The heavy iron gate of the lower cellars groaned open with a screech that rattled in the back of my teeth.
The two guards didn't offer a hand to help me up; one of them simply reached down, seized the back of my threadbare tunic, and yanked me off the damp stone floor. Pain, cold and blinding, exploded down my right arm. The deep s***h across my palm, caked in dried crimson and dirt, throbbing violently as the severed tissue stretched. I swallowed the ragged scream that rose in my throat, forcing my jaw to lock tight.
"Get moving, unranked," the guard grunted, shoving me forward into the dim, torchlit corridor of the servant quarters.
"The Alpha wants the outer stables mucked and the border prep-station cleared before noon. You’ve wasted enough of the pack’s time sleeping in the dark."
