Moussaesa lived at atop the castle’s left tower. It was romantic, or something. As far as Twaintigre was concerned, it was a lot of cold and a lot of stairs. The chill grew stronger the higher he climbed, seeping through cracks in the stone wall and swirling about his ankles.

He crested the final stair and knocked on the red door at its peak. “Moss, it’s me. Twain.”

Silence. He hesitated a few moments, then tried the knob. The door swung open, unlocked.

“Moss, what are you going to do if elder brother’s assassins sneak in and poison your pillow again? Your face was puffy for a whole week, don’t you remember?” Twain chuckled. He pushed the door fully open and stepped inside.

Pale sunlight, filtered through low, gray clouds, left the room in a shadowed twilight. A sconce on the wall held a single candle, still lit, though the wick had grown short and guttered in a pool of its own wax. Overhead, a bucket dangled from the apex of the round room, catching snowmelt as it dripped slowly through the roof. To his right, a desk struggled under piles of paper, letters, and books, some of them coated in arcane markings that glowed faint silver in the low light. A four-poster bed draped in scarlet stood against the left wall, stripped of its bedclothes, a dress and a letter laid out atop it.

“Moss?” he repeated, walking slowly inside.

A gust of cold air rushed against him. He flinched and turned toward it. Moss’s window hung open. Knotted bedsheets, tied to a bed leg, vanished out the window. They danced merrily in the wind, mocking him.

Twain ran to the window and leaned out. The bedsheets reached the ground. The far end, weighted with a paperweight, traced circles in the snow far below.

His brows furrowed. “Moss, what are you up to now?”

He remembered the letter on the bed and crossed to it, leaving the window open. He hadn’t noticed earlier, but a long sheaf of hair had been coiled neatly beside the dress. A pure silver, it had the loose wave both his and Moss’s hair held. Instinctively, he touched the braid that draped over his shoulder to mid-back, then picked up the letter. Moss’s familiar handwriting greeted him.

Dear Twain, (or Mother):

By the time you find this, I will be miles away. I have no desire to be some human’s plaything. Instead, I seek glory and valor on the battlefield, protecting our grand country as Twain did years ago. Don’t try to find me. I ought to be miles away on our fastest horse by the time you find this letter. Twain: please forgive me for adopting your name to enlist. It is regrettable, but our army still persists in the outdated notion of only recruiting men.

“Forgive you, my ass!” he muttered, shocked. Moussaesa, on the battlefield? She was a powerful mage in her own right, but among such rough men for months, if not years at a time? Facing waves of darkfoes on the far side of the barrier, or fending off corrupted on this side? He shuddered. She’d never survive. The army was no place for a young woman like her!

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

The letter continued. Shooting a glance at the window, he kept reading.

While we’re at it, please inform the Mage-Emperor that I stridently oppose such an outdated notion as princesses only having value in marriage and birthing children. We will not be sending him a tribute, and I suppose he shall have to suck it up. I’ll return a valorous warrior, or not at all.

Dearest Twain, I hope you find this letter. Help me placate mother, will you?

Sincerely, your beautiful sister,

Moss

Twain heaved a deep sigh. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “Moss, you madman.”

Why the window escape? Why cut her hair? None of it made any sense. She wasn’t locked in the tower. She could have easily walked out the front door, and no one would have followed her. As for her hair, all moon elves wore long hair regardless of gender. Cutting it made her no more or less of a man than wearing it long would.

“You’ve read too many romances again,” he grumbled, tossing the letter on her bed. How am I going to break it to Mother? Who are we going to send? His only other female relative, his elder sister, was already married to a sun elf prince. Without Moussaesa, they had no one.

A small smile crawled across his face. Why send anyone at all? Moss is right. We oughtn’t bow to humans so easily.

“Twain, what is taking so long?” The Queen appeared in the doorway, skirts lifted to climb the stairs.

“Moss ran off to join the army. I suppose we can’t send a tribute now,” he informed her, unable to keep the smug note out of his voice.

The Queen’s face turned frosty. She stared at Twain. “Do you know what happened to the last nation who refused to send a tribute?”

He shrugged. “No one wants the northlands, and we support the northernmost point of the Barrier. The other races have no option but to let this pass.”

“Wrong. Four hundred and seventy years ago, the orcs supported the southernmost outpost of the Barrier.”

“The orcs? But they’re… darkfoes. They live on the far side of the Barrier,” Twain said, confused.

“Indeed,” the Queen whispered. Her eyes narrowed to slits. It was faint, but there was a hint of fury in her voice that made Twain shiver. “We only have one option.”

“I’ll ride after Moussaesa immediately,” Twain said, hurrying for the door.

The Queen caught his arm. “She could be miles from here, in any direction. The carriage must leave today. We have no time.”

Twain trembled, a premonition suddenly coming over him. “Then…”

Brilliant silver eyes bored into his. “Put on the dress.”

“Mother!” he protested.

“We must send a royal. We will send a royal. You will take Moussaesa’s place until I find her. A fortnight. At most, two. Moussaesa will not so easily escape her duty.”

“But I—I’m no princess,” he protested.

“You and Moussaesa have long been mistaken for one another. You both have my slender shoulders and your father’s hair, and similar delicate features. Besides, you’re a mere decade apart in age. The humans won’t suspect a thing.”

“Elder sister—”

“Is strengthening our bonds with our brother elves, as is her duty! Moussaesa has already fled, will you flee too? Duck away from your country, your mother, in our time of need?”

Twain swallowed. He glanced at the dress. “I…”

The Queen’s expression softened. She put a hand on his shoulder, her eyes warm, those of a mother, not a ruler. “I will not abandon you, Twain. Fear not. Moussaesa will likely come running back within the moon-cycle—you know how she gets, with her flights of fancy. And if she does not, I will stop at nothing to scour the border and recover her. Stay quiet, keep your head down, and think of it as a vacation in the human country. You will be home before you know it, and have a great measure more of my support for assisting us in this crisis.”

He took a deep breath. Every muscle tensed. His fists curled. The dress loomed large, all frills and curls, pretty buttons and decorative fur. Can I? Is it possible?

Mother… Mother wouldn’t abandon me. It’s only a few weeks. I can survive.

Slowly, he inclined his head, just an inch.