168

The sky had turned a bruised gray since the shadows came.

Inside the central hall, the council gathered under an unspoken threat. There had been no invitation—just a command, delivered by one of the silent, robed figures now flanking the walls like sentinels of death.

Clone Bavanda stood at the head of the chamber, a cold beauty in her stolen form. Her eyes glowed faintly. The air around her shimmered with a pressure that made even the strongest warriors sweat.

She hadn’t spoken yet. She merely watched them—the elders, the warriors, the ones too proud to kneel during her earlier rise. Her silence was sharp as a blade.

Elder Tomas stepped forward.

He was the oldest among them, once Bavanda's teacher in her early years, a patient historian and proud warrior. His graying beard was still matted with blood from resisting the shadow guards the day before.

He bowed stiffly, but did not kneel.

"My Princess," he said carefully. "May I speak plainly?"

Clone Bavanda tilted her head, smiling with the sweetness of a serpent. “Speak.”

"You are not the Bavanda I knew. You wear her face, but not her spirit. And you dare disgrace her memory by sitting in her seat, commanding her people, shrouded in filth.”

Murmurs broke through the gathered pack. Clone Bavanda’s smile didn't falter. In fact, it widened.

"Tomas," she murmured, her voice like warm honey laced with poison. "You once told me that strength lies in knowing when to act, and when to kneel. Was that a lie?"

His jaw clenched. “I would kneel for my Princess. I will not kneel for her murderer.”

The silence that followed cracked like thunder. The shadows stirred.

Without lifting a finger, Clone Bavanda summoned them. They came from beneath the stones, from cracks in the walls—tendrils of blackness crawling toward Tomas like hungry vines.

Avynna stood sharply. “Bavanda…”

“Sit,” the clone hissed without looking at her.

Baron’s growl rumbled beside her, but Avynna grabbed his wrist. “Not now,” she whispered, trembling.

Tomas stood his ground even as the shadows coiled around his boots, up his legs, winding slowly like snakes savoring their prey.

“I die with her name on my lips,” he said quietly. “Not yours.”

Clone Bavanda’s smile faded.

The shadows pierced him. Not swift, nor merciful.

They tore his body apart in threads. Veins shredded. Muscles peeled. His scream echoed across the hall, agonizing, endless. The pack watched—frozen, sobbing, too horrified to move. It took minutes—long, excruciating minutes.

When he finally crumpled to the floor, lifeless, his face was still locked in pain.bThe smell of burnt blood and soul rot filled the air.

Clone Bavanda turned slowly to face the room, hands clasped like she’d just finished a prayer. “That,” she said softly, “was mercy. For now, let us all understand what happens when mercy runs out.”

Baron’s voice broke through the stunned silence. “What have you done?”

Clone Bavanda looked at him—eyes burning gold.

“You dare speak to me like that?” she asked.

“You’re not our daughter,” Avynna said hoarsely. “What have you done with her?”

Clone Bavanda smiled again. But now it was sad, mocking. Almost… nostalgic.

“She was weak,” she said. “Conflicted. Just like him…what was his name? Loco! The Dark Lord made a mistake putting faith in his son. He thought love would be enough to turn the tide. He thought blood would redeem blood. But love,” she sneered, “makes you soft. Love makes you hesitate.”

Her eyes fell to the smoldering remains of Tomas.n“I don’t intend to hesitate.”

Baron stepped forward. “If you think…”

She raised a hand and he stopped mid-stride.

She turned to Avynna, the only one still standing, shaking with fury. “You seem upset,” Clone Bavanda said gently. “Would you like to see what loyalty looks like?”

She snapped her fingers. Two guards dragged someone forward—a woman, shaking, pale with terror.

The widow of Elder Tomas.

She clutched her children behind her, shielding them as best she could—twins, a boy and girl barely ten.

Their sobs cut through the thick, dying air.

“Father!” the boy cried. “Where’s Papa?!”

Clone Bavanda knelt before them, graceful and gentle. “He disobeyed,” she told them softly. “And when you disobey, people get hurt.”

The girl sobbed so hard she nearly vomited. Their mother tried to pull them back, but the guards held her.

Clone Bavanda stood, then turned to Avynna with calm amusement. “You asked what I’ve become,” she said. “This is your answer.”

“No,” Avynna breathed. “You don’t need to do this.”

“I want to.”

“Then take me,” Avynna said suddenly.

The room gasped. Clone Bavanda blinked.

“I’ll give you anything,” Avynna whispered. “Power. Service. I’ll kneel, I’ll worship you—just leave them alone. They’re children.”

Clone Bavanda approached her, slowly, steps echoing on the cold stone floor.

She leaned in until her lips brushed Avynna’s ear. “Well.. well…well… would you give your life?”

Avynna closed her eyes.

Baron shouted her name, but the shadows gagged him before he could reach her.

Clone Bavanda straightened, lips curled in delight, gaze turning to the twins.

“Let’s see how deep a mother’s love really runs,”

***

The trees had long since turned to bones.

Loco stumbled through a forest of twisted, petrified trunks, their branches clawing at the sky like the skeletal remains of gods. Wind howled with no source. Leaves didn’t rustle. There were no animals, no birds. No life.

Only him. And Bavanda, or what was left of her.

Cradled in his arms, limp, her head resting against his shoulder. She had whispered once, hours ago—or was it days? Time melted strangely here. She said “Don’t let the silence win.”

He didn’t know what she meant.

His legs ached beyond reason. His feet bled through his boots. But he pressed forward, holding her as if letting go would kill them both. The path had grown colder, and angrier. Something was waiting.

Then, without warning, the world shattered.

The light twisted violently, and suddenly Loco was no longer in the woods. He blinked—and found himself standing in the middle of a home.

His home.

A kitchen, warm and worn from years of use. His mother’s laughter echoed faintly from the hallway.

“No… no no no no…” Loco whispered, backing up.

It was the day she died.

He tried to move. Tried to scream, to stop this playback from happening; but he couldn’t.

The vision dragged him forward, like a puppet.

He saw himself—smaller, younger—sitting at the kitchen table. His mother hummed a lullaby while stirring soup. Her back was turned. He knew what would happen. He begged fate to turn aside, but fate had no mercy here.

The door burst open. Black smoke immediately filled the air. The Dark Lord’s voice slithered in like venom.

Loco watched—forced to watch—as the man he feared most came into the light, as his shadow warriors swarmed in.

His mother fought. Damn, how she fought.

Teeth bared, eyes wild. Power thrummed through her like lightning, but there were too many.

They pierced her. She collapsed to her knees, blood soaking her dress.

The young Loco screamed, the sound echoing between the worlds.

The present-day Loco collapsed. He tried to reach her, tried to touch her, but his hand passed through.

She looked toward him, eyes wide and filled with pain and pride. As if she saw him, even through time.

“You survived, didn’t you?” she whispered.

Loco gasped. Then she was gone.

The vision exploded, darkness consuming everything. He awoke on the cold ground, tears wet on his face, Bavanda still in his arms. But the forest had changed again.

Now he stood at the foot of a wide, obsidian lake, glowing faintly beneath a gray sky.

The Silver Cradle.

Across the water stood a structure—ancient, domed, half-buried in ruins. Runes flickered like fireflies across its stones. This was it. He had made it.

But he barely got the chance to celebrate his success, before they came.

They didn't appear from the woods, nor from the sky. However, they came from inside him.

Shadows burst from his back—clawed, twisted things with his own voice. His regrets. His failures. His fear. They took shape. Familiar and monstrous.

One looked like his father—drunk, angry, spitting disappointment. Another like the child he'd once failed to save during a raid.

Another like himself. Eyes black, grinning.

“You’ll fail her too,” the clone whispered. “You always do.”

Loco screamed, slashing at them with everything he had. Power surged. His wolf roared. He struck and fought and kicked until his hands bled, but nothing worked.

They laughed hysterically, weakening him further. Loco shut his eyes, hoping it would go away. It didn't. Whenever he opened his eyes, she was standing in front of him.

Bavanda.

But not the one he held.

This Bavanda stood tall, and proud. Her eyes glowed red. She sneered at him.

“You’re not worthy of me,” she said. “You’re weak. Broken. That’s why I left.”

He faltered. “No—”

“You think I’d choose you?” she said, stepping closer. “You’re a mess of scars and guilt. You’ll never save me.”

She raised a blade. In a twinkle of any eye, the silver blade was already on his chest.

She stabbed him.

Loco gasped as real pain surged through him, hot and violent. He dropped to his knees.

The world spun.

The Bavanda in his arms tumbled to the ground beside him, limp. Blood pooled
beneath them.

“No…” Loco croaked. “Please—no, please…”

Everything blurred. The Cradle shimmered beyond reach. The water lapped at his boots. The monsters began to close in. His vision faded.

Darkness!