Yves’s got a headache the size of the entire continent when he wakes up.

Blinking away the black spots that dance across his vision, he can’t help but swear when the memories come trickling in. Right. Plan’s gone to shit, everyone has either jumped ship or died, and now there’s an entire platoon led by some shining idiot after his head. The very one that is currently pounding with a possible concussion after getting slammed against a tree. He’d been momentarily knocked out from the sheer force of the impact, and waking up to the throbbing pain was not a pleasant experience. 

Honestly, you kill one king and people start getting so violent. It’s not as if it’s the first time royal blood had spilled upon the palace floors, so there really shouldn’t have been this much of a strong reaction. 

He’d be a bit miffed had it not been expected. One does not plot treason against a kingdom without having long considered the risks and benefits. He’s long known that he would be the villain in this story. That no matter the outcome, history would never look favorably upon him. Whether it be scorn, fear, or hatred, he’s prepared for it all.

Yves takes another steadying breath before glancing over at the idiot. In fact, they might even look at him like that.

“I just,” the shining hero of the day says, “I just don’t understand. Why would you do this?”

How descriptive. What, exactly, was he talking about? The burning of the palace, or the king’s blood that still stains his hands? Or perhaps it was the years of terrorizing the kingdom. Yves has a long list of crimes, and ‘this’ doesn't narrow down anything.

Either way, he has no interest in explaining himself.

“Shut your mouth already, Laurence.”

His face crumbles, as if he were disappointed in Yves. “You…really have no intention of changing, do you?”

Changing? 

Ha. 

No. It’s far too late for that. There is not an ounce of repentance in Yves. He’s done far too much, sacrificed too many people to feel regret. To change now is to spit in the face of all of his efforts, even if they haven’t amounted to much. In fact, he’d do it all over again, if it meant he’d get the truth.

Not that any of that is important when there’s a sword singing through the air, aimed straight for his head.

Reflexively, Yves twitches his hand upwards, and a wave of inky smoke leaps between them, blocking the blow with a hiss. The solid wall of shadows hold firm for a few seconds, before they shiver and recoil away when the hero’s accursed blade starts glowing with a golden light. With a screech, it disintegrates before his eyes, as it always does in the face of the divine blade. 

Yves clicks his tongue. Pulls out his own sword, as mundane as it is in comparison, and strikes out. At least this one won’t be immediately cut down like all magic will be when placed against the hero. He’s always preferred using magic, especially when his close combat needs are usually met, but he’ll adapt if he must. 

Blow after blow, they meet each other with vicious force. In terms of hand to hand combat, Yves is far outclassed, but the idiot of a hero fights with honor and Yves does not. He’ll do anything to win, even if it means resorting to trickery. His shadows may be easily cut off with that damn blade, but it’ll serve as an excellent distraction. 

Eventually, even that is not enough. Despite his best efforts, his weapon is knocked from his hands from a particularly brutal attack, and it’s with a sense of dread as Yves looks up to see that damned glowing blade high above his head. There’s nothing he can do, he realizes distantly. No more tricks up his sleeve.

No. This is not where it ends. He refuses.

Yves braces against the attack, meeting it head on. 

Steel screeches against steel as a dark curtain of hair fills his vision. 

“Run.”

Yves blinks up at his unexpected saviour. “...You?” 

The weirdo?

Just as his eyes cannot be pulled from the woman who leapt in front of him, the hero continues to stare at the bloodied blade she wields with a growing sense of dread. Yves follows his gaze. What is so special about it? It’s simply the average blade, with the addition of the colorful ribbon wrapped around the handle, a small charm dangling from the end. Nothing compared to the one that’s literally glowing in his hands. “How are you— the others— That does not belong to you.”

“Ah, this?” She glances at it dismissively. “It does now.”

The hero’s face is slack with disbelief and budding grief as the realization sets in. Yves watches interestedly. Did the sword belong to someone he knew? If he’d known it’d cause such an entertaining expression, he would’ve gone after every single one of his party.

“You will pay for your crimes, every last one of them. ”

“Your face is a crime,” she grunts, kicking the bastard away with enough force to send him flying. No matter how many times he’s seen it, the sight of someone going airborne for so long with such a deceptively effortless move has never failed to fascinate him. He’s even taken up the habit of counting the seconds until they’ve crashed back to the ground. 

Yves scoffs despite himself. Of course, the one person left on his side would be the most eccentric individual he has ever had the dubious fortune of meeting.

Pink eyes flicks over her shoulder, narrowing as they study him over with an uncharacteristic frown. Now that’s a rare sight. “You’re still alive. That’s good.”

“And you’re late. What took you so long?” Yves could count the number of times she’d been late on one hand and still have fingers left over, so obsessed was she with making sure she was ready to go at a moment’s notice. 

Yet another oddity from the mercenary hired years and years ago with no background besides a few rumors of her terrifying strength. Rumors that were immediately proven true when she thrashed the rest of the potential recruits in a mock battle. When later asked for her reason for joining their then ragtag group, she’d shrugged.

‘...I guess I’m just a sucker for pretty faces!’

She’d always been odd, but today, there was something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

Instead of replying, she laughs bitterly, shaking her head. This time, there is no nonsensical quip, just a brittle expression on her face. Wrong. Everything about her behaviour is wrong, wrong, wrong. But what was it? Before he could press her for answers, a pained wheeze interrupts

“I see the rumors did not exaggerate about you.”

Persistent as a cockroach, that one.

They both turn towards the hero, who struggles to his feet while clutching his ribs. They must’ve been broken, judging by the grimace on his face. At this point, Yves is long used to the nauseating crackling sounds as they pop audibly back into place with the same bright golden glow gleaming from the sword still in his grasp. That damned healing ability. Things would be far simpler if that bastard didn’t heal so quickly from every injury. Of course someone chosen by the heavens wouldn’t be so easy to kill. Yves glances at the mercenary standing before him, her back straight and ready to do his bidding.

On the bright side, the playing field is not so uneven any longer.

Perhaps they might actually win this.

This time, when the hero launches towards them, she meets him with equal ferocity. Each strike carries enough force to cleave the ground in two, and no less faster for it. In the meantime, Yves weaves more shadows, sending them racing towards the golden bastard’s head with extreme prejudice. With both of them attacking him, he gradually sustains more and more injuries, too quickly to heal them all in time.

Even with all of the injuries, he still manages to get inside her guard, and with a cry, his sword snakes into her side. Yves can’t tell how deep it is, not from his angle, but it must've still hurt, based on the way she hissed in pain. 

She grabs the hero’s hand, pulling him forwards and sinks the sword deep into the ground. Before he could pull it out, she raises her foot, and with an enraged cry, brings it down onto the flat of the blade. 

A small fracture spiderwebs throughout the impact. More impossibly, it snaps. 

The battle halts in its tracks as everyone gapes down at the sight. 

“Impossible…” The hero looks down at what remains of his sword. The very same blade crafted and blessed by the heavens hundreds of years ago, wielded by generations of other heroes chosen to save the world. In all of the legends about it, one thing remains constant: It is meant to be indestructible. 

And she, his terrible mercenary of dubious origins and wonderfully monstrous strength, she’s shattered it under her foot.

Yves laughs and laughs. 

The sound is enough to snap everyone out of their shock.

Before the hero could react, she flips the shattered half of her own sword and slashes upwards. He dodges, enough to prevent jagged shards of steel from impaling him through the head, but not enough to avoid a deep gash over his face. Without losing momentum, she drives the rest of the blade into his shoulder.

The resulting howl is enough to make Yves smile. More so when fumbling fingers fail to pull the steel out, dug too deep into the bone as it was. Though Yves wishes he was the one behind it, having a front row seat to this is decent consolation.

“What are you?” Laurence clutches at his face instead with a cry of pain. Gold flickers to life beneath his hands, before sputtering out. Healing past the bits of steel still embedded in the muscle would be a tad difficult, he imagines. 

She laughs hollowly. “You know, I’m not so sure anymore.” 

With that, she grabs him by the arm, and flings him clear over the cliff. 

They both stare at the spot where he’s vanished from sight, panting from the sheer effort. Is it done? Have they finally killed him?

…No. It can’t be that simple.

“He’s probably still alive,” Yves says, stepping towards the edge, peering over to see nothing but a vast forest underneath. The hero was chosen and blessed by the heavens themself; there’s no way he wouldn’t survive by some divine miracle. They should go down and make certain of his death.

Erica nods.

Turns to scoop him under her arm and runs.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Running,” she says, as if they weren’t so close to eradicating the thorn that has been in their side for the better part of a decade. “Gotta get you to safety first.”

Yves struggles in her grasp to no avail. He’d have better luck moving a mountain. “If the bastard was dead, there’d be no need to run.”

Not true. There’d still be palace soldiers chasing them down as they speak. But they were so close. When she still doesn’t reply, Yves narrows his eyes

“If you won’t finish things off, I will. Put me down.” 

“No.”

Yves tries to swing at her, but she brushes off his blows easily. This damn woman. “I said, let me go, you…you!”

“...You don’t remember my name, do you?” Finally, she glances down at him. She laughs at his expression, but it’s a tired sound. 

The accuracy makes him snap at her flusteredly. Of course he remembers. It just slipped his mind in all of the chaos. Actually, no. He’s blaming it on the probable concussion. “Should I?”

“No, you shouldn’t.” For some reason, there’s nothing but sincerity in her tone, and she smiles down at him as he scrutinizes her for any hint of judgment. Though he is unable to find any, her expression is still…odd. Undecipherable no matter how much he tries to study it, and she soon turns away. “That’s good. There’s no need to remember someone like me.”

No, there isn’t. But it’s odd to hear that coming from her. 

Yves struggles against her grip one more time, before submitting to his fate with a surly question.

“Where the hell are you taking me?”

She doesn’t look at him, only focusing on the path ahead.

“Anywhere but here.”