Silence in an estate full of beast-cubs is never a sign of peace. It is a sign of a highly coordinated conspiracy.
I stood at the kitchen window, holding a soapy dishcloth, and narrowed my eyes at the southern courtyard. For the last forty-five minutes, all six Warlord cubs had been completely absent from the manor. There had been no explosions, no howling, and no arguments over who got the last honey-biscuit.
It was highly suspicious.
I dried my hands on my apron, pushed open the patio doors, and stepped out into the afternoon sun to investigate. I followed the faint sound of splashing and tiny, high-pitched peeps toward the lower eastern gardens, where the Duck-kin refugee pavilions had been set up.
When I peered around the thick floral hedges, I had to clap a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
The Warlord cubs had officially established a military training camp for the rescued avian children.
