The Rogue Lands had no laws.
No mercy.
No pack customs to govern or protect. It was a place wolves entered only when they had no choice—and rarely returned from unchanged. Here, exile was not a sentence. It was a crucible.
And Luna had chosen it.
She understood that now.
Not just for survival. Not even out of pride.
But because something within her had needed to burn away the lies she'd been told. The weakness she had believed. The Luna who had trembled under Selene's words and shrank from Orion's rejection could not have survived out here.
But the Luna who had faced a warg?
The Luna who had summoned wind and root, who had seen frost in her veins and fire in her soul?
She was ready.
⸻
By dawn, she had returned to the edge of the frozen glade, where Kael had once stood.
He was gone. No sign of where he'd gone. But the wind whispered still, and the faint trail of scorched moss hinted that he had left by choice, not by threat.
Luna adjusted the wrap around her shoulders and faced east.
Toward the Rogue Lands proper.
A place of old blood and older wounds.
⸻
The first trial was hunger.
She ran low on rations by the second day of travel.
The forest in this part of the wilds bore fruit sparingly, and the animals were cunning. They knew how to avoid predators, especially two-legged ones. She built snares, improved her hunting techniques, relied on silence and shadows.
But the land fought back.
Twice her traps were stolen—once by a lynx, once by something she never saw, only heard breathing in the dark.
She carved small marks into the trees to track her route: the twin crescent moons of her new sigil, hidden at the base of trunks or carved high where few would think to look.
But even with her markings, she began to lose her sense of direction.
The land here was different.
Shifting.
⸻
On the third night, she encountered the second trial.
The mirewolves.
They came silently, cloaked in mist—thin, long-legged things with hollow eyes and blackened teeth. Not pack wolves. Not even rogues. Beasts of the dark places. Creatures corrupted by ancient magic.
Luna sensed them before she saw them.
The air grew colder, unnaturally still. Her fire refused to light.
And the moment she rose, she heard the softest growl—like a whisper made of knives.
Three of them circled her, moving in unnatural rhythm.
She didn't run.
She didn't speak.
She stood.
The power in her veins flared. Her breath clouded like frost. The earth around her feet quaked softly.
She whispered to the elements—not with words, but with will.
The roots beneath the soil writhed.
The wind gathered.
And as the mirewolves lunged, she raised her hand—and the forest obeyed.
Vines burst upward, snapping tight around the nearest beast. A wave of force pushed another into a tree with a sickening crack. The third clawed her shoulder before she spun, her palm blazing with fire.
She struck.
Light bloomed.
The creature turned to ash.
She stood panting, bleeding—but alive.
Victorious.
⸻
She didn't sleep that night.
Not out of fear.
Out of clarity.
The Rogue Lands were not just wild.
They were watching her.
Testing her.
⸻
The fourth trial came with no warning.
A chasm—narrow but deep—split her path.
On the far side, etched into the rock, was a symbol.
A sun devouring a moon.
She didn't know what it meant.
But she felt it.
Something from her blood stirred.
A warning? A summons?
She took a running start and leapt.
The wind caught her—not fully, not yet—but enough.
She landed hard, rolled, then gasped in pain.
Her ankle twisted.
Her hands scraped raw.
But she was across.
Behind her, the chasm widened of its own accord.
No way back.
Only forward.
⸻
That evening, the sky turned violet.
Not like dusk.
Like bruised memory.
She stumbled into a field where no birds sang. No insects buzzed. Just silence and the scent of iron.
There stood five stone pillars, each carved with runes she didn't recognize—except for one.
The crescent moons.
Her sigil.
But older.
More primal.
She approached slowly, drawn in.
The moment her hand brushed the stone, heat shot through her.
And her vision vanished.
⸻
In its place:
A battlefield of fire and ash. Wolves clashing, howling. Magic tearing through the air. A woman with silver eyes—older than Luna, scarred and fierce—stood on a hill, hands outstretched. Ice and fire spiraled from her in a storm.
Behind her, a pack knelt.
Not in worship.
In unity.
Then darkness swallowed the scene.
And a final whisper remained:
"To stand alone is strength."
"To choose your pack is power."
Luna collapsed back into her body, gasping.
The stone pulsed beneath her.
And for the first time since leaving Moonshadow…
She understood.
The Rogue Lands were more than a punishment.
They were the forge.
And she was the blade.
⸻
Elsewhere, Kael stood on the highest ledge of the Broken Spine Ridge, staring out across the wildlands.
Beside him stood a woman cloaked in silver feathers. Her eyes were blind, but her vision cut deeper than most.
"She passed the pillars," Kael murmured.
The Seer nodded. "She is no longer prey."
"Should we send the emissary?"
"Not yet. She must choose her next trial."
Kael frowned. "What if she chooses wrong?"
The Seer smiled faintly.
"She won't."
⸻
Far in the east, at the edge of Moonshadow territory, a scout returned breathless to Orion's den.
"My Alpha," he said, kneeling. "We found her markings… far beyond the known boundary."
Orion stiffened. "She's in the Rogue Lands?"
"Yes."
"She won't survive."
But even as he spoke the words, a thread in his chest pulled.
Not in pain.
In dread.
⸻
That night, Luna lit her fire with a single breath.
No flint. No spark.
Just intention.
She watched the flame curl, her reflection dancing in its glow.
Her hands bore callouses.
Her ankle throbbed with healing pain.
But her eyes burned bright.
The Rogue Lands had tested her.
But she was still standing.
Not as a lost girl.
Not as a broken mate.
But as something rising.