For weeks and weeks and weeks Kershov had struggled within the dark waves of a looming madness. He felt his thoughts paddling frantically to stay above the surface, the effort of appearing normal so infinitely exhausting that most days the frigid czar wondered if it might not be worth the fight anymore. Maybe it would be easier to surrender . . . to allow the wretched demon caged in his breast to turn him inside out and take control. Let himself fall beneath the shaded waves. No more frustration. No more silent, angry suffering while being forced to stare at his inevitable demise. Kershov might even argue that giving in would actually make him safer to be around, since he’d no longer constantly teeter on the unpredictable edge between order and chaos. He’d be pure savagery, just the way Fate intended. Why exactly had Ker battled so hard against his own twisted nature?

The answer to that question surrounded him every waking moment: Abendrot.

Even glazed with waking nightmares Kershov’s single pitch-dark eye saw his territory, his kingdom, his reason for reining in those destructive desires. Everything he’d built here . . . he wanted to tear to pieces. Or save. Which was it, again? Kershov unleashed a thunderous growl, jaws snapping shut on the nearest branch. His teeth sawed into the naked wood and reduced it to useless splinters. He tasted blood slaking the insides of his gums. “DAMN IT ALL!” the alabaster Alpha roared. He whirled around to snap at something else, but he’d already decimated everything in this clearing. Broken wooden limbs littered the ground. And were those . . . vermin? Kershov paused to count several tiny corpses—rabbits, squirrels, birds—and began to chuckle to himself. None of their mangled little bodies had been fed from; he must have shredded their lives in another fit of boredom. “Damn,” Ker repeated, softer this time.

If it hadn’t been for a familiar howl, Kershov would have remained in that clearing for another hour, looping back into his quaint cycle of losing himself in a choking miasma of confusion. Grey Wind’s trusty voice jerked the warped King back into reality the way a life preserver rescues someone from drowning. That was another vital reason Ker hadn’t plunged completely into the void. As much as his insanity desired to raze everything he fought for to the ground, the polar ghost loved the wolves of his pack too completely to harm them.

And that terrified him. Never had Kershov ever entertained the notion of “love.” What the hell was happening to the frost-born Commander that he could find no other word to describe the dedication he felt toward his army?!

Before bewilderment claimed him again, Kershov launched into a ground-eating run toward the location of Grey Wind’s song. It hadn’t been an urgent howl demanding immediate backup, just a request for the Alpha’s presence—which usually meant a new recruit was sniffing around the border searching for a home. A odd pang hit Ker’s frozen heart as he ran. When was the last time fresh blood had come to Abendrot? It seemed like so long ago . . . the scents of all his soldiers seemed so very faded in the wind. Perhaps they had all realized the path their Emperor had taken, and fled for their lives.

It did not take long for the giant arctic gangster to arrive at Grey Wind’s position. Kershov’s lonely black orb instantly sliced toward the youngling waiting on the other side of the invisible fence, just opposite of where Grey Wind sat. The two wolves appeared to be sharing a private joke, unmistakable sadistic mirth brightening both their masks. Ker felt an icy prickle work its way up his spine as he watched the fox-colored pup. Something was not right with this one. There was a subtle maliciousness to the boy’s eyes, a telltale blankness in his expression that warned the Alpha that this was no normal child. Hmm. He should fit right in with the rest of the murderers then, shouldn’t he?

Ker parted his ruined jaws—one half of his face torn almost completely away and now nothing more than ragged scar tissue—and barked out a greeting to the potential little soldier. “Greetings, young one. I see you’ve already become acquainted with one of Abendrot’s finest gladiators. Submit like a good boy, and perhaps we won’t have to use your body as fertilizer.”