Small bodies lay slumped inside them, chains wrapped around wrists and ankles, some skeletal, some barely recognizable. Different species, different sizes. All children. Most of them long dead.
One of the crew swore under his breath. Another turned away and retched.
Bull didn't move for a long moment. His jaw tightened, and his hand curled slowly into a fist.
"Sir," someone said quietly, pointing toward the far end, "there's one still breathing."
Bull walked over and crouched in front of the cage. Inside, a tiny wolf-eared girl huddled in the corner, ribs visible, eyes wide and unfocused. She couldn't have been more than three years old.
"Wolfkin," the crewman murmured.
Bull shook his head. "Lykaios," he corrected, voice rough. "Get that right."
He reached for the lock himself and snapped it open, careful with his strength. The girl flinched but didn't scream. She was too weak for that.
