Wind and Stone

Chapters

The Gathering Storms
The Oath
Fort Updraft (Part I)
Fort Updraft (Part II)
Nimbus
Calamity (Part I)
Calamity (Part II)
Calamity (Part III)
Calamity (Part IV)
Umbra
Brothers in Arms
Interlude: Every Rose
Riposte I
Riposte II
Rebirth
End of the Beginning
To Read
Breathe
Bitter Partings
Interlude
Shattered Skies
Crawling Back to You
Komm Doch Heim
Homecoming
The Lull
The Last Stand
The Last Stand II
The Last Stand III
The Last Stand IV
Prologue: The Legate's Lookout
Casualties
Reprieve
Mystery of the Forbidden Expedition

The Gathering Storms

“Pathfinder!” Phalanx shouted. Hearing no reply and not seeing his youngest son appear, the stallion’s lips pulled into a fierce scowl. “Pathfinder!” he called again with a similar result. Growling in irritation, the stallion gritted his teeth and continued his march through the streets of Altus.

Nearing fifty years of age, Phalanx’s pale brown coat was marred with scars befitting an old legionnaire. The mark on his flanks depicted an imposing formation of spears and shields. His once black mane and tail, cleanly cropped regulation short, were streaked with silver strands. Not that he particularly cared what color they were; the color hadn’t mattered when he served in the Legion, hadn’t mattered when he was hauling nets full of fish onto his small boat, and it certainly didn’t matter when he was on a mission to find the younger of his two sons.

A strong northeasterly wind whipped through Altus, carrying with it a powerful spring thunderstorm. Thick, bubbling clouds—dark, grey, and flashing with lighting—grew ever closer over roiling seas. Waves crested over four feet tall, crashing into the sandy shores and dousing the earth in salty water. The tiny flowers that grew along the shoreline collected the seaspray in their petals like perfumed chalices, the sea salt bleaching the color from their delicate petals.

Phalanx pushed through the rushing winds and trotted towards the docks, where he spotted his eldest son. A tall stallion with a brown coat and a mane black as pitch, he was a spitting image of his father, though he kept his mane and tail a fair bit longer than Phalanx liked. He seemed preoccupied helping a canary-yellow stallion with a messy amber mane tie boats to the dock. Phalanx recognized the lanky young stallion, but couldn’t recall his name.

Together, his son and his friend worked to tie one of the fishing boats to the docks. His son held one end of the rope tight in his teeth while his right foreleg hooked around the rail of the small fishing boat. His friend worked quickly, yellow hooves and teeth masterfully weaving a tight knot around an iron cleat. Each had their wings outstretched, shielding their eyes from the salty spray of the ocean waves that crashed against the dock.

“Longbow!” Phalanx barked.

Longbow jumped, surprised by the call. “Yes, Father?”

“Where’s your gods-damned brother?”

Another wave crashed against the dock, showering Longbow and his friend with cold ocean water and spume. “He went chasing after a topsail that got loose and blew into town. Is everything alright?”

“He was supposed to get that sail to your mother half an hour ago, and you’re telling me he let it fly away?” Phalanx asked angrily.

Longbow swallowed hard, inwardly kicking himself. “It wasn’t—”

“I give him one simple chore, and he manages to screw it up.” Phalanx rubbed his brow with a hoof. “Typical.”

The amber-maned stallion shot Longbow a nervous look. “Need anything else, Longbow?”

Shaking his head, Longbow faced his friend and held out a hoof. “No, I think we’ll be good now. Thanks again for the help, Pan Sea.”

A large wave crashed against the dock, spraying water over all three stallions. Phalanx shielded his eyes with a wing, an irritated frown pulling at his lips.

“Yeah, I-I’ll see you later!” Pan Sea said, quickly tapping his hoof against Longbow’s and trotting away. He didn’t like flying in storm conditions, yet even that was preferable to being around an angry Phalanx.

Longbow watched his friend disappear into town before returning his attention to his father. “Is everything alright, Dad?”

“Aside from the spring storm blowing in, and your brother—”

“Dad! Longbow!” a colt’s voice shouted over the wind.

Both stallions turned towards town, looking to the source of the call. The colt landed between them, his green coat and messy brown mane damp with sweat and the first signs of rain. The mark on his flanks depicted a bronze compass rose. He dropped a crumpled sail on the docks and panted to catch his breath.

Phalanx took a step towards his younger son. “Pathfinder, where in the—”

“There’s a legionnaire in town asking for everypony to gather, Dad!”

Phalanx halted, a brief moment of concern making him forget the reprimand.

“Boys, come with me,” he ordered, turning around and trotting into town.

Longbow took the bundled sail from the dock and quickly tossed it into the boat. As he passed Finder he reached out with his right wing, giving the colt a quick hug. Finder grinned up to his brother; they followed their father side by side.

The town square was full of ponies by the time the three of them arrived. Pathfinder hopped onto his hind legs, his front hooves planting themselves on Longbow’s back so he could see over the taller stallions in front of them. Standing alone in the center of the square was a gray-coated stallion, his blue mane and tail cropped very short. Thick, iron armor, polished to an almost reflective luster, covered most of his body, his sword and a brown haversack hanging from his left side.

“Citizens of Altus,” the legionnaire began, his voice booming through the crowded town square. “I am Centurion Trail Blaze of the Eighth Legion. Early last week, our great empire was attacked! Griffon filth stole their way into the heart of Stratopolis and attempted to assassinate our emperor, The Great and Honorable Augustus Haysar, himself!”

A shocked murmur went through the crowd, Pathfinder noticed Phalanx looked particularly offended by the news. The older stallion continually flexed his wings, as though he were wearing his old wingblades and itching for blood.

“Shortly after this heinous, unwarranted, and cowardly attack, we have had griffon uprisings throughout Cirran territories east of Nimbus. Furthermore, Archduke Ottgam Magnus of Angenholt,” Trail Blaze sneered the name as condescendingly as he could, “has appointed himself emperor of the griffon's territories and has executed many of our regional governors.”

Trail Blaze continued his speech, pacing in front of the crowd. “Brothers, sisters, proud Cirrans. Should we lie back and accept this transgression?”

“NO!” the crowd shouted back.

“Will we stand idle, and let the griffons spill pegasus blood with no recourse?”

“NO!” the crowd shouted again.

“Of course we won’t!” he shouted, stomping his hoof. “So, my brave brothers and sisters, our great Empire has issued the call to arms! All stallions between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five eligible for service are ordered to report to the town hall for conscription first thing tomorrow morning. There I will record your names, then we will fly to Stratopolis for training and deployment.”

He stopped his pacing and smiled to the gathered crowd. “Brothers, sisters, the gods are with us, and we shall spill every drop of griffon blood that dares raise it’s filthy claws against Cirra.”

The centurion saluted the gathered crowd before he trotted off in search of the inn. Altus was a long flight to Stratopolis, and he wasn’t about to lead fresh greenwings through a spring thunderstorm. Pathfinder watched him disappear down the street before he looked to his father.

Phalanx stood motionless, his jaw set and a contemplative expression on his face. Finder could feel Longbow’s nervous shivering under his hooves. It confused the young pegasus; his big brother had never been afraid of anything.

“Let’s go home,” Phalanx spoke after a moment, his voice unusually quiet. “Your mother needs to know.”

Pathfinder slipped off Longbow’s back, their father’s wing replacing his hooves. The younger brother took his place at Longbow’s side, following the older stallions home.

Sea Breeze hummed to herself, the end of a wooden spoon in her teeth. She carefully mixed the bubbling stew that cooked over the small hearthfire, the aromatic smell of shellfish, vegetables, and spices filling the kitchen. Tapping the spoon on the edge of the kettle, she placed it into a thick ceramic cup before adding a small log to the coals.

She knew her Phalanx had told their boys to tend to the docks before the storm hit. Most of the time, that meant they would all come home soaking wet and hungry. She always liked to have a warm meal waiting when they returned, along with a bit of ale for Phalanx. Momentarily satisfied with her efforts, Sea Breeze allowed herself a moment to catch her breath and rest on a simple floor pillow.

Resting her head on her forelegs, Sea Breeze watched the orange and yellow flames lap at the bottom of the kettle. Pops and crackles shot tiny embers from the burning logs that danced in the hearth for scant moments before fading into the cold air. She shivered and tucked herself in closer to the fire. Phalanx would be upset that she hadn’t rested more, but she would be damned before she let him try to cook dinner again.

Sea Breeze shuddered; if that was how a legionnaire cooked then it was a miracle Cirra had even a single soldier left standing.

No knock preceded the opening of the door. Sea Breeze turned her head, smiling when she saw her family walk in. She slowly got to her hooves, taking her time to keep her balance before facing her stallions. Her smile faded when she noticed the grim look on her husband’s face.

Phalanx quickly noticed the alluring scent before he saw the kettle. His mouth watered by reflex even as he sighed. “You were supposed to be taking it easy today.”

“It’s no trouble to make a little dinner for my boys,” she countered.

Shaking his head, Phalanx moved to his wife, gingerly nuzzling against her. He extended his left wing, which he draped over her back. He turned his head back, looking to Longbow and Pathfinder. “Set the table, your mother and I need to talk.”

“Yes, Sir,” they answered.

Sea Breeze’s brows knitted together, the worry plain on her face. Her brown eyes drifted from her husband, to her sons, and back again. All three bore a similar numb expression as Phalanx ushered her into their bedroom and quietly shut the door.

Finder and Longbow waited a moment before they moved. Longbow, being the taller of the two, moved to the cabinets and retrieved four ceramic bowls and wooden spoons. Finder gathered their mother’s sewing supplies from the table and neatly placed them into a wicker basket. Longbow slid two bowls and spoons to his brother, which Finder took in his front hooves and arranged properly on his side of the table.

“I wanna go with you,” Finder said.

“You’re only thirteen, little brother,” Longbow answered, his voice quiet.

“I’ll be fourteen in a couple weeks!”

“That’s still four years too young.”

“I can help,” Finder argued, placing the spoons next to the bowls. “I know how to—”

“Finder,” Longbow’s stern tone was enough to stop the colt’s talking. “You can’t come.”

The colt’s ears fell flat and a pout tugged at his lips. Longbow smiled, moving around the table and ruffling Finder’s mane with his hoof. Finder’s protest came in a soft giggle, his own hoof batting away Longbow’s.

“Go on, get some ale from the cellar for Dad. I’ll see if Mom is okay.”

Nodding, Finder moved towards a heavy wooden door installed into the floor of their home. Biting a rope handle, he slid the door off and wiped his tongue on his foreleg. He hated the way that rope tasted.

Peering down into the dank cellar, Finder gulped. Taking a half-step back from the cellar, he glanced up just in time to see Longbow’s tail disappear into their parents’ room. He could hear his mother crying quietly; it made his heart ache.

Looking back to his task, he licked his lips and gulped. He hated the cellar, ever since his father had told him that little monsters lurked in the shadows, eager to reach out and snatch unsuspecting colts. Even after he had grown up and Longbow had convinced him that Phalanx hadn’t been serious, the trepidation had never fully dissipated. With a final breath, Finder reluctantly moved down the steep stairs. Cobwebs scraped across his face, sending a shiver down the young pony’s spine. He held his wings tight to his sides, imagining them as a warm blanket.

The cellar was a small, utilitarian space. There was only enough room for two or three stallions to stand, less if they opened their wings. Phalanx had built it before Finder was born as a place to store wine and preserves for winter.

The ale was kept in four wooden barrels, each larger than Finder. Sitting on top of one barrel was a ceramic pitcher with a carrying cord at the top. Finder jumped to his hind legs, balancing his front hooves on the top of the barrel. It was still a stretch for him, but he was able to reach the pitcher without using his wings.

Setting it down on a small wooden stool, he lined the pitcher up with the first barrel’s tap and poured. Dark, pungent, Cirran ale filled the empty pitcher, the scent wrinkling Finder’s nose and making his eyes water. How anypony could drink ale, he would never know.

Once the pitcher had enough ale so Phalanx could have at least two mugs, Finder quickly made his way back upstairs. His father sat alone at the table, his front hooves pressed together just in front of his muzzle. He barely seemed to notice Finder, even as the colt poured his ale into a waiting mug.

Finder left the pitcher on the table before he went to his and Longbow’s room. The small room hosted two twin beds, a single nightstand between them with an oil lantern in the center. Finder made his way over to his bed and pulled a simple wooden box from under it. Inside were several toy legionnaires carved by a local artisan from tree boughs washed up on the beach.

Finder reached into the box with his dexterous primary feathers, pulling out his favorite toy. The little wooden legionnaire had been painted with his coat and mane colors, a sword held in his teeth. Taking the toy in his hooves, Finder stared into the statuette’s eyes. To join the Legion was an honor for every Cirran. Even mares, while excluded from the draft, were allowed to enlist for frontline combat.

Alone on the cold wooden floor, Pathfinder contemplated the little legionnaire. He wondered what a griffon looked like. His father had fought the griffons in the previous war, but he never spoke of it to his children, despite their repeated questions over the years.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there before his father called him to dinner.

That night, they ate their meal in silence.

Sea Breeze excused herself to bed early, Phalanx not far behind. Longbow and Finder dutifully attended to the cleaning. Afterwords, Longbow lay down in front of the hearth, his mind far away from their modest home. Finder lay beside him, resting his head on his forelegs.

Hours later, when the fire had burned to gently glowing coals, Longbow rose from his spot and went to his bedroom. Finder followed close behind, climbing into his bed as Longbow settled into his own.

Sleep eluded Finder well into the night. His back, his sides, his belly; no position worked. Rolling again, he looked to Longbow’s bed. The older stallion’s back was facing Finder, though he couldn’t tell if Longbow was awake or asleep.

Quiet as he could, Pathfinder slipped out of his bed and moved to Longbow. He chewed at his bottom lip for a moment before gently shaking his brother with a hoof. Longbow cracked one eye open which he used to shoot Finder a questioning look.

“I can’t sleep,” Finder whispered, rubbing his shoulder with a hoof.

Longbow sighed once before sliding over. “Hop in.”

The smallest of smiles pulled at Finder’s lips. With a soft grunt he climbed into the bed, still warm from where Longbow had been. His left side nestled against Longbow’s right, the contact soothing Finder to a degree.

“Longbow?” he spoke after several minutes of silence.

“Hm?”

“Why do you have to go?”

There was a pause before Longbow answered. “It’s my duty as a Cirran.”

“I’m a Cirran too,” Finder argued turning to face Longbow. “Why can’t I come with you?”

Longbow laughed quietly, hooking a foreleg around Finder’s shoulders. “‘Cause I need you to be here to look out for Mom and Dad.”

“But who’ll look out for you?”

“The Legion will be there for me,” Longbow answered. “It’s like having thousands of brothers and sisters to keep an eye on you.”

The answer did little to ease Pathfinder’s anxieties. “You’re gonna come back home soon, right?”

“As soon as I can.”

Finder leaned his head against Longbow’s shoulder. “You’re gonna miss my birthday…”

Longbow winced. “I guess I’ll just have to make it up to you next year.”

“You promise?”

Longbow turned to face his brother, his warmest smile on display for the colt. “Finder, I promise that next year we’ll have a great time on your birthday. You and me, we’ll fly the whole coast from dawn to dusk and explore everything we can find.”

Pathfinder smiled, throwing his forelegs around his brother’s chest and hugging him tightly. “Promise you’ll think about us?”

Longbow’s left hoof petted Finder’s mane while his right foreleg returned the embrace. “I’ll be dreaming of home every night, Finder. I promise.”

“Love you,” Finder whispered

“I love you too, little brother.”

Pathfinder nodded, squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face in Longbow’s chest. The elder brother hummed a lullaby, his hoof continually stroking Finder’s mane. It was a simple, almost melancholic melody; understated, yet hopeful. It brought an easy feeling to Finder and gently carried him to sleep.

Morning came all too soon for everypony in Altus. Every stallion of fighting age, and more than a few mares, had formed a long line in front of the small table Trail Blaze had set himself up behind. Each pony signed their name to a scroll of paper and were given time to be with their families until Trail Blaze was finished.

The entire process maintained a funeral-like atmosphere that unsettled the young Pathfinder. Ponies spoke to each other in hushed voices while parents and lovers wept for the mares and stallions being sent to serve their country. They all held their loved ones close, hoping Trail Blaze would always take one more minute to finish his tasks.

Inevitably, though, he finished recording every stallion and mare that had shown up. Rolling up the scroll of names, he took a breath and cleared his throat.

“Recruits,” he shouted, his voice cutting through the gentle murmurs and cries. “We fly to Stratopolis in fifteen minutes. Prepare yourselves accordingly.”

Longbow’s heart raced in his chest. With a nervous swallow, he turned to his parents and brother. Phalanx stepped forward, pulling him into a tight embrace.

“I love you, son,” he said, reluctantly pulling away. “You make this old soldier very proud.”

“I’ll kill some griffons for you,” Longbow promised.

Phalanx smiled and nodded, stepping away so Sea Breeze could have her moment with their son. Her eyes, pink and swollen with tears, looked at him with love and regret. She brushed his bangs aside with a hoof, smiling and pulling him into a tight hug.

“My brave boy,” she began, her voice barely more than a trembling whisper. “You be careful out there and come back to us safe and sound.”

“I’ll be fine, Mom,” Longbow promised, smiling boldly for her. “I promise.”

“I put some dried berries into your saddlebag, just in case you get hungry during the trip.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Sea Breeze smiled, tears rolling down her cheeks. She kissed his cheek and forehead. “I love you, so much.”

“Love you too, Mom,” he replied, hugging and kissing her in return. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Sea Breeze held onto her son for as long as she could. She longed for the days when he had been a tiny foal, nestled safely in her forelegs where she could protect him. Now her baby boy was a full grown stallion, off to war in distant lands where she couldn’t be there for him.

It broke her heart.

With Phalanx’s gentle urgings, Sea Breeze reluctantly let Longbow free of her grip. Longbow took a deep breath before moving to his brother. Pathfinder sat close by, his bottom lip quivering, and his eyes full of tears he stubbornly refused to shed. Longbow sat beside him, draping his left wing over Finder’s back. The younger brother leaned into the embrace, gently nuzzling Longbow’s shoulder.

“Take good care of Mom and Dad while I’m gone.”

Finder nodded. “I will.”

“I’ll miss you.”

Finder gritted his teeth, struggling to contain his tears. Slipping out from under Longbow’s wing, he reached into his little saddlebag and pulled out his favorite legionnaire toy. He stared at the green painted legionnaire for a moment before offering it to Longbow.

“I want him back.”

Longbow laughed, taking the wooden toy with a hoof and tucking it into his bag. “I promise I’ll get him back to you.”

Finder hugged Longbow tightly. “I love you.”

Longbow returned the hug, kissing the top of Finder’s head. “Love you too, kiddo.”

“Recruits!” Trail Blaze barked. “Form up!”

The brothers reluctantly parted, Finder returning to their mother’s embrace while Longbow prepared to fly to war.

“All right colts and fillies,” Trail Blaze began with a broad grin, “We’re off! For the Emperor, for Cirra, for Glory! Follow me!”

With a mighty flap of his golden wings, Trail Blaze took to the skies. Nearly three dozen stallions and mares followed after him, their wings kicking up dust as they left the earth. Trail Blaze flew in a circle around them, his voice singing his legion’s anthem.

The letter came to town today
We’re up and warring far away
The letter came to town to say
All the stallions up by the end o’ day.

My Recruiter came and told me-o,
All you stallions you’re set to go
I looked down the line and found it so,
Just like my recruiter told me-o!

We found ourselves so far from home
We ain’t got time to read no tomes
Get up with your gear and set to roam,
Maybe when you die we’ll send you home.

As the voice faded to the winds and the newly recruited pegasi disappeared into the horizon, the anthem's last line hung over the town with an oppressive bleakness, indifferent to Pathfinder's sobs as they commingled with those of his mother's and so many more.

They were watching him.

Even through the pitch black of night, he could tell they were watching him. Hungry, lusting eyes, that seemed to manifest through the interminable blackness. Like a predator, they watched him. With hatred, they watched him.

Figures, cloaked in shadow, leapt out at him, their eyes burning like fires in the darkness. They screeched, the sound at once silent yet loud enough to make the world itself tremble. He saw teeth, white, sharp daggers that smiled at him. Hunger, lust, predator, prey.

He turned and ran, as fast as his hooves could carry him. Through a dense forest of oak, ash, and pine, he ran. Thick boughs whistled past his ears, as though determined to take his head from his shoulders. The screams nipped at his heels, the cold breath of his pursuers washed over the back of his neck. For an eternity, he ran, barely a hair's breadth in front of the beasts, until he burst out of the dark forest.

It was daylight, the high-noon sun bathing everything in a washed-out light. He was standing on a great stone bridge over a deep ravine. A shallow stream trickled far below, the waters clear and pure.

Lining the center of the bridge was a long row of corpses, many wrapped in clean, white linens. Ponies clutched, cradled, and wailed over the bodies, yet somehow no noise met his ears. When his eyes fell to the body nearest him, he recoiled. His mother cradled the naked body, Longbow’s body.

The body was withered from exposure, the hair of his mane and coat having fallen away, revealing burned, brown skin. His wings were gone, bloody, ragged stumps the only indication of where the limbs should have been. Longbow’s eyes, once blue and full of life, were gone. Empty sockets full of the blackest shadows stared back at him.

“Not my baby!” she screamed, cradling the withered corpse in her forelegs. “Gods above, please! Give me back my baby!”

He took a step towards his mother, reaching out for her with a hoof. She recoiled, slapping his hoof away. Longbow’s body fell to the stone road, making no noise at the impact.

“You did this!” she shouted “You!”

He tried to speak, but no words escaped his mouth.

“Why did you kill him?!” She demanded. “Why didn’t you save him?!”

Pressing her hooves into her eyes, his mother wept for her dead son. Longbow’s corpse sat upright of its own volition, as though the gods themselves answered Sea Breeze’s desperate call. His mouth hung ajar in a silent, terrible, scream.

“My baby!” Sea Breeze cried, holding her forelegs out to embrace her son’s body.

Slowly, the corpse leaned forward, falling onto its belly. Throwing its forelegs forward, it dragged itself towards the edge of the bridge. Sea Breeze leapt up, following the corpse as it pulled itself to the edge.

He could see down into the ravine. A small creek filtered between white river stones. He could see countless bodies littering the riverbanks. The corpse edged closer, its dry flesh scraping across the stone road.

“Longbow, w-what are you doing?” the mother pleaded. “A-are you saying you want to die?”

Longbow’s corpse didn’t answer, pulling itself over the ledge and plummeting to the rocks below.

He looked back to his mother, only to find her gone. In her place, a massive griffon stood, its feathers black as coal and claws that seeped blood in thick rivulets. It smiled at him with it’s wickedly hooked beak. With a terrible screech, he fell.

He landed onto a pile of bones which split and shattered under his weight. The river ran dry, thick flames overwhelming it. They leapt towards him, forming axes, spears, swords, and daggers that seared his coat and feathers. He screamed, terror overwhelming his senses.

A cold rain fell from the interminable heavens, dousing the flames.

Pathfinder awoke with a deep gasp, his lungs greedily sucking in air. The candle on his nightstand flickered a gentle orange flame, bringing a moment of panic to the young stallion. Rubbing his hooves over his face, he sat there for a time, breathing and allowing his fear to melt into the sweat-soaked mattress below him. Only once his heartbeat had reached a more reasonable level did he open his eyes.

He was in Longbow’s bed, again. He had trouble sleeping in his own in the four weeks since his brother had gone to war. The nightmare that had woken him up was the latest in a string of terrible dreams he had experienced.

Pathfinder’s fourteenth birthday two weeks earlier had been anything but celebratory. His father had barely said a word since Longbow left and his mother had been in a constant depression. There had been no songs or gifts, only an all-encompassing emptiness that all three had shared in.

Letting out a trembling breath, Finder looked out the window. He could see lightning flickering over the open seas. Like the creatures of his nightmare they encroached towards shore, eager to swallow him whole.

No matter how he tried, he couldn’t shake the pit of dread that had steadily grown in his stomach as time went by. There had been news of bloody fighting east of Nimbus, and no word from Longbow as to where he would be deployed. If Longbow was sent to Nimbus, would he be okay? Would the Legion watch his back the way Finder would?

He couldn’t leave that to chance, he wouldn’t.

Grabbing his saddlebag, Finder snuck into the kitchen and took enough dry food to last several days of flying. He didn’t have a canteen, but he wouldn’t need it. There were plenty of rivers and streams he could drink from along the way.

Lastly, he sat at the kitchen table with some parchment and a charcoal. He stared at the blank sheet for several minutes before he drew a picture of his brother, a picture of himself, and an arrow pointing him to his brother.

Satisfied, the colt put on his saddlebags and his winter cloak. He took one last look at his parents’ closed door before he slipped out into the night.

The Oath

“Wow,” Pathfinder whispered, his eyes wide as Stratopolis came into view.

With a population of over a million pegasi, Stratopolis was by far the largest city in the Cirran Empire. Countless tons of super-condensed cloudstone had been shaped centuries earlier into a shield-like platform that stretched for miles in all directions. It hung over the fields of Dioda like a silent guardian, its long shadow casting darkness over vast swaths of land .

Built in several tiers, the outermost level was occupied by simple laborers’ homes in addition to shipping centers that were responsible for all the city’s imports and exports. Nearly a mile in from the edge rose the imperial walls. Hewn from the finest cloudstone and perfectly aligned, the walls rose one hundred feet above the street level. Guard towers, evenly interspersed along the circumference of the wall and topped with pristine Cirran banners, made for an even more imposing sight to the young pegasus.

Behind the wall was the commercial district. There the artisans, businessponies, and other skilled laborers made their living off of the imports and exports from the outer city. Cloudstone houses standing two, three, sometimes four stories tall filled the spaces between narrow streets and cramped markets. Even the enlisted soldiers of the legendary First Legion, charged solely with the defense of the capital, made their homes there.

Further in was the third tier, where Cirra’s aristocracy lived in lavish, sprawling mansions along with the city’s finest agoras, amphitheaters, and the famed Cloudosseum. A single one of those so-called “homes” seemed like it could have easily held the entire population of Altus with room to spare. Pathfinder couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to have that many rooms to explore.

The uppermost quarter was reserved for members of the senate, the Praetorian Guard, and the Imperial Palace. The palace and senate chambers were built of solid marble, quarried and hauled up to the city by countless griffon slaves. Finder wondered how thick the pure cloudstone base had to be in order to bear the weight of so much stone.

With a shake of his head, Finder pulled his wings in and dove towards the city. His body quivered and he couldn’t stop himself from grinning the closer he got to the outer platform. There, in those bustling, crowded streets, Pathfinder could lose himself in every nook, every alley, and every alcove.

Maybe for his fifteenth birthday he and Longbow could fly to Stratopolis and spend the days exploring.

Finder’s hooves touched down on the soft cloud, very slightly sinking into the springy cloudstone road. He hesitated, his attention shifting down to his hooves. Like all pegasi, he had been on clouds before, however traffic-compacted cloudstreets were an entirely new sensation for Pathfinder. Just for a moment, he couldn't help trotting in place, giggling at the springy sensation under his hooves.

His foalish impulse momentarily sated, Finder licked his lips and trotted into town. Nopony spared him more than a passing glance as they went about their business. Finder stopped again as the unrefined cloud was replaced by solid cloudstone. He tapped his hooves on the marble-like surface, amazed by how sturdy real cloudstone actually was.

Shaking his head, Finder resumed his trek into the city. He needed to find a recruiting officer, or perhaps a pony that could point him in the right direction. With Cirra in a declared state of war, it wasn’t long before Finder spotted a pair of legionnaires patrolling the streets. Steeling himself with a breath, Finder ran over to the soldiers, slowing down when he got close enough to speak with them.

“Hey, um, excuse me, sirs?” Pathfinder began, quite literally shivering with excitement.

The centurions stopped, each staring at him with a curious expression.

“You lose your mommy, kid?” the larger one asked.

Finder’s heart skipped a beat. For an instant, he panicked and wondered how they saw through his plan. He shook his head quickly, stalling for a few extra moments to think. “No, no, sir. I-I was just looking for a recruiter.”

“Lookin’ ta say g’bye ta yer pops?” the smaller centurion asked, earning a chuckle from his partner.

“No!” Finder answered quickly, his wings twitching with agitation. “I wanna enlist.”

Both legionnaires snorted and laughed at the idea, the larger of the two waving him off with a wing. “Go home, kid. The Legion’s for stallions, not little fillies.”

“I’m not a filly!” Finder stomped his hoof angrily. “I wanna join the Legion! I wanna fight the griffons!”

“Oi, this ones go’ some spunk, don’t he?” the smaller one grinned to his partner.

The larger stallion nodded. “Aye, not bad for a pup.”

“I’m not a pup, either,” Finder grumbled indignantly.

“Well you certainly wouldn’t make a good meatshield.”

The smaller legionnaire laughed at the quip, his hoof jabbing Finder’s side.

“Hey!” Finder yelped, batting the offending hoof away with a wing.

“No’ near enough meat on yer bones fer’ that.”

“Can you just tell me where the recruiting office is?” Finder asked again, his face burning slightly.

The legionnaires laughed again.

“Get lost, kid,” the larger one said.

“Go back to yer mum an’ hide under ‘er wing.”

“I don’t—hey!” Finder’s protest was cut off as the legionnaires casually pushed him aside and carried on with their patrol. Finder let out an exasperated growl, rubbing his face with a hoof and shaking his head. He had no doubt he’d be the favorite story in the barracks later, but he didn’t care. He would get enlisted and he would protect Longbow, no matter how many ponies laughed him off or tried to dissuade him.

Minutes passed into hours as he searched the outer ring for a recruiter. Time after time the legionnaires he found laughed him off for being too small, too young, or “just plain stupid” as one had called him. It was enough to drive even the most patient of ponies mad.

As the sun dipped towards the horizon, Finder gave up on his search, at least for the time being. He was hungry, and the few provisions he had snuck into his saddlebag were long since used up. Further adding to the young pony’s problems was the complete absence of money in his possession.

Complicating matters for Pathfinder was the produce market he had stumbled across in his search for legionnaires. Sitting directly across the square from him was a large stand full of ripe fruits and vegetables from all across Cirra. Apples and oranges, pears and bananas, fruits Finder had never heard of before! All right there in front of him for the taking, and none he could touch without money.

His mouth watered at the delectable sight. Altus didn’t have much agriculture, the ponies living there relied almost entirely on the ocean for food. Wheat grew poorly in the area, though potatoes, carrots, and other hearty vegetables seemed to thrive in the local gardens. It wasn’t the best food, but it certainly filled the belly on a cold winter’s night.

His father had told them stories of his days in the Legion during the last war with the griffons years before Longbow or Finder were born. Phalanx told them of the majesty of Stratopolis during the spring festivals when the city was filled with confetti, music, and soldiers on parade through the streets. He told them about the ripe fruits, such as the fresh apples right off the trees that crunched between the teeth and were filled with sweet, succulent juice unlike anything that could be acquired in Altus.

His father’s stories, more than anything, made Finder want to know the taste of an apple someday. Finally they were within his reach, yet the gods—in all their cruelty—had seen to it he didn’t have any money to try one. Finder swore he could hear their laughter in his ear.

A grumble from his empty belly returned Finder’s mind to the present. He frowned, a hoof rubbing his stomach as he watched the crowd gather around the market. Mares and stallions eagerly queued up to purchase items for their dinners, nearly overwhelming the lone shopkeeper in the process.

Moving into the crowd, Finder carefully made his way to the front of the stall, doing his best to look like a foal waiting for his mother. The ponies around him easily overlooked the short pegasus, most being involved in muffled conversations with each other. Waiting until he was sure nopony was looking, Finder snatched the stem of an apple in his teeth and quickly ‘sneezed’ into his wing, securing the apple safely under his feathers.

He discreetly lingered around the stand for a few more moments before departing with his purloined prize. Darting into a nearby alley, he sat down and retrieved the apple, holding in his hooves and staring at it like it was made of gold. He licked his lips in anticipation before biting into the red fruit.

The initial crunch of flesh loosed a flood of sweet juice into his mouth, a flavor unlike anything He had ever tasted before. It was better than he had imagined; better than his father’s stories described. The colt hungrily devoured the apple down to the core, any guilt he felt from stealing easily forgotten by the treat.

His hunger satisfied, Finder bit the stem and trotted out of the ally, intent to resume his search. Almost immediately he bumped into a stallion that had been jogging down the street. The impact toppled them both over with a pair of surprised yelps. The larger stallion landed on top of Finder, his weight momentarily crushing the air from the younger pony’s lungs.

“Ow,” the stallion groaned rubbing his snout with a foreleg for a moment.

“Ur ishing me!” the colt blurted.

“Eh?” The stallion blinked in momentary confusion.

“You’re squishing me!” Finder gasped louder.

“Huh—Oh buck, sorry! Sorry!” The stallion flapped his powerful wings, lifting himself off of Finder.

Groaning, Finder got to his hooves with the assistance of the larger stallion. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Are you okay?”

“I think so, yeah,” Finder answered, finally taking a good look at the stallion.

With a heavy build for a pegasus, the stallion stood over a foot taller than Pathfinder. He had a cream colored coat and strawberry blonde mane that was short and unkempt. The mark on his flank depicted a perfectly square block of stone with a set of calipers measuring it. Finder was struck by the stallion’s eyes; bright, vivid blue, just like Longbow’s.

“You sure you’re okay there?” the stallion asked, a friendly, but worried smile on his lips. “You look a little out-of-sorts.”

Finder’s cheeks burned somewhat and he quickly shook his head. “No, I mean, yeah, I-I mean I’m okay!”

The stallion laughed. “Take your time, I’ll wait.”

“Sorry,” Finder smacked his forehead with a hoof, “You just reminded me of somepony.”

“Hah, I get that a lot.” He offered his hoof to Finder. “I’m Carver, by the way.”

“Pathfinder, everyone just calls me Finder, though,” the colt smiled, his hoof bumping against Carver’s. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Carver smiled. “Sorry I kinda ran you over.”

“It’s fine, really,” Finder said, giving Carver a smile of his own. “Are you from Stratopolis?”

Carver laughed. “Buck no, I’m from Nyx. I’m just here to enlist.”

“Me too!” Finder said, feeling a renewed sense of hope.

Carver gave Finder a surprised look. “You look a little young for the Legion.”

“I’m old enough,” Finder answered quickly.

“Really? You look like you’re my kid brother’s age, and he’s not even sixteen.”

“I’m eighteen.”

“Uh-huh.” Carver seemed unconvinced. “Why weren’t you already drafted then?”

“I was sick with the feather flu when the recruiter showed up. It took a couple weeks before I was back on my hooves.” Finder answered. “Why did you miss the draft?”

“I’m an apprentice mason,” Carver answered with a proud smile. “My master had me inspecting the marble quarries south of Nyx, which took a while.”

“You wouldn’t be able to point me to a recruiter, would you?” Finder asked, smiling hopefully at Carver.

The older pegasus took a thoughtful breath, his mind carefully weighing the situation as he understood it. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you wanna enlist? I mean, you’re young enough that it’s not like anypony would say you shirked your duty.”

“I’m old enough,” Finder huffed.

“Sure you are,” Carver laughed. “That’s still not a reason.”

“Well why are you enlisting?” Finder defensively asked.

“Cause I am eighteen and honorbound to answer Cirra’s call.” Carver answered. “Now, what about you?”

Finder sighed, his ears flattening back. “My brother got drafted, I don’t wanna sit this out if he can’t.”

Carver nodded. “Fair enough.”

“So, will you point me to a recruiter now?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Finder demanded.

Carver shrugged. “Cause you’re still not telling me the truth about your age.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Finder scowled, his wings flapping in frustration.

“Yeah, it really kinda does,” Carver sighed, scratching his eyebrow with a hoof. “Look, you’re clearly not old enough to enlist. Any recruiter with working eyesight is gonna laugh you off without somepony to vouch for you.”

“And you’d vouch for me?”

“Well, that depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Tell me the truth; how old are you?”

Finder eyed Carver warily. “How can I trust you’ll vouch for me?”

Carver smiled. “You can’t.”

“Why do you care?” Finder asked, “what does it matter how old I am if I wanna help.”

“You wanna serve, I respect that. Besides, if the senate is right, then this war will be over by the harvest anyway so why not let you enjoy basic with the rest of us. I’m just asking you to be honest with me.”

Finder studied Carver for a long while, trying to decide his next move. The apprentice mason simply smiled and patiently waited the younger pegasus to answer. His patience, friendliness, and earnest attitude reminded Finder of his brother. In the end, that was reason enough for Finder to give him a chance.

“Fourteen,” he said quietly, “I’m fourteen.”

Carver nodded and smiled to Finder. “Well then Finder, shall we find us a recruiter?”

The young pegasus grinned brightly, almost bouncing in excitement. “Let’s go!”

“If anypony asks,” Carver began as he led Finder down the winding streets, “you’re my little brother.”

“Got it.”

Taking flight, it took only twenty minutes for Carver to lead Finder to a small building in the third tier. Tucked discreetly away at the end of a relatively narrow alley was a simple cloudstone building. Carved into the lintel was a simple inscription: “VIII Legion District Office”.

Finder’s heart skipped a beat. Longbow had been recruited by a pony from the Eighth Legion. He felt a tiny candle of hope burn in his gut; perhaps there was a chance he’d be at his brother’s side sooner than he’d hoped.

“How’d you hear about this place?” Finder asked, looking up to Carver.

The larger pegasus shrugged and shot his companion a bold grin. “I flirted with a few mares around the markets until I found a local who knew.”

“Wait, that works?”

“It’s amazing what a mare’ll tell you after a few compliments about her mane and feathers.”

Inside, the Legion office was a simple room with bare cloudstone walls and a single desk towards the back. A lone—and exceedingly bored looking—stallion sat behind the desk, his eyes staring vacantly at a ledger in front of him. He wore no armor, though there was a polished set on display behind him.

“Excuse me,” Caver began, catching the stallion’s attention.

“Ah, welcome lads,” the stallion rose to his hooves, “How can I help you?”

“We’re here to enlist,” Carver answered, smiling eagerly.

The recruiter cast a dubious look at Pathfinder. “Aren’t you a little young for the Legion?” he asked, pointing a hoof at the green pegasus.

“My brother’s seventeen,” Carver began, draping a wing over Finder’s back. “He’s always been a bit of a bit of a pipsqueak, but he can hold his own just fine.”

“I’ll need your father to come in and sign that he has permission to join.”

“Our parents passed away three years ago.” Carver lowered his head and flattened his ears; Finder mirrored the sullen look. “We’re all we’ve got.”

The recruiter sighed, rubbing his forehead with a hoof. He mulled the story over in his mind for a time before he placed a ledger, a quill, and an inkwell in front of them. “Sign your names then.”

Craver signed first, scratching his name into the records of the Eighth Legion. Finder had to stand on his hind legs to reach the ledger, his front hooves balancing on the wooden desk. Taking the quill in his teeth, he signed his name just under Carver’s.

The recruiter turned the ledger around and read their names. He made a few notes of his own and gently blew on the ink to dry it. After a moment, he looked up at them and smiled.

“Welcome to the Eighth Legion, lads.”

“Thanks, sir!” Carver grinned.

“What do we do now?” Finder asked, mirroring Carver’s enthusiasm.

“Do you two have a place to stay tonight?”

“Uh,” Carver and Finder exchanged a glance. “We didn’t get that far.”

The recruiter laughed. “That actually works better. We got cots in the back, so you two can stay here tonight. First thing tomorrow I’ll send you to Fort Updraft for training.”

“We’ll be in the same regiment, right?” Carver asked, keeping the pretense that he and Finder were related.

“We prefer to keep siblings in the same regiment, makes you both fight better,” the stallion answered, walking around his desk and standing at attention before them. “One last thing; you need to swear the oath.”

“The oath?” Finder asked, looking to Carver who offered an equally confused shrug.

The stallion nodded. “Ante Legionem nihil erat, et nihil erit post Legionem. Before the Legion, there was nothing. After the Legion, there will be nothing. These are our words. This is our truth. In the Legion, what you were before doesn’t matter, and nothing you will do after matters. You will be Cirra’s might, you will be Cirra’s pride.

“The two of you are truly lucky.” He smiled at them, taking a step closer. “Brothers born in blood, you shall be reborn as brothers under the banner. The home you’ve left behind, the family you’ve lost, think no more of them. The Legion is your home now, its soldiers your siblings, and we welcome you with open wings.”

Finder’s gaze fell to the cloudstone floors, his thoughts drifting to his family. He felt Carver’s wing tighten its grip on him. It reminded Finder of Longbow and brought a small sense of peace to his heart.

“Ready?” the recruiter asked.

“Yeah,” Carver answered.

Finder took a breath and nodded.

“Easy boys, there’s nothing to it. Just repeat after me.” The recruiter smiled and cleared his throat.

If I am to lose a wing, then so be it;
it is much better to sacrifice the skies for my country than to fly against it with two.
If I am to lose a leg, then so be it;
It is much better to be crippled for my country than to stand against it with perfect health.
If I am to lose my life, then so be it;
It is much better to die for the glory of the Empire than to live a coward.
Before the Legion there was nothing,
And after the Legion there will be nothing.

Fort Updraft (Part I)

True to his word, the recruiter had woke both Finder and Carver early the next morning for training. He gave them both a simple ration for breakfast: a dry, hard, biscuit-like thing that he jokingly suggested was made sometime before pegasi could fly. After a drink of water, he showed them out of the office and into the dark streets.

Finder rubbed at his bleary eyes, still in the process of waking up. His excitement and Carver’s obnoxious snoring had conspired to rob him of a decent night’s rest. It didn’t help matters that they had been roused from their beds before the first rays of dawn had broken, and while Finder liked mornings, he didn’t like them quite that much.

The normally bustling streets of Stratopolis were quiet in the predawn light. Oil lanterns suspended on wooden posts bathed the cloudstone in an eerie glow. Finder shivered at the sight of it all; everything was too quiet.

After a series of light stretches to prepare their wings, the recruiter led Finder and Carver into the skies. They flew east, passing over a lake that spanned miles in all directions. The black waters were calm, with hardly a ripple to distort the mirror-like surface. It was such an alien thing for the colt to behold, at least when compared to the constantly shifting ocean back home.

Their flight came to an end a little more than a mile past the lake where Fort Updraft was built. Surrounded by a thick stone wall raised fifteen feet high, the fort’s centerpiece was a barracks large enough to house multiple regiments in training. Surrounding it were smaller buildings to house the officers and support staff, a hospital, supply warehouses, and a series of forges to fit new recruits with weapons and armor.

The recruiter landed a short distance from the gatehouse, with Carver and Finder close behind. There he left them to wait while he retrieved an officer to put them into a regiment. Carver turned to the younger pegasus after a few moments, yawning softly.

“You get any sleep last night?”

“Not really,” Finder answered, mirroring Carver’s yawn. “Did you?”

“No,” Carver sighed. “Those were really lousy cots.”

“Do you think the ones here will be better?”

Carver snorted and grinned in amusement. “Not a chance.”

Finder kicked at the grass underhoof. “Figures.”

A tired, yet companionable silence fell between the two as they waited for the recruiter to return. Carver closed his eyes, seemingly attempting to catch a few extra moments of sleep while sitting up. Finder took the time to preen his wings, plucking a few loose feathers that had been bothering him all morning.

The recruiter trotted towards them, prompting Finder to lightly nudge Carver’s shoulder. The mason’s eyes blinked open and he stifled another yawn with his hoof. They both stood up and saluted him as he approached, a gesture which he immediately returned before speaking.

“Right, boys, here’s where we part ways. The stallions by the gate will show you to your barracks; you’ll both be in second platoon. Training will begin later this morning after the rest of the recruits arrive.”

“Is there anything we should do until then?” Carver asked.

“The guards will tell you.” The recruiter saluted them again. “Ante Legionem nihil erat”

“Et nihil erit post Legionem,” they answered, returning the salute just as he’d taught them.

Smiling proudly, he lowered his hoof . “Good luck boys; kill some griffons for me!”

“We will Sir!” Carver grinned.

“Buck yeah!” Finder cheered, his wings flexing with excitement.

With a flap of his wings, the recruiter took flight, leaving Finder and Carver alone. The two exchanged a look for a moment before they walked towards the imposing gate. There, clad in pristine iron armor, an imposing stallion with vivid red eyes and a golden coat waited for them.

Pathfinder felt his initial excitement shrivel under the stallion’s glare. Instinctively, he moved a little closer to Carver. Both of them made sure to salute the soldier as they came to a halt before him. The soldier seemed unimpressed with their effort, though he dutifully returned the gesture.

“Follow me, greenwings,” he ordered, his voice deep and gritty.

Like good recruits, Finder and Carver followed close behind. Passing through the open gatehouse, they entered Fort Updraft’s sparse field space. Several large and imposing stallions moved about the fort, all in polished armor with wingblades and sheathed swords at their side.

“Excuse me, sir?” Carver asked, earning a grunt from the soldier. “Where will we be training? I mean, this fort doesn’t seem that big.”

“Physical conditioning and combat instruction will be conducted in the fields outside of the fort,” he answered. “Everything will be covered during the orientation later today, so save your questions until then.”

“Yes sir, thank you,” Carver responded.

The stallion led them to a massive building where he pushed open a pair of heavy, wooden doors. Inside of the building was a large open space divided into four distinct sections. Each section contained several orderly rows of beds for a newly constituted platoon. Their chaperone led them to an empty section and motioned them in with a hoof.

“You two are in second platoon, so this is your barracks. You’re free to pick any bed that’s available and you will keep that spot until you are deployed. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” they answered.

“Good. The rest of the recruits are scheduled to arrive later this morning. Until then, you two are to remain around the barracks. I recommend you greenwings get some rest; you’re gonna need it.” The soldier offered them a smile that sent a shiver down both their spines before he returned to his post.

The barracks lacked any aesthetic furnishings, and only heavy wood logs gave character to its walls. It gave Finder a comforting sensation; most of Altus had a similar utilitarian construction. Two rows of cots lined the walls, providing enough beds for a full platoon of sixty-four pegasi. Each cot had one pillow with a rolled up blanket set on top of it.

Carver trotted to the nearest cot, tossing his haversack beside it and testing the pillow with his right hoof. “Well, home sweet home, I guess.”

Finder nodded, setting his own bag down and sliding it under his cot with a hoof. His eyes drifted around the empty barracks, taking in the new sights and sensations. He wondered if Longbow had been in a barracks like this one, or if he had trained somewhere else. Finder sighed, his ears flattening slightly. He hoped that wherever he was, Longbow was safe.

Carver glanced over, frowning when he noticed the maudlin expression. “Hey, you okay over there?”

Finder smiled a little. “Yeah, I was just thinking.”

Carver nodded, leaning back on his haunches. “Feeling homesick?”

“A little, I guess.” Finder sighed, rubbing the back of his head. “I’ve never been away from my family this long before.”

Carver nodded again, an understanding look on his face. “Ever been away from them for more than a day or two?”

A thoughtful frown pulled at Finder’s lips. “The longest time I went without seeing my dad or my brother was when I was little. Dad would take Longbow out on a fishing trip and they wouldn’t come home for a week or two.”

“You’re really close to them, aren’t you?”

“My mom and my brother, yeah. Dad… well, I don’t know.”

Carver pushed away from his cot, trotting over to Finder and sitting beside him. “What do you mean?”

The younger pony chewed at his lip, his gaze shifting from the heavy wooden planks that made up the floor to Carver. He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Longbow’s his favorite, which is fine. He’d be my favorite too.”

Carver’s brow creased and his lips pulled into a frown. However, before he could pry into Finder’s depressed sentiment, the sound of hoofsteps caught both their attentions. Two mares trotted into the barracks, both sparing the stallions a passing glance before they resumed their conversation. The taller of the two had a nearly white coat with a lilac mane that she had cropped short. The mark on her flanks depicted a wooden staff with a single green serpent coiled around it.

The smaller mare had a rose colored mane with an ochre coat. Her marks showed a field of wheat in front of a rising sun. Her green eyes looked from the white mare to Finder. Out of habit he smiled to her, a gesture she returned with a playful wink. Finder’s cheeks burned and a fluttering sensation tickled his belly.

Carver leaned close to Finder, grinning ear to ear. “Look at those mares,” he whispered.

“Huh?” Finder shook his head, snapping his mind back to reality. “Oh, um, yeah. Yeah, they look nice.”

“Nice?” Carver scoffed. “They’re buckin’ gorgeous!”

“If you say so.”

Carver licked his fetlock and brushed his disheveled mane into a semi-presentable state. “Wish me luck, buddy!”

“With what?” Finder asked, his face a mask of confusion.

“What do you mean, with—oh, right. I forgot you’re still a kid.” Carver gave a sheepish chuckle, his foreleg rubbing his chin. “I guess at your age I wasn’t quite the ladies stallion I am now, either.”

“I could get a mare if I wanted to,” Finder protested, earning an amused laugh from Carver.

“That’s the spirit!” Carver slapped Finder on the back, knocking the breath from the colt’s lungs. “Wish me luck!”

“Good luck?” Finder winced, a hoof rubbing at the back of his neck.

Carver sauntered over to the mares, an easy smile on his lips. They largely ignored his approach, at least until he got too close. The taller one smiled to Carver while the smaller of two leaned very slightly back.

Carver locked eyes with the taller mare. She was a few inches shorter than he was, with a lean, toned musculature. Her eyes, a rich hazel color, watched him with a level of calculated interest.

Carver stopped when he was less than a foot away from her. “Hey there.”

“Hey yourself,” she responded, leaning very slightly on her hip.

“I’m Carver,” he introduced himself before motioning to Finder. “The pipsqueak over there is Pathfinder.”

“I’m not a pipsqueak,” Finder grumbled, moving closer to the others.

“I’m Summer,” the taller mare said. “This is Dawn.”

“Pleasure to meet you both,” Dawn said, her eyes watching Finder with a keen interest.

“So,” Carver took a half step closer to Summer, his wings subtly flexing. “What’s a couple of gorgeous mares doing in a barracks like this?”

“Really?” Summer looked disappointed. “That was the best you had?”

“I—huh?”

“I mean, you could’ve gotten so creative or poetic! Say something about how you want to wrap us in your wings and lay upon silken clouds under a sea of glittering stars. You know, that fancy lovey-dovey crap that all the little colts think mares wanna hear.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind part of me in your wings,” Carver shot back, his grin slipping from confident and easy to mildly nervous.

“Oh honey,” Summer’s voice seemed to purr in Carver’s ear. She offered him a demure smile as she reached out with her right wing. Her dexterous primary feathers slipped under his chin and traced over his jawbone. “Have you ever made a mare truly fly?”

“Fly? Oh—OH!” Carver’s mouth dried up. “W-well I—I mean…”

“Uhg, Summer,” Dawn rolled her eyes and slapped her friend’s shoulder. “Quit teasing the poor guy, I don’t need to see another gullible stallion’s little centurion hanging out.”

“Hey, I didn’t make you stare at it,” Summer argued, rubbing the sore spot with a hoof. “Though I gotta say if you called that a little centurion I’m terrified to know what you consider a big one.”

“You… I … Uhg!” Dawn pressed a hoof against her forehead and closed her eyes.

Smiling, Summer returned her attention to Finder and Carver. “So, I hear the mess hall is open for the early recruits. Who’s hungry?”

“Food… sure…” Carver muttered, still in a shell shocked daze.

Summer stepped forward, her feathers giving Carver’s nose a playful flick. “Coming, big guy?”

The act seemed to snap Carver back to reality, his grin reaffirming itself. “Ladies first.”

“Ooo,” Summer purred, “look, Dawn, we’ve got a true gentlecolt.”

“You’re a terrible pony, Summer.”

Laughing, Summer trotted out of the barracks, the three other pegasi following along.

“Recruits! Attention!” a stallion’s voice boomed.

They responded quickly, standing upright with their heads high and their wings folded at their sides. A large stallion in full armor trotted in front of the line. What little of his nearly-black coat the recruits could see bore dozens of scars, and his eyes were ice blue with a fierceness that sent a chill through anypony brave enough to meet his gaze.

He surveyed the platoon, lips twisted into a contemptuous scowl. “Greenwings,” he began, his voice a low, almost guttural growl, “I am Centurion Skyhammer. As far as the lot of you are concerned, I may as well be Emperor Haysar himself. Early last week the Eighth Legion deployed from this very base. By now they will be arriving in Nimbus, where they will carry our glorious banner into battle. This leaves me with four weeks to whip the lot of you into fighting shape. And make no mistake, I will make soldiers out of you.”

Skyhammer walked down the line of recruits, his pace slow and deliberate. Every pony he passed received an intense look of scrutiny. Skyhammer’s trained eyes seemed to instantly hone in on any imperfections in the hastily fitted armor his platoon had been given less than an hour earlier. He came to a stop in front of Finder, a moment of genuine confusion briefly flickering over his face.

The young pegasus had been given the smallest equipment that the armorers had been able to find, not that it had helped much. The armor he wore had been sized for a small mare. Even still, the heavy iron plates were too large for Pathfinder. The belts that secured the armor around his body had to have extra holes punched into them just to keep the armor from sliding too much.

Finder was grateful that the armorers had at least taken him into a back room while they were trying to fit him. The second he had walked out of the armory—straining notably from the substantial weight of the cuirass—every pony had gotten a laugh at his expense. Even his new friends Carver, Summer, and Dawn couldn’t resist a chuckle.

“And just who the buck are you supposed to be?” Skyhammer asked, his scowl shifting a to a perplexed look.

“Pathfinder, sir!” he answered, trying not to show his fear.

“And what in the blue hell are you doing here?”

“I’m here to serve the Legion, sir.”

“Serve the Legion,” Skyhammer snorted, stepping away from Finder and shouting loud enough for the regiment to hear. “And how exactly is a scrawny flank stain like you supposed to help the Legion?”

Finder could hear the muffled chuckles from the recruits around him. His cheeks burned, yet he stood his ground. “I can fight, Sir. I can kill griffons.”

“Kill a griffon, eh? You’re dumber than you look, Flank Stain! The only reason I don’t throw your scrawny ass out of my platoon is because you might at least make a halfway decent meat shield for the real legionnaires!”

Finder swallowed the lump in his throat, far too afraid to say a word.

Skyhammer shook his head in disgust before continuing down the line. Every pony he passed without a comment seemed to let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief. The next pony he stopped in front of was a light blue stallion with a slender build and a quiet demeanor. Skyhammer’s attention immediately focused on the recruit’s sword, which had been slung over his right side instead of the left. With an abrupt turn, Skyhammer was face to face with with the stallion.

“Name.” Skyhammer demanded.

“Windshear, Sir.”

“Think you’re a special pony, Windshear?”

“No, Sir.”

“Then why, greenwing, do you have your sword on the wrong side?”

“Sir?”

Skyhammer reached forward, grabbed the leather wrapped hilt of the sword in his fetlock, and pulled it free of the scabbard. He held up the blunted iron sword, intentionally weighted to be twice as heavy as the actual weapon. “Your sword, you slack jawed, feather brained, useless mule! Why is this weapon on the wrong side?”

“I’m a lefty, sir.” Windshear answered.

“So you do think you’re some kind of special pony, don’t you, Windshit?”

“N-no—”

Skyhammer threw the blunted weapon to the ground, his hoof cuffing the unfortunate stallion behind the right ear before he addressed the entire platoon. “Recruit Windshit here thinks he’s special! He thinks that because his parents dropped him on his thick, empty, misshapen excuse for a skull, he can disrupt the entire frontline!”

Skyhammer jabbed Windshear’s breastplate, his impact making a sharp thunk. “Do you know what happens when some dumb hotshot disrupts the frontline, Windshit?”

“N-no, Sir.”

“We lose unit cohesion, Windshit, and when we lose cohesion you risk the lives of the soldiers fighting beside you! Do you want to get your brothers and sisters killed, Windshit?”

“No, Sir!”

“Then pick up that weapon and put it on the correct side!” Skyhammer shouted before continuing down the line. Windshear waited until he had passed before he retrieved his weapon, resheathing the blade and placing it on his opposite side.

With a purposeful grimace, Skyhammer continued down the line. Three more ponies were passed with no comment from the centurion. None of the three dared to make even the smallest sign of relief. Skyhammer stopped in front of Carver, having found the rare pony that was taller than himself.

Skyhammer really hated having to look up at greenwings.

“Name.”

“Carver, Sir!”

“Carver, huh? Let me tell you something, Carver: you’re so fat and worthless, that even as I speak your parents are packing their trash and leaving town with no forwarding address so they don't have to see you again. The night after you left they threw a big fucking party! I was invited, but I had to stay here to make sure you don't get the chance to fuck up my beloved Legion!"

Carver desperately bit down on his tongue, he had the distinct impression that talking back to Skyhammer was an easy way to sharply reduce a pony’s life expectancy.

Skyhammer continued his walk down the line, stopping when he spotted four new ponies approaching the platoon. They wore the same armor as every other legionnaire, only with a red cross painted on the shoulders. Their armor was also customized with two leather bags riveted to the flankplates. Inside were the various tools needed for proper battlefield triage.

Summer led the group, with Dawn close behind her. Following them was a pair of stallions Finder had not met. Skyhammer approached Summer, his ever present scowl never fading.

“Name?” he demanded.

“Summer Celsus,” she answered, delivering a crisp salute to the centurion. “My medical team’s been assigned to this platoon, Sir.

“Celsus… Celsus… Ahh, you must be Senator Dicentis Celsus’ daughter.”

“I am, sir.”

Nodding, Skyhammer leaned closer to Summer. “Let me be crystal clear on this, Celsus. I don’t care if your father is the Senator representing Nimbus. You will receive no special treatment and I expect nothing but your best in my platoon.”

Summer dared to smile at the centurion’s sentiment. “The pegasi of Nimbus don’t give anything less, and I’d be offended if you did, sir.”

“The pegasi of Nimbus couldn’t tell their asses from a hole in the ground.”

“Well then it’s a good thing that I’m a medic and not a scout, sir.” Summer replied, not rising to Skyhammer’s bait.

“You think you're a funny mare, Celsus?" Skyhammer growled. His keen eyes locked onto Summer's, daring her to try her luck with another comment. Instead, she returned the centurion a tiny yet confident smile.

"Right then," Skyhammer said after failing to get a reaction from the Nimban mare. "Distribute yourselves evenly: one medic per two sections."

“Yes, sir.” Summer saluted again and turned to face her medics. “Dawn, sections three and four, Poultice, sections five and six, Salve, sections seven and eight. I’ll take sections one and two.”

“Ma’am.” They saluted, each trotting to their assigned sections.

Skyhammer waited until the medical team had integrated into the formation before he addressed them again. “Alright greenwings, playtime is over. We’re gonna march until your hooves bleed. Then, we’re gonna march some more!”

“Sir, yes, Sir!”

A simple, almost gentle smile pulled at Skyhammer’s lips. Everypony in the regiment seemed to quiver in fear at the sight.

“Now then,” he began, his voice calm and friendly. “Check around your hooves, make sure you haven’t left a mess that the nice groundskeepers will have to clean up, AND GET YOUR LAZY ASSES TO THE GATEHOUSE! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!”

“Company,” Skyhammer shouted loud enough for the whole platoon to hear him. “Halt!”

Sixty-four pegasi stumbled to a halt; coughing, panting, and wheezing from the six hour jog that Skyhammer had taken them on. Their route had traced the edges of the lake, following the curves of hoof-worn paths through the soft grasses. All the while, Skyhammer had kept them in formation, utilizing a combination of increasingly biting insults and the occasional smack keeping his recruits in line.

There had been no breaks to drink, no rest for the weary, and no leaning on the pony beside you for support. Several greenwings, Finder included, vomited out what little food had been in their bellies before the march. Even then, Skyhammer hadn’t given them time to slow down.

He would break them of their “weakness”, or kill them trying.

Finder took several steps towards the lake’s edge, his hooves and legs numb from hours of abuse. His body burned and his heart pounded in his breast; his oversized armor only seemed to intensify the heat. He barely noticed the faint feeling that came over him before his body fell uselessly to the ground.

The sudden noise attracted the attention of most of the platoon, Skyhammer included. His ever present scowl deepened and he trotted over to the young pegasus. Carver lingered not far behind, gasping for breath and sweating profusely.

Skyhammer stood above Finder, his right hoof giving the armor a relatively light kick. “Get on your hooves, Flank Stain. The dirt’s too good for the likes of you to take a nap in it!”

Pathfinder coughed, unable to catch his breath for a few seconds. “Y-yes… yes, sir.”

Planting his front hooves on the ground, Finder tried to heft his body back into a standing position. His exhausted muscles burned at the effort, causing his forelegs to violently tremble under him. He made it just over half way up before his legs failed him. Finder collapsed into the dirt with a heavy grunt and the clatter of his armor.

Skyhammer rolled his eyes, a disgusted sneer curling up the right side of his mouth. “Medic!”

Dawn trotted over, stopping in front of the centurion and saluting. “Sir.”

“See to him,” he growled, waving a hoof at Pathfinder.

Dawn nodded once, moving past Skyhammer to her first patient of the day. Skyhammer sucked in a deep breath while wiping the sweat from his brow. “We’ll rest here for one hour, then we will fly back to Fort Updraft.”

In response, Skyhammer received an uncoordinated, tired, and muddled set of replies. He allowed it without a reprimand; they had earned their rest for the time being. Pulling his helmet off, Skyhammer tucked it under his wing and walked to the lake for a drink.

Dawn crouched down beside Finder, giving him a tender smile. “Hey there, handsome. Fancy seeing you here.”

“H-hey, Dawn,” Finder managed between gasps. “Hah… H-how are you?”

“Sweaty, same as everypony that isn’t you,” she answered, a slight frown tugging at her lips. “How long ago did you stop sweating?”

“I-I don’t know… an hour, maybe?”

She reached forward with a hoof, pressing carefully against Finder’s neck to gauge his pulse. Carver sat down beside him with a weary grunt, the hairs of his coat clumped and damp. His left wing gave Finder a reassuring nudge. “How’re you doing, buddy?”

“I… I’m good,” Finder coughed again, “I just… just need a second…”

“You need more than a second; you’re dehydrated and you’ve got a nasty bout of heat stroke right now.” Dawn reached into one of her medical bags, retrieving a leather waterskin. “Drink this.”

With a little assistance from Carver, Pathfinder was able to sit up and grasp the waterskin in his hooves. Popping the cork off with his teeth, he quickly recognized the smell of salt that drifted out from the cap. His brows knitted together, puzzlement filling his face.

“What’s in this?”

“Saltwater,” Dawn answered, her hoof tapping the bottom of the skin. “Take one mouthful and gulp it down, then we’ll get you to the lake for fresh water.”

“Isn’t saltwater undrinkable?” Carver asked, a hoof wrapped around Finder’s waist to steady the colt.

“One mouthful to get the salt into his system, and that’ll help his body absorb the fresh water more efficiently,” Dawn explained.

Finder took a breath. Living in Altus, he’d had the distinct pleasure of tasting saltwater on more than a few occasions. Steeling himself, he hefted the waterskin to his lips and held his breath. He nearly wretched as the potent liquid filled his mouth. Dawn helped steady the waterskin until Finder had swallowed.

“There we go,” she said with a friendly smile. “Let’s get you out of that armor and down to the lake.

Still grimacing from the overwhelming flavor of salt, Finder managed a nod. With Carver’s help, he slipped free of his armor and carefully set it aside with his helmet and sword. Together, Dawn and Carver shepherded him to the lake’s edge, where the colt was able to drink all he could. After a short walk into the lake to further lower his temperature, they helped him back to his armor and let him rest.

“Thanks guys,” Finder said after a few moments. “Sorry about this.”

“Don’t worry about it, Squirt.” Carver gave Finder’s shoulder a playful smack. “These things happen.”

“It’s my job to help, but sometimes it’s a pleasure,” Dawn said with a wink.

Finder’s cheeks burned and he grinned to the ochre colored mare. Carver’s elbow gave a surreptitious nudge to Finder’s ribs. Before he could say anything, Summer trotted up to them, a casual smile on her lips.

"Hey, Stud," Summer greeted, giving Carver half a glance before nodding her head to Finder. "Pipsqueak." She took the briefest of moments to enjoy the looks on their faces before turning her attention on Dawn. “When you’re done here, Salve needs your help wrapping a few sprained ankles. I need your saltwater too, Poultice and I got a lot of dehydrated ponies to look after.”

“Got it,” Dawn replied, standing up and hoofing over her waterskin. “Where’s Salve at?”

“Down by the lake, just head that way.” Summer pointed Dawn in the proper direction and took the waterskin with her wing. “And get yourself hydrated as well; the last thing we need is a medic keeling over.”

“Yes, ma’am.” With a quick salute, Dawn trotted away to see to her duties.

Summer looked down at Finder and Carver. “You boys rest up; I’ll check on you again later.”

“Hey, I’m all sore and tired too, can’t I get a kiss to make it better?” Carver teased.

With an amused snort and a roll of her eyes, Summer kissed the top of Finder’s head and patted Carver’s mane with her hoof. “Poor baby.”

“Hey, why does he get a kiss?” Carver pointed a hoof at Finder.

“Cause he’s cuter than you are,” she answered with a smile.

“You’re a cruel mare, Summer,” Carver pouted.

“It’s just my Nimban affection. See you later, boys!” She sang as she trotted off to her next patients.

Carver let out an irritated grunt. “Mares.”

“Yeah…” Finder pawed at the grass with a hoof.

“So, are you gonna go for her?”

“Huh?” Finder cast a puzzled look to his friend.

“Dawn, you scrawny featherhead!” Carver grinned. “You gonna go for her, or what?”

“You mean, like, ask her out?” Finder asked, his cheeks burning.

Carver snorted and laughed, his hoof slapping Finder’s shoulder. “Looks more like a good rut would do you wonders, pup.”

Finder laughed nervously, his hoof rubbing his shoulder. “I… I don’t know if she--”

“Kid, if you were a mare and she was a stallion I’m pretty sure your cherry woulda been popped about ten minutes after you two met.”

Pathfinder stared at Carver with a blank expression for several moments, his mind slowly processing the comment. “You’re a seriously messed up pony, Carver.”

“Ain’t it great?” he asked with a broad grin.

“So you insist.” Finder smirked, elbowing Carver’s side.

Exhausted from the long jog, Finder and Carver closed their eyes and relaxed under the shade of the trees. A gentle breeze whispered through the leaves overhead and gently cooled their bodies and soothed the ache in their muscles. It wasn’t long before both fell into a light sleep, their minds drifting to their distant homes.

True to her word, Summer returned to check on them after having finished inspecting the rest of the platoon. Careful not to wake them, she lightly touched Finder’s cheek with a hoof to gauge his temperature, then moved to his neck to check his pulse. Finder started to stir, though he quickly settled again once Summer’s hoof gently stroked his mane.

Satisfied that he was recovering from his bout with heat stroke, Summer left him and Carver to rest. Almost every pony in second platoon seemed to be taking advantage of the break for a short nap, though a few were taking the time to play in the cool waters of the lake. Summer was pleased to see her medics diligently moving through the ranks, ensuring everypony was resting comfortably and had gotten enough water.

Her eyes narrowed when she spotted Skyhammer. Unlike the rest of the regiment, the Centurion continued to wear his armor as he reclined against the trunk of an old oak tree. His helmet sat beside him, exposing his slate-grey mane to the light of day.

Careful not to step on anypony, or disturb them from their well earned rest, Summer trotted towards him.

“Excuse me, sir, do you have a moment?”

“If you’re not getting a drink then you should be resting,” he answered without even opening his eyes. “We’ll fly back to Fort Updraft soon.”

“Yes, sir, I need to speak with you about that.” Summer allowed herself a disdainful frown.

“Too tired to fly home, Celsus? I’m disappointed, I thought Nimbans were supposed to be the finest soldiers in the Empire. Oh well, I’m sure we could find a stallion or two willing to carry you back,” Skyhammer chided.

“I was doing marches worse than this by the time I was sixteen, Sir,” Summer shot back.

“What do you want, Celsus?” he asked, cracking open one eye to look at her.

Summer’s eyes looked to her left, then her right, ensuring none of the other recruits were close enough to overhear their conversation. She wasn’t terribly surprised that every recruit had given Skyhammer an extremely wide berth. There was little doubt in her mind that they all were happy to be as far away from him as possible. For once, the platoon’s natural distaste for their Centurion would prove useful to the medic.

She took another step closer to Skyhammer, her voice dropping to a hushed tone. “With respect, sir, what in the hell were you thinking today?

Skyhammer fully opened both eyes, giving Summer his fiercest glare. “Check your tone, Celsus.”

Summer remained unfazed by the glare, and dared to match it with an equally strong glare of her own. “You can’t expect day one greenwings to march for six hours in this heat, fully equipped, and deny them a waterskin.”

“I can, I did, and I will again.”

“No, sir, you won’t.”

Skyhammer got to his hooves, getting nose-to-nose with Summer. The two stood at the same height; their eyes locked in a vicious battle of wills that neither would concede. Skyhammer’s lips twitched with a barely restrained snarl while Summer’s face maintained a focused, righteous, indignation.

“I don’t think I heard you correctly a moment ago, Celsus.”

“Legionnaire Codex, Article Five, Section two: the ranking medical officer of all military units is empowered to override or countermand the order or orders of any ranking officer in combat or non-combat conditions to preserve the strength of the unit,” Summer said, accurately repeating the entire code. “ If you want to continue training this platoon, then you will give the recruits their waterskins. Unless, of course, you’re trying to take casualties before they’ve seen their first griffon.”

“And what would the spoiled brat of a senator know of griffons, hm?”

“My father may be the senator, but we’re still Nimban. I was seventeen when I saw my first combat, sir. Young Nimbans don’t have the luxury to be soft like the ponies of Stratopolis.”

"There's a reason it's called the Cirran Empire and not the Nimban Empire, Celsus," he spat.

Summer returned the sentiment with a wry smile. "There wouldn't be any Empire if we didn't pull Roamulus' sorry ass out of the fire four hundred years ago, sir."

“Keep that up, Celsus, and I’ll have your head on a spear,” Skyhammer promised.

“It’s Nimbus that stands as the front line against Gryphus, Nimbans who die protecting the Empire’s border, and House Rain that ensures the Emperor and the Senate can conduct their business in peace,” Summer continued, her wings twitching and her eyes never breaking contact with Skyhammer’s.

“House Rain has had centuries to pacify the griffon hordes, and not one of them has succeeded. Winter Rain is the latest in a long line of failures.”

“Lord Winter Rain has personally killed more griffons in combat than anypony alive.”

“Shame he couldn’t save his own son,” Skyhammer countered with a cruel smirk.

Summer’s expression went flat, the playful fire in her eyes turning cold as ice. Skyhammer was careful to look unphased by the sudden shift in her demeanor. Still, he remained prepared to defend himself, just in case.

A fight with an offended Nimban was not something he wanted to engage in.

“The recruits will get their waterskins when we get back to Fort Updraft, and they will carry them on all future training exercises,” Summer said, her tone clear. It was not a request.

Skyhammer's eyes filled with a fire of their own. Placing a hoof on the mare's shoulders, he pulled her closer until the two were separated by barely a few inches.

"You think you're hot stuff, don't you, Celsus?" Before Summer had a chance to defend herself, he nearly spat into her face. "Just because you're from the east doesn't mean you know shit about command and authority. I've fought griffons too, you know, and I guarantee you I've killed many more than you have, or you ever will with such a righteous attitude as yours."

His hoof tightened on her shoulder, and Summer masked her discomfort with a thin scowl. "Let me be clear about one thing," Skyhammer continued, "the book might say that you have authority in my platoon, but mine is absolute. The recruits will get their water, but know this; if you ever disregard an order from me ever again, I'll personally gut you for insubordination. Is that understood?"

Summer's response was a restrained nod; she wasn't interested in pushing her centurion to a fight.

"Good," Skyhammer grunted as he let go of her shoulder. Sitting back down against the tree, he rested his hooves behind his head. "Now get back to work, Nimban."

After resting a little more than an hour and a half, the platoon had flown back to Fort Updraft. Skyhammer had given the platoon another hour to eat before summoning them outside for lectures on the Legion’s history, procedures, and military basics. After nearly three hours of education, they had been dismissed for dinner and to their respective barracks. There hadn’t been much conversation that night; everypony was simply too tired for it.

Skyhammer woke them at dawn the next morning.

“ON YOUR HOOVES, GREENWINGS!”

Several ponies, Pathfinder included, fell out of their beds at the call, half-asleep and thoroughly confused at what was going on around them. Still, with Skyhammer’s ‘encouragement,’ the entire platoon was awake, armored, and assembled in the courtyard within fifteen minutes. Skyhammer didn’t seem particularly impressed by their timing.

“Understand this, greenwings,” Skyhammer shouted, his roar echoing over the field. “We are at war, and I’m gonna drill your lazy asses until your worthless little hearts burst, and then I’m gonna drill you some more! You get me, greenwings?”

“Sir, yes, Sir!” the platoon answered.

“Grass drills until I’m tired, greenwings! Start with wing-ups!”

They reacted immediately, dropping low to the ground and planting their wings in the grass. Skyhammer counted a brisk “up, down, up, down,” rhythm for the exercise. Finder lost count somewhere around the fiftieth wing up.

“Sit-ups, you lazy slobs!” Skyhammer barked.

On command, all sixty-four ponies switched positions and began their next exercise. Skyhammer didn’t keep a rhythm this time. Instead, several of the camp’s centurions paced around them, ensuring everypony kept exercising. Skyhammer watched for a moment before trotting into the mess hall.

“Keep at it you slovenly sacks a’ shit!” One of the centurion’s shouted.

For over an hour the centurions hounded the recruits, shifting them from exercise to exercise with no rest in between. The whole time, Skyhammer remained inside the mess hall, presumably enjoying a hearty breakfast while his recruits toiled. When he reemerged from the hall he carried a wooden mug in a hoof, sipping the contents with a sadist’s satisfaction.

“I’m still not tired, maggots!” Skyhammer touted. Had any of them been capable of looking, they would have noticed the amused grin on Skyhammer’s lips as he sipped his drink and trotted to the officer’s barracks. The guards laughed at the comment, and the recruits fantasized over the various ways they wanted to kill their centurion.

For another hour, the guards ordered the recruits from exercise to exercise, without ever repeating one. When Skyhammer finally released them from the grass dills, they moved immediately into an hour of formation marching as a cool down exercise. Only after that was done did Skyhammer release them for the morning meal.

After a couple of hours to rest, Skyhammer led them on another long march. He allowed them to bring water this time, perhaps because he didn’t feel like stopping to treat heatstroke again. They marched well into the afternoon, returning to Fort Updraft in time for dinner and more lectures on the Legion, none of which Finder’s exhausted mind could remember. He was simply glad he could walk unassisted.

The first week repeated a similar pattern. Every morning, Skyhammer woke them up bright and early. The platoon would spend two hours before breakfast doing drills, most of the day marching, then receive historical and tactical lectures in the evening. Only after a week of hard training did Skyhammer allow his platoon a weekend to rest. Pathfinder wasn’t the only pony who slept most of the time away.

The second week was markedly different than the first. While every morning still began with grass drills, Skyhammer replaced the marches with weapons training. Everypony was expected to master their blades, and many were offered bonus pay to train in specialized weapons, such as bows, javelins, and spears.

For hours each day they practiced against wooden posts wrapped in straw, all while Skyhammer and the camp guards kept a watchful eye on them. Finder enjoyed weapons training, even with the heavy armor on his back quickly sapping his energy and interfering with his movements. The blade reminded him of why he had joined the Legion, and gave him a means to fulfil that purpose.

Finder’s difficulties hadn’t gone unnoticed by Skyhammer, or the fort’s master armorer.

“Flank Stain!” Skyhammer barked, startling the unsuspecting colt.

Finder snapped to attention, his heart skipping a beat in his chest. “Yes, sir?”

“Report to the armory, the smiths have new armor ready for you.”

“Yes, sir!” Finder saluted, a cautiously excited grin pulling at his lips.

Fort Updraft was equipped with a large armory staffed by multiple blacksmiths and dozens of apprentices under their tutelage. Malleus, the master smith, was a large pegasus with a charcoal colored coat and a short mohawk mane that had long ago turned white. He personally oversaw the fitting of every recruit from the moment they arrived to the moment they left. He made it a point of personal pride to ensure everypony that set hoof into Fort Updraft received the best armor and weapons he could provide them with.

Trotting through the open door, Finder spotted Malleus standing near the center of the room, a sword in his hooves. The old blacksmith was inspecting the weapon, which had been freshly crafted by one of the apprentices. His keen eyes searched the metal for even the smallest of errors in the construction. The whole time his face remained a mask of neutral focus.

“Almost there, lad, you just need to take it to the whetstone and secure the hoof grip. Unless you want the blade to fly off at the first swing.”

“It would certainly surprise the griffons, sir,” the apprentice replied.

Malleus scoffed. “That it would, but it also leaves the poor bastard wielding it holding a handle with no blade.” He offered the weapon to the apprentice, who took it with a hoof. “Bring it back to me when you’re done.”

“Thank you, sir.” The recruit bowed his head, trotting to the back of the forge with the weapon.

Turning around, Malleus grinned at Finder. “Aha, there you are!”

Pathfinder saluted the elder stallion. “Reporting as ordered, sir.”

“At ease, son, I’m not your centurion,” Malleus said, motioning to an open area for fitting recruits. “Come over here and get out of that armor. It’s high time you got something more fitting of a colt your age.”

“I’m not a—”

“You’re not fooling anyone in the Legion, kid.” Malleus slapped Pathfinder’s armored back.

Finder chewed at his bottom lip, his ears flattening against his head.

“Hell, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” the blacksmith continued, “if every colt your age was so patriotic we’d have more legionnaires than we could count! Now come on, off with the armor!”

Finder nodded, his hooves lifting the helmet from his head and setting it aside. After a few moments of struggling, and a bit of assistance from Malleus, he was freed of the heavy cuirass. Malleus removed the sword from the armor and held on to it while Pathfinder slipped off the iron leg guards and set them aside.

Malleus set the armor into a wooden box which he pushed towards the wall. He hooked his fetlock around a second box which he slid towards Finder, a proud look on his face. Pathfinder peered inside, his own wings fidgeting with excitement.

“I gotta say, kid, whipping up some armor for you was about the most fun I’ve had in months,” Malleus said, sitting on his haunches and reaching into the box with his front hooves.

The harness he pulled from the box was made of a treated leather base that held a deep brown color. Thin iron scales were sewn into the leather backing in an overlapping horizontal pattern that covered most of the shirt. Pathfinder stared at the creation in awe, his eyes wide and his mouth open.

“What is that?” he asked, taking the armor in his hooves. “It’s so much lighter.”

“This is lorica squamata, the old style armor from the days before the Cirran Empire,” Malleus explained, “It’s not terribly common anymore, but a fair number of the scouts still favor it to the banded armor the regular infantry wears. You’ll have a greater range of motion and, as you noticed, it’s not nearly as heavy. The downside is that it won’t protect you as well as the other armor could.”

Finder hesitated at Malleus’ comment. “So… if I got hit…”

“I’d try to avoid that if I was you,” Malleus deadpanned.

The sentiment did wonders to moderate Pathfinder’s enthusiasm.

After taking a breath, Finder tried the armor on. Malleus stood close by, occasionally stepping forward to help the colt with a stubborn belt or to adjust the way the armor sat on Finder’s back. After a few minutes of combined effort, Finder stood in his new armor, stretching in various directions to get a feel for it.

“This armor is amazing, Malleus!” Pathfinder gave the old stallion a bright smile. “Its almost like a second coat!”

Chuckling, Malleus reached for the box, his hooves retrieving a set of bracers sized for the colt. “That’s how armor is supposed to feel, son. Here, try these on and tell me if they feel right.”

Finder nodded, and managed the task easily enough. The bracers were a single strip of iron bolted onto a soft leather backing. Unlike the old ones that had to be secured too tightly to Finder’s legs, the new ones sat comfortably. Likewise, the new helmet Malleus gave him fit perfectly as well.

The blacksmith gave Finder a few minutes to adjust to his new equipment before he retrieved another box for one last item.

“Well, kid, ready for your first set of wingblades?”

“Yes, Sir!” Finder answered, barely containing his excitement.

Malleus smiled. “Let’s make you a legionnaire, son.”

The pinnacle of Cirran military engineering, wingblades were worn by every pegasus enlisted in the Legion. A long chain of sharpened iron scales were arranged on a specialized leather rigging that secured the blades along the leading edge of the wing. No two sets of wingblades were alike as each was custom made for a specific soldier’s wings.

Each scale overlapped the next, with a larger scale at the crest of the wing for deflecting attacks. At end of the chain was the longest scale, shaped like a metal feather and honed to a razor sharp edge. While wingblades were rarely capable of delivering a fatal blow, especially against an armored opponent, they were widely regarded as the most versatile and dangerous weapons in the Cirran Legions.

With Malleus’ help, and a few small tweaks with the rigging, Finder was fitted with his new weapons. He stretched his wings, getting a feel for the weight and admiring Malleus’ craft. The blacksmith stood in silence, a proud smile on his face.

“How do they feel, kid?”

“They’re perfect, Malleus,” Finder answered, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. “If it wasn’t for the weight of the metal, I’d barely feel them.”

“You’ll get used to it in a week or two,” Malleus said, “the scales are sharpened, so try not to poke your eyes out.”

“Sure… wait, does that actually happen?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“The greenwing, and how stupid they are.”

“Oh.” Finder shut his mouth, sincerely hoping Malleus didn’t peg him as one of the stupid recruits, and that he didn’t prove himself to be one.

Careful not to cut himself, Malleus took Finder’s right wing in his hooves and carefully held the limb at full extension. He leaned close, giving the leather rigging one last, careful look to ensure everything was up to his standards. Satisfied with the right wing, he gave the same attention to the left. Finder stood as still as he could waiting for the blacksmith to finish his work.

“Okay, you’re good to go.” Malleus motioned a hoof towards the door. “If anything comes loose or feels odd come back in and we’ll see what we need to adjust.”

“I will.” Finder held out a hoof to Malleus. “Thanks for everything, Malleus.”

The blacksmith bumped his hoof against Finder’s, giving the smaller limb a firm shake. “It’s my job. Now you best get back to work; I’m sure your Centurion has plenty more for you to do before the day is over.”

Finder left the armory, getting back to the drilling grounds in time for another group drill, this time involving the entire regiment. Finder joined with the ponies of his platoon, sitting in the first open spot he could get. Skyhammer paced in front of the group, the other centurions already lecturing their platoons.

“Today we begin aerial combat drills,” he began, shouting loud enough so everypony could hear him. “Now, you’ve all been practicing formation marches and flights, and those will serve the Legion well in the days ahead. But once we’re engaged with the griffons in air to air battle, all that pretty shit is done. To that end, there are only three rules you slovenly sacks of shit need to learn.”

“Rule number one: Don’t stop moving. If you hover, if you hesitate, if you stop, then you’re already dead.” He emphasized the sentiment by pointedly jabbing the nearest recruit’s chest. “The griffons are stronger than we are in single combat, and they can wield their weapons more effectively in the air. We have speed and agility, use those to your advantage.”

“Rule number two: Never lose your wingpony. All aerial operations are conducted by teams of two. Your wingpony watches your back, and you watch theirs. If one of you gets a griffon on your tail, then it is your wingpony’s duty to bail you out. If your wingpony should be killed,” Skyhammer hesitated in his speech, his right hoof subconsciously rubbed a jagged scar on his left foreleg. Snapping himself free of the memory, he hardened his gaze and continued. “Should your wingpony be killed, you are to immediately fall back and regroup with another pony who lost their partner. Once you have a new partner return to the fight.”

Skyhammer paced down the line, looking at the trodden dirt under his hooves as he composed his thoughts. “Rule number three: Know your regiment’s zone of control. Before battle, the Legates will assign every regiment to a zone. Once there it’ll be our responsibility to gain air superiority and crush all resistance. Griffon skirmishers will frequently try to draw you out of your zone; do not pursue them once they leave your area. You will be alone in hostile skies and they will tear you to pieces.”

Skyhammer paused for a breath, looking into the eyes of everypony in his platoon. His eyes softened, and his voice quieted. “Things will get messy in the heat of battle, so if you lose sight of your zone either fly up high enough to survey the battlefield, or land and support the legion advancing from the ground.”

Looking to his fellow centurions, Skyhammer nodded at his platoon. “Alright, everypony partner up with the pony next to you. We will be joining with first, third, and fourth platoons for the duration of this exercise, understood?”

“Sir, yes, Sir!” they replied.

“Then get moving, greenwings!”

Finder shuffled through the crowd of ponies until he found Carver, who had been on the lookout for him as well.

“Nice armor!” The elder stallion grinned.

Finder laughed and grinned. “Thanks! It’s nice to have something that fits!”

“I’ll bet,” Carver said with a nod. “Ready, kid?”

“More than you are, Gramps.”

The two laughed as they took to the skies.

Pathfinder was stunned by how much easier everything was in his new armor. He flew with his platoon for the entirety of the drill and, for the first time since their training had begun, he wasn’t exhausted at the end of the day. In the void where exhaustion had been, Finder only felt an overwhelming sense of pride. He decided then and there that he could get used to that feeling.

After a successful day of drills, all four platoons were dismissed for the evening. Finder and Carver landed near the barracks and waited for Summer and Dawn to show up. They hesitated in their usual greetings, transfixed by the unique armor he wore.

“Well look at you,” Summer spoke first, inspecting Finder’s armor and wingblades. “You almost look like a proper soldier in that.”

“Really?” Finder asked, grinning excitedly.

“No, but it’s a start.” Summer winked.

Dawn gave Summer’s shoulder a light punch. “Lay off, Summer, I think it fits him very well.”

Carver rolled his eyes. “Dawn, would you just fuck the kid and get it over with?”

Finder wondered why his armor suddenly felt so hot and uncomfortable.

“That would take all the fun out of the game,” Dawn shot back, winking at Finder. “Don’t be jealous that there are more appealing ponies than you.”

“I’ll have you know that back home I was quite the mare’s stallion,” Carver boasted, puffing out his chest and doing his best to look dignified.

Summer wrapped a foreleg around Dawn’s shoulders, flashing her trademark grin at Carver. “Us Nimbus mares have higher standards. Get yourself a few battle scars and we’ll talk.”

Carver waved a hoof at Pathfinder. “He doesn’t have any, either!”

“Details,” Dawn said with a shrug.

Carver grumbled to himself, kicking at the ground with a hoof.

“So, who’s hungry?” Finder asked, desperate to change the subject.

Receiving three motions of agreement, the four pegasi trotted to the mess hall.

Like the barracks, the mess hall was built to feed the entire regiment at once. Dozens of tables capable of seating ten pegasi at a time were arranged into ordered rows. At the back of the mess was the serving counter where the cook and his private fiefdom of assistants worked to feed the hungry recruits.

The cook, whose name nopony seemed to know, but everypony called “Chef”, was a tall, fine-boned pegasus with a snow white coat. His mane, a rich chestnut color, was long, messy, and tended to get in the way of his blue eyes. Chef had a peculiar habit of chewing on the quill of one of his discarded feathers. He never said why, seeming to enjoy the increasingly wild rumors it started among the recruits.

The four pegasi took their place in the food line, each taking a tray and waiting their turn. All the recruits were given the same food: a chunk of bread, a scoop of potatoes, and a main course of some gravy covered thing that they had to assume was edible. Chef hesitated before serving Pathfinder, noticing the colt’s new armor.

“Well, well.” Chef grinned at Finder. “Aren’t you all fancy today.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, “fresh out of Malleus’ armory.”

Chef laughed, slopping a plate of the alleged food onto Finder’s plate. “Malleus always did have a good eye for armor. Try not to get it too dinged up before you get into an actual fight.”

“Oh come on, Chef, the dings are the best part!” Summer jeered.

“Anypony ever told you that Nimban’s are bloody mad?” Chef asked, a playful smile on his lips.

Summer shrugged, brushing a hoof through her mane. “Why, Chef, we’re not mad, we’re the only sane ponies left.”

“So you insist.” He hefted a spoonful of food onto Summer’s plate. “Take’s a buncha crazies to willingly live on the edge of Gryphus if you ask me.”

“It’s not our fault the rest of you don’t know how to have a good time,” Summer answered with a yawn.

Chef chuckled, serving Carver and Dawn their food. “Much nicer to have a tankard of ale and a warm mare I’d say.”

“We’re much warmer after a good fight,” Summer said, grinning at Chef.

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Carver mumbled.

Summer’s grin widened, sending a shiver of terror down Carver’s spine. She slipped a foreleg around his shoulders and leaned over until her lips were mere inches from his ear. When she spoke, she used a low, husky voice. “Well if all you wanted to do was watch I think I can help you out.”

Carver’s face burned, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes focused intently on Summer.

Summer tilted her head down, her eyes looking up at Carver, and a demure smile appeared on her lips.

“...No.” Carver shook his head, taking his tray in his front hooves and flying back to their table.

Finder bit his fetlock almost hard enough to draw blood, trying desperately not to laugh at his friend’s misery. Dawn nudged Summer’s ribs, struggling to contain her own giggles.

“You really are a cruel mare, Summer.”

“But I look good doing it.”

“Alright, alright,” Chef interrupted, waving them off with a lazy wing. “Fun as that was to watch, you’re holding up my line. Piss off.”

“Sorry, Chef,” Finder said, taking his tray and following after Carver.

“Sorry,” Dawn smiled apologetically to the lanky stallion.

“We’re sorry, Chef,” Summer added.

Back at their table, Carver had already started eating his meal before the others had sat down. Finder sat next to him, Dawn and Summer opposite of them.

“How’s the… um…” Finder pointed at the pile of gravy coated mystery food, “whatever that is.”

“Good, actually,” the large stallion answered, his expression as surprised as theirs.

“You wouldn’t lie to us, would you?” Summer asked.

“Only to you, Summer.”

“Fair enough.” She shrugged, taking a bite of the potatoes.

The four ate in companionable silence for a time, though Carver mostly wanted to avoid another ribbing from Summer. Halfway through his meal, Finder spotted Windshear walking towards them, a somewhat lost look on his face as he searched for a spot to eat.

Finder’s initial impression of Windshear had been similar to his brother’s best friend back in Altus: a quiet, skittish pony named Pan Sea. He had been surprised to learn just how wrong that initial impression had been. While Windshear was, indeed, a very nice pony, he had quickly earned a reputation for being ruthless in combat practice--the kind of pony who would merrily beat his opponents with a truncheon.

Summer and Dawn had been stunned when they learned that he wasn’t from Nimbus.

“Hey, Windshear!” Finder waved to the sky blue stallion with a hoof. “Need a place to sit?”

“Sure, thank you.” The stallion smiled, taking the open seat next to Pathfinder. “Nice armor.”

“Thanks,” Finder said, shoving a spoonful of food into his mouth.

“How’ve you been, Windy?” Carver asked, taking a drink of water. “Haven’t seen you too much lately.”

“I volunteered for spear training, and the special weapons group is from all four platoons.” He shrugged, rolling his sore shoulders and sighing. “So I’ve been training with them.”

“How’s that going?” Dawn asked, leaning towards Windshear with genuine interest.

“It’s… hm,” Windshear’s left hoof rubbed the back of his neck, his face pulled into a contemplative frown. “It’s really challenging, but also really rewarding. We have a lot of stances to learn, and the weapon has such a strange balance when you’re used to a sword. Plus it’s tiring as hell after a while. But when you start to get the feel for the motions, when you get your momentum to the perfect point, it’s just the most amazing feeling of power in your hooves.”

“No offense, but they look like they’d be pretty unwieldy in the air,” Carver suggested.

Windshear’s expression soured to a degree. “We can’t use them for more than basic thrusting--shut up, Summer.”

Summer held up her front hooves in mock surrender, her lips twisted in a foalish grin. “You have to admit, it’s a perfect weapon for a stallion.”

“Ugh,” Windshear rolled his eyes.

“There is no way you are the daughter of a statespony,” Carver argued, pointing a hoof at Summer. “Absolutely no way.”

“Why not?” she asked in turn, an easy smile on her lips. “Just cause I don’t talk like a stuffy Stratopolis mare?”

“Maybe you need a good stuffing,” Windshear suggested with a coy grin.

Summer laughed out loud. “Well played, Windshear! Well played indeed!”

Windshear chuckled, bowing his head graciously. “As I was saying; in formations we’re limited in our ability, but they’re training us for ground assault where we have plenty of room to swing and move without accidentally killing other pegasi.”

“Is it true you get bonus pay for the training?” Finder asked.

Windshear scoffed. “That’s what they say, but I haven't seen any of it yet.” His gaze drifted down to the food on his tray. “They could at least give us extra rations.”

“You should see basic training in Nimbus,” Summer began, popping a chunk of bread into her mouth. “Survival training drops us off in the wild with a knife and a waterskin.”

“Nimbus is right on the edge of Griffon territory though,” Windshear noted, “wouldn’t that mean griffon raids could easily catch or kill trainees?”

Dawn answered as Summer chewed another mouthful of food. “That happens now and then, but we’re usually dropped off much further west.”

“If you survive a griffon encounter, your name is known throughout the city.” Summer picked up the conversation, allowing Dawn a moment to eat. “It’s really rare for griffon raiders to travel so far into our territory though.”

“Say, did you all hear about the tournament next week?” Windshear asked.

Finder and Carver exchanged a confused glance while Dawn and Summer looked equally surprised.

“What tournament?” Finder asked.

“The scuttlebutt around the barracks is that the centurions are gonna hold a regiment-wide tournament to test everypony’s combat training before the war games.” Windershear explained, his grin wide with excitement.

“Do you think they’re placing bets on winners and losers?” Dawn asked, “cause if they are, I want in.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Summer answered.

“Do you think we’d have to fight each other?” Finder asked, his apprehension rising higher than it had been in a long while.

“Maybe. It depends on who gets knocked out of the tournament first, I’d wager,” Windshear said with a shrug.

Finder’s eyes looked around the table at his friends and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t want to raise his blade against any of them, regardless if the fight was real or not. It would be like raising a blade against his own brother, a thought that Finder found particularly revolting.

“Hey, chin up.” Carver gave Finder’s elbow a light punch. “I’ve seen you practice. You seemed pretty good with your sword.”

“The dummies don’t fight back.”

“Relax, it’ll be fun!” Windshear draped a hoof around Finder’s shoulders.

“Watch, Skyhammer places me against you right away.” Finder grumbled.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be nice.”

“Really?”

“Sure, why not.” Windshear grinned. “Then Dawn can kiss your wounds all better.”

“And I’ll rub salt in yours, Windy,” the medic promised.

Windshear tousled Finder’s mane with a hoof. “Yup, that mare’s a real keeper.”

Finder stuffed a spoonful of food into his mouth; his eyes surreptitiously glancing at Dawn. She easily noticed, and a warm, gentle, smile blossomed on her lips. Finder’s eyes instantly darted back to his plate as his cheeks began to burn.

Fort Updraft (Part II)

“Come on, you guys.” Finder looked back to Carver, Dawn, Summer, and Windshear with a broad, excited smile. “We’re almost to the lake!”

“Easy, Finder.” Carver laughed, adjusting the food-stuffed haversack that hung from his side. “We’ve got two whole days to relax! What’s the rush?”

Finder leapt at Carver, his hooves on the older pony’s shoulders. He leaned close enough that their snouts were almost touching before he spoke. “‘Cause we only have two days! Then it’s back to marching and flying patrol and fighting and getting yelled at! We gotta make the most of this while it lasts!”

“As they say in Nimbus: life is short, then you die,” Summer said with an easy smile and a slight shrug of her shoulders.

Windshear let out a conspicuous cough into his hoof. “Well, aren’t you ponies a morbid lot.”

“Not at all,” Dawn answered, shooting a glare at Windshear. “We’re actually a very optimistic bunch.”

“How so?” Windshear asked, scratching at his brow with a hoof.“ I mean, every Nimban talks about a glorious death in battle.”

“Far better to die fighting for what you believe in than to live a coward's life,” Summer said, playfully punching Windshear’s shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Carver mused, his gaze drifting up to the clear blue skies. “I wouldn’t mind being a coward with a bunch of grandfoals running around.”

“It’s true that a coward would probably survive to see another sunrise,” Summer agreed, trotting closer to Carver. “But what worth is there to a pony who isn’t willing to sacrifice everything for their cause?”

“Sure, you’ll get a powerful group if you all are willing to die for your cause, but what about when you’re beaten? Then everypony willing to take it that far will be dead and so is that cause they were fighting for.” Carver’s hoof gestured through the air in front of him as he locked eyes with Summer. “I mean, I suppose it is a noble and honorable thing to sacrifice your life for a cause. However, last I heard, the dead don’t talk, which means they can’t carry on the mission. So, does it not stand to reason that perhaps a coward or two should survive? If, at least, for no other reason than to keep the cause alive?”

Summer scoffed, elbowing Carver’s ribs playfully. “You sound like a politician. My father would like you.”

“My dad loves a good debate,” Carver said, taking the hit in stride and smiling. “Every week when I was small, he’d invite over a group of friends for dinner and hours of ‘learned discussion’ over wine.”

“Definitely sounds like my father,” Summer laughed. “Always inviting over other politicians and their families to work out a deal or discuss legislation. Gods, it was so boring.”

“Well color me surprised, Summer,” Windshear began, trotting alongside her and Carver. “I’d would’ve thought Nimban politics ended with a knife in the back.”

“Nooo,” Summer drawled, waving a dismissive hoof at the idea. “We don’t stab ponies in the back, that’s for Cirran politicians. Nimban politicians look you in the eye and stab you in the heart.” A genteel smile pulled at the corners of Summer’s mouth. “Like civilized ponies.”

Pathfinder looked over his shoulder at the comment, a concerned look dominating his expression. Trotting beside him, Dawn shook her head and smiled, nudging his side with her wing.

“She’s kidding,” Dawn said, keeping her voice down, “We really don’t run around stabbing each other to solve a problems.”

Finder let out a sheepish laugh, his right hoof combing through his mane. “I didn’t think so, but with Summer I never know…”

Dawn shrugged her shoulders. “She likes to tease, but she’s a good mare. You’ll get used to her eventually.”

“How did you two meet?” he asked, motioning back to the older mare with a tilt of his head.

“Summer and me? Oh, we’ve been thick as thieves since we were fillies,” Dawn explained with an easy smile. “Our dads were old friends, and we spent a lot of time together growing up.”

“Really? What did your dads do?” Finder asked.

“Politics, politics, politics.” Dawn gagged, letting her tongue hang out of her mouth. “My dad stayed local, her dad got appointed to represent Nimbus in the Imperial Senate.”

Finder nodded, casually stepping over the decaying trunk of a fallen tree and offering a helping hoof to Dawn. She arched an eyebrow at the colt, her confusion disappearing into a polite smile. Taking his hoof, she stepped over the log and drew close to Finder.

“Why thank you, kind sir,” she said, her eyes locked with his.

The familiar burn climbed up Finder’s neck and into his face as he gave Dawn a lopsided, nervous smile and nodded. They remained still for a moment, Finder unsure what to do next, and Dawn patiently watching him. After a few seconds, Dawn looked to her hoof, still held by Finder’s smaller fetlock.

“I’m gonna need that hoof back,” she said with a tone of amusement.

Finder’s ears folded back, the burn in his cheeks turning into a small inferno. “Oh, right!” he said, releasing her hoof as gently as he had taken it. “Sorry.”

Dawn’s lilting laughter danced through the morning breeze and through Finder’s ears. The sound made his stomach flutter and his mouth go dry. She stretched out her left wing, her soft primaries tickling his side and making him shiver. “It’s fine, really. It’s actually pretty cute. Now come on, we’ve got a lake to get to!”

Trotting past Finder, Dawn’s long tail flicked his nose. He stood there for a moment, his mind processing what had just happened. With a quick shake of his head to clear his thoughts, Finder trotted after her, only marginally hearing the political conversation that Carver and Summer had become engrossed with.

Windshear, on the other hoof, couldn’t help feeling like a foal that brought a wooden spoon to a wingblade fight. He knew almost nothing about politics or philosophy, and he cared about it even less. Summer and Carver had seemingly forgotten the world around them in their spirited discussion. As far as Windshear was concerned, it was a minor miracle they hadn’t stopped walking in order to better argue the merits of the Nimban and Cirran governing attitudes.

Small victories, he supposed.

“Of course it’s nice that Cirran citizens have elected representatives to plead their interests at a national scale,” Summer said, waving a hoof in the air to emphasize her point. “But when you look at the totality of problems that are left over, it’s just inarguable that the Nimban system is more efficient.”

“The Nimban system is an archaic remnant of the times before the empire!” Carver stomped a hoof into the grass. “The noble houses of today were just the chief vassals of Warlord Fire Rain from four-hundred years ago. Sure you can get a lot of things done, and quickly, but Nimbus is just one city! If the whole empire was run by the old ways,” Carver hesitated, thinking of the best way to phrase his thoughts. “Well, there wouldn’t be an empire today, just a few city-states locked in a perpetual war. That’s no way to live.”

“But Nimbus thrived during the tribal wars against the other warchiefs to the west, and the griffons from the east.” Summer gestured with her wings, her full attention on Carver. “We bred the mightiest soldiers in the history of the world, and Clan Rain’s system of managing the warlords was a resounding success. You can’t dispute that fact.”

“That still doesn’t change the fact that the Cirran tribe, under the leadership of Emperor Roamulus, was able to build a larger empire, with a stronger economy, better infrastructure, and social flexibility that was impossible under the Nimban system,” Carver argued, counting off his points with his primary feathers. “It’s why Nimbus joined Cirra during the unification wars.”

“You’re forgetting though,” Summer interrupted, her wing briefly draping over Carver’s back. “Warlord Fire Rain rescued Roamulus’ army just when they were about to be crushed. Nimbus was able to integrate into the Cirran empire while retaining the majority of our autonomy. Especially in regards to our culture and military.”

“Yes, and nopony is disputing that Nimbus is the heart and soul of the Cirran Legion,” Carver agreed, nodding his head once. “But even Nimbus has evolved over the last four centuries. Hence why the vassal warlords now form the noble families and nimbus politics increasingly look like a smaller scale version of the imperial senate in Stratopolis.”

“But under—Whoa!” Summer yelped, having failed to notice the fallen tree until she had tripped over it. Her face met the ground with a muted thud, and for a moment she remained there, silent and utterly still.

Windshear burst out laughing.

Stepping over the log, Carver nudged her side. “You okay?”

“I think I broke my pride,” Summer mumbled into the grass.

“There’s a metaphor in this, somewhere,” Carver said, rubbing his chin with a hoof and snickering.

“Oh, shut up,” Summer pouted, hefting herself up and brushing the dirt off her coat.

The lake had been a popular choice for many of the platoon’s recruits to spend their time off. Small groups, usually numbering between four to ten, laid claim for various spots along the shoreline. Many splashed around in the cool, shallow waters, giggling like foals all the while. Some practiced dueling with fallen tree branches in lieu of their swords. Still others had been contented to simply find a soft patch of grass under the shade of trees where they fell into deep, peaceful, sleep.

Finder, Dawn, Carver, Summer, and Windshear spent nearly an hour hiking the trails around the lake before finding a quiet spot. Carver and Windshear set two haversacks against a tree, each stuffed to the brim with food, while Dawn rolled out a blanket she had “borrowed” from one of First Platoon’s recruits.

Finder was stunned by the veritable smorgasbord the older stallions had acquired: pastries, fruits, vegetables, cheeses, sandwiches, and more. Finder, Dawn, and Summer all cast an incredulous look at their friends.

“How in the world did you guys get this?” Finder asked.

“This looks like stuff from the officer’s mess,” Summer noted, inspecting one of the sandwiches.

“Yup,” Windshear said, looking quite pleased with himself. “They weren’t gonna miss it.”

“How the hell did you get Chef to give you these?” Dawn asked, even as she sat on the pilfered blanket and reached for a sweetroll.

Windshear blinked once, staring at Dawn with a dumbfounded expression. “Uh, I bribed him. I mean, really. What did you think I’d do, steal them?” He pointed a hoof at Finder. “I’d make Pipsqueak there do that before I would.”

Finder voiced his irritation with a grunt, closing his eyes and taking a big bite from his sandwich.

“So,” Windshear started, flopping onto his right side and snagging an apple from the pile. “You all excited for the tournament tomorrow?”

“The medics aren’t allowed to participate,” Summer answered, her lips pursed in a disappointed pout. “We just get to watch.”

The comment drew Finder’s attention to Summer. “Why don’t you get to participate?”

Dawn answered while Summer ate. “They don’t want to risk injuring a platoon medic for something like that.” She offered the stallions a sympathetic smile. “No offense, boys, but we’re harder to replace than you are.”

“Alas, you’ll miss out on all the fun, such a pity.” Windshear looked to Summer. “And there I was, all excited to see how a Nimban mare fights.”

Summer snorted. “Well, I know that the Eighth Legion is deployed in Nimbus. So, since that’s our legion, we’ll be sent there to reinforce them.” She smiled to Windshear. “You’ll get plenty of chances to see Nimbans in battle. Think you can keep up?”

“I’ll certainly have fun trying,” Windshear answered.

“That’s the spirit!” Summer cheered.

After a moment of eating in silence, Carver spoke again. “Are any of you scared? Of the griffons, I mean.”

Pathfinder flinched, the specter of his nightmare flashing in his mind, like lightning in the dark.

“No, no way!” Finder lied, forcing the memory from his mind.

“They’re big, aggressive, and one-on-one they’re very dangerous,” Summer began with a nod of her head. “But they’re nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m afraid of Summer,” Windshear said, pointing a hoof at the mare.

“Aww, such a flatterer,” Summer replied in a singsong voice, waving her hoof at Windshear.

“They’re ugly, mean, and very dumb. The Legion will eat them for breakfast, at least if the Nimban militias don’t do that first.” Dawn puffed her chest out. “So, no, I don’t think there’s anything to be scared of.”

Carver’s gaze drifted to the sky, the glittering stars filling his vision. “Really? I’m terrified.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Summer’s mouth. “A big colt like you scared? I never thought I’d see the day.”

Carver flopped against Summer, his hooves hanging loosely around her neck. “Protect me, Summer!”

She elbowed him in the ribs, shoving him off like a wet cloak. “I’m a medic, not a whorse.”

“In that case, I’ve got a little problem down there.” Carver smiled, motioning with a hoof to his groin. “Wanna take a look at it for me?”

Summer smiled, extending her left wing and using her primary feathers to tease Carver’s thigh. “One amputation, coming right up.”

Carver’s front hooves shot between his legs as he quickly scooted away from her. She winked and blew him a playful kiss as Finder, Dawn and Windshear laughed.

After finishing their lunch, Windshear stood up with a grunt, shaking out the wing he had been laying on.

“Come on, you lot.” He grinned at them. “Let’s have some fun!”

With a whooping cry, Windshear leapt into the air. Three powerful flaps of his wings got him over the placid waters of the lake, its surface reflecting the world like a mirror. Tucking his wings in, Windshear curled into a ball and fell, his body splashing into the depths and sending a fair-sized spray of water into the air.

He surfaced after a minute, sucking in a lungful of air and grinning at his friends. “Come on, the water’s great!”

“You really shouldn’t swim so soon after eating,” Summer called back to him. “You’ll get a stomach ache!”

“It’s good for you; it builds character!” Windshear shouted, splashing about like a foal.

“You say that about everything!” Summer shot back.

“Cause it’s true,” Windshear answered in a sing-song manner.

Summer groaned, rubbing her forehead with a hoof. She failed to notice Carver sneaking up behind her until his forelegs had wrapped around her torso and he lifted her into the air. Summer yelped, her hooves flailing in search of solid ground and her wings pinned to her sides by Carver’s forelegs.

“Damn it, Carver, let me go!”

“Are you sure about that?” He asked, grinning wildly.

“Let me go, or I swear I’m gonna kick your plot from here to Nimbus!”

“If you insist,” he tittered, tossing her directly into the lake.

Dawn’s hooves shot to cover her mouth, it was all she could do not to burst out laughing. Finder, meanwhile, hoped his friend hadn’t just dug his own grave. Carver hovered above the water, grinning victoriously and careful to be out of reach.

Like a crocodile on the prowl, Summer’s head slowly rose above the surface of the water. She said nothing, only her nostrils broke the surface. Instead she scanned the skies until her eyes found Carver.

“Hey Summer! How’s the water?” he asked in a cheeky tone; a nervous grin pulling at his lips.

The mare did not answer. Instead, she shot Dawn a surreptitious glance. The look went unnoticed by Carver, though Finder certainly noticed it.

Dawn leapt into action instantly, nearly knocking Finder over as she leapt into the sky. Carver never had a chance to dodge as the smaller mare tackled him out of the sky with a gleeful howl.

“For the glory of Nimbus!” she cheered before they both crashed into the lake.

Dawn dragged Carver under almost eight feet before she lost her grip. He scrambled for the surface, his powerful wings propelling him through the water with little trouble. Summer was waiting for him when he surfaced.

Dawn giggled, a puff of bubbles escaping her muzzle. She remained under for a moment longer, her eyes studying the ripples of light that danced over the surface of the water. Flapping her wings for a quick burst of momentum, Dawn shot to the surface, gulping air to relieve the burning in her lungs.

She quickly wiped her eyes across her foreleg, just in time to see Summer tackle Carver from behind, splashing him back under the water. The two wrestled for several minutes before Carver looked to Windshear, who had been laughing hysterically the whole time.

“Come on, Windshear! Help a Cirran out!” Carver all but begged.

“I would, but then she’d try to drown me,” he answered through his laughter.

“Where’s,” Carver’s words were lost to a mouthful of water, Summer again trying to pull him under. He shoved her off, splashing water with his hooves to keep her at bay. “Where’s your Cirran pride?!”

“Oh, fine,” Windshear acquiesced, lunging at Summer with a loud war cry. “For Cirra!”

Summer yelped, taken off-guard by the sudden intervention. Windshear hooked his forelegs under hers, lifting his forelegs vertically and disabling her ability to grapple Carver anymore.

“Cirran treachery!” she shouted, her back legs kicking wildly. The pretense of anger wiped away by the broad grin that split her face.

Windshear grunted, struggling to keep his grip on the flailing mare. “Get her, Carver!”

“Payback ti—” Carver gurgled an unexpected mouthful of water as Dawn leapt upon his back and dunked his head into the water.

“Surrender, Cirrans! You’re outmatched!” Dawn said with a haughty laugh.

Carver rolled in the water, forcing Dawn under so he could get a breath. “Finder! Back us up here!”

“Screw them, back the winners, kid!” Summer shouted, having wormed her way out of Windshear’s grasp momentarily.

“Family before friends, right little brother?” Carver asked with a knowing wink.

Finder’s heart skipped a beat, the all too familiar sense of longing making its presence known. If Longbow had been there, Finder would’ve tripped over himself to keep up. However, Carver wasn’t his brother, and he was very different than Longbow.

Yet Finder couldn’t deny Carver had treated him just like a brother since they had joined. They could talk frankly about their interests, their homes and families, and the latest horror Skyhammer had foisted upon the recruits.

Perhaps, just for the day, Finder could allow himself to pretend Carver was the brother he had run away to protect.

His decision made, Finder rose to his hooves and charged into the waterlogged fray.

Skyhammer sat at perfect attention, his back against the wall and his eyes facing forward. The office around him was sparsely furnished, with only the banner of the eighth legion and a pair of crossed spears to decorate the heavy oaken walls. Skyhammer liked it that way. Simple, no-nonsense, and effective: the epitome of the Eighth Legion.

Muffled voices drifted in from the next room, though there weren’t any details that could distinguished. He recognized the deeper of the voices to be Legate Hailstorm, a dour old stallion with a perpetual scowl. Half the centurions in the Eighth Legion had a long running bet on if Hailstorm was physically capable of smiling.

Skyhammer had ten bits that the Legate could not.

The quiet sound of a pony clearing his throat drew Skyhammer’s attention from his thoughts. Standing between Skyhammer and the Legate’s office was Hailstorm’s aide-de-camp: a thin stallion with a combed back mane and old eyes.

“The Legate will see you now, Centurian Skyhammer.”

Skyhammer stood and saluted the pony before trotting into the room. Hailstorm sat behind a simple wooden table that was littered with various documents and quills, his eyes focused on a report in his hooves. He didn’t acknowledge Skyhammer initially, the papers seemingly holding more interest than anything Skyhammer could say.

With a gray mane, pockmarked face, and sunken brown eyes, Hailstorm appeared to be far older than he was. His voice resonated with a deep purr, and he spoke with a natural gravitas that officers and politicians alike would have sacrificed their wings to possess.

“Sit down, Centurion,” Hailstorm said, pointedly never looking at Skyhammer.

Following the instruction, Skyhammer sat. “Thank you, Sir.”

“I’ve received news from the front,” the legate began in his quiet tone, his voice barely louder than the burning logs in the hearth behind him. “The Eighth Legion has met our enemy at Hengsted where they routed local griffon forces and razed the town. The Eighth’s casualties were within our expectations, though we haven’t gotten the exact numbers yet.”

“How soon will we deploy, Sir?” Skyhammer asked.

“The war games are scheduled for tomorrow; we will conduct them as planned, then the replacements will fly to Nimbus to reinforce the Eighth Legion. The Third, Fourth, and Seventh Legions will continue the advance into Gyrphus and bring this business to an end before harvest season. The eighth Legion will remain in reserve, standing ready to assist the advance wherever needed. This regiment will be given more specific orders after you integrate with the eighth.”

“Understood, Sir,” Skyhammer said.

“Now then,” Hailstorm set the papers down and looked Skyhammer in the eye, “Are they ready?”

“Yes, Sir.” Skyhammer gave a curt nod to the elder stallion. “The entire regiment is armored, armed, and lined up. We’re just waiting for your inspection before we begin.”

“Well done, Centurion Skyhammer,” Hailstorm said, though the compliment sounded more like an afterthought than legitimate praise.

The aging stallion rose to his hooves, the heavy plates of his armor creaking at the motion. Skyhammer stood as well, saluting Hailstorm as the legate moved past him. Hailstorm paused at the door, confirming a few afternoon meetings with his aide-de-camp before heading outside.

All four platoons had been assembled in the drill yard in preparation for the day’s tourney. The separate platoons had been lined up in orderly squares standing eight ponies wide by eight ponies deep. As Hailstorm exited into the light, a centurion called them to attention.

“At ease, greenwings,” Hailstorm growled, barely loud enough for everypony to understand. “Skyhammer, you may proceed.”

The centurion executed a perfect salute before turning to the regiment.

“Listen up, Greenwings,” Skyhammer shouted in the manner only he could, “today’s tournament is to test your skills in single combat. To that end the centurions will each select two names from the bucket, and those called will then duel. The winner will be the first pony to disarm, incapacitate, or force his opponent to yield.” Skyhammer took a breath, allowing his words time to sink in. “There are no rules, no forbidden holds or techniques, however the centurions will intervene should things get out of hoof. The goal here is to defeat your opponent, not to kill them. Hence why you are still using the blunt weapons.”

“Now, so we aren’t here for the next three days, here’s how this will work.” Skyhammer caught himself before he started pacing. It was a habit he needed to break himself of if he ever hoped to make Legate or Praetorian one day. “All four platoons will separate and duel until there is a single champion for that regiment. The champion of first platoon will then duel the champion of second platoon, while the champions of third and fourth platoon duel. The winners of those duels will then fight to decide the regimental championship.” Skyhammer smiled at the recruits. “There will be a reward for the winner in a bonus to his weekly pay and a tankard of the finest Cirran ale with dinner.”

Excited murmurs danced through the recruits, Skyhammer and the other centurions allowed it without the usual reprimands. He cleared his throat after a moment to refocus their attention on him. “Finally, Legate Hailstorm has been gracious enough to honor us with his presence, and will be observing the duels.” Skyhammer smiled, “impress him, and you might make centurions yourself one day.”

Skyhammer looked to Hailstorm. “Do you wish to address them, sir?” he asked in a hushed tone.

Hailstorm didn’t answer with words. Instead, he stepped forward, his gaze drifting to the overcast skies. He contemplated the weather for a moment, wondering idely if the gods would bring them rain, or hold back the summer rains for another day.

“Sons and daughters of Cirra,” he began, his voice firm and powerful. “It is a glorious time for our empire. We have met our enemy in the skies and fields of battle, and we have driven them back. Yet take heed, for the bitter work is not yet finished. Soon, all of you will be deployed to the front, and you will taste battle in all it’s horror and glory.”

Hailstorm paused a moment, giving his words time to sink in. He look out at the faces in the assembled ranks, young, frightened faces looked back at him. Colts and fillies that should by rights be in their homes working the fields, building the roads, or creating the next great works of Cirran art were instead destined to be soldiers in another ugly war. Hailstorm wondered how many of those young faces would be sacrificed before victory would be attained.

“Trust in the pony beside you, trust in your training, and you will come home with honor,” Hailstorm said, bowing his head ever so slightly to the recruits.

The recruits couldn’t help but notice he hadn’t mentioned anything about coming home alive.

With no further fanfare, he turned to Skyhammer and gave the centurion a small nod to proceed. The centurion stepped forward, clearing his throat and addressing the regiment one last time. “Alright, greenwings, follow your centurions to your assigned dueling area. The tournament will begin immediately.”

“Yes, Sir!” the regiment answered in unison.

It took a few minutes for each platoon to move to their separate areas before the duel, and for Pathfinder, every second of that time disappeared far too quickly. He stuck close to Carver and Windshear, doing his best to keep his head down and draw the smallest possible amount of attention. His nerves easily got the better of him, a constant tremor running through his wings and legs.

Carver noticed Finder’s anxiety before Windshear, and after they had found a spot to stand in front of the simple dirt arena. He leaned slightly over, nudging Finder’s side with his wing.

“Relax,” he suggested with a friendly smile, “this is gonna be fun.”

“The most fun a pony could have out of the bedroom,” Windshear added.

Finder groaned, shaking his head in dismay. “The both of you have gone mad.”

Carver laughed, slapping his hoof against Finder’s shoulder. “You’ll get there too, my friend.”

“Alright, meatbags, pay attention!” Skyhammer called out, snapping the platoon’s attention to him again. Sitting beside him was a simple bucket with the names of everypony in their platoon written on slips of parchment. “When I draw your name, step into the dueling circle.”

“Excuse me, sir?” Windshear raised a hoof over his head.

Skyhammer cast a disparaging glare at the large stallion. “What is it, Windshit?”

“I’d like to volunteer to go first, Sir,” Windshear answered, allowing himself an eager grin.

Skyhammer considered the request for a moment, his eyebrow arching upwards. Feeling unusually generous, he nodded once and beckoned Windshear forward with a hoof. “Alright, Windshear, in the ring with you, then”

A broad, animalistic grin pulled at Windshear’s lips. His wings twitched with excitement as he looked to Finder and Carver. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Knock ‘em dead,” Carver said, smiling eagerly.

“Good luck,” Finder offered, looking far less excited than Carver.

Adjusting his grip on his spear, Windshear stepped into the dueling ring and waited for Skyhammer to name his opponent. He flexed his wings open and closed, the metal scales of his wingblades scraping together with every motion. He closely watched Skyhammer’s hoof as it shuffled through the bucket and produced a single slip.

“Redshift,” he called out the name. “You’re first.”

Pathfinder nudged Carver. “Is it just me, or is Windshear looking a little, erm… unhinged?”

Carver blinked several times before looking into the ring. Windshear had stabbed his spear into the ground and paced behind it like a caged animal. His eyes sparkled with barely contained glee and his lips pulled back in a wide smile that exposed his crooked teeth.

Redshift was a stallion of average size with a midnight-blue coat and a dark red mane and tail. Finder hadn’t really talked to him in more than a passing manner, and didn’t know much about him other than he seemed like a nice enough pony.

“Right, try not to kill each other.” Skyhammer lifted his bucket of names and held it against his breastplate before walking out of the dueling circle.

“Good Luck,” Windshear saluted his opponent.

“Don’t need it,” Redshift shot back, returning the salute.

Windshear let out an amused snort, his face split by a feral grin. Redshift matched the look with a calculating stare and a smile that radiated supreme confidence. They waited for Skyhammer to start the match. Neither stallion moved, neither blinked.

“Begin!” Skyhammer shouted.

Redshift leapt forward, ripping his sword free of it’s scabbard and lunging at Windshear with almost blinding speed. Windshear barked out a joyous laugh, pulling his spear free of the cold earth and meeting Redshift head-on. The flat of his spear’s blade deflected Redshift’s sword with a tremendous ring.

The strength of Windshear’s blow was enough to send Redshift spinning. He flapped his wings once to put himself out of Windshear’s strike range. The spearpony responded with a wild smile, dropping his spear into his left foreleg and lunging forward.

Redshift twisted away from the thrust, his wings propelling him into the air to the cheers of the assembled recruits. Windshear twirled the spear around his foreleg. He wedged the counterweight into his fetlock and thrust upwards with lightning speed.

Cursing, Redshift narrowly dodging the sudden lunge with a midair spin. He brought his sword down, batting aside the spear and slashing at Windshear’s head with his wingblades. Windshear narrowly avoided the slash. Redshift followed up with a blinding flurry of strikes against his opponent.

Suddenly on the defensive, Windshear deflected each blow as best he could. Redshift tried to press his advantage, succeeding in pushing Windshear back, but failing to connect with the decisive blow he needed. The frustration only made Redshift’s strikes more ferocious.

Windshear rolled left to avoid another lunge and lashed out with his wings, but the sharpened scales deflected harmlessly off Redshift’s iron bracer. Redshift gripped harder on his sword, preparing for a powerful strike on his opponent’s exposed flank but Windshear didn’t give him the chance.

Thinking quickly, Windshear dropped his spear into his hooves again. The butt of the spear slipped under Redshift’s stomach, unnoticed by the stallion. Throwing all his weight onto the other side, the counterweight slammed into Redshift’s unarmored belly. Redshift let out a distressed grunt as Windshear threw him aside like a shovel full of dirt.

A wild roar erupted from the crowd as Windshear rose up on his rear hooves, his spear angled down with the blade resting on the ground in front of him. Redshift recovered almost immediately, his sword at the ready.

Windshear panted from the adrenaline rushing through his veins, his lips pulled into a full, wild, smile. Redshift snarled, the hilt of his blade held tightly in his teeth.

“That all you got?” Windshear taunted, licking his lips and laughing. “My little sister has more fight than you!”

Redshift loosed an angry snort, his teeth clenching the hilt of his sword. The stallions circled each other, sweat trickling down their brows as they searched for any opening to exploit. All the while, the gathered recruits cheered and shouted; their raucous cheers split evenly between the combatants.

Redshift lunged, his sword parrying the heavy spear away. He twisted, keeping his blade in contact with the spear as he lashed out with a wing. Windshear’s eyes widened, and time slowed to a crawl. He wouldn’t be fast enough to dodge.

Silence fell over the circle.

Windshear stumbled backwards, the searing pain radiating from the gash in his belly. Blood seeped into his coat, staining the pale blue hairs. He gritted his teeth, taking slow, trembling breaths. The butt of his spear jammed into the ground and he leaned on it for balance, holding the bloody wound with a hoof.

Redshift stared at his opponent, eyes wide with horror.

The medics shoved their way through the crowd only to be stopped by Skyhammer’s raised hoof. Summer stared at the centurion with a mixture of confusion and disgust.

“The duel isn’t over yet, Celsus,” he stated in with a cold tone.

Summer bit her tongue and glanced to the combatants.

Redshift stabbed his sword into the ground and took a moment to let his jaw rest. “It’s over, Shear, yield!”

“Over?” Windshear asked, his gaze looking down to the accumulating droplets of blood that had dripped to the cold earth. He looked up, eyes wide and lips pulled into a wild grin. “How can it be over when we’re just starting to have fun!” He leapt forward with a gleeful howl as Redshift grabbed his sword, barely managing to deflect a series of rapid thrusts. He moved in close, blocking a heavy strike and hooking his forelegs around the shaft. At the same moment he lashed out with his wingblades. Windshear dropped the spear, leaping away to avoid another painful cut.

“That’s more like it!” he cheered, immediately drawing his own sword and pressing his attack.

He leapt into the air, bringing the sword down at Redshift’s head. Redshift blocked, the muscles in his neck aching from the force of the impact. Windshear leapt away, sprinting around Redshift to where the spear had fallen to scoop up the weapon and slide to a stop.

Twisting his neck, Windshear flung his sword at Redshift. The blade whistled and spun through the air at Redshift’s head. He twisted his sword to counter, deflecting the flying weapon with a heavy clang.

Before he could recover, Windshear slammed into him. Both stallions tumbled to the ground, their armor clattering together as wingblades flailed in wild slashes. Windshear managed to get the shaft of his spear around Redshift’s neck.

With his back to the ground, and Redshift’s back on his chest, Windshear pulled tightly on the spear. Redshift thrashed and struggled, panic gripping him as he choked. He kicked out with his hooves, flapped with his wings, and tried to pull the spear off of his windpipe.

“That’s it…” Windshear whispered into Redshift’s ear, the smaller stallion’s struggles getting weaker by the moment. “Let it all out.”

The sword fell from Redshift’s mouth, clattering to the ground next to them. His body felt heavy and his limbs stiff. The darkness on the edge of his vision crept in, closer and closer, until there was nothing left. His eyes rolled back in his head as his struggles ceased.

“Victory goes to Windshear,” Skyhammer called, motioning for Summer and the medics to treat them.

“Come on!” Summer ran into the circle, Dawn, Poultice, and Salve following close behind her. “Dawn, you and Poultice on Red. Salve, with me!”

“Yes, Ma’am,” they answered.

Windshear released his spear, letting it roll to the ground. With slightly more effort, and the timely assistance of the medics, Redshift was laid out beside him. The defeated stallion coughed, gulping lungfuls of air while they tended to him.

“You’ll be fine, Red,” Dawn assured him in a calm and serene voice. “Just take nice, deep breaths.”

Meanwhile, Summer hooked Windshear’s right foreleg over her shoulders and braced against his weight, Salve took his place on the spearpony’s opposite side. Together, they guided him out of the ring and through the crowd. The recruits cheered and slapped his back affectionately. Windshear wore a proud smile, shaking hooves and thanking ponies as they passed him.

“Don’t let this go to your head,” Summer warned him in a hushed tone. “Griffons are a whole different challenge.”

“How many have you killed?” he asked, wincing from the wound on his belly.

“Griffons?” Summer thought for a moment, her face scrunching and one eye closing. “Seven.”

Windshear grinned, his elbow nudging Summer’s ribs. “Only seven? I’m disappointed in you, Summer.”

Summer grumbled under her breath, her ears flattening out.

“You’re so bucked,” Salve whispered in Winshear’s ear.

Before she could fire off a snappy retort, one which Windshear knew would probably emasculate him in irreparable ways, Carver and Finder trotted up to them.

Carver grinned, his hoof slapping Windshear’s back. “Hell of a fight, Shear.”

“Are you okay?” Finder asked, looking slightly paler than usual. The young pony dug at the ground with a hoof and chewed at his lower lip. His golden eyes occasionally darted towards the ring, where two other ponies were already locked in a vicious struggle.

“He’s fine,” Summer answered, setting Windshear down. “Salve, get the vinegar.”

“Yes Ma’am,” he answered, hooves digging through his bag.

“Uh...hows a bout we don’t do that?” Windshear fidgeted uncomfortably.

“Don’t be a foal,” Summer chided the spearpony with a wry grin. “We’ve got to clean the area before we sew it up.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Windshear said, attempting to get back to his hooves.

Summer held his shoulder with a firm grasp, preventing him from moving. Meanwhile, Salve set a small wooden bowl on the ground. He took a large salt crystal in his hooves and carefully ground it into the bottom of the dish until he had accumulated a thin film over the wooden surface. After replacing the crystal into his bag, Salve added in water with a small amount of vinegar. He mixed the concoction together with a long stick that had one end wrapped with cloth, nodding to Summer when it was ready.

“This will sting a bit,” Summer warned Windshear, her hooves securing a tighter grip on his shoulders. “But a tough pony like you will be fine.”

“Somehow I don’t feel particularly reaSSHH!” Windshear’s eyes went wide as Salve applied the solution to the wound.

“Or maybe not,” Summer added quickly.

Pathfinder watched the scene unfold before him with wide eyes and flattened ears. A pallor fell over his face and he took a half step back. Summer glanced up at him with a fierce glare.

“Don’t you dare move,” she snapped at him.

“But, but I—”

“If you can’t handle watching this.” Summer motioned with her head to Winderhear’s writhing form. “Then how in the hell are you gonna handle seeing ponies get cut to pieces when the real fighting begins?”

Carver frowned, draping a supportive wing over Finder’s back. “Summer, ease up on him.”

The medic scoffed, shaking her head in annoyance. She reached into her medical bag with her left wing, her dexterous primaries retrieving a hook and thread. “Don’t “Summer” me. The kid wants to be in the legion, then she’s gotta get used to this.”

“Would you all shut the buck up?!” Windshear yelled at them, his face twisted in an agonized expression.

“Oh be quiet.” Summer gave Windshear’s head a light smack with her hoof.

“Ready to close him up?” Salve asked.

“Yup,” Summer answered, deftly threading the needle with the thread.

Windshear’s eyes widened again and he let out a nervous laugh. “A-a spot of medicinal brandy would—”

“Brandy’s for heroes, Shear,” Summer answered, patting her hoof on his head. “The rest of you get vinegar on your cuts, stitches in your skin, and maggoty bread in your bellies.”

“Can I at least get a kiss to make it feel better?” Windshear asked.

“No,” Summer answered, taking the hook in her feathers and planning how she would proceed.

“I guess it's a good thing I was talking to Salve then,” Windshear said with a little huff.

For a moment, Summer seemed to forget whatever had been in her mind in the last few minutes, her gaze slowly drifting up to look Windshear in the eye. Salve, on the other hoof, looked unsure if he should feel flattered or offended at Windshears comment. Perhaps more confusing to both the medics, was their inability to tell if the spearpony had been joking or serious.

“Are you implying I’m a bad kisser?” Summer asked with a fake pout.

“No, I’m implying Salve is probably better.”

“Can I stich his mouth closed?” Salve asked, casting a pleading look at Summer.

“Don’t tempt me, Salve,” the white mare growled in answer.

Windshear’s victorious grin was short lived as Summer and Salve began to suture his wound. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes tightly, taking sharp breaths through his nose with every pinch of the needle. Summer didn’t provide him with her usual banter or small talk, wanting to finish the task as quickly as possible.

Pathfinder watched the process diligently, too afraid of Summer’s potential wrath to refuse her. Carver’s right wing remained draped over his back like a warm blanket. It didn’t little to soothe the nausea, but it did provide a measure of comfort to the younger pony.

The next duel had already commenced in the circle. Finder could hear the clashing of steel blades mixed with the primal grunts and roars of the ponies that battled for dominance. Every impact made him flinch and cringe.

All too soon the fight came to an end with Skyhammer naming the winner and preparing to draw the next names. There was a terrible stillness that hung over the ring as ponies waited with baited breath for the next fight. They murmured to each other; everypony making his or her wager on names and victors in hypothetical duels.

“Carver!” Skyhammer’s voice boomed over them.

Pathfinder felt his friend’s body stiffen for a moment before he relaxed. An easy smile pulled his lips into a grin. “Well, all I need to know is who’s sorry ass I’m gonna—”

“Pathfinder!” The Centurion shouted.

For a fleeting moment, Pathfinder felt his heart stop in his chest. He looked up at Carver who, in turn, looked back at him. Neither spoke, their faces said all they needed.

Windshear, on the other hoof, did not share the moment. “Well, didn’t see that one coming.”

Summer smacked the back of his head with her hoof.

Carver’s wing draped over Finder’s back, and the elder stallion flashed him a brave smile. “Ready, little brother?”

“Y-yeah. I’m ready,” Pathfinder answered.

As the two ponies took their places in the dueling ring, Hailstorm’s eyebrow arched upward at the sight of the small colt facing off against the large stallion. He looked at Skyhammer, a sense of confusion written in his expression. Motioning his hoof to the pair, he addressed Skyhammer.

“What’s with the whelp?”

“A fine example of patriotic spirit,” Skyhammer answered, “and less useful than a tankard of piss.”

Hailstorm’s lips pursed together in a thoughtful expression. “What’s the odds on him?”

“Eighty to twenty, Sir.”

“Did you place a bet?”

“There’s not much to bet on here, Sir,” Skyhammer answered.

A small, but very wicked grin pulled at Hailstorm’s lips. “Well then, Centurion, go put you and I down for fifty each and a barrel of ale on the runt.”

Skyhammer balked visibly, staring in thinly veiled horror at the order. “S-sir?”

“Now, centurion.” Hailstorm motioned for Skyhammer to move with a dismissive wave of his wing.

Feeling deflated, but still holding his head up high, Skyhammer saluted the Legate. “Yes Sir.”

Finder’s teeth struggled to hold their grip on his sword. He could hear the scales of his wingblades shaking as the feathers beneath shifted uneasily. He thought he’d been ready, but seeing the looming shape of Carver standing at the far side of the ring, he wasn’t so sure.

Carver, for his part, smiled around the handle of his sword. “Try to put up a good fight, Finder; I wanna look good in front of the mares.”

Skyhammer glared at the sound of Carver’s humor, and snapped his wing down. “Fight!”

Carver didn’t need to be told twice; his wings pumped just once as his legs kicked off the ground, producing more of a pounce than actual flight. Even as worried as he was, Finder managed to get a wing up to stop Carver’s sword, and his own sword up to match his opponent’s left wing. Despite the block, the force of Carver’s much bigger body shoved the little colt backwards, almost to the point of sitting down.

The hole in Pathfinder’s guard was obvious; with his neck twisted forward to parry Carver’s wing, and his wings spread wide, any serious combatant could have gotten a their blade against his throat in an instant. Rather than end things so quickly, Carver brought his forehead down against Finder’s. The literally green rookie stumbled, and his vision took a moment to return.

“Come on, Finder!” Carver called in a forced whisper. “Swing at me!”

“But Carver―”

Carver brought his sword down, deliberately grinding its blade against Finder’s and releasing a spray of sparks. The motion left the older colt’s mouth rather close to Finder’s ears. “Do it!”

Acting more out of shock and desperation than desire, Finder took advantage of his smaller size and ducked under Carver’s left wing. With new space to maneuver, he threw a swift slash with his left wing.

The sloppy blow would have been easy to block, but Carver took the opportunity to instead drop low to the ground and let Finder’s wing blades slash above his mane. The risky maneuver earned some whispers amongst the crowd, but it also left Finder with enough time and momentum to spin around completely. Finding his rear hooves oriented toward his friend, the little colt did the only thing that made sense at the time: a double-hoofed buck.

The blow hit Carver squarely on the tip of his muzzle and left him to reel backward in shock. Despite the pain, and the little trickle of blood that escaped his nostrils, he wore an almost carefree grin. “That’s more like it!”

“But I don’t want to―”

A swing from Carver’s sword stopped Finder’s protest, as he bit down hard on his own weapon to block. Growing irritated, the bigger colt lashed out three more times, and with each attack, Finder found himself backing up. Finally, in desperation, the little pony lashed out with both wings. Carver’s attacks stopped more from surprise at the sudden show of aggression than any actual difficulty in parrying them. With a moment’s space, Finder grabbed Carver’s head and leapt over him, like a little stallion playing leapfrog.

Halfway through the motion, the flat of Carver’s wing slammed against his friend, tossing the green colt to the dirt. Finder rolled with his momentum, returning to his hooves just in time to block a new flurry of slashes from his larger friend. Every blow made Finder’s teeth ache, and left his neck feeling sore and overpowered.

On his fourth slash, Carver held his sword against Pathfinder’s, locking the steel together. Finder’s focus on holding back the bigger stallion’s strength left him blind to the forehoof that smacked against the side of his neck. Pathfinder’s sword was thrown to the ground, and the colt himself barely managed to avoid the same fate by a quick flap of his wings.

Finder moved for his weapon, but Carver reached it first, swatting it aside with a hoof. “Come on, Finder. Last chance.”

Pathfinder swallowed down a breath, and for just a moment his eyes wandered to the crowd. Summer and Dawn held up hooves toward him, though the words accompanying their motions were lost in the commotion of the crowd. They didn’t really matter, anyway; he could guess what they were calling out just from the looks on their faces.

Carver charged forward on all four hooves, bringing his sword to bear again. This time, Finder caught the attack on a wing blade, and then twisted in place to keep the sword out of the way while also bringing his other wing to bear on Carver’s side.

The bigger stallion smiled around his sword until he realized just how much of a disadvantage Finder had him at: between the wing pinned at his side and his neck twisted out of the way, he was having a hard time making any sort of move against his Pathfinder. There was one advantage, though, that Finder simply couldn’t stop: size.

Carver threw his entire weight into his shoulder, and in turn smashed it against Finder’s shoulder. At worst, the blow would bruise, but it also tossed the lightweight pegasus back a few feet, leaving Carver enough room to regain his focus.

Something in Finder’s mind was racing as the calls of the crowd grew louder; he could feel his heart beating in his ears, and his mind raced faster on instinct than his consciousness could follow. He needed to keep his momentum; he couldn’t hold Carver for long once the big stallion got on the offensive.

His solution was to lunge forward and swing a wing blade toward Carver’s legs. It was a blow destined to miss from the beginning, but that wasn’t the point at all. The bigger colt leapt over the attack, giving Finder’s smaller frame and faster limbs the chance to slide under his friend’s wing and move in on his exposed flank.

Carver jumped away from Finder’s attack, but not without losing a few hairs and a couple drops of blood near his cutie mark. The tan colt’s bigger wings didn’t waste another moment in hurling him to the far side of the ring, where he rounded on his friend and kicked at the ground with a forehoof. Now that Finder was finally playing for real, it was time to end the battle.

Finder knew what was coming. It wasn’t hard to guess, given the way Carver spread his wings to their full length, and tensed his legs for a mighty push. He also knew that he wasn’t strong enough to stop Carver’s charge without his sword. He didn’t trust himself to dodge to the side, or to beat his friend’s longer range. That only left one option.

When Carver repeated his initial pounce, Finder was ready. Rather than even trying to block the bigger stallion, the smaller pony jumped straight up in the air and pumped his wings twice. The effort kept him in the air just long enough for Carver’s momentum to place him directly beneath the underaged recruit. The rest of the maneuver was textbook, ground into Finder’s skull by countless shouting lessons on the training field. He folded his left wing against his side, clenched his teeth together in focus, and dove.

Carver saw it coming; his sapphire eyes locked straight up onto his little friend even before the first hint of air had rushed through Finder’s mane. Instead of dodging, however, Carver reared up onto his hind-legs and began to flap his own wings. His action went against everything that Skyhammer had ever bellowed in their general direction about the advantages of height and the strength of gravity; against a griffon, the maneuver would have been suicide. Finder, however, was no griffon.

Finder’s weight was directed wingblade-first against Carver’s guard, and the collision was bone-shattering. Sparks erupted into the sky, forcing Finder’s eyes shut and leaving a kaleidoscope burned onto the inside of his eyelids. Without looking, he could only feel the force of his weapon sliding down the length of Carver’s. Metal scales scraped at his belly from one of his friend’s wingblades, though they lacked the force to do anything more than leave scrapes and slice a few hairs from his coat. Then Finder felt a sudden lurch, as his wingblade left contact with Carver’s, and struck against something far softer.

The scream was agonizing.

Something thick and wet splashed over Pathfinder’s feathers and muzzle, and his nostrils filled with the scent of copper. His eyes shot open, though he didn’t need to look to recognize that it had to be blood. The first thing he saw was Carver, clutching both forehooves to his face and howling as his wings carried him in what was probably best described as a limping fall. The medics were on him as soon as his shoulder collided with the ground.

Amidst the ensuing murmurs, and Carver’s howl of pain, it was sickened Finder’s stomach to hear a mighty voice call out. “Pathfinder wins!”

Summer carefully pulled at Carvers hooves in an attempt to examine the damage. The howling stallion proved either unable, unwilling, or both to comply.

“Carver,” Summer spoke to him in a calm, yet authoritative tone. “Carver, you need to move your hooves. I can’t help you if I can’t see the wounds.”

“Stretcher!” Dawn called, motioning for one to be brought to her.

Pathfinder couldn’t move. His eyes were transfixed by the scene before him; by the pain he’d caused to a pony he called a friend. It brought a pallor to his face and the taste of bile in his throat. He was grateful when he felt a warm wing drape across his back.

Looking to the side, he quickly identified the pony as Windshear. The spearpony gave the colt a half-hearted smile as he guided him away.

“Come on, kid. Let’s give them some space.”

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, Pathfinder sat alone outside of the infirmary. From the canteen he could hear the roar of laughter and the singing of songs. He knew Windshear was among them; likely enjoying his food and revelling in the glory he’d earned as the champion of third platoon. He had invited Finder to join him, but the colt had politely declined.

He had no stomach for song or food that night.

Finder had barely seen Summer or Dawn since his duel with Carver. Summer, in particular, had spent the better part of the day in the infirmary, treating ponies as they were brought to her. Dawn had passed him a few times, but she had been too busy to give him more than a passing smile.

He closed his eyes and curled up into a tight ball on the dusty ground. There he stayed, replaying the duel over and over again in his head. The clash of steel, the sudden lurch, the spray of blood. Carver’s agonized howl as he writhed in the dirt haunted Finder like a bad dream.

‘What if he had been Longbow?’ Finder wondered.

Carver, who had been nothing but kind to him since they had met those three short weeks earlier, had become the closest friend Finder ever had. The not insignificant difference in their ages hadn’t mattered much to either of them. In fact Carver had seemed to enjoy a sort of big-brotherly role with Finder.

Though after what Finder had done to him in their duel, he wouldn’t be surprised if Carver never spoke to him again. He sniffled, a knot forming in his throat. The prospect of losing that friendship was nothing short of unbearable.

It was then, just before Finder could complete his spiral into depression that Summer stepped out of the infirmary. She let out a deep breath and pulled off a white linen headband that had become saturated with sweat since she’d started working in the morning. Running a hoof through her damp mane, Summer took the opportunity to stretch out her back. Her coat seemed to glisten in the waning light

Finder looked up to her, noting her glow with a moment of awe. “Summer?”

“Hm?” She looked down, surprised to see him there. “Hey, there you are.”

Getting to his hooves, Finder’s ears splayed out as he looked up at Summer. “How’s Carver?”

Invisible weights seemed to pull at the corner’s of Summer’s lips into a deep frown. She struggled for a moment, debating how to tell the colt what he had done. After a few moments of silent deliberation, she took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “He’s sleeping right now. Your wingblade took out his right eye.”

Finder felt sick again, his green going pale. “But...but you can fix it, right?”

“No, kid,” she shook her head, a hoof reaching out and touching his shoulder. “He’ll never see outta that eye again.”

Finder’s world spun for a moment and he sat back on his haunches, stunned.

“I..I didn’t mean…” He shook his head, gulping down the knot in his throat. “Can...Can I see him?”

Summer draped her wing around him and gently shepherded him into the infirmary. “This way.”

With enough beds to accommodate a full platoon of injured soldiers, the infirmary was usually ready for more patients than it had. Still, after the days tournament nearly half were occupied by ponies with injuries ranging from sprained ankles and concussions to lacerations and broken bones. The large room smelled of blood, vinegar, and a pungent variety of medicinal herbs believed to purify the air and ward off infection. Finder scrunch his nose and snorted in revulsion; he was convinced the true purpose of the herbs was to incentivize ponies to heal faster.

Carver’s bed was towards the back of the building, and the tan stallion was laid on his left side with his back facing Finder. A simple grey blanket covered him up to his neck to keep him comfortable as he rested. Finder spotted Carver’s armor at the foot of the bed where it was set in an orderly pile.

“Hey, Carver,” Summer said, her voice taking on a gentle healers tone. With her right hoof, she gently reached out for Carver and gave him a little shake. “Feeling up for a visitor?”

There was a long pause between Summer’s words and a reaction from Carver. He rolled over with a pronounced slowness, a low groan emanating from his throat. A thick linen bandage wrapped around his forehead and covered Carver’s right eye. Dried blood had saturated the dressing as well as left crusted stains of red down the right half of Carver’s face.

Finder tasted bile in the back of his throat again.

In spite of the pain he was in, Carver produced a meager smile as he noticed Pathfinder. “Hey, Finder, how you doing?”

“C-Carver, I…” Finder swallowed the lump in his throat and stepped closer to the bed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I—”

The older stallion reached out with an uncoordinated hoof to pat Finder’s head. After several tries to compensate for his new visual deficits, he found his mark. Giving a pained smile, his hoof tousled Finder’s mane.

“Hey, it’s all right, Finder. You did exactly what you were supposed to do.” Carver’s smile turned sad. “I didn’t.”

The colt nodded, though Carver’s assurance did little to ease his heartache.

“Beat anypony else?” Carver asked, pulling his hoof away and sitting up. Summer moved closer to help stabilize the woozy stallion.

Finder shook his head. “I got paired against Recoil in the second round. It was a two-hit fight.”

“He hit you, you hit the ground?” Carver asked in an amused tone.

Pathfinder’s ears folded back as he nodded.

Carver chuckled, patting Finder’s head once. “No offense, kid, but Recoil is a way better fighter than you.”

“I noticed,” Finder groused, his hoof absently rubbing the sore spot Recoil’s training sword left on his head.

“Hey, Summer?” Carver craned his neck so he could see the Nimban mare.

“Yeah?” Summer replied, thinking Carver might need another pain treatment.

“Can I get that kiss now?” he asked with a hopeful grin.

Rolling her eyes, Summer shook her head and laughed. “You’re pathetic, Carver.”

Leaning forward, she kissed his cheek. Carver’s eye went wide and his wings flared out in surprise. Finder hid his giggling behind a hoof, finding the older stallion’s reaction priceless.

“But it’s kinda cute,” Summer said with a sincere grin.

Nimbus

“You know,” Pathfinder began, absently examining the empty tankard in his hoof. “When I was a pup, I used to hate this stuff,” The old stallion nodded his head and pursed his lips. “Never for the life of me understood why my father would have a couple with the evening meal, or my brother with his mates at the pub. I just never quite understood it back then.”

Stalwart closed his eyes, his head swimming from the four New Equestrian brews that he’d ingested since sitting down. Pathfinder was on his, well, Stalwart honestly had no idea how many the old legionnaire was on. He was, however, rapidly becoming convinced that Pathfinder had no less than three wooden legs and possibly a second liver. How could anypony drink so much and still be standing?

“Now those unicorns down in Everfree,” Finder continued, seemingly oblivious to Stalwart’s plight, “they mix up those fruity wines that are too sweet and have no proper spirit to them. You can’t hardly get proper drunk off something like that, cause by the time you got a halfway decent buzz you gotta go piss it all out!” He slammed a hoof on the table, momentarily startling Stahl from his inebriated state.

“That’s charming,” Stahl mumbled, having no earthly idea what Pathfinder was talking about.

“Now the earth ponies,” Finder leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “They made a hardy mead from honey. Ohh, lad.” The old stallion licked his lips. “That’s some good stuff. Sweet, but not too sweet, full bodied with a good character. It’s a fitting brew for their breed.”

“Can I get you gents anything?” Cirrus asked as she wiped down the table beside them.

“I think my greenwing friend here needs another ale,” Finder said with a boisterous laugh.

“Gods, no!” Stahl sat upright far too quickly. The world spun around him for a few moments before he realized that he had fallen from his stool and onto the floor. “...Ouch.”

Pathfinder only laughed harder at the sight, one hoof pounding the table. Cirrus trotted to him after a moment to chuckle as well. Hooking her forelegs around his chest, she hauled him to his hooves and leaned him against Finder’s table.

“I’ll get you some water,” she said, patting his back with her wing.

“And something salty,” Finder suggested before toasting the two with his tankard.

“Another Cirran for you?” she asked with a knowing smile.

Finder placed a hoof over his heart to show his appreciation. “You’re too good to me.”

Cirrus scoffed and shook her head as she took his mug in a hoof. “Well the gods above know if I didn’t sell it to you I’d never afford to feed my family.”

“Bah, you’d be fine.” Finder set his mug on the table and sighed as he observed his reflection in the remains of his drink.

The flicker of candlelight caught Finder’s eye and drew his attention to the center of the table. There, placed on a beaten and warped metal tray, sat three candles moulded from pale beeswax. He watched the flames dance in seeming desperation about the wick as the reserve of wax ebbed away with every passing moment. It was all for naught though, as all too soon the flames would sputter out with no more than a gentle gasp and a wisp of lace-like smoke.

Candles had always fascinated Pathfinder, even when he was just a little colt on the shores of Altus. Back then in those bygone halcyon days he had wanted to be a candle maker. There was a peaceful simplicity in the process, much like how earth ponies described their connection to the plants and soil of the world. To a greater degree though, they reminded him of life. That dream didn’t last long, even before he joined the Legion. It took Pathfinder years to get near a flame again.

‘How long,” he wondered, the light from the candle dancing in his eyes. ‘How many years has it been...’

“Sir?”

‘What would you have done had it been you and not I? Would you be in my hooves now?’

“Sir?”

‘No.’ The old stallion shook his head, invisible weights seeming to pull the corners of his mouth into a disgusted frown. ‘No, you were always stronger...always faster...’

“Pathfinder?” Stalwart asked again, his hoof shaking the old pony’s shoulder.

“Hm?” The action pulled Finder from his thoughts, and he blinked several times as though to clear his mind. He saw Stalwart and Cirrus watching him with worried frowns and furled eyebrows. Finder put a smile on his lips and reached out with his rugged forelegs to pat both of them on the head. “Now, now, those sad faces won’t do! What’s the trouble?”

“You’ve been staring at those candles for twenty minutes!” Cirrus said, motioning to the wax sticks with her right wing. “The kid here thought you were dead on your hooves.”

“I never said that,” Stalwart mumbled.

“Haha!” Finder clapped Stalwart on the shoulder. “Everypony should be so lucky! Alas, I fear these old bones have a few years left in them!”

“They damned well better; you’re my best customer.” Cirrus chuckled.

“Say,” Finder said, looking around the Lookout to see that only a few ponies were left in the bar. “Where’d everypony get off to? Past their bedtimes already?”

“You know we’re quiet after sundown,” Cirrus answered, “Has been for years.”

“I suppose, I suppose.” Finder nodded, his hoof rubbed at his chin. “By the by, Cirrus, how are your little ones?”

“Grown up and gone from the nest, just like yours, old friend,” The mare answered, her smile at once proud yet sad.

“Bah, they’re only pups yet. They’ll be around, mark my words.”

“I’d certainly hope not! Little monsters eat me and Torrent out of house and home!” Cirrus laughed.

“Wait until they bring the grandfoals around,” Finder said with a quiet chuckle of his own. He let out a pleased sigh, his hooves absently playing with his long emptied tankard. “What about you, Stahl-For-Short? Do you have a family?”

The guard smiled and nodded. With one hoof he pulled at the heavy breastplate of his armor, creating enough space to reach in with his two longest primary feathers. Fishing around just above his heart, they emerged with a crumpled parchment which he set on a clean patch of the table. Finder had to lean forward, his eyes squinting to better make out what he was looking at.

The paper, a fairly small sized sheet, bore the image of two ponies. A young looking unicorn mare looked out from the charcoal sketch with a wavy mane that flowed around her neckline. She bore a kind, gentle smile and loving eyes. If not for the horn protruding from her head, Finder might have mistaken her for Dawn. In the mare’s forelegs was a young foal that looked to Finder like a very young colt. The boy, a pegasus judging by his little wings, slept through the portrait, his head nuzzled into his mother’s breast as the artist worked.

“Quite the artist you found for this,” Pathfinder noted in a matter of fact tone.

“There are many wandering about the Everfree City; that pegasus was one recommended by a friend of mine.

“A pegasus that works better with a brush than a blade, I never thought I’d see the day.” Old Finder chuckled and smiled at the drawing. Carefully taking the picture with his primary feathers he held it up for Cirrus to see. “They’re beautiful.”

“Aww.” Cirrus smiled at the picture like any mother would. “What a handsome son he is!”

“Thank you both!” Stahl grinned from ear to ear, beaming with the pride of a young father.

“How old is he?” Cirrus asked, returning the picture to Stalwart.

The guard smiled at the picture before tucking it safely away in his armor. “This is his third summer. His birthday was just last week, actually.”

“May he have many happy days to come,” Finder said, toasting with his empty mug. “How did you fall in with a unicorn though?”

“Her parents were friends to my father,” Stalwart answered before taking a drink of water. “It’s a rather long and not a very interesting story. Suffice to say I love her, deeply.”

Pathfinder nodded. “To all their own, I say. Though I should very much like to hear the story.”

Stalwart offered the older pony a simple shrug with his wings. “I don’t suppose you’ll settle for love at first sight?”

Finder loosed a boisterous laugh, his hoof slapping the table hard enough to rattle their cups. “That’s a good one if I ever heard it, Pup!”

“I’m sorry, Sir, but I don’t see the joke,” Stalwart said in a dry tone.

“Let me tell you, there ain’t no such thing in this world or the next as love at first sight. Lust at first sight.” Finder nodded, leaning back against the wall. “Lust is what you had.” Pathfinder went quiet again, folding his forelegs across his chest as he gazed up to the smoke stained ceiling. “Not that there’s anything wrong with lust, mind you. Without a little lust we’d never have children. It’s our lust for another pony that leads us to love them.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Cirrus said, a hoof patting Finder’s shoulder while she scooped up his empty tankard with her wing.

Pathfinder smiled. “There’s no worse thing than to be in love, my dear. All it leads to is pain.”

“I don’t think so,” Stalwart said.

“Death is the only thing guaranteed in this world, son. If you’re lucky, you die first, or at least you don’t linger long after the pony you love is gone.” Finder scoffed. “Love. What a cruel joke of the gods that is.”

“Looks like you need another drink,” Cirrus said, her hoof sliding from Finder’s shoulder.

He looked up to her with a gentle smile. “No...no just give me water for this round, Cirrus.”

“Are you sure?” the mare asked, looking almost worried at the request. “It’s no trouble.”

“I know, and I thank you. But I also know that much more and I’ll fall off of this stool.” He grinned at Stalwart. “That’s just bad manners in front of a guest.”

Cirrus snorted and shook her head. “If you insist, you crazy old dog.”

“Insist I shall,” he said with a nod.

As Cirrus returned to her bar, an uncomfortable silence subsumed the two stallions. Stalwart looked to the old pegasus across the table and found his impression difficult to surmise. Finder struck him as a curious stallion, at once open and easy to converse with while at the same time displaying a fatalistic and acerbic edge just under the surface.

‘What,’ Stalwart wondered through the haze of alcohol that clouded his mind. ‘What makes him this way? Why does he hesitate now?’

“If you’ll pardon my asking, S—” Stalwart stopped as Finder leveled an annoyed glare at him. “Um, Pathfinder.”

The easy smile quickly returned to the old scout’s face. “Speak your mind, son.”

“You told me of these old places in the homelands. Of Stratopolis, Updraft and Atlus...Atlose?” Stalwart’s face twisted like he had bitten into a lemon. “That one place, by the water...or was it the lake?”

Finder chuckled and shook his head. “Altus, you lightweight. My home, the place where...well…” Lowering his head, Finder’s words faded from the air.

“S—Finder?” Stalwart leaned closer, his brows scrunching together.

“You know how this story ends,” Pathfinder said as he gazed into the flickering candlelight. The air seemed to chill around the older pony, as though drawn into a dark abyss.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I do. Not yet, at any rate.” Stalwart’s hooves dragged his cup close to his chest. He watched the old legionnaire carefully, as though even the shortest lapse in attention would result in old Finder disappearing into the cool night air. “What happened after you left Fort Updraft? When I first sat down you were only too eager to tell me about Cirra. Now you’ve been talking about drinks for half an hour.” Stalward sighed. “Please, Sir, I want to know what happened next.”

For several long moments, Pathfinder said nothing to Stalwart. He watched the candle dance in front of him with his eyes seeming to follow the rare, errant spark that popped free of the wick. Cirrus returned, placing fresh drinks on the table for them both in addition to a small chunk of bread.

“Nimbus, Stalwart,” Finder said in barely more than a whisper. “Nimbus happened.”

Built on a massive base of cumulonimbus clouds, the ancient city stood at the eastern edge of the Cirran Empire. For centuries it had stood as the indomitable wall between the Griffon hordes and the Cirran heartlands. The pegasi of Nimbus were borne to fight, and had a fearsome and well earned reputation in battle against both their griffon neighbors, and their Cirran cousins in the distant past.

The recruits of the Second Platoon marched into the city after their long flight from Fort Updraft. The ancient, loose, cloudstone streets crunched under their hooves like the winter’s snow. All around them were soldiers of other legions, interspersed with the civilians of Nimbus.

“Welcome to Nimbus, fillies!” Dawn said with a wide, boastful grin. “Home of the finest soldiers the world will ever know!”

“Long have we stood, and never shall we fall,” spoke Summer as she trotted beside her friend. “For we are Cirra’s spiked shield, and we shall never yield.”

Dawn chuckled and slapped her friend’s back with a hoof. “Summer, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you don’t have a future in poetry.”

Summer scoffed and brushed Dawn’s hoof off with her wing. “I suppose not, but I’m at least literate, unlike half those narcissistic bastards.”

“So you claim, I’ve never seen you read.”

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Dawn.

“What does that even mean?” Dawn asked, her head tilting slightly. “I mean, how does one become an emotion?”

“Dawn, as your friend, and your doctor, stop before you break something.”

“I didn’t know you were so fragile,” Dawn said, feigning a concerned expression that quickly shifted to a playful smirk. “But I promise to be gentle.”

Carver’s remaining eye widened at the phrasing, though the action caused a spike of pain from the bandages that covered the remains of his right eye.

Summer looked at Dawn, seemingly surprised by the comment for an instant. She leaned closer to the smaller mare, a predatory smile pulling her lips back to flash her teeth. “Don’t worry, I promise I won’t be.”

Dawn’s laughed quietly, her hoof slapping Summer’s armor.

“This place is amazing!” Finder said, in awe of the monolithic archery towers and thick cloudstone walls that kept watch over the city.

Dawn, marching just to Finder’s left, draped a wing across his back. The sharp metal scales of her wingblades scraped dully across the scales of his armor. “Just you wait, Finder, this is the greatest city ever built by pony kind. There’s everything you could ever want here with none of the preening senators and political harlots that infest Stratopolis’ rotten core.”

“Tell us how you really feel, Dawn,” Carver teased her.

“I am but a humble speaker of the truth.”

“Never have so many lies been crammed into so few words,” Summer mumbled.

“Everypony has a talent.”

“No, Dawn, that’s just what they tell the fillies and colts too dumb to realize they’re nothing but meat for the grinder.” Summer shot back.

“Somepony needs to shake the crabs out of her plot,” Dawn teased, illustrating her point by wiggling her rear, much to the eternal joy of the stallions marching behind them.

Around the column Finder saw the ponies of Nimbus gathering to greet the soldiers as they marched. Mares threw fragrant flower over the recruits while young fillies and foals trotted beside them, asking the soldiers nearest to them all sorts of questions.

“Have you killed any griffons?”

“Where are you from?”

“Can I be a soldier?”

“Are all swords that small?”

“You’re pretty, can I have some of your mane?”

Windshear almost tripped up half the column from the little filly’s question.

Carver caught a lush daisy in his teeth and promptly gulped it down. With a lick of his lips he flashed a grin to Summer. “Nimbans sure know how to treat a guest.”

With a playful chuckle, Summer shrugged her wings. “Every Nimban honors the Legion.”

“Second platoon, halt!” Skyhammer barked. “Right face. Attention!”

The platoon reacted in near perfect unison, their posture stiffening as they turned ninety degrees. For several long moments, Finder wondered what they had stopped for. He found his answer moments later as a line of litter-bearers and walking wounded silently passed them by.

Pathfinder’s eyes fell on the nearest soldier, and what he saw made his blood run cold. The soldier’s coat was the same shade of green as his own, though his mane was a washed out shade of blue caked with grime and dried blood. A filthy-looking damp cloth rested over the unconscious pony’s face, shielding him from the countless eyes watching him. An easterly breeze washed over the column, causing the cover on his face to shift. For just a moment, Pathfinder saw his own face peeking out from beneath the cloth, hollow eyes staring back from sunken pits. Bloodshot. Cold.

His right wing was gone, with only a protruding, cauterized stub remaining as a mass of black, boiled flesh. Perhaps more devastating were his hind legs, both of which had been severed just above the hock. What was left oozed blood into the hasty wrappings, leaving viscous stains of blood that glistened in the light. Dozens of flies buzzed around him, like he was nothing more than spoiled meat ripe for the taking.

Finder tasted bile in the back of his throat and folded his ears back as he forced his gaze away. The sight, the smell, the sound, it all made the young pony sick to his stomach. Summer quickly noticed his revulsion, and gave his side a sharp jab with a hoof.

“Don’t you dare look away,” she warned him.

“Give him a break, Summer.” Carver shot back at her, uncomfortably avoiding the macabre procession as well.

“Don’t you look away either,” she said. “These are the heroes of the Empire.”

“Centuria,” Skyhammer shouted again. “Salute!”

“We’ve taken Hengstead,” the scarred golden stallion noted, his words even and measured. “I wasn’t expecting so many losses on the southern flank.”

Commander Gold Moon scowled beneath his scarred brow at the map as his brown-muzzling secretary walked around the table. “But you were completely right, sir. Their forces were exactly where you expected, and their casualties were overall better than you predicted.”

The doors to the Cirran command room were bashed open with such force that they slammed against their surrounding walls. The secretary leapt into the air, where he stayed with wings flapping. Heavy hooves moved across the cloudstone floor, clicking with each step, but Moon felt no need to look up. “Move Red Tail’s forces forward to patch the holes. Good evening, Legate.”

“Good? I don’t enjoy having to come up here, getting you to sign my papers before I can wipe my ass!”

Iron Rain was something of a looming figure, taller than the average stallion, and certainly outweighing the way Gold Moon’s aging neck was struggling to stay aloft. She had a snow white coat and a wild, steel blue mane that was cropped short for a mare. When her hoof came down on the map table, the strength in her body was made apparent by the cracks that spread across the wood. The same force had also pressed a crumpled piece of parchment down, which she flicked in the commander’s direction.

He spared a quick moment to glance at the sheet; when he recognized his own seal at the bottom, he spared himself the need to read the rest. “I’m glad to see you’re in a good mood this evening, Legate,” Gold Moon greeted, finally deigning to lift his head and match the fury in her steel eyes with the gold of his own. Even the proud warriors of Nimbus shied away from her scowl, but the Praetorian wasn’t intimidated. He knew the truth; while her steel might win battles, his gold was what won wars. “Explain why you take issue that I denied your request.”

“It isn’t obvious?” Rain swept her hoof across the table, tossing to the floor the little wooden figurines Moon had been using to plan the advance on Angenholt. “Nimbans don’t stay home from war, Commander.”

“Watch your tone, Legate, or―” The secretary stopped abruptly, whimpering as Rain drew back a hoof. It was only her meager consciousness of terms like ‘political ramifications’ that allowed the slimy little stallion to scamper his way out of the room with his muzzle intact.

Gold Moon resisted the urge to smile at the stallion’s departure, instead preparing himself for a long and tiresome lecture that Iron Rain had gone far too long without receiving. When the doors to the airy room on the eastern wall of the Nimban basilica shut, he sucked in a short breath. “You, Legate, are tasked with defending Nimbus as the leader of its militia. A militia is a defensive force. It is a shield. In contrast, the forces you so kindly scattered,” he gestured with a wing toward his wooden figurines, “are legions. A legion is offensive. It serves as Cirra’s sword. Hopefully, even somepony as embroiled in personal battle as you can follow the metaphor.”

Rain released a growl from the base of her throat. “And Nimbus is Cirra’s spiked shield. We aren’t meant to sit here, waiting for the enemy to come to us. We can do more damage than any of your fancy Stratopolis legions, and make it out with less casualties.”

The scarred golden stallion took a slow breath, and walked to the far side of the room, where he found a bottle of brandy and a glass waiting for him. “Believe me,” he began, pouring his drink and avoiding Rain’s seething gaze. “I know exactly what sort of damage you ponies are capable of. A spiked shield is messy, imprecise, clumsy, and detracts attention from more effective weapons. In the face of a charge, it takes a fool to pull back his shield as a weapon. Legionaries who live brace their shields, and ready their swords.” The glass flicked back with brutal precision, tossing the liquid into the stallion’s throat without stopping across his tongue. For just a moment, he wore a smile at the sensation.

Then he continued. “I have no doubt that you and your so called ‘rainstorm’ would cut a bloody swath through Gryphus. Between your ridiculous composition and your patently disorganized tactics, I find it hard to imagine any griffons would be expecting you right up until the moment that your tiny berserker decided he was bored. You will find that I have no intention of deploying such an unruly force into my well ordered system.”

Rain stomped forward. “Do you think you can stop me?”

Gold Moon shook his head. “I wouldn’t waste lives making Cirrans fight Cirrans. But when you returned, you and your friends would find themselves stripped of their titles and branded traitors. I’m certain your father would be quite disappointed if I had to involve the emperor in our disagreement.” Again, the commander turned around to face the Nimban leader. “War is a machine, Rain, not a playground. We allow it to work slowly, ticking away at the griffon numbers, so that we know we haven’t left any behind in our advance, and so that we know we aren’t leaving ourselves vulnerable. Nimbus is the single best chokepoint separating Cirra from Gryphus, and emptying its walls would be a mistake of pure pride, leading to the subsequent inevitable fall. So, with that understanding I believe I have made myself clear. You and your forces will continue to defend Nimbus in the event that any of Magnus’ troops manage to slip past our advance.”

Rain ground her forehoof along the floor in a display of irritation, but she said nothing.

“Will there be anything else, Legate Rain?”

“No, sir,” she grumbled through gritted teeth. “I’ll be patrolling upstairs.”

Gold Moon nodded. “Carry on.” As the tired mare tromped out of the room, he turned back to his ruined table and sighed; his experience was that being a commander always ended with picking up the pieces.

The Nimban markets were never quiet, even before the war began. While the ancient city lacked the finery available in the legendary Forums of Stratopolis, Nimbas had more than enough of their own wares to sate the desires of its rugged pegasi. For the few things Nimbus couldn’t acquire or craft by itself, there was also a thriving trade district that garnered goods from across the empire for Nimbans to buy.

At the heart of the market, however, was the smithy. Renowned across Cirra for their work, the smiths of Nimbus produced the finest metalwork in the world. Their weapons were sharper, their armor was stronger, and ponies from across the empire flew to Nimbus to learn from its masters.

Leaning against the outer wall of the largest forge was a solitary mare. Her sandy-blonde coat and short white mane were dusted by soot and grime from her time near the forges. The mark on her flank, a thick coil of thorns wrapped around a downpointed sword, suited her well. At least that’s what her parents told her.

But really, what did they know?

“You done in there?” she called into the dark forge.

“Thorn, I swear to whatever god it is you choose to believe in this week that I will throw your sorry ass off the walls if you ask me that one more time!” shouted a deep-voiced and angry mare from inside.

Shaking her head, Thorn chuckled at the empty threat. “That’s cute, Rain. I’ll just forget to flap for a minute or three.”

There was a small crash as Iron Rain threw what sounded like a fairly heavy piece of armor across the smithy. Thorn rolled her eyes, though she did take some amusement from the indignant shout of the blacksmith inside. A moment later, Iron rain stomped out of the smithy, a mighty scowl carved into her face and her snow white coat encrusted with ash.

“You know,” Thorn began as she trailed after her friend. “It’s gonna make ponies talk if you keep smashing up shops.”

“I smashed nothing,” Rain protested. “I merely...erm…”

Thorn sighed. “You destroyed somepony’s armor, didn’t you?”

“Maybe?”

“Rain,” Thorn put a hoof on the taller mare’s shoulder. “I know you’re mad Gold Moon denied your request, but that doesn’t mean you can rip the city apart until you feel better.”

“I’d feel better if we weren’t trapped in these damned walls!” Rain shot back, her wings giving an angry flap. “We’re Nimbans, Thorn! Fighting is in our blood! Now here we are in the biggest war of our generation and Nimbus gets left out of it?! Our ancestors are rolling in their graves at this disgrace!”

Thorn nodded, keeping pace with Rain’s long strides and doing her best to dodge the various ponies in the market. “But it’s also a soldiers duty to follow orders, and the Legion wants us here, just in case.”

“Tsh,” Rain scoffed. “Sieges are more fun if you’re on the outside.”

“No argument there,” Thorn agreed.

“I should write Legate Brand,” Rain mused out loud as they rounded the corner out of the markets and towards the upper tier of the city. “She owes Father and I some favors. Maybe he can convince her to invite the Rainstorm to her Century as battle advisors.”

“Wait, let me get this straight,” Thorn started, her eyes warily observing her friend. “you’re thinking of asking your father to ask Legate Brand if he would let us attach to his legion for a month as battle consultants?”

“Well, that’s a bit of a simplification, but yeah. Pretty much.” Rain nodded as they casually walked down the streets of Nimbus.

Thorn looked unconvinced. “Legate Brand… isn’t she kind of crazy?”

“No,” Rain shook her head. “No. Nope. A little bit. No.”

“My friend, how your career in politics died is a mystery for the sages.” Thorn chuckled, her hoof clopping against Rain’s shoulder.

Rain started to laugh, at least until two young ponies crashed into her flank, knocking her onto Thorn. In the ensuing mess of tangled limbs and torrential vulgarities the four ponies eventually managed to separate. Rain and Thorn found themselves facing down a forest green colt and a young orange mare. The mare recognized Rain instantly and her expression shifted from amusement to abject horror.

“We are so bucked,” Dawn mewled.

“I wouldn’t bet against it,” Thorn said with an amused grin.

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing?” Rain demanded.

“Legionary Pathfinder, Ma’am,” The colt answered, snapping to a terrified salute.

“Field Surgeon Dawn Lighthoof,” The mare answered. “Eighth Legion Second Platoon, Ma’am!”

Rain leaned down until her nose was almost touching Dawn’s. “You know who I am, greenwing?”

“Iron Rain, Ma’am, Legate of Nimbus!”

“All right, Field Surgeon Lighthoof, where are you from?” Rain asked, though she easily recognized Dawn’s accent.

“Nimbus, Ma’am, North Quarter.”

“And you,” Rain turned to Pathfinder, whose cheeks had gone several shades lighter in the time it took her to switch from Dawn to him. “The hell are you supposed to be?”

“I-I’m with the Eigth too, Ma’am. Centurion Skyhammer’s cohort!”

“Replacements,” Rain all but spat the word. “Cirrans get all the fun.”

“That’s probably the gods telling you to be nicer to me,” Thorn teased.

“Not now, Thorn!” Rain smacked the smaller mare with her wing, which only earned a fit of laughter from Thorn. Growling in irritation, Rain turned her attention back to Dawn. “What’s so important that you can’t watch where you’re running, greenwing?”

Dawn gulped hard and nodded. “L-Lady Rain, we-my friend―I was just showing him around Nimbus and―well, we got excited and―well, we kinda weren’t paying attention and ran into...you…”

Iron Rain resisted her urge to groan. She took another look at Pathfinder, and the colt seemed to stand a hair taller at her glare. Her brow furrowed and she took a step towards him, peering down to get a good look at his face.

“You look familiar, have you been to Nimbus before?”

“No Ma’am!”

“Hmm,” Rain leaned back, rubbing her chin with a hoof.

Thorn stepped forward, tapping Rain’s shoulder. “Rain, leave the rookies alone. Let’s go find the guys and get a drink.”

Nodding, Rain shot Dawn and Finder one last glare. “Pay attention, greenwings.”

“Ma’am, yes Ma’am!”

“I’m so bored,” Finder moaned.

Carver, who was laying with his blind-side to Finder, didn’t bother looking over to his friend, though he did snort quietly. “You said that yesterday. And the day before that, and pretty much every other day in the last week we’ve been here.”

“Sorry.” Stretching out with his wings, Finder made a satisfied groan. “I never thought I’d miss Updraft. At least there we had something to keep us busy.”

“Was that before or after you were keeling over?”

Finder’s cheeks flushed and he turned away from his friend. “It was one time!”

The older pony chuckled to himself, his wings stretching out against the soft cumulous cloud they had found on the outskirts of town. From their positions, they could look out across the fields to the east where far away legions of pegasi were cutting their way through Gryphus. Finder wondered if his brother was among them, where he was stationed, or if he was even fighting on the front.

“Hard to believe there’s a war going on,” Carver said reflectively.

“Hm?” Finder looked over to Carver, having not been paying attention.

“Look at the fields.” Carver waved his tan hoof at the horizon. Finder followed the motion, his eyes looking out to the endless sea of golden grass bathed in the gentle glow of sunset. “The fields look the same as any other day, like there’s never been any wars, griffons, or pegasi. It’s just the world at peace and nature taking its course.” Carver sighed and leaned his head back until he was resting against a bundle of cloud he’d fluffed into a simple pillow. “Wouldn’t it be pleasant if instead of killing griffons we built schools and temples to teach their children our ways? If we cooperated with them to expand our knowledge of art, architecture, philosophy, and faith… If we engaged in meaningful dialogue with them about our mutual problems.”

“Probably,” Finder agreed with a little nod. He stretched out his wings and back until his spine made a dull pop.

“Just think,” Carver continued, his hoof rubbing at the sore half of his face. “What would the world be like if griffons and pegasi sat down and talked through their problems. How many ponies and griffons would still be alive today? What sort of things could we trade with them, how could we better each other through cooperation?”

Carver took a deep breath, his eye watching the clouds drift overhead. “How pleasing would the whole world be if everyone would only say ‘please’.”

Finder thought about it for a few moments before rolling onto his side so he was facing Carver. “It’d be nice, but it’ll never happen. We’re just too different, I guess.”

“I suppose,” Carver said, sighing as he did. “What a shame.”

From somewhere behind them, Summer’s voice cut through the air. “Just remember boys, pacifism is a nice idea, but it’ll get you killed.”

Both Finder and Carver jumped up in surprise, a few loose feathers drifting from their wings. Summer and Dawn stood a few feet away, their armor back at the barracks along with their weapons. They giggled to themselves at their successful ambush.

“The looks...” Dawn paused for another laugh. “The looks on your faces!”

Before Finder knew what was happening, he felt Carver’s forelegs wrap around his chest and heave him into the air. Pathfinder’s eyes went wide and he let out a startled squeak as he found himself suddenly becoming a very real meat shield. Carver balanced on his back legs, holding the shocked, wide-eyed colt in front of him.

“Back! Back, vile beasts! I’m armed!” Carver shouted, pointing Finder at Dawn and Summer in turn.

Summer looked to Dawn. “I don’t think he knows how to use that.”

“Yeah,” Dawn nodded in agreement, “last time he tried he took an eye out.”

“Can you let me go now?” Finder mewled.

“Have at thee!” Carver shouted, thrusting the unfortunate colt towards the mares.

Finder squawked his disapproval, his wings instinctively flapping against the motion. Only Carver’s superior size and strength kept him from losing his balance. Dawn and Summer merely laughed at the ridiculous effort.

“Let me down!” Finder shouted, squirming in Carver’s grip.

“Drop the kid before you lose something more important than an eye,” Dawn said, laughing all the while.

“You’re all no fun,” Carver pouted, releasing Finder from his grip and dropping back to all fours. “So, what can I do you for, ladies?” he asked, giving them his best smile and a dashing look. “Scars are sexy in Nimbus, right?”

Summer laughed and shook her head. “Call on us when you get a real scar, Carv.”

“What do you mean a ‘real scar’? I got m’bloody eye cut out!” Carver said, pointing to his bandaged face with a hoof.

“It certainly was bloody, but really, Carver, eye scars are so overrated.” Summer winked to him.

With a mighty pout, Carver sat on the cloud and folded his forelegs across his chest. “You suck, Summer.”

“At least she swall—Ow!” Dawn yelped as Summer’s hoof cuffed the back of her head.

“Brat. Anyway,” Summer began, a very noticeable flush in her cheeks. “His royal arsehole, Skyhammer, has decreed, I mean, requested that second platoon gather in Greenwing Grotto.”

“This place,” Carver held up a hoof with which he traced lazy circles in the air. “You speak of it like we should know it.”

“Tourists,” Dawn grunted.

“It’s a crappy bar where Cirran centurions think it’s funny to take their raw recruits.” Summer shook her head and gave a bored flap of her wings. “They don’t seem to know that it hasn’t been funny in about a hundred years.”

“Cirrans always were slow on the uptake,” Dawn said.

With a sarcastic laugh, Carver rolled his eyes. “Says the Nimbans who didn’t learn to read until last week.”

“Hey!” Dawn trotted up to carver, her small hoof jabbing him in the chest. “It was three weeks ago.”

Summer scoffed and shook her head, the tiniest of smiles pulling at her lips. She turned around and motioned with her left wing for them to follow her. “This way, greenwings, it’s not that far.” With that she gave two solid flaps to get airborne. Carver, Dawn, and Pathfinder followed after her, the red light of the setting sun washing over their backs.

When Pathfinder thought of a bar, his mind conjured images of the simple inn and tavern back home called The Anchorage. Built shortly after the first ponies settled in Altus, The Anchorage was a dark, almost cobbled together construction of logs that had washed ashore and rough hewn stones taken from gods knew where. The pungent stench of pipeweed, spilt ale, and fish bordered on overwhelming at the best of times.

The Greenwing Grotto had the similar stench of spilt ale and a few other choice fluids that seemed to permeate the cloudstone walls and floors. Unlike the Anchorage, the Grotto boasted a long bar and many finely crafted tables made of properly milled wood. Decades of use and countless thousands of hooves had polished the surfaces to a smooth finish that gave them a sort of charm even a pony like Finder could appreciate.

The stallions and mares of Second Platoon gathered themselves at the back corner of the bar around a long line of wooden barrels. Skyhammer himself was sat in front of the barrels as though to protect them from the greedy hooves that clamored for their alcoholic contents like foals fighting over the last sweetroll. Skyhammer seemed to be taking his usual perverse pleasure from their suffering, taunting his recruits with his very full mug of Cirran ale that he occasionally sipped at.

“Patience is a virtue, Greenwings,” he said, chuckling as he slowly gulped a mouthful of his drink. He made a dramatic sigh, his tongue licking pearls of foam from his lips. “Oh, gods that’s the stuff. Let me tell you poor, dumb bastards, this is some good ale.”

“Please, sir, just a drop?” one of the recruits pleaded.

Skyhammer’s answer was a self-satisfied smile and a firm “Nope.”

With Summer leading the way, Finder, Dawn, and Carver took their places at a small round table towards the back of the bar. Skyhammer taunted the recruits that hovered by the kegs for a while longer before shooing them away to their tables. Once everypony in Second Platoon was sitting, he allowed the barkeeps to serve an ale to every pony with the strict order that none were to touch their drinks until he let them.

Nopony was willing to try their luck, no matter how parched their throats were.

“All right you slovenly sacks a shit,” Skyhammer started once everypony had a drink in front of them. He stood up on his hind legs and leaned against the kegs for balance. “I’m not much for speeches that don’t involve a bit of grass drills,” Skyhammer paused for the very expected groan of agony that wafted up from his platoon. He smiled. At the very least, they’d never forget him. “That said, I have to say that I’m proud of most of you.”

He pointed back to Summer. “Except you, Celsus, you stubborn whorse daughter!”

“Your mother was a whorse too, sir!” She called back, earning a laugh from the entire platoon.

With a good natured laugh, Skyhammer seemingly let his guard down for a moment. For that single moment, he allowed his platoon to see the pony under the armor. Proud, strong, vulnerable, mortal. Closing his eyes and taking a breath, Skyhammer looked to his recruits with a smile tugging at his lips. “We came as individuals, we leave as each other. Brother to brother, there are no others. Honor the gods, stay with your wingpony, and we’ll be home in six months.”

Skyhammer stood up straight and snapped to attention. “Ante Legionem nihil erat.”

“Et nihil erit post Legionem,” his century answered, sixty-four voices speaking in a near perfect unison that filled Skyhammer’s gut with pride.

“Now then,” the centurion hefted his tankard. “Let’s get drunk!”

The raucous cheer that went up from the recruits was almost enough to deafen Skyhammer, at least until they started drinking.

Finder poked at his mug with his small hooves, regarding it more as a plaything than something to be consumed. Beside him, Carver easily slammed every drop of his own mug while Summer and Dawn downed at least half of their own drinks. Carver looked to Finder and curiously arched an eyebrow.

“Aren’t you gonna drink that?” he asked.

"I don't like ale," Finder mumbled, feeling a bit like he was admitting to a minor crime.

"It's liquid courage," Carver said with a chuckle and a hearty smack of his hoof against Finder's shoulder. “You should have some. It’s, um...it’s good!”

Dawn shook her head in amusement. “Carver, you’ve only had one! How can you be drunk?”

“I’m—I’m not drunk!” he stuck his tongue out at her. “You’re drunk!”

“Not yet, I’m not,” Dawn said through a chuckle before lifting her tankard to her lips.

“Bloody featherweights,” Summer mumbled, though her lips pulled into a small smile.

“You tell them, half-breed,” Dawn said, giggling from the potent ale.

Summer whirled around to the smaller mare, fire in her eyes unlike anything Carver or Finder had ever seen. “Don’t bucking call me that!”

“Whoa there, easy, Summer!” Dawn held up her hooves to placate her friend. “It’s all in good fun! No reason to get choleric.”

Finder gentle prodded Carver’s ribs before leaning toward his ear. “What’s choleric mean?”

“I haven’t got the slightest clue.” Carver shook his head.

“You know I hate that,” Summer continued, unaware, or unconcerned with Finder and Carver’s conversation.

“Your mother’s from Stratopolis, there’s no shame in that! Your father’s still one of the most honored ponies in the city outside of House Rain.” Dawn hefted the ceramic cup to her lips and swallowed another burning mouthful of wine. “I mean, look at the bright side: you get to live wherever you wanna live. You can be any pony you want to be. Not all of us have the privilege of property rights in the capital.”

Summer snorted, her eyes rolling in their sockets. “Because I get along so well with those self-obsessed Stratopolis mares who think the only things in life worth doing are throwing luxuriant house parties and whoring themselves to senators more ancient than Cirra itself.” She spat in disdain. “Pathetic.”

“I thought you liked spreading your legs,” Dawn mumbled, laughing as Summer’s hoof cuffed the back of her head.

“Why don’t you go spread yours for the kid?” Summer suggested, jerking her head towards Finder and causing the colt to feel an intense burn spread across his cheeks. “Hell, I’m sure Carver would be happy to keep your bed warm.”

Dawn’s gaze drifted to Finder and she gave him a gentle smile that sent a shiver down his spine. “Maybe I will.”

Finder's hooves shot to his neglected tankard and hefted it to his lips where he promptly gulped down several mouthfuls.

Carver leaned over, his eye focused on the mares at the opposite side of the table. With his elbow, he nudged Finder’s ribs to get the colt’s attention. “I think she likes you. You should go for it.”

“I can hear you, Carver,” Dawn said, shaking her head with an amused laugh.

“Seriously,” Carver continued, “She’ll make a stallion out of you.”

“We’re not really talking about this, are we?” Finder asked, wondering how long it took for the ale to work it’s magic.

Summer nudged Dawn’s side, a downright evil grin on her face. “I’m curious how red his face can get. Ask him if he’s a virgin.”

“Shut up, Summer!” Finder shouted, his face turning very red, much to Summer’s amusement.

Dawn laughed and shook her head. She slid her left hoof across the worn table and set it atop of Finder’s. “How’s about tomorrow, I show you the museums and take you around the north quarter where I grew up?”

Carver leaned over to offer his advice, only to get smacked on the nose by the back of Finder’s hoof. The colt smiled at Dawn, nervous, but also eager. “That sounds really nice.”

Just for the night, Pathfinder allowed himself to forget the war. In the morning he could look for Longbow. In the morning, he could explore Nimbus with Dawn as his guide. In the morning, nothing important would change.

Calamity (Part I)

Iron Rain woke that morning with an uncomfortable feeling in her gut. The dark grays of the coming dawn were just beginning to replace the midnight blues of the night before, lighting up silvery undersides of clouds scattered across the eastern skies. Slowly, with an almost practiced melancholy, the Nimban mare lifted her armor from the stand in her room and draped it across her back, taking a few seconds to let her wings comfortably slide through the holes in the back. Her hooves pulled tight on the wrinkled and sun bleached leather straps, tightening them together with the polished buckles.

Her wingblades went on easily, and she relaxed as the familiar weights settled onto the crests of her wings. She buckled these too with swift precision, and flexing her wings a few times, was pleased to not feel any resistance or grinding between the scales. With luck, it’d be another few days before they’d need to be oiled again.

Extending a wing, she hooked her galea under the brim and flipped it onto her head, using a hoof to tease back the short strands of her mane and settle them under the helmet. She picked up a brush from a nearby polishing table and ran it through the plume on her helmet, making sure the dyed red crest was neat and orderly. Rain hated polishing her armor or keeping herself looking neat—she’d much rather be spending her time fighting than preening—but being a legate in the Legion, she was expected to look the part.

Giving herself one last once-over in the mirror, Rain moved to the other end of her room, towards the massive sword rack on the wall. She stopped a few paces away, looking at the length of iron caringly hung on the rack. It was a massive sword, a foot longer than she was, with a blade as thick as her foreleg and a counterweight as heavy as her head. The weapon was definitely not hoof-forged; no, this iron had been worked by the talons of griffons. It was a griffon zweihander, which simply meant ‘two-handed sword’, but Rain enjoyed telling subordinates who didn’t understand a lick of Gryphonic that it meant anything from ‘The Dragon’s Tooth’ to ‘The Flesh Cleaver’. To Rain, it was simply called ‘her sword’, or if she was feeling dramatic, ‘her big fucking sword’.

She kept the weapon clean and oiled, polishing the iron day in and day out, always making sure there wasn’t a mote of dust on it; yet she felt a pang in her heart as she looked at the sword’s cleanliness. She simply wasn’t doing the blade justice by keeping it here in this city. Gold Moon’s words came back to her, and even though she would be the first to call herself a proud mare, they still left her wounded and frustrated. Scowling, she took the blade from its weapon rack and slid it into a groove in her armor so that it ran crosswise across her back, right between her wings. Then, quickly grabbing her small bucknife, Mary, she fixed the weapon to her cuirass and stepped outside.

It was a short walk from her room to the balcony of the basilica; it was, after all, built into the top corner of the building. Rain rolled her eyes for the millionth time at the reasoning behind it. Her father was Lord Winter Rain, ruler over the city and a Nimban king in everything but his loyalties to the emperor. Despite being arguably the very definition of a fearless Nimban, he was anything but with regards to his daughter. Even though he had raised his daughter to shun fear and glorify death in battle, he was still hesitant to let her stray too far from the city, especially now that war with the griffons had been officially declared and the fighting was escalating. Iron Rain knew that he was trying to keep her out of harm’s way, and when she quite angrily confronted him about it, he had told her that the city needed her in case there was trouble from griffon agents.

Horse. Shit.

Even still, there was nothing she could do to change her assignments. Like it or not, she was a Nimban pony, and Nimban ponies respected authority and discipline no matter what. Instead of leading her ‘rainstorm,’ her closest and most-elite soldiers into the field of battle, they were all stuck with her patrolling the capital of Nimbus, day in and day out while the war and the glory to be had was being won elsewhere.

Her hooves took her to the first leg of her morning patrol: the basilica exterior. Turning left off of a long and quiet hall, the mare nudged open a heavy iron door and found herself at the end of a long cloudstone balcony that wound its way around the roof of the palace. The winds of the dwindling summer tugged at her feathers, and sighing to herself, she set her hooves in a line and began to walk along the balcony.

It wasn’t long before another pony approaching from the opposite direction caught her attention.

“Legate Rain!” a white-on-gray stallion called out. Making a quick salute with his wing, he closed the remaining distance to the legate before she could finish a salute of her own. “Changing of the guard, eh?” Rain nodded. The other pony raised an eyebrow and took a step back, coyly staring at Rain. “You’re two minutes off your mark.”

Rain clobbered him with the feathery end of her bladed wing, earning a sneeze from the stallion. “Yeah, yeah, cut it, Haze.”

Haze smiled and walked to the edge of the balcony, Rain meeting him there. “What? Wanted to catch a little extra sleep? I can’t blame you, at least no after Gold Moon ate you alive when you tried to chew him out.” When Rain didn’t respond, Haze nudged her with an elbow. “Or is it something else? You got a stallion you’re not telling me about?”

“For Ofnir’s sake, Haze, somepony needs to nail your tail down and smash a beehive over your head.” Despite the threat, Rain’s tone was friendly, if not irritated.

The threat did little to deter Haze. “I know all about tails and the nailing of them, and believe me, I’ve only ever seen one pony who needs it more than you right now.”

Rain could smell a trap, but she bit anyway. “Really now? Who might that be? Yourself?”

Haze looked offended. “Me? Nah, I’m on my way to get some tail right now. Thorn should be waiting for me. Mare always liked her longspears...”

“Is this your first time with her?” Rain asked, smiling. “I’d imagine so. I don’t think she’d be interested in you and your little twig if it wasn’t. I should go warn her so she doesn’t die of laughter when she sees it.”

“Oh, you always were the funny one,” Haze retorted, trying to hide the fluster showing through his white coat. “Even when we were little, you were a fun one. Albeit slightly insane with a terrifying fascination with killing her toys, but a fun filly nonetheless.”

Rain attempted not to smile too much. “In fairness, the doll had it coming.”

Haze laughed at the suggestion. “For what? Did it insult your sense of masculinity?”

“Maybe?” Rain thought it over for a moment.

“You do know that you’re a mare, right?” Haze asked, a knowing smile on his lips.

“I’ve seen yours,” Rain shrugged with her wings, the metal scales scraping together from the simple motion. “Mine’s bigger.”

Haze felt his cheeks flush and he stomped a hoof on the floor. “That time doesn’t count!” His ears folded back and he averted his gaze from Rain’s. “It was really cold out…”

“Minor details,” Rain said with a soft chuckle, then, resting her forelegs on the balcony railing, she turned a more serious expression to her foalhood friend. “But seriously, how long have you and Thorn been ‘a thing’?”

Haze shrugged. “A thing? It has to be some sort of ceremony now?” He smirked. “Probably started a week ago.”

The larger mare struggled to stifle a laugh. “You mean that time we tried to see if it was actually possible to get Red to calm down by drinking him under the table?”

Haze looked away quickly. “Maybe it happened then,” he muttered all too fast.

But Rain wasn’t about to let up. “You and Thorn and Stonewall were all piss-drunk and Red thought it’d be funny to start an impromptu bar fight. Just threw a wild hook and clocked Stonewall in the jaw.” Rain was laughing heartily now, and she tried to hold back tears. “Poor Stonewall was so confused, the only thing he could think of doing was chucking the nearest thing back at Red, which just so happened to be—”

“Me,” Haze finished for her, none too happily. “Don’t worry, I remember. I was there.”

The legate snickered. “Tell me, when Red leaned out of the way and your face slammed into Thorn’s, was that you guys’ first kiss?”

“It was certainly something,” Haze remarked, rubbing some phantom bruise on his nose. Then he smiled. “At least we were both so drunk that getting untangled when we were both on the floor was something fairly... intimate.”

“And while you two were discovering that one plus one equals fun, Red started scaring the new recruits from Updraft shitless while trying to start some fights.” Rain shook her head. “Lesson learned: never let Red get drunk again. It only makes him worse.”

“You don’t say?” Haze asked with all the sarcasm he could muster. “Insanity and Red are a match made in the Great Skies.”

Rain laughed. “At least he’s good at turning that insanity towards the griffons. The stallion’s a one-pony cohort. I don’t know what we’d do without him.” Waving a wing into the empty air, she shook her head and stepped back, ready to continue her patrol. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t burn down the city one of these days.”

Haze tilted his head from side to side as if thinking on the merits of such an action. “Hopefully.” Sighing, he too leaned back from the railing and opened a wing. “Permission to hug, ma’am?”

Rain looked him over before ultimately shaking her head. “You’ve got another mare for that, and I’d hate to come between you two.”

“Awww, but Rain, you’re so soft,” Haze whispered as he wrapped his forelegs around Rain’s shoulders and rested his head against her neck. Rain stiffened at the contact, and it drew a slight chuckle from Haze, who gently patted her back. “There there, missy, we’ll find somepony who loves you one day.”

Rain shook him off, though she couldn’t hide the one upturned corner of her mouth. “When I said I didn’t want to come between you two, it was so that I wouldn’t have to be the one to deal with this.”

Haze’s lower lip protruded and his ears flattened against his head. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

“It is,” Rain teased, flicking him on the nose with her primaries. “But Thorn’s a big girl; I’m sure she’ll have you whipped in a few days.”

Haze leaned back onto his right rear hoof and brought a forehoof to his chin. After tapping it there a few times, he suddenly gasped and stood up straight, the words ‘divine inspiration’ stamped onto his forehead.

“That’s what you need!” He clopped his hooves together with pride. “I shoulda figured all along! It makes sense!”

“What?” Rain drawled, confused.

Reaching forward with a hoof, Haze patted Rain’s shoulder. “It’s obvious just looking at you; you’re a mare’s mare!” His beaming face was almost blinding to the legate.

Unfortunately for Haze, it didn’t stop the tall mare from hooking her forelimbs under his own and hurling him off of the balcony. The squeak he made at suddenly being weightless was anything but impressive.

Haze fluttered up a few moments later in time to see Rain storming angrily down the balcony. “Hey, wait up! It was just a joke!” He hesitated a few moments while the flustered mare rounded the corner of the balcony to get to the next leg of her patrol. “Or maybe not! I don’t really know! You ain’t leaving a lot of clues around for the guys... or girls...” Shaking his head, he glided towards where Rain had disappeared, trying to make sure his friend was okay. “Come on, now you’re a big g—”

His voice was cut off as he nearly collided with Rain’s tail. The legate was standing just around the edge of the corner, her eyes transfixed on the glowing orange lights at the eastern limits of the city. Raising an eyebrow, Haze leaned closer to the mare. “What is it, Rain? Don’t tell me you were right about Red burning down the town.”

“No, you idiot,” Rain hissed, urgency creeping into her voice. Reaching over her shoulder, she unlatched the hilt of her sword with a hoof and loosened it so she could slide it out with her teeth at a moment’s notice. By now, the fires were multiplying, and she could see dark figures flying to the walls from both within and without. Scowling, she spread her wings and was airborne in two flaps.

Haze watched her for a confused moment, then his eyes widened as alarm bells began ringing. He didn’t need Rain to tell him what she saw, because just like every Nimban, he knew what those bells meant.

“Go and grab Thorn!” Rain called from where she hovered in the air. “I’ll pick up Stonewall and Red!” Without even checking to see if Haze heard her order, the mare dove away into the darkness of the night, leaving Haze behind. As she flew towards the Nimban barracks, only one word came to mind, the word she both despised and adored.

Griffons.

Finder was having the dream again.

It started like all the other times. Dark figures moving through the shadows. Cold, lethal eyes watching him as he scrambled over fallen trees and around rotting trunks, ducking underneath ghostly hands of dead pines that clawed at his wings. They chased him, and the harder he ran, the closer they seemed to get. When he finally burst out of the forest and onto the stone bridge, he afforded himself time to pant before moving onwards.

But now the bridge was different. The rows of dead bodies wrapped in white linens, family members wailing over them, were gone. Instead, there were just four corpses in a neat line, their pure white death wrappings somehow unstained from the growing pool of blood underneath.

It was infinitely more painful than seeing his mother wailing over Longbow’s body, because Finder recognized each pony’s face… each and every one.

Longbow. Carver. Summer. Dawn. All dead.

“No!” Finder screamed, running up to his brother’s corpse. His trembling hooves reached out for the body but stopped short, unwilling to feel the cold truth. Tears leaked from his eyes as he gave a desperate shake of his head. “No, no, no no…”

His brother, what was left of him, was desiccated and frail, little more than rotten skin holding his bones together. One of his hooves brushed the corpse, and it suddenly jumped. Finder fell onto his back, speechless and terrified, as the cold flesh of their corpses twitched and undulated like marionettes on their strings. Brittle bones snapped, cold flesh tore, and and voiceless screams scratched free of their throats.

Longbow opened his eyes to reveal nothing but blood and bone and rot.

“Dead,” the corpse whispered, finally standing on four legs of bone and rotting tissue. “Dead! Dead because of you!”

Finder began sliding backwards, his wings opened in terror. “No! Longbow, I—Please! I’m sorry!”

“Sorry?” Longbow spat, taking a step forward to match Finder’s retreat. “You being sorry is supposed to fix this?” Longbow’s lips—or what was left of them—pulled back in a snarl, revealing the remains of a set of broken yellow teeth. “You killed me. You killed them!” Longbow shook his head, his disgust apparent in his scowl. “You’re no brother of mine.”

Hot tears trickled free of the colt’s eyes, burning salty lines down Finder’s cheeks. “Longbow... please...”

The corpse of Carver stepped forward, leaning over Finder’s trembling form. “I stuck my neck out for you so you could join the Legion, colt. And what did you do to show your thanks? You cut my eye out and then left me to die when the griffons came.” The one glowing, red eye in Carver’s face narrowed. “I thought we were friends.”

“And we thought you were our friends, too,” the voice of Summer hissed as she approached Finder with the mutilated corpse of Dawn at her side. “But first chance you got, you ran. You’re a coward, Finder. You don’t face fear; you run from it.” At her side, the corpse of Dawn growled disapprovingly through the hole gouged into her neck.

Longbow stepped forward to Finder again, placing a cold and rotting hoof straight on the colt’s chest. “You killed us, Finder. You should have stayed in Altus. None of us would have died if we weren’t so worried about saving you, only for you to leave us when it mattered most.” Longbow pulled his hoof away, and the corpses turned in unison and walked towards the broken edges of the bridge.

“Longbow!” Finder wailed, standing up after them. “Carver! Dawn! Come back!”

But they didn’t come back. One by one, they stepped over the edge of the bridge, rotten wings not even trying to hold themselves aloft. Finder was almost certain he could hear the sickening crunches of their broken bodies in the ravine below. When only Longbow was left, he paused at the edge of the bridge and stared Finder down.

“Go home, Pathfinder,” the corpse spat. “Go home before you can do more harm than you’ve already done.”

With one fluid motion, Longbow’s corpse stepped over the edge of the bridge. As the cracking of his body echoed off the walls of the ravine, the bridge exploded into fragments of stone and mortar. The entire thing lurched, flinging Finder off of its surface and down into the ravine after his friends.

The oppressing darkness exploded in light.

“Up, up! You lazy sacks of shit, get up! This is it! The moment you’ve all been waiting for!”

Finder jolted awake, hyperventilating, his brow covered in sweat. All around him, the reserve soldiers of the Cirran 8th Legion’s Second Platoon scrambled out of their bedrolls. The noise, coupled with Finder’s lingering shock from his nightmare, had him awake in an instant.

On his right, Carver was still trying to shake off sleep and crawl out of bed. Scowling, Centurion Skyhammer, who had been standing at the door to the tent, stormed over and kicked the older stallion in the ribs. “You think the griffons are going to wait till you’ve had your tea? Get your ass up, you worthless pile of skin and feathers, and armor!” Turning to face the rest of the platoon, Skyhammer stomped his hoof angrily. “All of you, armor, weapons, and papers! This isn’t a game anymore, kiddies, this is for real!!”

Finder’s already racing heart pounded even harder. He immediately hopped to his hooves and tore open his canvas supply bag with shaking hooves. His hooves wrapped around his light armor and helmet, but as he pulled them out of the bag he dropped the galea, which rolled across the cloud until it bumped into Windshear’s hoof.

The light blue stallion was already halfway dressed in his armor, and he took the time out from buckling a strap to kick the helmet back towards Finder. “This is it, huh? You ready?”

Finder caught the helmet and gulped, hesitantly sliding it onto his head. He knew what ‘it’ was; the clamoring of the alarm bells and the shouts of organizing legionaries outside told him as much, but some foalish part of him still clung onto the hope that it was all just a drill.

“Burn my tail,” Carver cursed as he finally got up and began to clumsily strap on his armor. “What the hell are griffons doing at Nimbus? The rest of the Eighth’s miles from here! There shouldn’t be a griffon left from Stratopolis to Hengstead!”

Finder draped his lorica squamata over his back and slid his wings through the mail. The armor’s once-foreign weight was comfortable and comforting now. He shuddered at the thought that it might have to save his life today.

Summer and Dawn galloped over from the mare’s end of the tent, both with hidden excitement in their faces. “Come on, boys,” Summer called, picking up Carver’s sword and dropping it roughly into his forelegs. “The griffons are here, and it’s about time we give them a proper Nimban welcoming!”

“But we’re not Nimban!” Finder squeaked. He fumbled with the loops on his sword’s scabbard before finally managing to get it securely hooked into his armor. “The rest of us are from Cirra!”

“Then pretend you’re Nimban!” Dawn shouted. “Life’s more fun that way anyways!”

Summer shook her head as Carver struggled to get one strap of his armor secure. “You fat oaf, turn around!” Before Carver could even respond, Summer had forcibly spun him around and yanked the strap a few belt holes too tight. Carver coughed and immediately reached down to loosen it, managing to resecure the strap before Summer could squawk at him again.

“We all ready?” Dawn asked, flexing her wings so that the sharpened scales of her wingblades glinted in the dim candlelight. Finder finished attaching his in time to nod and scramble forward along with the rest of the replacements from Second Platoon.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Carver muttered. Making sure the last of his supplies were in order, he too moved forward and left the tent, with Summer, Dawn, and Windshear bringing up the rear.

The five ponies took their places at the rear of Second Platoon’s century. Finder’s eyes widened at the hellish sight. The eastern gate was on fire, and the ponies on the walls were fighting desperately against large, shadowy figures. Still more pegasi fought in the air above and below the walls, their tandem teams squaring off against griffon tandems in deadly aerial dances. Finder watched as one of the larger figures dived onto a smaller pegasus. It hit him in mid-air, and a second later the pegasus spiraled away in two different halves, the winged half falling a little slower than the other.

A cohort of legionaries flew low overhead, their coiled hooves little more than five feet above Finder’s head. Several of the green ponies in Skyhammer’s century flinched as the cohort flew over them with a guttural roar, making a beeline straight for the walls. Already the roar of fighting was beginning to drown out the world, and the fires burning along the walls casted terrifying shadows across the cloud.

“Legionaries!” Skyhammer shouted, pacing back and forth in front of his century. “It looks like your brothers in the field missed one of the chicken king’s hordes, and it’s up to us to hold this city until they realize their fuck-up and come flying back to cut ‘em apart!” A roar of crackling fire filled the air, and Finder looked up to see a dozen blazing comets arced out of the center of Nimbus and into the middle of the combat zone. The firepots detonated with a bang just past the walls, sending liquid fire shooting throughout the atmosphere and into the feathers of the unsuspecting griffons caught in the zone. Griffons scattered amongst the rain of artillery, a good number screaming and thrashing as they fell towards the ground, feathers and hide alight with Nimban flame. The effect was short, however. Moments later, their lines reformed, the deadly artillery proving as little more than a nuisance.

Skyhammer looked each of his soldiers in the face, one after another, and his brow lowered in determination. “This is not the situation I would have liked our first fight to be in. We’re likely outnumbered, but with the gods’ will, and by the strength of our fellow pegasi, we will prevail tonight. Aquilifer, raise the standard!”

At Skyhammer’s command, the pony in the front of the century holding one of the Eighth Legion’s Eagles hefted the proud standard higher. Flaring his wings with a metallic scrape, Skyhammer hovered up beside it. “This is what you are fighting for! This is our Aquila! Our Eagle! We will not let it fall to the griffons’ talons until every last one of us is dead! In the coming fight, look to our Eagle, look to your brothers and sisters, protect the ponies by your sides. They will need you much more than you will need them!” Turning around, Skyhammer drew his sword and thrust it towards the eastern wall. “Now, soldiers! After me! Ante Legionem nihil erat!”

“Et nihil erit Legionem!” Finder found himself screaming in unison with his friends and the other ponies of the centuria. As one, the sixty-four pegasi all spread their wings and took to the skies, following Skyhammer’s advance on the eastern walls. Behind them, five more centuries slid together, forming one large cohort of nearly four hundred legionaries. Finder and the other ponies of Second Platoon knew that Skyhammer was pilus prior, the most senior centurion of the six centuries, and as such the entire cohort was his to command. That also meant that his century was the cohort’s first lines, and they’d take the brunt of the fighting.

“Remember,” Summer called to Finder, Carver, and Windshear from the gap between the first and second centuries, “keep your head down, stick together, and don’t be stupid! You’re fighting for five minutes, then you get to go to back for twenty-five! Make sure you make it!”

Finder nodded, pumping his wings a little harder to keep close to Carver on his right and Windshear on his left. The flapping of four hundred wings in tight formation tore the air to shreds behind Skyhammer’s cohort. Finder was simply glad that he wasn’t at the rear, where the turbulence would put extra strain on his smaller wings. Although, being one of the first sixty-four in combat wasn’t much of a tradeoff at all.

His body shivered with nervous anticipation. He immediately began to second guess his preparation. Was his gladius securely latched into its scabbard? Should he pop the latch so he could immediately draw it when landing? But what if he got caught in an aerial battle? If he unlatched it now, it might come loose in the air. Were his wingblades properly oiled and sharpened?

Finder looked to his right. Carver’s attention seemed to focus dead ahead as the cohort closed in on the wall. His wings pumped in a steady rhythm, and Finder could tell the larger stallion was distracting himself from the task at hand by concentrating on flying. Still, the nervous shivers along his back and in his legs were hard to conceal even with the motion of flying.

Then Finder looked left. Windshear was a different pony altogether. His flight was smooth and calm, his spear balanced in the fetlocks of his forehooves as he flew. Nearby, several other spearponies did the same, but Windshear’s poise was something else. The way he held it, the way he carried himself... Finder could tell there was a repressed instinct that was simply waiting for a griffon to get too close before being released.

He remembered how Windshear had fought in the tournament. He knew what that instinct could do.

They were little more than thirty seconds out from the walls now. Somewhere up ahead, a whistle blew, and Skyhammer climbed twenty feet to make his voice heard across the cohort. “Medics, break off!” he shouted, waving with a hoof towards the rear of the cohort.

Summer tapped Carver on the shoulder. “Go get ‘em, sexy.”

It was enough to break Carver of his concentration, causing him to stagger in flight. “Uh... thanks?”

Dawn flew up close to Finder, and before the colt could realize what was happening, she pressed her lips to his burning cheek. “Stay safe, lil’ guy! I’ll be waiting to fix up your booboos when your five minutes are over. Do real good and I might even give you something real special.”

Finder blushed and separated awkwardly. “I won’t—I mean, I will—I-I mean...”

Dawn smiled. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.” Then, with a twist of her wings, she and Summer broke off from the cohort and descended to the cloud, where they and the rest of the cohort’s medics began to set up an immediate treatment center.

“Buck me, that mare...” Carver muttered, shaking his head. “She killed my focus.”

“Dawn?” Finder asked, confused. “Or Summer?”

“The stallion in the mare’s body,” Carver said. When Finder still looked confused, he rolled his eyes. “Summer, Finder. Who else?”

Finder opened his mouth to respond, but Skyhammer’s next command cut him off. “Spears, archers, break off! Archers up top, hastae, you’re the backstop! There will be no ad triarios redisse today!”

Windshear raised his eyebrows as the specialists separated out of the cohort. “So... that’s awkward. I’ll see you guys later... hopefully under good circumstances.” With a twist of his wings, he dove down out of the formation, grouping with a century of spearponies that then rose behind the ranks of the cohort and trailed at a comfortable distance.

Something in his voice set a pit in Finder’s stomach and a chill down his spine. He turned to Carver as the ranks adjusted to fill in for the sudden gap. “What did he mean?”

Carver grunted. “Skyhammer said no ad triarios redisse—no falling back on the triarii.” He looked over his shoulder to where the spearponies were spreading out, creating a curtain of pointy sticks. “We’re not allowed to retreat, or they’ll kill us.”

A pit opened in Finder’s stomach. Skyhammer would have him killed if he tried to run? He suddenly felt a lot more worried about the coming fight.

‘Five minutes,’ he told himself. ‘Five minutes and then I can go to the back.’

Skyhammer’s voice once more rang out over the chaos of the battle. “Brothers, this is it! Are you ready for a taste of griffon blood?! Because now you’re about to have it!!” Lowering his altitude, Skyhammer resumed his position at the front of the cohort as the other centurions relayed his orders back through the ranks. Up above, Finder could see the archers take up positions on a cloud and collectively draw their bows. Iron-tipped arrowheads glinted in the moonlight and the fires of the burning Nimban outskirts below, and the metal ‘fingers’ that the archers wore around their fetlocks and used to draw their bows glistened in the hellish light.

Finder’s heart was pounding. He could clearly see the fighting on the walls and all throughout the air in front of him. Large feline shapes with the heads and talons of eagles ripped through the air or fought embattled legionaries on the walls. To Finder, they looked like beasts, demons, and they fought with an animalistic cruelty and ferocity that left scattered legionaries fighting losing battles for their lives. As the cohort got closer, Finder had the misfortune of seeing one hybrid grab a stallion by the face and rip his throat out before flinging the body off of the wall and turning toward its next target.

“Legionaries, wingblades leading, and ready your swords! Step formation, leading low, trailing high! Hit the bastards with everything you’ve got!”

Hard discipline drilled into Finder’s head from one too many training sessions guided his hoof to the latch on his sword without him even realizing it. With a sharp click, the latch fell away, and his hoof nudged the sword an inch out of the hilt, ready to come free with a yank from his teeth as soon as he hit the wall. Then, the cohort separated into its six centuries, with trailing century flying high and each century stepping down in altitude until Finder and the leading century were almost at eye level with the wall.

A great whooshing sound made its way to Finder’s ears, and seconds before the cohort had reached the wall, dozens of arrows rained in from the archers on the cloud behind. They scattered across the wall and battered the griffons assaulting it. Many of the feathered shafts skittered across the cloudstone or deflected off of griffons’ armor, but several found their mark. Several of the hybrids went down with cries of rage or pain, clutching at their necks or their chests where an arrow or two had punched clean through the armor. The legionaries on the wall rushed forward and drove their swords into the necks of the griffons that had only been wounded, ending their lives in a river of dark liquid that stained their feathers and soaked the white cloudstone.

“Ready?!” Carver shouted over the noise. He flapped his bladed wings a few more times, building speed and momentum as the cohort entered the final stretch to Nimbus’ walls. Finder couldn’t find the breath to respond. All he could do was watch as the pegasi in front of him shouted a ferocious battle cry and hurled their bladed wings and armored bodies at the griffons along the walls.

Finder’s hooves touched down on the cloudstone wall as the first century slammed into the griffons that still remained on the wall. The piercing ring of iron and steel and the cries of dying soldiers filled the air. Reaching to the side, Finder grabbed his sword and drew it, squaring himself up behind the soldier in front of him. At his right, Carver widened his stance, readying for combat as the first lines of the cohort pushed against the sieging griffons clinging to the wall.

A warm, sticky rain drizzled across Finder’s face and wings, turning his attention skyward. Up above, the stepladder formation of the cohort spread out, creating an angled wall that slammed into the lines of airborne griffons, driving them back and up and asserting an aerial presence over the sieged part of the wall. From there, the airborne legionaries split off into pairs and began chasing down pairs of griffons within their assigned defense zones, turning the sky into a messy dance of death.

Skyhammer’s century began to widen along the front of the wall, driving the griffons back and buying the weary survivors who had originally been defending the walls time to fall back and regroup. In a matter of seconds, the century had completely driven the griffon presence from their wall, slaying those that fought and forcing the rest to flee. Finder quickly located Carver and flew to his blindside, taking comfort in the larger pony’s presence. His sword quivered in his mouth, and part of him wanted to curl up into a little ball and pretend he wasn’t in mortal peril.

“Brace yourselves and get ready for the next wave!” Skyhammer’s voice rang through the air causing Finder to turn his head.

Looking around, he swiftly found the centurion walking in the rear ranks of his century, ushering his soldiers to man the walls two ranks deep. From above, two of the five centuries providing top cover descended, taking up positions on the walls to the left and right of Skyhammer’s legionaries. As the pegasi settled into position, Skyhammer stepped back and widened his stance. “We hold this position! Centurion Solar Flare and the Ninth Cohort will relieve us when they arrive! Until then, you do not leave this wall until I give the order!”

Finder’s heart was racing. He looked past the shoulder of the pony in front of him, trying to see into the dark grayness of the early morning. Hundreds of tiny fires dotting the countryside below, casting eerie orange light into the sky. That light reflected off of the armored stomachs of hundreds... thousands of airborne griffons. And they were making a charge straight for Nimbus’ walls.

“Get ready!” Carver shouted to Pathfinder, bracing himself for the impact. Finder gulped and widened his stance as Skyhammer had taught him so long ago, his sword ready and his wingblades opened and out to the sides.

The seemingly endless horde charged the walls like flies descending on discarded meat. With his sharp eyes, Finder could see the steel armor they wore and the terrifying longswords they kept clutched in their talons. Their armor was covered in spikes and ridges, and their talons were sharpened to lethal points. From their cruelly hooked beaks rang thousands upon thousands of piercing screeches, and beyond the sharp beak Finder could see rows of equally sharp teeth. It looked like something out of a nightmare.

Then they hit.

Blood, limbs, iron, steel, and screams of agony and death filled the air. The pegasus in front of Finder grunted as a griffon slashed its claws out at him, scoring a glancing blow across the legionary’s face. Growling, the pegasus retaliated, striking out with a wing to destabilize his opponent before swinging his gladius upwards, trying to catch the griffon under the chin. The griffon pulled back and lunged forward with a clawed hand, trying to grab the Cirran’s neck, but the pegasus was too fast. Ducking low, the legionary avoided the attack and slashed out with his sword. The heavy steel blade connected with the soft flesh of the hybrid’s elbow and rend the limb in two. The griffon screamed in agony, and the legionary twisted around to drive his sword straight through the hybrid’s neck. Blood sprayed from the wound, painting the young legionary’s armor red. With a final shrug, the Cirran knocked the dying griffon from his sword and sent it tumbling over the walls.

The victory didn’t last long. With a terrifying screech, another dropped from the sky like a like a hawk and tackled the pegasus in front of Pathfinder. They struggled for several seconds before the griffon’s talons grabbed hold of the legionnaire’s mane and pulled his head back to expose the pegasus’ unguarded neck. With a sickening tear, it plunged it’s beak into the soft flesh causing blood to sputter from the pony’s lips. Finder flinched at the gruesome scene, taking a terrified step back. When the griffon pulled its beak free of the felled legionary’s neck, it was stained bright red. Thin strips of meat—pony meat—hung from its beak. With a fearsome glare, the griffon swallowed them whole and began advancing on Pathfinder with a horrifying smile.

“No!”

Before Pathfinder could respond, Carver charged over from the side and jabbed at the griffon’s shoulder with his sword. The griffon turned its attention from Pathfinder to block Carver with its longsword, the blades meeting with a hard clang and a shower of sparks. Pulling back from the strike, Carver jabbed once with each wing, hoping to get around the griffon’s defenses, but it retaliated with the blades on its own wings, jabbing the rusted iron blades at Carver’s neck. Hopping into the air, Carver gained a few feet of altitude then dive-bombed the griffon, using his momentum to break the griffon’s defenses. The beast blocked the attack but stumbled from the blow, giving Carver an opening to press the assault with his wingblades.

Grunting with each hit, Carver swapped between his wingblades and his sword, driving the griffon back with every blow. All the while, he kept his head angled to the right with his sword sticking out to the left and below his remaining eye, making sure the griffon couldn’t get around to his blindside. Striking out again, Carver managed to hook his sword under the griffon’s and pulled, yanking the hybrid’s weapon loose.

The griffon faltered, but only for a second. Lunging forward, it slashed with its talons at Carver’s face. The stallion barely pulled back in time, but the tips of the griffon’s claws raked across his face, drawing a series of red lines across his forehead. Snarling, Carver lowered his shoulder and rammed into the griffon’s chest, making the beast stumble back. Before it could get out of range, however, Carver spun on his hind legs and delivered a whirlwind slash to its chest.

Sparks flew from where the sword snapped the griffon’s blade in two. The spray of orange sparks quickly turned into a spray of crimson blood, splattering across Carver’s face and armor, and showering Pathfinder’s nose. With a sickening gurgle, the griffon collapsed, its blood mixing with the blood of other fallen Cirrans and griffons along the wall.

Carver remained frozen in place, his eyes locked on the fallen foe in front of him. He was hyperventilating, and he seemed unable to blink. His sword, bloodied and dripping red, quivered in his grasp.

“I... I’m...”

Finder could only reach a hesitant hoof out towards his friend. Carver, the pony who just the other day had been dreaming of peace with the griffons, had just killed his first.

A body slamming against the wall and rolling off nearby shook Carver from his stupor. Looking upwards, he and Finder watched helplessly as a resurgent wave of griffons slam into the three centuries trying to hold the airspace above the walls. With howling battle cries and screams of death, the griffon surge steadily pushed through the centuries above. Several of the less experienced legionaries panicked and broke off from the engagement, flying directly towards the wall of spears Skyhammer had ordered set up behind the walls.

As one, the screen of spearponies diverged to intercept the fleeing legionaries, waving their spears to try and get them to turn back to the fight. Several of the breaking pegasi quickly grabbed hold of their wits and nervously charged back into the fray, but many continued onwards. As soon as they came within ten feet of the spearponies, the pegasi forming the backstop thrusted out with their hastae. Half a dozen Cirran legionaries were slain by the spearponies until the rest of the runners turned back to return to the fight, too afraid to retreat further. Finder tasted bile on the back of his tongue as he watched the spearponies shake the bodies of their comrades off of their weapons. Everywhere he looked, he imagined Windshear knocking a body off of his bloodied spear before returning to formation.

Finder was already panicking as the lines shifted around him, griffons diving madly into the line of pegasi, trying to gain some sort of headway against the staunch Cirran defense which barely clung to its fortifications. Bodies, whole and piecemeal, fell from the sky like stones, slamming into the cloudstone walls or sliding down their buttresses, tumbling to the ground thousands of feet below. As Carver reeled himself back in, Finder gasped as a headless pony slammed against the wall, it’s body lingering for half a second on dead hooves before it slid down and out of sight, leaving nothing but a trail of blood in its wake.

Carver spotted Finder standing back, his wings open in shock, and quickly stormed up to him. “Finder!” he yelled grabbing the colt by the breastplate and pulling him off his hooves. “What are you doing?! You’re going to get yourself killed just standing back here!”

Finder squeaked, pushing lightly against Carver’s chest. “Let me go! I’m sorry!”

“Sorry isn’t it going to cut it when you’re dead!” Carver shouted, dropping Finder onto the ground. “Get your act together, kid! I don’t want to lose you!”

Finder nodded, bending over and clutching his sword from where he’d dropped it. Carver jabbed a hoof into his chest. “Get on the wall and watch my blind side! I don’t want to die without seeing the bastard that killed me; that’d just be insulting!”

The older pony turned back to the wall, and the meaning beneath the stallion’s words left Finder reeling. Carver had just killed his first griffon less than a minute ago, and already the hardened edge of the Legion was creeping into his mind. It was like he was witnessing his friend changing before his very eyes, transforming into something... awful. Something not-Carver.

The griffons level with the wall were pulling back and sweeping upwards, disappearing into the shadows beyond the lights of Nimbus’ walls. The action reminded Finder of watching the waves back in Altus, seeing the water pulling back into a rolling wave as it built up, right before the crash...

Gulping, Finder looked up, craning his neck to get a clear view of the sky.

The three battered centuries providing air superiority were beating the griffons away from the walls, struggling to keep the skies clear. On some unspoken command, however, the griffon fliers engaged with the Cirran pegasi pulled back in a general retreat. One of the centurions above barked an order, and his century slid out of position to chase down the fleeing griffons. The excitement pulled half of the neighboring century along with it.

Neither century spotted the tidal wave of griffons crashing down from above.

“Look out!” Finder screamed, but knowing all too well that his small voice was only lost in the chaos of the battle around him. Grabbing onto Carver’s shoulder, he pointed upwards. The larger pony jumped at the contact, calming as he realized it was only Finder. He twisted to look upwards as the first griffon slammed down onto the back of an unsuspecting pegasus.

The century that had remained took the brunt of the hit. Two dozen pegasi dropped from the air in short order; the rest of the century panicked and scattered as close to three hundred griffons quickly punched through their ranks, slaughtering confused and fleeing Cirrans as they plummeted. The centuries that had been drawn forward by the griffons’ retreat suddenly found themselves cut off and surrounded. Turning as one, the survivors of the two centuries bolted for the walls, trying to cut through the crashing wave of griffons and regroup with the rest of Skyhammer’s cohort. Almost immediately, another surge of griffons surged up from below, tearing the centuries to shreds as several more squads of griffons split off from all around to dive into the fray.

“BACK!” Finder could hear Skyhammer scream. The centurion took wing, hovering just above the walls as the panicking reserves under his command flew back into the city. “Back and regroup at the forum!” Looking skyward, Skyhammer screamed at the archers. “Covering fire!! Give them everything you’ve got, shield our withdrawal!” As the archers nocked new arrows into their bows, part of Finder’s mind noted how Skyhammer never used the word ‘retreat’.

“Come on, Finder, let’s move!” Carver shouted, slapping Pathfinder across the back as he took wing. Finder immediately spread his wings and took flight, aligning himself with Carver’s right flank as his wingpony and his right eye. Half of Skyhammer’s cohort was broken and routing, and the retreat of the remaining two hundred wasn’t in much better shape. Up above, Finder saw the archers on the cloud platform loose their arrows in a flurry of pointy death directly into the faces of the griffons charging them. It wasn’t enough to scatter the charge, but a dozen griffons fell from the sky, buying most of the archers enough time to scatter and fall back. Several were too slow and fell prey to sharpened claws and brutal evisceration.

The cloud rained blood.

Ahead of him, Finder could see the spearpony backstop tense at the oncoming cohort, quickly trying to decide to force them back or let them pass. Ahead of him and Carver, Finder spotted the figure of Windshear, bracing his spear against his flank. Finder’s heart stopped as he realized he and Carver were flying right towards their friend.

“Hastae! Screen the griffons while the rest of the cohort withdraws!” Skyhammer ordered, his voice already taking on a raspy edge. Immediately, the spearponies lowered their weapons and spread out to let the fleeing legionaries pass. As Carver and Finder stormed past Windshear, Finder couldn’t help but make eye contact with Windshear. He saw anxiety and fear in his friend’s eyes, but there was something else. Almost like... guilt?

Windshear’s spear was stained red.

Then he was gone, and Finder, Carver, and the survivors of the cohort were on the other side of an agonizingly thin screen of hastae. That didn’t stop Skyhammer from leading the cohort deeper into the city, and a look over Finder’s shoulder explained why. The griffons had taken the walls and were about to tear through the spearponies providing the cohort cover. Finder’s gut twisted as he realized nopony in that formation would survive. Not even Windshear.

Just then, there was a ferocious war cry from above. Finder flinched and dropped a few feet, expecting griffons, but the rush of oncoming air was from the center of the city. Just a few feet above him, another cohort of Cirrans had rallied and was rushing out towards the walls to try and contain the gap. It was Centurion Solar Flare and the Ninth Cohort, arrived but a minute too late to stop the griffons from breaking through.

The Ninth Cohort and the griffons met in a brutal clash, with the Second Cohort’s spearponies trapped right in the middle.

“Windshear!” Finder screamed, turning in place to try and find his friend in the brutal melee. The griffons and pegasi slamming into each other had turned the sky into a swirling vortex of death and screams. Legionaries flew this way and that in pairs and quartets, with griffons hounding them the whole way. A hundred games of cat and mouse were being played in the small arena, each game ending in lethal results. Finder thought he caught a glimpse of a familiar light blue coat, but it simply blended back into the mass of armored and bloodied bodies.

“Medics, organize and evac!” Skyhammer barked to the medical station down below, the edge of peril had dropped from his voice now that he had another cohort to cover him. “Take the wounded back to the forum, we’ll provide cover!” Turning to his wavering cohort, Skyhammer hovered above the medical camp. “My century will help the medics get their sorry asses out of here. The rest of you, get to the forum and organize a defense as best you can. Centurion Aurum is in charge until I return!”

The pegasi saluted and began to split off. Skyhammer dove down towards the barracks, and a mare with a shiny golden coat took his place—Centurion Aurum, Finder presumed. The mare barked out orders with a frightening intensity at least equal to Skyhammer’s booming voice, and the survivors of the cohort took wing deeper into the city. Pathfinder, however, didn’t hear her words; he was already diving town towards the medical camp, along with the forty-seven other survivors from the walls.

The count horrified Finder. They had been fighting on the walls for little more than five minutes before Skyhammer ordered the withdrawal, and they had already lost a quarter of their strength. Still, Finder had the uneasy suspicion that his century was one of the least molested of the six in the cohort.

Skyhammer flared his wings as he approached the clouds, and behind him, the rest of his century fanned out. All around, Finder could see medics frantically tending to the wounded, dressing wounds and wrapping bandages around those who could be saved. He immediately began searching for Summer and Dawn, Carver at his side, as Skyhammer stormed to the center of the field hospital.

“C’mon, pack it up, bring it in, and take flight!” Skyhammer shouted, spinning in place to make sure he had everypony’s attention. “We’ve got fewer than ten before the griffons come ripping this place to shreds! Stretcher bearers, get the wounded who can make the move out of here, and medics, deal with those who can’t!” Turning around, he faced his century of soldiers and raised a hoof towards some crates. “Gather medical supplies and anything else you can get out of here! I want this place stripped bare! Anything you can’t move, burn. Don’t let the bastards scavenge anything for their own wounded!”

The ponies in the camp immediately responded to Skyhammer’s orders, a harsh month’s worth of discipline forcing them on without question. Still, Finder hesitated even as Carver started to load bandages and vinegar into a crate for transportation, looking for his friends. Wandering around a tent, the colt nearly plowed directly into Dawn’s flank.

“Hold him down!” Dawn shouted to the medics on either side of a thrashing stallion. With abject horror, Finder noticed that the stallion’s wing, or the remains of it at the least, was snapped, twisted, and hanging in bloody tatters against his side. Responding with a quick “ma’am”, the two medics both moved to the stallion’s sides and pressed down, restraining his movement.

Finder stepped back, terror in his face. “Dawn, w-what are you—!”

His words were stolen as he watched Dawn reach for a bonesaw and grasp the bloody handle between her teeth. “Shish ‘ill only hursh for uh shecond,” she reassured the stallion, her words garbled by the instrument in her mouth. The stallion only thrashed harder, nearly shaking the smaller medic of of him, before Dawn wrapped the tatters of his wing in a hoof and held it out. Grimacing, she lowered the bonesaw against the base of the wing and drew her head back.

The screaming was horrific, and Finder flattened his ears against his skull to try and block it out. Blood spurted from the fresh cut, painting Dawn’s face with thick red streaks. She squinted and blinked to keep the viscous fluid out of her eyes as she started to saw. In a few short seconds, the remains of the wing separated from the stallion’s body, and one of the medics immediately moved to an open fire, grabbing a hot piece of flat metal shaped like a half circle and pressing it onto the wound to cauterize the bleeding with a terrible searing hiss.

Dawn stepped back, dropping the bloody bonesaw in a bucket of water and pushing it towards the fire. “Red Fern, give him some henbane, now.” Then, turning around, she finally noticed the colt standing behind her. “Finder? What are you doing here? You’re not hurt, are you?!”

Finder rushed up to the mare and placed his hooves on her shoulders. “We have to go; we lost the walls, and Skyhammer’s withdrawing to the forum.”

“Lost the walls!?” Dawn shouted, stepping back in shock. Craning her neck, she looked skyward for perhaps the first time since the start of the fight, and her eyes widened as she noticed the stream of griffons slowly but surely forcing the Ninth Cohort back towards the city. “Gods! We—Finder!” She turned back to the colt and gripped his armored shoulder with a hoof. “Summer’s two tents over, taking care of the more critical cases. If she hasn’t heard Skyhammer’s order... tell her what needs to be done.”

Finder nodded, but lingered a moment longer. “Dawn, I—”

“Go, Finder!” the medic shouted, pushing him away with a hoof. She immediately turned to her assistants and pointed towards a bloodstained stretcher in the corner of the tent. Looking over her shoulder and seeing that Finder was still standing there, the Nimban growled fiercely. “Go now!!”

The colt squeaked and dashed off, leaving Dawn behind.

Finder flicked his ears as he ran. The sound of the nearby battle was growing. Looking up, he watched an additional cohort slam into the griffon right flank, driving them back but forcing them closer to the medical camp. Several dozen griffons split off and withdrew before angling to their right, spinning around to try and counter the new cohort’s attack and stabilize their advance. Even higher up, dark shadows flitted through the smoke and clouds, moving deeper towards the city.

“Summer!” Finder shouted, spotting a large tent which he assumed was his destination. “Summer! We gotta move! The griffons’ll be here any minute now!” Sliding to a stop at the tent flap, Finder pushed it open with a foreleg and stepped inside. “Summer?!”

Finder spotted Summer standing in the back of the tent, her hooves resting on a bloodied mess of a mare’s side. The mare’s armor had been peeled off and was resting beside her cot, more crimson than gray in color. Summer’s back was towards Finder, though he could see the way she ran a hoof through the wounded mare’s mane, cooing softly to her.

“Shh... it’s okay,” Summer whispered. “You served the Empire well. The gods will welcome you with open arms. You’ll live in the glory of the Eternal Empire in the Great Skies, unbreaking, unwavering, undying.”

The mare coughed. “...I’m... I’m going to die... aren’t I?”

Summer was silent. Finder could only imagine that she was pursing her lips, searching for the right words. “Yes,” she said. The honesty in her voice made Finder’s heart sink, and he leaned backwards, lifting a forehoof off the ground. “But it will be quick and painless. The griffons won’t touch you. I swear.”

The wounded soldier was quiet for several seconds. “If you see Cloudburst... tell him I’m sorry... and that I love him.”

Summer nodded, and Finder saw her bend over to kiss the mare’s forehead. “On my honor as a Nimban, I will.” Then, her hoof touched the breastplate on her armor, and she withdrew a short, curved spike. With a soft grunt, she rolled the mare onto her back, eliciting a strained whimper from the wounded soldier.

“Garuda, guide your child’s soul to the afterlife. Give her the reward she deserves for fighting for Cirra’s honor; give her a piece of your Great Skies,” Summer prayed. Grasping the spike between her teeth, she hesitated for only a second before she drove it into the base of the mare’s skull. There wasn’t even a gasp from the wounded legionary. Her body simply twitched once, then fell slack.

Summer’s shoulders heaved for several seconds, then she pulled the spike free of the mare’s skull and let it drop to the floor. Her wings fell to her sides, and she bent her head down, pressing a hoof to her face.

Finder took a step forward. “Summer?” he whispered. The mare’s head immediately darted up, and when she looked over her shoulder, Finder could see the tears staining her face, her eyes already red and puffy. Finder’s wings twitched in shock, and he took another step closer. “Summer? Are you alright?”

“Finder...” Summer wheezed, her voice nearly choking on a sob. “What are you doing here...”

Without even thinking, Finder fluttered across the room and stood on his hind legs to give the taller mare a hug. “It’s okay, Summer. It’s okay.”

Summer stiffened at the contact, but then her hooves slowly found their way to Finder’s shoulders. “F-Finder, I... thank...”

She wasn’t able to finish her words. Instead, she broke apart against Finder’s shoulders, her body heaving with each sob. Warm tears stained his neck, but Finder only hugged the mare closer. Part of him marveled that he even had the strength to calm Summer. Suddenly he realized that he simply knew Summer needed him more than he needed her.

“I couldn’t s-save them,” Summer whimpered as she managed to regain some semblance of control over her emotions. “They were too wounded to move, and I couldn’t just leave them for the griffons. Who knows what the... the bastards would have done to them.” Finder opened his eyes and looked around the room, noticing for the first time that the cots he thought were empty simply had woolen sheets dragged over the bodies inside. He counted seven bodies total... and Summer had been the only one in the tent when Finder arrived.

“You spared them,” Finder whispered, his voice cracking as he did. “It was a mercy.”

Summer separated from the hug and looked forlornly at the exposed body of the mare she had just killed next to her. “She was so sweet... she must have barely been eighteen, but...” her voice stuck, and she looked at Finder with red eyes. “I think she was underage. J-Just like you...”

The implications drilled through Finder’s armor, piercing his heart and ripping it to ribbons. Summer had just had to kill a filly. Even if it was to spare her from suffering, it had to be weighing heavily on his friend’s mind. She had joined the medical corps to save pegasi, not end their lives. He couldn’t imagine what she was going through inside.

Finder nuzzled Summer, then stepped back. “We have to get going. Skyhammer’s regrouping at the forum. The griffons will be here any minute.”

Summer’s eyes suddenly caught a glint of hatred, pure malice focused down to a murderous point. “Let them come,” she snarled. Spinning around, she grabbed her sword from an operating table and hooked into into her armor. “Let them come and see what I had to do! I’ll rip them all to pieces! I’ll stain this cloud red with their blood!!” Stomping forward, her face contorted with so much rage that Finder scrambled backwards. “I shouldn’t have to murder a little filly!”

“Summer!” Finder squawked, his voice wavering. It was enough to break the trance over the mare, and she glanced back towards the colt, breathing heavily. “You have to fall back with us! Dawn and Carver and I are waiting for you! We can get through this together!” Part of Finder’s mind realized that he left Windshear’s name off his list of friends. It was as if his subconscious had already accepted that the stallion was dead.

Summer stared at Finder for a moment longer, the anger and rage bleeding out of her eyes. Eventually, she growled and stepped back. “Alright. But the next griffon that gets within reach of me, I’m splitting from neck to tail!” Turning around, the mare stormed out of the tent. Finder hesitated for a second, then galloped after her, following her tail as it disappeared around the corner of the tent.

Back in the center of the medical camp, the legionaries had thrown together a large pile of medical equipment and supplies, everything too large to carry and too valuable to let fall into griffon claws. Grabbing a lantern from a nearby tent, Skyhammer swung it over his head and shattered it on the pile, letting the flames take to the supplies. Medicine that could have been used to treat wounds and save lives instead turned into acrid black smoke, mingling with the smoke rising from the outskirts of Nimbus from the griffon advance.

As Summer and Finder cantered back to the center of the medical camp, several wings of medics flew towards the center of the city, carrying the wounded they could save on stretchers between them. On the clouds, Finder noticed Dawn and Carver standing side by side, both equally covered in blood. Dawn wore the blood of her comrades, Carver, the blood of their enemies. Finder and Summer slid over next to Dawn and Carver while Skyhammer turned to address his century.

“I’ll be honest with you, legionaries, the situation isn’t good,” Skyhammer growled. “There’s a whole damn army out there, larger than anything we’ve got in or near the city for a hundred miles! I don’t know how the hell they got past the Eighth, or what’s happened to the Eighth, but it’s up to us to hold the line until reinforcements come.” Opening a wing, he pointed to the center of town. “The Nimban forum will give us plenty of cover and well-fortified positions to hold off the griffons until we get some sort of relief! We’ll fly there and hold, no matter what!”

Then, taking wing, Skyhammer flew towards the center of the town. His century mobilized after him, forming several wedges of four pegasi each as they took to the skies. Finder, Carver, Summer, and Dawn all aligned in flight, with Carver taking point, Pathfinder on his right, and the two mares trailing at his left.

“What the hell’s going on out here?!” Summer gawked as she watched the crumbling defenses of the Eighth’s reserves trying to stem the griffon push. “How the hell did they get inside the walls?! Where the hell is the militia?!”

“Where’s Windshear?” Dawn asked, quietly.

Finder felt a stone drop into his gut. “Windshear’s... still out there,” he murmured.

Summer momentarily faltered, forgetting to flap her wings for half a second. “Windshear’s still out there?! What the hell were you guys thinking, just abandoning him?!”

This time Finder faltered, wanting nothing more than to just curl up and crawl back into some hole, away from everything. Luckily, Carver answered for him. “There was nothing we could do, Summer,” he said, his voice despondent and layered with frustration. “Skyhammer sacrificed the spears to get the cohort off of the walls and away from the griffon counterattack. The ninth cohort hit the griffons at the same time that they hit the spears, but I don’t know if there’s anything left now.”

The white mare ground her teeth together and clutched her head with her forehooves, letting out a feral scream. “GRRRAAAAUGHH!! This shouldn’t be happening!! This can’t be happening!!” Tears broke free from her lashes, falling to the clouds below.

Ahead of them, Skyhammer tucked his wings and descended into the forum, taking his century with him. Several tall buildings of white cloudstone surrounded an open court of polished cloud, and Finder could see pegasi filing inside at the orders of the centurions. The gold coated mare from earlier, Centurion Aurum, was standing in the open, organizing the defense of the forum. Skyhammer landed next to her, and the two exchanged salutes as the stallion took command back.

“Century! We’re holding the central building! Spread out and cover all the windows and doors! Hold it with your lives!!” he shouted. Waving his wings, he led his troops into the building ahead of him. Finder and his friends landed at the entrance to the building and quickly moved inside, taking up position in a large room. Judging by the scrolls and desk covered in innumerous quills, it was some praetor’s study. Walking over to a large window looking out over the south side of the city, Finder and Carver took positions on either side, while Dawn and Summer stayed in the center of the room.

“This is all going so wrong,” Summer moaned, her wings drooping by her sides. “Where the hell is the militia?”

Dawn bit her lip. “The militia on duty would have been on the walls when the griffons hit. And those walls aren’t ours anymore.”

“So much for the glorious Nimban militia,” Carver hissed, eyeing the skies outside the window carefully.

Cold fury danced in Summer’s eyes from the off-hoof comment. Stalking towards Carver’s blind side, she jumped up and shoved him against the wall. “What did you just say?!” she spat, throttling him.

Finder’s wings flared out reflexively as he backed away. Carver merely shoved Summer off with a warning growl. “I said that this Nimban militia you’ve been propping up for so long was swept aside like nothing!” He stepped forward, jabbing a hoof into Summer’s breast. “Now the whole damn thing’s falling apart, and we’re trying to fight for our lives against an army that outnumbers and outclasses us! And your militia has already proven it can’t stop the griffons...”

Summer’s wings were open in rage, and Finder noticed her move a hoof to the latch on her sword. “We’re trying our damn best!! We can’t help it that all you Cirran ponies are soft!! No matter how good we are, we can’t do your damn work for you, you cowards!”

“I’ve killed a griffon!” Carver shouted. “I watched the life drain from his eyes! I tasted his blood! That griffon might have had a family, but I couldn’t care! There wasn’t room for that! He was going to kill Finder if I didn’t do something!!”

“I killed seven ponies!” Summer roared, forcing Carver to flinch. The tears were streaming down the hurt mare’s face once again, and other legionaries in the building had started to eye her warily. “Seven lives! Seven lives I was supposed to protect, supposed to save! Well, I didn’t save them!! I executed them one by one, and the others knew what was happening after the first one!” She fell to her haunches, letting her tears drip onto the cloudstone floor. “I killed a little filly,” Summer whispered, her tone low and dangerous. “A little filly, barely fifteen. I tried to scoop her intestines back into her gut with my bare hooves as her blood spilled across the floor. She watched me do it, too, but she didn’t say a word the entire time. She knew, Carver, she knew that she was going to die, but she let me help her anyway.” Standing up, she narrowed her eyes against the stallion, who swallowed hard. “She was the bravest pony I’ve ever met. She was braver than me. And she sure as hell was braver than you.” Backing up, she shook her head at the stallion, then looked away, disgusted. “I promised her I’d tell some pony named Cloudburst that she loved him. I don’t plan on dying until I do.”

Her eyes slid to each of her friends. “If you have something you want to tell somepony else, do it now. Because if you go down, I can’t promise you that you’ll live. Please, don’t make me have to kill you too.”

She turned around and walked away from her friends, her posture sagged as she tried to resume her duties. The remaining three ponies looked at each other awkwardly, speechless.

Carver bit his lip and went back to looking out the window. Finder and Dawn made brief eye contact. There was so much Finder wanted to tell her... but now wasn’t the time. He blinked and looked away, watching the skies with Carver.

He was almost certain he heard a disappointed sigh from the mare as she turned and trotted away.

Calamity (Part II)

“Get outta my way or I swear I’m gonna paint the walls with your brain matter!”

Stonewall, a thick built stallion with a dappled gray coat and short-cropped, blonde mane, seemed unimpressed by the threat. He merely sighed and shook his head, levelling an unimpressed look at his friend. “You know how this works, Bluestreak. We stay put until the Legate has issued her orders.”

“Rain can kiss my plot!” Bluestreak shouted, his face split in a manic grin. “There’s griffons at our doorstep, I’m not waiting for her slow ass to show up and grant me permission!”

“Yeah, Bluestreak, you really will wait,” Stonewall said, his tone making it clear it wasn’t up for debate.

“And stop calling me Bluestreak. Gods sakes Stone, you’re sounding like my mother!”

“Stop acting like a colt and I’ll stop talking to you like one,” Stonewall shot back, the trace of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Honestly, Red, you’re gonna get yourself killed if you keep rushing headlong into every fight.”

Bluestreak made an amused snort. Despite impressions his nickname might have left to the casual observer, the lean stallion didn’t have a red hair on his body. His coat was a deep blue color only slightly darker than the sky blue color of his mane and tail. “There is no greater glory than death in battle. You know that, Stone.”

“Only an idiot dies for his country. The true glory lies in making some other poor dumb bastard die for his.” Stonewall smirked playfully. “Then you go home, get drunk, and find a warm mare to rut.”

“Hmm.” Red rubbed his chin with a hoof, seemingly legitimately stalled by the concept. “Glorious death in battle, or victory, booze, and easy sex.”

“Tough choice?”

Red produced a face-splitting grin and leaned closer until he was nose to nose with Stonewall, his predatory yellow eyes looking into Stonewall’s placid blues. “Not even close. Sleep with a mare and they want you to marry them.”

A deep mare’s voice cut through the air. “Clearly, you’ve been meeting the wrong mares, Red.” Iron Rain offered her friends a cursory smile.

“You’re late, Iron,” Red said, grinning at her with ever growing excitement. “What’s the matter, took too long to polish your sword?”

Rain scowled. “Keep talking, Red, and I‘ll have Mary geld you. Besides.” She reached back with a hoof and tapped the pommel of her sword. “Mine is much bigger.”

Red cackled at the joke and slapped his hoof against Rain’s shoulder. “You ready to have some fun, Rain?”

“Oh, Red.” Rain almost shivered at the thought. “Ofnir himself couldn’t stop me.”

“You should be more mindful of the Gods,” a deep voice cut in from across the room, causing the assembled ponies’ heads to turn towards the source.

Rain felt an old shiver run down her spine. Only two ponies alive could trigger that effect in her, and one of those was her father.

“Downburst,” Rain greeted the stallion in a respectful tone. “Why aren’t you at the palace protecting Father?”

The aging Legate’s mouth pulled into the barest hint of a smile. Despite nearing fifty years of age, Downburst was still acknowledged as of of the finest ponies ever to fight for Nimbus. He had a heavy build with a silvered mane and a near-black coat that bore the faded white scars of countless battles with griffons and pegasi alike. What’s more, he had been a fixture in Iron Rain’s life as a dear friend of her father’s and the pony who’d taught her the sword. “Lord Winter has requested a situation report. Knowing you, this seemed like the best place to be.”

“I’m not sitting out this fight, Father can’t—”

Downburst cut off her protest with a cold stare. “Lord Winter will do whatever he wishes, Lady Iron Rain. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Rain growled quietly.

“Good.” Downburst nodded. “Now that that’s over with: requesting permission to fly with you.”

Rain bowed her head ever so slightly. She had learned long ago never to take her eyes off of him. “There’s nopony I’d rather fight beside.”

A small, but genuine smile tugged at the old stallion’s mouth. “Then shall we proceed?”

“Oi, oi, oi!, what about me?” Red shouted, his hoof pounding his chest.

“You’re just here to keep me amused,” Rain shot back before returning her attention to Downburst. “I don’t suppose you’ve rallied the second cohort?”

“They’re assembling in the courtyard as we speak,” Downburst answered, pulling his polished helmet onto his head. “The First Cohort is already stationed in the upper ring. The Palace is more than ready for whatever the griffons can throw at us. Oh, and I saw Haze was rallying militia as well.”

“Excellent,” Rain said with a nod. With a single glance, Stonewall and Bluestreak stood at attention, and together, all four of them stepped into the courtyard.

Rain felt a swell of pride bubble up in her gut from the magnificent sight. Hundreds of pegasi that comprised the legendary Nimban militia were organizing into their centuria. All the while Nimban Centurions paced up and down the lines, making sure everypony was equipped and ready. She easily spotted Haze and Thorn on the far end of the field. She stuck two feathers in her mouth and loosed a piercing whistle to catch their attention before waving them over. Thorn and Haze spared each other only a brief glance before they fluttered to where Rain was standing.

“We should have three centuries ready to deploy in a few minutes,” Haze said, not bothering a salute.

Nodding, Rain’s keen eyes scoured the gathering ponies. Many wore old armor, passed down from generation to generation. Rain could feel confident that these were at least true Nimbans, tested in any of the countless skirmishes between Nimbus and griffon raiders over the years.

“Downburst.” Rain turned to the old stallion. “Organize the cohorts and prep them to fly. I want skirmishers in front, light and heavy fliers behind. When you’re done, meet me here; we’ll lead the charge ourselves.”

“By your command.” Downburst bowed his head ever so slightly before trotting to the assembling force.

“Stonewall, Red.” Rain turned to her friends, who both flashed her excited grins. “You have five minutes to ensure there are no stragglers. I want those cocky hybrids to feel the full weight of the Storm.”

Red shuddered like he’d just bedded a mare. “Oh, I love the way you work.”

“Go, now!” Rain waved them off with a hoof.

Stonewall smacked Red on the shoulder once before both stallions took to the skies. Rain didn’t spare them a second glance. As she turned to survey the field again she spotted a familiar stallion standing alone near the Basilica. With a flap of her wings, she took flight and quickly covered the distance between them, Haze and Thorn close behind her. The stallion, his attention focused on the assembling cohorts, didn’t notice her land initially.

“Well well,” Rain almost chuckled. “Look what I’ve found. A lost little Cirran.”

“Sir!” The stallion’s posture stiffened to a crisp salute.

Rain shook her head and looked him over carefully. His dirty brown coat and black mane were mostly covered by his armor. His left ear was sliced off halfway up with cauterized flesh where the wound had been cauterized to quickly stop the bleeding. The stallion’s face was tense from what Rain imagined was not an insignificant amount of discomfort, but he never gave voice to his pain.

Rain respected that toughness.

“At ease, Longbow, now’s not the time for ass-kissing and protocol.” Her eyes traced the contours of his armor to the stuffed quivers hanging from the sides of his armor, just under his wings. “How many arrows do you have?”

“Enough to kill a lot of griffons, Sir,” Longbow said, a ghost of a smile pulling at his lips.

“I like your attitude, kid,” Haze said as his hoof slapped Longbow’s back between his wings. Haze’s hoof met the hard steel plates with a solid clang and he immediately recoiled from the self-induced sting. Putting on his best pout, he turned to Thorn and held out the sore hoof. “Kiss it better, Thorn?”

“I’m your marefriend, not your mother, Haze,” she teased him, tousling his mane with a hoof.

Rain shot her friend a heavy frown. “Cut the crap, Haze, I need your head in the fight.”

In an instant, the playful pout vanished, replaced with a cold fire in his eyes and a small smile. “As if it was anywhere else, Rain.”

Nodding, Rain turned her attention back to Longbow. “Where’s your century?”

“No idea, Sir.” Longbow shook his head. “I was sent back here last night to get an update on when the Eighth could expect our replacements.”

“You any good with that thing?” Rain asked, pointing her hoof the the black bow looped over Longbow’s chest.

“Depends. Are you any good with that thing?” Longbow shot back with a knowing smirk as he motioned to her Zweihoofer.

Rain made an amused snort and turned to Haze. “Well would you look at that: a Cirran with some backbone!”

“Longbow.” Rain moved to stand beside him, her hoof slapping his back. “I want you flying with me. Your bow will come in handy.”

Surprised by the order, Longbow’s eyes widened briefly. “Legate Rain, I—”

“Remember that kid brother of yours you were telling me about a while back?” Rain asked, looking the stallion in the eye with a cautiously neutral gaze.

Longbow winced.

“There’s thousands of big brother’s and sisters fighting and dying on the wall.” Rain pointed a hoof to the edge of the city, angry flames dancing before the first rays of dawn. “Fight like your little brother’s depending on you.”

“Yes, Sir.” Longbow nodded, his eyes full of a grim resolve.

Thorn walked over to Longbow and placed her hoof on his shoulder. “Welcome to the Rainstorm.”

“Do good and we might even keep you,” Haze chimed in, ignoring the puzzled expression on Longbow’s face at the group’s moniker.

Rain continued, ignoring Thorn and Haze for the time being. “I fly in front. Haze to my right, Thorn to my left.” She gestured to each pony in turn with the corresponding wing. “Behind me will be Stonewall and Downburst; it’s their job to kill whatever gets past my sword. Behind them I want you.” Iron Rain looked Longbow in the eye. “Take any shot you get. I don’t want to see you holding fire until you’re out of arrows. Understood?”

“Yes sir!” Longbow snapped off a crisp salute.

Placing her hoof on his shoulder, Rain offered the stallion a curt nod. “Keep up, Cirran, there’s knife work needs doing.”

With that vague advice, Rain launched herself into the air and started towards the assembly area. Longbow watched her leave, his face never faltering from his professional mask. Underneath, however, was a far different story.

She had remembered him.

Iron Rain, Legate of Nimbus, had remembered his name!

A hoof sharply cuffed across his back, and Longbow levelled a glare at the offending pony. For his part, Haze seemed unimpressed by the attention. His lips were pulled into a face-splitting grin levelled directly at Longbow.

“What?”

“Just a piece of advice,” Haze started, his voice dropping low. “Don’t take the bait.”

“Bait?” Longbow’s head tilted quizzically.

Thorn prodded Haze’s side with a hoof. “Don’t spoil the fun part.”

“I think we’ll have more fun today,” Haze said with a soft chuckle.

Ignoring her two oldest friends, Iron Rain landed before the assembling legions and waited. Her keen eyes flicked back and forth, studying every pony that would make up her private army for the coming fight. Stallions and mares, some she knew and many she didn’t, massed in near silence. All of them had drilled for this, all of them were ready for this.

Rain couldn’t remember a moment in her life that she had felt more pride in her city.

Downburst approached her on hoof, his expression as impassive as always. “Legate Rain, three cohorts are assembled and awaiting your command.”

“Excellent! Thank you, Downburst.” Rain gave her mentor a slight nod before stepping toward the centuria.

“Nimbans!” Downburst shouted, gathering the attention of the assembled militia. Their chattering came to an abrupt end as they watched him with rapt attention. Downburst looked to Rain and gave her a curt nod. “All yours.”

“Brothers and sisters; sons and daughters of Nimbus, hear me!” Iron Rain called out, her voice echoing through the open square. “Right now, the griffons are clawing at our walls! Right now they are burning our homes and killing our families! Will we let this transgression stand?”

“NO!” shouted the centuria.

“Of course we won’t!” Rain almost laughed, though she restrained herself for the moment. “We’re going to wade into their lines! Stab into their bellies! Paint our walls with their blood! We will burn this day into the mind of every last one of the hybrid bastards, and then...” Rain paused for a moment of effect. Reaching back, she drew her sword and draped it across her shoulder. “We will rid this world of every trace of Gryphus and the hybrids. We will exterminate their foul race, down to the very last cub. We will slay them all so that they will never again rise to shed the blood of the pegasi!”

“AAOOH!” the centuries shouted and stomped their hooves in approval.

Rain’s lips pulled into a wild, toothy grin as she stabbed her blade into the dense cloudstone floor. “Soldier’s of Nimbus!” she shouted to the assembled centuries. “Sound the horns and call the cry! How many of them can we make die?”

“AAOOOH!” the Nimban legion answered, unsheathing their swords and clapping the flats of the blades against their breastplates.

Iron Rain leapt into the air, her mighty wings driving her into the bloody dawn skies. Beside her rose Haze, Thorn, Downburst, Bluestreak, and Longbow. She pointed her sword to the distant walls that were bathed in the orange glow of the roaring flames that danced through thick columns of smoke. “FLY NOW, NIMBANS! FOR WRATH, FOR RUIN, AND THE GLORY OF OFNIR’S RED DAWN! ON ME, LADS! ON ME!”

Finder cringed, flattening himself against the wall as the thunderous explosions of flak artillery shook the skies above the forum. The Nimban ballistae placed around the palace had started firing again, launching clay pots filled with fire and powder that detonated in midair, scattering pieces of iron as lethal shrapnel in the hopes of bringing down aerial griffons. Even now, Finder could hear the screams of the dying hybrids outside the walls of the praetor’s office, and the tinkling of metal shards as they rained down upon the roof.

“The whole damn Ninth must have been routed!” Carver exclaimed, huddling closer to the wall as another explosion shook the building. “Otherwise the artillery wouldn’t be firing! Nimbans may be mad, but they aren’t going to risk friendly fire if they can help it!”

“And the Sixth?” Finder asked, remembering the other cohort that had joined the Ninth when Skyhammer was evacuating the medical camp.

“Same thing!” Dawn squawked from behind them, holding a wing to her face as granules of compressed cloudstone broke free from the ceiling, disintegrating into droplets of water before they hit the floor. “And since the artillery’s firing right over our heads, they either don’t know that we’re here, or they don’t plan on having any cohorts in the area any time soon!”

“Buck me in the ass!” shouted Carver, his sword dancing in his mouth as he spoke. “When I joined the Legion, I didn’t think they’d be so willing to just throw away reserves to give the veterans time to breathe!”

Summer rushed back into the main room, nearly tripping as the building shook yet again. “Ugh... It’s basic military tactics, Carver! We’re expendable, the veterans aren’t! What did you expect when you signed up for the Legion?!”

The stallion grunted as the walls shook violently, nearly throwing him off of them. “Not... this!”

“Aren’t you a pacifist?!” Summer shouted, pointing an accusatory hoof towards Carver. “Why the hell did you even sign up in the first place?!”

“Patriotism, mostly!” Carver shouted back. “That and my dad convinced me the fighting would be done by the time the Legion even needed me!”

Dawn shook her head, then checked to make sure her medical supplies were sorted and ready for immediate use. “A stupid idea if I’ve ever heard one!”

“I wasn’t planning on fighting!” Carver exclaimed. “I just wanted to be an occupying soldier in Gryphus once this was all over! Somepony needed to represent the good side of the Legion!”

Summer’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Are you retarded or something?! Nopony goes to war thinking that they’ll be part of the occupying force when it’s over and nothing else!!”

Carver’s cheeks flushed, and he turned to look back out the window at the ever-approaching horde of griffons. Finder watched with him, gasping as he saw a hundred griffons descend on the roof of a nearby building. They found a doorway and ripped it open with frightening strength, plunging inside to try and drive out the soldiers holding the building.

From the other end of the building, Skyhammer cursed. “The bastards just took the library!” the centurion exclaimed, stomping a hoof in anger. “Damn it all, Centurion Aurum was in there!” He shook his head in further disgust as he watched panicking legionaries burst forth from the windows of the library, trying to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the occupied building. A good majority of them were swatted down by the griffons’ aerial supremacy.

Turning around, Skyhammer raised his voice so his century could hear him. “This is it, fillies! The griffons will be knocking on the door any moment now! Fight hard and fight to your last breath, or I swear my ghost will make you cowards’ lives a living hell hole!”

“This is it, isn’t it?!” Carver asked his friends, shouting to be heard over the noise outside.

“Keep fighting and be careful!” Dawn shouted, stepping aside for a half-dozen legionaries to move into the adjacent room. Galloping over to the door, she gave it a buck to close it and squatted near it, clearing space in the nearby corner to set up triage.

Finder was already hyperventilating, and his world swam in a dizzying array of lights and flashes. The edges of hysteria were pressing down on his mind, and he was overcome with an overwhelming urge to turn tail and flee. Seeing his terror, Carver turned to his right so he could see Finder with his left eye, and stepped forward to place a hoof on the colt’s shoulder.

“Hang in there, buddy. We stick together, we’ll be fine.” Smiling around the sword he held in his teeth, he patted Finder’s forehead. “Now, you ready to do this?”

It took a second, but Finder was eventually able to give Carver a nervous nod. “Good,” Carver said, stepping back. “Because the griffons will be—!”

A furious screech, coupled with several hundred pounds of force, cut off Carver's words. Inches from Finder’s face, a massive griffon smashed through the window, tackling Carver beneath its steel armor and sharpened claws. Carver screamed in shock as he was blindsided and sent tumbling into the room, the griffon trying to rip off his armor with its talons. The stallion squirmed and thrashed, trying to keep his neck out of reach of the griffon’s beak.

“CARVER!” Finder screamed. Before any of the other ponies in the room could react, Finder kicked off the wall, opening his wings to propel him onto the griffon’s back. Wrapping his forelegs around the griffon’s neck, Finder pulled back as hard as he could. The griffon choked and missed driving his beak through Carver’s throat by little more than an inch. The downed stallion yelped as he felt the griffon’s beak slice across his skin on his neck, carving a shallow fleshwound that trickled blood through his coat.

Summer snatched up her sword from where it lay on the ground and dove towards the griffon Finder was trying to strangle. Swinging her blade, she slashed at the griffon’s arm, but her sword was stopped by its armor. Still, the blow forced it back, allowing Carver time to roll away from the griffon and get back to his hooves.

Before he could make a move, however, more griffons began to pour through the window. Carver, Summer, and Finder each found themselves fighting a griffon, while Dawn quickly drew a shortsword from her armor and stormed forward. Shouting, she drove it through the chest of the griffon whose neck Finder was clinging onto. A wet gurgle escaped the hybrid’s beak as it’s body stiffened in shock. With a grunt, Dawn pulled back on her sword, spiralling out of the attack to deliver another slash to the griffon’s neck. The blade cleaved straight through, and Finder felt the tip whisk across his body, uncomfortably close to his nethers.

The head Finder was hanging onto fell to the ground, bringing the panting colt with it. Letting go of the head, he looked at the faint red line cut across his abdomen. “Heh... cutting it c-close there, Dawn?”

Dawn offered Finder a saccharine smile. “If I wanted to geld you, I would have,” she said, turning back to the fight. Panting, Finder unsheathed his sword and charged towards Carver, trying to help him out against the much larger griffon he was squaring off against.

Carver swung his sword wildly, panting from exertion and trying to keep the griffon away from his blind side. The griffon lunged to Carver’s right, trying to keep itself in the relative safety of the stallion’s blind spot. Carver, well aware of the hybrid’s intent kept his left eye on the beast at all costs, and the two ended up spinning in a deadly dance as the griffon tried to get a good angle of attack. As it lunged forward with a terrible snap of its beak and a swish of its claws, Finder let out a shout and drove his gladius into the hybrid’s hind leg.

The griffon let out an ear peircing screech and whirled around to face his new attacker. Carver took the opportunity to grunt and swing his neck around, driving the edge of his blade into and through the griffon’s throat. Blood and meat split apart with a snickt and a splatter, and only the dull crunch of bone stopped Carver’s weapon. The corpse spasmed once, then dropped to the ground. When Carver ripped his sword free from its neck, the head flopped loosely, clinging onto its shoulders by only a few inches of meat.

“Good one, Finder!” Carver shouted, lightly hitting the colt on the helmet with a hoof. Hearing the screeching of more griffons outside, he tightened his grip around the sword. “Think you can do that again?”

Finder nodded, feeling proud. “They won’t even see me!”

A thick shower of hot blood sprayed over Carver and Finder, causing both to curse and recoil. Through the cacophonous screams of fighting all around them, they managed to pick out Summer’s victorious yell as her opponent toppled over, missing most of the left half of his body. Blood ran in thick rivulets down her sword, and most of the right side of her body was plastered a thick red. Her early rage had twisted into triumphant shouts as she finally got the chance to loose her fury on the griffons. “Having fun yet, boys?” she yelled in a voice that had Finder worrying for her sanity.

Carver grimaced as he wiped the blood from his armor. “Sweet Mobius, Summer, that was bucking brutal!”

“You know what they say about Nimbus, right?” Summer asked. Before she, Carver, or Finder could give an answer, another griffon approached her from behind. As it drove it’s beak down to her neck, the Nimban mare spun on her hooves and swung her sword up to catch it. There was a splitting crack as the hybrid’s beak shattered, but before it could so much as scream, Summer slammed her bladed wing through its larynx and pulled downwards. A gruesomely jagged cut ripped open from the griffon’s throat to its sternum, spurting blood as the hybrid choked out its last breath. Shrugging her wing, Summer knocked the body away and looked back to her friends. “When it rains, it pours.”

Finder didn’t need to see any more evidence to know that she wasn’t talking about actual rain.

Another griffon flew to the window and crouched in the frame, its large talons scraping against cloudstone on either side. Finder gulped and stepped back as the beast looked directly at him. It wasn’t like any of the griffons from before; instead of steel armor adorned with simple ridges, this griffon’s armor was covered in long, black spikes of steel and twisted metal. Almost every plate of its armor, from the shoulders to the bracers and all the way down its spine, were covered in the cruel spikes. The beast’s eyes, orange like the vicious flames that consumed the buildings around them, locked with Pathfinders. It sucked in a breath before letting loose a furious screech and lunging at the young pegasus.

Finder heard a pitiful scream as the griffon slammed its spiked shoulder into his chest and some part of him realized it was his own voice. The world spun all around him, but before he could gain his bearings, his skull cracked hard against the opposite wall. He struggled to breathe and his vision swam red before him, but when he put a hoof to his chest and it didn’t come away warm and stinking of copper, he knew that his armor had spared him a rather violent death. Still, the overlapping scales from the lorica squamata had been nearly pierced by the griffon’s spikes, and even now they stuck out awkwardly from where he’d almost been impaled.

The griffon took little time in noticing that Finder was still alive, and as it bounded closer, Finder got the chance to truly look at its terror. The griffon was taller than any other griffon he had seen, and his beak look like it had been marked by some sort of brand long ago. The spikes along his armor were all covered in blood, and so too were his beak and talons; with some sort of abject horror, Finder noticed that the griffon didn’t carry a weapon. It apparently liked to fight more with its armor and its natural weapons than with any blade.

Before the griffon could pounce on Finder and rip his neck open with its cruelly hooked beak, Carver slammed into its side, wings propelling him into the beast with a metallic crash. The sudden force of the hefty pony caused the griffon to stumble and trip to the side, taking Carver with him. One of its armor spikes was loosely lodged in the plating of Carver’s armor, and Finder realized that Carver had intentionally slammed into him back-first so that his armor would deflect the spikes and keep him from impaling himself. As the griffon tumbled to the ground, Summer too leapt after them, her wings snapping open and helping her cover the remaining distance to the beast.

But the griffon was too quick for Summer to land a killing blow while it was down. Instead, it rolled to the side and kicked Carver off, launching the stallion directly at Summer and forcing her to abandon her attack. Spinning out of the roll and firmly planting its feet underneath itself, the spiked griffon struck out with a claw at Summer’s face. The mare blinked and pulled back, but not before receiving a painful rake across her muzzle, leaving three red lines that spewed blood into her once-white coat, one talon going so far down as to expose the bone of her skull. It left Summer reeling, but was hardly enough to keep her out of the fight. With a roar, she charged back in, swinging her gladius at the griffon yet again.

As the griffon sidestepped Summer’s strikes and retaliated with jabs and pecks of its own, Carver groggily climbed to his hooves. Shaking the stars out of his head, he trotted forward, managing a quick canter by the time he reached the griffon. He swung his sword down on the griffon’s side, but the hybrid caught the movement out of the corner of its keen eagle eyes and juked to the side, lashing its arm out at an awkward angle. Carver’s sword lodged between two shoulder spikes, and the griffon twisted its arm, tearing the gladius away from the stallion and forcing him to hop back out of range of the griffon’s armor spikes.

Finder’s vision slowly began to return as he watched his friends fight. They were on either side of the spiked griffon now, trying to gain some opening past its defenses. It wisely kept Carver away from his sword, and continually lashed out at Summer whenever she moved to attack. On the right side, Dawn had wandered away from her triage corner and was eyeing the griffon, trying to find an opening where she could quench her blade in hybrid blood. Stumbling to his hooves, Finder tripped and fell into the side of a damaged bookshelf. The already damaged wood groaned and creaked as it fell to the floor, flooding the room with early dawn light from the window it had concealed.

The window was open.

Finder looked back at his friends, and the words of his dream echoed through his skull. They made him cringe, and he flattened his ears against his head, not wanting to hear them. But still they rattled on, shaking his very being all the way to the core.

“Go home, Pathfinder,” the corpse spat. “Go home before you can do more harm than you’ve already done.”

The window was open, and the building was being overrun. If there was a chance to fly and head straight for Altus, this would be it. He could slip out of Nimbus in the relative darkness and fly all the way back to the western coast of Dioda. He’d find his dad and his mom again, and they’d hold him and everything would be alright. And then Longbow would come back because he ran like he told him to, and everything would be better again. Everything would be fine.

But then he remembered what Carver’s corpse had told him in his dream. “I stuck my neck out for you so you could join the Legion, colt. And what did you do to show your thanks? You cut my eye out and then left me to die when the griffons came.” The one glowing, red eye in Carver’s face narrowed. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends,” Finder mewled to himself. Dawn had joined the fray against the griffon, trying to jab at its side with her shortsword, but it was simply too fast. Blocking a swing from Summer with a steel plate on its forearm, it swung its left arm around and struck Dawn with a spiked backhand. The mare sputtered from the contact, spraying blood from her smashed lips and broken nose, before slamming into the closed door, dazed.

“And we thought you were our friend, too,” the voice of Summer hissed as she approached Finder with the mutilated corpse of Dawn at her side. “But first chance you got, you ran. You’re a runner, Finder. You don’t face fear; you run from it.” At her side, the corpse of Dawn growled disapprovingly through the hole torn through her neck.

Finder thrashed, holding his head between his hooves as he fought down his own panic. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be a soldier. He didn’t want to die. Whimpering, he looked up again at the open window.

It would be so easy.

“No!” Finder screamed. Quickly, almost madly, Finder grabbed his sword and charged the griffon. “I’m not running! I’m not a coward!” With a small hop, Finder opened his wings and twisted in the air, landing on his back three feet from the griffon as a bladed wing swung over his head. With a feral cry, Finder snapped his wings open as wide as he could as his momentum carried him on his back underneath the towering griffon. The sharp scales along his wings clipped the griffon’s tendons in his ankles and wrists, and with a yell, the brute went down. As Finder slid out the other side and backed into a wall, he watched as Summer leapt on the flailing griffon’s exposed chest and drove her sword through its soft underbelly, carving him apart like a butcher.

Carver turned and hoisted Finder to his hooves, slapping him on the back for a job well done. Panting, he stepped aside and retrieved his sword from where it lay on the ground. Finder watched him, a slow smile curling onto his lips at the prospect that his friends had lived.

A loud crash made him jump and stood his coat on end as Finder whirled around.

The door exploded off its hinges with a sound like the snap of a breaking bough, careening into the room in shattered pieces under the influence of a griffon warhammer. One of the heavy planks, torn free of the others, took Finder square in the chest, sending him flying backwards and knocking the air from his lungs. At least half of the door slammed into Dawn, swatting her off her hooves with a startled shout from the mare. She tried to scramble to her hooves, but one of the heavy planks pinned her twisted wing to the ground. Dawn struggled to move, only to cry out from the pain in her crippled wing.

“Finder!” Carver yelled, jumping over to the colt to make sure he wasn’t hurt. His shout took Summer’s attention away from the griffon she’d killed and the door, and she looked up, wiping a bloody forehoof across her bloody face. Finder wheezed, trying to choke out a warning for them to help Dawn, but his words were lost to coughs and pants. Neither of his two friends noticed the griffon that charged through the doorway, bloodied warhammer clutched in it’s scaled hand. It took only a moment for the hybrid to notice the trapped mare, and it’s red tongue flicked across it’s cracked beak as it tossed the warhammer to the floor.

“Dawn!” Finder managed to cough, trying to stand. “Dawn!!”

But it was too late. The griffon leapt at the flailing mare and slammed her onto her back with a bloodied hand. The wet, sickening pop of Dawn’s wing tearing out of its socket as the griffon twisted her to the ground seemed to cut out all the noise from the rest of the battle. Screaming, Dawn writhed in agony only for the griffon to press its talons down on her shoulder and pin her in the open. By the time Carver and Summer turned, the screaming had abruptly stopped.

The orange fur around Dawn’s neck was streaked red, the orange giving way to crimson like grass in a wildfire. With a tug and a couple turns of its head, the griffon wrenched its beak from the gurgling tear in her throat. Strips of meat torn from the length of her neck—Dawn’s flesh— hung from the griffon’s teeth, trailing blood onto the poor mare’s spasming body. Eyes smug and fearless, the Griffon turned to Finder. The hybrid chewed once, twice, three times, then swallowed the strips whole, allowing himself a satisfied lick of his beak.

“DAWN!!” Summer screeched. She didn’t even bother to pull her sword from the other griffon’s body. Instead, she hurtled herself, a screaming mess of blood and tears, directly at the griffon’s neck. It didn’t even have time to gasp before Summer’s armored shoulder crushed its windpipe. The two of them tumbled back into the corner of the room, Summer coming out on top. The griffon tried to breathe, tried to struggle, but the Nimban mare locked her hooves together and piledrived them down on its temple once, twice, three times. Each savage blow was accompanied by a crack of bone and beak and the anguished mare’s furious screams. The griffon was dead by the second blow; the third broke open its skull, staining Summer’s forehooves with what was inside.

Hooking his forelegs under Finder’s armpits, Carver hauled him back up. The two of them nearly tripped over each other’s legs as they scrambled to Dawn. Finder reached her first, and with a quick flick of his hoof, he knocked his galea off of his head and bent down over the mare. “Dawn! Dawn! Dawn!!”

The orange mare was drowning in her own blood. It ran crimson, thick and bubbling, from the gash in her neck. Crimson ran from both corners of her mouth, and her chest spasmed as her body went into shock. Green eyes turned to glassy marbles, staring straight at the cloudstone ceiling, unseeing, unblinking.

“Summer!” Carver shouted, pressing his hooves against Dawn’s side to do something... anything! “Summer! We need you! She’s... s-she’s dying!!”

The cream mare was over in a flash. “Dawn!” she shouted, clacking her hooves together over the mare’s eyes. “Dawn! Stay with me, girl, stay with me!” The medic was shaking violently as she reached into her saddlebags and drew out a hooful of gauze wrap and bandages. Sweat poured down her head as she frantically applied them to the gaping wound in her foalhood friend’s neck, trying desperately to staunch the bleeding.

“Legionaries!” Skyhammer bellowed from the next room over. “Cover the entrances! We’ve got more coming in!”

Carver and Finder glanced between each other, then back to Summer and Dawn. Summer didn’t even move.

With an uncoordinated shove, Carver led Finder back to the window while another pair of legionaries moved in from somewhere in the office to cover the door.

Dawn coughed, spraying blood directly into Summer’s face, but the mare didn’t blink as it mingled with her tears. Summer kept her hooves pressed firmly over the bandages, willing to do some good, praying. It wasn’t more than a moment before the warm wetness of Dawn’s blood met her hooves. Pulling them away, Summer cursed, breath catching in her throat at the sight of the soaked bandages. Desperately, she reached over to her medical supplies. More bandages, rags, anything to stop it.

“Dawn, Dawn, stay with me!” Summer pleaded, her tears dripping onto Dawn’s pallid forehead. “R-remember Stratopolis? We’re gonna go there after this. You’re gonna see the plays in the Imperial Theater. Please…please stay with me…”

“Front door! Front door!” Skyhammer bellowed from around the corner. Soon enough, his armor-clad figure backpedaled into Finder’s sight. His centurion’s armor was stained with rapidly drying blood and hide, and his left wingblade was missing three of its scales. The collar of his armor was bent and crumpled, complete with the notch from a sword that had just barely been stopped from cutting through his neck. His face was a mess of rending scratches and cuts. The side of his face had been torn away so that Finder could see the bloodied teeth resting in his jaws. Despite that, the centurion looked as furious as ever, seemingly unimpaired by fact that he would never look right again.

His eyes scanned the room, looking for soldiers to move to the front. After glancing over the various legionaries in defensive positions, they settled on Summer and Dawn. “Celsus!” Skyhammer yelled, “Get to the front door! We need everypony we can spare there! They’re breaking through!”

Summer ignored him. Crying and gritting her teeth, she changed the bandages again and placed a third set in their place. The bags attached to her armor were already half emptied. “Hang with me, Dawn!” the mare choked out between gasping breaths. “Please! Please please please please please...”

“She’s dead, Celsus!” the centurion shouted. “You’re wasting supplies that can save others! Ponies are dying while you just sit there! Now move your fucking flank to this fucking door!”

“She’s not dead!” Summer wailed, pressing down on Dawn’s neck to try and stop the bleeding. “She’s not dead! She isn’t! She can’t be!”

From the window, Finder and Carver could only watch in horror and despair as the cream-coated medic cried harder and harder onto the still corpse of their friend.

“By the fucking gods and all that is holy in this shitstain of a city, Celsus, get your ass out here, now!” Skyhammer took a few steps forward, pointing his sword at the medic. “She’s meat, Summer! Put your blade where it matters.”

“She’s not meat!” Summer screamed. Kicking off of the ground, she spun her bladed wings out at Skyhammer. The centurion flinched back, but not far enough to avoid getting slashed across the muzzle. “She’s a pony! She’s my friend! And some fucking bastard just ripped out her throat like she was nothing more than livestock!”

The centurion tripped backwards, staggering from his latest wound. Cursing, he flared his wings for balance as the blood poured from his face. “You’re dead, Celsus!” His back slammed against something hard, giving him enough time to properly glower at the medic. “That’s grounds for treason! The Emperor will have you cruci—!”

The griffon Skyhammer had stumbled against drew back its talons, and in one slick movement, tore his throat out lengthwise, soft flesh rending like butter under sharpened talons.

With a sadistic snarl, the hulking griffon tossed Skyhammer’s corpse aside, the centurion’s open neck immediately decorating the wall with crimson paint. Crouching low, the griffon snarled at Summer, who was still standing in the open with her wings out in shock. Before it could advance against the stunned mare, Carver bounded over and slashed at its face with a bladed wing. The brute stumbled back, bleeding lightly through a gap in its feathers, and struck out with talons still dripping centurion blood. Flaring his wings, Carver was barely able to reverse his momentum and land a few steps back.

Roaring, the griffon tore a heavy maul off of its armored back and brought the weapon to bear against Carver. Cursing, the stallion hugged himself and rolled to the side, feeling the ground shake as the maul smashed into the cloudstone right where his head used to be. “Fuck!” the stallion shouted, stumbling as he rose to his hooves. Grabbing his sword, he tried to jab at the griffon, but was quickly parried by the griffon’s bladed wing. With ungodly strength, the griffon hoisted the maul off of the smashed cloudstone, gave it a casual flick with his wrist, and swung it directly into Carver’s side.

The blow against his armor sent Carver spinning off further into the room, passing a few inches from Summer’s face, yet the mare didn’t move. She only watched the griffon with wide eyes, seemingly rooted to the ground. As Carver lay on the ground, dazed, the griffon recollected its maul in two hands and stalked towards the petrified mare, grinning.

With Carver struggling to breathe through crumpled armor and Summer in shock, a deep dread settled over Finder as he realized he needed to act. He needed to act. His sword was partially sheathed at his side, but he was too far away from the griffon to actually draw the weapon and charge before it could crush Summer’s head. Instead, he bit down on the hilt of one of his daggers and drew it. Spinning the weapon around with his tongue, the colt got the angle he wanted and reared onto his hindlegs. With a desperate grunt and a twist of his neck, he threw the dagger at the advancing griffon as it went to raise its maul.

Finder had only briefly thrown daggers behind his barracks with Carver and Windshear when he was still in camp, but some stroke of luck seemed to guide the wobbling blade as it wheeled through the air. With a solid snickt, the weapon struck the griffon’s forearm, sinking into the flesh just above its left hand. With a howl, the griffon clumsily dropped the maul and clutched at the knife sticking out of its arm.

While the griffon recoiled, Carver finally managed to stand up, gingerly rubbing the crumpled right side of his armor with a hoof. Hissing with pain, he managed to collect his sword and leap at the griffon, opening his wings for distance as he soared over Summer’s head. With a painful shout, he knocked the griffon back two steps and jabbed his gladius right into the hybrid’s chest. He was rewarded with a spray of blood and the strangled screaming of the monstrosity on the other end of the sword. He kicked away the body, only for his eyes to widen at what he saw in the other room.

“More are coming!” he shouted, scrambling backwards. “They’re coming! We need to get out of this place, now!”

“Skyhammer?!” Finder squawked, looking at the body slumped against the wall. “Skyhammer’s dead! What do we do?!”

Finder’s cries of dismay were soon picked up by the remaining legionaries in the building, even as they fought for their lives. “Skyhammer’s dead!” one shouted, his voice echoing around the small room. “The centurion’s down!” cried another. “Gods, fly! Fly, fly, fly!”

They frenzied, pegasi taking flight for the nearest windows. With a growl, Carver turned and slammed his hoof against the wall. “Don’t go yet! Fly together! They’ll pick you off one by one if you just run for it!” His words were largely ignored by the pegasi present, and soon the screaming intensified from outside. Some, however, paused what they were doing to fall back to Carver’s position, quickly trying to secure the entrances to the rooms that the griffon’s were moving in from.

“What do we do?!” one of the soldiers screamed. A griffon’s sword jabbed out at him from one of the adjacent rooms, and he barely managed to hook a wing under the weapon and push it aside for a sword thrust. He pulled the weapon back red and turned to Carver, his eyes desperately searching for some sort of leadership.

Gulping, Carver quickly galloped into the middle of the throng of soldiers gathering in the room. Using his wing, he pointed to the window he had been covering earlier. “Everypony, we leave through that window and fly low through the city! When we get to the palace, we regroup there and try to find some other century to hook onto! Our centurion may have fallen, but his orders saved us more than once! Are we going to honor his memory by standing and fighting, or are we going to make his death for nothing?!”

Cheers went up from the pegasi who were able to cheer; the others grunted but immediately went back to defending the doors, fighting and dying for every precious second.

“Go!” Carver screamed, ordering them onwards with a jerk of his head. “Eyes to the skies! Don’t let them catch you by surprise!” As his fellow soldiers filed out of the window and took wing, the stallion turned to Summer and scooped the mare up with a wing, draping her across his back. Their armored bodies clanked together with the sound of iron against iron, yet Summer didn’t move. Her eyes continued to stare blankly into the void in front of her, and her limbs hung loosely by her sides. Growling, Carver hobbled over to the window and launched himself out of it, his forelegs quickly wrapping around Summer’s as he slowly gained altitude and began to turn toward the city center. “Come on, Finder!” he called over his shoulder. “Come on!”

Finder galloped to the windowsill, but paused and looked back. The large forms of griffons were moving through the doorway, yet his eyes only saw Dawn’s crumpled and mutilated body lying in a thick pool of coagulating blood. He wanted to puke; he wanted to cry. Gods, her eyes were still open!

But no matter how badly he wanted to stop and shut them, he simply couldn’t. With a silent cry, the colt launched himself out the window with griffons snapping their beaks right behind him. Pumping his wings, he somehow found the strength to fly low and fast, regrouping with Carver and the rest of the survivors from Skyhammer’s platoon; hardly more than a dozen ponies. He pulled up along Carver’s blindside and flew in tandem with the blonde stallion, noting the tears he was trying to blink back and the distinct lack of any sort of emotion from the mare draped over his shoulders.

Overhead, a group of three cohorts spearheaded by a small formation of ponies flying in a wedge shape swiftly descended over the forum, immediately becoming tangled with the griffons occupying the area. Had they arrived five minutes sooner, Finder realized, Skyhammer would still be alive. Dawn would still be alive. Immediately, he thought back to what Summer had told him before the griffons reached the forum. He remembered Dawn’s disappointed sigh when he turned away, not saying anything. He remembered clearly what he had wanted to say to her when it was all over and they could relax by the fireside, just the two of them, while the moon glowed sweet and bright overhead.

His vision became bleary and his face felt wet and warm, but it still took the colt a second to realize that it was because of his tears, not because of the blood clinging to the fur.

“You doing alright, kid?” Rain asked, the wind carrying her rough voice back along the flying wedge to where Longbow trailed on the right side.

“Kid, ma’am?” Longbow shouted back, struggling to be heard over the roaring of the wind in his ears and the screaming of the battle below. “You’re younger than me! Hell, half of you look younger than me!”

“Thorn, Haze, and I are eighteen,” Rain responded, and she flashed Longbow a challenging look. “But we’re ten times the fighter you are. Besides, you’re the newest, so you’re the Rainstorm’s kid.”

Haze, who was flying several feet in front of Longbow’s left side, slackened his pace just enough to flash the newest recruit a smile. “Yeah, thanks for taking that from me, Kid.”

Longbow frowned. “You can have it back if you like.”

“What, do you think I actually liked it?” Haze scoffed. “Get used to it, man. Your name’s Kid now for as much as I care.” He winked, then accelerated back into his position just to the right of Thorn’s flank.

“Alright, fillies,” Rain shouted from her lead position, “looks like we’ve got griffons crawling all over the Forum. Let’s say we give ‘em a true Nimban greeting, hm?”

The rest of the Rainstorm shouted their approval, but Longbow only gulped and surveyed the city below him. Sure, he’d been with the Eighth at the front, and yes he’d killed quite a few griffons with his bow, but he hadn’t been fighting in Hengstead itself. The walls and buildings of the city were constricting, so he had the uncomfortable feeling he’d end up getting a lot closer to the griffons than he’d like. He flipped his head around and observed the three cohorts following the Rainstorm. At least he’d have numbers backing him up, if somehow the sheer skill and lethality of the Rainstorm wasn’t enough.

“Hah! The little greenwings are running!” the blue stallion known as Red exclaimed from the opposite edge of the vee, emphatically waving a hoof towards the buildings below. Sure enough, Longbow could see scattered pegasi bursting out of the windows of the various Forum buildings and offices and flying for their lives away from the fighting. Most of them scattered in every which way and were picked off by griffon tandems swooping down from above. Another, smaller group was struggling to maintain cohesion as it flew towards the center of the city. Even Longbow felt veteran’s pride as he realized that if the damned recruits had maintained that level of cohesion inside the buildings they would’ve been able to repulse the griffon assault. Now they were dying because they were too stupid and jittery to fight as one.

“Stratopolis is sending them over too soft,” Thorn commented, eyes narrowing on a particularly scrawny runt trying to catch up with the main body of retreating greenwings. “Freaking small fries. This is a veteran’s war, not an afternoon stroll.”

“Enough,” Downburst ordered, and the Rainstorm immediately fell silent. Looking to Rain, he began marking out buildings with a hoof. “I’ll take my half and take care of the legatus’ office. Go and clear that praetor’s study; there are documents in there I don’t want the griffons getting their claws on. Our three cohorts will provide top cover and push the griffons back out of Nimbus and leave their feathery corpses rotting along our walls.”

Rain nodded. “Alright, you heard the stallion!” she screamed over the noise of the battle, flying upwards and spinning in place so she was facing the legionaries behind her. “Centurions Caelum, Malleum, and Saber, take your three cohorts and hit the griffons with everything you’ve got! Try to pincer them and annihilate ‘em, then drive the survivors back to the walls!”

At her command, the three cohorts climbed and diverged, splitting into three prongs of attack with the cohorts on the edge wheeling out to strike from the sides while the center moved forward. As they passed overhead, Longbow had to pump his wings even harder to maintain lift in their turbulence. Ahead, the pegasi of Nimbus picked up speed and began to slam into the main swirling mass of griffons with deadly force, turning the sky into a deadly maelstrom of blood and death.

“Alright Rainstorm, while they’re taking most of the heat, let’s go cut a few griffon sons of bitches, right?” Rain called out, eyeing her soldiers with a borderline manic grin on her face.

“Ma’am!” the Rainstorm answered as a motley whole, ranging from Downburst’s quiet affirmation to Red’s almost primal screech. Longbow, for his part, joined in half-heartedly, still trying to get used to the idea of companionship with the ponies around him.

Rain turned her head and examined Longbow closely. “Alright, Kid, you ready to see how the Rainstorm fights?”

Longbow forced a confident nod, despite the anxiety flowing through his veins.

“Good. You’re providing backup for Thorn and Haze and me. Downburst’s taking Red and Stonewall with him. Between the three of them, I don’t think anything’s gonna be left standing.”

Longbow took one glance at the blue stallion who was practically frothing at the mouth, and knew somewhere inside him that that Rain was right.

“Alright, Kid, looks like you get to fly with us,” Thorn said from her place in the wing. She flashed Longbow a smile that unsettled him. “Think you can keep up?”

“I’ll certainly try my best,” Longbow answered, trying to sound confident.

Thorn just laughed. “Right. Well, maybe we’ll leave some for you. Just remember, you may be our Kid, but you ain’t a real member of the Rainstorm until you’ve got sixteen griffon kills to your name. Got it?”

Longbow nodded, then slightly smiled. “Well, I already killed seven in Hengstead. Halfway there, then?”

Haze chuckled. “Nice try, but unless the boss lady sees it, it doesn’t count. Start over.”

Longbow frowned, but Rain shook her head. “Aww, don’t worry about it, Kid. At least yours’ll be easy to pick out. None of us kill with arrows.”

Then, pumping her wings, Rain accelerated and her half of the Rainstorm peeled away from Downburst’s trio. With a hollering whoop, the legate twisted her wings and descended in a tight spiral through the smoky haze filling the early morning skies. Behind her, Haze and Thorn mirrored her actions, while Longbow simply tucked his wings and dove. The last thing an archer needed was to come out of a dizzying spiral and fire a shot while trying to see straight.

With a few adjustments to her wings’ trim, Rain slipped through the air towards one of the larger windows in the praetor’s office. The rest of her squad aligned themselves on her tail, with Longbow easing up for some extra distance so that the first three in would be able to clear a firing zone for him. Tucking their wings against their sides, the four pegasi sped towards the window at breakneck speed.

A griffon wearing horribly spiked armor hopped onto the windowsill from within the building, ready to take flight after the fleeing greenwings, when Iron Rain’s primal screech pointed its head skywards. Coiling her limbs against her body, Rain flicked her tail and flipped in a sickening somersault towards the griffon. She must’ve spun nearly a half dozen times before she struck out with her rear hooves, bucking into and through the griffon’s exposed face as her momentum smashed her through her opponent. The hybrid could scarcely shriek as its beak was forced through the back of its skull and Rain’s armored body piledrived its corpse into the ground just inside the building.

The other griffons in the room flinched and scrambled back at the screaming mare that had suddenly and violently entered the building, and before they could even so much as move towards her, Thorn and Haze burst through the window, one after the other. The two pegasi found targets at opposite ends of the room, and with deadly use of their speed and wingblades, dropped two cloven heads onto the floor. The griffon bodies fell amongst the bodies of other fallen griffons and Cirrans in the room, adding more red to the overwhelming scarlet wash.

Then Longbow burst through the window. Without a moment’s hesitation, his bow slid off of his back and into the crook of his left fetlock, catching onto the teeth around the edge of the iron anklet he wore. His right wing twisted back and flicked out an arrow from his quiver, sending the wooden shaft into the air. A practiced and perfected reflex in his right foreleg allowed him to snag the arrow by the feathered shaft in the grip of another iron anklet, knock the arrow to the drawstring, and pull. He quickly found a griffon rushing towards Rain’s blindside, and without even blinking he flicked his right fetlock, loosing the arrow right towards the beast’s neck.

All this filled the span of barely a second, and with a shrill whistle, the arrow sliced through the air and tore through the griffon’s throat. Blood spurted out of both ends of the shaft, as the arrow had gone in one side with enough force to barely punch through the armor on the other. The hybrid dropped its sword and clutched feebly at the arrow in its neck before it toppled and fell. It was dead by the time it hit the floor, but already Longbow had flipped another arrow into the air and was sighting a different target.

As fast as he was, however, Rain was faster. Kicking off of the griffon she’d downed coming through the window, she rammed her shoulder into the nearest hybrid, knocking him backwards. As the griffon struggled to regain its footing, Iron spun and slashed once with her wingblades to drive it back, then used her newly-earned space to tear her zweihoofer from its groove in her armor. The blade swung through the air with a frightening power, seemingly heralding death by its mere presence. Her unfortunate opponent tried ducking and weaving out of the way, but eventually was forced to try and block the weapon with his own sword. There was a metallic thwink and a snap, and Rain’s sword cleaved straight through the griffon’s sword, armor, and neck, bursting out of the other side in a shower of crimson.

Along the right side of the room, Thorn darted in and out of a griffon’s reach, delivering painful and precise slashes to any inch of its exposed body she could reach with her incredibly short sword. Longbow turned his bow towards her target, waiting for an opening while Thorn fought with her dagger—hell, it wasn’t even a dagger as much as it was a stiletto!—and poked grisly and deep holes in her opponent.

Enraged, the griffon tried swatting her blade aside with the bracers on his arm while bringing his longsword to bear, but Thorn was far too fast. Instead of ducking or backing up, the mare darted forward and planted the stiletto deep in the griffon’s gut. With a ferocious cry, the mare arched her back and flipped the griffon over her head, leaving the hybrid flailing in midair as he plummeted towards the ground. There was another whistle and a snickt, and Longbow made sure that the griffon never felt the cloudstone.

As Longbow nocked another arrow to his namesake weapon, he shifted to face left, where Haze was fending off two enormous griffons, each nearly twice his size. Where the griffons fought with a greataxe and a warhammer, Haze was keeping pace with his smaller gladius. His wingblades parried glancing blows and his agility kept him out of reach of their heavier weapons, giving him plenty of opportunities to deliver slashes to their exposed hides. Ducking under a heavy thud from the warhammer and a hissing whirl of the greataxe, he rolled underneath one griffon and slashed his wingblades as he passed. The griffon let out a high-pitched screech and dropped to its knees, its warhammer falling uselessly to the ground as his hands went to clutch its nethers.

Tumbling out the other side, Haze immediately kicked off the ground with his rear legs and went rocketing backwards, spinning completely over the howling griffon’s head and colliding with the griffon wielding a greataxe. The beast grunted and dropped the weapon, immediately pulling out a dagger and trying to drive it into Haze’s face as the pegasus clung onto its back, reaching his forehooves around its neck and trying to suffocate it. Longbow, meanwhile, took the opportunity to silence the crying griffon and put it out of its misery.

As he tried to line up a shot against the griffon Haze was strangling, however, it suddenly broke free and tossed Haze into Longbow’s sights. The archer immediately loosened his grip on the arrow and took a step back. Being violently flung from the hybrid’s back hardly fazed Haze at all. Instead, the athletic pegasus spun in midair and, with a mighty flap of his wings, charged his opponent, sword held high, while the griffon readied a devastating counter. But instead of meeting the griffon head on, Haze jumped to the side at the last possible second, hopping over the griffon’s sword with hardly an inch to spare. Spreading his wings, he stabilized himself as his hooves made contact with the nearby wall... then began to run along the wall, looking no different from the normal ponies who rationally chose to run on the ground. Using the corner to change angles, Haze whirled above the griffon’s head and, with a final twist, launched his body at its turned neck. His momentum and his heavy armor gave him the leverage he needed to break the beast’s neck with a solid crunch as the two of them fell to the ground.

A screech in Longbow’s ear gave him a split second’s warning before he felt talons clutching at his throat. Crying out in alarm, Longbow jerked his head back and away from the griffon’s talons and rammed his helmet into the hybrid’s beak, earning a little room for his efforts. It was all the archer needed to twist and strike the griffon with the top of his composite longbow, grunting as he put all the force he could into the blow. The griffon hissed and stepped backwards to try and regroup, but it was the worst thing it could’ve done against an archer. Longbow’s wing and hoof whirled in a blur of brown feathers and fur, and a loosed arrow pinned the griffon to the nearby wall, the fletched shaft jutting from its neck.

“Good one!” Rain shouted from where she was fighting one of the big griffons with the spiked plates—the oathsworn, if Longbow recalled from his time at the front. With a windmilling whirl of her zweihoofer, she cleaved the heavy griffon weapon clean through griffon armor, catching the blade in her opponent’s ribcage. The oathsworn slashed at the legate’s face even in its death throes, managing to score a shallow hit across Rain’s muzzle that left her reeling.

As the oathsworn’s body hit the floor, Longbow realized the room was quiet save for the noise of fighting outside. Clipping an arrow to the drawstring by the notch in the back, Longbow hopped into a hover and floated over to Rain. He offered her a hoof, but the proud mare simply ignored it and climbed to her hooves herself, dabbing at the scratch across her face. “That’ll scar,” she grumbled to herself, wincing with each prod of her hoof.

“Rain, please,” Haze said, trotting over and wiping the blood out of his face, “if you pick up any more, we’re likely to mistake you for a stallion.”

The mare’s response was to toss a bloodied griffon dagger at him, of which Longbow barely ducked out of the way. Haze simply flicked his wing and caught it with amazing speed and precision between the guard and lock scales of his left wingblade and tossed it aside. Longbow’s eyes widened, and he blinked in disbelief. “Woah, how’d you do that?”

Haze simply shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. When I get in the heat of battle I just... get a rush of adrenaline that makes me faster. Move faster, strike faster, harder to hit. Kind of a funny feeling, actually.” Then he turned to Thorn, and the two of them shared a few words in the brief moment of respite they’d earned for clearing the office.

Longbow shrugged, then smiled at the legate. “Well, don’t worry about what he says, ma’am, I think you look fine.”

“Scars are sexy in Nimbus, Kid,” Rain quipped, flashing a smile at Longbow. Then she looked around the room, noting the various dead griffons sprouting arrows from their necks. “Throat shots, eh? Brutal, if you ask me. I think you and Red’ll get along just fine.”

Haze made an incredulous snort. “Says the mare swinging around a griffon zweihander she stole from a dead hybrid?”

“I didn’t steal it, I merely put it to work after relieving its previous owner from his head,” Rain shot back before returning her attention to Longbow. “Good aiming there, Kid.”

The Altus native simply shrugged. “I killed four.”

“Then you’re a quarter of the way there.” The mare flashed another unsettling smile and moved towards Thorn and Haze. “Come on, guys, check upstairs for any more bastards. Shout for help if you can’t handle it yourselves.”

The two soldiers nodded and immediately sprinted to the building’s foyer. They spread their wings in unison and launched upwards, twirling around each other before landing on the second floor balcony and moving out of sight.

Rain simply chuckled and shook her head. “Pair of lovebirds, they are. I can at least count on them to handle themselves. I tell you what, one ain’t dying while the other’s still alive.”

Longbow nodded and went around to try and recover some of his arrows from the fallen griffons. Rain, meanwhile, simply prowled around the room, poking at a body with her sword every once in a while. While Longbow was trying to pull an arrow from the griffon he’d impaled to the wall, he heard Rain sigh despondently from somewhere further in the room. Turning away, he saw her staring down at an orange corpse lying in a pool of darkening blood. Abandoning the arrow, Longbow trotted to her side. He immediately felt his stomach backflip at what he saw.

It was an orange mare wearing the signature armor of the field medics, but with her throat violently torn open. Strands of bloodied meat hung from the hole in her neck, the blood already drying into a brown crust. Her vacant, glassy eyes stared at the ceiling in a mixture of surprise and fear. One wing was twisted awkwardly underneath the planks of a door, with a heavy griffon body laying on top. Almost half a dozen used and discarded bandages littered the ground nearby, with one still plastered to the mare’s neck, like somepony had desperately tried to save her despite the mortal wound.

“Tch,” Rain sniffed, shaking her head and nudging some of the bloody bandages. “Wasted supplies on a wasted life. Somepony else needed these much more than her.”

Longbow nodded, only half hearing what Rain was saying. Sure, he’d been in combat before, and killing griffons had become frighteningly easy to him. But being an archer, he was almost never at the front, and he almost never saw the dead unless they were being flown back to be buried. The mare seemed so small and worthless lying broken in front of him. He shook at the thought that she was once a living pony with dreams and happiness of her own.

Bending down, Longbow carefully closed the medic’s eyes and freed her wing so that he could lay both out by her sides. Longbow wasn’t all that religious—if the gods really were as powerful as everypony said, they’d smite the griffons for Cirra in a heartbeat—but he knew the mare’s soul at least deserved to be laid to rest.

Rain watched him with a curious look. “Good thing they didn’t take her wings so her soul can fly to the Great Skies,” the legate commented. Then she turned away, pretending to see something interesting on the far wall, but it was clear the medic’s death was still on her mind. “It’s a damn idiot that wastes bandages on a pony with only half a throat. Whoever the bastard was probably killed three more soldiers bleeding out there somewhere by taking those wraps away from them. The medic who kills more ponies than she saves deserves to burn in hell for failing her oaths.”

Longbow nodded. “Can’t save ‘em all.” Then, without another thought, he turned away and left the body behind.

“Poor girl,” Rain said, shaking her head. “I think I bumped into her the other day. She was wandering around camp with some scrawny green colt.” Her wings shifted with an awkward laugh. “I bet he was one of the first to go. Stratopolis shouldn’t be sending them over so young.”

The brown stallion tensed, staring at Rain. His mouth moved around words that weren’t there, but he ultimately shrugged and forced the niggling thoughts out of his mind. Turning to the other end of the room, he noticed a stallion with most of his throat torn out lengthwise—a centurion, by the gold feathers on his shoulderpiece. “Well, I guess that explains why the recruits started running,” he said. Taking notice of the missing flesh along the left half of the centurion’s face, he gagged and leaned against the wall, shaking and dizzy. When it cleared in a few seconds, he closed his eyes and turned away. “At least he went down swinging.”

“The most any of us could ask for,” Rain said. She walked across the floor but stopped about halfway, cocking her head. Her ears flicked, and then she smiled. “Incoming.”

“Incoming?” Longbow asked, looking up. “What do you—?”

The solid thwump of a heavily armored griffon corpse plowing into the floor behind him caused him to jump. Whirling around, he drew his bow, only to see Thorn flutter down from the second floor landing and land on the body, casually pulling her stiletto out of one of the many, many stab wounds across its body. Haze landed next to her, and the two shared a cocky smile.

“Found him hiding in the closet upstairs,” Haze said, stepping forward while Thorn wiped her bloody stiletto on the corpse’s feathers. “Thorn and him had fun playing pincushion through the thin cloud door he was hiding behind.”

Thorn simply smirked and sheathed the stiletto. “Red and them done yet? Surely there’s gotta be more griffons asking for it.”

“How about we take a look?” Rain asked, moving towards the front door. “Thorn, Haze, at my sides; Kid, you shoot anything with a beak. Spare none. A wounded griffon today’s simply a more pissed off bastard tomorrow.”

The three ponies following her nodded, taking up positions behind the legate while she looked out the door. The militia’s counterattack was driving the griffons back towards the wall, but it was slowly losing momentum as Gryphon reserves simply replaced the soldiers they felled. Nimbus had no such reserves left; after seeing the cohorts organized around the palace, Longbow was certain that everything Nimbus could field was up in the air. As the dawn began to break over the burning city, the only reinforcements Longbow could see were a few withered centuries flying in from the east, led by a black stallion in centurion’s armor.

“Shit, the Eighth must’ve gotten wrecked,” Haze said, his voice almost a whisper as he peeked through the opening. “Is that all that’s left of them?”

“I hope not,” Rain replied in a worried mumble. “They’re our advance legion. If they’re wiped, we’ve just lost a month’s worth of progress.”

“Hey, Kid,” Thorn shouted, nudging Longbow with a wing, “You were with the Eighth, weren’t you?”

Longbow nodded. “I was, but my centurion sent me back to get more archers from the reserves and fly them forward. We lost half of our archery corps in an ambush north of Azoeth, and we needed the replacements before we pushed much farther.”

The blonde mare smirked. “Looks like Kid was a big hotshot in the Eighth, eh? Sorry that we’re not as spritely a bunch as they are.”

“Do you even know what that word means?” Haze asked, his amused eyes locked on his marefriend.

“Well, you’re definitely spritely, I’ll give you that,” Longbow said, smirking. “But yeah, I was already on my way to becoming an optio for my century. Single-hoofedly picking up the pieces after your centurion gets shot and filling a griffon flanking maneuver with holes tends to do that to you.”

Haze seemed genuinely impressed while Thorn only scoffed. “That was then. Welcome to the big leagues, Kid, where the only thing we care about is how many griffons you kill.” Then, turning to Rain, she lowered her head and squinted over her shoulder. “We ready to move?”

“Waiting for the signal,” Rain said, keeping one eye on a window in the building across the street and another eye on the battle in the skies. “Downburst would let us know when they’re finished over there.”

A pained screech echoed across the forum, and the four ponies inside blinked as a massive griffon covered in spiked armor smashed through the window of the opposite building. A red pegasus clung onto its body as it fell, and the two of them slammed into the cloudstone with the hybrid taking the brunt of the blow. Longbow saw the beast struggle on the ground, trying to shake the pegasus off of itself, but failing to dislodge the determined pony. With a flick of its neck, the pegasus drew a dagger and plunged it into the griffon’s chest once, twice, three times... six times... thirteen...

Longbow was certain the pony would’ve kept going if Rain hadn’t stepped outside of the door and fluttered over. “Hey! Red! Nice to see you’re doing good!” Flicking her tail, Rain gestured for the other three ponies to follow her.

“Hah! So much blood!” Red screeched, sitting proudly atop the corpse of the fallen griffon oathsworn. “It’s been ages since I’ve gotten to fight an oathsworn! They’re still just as prickly as ever!”

As Longbow approached the pegasus, he suddenly understood why everypony called him ‘Red’ instead of Bluestreak. Almost every hair and every feather of his body was covered in sticky crimson, hiding his natural sapphiric coloration under a plaster of scarlet. His eyes were wide with exhilaration and he had a manic glee carved into his face. Even though he hadn’t seen the rest of the group in action yet, Longbow knew that Red was probably their most terrifying weapon.

“At least it’s something to keep you entertained,” Thorn muttered, following Rain across the forum. Haze flew in her wake, with Longbow reluctantly taking up the rear. The ranger kept one eye on the sky, but it seemed the three cohorts from the palace were keeping the skies clear for the time being.

“Oh, Thorny girl, you know nothing gets me happier than a good morning bloodbath.” His manic grin only widened, revealing his set of cracked teeth. They weren’t so much white as they were red, and Longbow shuddered as he flicked his tongue over the blood. Even Rain seemed a little unnerved.

“Is Downburst finished in there?” Rain asked, managing to keep her voice steady despite the spectacle before her. “Or do we need to do one last cleanup?”

Red’s laugh was a shrill and disturbing cackle. “What do you take us for, Rain, a bunch of greenwings? Place’s as clean as a whistle.” He stopped and thoughtfully tapped a hoof against his chin. “Well, maybe we added a few decorations and a fresh layer of paint, but if you don’t mind the smell, I’m sure it’s perfectly liveable.” His eyes lit up, and he bounced off the spiked body of the oathsworn. “Oh! Speaking of greenwings, there’s this adoracute one I found in the back office! Little thing nearly speared me when I tore the door apart to get in. Don’t know why.”

“Probably because they thought you were a griffon going to rip their throats out,” Longbow observed, landing a short distance away from the group. That didn’t stop the bloodsoaked stallion from bounding up to him and wrapping him in a big, crushing, sticky hug.

“Haha! The Kid’s still alive, ain’t he? That’s a good sign.” He flashed Longbow that disturbing smile. “Most of our prospective kids don’t make it through their first spat with the Rainstorm, but it looks like we found a keeper.”

“He killed four,” Haze noted with a touch of approval that made Longbow’s chest swell. Red’s ears twitched as he processed the information, then slapped Longbow across the back. The blow was hard enough that he felt it through his padded armor.

“Alright, look at you, Kid! Already moving up in the world!” Opening a wing, the psychotic stallion draped it across Longbow’s back and led him forward. “Plenty more where they came from, too. I mean, take your pick!” And with that he gestured towards the sky, where a looming wave of griffons was slowly grinding the Nimban advance to a standstill.

Rain took one look at the swirling mass in the sky and frowned. “Alright, let’s get Downburst and get out of here. The push was fun, but we’re going to bleed dry before reinforcements arrive if we don’t fall back and bunker up.”

Red looked disappointed. “Aw, Rain, come on! The fun’s just getting started!”

“I thought all you Nimbans wanted to do was die a glorious death in battle,” Longbow teased. Red nodded vigorously, but the other Nimbans simply groaned.

“Typical Cirran,” Thorn muttered. “That’s what the young and foolish of Nimbus say before they’ve learned that there’s a difference between dying a pointless death and dying for something that matters. Veterans like us seek the latter, but for now, I’m more than happy keeping my head on my shoulders and my lungs in my ribs. Okay?”

Longbow winced and stepped back while the mare opened her wings and flew into the building through the shattered window Red and made in his departure. Haze filled her place and rubbed Longbow’s shoulder with a hoof. “Don’t worry about it, Kid. She gets like this whenever there’s a griffon within five miles of her. She’s a really nice girl if you can loosen her up with some booze.”

Rain rolled her eyes. “Alright, come on. Let’s get going.” Then she too entered the building through the window. Behind her, the rest of her team took wing and followed, entering a spacious room where the rest of the Rainstorm was gathered. Bodies and blood littered the floor and stained the walls, and the talons of a freshly killed griffon twitched on some impulse in the corner. What really caught Longbow’s eye, however, was the unfamiliar pony standing close to Downburst, clutching his spear with barely a tenuous grasp on his terror.

“Any problems on your end?” Downburst asked Rain as soon as the two exchanged salutes. “There were a few more here than I anticipated, plus an oathsworn, but Bluestreak took care of them for us.”

Rain shrugged. “There weren’t many left in the praetor’s office. I think the majority of them left after they slaughtered the greenwings inside. We still had two oathsworn to contend with, but they fell like all the rest.”

Red gasped. “You had two?! Why’d you guys get the fun building?!”

“Can it,” Downburst ordered, and the psychotic pegasus apparently had enough discipline drilled into him that he snapped his jaw shut and looked away, silent. Then the older warrior turned towards the far window and looked to the skies. “The griffons are making another push, and our cohorts are falling back to regroup, just like I wanted them to. We’ll hold the palace and keep the Commander secure until help arrives. With any luck, our fastest messengers should’ve gotten to the Second Legion by now.”

“Fuck Gold Moon,” Rain sneered. “That sonuvabitch got Nimbus into this mess with that grand scheme of his, and now we’re all out here and dying to pay the price for it.”

“If Commander Gold Moon had superseded your father’s wishes and let you go to the front, you’d be dead by now and your lineage silenced.” He placed a hoof on Rain’s shoulder, and the mare shrugged it off. Downburst only hardened his gaze and leaned towards her. “Like it or not, Rain, you’re more valuable than anypony else here. You die, and House Rain dies with you. Seven hundred years of royal lineage simply gone. I hope you think about that the next time you try to put yourself in harm’s way with your reckless bloodlust.” Downburst’s gaze softened ever so slightly. “Remember the end it led your brother to.”

Rain flinched, her lips pulling back to a tense frown. “Steel was a fool.”

“He was,” Downburst agreed with a nod. “Learn from his mistakes, lest you be doomed to repeat them.”

“I am not my brother,” Rain said, pushing past Downburst and casting a longing look to the vicious battle raging overhead.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Red mumbled under his breath, not so subtly sneaking a look at Rain’s plot.

Longbow wisely hid his disapproving frown.

“And if you’re not your brother, then don’t go charging into a regiment of griffons and expect to come out the other side,” Downburst intoned, his eyes hardening against Rain’s scowl. “Steel had his own ‘Rainstorm’ too, if you recall. I fought in it with him, just like I am with you. But Steel was reckless, and he always put us in worse and worse situations. The fact that we always came out the other side in one piece did nothing to teach him caution.” Rain snorted at him and looked away, but the aging stallion only shook his head, disappointed. “The mission he died on? He had us chase a griffon scouting party across the border. Didn’t seem to realize that they’d be trying to link up with a larger body of soldiers.”

“That’s why he was an idiot,” Rain muttered. “He was too interested in fighting and killing to think like a damn legate.”

Downburst only nodded in agreement, somewhat surprising the mare. “He was. And when that scouting party led us into a clearing, we got ambushed by a few dozen griffons. Steel fought and fought and fought, but they eventually tore his wings from his body and cut him open from throat to spleen.” He shook his head. “I was the only one that survived, by luck or by fate, and I got back to your father to tell him what happened.”

Then, draping a wing across Rain’s back, he said to her simply, “If you’re not like your brother, don’t make the mistakes he did.”

Rain said nothing, only fuming quietly to herself. Giving the mare one last pat on the back, Downburst turned to the rest of the pegasi present. “Griffons are going to be all over this place in a few minutes; we’re not prepared to fight them, so we’re pulling back to the palace where we’ve got some strong defensive positions to force them back on. You there,” he said, pointing a hoof at the trembling spearpony in the room, “take those documents on the table there and bring them back with us. We can’t let them fall into griffon hands, or else the Second Legion in Feathertop’s going to be compromised.”

The spearpony breathlessly nodded and scooped the documents under his wing, then shifted closer to Longbow, either through some natural gravitas or simply the fact that he looked the least intimidating of the soldiers present. Longbow noted that he was absolutely covered in blood, almost as much as Red was, but he definitely wasn’t enjoying it. He looked like he’d been through hell; Longbow had no reason to doubt that he’d suffered anything less.

While Rain and Downburst went back and forth on a few details of stratagem and what exactly needed to be taken from the Forum before the griffons arrived, Longbow stepped closer to the spearpony and placed a hoof on his shoulder. “Hey, you alright?” he asked, trying to force a smile to his face and seem just a little bit friendlier to the shaken soldier. He wasn’t sure if he should be worried when he couldn’t.

“Fine,” the spearpony muttered, although from his expression and the way he carried himself, he was anything but.

“Well, you’re safe now. You’re with the finest group of soldiers I’ve ever known,” Longbow said, again trying and failing to smile. When the spearpony was silent, he stepped back and offered his hoof. “Name’s Longbow.”

The blood-covered stallion looked at it awkwardly for a few seconds, but gingerly shook it nonetheless. “Windshear,” he muttered, almost sounding ashamed at his own name.

“What happened to your century?” Longbow asked. Windshear looked around, noting plenty of pegasus bodies littering the room. Longbow mentally smacked himself for asking such a stupid question.

“Don’t rightly know,” Windshear eventually mumbled. “We were at the front—at the wall—when they just started coming. There were hundreds, thousands of them. I saw my friends fighting for a while up ahead, but then they started retreating and I wanted to go with them but I had my orders to stay and I couldn’t do anything except try and fight and fly for my life when the griffons hit and I—”

Longbow silenced him with a touch on his shoulder. Windshear looked down at his hooves. “I did bad things. I shouldn’t be alive right now. I don’t deserve it, and I don’t even know if my friends are alive anymore.”

“We’ll find them when this is all over,” was all Longbow said. He wasn’t going to lie and say they were fine; for all he knew, Windshear’s friends were all facedown across the Forum somewhere. The bloodied pegasus seemed to understand his intentions, and only nodded silently. There was no anger or bargaining; only a grim acceptance of the likely truth.

“Alright, we need to fly now,” Downburst said, bringing the attention of the Rainstorm to him. “Fly back to the palace and group at the door. We hold it until our last breaths. Understood?”

“Sir!” the pegasi in the room all shouted back at him, with the exception of Windshear. The greenwing could barely manage more than a mumble as he shook in his armor, the bloodstained plates rattling against each other with each small jerk of his body.

With a nod, Downburst pushed past the soldiers in the room and took wing out the window of the building, the rest of the Rainstorm following him as he left. Longbow and Windshear took up the trail position on the right flank of the wedge as the pegasi all raced back to the palace. Behind him, Longbow could see about a cohort and a half’s worth of pegasi disengaging from a fight with more numerous griffon forces and rushing back to the palace’s fortifications, their speed allowing them to easily outpace the griffons in their heavier armor.

Below, the city of Nimbus was slowly giving way to fire and ash. Most of the eastern quarter of the city was ablaze and crumbling, the cloudstone buildings simply falling off of the foundations of the city and breaking into mist and fog against the ground below. Griffon reinforcements had slowed to barely a trickle into the city, but they still outnumbered the pegasus defenders trying to hold it. The Gryphon general in charge of the assault must’ve thrown everything he had at the city to dislodge the Nimbans defending it through simple, brute force. While Nimbus was still hanging on for the moment, Longbow couldn’t doubt that it wasn’t working. Completely cut off from the rest of the Legion, the ponies defending Nimbus couldn’t count on reinforcements showing up until at least the next day, if a detachment from the Second Legion around Feathertop happened to arrive. Until then, all they could do was fight and die for the city in the hopes that it’d be worth it.

“Alright, this is it!” Rain screamed to the rest of her soldiers from her position at flight lead. “No wavering! No running! We touch down at the palace and we fight with our backs to the wall, not another step back! We fight until we’re dead, you hear me? Dead!”

“Ma’am!” the Rainstorm answered her, and then began to bank off towards the palace. Longbow blinked as he eyed the fortifications surrounding the palace; they definitely weren’t there a few hours ago. Somehow, the Nimban militia had assembled a two-tiered ring of walls and sandbags that looped the entirety of the palace on such a short notice. Archery towers stood watch over reinforced trenches, and everything bristled with weapons and gleamed with armor. As the Rainstorm descended upon the palace, Longbow gave Legate Rain a quick nod and split off to take a position on the roof. Waving a hoof at Windshear, Longbow ordered the greenwing to fly up with him.

There was already a century of archers on the rooftop, and Longbow quickly pressed himself against a nearby pile of sandbags and took quick stock of his quiver. Seven arrows left; he really wished he’d had the time to restock before this fight. Looking around him, the rest of the archers on the roof seemed like they were equally as woefully equipped as he was. Almost all of them had some spatterings of blood across their armor, the tell-tale signs that the fighting had gotten a little too close for comfort. That there were even enough ponies left to make a century of archers was a miracle in itself.

“Uh, Longbow? What am I doing up here?” Windshear asked, looking nervous at how exposed they all were on the roof. “Wouldn’t we be better off on the clouds? You know, where our backs are sheltered?”

“I’ve got a better line of sight up here, and I want somepony watching my back once things start getting messy,” Longbow answered him. Narrowing his eyes, he snatched an arrow with the metal claws on his hoof and nocked it against his bow. The griffons were coming in, fast. “You going to be okay in a fight?”

Windshear’s throat bobbed as he gulped, and he nodded. “I guess I’ll have to be, won’t I?” he asked. Still, he readied his spear and leaned his athletic frame against it, nervously licking his lips as the enemy approached with a herald of screams.

At a centurion’s whistle, all the archers on the roof readied their bows and nocked arrows against the approaching wave. Longbow tensed and gently tugged on his bow, pulling the string taut and bending the wood. “Archers, ready!” the centurion shouted, running to the front and raising his sword. “When they’re in range, fi—!”

He didn’t even get the chance to finish his command before Longbow released his arrow. The feathered shaft flew straight and true, burying itself deep in the skull of a griffon centurion—or whatever the griffons called their centurions, Longbow thought. The hybrid didn’t even squawk as it fell out of the sky, dead.

Longbow turned his gaze to the stunned archers around him and shrugged. “He said when they were in range...” He looked back to the front and readied another arrow. “You might want to start firing now.”

The centurion blinked. Then he raised a hoof and pointed it directly at the charging griffons. “Loose arrows!”

Immediately, a hailstorm of arrows cut through the sky and into the advancing surge of griffons. Several brutes fell left and right, but too many arrows only pinged off of steel armor or simply flew overhead. Longbow scowled as he tracked another griffon officer and put an arrow into its throat; they weren’t even going to put a dent in their charge at this rate.

Then they were swarming the palace. The majority of the griffons dove low, slamming themselves against the pegasi manning the fortifications below. The Nimban fortifications held strong with the first wave, but the griffons at the front diminished the pegasus advantage as they rushed into the walls faster than the pegasi could dispatch them. Longbow could see Iron Rain and the Rainstorm holding strong against the front of the palace, while another legate with one eye led a furious counterattack directly into the griffon charge. The ferocity of the legate’s attack tore a hole in the griffons’ charge, forcing them to retreat and giving the soldiers responsible enough time to fall back to the walls.

Still, some of the griffons went straight for the archers on the roof. Flicking an arrow into the air, Longbow swiftly caught it and put it straight through the face of a griffon charging at him. Flaring his wings, he twirled to the side as the body crashed over his barricade, spilling blood across the roof. Four arrows left; he’d have to make them count or scavenge some from a nearby corpse.

The griffons dropped onto the roof behind the archers, and there, their deadly claws and longswords went to work against the lightly armored pegasi and their gladii. Longbow wheeled around and fell onto his back as he fired, the arrow passing inches above Windshear’s muzzle and into the eye of a griffon about to lop his head off. Windshear flinched at the scream, but instinct took hold and he mercilessly rammed his spearpoint through the griffon’s stomach.

Three arrows. Longbow would’ve been content to pick off another soldier from his cover, but a flash out of the corner of his eye gave him barely enough time to roll away from the longsword that would’ve taken his head off. Still, the metal cut across the back of his neck with a searing pain, and Longbow screamed as he fell against the barricade at his side. He struggled to his hooves, only for a powerful clawed hand to grab his skull and slam it back into the cloudstone roof. As much as he struggled, he didn’t have the natural muscle of a griffon and couldn’t force the hybrid away. Then suddenly the pressure lifted and Longbow was showered in blood. Rolling away, he looked up to see Windshear forcing the griffon down with the point of his spear. A quick slice of his wingblades against the lion’s throat ended it.

“Thanks,” Longbow breathed, and he took Windshear’s offered hoof to pull himself off the ground. On the roof, the archers had been decimated, and the centurion was going hoof to claw with a griffon oathsworn. Quickly and calmly, Longbow drew an arrow and put it under the oathsworn’s outstretched wing. The griffon howled, giving the centurion enough time to duck under its wild swing and uppercut with his gladius into its chin. The griffon slumped and fell, its blood dripping off of the roof of the palace.

There were still almost twenty griffons on the roof and only Longbow, Windshear, the centurion, a couple archers left. The pegasus survivors quickly gathered together, the archers taking cover behind Windshear and the centurion as they fought to try and slow the griffons approaching them. Longbow’s mind screamed for him to run, to fly, but his discipline screamed back that there was nowhere to run and nowhere to fly. He drew his second to last arrow and aimed, ready to fire.

Then, suddenly, a proud warcry sounded from the west, and almost two thousand pegasi reinforcements came swooping into the city. Longbow’s keen eyes spotted the familiar aquila of the Cirran Eighth; reinforcements had arrived! The fresh pegasi began cutting through the griffon lines from behind, and the hybrids began to scatter and pull out of the city.

A scream mere feet from his face reminded Longbow that the reinforcements hadn’t reached the palace yet. While more than half the griffons panicked and fled thanks to the lack of leadership Longbow was responsible for, the ones that remained threw themselves at the pegasi on the roof. Three dove immediately for the centurion, their toothed beaks open and screaming as they tore at his armor. Longbow and the two pegasi next to him put three arrows into the nearest one, but the remaining two off-balanced the centurion and tore him apart with frightening ease.

Three more dove at Windshear, and Longbow thought he’d just lost his greenwing friend for a second. But Windshear didn’t fight like any greenwing Longbow’d ever seen. His spear twirled through the air, deflecting attacks that his surprisingly nimble body couldn’t simply twist around. One of the griffons overextended, and Windshear hooked a forelimb around its neck and spun around onto the beast’s back. A quick puncture with his spear into the griffon’s neck brought it down, and a reflexive curl of his wing blocked the next griffon’s attack. Leaping off of the body, Windshear tackled the next griffon in line and managed to get underneath it just as the third brought its longsword down on him. The hybrid screamed as its spine broke under the powerful blow.

Then the griffons that had taken apart the centurion engaged the archers. The first archer tried to block the griffon’s longsword with its bow, but the heavy steel weapon cut clean through the bow and into the pegasus’ chest, ripping it open like some sort of bloody sack. When the first pegasus hit the ground, the second archer bolted and fled, leaving Longbow to face down the remaining two. He quickly readied his bow and tried to put his last arrow into one of the griffons charging him, but the brute was faster. With a screech, it knocked aside his bow, arrow and all, with a swing of its sword. Longbow backpedaled as best he could, curling his bladed wings around him to shelter his lightly protected chest from the griffons’ ferocious attacks, and drew his gladius.

The griffons attacked as one, their longswords cutting through the air in different directions at Longbow’s frame. He caught one on the scales of his wingblade and forced it back, then gasped as the tip of the other longsword cut clean through his leather armor and sliced along his right flank. Gritting his teeth, the archer struck his bladed wing out at the griffon that’d cut him; somehow, the bladed scales connected with flesh, and with a jerk, Longbow tore half the griffon’s face from its head.

As the wounded griffon writhed and screeched on the ground, that still left the other Longbow had hooked on his other wingblade, and rather than trying to dislodge its sword, the griffon simply let go and struck Longbow across the face with a taloned hand. The sharp claws struck deep, and Longbow screamed as he was flung across the roof. He tried to stand up, but his face felt like it’d been pressed into a pile of steaming coals. Worse yet, the entire left half of his vision was a bloody, murky red. He tried to wipe it away with a hoof, but screamed more at the touch. He pulled his hoof away, and moving it into sight of his right eye, he could see bloody, pulpy viscera clinging to it.

A shadow moving against the ground warned Longbow of his impending demise, and he reached in vain towards his bow and arrow lying on the roof a mere foot from his outstretched hoof. Then there was a scream, and the griffon corpse dropped without warning into his remaining field of vision. Longbow jumped and rolled onto his back to see Windshear standing over him, the haft of his spear soaked with gore. The spearpony smiled, but that smile dropped from his face and his eyes widened as he saw Longbow’s bloody grimace.

“How... how bad?” Longbow asked, his hoof dabbing at his cheek. He didn’t want to touch his eye again; he feared more would come off on his hoof. He wanted to vomit, but the pain at least kept his stomach from retching.

Windshear opened his mouth to answer, but one final griffon pounced onto his back and hauled him towards the edge of the roof. Longbow could see a bloody puncture wound in its sternum; how Windshear’s spear hadn’t killed it, he hadn’t the faintest idea. But there was no time to wonder on that now; as Windshear fought and struggled to get the griffon off his back, Longbow lurched forward and grabbed his bow and arrow. Nocking the arrow, he rolled onto his back and drew it as fast as he could. He squinted his one eye and tried to aim at the griffon, but the hybrid was keeping Windshear between them as it backpedaled towards the edge of the roof. Longbow would’ve taken the shot at the slightest opening, but his depth perception had gone along with his eye. Last thing he wanted to do was skewer his spearpony friend.

“Longbow!” Windshear screamed. He tried to cut the griffon with his wingblades, but the griffon kept them pinned against his sides. “Longbow, help!”

Then the griffon’s rear paw slipped off of the roof, and that gave Longbow the impetus to fire. Praying that his shot would find its mark, he loosed his arrow as the two began to fall to the ground below. There was a spatter of blood, a scream, and they both disappeared from sight.

“Windshear!” Longbow screeched. Ignoring the pain in his face, the archer opened his wings and dove off the side of the palace right as the Cirran reinforcements swooped overhead. Flaring his wings, he landed amongst the bloodsoaked crowd, trying to spot the spearpony amidst the piles of bodies littering the battlefield. Ponies were crying out in pain or dismay across the fortifications as the griffons withdrew. Behind him, he could see the Rainstorm, beaten and bloody, but still intact. Nearby, a trio of pegasi were cradling a comrade as he bled out in the grasp of a manila mare. He paid them no mind, and soon found Windshear pinned underneath the hulking mass of the griffon, an arrow sticking out of its ear.

“Somepony get this damn thing off of me!” Windshear grunted from underneath it. Half smiling, half grimacing, Longbow stepped forward and hauled the armored corpse from the pegasus. Windshear shakily got to his hooves and took a deep breath, then wrapped Longbow in a bone crushing hug.

“Heh... glad to see you made it...” Longbow grunted, patting Windshear on the back. When the spearpony finally separated, Longbow took a deep breath. He looked to the skies, to where the Cirran reinforcements were driving the griffons back out of the city, and sighed. All that bloodshed for nothing.

Windshear jumped behind Longbow, startling the pegasus. “Gods... my friends! They made it!” Windshear exclaimed, and he shook Longbow’s shoulders. “Come on, you’ve gotta meet them! I’m just…” A breathy, euphoric laugh escaped the stallion’s parched throat. “I’m just so glad they all made it!”

Longbow held out his wings in acquiescence. “Okay, okay... but then I’m getting a damn medic to fix my eye.” Windshear blanched at that, but finally only nodded as he led Longbow to a group of ponies standing on the edge of the battlefield.

“Carver! Summer! There you guys are! What happened?” the spearpony asked as he trotted up to them. Longbow hung back a bit and watched, unsure. The mare, whom he presumed was Summer, was shaking where she sat. Her eyes stared into space, their spark gone and her expression hollow. The look of a broken mare.

The stallion standing at her side looked only slightly better off. He wasn’t shaking like the mare, but he was definitely trying to cope with the situation around him. He seemed only half-there as he shook hooves with Windshear. Then realization dawned on his face, and he wrapped the spearpony in a tight hug. Tears streamed down his face as he said something to Windshear, and the spearpony’s smile fell away. They separated, and they could only whisper to each other in disbelief.

Longbow was just about to walk away and find the rest of the Rainstorm when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. Not just something; somepony.

The green colt was delicately picking his way across the battlefield, seeming lost and misplaced. His armor was bloodstained and held loosely around his small frame, and the golden luster in his eyes flickered as he blinked. Those eyes had seen trauma.

Longbow didn’t want to believe what he was seeing. He wanted to believe it was a simple hallucination, some strange trick his mind was playing on him. Anger and sorrow threatened to overwhelm his soul. He hadn’t wanted this.

Neither of those emotions came to the forefront. All he could do was ask, in a slow, almost timid voice, one word.

“... Finder?”

Calamity (Part III)

“I had never seen so much blood. Gods, I’d never seen death before that morning,” Pathfinder recalled, his head tilted upwards and his eyes gazing into the smoke-stained ceiling.

“Gods,” Stalwart said in a breathless whisper. “How… How do you even function in that situation? And Dawn…” Stalwart paused, feeling sick at the thought. “T-the beasts really… they really ate the flesh of our brothers and sisters?”

Pathfinder gave a slow nod of his head. “I guess it was a shock tactic.” Finder chuckled bitterly. “It certainly worked on me.”

“How…” Stalwart swallowed the lump in his throat. Despite the copious amount of ale and water he had consumed thus far his mouth felt parched. “How do you cope with seeing that?”

There was a few moments of quiet as Pathfinder considered the question. He tapped his tankard and offered a weary smile to the younger pegasus. “I suspect the answers lie at the bottom of the tankard. Though it seems I’ve still got a few tankards to go.”

Around them Stalwart heard the distant mutterings of the few patrons left in the aging tavern. One by one, Pathfinder's story had caught their ears. Now they each watched the old soldier with rapt attention. Even Cirrus had seemingly forgotten her tasks, having at some point sat herself next to Pathfinder with a tankard of her own.

"Suffice to say," Pathfinder continued after a moment to gather his thoughts, "Nimbus shaped all of us."

“Gods above,” Cirrus said, her right hoof covering her mouth. “Is that where you met papa, Uncle Finder?”

Stalwart shook his head to snap himself back to reality. His eyes focused on the mare he had taken for a simple barkeep. Exactly when she had sat down, or for that matter, when several other patrons had turned their attention to the old stallion’s tale, he couldn’t be sure. “Wait, you two are related?”

Pathfinder laughed, though it was a quiet, almost fragile sound. “No, no, there’s no blood shared between us. Her father was a good stallion, and an invaluable friend.” Tuning to Cirrus, Pathfinder put a hoof on her shoulder and offered her a frail smile. “Patience, little wing, I’ll get to your old pony soon enough.”

“Your father served at Nimbus?” Stalwart asked, his attention turning to Cirrus.

The mare’s wings twitched and her hooves fiddling with a cup of water for a moment before she answered. “Honestly, I couldn’t rightly tell you where papa fought. He refused to talk about the war except for acknowledging he had fought in it. Mom told me years later that he was involved in the Battle of Nimbus,”

“He fought there, yes,” Pathfinder answered for Cirrus, though his attention seemed far from the the small tavern. “Cloudburst was a good stallion, and one of the best friends you could ask for.” Finder acknowledged with a nod of his head and a nostalgic sigh. Propping his elbow on the polished wood of the table, Finder rested his chin on his fetlock and took a slow breath. He shook his head in a small, almost imperceptible way, though he gave no voice to his errant thoughts.

Seeking to break the resounding silence that had fallen over the Lookout, Stalwart cleared his throat and leaned over the table. The old wooden planks gave a gentle creak as his weight pushed down on them. “You found your brother though, so mission accomplished, right?”

Pathfinder made only the smallest of smiles at the comment. His golden eyes stared ahead into the empty tankard. The few precious drops of ale left in the bottom slowly drying. “Do you have any siblings, Stahl-for-Short?”

“Oh yes, many.” Stalwart nodded. “A couple older sisters, three younger brothers.”

An amused snort escaped the old stallion’s throat as his lips pulled back to a full grin that exposed his teeth. “My, my, your parents were productive. I guess the ground wasn’t the only thing your father pounded.”

Cirrus smacked Pathfinder’s shoulder with a hoof. “That’s the boy’s parents you’re talking about!”

“What? What’d I say?” Finder asked, rubbing the sore spot.

“You’re not senile yet, old timer,” Cirrus said, her hoof prodding Pathfinder’s temple.

“Now that’s just your word against mine.”

Stalwart shook his head and sighed. “Excuse me, sir, but—”

“I swear, pup, if you call me “sir” one more time I’m gonna lose what little mind I’ve got left.” Finder said with a growl.

“Sorry s—er, Pathfinder.”

The old stallion nodded. “Better, now, what’s on your mind?”

Stalwart chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip for a moment, his gaze avoiding Pathfinders. When he again looked Finder in the eye it was with no small amount of reticence. The change was enough to attract the retired scout’s attention.

“Well?” Finder asked, leaning back to stretch out his aching wings. “I’m not getting any younger here, Pup.”

A slight frown pulled Stalwarts lips into a tight line as he looked the old stallion in the eye. “Forgive my bluntess, Pathfinder, but what does my family have to do with any of this? I mean, I thank you for your interest, but what is the point of it?”

“I could ask you the same for every question you’ve had tonight, Stahl,” Pathfinder answered while rolling his head lazily to the side. A series of dull cracks ran down Finder’s neck and a satisfied sigh slipped through the old pony’s lips. “Something wrong with an old stallion being curious?”

Stalwart shot Finder with a withering stare. “You weren’t curious until a moment ago, and your curiosity has conveniently gotten us off topic more than once. It’s…” he trailed off, scratching the side of his face with his hoof. “It’s like you’re stalling.”

Pathfinder leveled a fiery glare at Stalwart and his wings spread at his sides, thin tendrils of smoke seeming to emanate from his frayed feathers. “Have you ever fought in a war, Stalwart?”

The venomous shift in Finder’s tone took everypony in the Lookout by surprise. Cirrus and Stalwart both recoiled notably while the other patrons whispered quietly to one another. Stalwart gulped once, his eyes quickly flicking over to Cirrus, who had her own attention focused on Pathfinder.

“My eldest sister served in the Shadow War, but I have yet to—”

Finder’s hoof slammed onto the table, rattling the empty tankards and making the small flames on the waning candles dance on their wicks. “Then don’t you dare take that tone with me! You have no right!”

“Uncle Finder, the boy didn’t mean anything by it,” Cirrus said, her hoof gently touching his shoulder.

Letting a sharp breath out of his nose, Finder looked to Cirrus, then back at Stalwart, his lips twitching with a barely repressed snarl. His golden eyes bored into Stalwart making the younger pony’s skin crawl. For a moment, Stalwart thought he saw the glimmer of moisture in Pathfinders eyes; a vast well of sorrows held barely in check.

Rising to his hooves, Stalwart bowed his head low. “I’m very sorry, Pathfinder, I had no intention of offending you.” I was merely curious, and I fear I allowed my curiosity to give way to impertinence.” He paused, daring to look Finder in the eye. Cold, focused anger met his gaze, yet Stalwart forced himself to maintain the contact. “I am sorry...Finder.”

Giving the apology a few moments to sink in, Stalwart remained still, observing the old scout. His words, no matter how earnestly given, had less sway on Pathfinder’s mood than Cirrus’ gentle touch. With the smallest of tugs on Finder’s right hoof, she pulled his glare away from Stalwart. He looked to her, the scowl immediately melting away to a sorrowful frown. In turn, Cirrus only smiled up to him, patiently waiting out the dour expression with what seemed to Stalwart to be practiced ease.

Finder closed his eyes and took a deep breath. After a moment he looked to Stalwart again, the anger having faded from his gaze.

“Apology accepted, brat.”

Stalwart couldn’t help himself from a genuine smile. There was still a chance for his mission to succeed.

“Have you ever seen death, Stalwart?” Finder asked, interrupting the guardspony’s thoughts.

“Death?” Stalwart sputtered, surprised by the question. “We all knew ponies who died in the Shadow War—”

Pathfinder shook his head and waved a hoof to cut off Stalwart’s answer. “No, no, Stalwart. I mean death, not the dead.”

Stalwart bit down anxiously on his lower lip. “No...no, I haven’t.”

“You’ll never really think twice about the enemies you kill. You on occasion spare a thought for the nameless bastard you once saw who reminded you of another pony. Your friends though… you never forget the ponies you care about.” Pathfinder leaned back in his seat, his eyes drifting to the ceiling for a time. “It’s not like you see them every night, you know? But...but you get real grateful for the nights you don’t dream, and real upset over the nights you do.”

Stalwart nodded, his attention rapt on Pathfinder.

“Are you close to them? Your siblings, I mean.” Pathfinder refocused his attention onto Stalwart, the anger having fully sublimated the anger of a few moments prior.

“Fairly close, I suppose. When you have as many as I do though you tend to butt heads with one or two.”

“I’d imagine,” Pathfinder said, his hooves again playing with his empty tankard. He lifted the cup in an almost reflexive attempt to drink, only to realize a moment later what he was doing and set it back down with a dull tap. “Longbow…” Pathfinder sighed and quickly ran a hoof through his mane. “I guess you could say my brother raised me when we were growing up. Mom always tried her best, but her health meant she spent much of her time resting to keep her strength up.” Pathfinder smiled at the thought of his mother. Her loving touch, her gentle words, her beautiful lullabies. The smile turned sad the longer he allowed his mind to linger on her memory.

“I realized, after she passed…” Finder paused for a deep sigh. “I realized that, well, nopony would ever love me like that...be proud of me like that again. My wife, my children, my friends, they loved me, yes...but none like the unconditional love of a mother.”

Stalwarts thoughts drifted to his own mother, with the stern edge that seemed to smother away her affections for him and his siblings in all but the rarest of precious moments. “What about your father?”

Pathfinder scoffed, his expression souring ever so slightly. “Father worked morning to night. He loved Longbow, he blamed me for Mom’s poor health.” Finder scoffed. "He was a bastard, but..."

"But?" Stalwart asked.

Shaking his head, Pathfinder dismissed the comment with a shrug. "Nothing, just the workings of a confused old mind. Pay it no mind, Stahl-for-Short."

“So, um…” Stalwart cleared his throat and sat up, thankful for the water that was slowly clearing the haze of alcohol from his system. “What happened in Nimbus? After you found your brother, I mean.

Pathfinder shook his head, his frown reasserting itself on his lips. “You know what happened next.”

Stalwart started to speak, then stopped. For a moment he seemed to carefully consider his words. The wrong thing said and he risked setting Pathfinder off again, and there was little guarantee Cirrus could talk the old stallion down a second time. Stalwart took a deep breath and steeled himself for the worst. “With respect, I don’t think anypony who wasn’t there knows what it was like.”

Pathfinder shook his head, his lips pulled into a thin line. The dim light from the candles flickered in his golden eyes, and for a time he seemed lost to the world around him. Cirrus’ hoof gave a light tug on his foreleg, seemingly pulling him back to the world.

“Hell,” Finder said, his voice quiet and raw. “Nimbus was Hell.”

Why?

Pathfinder wandered the Nimban courtyard in a shell shocked daze. His stomach felt as though he’d swallowed a boulder and his eyes burned from the acrid smoke that mixed with his salty tears.

He could still see the look in her eyes.

Why?

The question echoed back and forth in his head like the harsh metallic ring of the alarm bells that were long since silenced by the flames that licked at the walls of Nimbus. The early mornings light bathed the sky in brilliant hues of purple, orange and red. It was as though the heavens themselves were soaked in the blood that now painted the ancient cloudstone walls.

“...Finder?”

The colt stiffened, his eyes growing wide. That voice, so different than what he remembered, yet so painfully familiar. It pulled his mind from the bloody basilica, and back to the welcoming rocks and shoals of Altus.

Standing there, mere feet away, was Longbow. His body was covered in battered armor, his coat was matted with sweat and caked in ash and grime, and blood covered the left side of his face. Despite all of that, Finder only saw his big brother, the same one that had been there for him all the days of his life.

“L-Longbow?” His voice came in a breathless whisper.

His hooves moved of their own accord, leading him towards his brother. Fresh tears welled in Finder’s eyes the closer he got, spilling down his cheeks in searing lines. Once he was close enough he launched himself at the older pony, throwing his forelegs around Longbow’s neck as the emotions overwhelmed him.

“L-Longbow! Y-you’re—”

“You stupid little fool!” Longbow shouted, his hooves roughly grabbing the colt’s shoulders and shaking him. “What the fuck were you thinking?!”

Through the cries of death and agony the raw fury in Longbow’s voice attracted the attentions of many nearby ponies. Most watched the scene unfold in silence, wisely keeping their noses out of family business. Others, such as Iron Rain and her Rainstorm, watched with only passing interest before turning back to their work.

Carver watched for only a moment and bristled as he stormed over to help out his friend. Windshear, still shaken from his ordeal and the news of Dawn’s death, stayed with Summer. The Nimban medic, so full of vim and verve when the battle had begun had been reduced to a mere shell of a mare, silent and shattered.

Pathfinder shriveled under his brother’s furied glare. His voice fell to a brittle mewl and his ears plastered themselves against his skull. “L-Longbow—”

“Don’t “Longbow” me!” The elder brother shouted, shoving the colt away and cringing from the pain where his eye used to be. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Did you think this was another foals game?”

Fresh tears spilt down Finder’s cheeks. “I-I just—”

“You just what?” Longbow demanded. “I told you to stay home! I told you to look after Mom! What in Hell’s name did you think you could do here except get killed?”

“Hey!” Carver shouted, charging over from where he had left Summer and Windshear. “Leave him alone!”

Before Finder knew what was happening, Longbow had moved in front of him, his right wing providing a shield between Longbow and the colt. “Back off!”

“I think you're the one who needs to back off!” Carver shouted, bristling at Longbow. “Leave the kid alone!”

Longbow stretched out with his left wing, allowing the metal scales of the wingblade to scrape menacingly. “He’s my brother, so one more time I’m gonna warn you to back off.”

The revelation made Carver hesitate and cast a stunned look at the archer. He blinked once, his wings slowly relaxing as his gaze shifted to Pathfinder. “Finder?”

Wiping at his eyes with his foreleg, Finder nodded once. “Carver...Just g-give us a minute.”

Biting at his lip, Carver’s gaze shifted from Finder to Longbow and back again. He could see the resemblance the closer he looked, and reluctantly he backed down. He motioned with his head back to where he’d left Summer and Windshear. “Fine. I’ll be just over there if you need me.”

Longbow kept his eye on Carver, his lips twisted in a sneer until the stallion was well away from them. He let out a sharp breath before he allowed himself to relax. He turned around to once again face Pathfinder, who shriveled from the withering glare. Longbow lifted a hoof causing the colt to flinch and brace himself. The elder pegasus hesitated at the sight. He had seen that reaction countless times before when their father had reprimanded them with a curt slap.

A quiet sigh escaped him as he lowered his hoof to the ground. When next he spoke his tone was gentle and his voice quiet. “Finder?”

The colt said nothing, his slender frame quaking before his brother. Pathfinder’s brows furrowed together and tears leaked freely from his eyes. The entire time he kept his gaze affixed on the ashen ground; terrified to look his brother in the eye.

Longbow felt the sorrow in his chest swell anew. He raised his hoof again, slowly this time, and gently lifted Finder's chin so he could see his brother's face. The soft green fur was stained red were griffon claws had raked across his cheek. It hurt Longbow more to see the pain in Finder’s eyes.

How many friends had he seen die?

"Oh, Finder," Longbow said, his voice almost inaudible in the basilica.

Before Finder knew what was happening, Longbow's strong forelegs had wrapped around him and pulled him into a crushing embrace. Finder sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes growing wide. He could feel the tremble lin Longbow's body; hear the soft gasps as he struggled to contain his emotions.

"Longbow?" Finder struggled to look up, afraid of what he might see. "L-Longbow...I-I'm sorry. I...I just wanted to help—"

"Stop, Finder. Just, stop." Longbow said in a harsh whisper, his wings wrapping around the small colt, careful not to accidentally cut him with the bloodied wingblades. "You should've stayed home, Finder. This...this isn't the place for colts. This isn’t the place for you."

Pathfinder's heart sank at the realization, his brother was crying.

After a few moments, Longbow released Finder from his embrace, his right hoof lingering on Finder's shoulder. "Come on, let's get you fixed up."

"I'm fine," Finder protested, taking Longbow's hoof in his own and pulling him towards where his friends were. "You need it more than I do."

Finder took a moment to look around, trying to find a medic who seemed less busy than others.

Dawn...

His heart sank and his posture sagged. The colt couldn't understand why it had happened. Why

such a good pony had to die for seemingly no reason at all.

The Gods were supposed to be there for them.

A bitter wind from the east blew through the bloodsoaked city and sent a chill through Finder. He shivered for a moment, though his eyes kept to their task of locating anypony who could help. Pathfinder wouldn't let his brother down again.

He refused to let anypony down again.

Pathfinder jumped as a heavy wing draped across his back.

"Easy, little brother," Longbow said with a weary breath. "It's just me."

Nodding, Finder bit his lip and lowered his head.

"I missed you, Longbow," he whispered as though admitting a great shame. "I missed you so much...And...and I was so scared." Finder paused to swallow the knot in his throat. "I was so scared that I wouldn't see you again."

The wing pulled the small colt closer until the heavy plates of Longbow’s armor scraped against the scales of Finder’s armor. “It's okay, Finder, I’m here. A bit frayed around the edges, but I’ll get better.” Longbow forced a smile through the pain. “You think Dad will be impressed?”

Pathfinder snorted. "Before or after he tans my hide?"

"You do deserve a good whack or two," Longbow chastised his brother. "Gods, Finder, how the Hell did you even get a recruiter to take you? There's nopony thick enough to actually think you're of proper age. And I know Mom would never let Dad give you to the legion."

Finder hesitated and pawed at the ground with his hoof. "Maybe they did?"

Longbow seemed unconvinced and let his wing slip off the colts back so he could look his brother in the eye. Pathfinder withered under the look, his eyes averting Longbow and his ears flattening against his head. Longbow waited, impatiently tapping his hoof against the ground.

“Finder.” It was a command, not a request.

“I...I got Carver to help me,” Finder mumbled. He stiffened as he saw the fire that burst to life in Longbow’s eyes and immediately grabbed at Longbow’s foreleg to keep him there. “Longbow, wait!”

The elder brother regarded Pathfinder with a pained and angry glare. “What?”

“Just...please, please drop it.” Finder pleaded, leaning forward until his forehead pressed against the steel plates of Longbow’s armor. “Please.”

Longbow’s malicious glare lingered on the distant Carver for several long moments. He let out a sharp huff before pulling his attention away. “Fine.”

Finder sighed in relief and hugged his brother again. “He’s a good pony, Longbow. You’d like him.”

The archer disagreed, though kept his opinion to himself. “Come on, I need a stiff drink and something for my eye.”

Pathfinder nodded once, letting his hooves slip from Longbow’s neck. “Was...was this your first fight?” He asked quietly as they walked off in search of a medic.

“No, the first was Hengstead. Damned hybrid almost cut off my ear.”

“Was...was it this bad?”

Longbow’s silence was all the answer Finder needed.

“Is everyone from Altus okay? Pan Sea? Salt Feather? Drift?”

“Pan Sea took a spear to the chest. He was alive and getting sent home last I saw. Salt, Drift, Sandy, Shoal, I haven’t seen any of them since I was sent back here.” Longbow bit at his lip and cast an anxious look around the square. His eye searched the exhausted faces of the Eighth Legion searching for any he recognized. “If this is all that’s left…” He paused to swallow the knot that was building in his throat. “Come on, Finder. Let’s get moving.”

Summer sat silhouetted against the breaking light of dawn, her mouth ajar and her eyes staring into the nothingness around her. Salve, the only other surviving medic from their platoon inspected her as best he could, vainly trying to elicit any response from her. If Summer noticed he was there she displayed no sign of it.

“Has she said anything?” Salve asked looking up to Carver and Windshear.

Carver shook his head, a mighty frown pulling at his lips. “Not even a whimper.”

“Damn,” Salve cursed, hissing from the pain in his side. In the thick of the fighting nopony had come through unscathed, and a series of three long red gashes decorated his right side. The cut extended from his shoulder all the way to his flank, and continued to ooze blood into his coat.

Either from toughness, shock, or sheer force of will, Salve ignored his wounds, desperately trying to help every pony he could. “Come on, Summer, we need you now!”

Summer said nothing.

“What the Hell is going on over here?”

Salve, Windshear, and Carver turned to face the new voice only to find themselves staring down a sandy blonde mare with bloodied armor and a stiletto where her sword should have been. Salve stood a little straighter, banishing the pain of his wounds from his mind. “Treating a patient, Ma’am.”

The mare regarded him with a raised eyebrow and a sharp frown. “You’re the one who needs a medic.” She looked to Summer and paced closer, her right eyebrow arching upward at the shellshocked mare. Thorn’s lips curled to a vicious snarl and she turned her attention to Carver and Windshear, both of whom stiffened visibly. “You two, bandage his wounds.”

“Yes ma’am!” They answered, saluting and all but tripping over themselves to help Salve.

Thorn walked towards Summer and let out a disgusted scoff as she backhoofed Summer’s cheek, toppling the medic hard enough to snap her free from her catatonic state. “Get up, medic, this is no time for a nap!”

Thorn didn’t give Summer a moment to compose herself. Stepping closer, she grabbed Summer’s mane and forcibly dragged the mare back to her hooves. “Come here.”

“No!” Summer lashed out with her forelegs and wingblades; her eyes wild. “Let me go!”

Narrowly avoiding the sharpened scales, Thorn roughly shoved Summer away. The medic stumbled forward, her wings stretched wide as she tried to stabilize herself before ultimately falling to the ground in a clatter of steel and flesh. There she stayed, laying upon the cloudstone ground like the dead that now littered the streets of Nimbus.

A strong kick to the side of her armor was the only pity she got from Thorn. “Get up, medic, you’ve got a job to do.”

“What...what’s the use?” Her voice cracked. “She’s dead...they’re all dead…”

Thorn glared at Summer and moved around so she could look into the shattered mare’s eyes. “And what good are you doing anypony by laying there, hm? You dishonor the memory of all the mares and stallions that gave their lives in this fight.”

“No!” Summer yelled, her hooves lashing out and grabbing Thorn’s shoulders. “I tried to save her! I tried to save them all! I could’ve saved her too, I just needed more time!”

Thorn pointed her hoof to the basilica where the wounded were being laid out under the relative protection of the open . What was left of the archery divisions were gathering ontop of the building, stockpiling arrows from the dead and dispersing fresh ones from the stockpiles. There they kept a weather eye on the horizon, watching the last griffons retreat from the city as Cirran reinforcements flowed in.

“Some of them still have a bit of time. How about you go save them and grieve the dead later?”

Summer glared at Thorn, her emerald eyes glistening and her ears flattened against her head. After several moments she glanced over at the triage area and felt her anger slowly give way to sorrow. With a heavy sigh, Summer folded her wings and wandered away.

With a shake of her head and a mighty frown Thorn turned from the medic and moved back to where Iron Rain had set up an informal command post.

Thorn snorted. Calling that a command post is like saying it’s been an eventful morning.

The Rainstorm, sans Downburst, Longbow, and Windshear who had scarpered off after the fighting had ended, were huddled around a wooden crate that Rain had turned into her desk. There she had gathered several papers including a blank parchment she was hastily marking notes on. As Thorn rejoined the group she took her place to Rain’s right, though that left her in the unenviable position of standing next to Red.

“Ugh,” Thorn pinched her nose with a hoof. “Gods sakes, Red, you smell like a griffon’s entrails.”

“Nimban perfume, Thorny-girl,” he said with a toothy grin.

“Shut up, the lot of you. Haze,” Rain said, turning to her friend. “I want you to get me a head count. I need to know what we’ve got left and what the remnants of the Eighth and Sixth have. I don’t want to be caught flat footed again, the hybrid bastards will be back as soon as they’ve regrouped.”

“On it,” Haze said, snapping a crisp salute before flying off to carry out his task.

Rain didn’t spare him a glance, she didn’t have to. “Stone?”

“Ma’am.” The heavyset pegasus stood up straighter.

“Take whoever you need, organize a defensive line. I don’t want those bastards surprising us again. Guard patrols will last one hour, nopony is dismissed until their relief is on site. Got that?”

“By your command,” Stonewall said, bowing his head to the Legate.

Nodding once, Rain turned her attention to Bluestreak, who was sitting with a foalish grin on his face. Rain was almost positive she saw his tail wiggling in anticipation of another fight.

“Red…” She lifted her hoof and shook her head, lips twisting in a disgusted sneer. “Go clean yourself up.”

“What?” The blood caked stallion squawked as his wings flared out. “I just took a fantastic hot soaky bath! It even had all the minerals a growing stallion needs for a healthy coat!”

“Yeah, well, it stinks worse than you normally do and you’ll scare the civilians. Go rinse off and when you get back I’ll have a scouting patrol for you.”

Standing up, Bluestreak grunted in annoyance. “You take all the fun outta war, Iron.”

“Go!” she shouted, pointing her hoof away from the front.

“Your father’s coming,” Thorn said in a quiet voice.

Rain glanced away from the burning cityscape, a confused look on her face. “What’s that, Thorn?”

Thorn rolled her eyes, she hated repeating herself. “I said Winter is coming.”

“Oh Hell,” Rain said in a quiet mumble. Standing up straight, she steeled herself with a breath and turned around to face her father.

Lord Winter Rain carried himself with an old soldiers confidence that seemed to resonate with every pony that surrounded him. His coat, once white as the falling snow, had faded over the years to a light gray tone. Bags had formed under his eyes and wrinkles had carved their way into his flesh like the scars of battle that decorated his body. His mane and tail, both cropped short, had lost the majority of their coloration as well, with lines of gray streaking through the steel blue locks.

Despite his title and rank he wore the standard armor of a legionnaire which bore the countless scars from the battles he had fought in throughout his life. Strapped to his left wing was the standard wingblade issued to every soldier, attached to his right wing was Winter’s weapon: the spiked shield Nimbus.

Manufactured from the finest smiths in the city, Winter had carried Nimbus for as long as anypony could remember. The heavy shield covered most of his right side in a broad rectangle that swept out along the bottom edge in a curved blade not unlike the edge of an axe. In the center of the shield was the famous spike which Winter had used to slay countless enemies of Cirra.

In many ways his unyielding strength of convictions had embodied the very city he called home, and under his stewardship the ponies of Nimbus had prospered. Under the ever vigilant watch of Winter they felt they had nothing to fear. For as long as a Rain sat on the throne of Nimbus the city would endure even the harshest of droughts.

Iron Rain bowed her head respectfully. “Father.”

Winter regarded her for a moment with his ever neutral expression. “Are you hurt, Iron?”

“No, father.”

“Then look me in the eye when you speak. You’re a legate now, not a militia mare.” There was no anger in his voice, only a quiet power.

Iron Rain allowed herself a quick breath before turning her head upward to meet her father’s gaze.

“That’s better,” Winter said with the smallest of smiles. “Now, Legate Iron Rain, report.”

“The hybrids attacked us in force just before dawn. They managed to overrun the walls during the shift change and made significant progress into the outer ring before the militia could rally. I took what forces I could muster and we were able to repulse them long enough for reinforcements to arrive.” Rain shook her head. “I’ve ordered defensive patrols to keep a lookout for another attack and I’m gathering a full headcount of our casualties and effective remaining forces as we speak.”

Winter listened and offered a simple nod. “Well done, Iron.”

“Thank you, father.” Rain bowed her head again, though she kept her eyes on his.

“Downburst,” Winter said, looking to his oldest friend. “Organize three centuries; Medics, stretcher bearers, and anypony that isn’t working. We must tend to our wounded and bury the dead before the hybrids return.”

“Yes sir.” Downburst nodded. “I’ll need a few scouts to keep the burial detail secure from attack.”

Winter turned his attention to Thorn who stiffened at his gaze. “Thorn, you’re in charge of security. No harm must come to the burial detail.”

“Permission to take some of the archers, sir.”

Winter nodded. “I’ll give you one-third.

Thorn saluted. “Thank you sir.”

“Go, both of you,” Winter said, dismissing them with the simple wave of his hoof.

Iron Rain watched as Downburst and Thorn took to the skies, their mighty wings quickly propelling them up and away from her command post. Her father briefly watched as well only returning his attention to Iron when the two legionnaires were out of earshot.

“Downburst tells me you rallied quickly. I’m proud of you.”

“I was too slow to keep them on the walls,” Rain said, her ears flattening. “I’m sorry Father.”

Winter’s hoof slipped under her chin and lifted her head so he could see her eyes. “The hybrids attacked us at our weakest moment. Your actions, and the efforts of thousands of brave soldiers saved many lives today. Be proud of your accomplishments and learn from your failures. The harshest droughts...”

“End in Rain,” Iron said, completing the words of their House.

“Come,” Winter motioned her to follow with his hoof. “This battle’s not done yet, and there’s much work to do.”

Pathfinder craned his neck back over his shoulder as he plodded through the tall grass. Somewhere nearby, the rest of the Cirran scouts had gone their separate ways. The valleys of the mountain pass between Nimbus and Hengstead had too many nooks and crannies for the pegasi to expect any sort of success in their search if they stayed together. His task was a prairie in the foothills, overlooking one of the wider valleys. His green coat and small stature made him the best choice for the tall grasses where the other, bigger scouts would stand out.

The problem was that he couldn’t see over the grasses either. Though the winds through the prairie masked the sounds of his steps and the swaying of the reedy green stalks, he couldn’t help but feel that in only a moment, he would bump noses with a hybrid sentry.

A snap of grass stole the colt’s attention, and his head jerked to the side. He’d drawn blood with his sword and his wingblades, yet they still seemed so small. This time, Carver wasn’t there to help him.

As Finder stood frozen, waiting for some sign of motion, his thoughts drifted to Longbow. What if he didn’t make it back? His big brother had been furious when the Scout-Centurion had tapped him for the dangerous mission.

He’s right. It was Dawn’s voice in his head. You’re too young.

He shuddered, sending tremors through the stalks of grass pressing against his wings. “No I’m not.”

If I couldn’t fight the hybrids, kid, what chance do you have? Go home, Finder.

“I’m not leaving,” Pathfinder protested to himself.

You’re afraid.

“I’m not.”

Finder thought he had been quiet, but a swallow in the grass to his right took off at the sound of his voice, flying right up into the air. The colt swallowed once, his forelegs twitching as he struggled to take a step forward.

You’re lying, Pathfinder. But if you want to make your brother an only child, I can’t really stop you, can I?

His hoof slid forward. The grass moved. Wind swept through his mane, and the smell of pollen filled his nostrils. Through it all, the world was tranquil.

The prairie sloped downward. A pebble skittered down the slope when Finder stepped on its edge.

Ahead and to the left, something moved.

The colt dropped to his belly, clutching his sword tightly. He had to come on the thing unexpected. It was his only chance.

Sidling to his left, the colt listened the crunch of grass as something took a step toward his hiding place. Then another. He couldn’t see it; the grass was too tall. He could only hear the swish of its tail against the wild flowers and the reeds, and the way its paws plodded on the soft dirt.

When the grass in front of his face moved, he lunged forward.

The wild dog yipped in fear, and a hint of pain at the sudden attack. It ran away, sprinting down the hill and barking as it went. The sound was deafening compared to the gentle breezes and the distant sound of birds.

And then, with a drained and pathetic yowl, it stopped completely. Finder watched over the tips of the reeds as the yellow mutt’s throat bled onto darker golden talons, punctured into its neck.

"Verdammtes Tier! Das letzte was ich jetzt brauche ist dass mich einer der Cirraner findet."

The hybrid tongue was unmistakable, even if Pathfinder couldn’t understand it. His heart froze as the creature looked his way.

"Macht dir ein Vogel Angst oder was, du blödes tier?" Was the griffon talking to him? Finder closed his eyes and listened to the rhythm his heart was beating, faster than any griffon wardrum. "Du würdest einen prima Eintopf abgeben."

To the pegasus’ surprise, the griffon’s claws and paws began to move away. Opening his eyes, Pathfinder released a slow breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His hooves moved forward again, and he followed the griffon slowly.

It was just like sneaking up behind Longbow when he used to, right? No big difference.

...except that he’d be killed if the thing so much as turned around again. Biting down on his cheek, the colt followed the griffon to the edge of the grass. There, at the lip of a long, narrow valley, the colt looked down.

His stomach simply stopped. His throat refused to follow. It wasn’t just the one griffon; it was a camp. Three dozen campfires he could see, just from the grass. It wasn’t the whole army, he was sure, but that barely registered when he didn’t have anypony standing behind him.

His attention was stolen by the flap of nearby heavy wings. A griffon was soaring down toward the edge of the canyon, joining the hybrid that Pathfinder had followed. Unlike the plain grays and whites and browns of the usual griffons, this particular creature had thick blue stripes painted along the fur of his shoulders. A heavy steel cuirass covered his torso, its back concealed by the striped fur of some strange beast Finder couldn’t even begin to name.

“Lord Vheiner,” the smaller griffon spread his wings and bowed. “Was für eine unerwartete Freude. Ich bin geehrt von ihrer Anwesenheit.”

“Lassen sie das gescherze Kommandant! Ich bin hier um sie wieder auf den Zeitplan zu bringen. Nimbus hätte nach dem letzten Angriff bereits gefallen sein sollen.” The massive beast growled causing the smaller hybrid to shrivel back.

“I-Ich versichere ihnen, Lord Vheiner, die Soldaten arbeiten so schnell sie können.”

The blue-striped hybrid tilted his head in an almost thoughtful manner. “Vielleicht finde ich noch eine Möglichkeit sie noch ein wenig zu motivieren.”

“Ich versichere ihnen dass die Stadt bereits morgen bei Nachteinbruch unser sein wird!” Finder’s hybrid boastfully declared.

“Imperator Magnus ist da nicht so optimistisch wie sie.”

Pathfinder’s ears perked up. He recognized that name, but from where?

“Aber..aber er verlangt das Unmögliche!” The small griffon balked. “Ich brauche einfach mehr Truppen!”

“Dann sagen sie es ihm besser bei seiner Ankunft.”

Silence filled the air as the smaller griffon levelled a wide-eyed stare at his superior. “Imperator Magnus kommt hier her?”

The painted hybrid nodded. “Korrekt, Kommandant. Und er ist sehr unerfreut über ihren offensichtlichen Mangel an Fortschritt.”

Magnus, Magnus, Magnus. Finder squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to place where he had heard that name.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, the smaller griffon stood up straighter. “Wir werden unsere Bemühungen verdoppeln.”

“Das hoffe ich, Kommandant. Für Sie!” the large beast said, his eyes boring into the smaller hybrid. “Imperator Magnus ist da nicht so Nachsichtig wie ich.”

Ottgam Magnus! Finder’s eyes snapped open as the words rang like bells in his skull. It was the name that Trail Blaze had given to the leader of Agenholt when he had come to deliver news of the war’s onset and issue the notice of conscription. It was this ‘Magnus’ that had taken Longbow from home. It was Magnus who had ordered the griffon hordes to attack Nimbus four days ago. It was Magnus’ fault that Dawn...

Finder’s head sank closer to the cold earth. He watched as the griffons moved towards the camp, waiting until he could no longer hear their voices over the rustle of the meadow grasses. Only then did he carefully start his crawl back to where the scout-centurion had ordered them to rendezvous.

“...and the colt said they were talking about Magnus.”

Lord Winter Rain frowned as his gaze lifted from the map of Nimbus on the table. “And what does that mean for us, Iron?”

His daughter shrugged. “The scout thought he was coming himself, though I’m not sure I’d believe it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Commander Gold Moon grumbled, not even bothering to take his eyes off of the map. “We hold the line here with the Second Legion as long as we can and pull back the Sixth, and what’s left of the Eighth to Nyx. By the time―”

“No,” Iron Rain interrupted. “We’re not giving up Nimbus! We could kill the Archduke and end the whole thing right here!”

Lord Winter slowly released a breath, though it was Gold Moon’s furrowed brown and gaunt cheeks that answered the mare. “You know nothing, Iron Rain. You can kill a griffon duke or chieftain, but there’s another one there waiting in the wings. You have to subjugate them; topple Angenholt or Brisenbaen. The first step to doing that is to gather a legitimate force together, and crush this griffon push.” His wing gestured to the map, first to the northern coastline of Dioda, and then its south-eastern partner. Each point was marked by a toppled wooden pegasus head. “The Fourth and Fifth are destroyed; we’ve only got tatters left of the Eighth. If we pull back to the heartland, we can cut the griffon offensive down on our land with the Third, and put together another offensive at Nyx.”

“And in the meantime, the griffons sack my home?” Rain’s hoof came down on the table, in the same spot that her earlier outburst had splintered the wood. This time, a crack traveled a good few inches across the dense hoof-crafted strategy table. “Why not pull up the Third? Hell, why not bring in the First Legion, if they’re so great? Cirra wouldn’t abandon us in our time of need!”

“Iron,” her father began. “Commander Moon is right. This is for the best.”

“But Father―”

“We aren’t fighting for pride anymore,” Winter interrupted. “Iron, you’ve seen a very different side of this war than we do. You’ve won every skirmish you’ve entered. From where you stand, I know it must look like we could wipe the griffons out easily.” The Consul of Nimbus waved a hoof over the map. “But that just isn’t true. We’re losing, Rain.” The aging stallion sighed. “We’re losing badly. The griffons are fielding more soldiers than their farms should be able to support. They’re moving with too much coordination, striking too fast, and with too much cunning. We underestimated them, and now we’re paying the price. This isn’t like the little skirmishes we’ve had before. Cirra is in danger.”

There followed a long silence, as Iron Rain stared glassy-eyed at the table. Her father paced around the table, and placed a wing across her shoulders. “You have a hard fight ahead of you, Iron. We both do. Put your Rainstorm on the walls and see to the defenses.”

“Yes, sir.” The pause between the words seemed enormous.

“Two more things,” Winter interrupted grabbing his daughter by the shoulder. The pegasus mare turned to stare straight into his eyes. “First, I want your word that when you begin to get overrun, you’ll pull back. You’re the future of House Rain, Iron, and even if Nimbus falls, I need to know that you won’t. Is that understood?”

Rain hesitated, and she swallowed, but then she offered her father a stiff salute. “You have my word, sir.” She stood there, holding her hoof to her brow, for a good ten seconds before she spoke up again. “What was the second thing?”

A smile broke on the old stallion’s face, and he wrapped both his wings and both his forehooves around his daughter. “I love you, Iron. You’ve made me so proud.”

“I love you too, Dad.”

Lord Winter Rain watched his only daughter as she left the command room. He managed not to start crying until the doors shut behind her.

Commander Gold Moon paced up to the other soldier’s side. “She’s a fine soldier.”

“I’ll never see her again,” Winter whispered.

Gold Moon shook his head. “You think she’ll disobey you? That she’ll die on the wall? I don’t think so. She’s strong-willed, but she’ll be back to meet you in Nyx.”

Winter shook his head. “I didn’t mean her, Gold. I’m not going to Nyx.”

The Cirran commander took a step back. “Rain, listen to yourself. We need you. The Nimbans won’t listen to Haysar.”

“No, they won’t. But they will listen to my daughter.” The matted fur on Winter’s cheeks smudged when he ran a fetlock across it.

“Hold on, Lord Rain. I respect her as a soldier, but she isn’t a leader. Not for so many ponies. She’s hot-headed, brash, inexperienced―”

“She’s still young,” Rain finished, nodding. “But that will change in the next few days. Youth doesn’t survive war. Not like this. Turning with a strength that seemed to come from thin air, he nodded to Gold Moon. “Honor her title, Gold Moon. I know you disagree with her, but I didn’t make her the Legate of Nimbus out of nepotism. She earned every bit of that title.” And then he sighed. “Can you do anything for my civilians?”

“I’ll assign as many centuries from the Second Legion as I can spare to protect them. They can stay in Nyx until we reclaim Nimbus, as long as that takes.”

The little smile returned to Winter’s cheeks. “When that day comes… Consul Iron Rain. Someday. Someday soon, I hope.” Then he drew in a breath, and as he rose up to his full height, the corners of his cheeks went flat. “I’ll need to fetch Downburst, and ready the throne room. It seems Nimbus will see battle one last time on my wing.”

“I wish you luck, Lord Rain.” Commander Gold Moon bowed low―an unusual sight for the stiff, formal soldier.

Lord Winter returned the motion. “It would take more than luck to save Nimbus now, Commander. May Garuda be with you.”

“And Mobius with you, Lord Rain.” Gold Moon patted his compatriot on the shoulders with a wing. “Ante Legionem nihil erat.”

Winter nodded. “Et nihil erit post Legionem. Goodbye Moon.”

Resolved, the Consul of Nimbus walked his his head high toward his death.

Author's Note

Extra special thanks to LoyalLiar for his invaluable help on this chapter and to DoctorAsBest for the translations.

Calamity (Part IV)

Longbow rested his back against the cold cloudstone wall of the barracks reclaimed in the days after the initial griffon assault. Exhaustion seemed to claw at his body down to the very marrow of his bones making his wings feel heavy and his armor all but impossible to bear any longer. He sighed heavily, letting his body slide down the wall until he was slumped on the cloudstone floor.

Reaching to his haversack with his right hoof, he retrieved his waterskin and took a drink. It was warm and tasted of treated leather, but at least it was wet. He grasped his helmet with his hooves and lifted it from his head, shivering as his damp mane met the cool air. Longbow yawned, absently running a hoof through his mane. He was relieved that he wouldn't have to preen later, he had earlier when he was pulling his feathers to fletch a few extra arrows for the coming battle.

A pit settled in his gut, his gaze drifting to the floor.

"Longbow?" A mouselike voice drew Longbow's attention upward. Pathfinder stood in front of him, biting anxiously on his lower lip as his ears laid flat. Finder's eyes flicked up to glance at Longbow and almost instantly darted away.

Longbow frowned, seeing Finder rub at his shoulder with a hoof. "Couldn't sleep?"

Pathfinder lowered his head after relenting with a shameful nod.

Extending his right wing, Longbow motioned his little brother closer. "Come here."

"You're sure?" Finder looked around the room, mindful of the half-dozen legionnaires scrounging for supplies in the barracks.

"To Hell with all of em," Longbow said, shrugging his shoulders without sparing so much as a glance in their direction. "I don't care if the Legate herself shows up."

Despite Longbow's assurances, Pathfinder seemed hesitant. Longbow felt a pang of guilt in his chest, like a shard of steel embedded in his heart. His head sank as he sucked in a deep breath. "Finder, come here...please?"

Like a frightened colt, Pathfinder's head lowered as he stepped towards his brother. Longbow waited patiently, his wing and forelegs remaining outstretched the whole while. He watched his brother take a hesitant step towards him, followed by another, and another until he was close enough that Longbow was able to gently wrap his forelegs around the small colt and pull him into a tight embrace. Finder stiffened, seemingly unsure at what to do for a moment before he wrapped his forelegs around Longbow's neck and held the elder pegasus as though his life depended upon it.

Longbow closed his eyes, his right foreleg rubbing Finder's back like he had done countless times back home. Gently, he guided the colt under his wing, wrapping the limb around his brother’s shoulders and hugging him close. "I'm sorry."

"What for?" Finder asked, his voice scarcely more than a whisper.

"For snapping at you earlier," Longbow said, deliberately avoiding Finder's gaze. "I just..." he sighed again, rubbing a hoof through his mane. "I didn’t want this for you, you know?" Sighing, Longbow ran a hoof through his mane. “You’re not meant for this sort of work, Pathfinder. You’re not cut out for war, little brother. You’re too kind-hearted for this. You’re meant for maps or candles.”

Pathfinder’s ears flattened and his head lowered. “I just…” He tried in vain to swallow the knot that had built in his throat. He looked up to Longbow, tears welling in his eyes. “I just wanted to help you.”

“You were helping me by staying home,” Longbow said. “You were safe with mom and dad. “You could have helped by making candles and sending them to the legion.”

Pathfinder said nothing as Longbow spoke. The tears he'd tried to hold back dripped down his cheeks leaving dark streaks in his coat. Longbow reached over with a hoof, carefully wiping the tears away. His opposite hoof dipped into his haversack and fished around for a moment before grasping a small wooden toy.

“Hey, I've kept him safe." Longbow said, a slight smile on his lips as he offered Pathfinder the little centurion that the younger pony had given him when Longbow had left

Staring at the toy with teary eyes, Finder sniffled and shook his head. His small hoof gently pushed at Longbow’s, guiding the toy towards the haversack. “You gotta keep it, remember? I want him back when we go home.”

Despite everything, Longbow couldn’t help a small chuckle from Pathfinder’s sentiment. He nodded once as his wing gave Finder a gentle squeeze. “All right, Finder. But you’ve got to promise me something.”

“What?” Finder asked, his ears perking back up.

“If…” Longbow sighed as he ran a hoof through his damp, ragged, mane. “If something happens to me—”

“It won’t!” Finder declared with a stomp of his hoof. “I—”

“Finder.” Longbow placed his hooves firmly on the colt’s shoulders. “If something happens to me, I need you to promise me that you’ll fly away from here.”

“Longbow…”

“You fly hard and fast as you can,” Longbow continued, his eye locked to Finder’s, “and you don’t stop until you’re back home in Altus. Do you understand me?”

"But—" Finder shook his head, looking to his brother with a furrowed brown and pleading eyes. “But I can’t just—”

“Finder, please, I’m begging you." Longbow pressed a hoof against Finder's cheek, silencing the younger brother with the soft touch. "Please, little brother, just promise me this, okay?”

The silence that settled between the brothers seemed to stretch for an eternity before Finder’s ears again flattened and he relented. “I...I promise…”

Longbow allowed himself a relieved sigh and quickly pulled Finder into a tight hug. “Thank you, Finder.”

Pathfinder closed his eyes and held Longbow close. The older pegasus hummed the wordless song that had long since become a lullaby to the colt. Longbow’s hooves kept their grip around Finder, his wings joining them like a familiar safe blanket. He didn’t dare loosen his grip until Longbow felt Pathfinder start to slacken, the tired colt’s exhaustion finally winning out.

Careful not to wake him, Longbow folded his wings and laid Finder down on his side with his head near Longbow’s flank. His hoof gently petted Finder’s mane, just like their mother used to when they were little. The sleeping colt instinctively nuzzled closer to the warmth, his wings laying half open as he slept.

Longbow smiled at the sight, his mind drifting to simpler times that seemed a lifetime earlier than they had been. He leaned his head back until it pressed against the wall and let out a tired sigh. The approach of two mares in heavy armor, however, quickly caused him to tense.

“Kid,” Thorn greeted him with a curt nod. Beside her stood Iron Rain, who maintained a stony visage that was undermined by the sadness in her eyes.

“Legate Rain, Thorn,” Longbow returned the greeting with a nod of his own, but made no move to get up.

“Who’s the pup?” Thorn asked.

“My brother, Pathfinder.” Longbow answered, one hoof draped protectively over the sleeping colt’s shoulders.

Rain’s head tilted slightly and she took a step closer to inspect Finder. “Huh, so that’s his name.”

Longbow raised an eyebrow, confused. “Have you met him, ma’am?”

“Don’t call me ma’am, Kid.” Rain grumbled. “The Scout-Master had him report to me this morning. He did good work.”

Longbow bit his tongue. He still hadn’t forgiven the scout master for taking Finder instead of pretty much anypony for the morning’s mission. “Am I needed on the wall?”

Rain shook her head. “No, Kid. The sun’s gone down, nothing big will happen until first light. Get some sleep, then set yourself up on top of the palace with the rest of the archers. Things are gonna get messy in a hurry, and we have to buy time for the rest of the civilians to evacuate.” Rain paused, her head lowering for a moment as considered her words. “Besides, if the hybrids breach our walls as fast as they did a week ago, then the archers will be cut to pieces instantly. Keep back, keep safe, skirmish them as long as you can.”

“What about him?” Longbow motioned to Finder.

“What about him?” Thorn asked. “He’s a soldier, just like the rest of us.”

“He’s too young,” Longbow argued, managing to keep his voice down. “Please, Rain, let him evacuate with the rest of the civilians.”

“Desertion is a capital offense,” Thorn said, taking a step forward and narrowing her eyes until Rain’s hoof stopped her.

“Easy, Thorn. Sorry, kid, but we need everypony we got right now.” Rain offered Longbow an apologetic frown. “Keep him with you, fall back whenever the hybrids get close and reposition. He’ll have to be your wingpony.”

“But—”

“Longbow,” Rain interrupted him, “This is what it has to be. He’s a soldier, just like you and me. We swore an oath, and Nimbus…” Her words faltered for a moment causing Thorn to shoot a concerned look at Rain. Quickly composing herself, Rain cleared her throat and took a breath. “You have your orders, Longbow.”

The archer said nothing, but offered her the smallest of nods.

Rain gave him one last look before she turned away, Thorn trotting right beside her as always. Longbow watched them disappear outside, holding his breath until they were out of sight. He turned his attention back to Finder, a sad frown pulling the corners of his mouth downward.

His thoughts were interrupted by the approaching footsteps of another pony. He didn’t know whom he had expected, but it was certainly not the pony he found himself eye to eye with. Longbow forced himself not to snarl.

“Hey” Carver said, offering a friendly smile to Longbow.

“Go away.” Longbow growled, mindful to keep his voice down.

Carver sat back on his haunches, holding his forehooves up to placate the archer. “Easy there, I just came to check on the kid. I figure we got off on the wrong hoof the other day.”

“No, we really didn’t. Longbow said, scowling at the tan stallion. “You’re the dumbass who put my brother in this mess.”

“He signed up all on his own, I didn’t make him do anything!” Carver defended himself.

“No recruitment office would have been dumb enough to let him in if he didn’t have another pony to vouch for him.”

“I just—”

“Stow it, I don’t care.” Longbow hissed. “It’s your fault he’s here. He’s young, you’re old enough to know what war is. What possessed you to think a colt had any place on the battlefield?”

Carver’s ears flattened as he turned his head away from Longbow’s furious glare.

“Look at me.” Longbow demanded, waiting until his eye was once again locked with Carver’s. “I swear to you, if so much as a hair on my brother’s head is harmed, I’m going to kill you. Understand?”

“...Yeah.”

“Good. Now get out.”

Iron Rain frowned as she stood at one of the fortifications surrounding her father’s palace. She’d been simmering the entire morning and well into the early afternoon, and with her knife she’d carved bored patterns into the fortification walls. Around her, the rest of the Rainstorm sans Longbow, Stonewall, and Downburst waited in bored anticipation of the fight they were bound to have.

Through the windows in the fortification, Rain could see the regiments of the Second Legion organizing the civilians into flight groups for evacuation. The Second Legion’s legate had been insistent on pulling his troops out of the city first so that he could maintain the strength of his forces, which were already spread thin after sending four cohorts to Nimbus to relieve the besieged inhabitants. In their place, he was demanding that the remains of the Sixth and the Eighth Legions hold the city until the Second and the civilians had evacuated. What little those two legions had between them amounted to little more than six cohorts.

Six cohorts against a Gryphon horde. Roughly three thousand ponies against four times as many griffons. It’d be a slaughter.

“Waiting. I hate waiting,” Thorn muttered from where she sat reclined against a few crates. She played with her stiletto to alleviate some of the boredom, listening to the soft hiss as it slid in and out of the leather sheath under her wing. Groaning, she banged her helmet against the wall once and looked out the window. “We under attack yet?”

“Careful, Thorn, or you’re gonna start sounding like Red,” Haze teased. He was laying on his back atop a pile of rags, his eyes closed and his helmet at his side. His sword was propped against the wall, close to his muzzle.

Thorn shuddered. “Don’t worry, I’ll let the psychopath keep his job,” she said. Her eyes scanned the room before she found the pony in question. “You’re awfully quiet today, Red.”

The blue pony was uncharacteristically silent as he stared out the open window at the evacuation. Hearing his name, he slowly spun around. “Hmm? Need something, Thorny Girl?”

“I said you’re quiet,” Thorn repeated. Her eyes narrowed, and she went back to playing with her stiletto. “I would’ve figured we’d have to stop you from flying into the Gryphon camp by yourself.”

Red shrugged. “I can be calm sometimes, too. Mostly when I’m thinking.” He flashed a smile of crooked teeth. The obvious question, ‘about what’, went unanswered.

“We could’ve saved the city,” Rain grumbled to herself, her hoof pushing small pebbles of cloudstone across the floor.

Haze opened an eye. “Pardon?”

“It would’ve been easy,” Rain said, pushing one piece of cloudstone towards another. “By the time the griffons hit their high-water mark in their fast assault, they outnumbered us by what, two to one?” Her hoof swept more cloudstone chips into the crude representation of Nimbus she’d made. “The Second sent us four cohorts. That put us roughly equal with the griffons in terms of soldiers. Now, if the Second had brought all eight of their cohorts...”

Her hoof stomped on the gray pieces of cloudstone and swept the white ones over their crumbs. “Then we’d be the ones with more troops, and we could’ve destroyed their advance camp in a matter of minutes. Even once the griffon reinforcements arrived, we’d have enough soldiers to hold the walls of Nimbus and repulse any hybrid assault.”

She sighed and scattered the cloudstone pieces away. “But now, the griffons reinforced their horde with more and more troops. You all saw the thousands that flew in last night. Whatever chance we had to save Nimbus, we lost.” She spat on the floor. “All because the senators think Feathertop and the monument to Roamulus and the Unification War is worth more than Nimbus and tens of thousands of lives.”

Haze shrugged. “The advance Legions were all destroyed in the counterattack. The Eighth?” He shook his head. “Gone. The Seventh?” Again. “Cut off. Almost certainly gone. The Fourth? Well, they’re replenishing at Nyx after taking the brunt of Hengstead. We won’t see them in action for another month at the least. And we’re what’s left of the Sixth.”

Holding out his wing, he counted across the primaries. “That leaves the First, Second, Third, and Fifth Legions still unaccounted for. The First never leaves Stratopolis, the Third’s protecting the heartland, and the Fifth is still fighting their way out of Gryphus, from what I heard. They were fighting in the mountains near the Second before they were jumped. Magnus supposedly has a lot of soldiers there, too.” He sighed. “Guess that explains why the Second wants its cohorts back so badly.”

Rain bared her teeth and stabbed her knife through the cloudstone floor. “The senators don’t know anything. The Praetorian Council doesn’t know shit either. We’re losing this war because of them.” She turned to her friends, her eyes red not from the anger she was so openly expressing, but from the tears she’d shed in private. “Nimbus never should’ve fallen. It never should’ve fallen.”

“War sucks,” Thorn muttered to herself. “Just the way it is.”

A heavy knock on the door made all the pegasi present jump to their hooves. They all relaxed, however, when they saw Stonewall standing in the frame. The muscular stallion was already in full armor and had the latch on his scabbard popped. About an inch of iron was clearly visible against his side.

“What’s the situation, Stone?” Rain asked, finally putting her knife away.

“The Second’s taking off now, Rain,” he answered. “You know what that means.”

Rain sighed and grabbed her helmet. “Well, guess it’s time then.” She smiled faintly. “Time to give the ugly bastards a hell of a fight to remember. Maybe if we stomp them hard enough they’ll surrender, eh?”

“We can only hope,” Thorn muttered. She strode across the room and helped Haze strap his sword back to his armor before turning to Stonewall and walking out the door. Rain, Red, and Haze followed shortly after, with Stonewall taking up the rear. Together, the five pegasi left the fortification and made their way to the plaza in time to see the first of the Second Legion’s centuries escorting a group of five hundred mares and foals out of the city. Across the plaza, another surge of air signaled the takeoff of the next group. The legionaries escorting the civilians harried them the entire way to move faster while simultaneously looking over their shoulders for the dreaded surge of hybrids from their camp.

“Grabacr give them a good tailwind out of this city,” Rain prayed, her voice low as she watched her civilians, the ponies she was supposed to protect, flee their homes. “And may Mobius grant his mercy on those who are about to die.”

The other pegasi nodded in silent agreement. Sighing, Rain spread her wings and flew closer to the reclaimed walls, where four of the six cohorts Nimbus had left to defend itself with were mustered. The rest of the Rainstorm followed in her wake, not saying anything until they had left the evacuating civilians well behind.

“Where’s Kid?” Haze asked, flying closer to Rain. “Or Red’s little pet?”

“They’re staying at the palace with the rest of their friends and family,” Rain said. “Longbow’s an archer so he wouldn’t do much good at the front anyway; the griffons will just overrun it fast enough. Plus he’s got his runt brother to look after, so I put the two of them as far away from the heaviest fighting as possible.” She shrugged mid-flight. “Whether or not they all survive is up to them.”

Haze drifted back, silent, until his flight put him almost wing to wing with Thorn. Seeing an outcropping of crushed cloudstone that used to be a house centered where the cohorts were gathering, Rain tilted her wings until she was able to land right atop it. Her four wingponies fanned out on either side of her, and standing proud, waited for the gathered soldiers to quiet down and listen.

They didn’t have to wait long.

When every eye was trained on her, Rain took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Ponies of Nimbus,” she began, her voice, slow, steady. “Soldiers of the Legion, sons and daughters of Cirra. In a few minutes, we’re going to be in the fight of our lives. I’m not going to lie to you here; it’s going to be bloody. It’s going to be messy. See these walls?” She gestured behind her with a hoof, to where the blood of the fallen had stained the cloudstone an ugly brown. “In a few minutes they’re going to be swarming with griffon hordes all thirsty for your blood. Now, look to your left and your right.”

The ponies did as they were told, and Rain gave them a few seconds before quieting the murmurs with her hoof. “As much as it hates me to say it, one of those ponies next to you isn’t going to be here when this is all over. We’re outnumbered, and badly, and we don’t get the order to retreat until all the civilians are gone and command says so.”

She gulped. “I can assure you, it’s just as bleak for me up here as it is for you down there.”

Uncomfortable mutterings arose from the crowded ponies, and even the Rainstorm exchanged looks behind Rain, wondering what she was doing. In that moment, however, Rain opened her wings and took to a hover above the cohorts. “But is that an excuse to stop fighting? To just keel over and die? No! It’s not! And you want to know why?!”

Her eyes hardened, and coiling her wings at her sides she landed hard on the cloud in front of the central cohort. Now among her soldiers, she raised her voice even higher. “I’ll tell you why! Because Nimbus doesn’t give up! Nimbus doesn’t surrender!” Pushing a centurion out of the way, she grabbed a legionary at the front of the cohort and hauled him closer by his pauldrons. “We are Nimban warriors! We are the fiercest, deadliest, maddest sons and daughters of bitches the world has ever seen! We’ve beaten back onslaught after onslaught for centuries, millennia even! And this?” She gestured around her. “This will be the greatest battle in all of Nimban history—or rather, second greatest.”

Pushing the legionary back into line, she once more took off and hovered over the gathered soldiers. “Nimbus may fall today, but does that mean that everything’s lost?” She emphatically shook her head ‘no’, and even got a few cries from the crowd. “Today, we fight to prove to Gryphus that they’ve made a huge mistake attacking our nation. For every one of you standing with me today, we’ll put three of them to the grave! And even if we leave, they’ll know, Magnus will know, that one day we’ll be back with the fury of ten legions and we’ll purify this city with griffon blood! That! That will be the greatest battle of Nimbus! Now,” she continued, drawing her massive sword and holding it to the sky, “are you going to live to see another day, to fight for your life, your right to someday fly back to this city and murder every leonine bastard that drove you from it?!”

The cheers were deafening. When they ended, Rain flew another few feet higher. “Are you going to fight to the bitter end, until your sword is shattered and your bones broken and you’re swimming in a pool of griffon blood, so that those you love will be safe?!”

Again, she was answered with a frenzy of cheering and the stomping of hooves. Even the Rainstorm behind her seemed to be twitching with excitement and anticipation. Grinning, Rain stomped back onto the cloudstone she was originally perched on. “Damn right you will! The griffons will be coming at us any minute, but remember what you’re fighting for, remember who you’re fighting for, and keep your buddies on either side of you safe! That’s how we’ll win this! That’s how we’ll make Gryphus pay! We are the spiked shield of Cirra, and we will spill the blood of our enemies, until the skies rain red!”

With one last look at the legionaries, at those who were about to die, Rain screamed at the top of her lungs, “Brothers, sisters, brave Nimbans all…” Rain’s lips pulled back into a wild grin. Hefting her zweihoofer high above her head, she called out to her legion. “Sound the horn and call the cry!!”

She was answered by the voices of thousands of ponies screaming back at her, “How many of them can we make die?!”

“To the walls!” Rain cried, taking flight herself with the Rainstorm following her. “For the Legion! For Nimbus! For Cirra!!”

On the outskirts of the city, thousands of pegasi rose into the air and mounted the walls in preparation for one final fight. In the center of the city, however, the enthusiasm and patriotism that fueled the legionaries about to die was vacant, leaving a hollow dread in the stomachs of every soldier present. The two cohorts tasked with holding the Nimban palace and protecting Commander Gold Moon and Lord Winter Rain milled about, sharpened their weapons, and nervously glanced towards the eastern skies.

Finder was one such pony. Sitting wedged between two rounded columns, he rhythmically ran over the edge of his blade with a stone to keep it sharp. True, it hadn’t seen much use in combat so far, but it was all he could do to keep his mind off of the primal fear clutching at his chest. Instead of thinking about Magnus’ arrival, he sharpened his sword. Instead of thinking about Longbow’s outburst, he sharpened his sword.

Instead of thinking about Dawn, he sharpened his sword.

Another group of civilians took off and fled to the west, their shadows making the sunlight flicker over Finder’s face. He craned his neck to watch them, raising a forehoof to shield his eyes from the sun. Part of him—most of him—wished he was up there too, flying back to Altus, to his parents and the safety of his fishing town. He didn’t want to be in Nimbus anymore. He hated Nimbus, hated it with with more passion than a fourteen year-old should ever have to hate something with. He wanted to leave the Legion, to throw away his helmet and sword and spend the rest of his life fishing and sailing the coast.

Of course, he couldn’t. It wasn’t that he’d be tried as a deserter and probably hanged, even if he was only fourteen; the Legion taught them that every pony who fled his post is responsible for the deaths of two ponies he was supposed to fight alongside. Rather, it was the simple fact that he couldn’t abandon his friends. Whether or not they were the two ponies that would die if he left, he couldn’t know.

One of those ponies was wandering up the cloudy hillside towards him. Carver carried a soft limp with each step, and his eye was dull and unfocused, like he hadn’t slept in days. Finder could tell at a glance why; it was practically emblazoned across his friend’s shoulder. He no longer wore the pauldrons of a legionary, and the plume in his helmet had been changed from red to black. Because Carver had been able to rally Skyhammer’s platoon after the centurion’s death and lead his fellow legionnaires to safety, the Eighth’s legate, Red Tail, had seen it fitting that he be promoted to centurion in Skyhammer’s place. Ever since then, the tan pony had been busy shuffling between the officer’s quarters for orders and his century’s camp to deliver them, and the stress seemed to be pulling him apart, limb by limb.

“Hey, Carver,” Finder greeted in a little voice. “You doing alright?”

“Huh?” Carver blinked, his eye settling on Finder. Upon noticing the small colt, an exhausted smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, hey, Finder. Yeah, I’m... doing fine.” He yawned and tried to cover it with a hoof. “Could stand to have gotten a little more sleep, but the legate’s been bucking orders in my direction almost nonstop.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how he finds the time to manage his entire legion if he gives every centurion this much attention.”

Grunting, Carver sat down next to Finder and rested his back against a pillar. Closing his eye, he asked, “Where’s your brother?”

“On the roof,” Finder murmured, drawing the stone along the blade of his sword yet another time. “With the other archers. He said I’m supposed to go to him as soon as the griffons arrive.”

Carver nodded. “Ah. That’s probably for the best, then.” He shrugged his shoulders, listening to the eerie calm over the Nimban city, before asking, “Everything alright between you two?”

Finder was silent for a moment. “Yeah,” he eventually answered in something comparable to a squeak. “Everything’s fine.”

Carver raised an eyebrow, but he said nothing.

“Carver?” Something in the colt’s voice startled him, and he opened his eye to see Finder staring at him. “Are we gonna die?”

The tan stallion bit his lip. Extending his wing, he gently wrapped it around Finder’s back and held him close. “I don’t know, Finder,” he admitted. “I wish I did, but I don’t. It’s... it’s gonna get ugly, though, I can tell you that.”

Pathfinder squirmed, his hooves fidgeting with the sword. “That’s what Longbow says,” he muttered. “That’s what everypony.”

“Only because it’s true,” Carver said. He sighed and patted Finder on the back one more time before withdrawing his wing. “Just stick close to your brother and stay focused. That’s the only way any of us are getting out of here alive.”

The little colt nodded. Setting the stone aside, he finally sheathed his blisteringly sharp sword and watched another group of civilians take off. “What about you guys?” he asked. “Can’t you guys hold the roof with me and Longbow?”

Carver sighed and shook his head. “I already have my orders. I’m supposed to hold the eastern windows of the palace with what’s left of our platoon. Windshear wanted to stay with Summer and I, so he’ll be helping us too.” He smiled, faintly. “But you and Longbow will be on the roof, so you two can give us air support, right? It’d be nice to know that somepony I can count on is watching my back for me.”

To Carver’s surprise, however, Finder shook his head. “I... I don’t want you to count on me.”

Carver raised an eyebrow and nudged the colt’s shoulder. “Huh? What do you mean?”

“I just... don’t.” Finder said, staring at his hooves. “I never should’ve come here. All I did was get her killed.”

“Get her...” Carver echoed, before realization dawned on him. Gritting his teeth, he gave the colt a rough shake. “Finder, it wasn’t your fault! There was nothing anypony could’ve done. It was just...” he sighed. “Just bad luck is all. It was just her time.”

But Finder shook his head. “It’s my fault. I... when the griffon kicked open the door and it hit me, all you guys were paying attention to me. If I wasn’t there, you would’ve seen her, s-saved her...” he began to hiccup and wrapped his forelegs tightly around himself.

A rough hoof to the back of his head made the colt gasp and nearly fall flat on his face. “Finder. Snap out of it.” Carver offered the colt a sympathetic frown. “It’s not your fault. Stop beating yourself up over it.”

Regarding the sniveling colt for a second longer, Carver sighed and sat down next to him. Wrapping his hooves around Finder’s shoulders, he pulled him into a warm embrace. “I know you feel guilty, Finder. I do too. We all do... especially Summer.” He shook his head. “But no amount of crying’s ever going to bring her back. The only thing we should do—the only thing we really can do—is to fight on and fight harder so that we can live to remember her.” He smiled faintly and rubbed Finder’s back, between his wings. “If we don’t live to remember her... who will?”

Sniffling, Finder finally managed to find the strength to look Carver in the eyes. “Okay,” he whispered, nearly choking on the word. “Okay. I’ll... I’ll do my b-best.”

Pulling him closer to hug him one last time, Carver patted Finder on the back. “It’ll be okay, Finder,” he said. “We’ll get through this together.”

Wiping a tear from his eye, Finder nodded to Carver. “Yeah... together.” The corners of his lips plucked in a fragile smile. “Thanks, Carver.”

Carver smiled. “Anytime, Pathfinder. If you need to, remember you can tell me anything. I’ll be right nearby—!”

His words were cut off by a loud chorus of screaming and squawking from the eastern walls of the city. Both pegasi turned their heads to see a shadow of browns and blacks swarming out of the clouds and descending upon the city, swiftly getting entangled with the cohorts defending the walls and the sky. Bodies began to fall, and once more it began to rain in Nimbus.

Dragging Finder to his hooves, Carver gave him a slap on the back and pointed to the palace. “You get up there and stay by your brother’s side, alright? Don’t worry about us! He’ll get you through this in one piece!”

Finder’s heart quickened, and the tendrils of fear slowly began to twist their way into his mind. “B-but what about you, Carver?! I don’t want you to die!”

“And I won’t!” Carver hissed, shoving Finder back towards the palace. “I’ve got family waiting for me in Nyx, you hear? I don’t plan on dying before I can show them my promotion!” He flashed his teeth in a crazy smile. “And I don’t care what it takes, but I’m bringing Summer and Windshear back with me! I’m not losing another friend today!”

Turning around, Carver began to trot backwards while waving his sword to get the attention of his century. Seeing Finder still standing behind him, he frowned and bucked the colt into the air. After a brief squawk of pain, Finder opened his wings and found himself hovering over Carver. All it took was one last glare and the waving of his sword for Finder to nod and scale the palace, his eyes searching for the familiar coat of his brother.

“On me!” he heard Carver shouting as he left. “C’mon, Cirrans! Let’s show these Nimbans we’ve got the guts to stand with them and beat the griffons back one more time!”

Iron Rain flew high over the walls of Nimbus, her wings fueled by thermals from the fires and smoke below her. Behind her trailed the rest of the Rainstorm in their standard wedge formation, and even further behind them she led six centuries of one of the airborne cohorts. Each of the centuries had broken down into arrowheads of eight pegasi each, and with the wedges at different heights, Rain felt like she was leading a barrage of arrows towards their targets. Which, in a way, she supposed she was.

Ahead of her, she could already see the swirling clouds of griffons rushing to meet her. Unlike the Cirran methodology for airborne combat with its neat formations and cohesive unit structure, the Gryphons preferred to fight in the skies either individually or in pairs. When they had numbers on their side, it was definitely effective, as it gave them more teams to harass airborne legionaries. But Rain knew she couldn’t split up her formations, as they were what gave the pegasi strength in the skies, and she couldn’t abandon the airspace over the walls either.

The griffons were building up momentum on their approach to the Nimban walls, and the legionaries below braced themselves against their weapons for the hammer blow that the griffon charge was likely to be. Rather than let that hammer swing with its full force, Iron Rain accelerated, the Rainstorm following suit behind her and, in turn, leading the centuries on faster and faster.

“What’s the plan, Rain?” Stonewall shouted from her left shoulder, struggling to be heard over the wind roaring in their ears. He cast a cautious glance at the griffons they were rapidly approaching head on. “Aren’t we supposed to be defending the walls?”

“We are!” Rain shouted back. “But if we let the griffons hit us at a standstill, it’ll be over in a second.” Tilting her wings, she increased her altitude by a few dozen feet to align herself with the very center of the swirling mass of griffons. “Wide wedge, wings out, pass through only! Five hundred yards, then back! On me!” Barking her orders, Rain pushed herself even harder and stretched out her wings as her commands were relayed back to the cohort. At her sides, the vee shape of the Rainstorm flattened out, as did the wedges following them.

Rain took a deep breath and clicked off the yards in her head.

Five...

The griffons were getting larger now, but their sights were still set on the ponies below. They began to descend, assuming that Rain’s cohort would try to stay above the walls and drop on them then.

Four...

She could make out the leader of the griffon charge, a massive brute wearing heinously spiked armor. His maul was raised, ready to lop the head off of the first pegasus it encountered.

Three...

Squawks of alarm rose from the griffons as they realized that Rain’s cohort wasn’t slowing down. Half the Gryphon formation began to split to try to intercept them, but the confusion was only breaking their already loose cohesion.

Two...

Rain smirked. She might not be able to stop the charge, but she’d be able to weaken it enough that it just might be repulsed by her soldiers holding the line below her. She only hoped her little speech had been enough to give them that extra spark to survive.

One...

“For Nimbus!!” she screeched as she tore into the griffon formation. Immediately her right wing cleaved through the spine of the Gryphon Oathsworn leading the charge, and she ended up corkscrewing out of the attack to her left. Her right feathers left a twirling streak of blood in the atmosphere as Rain dived deeper and deeper into the mass of griffons. Her wings found two more targets on the way down, scoring clean kills off of each, and when she was finally underneath the griffons she spared a glance over her shoulder.

Blood rained from the sky as her cohort cut cleanly through the griffon charge from above, the wide wedge shapes gouging holes out of the enemy formation as they dove through. A sizeable portion of griffons tried to adjust and counter the charge, but the pegasi were moving too swiftly for the larger hybrids to have a chance at inflicting some damage on Rain’s cohort. By the time the last legionary flew out of the mass of griffons, only several scattered individuals and pairs managed to make it to the Nimban walls, where the pegasi held strong against the pockmarked assault.

At five hundred yards away, Rain leveled out and began to climb again, the pegasi on her tail following her as she twirled back into the sky. The tail end of the griffon charge had already split around her, causing Rain to curse as she climbed back towards the clouds. Like the pincers of a claw, Magnus’ hordes began to circle around to try and crush Rain’s flanks now that her cohort was out of position and had griffons between it and allies.

There was only one way out of that situation, and it was speed. “Move, move!” Rain screeched, frantically beating her wings. “Up two hundred and then dive for the walls! The third cohort will take our place! You slow down, you die!”

Then the griffons were upon them.

Corkscrewing out of her climb, Rain barely managed to skirt past the outstretched talons of a hybrid lunging for her neck. Behind her, Haze snapped his wings open wide to dump speed and tumble away from the hurtling griffon, but Thorn flipped in midair and drove a bracer-clad hoof through the griffon’s face and into its skull. The creature spasmed once and began to tumble from the sky, lifeless, while Thorn withdrew her hoof. The shattered beak, bone, and razor sharp teeth of the griffon skull she had caved in had etched a series of oozing red cuts into her fetlock, but the Nimban mare paid it no mind and instead focused on keeping up with Rain and dodging griffon attacks.

A scream of manic pleasure behind Rain was all she needed to hear to know that Red had scored a kill. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the blue pegasus decapitate a griffon with a wingblade then swiftly spiral about and buck the airborne head straight into the face of another griffon hot on his tail, causing it to stumble in shock. Before it could recover, the beast’s stomach was shorn open by another legionary following the Rainstorm, spilling blood, bile, and intestines onto the amber plains of wheat below.

“Four! That counts, that totally counts!” Red squawked, ducking under a griffon’s charge and pouncing onto the back of another that had Stonewall set in its sights. The griffon cried out and tried to roll to shake Red off of its back, but the stallion took the opposing scales at the crests of his wings and locked them around the shoulders of the griffon like pincers. With a yell, he opened his wings, forcing the scales together. The effect was akin to a pair of scissors, and the hybrid cried out in pain and fear as its suddenly wingless body began to plummet to the earth below. “Five, and bonus points for saving Stonewall’s sorry ass!!”

“Aw, look who learned to count to five!” Haze joked, winking at the increasingly scarlet-coated stallion. A brief glance ahead was all he needed to spin and twirl between two oncoming griffons, tearing their insides out with his wingblades as they passed. “Mobius, they just don’t know when to give up, do they?”

“Well, we certainly aren’t greenwings,” Thorn said as the Rainstorm pulled closer up on Rain’s flanks. Flipping her head over her shoulder, Thorn observed the chaos behind them only for a second before muttering, “Ouch.”

“Ouch?” Haze echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Saw some poor bastard get split in two with a Gryphon zweihander,” she answered. A moment’s pause. “Lengthwise.”

Screeching and angling her wings low, Rain dove towards the walls, the rest of the Rainstorm following her. While the lead five ponies broke away, the tail end of her cohort was under assault from all sides as they withdrew back to the safety of the Nimban walls. The griffons that had recovered from her unexpected charge were raking back and forth across the pegasus wedges. Where there were once neat formations, the sky was filled with a rainbow of feathers and an overwhelming amount of blood.

Four hooves connected with the back of a griffon skull as Rain came to a hard landing, crushing the hybrid’s face into the cloudstone and crunching its spine. It didn’t even make a sound as the pegasus mare spun around and kicked it off of the wall, drawing her massive sword in the same motion. Thorn and Haze landed to her right, while Red and Stonewall took up her left flank. With the cohorts switching out in the sky above them and the griffon charge momentarily shattered, Rain found the Pilus Prior and slapped him on the pauldron to get his attention. “Status?!”

The Pilus Prior spared Rain only enough time for a rough salute before turning back to watching the skies. “Minimal casualties, Legate. Your charge really shook them up, but I wonder if it was worth the price.”

Rain winced, watching the tattered remnants of the tail end of her cohort make it back to the safety of the walls. She figured she’d lost a fifth of her cohort’s strength off of that charge; she was down to four hundred pegasi in that case. At least the double-strength First Cohort along the walls seemed relatively unscathed. Making a quick sweep of the battlefield, Rain took a headcount. By her numbers, she was roughly at 2,400 pegasi against twice as many griffons, with more reinforcing the horde’s numbers by the second.

But there were only twice as many griffons in front of her as she had at the walls...

“How many ponies do you have on the flanks?!” Rain shouted to the Pilus Prior.

“Two centuries to each flank,” the Prior answered her. “The Second Cohort split its centuries in two to cover them as well. That’s 512 for each side.”

Rain scowled like she’d tasted something bitter. “Put another century on each flank. There’re too few of the bastards in front of us, and watch the ground!”

The Prior saluted, holding his wings out to the side and parallel to the ground. “As you command, ma’am.” Turning around, he quickly grabbed two optios and barked Rain’s orders at him. The pegasi saluted and flew off to their respective legions. In no short order, Rain watched as a century pulled off from her left and her right and flew further down the walls, taking up fortified positions looking north and south.

Turning back to the rest of the Rainstorm, Iron Rain led them to a fortified rampart and drove her sword into the ground. “We hold here until the bastards crush our flanks, which is only a matter of time. As soon as they start falling, we pull back to the palace and hold there. Got it?” Receiving nods and shouts of “Ma’am!” from her friends, Rain nodded once and turned towards the center of the city. “Any idea on the status of the evacuation?”

Stonewall narrowed his eyes at another flight of civilians taking off. “If everything’s stayed on schedule, there should only be another eight or nine flight groups left to round up the stragglers. They’re supposed to fly red flags over the palace once all the civilians are gone so we can fall back.”

“Those’ll be a sight for sore eyes,” Rain said. Looking back towards the east, she frowned at the reorganizing and surging wave of griffons. “Stone and Red, you two got my left. Haze and Thorn, my right, and save the romantics for the bedroom, you hear?” Her comment earned a roll of Haze’s eyes and a scowl from Thorn, but the four pegasi responded to Rain’s orders all the same.

Legionary milites rushed up to the walls around the Rainstorm and braced themselves against the cloudstone crenellations as the looming shadow of griffons descended upon them. Unlike when Rain led the Fourth Cohort on its reckless charge through the griffon descent, the Third Cohort climbed at a steep angle to try and crush the griffons that reached the walls from above. While not as daring as Rain’s strategy, it was nevertheless a safer and more conservative option, given that the griffons wouldn’t be caught off-guard against it again.

“Brace yourselves!” Rain cried, gripping her massive sword in her jaws and tearing it from the ground. “Stand your ground until I give the order! We’re all that’s between the griffons and our civilians, you hear?! Stand your ground!”

The griffon charge struck the walls like a blow from the gods themselves.

Screeching, spitting griffons tore into the Cirran defenses, rending limbs and painting the walls in Nimban Red. In the first few seconds of the clash, Rain was certain she heard more cries of piercing steel and iron and the screams of the dying than she had ever heard in her life, and that was saying something. Her focus was immediately drawn back to the battle at hand however when griffons began to charge her rampart.

Screaming with the fury of a maddened mare, Rain spun her massive sword around her body, whirling the long and lethal blade through the shoulder and down into the ribs of the first griffon charging her. Using her left wing to shove the griffon off of her sword, she reached out with her right and deflected a griffon longsword aimed for her flank. Tumbling forward, she quickly put distance between herself and the griffon swinging madly at her lightly armored rear and choked down on her sword. With the weapon more firmly balanced in her jaws, the Legate of Nimbus bucked off of the cloudstone crenellations and rammed her shoulder into the griffon’s side, sending its sword flying.

Hissing, the griffon drew a dagger from its side and hurled it towards Rain. By some stroke of luck, the mare managed to skid low across the ground and deflect the projectile with the wide and flat portion of her blade. Grunting, Rain kicked off of the ground and threw a bladed wing towards the griffon’s face. Snarling, the griffon blocked the wing with the steel bracers protecting its forearm and immediately punched Rain’s snout, forcing the mare to recoil. With blood pouring down her nostrils and the pain in her muzzle telling the mare that her nose was likely broken, Rain once more spun herself into a whirlwind of blades, sending her sword and the blades on her right wing towards the griffon’s left side. The griffon tried to block, but the weight behind Rain’s sword staggered it enough that her wingblade was able to finish the job, tearing open the arteries along the unprotected side of the beast’s neck.

She wasn’t able to revel in her victory long, for a crushing pain in her left haunch brought her down screaming. Knowing she was in immediate danger, Rain fought through the blinding pain and rolled to her right, swinging her left wing wildly as she twisted. There was slight resistance along the scales and an angry cry of pain, and she glanced upwards to see a griffon oathsworn with a massive warhammer held in one hand clutching at a freshly-inflicted wound across his cheek.

Through the red haze clouding her vision, Rain took the time to examine her wound. The griffon’s warhammer had crushed the tail end of her armor and had probably cracked her femur. At least the armor had prevented the hybrid from shattering it outright; she could still fight like this, even if the slightest movement of her leg nearly brought her down in crippling pain.

Growling, Rain rolled onto three hooves and dropped her stolen zweihander on the cloudstone wall. With one of her hind legs useless, she knew she wouldn’t be able to gain any of the momentum she needed to swing a sword that large. Instead, she drew her knife, Mary, and raised her wings in preparation of a fight.

The griffon made a noise that sounded like a boulder tumbling down the side of a mountain. It took her a second to realize that the beast was laughing. Holding its warhammer with both hands, it advanced on its hind legs, its wings open and displaying dual rows of serrated blades upon each crest. “You fight still, pony?” it asked in a thick accent, giving Rain a crooked smile that showed rows and rows of razor sharp teeth. Across its face it wore a strange pattern of blue tattoos and corded feathers that Rain had never seen before.

Rain blinked several times, once in surprise and the rest to keep the red haze out of her eyes. “I didn’t think you barbarians knew how to talk.”

“Nothing to say to dead horse,” the griffon answered her in its broken Equiish. “Ponies weak. Die today. Die tomorrow. Die forever.” Snarling, it raised its warhammer high over its head. “Just another pony corpse!”

Snapping her wings open, Rain hurtled herself off to the right, biting down a scream as her wounded leg flopped after her. With a thunderous boom, the oathsworn’s warhammer crushed the cloudstone underneath it, pelting Rain with sharp stones and a spray of condensation. Growling, the griffon tore its weapon free from the walls before Rain had the chance to recompose herself and began to stalk her like wounded prey.

Cursing, Rain fluttered further to the griffon’s left, trying to get around the reach of its terrible weapon. Sensing an opportunity, Rain suddenly accelerated her revolutions and dove towards the griffon’s unprotected left. The oathsworn began to swing its hammer to try and catch her before she arrived. With a sudden twist of her wings, however, Rain suddenly darted towards the griffon’s opposite side, ducking underneath the hammer and plunging her dagger deep into its ribs. She pulled the blade away, bloodied, when she realized that the griffon hadn’t stopped swinging his hammer even when the mare stabbed him. She barely had time to yelp before the hammer completed its revolution and caught her in the side, nearly breaking her neck with the whiplash alone and sending her skidding down the cloudstone wall, wheezing for breath.

The griffon clutched its side, panting, and its hand came away bright red. Turning back towards Rain, it flashed her a dangerous smile as she tried to stand up. “Pony outmatched, like rest of pony nation!” it spat, taking a lumbering step towards her. “Pony weak by itself, where griffon strong! Pony die alone! I break bones and feast on flesh!” Bending down, it picked up one of Rain’s pauldrons, which had broken loose from the hammer blow. It looked at the insignia for a second before realization dawned on its face. “And... Leg-It, too? Better!”

Gasping in pain, Rain somehow managed to plant her hooves underneath her and grab Mary from where it lay at her side. “Die alone?” Rain wheezed, taking a step closer to the griffon. She spat on the wall, leaving a red spot in her wake. “The only one that’s dying alone is you.” She smiled and sat down, her left leg held awkwardly out to the side and making her grimace. “Because no matter what happens, us ponies fight together.”

Before the griffon could so much as laugh, a sword severed its hind leg, sending it toppling and howling in pain. Landing on its chest as it rolled, Bluestreak grinned manically, his coat now sufficiently plastered with blood and the plume of his helmet soaked enough to serve as a paintbrush. His bloodied sword was held between bloodied lips which dripped more vitality than even the most feral of the griffon berserkers. “Hallo, Freund,” Red greeted the oathsworn in his terrible impersonation of a griffon accent. Looking to Rain, he cocked his head. “Mind if I take this one?”

Rain waved a hoof. “Go right ahead.”

“Thanks.” Grinning, Red lowered his head right next to the frightened griffon’s ear. “You know, I could always use some more chicken in my life.” Leaning back, he tightened his grip on his sword and silenced the griffon’s screams.

When it was over, the blood-coated stallion licked his lips and trotted over to Rain, who was supporting herself against the crenellations of the walls. “Seventeen,” Red proclaimed, smacking the mare on the shoulder. His eyes narrowed and his expression hardened when he got a look at the wounds the mare was nursing. “Damn, boss, one oathsworn too much for you to take nowadays? Getting old sucks, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t think it was just an oathsworn,” Rain said, watching the rest of her soldiers repel the griffon assault. Haze and Thorn were cleaning up against a trio of griffons, while Stonewall swiftly executed a crippled and helpless foe. “He looked like a High Guard.”

“Magnus’ personal dickheads?” Red asked, cocking his head. “I guess they think highly of you, girl.”

“He didn’t know who I was,” Rain said. She pressed a hoof against her ribs and grunted with each stab of pain. One. Two. Three broken ribs. While such a wound would likely take other pegasi off the battlefield, Rain was tougher. She could still fight if she needed to, and she had to. She didn’t care what her father said. Nimbus would not fall today, and she was going to make damn sure of it.

Her ears flicked as Thorn and Haze trotted to her side, both panting and covered in blood. Haze walked with a slight limp to his foreleg, and a deep cut on Thorn’s brow was spilling blood into her eye, although the mare treated it more like a nuisance than anything. “We beat the griffons back from the center, but the flanks are under attack,” Thorn said, looking over her shoulder. “We’re getting crushed and encircled.”

“The Third’s falling apart, too,” Stonewall added, approaching from Rain’s other side to stand next to Red. He was missing one of his ears but otherwise didn’t look too much worse for wear. “The Fourth’s falling with them. High altitude griffon fliers came down on them from above. We have to abandon the walls, or we’re cut off.”

Rain gritted her teeth together. There were simply too many griffons! “The civilians?”

“The last flight’s leaving as we speak,” Stonewall answered her. “We need to pull the First back if we want to buy them more t—!”

He was cut off by the walls violently buckling underneath them. Gnashing her teeth together, Rain flung herself to her right, landing hard on her broken ribs and jolting her wounded leg. Up and down the line, the walls of Nimbus were exploding into cloudstone rubble as massive boulders tore through the compressed cloud. Thorn and Haze immediately took to the skies as the section of wall they were standing on suddenly gave way and fell apart. Grunting, Bluestreak hooked his legs under Rain’s shoulders and hauled the mare away from the collapsing cloud and mortar. When Rain finally got her limbs back underneath her, where she had been standing moments before was all but obliterated.

“Ballistae?” Thorn spat, the scowl on her face deepening with each passing second. “Of course they’ve got freaking ballistae. They got wingshot in there too?”

As if answering her question, four griffon ballistae parked safely outside of the city limits launched several clay pots towards the interior of Nimbus. As they passed through the retreating Third and Fourth Cohorts, they detonated, sending shrapnel scattering through the retreating legionaries and dropping dozens.

“You just had to ask!” Haze growled, backhoofing Thorn across the helmet. All around them, the First Cohort began to break ranks and pull back as the hurtling boulders and exploding wingshot pots started mutilating its numbers. Dropping onto the walls, he worriedly looked between Rain and the ballistae. “What do we do?”

Rain squeezed her eyes shut and cursed under her breath. ‘I’m sorry...Father...’

“We—” she coughed and spat another glob of blood on the ground. “We have to take them out. They’re going to tear apart the palace and whatever defenses we’ve got left. I’m not as concerned about the casualties as about them shortening the fight; if we don’t make this last long enough, the bastards will just chase down our civilians and slaughter them.” Watching the wall shatter and vacate around her, Rain opened her wings to her friends. “So, Rainstorm? One last fight before we earn our peace?”

To her surprise, however, not a one of them smiled or moved to join her. As Rain stood there, confused, Bluestreak was the first to approach her. “I’ll take care of it, boss. You get the hell out of here.”

Rain blinked. “Alone?” She shook her head. “No. I’m going with you.”

Bluestreak sighed. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?” Rain asked, her expression shifting from one of surprise to irritation. Glancing in a circle, she realized the rest of the Rainstorm all bore Red’s expression.

“You’re too important to lose, Rain,” Stonewall spoke up. “You’re your father’s only heir. If Nimbus loses both of you, then the Line of Rain comes to an end.”

Rain scowled and turned on him. “You sound just like my dad!” She practically spat the words at him. “And my brother! I will not be coddled like some Stratopolitan foal, sheltered from battle until I’m old and feeble!”

“Then live to fight another day!” Red shouted at her. “Your father gave the rest of us orders to make sure you got out of here in one piece. So I’m gonna take care of those ballistae myself!”

“You can’t possibly—Mmmf!”

The rest of Rain’s voice failed to escape her lips, because Bluestreak’s were pressed firmly against hers. The Legate’s wings jolted straight out and her eyes widened in surprise as Red leaned her back, getting everything he could out of the very, very passionate kiss. When it finally ended many seconds later, Red licked his lips and smiled at Rain. “Gods, I’ve always wanted to do that!”

Before Rain could even respond, Red tore off her helmet and viciously pummeled her brow. A single powerful strike from his hoof was all it took to bring the Nimban mare down in a heap. Catching her before she could hit the cloud, Red passed the unconscious legate to Thorn and Haze. “Keep ‘er safe, Thorny Girl!” he exclaimed, smirking. “I want her to freak out about it later!”

Thorn nodded. “Give them hell, Red.”

“Oh, you can count on that.” Flexing his wings, Red took off into a hover, a manic smile covering his face. “See you bastards on the other side! I’ll make sure to grab a table Hell’s mess hall for you!” And with a flash of his wings and the errant blue feather, Bluestreak sped off towards the east.

Stonewall watched the stallion fly off. “Godspeed, you magnificent bastard,” he murmured. Turning back to Haze and Thorn, he flared his wings. “We need to get out of here. We’re the last ones on the walls, and that’s no place for us to be, even if we’re the Rainstorm.” Narrowing his eyes at Rain, he gestured towards the rest. “You two, get her the hell out of this city. Bring her to Nyx and rally whatever milites they have stationed there. We don’t know if the Gryphons are going to take their time to revel in their victory here or if they’re going to roll us all the way back to the heartland, but we can’t be caught unprepared again. This was our one slip-up in the war; another’ll bury us.”

“And you?” Haze asked, shouldering his share of Iron Rain’s weight.

Stonewall shook his head, watching the last ponies flee to the center of the city. Shadows flitted overhead, the telltale signs of griffons taking the walls. Drawing his sword, he looked to the skies. “The griffons see two pegasi trying to get a third out, they see easy prey. I’m covering you.” There was a screech from above, and Stonewall whirled about to slice his sword through the chestplate of a griffon diving him from above. Blood sprayed his face, momentarily disorienting him, and with a shove he sent the griffon toppling off the wall. Turning back to Haze and Thorn, he screamed, “Go!” and took wing, rising to meet the incoming griffons. Spinning his sword so it’d catch the sunlight, he slid it back into its scabbard and took off for the north, an entire company of griffons on his tail.

Gritting his teeth, Haze turned away and looked at Thorn. “Come on, we need to get out of here!”

Together the two pegasi flapped their wings in unison, lifting Rain’s unconscious body off of the walls and flying low through the city skyline to escape the griffons swirling above them. Taking the sidestreets, they managed to dive through a hole in the cloudstone roads and set a course to the west.

“Think he’ll be okay?” Thorn asked, sweat beginning to add its shine to her neck.

“He’s not the fastest flier,” Haze said, “but he’ll give them a run for their money.”

With Nimbus behind him, Haze cursed and shook his head at the smoke pouring from the buildings, especially around the palace itself. “Damn greenwings,” he muttered. “They were never ready for this.”

“We’ll mourn them when they’re dead,” Thorn answered, pointedly keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead. “Right now, they’re all we’ve got between the griffons and our civilians.” After a second’s pause, she added, “They’ll hold for as long as we need them to.”

Haze hummed his reluctant agreement, and instead of directly answering her, only worked his wings harder, leaving Nimbus behind.

As the ranks of the First Cohort pulled back from the walls, Centurion Carver narrowed his eyes and loosened his sword from its scabbard. He and the remainder of the legionaries defending the palace formed a resolute line, their blood and iron ready to defend the legacy of Nimbus to the last. On the balconies and ramparts of the palace itself, numerous Cirran archers stood with arrows nocked to their bows, ready to draw and loose into the oncoming griffons once the remaining pegasi were clear.

An explosion of mortar and fire at the eastern walls left Carver frowning and the other milites at his sides muttering to one another. The griffon artillery was far heavier than the artillery the Cirrans had, and as such it was safely outside of the range of the Nimban wingshot ballistae. Carver had no doubts that it’d be able to strike the palace, however. He cursed under his breath; another thing beyond his control that he’d have to contend with just to leave the damned city in one piece.

“Legionaries!” Carver shouted, turning to face the soldiers of Skyhammer’s platoon. “I know it’s grim. I know it looks rough. But stick with your wingpony and believe in each other, and we’ll pull through! Alright? Let me hear it!”

A mix of cheers and averted eyes answered him.

The young centurion frowned. Out of sixty-four pegasi that flew into Nimbus a week ago, only thirty-three remained. Nimbus had been a baptism by fire by every meaning, and it made Carver’s blood boil. Greenwings like him and Finder and his friends shouldn’t have been thrust into the fighting like this. No wonder half of his compatriots had fallen on the first day.

“Our job is to secure the eastern windows until Commander Gold Moon and the rest of the chain of command evacuates Nimbus,” Carver continued. At the worried mutterings of his soldiers, the centurion raised a wing. “Every second we buy at this palace is another second for our civilians to fly to safety.”

The thrumming of hooves against the clouds and the palace heralded the arrival of the retreating pegasi from the Nimban walls. Looking over his shoulder, Carver saw the griffons forming for an attack on the palace. Raising his voice, he continued, “Fight as hard as you can, but if the griffons take this position, fly west to Nyx and report to command there! We’ll regroup and live to fight another day!”

Rushing back towards the palace, Carver slid behind a barricade. Summer and Windshear galloped out of the crowd to join him, weapons readied and eyes focused forward. Glancing at his sides, Carver offered them a reassuring smile. “You guys ready?”

Windshear nodded, but his spear trembled in his grip. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Summer didn’t answer, her eyes locked on the approaching horde. Her sword was readied, but Carver still spared her a concerned look.

“Summer?” He carefully pressed a hoof to her shoulder.

“Eyes ahead, Carver,” she answered, never looking away from the coming horde.

The rush of ballistae firing over their shoulders made the assembled Cirrans instinctually duck behind their cover. A dozen clay pots soared overhead, leaving trails of fire in their wake. The streaming ammunition carried into the approaching griffon formations before the expertly timed fuses detonated, filling the skies with shrapnel and killing scores of hybrids at once. But other than chewing holes in the formation, it did little to slow the griffon advance.

An authoritative shout from the roof of the palace led to the cloudstone structure’s balconies bristling with drawn bows. Carver spared a glance at the upper ranks, searching for Finder and his brother, but the archers were too indistinct to pick out. With another shout, nearly a hundred bows twanged in unison, filling the skies with arrows. Many found their marks, bringing down more griffons from afar; many more missed or simply bounced off of the hybrids’ armor. Widening his stance, Carver braced for the first wave of griffons to hit.

The explosion of ballistae rounds all around him swept him from his hooves and flung him back like a ragdoll.

His helmeted head slammed hard against the cloudstone walls of the palace, momentarily blinding him and chipping his teeth as his jaws cracked together from the force. He lost his sword somewhere in the barrage, but he couldn’t find it with the world spinning and flashing in front of him. With a few deep breaths, he steadied his vision and scrambled to his hooves.

Summer was picking herself up on his left, her coat marred with dozens of scratches and oozing blood. The entire left side of her coat was covered in vitality and blue feathers; it took Carver a moment to realize that they were the remains of a milite who’d been crushed directly beneath one of the griffon’s shots. Seeing his glance, Summer gritted her teeth and waved him off with a wing, hobbling forward and snatching her sword.

Windshear fluttered over from Carver’s right and dropped his sword in front of him. The centurion nodded his thanks and grabbed the weapon, rushing forward to meet the griffon charge. The ballistae had been well-timed, as they’d broken up the Cirran defense immediately before the griffons touched down. Already the pegasi were being routed from their defensive barricades, and the griffons were making a push towards the large barred windows of the Nimban palace.

“Come on!” Carver shouted, charging forward and engaging a pair of griffons in front of him. The two hybrids hissed, one moving to block his sword and the other circling to his flanks before a furious screech stopped it in its tracks. In a burst of white coat and pink mane, Summer leapt on top of the griffon like a feral beast, her bladed wings forcing its claws away and her hooves pummeling its skull. Rolling backwards, the griffon managed to flip her into the air and kick, sending the Nimban mare rocketing into the sky like a missile. Tumbling through the air five or six times, Summer managed to stabilize herself, howl, and dive straight back down at the griffon below. Before it could rally any sizable defense, Summer plowed into it, and the two went straight through the clouds below them.

Carver wasn’t left with much time to gawk at the sight. With a hiss, the griffon in front of him slashed a massive longsword in his direction, forcing the stallion to flop backwards and out of the way. Grunting, he rolled to the right and felt a burning pain in his scalp as the griffon’s talons grabbed onto a fistful of mane and pulled. Howling and bucking, Carver managed to shake the griffon loose by delivering two crushing bucks to its ribs. He was almost certain he managed to break something even under the armor protecting the griffon’s chest.

Whirling around, Carver delivered blow after crushing blow with his gladius and bladed wings to the griffon, slowly tearing away its defenses as it tried in vain to fend him off. The griffon slipped trying to back away from Carver, and the stallion leapt on top of the hybrid before he even knew what he was doing. Shouting with each strike, he slammed his gladius down on the griffon longsword until a hook from his wing stripped it away. With one last shout, his gladius split the griffon’s brain into two distinct halves.

A kick to the back of his neck slammed Carver into the ground, the misty vapors of the clouds nearly drowning him as he gasped. Flapping his wings, he managed to shake the griffon on his spine loose just enough for him to squirm away from the talons reaching for his neck. Still, a powerful hand grabbed ahold of his shoulder and hauled him back, the talons audibly scraping against the metal as Carver struggled.

He tried to strike out with a wingblade, but the hybrid’s other hand latched onto the base of his wing and squeezed. The talons piercing into the pressure point made Carver’s wing lock in pain, preventing him from moving at all. Opening his eyes through the pain, he bared his teeth at the griffon inches from his face. The griffon hissed back, rows of razor sharp teeth lining the inside of an already lethal beak. Squinting at the beast’s rancid breath, Carver shoved back all he could, but to no avail.

Then the saliva striking his face suddenly turned red with blood. The griffon spasmed and dropped Carver, a talon reaching for the spear head jutting out of its chest. Its eyes found Carver’s face, the hatred and spite in them only growing brighter and brighter until all at once the fire was extinguished.

Windshear kicked the corpse off of his spear and spat on it. “Fucker,” he muttered, readjusting his grip on the spear. Reaching out to Carver, he pulled the stallion back from the fighting. “We’re getting torn apart here! You have to make the call!”

Carver took a moment to collect his breath and observe the battle around him. His century was beaten to almost nothing, and the veterans mixed among the greenwings were doing what little they could to bolster the defenses. A costly counterattack managed to push the griffons back down the hill and away from the windows, but Carver knew very well that he didn’t have they reserves to try that again. Biting his lip, he took a step forward before resolve solidified its hold on him.

“We have to buy the civilians more time!” he screamed over the battlefield. “Just five more! Hang in there, legionaries! Hang in—!”

“Down!” Windshear screamed, cutting Carver off and tackling him against the clouds. A second later, the walls of the palace exploded inwards as ballistae shots pummeled their sides. Debris rained all around the two stallions, with several smaller chunks thunking off of Carver’s armor. With the last of the cloudstone settled as rain on their armor, the two stallions shook the debris off of their shoulders and stood back up.

“Gods!” Windshear cursed, his legs trembling beneath him. “That artillery’s gonna pound us into oblivion at this rate!”

“I know,” Carver spat, feeling blood dribble down his chin. He took one look at the tattered remains of his century and cursed. “We’re falling apart! Where’s Summer?”

“Here!” came the answer from his right. He turned to see Summer standing there, one leg held awkwardly against her side and her coat covered in blood from mane to tail. Her eyes were wide as she clambered closer. “There’s griffons underneath the city, too! They’re tearing apart the foundations! They nearly got me when I pummeled that bastard to the ground below. Damn near took my leg off.” Her eyes widened as she saw the sorry state the Nimban defense was in. “Carver, we have to move now, or we’re all dead!”

Carver bit his lip. “Just a few more minutes—!”

“We don’t have a few minutes! We leave now or we die, that’s all there is too it!” She cast a glance inside the windows of the palace. “Lord Rain’s guard can hold them off until they evacuate. They should be almost gone by now, anyway.”

Sighing, Carver nodded. “Alright. Help me round up the stragglers.” Galloping forward, he scaled a pile of rubble and raised his sword. “Everypony, fall back! Fall back to Nyx! Retreat! Retreat!”

“Carver!” Summer screamed behind him. The stallion whirled in place, only to see Summer pointing skywards. Turning about, he saw what she was pointing at; a volley of ballistae shots, aimed right at the archers on the roof of the palace.

“Finder!” Carver shouted, taking wing for just a moment before Windshear bit down on his tail and hauled him back. The centurion could only watch, helpless, as the stones began their descent on the palace.

The roof imploded with a cacophonous roar, shaking the very foundations of Nimbus to the core.

“Finder!”

The world exploded in the screaming of pegasi and shattered cloudstone, launching Pathfinder off his hooves and flinging him down like a foal throwing a toy against the ground in a tantrum. His eyes saw naught but blurry cloudstone and splashes of color as he tumbled amongst the groaning of the palace. When his back slammed against the ground he cried out in pain, a scream that ended in a wheeze. His world swam before him as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

The thudding of four hooves near his head brought him back to reality. A strong brown foreleg reached under his shoulders and hefted the whimpering colt off of the ground. Finder’s body shook a few times before he found himself lying against a wall in the interior of the palace.

“Come on, Finder, look at me!” he heard a muffled voice say through the ringing in his ears. Opening his eyes, his double-vision finally cleared until he could focus on Longbow’s face. His brother’s coat was covered in scratches, and a few grains of cloudstone were embedded in his cheek. The bandage that covered his missing eye was peeling off, and noticing the colt’s unease, Longbow pulled it back in place as best he could.

“Wha... what h-happened?” Finder asked, his tongue feeling sluggish and his head pounding like a war drum. He looked over Longbow’s shoulder to where several legionaries were picking themselves up out of the rubble, crying in pain or looking for weapons and friends. Many bodies didn’t move, and the white cloudstone of the palace was stained red with blood.

“Artillery,” Longbow answered. He cast one last look at the breach in the ceiling and hurriedly pulled Finder to his hooves. “We have to go. Now.”

Griffons began to pour through the ceiling, executing the legionaries too wounded to move and pushing back those that met them. Cursing, Longbow shoved Finder towards an open door, joining the mass of greenwings fleeing from the griffon horde. Pausing in the doorframe, Longbow fired three arrows into the griffons descending on him, bringing three to the ground in moments. He spared them no mind; instead he turned and bolted through the open door, pushing the heavy iron and cloudstone door closed.

“Longbow!” Finder screamed rushing to his brother’s side. “Pegasi!” He bit his lip as he watched several panicked legionaries rush for the closing door, griffons hot on their tails. The nearest, an orange mare with a pink crop of hair glued to her muzzle with dried blood, screamed and reached for the door.

Finder’s heart stopped. She looked so much like Dawn.

The door slammed shut with an unceremonious thud, and Longbow bucked the heavy bar in place. Finder jumped back for a moment, startled, then cried out and rushed towards the door. He heard a series of dull thuds as the mare tried to pound the door open, but just as Finder got his hooves around the bar, her screaming abruptly stopped. Longbow had to turn around and haul the shocked colt back, tears streaming down his green face.

Dropping Pathfinder by a nearby wall, Longbow inhaled a deep breath and took stock of the pegasi around him. They were exclusively greenwings, each one shaking as they looked around themselves, bewildered. They didn’t run, however; Longbow’s gravitas as a veteran kept the panicked milites by his side, and he could feel the eyes watching him.

“Ready swords, bows, whatever you have on you,” Longbow said, striding forward. “Griffons probably surround the palace now. We need to make our way to the throne room and grab Lord Rain and Commander Gold Moon and get the hell out of here. It’s our only chance.”

Waving a wing, he directed a pair of milites to scout the palace halls while the rest of his soldiers got ready. As he surveyed the ragtag dozen ponies left around him, he noticed Finder standing a ways away from the group, his eyes fixated on the door. Sighing, he trotted up to the colt and draped a wing across his back.

“Finder...” the elder brother began.

“You killed her.” Finder’s voice was quiet but damnably accusing. “You shut the door right in her face.”

Longbow sighed. “I couldn’t leave that door open for another second, Finder. I’m sorry.”

“But she was right there!” Finder moaned, taking a step towards the door. “Just another few seconds and—”

“I don’t care about her!” Longbow suddenly exclaimed, making the colt wince in fear. “I was trying to keep you safe! If I’d let her in, we’d have griffons down our throats and we’d all be dead!” He shook his head and stomped, his anger nearly cracking the floor. “I don’t want you to die, Finder! Just stay by my side and away from the fighting and I’ll get you home to mom and dad! As far as I’m concerned, nothing else matters!” Cuffing the colt with the feathers of his wing, he marched back to the rest of his soldiers. “Now come on. I don’t want to be sitting here when the griffons bust through that door.”

As if on cue, a heavy force slammed against the door from the other side, nearly making the bar buckle in two. Scrambling to his hooves, Finder quickly glued himself to Longbow’s side. Another thump at the door caught his attention, and he tried his best to ignore the crimson pooling out from under it. Swallowing hard, he turned back to Longbow, who was shepherding the greenwings out of the room and into the palace’s many hallways.

Row upon row of polished armor greeted Finder as the pegasi galloped down the hallway. Banners, shields, and swords hung above each, carrying some motto or family motif with each one. Finder remembered stopping here with Dawn on their fast day in the city. Each armor belonged to a hero of Nimbus, erected here so that they would never be forgotten. Dawn had even showed Finder a set of half-plate armor standing beneath a crescent shield and a rusty polearm that had belonged to some ancient legend of her own ancestry.

A twinge of sadness pulled at his heart as he passed the armor. It felt like it’d been years since then.

He nearly bumped into Longbow as the archer came to a stop before a massive iron door, decorated with cloudstone mosaics and gold trim. Worriedly looking over his shoulder, Longbow pushed his way to the front of the crowd and pounded as hard as he could on it. “Open up!” he shouted, pounding again. “We’re survivors! We’re trapped, we need in!”

Some grim part of Finder’s mind briefly mused on karma while he watched his brother scream at ponies who wouldn’t answer him.

Finally, a heavy latch screeched open from the other side of the iron, and the doors slowly opened inwards. Eight Royal Nimban Spearponies stood on the other side, hurriedly gesturing for Longbow and company to enter. Longbow muttered some prayer of thanks to the gods and galloped in, shouting at the greenwings to follow. They didn’t need to be told twice.

Longbow stopped at the nearest Royal Nimban and saluted. The Nimban ignored it entirely, instead grasping his golden spear tighter and looking back down the hallway. Longbow faltered for a second, but asked nonetheless, “Are Commander Gold Moon and Lord Rain ready to evacuate, sir?”

The Nimban narrowed his eyes at Longbow. “Your Cirran commander is burning battle plans and logistics reports and should be ready shortly. Lord Rain is too honorable to abandon the Nimban throne. He will not be joining you, but will lead us into the Great Skies, with Garuda’s blessing.”

Longbow had to suppress a scowl; he hated the Nimban mentality on death in combat. “Sir. The griffons have more than likely surrounded the palace, and the east wing is breached. We’re going to have griffons all over us in a few minutes.”

The spearpony nodded, and at his signal, the heavy doors shut with a boom. “We will hold here, no matter the cost. The rest of you greenwings, flee to the war room; Commander Moon should be ready for you there.”

“Sir.” Longbow nodded and waved for the milites to follow him. Pathfinder squeaked once at the intense glares from the Royal Nimbans and nearly latched onto Longbow’s legs. Before they were even halfway across the room, however, a torrent of air tore through the room, and the spearponies began shouting.

“W-what’s that?!” Finder exclaimed, feeling his heart accelerate until he was sure it was going to rip itself to pieces. Longbow looked back to the door, eyes wide, and how the spearponies began taking positions in front of it. Suddenly, with the hideous screeching of metal, the doors were torn apart, ripped from their hinges and flung inwards like cards. Two Royal Nimbans were crushed by their amazing weight, and the rest scattered, trying to mount some sort of defense for the demonic screeching filling the halls.

Longbow spun around, drawing his bow. “Move!” he shouted to the rest of his company even as he too backpedaled. “Come on, through the next doors! M—”

He didn’t even get to finish the word before a gale as strong as the hurricanes that tore through Altus in the summer knocked them all to the ground like paper soldiers. Trying to untangle themselves from each other, the soldiers managed to climb back to their hooves just in time to see griffons rush at the Royal Nimbans holding the line. True to their reputation, the Nimbans fought back ferociously, denying a single griffon entry to the inner palace and leaving a score of bodies at their hooves. Longbow was almost considering rushing back to help them hold the line when another blast of wind knocked them all back, and into their place strode the largest griffon he’d ever seen.

The griffon stood taller than two of his own kind, and the golden armor studded with amethysts and spiked steel only added to his terrifying presence. The ashen feathers covering his face were nearly spotless, the only blemishes being the blood of Cirrans whose throats he’d ripped out with his monstrous beak. His talons, serrated and horrible, held a golden longsword larger than most pegasi, and it too dripped pegasus blood. Fiery eyes regarded Nimbus’ finest with unbridled disdain, and the griffons he’d entered with did not dare to cross in front of the behemoth.

“Gods, no,” Longbow murmured. “Gods, no...”

The acrid stench of urine filled the air as Finder realized his legs were suddenly wet. He knew who the monster was. He’d heard them say his name but a day ago.

“Magnus...”

As one, the six Royal Nimbans rushed the enormous griffon, golden spears held high and thrusting at his armor. Magnus seemed amused by the attempt, and with an agility that a monster of his size had no right to have, sidestepped each deadly point. A torrent of wind sent the Nimbans staggering back, and before they could even recover, the golden sword swung with the fury of a tornado itself.

In one swoop, it was over. The piercing cry of metal rang out six times in the halls of the palace, and six dull thuds echoed as as many heads hit the floor independent of their bodies. His features almost bored, Magnus pushed all six bodies over with one wave of an enormous hand.

Then his eyes set on Longbow and his soldiers.

“Run!!” Longbow screamed, pushing them along. “Fly!! Don’t look back! Don’t look back!!!”

“Hahaha! Is that all you bastards got?! Come on, give me a real challenge!” Red twirled through the tumbling remains of a trio of griffons cut apart with his wingblades, the blood drenching him like a pouring rain. “Or do your toys not mean all that much to you?!”

Another squad of griffons split off from the ballistae Red was rapidly approaching, screeching furiously as they descended towards him, blades readied. The Nimban madpony only laughed harder and rose to meet them, cannonballing straight into the leader of the party and knocking him out of the sky. In a flurry of blades so quick and so precise it resembled a waltz of death, the formerly blue pony cut them to pieces and continued on his way. Their brief interruption hardly slowed him at all.

“Hey! Shitstains!” Red screamed as he barreled towards the griffons at the nearest ballista. “Why’s it a bad idea to try to make a cloud house out of wood?”

Instead of flying directly at the ballista, the stallion corkscrewed and kicked his forelegs out... right into the cloud below it. As the pegasus punched through the vapor, the cumulus cloud exploded with a faint puff, catching the ballista crew by surprise. With a sudden lurch, the ballista groaned and embarked on its terminal flight to the ground.

Red took a second to admire his handiwork before emphatically pointing it out to the stunned griffons around him. “Wood doesn’t float, you idiots!” Then he lunged forward and ripped his wingblades through the unarmored chests of the crew around him. Two fell immediately, and the rest threw their hands in the air and fled east as fast as their wings could carry them.

“...Bitches.” Shaking his head, Bluestreak eyed the next ballista in line and flew straight at it. The squawks in the background were getting louder now; he was starting to attract unwanted attention from the griffon reserves. His lips splitting in a manic grin, he sprinted forward and landed on top of the base of the ballista, barely two feet away from the nearest operator. The griffon squawked and tumbled back, leaving Red to stare at the four of them.

“Hallo, Freunde! Say, you weren’t using this, were you?” His eyes glinted, and reaching down with a wingblade, he hooked a scale under the release lever. “Nein? Then I think I’ll just... be going then...” With a jerk of his wing he severed the cable attached to it, and the recoiling torsion springs flung him into the sky—and away from the griffons divebombing his position.

Backflipping through the air, Red suddenly snapped his wings open, catching the throat of a griffon Oathsworn on the crest of one. Spinning in place, he caught the falling and headless body and grabbed its waraxe in a fetlock. “Hey, you mind if I borrow this for a moment? ‘Of course Bluestreak sir, be my guest!’” Gasping with feigned disbelief, he slid the axe out of the groove in the griffon’s armor and took it between his teeth. Pressing a hoof against his chest, he smiled and released the body. “Why thank you, Hans! You are just too kind!”

Twisting his body, Red sped straight through an oncoming group of griffons trying to chase him down, his wings trailing contrails in the high altitude. An errant javelin or two nearly skewered him as he divebombed the next ballista, and only a last minute flaring of his wings allowed him to slide out of the way. Heaving the greataxe over his head, Red flew right past the torsion springs of the ballista and flung it with all his might, screaming “Catch!” as he let go.

The axe buried itself deep in the cables of the ballista, severing dozens of the taut ropes at once. With a tremendous explosion of force, the ballista tore itself to pieces as all the tension was released at once, filling the skies with wooden shrapnel. Through it all, Red twisted and pumped his wings, keeping his speed up as he sighted the fifth ballista in line.

Overshooting the fourth completely, Red gritted his teeth and slammed his shoulder into the tail end of the fifth ballista. The force from the impact spun the light ballista to the right, and wasting no time at all, Red kicked the release lever even as the griffons tried to stop him. With a tremendous thwang!, the ballista fired a stone directly into the side of the fourth, tearing it apart completely. Rolling off of the wooden construction, he quickly decimated the crew as they tried to flee in a maelstrom of blades, leaving nobody left to man it.

Only one ballista left now, but there was company waiting for him. Standing in front of the final siege engine was an enormous griffon, easily twice as tall as Red, wearing horribly spiked armor and wielding a greatsword longer than Red’s wingspan. The hybrid snarled at him, the blue tattoos wrinkling across his feathers, and it opened its arms in a challenge.

“Finally!” Red exclaimed, racing forward to meet him. “A griffon that’s not a wimp! Let’s see what you’ve got, asshat!” Whirling his sword, he rushed headlong into the fray.

The griffon put two hands on his greatsword and swung down with terrifying force. Instead of trying to stop the gargantuan weapon, however, Red merely bounced his blade along the edge and spun to the side to get his wings in range. But astoundingly, the griffon took one hand off the massive sword and caught Red by the face, his serrated talons digging deep into the pony’s flesh. With a hiss and a grunt, the High Guard spun Red around and slammed the stallion’s skull directly against the frame of the ballista.

Red responded with a double buck directly into the griffon’s face, forcing it to let go and giving him some time to recover. Blood poured from the deep gouges torn out of his coat by the High Guard’s talons, and Red shook his head to get it out of his eyes. “Hah! That’s what I’m talking about! Come and get some, wimp!” And he charged towards the griffon again.

Choking down on his zweihander, the Griffon swung the weapon at Red, hilt first. Red deflected with his sword and jabbed at the griffon’s exposed flank, but the griffon grabbed the stallion’s gladius with his bare hand and shoved Bluestreak back. Red lines poured blood in the hybrid’s palm, but he hardly seemed to care as he grabbed hold of his zweihander and swung it wide with a shocking amount of force and speed. Raising his wing, Red was barely able to catch the sword, but it sent him reeling nonetheless. The stallion went tumbling across the ballista but caught hold of the wooden frame before he went sailing off the cloud entirely.

The glint of the sun sailing overhead was all the warning he had. Grunting, Red rolled to the side just as the griffon’s zweihander bit the wood of the ballista, sending a shower of splinters into his face. Hopping over the embedded sword, Red delivered a scissoring strike from his two wingblades to the High Guard’s neck, but the griffon caught both on his bracer-clad forearms and viciously headbutted Bluestreak. Red responded by biting at the griffon’s face, forcing the shocked hybrid to shove him away. Kicking off of the griffon, Red landed on the ballista and flared his wings, taunting him. “Come on, kitty cat! Surely you’ve got more than that!”

Growling, the High Guard hefted his zweihander once more and swung it at Red, but the pegasus was too fast, and again the weapon bit deep into the frame of the ballista. Fluttering up to a higher perch on the machine, Red yawned and laid on his back, shutting his eyes. The shake of the ballista a second later as the griffon tore his sword free and the parting of the air gave the Nimban enough warning to backflip out of the next attack. The wood groaned as the ballista’s weight shifted to the side, and Red once more perched on the top, a concerned look in his eyes.

“Oh, look what you’ve done now. You’ve gone and broke your toy.” He sighed and stretched his wings, the blades screeching against each other. “Looks like somebody’s gotta be put in timeout.”

Kicking off of the ruined ballista, Red propelled himself directly into the griffon’s face. Both his front hooves connected with beak and feathers, and the griffon tumbled backwards, staggering from the blow. In an instant Red was upon him, delivering a terrifying series of gashes and strikes with his bladed wings in close quarters. But the griffon refused to die, carefully sheltering its neck and other vital areas with its armored forelegs even as Red tried to cut them to pieces. Snarling, the High Guard shot his arms out and blocked both of Red’s wings at once, forcing them back in a contest of strength solidly in his favor. Sweat beaded on Red’s brow, but he couldn’t overpower the griffon; in a matter of seconds, he found himself on his back, his wings pinned behind him and the griffon’s talons wrapped tightly around his throat.

Gritting his teeth, Red tried to break free, but he only felt the griffon’s talons piercing through his hide, searching for the arteries in his neck. With one last defiant action, he wadded up whatever bloody saliva he had and spit directly into the griffon’s eyes. The beast howled and let go with one hand... but not both. The other kept Red pinned down, and even though the grip on his neck was weakened somewhat, the stallion couldn’t worm his way out.

Then the griffon recovered. Hissing in rage, he tore Red’s helmet off, stuck his talons deep in the stallion’s blood-soaked ear, and pulled.

Skin, fur, and muscle all yielded to the griffon’s serrated talons. When his ear was torn open, Red gritted his teeth and hissed between them. When the High Guard’s talons wound their way behind and through his eye, however, the pegasus screamed. With a wet pop, the griffon pulled Red’s eye from its socket and crushed it into paste in front of him.

The pain gave Red’s limbs a new desperate strength, and even as the entire left half of his face felt like it was burning off, he somehow managed to shove the High Guard off of him. Scrambling to his hooves, Red quickly snatched his sword and barely blocked the taloned strike of the griffon’s open hand, the remains of his eye still staining it red. Spitting, the griffon whirled around and shoved Red away, the pegasus quickly losing Magnus’ chosen to his new blindside.

“Hrracckkkkt—Where are you, you sonuvabitch!!” Red screamed, scaling the ballista and spinning in place to try and find the High Guard. “I’m not done with you yet, asshole! Where are you?!”

A punch to his jaw from the darkness swallowing the left half of his vision startled him, and snarling, Red spun and swung his sword to the left with all his might—only to find nothing there. He briefly paused, his mind trying to work out where the High Guard had fled to, but by the time he realized his mistake, it was too late.

Steel crumpled iron, rended flesh, sundered bone, and decimated viscera. A searing pain the likes of which Red had never felt before split across his lower abdomen; he already knew the damage was fatal before he fell over, his hind legs failing to keep him up. The world swam in a haze of red and black, and the pony vomited blood onto his forelegs. Simply breathing made him want to scream, and it took all his effort to look over his shoulder at the griffon standing behind him.

Suddenly he knew why the griffon fought with such a huge sword; it was the reason he couldn’t feel anything but pain past his gut. His legs and the lower half of his torso lay a few feet away, pouring blood from the intestines left in them. As he stared in disbelief and increasing deliria, the High Guard sneered and sheathed his sword, instead turning his attention to the ballista he was standing on. Growling, he leaned down and began trying to mend the siege engine, clearing the firing path of splintered wood from the frame.

Hissing, Red tried to crawl forward, his sword clenched between bloody teeth. The light was fading away all too quickly; his vision was narrowing down to a single point fixated on the griffons neck. But the High Guard saw him coming, and without so much as a thought he shoved the dying pegasus back towards the bottom of the ballista. Red slamming his skull against the base of the machine managed to knock a little life back into him.

But even that was fading away. Wheezing, his neck fell back as he lost the strength to support it. His dying gaze tilted to the side, and just before everything went back, he saw the firing lever, primed and waiting to be pulled. Gasping in pain, he reached over with his wing, struggling to get a scale hooked under the rope the lever was attached to. With the last of his strength, he forced the sharp scale under the cords and smiled at the griffon, his teeth and lips stained red.

“Hey...” he gasped, barely catching the griffon’s attention. Then he smiled even more manically. “Watch your step...”

He pulled.

The rope snapped.

A stone went rocketing up the damaged track of the ballista, straight at the griffon standing in the way.

The engine exploded in a shower of debris and splinters.

Stonewall dove between two buildings, the furious cries of griffons still hot on his tail. Sweat poured from his brow and his wings ached, tired from sprinting for so long and carrying so much weight. So far, his agility in the burning city kept the griffons from closing the gap, but there were simply too many for him to lose. Everytime he wound through an alley or darted through the upper floors of some noble’s manor, they’d spread out above him and scream to each other whenever he emerged, and the chase would continue.

Twisting his wings, Stonewall knifed down an alleyway, forcing the larger griffons behind him to either slow down or fly over it. It’d buy him some time, but not much, and he was panting now. Looking ahead, his eyes fixed on the Nimban palace. It was crawling with griffons now, and the legionaries around it were beginning to pull back. It was time to go.

Bursting out of the alleyway, Stonewall banked hard to the south and worked his wings for all they were worth. Already he could hear the griffons closing in on him, and he spared a second to look over his shoulder. The sight made him curse and push himself even harder. Ten griffons were practically glued to his tail, just barely out of reach, while the rest trailed at a longer distance, resting their wings and readying themselves to compensate in case Stonewall managed to turn and elude the ones right behind him.

Griffons began to cross in front of him, making their way to the palace. Stonewall clenched his teeth together and pressed on, weaving through them, not slowing for even a second. As easy as it would have been to cut a griffon’s throat out as he passed, he’d lose precious speed in doing so. He wasn’t concerned about killing anymore hybrids today, anyway; all he focused on was surviving to fight another day.

The southern walls rose before him, and hissing in pain, Stonewall forced himself to gain altitude. If he could just get beyond the city limits, maybe the griffons would break off and leave him. It was a slim chance at best, but his only one. There was no way he could make it to the pegasi at the palace without getting crushed between the griffons already there and the griffons chasing him.

The griffons behind him suddenly pulled up, ascending almost perpendicular to the city streets. Stonewall himself was angled to barely clear the wall; maybe they were letting him go? Panting and wheezing, the exhausted stallion barely skimmed the edge of the wall, his hooves dragging against the interior crenellations.

Five griffons were waiting for him on the other side.

Cursing, Stonewall tried to skirt past them, but his wings were too tired to respond. Instead, a griffon shield collided with his skull and sent him flying back, gasping and choking for breath. He was slow to get to his hooves, but the griffons made no effort to end him there and then. As more settled in on the walls around him, he knew why; he was cornered prey, and all they were doing was delaying his death.

Closing his eyes, Stonewall focused on slowing his breathing and drew his sword. Spreading his wings, he forced the griffons around him back long enough to try and find some bit of terrain he could use to his advantage, but the towers along the walls were too far away. He was simply trapped on an open stretch of cloudstone, with nothing but his blades and his armor to fend off a horde of griffons.

The first three leapt at him at once. Not fully recovered from his flight, Stonewall backed up as fast as he could, trying to get all three centered in front of him. Grunting, the stallion slid to the left around the first griffon’s attacks and raised a wing to stop the second. The blades sparked as they collided, and Stonewall grunted as the force behind the griffon’s swing threw him to his side. He leaned with the motion and found himself inside the swing of the third griffon. The sword rung against his armor but failed to pierce it, and he responded by stomping the griffon’s foot. The beast howled and jumped back, but Stonewall, weary as he was, was faster. He spun in place, ending with his wingblade tearing into the griffon’s throat. Pulling down, he ripped the griffon’s throat out, leaving it to die fitfully against the cloudstone.

The other two griffons responded by attacking him from both sides. Gnashing his teeth, Stonewall stuck both wings out to his sides, simultaneously catching both swords. Screaming with exertion, he shoved the stronger, heavier griffons back, giving him enough room to dash forward and away. But two more griffons descended out of the skies and landed in front of him, immediately swinging with swords and biting with beaks. Stonewall rolled backwards out of the way, barely seeing the sword swung at him as he tumbled. Hissing, he raised a wing and fended it off, and with the other, sliced off the griffon’s foreleg. The beast collapsed next to him, howling in pain, and Stonewall rolled over to drive his sword into its eye.

Tearing the gladius free, the Nimban whirled around and stopped another griffon from jumping on his back. The blade whistled through the air and caught the griffon in the gut, splitting it open and spilling its intestines across the wall. Another griffon rushed him from behind, leaving Stonewall no time to tear his sword out; instead he tumbled forward away from the attacker and locked his teeth around the sword of the griffon he’d just killed. Drawing it, he spun in time to stop the second attack, and with a desperate thrust, pierced the griffon’s heart.

A hybrid seized his wing from behind and pulled, dislocating the limb and making Stonewall scream in pain. He tried to turn and fight the griffon off but it twisted his wing, forcing the stallion down. His sight fled from him, and he was left gasping as another griffon grabbed his other wing and likewise twisted, dragging him up to his knees.

The pain in his shoulders nearly pushed Stonewall into a painless oblivion, but the griffons were too careful to prevent him from blacking out. Instead, they kept a dagger at his throat and forced his chin up. His face covered in sweat and wheezing for breath, Stonewall could hardly focus on the Oathsworn walking towards him.

The Oathsworn stopped a few steps away and simply stood there, scowling at Stonewall. Hefting a zweihander, he placed it on Stonewall’s shoulder, letting the stallion feel the weight of the steel pressed against his neck.

Stonewall maintained a cold and hateful stare at the griffon standing in front of him. “Do it,” he spat, baring his teeth. “I’ve already earned my reward.”

But the griffon narrowed his eyes and only stepped away. Speaking to the griffons around him in his native tongue, the Oathsworn pointed to Stonewall. Immediately the griffons twisting his wings stood up, dragging the aching stallion with them.

“Kill me!” Stonewall screamed at them, fighting against their grip. “End it, you cowards! Do it! Do—!”

His words were cut off by the Oathsworn spinning back around and slamming the hilt of his zweihander into Stonewall’s muzzle. The stallion’s neck jerked back and he spat a tooth at the ground, blood immediately pouring out from between his lips. Spitting it at the ground, he tried to break free one more time, but both griffons twisted his wings even harder, to the point where he was almost certain he could feel the muscles tearing in his shoulders. His head hit the ground, but he was too exhausted to scream anymore. Looking up, he caught one last look at the Oathsworn as it sneered at him from above.

A paw stomped hard on his skull, and he saw no more.

Lord Winter put his shield through the gap in the griffon’s beak. Its bladed edge slid out of the back of the hybrid’s neck, leaving its tongue spasming upward into open air as its eyes and nostrils flopped to the ground with a wet thump. The flared his right wing out, catching another of the tired creature’s necks with the spike at the center of his weapon.

The Consul of Nimus barely flinched at the splash of hybrid blood on his back. “Careful, Downburst.”

“Sorry.” The Lictor ducked under a threatening slash from a griffon already missing a wing, and in a surprising show of mercy, thrust his gladius down from above the creature’s collarbone and into its heart. “Been a long time since we’ve had a proper fight, hasn’t it?”

“This isn’t a proper fight.” Winter spared his shield, opting to rake his single wingblade along the shins of the last griffon in the foyer. When it collapsed, he spared no time in bringing his forehooves down on its spine. “This lot was pathetic. Most likely scouts that got out of position. The real challenge will be here soon.”

“You sound sure.” Downburst chuckled as he wiped his sword off on a griffon’s coat. “Personally, I figure we’ve just gotten so good at this that there isn’t a griffon worth our time.”

“A team of green recruits could have held this, Downburst. There wouldn’t be a war if there armies were like this.” Winter glanced at his spiked shield. “I haven’t even used Nimbus to guard.” His deep breath told another story, though; the stallion was getting tired. His age was showing. “Shall we try and rally―?”

The doors, already ajar, creaked open. Both veteran soldiers turned, eyes sharp, toward the source of the motion. A small team of legionaries was in fighting retreat, beaten back behind the blades of a larger, stronger mass of griffons.

“Time to be heroes again?” Downburst smiled, and wrapped his teeth tightly around his weapon. It took the aging stallion three flaps to reach a suitable height, and each motion came with the groan of his wings and the clack of the scales on his wingblades. Then he titled himself forward and dove into the fray.

Winter Rain’s left wing, covered in similar scales, folded back against his side. His right, carrying the shield Nimbus, moved forward to be ready. His hooves tensed on the stone, and with the groan of bones too old for battle, he charged.

A griffon sword was aimed at the neck of a sky blue colt, too tired to stop the attack. The Consul of Nimbus rolled into place, letting the griffon weapon scrape across his shield with a spray of sparks. The hybrid winced, its avian eyes struggling with the unexpected light. Another one of the tired Cirrans had enough presence of mind to thrust a spear through the creature’s side. It wouldn’t be a fast death, but it would put the creature down.

The sky blue colt stood slack-jawed at his sudden salvation. Winter’s eyes weren’t as easy to distract. He saw the griffon on the other side of the pony, talons outstretched and ready for a kill. Nimbus moved faster. The hoof-length spike in its center drove into the monster’s eye. The force of the shield and its mass broke the creature’s beak. It collapsed in shock, and Winter knew it would bleed out before it woke.

Another talon scratched through his once-proud purple robes, scoring three marks into his segmentata. Before the Consul could strike, a wingblade slashed through the hybrid’s neck, and it collapsed with a spurting gasp.

“Reminds me of Brisenbaen. This is the second time I’ve saved you.”

Winter would have rolled his eyes, had they not been in a pitched battle. The bladed lower edge of Nimbus thrust forward at another griffon. “Then you owe me one more.”

The griffon parried the blow with its oversized sword, though its eyes betrayed surprise at the attack coming from a shield. Winter replied by placing his hoof on the top of the shield and thrusting it up the length of the hybrid’s blade. Sparks flew up at the creature, but it proved clever enough to duck under the shower of lights. Unfortunately, it didn’t know about Winter’s other wing. His blades claimed the creature’s throat with little difference to the fate of the one Downburst had killed mere moments earlier.

“Don’t you miss those days, Winter? Things were simpler back then.” Downburst pulled his sword along a griffon’s belly, spilling its entrails. Something resembling glee flashed at the corners of the stallion’s cheeks, though his focus remained sharp. “We weren’t responsible for the whole city, at least.”

“We do what we must,” Winter observed emotionlessly, even as he thrust the spike of Nimbus through the ribs of another hybrid. At the same moment, the corner of his eye caught a griffon halberd as it drove through the shoulder and neck of one of his guards. “The left side is slack.”

“On it.” The Lictor placed his wings on the ground, using them alongside his hind legs to flip up and over the mass of soldiers, toward the place where the Cirran soldier had died.

Winter didn’t have time to watch his friend at work; His off-wing was barely fast enough to intercept another griffon as its beak reached for his throat. The creature screeched in his ear as it bled, driving its throat further onto the scales of his wingblade in the throes of death.

With his head turned away, the Consul only felt the force of the griffon arrows as they struck the wide surface of Nimbus. His head turned from the dying griffon on his wing just in time to see the arrow that struck his upper foreleg. His eyes squinted. His teeth clenched. His world grew harsh, defined by motion and focus more than emotion and sensation. He was the only Cirran in the room; his mind discarded the others.

Leg was worthless. Bone scratched. He ignored the pain as he lifted it from the ground, shifting its partner under the center of the shoulders to carry his weight. Shield was pulled closer, protecting his body. Arrows bounced off, deflected. Glancing over for information, he saw three hybrids approaching. Greatsword, spear, and two smaller swords. Archer was too far to confront. Spear and swords could be blocked by wingblade; the large sword needed Nimbus.

From that point, for Winter, it was almost reflex. He put his entire weight into a lunge at the griffon with the spear, shield-first. The hybrid assumed he meant to block with Nimbus, and tilted his weapon toward Winter’s bad side. The pegasus reached forward with his free wing, catching the scales of his wingblade on the wooden shaft partway up the weapon. The griffon only had the time to widen its eyes before the bladed edge of the consul’s shield drove straight through them.

He was between the other griffons now, and his eyes flicked between them. His wingblade slashed rapidly at the one with two blades; naively, it stepped backward. The space was all Winter needed. His shield moved under the blow he knew was incoming, catching the larger of the griffons’ weapons even as he closed the gap. His steps were uneven, limping on three legs, but they were enough to get at the creature’s exposed side. He lifted a hind leg and his bladed wing at once, intent on kicking off of the creature as he killed it.

An arrow changed the battle again, but this time it was a Cirran shaft, driving into the creature’s eye. When Winter’s leg pushed against the creature, it toppled like curtains pulled down by a child. Rather than leaping back shield-first onto the surviving griffon, he fell off-balance just before it.

“Lord Winter!” The young pegasus’ shout preceded pain, sharp and piercing against his back. It was a pain the soldier’s body didn’t know, and that on its own was enough to tell him that he wouldn’t survive the wound. Other soldiers had told him they saw flashes of their lives when they’d made their last sacrifice, dying in his forelegs, but the only thing his mind could think to latch onto was pain.

It settled, he wasn’t sure how long later, as a gust of wind swept through the room. The griffon with the two swords was dead, lying at the hooves of an impossibly small green legionary with a scout’s armor tight to his body. The stallion―no, a colt―was struggling in vain to help Winter to his hooves.

“We’ve got to get back.” That was Downburst’s voice, somewhere nearby. “Longbow, cover us. Colt, stop. I can lift him.”

Words were slow to come to Winter, but discipline managed to move his tongue. “Downburst… what…”

“Not now,” the lictor interrupted. “Winter, the griffon archduke is here.”

“Magnus?” The wounded pegasus coughed in pain as his oldest friend lifted him, balancing his chest with both wing and foreleg. “How do you know?”

“Just look,” was Downburst’s answer. Winter did.

Archduke Ottgam Magnus could never have been missed in the mass of griffons that slaughtered the last of the Cirran defenders. The sight took Winter’s breath away: the griffon ruler was twice and half again as tall as his subjects, with the terrifying wingspan and the brutal musculature to match. In one talon, he carried a gilded longsword that would have put even Iron’s stolen weapon to shame, its blade nearly as wide as any pegasus’ wing. Its serrated edges dripped with fresh Cirran blood, as did its owner’s talons. His head was covered in ashen feathers, where it hadn’t been stained by pegasus blood from his beak. The fur of his leonine body was a gray on the verge of black, reminding Winter of charcoal.

As the old pegasus felt his blood slowly dripping away, he felt a pang of fear: not for himself, but for Cirra. They had underestimated their foe. Whatever Magnus was, he was no normal griffon. Winter wasn’t sure the pegasi were ready to fight the monster.

“Colt,” Winter gasped, before sucking down a painful breath to strengthen his voice. “Colt.”

“Sir?” the little green one asked.

“Get out of here. This is a place for old stallions to die. Tell the emperor what you see. Warn him.”

“Lord Winter,” the stallion Downburst had called ‘Longbow’ cut in as he stepped into Winter’s vision. “There’s nowhere to go. We were hoping your vanguard would still have the throne room. All the other exits are theirs now.”

Winter’s eyes swept the room, to the brutal realization that there were far, far more griffons than pegasi left. As Downburst set his friend on the throne of Nimbus, dragging his ancient shield across the padded wood, the consul shed a tear. His city was dead. In mere minutes, the battle had ended, and he had lost. All that was left for the griffons was to clean up. From that chair, too weak to stand and fight, growing closer to his own death with every breath, Winter watched his soldiers die.

When it was over, and the last loose blade had clattered to the cloudstone floor, the griffons grew from a chaotic mass to an organized force. Along proud walls that had once been home to the greatest warriors of the pegasus race, griffons stood in line. Flanking the path up to the throne from the main doors, well-armored hybrid elites stood in perfect formation. Winter had, in his time, killed three of the oathsworn. He had never imagined they numbered enough to fill the great hall of the Nimban palace.

And yet, compared to their leader, they were nothing.

“Lord Winter Rain, Consul of Nimbus, son of Autumn Rain and heir to emperors and warchiefs. Tell me, how does it feel to be the last Lord Rain? To be the son of the Nimban line who lost their city?” Magnus voice was deep and resounding, as befit his titanic body, but there was a mirth to his words that twisted in Winter’s stomach worse than a knife ever could.

Winter conjured up as much strength to his voice as he could. “I haven’t lost it yet, Ottgam Magnus of Angenholt.”

“Haven’t lost?” The griffon’s beak opened to a roaring, boisterous chuckle. “Look around yourself, pegasus. My oathsworn fill your throne room. My army is wiping the last vestiges of your species from my new city. In a moment, I will take your throne, and your head as well. I count three of your soldiers left, and one is barely even grown.”

The little green colt in scout’s armor stepped backward, hiding behind the archer―Longbow, was it?―as Magnus’ gaze fell on him. At the show of fear, the freakish griffon ruler smiled wider still.

“You think Nimbus will die with me?” Winter shook his head, his mind thinking of his his daughter. “I sent our civilians away. Perhaps you take the city today, Magnus, but tomorrow, the sons and daughters of Nimbus will grow up, and they will cut your armies down.”

“I doubt that.” The way Magnus’ voice delivered the words seemed to chill the back of Winter’s chair, despite the humor the griffon seemed to gain from the thought. “If your generals lead, and your armies fight the way that they have here, and at Hengstead, I’m afraid there won’t be any sons or daughters left to avenge you.”

Winter rolled forward in his chair, glaring across the room into Magnus’ eyes. “You would kill our children?”

In response, Magnus shrugged. “I was quite content to let this be a casual game between your Emperor Haysar and I, as so many of your Emperors have played before him. But he saw fit to raise the stakes, and slaughter the cubs and the elderly of Hengstead. It seems such a shame to spill such innocent blood, and to waste such potential, but I am not one to deny my soldiers their emotions. They want vengeance for their mates, and their young. You will be lucky if your kind is not extinct by years end. I wouldn’t bet on them.”

“You treat this war as a game?”

Again, Winter’s rage was only stoked by the griffon’s continued amusement. “I don’t expect you can understand my viewpoint. Where you stand, this battle here, in Nimbus, is the culmination of your life’s work. Here, you struggle to save as many of your people as possible, while you hold the so-called ‘spiked shield’ against the ‘barbaric’ hordes of my people. Your legacy is decided, Winter; set in stone by what you’ve done up to the moment I walked through those doors. Now, your life is over, your legacy set in stone, and you will soon go to face your judgement. To you, this war is everything.” Magnus shook his head. “But in a matter of decades, when I tell the story of this war to the next generation of young griffons as they grow up in the streets of Stratopolis, I doubt I’ll even waste the breath to mention you, or this battle. Stratopolis will be the one worth remembering. Do you understand me, Winter? Your efforts here have meant nothing. And now,” he added, stowing his enormous sword onto a strap on his back and producing a sword-sized knife from a sheathe under his wing, “I believe it is time to bring this little game to a close.”

“I think I agree,” Winter answered, his words growing harder to summon with every syllable. He struggled to his hooves, and at great pain, pulled Nimbus up against his body. “You may kill me, freak, but no matter how long and how hard, every drought ends in Rain.”

“Winter, you can’t―” Downburst’s words simply couldn’t compete with what followed.

“Freak?” It wasn’t that Magnus was shouting; his voice still seemed controlled and level, even amused. It was something else, as if a wind in the room had picked up, reverberating off the walls to echo every movement of his tongue. “I would be amused by your spirit, pegasus, if it wasn’t so thoroughly disgusing. You called me a freak, ‘Lord’ Winter. Let me ask you: what do you think I am? A mutant? Some strange twist of breeding and fate? Or perhaps you believe in magic?”

“You’re a monster.”

“I am a god, Lord Winter.”

“Your size and your voice don’t scare me, Magnus. A delusional griffon could never conquer Cirra.”

“I’ve already conquered Nimbus,” Magnus countered with amusement. “But since I have nothing but time, I think I’ll prove it to you.” The giant griffon turned to face Longbow. “Archer, shall we play a game? My oathsworn won’t interfere, and I won’t even move. Draw a drop of my blood, and I’ll let you all leave Nimbus unharmed.”

Longbow turned to Winter for advice, and the dying pegasus nodded. “You can end this rebellion here, Longbow. Show the griffons their place.”

The sound of the wood straining back as Longbow drew his arrow was deafening. The ears of the other ponies perked in anticipation, though the archer himself found his folded flat against his head in concentration. His left eye closed, and his right traced down the shaft of his arrow to stare straight at the charcoal feathers covering Magnus’ throat.

The sharp twang of the string snapping back was nearly deafened by a roar of wind. Like a Hurricane, it filled the room, stirring the rubble on the floor and unsettling the fur and feathers of the rooms inhabitants―all save Magnus. The arrow flew for the griffon ruler, and the grin at the corners of his beak grew wider still. The pegasi watched the arrow with baited breath, clearly able to see the steel tip as it slowed, and slowed…

…and stopped, mere inches from Magnus’ unarmored flesh. Amused, his talons reached up to grab the shaft out of the air, twirling it and inspecting its quality. “You fletched this with your own feathers? It’s good work.” As his avian eyes swiveled up, the little green scout at Longbow’s side cowered. “Oh,” Magnus noted. “You still don’t believe me?” With a flick of his wrist, the winds rose again. Nopony saw the arrow; all they heard was the colt’s shriek of pain as the shaft buried itself in his flank. “Go ahead, archer. Take another shot.”

Longbow looked at the scout with a mixture of horror and guilt, and then shook his head. Magnus responded by chuckling, and extending his talon in the colt’s direction. With another surge of the strange breeze, the shaft in the young legionary’s leg twisted, burrowing deeper

“Enough!” The shout was Downburst’s. The Lictor drew his sword and spread his wings. A single flap was all it took to toss himself across the room in Magnus’ direction. One of the Oathsworn stepped out of their formation to block Downburst’s path. The Cirran was ready to battle the griffon, but he was beaten to the first swing when a titanic gilded blade thrust its way out of the hybrid’s throat.

“Ihr kennt die Regeln,” Magnus told the corpse, as he withdrew his sword. “Ich habe meine Feinde gewählt. Sie sind mein, ebenso wie der Herrscher und seine Untergebenen. Euch einzumischen kostet euch eure Seelen.” He said nothing to Downburst, instead rearing up on his hind legs and tightening his one-clawed grip. The tip of the blade nearly scraped the ceiling.

Downburst lunged forward, inside of Magnus’ titanic reach. The gilded blade swept down, but the Lictor was watching it; he rolled aside, avoiding the weapon. His focus returned to the griffon’s leonine paws just in time for one to slam forward, kicking him squarely in the side.

The force matched the creature’s size, hurling the pegasus backwards across the room. Magnus wasted no time, bringing his sword to bear with a frightening agility. Downburst rolled to the side as the blade clashed against the cloudstone floor. Rather than lifting the blade again, the griffon turned the blade to its side, scraping up a huge spray of sparks as he moved to bisect his foe.

Again, Downburst was too fast. Pushing off the ground with his wings, the aging pegasus flipped himself onto his hooves, rushing toward Magnus beneath his attack. His sword cut through the flesh of the hybrid’s right paw, coming to a stop when it met bone. A huge gust of wind seized the old pegasus in that moment of victory, again tossing him backwards to the foot of the chamber’s dais with an audible and painful crunch.

Downburst tried to stand, but before he could, he found Magnus’ paw pressed against his chest. His blade was missing, and what should have been a gaping wound instead took the form of clean, undisturbed flesh.. “Why do you persist, pegasus? Don’t you see that it’s hopeless?”

The croaking, wheezing voice of Consul Winter spoke from his seat when Downburst’s words failed under the griffon’s paw.

“He did exactly what… any Cirran would do. His duty… You claimed my life… but I die now...not by… your talon…” Winter’s defiant glare accompanied a slight but proud smile, strong despite his failing breaths. “…but as a proud… Nimban. Ante Legionem...”

With those two words, the Consul of Nimbus collapsed backwards onto his throne, unable to support himself. The growing pool of blood from his side dripped off of his seat, pooling down the dais and around the prone form of last friend. Magnus stared at the body as it grew cold, his charcoal brow growing bolder and more furrowed with every passing moment. When he gave voice to his anger, it was in an incoherent howl, and the winds of a hurricane that blasted out the last remnants of the chambers windows. With a single mighty stomped, he crushed Downburst’s ribcage beneath his paw, just one step on the way to the corpse of Winter. Grabbing it roughly with one claw, Magnus seized the entire seat with his other, ripping it out of the ground and hurling both toward the doors to the room. Still his fury was not satisfied, and he turned his hateful gaze on Longbow.

The young stallion stood his ground, glaring up at impending doom, keeping his body between Magnus and Pathfinder. It was a strong, defiant glare, and a powerful stance, and they lasted until Magnus’s claw extended. At the bidding of his winds, the arrow in Finder’s leg flew free, finding its place in Magnus’ palm. With too little time for Longbow to react, Magnus spun it in his talons, and then slammed it down into the pegasus’ lower back. It was a paralyzing wound, and it stole Longbow’s breath almost soundlessly. Unable to hold his weight, the pegasus fell.

“Die Leben von jedem deiner Art sind mein,” Magnus howled, wrapping a claw around each of Longbow’s wings. The stallion’s eyes widened, but there was nothing he could do. “Du wirst gehorchen!”

“Wait!” Pathfinder shouted. To his surprise, Magnus’ claws were still. “Please! Please, I’m begging you, don’t hurt him!”

Magnus leaned forward, his head nearly as large as Pathfinder’s entire body. The colt was suddenly aware of how easily he could be swallowed whole. “Why should I stop?”

“B-because―” It was so hard to speak.

“What does he mean to you?”

“H-he’s my b-b-brother.”

Magnus’s smiled, and nodded his head. “I see.”

Then his claws moved apart.

The sound of the scream was short, but it contained more pain than Pathfinder could have ever imagined.

“He ripped off your brother’s wings?” Stalwart gasped.

Pathfinder stared down into his empty mug, and then reached across the table and took Stalwart’s from him. With his muzzle covered by the mug, all Stalwart could see of the stallion’s face were the wrinkles around his eyes and across his brow.

Suddenly, it was clear where they had all come from.

The mug moved down toward the table, shaking with Finder’s hoof, until it finally came to rest. He spoke with gravely, roughly-formed words, as if some weight were restraining his tongue. “Do you know what’s inside a wing, Stahl-for-short?” the veteran asked, his eyes still locked on the drink.

“We don’t need to talk about this, sir, if you don’t―”

“Under the feathers, there’s skin.” Finder interrupted. “You know how that looks. Under that, you see muscle; it looks like rabbit meat. You ever eat rabbit, Stalwart?”

“Once. I know it’s popular with ponies from your generation.”

“I can’t,” Pathfinder explained. His throat bobbed as he swallowed dry, and then he forced down another shaky drink. “Under the muscle, there are tendons. Just like my brother’s bowstring.” His eyes swiveled up. “I tried to string a bow once, in the legion. The string came back and hit me in the jaw. String’s a funny thing, though; it’s stronger than you’d think. You pull on it hard enough, a lot of the time, you break what it’s attached to before you snap the cord. You ever seen a ship’s winch anchor?”

Stalwart’s eyes widened. “Uh… yeah. I served on Captain Winterspell’s ship for a few years, when the Guard were still manning trading ships.”

Pathfinder gave a nod, but it almost seemed to go without conscious thought. “On a ship, sometimes the anchor gets caught on a rock. If you can’t get it free, you have to cut the rope. If you turn the winch too hard, it’ll rip right off its mount, before the rope snaps.”

Stalwart shuddered. Finder didn’t notice.

“Underneath that, you have the bone. Resilient stuff, but it you shatter it, it breaks like porcelain: jagged edges and loose pieces everywhere.

Finally, Stalwart’s hooves pressed down on the tabletop. “I think I understand, Pathfinder.”

When the scout looked up, the wrinkles and bags of his face made cast him not merely old, but a corpse. “You will never understand, Stalwart. Not unless you fly back to Dioda and stare Ottgam Magnus in the eyes. I’m trying to spare you that. Be smart, colt. Listen to me. Go home.”

Stalwart swallowed. “Was he an Empath?”

Finder looked away. “I don’t think so. We didn’t know what Empatha was in those days, but… You’ve seen Celestia.”

Stalwart nodded.

“He was to a griffon what she is to us. Maybe he really was a god… I’m not sure I can even believe in them anymore. But even Commander Hurricane, Celestia rest his soul, couldn’t do what Magnus did. And I have no doubt he’s still out there, somewhere, waiting.”

Stalwart nodded. “So… what happened next? How did you survive?”

Pathfinder looked down into Stalwart’s drink, pulled it shakily up to his lips, and then drained the entire thing. Once it was done, he let it clatter from his hoof, frowning in Stalwart’s direction.

“I’m not sure I did.” Pathfinder stared down into his drink again. “Longbow passed out. Shock and blood loss I guess. But I saw it all…”

“Not my baby!” Sea Breeze screamed, cradling the mutilated body of her eldest son in her forelegs. “Gods above, please! Give me back my baby!” Her puffy, sobbing eyes turned to face her younger son. “You did this!” she shouted “You!”

“Did you enjoy that, colt?” Magnus’ voice broke the vision, as he let Longbow’s unconscious form fall into the growing puddle of his own blood. The gigantic griffin clutched the blonde wings as though they were feathers, and began to fan himself. “Let me tell you something. I never wanted to do this.” With the wings, he gestured around the room. “This… extermination, I mean. I had been looking forward to the war for quite some time. Angenholt does get boring over the years. I had planned to let one of those fine griffons in formation there be our general, and see if he could take back a few cities, or a few hundred miles of ground.” The ‘thumb’ of Magnus’s claw spread out the two wings, making even more of a proper fan, with which he proceeded to relieve the heat from his charcoal-feathered head.

“Your emperor changed that, little one. He decided to slaughter my females, and my young. I can abide the deaths of soldiers. They’re easily replaced.” A few griffons in the mass behind him stirred, but they remained quiet as he spoke. “I can tolerate the churn of war. But extinction? The griffons are made in my image, colt, and I will not tolerate their destruction. So, if it is going to be your race or my own… I’m afraid that decision has already been made.” Magnus lifted his right paw from the ground, aligned it carefully above Longbow’s rib cage, and took the time to look up and smile in Pathfinder’s direction before he brought it down.

“No!” Finder tried to scream, though it came out more as a wheeze. His legs were frozen in place when he moved toward his brother’s corpse. Tears leaked from his eyes as he gave a desperate shake of his head. “No, no, no no…”

But to Pathfinder’s surprise, Longbow’s eyes shot open. A gasp escaped his crushed lungs, and he sat up, even around the enormous paw filling his chest. “Dead,” the corpse whispered, finally standing on four legs of bone and rotting tissue. “Dead! Dead because of you!”

Finder began sliding backwards, his wings opened in terror. “No! Longbow, I—Please! I’m sorry!”

“Sorry?” Longbow spat, glaring in fury at Finder’s retreat. “You being sorry is supposed to fix this?” Longbow’s lips pulled back in a snarl, his perfect teeth ruined by the stains of his own blood. “You killed me. I would never have stayed behind if it weren’t for you. I’d be gone with Iron Rain.” Longbow shook his head, his disgust apparent in his scowl. “You’re no brother of mine.”

Hot tears trickled free of the colt’s eyes, burning salty lines down Finder’s cheeks. “Longbow... please...”

“Bah, I broke him,” growled Magnus, staring at Pathfinder as he pleaded forgiveness of Longbow’s corpse. The griffon ruler discarded the bloody, useless wings and gently rubbed his throat. “So much for entertainment. One of you, Oathsworn, take the hatchling and throw him wherever you’re keeping the others. Show him more hospitality than the Cirrans gave ours. He’s too young to be good for information, but he may be worthwhile for the entertainment. Don’t kill him.” Almost as an afterthought, the emperor shook off his paw, sending a little splash of entrails and gore across the dense stone. “Perhaps I can still catch their other commander before he escapes.”

With a silent salute, three armored and striped griffons spread their wings and approached Pathfinder. As their claws wrapped around his body tightly, lifting him away, his eyes remained focused on his brother’s corpse.

“I’m sorry, Longbow.”

“Go home, Pathfinder,” the corpse spat. “Go home before you can do more harm than you’ve already done.”

Pathfinder screamed to the sound of his own wings snapping.

Author's Note

Special thanks to The24thPegasus for his invaluable help in making the Calamity arc. His expertise in combat writing far outclass my own. Special thanks as well to LoyalLiar for his assistance with Magnus. They are the masters of war and politics, respectively. If you don't follow them then please go to their pages and do so. They're two of the best writers on the site, and the best friends you could ask for.

Next time, on Wind and Stone: Umbra

Umbra

The burning city of Nimbus vomited roiling plumes of smoke into the atmosphere, thick and gray. The unleashed rage of Gryphus ransacked homes, rended the once mighty cloudstone walls, and bathed the fields of Dioda in a sea of blood. The corpses of griffons and pegasi fell from the crumbling cloudstone platform, their bodies falling like rain at the foot of the mountains.

Barely a mile east of the burning city flew two red pennants, tattered and soiled, which rippled in the hot summer wind that whistled through the fields of Dioda. Emblazoned with outstretched black talons as though reaching out to seize unsuspecting prey, they were the pennants of Gryphus. Under those rippling, proud, taunting, and victorious pennants, marched over two-hundred captured pegasi. They had been stripped of their weapons and armor, and those that hadn’t lost a wing in the battle had them broken by their captors.

Pathfinder trembled, his body numb from pain and his mind blank. The griffons that had carried him from the throne room had torn away at his armor during the flight, the metal scales tumbled through the acrid skies like autumn leaves. More than once their hooked claws went too far and gouged deep trenches in his flesh that oozed blood into his coat. He hadn’t screamed much, the pain from his wings having pushed him in and out of consciousness for the majority of the flight.

After arriving at the camp, he'd been carelessly tossed into a long line with the other captured pegasi from Nimbus. There was no conversation of any kind; only muffled coughs, cries, and sniffles as the prisoners slowly passed under the griffon pennants and into a hastily constructed prison camp. A palisade of heavy tree trunks, sharpened to points and lashed with coarse ropes, lined the entire camp. Watchtowers manned by griffon archers kept a wary eye for any signs of escape or revolt. Hundreds more griffons, clad in battered plate mail and armed to the teeth with swords, pikes, axes, and truncheons, watched them with hungry, scornful glares.

Standing beside the gates of the camp was a large griffon decorated in blue war paint that stood in stark contrast to his snow white plumage and coat. His spiked armor was stained with dried blood and he bore a spear that reached six feet from the counterweight to the tip of the broad, leaf shaped blade. The shaft was lacquered black and carved with elaborate family markings from generations of use.

In his left talon he held tightly to two ropes that leashed a pair of wolfish dogs, each of which stood taller than most stallions. The animals had matted gray fur and a half-starved look as they growled and barked wildly at the pegasi. Saliva and foam dangled from their mouths in thick strands, and their cracked yellow teeth gnashed at the shambling line of Cirrans that passed within feet of them.

A smaller griffon moved from behind the dogs’ master. With a body covered in black fur and feathers and a long beak that was straighter than most, he bore a distinctly crow-like appearance. His polished steel armor trimmed in gold and his dignified stance stood in stark contrast to many of his soldiers. He regarded the beastmaster with a disapproving glance.

"Halte deine Bestien unter Kontrolle, Gnade," he said in his low, rumbling voice.

The white griffon stiffened ever so slightly and scoffed, his ice blue eyes staring deliberately forward. "Wir begrüßen lediglich unsere Gäste, Herzog Schäfer."

”Diese Soldaten haben tapfer und ehrenwert gekämpft, und wir werden sie mit dem nötigen Respekt behandeln. Bringt sie zum schweigen.”

Gnade opened his beak to protest when a single look from Schäfer silenced him. He pulled hard on the ropes and snapped a command. The dogs choked and mewled, their heads bowing and their ears splaying out.

An almost imperceptible nod was all the reward Schäfer offered as he returned his attention to the captured pegasi.

”Wir dürfen uns selbst nicht in diesem Krieg verlieren, Gnade." He motioned his taloned hand over the line of pegasi. "Zurückhaltung und Bescheidenheit bringen dich weiter als Angst oder Hass.”

A low rumble escaped Gnade’s throat, but he held his tongue all the same. Both Gnade and Schäfer found their attentions drawn to a small green colt towards the back of the line. Like all the others his wings hung uselessly at his sides and blood seeped from the wounds he’d sustained in battle.

“Cirrans,” Gnade said, all but spitting the word. “Wie armselig müssen sie sein um solche Küken in den Kampf zu schicken.”

Schäfer almost smirked from Gnade’s comment. “Sag mal Gnade, kann es sein, dass du grade wirklich auf das hörst was ich versuche dir beizubringen?”

The larger griffon clutched the leashes of his dogs tighter and scoffed. “Diese Küken zu töten bringt weder Ehre noch Ruhm.”

Gnade's dogs growled again, baring their teeth and snarling at Pathfinder. Gnade silenced them with a tug of the leash and a curt reprimand. Schäfer and Gnade both took note of the colt's reaction, or—more specifically—his lack of reaction. Pathfinder looked to the beasts with hollow eyes and tear-stained cheeks before turning his gaze back to the trodden dirt path.

Pulling his dogs close, Gnade placed a taloned hand between the nearest one’s ears and began stroking the course fur. "Ganz ruhig, Jungs. Ich füttere euch später," he whispered.

Schäfer turned his gaze to Gnade, his eyes narrowing and the corners of his mouth pulling down to a frown. Pathfinder didn't hear their conversation as he moved into the camp. The powerful talons of another griffon, his body covered in spiked armor, grabbed the back of his neck. Finder yelped as the claws pierced his flesh and pulled him towards a plain leather tent.

For a moment his rear legs dug into the trodden dirt in an instinctive attempt to get away. Pain lanced through his thigh where Magnus had shot him with Longbow’s arrow and the limb gave away. The hybrid growled as Finder collapsed, its claws sinking deeper into his flesh and hauling him towards the tent like a lamb to slaughter.

”Verdammtes Pony,” the beast grumbled, brushing the canvas away and tossing Finder inside.

Finder tumbled across the dirt floor, coming to a stop just in front of an old griffon who smelled of blood and aloe. He tilted his head and inspected Finder, his keen eyes the color of cold sapphires. Charcoal feathers, frayed and dirty, covered his wings, only slightly lighter than the feathers that had decorated Magnus’ body.

When the griffon reached out to Finder with a taloned hand, the colt cried out in terror and scrambled backwards. The griffon stopped and raised his talons up, displaying his empty palms to Pathfinder.

"Now, now, my little friend,” the griffon spoke in heavily accented Cirran. “There is no need to be running from me. I am here to help you. My name is Todesangst. I am apothecary. Do you know this word, little Cirran?"

Pathfinder gave a quick shake of his head, his body trembling as the hybrid slowly approached him.

The griffon, Todesangst, patted Pathfinder’s head gently. "It means that I do not like blood. I do not like sickness. I do not like to hurt ponies, or griffons. That is why I hope that we can be friends. I do not want you to hurt any ponies either, little Cirran.” He tsked softly, observing the oozing hole in Finder’s leg where the arrow had pierced him.

“That must be painful, little Cirran. Please, allow me to help.”

With a deliberate slowness, Todesangst reached into a brown leather pouch tied to his belt with a course length of rope. From the pouch he produced a small green chunk of aloe leaf which he worked a talon against to produce a paste-like yellow ooze. Gathering it into his palm, he pressed the substance into Finder’s wound, earning a cry from the colt.

“Aloe, to help the wound heal,” he said, looking Finder in the eye and offering him a small smile. “Easy, easy. Try not to squirm so much or you shall make it worse.”

Pathfinder could only grit his teeth and whimper quietly. He could see the faces of his friends, of his father, of his brother, all looking down at him in shame. Todesangst pulled his claw away from Finder, wiping the excess aloe and blood onto across a filthy strip of cloth hanging from his belt.

“Now, what is your name?"

Pathfinder hesitated. Todesangst frowned. "Very well. You do not wish to answer my questions? That is fine. I'm saddened, but I can understand. You must be scared, little one. Afraid. Perhaps alone? Come, let me introduce you to friend. Another Cirran."

The apothecary placed a gentle claw over Pathfinder's shoulders, not actually grabbing him. The colt shuddered, but the grandfatherly griffon guided him forward. Around the corner of the tent's canvas, a stallion with wide eyes shuddered at the sight of the griffon. The stallion's legs were held in place with splits, and a thick white bandage was wrapped around his muzzle, with little wooden blocks holding his teeth open. One of his wings sat at an odd angle, and his right side seemed to have been scarred by griffon talons.

"I think this pony's name is Sent, or Shent, or Sven, or something. Your language is awkward and his words are hard to decipher, yes?” Todengast smiled down at Finder. “He has hurt his jaw, you understand, and quite a bit else too. Today, we are going to help him feel better. Please, little Cirran, do not hurt him. Pain makes me... uncomfortable.” The apothecary shivered, the feathers of his wings ruffling from the motion.

"This is why you are going to help me, little Cirran. We will talk, while I am performing a diagnosis. That is a large word, I know. It means I am looking for what is wrong with him. I like to be distracted, you see. It helps me not to see too many things wrong. Now, let us get started." Todesangst walked up to the restrained stallion's right forehoof. "For us to be friends, I need to know your name, little Cirran. What is it?"

Pathfinder stood still. His tongue would not move.

Todesangst let out a slow sigh. "Ah well, more to focus, then. Sven's hoof here is hurt. Do you see the little crack? I will help it. We only need to shave off a bit." The apothecary reached over to a nearby table, retrieving a tiny razor. With expert deliberation, he slid it under the stallion's hoof.

The legionary let out a terrible noise, trying to scream with his mouth held open and his tongue restrained. His body shuddered in its bonds, but Todesangst held his hoof steady. "Please, little Cirran, you are hurting him. Do you see? I can make it better, if only you will answer me. What is your name?"

“P-Pathfinder!”

Todesangst rewarded Pathfinder’s answer with a kindly smile and a minute nod. “Pfadfinder, hm? That is a nice name. Much better than ‘Little Cirran’, don’t you agree?”

He returned the razor to the table and instead took a stone mortar filled with ground herbs. Dipping a single claw into the paste he smeared it onto the bound stallion’s cracked hoof. The stallion’s bonds creaked as he struggled against them with a strangled cry. Finder cringed from the sound, squeezing his eyes shut until the noise had stopped.

“You see?” Todesangst gently patted Finder on the head, placing the mortar back on the table with a soft click. “We make a wonderful team, you and me, yes? Now then, Pfadfinder, what can we do for poor Shent here? This wing looks like it’s bleeding very badly.” Todesangst tsked and patted the bound stallion’s cheek.

“P-please,” Finder whimpered, his eyes clenching shut. “Please don’t hurt him!”

Todesangst feigned a hurt look and moved back to the table where his eyes browsed over the collection of tools assembled there. “Pfadfinder, my friend, I wouldn’t dream of hurting a pony. I abhor pain and suffering, you see.” Scratching his cheek with the tips of his claws, Todesangst turned his gaze to Finder. “Where are you from, little friend?

Pathfinder’s breath caught in his chest. If they knew of his home, would they come for it next? Would Magnus take his mother and father as well as his brother? The colt felt fresh tears burn at his eyes. It wasn’t a chance he was willing to take. “Nimbus! I-I came from Nimbus.”

The apothecary seemed to frown, his talons stroking at the underside of his beak. He kept his pale blue eyes locked to Finder’s, studying the colt’s every detail. “Pfadfinder, my friend, I think you are lying to me.” A mighty frown pulled the corners of Todesangst’s mouth down. He placed his right palm over his heart and dipped his beak towards Finder. “That makes me sad, you see? And worse still…” He reached out with his talons and selected a worn bonesaw from the table. “It just breaks poor Sven’s heart.”

Fear clenched Finder’s gut as his blood ran cold. Todesangst shook his head and moved closer to the bound stallion, who struggled against his bonds in a desperate attempt to escape. Tears fell down the once-proud soldier’s cheeks as a shudder wracked his body.

“Nimbans smell of blood and steel and arrogance. You smell of fish and salt and fear,” Todesangst said, inspecting the bonesaw with a saddened expression. He turned his attention to the bound stallion who struggled to get free, but to no avail. “I am so sorry, Sven. Pfadfinder here seems to think we must amputate.” Todesangst gently patted the stallion’s cheek, which yielded a broken cry from his bound muzzle. “There, there, Sven, Pfadfinder may be cruel, but I am not.” Moving around to the stallion’s right side, he took the crippled win in his talons and ran the flat edge of the bonesaw along the base of his wing.

Finder’s heart froze in his chest and his stomach did a flip. He saw Longbow on the ground, his wings being ripped from his body by the griffon emperor. The piercing screams echoed through his mind and drove his hooves to his ears.

“Please,” he whimpered as he sunk to the ground. “Please—Please, I beg you, don’t hurt him!”

Todesangst hesitated, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head at Pathfinder. He smiled at the colt once again and moved closer to place his palm on Finder’s head. “You have the power to stop this, little one. You alone have the power to help Sven. I must simply know where you’re from.” Todesangst smiled down at the sobbing colt, his talons stroking through Finder’s tangled mane. “It’s not so much to ask, is it? Not between friends, yes?”

Finder shook his head desperately "I'm Nimban, I swear!"

Todesangst sighed and returned his attention to the bound stallion. The pegasus' eyes went wide and he tried again to slip free of his bonds. The apothecary shook his head and took the stallion's right wing in his claw. "I'm sorry, Sven, but I don't see how we can save your wing. I'm afraid Pfadfinder’s mind is clear. Amputation is the only course of action left to us, yes?"

“No!” Finder cried, his hooves grabbing at Todesangst’s rear leg. “Please! Please just-just let him go!”

Shaking his head, Todesangst shook Pathfinder off, his talons grasping tightly at the stallion’s wing and pulling it into an outstretched position. The pegasus let out an unearthly scream, flailing desperately.

“Hush, now,” Todesangst whispered gently. “It will all be okay, my friend.” He positioned the heel of the bonesaw at the base of the stallion’s wing, allowing the worn teeth to dig into the tattered feathers.

“You don’t have to do this!” Finder pleaded, reaching again for the apothecary’s leg. “Please!”

“Tell me where you’re from.”

Finder grimaced, his tear filled eyes looking up at the helpless stallion. Ruby eyes looked back at him, silently pleading with the colt, but Pathfinder could only whimper and look away. The stallion cried out, sniffling and struggling in one last desperate plea.

A sorrowful whimper was all the answer Finder could give him.

Todesangst waited a moment longer until it was clear Pathfinder wasn’t about to change his story. He frowned like a disappointed grandparent and pulled the saw back.

Pathfinder’s hooves shot to his ears in a desperate attempt to quiet the horrific scream. They did little to mute the tear of feathers and flesh, the grinding of bone, or the terrible cries so like the noises Longbow had made mere hours before. Todesangst hummed merrily as he worked, his saw chewing through flesh, sinew, and bone with ease. Finder curled into a ball, whimpering apologies until the screaming stopped and the stallion collapsed with a heavy thud.

“Poor Sven,” Todensangst said, shaking his head and tossing the severed wing aside before returning his attention to Pathfinder. “I think you might have killed him Pfadfinder. What a terrible little Cirran you are to do that to a fellow legionary. Are you not like brothers to each other?”

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, fresh tears staining his cheeks. His hooves covered his head and he curled into a fetal position, oblivious to the world around him.

“Oh come now,” Todensangst said, crouching down and patting Finder’s head with a bloody talon. “Surely you must be stronger than that. You’re Nimban, after all.” He smiled at the weeping colt. “Isn’t that right, Pfadfinder?”

Forcing his eyes open, Pathfinder looked up at the apothecary. Behind the griffon he saw Dawn, her lips curled into a disgusted sneer. “Nimban?” she said, blood dripping from her lips and the hole in her neck. “What a disgrace.”

Panic gripped his heart like frozen talons and Pathfinder covered his head with his hooves, screaming for his mother.Todensangst rubbed his temple in a slow circle and let out a weary sigh.

“You’re weak, Finder,” Dawn sneered, circling around the colt. “You’ve always been weak.”

“Stop,” Finder pleaded, his voice scarcely more than a whimper.

“Your weakness nearly sapped the life from your mother,” Dawn said, walking around Pathfinder in a slow circle. “Your weakness frightened off your father’s love.”

“What is the matter, Pfadfinder?” Todesangst asked, his talons gently petting Finder’s mane. “Are you regretting what you did to poor Sven?” The griffon shook his head slowly. “It is too late to save him now, I’m afraid.”

“You’re cursed, Pathfinder,” Dawn continued, blood dribbling from her lips. “Cursed to kill everypony you ever loved. You’ll never know happiness. You’ll never know peace.” The dead mare scowled, her lips pulling back to reveal broken, yellow teeth. “Only misery will follow you for as long as you live.

“Please…” Finder begged. “Please stop…”

“Your weakness killed me,” the spectre continued, passing through Todesangst who motioned for a guard, “you killed Carver, Windshear, Summer, and your own precious brother.” She stopped to look down upon the broken colt. “You’d make a fine griffon.”

Finder curled into a tight ball, pain arcing through his broken wings at the motion. “Sorry... I-I’m sorry…”

Pathfinder shuddered and tried to curl his body tighter, but the strong claws of a griffon guard grabbed him and dragged him like a sheep to slaughter. His scream turned into a pained cry as the guard’s claws left jagged tears in his soft flesh. The griffon paid him no mind, grumbling to himself while he hauled the thrashing colt through the camp.

He carried Pathfinder to a large barn constructed of shoddy wooden planks hammered together with thick iron nails. There was no door to the building, only tattered strips of leather that had been nailed to the header board. Inside Finder saw almost fifty mares and stallions, all shackled by their necks to thick metal stakes hammered into the ground and walls. Most paid Finder no heed, their eyes glancing up at him only for a moment before drifting away.

His captor hesitated for a moment and searched the crowded barracks for an empty shackle. Spotting one, he tightened his grip on Pathfinder's neck and pulled him to the row nearest the entrance. There, between a golden-colored mare and a teal stallion, the griffon dropped Pathfinder. He wrapped his talons into a fist and punched the colt in the stomach, knocking the air from Finder's lungs.

Doubling over, Finder wheezed and choked on his cries. Indifferent to his pain, the griffon moved over him, his rear leg planting onto the small of Pathfinder’s back. He used his weight to hold the colt still while his talons groped for the shackles.

“He’s a kid, you son of a—” The teal stallion’s shout was cut short by the back of the griffon’s hand slapping across his broken wing. He crumpled to the dirt in a heap, cringing and grimacing from the pain.

It took the griffon a few moments to size the manacle for Finder’s thin neck, and he grumbled to himself the whole while. Even at its smallest the band was comparatively lose for Pathfinder, a small blessing that was lost on him at the moment.

"Immer krieg ich die beschissenen jobs," the griffon mumbled as he fitted the shackle to Finder. "Jaeger, tu dies. Jaeger, tu das. Jaeger bewach die stinkende Pony Hütte. Verdammter Gnade. Ich könnte auch stachelige Rüstung tragen und gefährlich aussehen!"

He gave the metal collar a sturdy tug to ensure Finder couldn’t wiggle his head free and left once he was sure the colt was secure. Finder hardly noticed, his hooves covering his head as he chanted a quiet mantra of apologies. To his right, the teal stallion stirred, cursing the griffon guard all the while.

“Fuckin’ bastards,” the teal stallion hissed, slowly working himself upright. “Kid? Hey, kid, are you okay?”

Finder shriveled tighter, his body shivering uncontrollably. The teal stallion reached out with his hoof, when a look from the golden mare on Finder’s opposite side stopped him. She scrutinized the colt for a moment before speaking.

“You, colt. You were with Skyhammer’s unit, were you not?”

Even in death, Skyhammer’s name made Finder’s ear’s perk and his throat clench. He looked up to the mare, his eyes widening slowly when he recognized her stern face and violet eyes. “C-Cent-turion A-Aurum?” He swallowed heavily, shaking his head in disbelief. “But...but y-your building! W-we saw you get o-overrun!”

Aurum nodded once. Without her polished armor and plumed helmet, Pathfinder scarcely recognized her. Her mane, normally kept in a tight bun, flowed wildly around her shoulders while her left wing was severed at the base. Thick bandages were stained with slowly drying blood and wrapped around her torso. “We were overrun. The hybrids cut my wing off and took me prisoner. My platoon...” Aurum’s eyes closed and her head dipped slightly. “They were granted the mercy of quick deaths." She looked up after a moment, her eyes training on Pathfinder once again. “What about Skyhammer and your platoon?”

A fresh shudder ran through Finder's body and he curled tighter. “Th-they’re all dead… S-Skyhammer…” Finder cringed, tasting bile in the back of his throat. “Th-they tore his th-throat out. M-my f-friends…” Finder choked on his words and buried his head in his forelegs. He saw the griffon’s beak piercing Dawn’s neck. He saw Carver and Summer disappear in the barrage of griffon artillery, and he saw his brother, desperately screaming as Magnus ripped his wings from his body.

Aurum lifted her hoof and placed it gently on top of Finder’ head. “Pull yourself together, soldier. We are not going to show the enemy our tears.”

“I strongly doubt they care about that,” the teal stallion said with a scoff.

“That is enough, Cloudburst,” Aurum reprimanded the stallion. Shaking her head and returning her attention to Pathfinder. “Up now, colt. What will you think of yourself tomorrow?”

“Aurum, the battle’s over, and we lost. Let the kid be, Gods know the rest of us aren’t feeling much better,” Cloudburst said, his chain clattering as he moved closer to Pathfinder.

The Centurion sighed and shook her head. Gritting her teeth, she slowly shifted onto her side, attempting to find any position that was a bit less painful to lay in. She drew in a slow breath and let her eyes drift closed, mumbling a soft prayer for the fallen.

“Mobius, Lord of Light, mercy be upon the souls of your soldiers. May your just vengeance fall upon those who have wronged them.

“Garuda, Lord of Honor, guide the souls fallen to the great skies. May they be granted the peace in death they were denied in this life, and through your grace may we see our families again.

“Galm, Great Healer, grant the wounded comfort and strength to endure.

“Lūn, Goddess of Secrets, lend us your resolve in the face of torment and guard our minds that the enemy may not break us.”

Several ponies joined Aurum in her prayers while still more dipped their heads in reflection.

Cloudburst’s gentle hoof stroked Finder’s head in an attempt to soothe the colt’s cries. While he could barely reach Finder from the short length of chain that held him to a lead weight, he tried nonetheless. He offered Pathfinder no pretty words or hollow platitudes. They wouldn’t have helped anyway.

Time passed slowly in their dingy barn. Most ponies kept to themselves. A few traded around the scraps of bandages they had been given in exchange for talking to interrogators. Aurum guided a few ponies through their prayers while Cloudburst did his best to comfort Pathfinder until the colt had cried himself to sleep.

As the twilight light filtered through the slats of the barn, Finder began to stir once again. He let out a dry cough, pain arcing through his body from even the small motions. Cloudburst awoke as well, blinking the sleep from his eyes and letting out a cough of his own.

“Hey, kid,” Cloudburst said, his voice quiet. “How you doing?”

“W-water…” Finder said, his voice raw. He cringed and whimpered, his broken wings twitching against his sides.

“Easy, easy,” Cloudburst said, motioning for Finder to rest with his hooves. He craned his neck and squinted his eyes in the rapidly dimming light. “Anypony got the water bucket?”

“It’s over here,” a mare shouted from across the room.

“Is there any left?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“Pass it over, would ya?”

Cirrans shuffled about, their hooves making dull clunks on the damp wood as they pushed it along the dirt floor. The scraping edged closer and closer for a few moments before the bucket came to Aurum. She stirred from the gentle doze she’d fallen into long enough to push the bucket towards Pathfinder.

“All right, just take a little,” Cloudburst said, his features lost in the dimming light. “Nice and easy.”

Pathfinder grasped the bucket in trembling hooves, pulling it to his muzzle. His tongue flicked out to moisten his parched lips and his hooves tilted the bucked down. Dipping his head in, he drank of the warm, foul tasting water like it was from the purest fountain in Dioda.

“Don’t take too much,” Cloudburst reminded him. “They might not give us more.”

Finder shriveled from the comment, swallowing a third mouthful before he released the bucket and slid it to Cloudburst. He coughed once again and nodded to the older stallion. “Th-thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Cloudburst said, wincing when he attempted to shrug. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Path... Pathfinder,” he answered between breaths.

Cloudburst smiled to him, though the gesture was lost in the darkness of the barn. “Good to meet you, Pathfinder. I’m Cloudburst. I’ll be your prison buddy for a while.”

Perhaps it was the exhaustion or blood loss, but Pathfinder laughed quietly from the glib jest. “Okay..."

"You from Nimbus?" Cloudburst asked

Pathfinder shook his head and wiped his lips on his foreleg. "Altus," he answered, his head dipping low and a sadness coming over him. "I'm from Altus."

"Altus... Altus..." Cloudburst clucked his tongue and rubbed at his chin. "Where's that?"

"It's right on the ocean, a few days flight from Stratopolis," Finder answered. His heart ached from the thought of his home. Pathfinder missed the sound of the sea, rolling waves crashing against the rocks and shoals. He missed the smell of his mother's cooking and the gentle songs she would hum while she worked. He even missed the pungent stench of his father's ale.

Cloudburst nodded slowly, letting the subject drop. He grunted uncomfortably while he shifted to a less painful position. Aside from the occasional cough, moan, or sniffle, an uneasy silence settled through the prisoners.

It was several minutes later when Aurum cleared her throat and took a deep breath before speaking. "Pathfinder, may I ask a favor of you?"

The colt glanced up, surprised by the question. His eyes burned and his throat clenched, but he had no tears left to shed. "Hm?"

Aurum lowered her head, her eyes closing. Her tone softened and her words came barely more than a whisper. “Will you forgive us? The Legion, that is.”

Pathfinder recoiled a little, the question surprising him. “Forgive? W-what for?”

Lifting her head, Aurum brought her eyes to Pathfinder’s. In her eyes he saw only pain and regret. “For not sending you away when we should have. Children should be safe at home, not malingering here with the beaten.”

Finder glanced away. He had no reply for Aurum. How could he when he had gotten his brother and his friends killed?

The crumple of leather and a sudden rush of light drew the attentions of the prisoners to the door. There, standing in the entrance was Gnade, his spiked armor silhouetted against the evening light and his hounds growling at the Cirrans. Pathfinder thought his heart might pound through his chest when their burning gaze set upon him.

Gnade’s eyes moved from pony to pony, the corners of his mouth slowly twisting upwards. He lifted his claws high, showing the tightly grasped ropes to the trapped ponies. Time seemed to slow as his claws opened and the ropes fell free of his grasp. His single command, though spoken in a gentle growl, rang through the prison louder than any shout.

"Esst!"

The beasts charged forward, their teeth bared and their lips bordered by thick foam. Panicked screams filled the hall as the chained Cirrans pulled in vain at their bonds in a desperate chance to escape. The dogs paid no attention to most of them, their eyes set upon Pathfinder. He wanted to flee, wanted to scream, but his body was paralyzed.

Golden hooves slammed into his side, sending him reeling into Cloudburst’s hooves. Aurum stood her ground, screaming wildly at the beasts. They leapt at her, teeth and claws sinking into her bloodied flesh. Aurum fought as best she could, her hooves shoving one of the beasts off, only for the other to bite into her foreleg and shake it’s head wildly. The other beast recovered almost instantly, it’s paws sending dirt and dust flying as it leapt for Aurum’s face.

“Aurum?” Finder coughed, his eyes looking towards the centurion. “Aurum?!”

Flesh tore.

Aurum screamed.

“Kid! Finder! Look at me! Look at me, now!” Cloudburst shouted, desperately calling to the colt. His shaking hooves clutched Finder’s cheeks, trying to get his eyes up.

“MAKE IT STOP!” Finder pleaded, screaming out to the gods themselves. “MAKE IT STOP!”

“Don't look!" Cloudburst shouted, his hooves covering Finder’s ears. "Think of Altus, think of the sea!"

Pathfinder clung to Cloudburst, doing his best to think of home. He tried to imagine the sound of waves crashing against the shore, the feel of the seagrass crunching under his hooves, and the smell of salt thick in the humid summer air.

It did nothing to drown out the bloodcurdling screams.

“Next one,” Summer called, tossing used bandaging into a kettle and wiping her hooves on a bloodstained rag.

The orderlies, who were mostly Nyxian volunteers, ushered Summer to another cot where an unconscious stallion lay, his neck wrapped in a thick bandage that was stained through with blood. Summer wiped her eyes on her foreleg and carefully lifted the bandages to examine the wounds. Frowning at the grisly sight and infected smell, she lowered the bandage and lightly tapped his cheek with her hoof.

“Hey,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. “Hey, can you hear me?”

When the stallion didn’t respond, Summer extended her wing, using her dexterous primary feathers to open his eye. Seeing no pupillary response she next pressed her ear to his chest and closed her eyes. For several seconds she listened before rising up and sighing.

Summer turned to the orderlies and shook her head. “He won’t be long. Take him outside, somewhere nice and let him at least have his last breaths be fresh air. One of you stay with him, keep him comfortable and bring a waterskin incase he wants a last drink. Take some hairs from his tail when he’s gone, ”

“Yes ma’am,” the first pony, a young mare with a white coat and rosie mane answered. Her counterpart, and orange stallion with a blue mane, frowned.

“What?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, his ears splaying out slightly. “But…” he sighed and shook his head. “But wouldn’t it be kinder to...help him along?”

Summer’s eyes went cold as the suggestion hit her like a cold bucket of water. “Get. Out.”

The orderlies both tensed and nodded, taking opposite ends of the dying stallion's cot and easing it out of the medical tent. Summer closed her eyes and let out a shaky breath, banishing from her mind the memories of the battle. She didn't have time to regret, not when there were countless more ponies that would die without care.

With a deep breath, Summer wiped her eyes again and glanced around for her next patient. In the hours after they had arrived in Nyx she’d organized all the medics she could to triage the wounded into three groups. Those who would live, those who would die, and those for whom immediate care might save them.

The dying, patients whose injuries were fatal regardless of treatment, were marked with a black X on their foreheads and given wine for the pain. The patients whose injuries were not life threatening were bandaged and sent to a secondary care area where the walking wounded would be put to work and the ones who couldn’t were given a place to rest and recover. The rest were marked with a red line on their brows, and their care had been given the most priority.

Far too many died regardless. There simply weren’t enough doctors and medics left.

‘If we just had a little more time, or a little more medicine...’ Summer lamented.

Bandages had been easy to replace. The citizens of Nyx had willingly given all the fabrics they could spare to the cause; bedding, robes, tapestries, they had given it all to the injured and the homeless. However, their generosity could only cover so much, and the thousands upon thousands of Nimban refugees coupled with the thousands of injured soldiers had far outstripped their resources. Without aid from the rest of Cirra, the situation would degrade rapidly.

Summer tried to push those thoughts from her mind. She couldn’t worry about food stocks or medicine. There were ponies to treat, ponies who would die without care. She would make do with the supplies she had. That was her way.

That was the Nimban way.

Willing her exhausted hooves to move, she made her way to the next bed where a young mare lay groaning. Summer wiped her eyes and shook her head. She forced herself to focus, to breathe and assess.

A stallion’s voice called to her from behind. “Summer?”

“Not now, Carver,” she growled, gently peeling the bandage from the mare’s head and inspecting the gash underneath.

“Yes now, Summer.” Carver said, approaching her with Windshear and Salve in tow. All three had turned their armor and weapons over to the local smiths for repairs. The armor that had saved their lives in Nimbus could only do so much though, and their bodies were decorated with bruises and small cuts. “You need to rest.”

“There’s still ponies to treat,” she answered mechanically. Her hoof gently stroked the young mare’s mane. “You’ll be fine,” she said to the groaning soldier. “We’ll take good care of you.”

“And I promise there will be more when you get back, but you need to rest. You haven’t slept or eaten in three days,” Carver said, a sadness in his tired eye. “You need some rest.”

“Carver,” Summer sighed and shook her head, finally turning to face him. “I can’t sleep. There’s too much to do.” She motioned to the rows of injured around them, their moans a terrible symphony in the evening air. “Too many injured, too little time.”

“Go, Summer, I can take over for a while.” Salve spoke up, forcing a smile.

Summer frowned, her eyes drifting to the splint around Salves left foreleg. “You can hardly walk, Salve. You should be resting.”

“With respect, Summer, you’re the last pony that gets to say who needs rest,” Salve shot back. “My wings work fine, and I’ve had a bit of sleep.”

“See, you’ve been relieved,” Windshear said, offering her a false smile. “Come on. You’re no use to anypony if you drop dead here and now.

“I’ll be fine,” Summer insisted, looking for a waterskin.

Carver stepped forward and put a hoof on her back, earning a fierce but weary glare from Summer. He held his ground, though, and carefully ushered her towards the city. “Salve is gonna stay here and take over, Summer. I’ve got a different assignment for you, and in this case it is an order.”

Summer growled again, though her weary body was beginning to betray her. “What?”

“I’m from here,” Carver explained, leading her out of the medical area with Windshear trailing a step behind to keep Summer from turning back. “My big sister, Nere, she’s had her first foal. Cute little filly too, name’s Aria. She’s about six months old, I think. Anyway, Nere was worried that she’s not eating enough.”

“She should see her normal doctor, then.” Summer said, walking alongside him.

Carver nodded in agreement. “She would, but he went to Stratopolis when the call to arms was issued. No idea where he is.” Carver looked to Summer, a small smile on his lips. “You like kids, Summer?”

“Yeah,” she answered in a quiet voice.

“So you’ll take a look at her?”

“...Yeah…”

Carver smiled again, his eye drifting down. “We all need a break from death.”

“It’s still burning,” Haze said, his voice barely more than a whisper. His gaze was cast out to the distant field where Nimbus had been. The dense plumes of black smoke that stained the sky had thinned significantly over the week since the final battle. Still, faint tendrils remained, twisting through the air in a morbid dance for the proud city.

Thorn looked up from the book she had been reading, her eyes glancing from Haze to the horizon. She sighed and gave a slow shake of her head. “Smouldering, maybe. More likely it’s hybrid forges scrapping metal for arms and armor.” She spat, lips curling into a sneer. “Assholes.”

Haze looked to Thorn with a raised eyebrow. “Are you saying we wouldn’t do the same if we took Angenholt?”

Folding the corner of the vellum page, Thorn tossed the book aside and drew her stiletto. The slender blade twisted through the air before she caught it with her opposite hoof. “This is the only blade I need. The only blade I’ll ever need.”

“One day you’re gonna tell me where you even got that thing,” Haze said, flicking a piece of dirt from his hoof.

Thorn’s wings rose and fell in a simple shrug as she slotted the blade into its sheath. She turned to look towards the bed where Iron Rain rested on her side, her head nestled on a soft pillow. The Legate’s flank was bruised black and purple where the warhammer had struck her and she had a similar bruise on her head from Red’s hoof. Since she had woken up in Nyx, she’d been a mere shell of the mare that her friends had known.

The governor of Nyx, a fat stallion with a mighty chin and a receding mane, had graciously allowed Rain to rest in his guest suite. He had been less thrilled when Haze and Thorn insisted on staying with her, but Thorn was nothing if not persuasive.

It was an ugly vase anyway.

“Think she’s sleeping?” Thorn asked,

Haze shook his head and frowned. “No.” A knock at the door drew his attention from the sullen mare. Haze grunted as he rose to his hooves and walked to the door. “I got it.” Pulling the door open, he quirked an eyebrow at the sight of a lanky stallion in scout’s armor. His canary coat was matted with sweat and stained black from ash.

“Is Legate Rain available?” the stallion asked.

“What do you need, soldier?” Haze asked.

“I need to speak to the Legate!” he said, his wings flapping at his sides. “It’s urgent!”

Haze shook his head. “I’ll be the judge of that, now tell me—”

“We’ve uncovered the location of a griffon prison camp!”

Iron Rain’s ears perked for the first time in a week and she pushed herself upright. She blinked a few times, her eyes dry and itching. “Haze,” she said, her voice rough. “Let him in.”

Stepping aside, Haze motioned for the scout to enter, which he did hurriedly. The scout offered Rain a curt salute which she returned with a small nod.

“What did you find?” Rain asked slowly.

“Ma’am,” he began with a gasp. “My patrol team was scouting near the hybrid lines. We were trying to get an idea of where their forces were massing after they took Nimbus.”

Rain winced almost imperceptibly, though Haze and Torn both spotted it.

The scout continued, oblivious to her reaction. “We ran into a hybrid scouting party and trailed them back to a large prison camp about a mile west of Nimbus. We spotted Cirrans in the camp and counted four tents where they were stuffed in at the end of the day.”

“What was the security?” Thorn asked.

“Moderate,” the scout answered. “I’d estimate maybe one-hundred guards, could be more though. We heard dogs barking too, though I couldn’t tell you how many of those they had.”

“Could you tell the condition of the prisoners?” Haze asked.

The scout shook his head and frowned. “No, sir. We couldn’t get that close.”

Thorn reached out with her hoof, gently shaking Rain’s shoulder. “What do we do, Rain?”

The Legate offered her no answer. She instead drew a deep breath through her nose as her hooves clutched at the sheet that covered her lower half.

Haze turned his attention from the scout to his oldest friend, concern furrowing his brow. “Iron?"

"What will you do now, Iron?”

Iron coughed, her sword clattering to the floor in front of her. The leather padding she wore for practice armor chafed her coat and made her movements stiff, especially in contrast to her brother, who wore the metal plates of a Centurion that had been fitted to his sturdy frame. It was far from the first of their training duels, and far from the first time Steel had amused himself by wiping the floors with her.

The difference was this was one of the rare times their father personally oversaw their training.

“Get up, Iron!” the tall stallion chided the filly. “You’ll never earn your name lying on your belly!”

“You’re hitting me too hard, Steel!” Iron shouted. Her small hooves pressed against the cloudstone, her muscles struggling to lift her weight.

Her brother frowned and took a step forward, disdain in his pale blue eyes. "You think a Griffon will hold back?" he shouted, kicking her in the ribs and sending her tumbling across the empty training hall. "You're weak, Iron! You will always be weak!"

"Shut up," Iron hissed through gritted teeth. Her hoof grasped at her sword and dragged it to her mouth. Biting down on the leather-wrapped grip, she forced herself onto her hooves and looked her brother in the eye. "I'll show you," she said in a breathless growl. "I'll show you I'm a Rain too!”

She charged forward, her small wings aggressively outstretched and her blade angled low, the tip nearly scraping the polished floor. Steel took a breath and angled the tip of his sword to the ceiling, waiting for the filly to slash. When she did he brought his sword down with all his might, knocking the blade from her mouth and sending her head over hooves across the floor.

Iron groaned and coughed, biting back a curse as the heavy steps of her brother’s hooves approached her. He stopped and lowered his blade, the dented, blunt steel tracing her side from flank to cheek. Twisting the blade in his mouth, he gently slapped her cheek with the flat side, making her wince in shame.

“You’re too predictable,” he told her, his voice a low rumble. “And now you’re dead, Iron.”

“Enough,” Winter decreed. “Steel, thank you. Please put the swords back in the armory and speak with Downburst. He has work for you to attend to."

Steel bowed his head low before gathering the blunted swords under his left wing. He paused in front of his sister, looking down at her with a soft frown. “Keep that fire in your eyes, Iron,” he said, reaching out with a hoof to pat her back. “One day you’ll be worthy of the name Rain.”

Iron said nothing.

Bowing once more to their father, Steel sauntered out of the room, whistling to himself as he pushed through the heavy doors and into the palace square. Winter’s eyes followed his son and waited for the heavy doors to close before he approached the still filly.

Iron winced at hearing her father’s steps approach her. He sat down beside her and drew his hoof around her side, scooping her up to a sitting position with her weight leaning against him. “You’re improving, Iron.”

Again she held her tongue, her eyes downcast and burning with shame.

“What troubles you, Iron?” Winter asked after several moments of silence. “You should not be ashamed to lose this fight. Your brother is a mighty stallion.”

“I hate my name.”

“Oh?” Winter tilted his head, an amused smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “Now why’s that?”

“Iron’s weak,” she groused, kicking the floor with her hoof. “Steel is stronger.”

“Steel may be stronger than iron, little wing. But it is rigid and fragile when wielded improperly. Iron is flexible, it can be shaped to best suit the needs of the time, be that a sharp sword or a sturdy ploughshare. It is the element core to the foundations of civilization, and flows through the blood of all living things. It is the bone of the Gods themselves, my daughter, and above all it is the most precious element.”

Winter smiled and nodded to Iron, his wing unfurling to drape across her back. “Now, little one, what are the words of our house?”

“Siccitates omnes in Imbre desinunt.” Iron answered without a moment’s pause.

“That’s right.” Winter nodded once. “Now, Iron, can you tell me what they mean?”

“All droughts end in Rain.”

“That is what they say, but not what they mean, Iron.”

Her gaze turned up to her father and her brows pinched together in confusion. “Dad?”

“We are Nimbans, Iron. Famed for our tenacity in war above all else. In the cities and towns of Cirra we are considered wild barbarians, scarcely more civilized than the griffons on our doorstep.” Winter allowed himself a gentle sigh, his hoof reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose. “War is the most terrible inferno, Iron. Left unchecked it will consume all in its path: the righteous, the wicked, and all the innocents caught up in the flames.

“To be a Rain is to bear the burden of a promise. A promise that we will suffer the inferno, so that our people will sleep safe for another night. We will throw ourselves into it with glee. All this so that the droughts will be broken, the fire smothered, and peace may thrive."

Iron’s ears drooped and her brows scrunched together. “I think I understand, Dad.”

Winter smiled, his wing gently squeezing her. “One day, Iron, you will. You will.”

“Siccitates omnes in Imbre desinunt.” Iron whispered.

Thorn tilted her head slightly. "Rain?"

“Scout, what was your name?” Rain asked, her eyes locking with the stallion’s.

“Sunny, ma’am,” he answered, standing up straighter at the question.

Iron Rain gave him a curt nod and pushed the covers off. With a pained growl she slipped from the bed and limped towards him. Thorn stayed close at her side, just in case she needed the assistance. “I have a new task for you, Sunny.”

“Name it, Ma’am.”

“Fly to Stratopolis and find Senator Dicentus Celsus. Tell him that the Legate of Nimbus needs to speak with him immediately. Our people need to be moved away from the front and the Nimban Militia is in need of provisions.” She saluted the scout with a hoof and smiled. “Now fly!”

“By your command, Legate Iron Rain.” Sunny saluted her before leaping out the open window and taking flight for Stratopolis.

"Thorn, Haze: assemble every Nimban able to fight." Rain said, limping over to the weapons rack. Her sword had been left at Nimbus after Red had knocked her out "We're going to bring our brothers and sisters home."

Smiles pulled at the lips of her friends, and in unison they answered her. “By your command.”

“Is there any water left?” Cloudburst asked, coughing dryly as he panted on the floor.

Pathfinder groaned, forcing himself upright and checking the bucket nearest him. The bottom had a few drops left, dirty and warm, but wet enough to drink. He slid the bucket to Cloudburst, who took it in a hoof and tipped the bucket up to his lips, swallowing what little was left.

“Thanks, kid,” Cloudburst mumbled, lowering his head onto his foreleg and closing his eyes.

Finder grunted, too tired to talk. He couldn’t remember how many days it had been since the battle. An hour could well have been an eternity in the camp. There, time was measured in beatings and torture.

It had been two beatings since he’d woken up and Todesangst had pulled three of his primary feathers for quills. He screamed when the first two were plucked, but managed to hold his tongue for the third one. The single bite of bread he’d been given in exchange had seemed worth the effort at the time.

He couldn’t remember the last full meal he’d had. None of them could. The best they could hope for was watery soup that tasted vaguely of meat and occasionally had grass floating in it. If a pony was lucky they got an old leaf. Every pony that hadn’t died already could count their ribs, and a few had taken to trying to catch the rats that nipped at their hooves in the night. Even Pathfinder was starting to come around to the idea. A meal, even a bite of rat, would have been preferable to the pain of hunger that settled in his gut.

There were rumors that in one of the other barns the griffons had made Cirrrans fight to the death for a chunk of bread or scrap of meat. Pathfinder hadn’t seen it, and the ponies that had been in those tents refused to speak of it.

“Hey,” Cloudburst grunted, “Hey, Finder.”

“What?” Finder grunted, not bothering to open his eyes.

“Do you think griffons taste like chicken?”

Muted chuckles rose from the couple dozen ponies left in their prison. Even Pathfinder couldn’t help a smirk as he cracked an eye open and looked to Cloudburst. “Never thought about it.”

Cloudburst licked his lips and snickered. “You should. Those big, juicy, meaty wings brazed over an open flame? Perhaps cooked with some onions or garlic and a dash of wine?” The stallion shivered from the thought. “I bet they’re delicious.”

“You’re really not helping,” whined a mare behind them.

“Oh, come on,” Cloudburst said with a weary laugh. “You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it once or twice yourself.”

“Fuck off,” she growled.

Pathfinder nuzzled into his forelegs and tried to get comfortable. His wings had swollen where they had been broken and the constant burning ache had kept him awake for all but a precious few hours of sleep. He supposed he should be glad that he had been too tired to dream.

He didn’t want to dream anymore.

Sleep, or the nearest thing to it, had almost taken Finder when the sound of laughter approached their prison. Fear clutched at the surviving pegasi; the laughter of a griffon never boded well. Through the leather sheet that made up their door stumbled a trio of griffons, their armor and weapons removed and their bodies reeking of alcohol.

“Now what?” Cloudburst growled, forcing himself into a sitting position.

Finder mirrored the stallion’s actions. Rare was the time when a pony went unpunished for not standing when their captors entered the room. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as a sense of dread welled in his gut.

The griffons almost didn’t seem to notice where they were for a time, too busy laughing at a joke nopony could understand and fewer would want to. When the hybrid eyes turned to the Cirrans, Pathfinder felt his hooves take a step back.

There was hunger in their eyes.

‘Run!’ the voice in his head screamed, ignorant of the heavy shackle around his neck.

“Can we help you fine gentlemen this evening?” Cloudburst asked, the sarcasm thick in his tone.

They shambled forward, eyes drifting from pony to pony in the dark room. Finder envied the ponies in the back, the few that were still alive were well hidden in the shadows while he and Cloudburst were the only two left up front. One griffon reached out with its talons and cutched Cloudburst’s jaw, inspecting him like market produce before shoving him to the ground.

Panic seized Finder’s mind, and he turned away from the beasts in a desperate attempt to run. His chain stopped him after only a few short feet, the steel band choking him and making him stumble to the floor. He coughed once and tried to pull at the chain, only to feel a hard pull on his tail drag him back.

“Hey,” Cloudburst shouted, scrambling back up to his hooves. “Let the kid go!”

One of the griffons snickered at Cloudburst’s anger and patted him on the head.

The former legionarysmacked the claws away with his hoof. “I said let the kid g—” His words were cut off as he crumpled to the floor in a heap, his hooves clutching his right eye where the griffon had punched him.

A second griffon circled around Pathfinder, it’s talons tracing over his body as it appraised him. Looking at the one holding his tail, the griffon nodded. Hooked talons sunk into Finder’s flanks and pulled him back...

Pathfinder's words faltered, his hooves shaking and his eyes wide. The silence that filled the Legate’s Lookout hung heavily in the air. It hung over the few ponies that remained like a pall that threatened to smother the heat even from the flames that danced in the soot encrusted hearth.

“Gods…” Stalwart uttered with a horrified whisper.

Cirrus’ hooves covered her mouth and for the longest time she stared at Pathfinder, unable to find the words. Finally she reached out to him, her small hoof resting on his shoulder. He jumped at the touch, turning to face her with wide, panicked eyes. Cirrus pulled her hooves away as though she’d been scalded.

“I…” Pathfinder swallowed heavily, his face looking pale and his trembling growing worse. “Excuse me,” he said quickly, stumbling off of his chair and towards the door.

Stalwart and Cirrus exchanged a glance and followed after him at a distance, neither wanting to get too close for fear of setting the old stallion off. They paused at the door leading out to the cold Cloudsdale night, listening as the old stallion began to vomit.

Brothers in Arms

Wood crackled in the flames of the Lookout's hearth, filling the air with the fragrant scent of burning maple logs. Pathfinder sat beside the flames, the orange light dancing in his tired eyes. He only looked up when Cirrus offered him a cup of tea that filled the air with the scent of fragrant jasmine.

“Thank you,” Pathfinder said, offering a small, but genuine smile to Cirrus. “You know, I was scared of fire for the longest time,” the old stallion said, his voice barely more than a scratchy whisper. He held up his right foreleg, showing Stalwart a small patch of gray flesh where no fur grew. “I made the mistake of saying I was cold once. Todesangt, he took a candle from his desk,” Finder said, the wooden chair creaking as he leaned forward and swiped at an invisible candle. “He grabbed my hoof and held it just over the flame until he was sure I didn’t know where the legions were moving.”

Stalwart flinched from the thought and refocused his gaze on the old stallion. “Pathfinder…”

“You really lose track of time when you’re in pain,” Finder continued while his hoof moved to rub at a faded triangular scar between his neck and shoulder. “A second feels like an hour, a minute feels like a week.” The old stallion laughed bitterly. “Let me tell you, son, it doesn’t make it hurt any less when a griffon is twisting your blood feathers.” Pathfinder said, lifting the mug in his hooves and swiftly guzzling the entire thing. “I knew it was only eight days, of course, but I never really knew it months later.”

“How?”

Pathfinder didn’t look to Stalwart, his attention focused on a gash in the wooden table. He had put it there himself a long time ago. Such a very long time ago.

"Finder?"

Zwei and Ensis need to be oiled and sharpened, Finder thought as he rolled the flesh of his cheek between his teeth.

Cirrus gently nudge Finder’s shoulder. “Songbird?

"Hm?” Finder seemed jarred by the touch, his eyes glancing about the room before setting on Cirrus. “Oh, I’m sorry, Cirrus, my dear. Where was I?”

“The boy asked you a question.”

"Hmm? Pathfinder's gaze shifted from Cirrus to the guardspony. “I’m sorry, son, what was it you said?”

"How...how did you escape?" Stalwart repeated, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. “How did anypony survive that?”

"There was no escape, Stalwart," Pathfinder said, his eyes downcast while his wings and shoulders sagged.

"Then how are you here?"

Finder took a sip of his tea and let out a sigh. “All droughts end in rain.”

Carver stared into the warm mug of ale in his hooves, his thoughts drifting aimlessly like the ponies around him. Summer and Windshear sat with him, both also nursing full mugs with nary a sip taken from them. They had left two empty seats at their table. One beside Carver, the other between Summer and Windshear. On occasion one would glance up, perhaps to catch the attention of another, but quickly glance down again. The same could be said for the many other soldiers that filled the bar. Some wore their armor, cleaned as best it could be after the battle of Nimbus, while others had shirked off their gear at the earliest possible moment, all too eager to rid themselves of the burdens of the Legion.

Carver hefted his mug to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of ale. It tasted like ash on his tongue. "Summer?"

The mare acknowledged him with a simple glance up from her drink.

"Thank you," he said, offering her a smile. "For helping my sister."

Summer's gaze softened, if only a little before, she nodded to him. "You're welcome," she said, raising her mug to her lips and taking in a mouthfull of ale. "Thanks... for asking, I mean."

A smile blossomed on Carver's lips, and the one eyed stallion felt almost giddy at the meagre response. Seeing his mother's smile when he had come home alive was one thing, seeing the smile of Summer was quite another. "She's doing better," he said after a moment's pause. Hefting his own drink to his lips, Carver swallowed a mouth of ale before continuing. "Mal says that she's much more comfortable now."

"Good," Summer said with a small nod. "That's very good. She'll need to rest more though, she does too much for a mare that far along."

"Hah, try telling her that," Carver said with a ghost of a smile.

A slow shrug of her wings was all the answer Summer could muster for him. He watched as she lifted her ale to her lips and took a small sip into her mouth. Judging by the light frown that pulled the corners of her mouth downwards, the ale tasted no better to her than it had for him.

“I never asked, but do either of you have siblings?” asked Carver, his eye flicking from Summer to Windshear and back.

Summer answered with a shake of her head.

“Can’t rightly tell you,” Windshear said, his feathers ruffling when he shrugged his wings. “I was told I was neither the first nor last of my father’s bastards. Haven’t met any of ‘em, though.”

“Where are you from, anyway, Shear?” Carver asked.

Chuckling to himself, Windshear shook his head before answering. “My mother was from Stratopolis, but I don’t know where I was born. She traveled a lot and always took me with her.” Pausing, he took a moment to consider before he continued. “My first memories are from Pileus, but I’ve been to most every city in the Empire.”

The idea of having no real family base confused Carver, and his head dipped slightly towards his shoulder. “Surely you must’ve had grandparents or cousins or something.”

Again Windshear shrugged. “Probably, but Mom never spoke of them, so...yeah. It was just us. That’s why I volunteered to join the Legion the minute this damn war broke out.” Looking up, Windshear’s eyes found Carver’s and a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Nothing better than a brother or sister in the Legion, right?”

“I suppose, but...well, what about your mother?” Carver asked.

Windshear shrugged. “What about her? She’s been dead for damn near three years.”

“Oh,” Carver said, his wings ruffling and his ears flicking back. “Sorry.”

“Nothing you gotta be sorry for, Carver,” Windshear said with an earnest smile. “You two, Dawn, the kid, you’re like the siblings I never had.”

Carver’s eye drifted to the empty seat at his side, and then to the one between his friends. He felt his heart sink. Dawn’s melodic voice no longer teased and prodded in tune with Summer’s. Finder no longer hid behind his wing, his eyes sparkling with curiosity and a drive for adventure.

It’s your fault, whispered the voice in the back of his mind as he took another drink of the ash flavored brew.

“He was fourteen,” Carver said, placing his mug on their table with a gentle tap. “Finder, I mean.”

“I know,” Summer said, her eyes remaining fixed on her own drink. “He told Dawn. She told me.”

Windshear looked to Summer with a bit of a smile. “They were a cute pair.” Windshear couldn’t help but chuckle as he pushed his drink aside. “You two remember when we first got to Nimbus? How he fluttered after her when she told him she was gonna show him around? I’ve never seen a kid so enchanted.”

“Oh Gods.” Carver shook his head and chuckled. “Hey, Summer, how’d you meet Dawn, anyway?”

Summer was quiet for a few moments, her eyes gazing into the dull reflections that danced on the surface of her ale before she spoke. “We grew up together. Her father, a stallion named Galen, is a brilliant doctor. Taught me everything I know, as a matter of fact,” Summer said, her eyes lighting up just a bit at the thought of those halcyon days. “When father was away at political events, Galen would take me to watch surgeries. I was...” Summer paused and clucked her tongue for a moment, one eye closing as she thought. “Five or six when I saw my first one. Dawn...” Summer’s ears drooped back slightly. “She couldn’t have been more than four.” Sighing heavily, Summer ran a hoof through her mane and sniffed again. "What about Finder? Where'd you pick him up?"

"I ran into him in Stratopolis," Carver answered, smiling just a bit when he recalled that day. "I was rushing around looking for the recruiting office, and then this little stick of a colt wandered right into my path.” The stallion chuckled, his head shaking slowly and his shoulders sagging. “I ran right over him and didn’t even realize what happened until I hear this little voice shouting ‘you’re squishing me!’”

Windshear snorted, his own head shaking at the thought of it. “Yeah, that sounds like the kid.”

“And he starts hounding me to get him in,” Carver said with a laugh. "Just on, and on, and on... and... and..." A trembling breath escaped Carver and he slumped forward in his seat. "Gods..." he said with a shudder, his hooves grasping at his temples. "Gods, why... why didn't I tell him to get lost?"

"Because you're a fool," Summer said, earning a scornful glare from Windshear that she ignored. She sighed and ran a hoof through her mane before leaning over to place a hoof on Carver's shoulder. "Look at me, Carver."

After taking a moment to collect himself, Carver lifted his head until his eye caught hers. He had expected an admonishment, perhaps in the form of a slap or speech about his weakness. Instead all he saw in her emerald eyes was regret.

“This war made fools of us all,” she said, her ears folding slightly back. Her lips pulled into a tight frown and her nose seemed to crumple as she sniffled once.

Carver didn’t need to guess what she was thinking about. He took his mug in his right hoof and reached up with his left where he placed it over Summer’s. “To Dawn,” he toasted, lifting the drink off the worn table.

“To Pathfinder,” Summer answered, lifting her mug to meet his.

“To Nimbus,” Windshear said last, his mug clunking against theirs.

As one, the three pegasi tipped their cups back and swallowed another mouthful of ale. Carver’s mug hit the table first, followed by Windshear's. Summer took a second, then a third drink before her mug joined theirs.

“How’s your eye?” she asked.

Carver shrugged his wings before answering. “Still blind.”

Summer motioned him close with a hoof. “Come here.”

“You’re not gonna slap me again, are you?” Carver asked with a knowing grin.

“Carver, shut up and take off the bandage.”

He chuckled softly but soon reached up with his hooves to feel around for the knot that held the filthy gauze to his face. Before he could find it, however, the door to the bar kicked open, drawing the attentions of everypony present within. A white on gray stallion marched in, wearing his damaged Nimban armor proudly.

“By the order of The Legate of Nimbus, Iron Rain,” the stallion declared for the entire room to hear. “All the Shields of Nimbus able to fight are to assemble at the parade grounds on the east side of Nyx.”

A dozen chairs scraped across the stone floor as ponies stood to answer the call. Carver watched the tremor in Windshear’s muscles and the tense frown that pulled at his lips. Summer, too, had stood, her wings twitching at her sides.

“S’cuse me, sir,” Windshear said, pushing himself quickly to his hooves and looking to Haze. “Think you got room for a Cirran?”

Haze’s eyebrow arched upward and his head cocked to the side. “Well, I'll be damned, Windshear, was it?"

"Yes sir," Windshear answered, smiling a bit. "We gonna kill some of the hybrid bastards?"

“Damn right we are.” Haze nodded his head. "We’ve discovered a griffon labor camp, and you can bet your ass we’re gonna flay every last hybrid there. Long as your Centurion can spare you, then you’re welcome to the party.”

Carver didn’t bother to look at Windshear before he stood up. “I’m his Centurion, he can go if I can.”

“The more the better,” Haze said, the scales of his wingblades scraping together when he shrugged. “Anypony else?”

Silence, thick as pitch greeted Haze’s ears. He frowned and drew a deep breath into his lungs. “Nimbans, move out,” he ordered as he turned and disappeared out the door once again.

Carver looked to his ale and almost reflexively reached out to finish it before he caught himself. His hoof hesitated just behind the wooden tankard, and after a moment’s thought he pulled it away. “No,” he said to himself, running to catch up to Summer who had already made it to the door. “You got all you need?” he asked her quickly.

“There’s no bandages left in the city,” Summer answered with a scowl. “All I got is some shredded blankets and the vinegar and wine your mother gave me as payment.”

“I might still have my emergency kit in my haversack,” Windshear said, trotting up beside Summer. “No promises on that though."

Summer made a curt snort, but it was Carver who spoke first. “All right, get your gear and we’ll meet at the Pillar of Roamulus, ten minutes. Wind,” he said, looking to the pale-blue stallion. “You’re gonna be my wingpony, so find yourself a good spear and watch my blind-side. Summer—”

“I’ll be with the Nimban medical team,” she answered instantly. “And I damned well better not see either of you until this battle’s over.”

Carver nodded. “Same goes for you, Summer.”

Summer could only scoff as she moved out of the bar and took to the skies.

In the fields outside of Nyx, Iron Rain sat on a small hill that looked over to the empty skies where Nimbus had been. She drew in a deep breath, which she held for several moments before she could hold it down no longer. Her eyes grew dark and her jaw clenched tight, and she forced herself to swallow the knot that formed in her throat.

Weakness was the last thing she could afford now.

Forcing her gaze away from the empty sky, Rain limped towards the opposite end of the hill, her rear leg stiff and colored purple from the hybrid’s warhammer. She bit back a curse and pushed forward, coming to a stop when she could see her ad hoc legion assemble. Thorn, who had been milling there for several minutes, glanced at Rain’s leg.

“That thing gonna slow you down?” asked Thorn as she casually picked at her left hoof with the tip of her stiletto. “Because if it is, you’d be better off staying back.”

Rain’s tail gave an irritated flick. “Not today, Thorn.”

“It’s a fair question, Rain,” she said, inspecting her hoof boredly. “You’re not in fighting shape right now.”

“I said shut up,” Rain said with a growl. "Or are you gonna suckerpunch me now?"

Thorn looked over, her eyes locking with Rain’s for a few moments before she glanced away. “We had our orders, Rain,” she said quietly. “Haze, me, both of us would do it again.” Her lips pulled down into a frown. “So would Red and Stone.”

Rain scoffed and shook her head. “I have a duty to Nimbus, just as you do, Thorn." She turned to face her friend. "And it sure as Hell isn't popping out foals so the damned line continues."

Sheathing her blade, Thorn stood and walked to Rain where she placed a hoof on the Legate's shoulder. "It's not getting killed for glory either. We need you alive, Rain. Not just Nimbus or your father’s memory, but your people, Haze, and me. I’m sorry, Rain, but you’re not someone we can afford to lose."

Rain's hoof mirrored Thorn's and gently clacked against the cold steel of her armored shoulder. "I know," she said in a gentle tone, "but I have to do this. Do you understand?”

A sigh was all Thorn could muster. “Rains,” she mumbled with a shake of her head. “I’m not pretending to be you if you get stabbed in the neck.”

Despite everything, Rain couldn’t help but snort with amusement at the quip. “You’re not tall enough,” she shot back. “And you’d need to learn how to use a proper sword over that needle you call a blade.” She glanced towards Nyx just as Haze flew over and came to a landing just in front of her. “How many?” she asked.

“I found about a hundred, plus a couple Cirran volunteers,” he answered after a quick salute.

A single eyebrow arched upwards on Rain’s head. “Cirrans, huh?”

“Mmhmm.” Haze nodded and grinned “And you’ll never guess who I found, Rain.”

Rain simply blinked, her lips turned down in an impatient frown.

Haze held his grin for several long seconds before he forced a laugh. “Remember the runt Red found in that closet? The spearpony, I mean.”

It took Rain a few moments to think before she snorted, her frown turning to a bemused grin. “Red’s pet Cirran?”

“Mmhmm.” Haze nodded with a swish of his tail. “Alive and kicking.”

“I’ll be damned,” Rain said, shaking her head with an amused smirk. “What was his name?”

Thorn spoke first, which earned an annoyed glower from Haze. “Windshear.”

“I see,” Rain said, her hoof thoughtfully scratching her cheek. “He survived where the rest of his centuria was destroyed.”

“You’re not seriously thinking of offering a Cirran a place in the Storm, are you?” Thorn asked with an incredulous look.

“Red was a bastard,” Rain said as she turned to Thorn. “But there wasn’t a pony alive with a better eye for talent on the battlefield."

“But—”

“Thorn!” Rain snapped, her fearsome glare forcing Thorn to flinch away. Nodding to her, Rain looked again at the formation as the last troops formed into line. Together, Haze and Thorn had found her almost three hundred soldiers. Less than she had hoped for, but still good given the short time they had to organize. “Haze,” she said without looking to the stallion. “We’ll divide into three sections. You’re the right wing, Thorn, you’re the left. I’ll take the center.”

“What’s our plan?” Thorn asked, her tone flat as she walked up to Rain’s side.

Rain took two steps forward, stopping at a patch of bare dirt. She scraped her hoof back and forth across it to brush away small twigs as well as the natural contours of the earth. Her wing then stretched out, and with the featherknife of her wingblade she drew a small circle in the ground. “This is the camp,” she said, glancing at Thorn and haze to ensure they were paying attention before drawing an X to the west. “This is Nyx. I’ll take my forces and hit them head on,” Rain began, her bladed wing scratching a line from Nyx to the camp.

“Haze, I want you to take your wing and hit them hard from the right. We’ll push them east and make room for the medics to get to the prison barns.” She looked to Thorn and grinned. “Thorn, you move your forces here,” she said, drawing a small line along the griffon’s retreat path. “There’s heavy cloud coverage today, so you should be able to get in place unobserved. Once there, wait until we’re heavily engaged and the griffons start to fall back. Then you sweep in with your forces...” Rain slashed her wingblade through the ground, leaving a deep scar in the dirt. “And crush them.”

“No prisoners, I presume?” Haze asked.

To her own surprise, the question gave Iron Rain pause. She found herself chewing on the inside of her cheek and questioning what was the right decision. A week ago she had ordered no prisoners. But that had been a different battle, and Nimbus had fallen all the same. “If…” she began slowly, the words tasting foul on her tongue. “If they surrender, take them captive. We can trade them to Gold Moon for medicine, bandages, and a better location." Rain smirked a bit and glanced up at Haze. "Plus I'd bet my wings the interrogators would love to get their hooves on some live hybrids.”

"I think I'd like to get my hooves on one a bit more," Haze growled, his tail twitching and a ghost of a grin on his lips.

“Soon, my friend," Rain said, standing up and looking to her waiting troops. She could hear the muted conversations they carried out and could almost imagine what they were saying. "No reserve for this fight," Rain said as she stepped forward to her troops. "The scouts and pickets report no other griffon movement in the area, meaning they're just as tired as we are after Nimbus. So we're gonna run over them with everything we've got and get this over with in a single strike. And Thorn," she turned to the smaller mare. "Make sure they don't get a single messenger out. Leave at two dozen Ekdromoi in the clouds. Make sure they understand that their role is to only attack fleeing griffons."

Thorn offered a curt nod. "By your command."

Rain turned her attention back to Haze and gave him a simple nod. With that he stood up straighter, marched to the front of the assembled soldiers, and bellowed out in a rough voice, “Nimbans, form your ranks!”

Silence fell instantaneously across the assembled troops, and in only a moment they had formed three tight columns of almost one hundred soldiers apiece. Rain gave them a moment, partially to let them settle, but more to let her feel the pride settle in her breast at the site of the Nimbans—of her Nimbans. With a simple breath, Iron Rain stepped forward to address her troops.

“Brothers… sisters,” Rain said, her voice echoing over the silent legion assembled before her. “For the past week you have endured in the face of the unendurable. The greatest defeat in Nimban history. But today, I stand here to tell you that I consider myself the luckiest mare on the face of Cirra. For I have walked through the fields of battle for as long as I can remember, and always I have seen the pride of our nation.”

Rain paused, her icy gaze scanning the faces in the crowd before her. “When you look around,” she continued, her words slow and carefully chosen. “How could you not consider it a privilege to fight alongside the finest soldiers to ever take to the field of battle?” She took a step closer to her soldiers, grimacing from the pain in her leg. Haze and Thorn followed without hesitation, but made no move to support her. “There isn’t a mare or stallion among you that doesn’t know the pain of sacrifice, nor the thrill of victory. And there isn’t a single one of you that wouldn’t give your last breath for the pony at your side.”

Rain shook her head and began to pace, forcing the pain in her leg to the back of her mind. “Today, my friends, we will show the hybrids that Nimbus is not defeated yet. Today we will attack and rescue our countrymen who our enemy has shackled! We will not allow our brothers and sisters to suffer! We will not stand for even a single drop of pegasus blood to be spilt!” Rain drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, fire seeming to burn in her eyes.

“Brothers,” she said, extending her right wing towards Haze. “Sisters.” Her left wing opened towards Thorn. “Nimbus is more than cloudstone, forges, and monuments. Nimbus is more than titles and past glories. Nimbus is a promise. A sacred promise from Kataigismós herself that we few will bear! A promise to smother the flames of war and safeguard the sons and daughters of Cirra from the monsters that nip at our hooves!”

Rain clutched at the hilt of her borrowed sword with her hoof and tore it from the black leather scabbard it wore. “Who among you will answer the call?”

“Ahhooh!” her legion shouted, their hooves stomping against the cold earth.

“Who among you will keep the sacred promise?”

“Ahhooh!” they shouted again, louder than before.

Rain grinned and pointed her blade to the east. “Then sound the horns and call the cry!”

“How many of them can we make die!” her legion answered her, their voices echoing across the fields of Nyx.

“Nimbans!” Rain called, leaping into the air and flapping her powerful wings to gain altitude. “Fly now! Fly for the fallen, fly for those we’ve left behind, and for all the souls yet unborn! Center, on me!”

"Right wing, on me!" Haze shouted as he took to the skies as well, a hoof motioning for his column to follow.

"Left wing, on me!" Thorn shouted last, throwing her hoof into the air as she took flight.

The three wings separated at once, the simple maneuver drilled into their heads from the day they were old enough to fly. Haze and Thorn exchanged a nod with Rain before they split off with their soldiers flying in formation behind. Rain smiled and powered forward with her regiment.

Nimbus was gone, but she would ensure it would never be forgotten.

Cloudburst wiped his foreleg across his eyes and sniffled quietly. His jaw ached and his right eye was swollen completely shut from the beating he’d received from the three hybrids. His hoof moved up after finishing with his eyes, running through his mane and gingerly feeling the tender lump behind his right ear that one of the griffons had given him. Still, all of his pain he would have traded in an instant to spare the shattered colt beside him.

A painful, shuddering breath escaped Pathfinder, and he trembled on the ground where he lay in blood and vomit. Cloudburst had done his best to clean the colt up, but with no water and only shreds of filthy cloth bandages, there had been little he could do. Taking a deep breath, he reached out and delicately placed his hoof on Finder’s mane, petting the unconscious pegasus. He doubted it helped Pathfinder, but he doubted anything short of a miracle from the Gods above would help anymore.

Thunder rumbled from the skies he couldn’t see and a solitary griffon walked into the prison. Cloudburst caught a brief glimpse of two guards outside the door wearing black armor with elaborate silver trim that mirrored the armor of the griffon standing in the entryway. It took Cloudburst a few moments to recognize the ravenlike hybrid as the master of the camp, and he felt his anguish give way to fury.

In Schäfer’s right talon, he carried a large metal bucket that sloshed with water. On his left side was sheathed the zweihander he carried seemingly everywhere. The blade was nearly as long as Cloudburst was, nose to tail, and seemed like a surprisingly plain weapon for a hybrid of his stature. He stayed near the door a moment, a look of revulsion on his face from the smell of the barn. After a few moments, however, he stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Pathfinder.

"Get back!" Cloudburst screamed at Schäfer, seething hate at the dark griffon officer. He forced himself into a standing position, though his right foreleg hurt too badly to bear any weight. “I swear to whatever miserable gods you monsters believe in that I’ll kill you if you touch him!”

Schäfer held up an empty talon, his face bearing the smallest of frowns. "Peace, soldat. I seek only—”

“Haven’t you monsters done enough?” Cloudburst seethed at the griffon officer. “Feed us alive to the dogs, work us to death digging graves and cutting rock with nothing but our hooves?” the legionary spat, eyes full of hatred for the griffon officer. “Wasn’t that fun enough for you bastards anymore?”

“Monsters!” a mare’s voice shouted from the back of the barn.

“You fucking animals!” screamed a stallion.

“Gods curse you all!”

The surviving ponies cursed, spat, and screamed. Their chains rattled and their hooves pounded on the cold earth below. Schäfer did not flinch from their anger. He kept his attention focused on the ravaged colt splayed out on the cold earth. He moved closer, setting the bucket onto the floor. Schäfer sighed and shook his head at the sight of the colt and sat on his haunches beside him.

”Es tut mir so leid, mein kleiner,” Schäfer said quietly, his talons grasping the rim of the bucket and dragging it closer.

Tears dripped down Cloudburst's cheeks and his jaw began to tremble. “He's just a kid…” Cloudburst said, his voice dropping to a whimper. The stallion shook his head and clenched his eyes shut, trying to will himself to be strong in front of the enemy. His lips pulled back into a broad grimace that split his face from ear to ear.

“I have son his age,” Schäfer explained in a quiet voice as he dipped his talons into the buckets and clutched at a soaked cloth suspended in the water. He wrung much of the water from the rough fibers before slowing moving towards Pathfinder. “Easy,” he whispered to Finder before glancing over to look Cloudburst in the eyes. “Still just a hatchling, and so very curious about the world. He is a good boy. Smart, artistic, a bit too sensitive, but I suppose that is my fault. I think of him, and I see this,” he said, wiping a stain from Finder’s cheek. “And I find myself angered beyond reason.”

The cloth pressed up against Finder’s cheek, delicately wiping the once-green fur clean of the fluids that stained it. Pathfinder flinched and whimpered at the touch, but only just. It hurt too terribly to move. “Shh, little one," Schäfer said, his voice maintaining its quiet tone. "Rest now, for they cannot hurt you anymore.”

Cloudburst sneered and spat at Schäfer’s talons. “Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?”

“No,” Schäfer said simply as he dipped the cloth into the water again. “I think of my wife and my children.” He paused for a moment to look at Cloudburst and smile. “Much like you ponies would, I suspect.”

“Pity, I can’t get married until this war’s done,” Cloudburst growled.

Schäfer offered only a sad shake of his head and continued. “I personally executed those three an hour ago. Their corpses are on display in front of the barracks.”

“Bullshit,” Cloudburst balked.

Schäfer looked to Cloudburst and slowly shook his head. “I know you think us monsters. Beasts. I swear to you though, we are not lacking in honor." Shafer paused, dipping the cloth in the bucket and gently wiping Pathfinder’s mouth. “What they did was inexcusable, and an affront to all my kind.”

“Why should I believe you?” Cloudburst asked, his eyes narrowing warily.

A lazy shrug of his wings was all the answer Schäfer gave. Again he dipped the cloth into the bucket and wrung the excess water free. He reached forward, gingerly wiping Finder’s flanks and thighs. Finder made a strangled moan, his small frame instinctively trying to curl into a fetal position.

After he had cleaned Finder’s body, Schäfer set the cloth back into the bucket and allowed himself a sigh. He reached to his right hip where a long bladed dagger was sheathed and drew it with a resigned slowness. With his left talons, Schäfer lifted Pathfinder’s chin from the ground and pressed the blade to his throat.

Golden eyes just barely fluttered open, and Cloudburst flinched away as Schäfer looked into Finder’s gaze. Pathfinder seemed aware of what was happening, and answered Schäfer by leaning his head forward onto the blade. Cloudburst waited for the sound of the blade cutting flesh, the wet gurgle of blood and air escaping, and the final scrapes and struggles of a colt’s death throes. For the longest time, though, he heard nothing. And then he heard a sound he never expected to hear. The sound of the dagger being sheathed, and a griffon sighing.

“Pony,” Schäfer began in a hushed tone. “What is your name?”

Cloudburst hesitated, his brows knitting together and his ears twitching at the question. The change in Schäfer’s tone seemed to take all the Cirrans in the room by surprise, and many whispered to each other as he finally answered. ”... Cloudburst.”

“And the hatchling’s name?”

“Pathfinder,” Cloudburst answered, his eyes quickly glancing to the trembling colt.

Schäfer nodded slowly, his talons lightly scratching under his beak. “Where is he from?”

“A place your kind will never reach,” Cloudburst growled.

The griffon officer nodded for a moment, his talons scratching at the bottom of his chin. He looked to Cloudburst, then back to Pathfinder, and finally sighed once more. “Would you know the way?”

Cloudburst was taken aback by the question, and found himself speechless for a moment. “W-what?”

“I asked if you would know the way,” Schäfer repeated plainly, his eyes studying Cloudburst.

“Don’t tell him!” a mare shouted from the back, her sentiment being repeated by nearly all of the pegasi that still lived in the dingy barn.

“If…” Cloudburst started, his words trailing off and his eyes briefly flicking towards his fellow Cirrans. “If I did?”

The caged answer was all Schäfer seemed to need, and with a nod he reached into a pouch on his belt and produced a simple key. Cloudburst could only stare in confusion as Finder’s collar was unlocked, followed by his own. “Wait for night to fall, then take him out though the grave pit. You will have a short time during the shift change where that section will be unguarded.” He paused for a moment to glance back to the door. Once certain his guards hadn’t heard a breath, Schäfer continued. “From there head west to the nearest pony city.”

“Why—”

“You may tell them of this camp, if you wish, but by the time you get there I will have moved this camp far from the front, and the Oathsworn will have done away with whoever is left alive,” Schäfer said, his head dipping a bit and a scowl coming to the corners of his dark beak.

Cloudburst shook his head, cringing from the ache in his neck that the simple motion caused. “Why would you do that? You’re a fuckin’ hybrid. You expect me to really think you’d put your neck on the line for a couple ponies?” The question was hissed as Cloudburst bared his blunt teeth at Schäfer.

“My father was one of the Canii Auxillia.” Schäfer chuckled at the look on Cloudburst’s face, as well as the looks from several of the ponies chained up. “Yes, my father fought for Cirra for decades, as did many of my clan. I met a few of his Cirran officers as a fledgling.” A nostalgic, almost happy look seemed to ghost across Schäfer’s face at the thought. “They were kind to me, and an honorable sort. My father taught me their ways, their language, and hoped I would follow in his path one day.”

“That makes two of us,” Cloudburst said, keeping a wary eye on the griffon, even if his body relaxed ever so slightly.

“My heart is with my kind, though,” Schäfer continued as he looked down at Pathfinder with a sympathetic frown. “And while I, like every proud griffon, want to live free from the shackles of the Emperor’s of Cirra, this… this is not the war I wanted.” A final sigh left Schäfer’s beak and he gently rubbed his talons through Finder’s mane. “I beg of you, pony, take this little one as far from here as you can. I cannot lower myself to the barbarism of Cirra and wet my blade with a child’s blood.”

Thunder rumbled overhead followed by the gentle patter of rain on the rotted wood panels that made up their prison roof. Schäfer took the sound as his cue, and rose up to his full height once more. “Do you accept?” he asked as he looked upon the hateful gazes of the few remaining pegasi in the back. “Or shall I give this task to another?”

Cloudburst’s mouth hung open for a moment and he spared his fellow soldiers a glance. They all looked to him with the same eyes. Pleading, betrayed, yet understanding. One face, however, pressed forward in his mind. She smiled to him, her mane billowing gently in the warm summer breeze. The loving look in her soft blue eyes beckoning him to her side. With a trembling breath, Cloudburst gave his answer. "I... I will."

For the first time since Nimbus had fallen, Iron Rain felt alive. Behind her, over one-hundred of her Nimbans flew in perfect formation, each one with their eyes forward. Their attention focused on the thin trails of smoke from the forges of the hybrid camp. Rain watched it as well, her eyes scanning for any sign that the hybrids had noticed her charge.

Luck, at least so far, had been on her side for once.

Thunder rumbled from the gray clouds that painted the skies far above them, but Rain paid it no mind. She was the tip of the spear, her Nimbans the hammer.. Everypony was burning for retribution after the calamity that befell them at Nimbus.

Yet while flying to the fight that awaited her, Rain couldn't help but feel a tinge of sorrow in her gut. Red wasn't whooping and hollering. Stonewall wasn't keeping his silent watch, and old Downburst was no longer there to look over her shoulder and offer his counsel. In no small measure it galled Iron Rain that she missed that most about her father's right hoof.

Her musings were cut short as she heard the wail of griffon horns in the distance. The hybrids had noticed her all too obvious approach, and like fools they rushed to meet her. Dozens upon dozens of griffons had already taken to the skies. They flew on their own, lacking any formation that might grant their small number strength enough to match her own. All the while other griffons in the camp ran to and fro in a desperate attempt to gather more of their comrades from what Rain could only assume was the barracks or mess hall.

With a growl, Rain drew her sword, and behind her she heard the scrape of metal as her Nimbans unsheathed their blades as well. For her the weapon felt far too light. Rain was used to the heft of the griffon zweihander she had wielded since her first battle. And with her leg far from healed, she lacked the power to wield her old sword on the ground. Still, she had to admit a certain advantage in the standard issue blade. Its smaller size and significantly reduced weight made it foal’s play for Rain to use. For her that little blade felt like it was no more than a switch in her teeth.

She grinned wildly around the leather wrapped hilt. This would be fun.

The nearest griffon brandished a war axe in his talons and hefted the heavy weapon high over his head, the keen edge of the blade jagged and damaged from battle. He swung downward, aiming to bury the axe into Rain’s skull, but Rain was too quick. She tucked her left wing and pulled into a tight spin, diving downwards with her eyes locked to the unarmored stomach of the hybrid. She barely felt the lurch of her blade as it carved through the griffon’s belly and exited from his back.

While he fell to the cold earth, now half the beast he used to be, Rain pumped her wings and set her sights on the next griffon. The brown and speckled white hybrid levelled a javelin at her and threw it with all his might. Rain tracked the glisten of light off the metal blade and waited until the last possible moment to roll out of the way. He reached for his sword, still sheathed in the scabbard strapped to his side, but Rain didn’t let him draw it. She slashed upward, using her wings to give power to the blow and felt her blade slash across his chest. Blood from the gushing wound splattered across her side, and the hybrid fell away with a pained scream.

A pair of griffons came at her next, brandishing rusted blades which they swung at her with reckless aggression. Rain twisted, feeling the tip of the first blade deflect harmlessly off her armor, and before the griffon could recover she lashed out with her wingblade, slicing open his throat. His partner screamed and lunged for her, but Rain was prepared, and with a simple twist of her head she allowed the griffon to fall on her sword. But the griffon didn’t fall so quickly, and with the last of his strength he hooked his claws under Rain’s armor. Rain thought quickly and twisted her blade at the same time as she swung her left foreleg upward. The hybrid’s agonized squeal as the blade of her bracer slashed into his groin was like music to her ears.

Her sword slipped free of his chest as he fell away, clutching what was left of his genitals as he fell. Rain allowed herself a smirk and powered forward. To her left a pair of Nimbans engaged another griffon; one kept the hybrid's attention, parrying his sword with her own, while her partner slipped behind the distracted griffon and speared the beast through the back of his skull. The hybrid convulsed violently, blood spurting out of his nose before he fell away, dead.

Rain continued, flying upwards as high as she could over the battle. More griffons filled the air below her, and Rain loosed a fierce howl as she dove into their disorganized ranks. The first griffon noticed her too late, and her blade cut through the back of his neck, severing his head from his body. She lashed out with her right wing, catching another griffon's wing and splattering her armor with his blood. Twisting around, Rain bucked, feeling the hybrid’s ribs snap from the force of the blow as she propelled herself to the next opponent.

He threw a hand axe at her, which Rain deflected with her sword. She returned the favor, sending her sword rocketing into his chest. The beast made a wet gag, his body snapping backwards as Rain tackled him, ripping the sword free with a wet slurp and a trail of stringy red tissue. Three hybrids flew for her, but she was ready. Grasping the dying hybrid's wing, she flung him towards his comrades, one of whom squawked and dropped his sword to catch the dying griffon. Rain flew over his head, rear hooves bucking out and crushing through his unarmored skull and lashing out with her wings, scoring a kill from each of her wingblades.

A flash in the corner of her eye made Rain twist around as a sword cut the air where her head had been a moment before. The griffon didn't give her time to recover, and he swung at her neck with his claws. Rain lowered her head, letting his talons hit the side of her helmet as she lashed out with her wingblades. He fell back, but not far enough. Thinking quickly, Rain tore the helmet from her head and threw it. The griffon didn’t have a chance to react before the cold metal smashed into his beak, leaving Rain to dive under the wide slash of his sword and split his gut open with her own.

All around her more and more pegasi filled the skies, and the the surviving griffons pulled back towards the camp where more of their number had rallied. While Rain seemed to still have near full strength for her company, the element of surprise had been lost. The griffons, now organized into a regiment of over one hundred, rose to meet her.

Rain twisted around in the air and whistled to her troops. They followed her lead, feinting to the north and leading the griffon formation further from the camp. Rain looked over her shoulder, grinning a bit. Griffons had a remarkable focus; it was one of their strengths as a species, and Rain was all too happy to exploit it.

With their attention locked to her force she let them chase her away, right to where Haze should have been lying in wait. Fear gnawed at the back of her mind. She hadn't seen him approach, nor had there been so much as a feather to indicate he was even in position. Had she attacked too early?

Rain twisted her neck, glancing at her Nimbans. How many would she lose if she was forced into a battle of attrition?

Then she heard it; the thunderous roar of Haze's force which fell from the clouds above. Haze flew at the front, his sword sheathed at his side, and Rain turned with her troops to join their renewed charge. They loosed a rain of javelins into the griffon charge, catching many of the hybrids off guard. A second volley followed the first just before Haze’s pegasi met them in a clash of metal and flesh.

Rain’s forces joined the fray only a moment later, their blades tearing through flesh, fur, feather, and bone with glee. Already crippled from the javelins, the griffon formation collapsed almost immediately. The few survivors fled back towards the camp where their commander hurriedly rallied them into defensive positions.

Spotting Haze in the crowded skies, Rain called out to catch his attention as she flew up to him. Beside him flew two stallions, one she recognized, the other she did not. “You’re late, Haze, I thought you got lost.”

“Hah, as if I’d ever miss this!” Haze laughed, flapping his wings hard to clean the blood from his wingblades. “Is this all they have? The scouts thought they had more.”

“We’ll be swimming in the bastards if any of their runners make it past Thorn,” Rain said before turning her attention to the other stallions. “Windshear, right?”

Nodding in affirmation, Windshear adjusted his bloodstained spear under his hoof. “Good to see you again, Ma’am. Sorry about Nimbus.”

Rain nodded. “Who’s your friend, Kid?”

“Carver, ma’am,” the one-eyed stallion answered, “I was with the Cirran Eighth.”

“Rain, look!” Haze shouted, his hoof pointing to the prison.

She snapped her head forward and for a moment was confused by his urgency, until she spotted flames rise from the nearest of the prison barns. A hybrid holding two chained hounds in one of his talons and a torch in the other shouted orders to a pair of griffons that followed him. Armed with torches and swords they moved for the other two barns. The drizzle of rain slowed the spread of the flames, but was far from enough to smother them completely.

“Fuck!” Rain cursed loudly. “Alright, you three on me, we go over the remaining griffons and get the survivors out of that barn.”

“I hope Thorn can see this,” Haze said before drawing his sword.

Rain shook her head. “Thorn’s a good soldier, she’ll be watching.”

“We don’t know how many griffons are hiding over there,” Carver said, glancing over to Rain and back to the flames that danced up the wooden planks. “If you’re wrong—”

“Go crawl back to Cirra if you can’t stomach a fight!” Rain barked at him. “We’re not letting our kin be murdered! Nimbans!” Rain called to her combined wings. “Haze, with me, we’ll take the closest barn. You two, intercept the hybrids going for the other barns. I want those bastards dead!”

“You got it,” Windshear said, his hoof lashing out and smacking against Carver’s breastplate. “C’mon, Carver, we got work to do!”

Carver bit down on his lip and growled, but nodded to Rain and carried out her orders all the same. Windshear flew alongside him, dutifully protective the Centurion’s blind side. Rain watched them for only a moment, then returned her attention to her troops. “Nimbans, attack!”

They charged, hurling what javelins they had left into the griffon lines. Rain didn’t see how many fell as she and Haze flew over the frenzied battle. They landed, splattering mud from their hurried charge towards the burning barn. Rain heard screaming from inside, no doubt from the prisoners trying to flee from the building flames.

“Esst!” shouted the torch bearing griffon, releasing the chains of the dogs from his talons before he fled from their sight. They roared, barreling towards Rain and Haze, foam tearing at the corners of their mouths and their yellow stained teeth bared with fearsome snarls.

Haze rolled to the left as the nearest hound leapt for him and lashed out with his wingblade. The hound made a piteous howl as the featherknife split its side open, staining the muck with blood and intestines. He spun around, his sword cutting through the back of the dog’s neck and severing the head from the body to finish the beast.

The second dog lunged for Rain, but she couldn’t roll with her hind leg still crippled. Instead she planted her weight and swung her sword into the hound’s gaping muzzle. It made a brief gag, the top of its head tumbling away while the rest of the body crumpled into the mud in a twitching heap. Rain jumped over the carcass, using her wings to carry her towards the barn.

“Nice,” Haze commented, running beside her.

“Thanks,” she said, pushing through the canvas strips that made up the entrance to the barn.

The pungent stench of the barn nearly made the Nimbans gag, but the thick smoke and flames licking at the corner of the building forced them to push it aside. Pegasi, emaciated, battered, and filthy screamed for help, pulling at their chains with what little strength they had left, but to no avail. Rain and Haze glanced at each other and wordlessly charged towards the bound pegasi.

Rain stopped at the very first row, her eyes growing wide and her mouth falling open when she recognized the little green colt laying unconscious on the floor. The shackle around his neck, as well as his neighbor’s, had been left unlatched, though for what reason, Iron Rain did not know. What she did know, what had stuck with her since Nimbus, had been his name.

“Pathfinder?”

The colt didn’t stir to acknowledge her, but the teal stallion huddled beside him looked surprised. “Y-you know him?”

“We’ve met,” Rain said, glancing to the back of the barn where Haze was trying to break the chains, but to no avail.

“Rain, help me!” he shouted to her between strikes of his sword.

“Stay there,” Rain said, tossing Cloudburst her dagger before rushing to Haze’s side.

His fevered strikes had left the iron links battered and chipped, but far from broken. She wrapped her hoof around the chain and pulled it taught, straining against the metal links with all her might. Haze struck again, and for a moment Rain hoped the chain had snapped, only to feel that hope torn away from her when she got a good look at it.

Around them the captured pegasi screamed and pleaded.

“Get us out of here!”

“Please, Legate, don’t leave us!”

“Legate Rain!”

“I don’t wanna burn! Please don’t let me burn!”

The voices shouted to her, over and over again, with the stallion they worked to free struggling to get away from the flames licking at the wall beside him. Rain moved, putting herself between him and the wall with her wings flared out to try and shield him from the building heat. It soaked into the scales of her wingblades, steadily roasting the flesh and feathers underneath. Rain ignored it as best she could; with a grimace and a growl she tore at his chain again.

“Haze, switch with me,” Rain said, quickly grasping at the neck of his armor and yanking him towards her. “You,” she said, looking to the panicked stallion they were trying to free. “Hey, focus on me, soldier!” Her hoof lightly smacked his cheek. “I need you to pull that chain tight with Haze here. We’re gonna get you out, understand?”

The stallion answered her with a quick nod, his eyes darting back and forth between his chain and the flames. "Y-yes ma'am."

"Now pull! Pull!" she shouted once Haze was in position.

Both stallions strained with all their might against the stubborn chain and the metal made the softest of groans at their efforts. Rain took a breath to calm herself and lined her blade with the dent Haze had left in the links. She rose up on her hind legs, blade held high above her head, and brought it down with all she had. Her sword impacted the chain with a snap, and the blade she had borrowed from the governor’s mansion promptly snapped in two.

“Piece of shit!” Rain shouted, throwing the useless weapon away. Her eyes caught on the deep notch her attack had left in the chain, then darted back to Haze.

“Rain,” Haze began, his eyes flicking from the fire that steadily encroached on him and the unbroken chain they strained against. “Rain, what are we gonna do?”

She lunged over, teeth grasping the pommel of his sword and tearing it free of the scabbard. Adjusting her grip, she rose up once more and slammed the blade down with renewed vigor, her blows raining down on the wrought iron again and again.

“Fucking... break!” she roared at the stubborn metal. “Fucking! Break!”

Her borrowed sword snapped in two, the bent and dented blade spinning through the air and clattering onto the dirt.

Clang!

The metallic clang of steel on iron rang in Pathfinder's ears, making them twitch and angle away from the noise. His head ached as though squeezed between the hull of a full fishing cog and the heavy timbers of the dock. Yet terrible as that pain was it did nothing to dull the ache in the rest of his body, nor remove the vile taste that lingered in his mouth.

Clang!

Finder groaned and tried to raise his hooves to cover his ears. They didn’t move far, only succeeding in drawing shallow lines in the dirt. Gods that sound was annoying.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Shut up… he wanted to scream, but the only sound that escaped his lips was a quiet groan.

A hoof slipped around his torso and gently held him. Pathfinder’s heart seemed to freeze for a moment before it began to race, increasing the throbbing in his head. Another moan, this time louder, but no more distinct came from the colt.

“Easy, kid,” Cloudburst whispered, a hoof petting Finder’s mane. “Help’s here. We’re gonna get out of this.”

Pathfinder’s hooves scraped across the dirt floor until he could find the wherewithal to plant them. He growled and heaved his aching body up, away from Cloudburst who released him almost more from astonishment than anything. “Don’t…”

“Kid,” Cloudburst said, reaching out a tentative hoof once again, but was quickly slapped away by a small green hoof. “Finder?”

“Don’t... touch me,” he managed to say, coughing from the effort of the few words.

His eyes searched the barn, stinging from the acrid smoke that filled the air. To the back of the room he saw her, Iron Rain, wildly attacking a stallion's shackle with what was left of her shattered sword. It struck Finder as strange; there were easier ways to break a chain. His father had shown Longbow and Finder long ago when they were learning to help in the smithy.

Finder looked around, the walls of the prison looking like the Altan smithy to his weary eyes. Where ponies screamed he saw only discarded tools. Where there were flames licking at the walls he saw the forges full of iron ingots being slowly worked into anchors, hooks, and countless other parts. At his hooves he spotted the knife that had been left at Cloudburst’s side, and Pathfinder leaned down to take it in his teeth. It wasn't the ideal tool for the job, but it would certainly work. Pathfinder cringed from the motion and how it made the throbbing in his head feel even worse.

Stepping forward on unsteady legs, Finder moved towards Rain. Each step sent arcs of pain through him, like hot knives slipped between his muscles. Limping forward, he growled at a spike of pain in his thigh where Magnus had shot him. A fury, unlike any the colt had ever felt seemed to encompass his very being. The griffon emperor terrified him, and Finder hated him for that. He hated that he was helpless to save Longbow, he hated how he was helpless to save Dawn, and he hated how he had been helpless to save himself.

Finder would sooner die than be than be helpless again.

Rain bashed what was left of her sword on the stallion’s chain, roaring in fury all the while. Pathfinder lifted a hoof and pushed at her side with what strength he could muster, though it hardly seemed to stall the large mare. A moment’s pause was all he needed, and Finder slipped the blade of the knife into the damaged link where he twisted it as far as he could.

The dented iron groaned for a moment before a sharp snap pierced the air, and the link opened. Haze reacted first, pulling the stallion away from the post he’d been shackled to and moving for Finder.

“Nice one, kid,” he said, a hoof patting Finder’s back. “Rain—”

“I’ll get get him to the medics,” she said, pausing to help the freed stallion to his hooves. “Stand tall, soldier,” she said, taking the knife from Pathfinder and giving it to the newly freed stallion. “We need you now.”

“M-ma’am,” he coughed before standing tall. Taking the blade from Rain, he limped over to the next pegasus and slipped the knife into one of the links. Haze followed close behind and pulled the chain taught just before he twisted. Once more the link popped open with a tinney snap, and Rain allowed herself the briefest of smiles before slipping a wing across Finder’s back and ushering him for the door.

“C’mon, kid, you’re outta here first.”

Finder couldn’t argue with that.

She walked slowly, her naturally long gait small and plodding for his shorter legs to keep up. Finder moved as quickly as he could, but with his mangled body each step turned into its own form of torment. Again he gritted his teeth and forced himself to continue. So very few steps were left between him and the open skies that Finder could all but taste the air of freedom.

Finder dared to close his eyes and let his head come to rest on cool armor that protected Rain’s chest. He imagined the rhythm of her heart, steady like the waves crashing against the shoreline. It was almost like he could smell the salt in the air once more, even through the thick smoke that welled up in the barn.

He squinted when they passed through the leather drape that made the door, muted, gray light painful to his eyes after so long in the dark. He felt rain drizzle into his mane and coat, as though trying to wash clean the stains upon his soul. Around him came the fervent cries of battle, pegasus and griffon alike struggling in a pitched duel to the death.

Unlike Nimbus, this time it was the pegasi who had strength in numbers, and the griffons that hadn't been cut down were being quickly forced back. Pathfinder wondered, albeit briefly, why they didn't retreat. Not that he minded seeing them cut to pieces. For what they did to Longbow, Dawn, Aurum, and for what they had done to him, he hoped they all died.

Something made the hair on the back of Finder's neck stand on end, and craning his neck around Finder looked behind them. His eyes grew wide and his heart stuttered in his chest. Gnade's own eyes widened and before Rain could move, he lunged.

Finder leapt. Metal flashed.

The blade caught Finder just behind his left shoulder and tore down his body towards his flank. Pathfinder stumbled and coughed, blood sputtering out from his lips after Gnade pulled the spear free of his body. Iron Rain lunged for the griffon, her wing blades slashing at the griffon’s eyes as he backpedaled desperately to escape her assault.

"You fucking coward!" she screamed, dropping low and lashing out with her wingblades again.

Gnade leapt backwards and clasped his spear in both talons, then lunged forward again. Rain dodged the strike easily, and the blood-soaked blade stabbed harmlessly into the dirt. Before he could recover, Rain struck out with her hoof and the wooden shaft snapped in half. She sliced with a wingblade again, forcing Gnade away while she grabbed the bladed half of the spear in her teeth and set her sights on the griffon once again.

He discarded the broken shaft and reached under his left wing for a dagger, but Rain charged him before he could draw it. She swung the spearblade at him, cutting the air with a whistle and following through with a series of rapid strikes with her wingblades. Gnade stumbled backwards and tore his dagger free of its scabbard, trying to block or parry Rain's furious strikes. The flat of the spear blade slapped the back of Gnade's talon, and he yelped out in pain as his dagger flew from his hand and tumbled through the dirt.

A growl built in his throat, and with a scream of rage he lunged for her, but Rain was ready for it. She crouched low, legs coiling tightly under her body, then leapt at him leading with the tip of the spear. Gnade flared out his wings in an effort to stop, but it was too late, and the spear pierced into the right side of his chest, just under the collar bone and sunk deep into his body.

Rain jumped back, releasing the spear from her teeth and slashing at the griffon with her wingblades. Gnade coughed, vivid red blood sputtering from his beak as he struggled to stay standing. He glared at Rain, hatred seething from his eyes.

"Du denkst du hast gewonnen, Pony", he gurgled, spitting more blood onto the dirt. ”Du hast mich nicht getötet! Du kannst mich gar nicht töten!" Gnade loosed a terrible scream and wrapped his talons around the broken spear. He pulled it free of his body, blood spilling into his fur and feathers, staining them red.

Rain's eyes narrowed and her lips pulled into a tight line. Gnade leveled the bloodsoaked spear at her, his body trembling visibly from the effort.

"Ich... bin Gnade," he growled through labored breaths. A snarl took place of a pained cringe when he stepped towards her. "Ich bin... ein Krieger..." He took another step forward, more blood gushing from the wound in his chest. Rain took a step back.

"Ich... bin..." Gnade stopped, his knees buckling and body growing still. "der Tot..."

Gnade collapsed forward, his armor clattering as his body crashed onto the cold, wet earth. Blood pooled around him and his broken, bloody, spear rolled free of his grip. Rain watched him for a moment longer before she let out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

"Kid," she whispered, turning and running back to Finder, leaving Gnade's lifeless corpse in the mud.

Pathfinder stared at the dead griffon and smiled weakly. Rain was at his side in a moment, her hooves frantically digging through her haversack for a bandage. She cursed under her breath and pressed her hooves to the wound, making Finder whimper.

Her hooves pressed on the torn sides of his flesh, forcing the wound closed. “You’re gonna be alright, Kid.”

Finder didn’t need to see her face to know she was lying.

“Medic! Get over here!” Rain shouted again.

A pony Finder couldn’t see landed, and he heard the staccato tap of hoofbeats running closer. The voice he heard, however, made his ears twitch.

“Oh Gods, Finder?!”

Rain seemed just as surprised. “Summer? You know this kid?”

“He was in my unit, move.” Summer pushed the larger mare out of the way and pulled the rag bandages she had from Nyx out of her bag, pressing them to Finder’s wounds. “You’re gonna be fine, Pathfinder,” she assured him when he moaned in pain. “I’ll take good care of you.”

“Holy shit, Finder?!” another familiar voice rang out, but Finder couldn’t put a name to it. Pathfinder tried to look, but found it too hard to move. He was tired… so very tired.

Carver and Windshear skidded to a stop in front of him, and he felt Carver’s hooves cradle his head. “Finder? H-hey, hang in there kid.”

“Windshear,” Rain pointed a hoof to the spearpony who stood up straighter at the commanding tone. She pointed a hoof to Gnade’s corpse. “Grab the keys off that griffon and get them to Haze. Move!”

“Ma’am.” He gave a curt nod before running off.

Rain turned her attention back to Pathfinder. “Summer, what do you need?”

“Someone get me a bucket and more bandages!” Summer shouted. “Carver, I need your hooves here. Put pressure right next to mine. And somepony get a fire going, I need the cautery blades!”

“Got it,” he answered, and Finder’s head started to spin from the pain.

“Finder,” Summer called to him, a hoof slapping his cheek firmly. “Finder you gotta stay awake for me now, you understand?”

He didn’t understand, and the world seemed to drift away to Finder, as though he had found himself sinking into the ocean. They called his name, but he couldn’t answer. No, he didn’t want to answer.

He was so tired.

“Finder? Finder!” Summer shouted to the unconscious colt, her hoof shaking him roughly. “Shit. Alright, we gotta work fast. Carver, keep that pressure up.”

"Got it."

Rain watched Summer for a moment, the medic pulling fresh rags from her back and pressing them on top of the bandages streaked with the vivid red of Finder's blood. She then turned to where her Nimbans had pushed the remaining griffons back into their barracks.

"Damn," she growled, leaping in the air and flying to the scene as quickly as she could. Ahead she saw Thorn marshalling the Nimbans back, a sight that brought a smile to Rain's lips. Fighting griffons in an enclosed space was never a good idea.

"Thorn!" she called to her friend once she was close enough. "Report!"

Twisting in the air, Thorn greeted Rain with a nod. "Bastards have fallen back into the barracks. I say we burn em out."

"Not yet," Rain said, landing out front of the building, though with a safe distance from the door, just in case one of the hybrids tried an ambush. Beside her landed Thorn and several other heavily armored soldiers. They stood tall beside Rain, eyes forward and weapons at the ready.

"Griffons!" she shouted to the building. "Übergeben Sie!"

A strange quiet filled the battlefield.

“Pony Commander,” a male voice called back in rough Cirran. “I am Erhard Schäfer of the Canii.”

"Canii? As in the Cirran Auxillia?" Thorn asked in hushed tones. "What's one of their clan doing here?"

"Blood before oath," Rain answered with a shrug of her wings. "Either way, not our concern right now." Clearing her throat, Rain addressed the griffon once more. “Schäfer of the Canii, I am The Legate of Nimbus, Iron Rain. Surrender.”

“Legate Rain,” he continued after a notable pause. “I wish to discuss terms. Do I have your word I will not be cut down if I come outside?”

“Oh the temptation,” Rain muttered to Thorn and earned a soft chuckle from the smaller mare. “Schäfer of the Canii… you have my word that no Nimban shall harm you.”

He stepped out from the shadow of the barracks, his zweihander sheathed at his side. Blood clung to his armor and feathers, but the upright manner in which he carried himself led Rain to believe it was from another hybrid. Schäfer took a long look at the pegasi that surrounded him, and seemed to sag at the sight.

“We had thought the Rains died with Nimbus,” Schäfer observed with the casual manner of one discussing the weather.

“As long as there is war there will be Rains,” she answered.

"Truely."

"Now then, if you would be so kind as to surrender."

"Then we are at an impasse." Schäfer motioned with a talon to the barracks behind him. "I will not consign my men to Cirran torture and execution. If we must die, then why should we not die fighting, and perhaps kill a few more Nimbans in the process."

Rain smiled and nodded her head. "You could do that. You could run back into your barracks and hope we come charging in. But I'll just have my soldiers set fire to the building. Your men will burn, and those that try to flee will be captured anyway. I’m sure more than a few of my men would love it if you would try that.”

“A trade then,” he offered with an upturned talon. “Myself, willingly and without issue, in exchange for the wounded and the younger soldiers to be allowed to retreat peacefully.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You seem to misunderstand your position, griffon,” Rain growled the word with barely-veiled hatred. “I will show you the mercy that you didn’t show our prisoners. Your wings will be shackled, your weapons taken, and you will be paraded in chains through the city and held until the war is over or your master offers a hostage trade. That, Schäfer, is what you will get. Now surrender, or die.”

Schäfer shook his head. "Magnus will never trade for hostages. Even if he did we would be executed on the spot."

"That isn't my problem."

“Have not enough died on these fields already?” he asked her with a twitch of his lion like tail. “How many thousands at Hengstead, tens of thousands at Nimbus? How many more before it's enough? All I ask is mercy. Not for myself, but for the wounded and the young."

“Mercy?” Rain balked at the idea, the scales of her wingblades hissing as her wings flitted angrily. “Mercy like the kind you showed that colt?” Rain pointed a hoof to where Summer feverishly worked to stem Finder’s bleeding. “Shall I carve your flesh, break your wings, and do Gods know what else to you?" Rain paused, her nostrils flaring and her eyes closing for a moment. When she opened them again she had calmed, and looked to Schäfer with a deliberate shake of her head. "No, griffon, I will show you the mercy of a swift death, or chains."

Schäfer drew his sword and pointed the blade at Rain. She didn't move, though her Nimbans all readied themselves for a fight. "I will not allow my men to be butchered like animals!"

"Everything dies," Rain said and turned her gaze upwards. "Nimbans, on my order, burn them out!"

Schäfer's beak fell open for a moment before he recovered with a look of anger. "You canno—"

"I can and I will," Rain answered coldly.

"There's nothing to be—"

"Ready torches!" Rain shouted over the griffon's protests.

Schäfer’s eyes widened, then quickly narrowed, and a sort of anguished darkness filled them. Slowly the tip of his sword fell, inch by inch, until it tapped softly against the ground. He looked Rain in the eye and bowed his head. “Wait..." Grasping his sword by the blade he angled the hilt to Rain and took a cautious step forward. "I surrender.”

He tossed the sword forward and it landed with dull clap against the ground. Rain's eyes remained fixed on Schäfer; even without a sword, griffons were dangerous creatures. No smile came to Rain's lips as she nodded to Schäfer. "Very good. Your soldiers will leave the building one at a time, they will place their weapons on the ground, and they will be escorted away."

“May… may I have a moment?” he asked, head tilted slightly down. “To address my men?”

Rain nodded again, waiting until Schäfer had turned and moved to the door of the barracks before she reached down and picked up the sword. It was a few inches longer than her old zweihander, with parrying spikes near the base of the blade as well as a leatherbound segment between the parrying spikes and the guard. Rain tested the weight, giving the sword a slow cut through the air, and smiled.

It would be a worthy replacement.

A pained yelp caught her attention, and Rain looked up to see Schäfer stumble backwards, a talon clutching at his cheek and blood seeping between his talons. A younger griffon charged out of the barracks wielding a bloodied dagger in his talons which he slashed at Schäfer again.

“Canii-Feigling!” he shouted.

Schäfer reached out for the younger griffon, only to lean backwards to dodge another cut. “Nein, Sieg! Nein!”

But the young griffon ignored Schäfer’s command. He looked at Rain, green eyes wide like a frightened foal’s. “Die 'mächtigen Rains glauben sie können ein paar Worte sagen und schon werden wir uns verneigen.” He spat at her and bared his teeth. "Wir werden nicht knien! Nich vor euch! Nicht vor eurem falschen Gott! Vor niemandem!”

Rain said nothing, only taking a moment to exchange a look with Thorn. The hybrid charged forward, his dagger held high above his head and his free talons outstretched in a grabbing motion before him. Rain and Thorn waited for him to get close, then Thorn leapt, tearing her stiletto free of its sheath and lunging for the griffon.

Her attack caught the young hybrid off guard, and before he could react Thorn had slammed her shoulder into his unarmored side. He tumbled across the ground, his sword clattering away from his hand and landing near one of the Nimban soldiers, who quickly stepped on the blade and pulled it further from the griffon. Thorn didn't wait for the griffon to recover, and with a flap of her wings she landed on his back and raised her stiletto up

"Nein!" Schäfer pleaded, but he was too late. The griffon spasmed as Thorn's blade embedded itself into the crown of his skull, the mare pulling the blade free before leaping off the hybrid and moving back to Rain's side. The whole field watched as the hybrid stumbled and twitched, his claws swinging wildly at the empty air. A wave of laughter and taunts came from the surrounding Nimbans, many of whom called out to the dying hybrid, inviting him to try and attack them.

"There's no need for this cruelty," Schäfer yelled to the pegasi, and Rain was inclined to agree.

She stepped forward, hefting Schäfer's Zweihander in her teeth. Where her old sword had been balanced heavily towards the tip of the blade, this zweihander had the weight evenly distributed between the blade and the pommel. Rain almost found herself wanting to compliment the smith, he had done a fine job crafting the sword.

The spasming hybrid looked directly at Rain, but didn't seem to see her approach. His claws lashed out again and again, but at enemies only he seemed to perceive. It gave Rain all the time she needed to raise the sword, and bring it down on his neck. The griffon's body collapsed to the ground, his head tumbling away. His body twitched once before growing still, and Rain stabbed the zweihander into the ground.

"Now then, I believe you were surrendering?"

“Medic,” Cloudburst coughed, limping over to Summer. “W-what—”

“Get him outta here!” Summer shouted, throwing blood soaked rags aside and feverishly pressing clean ones into the gaping wound. Windshear nodded once and quickly dragged Cloudburst away from the grisly scene. “And where’s my kauterion, Carver?”

“I don’t speak Nimban, Summer!” Carver shouted at her as he tore through the haversacks of dead griffons in a search for bandages.

Summer gritted her teeth to suppress a growl. “The Gods damned cautery blades!”

“Coming through!” Haze shouted, a steel bucket full of hot coals hooked around his sword. “Fuck this is hot!”

Carver shook his head in disbelief. “The Hell did—”

“It’s a work camp,” Haze explained quickly, not stopping to look Carver in the eye. “The forges are still hot as Hell.”

Summer took a deep breath and carefully peeled back the bandages. Her eyes searched the gaping wound, looking for the most serious areas of bleeding. What she saw, however, made her heart sink. The wound went from Finder's shoulder almost to his flank, with at least two ribs that she could see being badly broken. Deeper still she could see the muscle tissue between the ribs, shredded and leaking a steady stream of blood down the colt's chest.

Glancing to the bucket she looked at the handles of her cautery blades. The half-moon shaped blades were parchment thin, designed to heat quickly and sear closed gushing wounds. But they weren't nearly big enough for what she faced now.

Think, think, think! she chanted to herself as she looked around.

"What are you waiting for, Summer?" Carver demanded, looking desperately between her and Pathfinder.

"This isn't gonna work," she answered and cursed under her breath. Then she saw it, the hilt of a broken Nimban gladius laying amongst the broken chains and half buried by the collapsed logs of the burning barn. "You." She pointed a blood-smeared hoof at Haze. "Hold pressure on this for a minute."

"Got it," he said, moving forward and placing his hooves near Carver's.

Summer galloped into the burning barn, raising a wing to shield herself from the worst of the heat as she got to the back wall. The blade was caught under a burning log, and the flames that licked at the air gave Summer only the briefest of pauses before she reached down and took the hilt in her teeth. With a mighty grunt she pulled the sword free of its prison, and noticed that the broken edge of the gladius had bent into a wide forward facing hook.

It would do nicely.

Flying out of the barn Summer jammed the sword into the bucket of coals alongside her normal cautery blades. She reached into her haversack and produced a hardened leather flask with a cork top. Popping the cork out, Summer slipped a hoof under Finder's head and lifted it off the ground.

"Hey, Finder," she whispered, forcing a smile to her lips. "I need you to drink a little of this for me now, alright?"

Finder didn't answer, and to some extent she doubted he could even see her through the glassy half-lidded eyes that stared up at her. Still she poured the liquid into his mouth and took a small measure of relief from the weak gag it earned from him. She forced his muzzle closed and gently rubbed his throat with her hoof, waiting until she felt him swallow before releasing him.

"The hell was that?" Carver asked.

"Undiluted wine," she answered, pouring the rest of it onto the coals which burst into energetic flames. Summer glanced at Windshear when he ran up to them, a worried look on his face.

"Nimbans," Thorn's rough voice barked. "Prep the wounded for transport. I want them headed back to Nyx in five minutes. Use the blankets in the hybrid barracks to wrap up the dead. Not one more pony is getting buried here!" She marched over to where Summer worked on Finder, and the medic barely spared her a glance before splinting the other wing. "What are you doing?"

"I'd think that's an obvious one, Thorn," Haze answered.

"I'm asking the medic," Thorn said, taking a step closer and inspecting Finder. "This colt's three hooves in the grave. Bag him and lets get a move on."

Carver was the first to his hooves, his wings flared out and a vicious glint in his eye. "What'd you say?"

"The truth you clearly can't see through that patch on your face," Thorn answered. "He's lost too much blood, and probably doesn't have much of a lung anymore. Best to put him out of his misery. Don't you medics have a spike for this?"

Summer's eyes grew wide and her mind flashed back to Nimbus. She pulled Finder closer to her and tore the broken gladius from the bucket of coals, pointing the glowing tip at Thorn. "I'll kill you before I let that happen!"

"Whoa, whoa!" Haze shot up and put himself between Thorn and Summer. "Hey, let's put the weapons down for a sec. Save the stabbing for griffons, yeah?"

"It's simple mercy," Thorn said after sheathing her stiletto. "Kid's gonna die either way. Best now, surrounded by friendly faces.”

"He's not gonna die!" Summer growled through the hilt in her teeth. "I won't let him."

"And you don't get to make that call," Carver added, his wings lowering slightly.

Thorn motioned her wing to the group and shook her head. "One colt goes down and suddenly there's four ponies off the line. Five if we count him. Should we expect this for every casualty? Hell, a few dozen go down and suddenly we're out half the regiment!" She looked to Haze and shook her head, her eyebrows knitting together. "You can't tell me you think this is a good idea, too, Haze."

"I'd back you up if the fight was still going, but it's over now, Thorn," he said, approaching his marefriend and placing a hoof on her back. "We've won, now we have to attend to the wounded as best we can." Haze smiled to her. "I wouldn't leave you, or Rain."

"Then you should know better." Thorn pulled away from the touch and scowled. "We’re weapons Haze! And a broken weapon must be discarded and replaced. Sentimentality has no place on the battlefield, Rain is—"

"Don't speak for me, Thorn," Rain interrupted, limping up to the scene with her newly claimed sword tucked under her right wing. "What's going on?"

"I'm busy, Iron," Summer answered, fishing out her last bandages and turning back to Finder's wounds.

"Wasting time and, if I might remind you, limited resources," Thorn said, casting a disgusted glare at Summer, which the latter mare ignored.

Rain said nothing for a moment, instead resting her gaze on Pathfinder’s pained face. “Summer,” she started to speak, her words deliberate and carefully chosen. “What are the odds?” she asked, but Summer had no answer for her. Rain sighed and shook her head. “I see. Do what you can.”

As she started to walk away, Thorn cast her a tetchy look. “Rain?”

Iron Rain walked past Thorn and motioned for the smaller mare to follow her. “Rain, what are you—”

"He saved my life, Thorn. At the very least I owe him a chance to recover." Her wing unfolded and draped across Thorn’s back. “And I owe his brother too. Now come on, I have a job for you.”

Summer’s glare lingered on Thorn until the mare had disappeared with Rain amongst the throng of Nimbans hurriedly moving about the camp. Only then did she take a breath and return her attention to Pathfinder.

"What can I do?" Haze asked quickly.

Summer reached over and pulled the broken sword from the flaming coals. An orange glow filled the hot steel, and Summer slipped it back into the bucket as she turned to the three stallions. “You," she pointed to Haze, "I want you to hold him here." She motioned to Finder's ankles. "Carver, put your hooves here, Shear, I want you there,” Summer continued, pointing to each spot in turn. “Hold tight now and don’t let him move. Ready?”

"You got it," Haze said, settling most of his weight on the colt's legs.

Carver took a moment to gulp a mouthful of air into his lungs while his hooves pressed down on Finder’s shoulder. “Ready.”

A nod was the only indication Windshear made.

Summer held one hoof to the bandages on Finder's chest as she drew the sword from the bucket again. The heat had further bent the tip downwards, creating the perfect shape for her needs. Summer drew in a deep breath and pulled the bandages away. "Sorry kid," she said before pressing the glowing metal into the wound.

Flesh sizzled, and to Summer's horror Pathfinder hardly made a whimper. The weak struggles he did give were easily held by the three stallions. She held the blade tight against the wound until it was fully sealed then pulled the sword away and stuck it back into the coals. Leaning down, she pressed her ear to Finder's chest, above the raw wound, and closed her eyes.

For a terrible moment, she heard nothing, and a cold dread built in her gut. Then, like a beacon in the dark of night she heard it: a single beat followed by a second, then a third. Summer listened to each one in succession, and after what felt like an age she let out a breath and stood up.

“Fortune favors you, Finder,” she said, wiping at her brow with a hoof.

Glancing at his body for a moment, Summer pushed the minor lacerations from her mind. Terrible as they looked and as painful as they had to be there were still bigger issues for the colt.The little wounds would have to be cataloged and cared for later. For now Summer focused on his wing, where she could see the dent where the bones had been broken.

“Carver,” she said, carefully rolling Finder towards her so she could get a look at his other wing. “I need two splint sticks. Now.”

“You got it,” he said, running off at a full gallop to find them. Summer watched him for a moment, having seen the tears in his eye before he could wipe them away.

“You think he’ll live?” asked Haze, the simple question earning a glare from Summer.

“Of course he will."

Windshear’s hoof clasped Summer’s shoulder. “Easy, Summer, we’re all on the same side here.”

Her glare lingered on Haze for a moment longer before she started to relax. Her hooves gently took Finder's wing and extended it out fully. His face tensed slightly, but he made no sound of discomfort. The lack of noise concerned Summer nearly as much as the spear wound.

She ran her hoof across the bones in his wing, feeling for the breaks and smoothing out the ragged feathers. "Radial...ulna..." she mumbled, ignoring the confused glance of the medically untrained stallions. Rolling Pathfinder towards her again, she repeated the process on his other wing. "Humerus." She sighed and let Finder down again, her hoof stroking through his filthy mane. "Don't worry, kid, I'll get you fixed up."

"Nimbans," Rain's voice echoed through the camp. "Prepare to move out. I want any papers, letters, maps, or personal correspondence taken. If it's got writing, I want it! Second priority is bandages and medicines. Limit your trophies to weapons and armor only, we don't have any use for claws or beaks. Archers, take whatever feathers you can gather in the next couple of minutes. Move!"

Summer glanced over towards the sound of the voice before returning her attention to Pathfinder. Carver returned a moment later, dropping a small bundle of sticks beside her.

"It's all I could find."

"They'll work, thanks." She sorted through the pile quickly, picking each one up in turn and sizing it against Finder's small wing. "Here we go," she said, setting the stick aside and pulling a long strip of cloth from her bag. "Alright, hold him down now."

Three sets of hooves pressed down on Finder again while Summer took hold of the broken wing. She felt around for the bones, then gave a firm tug, pulling them into place as quickly as she could. Finder squirmed, but the weak struggle was worthless against three grown stallions. Summer started to splint the wing, but Finder began to panic. His ragged breaths quickened and his body trembled.

"Don't let him move!"

Carver dropped onto his belly and cupped Finder's cheeks in his hooves. "Hey, hey Finder, it's me, buddy. It's Carver." His hoof slipped up, petting through the colt's mane gently. "You're safe now. Summer's just gotta fix your wings. You're safe."

"Keep that up, Carver," Summer said, quickly wrapping the splinted wing.

"We're here for you, Finder," Carver continued, his voice growing quiet as he pressed his forehead to Pathfinder's. "You're safe. It's alright..." The stallion's voice broke, and Summer caught the glint of a tear slipping down his cheek. "They can't hurt you any more..."

"Got it." Summer finished her improvised splint on Finder's left wing. "Okay, roll him forward a bit, I need to get to the other one."

“How do you know Legate Rain?” Haze asked after a moment.

“Father is the Nimban delegate in the Cirran Senate,” Summer answered while pressing a clean bandage to Finder’s chest.

Haze blinked once. “So...you’re Senator Celsus’ kid?”

“Yeah, I’m his daughter, big deal. Either get back to helping or get out of the way.”

Nodding, Haze took one more look at Finder then stood up. “I should catch up with Rain. There’s lots to do yet. Were there any other survivors in the other two barns?”

Windshear nodded. “Yes sir, and we found somepony you know.”

Haze froze for a moment. “Who?”

“Stonewall.”

Haze reached forward and grabbed the neck of Windshear’s armor. “Where is he?” he demanded.

“With the rest of the wounded, I thin—” Windshear fell backwards as Haze shoved him away and flew towards where the rest of the wounded had been gathered for treatment. Shaking his head, Windshear couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re welcome,” he mumbled.

“Carver, Shear, lift him up, I gotta wrap this bandage,” Summer said, drawing their attentions back to Finder.

Together they gingerly lifted Finder off the dirt, with Windshear supporting the colt’s body and Carver cradling his head. Summer worked quickly to wrap the cauterized wound. It wasn’t completely covered; she didn’t have enough bandage left for that, but at least it would be somewhat protected on the journey back to Nyx.

Pathfinder’s eyes clenched tightly then wearily cracked open. His unfocused gaze settled on Carver, who didn’t notice until they all heard the weak voice. "...Carv..." he whispered, followed by a weak cough.

"That's right Finder," Carver said, grinning ear to ear. "It's me, and Summer and Windshear are right here too."

“Damn right, squirt,” Windshear said, “you gotta try harder to get rid of us.”

"...came...back..."

“What’d he say? Summer asked, tying off the bandage and lowering her ear closer to Finder’s mouth.

“Came...back,” Finder whispered again, his eyes closing and his head falling limp into Carver’s hooves.

Summer put a hoof to Finder’s throat and sighed in relief when she felt his steady pulse. Her hoof moved to Finder’s cheek which she gently stroked. “Of course we came back for you, kid.”

Carver nodded once, his hoof petting Finder’s mane.

“You two stay with him, I’m going to find a stretcher,” Summer said, waiting for her friends to nod before she galloped away.

Interlude: Every Rose

Iron Rain sighed and flung her helmet to the ground. The grassy hilltops to the east of Nyx rippled in the wind, and the amber light from the sunset made it looked like they were bathed in fire. The mare fidgeted where she stood, then ultimately collapsed into the grass, carefully nursing her swollen leg.

Rain’s eyes traced the distant horizon, but there was no smoke to be found. Swallowing hard, Rain bit on her lip and curled her legs closer against her chest. Not seeing the smoke hurt her more than seeing it in the first place, because when the smoke was still there, it made her feel like her home still had some fight left in it.

Now, there was nothing. The ruins of Nimbus lay cold, silent, and dead, far to the east.

The legate held her gaze for several minutes. As the sun receded behind her, she sat, still as a statue, while the cold winds of the coming autumn slowly began to chill her coat. Her cheek twitched, and she fought the urge to scratch it. Move, and she’d break like glass. The dam would burst, and then she’d be trying to stem the flow of tears for hours. So she closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and tried to stuff her emotions in a bottle. Just like Steel told her to do before griffons killed him years ago… and now her father was gone as well…

The thoughts rolled off one after the other, and Rain was powerless to stop them. Whimpering, she buried her head in her forelimbs and heaved as her eyes betrayed her. Muted sobs accompanied her wracking shoulders as she tore at the grass with her hooves in frustration. She couldn’t save Nimbus, and now she was crying like a little filly.

“Rain?”

The mare stiffened at the familiar voice, but refused to answer. Instead, she burrowed her head further into her forelimbs. She didn’t want anypony to see her like this, especially those who looked up to her in battle.

A sigh. Brittle grass crunched underhoof as the newcomer walked to Rain’s side. There was a moment’s delay, and then Rain felt a warm presence lie down next to her. Wings pressed against wings, and the small figure laid its head across Rain’s neck. Rain twitched once, twice, but let loose a shuddering squeak and leaned into the embrace for dear life.

The two ponies laid side by side until Rain’s tears finally wept themselves dry and her shaking stopped. Even then, the second pony didn’t move, and quiet, feminine humming filled the air between them. Rain could feel the reverberations from the pony’s humming on her neck, and she wistfully closed her eyes as the mare hummed her lullaby. It ended a minute later, and then nothing but the crickets and the ponies’ quiet breathing disturbed the rapidly dimming night sky.

“I forgot how beautiful your voice is when you sing, Thorn,” Rain murmured, happily snuggling into the small blond mare’s warmth. The smaller mare adjusted to compensate for Rain’s almost titanic size, and Rain felt the ghost of feathers wrap around her shoulders.

“That’s not singing. That’s humming,” Thorn replied, her voice stoic and emotionless as usual. But Rain knew how to read Thorn; underneath the cold and disinterested monotone that usually dominated the small mare’s voice, Rain found a hint of mirth, and a touch of worry.

Sighing, Rain opened her eyes and stared out at the distant horizon. “What’s bothering you?”

“You,” was Thorn’s answer. Rain raised an eyebrow, but even without seeing it, Thorn continued. “You’ve been flying down to this hilltop every night, Iron. I…” Her words caught in her throat, and Rain could envision the small mare frowning and staring at her muzzle like it was somehow its fault that she couldn’t find the words she wanted. Eventually, she adjusted her blond wing and pressed herself tighter against Rain’s side. “I’m worried about you, Iron. We all are.”

Rain grumbled and turned her head to the side, forcing Thorn to lift her head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Rain saw Thorn narrow ruby eyes at her from the corner of her vision. An irritated frown hung from her muzzle and the corner of her lip twitched. “Iron, admit it. You’re barely holding together as it is.”

“I’m fine,” Rain growled. For a second, she strongly considered simply shaking Thorn off and flying somewhere else. She knew the mare would leave her alone if she did. But the warmth of her body made her feel safe, secure, loved… That was something that she’d been missing for longer than she cared to admit.

“You’re not going to get any better just hiding your feelings,” Thorn deadpanned. “That raid on the POW camp? Your father would have spanked you in front of the palace gates for pulling something as stupid as that. You know we were all lucky that there weren’t any reinforcements nearby, otherwise we all would have died.”

“And your point is?” Rain hissed back. This time she turned her head all the way around to glare at the small mare, inadvertently bumping their noses together. Thorn winced and leaned back a few inches, before she reset her hardened stare and met Rain’s glare with a look of overwhelming irritation.

“Killing yourself isn’t going to make anything get better, Iron.”

The simple statement made Rain wince and recoil. She looked away, shame building beneath her cheeks. “I’m not…” she began, but the words trailed off into a whisper. She couldn’t even convince herself otherwise; there wasn’t any use trying to convince Thorn.

Thorn didn’t attempt to press her; it was one thing to drive a point home, and another entirely to twist it. Sighing, she rolled onto her side, putting an inch of space between herself and Rain. The snowy mare shivered at the loss of contact, but Thorn did her best to ignore it. “Iron, if you die… you’ll be wasting everything your father gave you. Everything Steel taught you. You need to live, and not just for their sake, but for yourself.”

“How…”

Thorn’s ears perked; Rain’s whisper was so quiet that she almost didn’t hear it. She noticed again that the larger mare shook like a leaf, and she gently placed a hoof on Rain’s shoulder. “Iron?”

The Legate of Nimbus shuddered at the contact and curled into a ball. She pressed her knees against her muzzle and ran her nose up and down the white hairs. “How can I live for myself… when there’s nothing left to l-live for?”

“Iron…” Thorn gently tugged on Rain’s shoulder, successfully getting the larger mare to look at her. Tears matted the snowy mare’s cheek hair and she sniffled quietly as she met Thorn’s ruby gaze. “What about us? What about Haze and Stonewall?” She gulped and swallowed, briefly finding something interesting to look at on the horizon while her throat bobbed up and down. The words struggled to come to her, but when they did, she blurted them out. “What about me?”

Rain couldn’t find the words to answer that question. Instead, she turned away, eyes staring once more at her fetlocks. She began to shiver and whimpered quietly. “Thorn?”

Thorn blinked. “Yeah?”

Rain hesitated several seconds before speaking. “Can you… h-hold me? Like that night on Agoge?”

Thorn didn’t answer with words. Instead, she slid a hoof under Rain’s neck and gently wrapped it around the mare’s chest. The other foreleg joined it, and then the wings followed, until Rain found herself in a downy nest of feathers wrapped around her torso. Thorn rested her chin on Rain’s forehead and maneuvered the snowy mare’s neck to fit snugly inside of her own, and she carefully used her hind legs to intertwine Rain’s tail with her own.

The nest of feathers started right below Rain’s chin, and the mare buried her muzzle in Thorn’s soft, blond wings. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, letting the comforting smell of roses help soothe her nerves. Her muscles relaxed, and her breathing slowed. She gently wrapped a hoof around one of Thorn’s forelimbs, held it tight against her body, and let the small mare’s steady breathing lull her to peace.

The two mares remained like that for some fifteen minutes, until the sun had finally dipped below the horizon, and the shadows of the night began to steal in from the east. Rain struggled to fight off the beginnings of sleep, and she felt Thorn’s breathing begin to slow behind her. A tiny smirk made its way to her muzzle, and she gently head-butted the crests of Thorn’s coiled wings to get her attention. “What would Haze think if he saw us right now?”

A scoff escaped Thorn’s muzzle. “He’d ask why I didn’t invite him to watch.”

Rain chuckled softly. “Of course he would.”

The two mare’s quiet laughter persisted for a few seconds more, before once again only the sounds of the wind filled the twilight. It would be several moments longer before Rain spoke again.

“Thorn?”

The mare’s ears perked. “Hmm?”

Iron Rain’s teeth toyed with her lower lip. “What’s it like?”

Thorn blinked. “What’s what like?”

“Love.”

“Love?”

“Yeah. I…” Rain’s words trailed off and she licked her lips as she tried to find them again. “I see you and Haze together all the time in Nyx. I see two ponies so happy with each other that they can forget about the horror they just barely survived and simply… live, you know? I just… want to know what that’s like…”

Thorn’s brow furrowed, and she took her time to gather her thoughts. “It’s special,” she finally said. “You feel like that other pegasus means more to you than you yourself. You’ll do anything to see them happy, and it’s…” Her words trailed off, and she eventually sighed and squeezed Rain tighter against her body. “Didn’t you and Haze have a thing a few years ago?”

A harsh laugh escaped Rain’s throat. “When we were sixteen and stupid. It didn’t last more than a few weeks. I’m sure you remember.”

Thorn hummed. “I dunno, Rain, I think I was pretty busy padding my lead over you while you were tripping head over hoof after a stallion too fast for you.”

A harsh red fluster made its way to Rain’s cheeks. “Hey!” she exclaimed, poking her muzzle out from underneath Thorn’s wings. “Haze was not ‘too fast’ for me! I could keep up! And besides, I already passed your score four months ago!”

“For the Legate of Nimbus, you sure took your sweet time catching up to me,” Thorn teased. “Griffons don’t just lie their necks down for you, you know.”

“Maybe they should. They can either die standing up or lying down, but they die the same way regardless.”

The two mares giggled, but that too died down in time. “I’m happy for you two, though,” Rain said, filling the empty silence with her voice. “I don’t think there’s a more perfect match.”

Thorn’s ears perked. “Uh… well, thanks, Iron.”

“No, seriously,” Rain continued. “You’re going to make a great wife, and I can’t wait to see the kids, a-and we can t-take them to the parade grounds, after we rebuild the city of course…”

Thorn felt Rain begin to tremble in her embrace. “Iron?” she asked, lifting her head off of the ground. She saw fresh tears glistening on Rain’s muzzle. “Iron, what’s wrong?”

“T-they’ll be such g-great little warriors, like their p-p-parents,” she stammered, “and one d-day, maybe they’ll h-have a R-Rainstorm of their own.”

“Iron, stop,” Thorn said. Her face screwed up in worry, and she carefully rolled Rain in her limbs to get the larger mare to face her—no small task, given Iron’s immense proportions. When she did so, she put her hooves behind Iron’s head and pressed their foreheads together. “Stop it. Please don’t.”

“But I’m scared!” Rain whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut and knocking a few tears loose in the process. “I don’t want you to die, Thorn! Or Haze! Or anypony else.” She ground flat white teeth against each other in frustration. “So many ponies died in Nimbus! Father, Red, Downburst, Longbow… I-I’m afraid that the stupid war’s going to take you all from me and ruin your futures and everything all because of me and—!”

Rain’s eyes shot open as she felt lips meet hers and a foreign tongue wrest the words away from her. Electricity shot up her spine as Thorn rolled her onto her back and wrapped her hooves beneath Rain’s shoulders. The blond mare seemingly lifted Rain off of the ground with the kiss alone, forcing the larger mare to arch her spine just to keep their lips connected. Tawny wings settled into the soft and downy pockets between Rain’s own wings and her coat and held tight, trying to squeeze the emotion out of her.

Rain’s forelimbs shot up from the ground and wrapped around Thorn’s neck, pulling her back down with her. Thorn grunted slightly but used the movement to reposition her lips for a better angle of attack and renewed her assault on Rain’s muzzle. The snowy mare groaned and covered Thorn entirely with her wings as they rolled across the grassy hilltops in their ecstasy.

They came to a stop with Thorn straddling Rain’s chest as they broke off the kiss. Panting, the two mares took their time to recover from the sudden osculation. Rain felt a warm feeling building in her nethers, and she looked to Thorn with a sudden longing. “Thorn…”

Thorn worked her jaw and wiped her lips on a wing feather. She looked down at Rain, and for a moment, temptation flickered across her face. But that bled away to sympathy all too quickly, and she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Iron. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Thorn,” Iron whimpered again. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not right,” Thorn grunted, turning away. “I shouldn’t have done that. I just didn’t want to hear you bawling like that. I… I’m sorry.”

“Oh… o-okay,” Rain whimpered, pulling her forelegs back against her chest. Sighing, Thorn slipped off of Rain’s chest and sat down by the mare’s head. She gently took Rain’s head in her forehooves and settled it in her lap, where she began stroking the trembling mare’s mane with her hooves.

“You’ll find the right pony someday, Rain,” Thorn whispered. “It’s not me. I can tell it’s not any mare. You just have to live long enough to find him.”

It took a few seconds, but Rain feebly nodded. “…okay.”

That little ‘okay’ was enough to make Thorn smile. She tenderly nuzzled Rain’s forehead and leaned back, watching the stars appear one by one on the eastern horizon. As the constellations brightened against the sky, Thorn finally sighed and stretched her wings. “We should probably get going, you know.”

Rain didn’t immediately answer her. “Rose?” Shimmering blue eyes sought Thorn’s face, inadvertently capturing the beauty of a million galaxies within their glossy sheen.

Rose perked her ears. “Yeah, Iron?”

“Can we… will you stay, just a little while longer?”

Rose planted her forehooves behind her and leaned back on them. Ruby eyes wandered across the stars, and within, they saw the beauty of the night, pristine and warm upon that lonely hilltop.

“Okay,” she said, carefully lying on the ground next to Rain. “Just a little longer.”

Author's Note

This chapter guest written by The24thPegasus

Riposte I

Slumped against the side of the bed, Summer stared into the small fire burning in the hearth. Behind her Pathfinder had finally settled, his ragged breaths drawing in and out like waves breaking against rocky shoals. The peaceful sleep was a victory, more for the wine she had forced down his throat than her own skill with medicine. But some wounds were beyond her abilities.

Grasping the sword she’d pulled from the burning camp, Summer inspected the blade. What had been a standard gladius had been broken near the tip, with the blade melted from the heat of the flames and the weight of the structure collapsing on top of it. The result was a sword curved down like a broad tipped fishhook at the point, with a central ridge that wavered in a chaotic pattern from point to guard. Even the blade itself was chipped and cracked, looking more like a poorly maintained sawblade than a soldier’s respectable weapon.

Even the metal of the blade had been turned, stained black at the tip from Pathfinder’s seared blood. Looking at that blade filled her with an unparalleled fury.

...Kill...

A scowl pulled the corners of her mouth into a steep frown, and she tucked the sword under her wing. Summer rose to her hooves, marched to the fireplace, and threw a small log into the flames. Orange embers burst from the coals and danced in the air before they were snuffed out, their beautiful ballets cut short by the cruelty of existence.

The heavy door to the bedroom creaked as it opened, and Summer craned her neck around to see Rain limping in. Their eyes met; Rain nodded, Summer did not.

“You can get a new sword at the armory,” Rain said after several moments.

Summer’s ear twitched with her eyes glancing towards the blade, then scoffed. “I have a sword.”

“That’s not a sword, that’s scrap metal.”

“Whatever.”

Rain made a grunt and shuffled towards the bed. Summer studied the sound, her ears picking up multiple diagnoses without so much as a follow-up glance. Leg swollen, to the point of being difficult to bend when walking, hence the scraping of her hoof against the floor. Words growled out indicative of extreme mental exhaustion, paired with heavy steps that suggested a mirroring physical symptom.

“How’s the kid?”

Summer shot Iron Rain a glare. “How the Hell do you think he is?”

“Watch it, Celsus,” Rain warned her in a growling voice while her wings opened a bit.

Summer returned her attention to the fire for a moment before she rose to her hooves. “Sleeping.”

“No shit.” Rain moved towards the bed and looked him over. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Keep him warm, if he starts making too much noise give him more of the wine on the nightstand,” Summer answered, gathering the broken, hook-like sword, her helmet, and her medical bag.

Rain’s brows knitted together and she scowled. “What’s got you so pissy?”

Summer said nothing, and made her way to the door with a purposeful march. Carver and Windshear, both standing dutifully outside the door, tried to get her attention when she passed them by, only to be ignored just as handily as Legate Rain had been. She moved through the halls of the governor’s mansion until she passed through the foyer, converted like so many other places into a makeshift hospital. The pained moans of the countless wounded fell on deaf ears, and Summer made her way outside.

It was unseasonably cold. Fog had settled over Nyx, sheathing the full olive trees, hiding the densely packed streets from the squat buildings all around. Moans from the countless thousands of wounded and dying drifted through the fog from all around, creating an ethereal, haunting tone in the city.

A breath of cool air washed over her as wind whistled through the trees that dotted the city streets. Overhead, the clouds formed an impenetrable wall of darkness across the night sky. Summer unfurled her right wing and bit down on the crest, squeezing flesh and feather between her blunt teeth, and pulling on the alula a little.

The metallic tang of copper painted her tongue, reminding her she hadn’t preened in days. Too many patients, too much blood. Not enough time. Summer shook her head to dispel the thoughts, and once she had her bearings she moved quickly through the gloomy streets.

It took her only a short amount of time to get to the area that had been set up for survivors of the prison camp. Rain had ordered them separated from the rest of the wounded so Summer and her medical team could divert more resources to them. The least they could do, Rain had said, was to get the prisoners some extra food.

Summer maneuvered her way through the throng of suffering, her eyes skimming over the hardly covered ponies for the one she had seen at the camp. She found him towards the far left corner of the triage area, his teal coat and greasy brown mohawk making him easier to spot among the more drably colored mares and stallions rescued that morning. He raised his head to look at her when Summer walked up to him. Bags under his eyes and the haunted look he carried told Summer he hadn’t gotten much rest since the rescue.

“You’re that medic,” he observed out loud.

Summer nodded.

“The kid,” he grunted as he tried to stand up, accepting the help of Summer’s hoof once she offered it.

“He’s alive,” Summer answered, instinctively checking the stallion’s pupillary response and the swollen eye that another medic had cut to release to blood. “What’s your name?”

“Cloudburst.”

Summer’s eyes grew wide and her heart clenched in her breast. “Cloudburst?”

A look of confusion crossed his face as he slowly nodded his head up and down. “Yeah.”

Summer took a step back from him, the voice of a dying filly echoing in her mind.

“If you see Cloudburst... tell him I’m sorry... and that I love him.”

“I met a mare in Nimbus who mentioned you.”

Cloudburst seemed to lighten up immediately, and a look of hope grew on his face. “Snow? Sh... She’s my fiancee!” he said, struggling to stand. “Where is she? I-Is she alright?”

Summer’s heart palpitated with her breath catching in her throat. She couldn’t tell him that it was by her hoof that Cloudburst’s lover was dead. How could she look a pony in the eye and tell him that she had done that? Swallowing back her hesitation, Summer forced the distant, unattached look on to her face. No matter how heavy her heart felt, nor how deep the pain, it was never to be shown to the patient. “I treated her on the first day of the battle,” Summer began, keeping her tone factual. The frown that she allowed to pull at the corners of her mouth was a practiced one, used specifically to indicate a sense of sympathy for the bereaved. “I’m sorry. She just… lost too much blood.”

Cloudburst stared at Summer with the same heartbroken expression she had seen on countless other mares and stallions over the years. He didn’t break down, at least not immediately. Summer got the sense he would hold himself together, at least until she had left him alone again. It was fine with her, she didn’t care what he did when she left, but she did need him to answer a few questions while she could.

“Cloudburst,” she began, putting her hoof on his shoulder and waiting for him to look her in the eye. “You tried to get my attention this morning at the camp. What was it you wanted to tell me? What…” Summer paused, her mouth feeling dry. When she spoke again her voice had dropped to a whisper and she had closed the distance between them so no other pony would be able to hear. “What did they do to him?”

Iron Rain sat back on her haunches and yawned, her hooves rubbing at her tired, burning eyes. She didn’t know the last time she had slept, or for that matter how long she’d been awake. All she knew was a sense of exhaustion that had settled down into the marrow of her bones.

A lean was stopped by the sharp protest in her thigh, earning a hissed curse from Rain. Correcting her posture, she glared at her swollen leg, as though she could will the muscle and bone to shake off the damage of the griffon war hammer. It was in vain though, and soon she resigned herself to dealing with it once more.

From the bed, she heard Pathfinder moan in his sleep. Craning her neck around to look at him, Rain couldn’t help but have at least some concern for the colt. He was facing her, pain wracking his expression, though his eyes remained tightly shut. His breaths grew quicker and a pitiable mewl that seemed to project from the tips of his teeth escaped him.

Rain climbed into the bed and laid on her side with her wounded leg opposite of the mattress. She could no better lay on that than Finder could lay on his wrapped chest. Which was fine, though it was a touch awkward to sleep face to face with a gasping, writhing colt.

Pathfinder recoiled immediately to the touch of the rough fabric over top of him. His hooves thrashed out, his tail flailed, and a pained, strangled sounding cry escaped his stubby muzzle. It made Rain recoil with the gray fabric still clenched between her teeth, then pause for a moment to consider her position before renewing her plan.

“Look, kid,” Rain grumbled to Finder, pointing a hoof at his snout as though he were looking at her in rapt attention and not in an alcohol induced coma. “I’m letting you stay here cause I owe you one, got it? That doesn’t mean you get to be a Feathertop sized pain in my flank.”

In predictable fashion, Pathfinder didn’t respond to her decree. At least she didn’t think he did. Then again Rain didn’t speak moans. Battlefield screams, growls, and utterances, absolutely. Rain was a master of that crude and improvised vernacular. But the breathless moans from the wounded and maimed? That was Summer’s territory. And Rain would have been all too happy to leave it to the irascible mare.

Channeling her brother, Rain grasped a pillow in her fetlock and held it over Finder’s head. Where Steel used to wait for her to be fast asleep, then throw the pillow over her face until he had nearly smothered her. “You snore,” he’d say when she woke up, and usually proceed to hit her with the pillow once or twice more. Unlike him, though, Iron found herself stopping. The better angels of her nature made the legate pull the pillow back and plop it down over her own face. It muted the noise, but only just.

After about a minute, Rain grew bored, and with sleep predictably refusing her, she brushed the pillow off her head and sighed. With nothing else to look at, and unable to roll onto her wounded side, Rain was forced to stare at Pathfinder. His moans had subsided, replaced with shuddering gasps for air. She wondered if he was dreaming.

While not a doctor, she knew what a stabbed lung looked like. The only blood on the colt’s tongue and lips were from oral injuries, and Rain knew Summer well enough to know the medic wouldn’t have left her and Finder alone if the kid was that badly injured. Summer was a bleeding heart, and Rain only knew how to kill an enemy, not treat a comrade.

She watched him with a thoughtful frown, and soon found her gaze drifting down to his side. His wing was raised off of his side from the thickly packed bandages covering his wound. His other wing lay hidden under him, though Summer had seen to it that several pillows propped him up enough that Pathfinder wasn’t laying on the broken bones directly.

Rain slowly extended her hoof, and with the softest touch she could manage, she lifted Finder’s wing. There was a tacky sound as dried blood and sweat separated from his fur and feathers, and Rain cringed, her stomach turning a bit with the noise. Finder shuddered, and Rain expected that if he hadn’t have already been asleep or drunk, he might have passed out.

With the same deliberate manner, she lowered his wing back down and sighed. Scooting a little closer, Rain got a better look at some of the smaller wounds that decorated Finder’s body. Along his cheeks, near the back of his jawline, Rain noticed cuts. She recognized claw marks when she saw them, and Finder had more than a few to choose from now that Rain got a good look at him. For the ones on his jaw, they started in a triangular shape pointed back towards his mane and dragged forward in lines near an inch in length. His fur would regrow in time to cover them, but why would they claw him there?

Rain scratched her chin on her fetlock and pursed her lips. Her hooves gingerly took hold of Pathfinder’s, which she gently petted. His breath quickened again and his face tightened in a look of panic. Again Rain frowned, and when she moved his hoof back down she gently cupped his hoof between her own. Pathfinder made a pained yelp, making Rain recoil.

“The Hell, kid?” she asked out loud, letting his hoof drop back to the bed. The moment replayed in her head over and over. She struggled to think what she might have twisted or pinched, but nothing came to mind. Then she realized what she had touched, and with more care than before she lifted Finder’s hoof off the bed and examined the bottom.

From that angle the problem was easily identified. The sole of Finder’s hoof was badly burned in what she imagined to have been an act of torture. She’d heard about griffons doing it before. It was another taunt to captured pegasi. First they broke their wings, then they burned their hooves so walking itself was too painful to bear. She sighed heavily and shook her head, setting the tender hoof down as though it were made of delicate porcelain.

Propping herself up a bit on her foreleg, Rain looked over Pathfinder again. If... no, when he recovered he’d be a handsome stallion someday, at least by Nimban standards. She smiled a bit. Longbow had been easy on the eyes, and a great shot. Rain had quite liked the colt’s brother in the limited amount of time she had known him, and if Finder grew to be half the colt Longbow thought he could, then he might make something of himself.

Her eyes trailed down his sides to his flank where still more claw marks carved jagged canyons in his flesh. Somepony, likely Summer, had done her best to clean and stitch up the wounds, but there was no hiding them. Not with so few bandages to go around. His cutie mark, at least the one Rain could see, would always be divided by those claw marks into four sections. Rain wondered if they had tried clawing it out of his flanks. Without thinking she moved to touch his mark, and Finder instantly cried out and tried to flee from the touch.

“Shit! Easy, easy!” Rain said, using her foreleg to keep him as still as she could.

He didn’t calm down, and his eyes snapped open, but didn’t see the mare in front of his own face. They darted around the room, pupils shrunk to tiny pinpricks of black in seas of gold. Rain knew the look on his face. She’d seen it before in battle when a soldier’s mind broke and primal terror had claimed dominion over them.

“Kid, you’re safe,” Rain said, taking his unburned hoof between her own and carefully guiding it up to her cheek. “Listen to my voice. You’re safe here. You’re with friends. Nothing can hurt you here.” Her tone, like her touch, was both firm yet delicate. She guided his hoof over her cheek and cheekbones. His breaths, at first quick and raspy gasps, began to slow, and the panicked flick of his eyes drew towards her.

Rain swallowed once and then let go of his hoof once Finder was able to keep it there with his own strength. The small hoof began to move, upwards at first, over her eye and along her brow, stopping when it got to her mane. He then moved down to her muzzle, over her nose and down her lips. The soft feel seemed to settle him more, and Rain took a chance. She reached up with her own hoof and as gently as she could, pressed it to his cheek. She gently stroked his cheek for a moment, then slid her hoof up to his white-streaked mane. Rain felt his hoof slide off her lips and down her chin, where it soon fell to the mattress once again. She didn’t dare move until she saw his eyes drift shut, and he seemed to fall back to a dreamless sleep.

Allowing herself a relieved sigh, Iron Rain settled onto her pillow and watched him for a while longer. She continued to pet his mane with the same slow rhythm until her eyes grew too heavy. Her hoof came to rest around his shoulder, and Iron Rain let her exhaustion claim her.

Riposte II

Carver should have felt more comfortable. Nyx was the apprentice mason’s hometown, after all. Yet with the streets swarming with refugees and walking wounded, to say nothing of the perpetual stench of blood and death, the city felt nothing like the home that he had remembered.

“It still doesn’t make sense to me,” Windshear complained for what Carver was sure was the twelfth or thirteenth time that day.

Carver nodded, but remained tight-lipped on the matter. Instead he let his gaze drift upwards to the spotty clouds drifting high above Nyx. The wind was coming from the west, whistling through the town in fits and starts. A pony could walk for anything from a few seconds to a few minutes, however long it took them to get comfortable, and then it would hit them like a wall. Conversely it provided a sense of ease to Carver. Small, fast moving clouds were impossible to utilize for attacks. War Clouds were large, slow moving, and easily spotted on the horizon. At least that was what they had been taught at basic.

Three days had passed since Haze had given him and Windshear their task: find Summer, and bring her to Iron Rain with an emphasis to do the job quietly. Why, Carver had no idea. To say that lack of information bothered him was an understatement. He was an architect, after all. The world could be understood like a building; something with a purpose. Purpose lead to plans, plans to action, action being construction or destruction. Plans left as little as possible to the unknown, and no plan began from unknowns or without a defined end goal.

“I mean, she must’ve done something, right?” Windshear kept talking. “They wouldn’t just have us do this for no reason.” He glanced over to Carver. “Right?”

“You said that about the ditches we had to dig at basic.”

“There was a perfectly good reason for those.”

Carver gave his friend an incredulous stare.

Windshear smiled and made a shrug of his wings, the scales of his wingblades scraping at the sides of his armor. “Sure there was. Skyhammer was an asshole.”

Carver made an amused snort. “Point to you, Wind.”

The lanky stallion grinned, then straightened up his posture. Clearing his throat, he spoke with a deep growl. “Now you miserable greenwings listen up! You will go and die for your country, or I’ll kill you myself!”

“You’re such an ass,” Carver said, trying and failing to suppress a grin.

“Asses, greenwing, are for sitting!” Windshear imitated their dearly departed centurion. “You want hybrids using you for ass cushions? You’re soldiers of the legion, not ass cushions!”

Carver shook his head with a bark of laughter. Sighing, he came to a stop and scratched at his nose with his fetlock. “We’ve been at this crap for days. Let’s take a break.”

“If the boss asks, I’m telling her you made me do it.” Windshear lightly flicked his wingblades against Carver’s armor.

“Come on, my family’s place isn’t too far from here. We can stop there for a rest and some lunch.”

Windshear nodded, but raised an eyebrow in concern. “Do they have enough rations for that?”

Carver’s ears folded back and a sheepish grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Well, my dad may have a few connections. Owning the largest quarry in Nyx has a perk or two.”

“Why Carver,” Windshear teased his friend with a playful nudge. “You scallywag, you.”

“That’s Centurion Scallywag to you, Windy.”

Snickering, Windshear brought his wing up in a lazy salute. “Aye, Sir, Mr. Centurion Scallywag, Sir.”

It was a short flight from where they were searching to Carver’s home, however he opted to take the longer walk. The same questions nibbled at the back of his mind, over and over again as they had all week long, growing more insistent by the day. It was enough to make Carver’s head want to burst. He needed to unwind for a little while, clear the noise that cluttered his mind. And, for Carver, nothing did that like some time with family.

Through the crowded, winding streets of Nyx, he and Windshear made their way to his ancestral home. Located on the eastern edge of town with an unobstructed view of the Cirran heartland, the domus was one of the largest in Nyx. Standing at three stories tall, with marble walls and painted columns, it screamed of wealth, the likes of which Windshear had never personally known.

“Hey, Carver, can I ask you something?” Windshear glanced over at the smaller stallion.

“Yeah?”

“Well...” Windshear paused for a moment, looking a little unsure if he wanted to voice his thought. He took a breath and bit back any reservations, then continued. “Look, you’re family is clearly wealthy. So why are you here? Why didn’t you buy a substitute?”

“I wanted to,” Carver answered simply. “Father wouldn’t hear of it though.”

Windshear nodded and left the topic alone. Substitutes were a proclivity of wealthy families. A parent sponsor or the son in question could offer a hefty sum of money in order to buy their way out of legion service by hiring a substitute. It was far from an honorable practice, but the governors generally liked the extra income it offered in hard times.

It was also whispered about that the cleverer of political leaders liked it as a form of blackmail. Often were there rumors of noble families being pushed by certain powers to take public positions or divert their personal assets towards fighting against possible calls of dishonor or cowardice. Despite the fact that few pegasi outside of Nimbus cherished the idea of sending their sons or daughters to war, fewer still hailed the prospect of being publicly denounced as cowards or shirkers.

Carver had been an exception, though: a staunch pacifist who had been quite open that he wanted no part of the war. He couldn’t have cared less what his family, Nyx, or Cirra at large thought about his indifference to Gryphus. All he wanted to do was study architecture, to become a great builder like his forefathers had been. The Gods had a bitter sense of humor, though, first taking his eye, then giving making him a Centurion after the greatest defeat in Cirran history at Nimbus.

The Gods could keep their humor, Carver decided, and he walked faster to push the thoughts from his mind. Approaching the large redwood doors, Carver reached up with a hoof and knocked twice before entering.

“Mother? Father? Mal?” He called out, his voice echoing through the opulently decorated foyer. He motioned for Windshear to follow as he walked inside, which Windshear did with a look that screamed of discomfort. Carver noticed and sighed. “Calm down, Wind. You’re a guest, not a sacrifice.”

“Yeah, I’ll work on that,” Windshear muttered. “Not all of us are used to this.”

“Well you’re gonna make me nervous if you keep it up. So relax.”

“Carver?” A feminine voice called from the inner sanctum. A young mare with the same sandy blonde coat and brown mane of Carver’s waddled into the room. Her stomach was swollen as she was heavy with child, and her mane was long and haggard. She smiled and Carver moved quickly to embrace her with a hoof.

“Mal,” he said warmly. “Should you be up and about so much?”

“I’m pregnant, not crippled,” she answered him quickly. Looking past her little brother, she smiled to Windshear. “Your name was Windshear, right?”

“Yes ma’am,” he answered with a smile.

Mal nodded, then returned her attention to Carver. He saw the subtle shift of her expression; the way her eyes sparkled, yet her smile faltered. Carver found his wings sagging of their own accord, and he lowered his head, unable to look her in the eye.

“I haven’t heard anything about Jury, Mal. I’m sorry.”

Her smile faltered, but she nodded all the same. Carver hoped his own heartache didn’t show. His sister loved her husband and had been distraught when he was drafted. Carver had felt sorrow too. He liked Jury. The stallion was quiet, deliberative, and most importantly made his sister happy.

“I’ll keep my ears open,” Carver said to cut through the silence that filled the room. “I promise, Mal, I’ll find out where he is.”
She nodded once, more out of reflex than belief. “If you see your friend Summer again, would you mind having her stop over one more time?” Mal asked with drooping ears and a quiet voice. “I need to ask her for some more of that medicine she made for my back.”

Carver’s heart skipped a beat. He nodded to her and offered a smile. “When I see her I’ll let her know. She’s been very busy though.”
Mal turned to leave, motioning with a wing for Carver and Windshear to follow. “I think Father is in the drawing room. I’ll let him know you’re here. I suspect he would like to speak with you, little brother. Mother should be back later. She took Chisel, Caliper, and Quarry out to help the soldiers.”
“I see.” Carver felt a sorrow fill him. He had hoped to spend some time with his brothers while he was home. When he spoke next his tone was laced thick with sarcasm. “I’ll wait here for father and try to contain my jubilance.”

Chuckling softly, the mare excused herself from the room. Carver made his way over to the reflecting pool and sat down beside it. There he removed his wingblades and laid them out on the floor. Windshear did the same, though with the added noticeable sigh of relief at getting out of the weapons.

“I gotta get those refitted,” Windshear said, prodding at the left wingblade with his hoof. “I think some of the scales got damaged at Nimbus. They’re pinching me everytime I move.”

“Well get it looked at, then.” Carver flashed a playful grin. “Can’t have my meat shield going down that easy.”

It was with an amused snort that Windshear elbowed Carver’s side. “You rich ponies, always letting us poor types get killed first.”

Carver laughed, but it was only out of politeness.“You think Finder’s doing alright?”

“Well, he’s alive, we know that.” Windshear shivered, his wings twitching anxiously. “You hear what that stallion said happened to him? Cloudburst I think his name was.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s definitely not doing alright,” Windshear continued, sliding down onto his side with his right hoof tracing lines across the surface of the reflecting pool. “But that kid is stubborn. I think he’ll pull through.”

Nodding, Carver took a breath then started to preen his wings. Atrocities happened in war, this was a truth as old as time itself. Carver knew this, accepted this. He had tried to refuse service in the Legion as he wanted no part of it. “I should’ve told him to piss off and go home at Stratopolis.”

Windshear’s hoof slipped around the back of Carver’s neck. Carver flinched at first before he relaxed.

“It’s not your fault. It’s the hybrid bastards we killed. Got that?”

“Yeah.”

At that moment, an aging stallion with a pristine white coat and a short cropped mane of silver walked into the room. Golden jewelry decorated his neck and fetlocks. He carried himself like he was walking on the clouds of Stratopolis and stared down his nose at the two younger stallions in the room. Carver slipped out from Windshear’s hoof and stood to greet his father.

“Father.”

“Carver!” His father’s deep, boisterous tone filled the entire room. One would have been forgiven for thinking the old stallion had gotten lost on his way to rehearsal with a theatre troupe. “Good to see you well.”

“You as well, Father.”

Mason smiled, though somehow the gesture felt hollow. “You mother tells me you’ve made Centurion.”

“Yes Father, at Nimbus.”

“Hmm, I see.” Mason looked from Carver to Windshear, his lips pursed in thought. “Carver, fetch us some wine from the cellar. And you… Windshear, was it?”

“Yes sir,” Windshear answered, standing up a bit straighter.

“Come with me. We’ll have some food prepared and you can tell this old stallion all about the battle.”

“Which wine would you like, Father?”

Mason paused, his lips pursed in a thoughtful manner. “I think it’s time to open the 83 Imperial.” The aging stallion was quiet for a moment, then turned his attention to Carver. “Actually, son, fetch the 72.”

Carver’s eyes grew wide for a moment and his jaw dropped. “The 72? I thought you were saving that for—“

“We have great reason to celebrate, son. When the Legion rallies and eradicates the Hybrids once and for all, Nimbus will need to be rebuilt.” Mason brimmed with glee, even allowing himself the smallest flit of his wings. “Our quarries are the only good source of granite and marble in this region.” He didn’t say more on the subject. Carver knew he wouldn’t. At least not as long as Windshear was within earshot.

Carver only felt shame. “Father—“

“Fetch the wine, Carver.” Mason smiled politely. “Our guest must be thirsty.”

“Yes, Father.”

Mason nodded. “Come, Sir Windshear,” He saddled up alongside Windshear and draped a wing across his back. “Let us go and speak as stallions do.”

Wind nodded on reflex, though the look he shot Carver was more akin to a stallion being led to his execution. Well, no, perhaps it was more apt to say that he looked as though he was being forced into marriage. Execution, after all, was quick. A short to long drop followed by a sudden stop. Marriage presented the charming option of decades of misery followed by the sweet release of death if one was lucky.

Shaking his head, Carver couldn’t feel too badly for his friend. After all, his father’s company was infuriating, but hardly the end of the world.

He made his way towards the center of the house where a heavy oak door was set into an orange stucco wall. Beyond the threshold was a flight of stairs leading into the dark cellars of his family estate. Lit only by row upon row of oil fueled candles, the old wooden stairwell creaked and groaned under his heavy steps.

Humming as he walked down into the cellar, Carver paused at the bottom of the stairs to stretch out his wings. It was the first time in days he’d removed his wingblades for more than just sleeping. It surprised him just how off things felt without them on. His wings felt too light. Carver smirked to himself and shook his head. “Disgraceful,” he grumbled.

The wine cellar of his father’s home was large even by the grandiose standards of the Nyxian aristocracy. Descending three flights of stairs, past the kitchens and servants quarters, he wound up in a dark tunnel dug into the earth. The walls were lined with heavy stone blocks, each one hoof carved by his great grandfather and his children.

‘And Gods know how many slaves’ Carver mused to himself. The family histories were full of soaring rhetoric and self-congratulation, but even a little bit of further reading or consultation with the city archivists revealed the truth. Griffon slaves had built his family's fortune. Ironic, really, that they should be the ones to tear it down if the momentum of the war continued.

He sighed as he reached the landing to the wine cellar. Hard packed earth made the floor with the walls lined by individually carved and fitted stonework which were illuminated by a smattering of oil lanterns. No mortar was used in the construction, the creation of the binding agent had come after his grandfather’s passing. Still, the old stonework had no need for it. It was masterful craftsmanship, the like of which Carver longed to replicate one day.

Wandering through the maze of wines, Carver soon found the bottle he was looking for. Or at least where it should have been. Several of the old bottles were gone with not so much as a spilled drop or lost cork to suggest where they had been taken. Carver scratched at his chin curiously only for a rough voice to startle him out of his thoughts.

“Carver?”

“Gods!” Carver startled, whirling to face the voice. There, hidden in the far corner of his family’s basement he saw a mare. She looked like Summer, but hardly the Summer he knew.

The whites of her eyes were bloodshot, contrasting sharply with the vibrant green. Her white coat was filthy with what looked like rust or grime. Only once she stepped into the light could he see it was dried blood.

“Gods, Summer, what—” Carver paused for a moment to collect himself, his shock giving way to relief, then anger. “Where the Hell have you been? What are you doing in my home?”

“I killed them.” There was no emotion in her voice, anger, regret or otherwise. Only the cold fact of her admission and it made Carver’s blood freeze. “Cut their cocks off and fed them to the beasts.”

“Killed them? I don’t understand, killed who?”

She stepped closer to him and Carver stepped back. “The hybrids, who else?”

Carver jumped when his hindquarters bumped into the wine shelf. He swallowed, his mouth feeling dry like he’d swallowed ash. The mare stalked towards him, her emerald eyes reflecting the orange flames dancing on their lantern wicks.

The mare staggered towards him, a half drunk bottle held in her right wing. Her head was low and her eyes bore a dry pink hue. She mumbled, mostly to herself though sometimes to him. Carver didn’t understand a word of it, and squirmed against the wall he was backed into.

“They deserved it, you know.” Summer put a hoof under his chin lifting his gaze up to her own. Her breath smelled of wine with small trails of reddish residue clinging to the white fur around the corners of her mouth and down her chin. “They deserved worse.”

“I-I don’t—”

Summer shushed his words with a hoof to Carver’s lips. “You didn’t see. You don’t know what they did. they deserved it.”

“How…” He paused to swallow back the anxiety that seemed to ball in his throat. “How did you get past the guards?”

Confusion twisted Summer’s expression for a moment before shifting to something different. He couldn’t place it at first. It wasn’t shame, Summer had a way of avoiding eye contact when she was ashamed of something. It was a tick he’d noticed soon after they had met. Granted, Summer rarely seemed to feel any sort of shame even when most would be drowning in the feeling.

Instead the look was more pensive. Her lips made a taut, thin, line across her face bookended by the dimples of her round cheeks. “They shouldn’t have interfered.”

Carver’s mouth hung open for a moment before it snapped closed. He felt a sudden rage overcome him, one that he focused solely on the mare skulking about in his cellar. “Are you insane?!” Carver demanded, conscious to keep his voice a low hiss.

Summer looked insulted by the accusation. Her eyes were wide, then grew narrow, with that wild anger directed at the stallion. “

“It was justice!”

“It was murder!”

Summer spat, fury burning in those emerald orbs. “You call that murder? Justice is not murder. You know what was murder? What they did to Dawn, Snow, Lord Winter.” Summer gritted her teeth and stalked closer to Carver. She hooked her fetlock in the neck of his armor, pulling him uncomfortably close to her snout. “Was it not murder to butcher Steel?”

The name didn’t register with Carver. He shoved Summer back and flared his wings reflexively. “And what about my family, Summer? Did you think of them before you hid out here!”

“They have nothing to do with this.”

Rare was the day that Carver raised his voice. He liked to think of himself as being a stallion with an even temper. Still, there were things that got under his skin, and fewer still that made his blood boil. His family, and their safety, was the only thing that would do it every time though. He grasped the neck of Summer’s filthy armor and hauled the smaller mare towards him with a strength he rarely displayed. Summer’s wings flapped in reflex while her hooves dug trenches in the packed dirt floor to no avail.

Carver twisted her around then with a mighty shove put her back into the stone support wall. The armor clanged, the sound echoing in the wine cellar. Either out of surprise or a moment of clarity, Summer didn’t fight Carver, though she did brace her foreleg against his breastplate to keep him from getting too close.

“You’re an idiot!” he spat.“What in Garuda’s name do you think is going to happen if anypony catches you down here, huh? Then it’s my family on the line! They’ll be accused of harboring a wanted mare. Do you know what the punishment for that is? Do you?!”

Summer didn’t answer, merely looking at the floor like a scorned foal. The lack of response confused Carver. Slowly, breath by breath he regained his composure. He backed away from summer, letting her get back on her own footing.

“I don’t know who you are anymore,” Carver said through heavy breaths. He shook his head, confused, upset, wounded even. “You’re no better than the monsters we’re fighting.”

With that he turned on the spot and made for the stairs. He paused, remembering to grab a bottle of wine for his father and Windshear. Then he looked over his shoulder at her one last time. “If I find you down here again… I’ll kill you myself.”

Carver disappeared up the stairs and Summer felt her heart break, as though crushed by icy talons. Everything felt so surreal, like it was a conversation spoken in a separate room. Through the rage, through the filth, through the hate, all she could feel was a strange, distant, swelling pain.

Like an oncoming storm it steadily advanced towards her. She could see it coming. She could feel it coming. Yet there wasn’t a single thing she could do to avoid it. And when that storm hit, she felt every second of the terrible crush. From the bottom of her hooves to the very tips of her ears it encompassed her; consumed her.

The primordial, anguished cry that escaped her was a sound none could describe.

Two days later, Summer turned up at Iron Rain’s door to surrender herself with neither explanation or fight.

Rebirth

Colts and fillies knew nothing about death. After all, the youthful mind wasn’t capable of processing abstraction or eternity. The youth could understand only what was in the present. Hunger, satisfaction, pain, pleasure; these were the concepts that existed in the moment and were thusly comprehensible to the youthful mind.

Surely consequence had been learned over time. The pursuit of an action in the cause of satisfaction could on occasion produce punishment—pain. Through the repetition of trial to gain satisfaction and subsequent pain, the youthful mind began to conceptualize orders of events, and thus could begin to consider how actions produced reactions—consequences.

Yet these observations were short lived. At most a consequence would last a few hours: the sting of one’s flank or cheek after the cuff of a parent’s hoof or the burn of a wound sustained from a brave jump. Even positive consequence: the satisfaction of a warm meal, the praise of another from a task well done was equally fleeting, and after each came the next set of events.

Like all the rest of his ilk, the colt had struggled with the concept of death. Food, of course, was dead, but it was food. To the youthful mind, incapable as it was of seeing past itself, the food existed only to fulfill the need of hunger and give satisfaction. To be alive meant to exist as the youth perceived it. One had to display the very signs of life that he could understand; that of needs and fulfillments.

Until Nimbus he had never understood death.

Since the last hybrid had satisfied itself in his body, the colt drifted in and out of consciousness, though for how long he was never sure. On occasion he was perfectly aware of where he was. He remembered what had happened, the spear he’d leapt into, and the faces of ponies he found familiar as they worked to save his life. Other times the world was blurred, as though he was observing everything through a thick pane of clouded glass. The figures he saw in the room moved slowly and sometimes quickly. Most of the time they seemed to ignore him, though the colt was fairly certain he’d been made to drink something from time to time.

The pain of his wounds came and went, much like his moments of lucidity. Sometimes he felt nothing, others he wished Gnade’s spear had sent him to the Great Skies where he could be with Longbow and Dawn. Yet he languished in his mortal coil, drifting between those blissful bouts of numbness and the terrible moments of torment.

Yet through it all, there was one presence he continued to notice. It was that of the tall mare with a broad chest and a coat pure as the freshly fallen snow. In his more lucid moments he saw her. She tended to his wounds, talked to him, and at night, when the nightmares came and the pain of his wounds grew too great, she gave him wine and held him against her breast until he grew calm.

How she reminded him of a divine creature he would never forget. To his unfocused eyes she moved about his vision with a glow that seemed to spring from the depths of her soul and cast its illumination upon the room. The colt found it nearly blinding at times, and in those moments he found himself resisting the urge to pull the sheets over his head. It was one of the few things of beauty he’d seen in so long.

The wine burned his throat when he swallowed and left a taste in his mouth like that of soured fruit. He knew he protested, but the actions were never intentional. The forces that compelled the liquid into his mouth persisted, and time after time he was forced to yield to the burning, bitter fluid poured down his esophagus.

Despite his resistance, every dose of the liquid brought with it a sensation of floating. He was aware of his pain, aware of the horrible memories, but with the bittersweet medicine he felt as though he were floating several inches above it all. Each time he was aware of his compromised state, yet he could never quite get the feeling that he had the wherewithal to change his circumstance. Between the bouts of delirium, respite, and torment, he slept. The sleep he found was rarely peaceful.

Again and again he found himself back in the gnarled forest. The same dread wood he had found himself in the night he resolved to run away from home and find his brother. How many lifetimes ago that last night seemed from his lonely bed.

The forest was different than it had been before. The skies were red and painted with clouds like streaks of blood on fabric. The branches grew claws that swiped at his flanks. His wings were gone, replaced by bloodied pits where they’d been torn straight from the flesh. Sinew, tendon, muscle, and bone, all were visible in the weeping wounds.

Night after night the colt found himself in the same dream.

Night after night he ran in futility to escape the snagging branches and unseen beasts.

Night after night the shadows within the blackened wood set upon him with demonic purpose and threw themselves upon him like wolves. Hooked talons sunk into his flanks, cruel beaks bit down on the back of his neck.

Then, as the colt pleaded and cried for it to stop, a flash of brilliant light burned the monsters away. For the briefest of moments he beheld a mare, a silhouette of midnight blue in the center of the near blinding light. The figure approached him looking to his eyes taller than any mare he’d yet beheld, and on her head a crown of black, like that of a Nimban war helmet.

A hoof reached out to the colt from the light, and like a dream he saw the color shift from darkness into a divine white. The hoof, cool, yet gentle like the light of a summer’s moon, caressed his cheek like that of a mother, and in his mind he felt a warmth envelope him like a protective blanket. The colt’s eyes shot open and through the dim orange illumination of lanterns he beheld the divine mare clutching him to her breast.

Like a leaf trembling in the bitter autumn wind, the colt pressed his ear to her chest and listened to the slow rhythm of her heart. She was alive, and he sensed that through her will, he too was alive.

“The sentence is death.”

“Commander Moon, please,” Iron Rain pleaded with the bedridden stallion. “You can’t do this!”

“This is not some peddler’s deal, Iron,” Gold Moon all but spat her name. “She will suffer a traitor's death precisely as she deserves.”

Iron repressed a shudder. The death for traitorous soldiers in the legion was one most Nimbans found appalling. The Nimban way was quick, simple, even. You betrayed your comrades, your head was cut off. Nice and clean.

The Cirran way was fittingly more cruel yet masked with a lovely veneer of theatricality to make it more palatable. The condemned was marched out before an open court, given a brief show trial, then sentenced to death. The gathered masses were usually roped into the frenzy as well. The mare or stallion presiding over the trial would petition the crowd if there should be mercy or not. More often than not the crowds would demand their bloodlust be sated.

The sentence, at least for serving soldiers, was to be beaten to death. Friends were made to take up wooden practice swords and beat upon their friends, ponies they had trained with since the day they had enlisted, until dead. Sometimes one of the condemned pony’s cohorts would refuse to execute the punishment. In turn they would be made to share in it as befitting a traitor to the Empire. It was a controversial practice, one that often instilled a deep resentment in the rank and file.

Questionably more merciful was the Long Fall.

Nimbus always was more civilized.

Rain couldn’t stand for that. Not for a pony she hated, and certainly not for Summer. Her brother, her father, she could feel them glaring down upon her. Their immortal sounds demanded her to do the right thing, to save Summer. “She is a citizen of Nimbus and a brilliant medicus. I won’t—“

“Enough!” he shouted before a fit of coughing overtook him. When he spoke again, it was with that same lecturing, steady tone that he so often used, speaking down to the mare looming over him as if she were still a filly. “She disobeyed direct orders, killed prisoners of war, and attacked her fellow soldiers! No skill as a medicus, and certainly no place of birth, can compensate for that loss of discipline.”

Rain agreed, of course. How could she not? Nimbus had been a city built on discipline. It had been what kept them alive for so many generations between the borders of Cirra and Gryphus. What Summer did insulted her heritage, it insulted Rain’s command, and worst of all it sullied the memory of Nimbus itself. “Commander Moon, I’m not proposing that you let her walk away without punishment at all. . All I’m asking is mercy. With all that my ponies have lost, they’ve just been—“

“They are alive, Iron. Thanks to the sacrifice of thousands upon thousands of good Cirrans.”

His assertion rankled Rain. As much as she wanted to chase the line of thought he was trying to lead her down, she instead forced herself to pause a moment. Rain was a soldier first and foremost. Her father had been a shrewd tactician with a keen eye for politics when needed. His daughter had never taken to politics, finding them more troublesome than they were worth, even when she recognized some of the necessities of such systems. “I can’t let you do this, Commander. We need all the doctors we can get right now. Please, be practical.”

“Practical?” Goldmoon seemed at once annoyed and amused by Rain. “Cirra’s front line is failing. Our morale is crumbling. I will not allow us to lose our discipline. If I lessen her sentence, how long do you think we will have to wait before we see looters? Deserters? Other traitors?

“We Nimbans won’t give in! We’re a city of warriors!”

“Indeed.” Moon massaged his wrinkled brow with the tip of a feather. “You’ve lived your life amongst soldiers. You’ve only ever led Nimban elites, Rain. Your shock troops, your ‘Rainstorm’, are a mighty force. I admire them. But they number a dozen at most. The legions I have to answer for number in the thousands, and a thousand Nimban nobles is a force Cirra desperately wants for. My forces aren’t your career soldiers. They’re conscripts; some of them barely stallions and mares grown, and no matter how skilled, no drill instructor can turn a farmer into a true soldier in six months. I fear for their discipline. Because if those farmers break and run, the empire dies, Rainstorm or no.” Moon raised a glass of brandy from his table, slamming it down his throat in a single violent motion.

“But-”

Moon slammed his glass of brandy down onto the hard wood of the table. “The matter is settled, Iron,” Goldmoon shouted her down. “I want the surviving members of Celsus’ unit brought to the courtyard at first light.”

The old stallion motioned with a wing towards the door where his faithful aide-de-camp stood. The silent, slight of frame stallion pulled open the door, ushering Rain out with a contemptuous glare. Rain bristled, unable to hold her tongue a moment longer, at least not fully. “This is not over, Commander!”

“It is, Iron.”

While she would have given the world to prove him otherwise, Rain knew it was best to retreat for the moment. No doubt the sound Gold Moon would make if she literally punched the teeth out of his mouth would have been entertaining, but it would be the most fleeting of victories. That it would be her death didn’t bother her. The Rains had never been ones to fear a good death. It was that it would not be a good death, but a pointless one that bothered her. Even more concerning to Rain was the fate that would bring down on her Nimbans.

Their well being was now hers to see to. Nimbus had no treasures in the traditional Cirran sense. They had no coffers overflowing with coin, nor the bountiful fields of wheat, or the productive quarries of cities like Nyx. Nimbus had no treasures at all save for the pegasi that called the city their home.

Seeing red, and hearing the shifting armor of Gold Moon’s guards, Iron Rain stormed out of his room without the courtesy of a salute. Instead she made her way downstairs and out of the Governor’s mansion. Her purposeful gait took her across the block to a heavily guarded secondary residence being used by herself, Pathfinder, and a few relocated prisoners.

Rain passed the guards without a word. They were no longer the Nimban guards that she had posted there, but stallions loyal to Gold Moon. Another thing that had rankled her feathers that morning. Neither of the armored stallions moved to stop her.

The building was two stories tall made out of a wooden inner structure with cobblestone mortared to the outer walls. It had been a bank or a storehouse of some kind before the refugees had arrived. Haze had taken it upon himself to turn it into a temporary prison while Rain was recovering from the battle.

Making her way up to the second flight using a stairwell far too narrow to fly up, Rain paused a moment to shake out her sore leg. Once the tension in the muscles had eased, she continued down to the end of the hallway where two more guards stood beside a door. These two did stop rain, extending their bladed wings out to form an X shape.

“No visitors for this prisoner, ma’am.” The first stallion said.

Rain was not impressed, to say the least. “Move, soldier.”

“I cannot, ma’am. Leave or we’ll be forced to escort you from-”

He was interrupted when her hoof grabbed the neck of his armor, forcibly hauling him so they were nose to nose. All her pent up aggression that had been building for days came bursting out over the hapless stallion. “I am Legate Iron Rain, soldier. You will move aside now or I will remove you from your miserable existence for insubordination and rank incompetence. Do you understand me?”

Blood seemed to have drained from the gray stallion’s face at the very real promise of violence. His companion looked confused with his outstretched wing half closing as though torn between wanting to follow Gold Moon’s orders, and afraid of Rain’s wrath. “I-I’m sorry, L-Legate Rain, b-but Commander Moon—”

“Commander Moon isn’t here, soldier. Just the three of us. Now, go take a walk!”

Rain shoved him past her roughly and marched to the door. The remaining stallion skittered out of her way in terror, though neither sentry got too far down the hall. Rain may have frightened them, but so too did Gold Moon.

Pulling open the door, Rain found her target: Summer Celsus. The disheveled mare had her ankle shackled to the wall with a heavy chain. A small pile of moldy smelling hay provided the closest thing to a bed in the dark room.

“You gods damned stupid half-blood bitch!” Rain began, smacking Summer across the face with the back of her hoof the moment she was in range. Summer collapsed instantly at the blow and stayed on the ground, a hoof covering her now reddened cheek.

“Rain, wait!” Summer pleaded, only to be hauled to her hooves by her mane and slapped again.

“Idiot!” Rain shouted again. “I should kill you myself, you know? Hang you from a Godsdamned tree with a sign around your fucking neck! Here hangs Summer Celsus, a traitor to the Empire!” Rain illustrated the sentiment by waving a hoof through the air. “Do you have any idea what you did? How badly you’ve fucked this up?”

“They raped him, Iron!” Summer shouted back, her voice cracking. “He’s just a kid and they raped him!”

Rain paused, her hoof cocked in the air to deliver another terrible strike. “The kid?”

Summer nodded. There were no tears in her eyes. Sorrow had long since turned into pure rage. “Can you say that they deserved to live? Don’t you come in here and fucking judge me for what I did. Not when you didn’t even have the heart to do what had to be done at the camp!”

“I did what was best for Nimbus.” Rain defended herself, stomping on the floorboards hard enough to make the wood creak under hoof.

“Nimbus is dead and those griffons were alive! How is that best for Nimbus? They all need to die! Every last one of them!”

“We needed them alive to bargain with Moon.”

“No! We needed a reckoning! We needed to show them Nimban justice. You just needed them for your ego! You wanted something to get Gold Moon to give two shits about your command!”

Rain threw Summer against the wall, pinning her there with a hoof over her throat. “If you think that just because you once courted my brother I won’t kill you right here, you’re dead wrong.” Rain leaned more of her weight onto Summer’s throat. “I could...I should kill you right now. Put you out of my misery.”

Summer’s reply came out as a feeble gasp. The strong limb threatening to crush her windpipe only pressed down harder. She kicked out but her hooves failed to strike Rain, instead hitting only the air.

“It would be so easy…” Rain said in nearly a whisper. Then she backed off, letting Summer collapse to the ground in a heap. Rain watched her cough and gasp for breath for several moments. “But you’re still Nimban… And you’re still like family to me.”

After getting her breath back, Summer managed to get herself upright again. She rubbed at her throat, ears folded back and head slightly down as she looked up at Rain.

Rain sighed. She rubbed her temple with a hoof and sat down for a moment. “Gold Moon wants you to have the traitor's death.”

Summer’s eyes grew wide for a moment, then seemed to settle. Her head dipped somewhat lower as she seemed to resign herself to it. “I see. He would do that, wouldn’t he?”

Iron Rain could only nod.

“Please, Iron, please tell me that they’re not gonna make Finder do it.” Summer looked up at Rain pleadingly. “The kid can hardly walk, much less hold a sword.”

“It won’t come to that. I won’t let it.”

Less than convinced, Summer visibly sagged. “Would you do me a favor, Rain?”

“I can’t release you if that's what you’re thinking.”

Summer shook her head. “No. Just… Just tell Carver and Windshear to aim for my head.”

Rain was still for a time, then made a grim nod. “I’m not giving up this fight so easily. If you’re half Nimban then you won’t either, Summer.”

The older mare laughed though the sound was bitter instead of mirthful. “You damned Rains never did know when to give up.”

Iron smiled. “Siccitates omnes in Imbre desihnunt.”

Summer shook her head, but smiled all the same. “How’s the kid doing?”

“Better than expected. I think I’ve been giving him too much wine for the pain, though.” Rain’s hoof scraped the floor in an almost sheepish manner. “I’m not much of a doctor.”

“The day a Rain goes into medicine is the day we’re all doomed.” Summer joked. “Just keep the bandages dry and make sure he’s getting enough water.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Rain turned around to face the door. “I’ll be back later.”

Walking outside of the door, Rain looked to Haze and Thorn. They looked back to her with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Rain focused her attention on Haze, a steely look in her eyes.

“Fly to Stratopolis. Find Senator Celsus and get him here. Now.”

Haze made the smallest of nods and took a moment to strip himself of his armor, helmet, and wingblades. He deposited the items at Thorn’s hooves, saving only his sword, which she helped him fasten to his side just under his right wing. Freed of the weight, he offered Rain a smirk, then vanished out the nearest window in a blur of motion.

“Second cohort, third maniple: seventy-three dead, forty-seven from battle, twenty-six from flux. Fourth cohort, third maniple: fifty-two dead, thirty seven from battle, fifteen from flux. Another twenty-eight unaccounted for, presumed lost at Nimbus.”

Gold Moon took a measured breath while his aide-de-camp steadfastly recited the butcher’s updated bill of the legion’s casualties. Before him, spread out on a large table, was a seeming ocean of parchment. Maps, orders, letters from the senate all trying to tell him how to fight the war from the safety of their offices in High Stratopolis.

Stratagem, casualty reports, and logistical issues were hardly the sole focus of his anger, however. Iron Rain had been petitioning him ceaselessly for clemency in regards to the Celsus matter. He had granted her a temporary stay of execution when the master of the local quarry had called on him to. The stallion’s daughter was heavily pregnant, and Summer had been treating her for the difficulties before the incident.

Other matters had also necessitated the action be delayed as well. Survivors from the offensive were still trickling in from griffon territory. They came one by one, or sometimes in pairs. All were injured, some died the moment they set hoof in town. Every one of them needed to be debriefed and the information analyzed.

A sharp knock on the door distracted him from his thoughts, if only for a moment. “I am occupied.”

The door swung open regardless of his claim, and Gold Moon cast an irritated glare at the pony who dared to interrupt him. His narrowed eyes grew wide at the stallion he observed standing at the threshold of his chamber.

“Senator Celsus.” The observation was as much surprise as Moon allowed himself to convey; in the space of a second, the veteran soldier was back to his stern gaze and glowering glare.

In response to the harsh welcome, the stallion smiled. “Commander Moon, so good to see you again.”

“What do you want, Senator?” Moon asked, guardedly.

Discentus’ smile remained affixed, but seemed empty. Though his lips were turned up there was nothing in his eyes. “I’m disappointed, sir. Is there no time for the baser pleasantries?”

Moon only needed to stare to answer.

“Very well. I’m here on behalf of the Senate to convey their deepest concerns about the loss of Nimbus. The ponies and Senate of Cirra gave you Imperium to safeguard our borders. We’re troubled by the way that power has been used.”

Moon stepped away from his strategy table, sweeping a wing in some half-hearted offering of welcome. As the senator approached the table, the soldier spoke. “The loss of Nimbus is a setback, however the war is progressing largely as planned. We—.”

“Planned?” Celsus interrupted, his voice uncomfortably calm. He spoke slowly, his words and tone carefully chosen. “How many thousands of ponies died at Nimbus? The senate knows. Not just the Nimbans, either. We counted the Nyxians, the Pileans, Tonrii, even the curious shortage of Cirrans.”

“If you imply I arranged the deaths of Nimbans to spare the other cities, Senator, your case will be sorely wasted on the Senate. The only reason more Nimbans have died within the city walls is because I let your kin hold the fortifications while the legions from the other cities reached far into Magnus’ territory. ” Moon sighed. “You would be wise to consider some other method to attack my command. Or, better yet, stop wasting precious time and get to the point that actually brought you here.”

“You think I have some sort of ulterior motive?” Discentus held a hoof against his chest, as if wounded. “What would give you an idea like that, Commander?”

“I’ve done nothing to anger you, Senator Celsus. I know your reputation well enough to recognize that unlike Lord Rain’s daughter, you would be grateful to me for keeping your kin behind the city walls. If you truly had some evidence of my incompetence, you would have lead with that, or better yet, sent another Commander to replace me instead of flying this distance yourself.” Gold Moon’s wings set to work pouring two tall glasses of brandy from a waiting bottle whose contents were already dwindling. “I don’t know why you waste both our time pretending this is anything but personal.”

The politician frowned. “What you call ‘pretend’ was my way of trying to make this easy, Commander. I’m sorry if I’ve offended. You’re right. I, and the Senate, have faith in your leadership despite what has happened in Nimbus. I hope you can understand, though, that I’m not a soldier. We senators have a certain way of doing things. We try to minimize pain, both for ourselves and our rivals, whenever possible. And on that note, could your guards please leave us?”

Gold Moon set a glass of brandy in front of Discentus, then tossed his own down his throat with a flick of his neck and wing, and a painful crack from his spine. In the ensuing silence, he offered a similar flick of his free wing toward his guards and his aide-de-camp. Silently, the armored pegasi slipped out of the room. Only then did Moon turn to face Discentus. “Young Lady Rain lost this fight as a legionary; I struggle to imagine you will win it, removed from the battlefield for so long. But as a Commander of the Cirran Legions, I am obligated to grant you the attempt.”

“That’s why she failed, Commander—Iron may be very good at the art of war, but her sword is hardly suited for breaking bread.” Discentus took a small sip of his brandy, gently sighed at the silken taste and the bite of the liquor, and set the glass down next to the dot on the map marked Nimbus. “I tried my best to intimidate you to save you face.”

“I fail to see how yielding to you would save me face.”

Discentus chuckled to himself and took another sip of his brandy. “When rumor gets out around camp that an incompetent jailer was assigned to the traitor Summer Celsus, and she slipped out in the night, most of the ponies in the legion are going to have no clue you had anything to do with it. But here in your headquarters, I’m sure ponies are going to put two and two together. If they think I intimidated you by threatening your command or your career, Commander Moon, then I become the villain of our little narrative. And someday, if I don’t manage to make it up to the Great Skies first, it might cost me my seat on the Senate.”

“It also costs me the trust of my stallions, Discentus. And the discipline of the common rank and file.”

“Do you hold your soldiers in such high regard, Commander? You think in their ranks there isn’t a single deserter on his way out of camp? A single pony sneaking an extra bit of rations who hasn’t been caught? The Cirran Legions won’t crumble over one mare who snuck away in the dark.”

“And what happens if word gets out, Discentus?” Moon dropped a hoof onto the table—he seemed to care less for the noise than for hoisting himself up toward the slightly taller, slimmer stallion. “Are you so sure that in all of Iron’s shouting, and now your presence, the rumors wouldn’t spread in camp? What happens to morale when there is a question of my honor?”

“Controlling those sorts of rumors is just another task of you and your subordinate commanders. As I said, Commander, I have the utmost faith in your leadership.”

Moon snorted bitterly. “So if I fail, you would expect me to fall on my sword for your daughter? For a traitor?”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself.” Discentus’ wing gestured to the table. “You’re only arranging an inconvenient schedule for the ponies watching a cell for my daughter; you’d be falling on your sword for the Empire.”

“I have no intention of risking such a dangerous plan to spare your family, Senator.”

“That’s why I haven’t left the decision in your hooves, Commander.”

Moon scowled. “So you are here to intimidate me?”

“No, I’m here to force your hoof. Consider this, Moon. I’ve spoken to more than a few soldiers on my way to see you here. It was hard not to; I was approached by guards on the flight in, guided through the camp, and along the way I only said that I was here to speak to you about an important matter. Your immediate minions here in this room know that I tried to intimidate you, and heard me admit I have an ulterior motive. In a moment, I’m going to leave, and fly back to Stratopolis without so much as a word to the rest of your forces. From that point, you have a very small number of choices.

“You can, as I have requested, arrange for somepony incompetent to be guarding my daughter alone. Simply post the guard schedule in public, and my acquaintances in the legion here will take care of making her disappear with minimal loss of discipline and no obvious guilt on your part, apart from that of being manipulated by a corrupt veteran senator.”

“And if I decide to triple her guard detail?”

“Then you’re going to have a very hard time explaining how she acquired a lockpick and a set of wingblades bearing the maker's mark of your personal unit.” Discentus smiled. “After all, while I may have come here to see you, I’ve been nowhere near her cell.”

Moon glared. “Do you expect me to fall for your silvered tongue?”

Discentus shrugged. “You were the one who just minutes ago said you weren’t willing to bet the Empire on a chance like that. But in case such an option is still unpleasant for you, there is a third way.”

Moon’s eyes narrowed warily, but he held his tongue for the moment.

“Since it is clear that I am not willing to lose my daughter to the noose and you cannot lose face by allowing her to disappear in peace, I propose a compromise.” He stretched out his right wing, holding out five primary feathers while angling the rest downwards. “Five lashings before her platoon.”

“Five lashings,” Moon repeated the idea and snorted. “A slap on the fetlock for capital offense.”

“The choice, Commander, is of course up to you,” Discentus said in a casual manner. “However I encourage you to accept this arrangement. You will find no more generous offer forthcoming.”

It was a few moments before the Commander spoke. “Very well Senator,” he said in a tone of ice. “But you will stay and bear witness.”

This time it was Discentus who was silent for a moment. He closed his eyes and took a measured breath before he spoke. “I have your word then?”

Gold Moon nodded.

Black skies hung over the city like an omen. From their lofty heights they bathed the sprawling terrestrial settlement in shadows that grew deeper as day passed into night. With them came powerful gales of wind, the scent of rain and static thick in the warm air.

Iron Rain woke well after midnight with a strange feeling in her gut. The rattle of the wooden shutters that clung to the outside of the windows creaked at their hinges with a high pitched wounded sound. Flashes of lightning lit the world outside in a veil of white that faded as quickly as it arrived. With them followed the low, quaking rumble of thunder, which made its presence felt through tremors in the walls and floors.

Rain glanced to the opposite side of the bed. The colt lay sleeping, soundly as she’d seen him since the rescue, though perhaps another strong dose of wine had helped. She groaned and rolled out of her bed, her hooves making dull thuds against the thick floorboards. In a moment she was at the window, peering out into the darkness. The scent of rain and static met her nose, but did little to ease her consternation.

The city was bathed in darkness. Only a few lanterns provided meager illumination, and they were all within the safe confines of ponies homes. In there they were safe from the wind and rains, but they did little good to provide light in the streets. Pegasi had good eyes for day flying, but the nights belonged to the hybrids.

Scowling, Rain moved away from the window and towards the door. She pulled it open and peered down the halls. Not a soul was to be seen in any direction she looked. For a moment she wondered where Gold Moon’s guards had gone. She didn’t think the Commander had relocated his post to a different building after Senator Celsus had arrived.

Biting at the leather-wrapped handle of a pitcher, Rain poured water into a ceramic cup. She took hold of it with her right wing, using her dexterous primary feathers and bringing it to her lips for a sip. As she swallowed, her left ear twitched from a scratching noise.

She twisted her neck around and immediately felt her blood run cold. A griffon soldier, naked save for his fur and feathers, climbed through the window, his beak and talons dripping with blood. He smiled at her and made a show of licking at his beak.

Rain hurled her cup at his head, the ceramic vessel easily batted away by the avian paw. The griffon lunged at her, flapping his massive wings to get a burst of speed, but Rain was faster. Without time to get her sword, Rain spun quickly in place, taking hold of the water pitcher and slamming it down on the griffon’s head.

The blow stunned the beast, who fell to the floor with a heavy thud. His charge was not wholly unsuccessful, though, and his claws managed to put a few scratches on Rain’s cheek. The mare didn’t give him a chance to recover though, raining a second, third, and fourth blow onto his head with her hooves. She didn’t stop until she felt the broad dome of his skull buckle under her strikes. She didn’t stop until blood and gray matter splattered out through his nostrils and ears. She didn’t stop when his head was crushed to paste under her hooves and the last reflexive twitches of his limbs had grown still. And even then she stopped only when she saw a second hybrid clambering through the window.

Upon seeing his compatriot dead the hybrid let out a low hiss and lunged. Rain dodged to the side, biting back a scream as she was forced to put weight on her bad leg. The hybrid overshot his lunge, his heavy form slamming into the cabinet with a loud crash. He twisted around quickly, raising a wing in a defensive manner in case Rain tried to kick. She didn’t though, instead scrambling past the foot of the bed to where her zweihander was resting against the wall.

Before she could reach it the hybrid’s claws caught her tail and hauled her backwards. Rain spat out a curse and bucked out with her rear legs. One hoof caught the hybrid’s cheek and he flinched for a moment, but only tightened his grip on her tail. Rain felt her stomach drop as the griffon threw her to the far side of the room where she hit the wall with a crash. The blow stunned her, and before she could move the hybrid was on top of her, it’s claws around her throat and strangling her.

Panic rushed through her like imprisoned lightning. Her wings and hooves flailed and kicked out, but she couldn’t dislodge the hybrid’s grip. She landed punch after punch on his cheek, and even as he spat teeth and blood on the floor he only tightened his grip.Each strike of Rain’s grew more and more weak as darkness crept in at the edge of her vision.

The griffon’s beak was moving and Rain was thankful she couldn’t hear his taunts over the sound of her own rapid heart, which banged louder than any drum in her ears. Her limbs were getting heavy, so very heavy that she soon couldn’t lift them more than a few inches. In the distance she could hear the town bells ringing out in alarm.

Father...

Suddenly the beast let out an ear-piercing screech. His claws released Rain’s throat and he stumbled off to the side. Rain coughed and gasped, her oxygen starved lungs greedily gulping in mouthfuls of air. She rolled on her side, protecting her throat with a foreleg, but what she saw made her eyes grow wide.

Pathfinder was limping towards the griffon, his back right leg dragging lamely behind him. His broken wings hung low at his sides, the wrappings having come loose. Clutched in his teeth was the buck knife she’d left on the nightstand, blood and ichor painting the blade crimson. He stepped forward, the griffon stumbled back, clutching at his abdomen where blood poured from between his taloned fingers.

When Pathfinder got too close the hybrid lashed out with his talons. The colt stumbled, with three fresh goughes staining the green fur on his chest red. Recovering, he advanced once more towards the stumbling griffon. The hybrid lashed out a second time, but his strikes were slowing down as more blood poured from his body. Pathfinder’s stilted gait continued with the beast’s claws leaving nothing more that a small notch in his left ear.

The griffon twisted around, scrabbling for the window to make a retreat, however Rain lunged at him from across the room with two flaps of her powerful wings to close the gap. She came down on his back, the sudden blow collapsing him to the ground. He let out a pained cry and thrashed wildly under Rain. A moment later the colt was at her side. He spat out the knife and grasped the hilt in his fetlock before burying the blade in the hybrid’s neck.

A wet gurgle sounded from the hybrid, foaming blood spilt from his beak staining the white feathers and floorboards. Pathfinder pulled the knife back and stabbed his neck a second time, then a third, fourth, fifth, sixth… He stabbed and stabbed long after the griffon’s gurgles and death throes has ceased and the griffon’s neck had been reduced to shreds of meat. He stabbed when the door of the room burst open with Haze and Thorn, their coats smeared with blood that wasn’t their own.

“Are you alright?” Haze asked, running towards Rain and skidding on the bloodsoaked floor. Thorn followed behind, though her steps were more measured.

“I’m fine, what’s happening?”

“Enemy sortie,” Thorn said, gingerly putting her hooves on Rain’s cheeks and turning her head left and right to check for injury. “They hit the hospital's first, looks like they’re targeting medics.”

“Let’s get going, then,” Rain said with a strained groan as Thorn prodded her neck.

“The militia is already mobilized as are Gold Moon’s troops. You’re staying… here,” Thorn trailed off, her eyes looking past Rain.

Confusion furrowed her brows for a moment, and slowly she turned her head to see what gave Thorn pause. Pathfinder was still on the griffon, having cut and stabbed through the hybrids neck, severing the head from the body. He was gasping for breath between stabs, his torso quivering and stained crimson from his wounds tearing open.

“Kid,” Rain limped over to him, but her words fell on deaf ears set behind empty golden eyes.

“Kid,” she implored, her voice gentle as she reached out to stop his stabs.

A tremor rattled his small form and his breathing was ragged. His eyes dripped with bitter tears, and as his adrenaline wore off he collapsed from his wounds.

End of the Beginning

Carver winced as his hoof scratched too close to his lost eye. Though the wound had more or less scarred over, the tissue was still tender. The persistent itch his eyepatch gave him as it dug into his fur didn’t help matters at all. It taunted him at all hours, but was most obnoxious at night when he was trying to sleep. If Pathfinder hadn’t cut his eye out, then the itch was bad enough that Carver would have seriously considered doing the deed himself.

“Bah,” he growled, taking his helmet off and throwing it onto the grass. The heavy steel made a dull thunk and rolled a foot or so before stopping.

Sitting down, Carver took a deep breath and wiped his hooves through his dirty blonde mane. The slow buildup of sweat and residue of smoke made his mane feel greasy. Carver hated that feeling.

Letting out a long sigh, he worked the straps of his wingblades open and carefully slid the weapons off his wings, laying them out on the grass so he could inspect the segments later and grease them. The straps of his armor came next, and with a bit of effort he managed to shrug the metal carapace off. He sighed again, this time in satisfaction at the free feeling of the wind breezing through his fur. Carver shivered for a moment, the sweat wicking away in the wind and chilling him.

“Aren’t you a bit under-dressed, Centurion?” A voice called to him in a playful tone.

Carver frowned. “I’m off duty, Summer.”

The mare, equally armor free, walked up to him cautiously. Her face was tight from the pain in her back, the still raw lash marks lightly bandaged with wrappings dressed in honey. “Mind if I sit?”

“It’s a free country,” Carver said, shrugging his wings. He pointedly refused to look at Summer, keeping his blind eye to her as she sat.

“Are you still mad at me?”

A long silence filled the space between them before Carver answered. “Yes.”

“Because I killed prisoners?”

Carver gritted his teeth tightly behind his lips. His nostrils flared and his wings held tightly to his body. He didn’t speak, however, choosing instead to take a deep breath which he let out as slowly as he could manage.

“Carver?”

“You didn’t kill them, Summer,” he growled, finally turning to see her. “You tortured them!”

Summer, for her part, remained impassive. “Yes. I did. Do you know why, Carver?”

“Does it matter?” He asked, standing up and snarling at her. “It was barbaric!”

“Barbaric,” Summer repeated the word, then laughed bitterly. “More barbaric than what they did to Finder?”

The mention of the colt made Carver pause. Summer stood up and walked closer to him, her lilac tail lashing behind her. “Let me tell you about barbaric, my friend,” she said, her words coming in a soft growl. “The hybrids didn’t just starve him, or beat him. They drove nails into his hooves. They held his fetlock over an open flame until the flesh started to boil. They cut him with knifes and claws a-and…” Summer paused, her anger rising, but tears also pooling in her eyes.

Carver froze, his anger wilting like a flower put to flame. Inside his chest he felt his heart clench. What was it she wouldn’t say? Why did he feel like he didn’t want to know. He swallowed the knot in his throat and took a step closer to her.

“Summer?”

“The griffons raped him, Carver,” Summer said, anguish and venom dripping from her voice.

Blood drained from Carver’s face and his legs suddenly felt weak. “No…” he said in a whisper, taking a half step back from the mare, only for his rear legs to give out. He sat back with a heavy thud and a shell shocked expression, trying to process the sheer madness of what she’d told him. “No...he...they...n-no…”

Summer regained some of her composer and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Cloudburst was there, he saw the whole thing.” Summer let out a breath and stared at the ground a moment before she looked to Carver. “So yes. I broke into the basement where we were keeping some griffons. I gelded them. I cut off their cocks and made the hybrid bastards die choking on them.”

Carver’s look of horror only grew as he looked into Summer’s eyes and saw only hatred. “Summer…”

“Look me in the eye and tell me it wasn’t exactly what they deserved!” Summer demanded with a stomp of her hoof. “Tell me, Carver!”

“Summer….”

“Tell me!” She shouted.

“Tell you what, Summer?!” Carver demanded. “What do you want me to say?!”

Summer growled and rubbed a hoof through her mane. After a moment she began to pace, her tail lashing and her wings flitting in agitation. Even her feathers quivered when her wings grew still. “Pathfinder deserves revenge.”

“How does revenge solve anything?” Carver asked. “What good does it to him?”

“It’s justice!”

“Vengeance isn’t justice, Summer, it’s just vengeance.”

“Then what would you have me do, huh?” Summer asked, pacing in front of Carver like a starved wolf. “Nothing? Just let them get away with what they did to him?”

“Those probably weren’t even the griffons that did it,” Carver retorted, managing to find his strength and stand once again. “You likely just killed innocent–”

“Innocent?” Summer laughed. “Since when is any hybrid innocent?”

“So you’re saying that every hybrid, every single hybrid down to a newborn hatchling is what? Evil?”

“Yes!” Summer shouted.

The shout echoed like thunder around the two. Carver stared at Summer, Summer at Carver, with only the sound of insects and the distant noise of the refugee column busily setting up camp. Carver slowly shook his head, then began to laugh.

At first he thought Summer was about to slap him. Her face twisted, fire filled her eyes, and her teeth were bared between snarling lips. Then she seemed to calm, realizing what she’d said, and joined him in laughter.

They laughed until they couldn’t breath, and laughed as they caught their breath. Finally each managed to calm, and rubbing their aching sides, they looked at each other, the momentary mirth passing like the changing winds.

“I don’t regret what I did,” Summer said, her voice soft.

“I know.”

“You understand why I did it, right?”

Carver nodded. “Yes.”

The acknowledgement seemed to surprise Summer who, for an instant, drew her wings tightly to her sides. She relaxed almost as quickly, and started to sigh in relief when Carver spoke again.

“But it was still wrong, Summer.”

Summer opened her mouth to reply, then stopped. With a dejected sigh, she lowered her head and splayed her ears. “...I know.”

A sigh to match her own left Carver’s lips, and he walked over to Summer and sat down beside her.

“What was it you told me back in Nyx?” Carver asked, tilting his head up towards the twilight sky. “This war’s made fools of us all.”

Summer chuckled. “That’s about it, yeah.”

For a few minutes, both stallion and mare remained silent. The low murmur of noise from the distant refugee column mixing with the high-pitched hum of insects and lyrical bird calls. The sun, glowing a bright orange, slipped lower and lower, eventually touching the horizon as day gave way to night. It was the perfect melancholy hour, and Carver felt his heart sink.

The legion had abandoned Nyx. His home, the noble estate his family had occupied for generations now was abandoned. He wondered if the rear guard would burn the city, or leave it for the griffon’s to occupy on the assumption they would be pushed out later.

“What’s the point of it all?” Carver asked after a while, his voice soft.

“Hmm?”

“This war. All the death, the destruction.” Carver rolled his wings and shrugged. “It’s just...pointless.”

“It’s the hybrids’ fault,” Summer answered with plain confidence. “They tried to assassinate Haysar.”

“A few rogues tried to assassinate the Emperor,” Carver noted holding up a few feathers on his left wing. “They died, the Emperor didn’t, what’s the point of having a war?”

“Spare the rod, spoil the foal.”

“But what’s the point, Summer?” He asked with no small amount of exasperation building in his voice. “We kill them, they kill us, where does it end? When can we just sit down like civilized beings and talk it out?”

Summer let out a bitter chuckle. “Monsters like them aren’t civilized, Carver. We can’t negotiate with them, we can only keep them in check, or be killed by them. Hunt or be hunted.”

“They build cities,” Carver said, holding out a hoof as though motioning to an imaginary building. “Agenholt, by all accounts, is impressive in size and construction. They have families, they speak a concise language, have a codified alphabet and vocabulary. They write poetry, sing songs…”

“Torture us, eat our flesh,” interrupted Summer, a sneer pulling at her lips. “Oh, and lets not forget, rape our friends.”

Carver flinched. He still heard that horrible screaming Pathfinder made behind a closed door when Summer examined him. The look of abject terror in the colt’s eyes when anyone touched him would haunt the stallion until his dying breath. He swallowed heavily and lowered his head. “That’s not fair.”

“No, it isn’t,” she conceded with a shake of her head. “But that doesn’t make it less true.”

The pair were quiet again and after a minute Summer sighed. “Look, Carver,” she turned to face him, her eyes studying his face. “You came up in a nice town with a well off family. You’ve gotten to see the world from the high clouds. The griffon’s you might have met were the ones raised around Cirrans. They had to behave our way because they needed commerce. Medicine, granite from your family’s quarry, metals, food,” Summer trailed off, motioning her hoof in front of her. “In Nimbus we see them from the ground level. We have fought them again and again, day in, day out, since as long as anypony can remember.”

“But that’s my point, Summer,” Carver said, his wings flitting at his sides. “You kill them, so they kill us. Round and round and round it goes. Where does it stop?”

“When we’re all dead, I suppose,” Summer answered only half in jest.

“I mean, we’re cruel to them, so they’re cruel to us. After that we’re more cruel to them, so in turn they get more cruel to us.”

“War is cruelty, Carver,” Summer answered, her brows knitting together as she scowled. “The crueler it is, the sooner it’s done with.”

“But if it’s just a cycle of cruelty, how are we any better than they are? From a griffon point of view, we must be monsters. Look at Hengsted. Everypony says Legate Red Tail ordered a total massacre of every griffon, even the cubs. How is it we can do something like that, then be shocked when they do the same to us?” Hanging his head low once again Carver made a simple sigh. “It’s all just so pointless, Summer.”

“I know.” Her wing opened and tentatively slipped around Carver’s back.

Carver tensed at first, then slowly let himself relax. “I’m...sorry.”

“About what?”

“What I said to you...back in Nyx.”

This time it was Summer’s turn to be silent for a moment. “No,” she said, sighing as she rubbed a hoof through her mane. “No, you were right to. Had the tables been reversed…”

Carver chuckled. “You’d have killed me.”

At that Summer laughed. “Guilty as charged.”

Carver smiled, then grunted, that stinging itch hitting his blinded eye again. Without thinking of it he started to scratch roughly at the patch with the edge of his hoof which only succeeded in making the itch sting worse. A hissed curse slipped past his lips, and he clenched his good eye shut until he felt Summer’s hoof stop his.

Blinking his eye open, he looked at the snow-white hoof, then glanced at Summer. Her face had a concerned frown and her ears were held back at a slight angle. The way she looked at him made his mouth feel dry and his cheeks warm.

“Let me see your eye.”

Carver flushed a bit with a foalish squirm. “I’m fine,” he said softly. “It just itches a lot sometimes, you know?”

“Carver,” Summer insisted, her hoof gently guiding his down.

The stallion swallowed again and lowered his head a little. Gently, Summer’s hooves slipped the patch off of his face, exposing the red scarred flesh that had been hidden under the leather patch. She leaned closer to inspect the wound, humming softly as she did.

“Does it hurt when it itches?” She asked.

Carver nodded. “Yeah.”

“The patch is too small,” Summer explained, sitting back and fiddling with the string of the patch for a moment. Carefully she stretched it out between her hooves, forcing the leather string to lengthen out just a bit. “Don’t wear the patch when you sleep. Any pressure on that side of your face will make it worse.”

“How long will it last?”

Summer shrugged. “A few months, maybe years. Some ponies say it never goes away.”

“Heh, just my luck,” he grumbled, kicking a hoof at the grass.

The sun crept lower on the horizon, only the faintest sliver still in view to their eyes. Carver watched it disappear, and with its absence the light too faded over the Cirran Empire. How beautiful the night was, he thought, but also how very terrifying it could be. He wondered what they would face when dawn finally crested the eastern horizon, and wondered how they would survive another day of the senseless madness.

A wing, warm and soft, sliding over his back once more pulled him from his thoughts.

“Summer?”

“Hm?”

“...Thank you.”

To Read

The lake was a hard gray-blue color, and without even a breath of wind it seemed so smooth as it could have been frozen over. Pathfinder recognized it from his days training at Fort Updraft, which now felt like a lifetime ago. No, perhaps a different life all together. There were no clouds above, and it was unusually warm for a late autumn evening. One could see the capital of Stratopolis, illuminated by thousands of lanterns, floating on the far side of the lake if one squinted.

Weights seemed to anchor themselves to the corner’s of Finder’s mouth, pulling his lips down into a deep frown. He disliked lakes. Compared to the ocean he grew up by they were boring, stagnant, and dirty in their smell. The ocean was constantly alive; full of fish and corals and great beasts that old mariners told of in late nights at the bar his father took Finder and Longbow to sometimes. The waves were never silent, the ocean never still as glass. Like the heartbeat of the world they pounded against the shores in a steady rhythm, defiant of the wind’s directions.

And then there was the smell. Gods how he missed the smell. The tang of salty ocean air that clung to the fur and feathers. When his father took them out on a fishing trip the waves would splash over the boat, misting them with water. The salt made their feathers glisten and provided a nice treat when they preened back home.

Home.

Yes, the smell reminded him of home. He longed to be home listening to his mother’s singing while he knitted a new fishing net and his father sipped at his ale. But home wouldn’t be right anymore. Not with Longbow gone.

Finder shuddered and quickly reached for the flask of wine Summer had left for him. He downed a mouthful hurriedly to chase away the thoughts of his brother, his family, but it was too late to prevent the burning in his eyes. He coughed at the potent hit of alcohol and cringed in his simple cot. Maybe a change of position would help ease the discomfort.

Pathfinder grimaced as he tried to lay more on his stomach instead of his right side. The minuscule effort produced a pained groan, and a sharp stab down his left side and into his legs. He gasped and fell back to his uninjured side with a curse hissed out under his breath.

It was all Finder could do not to cry out. If he laid on his stomach, his whole left side hurt. If he laid on his right side, his broken wing throbbed. If he even attempted to lay on his left side he might as well beg for the sweet release of death. The most comfortable he’d been had been riding on Rain’s back, drunk on the wine summer fed him every few hours.

“Are you okay?” Rain asked.

The voice startled him, even though it had become familiar. He hadn’t noticed her her come back in. Finder nodded quickly and wiped his fetlock across his eyes to hide the tears. “Y-yes ma’am,”

Rain gave the colt a sympathetic frown as she set down a stack of books and parchments. She sat down next to him and picked up the wine flask, giving it a shake to gauge how much was left. “A lot of pain today?”

Pathfinder nodded.

“From your wounds, or…” she let the words hang in the air. Summer and Cloudburst had told her what happened, but the colt hadn’t spoken a breath of it. In fact he’d hardly spoken at all since they rescued him. Not even to Carver, Summer, or Cloudburst.

Rain slowly extended her right wing, the longest primary feather carefully wiping away the moisture collecting at the corner of his eyes. “Kid?”

Finder avoided her gaze, hoping that if he could, perhaps she would see he was crying.

“Finder?”

The way she spoke his name, gentle as the ocean’s breeze finally drew his gaze up to meet hers. Her steel blue eyes stared deep into his own. He saw in her eyes no judgement, no anger, only a patient sympathy. It broke the paltry dam he’d tried to build, and his tears flowed freely for the first time in months.

“I-I’m sorry,” he whimpered to her as a broad wing stroked at the back of his neck.

“Nothing to be sorry for, kid,” Rain said, trying her best to give him a reassuring smile, though it came off as more of an uncomfortable grin.

Finder’s eyes clenched tightly shut. He felt her wing gently urge his head forward where his forehead pressed against her chest. She held him there, letting him hear the steady thump-thump-thump of her heart until he calmed down. She didn’t ask him why he wept, a gesture for which Finder was deeply grateful.

After he’d calmed down, Rain let her wing slip out from behind him and folded it back at her side. She lowered herself down so that they were at eye level and smiled again. “Feeling better?”

Despite himself, or maybe thanks to the wine hitting him, Finder managed a soft chuckle. The sound didn’t last long before he coughed. The cough spiked pain through him again and Finder almost doubled over, though this time Rain was there to catch and hold him.

“I’m sorry, Miss Rain,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Kid, how many times do I gotta tell you to stop calling me ‘miss’?” Rain asked, her expression amused and annoyed in roughly equal measure.

Pathfinder opened his muzzle to apologize again, only for her to lightly press her hoof to his lips.

“No,” she shushed him gently. “You don’t need to apologize when you haven’t done anything wrong.” Her hoof lowered and Rain sighed softly. “You saved my life, kid. You never need to apologize to me.”

Heat blossomed across Pathfinder’s cheeks and spread like wildfire. His ears, his neck, Hell, the whole of his head seemed to burn. He opened his mouth to say something. To say anything! Yet words failed him.

There was a soft knock on one of the beams of the tent that Finder was staying in. Well, in truth it was a large canvas tent that had once been a field command tent at Fort Updraft. Rain had simply repurposed it as a temporary home and headquarters until she got new orders.

“Come in,” Rain said, and Finder twisted his neck around to see who it was.

Summer trotted in, followed close by a stallion Finder didn’t recognize. He was large, sporting a dappled gray coat, a blonde mane that was cropped short, and more than a few bandages of his own. Pathfinder squinted at the stallion. He looked familiar.

“Finder, this is our friend Stonewall,” Summer introduced the stallion with a smile. “He was at the ca...erm… that place.”

The stallion simply nodded.

Rain moved away from finder and wrapped her hooves around stonewall’s neck, squeezing him so tightly Finder thought surely shy must be strangling him. Stonewall seemed to smile, and wrapped a hoof around her back in kind.

“It’s good to see you up and about, my friend,” Rain said with a genuine smile.

Stonewall nodded again.

“Are you sure you’re fit for duty?” Rain asked?

Stonewall nodded.

“I’ve cleared him for light duty,” Summer explained, patting the large stallion between his shoulder blades.”He can’t fly or fight, but he can still relay written messages and work as an aide for the Legate’s Office. And the fresh air will do him good.”

Rain chuckled. “Tried to escape again, didn’t you, Stone?”

The stallion only flashed her a bashful grin. Finder noticed he was careful not to open his mouth.

“Alright,” Rain continued, walking over to the stack of books and papers she’d set down earlier. She shuffled through the pile for a few moments, opening several rolled scrolls and skimming them over before giving them to Stonewall. “I need to to get these to Centurion Southwind. She should be securing the storehouse with her militia. When you’re done with that,” she reached for a separate stack of census maps. “Get these to Haze. He and Thorn know what to do. After that,” Rain paused a moment and smiled. “Get yourself a wine and go for a swim. You stink like a mule.”

Stonewall made a deep, wheezy sound that Finder later realized must have been a chuckle. He saluted Rain once, and she returned the gesture before hugging him once again.

“Welcome back, old friend,” she whispered to him.

Stonewall smiled, and shot Finder a curious look before he disappeared from the tent in a slow, limping, gait.

Summer watched him walk for a minute before turning to Pathfinder. “He had his tongue cut out,” she said, a pained look on her face as she walked over to where he lay. Carefully she pulled the thin brown sheet down his body, giving him an apologetic glance as he shivered.

“Sorry Finder, we’ll get you by the candles just as soon as I put fresh bandages on you, okay?”

“O-okay,” he said with a nod, teeth chattering.

Summer looked back at Rain, then down at Finder. “Do you want Rain to leave?”

Finder shook his head quickly.

“Is it alright if she helps me get you cleaned up?”

Pathfinder blushed for the second time that night, but nodded again.

“Still having trouble standing up?”

Embarrassment made Pathfinder’s ears go flat. “Yeah.”

“Hmm,” Summer frowned and looked at the hole in Finder’s thigh where the arrow had shot him. “Looks like that infection is flaring up.” She leaned down and sniffed at the wound, her face twisting at the smell. “Yeah. We definitely need to clean that out. Rain, can you help stand him up?”

“Sure.”

With a nod of her own, Summer slipped around to Finder’s side and gently slipped a hoof under his chest. “Rain is going to slide her hoof under your stomach and hold you up now, alright?”

“Okay.”

“Finder,” Summer got his attention, waiting for him to look her in the eye. “You’re safe here. It’s just me and Rain, okay?”

The colt nodded, though his heart was already starting to race as Rain stood near his flank. He took deep breaths, told himself again and again that he was safe. Rain was here, Rain would protect him. Once he was ready, he gave them a nod.

Rain’s thick foreleg slid under his stomach and brushed his wing. Finder made a yelp as the mending bones were tweaked, and Rain all but fell over herself to apologize. She was careful as she got her forelegs around his waist, and even more delicate as she helped him get onto all fours.

Pathfinder kept his eyes clenched shut as Summer began to remove the old bandages. The sound of the fabric peeling away from dried, tacky, blood was enough to make his stomach churn and cause him to break out in a cold sweat. When it came time for her to pull off the pad on his chest, he blacked out for a few moments.

“Finder?”

“Pathfinder, wake up for us now.”

His eyes fluttered open and a moan escaped his lips. He saw a white figure looking down at him. He blinked a few times, his vision slowly clearly until he recognized Summer’s face. A moment later he realized Rain was no longer holding him. He was laying in his cot again, fresh bandages wrapped around his torso, shoulder, and right foreleg. Summer sighed and rubbed a hoof through his mane.

“You blacked out on us,” she said, chuckling a bit.

“Sor—”

“Stop saying sorry,” Summer lightly reprimanded him. She pulled the top off the wine flask and coaxed him to take a drink. After the wine she gave him a water flask, urging several mouthfuls before she pulled it away and dried his chin on her fetlock. “It’s probably for the best. It made it easier to clean your wounds and wrap you up.”

“Thank you, Summer,” Finder said, feeling exhausted despite how much he’d slept over the weeks.

She smiled to him and rubbed his mane again. “You’re welcome, kid.”

Gathering the dirty bandages into her bag for boiling and reuse, Summer filled up the wine and water, then slipped out into the dark. Finder and Rain were left alone again, with the large mare standing guard over the broken colt. Finder noticed a small fire had been started as well, with fragrant pine knots popping as the flames danced over them. He shivered, but scooted away from the flames and held his burned hoof tighter to his chest.

Rain put a hoof gently on his shoulder, hardly putting any pressure for fear of hurting him worse. “It’s alright kid, I got you.”

Finder smiled despite himself. The first real smile he could remember having. “Thank you Miss Rain.”

The Legate of Nimbus made a playful groan at the evil ‘miss’ title, but that too turned to a chuckle. “You good, kid? Want a book,” Rain offered, gesturing to the stack at her desk. “Or you just gonna watch the stars tonight?”

Finder paused, the silence poignant enough that Rain took notice.

“Kid?”

“I, um… I can’t read.”

The revelation caught Rain by surprise, but rather than laugh or tease him, she seemed to study his expression. “Oh.”

Finder tilted his head down, feeling his cheeks burn again. He wondered if he should just have some more wine and try to sleep, when she interrupted his thoughts.

“Would you like me to teach you?”

Pathfinder’s ears perked and his eyes grew wide. It took most of his strength, but he forced his upper body up a little. “Y-you could teach me?”

Rain made a modest shrug. “Well...yeah. I guess I could.”

To read. The very concept was something Finder never dreamed he’d get to do. Only a few ponies in Altus were literate, Longbow being one of the few. But he’d never gotten to teach Finder as there were no books or scrolls in their house. And while Longbow could read, he had admitted to be fairly bad at the art.

“Yes, please!” Finder said, the excitement so palpable that his body ached from it.

Iron Rain chuckled and helped Finder stand. With her help the two slowly made their way to her desk. She sat Finder down, then sat behind him, letting him use her as a backrest to ease the strain on his body. Taking a book off the top of the pile, she opened up to the first page and pointed to the first word with her primary feather.

“We’ll go slow to start. Follow my lead and repeat after me, okay kid?”

Pathfinder nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

Breathe

“How are you faring, Iron?”

Rain looked over at Senator Celsus, dragging her attention away from the map of Cirra spread over the conference table. The old officer’s mess from Fort Updraft repurposed into an impromptu war room by the Senator and his staff who buzzed about the room with papers, dispatches, and a variety of other tasks. Rain was assured that every word they said was vital, though given how inactive she and the surviving Nimban Militia had been since the city fell, she wasn’t too convinced of the fact.

Rain shrugged her wings. “Tolerable.”

Discentus chuckled. “Well, you’ll need to be better than that for what is to come.”

“And what is that, Discentus?” Rain asked, months of exasperation revealing themselves in her exasperated tone. “All we’ve done since Nimbus is fall further and further back!” She sighed and rubbed her eyes on her fetlock. “We can’t keep giving ground like this. We’ve already lost half our territory, including all of the eastern farmland. If this war lasts more than a year we’ll be starved out. We need to do something. We need to attack.”

“Emperor Haysar agrees,” Discentus said, leaning forward and pressing his front hooves together. “Which is why I asked you here.”

Rain’s eyebrows shot up to her mane line. “Nimbus is getting back into the fight?”

“In a sense,” he said, pointing to the map to draw her attention. Her eyes followed his hoof to a triangle mark drawn in faded black ink. The lettering above the shape read ‘Feathertop’.

“Feathertop?” Rain asked, “That mountain’s in the middle of nowhere. What could--”

“Patience, Iron,” Discentus said, holding up his wing to silence her. “Emperor Haysar has ordered a national draft. Every possible pony is being called to arms and ordered to Feathertop. From there,” he slid his hoof east along the map to where three red-painted wood rectangles were placed in formation. “We will launch the largest attack in Cirran history. The Legion will roll the Griffon formation back towards Nimbus and force the hybrids to scatter.”

“So sheer brute force,” Rain said, rubbing her chin thoughtfully then chuckled. “How Nimban of Cirra.”

“Desperate times, Iron,” Discentus said, his tone more grim.

“Where do I take the Militia? We won’t be assigned to a different Legate, will we?”

“You are not going to Feathertop,” Discentus was definitive in his statement. “You and what is left of the Nimban Militia will have a different assignment.”

“If not fighting on the front then what in Garuda’s name are we doing?” Rain demanded, slamming her hoof on the table with enough force to leave a crack in the surface. “The Militia is ready. I’ve had them drilling every single Gods damned day for months!” She snarled as she leaned forward. “Discentus, you can’t ask me to tell them to stay back from the greatest battle in our history. They’d sooner hang then live with the shame of that.”

“Discipline, Iron,” the aging senator reprimanded her in a gentle tone. “You will take the Militia to the rear of the griffon lines. Scouts will show you where to place your troops when the time is right. Once the Legion has struck the griffon front you strike them from the flank or rear. I of course leave it to your discretion in the field where you feel your attack will cause the most damage.”

Iron Rain stared at the map in silence.

“When do we move out?”

The old stallion shrugged. “Haysar intends to lead the Legion at Feathertop personally. I expect he won’t arrive until the last of the reserves are mustered. Perhaps a couple of weeks yet.”

“Why so long?”

“It takes time to armor and equip so many raw recruits,” he said with a frown. “Gods only knows how quickly they’re being trained. I expect most will barely know how to hold their swords.”

“What about the First Legion?”

“The First never leaves Stratopolis. You know this as well as anypony, Iron.”

Rain scoffed. “What good is a knife if you won’t use it?”

“If Magnus divides his forces and manages to strike at Stratopolis, the First will be needed to hold the city until reinforcements can arrive.” Discentus paused as an aid passed him several sheets of parchment. His eyes danced over the lines of writing with a practised mask of neutrality. “It took some convincing with Haysar to allow the Nimban forces to move freely behind the line. Gold Moon is, of course, against it.”

“I’d wager he is,” Rain chuckled. “I’m sure we’re quite the wrench in his well greased war machine.”

“Indeed, and quite perfectly indeed it seems to have performed so far..” His expression soured and for a moment Rain thought she saw a hint of anger in the Senator’s eyes. “Gold Moon’s leadership has lost Nimbus and nominal control of half of Cirra. And now in desperation with the Senate breathing down his neck he seeks to put all of our power into one mighty strike.”

“Clumsy, even for Gold Moon.”

“Indeed. And it is entirely possible for this attack to fail. I don’t trust so many untested troops on the front all at once. They lack the resolve of more disciplined soldiers. I convinced the Emperor to allow you to move behind Magnus’s line. Draw as many of his troops as you can away from his army and if practicable force them into a prolonged guerilla campaign.” He smiled a bit and put his wing over her shoulder. “Perhaps you’ll even be so lucky as to ambus Magnus himself. Kill him and the war is over.”

Rain shivered at the prospect. “Nothing would make me happier.”

Discentus nodded and smiled to her. “Very good. Keep your troops drilling, and for the moment keep this information to yourself. If there are any hybrid scouts in the area we don’t want them reporting back that a major troop movement has started.”

“We will be ready,” Rain promised. “I only need the word and we can be on the wing in ten minutes.”

“Excellent. Now, to the matter of the wounded…”

Rain and Summer walked from the camp mess towards where her command tent was set up. Summer had two bowls of soup balanced on her left wing while Rain carried a third. The sun was starting to set over the horizon, and the air was still with a monotonous languor. Stallions and mares wandered through the refugee camp, some in armor, others wrapped in blankets to stave off the autumn chill.

“We got some fresh bandages from the Capital today,” Summer said, careful not to spill the soups on her wing as she stepped over a pothole. “I’ll change Finder’s bandages tomorrow if you’re up to it.”

“Yeah, sure,” Rain said, though her attention was far from her companion.

Summer’s expression grew puzzled at the distant tone in Rain’s voice. “What’s up, Rain? You’re head’s in the clouds today.”

Rain shook her head. “It’s nothing. Just some things I have to think about for the next movement.”

“Father told me,” Summer said with just the barest hint of a grin. “It’ll be good to get back in action again. Better to fight then slowly starve on the run.”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, now you must be feverish,” Summer said with a playful grin. “The Iron Rain I knew would be giddy over the fight we’ve got coming.”

Rain rolled her eyes. “I’m plenty excited for a fight. It’s just...different with what our mission is.”

“How so? You’ve commanded the militia before.”

Rain shook her head. “I’ve commanded the storm and marshalled the Militia, but Father always was in charge. All I’ve done is command them to run away.”

“Hey,” Summer offered a reassuring smile to the younger mare. “You’re Katagaismos. More than that we know you, Iron. Nopony else could have held us together after Nimbus fell.”

Rain scoffed. “If you insist.”

“Insist I shall,” Summer grinned at Rain. “Just like I insist you’d make a good nurse.”

“Oh fuck off,” Rain laughed.

“Don’t deny it, you like taking care of the kid,” Summer teased with a laugh, enduring a stiff smack on her shoulder. “What? It’s cute!”

“I will kill you in your sleep.”

“Rain, do you have a cruuuush?”

“I will murder you with a gods damned axe.”

“Rain and Finder sitting in a tree, F-U-CK-I-N-OW!”

Rain’s eye twitched as she smacked Summer on the back of the head again. “Not everypony has their brain under their tail like you, Summer.”

The smaller mare stuck her tongue out at Rain. “Just observing the obvious.”

“Then your eyes are shit,” she growled. “There’s no time for that.”

Summer was giggling, but wisely held her tongue as the two arrived at Rain’s tent. Rain knocked on the post twice, then pushed through the canvas door, holding it open for Summer. Both mares noticed Pathfinder shivering in bed, his face contorted with pain. Rain gritted her teeth as her chest felt pained at the sight.

“Finder?” she called to him gently, unsure if he was awake. Then again, he wasn’t screaming or hyperventilating, so chances were he wasn’t sleeping.

As she suspected, two golden eyes fluttered open, though they were squinted with the same tension that flooded his body. Rain noticed the colt set his jaw and heard him try to force his discomfort back. It made her expression soften and drew the corner of her mouth ever so slightly upwards.

Summer moved quickly towards the cot, carefully setting down her two bowls of soup and putting a hoof on the colt’s forehead. “You’re still feverish,” she said, frowning.

“I tried really hard,” Finder said, his left eye squeezed shut as it’s partner looked up at her.

“Well try less hard, you’re gonna make me get gray mane early.”

Rain noted, silently, the irony in the sentiment. Pathfinder’s brown mane was speckled with silver hairs after the Hell he’d endured in the prison camp. “How’s your foreleg working?”

Finder winced and managed to lift his left foreleg a few inches, but couldn’t seem to bring it any higher. Even that comparatively small motion seemed to cause him considerable effort in both energy and agony.

“Don’t push it too hard,” Summer said, careful to pat his right shoulder. “The muscles got pretty shredded. It’s likely to take a long time to heal right.”

“Summer...Do you think I’ll fly again?” he asked after a moment, his words whispered with a frightened softness.

Rain noticed the way Summer’s eyes grew wider for just an instant and the tight lines that formed at the corners of her lips. She swallowed and seemed to be choosing her words carefully. The pause didn’t go unnoticed by Pathfinder. His lower lip trembled, but no tears came. Eventually he sunk his head down seemingly in resignation of a foregone conclusion that his life in the skies was at an end.

“Of course you’ll fly,” Rain said with a grin that would defy the Gods themselves. “I’d wager my left wing on it.”

There was no missing the glare Summer leveled at her, but it was worth it for the way Finder’s eyes brightened and hope seemed to return to him. Rain found herself smiling back at the younger pony. She only hoped she wasn’t lying to him. He’d had enough heartbreak for a lifetime. It was the duty of the Rain’s to shield the innocent from the pains of war. They had failed this colt once, and for whatever it was worth Iron swore to herself she wouldn’t fail him again.

She owed him that much.

Encouraged, Pathfinder managed to open his wings about halfway before he bit back a yelp. She could see the atrophied muscles quivering under ruffled green feathers. Each feather looked ragged and oily. Rain was almost disgusted with the younger pony’s slovenly appearance until she remembered he couldn’t preen himself. It was impossible with his wings and side as they were.

“Here, kid,” Summer said, sitting down next to him and letting him lean against her side in support. “Lets get some soup into you, okay? You’re going nowhere fast if you don’t get your strength back.”

Finder nodded making a grunt as she slid a hoof around his chest to help get him upright. Rain sat on his opposite side and picked up a bowl of soup. Slowly she fed him while Summer held him, occasionally giving him water between spoons. At the end of his meal the three shared a glug of wine. Finder coughed from the strong burn of alcohol with a bit of wine dribbling down his chin. Rain leaned forward and gently wiped it clean with her fetlock, a gesture that earned a barely muted snicker from Summer and a blush from Pathfinder.

“So, kid,” Summer said after helping him back down and taking a soup for herself. “Do anything fun today?”

Finder simply made a shrug. “I was looking at those maps for a while,” he pointed to the pile of old canvas maps Rain had left next to the bed.

“You like maps?” Rain asked.

He nodded and smiled again. “I got my mark after drafting a map of the shoreline and reefs from Altus to the open sea, including safe routes through the reef.”

“What’s a reef?” Rain asked.

For once it was Pathfinder’s turn to stare at her like she’d grown a second head. “It’s a reef, you know? It’s the super sharp rocks or sandbars just under the water that can really tear up the hull of a boat. Sometimes a storm can pull the boats into them too. We lose a lot of fish when that happens.”

Rain was silent for a minute, simply blinking and staring at Pathfinder. The colt had a confused expression on his face, and looked over to Summer who was equally as muted as Rain.

“What?”

“We’ve um…” Summer paused, squirming in awkward fashion for a minute before shoving a spoonful of soup into her mouth for a convenient pause.

“We’ve never been to the ocean,” Rain said through burning cheeks. “I didn’t know there were reefs.”

“There’s some really nasty ones about a mile off-shore,” Pathfinder said, the conversation making him happy, but a bit homesick as well. “And since you can’t always see them at high tide I thought a map would really help.”

“How long did it take you?” Rain asked.

Finder paused as he thought about it for a moment. “Um....about a day to fly around and find all of them, then a few hours to draw it and mark the safe passages.”

Rain and Summer exchanged a quick glance before Rain spoke again.

“How many miles is this map?”

“Um, roughly twenty miles of coastline. I thought just in case there was a storm or rough seas near Altus we should have alternate routes.”

“Huh,” Rain clucked her tongue. “How old were you?”

Finder managed a slight shrug, though even that motion made his face get tense. “Um, five or six, I think? I don’t really remember.”

Rain’s right eyebrow met her maneline briefly. “You covered that amount of territory at five or six, and recorded it with geographic accuracy?”

The way she and Summer stared at him made the colt squirm uncomfortably. Heat blossomed behind forest green cheeks and he risked another shrug in spite of the pain it caused him. “It wasn’t a big deal. I just...flew and drew. Oh!” He paused and leaned over a little, just managing to point his hoof at the desk where Rain’s books and a few other papers were scattered about. “I drew Nimbus too. Top paper.”

Skeptical, but curious, Rain stood up and made her way over to her desk. It was impossible to miss the Nimban map on top of the stack. What shocked her, enough to bring her wing to cover the gasp that escaped her mouth, was how good it was. The city was drawn top down, each level drawn to scale with every single building marked and districts separated by dotted lines. There were no names to the districts, at least no names Rain could read. Finder’s grasp of writing was about as poor as his reading skills were so far. Instead he’d marked them with little pictures: a hammer for the smithing district, swords for guard houses, little shields for armories, a fish for the market, and so on.

Rain made a mental note to work writing with him too. Summer wandered over as well, her soup bowl held in her wing which she slurped from loudly. Rain gave her a brief glance, then turned her attention to the map again.

“Holy shit,” Summer gasped.

“Is it bad?” Finder asked

“Kid,” Summer piped in, putting her emptied soup bowl down. “It takes the best scouts years to get that good, and half of them can’t draw for shit.”

“What’s this stick figure you drew from the Palace to the forum?” Rain asked.

“He’s sneaking,” came the obvious answer.

“Sneaking where?” Rain asked.

“Well, the column’s on the south side of the forum near the reservoir were set apart wider than all the rest of the columns, same on the other side,” Pathfinder explained. “And when Dawn was showing me around there was a really slight hump in the road between the Forum and the reservoir. The reservoir connects to the water system for the whole city, so I figured given the line that there was a passage from the palace to the reservoir, which then made an escape route for anypony in the palace to any drainage port along the cloudstone platform.” Pathfinder’s ears folded back a little. “A-at least that’s my guess.”

Rain stared at the map with a dumbfounded expression. It must have been obvious enough that Summer took notice.

“Iron?”

“There was a network of secret passages built into the palace a few hundred years ago when Lightning Rain took the throne.” Iron explained with something of a chuckle. “She hated being the Legate of Nimbus, and wanted a way to slip out at night to go walk the city like any normal pony. Later, during the Social War, when Sleeting Rain was killed, her family was smuggled out through the tunnels to safety before Cirran assassins could kill her foals. Thanks to those tunnels the line of Katagaismos continues.”

Summer nodded in understanding, and Iron chewed on her lower lip for a moment.

“You figured all that out…” she turned to stare at Pathfinder. “Just from a walk?”

Pathfinder squirmed again and shook his head. “Um...well, not quite. We flew a lot of laps around Nimbus too. I just...you know, paid attention.”

Both Rain and Summer’s eyebrow’s shot straight up.

“Where was the Agora in Nimbus from the smithy?” Rain asked.

“Upper ring, ten blocks past the guard house, left at the square with the big statues, and at the end of that path.”

“I’ll be damned,” Summer leaned back a bit and chuckled. “You have an eidetic memory or something, kid?”

“A what memory?”

“Some pony’s just remember everything they see. Don’t have to write it down or anything. Ask ‘em twenty years later to describe the weather on a Monday and they can, right down to the last detail.” Summer explained. “Pretty handy gift to have, if you ask me.”

Finder shuddered. “I don’t want it.”

Rain caught herself before the horrible question of ‘why?’ escaped her lips. Summer seemed to catch on just as quickly, and both mares hurried to change the subject.

“Can I get you some more soup, Finder?” Summer asked.

Finder didn’t answer at first. Instead his eyes were staring blankly at the flickering candle in front of him. It took Rain only a second to realize that they had accidentally triggered a flashback. She sprung up quickly and moved to the cot, putting her hoof on Finder’s shoulder and getting her head down eye level with his own.

“Finder, Finder! Look at me!” her tone was firm, commanding, and it it snapped his eyes to hers as he seemingly fell back into the present. She saw tears welling in his eyes, though he was quick to blink them away. “It’s alright. You’re here now. It’s me and Summer. You’re safe.”

“I...I k-know…” he said with trembling, measured, breaths. “Sorry, I...I…”

“It’s okay, kid.” Summer put a hoof on his back and gently massaged the fur and flesh. “Need some wine?”

Rain shot Summer a glare, but Pathfinder simply nodded.

“Yes… Please,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Summer looked at Rain who could only manage a sad sigh. She closed her eyes for a moment, lips closed in a long line as she stood up. The bottle was where Summer had left it between them and Rain took hold of it and popped off the cork top. A moment later she was holding it to Finder’s lips, watching with a peculiar ache in her heart as two good gulps vanished down the colt’s throat. She pulled it away after the second mouthful and recorked the bottle. Once it was set aside she turned her attention to Summer.

“Summer, why don’t you go get him a little extra soup and some more water. We’ll change his bandages when you get back.”

The medicus nodded. “You need anything?”

“No, thank you.”

Rain waited for Summer to leave, then counted in her head for a few moments to make sure she was out of earshot. Only then did she allow herself a sigh and return her attention to Pathfinder. He avoided her gaze, his eyes downcast in a manner she knew all too well was shame. Slowly, and with a gentleness that she rarely displayed, Rain put a hoof under his chin and drew his attention back up to her.

“Kid…” she sighed, letting her shoulders sag a little. “Finder. Look… I know I’m not...you know...good at this stuff,” she paused, cursing the blush in her cheeks. “But if you ever need to talk to anypony, I’m here for you, alright? Summer too. We all…” she paused a moment, her teeth rolling the soft flesh of her lower lip between upper and lower rows. “We all just want to help you.”

Finder smiled, though unlike his earlier expression which had been mirthful, this bore only sorrow. “I’ve already been too much trouble.”

Rain’s right wing extended and she flicked the tip of his nose with a primary feather before folding it again. “None of that, understood?”

He gulped once. “Yes ma’am.”

Taking a breath, Iron Rain contemplated the young stallion laying in his cot. The gashes in his face and on his neck were healing well with the scabs starting to fall away and reveal red scar tissue underneath. His mane and tail were graying, but he still looked young in spite of it. Summer was right. He would be an especially handsome stallion in a year or two. Rain had to force herself not to violently shake her head as she banished the idea from her mind.

“Come on,” She said, walking over to the desk. She bit the spine of the book she’d been working through with him and trotted back to the cot. Rain laid the book out in front of Finder, using her wing to open it up to the page she’d marked with a feather she’d lost while preening. She laid in the cot next to Pathfinder, and pointed to the top of the page where they’d left off. “Let’s see if we can get you reading as good as you can draw, eh?”

Pathfinder took a breath, then nodded. His eyes focused on the page, the thick lines of black ink that painted the pressed fibers. Rain draped her left wing over his back giving him a reassuring hug for encouragement.

“Th-thuus he s… spoke, and M-M...Mer….Mersor… Mersyoury”

“Mercury,” Rain said, her voice soft as a morning breeze.

“Mercury,” Finder repeated, feeling his cheeks burn as her primary feather moved to the next word. “Guide and g… g…” Pathfinder groaned and rubbed his hooves across his face. “I’ll never learn to read,” he moaned, earning a gentle smack on the back of his head from Rain.

“If I can learn then Gods be damned you can,” she teased, though she couldn’t help but smile. “Just… sound it out. Take your time. Reading’s not a race.”

Pathfinder nodded again. Rain listened to him sound out his way through the book. The words faded into the recesses of her mind as she considered what was to come. How soon before Haysar’s preparations were made? How soon would she move out for the front? How soon would she see Pathfinder again, if ever?

Why… Why did that make her heart ache?

Iron Rain gritted her teeth while her wing held the younger pony gently. She forced those thoughts away for the moment. There would be time enough for the war later. For tonight she would allow herself this one small comfort.

Bitter Partings

“I have a report from the front,” a breathless scout burst into Rain’s tent.

Rain, along with Dicentus, Summer, and the whole of her Storm looked to the pegasus. Pathfinder jumped a little from the sound of the canvas bursting open, but didn’t bother to look away from the map of Altus he was drawing. So many ponies had come in and out over the past week that’d he’d scarcely paid them mind anymore. As long as Rain was there he felt safe.

“And here we expected news from the rear,” Thorn quipped dryly.

Chastened by the small mare’s response the scout cleared his throat and stood up straighter. “I beg to report that Haysar has moved the attack back by a week. Griffon forces have been divided into three separate ranks. The northern element is moving towards Tronti e Fulgure, the Southern makes for Nyx, and the center seems to be advancing towards Feathertop at a cautious pace.”

“Then why the delay?” Rain asked.

“The Emperor wants to lure the griffon center deeper into Cirran territory. From there he will launch the attack at Feathertop, cut off their supply, and shatter the main body.”

Discentus hummed thoughtfully, though said nothing. Pathfinder had come to like the older stallion. He was everything that Finder’s father hadn’t been: Warm, friendly, and curious at what Finder was interested in. It had been at his request Pathfinder was mapping out Altus, a task which the colt was finding surprisingly relaxing.

“We may have an opportunity here,” Discentus mused rubbing his chin. “If the griffon army is dividing itself to counter our advanced units, the Storm could potentially catch Magnus himself. You’d have to leave right away, though.”

Pathfinder’s blood ran cold.

“We kill Magnus, the horde scatters. The war could be over by weeks end!” Carver grinned with excitement, his wings almost fluttering.

“You won’t kill him!” Pathfinder cried out with raw panic in his voice.

All heads turned to him, though Rain was the first to speak. “Kid?”

“H-he can’t be killed,” Pathfinder insisted. He tasted something metallic in the back of his mouth. In his chest his heart began to race like he’d just flown a marathon. He pressed his hoof to his forehead and pressed it tightly into his fur, as though the gesture would hold back his memory.

“Everyone can be killed,” Thorn said. “All it takes is a well placed knife.”

He vaguely heard the chuckle shared by the ponies gathered in the command tent. A shudder wracked his frame. He wanted to vomit, but his stomach was too empty to produce anything more than the taste of bile on his tongue.

“N-not him,” Pathfinder said through clenched teeth.

“He’s just another hybrid,” Rain tried to assure him. “What’s the big deal?”

“You weren’t there!” Finder shouted, heedless of the sharp pain in his side and the tears welling up in his eyes. “I saw him! I-I saw what he can do!”

“Where the Hell did you see Magnus?” Rain asked.

Pathfinder pressed both hooves to his temples, trying desperately to bury the memory. But the harder he tried to force it back the more came flooding his mind. He shuddered, cringed, and whimpered, lowering his head into the sheets. Every second of that terrible night was there in perfect detail. From the second he and Longbow skidded into the Throne Room to the moment two Oathsworn snapped his wings.

“Finder? Finder look at me.”

Downbust’s bloody body, broken and crushed under Magnus’ giant talons. The lord of Nimbus Winter Rain, slumped dead in his throne. Longbow’s blood curlding screams as his wings were torn from his body: bone, sinew, and muscle torn and shredded while Magnus fanned himself with Longbow’s severed wings.

“Finder!”

“Can’t...breathe…”

A bottle was pressed to his lips. The sweet scent of wine told him what it contained. He didn’t hesitate to swallow down as much as he could. There was a hoof on his back, rubbing him between his wings.

“Easy, kid,” Summer said, her tone soft and soothing. “Just focus on my voice and take nice, deep, breaths.”

Another set of hooves approached Finder’s bed. When, after several minutes, the wine began to kick in he managed to finally open his eyes again. He saw Discentus standing in front of him, with Rain next to him and Summer on the opposite side. The stallion watched him for a moment, then slowly sat down.

“Whatever you saw clearly has caused you pain, son,” he said as tenderly as he could. “But if you have seen Magnus. It you can tell us something we do not know, then I’m sorry, but we can’t leave it be.”

Finder cringed again. He would have given both wings to forget what happened at Nimbus. Rain’s hoof continued to rub his back and she too coaxed him to remember.

“Pathfinder, please?”

He glanced around the room. All the eyes of his friends and Rain’s Storm were on him. Where Summer, Rain, Discentus, and Carver looked concerned, Thorn, Stonewall, and the nameless scout looked impatient.

Shaking his head, Pathfinder pleaded again. “You don’t understand, you can’t kill Magnus. H-he’s not just some big griffon! He’s gigantic and has magic or something!”

“How do you know this?” Discentus asked patiently. “What proof do you have.”

“I was there!” Finder cried, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. “He killed my brother after Lord Rain died!”

The silence that fell over the room was deafening. Pathfinder tried to catch his breath while all eyes stared at him. The expression on Iron’s face made his heart ache even more. Her mouth hung open, grief and pain carved lines into her cheeks and brow.

“I…” Rain started to speak. She paused a moment, seemingly collecting herself before trying again. “Did dad...did father…” Her eyes clenched shut a moment. Haze moved closer to her, though he stopped short of reaching out with a hoof or wing. Rain made a growl, the harsh, scraping rumble rising in her throat. “Was it quick?”

Finder’s ears folded back, his muzzle angling down towards the ground. “He… he’d been stabbed before Longbow and I got there.” He paused, afraid to continue. The look of sorrow in her eyes almost unbearable no matter how much she tried to hide it. “Lord Winter… h-he bleed out on the throne.”

The room fell quiet again. Summer’s father closed his eyes, whispered a prayer in a language Finder didn’t understand. Rain was trembling, her eyes pink and shimmering with tears she refused to shed. Her monumental efforts to resist her sorrows gave her an intense, almost furious look.

In the end it was Discentus who broke the quiet, though his voice was low, melancholic. “What happened when you entered the Throne Room?”

Blood.

Screaming.

Bones.

Death.

His hooves flew to his head and Finder cringed again. “Please,” he begged. “Please don’t make me go back there.”

“You’re right here,” Rain said with a raw voice. “I’ve got your back.”

The vivid memories were at the front of his mind. Magnus’ terrifying voice, the raw joy in his eyes while Finder begged for his brother’s life. Longbow’s horrible screaming. It rolled over Finder like waves during a storm.

“Magnus broke down the doors and taunted Lord Winter,” Finder started, narrarating the horrors in his mind as best he could without drowning in them. “He...He called the war a game. Promised he’d make pegasi extinct after the legion massacred the griffon’s at Hengsted.”

Discentus’ eyebrows shot up, though he remained quiet for the moment.

“Lord Winter, he called Magnus a freak and taunted him. Magnus got angry, it was like he was creating wind in the Throne Room. He looked at Longbow and...and… oh Gods…” Finder whimpered, squeezing his head tighter. Rain and Summer did their best to calm him with the latter reaching for the wine again, however her father pulled it away while giving Summer a disapproving look.

“Take your time, son.”

Finder recovered, at least a little, then continued. “He-He challenged Longbow. I-if Longbow could draw a drop of blood he’d end the war then and there, leave for Agenholt and never come back. Longbow fired, but the arrow stopped midair!”

“So he caught it?” Thorn asked with an incredulous expression.

Pathfinder shook his head vehimently. “No! It just...stopped! His claws never touched the arrow. It just was floating in front of him like a feather caught in a strong wind. Then he turned it around and shot me.” Finder shuddered, the still tender hole in his thigh aching with the memory. “I never even saw it coming. It was there, and...and then he was twisting it in my leg.”

He couldn’t stop the memory now. No amount of begging, wine, or effort was able to keep it at bay. He may as well have asked the ocean to part or the sky to fall.

“Lord Winter died before Magnus could finish him, th-then he...he...he tore Longbow’s wings from his body,” Finder wailed.

Summer carefully pulled him up and hugged him. He wept openly into her shoulder, unaware of anything else in the room. There were voices, there was talking, all of it was just white noise to him. He was vaugly aware of Summer humming to him while her hoof petted through his mane and back.

When he’d recovered some time later he noticed that the room was emptied. Only Summer, Rain, Discentus, and Carver remained in the tent with the two stallions hovering near the door and speaking quietly.

“We can’t fight him,” Finder whimpered into Summer’s wet shoulder.

“We have to try,” Rain said, then turned to Discentus and Carver. “Could you give us a moment?”

Carver arched an eyebrow, but was quickly ushered out by the Senator’s guiding wing. Rain waited until they were outside, then motioned to Summer. The two mares locked eyes, a silent battle of wills between them. Summer seemed to relent first, and held Pathfinder tighter.

“Everything will be alright,” she promised, just as his brother had not so long ago. Pathfinder wasn’t about to let such a gentle lie fool him ever again. “We’ll settle this once and for all.”

“Please…” he begged again, looking up at Summer and seeing the tears in her eyes as well. “Please don’t go.”

“You’ll be alright. You got a big job to do here keeping an eye on my dad and Carver,” Summer cracked a smile, though it looked forced and awkward. “Carver especially. Gods know that oaf needs it.”

Summer leaned down, kissing Pathfinder between the eyes, then slowly let him slip free of her hug. She let out a breath, sniffled a moment, then quickly walked out of the tent. Pathfinder swallowed down the whimper that he felt climbing its way up his throat and simply hung his head low.

Between him and Rain there was no sound save for the gentle sound of her hooves moving her in front of him. He felt a soft primary feather wipe a tear away from his cheek, then move down to his chin to shepherd his head up.

Tears were in her eyes as well, tears she’d been holding in for some time now. For just a moment he saw the corners of her mouth tremble. He was then swept up in her forelegs with her wings enveloping them both like a warm blanket. It took Pathfinder a moment to realize that she too was crying.

“Thank you,” She whispered into his mane. “For telling me about my Dad.”

His heart fluttered, hooves sliding around her waist and squeezing her with all the might he could muster. He nuzzled his cheek between her neck and shoulder, his tears smearing drying themselves in her fur. “Please don’t go.”

“I have to.”

“But why?” he asked, looking up at her. “Why you? Why Summer?” He paused again, voice dropping to a broken whisper. “Why Longbow?”

She rubbed his back gentle as she could, taking a moment to consider her words before she spoke. “Because it’s our duty.”

“Fuck duty,” Finder shouted, clutching her tighter. “What’s the point if it just gets everypony killed!”

He felt her muzzle rub between his ears. “I don’t intend to get killed. I’m gonna kill Magnus. I’m gonna kill his oathsworn. I’m gonna kill every last hybrid I can get my hooves on. For Nimbus. For both our brothers, for…” Rain caught herself, the word hanging on the tip of her tongue

They stared at each other, the seconds stretching seemingly into eternity. He would never forget the way the light from the candles framed her face, outlining her cheeks, ears, and course mane in delicate lines of gold. What he would have given for that moment to last even one single second longer.

Rain leaned down, pressing her lips to his forehead. “You’re a strong pony, Pathfinder.”

He shook his head. “No I’m not. I’ve never been strong. I couldn’t protect Dawn. Couldn’t protect Longbow. I… I can’t protect you.”

Rain’s hoof touched his chest, gingerly sliding over his heart. “Here. You’re strong here.” She smiled to him, though her eyes were laced with sorrow. “You’ve survived worse than I could imagine.”

Finder sagged, the hooves and wings wrapped around him squeezing tighter for a moment, then starting to slacken. Rain pulled herself away from him with a pained slowness, went to the corner of her tent where her armor and sword were laid out on a table. Pathfinder watch her dress. First the body plate, then the grieves, and her wingblades after those. Her helmet sat on the table, and she stared at it a while before he watched her extend her left wing, and pluck a feather. She dropped the pale feather in her hoof, and moved back to Finder, offering it out to him.

“Just in case…” she said, momentarily allowing the reality to settle in for both of them. “Promise you’ll remember me?”

He tried to speak, tried to make any sound at all, yet all his mouth would do was hang open, useless as the rest of his tattered body. He took the feather in his fetlock and clutched it tight to his chest. Rain offered him one last smile, then turned away, taking her helm and sword, and disappearing out of the tent into the evening air.

A moment later Carver slipped inside. His face told Pathfinder all he needed to know. He moved quickly to Finder and pulled him close. Finder clung to him as though his very life depended on it. Longbow was gone, and now he’d lost Rain and Summer too. Was it better that he wouldn’t have to witness their deaths? Or was it more cruel that even when he had the chance, he still hadn’t been able to say ‘goodbye’?

Interlude

“Of course, Haysar’s plan was perfectly sound in theory,” Pathfinder explained to Stalwart, his wing idly playing with the long emptied mug. “Not much you can say against pure, overwhelming, force.”

“I disagree, father.”

“Gray!” The ancient stallion perked up visibly when a middle-aged stallion with a charcoal colored coat and silver mane strode into the bar.

“Overwhelming force only works if you take the fight head on,” Gray explained. “A slow, lumbering army is vulnerable to flanking maneuvers, guerrilla attacks, and ambushes. And that’s not counting how predictable their movements are.”

Stalwart recognized him instantly and stood quickly to salute the Commander of the Guard. “Lord Rain.”

Gray simply waved a wing in dismissal of the ceremonial gesture and approached his father with a strange look on his face. Stalwart was unsure if the stallion was angry, concerned, or simply bored. His expression was almost unreadable. Yet as he came astride Pathfinder there was no mistaking the resemblance. Gray Rain had a similar slender build, held himself in the same tense posture, and had the same short, rough, silver mane topping his head.

Where Pathfinder’s body was a collection of scars both deep and shallow, Gray’s was nearly pristine. His left eye was gone, hidden under a leather patch that matched his fur and hid the underlying scarring from view. He walked with a slight limp on his right foreleg, both wounds sustained during the Masquerade War.

“Son,” Pathfinder said, smiling wider than Stalwart had thought possible for the old scout. “This is my new friend Stalwart. Or Stahl-for-Short, I forget.”

“Indeed.”

“He’s a good kid, but dumb as a box of rocks. Thinks we should go back to Dioda for some damned fool reason.” Finder turned his grin on the younger Pegasus. “Stalwart, this is my son, Gray.”

Gray’s eye narrowed, leaving a chill to run down Stalwart’s spine. “Does he now?”

While Gray Rain was far from physically intimidating, there was an unsettling quality to the stallion Stalwart couldn’t help but feel like he was being picked apart, studied like a foal’s plaything. Gray seemed to never blink, instead focusing all the more intently on Stalwart as though he were prey.

Maybe that’s why he was called the Wolf of Cirra.

“It’s an honor to met you, sir.”

“Hm,” Gray grunted not bothering to pretend he believed it.

“Sit down, Gray, join us. I was just getting to the fun parts.”

“Haysar’s ineptitude for war is hardly what I would consider fun.”

Pathfinder made a dismissive wave with his wing. “We can’t all be perfect.”

“There is perfection, then there is simple incompetence.” Gray said, frowning.

“Everypony is a general when we’ve had seventy years to reflect.”

Gray shook his head, seeming to drop the subject. “I expected you home hours ago, father. You said you were just going to visit mother.”

Finder’s look grew sad. “I did. Then I came here for a drink.”

Stalwart tried, but couldn’t identify the expression on Gray’s face. It was not disappointment, nor sorrow. Rather it seemed a complex mixture of feelings displayed only very subtlety, and even then only for the briefest of moments. The impassive, unreadable, mask was back in place a moment later.

“Let’s go home, Father.”

Pathfinder shook his head. “I won’t be long, Gray. You may as well sit down and stay a while.” He leaned back in his seat, called out to the bar: “Cirrus! A round of teas if you can, please! Oh and a half Cirran for Gray.”

“Comin’ up, Songbird!” the mare called out from across the bar.

“Father–”

“Don’t ‘Father’ me, Gray,” Pathfinder patted a hoof on his son’s shoulder. “Besides, if I’m going to finish this story, you might as well sit and listen.”

“You’ve told this story many times, Father,” the younger pegasus reminded him. “When the griffon refugees first came to Equestria you made me sit through everything.”

There was a pause. Pathfinder seemed to be lost in thought. When he spoke again his words caused an expression of puzzlement on Gray. “Not everything, son.”

“Father?”

“Sit.”

It was a command this time, not the gentle requests of moments earlier. The shift in tone caught Gray by surprise. He and Pathfinder were locked in a stare, their matching golden eyes having an unspoken conversation only they could hear. It couldn’t have been more a moment or two before Gray seemed to relent, and slowly took the empty chair between Pathfinder and Stalwart.

The three stallions were quiet, only the pop of the fires and the soft humming of Cirrus filling the mostly emptied bar. Pathfinder was staring at the candle again, his hoof slowly tapping on the tabletop.

“Father,” Gray said after a moment.

“You know quite a bit, Gray,” Pathfinder cut off his son, though his gaze remained fixed on the dancing flame. “You’ve read all the histories. Even written a couple, and I’m as proud as a father could be.” Pathfinder finally looked over to his son and smiled. “But you don’t know everything.”

Gray said nothing, waiting for his father to finish.

“I know,” Pathfinder paused, rubbing his head and sighing. “I know your mother told you about the war. How we met. What happened to me in that griffon prison…” He shivered, though before his hoof could move to one of the emptied mugs Gray’s hoof laid over top of it providing a gentle squeeze.

Pathfinder looked up to his son, a grateful smile on his muzzle. He placed his opposite hoof over top of Gray’s grasping at it firmly. “But the Red Cloud War was more than just Nimbus or Feathertop. It was more than the brutalism of both griffon and pegasi. It was about extermination, and the effect that had on our people.”

“Psychological warfare is a powerful weapon,” Gray said in a matter of fact tone.

“Indeed it is.” Finder paused when Cirrus delivered a hot pot of tea and a half-full mug for Gray.

“Long time no see, Gray,” she said, smiling.

“Yes. I assume you are well?”

Her wings rolled in a shrug. “Well enough. Your Dad tells me the kids are good?”

Gray nodded, and for a moment Stalwart was sure he caught a hint of a blush on the quiet officer. “They have their mother’s spirit. I know many things, but how to raise a unicorn is not one of them. Archmage Diadem is kind enough to help me, at least. My little prince at least has a fondness for chess.”

“Now then,” Pathfinder said, taking his teacup in his hooves, drawing it close to his chest. “Where was I?”

“Um, Feathertop, and the Nimban expedition behind griffon lines,” Stalwart said, glancing from father to son and back again.

“Ahh, yes.” Sadness returned to the old soldier’s face.

Gray seemed perplexed. “What Nimban expedition?”

Pathfinder chuckled, though he kept holding tight to his son’s hoof. “Forgive me, Gray. There are...well...There are….Some things. Things I begged your mother to keep private when your sisters were born.” Pathfinder explained, his words carefully chose. “I think you're old enough to know a little more.”

Leaning back in his seat, though never releasing his grip on Gray’s hoof, Finder took a moment to choose his words. “Haysar’s plan was workable. Cirra had the raw numbers to overwhelm the horde, and the sheer pride in their power to see a path to victory. But, as they say, pride goeth before the fall.”

Shattered Skies

Two ridges lay side by side. Between them, a valley, carved deep into the land by an ancient river. Both the ridges and river between had no names, though the river found its source in the mountains just east of Nimbus. It had been that river which provided the city much of its ground water along with seasonal catches of river trout.

“We camp here tonight,” Rain said, pulling off her helmet to wipe the sweat from her brow. “No fire. We don’t want to risk getting spotted by enemy scouts.” She turned to Haze and Thorn, giving them a nod. “I’ll take first watch.”

“You sure?” Haze asked.

Rain nodded. “Yeah. Get some rest, make sure the new kid knows what to do.”

“Alright. Don’t go too far from camp, Rain.”

“Yes dad, and here I was planning to fly right to Agenholt tonight.”

“There are easier ways to find griffons to kill,” Thorn noted in her dry tone.

Rain chuckled, then waved the pair off with a wing, back to where Summer and Windshear were setting down supplies. The rest of the militia she brought, a little over two hundred of the best Nimbans she could. Not as many as she would have liked for a strike into enemy territory, but the speed at which events had forced her to move out had required a lighter, more agile force.

She walked at a casual pace away from where her soldiers camped, continuing even when she could no longer hear the soft murmurs of soldier’s in conversation. Thoughts slowly began to filter into her mind. Haysar was planning to move out in a few days. If she could catch the griffon rear, if their scouting was still accurate, then there was a chance she could kill Magnus. Kill Magnus and the war was over.

Rain doubted it would be that simple.

But what in her life had been simple? Straightforward, sure. Survive her Agoge with a broken dagger, her brother’s idea of a joke, her brief relationship with Haze, then Thorn… Well, Haze had been simple. Thorn, though, that mare had been complicated. She chuckled to herself, walking up a hill towards the wall of the ridge. Past that she spotted a cave from which the smell of smoke caught her nose.

Her curiosity piqued, Rain wandered down the hill, crossing the valley to where the cave was. Pursing her lips, she briefly looked inside of the cave. There she saw a few items, neatly organized around the firepit. There was a simple bowl, a water flask, a folded blanket, and the bones of what Rain guessed had been a rabbit and small river fish.

“Guten abend, Frau Rain.”

Instinct took hold. Rain whirled around with lightning speed drawing her zweihander in a single motion. She leveled it at the voice with narrowed eyes: her posture ready for a fight. It was no surprise that she saw the silhouette of a griffon. Rather, the surprise was that he was unarmored with his hands raised in surrender.

With caution she stepped closer, the blade held aloft at an angle ready to come down on her foes neck. The face came into view. She paused, recognition spreading over her. “Schäfer.”

A smile pulled at the hybrid’s beak, though he was cautious to keep his arms up. “Rührt Euch, Frau Rain. Es nicht böse meinen.”

“Let’s pretend my Griffon is a bit rusty these days,” she growled, though her sword remained level. “And let’s also pretend I haven’t decided if I should kill you or not, yet.”

He chuckled, said with a thick accent: “I said good evening, Lady Rain. I mean you no harm.”

“You’ll pardon me if I find that difficult to believe.”

“A fair point, I suppose. Might I lower my arms? I’m afraid I am starting to lose feeling in my talons.”

Rain gave him a doubtful glare, but offered a slight nod to the griffon. “Slowly.”

“Danke,” he said, the avian arms lowering to the rocky ground.

“How are you alive?”

He shrugged. “When my kind attacked Nyx they released me.”

“I know that much,” Rain growled, taking half a step forward. She didn’t risk getting too close to the griffon. Even unarmed he could still be a deadly threat. “I also know Magnus doesn’t look kindly on those who surrender.”

“No. No he does not.” The griffon shook his head slowly. “I escaped both your kind, and mine. I have nothing to fight for in this war. The Canii… my tribe… They are all dead.”

Rain said nothing for a time, merely keeping her attention on Schäfer with her sword at the ready. “If you’re looking to join them I would happily oblige.”

“As would Magnus. But no. I do not long for death’s cold embrace just yet, Lady Rain. I simply seek peace.”

“So you came to a Nimban?” Rain’s tone was incredulous.

“The irony is...how do you say it? Not to be lost on me?” His wings rolled in a shrug. “Yes, I will never raise a sword again against your kind, nor mine. I came to you, however, with a proposition. A way you could end this war today.”

Her curiosity perked, Rain let the tip of her blade lower half an inch towards the ground. It was all the indication Schäfer seemed to need to continue.

“You have done well getting so far into our lines. Too well, some might say. Magnus himself is within your grasp. Though if I you were wise you’d keep well away from him.”

“Tell me where he is, and I might let you fly away.”

Schäfer arched an eyebrow, his tail flicking curiously. “They say Magnus is no ordinary Griffon, Lady Rain. They say he is stronger, faster, and far larger than any of us born in generations. Some even say he is a God.”

“Everything can be killed,” Rain said. “And there have been large griffons before. All it means is he’s a bigger target I can stab.”

Surprise claimed Schäfer’s face. “You honestly think you can best him?”

“I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t think I could.”

“Hmm.” He rubbed at the underside of his beak thoughtfully. Their eyes were locked, hers resolved, his questioning. After a moment he lowered his paw. “I have a condition as well, Lady Rain.”

Her brow lifted a little higher. “And that is?”

“When you find Magnus, if it is possible, you kill him.” Schäfer said, a grim resolve in his words.

Rain chuckled softly. “That is the plan.”

“Heh, you Nimbans always were a bold lot. Follow me then,” he said, rising to a tense stand. “I will show you the way.”

“Stay in front of me, and don’t make any sudden moves. Otherwise I’ll have your head.” she warned him firmly.

“Understandable.”

With her ‘guide’ walking a few paces ahead of her, Rain sheathed her sword and followed. No doubt her family was spinning in their graves at the mere prospect of not killing the hybrid, but Rain didn’t much care what the dead thought. If an advantage could be gained, she would take it. Besides, her wingblades were all she needed to handle an unarmored and unarmed hybrid.

“Oh, that colt, the one who took a spear,” Schäfer looked over at Rain with an expression she never thought a griffon capable of: sorrow. “Did he succumb to those wounds?”

Rain thought of Pathfinder, the terrible look in his eyes when she’d left him. It made her heart ache to think of. To her surprise she even...missed him. For a moment Rain wondered if he was still practicing his reading. There were still a lot of words he had trouble with. Discentus might teach him more, but then what would they do if Rain got back?

Realizing her mind was wandering, she shook her head. “No. He’s alive.”

Schäfer let out a sigh. “Es beruhigt mich, das zu hören.”

Curiosity nibbled at her. After a while of walking, Rain simply couldn’t contain it anymore. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“You know what,” she growled a little.

They walked several paces before he gave an answer. “What happened to that colt was...Unforgivable. I thought of my son. How I’d react if Cirrans did that to him.”

Rain couldn’t help but think of the irony. “Then why didn’t you stop it?”

“I did not know. Not until it was too late. I promise you, Frau Rain, I did give him justice.”

“There’s no justice for what happened to him,” she growled with an agitated flap of her wings.

“The three who did it I had castrated, executed, and impaled,” Schafer said with the casual nature of someone commenting on the prior day’s weather. “You did see the bodies when you attacked, yes?”

It took a moment for Rain to recall, but with a bit of mental focus, she did remember seeing the displayed corpses. In the heat of the battle she hadn’t given it much thought. Less thought had been given after with the workload of her fighting with Commander Moon, Summer, Finder, and scraping for any supplies she could get her hooves on.

“I personally washed him. You can ask the stallion Cloudburst if you do not believe my words. I unlocked him and the boy in hopes he would escape and get the colt home.”

Surprise must have been clear from Rain’s silence, and the griffon chuckled to it. “I had thought killing him would have been more merciful. But…” he paused, his ears splaying out a little. “I could not bring myself to do it.”

“Hmm… You surprise me griffon...Schäfer.”

The sound of his name from her lips made his ears perk. He twisted his neck to look at her with a surprised, but… pleasant smile. “Why should it be so surprising that we need not be enemies?”

Rain opened her mouth to answer, then found herself wordless. She snapped her jaw shut and considered the question. Of course griffons would always be her enemy. They were the enemies of her blood. For as long as Nimbus had memory they had fought bitterly with the hybrids.

“Experience has taught me otherwise,” she answered, though some of the venom had left her voice.

“I suppose it has,” he said, letting his gaze drift up for a bit. “For all of us.”

“Why do you want Magnus dead?”

“Penance.” His ears lowered and he growled lowly.

Rain chuckled. “Well, we can agree on that.”

They walked for the better part of two hours before Schäfer lowered himself to a crawl. Rain mirrored his posture, scooting herself along on her belly until they crested a hill. Down in a grassy valley split in two by the river she observed a small griffon camp. She could see dozens of bonfires with several hundred griffons scattered about. Most were males, but some were females doting over food and preening the soldiers. She didn’t see Magnus, though did observe a large tent in the center of the formation.

“Magnus will be in there,” Schäfer whispered, pointing a talon at the tent. “He is likely in war consul now. You would be wise to wait for morning to attack. He always flies at the back of his army.”

“Coward,” Rain spat.

Schäfer shook his head. “He thinks himself immortal, remember? Calls himself the God of all Griffons.” he sneered in disgust. “He keeps himself hidden from view, even from most Griffons.”

The idea struck Rain as peculiar. “Why? If he’s all you say he’s supposed to be, then why hide?”

Schäfer’s wings rolled in a shrug. “Perhaps because he only wants us to think he’s immortal, or wants us to think he’s twice the size of any griffon. I cannot say. All I know is what most griffon’s know. And that is what we are told.”

Rain chuckled. “A God that needs to hide is no God at all. Just a loudmouth with an ego problem.”

“Wait for most of his formation to take wing. After that you will have his personal Oathsworn and of course him.”

“Why are there so many hens?” Rain asked. “I’ve never seen griffon’s bring them to the field.”

Ears twitched and folded. Rain noticed Schäfer’s tail twitch uncomfortably. “Oathsworn are granted certain… perks.”

At this Rain chuckled, though she was careful to keep her voice down. “A little fucking with your fighting?”

“A crass description, but not inaccurate.”

The pair observed the camp a while longer, then slowly crawled their way back down the hill. Once they’d reached a safe distance, one where Schäfer assured her they wouldn’t be spotted if they flew, they took wing and made their way back to camp. Rain and Schafer landed a safe distance from the Nimban force, far enough that Rain didn’t worry about getting spotted. Schafer turned to her and waited. Rain slowly drew her sword.

“And so… you decide,” he said, the resignation plain in his voice.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

He closed his eyes, and Rain thrust her sword.

Schafer jumped, the blade buried itself into the soft earth. For a moment he dare not open his eyes or even twitch. Rain managed not to smile at the humorous sight. When he did, though, Rain offered the griffon a singular honor, and saluted him with her wing.

“Schäfer of the Canii… I thank you.”

He stood up straighter, returned her salute with one of his own. “Iron Rain, Legate of Nimbus. I am honored to have met you.”

Cautiously he held out one of his taloned hands to her. Rain looked at it for a long moment with a raised eyebrow and a puzzled frown. He stayed still, palm open and talons splayed. Slowly Rain lifted her hoof, hovering the armored limb just over his paw. Schafer waited, not rushing, pushing, or making so much as a breath. Finally she lowered her hoof until it touched his palm.

Both pegasus and griffon let out a breath neither realized they were holding. His talons were gentle when they wrapped around her fetlock, and clasped it in a careful shake. Their eyes met, and Rain gave him a nod. After a moment he released her hoof, both lowering their limbs to the grass.

“May the Gods be with you, Legate Rain.”

“And also with you, Schäfer of the Canii.”

He turned to leave, pausing one last time to look back at her. “Please relay my sincerest apologies to the colt. Perhaps… perhaps in another life, we needn't be adversaries.”

Rain nodded. “Until then.”

He smiled a little, spread his wings, and disappeared into the night’s sky, flying south where the war wouldn’t follow him. Rain watched him until he was long gone, lifted her hoof that he’d shaken, and inspected it. Surely Father, brother, and all her ancestors were rolling in their graves. But for Rain, her conscience felt clean.

She drew in a deep breath, savoring the cool air as it filled her lungs. The wind caressed her cheek, brushing her mane aside just so. It reminded her of her mother, a distant memory who had passed when Iron was still young.

“Mom… Dad… Steel,” she whispered to the evening air, speckled with clouds. “I swear I’ll avenge you all.”

It was well into the night before Rain made her way back to camp. Among her small band of soldiers, most of whom were sleeping soundly with their swords at their sides, she found Haze and Thorn. The pair were nestled together for warmth, with Haze’s larger wing covering Thorn’s back. Their ears twitched at her approaching steps, and they quickly pulled away from each other to stand and face her.

“Need a break?” Haze asked.

“You two take watch,” Rain said, setting the heavy sword on the ground. “Tomorrow we avenge Nimbus.”

The morning sun warmed Rain’s wings from where she and her Storm hid on top of a cloud. They were high above the griffon camp Schäfer had led her to, watching patiently as griffons finished their morning meals and trickled away in pairs. It was with no small amount of effort that she waited for the opportune moment.

“Why don’t we strike?” Thorn whispered, laying next to her on the cloud.

“When the moment is right, Thorn,” Rain answered, though her wings were twitching in anticipation.

Summer growled. “Look at these arrogant fuckers. They haven’t even bothered putting out scouts or picketts. They should have discovered us hours ago, to say nothing of all the ponies we have hiding behind the hill.”

“They think Cirra’s beaten,” Windshear said, adjusting his grip on his spear. “And why shouldn’t they? Gold Moon’s had the legions in full retreat for months now. There’s no reason for them to suspect we’re this far back.”

“Everypony understands their mission, right Haze?” Rain asked her oldest friend.

He nodded. “Wait for the Storm to fall, surround the hybrid camp, kill any that try to escape.”

“That’s a big ass tent, Legate Rain,” Windshear chimed in, his blue frame quivering at the looming battle. “There could be dozens more Oathsworn in there guarding Magnus. How do we know that we won’t outnumber ourselves by charging in without backup?”

“If Magnus reacts like I think he will, then it won’t be a factor. If he’s a coward, then we lure them back over the hill where the reserve Militia will ambush them.”

“This plan sucks,” Windshear bemoaned.

“Relax, Kid,” Haze said with a grin. “If we’re gonna die, we’re gonna take Magnus with us. Either way, this war ends today.”

“Hardly,” Thorn grumbled. “Even if the horde scatters when Magnus dies, we still have to fight our way to Agenholt and burn the city to the ground.”

“One thing at a time,” Rain said, watching the camp below them eagerly.

It was hard to make out details, however Rain could see that all of the hens and most of the oathsworn had already flown away by the time she’d led her Nimban’s to the camp. A few chests were set out behind the tent, doubtless to pack away whatever the griffon emperor kept inside his dwelling. If it was anything like Cirran field tents, then Rain suspected it was fairly simple to fold and transport, if exorbitantly large.

Two more griffons emerged from the tent and flew away. Rain watched them fly east, towards the mountains and away from the front. It was almost funny, she thought, how even a few months ago she would have leapt on the griffons before dawn, numbers or not, and massacred them all. The misson today, though, was much more important. And if Schäfer was right, that Magnus was so arrogant as to stay far from the bulk of his army at any given time, then it would make killing him all the easier, with the benefit of minimal risk to her soldiers.

There were simply too few Nimbans left. Rain couldn’t, no, wouldn’t throw away their lives so casually. Far better she fell to defend them, than risk everything her people had stood for being slaughtered. If the line of Rain was to end, then best it ended ensuring the spirit of Nimbus survived.

“Now!” She called, throwing herself down from the cloud with wings tucked tight to her sides. Summer, Haze, Thorn, and Windshear leapt after her, two on either side. They landed in perfect sync, startling the two Oathsworn that had been milling about near one of the firepits. Before they could so much as squawk, they were dead. Windshear’s spear in one’s neck, Thorn’s dagger in his partner’s eye.

“Magnus!” Rain shouted at the tent, drawing her sword as thirteen armored Oathsworn rushed out of the tent, swords, spears, maces, and clubs at the ready.

Rain held her ground, stabbed her sword into the dirt and screamed again at the tent. “MAGNUS! SHOW YOURSELF!”

“Who dares summon the God-Emperor of Agenholt?” a booming voice called out from the tent.

“I am Iron Rain, Legate of Nimbus,” she answered. The Oathsworn exchanged glances and lowered their weapons, at least slightly.

“Iron Rain, you say?” the voice asked in an amused tone. “Might I assume you are related to Winter Rain?”

Before she could answer, the canvas door of the tent flew open, as though from a magical wind. She drew her sword from the ground and readied it in her teeth. What emerged from the tent, though, made her eyes grow wide in shock.

Two more Oathsworn, glad head to tail in armor emerged first. Following them came a griffon, larger than any she’d ever seen. She didn’t need him to identify himself. Rain knew that this monster was Magnus.

“Oh...fuck,” Windshear gasped.

“Well, I guess the name wasn’t overcompensating...” Summer said.

Schafer had been wrong to say he was twice the size of the average griffon. Standing confidently on all fours, clad in jewel encrusted armor plated with solid gold, he was nearly the size of three. He blinked his eyes once to adjust to the light, then focused his attention on Rain. Instantly his expression shifted from an almost bored look to one of uncontained glee.

“Well met, little Rain!” His voice boomed, though he wasn’t shouting. “Yes, yes I can see it! You are Winter’s daughter! You look just like him.”

“You’re not worthy to utter his name,” Rain growled, finding her courage in spite of the monster’s size. She focused on watching his movements. Did he favor a limb? Was there a tick before he moved? Any detail she could observe might save her life in battle.

“Tsk tsk, little Rain,” Magnus waved a paw dismissively at her. “I see it all so clearly. That haughty stance, the arrogant tone. You are a fine example of your breed, daughter of Winter. However, do you know what’s interesting about Winter?”

Rain said nothing which only seemed to make the massive griffon grin wider. “Everything dies.”

“And is reborn in spring,” Rain countered.

“Haha! I killed Spring Rain four hundred years ago. Or was it Three?” Magnus laughed, waved a talon dismissively. “Most of you blend together after a century or two.” He turned his back to her and disappeared into his tent.

“He...he didn’t just leave, did he?” Haze asked, stunned by the casual nature that the outnumbered hybrids.

A clatter started inside the tent, like someone rooting through piles of treasure. Rain glanced back at her storm for a moment, then looked at the tent again.

“Oi, you, Oathsworn!” Haze yelled out at the armored hybrids. “You understand Cirran? Are we supposed to fight now? I mean, I’m always up for a good fight, but are we supposed to wait, or are we doing this?”

Magnus' Oathsworn looked at each other,not even bothering to keep their weapons at the ready, then merely shrugged. Some of them even moved away from the tent, leaving a clear path inside for anypony that so desired. Though the cacophony of noise from inside sounded like a tornado was going through the tent.

“Well I sure as shit ain’t going in there,” Summer said.

“Will you idiots focus?” Rain snapped at her Storm, though her eyes never left the tent.

A few moments later he emerged again, and Rain’s heart stopped in her chest. In his claws was her father’s shield, still painted in the traditional Nimban blue, though chips had been flecked off from battle.

“Nimbus,” Rain whispered the shield’s name.

“He would have wanted you to have this,” Magnus said, his talons caressing the surface of the shield like a treasured gift. It made Rain’s stomach turn. “I gave him a good burial, in case you were wondering. Your father was worthy of that respect. Perhaps when I break you, I will take you to his tomb. Your corpse can join his in the cold ground.”

“I’m not the one who dies today, hybrid,” she hissed, grasping the zwiehander by the leather bound forward grip, just behind the parrying hooks.

“Temper, temper, little Rain,” Magnus cooed, seemingly giddy. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll offer you the same deal I offered your father. Duel me. Should you draw even a drop of my blood I will end this war here and now. My Oathsworn shall not move a feather to intervene so long as your Rainstorm also stays back.” Magnus paused, looking past Rain at Haze, Thorn, Summer, and Windshear. “Hmm, though perhaps you might need them. This is simply the sorriest Storm I’ve seen in ages. Perhaps a handicap is in order.” Magnus pulled off his golden armor, tossing it behind him to a waiting Oathsworn.

“Your oathsworn won’t interfere?” Rain asked, doubtful of what her ears heard.

Magnus drew a dagger from under his wing, the gleaming steel blade long enough to be a standard Cirran Gladius. Magnus traced a claw over the edge of the blade slowly. He looked at the weapon fondly, then looked up at Rain. A smile tugged at the corners of his beak. In one quick motion, Magnus stabbed the Oathsworn nearest to him through the neck. The large griffon gagged, went stiff, though the only sound he made was a wet gurgle. Blood gushed from his beak and the gaping wound in his neck. His heavy armor clattered when he fell, and not a single one of his comrades so much as moved while their brother flailed in his death throes.

“Do you accept my terms?” he asked, wiping the blood from the blade.

“Fuck that,” Summer yelled from behind Rain. “I’ll accept the challenge!”

Tilting his head, Magnus seemed curious. “And you are...?”

“Summer Celsus.”

“Hmm. A pony with no name. Perhaps I should fetch a fledgling for you instead.”

Summer’s temper flared. “You son of a–”

Rain stuck her wing out and shot Summer a quick glare. “This is my fight!” She growled, returning her attention to Magnus. “I accept.”

Magnus seemed thrilled by her answer. He waved a wing at his Oathsworn, all of whom moved back a safe distance. Likewise Rain motioned her Storm back, then stepped forward.

“Excellent! Now then,” Magnus started, excitement making his voice get higher in pitch. “First, first we must bow,” he said, bowing to Iron. When she didn’t reciprocated he grew angry.

“Bow!” he shouted, and a blast of wind hit her back, knocking her down for a moment. “Come now, Lady Rain, the formalities must be observed!”

She got to her hooves again quickly, but the shock must have been plain on her face. Magnus was quick to call her on it. “Why the puzzlement, little Rain? Have you never faced a god before?”

“You’re no god. Just some freak.”

“Freak?” Magnus bellowed, the winds swirling around him. “Tell me, young Rain. You have so little respect for me as an opponent. What injury have I personally caused to earn your spite? What do you accuse me of that I cannot likewise say of your ancestors? If anything you should be thanking me!”

“Thanking you for what?” Rain demanded, anger in her voice. “Burning my city? Torturing prisoners? Raping children?”

“Ahh, so there it is,” Magnus chuckled, motioning for one oathsworn to step closer. The figure wore full armor, head to toe, with only his blue-gray tail visible. “Might I ask where you buried your indignance when your kind massacred the females, old, and young at Hengsted? Or the countless griffons Nimbus hunted for your agoge? Not that I minded that, of course. A warrior so pitiful as to be felled by a Nimban whelp was done a favor. You speak of torture: where is your spite for the pegasi who keep griffon slaves, tearing out their claws and filing their beaks? You speak to me of rape…”

His talons came down on the Oathsworn’s helm, yanking it off the warrior with force. Underneath, Rain didn’t see the feathered features of a griffon. Rather it was a steel eyed hippogryph. “Behold the Sin of Nimbus.”

Rain stared at the hippogryph in shock. It made no sense. The creature shouldn’t even have been alive, much less standing alongside Magnus. Interbreeding between pegasi and griffons was sacrilege on both sides.

“Say hello to Jaeger,” Magnus said, petting the hippogrpyh. “Jaeger, Say hello to Lady Rain.”

Jaeger bowed his head, though his eyes remained locked with her own. When he spoke his words were thickly accented, so much so that Rain wondered if he spoke Cirran, or if he was simply making the noises Magnus wanted him to. “Hello… Lady Rain.”

Rain scarcely contained the snarl that was making her lip twitch.

Magnus placed the hippogryph’s helm back on the Oathsworn’s head then motioned him away.

He held out his right taloned hand, and without so much as a sound two Oathsworn went into the tent, returning a moment later with Magnus’ sword. The sword was huge, near twice the length of Rain’s sword, with a gilded hilt and guard which sparkled with precious stones just as ornately as the griffon’s armor. He threw out his opposite arm, and another Oathsworn attached Nimbus to his wrist, though on a hybrid his size her father’s shield looked more like a buckler.

“How dare you,” Rain seethed through gritted teeth.

“I dare, little Rain,” Magnus almost chirped with glee. “Are not spoils given to the victors?”

“You’ve won nothing!”

“Winter is dead, yet I live. Shall I tell you how he died, little Rain?” Magnus asked, though.

“I know how my father died,” Rain said, holding her rage tight in her chest. “He died saving our people.”

The griffon chuckled. “He died a weak, helpless old stallion, not even able to raise a sword to me.” Magnus raised his sword, pointing the tip to Rain. “Please, little Rain, do not disappoint me so.”

Rain’s anger snapped and her left wing ripped her bucknife, Mary, from it’s sheath on her foreleg. The blade rocketed tip-first, straight for Magnus. The griffon didn’t even flinch, though. Rain’s eyes grew wide when her knife slowed to a stop in mid air, the tip less than an inch from Magnus’ forehead.

‘Finder...you were telling the truth…’ she realized with a cold dread in her stomach.

Magnus lowered his sword just a bit, her knife slowly rotating in front of him, like a leaf circling around a whirlpool in a pond. “Temper, temper, little Rain,” he cooed to her, the knife stopping when the blade was aiming straight for her. “It’s a good knife,” he smiled, nodded to her. “Please, allow me to return it!”

Mary launched through the air, flying for Rain’s neck at a blinding speed. Instinct took hold, Rain dropped to the ground letting the knife fly over her head. She briefly registered the clash of steel behind her indicating one of her storm had deflected the blade.

The duel commenced, Rain grabbing Zwei and charging at Magnus. He stood there waiting until the last moment, then attacked with a wide-arcing slash. Reflex made Rain block, but the sheer weight of his blade nearly broke her neck. The blow sent her careening, tumbling end over end through the grass. She barely was able to get back to her hooves when Magnus counter attacked.

He leapt into the air, powerful winds propelling him with hardly a motion of his wings. Rain rolled out of the way just as he brought his sword down, though she was certain her tail was an inch shorter now. Wind blasted from behind her, seemingly generated from his sword striking the ground.

Rain flapped her wings to get some distance, spun around to get Magnus in her sights, and readied herself. Magnus didn’t give her time to think, charging her with a powerful thrust of his sword. It was all she could do to parry the strike which scraped past her blade in a shower of sparks. Her blade smashed into the handguard of his sword, caught on the gilded metal, locking it in place. While Rain struggled to free it, Magnus smiled and punched her square in the chest, nearly breaking her ribs and sending her flying.

A wet cough escaped Rain’s mouth, but she recovered quickly. She threw open her wings catching the air to put a brake on her uncontrolled spin. Magnus held his front legs apart, balancing on his haunches with a wild grin. “That cannot be your best, Little Rain. I heard such good things about your father. Truly, I would have given an arm to duel him in his prime!”

With the wind at her wings, Rain propelled herself towards Magnus. She brought the sword down towards Magnus’ head, a blow he sidestepped with ease. That magical wind swirled and gusted forth again, slamming into Rain’s side and sending her tumbling back towards her Storm. Years of training and experience made her throw her weight into the roll, getting back to her hooves with her weapon at the ready.

Smiling, Magnus waited for her. His wings were open, his posture relaxed, he didn’t even bother putting up the pretense of a guard. His open stance made Rain pause. ‘What’s he planning?’

Rain took a breath and began to pace around the griffon emperor. He matched her pace, though his sword rested casually over his shoulder as though he were on a country stroll rather than a duel of life and death. Rain’s eyes narrowed, studying his every motion.

“Yes, yes, very good, little Rain,” he praised her then chuckled. “You do not rush in with emotion as your weapon. When Spring Rain dueled me all those centuries ago she was all fire and passion.” He shook his head, laughing a fond laugh. “She died smiling on this very sword. Or was that Sleeting Rain? I swear I can’t tell you ponies apart half the time.”

She knew what he was trying to do, but Rain refused to allow him to bait her. Her eyes kept on Magnus, she willed herself to ignore his flapping beak. The words didn’t matter. She focused on the way he shifted his weight with each step, the twitch in his wings, every detail committed to memory.

Rain didn’t have time to wait. A low roar built as the wind rose at her back and pulled her off her hooves. Her body flew at Magnus, who grinned and leveled his sword at her chest. She threw her weight forwards, managing to roll just under Magnus. She slid out behind him twisting to bring her sword about. Wind from his wings buffeted her down again, and Magnus twisted in the air, landing at a safer distance with a laugh.

“That’s the way!” Magnus laughed, aiming his sword at her again. This time the wind started to whirl around the blade, forming a cyclone. Rain’s eyes shot open, Magnus grinned again. “Verschwinden.”

The whirlwind pushed out from the sword towards her. Rain leapt to the side to avoid it, but the wind was faster. Her back half was caught in the gale which sent her flying end over end. She bit down harder on the hilt of her sword, wrapping a hoof around the forward grip as well so she didn’t lose it. She hit the ground with a thud. Rain didn’t get to catch her breath before another blast sent her over the field.

Rain’s head spun. She heard her friends shouting to her, could feel Magnus’ plodding approach. It felt like a predator stalking close to his prey, toying with it before delivering the finishing blow. Then Rain saw something glinting in the grass, just near her. She blinked once, focused on the object. Mary, her favorite knife was right there, waiting.

“Any last words, little Rain?” the griffon Emperor asked from behind her.

Rain plucked her knife from the ground, twisting the heavy blade through her feathers, then launched it towards Magnus. The griffon Emperor flared his wings, the winds whipped and whirled around him even more violently than before. Mary stopped in midair, mere inches from his throat. He twisted the knife with the will of the winds alone, launching it back at her. This time, though, Rain was ready for it.

She spat Zweihufer from her mouth and caught it in her forelegs, charging towards the blade and winding the sword up behind her shoulders. Her wings propelled her forward and she swung out with the flat of the sword. Steel sang out its sharp cry when the knife hit the sword and was batted back at Magnus. The griffon’s eyes grew wide and he raised himself up on his hind legs. His right paw thrust out as he forced the knife to stop again.

But with his focus on Mary, the whirling winds protecting him broke. Rain threw herself at him with all her strength, grasping the leather strap between Zwei’s guard and parrying spikes. Magnus swung his blade across his body, aiming to claim her head, but Rain was faster. She dove low, flapped her wings hard, and spun around in a blur of clockwise motion.

Magnus’ blade swished harmlessly over her head, while her sword buried itself in his exposed gut. She heard the cheer of her Storm, the stunned silence of the Oathsworn, and savored the wet gurgle of pain the so-called ‘God’ gave when she twisted her sword.

He stumbled back, the sword pulling free from his body with a wet slurp, and balanced on two legs with a taloned palm pressed to the wound. Blood poured from between his fingers, staining his dark fur crimson. Rain redoubled her attack, overwhelming Magnus with blow after blow.

The tip of his sword thrust forward. Rain leapt above it, using her wings to gain height over the blade. Throwing all her weight into a spin, she brought her sword down on Magnus’ arm. The griffon emperor howled with pain. His left arm fell useless to the grass, her father’s shield falling free of the usurper limb.

Magnus fell back onto his haunches, dropping his sword and clutching at the gushing stump where his avian talon had been. Rain dropped Zwei and leapt for Nimbus. She rolled into the heavy shield, pushing her hoof into the grip on the back, then threw herself at Magnus. The Emperor, distracted, barely had time to realize what was happening.

Rain felt his blood splash across her face when she buried Nimbus’ spike into his chest.

His remaining paw swung with blinding speed, backhanding Rain’s head. She briefly saw stars and lost her grip on Nimbus.She stumbled back and soon retook her fighting stance, even if her only weapon left was her wingblades.

“Any last words, Magnus?” She asked, breathless and flushed with adrenaline.

Initially, the bleeding griffon glared at her. Rain wondered if he’d lost too much blood and would die without issuing a final taunt. Part of her hoped he begged for his life before the end. She wanted so badly to hear the monster plead.

Magnus stunned her when he smiled.

“Well done, Little Rain,” he said, laughing. It started as a chuckle, then built to a gale of laughter. The winds around him starting to swirl again, faster and faster until Rain had to brace herself. Magnus slapped his palm against his thigh, and it was then Rain realized the sword wound in his gut was no longer bleeding, and the hole in his chest from Nimbus was slowly disappearing. “Well done! Well done! Well done!”

“What the Hell?!”

“Of all the Rains I have fought over the centuries, none have done so well! My arm will take a month to regrow.” Magnus stood tall on his hind legs, wiped the bloodied corners of his mouth on his foreleg. He turned and motioned to an Oathsworn, said “hol mir einen Verband”

A moment later an Oathsworn had wrapped a heavy cloth around the stump where Magnus’ left claw had been.

Rain simply stared at him, watching as the hole in his chest fully sealed over. Feathers started to regrow as well, though blood continued to seep through the cloth on his stump. “Why aren’t you dead…?” Rain whispered.

“I told you,” Magnus said, walking over to Rain, who couldn’t even bring herself to lift her wingblades.

“Rain!” she heard Haze shout. Her Storm charged, Thorn and Windshear leaping up to strike at Magnus from above, Haze rushing in directly using his unnatural speed to gain an advantage. The wind roared and bellowed sending the pegasi tumbling to the ground like hapless foals.

“And so now you see, Little Rain.” He spoke with a tone that was almost gentle as he put his paw to her cheek, rubbing his blood into her pale fur. “You cannot kill me.”

Rain felt her heart breaking, and despite all her will, she couldn’t stop tears from welling in her eyes. ‘Father...forgive me.’

Magnus certainly saw them, and his false pity only made her pain worse. “I, Ottgam Magnus, God of the Winds, Emperor of Griffons, declare you, Iron, to be the greatest of your line.”

A rumble started to build in the earth. At first Rain thought it was her legs trembling, then it built and built until even Magnus seemed briefly concerned. He looked around a moment, then seemed to stare into the distance. A grin came to his face again, and he looked down at Rain.

Rain didn’t ask what he seemed so happy about, the rumble grew even heavier. It knocked her onto her backside, forced her hidden Nimbans to take to the skies from where they were lined up around the camp. The Oathsworn too took wing, reading their weapons when they spotted her reinforcements. Magnus noticed them too, however he seemed unconcerned.

“Wise of you, Lady Rain,” he said with a chuckle. “But I’m afraid you are too late.”

Before Rain could process what was happening, Magnus was on top of her, a massive paw pinning her down on the ground. He held up his bloody palm, and dried it on her face, smearing her pale fur with a streak of red.

“Bear this mark as your prize, and wear it with pride,” Magnus said again, a terrible smile on his face. One claw dug into her forehead, just over her left eyebrow. He pulled the talon down, slicing through her eye, carving his way down her cheek. Rain screamed, her hooves flying to her face while the Emperor pulled his paw back, heedless of the fresh cuts her flailing wingblades put into his sides.

"You bastard!" Summer shouted as Magnus stepped away, his talon glittering with fresh blood and ichor. Rather than a grand gesture or a spoken word, he merely glanced Summer's direction and the winds hurled her back. After rolling a few strides, Summer stumbled to her feet. "She won, you monster!"

"I know. This is my gift to her."

"A gift?"

"Wherever she goes, for the rest of her life, this will define her. The first question on every tongue. 'What happened to your eye, Lady Rain?' And she can tell them, with my blessing, that she dueled a god in single combat and bested him!"

“What have you done?” Rain managed to hiss, her blood pouring down her cheek and over her lips.

Magnus laughed aloud, releasing her from his grasp and licking her blood from his claw. “How little you understand. Do not grieve too badly for Haysar. It was his foolishness that led to this outcome.”

Rain struggled to her hooves with Summer’s help, took up her sword again, ready to fight the monster before her, but Magnus only pointed a claw to the north. “Behold.”

Rain didn’t turn her head. She paced around him, working herself into a position where she could see what he was pointing at while keeping him in her line of sight. The dark column of smoke in the distance was something she would never forget.

Magnus only grinned wider, sharp teeth flashing between his upper and lower beak. “And now you see.”

“What devilry is this?” Rain whispered around her sword.

He laughed again, the winds swirling around him. “Why don’t you go find out, hmm? The dead won’t bury themselves.”

“What?”

“Fear not, Empress Rain,” Magnus bowed to her briefly, though his eyes never left her own. “I shall not interfere. You have proven yourself a foe worthy of honor in the songs of my people. Go now, bury your dead, prepare your defenses. I shall come for you again soon, and when I do, I shall have a new arm, and you shall know the meaning of despair.”

“Rain, what do we do?” Haze shouted, sword in his teeth.

“Retreat,” Rain whispered.

“What?”

“Retreat,” she shouted, wiping her hoof over her bleeding cheek and taking to the air. “We can’t win this fight.”

“Rain…” Summer pleaded with her.

“Enough!” she barked sheathing her sword and knife. “We have to get to Feathertop!”

Rain never forgot the horrible laugh Magnus let out as she led her Nimbans towards the tower of smoke in the distance.

Crawling Back to You

“How the Hell did I let you talk me into this again?” Carver growled, walking through the rocky crevice carved into the earth safely under the ash choked air above.

“Cause you’re an idiot and so am I,” Pathfinder answered, clutching at his aching side with a hoof. “We have to get Rain, Summer, and Wind back.” Every second of riding on Carver’s back was agony. His healing side seared with a burning agony. The pain made him want to cry; to drown himself in the undiluted wine Summer had been pouring down his throat seemingly every hour of the day. Yet no matter how badly he wanted to, he couldn’t.

Rain was all he could think of. Ever since that horrible quake had shaken the continent, smoke from Feathertop choking the air from the mountains to the sea, Finder had been consumed in his worry for Rain.The consuming pain was nothing he wouldn’t overcome for her.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for this damned ash,” Carver complained, climbing over a pile of rubble with a grunt. “At least if we can’t fly in it, then neither can the griffons. Then again,” he paused, jumping down from the top of the rubble pile with wings spread to ease his landing. “It means we could run into a patrol blind.”

Pathfinder shivered on his friend’s back. Instantly his mind was drown in those vivid nightmares.

“Carver, promise me one thing,” Finder said his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“If we are cornered by griffons...don’t let them take me alive.”

Gulping, Carver could only nod. Resolving to change the subject as quickly as possible, his mind raced for something, anything, to distract the colt. “Hey, make yourself useful back there. Open up my haversack and double check what we have left for supplies. I don’t think we’re gonna get a chance to hunt or forage much with all this ash.”

Managing to just barely keep the flashbacks at bay, Finder quickly busied himself with the request. On reflex he tried to stretch out his wing for the task, only to hiss sharply at the protest of his mending bones. After a moment to compose himself his hoof popped open the bag, Finder shuffling through the contents with a pensive frown.

“We’ve got…” another pause, Finder pulled out what was left of the wine flask Summer had left him out of the bag. He gave it a little shake, hearing the telltale slosh of liquid inside, and promptly took a sip. Shuddering at the burn, he reached forward with the flask offering some to Carver. The older pegasus took it in a wing, took a quick swig, then passed it back. “A little more wine, some bread that’s harder than your skull, and a few chunks of salt fish, and one last bottle of water.”

Carver chuckled. “I guess we should thank all that marching we did in basic. Or maybe I should just be glad you’re lighter than a small cloud.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Finder rolled his eyes, corking the wine flask which he tucked back into the haversack. “Come on, if I’m right we’re at least in the area they should be.”

“How can you figure that, Finder? The maps are completely worthless now. Or did you not notice the giant crevice in the middle of the continent we’re walking in?”

“The maps need new lines, but the overall land is the same,” Finder countered feeling a confidence he never had before. “This used to be the Clawdine Forks, it led from the mountains south of Nimbus directly into the heart of Cirra. Remember the lectures we got in basic about the Cirran defeat that happened back in the era of Roamulus?”

“Well there’s no river anymore,” Carver complained, wings flitting in irritation. “Just this damned chasm.”

“But the path is the same. We’ve even passed by some of the tributaries already. If Rain is trying to come back without being able to fly through the smoke she’d have to pass through here.”

“I hate it down here. The walls are too close, it’s making me feel trapped.”

Pathfinder let his eyes drift up looking to the steep walls of the canyon. “I don’t know, I think it’s kinda comforting.”

Carver twisted his neck to look at his passenger. “Kid, I think all that wine has gone to your head.”

“Can’t get surrounded if they can only come at you from one direction at a time,” answered Finder with a shrug.

“Can’t really escape either.”

Finder shivered, and the two fell into silence again. Much as he wanted to walk, Finder knew he never would have made it out of Discentus’ sight without his friend’s help. He’d always be grateful to Carver for that, whatever might happen.

The two found an overhang and made camp for the night. The salt-fish and bread were split into modest portions and eaten in companionable silence. Finder slept tucked under Carver’s protective wing. After a few hours of rest the pair were off again, Finder awkwardly climbing onto Carver’s back with a fair bit of difficulty.

Another day they hiked through the winding chasm. The earth underhoof rumbled constantly with aftershocks, as though the warmth of Feathertop wasn’t sated with the devastation it had already wrought on Dioda. Thick plumes of ash from the caldera none could see anymore still rose high into the air, blanketing the world in black snow.

When the ash snow got bad Carver cut strips off their bedroll, tying them around his and Pathfinder’s faces to keep the ash out of their lungs. Hours and hours Carver hiked, Finder on his back, guiding him through the winding chasm from memory alone. When he could he scrawled quick drawings down on a small parchment he’d brought, making notes and lines to trace their steps.

That night when they camped Pathfinder preened Carver’s wings for him. Carver tried to return the favor, but the pain of extending his wings proved too great for Pathfinder. Carver waited for him to calm down, then made a sigh.

“Kid, you’re never gonna heal if you don’t stretch them out every day.”

“I try, Carver,” Finder protested. “But it hurts worse than when they were broken.”

“I broke a wing when I was a colt,” Carver said, putting a hoof carefully on Finder’s back. He chuckled a bit at the memory. “Bone was sticking clear through my feathers! Took the medicus forever to get those set. They made me flex my wing an hour a day every day.”

Finder winced, casting his gaze away from his friend.

“Look, Finder,” Carver said, rubbing the colt’s back with a soft sigh. “I know it hurts, but it’s the only way you’ll fly again, okay?”

His face twisted into a pained cringe, but Finder nodded. “I...I know.”

“We’ll take it nice and slow, alright? I’ll help you get it all the way out.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Pathfinder took a few deep breaths. He didn’t want to bring on more pain. But, if he couldn’t fly, then how could he save Rain, Summer, Windshear, or anypony ever again? If he couldn’t fly, couldn’t fight, then all he would ever be was dead weight.

“Pass me the wine,” he said, holding out a hoof.

Carver frowned, but passed the flask over. Finder pulled off the top with his teeth, downed a mouthful of the burning liquid, and passed it back. Carver took a drink as well, replaced the cap, then waited. “Whenever you’re ready, Finder.”

The younger pegasus gave the wine a few minutes to get into his system before he gave the nod. Carver cut a strip of leather from his haversack, twisted it into a log, and had Finder bite down on it. Neither Carver, nor Pathfinder slept much that night.

“How you doing back there?” Carver asked, grunting as he lifted himself over another pile of rubble.

“I’ll live,” Finder grunted.

In truth his wings were throbbing worse than they had in weeks. With Carver’s help he’d gotten both wings to full extension and contraction half a dozen times. It hadn’t come without cost, though. He only hoped the price would be worth it.

“We’re low on water,” Carver said, rounding a corner in the canyon. “If we can’t find them today, we’re gonna have to turn back.”

“You can if you want. I’ll stay.”

“And what? Crawl your way to them?”

“If I have to.”

Carver shook his head. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you came with me,” Finder shot back, a hint of a smile coming to his lips.

Finder didn’t need to see Carver’s face to know the stallion was rolling his eye. He almost chuckled, and for a while just watched the ash fall from above. As bad as it was down in the chasm, the winds were keeping most of it out of the deep crack. He could only guess how bad things were above them for both griffons and ponies.

Not even their ancient safe haven on the clouds was safe from it. Pathfinder hadn’t even seen a cloud large enough to draw water from, much less sit on. Biting his lip, Finder tried to push the concern out of his mind. Had the whole river been redirected? What if it was cut off at the source in the mountains? All of central Dioda would dry up, the breadbasket of the Empire would be ruined.

The cold realization dawned on Pathfinder. Even if the legion had already routed the whole griffon army back to Agenholt it wouldn’t matter. Cirra might win the war, but without their staples of grain and forage from the central lowlands then it was just a matter of time.

He shook his head, forcing those thoughts from his mind. Rain. He needed to find Rain. For hours and hours Carver walked. The more time slipped past, the more apprehensive Pathfinder became. He had to find her. He had to save her.

It was approaching nightfall when Finder spotted something in the ash. “Carver, stop!”

“What?” He drew his sword instantly, wings flaring out scattering ash across the canyon floor.

“Help me down, I see something.”

“That makes one of us,” Carver groused, lowering himself so Finder could slip off his back easily. “I can hardly see the damned walls right now.”

Finder ignored the comment. A brief lance of pain hit him when his legs bore his full weight, but after a moment he managed to adjust to it. He limped forward quick as he could, Carver following close behind him.

“What do you see?”

“Hang on,” Finder said, coming to a stop. He cringed, trying to lower himself a little further, and only succeeded in falling flat on his face when his left leg gave out. “Ahh!”

“Finder!” Carver was at his side in an instant, helping the colt back up. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” he lied, letting Carver brace him. His good hoof reached out, brushing away the inch of ash covering the floor. Underneath he saw a small, pale blue feather.

“Looks like a covert,” Carver said, plucking it up in his wing. “Must be from somepony with the same color as Windshear.” He looked over at Finder. “How the hell did you even see this thing?”

“Just observant, I guess,” Finder said, brushing his hoof through the ash a little more. He didn’t find any tracks in the rocky floor, nor any other feathers. Finder bit his lip and looked up. The ash was falling, the wind above the canyon walls barely reached them down at the bottom. Yet there was some breeze which they were downwind of.

Finder closed his eyes, sniffing lightly at the air. All he could smell was the sulfuric stench of ash. Not necessarily better than the constant scent of copper that his blood-stuffed nose had been full of for weeks, but at least different.

Something told him to check the ground again: a feeling from the core of his being. Finder bit his lip, took another look at the ground. He gingerly scraped aside more ash, golden eyes narrowing to focus on the uniform black earth underhoof. At first he saw nothing. But something kept eating at him, telling him to look closer. Then, like an epiphany, he saw it!

“Carver, put your hoof right here,” Finder said, pointing next to a slight curve in the ground.

“Why?”

“Cause mine’s too small, just do it. And push down hard.”

Finder got a look from Carver like he’d gone mad, but the stallion obliged him all the same. When his hoof pulled back Finder’s eyes lit up.

“A track!” He exclaimed, losing himself in the excitement, at least until the pain in his side pulled him back down to earth.

“Well, I’ll be damned. And heading east.”

“They must be lost, hurry!” Finder said, pulling himself free of Carver’s grasp and limping down the canyon.

“Finder, wait!” Carver called out, rushing behind the colt. “You’re gonna hurt yourself dammit. Get on my back before you open yourself up like a fish.”

“We have to be so close,” Finder whispered to himself, a singular drive pushing him forward heedless of Carver’s pleading.

He limped through the canyon, following the winding path and his gut. He walked when his side screamed for him to stop, he walked when he wanted to cry out in pain, he walked when when Carver’s repeated pleadings for him to rest fell on deaf ears.

Rounding a sharp corner, the canyon opened to where the Clawdine used to open up into a small lake. It had been left unnamed on the old Nimban maps Dawn had shown him. There his heart skipped a beat.

Two hundred Pegasi were huddled together in the center of the opening, demoralized, covered in ash, heads hung low. Nearest to him he saw a blue stallion talking to a small group. His breath felt caught in his throat, he couldn’t speak no matter how hard he tried. In the end, it was Carver who proved to be his voice.

“Wind!” He called out.

The blue stallion whirled around, his eyes wide in astonishment. Behind him Haze, Thorn, Summer stood with gobsmacked expressions, and behind them…

Finder’s heart stopped, her left eye was gone, hidden under a makeshift patch that was stained black with blood and ash. But she was alive. She stared at him, he back at her. He limped towards her, leg giving out after only a few paces. He saw her trotting towards him, and he forced the pain back as much as he could.

He threw his right leg out, dragged himself forward. The left foreleg limp at his side, dragging a line through the ash and muck. Bit by bit he crawled towards her, with Rain running towards him. At the mouth of the opening they met, Rain scooping him up in her forelegs and hugging him tightly.

“You damned fool,” she said in a choked voice, squeezing him to her breast.

“I know,” he whispered back, letting his ear listen to the steady beat of her heart. He even pretended not to feel the tears dripping into his mane, at least, as long as she didn’t mention the ones soaking into her chest.

Komm Doch Heim

Rain sighed, letting the heat from the bath soak through her coat into her skin. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had the chance to savor a hot bath. It felt like an eternity since Nimbus. Slipping deeper into the water until only her face was exposed, Rain shivered. The feeling of heat eased the tension in the back of her skull.

She was sequestered away in a lavish room of the Imperial Palace. Discentus had sent for her to meet him there shortly after Pathfinder had led her party safely through the chasm. They had barely been recovering in Updraft for more than two days when the summons arrived.

Once she had seen that her troops had food, water, and places to rest, she left for Stratopolis. Pathfinder rode on her back the whole way, Summer, Haze, Thorn, and Carver following close behind. They flew through the night to get to the capital by first light.

Summer led the party through the packed streets of the capital to her Father’s office in the senate. He hadn’t been in, but had left instructions for them to be provided for at the Celsus family villa. Hence how Rain found herself lounging in an oversized bath where she could see Pathfinder in the next room. He was sleeping like a foal on a plush, oversized, cloud bed, the most relaxed she’d seen him yet.

A smile pulled at her lips for a moment, then faded. What was so important that Discentus had summoned her to the Capital?

“Rain? Rain?” Summer called to her from the other room.

Grunting at the interruption, Rain replied with a curt “What?”

Summer poked her head through the alcove and smirked. “Making yourself at home, I see?”

“Shh,” Rain held a feather to her lips, then pointed to Pathfinder.

“Ah,” Summer’s voice lowered, but only just. “Sorry to interrupt, but Father just sent a courier. He wants to see you at once in the Imperial Office.”

A cold knife stabbed at Rain’s heart. We're the rumors true? Was Haysar really dead? “What about? Is Haysar there?”

“I don’t know, Rain.”

“Great,” She growled, pulling herself out of the comforting bath and shaking the water from her coat. She grabbed a towel that was hanging on a stand, then sat in front of an open window. Rain opened her wings, letting the breeze and morning light. “I don’t know anything, Summer. You understand? Nopony has been able to tell me a Gods damned thing. I don’t know how many ponies were lost in that damned eruption, I don’t know what Gold Moon’s plan is, I don’t even know what our fallback plan is. I can’t fight a war blind!”

“Half-blind,” Summer teased, earning a snarl from Rain.

“Leave.”

“Easy, Rain, it’s just a joke,” Summer said, trying to placate the angry Nimban. “Anyway, I thought I’d put some fresh bandages on it before your meeting.”

“I don’t need any bandage,” Rain protested, rubbing the towel through her mane. “Air is good for a cut.”

“Rain, this isn’t Nimbus. You can’t go around Stratopolis with what’s left of your eye dripping down your cheek.” Summer’s face twisted a little. “Trust me, wounds are not attractive until they scar up.”

Bristling, Rain scoffed. Her tail flicked, sending droplets of water splashing against the wall. After a moment she calmed, and gave Summer a nod. Summer gave her a moment to calm before approaching. Under her wing she had a small leather satchel. She set it down between them, sat back on her haunches, and put a hoof on Rain’s forehead while the other gingerly held her left cheek.

Rain felt strange. Summer was in front of her, but where a few days earlier she could look the mare in the eyes, now she only could see her ear and jawline. Her left side was gone, the light forever lost. How would she fight now, she wondered. Why had she let her guard down at that last moment, allowed Magnus to maim her like that?

“Hold still,” Summer interrupted her thoughts. From her satchel she produces something Rain hadn’t seen in months: a clean rag. She doused the rag with vinegar and offered Rain and apologetic look. “This is gonna hurt. Want something to bite down on?”

“Just get it over with.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The vinegar soaked Rag pressed over her eye like cold fire. Rain ground her teeth together, let out a sharp hiss, but refused to scream. It was only physical pain, she reminded herself. In a few moments it would pass. Summer worked quickly, but diligently. Once she was satisfied the wound was cleaned she washed it with water, dried it, and carefully wrapped Rain’s eye in clean bandages.

Summer offered her a drink from her wine flask. “Need a bit?”

“I’m fine,” Rain said, shaking her head. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

Nodding, Summer put her supplies away, leaving them on the night stand next to Pathfinder. She checked him over quickly, then left the villa with Rain in tow. Together they walked the choked streets of Stratopolis, often shoulder to shoulder with ponies neither knew.

Rain held her temper through the walk, despite the countless ponies she saw staring at her. The families of Stratopolis’ nobility, kept well safe from the horrors of the frontline, looking at her wrapped face in horror and revulsion. Gods she wished Summer hadn’t made her wear that damned bandage. Let them look at what was left of her face and see what real war looked like on the front lines.

They reached the Palace after a while, Summer talking them past the Praetorian Guards at the entrance. An old stallion with a barely audible voice shepherded them through the massive structure, through overly decorated halls painted garish shades or red and purple. They past more statues and frescos than Rain had seen in her life, most of which only amplified her mounting irritation.

In Nimbus she had known that such trappings were meaningless. All they served was to show the wealth or arrogance of their owners, impressing them with prizes that were not earned by blood and sweat. Nimbans had no need for such flash in their buildings. The scars they proudly wore on their bodies were all the possessions they required, and each bore a story worth telling.

They were led into an office that Rain soon realized was the Emperor's private study. Inside she found herself strongly resisting the urge to vomit. An ornately carved wooden desk was in the center of the room, the carvings inlaid with gold filigree. Luxurious purple drapes covered three walls, save for one which was left open to the sky. Rain had to concede it did offer a lovely view of Stratopolis.

Huddled near the desk were two ponies, Dicentus and a beige mare with a dirty brown mane. Discentus was in his senatorial garb: a robe of white with red striping down the chest. A black band was tied around his foreleg, symbolizing his mourning for Nimbus.

Rain stared at the mare for a few moments before she felt her black mood give way to excitement.

“Swift Spear?” Rain balked, stunned at the beige mare standing next to Discentus.

The mare stared at her for a moment, brows knitted in puzzlement before realization spread over her face. “Sidero!”

Rain and Swift closed the gap, pulling into a tight embrace, much to the confusion of Summer. They exchanged a kiss on the cheek, then parted with broad smiles.

“You are the only Cirran I’ll let call me that, Tachys.” Rain chuckled.

Swift shrugged. “And you’re the only pony who even knows I have that name, cousin.”

“Well, that’s not quite true,” Discentus interrupted the pair with a pleasant smile.

“Wait, I’m sorry, but what the Hell?” Summer asked, rubbing a hoof on the back of her neck.

“Our mother’s were twin sisters,” Rain explained, eying her cousin with a grin. “Gods, Tachys, it’s been what, four years since you visited?”

“Sorry, Sid, it’s been a busy time!”

Rain gave the smaller mare’s shoulder an affectionate punch. “Too busy for family?”

“Alright, alright, I surrender!” Swift laughed.

“Damned right you do, Tach,” Iron laughed. “How’ve you been? You don’t look like the war’s been too bad on you. And how about uncle Gold Feather?”

The comment, meant in jest, made Swift grow visibly saddened. Rain immediately realized something was wrong, and bit her lower lip. “Tachys?”

“Father’s dead,” she whispered, the pain in her voice still fresh.

The words struck Rain like a blow to the nose. She wasn’t given a chance to process it before Discentus confirmed the worst.

“Iron,” he looked to her with a grim expression she’d never seen before. “Haysar, Gold Feather, the Legion… They were all killed at Feathertop.”

It felt like the blood was draining from Rain’s face. Her legs felt weak, her vision started to go black around the edges. The legion couldn’t really be gone, not like that. Not by some terrible trick of the Gods, slaughtering thousands without so much as a fight.

Before Rain could fully compose herself, a new pony walked into the room. His fur was black, his mane a deep blue, and he looked only a few years older than Rain or Swift.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, looking like a stallion drowning on dry land. “Um, Senator uhhh…Senator…” he stared at Discentus, drawing a blank on the old stallion’s name. Swift wiped the tears from her eyes, moved to the black stallion’s side, and whispered into his ear. “Senator Celsus.”

Rain didn’t miss the way she leaned against his side.

“It’s no trouble, sir,” Discentus said, bowing his head politely. “May I introduce Legate Iron Rain of Nimbus. Rain, this is Emperor Hurricane.”

“Emperor who?” Rain repeated, dumbfounded. Why wasn’t Gold Moon wearing the Emperor’s robe? Who even was this Hurricane pony? She held her tongue, at least for the moment. There was time enough for questions, though time for action was almost gone.

It was Discentus who whispered in her ear the answer. “He’s Thunder Gale’s son. It was Haysar’s last command. I will give you the details later.”

‘Thunder Gale, Thunder Gale…’ the name stuck in Rain’s mind until the realization hit her like Magnus’ fist. Thunder Gale, the damned glory hogging bastard who Cirra had claimed had been the only thing that kept Nimbus alive in the last war with the Griffons decades earlier.

The very name made Rain bristle. Was the blood of her people worth nothing? Had her father not rallied the Nimban militia, led the battles from the wall time after time? Had it not been her father who dragged Thunder Gale off the wall to safety? No. Rain would never forgive Cirra for painting her father as the simple brute and handing all the credit to their prized son.

“I have ten meetings scheduled for the same half-hour,” Hurricane complained, trying to read a scroll while also listening to ponies talk. “Who the Hell is Quick Quill and why are they on my schedule?”

“That’s your secretary, Cane,” Swift said with a chuckle.

For a moment the dark stallion was quiet, then he turned his attention to Discentus. “What do you need, Senator?”

“We need to face facts, Emperor. The war is lost. We cannot protect our front anymore, to say nothing of forward cities like Nyx, Pileus, Tornti e Fulgure. Everypony left should be evacuated as far from the front as possible.” Discentus wasted no time getting to the point. “The senate is too proud to admit it. The Legates left alive are too stubborn. With the force we have left, as I am sure you well know, we can do little more than delay Magnus’ army for a few months.”

“I agree, but where. Stratopolis can’t support that many ponies for long, even if we empty out every granary and storehouse in the country.” Hurricane sighed, rubbing his forehead with a hoof hard enough Rain was half sure he’d wear the fur clean off his skin. “I think our only option is to fortify Stratopolis, Pileus, maybe a couple others, then hold out until Magnus offers terms.”

“We could evacuate to the tribal lands in the south,” Rain said, bristling at the idea of surrender. “Hide our civilians there, stage a guerrilla action.” She took a step closer to Hurricane. “We can’t just abandon everything to slaughter or slavery!”

Hurricane looked at her with an icy glare. “Who were you again?”

It was that Cirran disdain that made her blood boil. Rain gritted her teeth, almost took a step forward, but Discentus stopped her.

“Rain, please,” Discentus held up a hoof. “Emperor Hurricane, Iron Rain is the daughter of Winter Rain. He fought beside your father in the last war. She led the excursion behind enemy lines before Feathertop.”

Hurricane seemed doubtful, at least until Swift Spear spoke. “She’s my cousin, Cane. We used to spar as fillies when father visited Nimbus.” Swift flashed Rain a smile. “There isn’t a finer swordsmare alive.”

Rain was glad that her fur hid the blush burning in her cheeks.

“Ah.” The coldness in his voice seemed to melt and Hurricane stepped a little closer.

Discentus cleared his throat, interrupting the moment. “Tribal lands are isolated, it’s true. But there’s no infrastructure there. We would never be able to sustain a campaign. How do you repair armor, swords, or spears, when you’ve no forges or mines? How do you feed tens of thousands of starving mares, colts, and fillies, to say nothing of the stallions composing the bulk of the army?”

“Out of the question, then,” Hurricane said, moving to the desk and shuffling through a pile of parchments. “Where was it…”

“Sir?” Discentus tilted his head.

“I saw a thing…” Hurricane growled, skimming through Haysar’s documents quickly as he could, though his frustration at the task was mounting exponentially. “Ah!” Grinning, Hurricane pulled one parchment from the pile, holding it between his primary feathers. “Proposal for the Exploration of Lands and Territories Across the Seas.”

“Senator Red Quill,” Discentus mumbled, “Never could name a proposal succinctly.”

Hurricane flashed the parchment at Discentus. “What say you of this?”

Stepping forward, Senator Celsus skimmed it over for a moment. “I recall that Senator Quill made a good case. We never moved to take a vote on it, however. Haysar never thought it important enough to take an interest in.”

“I didn’t ask their opinions. I asked yours.”

Discentus straightened his posture, cleared his throat, said “We are in a desperate time, Emperor Hurricane. If it is escape you are thinking of, then we have precious little time to discover new lands before we are overrun. Unless of course you think Magnus will offer terms first.”

“Magnus won’t offer terms. I have it on good intelligence he fully intends to slaughter us all.” Rain interrupted, stomping a hoof. She didn’t dare tell Hurricane what he was capable of. Rain still had trouble believing it herself. She could never help her people if Cirra’s new Emperor thought she was just another Nimban madmare. If only she’d listened to Pathfinder earlier.

Hurricane stared at her, the shock mixed with doubt in his expression. “How sure of this are you?”

Rain thought of Pathfinder. How desperately he’d begged her not to go. She swallowed once and took a breath. “I trust the source with my life.”

“Hmm,” Hurricane rubbed his chin, lost for a moment in the well of his thoughts. Rain mentally had to commend him. His expression bore no inkling of which way his opinion was turning on the matter. She would hate to play him in a game of dice. He turned his attention to Discentus, said “Alright, let’s do it. I want an expedition prepped and flying by tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid the Senate must pass the resolution before any action can be taken, Emperor Hurricane.

“Oh for Fuck’s sake,” Hurricane growled, slapping his forehead with a hoof. “Look, I don’t have time for this. Just get it done, Celsus!”

Discentus smirked. “I’ll twist a few feathers. You’ll have the approval this afternoon, should you desire it.”

“Then do it,” Hurricane waved a wing, then turned his gaze to Rain. “I assume you have a force at your command, what’s the strength?”

“Nimbus has three hundred seventy two militia armed and equipped. Give us time and equipment, and every last mare and stallion could be ready to fight.” Rain paused. There were so few Nimbans left. How much more could she ask her people to sacrifice?

Hurricane shook his head, held up a hoof. “That won’t be necessary. I want you to form the rear guard. Take every civilian you can, get them as far away from the hybrids as possible until the scouts have news of new land, or Magnus offers terms.” He paused, looked to a map on Haysar’s desk. “Altus looks like the best location.”

Retreat and surrender. The very concepts made Rain want to vomit. Yet she’d fought Magnus, seen what he was capable of. With so many dead from the eruption, Rain could do the math. The war was over, and no matter how much it burned her pride, there was nothing in all the world she could do about it.

There was a knock on the heavy oaken door which the guards opened a moment later. Gold Moon, wrapped in bandages and limping heavily “Emperor Hurricane,” he greeted the young emperor with as much of a bow as he could manage. His attention then turned to Rain, whom he greeted with a cold glare.

“Commander Moon, thank you for coming,” Hurricane said, though he seemed surprised by the stallion’s appearance. Rain only barely caught him whisper to Swift ‘Is he on my schedule too?’

Swift shrugged.

“Legate Rain, I didn’t expect to see you here,” he greeted politely enough. She noticed him staring at her missing eye, but didn’t comment on it. “Emperor Hurricane, we must discuss the appointment of a new commander of the Praetorian.”

“Oh for Möbius’ sake,” Hurricane rubbed his forehead again and cringed. “Rain, right? You want the job?”

For a moment Rain wanted to say it would have been her honor to be named head of the Praetorian guard.

“Sir, I must protest,” Gold Moon interjected. “Legate Rain is a fine soldier, t’is true, however I think there are other candidates more suited to the position.”

“Are you questioning my loyalty, Gold Moon?” Rain growled, feeling her temper flare.

“I question your readiness, Iron,” he shot back. “Perhaps–”

“Commander Moon!” Hurricane snapped, cutting the elder stallion off. “I asked Legate Rain, not you.”

Rain growled, her lip twitched, but she forced herself to remain calm. She gave the offer some thought, though her pause must have been long enough to give the new Emperor reason to offer her more. “You can use your own Nimbans. We’ll station them here for the defense of Stratopolis.”

“No,” Rain answered.

All eyebrows shot up to their mane lines, with a surprised Hurricane speaking first. “Excuse me?”

“Where are you from, Hurricane?” Rain asked, dropping the title of Emperor. Gold Moon looked livid, Hurricane, seemed to relax, as though he felt more at ease.

“Zephyrus. It’s a farming town.”

Rain nodded. “Family there?”

“My parents, and my little sister,” he said, eyes narrowing a little.

“For centuries Nimbus has stood guard over Cirra. Every time war comes it is Nimbus that suffers the most. We have no mines of silver and gold, no vast fields of grain or livestock. Our treasure was each other. It was our food supplies that are cut off first. Our civilians and children bombarded by catapults and torn apart by griffon armies. My ponies never had the luxury of knowing peace. And it was our honor to bear that burden.” Rain felt her throat tighten, looked Hurricane in the eye, and steeled herself. “But Nimbus is gone now. My ponies have sacrificed everything. Over half our population stayed behind to cover the retreat knowing that meant the end. They died so the Legion could live. Our blood and treasure have been spent to save Cirra. And now you ask me to give our last full measure to Stratopolis?”

Rain paused, shook her head. It took all her will to maintain discipline, both of her tone, and of the emotion she felt threatening her control. “You honor me with this offer, Sir. But I can’t ask what’s left of Nimbus to sacrifice any more.”

“If our roles were reversed, sir,” Rain said, her voice low. “What would you say if I asked you to sacrifice your family?”

“You insolent--”

“Commander Moon!” Hurricane snapped, silencing the old stallion again. “Your point is well taken, Legate Rain. Can I still count on you to form a rear guard, take care of the evacuees to Altus?”

With a heavy heart she steeled herself, saluted, and let out a curt. “Yes, sir.”

Nodding, Discentus dismissed her with a wave of his wing. “Thank you for coming, Legate Rain. I will discuss the details with you over supper.”

Rain nodded, turned in place, and marched stiffly out of the Imperial office. Only once she was safely down the hall did she find an alcove to duck into. There, alone, she wept.

Homecoming

Pathfinder’s heart raced, a slow building dread having lodged itself in his chest. They were heading to Altus. He was going home. A warm home, his mother and father. But no Longbow. Their family would never be whole again.

Every second, every flap of Rain’s strong wings, every inch they drew closer his fear grew. How could he look his parents in the eye? Tell them that Longbow was dead and it was his fault?

He didn’t fear his father. Finder had no doubt he was in for a beating if he was lucky. Nothing Phalanx could say or do could possibly hurt worse than what he’d already suffered. No, it was his mother that terrified Finder.

He had not forgotten the horrible crying in their house the night Longbow had been called to service. It had taken father hours to calm her down, and even then the pain had seemed like a nearly unbearable weight on her shoulders, threatening to crush her should she lose her will for even a moment. Now he would have to look his mother in the eye, and deliver the news he could still barely acknowledge himself.

“Kid, you’re choking me,” Rain reprimanded him, lightly slapping a fetlock around her neck.

“Sorry,” he said, loosening his forelegs a little.

Rain’s short hair billowed and fluttered with every flap of her wings. It tickled his nose, drove her scent into his sinuses. It made him think of the wind. Strong, unrelenting, carrying with it traces of sweat, static, and spring rain. Was that a scent from being raised in a cloud city, he wondered, or was it just Rain?

Subconsciously he leaned forward, nose pressing to the base of her neck. He closed his eyes and let that scent distract him. He remembered it from that first moment they’d rescued him. The night he’d woken thrashing and screaming, reliving the nightmare of the camp. Strong limbs wrapped around him, stopping him from tearing open his side again. That scent was what he remembered along with the soft humming of a nameless tune in his ear.

“You okay back there?” She asked.

“No,” he answered, shuddering on her back.

Rain was quiet a moment, then inquired further. “You’re almost home, I’d think you’d be excited.”

Pathfinder said nothing, his mind wandering to that last night at home. He hadn’t even had the courage to say goodbye. Rain seemed to sense what he was thinking, and after a moment her voice cut through his memories again.

“You’re afraid to tell them about Longbow.”

He whimpered, nodding a little.

A flap of her wings, a moment of gliding on a winter thermal. “I’ll tell them.”

“You….what?”

“I’ll tell them,” she said again. “I made him part of my unit after the siege started. He was my responsibility. I’ll tell them.”

Finder shook his head. “No… I have to do this.”

“You really don’t,” she said, wings flapping once to gain a little altitude. She found a thermal she could glide on for a while letting her passenger think her offer over. “You know, I had an older brother too.”

Finder chewed on his lower lip for a moment, asked “What was his name?”

“Steel.” Another flap of her wings. “We didn’t get along like you and Longbow. He was a mean, hard-headed, jackass.”

“What happened to him?” He asked, regretting the question almost the moment it left his lips.

“Saving my life,” Rain answered. “It was on my agoge. Thorn and I were being hunted by a group of griffons. Father sent Steel to check on me. He killed a few of the griffons before they killed him. I killed the rest.”

Rain’s eyes closed a moment. Finder couldn’t see the look on her face, didn’t need to. His forelegs lightly squeezed around her chest while his cheek rested against her neck. It wasn’t much of a hug, but he felt her hoof gratefully touch his.

“It was one of the hardest moments of my life… bringing his body home to Father.” She craned her neck around, catching his eye. “You don’t need to shoulder that burden, Pathfinder.”

“I do…thank you, though, Rain.”

They flew in silence for the better part of the day, stopping for a break and rations around noon. Thorn got a fire going to stave off the winter chill, which they all huddled around while Haze cleaned a goose he and Windshear managed to catch. Pathfinder hid under Rain’s wing, his eyes tightly closed so he wouldn’t see the grisly work.

While the bird cooked over the open flame Summer took the opportunity to change Finder’s bandages. The wound in his side was largely sealed, though still raw. The gouges in his flesh left by the hybrid’s claws had largely scarred over as well. The worst of them, mostly on his flanks, were still raw though. Rain held his hoof, petted his mane, while Summer cleaned and dressed those.

Lunch was eaten in a companionable silence, after which Finder dozed against Rain’s side. Her wing wrapped around him like a blanket, shielding him from the cold.

“This is bullshit,” Summer growled while changing the bandage on Rain’s eye. “We should be flying the other direction.”

“Shut it, Summer,” Rain said in a tired voice.

“Why?” Summer asked, tying a new cloth around Rain’s head for a makeshift patch. “Why should I die in some backwater town instead of killing as many griffons as I can?”

“What would be the point of that, Summer?” Carver asked.

“Fucking revenge,” she spat.

“It’s not revenge, it’s just suicide,” Carver said, rubbing his forehead.

Thorn chuckled. “You say that like those are mutually exclusive ends.”

“Better than dying running with our tails between our legs.” Summer looked over her work, then moved closer to the fire. For a moment her gaze drifted up as another band of refugees flew overhead, headed towards Altus. “I want to die with a little pride at least.”

“You all saw what Magnus can do,” Rain said. She didn’t yell or raise her voice. “We can’t defeat him. Not with what we’ve got left. If we run south to the tribal lands we might be able to hold out for a few months, but they’d still find us. I will not sacrifice what’s left of our culture.”

“So what?” Summer asked. “We just surrender?”

Rain shook her head, her wing flexing around Pathfinder for a moment, then resuming its warm embrace. “The new Emperor is sending an expedition over the sea to find somewhere to settle. We fly to a new land, rebuild, and live to fight another day.”

“Tsh,” Summer scoffed. “It’ll take twenty years to rebuild the legion.”

“Now whose thinking with her groin?” Carver teased, getting a goose bone thrown at his head.

“Hurricane’s a godsdamned fool,” Summer said, her wings flapping. “You should be Empress, Rain.”

Rain shook her head. “We’re going to Altus, Summer,” Rain said, looking the other mare in the eye. “We’ll dig in there, protect the civilians. If Stratopolis gets Magnus to sue for peace, then we’ll find a new place to settle. If not and the scouts find new land, then we’ll cross the sea and make our home there. Maybe in twenty years we’ll come back with a Legion that will avenge what happened here.”

Pausing for a drink of water, Rain continued. “I’m not asking you, any of you, to trust some pony you’ve never heard of. But you trust me. If any pony here doesn’t, say your piece now.”

No pony spoke, just as she’d expected. Yet Finder noticed she had been holding her breath, and only let it out when her comrades affirmed their faith in her.

“You know where I stand,” Thorn said, forelegs folded over her chest.

“Dead is dead,” Haze concurred with a nod, a wing around Thorn’s back. “Nothing glorious or great about it.”

“I don’t like this Rain,” Summer growled. “I’ll never forgive those Hybrid fuckers. But I’ll follow your lead.” She smiled, the fire in her eyes contained, at least for the moment. “Some pony’s gotta keep you in more or less one piece.

Rain chuckled a little, shook her head. A bit of wine was passed around, each pegasus taking a swig until the flask was emptied. Once the last of the fire had burned down to embers, Rain laid down, letting Finder climb onto her back. A moment later they were back in the air, flying the rest of the afternoon.

It was nearing sunset when Finder caught the first scent of home. Salt was in the air, just a trace. He wondered if Rain even noticed it. Immediately he was flooded with thoughts of home. The crash of waves against the sea wall, the smell of fish being offloaded from nets and processed, the acrid smell of their smokehouses working day and night to preserve their catch.

“Calm down, kid,” Rain said, interrupting his thoughts. “I can feel your heart pounding like you just flew the Marathon.”

“Sorry.”

The closer they drew to the sea, the worse Finder felt. It felt like a rock had formed in place of his stomach. Altus wasn’t in view, yet they could already see thousands of tents and simple lean to shelters set up by refugees from all across the Empire. Countless little fires were spread through the camps, and Pathfinder could see ponies gathered around all of them. By the smell of it, many were cooking.

Finder held Rain tighter. Altus was coming into view. The town was dark, covered in deep shadows from the looming storm clouds overhead. A chill wind swept inland from the sea.

A whimper escaped Pathfinder’s lips. He wished it was Longbow’s back he was riding on. He would give both his wings and all four legs for his brother to be with him again.

“Where am I landing?” Rain shouted over the winter winds.

“Agenholt,” answered Pathfinder.

“Just breathe,” Rain’s hoof found his own, rubbing over it gently. “You’ll be alright. I’m here for you.”

“Father’s gonna kill me.”

“He’ll have to get through me first.”

Finder wanted to argue. To tell Rain the stories his father had told of the last war with the griffons, or how he’d beaten Finder over every infraction, and beaten Longbow when the elder brother tried to protect his sibling. Yet no matter how hard he tried to speak, no sounds escaped his muzzle.

All too soon they landed in the town square. Countless pegasi were milling about, none of whom Finder recognized from almost a year earlier.

‘Gods,’ Finder thought as he stared out at the sea of unfamiliar faces. ‘Who are all these ponies?’

It felt like all of Cirra had congregated on the banks of Altus. The sleepy town Pathfinder had left shortly after turning fourteen was overrun by ponies from all corners of the Empire. Nimbans, Trontii, Nyxians, and many more. Finder heard accents from parts of the Empire he never imagined.

“Point where we’re going,” Rain interrupted his thoughts. “You’re gonna get run over if I let you down here.”

Pathfinder felt heat blossom in his cheeks. Still, he pointed a hoof towards the coast. “W-we’re on the hill past the town square. It’s not too far.”

Rain nodded, turned to her Storm, said “Alright, fillies, let’s get this kid home.”

Slowly, Rain pushed her way through the throng of ponies wandering aimlessly through Altus. Within the town limits countess pegasi flew to and fro, trying desperately to find lost loved ones. Bit by bit they worked their way through Altus. Altus, the backwater town of Cirra, now mother of exiles, the refuse of the empire huddled, teeming on her shores.

Past the town square the made their way up the hills. Pathfinder guided their way, through the clogged streets made progress slow. He was grateful for that. No matter how badly he longed to see his mother and father, the fear of facing them was equally potent. Yet, all too soon, and somehow not soon enough, there they were, standing before the simple home he was born in. Finder noticed his mother’s garden, the skeletal remains of her flowers dead in the frozen ground.

“Breathe,” Rain told him.

He couldn’t, really, but Finder still nodded and tried all the same. Pathfinder felt as though the sounds of the world were fading away around him. Nothing that anypony said registered with his ears. Sliding off of Rain’s back, he hobbled down the cobblestone walk to the door. The world around him narrowed further. Finder tried to lift his hoof to knock, but found that his limb wouldn’t respond to his will.

All that mattered was the door, standing there, waiting for him to push it open.

In the end, it was Rain’s hoof that knocked on the door while Finder stood paralyzed. Her wing briefly slid over his back, lightly holding him for a moment before the comforting weight drifted away. “Breathe, Finder.”

A breath. One. Two. Three. Four. Inhale. Finder swallowed the tight lump in his throat. The door groaned, Finder’s hoof pushed it open further. The hinges creaked, the pained moan of old metal hinges saturated by sea salt. An earthy scent hit Finder’s nose almost immediately. It was the scent of home, a scent that he’d never appreciated until that moment. It was that scent that greeted him after long days of flying, drawing maps of the countryside and coastline. All that was missing was the scent of his mother’s fish soup and the fragrant logs burning in the hearth.

“Mom? Father?”

Darkness greeted him. The house was frigid, a slight smell of dust lingering in the air. Pathfinder shivered, limped in. The floorboards groaned under his hooves echoing through the empty room. Over the back of a kitchen chair he saw his mother’s blanket, neatly folded like she always left it when not in use.

“They must be out,” Finder said, feeling relief at their absence. “I bet Dad is out at sea fishing. The tide was out anyway, so he won’t be ashore until this evening. Mom must be helping treat the wounded.”

“The tide what?” Rain asked, confused.

“There’s high and low tides, like now when the water is low and you can see the barnacles on the docks.” Pathfinder pointed to the sturdy beams holding up the structures of the dock. “At high tide the water comes up almost to the deck of the piers. If there’s rough weather the waves break over them and it’s really slippery.”

“I’ll stick to inland,” Rain chuckled. “That sounds annoying as Hell.”

Pathfinder smiled, made his way over to the hearth, and set to work making a fire. He clenched his eyes tightly, forcing his right wing to open. The trembling limb dipped into a wicker basket that held a small amount of kindling, which he laid onto the ash coated bricks. His breathing grew labored, the pain making his wing feel like it was throbbing, yet he persevered.

Looking around, Pathfinder realized that there were no candles lit in the house. Usually his parents always kept at least one candle or lantern lit at all hours, just in case they needed to start a fire fresh.

“Huh, I guess they must be rationing lantern oil and candles,” Finder said,

“Something’s not right,” Thorn mumbled, pacing the living room with her wings half open. “This place looks like it’s been empty for a while. What pony doesn’t have a fire going in the middle of winter?”

“Father is out fishing. There’s so many ponies to feed now. And Mom always helps out around town when she can.” He smiled up at Rain. “I bet she’s at the Commons, probably cooking some fish stew.” Pathfinder licked his lips, then scrounged for his father’s flint stone from a metal tin next to the hearth.

“You guys would like it. It’s got fish and vegetables, bacon, maybe some shellfish when we catch them. Mom might make it for us one of these days!” He paused, staring down at the flint. “It’ll be just like back then…”

He clenched his eyes shut, forced the memories of happier days back. Holding the larger stone in his left hoof, the striking stone in his right, Finder struck the flint. Instantly he yelped, both stones clattering on the floor while he clutched his left shoulder. Summer and Rain were at his side in an instant, Rain picking up the flintstones while Summer checked his wound.

“You alright, kid?” Summer asked, carefully peeling the bandage back to make sure nothing was torn.

Finder nodded. “Just...stings.”

“Easy, kid,” Rain said, striking the stones until the sparks began to burn the kindling.

“I’m not seeing any food in the place,” Carver said, casually browsing through the kitchen. “Or…or any pots or pans.”

“There’s half of the Empire huddled outside,” Finder argued. “Mom wouldn’t let anypony go hungry or cold. She’s out there right now, probably helping make food for everypony.”

“Kid,” Windshear stepped closer to the colt, putting a hoof gingerly on his shoulder.

Finder pulled away as quickly as he could, heart racing a little at being touched. “Why are all of you acting so weird?” He asked, putting some more sticks onto the growing fire. The five pegasi simply looked at him with concern etched on their faces. “Lets warm the house up and when Mom gets home tonight I’m sure she’ll make a nice dinner for everypony.”

With a small grunt, Finder rose to his hooves and took the lantern from beside the hearth. There was no oil in the glass jar, though there looked like enough wick was left to last a few days. It wasn’t a big deal, though. Finder knew where his father kept a small bottle of oil for emergencies.

Limping, with Carver following slightly behind him, he made his way to his parents bedroom. The door was closed, as it almost always was, and finder nudged it open easily. He took a step inside—

“Father, you’re crushing my hoof.”

Startling, Pathfinder glanced to Gray Rain and made a sad laugh. He released Gray’s hoof, which he’d scarcely realized he’d been clutching.

“Sorry, son.”

Stalwart leaned forward. “A-are you alright?”

“Not at all,” Pathfinder admitted, the old stallion’s voice cracking while tears pooled in his eyes.

“Come, father,” Gray slid a foreleg around Finder’s shoulders. “Lets take you home.”

“Cirrus!” Finder called out. “The Reserve.”

“What?” The barmare balked. “But, you said-”

“Now.”

Confused, Stalwart asked the question while Gray studied his father with an unreadable expression. “The Reserve?”

Nodding, Pathfinder leaned against the table, a fetlock wiping his eyes, “When he retired, Commander Hurricane took up brewing. Made some damned good ale in the old Cirran style. Me? I got into distilling as a hobby when I was home. One night we put our heads together and made a little collaboration.” Pathfinder leaned back while Cirrus put out three small glasses, each filled with a half shot of a reddish-gold liquid. Pathfinder lifted his cup with a wing, motioned it in a toast to Stalwart and Gray, then tilted his head back, emptying the contents down his throat.

Gray did the same, though his face twisted like he’d either been punched square in the nose, or had tried eating a lemon. Stalwart took a more cautious approach with his beverage, and the sip he took was so potent he almost spat it out.

“Celestia, that’s horrible!”

“We made it strong,” Finder explained. “Strong medicine for the pains we couldn’t cover with bandages.”

“Father…”

Taking his son’s hoof again, Pathfinder offered Gray a smile. He couldn’t stop the tears that dripped down his cheeks, nor the thin sheet of ice that formed on his wings.

“I’m telling you Rain, something is wrong here,” Thorn growled, pacing to and fro. “We shouldn’t be in this damn house. That kid shouldn’t be in there.”

“What’s gotten into you, Thorn?” Rain asked.

The small mare growled again, ears flat, tail lashing. “You can’t smell it? Don’t tell me you’re this dense, Rain.”

“What are you—”

A crash, glass shattering on the floor. Instinct took over, Rain leapt towards the sound, tearing her knife free of its sheath. She knocked Carver over, galloped into the bedroom, and skidded to a stop.

Pathfinder stood there, still as stone, his golden eyes staring ahead. Just ahead of him was his parents bed. Laying there, facing the door, was a mare. Her coat was similar in color to Pathfinder’s, with a long, blonde, mane. She was emaciated, ribs visible through her coat, with sunken cheeks. Her feathers were ragged, and Rain noticed dried blood around her muzzle. Held loosely in her hoof was a small wooden toy carved to look like a Cirran Legionnaire. The colors were painted to look like Longbow. Rain couldn’t tell what color her eyes were, they had become glossed over, milky and white.

“Mom…” Finder said, his breath barely more than a whisper. He hobbled over to the side of the bed, pressing his nose to the mare’s chest. “Mom...wake up...i-it’s me. It’s Pathfinder…”

“Summer!” Rain shouted.

“Please...mom… Please don’t leave me...”

The medic skidded into the room, roughly shoving Rain aside before making her way to the bed, She didn’t need to touch the mare in the bed to know the result, but put an ear to her chest all the same. After a long moment she looked to Pathfinder, sorrow plain on her face.

“Finder...I’m sorry…” she lowered her head, ears splaying out.

He shook his head, his breath coming in ragged pants. The color drained from his cheeks before he collapsed. Rain only barely managed to catch him. She rubbed a hoof over his brow, wincing at the broken look on his face.

“Come on, kid,” Rain said softly, “Carver, help me lift him up.”

Nodding, Carver stepped into the bedroom. He shivered, tried not to look at the body stretched out on the bed. Gently, he helped Rain lift Finder up, placing the colt on her back and carrying him out of the room.

Thorn followed them out a few moments later, a folded parchment in her wing. “Rain.”

Rain turned, an eyebrow rising slightly.

“She left a note.”

Gulping, Rain nodded and extended a wing to take the letter. She walked outside, wandering through the crowded streets until they came to the shoreline. Gently, Rain helped Finder off her back. He was limp, almost lifeless save for his shallow breathing. Rain moved behind him, wrapping her wings around his frail body to shield him from the wind. Once he was as comfortable as she could make him, Rain opened the folded parchment and scanned the lines.

“Should I read it to you?” she asked.

Finder said nothing, though she saw the moisture building in his eyes.

Rain nodded, cleared her throat, and read.

Phalanx, my love,

If you’re reading this, then I pray you’ve brought our boys safely home. Every night I dream of you, the sweet smiles of our sons on a warm summer day. I want so badly to see you all again, to hold our boys tight and never let them go. I fear, though, I can feel my health failing. So many ponies are coming in from all over the Empire. There’s no food left. All the fish seem to have gone for warmer waters. And worst of all, disease is spreading uncontrolled.

So, my dear Phalanx, lest I not be able to see you again, I feel impelled to write a few lines. I pray they fall under your eyes if you return home, and I am no more. Forgive my many faults, and the pains I have caused you and our boys over these past years. How thoughtless and foolish these frail bones have been. How gladly I would wash away with my blood and tears the spots on your happiness I have caused the three of you and shield with my body you and our children from the wicked winds of this world.

My soul is balmed, at least in part, by the happiness we, by the grace of the Gods, we were able to enjoy while here. And though I weep at the idea I won’t be with you to watch our boys grow into honorable stallions, to see them love, wed, and raise foals of their own, know that my spirit will be with all of you. So, my beloved Phalanx, if these are indeed my final words, please read them to Longbow and Pathfinder.

Longbow, Pathfinder, my love for you is deathless. Even now as I lay here, my heart clenched in icy claws, and my body weak, my heart is full of bliss. All those wonderful moments you gave your father and I. I pray you boys have been safe this past year, and though it has broken my heart to know you are far from home surrounded by danger, I am so very proud of you both.

Longbow,your father and I have watched you grow from a sweet colt into a noble young stallion. I can never forget when you picked up your first bow. You held it like you were born with it. Over the years you’ve helped me care for your brother when I was too ill. Forgive me, son, for failing you so badly and for so long. Would that maybe things had been different I could have been a better mother to you, and not just a pony you had to worry about. I am so very proud of you, son, and know that you will do wonderful things in this life.

Pathfinder, my sweet little boy. From the day you were born I knew you were special. You have a heart too big for your chest and eyes that see the world in more detail than I could imagine. Your father and I wept when you left after your brother, but we were also so very proud of you. You became a stallion that day, not the little colt frolicking with your brother in fields of golden wheat or shallow tide. You grew up so fast, and I know that one day you will be a doting father with beautiful little foals of your own.

My loves, do not grieve for me or think me dead. Think of me as merely gone away, for I shall pass this way again, and in the Great Skies we shall be reunited as a family. Until then, in brightest day or blackest night, amidst your happiest and most dour moments, always, always, know that I am with you. When you feel the ocean’s breeze on your cheek, it shall be my breath. Or the warm summer air passes through your manes, t’is my spirit passing by.

Phalanx, Longbow, Pathfinder, my love your you is boundless, and even now carries me through these cold nights without you at home. Möbius bless and protect you all, and know I am with you.

Sea Breeze

Rain felt tears on her cheeks as she folded the letter. Her thoughts drifted far from the rolling waves of the sea to the golden fields of Nimbus, where her own family was dead and buried. What she would have given for a letter like that from her Father or Mother.

Finder’s hoof squeezed hers like a lifeline.

Evening fell over Altus. Tens of thousands of ponies huddled around small fires. What little food or forage they could get was shared between them. An uneasy quiet reigned over the small fishing village, punctuated with muffled coughs or cries. On that secluded little hill, Haze, Windshear, and Carver had dug a hole in the garden out back of the colt’s home. The body of the colt’s mother had carefully been wrapped in the sheets she had passed in and lowered to the bottom of the grave.

The colt hadn’t spoken a word since his collapse. He hadn’t cried, couldn’t cry. All that was left inside his soul was drained. He simply felt empty. The cold of winter, the warmth of Rain’s wing over his back, he felt none of it.

Her body lay there in the cold earth, wrapped tight in those old sheets. Words were said, a service held. Everything sounded so muffled. There were eyes looking to him, expectant, as though wanting him to say something. Eventually they turned away. The wing on his back held him tighter.

A pony, Summer, he thought, was first to move. The tip of her shovel pushed down into the frozen dirt. She held the scoop aloft, waiting for a sign the colt could never give. A gulp, a breath, and the shovel full of dirt was tossed into the pit. The colt felt some relief. It hadn’t landed on her face.

Minutes turned to hours, the colt sat by the grave, staring at the mound of soil where his mother now slept. He had a vague awareness of movement all around him, the
cold on his back when Rain had left him to attend to her own duties. He sat by the grave, silent, until the sun started to dip beyond the west horizon.

He rose slowly, limped towards the cold ocean. Frost had set on his wings, but he didn’t care. The sandy shores crunched under his hooves like glass. He dug around in the sand with a hoof, the motion reflexive. The colt’s hoof quickly bumped into something smooth and sharp. Eyes glanced down, and the colt observed the dark brown shell of an ensis clam. The shell was long, with a subtle curve like a Cirran sword. He ran the side of his hoof along the edge, the clam slid further down into the sand.

Darkness slowly overtook the light. The ocean waves crashed along the shores, sea foam lapping at his hooves, washing away all sign of the clam. He remained where he was on the beach until the moon was well overhead, frigid waves lapping at his hooves and haunches, the chill of winter making every breath visible.

What was left, the colt wondered. Everything, everyone, was gone. Longbow, his father, and now his mother too. All of them, gone.

The colt rose to unsteady hooves. The town was speckled with thousands of little fires, ponies gathered around them for warmth. The colt hobbled off the beach, towards the building he once called home. But it wasn’t home now. It was nothing more than wood and stone.

Pushing the door open, the colt observed Haze, Carver, and Windshear all asleep in the living room. The stallions were huddled around the hearth, the flames from the fire low and dim. Shivering, the colt tossed a fresh log on the flames. Sparks danced up the chimney, swirling in the air before fading to nothing. The colt watched the three stallions, a frown pulling at his lips for a moment. Limping to his room, he peeled away the top sheet from his bed. It had been perfectly made since he’d left, and he could smell his mother on the sheet. The colt shivered again, and took the sheet back to the living room where he laid it over Carver.

Moving back to the bedroom, he took Longbow’s sheet. He was stalled for a few moments, smelling his brother on the sheet. The fond memories were quickly overwhelmed by the horrors of Nimbus. He heard his brother’s screams as Magnus tore the wings from his body. The colt shuddered again, quickly taking the sheet from the bed and laid it over Windshear.

Wincing, the colt went to the kitchen. There, over the kitchen stove, he pulled out another sheet from the warming cupboard. The sheet was cold, like most things in the dead house. The colt sat on the kitchen floor, held the cotton sheet to his nose. He smelled his mother in the soft fibers. Gods, how it made his heart ache.

She was gone. The lingering scent was all that was left of her. The colt knew it was his fault she was gone. His fault that his mother’s health failed, his fault Longbow was dead, his fault that his father went to feathertop.

The colt shuddered. He limped into the living room, added another log to the fire, and laid the last sheet over Haze. The sleeping stallion snored softly, his face at peace in the sweet embrace of dreams. The colt smiled a little, pain lancing through his heart. Mom, Longbow, Dad, they would never snore again. They would never laugh, cry, love, hurt, or feel. They were gone, and he could never feel their warm embrace again.

Making his way back to the kitchen, the colt took a knife from the drawer. The colt held the blade in his teeth, limped into his parents bedroom, then sat at his mother’s side of the bed. He spat the knife into a hoof, took a breath, and stared at the blade.

Rain was worried. She had been worried before the colt had blacked out in her forelegs, shocked as he’d been at the sight of his mother’s body, cold and stiff in the bed before him. The funeral had been an impromptu affair, something that she felt bad about. The mare that Rain never knew, but had found affection for her sons, seemed to deserve better than a quick burial and the sad excuse for a service they’d given her.

She’d sat with Pathfinder through the whole service, kept her wing around his back. When they’d buried the colt’s mother, she’d kept her wing tight around his back. And after the simple grave had been filled, and a simple cairn erected, she’d stayed with him for over an hour. Silently, they sat before the simple grave. Rain didn’t try to force him to say anything, her thoughts wandering to her own mother’s funeral.

Back then, she’d just been Iron: a little filly too young to realize what was going on. She remembered her brother crying and her father stoic. It was only later, when the crowds and criers were gone, in the privacy of the Nimban Palace, that she’d wandered in on her father weeping. She had come in search of a goodnight story, and had instead found herself consoling her own father, the way only an innocent child could.

Pathfinder was older than most ponies in Nimbus who met death up close, and Rain observed sad eyes on the colt. It was similar to the look she remembered seeing in her father’s eyes after that funeral. Strong facades often were like poor levies: they held for a time, but always broke when one turned their attention elsewhere.

She never forgot the sight of her father weeping at the foot of his bed.

“Rain?”

Blinking, Rain pulled her gaze away from the small fire in the Altus City Hall. Thorn stood with here, bags visible under the smaller mare’s eyes. Her red mane, crested with white tips, seemed more dull than usual, yet her blonde coat seemed to glow.

“You alright?”

Nodding, Rain answered “Yeah, why?”

“Well, you haven’t been listening for the last hour,” Thorn answered, chuckling. “Not like there’s anything important going on in the world.”

Rain shrugged her wings. “Just a bad feeling.”

A pause, Thorn’s brow lifted. “About what? The kid?”

Rain closed her eyes a moment, nodded. “You saw him.”

“Yeah. It’s a nasty blow.”

“Think you might talk to him?”

“Hah,” Thorn balked at the idea. “I’m still not convinced Celsus shouldn’t have spiked him at the camp.”

Rain shot a cold glare at her friend, who returned it easily.

“Don’t give me that look, Rain. You of all ponies should understand.”

“I’d think one could say the same for you,” her voice lowered and Rain’s eye narrowed. “Rose.”

The small mare bristled. “Don’t call me that,” She hissed.

Rain smirked, just a little, turned on a hoof, and marched through the freezing night towards Pathfinder’s house. Something in her gut told her she needed to be there. She heard Thorn following behind her, and the two moved in silence.

Entering the house, Rain briefly noted the snoring stallions, huddled as they were around the fire in the hearth. Then, a glint caught her eye. Rain looked up, her lone eye straining in the dark house. Motion from the bedroom caught her eye.

She moved forward quickly, Thorn close behind. They stopped at the door, and Rain gasped.

Pathfinder twisted his neck around, his heart momentarily stopping when he heard sound behind him. Rain, Thorn, they were standing in the door, attention fully focused on him. He’d peeled off all his bandages, the gauze laid out over the floor. His left wing hung limp, his raw flank exposed with the tip of the blade leveled over the flesh, and his heart.

“Finder…” Rain spoke his name softly, her mouth hanging open and horror in her eye. She swayed a moment, reeled back until her haunches met the floor. “I…I understand.”

Look away he thought. His heart began to pound, a tightness filled his chest. Please just look away.

There was a tear in Rain’s eye. She stood still at the door, Thorn at her side. Neither mare moved an inch. Why wouldn’t they just look away? Why couldn’t they just let him have this one moment alone?

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The knife prodded the tender, trembling flesh on his chest. All he needed was one moment of strength. Just one moment of courage and it would be over. But with Rain’s eye on him, all his courage, all the resolve, had drained from his soul.

Finder gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes shut. He willed himself to move, to just take that one, sharp, pull. Gnade’s spear hadn’t hurt when it pierced his chest so many months ago. Surviving it had been where the pain had made itself known.

A hoofstep quietly met his ears, followed by another, then another still. Finder struggled to control his breathing. His eyes were burning, hooves trembling, he could barely keep his grip on the knife. Rain’s cool hoof laid over his own, steadying it just enough. Finder tensed, the tip of the knife digging into his scar. He felt to trickle of blood leak down his chest.

“She wouldn’t have wanted this,” Rain whispered, her breath warm on his ear. “None of them would have.”

Breaths grew quicker, his throat felt like it was closing up. Mother, Father, Longbow, he could see all their faces clear as day. Yet they had all gone, now. Gone to a place he could never follow.

“Finder. Finder, look at me.”

Rain’s words were commanding, they forced him to look up at her. He expected disgust, anger, the same sort that his father or Skyhammer would. Yet all he saw was that pained, patient, understanding. Her hoof held firm over top of his, the knife trembled in his hoof.

“You’ve suffered,” she stared, her voice barely more than a whisper. “You’ve suffered more than anypony ought to. I-if you want to end it all here, now…I-I won’t stop you. You deserve peace.”

Finder let out a breath, his body trembling under her strong hooves.

“You’re brave, Finder. Braver than any colt I’ve ever known.” Rain’s wing slid around his back, her warmth shielding him from winter’s bite. “You put yourself into the middle of a war, not even knowing what that would mean. But you know, now. And now that you understand, you have a choice.” Her hoof moved, slowly, resting on the pommel of the knife. “You can end it here and now. Or you can put that knife down. But understand: if you put that knife down, you’re making an oath, not just to me, but to your mother, and Longbow too. A promise that no much harder things get, no matter how much pain you feel, you will endure. You will survive. Because your brothers and sisters are counting on you.”

Her hoof lifted his chin, bringing his eyes up to hers. “We’ll always be here for you, Finder. No matter what happens, we’ll be here. And you will survive.”

A breath, a pause.

Golden eyes looked up into the solitary blue orb.

The knife clattered to the floor.

“So I did,” Pathfinder said in a quiet voice. “Even now, when it feels like I’m a waste of breath.” He lifted his mug to his lips, let the Old Cirran drain down his throat in a single gulp. Sighing, his head looked up to the window, to the black, storming, skies high above. “They’re all gone now. Rain, Carver, Rose, Summer, Haze…” He shook his head. “But I’ve kept my promise. S’all I know how to do.”

Biting his lip for a moment, Stalwart leaned forward in his stool. “So…So what—”

“No,” Gray spoke up, rose from his stool, and looked to Finder. “Father, you’ve said more than enough for today. Soldier, if Father wishes to discuss more, he will find you.”

“But—”

“Goodnight, soldier.” Gray Rain put a wing around his father’s back, and led the old soldier out of the Legates Lookout.

The Lull

Even the rain in Altus was salty. Gods only knew how ponies lived here. Iron Rain shook her head, sitting on the edge of the dock and staring out at the choppy waves. And ponies thought Nimbus was harsh?

“...so then we pull up the nets with the cord here, see? That tightens the whole net at the same time it’s pulling the fish out of the water.”

“Huh?”

The kid let out a laugh, which was kind of a sorry thing in his state, but it still made Rain smile. Somewhere under everything he was going through, it was genuine. “Rain… look, you don’t really need to know all that. I’ll handle all the rope work. You just need to take care of the heavy lifting.”

“Kinky,” muttered Summer nearby, just loud enough that both Finder and Rain could hear. Unfortunately, the medic hadn’t quite judged her distance from Rain’s right foreleg. The splash of a pink mare hitting water made that fact unambiguous.

Windshear and Stonewall rushed over to the edge of the Altus dock as Finder let out a lot healthier of a laugh, and soon the entire Rainstorm, save one very wet and grumpy Summer Celsus, were sharing a healthy set of smiles around the set of nets Carver had scrounged from around the city.

“Nice, Rain…” Summer grumbled.

“You started it,” Thorn told her with a slap over the shoulders. “Come on, we’ve got our net and you’ve been down there, so you must know where to aim it.” When Thorn took off, Summer was left to try and dry herself as quickly as possible to catch up with the farmer.

“Good luck,” Rain shouted.

“You’ll need it,” Stonewall added. “C’mon, Carver.”

Then Carver and Stonewall were gone. Without any taunts or banter, Haze and Windshear followed. Only Rain and Finder were left on the dock, alone.

“Should we go?” Rain asked the kid.

Finder turned and looked up at her. “What’s wrong, Rain?”

“Huh?”

“I know it’s not me. I mean… maybe it’s kind of me, but there’s something more.” Finder turned to stare across the sea. “Are you afraid of leaving?”

Rain shook her head. “Not anymore.” Her eye still itched in the salty spray. “I was a damn idiot, kid, and you were right. I shouldn’t have tried to fight Magnus. But I know we can’t stay here. We can’t win. We can only survive now.”

“Then what is it?”

Rain wrapped a wing around the colt’s shoulders. “Just… look, you don’t need to worry about this.”

“I’m worried about you, Rain.”

Iron Rain winced, and slowly wound the rope Finder had been pointing to around a foreleg. “Hurricane’s plan is going to kill us all.”

“Who’s Hurricane?”

“Exactly,” Rain snorted. “He’s the new emperor, kid. Cataegis Haysar, if you buy into the old Cirran crap. But as far as I can tell, he’s an idiot farmcolt who wouldn’t know which end of a sword to bite when it was cutting his lips. I guess he’s Imperator Thunder Gale’s kid, and that was enough for the old emperor.”

Finder slowly extended his bad wing, but it still wasn’t good enough to fly on yet. Rain chuckled, and lowered down so the young stallion could climb onto her back. “Sorry.”

“I told you to stop saying that,” Rain answered. “You saved my life. Carrying your scrawny flank around is a small price to pay, believe me. Besides, you weigh less than my sword.”

“Really?”

“Sure feels like it,” Rain answered, launching herself up into the stormy sky. “Now, where are we headed?”

—————————————-

The fish was good food. Damn good, if Rain was being honest, even if it made her feel guilty. Her cold soldier’s logic told her she absolutely needed to be at fighting strength. Still, it had been hard to hoof out tiny fillets to the starving masses from all over Cirra while holding a dozen whole fish back for her personal friends.

Still, even if her heart was empty, as she sat back against the wall of the command tent she’d set up, outside the borders of the fishing town overflowing with refugees, she could at least be content her belly was full.

She’d been expecting a report from her scouts as she sat, working on teaching Pathfinder to read with the reports she was getting from Stratopolis, so she hardly looked up when she heard the tent flap tossed open.

“What kind of numbers?” she asked, not yet looking up at the third scout of the day to arrive.

“Oh, I don’t know. Twenty five, seven… I’ve always been partial to one hundred and one.” The smooth timbre of Senator Discentus filled the room, pulling Rain’s eyes up from her book. “It’s good to see you’re recovering, Pathfinder.”

“I’m surprised you remember me,” Pathfinder answered.

The old stallion shrugged. “Politicians have to get good at names. At least, that’s what they tell me.” Beside him, the tent flapped opened again to reveal a panting tan mare. “Let me introduce you; Swift, this is Pathfinder. Pathfinder, this is Swift Spear, Emperor Hurricane’s wife.”

Rain leapt to her hooves. “Tachys!”

Pathfinder turned his head. “Umm…”

“They’re cousins,” Discentus explained to Pathfinder in a whisper, walking over to the colt and helping him to his hooves. “The nicknames are old Nimban, believe it or not.”

Swift Spear seemed completely ignorant of the conversation, and after a quick hug with Rain, glanced past her at the bowls of fish left on the floor of the tent. “It’s great to see you too, Sidero! Um… do you mind if I steal some of that?”

“I guess,” Rain answered with a shrug. “Long flight? Did you come here from Stratopolis?”

Swift nodded, before falling onto the plate. “Yeah, but we weren’t flying that fast. The others slowed us down.”

“Others?” asked Rain.

“The last evacuees from Stratopolis,” Discentus answered. “Magnus has closed the lines now. One way or another, it’s the endgame.”

That darkened Swift’s expression considerably as she ate.

“Alright,” Rain noted. “But you were always a light flier, Tachys. Why so hungry now?”

Swift swallowed a bite of the fish and sat back. “Well… I’m eating for two now,” she answered.

“You…” Rain’s eyes swept down her cousin’s figure. “Wait, you… with Hurricane?”

“We are married now, Rain.” Swift corrected. Then the darkness on her face grew even harsher. “For however long he has left.”

Discentus coughed heavily, very deliberately stealing as much attention in the room as he could, if only to spare Swift from dwelling on her thoughts. “We’ve confirmed that Magnus has brought the vast majority of his armies against Stratopolis. In that way, at least, Hurricane’s plan is working. Magnus is too proud to let the capital stand, even if most of our civilians are here, readying to cross the sea.”

“I feel like I can hear a ‘but’ in your voice, old man. Spit it out.”

Discentus sighed. “There is one army our scouts did not confirm around Stratopolis. Do you know what the name Gottlichewache, Rain?”

“No, but I speak enough griffon to get ‘Divine Guard’ out of that.” She quirked a brow. “But Magnus already has the Oathsworn as a personal guard.”

“Magnus isn’t the only griffon god,” Discentus noted. Then, with a little bit of humor, he perked up. “Thankfully, he’s the only one anypony has seen walking around.”

“Good. I like having a least one eye,” Rain answered. “So they’re… what, temple guards?”

“From Angenholt,” Swift Spear noted. “They were responsible for carrying offerings from remote griffon villages to the the griffon’s mountain of the gods for sacrifice. They were said to be extremely cruel to villages that could not offer the necessary sacrifice.”

“Elites…” Rain noted.

“Elites who specialize in sowing fear and slaughtering civilians,” Discentus observed. “Which we have a surplus of.”

“It wouldn’t matter if it were a normal unit,” Rain answered, before abruptly whirling and slamming a planning table up onto its side against the wall of the tent. “It wouldn’t matter if it were a bunch of greenwings with wooden swords!”

“Rain!” Finder shouted, skirting back from her.

At the sound of his voice, Rain’s motion slowed abruptly. “I… I’m sorry, Finder.”

“Why wouldn’t it matter?” Swift answered softly.

Rain slowly, tentatively, let a wing drift to the opening in the tent. “I have three centuries of combat-fit milites. Less than two hundred ponies. And that’s not three centuries that trained together. That’s ponies from six different legions who barely know each others names and have the unit cohesion of those damn fish Swift was eating. The only veterans I’ve got are my own Rainstorm. Maybe with walls, I could buy us time to evacuate, but we simply don’t have the supplies to cross the sea like this. That’s why I’ve been waiting. Making everypony ration as much as they can.”

Discentus pinched his own cheek between his teeth. “Then I may as well tell you the last bit of bad news.”

“There’s more?” Pathfinder asked incredulously.

The old stallion nodded solemnly. “What we know about the Gottlichewache we learned from the survivors of the battle at Tontri. They’re led by a griffoness named Yngvilde. Magnus’ favorite daughter.”

Rain turned at that, but Pathfinder spoke up first. “Is she like him? Magic? Giant?”

“That I do not know. All we know her for is her cruelty… instead of a sword or axe, she wears steel blades on her talons, and—”

“That’s enough, Discentus,” Rain interrupted, nodding faintly toward Pathfinder. “I need him calm. Cirra needs him.”

“Really?” Pathfinder raised a brow. “What good am I?”

“I can’t save everypony,” Rain told him. “But if we’re going to save anypony at all, I’ll need somepony who knows this land like the back of his hoof.”

The Last Stand

Pathfinder shuddered when Rain folded his map of Altus across the table, with every eye in the Rainstorm watching the parchment rustle. Then he jumped when Mary slammed into one stubborn corner, keeping the map from rolling back up and pinning it into the grain of the dense wood beneath.

“Mares. Stallions.” Rain’s eyes swept across the group. “Get used to this map. For most of us, this is going to be our graveyard.”

“Damn, Rain… Nopony ever taught you how to give a speech, did they?” Carver asked.

It was obvious the mammoth mare was in no joking mood when she drove a hoof into the stallion’s chest, just below his ribs. As Carver heaved for breath, Rain gently massaged her fetlock. “Anyone else feeling like a comedian?”

Silence reigned.

“Good. I want you to all know what we’re looking at. No illusions, no lies. We are going to save Cirra, and short of Mobius himself dropping out of the sky, we’re going to die doing it. Magnus sent his temple guard here. The ‘Gottlichewache’. They aren’t expecting a real fight; they think the good soldiers are all up north making a last stand with the Emperor at Stratopolis. They’re here for civilians.”

Rain placed a hoof on the portion of the map for Altus’ docks district, if one could call the few dozen piers and jetties a ‘district’. “I’ve put the Emperor’s wife and Summer’s father in charge of wrangling the civilians, since they’re both useless in a fight right now.” Under her breath, she added “Trust Hurricane to fuck me out of a good spearmare.”

“So why aren’t we launching sky chariots already?” Haze asked. “We could have a quarter of these civilians gone by morning.”

“Because the griffons are already here,” Rain answered, reaching under the collar of her armor. A single feather, long and white and harshly pointed, fluttered onto the table. If it belonged to a pegasus, it was the largest pegasus who would have ever lived. “Yngvilde is waiting for me.”

“Yngvilde?” Summer asked.

“Magnus’ daughter.”

“Is she… like him?” Thorn asked.

Rain lifted the feather on the tip of her wing. “This came to me on the wind this morning, along with a letter.”

“Shit…” Haze muttered. “What’s she want? Surrender?”

“‘To share a mead with me, apparently,” Rain answered with a snort. “Since she can control the wind, she’s… whatever the hell Magnus is. And if you send the civilians off, she’ll blow them out of the sky with storm winds.”

“Then what hope do we have?” Summer asked. “Do we go with you to drink and just try and assassinate her?”

“A bloody beak doesn’t kill a griffon,” Rain answered. “We all know that. We’d take a helping of them with us, but it wouldn’t save what’s left of Cirra.”

“But it would stop the wind,” Windshear notec. “We should just rush her and pray to Garuda somepony gets a stab in. Hope she doesn’t completely laugh off losing an entire limb like Magnus did?”

The medic rose to her hooves. “We either need to kill some fucking griffons, or I need to start spiking the civilians and deny them the pleasure.”

“Sit down, Summer,” Rain ordered with a barking snap. “You’re making the same mistake I did when I fought Magnus. It’s the same mistake we’ve been making this entire war. It’s the same stupid mistake I’ve been making since I tried to get Gold Moon to let us pierce behind the griffon lines and kill Magnus at the beginning of the war. Looks like the old bastard was right.” Rain shook her head. “We can’t win this war killing griffons. But winning doesn’t mean killing off all the griffons. It means saving Cirra.”

“That’s well and good,” Thorn muttered. “But we’re still dealing with a demon-griffoness and an army. We’ve got no walls, no fortifications to control the skies.”

Iron Rain paced behind the map. “We won’t use the skies. We’ll use the sea.”

“Um… what?” Finder asked. “I mean… most of those ponies can’t even swim.”

“The griffons will assume we’re going out in the air,” Rain explained. “Straight off the shore. They’ll be watching the skies. We’re going to bring down a heavy fog. Then we launch the poorest wagons we can spare, loaded up with straw effigies. Fly them out as spread as possible, so it looks like we’re desperate, and just trying to get a few ponies out. That’s where our fastest fliers go.” The gray mare frowned. “We’ll lose them too. But in the time they buy us, we’ll get the real civilians and the real chariots out on boats. See here,” her hoof gestured to a cove a few stadia down the Cirran coastline. “The coast is too rough for the griffon forces to see us from anywhere near Altus. Once we get the boats here, we can launch to the air and the fog will cover an escape.”

“What good is a fog against a wind god?” Summer asked.

Rain answered by tapping the patch on her eye. “Magnus couldn’t use the wind for two things at once. He stopped blowing himself around for speed to dodge every time he had to stop to catch Mary. That’s how I got his leg. I’m betting the same is true of this Yngvilde. That’s why I’m going to fight her.”

“Rain!” Finder shouted, standing up. “You can’t—”

“I damn well can, kid.” Rain sighed. “I’m not going alone. And unlike Magnus, I’m not going for a kill. I’m going to stall her, long as I can. Keep her winds focused on me and not on the fog.” Rain nodded. “Before we go any further… are you all with me?”

It was quiet at first, but only because Stonewall was the first to move. He stepped forward one stride, nodded firmly, and bowed his head until it nearly touched the ground.

“To the bitter end,” Thorn noted.

“It’s been an honor, Lady Rain,” Windshear continued.

Haze chuckled. “It hasn’t been an honor yet. But it damn well will be soon.”

Carver turned to Summer. “You in?”

“Like we’ve got a fucking choice,” Summer answered. “Let’s make it hurt.”

Then it grew quiet. Every eye turned to Pathfinder, who hung his head at his side of the table.

“Why do you have to go, Rain?”

Carver stepped toward his young friend. “Pathfinder, don’t—”

“No,” Rain answered. “Let it be, Carver. It’s a fair question.” Then she frowned. “Pathfinder, believe me, I wish it was something different, but it’s not. This is just the only way..”

Finder’s face wrinkled, choking on that bitter root. “Then I’m with you.”

A weight fell off of Iron Rain’s shoulders. “Good. Gods know we need you the most. Here’s the plan. Windshear, you’re with me. We’ll be taking a century off the top; the best we have to work with, as shoddy as that is. Haze and Thorn, you’ll be managing the weather team. Your role is crucial, so you’ll have as many soldiers and civilian volunteers as you need. The rest go to Carver, Summer, and Stonewall; I need you to trap the city. Ambushes, pits, whatever you can do to delay the griffons. The longer it takes them to get to the docks, the more it seems like that’s still the priority target. You’ll be fighting in the streets; no grand movements. Fight dirty. Use your heads. And Pathfinder… you’re with the civilians.”

“What?” Finder shouted. “After all that—”

“I need you to guide the ships in the mist,” Rain interrupted pointedly. “Your skill with maps and your… weird memory, they’re the key to this whole thing. If we scrape a ship up on the rocks and the griffons hear it, or if one drifts out of the fog, everything’s lost. There’ll be no visibility, and no torches or lanterns. Everything hinges on you getting the boats to the cove, Pathfinder. Can I count on you?”

Finder nodded once.

“Then you have your orders. If the griffons move, I’ve ordered our watchponies to fly straight into the sky with lit torches. We start the plan immediately when the cry goes up. If they wait long enough, we launch tomorrow at sunset. May Garuda be with us. Dismissed.”

When the grim ponies of the Rainstorm moved to leave the command tent and set about their tasks, Rain’s wing settled on Pathfinder’s back. “Hold on a minute.”

“What?” The colt snapped. Rain could see the tears on the corners of his eyes, but his gaze was cold. It was what she had been afraid of; she saw the betrayal in his expression.

“You know I have to go, right? I know you’re a kid, Pathfinder, but I have to believe you understand.”

Pathfinder said nothing.

“Even if I sent one of the others to fight Yngvilde, even if we somehow won that fight… The fight’s all I’ve ever known,” Rain’s tone dropped to almost a whisper, and for a moment there was almost a trace of sadness to her words. “Fight, advance. Fight, retreat. Either way, all I know is the fight.” Closing her eye, Rain took a deep breath which she let out in a long sigh. “Whatever world comes after this war, I have no place in it. I have nothing without the fight.

Pathfinder said nothing.

“Kid…” When Pathfinder’s eyes ran away, Rain frowned. “Finder...Talk to me.”

Pathfinder shook his head. “It’s stupid.”

“Almost everything is.”

Pathfinder let out a laugh in the form of a huff and cocked a half-smile. The smile was empty, though, and his golden eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Three days ago was my birthday.”

“Really?”

“It’s not… I didn’t have any clue before you taught me to read,” Finder answered. “But then I saw the date on the corner of one of the scout reports when we were working on plotting the map out.”

“So how old are you?”

“Fifteen,” Pathfinder answered.

Rain couldn’t help but wince. “I… I’m sorry.”

He shrugged.

“You don’t look it, you know. I peg you at thirty.”

“Summer said the same thing when she was looking at my wing.” Finder smiled the saddest, frailest smile that Rain had ever seen. “She says it’s all the gray hair.”

“Yeah. It looks good on you, though. Shows off some of your wisdom.” Rain ran a feather through his mane slowly, wistfully. “Someday you’ll find somepony who likes it.”

“I’m not going,” Finder answered.

Iron Rain staggered. “What—”

“I’ll guide the boats,” he interrupted. “I’ll help the others. But I can’t leave you all behind, Rain. I just… I can’t.”

“Pathfinder, you promised me. You made an oath.”

“Because you’re counting on me,” Pathfinder replied. And there was a bitterness in his swift reply. “That’s what you said. Because my brothers and sisters need me. Carver. Summer. You, Rain.”

“And we need you to survive—”

“I can’t lose another family!” He shouted straight into her face, and then seemed all at once to realize where he was, to see what he was doing. Finder curled forward, wrapped his wings over his face, and started sobbing.

“Kid…”

He shook inside his little cocoon of wings. Rain extended a hoof to pat his shoulder, and then thought better of it. Instead, she turned back to the map in the tent, sitting down on the cold earth, feeling grass and dirt brush her tail and her flanks. “I wish it were another way too. Believe me, I do.”

“I don’t.”

Rain winced hard at the little voice that fought through the tears. “What?”

“If it weren’t this way…” Pathfinder stumbled in his speaking, and a whimper sliped from between his wings. “I… I wouldn’t have met you. Or Carver, or Summer, or Dawn…” Pathfinder shook violently at the mention of that name.

Rain took that moment to stare at the gray-maned colt. Fifteen years old… that was hard to believe. But underneath the stress of war, and the wrinkles burnt into his muzzle from long nights tossing and turning, too drunk to think but far too sober to ignore the pain, and the scars the made him look like the eldest and most seasoned of Nimbus’ heroes… underneath all that was a fifteen year old colt. A peasant, from a little fishing village. The youngest son of two noponies, too poor to bother learning to read and too concerned with putting food on the table to practice anything like war.

Who was he to Katagismos Sidero? To Iron Rain, the heir of Nimbus, the greatest warrior in the entire Cirran Empire? To the mare who fought a god and lived?

Gods, was that who she’d become? Rain shuddered at the thought. “Kid…”

“What?”

“Tell me something,” Rain answered, and she turned to fully face him. “Look at me.”

“Huh?”

“What do you see?” Rain asked. When Pathfinder’s eyes wandered away, she sighed. “Honestly, Finder.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m just… curious, I guess.”

Pathfinder sighed. “Well,” he squeaked out after a very long hesitance. “I… You’re… beautiful,” he admitted. “Even with the eyepatch. And, um… well, I think you’re kind, and—”

That was it? Nothing about a warrior? A commander?

“Do I have to keep going?” Pathfinder asked awkwardly. That question, at least, snapped Rain out of her thoughts—at least, enough to notice the tiny hint of a blush creeping onto his muzzle.

She let out a tiny chuckle. “I’m sorry, Finder. I wasn’t trying to embarass you, I promise.”

“I know,” he told her. Then he wiped his tears away with the lead feather of his good wing. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Rain answered, nodding in his direction. What she meant by it, even she hadn’t decided. Zweihufer slid from its mount on the tentpoles by the tent flaps with ease, and before Finder could say another word, she was gone.

The Last Stand II

The griffons were setting up a massive camp just a few hills outside the edge of the cluster of houses that ponies called Altus. Huge trees had been felled and shorn into great pointed shafts, which teams of griffon soldiers drove into the ground as a great palisade surrounding an enormous encampment of tents and even a few wooden structures. But it was the cages which held Rain’s one eye the longest. More than enough to take all of Altus’ population alive, if they surrendered. Twice more, at least.

A calculating part of the Nimban’s mind observed that the Gottlichwache had overestimated Rain’s resources.

She wasn’t making any particular effort to hide herself, so Rain fully expected to be noticed. She was surprised, however, by how few griffons came to meet her. In fact, only two figures flew towards her on the hill overlooking the griffon’s encampment. One, an aging tercel, seemed specifically chosen not to be a threat. Not only was he unarmored, but unarmed as well—at least as much as a griffon ever could be, without the shattering of beaks or the severing of talons.

The other figure was a hippogryph. Above his griffon shoulders and talons, he had the head of a black stallion with a white stripe running the length of his muzzle. A spiked band ran around his neck, and Rain caught herself wondering if it was intended to be a gorget or a hound’s collar. He carried no weapons as well, though his torso was covered in thick plate armor.

They landed a respectable distance from her—or at least, far enough not to be easily skewered by zweihufer, if she so chose.

“Grüße,” Rain called to them.

The aged tercel, who wore thin spectacles, reminded Rain just a touch of Magnus in his charcoal coloration—if not in any way in his build or his demeanor. “I speak quite serviceable Cirran,” he replied. “Though the attempt, it is appreciated. Greetings to you too.” His eyes, cold sapphires behind his spectacles, watched Rain. “You are Iron Rain of Nimbus, yes? Here to see Warchief Yngvilde?”

“I am,” Rain, warily watching the two griffon soldiers with her one eye.

“Excellent.” The griffon clapped his claws together once. “Well, introductions first. My quiet companion here is Zufriedenhund. I am Todesangst. If you will follow me, Lady Rain, I will take you to see the Warchief. Do you have any… friends I should be seeing too?”

“I came alone.”

“Ah.” Todesangst nodded. “I was told you had brought others to be with you to see Emperor Magnus, so it pays to make sure.” With that Todesangst turned and began his walk toward the encampment. Zufriedenhund watched Rain warily until the old griffon snapped his fingers, and only then turned to follow. “Come come, Lady Rain.”

“I’m not giving up my sword.”

“I’m not foolish enough to ask for it,” Todesangst replied. “And I trust that in an encampment of griffon elites, you would not be foolish enough to draw it. One would not want to spoil the only chance for Cirra to survive, no?” Rain didn’t see much of a joke as the older stallion offered a wizened chuckle. “No, better there be less death on both our sides, I think.”

As if he could guess Rain’s surprise at the words, he glanced back just as she raised a brow. “I am an apothecary, you see. Not unlike your… oh, what is her name? The senator’s daughter?”

“Storm,” Rain lied, making up the name on the spot.

“Ah yes,” Todesganst nodded. “Your medic. Iron’s Rainstorm is quite famous, you know. I had heard of you even before you had the gall to face Emperor Magnus.” He glanced back over his shoulder again, this time continuing his stride. “If you would care, I might look into your eye, so to speak. Though of course I understand if you do not trust me.”

“It’s fine,” Rain grumbled.

“Good, good. You pegasi have skilled medics, but the Gottlichewache has access to some medicine which you might not know.”

“I meant my eye is fine.” Rain regarded the aging tercel with her good eye as he led her into the camp. The palisade drew closer; if the griffons were completely without honor, there was nothing Rain could do.

But then, if they were completely without honor, they’d simply fall on the city and slaughter everypony inside anyway. There wasn’t anything to lose on the risk.

Once they were inside the walls of the compound, the destination was obvious. From the hill, the structure had looked like just another makeshift wooden structure, but the elaborately painted doors told another story. Several, actually; as was griffon tradition, they recounted the deeds of their owner.

“You built a mead hall in an army camp?” Rain asked, incredulously.

“Schnapps,” Todesangst corrected. “Of any kind. The Gottlichewache hail from Angenholt; they are not so particular about their spirits.”

On the doors, a brilliant white griffon, looking somewhat between a dove and an eagle, fought in four distinct battles on four different panels of the wall. Rain deliberately saved herself from paying attention; the intention was obviously to intimidate her. She had no intention of having her spirit damaged before the battle even began.

“Hund, if you would not mind?”

The hippogriff grunted noncommittally, stepping past his elder and the pegasus to hold open the door. “Go in,” came his growling voice.

Rain raised a brow before stepping into the mead hall. Immediately, a wave of heat battered her. The center of the structure was dominated by a long row of smoldering coals, over which various pieces of meat had been staked, rotated slowly by hippogriffs and smaller, runt griffons or those too young to fight directly. The coals were flanked by short benches and tables—though the hall was incredible for a fixture of a temporary encampment, it simply wasn’t feasible for the griffons to have carved their traditional benches, long as a full tree and stretching the length of the room, in the time it took to put the building together.

What their furniture lacked in seating for the main area, however, was easily made up for by the head table. A ‘u’ shaped semicircle of wood that looked to have been taken in a single slice from the base of a massive tree, the table was situated almost like a mockery of a stuffy imperial senator’s desk. On the outside of the U, with their backs to the doors and side walls, a dozen seats offered griffons a chance to gather or speak to their main focus. At the center of the loop was that focal point: an elaborate throne so decorated with totems of bone and fur and steel and feathers that Rain honestly couldn’t tell what the chair underneath was ultimately made of. She hardly paid it any mind anyway; it was the griffoness in the center who immediately stole her attention.

“Iron Rain,” she announced, and placed the talons of her right hand calmly onto the polished wooden table in front of her.

Yngvilde was big, but not in any sense the freakish, unnatural way Magnus was. Rain had fought bigger griffons, though she could hardly say she’d seen many. The paintings on the door had done her colors some justice; they captured the snowy white of Yngvilde’s leonine body, though not the subtle gray spots that dappled her coat. Up into her chest, the white was far less of that of a dove or an eagle, and more to Rain’s eye, that of an owl. Her head matched that sentiment: her face curved forward into her beak much higher than most griffons, almost up into the middle of her brow, and the hook of her beak was wrapped so tightly that rather than pointing in, its scything spike curled back toward her own neck. Her eyes were large as well, though her heavy brows had narrowed them to focused slivers.

Hate surged from her expression.

“Warchief Yngvilde, may I present—”

“I know her name, Todesangst. Your information was quite thorough.” Her eyes didn’t so much swivel to the old griffon as slash to him. “Be seated. You may practice your talents when we are done.” Again, those piercing eyes moved to Rain, and her raised hand gestured to a smaller seat directly opposite her throne at the head table. “Come, mare, and we can speak.”

Rain approached cautiously, but forced herself to keep enough of a speed not to seem cowardly. She was nearly to her place when Zufriedhund pushed past her, walking around behind the edge of the lead table and taking a seat on the floor at Yngvilde’s side.

“I see your wound has not healed nearly as well as the Emperor’s,” the warchief observed, once Rain was seated. “But it is an appropriate trophy for such a pyrrhic victory.”

Rain sighed. “Are you going to offer me the same deal he did, or did you want something else? Surrender?”

Yngvilde scoffed. “Why would I bother offering your Legion surrender? Glory in battle is the only prize I stand to reap here, and my forces are more than enough to wipe out your pathetic force. What good are two legions worth of mismatched pegasi against ten thousand griffons?“

Two legions was already an overestimate, but it made the cogs in Rain’s head turn. “Your information is bad, Warchief. I have three and a half legions in the city. More of the First survived the eruption at Feathertop than you think.”

Yngvilde’s already swooping brow rose to a point, and her eyes slashed across the room, presumably to look at Todesangst, seated somewhere behind Rain’s back. Before the pegasus could even turn, she was once more the griffon leader’s focus. “Then instead of five to one, my advantage is only three. It makes no difference. They will be slaughtered to the last.”

Again, without moving her neck, Yngvilde turned her eyes to the hippogriff beside her. “Hund, fetch the Kornbranntwein and the Plum Schnapps.” Away the hippogriff went, and again, sharp eyes turned to Rain.

“So?” Rain noted. “What is your offer?”

“Patience,” Yngvilde replied, holding up a single talon. “We will wait for the drink.”

“Did you just call me here to waste my time?” Rain demanded. “You think the city won’t be as fortified if I’m gone an hour or two? That’s petty, even for a griffon.”

Yngvilde’s eyes narrowed to slits, and the wrinkling of her brow accentuated her beak. “I do have an offer for you, Iron Rain. But if you think that any use of a pony’s time is a waste, you think too highly of your species.” The white griffon leaned forward, digging her talons into the wood of the table to support the motion. Rain smelled blood on her breath, but she refused to shy away from the predatory warchief. “Father admires your short-lived, frail species. You breed like rats, and so every two or three million pegasi, you produce a champion, and at times those champions can be… instructive. Father is optimistic. He sees the chance for that champion in every one of your kind.

“We both know you are one of Cirra’s champions, Iron Rain. But I do not share Father’s kind view. When I look at you, I see how many million wastes of flesh and grain and meat it took to make you. I see the waste, the filth, the disease, the irrepressible disgusting pride of your fetid species. My throat seizes at the thought. But worst of all, I see the thousands of griffon slaves. The thousands more dead on the walls of Nimbus so your family could have your stories.”

Behind Yngvilde, Zufriedhund placed a gold tray with two tall glass bottles and two squat pewter flagons onto the table, then once more sat down beside the warchief.

Yngvilde sat back once more into her seat, then slowly poured a rich purple alcohol into her own flagon, then into Rain’s. “I cannot bring myself to care about your pathetic civilians or your broken army more than it takes to put them to the blade or the flame, or to chain them and put them to work for Gryphus. But you, Iron Rain…” Yngvilde took a long slow sip of her schnapps and then lowered the goblet. “I hate you. I despise you.”

Rain glared. “Consider the feeling mutual.”

“But as much as I hate you, Rain, there is something that matters more to me. I know I will win when my armies swarm over your walls and slaughter the pestilence that is your species. But I also know that I will suffer casualties. More griffon corpses scattering the battlefield, more warriors driven to Valhalla… So much waste. You will make taking Altus hurt. I know this. That is why I have only one offer for you: a chance for you to die, Rain.”

The offer took Rain by surprise, though honed control only showed it with a single raised eyebrow. Rather than immediately answer, Iron took a drink of her own schnapps, savoring the sour sweetness of the plums in the liquor before answering. “I have every intention of dying with my people. Whether that’s in Altus or standing over your corpse, I don’t really care.”

“I know this too,” Yngvilde answered. “You dream of dying a champion, like your forebears. And I am telling you that I will not allow it. If you leave this room, I will not let you die. I will take you alive. And when I do, I will cut out your other eye. I will tear out your tongue. I will pull your wings from your body. And then I will parade you through Agenholt. You will be force fed three times a day, publicly. I will keep you a pet, and you will live long after your miserable race is wiped from the earth, as my trophy of the failure of Nimbus, and of Cirra.”

“And now that you’ve told me this, you think I’m going to let you take me alive?” Rain followed the question with a long slow sip of her drink.

“It would be a shame if we found you dead by your own hoof,” Yngvilde answered. “I might have to substitute you for your lover… Thorn, I believe her name is. Or perhaps your pet, the cripple.” Yngvilde leaned forward over the table again. “And if you think your three pathetic centuries will pass for the fighting power of three legions, you insult my intelligence.”

Rain’s wing dropped the goblet to the floor, where it splashed and bounced, ringing around the sweltering hall. She knew…

“Now you have a choice to make, last champion of Nimbus. Todesangst…”

The elderly griffon approached, and without further beckoning, set a small glass bottle on the table.

“Hemlock,” he noted. “My purest distillation. You will feel a chill, but no—”

Before he could even finish, Rain smashed the glass beneath her hoof.

Yngvilde merely smiled. “Splendid.” Then, crossing her arms across her chest, she nodded toward the door. “Todesangst, you will show Rain out now.”

Carver wiped the sweat from his brow with a wing and turned to Summer. The feelings of splinters and cloudstone dust in his feathers gave the motion a gritty, harsh feeling, but the reminder of life before the war wasn’t completely unwelcome. “You know, when the draft went out, there was a part of me that really thought I’d never get to do cloudmason’s work again. I definitely didn’t expect to be doing it for the Legion. Especially not while the war was still on.”

Summer rolled her eyes. “If you like this kind of work, Carver, you can keep it.” She groaned twice, and then shoved a solid few dozen pounds of heavy fishing nets off her back and into a pile. “Give me a sharp blade and a few pounds of flesh any day.”

Carver quirked a brow. “As a surgeon? Or a soldier?”

“Either way’s fine,” Summer answered. “Both are better than this. Where are these nets going?”

“We’re trying to cover all the main streets.” Carver extended a hoof toward the waterline of Altus. “You’re welcome to help the Altans put them up if you’d prefer not to play beast of burden.”

Summer groaned. “You know the griffons are just going to cut through the nets. A big old sword like Rain’s would go through these nets like—”

Summer found herself cut off when Carver wrapped a wing over her face and pushed her against one of the Altan buildings alongside the street. “I know what this looks like,” he whispered fiercely. “But it’s the best chance we have. Talking like that is going to get ponies killed. The civilians are terrified, and the rest of the draftees aren’t much better.”

“Like you?” Summer jabbed.

“Yes!” Carver snapped back. “I’m terrified, Summer! We all know we’re going to die fighting this battle. But this is what we have to do.”

“Screw that!” Summer shoved Carver back, and he fell onto the salty street. “I’m not some fisherpony with a harpoon trying to hold it steady. I ought to be out with Rain, not—”

Summer’s rant was cut short when the flat end of an Altan harpoon cracked across the back of her ears. Stonewall, holding the more dangerous end in his wing, gave her a single stern grunt, and then returned the harpoon to his other wing, which held at least a dozen polearms against his other flank.

“Ow! What in the—” Summer glared at the older stallion, who pointed up to the rooftops with his pack of makeshift spears. “What are you thinking?”

Stonewall replied by dropping most of the spears on the floor, then picking up as many as he could fit in his mouth and taking wing up to the nets spread overhead.

“Right…” Summer turned to Carver. “You have any idea?”

Carver nodded. “If Rain is able to keep Yngvilde from getting rid of our fog, the spears will make the nets a lot harder to get through. The griffons won’t just be able to dive down and slash them open, or they’ll risk impaling themselves. It’s smart. ”

Summer grunted. “I’d still prefer a straight fight.”

“That’s suicide, Summer.”

“You said it yourself, Carver. We’re all gonna die, might as well be facing the enemy head on instead of skulking about like rats.”

“Whatever,” he grunted, pausing a moment to inspect the lashings of nets.

A silence settled between them, interrupted only occasionally by the clatter of tools, low murmur of chatter around the town, and the flutter of wings when a pegasus took to the sky. Carver wondered how the cloud teams were doing. The largest clouds from all around were being gathered, pressed and condensed into enormous platforms capable of supporting the hundreds of pounds of supplies being gathered to support the Pegasi on their trek across the sea. He wondered if enough fresh water would be gathered.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Summer said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Huh?”

“You heard me.”

Carver swallowed hard, put down the netting he’d been working with. “Summer?”

She didn’t turn to face him, instead busying herself setting up a spear trap rigged to a tripline between two houses. He stared at her for a long moment, taking in the way her wings subtly twitched when she moved, the slight angle on which she leaned her hips while working the line. Her wavy lilac hair had grown longer since they’d first met, and she’d let it hang loose around her face, framing her soft cheeks like flowers.

Sighing, Carver took a step closer to her. “I don’t get you.”

“Well no pony ever said you had brains.”

He smiled a little, took another step closer. “You’re a medic. A damn good one too.”

Summer turned a bit to cast a glance at him, an oddly blank look on her face.

“So why...” Carver hesitated, teeth pinching his lower lip. Taking a deep breath he closed the distance between them, leaving only a few inches to separate their muzzles. “Why does it seem like you want to die?”

“You never grew up a stranger in your own home, Carver,” she answered after a long pause.

Carver tilted his head, a puzzled expression furrowing his brows and splaying out his ears.

“I am…I was” Summer gritted her teeth as though the very thought of what she wanted to say cut at her very core. “Born in Stratopolis. But Father is Nimban.”

“And a great one, or so I gather.”

“It was considered shameful he wed a non-Nimban mare,” she spat, those vibrant emerald eyes burning at Carver. “Only his friendship with Lord Winter allowed him to survive the scandal back home.” Summer’s ears drooped slightly, and she sighed. The flash of anger that has briefly roused her settling again. “I had to fight harder than all of them to prove my blood, and even then only Rain ever treated me like I was one of them.”

“Fuck that,” Carver said, putting his hoof on her cheek. “It doesn’t matter what city you were born in, Summer.”

She glared at him again, but the fire didn’t set her eyes ablaze like it had moments before. “It matters to me, Carver!”

“Nimbus, Nyx, Stratopolis, it’s all gone, Summer. None of it matters any more. All we’ve got left is our fellow Cirrans...All we’ve got is each other.”

For a time Summer was quiet, then to Carver’s surprise, she began to laugh.

“What?” he asked, growing more confused by the moment as she went from a soft chuckle to gales of raucous laughter.

Some of the other ponies who were busily setting up more traps and defenses even paused in their work. Their glances of confusion and irritation at the mare shaking with laughter made Carver blush. Finally when she managed to regain some sense of composure, Summer stood up and wiped her eyes across her fetlock.

“Gods you’re so naive,” she said, smiling at him.

Carver started to protest, only for Summer’s lips to tenderly press against his own. His eye went wide and for a moment he was stunned.

Their lips parted, and Carver could still feel them tingling. When Summer spoke her voice dropped low, to a whisper that had an almost melancholic tone. “But maybe that’s what makes you special.”

“Summer...I…”

She pressed her forehead against his for a moment, then pulled away. “Come on, let’s get back to work.”

The Last Stand III

This was not the plan.

Iron Rain felt her heart pounding in her chest as she frantically whipped her head from side to side. Her small company was surrounded, utterly surrounded. There was no conceivable way out of this mess. Five pegasi were nothing against several dozen griffons. And that was the problem; the camp wasn’t even full. At least half of Yngvilde’s griffons were gone. That meant that the hen had deployed them somewhere. And where else could she send them except for Altus?

“Surrender,” the griffoness demanded again. She pulled two blades out of their sheaths by each shoulder, the chains attached to their hilts rattling as she moved her wrists. “And I’ll let you have some company as my pet.”

Rain shrugged her shoulders, loosening zwei from its groove on her armor. “I don’t plan on living the rest of my life as your trophy.”

“I know; that’s what makes it fun.” Yngvilde grinned. “Töte sie. Retten den Großen.”

Rain didn’t need to understand Gryphic to know what the command meant. “To arms!” she shouted, moments before biting down on zwei’s handle and tearing it from her armor. Even as the blade screeched and sparks flew, the griffons surrounding her company began to pounce on her. But rather than block their attacks, Rain carried through with the draw, wildly spinning her body and throwing her weight behind what had turned into a slash. Zwei’s sharpened Gryphic steel cleaved through the first griffon’s neck and caught the second in the shoulder, shattering his armor and tearing deep into his chest. Two more hoofsteps pivoted Rain’s momentum about her assailant, and she used the griffon’s own body weight to fling him off her sword and free it for the third griffon diving on her from above.

The griffon met her weapon with a crash of steel, zwei’s long and heavy blade sparking off of his own weapon and the shoulder of his armor. Flaring her wings, Rain threw herself backwards before the beast’s talons could reach her neck, but not before they could reach her face. The points clawed at her cheek, raking through the tender flesh and sending blood spilling down her side. The pain sent Rain stumbling back, but before the griffon could leap again, she whirled about and cracked his beak with a powerful buck. Using her wings for balance, Rain kicked twice more until she heard the definitive crack of the hybrid’s neck and the wheeze of his breath as he crumpled to the ground.

Two griffons rushed her from the sides, and Rain swung her blade towards her left. The griffon dodged away from the tip of the blade, and Rain twisted her shoulders to cut zwei’s arc short and take out the legs of the griffon now behind her. It screeched in pain as zwei severed its legs, and Rain quickly crushed its skull into the ground with her forehooves, splattering the ground with gore.

But that left an opening for her other assailant, who threw his weight onto her back. Rain squawked as the griffon dragged her to the ground, and she wildly slashed with the scaled blades on her wings, searching for something soft to cut. She felt the griffon’s talons trying to get around her neck, and she knew then that he wasn’t trying to kill her, only restrain her. That was an advantage she could work with, and she thrashed harder to dislodge the hybrid. The beast had to loosen his grip to not accidentally rip open Rain’s throat, allowing Rain just enough room to twist around and jam the crest of her wing blades into his snout. Metal tore at the griffon’s face, and when he shrieked and drew back, Rain jabbed the blades into his neck and pulled down, tearing open his throat.

She was quick onto her hooves before more griffons could jump on her, but she’d lost zwei in the tussle. The blade was only a short distance away, and the griffons were further. She had time to reach it before they descended on her—!

A blade attached to a length of barbed chain soared past Rain’s skull, accompanied by a gust of wind. Rain whirled around to see Yngvilde standing on the other side of the pile of dead bodies she’d amassed, arm outstretched and chain unfurling from her wrist. The hen suddenly grinned and grabbed onto the unspooling chain, forcing them to tauten. The feathers on her wings twitched, and the wind began to gust toward her. A moment later, the blade flew past Rain’s head again, but on the other side of her body. Too late she realized what Yngvilde was up to, and before she could duck away from the chain, it struck her in the back of the neck and the blade began to spin around her. Coil after coil of chain wrapped itself around her neck, and as Rain thrashed and choked, clawing on the metal with useless hooves, the loops only tightened. All thoughts of grabbing a weapon and fighting back had fled her; now her only goal was to somehow throw off the chains and not let the hen strangle her.

“Keep struggling and I’ll keep pulling the chains,” Yngvilde taunted as she paced closer, twisting her arm and wrapping the excess chain around it. Rain could feel the barbs on the chains digging into her flesh, and if she tried to pull them apart too fast, they sliced into her neck. But they weren’t nearly long enough to kill her; otherwise, she might have twisted her neck around just to deny Yngvilde the satisfaction. Instead, she could only fall helplessly to the ground as she gasped and sputtered, wings and legs flailing uselessly as she fought for a grip on the slick metal.

And then Yngvilde was standing over her. “Pathetic,” she said, reaching down and grabbing Rain by the chains on the back of her neck. When Rain tried to strike at her with a wing, Yngvilde caught it in the loop of chains on her left hand and pulled down, nearly dislocating the limb from Rain’s shoulder. The Nimban mare cried out, but it was all she could do to keep her eyes open. She could scarcely breathe with the chains around her neck, and Yngvilde had kept them just slack enough to ensure she wouldn’t strangle herself. Instead, she was forced to look straight ahead as the griffons pressed what was left of her company.

“Watch them,” Yngvilde hissed into her ear. “Watch them die. Watch how your mistake got them killed.”

Rain gasped and tried to look away, but Yngvilde’s claws tightened on the back of her neck and jerked her head toward the desperate struggle happening in front of her. The proud Nimban mare, last of the Rains, could do nothing but watch helplessly as a griffon pounced on Aero and tore off one of his legs only to begin clubbing the stallion to death with it. She could do nothing to help Argenta as a griffon grabbed her tail and pulled her out of the air, only for another to leap onto her and pry open her ribs with his bare talons. She couldn’t call out to Northerly as he tried to put up as best a fight against three griffons as he could, only for the longsword of a fourth to decapitate him in a single strike, leaving his pained, horrified head to fall to the ground as his body twitched and bled. She didn’t have the air to cry out in horror as a hybrid ripped Valor’s intestines out of her body with his beak, smearing the feathers around his face red with her blood.

“You’re nothing but a failure and a disappointment to your line,” Yngvilde taunted her. “You’re a failure and a disappointment to me.” The chains slackened slightly, letting Rain gasp once before they tightened again. “And you’re a failure and a disappointment to every last pegasus sitting in that little town on the coast waiting for you to save them, every single one of your friends who you promised you’d get out alive.”

The chains slackened once more, and Yngvilde threw Rain to the ground. The white mare coughed and sucked down air while Yngvilde stood over her, talons fingering the loop of chain still held in their grasp. “I’m not going to rip your eye out just yet,” she said. “I’m going to make you watch your little town burn. Every pegasus I capture alive, I’m going to kill in front of you. You’re going to watch every one of them die, and you’re going to look into their eyes and know that you failed them. Then I’ll take away your sight.”

Rain tried to stand up, tried to do anything, but the chains tightened around her neck too quickly, sending her back to the ground and gasping for air. “Bring me Todesangst,” she said to one of her subordinates, in Equiish so Rain could understand her. “Have him bring his pliers. We’re going to pluck this pheasant one feather at a time.”

“Is that the last of it?”

Thorn watched Haze flutter over to her, his wings flapping about like giant trowels to scoop along the fog he’d collected from over the ocean. The air all around them was thick with an almost impenetrable white blanket, and it was hard to see anything more than blurry silhouettes beyond a dozen or so tail lengths. They’d put together a solid block of nimbus cloud to stand on in the middle of the malaise, and Haze touched down on it after he filled in a hole with his collected fog.

“We’ve got a bank a couple miles long set up along the shore,” Haze said. Sweat beaded along his neck, transforming into glistening frost the moment it touched his frigid armor. He shivered and flicked his tail, releasing a spray of tiny droplets into the sky. “Fuck. This must have been what flying in Feathertop was like for the legions before the eruption.”

“Don’t count on it to get warmer anytime soon,” Thorn cautioned him. She fluffed her feathers out and fought down a shiver. It certainly was cold out over the ocean in the middle of winter. The moisture from all the fog they’d picked up permeating her coat certainly didn’t help.

“Yeah, too bad we don’t have a volcano out here,” Haze said with a smirk.

Thorn rolled her eyes. “I think that’d be a little too warm.”

“I’d be warm for the rest of my life.”

“Shut up.”

Haze stuck his tongue out at her, and Thorn put her lips around it and kissed him before he could react. When they pulled away, she playfully tickled his wing with a feather and took a step back when he bumped his flank into hers. Chuckling, Haze rolled his wings and looked around them. “We should probably stop messing around. Wouldn’t want griffons to catch us sucking face, right?”

“Why not? It’s more dangerous that way.” Thorn licked her lips, and fought down a giggle when Haze playfully pushed her away with a wing. Her expression began to harden into one of concern, however, when she looked around through the fog. “Did you see any of the other wings?” she asked him. “They were supposed to report back by now.”

The stallion slowly shook his head. “I didn’t. I bet they’re still trying to plug a few last gaps. After all, nopony moves faster than me. You know that better than anyone.”

“I should have seen at least one by now,” Thorn muttered. “I don’t like this one bit.”

A slight breeze began to tug at her feathers, and she slimmed them down on reflex. Squinting into the east, her eyes tried to pick out any signs of movement. Slowly but surely, the breeze began to strengthen into a gust, and then a strong, persistent wind blowing from the east. The fog around them began to swirl, and Thorn caught a glimpse of distant land through a hole opening in the clouds.

“Rain was supposed to take care of this!” she hissed, launching herself off the cloud and using her wings to beat back the fog. The gusts of air coming off her angled feathers stayed the fog, and she began to drift to her left. “Come on, Haze! Move it!”

Haze jumped off after her and added his wingpower to hers, and the two pegasi together managed to stave off the winds. “It was a mistake to let Rain try that shit again,” Haze growled through gritted teeth. “Yngvilde may not be Magnus, but she is his daughter!”

“And she doesn’t have any of the same sense of honor and military spirit he does,” Thorn added. “We should have just murdered her in her sleep. She’d do the same to us if she thought that was the only way she could win.”

“You think you’re stealthy enough to sneak into a camp of eagle-eyed freaks and put a knife in their leader’s back?” Haze asked her. “That would have been suicide!”

“Suicide with a purpose is one thing. I would have at least put my stiletto in Yngvilde’s neck before the griffons ripped my guts out.” She shook her head. “All Rain did was fly off to her death. Stupid glory hound.”

“We don’t know she’s dead,” Haze protested.

“This wind certainly isn’t natural! Who else could be making it if not for Magnus’ brat?” Thorn gritted her teeth and flapped her wings harder; the winds had intensified to the point where they risked blowing her away with the fog if she wasn’t careful. “She wouldn’t be doing this if Rain was still fighting her or if she was dead! She should have taken more of us with her to fight that… that…”

“Griffon!”

“I was trying to think of something worse than that, but—!”

“No! Griffons!”

Thorn snapped her head over to Haze, then followed his outstretched foreleg into the mass of clouds. She barely had time to blink and register the silhouette lunging for her before it was upon her, bloodied talons reaching for her neck. Thorn folded her wings on instinct and dropped away, and the hybrid swooped over her head, his talons pulling her helmet off when they grabbed onto the plume.

The wind buffeting her body threatened to fling her out of the sky, but Thorn opened her wings and flicked her tail to the side to stabilize herself. The griffon who’d attacked her had disappeared into the fog again, leaving only a swirling wake that closed up on itself as the steady eastern wind blew it together. She could hear raptor screeches through the fog and the beats of heavy wings, punctuated with sparse cries of steel carried in on the wind. She had little doubt now what had been happening to the other pegasi maintaining the fog.

Haze swooped down to her, eyes rapidly scanning the fog around them. “Thank the gods you’re alright,” he muttered when he saw her flying into the face of the wind. “This is not good. Not good at all.”

“Shut up,” Thorn growled at him, and again she started pushing the fog back into the face of the wind. “We need to keep this wall up, no matter what!”

“Even when there are griffons attacking us?!” Nevertheless, Haze pressed on at Thorn’s side, and the two pegasi managed to stabilize the white wall again.

“Especially because there are griffons attacking us,” Thorn said. “They probably picked off so many of our other teams.”

“Then this plan is fucked!” Haze shouted. “If they’re taking apart our team, then we’ve already lost!”

“No we haven’t!” Thorn shouted back at him. “How much you want to bet that Magnus’ brat can only use her winds on a small section of the wall at once?”

Haze opened his mouth to respond, but a sudden shift in the winds preemptively silenced him. Both pegasi looked to the left where the winds had intensified, plowing a hole in the fog, and Thorn immediately dashed over to plug it.

“Okay, you’ve got a point,” Haze grumbled, following just off her flank. He used his large wings to push the fog back against the wind, nostrils flaring as he tried to keep his breath even. “But you know we can’t keep this up forever! We’ll get tired long before the winds stop!”

“We stop, everypony dies!” Thorn retorted. “So I’m not going to stop!”

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye, and she whipped around and lashed out with her right wing. The featherknife caught the throat of a charging griffon, slicing it open in a splash of red that stained her face and neck as the hybrid tumbled past her. Haze grunted in exertion as he warded off a griffon’s sword with one wing and punched with the other, forcing the attacker back. Flipping around, he bucked the griffon in the chin, crunching its beak, and the tercel fell out of the sky with its hands to its face. He wavered in flight as the winds beat against his back, but Thorn caught him with a foreleg and held him steady until he got his balance again.

“We’re getting lucky,” he said. “They’re going to pounce on us with bigger numbers soon, and we’re not going to see them coming. Are they just blindly stumbling into us, or do they know where we are?”

“We’re being too loud,” Thorn grunted at him. “They can hear us. Their ears and eyes are better than ours.”

“Great. Just great!”

“Stick by my side and stay quiet,” Thorn ordered him. “Only shout if we’re about to be attacked. If they can’t find us, we won’t have to deal with as many attacks.”

Haze bared his teeth in a scowl, but he nodded anyway. “We’re going to die…”

“We knew that from the start. That doesn’t change anything.” A gust of wind pulled a feather loose from Thorn’s wing, and she winced at the needling prick on her skin. “It was never about us.”

The wind around them began to lessen, and Thorn followed it to the next hole in the wall after a second to rest her wings in the suddenly still air. Haze followed suit, and soon the two ponies were once more fighting against the gusts, doing their best to maintain the wall and not let anything open up around them.

A shout and a nearby clash of steel snapped Thorn’s head to the left, and she spied several faint silhouettes circling about each other through the thick fog around them. She glanced back at Haze, whose brow was furrowed in concentration, and slapped his shoulder. “Pegasi,” she said, voice just loud enough to be heard over the wind but not much more. “We need to help them.”

“The wind’s going to tear open the fog if we do,” Haze warned. “We’re the only ones keeping it up!”

“If we get more pegasi we can do a better job of it,” Thorn countered. “Much as I hate to admit it, you’re right. We’re going to get tired before much longer. We’ll need some replacements to take shifts.”

Haze sighed and nodded. “At least fighting’s better than this. I’ll follow your lead.”

“Stay close.” Thorn flapped her wings furiously for a few seconds to push the fog out as far ahead of them as she could to hopefully buy the wall some time before the winds ripped it apart. Then, pivoting her wings about, she fanned her feathers and tried to use Yngvilde’s storm to carry her up to the fighting Cirrans without burning anymore energy. Her shoulders burned and her wings felt shaky; she didn’t know how much longer she had before she simply fell out of the sky through sheer exhaustion.

She picked up altitude before jumping into the fight, giving her a perch to survey the situation. Three pegasi squared off against no fewer than five griffons, and she didn’t know if any others were hiding further in the clouds out of her sight. The three pegasi circled together in a slow formation, their mouths agape as they panted for air, the plumes of their crests drooping from the moisture and humidity of the fog. The griffons took turns attacking from different angles, forcing the pegasi to scatter and dodge the attacks before reforming. The beasts were toying with them, wearing them down, and the Cirrans were far too tired

Haze flew up next to her, and Thorn nodded. The two split apart without a single word, already knowing each other’s plan from years of flying together. Thorn veered off to the left while Haze went right, and once she’d flown over where the griffons were circling the pegasi, she pulled her stiletto free from its sheath and tucked her wings against her sides with only her wingtip feathers pointing out to steer.

The griffon in her sights began to fly toward the group, talons extended and ready to rip through flesh, when Thorn fell on him from above. He squawked in surprise as she drove her hooves into his back, the scales of her wing blades snapping shut around the roots of his wings. The long point of her stiletto punched straight through the side of his neck, appearing momentarily out the other side before she pulled it out again and kicked off of the falling, sputtering hybrid. Then she was flying again, eyes darting over her surroundings to make sure she was clear.

Her sudden attack had disrupted the fight, and the griffons withdrew a few wingbeats in surprise. Before they could jump at her, isolated from the other pegasi as she was, Haze fell from the sky with a shout and swung his sword at a nearby griffon. Steel sliced through flesh, and the griffon’s head fell away from its body as Haze’s momentum carried him through the attack.

Thorn turned her attention to the pegasi hovering to the side. “Well? Come on! Are you pegasi or doves?!”

A raptor shriek brought her attention back forward, and she only had a moment to brace herself before a griffon pounced on her, talons extended. The hard points found the soft flesh around her neck and shoulder and scratched into them, and only some desperate twisting and turning from Thorn managed to keep them from opening her arteries. She kept her teeth locked tight around the hilt of her stiletto and tried to kick and punch with her hooves and wings, but she couldn’t generate the leverage to get through the griffon’s armor. A beak snapped for her face, and a last second twisting of her neck saved her eye at the cost of her ear. The griffon’s beak chomped down on the triangle of flesh and tore it free from its roots, sending waves of pain down Thorn’s skull. The world suddenly seemed strange and off-balance, and the only thing she could hear from the right was the howling of the wind as she plummeted in the griffon’s grasp.

When the griffon spat out her ear, Thorn snarled and managed to free her left hoof enough to punch the griffon with a cross across his face. It bought her some breathing room to kick out of his grasp, and before his talons could grab her again, she was already tumbling away through the fog. The griffon recovered and beat his wings, yet he only flapped them three times before another pegasus mare rammed her armored shoulder into his skull, snapping his neck immediately.

Thorn panted and righted herself on aching wings. Her hoof flew to her tattered ear, where a constant ringing and howling had deafened her to everything from the right. Pained eyes fell on the mare, who flew over and helped support the Nimban. “Are you alright, ma’am?”

The words sounded muffled and blurred; Thorn was only able to barely make them out. “I’ll live,” she grunted, taking her blood-slicked hoof away from her head. “The others?”

“Driving the griffons away,” the mare said. “Your surprise attack threw them into disarray.”

Thorn nodded. “Good. But there will probably be more. The skies are crawling with the monsters. They’re picking us off up and down the coast.”

“We lost several already.” The young mare grimaced and watched the white wall with worry. “What do we do?”

“Yngvilde is trying to blow away the fog,” Thorn said, pushing the other mare away enough to fly on her own now that the pain began to subside. “We need to stop it.”

“But how?”

“I’m trying to find as many pegasi as I can and get them to follow the wind,” Thorn said. “Yngvilde can only blow away a little bit of the fog wall at once. If we follow the wind and take turns repairing the wall, we can keep it in place. But I need more pegasi. Haze and I can’t do it ourselves.”

The young mare glanced at her wings. “I-I don’t know how much longer I can stay airborne,” she admitted. “We’ve been flying for hours in our armor. I’m cold and wet and exhausted. I feel like I’ll fall out of the sky at any moment!”

“So am I, soldier,” Thorn said, her expression hardening into a frown. “But we have to. This isn’t about us. If this wall goes down, our species goes extinct. I don’t care if I fall into the ocean and drown when all is said and done, so long as our civilians get out alive. Understand me?”

The two pegasi hovered in place, their breath fogging in front of their muzzles as they panted on shaky wings. Finally, however, the other mare nodded. “Right. I do. I do, ma’am. I’ll… I-I’ll try.”

“Good.” Thorn put her hoof on the mare’s shoulder. “What’s your name?”

“Sunny Days,” the legionary answered.

“I don’t think I could have thought of a more ironic name for today.” Thorn allowed herself a little smirk, and even Sunny relaxed a little. “I have a more important mission for you than helping with the wall, though.”

Sunny blinked. “You… do?”

“I need you to find other pegasi lost in this fog,” Thorn said. “I need you to find them and bring them to me. We’re not going to stop this wind without numbers. Can you do that?”

“I… I-I think I can.” Sunny swallowed hard but did her best to salute Thorn. “I-I will, ma’am.”

“Good. May the gods be your wings.” Thorn craned her neck back above, where a few last silhouettes still darted about through the fog. “And may they be mine, too…”

She ferociously flapped her wings and began to climb, leaving Sunny Days behind as she pierced the veil of fog. She didn’t know how much she had left in her, but she’d opened another hidden chest of energy she had somewhere on her as she powered through the heavens. How much longer she could keep it up for, she didn’t know, but she would fly until she couldn’t fly anymore.

The figures became more distinct the closer she flew toward them. She saw a griffon’s silhouette tear the wings off a pegasus with its bare claws, before another pegasus jumped on its back and tried to cut through its neck. The griffon dropped its helpless victim, but instead of diving down to catch them, Thorn flew up at the struggling pair. The fog thinned just enough for her to see an opening on the griffon’s unarmored underside, and she sliced her wing through the hybrid’s body from its navel to its neck. Blood and guts split out of the seam, and the pegasus dropped its opponent as the griffon stopped moving.

Thorn and Haze made eye contact, and Haze immediately cursed and fluttered over to his marefriend. “Shit, Thorn, are you—?”

“Fine,” Thorn hissed, still wincing at how disorienting the world seemed without an ear. “A little off balance. That’s it.”

A few other pegasi flew up to them, forming around the two Nimbans. They were all struggling to stay airborne, and their coats and armor were speckled with a mix of blood, sweat, and frost. Haze looked over his shoulder at them, then moved a little closer to Thorn. “What do we do, Thorn?” he asked her. “We can’t keep this up. If we get attacked again…”

“We don’t have a choice,” Thorn said, and she gently moved Haze out of the way so she could look over the pegasi they’d rescued. It was a start; nowhere near the numbers she needed to safely maintain the fog wall, but she had to work with what was in front of her. “We’re going to keep the wall up,” she told them. “We’re going to fly with the wind and beat it back. No matter how long it takes. Understand?”

The pegasi breathlessly nodded, but she could tell it was reluctant at best. Reluctant pegasi wouldn’t be able to keep the wall in one piece for her.

“Put together a cloud platform from the fog if you can,” she told them. “Take a minute to rest your wings, and then get back in the air. We cannot stop, alright? If we do, we lose.”

The soldiers nodded again, and they began to coalesce some of the fog out of the air to make a tiny cloud to rest on. Thorn didn’t focus on that, though; the wind had changed again, and she followed it to the next batch of fog. Once again using her wings as oversized feathery paddles, she fought with all her strength to keep the fog anchored in place, even as she faltered once and felt her pounding heart begin to choke her throat.

She would not fail her species.

All was deathly quiet inside Altus. The fog hung low over the fishing port, obscuring the streets below. Carver hid inside of a fish monger’s shack, the smell of oil and seaweed clinging to the walls and pummeling his nose. Behind him, two ponies waited by the windows: Summer on one end, Stonewall on the other. They had chosen a shack down by the wharf, with as clear a view out over the roiling winter oceans as they could get. The boats had disappeared well over an hour ago, if not two by this point. The plan was in motion, and now Carver felt isolated and alone. He liked having information at his wingtips as a centurion, but now, all he had was the vague framework of a plan and a simple command:

Hold the town, no matter the cost.

And it would cost them everything. Carver was no fool. He knew there was no getting out of this alive. If nothing else, he knew his family was safe. He’d placed them on one of the first boats out and had shared tears with his sister. Their goodbyes were heartfelt and raw. Both knew they would never see each other again. But it had to be done.

Carver closed his eye and inhaled sharply. Now, more than ever, he understood the ultimate meaning behind the Legion’s words.

Ante Legionem nihil erat, et nihil erit post Legionem.

Before the Legion there was nothing, and after the Legion there will be nothing.

He couldn’t let his family and past keep him from his duty now. And he couldn’t let his fear of the future keep him from doing what had to be done. The only thing that mattered now was the Legion, and he was one of its centurions. He would do his duty, and it would kill him.

“Something’s coming,” Summer abruptly said, breaking the still silence inside the shack. Carver readied his gladius and looked in her direction, and Stonewall looked over his shoulder. When Summer didn’t clarify further, Carver crossed the shack and peered out the window next to her. At first, he didn’t know what she was looking at, but then she pointed with her hoof out across the water. Sure enough, a small silhouette skimmed across the water, wings frantically flapping as it flew through the fog.

“Is that a pegasus?” Carver wondered aloud. “It’s too small to be a griffon.”

“It has to be,” Summer replied, her voice low. Then, suddenly, her eyes widened. “Gods… I think it’s Finder!”

“Finder?” Carver echoed. Sure enough, the scrawny body fluttering through the fog could be none other than Finder. Despite the orders he’d given his century to stay inside buildings until the griffons arrived, Carver rushed for the door and threw it open, flagging Finder down with a wing.

The colt arrived moments later, his coat slick with the spray of the sea. He shivered and trembled, but he didn’t give Carver a moment to ask him anything. “The griffons know!” he shouted, stumbling against Carver’s chest. “They know!”

“Woah, woah, hold on, kid!” Carver said, flustered with Finder’s desperate panic. “What do they know? What’s going on?”

But Finder didn’t answer him. “Where’s Rain?” he asked, eyes wildly tearing through the shack. “Where is she?”

“She’s gone, Finder,” Carver said. By this point, Summer and Stonewall had abandoned their posts to see what the commotion was about, and Carver angrily tried to shoo them back to the windows. Stonewall obeyed; Summer didn’t.

“Finder, what the fuck are you doing back here?” she squawked at him. Then she bit down on his ear and dragged him into the shack. “And get inside! There’s griffons about!”

Carver followed him inside and slammed the door shut, but Finder was already blathering on as fast as he could, the words leaving his mouth as fast as his mind could put them together. “Swift Spear and I went out to investigate the missing boat and then we found it but there was nopony there and there weren’t any bodies and there wasn’t any blood so that meant that something must have taken them and that means—!”

“The griffons know we’re evacuating,” Carver darkly concluded. When Finder breathlessly nodded, Carver cursed and kicked over a nearby table. “If they catch our civilians on the way out—!”

“They don’t know about the boats,” Finder insisted. “Only we knew that part of the plan. The evacuation should still be safe, but if the fog lifts…”

The four pegasi turned worried expressions toward each other. “There’s nothing we can do about that now,” Carver said. “The fog is in Thorn’s and Haze’s hooves.”

“We can do something,” Summer hissed. “We leave this dump of a town and take the fight to Yngvilde. Rain’s going to need all the help she can get!”

“Rain will be fine,” Carver insisted, attempting to pin Summer to her post with a single-eyed glare. “We have our orders, she has her plan. And if we fail…”

“We’re already failing!” Summer growled. “This stupid plan is crumbling all around us! I told her, I told you all, we should have stood and fought, not tried to run—!”

A scream punctuated the foggy town, at the same time infinitely far away and so close that it could have come from just outside their shack. All four pegasi stopped their bickering and froze in place, listening for more. Whether it was a pegasus’ scream or a griffon’s scream, none could say. But it curdled the blood and turned one’s veins to ice, and only the scream of a dying creature could shake a soldier that way.

“Posts,” Carver breathlessly ordered, though the command was hardly needed. Summer and Stonewall, experienced veterans both, went back to their positions by the windows even before his lips moved. Only Finder remained in the center of the shack, dripping wet and out of place, without a post to be ordered to. He had no sword, no armor, nothing apart from a rough spun tunic to keep him dry that had only succeeded in soaking up the salty sea spray and sticking to his coat. It probably weighed more than he did.

Now, more than ever, Carver saw the frail colt that Finder was, and not the brave little soldier he had fooled himself into seeing before.

Carver took his own post by the door of the shack and peered through the cracks in the wood. Nothing moved inside of the town, and all had fallen silent once more. He felt cracks beginning to show in his confidence. Had he really heard the scream? It was so quiet out there, it felt like only spirits and ghosts lived in Altus anymore. Though maybe that was true now; the pegasi standing in the town, ready to die, were scarce more than specters of an empire’s dying gasps.

Then it started like a boom of thunder: fast, violent, and with no warning.

The screams and squawks of a ravenous horde of murderous griffons descended on Altus like a tidal wave. The noise was so loud that it hurt Carver’s ears, and he struggled to keep them standing upright and listen for nearby movement. Finder hit the floor and covered his head while Summer and Stonewall took a few hesitant steps back. They were all thinking the same thing: how many griffons had Yngvilde sicced on Altus? How soon would they all be dead?

“Trust in the defenses,” Carver murmured under his breath. “Trust in the defenses.”

Then the screaming redoubled in earnest, raw with pain and surprise. The entire town of Altus filled with a sudden cacophony of death. The hidden pikes and traps tore through the griffons faster and dirtier than any legion of pegasi could, given the circumstances. The roof of their shack bowed and buckled as a few griffons landed on it, and blood began to drip through the moldy thatch keeping it up. One of the pikes embedded in the roof fell through to the floor, its sharpened in slick with blood. It landed in front of Finder’s face, and it was all the colt could focus on.

“Finder,” Carver warned him. “Do. Not. Move.”

All four pegasi remained still as statues as the screaming and howling carried on all around them. Carver dared lean forward just enough to peer through a crack in the shack’s door to the streets outside, where vague leonine shapes thrashed with their huge wings as they tried to break free of the tangling net tossed over the streets or pry their wounded off of the stakes jutting out of the roofs. As soon as the first charge had been broken by the static defenses, pegasi began to burst out of buildings and jab up through the nets with long pikes, skewering the attackers ensnared in them and forcing their allies to scatter and abandon them to their fate. Carver thought he saw Windshear somewhere in the mess leading the spears, but he couldn’t be sure. Yet in only a few minutes, the scattered defenders and the town itself had driven the first wave of griffons away from Altus, drawing first blood with nary a casualty.

Carver let out a breath he’d been holding and glanced back at his friends. “That’s one point for us,” he said, managing an uneasy smile.

“We’re not gonna win this fight one point at a time,” Summer muttered back. “If we don’t press our advantage—!”

“We don’t have an advantage, Summer,” Carver chastised her. “All we have are our defenses, and that barely evens the playing field. We can only hope to slow them down, not actually win this fight.”

“Bullshit,” Summer growled. “I keep telling you, but you fuckers won’t listen to me! We need to go for the head of the damn snake, not pick off her fodder one at a time!”

“We have our orders.” Carver pointedly turned away from her, trying to snuff out the argument before it got worse. “Rain will take care of it, and we’ll take care of ours. Understand?”

Summer still tried to persist. “Carver, I’m telling you…”

“Be quiet, milite,” Carver finally snapped. “That’s an order.”

Without even looking at Summer, Carver could feel her fury singeing the air at him pulling rank on her, but like a good Nimban, she shut her mouth, coiled her wings, and obeyed the command, returning her attention to her post.

All fell uncomfortably quiet again, though Carver could still hear the distant cries of griffons shouting to each other somewhere beyond the fog. They’d repulsed Yngvilde’s first test of their defenses, but he knew her horde would be adjusting their tactics now. “They’ll be approaching from the edges of town,” he said. “They can’t pounce on us from above, the nets and the stakes make sure of that, and if they try to remove them, we’ll kill them where they land.”

But just as he began to feel comfortable, he heard panicked screaming break out from somewhere behind him, coupled with Summer’s exclamation of “Shit!” He turned around and galloped over to her, abandoning his post, and was greeted with the sight of an orange glow fading against the white fog of the morning. Acrid black smoke began to rise at the edge of the town, and he thought he saw a pegasus twisting through the air, body burning like a candle in the dim gloom of the day.

“They’re trying to burn us out,” Carver realized, and he soon understood that Altus’ greatest strength was at risk of becoming its greatest weakness. Within moments, barrels of burning pitch began to rain down from clouds high in the sky, striking buildings or bouncing off the netting and spreading sticky flames that clung to everything they touched. The reed and thatch roofs of Altus lit like kindling, the damp air of the sea doing little to slow down the hunger of the flames, and fingers of fire began to glow over the streets in a crisscrossing pattern as they marched along the nets.

Summer scowled at Carver from his side. “If we burn to death here instead of dying in combat, I’m gonna rape your fucking ghost in the Great Skies.”

“We need to get out of this building,” Carver said, already moving for the door. Before he could, a burning wooden barrel smashed through the roof of the house and broke apart on the ground, splattering black pitch all over the doorway where he’d been standing not a minute before. Fire followed the liquid down from the roof, igniting the pitch and filling the air with smoke and flames that clung to whatever they touched.

“The window!” Summer screamed, already vaulting herself through the empty hole in the wall before the flames brought the roof down on them. Stonewall silently followed immediately behind, making nothing more than a grunt as the mute climbed after her. Carver started for the window on instinct, but his eyes fell back to the floor before he could, and he saw Finder shivering on the ground in a panic, seemingly unaware of the flames burning around him. “Kid!” Carver shouted, and when Finder didn’t move, he lunged back toward the middle of the room and grabbed the colt by his mane to haul him to his hooves. The colt squeaked and whimpered but began to move after Carver regardless, and the centurion flung him through the window first before jumping over after him. They both fell to the ground in a rough tangle of limbs, and Summer and Stonewall helped them stand and get away from the building as the roof cracked and began to cave in.

Carver winced and rubbed at his one good eye, already irritated from the smoke and the heat around them. It looked like they’d been taken straight to the underworld kingdom of Razgriz; the white fog was gone, burned away by the heat and pushed aside by the foul black smoke rising from the burning husks of hovels. The net strung up over the streets was collapsing as the flames ate away the knots holding it together, and griffons were already beginning to enter the streets from holes in the protective screen. Legionaries rushed out of burning homes, some with soot and sweat on their faces, others swatting frantically at flames clinging to their manes and tails and feathers. Everywhere, Cirrans clashed with Gryphons among the fires, looking like a legion of damned fighting against a horde of disgraced.

“How the fuck are we supposed to hold the town now?!” Summer shouted over the roar of the fires. “There isn’t gonna be a town to hold much longer!”

“The town doesn’t matter,” Carver said, coughing out a lungful of ash. “Only the griffons do. We need to kill them and keep their attention here, no matter the cost.”

Summer and Stonewall exchanged looks, and Carver turned to the little colt next to him. “Finder,” he said, “I need you to follow me close, okay? Stay glued to my flank.”

Though Pathfinder looked dazed and horribly confused, he nevertheless managed a little nod and took a few steps toward Carver’s side. Carver patted him on the back with a sooty wing, then turned back to the rest of his squad. “We go up the street, link up with the spears. We can make a phalanx going down the street. If we can form a cohort, we’ll get the griffons’ attention for sure.”

“If we’re gonna die, let’s at least do it quickly,” Summer growled, eyes flicking up and down the street as griffons closed in through the crumbling defenses. At last, they settled on Carver. “Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

Carver suppressed a sigh—he knew he’d be dealing with the aftermath of pressing rank on her for a while. Still, that was a problem for later; right now, there were griffons that needed killing if they were going to have any hope of keeping the evacuation secure. Spotting a contingent of spears, Carver pointed in their direction with a wing, the sharp scales along his feathers rattling and reflecting the lights of the fires around him like thousands of tiny suns. “That way. Form a wedge and cut through anything between us and them. Let’s move!”

The four ponies moved as one, with Carver taking point, Stonewall on his left, and Summer on his right to cover his blind spot. Pathfinder trailed behind them, too afraid to get too close to his friends when they inevitably entered the fray, yet doggedly following their hooves in case griffons attacked their rear. Up ahead, a pair of eight-pegasi contubernia had formed themselves into two lines facing outward, their spears keeping a pack of griffons at bay and blocking the street. The griffons harassing their lines had steadily forced them back toward each other, and now they were out of room to retreat.

Carver didn’t have to give any commands; he and his companions all launched themselves into the griffon rear with brutal discipline, cutting several down where they stood before the rest realized they were under attack from two sides. Pathfinder stood back as they worked, useless as he was in a fight without weapons or armor. Carver ran his gladius through the unarmored neck of a griffon as it tried to disengage from the spears, while Stonewall used his shoulder to knock a griffon off its paws for a spear to tear open its throat. Summer pounced on the back of one griffon, tumbling to the ground with him, and cut into the hybrid’s body with bladed wings, snarling all the while. It scared Pathfinder to see his friends throw themselves so readily into brutal killing like perfect soldiers of the Legion, and it left him ashamed that he couldn’t be strong and brave like them.

The chaos Carver’s wedge sowed in the griffon ranks allowed the line of spearponies to press their attack, and the razor sharp points flared in and out as they advanced. In moments, the throng of griffon soldiers lay dead and dying, and the spearponies turned about to aid their friends on the other side. Together, the two lines of spears forced the griffons to retreat, those that could taking wing through the smoke and ash for safety, while others ended up tangled in the nets still hanging over the streets. The former disappeared into the malaise; the latter died on spearheads as they tried to tear themselves free.

Carver pulled aside the spearponies’ centurion as her soldiers caught their breath. “Where’s Windshear?”

“I don’t know,” the centurion admitted. “We got separated when the griffons started firebombing us. He had about half of my century with him. I think they were moving toward the piers.”

“Okay. We need to find him, regroup and rally.” Carver turned a worried eye toward the flames leaping up from buildings around them, silhouetting avian monsters against the smoke and fog. “If we can form up, we can delay the griffons a little longer.”

“Delay?” The centurion scoffed and pointed at her soldiers, most of whom were covered in blood and soot. “There’s no delaying this. Another hour, we won’t have a town to hold.”

“Then we’ll hold the cinders,” Carver snapped. “We have to keep the griffons’ attention on us or else it’s all over!”

“It’s already over.” There wasn’t any fight in the mare’s voice; it had been replaced with sheer exhaustion and grim despair. “I’m taking my soldiers to the skies and we’re flying west. We’ll have a better chance at making it over the open sea. If we find the civilians, we’ll provide rearguard for them.”

Carver’s jaw hung agape. “You’re abandoning Altus?”

“What’s left to abandon?” The mare raised an eyebrow and gestured around her. “Fire and a lost battle? Altus is lost. Now we need to defend our civilians over the open seas.”

“We swore an oath,” Carver reminded her. “To lay down our lives for the Legion.”

“I remember the words.” The centurion sighed and spread her wings. “You can decide if you want to die with meaning or not. I’m saving my soldiers from this deathtrap. The Legion means nothing if there isn’t a Legion left at the end of it all.”

With that, the centurion sharply whistled to her spearponies and took wing through a gap in the net, a trail of soot-stained armor following after her. Carver could only watch in dismay as legionaries began to abandon the burning ruins of Altus for safer skies—not that they’d find much more safety with the hordes of griffons flying above them. The plan, already held together by little more than desperation and duty, was unraveling at an alarming rate.

Summer made her way to Carver’s side as he stared into the smoke above them. “We need to change the plan,” she insisted. What exactly she wanted to change it to didn’t need to be said.

Carver gnashed his teeth together. “We need to go to the pier and find Windshear.”

“Are you serious?” Summer’s eyes widened in surprise. “Soldiers are abandoning Altus by the score, and you’re still determined to hang onto the town?! We need to—!”

“I know what we need to do!” Carver shouted back at her, and the harsh edge to the stallion’s normally calm and friendly voice made Pathfinder jump. When Summer fell silent, Carver sighed and rubbed his feathers against his brow. “You need Windshear’s spear if you’re going to have a chance to take that monster on. Griffons are bigger than us, and she’s bigger and stronger than most. If you can’t keep a little separation on her, she’ll kill you all in seconds.”

“By the gods, finally,” Summer said, wingtips fluttering at finally getting what she wanted out of Carver. Then she hesitated. “Wait, ‘You’?” she asked. “You’re not coming with us?”

“I can’t,” Carver said, gesturing around them. “I swore to help hold the town, and I’ll hold it to the last. Besides, you can’t take Pathfinder with you. He needs somepony to protect him.”

Summer glanced back at the shivering colt and cursed. “Damn it. Okay. We’ll get Windshear, then the three of us will go after Yngvilde while you keep Pathfinder safe.”

Stonewall silently nodded his agreement, and Carver bobbed his head as well. “Alright. Let’s get moving; we can’t waste any more time.”

He turned to go, but Summer jumped forward. “Carver, wait.” When the stallion looked back at her, eyebrow raised, the mare hesitated and wiped at her soot-streaked face with her wingtip. “Just… gods damn it all…”

Before Carver could ask what she meant, Summer grabbed his face in her hooves and pulled it to her own. Her lips attacked his and she kissed him so ferociously that he stumbled backwards and into the side of a building. Summer didn’t stop until she absolutely had to take a breath, and then she glared at him with harsh emerald eyes. “Don’t fucking die, Carver,” she commanded him. “I’m not done with you yet.”

With that, she galloped off to the docks, leaving a very stunned Carver behind to struggle to comprehend what just happened. Finder blinked blankly at Carver, and it was only when Stonewall wheezed in silent laughter and slapped Carver on the shoulder that the centurion seemed to get some of his wits back about him.

“Err… right. Let’s… let’s get after her.” His worked his jaw from side to side and touched his hoof to his lip. “I think she bit me…”

The renewed screeching of griffons overhead snapped them out of it, and Carver made sure Finder was close behind him before chasing after Summer into the thick of the town, toward the pier jutting out over the silty shores into the crashing sea beyond. The fighting, it seemed, had slowly concentrated the defenders and attackers toward this one spot, where the constant salt and spray kept the netting wet and the fires away, and the barrels of pitch would fall harmlessly into the ocean as the waves smashed up against the stony seawall. The buildings surrounding the pier were all burning, and some groaned and cried out as their roofs collapsed and their walls billowed out. Spears and swords held the piers and the surrounding real estate from the griffons pushing up against them, and more of the mongrels would drop in through holes in the netting and add themselves to the push. Furious, chaotic fighting and dueling erupted in the side streets and alleys as isolated groups of pegasi and griffons struggled against each other, and Carver and Stonewall added themselves to a knot of combat Summer had thrown herself into while Pathfinder huddled against the wall of a building yet to be consumed by flames.

Carver slid himself in by Summer’s left with a flourish and slash of his sword, driving the gladius between the loose shoulder plates of a griffon and cleaving its arm from its shoulder. Summer winced at the surprise spray of blood taking her in the side of the face, and she whirled about to finish the griffon off with the pointed crest of her wing. “I got you,” was all she said, paired with a glimpse of teeth behind bloodied lips, and she backed against Carver, brushing her flank against his as she covered the stallion’s blindside.

The three members of the Rainstorm left behind to hold Altus pushed their way through the thick of the fighting, Pathfinder huddling behind them and trying to keep his head low and out of the fighting. The chaos around him was impossible to focus on; everything was fire and steel and blood, set to an orchestra of wails and a trumpeting of screams. Griffons and pegasi met in a furious clash of steel and death, and the sea-slick planks of the pier groaned and creaked as bodies piled in. He locked in on Carver’s tail, staying as close to the sweaty, ash-laden bundle of hair as he could, cowering as sparks cascaded around him from clashing swords and the breaking waves showered him in salt.

A body slammed into his side, and he toppled over with a yelp. The pier struck him like a hammer to his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs and putting stars in his eyes. When he tried to stand up, a hind hoof caught him below the ear, and nausea overtook him as the world began to ring. Whimpering, Finder tried to curl up into a ball, but claws raked at his hock before a gurgling cry showered him in blood. The colt screamed as he felt something haul him upright, but the grip on his shoulders came from blunt hooves instead of sharp talons.

Then he was sitting on his haunches, and Summer’s pink mane filled his vision. The ends were slick with cloying blood, turning brown as they glued themselves to her face under her galea. She was shouting something at him, though the ringing in his ears wouldn’t let him hear her words. Her hooves dug through the bag of medical supplies she kept at her flank, and she pulled out a wine-soaked rag and pressed it to Finder’s ear. Hold this, he thought he saw her mouth, or maybe she said something and he simply couldn’t hear it; the world was bright and spinning, and he doubled over to retch on the slick wooden planks when he reached for the rag.

Summer turned away at that moment, leaving Pathfinder behind and throwing herself back into the fray to plug the hole she’d left behind. The colt quivered and feebly reached for the rag, clutching it between his hooves as bodies moved around him. Some part of him realized he was surrounded by ponies wielding spears, their armor glistening with spray and feathers crusted with salt. They shouted and thrusted in discord as the pegasus ranks splintered, but a stallion as white as the salt of the sea rallied them and pushed back with his spear. The ranks of the legionaries closed, reinforced with Carver, Summer, and Stonewall, and the pier began to feel a little less crowded as they pushed forward in stomping unison, leaving Finder behind.

Left to his own at the end of the slick jetty, Pathfinder clutched one hoof to his stomach and the other to his ear, wine-soaked rag burning the gash and making him wince. Windshear and Carver had rallied the defenders of the pier and were pushing back, using their spears and pikes to send the griffons scrambling for safety. The low net hung over the water prevented the larger beasts from taking wing, and many tumbled into the waves on either side as they died, bleeding from wounds to their throats or chests. An ear-splitting screech rose up over the harbor, and as one the griffons began to withdraw, surrendering the trembling wooden pier to the pegasi. Rather than pursue into a griffon shield wall, beaten, battered, and bloody legionaries planted the butts of their spears into the wood at the base of the jetty and took several panting breaths. A momentary truce settled over the town, an eerie silence broken only by the cries of pegasi and griffons dying elsewhere in the smoke, and the crackling of timbers as they gave way to the fire burning through them.

Pathfinder forced himself to his hooves and began to walk. He trembled with every step, feeling like the world was spinning around him, but he made it to the rear ranks of the auxiliary spears, where his friends were gathering to lick their wounds. Carver and Summer seemed uninjured, but Stonewall held his wing awkwardly against his side, and Windshear had lost his helmet somewhere in the fighting and his entire body seemed to be covered in scratches and oozing blood. A chunk of feathers had been torn out of his left wing, but if it bothered him any, he didn’t show it.

Windshear only gave Finder a breathless nod before turning back to Carver. “It’s impossible,” he said. “We’re not going to hold much longer. Gods, the pier isn’t going to hold much longer. I thought it was going to collapse in that last crush.”

“We can’t hold Altus,” Carver agreed. “But we can make them pay for every inch of it.”

“But we need to go after Yngvilde while the griffons are focused here,” Summer said. “Rain’s strike team failed, otherwise there’d be chaos in the griffon horde.”

“You don’t call this chaos?” Windshear gestured around them incredulously.

“She’s sending commands to her army through messengers,” Carver said. “That’s the only way you keep a griffon horde like this from falling apart into an undisciplined mess. Cut her out of the equation, the horde will disperse without a general to command them.”

“Why not just go after the messengers, then?” Windshear asked. “There’s no way we can kill her. She’s Magnus’ daughter, and you all know what happened when Rain should have killed him.”

“We don’t know how many runners Yngvilde has or where they might be,” Summer said. “And Yngvilde isn’t Magnus. Whatever Magnus has, she only has half of it. Her mother was a normal hen.”

“You have to try,” Carver insisted. “Altus is lost; we’re only buying time, and our purse is almost empty. Discipline across the town is cracking. Pegasi are fleeing west as their units break to find the civilians. If we don’t end this, get the horde to dissolve…”

“Alright, alright, you make your point.” Windshear cursed and shook his head. “You sure Rain failed?”

“Hold out your wing,” Summer said, extending her own. “You feel that?”

Windshear did as he was told, Pathfinder as well, and a grim look settled on the spearpony’s face. “The wind’s still blowing,” he said, and Pathfinder noted how the feathers in his wing ruffled this way and that as the wind blew against them. “Damn it. Okay, so she’s still making the wind. But there’s no way we can kill her.”

“Even if we can’t, we’re getting her to stop blowing away the fog,” Carver said. “She can’t fight and use her magic at the same time. The wind wasn’t blowing earlier when Rain supposedly was engaging her, it only started up a little while ago. But if we don’t stop that wind, the fog, the whole evacuation…”

“Right, right. I know.” Just as he started to stand up, anxious shouting rose up from the front lines. The five ponies all stood up and turned toward the town, where a fresh wave of griffon reinforcements through themselves at the pegasi holding the pier. The sheer weight of the charge sent the pegasus lines reeling back, and soon the five friends had to backpedal to not get trampled by their own soldiers.

“We have to go now!” Summer shouted, looking back over her shoulder. “The harbor! There’s a gap in the net! We can slip through!”

“Go!” Carver shouted, but before he and Stonewall could disengage from the crush, griffons leaping into the water began to pull themselves up the wooden posts of the pier with their claws. One reached for Stonewall’s hoof, grabbed it and nearly dragged the stallion into the water before Carver lunged in to sever the hand from its arm. The two stallions struggled to recover, and soon the crush was on them, swept into the mass of backpedaling spearponies.

“Carver!” Windshear screamed, but Summer grabbed his shoulders and dragged him toward the end of the pier.

“We have to go!” she shouted at him, and Pathfinder thought he saw tears forming in her eyes—or was that just the sea spray? With a grunt, the medic flung Windshear backwards, where his only options were to catch himself on his wings and fly out or splash into the water below. He chose the former, and as he slipped past the net, Summer bit down on Finder’s mane and did the same, forcing the colt to take wing as the sea rose up to meet him. The icy cold winter water lapped at his underbelly, and the sagging net over the pier came down to meet him, but he could see the little hole between the water and the net—

And then he was through, wings shedding seawater as he gained altitude. He met Windshear hovering some dozen yards above the ground, and Summer joined them. “Come on, we have to move!” Summer urged them, but Windshear lingered, and so too did Pathfinder, their eyes trained on the pier below. Pathfinder desperately searched for Carver somewhere in the crowd of combatants, and Stonewall too, but couldn’t find either.

“Oh, gods…” Windshear moaned, and Finder quickly saw why. One of the houses on the pier’s south side collapsed into the sea, dragging the net stretching between it and a house on the north side of the pier down onto the battle. Griffons and pegasi alike dropped their weapons and cried out in alarm as the slick ropes bowled many into the water, pinning many more against the wooden pier. And it was then that Finder spotted Carver, head and foreleg stuck between the knots of the net, trying desperately to cut his way free with his wings.

Then the north house collapsed.

“CARVER! NOOOO!” a distant voice shouted; whether it was Summer’s or Windshear’s or his own, Pathfinder couldn’t tell. The collapsing north house topped into the sea, pressing the net firmly down on the pier and knocking more creatures into the water. The weight of the debris dragging on the pier, already weakened from the fighting, cracked and splintered one of the supports. And once the first slick trunk gave way, the others soon caved and failed like a house of cards. In moments, the pier that had once launched fisherponies and been the heart of the small town collapsed into the sea, dragging everyone on it, griffon and pegasus, into the ice-cold water.

Pathfinder trembled, his eyes desperately flickering across the water. He could see ponies and griffons thrashing about, struggling to break free, but the armor and the chill hemorrhaged away their strength, dragging them to the cold below. Fire danced on top of the waves as the pitch floating in the sea caught fire, and soon there was nothing except a swirling sea of white and orange, froth and fire, salt and steam.

A warm cheek pressed against Finder’s own, and soon Summer took his hoof and began to guide him away from the town. “Come on, Pathfinder,” she urged him. “Come on, let’s go.”

Wordlessly, Finder nodded and flapped his wings some more, but he felt like a ghost, like he wasn’t really there. For while his body may have been flying east with the last two surviving friends he had, his soul stayed and drowned beneath the fires of Altus like so many other ponies.

The Last Stand IV

Every hair of Thorn’s coat hurt. Every muscle fiber in her body felt like it was on fire. Every feather felt like a knife jammed into her wings.

The sweat practically steamed off of her body as she followed the wind. Despite the frigid air surrounding her, she was hot and dehydrated. Every single joint in her skeleton felt like it was swollen to the point where she couldn’t move, but she continued chasing the wind anyway. It was all she could do, and if she focused on her duty, she found she could ignore the pain. For now.

Other pegasi soared through the skies around her. Her makeshift century had done all they could to stabilize the fog over the coast. Sunny Days had returned with a few squadrons of legionaries and had promptly collapsed on the small cloud platform behind the wind, and hadn’t moved since. At one point, Thorn looked over her shoulder to see a few legionaries tossing her body into the sea so they could use the cloud. Haze explained to her that she’d died of sheer exhaustion as soon as she collapsed on the platform. A pang of sorrow nailed Thorn’s heart, but she didn’t linger on it. Sunny had done her job, just as she needed to do hers.

Even if she died just like Sunny.

A flicker of movement turned her eye to the side. At first she thought it was a griffon approaching her deafened side, but when she narrowed her eyes on the silhouette, she saw the limp body of a pegasus plummeting out of the air, glistening armor dully gleaming through the fog as it fell.

She didn’t waste her breath pointing it out to Haze or even to curse. She needed every lungful she could get.

The wind moved again, but she could feel it was wavering. Either Yngvilde was getting tired, or something was distracting her. Thorn didn’t know what it was, but she hoped it continued. They needed a break. They’d been flying and fighting for more than an hour since the wind started up, and now her backup was dropping out of the skies all around her. How much longer would she have to fly?!

Another pegasus dropped right in front of Thorn, and she could only watch as he helplessly fell to the sea below on weakly fluttering wings. As much as she wanted to swoop down and catch him, she knew she didn’t have the strength to carry him to the platform; their armor would drag her down with him. Instead, she tried to hold her wings straight and glide for a few seconds to ease some of the burning in her shoulders, but her trembling wings weren’t strong enough to stay straight and hold her altitude, and she had to flap them again to climb back to Haze’s side.

“Take… a break… Thorn!” Haze hissed at her between panting breaths. “You… need one!”

“No!” Thorn shouted back. “I… I can’t! Gotta… keep… the fog…!”

She faltered, and Haze caught her before she could fall out of the air entirely. She could see her coltfriend straining to support her, feel the heat radiating off of his body. He was trying so hard to fly with her and be by her side, and now he could only do his best to carry her as she wavered.

With a few seconds to relax her wings, Thorn carried her own weight again and once more flew into the face of the wind. “Thanks,” she coughed out. It was so difficult to breathe now. Her heart felt like it was about to burst and her panting wouldn’t let her fill her lungs with the air she needed to keep flying. Her wings were ragged and losing their feathers at an alarming rate. And if she’d already faltered once, it wouldn’t be long before she faltered again.

A particularly strong torrent of wind began to rip through the fog, and it sent Thorn and Haze tumbling backwards through the sky. Pegasi cried out as the gust knocked them out of the sky, and many weren’t able to recover. The gust tore apart the platform they’d all been using to rest on, sending tiny puffs of cloud bouncing through the atmosphere. And just like that, the fog began to part.

Thorn saw the opening as she tumbled through the air, and instinct and desperation alone caught her. She flew back into the face of the storm, beating the fog back once again, a one-mare immovable object against the unstoppable wind. Haze managed to follow her back into the storm, and the two pegasi used whatever reserves they had left to plug the gap.

Until Thorn noticed Haze drifting back out of the corner of her eye. She looked over her shoulder to see the stallion struggling to fly through the clouds, and he slowly began to lose altitude between each flap of his wings. “Haze… Haze!” Thorn shouted, using all her strength just to even maintain her position in the gale. “C’mon… fly… fly!”

She saw Haze strain against the wind with everything he had left, but it simply wasn’t enough. He stabilized his flight for a few seconds, and then a gust of wind tore a chunk of feathers out of his right wing. He drifted to the side, wings pivoting to hold him in place, but to no avail. His eyes locked with Thorn and he gave her a sorrowful smile, and then the wind knocked him out of the sky.

Thorn’s eyes widened in a panic, and she nearly broke free from her position in the sky to catch him, but he was long gone before she could even do so. All that remained of Haze was a gray silhouette fading into the white of the fog, and before she could blink—nothing.

Swallowing hard, Thorn turned her attention back to the wind. It was failing now, growing weaker by the second. But unfortunately, she was the last pegasus left to hold it in place. So she pushed against it. Every flap of her wings was another blow to the wind. The wall of fog began to fill back in as she shoveled it in front of her, and she nearly gagged on her own breath when she tried to breathe and the wind forced itself down her throat. But it was getting so weak. Just a bit longer…

And just like that, the wind stopped. Thorn blinked in astonishment, and turned her head this way and that to make sure it hadn’t appeared somewhere else. But all was still and all was quiet. It wasn’t hard to imagine she was the only living creature left in the entirety of the skies.

She felt a sharp pain in her chest, and she couldn’t hear her heart thumping anymore. Her wings stopped moving, and the wind began to tickle her sole remaining ear. Then she saw her legs and wingtips limply splayed in front of her as she fell back-first toward the oceans below.

It didn’t bother her any. She’d done her job. The evacuation was safe.

She blacked out long before she hit the water.

Finder trembled as he followed Summer and Windshear through the brush outside the griffon camp. Not for the first time, he felt the terror in his chest urging him to flee, to take wing and fly as far away from here as possible. But he couldn’t fly, not with his injuries, and even if he could, the griffons would surely see him and kill him. Or worse, take him alive. On top of that, he’d insisted on following Summer and Windshear to the camp, and he couldn’t back out now. He needed to know if Rain was okay, and if she wasn’t…

He swallowed hard and tried to breathe through chattering teeth. Knowing would be better than not knowing.

“Camp seems empty,” Summer hissed to Windshear as she crawled along on her belly.

“You know it’s not going to be that easy,” Windshear hissed back. “Rain probably fell into the same trap we’re falling into.”

“T-Trap?” Finder stammered. His wild eyes darted between the tents, expecting to see a swish of a leonine tail or murderous avian eyes glinting at him from the shadows. “Oh no…”

Summer looked back at Finder and frowned. “I think you should stay here, Finder,” she said. “You’re too jumpy, and we need to do this quietly.”

“No!” Finder exclaimed. He stood up, wings flaring. “I don’t—!”

“Shut your mouth, kid!” Windshear exclaimed, jamming his feathers into Finder’s open mouth. He used his other wing to gently encourage Finder to lie back down, and only then did he pull his feathers back. “Summer’s right, though,” he said. “If we’re going to have any chance of getting Rain out of here—any chance—then we need to do this quietly. Slip in, find Rain, and slip out. And we can’t do that if you’re going to flinch every time you see your own shadow.”

“I can be quiet!” Finder whispered. “Honest!”

“Count to ten for me, right now,” Summer whispered, glaring at him.

“W-Why?”

“Do it!”

Finder flinched back and swallowed hard. “Uhmm… One… t-two… t-t-three—”

“Stop.” Summer dismissively waved her wing. “Until you get control of your nerves, I’m not taking you out there with me. Stay here and keep your head down. I don’t want to have to watch your ass as well as my own.”

“But—!”

“She’s right,” Windshear said. When Finder snapped his eyes to him, he tried to offer the colt a soothing smile. “You can be our lookout. Any griffons come back, it’ll be up to you to let us know. We’re counting on you, okay?”

After a few seconds of mental deliberation, Finder shakily bobbed his head. “O-Okay,” he said. “Just please be careful? I don’t… I don’t want…”

“We’ll be fine, kid,” Summer said with a wink. “And Rain will be too.” Then, turning her attention to Windshear, she picked herself up off the ground. “Ready?”

“No,” Windshear said, standing up as well. “But I’m with you.”

“Good.” Summer nodded and readied her sword. “Then let’s get moving—!”

All three ponies flinched as a raw scream of agony tore over the camp. Finder’s heart lurched into his chest as he recognized Rain’s voice, even beneath all the pain. “Rain!” he shouted, jumping to his hooves and barreling forward, his hooves kicking up dirt as he galloped into the camp. Both Summer and Windshear were too slow to grab him before he darted past, and Summer cursed as she took off after him.

“Damn it, Finder!” she shouted at him, wings building up speed to overtake the colt. “You’re gonna get yourself killed!”

“You’re gonna get yourself killed!” Windshear hissed at her from behind. “Stop screaming!”

Finder charged past one tent and then another, trying to pinpoint the location of Rain’s screams. His fear had been forgotten; the only thing that remained was a panicked worry for the mare who had nursed him back to health. He was aware of Summer chasing after him, but it barely registered as a blip in his mind. His thoughts were focused only on Rain—so it was a bit of a surprise when Summer tackled him from behind and clamped his muzzle shut so he couldn’t cry out.

“Calm the fuck down!” Summer hissed in his ear. “You’re going to get every one of us, including Rain, fucking killed!”

“Take it easy on him, Celsus,” Windshear said, quietly gliding in after her. “He’s just worried.”

“I’ve half a mind to knock him out cold and dump him off in the brush somewhere…”

Another raw scream stole their attention, along with the clanging of metal on metal. All three friends turned their attention in the direction of the noise, where through a parting in the tents, they caught a glimpse of what was happening. There was Iron Rain, her wings bound and her body tied to a large wooden stake, her chest heaving and lips parted as she panted for breath. A pair of griffons stood next to her, one a hen, the other a tercel. Yngvilde was obvious from her sheer size and her similar looks to Magnus, but Finder didn’t recognize the tercel until he turned around and the flickering flame of a fire reflected off his glasses.

Todesangst.

Finder’s blood turned to ice and his limbs locked up. Todesangst was here? Here at this camp? This very camp he was in? The colt started shivering in terror. No, not here. Not like this. It was like he was a prisoner again, trapped in a camp with griffons who tortured him, day in and day out, who—!

“What is that fucker doing to her?” Summer growled. Her limbs tensed, ready to spring into action. “I oughta rip him in half!”

“Let’s get closer first,” Windshear cautioned. “We’ll have a better chance if we sneak up on them—oh, gods…”

Windshear paled as Todesangst grabbed a pair of tongs from a crackling fire and pulled a glowing horseshoe out of the blace. Rain tried to thrash away as he approached her with the shoe, but she was too tightly tied to the stake, and she couldn’t get away from Yngvilde’s vise-like grip. The hen grabbed down on her forehoof and forced her to extend it all the way, then held it in place while Todesangst mounted the shoe and hammered it into her hoof. For the fourth time, Rain screamed bloody murder, and it was only then did Finder see the faintly glowing shoes attached to her other hooves.

“Fuck,” Windshear whispered. “Oh, fuck…”

Summer showed far less restraint. “Stop it!” she screamed, tearing out of the cover of the tent and lunging at the two griffons. Their heads snapped in her direction, and Yngvilde grinned as Summer rushed her, sword swinging. All it took was a twitch of her feathers, and a strong gale caught the mare’s outstretched wings and sent her tumbling backwards.

Yngvilde smirked as she stepped forward, her eyes flitting to Windshear, then to Finder. “Just three, hmm?” she said, loosening the chains of her blades and letting them rattle as they dragged across the ground. “And you couldn’t even manage to sneak up on me. I was so distracted blowing away your silly fog and playing with your leader that I wouldn’t have noticed had you not been so loud.”

Summer snarled and rolled to her hooves, this time lunging at Yngvilde without the aid of her wings. The lack of feathers hurt her agility, however, and Yngvilde whipped a chained blade out with a gust of wind, nearly severing Summer’s head from her neck. Only a quick twist of her body and a raising of her armored forelegs saved the mare from her demise, but Yngvilde swooped under her and tossed her across the camp with little more than a flap of her wings and a shrug of her shoulders. A wooden pole in a tent cracked in two, and Summer flailed as the canvas enveloped her.

“You are nothing like your leader,” Yngvilde said, her eyes shifting to Windshear, who had approached much more cautiously with his spear readied. “She had fight in her. She had skill and control. And she had luck. None of that helped her. That’s why she’s tied to a post, wearing burning horseshoes after we plucked her feathers and poured hot ashes in her missing eye.” She relaxed her posture and exaggerated a yawn. “I could kill both of you in the blink of an eye. It wouldn’t even be fun.”

Her bored look turned into an excited grin, and she turned to Todesangst. “Give the last of the Rains her sword,” she said, to the tercel’s surprise. “Cut her ropes and let her fight. Then make yourself scarce. I wouldn’t want my favorite torturer to get himself hurt.”

Todesangst looked unsure, but a stern look from Yngvilde moved the wary griffon from his post by Rain’s side. He snatched Iron’s zweihoofer from where it lay and dropped it in front of her, then severed one loop of the rope holding her to her post. As Rain started to wiggle herself free, he bent down and whispered in her ear. “We should do this again sometime, Fraulein Regen. I did quite enjoy it, and I hope you did, too.”

Rain tried to slam her head against hers, but the tercel was too quick, slipping away into the camp. By the time she’d tossed the ropes that bound her wings to the ground, Todesangst was nowhere to be seen.

Another furious scream rang out from the camp, and Yngvilde lashed out with her chains, catching Summer’s hooves mid-charge and tripping her to the ground. Windshear tried to jab at her from behind, but her tail wrapped around the haft of his spear, jerking it out of his grip. Spear and stallion went two separate ways as Yngvilde’s fist met Windshear’s face and his spear buried itself in the wooden pole by Rain’s side. Grinning, Yngvilde turned to Rain and loosened her shoulders. “Ah, finally. I hope you’re ready to fight?”

Rain grabbed her knife, Mary, and pried off the horseshoes one by one, their metal still steaming in the winter air. She winced as her raw hooves touched the ground, but she didn’t let it interfere with her stance. Instead, she walked over to the pole, pried Windshear’s spear out of the wood, and tossed it to the stallion, who caught it in his wings as he sat up. “I was born ready,” she said, her voice hoarse and cracking from all the screaming she’d forced through her throat minutes before. Her eyes slid to Summer, who shook some dizziness out of her head and snatched her sword as she stood up. “Fight me and let them go,” she said to Yngvilde. “It’s me you want.”

“What I want is an entertaining fight.” Yngvilde smiled and began to slowly spin one of her swords by its chain, pacing ever closer to Rain.

“You’re outnumbered,” Rain observed.

“You’re outclassed,” Yngvilde retorted.

“We’ll see about that.”

Yngvilde was the first to move, whipping her twirling blade out at Rain. The links rattled as they straightened, and Rain quickly spun zwei around to deflect the chain away from her. She tried to charge forward, but her hooves still ached and burned from the glowing shoes she’d had hammered into them, and it hurt her ability to run. It was all she could do to shore up her stance and again deflect the second chained blade as Yngvilde slammed it down on her, the shower of sparks the two weapons made cascading into her face.

Summer roared as she leaped at Yngvilde from the side, and the griffoness tucked her wings and rolled underneath the pegasus. A flick of her wrist pulled her blade back to her right hand as she rolled back to her paws, and she launched it out in a sweeping arc at Summer’s backside even as she pulled back on the chain of her left blade. Summer flipped about in midair, her hooves landing firmly on the wooden stake that Rain had been tied to, and kicked off of it directly at Yngvilde. The hen pivoted her shoulders before Summer could close the distance, and the recoiling chain instead whipped in the pegasus’ direction, striking her midsection with the barbs and sending her tumbling out of the sky.

Windshear jabbed at the hen from behind, but Yngvilde casually moved her head to the side, grinning as the point of the spear poked past her face. Before Windshear could pull it back, she bit down on the haft and used her tremendous size and muscle to lift the stallion off the ground and slam him into the dirt in front of her. She redirected her right hand to pull the outstretched blade back across Windshear’s neck, but Rain jumped over the stallion and swung straight for Yngvilde’s. The hen pulled her right arm across her body instead, the outstretched chain catching the zweihoofer mid-swing, and she struck Rain across the face with her open left hand, her talons slicing through the Nimban’s cheek and smacking her away. Rain’s tattered wings flailed as she spun through the air before she crashed through a tent, taking the entire structure down with her.

“Pathetic!” Yngvilde squawked, pacing back and forth while she waited for her opponents to recover. “Is this all Cirra’s best have to offer me? Get up! Make me break a sweat!”

Both her blades returned to her hands at the beckoning of the winds, and she spun about when she heard hooves thundering across the ground behind her. Summer rushed at her once more, sword held high and wing blades at the ready, and Yngvilde practically trembled with pleasure once she closed to striking distance. Instead of flinging her blades out again, she grasped them firmly in her hands, parrying Summer’s ferocious slashes in a cascade of sparks and a cacophony of clashing metal. Even outnumbered two blades to three, the griffoness deftly parried and blocked every one of Summer’s attacks. As Summer tried to scissor the hen with her sword and an opposing wing blade, Yngvilde suddenly let go of her right blade and pivoted sharply to her left. The unraveling chain caught Summer under her left wing and wrapped around her neck twice, and as the mare choked and swung wildly with her free wing, Yngvilde ducked under it and slid behind the mare, flipping her over backwards and slamming her skull into the ground.

“You have no control!” Yngvilde taunted Summer as she struggled to free herself. “Is that why you’re a medicus and not a real soldier? What a shame you must have been to Nimbus—when there was something left of it!”

Yngvilde pivoted about to fend off a flurry of spear jabs from Windshear, sidestepping each thrust and parrying those she couldn’t move away from. Still, she maintained her grip on her other chain, keeping Summer strangled and helpless on the ground—at least until Rain appeared behind her, swinging zwei. Yngvilde pulled back on her chain then, unraveling the length from around Summer’s neck and slicing through her coat as it did so. The blade whipped past Yngvilde’s body and almost split Rain in two lengthwise, but the Nimban mare wisely rolled out of her attack and flopped to the side when her tired legs failed to get her standing again.

Yngvilde flapped her wings and jumped a good thirty feet away. Her claws digging through the dirt and mud as she turned about to face her opponents once more, she pulled both her blades back close to her body and began to spin them, the tips just barely scuffing the ground as she waited for the pegasi to approach her again.

“She’s too fucking fast,” Windshear grunted. Sweat shined on his face and neck, and his nostrils flared as he struggled to control his breathing. “We can’t get close to her.”

“That’s not the problem,” Rain observed, her eyes focusing on the spinning blades. “It’s those damn chains.”

“Fuck the chains,” Summer croaked as she stood up, blood dripping from numerous gashes around her neck and shoulders. “She’s gonna die like the rest of her kind, chains or not!”

Rain put her hoof on Summer’s shoulder before she could sprint off once more. “As a team,” she said. “We’re not making any progress one on one.”

“Are you three done with your pep talk?” Yngvilde called out from the other side of the camp. “Or should I go back to blowing away the fog you set up to hide your little town from me?”

“Follow my lead,” Rain advised, and tightening her grip on zwei once more, she began to gallop toward Yngvilde.

As soon as all three pegasi began charging her once more, Yngvilde’s paws shifted in the dirt and she threw her chained blades in opposite directions. After letting the chains unspool to almost their maximum length, the griffoness twisted in place, turning the two chains into a ferocious whirlwind of steel, breaking up the charge of the pegasi. Rain deflected one away off the flat of zwei and Windshear slid underneath the second, but neither managed to stop the chains from spinning. The closer they got, the more Yngvilde wrapped the lengths around her forearms, and the faster the blades became. Only Summer seemed to have gotten away from them, flying over the other two, but the moment she began her dive, Yngvilde stopped spinning and slammed the blades down from overhead, nearly slicing both of Summer’s wings off were it not for a last second roll by the medic.

Rain managed to slip between the blades at that moment and plow into Yngvilde with her shoulder, staggering the hen backwards if failing to topple her entirely. Windshear followed that up with a trio of spear thrusts that nearly impaled the griffon’s neck, and Yngvilde had to quickly pull her blades back to her to fight off the stallion. As she caught his spear on a cross of blades, Summer yelled as she pounced on her from above, and Yngvilde rolled backwards to dodge the attack. Almost immediately after, she found herself rolling away on the dirt from a slash from Rain’s zweihander, only jumping back to her paws when she was a safe distance away.

“Yeah, that’s more like it!” she said with an excited grin on her beak. “Now we’re talking!”

This time, the griffon took the offensive, charging directly into the trio of pegasi with her blades lashing out around her. The three ponies had to scatter from the onslaught of blades, and once Yngvilde had separated them all, she shifted her attention to Rain. Strong winds buffeted the mare, throwing her off balance, and Yngvilde swung her left blade downwards and her right blade from side to side. Rain opened her wings and used the tail end of Yngvilde’s wind to blow herself backwards and out of reach, and the two chains shrieked and warbled as they wrapped around each other. The griffon shifted her stance, carrying her momentum through the swing, and flipped backwards as the chains nearly took her own legs out. Instead, the tangled blades struck Summer’s armor, caving in the left side and whipping her across the camp, repulsing her charge and leaving the mare squawking in pain.

Yngvilde landed on her feet and pulled her arms apart, turning the chained blades into a whirling maelstrom in front of her—a maelstrom she turned toward Windshear. The stallion had been about to lunge at Yngvilde while her weapons were tangled, but now he scrambled backwards and fought to keep his balance on the slippery ground as the blades spun and whirled in front of him. But before Yngvilde could tear him to bloody chunks, Summer struck Yngvilde across the shoulder with her sword, the metal clanging off of the hen’s armor and cutting deep into her flesh.

“Yes!” Yngvilde screeched, once again pivoting on her paws and drawing her arms back across her body. The chain attached to her left blade nearly clotheslined Summer, forcing the pegasus to roll across the ground. By the time she got to her hooves, Yngvilde had gripped one of her blades in her talons and kept the other spinning by its chain, and pressed the attack. Summer parried and deflected three strikes from Yngvilde’s right hand and ducked away from the strangling chain launched by the hen’s left before it could wrap her up again, but instead of swinging it all the way around, Yngvilde buried the blade in the dirt and pulled forward on the chain, lunging herself at Summer. Her massive frame easily bowled over the pegasus, and Summer barely managed to swing her right foreleg across her body and punch the hen in the face before her beak could rip out her throat. A strong buck to the griffon’s chest forced her to recoil, and Summer managed to slip out of the gap in her stance.

But Yngvilde didn’t have time to pursue her target; instead, she crossed both her blades behind her back as Rain’s zweihander nearly cleaved her spine in two. The hen’s incredibly strength simply threw Rain and her weapon back a few paces, and she whipped around to face her, blades and chains a blurring, frighteningly dizzying storm of attacks. It was all Rain could do to keep up with the onslaught and not allow herself to be tripped or strangled as the chains whipped around and past her body. Her bloodstained white coat glistened in the sparks their weapons threw off, and she managed to repulse the assault—until Yngvilde suddenly stopped swinging her attacks and lunged forward, her talons firmly latching onto Rain’s neck.

The hen’s enormous wings carried her safely away from the other two pegasi, and she slammed Rain’s back against the wooden stake. Rain cried out in pain and tried to kick at Yngvilde, but the hen responded by slamming Rain three more times into the wood—and on the fourth time, she shattered the stake entirely with Rain’s bare spine. Rain coughed and fell into a crumpled heap where Yngvilde threw her, and the griffon grinned as she whirled about and parried Summer at the last possible moment, her blades forcing the mare to bounce off to her left. “Now you’re doing it!” Yngvilde screamed, her blades whipping up a cloud of dirt and dust as she frantically began to spin them again. Both blades slashed out fast as lightning at Windshear, forcing him back before he could close to stabbing distance, and Yngvilde cackled in glee. “This is a fight! This is a fight!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Summer screeched, dropping in front of Yngvilde and launching a ferocious attack of her own. The hen pulled back on her blades and used them to deflect and dance with Summer’s attacks, keeping the mare frustratingly just out of reach of her body. Summer grunted and growled in anger with every attack, and the glee on Yngvilde’s face only grew as she watched her opponent grow more frustrated.

“Too slow, are we?” she taunted Summer, blocking an attack and responding by punching the mare square on the nose. Summer snorted and recoiled, and moments later blood began to run down her broken nose. Yngvilde feigned motherly concern and bent over as Summer wiped the blood away with her feathers. “Awww, does filly have a booboo? Let Mama Yngy take a look at it for you. I’ll even use a favorite Cirran tactic when treating their wounded—spiking their skulls because you couldn’t save them!”

“SHUT! UP!” Summer screamed again, and again she launched herself at Yngvilde in a mindless fury. The hen cackled as she danced around Summer’s unfocused attacks, parrying them with ease and simply watching the sparks fly. “Die!” Summer roared between sword slashes, nearly tripping over her own hooves as she tried to take the hen down. “Die! Die! Fucking die!”

Yngvilde laughed and let one of her blades loose, pulling the blade across her body and once more wrapping Summer’s neck in the chain. But she didn’t stop her momentum when she felt resistance on the chain. Instead, she carried through with her motion, lifting Summer off the ground, over her head, and slamming her into the ground again. “You’re too much fun!” Yngvilde shouted as she repeated the motion, again launching Summer’s battered body into the ground as her chains held tight. “You’re so angry and helpless! You’re so—gah!”

The hen cried out in pain as the point of Windshear’s spear drove into her side. Snarling, Yngvilde dropped the chain from her hand and turned about, tearing the spearhead free in the process. She clutched her hand to her side and pulled it away, eyes fixated on the red seeping into it, and wiped the blood off on her feathers. Suddenly, the glee and excitement was gone, replaced with hatred and anger. “I see,” she growled, lowering her stance. “Time to get serious.”

She launched herself at Windshear with a banshee’s scream, knocking the stallion onto his back. But Windshear carried the momentum threw his fall, and using his wings for extra leverage on the ground, he managed to kick Yngvilde off and send her rolling across the ground. Unfortunately for him, the hen’s blade lagged behind, and a notch on its surface hooked underneath his spear and ripped it from his teeth. The stallion coughed and clutched his muzzle, falling to his knees as pain momentarily overwhelmed him. Yngvilde lunged at him before he recover, but just before she could slice him to ribbons, Rain jumped in between them and swung her sword like a bat, catching Yngvilde’s armor and propelling the hen across the camp. She crashed through a pair of tents and disappeared from sight, the canvas billowing outwards as her weight took it down.

“Fuck, we can’t beat this bitch!” Windshear exclaimed, snatching his spear from the ground and turning to Rain.

“Every griffon can die,” Rain insisted, eyes scanning the tents for any sign of movement. “Just because she’s the daughter of Magnus doesn’t mean she’s any different.”

“She’s been playing with us this whole time!” Windshear spun about to watch Rain’s back, though his attention wavered when he saw Summer writhing on the ground, struggling to break free of the chains that had entangled her. “We need to do something!”

“We are doing something!” Rain hissed at him. “Every minute she’s fighting us is another minute for the plan to work! Now come on, get Summer out of those chains and let’s keep the pressure on!”

Windshear nodded and leaped over to Summer with a flutter of his wings. While he tried to free Summer with his hooves, Rain hefted zwei once more and scanned the tents for any movement. But it wasn’t her eyes that alerted her to Yngvilde’s next move; it was her ears, and she barely had time to turn about and raise her sword to deflect the chained blade launched out of a tent flap. The chain wrapped itself around zwei, and instead of surrendering her grip, Rain fell to her back and braced her oversized sword with her hooves, pulling against the force on the other side of the chain. The sudden resistance seemed to surprise Yngvilde and pulled her out of the camp, and Rain used the last of it to rock herself to her hooves. Rather than let Yngvilde get set and dictate the terms of the engagement, Rain jumped directly into the hen’s face and began wildly swinging zwei about. Yngvilde had to fall back and block with her singular sword, but even a weapon down, the griffoness was still dangerously armed. When Rain overextended to try and slice her throat out, Yngvilde slipped to the side and closed to engage with her claws and beak. Rain nearly dropped her weapon as the griffon pecked at her face, her hooked beak violently snapping shut as she tried to find something to tear, and her sharp claws digging into Rain’s flesh.

Rain’s hooves struck Yngvilde’s face, forcing the two to separate for the briefest of moments. Knowing that her next move could likely be her last, Rain tried to strike at Yngvilde with a desperate swing of zwei. But at that same moment, Yngvilde had thrown her blade at Rain, the chain rattling as it unraveled from her arm. The point of one blade met the flat of the other, and in that moment, steel screamed and cried as one shattered into pieces.

It was not Yngvilde’s blade.

Rain fell to the ground, stunned and world ablaze as pieces of zwei buried themselves in her flesh and cut up her face. It was all she could do to writhe on the ground and try to pry the metal out of her body with nothing but her blunt hooves. The remains of her weapon forgotten, the only thing Rain knew in that moment was searing pain and agony, and for a moment, she worried that she’d lost her other eye in the death throes of her sword.

Yngvilde grinned with glee as she watched Rain scream and flail as she tried to pull the pieces of her broken weapon out of her flesh. She bent down and picked up the hilt of the broken sword and turned it over. “Griffon steel. You got this from one of our officers, didn’t you? Maybe from that little labor camp you raided?” She tossed the hilt aside in disgust. “Your culture has always been obsessed with ours. You think you’re so much better than us, Nimban, but let me ask you this: what would you be without us? You’d be nothing.” She knelt down and put her talons on Rain’s throat, choking the life out of her. “Without griffons, Nimbus would just be another city. A dirty border city with nothing like the glory or splendor of Stratopolis and the Cirrans. We are your everything. But to us, you mean nothing.”

Her feathers twitched, and she suddenly whirled about, releasing Rain and skirting to the side of a spear thrust. Her frown hardened and she began to vigorously twirl her blade as Windshear lunged at her, poking and thrusting with his spear, trying to find an opening through her defenses. Yngvilde backpedaled at a leisurely pace, keeping Windshear’s spear well away from her body. Twirling his spear in his grip, Windshear struck three times in rapid succession, and when Yngvilde twisted her chain to deflect his weapon, he suddenly hooked it back and pulled. The chain wrapped around the spear, and through sheer surprise, he managed to tear the chains off of Yngvilde’s arm.

The hen grunted and gripped her arm, her fingers stemming the blood from the cuts the barbed chains had torn open as she was disarmed. Windshear wasted no time pressing the attack, striking in a flurry of blows to try and get past Yngvilde’s defenses now that she had no weapons left. But the griffoness was fast and nimble, especially without her chains to weigh her down, and the winds seemed to always catch her feathers at the right angle to keep her away from the spear. And when Windshear overextended just a fraction too much in his frustration to skewer her, Yngvilde lunged at him and knocked him onto his back.

Windshear managed to get his spear between the hen and himself, and he repelled Yngvilde’s first claw strikes by pressing the haft against her chest and forcing her back. But all it took was a snap from the hen’s beak and the wooden haft splintered in two, and the razor sharp talons of one hand jammed themselves into the spaces between Windshear’s ribs and pulled until they cracked… and then pulled them through his skin.

The stallion couldn’t cry out as Yngvilde tore apart his lungs with her bare hands, and in mere seconds, he stopped breathing altogether.

Summer had just managed to untangle herself from the chains when she heard Yngvilde’s furious roaring and Windshear’s final, sputtering cough. Her eyes widened in horror as she watched the griffon empty the stallion’s chest cavity with her claws, with Rain still rolling and writhing in a growing pool of her own blood behind them. The medic’s limbs began to shake and tremble in terror and fury, but she snatched her sword back in her teeth as the adrenaline surging through her veins made her vision swim and her hooves feel numb. She had fully expected to die today, but seeing Windshear like that seared memories of Dawn into the backs of her eyes. Suddenly she was just a frightened medicus cowering in a building once more, watching in fear as her friends dropped around her.

Yngvilde finally turned her attention away from Windshear’s emptied corpse and to Summer’s scared face. The gray feathers around her beak and neck were slick with blood, and her talons had sticky bits of gore still clinging to them. She grinned and left the stallion’s body behind to pick up the chained blade he had managed to pry off her arm. “What’s the matter, prey?” she asked Summer, wrapping the chain back around her bleeding arm. “Did you finally remember who the predator is?”

She advanced on Summer, and Summer retreated at a matching pace, eyes darting around the campsite. For a moment, fear and dethroned fury, and the pegasus started to pant. Yngvilde slowly brought her chained blade to a twirl, and she nodded her head over her shoulder. “You’re a medic, aren’t you?” she asked, her claws gleefully tearing into the ground. “Why don’t you help your friend get his liver back in his body?”

Summer ceased her retreat, and Yngvilde paused as well. “Did I strike a nerve?” she asked her. “Come on, daughter of Nimbus. There’s still enough time to save your ruler. Unless you want to watch me bite her wings off?”

“No!” Summer cried, and her hooves scuffed the ground as she launched herself at the griffoness. Her wings furiously flapped, but Yngvilde didn’t budge in the face of the charge. Instead, she waited until the last moment, then reached out with her left hand, her fist cracking Summer’s jaw before the pegasus could swing her sword and sending her tumbling away.

But she never hit the ground. Yngvilde whipped around in the same motion and let her chained blade unravel, guided along by the winds. The barbs hooked into Summer’s right thigh, and the blade wrapped itself all the way down her leg. Before the mare could fall out of the sky, Yngvilde pulled back on the chain, reversing Summer’s momentum and pulling her back toward the hen. But the chain didn’t stay wrapped around Summer’s leg; it unspooled with the force of Yngvilde’s tug, and the barbs along each link tore terrifyingly deep into the flesh and muscle, spraying blood all along the medic’s underside. She finally struck the ground not too far away, yelling and howling in pain as she clutched at her ruined leg, too hurt to even stand up.

Yngvilde kicked her onto her back and sat on top of the mare’s chest, her paws keeping her forehooves and wings pinned to the ground. “You are so ugly for even your kind, do you know that?” Yngvilde asked her. She wickedly grinned as she put her talons on either side of the mare’s muzzle. “But I’ve heard Nimbans love scars.”

Summer tried to find the words to retort her, but all of that fell apart when Yngvilde’s claws dug deep into her cheeks and pulled, cutting them to bloody ribbons.

And all of Rain’s and Summer’s screams fell on the trembling ears of a colt curled up in terror behind a tent. Pathfinder shivered and tried to cover his ears where he lay, frightened out of his wits. Seeing Todesangst again had broken whatever resolve he had once possessed. The griffon’s face had brought back so many other unpleasant and awful memories, and it was all he could do to not let them worm their way into his brain. But they were already there, and now Finder couldn’t do anything other than curl himself up and try to hide away from the world so nopony or no griffon could find him.

But he could not hide from the pained screaming of his friends. It was like his nightmares had come true, and their screams had followed him out of his dreams. The only thing he could think about was that this was his fault. Once again, he’d screwed up, and his friends were the ones to suffer. It was too much to bear, too much, too much!

He screamed when talons grabbed him by the neck and tugged him away from the ground. He cried and kicked out, tears running down his face, but the talons held tight and simply spun him about. His nose bounced against a beak, and his pupils shrunk to pinpricks as he found himself staring into Yngvilde’s avian eyes.

Her feathers were covered in pegasus blood.

“What are you doing so far away from the fun, little colt?” Yngvilde asked him, the matronly tone in her voice made all the more frightening by the gore clinging to her feathers. Finder could only stare back at her, too afraid to so much as twitch a wing, as she grinned and walked back to the middle of the camp on three limbs. “Your friends all got to play with me. Don’t you want to as well?”

She spun Finder about with a turn of her wrist, and the colt whimpered as her talons poked into his flesh. “There’s one of them,” she said, forcing him to stare at Windshear’s mutilated corpse. “Was he your friend? Perhaps your brother?” She laughed, cruel and heartless. “I can’t tell with your kind. You’re all prey to me.”

Then she spun Finder around to Summer, who could only lie on her back and raggedly breathe through the damage done to her muzzle. “And this mare, what can I say? I just tried to help her look more beautiful to her kind. But I think I may have overdone it…” She giggled as she shoved Finder closer, forcing him to get a good, long look at Summer’s ruined face. The mare’s cheeks had been torn apart, and her lips had been sliced to ribbons. “It’ll be a miracle if she can ever really use her lips again. Do you think she can smile with her face like that? Or are my alterations a little too… permanent?”

Finder trembled, tears running down his face as he had to look at Summer. This was his fault, a little voice in his head insisted. If he had just done something, Windshear would still be alive, and Summer wouldn’t have lost half her face.

Or he may have died trying in the attempt. And being dead would have been so much better than being alive and guilty.

But the next words he heard weren’t Yngvilde’s cruel, taunting laughter. They belonged to the voice of the only person that could stir something in him. An angelic voice, ragged from screaming and pain, but still that of an angel no less. “Let. Him. Go.”

Yngvilde turned around in surprise, dragging Finder along for the ride as well. Finder’s eyes widened to see Rain standing on four hooves again, but with shards of metal sticking out of her face and neck and chest. Her white coat had turned red and brown from the blood soaking into it, but she stood tall regardless. And in her mouth, she held one of Yngvilde’s chained blades by the sword’s hilt, the chain dangling to her left.

The hen laughed and doubled over, dropping Finder to the ground. “You still want more, Nimban?” she taunted Rain. “Do you want the same treatment I gave your medic? You know I’m not going to kill you, as much as you may wish. Stand up again and again, and I’ll keep knocking you back down until you have no choice but to call me ‘master.’” She pulled her own chained blade out to her talons and eyed up Rain’s ragged feathers. “Maybe I should remove your wings this time. That should keep you down for good.”

“Let. Him. Go.” Rain hissed again, beginning to limp over to the griffon.

“You just don’t get it, do you?” Yngvilde wrapped a loop of the chain around Finder’s neck and lifted him up by it. The colt cried and coughed as she tightened it under his chin, and the spark of alarm in Rain’s eyes sent her giggling. “You have no cards here. You can hardly walk, and this colt can’t even fight. And you still think you can make demands of me?”

She eyed Rain’s stiff posture, pinned down the worry in her face, and grinned. “Don’t tell me this little runt actually means something to you, Nimban. Or have you gone soft?”

Rain raised her hoof to take a step forward, but Yngvilde stopped her by twisting one of Finder’s wings and eliciting a strangled scream from the colt. “Don’t try anything hasty,” she said now, flourishing her talons as she moved them from Finder’s wing to the artery bulging out of the side of his neck. “You wouldn’t want me to slip, would you?”

“Stop hiding behind him,” Rain spat around the sword’s handle. “If you even claim to call yourself Magnus’ daughter, then fight me right. Fight me honest like the warior you say you are.”

Yngvilde snorted and dropped Finder to the ground. “I don’t have to claim anything, Nimban. You’ve seen what I can do. You know what I am.” She dug her free claws into Finder’s shoulder grunted, flinging the coughing colt into the space between them. Grinning, she pointed to Finder and began to slowly twirl her blade. “I’m going to kill him now,” she announced. “And you’re going to try to save him. And you’re going to watch as my sword lops his head off just a breath before you can get to him. Sound like a fun game?” When she saw Rain’s eyes widen, she shifted her stance and began to twirl her blade in larger and larger arcs. “What are you waiting for, Rain? Your medic to bleed to death where I left her?”

Rain’s eyes locked on Finder’s. Finder’s locked on Rain’s. For just a moment, the colt’s trembling stopped, and he swallowed hard. He tried to offer her a smile… and then he closed his eyes and bowed his head.

Rain looked at Yngvilde, gleefully grinning with malice and cruelty opposite Finder. She knew the hen was true to her word. There was no way she could reach Finder fast enough with her hobbled hooves and plucked wings. All it would take was one flick of Yngvilde’s wrist and the colt would lose his head. How could she possibly close the distance and make it to Finder in time to save his neck?

Her vision began to blur and something sucked away the colors from the edges of her vision. All her pain, all her fear, all her exhaustion had been honed down into one singular expression: desperation. Her carefully laid plans had all fallen apart around her. Her friends had been slain because she had failed them. And if she didn’t kill Yngvilde soon, her entire species would cease to exist. If the tens of thousands of survivors attempting to flee Altus were wiped out, there was no hope left for the pegasus race. And if she failed here, Yngvilde would make sure she saw every last death.

She was not going to fail.

The desperation powered her limbs and drew on something deep inside of her, something she didn’t know she had, but had nevertheless always felt its presence. It flowed through her body and to the very tips of her feathers, flaring up when she raised her wings. And then she beat her wings, launching herself across the ground.

And the wind followed her.

Rain streaked across the ground almost too fast for the eye to catch. Yngvilde swung the length of her chain, but it wasn’t even halfway to Finder’s neck before Rain was at the colt’s side. Her otherworldly speed carried her past Finder and directly beneath the plunging chain of Yngvilde’s blade, and she raised her sword to cut the swinging chain short. Sparks flew as it deflected the weapons momentum, and the head of the blade buried itself in the dirt a few feet away from Finder’s neck.

But Rain didn’t stop. She followed through with her momentum, wings pivoting at opposing angles to spin her about and disengage from the chain. Her stolen sword aimed for Yngvilde’s neck, and the hen only deflected Rain’s chin out of the way at the last moment, barely ducking away from the strike. But Rain recovered almost instantly, much faster than she’d ever recovered from an attack in any fight she’d fought in her life, and began to attack Yngvilde with a flurry of blows barely a split second later. Yngvilde had to flap her wings and put some distance between herself and Rain to recover her stance, but that distance lasted barely a fraction of a second before Rain streaked over to her again and pressed the attack. The griffon’s features, once haughty and gleeful, had turned to a furrowed brow and gritted teeth as she struggled to keep up with the ferocity of Rain’s otherworldly attacks.

Yngvilde finally managed to land a solid blow to Rain’s cheek, sending the pegasus stumbling backwards and giving her some breathing room. Panting, she reeled her chained blade back in and slowly grinned as Rain kipped up back to her hooves. “So Todesangst was right,” she murmured to herself, readying for another series of ferocious strikes. “The monster was right all along…”

Rain and Yngvilde charged each other once again, the wind at their wings crashing together a split second after the smashed their swords against each other’s. Their weapons blurred faster than the eye could track. Rain struck high, and Yngvilde deflected. She parried off the blow and tried to slash down at Rain’s neck, but the Nimban mare hopped a half step backwards and punched the hen’s cheek with a hoof. She tried to bring her sword down on Yngvilde’s neck to end the fight in one swoop, but the griffon rolled across the ground, her tail tripping Rain’s hooves out from under her. Rain fell forward and rolled back to her hooves in the same motion, turning about just in time to block three more slices and roll to the side when Yngvilde hopped back and let the chain fly from her wrist, the sword nearly taking Rain’s ear off.

Rain darted inside Yngvilde’s reach before she could pull the weapon back, punching directly at the griffon’s throat, only for the hen’s hand to catch her hoof. Yngvilde threw it aside and punched Rain’s muzzle with a cross across her face, and Rain’s ears twitched as she heard the chain links rattling. She angled her sword down on instinct, and the first loop of chain that started to wrap itself around her neck instead got caught on the sword before it could squeeze her throat. She pulled up sharply, straining her neck in the process, but managed to reverse the blade’s momentum and sent it unraveling back at Yngvilde. The griffoness had to catch the flat of the blade with her hand to spare her neck, and in that moment, Rain lunged forward, driving the point of her sword into the hen’s leg.

Yngvilde squawked in surprise and pain and responded by headbutting the crown of Rain’s head. The mare gasped and groaned as the crack of skull against skull sent her reeling, and Yngvilde lunged at her with her fists this time. One caught Rain in the shoulder, a second in the chest, and when Rain doubled over to try and shield herself, a third blow caught her under the chin and sent her airborne. The pegasus tumbled through the air, wings limp and fluttering, until she crashed down hard on the ground next to Finder.

She immediately climbed back to her hooves with a gust of wind, but Finder could tell at a glance that she was wavering. Her legs trembled and she tried to keep her weight onto the fronts of her hooves, likely to avoid the sore flesh underneath from the glowing horseshoes hammered into them earlier. Her wings shook with each breath, and Finder could tell that it wasn’t just the wind that seemed to be following her, emanating from her. She was exhausted and hurting. And as his eyes turned to Yngvilde, he saw the hen grimace as she cracked her neck, and an entertained smile began to worm its way back onto her beak.

Yngvilde was enjoying this. And Rain wouldn’t last much longer on her own.

Rain burst forward with another otherworldly burst of speed, her pilfered sword screeching as it met Yngvilde’s on the other side of the camp. Finder didn’t watch them fight—at the speed they were moving, there was no way he could—so he instead turned his attention to Summer. The mare was weakly coughing and gagging on her own blood and ruined face not too far away from him, and scrambling to his hooves, he rushed to her side.

He tried to block out the cacophony of steel from the fighting behind him as he looked over Summer. The mare was still conscious—how, Finder didn’t know—and struggling to breathe. Her eyes fell on him and she tried to say something, but she instead sputtered a few meaningless noises around the blood filling her mouth and the tattered remains of her lips and cheeks. She tried a few times to roll over without avail, and Finder understood quickly enough what she was trying to do. Placing his hooves under her side, Finder rolled her over, taking care not to disturb her leg in the process. As Summer flopped onto her stomach and began to cough and spit out a frightening amount of blood, Finder found his eyes glued to her leg, feeling sick to his stomach at the scratched bone exposed to the air. He didn’t know how Summer wasn’t doubled over in crippled pain, but maybe her leg was so badly mangled she couldn’t feel it anymore.

“Rain…” Summer coughed, the singular name coming across more as a grunt without any faculty over her lips. Finder thought she was trying to bare her teeth in pain, but she didn’t have any muscles left to move what was left of her lips. Instead, a green eye fell on Finder. “Help… Rain…”

Finder gulped and stood up, turning toward the fight happening before him. The two combatants twirled around in a dizzying dance of death, but it was clear who was winning. Yngvilde constantly drove Rain back, and even though her face was screwed in concentration, it was clear she was enjoying the fight. Rain, on the other hoof, was starting to lose steam. Her hooves were slowing, and the mystical wind she had somehow summoned was beginning to fade. How much longer she could keep it up, Finder didn’t know. But the moment she failed, it was all over.

He grabbed Summer’s sword off the ground and began to gallop over to the fight, but before he could, Yngvilde grabbed Rain by the throat with her free hand and lifted her into the air. She flapped her wings two times, gaining some height, then screeched as she threw Rain across the camp. The pegasus tumbled through the air, trying to catch herself on ragged wings, but failing as her strength ignored her summons. Instead, the mare slammed hard into the wooden stake in the center of the camp and tumbled down it, falling in a heap of feathers and blood at the bottom. She did not get up again.

Finder froze mid-gallop, his mind suddenly veering into dark places. Rain was down. Summer was down. Windshear was dead. It was just him and Yngvilde, and he stared in horror as the griffon alighted not too far away. She began to twirl her blade again, and Rain still didn’t move. Terror settled in Finder’s gut as he realized it was all on him to save Rain, to save Altus, to save everypony he cared about who he still had left in this world. And he began to tremble because he couldn’t do it. He knew he couldn’t do it. He wasn’t a soldier. He was just a weak, worthless, pathetic colt. A colt who had bitten off way more than he could chew and had spent the past several months choking on it.

And when Yngvilde won here, he was going to be captured again.

He was going to be tortured again.

He was going to be raped again.

Icy terror gripped the colt’s body, and he doubled over, shivering in panic. He couldn’t do that again. He couldn’t suffer that again. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He looked at Rain, just now beginning to fight to sit up. She had saved him from the darkest days of his life. And the moment she was gone, that light would be snuffed out forever. And not too far away, an angry griffoness was about to put the finishing blow on the mare who had treated him and cared for him when he just wanted to die.

It spurred his hooves to action. He rose up and galloped forward again, just as the hen let the sword fly from her grip. Terror gripped the colt, but it had moved him to action nonetheless. Déjà vu seized hold of him, and he remembered a time long ago, when he had jumped in front of a spear meant to skewer Rain. And now he was doing it once more.

Even though he was afraid of what came next.

By the gods, he was so afraid.

And then Yngvilde’s sword, carried along by her magical winds, met the stony coat of a colt too terrified to open his eyes and look death in the face, and shattered.

Everypony froze as the shards of Yngvilde’s weapon rained onto the ground, tinkling as they bounced over each other. A jagged hilt was all that remained of the chained blade, and now it lay limp and lifeless on the ground. Yngvilde stood in place slack-jawed, Rain stared up at Finder with wide eyes, and the colt himself finally dared to look himself over when he realized he wasn’t dead or in crippling pain.

It was like he was looking at a statue. His olive coat had hardened into a literal stony gray, and his feathers looked like they’d been chiseled by a thousand of Cirra’s greatest stone masons put together. When he tried lifting his leg, he was met by somewhat stiff resistance and the sound of stone grinding on stone, but it retained most if its range of motion. And when he turned to face Yngvilde, his hooves hit the ground with heavy thuds.

Yngvilde soon recovered her wits and snatched her chain back. She grabbed onto the hilt of the sword and looked over the jagged end of her weapon, then turned her sinister glare to Finder. “You… you dare,” she hissed, venom dripping from her beak, hate spiking through the new and inexplicable armor that now covered the colt from head to tail. She wound up the chain and let the shattered hilt hang from her wrist, stomping toward Finder with an aggressive flaring of her wings. “First a poor copy of my father’s spark, now petrification? Your kind is even more abhorrent than I’d realized. You are monsters, vermin, all of you, and now you do me the greatest insult of all: you shatter the weapon that my father gave me when I came of age?!”

Finder drew back in increasing fear as the hen bore down on him. Far from feeling protected by his new stony hide, he instead felt trapped and slow. And to make matters worse, the more frightened he became, the thicker and heavier his armor grew. It was a cycle that fed on itself, and the colt could feel his strength fading as he tried to carry his increasingly heavy body on wobbly legs.

He soon found himself cornered by the hen, too weighed down to flee. Sneering, Yngvilde lunged at him and wrapped her talons around his throat, anchoring him in place with her sheer size and strength. “I can’t even strangle you,” she growled as she tried to crush his stony neck. “How do I kill you, colt? Do I grab a chisel? Do I stick my finger through your eye until I can stab your brain? Do I throw you in the ocean and drown you?”

She threw Finder onto his back and leapt on top of him, pommel of the hilt brandished like a club. “Do you feel this?!” she screamed at him as she smashed it into his muzzle, the dense metal not breaking like the sensitive steel his coat had already shattered. “Are you rock the whole way through, or just your skin? What happens when I crack your coat? If I kill you, will you stay a fucking statue so I can mount your pieces in the mead hall?!”

The griffoness howled with fury, and Finder whimpered and cried as she repeatedly bludgeoned him with the hilt of her sword. He could feel the blows rattling his teeth and striking his nerves underneath his stony armor. He didn’t know any of the questions the hen screamed at him, and he was worried that he would be forced to find out. He could already feel his nose beginning to chip and crack under her furious assault. But he couldn’t defend himself in the slightest; Yngvilde had him pinned down too well to strike back, and even if he could, his legs were too heavy to move on his own.

But it was obvious the lack of any meaningful damage was frustrating Yngvilde. “Why won’t you die?!” she screamed, her features screwing up with rage. “I will end your miserable species! I will drench the seas red with your blood! I am Yngvilde, daughter of the Living God, and by the spirits of my forefathers, I demand that you die!”

She raised her hand to drive the pommel through Finder’s muzzle, but before she could swing it down, a bloodstained white hoof hooked around it. The hen squawked in surprise, and when she looked to her right, Iron Rain pulled a shard of her sword out of her coat and jammed it into the griffon’s neck. Yngvilde’s eyes bulged and she dropped the hilt, her hands flying to the metal poking out of her feathers and coming away bloody. Her face twisted from shock to pain to rage, and she tried to lunge at Rain in one last desperate attack. But Rain easily stepped to the side, brushing the hen away with a wing and sending her tumbling to the ground.

Yngvilde grabbed the shard with one hand and tore it free, opening a river of blood that began to soak her feathers. “Hckk… you… Hrck!”

Rain’s wingtips inched out in alarm as the hen stood up and took two, three, four steps toward her and Finder. Thoughts of her fight against Magnus and how the griffon god had casually shrugged off losing an arm flew threw her mind, and she suddenly feared that the hen would simply refuse to die. But Yngvilde coughed, or rather, tried to, and a gurgle of blood sprayed from the hole in her neck. She reached out once, claws extended…

…and fell to the ground face first.

Rain let out a sigh of relief as the hen’s feathers twitched their last and her blood began to pool around her. The Nimban mare collapsed onto her haunches, panting and pressing a hoof to one of the many bleeding wounds on her body. She was exhausted. Fully and completely exhausted. No witty remarks, no snide comments came to her mind as she stared into Yngvilde’s glassy eyes. The griffon was dead, and the hardest fight of her life was over. Not even her clash with Magnus had taxed her as much as his daughter did.

But perhaps the difference was that Yngvilde was mortal while Magnus was not.

Prologue: The Legate's Lookout

Lazy tendrils of smoke wafted through the open hall of the Legate’s Lookout. The old cloudstone walls had once been clean and white, painstakingly shaped decades earlier. Now, countless candles, pipes, and hearth fires had left them tainted nearly black. The Lookout wasn’t nearly the bastion of life it used to be; most of the old Legionnaires that had frequented the tavern had succumbed to the relentless march of time. Many of the younger ponies that made up the recently formed Royal Guard preferred newer establishments where stallions and mares of all three tribes commingled. On an ordinary night, Stalwart would have been in one of those taverns. Tonight, however, was anything but ordinary.

With his snow white coat, perfectly cropped blue mane, and his polished steel armor lined with plates of gold, Stalwart was everything that the Legate’s Lookout wasn’t: a proper stallion of the new guard, young, ambitious, and loyal to the Diarchs. His comrades were unicorns and earth ponies, some of whom were the grandchildren of the stallions and mares that had quarreled with the relics of Cirra’s once great legions.

Stalwart allowed himself the smallest hint of a smirk. It was, after all, a relic that he had come to the decrepit old tavern to find. One of the last relics of the Red Cloud War.

The Lookout was having a busy night; at least, busy by their much declined standards. In the tavern that could once serve nearly one hundred raucous and thirsty soldiers, there were now only a paltry dozen, including the Barkeep and Stalwart himself. Of the patrons Stalwart could see, the youngest looked to be in his fifties or sixties. None of them spared the young guard more than a curious passing glance.

Stalwart tried not to laugh as the patrons muffled their conversations further. He didn’t need spectacular hearing to know that the old guards were likely talking about him. Over the quiet chatter, he could distinctly hear the gentle crackle of the hearthfire, and the soft, slightly off-key singing of another stallion.

Cantering over to the bar, Stalwart sat at the first empty stool he could. Another stallion, his coat and mane long since grey, glanced lazily at the young guard before returning to his ale. After a moment’s wait, the barkeep trotted over. She was an older mare with a powder blue coat and a sandy blonde mane, though the color was fading as age took its toll. Still, she smiled to him with all the friendliness of a good server.

“Welcome to the Lookout, stranger.”

“Thanks.”

“What can I get for ya?”

“Ale, please,” Stalwart answered, fishing some coins from his bag which he set on the old wood counter.

“Old Cirran, or Lowlands Ale?”

“Old Cirran.”

With a look of almost relief, the mare nodded, scooping the coins up in her wing and tossing them into a trough below the counter. In her other wing, she hefted a mug from the back of the bar and set it under the tap. With practiced ease she filled the mug to the top with the dark liquid, a small head of amber foam crowning the drink. She smiled, sliding the mug down the smooth counter where Stalwart caught it in a ready hoof.

“Drink up, son.”

Stalwart hefted the drink in a silent toast before bringing it to his lips. He closed his eyes as the potent drink filled his mouth. He hated Old Cirran. Like the Legions of old, the drink was bold and aggressive, with little nuance or flair to distract from the punch of the alcohol itself. The young guardspony vastly preferred the lighter, Lowlands brew. It was subtle, friendlier to infrequent drinkers such as himself, and one could taste the complexities of the drink that each specific brewhouse specialized in.

Swallowing the bitter drink, Stalwart set the mug down and forced a seemingly satisfied sigh.

“Thanks,” he said to the mare.

She smiled, some of her weariness seeming to fade in light of the simple appreciation. “What brings you around here, lad? We don’t see too many guardsponies around this part of town.”

“I’m looking for somepony, actually,” Stalwart answered, grateful for the excuse to not take another sip of the vile liquid.

“Yeah?” the mare asked, her right eyebrow arching curiously. “Troublemaker of some kind?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” he answered, his hoof tracing over the tankard’s worn surface. “I just need to talk to him, and I got a tip he spent a lot of time around here.”

“Well, we don’t have too many regulars here anymore, but tell me about this pony and I’ll see if I can point ya to him.”

“I’m looking for an old Legionnaire named Pathfinder.”

The mare recoiled slightly, her expression caught between amusement and annoyance. Leaning forward, she kept her voice quiet as she spoke. “What do ya want with him? Old Finder doesn’t need some uppity greenwing—”

Stalwart held up a hoof to the mare. “It’s all right, I’m not gonna bother him. I just want to ask him a few questions, then I’ll be on my way. Could you point me to him?”

Sighing quietly, the mare shook her head and pointed to a table at the far corner of the bar. “The old songbird always sits there.”

Turning in his seat, Stalwart could just see the stallion, his coat and mane having long since lost the colors of his youth. His back was facing a wall stacked to the roof with old kegs, and his wings hung loose at his sides. Stalwart couldn’t tell if he was awake or asleep, not while his head was resting on his left foreleg.

Pushing away from the bar, Stalwart scooped up his tankard with a hoof and gave the mare a polite nod. “Thank you.”

She nodded, pulling an old rag from below the bar and wiping down the wood surface. “Take care, kid. And if Finder tells you to leave, please leave. We don’t want any trouble here, and I won’t stand for my customers gettin’ hassled.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Careful not to spill his drink, Stalwart wound his way through the packs of tables and stools towards the old stallion. The closer he got the more he could hear it: an old voice singing a melancholic tune. It wasn’t until he was almost on top of the old stallion that he realized what the mare had meant when she called him ‘songbird.’

His voice was raw and quiet, but he didn’t miss a single beat. Every word he sang with all his heart; no beat seemed less important than the one before it. He paid no mind to Stalwart when the young Guard arrived at his table.

Buy him another round ‘til the memories drown now
Buy him another round ‘til the nightmares faded now
Buy him another round ‘til the pain has ablated now
Early in the morning

Stalwart shook his head, distracting himself from the lyrics. “Excuse me, Sir, can we talk?”

Pathfinder either didn’t hear him, or ignored him, as he carried on, intent to finish his song.

Hey-oh and up we’re rising
Hey-oh and there we’re fighting
Hey-oh we’re up there dying
Early in the morning

Pathfinder sighed sadly, his song finished. No hooves applauded, no young soldiers shouted for another, nopony offered to fill his cup. Those days, like the many he had cared for over the years, were gone. Faded to dust before the winds of time.

“Scout-Centurion Pathfinder?”

“Hmm?” he grunted, surprised by the voice. Leveraging his hooves against the tabletop he pushed himself upright, biting back a groan as the stiff muscles in his back straightened out. In front of his table was a young stallion, too young for the Legate’s Lookout.

“Who’re you?”

“Lieutenant Stalwart, Sir,” he said, saluting with a hoof the way the new Royal Guard did. “Stahl, for short.”

“And what can I do for you, Lieutenant Stahl for Short?” Finder asked, a bit of a grin pulling at the corner of his lips.

“May I sit down?” Stahl asked, motioning with his tankard to the seat across from Pathfinder.

“By all means, lad!” Finder grinned, a bit of energy returning to his old bones. “Sit, drink, be merry! Gods above know this place longs for the life it used to have.”

Stahl chuckled, more out of politeness than actual amusement. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting of the old centurion, but he could work with this too. “Tell me, what was it like?”

“Oh, pup,” Finder chuckled, his head tilting back until his gaze was looking at the vaulted ceiling. “Years and years ago, the Lookout was a grand place. Full of songs and laughter, fine ale and warm mares. Well, nevermind, the mares would sooner knock your teeth out than bed you, but it was a grand place.

“This here,” he lightly pounded his hoof on the worn out table, “this here was the table of my regiment. Every week me and the boys would come in here, drink ourselves stupid, and sing ‘til our throats were raw! Sometimes we’d fight, sometimes we’d cry, but most of the time we would laugh and live!

“Over there,” Finder pointed to a table by the window, “I killed a private during Cyclone’s Coup. Smashed him over the head with my tankard and buried my sword in his breast. And over there,” his hoof moved to a table at the opposite corner of the bar, “that’s where my wife beat up three stallions who thought I wasn’t good enough for her.” Finder chuckled. “Sad thing is, they were probably right.”

“What happened?” Stahl asked.

Finder laughed, his smile becoming sad and his gaze nostalgic. “Time, my boy. Time happened. Even the strongest Legates can’t hold her off forever. Over the years there’d always be a new empty seat. Sometimes we’d drink to a comrade who fell in battle, but after we got too old for the front it was disease or age that took us.”

Finder sighed, picking up his tankard and gently swirling what little remained of the ale within. “I’m the last one now, aren’t I?”

“There’s a few left who were born in the homelands, but you’re the last one I could find who served in the war, Sir,” Stalwart confirmed.

Finder shook his head slowly and sighed again, his posture sagging as though the weight of the world had settled over his shoulders. His brown eyes cast down at his drink, silently recalling a thousand names and a thousand faces, each with countless stories to tell. His was the last, and all too soon, even he would fall to time’s unyielding march. With a weary grunt, he lifted the tankard to his lips, swallowing what little ale was left in one gulp. Setting his cup down, he eyed the ale in Stalwart’s hooves.

“You gonna drink that?”

Stalwart wordlessly slid the tankard across the table. Finder grunted his thanks, scooping the drink up in a hoof where he swallowed all the ale in one long gulp. Once he was sure he’d drained it of every drop, he set it down with a satisfied breath.

“Hey, Cirrus,” he called to the mare behind the bar, holding his empty tankard up for her to see. “Another, please?”

“Just for you, or one for the kid as well?” she asked.

“Two, I’ll drink his,” Finder answered.

“That’s a lot of Old Cirra,” Stalwart noted, earning a hearty laugh from Finder.

“Pup, that’s nothing!” he said, slapping the young Lieutenant on the shoulder and waving a hoof at the stack of empty kegs behind him. “Me and the boys are... were responsible for all those barrels.”

“I’m sure it was a sight to behold.”

“Oh it was, lad, it was a sight indeed,” Finder answered with a melancholic smile. “So many songs, so many stories...”

Finder’s eyes blinked quickly, banishing the traitorous moisture that threatened to seep down his cheeks. With a sharp breath, he forced a quiet laugh and shook his head. His hoof, worn and cracked with age, ran through the grey strands of mane on his head. Cirrus’ timely arrival with fresh tankards was a very welcomed interruption.

“Two Old Cirran’s for you,” she said, putting the mugs before Finder.

“You’re a goddess,” Finder said, giving Cirrus a warm smile.

“I know,” she replied with a wink, setting a third tankard in front of Stahl. “And a Lowlands Ale for the kid.”

Stahl balked, “But... I didn’t even—”

“You’ll thank me later,” she said, taking the two empty tankards from the table.

“I ordered Old Cirran, though.”

“Yeah, I know. It was sweet of you to try, but you really didn’t fool anypony in here.”

“How—”

“Your face, kid,” Cirrus explained with a playful smile, “looked like you were trying to swallow a rat.”

“Pups these days,” Finder grumbled, hefting the fresh tankard to his lips, “don’t know a good thing when they see it.”

“Anything else?” Cirrus asked.

“That’ll do for now. Thanks, Cirrus,” Finder answered, smiling up to the mare.

“Anytime, Songbird,” she said, giving Finder a warm smile before returning to her spot behind the bar.

Stahl’s gaze followed her retreat for a moment before he returned his attention to Finder. “She seems nice.”

“Cirrus is a good girl,” Finder agreed, taking a gulp from the fresh tankard. “Her parents built the Lookout themselves, back when Cloudsdale was a quarter of the size it is now.”

Stahl nodded, lifting his tankard to his lips and taking a mouthful of ale. The brew was malty, light, and perfectly balanced between its component ingredients. A more discerning palate than his could probably even identify the specific kind of wood barrel the drink had been stored in after brewing. A gentle, almost satisfied sigh escaped Stalwart’s lips after taking a few more gulps.

“So tell me, Lieutenant Stahl for Short,” Finder began with a smirk, “what gets a shiny greenwing like you to seek out a codger like me?”

Stahl seemed to chew on his words, unsure of how to best express his mission. “Well, Sir—”

“Please,” the old stallion held up a hoof, “call me Finder.”

“I’ll work on that, Sir.”

Finder chuckled, motioning for Stahl to continue his explanation. “What is it you want, son?”

“I’ve been given leave for an expedition.”

“Ooo, sounds fancy,” Finder noted, smirking mirthfully into his tankard. “But certainly not something you’d need a pony of my age for.”

“Begging your pardon, Sir, but that is incorrect.”

Finder looked up from his drink, the young stallion having gained his curiosity.

“I want you to show my expeditionary team the way,” Stahlwart leaned closer to Finder, his voice dropping to a hushed tone, “the way back to Dioda.”

Finder’s eyes widened in disbelief before quickly narrowing. “If that was a joke, then I certainly didn’t find it funny.”

“No joke, Sir,” Stalwart promised.

“Then you’re damned idiot. There’s nothing in Dioda but griffons and death,” he hissed, a sneer pulling at his lips. “We few barely escaped with our lives.”

“Yes Sir, I know the stories.”

“Whelps like you don’t know a damned thing. The homelands were lost before you were a squirt in your mother’s womb. Even Commander Hurricane, gods rest his soul, knew it was a fool’s errand to go back there.”

Stalwart snorted, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Fair enough.”

“Why do you even want to know?” Finder asked, carefully watching the younger stallion’s expression. “Is there another up and coming commander looking to lead a mighty army to reconquer our forgotten skies? A new usurper like that fool Cyclone with delusions of glory?”

Stalwart shook his head. “No, Sir, nothing like that. It’s just that, well, we don’t know much about the homelands anymore. And ponies with that experience are all but gone.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Finder noted dryly. “Why do you want to know? What’s this all about?”

“A simple scouting expedition, Sir. In and out, with not a soul to hear.”

“If only it was so easy to avoid griffon patrols,” the old stallion sighed, his hoof rubbing a large and faded scar on his left side.

“I have an excellent team, Sir.”

“Then you’re as deluded as you are stupid.”

“Sir?”

“Have you ever seen a griffon, son?” the old stallion asked. “Do you even have the slightest idea what they’re capable of?”

“We’ve studied the old journals—”

“So you know nothing!” Finder slammed a hoof against the table, earning the momentary attention of the Lookout’s few patrons. He pointed a hoof to the faded white scars that crossed his face. “This is the least of what an unarmed griffon can do.”

Stalwart sat up straighter, meeting Finder’s gaze with steely resolve. “We’re well trained sir. I assure you we can handle any griffon we might find.”

Finder scoffed, his head shaking slowly. “Well trained, pfft. The Legions of the old empire were well trained. Does it look like that saved us?”

“Well, you’re here, I’m here, and Cloudsdale is here,” Stalwart answered.

“Do you have any idea what it cost us? How many died to get us this…” Finder waved his hoof in the air as he searched for the correct words. “This… empty shell of our past?”

Stalwart remained silent for a moment, contemplating Finder’s question. He played with the tankard of ale in his hooves, his reflection looking back at him through the amber surface. Finally, he looked the old stallion in the eye. “I’d like to know.”

Finder seemed taken aback by the soft spoken sentiment, his eyebrows scrunched together as he stared at Stalwart. “Why?”

“Why what, Sir?” Stalwart asked, a confused look on his face.

“What is this about? What are the ghosts of the past worth to you?”

“Well, Sir, the Commander of the Guard—”

“No, no.” Pathfinder hushed Stalwart with the wave of a hoof. “I don’t give a damn about Hurricane’s daughter or some preening guard in shiny armor who wants her name in the history books.” Finder leaned over, tapping Stalwarts' chest with a hoof. “You, Lieutenant Stahl for Short, I want to know why you’re interested in this nonsense. Did your father fill your head with nonsensical ideas of the old ways?”

“My father was an earth pony, Sir.” Stalwart answered.

Pathfinder seemed stunned by the revelation. The tension between the tribes before the founding of Equestria had nearly ended with war on multiple occasions. The idea of relationships between a pegasus and one of the terrestrial ponies was still a fairly taboo subject.

“Huh.” Finder managed to mutter. “You know that this has nothing to do with earth ponies or unicorns, right? We were the only ones across the ocean."

“I’m a pegasus too, Sir. Cirra is part of my blood, my culture. We can’t forget where we came from.”

“Some things are worth forgetting,” Finder said, eyeing his drink.

Stalwart noticed the look. “Is that why you’re here?”

Finder didn’t answer Stalwart’s question. Silence filled the air between them, a silence louder than any sound either stallion had ever heard. Finder considered the young guard’s words, his mind drifting to days long past.

“We’re going back to Dioda, Sir, with or without you.”

“Tell you what,” Finder began, his hoof reaching out for his tankard. “Let me tell you a story. And, if after that story you are still committed to this fool’s errand, I‘ll consider helping you.”

Stalwart smiled and sat up eagerly. “I’m all ears, Sir.”

“Stop calling me Sir.”

“Sorry s—err, Pathfinder.”

The elder stallion leaned back in his stool, casting a nostalgic gaze to the ceiling. “Let us journey back, before Cyclone’s Coup. Before The Compact and The Long Winter, before The Crystal Barbarians and The Great Exodus. Back across the seas and under the stars to those skies long forgotten...”

Casualties

Stalwart watched Pathfinder, the old stallion having once more lost himself in memory. His hoof slid under his wing, rubbing at his chest where that old wound lay hidden. His face tensed, as though the pain of the injury was as present as it had been all those years ago.

Curiosity consumed Stalwart. Was it luck that saved a young Pathfinder, or perhaps fate?

"The Gods must have been with you."

"Gods." Pathfinder made a bitter chuckle and shook his head. He sighed and smiled, the same sad smile that followed him like a shadow through his long life. "I’ve seen so many things in my time, lad. The Rainbow Falls of Cathedral Chasm, the glowing strands of the Silken Catacombs. Stratopolis herself ablaze, the flames casting their glow for miles and miles.” Finder leaned back and sighed, his gaze drifting to the thick stain of smoke residue which painted the ceiling. “The lonely songs of the empty seas… All those places. All that time.” A soft, bitter chuckle passed his wrinkled lips. “I’ve never once seen any sign of the Gods.”

Stalwart pinched his lip between his teeth, then shook his head. “But to see all you’ve seen, survive the things you’ve survived. Surely—”

“If there ever were the Gods of old, then they’ve long since abandoned us to fate,” Finder continued, then rubbed a hoof against his eyes. “No, Stalwart, the Gods weren’t with me. Not me, not Longbow, not anypony else. All I had was a damn good medic who knew what to do." He grew silent for a time, propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin on his fetlock. “And for the longest time, I wondered why that griffon hadn’t just cut my throat and ended my misery, or why Summer worked so hard to save me.”

“You sound like you resent him for it,” Stalwart observed.

Pathfinder nodded after a few moments. “I did. I did. I thought it was cruel of him. I wanted to beg him to do it.” Pathfinder chuckled, though it was bitter and his lips were turned down in a tight frown. “Time heals all wounds, they say. That’s a bunch of crap. All time will do is provide at best a bit of numbing to the pain. Be that in a hearty ale, a home cooked meal… the kiss of your lover’s lips.” Pathfinder smiled from the memory, though it brought a curious glisten to his eyes. “So many moments that his mercy granted me. I’ll never forget Schafer. The only… decent griffon I ever met.”

“What happened to him?”

A breath, slow and deep drew in through the old stallion’s nose. He stared into his empty mug as though searching for resolve hidden away at the very bottom. With a deliberate slowness, he turned his attention to Stalwart.

“Summer.”

It wasn't the feel of griffon blood drying into her coat that bothered Iron Rain so much as the smell. The feel had a certain charm to it; rich, warm, then tacky, like her enemies were still pulling at every hair and feather, desperate for her permission to fade away. A permission that she only gave when she was good and ready to. Granted, the taste that it would leave on her tongue when she inevitably went to preen would be awful, but it was a price she was all too willing to pay for the thrill of battle.

Despite all her experience, she never got used to the smell of an infirmary. Battlefields were open and expansive, and at least on the Nimban Plains there was always a strong breeze to carry the stench away. Rain always suspected it was the confinement of it that bothered her.

Hastily raised canopies kept the worst of the weather off of the wounded and dying. Unfortunately it also kept the smell from fully dissipating, even with a steady wind. The pungent, sickly sweet scent of infection, metallic blood, and putrid death permeated everything.

Ponies like Summer who had learned to suffer the smell, screams, and groans carried no small amount of respect in Rain’s heart.

Most of Nyx had been more than generous in opening up their homes to the battered Nimban population. Nearly every place of residence had taken a few of her ponies in, though the vast majority were still forced to live on the streets. Even then, with the legion taking up space, food, wine, and water, she had heard no complaints, and Nyx had her gratitude for that.

Still, Rain had no illusions about her situation. Nyx couldn’t support the Nimban survivors, the shattered Legions, and its own population for long. The best she could hope for was a safer place for her ponies in the fertile heart of Cirra. A place they could organize and supply before taking the fight back to Gryphus with maximum prejudice.

Pushing her way through a cloth door, Rain entered a small room that looked no larger than a storage closet. If there had been any furnishings they had been removed days ago, leaving only a solitary strip of bedding on the wooden floor, presently occupied by a stallion.

“Stone?”

He said nothing, nor moved to respond to her voice.

Rain took a step closer but hesitated in raising her voice. “Stonewall, can you hear me?”

Once more her query went unanswered with the large framed stallion burying his face into the pillow and trying to squirm further under the sheets.

Iron Rain made a heavy sigh and took a step closer. Her hoof reached out, gently patting what little was exposed of his filthy mane. “Rest easy, my friend. You earned it.”

“You should let him sleep.”

The stallion’s tone was factual, if muted in volume, and it made Rain’s ears twitch. She turned slowly until her gaze fell upon Haze, who was leaning wearily on the door frame. His wispy mane was flat, compressed tightly along the curve of his skull where his helmet had sat for the better part of the day. With a groan of effort he pushed himself away from the doorframe and stepped into the dimly lit room.

What drew Rain’s attention, however, was the look on Haze’s face. His lips were pulled downward in a restrained, but tight frown that matched the chasms seemingly carved into his brow from tension alone.

She minced no words and took a step closer to him. “Outside.”

Haze nodded, and once the two had slipped out of the room he addressed her. “They cut out his tongue, Iron. The bastards cut his tongue out and lamed his wings. He’ll never fight again. Hell, he’ll be lucky if he ever glides again.”

Rain nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Who found him?"

"Windshear and Carver."

"I see." Rain closed her eyes and thought for a few moments, then looked to Haze again. "The medics have seen to him?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Let me know when he wakes up. I'll see about getting him placed in a more comfortable room."

Haze nodded.

Motioning for him to follow her, Rain began the long march out of the makeshift hospital. “Are the prisoners secured?”

“Yeah, I’ve got them split up individually and locked up in several basements.”

“Who’s guarding them?”

“Only Nimbans we can trust.”

Rain nodded. "What of the papers we captured?"

"Thorn collected them . They should be in your room," he answered, then started to frown. "Rain, what are you planning?"

“I need to get the civilians and children somewhere safe,” Rain answered, not stopped as she worked her way through the medical tent. “And I need to show Gold Moon that the Nimban Militia is still of value.”

Haze blinked several times and scratched at his snout with the tip of his wingblade. “We need medicine, followed by water, and food.”

“I know, Haze.” Rain stepped over the tail of a sleeping stallion who groaned and rolled in the throes of delirium. She glanced at him long enough to see thick bandages wrapped around his neck and a tourniquet where his left foreleg used to be. “Where’s Summer and the kid?”

“They were behind us when we left the camp. She wouldn’t move him until he was stabilized. Windshear and Carver were with her.”

“I see.” Rain pursed her lips and paused once they stepped into the sunlight. “See if you can find her. Tell her to take him to my quarters. She can work on the kid there. And see if you can find me some census maps.”

Haze recoiled somewhat, then shook his head. “Rain, what are you doing?”

“If I’m going to go head to head with Gold Moon, I need some information first,” Rain answered, almost as an afterthought.

Shaking his head, Haze stepped in front of her bringing them both to a halt. “No, not about that.”

“Then what?”

“The kid.”

“Returning a favor,” she answered with a heavy heart.

Haze frowned and took a step closer to her. “Sídero—”

She glared at him. “You know better than to call me that, Katachniá.”

“I know better than to be fooled by that tone,” he said as he placed a hoof on her shoulder. His voice dropped to a whisper and he leaned in closer so no prying ears would be privy to their words. “I know you’re hurting. I see you blaming yourself for what happened. But it wasn’t your fault, Iron. It wasn’t anypony’s fault we lost. You can talk to me, old friend.” He bit his lip, brows knitting together mirroring the worry in his voice. "If not me, then Thorn. Please, Iron. Please, just..." Haze sighed and let his head hang. "Just talk to us."

Rain said nothing, her lips pulled into a thin line with her eyes purposely kept out of Haze's view. She looked to the east, where the thick plume of smoke still rose from the shattered remains of Nimbus. Haze reaffirmed the grip on her shoulder and opened his mouth, only to have Rain pull her shoulder free and walk away. Only the soft, raw tone in her voice betrayed her thoughts. “And get me those maps as quick as you can.”

Summer drew the curtain on the window and looked to the center of the room. Pathfinder lay there, spread across a bed that had been the Mayor’s, and then Rain’s. His emaciated frame quivered with every gasping breath he took. She pulled a lantern closer to the table so she had more light, and sighed at what she saw.

Carver sat at the edge of the bed and wiped at Finder's brow with a damp rag. Windshear sat on the opposite side, his hoof gently petting the colt's ragged mane. Neither stallion said a word, nor exchanged a glance. Whatever thoughts flooded their mind they kept to themselves.

"His mane," Carver said, breaking the terse silence.

Summer and Windshear both took a moment to observe Finder's mane and raised their eyebrows in surprise with the sight of white creeping up from the roots of his chestnut hair.

"What causes that?" Windshear asked, glancing back at Summer with worry knitting his brows together.

Her wings shrugged, the metal scales of her wingblades scraping together in a discordant hiss from the motion. "Stress, maybe? Nopony knows for sure." Summer counted the few supplies she had left and bit her lip. "Carver," she said, without turning to face the stallion. "Cut some strips off the side of that blanket. I need more bandages.”

"Got it," he answered, taking the edge of the white sheet in his hooves then slicing through them with his wingblade.

“Shear,” she said, her hooves carefully moving Finder’s wing to expose his cauterized chest. “I’ll need sutures, prep a needle like I showed you.”

“Consider it done.”

Filing that to the back of her mind, Summer turned back to the nightstand where she had meticulously laid out all the supplies she had left.

She didn’t need to worry about her tools. Summer was well aware of how her scalpels, hooks, and saws held up from procedure to procedure. It only took some basic maintenance to ensure they lasted for a good long while, and Summer ensured they lasted for as long as possible. What she worried about was medicine. There were simply too many wounded, and not nearly enough to care for them all.

Returning her attention to Pathfinder, Summer forced herself to take a deep breath and recalled her master’s teachings.

Summer’s hooves moved at a deliberate, slow pace, feeling every inch of every bone. She started at the tips of his wings and carefully moved towards his shoulders, checking to make sure that his bones were still set correctly. Satisfied that nothing had been jarred out of place in the flight back to Nyx, her hooves moved on to inspect his rib cage. Even a foal could tell Finder had broken ribs, the difficult part would be determining how bad the breaks were. If they were fairly minor, then Summer could simply leave them to heal naturally. However, Summer could see where they were misaligned or shattered. Her hooves felt around the cauterized flesh in a methodical pattern. It was all too apparent to Summer that Finder would need surgery to fully correct the problem.

But there was no way she could do it now. Even if she had the medicine and assistants she would need, Finder was far too weak to survive the operation. He needed weeks if not months to regain some strength before she could even try it. As it stood, though, he barely had enough blood left in him to keep breathing, and she much prefered to keep it there.

Summer lowered her head and pressed her ear to Finder’s chest. The steady, if weak palpitations of his heart along with his ragged breaths gave Summer more hope than she dared to admit. Every beat served as a note of defiance. The proud will of the Legion that would carry them through the hardest of times. Summer lingered there, reveling in the sound until Windshear prodded at her side with the sutures held out in his primaries.

“All set.” Windshear passed her the threaded needle while Carver continued to make even strips of bandages from the bed sheets.

“Thanks.” Inspecting the knot on the line to ensure it was correct, Summer nodded, then set to work stitching together the burned walls of flesh. Finder made a weak moan when the needle pierced what was left of his chest wall and slipped through the tattered muscle. Windshear glanced away and closed his eyes while Carver lowered his muzzle to Finder’s ear, quietly reassuring the colt.

It only took her a few minutes to suture the wound, and Windshear dutifully prepared more while she worked. Once she had the flesh stitched Summer moved to the nightstand and took what little was left of the vinegar in her hoof. The pungent liquid spilt from the mouth of the bottle, upturned over a clean cloth. Windshear covered his nose with a wing, face twisted in a sneer at the odor.

Moving to Finder’s side, Summer gave her friends a look, and wordlessly they moved to hold the colt down again. He mewled pitifully when she pressed the cloth to his chest, hooves scraping at the sheets with his ruined wings ever so slightly twitching. Carver was the first to react, and promptly wrapped the colt up in a hug while Summer finished her work.

“Dammit,” Summer cursed at Carver. “Be careful!”

“I’m being careful,” he snapped back at her. “Just get on with it.”

Growling, Summer carefully cleaned the massive gash which extended from Finder’s chest nearly to his hip. The pale, scalded flesh glistened with vinegar, blood, and sweat behind her makeshift rag. Summer made a mental log of the wound, then quickly moved on to the next ones, a series of gashes on his flanks. No sooner did she press the cloth to them than Finder start to panic. Carver and Windshear held him tight with relative ease.

“Something’s wrong,” Summer said, more to herself than her friends.

Each gave her a look of concern, though it was Carver who first voiced it. “What?”

Summer’s eyes followed the contour of Finder’s body and seized on the deep gouges in his back and flanks. There were nine in total, of different lengths and depths. Three in particular looked as though meat hooks had been dug into the colt’s flanks, carving bloody ravines into his flesh when he’d tried to run.

It made no sense, even as torture, unless… Summer’s mouth dried, her heart clenched painfully in her chest, and slowly she turned to Carver and Windshear. “I… I need you two to step outside.”

“No,” Carver said instantly.

Windshear’s response was more cautious. “Why?”

Try as she might, Summer couldn’t force herself to look them in the eye. “Please... just stand in the hall and close the door.”

Carver and Windshear exchanged a glance, with Carver opening his mouth to speak first. “Summer—”

She looked to him, and the temperature of the room seemed to drop with her gaze. “Carver, please.”

Carver bit down on his cheek and exchanged a glance with Windshear. The blue stallion’s lips pulled into a thin line, and in a barely discernible motion, he shook his head. Swallowing, Carver sighed, and with no small amount of effort, pulled himself from Pathfinder’s side.

They moved past Summer, who stood motionless between them, and closed the door as they stepped into the hall. Silence, at once blissful and torturous filled the hall, stretching seemingly into eternity.

It started with the thrashing of sheets, then the clatter of tools, knocked from the night stand. Panicked gasps, muted by the door, and Summer’s voice cracking even when she pleaded for calm.

Windshear clenched his eyes shut and tried to will the sound away while Carver stood in silence. Then they heard a crash of tools, followed by a heavy thud from inside, and Carver was the first to wheel around and reach for the door. Windshear caught him, though, wrapping his forelegs around Carver’s and wrenching them away from the door.

“Let me go, Wind,” Carver growled.

“I can’t,” Windshear hissed in reply.

Carver tried to tear himself free, only to be clutched tighter by Windshear. “You have to. He needs us!”

“Yeah, he does,” Windshear agreed, managing to wrap a hoof around the back of Carver’s head. “But he needs us later. Not now.”

The door opened just enough for Summer to peer through with a look of barely contained fury etched across her narrow face. “I need water... and wine.”

Carver shook his head. “Gold Moon’s Requisition Staff took control of all the remaining wine supply. They’re only giving out rations per medicus request.”

Summer shook her head. “No, you go to Legate Rain. Tell her that Summer requires wine for the Kid. She can see me if she needs to know why.”

“Summer.” Carver took a step nearer to the door, only to be stopped by her hoof pressed firmly to his chest. “What happened?”

“Carver,” her voice quavered, yet her tone was firm, brokering no room for argument. “Now.”

He wanted to argue with her. To push past her and go to Pathfinder’s side. But Summer presented an indomitable wall and Carver saw no way to crack through it. Slowly he lowered his head in resignation, and with her nod of approval he turned and started to walk away. Windshear trotted up beside him and attempted to drape a comforting wing across his back. Carver growled and shoved it off, tears flowing freely from his eye.

Nimbus had been destroyed. The Fourth and Fifth Legions slaughtered. What little was left of the Eighth Legion was depleted and had fled with haste to the questionable safety of Nyx. The Second and Sixth Legions had also reported heavy casualties in their efforts to stem the tide of griffon aggression. What was left of the Cirran army was disorganized, demoralized, and in full retreat along all fronts.

The spear was broken, the spiked shield shattered, and Stratopolis, the very heart of Cirra, was exposed.

Magnus’ hordes—no, Gold Moon shook his head, a horde was disorganized, easily splintered and routed through disciplined action. What faced Cirra now was an army every bit as organized as their own. Well equipped, disciplined, and lethal in their purpose. To say nothing of the griffon emperor himself.

Gold Moon shivered. Magnus had made the elite Nimban Palatial Guard look like hapless foals. He had slaughtered Gold Moon’s own Praetorian Guards almost as an afterthought. Moon barely recalled the unexpected reinforcements that had come to his aide, and they barely escaped with their lives.

The Praetorian Commander shook his head. There was nothing to be gained by obsessing on the past. He had far more pressing concerns demanding his immediate attention. Outside of the Mayor’s home where he and Legate Rain had taken up temporary residence, there were thousands of wounded, dying, and demoralized soldiers clogging the narrow streets of Nyx. On top of that were the tens of thousands of Nimban civilians who had suddenly found themselves refugees in their own lands. Nearly all of whom had fled with none of their worldly possessions. Supplies were being stretched too far, too fast. If a plague didn’t kill them all, starvation certainly would.

Knocks on the door drew his thoughts from the chaotic reports before him. A middle-aged pegasus, slight in build with an insouciant appearance stepped over the threshold.

“Commander Moon, Legate Rain is here to see you.”

Gold Moon took a breath then simply nodded to the stallion. “Send her in, and see that we are not interrupted.”

The stallion nodded and pulled the door closed. Gold Moon waited for a moment, then allowed himself a breath. He felt strange without his gilded armor, but it had been damaged almost beyond repair at Nimbus. Coupled with the bandages wrapping his body and Gold Moon looked more like a battered legionnaire rather than the Commander General of the Cirran Legion.

Gold Moon stood up straight just as the door opened, Iron Rain stepping in with a purposeful stride.

“Commander Moon.”

“Legate Rain,” he returned the simple courtesy with the smallest nod of his head.

“I trust you’re mending well?”

“Alas, Iron, you’ll have to wait a bit longer before you spit on my grave.”

Rain smiled. “And here I was about to give you a gift, Moon.”

“I know all about your griffon prisoners, Iron,” he said dispassionately. “Must I tell you how utterly reckless you were this morning?”

“I had it on good intelligence that there was a griffon encampment on the doorstep of Nyx,” Rain countered, managing for once to keep her voice at an even tone. “There had been no scouts reporting large scale enemy activity anywhere in the surrounding area, nor have any patrols gone missing. Unless you’re getting different scouting reports than I am, Commander.”

Gold Moon sighed and shook his head. “We are in a precarious position here in Nyx, Iron. The sightlines are poor, supply chains are exposed, and any attack could rush the city before we could mount an organized defense. Attacking their camp to rescue a few walking wounded was impractical. You’ve—”

“So I should have left our brothers and sisters, not just Nimbans but Cirrans as well, to be tortured and die?” Rain demanded, her calm facade cracking with anger.

The answer was simple, cold, and wholly logical, like the Praetorian Consul himself. “Yes.”

Rain scowled. “We never leave a soldier behind.”

“We can’t afford to be sentimental right now,” he reprimanded her quickly. “What happens when a messenger or a supply train arrives to find the camp destroyed and their comrades massacred? They will seek revenge, perhaps bringing half a division or more.” Gold Moon rubbed his hoof against his forehead, wincing from the discomfort that the simple action caused. “Casus belli under the best of circumstances.” His gaze shot upwards with a stern frown etched upon his muzzle. “You have incited them, Iron. Incited our enemy to attack where we have limited defenses at best! . Can we muster a defense of all the civilians, the wounded, our supplies, water stores, and farms?”

“With respect, sir,” Rain said, stepping forward. “I believe I have a solution for that.”

Gold Moon narrowed his eyes, regarding the tall mare with a curious expression. “Go on.”

“I’ve looked at the same census maps you have, Moon, and we both know Nyx doesn’t have the resources to support my civilians for long. I want permission to move them west towards Stratopolis. I will take what’s left of the Nimban Militia and form a rapid response legion. If you won’t let me take the fight to the heart of Gryphus, then at least allow me to stab at vulnerable spots. I also need medicine for my wounded.” Rain reached her hoof under her right wing and produced a stack of papers, which she offered to the Commander. “Captured papers from the prison camp. I’ve been able to translate some of it, but I’m afraid my hybrid is a bit rusty. All I need is the material support and I can ensure more, both in prisoners and papers.”

“You’ve thought this through, I will concede that,” Gold Moon said as he limped around the table towards her. He took the papers and set them down on the table. “But your request is denied.”

Looking at once stunned and furious, Rain opened her mouth to protest, only for Gold Moon to cut her off.

“Legate Rain.” Gold Moon clasped her shoulder with a hoof, his eyes locking with her own. “Your father was proud of you to the very end. And Cirra will reclaim Nimbus, you have my word. Right now we do not need an unaccounted for legion starting fires wherever it pleases. You would certainly do damage, but you would have no support should you be cut off, and worse still you could pull too many griffons to an area of operations we cannot adequately defend.” Gold Moon shook his head and released Rain’s shoulder. “No, Legate Rain. We need to concentrate on rebuilding our legions and crushing the griffon hordes before they can reform. I need you to prepare to move your refugees. You are right, Nyx cannot support this population for long. They need to be moved, and I will consult with the Senate as to where they can be placed.”

Moving back to his bed, Gold Moon sat down with a pained grunt. “Is there anything else?”

“I sent for Senator Celsus yesterday,” Rain said after several moments. “With good winds he should arrive within the week.”

Gold Moon was silent for a moment, then nodded once. “Very well. You’re dismissed, Legate.”

Rain turned sharply and marched stiffly out of the room. Gold Moon watched her leave, noting her set jaw and trembling wings. He sighed when the door closed, then made a modest smile.

“Iron Rain. You might just make a good Legate one day.”

Reprieve

Death occupied Pathfinder’s mind. How easy it would have been to step through the threshold and into the peaceful non-existence that waited for everypony on the other side. He didn’t remember what it was like, before he’d been born. But it hadn’t bothered him then. It hadn’t given him pain, or sorrow, nor had it broken his spirit and defiled his body. Why not, then, go back to the eternal sleep?

The low rumble of thunder overhead interrupted his silent reverie. A cold rain was falling from the skies above, the droplets pattering down from gray clouds onto the column of pegasi marching across muddied roads. High winds buffeted the soldiers with cold, freezing a thin sheen of rain to their armor. It made them glisten like stallions and mares of crystal, a proud sight if not for their anguished eyes and sloughed wings.

Seeds of despair had taken root in their souls, and the bitter fruit it yielding was bare for even the colt to see in his fleeting bouts of consciousness. Between those moments he fought back the nightmares that threatened to break the little left of his spirit. If he was lucky, he was only out for a moment, and the nightmares didn’t have a chance to take hold. If he wasn’t lucky…

Claws.

Screaming.

Spear.

Pain.

Pathfinder gave a sharp kick as he snapped awake, the action sending bolts of pain through his ravaged side and earning a yelp from the unarmored back he was riding on.

“Ow! Dammit, kid, don’t kick me!”

“Better you than me, Rain,” another voice said with a laugh.

“Celsus, I don’t care how bad you got flogged, I will salt your back and make you carry him.”

Pathfinder groaned. His head was throbbing and he could feel the pounding of his heart in his ears. Each beat of his heart made the pain in his head get worse, like he’d stuck his head into the jaws of a great vice. He raised a hoof to try clutching at his aching skull, as though holding it might somehow alleviate him of his discomfort. However his efforts were fruitless.

“Ow!” Rain growled when his flailing hoof struck her behind the ear.

“I’ll give him more wine,” Summer said, and Pathfinder could hear her hoofsteps getting closer, the mud of the trail sloshing under her weight.

“He’s fine, Summer,” Rain growled. “You’re giving him too much of that shit already.

“If by fine you mean he’s been groaning and thrashing for hours, then sure, he’s perfectly fine.”

Finder heard Rain start to talk again, but her words faded away with his consciousness. Just as quickly as he’d been awake, he was unconscious again. Around his hooves drifted a pale blue smoke. He wandered through it and coughed as it filled his lungs.

To his left, he saw his mother, Longbow, and their father. It was their kitchen, with the three gathered around the fire as his mother cooked his favorite stew. Finder could smell the herbs in the air. His mouth watered, and for just a moment he even felt the heat from the flames in his cheeks.

Then he looked to his opposite side. There he found fire. The wall of orange, yellow, and red consumed the walls with an insatiable hunger. Finder turned to warn his family, but it was too late. The flames had consumed them too, leaving only skeletons that screamed as they were turned to blackened ash. Soon the floor too had burned away, and Finder found himself surrounded by blackness.

“Mama!” he called out, his voice not even making so much as an echo in the void.

“Mama!” he cried again, the rhythm of his hooves getting faster as he started to run.

The ground behind him turned to sand. Pathfinder tried to fly, but realized his wings were gone. Where they had been were ragged, bloody, holes. He could see down to his lungs, just like when Magnus tore Longbow’s wings from his body. The colt screamed again and ran faster. No matter how fast he ran, though, the collapsing world behind him was faster.

He fell into the dark, and his body hit the cold earth as he screamed.

Something held him down. Stronger limbs pinned his flanks, chest, and head to the ground. Finder felt his heart clench in his chest. All over again he felt those wicked hooked claws digging into his hips. Voices were yelling at him. The griffons were laughing at him.

‘No no no no no no,’ he pleaded, with fresh tears burned his eyes.

Claws dug into the flesh of his cheek and pushed his head down. He screamed and tried to pull away, but his screams were laughed at, and his head was forced between the griffon’s rear legs. Longbow watched him all the while. His lips pulled down into a revolted sort of frown. There was a stabbing pain under his tail, and Finder’s scream was gagged.

“KID!”

The voice was loud, sharp, and Pathfinder snapped his eyes open. Every breath lanced pain through his chest and he struggled to flap his broken wings in a futile attempt to fly to safety. Strong limbs held him still, and two blue eyes were locked with his own while hooves held his cheeks in place.

“You’re alright,” Rain whispered into his ear. “Shhh…shh…you’re safe now…You’re safe…”

Pathfinder gasped for breath, cringing and coughing with the exertion, and slowly felt the pounding in his chest begin to slow. Rain leaned away, letting him see the golden fields that stretched for miles around their encampment. The sun hung low in the sky, suspended over voluminous clouds.

Slowly, oh so slowly, the horror of his nightmare faded. His breathing slowed, his heartrate settled, and he felt a sense of warmth and safety.

“Hey buddy,” Carver’s voice joined the others. “How’re you doing?”

Finder gritted his teeth, biting back a pained groan as he looked to the stallion. Carver was wearing new armor, polished and trimmed in gold. The bandage around his eye had been changed for a more proper fitting eyepatch out of tanned leather. He paused, noticing the colt’s lingering gaze, then allowed a moments smile. “Heh, promotion. Don’t worry about it. You’re still stuck with me for a while, kid. I’m in charge of security for the column.”

“And yet here you are,” Rain reminded him with a cold tone. “Have you sent out pickets and scouts?”

Carver gulped, and seemed to momentarily shrink under Rain’s withering glare. “Yes Ma’am. I have pickets positioned at regular intervals and scouts patrolling for any sign of enemy activity. If the bastards make a move we should see it.

“’Should’?” Rain repeated the word with no small amount of scorn. “Should, Carver, is the difference between victory and defeat. Nimbus should still be floating above the Kataigismós Plain. The hybrids should be begging for our mercy as the Legion batters down the walls of Agenholt until not a single stone is left. But we are here because some damn fools thought that should was good enough!” Rain’s voice raised to a shout and made Carver flinch.

Silence settled between the three ponies for a few moments, then Rain sighed, containing her temper once again. “We are vulnerable here, particularly to guerrilla attacks. We need as much warning as possible so another ambush like the one we survived at Nyx doesn’t happen.”

“It won’t Ma’am,” Carver assured her, standing up straighter. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Rain made a thoughtful sounding hum, and seemed less than convinced by his argument. “See that you do, Centurion. Anything else?”

“We need to talk about rations at some point,” Carver said with a cautious tone. “We’re down to scraps.”

“I’m aware, Senator Celsus assures me he’s doing all he can in the Senate to see we get what we need.”

“We need it soon. Much longer and we’re going to be eating grass and most of the soldiers won’t be able to lift their swords.”

Rain sighed and turned her head to call out to a pony out of Finder’s sight. “Haze!”

“Ma’am,” The stallion said, trotting up beside her.

“Take a hundred ponies, the fastest you can find, and assemble them into foraging parties. They’re to collect any game they find. Rabbits, wild swine, birds, fish, anything.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Fly only to the north, east, or south,” Rain instructed with a firmness to her tone. “Cirra has nominal control of anything west of our line, but you’re guaranteed a hybrid ambush if you venture too far from the pickets.”

Haze nodded. “By your command.”

Pathfinder pressed a hoof down to the ground and groaned as he forced himself to a sitting position. The effort made a cold sweat break out over his body. The burn that Todesangst had left on his hoof ached from the touch of sharp grass, but the mending muscles in his chest made that pain seem almost quaint. He forced an eye open, barely able to see the silhouettes of Rain, Summer, Carver, Haze, and Thorn watching him.

Summer was at his side in a moment, bracing him with her shoulder. “Easy, Finder, you need to rest.”

“I...I can fish…” he wheezed.

Thorn raised an eyebrow and noted dryly, “You can barely breathe.”

“Grew up,” he passed for a breath, cringing as his side protested the simple efforts of being alive. “In Altus… I c-can fish…”

“We’ll go fishing later,” Summer promised as she tried to ease him back down. “But you’ve got to rest first.”

Finder wanted to argue. He wanted to get away from everything, to do anything that would make him feel useful again. But try as he might his body would barely move, and increasingly he found himself relying on Summer’s shoulder to hold himself up. Bit by bit his strength ebbed, and the voices around him grew muted again as he passed out.

How long he was unconscious for, he didn’t know. He knew he was riding on somepony’s back again, and that they were walking. He realized that he was laying on his stomach, his legs dangling off a large pony’s body and his head drooped around that pony’s right shoulder. The smell of dust and sweat filled his nostrils.

“How’s your back?” Rain asked. Finder realized it was her carrying him once more.

“Bad enough I took a bit of wine,” Summer complained, though Finder couldn’t see her.

“Think the kid needs more?”

“He’s been pretty quiet since last night,” Summer said before yawning. “I’ve been giving him watered down doses. Hopefully that’ll help perk him up a bit.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this focused on a patient,” Rain teased, her tone surprisingly light.

“Most others’ are shitty patients,” Summer seemed to retort. Pathfinder could almost hear her smirk. It was the smirk she’d given Carver when Finder had accidentally cut out the stallion’s eye back in training. “What about you?”

Rain was quite for a stride. “What about me?”

“You know what,” Summer teased, Pathfinder felt Rain’s gait momentarily waver as she was prodded by the smaller mare. “The kid. You’ve been with him since that camp. What gives?”

Rain hesitated before she answered. “I owed him.”

“Yeah, that explains why you gave him your room in Nyx, not why you’ve been taking care of him and carrying him when there are litter-bearers who could do the same.”

“He’s light,” Rain countered. “And we’re already short on stretchers as is.”

“And that didn’t answer my question,” Summer said with a hint of mirth coming to her voice. “Is our dear Legate thinking about trading the sword for the scalpel? Or do you just have a thing for younger ponies?”

“I-What?!” Rain balked, and Finder nearly slipped off her back when Rain lashed a wing out at Summer.

“What?” Summer teased and laughed. “I mean, it’s not that weird. You’re seventeen, he’s fourteen. Give him a couple years he’ll be the envy of every Nimban mare around with all those scars.”

“Clearly you’re the one with her head in the bedroom,” Rain growled. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it?”

Silence answered Summer’s question for a moment. Pathfinder’s dazed vision focused on the trodden grass under hoof.

“Weeeell?” Summer asked, dragging the word out with an almost sing-song tone.

Rain sighed. “I… I admire him.”

“I’m sorry?” Summer said with disbelief.

“What?”

“You and I were raised with swords in our teeth, Kalokairi,” Rain emphasized Summer’s Nimban name. “War is in our blood. The rest of Cirra is soft. They like their bath houses, festivals, and creature comforts. But this kid...Pathfinder...He wasn’t drafted. He didn’t have to put himself on the line for the Empire. But he did.”

Rain looked over her shoulder, and for just a moment her eyes met his half-lidded orbs. Pathfinder found himself transfixed as the Legate who had terrified him when they first met now seemed almost warm. In her gaze he found something: an unspoken promise that as long as she was there, nobody could hurt him anymore. It made his heart skip a beat and his cheeks start to burn like they had when Dawn teased him.

It had only been for a moment that their eyes were locked, but for Pathfinder it may as well have been a lifetime. When she turned away he found himself only wishing to see that look in her eyes one more time. But it was all he could do to keep his own eyes open. He fought the creeping exhaustion for as long as he could, afraid of what awaited him in the dark.

“You’ve got to admire it,” Rain continued, her voice soft. “He could have been safe at home and nopony would have given it a second thought. Instead he chose the Legion and took a spear for a Nimban mare he didn’t even know.”

Finder shivered as his strength failed and his eyes fell shut. The last words he heard before the void claimed his mind were from Rain. In those words he felt something he’d not felt since Longbow died.

Pathfinder felt safe.

“You really have to admire it.”

Mystery of the Forbidden Expedition

Lost.

Yes, yes that was the word. Pathfinder had felt lost for so very long. He stared up at the wood ceiling over his bed, as though those old beams would have the answers he so desperately sought. He looked to his left, and the bed was empty, like it had been every morning for so many years. Rolling slowly onto his side, he stared at that empty pillow. Sometimes, if he focused very hard, he could still see her there, that beautiful blue eye looking back at him.

He wished he could still smell her.

Wind fluttered the drape covering the window letting light filter into his room. He lingered there a moment longer, forcing himself to see her silhouette beside him. But, like every morning, it was that memory that forced him out of bed.

The routine was the same it had been for decades. Fifteen minutes of stretches, then sets of wing-ups, push-ups, sit ups, repeat, more stretching, and finally a few minutes to preen his wings. In some ways, the routine had kept him sane, though his joints certainly ached more than they used to.

He opened the drape, let his eyes adjust to the light. A pair of olive trees shaded the back yard of his family home. Under their protective shade he saw four young pegasi playing. The sight of his great-grandchildren made him smile.

He poured himself a cup of water from the old ceramic pitcher on the nightstand and downed it in a single gulp. Wiping his lips with a wing, he moved to the door, took a breath, and pressed his ear to the wood. What he heard made him smile, and he swung the door open, only to be attacked by a pair of young foals that lunged at him like wild beasts.

“Grandpa!”

“Haha, easy boys,” he laughed, catching one in each foreleg. Big kisses were planted on both their heads, before their sides were ruthlessly counter attacked with his tickling feathers. “Your Grandpa’s not as durable as he used to be!”

The giggling colts squirmed and flapped their small wings, trying in vain to escape Finder’s attack. “Grandpa Stoooop!” the giggled in unison.

“Some little Rains you are,” he laughed at their torment, blowing raspberries on their manes before releasing them. “You can’t surprise Grandpa that easy.”

“We’ll get you one of these day, Great-Grandpa!” the twin on the right said, bouncing with his little wings fluttering.

Pathfinder smiled, Whirlwind was so full of energy.

“I keep telling you we gotta try something new!” Updraft said, his wing swatting his brother.

“Now boys,” Pathfinder said, putting a hoof on each of their steel blue manes. Gods how much they looked like her. “Patience is a virtue. Didn’t your Grandfather teach you that?”

Whirlwind huffed. “Grandpa Gray is boooring.”

“Try playing him at chess,” Finder chuckled. “Go on now, boys. Go find your mother. I’m sure she needs help with your cousins.”

“Yes Grandpa,” the twins answered in unison, ears splayed and heads hanging. Pathfinder watched them trot down the hall and fly out the window with a smile, then made his way downstairs.

“Grandfather, you’re looking well this morning,” a periwinkle coated mare said, greeting Finder with a hug.

He chuckled, nuzzled her cheek, then leaned back. “Good Morning, Melody, how are you?”

“I’m well, Grandfather,” she said. “And you?”

“These old bones keep me going,” he chuckled, brushing her pale blue bangs out of her eyes. “You look exhausted, dear, need me to take the kids today?”

Melody laughed and shook her head. “No, grandpa, the little ones would put you in the grave.” She leaned over and flicked his chest with a yellow hoof. “And you’re not getting out that easy.”

Pathfinder huffed. “Bah, none of you are any fun. Is Gray home?”

“He’s downstairs with Shimmer and Whisper.”

“Whisper’s home?” Finder said, a bit of surprise in his voice. “I thought he was still off in Rivendelk.”

Melody shrugged and scooped up the basket of laundry she’d been folding. “He came home last night while you were out. You really shouldn’t fly up to Cloudsdale without telling us, Grandpa. You could’ve gotten hurt.”

“Oh leave me alone, ya brat,” Finder chided her, though his tone lacked any actual disdain.

She kissed his cheek, then hugged him with a wing. “I have to head out to the market later. Do you need anything?”

“Nothing money could buy, love. But thank you.”

Melody nodded, then walked past Finder, humming a tune. She made it two steps past him when he turned to her. “Melody.”

“Grandpa?”

He smiled. “That’s a beautiful tune. When can I hear the full song?”

Melody chuckled. “All I’ve got is a refrain.”

“Well, then you just need a few verses. I know you’ll come up with something beautiful. Your grandmother loved listening to you sing.”

Putting the laundry down, Melody gave Pathfinder another hug with a wing over his back. “I love you, Grandpa.”

For just a moment, Finder smiled, feeling that oft forgotten warmth in his heart. The feeling faded when she pulled away, gone to attend to her chores and children. He lingered in the hall a moment, listening to the sound of children laughing and adults softly chatting. All of the voices were pieces of her; pieces of him. The children, and grandchildren they had seen grow and prosper through war and peace. And now the great grandchildren that she hadn't had the chance to meet.

The pain gripped his heart again. Pathfinder wanted a drink.

Making his way down to the kitchen, he found three ponies gathered around the large dining room table. His eldest daughter, Shimmer, now in her late sixties and unhappily retired, the familiar face of Gray who somehow seemed to always be lingering in Everfree City even when he had armies to lead elsewhere, and Shimmer’s son Whispering Rain.

“I’ll see what I can find out, Uncle,” Whisper said, closing out whatever conversation he’d been holding with Gray—Pathfinder wasn’t senile enough to pretend his grandson wasn’t a spy, even if Whisper had never admitted it—so it came a bit of a surprise when the young stallion continued. “You’re the one who’s married tobest friends with the Queen, ‘Prince-Consort’. Why don’t you just ask her?” Gray obviously had some retort, but it was wasted when his nephew turned to face Pathfinder in the doorway of the kitchen.

He smiled warmly; Pathfinder had never been sure if that was because he was really loved by his grandson, or because the colt was an outstanding spy. “Good morning, Grandpa. How are you?”

“Whisper,” Finder trotted over and gave the young stallion a hug. “I didn’t know you were back home. How’s that business you were doing in Rivendelk?”

Whisper shrugged. “It’s a profitable investment.” The answer was coy, non- specific, and standard Whisper. Ever since he was a colt, Whisper had been good at secrets. It was a talent that infuriated Rain, particularly when one of the grandfoals played a prank on her, and one Gray had seen instantly as an asset.

“Speak more vaguely and we’ll see if you can get a career in politics,” Finder chuckled.

“Rivendelk is less corrupt,” Shimmer grumbled, sipping her tea and tapping a hoof on the table. “Hard to be shady when the deer will just read your mind. Almost makes me glad I’m retired.”

“Not all problems are solved with the blade,” Gray noted, pouring Pathfinder a cup of tea and a small glass of wine.

“Perhaps more should be.” Shimmer growled, snatching up a roll from a plate on the center of the table. “Back in your day, Dad. Or even Commander Typhoon’s. When you got to fight griffons or buffalo, or something that would face you head on. Not changelings and spiders and…” she ended the short rant with an ambiguous grunt of disgust.

Whisper shook his head. “Mom, please. Sure, we can solve an immediate problem by putting some creature in the ground. But there’s a bigger picture to consider.”

“Now you’re sounding like your uncle again, son,” Shimmer said, glaring at Gray.

Gray merely shrugged. “If Equestria is to prosper, we must plan not for tomorrow, next week, or next year. We must plan for where we will be in a hundred years. A point I have been working to get the Queen to understand.” He turned pointedly to Whisper. “Which is why I am not currently in her good graces enough to bluntly ask her sensitive questions.”

“Alright, that’s enough politics this early,” Pathfinder said, drinking down the wine in a single gulp. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough. Gray knew him too well. “Whisper, are you in town long? You owe this old stallion a fishing trip or two.”

“Eh, I’ll be around enough to take you up on that,” Whisper answered. “But I’m due up the mountain in a few days.”

“Canterlot?” Pathfinder asked. “What on earth do you want at the old haunted castle?”

“I need to talk to the griffons, of course,” Whisper answered. “And only the upper floors are haunted.”

Pathfinder swallowed. “Of course.” As if a castle being full of griffons wasn’t, by itself, enough to constitute being ‘haunted’. Twenty-some years… nearly thirty had passed since the refugees arrived, but they still sent a shiver down his spine.

“I’m worried about what that colt from the Legate’s Lookout said,” Gray Rain announced without prompting, turning to the patriarch of the family and raising his own mug. “As Commander of the Royal Guard, I ought to know if somepony is planning a trip to Dioda. But I haven’t heard a whisper. Not until yesterday.”

“I’m very quiet when I want to be,” said Whisper with a wry grin.

Commander Gray Rain rolled his single remaining eye in a way that reminded Pathfinder very much of Iron. “I want Whisper to go talk to King Artorius, and see if he or his griffons know anything. Perhaps now that his son Grover is growing up, he’s gotten it into his mind to do something foolishly ‘heroic’ like when we were young.”

“So you think King Artorius is leading his knights back after all these years?” Pathfinder asked. “I guess it’s worth asking, but I doubt it. Let me go with you.”

Whisper raised a brow. “Grandfather, forgive me, but I thought you didn’t like being around the griffons.”

Finder sighed. “I don’t. But all this talk about Dioda… I just need to clear my head, kids. But King Artorius led his griffons here to get away from Magnus, same as we did.” He chuckled. “Hell, he’s even got a Cirran name, how much of a griffon can he really be? I still don’t trust the bastard to stand behind me, but we’ve fought enough wars together that I won’t turn him down if he wants to stand in front of me.” When the assembled pegasi looked at Pathfinder with various expressions of distrust and disbelief, he loosely held up his tired old hooves. “Really, no ulterior motives. Nothing. Plus it’ll be good to stretch my wings.”

“If you say so, Dad,” Shimmer muttered. “Just… don’t get yourself hurt. Whatever Whisper says about it, You know tthat place is… weird.”

“You think I’m that fragile?” Pathfinder scoffed. “I was married to your mother for seventy years. I’ve learned one or two things since Dioda.”

“Fair enough, Grandpa.”

“We’ll have to talk over dinner,” Gray announced. “Convene about this Dioda expedition. Should I pretend you’ll make it back here tonight, or just admit that you’ll wind up at the Lookout again?”

Pathfinder rolled his eyes. “You wound me, son.”

“Oh, come on, Dad,” Shimmer pressed. “Everypony knows he’s right.”

Pathfinder shrugged with his wings, at least as far as arthritic shoulders would let him. “Well, it wouldn’t do to completely cut off Stahl-for-short, would it? If you wanted, Gray, you could bring the kid up to Canterlot. The griffons brew some fine ale.”

“I think not.” Gray rose from his seat. “Not until we know who put him up to scratching at old scars, at any rate. I need to be off to court; my ‘better halfold flame’ may have the answers we seek. Fly safe, Father.”

“Somehow I doubt I’m going to be allowed to fly that distance at all at my age,” the old stallion grumbled back, turning to his plate. “Shimmer, do we have any prunes?”

—————-

The throne room of the Royal Palace of Equestria was cavernous and empty. It was still too early in the morning for public audiences, and Queen Platinum III was notoriously not a morning pony. She sat on her throne, a massive work of platinum inlaid with diamonds, and slowly drained an enormous wooden tankard of coffee—the rare beans were a gift from the deserts of the south, and their almost magical effect made her treasure the alliance with the camels far beyond what Gray thought was reasonable.

A few guards dotted the chamber, but oOnly one other pony of real note stood in the room. Lady Celestia, goddess of the sun, watched Gray approach the throne with the same quiet curiosity that had defined her presence since the day he first met her.

“Hello, Husband.” The Queen glanced up at the guards by the doors and nodded regally. “Leave us.”

Gray continued his approach as his subordinates left the room, swinging heavy doors shut behind them. “Your Majesty,” he greeted with a calm nod—there wasn’t any need for more ostentatious shows of loyalty and respect when they were in relative private.

She certainly didn’t bother to show him any special respect, her voice shifting to a harsher, more familiar tone the moment the doors were shut firmly. “We’re married with three kids and he calls me ‘Your Majesty’ from halfway across the fucking room,” she observed to Celestia, not even bothering to address the stallion until she turned her irate gaze in his direction. “If you’re about to tell me that I’m investing too much in the restoration efforts for Stalliongrad, Gray, you can go fuck yourself.”

“Gale—” Her pegasus name, courtesy of her father, Commander Hurricane, was how you could tell whether or not somepony was her friend.

Judging by how swiftly he was interrupted, Gray confirmed that he was not currently her friend. “The eternal winter is getting worse and ponies are starving. You yourself said my most valuable asset was public approval; how is it going to look if I turn the other way and let my subjects die?”

“That’s not why I’m here,” Gray responded, biting his tongue as to his reasoned response.

“Oh?” Gale sat back in her throne, taking a deep breath and releasing the tension in her face. She was nearly Gray’s age, and sixty years of rule through wars and magical invasions had not been entirely kind to the mare. The Queen utterly refused to endure makeup, so when she wasn’t smiling, the wrinkles on her brow gave her a look of contemplative focus and a warrior’s intuition that matched the rapier she wore at her side, even in her own throne room. “I’ve never known you to give up so quickly. What changed?”

“Something more pressing,” Gray replied. “Yesterday, some colt came to talk to my dad. He’s one of my guards, but not somepony notable enough that I knew his face.”

“And?” Gale asked.

“Apparently, somepony has proposed a scouting expedition without my approval.”

The Queen steepled her hooves and leaned back in her glistening throne. Her rapier clicked against the metal. “Gray, I know you get your cock in a knot sometimes about micromanaging the whole guard—”

“Ouch,” Lady Celestia noted with a grimace.

Gale chuckled. “Sorry, Auntie. Anyway, Gray, somepony took some initiative.”

“They proposed scouting Dioda.”

Gale waited for a moment, and when Gray said nothing, her shoulders sagged with a sigh. “Is that it?” Silence reigned over even the Queen’s head for a long few moments as she awaited an answer that wasn’t coming. Then she sat forward. “Do you remember when we were still stupid kids, when the griffons first got here? When all the old Cirrans had their sticks up their asses about it, and I had to fight Dad over whether they could even stay in the country?”

“I could hardly forget…”

“I fought Commander fucking Hurricane over this! Thirty fucking years ago! So forgive me if I’m not in the mood to re-litigate it!”

Celestia coughed into her hoof. “Your blood pressure, Gale.”

The middle-aged unicorn mare brought a hoof to her temple and finally collapsed back into her throne. “Emperor Magnus has been the monster under every pegasus bed for eighty years for no good reason. Do you honestly think he represents more of a military threat than Chrysalis? Or the Queen of Silk? Or stars-fucking-forbid, that viny bitch… what was her name?”

“Gloriosa Everfree?” Celestia suggested.

“Right, her. If the last eighty years have taught us anything, Gray, it’s that Equestria should be the monster under Magnus’ bed, not the other way around! Tartarus, we’ve even befriended a bunch of griffons that ran away from him. You’re the Commander of the Guard; you of all ponies ought to know that.”

“I do,” Gray nodded. “So to confirm, you ordered the expedition, Your Majesty?”

That earned him a scoff. “Of course not. I thought you…” Then, suddenly, the Queen’s eyes widened just a hint. “You don’t know who gave that order?”

“That is why I felt the need to bring it up,” Gray answered. “If one of us had been approached, I wouldn’t be worried. But this secrecy worries me.”

“Reminds me of changelings,” the Queen answered. Then she glanced to the literal alicorn in the room. “Aunt Celestia, remind me to have a word with you when we’re done here.”

“About Magnus?” Celestia asked.

“Aboutnd Dad,” Gale replied, returning her focus to Gray. “Tell Pathfinder to play along for now. You have full use of whatever resources you need to get to the bottom of this.”

Gray nodded. “Father is already doing just that. He’s accompanying my nephew Whisper to Canterlot. They’re visiting Artorius.”

“Ah, wonderful.” Gale sighed. “That’s exactly what we need. A dozen honor-obsessed griffon knights pushing for this expedition, and a delusional half-senile drunk to egg them on. I wish they’d find a way to get themselves killed that didn’t involve starting a war with Magnus.”

“If you’d like, I can arrange to have them assassinated,” Gray offered flatly. “The griffons, I mean. I trust you understand my father is off the table.”

“I…” Gale stuttered for a moment before slapping herself across the face with a hoof and abruptly regaining her royal composure. “Are you serious?”

“I would advise against that course of action, Your Majesty,” Gray noted. “But if you believe they are likely to involve us in a war with the griffons, then whether we would ultimately be victorious or not—”

“No! Absolutely not! Do I need to remind you what happened with the Night Guard?”

“You don’t,” Gray answered. “Do you wish for me to intervene at all?”

Gale rolled her eyes. “I trust your judgement, Gray. As amoral as it can sometimes be. I guess above all else, I want to keep the crown out of this. We haven’t spoken; if this all gets out, you’re going behind my back. If Pathfinder and the griffons and whoever else is backing this expedition do wind up going, they’re on their own. Is there anything else?”

“No, your majesty.”

“Then you’re dismissed.”

——————-

The great castle of Canterlot was a strange place, Pathfinder thought to himself. It jutted out from the side of the Mountain of Dawn, the ancient home of the goddess Celestia, and every time Pathfinder looked at it, he was certain the stonework was on the verge of falling right off.

It had to be magic. Probably the same insane magic that made the doors open on their own—and not always to the same rooms on the other side.

After a moment’s reflection, Pathfinder remembered that he hated Canterlot.

It definitely wasn’t because the place was swarming with griffons.

“They’re not those griffons,” Pathfinder said aloud, causing his son to raise a brow and glance over. “Not…”

“It’s been thirty years since the griffons came, Grandpa,” Whisper observed calmly. “Do they still bother you?”

“My scars run deep, kid,” answered Pathfinder. “I almost stabbed the Queen over them, you know?”

Whisper raised a brow. “The Third? Or the old Queen Platinum?”

“My daughter-in-law. Though she wasn’t at the time.. You think I ever cared about what the old Queen Platinum thought enough to pick a fight with her?”

A wide platform covered in topiary and grass gave the citadel something akin to a courtyard, despite its place over a massive drop off the side of a mountain. Whisper sighed as his hooves settled on the lawn, but Pathfinder found himself tensing.

These weren’t Magnus’ griffons, Finder told himself, internally this time. They’re refugees just like you. They’ve proved themselves. But he couldn’t help his shoulders tightening, and his mind grew keener and keener on the weight of Ensis at his side.

“Grandfather, are you sure you’re alright?” Whisper asked.

“I’ve been better,” he answered. “Just… thirsty. And trying my best not to show it.”

Whisper wrapped a wing over his grandfather’s shoulders. “Well, come on.”

The doors into the castle from the courtyard were stout wooden things. Jutting out of one door and into the other like the prong of a jigsaw piece was a brass door knocker; a unicorn stallion’s head, its eyes closed, with the knocker held in its teeth.

As Whisper moved to knock on the door, the head came abruptly to life, opening its shiny metal eyes and taking in the two pegasi.

“Oh my,” it said. “Pathfinder? And you must be one of his grandfoals?”

“Whisper,” the pegasus in question announced.

“Of course. Welcome to Canterlot. Well, back to Canterlot, I suppose. Are you here for King Artorius, or do you have other business?”

Pathfinder groaned. “We’re here to talk to Artorius, Angel.”

The doorknocker—or really, the spirit of the whole castle who just happened to be in the door knocker at that moment—Angel, smiled. “Oh, well that’s good. He is enjoying lunch in the main dining hall at the moment. I shall inform him to expect you. Do you recall the way? It’s straight down the hall from here and then—”

“We remember, Angel,” Pathfinder grumbled as the door swung open of Angel’s magical volition. “Thank you for your help.”

“Why, of course. It’s my pleasure. Can I arrange the kitchens to get you anything? If I recall, you quite enjoy…” Angel’s voice trailed off not because he’d grown quieter, but because Pathfinder had tuned out the overly helpful magical… thing, and walked on down the hall.

“How does anypony live here with that… thing?” Whisper asked. “Living in the walls, watching you. No privacy anywhere…” Whisper shuddered. “Did you ever know him?”

“Know who?” Finder asked.

“You know—the old Court Mage. The one the changeling queen killed.”

Finder scoffed. “He was court mage for, what, a week?. He and the Queen were close for a while… he’d probably be Crown Prince instead of your uncle if it weren’t for the bugs.”

“I’ve heard the rumors,” Whisper replied with a nod.

“Rumors?”

“About Prince Mercury...”

Pathfinder shrugged; he hadn’t heard the rumors, though it wasn’t too hard to guess. “I never cared about unicorn politics. But that colt… ‘Morty’... He was a necromancer, you know? He knew how to talk to the dead; he’d… He’d let us talk to your aunt, or our old friends from Cirra. If he were still here, Gods know I’d have him let me see your grandmother again… He was always a little crazy, but he was a good colt."

From there, the walk was quiet. Despite the rumors that swelled in Everfree City about the strange castle up the mountain, Pathfinder knew that all the paintings which would watch you down the hall and the statues that would move behind your back were kept in the upper halls, waiting for a master who would never return. The main floor was a much calmer place for most ponies - at least, ponies the age of his foals and grandfoals, who had grown up around the griffon refugees and never known what it felt like to wage war against a horde of their race. For Pathfinder, passing the hybrids in the halls inspired a terror all its own; one he knew was irrational, but which he nevertheless fought to subdue.

When the broad castle hallways gave way to an enormous feast hall, Pathfinder barely had time to scan the room. “Pfadfinder!” shouted a heavily accented voice. Artorius, King of the Griffons of Equestria, was a towering figure as he bounded over to the two pegasi. Resplendent with the white feathers of the Canii griffons once loyal to Cirra, albeit tinged with black flecks, he was not a small specimen of his race—though, thankfully, he had nothing on the size of Magnus or the evil god’s brood of freaks.

“King Artorius,” Whisper greeted, wrapping a wing around his chest and bowing. “It is an honor—”

“Oh, for the love of your gods, stop.” Artorius’ accent was a pernicious thing, slipping itself into the strangest of Equiish words and the queerest places in his grammar. “Pfadfinder, is this your whelp? Does he not know I am no king without a kingdom?”

Whisper was taken aback at the harsh greeting. “I was just trying to be polite, and—”

The words were cut off by the white-feathered griffon wrapping an arm around Whisper’s barrel. Though the motion was a friendly (if still painfully forceful) pat of condolence, Pathfinder still took a threatening step forward on instinct.

“Ah… many apologies, Pfadfinder. I forget you can be… jumpy.” The griffon released Finder’s grandson and offered a stiff bow. “Now, how can a humble knight errant be of service?”

Pathfinder and Whisper shot each other a look, though the griffon ‘king’s’ self-denigration was nothing new to either pony.

“Perhaps we should talk somewhere more discreet?” Whisper offered.

“Bah,” Artorius answered, glancing over his shoulder at the griffons’ feast hall. “The only creatures here are my knights. And I would trust any of them to hear what I have to hear.”

Pathfinder nodded. “Right. Well, we’ll be blunt, then. Somepony—well, someone—is planning an expedition to Dioda.”

Artorius’s eyes widened. “Oh. That is quite the proposal.” For about three seconds, he scratched at the base of his beak with a claw, then broke into a wry smile. “Alright, you son of a bitch, I am in.”

“What?!” Whisper gasped.

“No, no…” Pathfinder shook his head. “We wanted to know if you were behind it. Or if you knew who was.”

“Me?” Artorius asked, placing a claw on his chest. “Of course not! Certainly not for the knights and my people. Though, I confess, I relish the thought of returning now that my son is old enough at least to care for himself.” He sighed. “There is but one knightly vow I have left to fulfill in my life. I will carve out Magnus’ beating heart and commit it to the flame…”

“Here he goes,” Pathfinder muttered to his grandson, before raising his voice again. “Artorius, I spent all of last night trying to convince some damn fool greenwing that it was a terrible idea to go back. The last thing anypony here wants to do is get Magnus in a war with Equestria. We only came here because we were trying to find out who was responsible.”

“Ah. Well… I am sorry, but I do not know.” Artorius shook his head. “I hope that is not all you came for; I would hate for you to have wasted the flight. Come, share a drink with me.”

“Have fun, but count me out.” Pathfinder rustled Whisper’s mane with a wing. “I have better things to do with my days than sit and drink.” The moment it left his lips, Pathfinder realized it was the most stupid excuse he could possibly have come up with. Still, he had no interest turning down Artorius on the truth - that he did not want to sit and drink across from a griffon - to his face.

“You, touch alcohol?” Whisper asked with a smirk. “Grandfather, don’t even joke. Everypony knows you hate the stuff. You’re just running off to tell stories to the Royal Guard, aren’t you?” When his two-faced teasing ended, Finder’s grandson let his voice drop to a flat, serious tone. “Look, Grandfather… just promise me you won’t fly up to Cloudsdale on your own? If you want the evening, I’ll be glad to fly with you, but—”

“Relax for two seconds, Whisper,” Pathfinder replied. “I’m just going to glide back down to Everfree. And if you so much as suggest I can’t glide on my own anymore, I’ll… well, I’ll do something.”

Whisper replied by rolling his eyes and then nodding. “Have fun, Grandfather.”

“You too, kid.”

Pathfinder moved to leave, only to feel a taloned grip on his shoulder. He felt himself lunge out before his mind even realized what was happening, but all he achieved was feeling like he had pulled his shoulder.

Artorious seemed not so much offended as worried that the offense was his fault, immediately releasing his grip and holding up both palms in a plaintive gesture “I beg your pardon, Pfadfinder, I did not mean to frighten you. May I ask a question of you?”

“You just did,” Pathfinder answered on instinct—one of may strange verbal tics he’d learned as a father. “I don’t care, Artorius.”

“You seem to have a great worry on your shoulders about Dioda. I am wondering what you are worried about. Even if Magnus learns of Equestria, your people are safe. You have two gods now, yes?”

“It’s not…” Finder sighed. “It has nothing to do with Equestria.”

“Ah.” Artorius nodded. “There is not much of Cirra left, though, is there?” When Finder winced, Artorius raised a calming hand. “I mean no disrespect, Pfadfinder. I just… I was thinking of when my people first came here. The reception that your Emperor Hurricane gave us. But he is gone now… Things seem to have changed a great deal.”

“You’re right,” Finder answered. “I’m the last pony who fought in the Red Cloud War. Have been for two, maybe three years. And I still twitch at griffons.” He hoped his laugh covered the nervousness in his voice, but judging from Artorius’ face, it didn’t come close. “It’s ancient history. Between me and Rain, and Hurricane and Celestia.”

Artorius chuckled. “Well, then there is somepony to talk to about it.”

“There… you mean Celestia?” Finder shook his head. “I can’t just go bother the goddess.”

“Why ever not? She has always had time for me.” Artorius smiled. “And she is not a griffon, yes?”

——————

Pathfinder may have insisted on thinking of himself as some no-name scout turned alcoholic great-grandfather, but he had enough of a name that nopony questioned him when he landed in front of the Everfree palace. His son’s royal guards nodded as he passed, another reminder of how far his own flesh and blood had gone in Queen Platinum’s work disassembling the legacy of Cirra.

Pathfinder knew a lot of ponies who had been furious, but it was hard to make himself care. Maybe he was just getting old.

When the throne room doors opened, they revealed a smiling queen on an elaborate throne, surrounded by a few courtiers and supplicants, but there was nowhere near the crowd Pathfinder would have had to fight through on a day of open court. As he’d expected, Celestia stood over the shoulder of the throne, wisely and silently listening and making no indication of an influence on events.

If his foals were to be believed, the fact that she almost never spoke was a sign of just how terrifyingly influential the goddess really was on Equestrian politics, though Finder had never had the mind for politics to follow their meaning. Instead of retreading those old explanations, he settled on a smile about the lack of a crowd; ever since the changeling, crowds made him nervous.

Queen Platinum III glanced up at the arthritic sack of bones making her way toward her, but returned to her advisors without any comment. Finder sat and waited a few respectful strides away, listening to the fountains on the dais around the throne. He remembered when two more thrones used to sit in those spaces, where Puddinghead and Commander Typhoon used to sit, back when Equestria pretended to be ruled by a triumvirate.

“...and if you ever want to be heard, you old sack of shit, you’re gonna have to butt in. They’ll keep talking until sundown if nopony stops them.”

Finder shook his head to find the Queen smiling toward him.

“Your Majesty,” he greeted with a bow.

“Pathfinder.” The queen bowed her head, then sighed heavily. “The crown acknowledges that you’ve given due respect. Now, you can call me ‘Gale’, okay? You’re my father-in-law, as weird as that is to say.” She rolled her neck, producing a number of pops, before standing from the throne. “Are you here about the same business as Gray earlier?”

“I’m… Sort of. I need to talk to Celestia.” The queen raised a brow, to which Pathfinder only nodded. “About your father.”

“Lady Celestia,” somepony in Gale’s circle of advisers sniped. Pathfinder almost didn’t notice the snide correction, though, as he was distracted by Celestia’s reaction. The immortal alicorn’s ears perked, and then gracefully she rose up from her seated position to her full height.

It was easy to forget, when she was mostly hidden behind her throne, just how enormous Celestia was.

“Please follow me, Pathfinder,” the goddess directed, before walking away from the room. It took Finder a few seconds for his brain to shake off the shock of her poignant presence, and another two or three for his hooves to get moving again. Though he was aging incredibly well for a pegasus, his aching knees still couldn’t hope to compete with the enormous limbs of the alicorn, and by the time he made his way to the far side of the throne room, Celestia had already disappeared through a doorway.

To Finder’s surprise, when he slipped out after her, he found himself in the palace gardens, in a little grotto shaded by willow leaves and smelling of rich lily pollen.

“Come on over,” Celestia offered, taking a seat on a stone bench beside the water and effectively filling the entire seat.

“How… the throne room doesn’t have any exterior walls.”

“Just a little bit of magic on the door,” Celestia explained, tilting her head back to point her horn behind Finder. When he turned, the door he’d just stepped through was gone, and in its place, a long shadowed path out of the garden grotto and onto the long paths around the palace’s topiary and fountains and statues. “I imagine this is going to be a private conversation.”

“It is, my lady.” Pathfinder walked over to her, sitting down on another stone seat where he could comfortably face the alicorn. “Where do I start?”

“Well, as you aren’t a wizard, I would assume you only have the choice of the beginning.” Celestia smirked when Finder raised a brow. “I’m sorry; I couldn’t resist.”

“Well, you are right.” Finder shrugged. “There’s a royal guard colt who came to me last night asking about Dioda and the Red Cloud War. Somepony is planning an expedition back to Dioda.”

Celestia nodded. “Your son said the same this morning. But he didn’t come to me, and he did not mention Hurricane.” Celestia steepled her wings and leaned forward slightly, attentively. “I hope that you haven’t come to me looking for the answers to those questions. I know ponies assume I am some power behind the throne, but I rarely know anything about politics that Gale has not already learned first.”

“That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Pathfinder. “I… well, I need your advice.”

Celestia nodded. “Then I am glad to help. But despite what you might have heard, I don’t read minds either.”

Pathfinder swallowed, and then spoke. “I need your help stopping this expedition. I can tell all the ghost stories in the world, Celestia, but with Artorius and his refugees here, these young ponies don’t understand why going back to Dioda is a terrible idea.”

“Why?” Celestia asked. When Finder’s eyes widened, staring up at her, she calmly swept a wing through the air. “Why not just let the expedition go, I mean?”

After choking on the audacity of the question, Finder leaned forward. “What if Magnus finds out? What if there’s another war?”

“I will intercede to make sure that does not happen, if it comes to that.” Celestia answered, her voice like steel. “On that, I give you my word. I don’t know what he will do, if he will appear in person to meet the expedition, or try to turn you away at the shore. But whatever his response, I see no reason to worry about this expedition. In fact, I would personally suggest you lead it.”

“I… excuse me?” Pathfinder’s mouth fell open. “Why?”

Celestia paused for a very long moment, turning her eyes to the distant horizon. When she finally found words, they began slowly, hesitantly. “The Red Cloud War is an open wound that has never scarred. Once, you may know, I was close to Hurricane; that was the first pain I learned of in his life, and it is my great regret that I never found a way to help him heal. When I first met Hurricane, after he had freshly lost his wing, we went back to Dioda in search of my sister.” She spoke swiftly then, without enough of a pause for Pathfinder to cut in. “I do not know if Hurricane told you about that journey before he passed, but I will not speak any more about it. But you should know that, though it hurt him, returning to Dioda at least let his wounds scar. Both the ones on his heart, and his side where he lost his wing. And… if you’ll forgive me for being so bold, Pathfinder, I see those wounds on you too. You and Equestria both.”

Pathfinder closed his eyes and sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

“Hmm?” Celestia raised a brow. “Should I not have talked about Equestria?”

“I was afraid you’d actually have a damn good reason,” the old soldier answered. “I’m old and tired. And I can get through the rest of my years with my family around me just fine. I don’t care much if I ‘heal’. But fixing this mess for my foals, for my grandfoals…” Again, Finder drew in a long breath and let out a long, somewhat wheezing sigh from old tired lungs. “I just worry I’ll make a mess of it for them. Drag them into my old history somehow. I still don’t know its worth it.”

“Well, I cannot tell you what to do about your descendants. They aren’t my foals.” Celestia smiled. “I know if I was worried about my own foals, I’d want them to know the real truth about what Dioda is like, instead of leaving them with ghost stories and nightmares about an army of phantom griffons.” The grin on the goddess turned sly. “But I admit my perspective there is a bit unique. If you still need help deciding, I’ll just remind you of this: there’s only one mare in a stallion’s life that he absolutely has to listen to. And it’s not me.”

Finder looked up at the alicorn, and then frowned. “My wife passed years ago, Celestia.”

Celestia just chuckled at first. Then, carefully waving her wing over the ground between them, she seemed to make a coin appear out of thin air beneath her feathers. Pathfinder had not seen her horn light, but then he knew better than to question what Celestia could and could not do. The coin itself was… strange. It certainly wasn’t an Equestrian bit, or even old Cirran or unicorn money.

“Did you know that in the early days of Nimbus, the ancient Katagismos warriors used to place coins like these on the eyes of the dead? They believed that to reach the Great Skies of the afterlife, one needed to be carried. A coin like that was the price the ferrypony asked for passage.”

“Alright…” As Celestia spoke, Pathfinder had been scrutinizing the coin. He couldn’t even read the writing scratched into it; the language was too old. “So what am I supposed to do with this? I’m not about to go dig up Rain and put this on her eye or anything.”

Celestia chuckled. “Do you still believe in the old Cirran gods, Pathfinder?”

It was the old soldier’s turn to laugh. “I believe in you. And your sister. The rest…” Finder shrugged.

“We aren’t gods,” Celestia replied slowly, sadly. “And the others aren’t even ponies. There is no ‘Garuda’ waiting to ferry ponies to their afterlife. The Summer Lands are my domain.” Then she swallowed. “And though I may not be as gifted at bringing them back as my late pupil, I do know how to speak to them.”

Pathfinder swallowed. “Wait, are you offering…”

Celestia extended her wing, offering the ancient Nimban coin to the old soldier. “Meet me in the highest tower of Canterlot tonight, Pathfinder. I will need some time to prepare.”

“I…” Pathfinder tore his eyes away from the coin. “Thank—” But when he looked up, Celestia was gone.

——————-

Stalwart was late when Finder collapsed into his seat in the corner booth of the Legate’s Lookout, but thanks to his ‘chaperone’ in his son, Gray, Finder did not lack for company.

“Learn anything useful, Father?”

“No… now I know less than I did before...” Finder’s voice was hesitant, his mind still lingering in the gardens of Canterlot, when he motioned to Cirrus with a wing. She didn’t need any words to start pouring him an Old Cirran ale.

Gray frowned. “Then it wasn’t Artorius either.”

“Not the griffons. Not the Queen. Not even Celestia.” Finder smiled as a tankard settled on the wooden table before him. “Thanks, dear.”

“Anything for you, Pathfinder.”

After a long sip, Finder returned his focus to his son. “Though Artorius wanted to go. And Celestia said I ought to.”

“She did what?!” Gray snapped, leaning forward across the table. “Tell me you aren’t considering it.” When Finder did not reply quickly enough Gray loomed forward further. “Father, tell me this is some joke.”

“She made a damn good point, son. I don’t know. I’ll make up my mind tonight.”

Gray Rain relaxed tensed on his stool, making his light ornamental armor clink into a more comfortable position. “I’m certain Lady Celestia made a compelling emotional argument, but emotions do not weigh much against the risk of our nation going to war.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Finder answered him. “Celestia gave her word that if it came to it, she would stand up to Magnus. Personally.”

“I’m hesitant to trust that a war between the gods wouldn’t hurt Equestria even worse than the changelings did.”

Finder took another sip of his beer and looked up as the Lookout’s door swept open. “Looks like Stahl-for-short’s here now, and Whisper too. And…”

Pathfinder’s eyes were perfectly sharp despite his age; Lieutenant Stalwart and his own grandson Whisper had just entered the tavern. Behind them came a pony nopony could really mistake. Garbed in a crimson jacket with a gilded trim, the relatively young faint red stallion cut a dashing figure. As a unicorn, it was notable enough that he’d entered the Cloudsdale tavern at all, rather than falling through the floor, but his presence was still accentuated by the sizeable gold epaulets covering his foreshoulders. Atop each rested an insignia wrought of glittering gold and jewels: the royal crest of Equestria.

“Your majesty!” Cirrus offered a lurching bow before rushing out from behind the bar. She spoke nervously, her voice rushed and breathless. “Welcome to the Legate’s Lookout, Prince Mercury! Can I offer you…”

Mercury had held up a single hoof midway through the bartender’s words, and he held it there waiting until Cirrus’ voice fell away. Then, with a calm motion, he lifted the same hoof to his brow, brushing the bangs of his blonde mane, parted down the middle behind his horn and hanging down each side of his head to the height of his chin. The motion brushed against a small golden crown resting on his head, and he took another slow moment to gently adjust it in the silence that had engulfed the tavern before he spoke.

“Your highness,” were his first words. “Only the seated monarch is addressed as ‘majesty’, and I hope my Mother continues to hold that title for a long time yet.” He waited, deliberately, a few long seconds before continuing. “I understand that you have some of my grandfather’s private reserve here. One glass would be much appreciated.”

Cirrus stared for a few seconds of surprise before shaking herself back to something resembling conscious thought. “Of course, your highness.”

As Cirrus rushed away, Mercury gave Stalwart and Whisper a slow sweeping gesture toward Pathfinder’s booth. The two pegasi moved at his silent bidding, leaving Equestria’s crown prince and heir to walk slowly over and settle into a seat beside Stalwart.

“Good evening, gentlestallions.”

“Highness,” Gray answered sternly.

Pathfinder gave a short nod. “Kid.”

The word put a small knot on Mercury’s muzzle, directly between his eyes, though he made no comment and the display of emotion quickly passed.

Gray was the first to speak. “Whisper, I’m assuming Prince Mercury is here because he’s the stallion behind Stalwart’s questions.”

“That’s the idea, Commander.”

Prince Mercury let out a small chuckle. “You call your own father by such a title, even in a bar?” When nopony else found the observation funny, the unicorn shook his head and his expression dropped flat. “I didn’t realize I had created such a conspiracy. You will have to forgive me.”

“For somepony ignorant, you’ve gone to a lot of effort to keep it secret,” Gray replied with signature coldness to his voice. “Even your mother, the Queen, had no idea about your plan, nor did King Artorius, nor even Lady Celestia.”

“I wouldn’t call it a secret,” Mercury replied calmly. “I simply decided that it would be better not to waste Mother’s time, or yours, step-father, before I knew whether or not the expedition was even feasible. As it turns out, there is only one stallion left in all Equestria who knows his way around the ruins of Cirra, and without his cooperation, there wouldn’t be much point going.” Mercury then turned pointedly toward Pathfinder. “I had been expecting a simple yes or no from Stalwart, not an hour-long war story.”

“And you went directly to one of my soldiers instead of talking to me because…” Gray prompted.

Mercury sighed. “Would you forgive me if I were honest? Because my step-father, like most of the first generation foals of Cirra, grew up indoctrinated by Grandfather Hurricane’s ridiculous notion that ever returning to Dioda would spell a renewal of war.” Mercury took a deliberate pause as Cirrus approached, carrying a number of tankards, spreading them around the table. He looked down at his own mug, lifted it to his muzzle with his magic, sniffed twice, and tilted it back for a small sip.

The sound of his swallow was painful and forced, and he followed it by holding the still full tankard over the cloud floor and slowly upending it. “Another of Grandfather’s misguided legacies, I see.”

Pathfinder glared. “Hurricane and I brewed that together.”

Mercury nodded. “I see. I can defer to taste on the ale, but regarding Dioda the point still stands. Captain Gray, your generation is tainted by the treason of my uncle and Stalliongrad, and beholden to the image of ‘Commander Hurricane’ as the infallible hero of Equestria. Gryphus is a potential trading partner and an ally, not a demon waiting to devour us. They are not parasites like the changelings or monsters like the spiders; they eat, and drink, and build, and therefore trade. I intend this expedition to be diplomatic. Even if I had felt I needed an authority on the subject, I would not have chosen you.” Mercury then steepled his hooves and turned his head from Gray to stare at the eldest of the gathered stallions. “I’m here to find out exactly what the esteemed Scout-Centurion Pathfinder would need to help me with my little project.”

“What are you offering, kid?” Finder grinned. “Bits? Some sort of title?”

The question earned Pathfinder steepled hooves and a small smile from the crown prince. “You will find, Pathfinder, that my resources are quite substantial—both in wealth and magic. I would be more than happy to give your family a small fortune, land enough to build a city, or whatever noble titles you could dream up, if any of those entice your imagination. Or—”

“I’m going to go ahead and stop you right there, highness.” Pathfinder lifted his tankard to his lips and swallowed down the entire thing in a series of heavy gulps. Wood crashed against the table with a not insubstantial force. “I’ve lived a long life and a damn good one too. Now I’m old as hell and I’m tired, and the last thing I want is muddying my last few years with my family thinking about titles and coins and ambitions.”

The crown prince sighed, then rose from his seat. “Gentlestallions, could I trouble you for a moment of privacy with Pathfinder?”

“What are you trying to pull?” Whisper asked, leaning forward. “If you try and drag Grandfather into your political games, Your Highness—”

“Let him talk,” Pathfinder interrupted. “But when we’re done, Mercury, you’re gonna take the answer I give you. I’ve listened to enough foals begging ‘grandpa’ for another pancake without putting up with you.”

“Of course, sir.” Mercury folded a foreleg across his chest and offered a stiff bow, then waited for Whisper, Stalwart, and Gray to leave the booth and wander to the far side of the bar before returning to his seat.

“So?” Pathfinder reached over to where Stalwart’s drink from Cirrus was still resting on the table, pulling it close and taking a healthy sip. “You going to threaten me now?”

"Please, Pathfinder, at least have some respect for my skill at diplomacy. I'm not going to threaten you. I would be an imbecile. You are a national hero, and your son is presently the head of my Royal Guard."

"I’m pretty sure the guard is still your mother's, you upstart little shit."

Prince Mercury frowned, glancing back over his shoulder to where Gray was apparently chiding Stalwart over his activities. "Also true, for the moment. But both Captain Rain and my mother are past sixty, and you, relic of a dead empire, are not long for this world by your own admission. I meanwhile, am only thirty, and I have a very firm grip on the quill of history. Do you understand, Pathfinder, what exactly that means?"

"I've been called a lot worse and a lot more creative names than you could ever come up with, colt." Pathfinder snorted in disinterest, then took another long sip of his ale.

"I'm certain. But I wasn't talking about you. You see, the power that most ponies tend to forget about the quill of history is the power not to write anything at all with it. Lady Rain's name for instance. What was her first name again?"

Finder scowled. “You want to try that again, colt?”

“No. That’s precisely the point, Pathfinder. I cannot try again, because I haven’t done anything. I won’t do anything until you are already long dead.” Mercury leaned back. “I know my mother is not… was not popular with ponies who called themselves Cirrans first, and Equestrians second. History isn’t wrong to call her the mare who killed Cirra. Griffons in Equestria? A Royal Guard separate from the ancient Legion? She might as well have killed Grandfather Hurricane herself.”

“If you think I care about bringing Cirra back, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Of course not. She wasn’t trying to make you feel better when she chose your son to be her second husband. But I also know that your late wife did care. Very much.”

“Rain’s gone.”

“Legacies are forever, Pathfinder. You might not have been born into a family with enough of one to understand that, but Lady Rain did just as much as I do; she was the Princess of Nimbus, wasn’t she?” Mercury lit his horn, and retrieved from his jacket a small square of parchment, which he unfurled on the table to reveal a map.

To Finder’s surprise, it wasn’t of Dioda.

“I have, at some expense to the Stable of Nobles and a deal for my little sister’s hoof in marriage, acquired a sizeable portion of the new territories we’ve colonized in the west. I present to you the Domain of Bitaly. Most of these sites for settlement are already filled in, but this one here I’m still not settled on…”

Mercury’s hoof hovered over a black dot at the mouth of a windy black river. In florid unicorn-style script, it was labeled New Nimbus.

“I don’t want a city.”

“Yes you do, Pathfinder. Because your wife did. Because it would make her smile. And because if you don’t, you will no longer be alive when I discover that it is just as easy to erase with the quill of history as it is to write. But, of course, that will never come up. You will lead my expedition in the name of your late beloved, and her legacy will live on in a New Nimbus. Perhaps we can even bring back some part of her old home when we return to Dioda.” Mercury calmly placed both hooves on the table and leaned forward. “Have I made your position clear, Pathfinder?”

Finder growled in irritation, swallowing the last of Stalwart’s beer. “Crystal clear, Mercury. As for an answer… I’ll get back to you.”

“Oh, but of course.” Mercury nodded. “Same time tomorrow?” Then he leaned back and folded his forelegs across his chest. “Now, I imagine our other friends are still excited to hear the rest of your little story.”