They’d developed a code, a song unique to their purpose so that commander and pawn might recognize each other the moment their signal appeared in the radar. What others might hear as a meaningless burst of notes registered in Kershov’s mind as a haunting call firing out from the past. Foolproof. Instantly he froze, powerful body paused upright with steely forelimbs extended and talons buried in the tender bark of a young tree. The ice-white hairs on the nape of his neck bristled, as if sensing an electric presence. Ears stood at attention atop the Regal’s crown, though the staccato howl had since finished echoing. So it will be harder to track, Kershov thought absently, a vague pall of déjà-vu briefly settling over his brain. The shorter the resonance, the longer you have to escape should an enemy try to locate you . . .

And he ran.

When Kershov had laid eye on Kenshin at the border of Saw Tooth so many months ago, he’d been content to allow the bindle warrior his own chance at a home. After all, the frozen Czar had a new pack to attend to—an army to rival the ruthless gang he had assembled on the tundra—and plenty of local assassins to carry out his will. Too many moons had passed for his ex-puppet to have any useful information for Moth. Ker firmly believed he had nothing to fear from the night-striped soldier acting on his own. In all honesty, the moonlit monster had slowly forgotten his once prized killer beneath that feverish period of starved madness . . . but hearing those loud clipped howls in the sky sparked Kershov’s instincts like flint to tinder. Kenshin would not contact him in this manner unless it was fatally important. Though the white wendigo could not even guess what urgency brought the lonesome mercenary to his doorstep, he dare not ignore him. Clods of damp earth flew behind Ker as he sprinted. He obliterated the twigs and bushes woven tightly about Abendrot’s halls, forging the fastest path possible. Soon Kershov’s immaculate alabaster robes were streaked with muddy war paint. What have you brought me this time, dog?

Though the glacial gladiator’s pace devoured ground, his expansive kingdom allotted plenty of time for snapshot reverie. His mind dove into dusty memories, digging through all that had been before he stumbled bloody and berserk into a sickeningly peaceful land called Blossom. Back when “pack” was a polite word for battle-gang. Back when he’d reaped loyalty with the sharpness of his fangs. Kershov could never promise safety, because safety was such a fragile and relative term when imprisoned in the ravenous clutches of a thriving warzone. Too many times his empty black gaze had fallen on a broken pawn he’d failed to protect. But despite the random losses, the sudden vicious ambushes, the raids and the bitter standoffs, soldiers continued to seek out and remain under Kershov’s law—because while he had no ultimate control over their security there was something far more satisfying and realistic he ensured: revenge. It served as the only comfort a dying outlaw grasped . . . the absolute cold certainty that whomever had caused his demise would soon face retribution of legendary cruelty.

Kershov always repaid those who dare damage his hard-won property. Always.

Of course, such omnipresent justice required use of resources outside of the winter dragon’s immediate ranks. Mercenaries provided a convenient service when one wanted to stay anonymous. Throughout his reign Ker had called upon skilled assassins and desperate untrained curs alike. Their teeth were like bullets: deadly and disposable. Effective. Always more available to take their place. However . . . one exception stood head and shoulders above the rest of his gore-baptized brethren. A varg that not only stepped willingly into the shadow of Death, but wrapped that darkness around himself like a vigilante cape, curled inside of it like a snake in its egg. Kenshin. The sable scythe whose talent Kershov used over and over again, until the pitiless Emperor decided to “keep” the stray mutt rather than sending him to his permanent doom. Ker still remembered the scars he’d given Ken and the occasions that had merited them. This one is for a job well done. This one is to make you think twice about betraying me. Steadfast, empty Kenshin: the dog who would still choose to lie at his master’s side after a brutal beating and accept sustenance from the same hand that had struck him.

“Marx. Grey Wind.” The pallid poltergeist briefly acknowledged his two Head Soldiers the moment he peeled his ghostly form out of the forest’s gloom—but it was clear he was entirely focused on the mottled cur standing opposite the border. The colossal Alpha had eyes and ears and teeth only for Kenshin and the present he’d brought. And oh . . . what a lovely gift.

Kershov had expected Kenshin to have some sort of groundbreaking news, but he had not anticipated this. In half a heartbeat Ker’s singular bottomless black pool sliced from Ken’s impassive face toward the small battered bundle imprisoned betwixt his limbs. Rage and triumph splashed against one another in the Ice King’s guts: corroding bleach and celebratory champagne. Every last snow-shard hackle spiked to full height along Kershov’s neck and shoulders and spine. The coldly handsome half of the death-white monster’s frigid visage abruptly broke into a horrifying grin—completing the scar-slashed serrated forever-grin etched into the right side of his muzzle.

“Why, Princess Kobato!” cried the King, lyrics as joyful as someone greeting a dear friend and yet filled with such frost the air seemed to congeal around him. “How wonderful it is to finally see you again.”