Ryn had been in plenty of dangerous places before.
Fortresses. Battlefields. Royal kitchens.
But nothing was quite as terrifying as an elven seamstress with a tape measure and opinions.
"Hold still, Lord Ice Fox," said the silver-haired tailor, circling him like a predator. "If you move again, the sleeve will wrinkle."
"I am holding still," Ryn muttered, standing in the center of a glowing chamber while six elves adjusted the ceremonial outfit he hadn't agreed to wear. "You're the ones moving around me like a pack of judgmental hummingbirds."
The seamstress frowned. "We prefer tailor eagles, my lord."
Ryn groaned. "Of course you do."
He looked around helplessly, but Lysandra was nowhere to be seen — which was probably intentional. She'd spent most of the last few days alternating between arguing with the elven council and loudly pretending she didn't know him.
He couldn't blame her.
Two Weeks Earlier
After the "duel," Princess Ilyndra had kept her promise: Lysandra was granted diplomatic privileges and freedom to move within the palace.
Ryn, on the other hand, was granted… supervision.
The elves called it "honored protection."
He called it "glorified house arrest with really fancy curtains."
His quarters were absurd — walls woven from living vines that glowed faintly at night, a balcony overlooking the endless forest, and servants who bowed every time he sneezed.
He had a bathtub big enough to drown a horse in.
He tried not to think about how long he might be staying.
The first escape attempt came on the third night.
Ryn had timed everything perfectly — the guards changed every hour, the vines that patrolled the balcony recoiled from frost, and the walls, though alive, could be tricked by silence and patience.
He almost made it to the outer terrace before a voice drifted from behind him.
"Leaving so soon?"
He froze. Literally. The temperature dropped around him in reflex.
Princess Ilyndra stood by the railing, wearing a flowing robe of silver leaves. Her smile was faint but unmistakably amused.
"Going for a midnight stroll," Ryn said casually.
"In full gear, with a rope and stolen guard boots?"
He looked down. "...Cardio?"
She chuckled softly, eyes glinting. "You're bold. I like that. But perhaps next time, you should try the front door."
The vines beside her curled lazily, almost like guards stretching.
Ryn sighed. "Noted. No more backdoor cardio."
The second attempt was more creative.
He spent the next few days pretending to cooperate — smiling during etiquette lessons, bowing at the right moments, even letting a trio of overly enthusiastic elven bards write a song about him titled "The Frozen Heart of the Fox."
(It was catchy. He hated it.)
Then, one quiet night, he disguised himself as one of the gardeners. He even carried a watering can.
It might've worked too — except the plants snitched on him.
Halfway down the corridor, the vines on the walls suddenly grew eyes and shouted, "Intruder!"
He froze mid-step. "Oh, come on! You talk now?!"
A familiar laugh answered him.
Princess Ilyndra emerged from behind a column, arms folded, expression halfway between admiration and exasperation.
"Twice in one week," she said. "You're persistent."
He shrugged. "Persistence is my only redeeming quality."
"Not your charm?"
"Debatable."
She gestured, and the vines loosened around him. "Return to your quarters, Fox. If you wanted a tour, you could have asked."
He sighed. "You really don't like letting people go, do you?"
Her smile softened. "Only those I find interesting."
The days that followed blurred together — lessons in elven customs, endless meals served with ritual precision, and more green food than he thought possible.
Lysandra, meanwhile, grew increasingly frustrated.
"You're enjoying this," she accused one morning when they crossed paths in the palace garden.
"I'm surviving," he corrected, feeding a glowing fish in a pond. "And possibly developing a taste for moss soup."
"This isn't funny, Ryn! You're practically engaged to her!"
He blinked. "Practically?"
"She's already chosen the date!"
"Oh. That explains the suit fittings."
She threw up her hands. "Do you even care?"
He hesitated. "...Little bit. Mostly about the soup, though."
Now — Two Weeks Later
The palace buzzed with anticipation. Elven servants decorated every corridor with glowing petals that drifted like snow. The engagement was scheduled for the next full moon — barely a month after Ryn's accidental victory.
He'd stopped trying to escape.
Not because he liked staying — but because he realized every attempt ended the same way: with Ilyndra waiting, calm and smiling, as if she knew his plan before he made it.
It was eerie.
It was also kind of flattering.
That evening, the princess invited him to the Grand Balcony overlooking the sea of trees. Moonlight filtered through crystalline leaves, painting her hair in green fire.
Ryn stood beside her, hands in his pockets, trying to look anywhere but at her.
"You've been quiet," she said.
"I've been trapped in a forest kingdom for two weeks," he replied. "Running out of clever things to say."
"Impossible."
He smirked beneath his breath. "You think highly of me."
"I think curiously of you." She turned to face him, her gaze steady. "You joke, you steal, you run. But when you fought me, for a moment, I saw something else — something ancient, cold, and afraid."
Ryn's smile faded slightly.
She stepped closer. "What are you hiding, Ice Fox?"
He looked away. "If I knew, I'd tell you. Probably."
A small silence lingered. The wind stirred the vines; the forest sighed.
Finally, she said, "Our customs are simple. When an elf finds someone who can match their strength — in battle or in will — they bond. It is not ownership. It is… balance."
He laughed quietly. "You mean, you challenge people to fights, then marry whoever survives?"
Her lips curved. "You say it like it's strange."
He tilted his head. "So, what if the person declines?"
"Then the vines take their place in the garden."
He stared at her. "…Right. No pressure then."
She smiled again, this time softer. "Rest easy, Fox. I won't force you. But perhaps, when the moon turns full, you'll stop running."
Later, back in his quarters, Ryn lay on his bed, staring at the glowing ceiling vines.
Lysandra's words from earlier echoed in his head.
You can't just let her keep you.
And Ilyndra's voice followed right after.
Stop running.
He sighed, covering his eyes with an arm. "Great. Two princesses, zero escape plans, and a wedding next month. Definitely living the dream."
A small, faint laugh echoed inside his mind — the voice of the Ice Fox spirit.
"You attract chaos well, little thief."
He groaned. "Don't start, furball. I'm dealing with enough."
"Perhaps this bond will teach you control."
"Or kill me faster."
"Either way, entertaining."
He sighed again, rolling onto his side. Outside, the forest hummed softly, and for a brief moment, he let himself laugh — quietly, tiredly — because somehow, being engaged to an immortal elf princess was still better than being dead.
For now.