Page 63 of The Ballad of a Bard

W est reached the tavern, sweating far more than he ever had in his entire life. Patrons looked at him like he was crazy but he ignored them all, ran to the counter and ordered a steel cutlass. The woman let him into the Pits and he jumped down half of the stairs as the crowd yelled down into the arena.

He’d recognise her anywhere.

Crimson was mid-fight with a tall man that was almost twice her size. She wasn’t showing any signs of struggle but his magic still flared at the sight of her in that situation. She moved faster than lightning, avoiding a strike as his night surrounded the room and dimming the lights to barely nothing.

He cursed himself when she swung her head around, searching for him as if that alerted her to his arrival. A few of the onlookers in the second row turned towards him, muttering and returning their attention back to the ongoing round. He pushed past the bodies that shoved against him like the ocean current, slamming him back against the wall .

He needed to get down to her, flaring like a supernova as his magic revolted against the restrictions he provided. The people shouted in alarm, turning away from him as fast as they could and he snorted at it. It didn’t matter what sort of power he had- there would always be those who worshipped gods, loved them and would sacrifice anything for them. And then there were those who were completely terrified of them.

West preferred the second because it was less bothersome. Especially in situations such as this. He hadn’t been asked to be made, hadn’t even known he’d been created from anything until Heartache woke him up from the pit of a star, the biggest and brightest one in the sky. But with this sort of gift, this sort of life- came the passion that being a star never could bring. Yes, he’d burned and blazed something brilliantly, but it was nothing, stardust compared to the roaring inferno that he was now.

He’d love her, worship her, protect her, take care of her if it meant that he could love her to the fullest of his abilities. Every night that he’d remained in the midnight sky as the stars, the moon, the beauty of it all, he’d watched people below as they fell in love with his ineffable grace. As they’d wish on him, love him, want him more than anything else in the world. As they prayed to the northern star for luck and happiness, as they desired to join him.

People fell in love with the stars through every eternity he’d witnessed. But the star had only fallen in love with one in return. One, who he’d do anything for, give up his immortality if he could.

West skimmed through the crowd, weaving in and out like thick threads on a loom as the fight went on. He heard the clash of blades, the steel on steel and the grunts of exertion that followed. He ducked under serving girls trays, avoided the courtesans told to seek him out for more money and dodged drunk men that ripped up their betting tickets. He passed by the announcer who lazily picked at his nails as if he had nothing better to do and darted down the staircase to the first level.

And then the crowd fell silent to the point where West wondered if he’d accidentally unleashed anymore tendrils of northern power. But as he tried to find the source of his leak, he found that it wasn’t because of him. His tattoo still wound around his wrist, visible but it was a normal, passable tone that he bore instead of the shimmering gold.

So West snapped his gaze towards the arena.

And his heart stuttered as the man yanked her disguise off for all to see. He was shocked as he dropped her hood, letting it fall behind her shoulders as her red braid came free. Her bangs hadn’t been pulled back and without the cowl, it was clear to anyone with eyes that she was not a man.

Crimson whirled around, hazel eyes wide with fear as her chest rapidly rose and fell. West searched for a weapon, he hadn’t had time to steal one from the guards that attacked him nor run back to his room to grab one. But he found one on one of the previous winners from the night, enjoying a cold mug of ale in the first row. He wrapped his fingers around it and pulled it free in a swift motion before the man had the chance to yell at him for stealing it.

Within a second of arming himself, he marched into the ring as Crimson’s sight landed on him. He saw the relief blanket through her, the admiration that shone for him.

“Hey, Heartstrings,” He said by way of greeting, far too casually for the amount of tension that locked his chest in a painful hold. “What, didn’t think I’d leave you to fight this on your own, did you?”

Her face crumpled, redness spreading along her waterlines, lips popping open as she stared at him. “You came.” She swallowed, slamming her elbow into her attacker’s face, allowing them a minute more to converse before she’d have to make another move.

“Of course I did.” He shrugged, coming to stand by her side. “Nothing in Hisaith could keep me away from you.”

The man growled, hoisted his shield back up and charged at them both. West went left and she went right. The crowd was in an uproar at the two fighters, illegal in all consideration of the rules that the Blades of Blood followed in accordance with. But she’d already broken the biggest rule, years ago and he didn’t give a Saints-damned fuck about the rest of them.

West heaved his weight into the large sword he borrowed- because he had every intention of returning it once he no longer needed it- and arched it into the shield as Crimson hit the pommel of her dagger against his wrist. The bone cracked, he screamed and she kicked the back of his knee as West spun around his back and added a slash down his tendons.

He wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.

The ground shook as the gate rumbled open but neither of them paid it any heed as they focused on the man. His blood pooled out of his legs, his teeth bared as he panted in pain. Crimson dragged her arm up, her fingers meeting her gloved palm as she summoned something. He grunted, and then toppled over as a breath left him.

He didn’t move again, eyes blankly staring up at the domed ceiling.

West reached for her before she could budge and tugged her close, sharing the air between them. Her arms shook from her back to back fights as she blinked up through argent tears at him.

“How are you here?” She asked, sniffling as he cupped her face with the hand covered in the least amount of blood splatters. “And where is my brother? Is he safe? Did anyone harm him, because if they did then I will march up to the castle, I don’t care how long it takes or who they are, but I will shove one of my daggers right up their a-”

“Cobalt is fine. ” He smiled gently down at her as he cut her off. “Rook has him secure in the room under my orders. It appears that even though the royal asshole is in charge by every right, that some people still remain loyal.”

She let out a sigh of relief, her shoulders caving in. “Thank the Saints for that at least.” Her scan travelled over him towards the crowd searching for something. “Altivar is gone.”

“Most likely scuddled out off here like the little bug he is after I arrived.” He commented, turning to peer at the hundreds of faces that began to file out through the single staircase, shoving and pushing their common folk in order to get out first.

Booming steps echoed and they both flipped around to see the seven-foot Saint emerge from the dark tunnel.

The Warrior.

West went to shove her behind him but she refused, standing stubbornly at his side.

“Come back for another round then, North?” He hissed in displeasure. Then his gaze fell to Crimson.

Within an instant, the Saint understood.

He’d never been far from smart, nor would West ever consider him to be dull. But the instant recognition was faster than he would have originally given the male credit for.

“Red Lyric.” He drew the title out like he was tasting each letter as muscles in his jaw bulged in anger. “I knew there was something off about you.”

“No you didn’t.” Crimson immediately responded with a haughty laugh that he assumed could have only come from her exhaustion from the night. From the fights, from their situation, from her week in the cells and everything around it.

She’d been so strong, all by herself for eight years. It was all coming out tonight as they faced another Saint.

An idea sparked to life inside of him.

“Whatever you do, Heartstrings, don’t crush his heart.” He warned her. Because there was no way that they were leaving here alive if War decided it. And with the pinched expression he wore, he’d already chosen to engage in another round with them. Rage for the third time that West would beat him, for his loss last time. Vexation and fury that a girl had slipped into his ranks and managed to rise to the top as one of his best, defying his strict rules.

“Why not?” She glanced at him.

West prepared himself, tunnelling down into his well of magic and drew up a burst of moonlight, readying another crescent scythe. He curled it into his palm, aching to toss it and be done with this entire mess.

“Because I think his heart can cure Cobalt. Even if we succeed in killing Atlivar, which I assure you- I want more than anything else in this realm- Cobalt is mortal. At least this way, he’ll be healed and have a prolonged life.” He explained, savouring the cold feeling of the night in his grasp.

War barked a laugh, shaking with it. “My heart isn’t going to anyone. It’s not going anywhere .”

“We’ll see about that.” West attacked.

He sliced the moon across his throat, a rasping cough following as Crimson flipped her daggers and plunged one of them straight into his knee. She jerked it forward and the cap ripped right off, eliciting a scream of pain from the Saint.

War smacked her aside, sending her toppling as she rolled in the sand. She spit out a mouthful of blood, fury glowing in her eyes with a red tint that he found alluring. Crimson rose as West avoided the hit from one of his axes, swivelling around and slamming his sword down. The opposing Saint growled in frustration as his neck began to knit back together, one slow patch at a time.

“Enough,” He breathed and sent his hand straight down into the ground, sand flying up on impact as a furious crack registered. Crimson had just managed to get back to her feet before the force knocked them both down.

West flipped over himself, grunting as he smacked into the ring’s edge, a sharp pain rippling down his back that he ignored. “I’ve always hated that move.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand to remove the gritty bits stuck to his mouth.

Crimson lifted herself onto her knees, her hair wild as she palmed her daggers. West didn’t give her the chance to attack as he charged at War. War was ready for him, waiting. A vicious grin appeared as he threw himself towards the Saint. He punched, kicked, smacked the immortal god, ducking under the mirroring blows that War sent his way. Their feet skidded in the golden sand that was mingled with blood and sweat, both of which coated both Saints.

West slammed his fist into War’s cheek, a gargled cry following as War stumbled back, panting heavily.

“Saints damned bastard.” He hissed, dislodging a broken tooth and depositing it on the ground. “I always forgot how good of a fighter you were.”

“It’s almost like you trained me.” He jerked his head towards the redhead that was slowly inching closer. “As well as her.”

War made the mistake of glancing at Crimson.

Before he could say anything else, Crimson pounced. She used the full impact of her weight to swing into his form, grappling onto his thick neck as she flipped one of her knives into her palm, her thumb tight on the handle as she plunged it into the meaty spot where his shoulders began. War screamed, the noise echoing in the blank stands above as he tried to fling her off. To no avail as she ripped it free, blood smattering across her face as she repeated the action on the other side and jerked it towards her.

Skin ripped.

Blood spilled.

War raged.

His red eyes matched the fury and pain he felt, a roar not unlike that of a lion breaking free. She grunted as he spun around in a desperate rage. Crimson wrenched her dagger free and repeated the motion on either of his elbows, driving the point deep until tears formed in the corner of his eyes. He struggled to find her as she jumped off, catching her balance before she could fall. Crimson was heaving heavily, which meant that she was running out of energy. West couldn’t blame her after the two other men she’d taken out in her previous matches. Going up against a Saint however, was something else entirely.

“Every day that I remained here,” She panted, “I watched you teach the others. I watched you train by yourself. I watched all the other fighters that you praised for their victories.”

War’s lip curled.

“You want to be proud of me. You always thought I was your best and I can see the disappointment now that you know what I finally am.” She snapped in his direction, his black-like blood oozing off her smoky steel. “I relish in that. I relish in the fact that Crimson fucking Bard, a girl from the Bronze Gate, a serving girl in your own establishment, rose to the top and took you down.” Her hazel eyes flicked over to him, his words in her mouth and West couldn’t be prouder of her.

He couldn’t have loved her any more, either.

Enough was enough. The Saint was tired, clear by the hazing pain that clouded in his eyes, the lancing way it immobilised him because she’d torn his joints apart, severing the tendons that allowed him to move with such agility, strength and speed. He was still trying to fight, trying to condense all of his wrath, his bloodthirsty power into defeating them but it was over. He wouldn’t be able to truly fight back without ripping his body to the point of unfixable damage.

Was it wrong to think that his old mentor looked right coated head to toe in blood, even if it was his own?

West summoned another moon slice to his hand, thickening it and sharpening the edge until even he felt his own hot blood in the cup of his palm as he gripped it firmly. Stars blurred, clouds burst and the moon exploded. He sent it flying, watching as it sank into the male’s chest.

Directly under his heart.

Crimson darted back, twisting her knife until it was upside down and plunged it up into his chin. The soft squelch sent shudders rippling over his skin as red poured down her arm. It rolled off the leather sleeve as she discarded one glove, the other following after pulling her knife free.

War gasped for air, a death-rattling sound as she kicked him down. His knees hit the earth as she towered over him. West blasted an additional pulse of starlight as white as possible in order to keep him down for as long as possible. He was the god of war, of blood and bones and brittle death yes, but against two Saints?

He was as weak as any other human.

Crimson stalked around him, surveying the best place to strike .

“Let me.” West insisted as he held out his hand, the glee of winning another bout taking over. For the scar on his neck and for everything he’d done to her over the years of her service to him.

He wanted to do this.

She wordlessly gave over one of her blades.

There was no way that he could kill the Saint without avoiding any damage to his heart, but as long as they gathered most of it up afterwards, it would work.

“Goodbye, War.” West said as he turned the dagger south and drove it home.