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 called, ducking as another knife sailed over my head. It was honing in on the sound even though muffled by the snow and trees.

“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 voice echoed, deadened by the snow and dense trees.

“My fair maiden, I shall continue to hare away; would it be possible for us to meet on the morrow?” I couldn’t afford to die here. Tomorrow might work better, though. That could do.

“Just let me kill you, you utter waste of blood and steel.”

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.

I was marginally faster than my bride, but the exertion took its toll. I was far more flushed than my blushing bride would likely be. My heart pounded in my ears and my breath felt like claws in my throat. Stuck at the peak of the wood stage, only fire had hardened my body, everything. I was inferior to her, who was at peak-bronze and held many times my reserves.

The only reason I hadn’t already been slain was that I’d been stuck at the peak for so long, making my body the perfect example of that limited layer of cultivation. I also had my Ash & Smoke gift helping to keep me warm. While not fire, they were arguably more useful right now, swirling a billow of smoke beneath my starched finery.

My bride’s gift, I assumed, had to do with blades. Either that, or she had some enchantment to summon them. It was impressive, seeing her form copies like that. I’d only seen the one under her dress. That gave me an idea.

“My lady of fair skin and golden 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.”

“You jumped out the window!”

“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 monster. Your family is a group of sick cultists. You’re the runt, and your body is full of impurities. You’re already dead thrice over! You just haven’t realised it yet.”

I dodged another hurled blade. Confirming something with a glance, I saw this one was identical to the others she’d thrown, down to a scratch on the pommel. Amazing how a run for one’s life can focus the mind on the least important details.

I sensed its fae nature too, likely from her gifts. I’d heard of such techniques during my long years of study, so it seemed at least one of her fae gift had to do with the magic of blades. This aligned with the research I'd done. Though no one had discovered what her second gift was, she'd never even used it in a tournament. That gave me the smallest glimpse of hope. A blade gift was no use against the cold, and anything that wasn't useful in a fight was unlikely to help against the cold, meaning that every minute out here would pull on her hearth to sustain her. With all these blades, her reserves had to run out soon. Already she was throwing fewer than before.

Another advantage was that, frankly, my betrothed was not thinking straight. I slid through the wilderness with ease while she barreled 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.

And I think I’d just found it. A shallow river yet to freeze over. I’d had no way to hide my tracks until now. Should I go upstream or down? Either way, she’d see the trail disappear and have to make a choice, buying me time.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Both routes were quickly lost around a bend. Upriver offered more cover, taking me further from Horkenstone Keep, the wedding site joining two minor arms of the great houses Harkley and Chox.

Downriver it was. Maeve Chox seemed direct. From what I’d learned, she was stuck at a bottleneck at peak Bronze, which gossip said she took poorly.

I’d built up quite the lead, and even as I rounded the river bend, I could still hear her barreling through the forest. I went on a short way further before pausing to quell my breath and quiet my heart, which rang louder than a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil.

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.

I took a moment to appreciate the world around me. Being hunted through ice and snow wasn’t reason enough to lose sight of the forest's beauty. 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 colors together, was now ragged and barely hiding her muscular form. Beautiful hazel eyes glared from under perfectly manicured brows, somewhat ruined by the veil plastered against her golden 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, and I practically saw her spot Horkenstone Keep, illuminated by the setting sun. Grunting, she turned upstream, cursing as she charged away.

I counted my lucky stars I’d been betrothed to her. If she’d been competent, this would’ve been hellishly harder.

Not willing to risk her showing unexpected intelligence by doubling back, I moved on as stealthily as one could with shoes full of water. With any luck, I’d stay ahead of her until nightfall. Then 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.

The Winter Court was passing control to the Spring Lords, and I was only too happy to see it. Running and hiding through winter’s depths would’ve been much harder.

Taking a deep breath, I channeled heat into my core. As always, I struggled to pull in glamour from the world around me, my channels 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.

Not that I agreed with her. 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 liked back in my “peasant” days didn’t sound like death at all.

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 test the ice beside the falls, instead working along the cliff until I spotted ice marked with animal tracks.

Gingerly, I tested it. While it gave a warning creak, it held firm enough. The sun had faded to embers on the horizon. 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 waning, 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—fine, maybe more than a bit of polish. Then came more, in heavier clumps. I only thought, odd, before my heart launched into my throat.

I looked up to see Maeve at the top of the cliff, the light catching on her eyes. 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 loomed, not enough to block her line of sight but enough to make the throw awkward. She weighed the shot and then, surprisingly, left.

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, 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.

I watched in despair as my betrothed disappeared into the icy water. A few bubbles and a cracked window of ice marked her landing.

Internally, I cringed. Maeve might be at Bronze stage, but from what I’d seen, her gifts 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 gather warmth and heat, but that came from swirling ash and smoke—not something that handled submersion well.

A blade blasted through the ice. She rose, thrashing as she churned the ice to pieces. She was in full panic, worse still moving 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.