Two unlucky rabbits swung from Kershov’s blood-drenched maw, their broken bodies swaying from side to side with every deliberate step the alabaster Alpha took. He had murdered the first by crushing it’s pathetic skull between rock-hard teeth—like an egg—and the yolk of its brains leaked from one side of its collapsed face; the other had suffered a cleaner death, neck snapped like a dry twig and lolling at an awkward angle. Honestly the cold-hearted King would have preferred something richer, something larger and more of a challenge. A stag, maybe. A whole herd of elk. Wistful dreams of gnawing on a caribou bone had nearly sent Ker into distraction until he finally just set off to hunt for smaller, easier prey. What Abendrot needed was a pack hunt . . . except there didn’t seem to be much pack around nowadays.

Thinking again of Abendrot’s apparent curse of gaining and losing new members sporadically forced a rough growl from the icy dragon’s maw. His tongue curled under the cooling bodies of his meal, as if he tasted the fur of enemies and not simply rabbit-pelt. What on earth was wrong with his pack? Or, better yet—what was wrong with the rest of the world?! Weren’t power and glory and kinship the ultimate desires of every wolf? Abendrot was built on those principles, and yet the forbidding musk of warriors dwindled every day on the borders. Kershov began to growl harder, the sound shuddering in his chest. He jerked those feeble corpses about savagely, hearing their bones jostle.

No: he must not allow himself to become frustrated. Frustration clouded one’s judgment, and the massive arctic monster needed every slice of sinister cleverness he had left to keep his army running. All he had to do was—

“Miss Skeletor?”

The inquiry broke unexpected from Kershov’s trap, muffled of course by the poor bunnies. He dropped them unceremoniously to the forest floor; they thudded dully into a heap between his paws. The last time he had properly seen Ruhani’s daughter, Skeletor had barely come up to his abdomen. Now the tough young lady sat proud and serious before him, her coat still as delicate and soft as a chick’s down but russet eyes that seemed haunted . . . as if she knew too much. The girl appeared composed, yet Kershov instinctively knew something was wrong. He nudged a rabbit toward her. “Eat. Tell me what is on your mind.” This was spoken without any sort of warm, coddling tone; Kershov was demanding that his subject take her fill and unload whatever thoughts were troubling her mind. To signal that eating was perfectly fine, Kershov took the first bite out of his own dinner, tearing off a long ribbon of flesh and chewing methodically.