Page 17 of The Ballad of a Bard

He chuckled, as if she said something funny.

Her blood boiled, cheeks heating.

“Youcan’t.”

“Why not?” She knew she’d lose within a couple minutes, but even then there might be some money involved in it for the other party.

“Girlsaren’t allowed in the ring. Your kind isn’t even allowed towatch. You serve the drinks and treats, and that’s it. Now get on before you test my patience. I have other things to handle that are far more important than discussing random facts with you that are useless.”

Crimson tossed her cranberry braid over her shoulder and reached for him again. This time, her thumb and pointer finger found soft spots at his wrist. With every bit of confidence and intent she could muster, she asked once more. “How can one enter the arena?”

The voice that she used wasn’t one she recognized. She could feel his heartbeat between her fingers and the way he blinked slowly as it slowed to a calming pace that thrummed an exciting song to her. It coursed through her like an electric current or a lick of heat as one got too close to the tempting flame. She angled her head in confusion as the melody of life flowed through her and he stopped moving. Crimson applied gentle pressure to the vein she felt and heard nothing but the pound of his life.

She listened, tuning into the notes.

His eyes were wide, but not in fear. In something else, something that almost seemed as if he’d indulged in one too many cups of ale from the tavern above. He beamed down ather, drawing closer but not for anything nefarious by the looks of his drunk and dreamy expression.

His mouth parted and he sounded tired as he answered her. “By putting their name on the roster. Best to use a fake name, in case the other competitors get mad at you for winning, then. We’ve lost a ton of good fighters that way, to revenge.”

Whatever she was doing, it was working.

She didn’t stop, pressing even further for more answers. “How old do you have to be to enter?”

Slow blink. “Twenty-two is the youngest we allow, but we try to limit it to twenty-four. Sometimes some slip past us.” Another lengthy dip of his short lashes.

The starting age was a year older than she was, and she’d just reached twenty-one. But perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst idea to stay and study the fighters. To see how they moved, observe their techniques and talents. To add to her bare knowledge when it came to fighting. To give her a fighting chance before entering the arena.

Maybe she could become one of Roland’s girls as a way to stay in the Pits. To study from afar as she earned decent money, depending on whatever his girls did.

Crimson didn’t let go just yet as she asked another question. Instead, her fingers angled tighter. Not tight enough to hurt, but enough so that his veins thrummed in answer. A more powerful pulse that rushed through her with every thrust of blood they pumped.

She mustered that lilting voice again, glossy and flirtatious as she murmured, “Whose Roland?”

He responded within a second. “He takes care of the serving girls and working boys. He’s always looking for more to add to his group.”

“What all do the girls do?”

There was a nagging feeling in her stomach that sent negative sparks flooding through her, but she ignored it.

“They only serve the snacks and drinks. He’s got other girls too, if you’re interested in a more…fillingposition. They earn more, but it’s harder work.” He mumbled, his green eyes glazing over until his iris’s became barely slitted.

She let go at last, taking a step back.

“Where can I find Roland?”

Four years.

That’s how long it took her before she stepped foot into the ring for the first time.

Four, long years of diving under grabby hands and greedy fingers, of serving weak ale from the tavern above them and taking tips from the nicer of her patrons. Of tying an apron around her waist every night and spending that time in the Pits of all places. But it was perfect. Because she took enough home from the coins that she could afford the care for Cobalt and look after herself at the same time. She could afford the apartment without worry, and they had stable income at long last.

Crimson made a couple of friends through the serving girls who worked alongside her, instead of the cruel ones that tried to make the job a competition. The ones that powdered their noses and added an absurd amount of rouge to their pinched cheeks and rosy lips. The ones that darkened their lashes with charcoal and soot, lining them with ink to create a slanted look to their eyes.

She hated them.

Renfri LeNoble hated them too.

A witty girl, with chocolate hair that fell to her shoulders in straight locks. She loved to mock the others and snicker behind their backs about the way they looked, like prancing geese with long necks and frilly cats with white whiskers, instead of pretty ladies and alluring girls. She was the one of the only three people who knew Crimson’s secret.

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