A moment suspended in the time between onslaught and impact rushed into Kershov’s pain-sharpened awareness as he closed in on Pyreo. The enemy of unfeeling limestone finally broke his impatient, impenetrable façade and faced Kershov with a fully taunting snarl, at the end of his rather short rope of patience. A quick needle-jab of triumph lanced Kershov’s chest at the expression—he’d finally managed to get a reaction from Pyreo. Never mind that it was only a bitter satisfaction, since the broken King was also aware that he’d only driven Pyreo to anger after throwing a stormy sort of tantrum; therefore, this tiny victory was no more important than that won by a frustrated child screaming for attention from its parent. I don’t care, the cold-blistered beast thought furiously. I got a reaction. I MADE him feel. And now he’ll feel THIS.

Bodies collided in a bone-jarring crash. Talons ripped into fur as Pyreo’s skull punched into the hollow at the base of Kershov’s neck, stunning nerves and cutting off a sudden breath. Shredding snarls. The hard clink of teeth as jaws slammed shut, scissoring the air. A ferocious exertion of twisting muscles and snapping tendons as the brutes shoved away from each other a second time—like magnets of the same charge, constantly repelled. The snow around them looked like a horrendous wound, its once pure white surface irrevocably scarred and trenched by their gauging claws.

Kershov hacked brutally, fighting to grab his air back through a bruised windpipe. His brain worked at a frightening speed, collecting information from every shrieking nerve and processing overall damage and still finding time to fire an acidic comment toward hateful Pyreo. “By ‘this,’ do you mean our pointless contest of strength?” Admitting their matched skills with such blatant openness meant something very dangerous for the frost-born Pharaoh: he knew that this was a war of attrition, yet enthusiastically flung himself into senseless violence nonetheless. The monster within was perfectly, viciously content with expending all the energy necessarily to destroy its opponent—even at the cost of its own existence. Why not? There was no glorious life purpose to uphold, no future for his pack, no future for himself . . . Much better to savor the delicious nectar of rage and blood and die with a defiant sneer etched forever into his suffering face. “I feel now that the only way your spine would ever hang from a branch would be if you let me rip it from your back. Since I cannot beat you and be done with it, what’s so wrong with our little game?” Yes, Kershov said “game,” though in his deepest core this was so much more serious, so viscerally important to him. The shattered Monarch realized he had very few options if he were to go to ground with what remained of his dignity . . . and burning himself out wasn’t one of those choices. He’d die an exhausted animal infected by madness. There was but one way he might still leave gracefully with pride held firmly between his teeth.

One thing seemed more or less clear to Kershov: Pyreo wasn’t interested in killing him unless it became absolutely necessary. The ashen knight could have easily punctured Ker’s throat when their frames smashed into one another—and instead he’d tackled the polar poltergeist head-on. It didn’t quite give Kershov hope, but it did at least lend the confidence to suggest a plan that had been tormenting the back of the Regal’s skull since he understood the finality of his inner sickness.

“We’re not friends, but I shall ask for a favor anyway.” Kershov’s mouth split into a complete smile, hauntingly handsome un-scarred side peeling back to reveal as many fangs as the shorn half of his muzzle. “I need to be assassinated. Cleanly. Secretly.”