The kitchen fires burned low, their embers casting a lazy glow across rows of stacked trays, simmering pots, and half-covered bowls. Leif Ivar stood at the long preparation table, sleeves rolled to his elbows and forearms streaked with broth and soot. A final ladle of thick, spiced stew sloshed into a cauldron, and he exhaled through his nose—a long, satisfied breath that smelled of meat, smoke, and hard-earned rest.

Tomorrow’s feast would be a good one. Or it would have been, had he not turned around to find his work scavenged!

His pale green eyes narrowed. Where there should have been six trays of smoked ham, there were four. A bowl of sugared berries had vanished entirely. And the roasted root platter, painstakingly sliced and seasoned, was picked apart like a carcass in the tundra.

Leif straightened slowly. One brow twitching and his jaw locked in anger.

"Thieving, ale-soured, meat-muzzled sons of frostbitten hounds..." Growling, he wiped his hands on a cloth, tossed it onto the table, and stormed through the archway into the Great Hall, boots thudding against stone. The warmth of the hearth and the dull roar of lingering voices greeted him like a rising tide.

"You lot think yourselves clever?" he barked, eyes scanning the room. A few heads turned. Chuckles rippled down one long table. "Someone’s nicked half the bloody feast—and don’t you dare think I won’t find out who."

He planted his fists on his hips, cloak billowing like the tail of an angry storm. "So? Who was it, eh? Which of you sorry bastards decided to fill your belly with tomorrow’s work? Speak up now and you might yet live to see the sun rise.."

The entire hall erupted into booming laughter at the declaration. Gauntleted fists pounded into the tabletop as several Long Fangs threw their heads back and howled, jeering him on.

Leif’s scowl deepened, snorting in sheer disbelief. Clearly, he was missing something.