Pyreo’s scathing jibe thrust through the cold-crystallized air and plunged into Kershov’s chest, a jagged blade of incomprehensible rage and mortal insult slicing the King in twain. For a second the arctic dragon was imprisoned in the clutches of vertigo; the world lurched beneath his steady paws and swung completely out of focus, a breathless desire to MURDER claiming Kershov’s flimsy shred of sanity with such violence he thought it might burst past his skin. Abendrot’s cool-headed Czar would have narrowed his eyes at the none-too-subtle and frankly uncouth statement spat from Pyreo’s smirking mouth, annoyed but otherwise refusing to be affected by such petty foul play; however, Ker’s monstrosity, a thing that felt everything as if there were needles stabbed into its nerves, reacted atomically, so filled with passion that for a moment it shut down everything else. Teeth ground against each other—knives scraping blades. Lungs barely expanded in an anger-tightened chest. A single obsidian mirror watched Pyreo’s delicate movements with unrelenting attention, analyzing each step down to the centimeter. If I spring now, I could shatter a foreleg. If I lunge there, his jugular will burst on my tongue. And above it all, reason and self-control screamed in panic. Getting quieter as Kershov stood there. Losing.

The bone-colored beast did not answer Pyreo’s last question right away. Instead, he ground his talons into the snow—his anchor, his grave—and smoothed the snarl from his demonic visage. A subzero emotionless expression replaced it . . . possibly more fatal than the starving grimace had been. “First of all, never insult my mate,” the frost-born Pharaoh hissed. “And secondly . . . ‘reverence’? I know not of what you speak. Do you mean to say that you’ve discovered a divine purpose beyond simply surviving? Or are you insinuating that myself—or my PACK—has been frolicking about without meaning and wasting time?”

Again the arrow twisting in his arteries. The notion that someone wanted his kingdom because Abendrot was being squandered, and everything Kershov had done to build it from NOTHING was meaningless. “It’s NOT TRUE.” Kershov shouted the statement with all the vehemence and passion he possessed, jaws splitting wide to roar out the words he would have otherwise kept to himself. He was a crumbling crown and he wanted to be remembered for his majesty—his ACCOMPLISHMENTS—instead of this seething wreck and ruin. Suddenly the massive polar poltergeist was stalking forward. His hateful black glare never wavered from Pyreo’s disappointed face. “YOU ARE NOT MY EQUAL. I AM NOT YOUR INFERIOR. I’LL PAINT MY BORDERS WITH YOUR BLOOD BEFORE I LOSE TO YOU!”

Self-control failed. Kershov charged.

The mountains shook with the sound of his supernatural screech; it rang blood-chillingly loud against ice-sheeted cliffs and down shivering snow-pooled valleys. Diamond dust fanned out in shimmering clouds too bright to look at from the frost kicked up by Ker’s paws as he flew at his opponent, maw parted shark-wide and hungry for death. The leviathan did not aim—it simply struck, hoping for any grip on flesh or any kind of retaliation from the enemy. Then daggers slammed shut—on fur or on air—and Kershov darted away to reposition himself for yet another assault, his claws shredding into the ground like someone carving ice with a pickax.

True, he did not see Pyreo as his equal. Pyreo was too different. Too other. Besides, Kershov did not need his equal to take his place—he just needed an heir.