The freezing mud yielded under my slippers as I practically sprinted back from the dark tree line, my heart ached and thudded against my ribs with the terrifying velocity of my mother's warnings. I broke through the iron gates of the courtyard, expecting the worst, only to freeze mid-stride at the utterly surreal scene unfolding in the snow-dusted garden.
Varg was out there in the freezing dawn, his heavy leather vest thrown wide to expose the steaming, heavily scarred planes of his torso. He was right in the middle of a brutal, light-speed sword drill with Baron and his younger sons, the lethal clash of steel ringing through the mountain air. But the absolute craziest part? Stacked high on the stone benches behind them were rows upon rows of massive, grease-stained paper delivery packages.
"Vespera!" Varg roared, the moment his hyper-acute alpha senses picked up my presence.
