Back in his rooms, Mouse thumped down on the bed and began the slow process of peeling his boots off. His right ankle protested, tender, against any motion. Angling his boot, he shifted it slowly, loosened the laces, shifted it again, then yanked it off all at once. His ankle blazed with pain, but only for a second. Triumphant, he tossed the boot against the wall.

Red and swollen, the ankle underneath hurt to look at. Dark blotches promised bruises to come. He sighed and kicked off the other boot, then limped over to his chest and rifled through it. A bit of baybend, some silverleaf, and a little pipmint, and the swelling would be gone in no time.

He was in the middle of stirring them together when the door slammed open. Dayander charged in. “You’re going to get us all killed.”

“Good to see you, too, Dayander,” Mouse replied cordially. He tipped back the concoction and swallowed it all in one go. Sludgy and thick, the bitterness made his tongue smart and singed the back of his throat. He made a face and chased it with a glass of water.

“Breaking the Crown Prince’s nose—are you mad?”

“He’s the mad one, thinking he can get away with insulting us moon elves,” Mouse muttered.

Dayander frowned at Mouse, thick eyebrows knitting together. “Have you ever considered consulting me before you do something?”

Mouse nodded. He plopped back down on the bed and elevated his aching ankle. “I consulted you this time, didn't I? I took your advice, and placed it right in the garbage can.”

“Then what is the point of—” Dayander broke off with a sigh. He kneaded the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, Twain, we could get executed.”

“Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

Dayander gave him a look. “Given your recent history, that’s the last thing I want to hear.”

Mouse waved him down. “Did you hear about the rest of what happened?”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“The blighted, yes. How did it end up in the human kingdom, so far from the Barrier? I suppose one slips through every now and again, but a Champion of the Arena, no less…”

“That’s what I was wondering. And it’s worse than a mere blighted: he was a high darkfoe,” Mouse added, low and serious.

Those impressive eyebrows shot up so fast Mouse feared they’d fly off Dayander’s head. “A high darkfoe? Are you sure?”

“Black blood and all. He seemed to…er, promote? become one? –mid-fight. And…” Mouse trailed off. Darkfoes don’t speak. That must have been my imagination. A strange howl, maybe. A distorted growl.

“And?” Dayander prompted.

Mouse shook his head. “And that’s the most strange of all. It’s as if he had a massive amount of blight inside him that unleashed all at once. But that’s not how Blight works. It’s slow. Corrosive. I've watched it happen. Seen friends succumb, it's... it's excruciating. But not fast. No one goes from normal to a high darkfoe in a matter of minutes.”

“But he did?”

Mouse nodded. “He did.”

Dayander’s frown grew deeper. He stroked his chin, concerned. “I’ll have to alert the Queen about this. If there’s some new evolution of darkfoe, our troops on the Barrier’s edge deserve to know.”

“Agreed.” Mouse frowned himself. He rolled over on the bed, face pressed into a pillow, and breathed in, then out. Something wasn’t right. This whole thing felt wrong, he just couldn’t put his finger on it. Into the pillow, he muttered, “I don’t think that’s what it is, though.”

“Sorry?” Dayander asked.

Mouse rolled back over. “Nothing.”

Dayander grunted.

Cel rushed into the room from the servants’ entrance, a fresh jacket thrown over her stained breeches. “Mouse, they’re—”

A heavy rap rang out from the door. An imperious voice announced, “Summoning the princess of Soanna to court!”

Mouse sat up abruptly, startled. He glanced at Dayander, who stared back, equally lost. I bet this is Sabelyn’s doing. “Cel, fetch Felix.”

Cel stared at him blankly.

“The Mage-Emperor. Hurry. Meet me at court.” He slid off the bed and yanked his boots back on. His ankle protested, but the pain, dulled by the concoction, was bearable.

Cel gave a stiff bow and retreated.

“Your Highness—”

“Dayander, you come with me. This is nothing good.”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” Dayander grumbled. Hurrying to the closet, he exchanged his day coat for a more formal one, this one with silver buttons and braid along the lapels and cuffs.

Mouse undid the tie over his leg and freed his skirt to fall freely, but left the shortsword sheathed to his thigh. It would do little good in the midst of the humans’ doubtlessly well-guarded court, but the idea of having it at his side comforted him.

He glanced at Dayander. The older moon elf nodded back. Heaving in a last deep breath, he walked out of the room.