If Uyaraut were blessed by anything, it was blessed by the sunset.

Kershov still hadn’t forgotten that his current territory rested on the bones of Bright Moon—one of the original packs he’d known back before magic had torn Blossom Forest apart. That kingdom had been renowned for its constant cool mists . . . for the gossamer curtains that shrouded every hall, picking up moonlight so that the whole forest glowed an ethereal silver. Bright Moon had been a somber place . . . haunted by some nameless past devastation that made its air heavy with barely faded grief, affecting all who resided in its walls. Monarchs rarely kept their thrones for long; it seemed that every time Kershov thought the balance of power had settled, one Alpha disappeared for another to seamlessly take their place. Some of those Royals he respected. Others . . . feared him. So much so that any hope of an alliance was killed before it had fully taken breath. And always, always there hung an aura of injury about the place—physical scars where the very land had been blighted, and never quite healed from its wounds. As rigidly entwined in Abendrot as Kershov had been, he had never expected himself to wind up in the empty palace of his old enemies. He hadn’t anticipated ever walking past the border, much less owning that border. And no sooner had the alabaster gangster acclimated to his new home than that home ruptured—torn by the roots and replanted in a new location entirely—forcing him to establish his sanctuary once again.

Uyaraut—with its oceanside glory, its serrated cliffs, its undulating fields of long grass—looked nothing like the pack it had usurped. But occasionally, especially when Kershov witnessed the miracle of the sunset, he felt as if Bright Moon’s luminosity lingered.

In place of starlit mist, Uyaraut had dancing water that transformed into glittering fire as the sun dipped below the horizon. Waves of startling sapphire threaded in jade blazed crimson and orange, foaming with gold. In places where the sun’s rays kissed the closest, the ocean gleamed too bright to look at. It was in this state as the ivory warrior rounded the last leg of his patrol. He loped along the lip of where the cliffs dropped steeply toward the beach below, his paws kicking pebbles over the edge. All he needed to do was swerve down this final hill, and he would have completed this quadrant. Though panting slightly, the colossal dragga did not feel especially exhausted; perhaps he would check on the new mothers of the pack, visit their children and see how all the fresh pups were getting along—

A howl, full of sadness and loneliness, disrupted Ker’s thoughts. He slowed down, ravaged muzzle wrinkling with distaste, ears swiveling toward the source of the noise. That had sounded like a young male . . . what on earth did he have to feel so upset about? And so close to an established territory? Perhaps it was the arrival of children into Uyaraut, but the Alpha felt less inclined to deal with loiterers near his gates than usual. Huffing, he plunged down a path to reach the beach, large paws smashing into the sand and carrying him effortlessly toward a shaped slumped farther down the shoreline.

When he was finally close enough to see the lad, he growled in disgust. The young boy—hardly out of puphood—looked filthy. The only dirt actually clumped to his fur was the wet sand clinging to his underbelly and legs, but the rest of his pelt appeared so scuffed and dull Ker thought he must have been rolling in earth every day. Why the hell would the boy do something like that? Was he deranged? “You—lad.” Kershov approached with his banner waving high behind him and the charcoal feathers on his back lifted aggressively, head tilted to the side in judgement. Just as his talons grazed the border, he paused, narrowing pitiless black eyes. “I am not pleased to find a poorly groomed urchin lounging just outside my territory. Either roll over, submit, and give your name, or run.”