Semua Bab Forsaken Luna's Second Chance: Bab 101 - Bab 105

BEATRICEI don’t mean to move—but my body remembers what it’s like to protect before my mind has time to argue.The sky is clear when the first scream rips through the air.We’re just finishing drills outside the main training grounds. Aria has the senior trainees running paired takedowns. I’m across the clearing with the younger wolves, correcting a boy’s footing, when I hear it—a sharp, terrified cry from beyond the fence line.Then another.My head snaps toward the trees.Rogues.I smell them before I see them—iron and ash, sweat and blood. Ferals who haven’t shifted in weeks, some maybe longer. The scent of desperation clings to them like rot.Then I see her.A girl no older than Bailey, cornered near the far edge of the trees. Her wooden staff is broken in half, and she’s backing away fast, eyes wide, breath caught in her throat. The rogue in front of her is huge—long limbs, crazed eyes, teeth bared in a snarl.There’s no time to think.I run.I hear Aria shouting orders behind me

BAILEYI’ve never been the fastest or the strongest—but today, something inside me wakes up like it’s been waiting for this moment all along.The instructor’s whistle cuts through the courtyard air, sharp and unforgiving.I stand in the middle of the testing circle, eyes narrowed, heart pounding like it’s trying to claw out of my chest. Around me, the other academy trainees watch in bored curiosity—some smirking, others barely paying attention. I’m not one of the elite kids. I wasn’t born into this. I ran into it.“Bailey Callahan,” the scout says, reading from a clipboard like my name means something. “Advanced agility and sensory test. Proceed when ready.”I take a breath.And then everything… shifts.The course explodes into life. Hidden traps. Pressure plates. Moving targets disguised in scent. The kind of thing designed to throw off wolves twice my age and size.But I move like I’ve done this a hundred times.I duck before I even see the branch swinging toward me. Vault over a tri

MAXWELLBy the time we cut him down, he’s barely breathing—but his message burns like a brand across everything I love.The scout who finds the courier rides hard through the forest, blood spattered across his face, voice hoarse from shouting. I meet him halfway down the main slope, still pulling on my coat.“He’s strung up at the northern border,” he gasps. “Alive. But just barely.”By the time I get there, two warriors are working to lower the man’s body from the tree. He’s covered in bruises. Arms dislocated. Ribs broken. But clutched in his left hand—gripped so tightly his fingernails have cut into his palm—is a scroll.Sealed in black wax.I already know who it’s from.I snap the seal cleanly, ignoring the trembling in my fingers. The parchment is stained with water and something darker. Dried blood, probably. It doesn’t matter.The message is short.“Return my mate and my daughter, or I take them by force.”—EThat single initial makes my blood run cold.Enzo.His tone is casual.