A WEAK SLAVE
The smell of decay and despair hung heavily in the air, and I could barely see through the dimly lit hallways.
“Get up, Alastor,” I growled when we reached his cell. “We have some questions for you.”
Alastor slowly got up from the ground, his fur matted and his eyes bloodshot from the torture he suffered. "What do you want from me?" he spat.
“We want information,” Max growled, anger bristling. “We know your brother is planning something big against our pack. We need to know what it is.”
Alastor's eyes darted between us. “I'm not going to talk,” he finally said, his voice shaking.
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