As the bright morning sun caressed her back in its loving warmth, Starlight looked down from the hill at the massive army of legions that faced the hordes of unarmored sword-wielding auxiliaries in front of them to fight in her name. Rock centaurs with crossbows stood on the rolling sandy hills, scattered in front of rock centaurs with warhammers, which stood in groups of eighty, packed in tight rectangular formations, each six of which were grouped into cohorts. There were ten of these cohorts, with wide spaces separating them. This alternated down the three lines, so that the second line had its three cohorts facing the gaps between the four cohorts of the first line, and the third line doing so for the second line's gaps. This was the usual formation of the legion, which, as Starlight pointed out before, had an uncanny resemblance to a checkerboard. There stood only seven legions, four on the front line, two in the back for reserve, and the single legion armed with crossbows split up by cohort and split evenly among the other legions. The plain white banners with black print symbols of II, III, IV, and so on, which were carried one in each legion, made this easy to tell. Confused by the absence of three legions, she turned to the Wanderer next to him to ask about it.

“So, you know where the last three legions are, right? You didn't lose them or anything?”

He looked back to her. “Do not worry yourself about them. I have conferred with the legates, and they know what to do. Those legions have their own special purpose.”

“Wait, they actually talk and listen like normal troops?”

“Yes. Surprisingly enough, they do.”

“Well, what are you gonna do if things go pear-shaped?”

“That is what reserves are for. Our subordinate commanders know what they are doing, and I have retained a staff that will assist me should my intervention be needed.”

“And what if you need to tell them to do something?”

“A war leader cannot simply talk into a magical box and tell his subordinates to do this or that specific thing, and even if he could, there is only so much a single individual can manage. However, there are protocols that armies have to follow new orders from on high to a certain extent.” He gestured to the legions. “Look to each cohort. To each century. What do you notice about them?”

Starlight locked her gaze onto one of the cohorts in the center. She was somewhat surprised to see that even that relatively small unit had its own administrative staff. Most of the centaurs were just regular gray rocks, but she saw that each century had one slightly bigger brown one that carried a small triangular banner bearing the image of some animal or building, accompanied by four other, smaller brown ones, one with hammer and shield, two with horns, and one with drums. The trumpets, she imagined, were what the cohorts used to issue orders to their hundreds of individuals.

“Oh, I get it!” she said. “You use those horns and banners to order them around on a small scale, and couriers to order them around on a larger scale.”

The Wanderer raised an armored foreleg up and wrapped it around Starlight's midsection. She felt him pull her up to his metal-plated chest in a tight embrace. “How foolish of me to underestimate you. I had not expected you to pick up on that so quickly. I adore that beautiful mind of yours. Clever, clever, clever little dear. You have come such a long way from wondering why towns build walls. I do not know if I can squeeze you hard enough without making you a cripple.”

She giggled. “You know, there is one gesture of affection that's even stronger than a hug.”

“Oh? Would you be referring to the slave's acts of slobbering all over you in the mountain?”

She nodded. “Yes. Those are called kisses.”

“And this gesture is like a higher grade of hug, I take it?”

“It could be that. It could also be something else. It depends on the context.”

“Could I, perchance, try it on you?”

“Sure.”

“And on which part of the face is it customary to execute a… kiss?”

“Just pick a spot.”

Starlight, with a smile, looked into the glass plates that covered his eyes. For a brief moment, he remained silent. As always, the helm covering his face kept her from guessing what was going on in his mind. There was also a chance that he was just kidding with her. Was the idea of affection really so alien to the Empire that these basic, universal gestures were unheard of? It seemed hard to believe. But the time for wondering quickly came to an end. He magically threw his visor open with a clang, and pressed his lips against hers, then withdrew them, putting the visor back on and leaving her with a warm pigment on her face. A quiet moment.

“Did you mean to do that?” she asked.

“Now, why would I do that if I did not mean to?”

“Never mind. It was a silly question.”

“Well, I must give you my thanks in any case. These xenos customs of yours may be strange, but they are never unpleasant.” He released his grip from her, then put his hoof back down. “Look back to the field. What do you see the crossbows doing?”

She looked again at them. They were firing their bolts at their targets, loosely scattered slingers who clutched their slings in their mouths, unleashing round stones at wherever they focused their aim. The centaurs were surprisingly fragile for being made of rock; a direct hit to the head by a stone put a golem out of action as well as it would a regular pony. Places that weren't the head were sturdier, almost as hard as plate armor, but still not entirely invincible. Anything bigger than a minor crack caused purple gas to burst out of the golem through it, draining its energy until it froze in place and fell over. “They're shooting at the slingers,” she said.

“They have been doing this for a while now. Crossbows are better than slings, and ours are better protected, so they are running out of slingers. They will withdraw their slings and charge their swords into clobbering distance soon enough.”

“And the crossbows will soften them up… then run away through the gaps in the checkerboard before they're caught.”

“Correct. And the gaps in the front line will not be a great disadvantage because the middle line can easily fill those gaps. Our crossbows will survive for future skirmishes thanks to the genius of the Imperial method.”

“Interesting.” She took another glance at the opposing army. The skirmishers were, indeed, retreating; the masses with swords were getting ready to swarm the legions. With a numerical two-to-one advantage, the Byzuntonians decided to stretch their line outward on both sides to envelop the legions, yet still keep themselves fairly thick. Yet, the Wanderer didn't seem too concerned about it. She looked to him again. “Looks like they're about to surround them.”

“Yes, that is true. Which is why we have two legions in reserve. Please do not dwell on it. The Imperial method makes the legions tactically flexible.”

“Hmm… I dunno…”

He put a hoof to the back of her head and stroked her mane. “Trust me, Starlight. It is tried and true Imperial protocol. You did not think that we would focus so heavily on quality and not devise strategies against superior quantity, did you?”

“Well, it's just hard for me to wrap my head around.”

The Wanderer set his hoof back down, took a quick glance to the battlefield, then looked to Starlight. “The Brotherhood is kicking up a sandstorm behind the enemy line, just as I told them to. Pegasi have to be good for something, I suppose. Now, we must discuss something different.”

“Hm? Like what?”

“I know you seek the approval of the common Wastelander, and that is important, of course. And I am fully confident that you will have it, with a single exception…”

“That being…”

“The Imperials. The Reichsfolk. They will not be so keen to accept a foreigner in a position of authority over them.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do about that?”

“Above all things, an Imperial respects strength. Cunning, intellect, creativity, charm; all these things are well and good, and you have all of these in abundance. But the only way for you to have them overlook your foreign blood is by demonstrating profound strength.”

“What do you expect me to do? Challenge the Legate to a duel?”

“That… is actually not a bad idea.”

Starlight's eyes got wide as she pursed her lips. “Seriously? You expect me to kill the Empire's top general?”

“In single combat, the Legate is no better trained than I am, and Princess Sparkle held her own very admirably against me despite being even less skilled than you. What you lack in skill, you will make up for in sheer power.”

“But she's dead. She killed you, too, but still, I don't like those odds.”

“Of course. Which is why I… am offering to train you.”

“You really think I can match the Legate's skill?”

“No, no. That would take a decade and a half, fully dedicated to a very dangerous training regimen, more brutal than you can ever imagine. Not to say that you could not do it if you put your mind to it, but it is just not practical. However, although I cannot exactly turn you into a First Cohort legionary in a matter of months, I can make you quite proficient in your own right so that you do not repeat so many of the mistakes that the Princess made.”

She sighed. “Can't you kill the Legate?”

“I could, sure. My skill equals his, and my power, like yours, exceeds his. But then, I would not be impressing anyone. You must be the one to earn their respect, just as you have earned mine, since you are the only one who can bring the Wasteland to modernity and progress. If you do not, then you will not have the Legate to fear, but the Praetorian Guard, against which you would stand hardly any chance. You see?” He paused. “I have been your close friend and faithful guardian for a good while now, but even I cannot defend you from everything. And if I tried, it would only make the Praetorians that much more eager to do away with you, and me as well, and this whole thing would have been a folly.” He paused. “So, what do you say?” He turned around so his chest faced her, and he extended a hoof to her. “Will you accept me as your mentor?”

She stared at the hoof, unsure of herself. Risking her life facing an elite legionary was an idea that made her nauseous. Another Equestrian alicorn had already lost hers to another elite legionary. She very well could be number two. But then, the same legionary who had fought that other alicorn was offering his help to her. Not even at any sort of price, but out of companionship and shared goals. She looked back up to his glass-covered eyes. A smile drew across her face, and she pressed her own hoof against his to shake it. “Yeah. I'll do it. Blasting the Legate to bits myself would be more fun than watching you do it, anyway.”

“I am happy to hear that.” He broke the shake, and they both put their hooves down. “But you know, it would be best to simply cripple him, not kill him.”

“Why would you say that?”

“We want him to burn in hellfire, not ascend to the Hall.”

“Hmm… you're right. It would make a bigger impact if the actual death came some other way. What do you think we should do?”

“We should lock him away in a solitary place where he can neither escape nor find sustenance, and let him die that way.”

She chuckled. “Ooh, that sounds good. Let's talk about it later. I wanna get training now.”

“Of course.” He paused. “Remove your regalia, please. Thorny crowns and baggy togas will be a hindrance and a safety hazard for your first few lessons. I will be removing mine, as well.”

“A safety hazard?” She paused. “What kind of lessons are these, anyway?”

“You are at least somewhat proficient in magical combat, at range, but I can only assume you are completely in the dark when it comes to combat up close and personal.”

“Yeah, you're right about that. But why should that matter?”

“In the last days of the First Reich, one sore weakness in the unicorn warrior that the Diarchs exploited was a lack of physical combat ability. You, I am afraid, share that weakness, and the Legate will surely go out of his way to exploit it. First and foremost, you must know the techniques that will let you protect yourself should he decide smashing you with hooves is the best option, and you must develop the physical means to carry them out.”

“So that means…”

“Techniques in blocks, strikes, and grapples.”

“Grapples… like in wrestling?”

“Exactly like in wrestling.”

Starlight felt her top teeth swipe at her lower lip as her gaze drew to the side.

“Starlight… you look as if…”

She looked back to him. “Well, I'm not really certain what I should expect from this.”

“Hm.” He had a quiet moment in thought. “Let us just see where it goes.”

She smirked and nodded. “Alright. I'll leave my stuff in my bedroom, then meet you in the lobby, okay?”

“Of course.”

The two sauntered back into the camp headquarters, and although Starlight remained uneasy, it didn't keep them from casually discussing the training sessions to come. They'd be dedicating a few hours a day to getting Starlight ready to face down the Legate. First comes hoof-to-hoof combat, then beams and missiles, then shields. Perhaps she would find her own specialized ways to fight. The Wanderer could spew fire, after all, so it was a likely case that Starlight would have her own unique spell. What exactly that would be, only time would tell.

As Comrade Bright flapped his wings in midair towards the west, his mouth was filled with the taste of his own blood; the thorny wooden branches that he clasped in his teeth drove their spikes into his mouth's roof and tongue. They were smooth, having been cleansed under a fire after its rough bark was carved off with a knife. 'A symbol of truce,' he reminded himself. 'I'm just glad they cleaned it so I wouldn't get an infection.'

In his mind, he reviewed the plans written down in the letter he'd gotten. This was important; he'd destroyed the letter in a campfire the night before, and it was now time for these plans to be set in motion. There was no room for error. Absolutely none.

He looked down, and spotted the Imperial camp below, from which there was deep, guttural chattering of legionaries going through drills, watching the camp's surroundings from sentry posts, and placing money bets on games involving the torture, ravaging, and mutilation of hapless slaves for their own amusement. It was on a hill, circumscribed by a palisade of brick. It was filled with hide tents obsessively organized into blocks of eight tents by ten, surrounding the Legate's tent, twenty times the normal size. The entrance to the Legate's tent was flanked by two Imperial banners, one on each side, which fluttered in the breeze like cloaks out to dry. He felt the soaking wet blanket of fear weigh him down, with only his sense of duty and love for his country to keep him from turning back now and never following orders from the Brotherhood ever again. After a moment of fighting this fear, a green aura seized him and froze him in place. He could only watch as he was pulled directly down, in front of the Legate's tent, by something he couldn't see no matter which way he turned his eyes. The legionaries below him took only passing glances at him, a few jeering at him, but most seeming completely indifferent.

Once close enough to the camp to see the open beaks on the banners' hawks, he saw, slipping out from the tent's flaps, two stallions in shimmering First Cohort armor, and a stallion clad in a suit of green armor with a purple cape and a purple viper which wrapped itself around his horn, with the viper's head bearing its fangs, ready to strike at its prey. Clad in the green armor was the Legate, himself, Snakefang Gelder. Just a few meters from the ground, the aura left him, and he was sent crashing to the ground on his back, enticing the three stallions to laugh at his expense.

The Legate took eager strides next to him and held Bright down to the ground by his belly with a push that compressed his guts. “So, the heretic's puny little runt has finally shown his scrawny little boy-face. And look how long it took. What a worthless turd you are.” As Snakefang took his hoof off Bright's stomach and swatted the branches out from his mouth with it, Bright felt the short and sharp cadence of his raspy voice tearing through his ears.

Bright took a deep, drawn-out breath, and he shouted, “The Commonwealth is extending its hoof to all legionaries in mercy. If they will be surrendering arms, they will be spare and treat with respect.”

The Legate let out a rippling snort that echoed throughout the camp, then slammed his hoof onto Bright's stomach with such tremendous force that Bright felt his guts try to escape out from his throat. “Degenerates!” the Legate bellowed, “degenerates, all of you. You mistake us for weaklings. We wipe our asses with your pathetic mercy.”

“Commonwealth's only enemy is Kaiser and his loyalist! Turn against your masters an-”

Bright recoiled at the shock of the Legate's second strike at his stomach. “Shut your mouth, barbarian. Speak when you are spoken to.” He snapped his gaze to his bodyguards. “Bind this thing in chains and a blindfold, and mount it on a Tarquiniian Mule. Have a gag ready in case it starts flapping its cock-sucking lips without my permission again.”

The bodyguards said, “Sir!” and saluted the Legate in unison. One bodyguard turned around and walked back into the tent while the other took careful steps in Bright's direction.

The Legate raised a hoof up above Bright's head and looked into his eyes with a soul-crushing purple glare. “Now, one last thing…” The Legate's hoof slammed into the side of Bright's head, knocking him in cold darkness and putting him solely at the Legate's mercy.

As dim unconsciousness faded from Bright's senses, he felt a wedge pressing squarely into the middle of his belly and chest. He opened his eyes, but to no avail; the fuzz of a woolen band was the only thing his eyes could sense. Attempts to slide it off with a hoof were met with the sound of the chains that bound his legs in place, and no matter how hard he pulled, there was no release to be found, and little give to be felt. Trying to jerk his body off the wedge or spread his wings only revealed that his wings were bound to his torso by a leather strap, and his torso was bound to the wedge by two more leather straps, one around his withers and one around his lower back.

“So,” he heard the Legate say from behind, “it looks like your uncle woke up from its nap. Would you like to see it?”

Bright heard, in response to the Legate, the muffled screams of a young filly, probably no older than five.

A rippling snort, then the snapping of bone followed by the filly's anguished squeals. “That is not the correct response, you useless creature. Either you answer correctly, or your vocal cords will be crushed under my hoof so that I do not have to suffer any more of your shrill bleating. Now, would you like to see your uncle?” After a long moment of nothing but the filly's sobs, the Legate spoke again. “That is better.” A pause. “Bind the little one to a Mule and have it face the male one. I want those two things to look into each others' eyes before we get started.”

The sound of the filly's sniffling cries, accompanied by the rattling of chains, dragged on around him, then in front. As he listened to those cries that only got louder when the filly was being mounted on the Mule, he started to recognize it. His niece, his young niece whom he hadn't seen in two years, Skippy Sparkles. But what was she doing here? In the Legate's camp? Oh… oh no. The Secret Service was more pervasive than he thought it was. The Legate knew he was coming, the Legate knew who he was, and the Legate knew who his family was. This… was bad.

A few moments after the chains stopped rattling, the filly spoke to him. “B-… B-b… Bright? Uncle Bright? Is that you?”

He took a breath. A shallow breath was all the Mule gave him space to take. “Y-yes. Is me. You are Skippy?”

Bright felt the band be pulled up from off his eyes, and in the dim light afforded by the open entrance to this underground cavern, he saw Skippy, the pink pegasus filly with the frizzy purple mane and purple eyes, one of which was blackened around it by a bruise, and both of which were soaked in tears. She, like him, was strapped to a large wooden wedge, supported by table-like legs which were bolted to the ground, pointed upwards and driving into her belly and chest. By all four of her legs, she was bound by chains that looped from hooks bolted to the ground, to a crank designed to pull her further down into the wedge when it was turned. When his gaze shot down to his own legs, he froze in horror at the realization that his legs were chained in the very same fashion, to the very same crank.

“Uncle Bright?” said Skippy. “Can you tell me what's going on? I'm scared.”

Bright looked around him. The room was a shallow dug-out cavern supported by narrow wooden beams. He looked left, and as he slowly shifted his gaze to the right, he saw the room's contents. First was the crank, then four rusty cages in the left corner, each containing a large, muscle-bound earth pony stallion whose eyes were dreary windows to souls that died long ago.  These cages faced a table, and on this table laid a key, and some bronze pear-shaped implement with a crank in the back. Directly behind Skippy was one First Cohort legionary, who stood in perfect stillness, watching over him with an ice-cold stare behind his gray steel helm. Finally, to the right was Legate Snakefang Gelder, observing him with the same icy stare.

“Uncle Bright?”

Bright looked back to the filly. “Skippy! No dwelling on this horrible thing please?”

More tears flowed from Skippy's eyes. “But I'm scared.”

“I am knowing. But we distract from scare.” He paused. “Flying. How goes flying? You learn to fly yet?”

“Um… n-no. Not yet.”

“But you are of close, right?”

“Yeah. Daddy says I'm real close to flying.”

The Legate, at his horn's green glow, let out a sinister chuckle. “Let us fix that, shall we?”

Bright snapped his gaze back to Skippy in a panic, and as both her wings were engulfed in green aura, they were yanked out from their sockets, and the earsplitting snap of the joints' ligaments was followed by Skippy's horror-stricken screams. Bright's stomach tried to vomit, mortified at the sight of his niece's dreams snatched away from her in a very literal way, replaced by torrents of blood gushing from the arteries torn open. “N-no… no… no…”

“Oh, come now,” said the Legate as he walked next to Skippy and turned to Bright, “I saved the slaver guilds a bit of work by doing that. All they have to do now is lobotomize it.”

Bright shuddered at that word, 'lobotomize'. “Y-y-… you wouldn't.”

“I have done it countless times before, and I will do it again. Unless, of course, you give me the information that I require.”

His breathing, wanting to be heavy but restricted by straps, became short and stunted. “You are wanting to know who I work for?”

The Legate's horn glowed again, and the mechanisms in the crank clanged as the handle was rotated with magic. Skippy wailed as both their Mules bit deeper into their torsos. Bright felt his breathing get even more shallow. “I know who you work for, you idiot. The Secret Service tells me your Brotherhood can't stop blabbering about it. Some degenerate traitor, and his Equestrian whore!” A loud and long snort. “A CROSS FOR BOTH OF THEM!” A louder snort. “No. I want you to tell me what that blight on the world, Princess Luna, is doing in the Wasteland with a host of close to half a million of her sister's craven cowards.”

“How am I to know? I was tell you Commonwealth wants truce. Temporary ceasefire, to fight Equestrian.”

“They what? They think we need their help? Hah! Have you not seen what is going on south of the bridge?”

“Um… n-no.”

The Legate's horn glowed, and the crank was tightened a bit more. “Moron! Simpleton! What sort of pathetic excuse for a scout are you, anyway?” He paused. “The degenerates are dropping like flies. Waddling around at their posts, their camps, minding their own pathetic business, dropping dead out of the blue. Daily death by the thousands, straight from the Eldritch. God has cursed them. We will mobilize the Legions, crush the Equestrians as easily as we would crush an overripe berry, and laugh as Luna scurries back to her fluffy sugar-land like a frightened rabbit. Then we will mobilize everything eastward and turn the rock-legions to rubble. And then, we will have the traitor and his harpie nailed to a cross. That, I swear directly to God.” He paused. “No. I do not care the slightest bit for peace with the heretic. Even the mere suggestion is an insult to the Empire, and to my Legions. I have no doubts about our ability to drive them back into their nauseating honey-bowl, but I am left wondering why they came here in the first place. So… why are they here?”

“Uh… I… I don't know.” He really didn't.

“You don't… know.” His horn glowed. Bright's gaze was drawn to the pear-shaped object, being magically lifted off the table, and reeled in until it was less than a foot away from the Legate. “Do you know what this thing is, barbarian?”

He stared at the object. It had a luster dulled by dirt. Tapered to a point at the tip, rounding out in four equal segments by lines running down from the tip to the bottom, where there a twisting mechanism was attached. Not comprehending the use for such a device, he stayed silent.

“I expected too much,” the Legate said. “Another question. This… Skippy… its hymen is intact, is it not?”

The question wrung Bright's stomach like a wet towel. What a sick question to ask. What a sick question to conceive. He remained speechless.

“Well, if it is…” The Legate moved the pear under Skippy's tail and stared intently in that area. Bright looked over to her. She was shaking, and her eyes were squeezed shut. A moment of silence, then her body jerked forward, and she let out a scream that pierced Bright's eardrums like iron shanks. “It isn't anymore! Hah!” Skippy's torture continued, and the ever-louder screams obstructed the squeaking of the pear's twisting mechanism almost completely. “Now. Tell me why the Equestrians are here, or I will rend her other orifice in a similar manner, with the same tool.”

“Uh… er… Lesbos! Lesbos!”

“Hm… something to do with Lesbos? The mayor… HE. WAS. MY. FATHER.” He ripped a powerful snort, and shook his head violently, snarling like a possessed jaguar. “THAT TRAITOROUS SHIT KILLED MY FATHER. HE. WILL. PAY.” After a second of fuming, he raised a hoof up to strike at Skippy's chest, and then struck it, filling the room with the snaps of her shattered ribs. Skippy let out her last scream, and gasped frantically for air before falling unconscious from the sheer physical trauma of the ordeal. “You shit. Tell me why that horde of cowards has shown its ugly face here.”

“L-… Lesbos. Think… think Empire… did it.”

The Legate's eyes turned to razors, and he spent several moments in an enraged trance fit of demonic snarling before he returned from it. “So, you mean to tell me that those idiots think MY FATHER was killed ON THE ORDERS OF MY NEPHEW.”

“Y-… y-yes.”

“You are a liar.” The Legate magically turned the crank again, and the as the chains pulled Bright and Skippy deeper into the Mules, Bright felt the bottom of his sternum drive itself upwards, trying to touch his spine, and his lungs squeezed between his ribs and his back. “You do not actually care for your niece, do you? If you actually cared about her, then you would have told me the truth by now.”

“W-… wro-”

“Shut up.” The Legate stood there still, mumbling to himself and darting his eyes in several directions, then looked back to Bright. “Upon investigating the ruins of Lesbos, the Secret Service discovered that my father's heirloom was stolen. Agents infiltrating the Brotherhood report rumors that the heirloom is a powerful magical artifact, but if this is true, and if the heretic was acting of his own accord, he would have used it by now.”

Bright only had enough room in his lungs at this point to utter one noise per breath. “He… tic… wo… fff… eh… kss….”

The Legate snorted. “So. The heretic prostitutes himself to Equestria. For coin, most likely. Made an alicorn – two thirds god, one third mortal – and he is still a servant to the schilling. They are too cowardly to attack us head-on, so they sent you here to give us a false peace so they can hit us while off guard. Split our forces at the bridge. Overwhelm us with their faceless mass of subnormals.” He paused. “My Legion. The Second Legion. They will guard the bridge crossing to the north under my personal leadership, using some of your lot as their meat shields until the other five finish off the Equestrians in the south with the rest of the fodder. Then we come back for the heretic.” A moment of silence. “I got what I wanted from you, but you are not finished here.”

“H-… h-… huh?”

“Well, I cannot just release you. I have just given you crucial information. A foolish impulse to be sure, but I will ensure that you are too traumatized to iterate it intelligibly.”

“Bu… wh… nn… kill…”

“Kill you? I do not get many opportunities to torture a mentally intact subject free of any slave conditioning. You have already proven a more entertaining subject than most.” He paused. “And you know, I will probably not sell your niece to slavery. As physically broken as she is, she would fetch a very tiny sum, if I could even find a willing buyer. I think I will just give her away for free. Now, no more words from you.” The Legate turned to his aide. “Legionary. Release the studs. Two of them. I want a cock in both of these little shits.”

The legionary turned to face the cages, magically lifted the key and brought it to them.

Bright's heart jolted; the immediate threat of being raped struck him like lightning. He shut his eyes pulled and bucked and jerked with the little power he had left, but the attempt was vain.

The Legate scoffed at him. “Oh, come on. We both know you want it. All you barbarian colts are fruits, after all, even if you don't admit it. I mean, just look at how girlish you all are. Scrawny muscles, femme voices, soft jaws… it is a shock that you manage to stay populated.”

Bright opened his eyes, just in time to see a stud positioning itself over the unconscious Skippy. And afterwards, he felt another stud position itself over him, and the tip of the stud's phallus press underneath his tail.

“Oh,” the Legate said, “and of course, with the loss of your stallionhood comes the loss of your balls. They do not call me 'Gelder' for nothing, you know.” The Legate's horn glowed, and Bright's mind let out the cloud-tearing scream that his body could not as his testicles and scrotum were yanked out from his nether regions in a single pull, and a river of blood streamed from the severed arteries, trickling down the Mule and making puddles on the ground. The Legate chuckled to himself as he dangled Bright's own balls in front of his face. “Another pair to add to my collection.” He turned to the legionary. “Double-time it to the mess and get me a jar with the clear liquid preservative. I do not want this specimen to go to waste.”

The Legionary saluted him with a “Sir!” and made a dash to the room's exit.

The Legate cackled, glancing at the studs on both Bright's and Skippy's ends as he readjusted and removed the pear from unconscious Skippy. He shouted the command, “Vörtz,” and Bright was split open and bloody from behind with a mighty thrust, sending a jolt of nerve-shattering pain throughout his whole body. His organs already packed tightly by the Mule, the stud's phallus pumping deeper and deeper into him compacted them like they were a baker's dough. And as the Legate watched the studs tear asunder the innards of both their victims, he continued to cackle.

The images that Sucker Pop drew in the sand brought a grin to her face as she hummed a gleeful song. Images of round candies molded on sticks and brown squares wrapped in paper – all figments of an old life mostly forgotten, like a distant dream – lit dimly by the pink sun that sunk into the western horizon. The carnage taking place down the hill served only as white noise that soothed her as she occupied herself with replicating these figments. She didn't quite get what was going on, so she assumed ponies were playing a fun game down there. It was mostly Master and Momma Starlight who concerned themselves with such matters. Complicated matters that she could never hope to understand, and wouldn't want to anyway. As far as slaves' lives went, hers was full of warmth and love. All she needed was Momma Starlight's soft and soothing tenderness to be the happiest mare in the Wasteland.

She heard the creak of the keep door. When she darted her head in that direction, she saw Starlight emerge from it with a swagger relaxed and confident, and a smile that shined brighter than the crown on her head and the eyes that were closed halfway.

“Hi, mommy!” Sucker Pop said.

“Hey, sweetie.”

“You have fun wit mastew?”

She chuckled. “Oh, I had a lot of fun. A little rough, but all things considered, not bad.”

“What you do, mommy?”

She put a hoof to her chin. “Well… he pinned me down a lot. I also got slammed pretty hard lots of times, so… things got loud in there.” She sighed. “It was a long and hard session that worked me to exhaustion. It was nice.” She turned her head and looked behind her. “Isn't that right, Wanderer?”

“It is,” he said from behind the wall near to the door as he walked up next to Starlight with his fiery plume reflecting an orange glow on his helm. “And I must say, she shows quite a bit of talent. She can move strong and fast even when pinned down, and you would be surprised at how well she can take a beating. She proves a tenacious and lively wrestling partner.” He looked to Starlight. “Would you mind if this became something we did regularly?”

“Well, I do need a way to stay active. I don't think I would.”

“You gonna kiw de weggate, mommy?” Sucker Pop asked Starlight.

“Weggate… oh! You mean the Legate.”

“I think she will do just fine,” the Wanderer interjected. “She has performed beyond my expectations so far. The Legate will be in for quite the surprise when the time comes. I am sure of it.” He paused. “I hope that our ground troops have performed just as well.”

He charged his horn, then disappeared in a golden flash, only to reappear on a place several yards away, looking down at the battle down the hill. Sucker Pop looked to Starlight, watching as her horn glowed soon after. In a sudden burst of light, they both materialized next to the Wanderer, facing the same position. What they saw was the strategic conclusion of the Battle of Byzuntam: a mass of leather-clad conscripts, squeezed too tightly together to swing the swords clenched in their mouths without cleaving the soldiers next to them. They were trapped in a circle of stone centaurs, attempting to push themselves out in vain as they watched their comrades in front of them fall, one by one, some with their brains oozing out of skulls shattered like glass crystal balls, and others writhing on the piss and blood soaked ground, making anguished attempts to escape by crawling with any limb whose bone wasn't smashed to shards, their lives fading away before them as they bled within their own skins. The battle was over. The slaughter had begun. As Sucker Pop looked on at the field, the wails of the dying and the suffering from below pierced through her impaired sense of empathy and sunk her heart down like an anchor in the sea.

Starlight put a hoof to her lip, failing to hold back a chuckle. “This is beautiful. They were going to surround us, but now look at 'em. Completely trapped. Like a rabbit in a snare.” She looked to the Wanderer. “Those three spare legions. You got them around the back somehow, didn't you?”

“I did.”

“May I ask how?”

“I simply had them traverse the Brotherhood's tunnels and organize themselves inside the sandstorm I had the Brotherhood kick up before hitting them in the backs. A strategy inspired by the great hero of ancient times, Hannibal the Cannibal.”

“'The Cannibal'? Why did they call him that?”

“Because he was a cannibal.”

Starlight's smile faded, and both her eyebrows shot upwards. “What? Really?”

“Yes, really. One of the first Imperials to ever eat meat, and the very first to eat meat from the same species. Notorious for feasting on the dead of his foes after a battle's conclusion. Even Changelings. Especially Changelings.”

Starlight cringed in discomfort. “You're not all cannibals, right? It's taboo, at least?”

“It is far from taboo, but it is not widespread. Whether or not you engage in cannibalism in the Empire is a personal matter.”

“Well… you're not a cannibal, are you?”

“No.” He paused. “I never liked the taste that much.”

“Yeah, that's reassuring.” She stuck her tongue out and gagged. “Can we please change the subject?”

“Actually, I was thinking we would do some target practice.”

“More training?”

“No, not training. Just helping the legions polish off the rabble.”

“You don't wanna relish the moment?”

“This was just the warm-up.”

She deadpanned. “You can't be serious.”

“Their defeat was their own fault, really. They should not have set their lines up so deeply; a competently led force would not have been so easily outmaneuvered. They think like fodder, so they act accordingly. To call this a feat of genius would be a haughty overstatement.”

“Well, what do you think we lost here?”

“I would estimate somewhere between ten and twenty-five percent of our number. That is roughly what Hannibal lost in his battle, after all. There is no way to know for sure until we take stock.”

She smirked. “Okay, then. Let's blast 'em while they're bunched up now.”

Sucker Pop raised a hoof and tapped Momma Starlight on the side. “Mommy?”

Starlight looked to her. “Yes, sweetie?”

“Should I feew sowwy fow de Bizzanies?”

“No, I don't think you should.” Starlight looked to the Wanderer. “Can you explain to her why she shouldn't?”

“Of course.” The Wanderer turned around and took heavy steps beside Sucker Pop, then looked into her one working eye. “You should never feel sorry for them. Never, ever.”

“Why not?”

“Bizzanies bad. Mean. They steal. They sell things to ponies that make them sick. They kill fillies like you for fun and coin. And they have always been incredibly rude to your dear mother. Good fillies like you should want them dead. You are a good filly, are you not?”

“I'm a good fiwwy! I'm a good fiwwy!”

“I know you are.” He touched a hoof on her cheek and began gently stroking it. “Which is why watching them die should make you happy.”

“But it makes me feew sad.”

“That is because your brain cut made your head sick.” He put his hoof down. “Look at your mother. She is happy to watch them die. Do you want to be like your mother?”

She turned her head to face to Starlight, who was smiling at her. After they looked at each other for a moment, Starlight winked at Sucker Pop. Now with her adoptive mother's approval giving her conviction, Sucker Pop looked back to the Wanderer to answer. “Yes.”

“Then watch her and I make them go boom, and smile, even if you feel like frowning. If you smile at their pain long enough, it will start making you happy. Is that understood, dear?”

“Yes.”

He lifted his hoof and gave her head a rub. “That's a good girl.”

“Alright,” Starlight said, “I think we've waited long enough. I wanna get blasting now.”

“By all means. After you.”

Starlight charged her horn with a blinding greenish-blue glow that pulsed with veins of lightning, then unleashed a missile the size of a lion into the teeming mass of doomed levies. As she watched it slam into the ground and obliterate dozens of them in an explosion that left only a crater in its wake, she smiled a toothy grin. Starlight and the Wanderer took turns blowing holes into the condemned swarm; Sucker Pop, with a forced smile, watched with a mix of awe and sadness. After a while, the pleasure that the booming explosions and the pretty flashes of blue and gold brought her gradually overshadowed the grief she felt listening the symphony of pained screams. Next Chapter: Chapter 19 Estimated time remaining: 3 Hours, 40 Minutes