The arctic King glided through velvety forest shadows like a lonesome ghost waiting to hear its name. His giant paws had taken him near Havok's sickbed on a whim; he orbited the outskirts of the dank area without ever actually seeing her, triangle ears always perked to catch the minute sounds the wolfess made as she stumbled about. Kershov wasn't all that positive what had motivated him to keep an eye on her . . . it wasn't as if he actually cared for the fierce femme, not like he cared for what he considered the "true" members of Abendrot. Havok was more of a project, really--something Kershov could use to prove a point. The only problem was, Ker had long since erased what that point was from his feverish mind. Why keep the one-eared lady alive any longer? Why was he still allowing her to lay about as a pathetic invalid?

A raucous growl disturbed the air as the white Alpha continued his prowling. Instantly his hackles rose. Wolves loathe coyotes by nature, their bitter predatory rivalry an instinctive heat. Before even getting near Kershov knew that one such disgusting canine was closing in on Havok. Keeping his head low, Ker crept toward the she-wolf's camp, tail stirring the air behind him. Soon his single obsidian eye beheld poor Havok--the coyote sawing into the tender flesh of her flank. Oh dear. She's in trouble. The cold thought flitted past Kershov's thoughts, utterly devoid of compassion. He felt no urge to help the woman; if she died, then she died--and if she fought back, then perhaps she was worth something to Abendrot after all. The pale dragon waited quietly behind his shield of undergrowth. The coyote pulled savagely at Havok's pelt. She abruptly turned around and crushed its head.

A twinge of grudging approval stirred in Kershov's dead chest. Still the Czar kept frozen in place, hesitating to run immediately to Havok's aid. She seemed so . . . broken. Where had that spurt of energy come from? Did she hunger for life despite the ungodly hardships she suffered? Ker turned to go, suddenly bored of the pitiful show--but halted when Havok crooned out a pleading call. In all the weeks she'd been in Abendrot, the wolfess had never asked for help. She had carried her wounds with stubborn silence. Hmm. Guess I'd better listen, then.

"M'lady Havok. You're looking . . . unwell." Kershov's tone was light and conversational when he finally revealed himself. The approval he'd experienced before when she'd killed the cur faded beneath a much stronger wave of savage satisfaction. I am the winner. You are the loser. You NEED me. "Is there anything I can do for such a brave warrioress?"