The thin walls of the small, cramped vomitorium did not stop the chill winds from the arena, or buzz of the crowd outside. I ignored all of it, concentrating on preparing for the combat, the calming ritual of readying my combat spells.

The little princeling was pacing at the edge of the corridor, nervous and alone. "Are you sure you want to fight him, Lady?" He put his claw against my shoulder, trying to stop me before I reached the arena. "He's a bully," the princeling said with sudden bitter anger, old and stale, like a festering wound. "And he's not big and strong like Gid, but he's quick, and his claws are sharp. The other griffons call him El Corte — the Cut."

I semi-shrugged vaguely, ignoring him as I lined up the energy carefully, folding it into a spell. It was unfinished, still missing one critical element, a key-thought and a bit of energy before the circuit of magic would be complete and the spell could be released.

Unicorns of Canterlot frown upon this practice — hanging the spells, leaving them almost-cast, to be released with a thought or a word. A true wizard ought to know his spells to the bone of his horn, ready to cast and modify them as needed — and to be fair, I was familiar enough with those spells that I could do so should I need to.

But that would require thought and concentration — two things that are in short supply during combat, and I have always valued the integrity of my hide quite above the integrity of my academic achievement.

I would hardly need more than one spell against my little problem, but it was always better to overprepare. False pride has once nearly cost me dearly already, and I had to do better — be better than that.

The spell froze like a crippled butterfly caught in a spider's web, captured in the aura around my horn. I checked it again and prepared to start on the next one.

"How are you doing?" A blue-maned head peaked into the room, and the Count pushed himself in. "Anything I can do to help? Oh, and greetings, Your Highness, I hope I’m not imposing.”

The princeling his wings fluffed up, nodded back, eyeing the Count.

"What are you doing here, my lord?” I was coming to like this lordling, for all that he infuriated me, but I didn't need him here — not during my spellwork, not when I was about to fight. He was a distraction, worse, he was a little pony, not made to witness things of violence. And loath as I was to admit it, I did not want him to see me like this either. “This is hardly a place for an Equestrian noble."

"I decided to hang around," Lord Fancy not-quite-explained, "just in case. Mind if I...?"

"Please." I watched him grab his — my snuffbox off the bench and take a sniff. "But there is really no call for you to be around. I can handle myself quite fine."

"Oh, it's no bother," he waved my objection away carelessly, "Besides, you need a second."

The prince made a strangled sound from his side and looked at me desperately.

"Galad is my second, milord," I said coldly.

"Are you sure? He is just a child."

"I'm sure. I don't need you, Fancy." The lordling did not seem to understand my meaning: I needed no pony witnesses to what I was about to do to that griffon, none who could take the word back to the Princess. "Go away."

"I'm afraid I can't do that.” He sighed guiltily. “I'll be out there, in the stalls, if you need me."

"I won't.”

He shuffled on his feet uncomfortably for a few more seconds, bothering his lower lip, as if trying to find a way to say something, but then, he finally bowed to Prince and to me, and left us alone.

I sighed.

"Thanks for choosing me." the princeling whispered. "Though I'm sure the Count would be a better second. If you prefer him..."

"No thank you." I stood up myself, crumpling the half-finished spell. My mood for spellworking was irrevocably spoiled by the encounter, and besides, I was done anyways. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

"Oh. I—"

"And now! Eagles of Griffonstone! Ponies of Equestria!" The arena-masters shrill announcement penetrated easily the buzz of the crowd and the doors of the corridor. "This day! This hour! Before you! On the Gormenghast Field of Challenge! Lord Graven! El Corte! Son of Godric! Son of Gigas! Thrice champion in the Arena! Eighteen years! Twelve Challenges! Eternal Glory!"

“It’s time.” the Princeling said, just as I thought it, his crest and wings drooped. “They are waiting for you. Are you sure…?”

"It's ok," I put my hoof on his shoulder, reassuring the flustered princeling. "I can take him."
He still stood there, struggling to find words while I trotted to the doors and stepped into the arena.

"And his opponent! This day! This hour! Lady Shimmer! A unicorn! Baroness of Winsome Falls! Student of Celestia! The Fire of Seven Oases! The Red Witch of Beruna! Seventeen years! First Challenge! First time on the Sand! Eternal Glory!"

I ignored the griffon's brayings. I was not here for the glory, eternal or otherwise, or the entertainment of the crowd. I wasn't even here to fight for my honour or to win against the little bully.

I was here for the fight itself.

I needed it. Sun above, I needed it, every bone aching for the signal to start. It has been too long, so many cold, empty nights. No drug, no drink, no sex — nothing could ever replace this.

'Red meat’, the creature had said, ‘red meat and blood for my wine’. Once you taste that sweet delight, once you admit how much you love it, nothing else will ever sate you.

“Are you ready?” the referee asked when we stopped at our positions. Not the perfectly measured distances of the Old-style duel — merely some arbitrary lines in the sand, separating me and Lord Graven, each few steps from the referee in the middle, our seconds settling on the perches behind us.

I nodded, concentrating on my breathing, forcing down the feverish excitement of the nascent fight. Even now that it was so close, I would not be able to enjoy the fight fully — the Count was somewhere there in the crowd, watching me. He was Canterlot nobility, and his sort was bound to tell.

“Does any party wish to apologize?”

Lord Graven snorted, fluffing his wings. I said nothing, my magic gathering around my horn.

"Eagles of Griffonstone!" the referee fluttered up to his perch. "Now! This day! This hour! The fight begins!"

The starting–flag flashed downward; and at its first sight, long before it struck the ground, Graven went up in the air, gaining distance, gaining height.

I did not hurry things along, watching him. Real, life-or-death fights are messy affairs that give little time for thought and strategizing. A duel, however, was hardly that. I had time to study the griffon, to try and to test him — him and myself.

"Onyx," I released a spell with a thought, making the wind thicken around him, catching him like a fly in tar.

His claw jerked up in a protective gesture and his talons sliced up my spell into ribbons. That was the griffon magic — sharp claws to cut anything away. ‘Claws of steel, eyes of gold,’ they used to say about griffons in the Old times, though it was a misnomer. There is no steel sharp enough to cleave a lighting bolt apart, thin enough to cut through the very strands of magic. Griffon claws were sharper by far than any steel.

That's why he went in the air — the distance gave him time to cut apart any spell I could cast. And when he'd attack—

He fell on me. Like an eagle with a war-like screech, and before I could even finish the thought, his talons ripped through my shield like a knife through butter.

Sloppy. He was fast, though not pegasus-fast, but he had no control. He slashed again; I took it to the shoulder, feeling his claws leave a bloody mark and pushed him away before he’d reach my neck. He rolled on the sand, as I stumbled awkwardly back.

He snapped his beak, flapped his wings again, and he rose in the air, back into the attack position, hanging in the air, black inkblot against the pale-blue sky.

Right then. I reconsidered my strategy: In this battle, I was the bull. Though I stood immovable, and it was him who attacked me, every spell I cast was like a pass — he'd dodge, or cut it, and then he'd counter before I had a chance to react. Given enough attacks like this one, I'd bleed out pretty fast, even with all the alchemy in my blood already working to close the wounds.

Well, if he wanted a bull, who was I to disappoint? I began casting again, a spell, big and complex, and utterly useless. Nothing but a tangled mess of puffed out spellwork, it shot out, like confetti out of the party cannon. A cut — I timed it as it obliterated my spell — the flash of his claws, and then a dive and another line of pain bloomed across my right leg, dripping with blood. He was fast — faster than I could dodge.

He went up again, back to his position high in the air, as I dripped blood on the sand, and clutched my trophy underfoot — a single feather ripped off his neck while he was too busy cutting into me. His feather, with a single droplet of blood still stuck to it — more than enough to work with.

He hung in the air, giving me time enough to bleed out — and time enough to craft my spell. A subtler magic than the ones I’ve been tossing, one learned not in Celestia’s school, but in my nighttime travels. Like connecting to like, blood calling out to blood, my magic calling out to the fear I seeded in his soul.

"Hide!" I pushed the thought into his mind like an ice knife. “Run.”

He screamed, calling on anger to drown out the fear and struck again, his claws stuck in my shield, halfway through. With a bit of effort he ripped through, and once again I had to duck, leaving pieces of coat and bits of blood on his claws.

"Fall, curl thyself into a ball and weep," I pushed again, "For there is nothing to be done against the fullness of my power."

He struck again, sticking to my shield, screaming and thrashing, his claws cutting criss-cross through the spellwork. All I needed was for him to grow angrier — at me, and even more at himself, at the cold waves of inexplicable, ice-cold fear that drowned his mind. To abandon any strategy and thought, lashing blindly out, and then I'd have my chance.

"Flee! Thou might a moment gain, a minute perhaps, before I come upon thee. . . ."

I threw him away from my shield, slashing him across the face with a quick whip of sand and wind, only barely missing his eye. He recoiled back and flapped his wings, gaining altitude. More distance, more height, more speed, more power.

"Beg and plead." I pulled on my spellwork, adding another push to the spell I channelled through this feather. "Crawl back to your prince, beg for his protection again." Another tiny, subtle push, another trickle of magic, feeding the cold fire of fear in his fear. "You’re weak, you will fail. Fall, grovel, submit so that all may see how weak you are..."

I stumbled with my wounded leg, and for a second my concentration wavered, my shield falling apart. He reached the apex of his ascent, turning back down towards me, and fell.

All caution dropped, all defence abandoned. Zero thought. Zero control. Pure desperation of a cornered rat, rage of a wounded wolverine. Every ounce of his speed and power, every fear and humiliation of the days past concentrated on the edges of his claws.

So sloppy. So wasteful.

I breathed in, drawing the power from the earth, just as he dove.

“Eee!” With a short, exhaling shout, disguised as a terrified squeak I dropped the shield and released the light-spell right in his eyes. Even in the daylight, it was bright enough to blind him and the crowd alike. He fluttered his wings, bolting randomly and trying to change course. Instead of striking me with his claws he bumped awkwardly into me, his chest crashing into my shoulder.

For a second, I held, the strength I’d drawn making me as immovable as an earth pony. He bounced off me like a rag doll and I caught him in my magic on the rebound, dragging him back in and headbutting him right in the face.

His head jerked back on a limp neck like a ball on a string and I pulled him in and hit him again, collision making stars dance before my eyes, and then I threw him on the ground under my hooves. The crowd, only now blinking away their blindness and shocked by the sudden development, went deathly silent and I could hear his every wheeze as he tried to stand up.

Rearing, like a wild horse gone mad with fear, I fell on him hooves-first. Once, and again, I kept hitting him, until he stopped trying to get up. My strikes looked random, haphazard, but I took my time to drop on his wing, savouring the long, rolling crunch of the hollow bones under the feathers, enjoy the swallowed scream turned into gurgling when I stepped on his throat, the weak shudder of his flesh split under my hoof…

"Stop!" The referee-griffon hobbled towards us, stretching his claw, and I almost lashed out against him as well. "Stop! That is enough, please, Lady, the duel is done."

“Control, little princess.” the coarse whisper in the back of my mind, returned me to reality and self-possession. I breathed out, shivering with the last giddy shivers of the battle, and stretched, tip of my horn to the backs of my hooves, dumping the feverish energy of the fight into the ground.

Red meat. I looked at the mess of a beaten and bleeding griffon before me. Red meat and blood for my wine, and I finally had my fill.

"The field and the sky go to Lady Shimmer," the referee mumbled quickly, before I had a chance to kick the fallen griffon again, "Lord Graven is forfeit, his word and deed bound..." I ignored him.

The griffon crowd around me came off their shock, and was growing flustered, abuzz. Faces blushed, feathers fluffed, voices pitched with that slight hysterical edge: They've experienced but a sliver of what I had — vicariously, safely, cowardly, they felt death go by and they still rode that high.

"You won!" The triumph left the princeling so giddy he literally floated. "You beat him! That is so amazing! Were you scared? Are you hurt?"

“Just a scratch.” I shrugged again, feeling the scabs of the coagulated blood shed off my coat. I have not allowed the griffon to do any serious damage, “the flesh will serve.”

"I'm sorry you had to do it, but it's all worth it to see Gid's face. He will be soo annoyed."

"Marvelous showing, Miss Shimmer." The Count stepped up to us, even though he was not quite as enthused as he tried to sound. "I made quite a fortune in the betting pools, thanks to you." He revealed a bunch of cheques like a fan in his hoof.

"Hope it wasn't too grisly for your tastes, milord." I was impressed — not many ponies would have stayed and watched the show. "They say little ponies don't have the stomach for the tercel's sports."

"When needs must..." he sighed. "May I?"

I lent him the snuffbox again watching him take a sniff to dispel his queasiness, and almost dropped it as my horn grew abuzz, the spell in my room triggering the silent alarm.

Finally.

"We should celebrate!" the Prince, still floating on the euphoria of his vicarious victory, kept chirping in my ear. “Drinks, and… we should invite Gideon, and all of his griffons, and oh I just can’t wait to see all their faces..

"I… I think I need to lay down." I said to the Prince and the Count. "Can you take me to my rooms?"

"But the celebrations! The party is indeed customary, I believe. It would be rude to leave now, Miss Shimmer, are you sure..."

“I don’t feel so well,” I stared at the lordling, trying to impress on him my need to get back.

"Wait, you said it's just a scratch!"

Yeah, that was stupid"

"...Adrenaline?" I offered, trying to imitate me swaying on my hooves. "I'm sure there's nothing serious, but I really need to lie down."

"Ah." The Count sighed. "Well, then. I suppose I must accompany you."

"I'll go too. As your second I have to look after your health!" The Princeling hastily insisted, pushing himself between me and the Count. Which was fine by me — the more witnesses, the better.

“Leaving already?” A shadow landed by our side, red and heavy. Winds scattered beneath the Prince's wing.

"Your Highness." The Count bowed politely. I didn't.

He turned to me, wings flared, and his claw went up, the sun glinting off it — and landed in a pat on my back. "Bravely done, little pony!” he boomed, “excellent showing. I shall demand you in the bouts next year! And perhaps we'll even meet earlier than that, eh?"

“Thank you, Your Highness.” He thought he was being subtle and clever with his implications. He wasn't. I grit my teeth and forced a smile "I’m afraid I can’t stay."

“Why not? The feast, the re-telling of the fight, the boasting — that’s the best part!”

"The Lady is leaving, Gideon." Galad pushed himself between me and his brother. "She's tired."

"Well. That's a pity," he dismissed me with a wave of the wing. "Congratulations with your first win."

“And my prize?” I demanded.

"A Griffon's word is as firm as the mountains." The Prince shifted his wings. "As any thing you wish of Lord Graven is yours, pony. I'll see that it's granted." He waved away dismissively towards the crumpled heap of Lord Graven, already attended by medic-griffons. "For whatever it is worth."

He turned away. Weakness was indeed not appreciated in Griffonstone.

My room was still as I left it. Mostly. The only two things different was a barrier of pale green energy around the door - my trap sprung just as I planned, and my quarry still trapped inside.

The arimaspi, half-crouched, like a trapped beast, looked at me and my companions, still clutching a half-disassembled drawer full of my notes.

"Oh my," the Count softly whistled. "To what do we owe the pleasure, counselor?"

"Yeah, what are you doing there? Did the Lady invite you?"

"I..."

Still giddy - and somewhat lightheaded — from the fight, I almost laughed at the feeling of panic in the creature's eye, but the best part was yet to come.

"I..."

The King himself, — followed by Gwyr, my faithful co-conspirator — has turned the corner, arriving at the corridor in my rooms. "She is a guest, Father,” Gwyr said insistently, finishing some unheard argument. “Your guest. To not check on her after this - it would be most improper—"

The King silenced him with a wave of his wing as he saw us. “What,” he turned towards my rooms, with arimaspi still inside, and our small group, “is the meaning of this?”

"You!" Well, that was a nice variety in it’s vocabulary, as the creature finally understood what exactly it had stepped in, and his eyes shifted, from the Count, to Gwyr, to the King. I kinda fell under-appreciated, but I also had more important things to care about.

"Your Majesty!" I ran to the King. "This... сreature broke into my room!" My voice broke into the bad-drama-falsetto instead of righteous indignation, but it was close enough.

"Dad! We came here and he was right there, digging through the Lady's things!" the princeling seconded me, flying to his father.

The King gave the creature a single glance. "Is that so?"

"Your Majesty, I-" the creature tried to say something, half crouched like a hunted beast, half-bowed. "I—"

The King tested my shield, his eyebrows rising slightly when it would not immediately budge under his claws.

This was not a shield cast in the heat of a battle — this was a result of almost two hours effort. My spells teacher would have been proud.

Gwyr looked away for a second, closing his eyes.

"You are a guest, little pony. You should feel safe in my home." He did not so much give me the look, but it was enough to make a tiny shiver in my back.

Triumph of Equestrian classical magic against the griffonkind did not last long, however - a push — a merest touch — of his power burst my shield like a soap bubble, releasing the creature from my room.

"And yet you were not." His gaze returned to the creature, and what was displeasure in his voice turned to almost anger.

"Master, I was merely trying to—-" the shield disappearing, the armiaspi fell on its knees in front of the King, but he was already turning away.

“Your Highness!” the creature tried Prince Gwyr, “have I not been your loyal servant? Haven’t I helped you? Was not my council useful?” It wrought it’s clawed hands, and whined, “yes, will you not give word for your slave?”

Gwyr stepped back, and folded back his wings, his neck hard and his eyes even harder - and so the creature tried to turn to the youngest prince, but before he spoke, King’s wing has barred his way. "Remove him from my sight," he commanded tiredly. "It's been long past due."

The creature snarled and raised his claws, rising in anger from his knees, and suddenly it was evident that even crouched in his permanent bow he was still twice as big as anygriffon. Motes of golden magic coalescing around his talons, and the Count winced and leaned away in fear, but as if by magic two griffons were already by his sides, grabbing his chained arms into their claws, and pushing him back down.

If looks could kill... but then he was nothing compared to his master, and I withstood his glare well enough.

"There is going to be no war!" I declared, right as I slammed the Count's door open. "I have a solution. I just need to talk to the eagles at the Convocation."

It was a long day for me. Long couple of days. I had to dodge all the ponies, just come back from their field day, break down the arimaspi's protection he put on his rooms and find the damned scroll, but it was very much worth it if just for this moment.

I threw my prize on the table. "I told you we'd have it settled."

The Count did not seem as enthusiastic about it as I would've expected. He shot a glance at me and moved away from the bottle he was nursing. "How wonderfully... Equestrian of you." He snorted, taking another generous swig from his glass. "Well, it's worth celebrating, then!" with sudden vigour he hopped out of his chair, hooves clopping loudly against the marble, and swiped a new bottle off the winecase. "But not here. Come, Miss Shimmer."

"So why not in your rooms?" I asked as we entered the balcony. "Too afraid I'd raid your wine stocks again?"

"Not at all, Miss Shimmer. Always happy to share good wine with a remarkable mare. But this is a special occasion, and the walls of Gormenghast tend to have ears."

I chewed on my lip a bit. I wasn't looking for a celebration, but...

"Come on Miss Shimmer, live a little. This is a cause for celebration!" He grabbed my scroll off the table.

Eh, why not? The scroll was secured, the creature was rotting in some dungeon downstairs, and I deserved some me time.

We set up on the terrace where he first invited me into his room — a strange symbolism, and a strange place for a meeting with the chill winds and vertigo-inducing view.

He cast a shielding spell to keep the winds at bay and poured the wine.

“So, you stopped the war?” he chuckled. “Do tell.”

"Well, not yet, “ I admitted. “But it’s as good as done. Look, this—" I put the first scroll -- Gwyr’s copy of it, at least -- on the table, "--shows that Equestria has promised to pay for the lands Prince would claim, and here is the proof that the price was indeed paid."

"I see."

Even though he nodded, he still did not seem to get it.

"This invalidates Gideon's claim!" I said, annoyed at the lack of reaction. "No claim, no reason to fight, no war."

"Well, you do seem to have it sorted quite readily. To your success, then." The Count saluted me with his glass, and by rote I mimicked his motion, drinking from mine.

It didn't taste quite right — there was something off about it, and I wanted to set the drink aside.

"Subtler pleasures, Miss Shimmer," Count smiled thinly, seeing my dislike. "It's an acquired taste."

His aura touched mine on the stem of the glass, correcting my grip. "Take a smaller sip. Try to describe the flavour."

I followed his lead, rolling the drink on my tongue. It tasted like wine, so I tried again, feeling my tongue grow numb from the alcohol. "It's acidic and sweet?" I ventured a half-guess, trying to describe the flavour. "Like blackberries."

"Good. That's vanillylacetone you're tasting. It means that this is a Syrah wine, derived from the grapes of Prance." He moved closer to me, topping up the glass. "Now try it with just the tip of your tongue. Hold the wine there."

"It tastes like... dark chocolate." The impromptu lesson caught me, and I even closed my eyes, trying to feel the taste and the texture of the drink. "And coffee."

"Correct." His coat was warm where his forehoof touched mine while he poured again. "That means it was grown in warmer regions that give it more dihydroionone while the grape grows, and then kept in an oaken barrel, which gives it the slight smoky flavour. Try again, back of the tongue this time."

I let the wine singe my throat with its slight burn, making me feel lightheaded. Was it the drink that was so deceptively potent, or was it his scent that was making me weak in the knees? It was not the refined scent he wore before — it was a more familiar tone somehow making me think of home.

"It's bitter." I realized, as the sweet and the sour notes faded away, opening the taste they were masking. "Like wormwood, but thinner — like... almonds." My eyes shot open with surprise.

"Quite so." He nodded. "That's how you know it's been poisoned."

I lurched, up and away, knocking down the low table as I tried to fight or flee, but the weakness and dizziness I’ve been feeling turned to head-spinning vertigo, my hooves buckled under my weight, and there was the fall and the darkness and the last thing I saw was the white blotch of the Count’s form, holding his own untouched glass.

End of Act I
First touch
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