After the eleventh page, there was a stretch of three almost-blank ones. Dates had been put on corners, and a pen had been gripped, but no words had come. Thoughts had been muddled, as hard to parse as an unknown language.

But then, at last, there was the twelfth page.

I’ve heard people saying that Lyra’s not going to be able to walk anymore. There’s no reasoning behind it, I’m sure—the worst news is the most sensational.

Tomorrow night, the portal to Sunset’s home will open again. Sunset and I will be able to go through.

She’s spent the last few days talking it over with me. Planning things out. She can’t be sure how Princess Celestia will react to her return, but it’s imperative their meeting go smoothly. “We’re dealing with somebody who raises and lowers the sun each day,” Sunset reminded me.

It was strange, hearing her talking about Celestia. It used to be she couldn’t do that without twisting her face into the most horrid scowl or breaking down into tears.

But now, she was so focused. So intense. She outlined all Celestia’s faults—the princess was arrogant, selfish, oppressive; she adored her throne and her stature and her power and scorned those who might challenge it. She put on a warm, motherly mask, but underneath it she was old. Stagnant. Bitter.

I don’t know if it’s true. But Sunset believes it.

And she looked at me, right into my eyes, and said that she needed my help. That the dreams she’d been chasing her whole life were out there, hovering out of her reach but within ours. That together, we could overthrow Celestia.

What can she get me to agree to, I wonder?

And now.

The last page.

In front of Canterlot High School, there was a statue of a horse, stood atop a rectangular pedestal of stone.

And, scattered across the ground in front of the pedestal, shards of glass twinkled under the starlight. Little jagged mirrors, dropped in disarray. A few were marked with small drops of blood.

The sledgehammer leaning against the pedestal was much the same. As was this last page. Glass was such a dangerous substance.

It hurts, the words on the page say. I hoped it wouldn’t, but I think I knew it would.

But it’s done.

A corner of the page was crumpled—a weary brow had fallen upon it, labored breaths warming the paper.

I hope I don’t miss her.