Kershov knew a lot more about what occurred in his territory than others gave him credit for. He might not notice the minute bending of a twig that betrayed a deer’s passage, or a cluster of flimsy feathers where a jay had abandoned its nest, but there were other subtle signs that told the King exactly what was going on within Abendrot’s shadowy hallways. For instance: a blurred mosaic of old tracks along the border where wolves had tried to covertly inspect his fence. Fresh marks in the still-green flesh of a fragile sapling where someone had sharpened their claws. Tufts of downy fur hung up on skinny branches where a warrior had hastily pushed past. Or—more recently—a tang of drying blood and power-soft perfume intermingled as a single ribbon of scent through a secret passageway, leading toward one of Abendrot’s more untouched meadows. That particular sign interested Kershov very much. His chew toy, Vladya, had decided to move from his designated jail cell . . . and he had brought a visitor into the kingdom.

As the frost-breathing phantom stalked silently through his land, a seismic growl thrummed from his chest so powerful it rivaled the shattering roars of thunder above. His death-dark eyes were narrowed into slits sharp enough to cut metal. A shark’s grin warped the tattered velvet curtains of his muzzle. Kershov wasn’t angry—he was livid. Blue flames of fury smoldered coldly through his bloodstream until the merciless Alpha felt as if he’d been plunged beneath a frozen lake, numb with glacial rage that made every breath a ragged gasp and every movement forced and strained. He had cracked Vladya into pieces and scattered what remained of that cur’s filthy pride in the dirt. Each session of torture had been brilliantly designed to punish Vlad permanently for the unforgiveable sin of desertion he’d committed. Vladya was supposed to be drowning in dejection where his Czar had left him as a reminder to all of Abendrot what happened when one’s loyalty failed. And now not only had the traitor willfully traveled to the border—he’d brought in an outsider without Kershov’s permission. Where had Vlad even gathered enough of his demolished sense to talk to a stranger? Was he finally through with the torment, and asking Kershov to murder him?

It had been many, many weeks since Ker first truly saw the wish for the end crying out in those once-familiar pyrite eyes. The stone-hearted Emperor had ignored it. He believed death was too easy an escape for this revolting excuse for an ex-soldier. But this time . . . perhaps this time Kershov would grant Vladya’s wish at last. Surely this ultimate breach of sanity begged for a quick release.

His colossal form shouldered roughly past the low grasses and tender bushes that attempted to shield Vladya and his guest from view without warning or decorum. Under the preternatural silver of the coming tempest’s light, Kershov stood tall and blindingly white with pools of bottomless cruelty glittering down at his prey. Icicle hackles spiked sharper than needles along his neck and spine. The savage snarling that had throttled his kingly throat quieted into a far more dangerous purr, one that textured his voice the way pebbles will roughen the frost they’re trapped beneath. He only glanced at the girl—so pale and delicate next to the beaten dog—for a moment. Then the full force of his winter fury focused with shocking intensity upon Vladya’s horrified face.

“Blood-eye,” the alabaster gangster murmured, heartlessly throwing out the nickname Vlad had earned a lifetime ago on the battlefield. Kershov’s tone might have sounded kind—except anyone that had known the Pharaoh for more than a few seconds instantly understood that no such quality lived inside the barren plane that was his demon soul. “What is the meaning of this?”

An agonizing span of seconds passed wherein Vladya could not fathom how to speak. He wasn’t afraid. He was too astonished to be afraid. This emotion locking his body into a living rigor mortis was much deeper, more visceral than fear. It shut down his panic centers like a shot of morphine, despite the fact that Vladya’s lungs still hitched with the overwhelming effort to breath. The stupid son-of-a-bitch didn’t have the presence of mind to warn Kobato to stay back, for the love of god stay back, yet a distant voice in the back of his brain was shrieking at the fae to run as fast as she could. Already Vladya could predict what Kershov would do: Ker would slaughter this precious, innocent creature in front of his prisoner in cold blood, just to watch Vladya squirm. He’d rip her throat out and throw the gory contents at Vlad’s stony feet, and then demand he clean them up. And when Vladya proved unable to speak, unable to so much as twitch at the sudden loss of reason in his life, Kershov would do the same to him.

Vladya’s scarred lips parted soundlessly. He was seeing his Leader standing there, framed by a wicked forest silhouette . . . and he was also watching brave, foolish, lovely Kobato totter uncertainly on her paws to stand before him like a shield made of pearl.

Kershov observed the faint shift quietly, sliding that subzero glare back toward the pretty lass. He took a single step closer and lowered his head into a threatening pre-attack position. “Darling Miss,” the Alpha crooned. Lightning split the clouds into hundreds of shimmering grey fragments. Thunder detonated above. A few heavy drops of rain fell from the black sky and hit canopy leaves with the sound of bullets pattering against a roof. “I am so sorry that you’ve been caught in this terrible, embarrassing mess. Vladya was selfish to bring such a wondrous flower here . . .” Rain fell into Kershov’s malevolent mask, running down the harsh cut of his cheekbones in a mockery of tears. His teeth flashed. “This is nothing personal.”

He lunged forward—jaws wide.



{{OOC: mah-mah-mah-MUSE EXPLOSION}}