Page 7 of The Ballad of a Bard

Grimm, the owner and also another Saint.

The Warrior.

Devoted to the hunger for blood and the sacrifices of mortal men. He lusted for the kill, loved the smell of death, lived for vain slaughters.

A faint smile rose to his face. “I’m well aware of his rules, butthat’s no man. I’m assuming that’s whyshegoes by a pseudonym. There’s good money in it for all. Even if it’s humiliating and downright vile.”

“Saints.”Altivar’s face turned to the point of snow. “Well then. This is going to tense matters up far more than I hoped for.”

The roar of the thirsty crowd might have unsettled other anxious competitors, but it only added to her delicious anticipation of the event. The cheers of the rich as they urged her to take him down, to fight, to win. The hollers of the middle class as they lusted for something to fill their time, to spend their precious coin on. The yells of the poor as they watched their fellow man tear man apart and allowed themselves to feel like a god over others for once.

Crimson Bard stared at her opponent.

She wasn’t afraid of him, nor should she be.

Not when there was nothing but bulking mass, instead of a single cognitive function. She’d fought against men like him before, even if they were slightly smaller. Not when the stakes in her end were nothing easy.

She hated the pits.

She hated the Blades of Blood.

But she had no choice.

Not when she was the only source of income for her and her younger brother, Cobalt. Ridiculous names, she knew. But her mother died after giving birth to her brother, with the last request upon her blood-stained lips. Crimson wasn’t one to deny her that, so she kept true to the name and gave it to her sibling before their mother left them for good.

Cobalt seemed to catch every illness imaginable, which waswhy he couldn’t work alongside her. Not that she could send him out on the streets to beg. High fevers that caused him to turn pasty with a blue tinge, or rapid sweats that made his sleep unimaginable. Medicine was expensive, especially when only one of them could truly work.

But she fought for them, for him.

Crimson wasn’t sure if they shared every drop of blood together or only half; but regardless, he was her brother and her responsibility. Her father left when she was on the verge of becoming eighteen, after her brother was born and their mother died. He had claimed a broken heart following her death and wandered off into the sunset. Exactly eight years ago.

She hated him.

She wanted to kill him for abandoning them like that. That was the fiery fury and rippling rage that she poured into all of her fights. Because for a pretty girl like her, there were only a few ways to earn the money she needed to afford their cost of living below the Silver Gate. Crimson wasn’t particularly talented in detailed sewing or finding the correct, non-toxic flowers to sell. She wasn’t desperate enough to resort to selling her body either.

But fighting?

She held a natural talent for the sport.

Even if women weren’t allowed in the pits.

But Red Lyric, her alter ego and male counterpart, allowed her to fight fairly. She won all of the rounds she entered, picking and choosing which battles would best suit her. Crimson supposed if they found out her true nature, that they would toss her out and never let her or Red Lyric enter the Pits of hell ever again.

She held a secret though.

One that allowed her to win, even if it was technically cheating.

Crimson wasn’t daft.

She knew who her father was.

Where her crimson hair, her namesake, came from. She knew why she could control the weak emotions of men. Why her thick eyelashes could flutter and she could place the barest of touches towards another in order to suggest a switch in emotions. To persuade them to take pity on a small, helpless female in order to let her win. Of course, she took those risks in small quantities to avoid being caught.

Crimson palmed her knives, left behind by her father. One of the only things, including herself and possibly her brother. The beautiful blades were as long as her forearms, with silken handles that were painted in pure scarlet. The steel itself was smoked, as if held over a flame until they burned. At the pommel, a heart was carved inwards.

Because her father was Heartache.

A Saint, one that she cursed every day for leaving them to the predicament of fate.

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