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The gate creaked open as Loco stepped into familiar soil.
It was early evening, the sky bathed in pale lavender, and yet the village felt… subdued. No laughter from the training fields. No smoke curling from the forge. It was just quiet, yet it didn't feel like peace.
He didn’t get far before someone called out.
“Loco?”
He turned, expecting an elder, maybe a scout. But it was her.
“Bavanda.”
She stood there, barefoot in the grass, wearing a simple gray tunic and cloak, her braid slung over one shoulder. Her face was soft, her lips curved into a smile—but her eyes… her eyes were wrong.
They used to flicker when she smiled. Sparkle with hidden laughter even in her anger. Now, they were still, with an unusual serenity.
Loco’s throat tightened. He took a shaky step toward her.
She beat him to it, closing the distance and throwing her arms around him. Her grip was tight, a little too tight, but warm and familiar. Her scent grazed his nose—lavender and earth—but it was faint, like a memory already fading.
“I thought you’d never come back,” she whispered into his ear.
His body responded before his mind could. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. But something in him recoiled. His wolf stirred beneath his skin, growling softly—confused.
“I came as fast as I could,” he murmured.
She pulled back and cupped his face, brushing her thumbs along his cheekbones. “You look tired. Are you eating enough?” she asked with a laugh. “You still forget to eat when you're upset.”
That was true. But why did it sound rehearsed?
“You look different,” he said carefully.
She tilted her head. “Do I?”
“A little taller. And… your voice. It’s softer.”
“Time changes things.”
She took his hand and started walking toward the pack house. “Come. You’ll sleep next to me tonight. Just like always.”
That should’ve sent warmth through his chest. Instead, it chilled him.
Why was she acting like everything was perfect when it wasn't?
They sat by the fire later, alone, the crackling flames throwing golden light across their faces.
She told him stories—how she’d needed time alone to sort her thoughts, how the accusations had nearly broken her, how she’d found strength in solitude. She didn’t speak of pain, or fear. Or the part where he’d left.
It felt like someone reading a summary of a life, not living it.
“You’re very calm,” he said slowly, watching her. “After everything.”
She smiled. “I have to be.”
That wasn’t her. Bavanda had rage, and fire. She used to tremble when angry, throw things when betrayed. This woman was ice.
He studied her fingers as she reached for a cup of tea. There was a small scar that should’ve been there, just under her left thumb. From the first time she’d trained with a blade and dropped it.
But it wasn't there. Could the scar have miraculously disappeared in the short time he was away?
Then she said it.
“I’m glad your heart finally stopped wandering,” she murmured, sipping her tea.
“What?” he blinked.
“I mean… you were always looking for something more. I used to worry I’d never be enough.”
No. No, no.
Bavanda had never said that, she had never told him he was doing too much, it looking for too much. She never even implied it. If anything, she used to tease him for being too obsessed. “You already have me, Loco. Stop acting like I’ll vanish.”
It hit him like a wave of ice water. Whoever this was—it wasn’t her.
Loco swallowed, but said nothing.
That night, while she slept soundly in his arms, Loco stayed awake.
He was listening, watching this person on utter confusion. How had she changed so much in such a short time?
She breathed evenly. She didn't twitch, neither did she murmur anything. That was strange. Bavanda used to talk in her sleep—wild things, vivid dreams, fragments of the past. This one was still as death.
He didn’t move until the moon passed its highest point. Then, carefully, he slid out from under her arm.
He padded barefoot to the storage den where their old training scrolls were kept. In the back, dusty and forgotten, he found a chest of items—Bavanda’s journal, a sketchbook she’d never let anyone see, her favorite dagger.
He flipped open the journal. The handwriting was hers—slanted, sharp, emotionally chaotic. He read for hours, then returned before dawn.
The next morning, she kissed him. He kissed her back. But behind his eyes, the fire had lit.
He knew now. This wasn’t Bavanda.
He would find out who—or what—was pretending to be her.
The morning after his return, the pack buzzed with whispers.
Loco had returned.
Some greeted him warmly—grateful, even. A few pups ran up to hug his legs, remembering the stories he used to tell. The warriors gave him nods of acknowledgment, but the atmosphere was cautious and unsettled.
It wasn’t just because he’d vanished. It was because he returned now—after everything.
Some were hopeful. Others whispered behind his back. “A little, too late,” someone muttered as he passed. “Where was he when she needed him? What is he going to do now that she's nothing but a monster?”
But Loco wasn’t focused on the noise. His attention was on her. No! On that thing wearing Bavanda’s skin.
He started with simple questions.
First, to Rayna—Baron’s sister—who had always been close to Bavanda.
“Does she seem… different to you?” Loco asked that afternoon, watching “Bavanda” spar with one of the younger warriors. She moved too perfectly, too fluidly. Bavanda was skilled, but her footwork had quirks—small stutters from old injuries. This version was pristine.
Gina frowned. “She’s been through a lot,” she said slowly. “But… yes. She’s colder. Distant. I chalked it up to grief, or exhaustion. But…”
“But?”
“She looks at me sometimes like she’s trying to remember who I am.”
His eyes widened. That was something.
Again, he swallowed his words and said nothing else.
Gina was there too. “I questioned her a lot when you left, blamed her for it all. Maybe I shouldn't have, she looks so changed. And now the murder accusations, I can barely grasp my head around it.”
Loco's head snapped to her. "Murder?”
"There's been two deaths in a space of three days, and witnesses claim to have seen Bavanda. Yesterday morning, she was dragged out of her room coated in blood. I just wonder, how can she act so confident and free after all that happened?”
Loco's eyes returned to her. The more he heard, the more he saw reason to believe that this wasn't his Bavanda. “Do you remember her wolf’s aura?” he asked her. “How it felt?”
Rayna nodded. “Strong, fierce. Protective. Different in a satisfying way. Why?”
“What does it feel like now?”
Rayna hesitated, eyes narrowing. Gina chipped in before her. “…empty.”
That night, “Bavanda” didn’t come to dinner.
Loco found her later, standing near the edge of the woods, alone, muttering to herself in a tongue he didn’t recognize. Her head twitched once—like something jerked it from inside—then she smoothed her hair and turned around with a sweet smile.
“Just clearing my head,” she said lightly. “I get headaches lately.”
Her eyes glowed faintly.
It wasn't gold, neither was it that of her wolf. It was something else.
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