As soon as Marx offered the possibility of an idea, something that could improve the army’s performance, Kershov’s focus narrowed to gift the silver solder with undivided attention. His ears perked impossibly higher, even as his face remained neutral and impassive. Could this be the wakeup call Abendrot needed? The thing that would shake the soldiers out of their stupor and throw them back into the throes of vicious dedication? A shark’s smile lit up Kershov’s face. He folded himself comfortably into seated position, as if preparing himself to hear a proposal of vast amusement. “You’ve piqued my interest, Sir Marx—though I’d expect no less from my Head Soldier.”

Clearly Marx wasn’t finished talking. Ker leaned forward slightly, his grin vanishing as his attention zeroed back in on what the iron-carved brute was trying to say. “I see.” The frigid Regal glanced away in thought for a moment—not because he felt doubts about the success or validity of Marx’s plan, but because he was honestly wondering which soldiers might actually fall short of the Abendrot standard. It came as a hard blow to the cold King’s pride to imagine any member of his army failing to measure up to the bar, yet any self-respecting Alpha had to admit and accept that not all wolves were perfect. The military needed to clean house—and this dueling Marx suggested might accomplish just that.

“Any soldier that you deem useless, Marx, I too will see no use for. I have absolute faith in your verdict. If any soldier should turn out to be a waste of our resources, then you may dispose of them as you see fit; however, if you believe a flawed soldier might still benefit the pack in some other way, I shall trust you to inform Enigma and myself and they will be reassigned accordingly.” Another sly expression curved the untouched half of Kershov’s ivory velvet maw. His shadow-dark eyes met Marx’s serious stare. “Were you looking for permission of some kind, Marx? Consider it granted.”

This conversation was far from over. True, Ker was going to allow Marx to go through with his plot—yet there were still fine points to be discussed. Kershov did not want to be an ignorant Pharaoh that ruled from afar; he wanted to be a part of the inner workings of his pack, reveling in first-hand knowledge and participation. Abendrot was his: he had to damn well act like it. Straightening up a little, Ker stretched out the taut muscles in his back, feeling the vertebrae crackle with pleasing pops as they reset themselves. The movement carried through into his neck as the Alpha casually cracked it, turning his skull about until he felt comfortable once more. Then his nightshade gaze flickered to the forest. Ha. He had thought he’d smelled another pack wolf nearby, and a fleeting glimpse of pastel fur only confirmed his suspicions. The new wise Healer Key was apparently listening in on the conversation.

Very well. It wasn’t as if Key were a pariah or a prisoner. He had every right to know what was going on in the army faction—he’d probably be the one healing those unfortunate enough to become seriously injured during the future scrimmages.

“Should we have the Healer join us?” Kershov asked Marx, indicating the hidden pale gentleman with a slight tip of his cranium. Ker’s tone implied that he didn’t really care whether Marx answered yes or no; Marx had called, and therefore had metaphorical “dibs” on Kershov’s current consideration. “It may be kind to inform him about your plans, if only to better prepare him for what he’ll have to deal with later.”