Kershov took the masculine howl ringing from the opposite ends of the border as a good omen—despite the fact it sounded more like a summons for Marx rather than a request for an audience with the King. As the alabaster gangster watched the receding outlines of the Saw Tooth family trot off into the distance, he flicked his ears backward to catch those last notes. Would the Saw Tooth wolves hear that howl? Did they shiver in their fur to think that Abendrot was growing in number even as they traveled back home? Ker rarely allowed himself the luxury of portraying what he considered “petty” emotions, but now a smug smirk tugged at the handsome half of his muzzle and completed the permanent grin etched into the right side of his face. Just as the cycle pushed through the familiar lapse in activity, his army was on the rise once more. He could practically feel the pawsteps of recruits as they traveled to Abendrot. Time to meet this new face . . .

The massive tundra-walker took his time to meet the hopeful stranger; after all, he hadn’t specifically been called, and Kershov could sense Marx’s presence the instant he stalked further into his territory. The silver soldier was on his way to answer the summons, no doubt; judging by the tang of blood sticking to Marx’s cologne, the Head Soldier was either in a horrendously foul mood or swaggering in high spirits. Kershov breathed deeply through his nose, dissecting the different strands of his underling’s scent. Marx had been near the new swamp thickening the western wall . . . and he’d taken care of business there. Had another fool attempted to cross that treacherous terrain into Abendrot’s heart? Ker shook his imperial skull with exasperation. At least this new stranger, whoever he was, had possessed the sense to travel toward a more stable fence.

He shouldered his way smoothly past an intimate tangle of branches in time to watch Marx demand submission. White banner flew high over a sleek, kingly spine. Kershov took his position slightly behind his trusted Gamma. The way he held his virile weight—all confidence and raw power—instantly portrayed who held the crown in this situation, yet Marx had proven his loyalty and competence over and over again. The cold Czar saw no reason why he should intervene and send Marx on his way when the Head Soldier was handling things so well already. Quietly, penetratingly, Ker’s heartless black eyes appraised the grey wolf standing proudly on the opposite side of the border and calculated each and every possible trait of value he might carry. Healing wounds decorated the male’s dusty pelt; a certain angry energy burned behind defiant amber eyes; this brute could either be an amazing strength on the battle field, or a warrior who threw caution to the wind and charged head first into danger, consequences be damned.

“You heard the Head Soldier,” Kershov rumbled deeply, head tilted at the tiniest fraction. “On your back. Title and purpose.”