The boy appeared properly ashamed—or at least cognizant of his unacceptable appearance, for when Kershov bluntly pointed it out, he immediately started for the ocean. Irritated, untrusting, the ivory warrior followed him there, mirroring the lad’s steps on his side of the border, halting just short of the shoreline. Never once did his onyx mirrors leave the stranger’s silhouette; Ker was watching for the telltale clench of muscles that would precede an attack or a rush to intrude, and felt his own musculature tense in preparation for pursuit. Young cur . . . what is he playing at? An innocence hovered over the dirty creature like some sort of aura—a naivete the Pharaoh did not trust. A “false genuineness,” perhaps. No male his age should be so carefree and clueless. Kershov clearly intimidated him, and yet he apologized and attempted to fix the situation. Kershov had not asked for this—he just wanted the idiot to submit!

“I don’t have all day to watch you bathe, you . . . what on earth?” What had been an aggressive growl quieted into a low question muttered under his breath, bursting with disbelief. Against his control, the Alpha’s eyes had widened into two black saucers. His charcoal feathers lifted along his back, the same startle response his hackles would have portrayed, and he felt himself leaning forward with poorly disguised interest. As mud and dirt and sand washed away from the stranger’s pelt, they revealed an impossibly tapestry of color . . . shades Kershov had only ever seen on wildflowers. Soft pink. Bright turquoise. Deep blue. Streaks of violet. Objectively, the boy was beautiful, the same way sunsets and songbirds were beautiful. A thrill of fascination destroyed whatever distrust or aggravation Ker had experienced previously.

He silently observed the bizarrely colorful varg step up to him, bowing respectfully as he reached the border. Throughout the boy’s short spiel, Kershov watched him intently, inwardly trying to hypothesize what would have painted such a miraculous pelt. “Yuka, I accept your apology and am pleased to make your acquaintance. Should you require it, Uyaraut possesses more than enough resources to keep you safe; we are fiercely protective of our own, and as you’ve seen, our borders are secure.” He added a wry, small smile, indicating that Yuka may now relax—despite the hostility Kershov had speared him with earlier. “Pardon my asking . . . but what are you? Did a surge of magic make you this way, as I am now caped with feathers?”