The soldier was polite—Kershov appreciated that in a recruit. Far too many wolves had swaggered toward Abendrot and decided that the best way to showcase their talents was to openly challenge Ker’s rank, as if such indecency were respectable. Not this black dog; he kept his fearsome amber stare trained at the level of Kershov’s scarred chest without qualm. He’s deferential . . . but not necessarily worshipful. Strong. Honorable. Silently, the menacing Czar jotted down mental notes. They hadn’t even known each other for more than an hour and already Ker had chosen to keep this promising gladiator if he could.

“Sir Menacy, it is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance. My condolences on your less than successful hunt . . . although perhaps Fate would have it that you are meant for greater things—something other than the hopeless chase of one worthless criminal.” That comment had a double edge: Kershov might risk offending Menacy by belittling the importance of his lost prey, but at the same time he complemented the clearly gifted smoke-born brute by suggesting that his future was far from ruined. “Tracking isn’t everything. Nearly any wolf can hunt—what’s important is whether or not they can complete the kill.” Pitch-glass windows narrowed thoughtfully, considering the bloody scrapes stitched into the gentleman’s haunches. “I take it you are that sort of wolf, Menacy. One who follows through.” Kershov left off the unspoken but obvious addition to that phrase: no matter what.

Casually, as if the idea had just occurred to him and he were merely acting on a gentle whim, the snowy Emperor strode calmly over the invisible border and began to circle Menacy, deftly picking out the fighter’s build, the state of his coat, the wear on his paws. He could guess why the aforementioned trail had died out; Menacy had probably been doggedly tracking the perpetrator for days, perhaps even weeks without rest. Marx would adore this one’s tenacity and determination. The ebony warrior needed nothing less than a true purpose to soothe the seething energy blazing through his veins.

Ker completed his slow revolution around the recruit. His ears tipped forward in an easy display of friendliness—something Kershov never bothered to fabricate unless he thought he’d get something from the effort. “We could use more soldiers with your brand of willpower.”