Another cold prickle skittered beneath Kershov’s fur as he observed the young flame-colored boy. Most children shrank away from the Alpha’s ruined gaze, their innocent minds unable to comprehend why a wolf would look so battered. Not this lad. He seemed . . . darkly fascinated by Ker’s war marks, yet simultaneously aware that voicing that interest would end badly. What a cunning little puppy. Give him a few years, some intense training, and this blank-souled creature could become one of the deadliest hunters in the country. Nothing struck fear into gentler souls than something fearless and without a single shred of mercy.

Ah, but Kershov was getting ahead of himself, wasn’t he? First the arctic King needed to see whether or not the dead-eyed wolfling knew how to obey orders—for as useful as the boy could be for Abendrot, he’d be nothing more than a dangerous nuisance without some inkling of respect. Ker’s single frigid black eye narrowed as a serious expression moved the feature’s of the pup’s face. Eventually he grasped at some invisible thought, lean body crouching toward the earth and tail slithering between his hind legs in a show of deference. A dry, cool grin completed the permanent half-smile marring Kershov’s face. “Very good,” the pallid Czar murmured. Though the lad apparently lacked any form of true submissive instinct, he at least understood on an intellectual level what was expected of him whilst in the presence of his Commander. “Stand up. Give me your title, and consider yourself part of Abendrot’s army. I am Kershov, ruler of these lands. Keep your muzzle in line, and I’m sure you’ll do excellently here.”