《Fencing Hearts》


 The Childrens Fencing Tutor

    "That''s all for today, students."


    An audible groan echoed among the children in Cressia''s Fencing in the Fine Arts class, but they quickly settled down as she spoke again.


    "As you know, summer break is upon us, so this is our last class for the next few months."


    Another groan reverberated through the old makeshift gymnasium.


    "Now, before you leave, what do I always ask you to remember?" she asked.


    "To serve and protect others!" the students replied.


    "And what else?"


    "To uphold our nation, our King, and our Prince!"


    Cressia was pleasantly surprised at how well she''d drilled those dull, compulsory Zantzar platitudes into them. She waved them off with a smile. "Now, enjoy your summer break!"


    "Thank you, Ms. Cressia!"


    The horde of unwashed children rushed past her and out into the city streets, eager to play out their new fencing dreams. With that, another year of swordsmanship had been passed on to a new generation.


    For Cressia, the year had been a roaring success. Her team of young fencers had demolished most of the neighbouring kingdoms in tournaments and duelling sessions between realms, leaving Zantzar the undisputed fencing leader on the continent of Mylea.


    She was proud of her students. Over the past year of stiff competition, they had shown the same passion for swordsmanship that she herself had when she first joined the King''s regiment several years ago. She had come a long way since the plucky young immigrant who travelled by sea to fulfil her dreams of becoming a world class fencer, only to find herself enlisting in a foreign army so she could train under the famed Zantzar Blades, the most prestigious group of fencers on the continent.


    She was of a middling height, with sun-straw blonde hair that was ritually cut into a military bob style every morning, and elven ears so absurdly long that her youngest students thought they''d been pulled on in a battle with an Orc.


    And she was an elf, in contrast to the human children that circled around her during their lessons together. They''d grown naturally accustomed to her, and so did their parents after the initial wariness around an elf had worn off.


    They were thankful that their children found a hobby that kept their minds of the troubles that brewed on the Zantzar border. At times, Cressia was often invited in to their homes for a hot meal in gratitude for the work she did in the boroughs where she lived.


    Hot meals that she gladly took, as the troubles that brewed on the border had severed her veteran pension down to a mere pittance. In the past few months she had leaned out considerably since her expenses began to wane.


    In the middle of cleaning and putting aside the fencing equipment of Masks, foils and gloves, she realised her own summer now would be free again to do as she pleased, which for her was travelling across the world of Mylea.


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    She would first visit her parents in the Elven Conclave to the west, and share what misadventures she''d found herself in that hadn''t made it to their letters, and then she would visit another country where she hadn''t been before.


    Pendaline, Withendom and Turangate had already been crossed off her list: She wondered if she visit the snowy alps of Venada or the dragon cliffs of Yan-Bon-Mor instead.


    She really, really wanted to see those dragons!


    Zantzar itself was a deeply cloistered nation, largely in devotion to it''s monarchy which had ruled it for almost a thousand years. Outside of a small harbour in the south it was landlocked between the other kingdoms of Mylea, whom at times in the past had tried to occupy it either through force or through underhanded diplomacy.


    It had resisted all efforts, but the trade off was a people who were incredibly clannish and closed off to anything that might''ve emerged from another nation state.


    In the cities streets she walked in there were flags fastened outside every Inn or Apothecary shop she passed by, always pointed in the direction of the White Spire, the royal residence that lorded over the place.


    Conscription was mandatory, and her oldest students would soon be called up for the army in service to the King. Even the makeshift gymnasium were they trained had once been a barrack in the darkest days of the Zantzar-Pendaline Wars.


    Such devotion to royalty ran through every aspect of Zantzar life, and it extended to how an elf like her, whose people had disposed of their own nobles once upon a time, was treated.


    The people in the boroughs may have been kind to her, but the unnatural scent of bigotry had never went away in the city. She was often derided as a "royal-killer" who wouldn''t hesitate to deliver the king''s head on a platter to the elven radicals in the west. Even her Military Service hadn''t shielded from such unfounded claims. She had long given up wearing her Bloodstone Ring, a medallion received for bravery under action, while she was out shopping in the markets.


    Despite all those misgivings, she was content with the life she''d carved out here, especially how much she''d achieved despite the hardship in those initial first few years of military life.


    She wasn''t rich, but she was independent of her parents, and she was able to live alone unlike most of the people she''d grown up with in the conclave. The pittance she got weekly was still enough for a small thatch cottage to live in, and subsided her interests in books, writing and the materials needed to paint.


    So many military anecdotes coloured her attempts at prose and landscapes, especially from the Sea-Shanty Wars when the Zantzar Blades stood against a rogue armada filled with the worst miscreants of the Mylean Sea.


    She enjoyed retelling the misadventures of daring swashbuckling escapades to her class between sets, how an hour of fighting tricky pirates was worth more then a thousand on the fencing mats. They loved it, and soon their hearts were set upon joining the newly established Navy to rid the Mylean seas of pirates.


    As she came to that small cottage of hers, she noticed the postage box outside was stuffed to the brim with letters. They weren''t the screeds of parents that were in trouble, they were stamped with the red seal of the King''s Court.


    All of them were.


    She took only one, and made a mental note to keep the others as kindling once the Winter months rolled on ahead. Her cottage had little in the way of amenities, only a slender bed, a shelf for books and and a few easels which had bared the brunt of a few creative paint attacks.


    She sat on the bedside, and noticed the letter was addressed to a Rt. Captain Cressia Caravania, and sent by Marshal Weria on behalf of the Prince.


    She remembered the Marshal very well. Short and stocky, always willing to lap up whatever his senior officers had told him to do, no matter how pitiful the Zantzar traditions seemed to an outsider like her.


    But he was a good fighter nonetheless, willing to fight and had once once saved her life on the outskirts of the border in an ambush by Orcs. That same border where all the troubles of Zantzar seemed to be emanating from in these wretched days.


    She broke the seal, and began reading what turned out to be a very strange proposal from the Prince of Zantzar indeed.

 War Rooms and Bed Rooms

    "This is disgraceful, spreading our troops out like this will only invite chaos!"


    "We run the risk of being overwhelmed if we don''t!"


    "This hammer and nail strategy has never worked against Orcs!"


    Prince Alvin, heir to the Zantzar throne, had come down with a mild case of boredom as he watched his top commanders argue in the War Room. Slicked up in wolf furs and plaid sweatpants, Alvin watched the scene unfold with heavy, glazed eyes, for military jargon had always confused and befuddled the young prince for as long as he could remember.


    "This soldier goes here!"


    "We¡¯re outflanked here!"


    "We can''t afford to lose another battalion in the outskirts!"


    The incursion into the dark heart of the Orclands was symbolised by a vast array of wooden soldiers; a planned revolt was marked out by a crop of houses towing the line.


    His commanders fought over the placement of tabletop pieces like toys in a creche, until eventually a wooden soldier fell from the corner and broke into several tiny pieces.


    They would gasp and they would shriek and suddenly no one could remember who had pushed hard for the soldier to hide within the furthest corners of the Yan-B¨®n-Mor mountains for a sneaky attack.


    Now, if only they would take as much precaution with the lives of their real soldiers on the battlefield.


    "What does Prince Alvin think?"


    The sudden question shook him out of his near slumber. Only a small part of him had been focused on the tabletop, the rest lingered on his artisan studies and the thought of creating more heirlooms once he got the hell out of here. He loved fastening jewels together under the shaky moon of the Zantzar kingdom, but now he was bound by his birthright to the line of duty for the foreseeable future.


    "If Marshal Weria wills it," Alvin replied halfheartedly, "then we¡¯ll use the hammer and anvil strategy."


    The conservatives within the war cabinet weren¡¯t happy with such an answer, but Alvin didn¡¯t care about tradition. The Marshal''s strategies had provided steady victories in the campaign against the orcs, and victories were all that mattered to him and to the people of Zantzar.


    "Dismissed!" Alvin exclaimed. He didn''t want to hear whining grace the room, which so far had been a hot spot for such ill-mannerisms time after time after time again.


    Weria, however, stayed on with a roll of parchment bundled in his hand.


    "News on father''s condition?" Alvin asked.


    ¡°No, not that,¡± Weria answered, ¡°But the elven fencer we contacted has agreed to help us.¡±


    ¡°An elf?" Alvin was frustrated, "Seriously, Weria?"


    ¡°I understand your frustration, my Lord,¡± Weria replied, "But we¡¯ve done our research, and she¡¯s the perfect fit for a tutor."


    Weria handed him the parchment, filled with intelligence gathered by the best spies in the kingdom, and the young elven fencer¡¯s life was laid out before him: A pure-blooded member of a commited Elven Conclave family, she had joined the Zantzar army in pursuit of excellent swordsmanship training under the Zantzar Blades. She served her full term of five years and fought in the Sea-Shanty Wars before leaving to establish a small fencing school in the boroughs, specialising in the epee and sabre.


    ¡°Are you sure there isn¡¯t anyone else we can confide in?¡± Alvin spoke, still very displeased with this whole elf business, "If the other kingdoms learnt we had an elf in the royal co-"


    ¡°What remains of the Zantzar Blades are either dead or trapped in the siege." Weria cut him off, "You do recall, don''t you?"


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    Alvin did recall. His disastrous foray into war strategy had cost the lives of several battalions of soldiers, most of whom had been caught in an easily avoidable Orc encirclement.


    He never again entertained the advice of the conservatives within his command, but he had to coax Weria back into the fold with promises of being commander and a considerable plot of land once the campaign was complete. From then on, Alvin was always willing to stand behind Weria during courtyard politics.


    "She''s the only one left in Zantzar who can train you to a royal standard."


    "But she''s an elf," Alvin countered, "You know those same people who murdered their own Kings and Queens?"


    "Yes, and she''s also a commoner of this kingdom," Weria pointed out, "And me being a human commoner didn''t stop you from taking me under your wing, did it?"


    Alvin could only shrivel up in response, an admission that he''d already lost another argument and was devoid of any reason or logic to continue further.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take my leave of absence then,¡± Weria replied stiffly, ¡°Besides, there¡¯s bigger things to worry about than elves.¡±


    He left the war room and suddenly Alvin found himself alone once more, unwilling to even look at the tabletop that held the blueprints for tomorrow''s attack.


    However, Weria was right. This campaign against the Orcs wouldn¡¯t last much longer, and soon Alvin would have to deal with much bigger things than he was prepared for.


    Things such as fencing with long lost ancient spirits, who¡¯d made a complete mockery of the Zantzar armed forces so far, and eventually him unless this strange elf woman could help him prepare.


    It pained him to admit it, but he really was a pacifist right down the core of his nobility soul. It wasn''t sure where he''d inherited such a trait; neither of his parents had been the type to stray from the passion of a duel, nor had his twin sister Aeryn been off put by the cuts and bruises she''d taken along the way as she trained up to be the 1st Lady Knight of the Zantzar cavalry.


    That terrible shame had always hung over him, that he was the cowardly twin brother who preferred to spend time fashioning new outfits together instead of the rowdy rough play that Aeryn was infamous for.


    Growing up, there were times he''d tried hard to wiggle out of it, stowing away in cupboards or hiding in the ostrich stable, but eventually his twin sister found him and suddenly he would be twisted into all sorts of terrible knots and secret knight choke holds.


    But that was in the past, and now he often wished Aeryn was still around to put him in a choke hold. He was the only one left from the Zantzar royal family still in a functional capacity: The King was perpetually bedridden with a terrible malaise, the Queen had long shuffled off of this mortal coil and Aeryn had disappeared into the nether after she¡¯d been snatched by forest spirits who¡¯d only been regarded as myth previously.


    The cowardly prince was now suddenly on his to guide the kingdom, and he was so completely out of his depth that he surprised everyone by not having drowned in a sea of despair yet.


    He decided he would go and see the king, who had once been a source of comfort when he consoled into him about his troubles. His own mother hadn''t excelled in soothing motherly qualities, so he had to make do with King Theodore, the famed Orc Slayer of the Zantzar Kingdom.


    He found himself indulging in terrible superstitions as he walked. It was hard not to be superstitious after your twin sister has been snatched by creatures hardly any believed in, but now he walked on Ostrich egg shells wherever he went. He even worried that he would soon bring such spirits with him when he visited King Theodore, and snatch whatever life force was still left in him.


    It was only when the door was left ajar by a nurse, as it was tonight after a difficult feeding session, would he eventually cave in to enter and not feel responsible if his father¡¯s life was to come to and end.


    The handmaidens on duty were waved off, leaving the two alone for a brief chat. His father was still ghastly pale, but a slender stroke of red had emerged across his cheeks. Even on death''s door, the Red Sailor still found time to mark his face with crimson.


    He wanted to reach out, to feel some sort of guidance in the midst of all this chaos, but retracted away when he realised he could end the entire Zantzar bloodline with one chance encounter with the plague.


    The guidance as a child often came before staggering tales of heroism on the Orc front, from which the sensitive Prince had tried so hard to escape from. Stories of escapades, of great battles, of a young king who charged head first to meet with the orc threat where no other cowardly Monarch from the noble families of Mylean.


    They were of course much more bloody that and without the theatrics, but the tales of bloodlust hung over Alvin until he was nauseous with frightened dread.


    Then he would scamper away, while Aeryn stayed behind on her father''s knee, waiting for the chance for him to tell her another, and soon the two were lost in a daze of daydreaming and storytelling.


    He couldn''t take it, all those unpleasant memories of being caught in a family who drenched themselves in bloodlust. He scampered out once again from his father''s brooding shadow, shutting the door behind him, deciding to take his chances with the imaginary spirits who¡¯d snatch him instead.

 The First Meeting

    Cressia was distressed, very distressed, to see that she was causing a ruckus in the boroughs as she left for the royal Zantzar palace.


    The day after Weria had received her letter of acceptance, a royal carriage came bustling through the boroughs, and with it a quartet of royal soldiers to act as its runners in this strange rickshaw ride manner


    Her neighbours came out to wish her well, and she had to console the children by telling them she would only be gone for a little while, and that fencing classes would resume when she came back at the start of Autumn.


    The youngest among them, three little girls who still slipped into magical worlds of tea parties, cakes and romantic notions, brought her flowers to send her off, for they assumed that Cressia was being whisked away to wed the young Prince Alvin, someone they had once claimed for marriage themselves.


    ¡°You mean, you¡¯re not going to marry Prince Alvin?¡± Eliza, a feral redheaded child, asked disappointed.


    ¡°Sadly not,¡± Cressia smiled as she pressed the bouquets of lilacs and gooseberries back into their hands, ¡°I¡¯m going to the royal palace to train him, not to marry him.¡±


    ¡°But¡­¡± another girl, Lydia, piped up, ¡°Isn¡¯t he going to fall in love with you? You¡¯re so beautiful and kind!¡±


    ¡°There is more to love than beauty and kindness Lydia,¡± Cressia answered amid a stream of blushes, ¡°There¡¯s also strength, bravery and care for your fellow person. I will teach Alvin these things, much like I have taught all of you.¡±


    The three girls stood silent complementing Cressia¡¯s big words, but nodded. Then Amelia, the shortest of the three, held out a small brooch as a parting gift for her favourite teacher.


    ¡°Then take this with you, for good luck!¡±


    It was made out of soft exquisite green felt, and designed in the shape of the Great Spiral, the universal symbol of the Elven Conclave movement.


    It would be considered obscene in some Mylean nation states, banned in others, yet these young girls had actually taken out time to make a personal copy of it for her.


    ¡°Thank you girls, that is so wonderful of you!¡± Was all Cressia could muster up, before she embraced all three of them in a long overdue hug.


    As she departed in the rickshaw, she found herself musing on the brooch. It went well alongside the flat colours of her own outfit - viridescent tunic, black stockings and boots, a white fluffy beret - the same prideful colours of the Elven Conclave flag.


    She had knuckled down deeply in her elven heritage with her outfit of choice. She was already going to stand out as an elf in the palace, so why not just go all in?


    When Cressia finally disembarked from the rickshaw after a short journey of near misses and bumbling security checks, she quickly grasped this was the first time she was within the perimeter of the White Spire.


    Of course, as an elven recruit, she was given the grunt of the work when it came to Night Watch duty on the towers nearby, but this really was the first time she was inside the courtyard of the Royal Palace.


    She heaved and she sighed as she made her way up the near endless steps, passing the large temple of the Dominion Sect in the distance. Its priestesses always seemed to be kept busy in servitude to its patrons, not just within Zantzar, but across all of the human kingdoms. Their arms were often incredibly chiselled, rock solid, from spending hours swirling a concoction of dark and creamy spirits, believed to be the souls of the lost, consumed by humans in order to purge them and their ancestors of any lingering sins that hadn¡¯t been counted while in Sunday Service.


    Weria was waiting for her as she climbed the last step, along with another fab four of soldiers who were to escort her through the palace to meet Prince Alvin. They exchanged pleasantries, the usual mix and match of cheeky humour and civilian stories that soldiers seemed to hold close to their hearts, and Cressia tried to pick out any worthwhile information from him as they walked.


    She felt a grim picture emerging on the Zantzar border despite Weria¡¯s attempts to stretch the truth. Orc attacks had steadily decreased with the Zantzar¡¯s army presence on hand, but entire garrisons had disappeared without a trace in the Mylean Forest, and now Traders were unwilling to go through it to get to Pendaline and the other neighbouring kingdoms.


    The few that had escaped championed the idea that it had been Forest Spirits that had snatched the soldiers up, but that was crazy talk, so the stories had been squashed in exchange for it being hungry Orcs instead.


    Weria¡¯s countenance, white as a sheet as he recounted all this her, told Cressia that he was terrified of spirits, but she could not find herself falling into despair quite yet.


    That was not their style, nor was the increase of Orc attacks in recent months. True, they¡¯d happening sparingly here and there, but never to this extent as


    Then the forest, which had always been a safe spot for the Orcs, was now increasingly becoming a no go spot for them. How this was all interconnected with lost spirits, neither Weria or Cressia had any idea


    They¡¯d grown increasingly wary of the Orcs, but in reality they¡¯d have to worry about snatched by spirits. She felt frustrated when it came down to that, that she could not even get something as simple like that right. She felt a sense of frustration, of how primal the


    "Enough of this chitchat," Weria was wearied with worry, ¡°I''m sure you''re looking forward to your meeting with the prince.¡±


    "I''m curious, to say the least.¡±


    She was a little bit curious. She''d always held a strong democratic streak within her, not as much as her parents, 2nd generation members of the Conclave, but strong nonetheless. The idea of a royal family always seemed so patently absurd to her when she read about the feuding human kingdoms in the east from across the Conclave. Royal families? In an age of government by the people?


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    Yes, the elves once had royal families too, but they¡¯d been purged more than 80 years ago and brought an end to a long slump in elven fortunes with it. Any lingering monarchist sentiment soon died a slow and painful death as the Elven Conclave went to increasingly desperate lengths to rid itself of it¡¯s Monarchist past.


    Seeing Weria struggle and pull his hair out over Alvin¡¯s frivolous choices reminded her of the fable of the Moon King, who, according to legend, was where the Zantzars traced their lineage back to.


    By magic or by natural law, the Moon was beckoned to the ways of this grumpy old king, until the Moon soured and refused to budge, leaving the southern part of Mylen drenched in darkness. Once the king had capitulated to its demands, the Moon withdrew, but the resulting shock of sunlight nearly turned southern Mylen into a desert wasteland afterwards, leaving the Moon King without a place to call home.


    Of course, the scholar within her of course could trace the tale''s lineage back to old elven forest folklore (don''t tell the humans that), that had been written to explain why Zantzar often had the most extreme drifts in season, but surely Prince Alvin wasn¡¯t as vindictive and pernicious as that?


    Going through the courtyard, she felt like a green pea trying to swim through a current of red, white and gold. The palace''s layout, with its narrow hallways and sharp stifled corners, didn''t help to put her nerves at ease either. It did not feel elvish, or even like the simple stone homes back in the boroughs, Soldiers seemed on guard everywhere, but she  gave a faint nod of recognition to any former comrades who might¡¯ve stayed on in service after their initial contract was over.


    As Weria left her at the entrance to the Royal Garden, her mind lingered on what to ask as a boom, on what a vain prince dressed in wolf furs might be willing to lose to get training in return.


    She had learned to bargain once, on behalf of the Zantzar King no less, when she was faced with murderous pirates who were secretly fond of elves reciting sea songs for their amusement. But with Alvin, all she could offer was an attempt at training him, which made her reluctant to press hard in demands.


    Perhaps she could use the moment to give him a piece of her mind instead, and mention how much the boroughs we''re suffering, how veterans like her constantly felt they skirted the realm of dignity and had to resort to squatting in derelict houses in order not to sleep out in the cold?


    His responses would be short and sweet, much like the ones the headache inducing tellers have at the Post Office where she drew out her benefits. Perhaps a beheading would be on the cards if she pressed too much on how little windfall she¡¯d gotten from the royal coffers.


    Maybe sell one of those priceless paintings to help your subjects Alvin?


    She felt like a child being forced to wait outside the keeper''s hut during the middle of her school years. So many afternoons she''d spent outside it over the most trivial or crimes, such as failing an archery test or being unable to recite the paragraphs of the Conclave¡¯s party pledges off by heart.


    She wanted to move, to stretch her legs, to not feel like she was heavily worn down by the sight of the guardsmen who kept track of what came and went in the middle of the palace.


    There was a subtle chink in the large garden doors, and whispers that flew in and out between guardsmen. A curt nod was given to her, and suddenly she was allowed to move into the garden as a free woman.


    Prince Alvin was alone and aloof, trimming hedge shrubs that lingered between being overtaken by a growing number of strawberries or raspberries.


    She didn''t understand the etiquette between royalty and commoner, should she make the first word or should he? It embarrassed her that there was such a class distinction between them and even more so that she allowed herself to be affected by it.


    He turned to grasp a handle, and gave her the chance to slither out of an embarrassing faux pas.


    "Ah, you''re the elf Weria was telling me all about!"


    "How can I help you?" Cressia asked, content with her tone. Respectful, but not tinged with a case of bending over backwards like so many servants in the palace seemed to be inflicted with.


    ¡°Sit down first, and we¡¯ll talk,¡± He motioned to the table and chairs in the centre of the garden with a wine and jug on it, "Sake?"


    Sake was Venada¡¯s most prized export, and one glass was worth a lifetime of the pitiful pension Cressia received for her service. She wasn¡¯t the biggest social drinker, her ¡°socialising¡± having been reigned in because of budget cuts, but neither was she a complete teetotaller.


    She took a glass and found an incredibly salty taste awaiting her, not at all like the sweet Pendaline soft drinks she treated herself to when in a bit of funk. It was certainly not worth a lifetime of dreadful pension payments.


    ''How can I help you?" She asked once more, a part of her not too happy to refer to him as her prince yet. She watched as he picked his words carefully - uncertain, unwilling, unyielding - to admit he was in trouble, much less to an elf.


    An Elf. That¡¯s all she was to him, wasn¡¯t it? one of those strange creatures who lurked in the west, who often lingered in the same pages of loathsome creatures such as trolls, ogres and orcs? She doubted he¡¯d ever been around an elf this long alone without a vast array of diplomats and grim generals to help him deal with the wilder folk. Good! It would make negotiation with him so much easier to deal with as she outlined her demands.


    ¡°I''m in need of private lessons.¡±


    "In what?" Cressia asked, keeping her tone neutral.


    "In sword fighting."


    Cressia raised an eyebrow. ¡°I am but a competitive fencer, Prince Alvin.¡±


    Blast! She¡¯d already blown her solemn vow of not referring to his excellency by his proper title. She began composing herself back into the distant elven swordswoman image she was trying to convey.


    "I know, but you studied under the Zantzar Blades, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Cressia admitted warily, ¡°I was trained by Supreme Swordmistress Helena.¡± Alvin was probably aware of this already, but if he turned out to be a dullard then perhaps there was no harm in repeating it again.


    ¡°Normally a royal would¡¯ve been trained by the leader of the Zantzar Blades, but Helena disappeared across the border some time ago,¡± Alvin paused, and then pressed on, ¡°I would like for you to train me, if you¡¯re willing.¡±


    Cressia regarded him with a curious expression. ¡°You actually want me to train you in sword fighting?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Alvin replied, unable to even glance at the elven woman across from him, ¡°My skill with a sword has been subpar at best, but I wish to improve.¡±


    Cressia remained silent as his request. She had trained numerous children before, all at the same time, how difficult could it be really to teach a royal prince new tricks?


    ¡°Training with the Zantzar blades was rigorous, not just in technique but also in discipline and mental fortitude. Are you up for that challenge?¡±


    He nodded like a headstrong bulldog. ¡°Yes, I¡¯m willing to do everything to succeed.¡±


    ¡°There will be trials and tribulations, far beyond anything you¡¯ve faced so far in life.¡± Cressia¡¯s tone was serious, but her expression was beginning to soften at such determination.


    ¡°I understand, I will do anything you ask of me.¡±


    Such formal language, Cressia thought. She began to cringe, both at this strange conversation they were having and the roles they¡¯d slipped into. Her as the ancient Sword Fighting Mentor, and him as the young apprenticeship looking to take on the world, each of them pretending it had nothing to do with that whole spirit business that was beginning crop up in the Zantzar forests.


    She reminded herself that they were both in their mid twenties and still very new at figuring out this thing called life.


    Cressia smiled, and extended her hand. ¡°Very well, I will agree to train you.¡±


    ¡°Thank you Cressia, I will not let you down.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll begin now!¡±


    ¡°What?¡±

 The First Test

    ¡°You heard me fencing boy, we¡¯re starting now.¡±


    ¡°But we don¡¯t even have any equipment to train with.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m SURE there¡¯s something we can use in this palace,¡± Cressia hollered at the two guards on duty, ¡°Scrounge up some Fencing equipment from the palace basement, would you?¡±


    They left and they came back, and soon the pair were jostled up in the best fencing gear the kingdom had to offer, albeit one that was filled with cobwebs, dust and all other sorts of strange residue from decades of being stranded in a basement.


    Cressia¡¯s suit was a perfect fit, but Alvin seemed befuddled and uneasy within the confines of the blemished heavyset gear. He would be such an easy target for the torrent of spirits that seemed to be hidden in every nook and cranny of Zantzar, before being as mincemeat for the ogres that were deep in their servitude.


    "Do you have any fighting experience at all, Alvin?¡± Cressia asked, withholding the prince title once again.


    "Aside from being roughhoused by my sister,¡± He meekly answered, ¡°No, none whatsoever."


    She wouldn''t have needed the confirmation - he had broken every fencing convetion


    His fencing stance was as squared as a penguin! His sabre was raised like an old Venada samurai! He lifted his neck so high in the air that it would¡¯ve been a clean cut for even the most self harming of fencers.


    Cressia smiled. Forget mincemeat - he would''ve been turned into squash with a side helping of onions.


    "All sword fighting begins with the simplest of movements,¡± Cressia began, ¡°We¡¯ll start with some basic footwork.¡±


    Ste stepped in to move closer to him, and this caused much befuddling and confusing on his part that he almost tripped going backwards from her. She smiled, and after some reassurances that she wasn¡¯t going to harm him (yet), she could see through the faint mesh shell that she had his attention.


    ¡°Repeat after me," Cressia continued, "Step in and step out."


    Cressia moved forward and back without even a sound being stretched out. Her form was perfect, her steps like a skilled and tenacious pugilist, a synthesis that only emerged from years spent honing her craft the guidance of the Zantzar Blades.


    Years that were spent, after her initial service, repeating the same warmups, the same techniques, the same fencing positions, the same secrets she¡¯d learned from Swordmistress Helena that she¡¯d passed onto the children of the boroughs.


    This blade had once been her life, and though it had been a long time since she¡¯d been in a War zone, she still that same life or death principle when she fenced.


    Alvin could only struggle in comparison, the weight of the fencing gear almost tipping him face down as he slid in and slid out. There was none of the grace that Cressia had - more like the shuffling steps of a Necromancer¡¯s pet project that was ready to give up on life at any moment.


    ¡°Next, the feinting body stab.¡±


    Cressia was precise as she stepped in with a feint, the tip of the sabre reaching perilously close to his neck, before she squatted and landed a quick flicker jab into his abdomen.


    ¡°So many tournaments have been won by this neat little trick, but I digress.¡±


    ¡°You mean, you¡¯ve won tournaments with this?¡±


    ¡°Mhmm, and the children I teach in the boroughs as well,¡± Cressia replied, ¡°Some of them can not even even read, and yet they have it down to a tee.¡±


    She did not mean it so, but that last comment seemed to have prickled the skin of the sensitive Prince. He rushed forward, but the instructions he¡¯d received were all over the place while his anger blinded him. He squatted first, feinted to the body and then shot up only for the blade to graze past Cressia as he crashed directly into her, before she caught him and pressed her shell head deep into his head to prevent her from falling over.


    Not even the youngest of Cressia¡¯s students had even been this dreadful!


    ¡°Practice makes perfect, Alvin.¡± Cressia whispered forcefully into his ear, ¡°Now try again.¡±


    She was not going to get angry at him, or tell him that his performance was as horrible as it gets - that would destroy his interest in sword fighting just as it had only begun. She could not bring herself to do that to anyone, even a softy prince who had chickened out of from doing character building all his life.


    He was frustrated and startled but yet he persisted. She watched as the samurai stance and flat footed penguin movements began to disappear - he was now mimicking her right down to the way her slender elven fingertips wrapped around the hilt.


    His second attempt was much more in line with what she expected of her students, albeit like a coarse golem learning he could be very flexible when he actually tried. There was more vigour, more life, as he moved through the motions, going back and forth and then feinting a stabbing stab before landing a critical one against an imaginary opponent


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    ¡°Are you ready?¡± Cressia asked, who was actually going to answer back. She wanted to put everything together before they concluded today¡¯s session. Of course, they¡¯d only been at it for a few minutes, and a brief jog compared to what the Zantzar Blades usually put her through, but she had wanted to know if there was still some potential there within the royal bones of his.


    At his advanced age, there might only be a little space left to train the skills and dexterity needed to be good at this. For many of her older students, there was no space left at all to become even a middling fencer. She would not waste him time with him if that were true, even if was a Prince who¡¯d offered her the world to fix every mistake he¡¯d make along the way.


    Alvin nodded, and they quickly took their places within their self made fencing perimeter. Like a children''s goal box marked out by coats or furry hats, the two had drawn it down using whatever clothes they couldn¡¯t fit into the fencing suit. She stood in front of Alvin¡¯s furry wolf coat, and her white beret was behind him.


    He stepped, not moved, first, his hands shaky with a bundle or nerves and insecurities that would¡¯ve been used against him if Cressia had been anything less than the compassionate old soul that she was.


    She took her first few steps to meet with him in the middle, and the grip on his sabre began to grow more unsteady with each passing breath between them. Whatever he would bring to her, she would find herself countering, playing with him like a kitten digging at a string until eventually she had enough.


    Then there was the sudden motion of movement, not a stab or a thrust, but a sudden whip from the side which Cressia ducked under like it was a broomstick being hurled at her by an angry servant.


    Alvin tried again from the left, breaking every dearly held convention that Fencers everywhere held in their hearts, and soon he was beginning to stumble away from this elven woman who began to pepper him with stinging fencing hits from the crook of his neck to the ends of his legs. She pushed him back and back until she saw him stumbling dangerously close to her blanc beret, and then grabbed him by his free arm and put him through the most gentle takedown she could think of on the spot.


    For him, it was unexpected, and not gentle whatsoever. Alvin crumbled under the sudden explosion of power that had come from her, crashing head first into some spare lilacs and gooseberries he¡¯d intended to plant earlier that morning.


    ¡°Perhaps next time I should explain the rules and etiquette when it comes to fencing first.¡± Cressia said, her own mesh shell hiding her a strange, wholesome smile. The first session was complete: She had decided she was to take Prince Alvin on as her Fencing Apprentice.


    Once Alvin had cleared himself from the gardening dirt, the rest of their afternoon was spent finalising all the little details that was to govern the terms of Cressia¡¯s fencing mentorship of Alvin.


    She would be given a room within the royal palace, several warm meals a day and use of both the kitchen and the servants for the duration of her stay. She could also ask for anything, and, with reasonable


    Alvin would be obliged to train twice a day for 6 days a week, and he was also to spend time watching sword fighters of old with a Soothsayer called Lyn, who hailed from the nation of Yan-B¨®n-Mor.


    Aeryn, Alvin¡¯s sister, had once employed her to get her usual teenage girl fix of the occult, but now she had a new purpose which would be replaying old fencing matches for Alvin to study with the help of her Flames and her Wicker.


    There was also another gentleman¡¯s agreement between them - Cressia would agree to accompany Alvin deep within the central forest, and learn whether or not Spirits really had a hand in the disappearances of large swathes of the Zantzar army.


    "Is that your whole reason for learning to fight?" Cressia asked later on the night, as he walked her to her room in the north western halls.


    It was usually reserved for nobility from the other kingdoms, but the blue bloods elsewhere sensed Zantzar''s weakness, and steadily cut off contact and isolated the once prosperous nation to deal with the Orc and Spirit threats alone.


    Cressia would have the entire suit of lavishly decorated rooms all by herself. The more mischeivous side to her was debating whetever or not to organzie a pillow fight with the rest of the servants nestled within the palace once Alvin had gone to sleep.


    "Yes, it is." He remarked candidly, "The troops are low in morale, so I need to be there to rally them.


    Well, of course they¡¯d be low in morale if their soldiers seemingly disappeared, Cressia mused to herself.


    ¡°I expect you to be awake before dawn then for a 10KM run, if you want me to keep training you, that is."


    ¡°Surely, you jest.¡± A more rational part was still taken aback


    "Well, I look forward to seeing the prince sweating it up in Velcro for my amusement tomorrow."


    "I am not, and if you aren''t as red in the face on the trackfield tomorrow as you were earlier, well..."


    "I understand, it is all to make me the best fencer possible, isn''t it?"


    "Yes, and perhaps also to squeeze some extra sweat out of a soft and tender prince dressed in Velcro."


    He began to redden at


    "Maybe there is still some of the anti-royalty sentiment somewhere within you, Cressia."


    She could only muster a few giggles in response.


    "Perhaps."


    "Well, good night."


    "Goodnight, King Alvin."


    It wasn¡¯t a slip of the tongue on her part, but a silly jab that was just as carefully placed as the multitude that she''d delivered to his abdomen earlier on.


    There was silence for a moment, a stifling long silence that went on until they shared an awkwardly placed smiled, and then she watched her very awkward Prince walking down the hallway like an Ostrich without a sense of direction.


    She shook her head, and then closed the door behind her, still quite uncertain about the direction her life had taken her all of a sudden. In fact, she didn¡¯t want to deal with the uncertainty, she would wait until morning and then her head would be cleared of any linger notions that this was some strange dreamlike state from her infancy that she¡¯d entered.


    The royal bed, wide enough to fit 10 Cressia¡¯s seemed warm and inviting, and soon she found herself running to be deep within the covers. She hadn¡¯t slept in something as comfortable as this since, well, forever. She¡¯d been cramped into a small mud hut with the rest of her family, and she was forced to forgo pleasantries for art when she she slept on the cold hard floor of the the dim cottage in the boroughs.


    Sleep came calling not long after she''d pulled the blankets over her ears, which were still, as always, carefully attuned to any humans that might come knocking on her door in the dead of night.

 Searching for Spirits

    That went well, Alvin thought.


    In fact, as he moved down through the corridors, he realised it had gone extremely well. He felt fortunate that he had found someone who seemed as compassionate as her, and without the rough around the edges that so many other Zantzar soldiers seemed to bring. It also did not at all hurt that with her slim figure and bob length hair, that she was also pleasant to look at as well.


    Alvin shook his head. He could not picture himself entering into a courtship with an elf, nor did he think could she. The Elven Conclave had never quite put the right foot forward as it came into the modern world; executions had become rife for anyone who¡¯d dared go against the direction it took as it reestablished itself on the Mylean stage.


    Of course, he knew little about Cressia¡¯s own life or beliefs, but with the choices being that she was fanatical or deathly afraid she¡¯d be the subject of a court martial when she returned, Alvin decided it would not be a good idea to press a ring into her hands anytime soon.


    Even so, when Weria told him of the elven lovers he¡¯d taken in the past, of both genders, he at least now understood the appeal. From fencing instructors to guardsmen to common tavern wenches, their beauty was overwhelming.


    At times he felt as though the elves were illustrations who¡¯d simply gained life after they fell out of print from real life books. It did not help their case when Alvin often found them huddling in Zantzar libraries, retelling old stories when they weren¡¯t working menial odd jobs for scraps.


    He was walking himself in the direction of the Royal Library, which was apart of his latest plan to understand all this spirit business. Weria, his long suffering marshal was also there, and who¡¯d drifted into reverie after tiring himself out from doing some soul searching.


    Weria had more important things to do as member of the Army Council, but once Alvin heard that he¡¯d been a librarian before military service he was suddenly not going to let that go amiss. Alvin had tasked him to find any leads, and soon enough most of his free time had been spent in the royal library trying to track down elusive creatures who moved between their world and the next.


    Alvin was going to have some fun with the sleeping Marshal. This was not a habit becoming of a Prince - Oh, well, maybe it was during some of the darkest days of Zantzar history, but Alvin decided he would put aside his conscience this late evening.


    He came around to the desk and squatted himself in position, toying at the tail ends of the Marshal''s buttoned trousers like a hungry lady of the night who needed all the gold coin she could get to feed her several whining children.


    This caused a few grumblings to be omitted, and soon both of his hands strayed dangerously close to the Prince''s chest, the Marshal reaching for Alvin like this curvaceous wife he often laid with.


    "Wakey, Wakey." Alvin whispered.


    Weria''s grim eyes lit up, and then he leapt high in the air out of his seat, all the wat to the other side of the room. He nearly crashed into several bookcases in the process, almost turning the Royal Library into battleground, a skill which Weria was steeped in.


    There were all sorts of cursing and ranting until Weria''s anger was sated and then he was content to go and swoon in the covers with his actual curvaceous wife. Or perhaps it was his curvaceous husband who dressed up as his wife?


    Alvin was fortunate that, as he peered down at the research gathered, that Weria had done most of the hard dirty digging already.


    He soon found himself being enveloped in a whole new world of notes, scrapbooks and shelved PhD programs as he began reading through everything that revolved around the spirit world.


    Weria had started his search where any Zantzar native would begin: the great big book of Zantzar Fables.


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    By the decree of One Eyed Vitali, the mean spirited king with a passion for the arts, every family within the kingdom had a received a copy of what was more popularly known as the ¡°Big Red Book.¡±


    A collection of tall tales and contemporary accounts of the more outlandish creatures believed to inhabit Zantzar, it was passed from one generation to another, and was in fact for many Zantzar children both both their first and last experiences when it came to reading.


    Even Alvin had a copy of it hiding somewhere in his royal prince, and despite it being a bit world weary, it was still readable even after 150 years old.


    Vitali had the foresight to add an appendix before any chose to dig deep into it¡¯s nearly 500 page length. Orcs, ogres and trolls were all grouped together in the same chapter, reflecting some early beliefs Zantzar humans had before Trolls began to differentiate themselves from their supposedly large cousins, whom they were not related to at all.


    Alvin flipped to the pages on spirits, of which there was only a few scant illustrations and paragraphs on the subject. He had once struggled to read them as a child, which he could not make any rational sense of. Tales of Orcs gobbling up unsuspecting children had always been a breeze, even if they were a more prescient threat, but something about spirits as a whole always seemed to unnerve him when the handmaidens read to him at night.


    Among the largest of the illustrations, Alvin noticed how oddly drawn the Spirits were. They were outside a churchyard, and visibly distraught, over what seemed to be their anger with the Dominion Sect¡¯s practice of drinking them during services.


    But Alvin noticed how they were drawn as large spirals instead of anything resembling a pale human dressed in a white sheet. The spiral was familiar, but he couldn¡¯t place where it had come from, or why it unnerved him so much. Any answer to that question would be ideal, just as long as it didn¡¯t reveal that spirits frightened him to his bones.


    Even back when he was a child, when Aeryn tried dabbling in the confines of black magic he found himself rushing out of their twin bedroom, and away to the warm embrace of King Theodore.


    He did not want Aeryn to see him afraid and trembling, nor even would he with his mother, the Queen. They upheld such dark forms of masculinity for him that even Theodore tried to break the mould with his son, but Alvin began to lean into a more aloof manliness as the years went on, unable to keep up with the constant dents in his sensitive soul.


    The mask he¡¯d crafted had only begun to break apart when the other Zantzars fell from the throne. Queen Meredith died after a sudden and rapid illness, Theodore was soon left bedridden with a broken heart, and Aeryn had been snatched up by forest spirits and not been seen since.


    It had only taken the near destruction of the Zantzar lineage for him to escape the confines of that dark, brooding masculinity he¡¯d been forced into. Without it, he was now freed from becoming one of those angry phantoms who lingered in the past that he was reading about.


    He wondered if Cressia and the other female elves had such traditional expectations of their men. They absolved themselves from the rest of the world for 60 years, breaking apart as they tried to rebuild themselves after the great Elvish Civil War, and then reemerged 20 years ago, with a new banner and a new spin on Mylean world history. Between that  and trade rights being drafted up, Alvin could not recall reading about what the new Elven Man was supposed to be.


    He had come across some elven men when King Theodore still accepted refugees, before it had all gotten a little bit too much for Zantzar to handle. They were older and the wives who came with them were considerably younger, but beneath the soft features he felt steel hearted men still expected to ensure their family¡¯s safety as they fled.


    He could not imagine to lead someone in a journey that would be fraught with such difficulty and terror; Even ruling Zantzar would be a considerably easier task.


    Elven Conclave. Spiral. THAT¡¯S IT. THE SPIRITS ARE LIKE THE GREAT SPIRAL!


    ¡°Spirals and Spirits,¡± He wrote down with a darkened pencil, ¡°How do they relate?¡±


    Cressia had come to him with a spiral brooch, but he was still not sure why the illustrator used spirals to illustrate the spirits.


    Was it just an artistic choice? Alvin doubted that, considering Spirals were an elven creation. Even 150 years ago it would not be keeping for the time, when spirits were already being drawn as humans dressed in white sheets. (An education in the history of Art is always a blessing.)


    ¡°So why use Spirals?¡± He thought deeply, letting the pen tap into the heart of the pages.


    It wondered if there was some Academic out there that could lead him to spirits? He left the table, and began to skim through the field of collected knowledge that Zantzar had shined a light on for the rest of the world.


    It seemed there was one kooky PhD student out there who had taken the notion that Spirals and Spirits were entwined, and not just that, but elves were once spirits too. It sounded utterly bonkers, but perhaps there was a grain of truth to it that it had never been unearthed by the rest of the world.


    He would tell Cressia all about it in the morning, and hope that this discovery might keep her distracted from bringing on overtly long sprinting sets.

 Shooting Arrows with Alvin

    Cressia did awaken to see the Prince of the Zantzar sweating it up on a reddish Sunday morning. In fact she was already up for several hours, etching out ideas for her planned romance novellas that she had been working on for several months now.


    She had repeated this practice in some form or another ever since she left the Zantzar armed forces, so she was forced to give credit to the military spirit that had been instilled within her, but also to the budding artisan soul that helped push her way through whatever writer¡¯s block came her way.


    She wrote 2000 words everyday, and preferred to do it in the mornings, as it gave her ample time in the afternoon to focus on the rest of her goals such as fencing and running and a whole host of other strange and pernicious habits which the military had not wrenched out of her during her years of service.


    She hoped perhaps one of these novellas she came up with would turn out to be a surprise hit, and then she might not have to swap fencing lessons for hot meals any longer as she left the Boroughs to begin anew elsewhere. Where she would go, she could not settle herself upon yet.


    The Artisan Quarters of Pendaline could be an option, where every wall and public mural was free to be scribbled and doodled upon by it¡¯s citizens.


    The sharply dressed eldest daughter of the human nations, as her elvish friends had put it, had always prided itself in its reputation as the first city of the Arts. But Pendaline had also suffered from a dearth of the wonderful art of fencing too, which meant she might have to search elsewhere for a new home.


    This was of course assuming her current novella, Fencing Hearts, turned out to be a roaring success. The story, about an elven maid in service to a human prince, a fickle and arrogant man who nonetheless is a maestro of the foil, epee, sabre.


    It also doubled as a spy caper, as each worked for a different secret service after assuming the identities of the real deceased maid and human prince. Blanking eachother in their ¡°real lives¡±, the two would constantly run into each other in the line of espionage, until, by the novella¡¯s end, they feel in love, forsaken their stolen identities and ran away to escape from all the pain and troubles that came with inter-species relationships between two surveillance states.


    She had started to write it with little more than the acknowledgement it might cause a stir within the real world between elves and humans. She didn¡¯t know the extent of how deep human espionage ran, but Elven Conclave spies were rampant anywhere elves gathered across in the east. She knew of course, because her mother had been the Grand Spymaster, and was subtly training Cressia in the hopes that she herself might follow her into that line of work.


    She could not abide that kind of work, and it had been one of the many things that had pushed her to leave the Conclave and enlist in a foreign power, despite the stigma of such a treacherous act. That, and well, the lack of fencing, which was regarded as a human oddity and thoroughly banned by the Conclave¡¯s Leaders in favour of more wholesome elven practices such as Archery and Lyre crafting.


    And now she was in the position most Conclave spies dreamed of, in the centre of the  Zantzar court with the resources of the entire palace at her whim. Perhaps she could even use her soft, precious student Alvin as the base for Prince Featherwick, the narcissistic blueblood but incredibly competent spy master, and at which point it might stray into roman-¨¤-clef territory.


    She paused - was she already beginning to imagine herself as an Elven maid passionately consumed by the hungry, terrible prince of a far, eastward state? She reddened at such a tempestuous thought, and decided to go back and rewrite a few passages here and there to disavow Featherwick of the prince title for the time being.


    If she submitted it back to her homeland, it would surely be accepted, albeit after the most obscene and boisterous scenes were cut to scraps to ensure no elf had any ideas of crossing into the arms of a human. If she tried to pass it on to a human publishing house, they would take great strides to remove any hint that an elf had written it, which was unforgivable to Cressia.


    Stuck between two dire choices, her mind began to wander away from her writing and the strength of her pen, but she never let her thoughts stray too far from her writing as she wrote. That would only allow the beating heart of procrastination to make its way in, and suddenly a whole afternoon would be wasted as she began running away from the actual determination needed to write.


    Alvin was also running, but instead it was up and down the running tracks with such exertion that it broke Cressia out of her writing spell and suddenly found herself watching him from the balcony.  She tried counting the laps he did, with a track yard the length of 800m he gassed out after 6 reps, 200m short of his initial goal of 5KM.


    "Hiho!" She waved at him, "Busy workout session?"


    He looked ridiculous in his gym outfit - it had all the hideous trappings of what one would consider to be Zantar gym wear when asked to be designed by a courtesan who secretly nursed a grudge against her patron. Incredibly tight red pants were fitted with black short spats on top, alongside an embarrassing ¡°royal headband¡± that was already out of fashion some 300 years ago, nevermind now. Perhaps it actually was 300 years old.


    "You still have 200m to go." She remarked from above, "Do a few sprints, would you?"


    Alvin seemed to wheeze and grunt and then he nodded in exasperation, and placed himself at the far end tracks and took off in a galloping sprint.


    Credit was due though, he arrived much earlier than the crack of dawn. She''d expected for him to not show up at all, and per the terms of their contract, Cressia would be free to leave the palace, along with a not-so-small fortune of Zantzar gold coins for her troubles. Centuries of going back on their words, double crossing and all sorts of schemes had made even the lowliest of elves careful to keep everything down in print and by hand.


    She would be hard pressed to call his running form good, as he moved less like a galloping racehorse and more like a shuffling skeleton that collapsed and rolled over every time he screwed up, but there was passion and persistence as he moved down the track. And hard work. Which, without, would make all his efforts fruitless.


    Perhaps he really was serious about learning how to sword fight after all.


    "Good, but you can do better!" She yelled as Alvin came to a thunderous stop on the western side of the track field.


    He seemed disheartened by Cressia¡¯s comments, and like an angrily child sulked off elsewhere, down the slope and away into a small park down by the stream nearby.


    ¡°Hey! Come back here!¡±


    She didn¡¯t want to run after him like his deceased mother, but perhaps she¡¯d pushed him a little too hard already with such early morning training sessions. In truth, the Zantzar Blades had never done any track field sessions at all.


    It was her fatal flaw, and she wished she wasn¡¯t so caring for others, as it often made things very difficult for her when it came to being assertive and not being at the whims of another person, royalty or not.


    It was only then, as she peered down did she realise that she was only dressed in her sombre babydoll bedtime dress, which left little to hide her slim athletic figure, or her perky breasts.


    Had Alvin known the entire time?


    She grew a shade of red so deep that she felt it was sufficient enough exertion in place of her own time spent training this afternoon.


    A few half elf-half human curses were sworn, and then she ran back inside to change into something that was a little less provocative than elven lingerie for a warm Sunday afternoon.


    A quick and smudgy skincare session completed her morning routine before she she began her search for the softy prince she was tasked to care of.


    If Alvin was the kind to gossip - Oh My Goddesses! - Perhaps word had already made its way down the grapevine to the rest of the servants within the kingdom!


    Rushing down the hallway, some of the servants already seemed to regard with her a salacious suspicion that perhaps she was secretly a nymphomaniac or exhibitionist type who¡¯d been fortunate to find herself within the royal court at the behest of the Crown.


    She shook her head. It¡¯s just my imagination! Just my imagination!


    The Royal Zantzar park felt like stepping into the middle of an untrimmed hedge bush. Cressia hated parks, and so did many other elves who felt it important to tear down anything that have been considered to have the astray from the path the Great Elven Forests had chosen. Parks were cold and artificial, and every time Cressia found herself in one she imagined herself reading sly human messages that had been engraved deep within an elven Oak tree.


    "Alvin?" She called out, ¡°Prince Alvin?¡±


    She heard the quiver being released, and ducked beneath into the grass like a frightened child. When she scrambled away peered up she say his sweaty odorous body in the distance playing around with bows and arrows like a middling bandit from elven lore, right down to the colour of his flashy red running shoes.


    She was very, very flipped off now.


    "What are you doing shooting bows out here?" She yelled as she stood up, "We have fencing practice now!"


    "I''ve just discovered this wondrous new thing, Cressia," He replied, releasing the tense bowstring, "Care to try it?"


    She looked over his shoulder to see several target boards lacquered in arrows. He''d consistently hit high marks on all of them, and rarely had he strayed beyond 8 points, most of his shots clustered in or around the bullseye. This was probably the old shooting range from the time when the Zantzar army trained at the foot of the palace. She was well versed in her Zantzar history, perhaps embarrassingly so for a foreign elf.


    ¡°Taking credit for other men''s handiwork,¡± She scoffed, ¡°What did I expect from a Noble?¡±


    ¡°Oh, feisty today aren¡¯t we Zantzar blade?¡± He teased, ¡°If you were wearing any more green I might have mistaken you for a blade of grass.¡±


    She crossed her arms, narrowing his eyes at him. ¡°Careful, I¡¯ve cut down weeds that had more backbone than you.¡±


    Alvin smiled. ¡°That¡¯s funny, because I didn¡¯t see much of that elvish backbone when you ducked like a rabbit when that arrow passed you by.¡±


    She began to simmer at his incredibly astute observation, but decided to change her course of action.


    Ok Cressia, let¡¯s take his claims at face value and then slowly emasculate him.


    "How long have you been doing this for?" Cressia asked, playing the role of the innocent elf girl who didn¡¯t have the slightest clue about bows, weaponry and warfare.


    "This is my first time."


    "For real?"


    "For realsies."


    She did not want to believe that, but as she looked upon his hands she noticed his fingertips were still as soft as satin.


    "You must''ve practised somewhere else before."


    Another arrow went flying, and another bullseye came back as it¡¯s reward.


    "Not at all, unless you count coming 2nd place in darts to Aeryn." He moved to her with the bow in hand, "Here, you try."


    She took hold of it, and grimaced.


    "Just because I''m an elf,¡± She said embarrassed, ¡°doesn''t mean I''m very good at shooting arrows."


    "Oh come on Cressia, I doubt you''re that bad."


    Cressia suppressed a faint smile, but his reassurance felt warm. Very warm in fact. Which she so desperately needed at this point in her life, having stumbled through a mundane existence before his letters came calling for her.


    Slowly, she began to sway herself in the proper form of an archer that her parents had taught her growing up. Her father had been an excellent longbowman in his youth, and her mother wasn¡¯t half bad with a crossbow, but those skills seemed to have passed her by when it came to her own traits and temperaments.


    She steadied herself as Alvin watched, drew a tantalising string, and then fired with that usual elvish confidence.


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    It was a total miss! It had hardly even grazed the direction of the practice ram, and instead was lodged deep in an oak tree nearby. She wanted to throw the bow to the ground and stomp on it to bits, but Alvin had other plans.


    "Practice makes Perfect, remember?" He teased, watching her struggle with the string of the bow.


    Such a sassy jab left feeling a little under the weather, and she began to grit her teeth to steady herself once more.


    "Yes, practice makes perfect."


    She stepped forward again, this time with more spring in her step as she pulled out another quivering bow. It was another miss, this time flying straight over the crown of the makeshift stand, and with it came a slew of elvish swears that only an esteemed human academic could decipher.


    "What was that?" Alvin asked bemused.


    "Nothing." She grumbled.


    She moved even closer to the edge of insanity as each subsequent attempt  stretched even further away then the arrow before. Cressia tried every secret trick her father had taught her as a child: Rethink your surroundings, consider that your life is on the line, the world depends on your shot, but nothing seemed to work at all.


    "Time out." She conceded. Being shown up like this made her feel like she being was properly humiliated in front of her student.


    "I thought elves were raised from birth to shoot arrows.¡± He remarked. He took the bow back, and another exhilarating shot that landed in the centre without so much as a glance as he fired.


    "See, it''s that simple?"


    Now she was getting frustrated, and with it came a "Gimme me that!" as she grabbed the bow back off of him. Her next attempt breezed through the air, and then all known laws of physics along with their disbelief was suspended, as it took a sharp turn upwards into the branches of the great oak tree that hung over them and the shooting alley.


    Her confidence was now reduced to a pile of smouldering ash.


    "You might actually end up being the first woman to kill herself with her own bow someday."


    "Shut up."


    "You¡¯re not a terribly great bow-woman, it has to be said."


    "Okay, I admit it, I''m not great with a bow," She sighed, "Not competent, not adept, not useful, not good at anything that involves arrows!¡±


    He listened to her feet stump the ground, and felt the tremor come as he released the string. It was a 7, his first ever to have gotten.


    "I''m not sure what the issue is," Cressia continued, ¡°Everyone in my family is a skilled archer.¡±


    "Perhaps the proficiency with a bow trait just skipped a generation." He slyly spoke as another arrow went gliding in the air.


    "I always fell at the first hurdle when it came to archery, always last place.¡±


    "You did?"


    "Yes, my parents were always ashamed about it, and never wanted me to go back."


    She bit her lip. Truthfully she had never opened up to anyone like this. At. All. And suddenly she was doing it here with the man she was tasked with training, the Noble Human Prince.


    ¡°Are you an only child?¡± Alvin asked. Of course, he already knew the answer from Weria, but he wanted to hear it straight from her. And how she would answer, and how she would phrase it, and what kind of voice she would use when addressing him.


    ¡°Yes, I am.¡± She said, and with it took her chance to learn more about this Aeryn, ¡°What about you?¡±


    ¡°Twins, but she disappeared alongside the cavaliers at the hands of forest spirits.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s OK, not something worth getting upset about.¡±


    A distant cold voice emerged right there, and Cressia decided she would not ask any further about Aeryn. She had often spoken in that distant cold voice herself when someone began to nag at her about something or another, or try to pry into her deeply, hurtful memories that she tried to suppress.


    Despite the teasing, she did not actually want to cause him emotional pain. Not at all.


    "Maybe I just prefer fighting with swords, there''s little time to think, just you, your blade and your opponent.¡±


    Alvin smiled. "I find this much more relaxing than the clattering of swords," He replied, "Much more enjoyable, much more peaceful."


    "You think so?"


    "Well, I''m pacifistic by nature, so it works and is more attuned to my character.¡±


    This only made Cressia emboldened to ask something that had been at the centre of her mind since they¡¯d first met.


    "Do you really think you¡¯re capable of killing someone in a sword fight?¡±


    "I''m not exactly looking forward to it, no."


    Then why do you continue on with it?" She was slightly befuddled now, "Training with me, I mean."


    "It''s tradition." He answered, waiting on her snarky counterattack.


    "Tradition to whom?"


    "To my family, to my friends, to my kingdom," He went on, "I don''t want to be remembered as the Zantzar who ran away from his duty."


    ¡°Your sister broke away from tradition when she entered the cavaliers,¡± Cressia said, ¡°So it¡¯s not like you¡¯re bound by blood to it.¡±


    "Yes, and I would''ve been content to have lived in her shadow if it had stayed that way," He answered, "Aeryn was the one built for all that warfare stuff, not me. But now with her gone, I have to shoulder the responsibility."


    "There''s a first time for everything," She countered, "I didn''t want to shoulder an elven longbow, so I came here and plead servitude to a foreign king just so I could fulfil my dreams of being a fencer."


    "Well, I don''t want to be known as the Zantzar who holed himself up in the castle while his men fought in the front lines against beastly Orcs and dastardly spirits," He replied tensely, "I can already see my portrait being lined up with the other miscreants who deviated from the norm."


    She stood silent, but felt a pang of sympathy for him. There was pitiful shame running rampant through his line of thinking, but she couldn''t really blame for feeling that way.


    There had been times she''d walked out of misguided apprenticeships, or refused to play the game to advance in the cut-throat world of artisan bakeries.


    And yet, despite their differences in social class, she was the one who could afford that luxury and restart again, not him. She could always go somewhere else, take a new name, join a new army, reinvent herself into something she wasn¡¯t, but he could not. A life spent under the magnifying glass meant he would be forever bound to the Ostrich Zantzar crest.


    She might not have been built to be a baker, and neither was he built to be a  soldier, let alone a princely general who was expected to lead by horseback while the eyes of an entire kingdom watched and scrutinised your every move.


    To fail miserably in front of everyone, or not even to try at all, would be an experience in humiliation that Cressia shuddered to even think about.


    "You''re getting better at fencing," She said, moving the subject away, ¡°I would think.¡±


    "You do?" He smiled, ¡°But I¡¯ve only just begun!¡±


    "Yes, you¡¯ve only started,¡± Cressia suppressed a giggle, knowing how silly that sounded now, ¡°But you''ve made leaps and bounds with it compared to my fort¨¦ into Archery anyway."


    ¡°Or my ¨¦pee,¡± Alvin remarked, as his final arrow struck dead in the centre, ¡°you flatter me, Cressia, but we both know it¡¯s not my strongest suit.¡±


    "If only there had been a way to prove myself without the clash of swords, then¡­¡±


    ¡°Then?¡±


    ¡°I would¡¯ve been able to clear that high bar a long time ago.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure you won¡¯t have to kill anyone when it comes down to it.¡± Cressia said to ease his festering worries.


    He didn¡¯t respond, and silence began to linger. Cressia enjoyed silence, and the calmness and the breeze that let her mind work it¡¯s way around a whirlpool of emotions circulating in her head, that she carefully only allowed out when it came to fencing and her artworks back home.


    That was another thing she was going to demand of him: Having her artwork plastered all over the royal walls alongside with the rest of those miserable portraits that had been hung up for the past few centuries. Of course, it had been part of a bet she agreed to do with the children she taught, who eventually had hopes their drawings would be on display in the royal residence too.


    "Knowing the weather, those arrows might get all rusty and blunt." This was the environmentalist prince now speaking, not the one slicked up in violet wolf furs.


    "Mhmm."


    "And you know, cleaning up is usually reserved for the servants of the Palace."


    "Of course it is." Cressia said, ¡°Of course it is.¡±


    "And, would you, maybe, I don''t know, help me out with that?"


    There was hesitation, and then she briefly nodded her head and follow her prince in tow. The insistence of to Help me out with that made Cressia go along with him.


    He could¡¯ve easily demanded that she turn into his personal squire and bundle up the arrows with her back to the palace, not too far removed from her duties as a common foot soldier back in the day.


    But to ask, made her turn the opposite cheek at the procrastinating behaviour he was going through at the moment, and also, well, made her also put aside that he¡¯d nearly skewer an arrow straight into her petite little cranium.


    She had heard once beastly human princes would aim for the ears of elves during skirmishes back in the day, and Cressia wondered if that trait had skipped a generation or two, only to land in Alvin¡¯s lap while the rest of the Zantzar family been proficient in swashbuckling.


    There was a gentle grasp as he plugged out the arrows from the target board, which, if Cressia had gathered up her score count correctly, meant that Alvin was almost at the same level of an elite Elven Fencer from the National Elven Army.


    If Cressia¡¯s score had been been counted, at best she would wind up as the perennial laundry folder candidate instead.


    "So, tell me more about this Elven Conclave of yours."


    Walking now, heading back in the direction of the palace and away from all the foggy mountain dew that covered all over the place. Alvin had the bow slung over his shoulders, and Cressia carrying the arrows underneath her arms. Such a royal gentleman that he was, he¡¯d offered to do the harder part for her.


    "I''m not sure you really want to know." Cressia answered.


    "Oh, but I do." Alvin replied, "I''ve never met someone from the Elven Conclave."


    "You haven''t at all?"


    "Well, I have met elves, but they ran away from the Conclaves.¡±


    "The conclave." Cressia corrected him.


    "But there''s multiple Conclaves, isn''t there?" Alvin began, "And the all converge into a super Conclave, don''t they?"


    "Yes, that is true," Cressia began, already dreading the history lesson she felt forced to give, "But you wouldn''t really call them conclaves, more like a town hall meeting that''s been dictated by someone else."


    "By someone else?" Alvin decided to press on it, "You mean the Conclave isn''t the most democratic entity in existence?"


    There''s that big word again, Cressia thought, Democratic. And the Prince understands it too.


    "No, to be truthful, it isn''t the most democratic government in the world." She kicked at a pine cone that was in her path as they walked, ¡°If I¡¯m honest, it falls more in line with the monarchies that preceded it.¡±


    Alvin knew what she meant, for the Elves had always seemed to him like a group of vassals who masqueraded as people.


    The Elven Monarchies were not bound to rule by divinity or through winning a legendary contest of chivalry, but rather elven chiefs who had been supported by the Old Kingdoms in the east. In truth there were several Elven Monarchies, each one backed by a different human royal family, and most of Elf history had essentially been a clannish geopolitical battle between the human Kings through their elf pawns.


    Once the Conclave emerged some 80 years, deep within the lands of the Pendaline backed Monarchy, A nasty civil war quickly spilled out after the assassination of the Pendaline elf chiefs. Humans were lived there were largely expelled, and, after the Conclave had won, it isolated itself from the rest of the world for the next 60 years, rebuilding itself into a terrifying nation state that was suddenly parallel with it¡¯s old human overlords.


    ¡°For all our faults, as humans, I mean, the elves have a distinctively hollow appreciation for the Arts.¡±


    ¡°You think so?¡± Cressia wasn¡¯t offended, for she knew he was correct.


    ¡°Indeed, it seems extraordinary in all the time the elves have lived they¡¯ve never developed something instinctive of their own.¡±


    ¡°It is, actually.¡± When he said the Arts, Cressia knew what he really meant was culture.


    Before the Conclave came along, the Elven Monarchies had simply borrowed their patrons own culture with them - it wasn¡¯t uncommon for a long eared elf girl to be named after a newly born human princess.


    Once the last human had been thrown out, the Conclave decided it was time to brush all the embarrassing human influence away from elven history as they charted on their own path from now on.


    Genesis and Mythology, the establishment of a state religion with Gods and Goddesses, boys and girls names that would befitted any child who wanted to trace their ancient heritage back to the tale of a normal man who was the champion of a deity. It was a mad dash of dreaming up myths, tales, legends and all sorts of creatures that lingered in the shadows.


    It had taking only 6 decades, but, once the period of isolation had ended, the rest of the Mylean world was amazed that the Elven Conclave had discovered a treasure trove that had always been there, waiting to be unearth by a band of crazed revolutionaries steeled by the threat of another human Imperialistic project.


    Everything was artificially created, and not the synthesises of centuries of fables and tall tales and legends that had travelled from worth to mouth, something which only had it¡¯s emergence after time had passed, and generation from generation had shuffled off this mortal coil. Cressia could even trace her name back to the pet name one leader had for another, and not, as the Conclave tried to make her believe, had meant ¡°Moon¡± in the old elvish tongue.


    ¡°It is not all amiss, however, their craft into religion is certainly more pleasant than our Dominion Sect.¡±


    ¡°Yes, I would agree with you there, Elven Pantheism feels more natural than an eternal flame that is whisked away the moment a God is to reappear.¡±


    ¡°Are you a believer?¡±


    ¡°I follow Pantheism, though I am not at all that lenient or devout, how about you?¡±


    ¡°I am much the same, neither devout or devoted, but I lack the necessary will to stray further into the atheist camp.¡±


    As they walked further, she was beginning to feel more and more like she was the wild courtesan a Prince might¡¯ve picked out to be his companion for the afternoon. She had often read romance novels that followed this same premise, of how the initial friction between the pair had cooled off and soon they began to confide into each other with a great deal of warmth, until eventually love blossomed.


    Of course, Cressia would never devalue herself enough to be a courtesan, and the thought of selling her body for a few gold coins sickened her to the ends of her stomach, but here she was, spending the afternoon with a Prince, opening up to each other with a gentle ease neither had expected.


    The talked some more, trading stories all the while treading through any overgrown weeds that had more backbone than Alvin. Cressia then decided that she would take it back, Alvin, for all his flaws, did have some backbone if he was willing to trade barbs with an Elf fencer like Cressia, even if his snark fell flat on his face more often than not. He was also content to let her wardrobe malfunction earlier go, something which Cressia was thankful for, as she would¡¯ve been left a little reddened in the face had he brought it up.


    That¡¯s when they found it, an old temple that had once belonged the Dominion Sect, but had gradually been forgotten about and ensnared with weeds, plain old dirty Zantzar weeds. Alvin, as always prone to superstition, was content to walk past, but Cressia wanted to enter and have a little rummage through what might¡¯ve been left behind the priestesses on their way out.


    ¡°Perhaps we could fence within it, I mean, I¡¯m already tired of trying to make grounds with furry coats and white hats.¡±


    ¡°It looks like a crumbling mess Alvin.¡± Her jovial attitude suddenly disappeared. She didn¡¯t want to be crushed to death because she stood in the wrong corner as a pillar came upon her.


    ¡°Renovations will be done within a week, and then it will be our personal fencing ground, away from all that Palace hustle and bustle.¡±


    Cressia was still unsure, but decided to push how far Alvin was committed to go.


    ¡°I want it renovated to my liking, and I want a fresh new coat of green and white to be painted on it.¡±


    An Elven mark, she thought, deep within Zantzar territory.


    He nodded, ¡°Shall we enter then?¡±


    ¡°Yes, we shall.¡±


    They yanked away the plywood boards and crept in like children afraid of being discovered by the vengeful spirits haunted this place. Cressia took to her renovations as they explored, and Alvin was soon finding ensnared by a woman¡¯s measurements and decorations and all sorts of things as he took down notes on what Cressia wanted her for little Fencing square. The rest of their afternoon was spent in a respectable, but comfortable partnership, as the prince found his tutor secretly had an eye for interior design too.

 Zantzar Blade Nightmares

    Cressia did not expect to dream later on that evening. Among the other races, it was a common belief among the other races that elves did not dream, that their minds simply faded into nothingness as they slumbered after long nights partying and playing the lyre, but this was not true at all.


    Elves did dream, but it was such a rare experience that one could count the score on one hand for most of their lives. For many elves dreams doubled as premonitions of what was to come, or showing the path to take when lost in life¡¯s many crossroads.


    For Cressia, it had only came after a harrowing experience when it felt her life was falling apart. She did not understand why it was so, but it had been the one constant as she moved from one dream to another decades apart.


    The first came after her parents mud hut had been burnt down by the trailing flame whisk of an unsupervised Magi. Magic, much likes dreams, were rare among the elves, but it was not something they were entirely deprived of. It had happened so long ago that Cressia felt it was in contention for being her first memory, along with a sharp fall off a stool or pressing herself deeply against her mother¡¯s chest.


    The Magi who¡¯d done it was around Cressia¡¯s age, only four and some middling months, and someone who¡¯d played with Cressia and recited the long drawn out elven pledges they¡¯d been forced to learn.


    The damage was so great that it couldn¡¯t have been simply brushed aside, or leave the child under the tutelage of the Clan¡¯s solitary keeper. The child had to be given away to the Hierophants, powerful Magi was dreamt up the words and wisdom that governed Conclave Lore. She was placed in the confines of a solitary cell until one of them had arrived to collect her.


    Cressia¡¯s mind had begun to wander that late evening once she heard the news. Even after seeing all her possessions smouldering into ash she still felt a care for her troubled Magi friend, locked away from the others until the first of the morning dew had settled.


    The dream had been vacant at first, and then she found herself convincing the elders that the Magi friend was innocent, and that did not deserve to be expelled or cast aside because of one mishap. Nor did she deserve to be sent away to the Hierophants, with their cruel morbid practices that shattered and rebuilt a person into the personal scourge of the Conclave.


    It was not to be. Her mother had awakened her, and asked if she would like to see her friend off. The Hierophant was already beginning to disembark, and the usual stern mother had dissipated away just like her dream, because even she could not send a child to be among those dark, delirious elves.


    For a few middling moments, spent pacing around and promises that they would play hopscotch again, Cressia said her goodbyes, versed in her mother¡¯s knowledge that she would never see her again.


    The second had come when she was only 14, and already in the middle of the trials and tribulations of adolescence. She was already dead set on leaving the Conclave behind to learn fencing, but there was still a few more stringent years of national service before she could even hope of slipping away. That meant teaching rudimentary survival skills for the next group of elven children, more specifically how to handle a bow and an arrow together.


    Working at the target practice did not improve her own fortunes with a bow, but Cressia discovered she had a natural liking for children, and could even stand their company when not overhearing silly jokes about her bob-length hair or toothy smile.


    She¡¯d been paired with a boy a few years older than her to lead the children through this rite of passage. His name was Thrace, a gifted hunter, with the tanned bark skin of someone who¡¯d spent far too much time in the meadows and the sun.


    Cressia was smitten, and soon found herself getting lost in a haze for the several weeks they worked together. She did not want him to leave her life she was recalled from Bow duty to work once again with potted plants, so, at the end, she¡¯d asked him out, only for her to be derided by him as an ugly cow who he never wanted to want to see again.


    She felt she¡¯d been left in the cold, already reassembling her broken heart as Thrace walked away to meet up with smiling friends hidden behind distant bushes. She ran away to find the warmth of the shade under a great oak tree, cried for sometime, and then spent the afternoon in a different kind of haze. She let herself linger in the dream world for a second time, and allowed herself to dictate the man whom she wanted to fall in love with, and someone whose one talent in life was pining over different bow models.


    There was laughter and much joy and a large wedding that ended with her being heaped praises by everyone in attendance, before she was bridal carried off into the sunset by her new and perfect husband.


    Then she woke up, and saw her mother¡¯s dark squat figure waiting upon her until she finished. They did not speak as she came with her back to the Mud Hut, but Cressia felt her mother¡¯s stiff demeanour had once again been shattered when she heard the news of her humiliation. Sympathy was passed, though not through words, but letting her take the night off from the catalogue of chores she was meant to do.


    The third was to come after an evening spent in the great dining hall of the royal Zantzar palace. After spending an afternoon arguing over wallpaper colours, Alvin had invited her along for dinner, their first meal together as friends.


    It was all happening quite rapidly, this friendship, and Cressia wondered if Alvin even had other friends at all. If it was so, she did not mind if he didn¡¯t.


    In fact, it had been some time since she herself had a friend that was of the same age as her. Letters to her Conclave friends had slowed down and were often sparse, and the borough children were pleasant, but not at all an intellectual match for someone within her own age bracket.


    Now, after years of yearning for similar company, she¡¯d found herself sitting across from the Zantzar Prince, digging deep into her Venison sandwich. The portion sizes were appalling, even for someone who¡¯d once lived off petite rations like her, and she¡¯d already asked for third helpings to sate her ever growing hunger.


    ¡°You really like Venison huh?¡± He murmured, watching her gobble down her another meal with several gallons of milk. It was made with plain seeded bread, stuffed with large slices of venison, tomatoes and lettuce, and spread with a strange elvish condiment known as ¡°Mayonnaise.¡±


    Alvin had tried it once Cressia had forced him to open his mouth wide like a child, but the strong, creamy taste was far too much for him. He sworn off it right there and then, and was content to dabble in his strange afternoon meal of Ostrich egg omelettes and toast soldiers.


    ¡°I do,¡± Cressia replied, ¡°But I cannot see the strange appeal of Ostrich omelettes.¡±


    Alvin dug the fork deep into the contours of the egg white. ¡°What¡¯s so strange about it?¡±


    ¡°You ride them into battle, and then you feast upon their young when it¡¯s time for dinner.¡±


    He could only eye her sharply from across the table. In the day and a half they¡¯d spent together, he was confident that she wasn¡¯t a daft girl at all. This was just another trick to rile him up, much like she¡¯d did in the Old Temple as they¡¯d picked out floorboards and


    What wasn¡¯t a trick was when Cressia began to choke on the the hardened crust of old seeded bread, all that had been left in the pantry after she devoured the flat slices


    Alvin rushed from one end of the room to the other and muttered all sorts of curses and threats of hanging for the kitchen staff for allowing her to to harms way.


    Cressia¡¯s face was as blue as the evening¡¯s special of puffer fish by the time he¡¯d gotten to her, and she was only able to regain her breath after he delivered a large thudding slap on her back to remove a mouldy old piece of Venison steak, who¡¯d been the real culprit of her sudden palpitations.


    It made Alvin squeamish to feel, almost as though he were striking a woman down at her lowest, but Cressia started muttering too all sorts of blessings and praises for the budding King to be and would he be so kind as throw whatever Servant allowed that venison on dinner plate in the darkest cellar he could find?


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    It was then Alvin decided, after Cressia was on death¡¯s door, that the time was right to show her the research he¡¯d gathered up while in the library last night.


    ¡°Would you care to study this for me?¡± He asked slyly, ¡°I know it¡¯s not apart of our contract, but I would love for an elf¡¯s eyes to gaze over it.¡±


    She¡¯d never seen such a collection of kooky ideas as she rummaged through the pages later on at her desk. Her hands moved through them, taking in whatever this former PhD student had to say about Spirals and Spirits and the tenuous connection between both of them and that elves, who lurked in the pages as shadowy figures, played the role of the master manipulator, and were behind just about every bad thing that has ever happened to the Human Kingdoms.


    She did not need the confirmation to know this project had been written almost 10 decades ago. Life was dull for humans back then, peaceful, but incredibly dull, and there had been a resurgence of interest in elvish culture for a time. Whoever had written this probably had a quite dull existence on her hands, and wanted to create a new hive of villainy for humans to hate now that they weren¡¯t colliding with each other.


    Even as her rationalistic elf senses told to quit while she was ahead, there was something about the mad ramblings of an academic that made her lacquered fingertips go on turning the pages.


    The words were dark and delirious, yes, and filled with much antipathy for elves, but Cressia could see some old folk beliefs that the elves had been reflected right back at her as she read.


    Rancid and far fetched beliefs, yes, but ones the elves themselves had come up with, such as the divinity of the Great Spiral, the universal elven symbol.


    To trace the Spiral - that was the first task any elven child was to do at the start of her life. Cressia had done it long before she could write, and long before she could even speak. And no matter how hard she tried, the great Spiral she drew always came out as fuzzy or jagged and not at all like anything someone would consider to be a spiral.


    This was not limited to Cressia, or her lack of artistic ability. Every elf who tried to draw the great Spiral always came out with a mess for one, unable to replicate the smoothness the other races could draw it with.


    The great Spiral brooch the borough girls had drawn for was also fuzzy, but that was not because of her childlike handwriting. It was because they were copying from the Elven Conclave flags they¡¯d seen outside other Elven homes in the capital, and it too fell short of anything the girls could drawn in their own time.


    Cressia could even remember herself as a child wasting away so many pieces of paper in her attempts that she''d gone into her mother''s personal quarters and started to scrawl through whatever she could find. It had not worked at all for her, not did her defence that she was only trying to get better at her drawing skills help her get away from a long thrashing lecture.


    She would try one more time to trace a Spiral. The spirits in Alvin¡¯s research were, as he had told her, drawn as grey spirals, far removed from the green and yellow colours of Elven spirals, but spirals nonetheless.


    She reached for an ink pen, and began to try once more to draw it, and there was much more frustration and cursing as she couldn¡¯t find herself replicating the perfect form of the spirits. Her hands had taking on a mind of it¡¯s own, and suddenly she was left with a zig zag mess all over her notebook.


    Cressia¡¯s antennae was beginning to prickle. Elven history had always been murky, and she wondered if there was some true in the idea that spirits and spirals might be interlinked in the most unusual of ways. What would that mean for elves too, if their great Spiral was simply the calling card for spirits that seemingly lurked under every nook and cranny of Mylea?


    Her mind was beginning to darken, and soon she felt exhausted from all this dark dismal thinking of what revelations were to come when she began to annotate another chapter.


    ¡°Alvin,¡± she mused quietly to herself, ¡°Your great big book of spirits can wait for another evening.¡±


    Spirals, spirits - the words coalesced into a undecipherable collection of words as she found herself collapsing deep within the sheets of her softly pillowed bed, already eager for the start of a new day, and unusually fond of the thought of spending more time with Prince Alvin.


    Her mother, a deeply committed Conclave women, would be horrified to know of the direction her daughter¡¯s life had taken the moment she was out of her grasp.


    <hr>


    She suddenly felt herself being submerged. It had always started like this when they dreamt, for her and the other elves who¡¯d been allowed to explore and go through the deep recesses of the Dream World. It was dark submergence, drifting into worlds that could never make up it¡¯s mind if it aligned with the light or the dark, and only found contentment once it settled on a shadowy light to take an elf to a new realm.


    Neither of her parents had ever dreamed, so Cressia had to make due with second hand accounts of what friends and acquaintances had shared with her. Sharing dreams was to elves as sharing secrets was to humans, the good, the bad and the utterly downright hideous ones. To confide in someone about something so personal was a sure sign of trust, and lips had always been sewn, even if a few dreams she¡¯d heard had changed her opinion of people, and not always for the better.


    The end of Cressia¡¯s submergence came, and suddenly she found herself in a new vivid place, far away from the troubles of Conclave living, or the royal pains she¡¯d been forced to keep up with.


    This time it wasn¡¯t her imaginary wedding or reuniting with an old friend, rather she was by herself in the middle of a forest. A deeply wooded forest, and her feet were at the end of a round entrance, and her nose already filled with a foul stench of of something dreadful happening not too far away.


    She looked down, and found herself cloistered in a uniform of deep reds and dabbles of black buttons here and there.


    The Zantzar royal uniform.


    She¡¯d returned to active service, and had only taken a brief excursion into the Dream World to do so. But as Cressia eyelids trailed, she noticed that she wasn¡¯t wearing tights.


    Cressia did not like tights as a matter of fact, but neither did she like much older military men acting lecherous around her and her slim legs that were shown off as part of the Zantzar uniform.


    It had only been in her 2nd year of service when women soldiers were allowed to wear tights, and Cressia had not once gone without them since. She wanted to be judged on her own merits as a person, and let her work within the military speak for herself.


    Being without tights was not like her, nor was the strand of hazelnut brown hair that crossed her eyes as she shook her head, nor was the absence of the swish swash sound her elven ears would make as the flapped in the wind.


    She was in the body of someone else. Someone who was not even an elf, but human.


    She started to move, and then felt the thick vine of rope tied sharply around her knees, her chest and behind her back,


    She was heavily bound in all sorts of intricate ways that Cressia wondered she might be the centrepiece in some obscure Bondage roadshow.


    This wasn¡¯t correcting a miscarriage of justice, or retreating into a happily ever after. Cressia, long before she had even felt the Orcs faint from behind her her, realised that she was here to relive a nightmare!


    ¡°Gummon,¡± It¡¯s hoarse grunt leaving her trembling to the edge of her bones, ¡°Let¡¯s go and see the rest of you.¡±


    Let¡¯s go and see the rest of you.


    Her antennae was startling to prickle once more as it yanked on the end of her ponytail, dragging deeper into the shallow path. She did not, as a matter of principle, like to dread, but Cressia was already bracing herself to discover the mess of the Zantzar Blades for her to see.


    Orcs were such vicious creatures, it was true. Even Cressia, someone who prided herself in being open minded, could not recall once having a good encounter with any of them.


    Tensions as they were, Zantzar only had a small amount living within the nation, but every else Cressia had travelled she found they were unable to coexist with the humans. They¡¯d filled themselves in the old elven ghettos once elves departed back to the Conclave, and from there troubles were always about to begin.


    Pendaline had such a problem with Orc pickpockets, for example, that visitors in many areas of the Artisan Quarters were advised not valuables with them to barter with at the stalls. Cressia herself had nearly falling victim to one, in it weren¡¯t for the short sabre she¡¯d disguised under the guise of an Umbrella to beat off the rain. Which, in any case, had proven itself by beaten off such a green skinned, sabre toothed thief like a Pendaline Orc.


    She felt like the prey belonging to a strong willed boar being dragged along like this, tussled up and bound as they moved closer to a large pit that echoed within the middle of the Orc camp. There were countless of these pig faced bastards, feasting on the burnt out husk or rib of a human Zantzar Blade. She would not look on their flesh, but she could not pretend as though she had thought there fate was anything else.


    She felt as though she were being salivated all over again as the went through the Tribe. Orcs gazed hungrily, not willing to glance away from the curvaceous body Cressia had inherited from her human host. In death her body would provide enough sustenance for an Orc to live off for the next few days. Her mind, which had forever shied away from the stigmas, allowed herself to accept the darker reality of Orcs as she neared her death.


    An idealist and her life are easily parted, not least of all when being hoisted above the shoulders by the Orc who¡¯d dragged her along to be thrown into the Inferno crafted from red coal and body bits.


    Then she saw it, behind the towering flames and before her demise, several blue Orbs from which the flames were beginning to give rise. She sensed, not with her antennae, but with her soul, that these were Spirits trapped together at the behest of the Orcs.


    Then she felt herself going limp, the world spinning and then a sudden crash into a swirling cascade of fire that had enveloped the skin and bones of the Zantzar Blades who¡¯d come before her, as it did to her.


    She stirred, and let her eyes open and discovered it was still only moonlight dark outside. She wanted to prance outside the confines of her velvet sheets, but stayed shut, and prayed a silent offering for elven Gods on behalf of the Zantzar Blades. She would let their sacrifice go unturned, not when the Orcs hungered in the Zantzar forest, eager to devour the world and leave it in the darkness they''d brought with them to Mylea.

 Weaving Jewellery Together

    Once the renovations had been completed, Cressia and Alvin continued with their training in the old Dominion Churchyard for the next several weeks, now revamped into a strange fencing school from which only the two of them were allowed to enter. Long days were spent moving from one type of weapon to another - foil, sabre, ep¨¦e - all of which Alvin had rapidly grown to be proficient with under Cressia¡¯s watchful eye.


    The awkward stumbles and steps which had so characterised his earliest forays into sword fighting had gradually disappeared once he spent more time with Cressia. His form had been fixed, his speed and accuracy had increased, and soon enough he was able to land a middling point on her from time to time once her energy had been spent after a tiring afternoon spent training with him.


    Scurrying away like this together, in a revamped small church no less, had done little to settle the gossip that was rising within the royal palace. Instead of placing bets on King Theodore¡¯s eventual demise, their attention had now turned to when, not if, Alvin would propose to Cressia for her hand in marriage. The spinsters who¡¯d lived and shrivelled up in the royal laundry room had estimated it would take only 3 months, for they¡¯d known how quickly the King had taken to the queen once up a time.


    Neither Cressia or Alvin had paid much attention to the rumours that were spreading like a Zantzar wildfire around them, nor did they want to hear about them, as they settling much closer into the other¡¯s company. They were becoming something like friends, and soon Cressia¡¯s teaching methods had become more lenient around him as she found herself spending more time with him outside of the sport that had brought them together.


    He was more soft and sensitive than any man she¡¯d ever known, almost to a gratifying level that would normally leave Cressia off put, but she found herself slowly coming around to his unusual interests in this or that and whatever else he spoke about.


    There was also the unspoken truth, that, even if there was a romantic inclination between them (there wasn¡¯t), it would not survive the scrutiny that a royal wedding would bring.


    Weddings between Human and Elves were still largely taboo in Mylea, even after the Conclave had reestablished diplomatic relations with the rest of the Human Kingdoms, but a wedding between a Noble Prince and a common elf woman?


    That would be downright scandalous! The other kingdoms would have a field day if they learned the Zantzar Prince had falling head over heels for an Elven fencer he¡¯d asked to train him! Perhaps she might bring about the end of the Zantzar bloodline when she murdered Alvin in sleep, which would be keeping in character for the citizen of a nation who purged all their royalty only a few decades ago.


    Some servants had even floated up the idea that perhaps Cressia, for all her admirable traits, was secretly a Conclave agent, and this was all simply a Conclave ploy to turn Zantzar into a satellite state after Cressia threw the crowns into the dustbin.


    It hadn¡¯t helped her case either when Cressia corralled the Prince into giving the children of the boroughs a tour of the royal palace, along with hanging the paintings they¡¯d made in her Painting in the Fine Arts Class in the palace artisan gallery.


    ¡°See?¡± Amelia exclaimed as her, Lydia and Eliza ran through the halls, ¡°I told you Ms Cressia was going to marry him!¡±


    Cressia wrote about all of this when she began composing her first letter towards her Elven mother in quite some time. She was writing at a jewel encrusted desk, her blonde hair having coiled around her neck like a fully grown mamba, the strands of split ends reaching all the way across to the other side of the room.  She hadn¡¯t cut it that morning, nor had she strayed any further outside the confines of her lavish bedroom for the rest of the day.


    This was odd, even brazenly bizarre for Cressia, who considered herself something akin a soft extrovert - without a constant stream of people coming in and out of her life, she began to suffer from a strange malady that most normal people could brush off for a few days with a simple shrug of the hands.


    But she¡¯d grown frustrated with Alvin¡¯s progress in these past few days, and his inability to grasp the more complex techniques when it came to fencing. She had decided to take the day off from mentoring him and hibernate, reflecting on what had happened that had led her up to this point in her life, as well as reflecting on the dim relations between parents and child.


    She wrote about Alvin¡¯s strange proposal at the beginning of the summer, of the simmering tensions between Zantzar, The Orcs and the Spirits, and of her working relationship with prince Alvin himself. Through out, she found that she was writing a great deal about Alvin, and how living and tutoring him was within the royal court.


    She smiled at the thought of her parents doubling over in shock and indignation, before asking for forgiveness from the Old Elven Gods whose absence had normally never gone amiss for her pantheistic parents. In truth though, it was likely they¡¯d already known all about their daughters strange and wonderful adventures through the Zantzar kingdom.


    Gwen, Cressia¡¯s mother, was a former spymaster who''d been in charge of the long established spy ring in Pendaline. She was made of strong and sturdy stuff, with nerves of steel as she masterminded one scheme or another from their mud hut in the Caravania tribe.


    Cressia couldn¡¯t recall an afternoon when her mother wasn¡¯t in the process of tearing through letters or deciphering coded messages brought back from all manner of winged creatures. As she worked alone in the office, Cressia had made use of whatever scraps of paper were lying around on the floor, self teaching herself a smattering of the world languages and cultures from the other kingdoms, all things which were to keep her in good stead once she moved through the rest of the Mylean continent.


    Her father, Vaeldor, had once been a Conclave party treasurer in another life, and was not made from stuff that was either strong or sturdy., something Gwen came to realise when he came to her office screaming for help.


    He¡¯d been targeted for assassination by the last few Pro-Monarchists that still lived within the Elven land. She felt pity, and soon found herself spending a great deal of time comforting him once he¡¯d come under her direct care. Once her agents had dealt with the would be assassins and the dark cloud had passed over Vaeldor, she soon found herself proposing to him, and they were married under the great Oak tree in the centre.


    Vaeldor gave up his political ambitions after his brush with death, and soon settled into a new life as a would be writer, coming up with silly stories to amuse his future daughter. Cressia was then raised on long novellas of sorcerers and swashbucklers and all sorts otherworldly creatures her father had met when he worked outside of the Conclave.


    Her mind swelled with fascination at this outside world, which were filled with so many more stories than the feuding tales of Elven Gods she¡¯d heard a few billion times already around the Caravania campfire.


    They felt like her stories and her world, and soon she wanted to get as far away as possible from the never ending cycle Conclave life brought.


    As she dabbed her slender pen in ink, she took much care when it came to the calligraphy that were addressed to her parents, for her letters had become more infrequent and she knew her parents wanted to savour whatever she had written.


    ¡°Prince Alvin is nice and considerate of me, and incredibly skilled with a bow,¡± She wrote, ¡°Father would like him very much mother, I have never met someone imbued with such natural skills in archery as he, for he often leaves the bullseye riddled in a barrage of arrowheads.¡±


    She felt silly reverting back to an old fashion way of speaking like this. Yes, this was how elves talked, but she knew such a formal language had largely been based off the earliest Elven interpretations of archaic human speech patterns! She had a harsh awakening when she first came to Zantzar, finding herself insulated from the common tongue and mannerisms of human peasants by her Conclave education.


    She had hoped, at first, she would come to find more educated people to talk to, but no one, not even Alvin, spoke like that. They even shared the same ill-mannerisms as the people of the boroughs too: Cressia had been flustered to overhear a few maids talking about the size of a royal guard¡¯s rear end earlier in the week.


    Her na?ve view of humans hadn¡¯t been helped from the pulp novellas of princesses and knights she¡¯d been raised on, which were filled with the flowery, prudish language Elves, by nature were more comfortable in.


    Such stories had largely been banned by the Elven Conclave, by the mud hut Cressia lived in was always filled with them, largely because they were gifts from agents who came to meet with her mother once they¡¯d returned from Pendaline. Her first encounters with fencing had come that way too - A romantic book cover featured a redheaded princess dressed up in typical fencing gear, and Cressia discovered she had a new fixation which would follow her for the rest of her life.


    Now hobnobbing with a Prince, Cressia wondered if they felt proud of her once they put their Conclave commitments aside. They¡¯d pulled deeply away from her as she slid further into her service for the Zantzar crown, but there had been an inkling in their past letters that they¡¯d come around to their daughter as a children¡¯s fencing teacher instead.


    When neighbours had asked what had become of Cressia, her parents frowned and said she had moved to Pendaline as part of a Conclave-Pendaline agreement that allowed artists to work freely in both nations. They might not have liked the path she¡¯d chosen, but they would still not allow their daughter to develop the dreaded reputation of a turncoat if they could help it.


    She dabbed her pen again, but felt the ink in the well had dried all up. She could¡¯ve easily gone straight to a servant and ask for some runny old ink, but she wanted to go and see Alvin instead. After his afternoon training of 10KM runs and log squats, he was probably holed up in his room recuperating. Someone who had such a visceral passions for the arts would no doubt have several spare ink bottles lying around somewhere.


    She was going to go as she was dressed too - in a sleeveless white bedroom gown and pink slippers which revealed a softer, more playful side to herself. She would usually dress more modestly around men, but around Alvin she felt so comfortable that she moved down through the foyers without a hint of embarrassment.


    <hr>


    Another edit, freed from all those words in the pages.


    Alvin was alone, keeping his mind preoccupied with crafting jewellery after the near death experiences he¡¯d had while fencing with Cressia yesterday. On his desk were several pieces of jewellery, each part a puzzle as he tried to combine them altogether.


    It was something he had trained himself to do even when he was exhausted. Once upon a time, when he went through the rigorous ostrich training expected of him as a noble, he¡¯d crawl back into bed and the spend the rest of the afternoon lying there in comfort.


    But growing older time begun to seem more fleeting, and he realised he should do more with it instead of wasting the day covered behind sheets and blankets.


    At first he¡¯d tried reading languages and then playing the lyre, but nothing had quite captivated him as learning how to put pieces of jewellery together. In fact the interest had always been there, but Aeryn always seemed unwilling to help him with it, feeling that Alvin, as a man, was better suited for headlocks rather than playing with jewellery.


    When Aeryn had disappeared, and the trail had gone cold for several months, Alvin decided only then that it did not feel like trespassing to move through her room and take the jewellery box she had for himself. He would not ask for another if there was one on hand that he could use himself.


    Cressia from the hallway, watched him work for a time, and felt perhaps he wouldn''t be out of place as a seamstress or watchmaker. There was care in whatever it was that he was crafting, and he gently tugged on the cord as he pulled it through the medallion to add it the centre. She liked seeing him lost in this little world of his, even if it was for an enthusiasm she did not completely share.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    ¡°Hiding something?¡±


    ¡°Cressia!¡± Alvin exclaimed, as he nearly leapt of his seat, ¡°What the hell happened to you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve grown,¡± She answered matter-of-factly, ¡°Soooooo, whatcha doing?¡±


    ¡°Nothing.¡± He stammered, pushing his work project into the desk¡¯s drawer, ¡°I¡¯ve uh, just been practising my Elvish tomes.¡±


    Cressia looked up and saw several Elvish tomes, of which not a single one had ever been opened.


    ¡°Sure, sure,¡± Cressia smiled, ¡°Have any spare Ink bottles I can borrow?¡±


    She came in, dragging her long python hair along with her. Alvin did have a spare ink bottle, he always did, and it was on top of his desk. Aeryn did not write much letters either, so he¡¯d always taken her bottle once it came time for a refill.


    ¡°Here you go.¡± He said bewildered. He¡¯d never such a sudden explosion of hair growth in his whole life. Not even the trolls he¡¯d encountered under bridges had such wild long hair, and they spent their whole lives growing it out.


    Cressia went to take it, but decided she was going to explore the Prince¡¯s room first.


    She¡¯d expected it to be much bigger, even her guestroom was at least half a size large than this pea sized box for a room. The one thing in it¡¯s favour, however, was the large closet which seemed to contain just about every royal outfit Alvin had ever worn. She wondered if she fell into it would she find herself getting lost into another world, perhaps one inhabited by a tigress and a wizard.


    ¡°May I?¡± She asked.


    Alvin shrugged with pretend disdain. ¡°If you must.¡±


    She reached, and felt warm, furry sleeves from inside. It was neither a tigress of a hairy wizard, but something big and brown and that wouldn¡¯t hesitate to gobble her up if they met in the wild.


    She dragged it out, and suddenly felt she was being wrapped in the warm hug of Witherdom bear - In fact, it was a coat that had been skinned from. It¡¯s usual dour expression had been smudged away when it¡¯s hands wrapped a form fitting athletic body like Cressia had.


    ¡°Woof!¡± She exclaimed as she furrowed deep into the coat, ¡°That¡¯s warm!¡± Very warm in fact, but a pleasant kind warm. Not unlike the supposed warmth she felt back in the boroughs, where she slept in hard bed with razor thin linen and cobwebbed blanket cases.


    She was going to demand for one of these one she had finished scolding him and his shoddy jewellery attempts. And also one for each of the children of the boroughs - they would need it in the coming Winter Months.


    ¡°Fashionista, huh?¡± Cressia smiled. She did not like to tease, but she wanted to see how round his eyes would get.


    ¡°In another life,¡± Alvin began, ¡°Though at times it feels like


    ¡°This is your mothers?¡±


    He nodded.


    ¡°Yes, I decided to keep in once she passed away,¡± Alvin said, ¡°I couldn¡¯t part with it, it was her favourite.¡±


    That was another human thing which Cressia could not quite understand - the obsession with keeping mementos of the departed. Elves, even Cressia, felt such tepid thoughts kept them chained to the past, when they should live for the future. Upon a loved one¡¯s death, anything that called back to their relationship was burnt along the deceased¡¯s body. It was a metaphorical way of releasing them from their bond to another.


    With that said, maybe these odd human practices weren¡¯t so bad all things considered. During her early life, The Conclave had spoke a great deal about the bonds and roots that were the lifeblood of the Elven People: yet when she compared it to the warmth she felt among the Zantzar peasants, it was anything but that.


    Much like the Elven Myths it was an artificial creation, corralled and caressed by the faceless leaders of the Elven Council. Her elven friends had begun to dissipate as the years went by in Zantzar, and the relationship she had with both parents was not as always affectionate or riddled with love, as she¡¯d shared with the borough children.


    She wasn¡¯t even sure if she wanted to go back to the Elven Conclave - in fact she wanted to stay permanently within the Zantzar council. Maybe she should convince her parents to come along, and maybe, just maybe, a lifetime of brainwashing might soon be unravelled out of them when they were dressed up in slick Zantzar furs.


    She began to giggle, and decided she would move to the windowsill and see what view a Prince was given from this corner of the castle.


    ¡°I can finally do this now.¡±


    ¡°Do what?¡±


    Cressia pushed the bundle of hair outside the cobbled windowsill, watching it


    ¡°Climb, climb up my love, and climb fast!¡±


    ¡°Pretending to be Lady Llywelyn?¡± Alvin asked, ¡°Children hear that story around her too.¡±


    She began hoisting the hair back up again, like an elderly woman raising water from a damp well.


    ¡°She was not a lady, as you know, but a man.¡±


    ¡°Well of course I knew that, I had to take so many folklore electives under my tutors growing up.¡±


    Cressia devoured myths, and in another lifetime she might¡¯ve been content to be a myth maker at the table of the Conclave. She wanted to put his knowledge of fables and legends to the test.


    ¡°Lady Llywelyn was born Terence of the Llywelyn Clan, the feminine son of a King who ruled over Northern Pendaline in the archaic times.¡±


    ¡°He was vain and abrasive and spent far too much time in front of his sister¡¯s mirror,¡± Alvin continued, ¡°But he was compassionate, witty and well liked by his subjects.¡±


    ¡°¡­.He was also incredibly gay,¡± Cressia hastily added, ¡°And his long hair was used to drag up any royal guard whom he wanted to spend the night with.¡±


    ¡°¡­.And the King felt compelled to throw him out because of it, towing to the tiresome line of toxic masculinity that was omnipresent in those dark days.¡±


    ¡°Then lived the rest of his life in squalor, before being killed in a dark alley after his attempts to sell his body had gone wrong.¡±


    ¡°Turned into a woman by the pages of history afterwards - a cautionary tale for young girls about the dangers of deflowering yourself for just about everyone.¡± Alvin concluded.


    Cressia always felt saddened when she heard the end of the tale, in fact she could barely bring herself to listen to it after she¡¯d come to discover the truth. Nor did she recount the tale to the borough children who had asked it of her when she wanted to keep them entertained as they waited on their parents to pick them up.


    She felt she was degrading Terence¡¯s memory by recounting it, and if she couldn¡¯t tell the children the of the taboo subject, the best move was not to speak about it at all.


    She did not want to ponder, she decided she would sit alongside him. Like her own desk chair, it was broad enough to fit a third wheel between them.


    ¡°Show me what you¡¯re working on,¡± She said, ¡°I¡¯m not a fool, I know you¡¯re hiding something.¡±


    He opened the drawer, and pulled out something which she knew wasn¡¯t what he was working on originally.


    ¡°Well, what is it?¡±


    ¡°What does it look like?¡±`


    ¡°Making jewellery?¡±


    ¡°Yes Cressia, well done.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I see, not wanting the word to get out, do you?¡±


    ¡°Oh, of course, you know the future king of Zantzar can¡¯t be seen as a sissy.¡±


    She peered down, and saw a stretch of dark cord stringed around a medallion of an ostrich, both the national bird and symbol of Zantzar.


    ¡°It¡¯s a choker.¡±


    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s a choker,¡± Alvin repeated deflated, ¡°I like making them, but rarely do I get the chance to wear them.¡±


    ¡°Well, now¡¯s your chance,¡± Cressia whispered, ¡°Put it on for me.¡±


    He let her command linger in the air, and then he reached for the braided cord. It had beads attached to prevent any unwanted tangles, but Alvin began to fidget with it in such a way that it irritated her.


    ¡°Turn around, you¡¯re doing it wrong.¡± She had now morphed into a socially concerned mother who didn¡¯t want her child to make a fool of himself in front of others.


    There was no objection, in fact he let her sharp nails walk all over him as her slender fingertips dug deep into the sides of his neck.


    ¡°I hope I¡¯m not prickling you.¡±


    ¡°Nope, it¡¯s just ticklish.¡±


    ¡°I pricked my ear this morning when I took off my ear rings,¡± She sighed, ¡°So I know how it feels.¡±


    ¡°Maybe elves are just thin skinned compared to humans.¡±


    ¡°Maybe,¡± She mused, ¡°Is that alright?¡±


    His hands reached around the sides, and felt a loose string that was dwindle all the way. It was still not a choker, but rather only a necklace.


    ¡°It could be tighter.¡±


    She pulled on the cord like a garrote, not content to let go until she saw the curvature of his neck turn red.


    ¡°Much better.¡± He wheezed out through gritted teeth.


    ¡°It looks good on you actually.¡± Cressia didn¡¯t really like it when men wore jewellery, but the sapphire Ostrich in the middle really did bring out the best in Alvin¡¯s blue eyes. For a moment, she found herself getting lost in them, and hid behind his slender frame in embarrassment. Her fingertips started to trail elsewhere, moving up and down the back of neck and through the tangled strands of his dishevelled hair.


    ¡°You need to get a haircut, there¡¯s just so much wrong here on your part.¡±


    So many noughts and splits ends, she thought, tsk tsk tsk.


    ¡°Are you going to be my lady in waiting now,¡± Alvin said, ¡°Giving me all sorts of fashion tips, even when it¡¯s not wanted?¡±


    You need to be fastened to a tip, Cressia thought, ideally a spear headed one.


    When they had first met, it was an untrimmed but still serviceable mullet - now it had morphed into a light Afro which wasn¡¯t worn by anyone aside from Pendaline streetwalkers who¡¯d tried to lurch themselves on Cressia when she¡¯d gone there on holiday. Maybe Alvin and ¡°Lady Llywelyn¡± had fallen from the same tree after all.


    ¡°I¡¯m serious, you need to sort this mess out,¡± Cressia replied, trying to get the image out of her head, ¡°I¡¯m not scolding, but get a trim at least.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m growing it long.¡±


    ¡°You can get it trimmed and still grow it long.¡± She began to play with it, letting herself twirl a contour with her little finger. ¡°You don¡¯t need to be inducted into the brotherhood of buzz cuts.¡±


    ¡°Do you wish you had long hair, Cressia?¡±


    ¡°I do have long hair,¡± she began, ¡°I have to cut it off with my rapier every morning.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a funny image, you wake up and see a large ponytail lying besides you every morning?¡±


    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s that bad.¡±


    ¡°Bizarre.¡±


    ¡°I know, so bizarre.¡±


    He was beginning to smile again, and so was she. Smiles were always her weak spot, infectious, something she didn¡¯t allow others to see within her.


    ¡°Show me what you¡¯re really working on.¡± She softly spoke, once he¡¯d begun to calm down with the giggles.


    Alvin reached into the drawer again, and brought out the piece he would¡¯ve completed in record time had it not been for Cressia.


    ¡°Is that Elvish?¡± she asked, ¡°It looks Elvish.¡±


    He nodded. ¡°Yes, it¡¯s a necklace with the seal of the Caravania tribe etched into it.¡±


    Cressia could make out the faint outline of a dove carved into the cobalt medallion. She had never seen a dove in her life, nor would she like them if she did, but it still beat having an ostrich as your national emblem.


    ¡°It¡¯s for you actually,¡± He slyly spoke, ¡°I was thinking of giving it you, but¡­.¡±


    ¡°But?¡±


    ¡°I want to see you in your Zantzar uniform first.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I want to see you in your old soldier uniform.¡± He repeated, with much clarity.


    She was grossed out, almost like he¡¯d asked her to dress up in old Conclave school uniform. She been solicited with offers like that in her armed forces days, men who gazed hungrily at her body, and spoke of promises of getting her a few rungs up the ladder without having to dirty her nails as much. It was when she joined the Zantzar Blades and enshrouded behind it¡¯s veil of protection did the offers stop. Batting off attention like that made Cressia feel like she was the only elf within Zantzar in those dark days.


    She turned to leave and ran, long before Alvin''s eyes could even wince in pain. It was not until she reached her room did she realise she¡¯d actually brought it along with her anyway, feeling Alvin would ask her to wear it as part of their fencing arrangement .


    It was one of the few pieces of clothing she had that wasn¡¯t apart of her more earthy palette that made up her other outfits - oak brown, evergreen emerald, soft sapphire blue. The colours, though slightly faded, were still there for anyone to make out the black slacks, red petticoat and crimson beret that made up of the Zantzar uniform.


    She decided she would bring it to him, at least. His head still cowered over the trinket by the time she¡¯d returned, distraught that perhaps he made a social faux pas and terribly shattered their working relationship.


    "I''m back." She said, as she pressed into the room again.


    "You''re back." Alvin repeated. He was smiling again. The social faux pas he made wasn¡¯t weighing over his head any longer.


    "And I''ve brought my uniform." She smiled, and held out the woven bag for him.


    ¡°May I ask again that you put it on?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a mannequin, you know.¡±


    ¡°Pretty please?¡± He whispered, ¡°It¡¯s all that I ask of you.¡±


    She bit her lip. In truth, the necklace he made didn¡¯t seem so bad, and she wanted to see if her old uniform still fitted her anyway.


    "Don''t look, alright?" She said in a low voice, ¡°I just really want that necklace.¡±


    He nodded, and turned back to place his head on the desk. His eyes were clenched for the sake of her modesty, but Cressia eyes never left him. She put on and taken off her uniform so many times that she didn¡¯t even need to look as she did. She had undressed before in front of men, but never with their backs turned away from her, and never with royalty.


    For a moment, as she slid off her pink slippers and undid her white dress, she was covered only by a soft bra and dark panties.  She wondered if Alvin had even seen a woman naked beforehand, or if he had even laid with a woman in his lifetime. She did not want to feel judgemental, but a man in his late twenties without a significant other posed some serious questions about his personal life, but even more so when one was a prince.


    The black slacks themselves were tight, form fitting and perhaps placed a little too much emphasis on her sharply shaped rear end for someone who was supposed to be going to war. The petticoat was a size too large, the beret was a size too small, only barely able to be placed on the crown of her head.


    She left the pink slippers until last, breaking military conduct here, but she could not let her feet grow cold now that she lacked the warmth of the Witherdom bear coat.


    ¡°How do I look?¡±


    ¡°Amazing,¡± Alvin cooed, ¡°And as promised.¡± He held out the necklace, with it''s amateur scribble for a dive.


    She took it, and let it linger around her soft neck. She fell in love with it instantly. The string was much softer than the cord he¡¯d used. If so, she did not mind. She did not want her best feature to be scarred with rope marks.


    ¡°Thank you Alvin.¡±


    Now he was getting lost in her soft sapphire eyes, something which


    ¡°We¡¯re going to be having a ball in a few weeks time¡­¡± He began.


    ¡°A Ball?¡±


    ¡°Yes, a ball,¡± Alvin continued, ¡°For the war effort, and I was wondering if you could let me have the day off for it.¡±


    ¡°Well of course I will silly,¡± Cressia answered, wrapping him in her arms, ¡°But only if you let me come, of course.¡± Cressia had always been deeply enamoured with the idea of going to a ball, even as a child when the Conclave


    Alvin began to furrow deep within his blushes. Perhaps there was nothing left for him to hide at all. He began to unfasten the drawer


    ¡°I¡¯ve been working on a few other things here and there, would you like me t-¡°


    ¡°Show me!¡±


    She sat down alongside him once again, and Alvin felt the two of them were in for a long night debating the intricacies and habits of making jewellery together

 Dress Up Time

    Ms Hastings didn¡¯t like to admit it, but Prince Alvin had latched onto her like a mother ever since Queen Janice had died several months ago. She did not necessarily mind, and as the esteemed tailor of the royal Zantzar family, she¡¯d watched Alvin grow up as she fitted him into a new outfit wherever the occasion arrived.


    For 45 years she had done so, ever since she¡¯d wormed herself into the position from being a childhood friend of Janice, and had watched as her late friend carefully inserted into the royal court, centring discourse around her, until, eventually, King Theodore had fallen in love with her and soon became her betrothed.


    Life became hectic for her once the twins arrived, and soon Ms Hastings was tasked with clothing the royal quartet from time to time. Alvin was the easiest to manage. He would come along, long before his sister Aeryn arrived, and find himself going through whatever fabrics were in fashion during that time. Even when his parents didn¡¯t approve, believing he should take up more masculine pursuits befitting a king to be, Alvin always found himself scurrying down to the Little Shop of Royal Dresses whenever he had free time.


    Ms Hastings enjoyed the young boy''s company, since she spent a great deal of her own time alone. Her husband had died as a soldier elsewhere, and her only son was too busy spending time with friends as he entered his more turbulent teenage years. So, she made do with the young Prince¡¯s visits and taught him the fundamentals of sewing, embroidering and pattern making, while he brought what little stories and gossip he could from the royal court.


    These weekly visits had continued ever since, but Aeryn¡¯s disappearance and Theodore¡¯s illness forced Alvin to put them on hold and take a more leading role in royal affairs. She felt him beginning to slip away from under her watchful eye, and anytime the two encountered each other briefly in the royal palace, she saw a haggard young man being saddled with unwanted expectations from all sides.


    She was surprised then to find Alvin one afternoon back in the Little Shop, only to learn he¡¯d come to ask of a favour to help a friend of his. This friend was an elf, his fencing tutor and a piece of juicy gossip that Ms Hastings had somehow missed, and would she be so kind as to help her for the upcoming ball a few weeks from now. She was more knowledgeable around blades and cannons than she was with boudoir and corsets.


    So, Ms Hastings, who held some truly disparaging views of elves in general, sewed her mouth shut with needles the moment the Cressia walked through her front door, her mind racing with all sorts of possibilities and practicalities needed to make this work. Cressia herself was horribly out of place in a fashion shop, and Ms Hastings knew she was in for several long weeks of indecision as Cressia picked out her first ballroom dress.


    She had done it with Queen Janice, with Aeryn and now the same strings of events were about to unfold with this elven friend of Alvin''s.


    It did not help that, when Cressia grew hungry from trying out dresses, that Hastings was forced to overhear the same several jokes about the differences between dressing and dresses, and how Cressia did not understand why nobles went through all the trouble to look like a peacock or an ostrich or whatever manner of strange creatures Cressia had skinned and feasted upon during her time spent in the Conclave Youth Movement.


    ¡°It¡¯s fashion, darling.¡± Ms Hastings answered through gritted teeth. What would a Conclave elf girl like her know about fashion?


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    ¡°It could also be practical too,¡± Cressia replied as she forced herself out of a trailing yellow dress, ¡°when I was in the Zantzar Armed Forces, we had both.¡±


    Hastings smiled, because her own son had grown up to enlist in the Armed Forces, and that was enough to bridge a gap between them and put aside her bigotry for the time being.


    The weeks went on, and soon Cressia¡¯s fashion sense began to be moulded to Hastings liken, but they still butted heads from time to time.


    "Red is definitely not a good look for you," Hastings said as Cressia emerged from a changing room in a crimson gown, "how about green?"


    "As if my ears didn¡¯t give away I was an elf already!¡± She stammered out. Cressia knew there was sense in Hastings suggestion, most of her garments were green and it would match the colour of her eyes, but she wanted to get away from elvish colours for the time being.


    She wanted something fresh, but something that wouldn¡¯t differentiate her from the rest of the party goers. It sounded strange when she admitted that to herself, like she wanted to be dressed like a human, but she¡¯d had enough of the plain, earthy colours that dominated Conclave fashion. She wanted to adapt more to the customs and practices of those around her, and not stick out like the Conclave elf girl when she¡¯d first come to the palace.


    In fact, she felt there was truth in Alvin''s subtle suggestions that life in the Conclave was more uniform than in Zantzar. She hated to admit he was right, but the further she¡¯d lived in Zantzar, the more clearer it had become. Dress codes in the Conclave had been strictly monitored, and her own sense of style, which had always emphasised the practicality of a minimalist wardrobe, was derived from the crucible of all that surveillance.


    Her shoe size, waist length, neck circumference - were all marked down for the first time by Hastings as she tried on frilly dress after frilly dress. She¡¯d never done anything liek this with another woman, not even with her own mother, and soon Cressia, like Alvin, Cressia was beginning to latch onto her like a motherly figure too. She felt even comfortable enough to open up about her own insecurities as they went through the motions together.


    ¡°Will you go and speak with Prince Alvin before tonight?¡± Hastings prodded her gently. After several weeks of turmoil and dress-up heartache, they¡¯d finally found the perfect outfit for Cressia. It was in the afternoon before the ball, but Hastings realised that had been the case for Janice and Aeryn too.


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t think I will.¡± Cressia replied.


    ¡°Why not?¡± Hastings prodded her gently as she clasped up the last few buttons in the back, ¡°don¡¯t tell me you¡¯re afraid of him seeing you like this early?¡±


    Cressia wasn¡¯t afraid, or even superstitious about things like that. She did not want to see him either, knowing he was probably dressed in something more outlandish than usual considering the occasion was to befall them. She''d already seen his collections of furs and silk pyjamas and whatnot, what else was there for Alvin to go?


    But Cressia also knew that wasn¡¯t the whole story, and that something about meeting Alvin beforehand would make her feel deflated, like it was to ruin something special between them, something they could talk about later on in the night.


    ¡°I just want to wait, I don¡¯t want to rush into it.¡± It felt like a half truth, but where the other half of it was, she could not say.


    Hastings felt she knew where the other half might be, but decided to let the subject go. With only two or three hours to go before the ball, Hastings suggested her that she lock herself up in her room for the time being, until the rest of the royals from the neighbouring kingdoms came, and then she might be able to scamper down the hallway into the main Ballroom, where Alvin might gaze at her as she came down the large staircase that led down to it, where he would be busy fending off potential heiresses who wanted to become the next queen of Zantzar.


    Cressia nodded, and spoke a few old elven words of gratitude before she found herself moving through the foyers in an awkward walk-jog-promenade fashion, that wasn¡¯t helped with the large high heels she wore.


    All Hastings could do was smile, and reminiscence back to when Janice had done the same thing in front of her, an awkwardly dressed warrior woman who felt she was best suited to claiming King Theodore¡¯s hand and becoming the queen of Zantzar.

 Dance with Me

    ¡°Prince Alvin, please, allow me to borrow a moment of your time!¡±


    ¡°Prince Alvin, this crowd is too large, may we continue to talk over at the caramel fountain?¡±


    ¡°Prince Alvin, tell us more about your daring adventures while fighting the Orcs!¡±


    Alvin sighed, stirring the glass of root beer in one hand and swatting away groping noblewomen with another. He¡¯d already lost track of how many were gathered around him, watching and whispering excitedly when he decided to murmur a comment or two on how well Marshal Weria had organised a ball like this in the middle of the Orc conflict.


    A dark cloud was lingering over him - father¡¯s condition had sharply declined yesterday afternoon - and, despite Weria¡¯s insistence, hobnobbing with nobility had not done anything to quell the distressing thoughts that bubbled up all evening.


    Weria, who had come with both his wife Evelyn and their shared manservant Terrence, was in a fit of giggles as he watched the prince try and remove himself from the harem of  blue bloods he was succumbing to.


    Alvin felt his only course of action might be to beat the girls off with a stick, or to even use the sabre Cressia had given him not so long ago. She would like that very much actually, skewering any aristocrat that stood in his way, good practice for what was to come when they departed to the Mylean forest a week from now to sort this Orc business out.


    ¡°Prince Alvin, you¡¯re the most snazzily dressed man I¡¯ve ever seen!¡± One particularly forward suitor purred, her fingertips trailing down on the scruffs of his left shoulder. She was older, much older, than the rest of the girls around him, and overstuffed from a lifetime spent guzzling down pastries in royal pantries. He started to grimace.


    Deep down, he did not feel snazzily dressed at all himself. In fact he felt rather second hand and uninspired with his black waistcoat and breeches, along with a white linen shirt that was trimmed with purple buttons. He had worn the same outfit several years ago during the peace conferences between Zantzar and Pendaline, and he desperately wished that not even the most socially attuned party goers would notice he¡¯d made the fashion faux pas of wearing the same outfit twice.


    He couldn¡¯t even find the time to get fitted by Ms Hastings, as Cressia had taken up every slot in her busy schedule in order to get fitted for the first ball in her life.


    Cressia.


    If it wasn''t his sickly father he was ruminating on, it was Cressia. Ever since the uniform incident, he couldn¡¯t find a way to shoo her out of his mind, not even after he¡¯d asked Soothsayer Gretchen for a remedy to stem his thoughts. Gretchen, in her herbal wisdom, had listened attentively to the symptoms of the malaise he¡¯d had, and decided he did not need a cure at all. He was not suffering from malaise, but from limerance, and the only thing she could prescribe was for him to stay away from Cressia until his thoughts had subsided.


    It was not the solution Alvin had expected, but he agreed to do as Gretchen had asked of him. These past few weeks, his only contact with Cressia had been in the few lessons they had together, which had steadily decreased as the grand ball approached. Cressia was swamped in dressmaking, while Alvin had hidden himself away in cupboards or the attic to avoid her. By tonight he¡¯d not gazed on Cressia in a weeks time, and that made his heart ache all the more in the strangest of ways.


    ¡°Prince Alvin, please elope with me this evening!¡±


    ¡°Prince Alvin, come and listen to my concerto performance in the music hall!¡±


    ¡°Prince Alvin, my muse, let me recite this poem I¡¯ve written about you!¡±


    It was all just too much, too fast for his soft, introverted nature. Everything around him was beginning to blur - the people, the music, the unscrupulous attempts to make a political marriage with his realm - Alvin just wanted to shrink down to the size of a mouse and get the hell away from all of this realpolitik disguised as pleasantries talk.


    Then, just as he was about to throw the root beer all over his fan club, relief came in the form of his earlier headache.


    ¡°Who the hell is that?¡± A petite redhead whispered angrily to the others.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± A plump sized princess whispered back, ¡°but she looks very elf-y.¡±


    ¡°She is an Elf!¡± The tallest of the brunettes screamed, ¡°what is she doing here in a ballroom?¡±


    Alvin opened his eyes, and his breath suddenly become hitched as he watched Cressia move down the steps of the grand staircase. She was lavishly dressed, wearing a sleeveless black maxi gown, and without any of the pompous decor and decorations that adorned the other socialites here tonight. Her hair, normally cut short for practicality, cascaded down her neck in long waves, while her only accessory was a golden necklace which matched the colour of her dirty blonde roots. Her feet were bare, as they always were when she walked, and her smile was stilled, uncertain of how someone like her might fit in this strange world of shifting allegiances and blood oaths for crowns and tiaras.


    It was so unlike that Alvin wondered if it was all a master ruse on her part to fool him into feeling as though he might avoid a fencing match for one afternoon. Maybe somewhere, under the fabric of her dress, was a pocket sized epee willing to be brought out so she could test his mettle in front of everyone that was here. Glumped as he was, their eyes did not meet as she scanned the room, and soon Cressia had gone off to make a beeline towards the catering section on the side, whose warm spot of activity was slowly dying down as the Orchestral band was in the middle of reorganising itself for the slow ballads that were soon to come.


    Please Cressia, Alvin thought as his suitors went back to tugging at the clasps of his buttons, you¡¯re my only hope!


    <hr>


    The strong, otherworldly aroma of sausage rolls made Cressia dart the lingering gazes all around her to the nearby catering table. Ms Hastings had confided into her that there was these sublte nuances and appearances she had to keep in mind when she trailed through a party for royalty like this, but all that went out the window when Cressia realised she could feast on such delicacies once again.


    A culinary delight from Pendaline, she had not had them for over two years now, and she wasted no time picking up a paper plate and scooping several of them up alongside a few slices of cold, Venadian pizza. It seemed the Zantzar kingdom was working twice as hard to appeal to the broad spectrum of culinary tastes that would come and go here tonight in the palace. Try as she might though, she could not find any traditional Conclave dishes among the buffet line that was a mile wide. In fact, as she heartily dug deep into her pile of grub, she could not make out another elf here besides here tonight. She did not find it odd, in fact she¡¯d expected it, but she¡¯d hoped perhaps there had been a human noble somewhere who¡¯d taken a young elven bride to be, and maybe they would¡¯ve conversed on something that was related to the Conclave or other elven matters, and not some human topic such as poll taxes or rumours of philandering empresses.


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    "Look at you, all dressed up."


    She turned around, and saw but this was one seemed persistent to make contact with an elf.


    He was very large and pale skinned, dressed in dark fabrics etched with the markings of runes, and wore a wide brimmed hat that hid everything but the wide protruding smile that crept up from the contours of lips. He was a Witherdom man.


    "Err, thank you, I guess?" Cressia wiped away the crumbs around her face. She¡¯d been with Witherdom men before, and knew just how bold they could get around women very quickly. Some of the other kingdoms had disparaged them as brutes with divided their estates between themselves using leftover loincloths. As dismissive as they were, Cressia knew firsthand they were not completely far off from the truth.


    ¡°I never knew the Conclave had renegaded on it¡¯s anti-monarchist beliefs.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    "Well, why else would they send a beautiful young woman as an emissary here?" He dabbled at the eye, and Cressia soon saw his eyes, which held pupils that were as yellow as rancid puss. Her stomach was beginning to wench.


    "I''m here with someone already," Cressia replied hastily, "sorry." She did not want to hang around for too long, she wanted to get out of here as quick as possible.


    ¡°Oh?¡± Witherdom stepped in and took a strong grasp on Cressia¡¯s left wrist, ¡°with who?¡±


    She started to feel queasy now. His hands were large, likely forged from a lifetime of carrying logs by hand, and Cressia wondered if it would be a good idea to recycle her appetisers all over him. But first she let her eyes stride across the room, and soon the penny dropped when she saw Alvin on the opposite side, being swarmed by a group of locusts disguised as frilly dames.


    The annoyance she felt for Witherdom seemed to fade out into the background, and she was swarmed with much stronger feelings of malaise. Jealousy was one, possessiveness was another, and soon she began to move forward through the centre of the ballroom.


    ¡°With him?¡± Witherdom creep¡¯s grip suddenly all but gave way, ¡°but that¡¯s the prince of Za-¡°


    ¡°Yes, the Prince of Zantzar, now let go of me!¡± She pushed him aside into would soon take her chances with a gaggle of housemaids than this sleazy Barbarian. Already the second half of the festivities had begun, but Cressia was not impressed the mediocre avantgarde piece that was being performed. Nor from the wandering eyes of other human men, who¡¯s hands she swatted away as she moved further to Alvin, who¡¯d grown an even deeper shade of red once he realised she saw the situation he was in.


    ¡°Hi-ho!¡± She smiled, not paying attention to the snake pit around them, ¡°In need of a sparring partner?¡±


    "A what?"


    "A sparring partner." Her lips started to curl into her own pleasant smile. ¡°You know, with me?¡±


    Alvin seemed frozen in place, and the noble ladies around him began to huff, ready to brush off any filthy elven girl who got too close to him/ Cressia remained unperturbed. She was not going to be pushed aside by some thin skinned socialites who''d been bred to sneer at someone like her.


    Does she, Alvin began to ruminate, actually want to da-


    "Come on!" She grabbed hold of his sleeve and his cuff links, and began dragging him back into the centre of the ballroom, and Alvin, in a half attempt at keeping up appearances, pretended he was not enjoying this at all.


    As was custom for the host, the rest of the visiting nobility gave a wide berth to the two of them in the centre as the Orchestra performed Mariwen''s Red Skies under Red Weddings, a slow melodic piece which was based off a gruesome legend from the past. Cressia knew it by heart, as did Alvin, of a Dwarven civil war battle underneath a wedding between an elven woman and a human man. Stigma was much higher in the past around mixed species couples, so the couple were left without any company to celebrate their new union until bloody dwarven survivors started to pile up onto the surface.


    It was one of the few universal stories held by all races in Mylea, but it¡¯s themes considerably differed between realms.  It was thought a tragedy in the Conclave, a comedy in Zantzar and from the dwarves she''d met in her travels, was seen as an event to have some factual basis in the Dwarven Civil War. It was widely considered Mariwen¡¯s magnum opus, who felt she could only come up with such a rendition if it cycled between the three genres as the composition went on.


    "This is not what I had in mind when you mentioned sparring." Alvin said, as he moved his free hand to her waist before she could even think of doing so. He was quite useless in all manner of things, but one of the few feathers in his cap was the repertoire of dance he¡¯d built up from years spent watching the royal ballet after bedtime.


    ¡°Oh?¡± Cressia giggled, ¡°what did you have in mind?¡± She took the lead, always the lead when she was with her student, and pressed him forward as the as the noise of distant cymbals steadied on. She had learnt to do the waltz too, it was apart of the Conclave curriculum growing up, but she studied it under it¡¯s elvish name - the Isadervyn.


    Waltz or Isadervyn, the words didn¡¯t matter - the language of dance was the same across countries and peoples.


    ¡°I was half expecting you to whip out a sabre, challenge me in front of everyone as part of some dastardly final fencing exam of yours.¡± Alvin replied, feeling very rusty.


    He¡¯d almost crashed into a bald Pendaline noble and his husband during their first cycle, but Cressia steadied him doing so. Her hands were as hard as callouses, and for the first time, Alvin noticed just how badly scarred her biceps and arms were. She¡¯d had taken her fair share of dhots during her Zantzar blade days.


    ¡°I would never do such a thing!¡± Cressia exclaimed with shock horror, ¡°I¡¯m mortified enough as it is being here!¡±


    ¡°What?¡± Alvin nudged gently, ¡°are you ashamed of being seen with me?¡±


    ¡°Alvin, I am never ashamed when I am with you.¡± She let herself smile warmly, and soon Alvin found himself getting lost in those big oval eyes of hers. In fact, they seemed to be getting softer and more expressive as the days went on with her, and suddenly his mind was racing with all sorts of thoughts and unspoken truths that lingered in this moment between them.


    Cressia was lost in his blue blue eyes too. How soft and blue they were, she thought. How blue she felt too, when she hadn¡¯t been around him for this past week. She¡¯d never done the waltz with someone much taller than her like this growing up. She was considerably taller than her female classmates, and that meant the keeper who looked after them could her with the boys who were closest to her own height.


    She was very plain then, and perhaps overheard too many comments that implied her partner was with another boy, all of which only made Cressia want to disappear into the floor and go back to the confines of the Conclave library.


    She¡¯d so desperately wished she was as petite as her friends, to the let shadow of a man¡¯s skin linger over her as they did the Isadervyn, and here she found it coming true with the Prince of Zantzar himself.


    "Are you wearing Mascara?" She whispered, not willing to let the royal court learn about this crucial matter of fact to punch and leverage against Alvin. Red Skies was now the dimmest part of it¡¯s composition, where even a penny being dropped could be heard across the room


    ¡°Err, yes.¡± He smiled, and for the first time she saw the faintest of blushes beginning to creep up his neck.


    ¡°That¡¯s so you!¡±


    ¡°Please don¡¯t tell anyone?¡±


    ¡°No, I won¡¯t don¡¯t worry,¡± she giggled, ¡°but how


    ¡°I think they were a bit overwhelmed by the dull stories I told,¡± Alvin snickered, as I started to twirl Cressia around. ¡°you saved me from them, you know.¡±


    ¡°It looked like a bunch of dogs salivating over a bone.¡± She pointed out once she¡¯d finished her twirl, ¡°I couldn¡¯t leave a friend behind to such a fate.¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s one truly earthy peasant way of putting it, I would think.¡± A remark which left Cressia lightly kicked at his ankle as they did another sidestep together. ¡°Shut up!¡± She said, but not without a few suppressed giggles too.


    ¡°I¡¯m just thankful Cressia, that¡¯s all.¡±


    ¡°For what?¡±


    ¡°For being with me, for helping me, and for spending so much time together.¡± Alvin¡¯s cheeks started to burn, ¡°I¡¯m just so very thankful for what you¡¯ve done.¡±


    Cressia felt her cheeks beginning to grow red too, but couldn¡¯t think of anything to answer with, other than to ask him for another dance once Mariwen¡¯s Red Skies had finished, and then another and another as the night wore on.

 The Orcs Strike Back

    ¡°Another, another!¡± Alvin exclaimed, as he and Cressia completed their 13th dance together on the royal ballroom floor. Most of their contemporaries had given up half a dozen dances or so in, and the only couples left were those who¡¯d been in love for decades, and mastered the art of pacing themselves when running through the gauntlet of a royal ball¡¯s music.


    ¡°I¡¯ve had enough Alvin.¡± Cressia whispered half heartedly. She wanted to continue on too, but her partner had put her through so many twirls she felt she would collapse from the dizziness she felt. She needed a place to rest, away from overly loud dance music and Alvin¡¯s excitable mood.


    That, in her weary mind, made him feel irritable, and she did not like it at all when Alvin felt irritable to her. Especially considering it was her who pursued him for an evening of mischief like this.


    "Are you alright?"


    "I''m fine Alvin." Of course she''d be fine, she was Cressia Caravania after all. It was not like an arrow had been lodged into her shoulder or anything like that. Alvin nodded, and started to lead her down to a free seat near the staircase, devoid of the gossipers or hanger-ons who were known to shape up a life threatening rumour or two.


    "Are you thirsty, do you need anything to drink?" His hands trailed near her forehead, which was warm but not so warm for him to call upon the royal doctors who lingered in the shadows.


    "I''m OK, but-"


    "But?"


    "I could do with some more sausage rolls." She smiled, and Alvin, startled, began to wince. He thought sausage rolls were delicious too, but he did not like the title that was conferred upon it, sausage rolls. It was like gibberish, the sort of thing a commoner would come up with after inventing it before being pulled elsewhere during tavern peak hours. Of course, it was Zantzar cuisine, but not the refined cuisine that would prove to be more popular to those who came today.


    Alvin turned, and even from their distance he could see that the cuisine corner was mobbed by ransacking nobles. Most of them were deeply hungry, and whatever disparaging remarks the other nobility had said about Zantzar cuisine now dissipated once their stomachs started to growl. The head chef, who''d been in service to Alvin as long as Weria or Ms Hastings, merely shook his head and did a throat slitting sign to him. The kitchen was to remained closed for the rest of the evening."


    "You''ll have to wait until morning, unfortunately."


    "Hmmph!" Cressia huffed, folding her arms like a petulant child. Through Alvin, she''d always gotten what she''d wanted, but now he and the chefs couldn''t pull their weight when it mattered most?


    If she''d been as crazed as her mother, she would''ve called for a 20km run tomorrow as punishment, but she was not like her mother. She was far too sympathetic to this human prince and this strange world he was sometimes caught up in.


    "I have an idea."


    "What?"


    "You look like you need some air instead."


    ¡°I know you¡¯re trying to ease my pain, but I¡¯m not in the mood for that.¡±


    This was apart of her informal grammar lessons she''d taught him between ballads on the ballroom floor. In elvish, Aeryas doubled as both an advanced dance move and as a sweet and sour dish sourced from rice and rhubarb - it was popular in the Conclave, but not so popular that it would make it''s way across to the royal Zantzar kitchen.


    "No," Alvin explained with much frustration, "air."


    "Air air?"


    "Yes, air air." He tugged ever so slightly at her hand once she''d settled down again in that free spirited way of hers he''d so admired. "I want to show you something, come with me." "Like what?¡± Cressia said with the refined annoyance expected of a prince¡¯s dancing partner. ¡°I hope it¡¯s not another one of your foxtrots, my legs can barely carry me as it is!¡±


    Alvin could only grin, and then found himself dragging her along through the sea of people just as she had done with him when they first begun. They moved away from all the noise and buffoonery and bubbles that were to burst as champagne corks rippled through the air, and Cressia, for the first time, began to feel very womanly around him. She could sense that their initial gender roles were beginning to unravel between them too. She pretended she did not like it, this newly feminine part of her.


    <hr>


    Up the grand staircase they went, passing clusters of old nobles who stood admiring the self-portraits of borough children lining the walls. Higher and higher, they ascended, stepping into the dark blue vastness of the sky as they reached the southwestern balcony¡ªa place that overlooked the entire peninsula of Zantzar City.


    A stool sat nearby, and Cressia gladly collapsed onto it, easing the lingering dizzy spell that still clung to her.


    She had never made it here before.


    For one reason or another, despite knowing it was only a stone¡¯s throw from her room, she had never set foot on this balcony until now. And yet, here she was, alongside Alvin, both of them draped in the finest silks the Zantzar fabricators had to offer, a little dizzy, a little tipsy from the night¡¯s merrymaking.


    With him.


    "It¡¯s beautiful, Alvin," she murmured.


    A sudden gust of cold air swept over them, and Cressia huddled closer, her arms wrapping around herself. "It''s cold, you know," she admitted, her voice quieter now. "I wish there was something I could do... something that could make it feel like I wasn¡¯t¡ª"


    She trailed off.


    She was acutely aware that he was pressed against the right side pillar, waiting patiently, like a swordsman''s apprentice, on her call so they could head back into the real world and face the trials, tribulations and gossip they would encounter together.


    Together. It was happening again, she was beginning to envision a future with Alvin once more. How strange a simple word like that seemed now, and how odd it made her feel, and how quickly she began pushing down the feelings that were just as ripe to bubble up now as they were when they began their playful waltz under the guidance of Mariwen.


    Then, just as felt fortunate, when life hadn''t stung her with lemons in some time, was smiling at her, as it always did, Cressia heard a soft quiver release, an arrow whizz by, and a sickening, swift blow as it dug deep into Alvin''s left shoulder.


    "Alvin!" Cressia screamed, panic lacing her voice as she lunged toward him, and then she felt it, a long dark shadow fallen over her and the pristine marble floor.


    Alvin didn¡¯t sense them, he saw them. And for a brief, harrowing moment, the pale Mylean moon vanished, blotted out by a tsunami of projectiles.


    He didn¡¯t hesitate, he could never hesitate when it came to Cressia. He shoved her aside, sending her crashing to the other end of the entrance just as the ground where she had stood was buried beneath a storm of jagged, shoddily made orc arrows.


    <hr>


    The Zantzar-Orc war had finally abandoned the last gentlemanly rules that had once governed Mylean conflicts. The entire Zantzar palace was now under attack.


    Weria was trying to bring some much-needed law and order in to control the stampede of Mylean nobles desperate to escape their death trap. Weria then bolted up the stairs, checking in on his favourite Human-Elf heterosexual fencing partners. By the Goddesses, he looked dishevelled¡ªsmeared in lipstick, his white blouse hanging open, buttons undone by one partner or another.


    ¡°Get the nobles out of here!¡± Alvin commanded, his voice carrying the same authority as the military brass Cressia had once served under. ¡°We¡¯ll figure something out on our end!¡±


    Arrows poured down in the faint nightlight, cutting through the space between them in the southern hall. Cressia¡¯s side¡ªunfortunate as it was to discover now¡ªwas a dead end. She was effectively trapped until the Orcs grew tired of their hunt or until they found a way to get her across to Alvin.


    ¡°It¡¯s never-ending!¡± he shouted over to her. The arrowhead was still lodged in his shoulder blade, faint crimson trickling down. But whatever pain Alvin felt could wait¡ªgetting Cressia back to his side was the only thing that mattered.


    ¡°Do you have any ideas?¡± she called from across the hall.


    ¡°Not with this barrage coming through, no.¡± Alvin winced as another broken shaft grazed his legs. ¡°Do you?¡±


    She nodded, glancing down at the ends of her now-tattered dress. She had always known this might be a possibility, but she hadn''t expected to act on it after all the merrymaking with Alvin and the nobles.


    ¡°Alvin?¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°Be a good little prince and look away, would you?¡±


    ¡°Oh¡ªyes, well, alright.¡± He flustered, scooting back and clasping his eyes shut with his jewellery-adorned hands.


    Had he peeked, he would have been vindicated in his long-held suspicion¡ªCressia was never one to stay away from a blade for too long. With Ms. Hastings¡¯ help, her dress had a hidden compartment at the thighs: a compact sabre strapped to one leg and a collection of kunai blades tucked into the other.


    Cressia was hopeless with bows and arrows, but throwing knives? That was a different story. During her summer travels, she had developed a fascination with kunai blades. The Venadians she dueled in a peculiar crisscross between fencing and samurai swordplay would always end the night with a game of kunai throwing, practicing against fire-lit targets after dinner.


    Her aim was competent enough, but from this distance, even the biggest-headed Orc was safe from her blades. No¡ªshe had a more ingenious idea. Something she owed to the big brain she¡¯d inherited from her mother.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Alvin?¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡± he answered, still blindfolding himself with his hands.


    Between the distant shots of arrows volleying in, he could hear her working¡ªstitching and threading something together.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to throw over some¡ªwell, not rope, but something similar, okay?¡±


    ¡°¡­Okay?¡±


    ¡°And when you get it, I need you to leap up and jam it into the ceiling.¡±


    ¡°How am I supposed to do that?¡±


    ¡°There are a few kunai attached. They¡¯ll serve as anchors.¡±


    ¡°What the hell is a kunai?¡±


    ¡°THROWING KNIVES!¡± Cressia snapped. ¡°It¡¯s the only way I can get to the other side.¡±


    Alvin was confused. Perplexed. A little bit befuddled. But somehow, he could visualize it¡ªthe structure, the absurdity of it¡ªit was just so Cressia.


    ¡°I¡¯m not allowed to open my eyes while doing this, am I?¡±


    ¡°No, you¡¯re not.¡±


    Cressia would rather die a death of a thousand arrows than let Alvin see how immodestly dressed she was now. The fabric from her dress hadn¡¯t been enough¡ªshe¡¯d had to rip strips from her waist and sleeves too. By now, she was left in a dark, artisan tank top and mismatched polka-dot briefs. It was hardly the most dignified look.


    ¡°Are you ready?¡±


    Alvin nodded absentmindedly. Cressia cast the makeshift rope over like a deckhand throwing a mooring line to a pier. Alvin barely caught the tail end, and the two of them leapt in tandem, driving the kunai deep into the delicately carved Zantzar ceiling.


    Cressia wasted no time. She started climbing, moving with the precision of a fencer executing a perfect maneuver.


    She had just enough cover in the gap between the ceiling and the doorframe¡ªbarely. Arrows rained down heavier now, their sudden movement drawing the Orcs'' attention. Dangling over the granite arrowheads below, she felt a prickling awareness of how much like a booby-trapped pit the floor had become.


    Relax. Look around. Make a call.


    The words of Supreme Swordmistress Helena, her old mentor, echoed in her mind. Cressia had done this before¡ªunder worse circumstances, even. She wasn¡¯t about to let a pack of Orcs with flimsy slingshots get the best of her now.


    Thank you, Helena, she murmured. Wherever you are.


    Inch by inch, she climbed. A strong gust of wind shot up from below. She clenched her eyes shut, heart stuttering in her chest. Not now. She pressed forward. She still had a prince to train and a country that needed leading.


    By the time she reached the other side, she dangled precariously over Alvin¡¯s head. His crown¡ªhis physical crown, not the one he would inherit¡ªwas polished to such a shine that she could see her reflection staring back at her.


    She let go.


    With a neat somersault off the rope, she landed¡ªsomewhat adequately¡ªon the floor beside him. Without hesitation, she yanked the makeshift rope free and set about fixing her attire.


    ¡°You may now open your eyes.¡±


    Alvin turned, blinking at her. Cressia had re-threaded the fabric into something almost passable. Her dress now had a wholly different cut¡ªshort-sleeved, the hem twisted into a practical, improvised style. The kunai blades held everything together in a makeshift belt fastening. It wasn¡¯t perfect, but it would do.


    ¡°How did you come up with¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t ask,¡± she cut him off.


    Alvin, tactless as ever, couldn¡¯t help but notice that Cressia now resembled the Venadian wildwomen from the adventure stories he had read as a child¡ªher outfit torn into something fierce and functional, her sabre gleaming as she polished it with the last scrap of fabric she had left.


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± he sighed. ¡°I don¡¯t want to know.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s just get the hell out of here.¡±


    <hr>


    The ballroom from which they''d emerged was now a glittering cornucopia of flames, the slim bright embers moving to the tune of it¡¯s own conductor, the large bonfire in the centre. It was Orc magic of course, what with it''s primitive design and lack of thinking that seemed to radiant in through the hallways.


    Cressia had seen this trick before, both during her youth in the Conclave, as well as her days spent in the Zantzar Armed Forces. An orc archer would dabble an arrowhead in flames, before a slave priestess came along, speaking in tongue as she reluctantly mumbled through some of the most vile, salacious passages every jotted down in the history of magic.


    Reluctance was key to letting this kind of magic fester into the world, as no sane Magi, Witch, Wizard, Keeper or even Necromancer would willingly speak the putrid stuff the Orcs dreamed up after a feast of the flesh.


    A young priestess, who might''ve been a proud warrior in the Armed Forces or a witch in training at the Yan Bon Mor university, would suddenly find herself reciting it when her handler''s halberd hung over her neck, the promise of a slow, agonising death waiting in the wings if she didn¡¯t purse her lips and started the spell from the Great Orc Codex that was always on hand.


    Cressia had come across too many orcs who dabbled in the practice to give them the time honoured benefit of that doubt that she always did when on her travels. Was there a young woman outside the palace right now, her hands etched in silent prayer, hoping her overlord might find a new priestess to toy with, and give her freedom? Or, as the Orcs cruelty had been proven over time and time again, have her life quickly snuffed out once they¡¯d gotten their use from her?


    There were even more darker fates than a sudden death like that, ones that turned someone delirious by the time they¡¯d escaped, ones that were not worth discussing, a lifetime spent of darkened monologues and shields ready to be pressed forward to not let anyone pry in.


    Cressia shook her head, and decided she needed another worry to nip at her that wasn¡¯t as gruesome as the fate of a reluctant priestess. The Orc ember trick would do as they moved around together in the great hall, Looking for one way or another to escape this inferno mess.


    It was like a slave masters whip, letting it¡¯s flame suddenly appear and block off any opening they might get through. Yet, as Cressia fundamentally understood, it was not going to give either her or Alvin a quick death. Rather it would slowly drain the life out of them as they succumbed to the fumes and flames around them, a slow cruel death from a race who took pride in their low born antics of cutting the throats of world weary travellers, or selling off farm girls as slaves.


    "Any more cunning ideas?" Alvin said, chipping through her trance induced state. She was still the only one with a weapon in hand, which meant he comShe was still the only one with the detached sabre in her hand, which meant he could comfortably wag his tail and follow behind his dear leader while saving face.


    "We have to strike the centre of that bonfire, it¡¯s the only way we can put it out.¡±


    ¡°Like dabbing out a candle?¡±


    The two broke apart when suddenly a trombone came hurtling towards them with near velocity speed. It made a dreadful noise as it crashed against the melting creams walls, and Cressia had never wished as much in her to not have been born with such long, sensitive ears. The bonfire had thrown it, it was now turning into a restless mess after not being able to take them as fast as it had wanted.


    ¡°We could play strike it down with a kunai, if you¡¯re so willing,¡± Alvin said from across the room, nestled where himself among the leftover kitchen and culinary that had been plastered on the ground. ¡°Are you willing?¡±


    She did not like that, his sudden teasing as the two of them faced imminent death through underhanded Orc tactics. She wanted to strike him down with a kunai, a playful way of saying, yes Cressia, I know you¡¯re still better at me then fencing, but I will always be better than you at archery, and so, it follows, I will beat you to this Kunai match we¡¯re going to have right now.


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m willing,¡± Cressia said, counting out whatever it was that she still had left. 10 kunai in total, a nice round number, and 5 for both of them, a nice evenly split. Not nearly enough.


    But there was no other choice, a part of her hoped too that Alvin¡¯s skill with a bow had some hard, transferable skills that could be brought to kunai throwing.


    Taking some dark, velvet leftover fabric, she nicely bundled Alvin¡¯s share before she cast it over to him as his newest present. So many quirks and habits that had been instilled into by the Conclave¡¯s brainwashing, and yet the art of neatly tying a pacakge was the one she felt was more important to be kept.


    Alvin caught the gifts in his hands like a former, rugged professional pitcher, and quietly placed two into the palms of his hands, and left the other three sheathed alongside his belt for a quick grasp. There was no words spoken, but they knew the plan that was in store - Cressia would bait and poke and straddle the bonfire into her playing her game, while Alvin tried to strike it with three, ideally two of his kunai.


    They nodded, and slowly Alvin began to steadily move away from the catering corner, only galloping into a full force sprint when Cressia cast her first two kunai to play distract. It howled out a cry of sulphur and smoke in response, but it was not, to Cressia¡¯s big ears, a sign of pain. Instead it felt like a deep gulp of pleasure, almost as though her blades were a brief bout of release from the temperance of eternal flame it was forced to live through in it¡¯s brief life. A life, Cressia sadly ruminated as she cast out her fourth blade, that she too might¡¯ve once become it if weren¡¯t for fencing.


    She¡¯d spent most of her life serving under one power or another, gradually being sharpened under a whetstone to serve a distant king or some distant elven ideology, and yet she¡¯d never turned into that, a mindless monster whose only purpose


    Others, friends and comrades, had not quite been so lucky. She found most of them in Zantzar taverns, their senses dulled as they spent their days after military life clamouring under a bar tap, always promising that this evening of drink and merry go round would be their last, and they¡¯d never set foot again among a collection of drunken louts and directionless peasants.


    She¡¯d worked hard to avoid that, to not feel like she gave into anguish, to craft a place for her own where she was not dragged through the trauma and anger and hate that had befallen so many veterans after their service. And yet, all that attempts at preventing such a fate had led her to a likely death walking through flames with her princely apprentice.


    Alvin¡¯s attempts at striking down the fiery creautre hadn¡¯t fared much better than Cressia¡¯s. In fact, as she saw the quartet of kunai that had dug deep into the creature¡¯s back, she realised she had the better aim, and the stories of crossover benefits from shooting arrows to kunai throwing were all but a myth.


    Alvin was turning the far left corner, his arms stretched behind his back in an embarassing attempt to copy the Venadian ninja running form, when a pillar of flame struck him across the chest. It was not at all like the mindless whip they¡¯d first encountered, it really felt to Cressia that a large pillar of fire had just jammed itself straight into Alvin¡¯s stomach, his body growing limp as he cascaded near the window. Cressia wanted to leap out of her skin in fright as she watched, but then she saw the brief shattered window glass above him, large enough to fit both


    She wasted no time, quickly running the same route her apprentice had done to play catch up as the bonfire hurtled another pillar at her instead. She quickly leaped up over it, grateful that she¡¯d pushed aside Ms Hasting suggestion of wearing heels to stick with the time honoured elven tradition of skipping footwear for festivities, and quickly took hold of Alvin¡¯s other remaining kunai.


    She was not going to throw them, she was going to throw down with them! She ducked and she dodged and sidestepped any slender flame whip that came her way as she pressed deep into the centre of the bonfire, much like she¡¯d pass through the unsubtle social taboo of an elf dancing with a human prince. Just like she¡¯d damned the not so nice pleasantries, so was she going to damn this infernal creature into it¡¯s own oblivion.


    She leaped in the air, feeling like so many of the awesome heroines her mother had read to her as a child, and drove the pair of kunai into what she felt might¡¯ve been the bonfires eyelids. It screamed again, not in pain, but once again pleasure, a sordid pleasure that was thankful it¡¯s last few moments of life were simply pleasurable enough to not be overridden by the abject terror for the oblivion that was to come, and soon the flames around Cressia began to dissolve, like ancient vines that suddenly withered away when time had decided to catch up with them.


    The bonfire began to recede, further and further, until it was just a red little that Cressia found difficult to find under the mess of grey, old ash that the ballroom had morphed into. She was turning away, reaching to grab Alvin by the scruff of the neck to carry him out, when the red little dot began to blow up to the size of a soft


    She didn¡¯t wait to squeeze through the glass, she merely jumped right through the window with an unconscious Alvin slung over her shoulders as the red dot blew apart, covering the ballroom under a new thick coat of crumbling ash as it exploded into another round of a cornucopia of flames.


    Her mind flickered between the redness of the fire above, and the soft blue water the two of them had crashed into, before her world slowly drifted into a brief, but endless, darkness.