The voice of an unknown femme disturbed the clearing’s tension like a sudden burst of music. Kershov quickly craned his neck around, finally catching a whiff of perfume that the forest had concealed until this moment. An earthen she-wolf, cloaked in the colors of the woods, stepped confidently out of the underbrush with a smirk pulling at the corners of her lips. The Alpha’s bottomless eyes widened a little in surprise. Well, this was a ballsy display. The woman had just recklessly laid her own life on the line, apparently convinced that her outrageous arrogance wouldn’t incite a killing frenzy. Ker half admired her gutsy performance—but the more dominant, logical portion of his mind criticized her lack of forethought and listening skills. She must have only caught the tail end of his explanation to Abendrot; the replacement Queen he desired would be no more than a powerless puppet with her strings firmly grasped between Kershov’s fangs. “Strange, I remember you looking a little differently, Sil,” Kershov replied to the new female. His voice was smooth and bitingly sarcastic. He even gave her an exaggerated dip of his skull, as if truly greeting his “mate.” As soon as the Pharaoh completed the action, however, a subzero cold returned to his eyes and erased all traces of humor. “Unless you’re here to prostrate yourself at my feet and sacrifice every freedom you’ve ever known, I’d say you are the wrong place my dear.” Kershov flicked his tail; the subtle movement was like a serpent uncoiling to strike. “I am not known as a merciful King. If you are here to offer your talents and improve my army, state your name and qualifications immediately.” His stare slid toward Fallacy and gave her a silent order: no killing yet.

Moonlight abruptly illuminated the bustling form of none other than Verity as the bright bird burst into the meadow. Kershov regarded her with an expression bordering on shock: he had not expected to see the infamously free-spirited creature still flitting around the territory. Her scent graced the mysterious woods with doubtful consistency; some weeks, the frigid Czar believed he had discovered her regular haunts at last—only to utterly lose track of her paths the next day. She ran in an out of Abendrot the way a rabbit runs in and out of its warren. Now, soldiers were not forbidden to leave Abendrot, as some wolves believed. Any packmember was free to come and go as they chose—as long as their trips into the freelands were short and for business purposes, and as long as they always returned home. Deserting and exploring were two very different things . . . but Verity was so unpredictable that Kershov wasn’t sure if he should condone her irregular absences or if he should punish her viciously.

All he could do was blink at her almost motherly concern of his wounds. “Every scar I bear that does not mark one of my own wolves is nothing short of an honor,” Kershov answered evenly. There was no pomp or pride lacquering his lyrics as he said this, because he was sincere—and the mere fact that he was sincere about something as intangible as honor should have had each wolf in the meadow alert. As a tundra beast, Kershov did not normally believe in silly concepts such as “honor” or “morality.” They were meaningless trifles that stood in the way of heartless survival. Still . . . he was glad to fight for his kingdom and accepted the wounds that inevitably carved his hide without batting an eye. It was better for him, as the Alpha, to spill blood that it was for his property to be harmed. When Verity sprang back into the dark woods—presumably to gather her favorite herbs—the massive monster quietly gazed back at Ivev. Bitterness leaked from her blue lanterns like tears. Defeat and resentment radiated from her pelt like the hot stench of a fetid wound. She acted as if Kershov were intentionally torturing her by ordering her to use her talents. A low growl resonated deep within the cavernous depths of his chest. “I would not have asked otherwise,” Ker replied dangerously. If Ivev did not want to be here, so be it—he still had enough strength left to crack her ribs open and remove that weak and wilting heart of hers.

Verity reentered with plants, predictably. Kershov made no move to correct her when she fired a rather passionate outburst at Ivev and stoically allowed her to clean and dress his wounds. Verity even hummed a tune as she labored. This would be the first time Kershov had ever allowed someone other than himself to lick his wounds . . . and it felt rather nice. Under the trusted touch of a subject, Kershov found that he could actually relax—rather than lash out just to deny that he was portraying some sort of weakness. Ivev would receive none of that calm acceptance. Her flippant attitude provoked something glacial and furious inside the otherwise controlled Monarch and the vague growl in his chest warped into a snarl. “You do not seem to comprehend the difference between a suggestion and a command, Ivev. Allow me to enlighten you.”

The alabaster Alpha stood, moving away from Verity’s fluttering motions as he did so. “Meeting adjourned. Patrol the borders, find recruits, and once Fallacy brings back our puppet do not let her out of your sight.” He threw a razor-sharp glare over one scarlet-stained shoulder as he stalked toward the clearing’s edge at Ivev. “Follow me or die, Healer.”