The Rogue Luna

The Rogue Luna   27

Charollet felt the dawn break over the shrine with a weight in her chest she could not name. When morning light filtered across the glassy surface of the ancient pool she had touched days before, the water had remained still, almost lifeless. But beneath the surface she sensed something stirring. Not magic. Not blood. Something older. Something that had waited for her arrival.She awoke in silence. The tents around the shrine slept under pale skies. Redmaw warriors had formed a ring of watch but none entered the shrine circle itself. Volgrin had insisted on a safe boundary. Not distance born of fear but ritual respect. Today was important. Everything would shift.The morning air was gray and cold, sharper than Charollet expected. She pushed the blanket from her shoulders and stepped toward the circle. The ground underfoot felt alive. A quiet thrum echoed through

The Rogue Luna   26

The woods had turned strange. Trees whispered in a voice Charollet could not understand. Their trunks twisted toward her as if remembering something ancient. The branches sagged under the weight of snow that did not fall, casting the trail in dull silver. They had walked for days now, deeper into the wilderness that bordered the northeastern edge of the realm. Volgrin walked ahead, surrounded by his guards, his pace unwavering. Behind him, Redmaw warriors flanked Charollet with cruel vigilance. She was not bound, not anymore, but she may as well have been. The threat of their claws kept her silent.Each step felt heavier. The path they followed was barely visible beneath layers of pine needles and frost. It did not resemble a road so much as a memory, resurrected from the earth for their passage. She had begun to notice how the birds no longer sang. Even the wolves, creatures of sound and scent, made no noise here. Whatever place they neared, it had a soul. One that watched.Volgrin’s

The Rogue Luna   25

The Rogue Luna   24

The air inside the Redmaw stronghold felt thick with ash and old secrets. Charollet had lost count of the days. Sunlight never touched the stone floor of the room they kept her in. Instead, a dull crimson glow filtered through the blood-tinted glass above, painting her skin with the color of dried wounds. The silence was deceptive, disturbed only by the occasional howl that drifted through the cracks in the mountain walls.She sat curled on a cot that was too thin to bring rest. Her wrists were bruised, not from chains, but from the cold grip of the warriors who came and went as if she were a relic. They touched her only when necessary, spoke little, and avoided her eyes. The few words they did speak were orders or prayers. They treated her not as a prisoner, but as something far more dangerous.As if she might unmake them with a single breath.The door groaned open again. Volgrin entered, his heavy boots leaving streaks of mud and frost across the stone floor. His presence filled the