The wedding was supposed to unite two clans.
Instead, it ended in flames.
Snow fell lightly over the Moonspire Temple, a fragile beauty that did little to hide the blood smeared across its stone steps. Crimson. Fresh. The kind that didn't come from any ceremony.
Inside the temple, Shen Li stood alone.
The bridal veil she once wore fluttered in the ash-laced wind. Her red wedding robes, once spotless, were torn down one shoulder, exposing skin etched with glowing silver lines—cultivation scars, forbidden and ancient.
She didn't look like a bride.
She looked like a curse come to life.
Outside, voices were screaming. The two great clans—her own Frostvale and her would-be husband's Emberheart—were locked in open battle. And all because she refused to kneel.
"You dare reject the union?" the elder priest had hissed, moments before she broke his arm.
"I dare more than that," she had replied.
And now… silence.
Only one figure approached her through the smoke.
He moved like a shadow—quick, quiet, trained. Not one of her clan. Not Emberheart either. His robes were midnight blue, lined with silver thread. A rogue cultivator?
No. Not rogue.
Hunted.
"You shouldn't be here," she said without turning. Her voice was low, but it carried.
"I could say the same," the man replied. "Bride runs from wedding, ignites her spiritual vein in sacred grounds, breaks three elders' cultivation cores. Shen Li, daughter of the Frostvale Lord... are you starting a war?"
She finally turned to face him.
And for the briefest second, something flickered in her eyes—recognition. Pain. A name she didn't dare speak.
"You're late," she said.
He smiled. "You're early."
"I didn't think you'd come."
"I promised I would, didn't I?"
They stood there for a moment, old wounds between them, words unsaid.
Then the mountain shook.
The barrier around the temple collapsed in a flash of gold light. Dozens of cultivators poured in—flames in one hand, spirit chains in the other. Their sect insignias burned with rage.
"Seize them both!" someone shouted. "They've defiled the sacred ground!"
Shen Li's fingers brushed the hilt of the blade tied at her hip. She glanced at the man beside her.
"Still good with a sword?"
He grinned. "Still better than you."
"Prove it."
And then, without another word, they moved as one—two spirits dancing through chaos, blades flashing, wind howling, blood blooming like red flowers on the snow-covered floor.
Above them, the Moonspire cracked.
And in the heart of the battle, their story truly began.