Given Bright Moon’s mostly gentle history, Kershov did not expect to see any of the other pack’s soldiers soon unless he called for them. This wasn’t Abendrot, where gladiators lie in constant wait of battle. Nobody expected them here. There was no reason to speed forth and lash out at the alabaster gangster and his silver bodyguard. Still, the camp’s borders were well patrolled, obviously; as he stood, talons rooted in the earth, the massive arctic monster entertained himself by trying to dissect the intricate fretwork of the different colognes that formed Bright Moon’s invisible wall. Each scent seemed fresh—and there were many reoccurring patterns which told Ker that at least a few of this kingdom’s subjects made their rounds regularly. A faint blip of respect pinned itself at the back of the ivory warrior’s mind, like a tiny hastily scribbled note at the corner of a massive world map. Whoever this new King was, he clearly knew how to run his pack . . . or, at least, his wolves liked him enough to take care of their territory without him ordering them to.

The frustratingly tangled bundle of angry confusion at the center of Kershov’s mind loosened a bit. His thoughts stretched as far as they could as his stance relaxed, a clearer gleam gracing his lonely onyx orb. Perhaps dreams of war were premature. As much as picking a fight would invigorate his blood—and entice the teeth of his warriors—enough of Kershov’s steely reason remained to tell him an alliance wasn’t out of the question. I can’t believe I’m here, the Czar silently chuckled to himself. What the hell am I doing?

Vocal chords tensed as Kershov prepared to howl. Pale hackles lifted ever so slightly along tense shoulders. Might as well present himself as the hellish war-demon his reputation painted him as . . .

A staccato rustle of crackling underbrush snagged Kershov’s attention as if he’d been yanked by a noose. Muzzle followed ears as they swiveled toward the sound of a lone she-wolf shuffling her way over a rich woodland carpet of pine needles and slim twigs. “There we are . . .” Bright Moon’s signature was written all over her angelic white gown. Apparently she was returning from a hunt, judging by the freshly killed rabbit swinging from her prim jaws. Satisfied to have finally found a pack member, Ker placed a charming grin upon the handsome half of his ruined features, a greeting forming itself on his silver tongue—

Only to shatter the moment the damsel screamed. It speared Kershov’s madness-tender brain like a red-hot sword. A ferocious snarl instinctively tightened the torn bridge of his snout, indignant rage swirling like a blizzard in his chest, ready to charge forward and punish this ignorant wench for daring to react to his relatively peaceful presence in such a manner. How damn typical of a Bright Moon wolf—as soon as they smelled Abendrot, they broke down in hysteria.

Miraculously, the bone-colored beast remained frozen in place when the pearly princess took off into the safety of her home. It took a valiant effort for Kershov to erase the savage emotion from his palette. By the time another wolf arrived on the scene, he had restored his previous edgy and unreadable aura, tail arched over his spine.

“I understand: we do tend to startle some wolves. Grey Wind and I will wait for your Alpha.” Cold, quipped, precise: a master chef deftly slicing paper-thin fillets off the hunk of meat that was this awkward situation. The unknown male had smoothed over the rickety situation more than he could possibly understand; Kershov had always appreciated the decorum of manners and respect, since usually only intelligent wolves were capable of drawing out the charade. It was like a balm to the open wound the maiden had cleaved with her unwarranted fear. And Summer, was it? Hopefully this new King came soon. The more soldiers pouring from the woodwork, the more Ker could create an idea of just how Bright Moon had evolved.

Hmm . . . this is him? Another churning of underbrush and a punch of aggressive cologne on the air—and Bright Moon’s reigning Regal marched into the array. Kershov noticed how the dominant male consciously relaxed his posture once he realized that no one was laying siege to his territory. My, my, but everyone was in a delicate mood. Not that Kershov could say anything, though. Had he heard one of his wolves cry out in pain or fear, he would have sprinted toward the sound of their voice with murder in his stare and torment in his claws, desiring nothing but to destroy those that harmed his own. At last the knot bunched in Ker’s skull loosened completely. He could understand every action of the Bright Moon subalterns because they weren’t so different from those Abendrot wolves would take—excepting the shriek from the girl. Abendrot wolves didn’t “shriek.”

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, King Summer. Your pack clearly knows how to take care of itself.” The last part was remarked dryly but not without respect; Kershov would never intentionally insult a fellow Monarch unless he had a specific plot in mind. “I merely wanted to talk, and see how Abendrot’s neighbor was faring. Perhaps you already know, but our two territories have had a . . . slightly tumultuous history.” Then again, maybe Summer had no idea about Bright Moon and Abendrot’s previous antagonism. Ker did not recognize anyone here. He guessed that all those who were directly involved with that mythical drama were long gone.

He wished to branch out with a tentative suggestion of alliance—until Summer’s focus wavered and suddenly pinned itself to Grey Wind. Kershov followed the silvery titan’s gaze, inwardly wondering what Grey had done to merit such attention. He only looked back to Summer when the other King crept closer, his facial features open with disbelief and a pained, hesitant hope. “Your brother is one of the finest soldiers in the army,” Ker replied without missing a beat, more interested now in Summer’s reaction to Grey Wind than any talk of war or peace.