Page 61 of The Ballad of a Bard

Sixt y

A ltiver dismounted before he motioned for Satori to unlock the door and the cuffs that kept her securely attached to the wooden slats of the cart. It had been a bumpy, unpleasant ride as she’d been carted around in the prisoner transport before everyone she’d known. When they rode past the Spinning Compass and she recognized a few aghast faces, Crimson angled her back against the rods and slumped down until her knees were able to tuck into her chest.

She refused to cry.

Instead she withdrew from the strength that West poured into her with his declaration. At the fact that he loved her and she loved him and that everything was going to be alright. The Northern Star and Heartstrings, together at last and all powerful for all eternity. That was the ballad she mentally told herself over the hour-long distance from the castle to the Pits.

Not a sad one, because she refused to believe that their story would end that way. A happy one, because she could do this.

When the cart finally stopped rolling on its wooden wheels, Crimson lifted her head from the dark pit that her knees created and didn’t need to survey the area to know where she was. Instead she pulled herself back to her regular height and awaited the next step. The bag of her items sat by her feet and when Satori ordered her out, she grabbed it without needing to be told to do so. She knew why she was here, she knew what was going to happen.

There were a few townsfolk that must have recognized the heir as he casually found her, whispers flitting about as to the reason for his visit. She could make out the rhythm of their life force as they took her in. It was all distracting, her mind reeling with the possibilities of ending them all right then and there. Since she’d swallowed Muse’s myocardium, her viciousness, her violence had increased. It was something that overwhelmed her, something that she needed to adapt to quickly unless she succumbed to it entirely.

Altivar swiftly pulled her to his side, linking his arm over her elbow as they walked towards the Bronzed Goblet. She scowled at him but didn’t try to pull away as she slung the bag over her shoulder. With the casual way they stepped in time, she knew it appeared far different than the rigid situation actually was.

Friends, enjoying an evening together.

Versus a prisoner escorted by her brutish captor.

Altivar’s mouth brushed against the shell of her ear in the way that only a seductive partner would, which was precisely his intent. “I have ten fierce men that are willing to risk their chances against the infamous Red Lyric. I’ve offered their weight in crowns should they succeed to even nick you, and double if they walk out of the ring and you don’t. But I’ll make this easier for you.”

Crimson didn’t care to hear what he had to say, but it wasn’t like she had much of a choice.

“I want you to advance to the final round. To make it all worth it. So for every man you put down, I’ll add one hundred crowns to your purse for your brother. To set him up after you’re gone.”

Any shred of pity she might have experienced for the royal before was utterly destroyed now. She hated him with the fire of a hundred stars, of a thousand suns. She kept her gaze towards the door however, resisting the urge to boil his blood once more. There were too many eyes on them, too many witnesses who knew nothing other than the fact that the new Emperor was guiding her in.

They had no idea what a slimy snake he was.

Crimson allowed him to guide her up the steps, through the entrance as patrons stared. For once, he wore nothing to hide his devastatingly beautiful features, nor the way he elegantly dressed. He’d decorated his eyes in a stunning red shade that was meant to mimic her hair, black liner along the edges like savage swords. Even the colour of his clothes were a sign of who he was here to represent, to sponsor tonight.

There were posters with her likeness pasted along the walls, her leathers rendered in charcoal and red ink with her false name scrawled beneath. In any other situation, she might have ripped one off the wall, rolled it up and plastered it up at her own home. Now, she simply wanted to rip them to shreds and throw the scraps at Altivar.

Or rip him to shreds.

Guards trailed after, a couple feet away as they piled into the tavern and approached the counter where the tall barmaid was cleaning cups with a wet rag.

Altivar smiled warmly at her, as warm as it could be called for someone like him and patted her hand. “A steel cutlass for my wonderful companions and I.”

The woman looked as though she wanted nothing more than to run him through with a steel cutlass , even with the understanding of who he was. It appeared as if even though he bore the blood of Osira in his veins, that he was the lesser choice for the new sovereign.

She allowed herself a small, secret smile at that.

The woman sighed, set down the round glass with a loud clunk, slapped the rag down and came out from behind the counter. She led them into the panel in the wall, shoving it sideways as they all entered the Pits.

The hallway was thin enough that only two very thin people could walk side by side comfortably, which Altivar did. He refused to let go of his grip on her arm, harsher now that they were in a different part of the tavern. Eventually the hallway narrowed out enough that only one could fit in at a time, and he stepped behind. His firm fingers however, did not leave her upper arm.

“Hear the roar of those that yearn for the scent of blood to fill the air?” He murmured with a large huff, “How deliciously barbaric.”

“It’s almost like War took over.” Crimson sardonically commented as they reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped out into the platform. A fight was already mid-way by the excited yells that filled the arena. Boots stomped, drinks were spilled and girls rushed around with trays precariously balanced as they earned their keep for Roland.

She wondered if she’d spot Renfri.

“Almost,” He mused mirthfully and swung her around to the second staircase that would spit them out at the bottom of the Pits. “You have two fights tonight, so I suggest that you find that secret hiding place of yours and change into your leathers.”

Her lip twitched but she didn’t fight against it as he brought her to the gate. Altivar hoisted her around, wrenching her upper arm as he held her in place for a final threat. His amber eyes were alight with something dark, turning the citrine shade to a molten gold that sent shivers down her back. The pupils turned serpentine, feline as he surveyed her. The only sign of the Creature that lurked below, treading dangerous waters to come.

“Remember who I have in my hold, little Saint.” He warned with a simmering resonance that licked through any bolt of confidence she might have had. “Try anything, and those crowns I promised to your brother will be used to ensure that he never leaves that sickbed again.” He leaned even closer, enough that she could make out his tattoos through the low cut of his scarlet shirt. “I’ve already killed one Saint. I can easily do it again with your lover. Your blades aren’t the only Saint-made weapon in the castle.”

“I hate you.” She said as her rage coiled around her, tucking her powers in tight as every single heartbeat found her. It was a wardrum that beat with every passing second, and she could barely make out his.

“And I don’t care.” He shoved her towards the opened gate with a rough force. “Get dressed.”

Crimson didn’t try to argue, not for Cobalt’s sake. Not even for West as she found the path that descended into the darkness. The familiar walkway soothed her in the way an old friend did, even if it held the metallic smell of salt and steel. Competitors passed her, laughing as a girl entered their part of the arena.

She ignored them all.

There was already more fiery rage in her system than she’d ever experienced before. It had to be the heart she’d consumed, transforming everything into more. She had never been short when it came to her emotions before, but it was like everything was doubled, tripled. Her passion was alive, a hurricane of love and lust and life that she could hardly control. Her anger was a raging storm, one brewing a deadly potion beneath her skin. Her sadness brought about the blue force of a crashing ocean, relentlessly pounding against her inner walls.

Crimson would harness it all for her fights.

She found the simple bathing room without any problem, making sure that no one was around as she entered and locked the door behind her. The sink sat directly in front of her and she dropped her bag into it, slipping out of her boots and setting them aside as she began to hang the pieces up, one by one. She caught a glimpse of her muddy face and the hair that had seen better days in the oval mirror.

Crimson took hold of the washrag in the metal loop attached to the wall and added some water with soap to it, scrubbing at her cheeks, her forehead, her chin. She dragged it over her neck and under her arms, wiping as much of the grime away as she could without a bath.

It only took her ten minutes to change into her fighting leathers. And as she shifted out of her shirt, she noticed a new mark on her chest, right over her collarbones.

A Saint symbol.

Over each collarbone, a red ribbon sank in and out of her skin, wrapping around them in a feminine grace that she didn’t mind. And right between them, in the small gap of her clavicle- lay a ruby heart. Not an anatomically correct one like Heartache’s talisman or the ones that graced her knives, but one that Cobalt liked to draw. She admired it for a second more, tracing over them before shoving her head into the jacket.

There were men in the town that had tattoos, Altivar included. Though now that she’d gained some of her own, there was a tendril of thought that allowed her to believe that perhaps the Prince had gained them through his Saintly powers instead of the needle dipped in ink. Crimson had never considered decorating her skin with any sort of ink, and yet she found the ones that magically appeared to be fitting, pretty even.

Someone had left a comb atop the single shelf and she used it to her advantage, brushing through whatever tangles she found. That took another five minutes, wincing as a small, unsalvageable clump tumbled to the dirty floor. Her fingers made fast work of it and tucked the three strands into a braid, letting it fall down her back. There were no pins in the bag, and the ribbon must have fallen out on the ride over because no matter how many times she searched the satchel, it wasn’t there.

Men had hair in their faces, it would be fine.

Then she pulled her beloved knives out, buckling the belt around her waist and adjusting it until they sat right. She knew that the only reason Altivar let her even use them for her fights was because they no longer allowed him to control her. She had missed the feel of them, even if their use was nothing short of horrible.

The dark grey cowl came next, pulling it up until her nose was covered and only her hazel eyes stared out in her reflection. She tugged the hood over her head, hiding the long braid and fixing it into place under everything. The taut gloves followed, folding the ends into her sleeves as Red Lyric appeared.

Crimson didn’t let herself falter as her alter ego fell back into place, grabbing her items and stuffing them into the empty bag before swinging it over her shoulder and exiting. She set it on a hook in the waiting room, ignoring the gossip that floated up to meet her ears as the other fighters took her in.

Red Lyric is back!

Is that him ?

Wasn’t he dead?

I heard he quit after Grimm tried to kill him.

His last fights were the best.

She made it up the fat hallway, passing a bloodied winner as they panted, slinging their rusted axes back into their belt.

Altivar was waiting for her at the very top of the stone hill, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched the arena boys drag a limp body out of the ring. Red trailed in the sand, staining the grains as they prepared for another round.

Her round, she assumed.

The Prince didn’t turn as she halted by his side, watching as the rakes turned the sand over, erasing any evidence of the gore left behind. Men scrambled along the rafters, readying their bets for whomever Zion announced next.

“You’re up, Heartrage.” He said and the crowd hushed into an eerie silence as crimson rose petals began to fall from the sky like drops of garnet blood.

An excited murmur ran through the men as they began to understand who was up next. And just like before, her false name was on every single tongue like a musical chant.

Red Lyric.

Ruby fell and the boys cleared out of the pit.

Red Lyric.

Zion appeared and made his way to the middle of the arena, raising his hands for all to see, for all to quiet as he waited.

Red Lyric.

A harmonious phrase that should have turned her gut to iron, hardened her like it used to and lifted her confidence into the heavens. But now it turned her insides to steam, hissing water that lapped at her and froze her solid.

Before, she’d fought because she wanted to .

Because she’d needed the money for her brother and knew that she could survive each round. But now, when there was a different meaning behind each of her victories- her kills, it chilled her to the bone to even look at the arena.

She’d hated taking a life before, but it was nothing compared to the feeling that ripped through her now at the thought of it all.

When the crowd finally settled enough for Zion to speak, he clapped his hands twice. “My friends! We are honoured to have a legend here tonight with us, one who is willing to prove himself after being gone for so long!”

A roar of exhibition rose through them.

“Please allow him your generous attention as he fights for six nights in a row! Not only will he take on two competitors a night, but at the end of his week, Red Lyric will take on Grimm!”

Gasps of delight, of horror took over and they settled in her gut like a stone in her pocket as she sank to the bottom of the ocean. Zion turned to the side, arm gesturing to her as the gate rumbled, groaning in protests before it slowly began to lift.

“Make me proud, Heartrage. Make your brother proud.” Altivar murmured in the gentle voice of a lover before he left her there, making for the very top mezzanine where he would remain and watch for the entire evening.

Crimson allowed herself one momentary lapse of fear, of terror as she stared up to meet the eyes of hundreds that watched her from above.

“Red Lyric!” Zion announced and she entered the arena.

The noise was deafening and she took it all in stride, grasping onto her hatred for this all and shoving it into her core, using it to fuel everything.

As Crimson became Red Lyric and grinned.