They collided in an eruption of shimmering ice crystals and raucous voices. The roar booming sonorously from Kershov’s deep throat ripped into a rougher snarl as his foe slammed into his chest and twisted into his momentum, throwing both wolves back from each other on opposite sides. Ker’s talons raked into the densely packed snow and skidded to a halt; already slab-like muscles were tensed in preparation for another charge, energy surging with boundless potential down screaming synapses; harsh breath misted before a demonically grimacing muzzle, every single tooth on glittering deadly display. He did not appreciate the indifference Pyreo cast toward him, as if Kershov were merely a nuisance to be crushed. How rude: bored indifference was supposed to be Kershov’s shtick. Ah well, too late—the frostbitten Pharaoh was already pissed. “ Good for you, you’ve gotten my name right! Someone’s been doing their homework.” Pyreo didn’t deserve the breath in Kershov’s lungs, but Kershov was giving it to him, because otherwise he would keep attacking until both of them were useless bloody messes in a forgotten ditch. “Let’s cut to the chase: why would a pathetic little nobody lust after a pack ruled by somebody of my, ahem, ‘reputation’?”

The enemy brute wore the snowy cloak of an arctic soldier, but Kershov saw a creature of ashes beneath. Inner heat disguised itself with a granite visage. Pyreo controlled himself well, that much Ker could surmise, yet whereas Kerhsov’s breast held a biting blizzard his opponent housed an angry inferno. Pyreo was born from the long-dead remnants of a fire that have burned away all color and lay pale and dry at the bottom of the pit. The charred skin of wood and bones. Deceptively hot to the touch. He was in every way the opposite of the sinister tundra gangster—but did that mean Py was unfit for Abendrot? Would the scalding monster recoil in disgust upon entering the territory, or embrace it? Would he lead the army, or tear it down? Something warned Kershov that Pyreo desired Abendrot so that he could “fix” it, as if something were wrong with the steadfast military, and this foreboding thought clenched at the ghost’s insides like the slithering coils of a python. If Abendrot were “fixed,” what would be left?

Nothing, the ice-breathing beast realized. Because it would be a new era.

And suddenly Kershov experienced a crippling pang that struck him from nowhere, straight through the chest and shattering past his glacier of a heart. He might do this. He might really, truly do this. He might entrust the gem of his existence, the purpose of his life, to this conniving cur in hopes that it might be reborn from the ashes of a stranger. A move that went against every ferociously possessive instinct Ker had. In that agonizing split-second eternity, Kershov came to terms with what his secret monstrosity was capable of—and the odd dichotomy of rage and tender emotion it felt when it came to the wolves he’d led for so long. The atrocious part of his nature he’d rejected for years brought with it the ugliness of destruction and the surprising attachment of feeling. Kershov wanted to toy with his soldiers until they were broken. He didn’t want to give them up. I don’t want to let go . . .

Except he had to. Only it wasn’t ever supposed to hurt this much . . .

An explosive bark detonated from Kershov’s lungs—his attempt to shake himself out of a violent downward spiral and focus on the matter at hand. Now was the time to test Pyreo’s suitability, not mourn a loss that had not yet occurred. “Abendrot will chew you up and spit you into a grave, imposter. What makes you think its wolves will welcome a King that detests the very structure of their lives?”