The sun hadn’t quite set, but within the hour it’d be touching the horizon. Less than ideal. It had taken longer than they’d wanted to reach the creature’s domain, the knights having to temper their speed to limit exhaustion and maintain a net that the beast wouldn't slip through. That, and they were tired from being constantly on watch. Maeve didn’t mind—she felt more like a knight than ever before.

  No more lack of intent holding her back. No governess hovering over her shoulder. No snarky comments from jealous cousins who coveted her connection to Gran. This was what she’d been raised for.

  She had to admit, though, she wished the quest hadn’t included quite so many frustrating elements. The stories didn’t mention having to memorise the many special codenames Gawain made up, nor did they include what to do when one of your cohort was totally distracted. She wasn’t sure why Arthur was acting so strangely, though Percy seemed smug about it, so she had to assume it was some kind of in-joke.

  Arthur was the only one of them to get injured so far. The beast hadn't let them get closer without fighting back, capitalising on his distraction to send out spears of ice, wounding him in a surprise attack. It was only a scratch, but it had done wonders to wake the rest of them up to the threat the beast posed.

  They’d slowed after that, making sure it couldn’t ambush them while it, in turn, probed them for weaknesses. The dagger-sized icicles, wrapped in a frost glamour, weren’t much of a threat given their armour, but if one slipped between the wrong gaps, it could prove lethal.

  They'd caught glimpses of the beast a number of times over the day—flashes of white moving through the lush greenery of spring. It was difficult to pin down what manner of beast it was, long and sinuously serpentine, yet furred and clawed.

  The creature knew they approached and now waited for them to enter its territory, where it would be strongest. Beasts reaching Iron followed a different path to humans and had options. The rarer of the two was what Gring and Archimedes would be aiming for—a physical change, taking on some new aspect that would mark them as unique. This was by far the harder of paths, requiring more resources and deliberate focus.

  Most wild beasts took over a territory, their power tied to a place. A razor-mouthed pike might become the lord of a stretch of river. In doing so, it reached Iron, and glamour would flow between the world and the creature. The rocks would become sharper, the creatures within more likely to gain some aspect of its cultivation. In turn, the beast grew stronger while in that domain.

  These could benefit humans—some beasts were fiercely protected, as they created sources of rare or useful glamour. Others, though, such as this ice-gifted beast, could threaten entire regions by shifting the natural order of things.

  Dealing with such threats was the oldest duty of knights.

  And what a duty it was. A dam of shimmering ice stretched across the silt and stone of the riverbed. The soft curves of blue crystal, dotted with beads of water, marked the battle between the monster’s domain and the rising forces of the Spring Court. Maeve felt a sense of awe upon seeing this monument to the beast’s power. The glamour required to push back the power of spring and change the course of an entire river marked this beast as different.

  With nine knights and two companion animals, they should’ve been a force that could handle almost any threat, yet standing before the domain, she couldn’t help but feel vulnerable.

  They’d split into four groups, approaching from all cardinal directions to better pen in the monster. At least one defender and one attacker per group. She’d been paired with Lance, whose dream gift would allow her to sense possible attackers. The goal was to flush out the beast, avoiding a scenario where it just led them on a merry jaunt through its territory, tiring them all out. If they were attacked, the others could come running. The ice-rimed domain was only a mile across, so reinforcements would be swift but not instant.

  Archimedes and Gring hovered above, watching to help give warning but avoiding getting too close. They were both only at Bronze rank and would be too tempting a target for the beast. Both companions had been less than enthused by this but had agreed to hold back and help coordinate their attack.

  Next to her was her partner for this hunt, Lance. The knight caught her eye, they both nodded, and together they began to move forward—Lance moving before her, blade out, kite shield flowing with moon glamour. Together, they leapt up and entered the monster’s domain.

  Maeve couldn't keep a smile off her lips as they landed atop the plateau of ice, her hearth humming with approval, like a whetstone drawn down a perfectly honed edge. The beast’s territory felt like stepping into another world. She could feel a pressure very much like being on the edge of a cultivator’s evil eye sweep over her, a reminder she was an invader in this domain.

  The oppressive aura wasn’t the worst feature of the place. That award went to the biting chill. The glamour in the air made it so that even her enhanced body felt the sapping cold pulling at her. The air itself carried glamour that enhanced the chill wind, giving it teeth strong enough to gnaw at her iron body.

  Maeve clutched at the small artefact that hung from her neck. The runic totem glowed as she pressed glamour into it, heat spreading through her body. After her fall in the lake, she’d received the totem as a gift from her grandmother, offering her a defence against the life-stealing cold.

  She’d never tell anyone, but she still sometimes had nightmares about those frantic minutes in ice-cold water.

  She shook off the dark thoughts and took in her surroundings. All around them was still, the trees frozen and coated in crystal-clear ice, as though dipped in glass. The snow crunched underfoot, the top layer of ice cracking with each step.

  There was no governess watching her, no politics to navigate, and no ‘acting’. She was still struggling with being patient and living up to her intent, so having a simple task was a relief.

  A blade in the right place at the right time will strike true.

  “I really hoped we'd left all the snow behind in the mountains. Glad we've not got to use monster lure here though.” Lance spoke, the near silence, only interrupted by the shaking of sharp-tipped icicles in the trees and the crunch of ice underfoot, clearly too much for the gregarious knight.

  “I still can't believe you dared to use monster lure that deep into the wilds.” Maeve responded, gently nudging Lance to adjust direction so they’d avoid stepping underneath a branch heavy with spikes of ice. The creature was undoubtedly ice-gifted, and as such, all this was ammunition for it.

  “I'll admit I underestimated how potent it was. I should've been tipped off given that Taliesin stripped naked.” Lance laughed, and Maeve couldn’t help but halt her stalking at the baffling statement.

  “Why was he naked?”

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  “Didn't dare risk getting it on his clothes. Why? Are you jealous?” Lance teased, even as her eyes never stopped scouting the area.

  “NO!” Wait, should she pretend to be? Why was Lance smiling at her? Urgh, she just wanted to hunt.

  “You two seem to be getting on alright, though you gotta realise he's besotted with Percy, right?” Her tone was still teasing, yet the question had a slight edge to it—perhaps a hint of concern?

  “Why are we talking about this now?” Maeve hissed at her.

  “Because being silent is worse. If we're in its domain, it knows where we are, so sneaking is out. Better to make some noise so we don't accidentally assault our allies, plus it helps stop me from getting in my head and tensing up.” Lance replied, her tone shifting to one of total professionalism. Maeve couldn’t help but feel a bit of envy—she’d yet to crack the issue of tensing up. While her mind was slowly embracing the patient approach, her body rebelled. It demanded action.

  “Can we talk about anything else?” Maeve shook off the tension that was building in her limbs, trying to embrace the advice. Still, the discussion of her deception was too distracting.

  “Sure,” Lance nodded as they entered what at first appeared to be a natural clearing. Frozen trees loomed over the empty space, a weeping willow growing out of a small hill that rose before them. Its branches, empty of leaves, were weighed down with long, razor-tipped icicles.

  “Well…” Maeve, floundering for suitable discussion topics, was about to default to her safe option and ask Lance about her blade when her attention shifted to the unnaturally flat floor they were walking across. Given how her last winter hunt had ended, she’d stayed keenly aware of her surroundings, and with a scrape of her armoured boot, she cleared the top layer of ice from the floor. Beneath them was a frozen pond, the shallow water entirely turned over to ice. She shuddered—at least it was ice all the way down here.

  She looked up to report the issue to Lance, only to find the knight’s stance had shifted, her shield up and blade in a cross-body guard. Her body was tense and ready.

  “We’re under attack. It’s an Ice Weasel.” The icicles on the trees rattled as a glamour-enhanced shout from Gaz broke the silence. Maeve went to dart forward, but Lance’s only move was to block her. Sword and shield levelled in the direction of the scream.

  “Why aren’t we helping?” Maeve slid to a stop, confused.

  “Something’s not right.” Lance’s eyes watched the frozen trees and bushes that lined the pond.

  “Your friend is being attacked.”

  “We’re furthest from them. The others will get there first. Something is off, though—feel the air, look at the trees. It’s all too cold.”

  “Yes, that’s what happens when you coat everything in ice.” Maeve’s body ignored the way her intent was itching at her and Lance’s apparent indecision. She felt herself take a step forward, only to have Lance crash into her. The other knight swung up her shield to guard them both against an innocent ice-covered birch tree.

  Maeve would’ve complained about the rough treatment, but the tree chose that moment to detonate in an explosion of ice, bark, and frozen sap.

  From beside them, out of the mist of dust and splinters, burst a head the size of a wolf. A ravenous, narrow jaw lined with razor-sharp teeth aimed at Lance’s exposed side. Maeve was off balance, her sword out of place, so she responded with her favourite technique.

  She made to throw the knife, gathering blade glamour as her arm whipped out. At the last moment, she tightened her grip on the hilt, retaining the blade but letting the glamour continue. A shimmering construct, a ghost of the blade, hummed through the air, and the monster had to duck out of the way or swallow the knife.

  The weasel wasn’t halted, ducking under the attack, it barrelled through them, sending them both stumbling. As it passed, the air grew unbelievably cold—just taking a breath hurt her throat. Maeve launched herself to her feet and pushed glamour into her totem, the heat helping push back the inexorable cold.

  “This is Tundra glamour.” Maeve called out. She’d read about the rare glamour—it was power over the cold itself. While it didn’t allow the user to throw around ice, it was just as dangerous. The cold generated was a threat to even powerful cultivators, and with enough power, the glamour could chill steel enough that it warped and shattered like glass.

  “Never heard of it, and it’s difficult to reflect. Hurts to breathe.” Lance was standing and breathing shallowly, the open visor of her helm framing a pale face. Above them came a concerned whinny, and Gring began to descend.

  “Don’t come down here, go get the others!” Lance shouted. For a second, the pegasus looked like it’d disobey, but then it shook its mane and, with a beat of its wings, flew away.

  “It’s not controlling ice but the temperature.” Maeve called out as they both watched to see where the creature would appear next.

  The creature slunk from the frozen underbrush, its long, sinuous body moving with an unnatural grace. Its fur was pure white but did not quite blend into the snow—it shimmered with a dusting of crystalline frost, as if its pelt held a whirling snowstorm. The air around it crackled with a biting chill, its breath curling in the cold like a hunter’s mist rolling across frozen ground.

  Maeve had never seen a beast look so smart before, so cold and calculating. That was until it abruptly hopped into the air before flopping to the left and right. The strange movements ruined its calm image, yet exposed a level of disturbing agility, and this crazed dance made it difficult to anticipate. Maeve wondered if this was the mesmeric dance. It was certainly confusing, but beyond leaving them both warily tracking its movements, it served no apparent purpose.

  That was until she felt the first wave of cold carried on the air. As the long, sinuous body flowed, it was sending gouts of frigid air at them. Even with her artefact, she could feel the power crashing into her.

  Lance snarled as the next wave hit her. “So a perfect counter to the pair of us, who have to get in close. I loathe the smart ones.”

  A stuttering noise, a cross between lion purring and a giant hurriedly clicking its tongue, echoed across the ice-covered forest. It sounded almost like it was taunting them.

  “Is that unseelie noise supposed to be clucking?” Maeve swore. If that was it, she was going to have words with the scouts.

  “Watch out,” Lance shifted as the creature emerged from the frozen mounds of snow. Maeve threw another blade over her comrade’s shoulder as the creature slammed itself into her shield. Claws screeched on the steel for a split second before a burst of moon glamour reflected the attack right back at the weasel, sending it skidding across the frozen pond.

  The glamour couldn’t stop the wave of chill air, strong enough to cut through even the totem’s protection, rolling over them. Lance cried out in frustration as ice formed on her eyebrows and cracked her skin.

  Maeve wouldn’t let her defender’s sacrifice be in vain. She threw herself into her levity technique. Blade glamour didn’t lend itself to such uses, and it was only through studying with an expert that she’d found a way to make it work. Her technique revolved around the concept of how the smallest twitch of the hilt would make the tip of the blade carve left and right. Her hearth was the hilt of her power, and as she fed glamour and movement to her body—

  With a small step and little glamour, her body carved through the air, her boots skating across the floor. She arrived, blade outstretched, glamour pumping, intent flaring, and cut into the flank of the beast, ignoring how the hilt of her sword felt like it was burning her hand—the insidious cold of the beast seeking to corrupt her blade.

  The creature hissed and turned to claw and snap at her, only to find empty air. She’d already retreated back behind Lance. The gash in its side steamed, bleeding red for a moment before, with a wave of glamour, it hardened in place. Maeve cursed—there went the plan of making it bleed out.

  “Can’t do that again, air hurts to breathe. Can’t reflect it much, not like most things,” Lance spat through cracked lips.

  “We need to kill it quickly.”

  “Any suggestions on that? I felt it trying to freeze my eyes.” Lance remained calm, but there was an edge to her voice that hadn’t been there before. Maeve focused on what she knew. This beast wasn’t the one that had attacked them before—they’d planned for a beast that could throw around ice, not this.

  Maeve’s eyes hunted around, pausing only when her artefact demanded glamour. The bitter cold was draining it faster than ever before. It was then, as she sought out the glamour to feed it, that she found a path out.

  A blade in the right place at the right time will strike success.

  “I’ve got a plan, but you’ll need to get it under that tree.” Maeve grinned—her intent never said she had to strike with the blade in her hand!