Residence of General Tariq Aznan. January 19th, 1882 2200 Local Time.

The grainy strains of music flow from the gramophone, the soft lilting melody carrying through the mansion's plush drawing room. The soft breeze drifting down from the mountains bordering Tarhen ripples the gauzy drapes around the windows. The elderly Commissioner Hassan Zafwan shivers slightly, his tail fluffing up in discomfort. General Tariq Aznan rises from his comfortable chintz arm-chair, a glass of deep crimson wine held loosely in his paw. He trots over to the window and closes it, to a grateful glance from Zafwan.

“We are all assembled?” Aznan asks, turning to gaze across the group assembled in his drawing room. Around him, fourteen other Khans, dressed in the suits of industrial moguls, the black uniforms of senior police officers, the white or golden uniforms of soldiers and three black robed major representatives from the Faith, nod grimly as they sit back in their plush chairs or recline upon sofas. They glance at each other, shuffling slightly as they arrange papers. All of them are naturally alert and wary. Aznan runs a paw through his mane. It's been hellish trying to get them all in one place, the devil's own job, in fact; he thinks, a half smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He can understand their concern about this meeting. None of them would have got to where they are now without the heightened sense of caution required to survive in a country like the Khanate.

Meetings like this are suspicious in the eyes of the police, particularly in the Khanate. The Secret Police are alive and well, and would have no qualms about jumping with claws out upon meetings such as this and arresting every single person attending the meeting. The fact that all the people here are noted and 'respectable' would only be taken as further proof of their guilt.

The conspirators eye their leader warily. General Aznan is tall for a Khan; that is to say, he comes up to the eye level of an Equestrian and to the shoulders of a Valorossiyan. His short autumnal coloured fur is liberally flecked with silver; his long whiskers twitch faintly and his long, well-groomed grey beard is studded with the bright golden tokens of his office. It hangs down to his chest in a gleaming display of power and status. Aznan is dressed in the ivory whites of his dress uniform, which is likewise dripping with gold braid and decorations, all of which have been earned through battle. Vicious skirmishes against separatists or desert raiders have left their mark: A chunk has been torn out of his ear, and scars are scattered across his muzzle. Aznan is clearly a Khan of action. Yet for all that, his eyes glow with zealous fervour, a conquering zeal rarely seen among his fellow generals. It was this zeal that led Aznan to cement his place in the history books by personally leading many of the greatest offensives of the Unification wars of ‘63 and ‘68.

It was also this zeal that had driven a younger, more foolish Aznan to lead the armies of the current Shah against their former masters. However, in the ten years that have followed, Aznan has grown wiser and his head cooler. He now knows better of course. He is less driven by such lofty, idiotic pronouncements as 'common good'. The Common Good matters not a jot when you cannot put food in the bellies of your people after all. The Common Good is as good as chaff upon the breeze when your leader bows and scrapes and drags his nation through the dirt before the immortal sisters of the Empire.

“Right,” Aznan says, sweeping the room with a gaze, holding his audience captive. “Thank you all for coming, at such personal risk to yourselves.”

“The Divinity guided our steps,” one of the Clerics mutters. “We give thanks to Her for our safe arrival at your residence.”

Aznan tries to avoid rolling his eyes. It had not been his idea to bring the clerics in on the plan, however, their support will be critical when the day of his revolution comes. Thus, he will stomach their pronouncements and their sermonizing and content himself with thoughts of burning their temples to the ground, all in the name of the people of course.

“Praise be to Her.” Aznan says softly. “Now, to business... Our colleagues in Equestria have come up with some rather good news.The Twin Demons have stepped up mobilization in response to the lesser Demon's ejection. That was masterfully done, by the way.” He gestures to Zafwan, who smiles faintly, however, one of the suited businessmen clears his throat, his whiskers vibrating angrily.
“It was foolish General, we provoked the wrath of a Princess of Equestria. Do you know what The Unholy are capable of with their backs to the wall?”

“I intend to find out,” Aznan says, his eyes narrowing. The other members of the group smile faintly, nodding in agreement. They all seemingly believe they're here with a common cause, which is enough for Aznan. However, he can see ripples of discomfort among the figureheads of industry. Even one of the clerics looks a little uneasy.

“My plan is to strike hard against Equestria, to cross the border and seize back the lands that they stole from us; lands that the current Shah should be pushing for the return of. I shall then conduct a high speed advance across Equestria, making best speed for Canterlot to cut the head off the snake that has poisoned our will.” Now every face in the room is looking nervous. Worried glances are cast left and right, and finally one of the industrial moguls speaks up.

“This is not what we discussed, General,” he growls. “We pledged to support a limited war fought in concert with our faction of Valorossiyans, a war that would enjoy a measure of support from our overseas allies. However, you speak of total war, a war of annihilation that will surely cut the fruit of our nation to the core.” He looks to the others for support, and the other businessmen nod. Aznan takes a deep breath, trying to rein in his patience and his temper. Divinity save me from idiots and thinly veiled racketeers. The aging warlord thinks as he marshals his patience.

“You would trust a matter of this importance to Valorossiyans?” Aznan asks sharply. “This is a matter of Faith. We are called by the Divinity to preserve and protect Her kingdom: there is no greater threat to the survival of Her dominion than the Twinned Demons. We should all be honoured to be called forth to serve,” he growls. “There can be no limited war here. We do not compromise with Demons, and we do not barter with the Unholy.” He points at the businessmen. “Do you have a garden?” The businessman in question nods, fluffing up with pride, but at the same time taken aback by this apparent non-sequitur.
“Well tell me then, if you merely cut off the head of the weed, will it not grow back?” Aznan asks gently, and the businessman nods slowly.

“Exactly, my friends. We could take the territories back and limit our advance, but Equestria will continue to press our borders and try our patience. We must cut the problem out at the root.” Aznan's tone softens, his hackles lowering and a warm smile spreading across his face. “It'll be just like gardening.”

The businessman nods quietly, taking his seat once more. As he does, however, another voice fills the air.
“Tell me, general, are you aware of Princess Twilight Sparkle's whereabouts?”
The General turns to regard the only human amongst their number, Ezekiel Ajax, their comrade from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, looks inquisitively at General Aznan, who tilts his head slightly.

“She is in Canterlot, being instructed on the finer points of how to hold a fork,” Aznan replies, wondering where this idiotic human is going with his thoughts. The foreign office man shakes his head, fixing Aznan with a look.

“She is not in Canterlot,” the human replies, his tone becoming more supercilious and servile to the aging warlord with every word. “Just yesterday, we received word that she's coming to Tarhen to 'foster good will.' I tried to intercept the visa, but the head of the Foreign Ministry snatched it off my desk and took it direct to the Shah, who approved it by royal decree.” The young Khan glances around the room, looking nervous.

Aznan takes a deep breath, thinking: This unexpected development won't change anything. The new princess has only been in power for three years. If this were the succubus Cadence, with two hundred years of experience and her own demonic power behind her, then it would be more of an issue. This is Princess Twilight, of limited power. A hideous hybrid with no distinguishing qualities besides a crown atop her head. Maybe it could even be turned to his advantage somehow. She'd make an ideal hostage if nothing else.
“Change nothing, continue as planned,” he says softly. A wave of his paw permisses the meeting devolve into small-talk, as such meetings always do.

After two hours, most of the guests make their excuses and depart, leaving Aznan alone in his drawing room with his oldest friend, Zafwan. Aznan sighs, collapsing back into his chair.
“Have we done all we can?”

“Your friends, what have they said?” Zafwan asks in turn, and Aznan takes a sip of his wine.

“The Federation are behind us, inasmuch as they are behind anything. They will provide a measure of support, though how much remains to be seen. I do not wish to count on their support until I have it in my hands. Mobocracies can never be counted on when the going gets rough.” Aznan grumbles. He's pleased that his private little crusade against Equestria has attracted so much attention from the overseas groups that he'd contacted.

“Director Caine has never failed us in the past. By the way, your spiel about faith and gardening was a most impressive performance. If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were a devout Believer.”

“Do you think the others bought it?” Aznan asks. “They really think the point of this is to clean out Equestria?”

“Hook line and sinker,' as Director Caine would say.” Zafwan replies.

“Excellent, let the ignorant fools continue to believe what they will.” Aznan leans back in his chair, gazing at the elaborate paintings upon the ceiling, before he turns and sips at his wine, and for the first time that evening; a genuine smile spreads across the aging general's face.

"This Princess bothers me, however," Zafwan says after a moment. "We are looking to provoke the Demons into doing something rash. Perhaps a welcoming gift for Equestria's newest princess should do it?"

"I like your thinking old friend," Aznan replies. "Secure some useful idiots, work them up and then turn them loose on the Princess when she arrives." Aznan can see the wisdom of his friend's decision: Whilst he's sure that Princess Twilight's capabilities will not amount to much, it is always good to make sure your loose ends have been tied up. Aznan’s gaze flicks out of his window to his own flower garden, a frown tugging at the edge of his mouth. The begonias are looking a little wan. He will need to procure plenty of ash to fertilize the flowers, but there should be enough of that lying around soon enough.
_____
The Pit. January 20th 1882 2015 Local Time (2215 Canterlot Standard)

The day had gotten off to a bad start when she’d met the NCO, who had been in charge of the Compagnie she would be working with. Adjutant Square Basher had had many things to say about her dress and behaviour, and he had been equally scathing about the state of her rifle, webbing and boots. He’d also bound her wings up, before taking her through his own morning warm up. Suffice to say, by half way through the morning she’d been very familiar with press-ups. The most embarrassing thing, however, was being held up to the other Legionnaires as an example of how not to do things, or even worse as an example of how to do them: “If a Princess who was in Canterlot two weeks ago can do it, you sorry sacks of meat have no excuse!”

After exercise came a hurried breakfast of lukewarm porridge and a lump of bread so coarse and hard that it felt like they were eating rocks, and then out to the ranges for bayonet training, which had been an exercise in violence that the ex-librarian will never forget any time soon. They had been met with a troop carrying drums, fifes and a pile of bloody sandbags and five frames that had been pounded into the desert. Each trooper then had to lash his own sandbag to the frame, before turning around and walking back to the group. He would then turn around, fix his bayonet and charge the sandbag to the accompaniment of drums and the roared encouragement of three caporals, who would throw rocks at anyone who slowed down or hesitated. Meanwhile, those who were not bayoneting sandbags were practicing hand to hand combat under the supervision of the other two caporals. Twilight had been fighting for two hours before her turn to stick the sandbags came, using her inexpert fists rather than her magic at the order of the caporals overseeing the fight, which had turned a triviality into a brutal struggle.

It hadn’t helped that she’d been purposefully partnered with the biggest and heaviest of the Legionnaires. Twilight understood the purpose of all this of course, to get the blood up, and the adrenaline flowing for the bayonet charge, to help break the Legionnaire into a combat effective soldier. However all the understanding of psychology in the world did not do anything to help her avoid getting pounded into the dirt time after time after time. The Legionnaire she'd been paired with, a powerfully-built Equestrian who must have had personal coaching from Iron Will, had not been merciful. His savage grin had made it clear that he'd have liked nothing more than to knock her out for real. It had been all Twilight could do to keep her feet whilst she danced out of the way of each powerful blow which would hit like a speeding train whenever it did make contact, and her own feeble jabs and swings had about as much effect as if she'd taken to punching Rarity's ex, Tom. Twilight had been extremely relieved when the shout came for her to cease brawling and get her sandbag.

Carrying the bloody, heavy sandbag the one hundred metres across the desert to the frame was an exercise in torment that Twilight had not dreamt of. She was hot, bruised, bloody, and sand was chafing in every orifice. Her boots were rubbing, and her feet were blistered. The sandbag was slippery in her still sweaty hands; it leaked still warm blood all over her back and it stank of rotting flesh, the reek that made Twilight’s head swim and every step made her want to vomit. Twilight managed to get it to the frame by an effort of will and secure it to the frame, before staggering back to the line.

Then the drums started, a shrill rasp that rang in her ears like the heartbeat of a clock, the deep powerful bass drums adding a powerful accompaniment as the first stirring strains of The Equestrian Grenadiers ring in her ears. “Her Royal Highness Twilight Sparkle, Affix Bayonet!”

Twilight fixed her bayonet quickly and raised the weapon to the appropriate position, tucking the butt of the weapon into her armpit, resting her cheek upon the bolt. “Her Royal Highness Twilight Sparkle, CHARGE!”

Twilight dashed forward at the command, rocks flying past her, the roars of the noncoms and the other trainees ringing in her ears as she charged the frame, rifle up and ready to stick the sandbag. The one hundred metre sprint weighed down by equipment as she was, flew by as she dashed through the desert. Rocks thwacked into the ground around her, but she kept sprinting, her wings held tight to her back by the instructor’s bindings. The desert was rocky and gritty, for which Twilight was grateful, as sand would have been even more painful to run over. However she ran faster as a rock whizzed dangerously close to her head, and then suddenly Twilight's foot slipped into a pothole, and she went flying through the air, to land face first on the ground with skinned elbows, her rifle flying out of her hands.

Twilight hauled herself to her feet, even as a rock thwacked her between the shoulderblades, and she was up and running, grabbing her rifle by the sling and hauling it back to the shoulder as the roaring of the NCOs and the other trainees ring in her ears. “GET A BLOODY MOVE ON, I THOUGHT PRINCESSES WEREN’T ALLOWED TO GET STONED!”

The target was now metres away and Twilight was up and running and then she made contact with the sandbag, and all the frustrations of the trip thus far, the idiot NCOs, the sand, her feelings all boiled up in one moment of adrenaline fuelled rage and Twilight rammed the bayonet home with an indistinct cry of rage. Twilight staggered slightly as the bayonet sank into the target, blood spraying out from inside and coating Twilight in the gory viscera. Whilst any other Legionnaire might have been taken in, Twilight could feel the enchantments that kept the sacks of blood inside under pressure. However it was still a frighteningly effective display and the Princess was shaking as she pulled the rifle out, causing another fountain of blood and viscera, and cut her dummy down for the next trainee, only for another rock to thwack home, slapping hard into her thigh.

“MAKE SURE IT’S DEAD, GUT THE BASTARD!” Square Basher bellowed, and so Twilight dropped the dummy and sank down on top of it, hacking clumsily at the sandbag and trying to chop it open with her shorter fighting knife until she finally lost her patience and summoned the magic rippling beneath her skin, blasting the sandbag across the desert and disintegrating it into a fine pink mist and a four foot long red streak in the dirt.

The stunned expressions of the other Legionnaires as she'd staggered back to them was almost worth the press-ups that had been inflicted upon her as punishment, the screams of the NCOs continuing to ring in her ears.

“ THAT’S TEN, YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN THE OTHERS?”

“ WE GAVE YOU A FUCKING ORDER, PRINCESS! FORTY FIVE!”

“NINETY NINE- COME ON, MY DEAD NAN CAN DO PRESS UPS FASTER!”

~~~
The Princess staggers into her room and feebly starts tugging at the sheets to prepare her bed, her body aching and sore. Everything hurts; her feet are burning, and her body is covered in a patchwork of bruises and scrapes. Twilight sighs and collapses heavily upon the bed. Today has been an absolutely dreadful day from beginning to end; a complete and utter shambles. She trained with the Fourth Compagnie today, rather than the usual one on one session with her friend. After the thorough beating that she’s been subjected to, Twilight has been well and truly wrung dry. Every muscle in Twilight’s body aches and her knees tremble. Her knuckles are bruised, and her knees are raw beneath her woolen trousers. Her hands are numb, and her body is shaking, but worst of all is the smell. God, I smell like a week old side of meat, Twilight thinks wearily. Stinking dried blood is drying into a thick brown crust upon her uniform, most of which is not her own. She wonders what on earth made her think that training with the Legion was a good idea.

Twilight shivers at the memories of the day. She glances at her bedding, and then at her clothes, and she sighs and awkwardly claws her way to standing. She turns and stumbles towards the small vanity. She needs to clean herself off, though she knows that no amount of magic or special shampoo or scrubbing will expunge the savage surge of glee that pulsed through her as she rammed the blade into the sandbag. Twilight cannot help but feel disgust as she recalls that strange, alien surge of glee… alien, not part of herself. Twilight grabs hold of that thought like a drowning man grabbing hold of a life raft. She gazes at the mirror, revulsion pulsing through her. Gone are the dainty, demure features of the youngest princess, replaced with- what?

Twilight draws a breath, summoning the mantra she has intoned a number of times during her stay in the Legion fort.“I am Twilight Sparkle. I am a princess. I am an ex-librarian. I am not a killer,” she whispers plaintively, reaching out to touch the mirror with one hand.

Twilight sucks in a deep breath. The blood-soaked visage gazes back at her.

Her eyelids quiver faintly, and Twilight’s hand drops down to her side as her eyelids snap shut. “I am Twilight Sparkle... I am a Princess…” her tone quavers.

You just keep telling yourself that, Princess. That icy voice in the back of her mind that Twilight had heard after she blasted the cruiser into shreds. You just keep lying to yourself if it helps you sleep at night.

The room spins in a fuzzy blur as Twilight turns to try and find her wash-kit. She feels her eyes misting up and her heart pounding nineteen to the dozen. Her stomach churns as she spots her wash-kit, and Twilight feels like she wants to throw up. She misses Canterlot and the banquets; she misses her comforting fireside chats with the two princesses where the three of them would mull over items of policy, occasionally to be joined by Princess Cadence when her former babysitter was not busy running her own principality. She misses Celestia's teasing, Luna's singing, and Cadence's warm and tender nature. She misses when things were simple, and the fate of her Empire didn’t rest in her hands.

Twilight grips her sides and huddles forward, opening her mouth to release an anguished wail, when suddenly she hears a sharp rapping at the door. Twilight gasps a deep breath to try and calm her rebellious body and soul. She releases the breath with a shiver, feeling the tension in her body flowing out with it as she is jerked back into reality. She can go to pieces later. Right now she has things to do.

She groans softly, summoning the energy to haul herself to the door. The former librarian staggers over to the doorway, rubbing her aching belly as she does so. Twilight is suddenly aware of the fact that she is ravenously hungry. Twilight eats with the Officers, as much for her own safety as out of reasons of propriety, but the food still isn't that great. Right now, however, Twilight would kill for some more of that hard and rock-like Legion bread. Twilight approaches the door, scooping her revolver from her night-stand as she walks past. Twilight's hand then closes around the latch, and she slides it back, revolver held behind her back. She looks out to see a Legionnaire in combat dress, complete with fatigues, webbing and pith helmet, standing at the door, looking a little apprehensive as he regards the princess, still covered from head to toe in blood.

“Ma'am.” He clicks his heels together and lifts his hand in a quick sharp salute, which Twilight returns. “Colonel Zaranov wants to see you immediately.”

“Do I have time to get dressed?” Twilight asks, hoping that she can at least get changed out of her blood-spattered clothes, but the Legionnaire shakes his head.

“Colonel Zaranov wishes to see you at once ma'am.” Twilight nods, making every effort not to whine in frustration. Just when she'd thought she'd be getting some peace, something's come unglued, and Colonel Zaranov wants her to sort it out. Twilight quickly walks over to her bed, reaching under it to grab her rifle, followed by the webbing which she slides on with a practiced swing. One of the things that has been made abundantly clear to her during her introductory tour was that the area around the camp is a hostile area, and so soldiers, and by extension Twilight, are expected to be armed at all times. Even when in the cook-house, every single soldier is carrying his or her rifle, shotgun or carbine and most are carrying various forms of bladed implement. Twilight has never been around a group of people quite so obviously armed and dangerous, and it's actually more than a little disquieting.

Twilight shoulders her weapon and wanders out, following the Legionnaire through the fortress in the direction of the parade square. Even at this late hour, the fortress is still humming gently with activity. Twilight passes soldiers lugging crates of ammunition this way, and that and past squads running to their positions. As they continue, she notices things are slightly off about the fortress. Every single light in the place has been doused and nobody's marching. Instead an air of purposeful haste pervades the fastness as soldiers are trotting quickly to the walls. Bricks and half-bricks of men are moving up to take positions, but when Twilight tries to ask the young Legionnaire about what's going on, the Legionnaire just grunts.

After a few minutes of hurried walking, the Legionnaire leads her to an archway built into the fortress's thick walls, where two sentries are posted outside, carbines propped under their arms. They salute as Twilight draws near, and one soundlessly draws back the curtain, behind which is a set of spiral staircases that swoop steeply into the darkness. Twilight bites her lip, before the Legionnaire gestures quickly as he starts down the stairs, his hobnailed boots clattering loudly upon the cobbled stairs. Twilight glances down into the throat of darkness apprehensively, before she follows the Legionnaire down the stairs, summoning light with the snap of her fingers, illuminating stark brick walls with a flickering lavender glow as she descends down the breathtakingly steep stairway. As they head deeper into the bowels of the fortress, Twilight can hear the low rumble of voices echoing off the walls, and the light from below steadily brightens until Twilight rounds a corner and steps into a small round bunker, with a raised platform in the centre.

The command centre is brightly lit and filled with the noise of orders being barked and the rapid chattering of typewriters and telegraph machines, along with the lightning fast stuttering of morse-code messages being tapped out and the clatter of cipher wheels. The command centre stinks of ink and paper, of leather and sweaty bodies. All the Legionnaires inside are stripped to their undershirts as they man various stations, operating telegraph equipment or pushing blocks across the map table laid out before the pulpit. Even Zaranov is stripped to the waist, Valorossiyan tribal war tattoos twisting across his ivory skin like the webs of spiders. Zaranov stands above the chaos, upon a raised platform in the centre of the room, holding his Colonel's baton like the stick of a maestro conducting a symphony. He is not alone on the platform, however, with him is a robed figure whom Twilight can see is wearing the emblems of a Seer. How the Scry-operator can work in the sweltering heat of the ops room in those robes, Twilight has no idea, and she's not about to disturb the litanies he is chanting to ask.

“Princess Twilight Sparkle has come sir!” the runner who had been sent to get her bellows, and Zaranov instantly whirls around to face Twilight. The hulking Val gestures with his baton for her to come up and join him.

“Princess!” Zaranov bellows, his tone a little warmer than usual. “Come here, quickly, and be careful not to get knocked off your feet!” With that, Twilight nervously steps down into the pit, forcing her way anxiously through the teeming crowd of Legionnaires to the stairs leading up to Zaranov's platform. She mounts the stairs and clambers up to join Zaranov overseeing the madhouse that is the Second Regiment's fortress command centre.

“Greetings Princess, so glad you could join us!” Zaranov growls. “We have come to a problem that would perhaps benefit from Princess involvement.” He gestures at the map table before them, the map table depicting the fortress. Twilight doesn't need any help at all to see what he's indicating. A single orange block is being pushed closer to the fortress by a Legionnaire with a stick.

“We have detected an airship approaching the fortress... we are unable to identify the airship make or the owner. It doesn't appear hostile yet, but we are taking no chances,” Zaranov says, and the Seer clears his throat beneath his hooded robe. Twilight can see the Seer’s eyes are glazed, his expression distant as his hand rises to gently stroke the blue velvety bandana, his fingers lingering over the faint bulge of the third eye in the middle of his forehead .

“The dancing motes carry hooded sharpened edges that may yet fly as all will lift with the will of the All-Seeing Eye,” the Seer intones reverently, his entranced expression blissful as he gestures in the direction of the block of wood that has been pushed towards the castle. Zaranov sighs, Twilight can almost see the exasperation on the Colonel’s face. Twilight’s eyebrows knit together in confusion from the Seer’s behaviour. She's never had much experience with the Equestrian Seer Cult, and she's quite keen to keep it that way. The idea that the Seer can see almost anything has never sat well with her.

“Give me two scouts with long-rifles any day. I don’t like hocus pocus,” Colonel Zaranov mutters to Twilight as the Seer turns to continue imploring his god to reveal more. Twilight nods glumly.

A Legionnaire suddenly raises her voice from the pit, drawing Twilight's attention. “Sir, I've got a transmission from the welcoming committee.”

“Put it on the speakers,” Zaranov snaps, his woes with the Seer Cult apparently forgotten. The voice over the comm-line is distorted by the rapid howl of the wind in the background of the transmission, but even over the wind, Twilight can recognise Rainbow Dash's brash tones.

“Sun-ray, this is Swift Seven Eight. We're eyes on target; one medium sized airship, real gaudy. It's armed and has a tonne of comm gear in the back with aerials and shit, looks to be a cat-ship.”

“What do those fuckers want?” Zaranov grumbles under his breath.

“Sun-ray, we're hailing them now, they look to be-” The transmission suddenly cuts out in a sharp squelch of static. For a moment in the operations room, there is absolute silence. No one can quite bring themselves to believe what they've just heard. Twilight's heart jumps into her mouth, and she grips the rail of the platform tight, hoping no one can see her white knuckles.

“Raise them again!” Zaranov snarls quickly. “It could be comms interference.”

The Legionnaire quickly starts spinning dials and whirling through frequencies, the shrill squeal of the radio being tuned filling the room. The Legionnaire shakes the radio and then thumps the side of it, before turning back to Zaranov and shaking his head quickly. Zaranov turns to his soldiers and clears his throat.

“Get those searchlights going!” he orders, gesticulating angrily to various Legionnaires who scramble to obey him. Tension fills the air as the other Legionnaires rush through the archways, a hubbub of voices filling the air as Legionnaires try to make themselves heard over the orders. Twilight's gaze is suddenly drawn to her left by a sharp movement. As she turns, the Seer standing next to her suddenly grunts and gasps, his withered hand suddenly clasping at the side of his head. The Seer then howls out in pain, screaming of blasphemy and desecration even as he collapses to the ground. Zaranov stiffens but steps into the Seer's path, catching the Seer and lowering him to the ground to avoid the sorcerer cracking his head on the dias, before turning back to his battle.

“Ready the rifles on the walls!” Zaranov growls. “If it's actually the cats, then hold fire but if it's bandits, you're free to fire when they close to range.”

A Legionnaire clears his throat from his station, raising his hand. “Sir, we have reports from the wall; the searchlights are active; they have line of sight on the airship and our receiving skiff; they do not have eyes on the receiving team!” he calls to Zaranov, who grunts in reply. Twilight wipes the sweat from her brow. The room is unbearably hot, even dressed as she is in her singlet and combat trousers. Twilight's heart thunders in her ears. She knows that one wrong move here will spell war. Zaranov seems to have the situation well in hand however and so Twilight tries to force herself to relax. It's one airship; that's all. If this was actually the precursor to an all-out offensive by the Khanate, then they wouldn't use one airship to assault a regimental HQ.

However, she cannot help but worry about Rainbow Dash, out there in the darkness... Twilight shakes her head quickly, trying to shake the doubts that cling to her back like howler monkeys. Dash is a Caporal, a decorated Non-commissioned officer. She will know what to do, how to keep herself safe. However, the worries are rather more persistent than that and continue to prod at the back of her spine like a particularly irritating itch.

Twilight suddenly hears a voice raised above the hubbub. “I'm getting comms traffic on frequency one oh nine point five. The airship's radio operator is hailing us.”

“Put him on,” Zaranov replies. “I want to hear what this Bylad has to say before I turn him into a hat.” The thick accent of the unknown airship's radio operator fills the room.

“This is the Holy Ship Divine Providence requesting permission to land within your perimeter as a matter of urgency.”

“Providence, this is Centurion, you are not cleared to enter our perimeter until we confirm the status of our welcoming team. They are non-responsive to communications, given the nature of relations between our governments, we are assuming hostile intent on your part,” the Legionnaire at the microphone intones.

“Affirmative, please wait for me to fetch the Justicar,” the voice on the other side of the line responds

For a second, there is silence in the command centre, before Zaranov gestures at one of his colleagues. “Zero our anti-air guns. If they try and rush us I want you to splash them across the desert,” Zaranov barks, and Twilight flinches slightly. She doesn't want to be the one who allowed things to kick off, and so she clears her throat. Zaranov whirls, rounding upon her. “Is there something I can help you with, Princess?” the massive Valorossiyan growls.

“Do we know they're hostile?” Twilight asks.

“Given the fact that our two governments are very nearly at each other's throats, given the fact it's a Justicar ship, given my reception committee is currently unresponsive; I'm working on that likelihood,” Zaranov says each word sharp as a knife. As he speaks, he draws closer to her until he looms over her. Twilight tilts her head backwards to try and look the massive Valorossiyan in the eye, all four of them. Twilight tries to ignore the icy tingle of fear that slowly settles in her stomach. Over the two weeks she's spent in the colonel's company, enjoying such hospitality as the remote legion fort was able to provide, she'd almost forgotten that he was a Valorossiyan, with all that that entailed. Now as he towers over her, she's very suddenly reminded rather sharply of quite how dangerous he is. Zaranov's face is bleak as a cliff edge, the bony sheets rippling beneath his skin holding the power of an avalanche in check. His lips are pulled back into something between a snarl and a grimace, an expression that reveals a set of wickedly sharp fangs.

“One more thing, Princess, I have had good Legionnaires killed already this month thanks to the interference of a Princess. I will not tolerate a repetition of that.” Zaranov's voice is almost a whisper, however, Twilight has absolutely no difficulty hearing the commander of the regiment.

“Do we understand each other, your highness?” Zaranov finishes, almost spitting the last two words out. Twilight marshals her strength, summoning her courage.

“Absolutely, Colonel,” she says, keeping eye contact with him. Zaranov opens his mouth to reply, but before he can do so, a voice rings out through the speaker.

“This is the Justicar. I wish to land in your perimeter and confer with Princess Twilight Sparkle immediately.” The voice is condescending and arrogant, with a surety of purpose that reminds Twilight more than a little of Luna or Zaranov. Hard edges and cold, sharp words. “I move with the purpose of God behind me. Do not attempt to halt me in this endeavour, or it shall be war.”

The Legionnaire at the radio glances nervously up at Zaranov, who holds his hand out for the microphone, which the Legionnaire soundlessly hands to him. “This is Sun-ray. Princess Twilight Sparkle is currently unavailable, however, we shall send a runner to get her. However, there is the matter of our welcoming party.”

“Your advance guard is alive and well, my ship is fitted with jamming systems that may be interfering with their communications. One moment please.” As if a switch is flipped, Rainbow Dash's voice fizzles through the comms system and Twilight feels a knot in her chest that she didn't know had been tied loosening. Her shoulders relax very slightly, even as other Legionnaires in the command centre let out a collective sigh of relief. Maybe war isn't going to start tonight.

“There,” the Justicar growls. “I have demonstrated good faith, now allow me to speak to Princess Twilight Sparkle.”

“We are sending a runner to get her-”

“She is standing next to you in the fortress' command centre. Put her on the line.”

Zaranov's eyes widen but before he can do anything drastic, Twilight summons her courage and snatches the microphone from the Val, who doesn't resist her taking it from him. “This is Princess Twilight Sparkle,” Twilight says, her palms sweating very faintly as she grips the microphone. “To whom am I speaking?”

“You are speaking to the Justicar.”

“Do you have a name, Justicar?” Twilight asks, and there is a moment's pause before the voice comes back.

“You may call me Prophet,” the Justicar says firmly. “Now, Your Highness, I would like to speak with you at once regarding the situation that we find ourselves in. I have no wish to see my countrymen slaughtered in a war against the unclean, and it is my understanding that you are likewise committed to peace. I was told this by Diplomatic Incident. I wish to land inside your fortress' perimeter.” Prophet's voice is cold and hard, uncompromising. Twilight bites her lip, tapping her waning reserves of diplomatic ability. The mention of her friend Diplomatic Incident sends a shiver down her spine. She's not been told anything about how the old fox is doing, no word has been sent, or transmission received. Any word, even one from a Justicar would be preferable to nothing at all.

“I see, one moment, please,” Twilight says into the microphone, and the voice laughs.

“Do not wait too long, I am not a patient Khan.”

With that, Twilight puts the microphone down and turns to Zaranov. “What do you think, Colonel?” She asks, and Zaranov shakes his head.

“No, Princess, Justicar or not, he's an agent of the Khan government who slaughtered my Legionnaires. I don't trust him Princess.”

“I don't think it's a question of trust Colonel, we need all the friends we can get... a Justicar would be a powerful ally.”

“Or a powerful enemy agent,” Zaranov counters. “What guarantee have you got that he will not just try to slaughter us all?”

Twilight sighs and shakes her head. “None, Colonel, but I do not see turning him away resulting in anything but bloodshed. I don't have to agree to whatever he may want... we should at least hear him out, if only to get some useful information about Diplomatic Incident.” Twilight says softly, and Zaranov grimaces but then he nods after a second.

“Very well, we shall listen to him, but you shall be escorted when you speak with him, and I will be present.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way,” Twilight replies, intending it to be a mollifying gesture after their brief but rather dangerous argument. She is not expecting the faint smile that spreads across Colonel Zaranov's lips. Twilight then picks up the microphone once more. “Prophet, you are welcome to land within the fortress, I shall meet you upon your arrival.”

“Excellent, it is good to see that even unbelievers can sometimes be capable of rational thought. I shall meet you shortly, Princess Twilight Sparkle.”

Twilight nods, biting her lip. Being outright insulted by foreigners is not something that she enjoys, and whilst she isn't Rarity, she'd love nothing more than to put the Justicar in his place. Twilight knows better though, she needs all the friends that she can get right now, and if that means developing a thick skin, then she shall have to toughen up as appropriate. “Right, I'll go meet him,” Twilight says, and Zaranov shakes his head.

“You will not meet a Justicar dressed like that.” Zaranov gestures at Twilight and she suddenly realises that she's still dressed in her fatigues and webbing, and she's still smeared in pig blood. Twilight blushes, and then turns, sprinting for the stairs, Zaranov's mocking laughter ringing in her ears.

As Twilight dashes through the fortress, she tries to dredge the little she knows about Justicars to the front of her mind. She knows that they're a militant order of sorts, one that predates the current government by several centuries. Fanatically devoted to the Khanate, the fact that an organisation wielding such far-reaching powers has survived in the twisting treacherous mire of Khan politics is concerning to Twilight. They rarely get involved in business outside the Khanate, however, which is why the order remains shrouded in mystery. What little Twilight does know is enough to make her very worried indeed, if the fact that the Justicar had been able to not only break through the fortress' own meagre magical defences but also shut down the fortress' Seer wasn't enough. Khan magic wielders are few and far between, but those few who do exist tend to be very powerful and very dangerous. Twilight grimaces at that thought, not relishing reaching for her own magic after such a long and tiring day.

Twilight manages to dash to her own quarters, quickly sprinting through the shower to try and scrub the worst of the muck off and get the worst of the sand and dirt out from under her fingernails. Dressing in a hurry is nothing new to Celestia's former student, who had more than once forgotten to set her alarm after a particularly intense studying session, but this is in a league all of its own. Inside of five minutes, she's through the shower and out the other side, dashing down the corridor to her room, where a Legionnaire has helpfully already laid out a selection of dresses upon the bed for her.

Twilight quickly starts to dress, pulling on one of her loose-fitting evening dresses. The dress is a flowing silky deep lavender with bright silver vines tracing their way up the fabric. It leaves her shoulders bare, along with her back, although part of that is to give her wings room to breathe. Twilight tugs the dress on, only to find that what had been tight two weeks ago is now, in fact, surprisingly roomy. Maybe this fresh air and exercise isn't quite so bad as she'd expected. Twilight then pulls a shawl on, trying to stop her hands from shaking as she does so. She needs to dress within Khanate bounds of decency after all. Twilight then sets to applying her makeup, a quick snap of the fingers to drag the requisite brushes across her face, followed by a dash of lipstick. At the same moment, she raises another enchantment to drag her hair-brush through her tangled, knotty mass of hair. Her distinctive bright pink fringe is all over the place, and the purple stripe is likewise mixed with the rest of her dark hair.

Having done this, Twilight slips into a pair of plain flat shoes. Whilst she knows how to walk in heels, she'd rather not try and negotiate the fortress' cobbled walkways in them: there are few methods of creating a poorer first impression than face-planting in front of a visiting dignitary. Twilight then summons her tiara, sliding it onto her head. The tiny golden tiara, despite appearing to be light and insubstantial is, in fact, quite heavy; almost as heavy as her state crown that is safely locked away in Canterlot Castle's vault. Princess Celestia says that the weight of the crown teaches a lesson about the weight of a Princess' duty. Twilight doesn't even want to think about what that says about Celestia's own much larger and heavier crown. As Twilight finishes dressing, she becomes aware of a gently pulsing headache behind the ears, but she ignores it as she applies the finishing touches to her attire, before heading for the door.

Twilight, having dressed appropriately, turns on her heel and walks out, her mind returning to thoughts of that Justicar. Her studies were no help here: The books on the Khanate and the treatises concerning Equestrian-Khanate relations contained nothing more than footnotes on the Justicars. However, what she had read detailed enough to worry the young princess. The texts that did mention the Justicars were often contradictory; indeed, the only things that the texts had agreed upon were that the Justicars are an institution as old as the Khanate itself, dedicated to the protection and preservation of the Khan people and their faith. As far as Twilight understands matters, Justicars are akin to the old Dragonaurs of ancient Equestria, lone riders that hold the power to dispense summary justice according to the impenetrable laws of their faith. The Justicars' power is enshrined in laws that have withstood the test of hundreds of years of civil war and political wrangling. A Justicar can release a man or have him executed with little more than a shrug and a gesture.

Twilight bites her lip as she walks through the fortress, aware of other Legionnaires watching her from their accommodation block windows. She takes a deep breath and straightens her back. She will not look weak; she cannot look weak in front of men who have sworn to die in her defence. The least she can do is look confident. As Twilight draws closer to the landing pad, she can hear the low drone of an incoming airship's engines. She bites her lip and keeps walking, trying to keep her nervousness from showing. Nerves won't do; the Khans do not respect fear, holding those who show it in supreme contempt. As Twilight walks, however, she becomes aware of the crunching of hobnailed boots just behind her. Twilight turns to see fourteen Legionnaires marching behind her.

Three NCOs and twelve men, all wearing the same Compagnie colours marching in perfect step, all dressed in their dress uniforms, complete with the strange white pillbox hats that Twilight has learnt are called the Klepi Blanc. Their white leather belts and webbing are immaculate, the brass fixtures gleam and their uniforms are spotless. The leader is bearing the battle-standard of the Second Regiment, and the Legionnaire on his left is bearing the Equestrian flag. That is not what Twilight notices about them, however. Most of them are wounded in some fashion or other. Several have had to cut sleeves or legs off their uniform to fit the architecture of their new prosthetic limbs, hydraulic monstrosities that hiss and whir with each movement. Twilight's mouth goes dry, and she falters for a moment as she recognizes the black Ninth Compagnie patch on their arms.

The Ninth had been at the embassy... These were the Legionnaires I visited in hospital, Twilight remembers, trying to stop her mouth from dropping open in shock. The group of Legionnaires halt before her with a crashing crunch of hobnails.

“Caporal Arran Smith at your service ma'am.” The leader snaps from behind a white scarf that he's wrapped around his face “This sorry lot are the remnants of the Ninth... We're here to serve as your honour guard ma'am. Do we meet with your approval?” he asks, but Twilight can only nod mutely. These Legionnaires have gone through enough; she doesn't need to shake them up any further... but she has no idea of the protocol. She will be talking about Zaranov with this though; that much is certain. She's certain that this gesture will offend the Khan representative, using the Compagnie that killed quite a few of his people. However, his people killed quite a few of hers, and she's not going to miss a chance to rub his face in that fact.

“I could not wish for a finer honour guard, Caporal,” Twilight says after a second. “Your commitment to your duty does your regiment proud.” She notices the Caporal, and the other Legionnaires standing a little straighter at this point. “One question before we go meet the Khans... where is Caporal Bolt?”

“She will be joining us at the landing ground ma'am; she is carrying the Compagnie banner,” Caporal Smith replies. Twilight nods at this, and then turns on her heel to start walking, slowing her pace down somewhat so that she's just in front of the Legionnaires, the two banner men moving to flank her. As they do, Twilight hears the first notes of a song rising from the group in the peculiar creole that the Legion use to talk among themselves. The slow beat of the march makes it sound almost like a funereal dirge, but Twilight's back still straightens as the voices raised in song reach upward to the heavens.

Twilight leads her small honour guard onwards towards the landing pad, eventually turning a corner and seeing the airship is already coming in to land upon the parade square, its bright flashing collision warning beacons casting a strange red cast over the whole affair. The airship is fairly large, slightly bigger than a cruiser. Spotlights illuminate the gondola slung below the airship, playing off the crimson armour-plating with its golden trim. Symbols adorn the ship; banners hang from its weapons and verses of scripture are carved into the golden trim. The armoured recesses studding the airship's underside are closed, keeping the Justicar's weapons sheathed, however, Twilight can still detect a palpable air of menace emanating from the vermillion encrusted warship. The growl of its engines makes the hairs on the back of Twilight's neck stand on end as she realises that if the airship's commander wishes it to, it can quite easily start taking lumps out of the fortress.

Twilight approaches the parade square, finding Zaranov standing there dressed in his tan officer's dress, Rainbow Dash standing next to him with the black flag of the Ninth Compagnie. Looking out around the parade square,Twilight can see that Zaranov has arranged a welcoming committee of his own: The buildings surrounding the landing area have their windows open, and in each window, Twilight can see a Legionnaire in full combat dress, with his rifle raised to open fire on the parade square. Twilight rounds on Zaranov.

“Colonel, we cannot have them up there!” Twilight snaps. “They could provoke the delegation!”

Zaranov shrugs. “I would not be doing my duty to my regiment if I did not take appropriate steps to protect my Legionnaires... negotiations with Khans are best conducted from a position of strength anyway,” he says calmly, but Twilight shakes her head, not buying his logic for one second.

“That's a Justicar in there... he won't think that a forest of bayonets pointing at him is strength at all.”

“That's what the last one who tried to demand things of me thought, I grant you,” Zaranov says, and Twilight cannot help but wince. However before she can reply, Zaranov clears his throat and gestures up to the airship, and as Twilight watches, a hatch slowly slides open. A figure robed in crimson silently appears in the opening, before calmly stepping off the hatch, into empty air. Twilight gasps, feeling her heart lurch in her chest, however, the robed figure simply stops, standing upon nothing but empty air. The robed figure then calmly starts to descend, walking upon the air as if he's descending a flight of stairs. A ripple of gasps of superstitious awe rise from the Legionnaires arranged around the parade square. Twilight, however, is far more worldly. She has seen other sorcerers perform similar magic, and indeed she can perform that spell herself. She just chooses not to. No one likes a show-off.

As the Justicar descends, Twilight catches glimpses of something bulky beneath his robe, and when he reaches the ground, Twilight realises he is indeed armed and armoured. A longsword is at his hip though the buttons upon the grip of the blade make it clear that this is rather more than just a decorative piece of ornamentation. The Khan is sheathed in blood-red armour the same colour as his ship, with the same bright golden trim. His armour is richly engraved, with an embossed winged feline skull upon the breastplate, and hanging off his belt is what appears to be a prayer-book and a pair of incense burners that gently smoulder, giving the armoured Justicar a strange fragrance. He is also clad in a hooded cloak that billows and furls gently around him in time with the desert breeze, and even though the hood is pulled up to conceal his face, Twilight can see one bright golden eye gleaming in the darkness beneath his hood. The Justicar certainly isn't human, Twilight can tell that much, just by glancing at the bow legs of his armour and the two subtle points in his hood where his ears protrude.

“Your Highness,” the Justicar growls softly as he comes closer to Twilight and bows low before her, his armour rattling very faintly. “I apologise for my manners upon the radio. My communications are under scrutiny by my Order. I have appearances to keep up,” he says, straightening up. His voice is low and sonorous with a strange growling harmonic that reminds Twilight of a grist mill.

The Justicar then straightens up. When he pushes his hood back, Twilight is unable to keep her guts from twisting very faintly in shock: The Justicar is obviously of mountain-cat heritage, with rich tawny fur fading to white around the base of his muzzle, along with very prominent whiskers and specks of black dotting his fur. However it is not this which draws Twilight's attention. The Justicar is missing his right eye, though where Rainbow Dash has a patch covering the empty socket, the Justicar has opted for an ugly prosthetic, all black metal and telescopic lens, with a faint red glow emanating from the core of the prosthesis. The Justicar's muzzle is likewise decorated with a series of well-treated scars that trace thin lines in his fur. Obviously the Justicar has been seen to by a doctor who knows his trade. The Justicar's remaining eye flashes faintly and Twilight summons her courage.

“We are pleased to make your acquaintance, Justicar Prophet, though we do not recall your radio transmissions,” she says, and the Justicar nods politely, before glancing around the compound.

“Clearly,” he rumbles, noticing the Legionnaires, and Twilight detects his hackles rising slightly, however, he merely gestures with one gauntleted hand and every single window with an armed Legionnaire inside slams shut with a resounding bang, and Twilight relaxes very slightly. She'd been worried about how he'd take that.

“I see you are slow to trust me,” he says softly, and Zaranov clears his throat.

“We have had dealings with your kind before, Khan,” the Valorossiyan says softly, and Prophet tilts his head.

“You were involved in the exodus of 1875?” he growls, and Zaranov shakes his head.

“That was a Navy matter, no, I'm referring to the unpleasantness two weeks ago. To that end, might I present what remains of the Ninth Compagnie.” Zaranov gestures at the honour guard and Twilight can hear them shifting uncomfortably behind her. The Khan glances at them, his eyes narrowing faintly and his whiskers vibrating angrily.

“So these are the soldiers who massacred two hundred of my countrymen when they protested-”

Zaranov looks like he wants to reply, and Twilight can almost feel the anger of the Legionnaires radiating off the back of her neck, and so she decides to take matters firmly in hand.

“Enough!” she snaps, even surprising herself with the power of that pronouncement. “We shall discuss that matter in due course, for now we shall retire to offices more suitable for discussion and debate.”

Zaranov and Prophet both turn to look at her, startled by her outburst. Prophet recovers first, however. “Forgive me, your Highness, I let my anger cloud my judgement.”

Zaranov merely clicks his heels sharply, before saluting and turning upon his heel. “Suitable rooms have been prepared, if Your Highness would like to follow me. Caporal Bolt, if you could dismiss your colleagues, you're now at liberty.”

“Yes sir!” Rainbow Dash snaps, snapping off a salute before heading over to her honour guard and barking commands at them. Twilight, however, is now following Zaranov and, so those commands are rapidly fading into the distance. Prophet walks at her shoulder, his tail twitching beneath his cloak. Twilight can feel the anger practically vibrating off the Khan, an intensity that suggests the holy man is practically begging to offer comment.

“Do you wish to say something?” Twilight asks, deciding to let him speak his mind before he sits down at a table with Zaranov. Maybe if she does so, he'll be civil when the time comes for them to negotiate.

“I would not offend your highness for all the world... but these will be diplomatic proceedings of a delicate nature, I am not sure how wise it would be to have a Valorossiyan present, particularly not one so... intimately involved in the proceedings,” he says softly, and Twilight tilts her head as she considers her response. She should really take him to task for making such comments about the garrison commander.

“We have utmost confidence in Colonel Zaranov's martial skill, he will need to be present for the nature of our discussions.”

“Has it reached that stage already?”

“That will depend on the word you bring from Diplomatic Incident,” Twilight replies. “We hope it will not reach 'that stage' as it were, and that our two nations can resume sensible discourse.”

“The Divinity Protects,” Prophet replies grimly. “That is, in fact, why I wish to speak to you... It is my concern that the will of the Divinity, through her divinely appointed agent the Shah is not being carried out correctly. Your diplomatic visa never reached the desk of the Foreign Ministry for instance. Likewise, it is not the belief of the Shah that Equestria is to blame for the domestic tensions, however, the Minister of the Interior disagrees, hence why they have arrested Diplomatic Incident.”

Twilight's eyes widen. “Wait, what?” she snaps, and Prophet's eyes widen as his ears twitch.

“Wait, you did not know? Diplomatic Incident was arrested earlier today when he was found at the site of a suicide bombing,” Prophet says after a moment. “Why he's been arrested, no one's been willing to say, but I went to speak with him whilst he was being questioned by the Ministry of Internal Order. It was rather fortunate I was there I suppose, as they were heating up the irons when I arrived.” As Twilight's face goes pale, however, Prophet raises his hand quickly in an attempt to reassure her. “Relax, no harm shall come to him, I have placed my protection on him. No one shall dare harm him, lest they incur the wrath of my order.”

Twilight doesn't trust herself to speak. The books she's read about the Justicars tell her that they do indeed have that kind of power and their fearsome reputation could perhaps ensure Diplomatic Incident's safety; however, something about Prophet sets her teeth on edge. His calm confidence, the fact that he came to a meeting with foreign dignitaries armed to the teeth and in a combat-capable airship. Ultimately, her concern for Diplomatic Incident compels her to take anything said by a Khan with a grain of salt.

“We shall hold you to your word, Prophet,” Twilight says grimly as they turn a corner and head into the officer's mess.

The Officers’ Mess for the Pit isn't much. In comparison to the positively palatial conditions of the Officers’ Messes of the Guard regiments back home, the Pit's Officer's mess is positively spartan. The room is dimly lit, with a low ceiling, and faded rugs upon the floor instead of carpet. Guttering oil lamps set at each low table cast flickering shadows upon the walls. Trophies gleam and flash from their wall-brackets. The room is practically deserted, though the still gently smouldering butts in the ash trays upon each table suggest it hasn't been abandoned for long. A couple of serving girls are still wiping down the tables as Zaranov leads them over to a small alcove which is slightly better lit than the rest, and takes a seat on the right hand side of the table. Twilight takes her place at the head of the table, and Prophet soundlessly makes his way to the other end of the table, calmly taking a seat and planting his elbows upon the table, clasping his gauntleted hands and bowing his head.

Twilight watches, intrigued, as Prophet starts to mutter words in his own native tongue, a tongue that Twilight still does not yet know, despite her weeks spent trying to learn. Twilight finds the strange rhythm faintly hypnotic, the low grumbling harmonic of the Khan's voice adding subtleties to the words that the human tongue just cannot match. Zaranov, however, is obviously not quite so enthused, clearing his throat sharply.

“We can start whenever you wish,” Zaranov says, fixing the Khan with an icy glare. Prophet responds with a stony gaze of his own and Twilight clears her throat sharply to bring the two back to their senses. “Apologies,” Zaranov says softly. “I was just reminding our friend here that some of us have been up since early this morning, and we would appreciate this meeting being kept brief.”

Prophet nods. “I understand, I shall keep this short and to the point. We can discuss the... ins and outs of the situation tomorrow, the long and short of it, however, is as follows: The Shah does not want war with Equestria. He wishes for the return of the provinces your princesses stole from us, but it is his hope that such things can be resolved by peaceful means. He has asked me to pass on his concerns about Equestria's intentions, however. In the interests of brevity, I shall be blunt. He is concerned about your commitment to peace.”

Twilight's eyes widen slightly and her mouth drops open. “Our commitment- I don't-”

Prophet gives her a level look. “You are aware that three Equestrian armies have been moved to our borders and that two whole Aero-fleets are likewise positioned uncomfortably close to our territory. That is close to seven hundred and fifty thousand men. This does not include the regiment of dispossessed that is already inside our territory.” Prophet lists off the points on his fingers and Twilight nods. She'd understood that Luna would be mobilising elements of the army and the navy to respond, however, she hadn't expected those contingents to be very large. Seven hundred and fifty thousand men however...

“For what it's worth,” Prophet continues, “those men are dug in into defensive positions, and the fleets are likewise positioned to repel an invasion rather than commence one. However, I only know that because I visited the positions myself. The government of my nation is in a state very much resembling panic about an invasion. The removal, or at least, the reduction of that number of troops, would go a long way towards lessening tensions.”

Zaranov clears his throat. “Are you empowered to negotiate for the Khanate?” he asks sharply. Prophet shakes his head.

“I am not, I am merely a messenger and a guide. I serve the interests of the Divinity and the Shah, rather than the government. Both of them desire peace. I am here to assist you in your negotiations.”

Twilight neglects to mention that she had a perfectly good assistant, until he was arrested.
“So the Khanate's primary goal in these negotiations will be to secure those provinces back and get our troops removed from your borders?” she asks, before Zaranov can offer yet another biting retort that will begin a shouting match. Prophet pauses for a moment, obviously thinking, before he nods.

“That will be a good start, they will also want reparations for those two hundred-”

“They can whistle for that,” Zaranov interrupts. “I'm sorry princess, but I will not apologise, or have my legionnaires get put on trial, for following the oath to defend the Crown.”

Twilight nods. “Colonel Zaranov has a point, those two hundred wouldn't be dead if your people had kept tighter control of the situation, Prophet.”

Prophet nods. “That brings us quite neatly on to the true purpose for my visit. Someone in the Khanate has an interest in provoking a war with Equestria. I want to find out who, and neutralise them. Your assistance in this would prove invaluable.” Twilight glances at Zaranov, who leans back slightly, folding his arms across his chest. The Val is obviously prepared to listen, as evidenced by the fact he hasn't yanked Prophet's spine out through his nose.

“But I'm just-”

“An immortal sorceress who stands at the left hand side of the Queen of Hell. False modesty does not become you, Princess,” Prophet says bluntly. “Theology aside, your visit has rattled whoever had Diplomatic Incident arrested. It forced them to reveal the fact that they had agents in the police force, which I'm sure they would have rather kept secret until as late in the game as possible.”

Zaranov raises a pencil-thin eyebrow; his mouth curled downward in a frown. “And you're telling us that this shadowy group of people are responsible for killing my Legionnaires?” he asks, and Prophet nods.

“Yes, incidentally I'd like to interview some of the survivors of that incident so I can get a clearer picture of what happened from the Equestrian side of the matter. The line going around from the Ministry of Truth is that it was a peaceful protest until your Legionnaires opened fire. I think we can safely assume that the Ministry of Truth has likewise been infiltrated,” Prophet replies.

Twilight nods, placing her hands flat upon the table. She tries to ignore her rumbling stomach and the growing heaviness of her eyelids.

“Prophet, I shall see what I can do with regard to your second matter, I make no promises until I see some hard evidence, but you are welcome to interview the survivors of Ninth Compagnie. However, an officer and an NCO of the Legion will be present whilst you're conducting the interviews, and they can terminate the interview at their discretion.” Zaranov tosses Twilight a grateful look. Twilight shifts her attention to Zaranov. “Colonel, how long can it take you to mobilise two full Compagnies, along with a unit of sappers, and the remnants of the Ninth as my bodyguard unit?”

Zaranov's grateful look drops from his face, but he nods. “We can mobilise within the week, where are we going?”

“Tarhen,” Twilight replies. “I want to go to Tarhen and establish a base of operations, preferably one that can hold a large number of people. It has to be accessible by air and close to the city limits.”

Zaranov tilts his head. “There aren't many hotels like that in Tarhen, all the good ones are close to the city centre.”

“Why does it need to be a hotel?” Twilight asks, and Zaranov shrugs.

“You're a princess.”

“And what does that have to do with anything? We will be conducting our negotiations in a hotel, as Diplomatic Incident advised, but security is more important than luxury right now,” Twilight says, and Zaranov nods quickly.

“I shall send scouting parties into Tarhen to find somewhere suitable immediately, ma'am.” Twilight nods, feeling a crushing wave of weariness rolling over her, and she remembers she's been up since zero four hundred. Twilight's eyes flicker upwards to the clock on the wall, which is now indicating that it's gone two o'clock in the morning.

“Excellent, Prophet, we shall discuss this shadowy group of yours tomorrow.” Twilight says, trying without much success to bite back a yawn. “For now, it is my thought that we take a break from the discussions to catch some sleep, since we might all think better upon clear heads.”

“Your wisdom belies your years, Princess,” Prophet says, rising to his feet. “Your suggestion is a good one, I shall likewise take the night to reflect upon this meeting and we can rise on the morrow, refreshed and ready to take on the problems at hand.”

Zaranov likewise rises to standing. “Yes ma'am, I'll go get scouting teams ready, will they be travelling openly?”

Twilight subtly shakes her head but says nothing further, her eyes flicking to the Khan in the room. She’s not unsure of where Prophet’s loyalties lie, that is the problem. She notices Prophet shift slightly, his hands tightening a little and his back straightening very slightly, but Twilight tries not to think about that right now. She rises to her feet.

“Gentlemen, this meeting is now adjourned until tomorrow, whereupon we shall start making decisions and communicating our intentions to the various bodies of the Khanate. We've been stalling for long enough, it's time to hit the ground running.”

Author's Notes:

Your paitience has been rewarded.
There is a new chapter. Ta Dah, I hope it was worth the wait.
There will be more coming soon.