165

The next day dawned grim and cold, a heavy mist clinging to the earth like mourning shrouds.

The pack moved quietly through the courtyards, speaking only in hushed tones. The air itself seemed wrong—thicker, heavier, carrying the stench of fear.

Loco hadn't slept. After the confrontation with the clone the night before, he had paced through the woods like a madman, heart pounding, mind reeling. Now, bleary-eyed and raw, he drifted near the training fields, where the young warriors were sparring under Steve’s watchful gaze.

And that's when the scream tore through the air.

A raw, gut-wrenching sound—pure terror and agony.

Loco spun on his heel, instincts flaring.

Others heard it too. The courtyard erupted—shouts, frantic footsteps. Steve barked orders, racing toward the noise. Loco bolted after him, heart a drumbeat in his ears.

They found the body near the eastern forest line.

A young woman—Maris, a promising warrior barely twenty—lay sprawled against a tree trunk, throat slashed open, her life soaking into the roots below.
Her sword was still clutched in one limp hand, though it had done her no good.

People gathered, gasping, covering mouths, staring in horror.

Avynna was among the first to arrive, her face draining of color. Baron came seconds later, a brutal curse ripping from his mouth.

Loco pushed through the crowd, stomach roiling.

He knew.
He knew.

This wasn’t a rogue attack. It wasn’t some tragic accident. This was deliberate.

She had done it again.

His gaze darted around, and there she was—he clone—standing at the edge of the gathering, her face arranged into an expression of horror.

Their eyes met, and Loco saw it.

For the briefest second, her mouth twitched upward.
A secret smile, hidden from all but him. His blood turned to ice.

Steve was already kneeling beside the body, examining the scene with grim precision. "No sign of struggle," he muttered, mostly to himself. "No scent of outsiders."

"No rogue could have gotten this close," another warrior said bitterly. "Not after the extra patrols."

Whispers rippled through the pack—fear, suspicion, anger.

"Who did this?" someone cried. "Who’s killing us?"

Eyes flickered, glances exchanged, distrust blooming like rot.

Avynna knelt beside Maris’s body, whispering a soft prayer. Tears welled in her eyes but did not fall.
Her hands trembled slightly as she closed the girl’s eyelids.

Baron stood over them, fists clenched so tightly the veins bulged in his arms. His face was stone, but Loco saw the crack—saw the helplessness leaking through.

The pack was unraveling.

Loco stumbled back, cold sweat breaking across his skin.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think.

This was his fault, he thought. He saw the signs. He knew, yet he had said nothing. Did she do this to spite him? Was this punishment for him daring to confront her?

His hands shook violently. He pressed them to his face, trying to hold himself together, but it was no use. The devastation clawed through him—raw, merciless.

Somewhere in the distance, the clone was speaking.

"Who would do this to us?" she said loudly, voice trembling with just the right amount of fear. She stepped into the center of the crowd, like a queen addressing her subjects.

"We will find whoever is responsible," she vowed. "I swear it. They will not take another one of us."

The pack, desperate for hope, clung to her words. They nodded, murmurs of agreement filling the air. But Loco only saw the monster behind the mask.

He backed away, slipping into the woods without being noticed, heart hammering wildly against his ribs. He sank to the ground beneath a gnarled oak, hands tangled in his hair.

Tears burned his eyes—but he refused to let them fall.

He had to think. He had to act. Before more lives were lost. Before she destroyed everything Bavanda had ever loved.

But how could he fight her? How could he expose her without the pack turning against him? Without losing what little strength he had left?

Loco sat there, trembling, broken, as the forest swallowed his silent scream.

***

Darkness.

It wrapped around Bavanda like a second skin—thick, suffocating, and endless.

She floated in it, suspended somewhere between consciousness and oblivion, her body weightless, her soul restless.

At first, there was nothing but silence. Then, a flicker of light.

It was distant, feeble, like a candle fighting a storm. Bavanda reached for it instinctively, her fingertips brushing against the thin thread of awareness—and the world twisted around her.

She found herself standing in the heart of the pack grounds. Everything was wrong.

The trees were blackened, their branches like skeletal claws. The earth was cracked and bleeding.bThe air was thick with the stench of iron and rot.

In the center of it all stood her clone.

Bavanda gasped—because it was her face, her body, her voice... but none of the warmth, none of the light.

Only darkness oozed from her like a living thing.

The clone smiled, slow and predatory, and turned to face a figure approaching. Bavanda instantly recognized the girl—her name was Maris.

She was young, proud, and unaware of the danger coiling around her.

Bavanda tried to scream, to move, to warn her, but her voice was swallowed by the oppressive darkness.
Her feet were glued to the ground, her body a prisoner.

She could only watch.

The clone spoke sweet words, drawing Maris closer—an old friend, a trusted sister. Maris smiled, reaching out a hand.

In a blink, the clone’s hand became a blade. It all happened so fast. The silver blade flashed through her eyes, a wet, sickening sound echoing in the air.

Maris crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath her.

Bavanda screamed—silent, useless—as her clone knelt beside the dying girl, brushing her hair back from her face like a mother soothing a child.

"You were always too soft," the clone whispered mockingly, voice dripping with venom.

Bavanda sobbed, clutching at her chest, feeling her heart tear apart. She tried to run forward—but invisible chains yanked her back, dragging her to her knees.

“Please,” she cried silently. “Please, let me stop this!”

The clone rose, her face shifting into Bavanda’s own—a cruel, twisted mirror. She turned her gaze directly at Bavanda—as if she knew she was watching.

"You’re weak," the clone said, her voice echoing through the dreamscape. "That's why you lost. That's why I will finish what you never could."

Bavanda collapsed, sobbing, hands clawing at the cursed earth beneath her.

The dream shifted again…

Now she was in the sacred temple, the altar blackened and broken. The Moon Goddess’s statue lay shattered at her feet.

Bavanda stumbled forward, tears blinding her.

She fell before the ruins, pressing her forehead to the cold stone, her voice breaking.

"Please," she whispered into the emptiness. "Please… take this from me. I can't watch anymore. I can't…"

Silence answered her.

For a long, agonizing moment, nothing moved. Until, a single beam of silver light broke through the darkness, touching her bowed head.

A gentle voice, achingly familiar, whispered against her ear. "Strength is not born in ease, my daughter. It is forged in fire."

Bavanda choked on her sobs. "But I'm not strong," she wept. "I'm not enough. I couldn't protect them."

"You were never meant to fight alone," the voice murmured. "But you must rise, Bavanda. Or all will be lost."

The chains around her wrists and ankles tightened, burning her skin.

She felt herself slipping, her strength bleeding away. Bavanda gasped, her body jerking upward—her dream turning violent.

The clone’s face was inches from hers now, smiling viciously. "You don’t belong here anymore," the clone whispered.

Pain exploded through Bavanda's body. She struggled, fought—but the strength of the dark magic was overwhelming.

The last thing she heard before the world blinked out was the clone’s mocking laugh—and her own heart slowing to a stop.

Darkness swallowed her whole.

The night was unnaturally still.

No wind stirred the leaves outside the tent. No insects sang. The forest, normally alive even in darkness, held its breath.

Inside the tent, Bavanda lay motionless on the simple cot. Her skin was pale, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to her forehead. Her chest rose and fell in slow, shallow breaths.

Beside her, a single candle flickered—the only light in the suffocating gloom.

The tent flap stirred once… and a figure slipped inside. The figure moved to the bedside without hesitation. For a brief moment, they stood over her, studying her face.

A gloved hand reached out, fingers twitching with some dark energy, vibrating with hunger.

Then—It struck.

The figure grabbed Bavanda by the throat, squeezing hard. Her body spasmed instinctively, mouth opening in a silent scream. The candle guttered, shadows twisting like snakes along the canvas walls.

Bavanda’s eyes fluttered open—just barely—but they were glassy, unfocused. Her limbs twitched weakly, trying to fight, but her strength was a memory, a dream she couldn’t grasp.

The figure whispered something in an ancient tongue, words laced with venom. Dark energy crackled through the tent.

Bavanda tried to shift, tried to summon her wolf, but her wolf didn’t answer.

She was alone.

The figure tightened its grip, and Bavanda’s body jerked once, twice, then it stilled.

Her breathing stopped.

The candle went out, plunging the world into suffocating blackness.

The attacker stepped back, breathing heavily, staring at their handiwork. For a heartbeat, there was absolute silence.

With a crooked smile however, a voice broke through the silence. “Goodbye Bavanda."