Kershov could just barely catch Milo’s thin, keening voice over the roar of the river—and what she said made a savage snarl shred from his throat. “Don’t you dare think like that.” The words vibrated up his vocal chords and through his teeth and into Milo’s flesh. Fangs pinched tighter into the small she-wolf’s ruff, a tiny punishment, while his pillars continued to churn relentlessly in the current. Despite his frantically swishing paws, the colossal gladiator still hadn’t scraped the river’s bottom, and the foamy splashes churning up ahead made it infuriatingly difficult to discern just how much longer their exhausting “trip” would take. His mind had briefly contemplated what might happen to them if their strength depleted itself before they were able to crawl back to dry land. He had thought into the future—contemplating how he would deal with another boulder should he smash into it, how he could keep himself from drowning if a dislodged tree rocketed into them from behind, what he’d do if Milo were wrenched from his grasp—and then he’d immediately shut those thoughts down. Worrying about the inevitable never helped anyone. There was no possible way to prepare for sudden disaster. All they could do was struggle to keep their muzzles above the rapids and pretend they would live.

“If we don’t make it, then we die.” Less of an enraged snarl and more of a dark, cold rumble, not unlike chunks of ice grinding together. A huge branch, undoubtedly shorn off a tree as the river ripped through a forest, swung by the pair. It’s reaching claws tugged along Kershov’s side, tearing at his fur, but his nerves were so numb from the frigid water he couldn’t be sure any actual damage was done. “I will let you drown if you’re only going to be useless weight, little one,” the brutal Alpha continued. “You keep kicking until you cannot kick anymore. Because at that point, I’ll let you go.”

The white warrior need not have been so harsh. The river flung them around a wide curve—a U-shape so drastic it almost turned them toward the way they’d come—and then swung the opposite direction, abruptly fracturing into several smaller tributaries. Kershov steered the instinctively to one rivulet in particular, lungs screaming and muscles scorching, but something in his chest commanding him to go THERE. All at once the energy seeping from his body ignited anew. He surged forward like a great pale shark, the rapids quieting into a smooth and easily navigated pace, and there on the horizon . . .

An ocean?!

The unfathomably vast expanse of salt water astonished Kershov more than anything he’d ever seen—except THIS was his land, this was Uyaraut. Once he was able to feel the riverbed scuffing by his claws, the Czar maneuvered toward the bank, not pausing his kicks until he was pushing himself out of the water and onto the sandy, pebbled surface. He stood for but a moment, Milo still swinging from his jaws, before taking a trembling step forward . . . and collapsing in a heap, his sides heaving with the effort of pulling in oxygen.