For the first time in recent memory, Kershov was not woken by the insidious fangs of a nightmare—but by a gentle gust of frost. He felt a breath of winter sigh against the sensitive hairs on his nape, stirring his pallid fur and awakening a primal arctic instinct. The call to survive thrilled through the flat landscape of his dream and drew him into reality. When the Alpha opened his ebony eyes, not a trace of the usual frustration and irritation that often accompanied sleep remained; he felt rested, as if spending an hour or so unconscious had actually been worth it. Such a rare thing. Especially since Vladya’s betrayal and subsequent banishment had given rise to many dangerous slips of control . . .

The Ice King was not a creature of mercy, and he never had been. But this did not mean that he delivered his punishments without exquisite calculation. His self control was legendary; despite the vicious cruelty of his sentences, Kershov had never unleashed the full madness of his wrath upon any wolf in Abendrot—on any wolf even in his old tundra gang, where he’d broken members just as quickly as he accepted them. The cold Czar understood what hideous beast clawed at the inside of his ribcage; it roared with insanity barely contained, a ripping anger and breathless brutality not fit to rule or even to exist. Should that raw emotion ever escape, Kershov doubted the odds of him ever wrestling back control. For years he’d successfully kept it imprisoned . . . until that simpering bitch stole his underling Vladya right out from under his nose, spitting at his absolute authority, daring to ROB him of his RIGHTFUL PROPERTY—

A deep breath, and the massive polar monster reclaimed the calm that had somehow managed to seep into the unnatural shadows of his sleep. His rest had been dreamless—thank the nonexistent gods—and now Ker felt free to enjoy the cooler temperature at his leisure. Growling pleasantly, the pale dragon stretched luxuriously into standing position; he arched his spine against another wintry breeze, scenting snow creeping closer on the far horizon. Soon this dark forest would be a castle of frigid glittering white: the proper home of a true tundra-stalking Pharaoh. His season. His advantage. In all honesty, Kershov could have easily spent the rest of his afternoon patrolling and savoring the day if not for the urgent call of Grey Wind ringing over the treetops.

Without hesitation the white titan broke into a surprisingly liquid run, his impressive musculature shaking off the last slow vestiges of sleep and moving with primitive grace under an ivory robe. He smelled the two wolves before he saw them: Grey Wind’s proud musk carried the stamp of Abendrot, while another perfume—for that was the only way to describe such a feminine scent—curled about air and foliage like some delicate ribbon. Kershov was analyzing it and memorizing it before he glimpsed a single golden hair on the newcomer’s sleek pelt. Once he saw her, the Monarch dipped his head slightly; her signature scent bloomed with the warmth of sunlight and, meeting his expectations, the damsel looked sun-sculpted herself.

“Good work, Grey Wind.” Ker addressed his devoted soldier with distilled professionalism, giving the silvered warrior nothing more than a curt nod as thanks. Abendrot’s fighters didn’t need to be coddled; if they could not grasp the concept of their Leader being thankful and approving despite his apparent coldness, then they belonged in a different pack. Then, approval delivered, Kershov turned his royal visage to the stranger . . . and oh, what a view it was. The right side of Kershov’s muzzle had been torn almost completely away, disfiguring him with a horrendous forever-grin. Teeth glinted, deadly bright, framed by jagged slashes of scar tissue that stretched their fingers over the bridge of his snout and up toward one fathomless onyx eye. It was a demon’s mask. And it had weeded out the weak of heart before they even had a chance to cross their paws over the border. Would this pretty golden thing flee before the face of the Devil? “Greetings, Madame. Submit and state your name and purpose here. And quickly, please. I am not a patient wolf.”