The quicksilver form of Marx marching into the clearing came as a welcome sight to Kershov. It was somewhat hard to believe that Abendrot’s Head Soldier had once been a prisoner, relegated to the lowest as an example to others that toyed with the idea of going AWOL. Ker did not regret punishing the venerated gladiator—if anything, he thought that Marx’s past low point only served to make his current situation all the more admirable. Marx had clawed his way back to his rightful place in Abendrot with absolute dignity. The ivory King could not imagine any other wolf leading his soldiers. “Once this meeting concludes, Sir Marx, the soldiers may start their training right away,” answered the massive Alpha pleasantly. Or, at least as pleasantly as a voice like winter could sound. Marx had chosen his location wisely; true soldiers wouldn’t be fazed by the overwhelming atmosphere of death on the western border, but the weak of heart would soon drop out and remove their worthless hides from the territory. Abendrot had no time for weaklings who refused to improve themselves.

The next wolf to arrive was the quiet and watchful Ivev, a healer that Kershov had welcomed into the pack during the winter’s harsh cold. There was something . . . dark about the bone-colored wolfess, an intangible sadness that hovered over her petite skeleton like a gossamer veil. Kershov suspected that Ivev regretted her decision to cross the border—but why should she? She had been embraced by a land that would protect her until its last breath and pursue vengeance upon any fool that dared harmed a single hair on her pelt. She wasn’t actively shunned by the soldiers; if anything, Ivev cringed away from their company as if breathing the musk of her fellow packmates would poison her. Kershov observed her approach from the corner of one obsidian eye. As usual, she seemed uncertain and uncomfortable. A dove among vultures. That needed to change.

Suddenly Enigma swept into the meadow like the belle of the ball, moonlight silvering the porcelain sheen of her coat so that she gleamed. In another universe, Kershov could have seen himself running beside this paragon of females as an unstoppable force; as it happened, the two tundra spirits worked together just fine as ruler and subject, and Kershov would never dare ruin their efficient relationship by attempting to twist it into something else. He respected her more than any wolf he had ever known. She was his right-hand tool and confidant. Abendrot had seen unrest and strength under her watchful, mysterious black-masked gaze. He greeted her with the usual somber nod as the sultry pythoness walked up, winding about his battle-bruised form with the delicacy of an experienced lover before taking her rightful place by his side. Fearless perfection. Kershov liked to believe that one such as Enigma could never be truly harmed, and yet the thought of anything wounding her possessed him with a ferocious and possessive sort of protectiveness. He would commit cold murder without batting an eye if anything ever happened to his General—just as he would do for any true Abendrot wolf.

That was why, when Kershov felt the vaguest tremor of tortured tension vibrate within the space between Enigma and Marx, an unsettling conflict coiled ponderously in his chest. The pained exchange was so small, so subtle and controlled that the ruthless Emperor couldn’t be entirely sure that he had sensed it. It may just have been his too-curious mind playing tricks on him, toying with paranoid possibilities that were better left abandoned in his subconscious. If Enigma were hurt by Marx, what would Kershov do? Did he have any business interfering in the complex lives of his subjects?

He silently reached this conclusion with heartless finality. Of course he did. And if, in the possible future, his most gravely respected and esteemed Head Soldier betrayed his beloved Beta, then Kershov would not rest until the bloody contents Marx’s charcoal throat decorated the very western border he had chosen for sparring matches.

Not that Kershov believed Marx would ever commit such a horrendous act. With the same emotionless regard as before, Ker retired that impossible possibility to the farthest corner of his mind and focused instead on reality.

“We need more wolves—and I am not just saying that to be greedy,” Kershov stated once he felt everyone had settled once more. “As Fallacy searches for a puppet, I will take at least one other Abendrot wolf with me to travel the freelands for recruits. Abendrot has been passive enough; it is time we seek out those that may benefit our army and bring them home. Perhaps we can even initiate a pack hunt to test the skills of those we choose. Does anyone have any suggestions that might lure new blood toward our borders?” Onyx windows scanned the faces assembled before him openly, not a trace of challenge or preemptive disapproval written anywhere on his scarlet-flecked face. Although he might not always follow the advice of his pack, Kershov tried to remain receptive to good ideas.

While he waited for any interesting suggestions, the colossal Pharaoh directed his attention back toward Ivev. His lyrics were soft yet demanding when he addressed her. “Healer, come assist your Alpha.” Fathomless shadow pools narrowed as he dipped his skull. “You are a healer, are you not?”