Cyclone stared at the shadows on the wall. They were all the young colt could see through the slightly cracked door as he sat on a narrow bench outside the main chambers of the Senate. Shadows of ponies waved their forelegs, and voices cried out with controlled force that only passed through the walls as incomplete murmuring. Every few moments, he would hear an interesting word slip through, but without the context, there was nothing he could understand. Just ‘barbarians’ or ‘diamond’ or ‘emperor’.

Bored of trying to understand the words, he had given into watching the shadows and letting his imagination make up its own story for the events unfolding behind them. They weren’t just talking; there was a battle. A grand battle, like Nimbus or Feathertop Mountain or Stratopolis. The other foals would call it the Battle of Cloudsdale, and they’d come to him begging to hear the story. How he saved his father—no, the whole Senate—from the evil griffons.

On the wall, gesturing forelegs became razor-sharp swords: gently curved Cirran gladii, and brutal, wide-bladed griffon broadswords. The flicker of torchlight turned the slow motions of the debating adults into a cautious dance of slight, swift dodges and sudden ripostes. Wings raised high from the backs of the pegasi led with the jagged, flexible scales of wingblades. It took only a bit of his imagination to add the yelling, and the stomping, and the roar of trumpets and the thumping of drums.

The center of the sliver of wall held one shadow far bigger than the others; one shadow that stood tall, with stiff, proud wings, and the finest sword in all of Cloudsdale. There was only one pony it could be. Cyclone’s father fought off the griffons, just the way he had at Hengstead, swinging his blade wide and ending three or four or even five foes all in the same stroke. A little hint of a grin pulled at the corners of Cyclone’s lips as he remembered the stories his mother had told him.

Another of the shadows approached his father from behind. It was a griffon, or so Cyclone’s mind insisted. A big one, with a gray feathered head and a jagged sword clutched in its talons. It approached slowly, despite its size. Quietly, like a cat hunting prey. Cyclone knew he didn’t have much time. Standing up from the bench, he spread his wings as wide as they would go, and took a deep breath.

“Hey! He got here first!” At the sound of the sudden shouting, the griffons and swords on the wall once more returned to boring senators and broad-voiced speeches. Cyclone spun in his seat, turning to face the source of the voice. A faded blue filly about his age charged down the hall, wings flapping alongside the beating of her hooves for speed. When she approached Cyclone, she dropped her hooves onto the marbled cloudstone floor. They grated as she slid, until finally the friction brought her to a stop mere inches from the tip of Cyclone’s muzzle. “Are you listening to the Senate too? Were they talking about anything fun?”

Cyclone blinked, and pulled back from the boisterous filly. “Um...”

Behind her, another filly approached with a tired expression written across her gentle pink coat, and her ears pinned back against her purple mane. “Slow down, Feather; you’re gonna ruin the game if you’re that loud.”

“Nu uh, Blaze!” Feather twisted her head back over her own shoulder. “I wanna hear the—” Her words died away with the heavy thud of cloud on cloud as the door to the Senate chamber set firmly against its frame. “Awww!”

“I told you so,” Blaze grumbled as her hooves finally stopped a few strides away from Cyclone’s bench. “You always ruin everything.” The filly, probably two or three years older than either Cyclone or her blue friend, planted her tail down on the stone. “Sorry she’s such a klutz, colt. What’s your name?”

“Cyclone,” he answered. A few seconds later, remembering his mom’s advice on meeting new ponies, he forced a smile onto his face. “Are your parents in the Senate too?”

“We just wanted to hear about—Ow!” Feather’s words died as she clutched her head.

Blaze casually lowered her hoof, offering the younger filly an irritated glare. “It’s not like he cares. Don’t waste his time.” She shook her head as if that would somehow clear her thoughts of Feather’s actions, and set her eyes on Cyclone. “You wanna come play with us, Cyclone? Doesn’t look like there’s a lot better to do.”

The colt hesitated, turning his head to the solid door beside his bench. “Dad said to wait until he was done or I'd be in trouble.”

Feather pouted, letting her ears, wings, and scruffy blonde tail sag. “Aww... Come on, Cyclone. You have to play. Blaze is always mean when we play alone.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a klutz. Stop being so… so frowny, or he’ll think we’re boring.” With a rather pleasant smile, Blaze again turned to Cyclone. “We won’t go far. Just outside to the courtyard. Your dad will be able to find you just fine. Trust me.”

Cyclone hesitated, turning his head between the Senate door and the two new fillies. It took three glances back before he made up his mind. “What are we playing?” He slid his forehooves off the bench and took a single step forward. One of his wings, still relaxed and dangling at his side, managed to find its way under his hind right hoof. With a yelp of pain, he tumbled forward onto his face, limbs flailing as the world shifted.

The motion ended in only a moment, and the poor colt found himself staring up at two chuckling fillies. He was glad for the blood red color of his coat; it would hide the heat in his cheeks and his ears. With just a little bit of work, he managed to untangle his legs and wings, and roll himself back over onto his hooves. “Ow.”

Feather shook with her laughter, holding her wings against her sides as she tried and failed to control herself. “That was really funny. Did you step on your wing?”

He nodded. “It happens a lot. Mom says I have big hooves, and my wings are big too.” For emphasis, Cyclone spread his wings to their full width. “Dad says I’ll grow into them. I hope it happens soon. They always get in the way.” The colt realized Blaze was staring at him, her eyes slightly widened, and he folded up his wings against his sides. “What?”

“Um…” the elder filly stammered. “I was just surprised. You weren’t kidding; you’ve got huge wings.”

Cyclone had no idea what to say in response, so he held his silence. After barely more than a moment of quiet, the three young ponies started to make their way out of the Senate building, toward the courtyard. The path was fairly straight, and the cloudstone walls and pillars quickly got boring. Cyclone’s imagination returned as they walked, replacing the plain walls with the fancy decor and pictures of Stratopolis that Dad had told him stories about. Soon, the walls were brimming with pictures of Cirran heroes. On one wall, Roamulus stood tall over the pegasus tribes, his hoof wrapped around the first banner of the new Cirran Empire. On another, Emperor Haysar built a great palace of cloudstone high in the skies over Stratopolis.

And then, on the right, one that Cyclone only half imagined. He didn’t know the whole story; Dad didn’t like to talk about it. But he knew enough to see his father fighting off the griffon emperor, some place called Nimbus that Cyclone had only seen on a map. Dad always said the story wasn’t for foals, so Cyclone knew something interesting must have happened, but he also knew that it made his father sad to remember whatever had happened. That left Cyclone with a sinking feeling in his stomach, like when he’d almost fallen while Mom was teaching him how to fly. So when he stared at the wall, the figures were blurry, and no matter how much he focused, his imagination wouldn’t clear them.

“Staring at a wall?” Blaze’s words shattered Cyclone’s vision, and returned the stone to a smooth marbled surface. “I hope you’re not as bad as Feather Fall is.”

“Hey! I don’t stare at walls,” the younger filly protested, a few strides ahead. “You two should hurry up, slowpokes. I wanna do something!”

In the courtyard, huge pillars wrapped in ivy supported a shiny red tiled roof. His mom said the pegasi liked colors, and that’s why they didn’t just use clouds, but Cyclone didn’t understand why anypony would bother taking the time to smash the clouds enough that they’d hold up dirt and plants and bricks and stuff, when they could just take some color from a rainbow and dye the clouds like the walls at home.

The thought didn’t last long, in the face of a group of foals who were standing around in the center of the courtyard. They were playing around a bubbling fountain topped with a statue of Lūn, the goddess of the night, secrets, the ocean, and water in general. Unlike the gracefully posed statue, the colts and fillies moved violently, circling each other and pouncing forward and back, swinging with the sticks and wooden swords they held between their teeth. A fifth colt, older than the other four, balanced with one hoof on Lūn’s smooth forehead, and another on her left shoulder. The wooden sword slung with a leather cord over his shoulder was surprisingly well made, with a smoothly polished ‘blade’ in place of the rough carved planks that served as the other colts’ weapons.

“Victory, your head’s too low!” the colt cried from atop the goddess. “If you don’t keep your sword up, you’re gonna get hit. Pomp, did your little sister teach you to fight like that? We’re never going to join the Praetorian if we keep fighting like this.” His squeaky voice was painful enough that Cyclone found himself flattening his ears and tensing his wings. The colt was probably eight or nine; by far the eldest of his peers, but still just barely old enough to have earned his cutie mark: a single white fang that seemed to belong to a wolf or a bear.

As Cyclone, Feather, and Blaze walked forward into the courtyard, the lead colt turned toward them. “Get lost. We’re training.”

“We’re not gonna get in your way,” Feather called up. “We just wanted somewhere to play.”

“Well, find somewhere else.” The colt rapped his hoof twice on Lūn’s brow, bringing a slow stop to the crack of wood as the other colts stopped their battle. “We don’t have time to get distracted by two fillies and their little coltfriend playing dress up.”

Another of the armed colts, heavyset and short, laughed around the handle of the ‘sword’ clenched between his teeth. His amusement earned an angry glare from the leader, and the laughter ended quickly. Taking a moment to sheathe his weapon, the heftier of the would-be legionaries bowed his head. “Sorry, Fang.”

“That’s not fair!” Feather cried, stepping up toward Fang. “There’s lots of room out here. You have to share!”

The leader of the colts rolled his eyes, and then jumped down. His hooves kicked up a splash of water from the fountain, flattening Feather’s mane, at which point Blaze took a rather threatening step forward. With a gentle hoof, she pulled Feather’s shoulder to hold the younger filly back. “Why do you think we want to play dress up?”

Fang shrugged. “That’s all fillies your age ever want. Looking pretty, and talking about colts, and—”

His words were cut off abruptly by Blaze’s hoof, with an uppercut that left the bigger, older colt staggering backward and groaning with his high-pitched voice. The pink filly smiled at him. “Not all fillies are like that, idiot. Ever heard of Legate Rain, or Commander Spear?”

Cyclone watched as Fang stumbled back to his hooves with the help of the fat colt, who was batted aside a moment later. “Do we have to teach you a lesson, filly? Are you looking for a fight?”

“We already told you we just wanted to play,” Blaze told him. Then she took a step forward. “How about a game of ‘Cirrans and Griffons?’”

Cyclone leaned nervously over to his new friend. “My dad says we’re not supposed to play that.”

“Looks like your coltfriend is chicken,” Fang teased.

Feather shoved a forehoof into Cyclone’s side. “Come on, Cyclone.”

He withered as all the eyes in the courtyard seemed to turn on him. “I’m not good at fighting. Dad won’t teach me, and—”

“I hope you learn quick then,” Blaze interrupted. “I can probably only fight three of these colts.”

One of the colts whistled. “Ooh, the filly thinks she’s tough. I’m gonna fight her.”

Fang held up a wing. “They don’t even have swords. How are we supposed to play if they don’t have swords? There wouldn’t be any point to playing, and we’d have to go right back to training.”

“We’ve got all those spares, Fang,” the fat colt observed. Not more than a moment later, the eyes of all his friends were glaring his way.

“Fine, Club. Get the swords. We’ll entertain them. But all of you, consider this a training exercise. We have some griffons to kill.”

“Why do we have to be griffons?” Feather protested. “You’re bigger than us! You be the griffons!”

Fang shrugged. “You’re the invaders. Besides, your coltfriend is pretty big. At least, he’s got huge hooves.”

Cyclone’s head dipped to the ground, self-consciously. He stared at the smooth keratin at the ends of his legs as Blaze and Feather argued with Fang and his lackeys. Were his hooves really that big? Sure, he tripped on them sometimes, but it wasn’t like they were strange, right? But then why had Fang noticed at all?

A wooden sword tapped against Cyclone’s forelegs, distracting him from his deep thought. It was a short, fat stub of a weapon that looked more like a glorified dinner knife than the elegant curved blade of a legionary’s gladius, but it would have to do. Tentatively, he picked it up between his teeth, and found it pleasantly light. The handle slid into the gap behind his rear teeth, and he locked his jaw down. The would-be weapon was ready for battle.

“You get tagged anywhere on your body, you’re out,” Fang announced. “Keep your wings at your side, or it’s your fault if they get hurt. Once you go out, say ‘out’ and get out of the way, or you’re gonna keep getting hit. Got it?”

Feather gave a firm nod, and Blaze echoed the motion, albeit more lazily. They both turned toward Cyclone, who trembled just a bit with the wooden sword in his mouth, before he too dipped his head.

There wasn’t any warning after that. No shout of ‘go’, no countdown, and no mercy. Cyclone barely had time to get his little wooden weapon up before Club was upon him, swinging and pushing with his considerable weight. Splinters from the rough wood shot up at Cyclone’s eyes, forcing them shut. Unable to see, he swung his head back and forth wildly, hoping to somehow catch the next attack from the older colt’s longer sword. He felt a rush of wind over his short, fuzzy mane, and then to his surprise, his sword came into contact with something solid.

“Uh...” Club mumbled. “Out?”

Cyclone opened his eyes, and found himself staring at Club’s chest from a mere inch away. The wood of his sword had stopped against the other colt’s chocolate brown coat.

“Idiot!” Fang somehow managed to shout around his sword. “We’re Cirrans! We can’t lose to these dimwit half-breeds.”

Cyclone turned to see the leader of the other colts matched off with Blaze. Somehow, the filly was managing to hold back not only Fang, but also two of his friends. Her sword moved faster than Cyclone thought it had any right to, clacking off of wooden blade after wooden blade. Before his eyes, she deflected Fang’s attack, took a smooth step back, swept a leg under another of the colts, and then jabbed the shoddy wooden sword in her mouth against the neck of the third.

“Out,” he grumbled.

Cyclone might have stood there, simply watching as Blaze held off the other two colts, had Feather not called out. “Out! Ouch! Out! I said I’m out!” The blue filly hid behind her loose golden mane with a pained expression on her face. “Blaze, behind you!”

Rather than worry, the filly cracked a smile around the handle of her sword. Throwing herself down so that her chin rested between her hooves, she bucked out with her hind legs. The colt sneaking up behind her caught the blow in his chest, and flipped backwards. With the force she got from the strike, Blaze cartwheeled forward underneath a wide horizontal swing from Fang. She rose up at the hooves of the third colt, tapping him on the jaw with her sword as she stood. Before he even had the chance to announce his status, Blaze was moving again. Rather desperately, she reached back over her own shoulder, parrying another of Fang’s swings. Rather than confront him, she tossed her forehooves onto his back, and jumped like she was playing leapfrog. The colt she had originally bucked in the chest had only just managed to find his hooves when her sword tagged the crown of his head.

“Out!”

“Agh! Out!”

Blaze didn’t get long to enjoy her victory. She turned back into a third attack from Fang, and their swords met with a surprisingly vicious force. Against the polished, smoothed wood of Fang’s ideal replica, the glorified stick in the filly’s mouth didn’t stand a chance. It shattered completely, and finely crafted wood met with a pink coat.

“Got you, griffon scum!” Fang cried with a bloodthirsty grin. Then, eyes narrowed, he turned on Cyclone. “Just one of you left now. One more, and then Cirra is safe, and the Red Cloud War is over.”

For her part, Blaze seemed rather pleased with the work she’d done. “I told you I’d get three, Cyclone. Last one’s up to you.” Her voice made the act sound like the easiest thing in the world, but staring up at Fang cast the task as impossible. The colt was probably twice Cyclone’s age, if not more. Comparing his sword to Cyclone’s was holding a cumulonimbus thunderhead against the fog that came from a breath in the harsh midwinter air.

“Anything to say before I end this, hybrid?”

Hesitating, Cyclone took a step back in time with Fang’s approach. The older colt’s longer legs meant that he was still closing, but the motion brought the hesitant colt a bit of time. “Yeah...” What would Dad say? “Yeah, um... I’m gonna win. Because.” Cyclone ducked back as Fang idly tossed his sword into the air and caught it deftly between his teeth facing out the left side of his mouth. “Because the griffons won at Stratopolis. And... and if I’m the last griffon, then I’m Emperor Magnus.”

“Idiot.” Fang derisively shook his head, laughing with every bounce of his roughly trimmed mane. He loomed forward, finally coming into proper reach of the younger colt. “If the griffons had won, there wouldn’t be a Cloudsdale. And if you’re Emperor Magnus, then I’m Emperor Hurricane. Now, die, griffon!”

Fang’s heavy wooden sword swung for the side of Cyclone’s neck. The younger colt braced himself for the pain that was to come. Instead, he felt only a gust of wind, and his ears rung with a crisp metallic ring, and then a forceful thud. Wasting no time, the curious colt turned toward his rescuer.

The stallion was altogether familiar, with a dark blue coat that bordered on black, concealing lean but brutal muscles. Plates of gleaming steel armor covered his chest, his flanks, his forelegs, and his shoulders, save where they were hidden by the scarlet cape that hung from his left shoulder. Between his teeth, he grasped a blade of glimmering steel, as well maintained as the grooming of his immaculate wings. The flat of that blade had stopped Fang’s sword, a good half-foot away from Cyclone, though it wasn’t long before the colt dropped the weapon in an unmistakable mixture of terror and awe.

“E-emperor Hurricane?”

Hurricane winced, though he said nothing at first, instead turning to his side and sheathing his deadly blade. Only once that slow process had been finished did he return his attention to the colts and fillies who had moments before been playing. “Commander Hurricane,” he corrected harshly as his cruel magenta eyes swept the group. It wasn’t long before they settled firmly on Cyclone with a touch of concern. “I told you to wait on the bench.”

Cyclone wilted. “I was. I promise,” he protested. “But then I met, um, Blaze and Feather.” His wing gestured to the two fillies. “And they wanted to play, so we came out here to play Griffons and Cirrans...”

The grown stallion’s brow creased and his tail flicked once, not unlike a whip. The reaction was enough to silence Cyclone, thought it took a few more seconds for Hurricane to find words. “Do you think the Red Cloud War was a game?” he asked, his voice quiet and low. When no answer was offered, the stallion lifted his head to the rest of the group. “Do you understand what happened? What the griffons did to us? Its only been four years...” The furious stallion stopped, and the silent mass of foals watched as his nostrils flared and shrank with short, focused breaths that seemed to make no noise at all. “The griffons took family from all of you. I know they did.” His gaze fell back on Cyclone. “They killed your grandparents, Cyclone. Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes, Dad.”

Fang winced at the word, but if the Cirran Emperor had noticed, he seemed not to care. The creases on his brow lightened, though only slightly. “We need to get going. Your mother needs us.” Cyclone spread his wings, only to feel a gigantic hoof on his shoulder. “Not today, Cyclone.”

“But, Dad...”

Hurricane shook his head firmly. “This is important, Cyclone. Get on my back.”

One of the colts in the group of would-be legionaries had the lack of common sense to snigger, and nudged Club in the ribs with a hoof. “He still has to have his dad fly—”

A glare from the undisputed ruler of the pegasi silenced the foal instantly.

Grumbling quietly to himself, Cyclone grabbed onto the ridges of Hurricane’s armor, and flapped his wings for a bit of extra force in pulling himself up. Once atop his father’s back, he scooted forward to align his belly with the saddle of the armor, and put his forelegs around Hurricane’s neck. Turning to his new friends, he tried to put on a smile. “Um, b—” The rest of his farewell was lost in the wind when a single pump of dark blue feathers carried father and son out of the Senate

The young colt always loved being up in the sky over the city. He liked watching all of the off-duty legionaries working together to construct new neighborhoods and buildings for all the pegasi to use and live in. When he was flying on his own, he’d veer this way and that, taking in the sights and trying to find out what neat new places were being built next. Part of him wished he grew as fast as the city; he and Cloudsdale had the same birthday after all. It was only three years old, too. But nopony ever teased Cloudsdale about it.

Hurricane’s wingbeats left little time for ponywatching, and he flew straight as an arrow for his destination. In fact, the stallion was so utterly focused that he didn’t so much as turn around until Cyclone leaned up onto his neck and spoke up over the wind.

“Can I fly on my own, Dad? For just a little bit?”

Hurricane’s ears flattened, even more than they naturally did from the wind. “Not today, Cyclone. We’re in a hurry.”

“You’re always in a hurry!” Cyclone moaned. “And Mom hasn’t been up for flying with me since summer.”

Hurricane sighed, though his son only noticed by the way his shoulders rose and fell. “Someday I’ll find some time to take you out, Cyclone. But things are busy; between the Senate and meeting with the earth ponies and the unicorns…”

“So you’re never gonna help me fly on my own?” Cyclone pulled his head down and buried it in his father’s mane.

“Cyclone...” The leader of the pegasi sucked in another chilled breath. “Your mother and I need you to be strong. This isn’t easy for any of us, but Cirra needs me, and that doesn’t leave a lot of time for flying lessons. I’m sorry about that. And I promise, some day, I’ll teach you. It just can’t be right now.”

“But I want to fly good now. Then I can join the Legion, right?” Cyclone nuzzled his father’s neck.

A sigh escaped Hurricane’s nostrils. “I don’t think you understand what the Legion means, Cyclone. War isn’t a game. We’re soldiers. We…” The stallion paused, unsure of exactly how to explain things in a way his son would understand. After a moment’s consideration, he realized there wasn’t a way to be polite about it, so he settled on the harsh reality. “We kill other ponies. Last week, I was fighting Crystal Barbarians with the unicorns. I killed three ponies.”

“You could take me with you,” Cyclone protested. “I could stay back and just watch—”

“No.”

“But I—”

“Your mother would kill me if I let you anywhere near a battle.”

“No she wouldn’t. Mom wouldn’t hurt you.” Cyclone squinted against the frozen wind. Ahead, the foal could see the outline of their house: a rather elaborate villa on a cloud floating a fair way above the rest of the city. Huge pillars held up a roof that leaned forward over a railed balcony decorated with flowers and a single fountain of liquid rainbow.

“It’s a figure of speech, Cyclone. What I mean is she would be very angry at me for putting you in danger.”

“But I’d be safe! I’d be out of the way, I promise. You’re the best at fighting, so you can keep me safe from anypony. And besides, you can do anything you want. You’re the Emperor.”

“I’m not the emperor, Cyclone. You need an empire to be an emperor. All we have is one city.” Hurricane’s wings flared, slowing his descent onto the balcony.

“But that’s what everypony calls you,” Cyclone protested as Hurricane’s hooves hit the dense cloudstone. Wasting no time, he hopped off of his father’s back and ran up to the heavy white doors. “Come on, Dad, hurry up. I wanna see Mom!”

“Calm down, Cyclone,” Hurricane ordered, wrapping a wing around the door handle and yanking it open with a single tug. “Your mother is going to be tired today, and—”

Cyclone barely heard the words. The colt set off with his wings spread, charging through the foyer and hallway, past his dad’s office and up the stairs. Ahead, he saw a set of slender brown legs only moments before he bowled into them headfirst.

“Oh!” The mare’s voice was a pleasant sound, despite the mild shock to the young colt. “Why, if it isn’t our little legionary. Your dad must be here too, right Cyclone?”

The colt opened his mouth to answer, but the worried tones of his father’s voice carried from down the hall behind him. “I’m here, Twister. Are we late?”

The young mare frowned, though most of the expression was hidden by her black mane hanging down across her face. “Well, I mean, I guess? Nopony is blaming you, ‘Cane. I sent that scout as soon as Swift said she was coming, but it is kind of a long flight to the Curia.” Twister’s wide, toothy grin lost some of its sparkle as Hurricane hung his head. “Um, anyway, Swift’s in there feeding right now.” With a wing, she gestured to the double doors that lead into Hurricane’s bedroom. “She said she wanted a minute to just rest, but I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you.”

“What do you mean ‘feeding’, Aunt Twister?” Cyclone cocked his head, and somehow the motion restored most of Twister’s smile. “You mean she’s having dinner without us?”

“No, Cyclone. I’m sure your mom will be having dinner with you soon. But first, there’s somepony you should meet.” Twister bent down, scooping up her nephew with a wing and rolling him onto her back so that both his forelegs were hanging over one shoulder, and his hind legs over the other. “Now that I’ve got my favorite scarf, let’s go in.”

“Hey! I’m not a scarf!” Cyclone squirmed, only to find his legs pinned by his aunt’s wings. “Lemme go! Dad, help!”

Hurricane cast a brief glance toward his son, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward in the slightest hint of a grin. “How are you going to be a legionary if you’re being used as a scarf, Cyclone? Go for the throat.” Before the colt could answer, Hurricane’s eyes turned toward the doors to the bedroom. With a single shove, they opened.

A joyous whisper carried across the room. “Hurricane! Cyclone!” Though she sounded excited to Cyclone’s ears, his mother was clearly tired. She lay back in her bed against a pile of pillows, wrapped up in blankets and holding what looked like a tight bundle of blankets against her belly. “Try and keep quiet; she’s sleeping.”

Armor creaked gently as Hurricane approached his wife. “I’m so sorry, Swift. I flew as fast as I could, but—”

Swift Spear chuckled at her husband’s apology. “Don’t worry about it, Hurricane. She was much easier than he was.” Briefly, her head tilted in Cyclone’s direction. Then she ducked down and nuzzled the little bundle in her forelegs. “Fillies are easier than colts, aren’t they? Yes they are, my little sweetheart. You can’t see it now with her asleep, dear, but she has your eyes.”

As Twister carried Cyclone over to his mother’s side, Hurricane shrugged. “She looks like you, Swift. She’s got that tan coat of yours, and at least some of her mane looks like you.”

“It reminds me of autumn,” Swift whispered. Then, with a gentle motion, she turned the little bundle toward her son. “Look, Cyclone. It’s your little sister. Her name is Typhoon.”

The newborn filly shifted gently as she breathed, wrapped in swaddling cloth. She had a golden tan coat that seemed just a bit more colorful than her mother’s gentle cream. Above the little bump of her muzzle, her mane peeked out from beneath her blanket, visible with a stripe of red, a stripe of gold, and a stripe of brown.

Cyclone reached out a hoof toward the little filly, hesitantly. Swift nodded to offer the colt a hint of encouragement. “Gentle,” she whispered. Leaning off of Twister’s neck, his hoof touched his sister. She made a little cooing noise, and shifted briefly in her mother’s arms. Her brother smiled.

Then he lost his balance, and fell off of his aunt’s shoulders. The fall onto soft cloud hardly bothered Cyclone, but his gasp of surprise ended the perfect quiet. Typhoon’s magenta eyes shot open, and without a moment of delay, she started crying. Swift pulled her newborn daughter close to her chest and rocked her.

Meanwhile, Hurricane reached down to his only son with a dark wing, and shepherded him away from his sister.