None of the wolves gathered beneath the endless blue sky were impulsive or stupid creatures; Kershov saw each of his pawns silently think about the question he posed, drawing on experience or plain logic to present the best answer. Obviously the Ice King had a few ideas of his own--but given his recent . . . recklessness, he preferred cross referencing what he thought of as viable with the uncompromised voices of Abendrot. The pack had resorted to kidnapping before in order to build its ranks, with mixed results. Certainly the forest had quaked in fear at the army's voracious audacity; fear spread like venom through veins at the thought that none were safe, that Abendrot was working toward an unspeakable act of battle. Their reputation as emissaries of darkness and death cemented itself in the minds of all. Ker couldn't ignore the repercussions of such conquest, however. Yes his military had expanded, yes they had forever erased even faint hopes that Abendrot was to be trifled with, yet childish fear had also barred the door to any simple negotiations the alabaster gangster tried to complete. He was forever conscious of the rightful mistrust others viewed him with, while simultaneously prepared to use that terrifying leverage to get his way.

A secretive grin pulled vaguely at the handsome half of Kershov's mutilated muzzle. What a lie it would be to say he didn't enjoy the volatile path he trod.

Some subalterns seemed to have reached a decision about their home's future--and had to hold their tongues as two more wolves entered the stage. The ivory warrior saw Marx's charred silver robes slither quietly into the array and--predictably--gravitate straight to Enigma's side. No word of greeting to his Rulers. No introduction to fellow packmates, other than a curt nod toward Sebastian and Grey Wind. Had this been any other soldier, Kershov would have made it a point to single him out and force and explanation of such tactless behavior--but this was Marx. Ker had punished the shadowy draco in the past to the point where most wolves would have begged for mercy or escape, and Marx had taken his beating without complaint. It was clear to the arctic Czar that Marx placed no dedication in Kershov himself, yet followed his orders just as diligently as any faithful fighter. Marx was Abendrot's servant, not Kershov's. That should have irritated the frost-born phantom, but when the grey ghost delivered anyway, there was no argument to demand any more.

Of course, steadfast loyalty aside, there was something Ker had to discuss with the Head Soldier. Namely his performance in tracking down Scarlet Nights . . . a private conversation for later.

This acknowledgement of Marx's subtle entrance happened in a the blink of an obsidian eye--for immediately Kershov focused on the new wolfess. The first thing his mind noted were her dark windows: those earthen eyes carried a telltale spark of intelligence: something necessary for Abendrot recruits. His pack wasn't a gang of empty-headed children chasing butterflies through meadows. She gave him a polite bow (always appreciated) and then . . . what was this?

Kershov's calculating onyx pool captured her slight-of-hand as she leaned in, but was not fast enough to see precisely what she'd done. He perked his ears forward, posture alert and tense with interest. The frigid Pharaoh was notorious for his subzero temper, his ruthless ambition and derision for all except his precious possessions; however, few outside Abendrot knew of his love for clever tricks, the simple pleasure he gleaned from brilliant minds. After all, the moonlit monster had not gained his power from unimaginative steps. A straight-forward thinking soldier was always valuable, but one who could invent their moves on the spot . . .

"Wonderful." Kershov said the word with the same charmed approval as a master complimenting their prized protégé. He delighted more in the painstaking precision and impressive creativity that went into capturing this gift than the gift itself--though outwardly it might seem as if his fathomless black-oil lantern was enamored with the tiny shimmering bundle of feathers still alive in the grass. For the first time since calling the meeting Ker stood up. He crept closer to inspect the stranger's gift, making sure to brush Scarlet Nights softly with his tail as he passed her. One curved talon reached out to brush the hummingbird's miniscule back. As if waking from a spell, the iridescent bird thrummed into the air and shot away.

A low chuckle rumbled briefly in Kershov's chest. "That was quite the entrance. I'll forgive your timing, if you formally introduce yourself to the pack."