Kershov wore a mantle of blood strapped over both shoulders as he marched back to his kingdom.

His dark-furred challenger had proven his worth on the battle field, sending Ker through hell in the form of bruises and blood and deep under-the-flesh pain. Each onerous step hurt like a road of live coals under his paws; the hot scarlet lacerations sliced over his ivory coat burned with agonized flames; the rightful King of Abendrot exuded a powerful aura of glorious victory, but only a blind wolf would have missed the fleeting ache flickering in the depths of his onyx irises, the slight hesitation that stole the liquid grace from his predatory movements. Kershov was not beaten—but he was hurting. And god help any fool that pissed him off when his paws crossed the border . . .

He was—and always had been—a creature that only became more dangerous when wounded.

The fight had eaten up daylight, so when Kershov finally arrived at his territory’s wall he moved under a cloak of evening shadow. His gore-soiled alabaster pelt glimmered faintly beneath the moon’s pale light; he looked for all the world like a vengeful ghost that had returned to feast upon the limbs of his enemies. A satisfied smirk managed to curve the still-handsome half of his muzzle as he drank in the musk of Abendrot. Dominance and death wove an intoxicating perfume throughout the forest; Kershov hardly noticed the proud signature until the moment he had to leave its grasp for outside affairs. Ignoring the searing sensation that ripped over his muscles as he moved, the frost-born Pharaoh took the time to rub his body like a great cat over a few of the border’s outermost trees. His royal blood smeared in lurid streaks over the claw-marked bark. Then, with his name indelibly written on wood, Kershov continued into his home.

There was unfinished business to take care of: soldiers to call, spies to gather, assassins to mobilize. This season had been harsh on Ker’s pack; the core of the loyal remained, yet the rapid influx and depletion of bright-eyed recruits disturbed the Alpha to no end. When would the tides of new faces stop washing away? When would he be able to look upon the hopeful mask of a joining wolf without spitting in derision? Few recruits had given Kershov reason to extend any sort of trust or recognition their way. Any fresh fighters wanting to join the ranks now would have to put themselves through Hades and back if they wanted to gain the Czar’s favor . . .

Kershov could have reached the center of Abendrot if he had wanted to—out of pure stubbornness—but a shred of wisdom in his mind insisted that the massive arctic monster needed to preserve his strength. The white knight followed one of the land’s many hidden pathways to an open meadow near Abendrot’s eastern border. Trees grew tightly in a ring about the patch of sweet grass but left a ceiling of stars to shine coldly above it; the Alpha’s voice would carry beautifully from here. Positioning himself in the center of the clearing, Kershov threw back his imperial skull and howled loud enough to shake the moon.

“ABENDROT—TO ME!”