“Puppet” . . . now there was a term the glacial gladiator was familiar with. His scar-slashed muzzle wrinkled, forming a strained expression somewhere between detached confusion and humor. Where had this duckling learned to talk like that? Even if she were merely parroting an older packmember, Kershov had to wonder what her upbringing had been like. So-called “normal” parents usually skirted around topics like manipulation or hard training in favor of fluffy bedtime stories. “In theory,” the bone-colored Czar murmured lightly, eye locked with the girl’s steady stare. “Young ones do make good trainees, provided they don’t break.” This Nova girl represented an anomaly among her age group. Her deep-sea stargazers sparkled with something other than naiveté . . . that, while intriguing, might also point to deeper problems raked through her psyche. If she grew up to be a mindless, bloodthirsty liability, the months spent training her would be lost forever. The alabaster Alpha felt wary of her single-minded fearlessness. She looked at him unflinchingly. When it came to his particular demonic mask, this was not normal pup behavior.

He wondered what other bizarre quip the rusty lass might spit out, when Halina trotted into the fray. Briefly, Kershov catalogued her current condition: some stiffness, to be expected, but the she-wolf seemed worlds better than the victim wracked by pain he remembered from weeks ago. A laughing twitch traveled down his tail as Halina met his lonesome glare. “All excellent notions, Halina. I shall consider them immediately.”

Once Halina entered the stage, Kershov quietly took a back seat to the strangely unfolding play, singular onyx orb observing everything with frigid intensity. Sometimes he just liked to watch. There was a vague fascination in how his soldiers interacted with outsiders, how they behaved themselves in front of him, and a creature as calculating as the Ice King always found something new to mull over. The brave midnight wolfess grew stronger each day; that much was evident in the sinuous way she circled the pup. Only when the tiny fae piped up again did breath pass his fangs. “Those aren’t wise words, little one . . . but I suppose I’ll forgive your lack of wisdom, you being a child and all.” Ker’s snowfall words drifted with cold amusement down at the puny thing gazing keenly up at him. “Anything leaves a lot of room for imagination, wouldn’t you agree?”

Kershov wasn’t an absurdly evil wolf. He didn’t hate children—in fact, he actually deeply appreciated the untapped reservoirs of possibility they hid inside themselves. A pup was a new mind capable of learning things quickly and voraciously. A blank pawn was still a valuable pawn, regardless if they were full grown or still toddling on too-big paws. But Ker simultaneously weighed potential gain with potential loss. Younglings required concentrated individual time, a commodity that an army sometimes lacked; some of them might even desire “affection,” though obviously Kershov felt such a thing was useless and sneered to think his subjects would waste their times with that nonsense. What was the point of having spawn if you were only going to coddle them? Disgusting.

As if his thoughts had broadcasted through the simmering summer air, yet another wolf joined the fray: Marx. Theirs was a unique bond if there ever was one—vengeful King and loyal Knight. Kershov understood well that the dedication steeling Marx’s spine owed itself entirely to Abendrot and only partly to the Monarch ruling it, but that was why the silver-black monster was such a tremendously valuable asset. If Ker could count on anyone to keep the pack alive and fighting, it was this solemn, ferocious male. Despite the fact that Marx’s impenetrable gaze rested on the earth between Kershov’s paws, the white beast knew already what was to be done—and that Marx had preemptively guessed his Alpha’s decision.

“Of course, Marx.” And then, with a wry sharp smirk and a narrowing of his obsidian lantern, he added: “Anything for the High Commander.”