“Drink! Drink! Drink!”

She couldn’t feel her tongue.

Her throat was like sandpaper.

But Scootaloo drank.

“She’s actually gonna do it.”

“I can’t believe it!”

Only a tiny bit of the queer liquid remained. No turning back now. She held her breath and forced the last of it down.

“Aahh,” Scootaloo sighed and slammed her cup on the ground. “Looks like you owe me a cup of mana juice, bozo.”

Everypony cheered.

Everypony except for one. The colt who had started it all. His self-satisfied grin was now notably absent.

“It’s called mango juice,” he grumbled.

“She did it!” somepony said, “I thought you said she was too small to drink it all.”

“Ah, stuff it,” the colt said, “Okay, filly, you got me this time.”

He reluctantly reached into his purse and paid the vendor, who was practically drooling over the coin.

“Hey, good work, kid,” the vendor said, “you won! Look, I still have a bunch of food in my cart. What do you say, a little eating contest? It’ll be fun! I’ll even give you guys a five percent discount. Today only!”

“I don’t know,” Scootaloo said, “I think” - urps - “sorry. I think I’ll pass.”

The world slowly returned to her senses. The air was as heavy with the smells of exotic foods as the many fat purses jingling with coins. The taste on Scootaloo’s tongue also came back. It wasn’t like the sweet mango juice wasn’t yummy, but the sawdust-like texture made it kinda hard to drink. And downing an entire cup just like that, without knowing what it would taste like, hadn’t been her best decision either.

In any case, Scootaloo had enough. She picked her pacifier back up and left.

The colt turned his shoulder as she departed. Scootaloo didn’t know exactly what it was, but he was weird. His spiky mane stood out like a hearth’s warming sparkler in the crowd of adolescents gathering around him. He wore earrings, piercings, chains around his neck. Clad in metal like a knight’s armor. Though he was a pegasus, his body was muscular like she had hardly seen in Skyview city.

He was the king of the playground.

The grown-ups mostly decided to stay clear of the plaza, to seek shelter from errant balls, frisbees or frolicking fillies or colts. Except for the food vendors, of course, who couldn’t seem to quickly enough get rid of their prepared foods and exotic recipes from afar. After all, no spice smelled sweeter than the promise of an overburdened parent’s gold.

“Boy, you really showed him, Scootaloo,” Terry said, her mouth full of greasy brown stuff, of which she had more in her hooves, “Good going, filly. Wow, these taste amazing. What are they called again?”

“They’re falafels,” Magnolia said, “My mom likes to make them when chickpeas are cheap later in the year. She always buys the stuff in huge bags. But I don’t mind, I’m not usually allowed to eat something so greasy.” She grabbed another helping with a glistening hoof.

“So, you know the guy?” Scootaloo said.

“Ugh,” Terry made, rolling her eyes, “don’t even remind me.”

“Local bully in school,” Circuit said, “They call him Slog. I’ve never talked to him myself, but he and his gang have been giving Terry a hard time.”

“I’m certainly not giving them the time of day,” Terry stated, “I know I should act my age, but bullies like him never deserve your attention. He’s the reason my mom doesn’t want me to mingle with ponies from the lower city. She says I’ll get my clothes ruined with the soot from the steel mill.”

“Well, I heard his parents both worked in the steel mill their entire lives,” Circuit said, “like many other ponies, those who work in the lower city stay in the lower city. They also usually have their own schools down there, and so their children also stay in the lower city.”

“I think his mane looks funny,” Magnolia piped up.

“But he goes to school with you?” Scootaloo said, “That must be tough. Going to school while working in a factory all day.”

“Whatever,” Terry said, “We’ve all got our problems. And it’s not like he’s alone by himself. Look how everypony’s crowding around him.”

“I wanna look at his mane …” Magnolia said.

“Doesn’t seem like he particularly enjoys the attention,” Scootaloo said. The crowd was still in uproar, but Slog seemed to have made a silent exit. “Sometimes, a bit of empathy can go a long way.”

“Hmpf,” Terry huffed.

As they finished, Scootaloo ended up having a falafel too. She didn’t get what everypony found so great about them. Sure, its texture was hearty and pleasant, but all the coriander made it taste kind of like soap. Well, at least the grease was decent.

Suddenly, somepony came barging straight into the plaza-turned-playground.

“They’re starting!” the excited pony proclaimed, “The magic duel, it’s beginning! Come on, everypony! Get going or you’ll miss it!”

A few older ponies immediately bounded off to the colosseum's entrance. But the vast majority, all smaller foals, fanned out radially from the space, avoiding collision with each other with cunning efficiency as they rapidly closed the distance to their parents. Sleeves and collars were tugged ruthlessly, and they cried and begged to move faster, as the migration began.

Magnolia, Circuit and Terry had already caught up to their respective guardians and began with the bargaining for haste. Scootaloo had no idea what this all was about, but the urgency was suddenly very real.

“Mommy! Mommy!” Scootaloo said, “We have to go, mommy!”

“Hello there, Scootaloo,” Fluttershy said, “Is everything alright? I haven’t seen you all evening. How are you enjoying our visit to the festival?”

“Yes, mommy,” Scootaloo said, “it’s great. I’ve been playing with Magnolia and Circuit and Terry.”

She really wanted to get a move on, but she also didn’t want to pass up the opportunity for some snuggles. Fluttershy gave Scootaloo a kiss on the cheek, and Scootaloo turned her other cheek as quickly as she could to receive a kiss there as well. Then they rubbed noses together with the utmost expeditiousness.

“Mommy, we have to go,” Scootaloo said, “The magic duel’s starting, and we can’t be late.”

“Oh my,” Fluttershy said, “Okay, Scootaloo. Just give me a moment to get the stroller and pack our things. Then we can leave.”

“But mommy!” Scootaloo said, “All the good seats will be taken if we come too late!”

“Ah, just let ‘em go,” Magnolia’s mom said from under her hat. She didn’t even get up from the bench she was lying on. “They’ll be fine. Magnolia knows her way around.”

“Besides, Terry’s there to take care of things if need be,” Victory said, “isn’t that right?”

“Yes, auntie,” Terry called, already halfway around the corner.

“Fine,” Fluttershy said, “Go ahead, Scootaloo. We’ll be right behind you.”

Scootaloo had to go! The red flag was waving last call, Circuit’s tail vanishing into the crowd. Scootaloo quickly let go of Fluttershy and scuttled off into the unknown.

All the ponies were gathering to see the show. The grounds opened up closer to the colosseum, and everypony proceeded to pile on and cramp up the plaza. Even worse, most everypony carried bags and trunks bulging with loot, making progress a fruitless proposition. Magnolia tried to navigate her way around the maze of grown-ups’ legs, but crammed crowds and weighed wagons proved obstacles unnavigable. They had to stop and wait up for the less nimble, but more burly, Terry to carve a path.

Finally, the entry arch to the colosseum popped up above excited heads, but that was as close as it came. The crowd had ground to a complete halt, impatient foals fussing with their equally impatient parents, as everypony watched the tiny trickle through the entryway.

“Oh no,” Circuit said, “we’ll never get inside at this rate.”

“What are you guys doing?” Magnolia said. Scootaloo turned her head, but she was no longer beside them. Where was she? Oh! She was above! “The building has no roof. Come on!”

“Right,” Circuit said and jumped into the air.

Scootaloo ran after them, while her friends, same as many other provident ponies, took to the skies. Her friends were so far away! Could they even hear her? Scootaloo tried jumping after them as high as she could, but her wings barely elevated her above the crowd.

“Hey! Wait for me!” Scootaloo called, “Don’t leave -- oof.”

Two strong hooves grabbed her around the chest and she was lifted away. Terry held Scootaloo tightly, as they rose after the others.

The bedlam was even more impressive from an altitude. Despite the sea of ponies flooding against the Colosseum’s front, the surrounding webwork of market streets were still brimming with commerce.

Scootaloo had never seen so few ponies in a crowd. Even the more common inhabitants of this city, gryphons, diamond dogs, lizards and the occasional dragon, weren’t predominantly frequent in the heterogeneous crowd, which meandered between alleys and past overloud market criers like a stream jammed with hooves, horns, antlers, wings, scales, plates, smooth fur, shining chitin and possibly even icky slime. They were all the same, in the eyes of the Choir, as long as they had coin.

And everyone was trying to get a piece of that cake. The easiest way of which was to sell basically junk. Picture frames beset with beautifying gemstones. Playing cards hoof-drawn with the pictures Saddle Arabia’s rulers. Carved figurines of animals so rare nopony had ever heard of them before. They were mass-produced souvenirs and fake exotic trinkets meticulously designed to elicit as strong of an emotional response as possible to overshadow the feeling of a lighter purse.

But that was what made it all so appealing. Exploring inbetween stalls and behind the back alleys for that sweet deal on an actually rare artifact, honestly crafted decoration, exotic food and drink, or simply giving in to the high of a decadent purchase. No matter the origin, species, age or creed, everyone understood the laws of commerce.

Scootaloo wasn’t usually afraid of heights, but the solid landscape of market stalls awash with the flooding crowd made her feel a bit queasy. But, now, she felt extra secure in Terry’s grasp. Terry obviously had a lot of experience carrying her dollies around, and she held Scootaloo with equal, unyielding firmness.

Not that Scootaloo was a dolly. Because she wasn’t. She was clearly bigger than a dolly, and her mane and her tail were obviously real. The most important difference though, a fact which Terry was inconveniently ignorant of, was that dollies usually didn’t have anything to hide beneath their skirts fluttering in the wind. Especially nothing with painfully bright and colorful prints, and obviously saggy from previous use.

Somepony flew past from below. Scootaloo promptly crossed her hind legs and held her skirt down.

“Where are they?” Terry said.

“Over there,” Scootaloo said, “by the ravens.”

“Scootaloo,” Terry said, “There’s ravens everywhere.”

“No, look,” Scootaloo said, “by the statues. Red tail.”

“Right,” Terry said, and followed Circuit’s striking feature.

To complete the drawings of fake ravens, and the alcoves on the outer wall populated with real ravens, the circular building was crowned by a ring of majestic raven statues, similarly populated with real ravens, who were observing the flocks of ponies with stoic onyx eyes. They crossed the threshold, and descended into the massive bowl. Despite its huge dimensions, the colosseum’s endless rows of stone benches were already filled up on the entrance side. Luckily, the far side was all theirs!

“Awesome!” Circuit said, “We got almost front row!”

“You sound surprised,” Magnolia said, “Trust me. These have been the best seats for years. Excuse me, we need some room here ...”

“Uh,” the seat’s occupant said, “sure thing.”

The seats had been taken by a group of adolescents. They looked like they were about to protest, but when the remarkably smaller Magnolia slammed into the stone bench and brashly spread her wings to make room for her friends, they thought it better. Circuit promptly claimed his own spot on the cold stone. He landed beside Magnolia and appreciatively sat down on his haunches, sidling up to her.

Scootaloo was simply plopped down on her rear. She didn’t complain, the stone wasn’t too cold for her, she was sitting quite softly.

“Uh, okay,” the pony from before said as Terry snuggled in between him and Scootaloo, “aren’t you a bit young to be sitting here?”

“Aren’t you a bit old to be so nosy?” Terry shot back.

His gang laughed.

“She’s got you there,” somepony else said.

“I’m just saying,” he pouted, “they’ve got an age restriction in here.”

“How did you guys get here anyway?” Scootaloo said, “you obviously didn’t fly.”

All of them were Zebras. Their speech bore no particular inflection, but the leader’s stripes had an exotic beauty to them.

“Oh, we got in early,” stripes grinned, pulling out a pack of Savannah Sensations from one of the many pouches on his vest, “my brother brought them fresh from the Vast. You’d be surprised the places these things can get you. A bunch here, a pack there, and whoosh, you find yourself in front row seats on the magic show of the year. Want one?”

“Uh ... ” Circuit said, “Smoking? Seriously? Didn’t you think we’re too young to enter, just now?”

Stripes shrugged.

“The show of the year?” Magnolia said, “You think they’re going to beat that one time with the lizard gladiator?”

Stripes choked. “You were here for that?” he said, “That must have been, like, more than five years ago. Totally wrecked the place, too. Though not so bad like when they brought that war machine up from the Diamond Hollows. Boy, those saws screeched my ears out.”

“Yeah,” Magnolia said, “What were they thinking, trying to contain that huge mountain of steel and gears? It barely worked with the dragon fire the year before …”

“Steel? Dragon fire? What the hay are you two talking about?” Scootaloo said, “All I see is a bunch of ponies standing around, and looking at dirt.”

They were hard to miss, the ponies loitering around in the center of the arena, being blasted with the full force of several stadium lights. A bunch of them hung around in the upturned earth, and a bunch more huddled on an ugly slab of concrete.

“What did you expect?” stripes laughed.

“I just didn’t think it would look so ... ugly,” Scootaloo said.

“You have no idea, do you? Look there,” stripes pointed with his cigarette, “those ponies in the dirt. They’re all unicorns, right? What do you think they’re doing?”

Something was particular about those six ponies standing in an exact circle. Scootaloo couldn’t quite see the ground because the earth was severely upturned, but she could swear something twinkled before one set of hooves.

“Are they ...” Scootaloo said, “are they channeling a rune?”

“Dome of protection!” Magnolia said, “They need it to keep the destruction contained inside.”

“D-Destruction!?” Terry said.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be safe,” stripes laughed, “at least that’s what I hope ... hey, you guys wanna buy some smokes?”

Ponies were piling on in front and behind them. In fact, the entire stadium had become filled up, to the very outermost seats, and even further beyond, as ponies circled excitedly above the show floor. Despite the arena being open overhead, most everyone squeezed past each other between the benches, and the air was getting hot and stuffy at an alarming rate.

Just when Scootaloo thought the general commotion couldn’t get any louder, the crowd began roiling with excited shouts. The ponies on the center stage finally broke open their cloaked huddle, and revealed a long and slender form, an elegant curved and inscribed horn, and a, very recently, familiar face.

“Is that ...” Scootaloo shouted, “Is that Scribe? The mare from the arts and crafts session earlier?”

“Oh yeah, she’s fighting tonight,” Magnolia said, “Did I forget to tell?”

“Fighting?” Scootaloo said, “Are you for serious? Isn’t she a bit old for that?”

“Hey!” Magnolia grinned, “I dare you to say that to her face!”

Scribe looked almost bored without her entourage, like she was solemnly loitering around the spacious premises. But the way she carried herself suggested something else entirely. Her hooded cloak barely acknowledged the spotlights, too dark to be made of regular fabric, yet it played so lightly in the wind like no bolstered material could. Underneath the blackness glinted the varnished buckles of several belts strapped around her chest and limbs, with reinforced prongs and holes strong enough to secure countless clandestine satchels and bags along her body.

It was easy to mistake Scribe’s gear as casual wear at first glance, but beneath the veil of complacency lay cruel preparation.

“And who’s she supposed to fight?” Scootaloo said.

“Dunno,” Magnolia said, “it’s a secret.”

“The secret is if they’ll even show up,” Circuit said, returning from above, “They say the identity hasn’t been revealed yet, but apparently they don’t know where the pony is. Here, I got us some popcorn.”

Terry promptly dug in, to calm her nerves.

Just then, somepony entered the stage. The lanky figure was obviously no fighter, but he sported a very stylish cap with the Choir’s raven insignia.

“Fillies and gentlecolts,” his annoyingly shrill voice tore across the stadium, “The magic show duel of the century is set to begin in just a few more minutes, right after we’ve fixed a minor technical difficulty. And you better hold on to your seats, hats, wings, and whatever else you got, because this one’s going to be a doozy ... Where the hay is that guy anyway?” He whispered the last part to his associate, but the words resounded clear as day.

“Well,” the zebra colt said, “looks like this one’s a bust.”

“Yeah, what the hay?” somepony said behind them.

“Come on, I’ve got good money on this fight,” somepony else complained.

The generally increasing dissatisfaction couldn’t be overheard. The only ponies who weren’t up in the air and getting restless were those six ponies standing around the stage. They didn’t keep particularly still, but were noticeably concentrated. The lights were too bright to see any glow on their horns, but when Scootaloo turned her head just right, she could see the dome of protection’s translucent geometry encasing the arena with perfect regularity.

“Those guys are good,” Scootaloo said, “Who are they? They’re not even wearing any uniforms or, like, safety equipment.”

“Mercenaries perhaps?” Circuit suggested, “They don’t look the official type, and they must have quite some training to keep their cool in a crowd this big.”

“They’re Royal Guard,” stripes said.

“Royal Guard?” Terry exclaimed, spraying popcorn, “You must be joking. To think the princesses would support such barbarism!”

“Obviously they don’t support it, officially,” stripes said, “but far be it from the princesses to interfere with something that’s established tradition. They had gladiator arenas in Skyview ever since the city was founded. The throne don’t want to ban it, they just want to make sure nothing bad happens when everypony’s gathered in one place. So they send out these dudes, special Royal Guard units, but without the armor.”

“I can’t believe it,” Terry said, “secret agents? Sent by the throne? That’s so dishonest! They’re the princesses, for Celestia’s .... uh, sake.”

Stripes grinned. “Then you wouldn’t want to know how many others there are --”

Somepony new entered the arena, and the stadium roared.

The figure obviously was no mercenary, nor a trained Royal Guard. He was big, fat, old, unkempt, and he couldn’t even walk straight to begin with. The stallion stumbled about, his tattered cerulean robes and white beard disfigured by dark stains of unspeakable grime, the probable origins of which he carried with him in a bundle on a crooked stick across his back. From several clanking bottles peeked a very familiar, now-empty bottle of Calimyrna Brandy.

Scootaloo gasped. “It’s the drunk,” she said, “from earlier, in the alleyway. How did he manage to get in there? Somepony’s gotta help him, before he gets hurt!”

But nopony did such thing. On the contrary, his stumbling attempts to traverse the broken earth and clamber onto the central platform were met with jeers and jubilation in equal parts. The old pony managed his way onto the concrete, but most of his efforts were tied up in trying to stand upright without falling over.

“Fillies and gentlecolts, friends of furious fights,” the announcer with the annoying voice proclaimed, “the moment you’ve all been waiting for has finally arrived. I hope you’re sitting pretty, because this is going to blow you off your seats.”

“I knew this was a bad idea,” the drunk said.

“They can’t be serious,” Scootaloo said, “they’re gonna beat up the old stallion just like that?”

“In the one corner,” the announcer continued, “hailing from the snaking valleys of the far east, as skilled as she is graceful, court scholar of the Eternal Dynasty and teacher of generations, advisor to the throne, agent and diplomat, Scribe of the Black Petal!”

“And in the other corner, forged in the cold lands beyond the Broken Spire, hero of a thousand battles and distinguished by Equestria’s highest decorations, guardian patron of the northern realms, last Archmeister of the Order of the Thunderhoof --”

“Yeah, yeah, get on with it already,” the old stallion spat, “all you ponies do is talk.”

“Gorn the Destroyer!” the announcer trumpeted, and the crowd went wild.

The announcer had already scrambled out of the ring, and his assistant followed suit, putting as much distance between himself and the contestants as possible. Gorn stood on wobbly hooves, not daring to raise his gaze from the ground. But Scribe had ceased all movement. Her entire being was fixated, with razor-sharp attention, on the creature before her.

“Look,” Gorn said, “I don’t know what drove me to come here, but I realize it was a mistake. If you let me go, I will just turn around and --”

It was barely as much as a nod of her head, a sparkling projectile sliced through the air from underneath Scribe’s cloak, connected with Gorn’s face and smashed into the magic dome, splintering into countless icy shards that evaporated without a trace. Gorn reeled from the ephemeral projectile’s impact, but the dark blood he drew from his cheek was as palpable as the excitement of the screaming crowd.

Scootaloo was in a suffocating predicament of her own, Terry had decided to hold on to her for support.

“That’s blood!” Terry howled, “They can’t be serious! That’s monstrous!”

“What was that?” Circuit said, “What did Scribe shoot at him? And how did she conjure it from thin air?”

“She didn’t,” Magnolia explained, “it’s a magically infused icicle. She’s one of the ancient Primordial Shadows, she must have prepared infused elements in advance before the fight.”

“Scribe, it doesn’t have to be like this,” Gorn huffed, the excitement now fully unhinging him in his drunken haze, “if you would let me just --”

Another little capsule had rolled from one of the many folds of her gear into Scribe’s grasp. She let it burst on the ground, and the spilt water promptly turned into more crystalline icicles under her attention, whizzing through the air with deadly resolve.

Gorn had no chance to react, he would have been done for, but lucky for him, he tripped, and the icy projectile missed by a hair’s breadth from ripping his tendons into pieces. He stumbled and turned to avoid falling, twisting just out of the next icicle’s path, which punched a hole clean through his fluttering scarf. As he got back up, his gnarled branch rolled off his shoulders. Swirling the long rod around his back, he caught it in his hoof, just barely as another icicle missed his neck.

This time, Gorn didn’t falter. He stepped forth and snapped his staff straight in front of him, bottles still dangling in their cloth, as he smashed the final sharp projectile off its course mid-flight. As the ice scraped away the grime, his tool revealed itself not as a brittle old piece of wood, but as an intricate combat staff addled with crystalline and black steel reinforcements.

“How did he do that?” Scootaloo gasped, “He looks like he can barely stand straight.”

“He’s an ages old warrior,” stripes said. Unlike his hollering friends, he sat and watched the fight with quiet attention, “he trained and led the only order of monk-warriors that could protect an entire realm on its own. Watch him, he’s only getting warmed up.”

The more rapid Scribe’s movements became, the more dreamlike she danced across the stage, and the more fierce her assault grew. She went all out with the icicles, smashing several beads of water on the ground and letting the exploding clump of ice bite into her hooves. Her horn cut through the ice like a shining emerald blade, increasingly sizzling with raw power as she rapidly flung hundreds of tiny razor blade shards at her opponent.

Gorn’s drunken dance was neither luck nor chance, but cold calculation. He twisted and stumbled to elude most of harm’s way, and his combat staff struck and whirled in his hooves, a barrier of force impenetrable by frontal assault, behind the cover of which he moved into a tactically advantageous position.

Scribe saw through his weakness. The closer Gorn got, the more area he had to cover against the projectiles firing off from all around her. She ripped the glacial clump from the ground and cracked it open, firing off projectiles from all around a wide arc, simultaneously. Gorn had no chance to defend, as shards penetrated his defenses and sliced his robes.

But Gorn only had to get close enough. In one fluid motion, the bottle from his satchel had landed in his hoof and he took a deep swig. He cleared the way with a downward strike and smashed his staff’s steel head against the stone, sending sparks flying. Scribe only had a moment to react as she realized what he was about to do.

Gorn exhaled mightily and blew the liquid in his mouth into the sparks, creating a massive jet of blinding white hot flame blasting clean across the arena. The quarter of the stadium audience within the explosion area promptly took to the skies in search of safety, but the charring wildfire was aptly contained by the guards’ inhibiting dome.

A deafening crack followed as ice and fire crashed, and dirty hissing steam exploded across the arena. Scribe came stumbling out of the carnage, her personal shield still up, as she tried to find her bearings. She anticipated an attack from every side, but too late did she see her opponent’s massive form come in from above, steel blunt of the weapon trained directly for her skull.

Gorn struck the ultimate blow, but smoke and cloth was all that his staff touched, before he smashed a crack into the concrete. Scribe was gone.

“Shadow Walk!” Magnolia exclaimed and jumped up in excitement.

“What’s that mean?” Circuit said, following suit, “She can go invisible? That’s impossible!”

“Not impossible,” Magnolia said, “but the conditions have to be right. You can see her movement if you watch closely, but with this fog, he’ll never be able to spot her.”

Indeed, Gorn turned every which way in an attempt to catch his opponent, but a whisper of mist and a flutter of cloth was all the fog would permit. It was impossible to tell where Scribe was exactly, but she was moving faster than seemed possible. It was almost too late when Gorn pulled up his staff and bashed aside the surrepetitious strike of twin glowing emerald fangs, the soaring sparks only more fuel for the roaring crowd.

Again the shadow viper struck, this time from below, swinging in from a wide arc as the two glowing blades made for Gorn’s hooves. Though he twisted out of the attack’s path in the last moment, his attempt at a counterattack met with nothing but thin air. He spun around and swung his staff in a circle, trying to keep the shadows at bay, but he was losing the battle quickly.

That is, until he finally managed to dislodge the empty bottle from the cloth at the end of his stick. The glass described an arc through the air when Gorn came around once more, his entire form shrouded in cerulean mists as he struck it with terminal precision. The glass didn’t shatter, but it veritably disintegrated into its base components, a fine sparkling mist of pure quartz and silicates exploding across the dome.

“That can’t be!” Scootaloo said, “That was magic! How can he do that? He’s not even a unicorn!”

“Gorn is a Battle Transmuter by war profession,” stripes said, “and the finest at his craft. Note his specifically crafted armor that serves as his magical focus.”

“Armor?” Scootaloo said, “You mean those rags he’s wearing?”

But the glittering starfield was what made Gorn’s clothing so striking. His tunic, his sash and the bands around his limbs and tail, in every fold and crease of cloth shimmered tiny sapphires and diamonds, hundreds of them, glowing and pulsating with raw arcane power that flowed into his hooftips.

Another thing glittered ever more clearly: the increasingly complete outline of his elusive opponent, who kept picking up the star dust with every move. Scribe never stayed in one place, but Gorn could now predict her strikes with ease, and soon he had enough of a lock on her position to begin an offensive of his own.

Instead of waiting for her to attack, Gorn launched himself forward and struck his staff at a point on the air. Scribe just barely threw up her guard as she was knocked back into the corporeal world, twin obsidian daggers hissing with the elemental wrath channeled through her hooves. But the much bigger stallion conserved his momentum and crashed into the smaller mare, issuing a deafening warcry, as he knocked her clean out of range.

That was all the time Gorn needed. He caught the little piece of cloth that had been fluttering by his side, swept it across the field and drew in the myriads of elemental particles, to coalesce along the staff’s form to the purest of crystalline structures. Chunk for chunk interlinked, he drew a strand of light out of the air.

Scribe had recovered just in time to dodge the diamond chain slapping heavily against the ground, splinters exploding from the furrow in the concrete. She righted herself and jumped to the side as the chain struck again. It was slow and easy to evade, but the long range made it impossible for her to close the gap as it continuously kept her on her hooves.

But the chain had never intended to strike her, only to keep the pace, as the two combatants’ rhythms of striking and dodging aligned. The time was right, and Gorn feigned another attack, but swept the chain of light across the field instead, catching Scribe around the hooves and throwing her to the ground. He reeled in her flailing form, while launching himself in her direction, building up momentum as he raised his staff to strike.

The diamond chain disintegrated, and immediately reassembled around Gorn’s combat staff to form the sharp and heavy point of an ethereally infused assault cudgel, descending upon Scribe like a meteor of balefire fury. The impact promptly cracked the arena underneath, arcs of blinding light licking at the ground, as the elemental barrier Scribe had thrown up in the last possible moment dispersed the raw kinetic energy to the surroundings.

Gorn’s war maul only grew in mass as it assimilated the flying concrete, the powerhouse of muscle and magic working without pause as he struck again, trying to smash through Scribe’s violently sparkling shield. With ever increasing force, the massive blunt weapon came down once more, driving Scribe deeper into the concrete crater.

The crowd was wild, standing, flying, shouting and generally misusing the seats in every way imaginable. Half of them was calling for Scribe to yield, and the other half opposed the sentiment.

“What the hay is she doing?” Terry howled, “She has to get out of there or he’s going to crush her!”

“She doesn’t want to get out of there,” Magnolia said, “her Lightning Shield will hold. The concrete bears no elemental power that she can draw from. She’s using his strength to crack it open. Watch what happens when she reaches the earth and stone underneath!”

Scribe chose the exact moment that Gorn’s ever-growing weapon had become too unwieldy for proper defense. Now was the time to act. All of the seething jade power vanished from her form and moved into the cracks underneath. Gorn realized his mistake, and aborted his attack to defend from below. Barely he avoided being impaled by the massive rock spike that erupted from the ground.

He just about managed to break off the dire stalagmite’s sharp point, but the unstoppable force of the earth powered through his weapon’s crystalline structure, digging straight into the steel reinforced combat staff contained within, and broke it apart like so much as a mere twig. Gorn reeled from the blocked attack, and caught himself just in time to roll out of the way as a second mountain shard exploded forth from underneath.

One more earthen column rose to meet him with terminal velocity, but Scribe rode this one herself, and she had assembled shards of rock into a massive spiked barrier at its point. Trapped between two stone formations, Gorn had no room to evade. He grabbed a splinter of his staff and hastily assembled a shield before the avalanche rolled over him.

The impact smashed the rock formation wide open, but Gorn held on, pushing against the primordial forces with his incandescent tower shield. Scribe didn’t waste the opportunity and jumped off the rolling rocks, doing a light flip over her opponent that carried two tiny strikes of blazing death.

With uncanny intuition, Gorn had twisted his shield upwards just in time to deflect the dagger attacks, but the lightning infused blades crackled and exploded, smashing the shield into his own face and burying him underneath. Scribe landed elegantly and promptly commenced on an attack vector, twin blades pointed forward seeking obliteration. Anticipating the move, Gorn rose to block one of the daggers with his half-broken shield and deflect the other one with the diamond broadsword held firmly in his jaw.

Gorn stepped forward and slashed with his sword. Scribe ducked away and took the opportunity to strike with her daggers. Lightning arced across his skin as Gorn barely twisted out of the attack, hitting Scribe on her exposed side with his kite shield in retaliation. The blow forced her to the ground, where she promptly kicked at his hooves. He jumped out of the way and went for a low slash, but Scribe did a backflip out of range.

She jumped into the air and threw a glowing fire pebble in his direction. Gorn struck it with the broadside of his sword and shot it back, but that had played into Scribe’s plan. The orb ignited, but Scribe caught the explosion with her horn, twisted around and threw the glob of volatile energies back at him.

The angry glob of fire slapped heavily into the craggy spire between them, sending a crackling spray of molten rock in every direction. Gorn narrowly hid behind his kite shield from the rain of furious fire that pelted the dome of protection, its maintainers hiding behind errant rocks as the intense heat wave rippled through the raging audience.

Only one figure stood tall as the air caught fire. Her hooves infused with boiling magma, Scribe unleashed the full arcane potency of the raw elements, blasting across the field of flame to strike at the downed warrior with the anger of a meteor impact. Gorn raised his luminescent shield to deflect the attack with ease, but it was never Scribe’s intention to get past his defenses.

Her molten shards struck him again and again, their fiery violence hidden behind a veil of embers that sizzled every surface they contacted with. Its indestructibility was no help as the diamond shield began to heat up, biting into Gorn’s foreleg as he flailed to shake it off, giving Scribe the opening she’d been waiting for.

But even in the face of defeat Gorn remained resourceful. He endured the pain until Scribe reached out for the fatal blow, and then he acted, kicking out and bashing the burning disc right into her jaw. Scribe reeled, and Gorn desperately scrambled to pick up pieces of his broken staff from the ravaged arena.

Engulfed in flames, Scribe turned and lunged at her now defenseless opponent, but a well-placed strike from his hastily assembled winged spear kept her at bay. She attempted to flank him, but Gorn’s skillful application of the radiant long weapon made her duck out once more. The destructive power of her attacks was worthless if she couldn’t land them, so Scribe had to adjust.

She feigned another lunge, but when the spear came, the elemental pebbles were already rolling down her hooves. Swiveling around, Scribe kicked a glacial cascade spanning half the arena into existence, punching the spear straight into Gorn’s body and shoving him out of the frozen razor spikes’ range.

Gorn couldn’t back up any further, a scalding puddle of molten rock behind his back, when another ice explosion came. He swiveled around and thrust the spear into the ground, vaulting into the air to escape the freezing danger, but this time, Scribe rode the ice and was closing in fast. Devoid of other options, he pulled out his spear and smashed it into the tip of the frozen column. The arena exploded into hissing steam as the frigid mass burst against the lava, pushing Scribe away just long enough for Gorn to stabilize on the spiky tips of the rapidly cooling obsidian beneath him.

It was difficult to see, it was difficult to breathe, both contestants were beaten and bruised and severely drained of their powers, but there was still no place for respite. Scribe struck from the shadows, her glowing daggers impacting with Gorn’s staff with enough ferocity to break through his enchantment and crack the spear of light into two.

Scribe attacked again, but her proximity gave Gorn gorn an opening to slap her across the side with his newly-formed rapier, sending her sprawling. He committed another thrust at her, but she jumped over it, offering a slash of her dagger, under which he ducked. They turned around and attacked again, blades met and sent sparks flying.

Neither of them could win this fight by defending. Both contestants came to the same realization. There was only one way out. Scribe drew in every errant flame that remained in the arena and lunged at her opponent in full offense, and Gorn likewise charged at her in full thrust. The twin daggers were trained right at him, but he didn’t defend. Neither did Scribe seize the occasion to parry the rapier. A piece of imbued ice impaled on the thrusting weapon came in contact with the dagger’s burning infusion, and exploded in a thick, crackling arcane mist that enveloped the two combatants just as their strikes connected simultaneously.

The roaring crowd made it impossible for Scootaloo to hear her friends, even though they, including Terry, were right beside her, on top of their seats, hollering and yelling at the top of their lungs. There had been a subtle deployment of security forces bearing the Choir’s insignia, who were equipped with long ropes and nets to keep the roiling flocks of spectators from getting too close to the stage. They cordoned off the masses with practiced routine, but even the security wardens were taken aback, as a stillness began to descend upon the colosseum.

There was no more movement from the inside of the magical dome. The violent exchange had come to a sudden standstill, and the silence was almost deafening.

The arcane mists had become benign and fell away, revealing the still forms of the combatants lying on the ground.

Scribe was standing on top of Gorn in an executioner’s stance, her daggers kept with fatal precision only a hair’s breadth from his eyes.

Gorn held Scribe’s limbs in a gladiator’s lock, the deadly point of his rapier poking her throat.

Both were still as statues, ready to thrust at any moment.

But instead, they began breathing again.

“It’s good to see you again,” Scribe said, “master.”

“M-master!?” Scootaloo almost fell off her seat.

“I told you not to call me that anymore, Scribe,” Gorn said, “ ... but it’s good to see you again, too. I yield!”

The stadium erupted in cheers. Ponies were fluttering up and down the cordon, hailing the winner and expressing their exasperation on the defeated’s behalf in equal measures.

But no screaming and yelling was loud enough to match the saliency of jingling coins exchanging hooves. That had been the true battle. Those who had lost their bets looked as though they might have been inside the smoldering arena themselves, but the victors, with all the more satisfaction, collected their earnings, a remarkable portion of which landed in the zebra group’s hooves.

“She’s so cool!” Magnolia gushed at the frontlines, “I love you Scribe!”

“Are you kidding me?” somepony beside her said, “Gorn is the biggest champion there is. He wiped the floor with her!”

“No way,” somepony else interjected, “She is way mightier than him. She just had to hold back because this is an exhibition show!”

“I’m not convinced that magic duel was just for show,” Circuit said, “but that was just epic.”

“That was just awful,” Terry said, “I’m so glad nopony got hurt. Did you see how easily they tore up that stage? They’re both so powerful ...”

She beheld Gorn as he stood up and hobbled from the arena, leaning against Scribe for mutual support. Both of them looked worse for the wear, but that didn’t stop them from having a conversation that was apparently long overdue. The announcer soon gave up on following them and trying to announce the winner. Between all the noise from the audience, and the racket of the cleanup detail that had swooped in with some clouds to rinse the hissing sludge out of the cracked concrete, nopony would have paid attention anyway.

“Of all the places,” Scribe said, “a crowded trade city was the last place I would have expected to meet you, if at all. I had thought you an old fool who had abandoned me.”

“No,” Gorn said, “I have never abandoned you. It was my own cowardice that kept me from facing you again. After the fall of the Order, I dared not respond when you sought me out. How could I stand before you after what had occurred? I fled, and I did not look back. In my folly, I believed that time would wash away that which I could not forget.”

“And yet, here you are,” Scribe said, “Against all judgement, you appear in this most unlikely of locations. I wonder, what made you change your mind?”

“You see,” Gorn said. He paused and turned to look, across half the colosseum and past the restless crowd, precisely at Scootaloo and her friends.

“Even the most experienced of scholars must yet bow to the enlightening wisdom of a small filly.”

He winked at Scootaloo with his unbruised eye. Scribe nodded in understanding, and they left the Colosseum together.

“Oh, my gosh,” somepony said. Everypony in Scootaloo’s immediate surrounding was looking at her. “Did he ... did he just wink at you?”

“Dude, that’s so cool.”

“Everypony! Gorn the Destroyer just winked at this little filly.”

“Incredible! How does he know you?”

“Well, you see ... “ Scootaloo tried to say, but they were all over her, as if touching her would somehow bring them closer to their idols. A young mare with a blond mane and incredibly complicated earrings seemed particularly infatuated with her.

“That’s, so, like, droll,” she said, “going for the whole, youthful innocence style, right?”

“Look at the awesome jacket!”

“If I ever have a filly, I want her to be small and cute just like her!”

“Oh, I love the mane. Who’s your stylist?”

“Uh,” Scootaloo said. She drew back as somepony grabbed her mane, but inadvertently moved right into even more curious limbs. “I, uh ... “

Two large hooves grabbed Scootaloo around the waist and batted away the intruders. “Hey! Hooves to yourself!” Terry said, “She’s mine.”

“Yeah!” Scootaloo said, “Wait, what?”

“Come on, guys,” Circuit said, “I think this is a good time to bounce.”

The admiring crowd followed Scootaloo and her friends into the air, but was quickly lost in the general commotion.