The rain had stopped hours ago, but the wreckage left behind by the merciless tempest faced Kershov wherever he roamed. He stalked around branches cracked like broken arms across well-worn pathways; giant paws plashed in a funeral march through deceptively deep puddles; leaves littered the ground like feathers torn from the hide of a bird; rain had drenched everything, nearly erasing the signature that branded this territory as if the very forest exhaled its scent. Abendrot needed its borders remarked soon. Ker didn’t want any foolish trespassers accidentally missing the invisible wall . . . then he’d have to deal with them, and the arctic King simply felt too weary to murder anybody today. His insides felt raw. The scar tissue that Fate’s trials had sewn inside of him seemed far too flimsy and delicate, allowing old traces of rage to snag painfully on Kershov’s heart. Where had his inner palace of ice gone, that immaculate and unbreakable fortress of control that kept all those petty emotions imprisoned? What had become of his self-mastery? Unwelcome, unfamiliar confusion tormented the glacial dragon’s thoughts as he moved through his kingdom. His already savage visage contorted. This was . . . wrong. Kershov was not meant to feel like this. He was not supposed to be capable of feeling like this.

Capable of feeling . . .

Another bestial snarl shredded up Kershov’s throat, the unholy sound of a demon unleashed. It was all their fault: Vladya and that filthy whore of his, challenging Ker’s authority and his power and his absolute dominance. Except—and the alabaster Alpha would never admit this, not even to himself—that wasn’t truly the reason his bottomless black eyes narrowed in agony. Plenty of wolves had spat in at the cold Czar’s crown, and they had not managed to inflict so much as a dent in his self-control. He’d promptly laughed in their reckless, stupid faces—and proven to them why he had ruled this territory for so long, why wolves dragged themselves to his doorstep simply for the chance to speak to him and carve out their destinies in a glorious army. A threat to his status was not what had pierced Kershov so deeply. No . . . what tortured the colossal monster was the fact that one of his most prized wolves was lost to him forever. That, no matter how hard Kershov tried, Vladya could not be reduced to the pleading creature he’d been on the tundra all those years ago. Kershov couldn’t force Vladya to need him again. And now that wretched bitch had stolen Vlad away. Right from beneath Ker’s unsuspecting gaze. But he’d make them pay, oh yes, and that revenge would taste more mouthwatering than—

“KERSHOV!!!” The voice shrieked brokenly on the storm-washed wind and jerked the moon-white Monarch’s skull up as if he’d been pulled by puppet strings. For a heart-racing second, Kershov believed he’d heard the loathed tones of Vladya’s new lass calling his name . . . yet a few blinks of quick interpretation instantly wiped that notion from the dragga’s mind. He recognized the voice, but could not grip a name. Then it came to him. A starved, disbelieving sneer sliced up the frost-born Pharaoh’s muzzle. He hissed her title. “Venga . . .”

He found her bleeding and alone and heartbroken on his border. Her mismatched eyes—so much like Enigma’s, but lacking their cold intelligence—blazed. Kershov had to laugh when he saw her. Finally: someone in more pain than himself.

“Madame Venga! What an unpleasant surprise. You look like shit, my darling—somebody pull your tail?” Unbridled cruelty poured thick and sensuous out of Kershov’s mouth, as if he were speaking passionately to a ex-lover. Wicked glee gleamed in both fathomless onyx portals. “Not that I believe anybody has been near that tail of yours in quite some time. Tell me, do you Bright Moonians ever get any? Honestly, you lot are ever so uptight. I can’t send one of my wolves near your territory without your border patrol having a heart attack.” His banner curled over his spine. Kershov was dangling the truth of sending his spies to their pack to make her suffer . . . except, Venga was already clearing suffering. There was no way a mere sighting of Abendrot spies would send the honey-splashed lass into this state. Something else had happened. Something horrible. Suddenly the grin vanished from Kershov’s mask. He lowered his tail warily. Surely nothing had . . . happened to Tamlin? That possibility made Ker sense an odd emptiness within himself. When he spoke again, his glacial lyrics were carefully restrained. “Why are you here?”