On the rare days when he felt the tumultuous movement of his madness relax into a calmer current, Kershov liked to seek out the small plateau at Abendrot's center and unwind. Scent and sound coalesced here, flowing in a natural rhythm around the grassy flattened hill; the pallid Alpha could essentially grab a quick report of everything going on in his territory from this very spot. After all, this area stood higher than most: what Ker could not see with his single onyx eye he could just as easily hear over the naked, rustling treetops, or scent on a breeze as it flew over the forest. He felt connected to his kingdom . . . perhaps more so than when he was stalking through the deeper parts of the woods or traveling a trail recently marked by one of his soldiers. Perhaps that wasn't so surprising; this was the hub, after all. The heart of Abendrot. Even if enemies somehow breached their walls, the army could still retreat to this place and make their last stand from higher ground, teeth flashing as they turned the tide.

Thinking of battle, Kershov shut his lonely portal dreamily. His secret inner beast rumbled a little thirstily, but today was a good day, a calm day, so the Ice King easily shoved that part of him beneath a stone slab of self-control. Was he improving? Lately his sanity seemed like such a delicate thing, the barest thread keeping back a destructive monster--but the spells of rage that threatened to topple him appeared to have lessened in the past few days. A lazy grin curved the handsome half of the winter dragon's maw. He probably owed this peace of mind to his little art projects. As grotesque and wrong as they were, as terribly sick and absolutely unconventional for a sane wolf, Kerhov's gory crafts helped tame him. Every skin he ripped off a rabbit was one he did not remove from his own precious soldiers. I'm getting better, the frost-born Pharaoh mused to himself. Every sun that passes, I improve . . .

Then it jabbed him like a needle in his palate: the scent of blood.

Immediately the serenity keeping Kershov's thoughts placid shattered--because no sooner did he catch the faint taste of blood on the wind than he recognized to whom it belonged. Halina. He'd been reclining on his belly; now the massive arctic monster jumped to all four paws, his ivory pelt bristling with anger and the brittle winter air. Giant snow-shoe paws carried Ker from the plateau into the forest halls below. He inhaled deeply, desperate to reach his female soldier as soon as possible. Ever since his imprisoned demon had broken through its shackles--no, ever since Scarlet Nights had returned home broken and battered--Kershov had felt his possessiveness over his wolves multiply exponentially. The thought of them harmed by anyone other than HIM made him violently furious. Who DARED make Halina bleed?!

The grey sky above held no promise of a storm, but all Kershov heard was thunder as he shouldered through tangled leaf-less undergrowth. At last the bone-colored beast met up with Halina . . . and the bastard she was dragging with her.

"Who is this?" the glacial Emperor demanded. He glared down at the unconscious form of a grey male, noticing with a stab of anger the red that stained his muzzle. Just as quickly, Kershov moved his stare toward Halina's dark silhouette, instantly finding the source of the blood-scent. "How bad is it? Fractured?" Clearly she could walk and was far from crippled; Ker merely asked so he'd know just how badly to torture this ignorant brute. "I'm glad you brought him in, Halina. Wouldn't want any innocent passers-by to witness what Abendrot does to those who harm it."