“What’s this . . . ?” Kershov muttered the words and a plume of frigid smoke rose before his maw, breath crystallizing in the winter air. He sat atop one of the higher points of Abendrot’s border where an outcropping of rock jutted into the horizon, offering the snowy Regal a perfect view of the east. He saw the pathetic form of the pastel female before she came within fifty yards of his territory. Something about her seemed awfully familiar. Then Ker unleashed a monstrous sigh. He did recognize the lass, despite the fact her face hadn’t been seen in Abendrot for many months. What the hell was she doing back here now?

Hackles lifting with minor irritation, the ice dragon abandoned his post to meet the girl as she arrived. At least she’d been smart enough to stop before the wall; any deserter that actually believed she could comfortably waltz back into his camp was truly waltzing into her own death. Kershov did not take kindly to wolves leaving his pack without previous notification. When each and every other code of honor and dignity had been stripped from Ker’s murderous heart, he had somehow clung to the glorified concept of loyalty. Loyalty mattered most when it came to life. Loyalty to pack and purpose. Loyalty to one’s leader. Kershov had been raised in an ecosystem in which mercy was nonexistent and the only thing that anyone could rely on was the gang, those other wolves that had willfully chosen to stick together through everything and anything forever and ever. Abandoning the gang was regarded as the worst sort of sin that could be committed, and its punishment properly savage. The black-eyed brute had mutilated his share of treacherous dogs during his days as gangleader. Why not? Surely any filthy coward base enough to walk out on those that relied on him deserved a slow, agonizing death rotting away for carrion-eaters?

Speaking of cowards . . . Vladya was still presumably writhing in pain somewhere within Abendrot’s cave network. Kershov had sent the Healers to him, but who knew how successful their endeavors were? The alabaster gangster only wanted them to keep Vlad from death a little longer—he by no means expected a miraculous recovery. The tormented cur would serve as an example to the rest of the military of what happens when one didn’t possess the proper amount of dedication. Because Kershov was not a forgiving wolf. He had been more lenient with Abendrot than he’d ever been on the men of his arctic life. He couldn’t have any newcomers thinking they’d walked into a cute little boot camp.

Marching closer to the cavern he’d seen the young bird slip into, Kershov suddenly noticed Enigma’s perfume on the wind. A grin replaced the tight, expressionless mask that owned his ravaged, half-torn maw; Abendrot’s Beta was uncannily good at patrolling the borders. Hell, if she and the Frost King had been keeping score, Enigma would no doubt have dominated. Shaking his head, Kershov pulled his monstrous form out of the forest’s dark embrace and sat quietly beside his precious black-masked General at the cave’s entrance. His cunning obsidian lanterns could barely pick out the girl’s pallid body deep within the stony den.

“Where’s my rabbit?” Kershov asked softly, tone subtly wicked and teasing. Only the barest hint of a question limned his voice, as the bleached beast was just the slightest bit curious as to why Enigma had gone out of her way to hunt for this returning princess. Whatever—considering the lass was so young and obviously weak, Ker cared little that one of his own was providing for a non-pack wolf. Well . . . maybe not COMPLETELY non-pack . . . he needed to learn to be more tolerant of certain things. Still addressing Enigma, Kershov tilted his skull and studied the hidden outline of the somewhat-stranger. “Has she said anything to you, or did you come upon her while she slept? And would it perhaps be more kind to kill her now, while she is unaware?”