A shadowy growl bubbled to life in Kershov’s chest when Truffle-whatever approached. Oh, goody, the little brat wanted to start a conversation. Kershov could hardly contain his unbridled excitement. The Snow Czar stared at the miniature brown wolf with a dry, irritated expression; the only big indication that he felt any sort of annoyance toward Cocoa was a slight tick bothering one coal-colored eye. “Good for you,” Ker purred sarcastically. “As long as you’re out of my path, you ‘play’ with as many mice and squirrels as you want.” Thankfully, Ruhani stepped in and diverted the miniscule bug’s attention. The frosted dragon gladly pulled his gaze back toward the talented russet assassin’s grave mask.

Then he laughed in her face.

“I apologize, Ruhani. You cannot be serious. The insect? An assassin? Perhaps we can better utilize her talents to slowly torture any intruders that cross our borders. She can talk them into tormented madness.” Still chortling wickedly, Kershov perked his ears to hear the rest of Ru’s hopefully serious speech. “Young Skeletor as a spy? Hmm . . . that faction does need new members . . .” Kershov started to flick his tail in thought, utterly at ease. He enjoyed talking to his subjects when given the chance—especially when they actually had something interesting so say. Spirited Ruhani rarely failed to entertain and surprise the frigid Pharaoh with her blunt insight. Unfortunately, she lost him at the mention of yet another unbearable child. Onyx windows narrowed. “Do not tell me you’ve adopted another one, Madame. I allowed Trumpet to live because you accepted her as your own. If this urchin means nothing, then she will become fodder. I won’t babysit.”

During the short pause in conversation, Ker observed the romping puppies some more. They were so . . . sickeningly cute. The sight turned his guts. Sure, tundra pups played; Kershov remembered faraway days of chasing his sibling, simpler times of playing war before war became real. But even playing, Ker had been crushed by an unseen force, a dark sense of foreboding that made playtime more like practice and forced the child to consider how his happy times were numbered. These new children practically glowed with pathetic innocence.

“Greetings, Lady Ithilwen.” The Ice King dipped his head at the lithe young spy.