Athene’s brindled form flowed from the hills, the muscles in her pelt rippling gracefully under the immaculate hairs of her pelt. Kershov braced himself for the blow surely awaiting him . . . of course the incomparable huntress would claim second blood, for this and for everything else the Czar had failed her in. And Ker welcomed the promise of pain, the blessed bite of agony her fangs would carve into his deserving flesh. He did not move an inch from where he stood as she neared. Did not speak. Or breathe. Yet a hiss of surprise still left his scarred lips when Athene struck him hard across the face, claws raking into the plane beneath his left eye. The pallid poltergeist assumed she next planned to snap into his visage - except the formidable fae chewed him out with words instead, her voice a low and angry rasp in his ear. She didn’t . . . believe him? She thought this entire meeting was a farce? Based on what? His “morals,” the ones he so clearly possessed when he opened the door to a relationship with her, only to turn around and sleep with another female? Kershov wanted to laugh. Roar. Tell her to leave Briseis alone, that nothing more could be discerned by interrogating the poor girl. You’re wrong. Too many things rushed to the back of his teeth and choked themselves into frustrated silence in his throat. Why did Athene waste her time defending him to the pack?

An ash-and-sand shape materialized from the long grasses, carrying pups in her maw. Briseis. At last. The colossal dragga could not decide if he felt relief from her presence, or a sickening dread.

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Lyrics cold as ice. Factual. Ker watched mutely while his victim skirted warily around him, reaching up to the rocks nearby to gather . . . moss? Plants? His breath hitched. A faint rumble quivered in his chest, and he cringed inwardly upon realizing what Briseis meant to do. Warding off infection, she says. The girl cannot read a room.

Kershov stretched out his injured forelimb and slowly, deliberately, swiped away the mixture Briseis presented to him on a bed of kelp. He moved it to where she could retrieve the undisturbed bundle, if she wished, not wanting to waste any healing compounds that might be used better on someone else. His black eyes spared only a brief regretful glance at the chewed greens, still moist; their scent brushed his nose pleasantly, and somehow the Ice King knew without applying the salve that it would feel cool and refreshing on his burning lacerations. It had been moons . . . years, even, since Ker had last seen such a professionally prepared offering. One or two wolves in his factions always seemed to have an abbreviated understanding of healing - how to avoid infection, how to hold a limb so that it righted itself quicker, that sort of thing. But the only true healer Kershov had ever really known had been Kahlan. Dear, talented Kahlan . . . his friend, aching and broken in her own way. If she had been present at this trial, would she have done the same as Briseis? Would she have chosen the same combination of flora to treat his cuts and abrasions?

“These wounds are not meant to be treated, little one. Punishment is meaningless if there is no pain.” He could not articulate how her selfless gesture pulled him apart inside. How her kindness was like salt grated into a festering trench, amplifying his shame a hundredfold. This Trial was not playing out the way Kershov had wanted at all - he sought retribution for his actions, not pity! When Briseis directed his attention toward her litter, he had to suppress a shudder, the overwhelming desire to claw at his own eyes to spare him the sight of his ill-gotten children. They were all tiny, bouncy things . . . too young to vividly portray the traits of either parent, and yet even from this distance the frost-breathing dragon found himself feverishly searching for his countenance among them all. Another sign, more proof to hammer home his sin. If any in the pack doubted his own accusation against himself, how could they doubt him now? Would anyone deny the pups as his own? Call poor Briseis a liar? From the new puppies to Athene, Ker dragged his baleful bottomless stare. “Is this evidence enough for the crime I plead guilty for? Would you like to mark me as I deserve this time, Madame Athene?”

The crowned queen was right in one regard: this trial was about as melodramatic as a youngling’s tantrum. The winter ghost had commanded them to meet him, spilled the secret he’d been guarding more ruthlessly than a drake for a lifetime, and then given the order to turn their teeth upon their leader. In mere minutes Kershov had revealed himself to be mad, just barely grasping the frayed edges of sanity . . . and not only mad, but a slavering letch who could not be trusted. If he’d brought a different criminal to Uyaraut, would his subjects hesitate in their justice? Was it truly just because they knew him as their Alpha that they held back? Desperation writhed against rage and despair. Kershov took several menacing steps forward, smearing blood upon the ground where he walked, feathers tall and pointed as daggers. They could not waver in their judgment merely because he was himself. If anything, Kershov’s position as their Emperor, his reputation as adhering so closely to his own rules, should condemn his hideous actions against Briseis all the more.

Very well - he had played multiple roles in the past. Uyaraut would not take his word as the accused . . . so he would act as prosecutor too. He’d stab his transgression into their minds.

Finally, with a sigh, his stare cooled and dropped to the children bundled on the hill. His children. One a salt-and-pepper copy of her mother, one a classic grey, and one the color of fresh earth. It was this last warm-hued daughter that Kershov’s pitch-glass windows lingered upon. He thought instantly of the last time he’d danced with Kahlan, the sensation of her smooth spice-colored pelt intermingling with his ivory canvas . . . that was how he’d imagine their children would look. Perhaps if the alabaster gangster had not been so starved for his sentence, he might have pondered how this one pup wore colors that could not be found on either his nor Bri’s pelt . . .

“Athene says that we must adhere to pack law - and I am pack law, and I am telling you to carry out justice upon one who has harmed a member of this kingdom. Should it matter that it’s me? Am I above retribution simply because I wear the crown?” A harsh laugh shattered from his jaws, devoid of anything but sizzling wrath. “If you think I deserve anything less than spilling my blood, please - share your thoughts. Tell me what punishment would fit this scenario. Surely Grey Wind, Macaria, you would want to obliterate anyone who so much as growled at your litter?” He pivoted in place, addressing his scaled general and his mate hidden in the caves. It did not matter that the motion pulled at his wounds, forcing him to hiss in a breath. They had to understand. He had to make them understand. Then he faced Athene once more, meeting every last inch of her anger with his own. “And Madame Athene. Is it so idiotic of me to request a little spilled blood? I wanted to murder the vampire bastard who took Gwyneira. If I ever see that damned red pelt again, I will. Would you let him get off so easily, if he inflicted the same torture upon our daughter?”