Marx’s thoughtful suggestion to teach Vladya some proper manners forced a harsh laugh from the cavern of Kershov’s raw throat, his regal skull tipping back with the unexpected outburst. His black gaze reflected the Head Soldier’s cunning viciousness—matched only by that in Enigma’s portals—like twin mirrors. “Marx, if only I knew where they had gone. What pack would be foolish enough to take them in?” Both Kobato and Vlad’s pelts were saturated with the musk of Kershov’s army. All would know where the pair came from . . . few packs would willingly endure Abendrot’s marked at their doorstep. A hungry, vengeful snarl warped Ker’s scarred visage. He hoped they wandered homeless until they died. If the ruthless tundra monster could not destroy them himself, he dearly desired their demise at the paws of others—cast off and haunted, nursing the agony of their wounds while forever fearing the final strike of doom they so clearly deserved. He wanted buzzards picking at their still-twitching bodies. Beetles gnawing on their eyes. Rot stealing the meat off their bones. Each new torment flickered vividly in Kershov’s mind, delighting him and frustrating him simultaneously, glacial rage rebuilding itself as he imagined them beaten at last . . .

Then, as if heeding Kershov’s frantic need for justice, Ivev slunk into the meeting. Ker’s internal fury churned to a screeching halt, replaced by that familiar wave of angry confusion that assaulted him every time the pale valkyrie entered his presence. She hated it here—yet she never severed her ties to the army. Her existence hung heavy with an unspoken pain. Kershov could not make Ivev in love her home or her duty to the pack—but he did not want her as a prisoner, as this miserable and broken creature he wasn’t able to fix. He couldn’t take it. The silent snarl etched into the Czar’s fearsome muzzle tightened more, creating the expression of a nightmare upon Kershov’s already furiously merciless face. As Ivev crept closer, her light eyes cast downward in sorrow, tassel limp at her thighs, her King breathed out a warning hiss. He expected a sullen greeting. What he received was Ivev lowering herself to the ground as if she were made of lead, sinking into the drenched grass as if to bury herself in a premature grave. Kershov instinctually relaxed. Dominant wolves did not sanely attack those that submitted. His bitter disappointment in her crumbled away, unable to maintain its stability under the stress of the Alpha’s other warring emotions. He was too exhausted to deride her. “Get up Ivev,” the Monarch ordered wearily. “There is nothing to be sorry for.”

All at once a great tiredness settled as a physical weight on the frost-born Pharaoh’s shoulders, draining him of energy the way a vampire guzzles steaming life from a shredded wound. Fathomless onyx lanterns gazed without emotion, without life at the mosaic of faces turned deferentially toward his dial. They had come obediently to his call—despite its searing resonating tone of rage and revenge. He had not even needed to issue a command. This is loyalty. This is dedication. Once more the snowy dragon was among his comrades on those plains of winter and death, devoid of forgiveness or second chances, the only hope for survival held within the strength of the pack. Where no chains of love or family existed—where the truest bone in existence was the undying devotion sworn under blinding silver moonlight and sealed with blood. Abendrot was not under orders to heed their Commander’s inward torment . . . but here they waited, pelts glistening with rain and eyes luminous with enthusiasm, the craving to kill for their King. And unfurling over his weariness, soothing it like chilled droplets of water on a scorched stone, Kershov sensed a single breath of calm satisfaction.

A satisfaction multiplied exponentially when a certain bloodthirsty starlet parted the steady curtain of rain and marched with stunning dignity into the gathering.

Kershov was struck speechless. Drenched in the scent of blood and battle, her face torn and her body ripped to ribbons, Scarlet Nights had never looked so beautiful to the heartless dragga. He leaned into her caress—and the heat crawling up his throat wasn’t just from the lovely smear of scarlet the femme fatal had just painted upon his pallid coat. Wordlessly, Kershov lifted a sinuous foreleg and pulled Scarlet closer, carefully pressing her deceptively dainty body into the hard expanse of his ice-carved chest while he rested his royal chin upon her bruised brow. He had held Verity this close only days ago, yet that was to comfort the shattered thing; now Ker embraced Scarlet as he would a mate, their intimate proximity all at once possessive and powerful. Few could claim to have meshed Scarlet Nights’ rich russet fur with their own and live—only the Alpha of Abendrot felt confident cuddling this unpredictable viperess. His voice murmured in a chilled, seductive baritone for her ears alone. “You are right, dearest heart. Your timing is perfect.”

The Regal cleared his throat. “Abendrot, this is the face of your . . .” Kershov—glib and sharply silver-tongued, hesitated. He had prepared himself to say “Puppet Queen,” to formally enlighten the entire pack on what Scarlet’s purpose had originally started as. He had chosen her to act as a functional ornament—a gorgeous, ferocious face to parade before outsiders and make them quake beneath Abendrot’s apparent strength while Kershov remained sole ruler. The polar warlord preferred leading alone. It was all he knew. But . . . this ravenous, exquisite creature had stepped up as an Empress would to defend an army she didn’t truly rule. In Kershov’s eyes, that suddenly promoted Scarlet Nights to the role of Alphess—his equal in every way. A liquid growl purred from the white beasts throat. His eyes were obsidian shards, daring any to oppose him. “This is the face of your new Queen.”




{OOC: sorry for the crappy post guys I'm not trying to ignore you I just suck waaahhh. It'll get better as more peeps reply!<3}