When Kershov had told Athene that their offspring would be great, he meant it. The strength sewn into their genomes, the beneficial complement of their mentalities, the support of the pack they ran - all ingredients that made for litters of superior pups. Even if Athene had deigned lay with lesser stock - a choice Kershov knew his magnificent mate would rather die than make - odds were that the majority of her pups would inherit their mother’s innate greatness. Her power would dominate their future and she’d force any lingering weakness from their malleable bodies. As the warpainted warrioress progressed through her pregnancy, the alabaster gangster found himself riveted upon her as he’d never been with a female in his life. They shared the same den, so he could ask her how she felt every morning as they stretched their limbs before the sun rose; they patrolled together, so he could study the gradual swell of her abdomen, the way she adjusted her strides to compensate for the new shift in her weight. He had always hunted for his pack - always taken on the role of provider when he led troops - but Ker took special delight in fetching meals for Athene and watching her devour whatever was placed in front of her with voracious focus. My mate. Other she-wolves had mated with him, had worn that title superficially… but Athene was different. Distinct. Above. Beyond. With her, the Pharaoh evolved and transformed into a version of himself that eclipsed everything in his past.

He looked forward to the arrival of their next litter with unbridled excitement. And when they were born - despite their oddities, their unique features - their sire had gazed at each in turn and deemed them absolutely perfect. Because they belonged to Athene… and to him. Kershov couldn’t wait to help them unlock their potential with their big sister Gwyneira running alongside.

This night framed Kershov on a hill overlooking the plains that flowed into Uyaraut from the north, a sea of waving grasses that would scatter into sand, cliffs, and finally a sea of glistening black water. The air hung still and calm. Millions of stars, their light unhindered by clouds, sparkled pristine in their vast indigo backdrop and reflected as pinpoints off Ker’s fathlomless irises. When he stretched to right his posture, his newly regrown iron-colored feathers shimmered faintly silver. He felt… wholly at peace. His youngest litter slept quietly in their safe den, their ferocious mother no doubt curled around them as she took a well-deserved rest. Macaria would be giving his other boy, Kaukab, his healing lessons right about now; her mate Grey Wind might be training Lyudmila, or patrolling the borders. No less watchful, Kershov released a satisfied sigh he’d been holding in his lungs. Could he have experienced this level of serenity years ago? Had he ever simply stared at the beauty of his territory as a warlord? A dry chuckle chuffed from his maw. Hell, no. Hopefully this nascent contentment did not preclude some embarrassing softness...

A demanding howl climbed through midnight’s silence and rang loud for Kershov’s presence. The Alpha instantly flicked his ears toward the source, norepinephrine jetting into his bloodstream and priming his body to charge. That was no call for an audience to join the pack. It was not a greeting or a cry for help. The last few haunting notes rang with the aggression of a challenge - and the ivory warrior would not disappoint the godless bastard who dare disturb his lovely evening.

Massive snowshoe paws thudded rhythmically across the terra as Kershov ran, mentally calculating how long it would take him to reach that span of the border. Ten… fifteen minutes? Longer? An answering bellow shook his throat while his talons raked up the dirt - wait for me. Irritation and anger rapidly burned away his cool calm, flickering blue fire trapped in his chest. Fucking shit-eating cur. Strides lengthened as his muscles warmed. There were children sleeping in his territory, damn it! And someone wanted to bother him right now? Ker pictured Gwyneira in her room, exhausted from her daily practice; he thought of Athene and their bizarre, beautiful pups, awaiting his body heat in their den. The scar tissue webbed over his snout twisted with the snarl currently warping his visage - both rows of teeth exposed on either side of his ghastly grin. Halfway there. Two-thirds. A quarter.

And then a shriek of agony pierced the stars that had Kershov losing track of all time and just sprinting until his lungs nearly burst.

GWYNEIRA!

When the Ice King finally arrived - feathers and hackles spiked upright, a thunderous growl in his chest, eyes and teeth shining - it was to see his and Athene’s firstborn daughter laying broken and screaming in pain upon the ground… and none other than Draven standing over her.

The malevolent wolf had changed dramatically since Kershov last saw him a lifetime ago. Twin fangs poked like hypodermic needles from his sneering, blood-drenched lips, that heinous smile reaching his hellfire lanterns. Although the black demon stood mere yards away, no scent other than that of Gwyn’s blood emanated from his gloating form. Vampire. Bile and loathing flooded the back of Ker’s throat. His vision went white-hot with undiluted rage. His Beast - that creature who had almost destroyed his life, and had been tenuously reincorporated back into its host with the help of Athene - shattered its bonds at once and subsumed Kershov’s consciousness in a single heartbeat. A deadly stillness calmed the furious shuddering of his limbs. He heard Draven’s cruel taunting from a million miles away, his attention for Gwyneira alone. His incredible, wonderful girl, broken and bleeding and tossed down like trash - all so Draven could have his petty revenge. When the glacial gladiator spoke, it was only for his daughter’s ears… devoid of anything but pride in its purest form. Even knowing that there was absolutely nothing, nothing he could do for her now.

“No one can humiliate you, Gwyneira. You are a fine warrior… and that will be your honorable legacy.”

Draven would doubtless feel insulted that Kershov openly ignored his attempts at provocation; the psychopath had always craved attention, had wanted so desperately for his genius to be praised and feared. But the moonwhite monster acted in those few seconds as if the vampire were not there at all. Kershov knew - though Gwyn yet breathed - that she was as good as dead. He had failed her. The Beast in his place allowed the winter dragon to face what happened next - and ready itself for the bloodshed it thirsted for.

Bottomless obsidian windows looked away from Gwyn not when Draven’s voice jeered again - but instead when Briseis sobbed her heart out for him, her frantic words running together in her rush to vomit them out. If Kershov had ruled his mind - if his devil had not protectively shunted his faculties away - the Alpha might have despaired at the truth revealed at last. Athene had never conclusively proven that he’d never raped Bri… and Ker had no reason not to disbelieve the heartsick girl when her vampire master commanded her to speak. Mine… and Kahlan’s. No capacity for regret. Just emotionless acceptance, his scar-slashed face eerily impassive. The first time Kershov reacted visibly at all during this wrenching encounter was when Draven - apparently sated with his torture - ended Gwyneira’s terrible suffering by unceremoniously ripping her throat out.

A choked noise strangled from his vocal cords. The gory contents slapped wetly to the dirt by Kershov’s motionless paws. He hardly noted the ashen blur of Grey Wind darting past the invisible wall to throw himself at Draven’s retreating hide, did not integrate the cacophony of barks and curses cracking the evening quiet. The Ice King instead dragged himself to where Gwyneira lay, utterly still, fresh blood slowing its seeping from her wounds. He reached out a single giant forepaw and closed her open eyes with infinite gentleless, veiling the horror etched into her glassy portals. At last he called for Grey Wind, not moving from his daughter’s side, monotone voice carrying effortlessly across the clearing. “Return home, Akkuknak. Draven is not someone who can be destroyed without a plan. I will not have any other wolves harmed because of that leech…” A crack in his armor. The Beast losing its grip, not quite strong enough to clench its jaws on the raw center of ire and grief boiling in Kershov’s core.