It was nearing midday by the time the sun’s rays reached over Mount Avalon and onto the ruins of Canterlot in full. Outside the veil of the mountain’s shadow, the city appeared much as it had for the past four weeks—which was to say that the city looked like it had been completely destroyed. The one and two story buildings of Outer Canterlot were now the tallest objects apart from Avalon itself, but even they had been rendered inhospitable by the king’s unyielding storm. Roofs had been stripped bare, doors and windows shattered giving the gale force winds free leave to scour each building of its insides. The cobbled streets had been churned and ploughed, their stones hurled about like autumn leaves.

The inner city was worse. Here the tall and proud towers of Canterlot had failed totally. Now they gave the impression of dashed-in sandcastles that had then been left to the waves. Where buildings ended and streets began was hard to say; with storm and rubble both to contend with, the narrower paths that wound throughout lost forever.

Even the mountain itself had broken in the final battle, and the thunderous rock-slide that had been rent free from Avalon’s western face could be distinguished from Castle Canterlot’s pulverized remains only by the shade of the stone.

But all was not exactly as it had been four weeks ago, on the morning after Titan’s fall.

Thin paths had been carved through the rubble where it was least dense, each leading to its own separate hole—an entrance to the Canterlot Labyrinth. From high above, the sunlight revealed figures, tiny specks, crawling through the paths and over the rubble like ants tending their colony. Some carried water from the newly diverted falls. Others carried food that had been brought in from all over Equestria via the hastily repaired railway lines. The vast majority were on cleanup duty, however, and spent their time moving the rubble inside the city confines so that it was outside the city confines. There, a team of architects and unicorn engineers would reshape it until it was worthy enough to build with, making bricks and mortar out of nothing but dust and debris. Those without homes had been fully refuged in the Labyrinth only a day ago, and now the work could begin in earnest.

High, high up on the mountain’s edge stood two figures. One had once been a god. The other had once been a pony.

“I wanted to show you this,” Twilight said.

“As what?” Terra practically spat, “—a display of your divine power? I’ve seen ruined cities before, child. This does not impress or frighten me.”

Twilight frowned. “You misunderstand me,” she said, looking out over the ruins. “I grew up in Canterlot. Over there—” She pointed. “Is where I went to Magic Kindergarten. My house was there. I used to eat donuts right across the plaza over there.” She pointed to new sections of ruin as she spoke, each indistinguishable from the last. “The tower I lived in under Celestia, the place I’d go to buy horseshoes...” She made a sort of futile grasping gesture with a hoof and then let out her breath. “It’s all gone,” she said at last.

“You’re right,” Terra said. “I don’t understand. Are you looking for sympathy? From me?”

“The thing is, once upon a time I would never have been able to imagine seeing Canterlot like this. The thoughts would have just... failed me. I was naive and soft, and my mind wouldn’t have been able to comprehend such a loss. But now it’s real, and I see it every day. It’s not just Canterlot, either. I have experiences, memories that—well, you would know, wouldn’t you? You created the Sliver in the first place.”

“And it did its job admirably,” Terra said. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that I don’t believe things can go back to the way they were,” Twilight said. “They just, I mean, I can’t look at this every day and delude myself, don’t you see? They can’t. And it...” here Twilight’s voice cracked a little— “It breaks my heart to know that I’ll never get to go home again.”

Terra opened her mouth as if to say something, closed it, then shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. “Tragic,” she said dryly.

“And I feel this despair,” Twilight said. “Every time I think about it. It’s like I can’t get enough air, and all that’s left for me now is to slowly suffocate as each day, each breath leaves me with less and less. Because I know that everything that’s happened is immutable. The dead will always be dead. I will always have been a general and a murderer. Celestia will always have lied to me, and no amount of truth now will change that.

“But every day I come up here and it’s like a breath of fresh air. Every day the ruins disappear just a little. We get more food and water, more infrastructure. We take an infinitesimal step toward a city that isn’t Canterlot at all, to an Equestria that shines on despite the shadow of its past. It gives me what I need to get through to tomorrow.”

“Well then,” Terra said icily. “I’m so very happy for you.”

“By now you know exactly why we’re here,” Twilight said. “You have to see what I’m trying to tell you.”

“I see a little girl playing god,” Terra said.

“I don’t expect to change you with a single conversation, Terra. I’m not trying to give you an epiphany and have you fall to the ground in tears and beg for forgiveness. But I know that some part of you is listening. I just want to plant a seed and let time do what time does. I believe that no matter how long it takes, anything can be fixed.”

“Oh?” Terra said. “I need fixing, do I? And why do you care, exactly? I thought I was Fluttershy’s new pet, not yours.”

“I am responsible in part for the well-being of every pony, now,” Twilight said. “And you are a part of ponykind. I’ve had enough destruction and war to last several lifetimes. All I want to do now is build. Whatever hatred I had for you before just feels... light. It’s so easily brushed aside.”

“It will come back,” Terra said. “It always comes back. You forget your hatred now because I’m small and helpless, but you’ll come face to face with my deeds again. The ponies I killed. The families I destroyed. Then loathing will come to you like a familiar lover, and you’ll embrace it to hide the emptiness you feel at knowing that such horrors could ever be allowed to occur.”

Twilight turned to look at Terra curiously. “But what would I know?” Terra asked her. “I’m just one of your little ponies, now. Isn’t that right?”

A tiny smile graced Twilight’s face. “We’ll see,” she said.

“We will,” Terra assured her. “Now, if you’re done with your little heart to heart, I’d like you to leave me alone again.”

Twilight nodded, slowly. “And where would you like to be left alone?”

“And we’re gonna need paint!” Pinkie cried. “And flags, and bunting, and twenty four thousand nails, and—”

“Woah there, Pinkie Pie,” Applejack said, leaning over her kitchen table to frown at the blueprint before them. “We need to dig the hole first.”

“Oh, Twilight can do that next time she’s in town,” Pinkie said. “We need to get ready for when that’s done. We’ll need concrete, and insulation, and—” Pinkie continued to list things off from under her hard hat. She wore the hard hat everywhere now.

“When is the next time Twilight will be around?” Applejack asked, leaning against the table.

“Sixteen hundred,” Pinkie Pie said with a matter-of-fact nod. “She comes by every day at eight, twelve, and sixteen. Hadn’t you guys noticed?”

Rarity watched the exchange, then shrugged when it seemed appropriate. Since when did Pinkie Pie plan large scale construction projects? Since almost every building between the Everfree and Avalon was a heap of rubble. At least her house had been demolished before it went out of style. Rarity smiled at the thought. She always had been a trend-setter.

“You okay, Rares?”

“Hmm?” Rarity looked up to find them both staring at her. “Oh, of course I’m okay, dears! I’m just, you know....”

“Rarity,” Applejack said. “This is your house that we’re building. You’ve barely said a word.”

“Well...” Rarity leaned over the table to look at the blueprint. “You’re both doing such a marvelous job.”

“And?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. I doesn’t feel right, somehow.”

“Not right?” Applejack asked. “It’s exactly the same as your old house.”

“Exactly,” Rarity said, looking up at the mare. “I feel like maybe now things should change. What do you think?”

Applejack seemed to consider this for a moment, then shrugged. “It’s your house,” she said. “What did you have in mind?”

Rarity opened her mouth to answer, but she never got the chance—she was interrupted by the sound of the kitchen door clattering shut behind them. They both turned to the source of the noise, a beaten old screen door that led to the porch, now rattling in its frame.

Rarity’s heart stopped.

Applebloom looked exhausted, and had probably stayed awake the entire train ride over. She seemed older, but whether it was because she had actually changed or she just wasn’t wearing a bow, Rarity couldn’t have said.

Sweetie Belle did look older, but whether it was by a natural month of adolescence or the cause of something else, Rarity didn’t know. She was absent-mindedly wiping her hooves on the mat as she came in. How ridiculous.

Applejack reacted first, and Rarity couldn’t tell if the wail that escaped her lips was intended to sound like her sister’s name or not. In a moment she had scooped up Applebloom and pulled her close.

In a moment Rarity was holding Sweetie Belle, choking on sentences that probably wouldn’t have made sense even if she could say them. She was hyperventilating, smelling her sister’s mane, kissing her forehead...

Unnoticed, but not bothered by the fact, Pinkie Pie stood by the kitchen table and watched the reunion. She gave a soft smile, and when she saw Macintosh slowly coming up the hill with Granny Smith through the sink window, her smile widened.

“Applejack,” she whispered. “Rarity. Sweetie Belle. Applebloom...”

Five minutes later, Rarity’s boundless love for Sweetie Belle had taken a turn for the sisterly.

“Did Twilight really try to kill you?” Sweetie asked in her high voice. “Are you a knight?”

Rarity was seated at the kitchen table again, holding Sweetie’s hooves as she watched Applejack speak with her family for the first time in months. Sweetie’s question hit her, and she was about to say that she was in fact a Knight Commander, and that titles were important, but Sweetie launched into another question right away.

“Do you really have a magic sword? Did you actually slay a dragon?”

“Mmm,” Rarity said, attempting to approach the subject delicately. “The thing is...”

“Did you die and come back to life? Where did the house go?”

Across the room, Rarity could barely make out her name being mentioned. Applejack gestured toward her to her grandmother, smiling, and Granny Smith looked over and smiled too.

“Am I adopted? Are you adopted?”

Rarity smiled back at Applejack, basking in the perfection of the moment.

Then Sweetie’s question hit her.

“Well,” she said. “You see, er... we need to talk, Sweetie Belle.”

In small circle of young valley oaks, Terra regarded her predator.

It was an Everfree wisp that had taken the form of a bear. They were familiar creatures, even in this new millenia. It—or, as Terra was becoming increasingly certain, he—could forage for food, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t seize the chance to get some fresh meat.

The wisp was translucent but had a definite shape. In bear form, it could easily be mistaken for a miniature ursa, provided the observer knew nothing about either wisps or ursas. The eyes were luminous, glowing under two transparent eyelids that the wisp would never have to open. Beyond that, it looked like a bear-shaped container filled with blue mist.

“Come on.” Terra almost growled the words as they circled one another. Left hooves over right, back legs lead, keep three hooves on the ground at all times. The wisp-bear moved opposite her, eyeing her. It was probably thrown off by the fact that she wasn’t running away; no doubt its primitive mind would expect her to flee, given that she was a third its size.

“Come on,” she said under her breath, “come get some pony flesh. It’s nice and sweet.” She grinned at the wary wisp. “I’d know.” It was only a half lie. Pony flesh wasn’t all that—

The wisp lunged, and Terra was drawn back into the present. She’d been foolish letting herself get distracted like that. This was a life or death situation, now. It wasn’t wise to let her mind wander, even if centuries of torment had taught her not to focus.

The wisp came at her, and Terra was liquid. It wasn’t enough to move like a pony—ponies were too smart, too civilized to be as naturally vicious as a real animal. But animals were too shortsighted and cared only for food. They’d never have the grace that a true master of combat demanded. So Terra moved with a fluidity that defied both, a kind of grace that she’d taken as her own, inspired by each of them.

Luna had it. It was what made her so much stronger than Celestia when they had been growing up. She was probably more than Celestia’s match now, as well. But again, Terra was getting distracted.

She leapt to the side of the bear-wisp, landing and pivoting along her front hooves to buck it with her back legs as it moved past her. Then she spun.

The wisp experienced a moment of confusion when it found its prey had moved, but kicking it in the back hadn’t done a thing. It spun, swiping a claw at her face.

Terra ducked under its paw and struck its leg on the nerve that ran along its joint, enervating it. The wisp howled and pushed forward on three legs, intending to crush her with pure force.

It was a simple matter to spring off its temporarily disabled leg, wrap her forelegs around its neck, and flip onto its back. She placed a hoof in the crux of her other elbow, pulling its head back into a choke hold. The wisp shook its head frantically, obviously confused by the fact that Terra had brought kung fu to a bear fight.

Nothing else happened as Terra’s forelegs tightened around muscles that were hard as a rock. Too hard for her mundane pony strength to overcome.

“Calamity,” Terra cursed. The choke hold was pretty much her only play.

With a roar, the wisp reached back and raked a claw along her side, scoring a shallow cut before Terra threw herself away. She landed in the dirt a couple feet from the wisp, immediately flowing to her hooves to face the oncoming wisp.

She couldn’t pummel it to death with her hooves, or tear its throat out with her teeth, or trample it, obviously. With a tinge of disappointment, Terra realized that she really couldn’t kill this magic bear.

A feral cry tore its way out of her mouth: the loud, feline ululation of the jaguar. The wisp froze. It saw a pony, but heard a jaguar. Hopefully it would have the sense to run. Just to be sure, she screamed the jaguar cry again. The wisp ran, crashing into the bushes and fading from hearing as Terra breathed a sigh of relief.

“Why did it run?” Fluttershy asked. Terra wasn’t surprised at all to hear her voice; she’d probably watched the whole exchange. Had Fluttershy heard her laugh about eating pony flesh?

Terra shook the thought from her head. Why should she care if Fluttershy heard her or not?

Fluttershy stepped into the tiny clearing, wearing only her crown of thorns. Terra’s crown. But again, Terra shook unwelcome thoughts away. She was having too many of them, now. “It ran because it’s programmed to fear the bladed jaguar.”

“But the Everfree Forest has no jaguars,” Fluttershy said.

Terra shrugged. “Must have all died. I’m not surprised, really, their balance was a tricky one. Any number of things could have killed them off. But yes, we used to have jaguars. Big things,” she said, stretching her hooves out for emphasis. “Fur was actually tiny metal teeth as thin and long as slivers. Wouldn’t hesitate to eat a wisp.”

“Oh,” Fluttershy said. “Well, are you okay?” She looked at the cut running along Terra’s side, and actually had the indecency to appear concerned.

“Fine,” Terra said. “It didn’t hit anything important and I’ve already stopped bleeding, see?”

Fluttershy bit her lip as Terra bared her flank. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Hurt?” Terra asked. “Of course it hurts. It hurts and it’s fascinating. Real pain. Natural pain. The kind that doesn’t come at the end of a spell or with the force of an avalanche. I’ve known pain your mind isn’t physically capable of conferring to you, child. Having my flesh torn away is interesting.”

“But you could have died.”

Terra barked out a laugh. “I have to know my own limits. And if I died it would be my fault. Twilight made it very clear that I’m allowed to kill myself. Just not you.”

Fluttershy gave her that wretched look of pity she loved to use so often. “I’m going home, if you’d like to come.” She turned and began to walk away, ducking under some branches and out of the clearing.

Terra followed. She’d decided early on that she wasn’t going to hinder and refuse Fluttershy every chance she got. That was what children did.

When they were walking under taller trees, with little brush to struggle through, Fluttershy said, “I don’t think you’d kill me.”

Terra let out a snort of derision. “Even if I didn’t hate you, this forest will only have one princess. Killing you to prove I’m the best? That’s the way we do things here.”

“Just like Equestria can only have one king?”

The calm way Fluttershy spoke infuriated Terra, as always. “It’s nothing like that.”

Fluttershy walked quietly for a time, and Terra watched her crown. A flower bloomed just above her brow and then broke apart, petals fluttering to the ground in her wake. “I don’t think you hate me,” Fluttershy said after a time.

“Of course I hate you,” Terra said. “You took everything from me.”

Fluttershy acknowledged this with a serene tilt of her head. “Everything you had made you suffer.”

Terra swallowed. She was right about some things, with that. But not about everything. “Godhood,” she said, biting each syllable of the word. “You crippled me. Do you know what it’s like to be bound to the earth by my own weight? You think I want this mockery of a crown? I’m a prisoner of this forest, not a princess. I used to be Queen of the World.”

Fluttershy didn’t answer her immediately, which infuriated Terra more. When she did speak, her answer was short. “You were more powerless as Queen of the World than you are now,” she said simply.

Terra didn’t attack Fluttershy. She was in control. “I hate you,” she said instead.

“You don’t have to.”

“I do. You think I’m misguided and that that’s why I hate you, but you’re wrong. You’re just some kid who thinks she’s beyond reproach. You think you’re the greatest good on this world, which is why you have your friends do all your evil for you.”

Admittedly, it wasn’t Terra’s best, but after so many days of having this conversation with Fluttershy, she was running out of material. Fluttershy had to have a weakness, but Terra couldn’t find it. It wasn’t for a lack of trying.

“You’re scared,” Fluttershy said as they came across a fallen tree. She flew to the top of the massive trunk and offered Terra her hooves to help her climb over. “But you don’t have to be scared. You want to keep being bad. You want to stay where you are because if you move you’ll look back. And if you look back you’ll see exactly where you were, and it isn’t a nice place at all.”

Terra spat and began to pick her way around the fallen tree. Fluttershy met her again as she reached the upturned roots.

“You’re afraid of facing what you’ve done, of feeling the guilt, so you cling to all your hate.”

“That’s not why I hate you,” Terra said through gritted teeth. “I hate you because you talk to everypony like they’re a three year old just learning to speak or a baby chick with a broken wing. I hate you because every day I see you wearing a crown you don’t even understand.”

“Maybe,” Fluttershy said. “Have you ever tried complementing somepony, Terra?”

Terra rolled her eyes. “You want a compliment. Fine. I like your mane. Happy?”

“Thank you,” Fluttershy said. “Now I’ll do you.”

“Let me guess,” Terra said. “I’m beautiful.”

“You are,” Fluttershy said. “But that’s not a good compliment. Anypony could tell you that and it wouldn’t be special. The trick is to think of something that only you can say.”

There she went, with the three year old voice. Terra was going to be sick.

“Terra,” Fluttershy said. “Even if it is only hate and anger, I admire that after all you’ve been through you still choose to feel. I think that makes you the bravest pony I’ve ever met. You’re strong.”

For a moment it was as though Terra’s entire emotional spectrum had been struck by lightning. Strong. Any time she’d failed to resist Titan’s spell—which was every time—she’d murdered innocents. She’d learned to enjoy it. She hadn’t been under or needed the spell for hundreds of years. Terra had revelled in suffering.

And Fluttershy had called her brave for it. If anything, Terra had failed. Failed first to resist Titan’s irresistible spell, then failed to stop Fluttershy and her friends in Ponyville. She was weak.

“You want a compliment, Fluttershy? Fine. For you I will say this: at least you’re not like my daughters.”

“Tell me about them,” Fluttershy said as they began to walk through another clearing. A group of timberwolves saw them from the other side of the field, but did nothing.

“Celestia has to prove herself clever at every chance she gets. She’s callous and treacherous and makes everything as complicated as she can just to seem smarter. Her first line of defense is convolution. Everyone who loves her does so by her design, not by their own free will. Now, I don’t hate her for that. I hate her because she won’t admit she’s just as bad as the rest of us.”

“Oh,” Fluttershy said. “Do you want to know what I think?”

“No.”

“I think that if Celestia was ever like that, she’s changed. And I think that the only reason we’re talking about her is because you can’t talk about me anymore. You’re trying so hard to despise me but it’s starting to slip through your hooves.”

“Please, child. You wish you were smart enough to know what made me tick.”

“Do you have a compliment for Celestia too?” Another flower burst, and petals settled to the ground behind Fluttershy, some sticking to her wings.

“Sure,” Terra said. “At least she isn’t Luna.”

This time, Terra didn’t wait for Fluttershy to pause and then start talking like she usually did. “Luna was my real apprentice. I raised her. I know her. She’s done so many horrible things and nopony cares. They all just let her carry on because she’s doing good now. And she seems to care least of all. She can frolic about as though she’s just forgotten about all the villages she starved or burned or snowed over during the war.”

“You could be like that too.”

“I never said I hated her because I was jealous.”

“But that’s what you want.”

Terra made a sound of disgust. “Are we going to keep going?” She stopped so that Fluttershy would stop too, turning to face her in the clearing. “Because as much as I hate my daughter Luna, I will say this: at least she isn’t Twilight Sparkle.”

Terra looked for a reaction that didn’t come. Not even a frown crossed Fluttershy’s face. Instead she nodded, as though this made perfect sense to her. It infuriated Terra even more.

“I’ve hardly met her and I say I despise her and all you do is nod? She’s your best friend.”

“One of my best friends,” Fluttershy said. Her tone had changed. She wasn't talking to Terra like she was a three year old anymore. Good.

“Whatever. She disgusts me. She complains about how gods should act even as she takes whatever she wants, and she calls it right when that happens to align with her twisted morals. She moves the world around her rather than moving through it, and all the while she complains that she should have such a responsibility.”

Fluttershy opened her mouth to speak, but Terra waved her into silence. She wasn’t finished; in fact, she felt like she was just getting started. However much she despised Fluttershy and Celestia and Luna paled in comparison to what she felt now, at the thought of Twilight Sparkle. She clung to her hatred, and it warmed her.

“She’s a child playing god. All of you worship her as being perfect and she shrugs it off just to maintain the image of humility. If she was actually humble she wouldn’t live in The Citadel. But I guess she’s too busy carrying out divine mandates and playing creator to think of that.”

Terra began to walk away. “Still, for Twilight I will say this,” she said over her shoulder. “At least she isn’t Titan.”

“You’re wrong.”

Terra froze.

“That’s not why you hate Twilight. That’s not it at all.” Fluttershy moved to stand beside her, then leaned in. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s not a yes or a no, Terra.”

“Shut up!” Terra shouted. Normally she would’ve considered raising her voice a mark of losing control, which she’d consider a loss. Now she barely noticed.

“You hate Twilight because Harmony chose her and not you.”

Terra attacked, and her invisible collar halted her in the air before Fluttershy and sent her reeling to the ground. Her head spun, and she wiped dirt from her muzzle with a hoof. “Damn you. You don’t know anything.”

“That’s what Twilight says,” Fluttershy said. “That she’s the culmination of an entire line of ponies engineered to succeed her.”

“Twilight is a kid who got lucky,” Terra spat. “Harmony never even knew her. She came along at the right time and place and pushed the proper buttons.”

Fluttershy’s face was stony, impassive. “But you didn’t.”

“No,” Terra said, her voice almost failing her. “The only thing I was supposed to do was be happy and make the world a better place.”

A pause. “I think your mother loved you, Terra.”

“Why do you do this? Why torment me? Why can’t you just let me live out my meaningless life and then die?” There she went, shouting again. If Fluttershy was trying to upset her, she was winning.

But what did it matter if Fluttershy won their daily little game? She’d won everything else. Terra was the only pony without any magic on the face of the world. She was nothing. She’d be dead in a century. Why should she bother fighting the only pony left to fight?

“I’m horrible to you,” Terra said. “Just take the hint and leave me alone.”

“There are some creatures that, when wounded, try to scratch you even as you bandage them up.”

It was pathetic. Fluttershy stuck by her out of pity and the sense of fulfillment that came from nurturing. But would Terra rather be alone?

“You don’t know anything about my mother,” Terra said. She looked up, at The Citadel that could be seen from any point in the Everfree Forest and miles beyond.

“You could tell me about her, if you’d like.”

“Harmony was a coward,” Terra said.

This gave Fluttershy the look of confusion that Terra had expected to see earlier. She marveled at the other mare’s confusion—had Fluttershy thought that of all ponies, maybe Terra still felt something for her dead mother? Ridiculous.

“She was weak,” Terra continued, sitting. She had no idea what she was saying anymore. She’d done her best not to think about her mother for years. Terra had kept Harmony out of her thoughts to spare her mother’s memory the bile that she lavished on everything else that lived. She’d ignored Harmony because her mother was almost sacred. But that wasn’t love.

“Harmony was a coward,” Terra said. She felt suddenly cold, and knew that she wasn’t feeling anger—or if she was, it was no kind of rage she’d ever known. “She left us all alone. She died rather than face her husband. She should have fought.”

Her eyes began to burn, but Terra was in control. She refused to cry, even when Fluttershy sat down beside her and drew her, unwillingly, into a soft embrace. Terra couldn’t pull herself out of Fluttershy's hooves—her crown would probably stop her if she tried, so she didn’t.

“She abandoned me,” Terra whispered. “She left me alone, with... with him.” Her eyes grew suddenly wide.

“Shhh,” Fluttershy said, stroking a hoof through her mane—Terra’s whole body went rigid at the touch. “It’s alright. He’s gone now. It’s just you and me. It’s alright.”

Terra should have told Fluttershy to stop, because she hated them. She hated them all for what they’d done and for how it had worked. Who was this mortal mare, to care for her through all her spite and malice? She could have told Fluttershy to stop, and Fluttershy would have stopped.

She didn’t.

There was no land more magical than Equestria. The power was woven through the air, the earth, and the celestial sphere, and its threads went deep. So deep, in fact, that the casual observer could hardly imagine the world existing without it. Equestria had always been colorful, prosperous, and full of life. And it always would be.

Celestia picked at threads with the care and precision of a surgeon, unwinding the intricate patterns that Titan had used to make his own world and then spinning the resulting threads into her own. It was a painstakingly slow endeavor, and she’d been working for weeks now, day in and day out. But already the world was responding to her efforts, taking the first steps toward its ultimate state. The clouds would break and flow at the wings of the pegasi. The crops would grow in abundance at the hooves of the earthponies. The animals would once again hear the voice of the eraterus. Equestria would bend to its true masters once more.

She heard the whisper of wings parting branches, and Celestia turned to see Luna glide into the glade and touch down on the earth beside her. “Shouldn’t you be ruling the world, sister? I would think that they would need you now more than ever.”

Celestia nodded to her sister, then split her mind two ways so she could hold a conversation while remaining focused on her work. “Twilight still sends me letters and comes to visit asking for help, but for the most part she does a good job, even if she’s a poor substitute for me. This,” Celestia said, referring to the magic she was working even as they spoke. “This only I can do.”

“And flying across the kingdom to rally relief from the unaffected cities?” Luna asked, taking a seat. “Is that something only I can do?”

Celestia raised an eyebrow at her sister. “I’m sure you’ve been doing it in a way that nopony else could.”

“For your sake I think I’ll deign not to take offense.”

Celestia smiled. “For my sake, of course.”

“And when you’re done here?” Luna asked. “Will you take the reins then?”

Celestia cocked her head to one side. “What makes you so curious?”

“I have every reason to be curious,” Luna said. “Twilight is an alicorn now. She’s master of The Citadel. She, not we, defeated him. How does she fit in? What’s her place in Equestria? The two of you must have discussed this at some point.”

“Mm,” was all Celestia had to say at first. “We have, but we haven’t come to any conclusions. Twilight can rule, this we know—she’s proven herself in that regard. But she can’t rule as well as I can, not Equestria. I’ve taken care of this kingdom for over a thousand years. Even if we give her sovereignty, common sense dictates that I’ll still be making most of the decisions. Still, putting her front and center could have its benefits.”

“Oh?”

Celestia nodded. “Right now she’s a symbol. The one great gain to come out of all of this. A new alicorn. I think it would do ponykind well to have their victory elevated before them. I can still keep things running from the background.”

“An interesting course,” Luna said. “It was good seeing you again. I’ll be flying to Pegasopolis to order the formation of a new windstream tomorrow.” She spread her wings to take flight.

Celestia watched her and felt a stab of discomfort. It was good seeing you again just felt so... strange between the two of them. They’d never needed soft words to reinforce the bond that they both knew existed between them, but still...

“Luna.”

Luna paused in her pre-flight pose and gave Celestia a look over her shoulder.

“I...” Celestia sighed. “I don’t think I give you enough credit, to be honest.”

A raised eyebrow. “Oh?”

“The more I think about it, the more I realize that you played every part you were given perfectly,” Celestia said. “You took Twilight’s friends and you hardened their hearts for war. You sent them against Terra and reignited the Elements. You pushed Twilight to break the barrier, to take up the power to destroy, and to become the leader they needed. I think you lost every personal battle you fought, but you somehow won us the war.”

“Mm,” Luna said, turning to face Celestia. “As much as I love to hear your praise, Twilight is the hero of Equestria. I’m just a shadow.”

Celestia smiled. “Twilight might be Equestria’s hero,” she said. “But you’re mine.”

Luna came closer and leaned her head against Celestia’s neck, a rare moment of physical contact. “You saved her,” Celestia whispered. “Where I damned her, you brought her back.” She lay her head atop her sister’s. Luna didn’t say anything, and Celestia followed suit. It wasn’t a moment for words. It was hardly a moment at all. It was the brief flicker of tenderness that always seemed so fleeting to an immortal, so small that it was all they could do to stop and savor its passing.

A week after New Canterlot was deemed complete, Twilight Sparkle became a princess. But first there was a parade.

No trace of the old ruin could be found on the sparkling streets of the now-populated city. All of it had been taken, fused, and reshaped into the spires, bridges, and domed buildings that had characterized the old city. Now there were even entrances to the labyrinth—after ten months of using it for shelter and housing, it was a part of the city proper. They’d only had to rearrange things so that it wasn’t impossible to navigate. Now it almost mirrored the streets above.

Streets that were packed with ponies come to see their new princess, Twilight saw with a tinge of nervousness. She banished her nerves with a shake of her head; it wouldn’t do for her subjects to see her feel fear, and in truth there was nothing for her to fear in the first place.

The chariot began to move as the marching band struck up a powerful tune, all drums and brass. A cheer rose up from the streets around her, and Twilight had the feeling that it wouldn’t die down until she got to the palace.

This had not been Twilight’s idea, but Celestia’s. The ostentatious parade, the coronation, the city-wide celebration afterwards—all of them just seemed so... misplaced. Twilight didn’t see what there was to celebrate other than an end to their labour. When so many of ponykind’s greatest were dead and so many homes destroyed, what right did the living have to celebrate?

Celestia saw it differently. There was, she had said, one thing that ponykind had gained from Titan’s war, and that was another alicorn princess. Most ponies hadn’t fought in any battles, just lived in poverty and fear. Let Twilight be the symbol of their deliverance, and let her ascendance be the idea they could cling to for comfort. There was no dishonesty in that. Twilight would not deny her subjects that happiness.

Look calm. Smile. Nod and wave. It’s easy once you remember how much you love them.

And it was. Twilight passed through a throng of ponies, probably more ponies than she had ever seen in her life, all a part of the race that rose to fight the alicorn’s war. Perhaps without her they would have failed, but without them she would have fared no better.

Don’t look too kind, you’re a war heroine. They expect to see a princess, but also the Godslayer. The General.

She did her best to look determined and resolute, if that did any good. What was she supposed to do, stare straight ahead? Waving too much made her feel like a bit of a fool, and she wasn’t sure how wide or tight her smile was supposed to be. Obviously she couldn’t stand perfectly still, but striking a pose would make her feel ridiculous. How was parading in front of a crowd so difficult?

“You’re doing just fine, Twilight. Stop worrying.” Celestia’s voice contained the barest hint of humor.

“If I were doing fine,” Twilight said dryly. “You wouldn’t be able to tell that I’m worried.”

“Nonsense. I can always tell when you’re not all right.”

Twilight answered with the mental equivalent of a grumble.

“Are you truly so worried about the impression you’re making?” Celestia asked.

“I always thought this was the easy part of your job.”

“It is,” Celestia said. “But perhaps it does take getting used to. Shall I give you a lesson to help you relax?”

“I seem to recall being your faithful student.”

A flash of joy from Celestia. “So you were. Now I want you to look at the crowd about half a block ahead of you. This way you see them but you still always look ahead.”

Twilight looked. At that distance her eyes could still make out individual faces, all of them writ with an awe that she was all too familiar with. It wasn’t just the way her soldiers had looked at her—it was the way every pony had looked at Celestia since Twilight could remember.

“Your smile is one of confidence, not of joy or love. Very good. You never used to able to smile like that.”

“You can see me?”

“Of course I can, Twilight.” A pause. “I had thought you didn’t see yourself as my student anymore.”

“I didn’t.”

“A fine way to break my duplicitous heart. Now stand up as straight as you possibly can on your forelegs and give your hind a little slack. You are rising, Twilight Sparkle. Let them see it.”

“You know I’m not angry with you anymore,” Twilight said as she adjusted her weight.

A pause. “I know, Twilight.”

The chariot rolled on, and the parade trailed along behind her. The streets of new Canterlot were vast, even if the city wasn’t as large as it had been. Even the concerted effort of ponykind and an incredible amount of magic wasn’t enough to reforge the entire capital in ten months.

“It was good to love you because you were a god, because you were my princess, because you were perfect. But it was easy. I guess us grown-ups are supposed to love each other when it’s difficult. When it’s needed but not deserved. I think it’s better to love you this way.”

“A finer lesson I could not have taught you myself,” Celestia said. Then, “You should put it in a letter. Now raise your chin up a little more.”

“...You’re joking, right?”

“You’re about to turn into the main square,” Celestia said. “There are more ponies here than you have ever seen in one place in your life, Twilight. All of them are going to be looking at you. I want you to look ahead at Luna and I.”

True to Celestia’s word, the main square was filled with what appeared to be twice the amount of ponies it had been designed to accommodate—and Twilight, having designed it, would know. A thin strip of space led from Twilight to the foot of the Castle Canterlot grounds, where Luna and Celestia stood a foot above everyone else, on the first of the many gradual steps that led to the castle proper.

“Do not be overwhelmed, Twilight. Be overwhelming. Right hoof up just a little.”

“You know,” Twilight said. “Now more than ever, with my new responsibilities, I need you to teach me.”

Across the distance between them, Celestia gave a slight smile. “Need, is it? Spread your wings. Suddenly.”

She did so with a great whoosh, and noted the shadow cast on the ground before her, perfectly proportioned by the position of the sun. Now where have I seen that before, Twilight thought as a deafeningly loud cheer reached her ears.

“You know,” she said as her chariot pulled to a halt. “This actually feels kind of good.”

“It ought to. Now alight down the side and come around so you don’t have to do a full turn when you get here. You need to be facing the crowd.”

Twilight did as she was told, once again doing her best to look... well, regal. Did she have to walk different, take the steps differently? Should she have folded her wings as she did when she left the chariot? Such silly things to worry on, but there they were.

And there was New Canterlot, she thought as she looked out at the city. The natural slope of the mountain laid it out before her eyes in full. It wasn’t as big as the old city, no: but there was room to grow. Perhaps it was only made of stone and glass, and perhaps it was fragile, but it had been built by their subjects and her word, and Twilight couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride seeing it now, just as she had every time she’d seen it before.

“I said need,” Twilight said. “And it’s true that I will need your help. But I want it, too. I want you to teach me.”

“I’m happy to hear it, my faithful student. Luna?”

Luna’s voice filled Twilight’s mind like liquid. “The first rule of immortality, Twilight Sparkle, is that you will die. All life, even ours, is limited, and this gives it value. Shall this be the way you spend yours?”

“Yes.”

“Then kneel, Twilight Sparkle. Supplicate yourself before them, for you are their servant.”

Twilight fell to the stone beneath her and shut her eyes. “Wait, that’s it? We’re not going to say anything? Out loud, I mean.”

“Words,” Celestia said. Twilight got the distinct feeling that she had rolled her eyes. “I speak fifty one languages, six of them isolates. What words are there for this?”

A weight settled onto her head, heavy, but not overburdening. The cheering redoubled.

“Now rise,” Luna said softly. “As their champion, our sister, and Equestria’s princess.”

Twilight rose, and as she opened her eyes she saw that they had begun to kneel. It seemed as though a wave travelled through the crowd, until all of them were giving respect to their new princess.

“I know you’ll do well, my faithful student.”

Twilight swallowed, but couldn’t hide a smile nonetheless. She had a lot to learn.