Theatre of Horrors

The rain came down in relentless sheets, drumming against the canopy of trees as thunder rumbled overhead. The dirt path had turned into a treacherous mess beneath their boots, puddles forming faster than they could step around them. 

Fiora was miserable.

Her cloak clung to her shoulders, soaked through, and her hair stuck to her face as the wind lashed against them. She was cold, wet, and very much done with this journey.

“Ugh, this is unbearable!” she groaned, shivering. “We can’t keep walking in this!”

River, trudging beside her, barely spared her a glance. “You’ll live.”

Fiora shot him a glare. “Says the man who looks like a drowned mutt himself.”

He exhaled through his nose, unimpressed, but she wasn’t wrong, —his dark hair was plastered to his face, and his coat clung to his frame, rain seeping through the seams. They couldn’t keep walking out in the rain like this.

Then, through the mist and rain, something loomed in the distance. A grand estate, its silhouette barely visible against the storm-lit sky.

Fiora’s eyes lit up. “Look! A house! We can take shelter there!”

River eyed it warily. “Looks abandoned.”

“All the better!” Fiora was already moving, her boots splashing through the mud. “Maybe it has a functioning fireplace!”

River sighed, watching her charge ahead without a second thought. When she was like this, arguing was pointless.

“Every damn time…” he muttered, following her through the broken iron gate.

The old mansion loomed over them, its darkened windows like hollow eyes. Rain slithered down the moss-covered walls, and the front doors sagged slightly on their hinges.

Fiora shivered, suddenly less enthusiastic. “…Okay, up close, it’s a little unsettling.”

River stepped past her, shouldering the heavy wooden doors open. They groaned like a dying breath as they swung inward, revealing the shadowed expanse of the grand foyer.

“Just a little water damage, peeling wallpaper, and a few too many shadows,” River muttered dryly.

Fiora shot him a look but followed him inside. The moment she crossed the threshold, the air shifted—dense, heavy, too still.

Ahead, a sweeping staircase disappeared into darkness, while faded portraits lined the walls, their figures barely visible. A grand chandelier, dulled with time, hung overhead, swaying slightly in the draft.

Something dripped from the ceiling and landed on Fiora’s shoulder. She jumped.

River, completely unfazed, turned toward one of the doors. “Let’s find this fireplace before you start screaming about hauntings.”

Fiora wasn’t in the mood to argue.

They moved deeper into the mansion, their footsteps echoing against the wooden floors. The walls seemed to press in, the silence swallowing their presence whole. Every so often, a gust of wind rattled the windows, making almost the whole structure shiver.

“I don’t like this place,” Fiora admitted.

“Bold words from the one who insisted on coming in.”

They reached the parlor. A grand stone fireplace stood cold and abandoned at the center, its mantel lined with dust-covered relics. Yet it was still functional.

“Perfect.”

River knelt, pulling out flint and steel, striking until sparks caught on the dry wood. Fiora, meanwhile, hesitated at the doorway.

“…I’m changing out of these wet clothes,” she muttered. “Try not to let anything bite you while I’m gone.”

“Noted,” River said absently, focused on coaxing the fire to life.

As the flames rose, a warm glow flickered against the walls, chasing away the shadows. The storm raged outside, but inside the parlor, the room settled into a fragile sense of safety. The house looked old, weathered, but not nearly enough abandoned as one would think from the exterior. Within there was a mixture of unease and… tranquility.

At least, until Fiora burst back in.

“I heard something,” she whispered sharply. “There’s someone else in this house!”

Before River could react—

A heavy footstep creaked from the hall.

River’s hand went to his sword immediately, his body tensing.

Another step. Slow. Deliberate.

He moved toward the doorway, peering out into the dim corridor. Nothing.

But the moment he stepped forward—

The footsteps started again.

His jaw tightened. He searched the nearest rooms. All of them were empty.

Still, the sound persisted.

By the time River returned, Fiora stood stiffly near the fire, hugging her arms.

“Well?” she asked.

“No one’s here,” River muttered, sheathing his sword.

“That’s impossible. We both heard it!”

River didn’t argue. Instead, he grabbed one of the blankets from the armchair, tossing it onto her.

“Get warm. If someone or something is here, then it will show itself. Or if it’s smart enough, it won’t.”

Fiora hesitated but eventually curled into the armchair, letting exhaustion take over.

The storm howled outside drumming against the windows with great force. Meanwhile within the estate the fire crackled softly.

For a while, the house seemed quiet, an example the pair followed.

By the time they finally decided to sleep, the storm outside had become more fierce, showers slamming against the window frames. There was no chance they could camp out tonight.

Fiora followed River up the stairs, her boots clicking softly against the wooden steps. Despite her unease, there was a small relief in knowing they wouldn’t have to sleep on the ground again.

She stepped into the bedroom, her tired eyes landing on a real bed. Plush, though slightly dusty, with heavy velvet curtains still intact.

For the first time since entering the house, she smiled.

River let out a quiet scoff at her reaction. “You look like you just found gold.”

“After sleeping on dirt and rocks for a week? This is better than gold.”

River didn’t share in her enthusiasm. He turned, already heading toward the door. “Well, enjoy. I’ll be downstairs—”

Fiora caught his wrist.

He stopped.

“Can you maybe… stay?” Her face took on a different colour as she asked. For a moment the mercenary was caught off guard, yet he knew better than to jump to conclusions.

“What, scared already?”

Fiora scowled but didn’t let go. “This place isn’t right. You heard the footsteps. You saw how things feel… off.”

“Can you keep me company just for tonight…?”

River sighed, rubbing his temple. 

“Fine.”

He kicked off his boots, rested his sword next to the nightstand, and pulled a chair to the bedside.

Fiora gave him a look. “You’re seriously going to sleep on a chair?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

River smirked. “It’s fun watching you be uncomfortable.”

Fiora huffed, climbing into the bed, pulling the blankets over her with dramatic flair. “Fine. Be stubborn.”

She turned onto her side, closing her eyes. River leaned back in the chair, letting silence settle over the room.

The fire in the bedroom crackled softly, its warmth licking away the cold that seeped through the cracks in the walls. River soon started another fire in the hearth, the glow casting restless shadows against the dark wooden beams.

Fiora curled deeper into the covers, pulling the blanket up to her chin. The mattress was soft, a luxury she hadn’t felt in days, but the weight of the mansion pressed down on her.

Her voice broke the quiet, not quiet ready to sleep just yet.

“Say… Why do you think the group of Oath Chasers back in Riena were so violent?”

River, seated beside her in the old chair, tilted his head slightly, his fingers tapping idly against his knee. River’s eyes reflected the firelight, unreadable but certain. “Now that the world is ending, nobody’s afraid to show who they really are anymore.”

Fiora’s brows furrowed.

“If you choose to die by a belief, you’ll despise those who reject it. For them, the Oaths are strength. And if you deny them, you’re weak. Cowards don’t deserve to live.”

Fiora stared into the fire, contemplating his words. She thought of the zealot in Riena, the desperate, empty gazes of his followers. Thought of how they clung to their faith as if it would hold back the end itself.

“…And you knew them.” She turned to him again, watching his face.

River tensed slightly, but the way she said it—not as an accusation, but as a statement—made him sigh.

“Yeah.”

Fiora propped herself up on her elbow, her curiosity now fully piqued. “How?”

River cast her a sidelong glance, his mouth twitching, as if debating whether to tell her.

“They were a band of mercenaries called the Bloodhounds. My clan outwitted them. Stole a job right from under their noses. They’ve been itching to kill us… well what remains of us, ever since.”

Fiora blinked before breaking into a small laugh. “You? Outwitted them?”

“I’ll have you know, we were excellent at pissing people off. Their employer sent them to fetch information while we found the heart of the problem. We were the ones who got paid the full sum in the end.”

Fiora grinned. There it was. A small moment of openness. A glimpse into whatever past River Crowe kept so carefully locked away.

“You must have loved being with them,” she murmured.

River’s smirk faded. He stared at the fire for a long moment.

“The Gilded Crows… they were all I’ve ever known. Dante, Ronan, Elise, Varek, Maeve…”

Fiora’s teasing expression softened. “Gilded Crows… that’s what you were called. Hence the surname I suppose?”

“Yeah…” River exhaled, leaning back slightly. “They were the only family I had. They found me as a baby. By the river.”

Fiora sat up completely, her eyes wide. “No! That’s also why—”

“—why my first name is River?” he finished for her, smirking again.

Fiora gasped. “That’s terrible!”

“Well, mercenaries aren’t exactly experts at naming babies.”

Fiora covered her mouth, but a laugh still slipped out. River shook his head, amused despite himself.

Then, her expression shifted. Fiora groaned, throwing back the blanket.

River raised a brow. “What now?”

Fiora grumbled, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her face took on a slightly rosy tint as she replied.

“I need the washroom.”

River immediately shook his head. “Not going with you.”

She frowned. “But what if something grabs me?”

“Then scream loud enough, and I’ll decide if you’re worth saving.”

Fiora scowled at him, snatching the candle from the nightstand before stomping toward the door. “You’re an awful bodyguard.”

River smirked, watching her disappear into the dark hallway. “And yet, you keep me employed.”

The washroom was at the far end of the hall, its door slightly ajar as if waiting for her. Fiora hesitated for half a second before pushing it open.

Inside, the space was eerily still. A massive, antique mirror stood against the wall, its surface slightly warped with age. The candlelight flickered, distorting her reflection.

She placed the candle down on the sink, rubbing her arms. The air was colder here.

Fiora caught her own gaze in the mirror, her blue eyes searching—and then, behind her—

A figure.

Shadowed, towering. Its face a hollow stretch of darkness.

Watching her.

Fiora’s breath hitched in her throat. The candlelight shuddered.

Then—it moved.

She bolted out of the washroom, her heart slamming against her ribs.

Fiora practically threw the door open, racing back into the bedroom. “River—!”

She froze.

River was standing in the center of the room with his sword in stance, dodging… floating teacups.

Fiora stared, her expression shifting to perplexion. “Floating… Teacups.”

River parried a saucer with the side of his sword, looking mildly annoyed. “Floating fucking teacups!”

A plate soared past his ear. He sliced through it with a quick, effortless swing, sending shattered porcelain clattering to the floor.

Fiora gawked. “This can't be real.”

River deflected another cup, teeth gritted. “Step over here and see for yourself, why don’t you, princess?”

Another cup launched straight for his head. He ducked, and it smashed against the wall.

Once the last of the teacups lay in shattered ruins, River exhaled sharply, sheathing his sword. His patience was officially spent.

He turned toward the shadows of the room, his voice edged with irritation.

“Enough with the tricks. Get out here and face us.”

Fiora widened her eyes, “Us?”

A silence followed.

Then—

A laugh.

Fiora instinctively moved behind River. Not the eerie, disembodied laughter of a ghost. But a man’s laughter.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway beyond. Slow, deliberate.

Then, a figure stepped into the doorway.

A man.

His silhouette was lean, dressed in an elegant, purple velvet coat, his gloved hands spread wide as if caught mid-performance.

His dark eyes gleamed with amusement as he stepped forward, smirking. He had long dark hair swept back and a thin moustache curling over his lips.

“My, my. You certainly know how to ruin a good bit of theater.”