The strain of displacing air - air, the easiest material to supplant, only surpassed in ease by the low pressure of a hypobaric chamber - sends jolts of pain lancing through Princess Luna’s head. She can barely lend strength to her legs to keep herself standing, her horn braying from overexertion. Not that anypony would find a cross-country teleport easy, by any means, and only a select number of top-level unicorns match the alicorns in requisite power to accomplish the feat. There can only be one reason for the excess exertion, and her hoof automatically traces along her belly as she confirms her foal’s safety.

The marble-sized being, small enough to fit in the frog of her hoof, seems no worse for the ride. Not that she can glean much from a rapidly beating heart and a core that continues to drain power at an alarming rate, much like an electric wire mistakenly grounded. Yet that has been the case for as long as Midnight has been alive; it remains, not quite a cause for concern, but one that leaves her even more exhausted at the end of the day.

Relief washes over her, allowing her to quell her haggard breath, that nagging thought in the back of her head that she overestimated her own ability and brought about her little one’s demise. Satisfied everypony is okay, or at least recovering, Luna scans the darkened corners of the Princess Suite. The princess-sized bed, with its fluffy pillows and downy comforter, looks even more enticing than normal, and that’s saying something for the mare who finds herself bedraggled by the time she bids the morning ponies good day and retires until it is time to raise the moon. The rest is spotless, in the way an unused room in a castle would gather dust if not for a maid, a macabre parody of a lived-in home.

It feels like just yesterday she left this Tartarus-forsaken town - perhaps because she did - and she has just as much desire to leave now as she did then. It takes but a thought to access and slip through the alarms laced around the building, not that she gave them much credit before, and she squeezes out the window.

She’s immediately grateful for the mask strapped around and completely covering her head. It tamps down the stench of unwashed animals, blocks sand from getting into her eyes and mouth (though does little for her wings), and the goggles cut through that ever-present haze. A part of her wishes everypony was equipped with such a mask when they had arrived in Klugetown. Sadly, it would not have done to present themselves as exterminators fully prepared to expunge a twittermite infestation with extreme prejudice. Much as she knows every one of those scoundrels fully deserves such a fumigating fate.

Rather than focus on such negative thoughts, the kind that her Sister would rebuke outwardly, Luna pours on more speed. Her wings beat against the grit-filled air, accelerating her higher and faster. While she climbs she wonders how Doug would contend with such an assertion, of how the inhabitants of a corrupt and execrable society should be treated; it reminds her of last night, and how much she misses the exercise, both intellectually and physically. The nobles willing to debate such propositions are few and far between, Chancellor Neighsay the notable exception, and anypony not regularly engaged in foreign affairs are too commonly focused on their own pursuits to be well-informed. Or too deferential to her station as Princess, and she hasn’t yet stooped to disguise her appearance for the sake of an untrammeled discussion.

If anycreature notices her inky coat as she ascends, she can’t tell; at the very least, she remains unmolested, none attempting to snare her like they do the desert avians searching for succor along the dusty streets. She pities those forced to scrounge like scavengers, and not just the birds; she can see shadows darting from refuse pile to alleyway, purloined prizes in their grasp.

Still, she can’t tarry here, not that she has any desire to do so. It’s easy to plot a course to the southeast, skirting south of the Realm of Clouds and their perpetual thunderheads. Her head keeps turning to the side instead of watching ahead of her, curious as to what lies beyond and above the roiling cumulonimbus. She wants to see for herself the sights she only knows of from, at best, pictures, if she even has that luxury and not just a meager second-hoof description. Still, she has somewhere to be, so onward she flies.

She makes good time, reaching the Basalt Beach without needing to hasten her journey with a point-to-point teleport. She’s glad she already ate a hearty breakfast and doesn’t need to stop to refuel. She passes a few airships loitering over the beach, deep-hulled haulers with large square sails picking up seeping masses of fish from the night trawlers below. She knows she is spotted here, the way their lookouts track her from one horizon to the other.

It’s only as she spots the pointed peak of Mount Aris that she realizes she has no idea how to get to Seaquestria.

She starts with the helm-shaped island, dreading having to dive underwater and start from scratch. Or, worse, contact her Sister and ask for directions. From the silent heights at the wooded pinnacle to the foggy and overgrown ruins at the bottom, the deserted island offers no clues. She sweeps again, searching darkened corners and peeling vines away from crumbling walls in the vain hope that some sort of message is inscribed. Yet it appears any evidence of their evacuation has been removed by time or somecreature, if there ever was any indication at all.

Speaking of the reason for their evacuation, she is surprised to find none of the Storm King’s forces. Did too many find themselves slipping into the sea, never to surface again? She can find signs of the initial struggle, when the hippogriffs were driven away. Then nothing; either the hedgehogs are as fastidious as Generosity, leaving not even a scrap of fabric behind, or they never attempted to hold the fertile island in the first place. Perhaps, had they need of a staging ground to push east, the largest of the scattered archipelago would have served and served well. The mainland is certainly close enough, but the best harbor for miles is at the hoof of the mountainous island, the others smaller and likely treacherous.

Luna pauses her search when her internal chronometer pings, reminding her that it is nearly time to lower her moon overhead. She can feel a slight tug, the equivalent of a pebble bouncing off her side. Her Sister, worried to her safety? She returns a feeling of calmness, but has no idea if the message is received. Perhaps it is just her imagination, reading too much into the astral forces at play. But every time since her return they have raised the sun and lowered the moon, or raised the moon and lowered the sun, together. There was no need to confirm the other’s well-being, to ask if they are ready for the task ahead. She misses that closeness, that bond, and hopes this is the first - and last - time such separation is necessary.

She flies to the top of a highly stylized hill, an open gate carved into the earth below that leads to a wooded vale. She looks northwest, wondering if her Sister is doing the same, but can only see the tip of Canterhorn’s snowy peak. Certainly not Ponyville, but perhaps she can find solace that they are both looking at the same place and thinking of each other.

Her horn thrums with power, lifting her into the air subconsciously, filling the valley with an otherworldly blue light. She can sense her moon even as it slips from sight, disappearing behind the basalt walls to the west. Slowly at first, then rapidly, the sky shifts, going from a blanket of black dotted with pinpricks of gold to a deep red that gradually brightens, shifting through oranges and yellows before the sun peeks out from the tall mountains to the east.

Her duty complete, Luna drops down, sighing to herself. Putting away her moon for the day exhausts her, much as bringing it out in the night invigorates. She wants to lay down on the quiet grass, perhaps in the shade of one of the weeping willows below, or perhaps she might find something more palatable in the empty ruins.

Until a shifting shadow catches her eye from far below. It moves counter to the rest, and she catches a flash of yellow and blue that disappears under a cracked sewer gate. She frowns to herself, curious yet wary, and takes off to investigate. The building above where the interloper disappeared offers nothing, just more stone, but there is a thin crack along the bottom that she might be able to slip through. She can’t see much when she peers inside, just darkened rocks, but it opens up to a large room. A basement?

She can hear faint whispers from inside, excited but indistinguishable. Rather than scrape her barrel along the ground, perhaps putting herself at risk, she concentrates for a moment, reappearing on the other side in the corner she deemed safest. Her horn lights, blindingly bright in case anycreature got any ideas, but the only thing that changes is she can hear a gasp and splash of water from the far side. She walks forward, horn dimming but still bright enough to light the far reaches of the large room.

Yet rather than the other side of a cellar, the floor drops down. Hidden by a rocky outcropping is a small pool, a single pink lily floating on the slightly disturbed surface. Seeing no other option, and sensing nothing except fading ripples, she steps into the cold pool.

Holding her breath, Luna dunks her head under the water. While the fit of the mask around her head might have been uncomfortably tight before, especially where it seems to blend into her coat, it makes clear sense now. No water escapes through the sides or leaks through the gaping mouth, and she takes a moment to scan her surroundings.

True to their function, the goggles make it easy to find the only notable feature is a drain in the middle, large enough for her to squeeze through and swim down but not quite enough to make turning around easy. She takes tentative steps forward, wishing she brought along some sort of flippers to make swimming easier. Alas, and her Sister likely has an enchanted set that would do all the work for you. She could use her horn to push herself… or would it be easier to pull the water, much like the motion of an oar runs counter to how it might seem at first brush? Regardless, it would be tiring, much like levitating yourself instead of flying.

A click from underneath sets her on edge, the grate of stone against stone filling her ears. The hairs on her legs can feel the water whirling before she can see it, but before a second passes the entirety of the pool has started to swirl. Her wings flare out, flapping hard and returning her to the safety of the air. She watches as the entirety of the pool drains down; some sort of trap? Her eyes widen as she spots the drain slowly closing in size, a rounded block of stone like a sewer grate scraping as it slides to cover the opening.

Was this how the hippogriffs stayed hidden and fled the Storm King’s forces? She had thought she would have to scour the ocean, searching far and wide before she found anything! And now, her only connection is disappearing! She gulps; perhaps she could wrest the cover off, but there’s no telling where her mysterious observer would swim off to.

So, tucking her chin against her peytral and her wings to her sides, Luna aims her long horn directly in front of her, and dives.

Next Chapter: Ch. 78 - Fluid Motion, Part Five Estimated time remaining: 19 Hours, 37 Minutes