Kershov dropped his most recent decorating project when the sound of a melancholy, melodic howl broke over the atmosphere. With a sigh, the arctic Alpha looked down at his hard work: this time it was the still-rotting skull of a deer, a few strips of fetid flesh clinging to its brow and velvet slowly peeling from the once proud antlers. Ker had stuffed the empty eye sockets with snake skin and was planning to place the gruesome piece of art somewhere on Abendrot's borders . . . like many other "decorations" he'd completed over the past couple of weeks. Ah well. The howl he'd heard was not that of a challenger, but one seeking audience with a Regal--whoever it was didn't deserve to see the King walk out with his horrifying trophy.

Leaving the skull behind, Kershov padded silently through the woods, taking the most direct path toward the source of the song. His mood was relatively light, compared to the bouts of roaring rage that had gripped him recently. His battle wounds were healing nicely--nothing more than taut scar tissue underneath a thick pelt of snowy white. Even the massacre of his face seemed better . . . although the demonic mask Kershov wore would never be anything less than terrifying. A vicious foe had shorn the right half of his broad muzzle away, revealing two rows of glinting teeth; a little more than a month ago, a different enemy--now resting in this very territory--had gauged out one of Ker's bottomless black eyes, leaving him with a single furiously glittering orb of pure obsidian. It was as if the monster inside were slowly scratching away the surface of Kershov's disguise . . .

Two femmes waited for him at the border. One was no more than a child, her dusty grey pelt carrying the softness of feathers. The other was a sensuous viperess, pale fur stained with lurid splashes of auburn. Ker trained his good eye on the older female, ears perking to alertness. He had never met her in his life, yet she smelled of his army. A recent recruit? Never mind, then . . . once Scarlet returned from the challenge he would call a pack meeting to learn about all his unknown soldiers. "Greetings ladies. Madame, I can tell you have already been welcomed into Abendrot, but I still require your title for my own memory. As for the young lass . . ." Kershov offered a gentle, unsettling smile. "Submit, child. Haven't your elders taught you proper manners?"