Jack and Rarity’s room was quaint, much like the town, with no electricity to be had and instead of foam or cotton, the mattresses were filled with down and covered with a heavy quilt atop it to stop the feathers from poking into their bodies.

Despite the misgivings, the rest of the room was adequate for Jack and even acceptable to Rarity—though the involuntary twitch of one eye told Jack it was a bare pass, considering the other options of sleeping outside or on the boat.

Jack knelt by a small stone fireplace, striking a flint to tinder over the wood and swearing under her breath with every spark that failed to ignite. Finally, with a roll of her good eye, Rarity rose from the room’s single chair, putting the nail file she was using over onto a nearby stand, and sauntered over to Jack. With a mere snap of her fingers, a small blue flame the size of a lighter’s sparked to life from her fingertip. She brought her finger to the wood and it roared to life, illuminating the room in the glow of her magic.

“Couldn’t have jus’ done a normal fire, could ya?” Jack asked, rising up from the floor.

“I simply wished to give the room a more unique aesthetic, dear. I believe I accomplished that in spades,” Rarity answered, already returning to her nails. Jack moved towards the room’s window, noting with a bit of a frown at how much air came through the cracks compared to the ones back home.

By the northern road there was a glow of torchlights. Several men stood watching the town’s outskirts, a few somber-faced and unflinching, others joking and throwing their heads back in laughter.

“The patrol is probably the only reason the wendigo hasn’t started attackin’ the town proper,” Jack realized. “Fire an’ crowd.”

“You do enough and you’ll eventually do something correct by sheer chance, I would imagine,” Rarity commented, blowing indifferently at her nails.

Jack laughed a bit. “Hell, you gave ‘em more respect than I did, that’s fer sure.”

Walking across the room, she went to the opposite corner and took two steps down into a stone floor. She ran a finger across the rim of a large wooden basin.

The tub was well-crafted and sanded, though primitive to the Cabellians and their ceramic and metal ones. Water here came from a hand pump, and heat was regulated by ventilation below the flooring, with a nearby crank to adjust a set of heavy shutters below the system to heat and cool the water to the users want. It was a bit of a paradox to her—something simple being almost more complex than the complex—but she just chalked it up to the power of ingenuity.

Something felt missing tonight. Jack’s mind scrambled for the answer, but it was eluding her. She even went as far as doing a mental checklist of what she had brought here: some clothes, her armor and sword near the fireplace, a book on the off chance she had some downtime. Nothing was coming to mind. It finally came to her. What was missing wasn’t a physical object, and she sure as hell was glad it was absent, for at least the moment.

“I usually get pretty jittery before I actually try an’ fight somethin’,” Jack admitted. “An’ it jus’ dawned on me here. How I’m feelin’ right now? Ice cold.”

“Nothing worse than a frigid wife,” Rarity replied without missing a beat, blowing on her nails. “I should have brought some polish. Of all the things to forget, I forget the worst,” she complained under her breath.

“Shut up,” Jack automatically answered, a ghost of a smile on her lips despite herself. Taking a few steps around the room, she turned back to Rarity with a shrug. “I don’t like ta think of this as routine, ya know? Farmin’ should be my mainstay, adventures like this—” she gestured out the window to demonstrate. “—are the exception ta the rule.”

“They are,” Rarity agreed with a nod, finally satisfied with her work. “Though it’s far from an accurate comparison, this is akin to a fashion show for me. They happen on occasion, but the meat and potatoes of our occupation—to use an idiom you would be fond of—doesn’t change. I still live for the dress, the suit, the thrill of accessories, the creation and the respect it earns me. Your purpose, despite the occasional foray into combat, is a farmer, a family woman and, in a sense, a housewife, non?”

Jack smiled. “Ain’t sure if I’d call myself a housewife, but between the two of us I usually am the one packin’ lunch fer ya, ain’t I?”

Rarity finished her nails and stood. “Speaking of lunch, please consider something beside a sandwich when I am at the boutique. If I have to eat bologna or ham one more time in the next few months, we’re going to have some words.”

“Well, come back home on yer lunch break an’ we wouldn’t have this problem,” Jack countered, turning to face the soul-folk.

“That’s quite the walk, I can’t do that during business hours. You know that. It’s the same reason I do not see you coming to my work during your busy seasons.”

“It ain’t the same; you can tell yer clients ta wait a bit. My crops on the other hand won’t harvest themselves, sug.”

Rarity let out a tsk. “While people may wait more than crops or cattle, word of mouth can affect my business quite a bit. Being prompt brings more clients, which, in turn, lets me flex my creative muscles with one-of-a-kind pieces. Delaying my work is the same as you delaying yours aside for situations like this.”

Deciding that Rarity was in the right this go-around, Jack let out a tired sigh. “Yeah, yer right. Or right enough.”

“Naturally,” Rarity agreed. She moved towards the bed and stripped down, then slid under the thick quilt. Jack followed the soul-folk’s example after killing the light in the oil lamp and, once she slid under the cover as well, Rarity snaked a hand underneath Jack, resting it at the earth-folk’s hip. They settled down for the evening together, the warmth from their bodies and the fireplace dispelling the chill outside. In what seemed instants before Rarity nodded off, Jack spoke.

“I’ll keep ya safe,” she said, staring up at the ceiling.

Rarity paused, the words taking a moment to register. Then she rolled over to stroke Jack’s forehead. After giving a quick peck to the farmer’s brow she curled up against the larger woman, holding Jack’s back against her body.

“I know you will,” Rarity finally replied.

Sleep came and the night was soon nothing more than a distant memory.

They stood at the edge of the world, atop a jagged peak. The bodies of the slain littered the ground, some comrades, others beasts, denizens of shade and nightmares. But what drew everyone’s attention was the battered and beat man before them. He glared across the fields of corpses, the hatred emanating from his stare gave pause to everyone present, save for a group of four men nearby. The largest, a man well over six feet in stature, reached for the man and grabbed him roughly by the collar of his cloak. Easily lifting him up in one arm, the stronger of the two came face-to-face with the other.

“There’s not much left to say, is there?” Richard spoke, still easily hoisting the man in his hand. He took a step forward, carrying the man like a lesser would a bag of luggage, taking him near the edge of the cliff.

”Only the necessities,” the battered man replied, still holding a strong voice despite the wounds along his arms and torso, bleeding freely onto the earth and pooling, not soaking into the ground, as if the world itself wanted to keep his taint away from it. He smiled, his teeth sharp and feral as he looked at Richard, then turned his gaze over to King Arthur, Nobunaga, Lancelot, then searching the crowd, seeming to be emboldened when he caught sight of Arthur’s daughters. “I’ll make a prophecy,” he said. “I’ll be gone during your reign, during your petty battles over wheat and islands, so enjoy it while it lasts, but I will return. And your children, your children’s children, well…” He rolled his tongue in his mouth, seeming to savor the thought. “Let’s hope they haven’t been cowed to weakness through years of peace. And let’s hope that my own lord doesn’t awaken during those times. He would slaughter you like a wolf among lambs, peasants.”

Rolling his eyes, Richard the Lionhearted looked behind him to his liege; Arthur gave one motion of his head and Richard pulled the decrepit man towards him and then with one mighty push, he threw him past the cliffside and down into the murky water below. There was no applause; those present were too weary from the months of combat reclaiming their lands from the creatures to really feel anything but a quiet relief as Tirek sank, his blood leaving a grim marker when his body had impacted.

“A swifter death than I would have liked,” Nobunaga muttered out, his hand on the curved blade of his people at his side, his narrow body and almond eyes giving him a stern presence as he looked at his comrades.

“Drawn and quartered would have been my preference. Some justice for Aglovale,” Lancelot agreed, his hands resting at his spear, his palms relaxed for the first time in a long, long time.

“A simple hanging would have sufficed. The less extraordinary the death, the less likely he becomes a martyr for the doomsayers and crazies,” Richard disagreed, turning his head and spitting on the ground.

“None would follow a monster such as that,” Nobunaga replied, thinking carefully of his words—it was only through soul-folk magic that he had such a head-start on speaking the civilized tongue, his troops still relied on his own language, a barrier that had been painful to overcome for a long while, but now that they were at the end, seemed a distant, almost fond memory.

“Your idealism is refreshing,” the King finally spoke; the others instantly silenced themselves out of reverence for him and Arthur crossed his arms in front of his golden breastplate. “But we shouldn’t take any chances. It’s better this way; drowning, believe me, is an agonizing way to go. Same with bleeding out. Keeping him around until we could get a rope and a spot to hang him would be foolhardy. The less that man was around us, the better. Who knows what kinds of witchcraft he could curse us with?”

There came a silence from the group before they glanced back at the crowd.

“What now?” Lancelot asked. Arthur offered a small, fleeting smile.

“Bury the dead. Then? Try to go back to our lives.”

Jack stirred in the bed, turning and twisting under the quilt for a few, fleeting moments before awakening, coming face-to-face with an already awake and alert Rarity. Though Rarity would, on rare occasions, beat her to the punch, those moments were few and far between. So it was only natural that the first words out of Jack’s mouth were not ‘good morning.’

“Bad dream?” she asked instead.

“I don’t know,” Rarity admitted. She rose to a sit, the dream still on her mind as she stared into the remains of the fire. “Good or bad, it was vivid. As if I were really there.”

“Same,” Jack agreed. “Like I was right there fer the ride when this fella got tossed off a cliff.”

“Tirek,” Rarity answered, looking over to Jack with a sense of confusion.

“Tirek.” Jack rubbed at her chin. “Tirek, Lancelot, Nobunaga, King Arthur. I never even heard their names bein’ said, but I knew ‘em. Magic?”

“None I cast.”

A knock at the door stopped their conversation; Jack offered an unsure glance to Rarity before rising to answer it, a pillow in front of her to keep her halfway decent.

Spike stood before them, not even phased by Jack’s appearance.

“Celestia woke up,” he said, cocking a thumb towards the all-folk’s room. “She requested everyone.”

A moment later, Jack and Rarity had dressed and came to Celestia’s bedside. The all-folk remained a bastion of grace and composure, her hands resting at her hips and sitting tall and straight in the bed, but her expression was clouded, holding no small amount of worry within it.

“I’m glad to see you’re all still well,” she addressed. “Pinkie told me that some of the sailors weren’t so fortunate.”

“A lotta dead,” Jack agreed. “But a lot alive because of ‘em. Damn brave men.”

“The bravest,” Spike agreed, looking at his hands in thought.

Celestia gave an agreeing nod and adjusted herself a bit in the bed. “They will be missed. Words cannot do any justice to them, but when I return to our sovereign soil, perhaps I can at least offer condolences to their family. But, as much as it pains me to say, we need to press on and discuss an issue. Spike and Diane both awoke from a dream remarkably similar to a vision I had in my dreamscape moments before waking up involving a man being executed.”

“Tirek,” Rarity promptly answered. “And your father, King Arthur was there.”

“And Lancelot,” Spike added, “with a few names I didn’t know, but knew.”

On seeing the boy pause and struggle with expressing himself, Jack quickly nodded. “Yeah. It was like I knew ‘em in the dream, but when I woke up I had no idea who they were, ‘side from the name.”

“Friends. Friends of my father, technically, but I considered them esteemed allies during their time.” Celestia seemed almost wistful as she finished and looked past the others in thought. “When I think back on the Crusades against the hellspawn, it reminded me of the necessity of unification, of cooperation. It’s such a shame how muddled the history became, how… messy diplomacy can be with no common goal shared between all those present.” Celestia took in a breath, letting her shoulders rise and fall. “I despise how diplomacy can be changed with a simple stiff breeze. I hate how some of the countries let greed and a lust for worldly goods cloud their judgement on what their people wish. It’s…” She grasped her bicep in a hand, squeezing it.

“Are you ok?” Diane asked, leaning forward and putting a hand on Celestia’s bed.

The all-folk promptly bobbed her head. “I was lost in thought. Please, forgive me.” She returned her gaze to the rest of the room. “The dreams. All-folk don’t have dreams as often as the other races. When we do, they tend to be more like visions. Prophecies may be a bit much, but they tend to offer vague advice within their depths.”

Jack crossed her arms. “So this thing was advice fer Tirek or—what was his name—Sombra, the god he worshiped or somethin’?”

Celestia’s expression turned dark and there was a spark of emotion Jack never expected to see in the princess's eyes.
A spark of wild, childlike fear.

As soon as it appeared, it vanished and Celestia vehemently shook her head.

“Sombra is never returning,” Celestia rejected, almost too eagerly, denying it without even a second of inner consideration. Calming, regaining herself in but an instant, she pressed on. “Tirek is dead. I was there when he was thrown into the water. Plus, it’s been a lifetime ago. More than a lifetime ago. He’s nothing to worry about.”

“Then what else could these visions, if they are, be about?” Rarity questioned. “Some knowledge would be marvelous, considering that a vision for all of us may affect all of us and that includes the plans for Jack and myself today.”

“Plans?” Spike repeated.

“Plans makes it sound like we’re jus’ goin’ shoppin’,” Jack said. She gave a small rub at her cheek. “The town’s been hit a lot over the month by a wendigo. We’re puttin’ it down.”

“I’m coming as well,” Celestia said, attempting to rise only to let out a weak hiss of pain and slump back onto the bed. She tried again and managed to swing her feet over the edge only to have a hand stop her from rising.

“Like ya are? No. Ya ain’t comin’ with,” Jack said, letting go of Celestia’s shoulder. “Ya ain’t worth nothin’ without some rest, save yer strength.”

“Jack. You don’t know wendigos. I need to help you fight it if it's anything beyond an adolescent.”

“Jack doesn’t need your help,” Rarity countered, offering a glance to the woman in question, then returning her focus to Celestia. “I know she can handle this. You trusted her enough to take her halfway across the world as a guard, trust her with this, Princess. She’ll find a way. We’ll find a way.”

Celestia bowed her head and shut her eyes. Jack wasn’t sure if she was thinking or merely resting. It was hard to tell a lot of what occurred around the that crossed Celestia’s mind. Not that Jack was the smartest of the bunch, mind, but even Twila, the brainiest of the brains, seemed perplexed when it came to Celestia. Granted, maybe that was because the girl was head over heels with the ancient woman—Jack knew from experience what that did to figuring out someone.

Still though, when Celestia looked at her and Rarity, Jack could already tell what her judgement was. The stern, deadly serious expression could only mean one thing.

“Be careful,” Celestia warned.

“I can come,” Spike offered.

“Not against that,” the princess rejected instantly.

“But—”

“No,” she emphatically said. “The wendigo would prey on you especially, Spike.”

There was a rare flinch of anger in Spike’s face. “I’m not that weak. I’m probably stronger than Jack, even.”

“Dragon-folk usually are when they leave their humanoid mannerisms and appearances behind. But that strength can become a weakness.” She pointed at the man. “What the wendigo can do to someone like you mentally… I’ve seen it, long ago.”

There was another moment of near-defiance, but then Spike nodded. “Fine,” he curtly answered.

“Have no fear, darling! We’ll return in due time with the matter behind us,” Rarity said, giving a wink Spike’s direction.

“And when you get back, we’re gonna have a party! A big one with ale—that’s what they drink here, right?” Pinkie quickly asked Celestia. On the all-folk’s confirmation, Pinkie lifted a fist up. “Ale!” she exclaimed.

Jack smiled but said nothing, turning to head out the door. Rarity spoke for both of them.

“Well, I would be partial to a hot meal as well alongside a drink. Just something to consider,” she offered with a small smirk. After a beat her expression died and she gave a raise of her hand. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

Returning to their room, they got ready, Rarity donning a loose-fitting shirt, leather slacks and gloves, then, once she had secured her saber to her belt, turned her attention to Jack. Without a word, Rarity tended to the woman, brushing her hair behind her back and helping the earth-folk don her own equipment. Finally ready, the pair went downstairs and out the door.

It was about an hour after Jack and Rarity had left when Celestia was able to rise and she did it with a small grunt of pain, stumbling forward until she caught herself on the back of a chair.

“Careful,” Spike warned, moving to her side and holding her. The all-folk looked warmly down at the boy.

She had known Spike for almost his whole life. She, then eventually, Twila’s blood parents had raised him to the best of their ability and even now there came a swell of pride looking at the dragon-blood and the concern that came to his eyes despite their slitted, reptilian nature. Smiling, she gave a squeeze of his shoulder.

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

After another moment making sure she was being truthful, he let go of her and she took another step forward, this one with more confidence. Still, to be on the safe side, she made a clawed expression with her hand and gave a rise up to her waist. From the floor, rising as if there was nothing below them but an empty void, came a wooden cane, which she took into her palm and tested, poking at the wooden floor curiously. Satisfied, she leaned on it and made a few steps towards the door.

“Should you head out like you are?” Spike asked.

“I need to eventually. Now at least lets me out of the room. And I’m sure Diane is—”

“Yesletsgothankyou!” a blur of pink hair exclaimed, already out the door and bouncing on her feet in the hallway. “Where we going?” Pinkie asked. “Outside?”

“Do you want to?” Celestia pondered. Pinkie nodded, looking akin to an overexcited dog with her hands at the collar of her neck. The all-folk chuckled.

“Very well. I’m sure Spike will have no objections.”

“I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs,” he agreed, then lowered his voice, speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “but do you think it’s smart, being seen?”

She reached forward, giving a small rub at Spike’s hair. “In some ways, yes, in some ways, no. Caution is important, yet it can keep you frozen. Besides, anyone that wished to do harm would still be looking in Cabello, I believe.”

The three went down the stairs, Pinkie throwing her arms out and letting out a ‘whoosh’ from her lips; Spike and Celestia shared a look, shared a smile, then followed behind her. The earth-folk ran hunched-over and threw herself on the countertop of the bar, making the plump barkeep let out a surprised yelp at her sudden appearance and nearly dropping the mug he held onto the floor; a gesture from Celestia caught it in midair, enveloping it with her magic. He took it without a word and looked over at the pink-haired woman.

“Tonight we’re gonna party!” Pinkie exclaimed, thrusting four fingers out under his wide nose and grinning broadly. “We’re gonna need four casks of ale!”

“Four?” he repeated, looking between the three of them incredulously. “That’s a lot for three.” Done with polishing a mug with a cloth, he put it up and wiped his hands on his apron.

Pinkie let out air from her lips, flapping them like she was a horse.

“Well, duh, it’s not for us. It’s for the townsfolk!”

The barkeep gestured a meaty arm behind her and Pinkie turned. Save for a single man in a wide-brimmed hat collapsed onto a wooden table, the bar was empty.

“You’re missing something, if you were wanting to do that. Place hasn’t been active since the attacks. People are too scared to get out of their houses.”

Pinkie gave an easy shrug. “That won’t matter, tonight’s the last night you worry about that wendy thing.”

He stared at her and she gave a tap onto the counter. “Four casks, not a drop less.” With a wink, she stepped towards the door and Spike quickly went after her. Celestia gave a small bow of her head at the barkeep, then walked briskly after the two.

Pinkie dragged Spike behind her as they took in what few sights the town offered, the few houses scattered in a crescent across the area, the docks—Pinkie pointed out towards the horizon and Spike only just managed a nod before they were off again, heading towards a road that ran parallel to the ocean before fading off into the distance. Pinkie put a hand to Spike’s waist and affectionately squeezed the boy. Celestia watched them with a twinkle in her eye as they went about their business and there came a thought that made her smile bitterly.

Spike’s parents were much like him and the girl.

He was a young man named after the tale of Icarus. A sky-folk, timid, whipped and hen-pecked constantly by the girl he settled down with, but would do absolutely anything for her.

Spike’s mother, on the other hand…

Fafnir was her name and she was a dragon through and through. One of the old, ancient races that had existed since history’s inception. Like most of the bloodline, she was haughty, greedy, arrogant, and had caused more than her fair share of trouble in Camelot during Celestia’s father’s reign and even her grandfather Uther’s reign within the land of England. Despite these traits she had proven a noble ally to the Pendragon namesake, seen as one of their most trusted advisers alongside Merlin the Star-Swirled, and, after rescuing Icarus from a storm that had gotten out of hand, had a heart the grew softer the instant Icarus was around.

In her true form she was a sight to behold; large as the cabin to a train and violet scales that held a shimmering, almost alien beauty within them, mixed within green scales that matched the shaggy mess of Spike’s hair, and a wide maw that seemed to be perpetually caught mid-smile.

In her altered form she was just as beautiful, with fair skin that matched Luna’s and eyes so dark and black that her slitted pupils were almost invisible. There were magics in the past that had changed one's appearance before, of course, one could alter gender, height, the color of one's hair, it was a field of study that many soul-folk spared no expense on. But they were temporary things, things that, depending on the user, could last mere hours at best.

A dragon and their seed, pureblood or bastard mixed between two different species, could change between man and dragon as needed and stay that way. In the old times dragons would stay in a human appearance for days on end in order to travel without drawing attention—though in the old times soul-folk learned quickly how to dispel such disguises in a classic case of a better mousetrap to best a better mouse—and some of the first steps in the school of alteration came from the study of the dragons.

Spike and Pinkie had stopped their goofing around, at least for a moment, and had turned their attention to some of the scant few people out in the open, taking time to talk to them.

Though Icarus and Fafnir never married due to the stigma of them being together, Celestia knew they had cared for one-another as much as any couple she had seen in her long years on the earth.

Which made what happened all the more shocking to Celestia.

Fafnir had traveled with Celestia’s father on more than one occasion. Though monster attacks were far less frequent than they seemed to be now, they still were an issue; Arthur said it was a reaction to the Crusades, that the monsters had been permanently stirred awake due to the amount of magic used from both sides. Celestia saw that as a possibility, but hoped that wasn’t true, that man was responsible for the beasts thanks to the simple crime of protecting his countrymen, but she knew life was never fully about what should be, wishing for something got one nowhere. To think pragmatically, as basely as one could, there was a lot in life that boiled down to the strong reigning over the weak. Was that necessarily bad? She thought it depended on who the strong was.

Her father had been the strongest man she knew. Physically? Perhaps not, the Norfolk could match an all-folk’s strength and even extraordinary earth-folks sometimes could rise above their limits and stand toe-to-toe with them. Morally, though, Arthur was the embodiment of what a leader needed to be. Unafraid of ridicule, a man of stone in the public eye, but compassionate and merciful to those that deserved it. The strong leading the weak wasn’t bad, if the strong made others live by a noble example.

She strived to do just that. With the grail in hand she would remain a bastion of hope and strength to those that served Cabello. Already she stood an unspoken threat within the world council, a warning to the malcontents that sat upon their ill-gotten thrones that those that stood for righteousness were not to be trifled with, and that actions would have consequences if carried through.

In an ideal world, even that threat would be unneeded. In an ideal world, Luna would distance herself away from war, as it was outdated. William, the old fool, perhaps would have settled down, content to drink his days away and write poetry. Jack could settle down and live the life she strived in earnest for whenever she wasn’t risking her life fighting monsters.

Twila wouldn’t have to worry about naysayers as they tested their relationship, seeing if it was something feasible, something both of them wanted. Likewise, there would be no fear of her sitting on the throne with as much respect Celestia herself or Luna drew.

Sadly, this wasn’t an ideal world. It was a cruel one at times where brave men and women threw themselves into danger and where she had to be on the watch for any sort of suspicious act around her—the kingslaying reinforced this in an exceptional way—it was a world where a boy like Spike grew up too fast it seemed, and a girl like Diane could sometimes be crushed, her spirits mashed underfoot like a weak dandelion rising from muddy snow.

That brought her back to the start of her thoughts. Fafnir. The dragon had been pried away from her treasure horde to assist Arthur on observing a beast near London.

It was the first and she hoped the last time she saw a dragon go berserk. The creature was intelligent, more intelligent than any of them had envisioned and knew which one of the group had a weak mental fortitude. All it took were a few suggestions, a few whispers, and the feral aspect of Fafnir took hold, transforming to her true self and, before anything could be said or done, she lunged for Icarus. The man was dead before she had even finished biting into him.

Arthur himself would have died to Fafnir, if it weren’t for his daughter's’ actions. The strength of the Pendragons proved true that day, Celestia and Luna saved their father at the cost of Fafnir’s life. She had left behind money for the coffers; generations of gold that helped fund the voyage to the new world, and a large egg.

It was years later that it finally hatched and the boy arrived into this world. Though he was originally to be named Quetzalcoatl by his late mother, Celestia saw the boy had a canine tooth when he first appeared out of the shell and so, to see that the boy would fit into society, Celestia had Christened him Spike.

Though she had relinquished him at a fairly young age to Twila’s care in order to teach the soul-folk of compassion and and dedication, she still recalled the nights when he was an infant, reading him stories, cradling him, nursing him. She had come to understand what people meant by maternal instinct; even now, she could feel a motherly fondness for the boy, something that she didn’t see leaving anytime soon.

It left for Twila, did it not? That thought made her stop and look down at her feet in consideration.

She had at one point felt something similar for the girl. That was truth and anything less would be a lie. But that had vanished as the soul-folk had entered adolescence. Her maternal feelings for the girl were replaced by a sense of deep camaraderie, a feeling of belonging that only their situation could have spawned: the relationship of a student and teacher and the relationship of two friends blended together until Celestia wasn’t sure where one role for the girl ended and another began...

Though for all she had known of Twila, Twila’s feelings for her were a new beast.

There had never been a consideration for romance between them. In Celestia’s mind the thought had never even crossed: she had been born in a man’s world, where two women together was almost non-existent. Now, with men being a minority, it wasn’t uncommon.

The world had moved on from when she was young.

She was reminded of this more with every sunrise. Where was once walking, travel by wing or spell, there came wagons. From there, trains, rafts across Cabello’s rivers, a few earth-folk with ingenuity were devising a flying machine. As for if it would ever happen, that was a mystery, but the fact that they were trying was something that astounded her.

“So, you in charge of the other two as well?” a man in a well-made set of armor asked, rounding the corner of the inn. Celestia sensed no hostile meaning behind his stance, nor his voice, so she remained at a casual stance, watching Spike and Pinkie.

“Other two?” she echoed.

“Mmm. The blonde one and the soul-folk.”

“Oh. In a way I am,” she agreed. “They’re as much my responsibility as any.”

“They’re quite proactive, I’ll give them that. They either know what they’re doing, or are laughably unaware of it.”

“I would imagine both,” Celestia replied with a small smile. “The blonde one, as you put it, has more under her belt than most. The soul-folk is, however, untested. But I have confidence in her abilities, otherwise I would have forbidden her from traveling here.”

“Can the same be said of them?” the man questioned, looking as Pinkie climbed up a pole and Spike watched from the ground, seeming to be in a panic as Pinkie walked across a beam at the top of the pole.

“I need them for other reasons aside from war. Though, with due respect, our business is our own.”

“Of course.” He nodded, obviously nonplussed. “I’ll respect your secrecy, as long as the threat to this town is quelled, whatever it may be.” He moved over a bit, looking at the still-docked ship. “Your group is small for such a ship. And the dock records showcase the ship registered to Cabellian royalty. Are you perhaps Princess Luna?”

Celestia laughed. “If only I were. No, I am the elder, Celestia.”

“My apologies. We don’t see images of your people often.” He gave a small bow to her.

“I am far less traveled than my sister. Some days I wonder if she’d prefer an exile over staying around the castle.”

“I’ve heard of her grace’s work in Russia and some of the tales within Germany. She does well in her travels.”

“I’m proud of her, she carries on the will of our father. I remain more vigilant regarding our country’s affairs instead.”

“No shame in that. You have to take care of your own needs before the ones of others,” he agreed. “If I knew Frea needed my aid, I would be gone from here in a heartbeat.” He stood for a moment longer at her side. “I assume that very need is what takes you here, Princess. Nobody plays a savior on a whim.”

She gave a small nod of agreement. “This land holds something that may be of great use to us. Though don’t be quick to assume: this item is going to be used with Cabello’s people in mind. Always with their benefit in mind.”

He looked her over and, making a judgement, shook his head. “I don’t know what you’ve tracked down that would draw your attention like this, Princess, but the phrase the road to hell is paved with good intentions may be fairly true in this case. Excuse me.” With that remark, he left into the inn.

Celestia watched him go and, though she stood, holding herself as if she were a paragon of tranquility, her thoughts rushed like a storm within her. Doubts at his words, reassurances that she was on a righteous path, the fear of disappointing her people, the fear she may be damning herself by holding such doubts in her heart and not embracing her convictions—everything danced within her. And, seeking a respite from the chaos and the sudden fatigue that swept over her, she left, heading inside, then up to her room once more to rest.