Rarity didn’t know what to expect as they entered through the door, only that it could be anything, really, according to Celestia. Even then, she stood, frozen as she took in the evening air tinged with the scent of elderberries. Up ahead, on top of a hill she was familiar with, sat a mansion she was very familiar with.

The mansion she visited within her dreamscape.

She was an exception to many soul-folk. She had seen the usefulness of the dreamscape and had simultaneously rejected it. At one point during her youth she had used it as a… training ground, for lack of a better word. A place she could go and refresh herself on proper etiquette, on proper conversation, on the correct fork to use while dining, and for a few earlier drafts of suits and dresses. Over time, however, she had taken to visiting the place less and less, favoring the hectic and messy approach real life held, relishing the feel of cloth running over her fingers, the different ways that natural light changed how well the aesthetic of the colors complemented one-another, the power a well-crafted dress had on people—real people—and her need for this place was quietly put to the wayside, a mere footnote in the book of her life.

And yet now she stood before it with the others.

“Oooh!” Pinkie exclaimed, pointing towards the mansion, where dozens of lights illuminated the windows. “I bet there’s a party going on!”

“A party?” Jack repeated, a tad unbelieving. “This ain’t the time fer a social gatherin’.”

“All of you, please listen,” Rarity instructed, turning to face them like a schoolteacher instructing a collection of youths. “I do not have an idea on what’s going on, but this is my dreamscape. That’s…”

“Weird,” Jack plainly. She gave a long appraising stare at Rarity’s dreamscape; the soul-folk felt almost like she needed to step in front of Jack to draw her attention away from it, hiding her youthful opinions. The notion was ridiculous, of course, but still was a consideration.

A lady did not air her dirty laundry in public, after all.

“So why are we here?” Spike asked. “This doesn’t seem like much of a trial. Unless you like to keep your dreamscape scary for some reason.”

“Perish the thought!” Rarity exclaimed, putting her hand to her collar in trepidation. “I’ve lived through enough shocks to my system. I’d be foolish to want more here.”

From the mansion came music, a slow sweeping thing with piano melodies and the deep moaning groan of a cello.

“So, Rarity, is there a party going on in there?” Pinkie pondered, pointing prudently towards the place.

“Of sorts,” the soul-folk agreed. After a moment’s thought, she added, “As long as what’s in there is what’s in there normally for me, at least.”

“Be on your guard,” Celestia warned. “Trickery is par on the course here.”

They approached the building; Rarity stepped forward, ready to knock, then instead coughed into her hand and opened the door without preamble.

Inside was a massive foyer with two flights of stairs rising up to a majestic balcony. Atop the roof of the expansive room was a crystal chandelier that glittered and gleamed from the light of the candelabras placed with meticulous care across the high-polished mahogany floor. What really drew their attention, however, were the collection of men and women in high-end costumes, all wearing masquerade apparel, all dancing together. As the door opened they froze, staring in shock at the women at the door. Celestia had a hand resting at her sword, and Jack mirrored the action, reaching for the shortsword at her torso. Rarity stepped between them and the guests as a plump elderly woman stepped forward, taking off the mask she wore and bowing to Rarity, then turning to face the masked men and women.

“The master of the home returns,” the elderly woman announced to the cheers of the others present. She turned back to Rarity and caught sight of the others behind her. Though she smiled at Celestia, the others made her give the slightest flinch of her brow.

“I am Opal,” she announced, “the master’s humble maid. Are you all here for the party?”

“We ain’t got time fer—“ Jack began, only for Rarity to hold a hand to silence her.

“For all we know, this could be some sort of trial,” Rarity said in a quiet whisper. “Perhaps we need to do it.” Turning back to Opal, Rarity offered a beaming smile. “Of course, darling. We’re all here to do just that.”

Opal gave a single clap of her hands. “Wonderful! In that case, we need to get you all dressed up. It is a masquerade, after all.” She reached into a pocket at her side and produced a small bell. A quick shake of it later and two maids and a butler all appeared, each bowing towards the group.

“We shouldn’t split up,” Jack said. Rarity shook her head.

“Keep sight of the others. I shall be fine on my own.”

“Rare.”

“It’s my dreamscape. You know I’ve an eye for detail. If something’s wrong, I’ll find it.”

Jack swallowed, but after a long, considering moment she nodded, slowly, and scratched at the tip of her nose.

“If anythin’ is wrong…”

“I’ll find you. I promise.” Rarity gave a small stroke to Jack’s cheek before she turned and followed after Opal.

Around they went, through familiar corridors, the guests—her guests, gave them a reverent nod as they crossed paths, their names at one point everything to her, but now after taking her passion to the outside world, her recognition of them muddled. A Daniel here, a Samuel there, but their last names elusive, hard to pin down.

“It’s been a bit,” Opal cheerfully commented, guiding Rarity upstairs to her lavish room, with silk bedsheets in a deep violet and roses on top of a elegant coffee table, fresh, Rarity knew, from the garden out back, that the stained glass windows overlooked and, during mornings here, glowed and illuminated the room in a radiant gold.

At the other end of the room was a massive vanity, beside it, a walk-in closet lined with Rarity exclusive dresses, sashes, purses and scarves.

Knowing how habit was important, Rarity waited on visiting the vanity to get dressed and instead sat at the coffee table, where a cup of Cafe miel sat waiting for her, the steam rising from it filling the room with the scent of cinnamon.

Opal moved to the other side of the table and sat down, looking over her own cup of cappuccino.

“It has been a while,” Rarity agreed, taking an appreciative sip of the drink, its warmth filling her body.

“Five, six months,” Opal replied matter-of-factly.

“It’s been a busy season at the boutique.”

“And?” Opal asked. Rarity raised a brow.

“And the farm too, I suppose.”

“You’re working there now?” Opal asked, the older woman’s voice lined with disappointment.

“To help my wife. Not as an employee. It’s the same as when I ask her to help me with fabric at the boutique.”

“Surprised Jacquline needs your help on the matter. I thought she had your life under control.”

“It’s just Jack, Opal. And she has our life in-control in the same way I do.”

Opal nodded, taking a sip of her drink. “I simply worry about you sometimes. You seem to be putting your dreams on hold for her.”

“Aside from being at the boutique every day and attending as many shows as I can travel to? No, no. She’s done nothing in regards to holding me back.”

“You should be careful of compromise. Too much of it can ruin you.”

“Too little can do the same.”

“That’s quite true as well.” Though, going by the off-putting tone, Opal had her reservations about the notion. “Well, we should get you dressed, shouldn’t we? No need to keep your guests waiting.”

Moving after Opal, Rarity came to the room’s vanity and sat down at its stool, intending to give her face a much-needed touch-up. Looking at the mirror she froze.

Her face. Her face. Gone were her perfect eyelashes, her bright blue sparkling eyes. Gone were her full, luscious lips. Gone were the rosey cheeks. Replaced instead by scars. What seemed to be thousands of them, turning her formally clear skin into a landscape map, deep gashes, burns, pockmarks. Her right eye was shut, the muscle operating it not even flinching as Rarity worked to open it. Reaching her hand up, she rested it on the deep lines adorning her body and neckline and felt along her disfigurements.

“W-what happened?” Rarity stammered out, her earlier defiance evaporated as she stared at the ruined visage of her face, her one eye a pin prick as she soaked in every detail.

“Compromise.”

“This isn’t real. A trick of some sort,” her words were caked with fear as she traced the scars, the dips the scars made, the bent angle of her nose, they were too much. On her back was a passable wound, a thing she was willing to live with, but this? This was an impossibility. She’d never be able to walk among the nobles again, or even the common-folk. Jack alone had enough curious raises of the brow because of her wound, this was a whole new level. This made her look like…

“A monster,” Opal said, reading Rarity like a book.

Rarity felt hot tears sting at her eyes. She felt sick and brought a hand to her mouth as she stared at the stranger in the looking glass.

“Was it worth it? Sacrificing yourself like this to appease her?” Opal questioned, her tone sharper than it was before, judging Rarity with a harsh glare.

“This isn’t real,” Rarity repeated, her voice barely a whimper.

“It’s what can be. It’s what will be real if you keep as you are. Unless…”

Rarity cocked her head, listening raptly, her fear overruling her common sense for the moment.

“A lady does not engage in violence. A lady does as she’s told.” Opal gestured to the corner of the room, where a dress stood—Rarity was sure that it wasn’t there earlier—and atop the dress, sitting proudly on the head of a mannequin was a masquerade mask that, even with Rarity’s limited interactions with magic devices, she knew housed a powerful enchantment.

“What is…?” she stammered out.

“A creation. An Apple-Belle product you made yourself. Try it,” Opal cooed, leering over Rarity, putting her hands at the soul-folk’s shoulders.

The idea seemed like the wisest thing she had ever heard. Rarity rose, made a few steps forward, and put her hand on the costume, relishing the pearl coloration of the mask’s face, the emerald and violet embellishments around the rim of the disguise, and the way the eye holes seemed to house, no, ooze a sort of sensuality.

“You should wear it. You made it, after all,” Opal said, giving a brush of Rarity’s hair. “It’s a perfect accessory for a perfect lady.”

Though her mind was a soft, cloudy haze, she seemed to consider the other’s words. There was something wrong here. She had not performed much in regards to masks. There’s no way she would have the craftsmanship to build something this positively beautiful with her area of skill, tailoring business or not. Armor was one thing, an elegant mask such as this was a completely different beast. With that in mind, she gave a considering tip of her head, resting the weighty thing on her shoulder.

“How’d I make it?” Rarity slurred out, feeling like she had spent the last half-hour drinking.

“Why, from your newfound strength with the grail, of course,” the other answered as if it were the easiest question in the world.

Rarity gave a show, confused shake of her head. “Why’d I use it?” she muttered out, her regal accent starting to drain from her dwindling thoughts.

“Who else could? Celestia does not understand how the world’s moved on. Pinkie?” She laughed. “Spike? A welp that can’t even tie his own shoes without a pep talk?” Her lips quirked up in a cruel smile. “Jack? Perhaps if she didn’t have to deal with dignitaries and diplomats and instead could use it to rage war.”

“No one,” Rarity said, her hands reaching for the mask regardless of her words.

“Someone has to. You are the best candidate. That much is undeniable. Use it.”

“I… I won’t,” she weakly denied, yet a digit grasped for the object anyway.

As soon as she touched it there came an electric shock of euphoria through her body. A sense of weightlessness and speed that would be impossible for her to house on her own flooded her. What was once a spark of imagination and zeal that propelled her work was now a full on thunderstorm. She could do anything, with this. She could be anything with the feeling within her. If simply touching the mask did this, wearing it would…

Would?

Rarity, in spite of the numbing elation she felt, heard a small, cautious voice in the back of her head. The voice was a whisper, barely audible, but spoke a great truth.

There was no such thing as a free lunch.

What she was feeling when she cradled the mask, bringing it halfway to her face, wasn’t an earned feeling. Every victory, every rush of euphoria, every triumph was something that left its mark. There was always a catch, always a scar. There was always overwhelming effort to produce something of overwhelming quality. The mask she held was an effortless reward. One that she held on to for a time, longer than she should have, before setting it back down on the mannequin head.

“No,” Rarity said, the words simple and without her usual elegant phrasing, but spoken with a clearer head than she had seconds ago. It felt like she had lost her balance and nearly fallen into a pit, but had pinwheeled her arms back just in time to stumble back onto solid ground.

“No?” Opal repeated, a bit confused at the words. “How can you entertain your guests wearing what you are and looking like you are?”

“Manners maketh man,” Rarity replied, turning to face her, the mask serving as to her now as a warning that something was amiss and wrong within her dreamscape—or this perversion of what some force thought her dreamscape was. Her steps now were cautious as she circled Opal, never taking her eyes off the elderly woman; not reaching for her sword just yet, but her hands were poised and ready to do just that. “In the same vein, a lady is a lady, be she in a sack, armor, or silk, and a pig will remain one, no matter how much makeup it wears. So you’ll excuse me if I keep my own fashionable ensemble on instead of what’s laid out for me.”

Opal’s false persona seemed to die. She stared daggers at Rarity and clenched her fists tightly at her sides.

“A lady knows not to backtalk, either. A lady does as she’s told.”

“Not this one,” Rarity replied, her hand now snaking down to the sheath of her sword, her fingers creeping along her body like a spider.

“You’re made of stronger steel than I gave you credit for,” Opal remarked, only it wasn’t Opal’s voice, not anymore. It was a harsh, low thing, the rumbling an unearthed coffin would make.

Rarity quickly drew her sword and held it in both her hands just as there came a cracking noise from behind Opal that made Rarity pause, for a split second’s time, and two massive barbed appendages ruptured from Opal’s back, rising and dancing above her head like twin snakes ready to snap at Rarity.

Opal’s shoulders slumped and the woman dropped to her knees like a puppet that had lost its strings. The thing that was hosted within her body struggled to free itself of the woman’s flesh; wet squelches left little to the imagination for Rarity and fight or flight turned to flight within Rarity’s mind. She had confidence in her abilities, but doing anything to a creature like that blind was asking for death.

Rarity ran for the door just as the beast let out a gurgling roar and one of the barbed stingers launched for the soul-folk. She ducked and and sailed past her, embedding itself into the wood. Not stopping to register what happened, Rarity shoulder-tackled the door, throwing it open into the hallway.

“Jack! Celestia!” Rarity cried out. “It’s a trap!”

The piano music from downstairs had become possessed, multiple keys chiming at once as if a man played with balled fists. The cello let a dry, wicked groan, alarming and maniacal in its whine, the tone sending a shuddering that vibrated the entire house. She came to the overhang of the upstairs at a dead sprint, pausing only to search the crowd of people below. The soul-folk froze.

The guests stood, wordlessly looking up at her, their gaze unflinching behind the decorated masks they wore. What was earlier simple costumes and expressions of the self had taken a dark turn; the masks not regal, but rather seeming to house deformities. Bloated rot, dark black in its putrescence, oozed pus down their cheeks. Rotting flesh peeled and exposed muscle and bone in shockingly vibrant coloration of crimson and yellowed white that made her own scars at her face mere scrapes in comparison.

Below there was a commotion in the lounge, the sound of something breaking, a mixture between a scream and a yell.

“Jack!” Rarity shouted. Though the… things, for people gave them too much credit, terrified her, she still made a run for the banister, knowing every second could matter against something like this, and vaulted over it, forgoing the stairs.

She landed hard, impacting to the ground with such force she dropped to a knee, just as the mansion shuddered. She snapped her free hand forward, sending dozens of magical tendrils from her palm careening through the air. They found their mark at the creatures, snagging wrists, necks, torsos, entrapping the crowd within her spell. She exhaled, and channeled her magic forward. The ethereal tendrils expanded out at a part, as if a large ball was rolling through a narrow tube. When the protrusion reached the partygoers, there was a loud pop and a heavy burst of air exploded onto them, throwing them haphazardly to the ground.

Sprinting past them, she came to her mansion’s lounge. Bodies lay strewn across the floor, their blood mixing with the beige carpet, little lakes on a large map. The cause of their demise stood in front of her. Celestia, her sword singing with every swing as the mutated guests tried to reach for her. Jack stood a few feet away, her sword held defensively as she acted like a shelter for Pinkie and Spike, pushing them to the corner and daring anyone to approach.

Celestia looked quickly up from the bodies—

They have names, Rarity reminded herself, Chelsy, Hilary, Mortimer, Huey. Their families are going to mourn them.

A second thought: They’re not real.

They weren’t. They weren’t. They were figments of her creation, brought to a mockery of life by the magic of the cave, nothing more.

Then what were they?

She didn’t know, and frankly, didn’t care. Survival for her and hers trumped any empathy or curiosity she might have for the guests or what they were becoming.

“Outside! There’s something upstairs coming for us!” Rarity commanded. She turned after issuing her instructions and nearly ran face-first to one of the guests. He swung for her, attempting to grab her; she hopped back and her blade seemed to pilot itself, slashing the man’s neck and dropping him with a pained gurgle. The others followed instantly after she took action, using her as a guide to navigate the land of her mind.

Only, it was a case of the one-eyed leading the blind. It was an uncommon thing for Rarity to travel anywhere within her dreamscape, save for the inside of the mansion.

They ran back to the main lobby, cutting through the mockery the house guests were transforming into, their swelling and lumpy deformities standing on their faces, their hands and bare arms, clothes, clothes Rarity had crafted within her dreams, torn and stripped from their bodies as every new malignant tumor sprouted forth from their skin and the guests screamed, Rarity was unsure if it was a scream of fear, anger, pain, perhaps all three, singing together like an insane choir.

From above, Rarity heard the crash of a door being broken open and she knew without even looking what it was. Heavy footsteps came, alien in their nature, sounding like a throng of people walking without unison, alongside the noise of something being scraped alongside the wall.

“Outside! Outside!” Celestia commanded, pointing the group toward the front door, just as a towering abomination—Rarity had no idea what else to call it—came from the hallway and loomed over the guardrail of the second floor, its body looking like a misshapen thing conjured between a child and a person trapped within an all-encompassing madness. Its lumpy, veiny body looking like a misshapen ball of pork, atop the scuttling form of thousands of small, centipede-like legs. On looking at the group it smiled, its impossibly wide grin exposing jagged teeth reminding Rarity of the cat from Alice in Wonderland.

A tabby? Rarity thought. Calico? No. It… it was…

“Rare!” Jack barked, grabbing Rarity’s shoulder and making the cultured woman shriek in alarm. “We gotta go!”

Rarity looked behind her. The others had already taken off outside, the door still thrown open from their flight. Celestia stood at the mansion’s steps, observing the creature like a hunter that was trying to recall some ancient wives tale on how to deal with a situation they hadn’t packed for.

Jack half-guided, half carried Rarity to the door, pulling it shut behind them just as the beast landed on the ground floor.

“We’re ok, we’re ok,” Jack reassured, the earth-folk squeezing Rarity and joining the others as they stood a few feet away.

“Ok against that?” Spike questioned, his eyes as wide as saucer plates. He looked towards the building and shook his head. “That door, that mansion isn’t going to hold whatever that thing was.”

“A Dreameater,” Celestia said, the all-folk grimacing at the word.

“The hell’s that?” Jack asked as Rarity looked, bewildered at her. Jack was, admittedly, new to her side-profession of fighting creatures of the night, but there hadn’t yet been a thing she at least couldn’t somewhat identify or categorize. You either got a general idea of the monsters you fought, or you died, after all, so her being clueless...

“I’ve never seen one before. They appear into Dreamscapes when an area around a soul-folk is tainted with dark magic like necromancy.”

Rarity looked towards the mansion. Seeing no change, she continued the conversation. “Does that mean we’re actually in my Dreamscape, then, rather than just a false world? Does that mean you all are…?”

Though Jack was normally lost on magic, she understood where Rarity was going. “I think I was holdin’ yer arm when we went through that door. So I’m real.” She paused. “I think.”

“Needless speculation will get us nowhere. We’re all here at the moment and have a Dreameater to worry about,” Celestia warned.

“What do we do about it?” Diane asked.

“I doubt my magic would suffice in battling it.”

Rarity raised a brow. “That same magic that slew a kraken?”

“A spell like that takes time. Time we don’t have. I can’t trust myself to channel an all-folk spell on that level before we’re overrun, it’s too risky in regards to what we’re fighting.”

“Then let’s fall back though the door,” Jack offered, looking towards the path they had entered from and freezing.

The door standing in the center of the path had vanished, leaving them stranded in this world.

“It’s gone,” Jack muttered out, rubbing at the side of her mouth in frustration. She looked around the area before pointing to a set of hills further on past the path. “We could go there, lose it in the foothills, maybe.”

“I doubt that’s wise,” Celestia warned. The door to the mansion shuddered from an impact. There was still time, maybe, but it was quickly vanishing.

“Better than stickin’ here with a thumb up our ass!” Jack countered.

“You’ve never been to those hills, have you?” Celestia asked, turning to face Rarity. The tailor blinked in thought.

“No,” she answered. “They’re decoration, I’ve never actually traveled that far of a distance here.”

“What damn difference does it make,” Jack pressed, taking a few steps towards the path.

“All the difference in the world. Do not go any farther up there,” Celestia said, her tone deathly serious in its warning. Jack seemed to consider ignoring the order, but instead turned to face the princess, the look on her face one whose patience had just about run out.

“I suspected Rarity had not traveled far from the mansion grounds due to how meticulous the place, clothing and guests were. That much attention to detail is beneficial for a small Dreamscape, but a larger one would do nothing but hinder the user’s magical reserve.”

“Twila had a whole city in hers,” Jack argued. “Couldn’t Rare jus’ add some stuff on? Give us a chance—“

The door was slammed against, harder this time, the very ground below them shaking as it impacted.

“If Rarity were an all-folk or had Twila’s magical reserves, I wouldn’t be opposed. But we’ve seen where the extent of her magic lies.”

Or if you had the grail. Then there would be answers, answers you could provide.

Ignoring the thoughts, Rarity interjected. “Princess, I’m sure I could manage the hills. It would be just like building the mansion in theory.”

Celestia gave a quick sweep of the group with her eyes, making sure that none of them had wandered off. “Not with four people inside your Dreamscape. Creating things with that many people at once would harm you. There has to be a place we can hide on grounds, magically created already.”

“The mansion has a cellar, but…” A thought came to her and she snapped to the side. “Garden Maze!” she called out, already at a run.

They passed to the side of the mansion just as the door gave up the ghost and shattered into splinters. It was seconds later that they found the garden maze.

The walls of it were bright green, showing no trace of brown and showing not a single branch out of its square shape. Perfection, as expected of Rarity.

“Inside,” Celestia ordered, seeing that the throng of partygoers had already began to spread out across the grounds.

“Get to the center, I have a shed we can hide in, it might be our best bet,” Rarity said, already inside and taking a left.

The twists and turns Rarity took as she lead the others both frustrated her and filled her with a sense of nostalgia that felt out of place with what was chasing them, but still came to her none-the-less. The first time she had entered her Dreamscape as a child, during her tutelage at the academy for soul-folk in Camelot, she had decided she wanted to build the best garden maze in the world. Her assistant, Opal, had helped her do just that. The old woman was the first person she had ever created in her mind to help her, and Rarity had never thought of replacing her. A common thing that happened, in accordance with her teachers. In fact, the few times she had visited Twila’s Dreamscape, she noticed with a bit of relief that she had kept her first Dreamscape assistant too: a butler named Wadsworth.

She ducked under an archway built for a much younger lady and took a right, freezing.

A dead end.

That wasn’t right. It should have lead down another turn to the left, then right again, then right once more to reach the center of the maze.

You’re shaken, she told herself, get it together.

She turned, an apology already at her lips, but froze before it could be uttered.

They were gone. Every last one of them.

“Jack?” she called out, taking a few nervous steps forward, looking both ways down the path. Not a single branch was molested, not a single footprint disturbed the grass below.

“Spike? Diane?” Her tone had lowered and she took a few steps to the right, thinking that maybe they had missed her turning into the dead end. That had to be it, there was no reason for them to backtrack.

Her footsteps increased from a concerned walk, to a jog, then finally a dead sprint, propelling herself across the maze, her thoughts scrambled, her movements erratic with turns taken on whims rather than any form of logic.

You’re alone. Alone on a lot of things, a voice spoke to her. Though Rarity knew voices didn’t have a physical form, she would still say that this loomed over her, a cloak that clung tightly to her back. She looked behind her, snapping her head to check so quickly she felt a sharp pain at her neck.

You know Jack. You know what’s coming if something doesn’t change. Do you really want that to happen?

A hot breeze brushed past her shoulders.

“I refuse to entertain the thought! If this is what the grail entails, playing games with people, I would never want a part of it, no matter how potent it may be!” Rarity barked.

A chuckle came; Rarity looked above.

Towering over her, its size stretching across the entire world was the Dreameater. His grin looked to be able to swallow the earth itself and the darkness of his body was like a midnight without stars.

You have no power here or outside this realm. You will be forsaken by everyone for your role.

Her fear ate at the back of her mind, but even then, she didn’t run, rather, she stood, her sword in her hand, a flea opposing a lion.