The Rogue's Claim

Elira

I walk into the rogue camp with Wane, my heart heavy with dread, my scar fiercely burning like a hot coal beneath my skin now.

The camp is a complete ruin of ragged tents and thick mud, a place where order utterly went to die—torn canvas flaps loudly snap in the cold wind, empty bowls loudly rattle against splintered tables, and the air tastes strongly of smoke and old blood.

Wolves move like lurking shadows between the tents, low growls constantly rumbling as they ...