The pack meeting had more or less dissolved after Queens’ arrival—not that Kavik would have known, because the intensely upset prince had stalked off within seconds of Kira prancing away to meet their mother. He’d escaped into the still-unfamiliar shadows of the Malignant forest, his deep espresso pelt loosing the warmth of chocolate and fading with ease into the darkest hiding places, anger gripping his heart in its jaws and his head pounding with confusion. From birth, Kavik’s tiny world had revolved around two creatures: Queens and Kirastasia. They anchored him. They were his Sun and Moon. His comfort. They made sense to him. Kira, for all intents and purposes, was Kavik’s other half; the vivacious princess literally carried his voice for him, the only wolf alive who understood his silent speech. And now that balance—that strained, delicate balance—had been shifted by the very thing that should have protected Kavik’s heart better than any other: his own pack.

Remembering how their older half brother had greeted Queens wrung a raw whimpering growl from Kavik’s throat. He did not want to share Queens. It wasn’t fair. Perhaps the conniving Empress had accidentally fostered a dangerous sense of dependency in her youngest son, yet Kavik could hardly be blamed for his attachment. After all, there was a reason he only considered Kirastasia and Queens to be his “family.” The Alphess kept her Abendrot litter shuttered up in their nursery like a pair of priceless jewels, as if any wandering glance might plunder their lives. She taught Kavik fear and mistrust. He could not explore because exploring meant peril; even those that wandered the quiet hallways of this sinful kingdom could not be relied on for safety. Fear strangers, my little ones . . . they mean you harm. Another pained noise creaked past the boy’s rarely used vocal chords. His sooty hackles lifted. All at once the night sky felt too big above him—a yawning vast abyss glittering with a billion eyes pinning his every move.

Stupid Kira, the white-masked monster thought dismally to himself. An owl crooned its haunting lament somewhere above him and Kavik instantly froze, hackles spiking higher. His heart punched his breastbone. Where even was he? This part of the territory felt alien to the royal lad . . . and that terrified him. Seizing control of his body again, Kavik slunk warily onward, hoping that he’d either run into a more familiar landmark or at least a friendly face who could take him back to his sister—

Voices. Up ahead. Both male. Focused to the point of pain, Kavik altered his path so that he would prowl within the outskirts of the mysterious conversation, keeping his ivory-barred body just out of sight. Kavik wasn’t a large wolf, and probably never would be; he sported his mother’s genes rather than his burly father’s when it came to build, and already his royal bones promised a lithe and lethal frame in the future. The sight that met his ombre amber stargazers poured ice in his veins. It was Kaizer, his half-sibling . . . and speaking to Kaizer, lurking on the other side of the invisible wall . . . a massive white male with fathomless black eyes and a jagged grin. Kavik’s breath halted. His tail slithered between his legs and hung there. Who was that?

In his state of shock, the skeleton pup accidentally let a forepaw slip—a twig cracked beneath his toes—and he shrank further into the undergrowth, rustling leaves, the damage already done and his pulse racing as he expected discovery.