Page 130 of The Ballad of a Bard

“Every day that I remained here,” She panted, “I watched you teach the others. I watched you train by yourself. I watched all the other fighters that you praised for their victories.”

War’s lip curled.

“Youwantto be proud of me. You always thought I was your best and I can see the disappointment now that you know what I finally am.” She snapped in his direction, his black-like blood oozing off her smoky steel. “I relish in that. I relish in the fact that CrimsonfuckingBard, a girl from the Bronze Gate, a serving girl in your own establishment, rose to the top and tookyou down.” Her hazel eyes flicked over to him, his words in her mouth and West couldn’t be prouder of her.

He couldn’t have loved her any more, either.

Enough was enough. The Saint was tired, clear by the hazing pain that clouded in his eyes, the lancing way it immobilised him because she’d torn his joints apart, severing the tendons that allowed him to move with such agility, strength and speed. He was still trying to fight, trying to condense all of his wrath, his bloodthirsty power into defeating them but it was over. He wouldn’t be able to truly fight back without ripping his body to the point of unfixable damage.

Was it wrong to think that his old mentor lookedrightcoated head to toe in blood, even if it was his own?

West summoned another moon slice to his hand, thickening it and sharpening the edge until even he felt his own hot blood in the cup of his palm as he gripped it firmly. Stars blurred, clouds burst and the moon exploded. He sent it flying, watching as it sank into the male’s chest.

Directly under his heart.

Crimson darted back, twisting her knife until it was upside down and plunged it up into his chin. The soft squelch sent shudders rippling over his skin as red poured down her arm. It rolled off the leather sleeve as she discarded one glove, the other following after pulling her knife free.

War gasped for air, a death-rattling sound as she kicked him down. His knees hit the earth as she towered over him. West blasted an additional pulse of starlight as white as possible in order to keep him down for as long as possible. He was the god of war, of blood and bones and brittle death yes, but against two Saints?

He was as weak as any other human.

Crimson stalked around him, surveying the best place to strike.

“Let me.” West insisted as he held out his hand, the glee of winning another bout taking over. For the scar on his neck and for everything he’d done to her over the years of her service to him.

He wanted to do this.

She wordlessly gave over one of her blades.

There was no way that he could kill the Saint without avoiding any damage to his heart, but as long as they gathered most of it up afterwards, it would work.

“Goodbye, War.” West said as he turned the dagger south and drove it home.

Sixty Three

They found a vial within the alcove where Roland usually dolled out the crowns and aprons for the evening, tucked on one of the shelves that held half-filled bottles of watered down liquor, tin cups with handles and extra trays. Crimson had searched high and low for something to pour the heart remnants into, finding that most of the cups on the ground still held a bit of ale in them. And even if her brother was dying, she wasn’t going to give him alcohol.

A similar bottle to the one that stored Muse’s heart caught her eye, one that she pulled off the shelf and examined briefly. A fat middle on top of a thin base, with green and gold segments. And old perfume bottle, if she had to guess. Something that Roland often insisted that the girls put on to make them appear more… well, appealing. With the rank smell of rot that the Pits bore, an additional dab of perfume could go a long way to help with sales. Sweet smelling things with the promise of others, the art of seduction whilst selling.

When she silently held out the small glass vial toWest, he took it, uncapped it and removed her dagger from War’s heart. He set the vial in the blood-soaked sand, making sure it could stand on its own before handing her knife back to her. She took it and placed it at her waist as he reached into War’s unmoving chest and dug around. Nasausa rolled over her like lazy waves on a shore as he searched for the glass heart, emitting a sound as he appeared to have found it. With a careful extraction, he withdrew his arm and pulled the delicate organ out.

Instead of the shimmering vermillion that she half expected to see after Muse’s dust, it was nothing of the sort.

Instead, a black heart lay in West’s hold.

It was far larger than a regular heart would be, almost twice the size. Considering that War himself was reaching seven feet, she supposed it made sense. There was barely any sparkle to it, as if there had been no room for light in his immortal life. But as West turned it over for a better grasp, she spotted the traceable glimmer in the very depths of the onyx.

“Take the vial.” He instructed and she did, placing it below his hands as he brought them together. As his fingers began to fold inwards, a quietcrunchsounded that made her stomach tumble like a weed on the wind. Dust began to spill from the crevice he opened underneath and she made sure to stay still as the dust trickled into the tall neck of the glass bottle.

Crimson wasn’t sure if it was disgust or intrigue that whirled inside of her as he continued to crush the heart ever so slowly to make sure that she caught it all. Probably both, if she had to guess. The Saint acted like it was an art form to crush a heart, nothing more than adding a final stroke to a painting. There was no stain on his skin as his hands came together, filling the vial entirely.

He eyed it, rubbing the remainder into it and inserting the twisted topper once more. “There.”

“It’s still strange to see it and think of it as a heart.” She held it up to the faint light leftover from the candles that he hadn’t blown out on his arrival, turning the glass this way and that as the faint shimmer glowed vibrantly. “Muse’s was a deep red, like wine. I thought perhaps his would be too, but black is more fitting considering who he was. I’m curious to know what yours would be. Rich blue, like your eyes? Gold like your skin?”

She imagined that it would shine far more intensely than any of the others since he was the physical embodiment of a living star. There was a small picture in her head that if she smeared his powder across the back of her hand, that it would gleam like pigmented paint.

“I’d rather not like to find out.” West wiped his hands on his charcoal pants and rose, standing a few inches taller than her.

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