The sun had already set by the time Graves made his way back to Ponyville, his leather coat and hat liberally soiled with a mix of dirt, grime, and the various bodily fluids of demonic creatures best left to the imagination.

A pack of hell hounds had crossed the Snowspire Mountains and entered into the Everfree Forest, leaving a trail of char and death in their wake. Why they were there, he was uncertain, but he wasn’t there to ask questions anyways. That was for the big wigs on high. So after sending Araneida back the day before, Graves began the arduous process of hunting the creatures down.

Finding them was easy – all you had to do was follow the scorch marks and smell of burning wood and madness – but not being found in turn was much more difficult. If a hell hound caught your scent, it could turn on you faster than a brush fire in a bad wind. It could also decide that fighting be hanged and blink away in a gout of flames, only to appear from nowhere a mile or more off. No, hell hounds were best taken by surprise, and for beasts with such keen senses, that would take time.

Through the night and through the day, Graves had hunted, taking one out at a time as best he could. But whenever they discovered him, the beasts would always, always howl and charge. Flames that usually blazed like fresh embers now streaked with black and stinking with the sharp, acrid scent of insanity as fangs snapped to crush throats and snuff out life. Those fights were ferocious, and surprisingly so, but when fire and lightning, it was glinting silver and flashing steel that eventually walked away. So finally, with the unnatural threat properly extinguished, Graves followed the setting sun on his way back to Ponyville and a hopefully not too incontinent Rarity.

By his own admission, Graves was about as sharp as a boulder when it came to most social cues, but even he’d gotten somewhat better thanks to Rarity’s intensive training. For example, he could now tell that while she would certainly tolerate delays in spending quality time together, it was most definitely an act of patience. She could endure it to be sure, but in the same way that one didn’t voluntarily chase after drakes with a wooden spoon, one didn’t force Rarity to wait any longer than necessary.

So, given that he’d yet to really spend any time with her since his return, and since he’d had to bail on the tea with Neida like they’d planned, it was high time to make up for his delays, and the sooner the better. That’s why, despite his particularly pungent state, Graves made the executive decision to not head home and shower off as usual, but instead made straight for Rarity’s. The sun was low, but with any luck, perhaps she hadn’t had dinner yet. Maybe she’d be up to scheduling a bite with Neida? He really hoped so. It wasn’t often he got visits from people like the Stalliongrad agent, which is why he wanted to make the most of their time together. In a way, he really needed it.

Reslinging his spell gun slung over one stained shoulder, Graves brushed off what muck he could, trotted up the stairs leading to the boutique’s pristine, white door and gave it a few, sharp knocks.

“… H’lo?”

“Uh, Rarity?” Graves called out, his gravelly, baritone rumble slightly uncertain at having to speak through the door. That was new. “It’s me.”

“… Juss a sec.”

After a strangely long delay, the door opened and gunmetal grey eyes alighted on a very odd sight.

“Rarity?” Graves blinked. “You alright?”

Rarity blinked as well, but slowly, as if her body was running on three quarters speed. Looking up with slightly glassy eyes, the lady with somewhat tousled, violet locks caught sight of the marshal and smiled.

“Graaaaaavessss,” she beamed, a dopey sort of beam that came over her pink-tinted face. “Jusssssss the man I wanted to see. Come in!”

To the marshal’s eternal surprise, Rarity reached out, took hold of his soiled sleeve with nary a hint of horror nor hesitation, and dragged him into her pristine shop, gory grit and all. Pushing him into an open chair, Rarity cheerfully sauntered to the one already set opposite and sat down. Or rather, fell with a seat conveniently under her.

“Rarity, what’s going on?” Graves asked with eyebrows arched in suspicion. “Are you alright?”

“Alright?” she blinked, still slow and somewhat befuddled. “Why, I’ve never felt better. I feel absholutey… wonderful.”

Gunmetal grey eyes slowly widened as the pieces finally began falling into place. Slowed reaction, glassy eyes, and finally slurred words? No way. She couldn’t be. But looking about the shop, understanding fell as Graves finally laid eyes on a nearby table.

“Oh, Rarity,” Graves groaned as he stood and approached the crime scene. “How many of these did you have?”

“Juss… juss a few,” she shrugged as a little giggle escaped her stained lips. “It seemed like a good idea, and you know what? It most… shertainly wash.”

Picking up one of the colorful wrappers, Graves was inclined to disagree.

Chocolates. Specifically, chocolates from Chef Chantilly’s personal, confectionery wonderland. Made of the finest milk, sugar, and cacao, each of these special bon bons was also infused slash filled slash downright loaded chock full of an entire ounce of hundred and twenty proof raspberry brandy. Considering the probably two dozen wrappers strewn out across the table and the fact that Rarity had the tolerance of a teetotalering house fly, well…

“Anywho, thash… not the important part,” Rarity intoned as she gave Graves as severe a look as her inebriated state would allow. “You, sssir, have got some ‘splaining to do?”

“I do?” Graves blinked.

“Sit.”

With only a moment to glance between Rarity’s dully stern look and slightly wobbling finger, the marshal returned to his seat as he gave her another curiously cautious glance.

“Alright then,” he warily started. “What’s up?” For a spell, Rarity said nothing, instead choosing to look him up and down with pursed lips.

“Why aren’t you naked?”

“… I’m sorry, what?”

“You should be… naked,” Rarity nodded firmly as she clambered from her seat and reached out towards his dirty coat. “Hurry up, now. We haven’t got all night.”

“Rarity, what the hay are you doing?” Graves started as he leaped up to avoid her grabbing hands. From the look she gave him, that was clearly the wrong reaction.

“Oh, so you’re fine showing off your – *hic* – goodies to Miss Roamanov, but not me?” Rarity snapped with alcohol fueled ire lacing every word. “She more speshul to you than me?”

“Wait, what?” Graves gaped. “What’s Neida got to do with this? And how did you–”

“AND thass another thing,” Rarity continued as she advanced unsteadily towards him. “How come you keep calling her that? S’that your speshul pet name for her, huh?”

“Pet name?” the marshal repeated, now thoroughly confused. “It’s just a nickname, that’s all.”

“Then how come I don’t have one, hm?” Rarity fumed. “How come you always call me Rarity? Why don’t I get a fun nickmane?”

“I’ll assume you mean nickname,” Graves quietly muttered.

“Wassat?”

“Nothing,” he quickly added. “Look, Rarity–”

“Nickmane!” she cried.

“Uh… Rares?” Graves fumbled out. From the lack of continued demands, it seemed to suffice. “Look, Rares, something’s clearly got you riled up.”

“No, really?” she gaped with so much dripping, caustic sarcasm, it was a wonder that the floors were still intact.

“Really,” Graves continued as jaws started to clench in irritation. “Problem is, I can’t read your mind, so unless you tell me what’s wrong, I can’t do anything to help.”

“Hmph, can’t read my mind, my heiny,” Rarity fumed. “I’ll bet you could read Miss Neida’s mind if you wanted. After all, you two are shooooooooo close.”

“Once again,” Graves pressed as his voice grew a shade hotter still, “what does she have to do with anything?”

“Everything!”

“That’s not helping.”

“And neither are you!” Rarity yelled. “If you’d just get naked like I shaid, everything would be fine!”

“Really,” the marshal challenged. “If I got naked, then everything will be fine?”

For a moment, the glassy-eyed girl looked to be seriously considering the question.

“Rarity–”

“No! Not Rarity! Rares!” the young lady cried as she suddenly burst into big, sobbing tears. “Why is she the only one who’s so speshal?! Why are you being so nice to her?!”

“Rarity, what–”

“Get out!” she shrieked at the top of her lungs. “Juss! Get! Out!”

Graves didn’t even blink when the first pen struck him on the cheek. He didn’t even flinch when the inkpot hit his chest and splattered his shirt with pitch-black liquid. But as the constant rain of projectiles continued, as many missing as not as Rarity hurled everything and anything in arm’s reach, he finally got the picture.

“You know what?” Graves said, calm like the air before a summer storm. “Fine. You want me gone? I’m gone.”

The stream of objects continued to rattle out even after the door had closed.

With moon high in the sky, Araneida calmly strolled through the dim streets of Ponyville as she allowed her mind to relax and reflect.

She felt bad. Though she’d done so countless times before, the small pangs of guilt that came from fooling the innocent never really went away, and Rarity was about as innocent as you could get. Ever since their first meeting, the young lady had been nothing but kind and courteous. Even when the barbs had started coming in, she’d done her very best to keep calm and carry on despite the clear discomfort she felt.

And yet Araneida still pushed. With subtle barbs to enrage and strategic retreats to disorient, Araneida had knocked Rarity so off balance that the young lady had quickly toppled over like a narrow house of cards. All in all, it had been rather easy, as it always was with the creative sort. With minds that whirled away at hurricane speeds, all you needed to do was set the steps in motion and watch them tear themselves apart. Neurotic by nature, it worked well enough for things of the simple sort, but when you applied the right pressure to issues they truly cared about? It was like setting glycerin next to an open flame, with nothing to do but watch and wait.

Once again, the pang of guilt returned. It had been so easy because Rarity was clearly head over heels for Graves, and even that brief interaction she'd spied from the first evening made it clear that the two were quite happy together. But Araneida couldn’t sit by and let them simply be happy. Her mission was too important for that. That’s why she had to work.

Taking a cleansing breath to calm her nerves, Araneida returned to the marshal’s home and slowly opened the door.

“You look in trouble.”

Raising his head, Graves looked up at her as much concern showing as it ever did, which is to say, only a hair’s breadth away from nothing at all. But it was in that hair's breadth that the question lay.

“I guess?” he dully shrugged, a motion that made Araneida inwardly frown. Whatever battle he’d been in should not have wearied him so. In that case, there could only be one explanation. But address that later. Other business first.

“Why don’t you shower?” Araneida suggested. “Clean body first, clean mind second.”

It was only when she made the remark that Graves looked down and realized he was still in the same muddied, ink-spattered clothes from earlier.

“Ah. Right.”

With the soft scrape of wood on wood, Graves pushed the chair back and headed upstairs. As the sound of steaming water cascade, Araneida hung her coat on the wall peg and went to fetch some items from her room. She usually avoided working with tools – being self-reliant made for fewer variables – but tonight was a special exception and extra help was needed.

“Hey,” Graves called, toweling off his jet-black locks once more as he descended the stairs not five minutes later. “Can we talk?”

“Of course,” Araneida smiled as she waved him over to join her at the table. “I even have gift to help it smoothly go.”

“No way. Is that what I think it is?”

“Da. Real Yakutsk vodka,” Araneida beamed. “Souvenir from last visit.” Pulling out two small glasses, the Stalliongrad agent filled each to the top with the clear liquor before handing one to Graves and taking the other.

“Будем.”

“Будем.”

In swift, practiced motions, the two tossed the glasses back and downed the fiery contents in one brilliantly burning gulp. Savoring the cleansing heat for a few moments, Graves finally let out a long, contented sigh.

“Man, that’s good. Can’t remember the last time I had that.”

“I can,” Araneida chuckled. “Tikhorsetsk Falls, ja?”

“Right, right,” Graves nodded. “We captured a Crimson battalion, right?”

“Then raided their stores in celebration, as usual,” Araneida finished. “Of course, some not so festive as others.”

“What can I say?” Graves shrugged as he poured them both fresh glasses. “Being happy didn’t come quite so natural back then.”

“And now?”

“Now?” Graves repeated as he tossed back his glass again. “I’m getting better. At least, I think I am.”

Green eyes shimmered as Araneida finished her drink as well.

“Is about Rarity girl, is not?” she asked, the real lack of question bringing a wry grin to the marshal’s face.

“That obvious?”

“Not hard to spot,” Araneida smiled. “Of three great tragedies, empty purse and empty glass do not suit. That just leave empty heart, no? Besides,” she continued with a toss of her golden locks. “I am intelligence. I can see well.”

“That’s true,” Graves nodded as tumbled the empty glass across the back of his fingers. “Then maybe you can me why Rarity was fit to chew my head off.”

“Perhaps it is weak stomach?” Araneida suggested. "You ripe as bad made harkarl just moments ago."

“True, but it's probably not that simple,” the marshal chuckled. “For some reason, she kept mentioning you. And getting naked. No idea why.”

“… Ah, I think I see.”

Now it began.

“You do?” Graves asked as he looked up to find Araneida pensively frowning at the back of her hands.

“You must forgive me, Syeri,” she began as she poured them each a fresh glass. “I believe I am to cause for such mess.”

“How?” Graves pressed, grey eyes intent as he pounced on the lead. “What happened?”

“As you were gone,” Araneida explained, selecting each word with care as she broached the delicate subject, “I was of visiting Rarity. Friendly chat, to speak. That is when I tell her of blizzard at Mosbison Peak. She is… jealous of experience.”

“Jealous?” Graves blinked. “We nearly died of exposure. Almost lost my trigger finger to frostbite. How could she be jealous of that?”

“It seems those matter nearly not so much as sharing warmth in times of crisis.”

The marshal gaped.

“Really? That’s what she’s upset about? Doesn’t she realize that we would have been dead otherwise?”

“It does not seem she understands soldier ways,” Araneida shrugged as she downed her glass once more. “She is… not like us.”

“Huh,” Graves intoned. “I guess not.”

“This troubles you,” Araneida stated. It was a probe, subtle and gentle, but a probe nonetheless.

“Guess I was hoping for more,” Graves sighed as he emptied his glass. “I’d thought she’d understand that things are different out in the field.”

“She is young,” Araneida added with an encouraging smile. “And soft. You cannot expect her to see things as you do.”

“Still, it’d be nice,” the marshal smiled back, albeit not quite so brightly. “Beats having your ears singed off for nothing.”

For a few moments, green eyes considered the raven-haired soldier as his face grew steadily stonier. This was bad. His mind was occupied, distracted. He could not remain like this.

“Come. We practice.”

“Hah?”

Grabbing the marshal’s arm, Araneida dragged him out of his seat and doffed her turtle neck to reveal a sporting tank top underneath, much like the one she’d worn for training earlier that day. Tossing the unneeded garment aside, she drew her long, double-sided knife and dropped into a ready crouch.

“I catch you by surprise last time, so I go easy,” she smiled as the knife twirled deftly between expert fingers. “Let us see if you are truly wolf, or just pup.”

Surprise flashed across the marshal’s eyes, but only for a moment. The corners of his lips curled up in a slight smile as Graves reached for the silver-bladed field knife that always hung at his side. However, before it had even left its sheath, he attacked.

Leaping forward, Graves drew the blade in a single, fluid motion and slashed at Araneida, the first in what would become a grand flurry of flickering light and steel. Like the battle of yesterday, each combatant fought with life on the line as even the smallest mistake could spell the difference between a successful parry and a bloody death.

Yet while each gave no quarter and asked for none, among the slashing blades and violent strikes, every so often, Araneida could catch a faint grin flash across the marshal’s face, one that she undoubtedly mirrored as well. After all, aside from the two of them and the point where their blades clashed, nothing existed. Their entire world consisted of the battle and left no room for outside concerns. There was no time to worry, no time to think, no time to do anything but focus every gloriously awakened fiber of your being on the present in that exhilarating, delicate dance on the knife’s edge.

It was the feeling of being alive and one that few truly felt and even fewer understood.

Knocking aside a kick to the short ribs with his shin, Graves stepped in for a reverse grip slash to the throat, one that was quickly blocked by Araneida’s own blade. He pressed in, but she did not yield, and thus the two found themselves just inches apart, hearts pounding as the battle finally ground to a halt.

“Not bad,” Graves smirked as he relaxed, slowly, just in case his opponent had plans to renew aggression. “You’re better than I remember.”

“Pup is not only one who learns,” the lady rejoined as she pulled a golden strand from her face. “I am pleased you do not grow too soft.”

“Me? Soft?” Graves scoffed as he halted the sheathing of his blade. “We can go again if you want.”

“Nyet,” Araneida laughed as she tapped her own knife’s point against her temple. “It is not soft body I worry about, but soft head.”

The marshal’s own smile slipped as he caught the undercurrent of something more in her words.

“What do you mean, soft head?” he asked as silver steel fully met leather holster. “You think I’m going crazy?”

“Not crazy,” Araneida replied with a small shake of her head, the signal that would begin her attack. “Weak. Your easy times have dulled your fangs, Syerivolk. You are no longer strong as I remember.”

“I… don’t quite follow,” Graves slowly intoned, still confused by what his comrade’s words. Instead of answering him, Araneida instead stepped in and raised a hand to his chin, turning his head towards a gilded mirror, a simple piece suitable for any household, yet in her eyes, still ostentatious for a soldier like him. In its clear, clean surface, he caught sight of his reflection.

“Your eyes,” Araneida explained as her gaze fell upon his reflection as well. “When first met, your eyes were like now. Proud. Fierce. A wolf ready to crush throat of all who stand in way of duty and country. Yet when I return today, I find you small and weak, with eyes uncertain like child at first skating pond.”

“I was thinking,” Graves frowned. “Everyone gets confused.”

“Not you, Syeri,” Araneida smiled, the expression made to be sad, perhaps even nostalgic. “Never before have you been confused. The one I fought beside, the one I trusted, never had such doubts.”

“I’ve got more to worry about now,” Graves said as he turned back. “I’m not by myself anymore.”

“You wish for safe haven. I understand,” she nodded, agreeing if not quite seeing. “Even wolf has den when sun falls. But wolf cannot live with sheep, no matter how hard it try.”

“Rarity’s no sheep,” Graves chuckled dryly. “If anything, she’s a wildcat with claws too sharp for her own good.”

“Perhaps,” Araneida chuckled. “But even so, wolf is best with other wolf. If you live for battlefield, then you need one who shares that life.”

“And where would I find someone like that?”

Araneida smiled and hoped the fear lashing about within did not show in her face.

“East.”

“Hah?”

“In Stalliongrad,” the blond woman explained, schooling herself to calm, but unable to keep the haste from her words, “there is talk of exploration. With city safe, we turn eyes to Sibearian wilds and ancient ruins untouched for near two thousand years. There is much danger, but such promise of secrets to help the world, that Equestria would offer her soldiers to join me.”

“You?” Graves gaped? “You mean you’re–”

“Leading expedition?” Araneida laughed. “Of course. Can you think of better?”

“Never,” Graves chuckled. Just a moment before his face returned to brooding stillness. “So then your visit, all this…”

“Is recruitment,” Araneida smiled, a rare expression of genuine excitement. “You need time to sharpen fangs, and where better than in dangers of frozen wilds?"

"I... don't know," Graves rumbled,his face darkening and hardening with each word. "I have... something here. I can't just-"

"We need you," Araneida interjected, her words soft like leather, but only so much as a sheath around steel. "Mission is too important to fail, and we need good comrade to watch my back. We need Grey Wolf, the one who helped save our country those years ago. We need you Graves, so now I ask. Will you come?”

Behind those grey eyes, Araneida could see them, the roiling thunderclouds tossed about by the winds of thought. She'd done all she could to stir those winds. She’d set the table so that his ties to Rarity, the true anchor to this town, would be at their weakest when she asked this single question. Would it be enough? Would he be able to toss aside the chains that bound him and join her in the uncharted wilds where wolves like him truly belonged? Or would he be content to stay in that where peace would sap his strength and dull his fang?

Heart pounding in her chest, Araneida watched as Graves weighed his options, his face a regular mask of stony intent that even she could not read.

And then he spoke.