Todos os capítulos de The Rogue Luna: Capítulo 1 - Capítulo 10

The scent of damp earth and scorched wood hung in the air like a memory no one could forget. Ash clung to every leaf and stone, a silent reminder of another night of wildfires lit by carelessness or vengeance.In the farthest edge of the rogue encampment, where the forest crept closer and silence was less a blessing and more a shield, a girl sat cross-legged on the dirt floor of a rundown cabin. Her fingers were smudged with charcoal and dry paint. Streaks of blue and crimson stained her forearms like bruises. A small, half-finished canvas rested in her lap, where, a forest, half-burned, half-alive.This was her sanctuary. A space no one wanted to enter, and thankfully, never tried.Charollet.Nineteen years old. The girl who never shifted.The girl they all whispered about behind her back if they even remembered she was there at all.She had grown up among the rogues, left swaddled in a threadbare blanket at the edge of their border the night the moon turned red. They never knew who

The dawn broke with a sullen sky, casting a gray pall over the rogue encampment. Charollet sat by the dying embers of the communal fire, her fingers stained with charcoal as she sketched absentmindedly on a scrap of parchment. The lines formed a visage stern eyes, a cruel smirk, Kade's face etched into the paper as if her hand moved of its own accord.She crumpled the drawing, tossing it into the fire. The flames licked at the paper hungrily, consuming the image as swiftly as he had invaded her life.Mia approached, her footsteps soft against the earth. "Couldn't sleep?"Charollet shook her head. "Nightmares."Mia sat beside her, offering a piece of dried meat. "He's dangerous, Charollet. You need to be careful.""I know," she whispered, accepting the food.The camp stirred to life slowly, the rogues emerging from their tents, eyes wary and movements sluggish. The atmosphere was tense, a palpable unease settling over the group like a shroud.Kade stood at the center of the camp, his p

The fortress walls bled silence.Charollet had begun to lose track of time. There were no windows in her chamber. Only a cracked stone ceiling, where water dripped endlessly from some unseen pipe, marking each moment like a slow death.The bruises on her wrists had begun to fade. New ones bloomed on her shoulders and ribs. She no longer cried. There were no tears left to give. Only a numb ache that sat in her chest like rot.Still, she hadn’t begged.And that was what enraged Kade most.He visited more often now.Always alone.Never loud. Never kind.Tonight was no different.The iron door creaked open, and the torchlight behind him cast his silhouette long and jagged across the walls.Charollet sat on her mat, silent, staring at the stone.“Not even a glance?” he said, stepping in. “I expected better manners from a pet.”She said nothing.He crouched in front of her, resting his hand on his thigh, as if he were a benevolent king offering an audience.“I don’t think you understand you

The grand hall of the Darkfang estate glowed under warm chandeliers and flickering fire sconces. Gleaming black marble stretched across the floors, and crimson drapes swayed gently at every corner. The pack's elite were gathered—alphas from neighboring territories, battle-worn betas, and wealthy nobles draped in silk and leather. The air reeked of wine, power, and secrets.And Charollet stood at the center of it all—draped in a servant’s dress made of thin, scratchy linen, so sheer it barely protected her from the chill or the stares. Her once soft hands, now calloused from the kitchen and stables, trembled slightly as she balanced a silver tray filled with goblets.“Smile,” Kade’s voice whispered behind her, his breath warm against her ear. “Or I’ll give them something better to laugh at.”She swallowed down her pride, lifted her chin, and walked forward.Each step echoed in her mind louder than it did on the stone floor. She didn’t recognize herself anymore. She had once been a quie

The silence in the west wing of the packhouse was suffocating.Charollet’s bare feet whispered over cold stone, the only sound in a corridor built for silence. Her palms, raw and reddened, trembled faintly at her sides. Scrubbing the endless mosaic-tiled halls—floors she wasn’t permitted to step on unless cleaning them had become part of her ritual humiliation. Her nails were chipped, her knuckles cracked, and every bone in her spine screamed from hours spent on her knees. Still, she stood straight. Not proudly, but deliberately.Her hair, once cascading in golden waves, now clung to her scalp in tangled strands. Weeks of ash and labor had dulled it to the color of broken straw, yet in the right light, it still shimmered faintly, rebelliously. Her storm-grey eyes, so often dulled by sorrow, had sharpened to steel. They did not weep anymore.She refused to let them.Pain no longer frightened her. It was a daily companion constant, predictable, duller than the cruel laughter of the other