ETHAN'S P.O.V.
There’s something particularly humiliating about rotting in your own filth while your enemies stroll around topside arguing over maps and destinies. And by humiliating, I mean soul-crushing, sanity-splintering, “please someone rip out my spine and use it as a violin bow” levels of despair.
The air in this dungeon was moist. Not in a poetic, rain-kissed way. No. More like the breath of something ancient and moldy had settled in the cracks and decided to raise a family.
I pressed my back against the cold stone wall, chains biting into my wrists, and laughed. Quietly. Bitterly.
"Alpha Ethan Reed," I muttered under my breath, "Son of the great Alpha Cray. Traitor. Disappointment. Walking punching bag."
My lips curled into a dry smile as I coughed, spitting out what tasted l
