Athene had never hidden her intentions when it came to the litter they’d produced. The she-wolf had only ever been honest with him - even when her honesty was a bludgeon, a sledgehammer she wielded like a weapon in the face of Kershov’s arguments. Their first dance together - an exquisite choreography written with mutual respect, given ferocious life by mutual desire - initiated because Athene had mentioned Kershov possessed the necessary characteristics for a good sire, and she wanted his seed to produce worthy pups. When he’d crawled to her den seasons ago, fevered and loins set afire by the poison laced in his veins, her displeasure had rolled from her like fog from frost, and she ensured the Czar never forgot the mistake he’d made by treating her as an outlet for his base needs. The antler-wearing queen distanced herself from him when she needed to, but she never lied to him, never coated bitter words with sugar to make swallowing her judgement any easier. Athene lived by the unforgiving code of a warrior - forthright, ruthless - and it was this quality among many others that told Kershov if he officially chose her as his mate none could ever compare. Where Scarlet Nights had fed the darkest sides of him, tantalizing the Beast with promises of blood and sin, Athene called forth and challenged the very best aspects of the Ice King. She forced him to acknowledge the weaknesses hidden by his iron infrastructure. She forged his strengths into superpowers. When Athene had blatantly, scathingly denied him the punishment he called for during his hearing, Kershov had to admit he would not expect anything less from his brindle-painted lover . . . and when she told him that their pups were destined to kill each other, Kershov believed her.

The Trials were not something the frigid Emperor necessarily approved of, but he recognized that the vast majority of reproductive labor fell to Athene - and therefore the children were hers to raise and do with as she wished. She’d mentioned the ways of her homeland before, a place as harsh as the tundra from which Kershov had spawned, and explained the purpose of the Trials with the same matter-of-fact calm as someone explaining the weather. Only one pup from each litter in the pack could survive; siblings must kill siblings to establish their dominance, their strength, their absolute mastery of the tract they’d prepared for. Athene believed that this forged a kingdom built on experts, for only an expert could survive a Trial - those too soft of heart or weak in skill were doomed to die. In some aspects, the Trials made sense . . . in others, Kershov silently condemned their short-sightedness. If only one from each litter were permitted to live, surely that eliminated candidates that might be “stronger” than pups from another litter who survived merely because they happened to be the least pathetic out of a bunch. If only one from each litter rose victorious - regardless of their faction - surely that pruned other incredible masters, other incredible minds. The Trials were inherently, egregiously flawed in their arbitrary wastefulness. They did not separate the experts from the weak, they merely culled the least lucky pup from every litter. How many wolves grew to adulthood who did not deserve to, based on what the Trials purported to accomplish? How many “masters” earned their position only because they were fortunate enough not to be in the same litter as another master? Clearly Athene was a success story - Kershov had never met another huntress who was the pale woman’s equal. But little Gwyneira and Sergei . . . they were both promising young gladiators. Why should one valuable life be extinguished when two would bring twice the glory to their pack?

Yet Kershov held his tongue, accepting what must happen because he had also grown up in turmoil and war, and he would not risk losing any more of Athene’s faith. At the conclusion of his hearing, he followed the cervid femme beyond the boundary of Uyaraut, marching behind his children. Sergei and Gwyn seemed electric with anticipation . . . their breath quick, their steps restless, eyes bright as they visualized what was to come. Kershov sensed no fear from either pup, unless their mother’s training helped them hide the instinctual emotion. Both earnestly wanted to please Athene. To impress him. And when Athene gave the command, the young wolves set off on their hunt, expressions grimly determined.

It had been Sergei who fell. Sergei who failed.

At the start of the Trial, Kershov could not have predicted which of his get would climb out on top. Both Gwyneira and Sergei exuded the fearsome presence of warriors, the ebb and flow of their battle like two tides fighting in the same sea. Sergei flinched first - a high, childish yip slipping from his tongue when one of Gwyn’s attacks hit too hard, and in the same moment Ker watched horrified comprehension dawn on his son’s callow facade. All his life he’d prepared for this moment, and yet - for that split second - Sergei betrayed what was in his heart. That victory meant inflicting pain, feeling pain, and unlike all the brawls they’d had before only one would walk back to the ocean territory. Only one would live to feel their mother’s warmth, grow to enhance their fighting skills. The war-painted pup had renewed his attack with vicious vigor after that slip . . . but even Kershov could tell his heart was not in it, that dread and terror prevented him from finishing Gwyn when an opportunity presented itself. At least his sister had defeated him quickly.

Black eyes witnessed the gush of scarlet distantly. Detached. He did not attempt to congratulate Gwyneira on her victory, as that praise felt like ash on his tongue after the brutality of her battle. Instead, Kershov nodded his head, conceding her victory, and wordlessly trailed Athene and their daughter back to Uyaraut. He had his own wounds to see to; let Athene comfort Gwyneira, if necessary, since it was Athene who knew best about the traumas her precious Trials carved into its participants.

Evening found Kershov brooding in his den, feeling oddly . . . cold. Not numb or indifferent - but cold, an acute chill stinging his nerves and sending frosty tendrils into his guts. Even the lacerations shredded into his foreleg lost their heated ache as the winter dragon passed, tossed, turned, gnawed on emotions that were still so very new and raw and unwelcome in the previously pristine palace of his mind. It was as though the Beast had destroyed the framework upon which the Pharaoh had built himself, and now Kershov was left to blindly navigate all the collapsed halls and splintered towers he’d once relied on. What am I supposed to do? She doesn’t want to punish me . . . and she pits our pups against each other in a fight to the death. She stays here, protects Uyaraut, but calls me a fool. A low rumble had started in Ker’s chest; it crescendoed as he paced, talons clenching at the dirt floor of his bed. I don’t understand her. I want to. I don’t know if I can. I don’t know . . . I don’t know . . .

They should have killed him during the hearing. Kershov preferred a swift death over the torment of unanswered questions and anxieties eating him alive from the inside out.

Somehow, the alabaster gangster managed to fall asleep just as the moon was rising. Upon sensing a rough nudge at his shoulder he unleashed an unholy snarl of warning - the snow in his veins the only thing preventing him from instinctively lashing out with his teeth. Instantly he recognized the handsomely beautiful mask of Athene, now without her antlers as winter had truly taken hold on the land. Where feathers usually spiked, Kershov’s hackles raised like white nails along his spine. He became aware of how erratic his breathing was. How Athene’s heat suffused the den as if she’d brought a small fire along with her. How the smell of her readiness clung like nectar to her fur and made his jaw clench, despite the morose countenance the lady wore. When Kershov’s spoke, his lyrics were tight and strained, eyes narrowed into black scimitars that cut through the darkness. “Why have you come here?”