Approximately twelve hours after Kershov had stalked into Bright Moon—after he’d rubbed a thin yet distinct line of his musk across the gates and welcomed in the wolves that now made his pack—he stretched into alertness and strode out of his makeshift den. The space had been halfheartedly carved out from under a fallen log by lazy claws; the original architect hadn’t bothered to reinforce the sides so that Ker woke to loose dirt sprinkled into his alabaster robes. As a ganglord, the newly crowned King was more than used to roughing it . . . but he took the poorly constructed sleeping place as an example of how far the territory had declined. Who ruled before me? And how long were they gone before everything started looking like . . . this?

Wolves were not environmental engineers. They did pave roads or fell trees, reroute rivers or sculpt stone—but certain signs of wear and use naturally appeared when a pack settled into their home. Bright Moon did not feel settled. It felt wild, desolate, its forest reaching for lupine fur and paws to fill its emptiness, its leaf-laced skies resonating with howls long finished. Of course Frekari had pranced past his scent marker without a second thought—how could she have known it was the entrance to a kingdom? Surely more wolves would make the same mistake, not recognizing the bleak wilderness as a consolidated territory. Unless Kershov—unless his pack—stepped up to rebuild what was theirs.

He followed the scent of Athene, aiming to recruit her for Bright Moon’s first official patrol. The brindled warrioress had presented herself as a seasoned soldier—strong of body and of mind, the sort of packmember Kershov hoped for in any army he ruled. This early in the morning, the sun still smoldered a sleepy blue that transformed the slowly rising forest mist into a lilac smoke; even the Pharaoh’s breath had taken on a dragonlike quality, vapor condensing on his whiskers as he spoke. “Athene?” She had probably already sensed him coming—Athene did not strike him as a wolfess who bedded down before learning everything about her environment—but manners were still important to Kershov after all these years. “Fancy a morning run?”