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My name was Drifa, of the Northern Pack. A scout. Fast, lethal, free. Then came the Ash Commanders. My pack turned to ash. I became merchandise. Magister Valerius Tross bought me. He is a wealthy merchant who loves ostentation. He didn't want a mangy wolf. He wanted a jewel. So I received silk bandages instead of rusty chains. Blackened leather instead of rags. He gave me the name "Rasha." Short. Exotic. Marketable. His deal: *50 victories = freedom.* I stand at *41*. Nine more times, I must unleash the beast I hate. I kill quickly. Cleanly. Theatrically. Valerius applauds; the crowd roars, "Rasha!" I never smile. After every fight, I vomit when no one is looking. *The Hard One:* In the pit, I am Rasha. I rend, I win, I survive. "One more fight. One more day of bread." *The Soft One:* At night, I pace in circles—four steps forward, four back. I mend cloaks for other slaves. I share my bread with the dying. "Because my pack never let the dead go hungry." Valerius calls me his masterpiece. I call it a cage.