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A remote part of the forest, mist clung to the ground. It’s been several days. Loco has gotten thinner, quieter, and far more tired.

The forest no longer frightened him.

It was strange—how quickly the wild became home when the heart no longer belonged anywhere else.

Loco sat by a dwindling fire. His legs were curled under him, arms draped loosely around his knees, chin resting on top. The stars above blinked behind shifting clouds, uncaring. A squirrel darted nearby. A tree branch cracked from somewhere off to his left, and still, he didn’t move.

He just stared at the flames.

His thoughts used to be loud. Full of arguments, of “you should have said this” and “why didn’t she stop me?”

Now they were just… tired.

In his hand was a smooth stone he’d found by the river. It had no meaning. No memory. But he kept rolling it between his fingers anyway, like it might reveal something if he held it long enough.

The wind blew harder. He looked up at the sky, face blank, then whispered like someone half-asleep:

“She could’ve said yes.”

His voice cracked.

“She could’ve said yes.”

The wind didn’t answer. Of course not.

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. The skin there was dry, cracked. He hadn’t slept in longer than he cared to count. Food was something he remembered existed but hadn’t cared about in days.

Loco leaned back until he was lying in the dirt, staring at the trees. He watched them sway in and out of focus, like his vision couldn’t decide whether to stay or leave.

“She said she loved me,” he murmured.

A pause.

“Why didn’t that mean anything?”

His voice trembled at the end, but he swallowed it down. No more tears. He’d used them all up—cried himself raw on the first night, screamed the second. Now he just... existed.

Birds rustled in the branches above.

A memory rose unbidden—Bavanda’s laugh, loud and real, from a day they’d chased butterflies for the pups near the riverbank. She’d worn his jacket, and her braid kept coming undone. She called him a fool for tripping, then kissed the grass stains off his cheek.

He closed his eyes hard.

“Don’t,” he told the memory. “Don’t come back. You don’t get to stay.”

But it stayed.

He rolled over, clutching his ribs. Not because he was cold—though he was—but because it felt like his soul had a fracture running straight down the middle.

He whispered again, this time softer:

“I would’ve given you everything.”

The fire hissed. He let it die.

Montage, no words—just raw emotion:

He stood to his feet, walking again, through tangled roots and uneven hills with no destination in mind.

His feet was blistered, his lips cracked. His eyes weren't left out. They held this dull gaze, like everything else in the world had no meaning.

At some point, he collapsed beside an ancient tree and just laid there, staring upward. A rabbit hopped past, but he doesn’t flinch—almost like he was non-living with the inability to move.

Thunder rolled, but no rain came.

He rose to his feet again, letting out a heavy exhale. He finally stoppsd near a moss-covered boulder and just sat. With shaky hands, he pulled something from his pack—a folded, crumpled letter. The one he never gave her. The one with her name on the front.

He looked at it for a long time, his lips twitching. Then, he crumpled it tighter and tossed it into the wind.

The letter floated, spun, and landed a few feet away, unread.

Just like him.

***

Bavanda stood by her window, eyes locked on the treeline beyond the walls of the pack. Her fingers curled around the strap of the satchel slung across her shoulder. She’d packed it with trembling hands—some clothes, food, a salve kit, and the ring box. The one he left behind.

She hadn't told anyone. She didn’t have to. Her mother’s silence, her father’s sighs, the disappointed looks of the elders—none of them mattered right now.

Only he did.

She had thought about it long and hard. No one who loved someone so much deserved to be as hurt as he was. Her actions weren't justifiable anymore, even to her.

She had been scared, that's what she told everyone else at least. But the truth ran deeper than that.

Time and time again, the voices in her head told her that she was moving too fast. Loco wasn't her mate, he was the son of the dark Lord for crying out loud. He had that darkness in him, no matter how much he tried to resist. One day, he would let go. Was she really ready to subject herself to that? If she was going to marry him, then that would mean spending forever with him. Having kids…

What would she do if every one of her kids kept drifting off into the darkness? It was bound to happen, she knew it. And even though, it was still many many many years from now, she couldn't help but feel that she had to take precautions now.

By not marrying him…

Also, she knew the story of her mother's failed marriage to a chosen mate. She had witnessed first hand how strong a mating bond actually was, and how it couldn't be resisted. Supposing she went ahead to marry Loco, and her mate showed up…what then?

She didn't want to go through that. She didn't want to put Loco through that.

But that was selfish. There was no sugar-coating it. She claimed she loved him, yet all her hesitations were about herself. She claimed she cared about him, yet deep within, she hadn't fully accepted who he was.

Loco gave up a life of power, for her. And now, she was going to give up her fears. It was the least she could do.

“I’m coming,” she whispered, jaw set. “I’ll find you, Loco. I’ll fix this.”

She stepped toward the door, heart racing. But before she could even grip the handle, a commotion erupted below.

Footsteps echoed through the wooden floors—fast and unsteady. Almost fearful.

Then a loud, panicked voice, “Alpha! Luna! Scouts—two of them—coming in from the east ridge!”

Bavanda’s heart dropped. She abandoned her bag and ran downstairs.

The front doors swung open and in stumbled two scouts—young, hardened, and usually fearless. But now they were pale, their eyes wide with something far worse than pain.

Terror.

“We saw her,” one gasped.

“Who?” Avynna asked sharply.

But the scouts only shook their heads, as if saying it aloud would make it real. “She… she looked like—like the Princess—but it wasn’t her. It wasn’t her.”

Baron stepped forward. “You mean Bavanda?”

“No, Alpha. It was her face… but not her eyes. Not her walk. It was twisted. Wrong.”

Bavanda felt cold crawl up her spine.

Gina came to her side, brows pinched. “What does that mean? Some sort of trick?”

The younger scout clutched his arms. “She didn’t attack. Just… stared. But when she smiled…” He shuddered, nearly collapsing.

Avynna’s eyes met Bavanda’s. There was no time for questions.

Baron growled, “Sound the alarm. Lock down the borders. Form three scouting units and double patrols. Gina, Steve—you know what to do.”

“But I—” Bavanda started, staring back at the stairs, at her waiting bag.

“You’ll stay here,” Avynna said gently but firmly. “Your place is with the pack now.”

Bavanda’s fingers tightened at her sides. The chance to find Loco… slipping. “But we need to find Loco, he's out there."

Baron shot her a glare, and that glare said everything. Yet, he spoke, “Loco knows his way back home."

Bavandas lips parted in shock. Weren't these the people who just scolded her for letting him walk away. They were just going to turn their backs on him?

Avynna noticed her daughter frozen into place. With a heave, she walked to her, placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. “We can't risk having you out there, Bavanda. Just hold on, until we figure this out."

Bavanda clenched her jaws, but nodded. “Of course.”

But her heart? It broke all over again.

Meanwhile, somewhere deep within the folds of the earth, where no light reached…

The hall was darker than usual. The obsidian throne glowed faintly with streaks of red. The dark leader sat unmoving, head bowed slightly, fingers steepled before him. The air trembled with silent expectation.

There was silence, until a cloaked minion entered, kneeling low, breath uneven.

“My Lord,” he rasped, holding a shard of enchanted glass. Within it, images swirled—of terrified scouts, of Bavanda freezing mid-step, of the eerie doppelgänger in the trees.

The minion’s voice dropped: “The vessel has begun her work.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then the dark leader leaned back slowly. And began to laugh.

Not wildly, nor maniacally, but low, slow… like a storm br
ewing far away but moving fast.

He stood. “It begins,” he murmured. “Let them scramble. Let the girl grieve. Let love rot.”

The throne room rumbled in agreement.