood in the middle of a plain—a paddock for horses, most likely—polishing his perfectly shiny sword. He didn’t meet Tobias’s gaze, but the flex of his back revealed Flynn felt him nearing.
“I suppose if you’re not going to muster the spine to speak to me, I’ll speak with you,” Tobias said.
Flynn let out a laugh. “Such a big man, you are. Leila’s a lucky girl.”
“Is that all you can do? Disparage my manhood? Because it isn’t working. I’m not you.”
One quick flick, and Flynn’s weapon was pointed at Tobias’s throat. “Say that again and see how—”
“I’m not here to fight. And if you do in fact care for The Savior as much as you claim, you’d hear what I have to say.”
Neither man moved, an unspoken challenge in their eyes. Tobias didn’t reach for the dagger on his thigh, though it wasn’t lost on him how swiftly Flynn had drawn his weapon, nor had he failed to notice the familiarity of the moment.
“Go on, Artist.” Slowly, Flynn lowered his sword. “I can spare a moment for a common man.”
Tobias bit back his ire. “We don’t have to like each other. Hate me all you want. I promise I’ll lose no sleep over it. But this is bigger than us, and our malice, and the goddamn Sovereign’s Tournament.”
Flynn didn’t waver, so Tobias came in closer, well within striking distance.
“It isn’t just Leila’s life on the line.
If Brontes takes the throne, millions of people across Thessen and all the ally realms will die.
I’ve made peace with our alliance for Leila’s sake.
But if that’s not enough for you, do it for the countless lives hanging in the balance, including yours. ”
Flynn remained braced, though something in his gaze had shifted—understanding, perhaps, or maybe he was considering launching his sword through Tobias’s gullet. Either way, Tobias held out his hand. “Truce?”
The stillness lingered. Then Flynn took Tobias’s arm, clasping it in a too-firm shake.
Tobias clenched his jaw, fighting to keep his expression neutral.
“This alliance will go down in history. You will be remembered for ages as the man who liberated The One True Savior.” He released Flynn.
“You wanted greatness. This is your chance.”
Flynn was rarely a man of few words, but given the situation, Tobias was grateful for it. He backed away, then headed up the hillside.
“Congratulations on your promise, Artist,” Flynn called out.
Tobias looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowing. “We’re not promised.”
“But you will be soon, I take it.”
Tobias allowed the silence to speak for him, and Flynn nodded in response. “The better man won,” he said.
Tobias hesitated before retreating up the hill, waiting for a release that never came.
His stomach was gnarled and knotted, and when flaxen linen fluttered in the distance, he welcomed the distraction.
Two servants, a man and woman in matching dresses, hurried his way.
Flynn bounded up the hill, reaching Tobias’s side once the servants arrived.
“Master?” The male servant spoke between labored panting. “The royal guard is here.”
Tobias’s lungs froze, and he cursed under his breath.
“They’ve requested an audience with the proprietors,” the female servant said.
“Is Keene not available?” Tobias asked.
“Unnecessary.” Flynn gestured toward Tobias. “Take him and the others to the shelter. I’ll address the guard.”
Tobias’s gut lurched. “Flynn—”
“Go.” Flynn turned to the servants. “As your master, that is an order.”
Tobias stood firm, gripping the hilt of his dagger.
“Come,” a servant cooed, taking his arm.
“Master will take care of this.” Surely that was a lie, but the servants were already tugging him up the hillside, his obedient steps in direct opposition to every impulse within him.
His throat sealed shut as the servants guided him across the land, first jogging, then running until they’d reached the villa, and all the while his gut protested, urging him to fight, to stay.
We made a truce. But he hadn’t expected to rely on it so soon.
The servants dragged him through winding corridors, stopping at an Ethyuan rug in black, green, and gold.
Flipping the rug, the servant revealed a wooden trap door that opened to the dusty stairs of a hidden cellar, its walls lined with barrels of grain, wine, and herbs.
The shelter—that’s what Flynn had called it.
Tobias’s mother and sister were already waiting, a handful of servants at their side whispering into their ears and massaging their shoulders, offering comfort, it seemed.
Raphael stood with his arms crossed while Leila paced the stone floor, hands balled at Her sides.
She caught Tobias’s gaze and ran to him, throwing Her arms around his neck.
“Leila.” He held Her tight, speaking against Her cheek. “What is this?”
“Shh.” She pressed a finger to Her lips, then pointed to the ceiling above—wooden beams laid with tiles, sunlight bleeding through each crack and crevice.
“It’s a shelter.” Raphael reached his side, lowering his voice as he leaned over Tobias’s shoulder. “Common in noble estates, particularly the older ones. Allows you a place to hide while spying on potential intruders.”
A safeguard for the rich. Wonderful. The thought vanished as feet trudged overhead—certainly more than one man, a group in tight formation.
Are we under the entryway? Dust spilled from the ceiling, sending the servants scattering, while Tobias eyed the slats as shadows cut back and forth through the sunlight.
A latch clanked, and when the villa double doors screeched open, Tobias held his breath.
“Countrymen!” Flynn’s voice was muffled, joyful in a way Tobias hadn’t recognized since the tournament. “To what do I owe this honor? Are you here to admire our steeds?”
“We have orders to search the property,” a soldier said. “Dictated by the sovereign himself.”
Leila tightened Her grip on Tobias with one hand, the other reaching for Her weapon. Tobias couldn’t help but do the same.
“The sovereign is interested in our stock? I’m very flattered.”
“This is not a business matter. We’re searching for a fugitive.”
“You mean the Artist.”
Leila went rigid. Steeling himself, Tobias kept his gaze on the ceiling, fighting to peer between the slats and ceramic.
“We require access to the entirety of your villa,” the soldier said. “If you cooperate, we can make our presence brief.”
“By all means, search high and low. The full estate, even. But I assure you, I would never allow that traitor on my property.”
Tobias flinched.
“He attacked and murdered a phalanx not far from here.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Flynn scoffed. “The day we met, I saw it in his eyes—could smell it on him. Ill-bred cunt looking to claw his way to glory.” The ceiling shifted, and dirt floated from the tiles. “When did the palace start allowing commoners to compete in the Sovereign’s Tournament?”
The soldier let out a laugh. “Senate was likely piss drunk that day.”
“No doubt about that.”
The two men guffawed overhead while Tobias seethed. The bite in Flynn’s voice was palpable, as were the eyes pointed his way—the gazes of servants, his sister and mother, questioning, pitying. He pretended he hadn’t noticed, but his insides came to a boil.
“So, there’s no chance the Artist is on your property?” the soldier said. “By your will, at least?”
Flynn laughed. “Are you mad? I’ll claim a front row seat at his execution. Hear this and hear it well—if that bastard ever comes near me, you’ll find him at the end of my sword.”
“We could use a man like you in our phalanx.”
“Come back around on your next circuit. My business will be done here. I’ll join you then.”
Leila’s fingers entwined with Tobias’s while he shrank smaller and smaller beneath everyone’s stares.
“Apologies for the disturbance.”
“Unnecessary,” Flynn said. “Continue your fine work. Catch the savage and kill him.”
More footsteps, loud and clomping, then softer, an echo in the distance. The doors slammed shut, sending another wave of dirt spilling onto their heads, though Tobias didn’t think much of it. He was already plenty tainted.
The trap door unlatched and swung open, revealing a servant’s head. “They’re gone,” he said.
They took turns filing up the steps, two servants carrying Naomi between them while her mother and Raphael helped. Tobias and Leila were the last to emerge, eyes trained on Flynn, who stood in the entryway within a circle of servants.
“Wonderful execution, Master.” A female servant bowed. “That was quite the convincing performance.”
“Yes.” Tobias clenched his jaw. “Very convincing.”
Flynn met his gaze, and Tobias waited for it—that dreadful smirk, the mark of his telltale pride. Instead, Flynn remained stoic, and when he spoke, Tobias could’ve sworn he heard the evenness of Keene.
“Anything to liberate The Savior.”