Page 109 of The Ballad of a Bard

“Hmm, tomorrow then.” He commented before gesturing for the men to toss him inside. They obeyed and he grunted as they let go of him, only for his feet to stumble.

The bars were thick and cold by the feel of them and there was dirt that lined the floor from previous prisoners. There was no hay for him to lay on, no bed for him to sleep on if the person next to him was any indication. There wasn’t even a bench for him to sit on or a chair to rest on. Only a bucket to relieve his needs, and nothing more. At least there were no chains that kept him confined to the wall, restricting his actions.

The small things were what mattered.

Connor approached the front of the cell and growled, “Let me out of here, Altivar. You have no idea what or who you’re messing with.”

A guard’s hand found his sword at his hip, ready to whip it out to protect the male if needed. Connor almost laughed, that wouldn’t stop him. The only two things that could kill him were a Saints-made weapon or if someone broke his heart. Even if he created the other five Saints- four now, they wouldn’t die if he did. He’d only gifted them a bit of his power, his immortality, created them from himself. Those pieces, they were already gone. They had detached and become their own things, which would live on far after he died.

“Oh, I know precisely who you are, as I stated near the healing ward.” The Prince snorted, rolling his citrine eyes and crossing one lean arm over the other. He folded one leg back, the crimson pants moving with him like a ripple on water at night. “And it’s you, who has no idea what’s happening.”

He clicked his fingers and the nearest sentry swung the lock into place, making sure that no one could mess with it before handing the key to Altivar. He pocketed it after fingering it and turned around on his sandal.

“Enjoy yourcompany.”The Prince waved at him from behind and strolled out with a cruel laugh that bounced off the stone walls. “I think you’ll find her to be fascinating.”

The guards followed with swift gaits, leaving Connor alone with the one other person that remained in the dungeons. And as the laugh finished bouncing off the stone, she stirred at last. He watched her from his spot against the cell door, hands gripping the bars.

The girl couldn’t have been much older than twenty-eight, but dirt and muck smeared her pale face. Her hair was dark, filthy from her position on the ground as she pushed off of it and wiped at her cheek. She sniffed as her back straightened towards him, her legs shuffling as she tucked them under her.

He couldn’t see much of her, since she faced away from him but as she turned, his breathwhoosedfrom his lungs.

The girl angled herself to get a better look at her surroundings, as if she’d forgotten where she was or what she did to deserve being tossed in a terrible place like this. And as she slowly spun around, he saw it all.

Hazel eyes, with green and gold spun together.

Pale skin, with a blue tint.

Crimson red hair and a long face that he knew.

Connor sank down, his knees buckling as he took her entire being in. “Saints…” He whispered, finding the floor as she glanced towards him.

She didn’t recognize him.

His own daughter.

“Crimson…” He murmured and felt the onslaught of tears as his waterlines burned. “Is that you?”

The girl locked up, her mouth popping open as she studied him right back. Her hands shook as she swallowed, a small gasp falling from her lips.

“Connor?” Her voice was small, meek, unbelieving. He didn’t know what he expected, but hearing his name, the one he’d given to her mother, broke a little part of him. She’d always called him father, looked at him with such joy in her eyes that he’d burst with pride and happiness that she’d been his child.

But now, as Crimson Bard looked at him, he saw none of that.

He saw nothing but hate.

And it turned him to stone. His insides curdled to the point where they felt like soured milk.

Connor nodded slowly, “Yes.”

Fifty Three

Crimson stared at the male across from her, unmoving and unwilling to believe that he was here, right in the cell next to her. He looked almost exactly the same, except for the bags around his broken-glass eyes that reminded her so much of Cobalt’s, and the red hair that had been directly handed down to her. It wasn’t even a shade off, it wasexactlythe same. She tried to soothe her raging heartbeat but to no avail. He must have heard it, had to have heard it after all, since he was Heartache.

TheHeartache.

The creator of all the Saints, the very reason that life exists at all. He heard every single heartbeat, listening to them like they were the music of his soul, because they were. He was the most powerful of all the Saints and more importantly, he was her father.

Herfather.

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