Page 3 of The Ballad of a Bard

Osira hadn’t been the one to set the three levels into motion, but she was the one slowly tearing them down. The previous Emperor, who died due to mysterious causes, had been the one to start separating people due to the amount of coins they held in their vaults.

As if wealth weighed the morality of men.

But regardless of what era he witnessed, men would always be a mystery to West. Humans were creatures of simplicity, or so he often found.

“Strange. I appreciate the information. I’ll make sure to check it out when I make my way through the levels.” He dipped his own head in respect and turned on his booted heel towards the exit as he left her to her reading. The door swung shut behind him and softly hissed closed.

If someone was inquiring after Heartache, and causing a disorderly ruckus in order to find the vanished Saint, it couldn’t mean anything good. Heartache was the only one out of all six of them who didn’t stay in the Empire of Tazali. Within a year of his time in the city, he instantaneously decided that he wanted to venture out past the gates.

No one knew where he was.

Not any of the Saints.

West had an underlying feeling of turmoil that it was due to his mortal lover. Nearly thirty years ago, the wandering immortal popped down to the earth for a spot of tea and chaos, only to find himself hopelessly in love with a human. A curse, when one thought long and hard about it. Because a Saint, with the lifespan of a god, would only be able to watch as the mortal flowerwithered and perished over what would only feel like a decade.

Which was exactly what happened, if West’s inkling was correct. Heartache spent nineteen years in the Empire and left afterwards, joining the rest of the Saints above, then, without a seed of information, he returned to the mortal realm. Muse offered no explanation either, other than the occurring thought that it had something to do with the human woman that the Saint loved more than his own life itself.

It made sense then, if his lover passed away.

Why then he wouldn’t find something of amusement to keep him tethered to Tazali instead of roaming all over Hisaith. But a cold, distant Heartache was a dangerous thing. Very dangerous indeed. None of the six Saints were entirely powerful, but Heartache?

He held the most out of them all.

Heartache’s power was one of the most sought after as well. With a snap of his fingers and a simple gaze deep into someone’s soul, he could see their truest love and their most villainous heartbreak. Many wanted to find him in order to shorten their search for love, to find the one person they were meant to be with. But Heartache rarely let others take advantage of his powers. As his name suggested, he devoured both sides of the most powerful emotion; love.

Heartache loved heartache.

Just as much as he enjoyed chaos.

A drop of his crimson blood, spilled into an innocent goblet of wine, could create the full effect of new love. With every side effect and alluring draw towards the person they first laid their eyes on, unsuspecting or not.

West shook off the eerie feeling that thinking of the troublesome Saint gave him and made for the sparring yard wherethe bellowing grunts of a practice fight in progress could be heard. He reached the overlying wall, resting his elbows on top of the limestone as he peered over to see what the commotion was about.

Prince Altivar Talon ducked under the swing of a wooden staff as a sentry by the name of Rook tried to take him out. Rook growled in insapory disappointment and tried again, failing again. Altivar’s taunting laugh rocketed off the ochre walls as he easily sidestepped the attack and avoided a hit to the side of his head.

West cared deeply for Osira, but her son was nothing like her. A spoiled, arrogant male that didn’t seem to care for anyone else but himself. How a beautifully caring woman managed to produce… well, anasshole, he didn’t know.

“Captain, are you going to come down and join me or just stand up there and stare?” Altivar called up to him without so much as a glance in his direction and slammed his own staff down. Rook scrambled back a few feet, picking up his fallen practice weapon and charging straight on like a raging bull.

“I have other duties to attend to, otherwise I would.” West swiftly answered back down to him. “Looks like you’re keeping Rook on his toes.”

Rook Conquell. A man, over six feet tall with a scar that ran down his lip diagonally, and more muscles that West could count. A new recruit, considering how he almost kept the Prince involved in this round. Most of the men who wanted to try out for the army never lasted three minutes in the ring with the Prince, let alone five.

Rook was on his sixth.

“I’m teaching him how to dance, it would seem.” He scoffed and swatted at the massive man with the end of the wood. “Know of any openings in the academies? He’ll be a far betterballerinathan a soldier.”

West tucked his condescending remark under his tongue before it flew out of his mouth like an irritating fly. This was the way things were here. If a man wanted to join the army, then he had to beat the best fighter in a one on one match. That man just happened to be Osira’s son and heir, Altivar Talon.

The only reason West agreed to stay by Altivar’s side, to guard him, was because he knew that it would break the Empress’s heart if something ever happened to her son. The Saints all stuck together, except Heartache.

Muse, she was better known as.

A stunning soul that adored anything to do with art. Books, she devoured. Music, she relished. Art, she cherished. The list went on and on, and Muse found beauty in everything, no matter the size, which West supposed was why she was blinded when it came to her child. Hewasbeautiful, no one could deny that.

The Prince was more than decently attractive, with dusty teakwood hair that ran in a braid down his back and his mother’s citrine eyes. On his right arm, an inky tattoo of a snake curled up to his shoulder and around his bicep. There was a splatter of cosmetics along his eyes, in a rich shade of cobalt powder that he lined with gold. But his looks and his skills in the arena were the onlygoodthing about him.

The Prince was a half Saint, better known as a lesser Saint. Sometimes the children of the immortal beings gained specks of magic, while others could make mountains tremble. Some have none, and live a prolonged life as humanly as possible.

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