The ice in Kershov’s voice seemed to have no impact on the hot grief still burning Atakask inside. When she looked up at him, whimpering like a creature with a broken leg, he saw the heat of her heartache smoldering through her watery green eyes - a torment mere words could not extinguish. When the softly silver female gathered her wobbling voice to reply, Ker had to restrain himself from flattening his ears and baring his fangs in annoyance; sometimes it was hard for the alabaster gangster to come to terms with the fact that not everyone met their toughest moments early on in life, that most wolves still had the capacity to experience pain and grief at their deepest levels and could not simply push through to survive. Guilt saturated every syllable Atakask spoke. Self-loathing clawed at her broken heart. And at first all the Ice King could do was grit his teeth until his jaw ached, because he knew no amount of “it’s not your fault” would snap the mournful lady out of her sadness.

“Atakask . . .” It was clear Kershov was struggling, though the colossal dragga tried hard not to show it. Finally, on her own, the wolfess pushed herself to her paws and looked at her Alpha again. Pain still flashed fresh in her emerald windows . . . but as she stared at him, the winter dragon could see the embers of her grief cooling and hardening. Good. The wolfess could mourn the son that did not make it, but if she allowed herself to weep herself into nothing but bones . . . the children waiting in the birthing den would die of neglect. Atakask obviously understood this and was making a heroic effort to push the shattered remains of her heart aside to focus on the living. Wordlessly, Kershov followed her back to her makeshift den, carefully watching every trembling step she made. The dark cliffs were still slippery with ocean mist, and despite her newfound strength, Atakask might still be weary from her harsh labor.

“Yura and Nootaikok . . . those sound like names from my homeland.” Respectfully, the white warrior waited for Atakask to fully enter the den first before he strode past the threshold, only treading as far as his shoulders in case the new mother suddenly decided against the meeting. He didn’t know what to make of Atakask’s tone; it was as if she’d pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees, flipping a switch from broken to emotionless. Ker wondered if she were willfully keeping her own throbbing emotions in check to appear stronger than she actually felt. Obsidian eyes adjusted quickly to the deep, comforting shadow of the den. The smell of blood and sweat and mucus and fur permeated the air like a thick blanket so that it took him a moment to discern the separate scents of Atakask’s surviving pups. They lay cuddled together, two perfect bundles that emitted tiny squeaks of hunger and protest every so often. The Czar nodded his head thoughtfully, approving, before glancing back up at the wolfess he’d recently taken in.

“Will all of you stay here, in Uyaraut? We can help you take care of them, and yourself. I know you would teach them to grow up strong, yet as a pack we can make them even stronger. I see potential in you and your children, Atakask. Endless potential. I hope . . . you’ll consider it.”