She had no possessions and no name, and the last of her dreams was dead. All that she had left was one nightmare.

She lay on the filthy straw on the cold stone floor of the cell, and she was nothing. Nothing at all. She wasn't a mage. She wasn't even a real pony.

The cat-ponies, the Khageeti, were only slightly more welcome in the realm of Equestria than the mongrel whelps of the Diamond Dogs. The true ponies sneered at what they termed the Beast Races, and called her a meat eater, a follower of evil cults... a slut. And they were right.

She had tried so hard to find a place in the world, to be helpful, to win a friend. But she was too weak to fight her dreams. All her life, from childhood on, she had been tormented on most nights by a vision of a Queen, a horrid imperious presence towering over her, majestic and malevolent, freezing her to the core with terror and robbing her of restful sleep. She could not flee, she could not awaken, and if in her dream she tried to stand up for herself, or even fight back... she was brutally punished.

Nothing had ever gone right. Her unicorn horn had been dead to magic, and she had never received a cutie mark, nor any other sign that she was meant to fit into the world. She had never been anything better than a painful burden to her parents. She turned to alcohol to suppress the dream, and was soon addicted, falling in with the worst segments of society. The wild parties that became frenzied desperate orgies, the petty crimes, the drugs, the Daedra-worshipping cults... Her teen years were a long string of events that she tried over and over to forget.

But in her nineteenth year, a quiet voice inside her had said, "Stop."

She had sold the last of her possessions, scraped together the cost of ship passage, and emigrated to Equestria, trying to start a new life. It was futile. No one knew her past here, but the dream was still with her, she was still an alcoholic, and the Queen still mocked every attempt she made at finding somewhere, something that she could be.

True, she had made at least one friend, sort of. True, she had learned to partly overcome her crippling phobia of royalty, enough to be able to converse with a Countess. And, best of all, she learned that she really did have magical talent, and under the friendly encouragement of a Soldier of Celestia's Legions, she had thrown a fireball for the first time!

But then she had made her way to the county of Thvatch, and despite the warning signs, tried to enlist in the Mages Guild chapter there. And disaster had struck, again and again. She couldn't dwell on it. The memories were too fresh, too painful.

She remembered the face of that Soldier of Celestia's Legions, the one who had been so kind to her at first, sternly leading her away in shackles. The law was the law, but—the charge was so ridiculous. Grand Arson? How could anyone think that she was trying to burn down an entire town made of stone? It wasn't even possible!

At least she was in her proper place now, in one of the lowest and slimiest dungeons in the capital city of Canterlot. A fitting end for a loser, a failure. A nothing.

"Hey, Khageet!" called a mocking voice. Her body remained still, but she shifted her eyes to look through the iron bars of the door. A dark grey pony in the cell across from hers addressed her with a nasty sneer. "Yeah, you, blankflank! You'll never leave here alive, you mangy carnivorous furball. At least you'll have all the rats you can eat!"

She felt no ire at his words. There was nothing left in her, no self esteem, no hope, against which his insults might strike. She was drained of magicka at present, so she could not even set fire to the straw to end her miserable life. Her eyes rolled back to stare at the wall ahead of her as he rattled on, hoping to pry a reaction out of her with increasingly outlandish and low class taunts... until he ceased abruptly, shrinking back from his cell door.

Shadows appeared on the walls. She heard quiet, tense voices outside.

"This way, Your Majesty."

"I know this place... the prison?"

That stern strong female voice... it was familiar... it awakened memories of fear and rage and helplessness...

"Yes, Your Majesty. The skies aren't safe now. We're headed for a secret passage. We'll get you to safety."

The shadows shifted. Two Celestial Guards appeared in front of the cell—a roan mare and a chestnut stallion.

"What's this?" exclaimed the mare. "Occupied? This cell is supposed to be off limits. Stay back from the door, prisoner!"

The cell lock clanged, and the guards entered, full of contempt, sans compassion... but also troubled. The Khageet could not fathom their distress. She posed no danger to them. In fact, if they were here to execute her, they were probably doing her a favor.

And then beautiful light filled the cell, penetrating the rank darkness as no torch could. It was as if daylight itself, wholesome hopeful daylight, was ignoring the stone walls of the prison and flowing through to glint on her fur and warm her skin. Her heart skipped a beat, and she stirred, peering between the stern guards for a better sight of this miracle...

There She was... the Nightmare Queen, the Royal Alicorn who had ruined all of the Khageet's dreams, in the flesh. The real Empress Celestia was striding towards her, golden hooves pushing aside the filthy straw, the Amulet of Queens a dazzling red diamond-shaped sun on her chest. Icy fear seized the Khageet's heart. She scrabbled backwards into a corner, pressing against the cold wet stones. Her breath rasped in her throat, her pulse roared in her ears, and terror squeezed her chest without mercy. She was about to faint or die.

The Empress halted, staring in surprise.

"You. I know you..." said the Empress, pushing between the startled guards, who tried vainly to interpose their bodies between her and the ragged turlygod cowering in the corner. The Empress towered over the small furry form, overwhelming everything with her own terrible radiance. Even with her eyes closed, the Khageet could not block it out. She buried her head in her hooves and keened in terror.

"Let me see your face..." commanded the Empress. The Khageet had learned from her dreams that this voice was not to be resisted; however bad things were in the dream, resistance only made it worse. But she couldn't just look into the eyes of her very worst nightmare. She compromised, raising her trembling head but keeping her face in profile, locking her eyes desperately to a random stone on the wall to avoid staring into those deep pale pink eyes...

"Yes... You are the one from my dreams," the Empress said. Her voice was tense and sad, but another emotion underlay it... Kindness? It couldn't be—the evil ruler of the Khageet's nightmares had no need for kindness or mercy. It must be a trick.

"What is your name?" prodded the Empress gently.

The Khageet tried to speak. Her name... There was the name she'd grown up with, stained with dishonor, which she had abandoned when coming to this realm... And then there was the name that she'd chosen to replace it, to begin her new life. A name that had stood for an ideal that hovered always beyond her reach. The name she might have had if she'd managed to be a competent wizard instead of a total failure.

She had abandoned this name the instant the cell doors clanged shut behind her. One who is nothing neither needs nor deserves any sort of name.

Shaking with fear, facing the direct source of all her terror, she felt a spark in her, a tiny spark, yet it was of the voice inside her that had once said, stop.... The appearance of the Empress was the worst possible thing that could have happened... but if so, then what more could she lose? If the Empress were to rend her body and consign her soul to the abyss, why should it matter what name she wore?

And then the spark became a flame. She was face to face with her fear, and hadn't died yet. And this ruiner of her life was so casual, so imperious, so above any earthly care or trouble... Rage flared in the Khageet's heart. If she had to fall, she would go down fighting hard, no matter how much it hurt. And by the Nine, she would do it with a proper name.

Her eyes hardened, pupils narrowed to slits, and she stared fully into the face of her tormenter, baring her fangs.

"I am Katia. Fucking. Maragan," she snarled.