Lance's breath was ragged. Her face felt like it had been dipped in cold fire, and she could feel her heart burning in her chest. As first Iron-ranked fights went, she could have done better.

  The cursed weasel was a good counter to them both. Arthur had warned her that Moon Glamour struggled to repel any sort of constant pressure, and this arctic wind it exuded was the worst possible kind of pressure. A blast of icicles she could send back, rejecting the weight of the frozen water and the cold it carried. But this frigid wave? It was like being suffocated, a thief draining away at her very vitality.

  Lance refused to give in. Despite the creature's mocking clucking, she knew it had to be expending vast amounts of Glamour to hurt them. It was seeking to overwhelm them quickly so it could help the Ice Weasel that she assumed was its mate.

  If it was desperate to kill them, she could use that. She had conquered countless foes with only her grit, her skills, and her blade. She would do it again, even if the creature's power was leaving her hand numb and clumsy.

  The weasel came at them again. Lance cursed at the sight. The white fur, with hints of blue showing here and there, let it blend with its surroundings. Only those hateful black eyes and the sparkling of freshly formed snowflakes upon its coat revealed it. That and the couple of lines of frozen blood.

  Lance didn't wait for it to hit her this time. She had become too focused on defence, thinking she had to protect her ally. But Maeve had just proven she was quicker than it was. That freed her up.

  She slid to the side, armoured boots skating over the ice. The weasel shifted, its body whipping around to face her as it unleashed a savage attack. Claws lashed out, anticipating her position perfectly based on her slide across the ice. Combined with the attack, the beast unleashed a gale of breath laced with Tundra Glamour. The dense Glamour chilled the air so intensely that when it hit the floating plumes of vapour from her lungs, all that was left was a glittering dusting of ice.

  Her breath was all the beast connected with.

  Lance bounced away, her Glamour allowing her to shift her momentum in an instant. Her last strike had told her she wouldn't have the power in a single attack to seriously wound or slay the beast, not without abandoning her shield and planting her legs. A move that would get her killed.

  Instead, she tried out one of her newest attacks, a technique taught to her by her mother—a backup plan if her poisons didn't do their job. Dream Glamour gathered on her blade.

  Dream Glamour was the raw power of the mind. Not directed intelligence, but the unending cascade of feelings, memories and thoughts. Before Iron rank, it could only be used offensively against mortals. Even a Stone cultivator could use a tiny amount of Glamour to dismiss any interference. She was, after all, trying to affect their very body, where their aura held dominion.

  Now, though, with her intent and her own weaponised aura at her disposal, she could unleash the power.

  Cut through the distractions, the distortions and the defences to strike the heart.

  Her sword hummed as it sliced through the air, carving off one of the beast's tufted ears—an annoying but far from critical wound. It still delivered the payload of Dream Glamour.

  The beast recoiled in shock, like a snake rearing back. The deluge of phantoms and whispers from the Dream Glamour made it panic and lash out at imaginary foes. She and Maeve both managed to carve wounds into its exposed belly. It screeched and retreated.

  The beast's power had put her on the back foot. It had seemed a monstrous threat, something that would slowly sap her power, leaving her a husk. It was a lie. Even as she felt the numbness of the cold spread, she knew they had this.

  "You ready?" Maeve asked from beside her. The Chox scion had a plan. She, like Lance, was someone with narrow options when it came to cultivation, so she knew how to plan and set up her foe for a fall. Lance nodded, cursing as the wounds on her face screamed at the minor shift.

  Given space by its retreat, Lance pulled back towards an ice-coated oak. Behind her, she heard the sound of Maeve scrambling her way up the ice to the branches above.

  Having shaken off the Dream Glamour, the weasel let out that stupid clucking at them. Clearly annoyed at the idea of its prey fleeing, it returned, gunning for the person who had confounded it so.

  "Ready!" Lance called, setting her feet and preparing her Moon Glamour.

  The weasel slammed into her shield. Its attacks would have thrown her aside if not for the Moon Glamour helping her redirect the power. With it came a fresh wave of arctic frost rolling over her. Her lips burned, her throat clenched, rejecting the air as it would acid. Her arms were numb and shook, but she held.

  The Blade Glamour above her soared, and with a rush of air and a crack of ice, Maeve rode down a broad tree limb coated in icicles. The ice and wood hurtled down, falling like an executioner's axe. Lance felt Maeve accelerate its fall with her Levity technique. Lance dodged away, keen to avoid the wall of icicles, all reinforced with Blade Glamour.

  The weasel, disoriented from its failed charge, could only screech in protest before the icicles plunged into its back and side.

  The monster, with its Tundra Glamour, was protected from the cold but had no power over ice itself. With Maeve's Blade Glamour added to the equation, there was no way for it to resist the attack. It cried out in pain.

  From atop the branch, Maeve raised her blade, ready to strike the final blow. But the weasel wasn't done yet.

  The weasel screeched, whipping about and tearing its wounds open in a desperate attempt to survive. Maeve was sent flying as the branch was flipped out from under her, and one of the beast’s claws caught her leg, carving into the steel and sending the knight spinning as she fell.

  Lance dived forward. She bounced off of nothing to get the height needed to catch Maeve. They slammed into each other, and she used a quick burst of Moon Glamour to help distribute the force of their impact.

  Lance had abandoned her shield and had stored her blade. With both arms free, she managed to grip the other woman’s armour, getting both arms under her legs and torso. She managed to angle herself so she would land on her feet with Maeve in her arms and could then run.

  The weasel had other ideas. With them both still airborne, it used its tail, unrestricted by the ice piercing its body, to send out a final burst of Tundra Glamour. It threw everything it had—far more power than before—in a desperate attempt to take them down with it.

  Lance winced. They were airborne, and with Maeve in her arms, she knew she would struggle to get any kind of reflection right.

  The only option she saw was to throw Maeve in one direction and herself in another. That way, she could at least split its focus.

  Foolish.

  The words swept across her spiritual connection just as a furious gale pummeled the area. The twisting winds wove around her and Maeve without disturbing so much as a hair on their heads.

  Gring had arrived, and the pegasus was pissed.

  The Air Glamour easily dispersed the rolling wave of Tundra Glamour. The weasel, wounded and seeing a new threat, hissed at the sky. Gring snorted his defiance. The competing beast forgot its two wounded targets in its fury. A fatal mistake.

  Lance might have been without a weapon, but Maeve always had an extra blade.

  A great screech bellowed out as its left eye disappeared, replaced by the hilt of a dagger.

  Lance and Maeve stared down at the mortally wounded beast. It began to thrash. This wasn’t its dance from before—it was a chaotic and desperate attempt to take something down with it.

  Lance gripped the wounded Maeve, her muscles burning despite the cold, as she darted backwards, trying to avoid the whirling dervish of Tundra Glamour, claws and teeth. Its wounds tore open, the gouts of blood turning into puffs of crimson snow as they met the frigid air.

  She dodged between a pair of ice-covered trees, and the monster, still snarling, slammed into them, trying to catch her. The sound of cracking ice filled the air, and for a second, Lance feared the creature would break through. But then the air was filled with ice.

  Ugly thing.

  Above them, Gring crashed into the frozen branches, loosing a rain of icicles. He threw his Air Glamour behind them, accelerating their fall. The crystal-clear daggers slammed into the beast. Some bounced off its hide, but others pierced its open wounds or added fresh ones.

  The beast shuddered once and then, with a final cluck, fell silent.

  Lance let out a cry of victory and was shocked when Maeve, still in her arms, joined in.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Others safe. Kill monster. Coming soon.

  "Gring said they got the other one!" Lance smiled and began to focus on pushing her cultivation to accelerate the healing of her injuries. She would need a brew after this. She looked down at Maeve’s leg. The wound was already clotted, showing she was doing much the same. It was then she noticed who was in her arms. Lance grinned.

  "I did it!" She let out another hoot of victory.

  "You did it? We killed it, we worked together!" Maeve replied, crooking an eyebrow at her.

  "Not that—I saved a damsel in distress!"

  Lance enjoyed the look of utter confusion that settled over her passenger.

  "I'm not…" Maeve looked down at herself, as if only just remembering her gender. Then she looked at her wounded leg. "I feel distress is a strong term. And—"

  Gring landed in the centre of the pond, pulling with him a warmer cloud of air, which interrupted Maeve’s spluttering defence.

  "Well done, Gring," Lance said, running over to stand beside her mount.

  I am the best.

  The connection between them was still new, but the words always came through clearest when he was talking about himself. Lance didn’t mind.

  You are the best.

  "I hear them. Can you put me down? This is embarrassing." Maeve began to move restlessly in her arms, and Lance noted she could also hear the sounds of distant shouts and shattering ice.

  "I’ll do you one better. Let’s get you on Gring."

  Acceptable.

  Just as Maeve was getting settled in the saddle, the others burst through the ice and snow. Compared to the somewhat ragged and stained look the pair wore, the new arrivals still looked pristine. Only minor scuffs here and there indicated any sort of battle had taken place. Arthur was in the lead and looked positively distraught when he saw Maeve’s wounded leg.

  "Calm down, I’m fine," Maeve’s voice cut through his emotion.

  The prince had explained his power to them and how it could affect him. While he kept his second Glamour secret, he wasn’t about to put his allies in danger. Lance could respect that.

  "Lady Maeve, you are wounded." He stumbled over his words, gathering himself. His eyes flicked over Lance, and she didn't appreciate the flash of anger she caught from him.

  "Oh, what a surprise. One of us is wounded after being ambushed by an unexpected Iron-rank monster." Lance snapped back.

  "You did very well. A pair of beasts making a domain together is a rare thing indeed. This could have gone a lot worse." Gawain stepped forward, subtly placing himself between Arthur and Lance.

  Lance decided to ignore the prince’s mood. He had been in a bad mood all day and had just got out of a heated battle. She would let this slide.

  "Oof. Tundra Glamour. I hate that stuff."

  Bors was standing over the dead monster, examining it. The others had now arrived and started to relax, seeing the fight was done. Tristan had moved up to Maeve, who had just downed a brew, and was helping heal her leg. Nature-gifted had an innate talent for such arts.

  "Your hunt went well, I take it?" Maeve asked from her position on Gring, gritting her teeth against the pain.

  "We were on the opposite side of the domain when it attacked. Yanked all the icicles off a tree and hurled them at us," Gawain began the explanation.

  "Then the fucker stirred up a snowstorm. I’m not going to complain about fighting Taliesin in his smokescreen ever again. Got so much damn snow up my nose and nearly got spiked through the head twice," Bors called from over by the corpse.

  "Would’ve been in dire straits if Gaz hadn’t done—whatever it was—that made all the icicles break," Kay chimed in, nodding to the other knight.

  "Made them resonate, which caused them to break apart. I’m pretty tapped out now," Gaz replied casually.

  Lance couldn’t help but grin as he humbly pretended it wasn’t a great achievement.

  "Well, it was worth it. We’ll get a few kegs ready for this evening." Bors carved out the weasel’s beast core with earthen plates, avoiding touching the unnaturally cold corpse. "Also, I want to speak to whoever called that shit clucking. And our one sure as shit didn’t dance!"

  "That was our one. It seemed like a way to spread the Tundra Glamour," Lance replied wearily, taking out her own brew and downing it.

  She grimaced at the intense flavour. This was definitely one of the Lady in Peach’s concoctions. Potent, but at the cost of tasting like licking the inside of a boot after a hard day’s march through a swamp.

  "Let’s do this debrief somewhere warmer!" Kay called, and they all cheered—until Gawain shouted over them.

  "Halt! Job’s not done. This one was a female. I’d say she recently gave birth." Gawain was still hunched over, examining the corpse.

  "There’s more of these?" Lance groaned.

  "They'll be Bronze at most, but they'd all have the chance to become just like their parents. We need to hunt them down. Otherwise, there’s a good chance they’ll just set up here once they’ve grown in power," he replied.

  "That won’t be necessary." An unfamiliar voice rolled over them, earthy and calm. It was backed up by a heavy aura that overwhelmed the dwindling power of the slain creatures’ frozen domain.

  Every knight spun, hands going to blades, as out of the frozen forest stepped a lone figure.

  A woman with black braided hair and skin the colour of polished oak stood watching them. She wore a simple robe of roughspun cloth and next to no adornments. Yet her lone piece of jewellery said more than even a crown.

  It was a single emerald-green brooch, worn to secure her robes, fashioned into the symbol of a tree—both branches and roots spreading out to join an intricately detailed golden ring.

  Lance couldn’t see the detail, but she already knew that the edge would be decorated with all manner of plants and beasts. For the brooch and its bearers were known far and wide.

  As one, the knights fell to their knees in supplication. Maeve even slid off Gring, wincing in pain as she knelt.

  Who this?

  Druid. Lance sent back the thought, hoping her new soul bond did nothing foolish, as their group would not survive the insult.

  Druids were the most enigmatic cultivators on Euross, and little was known about them for certain. One rule that was consistent was that each and every one of them was Steel rank or above. They patrolled the deep woods, sowing some form of harmony between Euross and the fae realms. This was not out of duty to the people of the lands but in worship of the land itself.

  This sometimes led them to clash with knights and witches. These occasional points of friction rarely lasted long. Either people retreated, or they ended up dead. It took an exceptionally powerful Order or Coven to be able to resist their power.

  Their only hope here was mercy and to talk their way out. How she cursed Taliesin’s absence.

  "Why are you hunting these beasts?" The druid commanded. Gawain, as the huntmaster, was about to respond, but she raised a hand.

  "I’m not asking you." The druid flicked her fingers, summoning Gring closer. She also waved down Archimedes. The following moments involved a mixture of noises from the two mounts. Lance pushed down the urge to ask Gring what was going on, unsure what the woman might view as an insult.

  "So, not for sport. That is good. That is the first issue solved. Now to the second—the big one. His soul shows signs of a lost bond. Did he permit the one who bound him to you to perish?"

  The druid’s face was dark, her eyes boring into the unlucky knight. Lance tried to speak, but with a mere flicker of attention, she felt the evil eye settle on her. It felt like she was being strangled by vines thick enough to cover a castle. From the strangled sounds of the others, she knew she wasn’t alone in being restricted.

  They needn’t have worried, as Gring exploded into protests. Moving between the woman and Bors, spreading his wings defensively, Lance could feel the outrage through her bond. There was more nickering and neighing, but shortly after, the woman’s face smoothed out, settling into a serene expression.

  “Ah, so you found the lost bear! This is not why we entrusted the ritual to him, but his use of it was righteous. Your order seems acceptable, and the respect these humans show you speaks to their good nature.”

  “Hmmm, what a rarity. A fine and noble goal, to protect those in peril without want for personal glory. My fellow druids already report issues upon those passes. Migrations that disturb the land, fires spreading, and blood in the water. If you seek to deal with this, then you are no enemy of mine or my order. I shall mention this Round Table to the other druids and let them know of your purity.” The knights all shivered at the expectation placed upon them.

  “You and you. The bonds of these two, step forward.” Lance and Gawain shared a look but did as they were bid. Lance went to open her mouth but slammed it shut when the druid’s gaze fell upon her.

  “I am Biróg of the Druidic Circle. Among our responsibilities is to watch for those who might pervert the ultimate connection between souls and to drive out and expose those demons who hide behind false smiles. Your actions and deeds align with our own. Take this minor blessing and purge this infection from our lands. Wear them so others know you stand worthy. We will meet again to ensure that remains true.” Into Lance’s hands was pressed a small wooden brooch, bearing its own image of the world tree. She felt her eyebrows raise as she recognised the familiar shape.

  “Your grandfather was also rewarded with one of these. He and the great bear did us a service that we have yet to repay, though the spirits that guide us sense a chance to lessen that debt here.” Biróg nodded to Lance, and she nodded back. So far, it was the only communication she had managed with the enigmatic cultivator.

  “Now, we are done. I shall take the young weasels to somewhere more appropriate and help dismantle this domain. There is a glade a mile down the river, atop a small hill, where you may recuperate. Though I expect you to leave here at the first light of dawn. Good day.”

  Before either of them could say anything, a flurry of snow rose up, and then Biróg and the ferrets were gone. They all stood still for a minute, terrified that there was some manner of trap. It was only when Archimedes hopped over and nuzzled Gawain that they all started to relax.

  “Is she really gone?” Bors whispered.

  Did good?

  “You did great! We’ll get the nice bath out for when you get back!” Lance said, giving Gring scratches. She was joined a moment later by Bors, who leant over and hugged Gring, whispering his thanks.

  “Well, that was terrifying,” Kay said as she and Gawain began to herd them out of the domain.

  “I never thought I’d meet a druid. They are just as imposing as the reports say,” Tristan muttered. “Not everyone survives speaking with them.”

  “Clearly, speaking was their mistake. None of us got a word off, and we did alright,” Lance said, a slightly manic laugh escaping her lips.

  “You good?” Gaz asked, looking over her bloodied face and battered armour.

  “Could have been worse,” Lance replied, turning over the brooch in her hands. Gaz gave a nervous chuckle next to her.

  “What’s funny?”

  “I just had a terrible thought,” Gaz said, starting to laugh.

  “That we’re stuck as the Round Table now?” Lance grumbled half-heartedly. She wasn’t happy they were now undoubtedly stuck with a stupid name, but if the druids recognised them, it was significant compensation.

  “No, I was just imagining what would have happened if Spendlove had come out here instead!” The group went silent, all of them picturing it.

  The domain echoed with laughter as the knights headed out.