❝NOW THE DARK BEGINS TO RISE❞

It was a little past noon—but one would not be able to tell that at a glance. An overcast sky swallowed the sun and veiled the world in bleak grey limbo. Kershov barely cast a shadow as he traveled, the world a faded watercolor of muted colors that bled sluggishly into one another. Moisture warmed by the afternoon but still cool from dawn swirled into a diffuse fog that crawled as if lost across the rolling plains of Blossom Forest . . . creeping in the grass and obscuring the stark black cliffs, hiding the ocean’s distant horizon and choking the forests with low-hanging clouds. Mist clung to the Pharaoh’s coat when he began his ascent from the foothills into the Cultur mountains; in some especially dense strands he appeared to pull himself directly from the glimmering curtains—a ghost doomed to haunt the land, without a home or purpose. Except he had a purpose. Though he walked at a dreamlike pace, never speeding up nor slowing down, it was clear he marched toward something. He never faltered in his course, weaving around boulders and picking his way up treacherous passages to reach his goal. And although an onlooker would not be able to see his pitch black eyes, they seethed with murderous intent: the focused gaze of a hunter who has his prey locked in his sights.

Kershov had found his daughter, his Gwyneira, and returned her home. This should have had the Ice King languid with relief. He’d never been much of a family man; in his distant past, the females he danced with actually preferred to raise their pups on their own, untainted by the warlord’s ways and safe from the gang he ran. If a lady required something of him—food or security—Ker happily obliged. But he did not raise pups. He did not form bonds with his get, the way other fathers did. He acknowledge his children as his, and felt some sort of pride for them—a type of possession, really—but it was the same pride he felt for the territory he owned and the accomplishments he’d achieved. He did not “love” his kingdom the way a father should love his pups. Gwyneira and Sergei were valuable in their own way, brimming with potential to better their pack as they aged . . . yet it was not out of affection or a parent’s visceral worry that Kershov had plunged desperately into the freelands to find his daughter. When Gwyn went missing, he tracked her with the ferocity of a dragon whose hoard had been stolen from. She was his property, one of the citizens in his care. And beyond that—although Kershov had not explicitly admitted it to himself—Gwyneira was Athene’s daughter. The little girl belonged to a warrior queen, one who’d earned the Czar’s respect so effortlessly it left him breathless. Had Gwyneira been lost forever, under his watch . . . Kershov could never look into those intelligent yellow eyes again.

So he’d gone after Gwyn. He’d deduced she’d been taken by a vampire, and by sheer luck alone stumbled upon that same leech as he had his way with Briseis—the frightened creature who’d been the final piece in leading Kershov to his cub. Everything worked out the way it needed to . . . he recovered Gwyneira almost too easily by walking into Caidir Olc uninvited, and returned home without even a single issue. Operating at his best, Kershov would have bared his teeth at the suspicious nature of his quest. He would have interrogated that russet-pelted vampire and Briseis both, would have demanded to see the Caidir ruler, would have questioned why Gwyn was stolen and why she’d been found so easily. Too easily. A linear quest he had been meant to succeed in . . . except Kershov had not been himself. He’d been the Beast—and the Beast did not concern itself with mysteries and critical thinking. That monster knew only kill and destroy and pain and hunger . . . and despite Ker’s herculean efforts to wrestle it back under control, it still reared its head with a bloodthirsty roar. It was the one who stalked tirelessly toward Caidir Olc with mist glittering in its ivory hackles. And it was the one who would extract its revenge from the pack that had stolen from it, without cunning or reason to mitigate its vengeance.

When he reached the first set of claw marks raked into the trees, the white warrior paused, tattered lips peeling back from serrated teeth. The thick smell of jungle greenery and rot and old blood assaulted his nares . . . but only one distinctly lupine scent hovered amidst it all. Kershov knew that Caidir Olc was home to more than just the vampires; Bri was one example, and now the Beast latched onto a new perfume. Female . . . older than Briseis . . . a signature Kershov might have recognized from his far away history in Blossom if his higher functions hadn’t been buried with ghastly rage. After a beat, he pivoted to follow the fresh scent along what counted as Caidir’s deceptive border, pace increasing as the fae’s presence grew stronger in the stagnant air. A low rumble throttled his throat. The feathers sewn into his hackles rippled and erected—the headdress of a gladiator. Let this bitch try to turn him away. He hoped so deeply she would give him a reason to attack his jaws salivated with need.

At last he found her, a silver figure weaving itself among the verdant undergrowth. The Beast cared not for boundaries or stealth; it crashed aggressively through the most direct route, the thunder in its chest crescendoing. “A moment of your time?” It called out—and its voice was all the more terrifying for being so polite despite the noise reverberating around its syllables. “So sorry to trespass, but one of my pups was stolen and brought here some time ago. You’ll understand if I forgo the proper respect of your boundary to cut to the point. The vampire from this territory that abducted my daughter has so far escaped justice, which I’m sure you would agree is unacceptable. I require a meeting with your leader to discuss what should be done to remedy this egregious slight against my kingdom, Uyaraut.” If the pale grey damsel should attempt to slide away from the towering alabaster monolith, he would simply follow her motions—and pin her against the nearest tree, forcing her to either scream for help or attack. Otherwise, he would fix her with a gentle smile and pitiless eyes, an expression that matched his reasonable dialog the way a tuxedo would match a crocodile: all the dressings of a civilized being plastered onto something devoid of mercy. “Please don’t keep me waiting.”

❝NOW THE DARK IS TAKING OVER❞

♛〖 King of Uyaraut ✦ bonded to Athene ✦ father of many ✦ xathira 〗♛