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S he wasn’t entirely sure where to look first.

There was so much to look at.

Within her first step past the long staircase that was tight enough to give her chills, thanks to her fear of confined spaces, there was a massive crowd gathered before her. She could hardly make out what they were all watching and roaring at as she wedged past a few bodies.

Crimson slipped towards the barrier, where a thick stone wall sat, guarding the edge and preventing anyone from accidently toppling over it. It rose four feet tall and was at least six inches thick. She glanced over, finding that she was on the middle level of the underground chamber, another above her and below her. With the style of the men surrounding her, she could easily guess that they were from the Silver Gate.

But that wasn’t what caught her attention.

The arena embedded into the lowest level was.

Because within the sandy pit, there were two fighters who relentlessly went after each other. One was dressed in scale armour that made him appear like a dragon in a fairytale whilst the other was clad in head to toe leather. Steel studs kept the plates in place but allowed him to move freely, without any issue.

A wiser choice , she thought.

Crimson caught the shimmering flash of coins and immediately swivelled her head to follow the glint of gold. Four crowns passed from one hand to another, a slip of paper following in return.

Gambling.

They were betting on the fighters.

An illegal thing to do, in any of the three gates, but forbidden things were only sweeter. Money was money; something she desperately needed.

She ducked under the bannister and followed the trading coins, desperate to learn how she could get her hands on some. She followed the second set of stairs down into the ground floor, watching from the side walls as the men attacked and countered. They were both fantastic, from what she could tell. But then again, she had no knowledge of the sport of war and bloodshed, let alone how to even wield a weapon.

Crimson found the man who offered up the scrap of parchment and tapped his shoulder lightly. He rotated and as soon as he saw who touched him, a nasty sneer pulled onto his round face. A curve of hair lined his jaw, above his lip, across his chin.

“What do you want, girl ?” He hissed down at her. “You know you aren’t supposed to be in here.”

She instantly pulled the name that allowed her into the pits in the first place out of her mind. “I’m one of Roland’s girls.”

“Ah, a new hire then?” His face fixed into a mask of pleasantness that anyone else might have bought, but she most certainly didn’t. “What do you need, then? ”

Crimson cleared her throat and tucked any ounce of nerves away as she inquired after the battle. “How does one enter the arena?”

He chuckled, as if she said something funny.

Her blood boiled, cheeks heating.

“ You can’t.”

“Why not?” She knew she’d lose within a couple minutes, but even then there might be some money involved in it for the other party.

“ Girls aren’t allowed in the ring. Your kind isn’t even allowed to watch . You serve the drinks and treats, and that’s it. Now get on before you test my patience. I have other things to handle that are far more important than discussing random facts with you that are useless.”

Crimson tossed her cranberry braid over her shoulder and reached for him again. This time, her thumb and pointer finger found soft spots at his wrist. With every bit of confidence and intent she could muster, she asked once more. “How can one enter the arena?”

The voice that she used wasn’t one she recognized. She could feel his heartbeat between her fingers and the way he blinked slowly as it slowed to a calming pace that thrummed an exciting song to her. It coursed through her like an electric current or a lick of heat as one got too close to the tempting flame. She angled her head in confusion as the melody of life flowed through her and he stopped moving. Crimson applied gentle pressure to the vein she felt and heard nothing but the pound of his life.

She listened, tuning into the notes.

His eyes were wide, but not in fear. In something else, something that almost seemed as if he’d indulged in one too many cups of ale from the tavern above. He beamed down at her, drawing closer but not for anything nefarious by the looks of his drunk and dreamy expression.

His mouth parted and he sounded tired as he answered her. “By putting their name on the roster. Best to use a fake name, in case the other competitors get mad at you for winning, then. We’ve lost a ton of good fighters that way, to revenge.”

Whatever she was doing, it was working.

She didn’t stop, pressing even further for more answers. “How old do you have to be to enter?”

Slow blink. “Twenty-two is the youngest we allow, but we try to limit it to twenty-four. Sometimes some slip past us.” Another lengthy dip of his short lashes.

The starting age was a year older than she was, and she’d just reached twenty-one. But perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst idea to stay and study the fighters. To see how they moved, observe their techniques and talents. To add to her bare knowledge when it came to fighting. To give her a fighting chance before entering the arena.

Maybe she could become one of Roland’s girls as a way to stay in the Pits. To study from afar as she earned decent money, depending on whatever his girls did.

Crimson didn’t let go just yet as she asked another question. Instead, her fingers angled tighter. Not tight enough to hurt, but enough so that his veins thrummed in answer. A more powerful pulse that rushed through her with every thrust of blood they pumped.

She mustered that lilting voice again, glossy and flirtatious as she murmured, “Whose Roland?”

He responded within a second. “He takes care of the serving girls and working boys. He’s always looking for more to add to his group. ”

“What all do the girls do?”

There was a nagging feeling in her stomach that sent negative sparks flooding through her, but she ignored it.

“They only serve the snacks and drinks. He’s got other girls too, if you’re interested in a more… filling position. They earn more, but it’s harder work.” He mumbled, his green eyes glazing over until his iris’s became barely slitted.

She let go at last, taking a step back.

“Where can I find Roland?”

Four years.

That’s how long it took her before she stepped foot into the ring for the first time.

Four, long years of diving under grabby hands and greedy fingers, of serving weak ale from the tavern above them and taking tips from the nicer of her patrons. Of tying an apron around her waist every night and spending that time in the Pits of all places. But it was perfect. Because she took enough home from the coins that she could afford the care for Cobalt and look after herself at the same time. She could afford the apartment without worry, and they had stable income at long last.

Crimson made a couple of friends through the serving girls who worked alongside her, instead of the cruel ones that tried to make the job a competition. The ones that powdered their noses and added an absurd amount of rouge to their pinched cheeks and rosy lips. The ones that darkened their lashes with charcoal and soot, lining them with ink to create a slanted look to their eyes.

She hated them.

Renfri LeNoble hated them too .

A witty girl, with chocolate hair that fell to her shoulders in straight locks. She loved to mock the others and snicker behind their backs about the way they looked, like prancing geese with long necks and frilly cats with white whiskers, instead of pretty ladies and alluring girls. She was the one of the only three people who knew Crimson’s secret.

Fitz Oakley, a lanky male in Roland’s service also knew. He’d been the one to help her learn the moves, to help her with the footwork and even enter in the ring before her. It was because of him that she knew how to slouch correctly, walk right, and even spit like a man in case she needed to go one extra step to prove her masculinity. Crimson owed him alot, but never had the chance to repay it. Because his short winning streak in the ring ended abruptly, as soon as Grimm purchased the Pits.

He lost, and not just in the round but in his life as well. As the Blades became bloodier.

It wasn’t too long after she’d started up the serving work, but he was a new face. One that she’d never forget. Because instead of both warriors leaving the ring with scrapes and bruises and scratches, one would never step foot out of the sand again.

He raised the stakes.

To a deadly line.

Grimm was almost seven feet tall, and looked the part of a death god from the moment that Crimson laid her eyes on him. Blond hair that almost shimmered with an immortal grace, and brilliant, brown eyes that seemed to glow with a red tint. He was tanned, with muscles that covered every inch of his form. And there were scars too, along each patch of skin on display. He never seemed to be found without a scrap of leather and chainmail, always clad in armour as if he were always expecting a fight.

As if he wanted the mortals to see him for what he truly was. Most were blind, and couldn’t tell anything past the tips of their noses, but a clever few would be able to take one look at him and know what dwelled beneath his beige skin. Herself, included. Just like with her father, Crimson knew what he was. Who he was. There was no other Saint that fit him as well as the Warrior’s description did.

But even with the hungry male taking over the Blades of Blood, that raised the age of entry to twenty-five, and added the harshest punishment of all for losing, there were some advantages. Because Grimm trained the competitors himself. He physically got into the ring with them and taught them all how to be better warriors, stronger fighters and meaner opponents.

And those long night shifts began to pay off even more as she saw them all too. As she learned alongside them from the shadowed alcoves in all three levels. It got to a point where she began taking the early hour shifts, cleaning the leftover remains from the previous nights, in order to gain as much information as she could before trying her hand in the ring.

Crimson didn’t just spend her time serving other men and learning how to wield weapons, either.

Within the four years before she stepped foot into the ring, she honed her gift too. She played around with it as she accidently bumped into men as they passed her by, as she stumbled into their chests and found their strongest veins that linked directly to their hearts. It got to the point over the many years where she no longer needed physical contact to maintain a connection.

It helped, but it wasn’t necessary.

But eye contact was.

She could find the startling whites of anyone’s eyes and smile a simple smile at them, and gain absolute control of their emotions. The intent to play puppet master had to be available to her, for her to find it within herself and harness it before she could access their feelings, but it was always there. A little string that ran along their myocardium, for her to pluck and play with, whenever she’d like.

Toying with their heart strings became a game.

And when she created her persona, made the fabled legend himself, she knew the powers would come to her advantage. She saved up a small portion from each night, tucked aside in a clear jar that she kept under their bed in the apartment. And when it was finally full, she purchased her red leathers.

Leathers, not chainmail.

Because she could move as fast as a viper in them.

Whenever she found spare time in the following two weeks, Crimson wore them. To get used to the slight constriction they gave, the creaking of fabric and the additional layers that she didn’t normally wear. When she finally felt comfortable in them, when they became a second skin at last, she pulled out the long box from under the bed.

It was the only place that they had to store the select valuables left over from their parents. Each of her mother’s simple pieces of jewellery had been sold off long before then, as well as any of her dresses that didn’t fit Crimson. But these, she could never and would never sell.

Her father’s knives.

The weapons she practised with, following the steps and swipes that Grimm taught his students. The ones that were as long as her forearms, with a heart carved into the hilt. Red handles, like the colour of her hair and red sheaths that she could attach to either side of her hips. The blades themselves were a work of art. There wasn’t any carved intricate detail engraved into the steel itself, but the smoky shade was stunning .

It was with these, that she entered the Blades of Blood as Red Lyric, and he was born from nothing.

Her first fight, she almost lost.

The male she faced off from couldn’t have been more than a year older than her, and even though she practised the exact moves that Grimm showed the others, he nearly had her in the last two minutes of the round. But with a quick slip of her fingers under his ochre jacket, she found his pressure point in his wrist and convinced him to go down.

For the first time, Crimson took a life and truly embraced Red Lyric. All this to help her brother live, and it was all worth it.