Malerabus sits in a dim room on a padded wooden chair, his golden eyes focused on a crackling fire in a fireplace with its stone covered in black. The wood dissolves bit by bit as the fire breaks it down like maggots on a corpse. Currently, he has hidden his true, choosing to use his favorite look of dark blue fur with a mane of green and white stripes. Admittedly, he likes this look better than his changeling form, but he knows if he lets that slip then he will have his head on a pike. If not by the changelings, then by the ponies he has infiltrated.

On his lap is a scroll with thick ink, and displayed on a mannequin is his leather armor, freshly cleaned so that the red base and gold collar shine in the glow of the fire. His dark belt and its pouches hang next to it, and next to him is his sheathed sword. Its golden handle has been polished, so some of the light of the fire reflects back on his face like a focused orb.

Sighing quietly, he looks at the scroll on his lap. It states a simple list that bodes ill news.

50 dead (including Commander Seckel Pear and Prince Buckle Davenport)
60 wounded
8 weeks of rations stolen, plus 36 swords, 20 spears, 18 bows and 160 arrows, 2 axes, and 1 hammer.
75 rebels were killed. 0 captured.
Marshall Stone Edge arrived at the scene with reinforcements, but arrived too late. However, we informed them of the direction of the surviving rebels and he and his company of 30 has set out against them. We are expecting his success and the return of the stolen weapons.
-Sincerely Lieutenant Curved Path

Malerabus rolls up the scroll and rubs his face. There he sits in silence, listening to the wood snap and pop from the flames eating it up, but after some seconds of stillness, his ear twitches from the sound of his door creaking open, followed by familiar soft steps.

A pair of slender hands wrap around his chest, and a warm breath comforts his ear as their damp mane brushes against his cheek. The guest smells like lavender, and it brings a smile to his face.

“You just got back from a long trip and still you work?” asks the guest, a mare with a silvery voice.

Malerabus turns his head so he can look at the mare. She is ten years his junior with a coat pale like fog, a charcoal mane, and bright blue eyes. She has a lean body that is easy on the eyes, and is covered by a thin white gown with delicate pears, vines and leafs on its cuffs and bottom.

“You should be asleep, Arian,” says Malerabus, still smiling.

“So should you, Tart,” says the mare, now standing in front of him with her arms across her chest.

“I have work to do. You do not.”

Arian looks at the scroll, and with a playful smile she pulls it out of his hand with no resistance from his part. She flicks it away, and presses her chest close to his muzzle when she climbs up on his lap. Malerabus' hands have a mind of their own when they trace her thighs and grip her flanks tight, and he has no problem lifting his head to meet his wife's eyes when she uses her finger to lift his chin up.

“If you are so inclined to work, why not work to please me, my lord?” says Arian.

“Will you pay me?” asks Malerabus.

Arian giggles and presses her lips and chest against his, and both their eyes close and they gently inhale, taking in each others scent. She gently pries his mouth open, and what little tension remains in him melts when her tongue slides in on top of his. There, their tongues gently rubbed against each other, and Malerabus opens his eyes just a crack to see that Arian's eyes are still closed in concentration. Her tongue explores his mouth, becoming more eager as the time passes, and her breathing changes from steady to shaky excitement. Her fingers dig into his shoulders, and he slides his hands underneath her gown and traces her damp fur up to the spindle cutie marks and gives her firm flanks a squeeze.

Arian squeals and giggles, and the two break way, flushed and grinning with heart beating as one.

“You've been lonely, haven't you?” teases Malerabus.

“Very,” pants Arian.

“Let's fix that, shall we.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

And just like that, both smiles disappear.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Malerabus sighs and removes Arian from his lap despite her whines of protests, and he briskly approaches his door, shaking his head.

“Pretend you're not home,” says Arian.

“Everypony knows I'm back,” says Malerabus sharply, adding under his breath: “That'll be the last time I buy everypony a round of ale.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Malerabus yanks open his door, briefly blinding himself with the high sun, and with a deep frown and thin squint he looks at a green stallion with a long brown mane in front of him. He is definitely new by his crisp appearance. His scale armor shines in the sunlight, the burgundy tunic underneath is not discolored in any way and he tries to hide his shaking hand by clenching his hilt and balling his fist tight.

“Who are you?” says Malerabus.

“Kermes Oak, son of Burnt Oak, knight of the Throne Guard,” says the stallion quickly without a chance to breathe.

“Well, Kermit, there better be a good reason why you are knocking on my door.”

“Lord Tart Pear, I am sorry to disturb you, but your presence is requested by King Davenport.”

“Prove it.”

Kermes pulls out a scroll from a pouch on his belt and hands it to Malerabus. It shakes like a leaf in a storm, and with a deep sigh the disguised changeling takes it, reads it, then crumples it in his hand and throws it over his shoulder. Such an act leads to Kermes losing all color in his face, but the amount of cares he gives is an empty well, and he shows it by slamming the door in Kermes face.

One obtaining his sword and armor, and one quick argument later, Malerabus finds himself marching down Throne Hall, passing a wall with all the members of the Davenport family painted on it, minus Dilbert Davenport. Originally there was more diversity in the representation of royalty, but after the Davenport ascension the walls had been painted over in beige to remove the “lesser families” as Adirondack has called them. Now there are just Davenports. Not even a Pear or an Edge or an Oak is represented in the Hall.

Malerabus pushes open a pair of large red double doors with gold handles and a large circle with a dot in its center and a pair of curving lies with a spire in between them on top. The doors groan and creak, and he keeps his steps steady and his annoyance hidden as he approaches the frail figure of King Adirondack Davenport, who is flanked by guards wearing the same armor as Kermes.

The old coot is hunched on his large throne, made of wood and iron with bronze spokes jutting out like rays of the sun. His gray fur and white, wiry mane are clean and proper, and his bony hand clutches his polished cane. His sunken black eyes stare at Malerabus as he walks to the throne, and the white orb on his cane seems to have a faint green glow, bringing some light to reflect off of the jewel on his neck; which is a ruby with a sun inside a tree etched in gold.

Malerabus's eye twitches at the odd color, but keeps the rest of his composure intact, and when he is at the appropriate distance, he bows.

“You called, my King?” asks Malerabus.

“Yes, Lord Tart Pear, I did, and you should have come quicker,” says Adirondack.

“When earth ponies learn teleportation spells I will be the first to study it.”

Malerabus stands up and places his hands behind his back, noting how Kermes is standing next to the King with a much older stallion of dark gray fur, and a mane and mustache of gray and light gray stripes. Unlike the rest of the guards, the older stallion is wearing a blue ascot around his neck that matches his blue eyes, and the fur on his cheeks is untrimmed.

“Commander Burnt Oak, still setting a poor example for your troops, I see,” says Malerabus.

“Focus on your House, Pear,” says Burnt Oak.

“Enough,” says Adirondack. “Burnt Oak, you may take your guards out of the room. I have nothing to fear from him.”

Burnt Oak nods and waves his guards towards the door. Malerabus watches with a guarded demeanor as the quiet guards leave without a word, and when the room empties and the door shuts, Adirondack motions Malerabus closer, which he complies without complaint.

“Lord Tart Pear, I called you because I have a special guest coming, and as a token of our friendship and the unshakable bond between Houses Davenport and Pear I would like you and my daughter to sit by my side,” says Adirondack when he is but a pace away from the throne.

“I was under the impression that the matter was more severe than a dinner invitation,” says Malerabus.

“The special guests have made great speed getting here. A Lord from across the Great Divide is coming with intentions of opening trade,” says Adirondack. “I would like you to sit by my side as a symbol of our friendship, as well as making it easier for you to give your input on his character and the proposition.”

“I'm sure Arian would love to have dinner with you for once, and I would be more than happy to serve as your adviser again.”

“Good. And what of your visits to the Lulamoon Sanctuary?”

“Rocky start, but I believe an alliance is well within the works.”

“Excellent. An alliance with the Lulamoon Sanctuary will give us a greater advantage over these rebels, plus pave way for relations with the other Sanctuaries.”

“You are aware that Trixie and the other Sanctuaries have pledged their support to Sombra, correct?”

“Of course I am aware.”

The white orb flashes a pale green, and this time Malerabus knows he is not seeing things. He actually feels a bit offended of not being informed of this particular presence when he and Sombra made their pact.

“Sombra is a growing power, and I have my bloodline to look after,” says Adirondack. “He promises wealth and land and with his support I will have set the foundations for an unending dynasty. I had hoped that Blitz Hurricane would have joined me, but after that meeting in Armonia I'm sure that that stupid pegasus is blind to opportunities.”

Malerabus furrows his brow. “Forgive me for my ignorance, but if you are so eager to make peace with Sombra then why did you send Dilbert to join the Fellowship?”

“That quest is futile and Dilbert is worthless. He and the Fellowship should be dead by now leaving only Marque and Buckle, both are of superior quality and will do a fine job with my kingdom as well as giving me great children. Dilbert would find a way to birth a retard. Or worse, a coward.”

Malerabus' jaw sets. “So you sent one of your children to die for your own pleasure?”

“Don't put it like that. It is for the good of the Davenports. You would do the same, would you not?”

Malerabus inhales slowly and digs his fingers into his hands.

“I believe I understand your view,” says Malerabus.

“Good. Send word out to the Marshalls and Lords of the all the Houses -Great and Vassal- and tell them to assemble at Fort Glæmscrafu for an important meeting.”

“Of course.”

“And wear something nice to the party. I want you and Arian to shine for me. It will be at sunset and will surely go until sunrise.”

“Will do. Anything else, my King?”

“Tell Burnt Oak to execute my chef. He burnt my cake and I will not stand for incompetence. Now you may leave.”

“... As you wish.”

Malerabus does an about-face and marches out the door, keeping his tongue held and breathing subdued. When he is out of the throne room, he passes the guards without saying a word and disappears into the shuffling crowd outside.

At the darkest point of night, a long hall with a fully occupied table of four dozen guests and lots of food is brightly lit by chandeliers of many candles and a roaring fire contained in an elegant fire place. Guarding the room is a mix of the scaled armor of the Throne Guard, with Kermes and Burnt Oak flanking the King, and the red leather armor of the Davenport soldiers. Sitting at the far end, in the largest chair with swirling trees carved into it and thick cushion is Adirondack Davenport, and next to him, in a basic wooden chair and thin pad an dressed in a white tunic with a gold collar and cuffs is Malerabus, or, as the guests know him, Tart Pear, and he still has his sword with him. Next to the concealed changeling, wearing a long white dress with a red corset that hugs her sides and thighs, is Arian. She is talking to an old, soft-golden eyed ibex with a gray-brown fur and dark gray horns. She has to lean over the table a little bit to hear him, but they seem to be enjoying each other company.

However, while Arian and the guest are enjoying themselves, Adirondack is grimacing and poking his fork at a brittle, charcoal colored cake that cracks with each poke, and Malerabus is staring at plate of burnt lettuce.

“You didn't tell Burnt Oak to kill the chef. Now my cake is ruined,” says Adirondack.

“Must have slipped my mind,” says Malerabus. He picks up his lettuce and holds it up to his face, twisting its shriveled, blackened form. “Though, if he is the one that cooks lettuce then I will gladly kill him myself.”

“If you forget my orders the moment you walked out the door then your memory is worse than mine. Will you even remember this dinner?”

“Strong possibly, my King.”

Malerabus tosses his lettuce back on his plate and looks at the guests from across the waters of the Great Divide. All of them are ibexes with basic black and silver tunics. They did arrive with weapons and a sealed chest of “good will and shiny things” as the eldest of the group put it. Both were confiscated and brought to the guard tower. However, there is one particular guest that is serving as a bad omen. This particular guest is not only the biggest of the group, but he will not keep his eyes off of Adirondack, and if his helmet and general build is any indication, he is not a goat, but of equine descent. His dark armor of chainmail, pauldrons, silver flamed curiass, shin pads, boots and full faced helmet, plus the thick white furred cape held in place by a silver chain do a magnificent job of portraying him as an agent of death. Originally he had a massive, sleek obsidian blade with a bronze handle, but thankfully Burnt Oak managed to get the weapon away from him. However, the star of the party -the old goat named Star Diagramm- insisted that his bodyguard keeps the armor for the sake of everyone's stomach.

An eager hand tapping Malerabus' arm brings him out of focus, and he looks at Arian, who is grinning like a filly in sugar.

“Tart, Lord Star Diagramm owns a shipping business. Isn't that amazing?” says Arian.

“Shipping?” asks Malerabus, his eyes now on Star.

Star nods. “Yes, sir. I specialize in the transportation of goods and sometimes people.”

“'What kind of goods?”

“Depends. I have contracts with blacksmiths, farmers, slavers, carpenters, even music-crafters, spicers and vineyards.”

Malerabus hums. “And how big is your fleet?”

“I started with one ship I bought from a washed out sailor and now I have twenty brigatines and have been named Lord of the Five Ports. Its not big, but it is in a great location with plenty of trade routes passing through it. Wealth flows in like a river. You and your lovely wife are more than welcome to visit and enjoy the view.”

Arian gasps eagerly and looks at her husband with a twinkle in her eyes. “Can we?”

Malerabus grunts. “Brigatines.” He looks at Arian. “He's got twenty brigatines.”

“Do you know what a brigatine is?” asks Star.

“Of course I know what a brigatine is! Everypony knows what a brigatine is.”

Arian giggles and squeezes his hand, bringing out a nasally exhale from him as he averts his eyes and drums his fingers on the table.

“Relax, Tart. You don't have to know everything,” says Arian. She looks at Star. “He has been very busy, as of late. Lots of work for the King plus getting House Pear back up to its former glory has tired him out. I know visiting your kingdom will ease his mind.”

Malerabus notices the bodyguard's finger twitch with Arian's words, and he looks down both sides of the room, not seeing anything strange. The guards are stiff as they should be, the Oaks are watching the room as they should be, but if he had fur and not an illusion spell then the strands on the back of his neck will be standing by now.

“Tart, tell Star about when you asked my father for my hand,” says Arian.

“Why?” asks Malerabus sourly.

“Because it is a funny story.”

“I'd rather not.”

“I'll do it, then. It was a dark and stormy night-”

“My youngest son is a merchant like you,” interrupts Adirondack.

Arian's smile drops and Malerabus sighs inwardly, thankful that the interruption came in, and Star leans over to look at the King, who is now holding a golden-jewel encrusted goblet.

“Or I should say was,” continues the King.

Now Malerabus' mood is souring again.

“What happened to your boy, if you do not mind me asking?” asks Star.

“He perished on a trip. Most unfortunate. But if you would like, I can get you and my two other boys connected. They are smart, wealthy, and have more intimate relationships with other merchants and ship masters. That is, if you impress me and my adviser with what you have to offer.”

To solidify his point, Adirondack points his hand at Malerabus, who smiles thinly and holds up a couple of fingers as a wave.

Star smiles and takes a sip of his drink. “Time will only tell, but I figured what I bring can help Everfree and make my people happy.”

“Very good," says Adirondack. "But please do not mistake me for being a heartless old man, for I am grateful that foreign entities such as you have recognized my greatness, and the greatness of House Davenport, but you understand that I cannot just make deals on the spot. They require a lot of study and negotiations.”

Star nods, and Malerabus scans the table again, noticing that the other goats are eating without so much as flicking an ear to the old King, or talking to the other guests. Even the ponies are ignoring the guests and keeping their words directed towards themselves. And Star's bodyguard still has not broken his eyes off of Adirondack and his plate remains virtually untouched. Now noticing this, it brings a frown to the King.

“That brute, he is your guard, correct?” asks Adirondack.

“He is,” replies Star.

“Why has he not eaten? Or taken off his helmet?”

The bodyguard leans towards Star and whispers in his ear, and the goat nods and smiles politely at Adirondack.

“Sir McBiggun means no disrespect, but he is not hungry,” says Star.

Malerabus raises a brow.

“And the helmet?” asks Adirondack.

“He does not want to spoil the appetites of the others. A very bad injury has made him less than appealing to look at. So he will eat alone.”

“Nonsense! He has nothing to fear from me. I have seen my fair share of unpleasant images and faces, as well as ordered a few of my own. Please, Sir McBiggun, show us your face. You have my word as King that none of us will recoil.”

The massive figure leans down and whispers into Star's ear, handing him a piece of paper, and the goat nods and looks at Adirondack.

“Great King Davenport, Sir McBiggun will gladly remove his helmet for you, but he also has a message he would like to share,” says Star.

Adirondack raises his hand and all the guests fall silent, and Malerabus' body stiffens as he discretely looks around the room, guided by a sick feeling in his gut that has gotten only worse as the minutes go by.

“Very well,” says Adirondack. “What is it that Sir McBiggun would like to say?”

Star gently unrolls the scroll and clears his throat.

“It is by the power invested in me, by the grace of Faust and the will of the people, that I, King Adirondack Davenport, sentence you, Prince Macintosh Apple, to death by fire. May Faust have mercy on your soul, for I shall not,” says Star.

Adirondack pales, and confused murmurs creep along the walls as the beast known as McBiggun removes his helmet to reveal a face of warped and burnt, cracking flesh, with strings of thin skin barely covering his cheeks. His mane is strings of orange, and his dead eyes gaze at Adirondack as he calmly sets his helmet on the table and reclines in his chair with his hands folded across his lap.

The crowd gasps in horror, Arian covers her mouth, recoiling from freight, and Malerabus becomes petrified, his thoughts spinning like a trapped rat in a wheel for what he is hoping is deception.

“Impossible,” gasps Adirondack. “Guards, kill them!”

Kermes suddenly presses a knife against the King's throat, and around them deer shimmer into view with blades against the ponies' necks -including Malerabus and Arian's- while the Throne Guard captures the Davenport Guards and forces them on their knees. The goats then get off their chairs and confiscate their weapons, and as this happens Adirondack's eyes flick around the room, shaking the table with his quivering.

“Commander Oak, what is the meaning of this!” demands Malerabus past Arian's whimpers.

Burnt Oak approaches Malerabus and takes his sword.

“You and the Unjust King killed my friend and mentor. I was just waiting for the perfect opportunity to take everything away from you,” says Burnt Oak.

“You were no friend with any Apple! I checked! You and your family were hobos! We gave you everything and this is how you repay us!?”

Burnt Oak slams Malerabus' head into the table, eliciting a grunt of pain from him and a shriek from Arian, and the disguised Changeling growls when the fingers dig and twist into his mane.

“You didn't check hard enough,” says Burnt Oak, his voice sharp like a fresh blade.

“You died in the fire! I saw you on that stake!” says Adirondack to Macintosh. “How is this possible?”

“Applejack?” asks Macintosh.

“What?”

Macintosh nods to one of the deer, and he slits the throat of his hostage and shoves them on to the table. The guest gurgles and holds his open neck as blood spreads over the table and drips to the floor, and amidst the terrified yells and begs, Adirondack pushes himself in his seat and looks at Malerabus.

“Tart, do something!” says Adirondack.

Malerabus is silent and still with the cold blade against his throat. His only movement is when Arian grabs his hand and his fingers intertwine with hers, and Adirondack is brought back to looking at Macintosh when the large pony bangs on the table.

“Applejack?” says Macintosh.

“She's with Dilbert. Safe at Horseshoe Bay,” says Adirondack, his voice shaking to near incomprehension.

Macintosh points to another deer, and he slits the throat of his captured guest.

“Applejack?” says Macintosh.

“I already told you where she is, you damn brute!” yells Adirondack.

Macintosh exhales, stands up, walks to Adirondack's side, then grabs his hand and nails it to the table with a knife he pulls from a back sheath. Adirondack howls in agony and Macintosh yanks his mane so that they are eye to eye and with a bloodthirsty growl, he asks: “Applejack?”