Lahat ng Kabanata ng Reborn Luna: Kabanata 111 - Kabanata 120

RhysThe air in the dungeons is thick with damp stone and fear. I can taste both.My boots echo against the narrow corridor as I make my way down the steps, each step deliberate, each breath measured. I’m not in the mood for hesitation tonight. The guards stationed outside the last cell stiffen the moment they see me.They know why I’m here.“Take a break,” I order.They hesitate only long enough to exchange a nervous glance before bowing and leaving without a word. The heavy door slams shut behind them, sealing me in with the stench of rot, piss, and sweat.James sits on the floor, chained to the wall.I knew something was wrong with him the moment he slunk to the palace for a stable job.My wolf growls in agreement.His wrists are raw, his eyes bloodshot. When he realizes it’s me standing there, his whole body jerks upright. Fear flashes across his face, and I see his throat work as he swallows hard.“Commander Rhys—please,” he croaks. “I made a mistake. I wasn’t—”“Don’t lie,” I in

KeithWe ride through the thinning trees as dusk settles, a low fog curling around the hooves of our mounts. The air smells of damp earth and decay—like the earth is speaking of the trouble that lies ahead. The path narrows to a dirt trail leading to a hollow where the Nightshade pack territory is.I glance to my right, where Jace sits, his jaw tight and eyes scanning every shadow. He’s been on edge since we crossed their border. Tessa rides behind us, quiet but alert, her fingers twitching near the blade at her thigh. Ben brings up the rear, his usual humor lost to the eerie silence that hangs over this place.When we crest the final rise, the village comes into view. And it’s worse than I expected.Huts lean at odd angles, roofs patched with straw and tar. The walls are scarred with weather and neglect. Smoke drifts weakly from a few chimneys, but the air is too still, too empty. A group of children stops playing when they see us, their faces thin and pale. Their mothers pull them i

RhysHope’s eyes follow Lina until she disappears between the stacks, the faint rustle of her skirts fading into silence. The moment she’s gone, I turn my attention back to the lady seated before me.She looks serene—too serene. That alone tells me she’s hiding something.“You seem rather fond of that servant,” I say finally, keeping my tone neutral.Hope lifts her gaze, cool and unreadable. “She’s diligent and respectful. I value competence.”I fold my arms across my chest. “Competence is one thing. Familiarity is another. Don’t let her get too comfortable.”Her brow arches. “You think I’m in danger of being outshone by a kitchen maid?”“That’s not what I said,” I counter, jaw tightening. “But kindness can be mistaken for permission. If other royals see a servant speaking to you as freely as she does, it could get her into trouble—and you as well.”She closes her book slowly, deliberate as always. “You mean it could offend Lady Elira.”The name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “Amo

HopeThe corridor smells of damp stone and iron. The scent clings to me the way fear does—to skin, to breath, to memory. I balance the tray in my hands—bread gone stiff, a small bowl of broth, and a jug of water—and try to steady my steps. Every creak of my boots feels too loud, as though it might echo through the tower and give me away.I tell myself this is routine. Just another visit. Just another night pretending that the chains and the blood and the screams are not real.But tonight isn’t routine. Tonight, we make decisions.I reach the iron door at the end of the passage. It’s carved with the sigil of the crown—a sun pierced by three spears. The sight of it makes my stomach twist. I raise my hand to knock, but the sound of voices freezes me mid-motion.Lady Elira’s voice is unmistakable. Smooth as silk, sharp as a blade.“You’ve been stubborn long enough, Tirianna,” she says. “I know you’re hiding it. I can feel the lie in your pulse.”A pause, then the soft sound of a chain dra

HopeThe silver cutlery gleams like captured starlight against the white tablecloth. Steam curls lazily from the teapot, and the scent of cinnamon and fruit lingers in the air. It should be a peaceful morning—should being the key word.I sit at the long breakfast table, spine straight, smile practiced, the very image of poised serenity. *Raya.* That’s who I am here. Raya, the guest. The foreign envoy. The woman King Camille is politely intrigued by—but nothing more.At least, that’s what Lady Elira wants to believe.I sip my tea, pretending not to notice the whisper of soft slippers across marble. Then I hear her voice—smooth, deliberate, dripping satisfaction.“Good morning, Your Majesty.”Lady Elira glides into the room like a queen herself, though she’s not one. Her hair is a sculpted silver cloud, her gown a shade too extravagant for morning. Beside her walks a young woman with honey-blonde curls and a smile polished to perfection.I know immediately that Elira is proud of this on