It’s the second series of knocks on the door that assure Pencil Case of the fact that somepony is indeed expecting him to open it, yet the slim-built pony doesn’t move a muscle to stand up from his desk. It’s only when a female’s voice, accompanied by a third set of knocks, reaches his ears, that he dares to breath again. “Mr Case?” says the pleasant voice, slightly muffled by the heavy door. “I have your lunch here, if you’d be so kind as to open the door for me.”

Pencil Case stands up from his creaking chair, and walks over to the door. His movements stir the stale air just enough to make the dust particles dance in the sunlight that shines through the opened curtains. After opening all the four locks of the door, he finally sees a corner of a bright purple eye blinking through the tiny crack between the door and the frame. “Mr Case?” asks the mare.

“Yes. That is me.”

“Could you perhaps open the door a little bit more? You didn’t order pizza today.”

“Are you alone?” asks Case sharply, his frail voice shaking a bit.

A heavy sigh carries over from the other side. “Yes I am, mr Case. No, I can’t prove it. Please let me in.”

A moment goes by in silence, and then the door finally opens completely, revealing a navy blue pegasus mare behind, holding a box covered by a cloth. “Your lunch, mr Case,” says the mare meaningfully, and hooves the package over to him. “That’ll make four bits, thank you very much.”

Pencil accepts the package apprehensively while pulling some coins from the pocket of his brown jacket with his horn. He smiles a shy smile at her as the bits fall into a pouch on her belt. “Uhm… sorry about the precautions. They are part of the job.”

“It’s alright, mr Case,” says the mare, and smiles back at him. “Thank you for using Midday Meal’s services! See you again at lunchtime tomorrow.” The mare turns and flies away along the corridor, the pouch clinging happily as she goes. Case looks at her as long as he can, fixing his crescent glasses with a hoof, and then returns to his office. He makes sure that all the locks are secured before beginning to open the package that floats in front of him. It almost drops when his door shudders under a series of bangs. The beating is accompanied by a deep voice:

“Open the door, Pencil! I know you’re in there; dead ponies don’t accept their lunch!”

“Go away!” shouts Case instinctively. “I have no time for unscheduled meetings today!”

The following silence is perhaps even more sinister than the preceding noise. “Case…” continues the voice again, somewhat more calmly this time. “I don’t know why you’re avoiding me like this. I don’t care to know. I only ask a few minutes of your time. Please.”

Case breathes as if the slightest disturbance might make the heavily bolted door explode. He takes a few careful steps away from it. “I have no legal obligations to open that door to you, no matter who you are. I have no time right now; go away.” Another pause ensues.

“Pencil… One way or another, I’m going to enter that room.” The stranger’s voice is calmer than a meditating tortoise.

“If you break that door, I’ll have Princess Celestia herself know about it!”

“I wasn’t talking about breaking anything…” says the meditating tortoise behind the bolts. “If you don’t open it for me in ten seconds, I’m going to teleport myself there.”

A victorious grin spreads on Case’s lips. “Hahhaha! A blatant pluff! Nopony would ever do anything as stupid as to teleport themselves blindly! And I don’t even know if you’re an unic–”

The package Case had been levitating next to him explodes in a shower of smashed carrots and turnips, spreading warm goo all over the room and Pencil, who shrieks and tries to cover his face with his front hooves. A rock the size of an onion, stained in vegetable mush, rolls on the floor, and his wide eyes follow it stop at his hooves. In a very slow fashion, he raises his eyes again at the door.

“Did you… just move that thing here… without seeing where you were aiming?” His voice almost disappears into the void of sublime terror during the last four words.

“Did I hit anything?” answers the calm voice. “Sounds like I did. And hearing that you’re not screaming in agony, I’d deduce that it wasn’t you.”

Pencil backs away from the door as if it was aflame. He hits his table and almost manages to climb over it. “You’re insane!” he screams.

“Will you let me in? Or shall I start counting?”

The accountant’s lower lip quivers and he begins to hyperventilate. “Y-you w-wouldn’t d-dare do that to yourself! That’d be s-suicidal!”

The tranquility of the stranger’s voice is like from another world. “No doubt it is. Nine seconds.”

Case’s front hooves sweep the desk’s surface, spreading papers all over the floor. As he climbs backwards over the table, his eyes remain nailed to the door. He covers behind the heavy desk, and peeks over it, sweat trickling down his brow.

“Eight,” says the voice of serenity. “Seven. Six. Five.”
Case starts to pray for the first time in his life; he prays for the Sun, for the Moon, for his mother. But the numbers, which he has spent most of his adult life with, continue to rain blows upon his mind.

“Four. Three. I hope you have a mop there, ‘cause this might get messy. Two.”

Case opens his mouth, but no words leave his dry throat.

“One.”

“Stop!” he screams with a shrill, broken voice. “For the love of Celestia, stop!”

“Okay.”

With extremely careful steps, Case leaves the protection of his desk, and sneaks for the door. The locks open one by one, and each tiny click sends a tingling feeling through his nerves. When the final bolt releases its grip, he can’t take the stress anymore and simply throws the door ajar, eyes closed. “Don’t hurt me! I tell you everything, just don’t hurt me!”

Willow Fall looks at the feeble unicorn kneeling in front of him, looks at him as if he was some exotic lizard. “Uhm… sure. I won’t hurt you. Promise.”

Case cracks his eyelids, and gasps as he sees a heavy-built unicorn stallion studying him with a raised eyebrow. For a moment he can only blink confusedly. “You… you don’t look insane…”

Fall rolls his eyes. “I’m glad to hear that. Look, I had to scare you a bit there, but rest assured that I wouldn’t have actually teleported into your office blindly. Truth be told, I don’t even know how to teleport myself. High level time-space manipulations aren’t part of my studies.” He gives him an apologising look. “I’m sorry.”

“B-but you moved that rock like it was nothing…?” says Case, standing up.

“Weeell… Not quite. It was a prank from my colthood; I persuaded that delivery pegasus to hide the rock, onto which I had planted a simple spell, into your package. I told her we are friends and that you’d understand.” Fall smiles awkwardly. “Naturally, I’ll buy you another lunch after we’ve exchanged a few words.”

Case looks at Fall in a way one might look at a flying cow. Without taking his eyes off him, the accountant produces a hoofkerchief from his pocket and begins to wipe the remains of his lunch off himself. “You think it’s funny, scaring ponies like that? For a moment I actually thought you would…” A shudder travels through him. “I really don’t know if I want to talk with you after all.”

The smile melts off Fall’s face. “You gave me little choice but to trick you. When I came earlier today, you didn’t even bother telling me ‘no’. You didn’t even answer my knocks and calls.”

Case purses his lips, and drops the gooey hoofkerchief into a nearby trashcan. Spots of colorful vegetable smush still inhabit his coat and jacket at places. “I did have the legal right for ignoring you, indeed I did. Although… perhaps you are correct… I may have abused the letter of the law then…” His eyes sweep the floor at Fall’s hooves. “Fine. We can talk. Please come in.”

“Thank you,” answers Fall as the door shuts behind him; this time its left unlocked. “My issue is with this mare called–”

“–Chillburn, yes yes, I remember you mentioning that name the first time you came here,” says Case as he walks over his desk and chair. “It seems that she is the most interesting client I have ever had. Ironically enough, she is the client I wish I had never met.”

“So other ponies have also come asking after her?” Fall settles himself on a chair opposite Case, and the aged woodwork complains under his weight. “Who were they, if I may ask?”

Case, while ordaining the fallen papers with his magic, glances at him disapprovingly. “I’m not supposed to tell you that… but since this particular case seems to break every article there is…” He sighs deeply, and pulls another hoofkerchief from a box on the table. “First I was visited by this Professor of some sorts, from one of the Canterlot’s Schools. This happened some months ago. It was from him that all the trouble started, really.” He begins to clean away the rest of the vegetable pie.

Axiom has a gift for that, thinks Fall grimly. “Did you tell him where Chillburn is?”

Case grimaces, but says nothing immediately. “Yes. Yes I did. Please don’t tell anypony about that; nopony hires an accountant who can’t keep their client's secrets.” His pleading eyes make Fall feel sick.

“My lips are sealed,” he answers. “Did the Professor threaten you physically?”

Case shifts in his chair uneasily, and delivers the hoofkerchief into the trashcan. “Uhm…no, not as such. He was very aggressive, yet he never laid a hoof on me, nor a horn. Instead, he said that if I wouldn't obey him, he’d let out a rumour inside the Canterlot’s elite that I work for Chillburn.”

A puzzled look masks Fall for a while, but the confusion fades after a quick social psychological calculation. “Because she is a prostitute,” he states laconically. “And the cream can get very sour about such things.”

Case nods shortly. “I mean, I don’t personally care what my client’s do for living… and she always pays on time…but if the word got out, I might as well bury my chances of ever working in the Castle.” He sees Fall blink, and shyly adds: “A little dream of mine.”

“And the second visitor…?” asks Fall. He can practically sense how Case’s body becomes electrified for an instant.

“Oh. Him. A young fellow, light-brown coat, wiry, a gothic ‘A’ as a cutie mark. Came here the week before last. Told me that he’d break my nose if I didn’t tell him where Chillburn is.” The sun reflecting from his crescent glasses hides his eyes for a moment. “It’s because of him that I’ve been a bit on edge lately. For a second I even mistook you for him.”

Fall’s eyes go wide. “What? That can’t be right; Reg would never say such a thing.”

In his chair, Case leans a bit farther away from Fall. “A friend of yours, is he? I hope that it’s not true what they say about wolves and howling, then…”

“You don’t understand…” continues Fall, shaking his head. “You must’ve mistaken. He wouldn’t actually beat anypony outside the ring.”

“Well, he certainly fooled me,” says Case dryly. “Seems like the habit is becoming popular.”

Fall looks at the smaller pony deep into the eyes. You’re not lying, I don’t think. But you can’t be telling the truth, either. You can’t be. I refuse to believe it.

“There was this one mare, too, who came to me yesterday…” begins Case. “She was very insistent, but for once I managed to hold onto my accountant’s oath and refused to tell her anything of my clients.”

“Never mind her,” says Fall. “What exactly did you tell to the two other ponies that visited you before her?”

“I told them the truth; that Chillburn lives in Ponyville now. Or at least it’s from there that I’ve been receiving my payments for the last four months.”

The stale air ripples with silence that cuts reality like a knife, separating the moments into clean brackets filled with anticipation. Fall feels them moving by him, through him, but somehow he can’t grasp any of them. “So she is in Ponyville? She really is there?”

Case shrugs his thin shoulders. “I’d hate to get metaphysical now, but yes, I would say that she ‘really’ is there. Stamps don’t lie.” His eyes narrow down suddenly. “Are we done now? I do have some other clients whose property I need to tend to.”

Fall doesn’t make a move to leave. “I heard from a different source that she might reside in Haytown. Do you know anything about that?”

The accountant taps the desk with a hoof a couple of times. “I do. For a few months after the last New Year’s Eve, she did indeed send my payments by mail from there. Then on one day, the bits started falling from Ponyville instead. That is all I know.” He crosses his front hooves around his chest.

Fall’s eyes look at nothing for a few seconds, and then the stallion stands up. “Thank you
for your time, Case. Sorry again about all the fuss; here is some compensation for the trouble.” A hoofful of bits travels from Fall’s small saddleback onto Case’s desk. The slim pony looks at them with slight disdain.

“I can’t even begin to imagine why all this happened to me,” he says when Fall is already on the door. “It’s not at all what an accountant’s life should be about.” His grey eyes keep on looking at the bits laying on his desk. “I never asked any of this.”

Fall pays one more glance at the slumping figure, and despite his best efforts, he can’t hide the shade of pity in his voice. “None of us did, Pencil. Things just happened.” He steps out of the door and into the corridor. Behind him, he hears four locks clicking quietly.

***



Chillburn’s curtains are drawn, but the sun is not to be done away with such a simple deed. The rays persist to shed eerie light to the room, enough for Thunderlane to see where the bed ends and the floor begins. The pegasus stretches his wings sleepily, yawns, and sneaks of the enormous bed without making a sound. He manages to get to the door before the mare’s soft voice seizes him from under the blankets and the pillows.

“Could you bake some those pancakes again, birdie? And while you’re at it, make some coffee, too.”

Thunderlane bites his lip, but doesn’t turn around. “You read my thoughts, Chilly. Sorry for waking you up, though.”

“You didn’t. But your mindfulness has been noted.”

The pegasus smiles to himself, and slips through the door and to the downstairs. It’s after he has prepared a comparatively rich breakfast, with pancakes and coffee to crown the meal, that Chillburn makes her descent. As she enters the kitchen, a short chuckle escapes him.

She glares at him playfully. “Do share the joke, birdie.”

“Your mane…” says the stallion, smirking at her. “I could just about make a nest there. Or three.”

Her eyes make a theatrical roll as she sits by the set kitchen table, where a pile of hot pancakes awaits. “That still gets you, doesn’t it? A mane such as mine won’t care for itself, you know.” She grabs a healthy dose of wheaty goods on her plate. “But how come your mane never gets flat?”

He pours some maple syrup over her plate with a wing, and slowly smooths his protruding mane with a hoof. “It’s all in the blood, baby. My mother’s mane wouldn’t get down even when she drenched it.”

“Really?” she asks. “It must’ve been quite a sight.”

“Coffee?”

She nods, and extends her cup. His wingtips do all the work again as hot, black liquid falls out of the metallic pan. As she raises the steaming drink to her lips, he pulls the chair back and settles himself opposite to her. He keeps on smiling as pancakes fill his plate, but there is this sense of tensess in his actions that she hasn’t noticed before. Nonetheless, neither of them says nothing for a few minutes.

“Uhh… Chillburn?” he asks finally, looking at her from under his brow. “There is something I’d like to ask. But if you’re not cool with, just forget about it.”

Well, I guess it needed to come up at some point. “I know, ‘Lane. It’s okay. Go ahead, ask your question.” She keeps on eating her pancakes.

He has stopped his own feast, and rubs his neck with a hoof. “I didn’t bring this up yesternight, with you being a bit jumpy and all, but now that you’re normal again…” He breathes deeply before continuing. “What was the thing with that Reg guy?”

She swallows her mouthful, and raises her calm eyes to meet his. “How much of our chat did you hear?” Her voice is casual. Neutral, ordinary, and somewhat distant.

“Not much, to say it frankly… It was more his stare that got my bells ringing.” A sliver of worry visits the amber pools. “And they’re chiming still.”

You’re not the only one who hears them. “Reg can be a bit brutish at times. He is a boxer, so that’s only to be expected.” She takes a sip of her coffee, and averts his gaze. “I wouldn’t worry about him too much.”

He bites his lip again, and the tips of his feathers shiver gently. “Was that what you thought yesterday? Or is it something you want me to think now.”

Clever bird. And bold, too. “Reg is my problem, Thunderlane. I shall deal with him on my own way.”

“And what way is that? What’s the big deal with you two, anyway?”

She studies the pegasus without smiling, the steam of her coffee veiling the air between them. “One might regard those questions as very private in nature.”

A sudden confusion makes the amber shimmer. “What? No, I just want to help you! I didn’t mean to… prod your privacy or anything…” He shifts again in his chair. “I’m sorry.”

“When I need help, I ask for it.”

“Sure, sure. I don’t know, perhaps I was a bit too blunt…” His eyes keep on looking everywhere except at her. “I guess I’ve become too used to sharing all my worries with everypony else. Ponyville is communal like that.”

“I’m sure it is.” Chillburn’s look loses some of it’s formality, and her tone gets more homely again. “I didn’t mean to offend you, birdie. I come from Canterlot, remember? Secrets and gossip are currency there, not charity.” A cute smile from her part incites a smirk out of him, too.

“Yeah… I guess,” he says, and starts munching a pancake. Having finished that, he continues: “So uhm… Vinyl is having another gig tomorrow…”

“She is more than welcome to do that,” says the mare over her cup. “My ears beg me to keep my distance from her, though.” And my taste would gladly have me forget her altogether.

“Oh… okay…”

His ears do look cute when he droops them like that. “It’s not your fault that I’m a bit picky when it comes to music. Also… I was kind of hoping that we might spend some time in a more… private environment.” She winks at him.

The amber eyes warm up quicker than a match. “Sure! Did you have something special in mind?”

She clicks her tongue twice. “Perhaps… Does the concept of a picnic intrigue you?”

“Only if the menu is…rich enough…” His eyes narrow down meaningfully.

Clever and sharp, but not that apt with words, decides Chillburn as she studies his grinning expression. “Fantastic,” she says. “Now, give me some more of that syrup.”

The rest of the breakfast goes by with a few more innuendos of varying quality. Finally, Thunderlane leaves to prepare for the weather drill that has been scheduled for the afternoon. The stallion practically flies off after having been blessed by her intimate kiss. For a whole fifteen minutes she gets to linger in her mood of casual happiness and warmth, for a whole quarter of an hour she manages to keep the thoughts of yesternight off her mind. Like a spider the memory creeps into her consciousness as she is about to start washing the dishes. And then she remembers the letter.

It takes her five minutes before she takes it out off the drawer where she had forgotten it, another ten before she opens it with her teeth. On the reading, she only spends two seconds.

“The night never ended. We need to talk.”

-RS


The eight words, all laid out on the kitchen table, seem to warp the space around them. The mare sits in the chair next to the paper, leaning on her front hooves, reading the words, letter by letter, over and over again; she reads them until she forgets what they mean. He must have thought I had read this letter before yesternight. That’s why he came to me so boldly, because he thought I was prepared. He wanted me to be prepared… Very slowly, her eyes leave the letter. Very carefully, she picks up the black words on the white paper, and very determinately, bins them. Never before has a kitchen drawer been closed more conclusively.

As she settles on the living room couch, Chillburn notices for the first time how very quiet her new home actually is. The space oozes of silence. I could hear a pony breathing in the next room. For a moment, she stops her lungs. Whole ten seconds go by before she blows out again, and as she does, a short, nervous laugh flees along with the air. The noise sinks into the walls in a moment, leaving nothing but a memory behind. Without moving anything else, the mare brings her left front hoof onto her lower belly, and begins to press down gently. She looks at her tummy, her ever so slender tummy that nevertheless is beginning to turn not so slender. The changes are invisible for anypony who hasn’t know her for years, but nonetheless, they exist.

Silence keeps on ringing in her ears. Somehow, it hurts her more than the storm of dubstep yesterday ever did.

She leaves the house without even combing her mane.

***

On a stage filled with props imitating a glorious palace, a mare flings herself on a stallion’s feet, crying helplessly. Both ponies are dressed in fine costumes decorated with silk and jewelry; he is wearing a three-cornered hat while heavy golden rings surround her ankles and tie her tail. The desperation in her voice cuts like glass.

“Say not he has passed away!” she pleads from the stallion. “Let not my poor heart shatter again!”

A cool contempt chills the air around the stallion’s face. “Do not attempt to make me a thrall of thine lies. My heart grieves not for the pain thy fake.”

Her eyes, wet and broken, flinch as if he had slapped her in the face. “Cruel they said thee are, Kolho, yet the word feels inadequate to me.” She crawls closer to him, her hooves almost touching his. “Please. One word I crave from thee. Dead. Or alive?”

His lips melt into a grimace as they witness her torment. “Wait not on thy balcony tonight. The night bodes cold.“ He closes his eyes. “The cold of a grave.”

The mare’s wail, shrill and sharp, slices the air in a way of a claw.

“Cut!” shouts a mare from the audience, raising a front hoof into the air. The two ponies on the stage turn to look at her, the mare’s face suddenly filled with anticipation. The unicorn in the audience writes a few lines in her notebook before speaking again. “Very good, miss Lake. Touching, yet not imposing.” She raises her eyes off the notebook, smiling pleasantly. “And your scream would make a banshee blush. Good work.”

Honey Lake’s tear-stained face swells with relief and joy, with the pride hiding somewhere in her eyes. “Thank you, miss Catharsis.” A shadow of worry visit her smile, yet fails to break it. “I think I pronounced Kolho’s name wrong again, though…” Honey Lake swipes some of the tears of her eyes as she speaks, and when she glances at the audience again, she notices that miss Catharsis isn’t actually alone there. In the back of the theatre, a figure sits in the shadows. For a second she thinks it’s Fall who seems to be staring right back at her. But it can’t be… he took the train to Ponyville just this morning.

“...Miss Lake?” asks Catharsis, her eyebrow raised.

“Uh, sorry?” says Lake, tearing her eyes off the stranger and back to the director.

The mare coughs into her hoof before speaking. “I said that I agreed with your point about “Kolho”, but at the same breath I noted that it’s an easy thing to fix. Just say it a few hundred times and you shall know it in your dreams.”

“Oh, okay! Thanks for the tip…” says Lake, her eyes travelling to the back of the theater again. It stands all empty now. She flinches a bit as the stallion nudges her from the side.

“You should go now, Lake,” he whispers to Lake. “The other candidates are waiting.”

Lake blinks, and looks behind her into the side of the stage, where a line of mares, similarly dressed as she, wait anxiously for their turn. She cracks an apologizing smile and hurries off the stage, heading straight into the dressing rooms. Behind her, she can hear another mare starting the scene from the beginning. She winces as she hears her pronounce “Kolho” perfectly.

As she descends the stairs down to the dressing rooms, Lake hears a conversation echoing through the door. Behind, two of her rivals are comparing their performances.

“Not that I want to be difficult, but the air in the theatre really was too sultry,” says a green mare with cream-white mane. “I sweated like a pig, really.”

“Honestly?” answers a dark, almost black, mare with a golden hair. “I found the air too cold. I kept on shaking before my turn…” She turns to look at Lake. “How about you? Was the air okay up there?”

It was common tension that caused all of our symptoms. “Yeah, I guess they could’ve paid more attention to that,” says Lake. “By the way… did neither of you see anypony else in the audience? Besides miss Catharsis?”

“I thought the theatre was closed?” says the mare green as summer grass. “I would’ve wanted my CF to come watch me…”

“I did see somepony,” continues the dark one. “On the last row. A stallion unicorn, I think, but I didn’t get a good look at him. I was too busy concentrating on my act.”

“Oh, could it have been a headhunter?” asks the green mare excitedly.

“Maybe,” says Lake. But somehow I don’t believe that. It was as if I had seen him in somewhere before… but I can't put my hoof on it. Although it felt as if he had know me… “How about we go for a drink?” says Lake suddenly. “Celebrate a bit that the trials are finally over?”

Neither of the two seems to warm up at the idea. “Sorry, Lake, but I got work early tomorrow…” says the almost black mare.

“I’m not in the mood now,” explains the green one. “I feel like I botched my show.”

“Oh. I see,” says Lake. “I guess I go to home then, too.” I’m just being silly. There is no need to hide in company. It was just some culture fanatic trying to get a sneak peek at the new show. And perhaps he was just as impressed of my scream as Catharsis was.

After having undressed, and when her make-up has been flushed down the sink, Honey Lake heads back upstairs. In the corridor, she meets the mare who was next in line after her, and the two exchange a friendly smile. In her mind, Lake only sneers. I bet it’s easy to memorize foreign names when your daddy pays all the bills for you. She pushes the theater's back-door open more forcefully than would be necessary, and the bang of the metall echoes in the surrounding alleyways. It’s quite dark, and the moon is covered by clouds. Lake peers into the shadows for a minute, trying to spot movements there, but the streets and houses remain immobile. It’s as if the night was expecting her to trust itself. For a second, she ponders whether she should wait for another pony to come along. But then she shakes her head, and begins to gallop towards her house.

Her pace is rapid, but not faster than usual. Beside a few late night walkers, the streets of Canterlot are empty even in the centre of the city. A few restaurants and bars remain open, and their lights illuminate Lake’s way along with the street lamps. Light and blackness paint her way as she gradually leaves the central area and enters to the more ordinary districts, where street lamps are a rearer treat. By the time she gets home, they are almost nonexistent. Standing on the main stairs of her tenement, she glances behind her for the first time during her trip, gazes into the moonless night. Nothing stirs in the scene before him, nothing at all. Why then do I feel like something is staring right back at me? She fumbles a bit with the key before she manages to open the door to the stairwell.

“Good evening, Honey Lake,” rasps a voice behind her.

She spins around, dropping the key that rings faintly as it hits the cobblestones. A gasp escapes her as she, despite the dark that masks him, recognizes the pony before her. “Axiom?”

“Professor… Axiom,” he says, his shadowed face expressionless. “If I may indulge, a few moments of your time would be all I ask for.”

“Why… why did you follow me to my house?” she asks carefully. Her right hind leg has almost crosses the threshold.

“A gentlecolt does not simply seize a mare on the street. He lays out his questions indoors.”

Questions? “You could’ve talked to me in the theatre,” says Lake, her voice a bit sharper now. “I saw you in the back row. And how did you even know that I’d be there?”

The moon decides absentmindedly to show itself, and the silvery shining reveals Axiom’s face. His smile is paler than the light that illuminates it. “Your employer kindly gave me a hint. I say, I was surprised to see that you are into classical plays.”

You went to the Angry Griffon, too? “Well, Professor, you really should’ve got to me earlier. Now I’m too tired for any sort of ‘questioning’, whatever that means. Goodnight.” She turns quickly around, and tries to slip inside. His voice binds her like a rope.

“Does Fall already know where Chillburn lives?”

Despite her instincts, she can’t help but face him again. “How do you know that he–”

“Answer the question, and I shall leave you post-haste.”

“No. That’s not your business.”

A grim look finally breaks his fading smile. “Then I shall ask him personally. He is hiding in your apartment, is he not?”

“Goodnight, Professor.” Lake turns around, and this time she ignores his angry shout that follows her inside. She has harder time sidestepping the aura that surrounds the front door as she tries to close it. “What the–,” she begins. Then the door flies ajar, and Axiom steps inside the hallway.

“Help!” she shouts, backing away. “Help, somepony, I need some hel–.” Suddenly, she feels her tongue stifling inside her mouth, feels her whole body freezing in time. In a flash, she can’t move anything but her wide, wild eyes.

Axiom’s horn glows in the dim of the hallway, and for a moment he listens. A minute goes by, then another, but nothing happens. It’s then that a faint smile crosses his lips. “Celestia bless soundproof doors and walls. Now, which apartment is yours?” He throws a questioning look at her face, where her eyes stop their erratic bouncing and nail at him. Her mouth remains open, the call for help trapped on her lips. “Oh, silly me,” says Axiom to himself. “Where did you drop that key? Ah, there it is…” The unicorn picks up the bronze-coloured object, and studies it closely. “Apartment number nine. Shortly we shall see if Fall regrets his choice of ignoring the studies practical magic. I have a feeling that he will.”

To her horror, Lake finds that her legs are moving regardless of her own will. As the mare turns around and starts to climb the stairs, a million thoughts run through her mind, clog up her cognitive process that now has nothing better to do than sit back and watch as her own body imprisons her. After an eternity, they arrive at a door with the number nine decorating it. The lock clicks quietly as the key slips in and turns. Inside, calm silence greets them. Honey Lake steps in, with Axiom behind her. Her heart sends blood rushing in her veins and into her head. Her eyelids resemble a pair butterflies, the way how frequently they blink. She hears the door closing behind, after which Axiom’s rough voice calls out into the darkness of the small apartment.

“Fall! Come out, you coward!”

The darkness swallows up his words as they leave his mouth. He waits for a minute, tries again, yet fails to incite the response he seeks. Lake hears him sigh deeply.

“Fine,” he says. “I suppose there are only two of us here. Makes no matter.”

Lake’s mind flinches as her body makes a sudden move towards a coach, where she sits down neatly and quietly. Her eyes follow Axiom as he settles down in a chair opposite to her. His eyes seem to gleam in the dim.

“There are two ways we can do this,” he says after a while. “You act according to my script, and the night shall end in applauds.” He claps his hooves a together a couple of times. “Or you fail. And trust me, you do not want to fail this trial. Blink twice if you understood.”

She blinks twice.

“Bravo. Now I’m going to release the spell binding you. The first thing you are going to do: Wipe your chin. The drool there makes me sick.” His horn loses its radiance.

Lake’s body twitches as she curls on the couch, her breathing reaching the point of hyperventilation in seconds. She presses her back against the couch, eyes shimmering, hooves frantically grasping the fabric. Yet, despite all her basic instincts, she raises her shaking hoof and wipes the trickle of saliva off her chin and lips, never once breaking the eye contact with him. The unicorn’s indifferent gaze makes a violent shudder travel along her spine.

“Bravissimo,” he states dryly. “But how about the lines? Let’s begin from the simple ones. Where is Fall?”

“Axiom… please… I haven't done anything to y–.” Her shaking voice breaks as a stinging pain lances through her left front hoof. She gasps and looks at the limb that is being twisted into an unnatural angle by the grey halo that surrounds it.

“Wrong lines. Boo.” His horn glimmers more strongly.

Her hoof feels like it’s aflame, the pain tearing through tissue like a razorblade. “Stop!” she screams, eyes closed and mouth twisted into a grimace. To her relief, the agony subsides immediately. The terror does not.

“The audience is waiting,” he states, his voice like ash.

“He is in Ponyville,” says Lake with a sobbing voice. “He left there today…”

“If you lie to me, I will break your leg.”

Her neck snaps to attention. “No. No. You couldn’t. No.” She sounds like a filly trying to deny the existence of death.

If death, as a person, did indeed exist, it might sound something like Axiom right now. “Ponies fall down stairs all the time, breaking limbs. Necks. Most tragic.”

He is bluffing. He is bluffing. He is bluffing. “I’m not lying! Go to his house, he isn’t there!”

“I visited the place already today,” says the unicorn. “Second question: He went to Ponyville in order to talk Reg out of his plans, correct?”

“Y-yes,” whines the mare without hesitating a second.

Axiom furrows his brows, his eyes travelling off the mare. “So I am too late…” he whispers to himself. “I should have moved earlier.”

“W-what are you talking about?” asks the mare carefully. The stallion pays an irritated glance at her.

“Stay in the script, Lake. It would be ashame if you could not attend the Twelfth Neigh because of a broken limb.”

The mare cowers on the couch, pulling her hooves closer to her torso. “I told you what you wanted. Please, leave me alone…”

He gives her a long look which she can’t read even if her life depended on it. Is he… pondering about… silencing me for good? Her trembling becomes a tad more fervent.

“You must think of me as a monster,” he says finally, the voice behind that unreadable face appearing more gentle now. “A monster, a mummy, the old bugger… I have indeed collected myself a reasonable assembly of nicknames during the years. ‘Chalk Tongue’ is one of my favorites.” His eyes look at the closed curtains with detached interest. “Recently I have wondered… if there really is something fundamentally wrong with me.”

The academic tone with which he says that almost makes her laugh madly. It’s a combination of fear and hate than keep her tongue in check.

“I do not expect you to understand,” he continues. “There really is nothing to understand.” His eyes turn to Lake again. “I have one more question for you, and then I shall leave you alone for the rest of your life.” He leans closer to her in his chair. “Do you love Willow Fall?”

The confusion shines from her eyes. “Y-yes…? I love him.”

“Were I you, then, I would consider keeping this little of talk of ours in between us. If you go to the School or to the Castle, I shall know about it. And then…” The grey halo surrounds Lake’s throat, and for one insane moment she is assured that he is going to snap her neck. “...He will suffer,” finishes the unicorn, and releases his grip of her. Him standing up makes her cover even deeper under her hooves and to close her eyes. “Good bye, Honey Lake. Good luck with the trials.” His steps echo in the room for a while, and they disappear as the door opens and closes.

Very slowly, Lake opens her eyes and unfolds her hooves around herself. Her shaking legs can barely carry her to the window where she peeks through the curtains. Underneath, she sees a figure disappearing into the shadows. It’s only then that she allows herself to collapse on the floor, the tears staining her face in seconds.

In a few alleys away from Lake’s home, Professor Axiom stops his walk and leans heavily against a nearby brick wall. Sweat gleams on his wrinkled brow, and his aged heart is doing a double shift in the confines of his chest. His knees wobble slightly as his horn lits up and pulls an old photograph from the pocket of his suite. It’s black and white, worn at the corners, scratched, and most noticeably of all, it has been ripped apart and taped together from the other side. Despite the photo’s ruined condition, Axiom treats it with a very delicate touch, using the faintest layer of magic to keep it floating in front of him. The mare inside the picture smiles, and although the tear travels right through her lips, her beauty is evident. Axiom looks at her for a long while, his panting slowly dying down.

Finally, a faint sound of tearing echoes in the quiet night, along with hooves clattering against the cobblestones.

***