The pure white of the rising moon filters through the Crystal Castle’s stained glass, casting geometric patterns of hexagons and diamonds and sharpened spears, ostensibly in the shape of a snowflake, throughout Emperor Spike’s combination office and bedroom. The bright purple hue and swirling blue slowly traverse the room, mirroring the moon’s languid path along the sky.

“Your Majesty?”

Spike looks up at Golden Wheat’s worried tone, his stiff neck complaining from the unexpected motion. At the door stands Amethyst Shard, her plum coat turned guard’s regulation blue by her enchanted plate armor. He has no idea how long she has been waiting; Golden Wheat offers no clues, only a blank look of surprise. He runs through possible reasons for not immediately calling to his attention whatever pressing issue is at claw, yet still standing in the doorway, but none come to mind. If it isn’t important enough to interrupt then they could just add it to the next day’s docket, as the sun has already run her course.

Spike sets aside the contract he and Golden Wheat are reviewing, pushing aside dozens of others to make an open area on the cluttered desk. More and more companies and individuals are demanding formalized agreements after the snafu with Frenulum and Withers, foreling of the changeling miners and henchpony for one of Equestria’s front organizations respectively, over their acquisition of Crystal Empire resources and relics. It was, perhaps, an ill-considered action, reckless at a crucial junction when prudently considering long-term outcomes would have better suited the Empire. But it is too late to dwell on such possibilities, especially because he would stand up for those who put their trust in him again.

“Yes?” Spike asks, his frustration over reviewing and authorizing the contracts seeping into his voice.

Golden Wheat isn’t much of a legal expert - the cream coated pony’s expertise lies in wheat and cleaning, especially as they relate to her animal friends - but neither is anypony else in the Empire, a fact he counts as a blessing after learning how exploiting legal loopholes led to the corruption and eventual downfall of Abyssinia. Worse than a country and ruler that forces citizens to become slaves is one that allows the most desperate to shackle themselves, their transitory predicament now a permanent position enforced by law, whereupon they are fed into a ravenous system that only ever hungers for more. He would not see the Crystal Empire fall from Sombra’s clutches to the carefully trimmed hooves of such scum, no matter what rehabilitative measures Celestia tried with those Abyssinians.

“Your Majesty.” Amethyst Shard inclines her head just slightly, a far improvement over the groveling bows he initially received and had to forbid to get them to stop, though one foreleg still bends to lower her barrel instead of snapping to her head in a crisp salute. Her eyes keep darting backward, her breath drawing in as if to gush but being held back by instilled discipline.

“Princess Luna,” she finally continues with a note of adoration; the Princess of the Night is held by all in remarkably high esteem for her efforts fighting ex-king Sombra, her later descent into Nightmare Moon all but ignored. “She is waiting for your pleasure. She claims it is a pressing matter, the contents of which she refused to divulge, but understands it may be some time until you are ready to receive her.”

Princess Luna? What would she want? Spike is surprised she did not warn of her arrival through dragonfire, Princess Celestia’s go-to method of communication for Twilight Sparkle for a dozen years. He knows Luna has his address, as it were, as does Cadance, but now that he thinks about it he has not received a personal letter from any of them through dragonfire since his coronation, only official correspondence. He rhythmically taps his claws against the hard wood of the desk, digging miniscule divots. It is unfortunate, but he has yet to find a material that stands up to the sharp appendages. It seems like he goes through a whetstone a day keeping them at a manageable length.

“Send her in,” he declares with his deepening ‘voice of authority’.

Amethyst Shard gives an immediate nod and spins on her hoof. The loud clip-clop march gradually fades as she goes toward the first of sixty-six flights of stairs. Spike sighs at the inconvenience; his chambers are at the top of an extraordinarily tall castle. He holds court and entertains most visitors on the lowest full floor (that is, the sixth floor, as the first five are easily barricaded staircases that run up the Crystal Castle’s four massive legs) instead of the vast throne room. Is the lack of convenience the intent of placing the throne and royal chambers so high? A way of wasting the other’s time, a way to say ‘I am more powerful than you, and I deign to see you at my pleasure’? He could certainly see Sombra doing something that petty, and wonders how much of Amethyst Shard’s intentions ran similarly or if it is merely a holdever of whatever training she received under the mad king. The view, he has to concede, is excellent, and the main reason he stays.

“Here, let me.” Golden Wheat doesn’t wait for a response, not that he would deny her. Her firm, slender barrel gently pushes him to the side so she can get to work tidying the large desk. He raises an arm to steady himself, his claws sinking into the soft coat covering her flanks.

His scales tingle at the touch, reminding him of the times she has pressed and pulled and even yanked at those scales, helping disperse the rage and fury that constantly builds in him. It’s more than stress, more than mere displeasure at seeing the state of ruin his ponies are in and the massive undertaking underway, the required rigors of rebuilding and recovering. He wants those hooves against him again, stroking and prodding and probing for any sore or irritated sections that require her rejuvenating ministrations.

If she minds his touch she doesn’t show it. She stretches out with a wriggle that starts at her withers and ripples along her spine. Her hips drop as her weight settles on shifting forelegs; a faint smile spreads on her muzzle as she glances back with a twinkle in her bright gray eyes. Her golden tail swishes back and forth, drawing his attention to her cutie mark of a golden stalk of wheat, full and ready for harvest.

A single claw traces the golden outline, drawing a twitch from the supple muscles and an appreciative coo that dares him to go further. A second claw joins the first, then a third, gently resting against her. His lethargic pace reminds him of Sweetie Belle, the fumbles of an inexperienced youth and a cloistered librarian’s assistant not mattering as they clumsily explored each other. His thumb joins, grabbing a fold of flesh to watch the coat stretch.

Oh, the difference in maturity! He would have expected a whimper from Sweetie Belle, a cry of pain, perhaps, or an exclamation of some sort. But Golden Wheat doesn’t grimace, or wince, or pull away, even as pinpricks of red stain his sharp claws and the surrounding coat. Her smile does pull tighter, her forelegs pausing their sorting to keep her entire body still, a questioning look in her eyes. But not calling into question his action, instead asking how far he wishes to go and when he would like her to take the lead, if ever.

The easy acquiescence scares him. He releases her, bending his claws inward to knead with his knuckles, wondering how far would be too far. She does not admonish his timidity, but goes back to tidying, seeming to move things around for the sake of moving them while keeping her breath steady.

It is only once Luna enters the doorway that he hears her heavy hoofsteps, having taken far less time than he thought it would to reach the top floor. Did she teleport, or was he under her surveillance? He finds neither option reassuring, an exploitable weakness even if only those as capable as an alicorn could utilize it. He realizes, too late, that his fist is firmly pressed into Golden Wheat’s flank, and she has made no move to distance herself.

“Princess Luna,” he greets, unsure of what to do. To pull away would make the position incriminating, and the last thing he wants is to display weakness in front of another ruler, especially one from Equestria.

“Emperor Spike. Our apologies.” Luna inclines her head the barest amount, though does not divert her eyes. “We were led to believe thou would’st receive us in your chambers. Shall we return to thy throne room?”

Ah, that would be how she got here so quickly. “No, come in.” One claw motions to the other side of the table while the other remains possessively against Golden Wheat’s flank. He’s seen Doug do it to his mares, Luna included. Why not him?

Luna raises an eyebrow, only the loud thuds of her heavy shoes against the floor. They do not echo, making her approach all the more ominous. Her gaze shifts from him to Golden Wheat, lingering for a moment, then to appraise the contents of his room. There isn’t anything that might pose a threat to her, a concern Spike finds some compulsion to rectify, if only to somehow bridge the vast difference in their capabilities. It isn’t as if he can rely on age, as many dragons must do, to accumulate more power.

Spike isn’t quite sure on the protocols of acknowledging the leader of another nation, having only met with dignitaries. So when Luna fails to bow or otherwise submit to his authority he does the same, copying her grave stare.

“Good evening,” Luna begins conversationally. Her benign smile betrays a patronizing tone, a questioning of his capacity as she appraises him with her eyes. “Thou hast grown since we last met.”

Spike finds the remark belittling, no matter the veracity. He frowns and crosses his claws across his chest. “As have you.”

Luna’s eyebrows narrow for a brief moment, head tilting to the side. “We meant little by our observation, nor to diminish thy accomplishments.” Spike raises an eyebrow. Luna continues, pulling back slightly and making herself less imposing, “The position must suit; t’is a common occurrence among ponies to grow and mature as their destiny comes to fruition.”

Spike glances at Golden Wheat and the fist still resting on her flank. Mature? Is that what’s going on here? He unfurls his claws, careful not to dig in as he rests on her again. “Is that why I barely grew in all my time knowing Twilight?”

He leaves unstated the fact of Celestia’s physical stature compared to Luna. Did Celestia grow in her millennium of rule while Luna was locked away?

If Luna minds where his claws go she doesn’t show it, and neither does Golden Wheat. “Doth she strike thee as a pony who would deliberately retard thy progress? T’is not the pony way.”

Spike snorts. “And yet.”

“And yet,” Luna echoes, more melancholy than Spike expects.

He takes a moment to measure her as she stares off into space. She doesn’t seem bigger, except around the back of her barrel. But that shouldn’t be right; after all, he’s grown, so she should seem smaller. That happened both times his Greed Growth triggered. Why the hesitation in her voice if she is also growing?

“It has come to our attention,” Luna begins, abruptly changing the topic, “of a potential threat to the Crystal Empire.” She gives a telling glance at Golden Wheat, obviously asking whether the pony should be privy to such matters.

Spike waves a claw for her to continue, perhaps faster than he should.

Luna takes a deep breath, mulling something in her mind. “Dost thou remember Tempest Shadow?”

Spike nods, unsure. “She was the unicorn who worked for the Storm King. Quit when he allied with Equestria.”

“Correct.” Luna straightens her back, rising to her full height, which makes Spike want to fly up to match her. “And Radiant Hope?”

Spike isn’t as sure on this one. “Crystal pony, also unicorn, who wanted to become the leader of the Crystal Empire.” He wracks his brain. “She hasn’t been on any lists of reconstruction that I can recall.” A quick glance at Golden Wheat confirms this. “I remember seeing her recently, though. Why?”

“We believe,” Luna slowly states, “the two of them located Sombra’s horn.”

“Wait,” Spike says, letting go of Golden Wheat to fly level with Luna. “I thought he was vaporized by the Crystal Heart.”

Luna offers nothing more than a half-hearted shrug. “We believe they shall attempt to revive Sombra, as he is Radiant Hope’s misguided love.”

“Impossible.” Spike studies Luna’s face, grimacing when she doesn’t correct him. “No? You think it’s possible.” He notes a twitch in her otherwise stony expression. “Worse than that. You helped her. Or at least didn’t stop her?”

Luna sighs, her upright posture sagging. “We, Equestria, offer our aid, for the unlikely event that they succeed.”

“Aid?” Spike laughs, short and derisive. “Such as soldiers and guards? What better way to ensure my compliance than to surround me with ponies loyal to you?”

“We assure thou,” Luna claims, a note of indignation in her voice, “that is not our intent.”

“Then how am I to take it?” Spike demands, bristling with rage. “Sabotage? Deliberately undermining my rule? Why else would you let a known enemy of the Crystal Empire free?”

Next Chapter: Ch. 126 - Emperor's Wit, Part Two Estimated time remaining: 12 Hours, 9 Minutes