Kershov had expected sarcasm, and he wasn’t disappointed. “Good”? “Noble”? Even as his enemy jeered out those words, Ker knew Py didn’t actually believe that this was the polar monster’s intent. Goodness hadn’t been alive in Kershov’s soul long enough for it to make a significant impact on his eventually frostbitten character, and as for nobility . . . that was just another useless trait, a mythical idea that did not exist in the cutthroat world of the arctic tundra. Had the ruined Regal possessed his full capacity for cold dignity and wintry aloofness, he might have found Pyreo’s disrespectful default personality flaw as irritating as a broken record, consistent arrogance wearing away at profound predatory patience until the Ice King finally decided to either end the conversation and leave or yank out that putrid tongue. Luckily for mocking, coarse-mannered Pyreo, Ker would do neither of those things. He’d made his request. Every pointlessly scornful remark from the smoke-born brute would fall on deaf ears until Kershov got the answer he craved.

Finally, Pyreo deigned to reply . . .

And he denied him—with the same treacherously teasing tone Kershov had used countless times before while promising torture victims release only to snap their necks a second later.

The jaunty devil’s smile dropped from Kershov’s maw and shattered at the ice between his forepaws. A blank expression of horrified disbelief froze his features before thawing into something torn between rage and grief, single obsidian-glass window furiously bright with an intensity of emotion Ker had not experienced since his soldier Vladya was stolen. He did not feel his heart as it slammed panic-stricken against his frigid ribs. He did not feel the splinters of ice crack between his talons and slice into the delicate webbing of his toes, tempting tiny rubies to stain frosty white. He felt nothing other than this anger, this hopelessness, his last chance to orchestrate a final act of pride before slinking away to rot in peace. If Kershov had to end himself without Pyreo’s help, he would—there were plenty of sheer cliffs sliced into these heartless mountains, plenty of sharp rocks that could break a wolf’s bones and snap his body like teeth snap bone. But that would mean bitterly disappointing his army . . . and Kershov knew their own pride would not survive if their fearless leader snuffed out his warmth-less light like a coward.

Abendrot needed its fury, its bold respect. Kershov wanted to erase himself to escape his sickness, yes, but the method he desired was far from selfish. Why couldn’t Pyreo see that?! A suicidal king would shame those warriors, but an assassinated one . . . well, their fury would be stirred. They’d be starving for a worthy leader to help them grow strong again in order to avenge their fallen Commander. Their snarls would echo of the unfair demise of their brave Ice King while their eyes faced forward, determined to better themselves and never allow such a tragedy to darken Abendrot again. But killing himself . . . they would see the act for the weakness it was. They’d wonder why they hadn’t been good enough to please their king. And worse—they’d hate him, and perhaps permanently lose faith in everything Kershov had come to represent. “You rob me of my death,” Kershov growled ferociously. It was a seismic sound that reverberated violently in his throat and shook his words like a great structure about to collapse. “I have nothing to thank you for.”

As Pyreo fell silent, Ker began stalking forward, his growl plummeting to impossibly lower depths until it was more of a sensation than a sound, wrath moving in his subzero blood. Fine. He did not need this smirking creature of ashes—Py was simply the most immediate and convenient method of demise Kershov could think of. Let them battle it out until there was nothing left. Or let Kershov eat out that sarcastic throat and find the next fool in line, waiting for a crown.

Then, just as Kershov had resolved himself to destruction, Pyreo turned his attitude about. The alabaster dragon paused at the grudging sincerity lacing Py’s gruff voice. A small, throbbing pain nudged at the dead lump of Kershov’s heart. With a sickened jolt he understood it was “hope.”

“I know what you want,” the broken Pharaoh hissed. He’d known the first time he’d heard Pyreo’s jealous howl echo challengingly over Abendrot. “I gave you my request with the full understanding that you’d attempt to take it as soon as I was out of the way. Do you honestly think I’m that ignorant?” An infinitesimally small grin tipped Kershov’s savage mouth. “Or . . . maybe you were waiting for my permission? My blessing?” Quiet laughter rolled from Ker’s bristling throat. He crushed it swiftly, wary in case Pyreo should suddenly change his mind about his oh-so generous compliance. “I cannot promise you that others won’t step up to take what I’ll leave behind. I’m sure there are more just like you slavering after that territory . . . but if this carries out, that will be your problem, not mine. Fair?”