When a concentrated scan of the lake revealed no enemies lurking on the outskirts of the forest, Kershov emerged from his own vantage point like a shark skimming lazily through a tangle of kelp, his large and deadly beauty an intimidating sight to behold. Ears still erect, he padded across the pebbled sand until his paws kissed the shallows; even as the glacial gladiator dipped his skull to drink he remained on high alert. Not for the first time since passing over the magic border that separated Blossom from other lands, Ker pondered the unsettling quiet that seemed to blanket his old haunt. At this time of day the Lake would normally be speckled with lupines all across its expansive banks, drinking or swimming or lounging with their loved ones—yet the only disturbance that reached the water was the continuous ring of concentric circles emanating from the beast’s tongue while he sipped. His pallid hackles stirred, primal instincts growling at the unnatural stillness. It was as if Blossom itself were crouched, waiting, like a predator about to strike.

When he captured the minute sound of leaves brushing against fur and paw pads pressing into damp silt, Kershov made a conscious effort to control the warning snarl that wanted to claw its way from his throat. Instead he calmly retracted his tongue, swallowing that last drop of crystal clear liquid and raising his head in one fluid motion with an ear cocked toward the source of the noise. His tail wagged once, a deliberate display of relaxation and acknowledgement . . . because apparently the newcomers were watching him. Ker turned to peer over one mountainous shoulder, expression blank and onyx eyes sharp. His bottomless gaze speared immediately toward a pair of strangers lurking on the beach—standing perfectly still and staring at him intently. “Greetings,” the pharaoh called out formally, not twitching from his spot. “Can I help you find something?”

The way they watched him—they gave the impression that they knew him. Or knew of him, and were now holding back, awaiting his response. Kershov quickly scanned his memories for the mirror images that faced him . . . and found nothing. Not even his madness-twisted memories held visions that resembled this pair—and the Ice King thought for certain he would recognize such unique vargs. They were identical in every facet except for sex, beautifully identical copies of ebony and ivory.

With measured steps, posture indicating peace, the winter dragon stepped out of the lake and strode forward until he was a few body lengths from the twins. A faint breath of something familiar—Abendrot!—ghosted from the more prominent cologne on their fur, but the sliver of scent was so very subtle and small Ker couldn’t decide if he’d imagined it or not. “It’s been a while since I’ve run into anyone. This land feels abandoned, would you agree?”