Abendrot had never been a particularly "outgoing" pack.

Soldiers, burdened by duty and charged with undying loyalty to their King, did not waste time with idle conversation. Their movements through the territory were methodical, discreet, and often it would be impossible to tell by insiders whether or not Abendrot was deserted or silently preparing for war. It was a quiet kingdom . . . but never peaceful. Indeed, Kershov's military base always felt like a dangerous creature holding its breath and crouched for imminent attack. Walking its shaded halls, the Ice King sensed rather than saw the inner workings of those he called his own. That was fine. That was normal. He knew gladiators lived by the silent energy they armed their barracks with, and that was enough for their Ruler.

However, today the woods were hushed with something other than Abendrot's usual predatory focus. Kershov, who sat on an outcropping of rock overlooking the southern side of his territory, could not make his spiked hackles lay flat. A barely smothered ring of alarm sounded at the back of his already weary brain. His pack was quiet, and not because its factions were busy carrying out their individual tasks. No . . . this was a deadness. Ker's powerful cologne laced his borders just as strongly as before, yet the absence of the intermingling musks of many others seemed glaringly obvious to the frost phantom's nares. An entire castle, as beautiful and intimidating as before--and utterly empty of its subjects.

The flesh beneath Kershov's quivering pelt crawled with unease. He'd gone out of his way to steal a toy and keep his ugly inner devil occupied, and what was the point? The wolves he so dearly wanted to protect appeared to have abandoned their posts anyway.

A loud, savage roar suddenly erupted from the Kind's jaws. He leapt to his paws, straining over the edge of his throne. He called the only mercenary whose scent still threaded fresh and strong down Abendrot's hidden paths: Grey Wind.

No sooner had the dedicated soldier's title left his lips than Kershov was running, unfaltering limbs charging full speed down the configuration of stone toward the border that faced Bright Moon. Defeat and uncertainty had shackled the pallid monster when he last spoke to his trusted Beta Enigma--but those pitiful emotions showed no signs they'd ever touched Kershov as he moved, tail raised high as a battle flag and singular onyx eye glittering with vicious purpose. Why was it that Abendrot's fate always looped back around to Bright Moon? The two packs had shared in a turbulent affair between alliances and mutual hatred for as long as Kershov had risen as Alpha. At a loss for how to inspire life in his army again, Kershov supposed the best thing was to throw himself into relations with the mysterious other pack once more.

Either they'd emerge great friends and prosper . . . or Kershov would leave their border today with a war declaration in his teeth. All for the sake of shaking his soldiers awake and giving them something do do--because a military had no purpose in peace.

Kershov never paused to check if Grey Wind was with him: he simply knew. Only when the pair stood before Bright Moon's gates did the heavily panting Czar glance over at the other male and open his maw to speak.

"Have I promoted you yet? You should be Gamma, by now." The words were blunt, clipped, direct, completely obscuring the very real miasma of blind confusion that threatened to creep up on Kershov's vulnerable brain. With a squeeze of self-anger, the frigid Emperor remembered the last time he and Grey had shared a true conversation. Much had changed since the silver soldier had gone on a light spying mission to Bright Moon . . . one only needed to breathe the air and notice the new Alpha's signature to realize that. "Let's see what fun we can have with our neighboring pack, Gamma Grey Wind."