Triangular peaks stood at full attention, twitching minutely in the direction of any sound that disturbed the forest’s otherwise tranquil atmosphere; liquid onyx eyes focused forward, their depths bright with a chilled and razor intelligence; massive paws built for gliding over snow pressed with almost soundless weight upon a carpet of decaying leaves and russet pine needles, stirring their cloying scent into the air—a constant sensory blanket that the wolf mentally sifted through in order to capture the more interesting scents threaded between the trees. Blossom Forest had changed: imperceptibly, yes, but absolutely. These green shadowed halls and the well-worn trails exuded a subtle insidious difference that made the fine hairs layered upon Kershov’s nape stir as if with static electricity, his mind overlaying his memories with what met his perception now, and though the pictures lined up nearly perfectly he knew beyond a doubt that this was not the same place he had run from so long ago . . .

The arctic king had carefully avoided all pack territory as he traveled. No Wolf’s Land was safer—not that Kershov felt “threatened.” The seasoned ganglord, hardened into a flawless black diamond by too many unspeakable things, held nothing but contempt for most wolves. He’d ruled his own army here, once. His enemies feared him the way pups quake at tales of the boogeyman. Unfortunately, the frost-breathing dragon had no knowledge of the current Monarchs of the packs—he couldn’t even be sure if any of the packs he’d known still existed—and he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to reveal himself to a faction just yet. Secrets remained to be learned. And with his predatory cunning, Ker was quite capable of gathering the information he needed without ever actually finishing the dirty work himself. All one required to spy was a pawn . . . and according to the various signatures fading slowly in the atmosphere, plenty of lonely marionettes were slinking about just waiting to be used.

For something so massive, Kershov loped with surprising grace toward the sound of rushing water. His hulking ghost-white form sped like a phantom until he was galloping parallel to the river he remembered emptying out into Blossom’s largest lake, its current splashing down staircases of stone and sloshing around deeply carved bends. The ivory warrior only checked his swift pace as the colognes of strangers thickened at the back of his throat in a heady cocktail, alerting him to potential enemies or friends; he slowed to a molasses amble, all toned muscle and rippling fur, as he nosed through luxurious undergrowth to poke his ravaged muzzle out toward the lake.

“Just as I left it . . .” His voice hissed from between the exposed daggers gleaming from his jowls, the barest hint of comfort softening the words. None had gathered on the pebbled banks of the water just yet, but surely someone would reveal themselves soon. Besides, it wasn’t as if Kershov were truly hiding, with his great alabaster skull shining brilliantly against a backdrop of lush emerald. If he could not spot someone first, he more than welcomed the option of an interloper approaching him.