Week 0, Day 1, Afternoon

Puffing and panting from exertion, Celestia pulled down on the thick wooden plank with a foreleg, securing the metal-riveted door against her persistent pursuers. Her alabaster hooves and the pasterns above were bare; her fur, which showed signs of matting, brought attention to the painfully obvious lack of royal regalia which typically adorned her limbs.

She deposited her massive frame onto a creaking bench, which was situated next to the remains of a splintery scrivener’s table. The desk still held the various scribing tools of its original owner, to which Celestia added by taking her weathered saddlebag and upending it upon the uneven surface. A curious collection of trinkets and talismans fell upon the former work-space: a small stone figurine of a grotesque tusked beast from inner-Zebrica, a peculiar star-shaped jade pendant which was covered in a bizarre pattern of crisscrossing lines and inexplicable groupings of dots, a roughly chipped flint arrowhead, the hoof-sized fossil-tooth of some great pelagic fish, several shattered pieces of a pony’s horn, a hoofful of bits, and a bottle of black ink.

No quill…

Her bloodshot eyes glanced around the desk, focusing on sealing wax, parchment, envelopes… but no quills.

An insidious idea wormed its way into her brain and brought her gaze towards her sides.

Her eyes widened at what they saw.

I didn’t realize it was so bad… but there are still some left… and a feather is a feather, after all...

She reached back and affixed her incisors around the bloodied stump of one of her once-glorious wings. Clamping down with all the strength her aching jaw could muster, she pulled forth a single bloodied feather.

Echoing thumps, which Celestia feared might not be mere hoofsteps, approached the door. The loosened latch jostled slightly, and the door bent back into the bar with the loud groan of distressed lumber. There was a long pause, followed by sudden, jarring thud, as an unseen force slammed up against the door.

No! I need more time!

Out of instinct, Celestia tried to light her horn to pick up her impromptu quill—and immediately doubled over as pain blossomed like a fiery flower in her forehead and then snaked to her spine in channels of ice and heat. White spots flashed in her vision like the burning wisps of troubling memories she wished she could forget. The searing sensation of absolute agony was accompanied by an uncontrolled eruption of arcane energy from her horn, which ignited one of the moth-bitten tapestries that still hung from the walls of the room.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! I don’t have time for this!

In panic, she swept a shaking hoof across the table’s rough surface, scattering the various knicknacks she had gathered, as well as the shattered remnants of her horn. She hastily hoofed one of the pieces of parchment to the cracked veneer and grabbed the blood-stained feather in her mouth. Her splintered hooves worked furiously at the slippery cap of the ink vial.

“Here! She’s in here!” The sound of crunching metal, most likely crumpling armor, as well as a pained profanity, punctuated the next crash against the door.

With a curse and a single swift stroke, Celestia smashed her hoof onto the vial, spattering liquid blackness onto her formerly pristine coat and sending it flowing across the table, where it soaked into the thirsty grain of the ancient wood. She dipped the feather into what remained of the shattered inkwell and pressed it to the parchment, writing as legibly as she dared, given how little time she likely had.

The incessant pounding against the door became a steady rhythm—an unholy drumbeat—that pressured her to finish her task before they could stop her.

As Celestia finished penning the final sentence, she heaved a sigh of relief. It was as if a titanic weight had been lifted from her withers. She folded the letter as gracefully as she could with her one clean hoof and slid it carefully into one of the envelopes.

Grabbing the closest of the bitter-tasting blocks of burgundy-colored sealing wax in her teeth, Celestia stumbled towards the flaming tapestry. Ironically, the burning fabric depicted youthful versions of herself and her sister Luna frollicking through a sunlit meadow. She held her face close enough to the blaze to soften the wax, causing her to flinch as the hairs on her nose singed. Soon after, she plunged the mouthed molten stick onto the expectant envelope, leaving a crimson blob that reminded her far too much of fetid flesh. She fumbled for her ancestral signet necklace, and once she had a firm hoof on it, she pressed it into the paraffin, sealing the envelope as surely as she had sealed her own fate.

The sickening sound of splintering wood reached her ears and caused them to twitch. “Almost! Keep hitting it!” came the voices from outside.

Don’t forget!

She flipped the envelope over and set to scrawling the first—indeed the only—name that materialized in her mind: Blueblood. With the task of completing the letter accomplished, she pushed it to the side.

Celestia fumbled her raw muzzle about in her second saddlebag, which hung in precarious proximity to the mangled ruin of her other wing, and heaved the contents onto the now-cleared workspace. Her hoof trembled as she reached for the surprisingly simple combination of metal mechanism, prefixed piping, and worked wood.

It’s amazing how something so small can be so deadly…

There was another sickening crunch, and one of the metal bands popped from the door, creating a rain of rivets and a shower of splinters. “Hang on Princess! We’re almost there!”

She held the object in one unsteady hoof and checked the main tube to make sure that everything was still in place—it was. She brought her other hoof to the back end and pulled down, eliciting a series of metallic clicks…

Captain Ironback, along with Sergeants Steadfast and Stalwart, all slammed their shoulders into the door once again, putting their names to the test. “Almost there, lads,” the Captain barked. He didn’t care if the wither plates of his armor were completely ruined, he didn’t care if his shoulders were on fire from the pain, and he didn’t care that he was disobeying direct orders. The bloody trail of meat and feathers he’d seen were reason enough to steel his resolve as he continued to throw himself against the barricade again and again. “Don't do anything rash, Princess! You’re not well! Let us help you!”

The impact that rang the door’s death knell came with the sounds of splintering wood and the clangs and twangs of metal bars and rivets falling to the floor like stricken soldiers. The wooden planks split completely down the center, and Ironback, unprepared for the sudden give, stumbled through the bifurcated door—only to behold a sight that would haunt his thoughts for the remaining few moments of his life:

Celestia was gone.

In her place stood a grotesque mockery. Her magnificent horn had shattered, reduced in resplendence to naught but a nub. Her wondrous wings, which once proudly protruded from her sides, were now no more than faintly feathered flaps of hide hung over marrow-marred, broken bones. Her warm and welcoming expression, set upon the features of refined royalty, had been replaced by a rictus of terror on the rent and tenebrous carrion that now served as her muzzle.

Worst was the fate that had befallen her eyes, which used to be so alive with mirth and motherly care. The red-rimmed orbs were now fully bloodshot, and darted around like hungry hummingbirds with nary a flower to fixate upon. The unspeakable darkness that Ironback saw in those eyes caused him to draw his own sword in a bout of bowel-clenching fear, and reduced his continence to the level of a foal’s.

The warmth running down Ironback’s hind legs brought enough clarity to his mind that, at last, he noticed a detail that had barely registered in comparison to the incredible deterioration of his splendorous sovereign: in one blackened hoof, she held a guard-issue flintlock pistol, whose barrel was shoved shakily against her own head.

Celestia’s muzzle adopted an equally terrifying and uncertain grin—or perhaps a wince—as she spoke: “You can’t touch me now!”

Her cracked words rallied what little remained of Ironback’s dwindling resolve. He threw himself across the room as swiftly as he could. “No! Princess! Don’t!”

“The single, lone stallion stands alone, watching, by himself, in complete and total solitude, as the soldiers swarm the Castle of the Two Sisters, like ants at a picnic.” The pony slowly lifted his sombrero with one hoof so that he could angle his eyes upward, towards the castle.

A gray wing waved in his field of vision. “Uhhh, Cheese, I’m right here.”

“Aww, muffins, Ditzy! You ruined my dramatic monologue!”

“Sorry, Cheese,” Ditzy Doo said. She tried to follow his gaze to the upper floors with her left eye, while her right remained fixed on him. “You can start over if you want.”

Cheese Sandwich’s entire body shivered. “Too late for a retake, Ditzy; my Cheesy-Sense is telling me that we’re about to bear witness to something—”

A single gunshot rang out, shattering more than just the relative silence the two ponies shared in the shadow of the looming edifice.

Cheese’s eyes dilated fully, and he swayed for a moment before collapsing to the ground, claimed by the spectre of unconsciousness.

Ditzy’s eyes inexplicably straightened, her right eye drawn towards where her left was focused. She could swear that she saw something terrible, something even beyond what her mind could consider to be horrible, something… unspeakable. Unnameable. Yet indisputably physical. It chilled the air with its breath, if what It issued could be called breath. Ditzy blinked away bloody tears and she held her head in her hooves as her shattered mind fought for some semblance of coherence about the essence, entity, or presence looming over her.

But then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the dreadful vision of fathomless evil was gone.

Looking down at Cheese’s seizure-ridden, supine form with her left eye, Ditzy’s right eye warily wandered of its own accord towards her right hoof. A letter sat upon the upturned frog of her hoof, its presence as preposterous as the wonders she’d just witnessed. She examined the envelope and, after marveling at the royal-emblem wax-seal, turned the letter over to read the writing on the other side.

An unexpected series of involuntary laughs pushed their way through her clenched teeth.

Cheese’s shivering suddenly stopped. “W… What happened, Ditzy?” His voice was quiet, flat, and devoid of emotion.

Ditzy turned to Cheese and stifled a giggle. “I dunno, but I… I need… to deliver this letter.”

“Of course…” Cheese’s barrel shuddered with sudden laughter. “Yes, yes, my Cheesy-Sense says that you need to get that letter to somepony… Blue.”

Both of them devolved into a chorus of cackling. They laughed until their jaws ached, and their lips pulled back into rictuses of horror. But even as they laughed, they both wept, sending bloody-red streams surging down their muzzles.

Ok everypony:

Arc One: The Recombinant Rictus is complete.

There will be a pause in posting as I get Arc Two ready for consumption. I’ll blog as updates happen to keep everypony in the know.

Amid the blazing heat of a noontime sun that streaked sweat across the brows of some dozen mares striving to re-tile Ponyville’s long dried-up, and certainly not operable, central fountain, Cheese Sandwich suddenly slung a foreleg around Ditzy Doo's withers and pointed indistinctly toward the distant Everfree. She squeaked and tried to back away, but he pressed her tighter to his side.

"They're here again," he said, before descending into nervous chuckles. "The eyes, Ditzy! The eyes have it once again!"

Ditzy focused her more reliable eye past the swarthy workmares, and down the road leading to the town’s distant gates. But the other swiveled elsewhere, seemingly of its own accord, settling on—

You.

Yes, YOU.

"You're right," she breathed. "It's been so long... or has it? Like a moment to you and me, but to them..."

"They don't remember," he barked, drawing uneasy gazes from the workmares. "The sun that didn't rise... the cursed letter to the desperate prince... the blood and mayhem of recruiting and sending ponies down into the dark..."

Ditzy nodded, focusing her mind on the eye which had wandered far indeed. "The Amethyst who saw her own death. The Ametrine born of the essence of... evil. Or is it evil? Is she? Does blind Starlight know? She knows so many things..."

"Ahh, but knowing wouldn't change it," Cheese chided. "Just like knowing that four of Canterlot's elite warriors are busy meeting cruel deaths, right now, beneath the darkest of all dungeons, doesn’t save them either!"

"Ponest."

"Excuse me?"

Ditzy cleared her throat. "They're being butchered right now in the bowels of the 'Ponest’ of all dungeons, not the 'Darkest.' We don't have the budget for the rights for that."

Cheese tried to stare into her eyes, but doing so presented challenges of both a practical and metaphysical nature. So instead, he threw his head back and laughed. "But they remember now! The eyes. Can eyes remember? Cuz they do now! Hear ye, hear ye," he bellowed, staggering off past the murmuring workers as the sun inexplicably began to darken. "Blueblood's 'Canterlot Elite' are getting butchered like white meat, dark meat, and maybe red meat! The darkness rises! Ruin..." He stopped suddenly, running his hooves over himself, trying to find the bell that should've been hanging from his belt, except the belt wasn't there. Both it and his pants had apparently long deserted him. "Hear ye, hear ye! Ruin has come to my outfit!"

But Ditzy didn’t break her stare—didn’t even blink. “Go now," she whispers, defying both cosmic boundaries and literary tense. "The worst is still to come."

Week 20, Day 3, Noon — Just as Twinkleshine put her hoof into the indentation in the doorway to the Ponest Dungeon

Sunlight streamed through the hole in the tavern roof, illuminating the inside as it bustled with activity. Ponies bedecked in a dizzying array of armor, weapons, and coat colors, all vied for spots at the bar, or the attention of Berry’s overwhelmed waitstaff. It had been busy enough ever since the Prince had come to town, and Berry’s business had been taking advantage of the influx of prospective mercenary traffic. But the sudden arrival of two-dozen unscrupulous-looking ponies earlier in the day had packed the establishment to near-bursting.

Berry once again eyed the almost uniform garb of her newest guests. Their armor or robes were all emblazoned with some variation of a strange pattern which consisted of a broken crescent, pierced by five spikes. They were probably all in some kind of weird cult. Or dance troupe. She never could be sure with all the odd traffic Ponyville was seeing these days.

Not that she minded. Even the extra work and the incessant complaints from her waitstaff and working-colts didn’t outweigh her satisfaction over the increase in profits.

But Berry glanced over to one table in particular that made her feel uneasy. Far in the corner sat Starlight, Blueblood’s sightless seer, talking with another small group of newcomers; two mares, and two stallions. One mare, a lightly robed pink unicorn—Sugar Belle, If Berry had overheard right when she’d delivered the last round of drinks—had her eyes were wrapped up in the same manner as Starlight’s, though without the accompanying bloodstains. The other mare, Night Glider, was a dark blue pegasus with an odd mask that covered the bottom half of her face. Of the stallions, one was a heavily armored white earth pony named Double Diamond, while the other was a light blue unicorn named Party Favor, who wore a loose fitting cloak that hinted at strangely shaped armor underneath. The five ponies were all chatting and laughing as if they’d known each other a long time.

It took Berry a moment to reflect on what didn’t sit right with her about the group. She soon concluded that they all shared matching fake, creepy smiles. It was the same kind of smile Berry might find herself wearing right before using her shotgun to lethally discourage theft.

And so it came almost as a relief when those rictus grins vanished, and the four ponies accompanying Starlight stood and drew their weapons. But it took another moment for Berry to make the connection that Starlight had mouthed the words, “lights out.”

The sky turned dark, as though somepony had thrown a thick cloak over the sun.

The room dropped into near pitch blackness.

And all around Berry, the screaming began.

Week 20, Day 3, Afternoon

Blueblood galloped down the stairs, ignoring the alarmed shouts echoing down from the observatory. The writhing in his foreleg was worse than it had ever been, and he was forced to lean into the walls to prevent himself from keeling over like some drunkard. “C’mon body,” he mumbled as he lurched down the manor’s hallways. “Work with me here; we’re not drunk—” He pried open the basement door “—not yet, at any rate.”

An unexpected jolt of pain and intense bout of fresh squirming in Blueblood’s left foreleg caused him to stumble down the last few stairs to the wine cellar. Quickly regaining his balance, he shuffled his way towards one of the wooden crates he’d brought all the way from Canterlot. He lit his horn, pried the already-loosened top off the container, and stared at the contents.

“Empty?”

Blueblood blinked in bewilderment at the absence of wine bottles, chuckling for a few moments before his face tightened into a rictus of anger and frustration. He grabbed the crate ferociously with both forehooves, causing the wood to crack under the pressure. With a tremendous grunt of effort, he sent the crate hurtling into the cellar’s stone wall, where it shattered into splinters.

“The problem with relying on a crutch,” Tempest observed from somewhere behind him, “is that you cannot support yourself when it is taken away.”

Turning his head, Blueblood saw that Tempest was standing a few paces from the stairwell, with Ametrine close behind. He approached the mountainous mare and poked a forehoof at her chestplate. “I didn’t hire you for your psychological prowess,” he hissed.

Tempest—looking otherwise unfazed—scowled down at the offending hoof. “I know the loss of Canterlot’s elite quartet, including your childhood friend Moondancer, was tremendous for you, Prince. But the company needs you to lead them now, not to lose yourself to more of your usual debasement.”

“Au contraire,” Blueblood said manically, prodding the front of her armor again. “I have not even begun to debase myself!”

The motion was so fast that Blueblood wasn’t even sure what was happening until he felt the back of his head pressing against cold stone. He found himself forcibly reared-up, and saw that Tempest’s left foreleg was pressed across the front of his neck. With her pinning him to the wall, his hind legs dangled about a hooflength from the ground. Trying to speak only resulted in a strangled choke.

“Do not speak—” Tempest’s voice was iron “—listen. Worse leaders than you have made comebacks from worse setbacks than this. You will—” She stopped speaking as something slimy wrapped itself around her left foreleg.

Blueblood watched in horrid fascination as another damp tentacle started to coil itself around her limb. His eyes shot up as he saw others start to wrap themselves across her chest and around her other foreleg. Another wormed itself around her neck.

“Ametrine,” Tempest said in a deathly calm voice. “Unhoof me this instant or I will remove these appendages from your body.”

“Umm… I’m over here.”

With glacial slowness, Tempest turned her head to the left, allowing her to see where Ametrine was: three whole marelengths away from them, sitting at the base of the cellar stairs with both of her not-currently-tentacled forehooves held innocently in the air. There was nothing unnatural about her appearance, though she stared at Tempest and Blueblood with characteristically wide eyes.

Returning her gaze to Blueblood, Tempest then looked down at his left foreleg. She grit her teeth and inhaled sharply through her nose—

Then Blueblood saw it, too.

His foreleg had torn itself open in several places. From the rents in his skin issued glistening ropes of flesh, which traveled all the way up to where they now wrapped around Tempest. More continued to ooze forth as he watched in slack-jawed horror. The sounds they made were a series of hideous squelches, not dissimilar from those produced by a pony pulling their hooves out of thick mud.

He lifted his limb so he could better behold its gruesome details. The slick, pulsating, gore-drenched mess would’ve left him speechless even had his airway not already been cut off. His eyes traveled from the errant eruptions to where they traversed around Tempest. The terrifying tendrils continued to squirm and writhe, progressing further in their insidious journey to wrap the massive mare in a blanket threaded from bloody flesh.

“Ah,” Tempest said, narrowing her eyes.

Week 20, Day 3, Afternoon

Berry discharged her behind-the-bar blunderbuss.

The spray of lead ursa-shot tore into the chest of a mare who had tried to rush Berry with a knife. The mare’s charge faltered, and she crashed face-first into the bar, likely dead since she didn’t even grunt on impact.

Three blindingly-lit horns, from Starlight and her party, illuminated the main seating area. There were around two dozen cultists, all of whom had drawn weapons and seemed to be massacring anypony they could get their hooves on in the sudden darkness. Bloodied bodies of both Berry’s regular customers, as well as those of many itinerant mercenaries, lay strewn about the floor.

Bulk Biceps lifted two cultist stallions up by their manes and smashed their heads together with such skull-crushing force that an eyeball shot across the room. “YEEEAAAHHH!”

Berry heard Starlight shouting, and quickly realized she was giving directions to the four ponies she’d been sitting with, despite her total blindness. “Spin through to your left, Night Glider!” This prompted the poised pegasus to turn and do a tight barrel roll through the throng of combatants, her hooves striking out and delivering crippling blows. “Double Diamond, to your right!” The armored earth pony buried a teal-runed sword into a mare cultist’s ribs mere moments before she would have connected a blow against Sugar Belle. The cultist mare screamed as the sword’s surface frosted over, and rime spread outward from the wound at an alarming rate. Double struck the mare with a hind-knee, shattering over half of her body. The fallen part of the mare which had remained unfrozen didn’t live long.

“Party Favor, over there,” Starlight pointed. The blue unicorn pulled a chain from his cloak and garroted one of the troublemakers who was standing over the corpse of somepony they’d just gutted. “Look out, Sugar Belle!” The pink unicorn spun around and dodged a cultist’s knife.

Starlight then stomped a hind leg down. Her hoof struck a floorboard, causing it to lift the edge of a table. A cider mug on the table rolled off and then under one of the hooves of the knife-wielding stallion who’d swung at Sugar Belle. He slipped and fell backwards, smashing his head on another table, leaving a bloody smear from his cracked skull, and sending his weapon flying. The dagger spun through the air, to where it cut through a chandelier rope and embedded itself in the tavern wall. Another cultist mare was crushed when the massive wooden light fixture fell on her.

The resounding crash jarred Berry back into a semblance of situational awareness. She hastily reloaded her blunderbuss, only just finishing as Quibble Pants fell, screaming like a filly, from the tavern’s second floor. She watched him flip end over end and land spine-first on the edge of the bar, eliciting a loud crack as several vertebrae in his back and neck were pulverized. His pained, shocked eyes stared into hers. Swearing like a sailor, Berry aimed up and sent a cloud of pellets into the kidneys of a mare who was trying to stab Time Turner.

“Thank you madam,” Time Turner called as his assailant collapsed in a wailing, bloody heap.

“Shut your whore mouth!” Berry yelled at him. “And lock yourself and Spearhead in his room! I don’t need somepony cutting up your faces! I still expect you to turn a hundred bits per time after this!”

Week 20, Day 3, Afternoon

Exhaling sharply from her nostrils, in something resembling a sigh of exasperation, Tempest swiftly tensed her neck and wrenched her head backwards, snapping Blueblood’s taut tentacles like an overburdened rope exposed to far too much weight.

Blueblood shrieked out in agony as all of the remaining tendrils swiftly released from around Tempest. The still-intact meaty protrusions withdrew back into his shaking foreleg with all the alacrity of a whipped dog fleeing their master’s fury. The bloody openings in his leg stitched themselves closed with a sickening series of squelches.

“W--What…” he stuttered through the red-hot stabs of pain lancing through his leg. “What the Tartarus?!”

Tempest dropped Blueblood to the ground and backed away. She reached a hoof up and uncoiled the remaining ropes of limp flesh from her neck, dropping them to the floor with a meaty thud. “What the Tartarus indeed,” she said, swiveling her piercing gaze from the bloody heap to Ametrine.

“Don’t look at me.” Ametrine made a warding gesture with her forehooves. “Those things looked like they had minds of their own. Ever since Twilight liberated me from that coffin, I've had complete control of my… morphology.”

Eyeing Blueblood again, Tempest’s frown deepened. “You cried out in pain when I tore these… things off.”

Blueblood cradled his left foreleg with his right. “It… it still hurts.” He looked at the others. “Have you ever twisted a limb so hard… that you felt like it was going to come off?”

“I have never been on the receiving end of a limb lock,” Tempest said flatly.

Ametrine shrugged. “I can dissolve my joints at will. Besides, you know the only injury I’ve ever sustained… was a knife to the brain.”

“Fine,” Blueblood grumbled. “Suffice to say that it felt like a joint that twisted too far, but kept going… and going—” He cringed. “Now, it feels like… a raw wound.”

“Let’s hope you can get some control over it,” Tempest said. “Because if that pathetic attempt at an attack is the best your little mutation can do—”

“Cut my leg off,” Blueblood demanded.

“With pleasure,” Ametrine said. Her right foreleg tore open, exposing an oval-shaped extension of bone, with tooth-studded tendons running along the outer edge. She grinned as the razor sharp protrusions began to be pulled along at high speed, in a macabre mimicry of a continuous sawing motion.

“Ametrine.” Tempest held up a hoof. “If I thought sawing his leg off were a viable option, I would have mentioned it already.” She looked down at the mound of tissue. “However, considering the volume of material that was wrapped around me, I am forced to conclude that the infection is not limited solely to just the one limb.”

Releasing his foreleg, which at least had the courtesy to stop squirming, Blueblood looked with panic between the two mares. “What in Tartarus am I going to do?” His eyes caught a metallic glint at the edge of the closest torch’s light. There he saw—of all the crazy things to find in a wine cellar—an Equestrian Guard issue flintlock pistol. He blinked in disbelief.

You can always take consolation, in a manner befitting your ancestry.

And then he saw.

Celestia brought her hoof to the back end of the pistol and pulled down on the hammer, eliciting a series of metallic clicks…

“You can’t touch me now!”

“No! Princess! Don’t!”

A single gunshot rang out.

The vision faded.

Blueblood wiped tears from his eyes. He looked over to the edge of the torchlight where he'd seen the pistol. Only, it wasn’t there.

“Damn you Auntie. Damn you to Tartarus.”

Tempest raised an eyebrow. “How peculiar,” she said in an accusatory tone. “I assume you have something to tell us, then.”

Looking between the two mares, Blueblood wiped at his eyes again and sighed. “If I can’t trust you two, I’m proper rutted, aren’t I?” He exhaled another shuddering breath and paused to gather his courage.

“Celestia,” Blueblood put a hoof to his head. “I’ve been hearing her. I’ve heard her ever since we came to the manor.”

“I suspected as much,” Tempest said flatly.

Blueblood blanched, or would have, if his coat weren’t already white as snow. “What?! How?”

“Including the time when we first met,” Tempest said, “I have counted a half-dozen instances when I have observed you having a one-sided conversation with thin air.” Her scowl shut his mouth when it threatened to open. “And not the normal kind of pony talking to themselves, either; you were waiting and listening for answers, and then responding to them. At the time I merely thought you were unhinged, especially once I heard that you had been through several traumatic events just prior to my arrival.”

“You still allowed me to hire you,” Blueblood said, “even though you thought I was certifiable?”

“Your behavior was tame compared to the Storm King’s.” Tempest sighed. “Unless you start acting out ludicrous fantasies with your own trademarked action figures, you will continue to rate low on the totem pole of psychosis in my book. Besides, after witnessing the viewing table in action, its subsequent destruction, and observing the nature of Ametrine here, your actions began to make a bizarre, twisted kind of sense.”

“Well, that’s a plus, I suppose.” He shook his head, then looked warily back towards the edge of the shadows. “But this time was different. Just now, I saw—”

“Blueblood!” Shining Armor’s voice called down from the stairwell, accompanied by the sound of galloping hooves. “Blueblood! Are you down there?”

“Oh, damn it, not now.” Blueblood looked over to the cellar entrance as Shining made it down the last few steps. “What is it?”

Panting, Shining took a moment to catch his breath. “There’s… a commotion in town, lots of screaming—” He paused, eyes fixated on the gory and glistening pile of tendrils. “What in Tartarus happened down here?”

Blueblood ground a hoof into one of his temples. “And here I thought today couldn’t get any worse.”

Week 20, Day 3, Afternoon

The front doors of Berry’s Tavern ripped from their hinges and crashed to the floor as Tempest rolled through the splintered entryway. She quickly scanned the room for threats, then motioned with a hoof once no immediate hostility presented itself.

Blueblood walked past Tempest and surveyed the carnage. Corpses lay everywhere; he counted at least four dozen, all in various stages of mutilation. “By Celestia’s cake-plumped rump, what happened here?” He suddenly came to the realization that he’d need to update his list of expletives now that Celestia was dead.

“We were attacked by some damned cult,” Berry said, striding out from behind the bar while still cradling her blunderbuss in one foreleg. She paused, grimaced, and used a hoof to close Quibble Pants’ lifeless eyes. “When everything went dark, they started attacking my staff, my patrons…” She sneered. “And your prospective recruits.”

“Ametrine,” Blueblood said, turning to look back at where she stood in the entrance. “Go back to the manor and gather everypony you can. We need to help Berry get the survivors over to the sanitarium.”

“Of course.” Ametrine looked around in shock at the devastation. “Of course.” She shook her head, turned, and left.

“Prince.” Starlight approached Blueblood with four other ponies in tow.

“Starlight?! I’m glad you’re alright; this place is a disaster. I… I wish I’d come sooner.”

“Nonsense,” Starlight said, in a pleasant tone. “You came exactly when you were supposed to. I know you had trouble with your foreleg, there.”

Blueblood tensed. Of course she knew. She knows everything… which means—

“You knew this was going to happen.” It was a statement, not a question. Blueblood’s face contorted in rage. He brought his voice to a low hiss to avoid others from hearing. “You knew that these cultists were going to attack and you let them… you let them kill all of these innocent ponies!”

“Again nonsense,” Starlight said, her tone frustratingly calm. “The cultists attacked when your party breached the gateway and disturbed what dwells beneath. If you had stationed ponies from your company, the cultists would have just attacked somewhere else in town.” She gestured at her group. “So I called in some old friends of mine instead, faces that the cultists did not know yet. They just assumed that little old blind me and these four random ponies were completely harmless. We dispatched them quickly, before they could actually massacre everypony here and then move on to start razing the rest of the town.”

“If you had told me,” Blueblood said, his face red with anger, “then I would have postponed the mission—”

“Which would have postponed the eclipse,” Starlight interrupted. “And thus it would have also postponed their attack. Believe me Blueblood; out of all of the different ways this could have played out, this was the one way that resulted in the least amount of life lost.”

“You should have told me.” Blueblood’s muzzle still blazed crimson. “I don't care what powers of foresight you claim to have; you will inform me of anything that threatens the safety of my operation. Understand?”

“Of course,” Starlight said.

“Tempest?” Blueblood waited for the trotting death machine of a mare to approach. “Coordinate the efforts with the survivors here. I’m returning to the manor.”

Narrowing her eyes, Tempest scrutinized Blueblood.

“Judge me with your eyes all you want,” Blueblood said. “I need some time to myself.”

“As you wish.” Tempest had somehow managed to make the acknowledgement sound threatening.

“Wait,” Blueblood said as he was about to step over one of the cultist corpses. The dryness in his throat was exacerbated as he considered the implications of what he saw. He wanted a drink now more than anything.

“I am waiting,” Tempest said.

Blueblood knew down next to the body, just to be sure. He looked up into Tempest’s withering gaze. “I know this mare.”

Week 20, Day 3, Evening

Swearing, Blueblood stumbled through the now-dark basement. He lit his horn to try and see if—somehow—a bottle of that Prench Château le Boulet had somehow escaped his notice. Looking around, his eyes fell upon the section of wall where Tempest had done her best impression of treating him like a grape in a wine press. Several of the stone blocks seemed to be missing, probably knocked loose when she’d first slammed him.

Moving closer, Blueblood inspected the damaged wall and saw that, rather than illuminating the back of the indentations where the stones had been, his light vanished into some kind of larger cavity beyond. He blew air on one of the holes, sending powdered mortar through and into the space on the other side.

“Hollow?” Blueblood pushed against the cement and rocks which surrounded one of the openings, “What have you hidden back here, Auntie?” Part of the wall collapsed inward, revealing a room that was stacked with large wooden boxes.

Our house vintage, of unique and lurid terroir.

“Wine?” Blueblood looked around at the dust-covered containers. “There must be over a hundred crates of it here. Why did you wall all of this off?” He spun around, waiting for an answer that never came.

With no response forthcoming, Blueblood approached the closest crate. With a flare of magic from his horn, he prised the lid off, exposing dozens of bottles, which were made of a greenish glass and were filled with dark liquid.

Smacking his lips in anticipation, Blueblood encompassed one of the bottles in his telekinesis and lifted it to hover in front of his face.

He beheld his warped reflection in the glass and recoiled at the macabre distortion of his features. His recent metamorphosis in this same location brought a certain poignancy to the vision.

The bottle clattered back into the crate, leaving Blueblood breathless and clutching a foreleg to his chest. It felt as if the weight of the world was sat upon his back, and a tightness snaked through him. He felt it coil around his heart like a boa constrictor and clench down, bringing tears to his eyes and causing his panicked breaths to hitch in his throat. Between his watery eyes and his hyperventilation, the room spun uncontrollably, leaving him to fall to the floor and pass into the merciful oblivion of unconsciousness.

Week 20, Day 3, Evening

Berry threw a rag into what had been an empty water barrel, adding to the bloodied pile of soiled linens. She looked around at those of her staff who had survived, watching them as they worked.

Time Turner was wiping down the bar in an attempt to clean up the rank mess that had resulted from Quibble’s death. Bulk was soaking standing pools of blood with a mop and wringing it out into the waste barrel; there was so much fluid that a proper swabbing of the floors would have to wait. Spearhead had removed the broken furniture to the firewood pile, righted the remaining tables and chairs, and was now standing on one of them trying to snag the chandelier rope with a pike pole so that they could raise it back up.

And then there was Aloe, sitting alone on a stool in the corner. Twin streaks of wetness carved their way through the pink fur of her face. She was holding a white collar and headband, both of which were spattered with red.

“I cannot imagine her pain.” Time Turner had apparently finished his task. “To lose Lotus Blossom like that…”

“I can.” Berry‘s response caused Time Turner to tilt his head. Berry glowered. “Don’t look at me like that. All of you have worked with me for years now. We’re all family here, Turner. Aloe, Bulk Biceps, Spearhead, you, me… we have to help each other work through this.” She paused as a shuddering breath worked its way through her. “Quibble Pants, Lotus Blossom, Card Shark, Hard Bet… we lost four family members today. But I won’t let this destroy our family. We’ve worked too hard for what we have here. We’ll just have to adopt some new family members is all.”

She reached for another rag, but came up empty-hooved.

“Sorry madam,” Time Turner said. “We’ve gone through all of the spare fabric that we normally kept on hoof for cleaning.”

Berry looked around at the tavern—her tavern—no; their tavern. “And we still haven’t cleaned even half of the blood off of the floor and walls.”

“We never expected—”

“Take some bits from the till,” Berry interrupted. “Go to Ditzy’s and get some bolts of cloth, or canvas, or anything we can use to sop up this mess. The sight of our home in such a state breaks my heart.”

Time Turner moved in the direction of the bar. “At least… at least they took them away.” He shivered. “Quibble died mere hooflengths away from you. Are… are you going to be ok?”

Berry smiled, despite the fact that the image—of the life draining from Quibble’s wide eyes—refused to leave her mind. “I’ll manage. Just go get the supplies and hurry back so we can actually sleep here tonight.” She watched as Time Turner opened the till, pulled out a pouch of bits, and then left the tavern.

A sob almost forced its way from Berry’s throat, but she stifled it. Shaking her head, she adopted a more rigid stance and steeled her gaze. She had to be strong for her family, she had to be—

The sound of a loud crunch obliterated Berry’s reverie. She swiftly turned to see Starlight standing in the front door, having stepped into the open entryway left by Time Turner’s exit.

Starlight took another bite of the apple that hovered in front of her muzzle. Chewing slowly, she turned her bandaged visage to face Berry. “I’d like to talk to Aloe, if I may.” she said in an elevated tone around pieces of masticated fruit. “I think I might be able to ease her suffering.”

All of the work in the tavern stopped.

One of Aloe’s ears twitched and she looked up.

“How dare you.” Berry advanced on Starlight with murder in her eyes. “How dare you come into our home with your filthy predictions and lies while we’re still cleaning up the blood of our own!”

What Berry did not expect, was for Starlight to nod her head, take another bite of the apple, immediately turn around, and then leave.

Aloe stood up and approached Berry, her face still marred by tears. “What did Starlight mean?” Aloe looked with hope towards the vacated doorway. “She… she said she could ease my suffering?”

“No,” Berry replied. “I’ve heard her give her fortune-telling schpiel to others, and I’m not even slightly convinced. She’s just trying to capitalize on our family’s pain. What a leech.”

Berry spat on the floor. Then, seeing that Spearhead had lost his balance trying to hook the chandelier rope, headed over to help him.

What she didn’t see was that, now alone, Aloe continued to stare.

And the doorway, a yawning abyss which was as empty as her heart felt, stared back.

Week 20, Day 3, Night

“I somehow expected you to have a slightly higher alcohol tolerance than mere proximity.” Tempest’s face swam into focus before Blueblood’s opening eyes.

Blinking a few times, Blueblood shook his head and shakily stood to his hooves. He glared at Tempest. “What, not going to offer me a helping-hoof?”

“You are resilient,” Tempest replied flatly. “I think you can manage.” She looked around at the room full of wine crates. “I also think you have gone overboard in your efforts to hide the severity of your drinking problem.”

“They’re not mine,” Blueblood protested. “When you had me pinned to the wall like an ornamental butterfly, you knocked some stones loose. I… knocked them the rest of the way.”

Tempest continued to eye the secret storage room. “It was my hope that the lack of actual spirits on the manor grounds would be sufficient to get you to sober up.” Tones of exasperation worked their way into her statement. “Unfortunately, it will take you quite a while to work through this batch.”

“No,” Blueblood replied. “Get it out of my sight.”

Turning to face him, Tempest raised an eyebrow. “I must have concussed you earlier. You obviously didn’t mean to say that.”

Sighing, Blueblood lit his horn and put the lid back on the crate he had opened earlier. “I’m serious. You have my permission; get rid of this. Go through our company contacts and see about getting it out of here.”

Tempest didn’t move an inch.

Blueblood groaned. “I’m fine! Now go on, before I do decide to actually drink the whole lot myself!”

The barest hint of a smirk appeared on Tempest’s muzzle. “Consider it done.” She did a crisp about-face and walked back up the cellar stairs.

Taking one last longing look back at the cache of wine, Blueblood turned away and ascended back to the ground floor of the manor. “Some things are going to change,” he said to himself. “They’ll have to if we're going to win this thing.”

Tempest sat in the drawing room, only a single candle lit to aid in her search through sheafs of paper containing the names of various contacts. The sooner the wine was removed from the manor, the better. Any delay would likely precipitate the Prince’s descent back into unrestrained alcoholism.

“Hay, Tempest.”

“I am busy, Miss Glimmer.” Tempest did not raise her head, nor did she cease examining the papers.

“Oh, I was just going to make a suggestion regarding where to send the wine.”

When Tempest looked up, she saw the unnatural smile that Starlight and her friends liked to wear. “I will not ask how you found out about the wine so quickly,” Tempest said, glaring at Starlight despite her lack of ability to actually see it. “Make your suggestion, then.”

“The Prince is friends with all three members of the ruling triumvirate,” Starlight said. “I’m sure that one of them would be more than happy to take the wine off of our hooves. In fact, I’m willing to bet that Duke Fancy Pants would be able to find a use for it, since the Grand Galloping Gala is coming up in about a month.”

Narrowing her eyes, Tempest returned her gaze back down to the cluttered table. “I’ll take it under advisement, Miss Glimmer.”

“I know you will,” Starlight said.

Tempest’s eyes darted back up to Starlight. She could swear that she saw Starlight wink at her, despite the incredibly thick bandages.

Exhaustion settled quickly upon Blueblood as he stumbled his way up the basement stairs and down the drawing room hallway, pausing only briefly to see that Tempest was working within. Things will have to change indeed, he thought, seeing as how panic-attack induced unconsciousness is rarely as restful as normal slumber. He continued to stagger into the foyer, up the stairs, and down the hallway to his bedroom.

Placing his hoof on the latch to his bedroom, Blueblood paused for a moment. Thoughts of change mingled with questions of how they could possibly fight horrors like what killed Moondancer…

He heard a schlorping squelch from within his chambers.

Another one, Blueblood thought. No—he shook his head—another four. Then he set his horn against the door for a moment, resting as he tried to gather his thoughts. It’ll be all of them, won’t it?

A brief burst of possibility shot through his brain, fueled by reflexive hatred of having to kill something that looked like Moondancer. Can I… would it be possible for me to… pull a repeat of what I did with Ametrine?

May as well try. After all, what’s the worst that could happen? Harrumphing to himself, he opened the door.

“Hello Moony,” Blueblood said as he looked around, “and company.”

Week 0, Day 2, Dawn—?

“Sire.”

Chancellor Neighsay’s eyes shot open. Looking to the foot of his bed, he saw a stallion-shaped shadow lurking there.

“Proctor,” Neighsay addressed the cold turquoise eyes which stared back from the darkness, “report.”

“The sun has not risen, M’Lord.”

Neighsay scowled. “Celestia is becoming more unreliable by the day, but this is hardly worth interrupting my rest.” He sighed and began to pull down the covers. “Well, I’m awake now, so what time is it?”

“Just after eight o’clock.”

Possessed with a sudden sense of urgency, Neighsay leapt from the bed. “Why haven’t my servants woken me? They were supposed to do so an hour ago!” He tore open his wardrobe, blindly rummaging for something to wear.

“Everypony is in a panic, M’Lord,” Proctor replied, lighting a candle with a hoof-held magical igniter.

The flickering illumination revealed that Proctor was an earth pony, with indigo fur and a navy-blue mane. While lithe, his build was not quite as gaunt as that of the stallions in the Neighsay family. He was dressed head-to-hoof in a tight suit of blackened leather armor, as best fit his profession as house spymaster.

“The common ponyfolk are staring at the comet which has coincidentally appeared—” Proctor continued, “—and are taking it as an ill omen. Many are gawking in fear, instead of going about their business. The guards are currently searching the castle grounds for the Princess, but my sources have informed me that she is not in the capitol.”

Neighsay quickly pulled legfuls of clothing out of the wardrobe, throwing several items onto the floor before swiftly donning a set of robes. “Soon they’ll decide to awaken the Prince and convene the council.” He quickly ran his hooves down the length of the rumpled fabric, in a vain attempt to smooth it out. Shaking his head and growling in displeasure, he started towards the door. “We must hurry. I need to be in the council chambers before that drunken buffoon goes declaring a national emergency. The whole royal family has a problem with the bottle, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Blueblood redirect vital national resources just because his aunt somehow managed to outdrink him.”

As the pair exited the Chancellor’s bedchambers, Neighsay winced at the sound of his own hooves clicking loudly against the expensive marble flooring. Proctor, he briefly noted, instead moved like a ghost, making no noise at all.

Neighsay stopped in front of a section of wall which was bare except for two stylized hooks. “Where is my sword?”

“Killjoy has it,” Proctor replied. “He was up and about when I returned to the estate. When I told him of the situation, he grabbed the blade and left in great haste.”

“Damn.” Neighsay rubbed his temple with a forehoof. “That colt will be the death of me.”

Proctor nodded and reached back towards his flank, producing a sheathed dagger, as if from thin air. “You shouldn’t attend the meeting unarmed.” He presented the weapon hilt-first.

Neighsay waved the blade away. “Unnecessary,” he said. “The council chamber is the most secure place in all of Canterlot, perhaps even Equestria. I have nothing to fear in that room.”

Week 0, Day 2, Noon

The sun lurched above the horizon like a drunken sailor coming up from belowdecks, staggering its way into the air just as the moon performed an inebriated stumble of its own, falling out of view, like the previously purported proverbial sailor passing out and going overboard.

As the rays entered the Neighsay family estate, they crept towards, and finally fell upon a long wooden table, illuminating both it and the partially sheet-covered corpse of the recently deceased Chancellor. Five rail-thin stallions flanked the table, three on one side, two on the other. The trio were gesticulating and shouting wildly at the others who stood stone-still opposite of them.

“I don’t care what Downer says, this means war!” Cynic slammed a pale forehoof down on the tabletop. “Blueblood must pay!”

“Agreed.” The calm manner in which Gloomy Gus spoke belied the anger which shone in his golden eyes and contorted the drab fur of his twitching muzzle. “We have to recall Downer from his fruitless attempts at petitioning the council to hold the Prince legally accountable. We need to physically respond, in kind, with a death for a death. This is an affront we cannot ignore.”

“We will break him,” Sour Puss hissed, motioning with his bilious-green forelegs as if he were snapping a twig with them.

“No.”

The room instantly fell into silence.

The gaunt stallion who had spoken looked like he was cast from iron, with fur that was somewhere between gunmetal and charcoal gray. The effect was amplified by his musculature, which closely resembled tight bundles of steel cable. His eyes were pure silver, which exhibited dead calm and a sense of complete indifference, belying their alertness.

Gloomy clenched his teeth. “But Killjoy—”

The stallion to Killjoy’s right silenced Gloomy with a curt growl. He was identical to Killjoy in appearance, the only difference being that his eyes were wild and angry, speaking of barely contained rage and violence boiling beneath. “You dare question the eldest brother? Do you need a lesson in respect?”

“Hold,” Killjoy said as he lifted up a forehoof. “We are family, and I will not abide any of us visiting violence upon each other.” He directed his gaze to his twin. “That includes you, Wet Blanket.”

Killjoy turned back to the others. “I expected this eventuality. Father was too reckless in his actions, and brought this fate upon himself. I will not allow the House of Neighsay to fall because of equally impetuous actions from any of you. Downer is right to pursue a legal solution with the council.” Killjoy set an ornate sword down upon Neighsay’s unmoving form. “If any of you wish to pursue this vendetta, you will do so without my support. Furthermore, if one of you somehow manages to succeed, I promise you that I will make certain that the name of Neighsay joins the other great houses in condemning your actions. Your brief and feckless revenge will be punctuated by a life of being hunted down like the mangy cur you will have proven yourself to be.”

Cynic licked his lips, but pulled his tongue back behind tightly clenched teeth.

Gloomy lit his horn and magically grabbed the sword from atop Neighsay’s corpse. He pursed his lips and then parted them, as if he were about to say something. Instead, he turned around and stormed out of the hall, with Cynic and Sour close on his heels.

After a few minutes of observing the corpse in silence, Killjoy turned to his twin. “Leave me. I will meet up with you later.”

Wet Blanket nodded, then turned and left, without saying a word.

Killjoy waited for Wet Blanket’s heavy hooffalls to fade.

“Proctor,” Killjoy said to the seemingly empty room, “report.”

Without so much as a sound, Proctor dropped from where he had been hiding, his hooves touching down silently next to the table, right where the three younger brothers had been standing. He kneeled. “Lord Killjoy, I believe that Prince Blueblood, while he may have been the instrument of your father’s murder, was not the author of it.”

“You describe a conspiracy,” Killjoy said, with no surprise evident in his voice. “If you think you know the pony responsible for father’s death, then by all means, name them.”

Proctor looked up from the floor into the twin motes of silver which stared coldly back at him. “When you took the sword, was it your intent for Lord Neighsay to be murdered in council? Or only injured?”

Killjoy’s muzzle remained mostly expressionless; only the faintest hint of an upturn at the edge of his mouth gave the vague impression of a grin. “Father often spoke of your remarkable insight. Of course, he also sang praises for your unwavering loyalty, the accuracy of the intelligence you retrieved for him, your ability for swift and decisive action, and the prudence of your advice.” He gestured to the corpse. “But he obviously underutilized that particular aspect of your services, something I’ve noticed over the years.”

“You need not mince words with me, M’Lord; my loyalty to the family will not be swayed by action or conversation on your part.” Proctor stood. “This was not the first time your seemingly innocuous actions threatened Lord Neighsay’s life.”

“I am certain that you insisted that father arm himself before entering the council chambers, even going so far as to offer him a weapon, and he obviously declined. It was foolish of him to ignore the recommendations of the family spymaster. I do not intend to make the same mistakes.”

“Then it is your contention that he died due to his own negligence?”

“That is what any in-depth investigation would uncover, even though we both know it will never come to that. I don’t leave things to chance, which is why I’ll need you during this chaotic transition.”

“What are your instructions?”

“I need you to follow Blueblood,” Killjoy said. “Do not trust one of your agents for this one. Even a very inebriated matriarch would have woken by now and taken control. As the regent in a crisis such as this, the Prince will be at the center of whatever effort is working to solve the kingdom’s current predicament, and I intend to be kept fully apprised of their progress.”

Proctor nodded. “If your aim is to keep Blueblood alive, then you should know that, of your younger siblings, I believe that Downer is the only one who doesn’t want the Prince’s head on a pike.”

“True,” Killjoy said. “But Wet Blanket will not act without my say-so. Cynic, however, is the youngest, and has the least amount of family responsibilities to keep him occupied. I suspect that he will be the first to try and kill the Prince, so have somepony keep an eye on him. Truth be told, considering Cynic’s dearth of skill in both clandestine affairs and combat, he will likely meet his fate at the Prince’s hooves.”

“Am I to intercede if Cynic is in mortal danger?”

“No. I meant what I said to the others. If he dies, he dies. However, if it looks like he might succeed, and a surreptitious opportunity arises, stop him. Personally report back your observations of the assassination attempt, regardless of the outcome.”

Proctor stood and turned to leave. He exited the hall swiftly and silently.

Killjoy stood in silence for several more minutes, watching the rays of sunshine as they moved swiftly across the corpse on the table. “One down,” he said quietly, “three more to go.”

Week 1, Day 3, Midnight

Proctor had watched the town square all day long, wedged between the thatched roof and chimney of one of the many buildings surrounding the plaza. It was the only public area inside the Ponyville town limits that was large enough to accommodate an air chariot. The evening prior, a raven from one of his Canterlot agents had arrived with news that Cynic was finally coming to make his move against Blueblood.

His coach touching down well after sunset, Cynic immediately debarked and headed straight for Princess Celestia’s estate. Killjoy had been correct in his assessment of Cynic’s complete and utter lack of stealth capabilities, a fact that was evidenced by the ease with which Proctor was able to follow his quarry all the way to the manor.

When Cynic arrived, Proctor watched him struggle to pry the eastern entryway open using his own sword. Several minutes of grunting and twisting was punctuated when the sword snapped. After a short bout of swearing and redoubled efforts, and a splintering crack, the doorway opened. Had Blueblood and his personal guard not been the only ponies on the premises, an alarm would have been raised for sure.

With Cynic having gained entry to the townhouse, Proctor quickly scaled the side of the building and crawled his way across the roof. After almost a week of clandestine surveillance, Proctor had noticed that Blueblood had been spending more time in the observatory than he did in his own bedroom. This prompted Proctor to carefully work his way over the ceramic tiles until his destination came into view: a wall of glass panes.

Being careful to angle himself so as to not reflect the moonlight or cometlight in a manner that would give himself away, Proctor approached the windows and placed himself in the shadow of one of the support struts.

Blueblood was just standing there, staring up at the sickly-green celestial body of the mysterious comet. Of particular note was that the Prince wore a makeshift eyepatch across one side of his face. While the exact details were uncertain to Proctor, what was clear was that the Prince had suffered some form of episode the day prior which had apparently left him blind in one eye.

Proctor was easily able to spot Cynic as he opened the stairwell door and moved into the shadow of one of the room’s pillars. Again, Cynic’s incompetence made itself known with how quickly Blueblood, despite being down an eye, was able to suss out his location.

Dispassionately, Proctor watched the scene unfold.

Cynic approached the Prince, drawing a dagger. After they exchanged some words, Blueblood levitated a drawing compass and drove it into the back of Cynic’s head. And then Blueblood slit the paralyzed colt’s throat.

As the pool of blood under Neighsay’s youngest son spread, Proctor silently withdrew. Checking his timepiece as he climbed back down the outside of the manor, he calculated that if he left immediately, he would be able to make it back to Canterlot to report his findings just after sunset.

Week 13, Day 5, Morning

Proctor had received news of Gloomy Gus’ impending arrival in town, care of a messenger pigeon that’d been sent by one of his Canterlot agents.

Knowing the time and location where Blueblood tended to hold his recruitment sessions, as well as Gloomy’s predilection for direct conflict, Proctor positioned himself on the roof of a building which was across the street from, and had a clear line of view to, the manor’s drawing room. He’d prepared a ghillie suit made from roof thatch, and was confident that he would remain unseen as he watched through a non-reflective spyglass.

True to form, Gloomy magically hauled a pony-sized boulder, apparently from the outskirts of town, all the way to the manor. The massive chunk of granite was hurled over the estate’s wall and smashed through the drawing room windows. The impact debilitated Twilight Sparkle and injured Tempest Shadow. Then, Tempest was magically hurled through the air.

Right in Proctor’s direction.

So, When Tempest impacted the roof less than a marelength from him, he froze. No part of him moved, not even his eyes. He knew from experience that freezing in place was his best chance of remaining undetected. There had been countless instances in the past where he’d almost believed himself discovered, usually due to someone looking directly at him or his hiding spot. But he knew from those same past instances that perseverance and patience were key to preserving his camouflage.

Tempest released a predatory growl as she peeled herself up from the roofing material, backed up into Proctor’s field of view, and shook the thatch from her coat. As she turned, her gaze momentarily passed over his hiding place. One of her eyes, which had been moving at the same speed as the rest of her head, suddenly locked onto him. Although she continued to rotate her head, that one eye remained aimed directly at him, even after she was otherwise faced back towards the manor.

When Tempeat leapt from the roof, Proctor looked back through his spyglass, raising an eyebrow as he was graced with the image of Gloomy being bitten in half by a giant shark-pony. With the influx of deadly recruits to Blueblood’s cause, Proctor had predicted Gloomy’s demise, but a giant land-shark-monster was certainly not at the top of the list of things he’d been expecting to see that day.

Quickly checking to make sure there were no observers, Proctor dropped from the roof, doffed his thatch ghillie suit and then stowed it in his saddlebags. When it became clear that there was no imminent pursuit, he walked a few blocks away and took up a position behind some stacked barrels. Using his spyglass, he watched the roof he’d just left, curious to know if he had, indeed, been seen.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, he saw Tempest climb up to the roof, where she poked around the hiding spot he’d recently vacated. Then she began to slowly turn her head, sweeping her gaze to take in the surrounding buildings and streets. Though Proctor was certain that she could not see him from behind the barrels he’d been using for cover, her gaze stopped right when it passed over him, and she immediately jumped off of the roof.

Proctor’s reaction was instantaneous. He turned and galloped as fast as he could, taking alleys and side streets. Despite not seeing or hearing any signs of pursuit, he continued to make his way around town until he reached Berry’s tavern. It was the only place that he could hunker down until he was sure that Tempest was off of his trail. Pushing through the door, he tossed a sapphire to the white behemoth of a bouncer. “I wasn’t here.”

Bulk nodded to him and tossed the gem to Berry, who looked over in confusion. Bulk pointed at Proctor and pantomimed putting his hooves first over his eyes, then ears, then muzzle. Berry nodded and made the zipped-lips motion.

Too close, Proctor berated himself as he walked to the bar to order drinks. He downed a shot of imported Vanhoover pear brandy to calm his nerves, and took a mug of Appaloosan cider over to a table. Taking a seat, he berated himself further about how he shouldn’t have stuck around to see if she’d return. He knew better. She was a veteran soldier—the Badlands Butcher for crying out loud—and obviously would have a keen eye for sussing out ambush points, sniper dens, and the best vantage points for observing that rooftop. Mistakes like that were how ponies in his profession met their end.

Looking around, Proctor double-checked to make sure that the table he’d chosen had a poor view of the front door, and was not tactically close to any points of egress. The last thing he needed was to inadvertently out himself again by choosing seating in the same manner that a paranoid spy would. He resolved himself to spending a few hours in the tavern. That would be more than enough time for his trail to go cold, after which he could leave town at his leisure.

It hadn’t even been ten minutes before Tempest entered the bar. She began slowly making her way around the room, dissecting each of the patrons with a gaze full of menacing scrutiny.

Proctor knew that he would be immediately discovered if she reached him. It would be a fool’s errand, even for one as skilled as him, to attempt to bluff somepony who had successfully culled the Celestia-damned changelings. Quickly discounting several courses of action, such as galloping out the front door, or sneaking past Berry to leave through the rear, he found his list of available options swiftly dwindling.

As he thought of rear entryways, he spotted Time Turner, stallion-of-the-evening.

Desperate times, he told himself.

Chugging his cider down in one giant gulp, Proctor did his best drunken saunter over to the prostitute. He grabbed a hoofful of flank, startling the whorish stallion, who turned his neck around and looked at Proctor with a shocked expression.

“What?” Proctor squeezed some more. “Oh yeah, I like that. You, me, upstairs, now.”

“Well, I-I-I don’t usually—with stallions I mean—”

“Shut your whore mouth and take my money.”

As he was led upstairs by his speechless, red-faced escort, Proctor ruminated on how most of his subordinates would balk at the idea of rutting a stallion to prevent their cover from being blown.

Speaking of blown, at least Time Turner was worth the bits.

Week 23, Day 4, Mid Afternoon

Fires raged all across Ponyville, and smoke billowed into the cloudy sky. The bodies of townsfolk littered the streets like discarded refuse. The wind from the incoming storm spread the noxious scent of blood and death throughout the hamlet.

Towards the middle of town, the company manor stood, looking only a little worse for wear. The front entrance had collapsed into a pile of rubble, and one of the street-facing walls sported a single crater, with cracks radiating out from where a cannonball had impacted the building’s facade. At the base of that circular indentation lay both the iron sphere that had made it, as well as the corpse of the pony whom it had killed.

The cannon itself sat atop the splintered remains of its cradle and wheels. It presided over a score of lifeless mercenaries who lay strewn across the blood-soaked earth. Of the dozens of dead, most were in various stages of dismemberment.

Proctor lay on the roof of the company manor with his spyglass, watching the final scenes of the invasion play out. Between one of Blueblood’s teams returning from the field, Sharktavia’s unexpected revival, and whatever routed Sour and four of the five flesh monstrosities from the abbey, a perfect storm of events had been created that obliterated almost the entirety of the mercenary forces.

Then, as if to punctuate the sudden massacre, Tempest Shadow arrived and twisted Sour Puss’ head almost clean off.

The temptation for Proctor to remain and to try to suss out more of what had just happened was great, but he refused to allow himself to repeat the mistake of risking discovery for no tangible benefit.

Shaking his head, Proctor climbed down from the roof. He checked his timepiece, and calculated that he wouldn’t arrive in Canterlot until tomorrow morning. Doing his best to avoid contact with anypony else, he galloped out of town.

In the blazing heat of the afternoon, the street in front of the manor steamed. The stench of blood and excrement wafted up into the air as various fluids were baked on the sun-soaked cobbles. Bodies seemed to move in the haze created by thermal differentials, despite their obvious lack of life.

Then, storm clouds swiftly blotted out the sun, casting the entire town in a tenebrous shade. Flashes of lightning, and the sound of swiftly approaching thunder punctuated the end of the conflict which had rocked the town of Ponyville.

Amidst the scene of carnage stood two ponies.

Octavia sat on her haunches, with forearms wrapped tightly around Snails. She wept, and the skies above, as if in sympathy, joined her.

Precipitation drenched the two, replacing the twin lines of warm salinity running down Octavia’s blood-soaked muzzle with cold, clear rain. A crimson puddle began to spread out from her as the vital fluids of uncounted mercenaries was washed out of her coat.

“I faced it alone,” Snails said.

Octavia pulled away from the embrace, her forelegs dropping to her sides, as limp as the corpses which surrounded the two.

Snails left his hooves on her shoulders. “You don’t have to face it alone, eh?”

She looked up into his eyes. Eyes that belied the age of the youthful face in which they were set. They held the hardships and world-weariness of a seasoned soldier. What a monstrous thing this campaign was, that it battle-hardened one so young.

Octavia looked up into the deluge, before turning her gaze to where Vinyl’s broken body lay. “We should get indoors,” she choked out, struggling to rise to her hooves. But no matter what she tried, she couldn’t bring herself to take a single step in her friend’s direction.

Snails seemed to notice her reluctance. “I’ll get Miss Scratch, eh?”

Nodding, Octavia turned to the base of the abbey hill, where four more familiar forms slept in the eternal embrace of death. “So many lost,” she said, her tone hardening. After walking to the corpses, she stopped for a moment and considered who to take. Unwilling to separate the three teammates, who seemed so even in death, she hefted Big Mac across her back. She carried him to where Snails was struggling to position Vinyl upon his withers.

Lightning struck nearby. The two ponies were too exhausted to even jump in surprise.

Octavia took a step towards the manor, her hoof landing on something uneven, which almost caused her to fall. Looking down, she saw Vinyl’s shades. A gasp of despair escaped her as she quickly scooped up the glasses to make sure she hadn’t destroyed them with her carelessness. She looked at them, puzzled for a moment. Aside from being a little muddy, they were apparently unharmed.

“We… we need to get back into the manor,” Octavia said. She clipped the shades onto her collar. “The side entrance near the kitchen should still be intact, let’s move.”

Week 23, Day 4, Late Afternoon

The townsponies huddled in the abbey, as far from the splintered door, bubbling puddle of what remained of the Zecora-thing, and Ametrine as they could feasibly manage.

The pews, which had been propped up as impromptu doors, moved aside to reveal four ponies, three of whom were carrying bodies

“I saw Snails and Octavia heading around the side of the manor earlier.” Double carefully placed Sugar Belle onto the floor of the abbey, next to Starlight.

Applejack set Party Favor, who was still grinning somehow, next to Sugar Belle. “They must have grabbed—” her voice hitched. “—grabbed Big Mac… and Vinyl. I didn’t see either body when we were down there.”

Tempest gently deposited Night Glider next to the others. “The kitchen entrance, no doubt. With the invaders dispatched, and the fleshforms fled, they should be safe within the manor.”

“Then I’m headin’ down,” Applejack said.

Blueblood ran a hoof through his wet, slicked mane. “Go ahead, Applejack. I won’t keep you from your brother.”

“Darn tootin’ you won’t,” Applejack said as she left.

Double knelt by the remains of Starlight and his team. “You all did well,” he said, a smile actually creasing his muzzle. He bowed his head in reverence. “I shall honor your sacrifices by faithfully continuing my service to Prince Blueblood.”

“Are you going to be okay?” Blueblood asked.

“I’ll be fine,” Double said, looking up to Blueblood. “We all knew that this was coming, and we had already shed our tears for today. They met their deaths with bravery, and honor. A fitting end, for the most dedicated ponies I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

“You seem rather collected,” Blueblood said. “Have your experiences really inured you to things like death and loss?”

“No,” Double said. “I still feel the pain of loss.” His glacier-blue eyes sparkled. “In the far north, I learned a valuable lesson, Prince: All things die. I’ve found this is especially poignant now that we know even a so-called immortal alicorn such as Celestia isn’t able to evade the inevitable forever.”

Double pulled a pendant away from where it rested against the front of his armor and traced his hoof along the intricate filigree patterns that were etched into it. “We all have to check out sooner or later. The only question is how we go. They spent their lives buying time for everypony here. I feel swelling pride for the selflessness inherent in their sacrifice.” He smiled again. “They died well.”

Blueblood placed a hoof on Double’s withers. “That they did.” He found a sad smile coming, unbidden, to his lips as he spoke. “That they did.”

The windows flashed as lighting struck nearby. It was almost immediately followed by the loud rumble of thunder.

“We’ll have to regroup at the manor after the storm passes,” Blueblood said. “The locals will probably appreciate our protection at least—”

Frowning, Blueblood passed his gaze over the cowering residents of Ponyville. He saw the fear etched on their faces, and then he saw at whom they were staring.

Ametrine.

Blueblood’s frown deformed into a vicious scowl.

“What is the matter with you all?” Blueblood loudly demanded of the townsponies, his sudden tirade causing many of them to startle. He advanced upon the terrified citizens with murder in his eyes and heart. “You’re looking at her… like… like she’s going to attack you or something! How dare you? She just saved your lives, you miserable ingrates!”

“This does not help us,” Tempest hissed in his ear.

Blueblood froze. He became painfully aware of the alien feeling of canine fangs in his mouth. With dawning horror, he realized that he’d been eyeing the side of Monsignor Mare’s neck during his advance. Gritting his teeth, Blueblood swiftly turned away from the crowd.

Tempest’s gaze flashed down to Blueblood’s mouth, and her expression darkened. “Discussion later,” she whispered in a menacing tone.

“Our apologies,” Tempest said, spinning to face the crowd with a commanding, yet diplomatic tone. “We understand that this ordeal has been difficult for you. Surely you can appreciate that it has been trying for us as well. I know that you are all worried about Prince Blueblood and his mercenaries.”

Nopony offered an objection.

“You should not be,” Tempest said. “Know that there are worse things in the woods and the dark places of Equestria. That you are protected by the likes of us should fill you with hope. Those who would seek to do harm to you and your families will be stayed by the very same concern that you now feel at our presence. Consider this; who would dare attack the citizens of Ponyville now that they know who defends this place?”

The villagers looked between each other with mixed expressions, which was actually a significant improvement from the overwhelming terror that had gripped them mere moments before.

“Before you think ill of us,” Tempest said, “consider who has protected you these last several months. How often did bandits raid this town before Prince Blueblood arrived? How many pegasi were killed before he sent his troops into the swamps to burn those bloodsucking creatures where they bred? Who would protect you if we left?”

Tempest swiveled her head back to Blueblood as the villagers murmured amongst themselves. “We must return to the manor immediately,” she whispered. “Their fear and apprehension will be quelled, for now. But if we remain here, they will have time to dwell on that little outburst of yours. That stallion, Flash, should have told Shining that the town is safe now. They should be taking the wounded to the sanitarium as we speak. We will have to send somepony there in the morning to ensure they will not come here and further agitate the villagers.”

Blueblood forced his lips down over his fangs before facing her and nodding.

The sanitarium was as imposing as ever, a dark, brooding edifice of stone that somehow managed to be several shades darker than that of the surrounding buildings. The intense rain made the building look all the more sinister, rivulets of water distorting its appearance and making it seem as if it was alive and swaying with the gusting wind.

A group of ponies, mere ants in the shadow of the ancient structure, approached the front doors. Their way was barely illuminated by two minuscule points of light, unicorn horns that struggled against the oppressive darkness of the storm.

Shining wrapped a hoof around one of the massive knockers and smashed the ring against the striking plate, producing a loud series of clangs. After several furious minutes of noisily reintroducing the two pieces of metal to each other, a small hoof-sized window opened up in the door.

“Shining Armor!” said the familiar voice from within. “Here to take refuge during the invasion?” Nurse Redheart’s snout became visible in the dim hornlight given off by Shining and Twilight.

“The invasion is over,” Flash said, as rain continued to mercilessly pelt the group. “I was there when the last of the invaders were defeated at the abbey.”

“Then what brings you here in such weather?” Redheart had not moved to unlatch the door, and her voice contained hints of suspicion.

“We have some wounded,” Shining said. “They’re unconscious, and we can’t make heads nor tails of why.”

Redheart’s muzzle pulled back into shadow, and the tiny window slammed shut.

The group stared dumbly at the substantial door.

“Are we seriously going to have to break into the sanitarium?” Twilight asked.

Shining was just about to grab the knocker again when he heard a series of latches being undone. With a squealing creak that sounded like a tormented soul, the door opened. Their lit horns barely illuminated the beshadowed foyer, which cast it in decidedly more intimidating tones.

“I’m sorry about it being so dark,” Redheart said, motioning for the drenched ponies to enter. “We usually don’t light up the guest areas after-hours; it wastes candles and lamp oil.”

“Understandable,” Shining said as the group piled into the building.

Cadance was the second pony in. She was using her wings to keep the majority of the rain off of Shining’s and Flash’s backs, where Rainbow and Rarity lay, respectively. Twilight shouldered into the lobby, then turned and slammed the door shut.

“What do you think?” Shining lowered Rainbow to the floor.

Nurse Redheart looked at Rainbow who, unlike her name suggested, appeared to be drained of color.

“Such an odd coloration for a pony,” Redheart casually observed, a look of mild confusion on her face. She looked towards Rainbow’s flank and her eyes suddenly widened in recognition. “This is Miss Dash? Rainbow Dash?”

“Yes,” Shining said, his voice catching in his throat when he heard the alarm in Redheart’s voice. “We came here because we thought you’d have some idea—”

“I don’t want to alarm you,” Redheart said, despite the rising panic in her voice, “but this is very bad!” She turned from the group and galloped towards one of the treatment wings. “I’ll wake Doctor Horse immediately!”

Flash sat and crossed his forelegs. “She sure failed at not alarming us,” he deadpanned.

“No kidding,” Shining said, furrowing his brow.

Ten ponies travelled down the streets of Ponyville through the pouring rain. Eight were tied together in pairs, and stumbled more than walked. Behind them were Lyra and Bon Bon, who were keeping wary eyes on their prisoners despite their bound states and collapsed morale. One could never be too careful. Lyra’s horn was the only source of light in the darkness of the storm, the illumination only affecting a dreadfully small portion of the road they were on.

The Ponyville constabulary wasn’t a particularly impressive building, though it might have been in its prime. As it stood now though, the crumbling facade and broken portico pillars stood as testament, not to the grandeur of art-deco, but to the serious neglect that had been paid to the institution of law in the town.

“Hold.” Bon Bon held up a hoof to keep Lyra from heedlessly plowing into the back of the nearest pair of halting mercenaries.

“What’s wrong?” Bon Bon could hear the genuine confusion in Lyra’s otherwise sexy voice.

Bon Bon pointed a hoof to the front doors. One massive slab of oak was hanging by a single hinge, whilst the other had apparently vacated the premises entirely. Also of note were the entrails that hung from one of the cracked half-columns, as well as the corpse which lay directly beneath a suspiciously pony-shaped indentation in the front of the building.

Lyra canted her head at the scene of carnage. “How long ago do you think all this happened?”

“Dunno, rain is ruining any of the signs I’d normally use to determine that.” Bon Bon made her way around the prisoners and slowly approached the entryway. “Hello? Anypony in there?”

“Who goes there?” The reply definitely came from somewhere inside the building, but there were no lights within. With Lyra’s horn-glow at the rear of the group, only the shadowy silhouettes of overturned and broken furniture were visible to Bon Bon.

Despite the tactical disadvantage it would put her at, should there be trouble, Bon Bon remained in plain view and stepped under the portico. “We’re from Blueblood’s company. We have prisoners from the invasion.”

A light-blue mare popped up from behind a knocked-over desk. Her mane was a shade of navy-blue, and she was wearing a tan constable uniform. One of her forehooves held a steaming mug. The other held a cocked and—presumably—loaded blunderbuss. “You all can come in out of the rain, but keep your hooves where I can see them.” She continued to cover them with the weapon as the entire group entered.

“Light is over there.” The mare pointed the massive gun to one of the few tables that was still upright.

Bon Bon approached the lantern that was on the tabletop. She opened the box of matches which sat next to it, lit one, and then lifted the glass chimney so that she could ignite the burner. Adjusting the wick raiser, she set the flame height to one that would provide a decent amount of illumination.

“Let’s get your friends here into the holding area,” the law-mare said.

The mercenaries provided no meaningful resistance at being crammed into a barred cell that was designed for perhaps half their number. The mere sight of the gun provided more than enough disincentive for them to cause any trouble.

“Constable Cuffs.” She placed the blunderbuss behind the desk she’d been using as cover.

“Bon Bon.” She reached out and shook Cuff’s outstretched hoof. “And this is Lyra.”

Cuffs took a sip of—if the odor was any indicator—hot cocoa. With her free hoof, she removed the front cover from a lit stove and threw some logs onto the glowing coals within. She closed the cover and slid the air valve and damper into their fully open positions, prompting the smoldering contents to kindle back into an actual fire.

As they dried off in front of the blazing stove, Bon Bon noticed that even as Cuffs prepared some cocoa for them, she never put down her own mug of the stuff. It was only a few minutes before they’d warmed up and had their own cups of hot, chocolatey goodness.

“I’ve seen you two around Celestia’s manor for months now, so I wasn’t really worried once I got a good look at your faces. Sorry about pointing a gun at you though; I thought there might be more of those invaders about.” She took a sip from her own refilled mug, apparently immune to the temperature. “But I haven’t seen anypony since that black-armored mare swept through here like a literal thunderstorm and killed the living Tartarus out of anypony who was armed and wearing one of those stupid matching cloaks.”

“Tempest did say that she cleared the invaders from the rest of the town,” Lyra said. “I thought she was exaggerating.”

Bon Bon shook her head. “If anything, Tempest is in the habit of underplaying her abilities. The second she said the rest of the assailants in town were dead, as far as I was concerned, that was that.”

Cuffs just nodded and drank her cocoa.

Lyra blew air on her own mug and looked towards the closed door to the holding area. “So what’s gonna happen to the prisoners?”

“They’ll prolly hang,” Cuffs said. “Well, if Magistrate Harshwhinny gets here before the ponyfolk get too restless, at any rate.” She shrugged and took another sip. “If not, I’d wager good bits that they’ll be lynched; and I doubt they’ll be lucky enough to be hanged. This raid here wasn’t like when Berry’s was attacked a month ago. First, all the assailants in that little attack were killed, so townsponies didn’t get a chance to take out any of their frustrations on them. Plus, instead of just a bunch of itinerant mercs and some of Berry’s staff, there were a lot of civilians that were killed or injured this time. It’s been years since everypony got worked up enough for it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we saw somepony get disemboweled, dismembered, or even burned at the stake. Tartarus, even Harshwhinny might give them one of those, depending on how bad things are. Or she might do worse; that mare can be downright cruel sometimes.”

“So, you two are going to be staying for the evening?” Cuffs gestured at each of them with her mug.

“We were hoping to,” Bon Bon said. “The weather is pretty awful.

Cuffs nodded. “Can’t argue with you there.” She took a key from a ring on her belt, tossed it to Bon Bon and pointed to a slightly ajar door that was both thick and covered in runes. It actually appeared to be in better shape than the rest of the entire constabulary combined. “That’s the interrogation room. Got one of them fancy soundproofed doors from the sanitarium; seems they ordered more than they needed. Worked out surprisingly well for me.”

Lyra tilted her head again. “How’s that?”

Shaking her head, Cuffs pointed the mug at the room again, then back towards the cells. “Sleeping in there means it doesn’t matter if any of the prisoners snore.”

Week 23, Day 4, Evening

Snails had been the one to gather wood from the manor’s shed, and he had been the one to build and light the fire in the dining room hearth. Right now, with the incessant rain, it was the only thing keeping the damp chill out of the air as the two attempted to warm up and dry off.

Octavia had wanted to do something to help, but she found that she couldn’t motivate herself to do anything. She felt drained, more exhausted than she ever had been in her entire life. All she could do was stare at the blazing hearth, or watch Snails run back and forth gathering different items from around the manor.

Snails had already returned from the kitchen and set a kettle of tea over the fire. He then ran off yet again, reappearing minutes later with a hoofload of thick blankets from the manor’s store room.

After the two had taken turns baking in front of the flames to dry themselves sufficiently, they both wrapped themselves up and sat in front of the fire, drinking the piping hot liquid that Snails had prepared.

“You risked a lot trying to stop me,” Octavia said. “You said you knew my pain? That you faced it alone?”

Snails stared at his tea and nodded. He began to speak, and Octavia listened as he told her about the ill-fated mission to Froggy Bottom Bog.

“That’s… that’s horrible,” Octavia said, sipping from her mug.

“Yeah,” Snails said. “It was pretty bad. Blueblood said he didn’t want to send me off on any missions for a while after that. He told me I should take a break…” Snails looked into his own mug, and took a sip. “But I volunteered to go back out anyway.”

“Why?”

“I hurt so bad inside,” Snails said. “I wanted to do something, anything to keep my mind off it. I thought if I kept busy, maybe I wouldn’t end up thinking about it. I didn’t want to get it into my dumb head to go doing something dumb.” He pursed his lips but then shook his head. “Well, dumber than what I normally do, anyhow.”

Octavia reached out and briefly placed a hoof on his shoulder. “You’re not dumb, Snails.”

The comment forced a smile from the colt. It vanished as quickly as it came.

“At first,” Snails said. “I just tried to pretend like I was being brave for Snips’ sake, telling everypony else that they should be brave too… It hurt me to do it, lyin to myself and everypony else like that. I saw Miss Dash in the tavern, drinkin her stress away. I figured I’d try it out, eh? Being all woozy like that kinda dulled the pain, cause I couldn’t focus on it.” He looked into the fire. “So I thought I’d found the solution. And I started drinking. I’d wake up, go to the tavern, have a few drinks for breakfast. When it was time for lunch, I’d have a few more. Dinner time? Time for a few more…”

Octavia looked at Snails, and felt a pang of sympathy in her chest. She was becoming acquainted with the gaping void inside of herself, and had a pretty good idea about how the loss must have affected him. From the angle she sat, she could see the fire reflected in his eyes.

“None of it actually helped,” Snails said. “I just felt worse and worse, so I tried to get assigned to more missions. And I drank more and more. I lied to myself and everypony else. And then…” He turned to face Octavia, and the light no longer shone in his gaze.

“I went back to the bog,” Snails said. His eyes looked hollow, as dead as hers when she changed. “I told myself all kinds of things so that I’d go. Like that I wanted to see where it happened, so I could place flowers or something. Or that I was going to see if there was some other part of Snips or his gear that I could bring back to better remember him by.” He sighed. “But it was all just lies I was tellin myself, eh? The truth is… the truth is, I went there hoping another cragodilian would be there, to end my pain.”

Octavia raised a forehoof to her mouth.

“It took me a while, but I finally found the pond where it happened,” Snails said. “Couldn’t find any traces of my friend or the beast, forest critters must have scavenged it all, eh? But I knew it was the place. There were burns on the trees from where the hive went up, and dead bug shells all over — I guess the critters don’t eat those — But there wasn’t anything living there, just the deep, black pool that thing came out of.”

The pits of Snails’ eyes were like a bottomless abyss. Just looking at them made Octavia feel as if something were pulling her towards them. She thought about how she might actually fall into them if she didn’t anchor herself somehow.

“I felt so empty then,” Snails said, “and I knew that my last hopes had left me. All that was left was pain and a giant hole where my best friend used to be.” He shook his head. “And I couldn’t count on anything coming to take me away from it. So, I decided to take things into my own hooves. I loaded up my saddlebags with rocks that I found all aboot, eh?”

Octavia felt herself on the precipice of falling into those dark pits. The twin abysses stared back at her. With great effort she moved her forehoof back up to Snails’ shoulder, the action as much to comfort him as it was to assuage her own irrational fear of that seemingly inexorable call of the void.

“And then I just jumped in.”

“Harmony above.”

“It turns out that I wanted to live, eh?” Snails looked back to the hearth, and the flames reignited in his eyes. “When I opened my mouth and all that water rushed in, I heard him. I heard Snips. He told me to fight. He told me that I better not give up. He told me not to let myself die.”

When Snails turned to Octavia again, the emptiness had returned to his eyes. Only now, they yawned, the pull towards them irresistible. “I really started to fight when he showed me.”

Snails swallowed deeply. “He showed me how death is so much worse than any of us can possibly imagine. He screamed it to me from a dark pit of rotten flesh and unending pain. He reached out for me, but it was too far. He took his mace and held it out as far as he could. He begged for me to grab it, to hold on, and pull him out of there. So I stretched out, wrapped my hoof around it, and pulled like my best friend’s life depended on it…”

Octavia removed her hoof from his shoulder. It joined its companion in front of her mouth.

“I thought it was a dream or something,” Snails said as he lit his horn and opened his saddlebags. “Except when I crawled out of the water, and pulled myself back onto land…”

A mace landed on the dining room table with a dull thud.

“I had this in my hoof.”

Feeling confusion for a moment, a small bit of relief washed through Octavia. The explanation for the mace was simple. “But—”

“I know what you’re gonna say,” Snails said, cutting her off. “He musta dropped it there when he died, eh?”

Octavia nodded.

“But there’s only one problem with that, there.”

Snails reached back, and a moment later another mace dropped onto the table, identical to the first.

“See, I pried Snips’ mace out of the cragodilian’s mouth with my own two hooves right after he died.”

Octavia’s eyes widened as she struggled to consider the implications.

“I told you all this ‘cause, I didn’t want you to get lost in your despair like I did. I knew that if you went through it all by yourself, then you might end up having to find out the truth on your own like I did, eh?”

Snails’ words drove themselves into Octavia’s mind like jagged shards of glass. If what he was saying was true, then Vinyl… A scream of anguish caught in her throat, trying to claw its way out like a trapped animal.

“We can’t let ourselves die,” Snails said with an iron resolve which matched the two lifeless hunks of metal on the table. He lay his hooves upon the maces. “We can’t. Or we’ll end up where Snips is. Where Miss Scratch is. Where everyone we’ve lost is.”

“We’ll be there.”

“With it.”

“Forever.”

Applejack entered through the kitchen and shook the excess rain from herself. She walked into the dining room, where Snails and Octavia sat bundled in blankets, with mugs of steaming tea, before a roaring fire.

Only taking a brief notice of Snails’ thousand yard stare and the distressed look on Octavia’s face, Applejack demanded to know where Big Mac was. The two remained silent at first, the only sounds in the room the snapping and popping of burning wood, and the thumping in Applejack’s ears as her thinning patience drove up her heart rate.

Applejack was about to start yelling when Octavia raised a trembling hoof and pointed towards the foyer.

Wasting no time, Applejack galloped into the west hallway, and then into the manor’s foyer. Two bodies were laid out: Vinyl, and Big Mac. She barely took notice of a peculiar pile of ash which was situated in front of the door to the east wing, opting instead to walk over to where her brother lay.

Big Mac looked awful.

Applejack had seen corpses in far worse shape than the state her brother was in. A quick look to Vinyl reinforced just how pulverized a body could be. Still, she had hoped that Big Mac would look like he was just sleeping, like so many ponies would say when describing the recently deceased.

His tongue was lolling out of his mouth, a mottled pink strip of flesh which reached all the way to his neck. Flies buzzed around the ragged chasms in his chest and barrel, with gleaming viscera threatening to spill out onto the carpet. Worst of all were the eyes. The sparkling emerald orbs which had always dominated her brother’s face were glazed over by a film of white.

Applejack reached up to try and close Big Mac’s eyes and push his tongue back into his mouth, but rigor mortis had kicked in, and she couldn’t move either. She tried to bat the flies away with her hooves, but there were too many, and they were too small.

“Damn you,” Applejack said, swinging at the cloud of flies with much more vitriol than before. “Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!” She devolved into flailing her hooves about wildly at the swarm. She then swung both hooves down, slamming them against Big Mac’s body, eliciting several cracks. “Damn you, big brother. Damn you for leaving me alone.” She raised her forelegs up again and started to swing them down.

A pair of powerful hooves seized hers, arresting the violent motion.

“I cannot claim to understand your pain,” Tempest said. “I never had any siblings of my own.” She looked from Applejack to Big Mac. “But you are literally beating a dead horse.”

Week 23, Day 4, Night

Shining punched the lobby’s stone wall, causing a spike of pain to radiate from his right shoulder. He ground his teeth together but didn’t wince.

It had been hours.

Twilight was looking at him with her signature half-worried, half-irritated expression. “Shiny, please stop. You hurting yourself isn’t going to speed things up.”

Looking over to where Cadance and Flash slept, Shining couldn’t help but feel envious. Everypony was exhausted after what had been a truly trying day, but both he and Twilight refused to sleep until they knew the status of Rainbow and Rarity.

Returning his gaze to Twilight, Shining squinted one eye slightly. “Twily, why haven’t you healed up your cheek yet?” He pointed a hoof to where blood had soaked through the patch on her face, to run freely down to her chin.

“I can’t.” Twilight’s reply was as swift as it was unexpected.

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

Twilight looked him in the eyes. “Shiny, your sword is enchanted with unicorn magic.”

“So? So what?”

“It’s a Harmony enchantment.” Twilight frowned. “So the wound is lined with Harmony. If I try to heal it, the energies will likely mix violently, and rip part of my face off.”

Shining hoped that the face he made wasn’t too shocked and horrified. “Why didn’t you say this earlier?”

“We had bigger problems.”

“But why is it still bleeding?” Shining tried to get a closer look. “It’s been over a day, shouldn’t it have stopped by now?”

“It was pretty deep, BBBFF.” She held a hoof lightly to the patch and looked at the crimson staining her hoof when she took it away. “Pretty sure it went all the way down and nicked the bone. It’s going to take a while to heal. Once Rainbow and Rarity are stable, I’ll look into having the doctors stitch it up.”

“Let’s toss another patch on it for now.” Shining pulled another bandage from his saddlebags and clumsily applied it over the previous one.

Twilight sighed. “Shiny, let me do it.” She had the bandage properly applied and tied down within a few seconds.

A few moments passed in silence.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Twily.”

“For what?”

“You wouldn’t have that wound if I’d have been able—”

“Stop.” Shining was becoming more amazed with how commanding his sister had become recently. Twilight pointed her bloodied hoof at him. “Magnus was controlling your mind, you are not responsible for this.”

“But if I were stronger—”

“Dammit, Shining! It took an Element of Harmony to break you free, and another to free Magnus. There’s nothing anypony could have done in that situation.”

“Rainbow broke free.”

The statement hung in the air between the two siblings.

It had been eating Shining from the inside ever since he’d killed Magnus. In the aftermath of the fight, he’d thought long and hard about how easily he had succumbed to Magnus’ influence. And when he compared that to how easily Rainbow had shrugged that control off like an uncomfortable coat, it filled him with shame.

“She said that nothing could make her betray her friends,” Shining said, staring down at the floor. “I… I always thought I was strong, Twily. I worked so hard, and spent all that time training. But in the end, without thinking twice, I almost cut Rainbow’s head in two.” The look of sadness that crossed Twilight’s face at his words only served to increase the shame that he felt.

“Shiny, I—”

The doors to the inner portions of the sanitarium swung open, drawing both of their attention. Nurse Redheart walked out towards them. “They’ll be okay,” she said. “It was touch-and-go for a little while there, but once Doctor Horse found the root cause, we were able to stabilize them.”

“What’s wrong with them?” The question left Shining’s mouth before his mind could even form it.

“Harmony drain.”

Shining looked to Twilight for an answer, but instead saw that the blood had drained from her face. He turned back to Redheart. “What does that mean?”

Redheart opened her mouth to speak.

“What it means,” said Twilight, oblivious to Redheart’s exasperation at being interrupted, “is that the Harmony that is normally present in everypony was sucked right out of them. Even ponies who can’t channel Harmony have it in them. It’s why my magicks tear a pony up a little bit before stitching them back together; it has to violently react with what Harmony is there before it can force regrowth.”

Shining put a hoof to his aching head. “But what could possibly have sucked out their Harmony?”

“We don’t know,” Redheart said, shooting an annoyed glance towards Twilight. “But we have your friends on a Harmony infusion right now. They should be better within a day or two.”

“Thank you,” Shining said.

“We’ll bill the Prince, per usual,” Redheart said as she turned and left the lobby.

Shining looked over to Twilight. “The Elements?”

“It has to be,” she replied. “Both times they activated the Elements, there was a tremendous surge of concentrated and distilled Harmony energy. Neither Rainbow nor Rarity channel Harmony, so the Elements must have just… sucked it right out of them.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Shining stamped a hoof. “What use are magical artifacts if they kill you when you use them?”

Twilight put a hoof to her chin. “If Harmony were more prevalent, the Elements could just draw it from the surrounding environment.” She shook her head. “But this world, the way it is right now, Harmony is not the dominant force. Maybe it was in the past when they were created?”

Shining shrugged. “You’re the research guru, lil sis.”

She glowered at him.

Shining was too tired to care. “Let’s discuss it tomorrow, Twily, I’m beat. Now that we know they’re ok, I feel like I can actually sleep. But… you didn’t get Redheart to sew your cheek shut, Twily.”

The glowering intensified. “I’ve had the cut for a while now, waiting until morning won’t hurt it any more.”

“Don’t put off treating injuries, lil sis.” A sudden pain in Shining’s shoulder made him hiss and place his hoof over it. “Case in point.”

“A cut cheek is hardly as debilitating as a torn rotator and chipped bones. Go to sleep, I’ll be fine.”

He had to admit to himself that he was pretty tired—

Twilight watched as Shining passed out. It had happened in record time, even for him. But there was no way that she could sleep; her mind spun with all manner of ideas spawned from the very concept that the Elements could drain Harmony from the bearer to fuel their effects. Power-flow matrices and arcane diagrams swirled through her head as she envisioned the possible combinations for safely capturing and harnessing those energies on the scales she had witnessed.

She had to think about the matter scientifically if she expected to yield any tangible results. Her journal was swiftly removed from her bags, and she frantically started to ink her thoughts to paper. Sleep can wait, she told herself.

First, observations:

Shining had been a channeler of Harmony before his injury. He was able to access an internal reservoir of it via his horn, like most other Harmony practitioners. But he had used one of her eldritch invocations to tear open the wall that separated him from the source, which had caused him to almost combust like a moth that had flown too close to a flame. This also severed his connection to Harmony.

Neither Rarity nor Rainbow had been able to channel Harmony energy prior to the incidents where they activated the Elements. Yet they had both channeled Harmony on a scale that surpassed what had almost incinerated Shining. Instead of drawing Harmony from the source, the Elements had drawn it from them instead.

Second, questions:

How do we combine the positive aspects of Shining’s case with the positive aspects of the Elements case? The end result would be the ability to harness large quantities of Harmony directly from the source, without draining or incinerating oneself—

A drop of crimson landed on the page. Twilight blinked. Her cheek bandage had bled through again. She watched as the blood soaked into the page, following unseen imperfections and pathways in the paper pulp. But her eyes began to widen as she realized that it wasn’t random. A gasp escaped her lips as the redness began to resolve into actual patterns; though nothing that a laypony might recognize. To her trained eye however, those damnable curves suggested a far more sinister structure of incorporeal influence acting upon those stained streaks.

As Twilight stared in stultified stupefaction, a spontaneous spark of redoubtable realization widened her eyes. She was intrinsically infused with eldritch energy due to her constant connection with the source, and Shining’s blade had injected a small amount of Harmony into her cheek.

Together… She shook her head.

Mixing energies of two different types had proven to be volatile in the past. But her cheek would have exploded the instant Shining’s sword cut her if that were the case. “I’m an idiot,” Twilight said, cursing herself for not having noticed earlier. There was obviously some kind of critical threshold that had to be passed in order for the reaction to be violent.

Twilight studied the blasphemous patterning that spread from where the single drop of her blood had marred the page. She touched her hoof to her bandage, then lowered it to the parchment, leaving a crimson hoofprint behind. Once again, the capillary action of the paper created a deluge of delirious designs.

Tearing the bandage off, Twilight winced as she pulled her own wound open with a hoof. Crimson dribbled down her muzzle to spatter onto the page, ruining her notes, but they resolved into yet more chaotic designs. But there was method to the madness, and soon everything had resolved into a network of veined redness that resembled the blasphemous sigil she and the others knew so well. But, much to her surprise, they also formed the so-called holy runes which marked the presence of Harmony.

“In the Void’s name,” Twilight said, oblivious to the copious amounts of blood that now streamed down her face. When she pulled her head away from the journal, she saw two unmistakable designs superimposed upon each other. One was the sign that the cultists wore: an eclipse, split by five spikes; it was the symbol which represented The Heart. The other was one which was sometimes found on the heraldry of practitioners of Harmony; a blazing torch. She stared at the two patterns, completely transfixed and unaware of the quantity of blood that now flowed freely to soak into the fur of her chest.

When Twilight finally was able to tear her gaze away from the two symbols, she felt dizzy and surprisingly thirsty. Still, her mind reeled from the revelation. It just… wasn’t possible. They were two completely separate sources of power, supposedly with different origins. Yet… at the lowest rest states—

Twilight tried to stand to her hooves, but the room spun. Her legs felt weak, and her eyes rolled back into her head as she fainted.

Week 23, Day 4, Midnight

“Then it stands to reason that all of the wine was tainted by this corrupted blood,” Tempest said matter-of-factly.

Blueblood moved to the bed and placed both hooves down on it. “I sent all of that wine to Canterlot! Fancy said he’d gotten a letter from Coloratura saying they were going to serve it at the Grand Galloping Gala! What day is it?!”

“The day of the Grand Galloping Gala,” Tempest said flatly.

Ametrine canted her head. “Blue,” she said. “We may have a problem.”

“Problem?” Everypony jumped when a familiar, jovial voice sounded from the fireplace.

Blueblood drew his sword and Tempest dropped into a fighting stance. Ametrine stared in confusion at the blazing hearth.

A pony-shaped figure strode forth from the flames.

“Sounds like a job for some good old-fashioned jolly cooperation!” Solmare said.

“Solmare?” Blueblood said, readying to strike. “Ametrine, is she—”

“She’s not a fleshform,” Ametrine said. “I don’t sense anything like what I felt from my sisters.”

“Tell us how you are alive,” Tempest demanded, her body compressed like a spring.

“You didn't know?” Solmare asked.

“Know what?” Blueblood said.

“Well,” Solmare said, “I just assumed my situation was pretty obvious, even commonplace on this world. I mean, the other team was talking about destroying skeletons and whatnot after the first mission and all.”

“What situation?” Blueblood asked, pretty sure he already knew the answer.

“I’m undead,” Solmare said. “I haven’t been alive in the traditional sense since long before I had the extreme pleasure of joining the company, even long before I made my way to this beautiful, radiant, sunlit world. I… I really thought it was obvious. Especially since Twilight is one of the ponies who interviewed me for inclusion into this illustrious company; everypony keeps saying she’s an expert on the topic of undeath.”

Blueblood facehoofed.

“Sometimes Twilight has the situational awareness of a turnip,” Tempest said, not unkindly.

“Ahem.” Ametrine cleared her throat, drawing the attention of the entire room. “Canterlot? Shipment of cursed wine? If Solmare isn’t going to attack us, shouldn’t we be leaving? Like… now?”

“She is right,” Tempest said. “We have no time, and almost none of our forces are in fighting condition.”

“The stagecoach will be the fastest method of travel,” Blueblood said. “We can fit four, maybe five ponies inside the carriage, and one riding up front with Ditzy.”

“Where is Ditzy?” Ametrine asked.

“She was up here a little while ago,” Blueblood said. “But she probably went down to the storeroom after Tempest kicked her out.”

“So,” Ametrine said. “Who are you going to send?”

Blueblood put his hoof to his chin. “As far as who we can take… Octavia is out, she lost Vinyl today and doesn’t seem to be taking it well. Applejack lost Big Mac, and is taking it poorly enough to almost desecrate her own brother’s remains. Snails… probably should stay here to look after those two, he’s been through what they have, and he even talked down Sharktavia, for crying out loud. Yona… there’s no way she’ll fit in or on the carriage. Double… I talked to him, and I think he’s taking everything surprisingly well. For the others, we’d have to go clear across town to get anypony from the sanitarium or constabulary, I don’t think we have time.”

“The obvious choices then,” Tempest said, are Aloe, Solmare, Double Diamond, Ametrine, you, and myself.”

“Risking the company leader on a mission?” Blueblood said. “Very unlike you Tempest.”

“Your presence will be required,” Tempest said. “A random band of mercenaries will be unable to enter the castle grounds, much less make it to the Gala.”

“You’re right,” Blueblood said. “We need to hurry then, there’s no time to waste if we want to prepare and get to Canterlot before the festivities start.” He ran to the bedroom door and flung it open to call for Ditzy—

Except Ditzy was standing right outside the door, smiling her same old rictus grin. She saluted. “I’ll ready the stagecoach, Sir!”

“How long do you think she was standing there?” Blueblood asked nopony in particular as Ditzy galloped off.

“Probably ever since I slammed the door in her face two hours ago,” Tempest said flatly.