Now that he’d clawed his way back to the tumultuous surface of sanity, the world seemed thrown painfully into focus, details too-sharp and too-bright and clear enough to make his black eyes water. The tall grass of the plains rippling away from Uyaraut’s dark cliffs were stiff blades, each individual stalk thin and razor-edged; sunlight refracted off sand and bits of mineral in the stone around his paws in blinding sparks; his gaze lifted to the perfect blue of the open sky, and immediately he needed to look away, the saturation of blue spearing his brain with migraine pangs. A breeze stirred the land, and he shivered despite the lovely warmth of the day. He may not deserve such a terribly beautiful afternoon to condemn himself . . . but his jury would hopefully appreciate the golden sun on their backs while they damned him. And they would damn him - the Emperor would give them no other option.

The arrival of Athene struck him as perfect in many ways. For one, she was the last person he wanted to see . . . and one of the best to judge him. She wore her antlers like a glorious crown as she marched into view, their children trailing close by her side. An odd pressure pushed on Kershov’s breastbone when he looked at them; both pups seemed to have grown remarkably, even since he had last seen young Gwyneira. Outwardly, the brother-sister pair resembled the greatest aspects of their parents . . . inwardly, the snowy dragga could only hope neither had inherited his worst. The Ice King could not bring himself to return the small, humorless smile Athene graced him with. Yet he did acknowledge the ache that smile gave him as perfect, just the same.

Next to answer his call was Frekari, followed closely by Grey Wind and his children. Onyx lanterns glossed over the shadow-painted trio twice; hadn’t there been . . . more? And where was Macaria? Surely she would have wanted to attend the pack meeting with her mate . . . oh. Oh no. Kershov quickly swept his focus back on Frekari’s lean fiery silhouette, attempting to distract himself from the abrupt sickening ringing in his ears. Macaria . . . is a vampire. She had BEEN a vampire. And he . . . he had known that . . . and still he’d forgotten, and called the Trial during the height of the sun. Nausea tackled the Alpha. The horizon tilted on its axis. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to think of the ocean’s current dancing around his limbs during his lessons with Kari, and tried with every last splinter of his strength not to break down. His maned wolf student snipped something teasing at him, and Kershov head not a single syllable. I forgot. How could something so important so easily slip his mind? What else had he missed while drowning under the tyrannical rule of the Beast? His lungs began to jump in time with his heartbeat; the glacial gladiator bit down on his tongue to reign in his breathing, not wanting to lose it shamefully in front of his gathered audience. He had to maintain control - he needed his full faculties to convince them that he was a creature deserving of punishment, not one deserving of pity.

A flinch jolted his posture when Macaria’s disembodied howl lilted through the summer atmosphere. A flash of something - fear, perhaps - swam in the glass of Kershov’s eyes, only to fade when Grey Wind acknowledged the disturbance. “Yes . . . I appreciate her devotion. I know it is . . .” His voice faltered noticeably, jarring in his throat. No. Now was not the time for pleasant lies. Ker made eye contact with Grey Wind, a brute he had trusted and respected for years. “I owe you and your mate an explanation.” Slowly, his cranium turned to take in everyone, words growing stronger as he spoke. “I owe all of you an explanation. And afterward . . . I owe someone my blood.”

Where was Briseis? Wishing bitterly that the broken lass would come to this Trial would not bring her, but perhaps she’d feel braver once his retribution played out. One can only hope. The winter devil spoke in a smooth, level tone, his normal speaking voice carrying effortlessly across the terra. His words held the same inescapable chill as a blizzard’s breath; those that heard him could only shiver or endure the cold. “I have done something unforgivable.” The Czar waited a beat for anyone to oppose him, to cry out in denial or confusion, ready to bark over dissenting voices to make himself heard. “Seasons ago, something happened to me . . . and I was not myself. I mean this in the most literal way I can while still occupying the same body. There is another side to me that I have tried for many years to keep under control, and although I’ve been successful the majority of the time, the few slip-ups I’ve experienced were . . . bad. Cataclysmic. When there was a breach in the past, I removed myself from Abendrot to keep my army safe. I did not have that option this time. And I . . .” Bile rose to the back of his throat. Kershov barely stopped himself from gagging. Why had Athene and Grey Wind brought their children . . . ? “I seized carnal knowledge of Briseis without her consent.”

Let the sun fall from the sky and strike him down. Let the dirt swallow him into a premature grave. Kershov ruthlessly ordered himself to meet the judgement of their gazes, because he did not deserve the luxury of looking away.

“We had a tradition back in my homeland, when someone committed a crime against the pack. Alpha took first blood. Victim to last blood.” A shadow passed over his expression, furious and haunted, self-disgust and rage roiling below the surface. He quivered slightly - though not from fear. His colossal frame gave the impression of a bomb about to explode, tension and energy desperate to shatter in every direction. “I think it is appropriate to resurrect that tradition now, in light of the nature of my sin. My final act as your sole Ruler will be to partake in first blood.”

Kershov did not wait this time for a reaction. He had bitten his right foreleg until it bled when Briseis revealed the hideousness of his acts against her - and he attacked the same limb now, only with far more serious brutality. He snapped his jaws audibly and sank his teeth hard into the limb: carnassials pierced fur and skin and fascia and muscle, arteries and veins, ramming into the stiff strength of bone. Pain ruptured up his column past his shoulder into his brain. For a heartbeat his vision cut to black. Mandibular muscles flexed, testing the give of his own skeleton. The hot wet tang of iron flooded his tongue and ran between his pointed pearls, spilling from the corners of his twisted grin. Scarlet painted its way toward his paw and trickled between his toes as his talons clenched the ground. Pawprints in the sand. Ker took a deep breath, limb still trapped in his teeth. Then he shredded his grip upward and outward, nearly degloving the expanse of spotless white that extended from his carpals to his elbow. The sound of flesh snagging on fangs seemed almost worse than the pain of the wound itself . . . but the Pharaoh knew he deserved this . . . and more. So much more.

For his failure . . . his betrayal . . . and for the lies that gave birth to each.

Sides heaving, obsidian windows bright with fresh agony, Kershov glared boldly out at the assembly before him. “This is my sentence,” he snarled - a gutteral, demonic noise that shook his larynx and resonated deep within his chest. “This is what we do to those that harm the pack. To deny that decree is to forgive the crime - and there will be no forgiveness.” Iron-colored feathers spiked upward like the headdress of a warrior. Ker’s banner whipped viciously from side to side, lashing at his flanks. He glowered at each member of his kingdom in turn, searing them with the frigid frost of his wrath, daring any to go against him. “So there you have it, Uyaraut. Who among you claims second blood?”