Page 125 of The Ballad of a Bard

“Almost,” He mused mirthfully and swung her around to the second staircase that would spit them out at the bottom of the Pits. “You have two fights tonight, so I suggest that you find that secret hiding place of yours and change into your leathers.”

Her lip twitched but she didn’t fight against it as he brought her to the gate. Altivar hoisted her around, wrenching her upperarm as he held her in place for a final threat. His amber eyes were alight with something dark, turning the citrine shade to a molten gold that sent shivers down her back. The pupils turned serpentine, feline as he surveyed her. The only sign of theCreaturethat lurked below, treading dangerous waters to come.

“Remember who I have in my hold, little Saint.” He warned with a simmering resonance that licked through any bolt of confidence she might have had. “Try anything, and those crowns I promised to your brother will be used to ensure that he never leaves that sickbed again.” He leaned even closer, enough that she could make out his tattoos through the low cut of his scarlet shirt. “I’ve already killed one Saint. I can easily do it again with your lover. Your blades aren’t the only Saint-made weapon in the castle.”

“I hate you.” She said as her rage coiled around her, tucking her powers in tight as every single heartbeat found her. It was a wardrum that beat with every passing second, and she could barely make out his.

“And I don’t care.” He shoved her towards the opened gate with a rough force. “Get dressed.”

Crimson didn’t try to argue, not for Cobalt’s sake. Not even for West as she found the path that descended into the darkness. The familiar walkway soothed her in the way an old friend did, even if it held the metallic smell of salt and steel. Competitors passed her, laughing as a girl entered their part of the arena.

She ignored them all.

There was already more fiery rage in her system than she’d ever experienced before. It had to be the heart she’d consumed, transforming everything intomore.She had never been short when it came to her emotions before, but it was like everything was doubled, tripled. Her passion was alive, a hurricane of loveand lust and life that she could hardly control. Her anger was a raging storm, one brewing a deadly potion beneath her skin. Her sadness brought about the blue force of a crashing ocean, relentlessly pounding against her inner walls.

Crimson would harness it all for her fights.

She found the simple bathing room without any problem, making sure that no one was around as she entered and locked the door behind her. The sink sat directly in front of her and she dropped her bag into it, slipping out of her boots and setting them aside as she began to hang the pieces up, one by one. She caught a glimpse of her muddy face and the hair that had seen better days in the oval mirror.

Crimson took hold of the washrag in the metal loop attached to the wall and added some water with soap to it, scrubbing at her cheeks, her forehead, her chin. She dragged it over her neck and under her arms, wiping as much of the grime away as she could without a bath.

It only took her ten minutes to change into her fighting leathers. And as she shifted out of her shirt, she noticed a new mark on her chest, right over her collarbones.

A Saint symbol.

Over each collarbone, a red ribbon sank in and out of her skin, wrapping around them in a feminine grace that she didn’t mind. And right between them, in the small gap of her clavicle- lay a ruby heart. Not an anatomically correct one like Heartache’s talisman or the ones that graced her knives, but one that Cobalt liked to draw. She admired it for a second more, tracing over them before shoving her head into the jacket.

There were men in the town that had tattoos, Altivar included. Though now that she’d gained some of her own, there was a tendril of thought that allowed her to believe that perhapsthe Prince had gained them through his Saintly powers instead of the needle dipped in ink. Crimson had never considered decorating her skin with any sort of ink, and yet she found the ones that magically appeared to be fitting, pretty even.

Someone had left a comb atop the single shelf and she used it to her advantage, brushing through whatever tangles she found. That took another five minutes, wincing as a small, unsalvageable clump tumbled to the dirty floor. Her fingers made fast work of it and tucked the three strands into a braid, letting it fall down her back. There were no pins in the bag, and the ribbon must have fallen out on the ride over because no matter how many times she searched the satchel, it wasn’t there.

Men had hair in their faces, it would be fine.

Then she pulled her beloved knives out, buckling the belt around her waist and adjusting it until they sat right. She knew that the only reason Altivar let her even use them for her fights was because they no longer allowed him to control her. She had missed the feel of them, even if their use was nothing short of horrible.

The dark grey cowl came next, pulling it up until her nose was covered and only her hazel eyes stared out in her reflection. She tugged the hood over her head, hiding the long braid and fixing it into place under everything. The taut gloves followed, folding the ends into her sleeves as Red Lyric appeared.

Crimson didn’t let herself falter as her alter ego fell back into place, grabbing her items and stuffing them into the empty bag before swinging it over her shoulder and exiting. She set it on a hook in the waiting room, ignoring the gossip that floated up to meet her ears as the other fighters took her in.

Red Lyric is back!

Is that him?

Wasn’t he dead?

I heard he quit after Grimm tried to kill him.

His last fights were the best.

She made it up the fat hallway, passing a bloodied winner as they panted, slinging their rusted axes back into their belt.

Altivar was waiting for her at the very top of the stone hill, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the arena boys drag a limp body out of the ring. Red trailed in the sand, staining the grains as they prepared for another round.

Her round, she assumed.

The Prince didn’t turn as she halted by his side, watching as the rakes turned the sand over, erasing any evidence of the gore left behind. Men scrambled along the rafters, readying their bets for whomever Zion announced next.

“You’re up, Heartrage.” He said and the crowd hushed into an eerie silence as crimson rose petals began to fall from the sky like drops of garnet blood.

---