-Some time previously, the moon elf capital-

Icy wind sheered through snowbanks, rattling the towering evergreens' frozen needles. Snow piled high underfoot, sweeping in rolling drifts around the bases of the trees, and weighed heavy on their branches. Small snowflakes drifted from flat gray clouds low overhead, not quite snowing, but not still either.

In the far distance, a transparent, silvery-blue wall shimmered. Immaterial as a soap bubble, it vanished into the clouds above and the treeline below. On the far side of the wall, heavy clouds brewed, ominous, warning of a blizzard to come.

Careless of the distant storm, Twaintigre cut a lonely figure amidst a white sea. White fur ruffled over his shoulders and neck, sewn into a heavy black coat, silver buttons marching down the center line. Beneath, black trousers tucked into tall black leather boots, themselves fringed with fur. With light steps, he trudged toward the snow-laden village just visible through the trees ahead, a brace of rabbits slung over one shoulder, a shortbow on his back and a shortsword at his hip. His ears quivered in the breeze, tips slightly red from the cold.

Twaintigre drew to a sudden halt. Silver eyes flashed, colder than the snow. “Come.”

White shapes dropped from the trees. Three men charged at him, faces obscured behind white bandanas, fully dressed in white.

He drew his sword. With his off-hand, he threw the rabbits.

The lead attacker fell backward, grabbing at the rabbit carcasses on his face. The second attacker jumped at Twaintigre, sword raised high. Sweeping low, the third attacker slashed at his ankles.

Twaintigre jumped. He met the second man midair and parried a slash. A short kick knocked the man back. The third man’s blade swept through the thin air where his ankles had been moments ago. Before he could attack a second time, Twaintigre sliced downward and freed the man’s head from his shoulders.

As the second man fell backward, he threw his hand out. Silver flashed in midair. Twaintigre leaned to the side. The knife parted snow-white hair and drew a thin slash across his cheek, barely deep enough to draw blood. Eyes narrowing, Twaintigre threw his sword after the man. It struck the man in the center of the chest and sunk through to the other side.

The man’s eyes flew wide. Blood stained the white cloth over his mouth and soaked into his shirt. Limply, he fell into the snow.

The first man threw the rabbits to the ground and charged. Twaintigre dropped to the ground, pulled the shortbow from over his shoulder, notched an arrow, and fired in one fluid motion. The man's head snapped back. A third body collapsed into the snow.

Sighing to himself, Twaintigre collected his sword and rabbits, then moved to the first man. Instinct told him this was the leader of the troupe. He nudged the man’s mask down, curious.

A rugged face, dotted with stubble, stared blankly at the sky.

He snorted. Derisively, he yanked the arrow from the man’s face and wiped it on the man's shirt. Twaintigre straightened and walked on, leaving a single path through the snow.

It only took a few minutes to reach the palace. A bare shade darker than his skin, the imposing, square building blocked out the sky, blunt crenelations imposing even when unmanned. As much fortress as palace, the walls were notched from battles, the doors reinforced with iron, the windows little more than arrow slits. Uncharacteristically, a handsome black carriage, chased in silver, waited expectantly outside the palace. Twaintigre cast it a glance as he passed. The official carriage? What for?

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

The driver met his eye and nodded, tipping his hat. Caught, Twaintigre nodded back and hurried through the spiked portcullis into the palace. He dropped the rabbits off at the larder, then climbed the cold steps toward his quarters. The cut on his cheek throbbed, an angry red. Poisoned, doubtless.

He sighed again. Only humans would use poison on a moon elf. Every moon elf child played with poisons potent enough to floor a human man, and yet humans still thought they could outwit them at their own game. The sheer arrogance. The pain would dissipate in time, or, at worst, he’d have to waste a bit of antidote.

“Twain, my dear. What happened?”

He looked up. His mother, the Queen, approached him at a low jog. Her blue dress was fine, made of rich fabrics and thickly embroidered, but of a simple cut that allowed her flexibility and mobility. She put a cool hand to his cheek and tutted. “What caught you? A bird? A branch?”

“Elder brother’s assassins. Tell him the humans are still using poison. He shouldn’t pay them a premium for such laughable services.”

Her brows furrowed. “How do you know they’re your elder brother’s assassins?”

“Elder sister prefers our own race, and Moussaesa still hasn’t entered the fray. Ergo.” He tipped his head, smirking a bit. “And I recognized the leader. Brother oughtn’t invite his assassins around town for drinks.”

His mother shook her head, pursing her lips. “That child. He isn’t the brightest, is he?”

“I wouldn’t dare insult elder brother,” Twaintigre said earnestly.

The Queen retracted her hand with a small smile of her own. A moment later, it vanished. “Summon Moussaesa. The carriage has arrived.”

“What for?” he asked, furrowing his brows.

The Queen sighed. “The humans have produced a Mage-Emperor again. It’s only been two hundred years since the last one." She shook her head, long, straight hair gleaming. "Those creatures breed far too quickly. They’re a plague.”

“A Mage-Emperor?”

The Queen nodded, then glanced at him. Her eyes glimmered like the full moon, perfectly silver, unreachable. “Ah, you weren’t alive yet. Humans are the only race who can master all elements of magic, but they rarely accomplish the feat. A Mage-Emperor is crowned, by the law of the Barrier Alliance, whenever someone succeeds. According to legend, he or she appears only in the world’s time of great need, to lead us to greatness or protect us from some great foe across the Barrier.”

Twaintigre nodded slowly. “And Moussaesa?”

For a moment, the Queen’s face distorted, and he could have sworn he heard her click her tongue in disgust. But only a moment. He blinked, and the usual impassive mask had returned. “The Mage-Emperor, as Emperor of all races and not merely the human kingdom, demands fealty be paid. The law was established back in the days of the Great War, before the Barrier, when all races had to fight together to defend our land from the darkfoes that live at the fringes of the world. Back then, a Mage-Emperor was our only hope of pushing back the monsters from beyond, and so the races were willing to pledge anything to the cause. The humans, distrustful as they are, required that, upon crowning a new Mage-Emperor, a royal must be sent to the Mage-Emperor’s side as a symbol of our loyalty.”

“In other words, as a hostage to ensure we obey His Majesty,” Twaintigre muttered. Hatred flashed in his eyes. Humans! So arrogant, to think they can command us like this… “And even with the Barrier in place, we still follow this human law?”

“It was the third Mage-Emperor who established the Barrier, and the subsequent Mage-Emperors who maintain it. The establishment of the Barrier strengthened the Mage-Emperor’s power over the other races.”

Twaintigre scowled. “Ridiculous.”

The Queen extended delicate fingers to her temple and closed her eyes. “Don’t work yourself up so much, dear. Human lives are short, and goddess knows, Moussaesa stands to benefit from seeing more of this world.”

He leaned a shoulder against the wall, crossing his legs, and cast a casual nod upward. “Why not elder brother? He could use some time outside the country to alleviate his boredom. Better than endlessly sending cheap assassins my way, anyways.”

The Queen smiled gently. “You are adorable sometimes, my son.”

Twaintigre frowned. “How do you mean?”

“She’s to be a hostage, yes, but… it is, ah, understood, that the Mage-Emperor will pick his bride from amongst the candidates.”

Twaintigre stared, wide-eyed. He slipped down the wall, and only barely caught himself before he fell outright. Flabbergasted, he stuttered, “You… she…”

“It’s not as if there’s nothing to be gained from growing closer to the humans. They’re a powerful force, and only growing stronger. I wouldn’t object to such a union.” A rare smirk appeared on the Queen’s face, and she nodded upward. “Besides, I sent your brother last time. The previous Mage-Emperor was an Empress.”

His jaw dropped. “Elder brother was…?”

“Fetch Moussaesa. It wouldn’t do to leave the carriage waiting.” So saying, the Queen blew past him, silken hair stirring in the breeze.

Twaintigre stared after his mother for a few beats longer, then shook his head and climbed onward.