His Rogue Luna is a Princess (Mia and Derek) novel Chapter 87

hapter 87

DEREK

The sun beat down on the Silverclaw training grounds, heat rising off the packed earth in shimmering waves. My breath came hard and fast, my knuckles bloodied and raw. Across from me, Brock was grinning like a damn lunatic, sweat pouring down his bare chest.

“Getting slow, old man,” he taunted, circling.

I snorted. “Keep talking, pup.”

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We were shirtless, stripped to the waist, sparring the old–fashioned way–no weapons, no

armor, no mercy.

Around us, warriors paused in their drills to watch. Brock lunged, throwing a quick right hook, but I ducked it, came up with a vicious jab to his ribs, followed by a sweeping leg kick that sent him sprawling.

He hit the ground with a grunt, rolled, and came up laughing.

“Still think I’m slow?” I asked, brushing sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.

He gave a grunt of reluctant approval. “Less slow, more… dramatic.”

I opened my mouth to answer–but that’s when I saw Joe jogging across the training yard, boots kicking up dust, a file folder tucked under one arm.

His expression alone sobered the mood. Serious. Focused.

I grabbed a towel off the rail and wiped my face. “What have you got?”

Joe handed me the file. “We finally got something.”

I took it, flipping it open as I walked toward the edge of the yard. “On Pierce?”

Joe nodded. “Confirmation. His family lived as rogues after the banishment. Bounced

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around for years. Then-” he hesitated, glancing at Brock, who had followed.

“Then what?” I asked, already dreading the answer.

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“They’re dead,” Joe said grimly. “His wife and at least one of his daughters were killed in a skirmish near the eastern edge of the roguelands seven years ago. Pack scouts reported it. Said the camp was wiped out. They buried the bodies.”

I stopped walking. “Only one of his daughters?”

Joe gave a sharp nod. “They only found one. The second girl’s body wasn’t recovered. It’s likely she died as well, but… well… you know how it is in the roguelands.”

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My mind reeled. Those poor kids. They could have stayed with Silverclaw. They’d have been

safe. Cared for.

“And Pierce?” I asked. “Do we have eyes on him?”

Joe shook his head. “No sightings. No trail. But…”

I turned toward him, fully facing him now. “But?”

Joe hesitated again. “There’s talk. Old talk. Whispers from some of the rogues we’ve flipped over the years. If the rumors are true… then yeah. He’s the one who attacked Elena. Six years ago, maybe seven. Right around the time she disappeared.”

The heat of the sun suddenly felt suffocating.

Brock swore under his breath. “You sure?”

“No,” Joe said. “That’s the problem. It’s rogues. Nothing’s ever clean. There’s no written orders, no clear chain of command. But-” he met my gaze, steady “-rumors are

consistent. Same name. Same scarred face. Same hate for Moonstone.”

I stared at him, feeling a low growl stir in my chest.

Pierce. The bastard had slipped through Silverclaw’s justice once. He wouldn’t again.

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“Rumors are enough,” I said. “Let’s dig. I’m going to take a quick shower. Have the car brought around.”

Joe and Brock exchanged a glance.

“Where to?” Brock asked, already moving toward the locker room.

I looked out across the yard, toward the southern horizon where the roguelands stretched wide and lawless.

“Out there,” I said.

***

a

The rusted trainyard rose like a graveyard out of the trees.

Twisted tracks disappeared into the tall grass, half–swallowed by creeping weeds. The sky was iron–gray above us, overcast and heavy, casting long shadows over the field of forgotten metal. Boxcars leaned at strange angles, their once–red paint sun–bleached and peeling. Some had been burned–black scorch marks streaked their flanks, windows shattered, iron bones exposed.

We parked the trucks on the edge of the clearing and stepped out into the stillness. There

was no sound. No birds. No insects. Just the distant creak of a swaying door and the faint hiss of the wind threading through broken steel.

“This place gives me the creeps,” one of the warriors muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Good. I wanted them alert.

“Spread out,” I said. “No one goes anywhere alone.”

Joe took the left flank, Brock the right. I moved straight down the center, toward the largest of the boxcars–one with a sagging roof and rusted steps leading to a busted–open sliding door. The ground crunched under my boots, the gravel loose and brittle beneath my heels.

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As I climbed the steps, I caught the scent of smoke. Not fresh, but recent enough to wrinkle

my nose. I raised a hand for silence.

Joe looked up from behind a stack of crates. “You smell that?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Something burned here. Not long ago.”

Inside the boxcar, the air was stale and acrid, like a campfire that had been put out with

fetid water. Bits of torn tarp hung from the ceiling like shredded skin.

There were footprints in the dust–some booted, some bare. Drag marks near the wall. Old food wrappers. A few broken syringes. A shattered lantern.

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And in the center of the room, half–hidden behind a rusted barrel, a circle of stones

blackened by flame.

Brock approached carefully. “Looks like they were camped here.”

“For a while,” I said, toeing a pile of half–burned wood. “This wasn’t a pit stop.”

Joe crouched down beside the barrel. “Not warm, but it hasn’t been long.”

“How long?” I asked.

“Couple days, max.”

So they were here. Very recently. Maybe still nearby.

I moved to the back wall and scanned the surface. Someone had scrawled markings in charcoal–arrows, names, coordinates. Some had been crossed out. Others were underlined, looped in ink.

“They were planning something,” Brock said behind me.

“Or following through on something already done,” I murmured.

That’s when I spotted the oil drum.

It sat just beneath a hole in the ceiling, half–filled with ash and twisted paper. I reached in,

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careful not to disturb the edges, and pulled out the first fragment.

The moment I saw the Moonstone seal, my stomach twisted.

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