Now that he’d pulled the proverbial trigger and sank his starved fangs into a new territory, Kershov felt loath to leave. A savage dragon’s instinct to survey his hoard, to count the heads that now bowed to his rule, surged with blue fire through his veins—possessive and aggressive and electric with alert mistrust. He knew no one would be foolish enough to snatch Bright Moon from his claws, not while a small pack dwelled within its once haunted halls; he knew, realistically, that his land would not suddenly crumble into nothingness the instant his paws left the border. But old habits were difficult to break. The frigid Pharaoh had been something of a homebody when he lorded over Abendrot, and before that his brutally protected slice of heaven on the tundra. Even a transient image of a stranger sniffing at his pack’s gate while he was away—their muzzles straining to determine if Kershov were actively patrolling or not—made him grit his teeth into a disgusted grimace, as if to crush the intrusive thought between merciless carnassials. Let someone just try to trespass while he saw to errands elsewhere. If one of his new soldiers did not tear their legs off, Kershov would do so the moment he marched past the threshold . . .

While every part of him wanted nothing more than to stalk around Bright Moon, the massive dragga knew that he still had much to accomplish by way of reconnaissance. Until he gained a few spies into his fold, gathering intel fell under his responsibility—and the only way he’d learn anything about the new era of Blossom Forest was to actually explore it. Where haven’t I tried yet? Gigantic paws made for running across snowdrifts plodded quietly over mixed terrain, carrying Ker effortlessly through the thick forest that cloaked Bright Moon on one side. Trees gradually thinned into gently rolling plains with grass that rippled like water . . . and then those grasses mixed with joyous explosions of wildflowers blooming with riotous colors as far as his obsidian eyes could see. He tested the air with sensitive nares, cataloguing the scents of lera and putnar . . . the millions of flavors of plant and pollen . . . until he captured a shred of wolf on the wind. Kershov altered his course to seek out the perfume immediately. The female he noticed didn’t smell dangers—if anything, her natural signature was warm with contentment. A quick ‘hello’ shouldn’t hurt.

Kershov did not attempt to sneak up on the lass—but he made no effort to expose himself, either. He caught up to her just as she’d tired herself out apparently frolicking in the flowers—her pallid coat dusted with dirt and pollen. A few petals even stuck out like vivid feathers from her pelt. “It looks as if someone has discovered the secret to happiness.” He spoke at his usual volume: loud enough to carry, low enough that he would not startle her into panic. “I don’t mean to intrude . . . would you mind if I joined you? I go by Kershov; I’m fairly new to these lands.”