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W est eyed the stunning female carrying a stack of books nearly as tall as she was, with a few in precarious positions. Though, considering the female wasn’t very tall, perhaps his perception was warped. Her lack of height didn’t stop him however, as he asked, “Need any help, Empress?

Empress Osira Talon shook her dark-golden hair and smiled widely at him with flashing white teeth. “I think I can manage, but if you’ll open the door for me, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

He strolled over without a second thought, grabbing the door for her before she nearly ran into it.

“Where is Prince Altivar? Doesn’t he usually carry your multitude of tomes for you?” He questioned as a pang of relief spread through him in the absence of the spoiled heir apparent.

West wasn’t fond of the man, and that was putting it politely. If he had to, he could summon a few choice words regarding the cocky, arrogant royal. Happily, too.

“He’s in the yard, practising his spear-handling with Rook and Satori.” She used her sandal-bound foot to gesture towards the open yard where most of the men practised when they had down time. He was impressed that not a single book toppled from her stacked grasp, or the fact that she didn’t wobble in the slightest. “Something about showing off for the men and women around, and finding a new interest of his.”

West followed her like a dutiful hound as she continued to stroll down the hall, heading for her own room with the perilously stacked tower of books. There were several doors before her room, ones he’d be more than fine to open for her if it meant saving her for an avalanche of knowledge.

“Of course. Doesn’t the Prince ever tire of… flaunting? ” He lifted his brow, knowing the heir’s habits all too well. Females and males that came in and out of his chambers at all hours of the night, and sometimes more than one. The Prince wasn’t exactly private with his night time habits, nor did he want to be. Another way to show off, it seemed.

“Altivar is young, experiencing the ways of the world. Let him enjoy it while he has the freedom to do so. As long as they enter his chambers of their own free will, I see no problem with it.” Osira reached her room at last, and West rushed in front of her to open the door.

“You’re a Saint .” She kissed the air once towards him as a show of appreciation. He snorted, falling behind her once again.

“As long as you have no issue with it, then that’s truly all that matters.” He let the door shut behind them as she began to carefully slide the mountain of books onto her already overflowing desk of partially read manuscripts.

“What, you don’t approve of an ever-spinning carousel of women and men?” Her lovely eyes sparkled with suggestion, and perhaps a bit of mischief. But that was normal for the woman. If anything, West would find it strange to not see even a glint of impish delight within her gaze.

“In all the time you’ve known me, have you ever thought that to be my sort of thing?” He adjusted the sapphire cape that fell from his shoulders. He didn’t like things floating on the wind behind him, but it was part of the uniform and he wore it quite well.

“No, but I’ve also never known you to take a single lover to your bed.” Osira huffed with amusement. “In decades, I might add. Not that I’ve been paying too close attention to what you do in your spare time, so my calculations could be severely off.”

West instantly stopped messing with the article of clothing, his face hardening as if a master carver turned him into perfected marble. “What point is there? You know why I don’t.”

“ of these days, you’re going to accidentally run into someone that has absolutely no meaning to you whatsoever, and find that they will mean everything to you within a blink of an eye.” The Empress scolded as if she were his mother, his matron, something. “And when that doe s happen, because it will - you can mark my words, don’t try to point fingers at Heartache, or shrug it off. Savour it. Enjoy it. Live it. Love it.”

“You’re very good at giving orders, you know that?” A boyish smile appeared on his face, brushing off her not-so-suggestive-suggestion.

She started sorting the tall pile of books into three different piles, each with categories that made no sense to him. “Why do you think I took up this role when I heard there was a vacancy?”

“Because you get bored when you have no power and have to answer to others.” West answered easily enough with a coy slickness that slipped off his tongue. “Or was I supposed to keep that part to myself? ”

Osira stopped her strange sorting to ruefully glare at him. It was all for show. There was never an ounce of parsimoniousness within her stunning person. West considered her to be the nicest soul he’d ever had the good fortune of meeting, and highly doubted ever finding anyone to top it.

She turned her chin upwards. “You could have taken up a role yourself, but instead you chose to be what… a guard dog for the Prince?”

He frowned. “Hey, I’ll remind you that I own a fine establishment that I reside over.”

“Yes, yes. The Spinning Compass. You don’t have to remind me.” She waved her hand in the air, back turned to him as she placed the last two books in different piles. “How many residents do you have currently?”

“Fourteen.”

“Come to me when you rule an Empire.” She laughed lightly, and in the summer wind it sounded like the plucking of harp strings, the blow of flutes, and the whisper of violins.

West picked himself back up and made it to the door. “I’ll leave you be, Empress. I have to go tend to my mighty Kingdom of fourteen people.”

“Be careful when you reach the Silver Gate. I hear someone’s been leaving threatening notes to my subjects down there. Something about finding Heartache.” Osira warned with a clear tone that initiated caution.

There were three levels of gates that kept the city safe and separated by sections. The highest gate, the Gold Gate, was only for those like the Empress. It held the finest merchants around, the rich and desirable, the most beautiful people of the realm. The Silver Gate was a step below that. Hard working men and their families, the middle class that accumulated some wealth over the years. And then there was the Bronze Gate. Known for the lesser people, with the hungry and poor that roamed the streets as they begged for survival.

Osira hadn’t been the one to set the three levels into motion, but she was the one slowly tearing them down. The previous Emperor, who died due to mysterious causes, had been the one to start separating people due to the amount of coins they held in their vaults.

As if wealth weighed the morality of men.

But regardless of what era he witnessed, men would always be a mystery to West. Humans were creatures of simplicity, or so he often found.

“Strange. I appreciate the information. I’ll make sure to check it out when I make my way through the levels.” He dipped his own head in respect and turned on his booted heel towards the exit as he left her to her reading. The door swung shut behind him and softly hissed closed.

If someone was inquiring after Heartache, and causing a disorderly ruckus in order to find the vanished Saint, it couldn’t mean anything good. Heartache was the only one out of all six of them who didn’t stay in the Empire of Tazali. Within a year of his time in the city, he instantaneously decided that he wanted to venture out past the gates.

No one knew where he was.

Not any of the Saints.

West had an underlying feeling of turmoil that it was due to his mortal lover. Nearly thirty years ago, the wandering immortal popped down to the earth for a spot of tea and chaos, only to find himself hopelessly in love with a human. A curse, when one thought long and hard about it. Because a Saint, with the lifespan of a god, would only be able to watch as the mortal flower withered and perished over what would only feel like a decade.

Which was exactly what happened, if West’s inkling was correct. Heartache spent nineteen years in the Empire and left afterwards, joining the rest of the Saints above, then, without a seed of information, he returned to the mortal realm. Muse offered no explanation either, other than the occurring thought that it had something to do with the human woman that the Saint loved more than his own life itself.

It made sense then, if his lover passed away.

Why then he wouldn’t find something of amusement to keep him tethered to Tazali instead of roaming all over Hisaith. But a cold, distant Heartache was a dangerous thing. Very dangerous indeed. None of the six Saints were entirely powerful, but Heartache?

He held the most out of them all.

Heartache’s power was one of the most sought after as well. With a snap of his fingers and a simple gaze deep into someone’s soul, he could see their truest love and their most villainous heartbreak. Many wanted to find him in order to shorten their search for love, to find the one person they were meant to be with. But Heartache rarely let others take advantage of his powers. As his name suggested, he devoured both sides of the most powerful emotion; love.

Heartache loved heartache.

Just as much as he enjoyed chaos.

A drop of his crimson blood, spilled into an innocent goblet of wine, could create the full effect of new love. With every side effect and alluring draw towards the person they first laid their eyes on, unsuspecting or not.

West shook off the eerie feeling that thinking of the troublesome Saint gave him and made for the sparring yard where the bellowing grunts of a practice fight in progress could be heard. He reached the overlying wall, resting his elbows on top of the limestone as he peered over to see what the commotion was about.

Prince Altivar Talon ducked under the swing of a wooden staff as a sentry by the name of Rook tried to take him out. Rook growled in insapory disappointment and tried again, failing again. Altivar’s taunting laugh rocketed off the ochre walls as he easily sidestepped the attack and avoided a hit to the side of his head.

West cared deeply for Osira, but her son was nothing like her. A spoiled, arrogant male that didn’t seem to care for anyone else but himself. How a beautifully caring woman managed to produce… well, an asshole , he didn’t know.

“Captain, are you going to come down and join me or just stand up there and stare?” Altivar called up to him without so much as a glance in his direction and slammed his own staff down. Rook scrambled back a few feet, picking up his fallen practice weapon and charging straight on like a raging bull.

“I have other duties to attend to, otherwise I would.” West swiftly answered back down to him. “Looks like you’re keeping Rook on his toes.”

Rook Conquell. A man, over six feet tall with a scar that ran down his lip diagonally, and more muscles that West could count. A new recruit, considering how he almost kept the Prince involved in this round. Most of the men who wanted to try out for the army never lasted three minutes in the ring with the Prince, let alone five.

Rook was on his sixth.

“I’m teaching him how to dance, it would seem.” He scoffed and swatted at the massive man with the end of the wood. “Know of any openings in the academies? He’ll be a far better ballerina than a soldier. ”

West tucked his condescending remark under his tongue before it flew out of his mouth like an irritating fly. This was the way things were here. If a man wanted to join the army, then he had to beat the best fighter in a one on one match. That man just happened to be Osira’s son and heir, Altivar Talon.

The only reason West agreed to stay by Altivar’s side, to guard him, was because he knew that it would break the Empress’s heart if something ever happened to her son. The Saints all stuck together, except Heartache.

Muse, she was better known as.

A stunning soul that adored anything to do with art. Books, she devoured. Music, she relished. Art, she cherished. The list went on and on, and Muse found beauty in everything, no matter the size, which West supposed was why she was blinded when it came to her child. He was beautiful, no one could deny that.

The Prince was more than decently attractive, with dusty teakwood hair that ran in a braid down his back and his mother’s citrine eyes. On his right arm, an inky tattoo of a snake curled up to his shoulder and around his bicep. There was a splatter of cosmetics along his eyes, in a rich shade of cobalt powder that he lined with gold. But his looks and his skills in the arena were the only good thing about him.

The Prince was a half Saint, better known as a lesser Saint. Sometimes the children of the immortal beings gained specks of magic, while others could make mountains tremble. Some have none, and live a prolonged life as humanly as possible.

There were two ways to kill a Saint.

To break their heart or to mortally wound them with a Saint-made weapon. Something forged only by the hands of an immortal.

Anything else would not work .

“I need you to come with me tonight.” Altivar dodged another blow only to land a perfectly aimed one of his own; directly to Rook’s stomach. The man gargled a foul curse word before gripping his torso and edging back a few steps. There was a white circle drawn around them in the sand. step outside of it, and he was out.

Not that it mattered at this point.

Rook was already approved to join the guard based on his practice round. The additional minutes were just bragging rights.

“Where?” West started to descend the nearby steps that led down into the training yard. His interest was piqued, considering the Prince didn’t often ask for his company. Something that he was more than grateful for.

“The Pits.”

“No.”

“I’ve got something there that needs my attention. It’s all the way in the Bronze Gate and I’m not travelling that far south by myself.” Altivar tossed his staff to an attendant, signalling that the round was over. The boy stumbled as he ran to catch it, the end thwacking his neck as it landed in his grasp.

“No.”

“Repeating the same word over and over again is not going to dissuade me, Captain.” The Prince chortled, swiping up a chilled cloth from a silver platter and dabbing it to his barely sweat-ridden forehead. There wasn’t even a bead of perspiration, yet he wiped it all the same- skillfully avoiding the cosmetics. “Regardless, I’m going. It’s just the matter of if you’ll be by my side or not.”

West’s top lip twitched in irritation. “Why can’t you just send another representative in your place? It’s far too dangerous for you to be down there. ”

“Unsupervised, yes. Which is why I’ve asked you to tag along.” He ran the damp cotton along the back of his neck, sliding it up his cheeks and over his mouth. “Either you or Satori.”

The mention of his fellow captain was enough to stir him into action. Satori stood by his side as they led the Watch. But she watched over the Empress, which was far more important than running down to the Bronze Gate for an evening in the most foul place in Hisaith.

West debated the pros and cons of taking the heir down to the darkest levels, to the fighting pits of blood and gore and gambling. With the coy smile that the Prince sported, he knew it would be a lost cause to disagree once again. Even if he tried to station two men outside his door, Altivar would only sweet talk them into letting him out, or potentially even joining him. And because he was the Prince, West couldn’t do much about it.

He sighed reluctantly. “Guess we’re going to the Pits.”

The Pits.

A dank, damp, mildew infested arena underground. It was a way for the unfortunate souls who resided there to earn extra coin by showing off what little skills they had. Bloodthirsty rats basically. And within the arena was a gambling game known as the Blades of Blood. Two men entered the ring, only one came out. The spoils that went to the victor were enough to raise them up a gate level, if they put up a good enough show.

Altivar grinned like a mountain cat, “Yes, yes we are.”