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S tunned silence fell over the bronzed male as he jerked his chin down into the gore-ridden pit, to scrutinizingly gaze at the feminine figure again. As if he had to confirm his captain’s words for himself. Shock was a good look on the Prince, one that West took immense pleasure in watching unfold.

“But women aren’t allowed to compete. Grimm makes that absolutely the law here. He’d throw any females out if he even so much as scented a whiff of their floral perfumes in the levels, let alone the Blades itself.” Altivar gaped like a codfish, a sight that wasn’t completely lost on West. If anything, he wanted to commission an artist to sketch it so that he’d have it for a permanent keepsake.

Grimm, the owner and also another Saint.

The Warrior.

Devoted to the hunger for blood and the sacrifices of mortal men. He lusted for the kill, loved the smell of death, lived for vain slaughters.

A faint smile rose to his face. “I’m well aware of his rules, but that’s no man. I’m assuming that’s why she goes by a pseudonym. There’s good money in it for all. Even if it’s humiliating and downright vile.”

“ Saints.” Altivar’s face turned to the point of snow. “Well then. This is going to tense matters up far more than I hoped for.”

The roar of the thirsty crowd might have unsettled other anxious competitors, but it only added to her delicious anticipation of the event. The cheers of the rich as they urged her to take him down, to fight, to win. The hollers of the middle class as they lusted for something to fill their time, to spend their precious coin on. The yells of the poor as they watched their fellow man tear man apart and allowed themselves to feel like a god over others for once.

Crimson Bard stared at her opponent.

She wasn’t afraid of him, nor should she be.

Not when there was nothing but bulking mass, instead of a single cognitive function. She’d fought against men like him before, even if they were slightly smaller. Not when the stakes in her end were nothing easy.

She hated the pits.

She hated the Blades of Blood.

But she had no choice.

Not when she was the only source of income for her and her younger brother, Cobalt. Ridiculous names, she knew. But her mother died after giving birth to her brother, with the last request upon her blood-stained lips. Crimson wasn’t one to deny her that, so she kept true to the name and gave it to her sibling before their mother left them for good.

Cobalt seemed to catch every illness imaginable, which was why he couldn’t work alongside her. Not that she could send him out on the streets to beg. High fevers that caused him to turn pasty with a blue tinge, or rapid sweats that made his sleep unimaginable. Medicine was expensive, especially when only one of them could truly work.

But she fought for them, for him.

Crimson wasn’t sure if they shared every drop of blood together or only half; but regardless, he was her brother and her responsibility. Her father left when she was on the verge of becoming eighteen, after her brother was born and their mother died. He had claimed a broken heart following her death and wandered off into the sunset. Exactly eight years ago.

She hated him.

She wanted to kill him for abandoning them like that. That was the fiery fury and rippling rage that she poured into all of her fights. Because for a pretty girl like her, there were only a few ways to earn the money she needed to afford their cost of living below the Silver Gate. Crimson wasn’t particularly talented in detailed sewing or finding the correct, non-toxic flowers to sell. She wasn’t desperate enough to resort to selling her body either.

But fighting?

She held a natural talent for the sport.

Even if women weren’t allowed in the pits.

But Red Lyric, her alter ego and male counterpart, allowed her to fight fairly. She won all of the rounds she entered, picking and choosing which battles would best suit her. Crimson supposed if they found out her true nature, that they would toss her out and never let her or Red Lyric enter the Pits of hell ever again.

She held a secret though.

One that allowed her to win, even if it was technically cheating .

Crimson wasn’t daft.

She knew who her father was.

Where her crimson hair, her namesake, came from. She knew why she could control the weak emotions of men. Why her thick eyelashes could flutter and she could place the barest of touches towards another in order to suggest a switch in emotions. To persuade them to take pity on a small, helpless female in order to let her win. Of course, she took those risks in small quantities to avoid being caught.

Crimson palmed her knives, left behind by her father. One of the only things, including herself and possibly her brother. The beautiful blades were as long as her forearms, with silken handles that were painted in pure scarlet. The steel itself was smoked, as if held over a flame until they burned. At the pommel, a heart was carved inwards.

Because her father was Heartache.

A Saint, one that she cursed every day for leaving them to the predicament of fate.

“Begin!” The announcer called and hastily exited before he became part of the show.

The man across from her grinned wickedly, as if he expected this to be over and done within a matter of seconds and to emerge the victor. He was right on one count, the first.

It would be over in a couple seconds.

But he wouldn’t be the victor.

Crimson reflected it, adding her own edge of rabid viciousness back at him. He flinched, his head angling towards the side in confusion as she struck as fast as an almost invisible wasp. The crowd cheered and she had him down on his fat knees in five moves.

One, angle her first dagger towards his chest while her second found his thick neck. Two, kick at his leg, near the weak spot that he tried to hide by not limping. A previous wound from his last fight, if she had to guess. , shove her force behind the blades as he tried to struggle against her hold. Four, gently caress his arm and utter a suggestive command that had his hands slackening on his weapon.

Five, win.

Crimson never felt bad for her victims, because she only took on the worst of the worst. The kind that preyed on young children such as her brother. The kind that took things without asking, and the kind that the world would be better off without. This was why she hand picked her opponents.

An extra gold coin to the announcer, a caress to his cherub cheek paid with a flirtatious blush of a pretty maiden and he whispered all sorts of secrets to her about which to take on. She wasn’t entirely sure how her powers worked, only that she had them. How to use them with the wiley ways of women, the flirtatious flaunts of females and the gracious grabs of girls. Men saw, heard and felt what they wanted. It was all too easy to change their minds, influence their hearts. To suggest something entirely different to them in order to get her way.

Cobalt showed no sign of powers, even if he was only eight. Crimson wished for all the world and beyond, that he never gained any. The life of a Saint, even a lesser one, was a lonely existence.

She raised her chin towards the audience, dragging the show out for longer than necessary, as they expected her to do. As she always did. But as Crimson met almost every single face that yelled at her in excitement, she found a new pair of eyes. One that never appeared before, one that struck her as dumbfounded for the sheer night skies she found within them.

Midnight, the darkest sort without any of the shadows that followed, shade colours such as it. There was no white, no ivory iris’s to be found. Gold, instead, speckled in them like the night with all its infinite, ineffable stars.

She was looking at him .

West gripped the stone railing hard until he was beyond white-knuckled. “Did you see that?”

It would have been impossible to miss, especially to the well-trained eye of the son of a well-known Saint.

The girl, she’d touched the huge warrior in the barest of places and won the round in a minute flat. Four touches, if he counted right. A brush of her gloved finger against his hand, a flash of her lashes towards his eyes as she edged closer. A dash of her arm against his neck and her lips moved against the cowl in silent declaration.

The man almost sighed in delight as he sank to the ground, unnoticeable to anyone but an immortal, or half of one. He waited, kneeling on the gritty ground with delirious desire, as if she’d promised him something in exchange for his surrender.

“Now you understand why I brought you with me tonight.” Altivar bobbed his head, stroking at his upper lip. “I wondered if I was seeing things or if he- she, was doing what I thought.”

West inhaled, “She’s a lesser Saint.”

“That’s what I suspected. I assume you know which sired her, as well?”

“With the power of suggestion, she could be a product of the Imp, but they haven’t been known to tangle in the sheets. Which leaves the illusive Heartache.” He rubbed at his scalp, itching a certain spot at the nape of his neck.

“You were curious as to his rather mysterious disappearance. I think I’ve found out why.” Altivar said. “She has a brother, eight years old. Just around the-”

“Around the time that Heartache returned to us.” West finished for him. “She’s his child, at least one of them.”

He nodded. “Which makes me wonder why the pain-in-the-ass vagabond isn’t here, tending to his children.” He pointed towards the arena, towards the ill fated match as it came to an end.

Red Lyric drew her steel and painted with the colour of life, ending the opponent with a sharp slice.

“You’re searching for him?”

“I am. I require his services, and I thought recruiting his daughter would lure him out of hiding.” Altivar elucidated his plan, one small detail at a time. There was still an unnerving amount of secret wrapped around his silken words, but it was enough to ask another question.

West’s brow furrowed in concern as he asked, “Why? Why are you looking for him?”

The Prince turned away from the fight as the guards came back out to clean up the arena before the next fight. He let his fingers drop, hand falling back to his side. With a velvet voice that sent chills down West’s spine; and not the good sort, he said, “Isn’t it obvious, Westley ?”

It was rare for the Prince to leave his taunts behind in the dust, let alone use his full name that he gave to the mortals of Hisaith. Which meant that Altivar was entirely serious.

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

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