The Rogue's Luna

Pain

Pain. That was the first thing I felt. A real, gnawing type of pain. Not a sharp stab or a clean burn, but something far deeper. It was as if my bones were bruised. It was like my veins were full of broken glass. But I was alive. I slowly opened my eyes, and the light stabbed into them like blades. I flinched as I closed my eyes again. The pain pulsed harder and louder. As if my body had just been waiting for me to wake up so that it could scream and cry.

Where the hell am I?

The last thing I remembered was blood. So much blood. And screaming. Owen’s voice. Reese’s cries. My chest seized, and I gasped as I tried to sit up. But the pain knocked the breath from my lungs, and I collapsed back down onto something soft. I realized I was in a bed. Not on the forest floor. But I also realized I wasn’t in Bloodhowl’s infirmary either. I once again opened my eyes and pushed through the pain. I wasn’t outside anymore. I was in a cabin. A small, warm, and silent cabin. The mattress creaked beneath me as I shifted. Every nerve screamed in protest. But I fought through it and managed to push myself up onto my elbows.

Bad idea.

My shoulder throbbed like it had been chewed through. My ribs felt cracked, and my vision swam, but I managed to sit up. The room spun once before it settled. It was quiet. Almost peaceful. A small fire flickered in a stone hearth just across from the bed. The flames painted shadows on the wooden walls. To my left was a compact kitchenette that sat tucked into the corner. An old iron kettle on the stove. Mugs hung from pegs like someone actually used them. And across from that was a single couch and a wide bookcase that overflowed with books stacked in every way possible. Neat, but chaotic. Almost like someone had read them all more than once. To my right was a large handmade wardrobe that stood tall, solid but unpolished. The wood was rough, uneven, and had clearly been carved by hand. It was the same thing with the bedside table that was next to the bed. As well as the table and chair. Everything in this place felt used and lived in. Most of the stuff looked handmade. And I was very much out of place here. I slowly let my head fall back against the pillow as I breathed through the nausea that hit me suddenly. I needed to know where I was. I needed to know who had brought me here. And why wasn’t I dead? I had seen many of my fellow warriors fall. I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn’t think about that now. I needed my strength. My focus. But the pain was horrible. I knew I was healing, but very slowly. Too slow. I had taken hits before, but this, this felt different. This felt like I had been poisoned. As I lay on the bed, I slowly assessed my wounds. Someone had tended to me. Bandaged me. I could feel it.

Why?

Before I could truly think about that, my ears perked up at the sound of something outside. Branches cracked under heavy footsteps. I froze as I listened. Then the door creaked open. And he walked in. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His hair was a shaggy mess of light brown, damp at the ends like he had just come back from the river. His face was hard, sharp jaw, a scar along his temple, and his mouth set in a firm line. He looked wild. Not unclean. Just rough. Like everything about him had been carved out of stone and fire and time. And he was muttering. To himself. No, his voice dropped into a quieter register. The cadence changed. It was like he had answered someone.

“You are the one who insisted we keep her here,” he muttered as he crossed the room to the fireplace. “Don’t give me that attitude,” then he paused and tilted his head like he was listening to something. Or someone. “She isn’t dead. I checked before we left. The bleeding has stopped,” I stared at him. Too stunned to breathe or say a word. I realized that he wasn’t talking to himself. He was talking to his wolf. Out loud. And his wolf was answering. They were talking about me. I didn’t move. I barely blinked. “I told you, she is healing,” he continued as he dragged a chair toward the fire. “Too slow, yeah, but you know what wolfsbane does…no, trust me, she is lucky she isn’t in a coma or worse, dead,” he sat down and ran his fingers through his hair. I could see the scratches that hadn’t healed smoothly. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, which revealed more scratches along his throat. So many scars. He looked like war. He scoffed, and then he shook his head. “Yeah,” he said to the silence. To his wolf. “Yeah, let’s not get into it again. I know what she is,”

What was I?

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. I knew I should say something. I should have questioned him, but I didn’t. I just watched him. The way his brows drew together like he was trying to puzzle something out. The way his foot tapped silently against the floor. The way he kept glancing toward me, like he expected me to vanish. Then he turned fully toward me and his gaze locked onto mine. He froze, and I flinched. Neither of us said anything. His mouth opened. He looked like he was about to speak, but then the pain surged through me so suddenly that I gasped. My lungs seized, and my vision blurred. I tried to push myself upright as a wave of panic washed over me.

“Wait,” he said as he hurriedly got to his feet. But it was too late. Everything went black.