Page 28 of The Ballad of a Bard

To the point of a blinding pain that would incinerate any who laid eyes upon him in his truest form.

A weapon.

One he hoped he’d never have to unlock.

There was a shoppe in the Silver Gate that sold cheap replicas of all the Saint’s items, called the Lucky Talisman. For those who believed in good luck charms, they could purchase mirrored versions of the blessed items for their own sake. They didn’t do anything of course, but sometimes people just needed small trinkets to help their life pass them by.

It was easy to distinguish the real artefacts from the replicated ones. The fakes were always shined to the point of perfection, to glimmer and gleam under any sconce light possible. To look as impressive as the Saints themselves, if such was possible. Whereas the real ones were always dull, used, bland compared to them. They’d existed for centuries, so why would there be any shine to them?

West visited the Lucky Talisman once, just to see what all the fuss was about. He was unimpressed when he left, finding nothing special but another way for the human’s to worship the Saints in lucrative methods.

Just like West, Altivar hardly ever dipped a single toe into his well of magic. Though his was easier to access, and wasn’t as vicious. Depending on whatever form the Prince took, that was.

The bell chimed down in the pit, a signal that the end of the night was here and that there would be no more fights until tomorrow evening when the whole morbid thing started up again. Altivar continuously lounged on the couch, not a care in the world to be seen in his ochre skin. The ruby cosmetics that highlighted his features were heavy but not as much as the glaze of liquor and sex in his yellow eyes.

West made to stand, tugging on the hem of his doublet. “I need to speak with Grimm before we leave. Can you find your own way home tonight, or will you hopelessly fall into another bed of some else?”

“Go, Captain.” The arrogant Prince flicked his fingers in the air in dismissal. “I’ll be fine, regardless of who I spend the night with.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

“Goodnight then, Prince.” West bowed his head in the respect that the heir didn’t deserve, or bothered to even try to earn before striding off and losing himself to the crowd. He wove in and out, avoiding the greasy touch of men who didn’t know how to use a washcloth, or a bathtub for that matter by the smell of them.

He waited for the area to clear as people ambled up the stairs, or down depending on whether or not they had bets to collect or wages to pay for losing. They parted when he asked them to, shoving past them before he got trapped and missed Grimm all together.

He spotted the garnet head of hair first, however, before he could find the massive man that made up the Saint. She paused before him as she undid the cream apron from around her waist.It sagged, as if there was a weighted stone in the single pocket and he assumed it must have been the tips she made from tonight.

West addressed her, finding interest in a vantage point across the room. “I’m on my way to speak with Grimm. Are you prepared to leave here for good?”

Crimson sucked in air. “West, I’ve been ready to leave this place behind for ages. Until now, I’ve never been able to.”

His lips had a mind of their own as they quirked up. “Good. Wait for me outside the Bronzed Goblet. I shouldn’t be more than ten minutes, if this goes accordingly.”

She understood and told him that she would before heading towards Roland’s secluded corner of the Pits to turn in her apron and grab her things, as well as take in the last few wages that he withheld until the end of the night.

West watched her until he couldn’t make out her head of red hair anymore, then turned towards the lowest level and sank down the steps. The announcer scurried out of his way as he saw him approaching, leaving him to his own devices when it came to finding the elusive Saint that never seemed to appear in his own place of bloodshed.

For someone like the Warrior who enjoyed the scent of metal and salt in the air, relished in the kill and savoured the way scarlet sprayed, he never showed his scarred face to revel in it all.

West found that odd.

He tracked down the last level, meeting the ground as he entered the sandy arena. Just like last time, there wasn’t a glimpse of garnet embedded into the sand, nor a sign of death to be seen. Even the walls had been scrubbed clean by one of Roland’s boys who preferred the dirtier tasks to the more scandalous ones.

He couldn’t blame them.

He warily approached the gate, peering inwards. There wasno firelight to guide him, but he didn’t need it. He never would. His sight was one of the only things that he could still use in this mortal shell, without ruining the lives around him with a flash bang of light.

West cupped his hands around his eyes, setting their focus in front of him instead of becoming distracted with the flickering of the arena behind him.

“War!” He spoke to the darkness and everything behind. “I know you’re in there. Are you going to stop sulking like a Saints-damnedcowardand come out to face me?”

A deep, treacherous chuckle echoed from the very back of the stone corridor. It slank into his skin, seeped into his pores and swallowed his immortal soul in one, massive bite.

War’s harrowing face appeared in his perfect vision, climbing out of the oily shade as he grinned like the hunting predator that he was. “If I remember correctly,North,I swore that if I ever saw you again, that I would kill you.”

Twelve

Alesser man might have gone running from the monstrously tall male that stepped into the light, but West was not a lesser man. He was a Saint. One that faced this particular beast before and lived to tell the tale. Sure, he gained the scar on his neck from it, and a story that could rival others, but he was here.

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