Kirastasia was not a monster. Monsters were slaves to their destructive instincts, ravenous slavering beasts who sought to harm others for the thrill of harming, whose cruelty blighted the world like a sickness, who sewed ruin with their paws and spoke hatred in every word. Her father, Kershov, was a monster. Not many people knew it, but he was. Secretly. Keeping the truest, ugliest version of himself caged and chained and hidden from view. He had uprooted Kira’s life in Malignant Felicity like a bird ripping a worm from the dirt, thoughtless to her pain as she wriggled helplessly in his grasp. He did not love. He could not love. His first born daughter saw this reality in the frigid bottomless depths of his grave-black eyes, and she sensed his hideousness like the heat of a rotten infection. My sire is a demon. Her thoughts did not often stray to the ivory devil with his ruined face, but when they did . . . well, she saw herself for what she was. As if Kershov were a mirror held up to her own soul, revealing her brightness against his shadow. Look at her joy! Her creativity! Her overwhelming desire to pursue warmth!

Kahlan had told Kira that she wasn’t capable of real affection. And then Kah had gone and slept with the man who deemed Kirastasia a worthless pawn. She’d gone and carried his seed to term, producing strapping boys Kershov would surely be proud of. What did that make Kahlan, then? She-who-copulates-with-beasts? What did that make her progeny?

As her paws pressed into the dirt, carrying from her den to her ex-lover’s, Kira’s mind wandered back to her own children: three mouths that were always hungry, three pairs of eyes that were always looking for attention. Parasites, really. Darlings . . . but parasites. A small affectionate laugh dripped from her lips. Drizzt had given them to her . . . that wonderful, innocent, incredible Tempest whose adoration absolutely sustained Kirastasia—ambrosia to her starved soul. Could such a sweet creature fall for a monster? Surely not.

Since having her pups, Kirastasia found herself too caught up in keeping them alive to continue in her mission of “rescuing” Kahlan. That’s what the official story was, anyway. Yes, the three future Tempests required an obscene amount of care at any given time; however, the snowbird had not yet forgotten the agony Kahlan inflicted upon her the day of their birth . . . the awful, shredding syllables that splintered the air between them. Perhaps part of herself wanted to let Kah suffer, just a little. To allow the once-healer to wallow in her self-inflicted sickness, her private prison, while Kira pretended to glow with maternal bliss. “You’ll be quite proud of me, Kahlan,” Kira murmured aloud, smiling around the bitter taste on her tongue. “I had always dreamed of carrying pups while you doted on me . . . but it turns out I didn’t need you! I did just fine on my own! What a waste . . .”

Within mere yards of Kahlan’s den, Kirastasia had to stop—lest she crush the pups tumbling toward her feet. The white-speckled boy—Kaukab, was his name—edged around her nervously, hardly able to speak, before shooting off into the woods. The white princess giggled kindly, knowing how her armored legs caught the light and gleamed with rainbows. Poor kid—he was probably rather flustered. “Have fun hiding, young lords! Don’t get lost!” Then, under her breath, with eyes barely narrowed, “I have business with your mother.”

Kahlan had surely heard her raised voice echoing lightly off bark and branch. Kirastasia held her ground, talons digging ever so slightly into the earth, expression amicable and flirty but posture as rigid as an arrow on a bow. “Ka-ah!” the porcelain damsel sing-songed in her most alluring tone. “Come on out, you gorgeous thing. Your boys aren’t around to spy on us.”