Kershov was on the move before Marx had even finished his howl. Something restless stirred in the ivory warrior’s chest, something that clawed him into wakefulness despite the weary shadows under his night-black lanterns; it had been tormenting him all day with thoughts of move and do and go. It pounded in his skull, an impatient headache. Life was like this, sometimes. Ker was not used to entire weeks of relative peace without enemy gangs threatening to attack—he had lived in a world of war and terror, in which every waking moment slammed whoever was still alive with merciless demands of survival. Wolves could not rest, or they would die. They could never stop plotting to be one step ahead of their competition, or they would die. Sleeping cut down on alert lookouts; keeping to oneself inspired others to attack; extending a hand in kindness or compassion signed warrants of betrayal. Kershov knew how to function in a warzone . . . but he had apparently still not mastered the simple art of maintaining tranquility.

As the last powerful notes of Marx’s summoning howl rang clear and virile through the glistening dawn air, Kershov charged down one of Abendrot’s central paths. The territory teemed with these fortuitous little roads, hidden streets enclosed by foliage and clever geography that provided safe and quick passage to nearly all of the kingdom’s corners. Ker had stumbled upon this network accidentally; a tundra dragon in his very core, the alabaster gangster preferred open spaces to cloistered forests, and otherwise would never have tried to seek out these narrow pathways. Now his paws traced down the smooth dirt road with the deftness of memorization. His bleached white pelt flitted ghostlike under cool pre-morning shade.

Eventually, the moonlit Alpha arrived in a small clearing. It took a few heartbeats for his cunning onyx gaze to pick out the concealed frame of Marx standing over yonder. As usual, the Army’s Commander looked reader to battle Death itself. Kershov admired the silver soldier somewhere underneath his glacial façade. He had never regretted bestowing the rank that Marx clearly deserved, and felt his signature cold satisfaction knowing he had this mighty warrior as an ally.

Well . . . at least Kershov thought Marx was on his side. Impossible to tell, really, where the steel-built monster held his true loyalty. To Abendrot, certainly, Marx was tied—yet Kershov was not the land that Marx held so dear. The frosted Emperor did not entertain any frivolous fantasies about Marx tripping after him like a fanatic follower; that was why conversing with Marx always proved to be such a delightful challenge.

“You called, Head Soldier?” Kershov inclined his regal head, ears tipped in curiosity. “What is it I can do for you?”