Beautiful feathers, antlers, bones, and beaks . . .

Abendrot warriors were free to wander anywhere in the territory they chose—it was their rightful home, after all, and every wolf here had earned the right to traverse it freely and without fear of reproach. They were even free to leave, provided they came back. Kershov’s wolves always came back. To exit the barracks for too long without explicit permission from their Alpha implied desertion . . . and the only soldiers foolish enough to turn their backs on their duties knew what awaited them should they dare return to Kershov’s clutch in hopes of safety or forgiveness. In the arctic outlaw’s eyes, abandoning one’s pack was the greatest and only true sin one could commit. Death ruled as treachery’s supreme punishment. That seemed “fair,” right? As fair as anything in a world that spat upon the notion of joy and pain ever being equals. If Kershov granted wolves the freedom and protection of his kingdom, the least these wolves could do was be unwaveringly faithful.

Dried blood. Rotting hide, stretched taut.

Yes . . . the only balance in the world was that one crafted for themselves. And thanks to his recent streak of—gracious, how to put this delicately—instability, Kershov had been rather desperate to restore the scales. He’d taken his unfettered rage out on lone nobodies out in the freelands. He’d swallowed down destructive impulses so hard he nearly choked. And for a time, the cracked Ice King had taken to a little hobby he demurely referred to as “decorating.” It involved taking different animals (usually rabbits and birds, though a deer or three had been jumbled into the mix) and shredding them until they turned into something else. Sometimes that simply meant rending the skin from a carcass and draping it over a bush for an unwelcome visitor to see on the border. Other times it meant something more complicated, more creative, and these various works of wild art were hidden cleverly throughout the territory.

Any proud Abendrot soldier was free to wander wherever they chose. But some parts of this shadow-painted castle were so cloaked in darkness that they naturally avoided them. Kershov had marked his little “studios” diligently; so far, no one had been so uncouth as to intrude in a space their King obviously considered private—it would be like tramping uninvited into his den. Thank the nonexistent gods for their unwitting manners. As Ker’s bottomless black eye wandered over the unholy silhouette of his latest masterpiece, he consciously shut down the thought of anyone stumbling in. The gory bowl of a stag’s rib cage, stuffed with countless broken wings. What an awkward explanation this would require . . .

As if to mock the deeply musing phantom, a rustling disturbed the otherwise silent morning air. Immediately Kershov’s senses were armed, hackles quivering and ears snapping toward the source of the subtle noise. He dashed away from his thickly cloaked studio, surprised to discover the scent of Verity so close. Her pups had made an appearance at the pack meeting; though Ker had hoped to lay eyes on their mother again, the once cheerful fae had declined to make an appearance. Poor, darling Verity. Not enough blood could be spilled in this lifetime to undo the wrong committed to her.

Unwilling to leave the haunted wolfess alone, Kershov followed her trail, stopping a few body-lengths behind once his lonesome lantern caught sight of her ivory pelt. Alert energy still quivered in his veins at the possibility of someone skirting by the edges of his hidden projects, but the glacial gladiator stifled it. His voice was soft as falling snow as he called out to her.

“How wonderful to cross paths again, Madame Verity. I hope you’ll be staying with us longer, this time.”