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“Grimm announced that Red Lyric would be making a return to the Blades of Blood.”

Her skin was too tight as he went on.

“But he added a little fact at the bottom that had hundreds in an uproar. Because you see, Lyric, he might have mentioned that you would be revealing your identity in your next round, after you faced off with another legend.”

“No,” She whispered.

“Oh yes,” He chuckled gleefully. “Your death won’t come by the hands of an executioner with an axe. Nor will it come by the swing of a rope with a short drop. You turned Red Lyric into a spectacle, one that is too fabulous to die so quickly.”

“Why are you doing this? What did I ever do to you in order to make you hate me this way?” Crimson questioned, having to know what brought her death even faster than it ever should have been.

“I told you to find Heartache for me. I gave you several opportunities and you failed, flat out refusing to do so. I even threatened your brother in hopes that you would take heed of the notes and find him. But no. Then you had the audacity to flaunt him in my face when you did find him.”

“He’s here, isn’t he?” Her chin came up as she looked at him for confirmation. “My father, he’s in the castle.”

Altivar gave it to her, nodding carefully as he crossed one leg over the other. “Yes. And soon, you’ll have a familiar cellmate.” He leaned forward. “So you won’t only have West watching your ultimate demise, but your father too.”

“You can’t do this.” She argued, because nothing else seemed to pop up in her head, no logic or answer or way out of whatever he had planned for her.

“Yes, I can. In eight days time, Red Lyric will appear in the pits for his very last fight, against the Warrior himself. And just before the end, before War decides to slit your throat for breaking the rules, he’ll unmask you to your adoring public.”

A tear slid down her face, followed by several more.

Altivar watched the destruction as it settled into her, finding divine enjoyment out of her predicament. “I’ll make Heartache watch. I’ll make him see as you die and his heart will thrive in every single emotion that crawls into it. It’ll be far more powerful than it’s ever been before. Then, when it’s glowing with sheer strength and magic, I’ll cut it out and eat it.”

Fifty One

He raced back to his part of the castle, searching for a strand of red, for bangs that stuck out, anything that would alert him to her whereabouts before everything went upside down.

Before Altivar, and the numerous guards searching the palace, could drag her away for a crime that he knew she didn’t commit. Even if Crimson had told him that she enjoyed the fighting aspect of Red Lyric, she’d sworn that she despised the killing part. And he believed her, trusted her. She’d shared with him why she’d even taken on the challengers when War took over, who they were and what they did.

West admired her for that.

They were horrible people, ones who deserved nothing but death. But Muse, she had been the complete opposite. And Crimson wouldn’t have touched a hair on her head. Someone must have stolen her daggers, wherever she’d stored them and set her up to take the blame. It was known far and wide- thanks to Rapscallion Voss- that only a Saint-made weapon could kill a Saint. Who had known that her blades were immortally forged however, was another question entirely.

West suspected Altivar, and no one else.

He turned the corner and flung his door open, stopping as he frantically scanned his rooms for any sign of her. She wasn’t in the bed, wasn’t in the bathroom, wasn’t in the living room. He angled towards his office as he quietly shut the door.

“Heartstrings?” West murmured, his gait taking him around the desk. He didn’t dare use her name. “Are you in here?” He heard a small shuffle, bending until his knee met the carpet.

“West?” She called out and his heart twisted in relief. There, crouched under, she had shoved herself into the space where his chair normally sat.

“Hey, Heartstrings.” He sat beside her, letting his back hit the opposite wall as she made room for him. Fear was bright in her hazel eyes, waterlines red as she wiped at her nose. “Thank the Saints I found you first.”

“I heard them as they passed.” Crimson whispered. “They said that I did it.” Her resonance was raw, as if she’d been crying. And he had no doubt of that. Even if Crimson was one of the best fighters he’d ever seen, she was also caring and compassionate. He’d witnessed it with her brother several times over, enjoying it even as she took care of him, putting him first.

“I know,” He uttered, sighing as his head hit the underside of his desk with aca-thunk.“I heard the bells and raced to see what had happened. In my hundreds of years in this realm, I never…” Emotions clawed up his mouth, tearing at the remnants he still bore. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

“So it’s true then.” She mumbled, dragging her knees up as her pants creased. The leather groaned with protest. “She really is dead.”

“Yes,” West responded. “And I think it was Altivar. He was the first one there, holding her as I rushed in. I’ve never seen the man cry before, but he was sobbing over her corpse. An act, it had to be.”

His mind cruelly replayed it over and over again, allowing himto see nothing but the cold golden eyes of Muse. The way her arm lay like a ragdoll, the way her neck craned at an uncomfortable angle. West was glad that Dream had taken away all the night-filled swevens, otherwise he’d be haunted in his sleeping hours as well as his waking ones by the sight of it all.

His chambers became swarmed as the doors slammed open, smacking the walls and swinging back and forth. He lurched to his feet, urging her to stay down with a quick glance.

Fourteen men entered, with Prince Altivar on their heels. His hands were tucked casually behind his back and his eyes still bore the bitter sadness from the previous event. Altivar strolled forward, clearing his throat as he approached West.