A Path Not Paved in Blood

The two of them ran, their footsteps pounding against the creaking floorboards as the possessed Sylvain stalked after them, his once elegant movements now twisted, unnatural. The laughter that followed them was no longer his own—distorted, layered, a voice that did not belong to the man they had met.

River grabbed Fiora’s wrist and yanked her forward as she stumbled over the torn carpet. They burst into the lower hall, ducking into a side room and slamming the door behind them. River pressed his back against it, breathing hard.

The pounding of footsteps stopped.

A long silence.

Then—slow, deliberate taps against the wood. The thing wearing Sylvain’s skin was just outside.

Fiora swallowed hard, clutching at her chest as she tried to steady her breathing. River held up a finger, signaling for silence. The tapping stopped, and after a moment, the sound of receding footsteps echoed down the hall.

He exhaled sharply. “For now, we’re clear.”

Fiora slumped against the far wall, forcing herself to calm down. But then a single thought crossed her mind, as she narrowed her eyes.

“…River,” she whispered. “That thing… It called you a monster hunter. Why?”

River raised his eyes to look at her, his brows furrowed. With a sigh, he pulled a knife from his belt, turning it over in his palm. The blade gleamed with an unnatural dullness, its metal dark but lined with faint, swirling markings faintly pulsing blue.

“Probably because it sensed this. It’s a monster cleaver.” River said at last. “Back when I was with the Gilded Crows, Varrek gave it to me after a successful hunt.”

Fiora straightened. “A monster cleaver? What does that mean?”

River frowned, expression unreadable. “It’s a dagger made out of a behemoth’s bone. It specialises in killing monsters. Varrek was more than just a mercenary. He knew how to deal with things that shouldn’t exist. He said it was a ‘real bastard’ of a thing, but one day, it might save my life.”

Fiora stared at the blade. “So… it can kill that thing?”

River hesitated. “…It can. But Sylvain goes with it.”

Fiora narrowed her eyes, clenching her fists. “No! We need another way!”

River let out a dry chuckle. “You got a better idea, princess?”

Fiora’s expression hardened. “We pull it out from Sylvain first, and then we kill it.”

River scoffed, “You think that’s easy? You think that thing will just walk out because we ask nicely?”

“You can’t just kill everything that stands in your way, River.” Fiora glared, her stare icy. For a moment the mercenary froze at her words.

“That’s rich, coming from someone who’s barely spent a month outside her fancy mansion.” River finally bit back. “You don’t know what survival of the fittest is like. It’s kill or be killed in my world.”

Fiora’s blue eyes locked onto his, steady and unwavering.

“This isn’t your world.”

River stiffened.

She took a step closer. “You’re not a Gilded Crow anymore. And this isn’t a battlefield. You have a chance—to save someone instead of taking the easy way out. For once in your life, you can solve this without murder, so why not take it?”

For a second River wanted to snap back. Risk his hide for a trickster? A nobody? If he were alone he wouldn’t even think twice. Yet Fiora’s words cut deeper than he could ever imagine.

River ran a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. “Damn it.”

Fiora didn’t waver.

Her approach was far too idealistic. Utopic even. But something within River solidified as he looked at her gaze. Maybe… just maybe, he could believe in her. Even if it were just a false dream. He wanted to.

He let the silence stretch before finally speaking. “…Alright.” He tightened his grip on the knife. “We do this your way. But if it doesn’t work—I’m ending this.”

Fiora nodded. “That’s all I ask.”

✾

The door creaked open, revealing the deteriorating entrance hall. It seemed the apparition’s power was making the mansion look more grotesque by the second.

Fiora sprinted out into the open rain, her cloak flying behind her.

River stood in the doorway, watching her disappear into the trees. “I hope you take good care of it…” He muttered under his breath, then turned back toward the grand staircase.

It was time to make himself a target.

River strode into the main hall with an ease that felt almost arrogant, his sword resting over his shoulder as his violet eyes flicked up toward the possessed noble standing on the balcony above.

Sylvain—or rather, the thing inside of him—tilted his head at the sight.

“You return, monster hunter,” Valaniel mused, his voice warping between tones. “Not even smart enough to flee like your lady friend?”

River smirked. “I’d hate to disappoint a good audience.”

The entity chuckled darkly. “So eager to die.”

River gripped his sword tighter. “We’ll see about that.”

Sylvain dropped from the balcony with a thud. River too, launched himself forward. The fight began.

Sylvain’s possessed body moved like a marionette, his limbs jerking unnaturally as he dodged the first strike. River barely had time to pivot before a wave of force sent him skidding back across the hall.

The spirit laughed, flicking its stolen fingers. The chandelier above River trembled, then plummeted toward him.

River lunged forward just in time, rolling out of the way as the massive fixture crashed into the ground where he’d stood.

“Not bad,” River muttered, gripping his sword tighter.

Sylvain’s eyes glowed with eerie light. “Your steel won’t cut me, mortal.”

River smirked. “Then I’ll just have to be creative.”

He darted forward, feinting left before twisting his blade and striking at Sylvain’s arm—not to kill, but to disarm. The trickster staggered back, but the spirit’s hold was strong.

“Let him go, you coward,” River growled.

The spirit only laughed.

“Why would I abandon such a willing host?”

River’s gaze darkened. Then, slowly, his grip loosened. He let out a dry chuckle.

The spirit paused.

River lowered his sword slightly, smirking. “Sylvain’s weak. He’s a coward. He was never meant to hold you.”

“What are you implying, hunter?”

River took a step forward, his voice smooth, taunting. “You want a real vessel?” He pressed his thumb against his chest. “Then take me.”

The air grew thick, charged with energy. The spirit stilled.

“Come out of there and face me. If you’re so strong, come and take me!” River growled, readying his stance.

Then—it moved.

Sylvain let out a strangled cry as the entity began to unravel from his body, its shadowy tendrils twisting through the air toward River. Then the cloaked shadow from before finally emerged from the trickster’s body, as it now loomed over the mercenary.

River’s breath steadied.

He was betting everything on what came next.

And then—the dagger struck.

Fiora, who had disappeared from the mansion’s halls, had not run. She had circled back. She had waited.

And now—she drove the blade straight into the spirit’s back. She had never used a knife before, but just like the mercenary told her, she had put her whole body weight on that strike, both hands gripping the blade and plunging it deep.

A piercing wail tore through the air.

The entity convulsed, its form warping, tearing apart at the seams. It shrieked as its essence burned, the dagger’s magic consuming it whole.

Sylvain let out a final gasp before collapsing onto the floor.

The mansion fell silent.

Sylvain coughed weakly, rolling onto his back. His limbs trembled from exhaustion, but his usual smugness remained.

“Well,” he rasped. “That was… quite the performance.”

Fiora exhaled, gripping the now-blackened dagger. Her face was tense, but there was genuine relief in her eyes as she regarded the trickster. The trickster who had survived the possession.

“You’re an idiot.” She finally said.

Sylvain chuckled.

“An entertaining idiot, I hope.”

River scoffed. “You got lucky.”

Sylvain smirked. “And you two… are heroes.”

“We’re not heroes.” River’s face immediately soured.

Sylvain propped himself up from the ground, doing his best not to groan.

“Then what do you call saving a man from certain doom?”

River turned toward the door. “A mistake.”

Fiora sighed, casting Sylvain a glance. “You’ll be alright?”

Sylvain stretched dramatically, wincing. “I suppose I’ll live.” He glanced around the ruined mansion. “I think I’ll stay here. The end of the world doesn’t much concern me.”

Fiora frowned looking around. Truth be told now that Valaniel was gone, the place much more appropriate for someone to live in.

“…You’re really staying?”

He spread his arms toward the grand halls. “I’ve still got a whole stage to myself. Can’t waste it.”

“Be careful playing your… pranks.” Fiora sighed, “The next people that come here might not be as lenient as the grumpy one with the sword.”

River glared at her, while Sylvain simply laughed.

River shook his head, already heading toward the entrance. “Whatever. We’re leaving.”

Sylvain grinned after him. “Try not to miss my tricks too much, mercenary.”

“Shut up, clown.”

River scoffed, pushing the door open. After their adventure in the confines of the mansion, morning had broken, and the sky was clear.

“Perfect weather for getting the hell out of here.” River said as he looked up.

As they walked, Fiora glanced at the mercenary besides her. “You really don’t like being called a hero, do you?”

River snorted. “No.”

She smirked. “Then I guess you won’t like it when I start telling people how we killed a spirit and saved a man.”

River shot her a glare. “…Don’t you dare.”

Fiora hummed, skipping ahead with a mischievous grin.

Behind them, the mansion loomed.

Silent once more.

Yet as the distance between them grew, River felt a weird sense of accomplishment within him. For the first time in his life, he didn’t take the easy way out. And as reckless as it was, trusting in Fiora’s sickeningly optimistic plan had paid off. Sylvain De Rouselle, was still alive.