A bloodcurdling scream echoes from the rafters, and bone tears through flesh, a rain of red spurting through the air. My stomach heaves. My wolf howls in delight. Behind me, an elder, maybe Nuala, says, “He should’ve taken a knee. At least then he’d still have a working one.” “You don’t mess with defectives,” an old male opines. “That’s just plain wrong. Everyone knows that.” My wolf falls quiet, her glee deflating like a punctured tire. That’s me they’re talking about again. Us. Fuck this shit. Suddenly, a weight descends on my shoulders. I didn’t ask for this. Am I supposed to be impressed?
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