Kershov frowned at his latest work in progress, the expression darkening his already foreboding visage. "Still not right . . ." He uttered the words calmly, coolly, but he was restraining a shadowy growl with all his might. What was he doing wrong? How else could he approach the problem at hand? The frost-breathing dragon licked the ravaged side of his maw absently. He narrowed his lonely remaining obsidian orb as if simply looking harder would force an answer to appear. Alas . . . the rabbit skin stretched across the naked branches of a fallen tree remained as inert and uninspiring as ever.

With a long-suffering and drawn-out sigh, Ker lifted a forepaw and rested it gently on the taut pelt, testing the tension. It had dried in exactly the shape he wanted; still somewhat rabbit-like, yet also warped into something else, something disturbing to the gaze and haunting to the mind. Empty eye sockets. The flesh of its belly and back stretched out so far it was almost impossible to believe this thing once clothed a hare. It had taken a few hard hours for the savage Czar to cleave those last traces of meat and fat from the pelt, and nearly half a day to figure out a way to hang it on the reaching bony branches of the tree. That accomplishment alone should have pleased him. But Kershov was not himself lately--hadn't been ever since Scarlet Nights' defeat in battle--and now he could find no joy in even a work of art such as this. The problem remained of how to preserve this skin. Unlike bone, it would decompose and wither away to nothing in less than a month. There had to be a way to keep his growing fur collection from abandoning him so soon . . .

Just as there had to be a way to replicate this process on a wolf pelt.

Another thunderous rumble built up in the monster's breast--but he crushed it and ordered himself to move away from his project. At this point he could think of nothing; he was only glad that this decision to move his thoughts elsewhere had come at all. Sometimes that inner beast, the one that tortured him daily and bayed for destruction, made Kershov obsess over things for far too long. Better not waste any time. The ivory warrior needed to clear his head--and what better way than to do that than remark his borders? That was another pastime Ker occasionally found himself repeating over . . . and over . . . and over, until he realized it was time to stop and move onto a different task. He didn't expect to find anything different about Abendrot's walls on this particular run. What could have possibly changed in less than twenty-four hours?

How wrong he was. A heart-wrenchingly familiar scent greeted him as soon as Kershov was close enough to the eastern side. Enigma. Ker hadn't laid eyes on his mysterious General for quite some time now. Her perfume stuck to the borders like a tattoo; he'd noticed it during each patrol and never quite got over it. He assumed she'd cut her losses and marched toward a better life--for someone as perceptive as she, Kershov wouldn't be surprised if Enigma instantly noticed his off-kilter mindset and thought him a disgrace. Why did her scent have to torment him? Was she that much a part of this kingdom that her ghost roamed these halls? Kershov was content to ignore the seemingly fresh signature--it had to be a lie, just like every other lie his treacherous mind told. Enigma wasn't here. Not here. Not here. Not here.

"Enigma?" Kershov barked out her name before he could stop himself. His voice carried a note of genuine surprise and a deep, underlying current of pain. This couldn't be--but yes, there was her snow-white pelt, her smoky mask, right there in the distance. She wasn't making an effort to hide herself. It was Abendrot's Beta, in the flesh.

Massive snowshoe paws flew over the cold winter ground. Ker skidded to a stop yards away from the edge of the fence, alabaster hackles spiked in surprise. "Tell me you're actually there, Madame Enigma," commanded the frigid Pharaoh. "Otherwise I'll have to assume my eyes are deceiving me."