Thin dark clouds of dust swirl around Star Swirl's feet and blow down a cobblestone path. The wind is weak, but has a bite, and as the dust blows, more of the path is revealed. The dust clings to invisible trees, tombstones, and bones, and when he starts walking, he finds his fingers twitching and his eyes gliding to every noise of creaking wood.

“You are there. I still see you,” says a soft, motherly voice.

Star Swirl looks to the source and a very young him, no beard, no wrinkles, sitting in the grass, laughing and playing with his infant son.

“You know who you are. Do not be deceived,” says the harsh voice of Sombra.

Star Swirl turns to the voice, still walking, and sees himself, standing regal and firm with his mane and bear combed, his coat groomed, and his attire of fine clothing. The Blessed Blade, whole and new, is in his grip, piercing the ground, but the old him flashes to his now cloaked form with the ice blade in his hand.

Sombra keeps walking, and the flowing dust reveals more of the the path, leading to the Amulet of the King. It is hovering in the center of a round atrium with sharp, curving rocks pointed towards it, each with thick, red and orange veins, pulsing and humming.

“Father,” whispers the wind.

Star Swirl stops walking and looks around, breathing heavily and his eyes wetting, but he finds the path behind him is breaking apart, like dust carried by the wind. The voice of his son calls him again, faint like a dying breath, and it leads him back to the Amulet. It hums and pulses, and Star Swirl resumes his walk, eyes transfixed, throat sore and heart heavy.

“He is watching you. Every day he has watched you and every day he mourns on the path you have taken. He wishes you would leave it,”says the Mother

“The path you have taken is one you cannot leave. It has already made you, defined you. You are your sins,” says Sombra. “Embrace them.”

Sombra stops a few paces shy of the Amulet and watches it. Its sleek surface reflects the orange and red light of the veins, and the voice of his so radiates from it. Sombra stretches out his hand to it.

“Who you are is not who you were. You can still see your son,” says the Mother.

“You can only see him by my path,” says Sombra.

The ruby eyes of the Amulet glow bright, and hazy hands extend from its body and creep towards Star Swirl, gradually changing into the flesh and blood of his loss.

“Fulfill your purpose, and I will make your desires real,” says Sombra.

Star Swirl's feet move on their own, and he extends his hand as far as it can go towards the hand in the haze. The haze swirls around the Amulet and takes shape into the white coated, blue maned figure of his son, and he smiles. Star Swirl's heart is pulled, his very soul is lifted with purpose, and a smile graces him as hope wets his eyes from the promises being whispered to him. His fingers stretch out to grab his son's hand and-

A jolt rocks him awake in the discomfort of a wooden cart filled with cabbages, and Star Swirl rubs his eyes feeling odd. Feeling warmth and cold. The air is cold, but there is a pleasant warmth on his face, unlike last time when flames were swallowing him. He looks at his hands, which ache from the coldness. It disgusts him how pale and frail they look, and how cold they are, and he turns them to the sun, squinting his hurting and thinking about how he wishes he can get the whole comfortable warmth instead of having it isolated to his face.

“Hey, buddy, we're here,” says the stallion on the front of the cart.

Star Swirl nods and climbs out of the cart, his metal boots splashing in the mud and his hands jerking his hood over his head, lest anyone wants to see his balding, wrinkling face. He then heads forward with no destination in mind, passing passing a sign that reads “Ironforge” as well as a pair of pegasi soldiers wearing thick, white clothing underneath their black armor.

The cart he rode on continues on, and Star Swirl goes to the town bulletin for no reason other than curiosity. He sees nothing special. Wanted posters, advertisements for a festival, a reminder to cast votes and to not antagonize the pegasi, and slips urging people to check out a Mjölnir & Sons Blacksmithing Shop. It has a nice picture of a hammer and lightning bolt crossing over each other to accompany it, but Star Swirl decides to ignore it and go straight to the tavern behind the board, for his stomach is tight and his throat is parched. He really does not like those feelings.

The tavern he approaches is up in the ages, with its stone bricks discolored and covered in moss, and its wooden frame and tinsels dark and splitting. Its windows are caked with a layer of brown and barrels are stacked next to its heavy door.

Star Swirl hops on its porch and stops at its entrance when he sees a muddy mat with the barely discernible “Wipe your feet” stitched into its rough surface. He looks around and sees nothing special, just the same civilians milling about and the same guards doing absolutely nothing, save for catcalling a passing mare. Star Swirl looks at the mat again, and with a sigh he rubs his boots against it, effectively doing absolutely nothing, and he goes in.

The tavern is brightly lit with sunlight peeking through the dirty windows and a wide collection of candles that line the walls at an elevated height. To his relief there is a large fireplace with bright flames eating away at the logs. The crackle and pops of the glowing red wood is like a sirens call and Star Swirl wastes no time in heeding the temptation.

He grabs a chair closest to the fireplace, pulls it as close as he can and sticks his hands towards the flames. The warmth eats away his shivers and a blissful sigh leaves him as his fingers thaw.

“I take it you want something warm,” says a mare.

Star Swirl looks over his shoulder and sees an earth pony mare wearing an apron over her heavy clothing.

“The best soup and warmest drink you have,” says Star Swirl.

The mare nods, scribbles down an order on her pad and leaves. With her absent, Star Swirl resumes his thawing. He really does not pay heed to the opening door, either. That is, until the voices start.

“Faust blind me, this weather is awful,” says one stallion. “I thought it was still summer.”

“It is at the tail end, but, yes, this weather is way too cold this time of year for it to be natural,” says another stallion. “I bet you it is those pegasi toying with the weather to freeze out those rebels.”

“I don't know, I'm hearing stories about demons lurking about and something unsettling up North. I'd wager the Frozen North is doing this.”

Star Swirl's fingers tense, but he keeps his eyes on the flames, watching the wood slowly dissolve in glowing embers.

“North?” says the second stallion. “Nothing is up North. It is a graveyard of ice and bones. I'm telling you, Hurricane is using weather against those fools trying to fight him.”

“Then how do you explain Everfree sending soldiers North when the rebels are South? Or why the pegasi are wanting more weapons and armor? Hell, even the Lulamoon Sanctuary has been sending out soldiers and word is that a couple of them Knights from that Five Circles organization has been spotted leaving the Sanctuary!” says the first stallion.

Star Swirl's whole body tightens and he glances over his shoulder at the two stallions, noting their heavy cloaks, thick gloves and hats, and the tool belts they have on their table. Another waitress comes by and the two are quick to give her their order, and once she leaves they agree to start another conversation. It is at this time that the mare that took Star Swirl's order returns with a steaming bowl and a frothing cup.

“Here you go,” she says, smiling and placing the food on the table, as well as a slip of paper.

Star Swirl thanks her looks at his soup. It is blood red with beans, onions, potatoes, cheese and what looks like bread crumbs floating in it. As for his drink. It looks like melted chocolate mixed with hot milk. He is completely fine with this and digs in. The hot food does its trick, for he feels his insides relaxing and his muscles loosening. The warmth of the sun is inside him and it is glorious!

“Two gold please,” says the mare.

Star Swirl stops eating and looks at the mare. She is holding out her hand patiently, but Star Swirl stares at her dumbly.

“What?” says Star Swirl.

“The meal costs two gold,” says the mare.

Star Swirl looks at his meal and scowls.

“This is not two gold. I'd wager four bronze tops,” says Star Swirl.

“Sir, do you even have money?” asks the mare.

“No,” says Star Swirl, casually sipping his drink.

“Oh... I'll be right back.”

And so the mare leaves and Star Swirl resumes eating and drinking, that is until an oversized earth pony stallion just waiting to keel over from fat waddles towards him. Seeing the pathetic excuse for a stallion about nearly makes him hurl on the spot, but he loves the taste too much to do so.

“Hey, what are you doing ordering if you can't pay?” says the blob that is the Owner.

Star Swirl takes a spoonful of his soup. “I was hungry and you were open.”

The Owner yanks the bowl and cup away, gives it to the mare and orders her to take it back into the kitchen, and Star Swirl glares at him, exposing his disgusting teeth with a growl.

“I wasn't done,” snarls Star Swirl.

“You didn't pay so you don't get to eat,” says the Owner.

“How about you count this as charity.”

“How about I kick your ass!”

“I would like to see you try!”

Star Swirl jumps up and holds out his arm, expecting his ice blade to come out, only to find that nothing happens. The Owner stares at Star Swirl, and he keeps his ferocious face, but his heart sinks and a random patron coughs in the corner.

“Oh,” says Star Swirl.

The Owner moves in, and Star Swirl growls and clenches his fists, ready to cave the blob's skull in, but before any swings can be made, a stallion calls out to them.

“Whoa, whoa, let's not get rough,” he says.

The Owner and Star Swirl look to the speaker, and the latter is quite surprised to see a teenage earth pony with a tan coat and yellow eyes and mane approaching them with his hands out in a calming manner. The stallion is wearing a brown apron, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark pants, all covered in streaks of discoloration. His belt has a hammer and a pair of pliers, as well as a small bag, and his exposed arms are cracked with burn marks, among other things that point to poor medical care.

“Striker, what are you doing?” says the Owner, his posture relaxing somewhat.

“Stopping you from getting arrested again,” says the newcomer. Striker then points to Star Swirl. “And I'm also paying for his meal. How much does he owe you?”

“You aren't going to pay for his meal. He's a hobo,” sneers the Owner, turning his glare back on Star Swirl. “If you pay for him he'll leech on to you and drain you for everything.”

“I don't have time to be leeching on anybody,” says Star Swirl.

“But you have plenty of time stealing my food!”

“Call it a loss. With what you charge you'll make it up in the hour's end.”

“Why you filthy, forsaken hobo!”

The Owner lunges forward, but Striker intercepts him and stops him by holding out his hands, but he does not actually touch the manager since the said pony stops and glares at him.

“Out of the way, colt,” says the Owner.

“Escrepes, you already got two strikes on your record and you know as well as the laws of the pegasi,”says Striker. He steps closer and speaks in a lower tone, begging with his hand on the Owner's shoulder. “Don't follow Dorye. It's not worth it.”

The Owner, Escrepes, keeps his glare for a moment longer before deflating with a sigh and holding out his hand.

“The hobo owes two gold,” he says.

Striker gives him the two gold, and Escrepes pockets the money and glares Star Swirl. The old unicorn stares at him, fists still clenched, and his eyes narrow when Escrepes jabs his finger at his chest.

“Know this, I will be watching you, and if you do anything to that colt that I don't like I'll be coming for your head,” says Escrepes.

“Good luck getting it,” says Star Swirl.

Escrepes growls, then heads back to the kitchen and the patrons return to their meals.

“Thanks,” says Star Swirl without taking his eyes of off Escrepes.

“No problem,” says Striker. “So... you're a hobo, huh?”

Star Swirl slowly looks at Striker and-

A few minutes later Star Swirl has no idea how he agreed to follow the teenager to his abode. It is a good sized house, with two chimneys, one part a thatch roof and the other part wooden shingles. The large house is made from stones held in place by old, brown mortar, and the front door is a solid slab of wood that Striker has some trouble opening, but once they are in, the warmth is welcoming.

“Mjölna, I'm home with a guest,” says Striker.

A mare with heavy clothes and an apron by the hearth approaches them, smiling brightly, and Star Swirl's thoughts go blank at the sight of seeing a female Striker in front of him. Same age, same coat color, same mane color, same eyes, the only difference is that she has a mane that goes down to her shoulders.

“This is my sister, Mjölna,” says Striker. “ Mjölna, this is Star Swirl.”

“Hello,” chirps Mjölna, bowing slightly.

Star Swirl stares at her, and then at Striker, and then back at her, and back at him. The two teenagers exchange looks, and Star Swirl shakes his head, blinking fast, and explores the small house. Near the hearth is a straw mattress bed big enough for two with a pair of wool blankets, in front of said bed is a dowry chest and across the way is a closet. In the hearth is a hanging cauldron, and a small table with a pair of bowls rests in front of it. At the opposite end of the house is an empty tub with cleaning supplies lined up a shelf next to it.

After taking in that information, Star Swirl goes through a doorway that leads to a large room made of stone with vents along the roof. There is another door made of thick slabs of wood held in place by strips of metal, but it is locked with a giant pad. The room has a large furnace, an anvil, and a wide array of tools hanging from shelves. Across the way, swords of various conditions are lines up, as well as crates with the Hurricane's wings of lightning stamped on it.

Once he sees it all, Star Swirl looks at Striker, who has followed him in with his sister in tow.

“Where is your head of house?” asks Star Swirl.

“What?” asks Striker.

“You are too young to be leading this house. Where is your father, or grandpa, or whoever. Where are they?”

Striker points behind him, his features sinking, as well as Mjölna's.

“They're buried outback with my brothers,” says Striker.

“Your mother?” asks Star Swirl.

“Ran off one day. Haven't seen her since.”

“Tragic,” says Star Swirl carelessly. He then points at Mjölna, ignoring the hard stare Striker is giving him. “What do you do?”

“I work at the garrison,” says Mjölna. “I clean the pegasi's armor, weapons and clothes, and sometimes cook for them.”

Star Swirl grunts and looks at the row of hanging swords. They are all basic blades with nothing special about them, save for Mjölnir& Sons Blacksmithing Shop being imprinted in them. He also notices spear heads hanging from hooks and an open crate filled with straw and carefully placed axes. As he looks over the weapons, his eyes fall on a desk which, has a book with a suit of armor printed on it. Star Swirl goes to the desk, flips open the book and quickly flips through the pages until he comes to a page displaying a diagram of a vambrace and gauntlet. Star Swirl presses his finger on the beautiful picture and looks at the collection of blades, and then he glances at Striker, who is staring at him uneasily, just like his sister.

“Do you do custom orders or are they only standard?” asks Star Swirl.

“I can do custom orders, but they are expensive and the price depends on the object,” says Striker.

Star Swirl holds up his arm, turns his hand to and fro, and smiles thinly at the blacksmith when he clenches his fist.

“Good. I got a job for you.”