Page 127 of The Ballad of a Bard

She was a Saint, and she was better than this.

She pulled down her cowl, her lungs heaving and spit the bloodied glob off to the side before showing a coy smirk to the flabbergasted man who took in her lithe cheekbones, the feminine grace she knew he saw there, the long lashes.

“But- but you’re a woman!” He sputtered, searching for something in the haze of the excitement. He lowered his weapon, which was a massive mistake.

It wasexactlythe in that she required.

“I’m aSaint,actually.” She informed him and dug deep into the well of power that begged to be used. Scarlet crept into her vision, the mark on her chest heated and she shot for him like a fast comet in the heavens as it streaked by.

Her magic was a ballad as it wove in between his veins, seeking and searching for the center of him, the thing that made him beat. It charged into him and he fumbled back as he must have felt it. She clenched her knuckles, pulling it even tighter as it found his core.

Within her mind, she saw the functions of his form clearly. She swam in the crimson of his veins like it was the pond by their apartment and ran up his bones like they were alleyways to be explored. She trailed up his chest, winding around his ribcage like a bird on the summer wind until she came to his pulsating muscle and paused there to study it for a second. It was beautiful, in the way that gorey things often were, perfectly macabre and beautifully alive.

Crimson sank her claws into it, like a wild carnivore and struck. She made it as fast as possible, her body angling down as her blade pierced his abdomen, right where anyone would for the kill. The man cried out and tried to shove her off, tried to remove the smoked steel but to no avail. It wasn’t the tip of her dagger that would be his undoing, but the power that she oozed.

Her fingers tingled and she yanked her blade out as blood spurted, trickling all over his chest and into the sand as he slapped a palm over it in a vain attempt to staunch it. Crimson inhaled deeply, trying to replace the air in her lungs as she ripped off her gloves, one by one. They fell aside and a bolt of surprise charged through her as garnet began to creep up each digit like gloves of red.

Not blood, because she wasn’t able to wipe it or smear it away. But a stain of another kind. Another Saint mark. As if using her unlocked powers for the first time triggered it, marked her as successful. But there wasn’t enough time to study them all, to rip her arms out of her leather coat and see just how far they went.

She found her gloves once more, settling them back in place before turning towards the Prince with a suggestive glint in her eyes that she knew he saw.

One down, one more to go for tonight.

Crimson ignored the claps and hollars from the men, the cursing from those who lost and the ones who threw things at her. Her back was soaked in sweat and her leathers would need a wipe down before tomorrow night. Altivar gracefully lifted himself from his throne, setting the pretty male aside and coming to the edge of the top mezzanine.

“Again.” Was all he said in that regal tone that sounded like liquid honey before he dipped his head in acknowledgement to her and returned to his chair, swiping the courtesan back onto his lap and whispering something in his ear.

Zion didn’t come back out to the arena, didn’t stand in the middle and announce another round. More rose petals fluttered from the sky, however, as the serving girls tossed them out. She caught sight of Renfri who poured a drink on the Silver balcony before disappearing behind some tall patrons. No young boys came out to sweep the field clear before allowing another round, nothing. Because this was different than any of the previous times she’d entered the ring of her own volition.

She had the daring idea to pull her cowl off, to let her hood fall and see what came of it. Would Grimm refuse to let her fight in any more of the nights? Would Altivar kill her right then and there? Would either of them make her continue with the bloodbath? It could go anywhere, which wasn’t answer enough for her to try.

Crimson angled herself to get a better view of the gate as it swung up, sinking into the designated slot in the ceiling as her next competitor entered the ring from the shadowed alcove. She recognized him from the waiting room, one that often fought and won against others but she’d never personally gone up against him.

Otherwise he wouldn’t be here.

“Let’s get this over with.” He snarled in her direction and she lifted a brow as if to say-what are you waiting for?

It only egged him on.

He was larger than the last one, not only in height but muscle mass as well. He left skid marks along the amber sand as he approached her without so much as a care in the world. His grin was predatory and one that didn’t bother her as she’d seen hundreds of men make the same smile.

They were dead now.

Crimson harvested her energy and twisted her knives in preparation for her last fight for the evening. Then, the roomdropped in temperature, in light, in everything but shadows as something entered the Pits.

No, not something.

Someone.

Her anxious heart lurched as she immediately recognized his presence but there was no time to scan all three of the rows for him as her opponent struck. He sent his curled fist into her stomach, her knees buckling at the sheer force he sent into it. She skidded back a couple inches but didn’t let it deter her as she lifted her daggers and blocked an oncoming blow from his oval shield. The rounded point slammed into the X she created and she hefted her weight into it to hold her stance.

It worked and she applied even more pressure for just a second in order to avoid the weary toll it would take for any more. He was pushed back and growled, baring his teeth at her. She might have done the same had the cowl not covered the bottom portion of her face.

Crimson felt the flicker of the candles around them, begging herself not to look, not to get distracted while she was in the middle of a competition. It wasn’t like it was her life on the line, because unless his short sword was made from Saints-made metal, nothing could kill her. Not truly. She remembered the fight that West engaged in with Grimm, how he’d appeared dead as he’d run him through- only for his name to continue to appear days after.

And even Altivar promised that she’d fight him at the end of the week, which meant that it wasn’t truly death, but a period where a Saint was gone. She wondered where they went during it but sent her concentration back to the task at hand before he could spill her blood.

The man bore a scar over his right eye, one that made the once stunning blue according to his left one, turn a hideous milkywhite. Crimson reached out with her powers once again, diving into his person and lurking about like a sea monster that the legends swore remained in the sea. She was nearly there, nearly located the center of his being to repeat her previous move with her last opponent when he grabbed the rim of her hood and yanked it down.

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