Page 6

T his was getting rather tiresome.

West wanted nothing more than to go home, to his apartments and kick off his dusty boots. Not that that was usual for him, considering he rarely was seen in the establishment he owned and looked after. He spent most nights in the castle, but undisturbed sleep urged him after his long day of duties. Besides, rent was due from his tenants since it was the final day of the month and if he wasn’t there to collect it from the chest outside of his office, it could be sitting there for days.

He didn’t know most of his tenants, only their names and how much they owed at the end of each four week period. Nor did they know him, only where to set their money after their stay and how much. Some resided in his apartments for years and years while others stayed only a couple of weeks.

“Where does he go after the fights?” West questioned as he casually leaned against the railing of the arena.

“Home, I suppose.” The announcer answered.

After an easy press of a cold, metal coin into his hand, they learned that his name was Zion. A bribe, plain as day, but one that worked. West knew who owned this place, and knew the man did as well. Bribery might as well have been the only way to draw information out of Zion.

“And that would be located where, dear fellow?” Altivar swiped his thumb under his pointer finger as he pretended to find more interest in it than the man who stood in front of them.

Arrogant asshole.

“I- I don’t know. The competitors come from all three levels, so he could be anywhere in the city.”

“Leave him alone, Altivar. If he doesn’t know, menacing behaviour isn’t going to miraculously make his memory snap to something that isn’t there in the first place.” West jerked the Prince’s scarf, pulling him out of the foul mood. “We can dig up more information later. But for now, it’s late and I have things to do at the Compass.”

“Very well.” The Prince almost scowled, but seemed to rethink it a moment later as he turned it into a feline smile that most men would have run from. Zion almost did as a perceptible shudder went through him. “If you happen to dig up more information regarding Red Lyric, then please, by all means, come seek me out.”

The male bobbed his head hastily before racing down the opened gate and disappearing into shadows.

“He knows more than he’s letting on, West.” Altivar shoved off the barrier and began walking out of the arena. The sand had been brushed over with a wooden comb, apparent by the fine lines that appeared in the gritty texture. There was no sign of blood along the grains, nor white pieces of bones that stuck up.

“That may be the case, but frightening him isn’t going to get the correct information out. Men tend to blurt out whatever random thing they think will help in the moment. Especially if it means sparing them from any sort of agonising infliction or tormented pain.”

“You have another idea, then I take it?”

West shrugged. “Money always seems to loosen tongues faster than threats. I heard that Red Lyric fights again in two days. Why not come down to the pits and see hi- her once more, and try to offer the man a hefty sum to see if he knows more than he’s letting on?”

Altivar hummed softly, “Not a terrible thought. I suppose it’s worth a try. Can I assume correctly that you’ll be by my side once again, Captain?”

He let out a long, suffering sigh, “Wouldn’t miss it for all the world.”

After accompanying the lesser Saint back to the palace and checking in on the Empress aftwards, who was found with her tapered nose glued to a book, West finally followed the cobblestone road to the Spinning Compass. He passed through the Gold Gate, noticing the street lights were already low. He wandered through the Silver Gate, watching the few vagabonds as they scurried home for the night. After an hour of nothing but walking, he at last found himself through the Bronze Gate.

It was late, later than most of his tenants would be up past, so he didn’t expect to run into anyone as he unlocked the back door of the building and slipped inside. The hazy candlelight in the glass sconces was low, but hadn’t gone out quite yet indicating that someone must have relit them. He knew that it was one of the folk who lived here, and tended after it for him in his absence.

It was one of the reasons the cost of living here was cheaper than most, even in the lowest slums of the city. He wasn’t around as often, leaving the matter of things to his residents.

West opened the first and blew out the candle, following up with the rest in the downstairs chamber. A small room, meant for those checking in. There was a rack of keys behind the counter that was secure behind a glass door that required a key to get into. There were tags that went accordingly to each of the ten rooms that took up most of the space. Four rooms were located on the bottom level, not including the check in counter. The second floor was full with five rooms, where most of them were single bed chambers.

The entire third floor was a single apartment, his.

He quietly took the steps off to the far right without the need for a candle to guide him. Because he was Westley Saint, the Northern Star and he could see perfectly clear in the dark. It didn’t matter what sort of dark it was either. It could be that of thieves and threats that remained in the blackest shade possible, and he would be able to make everything out in exact clarity.

His name was a joke, at least the idea of it.

Dream laughed at his other suggestions when they were all sitting around, trying to figure out names that would allow them to blend in seamlessly within the mortal realm. Ronan O’Neal was instantly turned down, as Heartache stated that it didn’t fit his looks at all.

But the Saint had been low in spirits, his voice barely coming above that of a scratch.

The option of Erius Bale was berated until he didn’t feel like coming up with a third one.

It was an impossible challenge, after all.

A name, one that he’d be stuck with for the next thirty to sixty years, depending on how long he wished to remain in Tazali alongside Muse. There was so much of the vast realm of Hisaith that demanded for exploration anyways, that he could simply start over and select a new name when he grew bored of the Empire.

Imp added their own crazed opinion at that moment. “North, South, East and West ! Only you can know what’s best!”

Dream gasped, dropping the peach and pear drink that she’d been slowly sipping from over the last hour and wiggled her pointer finger at Imp. “That one! West!”

A feminine laugh followed after, letting North know that she was entirely kidding. But the name stuck with him, like the sort of hat that felt right.

“West.” He murmured, feeling it around within his mouth. He tasted each letter, adding a couple to the back end of it to lengthen it. “West ley. ”

“Oh,” Dream sighed in a forlorn resonance, “That’s actually not terrible. It suits you rather well.” Her voice was that of sleepers, lost to both realms as if she were forever permanently stuck in a state of daydreaming.

“I have to agree.” He tested it once more, playing around with surnames. “Saint would be funny. Really just shove it in the human’s faces.”

“Westley Saint.” Warrior lifted his hands out as he said it, spreading them wide as if it were sketched into a cloth banner. “Not that they’d ever see the connection once you’ve been glamoured. It’s your best suggestion yet. I say that you should run with it.”

North smiled, “I think I will.”

So North became Westley Saint.

Now he couldn’t have imagined another name belonging to him. West fit him far better than North ever did. North was a tall man with blonde hair and light blue eyes, not the russet skin that he bore or the cobalt eyes that held no white to them .

Gold yes, but not white.

There was a long standing joke with the mad jester, the one that told everyone that he was in fact a blonde male with pale skin, instead of the actual way he appeared. There was some jest about an interview with a writer, who took everything down as if it were the truth and nothing but it. West had never personally seen the result of such impish behaviours, nor did he ever expect to see it.

He unlocked his apartment doors, dragging the small chest outside of the entrance with his foot as he entered. He kicked it aside and shut the heavy oak door behind him. The handle was a curved, amber thing that twisted off at the end. He liked the way it reminded him of a clock’s hands.

The trunk was full, evident by the weight as he pushed it to his desk. There was no lock, but he trusted his residents wholeheartedly. And when he peered inside, every single sack was accounted for. He ambled over to his desk, which sat precisely in the middle of the main room, past it and to the shelf on the wall. He reached for the decanter, pouring himself a large helping of butter smoked whiskey before shoving the crystal stopper back in and sniffing at the contents of the full cup.

West set it down after a sip, swallowing and enjoying the burn that followed as he began to lift each parcel of coins onto his desk. He flipped open the records book he pulled from the second drawer and began to track each amount with the corresponding tenant and their amount due. Each bag contained a small note with the linking name for him to cross examine. With each he counted, he dipped his glass pen in the ink canister and left a little checkmark by their name.

But he halted as he came to the last name on the list. Two children, who lived with their mother on the second floor of the Compass. It wasn’t the mother’s name that caught his eye, rather her offspring.

Cobalt and Crimson Bard.

His dark eyebrows narrowed on the second. Interesting, considering the coincidental meaning of the name.

Crimson, another word for Red.

Bard, a musician, a singer, or a lyrist .

Lyric.

Red Lyric.

He ran a hand over his mouth as he sat back in the leather chair that groaned in protest and gazed upon the parchment. There was no way that she was under his nose all along, was there? He shook his head, taking another swig before counting out her pile and adding a checkmark next to their names. He was tired. That was all it was and coming to the most senseless conclusions only worsened it. Especially if it meant spending less time with his royal assness.

West convinced himself that was all it was.

He was just tired of parading around all day with Altivar tugging on his guard dog leash. Excuses to abandon this ridiculous quest for the Blades fighter wouldn’t pop up until they actually did find her. Though West wasn’t entirely sure he wanted the Prince to find her. There was a seed of doubt in his reasoning for locating the girl, even if everyone deserved a chance at love. But Altivar never seemed to be the sort who wanted anything tangible, anything to last. He was a one and done sort of male.

There was more to it all than Altivar was letting him in on, he was sure about that. Perhaps he’d keep Crimson Bard’s name to himself until he discovered the true reasoning of why the male wanted Heartache.

Heartache couldn’t just find one’s true love, he could also break one .

It was a terrifying power to let loose in the world, regardless of which part. Out of all of the Saints, lesser not included, Heartache’s was the most deadly. He really, really needed to know everything before letting a troublesome, horrible Prince seek the treacherous Saint out.

West shut the leather bound book and placed it back within the second drawer of his dresser as he sipped at his whiskey.

According to the announcer, Red Lyric was due to appear for another round in two days time. He was going to be there anyways thanks to Altivar, so it wouldn’t harm him to study the way the girl fought. The way she moved. Then he could turn his research on Crimson before taking any of his findings to the Prince.

Having a definitive answer was better than assuming anyways.

He finished his drink, setting it back on the shelf instead of reaching for another one, like he did some nights when he was stuck at the castle for too long. There was a room for him there, one that saw more use than this one ever did. West wasn’t a gambling man, but he would bet good money that there was a layer of dust on more than a handful of the surfaces around him.

He pushed out of the wingback chair and tucked it back into the carved out nook in the desk. It was late, and only getting later by the seconds he stalled. But he had duties to attend to in the castle come the dawn, so he found the bathing chamber and stripped off his sapphire doublet. The one given to all the top commanders of the guard, regardless of station. Pins hung on the shoulders, informing all of his station.

Muse thought it extra hilarious, because they were stars. Golden ones, too. One large one on the middle of his shoulders, followed by two smaller ones on each side; Captain.

An honorary title, because she knew that no matter how obnoxiously annoying West found her son to be, he would do whatever it took to protect him from harm. He had the skills to back it up after three years alongside Warrior before they went their separate ways in Hisaith. Warrior shared everything he knew with him, even going so far as to fight in rounds with him to better his skills. But it wouldn’t have been what he would have chosen for himself in the start of it all.

Nor would running the Spinning Compass, to be fair.

West dragged a hot cloth across his face and neck, almost sighing into the divine heat that wiped the sweat residue and dirt flecks from his coppery skin. He wasn’t covered in sweat, but in a place like the Pits, there was filth on everyone and everything. Better safe than sorry. When the rag was dirtier than his skin, he tossed it into the wire basket that held any of his used items.

His hands unearthed the cream shirt from his charcoal trousers, unhooking the belt and tossing it aside as he pulled the tunic off his body. He ventured into the bedroom where the bed was large enough for two people to sleep comfortably within it and still had a little left over. Just like with his desk, it was in the middle of the room. A perfect square, with nightstands and a dresser for his clothes.

There was no need for a closet when the nine drawers weren’t even full. It wasn’t like he didn’t just wear the same thing every day, or something close to it. His duties were nearly the same, why shouldn’t his clothes replicate that?

West rummaged through the fourth one until he found the least restricting pants that he could wear comfortably to sleep. Just like his second room in the palace, there were sets of clothes there for him as well. He tugged off his boots and set them in the corner, exchanging undershorts for a new, clean pair before slipping into the trousers and crawling into bed.

And when West closed his eyes, his breathing labouring out to a nice, even pace, he didn’t dream. Just as he asked of the sweven-weaving Saint, because she could see the visions during the night. It didn’t matter who it was, regardless if they were a lesser Saint or full, she could always know with a single glance.

He didn’t like anyone- regardless if they were friend or foe, to have that much of an advantage over him. He was well aware that the lovely Saint would never, under any circumstance, use his dreams against him but it was a precaution he desired to have in place for his own reasons.

So he asked her to take that away, because his dreams were nothing more than unrequited love and heartbreak when they inevitably died. There was no temptation when there was nothing to tempt one with in the first place.