Whoever said that old wounds lost their sting with time was a raving lunatic—and Kershov wanted to seek the bastard out and eviscerate him on the spot, pull out his lying stinking guts and string them up in Abendrot’s trees and then ask in perfect seriousness after a few hours if it still hurt. Healing with time, indeed. It was a cute, naive notion, trusting the passage of seasons to ease one’s pain. Perhaps it actually worked with more ignorant creatures that were only capable of living in the immediate present . . . but Kershov’s vast mind was a restless graveyard of all the memories and injuries that had sculpted him into the ruthless tundra dragon he was today. He could travel back to the most horrific of his experiences and look upon them in cold objectivity now, yet their agony seethed—white hot and maddening—just beyond the glass wall of his control. There was damage twisted throughout the labyrinth of his glacially efficient mind that had shattered beyond the hope of fixing; rather than dwelling on such wreckage or allowing it to weaken him, Kershov had built himself around those ruins, those mistakes and unavoidable tragedies of his past. A precariously balanced inner kingdom. An infrastructure of ice. Because despite what others preached, despite those useless messages of hope and moving forward, unless one found a way to circumnavigate their own crippling wounds, agony was forever.

You only had to look at Ker’s ravaged mask to figure that out.

Currently, Abendrot’s lone Alpha reposed atop one of the higher points in this kingdom, a small gently-rising plateau that had often been used for pack gatherings due to its openness and tenability. His visage was a study in winter: snow-white fur marred by dark branches of scar tissue that cracked up the right side of his maw like splintering fissures, frosty expression, coal-dark eyes so deep and still they seemed lifeless. An enemy had gifted Kershov with his terrifying facial deformity; his evil teeth had ripped away the right side of Kershov’s muzzle to reveal blood and gums and glittering teeth exposed forever to the world in a blackly ironic demon’s grin. The wound had lost its tormenting fire years ago . . . but the memory hadn’t. Kershov could see it now: a morning of gore, vibrantly etched into his brain. His first and most humiliating loss. He felt a snarl tighten his face, talons digging into the earth where he sat. Such a disaster would never happen again—at least not to Kershov’s pack. Did any of them realize how much he’d invested himself in their welfare? Did any of his soldiers know—even if he described them all as pawns—that they were his very life?!

A distant rumble of thunder drew Kershov’s attention sharply from his own dangerous musings. His imperial skull turned toward the sound, nares catching that intoxicating scent of coming rain. A storm. Perfect. That would certainly give Marx’s charges an interesting battle ground. With a sigh, Ker unfolded himself from his impromptu throne and proceeded to make his way toward the testing site. He wouldn’t interfere; however, as Alpha, simply observing should be no great crime. Long, sturdy stilts carried the arctic dragga effortlessly over his domain, his massive gladiator’s frame surprisingly graceful considering his bulk. Ker would have made it to Marx’s training session in record time if it hadn’t been for her scent.

Ivev.

The frost-born Pharaoh had ordered the introverted “healer” to accompany him after the most recent pack meeting had concluded—but her insidious silence and removed attitude had revolted him so much that Kershov had sent her away, unable to speak past the boiling rage in his throat. Interacting with a prisoner would have been more rewarding, because at least prisoners reacted. Ivev played the part of a martyr a little too well. Her self-imposed, ungrateful, misguided, stupid misery had Kershov ready to bite through stone. If only she had been a prisoner—the white warrior could have executed her instantly! But no, no . . . she was pack, and she was HIS, and Kershov would not let his property go without a fight. That unthankful dove did not count herself as a true member of Abendrot: fine. Unfortunately for Ivev, her opinion did not exactly count against the determination of the King. He would sound the cause of her disloyalty until it exhausted him. As soon as Kershov finally caught up to Ivev, her pale fur as immaculate as ever, he mentally promised to demand why the hell she had severed her soul from his pack.

“You’re close to the wall, Madame Ivev. Have you made your decision to desert at long last?” Kershov’s voice drifted soft and icicle-sharp from his maw. “You must know the penalty for leaving Abendrot. If you want to die, aren’t there other convenient ways of ending your life that won’t involve the army tearing out your throat?” He tilted his head, ears perking atop his royal crown as his obsidian stare challenged her . . . and then he saw the outsiders. Two of them, like-smelling young things that might have been yearlings or callow adults, their scents so faint that they might have been ghosts. Kershov completely turned his attention away from the ephemeral healer. His banner flicked and soared to its dominant position over his spine. Though Ker’s outwardly hostile demeanor did not change, his tone adopted a more businesslike flow. The Emperor would not harm these strangers unless they forced him to.

“Greetings, travelers. Please excuse my harsh words—Ivev is a valued healer here, and occasionally she pisses me off. Submit and state your names. What brings you to Abendrot?”