Page 87 of The Ballad of a Bard

West eyed her hand as it rubbed back and forth over her chest, enjoying the sensation of the thick beat that thumped in perfect rhythm.

“I know.” She said softly. “But what happens if we go back and we don’t find him?”

He sat beside her, taking his hand in hers and locking their fingers together. The pulse became a roar, loud and undeniable as he smiled down at her.

“Then you and Cobalt will move into my rooms at the Spinning Compass without another word. I won’t mention it to anyone but Leysa, not even to Muse and you’ll be safe there. I’ll tell Altivar that it’s over and that you won’t be coming around anymore. Hopefully, that will be enough to stay his hand, if he is this mysterious C.”

Crimson didn’t like the idea of ending their fake relationship, not when it was a semblance of a real one with him.

“I don’t want to go back empty handed.”

“Nor do I.” He admitted and leaned towards the headboard, wearily resting against it. “But it’s unfortunately not something we can control.”

“No?” She teased, trying to lighten the mood.

There was an actual, living Saint in the room. One that glowed with an incandescent, ineffable light and yet it felt as if she’d plunged them both into an indescribable darkness withthe morbid topic. This wasn’t them, either. They had serious conversations, yes, but Crimson wanted fun. She wanted the laughing air and the smiles that never ceased.

“As much as I would like to control things like Imp, Dream or even your father,” West shot her a look out of the corner of his eye, “I’m afraid that I’m just a very large candle.”

“Don’t forget the trust thing.” She pointed out, kicking him lightly with her bare foot.

“How could I forget?”

Crimson giggled quietly and he grabbed her ankle, yanking her down. She shrieked as he began to relentlessly tickle the pad of her foot, causing her to squirm and writhe in dislike.

“Quit it, you beast!” She shrieked, kicking and flailing as his grip became ironclad.

“What, you don’t enjoy being tickled?”

“No!” Crimson gasped out for air as tears welled up in her waterline. Her stomach hurt from laughing so hard, her bones aching from the constant movement as she tried to break free.

West let out a tender chuckle and threw her foot to the side. “When we return to Tazali, I promise you that we’ll start searching for whoever this C person is.”

She hummed, “Is that a deal from a Saint?”

He scoffed, glancing at her. “Of course.”

Crimson held out her hand, folding all of her fingers down except the very last one. He lifted a thick brow as if to say,are you serious?

She only wiggled it even closer.

West let out a long suffering sigh and linked his with hers, twisting them together. She beamed at him and broke it apart.

“Good. I’m going to hold you to that.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Heartstrings.”

Forty

When they set out in the morning, she hadn’t expected two days of gruelling travel. West had previously told her that it would take two days on foot to reach Belledon, but she’d been completely exhausted after the first day. So much so, that she’d stumbled into the bed and fallen into the deepest, blackest sleep that she’d ever had in her entire life.

No dreams, no nightmares, nothing.

The third morning came far faster than she’d thought and she wasn’t prepared for the early call of West gently shaking her back to life. But she simply waved him off with a mumbled ‘thanks’ and washed up before changing into a fresh set of clothes as he paid their bill and they headed out once more. According to the Saint, Belledon was only two hours away if they were setting a fast pace.

So when they came across the town nearly an hour and a half later, Crimson supposed they must have flown on swift wings.

The houses were in a state of disrepair,but less so than when they’d first stepped foot off of the ship. Belledon at least seemed to hold an air of refinement, or wealth. If it could even be called that. But in comparison to the port of Valkrigge or the small towns that they’d marched through, it seemed to house those who bore a few more crowns to their name, in their pockets. The streets were nothing but dirt and mulch, with the occasional stone tossed into the muddy mix.

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