The Rogue Warrior Novels & Stories

Just as another wave of rogues were unleashed on us our next wave of warriors came to join us, with still more on their way. The rogues were starting to try and pull back. Suddenly, I was surrounded by four bigger rogues. I looked around trying to get a sense of where Sam and Jack were only to see them surrounded as well. Our warriors were distracted fighting their own people. As I took stock of my own wolves, I felt something rip at my back leg. Howling in pain I turn fiercely and rip the rogue’s stomach open with my claws. He slumps over unable to continue.

They’re dangerous, unpredictable… and they’re usually killed on sight. The first warrior frowns, his gaze hardening. “Is that true?” he asks, his voice laced with suspicion. “Are you a rogue?” I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. I can feel the sting of the word—rogue—like it’s branding itself onto my skin, marking me with a fate I never wanted. Panic surges through me as the other warriors exchange a look, their postures growing tense and threatening. “She has no identification,” the second warrior snaps, his hand drifting toward the knife at his belt. “We should deal with her here and now. Can’t have rogues running loose in our territory.”

The mangled organ pulsed in my palm for a brief second before turning to ash. But the rogue… it only stumbled, its empty, glowing eyes flickering before its lips peeled back into a twisted grin. It kept coming. “What the hell…?” I breathed, stepping back as it lunged at me again. I twisted, dodging, but my warriors weren’t as lucky. Bodies littered the ground, torn apart in ways that sent rage clawing up my throat. I watched as one of my men; a seasoned warrior, one of my best, was tackled to the ground, his screams cutting off as the rogue sank its rotting fangs into his throat and ripped his head clean off.

"I'm right here." "Alone," the rogue added. Damon stepped between us instantly, his stance lethal. "Not a chance." The rogue exhaled, as if expecting that response. "Then kill me now, because if I don't get to say what I came here to say, you'll regret it soon enough." Silence fell over the warriors. Damon's energy crackled beside me, but I placed a hand on his arm, grounding him. I didn't trust this rogue, but there was something about his certainty, his complete lack of fear, that told me he truly believed what he had to say mattered.

The warrior tries to protect his people and defeats the rogue that attacks, but more rogues pop out of nowhere, trying to take the lives of people in the market. I watch as the warrior fights until he is impaled by a rogue with a spear. The spear goes through his throat and comes out the back of his neck. My hands shake as I watch the warrior fall. He isn’t the only one dying. Many are—both the market women and men, the merchants who are escaping in their caravans. They all suffer death. Though warriors are coming out to protect the people, more rogues appear, attacking without care for themselves. It doesn’t matter how skilled the warriors are; they are fighting an enemy who doesn’t mind ge

A Rogue. A Rogue is a werewolf without a pack. They often kill any werewolf they encounter; may it be a member of a pack or a similar rogue, like them. They are vicious plunderers. And that same vicious plunderer is right in front of me, deviously smiling. “Others cannot dodge my attack so easily like that. You’re quite good, pup.” He praised me, but I don’t feel good that he did so at all. I’m scared. “W-who are you, Mister?” I tried to sound brave, but aside from stuttering, my voice also cracked.

It was only then that I realized that perhaps that was all she knew. What had she gone through to make her so guarded? What had she suffered? What had taught her to only run? She had no doubt suffered under the hands of a pack. ‘Traditional packs’ she called them. I wished I could find out whoever hurt her, what pack had made her this wary. But that wasn't how life worked. Once upon a time, rogues were associated with something else. Wild. Rabid. Power hungry. That they were only there to kill, wreak havoc, and destroy. Stories were always told with rogues as mindless antagonists whom packs would prevail over.

I am twenty years old, and I have been a rogue my whole life. I don't know who my parents are. I don't know if they are dead or alive or if they ever wanted me. I don't know anything about where I came from. All I know is that I have been on my own since before I can remember, stealing and lying and fighting just to stay alive. That is what rogues do. We do the dirty work. The illegal work. The work that packs do not want to admit needs doing. In return, we get money, food. A chance to see another day.

A loaded weapon with no safety on. “That’s instability,” I say softly. “That’s fear. Or confusion. Or both.” Carter studies the screen. “It spiked right after the breach.” “Because she felt it,” I reply. “Even if she doesn’t know what it was.” And that excites me more than the broken anchor. Because a stable enemy is predictable. An unstable one? That’s chaos waiting to be shaped. I breathe in slowly. The air smells like wet grass and early morning. Peaceful. Ordinary.

The Rogue Alpha, the Warlord, Dalhkan King of the Rogue…how the epithets pile up, no one knew his true name, because throughout the entire pack, one name stood above all, we called him…The Butcher. He was also rumored to have possessed dark magic that revealed his enemy’s thoughts. I didn’t want to find out how true that was. We finally set down after hours of travel, after my hours of crying in silence, and I was blown away by the sheer size of the place. It was their campsite, where they stayed and waged war, a site that once belonged to another before them. ‘You are not going to die, Sybil.’ ‘Think about your sister!’ I chided myself when the thought of death and fear and failure shot its