Of all the ways my wedding night could go, none of my wildest guesses had included this many knives. I’d expected some, but this was excessive. Dancing around a snow-laden conifer, I winced as another blade punched through with a burst of snow and pine needles.

  “Would you stop!” I shouted, ducking just in time as another knife whistled past, slicing through the snow-heavy silence. Even muffled by the dense pines, her deadly aim followed the sound of my voice like a bloodhound on a trail.

  “Raaaghhh!” came the shout from my darling betrothed.

  “Well, be like that, then.” I slid down a hill, my fine clothes soaking up even more snow. Pulling glamour from my hearth, the core of my cultivation, I took gentle, focused breaths, kindling the flame and pushing the heat to my muscles and skin.

  The burst of glamour chased away the cold and fatigue, and I bounded across the snow. My gifts were good for heat, but I had to pull on my limited reserves, as there was no ash or smoke in this frozen forest to pull glamour from.

  “Come back, you annoying rabbit.” Her shouts were loud enough that they echoed despite the thick snow and dense trees.

  “My fair maiden, I shall continue to hare away. Would it be possible for us to meet on the morrow to negotiate?” I couldn’t afford to die here and now. Dying tomorrow would be acceptable.

  “Just let me kill you, you utter waste of blood and steel. That you and your family thought yourself worthy of the Chox is a stain on our honour.”

  I sighed and pushed on. I was certain the concept of honour existed purely as a grand excuse to let knights act like morons. If insults to honour were being thrown around, there was no chance of any form of sane discussion. Not that the screaming, knife-throwing, or overwhelming sense of feral rage had offered much hope.

  I ran through the forest, the crisp smell of winter taunting me as I ploughed through it in my regal best. My hearth fluttered in my chest, struggling to maintain the bellows-like breathing technique I needed to keep it from reducing to embers. My body was clogged with impurities, blocking all but the tiniest trickle of power from reaching me. Still, thanks to my solid foundation, that was enough despite the difference in our power.

  I was marginally faster than my bride. I’d been stuck at the peak of Wood for so long I’d had time to carefully refine every part of myself, forging my mortal body into something that was ready to step into the true realm of the Iron-ranked cultivator.

  While Maeve might be in the stage above me, the difference between Wood and Bronze came mainly down to a matter of endurance, the amount of glamour one could hold, and the access to the second gift. She would run me down given time, but as long as I could keep going, I had a chance of freedom.

  A chance to escape and be finally free of the Harkley name and purge the taint of their vile deeds.

  To do that, I just had to avoid one very upset woman. I sought to see it as a simple task, even as my heart pounded in my ears and my breath felt like claws in my throat. My surge of confidence was dashed as said woman crashed onto the trail like a rampaging bull, and I was forced to dive back into the cover of the trees to avoid another round of glittering blades.

  I masked my form with puffs of smoke, blasting out some of the swirling vortex I kept under my clothes—an essential tool for keeping the biting winter chill from sapping my strength. I heard a screech of frustration as the blades zipped harmlessly through the fog. The Harkleys would’ve loved it if I’d been gifted mastery over fire glamour. It was one of the family affinities and would’ve made me a valuable pawn that could’ve been sold off to the Inquisitors.

  My smoke gift was always treated as a disappointment. Right now, it was proving its worth. In this frozen world, fire would’ve drained me in seconds and done nothing to aid me. I knew enough not to tangle with her.

  Before the wedding, I’d researched my bride-to-be. Maeve, once a rising star of the Chox, had stalled at the peak of Bronze. Stuck at a bottleneck, she’d ceased advancing—a challenge that no number of tournament wins had fixed. Her utter dominance of Bronze-ranked tourneys was often put down to her monstrously powerful blade gift. Unlike most, when she reached Bronze, rather than gaining her second gift, as was the norm, she instead intensified her connection to the blade.

  Among the Harkleys, some theorised she was hiding a second gift, as some gifts, like Dream or Poison, thrived when hidden. My first-hand experience trashed that idea. The ghostly copies of the blade she was flinging at me were formed from pure glamour, a technique that at Iron would be unremarkable but was beyond anyone but a double-gifted at Bronze.

  Even as a knife hummed in the gap between my legs, inches away from annulling our marriage by robbing me of the ability to consummate, I knew that it was good news.

  Despite the threat her power posed, it robbed her of the flexibility that a pair of gifts would offer. She had no method to warm herself apart from pumping herself full of glamour—something far less efficient than my smoke.

  As we forged our way through the forest, the rustling leaves and startled birds weren’t enough to drown out the eerie hush that had settled over her. She wasn’t speaking, and I didn’t care for that one bit. Silence meant calculation. I couldn’t allow that. With a practised charm, I donned the voice that once charmed aristocrats and disarmed rivals.

  “My lady of fair skin and raven hair, my soul weeps at the sin I committed in entering our bridal suite and seeing you in an unbecoming state. I should have offered my apologies then. Perhaps if I had not left in haste, this may all be avoided!” I might not have talent with the blade or raw cultivation power, but my tongue was razor-sharp. I could get barbs under the toughest skin.

  ”You jumped through the window!” she screeched.

  “Well, you were strapping a knife into your wedding garter. I am, of course, keen to make my betrothed happy, but the inclusion of blades in our underclothes seems a topic to be introduced once we’ve had some chance to get to know each other.”

  “Come here, you Harkley horror. Your family is a group of sick cultists. You’re the runt, your twisted body clogged. Your only value is the perfumes you make. You’re already dead thrice over! You just haven’t realised it yet.”

  I grinned, even as I dodged another hurled blade. She was fired up again, which served me well. Bouncing off a tree, I got a closer look at one of her blades as it buried itself in the bark I’d just parted with. My eyes, enhanced like my body, caught every detail. Apart from being translucent, the knife was identical to the others she’d thrown, down to a scratch on the pommel. Her technique really was astoundingly controlled. Amazing how a run for one’s life can focus the mind on the least important details.

  More important than the design was the weight of the glamour in the ghostly blade. It was a hefty amount of power. There had to be a limit. I’d thought I was the one whose endurance was in question, but with all these blades, her reserves had to run out soon. Already, she was throwing fewer than before. That wouldn’t do.

  “The Harkleys may be despicable, and perhaps I am little more than a pleasantly fragrant one-trick pony, but let’s not forget—it’s you who was considered my equal in this little arrangement.”

  “This farce of a wedding was nothing but bait. Your entourage is being slain like beasts in a pit. A pit I will top with your cowardly corpse. NOW STAY STILL AND DIE, YOU FUCK!” she screamed, and I felt the wind shift as three knives tore past me. By sheer instinct, I caught hold of a branch and flung myself down the hill, narrowly avoiding opening up a gruesome new addition to my anatomy. One of the blades came close enough to leave its mark, a hot, angry slash burning across my neck.

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  I found myself tumbling down the hill with an odd sense of peace. Most people would be horrified to hear that their wedding party was being slaughtered, to know the family who came to celebrate their union were being cut down. For me, it was invigorating.

  Responsible for my mother’s death, for my torture—the Harkleys had never been family. The only relationship they claimed was as my captors.

  I bounced and crashed down the steep hill until I rolled across the frozen water at the bottom of the gully I’d jumped into. The water was still frozen, but cracking as I rolled across it. The thaw of early spring was enough to leave it fragile. With little cover available, I used up some of my reserves, blasting out smoke to hide myself, and headed straight for the cover of the trees. Not a second later, knives rained down around me.

  Freshly motivated, knowing my captors were slain, and that soon the Harkleys would know I alone survived, I pushed on. Knowing that soon, my fate would be sealed. Behind me, I heard a storm of curses. Truly, my greatest advantage was that my betrothed was not thinking straight.

  I slid through the wilderness with ease while she carved her way through it. She kept talking to me and wasting time throwing blades, both of which did little to stop me.

  If she were smart, she’d rush out in front of me, throw everything into getting ahead, and then knife me or batter me to the ground with her overwhelming strength. All this wasted time was giving me chances. Chances to plot, find an escape, and get that lucky break.

  A chance that appeared as came round another pine, finding a shallow river that’d thawed leaving a stony river bank bare of snow. I’d had no way to hide my tracks, but now it was possible to lose her. Should I go upstream or down? Either way, she’d see the trail disappear and have to make a choice, buying me time.

  Both routes were quickly lost around a bend. Upriver offered more cover, thicker woods, and hid me from the gaze of Horkenstone Estate that sat downriver. The keep and surrounding lands were the site of our wedding. A fine place to join two minor arms of the great houses Harkley and Chox. It loomed large and was filled with her allies.

  Downriver it was. Everything I’d learned of Maeve Chox painted a woman who was unflinchingly direct. She wasn’t one to think long on subterfuge.

  Thanks to my tumble, I’d built up quite the lead, and even as I rounded the river bend, I could still hear her barrelling through the forest. I went on a short way before pausing to quell my breath and quiet my heart, which rang louder in my ears than a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil. I ceased my glamour, worried she’d sense it, and hid amongst the trees.

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, I had to stifle a laugh. I was finally free! I took a moment to appreciate the world around me. Being hunted through ice and snow was no reason to lose sight of the wonderful winter forest.

  Crisp snow blanketed everything, while little ice crystals danced on the wind, aiding my deception as they blew across the river. It was a rather beautiful place to be chased through. The pines, with their sharp green peeking out from under the snow, added a sense of life missing from the bare oaks, birch, and spruce of my native Albion.

  Maeve finally caught up, wearing the torn remains of her wedding gown. Her ensemble, which had once woven Harkley and Chox colours together, was now ragged and barely hiding her muscular form. Beautiful green eyes glared from under perfectly manicured brows, somewhat ruined by the veil plastered against her raven hair, which had once been styled into delicate plaits.

  She was stunning, though I preferred the demure look she’d had before. This version had too many knives for my taste. She wielded two blades—one a slender, needle-tipped copy of the others she’d thrown, the other a brutal tool as long as my forearm. Reaching the river, she stumbled to a stop, smart enough to notice the abrupt end of my trail.

  Her eyes darted about, settling on Horkenstone looming above us. The thin twilight of the setting sun painted it and the trees in reds and oranges. She didn’t seem to appreciate the beauty. She only grunted and turned upstream, cursing as she charged the wrong way.

  I counted my lucky stars I’d been betrothed to her. If she’d been competent, sidhe knows what might’ve happened.

  In case she showed a bout of unexpected intelligence and doubled back, I moved on as stealthily as one could with shoes full of water. With any luck, I’d stay ahead of her until the darkness really settled in. In the pitch-black night, I could get on with my real escape plan. Frustrating as this was, it wasn’t the end of the world. It’s not like I’d ever planned to spend my wedding night in bed with her.

  Not when I’d never intended to be at the altar.

  This was my only chance to escape the people who called themselves my family. I wasn’t about to let a church full of nobles and a maniac bride end five years of planning.

  The Harkleys had earned my hate from the moment they ‘saved’ me. They’d earned my betrayal a thousand times over with the torture they’d put me through. Happy thoughts now. No point in dark places. Just look around—I was outside, having a nice stroll through the forest, and for the first time in months, there wasn’t a handler in sight.

  Following the river, I found more luck—a cliff where water trickled to the edge of a frozen lake, cascading where ice hadn’t spread yet. It would be mere weeks before the spring thaw turned this into slush.

  I muttered thanks to the Seelie for my good fortune. The Winter Court was passing control to the Spring Lords. Running and hiding through winter’s depths would’ve been much harder. If we were much further into spring, the Wild Hunt would’ve likely scared fae beasts out of their hiding places, and this forest would be far deadlier. It was a perfect time to be fleeing for one’s life.

  Taking a deep breath, I pulled on my gift, and smoke formed around me. Raw formation of my gift took a lot more energy, a heavy price that I could barely afford. But I needed my fingers to be working. One slip here and I was in trouble. I started my bellows breath cultivation, trying to recall some of my lost energy.

  As always, I struggled to pull in glamour from the world around me, my pathways gunked up by my family’s haste to turn me into a marketable product, combined with my own machinations. Maeve wasn’t wrong about how that was a death sentence for cultivators.

  Well, most cultivators. I had a plan.

  Sure, with all those impurities, a cultivator could never ascend to a higher level and gain immortality. For me, who’d never sought cultivation, the idea of living twice as long as anyone I’d ever known back in my ‘peasant’ days didn’t sound like death at all.

  Before I started climbing, I dabbed at my nose, finding nothing but snot. Good. It hadn’t started yet.

  I slipped down the wall, where the falls had kept ice from forming. My arms ached, ice-covered needles pounding my fingers, but I managed to get down with minimal fuss. I didn’t dare risk the ice beside the falls, instead working along the cliff until I spotted ice marked with animal tracks.

  Gingerly, I tested the ice. While it gave a warning creak, it held firm enough. The sun had slid below the horizon, the lingering light was but embers in the sky. Soon it would be night proper, but rather than stumbling in darkness, I had a path. This cliff had shown me the way out. I just had to follow it.

  The moon was waxing, just short of full, giving me enough light to navigate without making me stand out. Even the snow had stopped. This situation just needed a bit of polish, and it’d all be golden.

  A few flakes fell and got down my collar, sending a shiver down my spine. Half a decade of being watched, spied upon, and monitored came to my aid. My instincts screamed I was being watched. I looked up to see Maeve at the top of the cliff, the light catching on her eyes. My heart leapt into my throat, and I cursed my luck.

  Given all the stories I’d heard of heartache and woe, I’d expected walking out on one’s spouse to be easier.

  Her knife glinted, but the angle was wrong. The cliff had an overhang, not enough to block her line of sight but enough to make the throw awkward. She weighed the shot, and our eyes met. She stared silently at me for what felt like an eternity before she disappeared.

  For a few seconds, I hoped. A bad habit, but one I refused to give up. I strained to listen, pumping the bellows of my hearth, pushing power to my ears. Then I heard it—the pounding of feet.

  “No, don’t do that!” My shout was too late as she leapt over the cliff edge and plummeted twenty feet.

  For a cultivator, a fall like that was nothing. She’d roll with it and not even notice. Or would have, if this had been solid ground. I heard the crunch of the ice as it splintered below her, and then the splash of displaced water, and she was gone.

  I watched in despair as all that remained of my darling betrothed was some bubbles rising from a hole in the ice.

  This was bad. Maeve might be at Bronze stage, but her gift didn’t generate heat. Given her limited cultivation and the power she’d used in the last two hours, this could kill her.

  I could only watch. Right now, under the ice, she was as good as dead. I might have some ability to generate warmth and heat, but that came from swirling ash and smoke—not something that handled submersion well.

  A blade blasted through the ice. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was the first time I was pleased to see that knife all night. My relief vanished as she began to thrash, churning the ice to pieces. She was in full panic. Worse, her desperation was moving her away from the shore.

  I cursed. I could leave her to her fate. That was the smart thing to do.

  That’s what a Harkley would do.

  “I’d better not get stabbed for this,” I muttered to myself.