Rhea
My lungs were screaming with a sharp, burning reminder that I’d been hauling fifty-pound sacks of grain since four in the morning.
My shoulders felt like they were hanging by a thread, and my fingers were hardened and stained with flour and grit. I slammed the final sack into the cellar corner, wiping sweat from my eyes with the back of my hand.
"That's the last one, b***h," I muttered, my voice raspy. I didn't care that the only person around was a stack of grain. I needed to hear myself talk, just to make sure I still existed.
‘You’re pathetic,’ Astraea hissed. Her voice felt like cold needles sliding along my spine. ‘Dragging bags like a common peasant. We were meant for something better than this, Rhea.’
"But first, we must survive," I grunted, climbing the cellar stairs, my
