Kershov had hoped the terrible, maddening pressure pulsing in his skull would ease the farther he ran from Abendrot, as if his madness were a thunderstorm that swallowed him from the outside rather than devouring him from the inside. And for a few strides, at least, the shattered king had experienced a surreal sort of weightlessness. He expected his responsibilities to clutch at his joints like chains, and yet the steady churn of his limbs as he flew over the terra felt free and uninhibited. He sliced ghostlike through the forest. No shackles to hold him back, no sense of crippling despair to bring him violently to his knees while he howled and ground his teeth. It was stunning, truly, how easily the kingdom he had built with blood and sweat and iron had released him. As if he no longer mattered. As if it had sensed the very moment he ceased to be worthy of its glory, and cast him out like filthy parasite. And when Kershov realized this, the cruel thought circling in his feverish brain like a shark in a pool of blood, the illusion of liberation came crashing down upon him and his freedom became a sickening, tormenting sense of emptiness.

Wolves can run for miles without tiring—but Kershov charged well beyond his usual limit until his exhausted body could no longer obey the relentless commands of its degrading mind. He’d been diligently sticking toward the shadows, toward the unmarked paths that no wolf had traversed, but now he found himself standing out in the naked openness of a field. He was stunned to discover that he’d been running for nearly twelve hours; gone was the deep black of the night sky, replaced instead by a swathe of heavy charcoal grey. A few fat droplets of cool rain plinked against the scarred plane of his snout and the rumpled ivory of his pelt, mixing with the mire clinging possessively to his legs. All at once the vastness of the field’s horizon overwhelmed the haggardly panting monster. Ker leaned to the side, jaws unhinging, and vomited up everything that had somehow managed to stay in his guts. Skeins of thick black-red viscera and half-digested flesh dragged their slimy trails down his tongue as the white dragon heaved, abdomen clenching violently, tossed in this merciless spell of vertigo like a ship in a ruthless ocean.

Once he’d finished his pitiful display, Kershov turned aggressively from the steaming pit of shame and forced himself to find water. The rain was falling heavier now, a steady downpour that made the new grasses and blossoms around him bend under the onslaught’s weight. Soon there were plenty of puddles deep enough to provide a satisfying drink. Growling at the infuriating pressure in his cranium, the ex-King lowered his muzzle to the earth and lapped up as much as he could take—bitterly ignoring the twist of his stomach as he did so. Why bother to keep himself alive? Why fight the inevitable pull of the grave? It was a simple answer. Kershov had fought too hard for too long for survival; he might only be a shadow of his past greatness, but that shadow had fangs—and it would battle for life until Death conquered it by force.

“My how far we’ve fallen: drinking out of puddles and running around like a damn rabbit.” Ker muttered dryly down at his own murky reflection before lifting his head, wary of any other wolves in the area. He’d wanted to disappear without a trace . . . and if any witnesses were to catch him, well. They couldn’t be allowed to live, could they? He almost thought Lady Luck had given him a break, but then alert trilateral ears caught the distant, frantic scraping of claws through soil. Close. In fact, it had probably been the tall waving grasses that had hidden the presence of the stranger initially. Kershov sighed darkly, lonesome onyx eye narrowing. Better take care of that . . .

Despite fatigue screaming throughout his body, Ker hunched into a hunting crouch and made his way toward the source of the noise. Perhaps it was only his shrieking insanity, but an odd and distracting warmth had begun to spread out from his stomach and into his bloodstream. It mixed unpleasantly with the fever of his brain, toying with the tapestry of scents he was trying to distinguish. He thought . . . he could swear he recognized the scent of . . .

“Kahlan?” The she-wolf’s name dropped in a stunned murmur from the beast’s tattered lips. Every hackle on his spine lifted in surprise and anguish. Of all the people he’d planned to murder, he never thought it would be the respected healer of Saw Tooth. His head tilted as he watched her struggle with her task, mud flying from her paws as she focused with ferocious intensity upon a small prey den. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed him. All the better. He peeled his knives from their pallid sheathes, paws quiet as snow. Kershov would make this quick . . .