The walls of the arena covered me, and the only witness to my work was the Count, and the Sun above us both. He wanted to say something, find another reason to stall, but I was beyond stopping now, beyond words.

All I took was a moment to finally look at my prize. There it was, the pride of Griffinstone in the frog of my hoof. A treasure worth a nation.

I smashed it against the stone wall.

Once, and again, and again, raising it high above my head, and bashing it into the stone, fountains of golden filigree turned to scraps, prying the soft metal and the leaden insides open, digging for its heart: A gem of the perfect crimson-red colour of arterial blood, its edges glinting with every colour of the rainbow, the very essence of griffish bravery and loyalty. And then I destroyed it as well, and it was so, so easy.

All I needed to do was to take it in my hooves and whisper a story to it.

A story of a filly, battling pride and desperation by a fountain in the desert. Of a boy with his toy sabre thrown clean across the room in my magic, of my friend dying on the snow smashed by my spell.

Of the griffon Prince throwing away the oath sworn by his fathers, tatters swaying slowly in the air. Of the little eaglet falling off a tower, and Gwyr's eyes wide with surprise when his brother killed him. Of the strange detachment in Count's voice as I held his heart in my hooves, the last, beautiful gasp of my love, trying to breathe with a ripped throat... all that I gave to the gem and it spluttered and died.

A story of betrayal, of broken promises, selfishness and cowardice. All that Griffonstone was not - and would be now and forever.

The red turned grey, stone’s shine becoming lifeless, and a wind, big and mighty, rose, full of black magic of my curse.

I felt the sapphire -- the baby-blue sapphire still carrying a piece of me inside -- crumble into dust somewhere far away, wherever the arimaspi carried it hidden in the fake Idol, and mists of energy, green and black, rise, magnified thousandfold by the magic of the gem, growing ever wider.

To the North and to the South, to the East and to the West they spilt, invisible to everyone but me, and I could see in my mind’s eye them washing over every street, every house of the city, a tide that’d roll ever outwards, over the countryside and past the ocean and touch every griffon in the world, no matter where she’d be. It’d pierce any magic they have, ignore any protections, slip through the flesh and the bones into their very spirits and take away that which the Idol of Boreas used to give them:

Their loyalty. Their pride. Their fearlessness.

All that made Griffinstone great - and all that made it a threat to Equestria. Without it, all that would be left was a bunch of craven brigands, living in the thatched barns, drinking in their own reek and rolling on the floor with the dogs they used to lord over. No claw would be raised against the country of my Princess, no wing would flap in its direction.

"Are we done?" The Count asked, tired. "Is it over?" There was a relief in his voice, behind the exhaustion.

"Not quite yet, my little lord." I swayed on my hooves, everything too sharp after the great work of magic I've just finished. "It sounds like the Prince's wings." I could see him too, now, a black dot on the horizon, growing with each flap of his wings. And with his griffon eyes, he must’ve seen us too.

I can only imagine his sudden revelation when he saw me standing over the scattered golden filigree and the dull grey stone that used to be the very heart of Griffonstone. How in a single moment he had finally pieced together the events of the weeks past, all deception revealed and my role in all that I did to him and his brothers finally laid bare.

“SUNSET SHIMMER!” He cried, and his cry was so full of loss and fury, it made the heavens themselves shudder. “I WILL CUT YOUR HEART OUT!”

He dropped by my side, the last vestiges of once-his power wafting away, evaporating away like mists upon the morn.

"You." Words failed him. All he could do was stare at me with bloodshot eyes, his wings flared in anger, and repeat again the single croaking word. "You!"

"Me," I agreed. "All of it -- me."

"I threw your arimaspi into the Abyss. The fake Idol too." He looked again at the scraps that were once the Idol of Boreas, the pride of Griffonstone. "Now I will kill you for it," he said, his voice level and raw. It was not a threat. Not any more. He was beyond ire now, the fire of his anger cooling down into cold hatred, focused only on me. Now it was only the statement of fact, his wings gesturing nothing but resolve. "Kill you, and cut your heart out -- if you still have one, that is."

"I do not." I did not deny the truth -- that habit was long since beaten out of me. "And you shall try."

He leaned forward, his wings mid-flap--

"One moment, though, Your Highness," I said, borrowing Bluette's intonations of unshakable confidence. "Things are to be done in the right fashion, or not at all. "

It gave him pause. He nodded, catching his breath after his flight, and waited. He would not let me leave the old arena, but he gave me a moment to do what I needed to do.

"My little lord," I called out to the Count by my side. He trotted up to me, still shivering from the cold winds that passed by us. "I need you to give the signal."

"But Sunset, you---"

I kissed him, savouring the taste of his lips. My magic stretched out, as our tongues wrestled, and reached out to pull on a secret thread of the spellwork I buried within him. Magic touched upon the magic, moving the complex machinery of the spell, and the knot of the spellwork I weaved when I ripped out his heart fell apart with a snap. I could feel the enchanted leaden box in my saddlebag become suddenly lighter, and his lips grow just a bit warmer.

"I will kill the Prince," I whispered, when we parted, my mane covering us from Gideon’s eyes, "though I may not live through it. If I don't, I need you to finish the mission."

"I am ready, Your Highness." I turned away from the Count still distracted by the sensation of his heart beating once again in his chest and turned towards the Prince. “My lord shall give us a signal.”

Eye to eye and head to head, we stood on the arena, taking each other's measure.

What a sight we must've been…

He was tired. Poisoned -- his magnificent wings like tattered rags: more missing feathers than not. He could have only flown with his power -- a power he no longer possessed. A curse I put on his kind should have already been taking effect, corroding his spirit, infusing him with cowardice and greed.

And me -- my magic barely returned --in the fire, and her blood, bitter and sour-- by Bluette and already spent again, my muscles tired, my belly still tying itself into knots…

"At thy pleasure, my lord," I repeated. This would end when one of us was dead, and I, for one, could wait for it no longer.

Fancy dropped the makeshift starter-flag.

Gideon pounced. Strength of a lion, speed of an eagle.

I matched him, turn for turn, twist for twist, my mere unicorn muscles almost rending with the effort, and felt the rush of exhilaration -- too small, too remote, I was too tired -- when the winged death had missed, his claws cutting nothing but lines in the sand.

My magic extended after him, and I weaved the Scourge of Shahab from the sand, a whip of coiled sharpness, ten yards long from the tip of my horn. He turned and we clashed again, shield and whip against claw.

Time itself fell apart and became an abstraction, a puzzle of attacks and parries.

He makes a tentative thrust. I skip back. He slices at my head and I duck to the side, trapping him with the whip. A chunk of meat, a drop of blood -- not enough, I need more, I want more. His claws snip at my face, cutting through my spellwork and across my snout, and I almost laugh, feeling the salt on my lips and heat growing from down below, and cast again. Ice and darkness, black sorceries and pure flame, it all melts away into one perfect moment, hot and wet with blood, and I want it to last forever.

Only my horn is growing heavier, and my head is growing lighter, and there is hunger and dull, throbbing pain growing behind my eyes...

We fall apart.

"Why?" he asked, flapping his useless wings again. "Why?!"

"You raised a claw against something dear to me," I said, panting. Talking was good. It gave me a chance to catch my breath, to figure out how to bypass those claws of his, that sliced every spell and charm I could summon. "If the price of Griffinstone’s crown is the war with Equestria, the House of Grover had to fall."

He roared, and pounced again, cutting my magic and reaching for my flesh, and all I could do was retreat, hiding my throat and eyes behind the shoulders, sacrificing bits of my skin and coat at a time.

I felt the wall of the area growing closer with every step I took as I retreated. Felt myself get slower, felt it harder to breathe, to maintain my magic, to counter or defend.

I stopped.

No more dodging. No more feints and clever spells, no more delaying the inevitable.

I was too tired.

Mentally, physically, emotionally -- there was nothing in me that did not want it to simply end.

And that’s when I finally saw it, the jigsaw of the combat coming together in my mind: the strange attractor to which all paths necessarily led, the ultimate finale of the scene, that which both the Prince and I wanted beyond all else -- his claws buried in my chest.

Breathing in, I set my spirit and advanced, dropping my shield when I met his pounce.

He hit me mid-step, claws first, and penetrated me. A single thrust, both of his eagle-claws pushing clean through my chest, reaching deep into the left side. It threw me off my hooves, and I fell on my back, pulling him upon me, as he dug ever deeper.

When it comes to either/or, there is only the quick choice... And it's really not that hard.

Pure, white-hot agony, ribs cracking like bursts of fireworks, I arched my back with the sheer sensation of it. For one beautiful second the floodgates of my brain broke open drowning me in pure endorphins and the sky was as diamonds and time ceased to exist.

I twisted in his grip, pushing the claws tighter inside, and my magic, renewed by that surge, lashed out, grabbing and crumpling him, pressing him tighter into my body, keeping his claws buried inside of me, his legs far below and out of reach.

He looked in my eyes, aghast.

"How...?" He said.

"Why, my lord, haven’t I told you?" I muttered, already feeling the shortness of breath. "I have no heart."

He lurched, trying to escape my grip, a bird trapped, a fish netted, his speed useless, his claws sheathed inside my flesh, his long legs raking at the sand instead of rending at my belly, and I laughed and I pulled him in, tighter and tighter, giving my everything into the magic, tapping into the last reserves beyond which was only death.

Hunger exploded in my gut and I bit into his neck, feeling his blood on my tongue, saltier than Count’s wine, sweeter than honey, and I kept on it, constricting grip of my magic, bringing us closer than lovers.

And then there was a crack, and there was an ugly pop, and my underbelly felt wet and squishy when something gave inside of him.

And Griffinstone had no more Princes to give.

I shook him off, standing up.

His body flopped on the ground, the chest cavity exposed, ripped by the shards of bone, the wet, glistening mass of the smashed heart dark against the spongy remains of lungs and the yellow-white of the broken ribs, the left wing, wrenched clear of its socket, hung by a thin, bloodied filament -- nothing more than body bag, a sack of flesh and viscera, offal for the ravens his father liked so much.

The Count already by my side, helping me up, his magic weaving into my flesh. "Do you truly have no heart?" He asked as he attended me. There finally was fear in his voice -- a real pony emotion.

"No." The pressure where my left lung used to be abated slowly, and I managed a half-inhale. Spitting out out a globule of dark, phlegm-stained blood, I stayed stubbornly upright -- it seemed important somehow, to be the last mare standing. "Thaumoinduced heterotaxia -- it's in the wrong place is all.”

I tried to check on my wound, but turning my head was a mistake -- I could feel the wet flap of flesh against flesh, and the wounds screamed with pain, almost dropping me to the ground. “How’s it looking?"

“I’ve taken care of the most pressing issues,” the Count said, laying down the final stitch on the drainage in my breast. "You should be lying down," he said. "For the next week at least. I have no idea how you're even breathing right now."

"Don't worry, Fancy, I--." another coughing spasm doubled me up, as I wheezed and gasped trying to force the air down my throat. "--I won't die. I cannot drown -- not even in my own blood.”

“I--”

“Do your best: There’s still the King, and I aim to have words with him as well.”

He had something -- I knew it, I saw it in the way his eyes dropped, his hoof shifted, his horn almost-turned towards his left pocket.

“We need to finish it, Fancy. Once and for all. And unless you’re willing to do it, I need my game face on.”

He sighed and reached for the pockets of his now blood-stained tux. From there he produced another flask, and another snuffbox, mixing the clear liquid with a dash of white powder in the cup-like cap.

"Coltic tea," he said. "To prop you up."

I smelled the liquid. Ethane, alcohol so strong I almost sneezed -- a proposition ill-advised in my situation -- and a vague banana-lemon taste I could not recognize.

It could have been poison. A more deadly one this time, though I wasn't quite persuaded of the Count being capable of something this drastic.

Or it could've been what he said it was. In the end, it didn't matter -- even if I died right here, my job was done anyways, and could not be undone anymore. I breathed out and swallowed the burning liquid in one breathless gulp.

One way or the other the drink would cure me of my weakness.

It burned down my throat, making me feel suddenly like a textbook picture of a digestive system, with all the different parts picked out in different colours. The warm fire it spread made my mind all shiny, washing the tiredness and pain away, making everything sharp and young and clear.

It took effort and discipline not to skip like a filly over the steps, as we made our way to see the King.

The throne room was empty. Well, the King wasn’t there -- a bunch of griffons shivered in the corners, suddenly unsure what to do, and a bunch of ponies loitered about, all confused and lost. They had no idea of what was happening -- it was so far removed from experiences of Equestria, their little brains probably refused to even comprehend it. For a small second, I felt sympathy towards them.

"The King..." Sweet Melody, the ambassador apparent from the brainless noblepony herd to me, choked when her eyes fell on the grime and blood across my coat. She cleared her throat and braved on, the poor thing. "...the King has required your presence. On the High Balcony. He won’t take anyone else."

‘Required.’ I was being summoned like a common servant. A cowardly, barely-veiled insult.

"I was going to see him anyway," I shrugged. "Milord?"

"It was you, wasn't it!" Strawberry Leaf pushed through the crowd, barging into my space, almost crying. "I know it was you who did this, who caused all this death and madness!"

"Maybe I did," I stood my ground, and stared her down. "And maybe I did not. But then if I did..." I stretched my magic -- the slightest trickle, touching the fur at her throat, just near the jugular -- and looked her straight in the eye, anger and the Count's wicked potion fueling my magic. "Maybe it would be a bad idea to piss me off."

She stepped back, and I let her. Plomo o plata, fear and desire, push and pull, my voice relaxing, turning soft. "Come on, 'Berry, we did a great thing. All of us." I spoke louder, reaching the whole herd of nobleponies. "We stopped the war. No pony was hurt, no gale, not even a single snowflake moved across the border. We won!"

I could feel their doubt, their little greed and fear. "We all," "together" keywords, laden with trapped meaning, Count’s subtle science moving my lips almost by rote now. A promise to share in my victory drew them in already, and accepting the victory would make them complicit, marring them with my crime.

Take the win -- or deal with the sorceress who just destroyed Griffinstone and would have nothing to lose. The ponies chose wisely.

"I..." she lowered her eyes, "we.. we have to help them." Grammar be damned, that was a question, it was her asking -- begging -- for my permission. It made me drunker than the drink in my flask, higher than the Count's powders. A subtler pleasure but so much more potent.

"Of course," soft as silk, amicable, simple. "Lord Fancy can help you plan. Now that there'll be no threat of war we need to help them out as best we can.” I put my hoof on her shoulder, “I'll need your help, ‘Berry, your expertise."

She smiled, fearful, sheepish smile, a docile little part of the noblepony herd, happy that she was still useful, happy that would not be led to the slaughter just yet.

Giving her shoulder a final pat, I moved on. Behind me, Fancy took my place distracting the ponies with the planning of these events and those talks, but I wasn’t listening. A King was expecting me, and it wasn't very polite to make him wait.

Illusions, after all, have to be maintained.

The same tower, the same vertigo-inducing view. Same pony and the same griffon, standing on the roof, still slippery with the morning rain. Yet this talk could not be more different from the one I shared with the King before.

"He's dead," The King said, looking down on his crows pecking the birdfeed he scattered. "My boy."

I nodded. Somewhere far away, beneath the waning fuzz of the drug, the motion made my everything hurt.

"I welcomed you as a guest, Lady Shimmer. I shared my wine and my bread, every courtesy and entertainment. And in return my sons lay slain, my country destroyed, and my whole species cursed.” He looked at me, and his eyes were full of pain. "Why?"

"You threatened something dear to me. And if the price for your power is war in Equestria -- then your power had to be broken.” There was really nothing more to it. "Do you wish vengeance upon me now, Your Majesty?"

I could take him. And his guards, looming by the door, too. Maybe. Maybe not. It didn't matter. I could take him and that was all that mattered.

"No.” Though his wings were slumped in Surrender, his tone stayed defiant. “I cannot defeat you, little pony. Not with your magic, not with my power shattered, my subjects craven, and your curse already clawing at my mind.

"All I can do is tell you the truth, and I tell you this, Lady Shimmer, student of the Sun Princess:

“In every endeavour, you shall be without equal, in every combat a victor, in every war triumphant. None will be able to stop you. But I tell you this, and I tell you true: Your every victory shall turn into defeat. All your spoils shall taste like dust and ashes, every fruit of your labour shall rot in your grasp, and all you'll ever bring will be pain and fear even to those you wish to protect.

“And one day you will wake up and realize what you are and that there is no more place for you in this world.”

I shrugged. I did not care for his prophecies. There was no future for me -- none but that of my own making, not of the old soothsaying fool. I reached for my magic, but he already stepped back, beyond the roof and his wings did not open.

I stood there for a while, listening to the sound of birds cawing, delighted at the unexpected feast. And a tired thought slipped into my mind, a bit of trivia sharp with delicious irony:

Crows. Family - Corvidae. Collective noun: murder.

Then, amid the peaks ahead,
Look! a silken tent is spread.
Wondrous hush enfolds the scene
Round the tent; a gaunt ravine
Cradles hosts in battle rent.
Now the King has reached the tent.. .
Staggers backward: sight appalling,
Hard before his eyes lie fallen,
Stripped of helm and armour chain,
Both his noble princes, slain,
Pierced each by the other's charge;

Griffon fairytale