Page 9 of The Ballad of a Bard

“No.” The captain of the Watch shook his head.

Altivar turned his mouth upwards. “I’m looking for love.”

Four

Crimson walked towards the rusting gate as clapping erupted, copious amounts of money was won and lives were ruined with a single, ill-placed bet. The creaking gate rumbled upwards, allowing her to walk through and abandon the fighting pit behind her. She passed another competitor on her way out, not bothering to motion a simple greeting to him. He smirked at her small frame, as they all did, and went willingly to his death.

She could still feel the carnage and gore on her hands, even if they were gloved. The warm, sticky rush of blood as it poured out of several versions of joints and ligaments. Even if the men she took on were the worst of the worst, she made sure to make it quick. Death was already punishment enough, prolonged suffering didn’t need to be added to it.

Unlike some of the brutes housed and trained here. The select few who enjoyed the thrall of the kill, or the warm rush of scarlet over their hands as they made their opponent suffer. Those were the sorts that Crimson gladly took on as well.

Candles embraced in metal holds adorned the stoned wall, red bricks in every other spot. They guided her further and further until the sconces were barely visible. The hallway turned and so did she, finding the huge room where the other competitors awaited their turn anxiously. There was the rapping of knuckles on steel, the tapping of scuffed boots on the granite and dirt floor, the picking of skin from bare palms as they all sat and sweated in silence.

She nodded once towards a couple that she knew the names of, ones that she would never enter the ring with. They dipped their chins back in respect towards her.

Well, towards Red Lyric.

None of them knew who she was and they would never find out. Not unless she wished to stop her facade and give up on making any coin for her and her brother.

A few grumbled about their odds ifhemade it out of the arena, how the fights must be slow today ifhewas still standing.

Crimson didn’t dare to remove any of her leather until she was out of sight for anyone. Her jacket was made of two different shades of red, with a hood that hid her hair. A metal hair pin and a clever hook inside the hood kept it in place, as well as a ribbon that kept her bangs out of her face. Crimson, like her namesake, along the outer shell and blood red for the middle panel, as well as in stripes on the puffed sleeves. Her matching high-waisted pants were sticky, thanks to the heat of all the bodies within the underground chamber.

Her hand found her bag on the back wall, along all the other men’s personal effects and freed it from its hook. She tugged at the corded laces of her black boots, loosening them from the constricting grip as she sank down another level to the singular bathing chamber where contestants could change.Before she could reach for the door, Grimm, who owned the pits, approached her.

“Tonight’s pay.” He held his hand out, offering a satchel of coins, tightly tied off with a thin cord around the neck of the chestnut bag. “You fight well, as you always do.”

“Fighting to survive is one thing. Fighting towin,is entirely different.” She took it with a narrow bow of her head.

Grimm was not an attractive man. His shoulder length blond hair was choppy, as if he’d taken an axe to it when it became unbearably long. She wouldn’t put it past him. He seemed to never have enough patience, even for the small things in life. He looked as if War found a human shell and occupied it, adding nasty scars like a collector did rare books.

He leaned back, taking her in. “It looked quick and easy. I’ll add an extra five crowns if you can make the next one last twice as long.”

For Saint’s sake, twice?

She barely managed to keep the violent opponent off of her today, let alone win. There was only so much of her powers that she could use in plain sight without it being obvious as to what she was doing. She wasn’t even sure about the furthest extent of her gifts, let alone what they could do if she accidentally lost control of them in an underground arena full of folk.

“Twice?” Her voice was low, into the masculine rumble that her brother helped her find to help sell the image that she wasn’t female. Another reason why she wore the charcoal gloves, too. Because even her hands looked feminine.

“The crowd came here for entertainment.Makeit entertaining.” He crossed one bulking arm over the other.

She contemplated it, heavily. “As long as I’m the one who walks out, who collects the money at the end of the match, fine.”Her shoulders shrugged. “I can take them down in five minutes or fifteen.”

Crimson didn’t flaunt her confidence much, but when she was blessed with the supernatural gifts of a Saint, she allowed herself quick moments.

He flashed his yellow teeth at her. “Make it fifteen then, next time. Five extra crowns in your winner pouch for the extra trouble.”

Twentycrowns.

That was enough for an entire week of food and medicine, if she used it sparingly. A portion of rent, included.

She didn’t dare show the elation that spun around like a whirlwind tornado inside her. “When am I up next?”

“Two days.”

With that, he left.

Crimson locked the door behind her, making sure there would be no interruptions. It only took her eight minutes to pull out the female clothes, to strip off her fighting leather. To release the cotton band that held her chest closer than it should have been and loosen her hair from the braided bun that kept it away. When the corset was under her breasts and the skirt was hitched enough for a quick get away if she needed it, she shoved everything back into the brown bag and slung it over her shoulder.

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