“Back so soon?” Dayander asked.

“Did you bring the dueling dress?” Mouse replied, hurrying to the wardrobe.

Dayander frowned. “How did you end up in a duel this quickly?”

Mouse licked his lips. “Remember that hypothetical incident?”

“They knew it was you?”

Ah! This one? Mouse pulled out a blue dress, only for a long, shimmery trail to follow it out of the wardrobe. He scowled and put it back. “No. I still have my head, don’t I? Reginald suspects, but he can prove nothing. Hence, a duel.”

“Do you have a champion in mind?” Dayander asked.

“Myself.”

Dayander sighed.

Mouse narrowed his eyes at him. “What?”

Dayander hesitated before he spoke. He wandered to the window and leaned against it, thick brows protecting his eyes from the bright sunlight. Far below, the palace grounds stretched on and on to the distant wall, dotted with gardens, ornamental lakes, sheds and gazebos. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “You are Moussaesa, an accomplished mage, not Twaintigre, accomplished duelist and veteran soldier.”

“These people don’t know me from a darkfoe. They won’t notice anything out of order.”

“It is not proper for a princess to fight herself. You risk drawing the court’s ire.”

“Perfect. I don’t want to marry the Emperor.”

“The Crown Prince will likely pick a challenger himself. You are not unmatched under heaven, Twaintigre. Duels to first blood can quickly become duels to the death. He could choose a powerful opponent.”

“I hope he does. I doubt the man has seriously fought even a single time in his life.” Mouse pulled out a dull blue dress in a dark, military tone. Roses were wrought into the navy-stained leather panel sewn into the chest, and a steel-paneled corset, also worked with rose patterns, ensured the wearer remained both attractive and protected.

Mouse frowned at the garment. “Who made this thing?”

“Her Majesty the Queen personally built it for your sister.”

He twisted his lips. Mother… your taste is a little heavy. Did the corset have to be that tight? How was Moussaesa supposed to move?

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In the end, there wasn’t another dueling dress in the wardrobe. He shrugged and started undoing the ties on the black dress. “Help me change.”

“Pick a champion, Twaintigre. It isn’t proper.”

“If it isn’t proper, why did the Queen make Moussaesa a dueling dress?”

At that, Dayander paused. He blinked. His eyebrows quivered, and he licked his lips. “Your Highness, it isn’t…”

Mouse snorted. Derisively, he shucked the black dress. “If you won’t help, I’ll dress myself.”

Dayander pressed a hand to his temples. Cast half in shadow by the window’s light, the faint lines on his face deepened. Dayander was older than the Queen, and at this moment, he looked it. “Twain, I am begging you. Take a champion. You will immediately reveal yourself if you do not. Your footwork, your swordsmanship… Please, Twain. If you do nothing else for me, do this.”

Half-dressed, Twain sighed. His shoulders slumped. “You’re going to take every last bit of fun away from me, aren’t you.”

“Twain, that’s not—”

“I know. I know. I just—” He closed his eyes and ran a hand down his face. “At least help me put on the dress? If it’s not a dangerous challenger, if the Prince decides to take me on in person—can I fight then, at least?”

Dayander left the window and took Mouse’s hand. “Promise me you won’t fight unless you’re sure you can succeed without giving yourself away.”

“I promise.”

“Good. I’ll fetch one of your bodyguards to serve as your champion.”

“I have bodyguards?” Mouse muttered.

Ignoring his remark, Dayander took the dueling dress and helped Mouse into it. He fitted the steel corset to Mouse’s body and fastened the latches behind him.

Mouse sucked in a breath. To his surprise, the corset moved with him. He touched it, curious. Layers of tiny chains knitted together so finely that the panels appeared solid, but flexed like fabric. When he pushed on it, the chains stiffened together and took the weight of his blow without transferring the force to his body.

“Forget what I said earlier. Can Mom make one of these for me?” Mouse asked, twisting and swinging his arms to test the fit.

Dayander bowed and retreated.

Left alone, Mouse turned a few circles in his room. He drew his shortsword and moved through a few forms, slashing and thrusting, then retreating. The short dress only came a few inches past his knees. Below, lightweight leggings encased his legs, layered under riding boots.

Though some races, sun elves and demons included, showed all the skin they could, moon elves tended to lean conservative in dress. Works out in my favor, Mouse reasoned. More fabric and less skin made it easier to disguise himself as Moussaesa.

“En garde, knave,” he whispered to an imaginary Reginald. He lunged, a feint. In his mind’s eye, Reginald fell for the feint and desperately blocked. Mouse smirked. He met Reginald’s sword head on, rattling the blade. Reginald’s grip weakened. Turning his blade, he freed the sword from Reginald’s hand, then lashed out with his blade. Imaginary Reginald fell over, trembling with unmistakable fear.

Holding imaginary Reginald at swordpoint, Mouse stomped on the man and ground his toe in. Through clenched teeth, he hissed, “That’s for my sister.”

The door swung open. Dayander led a young elf in. “Mouse, I brought—”

Both Dayander and the warrior beside him stopped and stared.

Caught, Mouse hid his sword behind him and stomped a few more times. “There was a spider, haha.”

“Did you vanquish it in one fell strike?” Dayander asked dryly, eyebrows raised.

“’Twas a mighty battle.” Mouse lifted his skirt and sheathed his sword, pretending not to care. Despite his best efforts, his ears still flushed faintly pink.

Dayander cleared his throat. “Your Highness, may I introduce Celedesta.”