It was difficult for the ruthless, cold-hearted tundra monster to admit it—but springtime was lovely in Abendrot. The lush sprays of rainbow wildflowers spilling down forest paths and rioting in patches of lazy sunlight put the rare blooms of his homeland to shame. Trees like grand towers twisted their long and sturdy limbs to the clear blue sky, resplendent in the season’s latest verdant hues. Kershov’s ears twitched constantly at the musical sound of wind shuddering through new leaves and tender stems. The soil beneath his massive snowshoe paws felt soft, rich with nutrients that fed the woods. Abendrot’s King was first and foremost a winter creature . . . yet there was no denying the power this beauty had over him.

He felt . . . relaxed. Perhaps that was why the pale Alpha occasionally growled to himself, as if berating his own stupid sense of peace. Relaxation was not his natural state. Wariness and aggression had kept him alive—not the frivolous enjoyment of flowers. Kershov cast an accusing glare at a bunch of daffodils as he passed them on his trip to the southern border. How dare everything look so damned pretty? If he didn’t think his soldiers would look at him like a madman for doing so, Ker would order the army to uproot every blossom in the territory. Stupid plants. Stupid, useless springtime.

Kershov valiantly attempted to stay pissed off; however, after a few more minutes of pointlessly snarling at rosebushes and violets, the alabaster gangster settled for an indifferent air. His royal muzzle pointed forward, imperiously high and grinning that odd forever-grin permanently ripped into the right half of his maw. Spring may have softened the earth and combed some of his thicker winter fur from his pelt, but it had done nothing to alleviate those savage scars cinched up the bridge of his snout. That was probably best. It was this terrifying visage, after all, that served as the first test for all new recruits. Anyone unworthy of Abendrot fled the minute they saw his face. Damned cowards.

Speaking of recruits—

A short, powerful howl shook the air, beckoning Kershov closer to Abendrot’s wall. Urgency flared in the ivory warrior’s chest; his pack’s population had been waning despite his increasingly desperate efforts and they needed new wolves now more than ever. Ker wasted no time in meeting the stranger. He carried his colossal frame with surprising speed over the terrain, arriving at last to see a pallid fae reclining opposite the invisible fence. One glance told Kershov that he needed to keep this girl: her chalk-blue eyes held a bright, observant intelligence, and her lean frame boasted plenty of muscle. This was a fighting lass who could only be improved by time in the military. Kershov inclined his handsomely sculpted cranium toward her, obsidian stare curious. “Greetings young warrioress. Submit and state your name.”