164

The morning sun was pale, as if it too had lost faith in the world it shone upon.

The pack moved through their routines, but something was wrong—everyone could feel it. Conversations were hushed, glances lingered too long. Warriors sharpened their blades with nervous hands. Mothers gathered their pups closer.

Whispers traveled faster than footsteps. Yet, Bavanda—their Bavanda—walked among them like a queen in mourning, her smiles soft but hollow, her reassurances sweet but chilling.

Steve watched her from across the training grounds, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

He didn’t trust her. Not anymore.

He had seen the way she gripped young Calder’s shoulder too hard yesterday, the boy flinching even as she praised him. He had heard the way she spoke—too perfect, too polished, like reading from a script. And today, he noticed something else.

Her shadow moved wrong.

For the briefest moment, when the sun shifted, her shadow hadn't mirrored her movements at all—it had hesitated. Like something lagging behind.

Steve made a mental note to tell Baron.

Nearby, Baron and Avynna stood with Loco, pretending to discuss fortifications—but their true focus was elsewhere.

“She’s not the same," Avynna muttered under his breath, not caring if anyone heard anymore. His hands were clenched into fists. "You see it too. Don’t lie."

Baron's face was a mask of grief and anger. He glanced over at Avynna, who gave a tiny nod.

“We do," Baron said quietly. "But we don't know what we're dealing with yet. If we accuse her and we're wrong..." His voice cracked. "If by some miracle it's really Bavanda, broken but still ours—"

"She's not," Loco cut in, voice hoarse. "I don't know what that thing is. But it's not her."

Avynna placed a trembling hand on Loco’s arm. “We’re working on it. Carefully. We have to be smarter than this... thing.”

Across the grounds, the false Bavanda laughed softly as she spoke to a group of young warriors, her hair catching the light like strands of woven gold.
It would’ve been beautiful—if it hadn’t felt so cold.

Loco turned away, stomach twisting.

The rest of the day crawled by in a haze of uneasy patrols and staged smiles. No one dared confront her directly. No one dared name the fear gnawing at their hearts.

By late afternoon, the wind picked up, carrying the sharp metallic scent of impending rain.

Steve found himself stationed near the borders with two younger scouts. He kept glancing back toward the village, unease prickling at the back of his neck.

Eventually, night fell.

The last rays of sunlight bled out across the horizon, staining the sky with bruised colors.

The village fell into an uneasy silence as dusk deepened, the pack retreating behind locked doors and guarded windows. Even the wind seemed cautious tonight, whispering warnings through the trees.

Loco didn’t go home. He couldn't.

He crouched low behind a half-collapsed stone wall near the tree line, eyes fixed on the figure slipping away from the village—the clone Bavanda.

She moved like a shadow, her white cloak almost glowing in the twilight. But she wasn't sneaking. No... She moved confidently, without fear, as if she belonged to the darkness.

Loco waited until she was a fair distance ahead before he followed.

The woods swallowed him whole, every step careful, deliberate. Twigs snapped somewhere to his right—an animal, maybe—but Loco didn’t flinch. His eyes never left her.

She led him deeper than he expected, beyond the familiar hunting grounds; past the old, dead trees the pack had long considered cursed, into a place where the air grew heavy, thick with unseen things.

He caught up just enough to see her stop.

A clearing opened before her, encircled by ancient stones half-buried in the earth. Strange symbols were carved into them—symbols Loco had never seen before, and somehow wished he never had.

The fake Bavanda stood at the center, arms outstretched.

And then, at that moment, the shadows moved.

They bled out from the trees, stretching unnaturally long across the grass. They gathered at her feet like hounds called by a master. Loco pressed himself flat against a tree, heart hammering so hard he feared it would give him away.

The shadows spoke.

Not in words he understood—no, it was deeper than that. Like a vibration inside his bones, a low, humming corruption. It was a language meant for something other than living men.

The clone Bavanda bowed her head, as if receiving a blessing.

Then, slowly, she began to speak aloud, her voice velvet-smooth and sickly sweet. “Soon... he will come to me willingly. His heart was always weak. His devotion will be mine. The pack will crumble. Their faith will rot. Their Goddess will forget them.”

A chorus of murmured approval slithered through the air.

Loco gritted his teeth, rage and terror warring inside him. She was talking about him.

He had been right—but he had no idea it was this bad.

He shifted, ready to pull back and run—but a twig snapped underfoot.

Her head jerked up.

For one horrifying moment, her eyes locked onto the trees where he hid. Those weren’t Bavanda’s eyes. They were black, bottomless.

The shadows tensed, shivering with hunger.

Loco froze, barely daring to breathe. The fake Bavanda smiled faintly—and turned away, as if dismissing the sound.

She knew he was there. She was letting him go.

For now.

Loco stumbled backward, careful, cautious, until he was far enough away to sprint without drawing attention.

He didn’t stop running until he burst out of the woods, gasping for breath, sweat cold on his skin despite the humid night air.

Lights still burned in the village, but they felt distant. Fake. Like candles lit against an unstoppable storm.

He staggered toward the empty training grounds and collapsed onto the ground, head in his hands.

She wasn’t trying to hide anymore.

She wanted him afraid. She wanted him trapped. And gods help him... it was working.

The night was heavy, the air thick like syrup.

Loco stood at the edge of the packhouse courtyard, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw locked so hard it ached. He hadn’t slept. How could he?

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw those blackened stones, those writhing shadows, that sick, honeyed voice whispering through the trees.

He barely heard the soft footsteps behind him—until it was too late.

"You're avoiding me," came that familiar voice.

Loco stiffened. Slowly, he turned to face her.

There she was—the clone Bavanda. In the moonlight, her hair shimmered, her face glowed with that devastating beauty he had once loved without hesitation.

But now… Now he noticed the tightness around her eyes, the slight sneer hidden behind her smile.

She stepped closer. Too close.

"I miss you," she whispered, voice dripping with honey and broken promises. Her fingers brushed his chest, slow and lingering.

Loco swallowed hard, stepping back. "I..." He struggled to keep his tone even. "I think we need time. Space."

The clone’s smile faltered.

For a moment, the mask slipped—and raw fury burned across her face before she caught herself.

"Space?" she repeated, voice sharp like broken glass. "After everything we’ve been through? After everything I gave you?"

He flinched at the venom behind her words.

She grabbed his hand—tight, bruising. "You belong to me. You always have."

Loco yanked his hand back, chest heaving. He tried—tried—to speak calmly.

"This isn’t you," he said. "Bavanda would never... she would never—"

"NEVER WHAT?" the clone snapped, voice rising. Her body trembled with suppressed rage.

"Never manipulate," he ground out. "Never threaten."

A long silence stretched between them, brittle and deadly.

Her eyes gleamed, something dark and ancient stirring behind them. "I am Bavanda," she said, voice low and dangerous. "I am everything she was. Everything she should have been."

Loco stared at her—and in that moment, something inside him broke.

"No," he said, voice rough. He took a step back, trembling from the effort it took to hold himself steady. "No, you're not. I know you're not her."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

For a moment, she said nothing. She only looked at him. A slow, wicked smile curled her lips—cold and knowing.

She didn’t argue. She didn’t deny it.

She simply smiled—and turned on her heel, disappearing into the shadows without a word.