Kershov listened to the pup’s ramblings with a distant, patient expression, the vaguest flick at the end of his tail the only signal that he found her somewhat amusing. Disparities between the ways others chose to raise their young had always interested the tundra Czar, as many useless things did; where he could not imagine letting a pup so much as open their mouth in the presence of a high-ranked adult, here Summer allowed this sooty ball of fluff to spew words into the air as if she were a uncontrollable geyser. What drove parents to mold their children in such a way? What values and morals had been drilled into this talkative girl’s skull? Sadly, these were questions for another day—when Kershov had the time and the desire to ponder them. No sooner had the tiny lass finished yammering did the white warrior turn his obsidian stare back toward Summer. At the other King’s gentle—if not indirectly flattering—response, Abendrot’s Alpha couldn’t stop an infinitesimal smirk from tugging at the un-shredded half of his maw. “I feel that I’ll have to start looking under rocks, in case I find another one of your bloodline running around,” he rumbled, tilting his head to glance back at Nzingha. “If the girl sticks around a little longer, we have plenty of other warriors with decorations she might enjoy . . .”

The arrival of Grey Wind came as no surprise to the alabaster gangster, yet a noticeable air of comfort settled itself along the Emperor’s shoulders once the silver soldier took his place. Along with Halina, Grey stood out as one of Abendrot’s more reliable members; rare were the moments in which the taciturn fighter was absent from emergencies or simple pack tasks. Having Grey Wind nearby gave Kershov the same confidence he might feel if he were wielding a devastating weapon—with a word, blood would stain the earth, and Abendrot’s safety would be secured by nothing more than the iron brute’s ferocious loyalty. Part of the Alpha wanted to question the feminine scent woven into Grey’s usual cologne . . . but Kershov knew he would discover this untold secret soon enough. He trusted his subaltern enough to realize that whatever—or whomever—it was posed no immediate threat to his pack if they were connected to Grey.

All musings over the mysterious source of Grey Wind’s altered scent evaporated the instant Summer opened his maw again. An abrupt hardness froze the liquid black of Kershov’s lonesome eye as it speared toward the other Monarch, slicing over Summer’s expression and trying to detect a lie. All Ker could find was sadness: heavy with regret, but tempered by the Regal’s pride. He hadn’t come here to complain or ask for help; Summer had already accepted his pack’s fate and merely wished to be the first to bring the news, rather than allow the rumor mill to construct tales that might injure his reputation.

“Why are you telling me this?” The emotionless question hissed from between Kershov’s teeth like a wisp of frost. “What do you hope to gain by exposing your pack’s weakness, and throwing away the crown?” Perhaps Summer’s motives were pure—but Ker had not survived as long as he had by trusting others. The disassembly of Bright Moon seemed too good to be true. Had bears honestly taken over the territory? Was this all a trap to lure Abendrot into an ambush? The winter dragon’s pack was not known for hospitality, so Summer could not expect Kershov to welcome him in with open paws . . . but then again, since the beginning of his reign, relations between Abendrot and Bright Moon had been tolerable. He had no reason to aggressively turn Summer away . . . not that the other Alpha was asking to join. What was this madness?

“Apologies for my bluntness, Summer,” Kershov continued, his frigid lyrics suggesting he wasn’t sorry at all, “but this sudden information has caught me rather off guard.”