Namurr had been sleeping fitfully when the call of the twins jerked him from slumber. For the first time in weeks, his dreams had not tortured him with painful warped memories of the past . . . instead, they had been gentle, sweet things, filled with fleeting images of a black-splashed face and crystalline eyes. When the twins woke him, Murr was surprised to find his heart already beating quickly, as if still caught in the innocent excitement of this beautiful vision. He had to take a few deep breaths to center himself—verdant eyes scanning the rocky walls of his den, lungs drinking in the crisp air that blew over Graes—and then he was fine. Ready to face what King Siku’s little “heiresses” wanted.

Large golden paws carried him effortlessly across the waving sea of grass; with his russet brindling and fierce, nearly feline eyes, Namurr greatly resembled the powerful cat he’d been named for. It did not take long to find the site where the young ladies had gathered. Upon walking into the clearing—toes pressed into flattened foliage, tail respectfully lowered—Murr saw the twins lounging high up on rocks, giggling away. An older maiden Namurr did now know had already taken her place: an Ethiopia ess, with pretty ginger fur and an impossible mane of violet feathers shimmering down her back. The blonde prince found his voice caught in his throat . . . both disturbed and fascinated by this unexpected loveliness . . . but the twins did not seem all that phased by the bizarre wolfess, and so he valiantly reverted his attention back to the ones who bade him arrive.

The feathered fae had just finished talking about some wolf named Bjorn, and an unlucky lass named Printesa. Tesa . . . why did that name strike him as familiar? He glanced again at the Ethiopian damsel; she spoke so dispassionately, so directly about how horribly the child had been abused. Surely she did not feel so uncaring about the ugly words she uttered? Or perhaps Namurr was just overthinking things . . . he had felt so protective of his own sisters—

“I know of whom you speak.” The red-striped knight had to bark out the words to dislodge the terrible pain that awaited that last thought. He dipped his head respectfully to the ivory-and-ebony girls, clearing his throat before he spoke again. “You . . . you speak of Printesa’s siblings, right?” Of course Namurr would remember details linked to family. Family had once been his entire world. “The information I bring to you is hearsay, although I have no reason to think of it as false. Printesa did not come to Blossom Forest alone. Two other wolves shared a similar scent—a male named Razbionic, and a female named Putina. The male was once soul-bound to a Tempest female. Her name . . .” Fangs nibbled the corner of his jowls, forehead crinkling in thought. “A name like a box . . . Pandora? A she-Tempest named Pandora?” As he repeated it, Namurr realized how right that sounded. Hadn’t Pandora been slain by a vampire? “As for Putina . . . I hadn’t known she was with pups. That’s . . . so sad.”

His rough lyrics fell quiet for a minute. Namurr dare not look up to see if the purple-caped lady or the twins were staring at him oddly. Instead, head still bowed, he attempted to continue.

“Your second riddle reminds me of a certain brute who has started to gain some infamy in this land. They say he is unstable, dangerous . . . but in the same breath, I hear strangers slip up and refer to him as ‘she.’ Costin. Costin is the wolf of whom you speak. And if the rumors are to be believed then . . .” Again his vocals constricted, anger and hurt flooding his blood. Why? Why did he lose control of his emotions now, after such a wonderful nightly dream? “He was abused by his mother. She did not want a son. So she ripped a daughter out of his mind, and broke him.”