One of the many advantages to living in a thick forest, and knowing that forest as intimately as one knows one’s own pelt, was that Kershov could comfortably settle himself in the shadows and watch passersby on the border without discovery. Shade dampened the gleaming white of his coat so that he appeared as a patch of old snow against rich woody browns and greens; tangles of interlacing twigs created natural blinds for his fathomless black eyes to peer through, shielding him from the view of outsiders; Abendrot cradled so many unexpected dips and hollows that hiding usually proved simple anyway, as strangers rarely thought to look in such surprising secret places. Kershov greatly enjoyed the privacy the stakeout sites provided. He could act as sentry to his territory without anybody realizing what sort of merciless predator guarded the land . . .

It was from one of these countless hidden trenches that the massive arctic Alpha observed a dark brute plodding relentlessly across the fog-draped landscape. Ker noticed instantly that the male’s gait was off; he marched in a sort of lurched, uneven fashion, betraying a grave injury on one of his haunches. That seized the white warrior’s attention immediately. This black stranger couldn’t be a victim—he moved too resolutely for that, lacking the slow and beaten pace a poor loser portrayed. No . . . as Kershov continued to study the smoky soldier from afar, he decided that he was probably hunting something . . . or someone. Interesting . . . it must have been an important task if the injured creature chose to ignore his own discomfort so stubbornly. As there was nothing else to distract Kershov from his observation, the sly Monarch settled himself deeper into his makeshift bivouac. His snowy hackles lay flat and smooth along his spine. A brittle lace of branches cracked the image of his ravaged face the way a shattered mirror distorts a reflection, obscuring the torn half of his muzzle so that the permanently grinning teeth were but a fleeting sharp illusion to the untrained eye. He waited.

As the coal-dusted stranger neared Abendrot’s border, Kershov had to thread his way toward different hiding spots in order to keep his quarry in sight. Staying out of sight was no challenge; Ker wore the dense curtains of fog as if they were the most resplendent robes in existence, the cool smoky pall leaving glittering drops of moisture on the immaculate paleness of his fur. He traversed his forest like a phantom made of frost. At last he slipped into a small cove mere body-lengths away from where the odd dark fighter halted, an intriguing mixture of surprise and frustration etching tight lines into his sooty mask.

Kershov perked his scarred ears at the abruptly aggravated snarl that grated from the stranger’s throat. Did this ebony brute begrudge the presence of such an expansive territory laid out across his path?

When his target moved no further—and showed no signs of leaving—the colossal tundra-stalker chose to reveal himself at last.

He materialized pieces by piece, muzzle and shoulders and spine emerging from the gossamer earthbound cloud until he stood directly in front of the onyx stranger. Kershov held his head and tail at imperial position. Emotionless portals appraised the male before him with razor-sharp intensity, mentally dissecting him and wondering what the hell this stranger wanted.

“Greetings, traveler. I am Kershov, Alpha of this territory. Submit, and state your title and purpose. Perhaps I’ll chose not to put you out of your apparent misery.”