Fine told me to start at the beginning. I suppose most ponies would have to pause to look back and wonder where their life really began.

I do not.

October 10, C.Y. 986

I was already eleven years old, but that is the day I was born.

—Fleur de Lis, Book of Shadows XLVIII,

June 8, 1007

She awoke to the sound of coughing.

That wasn’t unusual.

The hay she’d slept on was coarse and dirty, the leftovers of her elder brother and father after a month of activity ranging from simple sleep to naughty activities she wasn’t meant to be privy to. For a bedsheet, she had a thin blanket she’d managed to rescue from a trash pile. Her room was a closet under creaky stairs on the north side of the house, the cracks in the walls letting the eager air chill her.

None of this was unusual.

With her blanket wrapped tightly around her, she crawled to the wall and peered through the cracks. Long experience told her the sun would soon be rising. Though her side stung from the splinters and a fierce chill filled her to her core, she knew she couldn’t waste time.

And so she folded her paltry blanket as neatly as she could and tidied her precious few possessions; a little mirror with the frame broken, a hand-me-down pillow that did little for her head at night, a large clay bowl with a small crack in its side, and a hairbrush missing half its bristles, rescued from the same trash heap as her blanket. Once the closet was presentable enough – she hoped – she took the bowl and left.

The filly moved as quietly as she could. Her father upstairs wouldn’t wake up for another hour at least, and was a heavy sleeper. Especially after a night of drinking. Her brother, on the other hoof, slept lightly, and she had to pass his bedroom hallway to get to the kitchen. She crept past, tail between her legs and bowl in her teeth. Carefully now, carefully…

No boards creaked. She’d learned exactly where to step, and so she made it to the kitchen without incident. There was still some water left in the basin from when she did dishes the night before. Bits of leftover food floated on its soap scum-decorated surface, but she managed to avoid getting any of it into her clay bowl. She wondered if she could get away with using soap today.

No. No, she didn’t dare. She rinsed her bowl as best she could and scrubbed it with a dirty rag. It could never be properly cleaned under the circumstances, so not much time was wasted on the task. As soon as she had the bowl as clean as it could possibly be, she set it in a corner under the cabinet. With luck, none of the dirt from the day’s activities would get into it this time.

She wasn’t lucky very often.

The next part of her day began with gathering firewood. The wood pile was out by the river, and her legs, long but frail, made it hard for her to pick up more than two or three pieces of firewood at once. The snow wasn’t particularly high this morning, though it still reached to her shoulders. Another lesson learned from long ago, the filly took a couple boards lying by the front door and made a small ramp, then grabbed some snow horseshoes. She stepped lightly and with experience to traverse the wobbling planks with little trouble.

It took her three trips to the river and back to collect all the firewood. A biting wind left her legs and ears numb, but she didn’t try to get her brother's coat. Though it happened years ago, she could still recall the pain of her punishment when her brother had found snow on one from her borrowing it. Instead, she kept warm through hard work, taking the heavy logs and moving as quickly as she could to cross the snow without sinking in it, walk carefully over the dangerously bending boards and deposit the wood in the cooking pit.

Now came her favorite chore. With the logs properly set, she used the magic of her unusually long horn to carry the flint and light the fire. That done, she collected the clean pan and floated it over the fire while gathering the ingredients for a simple breakfast. Hay, lettuce and cabbage mixed in a thin layer of oil, topped with goat cheese. Then came the delicacy; hay sausage, a treat for which she’d never been afforded.

Last but not least, the special ingredient. She moved to the windows and checked as the light of dawn gradually covered the snowy plains; not a soul in sight. She checked the other window, then even went out in the frigid cold and patrolled the house. Satisfied that there would be no unexpected visitors, she hurried inside and pulled up one of the floorboards.

Chicken eggs. Only eight of them. They were nestled within a small hole, padded by cloth. With as gentle a magical touch as she could manage, she lifted two of them up. Once they were safe near the fire, she replaced the board, taking care to ensure it was exactly as it had been before.

Cooking wasn’t just her favorite chore, it was the only one she looked forward to. She wasn’t especially good at it, but there were very few others where she was permitted to use her magic. Best of all, she had heat; the fire crackled before her, filling her body with the warmth it would need to survive another harsh day of wind and snow. She always made sure to start early so as to take in as much of that precious heat as she could, lest she lose it too quickly and freeze during the day’s activities.

A few griffons had mentioned how tall she was for a filly her age. She didn’t know if it was true, having met no other ponies her age to compare herself to, but she doubted it. If she were tall like they said, she wouldn’t need a chair to see inside the pan as she broke the eggs. She didn’t like having to use the chair, because she had to set it back from the fire to keep it safe, and that meant less warmth. A chill wind ran through the house, clawing her back and making her shiver.

Once certain that no eggshells had fallen into the pan and the food was being properly prepared, she dropped from the chair and settled next to the fire. Resting on her barrel, she closed her eyes and took in the warmth.

This moment – this lingering, quiet, comfortable moment – was the best moment of every day. If she held her eyes tightly closed and let her imagination work its magic, she didn’t live in an old house on the edge of some snow-swept, backwater town of griffons. No, at that moment she was in a comfortable home, basking in the sunlight streaming through a window. In a few minutes somepony would find her there, give her a hug, and tell her…

Tell her she was loved.

She ignored her head, which told her that it was just a silly dream. Instead, she listened rapturously to her heart, which told her that someday, in the distant future, this would be her reality.

She wondered if such dreams were unusual.

The fantasy lingered, warm and sweet and pleasant, until a muffled cough pulled her out of it. Her ears perked to the sound of hoofsteps upstairs. At the same time, the sizzling of the pan came back to her. Swiftly, she hopped onto the chair and checked the still-floating pan.

Her heart sank at the sight of the food. It filled the air with a pleasant aroma. To her, it looked like the greatest of feasts, but she knew what the reaction would be. Heart pounding, she pulled the pan from the fire and carefully, delicately shifted its contents into two clean plates from the cabinet. She eyed the two meals, using her magic to delicately remove the overcooked bits. Well, not ‘overcooked’ at all, really, but she silently begged they’d not notice. Eating the extras was out of the question; if her father found out she wouldn't eat again until tomorrow.

The last of the bad bits were swiftly tossed into the fire as the hoofsteps, heavy and stomping, descended the stairs. With head low and posture meek, she brought the plates to the kitchen table and set them in their usual locations.

As soon as she sat in the corner, her father appeared in the doorway. He was a thin orange pony, but compared to her he was a giant. Her breathing caught at his very presence, and her legs trembled with his hoofsteps. He did not so much as glance at her before settling before his plate. His head turned to the empty spot by the table. Grumbling, he brushed his light grey mane back and looked to the hall.

“Are you going to get up, boy, or am I gonna have to go in there?”

His voice had a light quality to it, which always defied the harshness of his tone. He stomped once, the blow shaking the table, and a moment later the door to her brother’s room opened. The stallion all but crawled into the kitchen, his pale pink mane a mess of tangles that covered his face. His coat matched their father’s perfectly but, even though still a teenager, he was already the taller pony.

Their father snorted at his grumpy appearance. “If you’d stop staying out all night chasing tailfeathers, maybe you’d be able to get up on time.”

“Sorry, Pop.” Her brother’s tone didn’t reflect the words very well.

They began to eat. The filly stared at her hooves, struggling to keep her breathing as quiet as possible. Please let them not notice, please…

“Small eggs this morning,” her brother grumbled.

Her ears lowered.

“Indeed…” Her father shifted. She didn’t see it, but she could hear the floorboards creaking beneath him. “The sausage is… Fleur.”

Her heart sank at the ominous tone. Slowly, her muzzle almost touching the floor, she turned and took a trembling step closer.

“You overcooked the food.”

She kept her lips sealed, but behind them her teeth chattered. She didn’t dare look up.

“You were daydreaming again.”

Fleur winced and closed her eyes. She wanted to say something, but the last time she did that…

His hooves clacked on the floorboards. She did her best to stiffen, preparing for the inevitable.

Her brother spoke up, his voice still droning with weariness and disinterest. “Mr. Podzornayatrooba will be here later.”

The hoofsteps paused. Fleur didn’t look up, didn’t bother to hope. She held her breath and waited.

Her father sat back down. “Go to your room. You will come out when it’s time to prepare lunch.”

Her eyes opened wide; that was unusual. The clay bowl under the counter beckoned to her, but her father’s growl overrode her hunger. Tail tucked, she walked quietly to her room. Neither her father nor her brother said another word.

When the door to her closet shut, she took a moment to examine her surroundings. The same familiar, dirty room. Wind blew through the cracks, whistling as it invaded her private space and sending tremors up and down her form. Already, the fire’s warmth faded from her small body. With nothing better to do, she wrapped herself in her thin blanket and lay in the corner beneath the steps. She would hear every hoofstep and dust would rain on her whenever her father would go upstairs, but it was the safest place from the cold air.

She took the mirror with her. Once she’d settled down to be as comfortable as possible, she used the edge of her hoof to pull back on the broken frame. It came apart easily. When it did, a piece of paper dropped to the floor. Fleur picked it up as gently as she could.

A mare smiled back at her. She was a big pony, wide and stout. No horn. She’d overheard once that her mother had been an earth pony, which she guessed was a name for all ponies without horns.

Fleur studied the image closely, as she had so many days and nights in the past. The hard chin that contradicted the soft, round cheeks, the thin eyebrows, the long pink mane. The strong muscles of her legs, the slight arch of her back, the tail caught in mid-flick. She seemed so happy, standing before a house that didn’t look so old as it did now. Fleur never knew what was beyond the burned portion of the photo, but she always assumed it had been her father.

Her stomach rumbled. She ignored it. She focused her attention instead on her brush. Keeping her gaze on the photograph, she worked on her mane.

She worked on her mane for a long time.

That was not unusual.

Fleur watched the rays of light shift through the cracks in her closet. She knew how to tell from the angle of the sunlight when it was nearing noon. Noon… the halfway point of her day. She typically hated lunch time, but today she was simply glad to note that time did indeed pass. By the time her door opened, she felt a distinct pain I her stomach.

Her brother had already marched away from the closet by the time she poked her head out. With tentative steps, she went to the workroom. The largest room in the house, it took up an entire third of the structure. The dirt floor was clear of debris and worn smooth from years of hooves moving across it. One wall was lined by a battered set of shelves covered in tools. Empty tanning racks took up one corner of the room, and she could see a few in use outside the large doors. The skins of weasels and other small animals were everywhere, all in various stages of tanning.

She had meant to go see her father, who she noted was outside working on the de-greasing vats, but her eyes fell upon a particularly large pelt lying on the worktable in the center of the room. It was a pale brown color, and when she saw the fur it nearly stopped her heart. Slowly, she approached the thing.

Fleur had seen many pelts in her short life. Only twice before had she seen one like this brought in. It could only be elk.

Watching her father and brothers make coats and the like for the griffons was one thing, but looking at this, she couldn’t help but imagine a living, breathing, talking creature not unlike her. Did the griffons chase it down? Did it put up a fight? What had it done to deserve to have its skin paraded around like an accessory?

Life was hard on the Griffa Plains. Fleur knew this as well as any. Yet she couldn’t help but think that the poor elks deserved better than this. Maybe it was just because griffons were natural hunters. Perhaps, to them, elks were nothing more than prey.

So what was she? Maybe some day she’d be walking outside and a griffon would leap out of the snow to rip her chest open and tear out her heart. It might not even need a reason to do so, save perhaps hunger. Maybe it would be better to die like that; at least the griffon would appreciate her meat in its belly and the warmth her skin would provide.

“It’s a special order.”

Fleur pulled her hoof back from the pelt with a flinch. She turned to her father, keeping her eyes on the dirt. She half expected him to strike her for touching the pelt.

Instead, he simply spoke, his tone quiet and contemplative. “It’s really something, the way life works.” He stepped up and closely examined the pelt, rubbing the hair with his hoof. “I understand that this poor guy gave them a good chase. Kept going for three days, even after one got a claw in his flanks. He earned their respect, and for that he gets the honor of being made into a coat for the one that finally caught him.”

He turned once more to Fleur, who refused to raise her head. She did her best not to whimper when her stomach growled and prayed he hadn’t heard.

Her father continued, “I want you to understand something, child. In this world, you must prove yourself useful. If you do that, then you live on. If you don’t, the griffons eat you. We shouldn’t blame them for this; they are struggling to get by just as much as we are. It is because we help them survive that we survive in turn. You want to be useful, don’t you? Speak.”

Her ears perked; she’d not been permitted to speak in… she wasn’t sure how long. She worked her lips, wondering if they would remember how. “I do, sir.”

“Good.” He patted her head; she flinched at his touch, only realizing after that he’d not intended to strike. “That is good, child. So please, understand that when I do not feed you, it is to demonstrate the cost of failure. Is that understood? Speak.”

Twice in as many minutes? In her surprise, she almost looked up at him, but stopped herself at the last instant. “I understand, sir.”

“Good,” he said again. “Then you won’t mess up the lunch today. I have a lot of work to do, and I want to eat light anyways so that I can properly enjoy the large meal to be made for tonight’s guest. My son and I shall enjoy simple sandwiches, you know the type. Only one each, so as to give us hearty appetites in the evening.”

Fleur nodded, but didn’t move. She waited for his permission, but when it didn’t come she began to fidget. Was there something else he wanted? A tremble ran through her; what if she’d forgotten to do something? But he’d made her stay in her room, she couldn’t have done anything regardless!

“My sister will be coming over tonight to cook supper,” he said at last. “She will not require your help, as we want this meal to be especially good. Mr. Podzornayatrooba is an important figure in the town and things have to go well. You will take a bath before sundown, then wait in your room until it is time for dinner. You will be permitted to eat at the table.”

A gasp escaped her. She couldn’t help it; she looked up. When she did, her father’s expression darkened.

Icy claws gripped her heart. She jerked her head away as quickly as she could and lowered to a prostrate bow, lips and legs trembling.

He stepped closer, and his hoofbeat was like thunder in her ears.

“Do not buck this up, child. I’ve been treating you kindly these last few months. If I have to regret my kindness, so will you. Now go.”

It took all the willpower she possessed not to gallop, but there could be no hiding the teardrops in the dirt.

That was not unusual.

Baths. Fleur hated baths. She didn’t mind being clean, but the process for being so always proved a terrible ordeal.

Entirely because she couldn’t heat the water.

When her father and brother used the bath, they would have her build a fire beneath the tank. Being deemed not worth the firewood, Fleur was forced to simply fill the tub with the water as it was. Opening the spigot gave her only a trickle, and she had to bang on the pipes to dislodge the ice within before she could get something resembling a proper flow. She didn’t use much water, just enough to moisten the soap – something she’d only been able to use once before in her entire life – and soak her mane and tail for a proper cleaning.

Even that quickly turned into a challenge, for the water froze in her hair and refused to budge without her taking the effort to break it. The bite of the ice in her coat and mane was enough to bring tears to her eyes, but she struggled through the misery quietly. Her father was letting her clean herself, after all. She couldn’t refuse his generosity.

She was still working diligently on getting the soapy ice from her tail when her aunt entered the room. Apparently she’d needed some more water for cooking and had come to get some from the tank.

The mare took in the filly’s plight with wide eyes and a gasp. “By the Goddess, child, is this what my brother’s requiring of you?”

Knowing better than to respond vocally, Fleur merely continued her work with eyes on the ground.

“Stop that this instant.”

Fleur thought of her father and what he would do if she disobeyed him by not finishing her bath. Would it be worse than if she disobeyed her aunt? Caught in a moment of horrible indecisiveness, she inadvertently obeyed. She cringed in preparation as her aunt approached.

Her aunt ran a hoof over Fleur’s frozen mane. “I know you’re a useless waif of a girl, but this will take forever! We can’t leave the constable waiting, nor can we have you looking like a mess. We’ll have both if things go on like this.”

She turned to the tank and, after a moment’s concentration, ignited her horn. She stood still for several long seconds, her eyes closed tight and mumbled nothings slipping through her lips. Fleur watched in quiet wonder as the ice on the tank slowly melted. Her aunt had always been better at magic than her father, but this surely must have taxed even her abilities. The spell continued until the tank was hot enough that all the ice had melted from the outside, and only then did her aunt’s horn dim.

She heaved a long sigh, then turned to Fleur. “There, now let me do something about you.”

Fleur bit her lip to keep from yelping as a beam of light struck her. With it came no pain, only a deep warmth. Within seconds, the ice had melted from her body and left her feeling nothing short of delightful. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed so much heat!

Her aunt tapped the shampoo bottle, knocking it towards Fleur. “Use this. I’ll explain to my brother why it’s not a waste… this time. You’ll want to hurry, the water will be freezing again before too long.” She levitated a bucket to the spigot and retrieved what she needed, then turned to leave. “Get started, girl! I won’t be doing that again.”

The water escaped the tank freely, flowing better than Fleur had ever known it to before. It proved more lukewarm than hot, but she saw that as nothing less than a blessing. She did as her aunt instructed and washed herself thoroughly with the soap and shampoo, cleansing herself of grit and grime that had built up over months of neglect. When it was all said and done, Fleur felt – for the first time in her life – clean.

Even though she was starving, Fleur enjoyed her bath.

That was most unusual.

As instructed, Fleur remained in her closet until called upon. The sun was just peeking beyond the horizon, soon to go to sleep and leave the night sky open for its nocturnal sibling. Fleur spent the long wait grooming her coat and mane. She took great delight in the act, admiring herself in the mirror and trying valiantly – if in vain – to imitate her mother’s manestyle.

It also served to distract from how unfathomably hungry she was. The smell of her aunt’s cooking didn’t help matters.

At last, there came a knock on her door. She opened it to see her brother, who stared down his upraised muzzle at her. His eyes widened upon seeing her, and his upper lip curled back in a scowl. Fleur backed into her closet, not certain what she had done to earn his anger. She fell to her knees and bowed her head, silently begging him not to deny her tonight’s feast.

After a few seconds of silence, her brother tapped his hoof on the floor to catch her attention. His scowl unchanged, he thrust the same hoof to the kitchen. “Stand tall and don’t embarrass us. And don't you ever try to wear your hair like that again.”

She nodded and moved for the kitchen, hanging her head low but keeping her legs as straight as she could.

Her brother grumbled and reached a hoof to her chin, forcing her head up. “As long as our guest remains in the house, you may look. Just don’t stare.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. Oh, let her look presentable! She wanted this meal so badly.

She entered the kitchen to find the head of the table – her father’s place – taken up by an unusually large griffon. He was chortling and grinning with her father, a large steaming plate before him.

He turned to her, nothing save joviality in his manner. “Ah, and this must be the reclusive daughter I’ve heard rumors of. I must say, I thought you were a myth, the kind of tale old hens whisper to their grandchildren.”

Fleur’s heart came to a stop. The griffon smiled upon her as if he anticipated an answer. No one had ever been so… so direct with her! If she did the wrong thing…

Legs wobbling, she ducked her head and looked to her father, being careful to avoid eye contact. His smile had faded to an unreadable expression, but he nodded.

Oh, no. What to say? “I… um… I promise I’m real.”

The griffon burst into laughter, slapping a claw over his chest as he did. “She’s more shy than those stupid elks from the northern hills!”

“Y-yes, sir, quite right.” Her father exchanged a dark frown with her brother, who had already settled at his side. Fleur noticed her aunt sitting opposite her father. A chair sat beside her, and Fleur realized it was meant for her. Heart pounding, she carefully climbed on.

It was curious, how entirely different the world could look just by seeing it at a different angle. Fleur stared at the table from above for what may have been the first time ever. Somehow, she’d always thought it would have a more polished surface, but what she saw instead were cracks and stains. She studied the curve of the wood’s layers, tracing them with her eyes, memorizing them just in case she never saw them again.

In so doing, she finally saw the plate set before her. She blinked, taking in its smooth shape. This wasn’t a rough tool like her bowl, nor was it the simple items she used to feed her father and brother. No, this had been made from smooth, treated wood. She’d never been permitted to even know where these plates were, much less eat from them. Thinking a mistake had been made, she looked around the table for her clay bowl and its porridge.

But there had been no mistake. Every pony and griffon had the same plates.

Fleur flinched back from the plate, fear gnawing at her insides. This wasn’t right, she wasn’t supposed to have one of these! What if she broke it, or scratched it with her teeth? What would her father do to her? They'd given her a fork and knife, but she'd never used those before!

She couldn’t say anything, and that made it all the worse. It was one thing for a serious error to have occurred, it was another when she couldn’t speak to correct it! She cast a pleading look her father’s way, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Before she could think any further, something landed in her plate. She could only gape, mouth watering and stomach rumbling, upon steamed carrots and cabbage, diced turnips in some brown sauce, and mouthful of peas. Steam roiled from the lot of it, filling her nostrils with such delightful an aroma as she’d never dreamed of. All of this… for her?

Then her aunt placed one more item on the plate, something Fleur had never even seen before: meat. She had no idea what kind of meat, but it clearly belonged to a small animal. Rabbit, perhaps?

Fleur had never seen her father or brother eat meat. In fact, she wasn’t sure ponies could eat it. Yet, as she looked around the table, she saw that every plate had a piece of the stuff. The others all had much bigger portions compared to hers, but she didn’t mind that; what she had was already at least three times as much as she would get to eat in a regular day. Given that she’d not had so much as a nibble for herself all day long, she was certain she’d be eating every bite.

The meal began in earnest, and it really was unlike anything Fleur had ever known before. Her brother, father and aunt spoke with a polite pleasantness alien to her ears, but not so alien as the laughter that erupted from them fairly regularly at Mr. Podzornayatrooba’s jokes. She still rarely spoke, and even then it was only to answer the rare question from the constable.

She gathered quickly that, although the circumstances were different from the usual, her behavior was not expected to be. Though she kept her head up and smiled when the griffon looked her way, she said not a word and didn’t look anyone in the eye. The vegetables were the most delectable treats than any she’d ever had, and she ate them slowly so as best to savor every bite.

The peas practically melted in her mouth! Had she just discovered her favorite food?

What a novel concept.

The meat, on the other hoof… Fleur ate it to be polite, but it didn’t feel right on her tongue, and her teeth didn’t seem to behave properly around it. If her family felt similarly, they did a good job of masking it. Perhaps they were only accommodating their meat-eating guest? With nothing else to go on, she assumed this was the case and tried to follow their example.

Fleur attempted to pay attention to the conversation, but it wasn’t easy. Most of the time she focused on studying the room from her new position. It felt good to be high up. It let her see more and made her feel special. Perhaps, for tonight at least, she was. Even if the constable was the only one that would ever speak to her, and then only infrequently. She got the feeling he was trying to be accommodating, too.

After the meal had ended, Fleur’s aunt began taking the dishes away. She wasn’t told to help, and when she reached for her own her aunt snatched it away as if afraid for the thing. Fleur didn’t understand – cleaning dishes was normally her job – but chose not to fret over it. Tonight had been unusually pleasant. Why ruin that by doing more than was asked of her?

Her ears perked. What did the constable just say?

Her father possessed an incredulous frown as he addressed the griffon. “A pony? Really? Is this some kind of joke?”

Mr. Podzornayatrooba was watching her father with a grim expression. “Do I look like I’m joking, Gladkaya? A pony came to town just yesterday. A unicorn.”

Fleur leaned against the table, paying rapt attention.

Her father didn’t seem so interested. “What the flying feather is a unicorn doing in these parts? It’s not exactly a tourist trap.”

The constable tapped his claws on the table in a rolling rhythm. “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me. I didn’t get to meet him, but I saw him a few times. Tried to talk to him every time, but couldn’t catch him.”

Fleur’s father tensed. Her brother appeared as confused as she felt.

“What do you mean, couldn’t catch him?” Her father’s tone was terse… and perhaps a little worried.

Beak snapping in annoyance, the constable crossed his arms and glared at the ceiling. “I mean every time I tried to get to him, he disappeared. It was like trying to corner a shadow. I guarantee you, that pony didn’t want to be talked to.”

Her brother grinned. “He sounds cool.”

“He sounds like a pony with something to hide,” her father countered. “I don’t know anything about any weird ponies, Constable.”

The constable’s eyes narrowed as he gazed down at Fleur’s father. “He was looking for a pony family. According to the griffons I spoke to in town, he had a name and a description. Doesn’t take much for ponies in Grypha; colors alone would do it. You know who it was?”

Again with the tension in her father’s pose. Fleur’s chest pressed against the edge of the table, her ears rotated forward as she listened. Her brother looked much the same.

“Purpurnyj.”

Crash.

All eyes turned to the kitchen, where Fleur’s aunt stared at them all with her jaw hanging loose. At her hooves lay the remains of one of the plates.

Her father stood quickly. “Blyesk, it’s okay. It’s not that.”

“How do you know, Gladkaya? What if it is?”

Fleur looked from her trembling aunt to her father, who sagged against the table as if he’d lost all his strength. She’d never seen him look so… frail. Her brother gaped at the stallion, then shifted a little closer and rubbed his shoulder.

The constable leaned forward. “What is it that troubles you?”

“I-it’s nothing,” her father replied, but there was little conviction in his tone. When the constable didn’t stop staring, he sighed and nodded. “It’s just that… grandmother once told us this story about why she came to this land. The story came with a warning.”

A talon rested on his shoulder. The griffon spoke softly, “What was the warning, Gladkaya?”

Fleur’s aunt stepped closer, shaking her head.

She was ignored. “It was: ‘Beware of ponies coming from far away places. Where the light shines, it creates a shadow, and someday that shadow may come for us all.’ ”

The constable’s eyes grew so large Fleur thought they would fall from their sockets. Slowly, he pulled his talon away. “I… I see. Well, that’s that, then.”

Fleur’s father shook his head forcefully. “It doesn’t mean anything. It could be nothing.”

“But Gladkaya!” Fleur’s aunt raised her hooves in an imploring gesture. “He spoke of our family – by name. What else could it be?”

Fleur’s brother spoke up. “I don’t understand. What are you two talking about?”

“Not now, son. Constable, isn’t there anything you can do, just in case?”

The constable opened his beak to respond, then reconsidered. His claws rolled on the table yet again as he thought. His eye lingered on Fleur, and she thought she saw sadness in that gaze. At last, he asked, “Do you have any means of protecting your family?”

Her father shifted. “Aside from our magic? I… I guess we have our tanning knives.”

“I suggest you keep them close.”

A choking sound rose from her father’s throat. “You want us to… to… With just knives? You’re the law in this town, isn’t it your job to do something about this kind of thing?”

The constable rubbed his eyes and heaved a long sigh. “Against a ‘shadow of the light?’ There’s not a griffon on this side of the Lena that would even dream of tangling with something like that. If you really want to survive this, I propose you and yours get out of town as quickly and quietly as you can and pray this pony doesn’t catch your scent.”

Fleur’s brother stomped hard enough to shake the wooden floor. “Come on, what in the snows are you guys going on about?”

“I better go.” The constable stood with a small bow of his head. “I appreciate the meal, Blyesk, and I’m sorry I can offer nothing more. For what it’s worth, this town is going to miss you ponies.”

Her father shouted after the retreating griffon. “Constable? Mr. Podzornayatrooba! Damn you, you can’t just run away, you have a job to do!”

The front door slammed closed. Silence loomed over everypony present. Slowly, Fleur’s father dropped to his haunches, shoulders slumped and head hanging so low she couldn’t see it for the table. She looked to her aunt, but the mare had her hooves pressed together and was whispering with her eyes closed. That left her brother, but he appeared no less confused than she felt.

For the first time in years, their eyes met. He made no attempt to threaten her for the offense. He merely gazed back with a lost expression. At last, he reached up to place a hoof on their father’s shoulder.

The contact made the older stallion jump. He looked at him, then at his sister. He didn’t even cast a glance Fleur’s way. His expression hardened.

“Red, I want you to go to your brother’s place. Tell him to pack his things and come here. He’ll stay the night and help us prepare.”

Her brother cocked his head. “Prepare for what?”

Fleur’s father tapped the table a few times, his brow knitted as he thought. When he spoke, it was with fierce determination.

“We’re leaving.”

When her father said they were leaving, Fleur had been afraid. She’d never been allowed to leave home for any reason, and now they were supposed to travel somewhere new. Would they go far? What dangers would they face? What if they left her behind? These and many other questions filled her head as her father and aunt talked into the night about what they would bring and where they might go.

Fleur tried to listen in from an out of the way place, but her father noticed and sent her to her closet. Now she lay under her blanket, trembling in the cold and fearing for her future. No matter how she pressed her ear to the wood and held her breath, all she could hear was indistinct mumblings.

Wanting to be responsible, Fleur set her pillow next to the door and put her mirror, brush and bowl on top of it. She could tie her blanket into a bundle to hold it, but for now she needed it for what little protection it could offer from the frigid air. With her belongings so stored, she would be able to wrap them up quickly in the morning when they called on her.

If they called on her.

A shiver ran through her, but it had little to do with the cold. Her heart sunk into her barrel, Fleur took the picture from her mirror and set it against the wall, her bowl pressed against it to keep the wind from blowing it away. That done, she lay down such that she could stare at her mother’s smiling face.

She wouldn’t speak. Speaking led to pain. But in her head, she recited the same thought over and over again.

Please, don’t let them leave me.

Trying her best to keep quiet, Fleur cried herself to sleep.

Thump.

Fleur woke with a start. Fear lanced through her heart, for the very first thing she suspected was that she overslept. The last time she’d overslept she’d been unable to walk for a week! She pressed her hooves tight around her muzzle to keep the apologies at bay. Apologies always led to worse punishments.

The silence clued her in. With ears perked, her head shifted one way, then another. Not a sound in the whole house other than the wind through the cracks in her closet. She peered outside and saw nothing but the night. She realized that it couldn’t possibly be time to leave, the sun wouldn’t be up for hours.

So what had woken her up?

Creak.

Her head whipped up to the ceiling, her ears at attention.

Silence.

Creak.

That wasn’t the typical sound her father’s hoofsteps made. Somepony was going up the stairs above her head, and they were trying to be quiet about it.

Someday that shadow may come for us all.

She wanted to scream, but every fiber of her being resisted. If it was this ‘shadow’ then she didn’t want to announce her whereabouts! But it might be going for her father and aunt. Shouldn’t she warn him somehow?

No. If she spoke without permission – if she made any sound at all – she would be punished. And if it wasn’t the shadow, that would make things so much worse. Yet she also couldn’t leave her closet without permission, so she had no way to know for certain! Her father could die, and… and…

And what? What would happen to her? Without her father to be her keeper, she could die anyway. Or maybe she would be taken away from this cold place. That couldn’t be a good thing… could it?

She didn’t want her father to die.

She didn’t want to be hurt.

If she didn’t help her father, she would be all alone.

If she did help him, he would hurt her for it.

He always hurt her.

Indecision cracked her fortitude, allowing the slightest of whimpers to escape her. She immediately slapped her hooves back over her muzzle, wide eyes darting to the ceiling.

Creak.

With a gasp, she turned for the door, but stopped herself before her hoof could reach it. An image of her father’s furious expression from the last time she went out without permission pushed her back. Trembling, struggling to keep her sobs as quiet as possible, she gathered up her threadbare blanket and buried herself as deep into the corner beneath the bottom stair as she could. Maybe if she made herself small enough, neither he nor the shadow would notice.

The world was quiet once more. Her eyes, shining with tears, stared out at the rest of her tiny little room under the stairs. Shafts of moonlight pierced the dark, decorated with the floating little dusties she sometimes counted as stand-in stars on cloudy nights. The darkness seemed to shift and she could swear something was in the room with her. Or maybe watching her from the cracks outside?

Fleur’s throat constricted. She fought so hard not to cry that she started choking. At any moment, some skeletal black pony would appear from the shadows to carry her away into Tartarus. Or perhaps the Nightmare would slither into her room via the moonbeams and gobble her up! Or perhaps it would be the vengeful spirit of the elk whose skin still lay in the tanning workshop, ready to stomp her to her doom and rip her skin off as penance.

She buried her face in her blanket. It wasn’t fair! She was just a worthless, weak filly. What did she do to be punished as well? It wasn’t like she wanted that poor elk’s carcass in her home!

Thump.

She froze, her eyes still blinded by the blanket. But her ears were free, and they turned upwards to the sound. She thought she could hear something. Something… muffled.

Snap.

She twitched at this new oddity. Following it was something distinct and terrible to hear, a protracted and thickly muffled sound that she suspected had little to do with the floorboards between her and her father’s room.

It sounded like somepony trying to scream.

Snap.

It came again, long and quiet but unquestionable. Fleur’s heart began pounding once more, her breathing coming in shallow gasps. What was she going to do? If her father was in trouble…

But if he wasn’t and she left her room…

But if he was and she did nothing…

Thump.

Thump.

Snap.

She nearly screamed.

Her father’s hoof came at her from the darkness. She winced, preparing for the blow…

It didn’t come. She peeked out of one eye and saw that she remained alone.

She promptly stuffed the filthy blanket into her mouth. She would not scream, she would not scream, she would not scream!

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The sound repeated, against and again, growing louder with each successive bang. Fleur covered her ears as tears streaked down her face. She was dreaming, she had to be! She’d heard something scary and now her mind wanted to play mean games with her. There was no shadow pony, the Nightmare probably didn’t really eat little fillies, and the ghost of that poor elk was not in their house! Soon she’d wake and see the sun about to come out.

All she’d have to worry about then was to not make a sound. Or look anypony in the eye. Or walk too slowly. Or too quickly. Or not be useful. Or be in the way. Or leave her room without permission. Or—

A new sound forced its way past her hooves to pierce her ears: a scream. A real, horrible, prolonged shriek that filled the night with razors to slice into her head. Only a short lifetime of practice kept her from joining in.

A resounding bang shook the entire house, and the screaming abruptly stopped. Fleur held her breath, staring into the darkness of her blanket and listening as carefully as she could.

Hoofsteps. Fast hoofsteps.

The quietest of yelps escaped her as the door to her room opened. She couldn’t bring herself to look up. If it was the shadow, or the elk, or even the Nightmare, she didn’t want to know about it!

“Whatever you do, don’t make a sound.”

At that familiar voice, she promptly looked up. Her brother was kneeling within the closet, far too large for the small space. He had streaks of moisture running down his cheeks as he looked her in the eyes. His entire body trembled.

Was he… hiding? In here?

Her brother’s head drooped until his chin touched the floorboards. His voice came out so quietly that she almost didn’t hear it. “If you ever figured out how to pray, please do.”

Pray? She squeezed herself a little more tightly into the corner, clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering. Where was her father? Her aunt? If her brother was so scared…

Scritch, scritch.

They shared wide-eyed looks, then turned their attention to the wall.

Scritch. Scriiii~

The sound rolled across the wall, moving gradually for the door. A shadow passed over the crack beneath just as the sound stopped.

Everything was still. Only the wind betrayed their attempt at silence. Fleur’s mouth had dried, but her cheeks were soaked with frigid tears. She didn’t dare shout, not with her brother right there, but there was no stopping the trailing whine in her throat. Her brother had gone paler than the moon. Both kept their eyes locked on the door handle.

They waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Her brother began to loosen up. He heaved a deep sigh—

The handle turned.

Something snatched Fleur from her hiding place in a blur. Before she even knew what happened, she was dangling in the air between the door and her brother, held up in his white magic. “T-take her! Do whatever you want with her, I don’t care, just let me live!”

Fleur’s jaw fell, she sucked in air… and failed to scream.

This was entirely because the creature that appeared in her door wasn’t like anything she expected. For a shadow pony, he appeared remarkable healthy and un-bone-like. His coat wasn’t even black, but a mottled brown. His mane was black, though. Was that enough to make him a shadow pony?

The stallion – a unicorn – stared down at her with a startled expression. On his neck hung a black knife that swayed like a pendulum. Fleur gazed at it, feeling strangely mesmerized by its motions.

The stallion sat. The motion jarred her focus, and she met his eyes. They were red, and though they seemed to shine in the night they were anything but bright. Even though she knew she shouldn’t look others in the eye, that doing so meant severe punishment, she couldn’t look away. He seemed surprised and… uncertain.

“W-what the feather?” Fleur’s brother rose from where he’d been cowering. “Who are you? You’re not all that scary.”

Eyebrows lowered. Lips twisted into a scowl.

The necklace rose in a dark red aura.

A hoof smacked Fleur’s side, sending her flying against the wall. Even as she fell in a crumbled heap, she understood that it had been her brother’s hoof.

“You sorry son of a hydra! I’m going to—”

His words were cut off by something between a gasp and a gurgle. Clutching at her aching sides, Fleur slowly looked up. Her brother half-stood, half-sat before the stranger, who watched him with a cold frown of indifference.

The black knife had been buried to the hilt in her brother’s stomach.

Fleur’s breath caught. She made no attempt to move. She probably wouldn’t have managed it if she tried. Even when the knife pulled out and swam through the air in a neat arc to slice her brother’s cheeks open, she didn’t so much as flinch. Her stomach roiled as the blood poured out from the teeth of his loosely hanging jaw.

He screamed. It lasted about a second before the stranger threw a kick that knocked her brother’s head back so it bounced off the wall and cracked the boards. His body fell forward, only for his head to be caught in the stranger’s forehooves and slammed to the floor.

He moaned, legs twitching sporadically. Blood began to pool out from the splayed mess that was his mane.

The stranger’s hoof came down on the prone horn. It only took one stomp to break it off with a resounding snap. Her brother’s cry was weak, his trembling legs grasped at his skull. Still he didn’t get up.

The stranger bent low over him, lifted the horn from the blood-smeared floor. His eyes, hard and focused, locked with hers. He went still. The indecision returned, barely noticeable behind his solemnity.

Once again, the world grew quiet. Fleur pressed herself against the wall, unable to breathe as she gazed at the scene before her. Her brother’s blood continued to pool, slowly approaching her. As it nearly touched her hoof, she came to understand that she was about to die. This pony might appear normal, but there could be no doubt that he was the shadow pony her great grandmother had warned her father about.

The shadow had come. It wouldn’t spare her.

Her father…

Her aunt…

Her brothers…

One last thought hit her mind. It was a desperate thought, a hopeful plea, and feeble desire. She broke eye contact with the monster and looked to her insignificant bundle of possessions by the door.

As if in reaction, the stallion rose up and set the tip of the broken horn to the back of her weeping brother’s neck.

Fleur scrambled to the door even as she heard something go crunch. Choked gasping and gurgling filled her ears, but all her attention was on one thing. She caught the picture of her mother, still nestled tightly between the wall and her bowl, and pressed it to her chest. As tears began flowing once more, she curled into a ball on the floor and clutched the paper so hard it crinkled.

“Mommy! I’m sorry! I tried to be a good girl, I really did! I obeyed, I didn’t argue, I cooked, I cleaned, I didn’t talk. Even when they hit me, I didn’t talk! Please tell me I’m a good filly, please, please, please!”

No pain came. Maybe she was too distraught to notice whatever was happening to her. She just kept talking, talking because this would be her last chance to do so.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, I swear I didn’t. Father and Brothers said it was my fault, and I’m so sorry, but I didn’t know! If I had known it hurt so much, I would have stayed a little nothing in your stomach, I promise! I wanted to be a good filly. I wanted to make you proud. I did everything father said I should, just for you. So please, when I see you, tell me I’m a good filly. That’s all I ever wanted!”

She kept rambling, not even sure what she was saying anymore. The moment seemed to stretch on into infinity. She kept waiting to see her mother’s face for real, to look upon her in the flesh for the very first time and know her smile. It would be the perfect smile. Her father said so, every time he reminded her of how she’d stolen it away. Why couldn’t she see that smile? Why hadn’t the shadow pony killed her yet?

Death. She wanted to die. To no longer be freezing, hurt or hungry. To be with somepony who loved her.

Because her mother would love her… wouldn’t she?

What if she didn’t?

Something touched the back of her head. She flinched, preparing herself for the pain and sweet oblivion. The hoof ran along her neck and down her back. It lifted. It came down again, retracing the same course. It did this again and again. Every time it came back to her head, she flinched, until she slowly came to realize what was happening.

She was being… petted.

Rubbing her eyes, Fleur raised her head. Through the blur of her vision she saw the stallion sitting beside her, tall and looming. When at last her vision cleared, she saw no anger or threatening solemnity. His ears were folded back, his eyes shifting at nothing. And still his hoof kept rubbing her back in that pleasant way.

She licked her lips and moistened her sore throat, but kept herself from speaking at the last moment. But then again…

Speaking meant punishment. Her father punished by hitting her. Would this stallion’s punishment be her death?

Thinking of her mother and how desperate she was to hear her voice, Fleur cleared her throat. “Aren’t you going to k-kill me?”

His eyes shifted to hers. He blinked, shook himself, swallowed. “I… Do you… Do you live here?”

Without taking her eyes from his, she nodded.

He heaved a long sigh. His hoof didn’t stop stroking her back. “I see.”

Silence passed between them. His gaze unfocused once more. She glanced back at his hoof, coming to realize that she really liked how he touched her. Her father and brothers, not even her aunt ever touched her like this. It was so new, so strange, so… nice. Why would he be nice to her?

“I killed them all.”

She shrank from him, eyebrows shooting up. He wouldn’t meet her gaze when he said, “That’s right. Him, his sister and two sons. They’re all dead. That was my job.”

Fleur’s legs grew weak. She slowly sank to her barrel, neck craned back so she could continue to gawk at him.

One more, he looked upon her. He reached a shaking hoof forward, touching her neck. “I should. I didn’t know about you, but… but I…”

His hoof remained poised at her throat, it tiny vibrations tickling her hairs. She refused to move for fear of provoking him.

No, wait… she wanted to die.

Didn’t she?

The hoof retreated. He heaved a shaky breath and shook his head, mumbling indecipherably. He turned for the door, began to leave.

Comprehension dawned upon her. Fleur jumped to her hooves. “Wait!”

He went stiff, already halfway through the door. Fleur couldn’t help hesitating; was he mad? She had spoken out of line, that should have earned her a strike. Yet he made no move to hit her. Why not?

She’d already risked so much, and this murderer had yet to harm her. Did she dare to try again?

“You… You’re supposed to kill me.”

No reaction. He didn’t even shift.

“I want you to.”

He stepped away before she even finished the sentence, moving with a jittery swiftness. Though the memory of every bruise she’d gained in her life told her not to follow, she forced her legs to move.

She paused at the door, gawking at the sight of her eldest brother lying on the couch. His legs were sprawled out wildly and his mouth gaped in a silent shriek. He didn’t appear to have any wounds, but his normally brown face was blue.

So… they really were all dead. Was she the only one left? And why was it that, when she gazed upon that disturbing face, she felt no great loss?

The stallion was approaching the door. With a gasp, she gave chase. “Why? Why won’t you kill me too?”

He said nothing. The door opened to the pull of his magic.

She scrambled after him even as the frigid wind of night cut into her flesh. “Please! You can’t leave me like this!”

At last he stopped. He turned around to give her a look that danced somewhere between frustration and confusion. “Don’t follow me.”

Disobedience meant pain.

She stood before him and gazed up with pleading eyes. “Kill me.”

His jaw dropped slightly, but he recovered quickly. “No.”

She moved a little closer, shivering in the cold air. “Then I’ll follow you.”

“You’ll die.”

“Good!” She didn’t know she could speak so much. Maybe the lack of violent retribution was loosening her tongue? But Fleur knew that this was the fastest way to get what she wanted, so she tried to imitate her father’s stomp and glare. “I want to be with Mommy. I want her to know how good I’ve been!”

With a heavy sigh, the stallion walked back inside and closed the door. He sat before her, brow furrowed and lips pursed. She stared right back, trying her best to be intimidating. Her father was good at it, maybe she could be too.

Time passed. Neither pony spoke. The stallion was as stiff as skin on the rack. Fleur tried to be the same way, but she kept shivering in the cold and shifting to get comfortable. At any moment, she knew this stranger would strike her for being so impertinent. After all, she’d defied orders. Her father would have beaten her bad if she’d spoken like that to him.

At last, the stallion sighed. “Don’t follow me.” He made to stand, but when she braced he promptly sat back down with a groan. “You’re going to follow me anyway, aren’t you?”

She tensed on all fours, ready to run after him if necessary. She looked up at him with all the determination she could muster.

Rubbing his forehead with both hooves, he grumbled, “If you’re gonna follow me out there, the least you can do is wear your coat.”

Coat? What coat? She pondered this suggestion for a few seconds, trying to make sense of it. Then she nodded and hurried to her room, grabbing her blanket and throwing it over her shoulders. She ran back, surprised to find him still sitting there, and went back to her braced position with no less determination.

His eyebrows rose. “What is that?”

She smirked triumphantly. “My blanket.”

“A blanket.” His deadpan tone matched his expression. He lifted one corner of her blanket with his hoof and stared at the frayed edges and threading so bare it was almost see-through. “A blanket,” he repeated.

He looked into her eyes once more. Gradually, his disbelief was replaced by… was that concern? “This is a tannery.”

She cocked her head. “So?”

“Don’t you have anything better?”

Realizing he wasn’t going to try to get away, Fleur sat back and relaxed. She picked up the edge of her blanket and examined it uncertainly before looking back up at him. “Better?”

His lips twisting to a scowl, he walked past her for the tanning room. Realizing he might try to leave her through the back door, she hurried after him. He looked over the assorted furs and skins, examining them one at a time. She watched from the doorway, wondering what he was planning. Had he come here and killed her family just to steal some furs?

No, that was silly. If that were true, he wouldn’t have tried to leave earlier.

So… what was he doing?

“Let’s try this one.” He picked up the skin of a fox and brought it to her. She lowered her ears as he raised the skin in his magic and started to—

“No!” She danced out from underneath it, her heart hammering.

He cocked his head, tail flicking. “What’s wrong now?”

“I’m not allowed!” She shook her head frantically. “Th-those are for the clients. If father ever found me playing with his hides, he’d hang me by my tail on one of the racks!”

“Hang you by your—“ What started as a disbelieving attitude quickly shifted to silence as he looked in the direction of her room. He swallowed again before looking at her with wide eyes. “Did he… actually do that to you?”

She nodded, shivering from the memory and tucking her tail around herself. That had been such a horrid day.

The stranger closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. When they opened again, they were hard. The fox skin hovered before her. “Wrap this around yourself.”

“B-but, my father—”

He growled through gritted teeth. “I. Killed. Your. Father.”

Fleur shrank back, staring up at him with wide eyes.

The stranger nodded. “I killed him. He’s dead. So is your aunt and two brothers. There’s nopony left in your family to listen to, so you will listen to me.” The fur fell to the floor. “Put it on.”

This was bad. He was making her do bad things! Her father…

Her father… couldn’t do anything to her anymore.

The thought was like being doused in frigid water. Her father was gone. Forever gone. He couldn’t hit her. He could shout at her, or make her go to her room without food, or push her head underwater. He would never again tell her how useless she was, or stupid or weak or ugly.

Slowly, hooves trembling, she took the fur and wrapped around herself. It was cool to the touch… but already she could feel herself warming up. Her legs danced, her eyes shifted to the door. Her ears lowered in anticipation of the shout that never came. She opened her mouth to apologize, but there was nopony to apologize to.

The stranger turned away from her. She watched him go, too stunned by her newfound… freedom? Was that what this was? Without her father, she couldn’t survive, right?

But without her father, she was wrapped in fox fur and starting to warm up.

A whole new world of possibilities sprang open before Fleur’s startled mind. She could say anything, go wherever, eat whatever! For the first time in her short little life, she had the option of choice, and nopony was going to punish her for it. She could enjoy a real bed, wear warm clothes, take hot baths, anything. So many options, so many chances.

Energy built within her long, thin legs. She pranced in place, her frown shifting into a smile, the smile into a grin. Her father was gone. Gone. Gone!

For her mother, she still had to be a good filly, but without her father, who was it that determined what ‘good’ was? Maybe there were other ways to define ‘good.’ Nopony ever said that her father’s way was the only way, or the best way. Well, her father suggested it, but—

Fleur gasped upon realizing that she was all alone. Hooves scrambling on the floorboards, she galloped through the house and out the open front door. She fell forward into the snow, only to jump back to her hooves and look around frantically. The snow, almost as tall as she was, gave her savior away in the form of a wide, clear path from his passing.

She hurried along the pale valley, pressing through where the snow had toppled and hoping the snowfall would stay light. If it got any stronger, it might bury the trail!

It didn’t take long to catch up. The stallion didn’t seem to notice her, so she fell into step behind him.

The sky was overcast and the darkness oppressive. She tugged her fox skin tighter around her shoulders, grateful that his path blocked much of the wind. How far had she already traveled? Farther than ever before, that much was certain. Would she come back? Where were they going? Maybe the stallion would kill her later.

She wasn’t so sure she wanted to die anymore.

In fact, she felt certain she’d changed her mind on that matter.

“Still going to follow me, eh?”

Fleur raised her head, but the stallion didn’t look back. She chose silence as the best response.

“I’m not going to kill you, you know.”

She smiled and nodded, even though he wouldn’t see it.

He heaved another of those long sighs. “Now what am I going to do with you?”

Having no good answer, she offered none.

They walked on for several more minutes in silence. Fleur had no way to know where they were. Aside from the shadow of a tree every now and then, the world seemed to be nothing but a pale blanket of snow and darkness. Even so, a wave of contentment washed through Fleur’s body, warming like no fire had ever managed before.

She had a second chance. An opportunity to make up for her greatest mistake. Perhaps, if she followed this stallion, she would be able to repent the sin of having been born.

It was better than wasting away under the stairs.

Author's Notes:

And so begins Fleur's story, in the cold plains of Grypha. Being one of my all-time favorite background ponies (as I'm sure her copious appearances in my stories attests), I always enjoy writing her as a character.

A few things of note:

First, yes, I know I spelled it "The Griffa Plains" but then call the land "Grypha." I know that confuses and annoys some people. But it's not a mistake. The name of the griffon nation is "The Grypha Empire," and the "Griffa Plains" are a major geographical area of that empire. They're supposed to be spelled differently.

Next, recall my note from the previous chapter. These events are taking place before any other events in the Order of Shadows storyline so far. Yes, even before Fine Crime's story. In fact, Fine's only 15 as of this chapter. As more chapters come up, Fleur's story will begin to overlap with that of others, and we may even see some familiar events from a different perspective.