Page 3

Tw o

H e hated being here.

The amount of people crammed into the crumbling, round arena made him feel like a sardine in a tin can. There was a sweaty man brushing up against his left, shouting down at the two competitors in the ring, and another filthy human on his coattail. West could practically see the scent trails wafting off of his hulking shoulders. The entire underground chamber reeked of piss, blood and metal.

Not particularly in that order, either.

The room itself wasn’t terrible when it came to design and space. It was more a matter of how many humans were packed inside. The air was thick with sweat and screams. There was a rafter above the first row, where the men gathered with slips of crumpled paper, waving them in the air.

“Bets,” Altivar informed him with a gleeful smirk as he purchased three on a certain individual with a melodic name.

There were three ways to make money off of the scheduled, illegal, fights down here .

The first option was to place large sums on each warrior that entered the ring and see if it paid off. Each fight held a certain amount of bets allowed, and it seemed to be a rush of madness in order to get the tickets purchased before the bell rang and the match began. Once the time slots were settled, the betting closed. Additional bets or withdrawals were not allowed once the bell had rung.

The second was to sponsor the competitors. The well dressed men in the very front section of the first row, closest to the sandy pit, were the ones who purchased new supplies and armour for the fighters. They invested in them by making sure the mortals held the proper equipment to survive a few rounds in the ring. In exchange, they took home a decent portion of the money as well as a finders fee from the fighter themselves.

And finally the third, was to fight in the pit themselves. In the Bronze Gate, money and good jobs were scarce thanks to the multitude of people who lived there and snatched up every available task. This was the most dangerous gate out of the three, though looters often waited outside for prey to snatch away the coins that tumbled through the fingers of those fortunate enough to have lady luck on their side.

There was no Saint for that.

If the fighter did not make it out of the pit, then a compensation fee would be sent to their family and relatives in order to ‘make things fair’.

Most mortals tended to be a bit barbaric, as shown by the two men currently fighting in the pit.

West watched in a disgusted way that wouldn’t allow him to pull away. From their spot up in the veranda, he could make out the entirety of the fighting pit. The large chamber was a massive circle. Surrounding the pit that was filled with a thick layer of beige sand, was a wall of granite. The bedecked sponsors and the announcer stood around it, eagerly awaiting the outcome of the soon-to-be-over battle between two very different men.

Then, slightly up by eight feet, was the first row of spectators. There were about thirty-eight men shoved all around it, screaming down at the warriors that beat each other into a senseless pulp. The calibre of humans was not that of the finest, mostly heavy-pocketed men. These were the hardworking folk that made up the Bronze Gate.

In the second row, another eight feet up, were the men of the Silver Gates. With slightly more to their names. Names were everything here. A certain surname could get you into the right sort of places.

Or the wrong, such as this one.

The third row was for the richest men of all, the men of the Gold Gate. They held the strings and controlled the puppets below as they funnelled coins into illegal fights like these ones. Pitchers of wine were passed around by serving boys, no older than twelve and girls who carried out sweet and savoury treats which often included themselves, if they were of age.

In order to enter the Pits, one had to find the tavern marked with a swinging sign that read, “ The Bronzed Goblet ”. A simple cup sat on it, but the scarlet liquid inside wasn’t wine; it was blood. At the counter, Altviar whispered an order for a steel cutlass. The barmaid wiped her hands on her apron before ushering them to a secluded room, showing them the door that led down into the depths of despair and death.

West hated the sneaking suspicion that coated him in an oily layer as they entered the establishment. Down they went, through many staircases until it felt like they found the bowels of hell itself. Now, seeing the pits for what they truly were, he understood why they had to fall so far down in order to reach their final destination.

It was hell.

They remained in the second balcony, because anyone in the third and top tier would most definitely recognize the handsome Prince. Even in his shawl of cerulean that wrapped around his face and hid his sensual lips, his eyes were never forgettable.

“You seem like you’re really enjoying yourself.” Altivar commented from his right, smirking like a wild cat. “Loosen up, West . Unless you want to offer yourself up for the ring and show these miserable creations what a real fight looks like?”

“That wouldn’t be a fair fight.” West couldn’t help it; he chuckled softly. “And you know it.”

Because Saints, no matter their gender, were blessed with strength and skill. It didn’t matter what their outer shell looked like either, when they could choose to be as masculine or feminine as they pleased. West preferred to remain as a male, even if some of the others dabbled back and forth between the two sexes.

The Imp, in particular, went through a phase nearly twenty years ago where they’d popped back and forth, claiming that they held neither gender and yet both at the same time but the Saint represented the mind, good and bad, sane and insane. It made sense that they dabbled between all and nothing at once.

The crowd in all the levels roared like a mighty lion with bared teeth as the second competitor fell to his knees, blood spurting violently from a thin slice in his wide neck. He rapidly wheezed and tried to salvage his dark skin, but to no avail. Three minutes passed rather slowly and the man was dead. guards, dressed in studded leather entered the ring from the raised gate in the back and began to drag the dead human away, a red trail following in the golden sand .

“You’ll want to pay attention to what comes next.” The Prince seductively whispered to him, angling himself closer to the railing and reminding him of a slithering serpent weaving through stone cracks. “I think even you’ll be impressed by this specimen.”

“Is this who you’ve gambled all your mother’s money on?” West inquired without a hint of care. He highly doubted anything in this slop-pit could snag his interests enough to make this night fly faster.

Time was dragging.

He had more important things to do, such as picking up the portions due from his tenants and checking to see if repairs were required before another shift in the early hours.

“I don’t waste her money, Captain Saint. I invest it in winners.” He reprimanded, lowering his focus to the wrought iron gate that shut behind the victor. A new champion walked into the field from the opposing end, pumping both of his fists into the air to gain a ripple of support.

Red rose petals began to randomly fall from somewhere above them all, as if children climbed onto the unsturdy support beams of the tavern that hid it all, and dropped them by the bucket. West wouldn’t put it past the owners of this establishment, considering all of the other horrible things that happen in the dark.

The petals collected on the amber sand, mirroring that of drops of ruby blood. A fluttering feeling sank into his stomach as he began to hear the murmurs of men all around him. A chant started in the massive group of people, two words over and over again until it became a harmonic song that even Muse wouldn’t ignore.

A prayer, almost.

As if these men and women needed a bit of holy light added to their miserable lives, and this person, this mimic of a Saint, was the one to give it to them. The only gods that would listen were the ones in the room, and he held no pity for them at all as they put on plays of destruction and bloodbaths. Over and over again, until he could finally make the name out.

“Red Lyric.”

A strange conglomeration of words, even if the rose petals began to make sense now.

“Red Lyric.”

West wasn’t sure if it was the name of the next fighter, or if it was simply a memorised title that went up between all sorts of humans.

“Red Lyric.”

The captain eyed the excitable men that chanted over and over again, the title of something exciting falling from their mouths.

Something was… off.

“Red Lyric?” He asked the captivated Prince.

Altivar nodded. “A fierce addition to the Blades. No one knows his true identity; just the name he goes by in the Pits. A fascinating one too, if you ask me. I’ve always wondered where the inspiration for it came from. There’s no sponsor for him either.”

“Is that why you dragged me out here? To become his sponsor?” Vexation danced a fine line within him like a tightrope walker on talented toes. Even if money was a limited resource, he didn’t need it. It was an object that wouldn’t last forever, unlike himself.

“No,” Altivar huffed in mirthful amusement that glittered like the gold of his skin. “I have another sort of task in mind for him. Just wait until you see him. I think you’ll know precisely why I brought you here tonight.”

An announcer stepped into the pit below, raising his hands up high in the air until the talk resided. When silence graced them all and not a single sound could be heard, he addressed them all. The rose petals had stopped falling at last, a few straglers meeting the sand. The single fighter in the arena stopped trying to gain support, lowering his arms until they were flat at his side, next to a long blade at his hip.

“Now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for…” He spun around slowly, speaking to all as he wiggled his eyebrows. “May I present… Red Lyric !”

A holler rose up, followed by others.

The gate shuddered, and someone walked through the dimly lit hallway, into the arena.

West leaned over the crumbling railing, trying to get a better glimpse of the figure that entered the sand pit below. Whatever he expected to see, was not what he laid his eyes on.

Because the man in the ring was tiny.

Not necessarily in height, but in form. Instead of muscles on either bicep, there was lean muscle. His thighs were toned, but not massive like the men before had been. The waist alone was far too thin for a fighter, let alone a male one.

West blinked, trying to adjust his hazy gaze as if he incorrectly saw the figure the first time with expectations already in place, but to no avail. The male still stayed the same. Dressed in leather that had been stained as scarlet as blood that had once run down, with black boots and black gloves, a cowl over his face and head, the mortal completely earned his name as Red Lyric.

But it wasn’t a male.

There, if he looked hard enough, he could see the slight swell of a chest below the tight layers, the curve to her hip and the long lashes that peeked out from pale skin. There was an undeniable grace to the mortal below that could only belong to a girl, even if she looked to be in her late twenties.

A girl, in the Blades of Blood .

“Interesting,” He mumbled more to himself than anyone else. His hand ran along his chin as he continued to study her, his fascination perking up with every breath the female drew. She fisted two long daggers at her sides, as long as her forearms.

But as the tall male across from her didn’t back down, nor did she. West cocked a smirk, unable to help himself. Her surety was dauntless, even if she stood no chance against the human that was taller than her by half a foot. There wasn’t a single ounce of doubt to be seen in the way she held her back as straight as a new bowstring, nor the squaring of her lean shoulders.

Suddenly, West was invested in the fight.

He never thought to find something that tickled his fancy in a place such as this, and yet there she was. If he thought men to be brave before, then it was nothing compared to the sheer amount of balls that this girl held at the moment as she stood opposed to the fighter.

The over-observant eyes of the Prince next to him picked up the tidbit of curiosity as it mingled with her utter devotion.

“Seems as if something finally plucked a chord of curiosity for you.” Altivar taunted, slyly winking at him.

“Please tell me that this isn’t why you dragged me out here tonight.” He uttered through gritted teeth, really hoping that the heir wasn’t looking for another place to stick his cock into.

He playfully tsked, as if the captain’s time was immeasurably wasteful. “Then you’re out of luck. Red Lyric is one of the most skilled fighters that I’ve ever seen. I have a task for him that only he can perform.”

“She,” West corrected. “Red Lyric, is a she .”