I didn't know how to owe an Alpha something I hadn't asked for.
I didn't know what it meant that he had given it anyway.
I went back to work.
The deep pantry did not care about the shifting dynamics of the upper floors. It did not care about falsified ledgers, administrative traps, or the terrifying, suffocating silence of Alpha Caelan standing in Beta Vance's office. The pantry only cared about the count. The sacks of winter wheat still needed to be logged. The barrels of salted pork still needed to be verified. The disruption of the summons had cost me hours, and the inventory schedule was a relentless, unforgiving master.
So, I stayed.
I worked straight through the evening meal shift, ignoring the dull, hollow ache in my stomach. I worked as the subtle vibrations of the Pack house
