Spike walked along the main street of St. Charles, giving a few nods to the petty handful of people brave enough to be up this early and in this kind of weather. The thought of the weather sent a shiver through his body. A cold snap had come to town last night, and while he was still a warm-blooded creature (no matter how many times Pinkie argued against that) he was affected pretty hard by the cold. With a small breath into his palm, he conjured a flame to life and briefly warmed his unnaturally calloused hands before extinguishing the heat with a clench of his fist.

The dragonchilde yawned, covering his mouth and turning down the road leading to the Carousel Boutique. He could've been asleep still. Warm and comfy next door to Twila, under the three blankets on top of his bed... Yet here he was, on the way to the Boutique.

Despite his misgivings, he couldn't help the nostalgic smile that graced his features as he approached the shop. That place had some of the best memories of his life. All the interesting clients, exotic dresses, cool accessories, and Rarity.

The young man frowned, briefly.

He spent a lot of time with her over the years, now her and Jack...

Spike sighed in a reluctant acceptance of the fact. She deserved someone like that—the tailor had an extra spring in her step ever since she got together with Jack. It was like she was constantly inspired most days—she went from project to project, humming chipperly as she tweaked and modified cloth hung on the mannequins in back. All things considered, she could have ended up with someone that didn't make her happy, like some of the others she had dated. For her sake, Spike was wishing only the best for the soul-folk.

He came to the door and reached into his purple jacket, grumbling as he fished for a key. Finding it, he put it in the door handle, only to find it swung open with no resistance.

With a furrowed brow he took a step inside.

“Hey, Diane,” he called out. “How about keeping the door locked before the store—“

Pinkie's at her folks for Hearth-Warming, a voice told him. He spared an uneasy glance behind him at the lock.

He knew he had closed up shop last night. Right after he locked up the door, he had a scroll from Celestia come through his system, expelling from his mouth and landing in the grass. Once he had pocketed it, he double-checked the door.

That meant... someone had been here.

Or still was, he told himself.

His first thought was leaving and contacting the police. If someone was in here, it was stupid to try anything. Dragonchilde or not, he was still in the infancy of his powers and would be until he was an adolescent of twenty.

The again, it was stupid for whoever came here to mess with Rarity's property. Spike focused and felt his body start to change; his pupils narrowed, becoming thin cat-eye slits that brightened the dim rim. As he glanced around and took a few steps forward, his already unnaturally leathery hands and body hardened further still to a scaly chain-mail that coated him head to toe. His nails hardened as well, becoming razor-tips as his tongue narrowed and lengthened, splitting to two paths at its tip. He flicked it past his teeth, tasting the air, gathering its scent.

Someone was in this room recently. He could taste the sweat on their forehead as they made their way across the store's lobby and upstairs.

Spike shambled forward, crouching a bit—two wingtips penetrated the back of his shoulders, pressing against his clothing and making it painful to stand fully erect. He climbed the steps, each one groaning in protest at the weight of his draconic form. He flicked his tongue once more as he came to the top of the stairway. Whoever was here was in Rarity's room. He crawled forward, past the dozens of photos of her family and, now, photos of Jack and her, together. Photographs of them together by a bonfire, Rarity of all people shoving a gooey marshmallow into Jack's mouth. Photos of Jack, eyes widened in surprise as Rarity kissed her cheek amid a crowd of people cheering in the stands of a football game. (Cloudsdale Champions and the Baltimore Berserkers, Spike recalled with haste.) A photo of the two, Jack in a tuxedo and Rarity in a full, shimmering even gown, on their way to a play that Jack ended up liking. (“None of that girly singin', plus the characters didn't act like idjits.” Her words.)

He shook his head, getting back in the game. Creeping past the piano, he neared the door.

He burst into the room, his fangs bared and a heat in his belly letting him know his flame was ready, should he need it.

The room was empty, save for the open window bringing the late fall chill amid the billowing curtains. His body slowly reverted as the threat faded. He took a few steps forward, a small cracking noise coming from his skin as his scales and claws reverted into his body. Spike glanced at the floor. Noticing something, he shuffled forward and picked it up between his fingers.

A large, foot long brown feather.

Twila sat at the piano bench in the empty lobby of the Academy, her hands clenched in her lap, scrunching her loose skirt up. After a moment she exhaled, willing her hands to relax. She put them to the ivories and absentmindedly plucked at the keys.

The response to her request had came fast enough—the woman's response, though stiff, always did. Along with this letter agreeing to a meeting in short order.

She paused, a finger resting on a key, its low note reverberating across the lobby. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as an influx of magic poured into the room, and the lobby visibly darkened. Twila turned towards the large windows. A black, raven black, ball of energy levitated a few feet off the ground, first a softball, then a basketball in size. Another moment and it expanded to a beach-ball, then further still. Once it was about half of Twila's height, a rumble similar to thunder sounded into the room and the black ball became textured, turning to a cocoon of feathers. The cocoon soundlessly levitated for only a moment longer before a vertical crack split the shell in two. From inside it, Luna gracefully rose to a kneel on the carpet. The shell snapped and adjusted to two large wings at her back. Standing, the raven wings turned from opaque to ethereal, then changed to a black, wing-shaped aura awash with stars, then those too vanished completely from her back.

Luna shut her eyes then opened them, focusing her vision on the soul-folk sitting on the piano bench. Twila couldn't help but notice how gaunt her face looked, alongside its unnatural paleness.

“Hail, Twila,” she greeted, snapping to attention and nodding as the sleeveless white gown she wore slipped one of its straps off her shoulder. She quickly brought it back up with a heated tsk.

“Hello there, Luna,” Twila addressed. After a beat, she quirked her brow. “Uh... did you cast a teleportation spell from Camelot?”

Luna gave a bemused shake of her head. “Nay, Lady Shields. T'would be a most taxing travel from Camelot to this academy. Thou would see me collapsed on the ground, or quite near. Rather, before you is simply a doppelganger. Mine true body lay in respite upon the bed within my chambers.”

“Not only maintaining a magical link of that distance, but allowing a doppelganger spell to carry your form and clothing this well?” Twila marveled, touching Luna's arm and rotating it scientifically in her hands. Despite the cold, icy flesh, it held the same hard muscles the warrior all-folk herself carried. “Amazing!”

“We are indeed flattered at thine compliment. However, my strength has always been the martial trials and tribulations of battle. Celestia and thineself are far finer creatures regarding the arts of mysticism and enchantments.”

“You're embarrassing me,” she admitted with a laugh. “I'm not that talented.”

Luna shook her head with a smile. “Thine humble nature is refreshing as always. 'Tis an admirable trait. One mine dear sister finds quite charming within you.”

The front door of the school opened. A group of four students dressed in shorts and t-shirts walked in, talking exuberantly among one-another. One of them nudged another in the stomach and pointed at the Nightwalker. They all froze, standing sharply in place before stiffly bowing and making a hasty retreat to the dormitories.

“Like normal, mine appearance is greeted with reservation.”

Twila chuckled lightly. “Well... to be fair you look a bit more, uh, stern with your face.”

She shook her head. “Even if mine own flesh and blood were standing before you, thine colleagues would still show reluctance to engage in conversation with me.” She gave a rub at the black emerald in her earlobe. “'Tis something I expected when I took the role of Nightwalker. Mine father, shortly before his death knell, warned me of such a fate. 'Tis a lonely thing, being Caballo's night. The castle is empty, save for mine personal guard, and my warrior's spirit aches for self-exile, for knight-errantry! For travel!”

“Luna,” Twila said. “It doesn't have to be lonely. You have seven friends from Spike, the girls, and me. We don't want you to be alone either.”

“Your comrades, thineself, and the dragonchilde.” She smiled a bit in thought. “Indeed, alongside another.”

“Another?” Twila repeated.

“The man I hath crossed steel with almost as many years I have walked the earth, Lady Shields. William Kalaallit.”

The woman put a finger to her mouth in thought. “Oh! Iron Will?”

She nodded. “Crossing weapons constantly over the years hath given me more knowledge of The Beast who Speaks. He is, admittedly fascinating. We hath spoke many a time after our duels about philosophy, poetry, and the art of warfare.”

Almost as if they had spoke of the devil himself, Iron Will tossed open the door leading into the lobby, not watching where he went as he craned his neck back and drank deeply from a massive canteen. The norfolk let out a noise of satisfaction, then bellowed, “Make sure you boys leave some food for me!” He took a step forward and froze, realizing who sat nearby.

“By my ancestors! Luna Pendragon herself!” He took a few heavy strides near her and grinned, only pausing for a moment. “I can see you didn't put your makeup on.”

She pursed her lips. “Thou know I have no interest in such an endeavor. What you see is—“

“Flesh doll. Maybe some kinda projection, something. I can smell magic on you.” He leaned towards the woman and inhaled deeply near her neck. Luna's visage darkened. Her cheeks took on a crimson blush.

“What art thou doi—“ she asked. Will let out a noise of triumph.

“Doppelganger spell,” he stated, raising a meaty finger to the sky, then pointing at at the Nightwalker. “I can smell it on your skin.”

“Thine actions are highly inappropriate within sight of Twila, foolish man.”

“What was inappropriate?” he asked. “I was just curious as to your spellwork. Nah, what'd make inappropriate is if I...” He cupped a hand next to his mouth and whispered into her ear. Heat flooded her face; she playfully slapped his leg with a hand, shooing him.

“Get thee hence, norfolk. Thine students fled to the dorms.”

He scratched at his coarse beard. “Was supposed to get lunch with them in the cafeteria, why in the heck...?”

“Mine countenance and abrupt arrival hastened them away.”

“That can't be right, them running from your simple sight!” Will took stock of her sickly features. “On second thought, you do seem kind of...” The giant man put a black finger to his chin in thought. “Plaguevictimy.” Before the all-folk could object, Will continued, brazenly ignoring her darkening face.

“Poor Luna,” he bemoaned, turning his face away and clutching his hands tightly together to his heart. “We hardly knew thee.”

“Thou doth don the robe of a jester well, William Kalaalit. Mayhaps thou should retire yon sword and embrace thine true calling.”

“For being a clown, you sure hang onto my words.” He smirked, then cocked a thumb towards the door. “Well, I guess I'm gonna talk to my kids.” Will turned and headed towards the dorms, then paused, snapping back around and staring at Twila. “If you see her before I do, tell Apple I hope she hasn't gotten fat and lazy over the break.”

“I can't say she seems the type,” Twila replied with a shrug. Will let out a small chuckle and headed for the door, lowering his head to duck under the door's arch and disappearing.

“Now...” Luna began, clearing her throat. “Mayhaps we should discuss business now, 'fore another interruption?”

“Two things. First,” she shook her head, “I think there's something going on regarding Cabello's council.”

“Speak,” Luna addressed, crossing her arms.

“I don't have complete proof yet, but there's a coincidence I can't help but notice. Trixie and well over half of the current men on your council have been involved in a violation of the law.”

The princess silently waited for Twila to continue.

“Dmitri Dorcis's grant for better understanding and equal privilege.” Twila nodded. “Every one of them has that grant in their history as well.”

“And thou believes there is a correlation?” Luna asked.

“Yes. I think so.”

“Could be mere happenstance,” she remarked, giving an easy shrug. “I myself have violated mine sister's law before. 'Tis not the hardest thing to do. Plus that man has had many a grant and scholarship. Seven people sharing such a thing is not the most alarming issue.”

“But—“

“Thine concern is duly noted, Lady Shields. I will investigate the matter.” She bridged her fingers together. “Now, say what else thou needs of me.”

“I guess I can't put it off any longer,” the woman agreed. She stared at Luna's hands for a moment. “It's... something I didn't want to speak to many about. Considering I'm protegee to one of the greatest minds in the world, showing weakness would reflect bad on her.”

Luna shook her head. “Thine words are a lie. Every man and woman carries weakness and falters on occasion. 'Tis no shame in your own showing.”

Twila gazed to the ceiling. She leaned back, jumping a bit when her elbows pressed down on a few of the keys of the piano. Leaning forward again, she muttered out, “Your Dreamscape...”

“Mmm?”

“Have you ever lost control of it?” Twila bluntly asked. She tapped her fingertips against the bench, then quietly continued. “I've had this issue canceling my Dreamscape. It's hard to stop channeling it. I keep getting these... strange flickers back to it that I have no control over. Every time I do, my world becomes more ominous.”

Luna hummed in thought. “Mine guess is thou hasn't sought a reprieve from channeling magic long enough for thine body to recover. In addition, when thou slew Trixie—“

“No,” Twila stated, shooting up. “I didn't 'slay' her. I protected myself. There's a difference.”

The all-folk crossed her legs and rested her hand on a palm. “Mayhaps mine words could have been phrased differently. My apologies.”

Twila calmed down after a moment, then sat back down.“And that's not all,” she continued. “When my Dreamscape loses control, I've noticed a figure in my world.”

“Explain.”

“It's a hooded... man.” She nodded to herself. “The figure is not a woman's. Anyway, he's... the people in my mind fear him, and seem to know of him more than I do.”

Luna paused. “I have a guess as to what thine problem is. When thou slew—“ She tapped her forehead. “When Trixie perished,” she corrected dryly, “Her death 'twas from abusing her magic, was it not?” On seeing Twila's nod, Luna continued. “There's a reason thine academy is stationed here, Twila. 'Tis fertile land for magic and the mystic. Beneath the earth upon we walk lay lines of magic, its design akin to the vessels within our eyes. Cloudsdale academy, even the town of St. Charles, rests nearby such a vein.”

“Really?” Twila replied. “I knew that magical ley lines were scattered about the world, but I never thought there'd be one so nearby.”

“Any town or structure of renown is near a line. Camelot herself lay upon where three intersect.” She crossed her arms. “As thou knows from thine arduous studies and research, such points are all but saturated in magic, increasing our physical and mental prowess.”

“And in all-folk's case, increasing your longevity.”

The princess gave a small nod of agreement. “The earth's connection with us does indeed have that effect. 'Tis the reason my father lasted so many years before the flame of his life became snuffed out.” She dismissed the conversation with a wave of her hand. “I digress. The reason I brought forth the ley-lines in the first place was that the energy within the area could have affected both you and her. When she died, some of her magical residue transferred to you, Twila. Like warmth from a recently sat-upon chair.”

The woman stared evenly at Luna. “So you're suggesting that what I'm seeing when I channel magic...”

Crossing her arms, Luna gazed out the front doors. “Mine word lacks medical knowledge, but... I believe thou art experiencing a shade of her dying mind. 'T'would explain thine lack of control, and this unknown apparition you hath seen.”

Twila rose and began pacing, rubbing at her lip. She paused mid-stride and turned to Luna. “So the man I keep seeing, he's just kind of a ghost? I can ign—“

“No,” Luna quickly snapped out, her eyes steely as she instantly rose. “Thou shall treat him as a threat. Do not speak nor touch him. Thine life might become forfeit if such were to occur.”

“But if it's just a residual effect from Trixie's thoughts, then surely—“

“Nay,” she said urgently. “While a mere memory or to that effect for her, it was a dying thought. Such things can be harmful to another, regardless of thine constitution. Believe me.”

“What do I need to do, then?”

“Cease thine magic channeling like we told thou to do after the incident.” Luna's eyes narrowed and she stood, towering over the soul-folk. “Thine body needs recuperation.”

“I know it's just...” Twila swallowed. She looked down at her hands, trying her best to ignore their shaking. “I feel a sort of need to use spells, Luna. It's no excuse, but I—“

The Nightwalker put a hand on the girl's shoulder, stopping her. “We understand thine words, Twila. Every soul-folk has a heart that yearns and beats betwixt their breast for magic.” She ran her fingertips gently over the star-shaped mark on Twila's cheek. “Thine very essence of what makes you you is within the confines of spellwork. Yet, 'tis not your life as important as thine livelihood?” She turned away, briefly rubbing her hands as if she had a heavy chill. When she pulled them apart, there was a small ebony-black string charm that reminded Twila of a fishing net.

“Thou knows why I am called the Nightwalker?” Luna asked, tapping the circular charm with a finger. A bit more of the string came free from her fingertip; she used this to make a long string that formed the charm into a full necklace.

“It's a title you earned due to your active time period.”

Luna gave a half-nod. “That's one of the reasons. The other is my own talent.” She turned, gazing out at the cold November sky. “I am a creature of shade, Lady Shields. The night calls to me, as doth mine subjects' dreams. A simple spell is all I need to be there, a guardian against nightmares, dream eaters, and sorrow. A nightmare myself against the darkness, cleaving through the wicked clad in the silver of the moon's light.” She handed the charm to Twila. “Wear this when sleep calls to you. The dreamcatcher will guard your slumber and thine Dreamscape, and if that still is not enough...” She cupped Twila's head and tilted it up to meet her eyes. “Fear not even then,” she sternly whispered, her eyes hard, grim steel.

“I will keep the darkness at bay.”

Gilda leaned back on the stone bench by the pond on the outskirts of St. Charles. She gazed at the ducks that flitted about the chill waters.

Damn things should have migrated a week ago, the griffon-folk thought, patting her leather jacket down until she found a pack of crumpled cigarettes. Putting one in her mouth, she then fished in her other pocket to find her lighter, when a bolt of pain erupted from the small of her back, shot up her spine, then radiated across all of her poor, misused wings. They cramped and tried desperately to open within Gilda's jacket. She hugged the material tight against her body, forcing out a small cry of pain. After a few agonizing minutes, her wing muscles finally relaxed, lying with a throbbing grumble flat against her back.

She quickly fished into her other pocket and produced her lighter. Flicking the wheel with her thumb a few times against the flint, she finally produced a flame with her sparks and got a deep, heavy drag of her smoke into her.

Gilda sighed, resting her head into an open palm.

Earlier was too close. She wasn't expecting anyone at the shop for at least another hour. Granted, Gilda had lost track of time hunting for what she needed of the tailor's, but it still felt early.

It was an eleventh hour ordeal, but she found it when it was all said and done and had just enough time to strip off her shirt and jacket, throw open the window and leap out. Gilda had landed and got her clothes on as soon as the coast was clear, but it was still a hell of a shave. If she hadn't jumped out that window, or worse, if someone had spotted her flying, seen a griffon-folk flying around here, there'd be problems.

“You still smoke?” a scratchy woman's voice directly behind Gilda asked. Gilda let out a shocked squawk of surprise, jumping out of her seat and nearly dropping her cigarette as she whipped around, revealing Dash. The girl offered not her usually coy and competitive smirk, but rather a no-nonsense stare that Gilda would almost call cautious.

Gilda licked at her suddenly dry lips, taking the cigarette out for a moment and nodding. “Yeah. Why? Want one?”

“I'm good,” she dismissed, walking around the bench to sit down on it.

Gilda paused, then wordlessly joined her. She smoked, Dash stared up to the sky, her arms crossed over the baby blue a-shirt she wore.

“You get my message?” Gilda asked, a small part of her hopeful.

“I did.”

The griffon turned, looking at the other. “I'm glad you decided to—“

Dash silenced her with a wave of her hand. “This is business, Gilda, nothing to do with us.”

“Isabelle...”

“Don't call me that,” Dash snapped.

Gilda pulled out her smoke and started to slowly twirl it in her dexterous fingers. After a moment, she put it back in her mouth and glared at Dash with a hurt scowl. “Fine.”

“This isn't easy for me either,” she blurted out.

“It was easy enough for you to ditch me,” Gilda shot back, ice in her words.

“Don't try to turn that to me, man. It was nothing but your fault. You were a huge asshole to Chylene and Diane.”

“I...” She couldn't even lie at that, so instead, she shut her mouth and crossed her legs. There wasn't a need to deny it. “Guess I was. That shouldn't of changed what we had, Isabelle.”

“My friends are a package deal with me, Gilly.” The pet name briefly perked Gilda up, she looked over at the sky-folk, who shook her head. “Gilda,” she corrected.

“I'm...”

“Only apologize if you mean it. I know you. I know when I'm just getting lip service,” Dash snapped, pointing at her sharply with a finger. Gilda shrugged.

“Guess there's gonna be no apology.”

Dash shook her head. “Thought so.” She glared hard at Gilda. “You want to tell me what you're doing with a grant from Dmitri Dorcis?”

“Same thing anyone's doing with a grant. Paying for the shit here.”

“With the same grant Trixie, Blueblood and dozens of politicians have.”

She shrugged. “So?”

Dash scowled. “There's a pattern here. You know it, I know it. Save us both some time and just say what your connection with them is.”

“What connection? You're stretching this wa—.”

“—If I ever meant anything to you, you'll tell me.”

Gilda's hard scowl briefly fell. She crossed her arms and tsked. “Don't do that to me.”

“I'm giving you a way out of... whatever it is you've got yourself involved in, bro. I can help. Just tell me what this is all about.”

“There's stuff I can't even tell you, Isabelle. Please. Drop it.”

“Fine.” She rose and shook her head. “One way or another, I'm going to find out what you're up to.” With that, she turned, conjuring her ethereal wings and—

“—Wait,” Gilda called out, reaching out for Dash. The Ritter paused, a few feet in the air. She levitated with a few slow flaps of her wings, glancing over to Gilda, who stared almost desperately at her.

“...I'm not hurting anyone.” She looked pleadingly toward Dash. “At least know that.”

Isabelle stared hard in turn towards Gilda. “But you're saying there is something going on?”

Gilda remained silent, staring at her feet before Isabelle gave an annoyed sigh.

“I'll believe you.” She paused for a beat. “But the instant I hear of something going down, you'd bet your ass I'm gonna be watching for you.”

With that, Dash flew off, rocketing into the sky as Gilda let out a shaky breath, throwing the smoke butt over her shoulder. That was a close one. Leave it up to Isabelle of all women to come by while Gilda was vulnerable, in addition knowing at least a bit about the situation the griffon found herself in.

But it was OK. Being watched or not, she only had a small role to play in this. No blood on her hands, nothing. Just a pick up, and a bit later a drop off. Easy.

Speaking of easy... She needed to get that message to Dorcis. After looking through Rarity's planner, she decided on a date. Next Tuesday. No clients for Rarity, a note on there said 'cleaning.' Plus, after Gilda dug around, she discovered that Jack's schedule was completely booked by school on Tuesday.

If they wanted to act, it was then. With that in mind she left the pond, heading to the post office.