Graes wasn’t home—but it didn’t need to be. What Namurr had considered “home” was long gone . . . shattered directly before his eyes, engulfing everyone and everything he held dear. Tragedy had ripped his heart out. He felt the loss of happiness like a gaping wound inside of him, its edges raw and forever bleeding, leaving his limbs cold and numb. King Siku did not expect much from the russet-brindled boy, and for that Murr was grateful. There was only so much the tiger could contribute to the tundra pack when simply waking up in the morning and forcing himself to eat required so much energy.

And yet, despite his constant exhaustion, Namurr’s paws had carried him beyond the kingdom’s border and out into the open once again. Nobody stopped him or questioned his actions; the black and white alpha must have been wrapped up in his feathered mate, and the territory had never been teeming with life for as long as Namurr resided there anyway. Perhaps that was why the golden warrior had stayed there for so long, instead of simply drifting off at the first chance . . . in Graes Waegholm, pack or not, he was pretty much alone. Wonderful privacy. The relief of allowing his wound to fester, without curious strangers to prod into his misery. He drew air deeply into his lungs as he traveled, drinking in the untainted air—dying leaves and cool soil and brittle grass—and let himself, for the moment, forget about everything and just be.

The fiery prince had entered a state near meditation, stepping around roots and rocks without really seeing them, pure instinct guiding his actions. It wasn’t until the first whiff of blood shocked him to his senses that Murr finally halted. Blood . . . wolf blood. Close by. His heart—injured and hurting and broken—beat faster, and before he could stop himself Namurr was racing toward the scent. Someone was in trouble. And as a big brother and member of a dead family he felt an overwhelming urge to help.

Feline green eyes soon discovered a young femme sleeping by herself, onyx-and-ivory hide spattered with fading patches of rust. Not thinking—not planning—Namurr marched cautiously up to her, striped brow creased in concern. She reminded him so much of his little sisters. His chest clenched. Gently, slowly, he lowered his head to swipe his tongue behind one of the girl’s ears, clearing away the marring spot of blood.