Sesnai is now seriously considering following a strategy of 'tell him that for state-secret reasons he can't date That Woman.' Her logical reason not to is that the Tell Everyone She Had A Vision Literally Tomorrow plan is still a better idea, but most of the emotional weight is that it is the sort of thing that would make the curtain go up.

"I understand," says Sesnai. "Thank you. I think..." her smile is slightly wry. "I think that I cannot tell you whether there is anything I cannot tell you, right now. But I do appreciate the offer. I would like to have that kind of relationship with my husband, too, even if it might be difficult."

He nods. "I don't expect it to be easy, but I have accomplished a difficult task or two in my time. I look forward to collaborating with you in this endeavour."

"And I look forwards to collaborating with you as well, Tefano Eshiaf." And she can't say that she's accomplished any difficult tasks, because she hasn't, yet - in this life.

Well.

In this life.

"Would you like me to make another attempt at teaching you my pointless psychic technique?"

"Yes!"

"All right. So—"

He asks insightful questions about how she approaches the use of her power, and successfully adapts elements of his technique to work more comfortably within her paradigm, and is fascinated by the innovations thereby produced. They still haven't fully explored the implications by the time he gets a reminder message alerting him to an upcoming meeting and has to excuse himself, leaving Sesnai with the memory-sanitized tablet formerly containing his questionnaire.

She listens to his insightful questions, and tries to come up with explanations! He thinks of things in a very interesting way, even if he is nowhere near ambitious enough. (Sesnai intends to be a famous researcher AND a large-scale ruler, really, she had been both before.)

She sighs warmly when he leaves. This is much less bad than it could be, even if she can't explain that for complex reasons she's already married.

All right, next step! She's headed to the library; most of the books she's reading for her classes she can do on computer, of course, but some things they don't want just anyone to be able to read, and some of his tricks reminded her of things that very few people not on the ship are cleared for. To the library!

In the library, a familiar face is engaged in quiet yet lively conversation with a pair of strangers. The two of them seem to hang on her every word.

She glances up as Sesnai walks in, and smiles, the very picture of friendliness. "Oh, dearest Princess!" she says warmly. "How are you settling in? —Oh, but I'm afraid I can't chat long;" she inclines her head to the two fellow students seated at the table with her, and explains with modest regret, "I have a few minor matters to attend to."

They seem very impressed to find their company superseding that of a Real Live Princess.

"Oh," Sesnai says, "everything is quite well with me, dearest friend." She smiles. "I understand, of course." She smiles graciously down to Hanuea's disposable pawns friends "- Sesnaiilaisa Adaitan, I don't believe we've met?"

Anything important? The great thing about telepathy is that nobody can tell how many conversations she's having.

Not remotely, she assures her. Hanuea's psychic powers have always been very weak by elven standards, barely even average for a human; her mental voice is, as usual, whisper-quiet, but Sesnai's senses are keen enough that Hanuea needn't strain herself to be heard. Just a few minor matters, as I said. Nothing for you to worry about.

The minor matters in question introduce themselves nervously. The one with a flower in her pale silver-blonde hair is Taini Amina, and the one with an enormous pair of glasses overshadowing the entire rest of his face is Fallo Wakefield. They are rather overawed by her royal presence; Fallo is a commoner, and Taini is barely anything more.

Good, Sesnai thinks. Hanuea is an important and valuable ally! It's good for her to be in control of situations! And Sesnai can be very gracious to minor matters, especially since she can be in telepathic contact with her files detailing everyone she's ever met at all times. She may have met Taini's great-aunt at one point, and to be acquainted with some of the classical works of Fallo's homeworld, though of course she can't claim real expertise.

But since Hanuea is busy, this is a brief distraction before she goes and does her actual research. She'll want to drop in and test her fencing reflexes at some point; she hasn't practiced since her memories returned...

The minor matters are so terribly impressed. Hanuea is unfailingly gracious with both of them, in a way that, to someone who knows her as well as Sesnai does, indicates that they are probably going to be especially disposable; she usually lets at least a little hint of a sharp edge show, around someone she's planning to keep for the long haul.

But, yes, soon enough they bid the princess goodbye, and she can be off about her other business.

And her 'other business' is looking at a few classified books discussing psychic tricks she might learn, visiting a handful of teachers who have limited ability to teach cadets - and, of course, showing the flag; letting everyone know that there is a Princess, that she is Good and Kind and remembers everyone's name (how could she not), and 

And once this is over, she ducks into the training hall. This late, on the first day, it's dark and, as far as she can tell, empty.

It's a reinforced building, new to the plans since the refit that made the Antemecar a modern ship; it'll do as an Admiral's bridge, so she can consult her staff officers without worrying about showing weakness in front of the captain by having them disagree with her. Or, while we're all at peace and have no worries, it will do as somewhere for the cadets to practice 'fencing,' as they so politely call the art of murdering people who challenge you with your mind.

(There will be a war. It will be bloody. The Tyrant accepted this as a price, limited the destruction as much as he could, and must now plot to win the war. But Sesnai knows the cost of a perk point.)

And Sesnai steps into the training hall, changes into her exercise clothes, selects a training sword, and takes the orthodox stance, blade in her right hand and left behind her. She's been taught to fight since she was a child, wrapping herself in her mind's armor and wielding the light fencer's blade that serves as a conduit for her powers. The blade is hardly sharp; when any blow that gets through the enemy's shields can destroy them, why do you need to cut them? Instead the blades are made to be light, for speed, and hard to break, to so she doesn't need to put too much power to keeping it intact.

And she calls up an illusion of an opponent and begins, shadow-fencing in the shadows. Salute, touch, thrust, parry - each step precise as the royal swordmasters could teach, the neat, orthodox style that every noble-born elf or human in Villarosa knows is unbeatable, careful motion aligned with your opponent to bind and best them. It is a style that swordmasters have refined to the highest levels they could manage, every motion stripped of all ornamentation, without the slightest flourish or risky trick that will cost an elf her immortal life, for what noble would accept a master who failed to teach a student the finest style in history? It is carefully optimized and if Sesnai ever duels someone better at it than she is and can't compensate with raw power, she will die, because they will know everything she can do and she is not the fastest in the world. It is called the 'white style', because it is colorless, lacking any flaw that could be named.

And the Tyrant smiles behind Sesnai's lips, lets Piava know she'll need to fake any video records there might be, and takes a step back, and salutes her imaginary opponent, taking for another moment the orthodox stance.

And flips an illusion of a pistol out of an imaginary holster and (sword in her right hand, gun in her left) breaks into a blur of speed, shattering the stance in the first moment. Her movements are - not refined, not cautious; she ducks close, binds with one and strikes with the other, the stabs of light at her opponent are blocked and she ducks and weaves out of the proper line, whispering soft taunts into the darkness as her blade lunges at feet and fingers, strikes half-aimless and wild like spurts from a broken drain and yet oddly accurate for all their madness.

No swordmaster in Villarosa would permit a student to fight like that. It is sheer lunacy; there are ten thousand openings in every motion and the Tyrant has never been defeated wielding it, for he leaves only the openings his opponent will never use. It is the giant-slayer's style, and it was made by a man who slew giants.

And then she steps back and the pistol fades into the dust, and she salutes her opponent, again - a fragment of light in the darkness - and enters the orthodox stance - again for half a moment, and then she takes it two-handed and her blade is a hammer. She takes hits on her chest and her head and grabs her enemy's blade one-handed and makes not the slightest attempt to defend herself, only to attack, remorseless and unhalting; to deliver absolute power (pulsing power through her sword whenever it nears the enemy) into every fatal strike, for there will be no flesh wounds when fighting with the Plate style, not when Sesnai is the most powerful psychic in Villarosa. She hammers the illusion a thousand times and takes a thousand blows of her own, and when she's finished she would be dead if she did not have Sesnai's invincible shield, the invincible shield of the most powerful psychic in Villarosa.

(For the Tyrant was a giant, too, and his armor could not be breached by a foe less than the Survivor - or so was his boast.)

And Sesnai finally lowers her sword, an odd smile on her face. Her arms and legs are the wrong length and her balance is off and unfamiliar muscles are complaining, and she'll need to practice more to get her new body used to fighting like she used to. But if she ever fights hand-to-hand, they will fight with the style that every man or woman of nobility has been trained to destroy, and she will fight with the styles forged by the greatest warrior of a dead world, for every counter to the Tyrant's two stances has died with it.

For Sesnai does not like to lose.

A soft, shocked voice says from the shadows, "What was that?"

(Inside Sesnai's head: AAAAAAH - and her senses snap outwards, no longer focused on her work - and see her classmate -)

"I think they call it fencing," says Sesnaiilaisa Adaita, voice filled with imperial amusement. "Or do you have another name for it?"

Her classmate has piercing green eyes and a weak-to-middling psychic aura, and something in the cast of his face might be familiar.

"I don't know what to call it but 'fencing' isn't where I'd start," he says, getting increasingly animated as he goes on. "If I'd pulled that sort of nonsense my fencing instructor would've put me in a sack and set me out for the trash collectors, but it holds together—or it does if you're insane—which you very well might be—did you develop all this yourself or was it taught to you by, by, by secret alien ghosts from another galaxy—who are you—"

At this juncture he squints, and recoils slightly, and begins to blush. "Oh. You're my brother's fiancée and I'm being very rude." He sketches a swift yet acceptably formal bow. "I'm terribly sorry."

"I was wondering how long it'd take you to notice," she says. "I don't object, though, since you and I are so - close to family. As for where I learned it, well, there are things I cannot explain; it rather goes with being a princess, I'm afraid."

She quietly replaces her training sword. "I will say, of course," dry amusement in her voice, "that whatever I may do on my own, leaving the 'white style' is something a superior combatant should never do. Breaking style is a matter for fools or the truly desperate. I agree with your fencing instructor there, you see."

"I could not in a million years make that work," he agrees readily. "...but you evidently could. That wasn't just playtime, that was a viable—though insane—combat strategy." He eyes her thoughtfully. "...granted that you can't tell me where you learned it... would you like a live opponent to practice against? I'm fascinated by the possibilities and I want to see how well I adapt."

Since he already knows - and since Fate is, for once, on her side -

"Why not?" She's not that tired.

And she collects the sword, takes the giant-slayer's style, and, once again - focuses, on him. Lets herself see the ten thousand shadows he casts, of the movements he will not make, and stares through them towards the one that he will.

(Her senses are nowhere near as keen as they were when she was Sandor. Well. Something to work on, then.)

Casne Eshiaf is a startlingly good fencer, for a messy-haired teenager who hasn't quite grown all the way into his height. He isn't by any means the best in the empire, but he could be, with a little time and polish. He thinks ahead, he thinks fast, his reflexes are exquisitely well-trained, and he either has an alarmingly subtle and intricate system of false tells, or he's pivoting strategies on a dime in response to changing conditions and converting feint into strike and strike into feint as smoothly as a dancer moving from one step to the next.

Sesnai isn't bad, she's above average, but she's never going to be that good. Her raw power might well save her in a real fight, but not fighting to a touch - she's smart, she thinks ahead and she thinks fast, but she does not have the sheer speed and reflexes that a master needs, and she's never going to have it.

Fortunately for her pride, though, she's also a precognitive with a style that Casne has no idea how to counter. He's going to land a touch or three, if they fight long enough, but that's mostly because the Tyrant never fought the 'white style' before he designed the giant-slayer's style, and there's this little bit of lag sometimes when he does something she didn't predict and her muscles just aren't fast enough to catch up.

As a smart, observant combat-level precognitive who's also a good enough fencer to really push him even if it's arguably by cheating, she is perhaps the first person he's fought who can definitively tell that, in fact, he has both an alarmingly subtle and intricate system of false tells and the flexibility to commit to one plan and then fluidly reveal another beneath it—a system which he may well have developed purely to throw off precognitives. It's a pretty effective way to throw off precognitives, if you have the mental flexibility to make it work and the on-the-spot analytic ability to make it useful, and you're a brilliant fencer to begin with.

"Well, that was magnificent," he says at last, when they've called a halt because they're both starting to flag. "Also still very much insane. You needn't feel too bad about that trick with the disarm, by the way, I got my fencing instructor with it and he's a retired tournament champion, that's the point at which he first threatened to throw me in the garbage. I used to legitimately have a problem with sloppy footwork under exactly those conditions and he used to keep exploiting it the same five ways because they really are the best five ways imaginable; you admittedly came up with a sixth but it was close enough to number four that my months of secret training still worked. He told me next time I should spend the months of secret training on fixing my mistakes and not coming up with clever counters to his responses, but he also said that this sort of innovation is how the style develops over time. And I did learn to fix the mistake, but I also kept it in my back pocket for occasions such as this one where someone is giving me a very hard time and has probably spent far fewer hours working on that specific exchange than I have."