The trees stood as solemn sentinels along the shaded hallways of Abendrot, their boughs reaching protectively overhead to form a canopy as intricate as lace and secure as prison bars. Soft dawn transformed the land into a work of silhouettes, everything dark and delicate and not quite as it seemed. Now was the time when the sun’s early warmth coaxed fragrant veils of mist from the earth, when diurnal creatures shrugged off their slumbers and prepared for the day. Birdsong graced the cool morning air with small splashes of music. Everything was hushed, lovely, tranquil. The absolute perfect setting for an aggressive morning run.

Lungs opened like sails as Kershov plunged down his favorite clandestine path. He reveled in the electric heat of blood and energy coursing through his system, the delicious ache that pulled at his still-healing wounds. Fur paler than the moon that lingered in the brightening sky rippled regally over a colossal dragon’s frame, marred only by subtle scars sewn over his skin like war medals. Yet another worthless bastard had putrefied Abendrot’s borders with his laughable pride, yowling for a title he did not deserve. Kershov had felt his guts heave at the audacious cur’s call—and that in itself was a feat, because the alabaster gangster had committed more grotesque atrocities than he cared to count. Things didn’t usually affect him in such a violently repulsive way . . . and yet it had taken everything left in the battered Alpha’s iron will not to roar himself sick with appalled rage. Another challenger? Another delusional, depraved, disgusting excuse for a dog slavering after his pack? The stranger had to be either raving insane or the stupidest cretin ever to crawl out of a cesspit; there could be no other explanation for this confrontation so soon after Kershov had virtually mutilated the last foe to cross his path. Perhaps this fool had assumed the Ruler of this territory too weak to accept another battle so soon, and hoped for an easy take over; Ker dearly wished he could have seen the look on the prick’s face when Scarlet Nights stepped up in his place. Sorry chap, expecting someone else were you? Maybe his venomous mate would save him a piece—Kershov could use it as decoration to deter any other greedy vermin from snapping at his heels.

A ferocious snarl warped the frost-born Pharaoh’s already mangled visage. He reached out to crunch a low-hanging branch between his jaws, crushing it as he would an enemy’s bone and spitting it aside as he sprinted toward the border. Frustration sent blue flames licking at his insides, begging for release. The next wolf to try his patience would be a very unfortunate creature indeed . . .

As if the cruel Furies of Fate had heard his secret thoughts, a low howl wandered beneath the ceiling of clouds above. Kershov’s ears whipped upward—and his abruptly tense body relaxed, his run keying down into a more liquid lope when he realized the call carried the notes of a potential recruit rather than a potential enemy. He adjusted his path accordingly; in minutes his lengthy strides carried his massive body toward another part of the invisible wall. Ker arrived just in time to catch the stranger’s name: Venice. The glacial gladiator wasted no time greeting the so-far politely chatting pair; he shouldered past a shield of thick undergrowth, the shadows of the forest throwing his demonic mask into eerie relief. Years ago, a hated enemy had shorn away the right half of Kershov’s muzzle, tearing a forever-grin into that side of his face; above that unsettling pair of glittering fangs and pearlescent scar tissue glared the empty socket where a more recent foe had gauged out the pitiless obsidian eye. This was not a face of mercy, nor was it a hopeless painting of pain. Kershov endured all that life dealt him . . . and was all the stronger for it. “Welcome to Abendrot, Lady Venice.” His winter-cold voice curled on the wind like a breath of frost. He nodded firmly at Grey Wind; Abendrot wolves knew their Alpha’s approval when they saw it, and he refused to humiliate any of them with patronizing praise. “Pleased that your travels have led you to my territory. Submit.” The last word was ground out with a hardness that put diamonds to shame. Kershov accepted nothing less than absolute obedience from those wanting to join his army.