The news of Zaria’s passing spread like wildfire across the West. The air was heavy with mourning, and the mood in the village was quiet, solemn. Everyone stayed indoors, grieving the loss of their leader, trying to make sense of what happened. But in the farthest room of the guest house, the mimic was seething.
“Stupid woman,” she hissed, pacing the room with clenched fists. “I could have used her face again, but she died!” she added.
She removed Zaria’s face and change. It was the same face she had used for years. A harmless, quiet one. The one she wore when she didn’t want anyone to notice her. Not pretty enough to attract attention, not strange enough to arouse suspicion. It was the perfect mask.
“If it weren’t for Azul,” she muttered, “I would burn this place down.”
The mimic too
