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Fitz Oakley, a lanky male in Roland’s service also knew. He’d been the one to help her learn the moves, to help her with the footwork and even enter in the ring before her. It was because of him that she knew how to slouch correctly, walk right, and even spit like a man in case she needed to go one extra step to prove her masculinity. Crimson owed him alot, but never had the chance to repay it. Because his short winning streak in the ring ended abruptly, as soon as Grimm purchased the Pits.

He lost, and not just in the round but in his life as well. As the Blades became bloodier.

It wasn’t too long after she’d started up the serving work, but he was a new face. One that she’d never forget. Because instead of both warriors leaving the ring with scrapes and bruises and scratches, one would never step foot out of the sand again.

He raised the stakes.

To a deadly line.

Grimm was almost seven feet tall, and looked the part of a death god from the moment that Crimson laid her eyes on him. Blond hair that almost shimmered with an immortal grace, and brilliant, brown eyes that seemed to glow with a red tint. He was tanned, with muscles that covered every inch of his form. And there were scars too, along each patch of skin on display. He never seemed to be found without a scrap of leather and chainmail, always clad in armour as if he were always expecting a fight.

As if he wanted the mortals to see him for what he trulywas. Most were blind, and couldn’t tell anything past the tips of their noses, but a clever few would be able to take one look at him and know what dwelled beneath his beige skin. Herself, included. Just like with her father, Crimson knew what he was.Whohe was. There was no other Saint that fit him as well as the Warrior’s description did.

But even with the hungry male taking over the Blades of Blood, that raised the age of entry to twenty-five, and added the harshest punishment of all for losing, there were some advantages. Because Grimm trained the competitors himself. He physically got into the ring with them and taught them all how to be better warriors, stronger fighters and meaner opponents.

And those long night shifts began to pay off even more as she saw them all too. As she learned alongside them from the shadowed alcoves in all three levels. It got to a point where she began taking the early hour shifts, cleaning the leftover remains from the previous nights, in order to gain as much information as she could before trying her hand in the ring.

Crimson didn’t just spend her time serving other men and learning how to wield weapons, either.

Within the four years before she stepped foot into the ring, she honed her gift too. She played around with it as sheaccidentlybumped into men as they passed her by, as she stumbled into their chests and found their strongest veins that linked directly to their hearts. It got to the point over the many years where she no longer needed physical contact to maintain a connection.

It helped, but it wasn’t necessary.

But eye contact was.

She could find the startling whites of anyone’s eyes and smile a simple smile at them, and gain absolute control of their emotions. The intent to play puppet master had to be availableto her, for her to find it within herself and harness it before she could access their feelings, but it wasalwaysthere. A little string that ran along their myocardium, for her to pluck and play with, whenever she’d like.

Toying with their heart strings became a game.

And when she created her persona, made the fabled legend himself, she knew the powers would come to her advantage. She saved up a small portion from each night, tucked aside in a clear jar that she kept under their bed in the apartment. And when it was finally full, she purchased her red leathers.

Leathers, not chainmail.

Because she could move as fast as a viper in them.

Whenever she found spare time in the following two weeks, Crimson wore them. To get used to the slight constriction they gave, the creaking of fabric and the additional layers that she didn’t normally wear. When she finally felt comfortable in them, when they became a second skin at last, she pulled out the long box from under the bed.

It was the only place that they had to store the select valuables left over from their parents. Each of her mother’s simple pieces of jewellery had been sold off long before then, as well as any of her dresses that didn’t fit Crimson. But these, she could never andwouldnever sell.

Her father’s knives.

The weapons she practised with, following the steps and swipes that Grimm taught his students. The ones that were as long as her forearms, with a heart carved into the hilt. Red handles, like the colour of her hair and red sheaths that she could attach to either side of her hips. The blades themselves were a work of art. There wasn’t any carved intricate detail engraved into the steel itself, but the smoky shade was stunning.

It was with these, that she entered the Blades of Blood as Red Lyric, and he was born from nothing.

Her first fight, she almost lost.

The male she faced off from couldn’t have been more than a year older than her, and even though she practised the exact moves that Grimm showed the others, he nearly had her in the last two minutes of the round. But with a quick slip of her fingers under his ochre jacket, she found his pressure point in his wrist and convinced him to go down.

For the first time, Crimson took a life and truly embraced Red Lyric. All this to help her brother live, and it was all worth it.

Eight

Her next fight came quickly enough, considering she spent the last two days by Cobalt’s side and nowhere else. Renfri came to check on her after she missed a shift in the Pits, but offered solace and covered for her with Roland. Sleep was limited and the small amount she got wasn’t nearly enough to make her feel well rested. But it would have to do, because on the third night, she was scheduled to enter the ring against two different competitors. Those were not as easily missable as a serving shift was. Especially not with how much fame and fortune she held in her hands by pretending to be Red Lyric.

Tonight would be different though.

A well-rehearsed dance, a practised game.