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The rogue village had a strange rhythm—quiet but alive in its own way. Hidden between the folds of the forest, it offered safety to those the world had forgotten. For days, Loco stayed there, blending into the slow, earthy pace. He helped the warriors train, taught a few of the younger ones how to track quietly through thick brush, and laughed when the village elder tried to challenge him to a wrestling match after a few mugs of fire-ale.

And for a while, the peace felt like something real. Like maybe this was where he could start over.

But it didn’t last.

That night, Loco had dreamt again.

It began in silence. He stood in the woods beneath a washed-out moon, its light spilling in fractured beams through the naked branches. The air was too still, too quiet. Then he saw her—Bavanda. She stood several feet away, barefoot, dressed in the white tunic she used to wear during training. The hem was stained with ash and earth, just as he remembered.

Her hair flowed loose, her expression calm—but it was her eyes that broke him. They were hollow, stripped of everything that once made them hers. She stared at him, unmoving, unblinking.

He had stepped toward her. “Bavanda?” he called softly, as if a louder voice might shatter her. But she gave no reply. Just watched. And before he could reach her, she turned to mist and disappeared.

The scene shifted.

He was no longer in the woods but in the ruins of the old training grounds—the very place where they had sparred, laughed, bled. Now it lay in ashes. Smoke coiled through the cracked earth and shattered stone. In the center, beside a shallow pool of water tainted with soot, she knelt. Her back was to him again, her frame smaller somehow, trembling.

He approached cautiously, the crunch of his boots too loud in the heavy silence. She was crying—soft, broken sobs that ripped into him like claws. He dropped to his knees beside her and reached out.

When she turned, her face was streaked with tears, her eyes red-rimmed and lost. “Why did you leave me?” she asked, her voice hoarse, raw. “You were supposed to stay.”

He tried to speak, but the sky above them cracked like glass, a thunderless rupture, and the ground beneath her began to open. Black earth coiled around her arms and legs, pulling her downward. He lunged to hold her—but she slipped through his hands, disappearing into the dark.

And then came the final part.

He was standing in fire.

The trees burned around him, the wind howled with screams, and the ground bled molten light. Bavanda stood across the flames, but this version of her was twisted—her smile sharp, her eyes aflame with something ancient and cruel. She raised a hand, and behind her, shadowed figures began to rise—wolves with glowing eyes, warriors from a nightmare.

Loco took a step back. “That’s not you,” he whispered, but the flames roared louder, and her laughter—low, distorted—followed him as the world caved in around him.

He woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, the chill of the night seeping into his bones. But the dream clung to him—three pieces of the same soul, all fractured, all crying out.

And in every version of her… she was alone.

His bed was damp, the room empty, and still… her voice lingered like smoke.

He shook it off, told himself it was nothing but guilt. But then came the whispers.

They followed him into the trees when he went to hunt. Flickers of sound—his name, barely audible, spoken in a voice too soft and too familiar to ignore. He would spin around, heart racing, hand on his blade… but no one was there.

One afternoon, while walking back with a satchel of dried roots and berries, he paused beneath an ancient tree near the edge of the village. The wind picked up slightly, brushing past his ear like breath.

“You left me.”

He froze.

“No,” he muttered aloud. “No. That’s not real.”

But the wind laughed, low and bitter.

He dropped the satchel, gripping the bark of the tree so tightly his knuckles went white.

A warrior named Dax, a gruff man with a bear-like beard, saw the state Loco was in and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You’re shaking,” Dax noted. “Ghosts of the past?”

Loco didn’t answer.

Dax sighed. “You’re not the first who’s come here trying to outrun something. Most of us thought this village was the end of our stories. Turns out, it’s just a pause. Whatever it is you left behind—”

“I didn’t leave,” Loco snapped, too fast. “She didn’t want me.”

Dax arched a brow. “Then why do you still see her when you close your eyes?”

Loco turned away, jaw tight. “I should never have asked her to choose.”

“And yet, you wanted her to,” Dax said quietly. “Maybe even needed her to. Love’s a cruel thing, boy. Sometimes it carves more scars than battle.”

The villagers tried to keep him busy after that. They offered him more tasks, more training, even prepared a small room just for him—one with blankets and clean furs and a carved wolf totem beside the window.

But nothing filled the void.

Every kindness felt hollow. Every moment of laughter ended too quickly. Every quiet meal only made the silence louder.

He missed her.

He hated that he missed her.

He hated that he hated her sometimes too. That he was angry. That he was confused. That he kept replaying every second of their last argument, every hesitation in her voice, every crack in her eyes when she didn’t say the words he needed.

He sat alone that night at the edge of the village, staring out into the dark trees.

“Do you think she’s okay?” he asked the air. “Because I don’t know if I’ll survive it if she’s not.”

A light breeze passed.

For a moment, the wind carried the scent of her—lavender and something wild.

He blinked. Stood.

And for just a heartbeat, he thought he saw her again. Standing between the trees. Watching him.

But when he ran forward, there was nothing there.

He shut his eyes forcefully, running his hand roughly through his hair. He let out an exhausted sigh.

This was frustrating.

He turned, and went back to his room.

Loco sat up in bed, the blankets tangled around his legs, sweat cooling on his back. The night air pressed in through the open window, but it did little to quiet the storm inside him. He ran a hand over his face, pausing when he felt the sting of dried tears at the corner of his eyes. He didn’t even remember crying.

He rose slowly, feet padding across the wooden floor, and reached for the battered leather satchel he kept near his bed. From it, he pulled out a crumpled stack of papers—some torn, others stained with old ink smudges. Letters. All of them were written to her. All of them went unsent.

He sat by the dying hearth and unfolded one at random. The words blurred for a moment before coming into focus: “I’m sorry for walking away. I didn’t know how to stay without breaking.” He let out a slow breath and folded it back again.

Each letter was a confession, a fragment of truth he couldn’t bring himself to voice. He had written about the guilt that strangled him, the love that refused to die, the fear that if he returned, he’d find her already gone—or worse, changed into someone he wouldn’t recognize. Into something like what he saw in his dreams.

And yet, even in her darkest form, she still called to him.

Loco stared into the embers, his heart heavy. He knew the peace he’d found in this rogue village was fleeting. Temporary. A pause in the war raging inside him. With every sunrise, the pull of his past, of Bavanda, grew stronger.

Maybe she hated him now.