160

Bavanda awoke with a gasp.

The first thing she felt was the cold. Not from the air—but from something wet clinging to her skin. Her sheets were soaked. Her hands, slick and shaking, stuck to the fabric as she pushed herself up.

As she sat up, the smell hit her. It was a strong metallic odor, thick and pungent. The smell of… blood?

She looked down, and at that moment, her eyes widened with great shock.

Her nightdress was stained crimson, splotched and smeared from chest to thighs. Her arms, her palms, even her hair—streaked with the thick, dark red. The world tilted as her mind tried to catch up.

There was no wounds on her body, she didn't feel any pain either. That meant the blood wasn't hers. Then… then whose was it?

She staggered out of bed, nearly slipping, her legs weak with terror. Her door swung open before she could touch it—pushed in by two patrol guards.

“There she is!” one of them shouted, face pale with fury. “Just like they said!”

Before Bavanda could speak, she was yanked into the hallway. Gasps echoed. Warriors, elders, scouts—all gathered. They watched, silent.

The guard didn’t let go. “Another murder. In the eastern quarters this time. And look what we found—” He gestured to the ground.

A blood trail. Leading directly to her room.

“I didn’t—” Bavanda croaked. “I didn’t do anything!”

“She was seen,” someone shouted from the crowd. “Hannah saw her running from the site!”

“That’s a lie!” Bavanda's voice cracked. “I was in my room—I didn’t—”

“Liar! Then why are you coated in blood?”

“Monster! Did you use a poor soul’s blood to adorn yourself? Is this part of your dark magic?”

The voices began to rise, overlapping, turning the hallway into a storm of rage and disbelief.

“Exile her!”

“She’s cursed!”

“Darkness follows her like a plague!”

Avynna’s voice cut through the crowd. “That’s enough!” She pushed through with Baron, both of them looking frantic.

However, the moment their eyes fell on her, they stopped abruptly. “Bavanda, what happened?" Avynna asked.

Bavanda's lips parted, but the words would not come out. Instead, tears fell.

Avynna took a step back. “Did… Did you…?”

“She’s our daughter,” Baron cut her short, trying to reach Bavanda.

But the crowd was beyond reason. Old wounds reopened, fear ignited. A chorus of hate rose louder than reason.

Bavanda couldn’t breathe.

Her legs gave out as she collapsed onto the floor. The blood on her dress now matched the tears streaming down her face. She screamed—not in rage, but heartbreak. The sound of her sobs shook through the pack house like an earthquake.

No one reached for her.

Her mother tried, but the guards held her back. Baron’s jaw clenched, eyes burning—but he said nothing.

And in that moment, Bavanda cracked. It dawned harshly on her—a realization she had struggled to push away.

She was alone.

Utterly, devastatingly alone.

Baron stepped forward the moment Bavanda hit the floor. His voice, quiet but razor-sharp, cut through the clamor. “Enough. Everyone—out.”

The command of an Alpha echoed in his tone, undeniable. The guards hesitated, then obeyed. The crowd thinned, slowly, their furious muttering retreating like a receding tide. But the damage had already been done.

Baron moved to kneel beside his daughter, but Avynna reached him first.

“Bavanda,” she whispered, cradling her head, “baby, let’s get you inside.”

Bavanda didn’t answer. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, as if her soul had fled. Her limbs moved only when guided.

The three of them walked in silence down the corridor, flanked by the whispers of a home that no longer felt like one. The blood on her dress was drying, flaking with each step. She could feel it crusting against her skin—like guilt, like chains.

Inside her room, the door shut gently behind her. She sank to the floor beside her bed, not even bothering to crawl under the covers. Her mother lingered just outside, whispering again through the door, “Please eat something. Say something. Let me help you.”

Bavanda pressed her fists to her ears.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

She saw her. She saw herself kill that man. But it wasn’t her. That smile, that voice… it wasn’t her.

So why couldn’t anyone believe her?

Her sobs came in waves, choking, tearing, desperate.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she whispered into the empty air. “I don’t know who I am anymore…”

Then silence.

A new, colder thought crept into her mind—one she couldn’t ignore.

If she stayed… more would die.

If she stayed… she'd lose everything anyway.

That night, she began to pack.

She didn't pick much. What did she need it for?

And before the moon reached its peak, Bavanda slipped into the shadows—unseen, unheard, and unbearably alone.

The night was thick with fog, silver mist crawling low over the soil as though the forest itself mourned.

Bavanda stood at the edge of the pack borders, cloaked in silence. Not even the wind dared to speak. She clutched a worn satchel against her side, its weight insignificant compared to what pressed against her chest. Her hood was drawn low, shadowing her face—though it hardly mattered. No one was watching.

They had all already turned away.

Her footsteps had been soundless as she slipped through the sleeping pack. Past the training fields. Past the hall where laughter used to echo. Past her brother’s window, where only a candle flickered weakly. There was no goodbyes to say, and there was no need to leave a note. Just the muffled sob of a girl walking out of a world that no longer wanted her.

Every breath she took hurt, but she didn’t cry.

She had no tears left.

As she reached the final warding stone, she hesitated. The boundary shimmered faintly—an old magic she once found comfort in. Now it felt like a wall closing behind her, locking away everything she’d ever known. She placed a trembling hand on the stone.

“I didn’t do it,” she whispered, as if the forest might believe her if no one else would. “I didn’t do any of it.”

But even the trees offered no reply.

She stepped through. The magic rippled, then sealed behind her like a sigh.

And just like that, Bavanda was gone—swallowed by the forest, leaving only silence in her wake.

Back in the village, the clone—the vessel—stood at the heart of the shadows, watching from afar with a twisted smile.

And by morning, she would be walking the halls in Bavanda’s skin, a perfect imitation, ready to steal what remained.

***

The days blurred into one another, each one weighed down by the same sense of quiet unrest. The rogue village remained kind to Loco—generous, even—but their laughter felt distant now, like echoes from another life. And though he tried to lose himself in their stories, their games, their warmth, something inside him refused to be still.

He was haunted.

It started with the dreams.

The first was a flicker—Bavanda running through the forest, her eyes wide with terror, her mouth moving in a silent scream. Blood trailed behind her like a winding red ribbon. Then came the second, more vivid. She was trapped in a burning room, banging against invisible walls, while shadows with her face danced around her, laughing. And then the third—the worst. Bavanda stood at a cliff's edge, arms stretched outward like wings, eyes hollow and empty. She turned to him and whispered, “Why didn’t you come back?” before falling into nothingness.

Loco always woke drenched in sweat, heart racing, breath caught in his throat like a vice.

It wasn’t just dreams anymore.

During the day, when he walked the woods gathering firewood or fetching water, he'd catch flashes of her—just a glimpse—a braid vanishing around a tree, a familiar voice carried on the wind. Once, he turned and saw her. Standing in a clearing, facing him with her hand outstretched.

He ran toward her, heart hammering. But when he blinked, she was gone.

The villagers noticed. They asked gently if he was okay. He always nodded. He always smiled. But inside, something was clawing at him.

Guilt.

He had left her. Left without a word. Left her in a world that was too cruel for someone like her.

That night, he sat at the edge of the village, legs drawn to his chest, watching the stars. They blinked like sad little witnesses. He pulled a piece of parchment from his coat—one of many unsent letters to Bavanda. He read the last line again and again:

“If you ever call, I’ll come running. Even if the world is ending.”

A breeze passed, carrying a whisper. Not from the trees, not from the air—but from somewhere inside his soul.

She needed him.

Loco stood.

He didn’t pack. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t even know if he’d be welcomed back—but that didn’t matter.

Something was wrong.

He felt it in his bones. In his blood, in the ache that had never left his chest.

By the time dawn kissed the trees, Loco was already deep into the forest, racing back to the pack.

What he didn’t know—what his heart was still too afraid to suspect—was that he would arrive just one day too late.

Bavanda was already gone.