A phantom sauntered from shadow to shadow, unseen, unnoticed, undetected. It moved from floor to floor, room to room, haunting the living. Upon its departure, it left behind sabotaged weapons, rendering guns useless and causing swords to become permanently stuck in their sheaths, the metal fused solid. No one noticed the phantom, no alarm was triggered, there was no sign that anything was amiss.

This was no common phantom, no, this was Le Trou Du Cul Fantôme.

This phantom rode in the elevator with two stern looking chaps, a griffon and a pegasus. They were going up and the elevator, steam driven, was quite slow. With two victims trapped in the elevator, with no easy avenue of escape, Le Trou Du Cul Fantôme struck, creating a vulgar noise accompanied by a truly eye-watering stench. Naturally, this put the griffon and the pegasus at odds, each blaming the other for le pet de la mort. Anger flashed in their eyes and the unspoken promise of violence was made.

And the cause for the elevator’s glacial pace?

The boiler had been sabotaged; soon, it would cease functioning altogether.

High above the city streets below, the phantom prowled the narrow confines of a gunship, the occupants of which were now sleeping soundly. The phantom, fearful that someone might have resisted the call to slumber, now went from room to room, cabin to cabin, ensuring that there was no wakeful soul that might cause trouble later.

When the ship had been secured, the phantom sabotaged the control room. It was repairable damage—the ship would be needed at some point in the near future and it had to function—but for tonight’s plan to end well, the ship had to be dead in the air. It would be out of commission tonight and tomorrow, until such a time it could be repaired by good soldiers with Fancy’s better interests at heart.

With the ship secure, the phantom continued his spree of bloodless sabotage.

Tucked within a secured vault, the phantom found a treasure trove of documents, the recordkeeping of evil deeds and terrible acts. The printed information was damning, but such was the banality of evil; bureaucracy always left a well-documented trail of evidence written down for all to see. Within the many ledgers was the framework for a truly insidious plot, but the phantom had no time for pleasant reading.

Everything was teleported away, whisked through the aetherial rifts.

The phantom emptied the vault, a tiring, draining task, but this evidence would be needed in the days to come. There would be questions—questions asked by angry mobs who would demand answers. Within the recordkeeping appeasement would be found, or perhaps such truths would only stoke the fires of rage. Bloodshed was to be avoided, if possible, but sometimes it was inevitable.

So far, not a drop of blood had been spilt, but that was about to change…

A figure cloaked in shadow drifted through the palatial apartment of Duc Truffe. It roamed through the kitchen, the pantry, bearing witness to the plenty to be had. Everything was well-stocked, as if a siege was anticipated. The larder was full to brimming in anticipation for hard times. All these preparations were for naught, as this siege would never happen.

In an odd twist of ironic fate, Kriegsgeist would soon end this conflict as bloodlessly as possible. Little more than a shadow wrapped in darkness, the phantom left the kitchen and began a slow, silent sojourn down the hallway towards what was sure to be the bedrooms, slipping past the guards, who now slumbered upon the floor in limp heaps. Stopping at the first door, it entered, unsure of what to expect, but ready for anything.

The phantom, the dreadful phantom, found itself in a nursery.

It was an expansive, pleasant room, and the window was covered with a steel curtain. Toys were scattered everywhere—the floor was a minefield of treachery with sharp wooden blocks and things that could potentially squeak or honk. Against the wall furthest away from the window was a bassinet, and within the bassinet were two little foals—yearlings by the looks of them—innocent sleeping babes that presented a morass of moral complications.

A mere yard from the bassinet, the phantom stopped to consider this headache.

Frail little necks could be broken with no effort, sparing them pain and what was sure to be an unpleasant future. Bad things happened in conflict and many suffered, with foals enduring the worst fates. How many peasants had lost their young to all of this? Should the wealthy, well-protected Duc be spared the pain of loss? Tonight, he would lose so much more. But what of these two? They were an unexpected wrinkle in the fabric of the plan, and like any wrinkle, had to be ironed out.

An unseen force slipped tight around their necks and there was a pause, a moment of hesitation. With but a quick flick, two lives would be ended. They would die together, holding one another—they would die in peace and be spared the violence and hardship of the troubling times to come. Killing them would be an act of mercy.

Yet, the phantom failed to act.

After several seconds of failing to act, the phantom apologised, speaking with the merest whisper: “Es tut mir leid, dass ich dich nicht verschonen konnte.”

With nary a sound, the two foals vanished, leaving behind an empty bassinet.

“Ein schlimmeres Schicksal wartet…”

At long last, the phantom arrived and now menaced the royal bedroom of Duc Truffe. He slept in his bed, alone, lost to a deep, sound sleep, no doubt believing himself to be secure. Perhaps even victorious. But the plans had changed. Chanson Argentée would not be fleeing, he would not be going into exile. For the good of the nation, Chanson Argentée would be staying.

For the good of the nation.

Bringing Truffe to trial would be the ruination of Gasconeigh. No doubt, the legal system was tilted in his favour. Those loyal to him would defend him and his interests, even in light of his heinous crimes, such as consorting with the Spider Queen in yonder mine. A trial fully exposing his wicked deeds would only do great harm to whatever remained of Gasconeigh.

How did one reconcile with such acts?

One didn’t.

A cancer was excised, cut away, removed. A healthy body had no way of making peace with cancer and living harmoniously with ravenous, consuming tumours. Truffe was a cancer. He had weakened the body of the city—the nation—he had done harm on a scale that was difficult for most to comprehend. His cancerous tendrils had burrowed deep into society, corrupting everything so that his parasitic existence could be nourished.

A cut had to be made, painful as it might be.

The corrupted tissue had to be cut away.

In absolute silence, the steel curtain that protected the window was raised, lifted, and a flood of moonlight entered his room. He was lifted from his bed and held aloft by an invisible force, a crushing, unseen hand around his neck that threatened to jellify his larynx. No scream could be heard from his mouth, now open, and he was wide-eyed with pained terror.

The phantom remained unseen.

Struck with terrific force, the window shattered, but made not a sound. Shards of shattered glass rained down to the street below, which was more than fifty stories beneath the window. Truffe, held aloft, was dangled out the window, and it was then, and only then, did the phantom reveal himself.

The War Maiden’s Absolute Invisibility shimmered and ceased to conceal, revealing a terrifying figure whose body gleamed in the silvery moonlight. Truffe’s eyes widened even more with recognition, even as his hooves scraped at his neck in a desperate struggle to draw breath. His salt and pepper mane whipped in the wind and his hind hooves dangled over a long drop with a sudden stop. But the fall would be long—it would be terrible and it would be long—long enough for him to think about everything on the way down.

“You are wicked,” Dim said in a slithery whisper. He saw recognition in the panicked, frantic eyes of the pony he dangled out the window and he was glad that he and Truffe could have one final exchange. “I’ve undone everything you’ve worked so hard for. It’s all been for naught. I’ve even stolen your legacy. Your foals are in the care of Pearl Fisher. I bet that bothers you, doesn’t it? Knowing that your perfect offspring are in the care of an islander savage. I’ll be speaking to her later about their upbringing. I do not tell you this to relieve you, but with the hopes that you will suffer all the more for the rest of your short life.”

Bright crimson spiderwebs appeared in Truffe’s eyes and the lack of oxygen was taking its toll upon him. Dim relaxed his grip, but not enough so that Truffe could draw in a satisfying gulp of air. Below, a troubled city burned and even the river was on fire. Flames rose into the night, bright orange-white fingers that reached for the cold fires of the stars above.

Truffe burst into flames—he ignited and the lapping tongues of fire consumed him readily. He screamed, but not a sound was made. The flailing of his limbs only further provoked the inferno’s hunger and it took even more of his body into its fiery maw. With the flames hungrily chewing upon their prey, Dim let go.

The distressed awe in Martinet’s eyes could not be ignored and while Dim stirred his tea with a dainty silver spoon, he studied the general’s face. Even now, as Dim prepared his tea, troops were recovering the gunships with the orders to bring no harm to the sleeping occupants. He had given an impressive list of instructions to Martinet, and then a full explanation of everything that had transpired.

Dim had his reasons for doing what he had done the way he had done it, and he counted upon Martinet’s understanding. The hardass pegasus was stunned more than anything, no doubt trying to grasp the tremendous events that had taken place this night. Commandant Graham paced the floor of the dining room, his claws clicking, and he waved his wings about with uncontained nervous fervour.

“I don’t know that we can trust them,” the agitated griffon said.

“Maybe not,” Martinet replied, “but we might be able to trust some of them. They’re just soldiers obeying orders. I want to believe that some of them meant well. We’ll have to sort them out.” The flinty pegasus’ eyes settled on Dim and with his jaw firm, he continued, “Forgive me for being blunt, but I have to say… your very existence makes me uncomfortable.”

Dim put down his teaspoon and one eyebrow arched. “I beg your pardon?”

“You… everything you just did. How is anypony safe with ponies like you in the world? Security means nothing. An entire army of guards? Meaningless. A vault? Bypassed. Every meaningful security measure that keeps a ruler safe and secure was in place… but to ponies like you, that means nothing. I’m sorry, but this has left me disturbed. Who holds you accountable? Sure, you’ve helped us, but there are others like you in the world. Who keeps us safe? How can any of us be safe? Your benevolence is appreciated, but who saves us from you?”

Holding his teacup, Dim did not respond. Rather than make him angry, Martinet’s words left him thoughtful. Much to his own amazement, he found himself sympathising with the pegasus sitting across the table. Dim thought about his own behaviour; his dangerous drug use, his hedonism, he even thought of his own roaring sense of entitlement, the idea that he was owed something by virtue of who and what he was. Martinet’s words were like a hard slap across the face.

What kept him from going bad?

It was a worrisome thing to think about.

“Forgive me, but unicorns such as yourself shouldn’t exist. Who polices your power? What stops unicorns like you from controlling ponies like us and subjecting us to your whims? I appreciate everything you’ve done. I’m glad you’ve helped us. I am extremely grateful for your aid. That said, I’ll be relieved when you are gone and I hope and pray that your shadow never darkens our soil ever again. I don’t feel safe with you around. None of us are safe.”

Dim’s ears fell as he took his first sip of tea. The door opened and Chanson entered, his eyes haunted and darkened. Martinet leaned against the table, but had nothing to say. Graham continued his pacing of the length of the room, pausing only to let Chanson pass. Dim watched as Chanson sat down and began to prepare for himself a cup of tea from the service set left on the table.

“Pearl has the foals settled in…” Chanson’s haunted eyes focused on Dim for a moment, and then his heavy, leaden stare fell to the table. “I don’t understand. Why us? Why not just some orphanage or some farmer somewhere? I’m sorry, Dim, but I cannot understand your reasoning.”

Still disturbed by Martinet’s words, Dim was in no mood to explain himself or his reasons. Even worse, his actions lent credence to Martinet’s assertions; Dim had made it clear that Chanson and Pearl Fisher were to raise the two foals as their own. He hadn’t asked, but simply commanded. Feeling uncertain of himself, he thought of the vault down deep in the mine, and the door that would only open for royal blood.

Dim’s thoughts grew more and more troubled with each passing second.

“Raising Truffe’s young shows that you are a merciful and dutiful ruler,” Graham said while pacing. “Princess Celestia would approve of such kind action. When the public hears the full extent of Truffe’s treachery, it might go bad for his son and daughter, lynch mobs being what they are. They will need protection from the cruelty of many.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry. Pearl Fisher will love them as her own. As for myself, I’ll need some time to adjust… to… everything that has taken place.” Chanson’s ears sagged even more. “I dare say that Truffe would have afforded no such kindness for my own daughter and I would desperately like to believe that I am a better pony than he. One shudders to think of Sonnet’s fate at the hooves of Truffe.”

“Truffe also had a daughter that he no doubt worried about,” Martinet said, his voice gritty and grating, as if he had been gargling broken glass and whiskey in equal measure. “Now, she is your daughter to worry about. Let that guide your actions.”

Hunched over the table, Chanson looked nothing like the Empereur at this moment. After a time, his lips parted, he licked them, and replied, “It shall. A father’s worry shall steer my way.”

“As Empereur, you are now the father of many. Let that same concern and worry steer the course of your rule.” Graham, perhaps tired of pacing, took a seat at the table. “Look, Chanson, I know this isn’t what you want, but it is what your nation needs. The Royal Pony Sisters believe in you. You’ll have help. It’s coming, be patient.” The fastidious griffon folded his claws together and leaned against the table’s edge.

Retreating into his thoughts, Dim tried to discern what shade of grey the world had become.

Author's Notes:

Dim took it well, being told that he shouldn't exist.