Spring was a sneaky, stealthy thing; it stole upon the forest so slowly and silently that living creatures barely registered the change until it was too obvious to ignore. For the past moon Kershov had tracked the steadily growing scent of green as it choked out winter’s gloomy crispness. The soil, which had been stiff under his paws with permafrost and crackling with brittle twigs, gradually softened . . . and soon the pads of his toes walked on springy new moss. Sunlight, once stark and pale when it had the chance to slice through an overcast sky, melted into bright gold. Kershov’s lone onyx eye captured a ray and held it as he surveyed the river that formed one of his kingdom’s borders. Even the water sounded warmer; the alabaster Alpha could tell its temperature was rising just by the smoother burble of its current.

Wolves were warm-blooded animals, but experience had taught Kershov that their actions heated up with the seasons. Winter made hunters careful and sometimes recklessly cruel—yet now that the days were becoming more benevolent, outsiders would turn their attention to something other than finding food. The other packs would be better fed, stronger, more restless. That might not mean much for the easy-going bands of Spring Grounds and Bright Moon—and honestly, Ker could care less about them. It was his fiercer neighbors like Malignant and Andere and Munashii that tempted his hackles to rise. Abendrot’s military had been feared ever since the massive white warrior had claimed it all those years ago. Kershov intended to keep it that way. Unfortunately, luck favors the prepared—and Ker felt the slack discipline of his army like an ache in his joints.

The paranoia that gnawed on his thoughts whispered prophesied doom. Where have all the soldiers gone? Who will be guarding the gate when someone decides it’s time to decimate Abendrot?

A growl threaded through Kershov’s throat, mimicking the low rumble of the giant river as it carved its way through the earth. He suddenly pivoted away from his vantage point—digging into the ground so forcefully he ripped up clods of dirt—and charged toward the center of his territory. He’d held most of his meetings there, where Abendrot’s heart protected his words from the listening ears of trespassers. A hill rose up from a wide swath of sparsely-treed meadow, flattening into something of a plateau at the top. Here was where the great bone-colored brute finally skidded to a stop. Early morning sunlight transformed his sleek pallid pelt into a glossy suit of ivory armor—and simultaneously etched out in gruesome detail the ravage of his face, muzzle torn away into a permanent grin that held no humor. Kershov rarely felt like joking.

And right now? What could be more serious than the continued existence of his pack?

“ABENDROT, REPORT!” The arctic gangster barked out the command at the top of his lungs before throwing his cranium back and unleashing a howl strong enough to slam the clouds.