Kershov took a deep breath, pulling in the rich musk that permeated the strip of forest between his territory and no-wolf’s land. The air hung thick with the powerful aroma of warrior. A torrential downpour had almost snuffed out the Abendrot’s scent-line—but the hard work of himself and his diligent soldiers was slowly correcting that problem. So far, no foolish trespassers had stuck their filthy noses past the invisible wall. No threats had been made to invade the kingdom. With the exception of that troublesome pregnant mother, Abendrot had gone a few days without any incident to speak of. That pleased the alabaster Alpha. He preferred his army running like a well-oiled machine: smooth, flawless, efficient.

With a satisfied growl thrumming freely from his throat, Kershov pressed through one of the covert openings in the border and made his way toward no-wolf’s land. A split-second thrill of paranoia jolted his system—for the tundra-stalker hated leaving his property—but Ker quickly shook it off, his onyx eyes fixed on the horizon ahead. Moth needed to be informed about one of her subjects running off; the last thing Kershov wanted was a messy confrontation between Saw Tooth and Abendrot. Just as Ker was about to exit his territory altogether, his frigid stare captured the sight of a silvery wolfess darting around just outside the wall. His ears perked up, tail stirring the air gently behind him as he watched her in predatory silence. She moved in a most interesting manner—it was as if she were afraid to touch anything, her body curled protectively in on itself as she gazed around. She looked inquisitive and nervous. Hopeful and afraid. What the hell was she doing skulking around his territory?

The massive arctic monster did not announce his presence, but he didn’t attempt to hide, either. He glided closer on soft snowshoe paws that had walked on countless snowdrifts without a sound. His posture was relaxed; tail and skull and ears were held tall in the rightful position of Ruler; the handsome half of his visage betrayed no emotion, no outward sign of mistrust or annoyance. He couldn’t account for the right have of his face, however . . . long ago, when the King had been very young, a ruthless enemy had shredded that side of his muzzle almost completely away, tearing the velvet curtain of his jowls to reveal a row of cruel, shimmering fangs and pink gum. Deep, vicious scars stretched up over the bridge of his snout like permanent lightning, extending between his pitiless black eyes and over his sculpted right cheekbone. It was the mask of a demon, a forever-grin etched into a face of ice and snow. Many had quaked before this horrifying portrait. Others—his faithful army—respected it and knew it as the face of their Commander.

When Kershov stood about five yards behind the fae, he unleashed a short, imperial bark to snag her attention. “Halt. On your back. State your name and your business with my pack.”