Frekari did not disappoint him. She followed close behind, blinking sleep from troubled espresso windows and meeting him on the glassy beach. He noticed her ginger fur stuck up in uneven spikes and clumps—styled by briny ocean wind and damp sand, same as him. Good . . . so she’d been exploring their home as well. Uyaraut was so newly born, so mysterious in its genesis, that Kershov half expected something massive to change between when he closed his eyes to sleep and reopened them to patrol. It would not surprise him to find a new cliff rearing from the plains that sloped along the kingdom’s northern borders, or to stumble upon a river that hadn’t been there before. The new Blossom Forest lacked permanence and predictability. But the more he and his wolves committed their home to memory, the easier it would be to spot sneaky differences—related to magic, left by intruders, or otherwise.

When Frekari came to stand next to him, a telltale stiffness in her limbs she tried to hide with classic bravado, Ker merely flicked his banner against her flank: a sign of comradery despite his silence. The Ice King had never been one for empty words and pointless praise; if Kari required coddling, she’d never make it—and if she could not discern her Alpha’s approval from subtle gesture alone, he refused to exhaust himself to make it known. “Remember your desire when terror inevitably rears its head.” He leveled dark pools toward her focused brown irises, studying her emotions. At least the maned wolfess was honest. Admitting her fear marked a step in the right direction; no one ever won a fight against an enemy they failed to acknowledge. As long as Frekari treated her water phobia as a true obstacle, she’d be able to tackle it. “This mental block of yours . . . this visceral aversion . . . it is as real as a wound stitched into your hide. You know it is there, and you want to heal it—and I believe we can overcome it. I just hope you can withstand the pain of upbraiding that wound.”

A breeze slid over the waves, tossing pastel spray into the air and ruffling the charcoal feathers slicked across the Emperor’s spine. He had never submerged his avian cape in water before . . . but if these pinions were similar to the bird’s they resembled, they should be plenty waterproof. “First we will define your limits. After you.” Kershov nodded his noble crown toward the sea, carefully observing how his student approached the intersection of shore and ocean. He followed half a body-length behind; close enough to assist her should she require it, far enough that he could witness every twitch and flinch of her body, every inhalation that jumped into her lungs. The firebird needed to show him just how far she felt willing to wade into the current, precisely where her terror became too much to bear. At that point, the lesson would begin. The alabaster gangster understood that—although Frekari wanted to master herself—they both must balance on a fine point between just right and too much, lest the fae lose herself to horror and destroy any hope of progress.