The afternoon sun was high over the estate, but beneath the thick, custom-built sunshade bushes, the air remained comfortably cool. Varg sat cross-legged directly on the lush green grass, his massive frame looking entirely out of place among the scattered plush blankets, yet his posture was one of absolute, unyielding contentment.
Perched precariously on his lap was our daughter, Solira. She was a striking, chaotic miracle—half her hair cascaded in brilliant locks of silver-blonde, while the other half fell in tufts of raven-black, perfectly mirroring both our bloodlines. At just months old, she already possessed the fierce, relentless spirit of a hybrid. Right now, her tiny fingers were dug into Varg's jaw, her sharp little baby teeth aggressively gnawing on his chin as she drooled with pure, feral delight.
