Shedding Your Skin

by Golden Vision

Rating: teen
Tags: Tragedy, Dark, Romance
Length: 36050

The Queen of the Changelings has not always held her position. For Chrysalis, her past is not a story of love stolen, but of love given freely. Yet all fairy tales must come to an end, leaving only the darkness behind.

The Queen of the Changelings has not always held her position. Chrysalis's past is not a story of love stolen, but of love given freely. Yet all fairy tales must come to an end, leaving only the darkness behind.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-07-07 22:21:34 UTC

Chapter Two

The glade around the Ice Falls was quiet the next morning. The sun had barely breached the tops of the trees by the time that Briar arrived, basket in mouth, to search for sprigs of fennelweed.

Mist still lingered on the ground, drifting lazily across the moss as the first shafts of sunlight wandered through the canopy. The morning birds called to one another from the branches above. Each note pierced through the air like a flash of cold water, rippling between Briar’s ears. As she pushed through the brush and into the glade proper, she gave herself a moment to relax, closing her eyes and flicking her ears as the rush of the Falls filled them.

Then she got to work.

The Sun was high in the sky by the time she managed to find the last of the five sprigs of fennelweed that she needed. It was a rare plant, only growing beneath certain rocks, and she was glad to find the last of it. It hadn’t been a request of Matron’s, but there was a salve that Briar had been intending to make which needed no less than an entire ounce of the crushed plant. She set down her basket, making sure that no leaves fell out onto the forest floor, and made to sit down against a tree.

Something rustled in the bushes. Briar froze.

There was something coming into the glade. It wasn’t a bear—each footfall was too light, too thinly spaced to belong to a grizzly or black bear. It couldn’t be a wolf, either. The rustling came from the lower branches, far too high for a prowling pack-leader to disturb.

The brush parted, and a doe stepped into the clearing.

Briar kept herself perfectly still against the tree trunk. She wondered if the doe had seen her—but no, it hadn’t fled, hadn’t so much as glanced in her direction. It took another step forward and stumbled.

Briar’s eyes widened. The doe was limping. As it leaned down, rather unsteadily, to graze, she noticed the cause: A ragged piece of flesh hung loose halfway down its thigh, with three lines slashing from either end. The fur there was tinged red, and each time the doe came back up to chew, it would glance back over its shoulder, as if afraid.

Briar’s eyes went down to her basket and then back up to the doe’s wound. Slowly, she pushed herself away from the tree and got to her hooves.

The doe’s head jerked up. The doe stared Briar down with wide, white-rimmed eyes. In that moment, both were frozen in place, neither able to so much as breathe.

Before the doe could bolt, Briar spoke.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, keeping her eyes on the ground. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She took a step forward. The deer did not step back.

Slowly, carefully, Briar reached down and took the basket in her mouth. She stepped forward again, thanking whatever spirits were listening when the doe failed once more to run from her.

“Just let me take a look at that leg, okay?” she said. “I just want to help.”

She reached out a hoof—and the deer shied back.

“Sshh,” Briar soothed. Her eyes felt warm, and she felt a sudden itch to look up, to glance into the doe’s own eyes and take control.

She shoved that impulse down. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she repeated. “Come on, now. Let me take a look.”

She had to resist a cheer as she reached out again to lay a hoof on the doe’s fur and succeeded. The doe looked almost reluctant, but somehow convinced.

“It’s okay,” Briar said quietly. She ran her hoof over the doe’s torso until they came to the top of the back right flank. “Let’s take a look at that, shall we?”

The deer followed her as she turned toward the pool at the bottom of the Falls. The water didn’t shimmer—the Sun wasn’t bright enough—but it was cool and refreshing. Briar splashed her own face to wake herself up before turning back to the doe, who had laid down on the moss beside her and was watching her face cautiously. Trust wasn’t so easily earned, it seemed.

With a large leaf in one hoof, Briar cupped the other and dipped it into the pool. She splashed water water she could onto the doe’s side and got to work cleaning the wound.

She was happily surprised when the doe stayed, allowing her to clean the wound out. A crusty shell of dried blood had formed around it, and it took some delicate swabbing to make sure that she didn’t actually irritate anything worse than it already was.

By the time she’d cleaned up most of the matted blood, it was clear that the wound had looked much worse than it actually was. It was mainly a superficial cut, with the “ragged flesh” she’d seen merely debris and dirt that had caught onto the open wound and stuck when the blood had dried.

It still must have hurt, though. “You’re lucky,” Briar murmured as she dabbed at the lower edge of the wound. “Whatever was trying to hunt you let you get off with just a scratch. This could’ve been much worse.”

She’d never quite known whether the deer in the Everfree could understand her, but she’d eventually decided that they could, if only to make herself feel better. It was nice having someone to talk to, even if that someone never answered back.

“Now, just hold still,” she said. She reached a hoof into her basket and took a sprig of fennelweed and put it to rest on a rock beside her. “This might sting a little bit.”

Carefully, she picked another rock and ground it against the bottom one, crushing the leaves until they became a lumpy paste. It was a dull green substance with shades of blue, and it felt strangely warm against her coat as she smeared it across her hoof.

“The natural plant isn’t the best thing to use,” she said, “but it’s all we’ve got. Just hold still.”

She reached forward, hoof poised to spread the paste across the remnants of wound—

Something came crashing the bushes, each step a heavy fall that set leaves for yards around it rustling and chattering. Briar barely had time to react as the doe shoved her away and jolted to its hooves.

“Wait!” she cried as the doe reached the edge of the glade. “Wait!”

The doe looked back over its shoulder—just one little pause.

Briar’s eyes began to itch again. Look up, something urged. Look up—just one little glance. It’s for its own good.

She threw her gaze to the ground and squeezed her eyes shut. Within moments, she could hear the doe galloping away, speeding through the brush until the sound faded entirely.

“Was that a deer?”

That voice. She remembered that voice. High-pitched, lilted, and confused—

She turned around and whirled to glare at Ironwood’s chest. “You scared her away!”

“I—”

“She was injured, and you scared her off before I could finish helping her,” she growled. “What are you trying to do?”

“Whoa!” Ironwood held up a hoof. He stood at the edge of the glade, his body half concealed behind a smokebush. A pair of saddlebags sat on his back. “How was I supposed to know that you were trying to help her?”

“Do you just come storming into places wherever you go?”

“I’m not good with forests, okay?” Ironwood said. “I think we’ve already decided that.”

Briar took a deep breath, still glaring at him. He was, admittedly, right that he couldn’t have known.

And it made sense that a pony who would voluntarily walk into the Barrens without a second glance would be the type to make as much noise as possible no matter what. He probably just wasn’t that smart.

She scowled. “What are you doing here, anyway?” She nodded down at his leg. “I thought I told you to stay off of that.”

“I wanted to see you again,” he said.

“Why?”

“To thank you, I guess.”

“Well, you’ve done that,” Briar said. “You’re welcome.”

“I, uh, also wanted to ask you if you wanted to come visit sometime.” Ironwood averted his gaze, staring instead into a nearby bush. “You seem nice enough, but it must get awful lonely out here in the forest.”

Briar was tempted to say yes. An image of Matron’s steely eyes flickered in her thoughts, though, and she shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Come on!” A grin spread across his face. “It’d be fun—you could come visit my parents’ bakery!”

“I—”

“Maybe you can stick around for harvest season—it’s a lot of fun around town then. Oh! I can show you the village square, or Mr. Stone’s woodworking shop, or even Old Hemlock’s little library.”

“Library?” Briar’s ears perked up at that. “One with books?”

“Is there any other kind?” Ironwood chuckled. “There’s not that much to it, though. Just a few shelves of whatever she’s been able to get her wrinkly old hooves on.”

Books! Briar could scarcely imagine it—shelves without books she’d read twenty times before. Books that nopony would tell her to read unless she wanted to. And maybe there’d be new ideas—new recipes that she could use, or new herbs she’d never known about.

“Hey!” Ironwood said, eyes glittering. “Maybe if you come, she’ll let you read or even borrow some.”

She opened her mouth to say yes—but before she could gather her thoughts, she heard Matron’s words echo in the back of her skull.

The words came automatically. “I can’t.”

“Oh, come on!” Ironwood said. “I heard you! You want to!”

“Maybe,” she said, “but I’m not allowed. I’m not supposed to associate with anypony the village.”

“Says who?”

“My guardian,” she said firmly. “And I’m not about to disobey her. So while I appreciate the gesture, I can’t accept your invitation.”

For a moment, she couldn’t help but entertain the notion of trying to convince Matron otherwise. After all, here was a stallion who, while simpleminded, perhaps, wasn’t small-minded. So it seemed, at least.

But then again, she’d have a better chance of coaxing water from a stone than of convincing Matron to change her mind on anything. If anything, Briar might find herself in a heap of trouble if Matron even found out that she had even been entertaining the notion of visiting the village. And how could you she argue for Ironwood if she couldn’t even look him in the eye?

“Oh,” Ironwood said. “Okay.” His shoulders slumped and he turned to go.

“Wait.”

Ironwood stopped in place and turned back to look over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Briar asked.

“Leaving,” he said. “You said that you weren’t supposed to associate with ponies in the village, right? So I guess I’m helping you out.”

She bit her tongue. She hadn’t meant that—but then again, hadn’t she said as much? No good, Matron had said, would come from associating with other ponies.

But she knew Ironwood—to a point, at least. And for some reason, as annoying as it was, she almost liked his incessant chatter. It gave her something to listen to.

“I never told you to leave,” she said.

“But—”

“I’m not supposed to go down to the village,” she said. “But Matr—my guardian can’t stop you from coming here, into the forest.”

A slow grin lit up his face. “Oh! I see what you mean.” He offered what was likely his best attempt at a knowing wink. Briar had to snicker at that. “I can do that. Maybe I can even bring you back a book!”

It was an effort to keep the grin off her face. “Maybe.”

“And I almost forgot!” Ironwood smacked a hoof against his forehead. “I brought something for you!”

He turned back and nuzzled his snout into one of his saddlebags. Briar watched with mild bemusement as he dug around for a few seconds, mumbling to himself under his breath.

Finally, he came back up with a small, rectangular parcel in his mouth. Briar’s nostrils flared, and her legs wobbled as a heavenly scent reached her nose. That smelled like bread...but Matron’s homemade cornmeal loaves had never smelt quite this good. Ironwood carefully set the parcel on the ground as Briar’s mouth began to water.

“There’s a pair of loaves in there,” Ironwood said, a grin on his face. “I just baked them this morning—they’re fresh from the oven.”

Briar leaned down to face the parcel. She felt drool building up in the back of her mouth, and swallowed it—the bread smelled even better up close. She prodded the package with her snout.

“Go on—take it.” Ironwood chuckled. “I’ve got more bread than I could ever want at home, and you look like you’d enjoy it.”

“I,” she began, and then paused, not quite sure what to say. Finally, she settled on a simple, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome!” He beamed at her, and she felt compelled to offer at least a week grin in return.

“I’ve actually got to go,” he said, glancing back to look over his shoulder. “I’ve got a few chores waiting for me when I get home.”

“Me too,” Briar said. “Things to do.”

“Yup.”

Both looked up, but Briar averted her gaze before their eyes could meet. Ironwood licked his lips as his hoof fidgeted with a pebble.

“Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said. “Just to say hi.”

“Sure,” she said quickly. “Maybe I’ll be here, too.”

He smirked at her. “Maybe, huh? I guess we can work with that.”

And then he left.

“Hold your hooves straighter. Stop twitching. Don’t stutter!”

Briar kept her eyes squeezed shut as Matron spoke. Briar’s hooves were held clutched to her neck, her lips moving as she pronounced each syllable to produce the light charm. Her necklace was cool against her coat, but as she chanted, she felt a warmth collect on its surfaace.

She furrowed her brow as she searched for the words. Something buzzed in the back of her head and obscured her thoughts in fog, making it a struggle to recall each enunciation. She opened her mouth a little wider and began the next word—

“No, no! Stop. It’s aie-sa, not ee-sa. Open your eyes, girl.”

Briar flinched and opened her eyes. Matron stood across the desk from her, her frown wearing creases into her leathery face. The desk itself was empty, cleared of all materials save for a burning candle and Matron’s heavy book.

“You’re not trying,” Matron said. “You’ve not studied the words.”

“I have,” Briar said. Something was prickling at the back of her neck; she resisted the urge to look over her shoulder. “I promise.”

“Then why can’t you perform the charm?”

Briar’s eyes flickered past Matron’s shoulder. “I don’t know.”

Matron’s frown deepened. “You’re distracted, girl.”

“I—”

“You’re not paying attention. Your hooves aren’t still. Your mind,” Matron said, her voice cutting through Briar’s thoughts, “is cluttered.”

“I’m paying attention,” Briar said. She winced as the buzzing in her head grew. Great. A headache was exactly what she didn’t need right now.

“Don’t lie to me. I know when something is on your mind. Speak.”

Briar glanced down. As her gaze met the surface of the table, she knew what had been keeping her thoughts.

The book. What is the book?

“That book,” she blurted. Oddly, the buzzing seemed to subside at her words. “Why don’t we ever use it in our lessons?”

“That book, as you called it, is not for lessons.” Matron’s eyes narrowed. “It contains magic past your level—dangerous magic. Dangerous especially when you struggle with such rudimentary charms.”

Briar refused to meet Matron’s eyes.

“You are forbidden from touching it,” Matron went on. “I’ve kept it from you this long for a reason—do you understand?”

“Everything that you do has a reason,” Briar said dully.

“Good. Now don’t ask about it again.”

“But what if it’s my special talent?”

Matron stared. Briar shied back at her mentor’s glare, feeling rather like a mouse spotted by an owl swooping beneath a full moon.

“Special talent?” Matron repeated. “What nonsense is that?”

Briar hesitated. “What I’m good at,” she said. Ironwood’s eager words echoed in the back of her mind. “What I’m supposed to do with my life.”

“Bah. Magic? Your special talent? You would only be naturally good with magic if you were to change yourself into another pony entirely. No; you’ll get this book when you’re good and ready—and no sooner.”

Matron scowled down at Briar. “Should you follow my instruction, there can be no doubt that you’ll reach such a point—but a ‘special talent’? Where did you hear such nonsense?”

“A book,” Briar said.

“A book,” Matron echoed.

Briar nodded.

“Are you sure?” Matron asked. She leaned forward, her leathery neck stretching across the desk like an elder crane’s. “Perhaps you heard it from that ‘villager’ of yours.

“And if I did?”

“Then you would be remiss in forgetting my words so easily,” Matron rasped. “Townsfolk bring only trouble and confusion, and their words doubly so. You would do well to remember that and to cast away any lingering doubts.”

Briar stared at the desk. “I found it in a book,” she said.

There was a moment of silence before Matron spoke again.

“I would be very interested in seeing this book,” she said. “Such a work of nonsense in my own library. Should you find it again, bring it to me at once.”

Briar nodded.

“Now,” Matron said. “Let us begin again. Resume the incantation.”

A few days passed. Ironwood came twice more to meet her in the glade, but each visit lasted for only a few minutes. He was busy, he said. He had chores. And she had her lessons.

But today was different.

Briar glanced up at the canopy from her place at the edge of the glade, hoof tapping against the forest floor. Now, if only—

“I’m here!”

She grinned as she turned to look over her shoulder. Ironwood offered a wave as he stepped over a bush and into the clearing.

“What do you know?” Briar said. “I guess you can go someplace without crashing into it like a bear.”

“I’m a regular tiger,” Ironwood said. “Prowling all around—I’ll be you didn’t even notice me getting here.”

She hadn’t, admittedly. Briar rolled her eyes and snorted. “Come on, then, Master Hunter. I’ve got something that I want to show you.”

“What is it?”

“Not telling.”

“Ooh—a surprise.” Ironwood fell in step beside her, his wider hooves padding over the grass. “I love surprises.”

“So you’ve told me.”

“I wonder what it is,” he mused. “Is it a present? Chocolate?” His eyes lit up. “Oh! Is it a pet bear?”

“A pet what?” she asked. “You seriously thought I got you a pet bear?”

“Hey!” he said. “It was worth a try!”

“Sure it was,” she said, pushing a branch out of their path. It swung back behind her and hit a neighboring tree with a hollow clunk.

“Come on,” Ironwood whined. “Give me a hint or something!”

“If I told you what it was, then there’d be no point!” she said. “I thought you said you liked surprises.”

“Well, yeah—but surprises that I know about are even better.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Ironwood said, as she came to a stop. “But I’m—”

He paused, blinking at the large bush in front of them. “What happened? Why’d we stop?”

Briar didn’t answer. Instead, she let her lips curve into a smirk and nodded toward the bush. “Go on,” she said. “You wanted your surprise so badly? There it is.”

“Oh!” Ironwood said. “Uh—”

“Go on, you idiot,” she said. “Or do you want me to shove you through?”

“Going! Going!” he said—and stepped through.

Briar let him stand alone for a few moments. Better to let him see for himself, first. After a wait that she deemed suitably dramatic, she stepped through behind him. The curled leaves brushed against her coat, but parted as she pushed forward.

The warm spring wind blew through her mane, scattering it behind her. Ironwood stood only two paces in front of her, staring out over the valley below.

She took another step and leaned forward to nudge his neck. “Well?” she murmured.

“It’s…” Ironwood began. “...Wow.”

Briar squinted down at the field of color beneath them, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness. The valleys and fields seemed to be ablaze with light—and not just white, but red, green, purple, and yellow light of all shades and hues. The flowers glimmered in the sunlight, their petals rustling in the spring wind.

“I found it when I was only eight years old,” she said. “I called it Rainbow Lily Valley. I guess you can see why.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But...how is this possible? Isn’t this the Everfree Forest?”

“It’s a part of it,” she said. She raised a hoof to point over the crest of the furthest hill, beyond which a dark smudge could be seen. “See that over there? That’s where the trees pick up again.”

“And that’s a different part of the Everfree?”

“I like to call it the Cliffs,” she said. “Maybe I’ll show it to you someday.”

Ironwood licked his lips, still staring down at Rainbow Lily Valley. “I never knew that the Everfree could be so...beautiful. I mean, I’ve seen the birds and trees and everything but this is just…”

“Give the woods a chance,” she said with a grin. “Maybe they’ll surprise you.”

Ironwood turned to look at her. “I think they already have.”

With a cry of glee, he took off, galloping into the Lily Valley. Briar stared after him, mouth agape. What was he—

“Catch me if you can!” he called out. “Tag! You’re it!”

“Tag?” she hollered back. “What the hay does that mean!”

“Just chase me! Bet you can’t beat me to the bottom!”

“Stupid villager,” she said—and narrowed her eyes, her grin broadening. In a flash, she was galloping at full speed down the hill, which was a marked increase from Ironwood’s pace. “There’s no way you’ll win!”

“Ah-ha! I’m already halfway there!”

Briar felt something bubbling in her chest, boiling over with each step she took. She threw back her head and laughed, letting peals of pure mirth cry out across the meadow. The rainbow lilies seemed to part before her like a lake or sea, her hooves gliding over the earth below.

Ironwood was laughing too, his hooves thumping into the ground a scarce twenty paces away. Briar felt an evil smile spread out across her face. Just a little bit more—

With a yelp, Ironwood lost his footing. Maybe he’d put one hoof down over the other, or maybe he’d slipped on a bit of mud. Regardless of the reason, he slipped until his hooves had been flung over the top of his head—and soon enough he was spinning down the hill.

Briar stared with disbelief as Ironwood bounced like a ball, his limbs blurring together. It was another moment before she was able to get a handle on her thoughts and follow his path.

“You moron,” she muttered as she ran down after him. “Don’t even watch where you’re going, just like a stupid villager—”

She hopped over a few boulders, sped through the last few patches of lilies, and landed at Ironwood’s side. He’d come to a rest at the bottom, with all of his limbs tangled and his torso belly-up. His tongue was lolling out of his mouth, and he was laughing.

“Idiot,” she said. “Can’t even run down a hill without falling over.”

“Falling over?” he said between snorts. “Y’mean like—this?”

Briar’s eyes widened as Ironwood’s hoof caught her right behind the knee. She landed with a grunt on the grass beside him. “Hah!” he said.

A playful growl sprang up in her throat. “So that’s how you want to play, huh? Then let’s play rough!”

With a snarl, she leapt onto him, hooves spread wide. He squealed as she wrestled him into submission and began to tickle him mercilessly.

“I yield! I yield!” he squealed, giggling madly. His hooves thrashed as he squirmed beneath her weight. “Surrender!”

“You sure?”

“Promise!”

She let him throw her off this time, landing with a muffled thud on the flowers beside him. The two lay there for a while, coats matted with bright-colored petals of every shape and hue, as any final giggles escaped their lungs.

“This place is incredible,” Ironwood finally said. “There’s just so much color.”

“Yeah,” Briar said. “There is.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you wear that pin in your mane?”

Briar frowned. “What do you mean? It’s just a pin.”

He snorted. “Oh, come on. Even I can see that it’s more than that. It’s way nicer than anything I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen the way you treat it.”

She glanced away. “Well…”

“Come on,” Ironwood said. “You can tell me, right? I’m your friend.”

Friend. Wasn’t he? Briar remembered that friends were supposed to share stories and secrets, but did she want to tell him this?

He was her first friend, though. A smile crept onto her face. And where was the harm?

“It belonged to my mother,” she said.

She stared up at the blue, clear sky, listening to the birdsong that filtered through the air. She didn’t see Ironwood’s face, then, when she’d finished speaking. By the tone of his voice, though, she could guess.

“Oh.” He sounded quiet—thoughtful. “I guess it means a lot to you.”

“I never really knew my parents,” Briar said. The grasses surrounding the lilies brushed against her ears, whispering in the warm breeze. “They disappeared or died soon after I was born—or at least, that’s what Matron told me.”

“Gosh,” Ironwood said. “I—I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“And if you don’t mind me asking…”

She waited.

“Who is ‘Matron’? If you wouldn’t mind saying, at least. You’ve mentioned her a lot, but I haven’t really figured out much about her.”

“I don’t mind,” she said. “Matron is…”

A few words came to mind, none of them tactful. Briar’s lip curled—was that really what she thought of her? Was she being honest with herself?

Finally, she settled on a more polite word.

“Matron is my mentor,” she said. “She took me in as a baby and raised me. I’ve never known anyone else.”

“I can’t imagine what it’d be like to live without your parents,” Ironwood said. “Mine have always been there for me.”

“Matron’s always been there for me,” Briar said, a bit more harshly than she’d intended. “She just...likes to be in control.”

She closed her eyes. “It would be nice to at least know who my parents were. All I have to remind me of them is this pin, and Matron’s never told me anything more than she needed to.”

“It’s just not enough?”

“I guess.”

She couldn’t see him, but she could picture Ironwood nodding.

“Now that I’ve answered your question,” she said, “you have to answer one of mine.”

“Sure.”

“Why do you like coming to the forest so much?”

It was a moment before he answered, but when he did, there was something new in his voice—something bright and warm.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked. “It’s a new place—a beautiful place. And it has ponies like you in it. It’s always been my dream to visit something like—what did you call it? The rainbow lily valley.”

“What do you mean?”

“The world is filled with things as beautiful as this meadow,” he said. “Castles, oceans, mountains—I’ve only heard stories from the village bard, but that’s enough to know that someday, I’ve just got to see them. Have you ever heard of Saddle Arabia?”

“No,” she admitted.

“It’s the only civilization known to exist in the deserts of the south,” he said, “far, far beneath the Badlands and the rest of Equestria. There’s sand everywhere—barely a drop of water in the whole country!”

“You’re kidding me. How do they survive?”

“I don’t know! Maybe they’re just that resilient!”

“Ridiculous,” Briar scoffed. She rolled over on her makeshift bed of lilies, facing off into the distance.

“But that’s not the best part—there isn’t even a single pony in the whole country! Not natively, at least.”

“Then who lives there?”

“Horses,” Ironwood said. “They’re like ponies, only taller. Thinner. They’ve got these weird names, too—I’ve heard that they call themselves after the names of the stars. And they wear these special scarves which protect against the sand, and jewels in every saddle!”

She snorted. “And have you ever seen one of these ‘horses’?”

“No,” he said. “But I know they exist. And someday, I’m going to see one.”

“Sure, you will.”

He shot her a grin. “You never know. Maybe you could go travelling a bit as well.”

It was a moment before she understood what he was getting at. “No,” Briar said quickly. “Oh, no. Matron wouldn’t approve.”

“But the Summer Sun Celebration is coming up!” Ironwood said. “It’s the highlight of the year, and I think you would love it.”

“I can’t,” she said. Then, “I don’t know.”

“You can ask around town—maybe somepony will know something about your parents!”

That stopped Briar in her tracks. She sat straight up, a few lingering petals from the lilies clinging to her mane. “What do you mean?”

“In an area like this, everypony knows everypony. Your parents probably passed through town before getting to the Everfree, and a pin like that is a dead giveaway. Nopony would forget something like that. And besides,” he said, sitting up and turning to grin at her, “it may be a longshot, but it’s worth a try, right?”

“I,” she mumbled, her lips moving. “But Matron—”

“Matron doesn’t have to know,” Ironwood said. “A day or two of fun and adventure? Maybe even finding out about your parents? Come on!”

He tried to meet her eyes, but she looked away. “Come on,” he repeated, his voice softening. “It must be lonely in the woods. Get out there and live a little—don’t spend all your time alone.”

She swallowed.

But my eyes, she wanted to say—but Ironwood didn’t know about that, did he? And she couldn’t tell him about it; not now, not here.

And when she got right down to it, did she really have any other reason not to go? She could keep her eyes out of the way—she could manage it. She’d done well enough this far, at least.

She glanced back up.

“I’ll do it.”

Ironwood pumped his hoof. “Yes!”

Before she knew it, Briar found herself grinning. What could it hurt.

She could fly, free of the forest—if only for a day.

“And someday,” Ironwood said, “when I leave the village to travel the world, you’ll come with me.” It wasn’t a request.

Maybe. “I will.”

He held out his hoof, and Briar faltered. “Promise?” Ironwood asked.

Briar paused—and then held out her hoof to meet his. She smiled even wider.

“I promise,” she said.

Chapter Three

“—you’re going to have so much fun! I’ll show you the town square, and the bakery, and—”

Briar rolled her eyes as Ironwood babbled on. A grin crossed her face. As she’d expected, when Ironwood had come to retrieve her the next morning, he’d been practically bouncing.

She walked on, her hoof-falls almost silent against the crisp grass that surrounded the forest. The shadows of the Everfree retreated behind them, and in the distance, she could just barely make out the smudged, smokey blobs that Ironwood had told her made up the village.

“—and you can try village pie, and village cake, and—”

“I think I get the idea,” she cut in. Ironwood looked crestfallen at being interrupted, but his expression then softened into a smile.

“Heh. Sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m just not used to this kind of thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well...having a friend to show things to,” he said. “You’ve been showing me all this cool stuff in the forest, but I haven’t been able to show you anything at all. I’m really excited about it.”

Friend. She shot him a grin. “Yeah. I guessed as much.”

They soon came to a break in the fields. Here, grass gave way to a strip of dirt about twenty feet wide. Hoofmarks and long, thin gouges covered the surface, and a field of tall green stalks grew up on the opposite side. If Briar turned her head in either direction, she could see the dirt strip vanishing into the distance, its light-brown length coiling and turning like a snake.

Briar frowned. “What’s this?” she asked. “Is this the town?”

Her cheeks flushed a bright red as Ironwood chuckled. “Well?” she asked.

Ironwood coughed loudly and thumped his chest with his good hoof. “This is only the road into town,” he said, sounding amused. “It’ll take us to town, but I don’t think it’s the town itself.”

“The...road,” Briar said, tasting the new word. “And how many ponies live in your town?” she asked, still refusing to meet his eyes. “Ten? Twenty?”

This time, Ironwood did laugh, throwing his head back to guffaw. “Stop it!” Briar ordered, her face burning. “It’s not funny!”

Ironwood let out a final chuckle and turned to face her. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just—Briar, my village has over a hundred ponies living there. And we’re one of the smallest villages in the area—Troughton has almost a thousand!”

“One...hundred ponies?” Briar swallowed and averted her eyes. She was sure that her black coat was, by now, burning a bright cherry red. One hundred ponies. She’d never even imagined so many in one place. And that was small?

It seemed that even Ironwood could take a hint. When he next spoke, his tone was softer, all traces of mirth gone from his voice. “Aw, Briar. I’m sorry for making fun. This is new to you, right? I’m sure that if you stuck me in the middle of the Everfree, I’d have even less of an idea of what was going on.”

“We’ve already seen what would happen.” Briar let a smirk curl her lips in spite of herself. “How long did it take you to get lost? Thirty seconds?”

“Yeah, well,” Ironwood said, “I’m sure I could last even longer next time.”

“Forty seconds?”

“Forty-five,” he said.

Briar snickered, but startled when Ironwood put a hoof on her shoulder.

“Come on,” he said, grinning. “We’re getting close.”

The beaten road went on for at least another half-mile, with nothing but endless green stalks—corn, Ironwood called it, though it was a far cry from the wild corn that Briar was used to—accompanying them. The road was pocked with hoofprints both old and new, with puddles or small trenches scattered along the way.

It was only in the final few minutes of the journey that Briar was able to clearly make out the shapes of the houses themselves: they were squat, ugly things, with stone walls and thatched roofs. Smoke trailed from rooftop chimneys, and Briar found herself reminded of the fireplace in her own cottage. She wondered if there were cauldrons or cooking-pots in these houses, too.

The hoof-prints on the path grew in number, mixing with hay, mud, and even splinters of wood. Briar blinked as she realized that Ironwood was humming; it wasn’t a song she knew.

“What song is that?” she asked, stepping over a forgotten bale of hay. Ironwood stopped humming and turned toward her.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Probably just something I picked up. The troubadours play all sorts of songs when they drop by during the Summer Sun Celebration.”

There it was again—the Celebration. “What is it, anyway? A big party?”

“Kinda,” Ironwood said. “It’s a celebration of Princess Celestia’s birthday.”

“Princess?”

“She lives up in Canterlot—the capital of Equestria.” Ironwood chuckled. “I forgot that you’re not used to all this. Don’t worry—I’ll have you up to speed in no time.

“What’s with the interest in music, by the way? Do you like to play it?”

Briar shook her head as they walked on. “Not really.” The only songs that she knew, she’d learned from Matron as a young filly. A young filly, that is—the lullabies had stopped with her first coherent sentences, and the chores had begun at the same time. Music, it seemed, was a bigger thing outside of the forest than in.

“Well, I’ll have to find some way to get you to the Festival, or maybe to a summer bonfire—those always have great music,” Ironwood said. “And here we are!”

It took Briar a few moments to realize that they’d crossed into the village. As she raised her head, looking around at her new surroundings, she felt the Itch tickling down the back of her neck.

She could see ponies of all shapes and sizes trotting around. A few even wore clothes—ratty cloaks, patched-over hoods, or what looked to be shoes. The houses here seemed to tower far above Matron’s tiny cottage;

Even more rickety carts filled the roads here, their owners’ chatter filling the air with the pleasant buzz of conversation. She could even spot one or two donkeys, their elongated, brown snouts obvious amongst the more colorful crowd of ponies. Cobblestone paths led off of the main street and toward individual houses on either side. Briar saw one mare who was leaning out of an upper-story window. She held a bucket of water in her hooves and a piece of laundry in her mouth. The water—a murky grey rather than the clear liquid that Briar had expected—splashed out onto the path below, leaving a puddle of mud that began draining into the soil below.

Briar felt air moving before her hooves and paused midstep, holding one leg up to her chest. She stared as two foals—one grey, the other bright purple—galloped across the road in front of her, giggling all the way.

“What the—” she began.

“Hey!” Ironwood shouted after them. “I’m walking here!”

One of the two—the purple foal, a filly—turned around and stuck out her tongue, blowing a loud, wet raspberry. There was a horn on her head, and Briar stared after her as she turned to run away.

Ironwood blew his own raspberry in turn. “Kids, huh?” he said to Briar, chuckling. “Always underhoof.”

“Um,” she said. “Was that a horn?”

He looked at her oddly. “Well, yeah. We’ve got a few unicorns in town—not many, but they come in handy during the Spring Equinox.”

“Do they, now?” Briar shook her head, the words to the light spell buzzing in the back of her mind. And to think that there was some kind of pony who could do magic just be thinking about it.

Unicorns. She found herself grinning in spite of herself.

“Their magic’s damn useful for cleaning up snow. Come on,” Ironwood said. “We’re almost to the bakery.”

They walked on, Briar’s hoof pushing into into the hardened, spongy mud with every step. There were so many new smells here—she could smell old, musty hay as strongly as she could smell the scent of each pony who passed. And that sweet, sugary smell—what was it?

“Mom! Dad! I’m home!”

“Look at that,” a deep voice boomed. “You’re back early.”

Briar stepped into the building—the bakery, she reminded herself—behind Ironwood, her eyes flickering from side to side at the unfamiliar surroundings. The outside of the bakery wasn’t necessarily anything new, but the inside was anything but similar to what she was used to.

Where she was used to dim lighting, strange smells, and crooked walls, this place was all straight lines and square angles, well-lit by the half-dozen windows on the walls. It had its fair share of scents, but, as Briar raised her nose to take it all in, she felt her stomach rumble. A cacophony of delicious smells rushed into her nostrils, each eager to remind her of how long it’d been since she’d eaten.

The first thing she noticed was the array of baked goods sitting out on the counter. She took another sniff—there was no doubt in her mind that they were the cause of her grumbling stomach. She could see more bread here, loaves of every shape and size stacked high beside more colorful items—pastries, she remembered—that gave off sharper, sweeter scents of their own.

The second thing she noticed, though, was the simply enormous stallion standing behind the counter. He wore a fierce grin on his face, his chocolate-black mane swept neatly back behind his head. As the door swung shut behind her, Briar found herself taken by the stallion’s pure size—he towered above the counters, his massive head just inches over the stacks of bread. As she stared, the stallion set something down behind the counter, dusted off his hooves, and stepped out into the space by the door.

“Ironwood,” he rumbled. “Good to see you back.”

His smile widened until it looked like it was about to split his face in two. “And who is this? A new marefriend of yours? I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Ironwood groaned. “She’s not my marefriend.”

“Then who is she? Come on—don’t leave your old man in the cold.” The giant stallion held out a hoof. An apron hung from his neck, almost touching the floor. “I’m Ironwood’s father—name’s Brioche.”

Briar took the hoof. “Briar.”

“So you’re the one who saved our Ironwood?” he asked. The mystery mare of the Everfree Forest?”

Briar’s head whipped back around to Ironwood. The smaller stallion was blushing a bright, cherry red, his eyes directed at the floor.

“What have you been telling them?” she demanded. “I thought—”

“Now, don’t get too worked up, Miss Briar.” Briar started as she felt a sudden weight on her shoulder; Brioche, it seemed was the kind of pony who didn’t believe in personal space. “We always knew that our little Ironwood would find himself an exotic mare someday.”

“Goodness knows he boasts about it enough.”

A mare emerged from a back door and into the front of the bakery. She wore a white bonnet over her ears, with just a few curls of her brown mane peeking through. There was an apron over her chest too, but it was there that the similarities with Brioche ended. Where his frame swelled with muscle and fat, hers was thin and reedy, with a chin so bony that it barely looked as though there was any skin on it at all.

Still, there was warmth on her face and a smile in her eyes, and the look she gave Briar as she entered the room was anything but unkind. “I overheard from the next room. It’s lovely to meet you, dear. I’d shake your hoof, but I’m afraid mine are a bit full.”

Indeed they were—piled high with bags, to be exact. It seemed almost impossible that a mare her size could carry so much weight, but the sight was impossible to deny. A thin stream of white powder—flour, Briar guessed—leaked from one of the bags on the bottom and onto the stone floor.

The mare set the bags down behind the counter with an audible grunt. “Now,” she said, coming back up and dusting herself off, “I believe I caught your name—Briar?”

Briar nodded.

“Flaxseed,” the mare said. “It’s a pleasure to meet the mare who saved our son from the Everfree Forest.”

“I—” Briar paused, feeling an unhealthy red rise to her cheeks. “Thank you.”

“So,” Flaxseed said, “I haven’t seen you around the village—and unlike my husband or son, I know how to maintain a social life. So are you a traveller, then? From a nearby town, perhaps?”

“Not...exactly,” Briar said.

“She lives in the Everfree,” Ironwood said helpfully.

“My goodness!” Flaxseed said. “Alone?”

Briar shook her head. “No,” she said. “I live with Matron.”

Perhaps it was the way she said the name, or perhaps it was something in her eyes. Perhaps it was just a matter of politeness. Regardless, Briar was thankful when Flaxseed didn’t push the subject further.

“In any case, dear, welcome to town.” Flaxseed offered a warm smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s…” Briar paused, unsure. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”

And it was, she was surprised to find, true. The village made her feel warm—happy, even. There were so many ponies here, all full of smiles and friendly words.

She felt her gaze slide automatically from Flaxseed’s face. Right. Had to be careful about that.

“Briar,” Ironwood said, “didn’t you want to ask my parents something? Your reason for coming in the first place.”

“Oh!” Briar started.

She turned to remove her pin from her mane; as she fiddled with the rose tip, Ironwood picked up the conversation.

“She’s never known her parents, see,” he said, “and I thought that somepony in the village might know about them.”

“Is this true?” Flaxseed asked sharply. “You’ve never known your parents?”

Briar removed the pin from her mouth and shook her head. “Matron raised me,” she said. “The only thing I have to go by is this.”

Flaxseed’s eyes widened as Briar held up her pin. The pink tip caught the light just so, glowing faintly even in the well-lit bakery. The rose seemed to be encrusted in sparkles, and the dark green clip waited quietly beneath it.

“Goodness,” Flaxseed murmured, leaning in closer. “May I?” Briar hesitated. “I won’t damage it, I promise you.”

Briar hoofed it over. Flaxseed took it with evident delight, peering at it with wide, interested eyes.

“I’ve not seen the like anywhere else,” she murmured.

“That’s artisan work,” Brioche said, pointing with a hoof. “The edges have been carved with professional tools, see? There’s a symbol underneath.”

“You’re right,” Flaxseed said. She held it up to the light. “A sigil, perhaps? But who around here has that kind of money?”

Brioche shrugged. “Ain’t nobody you or I know.”

“No, indeed.” Flaxseed pursed her lips and, frowning, turned back to offer Briar the pin. “I’m sorry, dear. It’s certainly a very distinctive piece, but I’m afraid we’ve no idea of where it might have come from.”

“It was a silly idea, anyway,” Briar said. She took the pin back. “I shouldn’t have wasted your time.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Brioche said with a chuckle. “Every minute you waste is one that I don’t have to work.”

Flaxseed shot him a disapproving look and then turned back to Briar. “I didn’t say that it was hopeless, mind you. There’s one pony in town who might know something.”

Briar perked up.

Ironwood spoke first. “Who?”

“Old Gladius?” Brioche asked his wife.

“That’s Master Gladius,” she said, “but yes. He might be getting on in years, and bards grow better with age, anyhow. He’s certainly more well-travelled than most—if anypony would recognize that sigil, it’s him.”

“Thank you,” Briar said.

“Don’t worry about it, dear,” Flaxseed said. “In any case, I don’t think anypony in town would know how to identify this but him, but I’m afraid you’re a bit out of luck in that respect. The poor old stallion never leaves his cottage but for the Celebration.”

“And that’s next week!” Ironwood whirled to beam into Briar’s eyes; luckily, she whipped her gaze toward the floor just in time. “Briar, you even have an excuse! You have to come to the Celebration, now.”

“I…” Briar swallowed.

She’d already risked enough by coming here, she wanted to say. She was lucky that she’d manage to avoid Matron that morning, but again? And so soon after?

But the look on Ironwood’s face was too much to bear. She couldn’t bring herself to crush such a pure note of happiness. She let her mouth curve into a weak smile.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’ll be there.”

“Yes!”

“Ironwood!” Flaxseed scolded. “No shouting during sundown. Poor Old Miss Daisy next door is just getting to bed! You don’t want to wake her up, do you?”

Briar’s eyes widened. “Sundown—”

She glanced out of the window. Sure enough, the sun was already setting. Long shadows stretched across the road outside, the sky overhead already a conflagration of red and gold.

“Oh, no,” she breathed. “I—I have to get home.”

“I take it this ‘Matron’ appreciates punctuality?” Flaxseed observed.

Briar nodded. “I’m sorry—thank you, really—but I have to go.”

“Still,” Brioche said, looming over his wife’s shoulder, “I’m sure you won’t go home with empty bags.”

“But I don’t even have bags,” Briar said. “Why would I—”

Her gaze fell on the display cases groaning with breads and pastries. “No,” she said. “I couldn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

Her stomach grumbled, and she glared at it for its rebellion.

“Thank you,” she said, “honestly. But I really do have to go.”

The air was thick with incense as Briar stepped into the cottage, her hoofsteps echoing on the aged wood. Behind her, night had fallen, bringing with it an inky black sky that hovered over the forest like a shroud. Matron was nowhere in sight, and so Briar slowly turned around to close the door. She’d made it. Matron didn’t—

“You’re late.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“I expected you for your lesson two hours ago,” Matron’s voice said from behind her. “You missed it.”

Briar forced herself to turn back around. She did her best to hold her head high, though her shaking knees betrayed her.

Matron sat in her old, battered armchair, though Briar could have sworn that it’d been empty scarce seconds before. There was no knitting held in her hooves, no steaming cup of tea on the table beside her.

Matron sat in her throne of patched fabric and forced Briar’s gaze to the floor.

“Where were you?” Matron’s voice struck like ice: soft and sharp.

“I was out,” Briar said quietly.

“That much is obvious. Where?”

It took only a moment before the fib leapt to her tongue. “Out in the forest. Gathering herbs. The oreroot is coming into season, and I wanted to see if—”

“Liar.”

Briar struggled to keep herself from flinching at the word, razor-edged and, it seemed, pointed straight at her heart. “It’s true,” she said, barely trusting herself to keep from wavering. “I was in the forest.”

“A lie,” Matron repeated. “I saw you leave the forest.”

Impossible. “How could you possibly have done that?” Briar asked. Matron had been asleep when she’d left the house—she’d made sure of that.

From the door beyond came a high-pitched, piercing caw. A raven’s. A shiver went down Briar’s spine.

“I have my ways,” Matron said quietly. Dangerously.

“I—I can explain.”

“I believe I can explain well enough,” Matron said. “I know all about your little ‘playdates’ with your villager friend. I know how, even when I told you to keep away from such folk, you continued to meet with him behind my back. I know how you broke my trust and chose today to go with him to a village that I had expressly forbidden you from entering.”

“It wasn’t like that!” Briar said. “I didn’t mean—Ironwood isn’t a bad pony. I didn’t think that—”

“You disobeyed me,” Matron said. Her words cracked like a whip in the still air. “You showed complete disrespect. You shattered my trust.”

“I—”

“An order is an order,” Matron said. “You broke one of the rules of this household. You broke one of my rules.”

Briar grit her teeth. “You can’t do that!”

Matron raised a single grey eyebrow. “Do what?”

“You can’t keep me locked up here forever,” Briar spat. “If I want to go to a village, or—gods forbid—have an actual friend, then maybe I should be able to!”

“It’s for your own good.”

“Maybe,” Briar said, her sides heaving. She glared directly at Matron’s chest. Her teeth ground as her thoughts rose up in a torrent of rage and disbelief. “Maybe I don’t want to do what you tell me!”

“How dare you.”

“How dare you!” Briar said.

Matron’s nostrils flared. “That is enough. You’ll never return to the village, and you shall not meet with this villager again. My word is final.”

“You,” Briar began, “have no right!” Her neck snapped back—and she looked Matron right in the eye.

The room disappeared around her.

She could remember flashes of lightning, crashing through dark clouds as laughter shrieked through the heavens.

It was dark. So dark. Why couldn’t she see? A flash of brilliant, blinding white exploded before her, and she let out a soundless cry as her body was thrust back through the air. The smell of ozone filled her nose, burning, burning—

She could remember fire, burning beneath the earth

The ground was shaking beneath her hooves. The trees, twisting like vines through the darkness, cackled as they fashioned themselves into a cage around her. Their thorns prickled, glowing a sickly yellow as a fire licked around the roots—

and a shadow that danced among the trees.

Dread filled every fiber of her being as the darkness gathered, collecting itself up into a single figure. It towered into the skies, lightning crashing and dying around it as every bit of light was sucked up into that awful, all-consuming creature—

Matron’s eyes simply flashed a dark, angry yellow

Briar was screaming; the eyes were watching her, staring into her soul. She was cut, she was bleeding, her very mind was burning—

and the spell was broken.

When she finally came to, Briar found herself shaking on the ground. Her knees had long since collapsed beneath her, her every muscle aching. Her limbs trembled, and her forehead was slick with sweat.

“You dared believe that such a trick as that would work on one such as me,” Matron said, her voice dripping with undisguised disgust. “Pitiful.”

“What…” Briar wheezed, struggling to get to her hooves. Her face wasn’t working right; her cheeks had gone slack, and she could barely see through the liquid clouding her eyes. “What are you?”

Matron didn’t answer.

“Why?” Briar demanded. The tears streamed down her face, her torso shaking with each wracking sob. “Why?”

“Your actions have sickened me.” Matron’s voice echoed like thunder upon high, darkening the very air through which it passed. “Never entertain such foolish notions as returning to that village again. Now, begone from my sight.”

Briar didn’t need to be told again. With a silent, wordless cry, she galloped out of the room. She crashed into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. She flung herself onto her bed and sobbed, swirling thoughts crying and shrieking in her ears.

Finally, as her last sobs left her, she opened her eyes. There, sitting on the sheets and still clasped in her mane, was her pin. It glinted pink in the fading light.

Briar sniffed and raised a hoof to her eyes. That was it, then. She’d never find out where it’d come from.

She’d never see Ironwood again.

No, she told herself, shoulders shaking. It didn’t have to be that way.

But Matron had told her that it was. And when Matron spoke…

But Matron isn’t all-powerful, something whispered to her. The pin sat patiently on the bed, one of its petals curling through the air toward her face. Briar sniffled and took it in her hooves. You can leave her behind.

But—

Live your life as you will, or dance upon Matron’s string.

Briar swallowed. Hooves trembling, she set her pin back in her mane and turned toward the window.

That night, when Matron was fast asleep in bed, Briar slipped out of the door and vanished into the night.

Briar stood outside of the house, one leg clutched around her chest. The street was dark, but as she raised a hoof and knocked, light spilled from the windows and out onto the dirt road.

The door creaked open, and there stood Brioche, filling the door completely. He carried a lantern in one massive hoof, and wore a simple nightshirt over his neck. His eyes widened when he recognized Briar standing there.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Briar said uncertainly. “But I...I need a place to stay.”

Brioche closed his eyes and raised a hoof to rub the sleep away. When he opened them again, he turned to the inside of the bakery, leaving Briar on the doorstep. Her heart sank.

Then,

“Ironwood!” Brioche hollered. “Get your flank out of bed!”

Something warm filled Briar’s chest as she saw Ironwood, mumbling to himself and rubbing his eyes, stumble to the door. A floppy nightcap covered his ears.

He looked up—and noticed Briar. His face lit up.

“She says she needs a place to stay,” Brioche rumbled. “Think we might be able to help?”

Ironwood beamed.

Before Briar knew it, she’d been yanked inside and had the door slammed shut behind her.

“Oh, you can have my bed,” Ironwood said, his words coming faster than Briar could possibly respond. “I can sleep on the floor; it’s no big deal. Oh! And this means that you’ll be here for the Summer Sun Celebration, which is really really amazing. You’ll just love staying here, I know—”

“Ironwood.”

He stopped and glanced over to her, blinking owlishly. “Huh?”

Briar licked her lips and offered him a weak smile. “Thank you.”

She let out a dull grunt as Ironwood leapt toward her, hooves outstretched, and seized her in a hug.

“Any time,” he said, squeezing her tight. She raised a hoof to his shoulder and squeezed back.

“And what is this?”

Ironwood spun around. “Mom!”

Flaxseed stood at the end of the hall, a light blue nightgown covering her hooves. “Briar, dear. What are you doing here so late at night?”

“She’s staying over,” Ironwood said. “She’s sleeping in my room and everything.”

Flaxseed’s eyes widened almost comically. “Excuse me?” she choked out.

“On the floor,” Briar said quickly.

“Ah.” Flaxseed drew herself back up as Brioche returned from the front of the bakery, the wooden floor creaking beneath his hooves. “Might I ask why?”

Briar winced beneath her stern gaze. “I…” She cast about for a good reason, and finally settled on one that she hoped Flaxseed would find acceptable. “Family problems.”

Flaxseed nodded slowly. “Ah,” she said again, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Then very well. Though I wouldn’t dream of giving you the floor—I’m sure Ironwood won’t mind giving up his own bed for the night.”

“But I already—” Ironwood began, but Flaxseed silenced him with a wave of her hoof.

“Good night, you two,” Flaxseed said with a smile. “Briar, if you need anything, please let us know.”

“Thank you,” Briar said. She bowed her head. “Thank you, so much. And goodnight.”

“Of course,” Brioche rumbled, stepping past her. “We’ll see you two in the morning.”

Barely minutes later, it seemed, and despite her own protests that she could sleep elsewhere, Briar lay on Ironwood’s bed, the sheets curled around her body like a cocoon. Beside the bed, Ironwood snored softly from the floor.

A soft smile touched Briar’s face. “Good night, Matron,” she whispered into the night. “And goodbye.”

Chapter Four

The next morning came over the village before Briar had even had the chance to close her eyes, it seemed. In the blink of an eye, she’d found herself roused from Ironwood’s bed, stuffed with a half-dozen pastries, and sent out the front door so quickly that she still felt like she was spinning.

Now she found herself at Ironwood’s side as they made their way down the street. It wasn’t a very wide road—the village had only three, and this wasn’t even the largest—but with the buzz of activity all around, it was impossible for the street to feel empty.

Every villager, from every nook and cranny, had brought themselves out to decorate for the Summer Sun Celebration. Briar watched with wide eyes as flags and streamers of every color went up over the streets, their lengths flapping in the warm summer breeze. Stands selling everything from jewelry to cheese to linen had set up shop outside of every house; according to Ironwood, a merchant train had arrived early that morning, their wagons groaning with the weight of all of the goods they had to sell.

“So there I was,” Ironwood said, “only about five years old and with a stolen pie in my hooves. What do you think I was about to do?”

“I still don’t get why you were stealing pies if your parents could make more, anyway,” Briar said. She glanced to the side and grinned as a group of foals galloped past, tossing a ball between them. “And I thought you said you borrowed that pie.”

“Borrowed! Right!” Ironwood coughed. “Seeing the competition and all. Anyways, there I stood, borrowed pie in my hooves and a half-dozen angry merchants right outside the tent door. Of course, the only good idea in that case is to run away, right?”

“Makes sense.”

“Then again,” Ironwood went on, “it’s not the easiest thing to run away when you’re carrying a pie in your mouth that’s almost as wide as your head. After all, I needed all four hooves to run. So…”

“So what?” Briar asked. She eyed a passing merchant cart; from what she could make out beneath the covering cloth, at least part of the weight in there was books. She fixed the look of the cart and the stallion who’d been pulling it in the back of her mind. She knew which stand she’d be looking for later.

“I may or may not have actually been able to see where I was going,” Ironwood said, chuckling. “So, picture this: An all-but-blind foal not sure where to run, a horde of angry ponies chasing after him into the tent, and a very, very unstable central tent pillar.”

Briar’s hoof went to her mouth. “You didn’t.”

“I couldn’t see where I was going!” Ironwood protested. “And besides; how was I supposed to know that that particular tent had never finished putting up its support beams?”

“So you ran right into it?”

“Not me,” Ironwood said. “The pie did. The poor, innocent pie.”

Briar snickered. “And the tent came crashing down all around you?”

“And all six or seven of the ponies who’d bothered to chase after me. Fwoosh!” Ironwood grinned. “‘Course, I wasn’t about to stick it out there, so I hightailed my way out beneath the tent while the bigger ponies were still struggling with the fabric. Didn’t really get away, though, because the first merchant was waiting right outside the tent and nabbed me by the scruff before I could run away.”

“What’d he do?”

“Marched me right over to my parents and demanded that they pay for the pie and raise a better son.”

Briar glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Did they?”

Ironwood grinned back. “Dad thought it was hilarious. Mom didn’t. I’ll spare you the details, but I’ll just say that I couldn’t sit down for a week—and no pie for a whole month.”

“Harsh,” Briar said. “Whatever happened to the merchant?”

“Oh,” Ironwood said, chuckling, “he still comes back every now and then.”

“And—”

Briar’s words were cut short by a blast of sound. It pierced through the air: a long, ragged note. It soon died down, but with a long, mourning call that left the windows rattling and the air buzzing.

Briar glanced around. “What was that?” she asked. All of the surrounding ponies had raised their snouts to the sky, listening as the last echoes of the sound splashed through the air.

“It’s the call to the opening ceremonies,” Ironwood said. He glanced toward her and grinned. “Come on, Briar!” He took her hoof in his and ran.

“Whoa—whoa!”

Ironwood laughed as he pulled her along, dodging between passers-by who were themselves heading toward the source of the call. Briar yelped and spun on her hoof, doing her best to avoid tripping over at least three separate mares on the way there. Each glared at her, though Briar found it hard to take seriously. They had nothing on Matron, after all.

“It’s just around this bend,” Ironwood said. “The village square.”

“The village—oof!”

Briar stumbled as she ran headfirst into what felt like a mountain. She collapsed back onto the ground.

She rubbed her snout tenderly with a hoof as her eyes tracked upward—and upward, and upward until she could at last see what she’d bumped into.

“There you two are,” Brioche rumbled, grinning down at her. “We were beginning to wonder if you’d make it.”

“Miss the ceremonies?” Ironwood snorted. “Never!”

Flaxseed peered from around her giant husband and shushed him. “They’re about to start!”

Once Briar had managed to get to her hooves, she did her best to follow Ironwood and Brioches’ stares to see where she was supposed to look. Admittedly, every other pony in the audience was staring in the sample place. The giant, painted stage right in the middle of the square would have been pretty hard to miss, and Briar’s longer legs and neck let her see over the crowd without too much difficulty.

The crowd. She’d never seen so many ponies together in one place before. She should have felt afraid, should have felt uncomfortable, but all she felt was a searing warmth in her heart that told her that this felt right. What did Matron know, anyway?

And there were so many different ponies! Short ones, tall ones, skinny ones, fat ones. The same horde of colts and fillies from before galloped past an elderly mare, giggling all the way. Some wore cloaks or bonnets, while other wore nothing at all.

The only non-distinguishing feature, it seemed, was the color of their fur. While a few scattered ponies were colored yellow, white, or even blue, the vast majority of the crowd was either grey or chestnut brown. Briar glanced down at her jet-black fur, the ends of her brilliant green mane waving in the edges of her vision. She shrank back slightly.

“Look!” Ironwood tugged on her mane and grinned when she turned to stare at him. “Up on the stage. They’re starting!”

Briar turned back to face the stage. A grey-coated stallion had stepped up onto the stage where he’d begun conversing with an older, plump-looking mare. He wore his bright orange mane in a ponytail behind his ears, and a white cloak sat over his haunches.

“That’s Yarrow, the mayor,” Ironwood said. “And Baba. She’s the head of the village council.”

A group of other ponies, older than most in the crowd, stood off to the side of the stage. Briar’s best guess was that they made up the rest of this “village council.” When the rest of them followed the mayor up into the center of the square, her suspicions were all but confirmed.

Briar watched as the mayor turned back from the council and trotted off to the stairs leading up to the stage. A shorter, golden-maned mare stood there waiting for him, a bonnet over her ears and her belly swollen over her haunches. The mayor leaned down and nuzzled her, their snouts brushing together as his foreleg came up to gently rub the mare’s side. The crowd’s cheers redoubled.

“That’s Yarrow’s wife,” Ironwood said over the din of the crowd. “She’s expecting any day now.”

The mayor pulled back from his wife, nodded, and turned to face the crowd. As he approached the center of the stage, the cheers intensified in volume—until he held up a hoof and the crowd went silent.

“Welcome!” Yarrow boomed. He held his chin high, though the smile he gave the crowd was genuine. “Welcome, to both old friends and new, to the festival of the Summer Sun Celebration!”

He waited for the applause to die down before continuing. “We come together today to celebrate the bounty this land has given us, and to give thanks to the Sun for its warmth and light. Praise be to Celestia, in her castle of stars!”

“Praise be to Celestia,” the crowd shouted along with him. “In her castle of stars!”

“We gather here,” Yarrow continued, “to give thanks for friendship! For life, both old and new! Just as the fire of friendship is kindled on Hearth’s Warming Eve, so too is it stoked and renewed each Celebration.

“I would like to personally extend our welcome to the merchants and troubadours who arrived last night,” he went on. “They have made a long journey, and I hope that this festival leaves their hearts happy and their purses full.”

A wave of laughter went up from around the crowd. Yarrow smiled, waiting for it to subside before continuing on.

“Every able pony has contributed something to the Celebration this year. There are games, food, and joy aplenty. I would like to also thank you all for helping to make this a Celebration to remember.”

Another round of applause. Briar looked around in awe as the ground almost shook beneath the weight of so many thundering hooves.

“A few words before we begin,” Yarrow said. “The village council would like me to remind you all to stay safe and responsible for the duration of the festival. I would like to add to that my own words: Remember why we are here.”

He craned his neck up to the sky. “We gather today not only for revelry and joy, but to give thanks for what we are given. Praise Celestia, in her castle of stars.”

“Praise Celestia,” the crowd roared. “In her castle of stars!”

“Thank you!” Ironwood boomed. “And above all else, have fun! Enjoy the Celebration!”

A wave of cheers went up around the crowd, and a song erupted halfway across the square. All around them, ponies applauded, their hooves hitting the ground in a rumbling crescendo.

Briar blinked, grinned, and then joined in. She could feel the earth trembling beneath her hooves, could hear Ironwood laughing beside her as the song overtook the rest of the crowd.

She could feel the yank on her arm as Ironwood took her hoof in his and tugged her away.

“Come on!” he said, his face glowing in the morning light. “Let’s get going!”

The air blurred as he pulled her away from the crowd—and so did time itself, blurring across her vision like a whisper of wind. The day seemed like the rush of water over a cliff, crashing down from crest to pool with a mindless blur in between. It was only later, when the day’s frenzy had finally settled down, that Briar was able to recollect her thoughts.

She remembered the games. She’d barely knew what she was doing, but Ironwood had taken the time to explain each one. It had been visibly obvious that he was eager to get to his own turns, though, his tail shaking in the air as she lined up her first shots in the game called “bowling.” She’d cheered as she knocked down some of the pins waiting on the grassway, and laughed as Ironwood managed to fling his own ball forward without hitting one. He’d laughed too, and they’d sped to the back of the line to try again.

She remembered the stands, and the market. She’d almost been paralyzed in place at the sight of so much food. Somehow, Ironwood had managed to have enough coins saved up—”bits,” he called them—to buy enough food for the both of them, and then some. Her stomach had moaned its displeasure at feeling so terribly, terribly full, but she couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt so adventurous. She’d never heard of some of those foods!

She remembered the alleyway, too. She’d stood by the side of the road, snickering as Ironwood vomited up whichever bad fruit he’d managed to nab from one stand’s “free samples” pile. She’d teased him about it, chuckling when he punched her in the shoulder and stalked off, his face flushed a bright red.

She remembered the sound of music, the ponies singing and playing in glee. She’d never heard music before—not like this. Matron didn’t believe in singing, and as far as Briar knew, owned not a single musical instrument. But the music of the village—this pure, rising sound—filled her heart with warmth, lifting it up until she felt like she could soar into the skies.

She’d met more ponies than she could remember, and seen more sights than she could possibly understand. It’d been the most incredible, exhilarating day of her life.

Now, she lay upon a bed of soft straw, her hooves folded beneath her. A few other ponies filled the space—three foals, an older stallion, and a married couple—but she only felt the warmth of Ironwood’s coat against her side. The ground beneath her rolled and bounced every other second. The tall shape of the stallion pulling the hayride was silhouetted against the front of the cart, the steady clop-clop of his hooves and the giggling of the foals the only sound in the air.

Briar looked out between two of the wooden bars that made up the edge of the cart. Beyond, she could make out miles of fields. Tall stalks of wheat swayed in the evening breeze, the sunlight setting them ablaze with gold. A warm breeze picked up and Briar closed her eyes, feeling the brush of air against her head as her mane danced over her neck.

“I never expected the countryside to look like this,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

“The forest is beautiful, too,” Ironwood said. “Remember everything you showed me? The lilies? The falls?”

“It’s not the same,” Briar said. “I’ve lived in the Everfree my entire life, but this…”

She held out a hoof, gesturing between the planks. “The Everfree is closed, and dark. This, though...there’s just so much of it. Don’t these fields ever end?”

“They probably do,” Ironwood said. “Though I’ve heard that some of them stretch all the way to Canterlot.”

“Canterlot,” Briar breathed. “I never knew that places outside of the forest could be so incredible.”

“Do you really think so?”

Briar looked up. “You know,” she said, “you usually can’t see much of the sky when you’re in the forest. You can see the Moon when you’re in a clearing, and maybe a few clouds or sunbeams when they get through the canopy, but here it’s so much different. I always thought the books were joking when they talked about the sky stretching from horizon to horizon.”

“Huh,” Ironwood said. “I never thought of it that way.”

“It’s the biggest thing I’ve ever seen,” she said. “The skies just go on and on, and the clouds—they’re just so high up.”

She fell silent. For a moment, no sound passed between them save for the rattling of the cart upon the road.

“I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to be a pegasus,” Ironwood said. “To be able to fly anywhere I’d want to. Nopony could stop me.”

To fly. Briar’s heart missed a beat.

To fly high above the treetops, never looking down, and never looking back. With wings, she could soar. With wings, she could fly free, leave Matron behind. She could follow Ironwood on whatever adventure they chose.

Canterlot. Saddle Arabia. She tasted the names on her lips. Did she want to fly?

“Yes,” she said. “I think I’d like that, too.”

It was traditional, Ironwood had told her, for the villagers to celebrate the night of the Summer Sun Celebration with fire: Fire to celebrate light, to celebrate life, and to celebrate the coming of the Sun. So Briar found herself sitting upon a log, her hooves upon her lap as a team of stallions built up the bonfire in the center of the clearing.

It’d been only a short walk from the village square, but it might as well have been miles away with the crowd blocking their way. Everyone came out for the Celebration, it seemed; if anything, the crowd seemed even larger than the one at the ceremonies that morning. Somehow, Ironwood had managed to find them seats right near the front of the crowd, close to the leaping sparks of the Summer Sun Flame. The fire cast flickering shadows over the crowd around it, some red, some gold, and each filled with light and warmth.

As Briar looked up over the crowd, she noticed Flaxseed and Brioche sitting at the other end of the crowd. Brioche raised a hulking arm to wave at her, and Briar tentatively lifted a hoof to wave back. A smile tugged at her lips.

“So what do you all do at one of these, anyway?” she asked, turning back to Ironwood. He sat beside her, his legs swinging and hooves tapping against the side of the log.

“Well, there’s singing,” he said. “Dancing, too. And there should be food around here somewhere.”

More food. Her stomach moaned pitifully at the thought. Briar nodded along as a thought came to mind. “Didn’t you say that there would be somepony here who might know something about my parents?”

Ironwood’s face lit up. “Right! Gladius always comes out to tell a story at the beginning of every Summer Sun Flame. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to catch him before he leaves the Celebration.”

“A story?”

He nodded. “Yup! He always has the best tales. I heard that he’s been all over Equestria, and learned every story there is!”

“That seems a bit much,” Briar said. “Can he really remember all of them?”

“Who knows?” Ironwood asked. “I hope he tells the story of the original Celebration, though. That one’s my favorite.”

“The original Celebration?”

He shot her a grin. “You’ll see.”

A quiet murmur went up through the crowd, and Briar straightened up, craning her neck to see over the heads of the ponies in front of her. Part of the crowd seemed to have parted halfway around the circle from them.

“What’s going on?” Ironwood asked.

“They’re all...moving out of the way,” Briar said. “I think there’s someone coming through.”

“That’s him!” Ironwood shushed her. “It’s Gladius!”

The murmuring rose to a fevered pitch as a shadowed figure became distinct in the crowd. It pushed ahead, a path clearing before it with each step it took toward the bonfire.

It was a stallion; that much was clear from the shape of the snout visible beneath its hood. A cape, tattered and patched with grey, was clasped around the stallion’s neck. He carried a staff, its long, twisted end thudding against the ground with every step.

Briar’s eyes widened when she realized that he was even taller than her. Not as large as Brioche, certainly, but tall enough for her to take notice.

Once Gladius—if that was his name—had reached the fire, he reached up to remove his hood. It fell to the base of his neck, revealing the face beneath.

He was old. He wasn’t ancient by any means, and almost certainly younger than Matron, but his every movement held a certain caution and purpose. His mane, silver and speckled with black, fell across his neck in a long, twisting tail. His snout was longer than most, and his jaw sharp and pronounced.

As Gladius turned to face their direction, Briar held in a gasp. A long, wicked-looking scar ran over one of his eyes, glinting scarlet in the firelight. The crowd fell silent, save for the quiet murmurings of young foals.

Then he spoke.

“This world is a cycle.” His voice was rough, yet rich. “Another season is upon us, and with it, the Solstice. This night, on the longest day of the year, we light our fires to celebrate the Sun. With this day comes new light.”

He turned and stepped toward one of the forward seats. Briar recognized the mayor and his wife sitting there, the light of the flames flickering across their faces.

“And with new light comes new life.” Gladius offered a short bow to the mayor’s wife. “The Sun has blessed your child, Lady Brightleaf. To give birth near the Celebration is among the best of omens.”

A smile curved the mare’s lips. “Thank you, Master Gladius.”

Gladius turned away to face the rest of the crowd. His voice boomed through the clearing, his cape fluttering in a breeze. “Yet it was not always so. Once we suffered without the watchful eye of the Sun, with no Celebration, and no blessings of Celestia to watch over us.”

Ironwood elbowed Briar in the side. “This is it!” he whispered. “He’s telling the story of the first Celebration.”

“Your favorite, huh?” she whispered back. He just grinned.

“As it is in the wild reaches of the Everfree, so too was it amongst ponykind,” Gladius intoned. “Where strength begat power, and the strong preyed upon the weak like beasts. It was in this time that She came.”

“She?” Briar whispered to Ironwood.

He shushed her. “Just listen!”

“Her cloak was fashioned of shadow, her coat a deathly black. To hear her laughter, it is said, was to hear the galloping of the windigo across the plains of the never-ending sky. She held no horn, no wings, and no magic—until one looked into her eyes.”

Gladius’s voice lowered further. “Even with her other features, she may well still have been called a pony, yet it was her eyes that set her apart. A piercing, otherworldly green, her two eyes shone with flame and rage and power.

“To meet her gaze was to invite death. It was said that her eyes could stare into a pony’s very soul, stripping them bare before her. Even the strongest stallion was putty in her hooves; the most powerful unicorn could do naught beneath the weight of that ancient, terrible stare. Simply by meeting her eyes, a pony forfeited his body to become no more than a puppet to her will.

“The Evil Eye, it was called, and it laid waste to the land. Wherever she stared from atop her tall tower, the crops wilted and died. Foals grew sickly and weak. The beasts gave birth to abominations that overtook the land. And so it came to be that she earned her name: the Green-Eyed Witch.”

Briar swallowed.

“The Witch demanded tribute from the villages that she controlled, and took great pleasure in forcing them to plead for aid when they became unable to muster enough crops for her. The country had become enslaved to her will, and a dark shroud fell across the land.”

A tinny voice piped up from the crowd: “Why didn’t anypony stop her?”

An uneasy chuckle ran through the audience. Gladius stopped in place before turning, his head snapping toward the source of the foal’s voice.

“Ponies tried,” he rasped. “Year after year, stallions and mares alike would take up arms as their villages proclaimed them champion. Warriors and sorcerers from all parts of the land would come to try their hoof at defeating the Witch, yet all fell to her piercing gaze.

“For the Witch, you see, could not be killed,” Gladius said, his scarred eye glinting in the light of the fire. “She was an Immortal—invulnerable, save for a single mark on her neck. A black spot, molded into the shape of a rose.”

Briar shrank back into her seat. She lifted a hoof and checked to make sure that her mane had covered her neck entirely.

Covered her neck. And a black spot in the shape of a rose.

The bonfire roared, casting heat and light all about the clearing, yet Briar shivered all the same.

“Time passed. The Sun rose and fell, and the darkness over the land grew. The villagers suffered beneath the Witch’s rule, yet no longer dared violate her will. All were afraid of her piercing gaze.

“And then one day, a traveller—a stallion—came to a particular village that had long been subject to the will of the Green-Eyed Witch. He had heard of the misfortunes of this land, and asked why nopony would stand against her. They told him thus: It is hopeless. It is insanity. She commands the soul of any pony dares look into her eyes.

“Yet when the traveller removed his hood, the villagers were shocked. The traveller’s eyes were grey, faded and covered in cataracts. He was blind, he told them, and could therefore survive the Witch’s piercing gaze.

“They laughed. Mad, they called him. Yet the traveller paid them no mind, and went away to sharpen his sword. As he worked the whetstone of the forge, he prayed to Celestia to lead him true. He prayed, asking for her to guide his hoof. And when he returned to the village, the image of a sunburst stood upon the blade of his sword.

“They laughed again, but the blind traveller found a foal to guide him to the Witch’s castle. As he stood outside the gates, a voice called down—what was his purpose?

“‘To kill the Witch,’ the blind traveller spoke, ‘and to free this land of her curse.’ A great and terrible laughter echoed through the castle. The Witch had heard his proclamation and found great mirth in it. Another traveller that dared attack her? He would be killed or enslaved like all the rest.

“Yet when she tried to gaze into his eyes, her Evil Eye failed her. The traveller’s blindness saved him, as he had predicted, and the Witch could not see his soul. She howled in fury and directed her guards to attack. Bent to her will as they were, none could refuse her call to battle.

“To a lesser pony,” Gladius said, turning again, “it may have seemed hopeless.” His eyes flashed across Briar and Ironwood’s sitting place, and Briar flinched back. “Yet the traveller’s prayers had rung true, and so it was that Celestia’s spirit came to fill his soul, guiding his every movement and enhancing his senses. With the smell of a fox, the hearing of an eagle, and a sense for the air itself, the traveller turned the tide in his favor.

“When she found all her guards dead or unconscious, the Witch was filled with an unholy fury. Taking a poison dagger from beneath her throne, she leapt at the traveller, bellowing a cry of rage. Yet Celestia’s spirit stayed with the traveller, guiding his hoof toward the mark of the rose. The traveller’s mark struck hard and true, and with his sword shining like the sun itself, pierced through the Witch’s neck.

“The Witch fell to the ground, green eyes dead and powerless. When the traveller returned to the village, he told them of his victory. The villagers tried to raise him up as their king or leader, but he refused. Celestia herself, he said, was responsible for the victory of that day.

“Without the Witch’s poisonous gaze upon it, the land prospered and grew. When the first good harvest came, the villagers gave thanks to Celestia, and named that day for her great Sun.

“Thus was the first year of the Summer Sun Celebration, when the land gave thanks for its freedom from the Green-Eyed Witch. When the crops grew strong and true, and our foals laughed with bright eyes and happy hearts.

“And so we celebrate even unto this day.”

The crowd erupted with applause and cheers. Even Ironwood leapt to his hooves, laughing and shouting with the rest.

Yet Briar shrank back into her seat, letting the shadows of those standing cover her. Her mane swept down to cover her neck. She closed her eyes. Her green eyes.

A black coat. The mark of a rose. Green, piercing eyes.

Could she do that? Rip into a pony’s soul and mold it to her will?

No. She wasn’t a monster. Her teeth chattered, and she realized that she was shivering. She would never do that.

Matron’s yellow gaze flickered in her mind’s eye.

But you tried, the flames whispered to her, sparks dancing through the air. You wanted it. That power.

“No,” Briar whispered. “No.”

A song had sprung up around the bonfire, ponies rising to their hooves and dancing to the rhythm. The words washed off of Briar’s ears like water on a rock as her eyes stared dully forward.

Beside her, Ironwood stopped applauding and stared down at her. “Is something wrong?” he asked. “Didn’t you like the story?”

“I am the fire that burns within your soul.

“I am the Holy light that fills and makes you whole.

“I am the Flame within, that never dies.

“I am the sun that will ever arise.”

Briar grit her teeth. “It was a wonderful story,” she said. “Fantastic.”

“I told you it was his best one,” Ironwood said. Briar looked up when she felt a weight on her shoulder—Ironwood’s hoof. “Now come on! Gladius is leaving!”

“Leaving?” she asked. She was acutely aware that her gaze never budged above Ironwood’s neck.

“Power of the Sun we honor you this night.

“We leap across the fire to keep our spirits bright.

“Power of the Sun, fire in the night.

“We leave behind, that which blinds, to restore our sight.”

“Yeah! Don’t you want to ask him about your pin? About your parents?”

“I—”

“Come on!” Ironwood took a hold of her hoof and pulled her along. “If we don’t get to him soon, we’ll miss our chance!”

Briar protested in vain as Ironwood sped through and around the crowd, her own hooves powerless to stop him. All around her, the dancers spun in song as the bonfire burned higher and higher.

“I am the fire that clears away the old.

“I am the holy light that guides you to your soul.

“I am the Flame Of Love for which you yearn.

“I am the sun that will always return.”

Chapter Five

Gladius’s tent had been pitched just away from the bonfire, in the midst of the merchant train that had arrived for the Celebration. Even here the sound of the festivities rang through the night, with cheers and and song echoing around every corner. Briar and Ironwood passed between crowds of celebrators and onlookers alike. Mugs of cider and ale clanked every few moments, adding a whiff of alcohol to the smoke-filled air.

“I thought you said Gladius lived in the village,” Briar said to Ironwood. “Why would he have a tent out here?”

“His cottage is way too far out to make the trip at night,” Ironwood said. He dodged past a whirling dancer, barely managing to avoid the other pony’s thrashing hooves. “Plus, I’ve heard he has friends amongst the merchants. He tends to room out here for the duration of every Celebration.”

“So we just have to find him in his tent?”

Ironwood nodded. “Though it’d be better to catch him before he made it inside. From what I’ve heard, Gladius isn’t even that receptive of visitors during the Celebration itself, so we have to act quickly.”

“Got it.” Briar narrowed her eyes, scanning the crowd. Stallions and mares alike whirled around smaller campfires as licks of flame cast embers into the air. The sound and smell was overpowering; no matter which way she turned, her eyes, ears, and nose felt as though they’d been stuffed with mud.

Another train of revelers passed beside them, and Briar winced. How could anyone even think in this kind of noise?

“Got him!”

She whirled. Ironwood’s face was split into a grin, his hoof jabbed out over the throngs of dancers toward a lone shadow at the other end of a campfire. Briar stared; with that patchwork, grey cloak, there was little mistaking the stallion they’d seen before.

As she watched, he disappeared around a corner. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s catch up.”

They took off running, dodging between twirling crowds and dimly light tents. Briar’s hooves skimmed across the dry grass, her fur glowing a pale silver beneath the moonlight. Ironwood jogged along beside her, his breath coming in huffs and puffs.

Briar smiled. At least he was doing his best to keep up.

Within moments, they’d rounded the corner where Gladius had disappeared. Shadows lay long across the grass here, with only the barest flickers of far-off firelight there to light the way.

“There,” Ironwood gasped as they slowed to a trot. A shadowed figure stood at the entrance of one of the tents, its head bowed. “Gladius! Master Gladius, wait!”

The figure paused. Slowly, it raised its head and turned to face them. Briar averted her eyes—not only to avoid meeting its gaze, but to avoid the scar that she knew lay beneath that darkened hood. It glinted again in her memory, glowing crimson by firelight as the ponies around her cheered for the Witch’s death.

The figure nodded, turned back, and disappeared into the tent.

“Was that him?” she asked.

“I think so,” Ironwood said. “I think he wants us to follow him inside.”

Briar looked down at her hooves. Did she want to go in? She’d screamed at Matron and looked her straight in the eye. The story had put it as bright as day—with this power, she could be a monster. What parent would want to know of such a child?

Maybe that was why she’d been left with Matron in the first place. Maybe they’d been too afraid to keep her. Afraid, even, of what she’d become.

And then Briar felt the weight of the rose in her mane.

She grit her teeth. No. She’d come this far. She hadn’t defied Matron for nothing—she’d meant what she’d said. There was no going back from here. She could only go forward. She’d seize her past and future with both hooves.

And to do that, she had to find her parents. She’d read it in a book once—a thin, forgotten volume lying beneath Matron’s desk. When she’d finished reading it, she remembered one line above all the rest.

You have to know where you’ve come from in order to know where you’re going.

“Let’s go,” she said, and trotted into the tent. Ironwood followed soon after.

The inside of the tent felt larger than what Briar had expected. A bedroll sat against one side, its covers neatly folded across its top. A full desk sat beside it. Stacks of papers covered each inch of the desk’s surface, a single candle atop the desk giving them a dull yellow glow.

A pony stood before the desk, his head turned away from the entrance. His patchwork hood and cloak covered his body almost entirely, leaving only his hooves and a wisp of his tail visible beneath the fabric.

Briar and Ironwood clustered by the entrance as the tent flap closed behind them. Briar was the first to speak.

She swallowed. “Master Gladius?” she asked. “We had… I had something to ask you.”

“I suspected as much,” Gladius said. “Yet why should I give a reply?”

“Because,” she said, “you’re the only one who can.”

A moment of silence passed between them. Then Gladius turned and let his cloak fall to the ground.

With the cloak removed, he seemed to undergo a transformation—he looked so much smaller than he had before, with long, bony limbs sticking out at awkward angles from a body that would never have been called, by any definition, athletic. No horn stood atop his head; no wings adorned his back.

Briar’s eyes widened as the old stallion’s face came into full view. She caught only a fleeting look—a mere glance before he could meet her gaze—but she could see that the scar over his eye hadn’t left him untouched: The eye itself was a blank, milky white, with a grey streak running across its surface in a vertical line. The other eye, though marked with cataracts, was the color of quicksilver. Its gaze seemed to pierce into Briar’s chest as it darted to face her.

“Then ask,” Master Gladius said. “And perhaps I will answer.”

Briar nodded. She reached up to her mane—her hoof was trembling, she realized, as though the mere look of Gladius’s stare had set shivers up her spine. She gently took hold of her rose pin and slid it from its place. She held it out toward Gladius, who closed his eyes and waited.

The old stallion gave a twitch of his hoof, and she dropped it into his grasp. Briar stepped back.

Gladius’s eyes snapped back open, instantly focusing on the pin. “Ah,” he murmured. “What is this?”

“I was left it by my mother,” Briar said. “I’ve had it all my life, but I’ve never known who she was, or how she came by it. Ironwood’s parents told me that you might know where it’s from.”

“Interesting,” Gladius murmured. He held it up in the air, letting the light of the candle wash over it. “Very interesting indeed.”

“Well?” Ironwood put in. “Do you recognize it?”

“Perhaps.”

Briar stared. “What do you mean?”

“I do recognize the make—and the symbol, yes,” Gladius said. “It’s certainly an artisan’s work, and a craftspony’s work at that. Journeyman level at least. The sigil I recognize as well—it is the symbol of an old, noble family.”

He went on. “The curl and finish of the petals are notable as well. With very small uncertainty, I can label this of Canterlotian make.”

“Canter-what?” Briar asked.

“Canterlotian!” Ironwood said. “Canterlot! The Princess lives there!”

“The Princess,” Briar murmured. “Was that the same Princess Celestia from the story?”

Gladius’s snout twitched. “Indeed it was. The story itself, like all tales, is ambiguous, but there is a true Princess of the Sun.

“She’s the pony who raises the Sun and Moon to make the day and night,” Ironwood said. “How could you not know that already?”

Briar stared at the ground. “I...I don’t know.” Matron had never told her, she wanted to say. How could she be expected to know?

But she wasn’t here for other stories. She was here for her own.

“Nobility,” she said quietly. “My mother was a noble?”

“It’s certainly possible,” Gladius said. “My days of taxonomic nobility are far beyond me—I can no longer recall the names as I once did—but I can tell you that the gilded rose is the symbol of an old and powerful House of pegasi.”

“But Briar doesn’t have any wings,” Ironwood said. “How could her parents be pegasi?”

“The offspring of a pegasus is not always a pegasus,” Gladius said. “Especially if the mate is an earth pony or unicorn. Any noble of a winged House might well be disowned for consorting with an earth pony or commoner.”

“So my mother...had me with an earth pony?” Briar said. “And couldn’t keep me because of that?”

“This is all speculation,” Gladius said. “I am afraid that the events of which you speak of are too far in the past to know for sure.”

“But she was from Canterlot, you said,” Briar said. She looked up. “How far is it? Could we go there?”

Ironwood looked expectantly at Gladius. The old stallion sighed.

“You are aware of the sheer size of the Everfree Forest?” he asked. “Stretching from the Badlands to the great plains of the north?”

Briar had never heard of those words—for her, the forest simply was. It could have gone on for miles, or just ended at the end of the Rainbow Lily Valley. She’d not found an end beside that of the village.

She nodded anyway.

Gladius closed his eyes. “The forest is immense—it would take weeks to travel through. And you live merely on the edge; you’ve not seen the depths of the Everfree. Things lurk in there, where ponies fear to tread.”

“Can’t we go around it?” she asked.

“The forest is vast,” Gladius said. “It would more than triple your time to go around it. Canterlot lies at the other end, yes, but the journey itself is difficult. You would be forced to traverse nearly half of Equestria itself to get so far.”

“But you’ve been there,” Ironwood piped up. “Can’t you tell us how?”

“That,” Gladius said, “Is a tale for another day.”

He glanced toward Briar. “I will not tell you that you will never visit Canterlot—a pony’s life is long, and a mare’s hooves may take her to faraway places. Perhaps you will see it one day, the City of the Sun, yet if you do, it will scarce be in the way that you’d expect.”

There was a finality in his voice, and as he offered her the rose pin once more, she felt an uneasy quiet settle over the room. She took her time as she replaced the pin in her mane, her thoughts drifting through her mind like fog.

So she’d never visit Canterlot. She’d never find her parents. Her journey ended here. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

Ironwood must have caught the tone of her voice. “Hey,” he said softly, bringing up a hoof to rest on her shoulder. “We did what we could, right? And there’s no reason to believe you’ll never visit Canterlot.”

“Right,” she said. Her voice sounded empty even to herself.

“And besides,” Ironwood went on, “you’ve got a family here, now.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Well...you said you’d wanted to see the world, right? To live outside of the forest?”

She nodded.

“My parents seem to like you,” Ironwood said, “and well...I guess I kind of like you too. So I guess what I’m saying is that you don’t have to just go back all alone to the forest. You can stay here, if you want. And maybe someday, when we go out to see the world, we’ll visit Canterlot and find your parents and House.”

Briar couldn’t stop her lips from curling into a smile. “Thanks, Ironwood,” she said. She brought her hoof up to his and before she knew it, she’d taken him in a hug. He grunted in surprise, but gave in and squeezed her back. “Thank you for everything.”

When she finally released him, she turned back to Gladius. “Thank you again,” she said. “Really.”

“Of course,” Gladius said. “I’ll admit, however, that it is an interesting coincidence.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

A shiver ran down Briar’s spine.

When he next spoke, Gladius’s voice was lower—deeper. The candlelight glowed red upon his scarred eye, its milky-white depths shimmering in the dim light. “A gilded rose,” he said. “A black-coated mare.”

He glanced up, and she quickly looked away to avoid meeting his gaze.

“Tell me, Mistress Briar,” he said. “What color are your eyes?”

He knew.

He knew.

Briar wanted to run—to scream—to get away. He knew. How could he? How had she given it away. How could he even know that his story was anything more than just a myth?

No. She had to keep her cool. She couldn’t let him know. She couldn’t let Ironwood know.

“Blue,” she lied, keeping her gaze fixed on the ground. “Just blue.”

“I see,” Gladius said. “A lovely color. Are you sure that you’ve nothing else you wish to ask me?”

“No,” Briar said. “Nothing. Thank you.”

“Of course.” He sounded...disappointed? It didn’t matter. Briar needed to escape, to get out from under the pinning stare of that piercing, quicksilver eye. “If you ever do visit Canterlot, however, do feel free to write—a bard can always use a new story.”

She turned away. “I will,” she said.

“Wow,” Ironwood said as the tent flap closed behind them. A warm summer breeze whispered through the night air, bringing with it the familiar sounds of revelry and song. “Gladius is amazing.”

“Yes,” Briar muttered. “I’m sure.”

“Just...wow.” Ironwood shook his head, his stubbier legs working overtime to keep up with Briar’s longer strides. “You can really believe that he’s been all over the world. He’s so mysterious! I wonder if he can do magic.”

Magic. Briar was suddenly acutely aware of the weight of the charm necklace on her chest. “Maybe.”

“He seemed really curious about your eyes, though,” Ironwood said. Briar stiffened. “Any idea why?”

“I don’t know.” Briar did her best to keep her voice neutral, but she couldn’t be sure. Had a tremble slipped out? Could Ironwood have guessed…?

“Huh,” Ironwood said. He glanced toward her. “What color are your eyes, anyway? Now I’m curious.”

Briar quickly jerked her head away. He couldn’t see. She couldn’t meet his eyes, or else he’d know—they’d all know—

She crashed into what felt like a mountain of flesh.

“Oof.” Briar collapsed to the ground, her head spinning. Slowly, she raised her head to see what she’d bumped into.

A stallion towered above her. His chest was easily twice as broad as she, and muscles rippled on his every leg.

Briar’s nose twitched and she caught a newly familiar scent: Alcohol. Booze.

The stallion absolutely stunk of it.

“What d’ya think you’re doin’?” the stallion slurred, glaring down at her.

“I—I’m sorry,” Briar said.

The stallion growled and took a step forward. “Sure y’are. Slammin’ right into me like that. Watch where you’re goin’, you stupid filly.”

“Hey!” Briar started at the sound of Ironwood’s voice.

Ironwood leapt in front of her, glaring up into the much larger stallion’s eyes. “She’s the one who ended up on the ground. Maybe you should watch where you’re going, instead.”

“Ironwood—no,” Briar said. She’d not dealt with drunk stallions before, but she’d seen bears aplenty in the Everfree, and this stallion was reminding her of nothing more than a big, angry bear. You didn’t fight with bears or try to reason with them. You ran. “Please. Let’s just—”

The stallion snarled and slammed a hoof into the ground. “You tryin’ to say somethin’?”

“Maybe I am!” Ironwood shot back.

The stallion took a step forward—and then another, his breath hot and stinking. “You want me to pound you into the ground, you little goat dropping?”

“Bring it on, you drunk ass,” Ironwood spat. Briar’s eyes widened.

“You little—”

The stallion let out a whinny that echoed through the night, slicing through the sounds of revelry and chilling Briar to the bone. He reared back, enormous hooves like shadowed tree trunks against the dark night sky.

No. Time seemed to stop for Briar as she watched Ironwood shrink beneath that enormous shadow. No—

You can stop it, a thought whispered to her.

No.

You have the power.

But—

Use it!

Before realizing what she’d done, Briar had jumped in front of Ironwood, pushed him to the ground—and looked the drunk stallion directly in the eye.

The night sky went dark. The stars vanished, and the songs of the Celebration dulled until they were no more than a mayfly’s buzz. Only the stallion was left.

And Briar saw him.

She saw him trotting alone down a dirt road, a mountain of wood strapped to his back. Sweat ran down his face, and he gave a grunt of pain with each new step—yet still, he walked on.

She saw a mare, her face young but her eyes old and tired. She saw a foal lying in a cradle, its cries sick and weak. Spots covered its snout, and each cry was smaller and weaker than the last.

She saw a mug of cider sitting on an empty table. Another joined it, frothing with alcohol—and then another. More joined it, the tabletop growing darker and darker until a mountain of mugs and bottles covered its surface, the air stinking of alcohol and sweat.

And then she saw his eyes: Dark and dull, but glowing a deep, alien green.

She opened her mouth.

STOP.

The fairground returned. The stars popped back into the night sky. Her visions—the road, the foal, the table—vanished without so much as a pop.

Briar stumbled and collapsed to the ground. Her sides heaved, and she realized that she was sweating.

Her eyes fluttered open. Over a dozen ponies had appeared between the tents surrounding them, staring directly at the trio in the center. Ironwood sat trembling on the ground with his hooves over his head. And the stallion—

Briar flinched. He stood completely and perfectly still, his gaze directed directly ahead. He stared off into space, making neither movement nor sound.

“What just happened here?” she heard a pony ask. “Bit, what’s wrong?”

Bit. Was that the stallion’s name? Briar watched him for some kind of response—anything—but the stallion said nothing.

And then she realized that he was trembling.

“C’mon, Bit,” the same pony said. She couldn’t see him, but she didn’t want to. Go away, Briar wanted to tell them. Leave them alone. “Let’s leave these nice ponies alone, eh? Sober up a bit.”

“He’s drunk out of his stinkin’ mind!” a stallion called out from behind them. A roar of laughter went up from the gathered ponies. As Briar watched, even more appeared, gathering around in some kind of circle to see the “show.”

“C’mon, Bit,” the first pony repeated. Briar thought she could see him as he approached; her head hurt, but she could see a set of dark grey hooves as they plodded over the grass. “Let’s just get you out of here, right? I’m sure Daliah’s worried sick.”

Bit collapsed to the ground.

His hooves thrashed, his tail lashing out behind him. Convulsions wracked his body and his torso twisted from side to side. Sweat ran down his sides in buckets as spittle covered his mouth.

A cry went up from the crowd. “No!” Briar shouted, lurching forward—and stopped in place, a heavy weight on her shoulders.

“There, lass. I got you,” a stallion’s voice said into her ear. “Don’t wanna get too close to that.”

They were going to find out. They were going to find out. Briar glanced about frantically, trying to find a way to twist herself out of the stallion’s grip. Ironwood groaned from his place on the grass, slowly getting to his hooves. A trio of stallions entered Briar’s vision as they rushed toward the fallen Bit, each jumping onto a different part of his body.

“Hold him down!” one called.

“He’s not breathing!” another shouted. “It’s like his whole body’s just going crazy!”

The stallion in front held Bit’s snout in place as his partners struggled to keep Bit from hurting himself. “His eyes,” the third stallion breathed.

Briar struggled harder. A strong wind blew up in the clearing, whipping her mane around her neck and over her chest. She grunted, trying to break free.

“His eyes!” the stallion hollered. “They’re bright green!”

“No,” Briar breathed. “No, please. I didn’t mean it—”

She felt a weight on her neck—and then a sudden gasp of breath from the stallion behind her.

With a final wheeze, Bit gave one last convulsion and fell utterly still. Briar’s eyes filled with tears. No. No. This couldn’t be happening. Please let him be—

“He’s unconscious,” one of the stallions called. “Completely out of it. Least he’s breathing again. But his eyes—I ain’t never seen nothing like this. They’re greener than grass.”

“And glowing,” one of his companions said. “What the hay happened here?”

Briar flinched as the stallion behind her pushed her head down—thrusting the back of her neck into the air. “Lads,” the stallion breathed. “She’s got a mark here—looks just like a rose.”

“It’s nothing,” Briar said. “Really. Just nothing.”

“It’s just a legend,” a mare said from the crowd. “Just a myth.”

“Look!” the stallion said—and then Briar was twisted around, her neck bared to the crowd. “Green, glowing eyes? A rose on her neck?”

“She’s a witch,” another stallion said. “She made him stop breathing. She wanted to kill him!”

Ironwood—where he’d come from, Briar didn’t know, but she gave thanks for him all the same—leapt in front of the second stallion. “Hey! Let’s not get crazy.”

“She controlled him just by looking into his eyes!” someone called.

Ironwood gave a bark of laughter. It was flat, forced sound that made Briar wince. “Come on, guys. It’s just a myth, right? I know Briar. She’d never actually—”

“Get out of the way, foal,” a stallion spat. “She’s dangerous.”

Briar glanced around, eyes wide and frantic. The circle of curious onlookers had become a mob, with ponies shouting after her. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing that this was just a nightmare. Let it be a nightmare. Let it stop.

“I won’t let you touch her!”

“Get out of the way!”

“All of you, shut up!”

Briar’s eyes flickered open.

A familiar-looking stallion pushed his way through the crowd until he stood directly before Bit’s stilled body. “What in Tartarus is going on here?”

“She’s a witch!” a stallion called out. “She tried to kill Bit!”

“I didn’t!” Briar said, struggling against her captor’s hooves. She realized where she’d seen the new stallion before—it was the mayor of the village, who’d introduced the Celebration just that morning. He’d seemed so kindly in the morning light, but now, shadows drifted across his face and firelight flickered over his coat, basking it in a crimson glow. There was something new at his side, too—a leathery sheath bound to one flank. A hilt poked through, gleaming silver in the dim light.

“A witch?” Yarrow—that was his name. He glanced around at the mob, scowling. “What madness has taken you all?”

“Look at his eyes!” a stallion called. “He nearly died!”

“I don’t need to look at his eyes to know that he’s drunk out of his mind,” Yarrow said. “I don’t need to hear any of your drunken ramblings either.”

Briar looked up and froze; step by step, Yarrow was stalking toward her, his snout set in a scowl.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I didn’t mean—”

“Hush,” Yarrow said, and took her head in his hooves. “I want you to look me in the eye, and tell me what happened.”

Look him in the eye. That set her squirming again—she couldn’t meet his eyes. Not here. Briar was acutely aware of the mood of the crowd, just barely contained by Yarrow’s command. If he triggered her power, or worse, turned against her…

She struggled. “No—please. You don’t want to do that.”

Yarrow scowled. “I’m trying to help you, young lady. I can’t do that if you won’t help me first.”

Briar tore her head away. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“I said,” Yarrow said, “look at me when I am trying to talk to you!” He took a hold of Briar’s head and turned it to face him. Before she could squeeze her eyes shut, their gazes met.

The night sky disappeared once more.

Briar stood in the middle of the village square. The town was silent and empty, yet identical to what she’d seen that morning—

—save for the enormous pillar standing off to the side of the square.

Briar’s eyes widened. Three more pillars, just like the first stood at equal intervals around the space. She slowly looked up.

An enormous stallion stood over the village; each “pillar” was one of his hooves. It was Yarrow, snout raised, and towering above even the tallest of buildings. For all his size, though, nothing in his stature betrayed malevolence or chaos. The stance of his shoulders and the set of his muzzle betrayed a sense of protection and will.

Amidst the clouds above, a pair of feminine eyes overlooked the square. They glimmered a bright, sky-blue, watching Yarrow’s gargantuan figure without blinking.

Briar glanced down at the ground and realized that, with each giant breath, she could feel Yarrow’s heartbeat through the earth. But it wasn’t alone: a smaller, quieter heartbeat echoed after it, and Briar felt in her thoughts the strangest urge to protect, to defend, to love.

She opened her mouth, tears falling down her cheeks.

PLEASE.

LEAVE ME BE.

And once more, the night sky returned to the world.

Yarrow’s eyes glowed green. Slowly, one step after another, he backed away from Briar. The crowd watched as he turned a corner and disappeared.

The angry murmurs returned.

“His eyes—”

“Did you see—?”

“Hear what she—”

“Told him to—”

“No,” Briar said. She turned her head wildly. More and more ponies had raised their heads to glare at her, pure loathing and fear in their gazes. Her chest burned. “No—please. Just leave me alone.”

“She’s dangerous!” a mare cried.

“Don’t look into her eyes!” a stallion shouted. “She can control your mind!”

“She’s a witch!”

Briar’s head whipped around, looking for an escape—and found one. A small opening in the mob, just wide enough for her to slip through.

Beside her, Ironwood was coming to, giving weak protests and pleas. But she couldn’t spare a thought for him. She had to get out of here.

She bolted.

“Get her!” somepony screamed.

Briar galloped, her hooves pounding on the soul as she dodged around each villager that leapt into her path. Each time, she raised her head and glared directly toward them, forcing the other pony to flinch and look away.

Above her, the light of the bonfire licked against the undersides of the clouds, casting them in a dark, evil crimson. Briar’s hooves galloped to the beat of her heart as the ponies’ cries reached a crescendo. She ran, dodged, jumped, and leapt—

—she soared over a pony’s back as he cried out in rage and fear—

—and hit the ground running. She ran and didn’t let up, even when the shouts faded behind her. She ran until the only thing that she could hear was Ironwood calling her name, and ran until even that faded.

She ran, and let the darkness overtake her.

Chapter Six

Briar’s sides burned. With each crash of her hooves on the ground, a flame lanced through her side, piercing through to her chest. Her lungs screamed, but the thud of her hooves was the only sound that Briar could hear.

Never had she run so fast nor so far at once, but distance and speed didn’t matter. Though her every muscle protested, begging her to stop, Briar only wanted to be as far, far away from the village as possible. The tears had long since stopped coming, leaving only a dull, choking sob.

There. In the distance, she could make out a dark smudge on the horizon. She redoubled her pace through the fields, the tips of wheat whipping and stinging through the air around her. Some part of her gave a small thanks; the road was empty save for her, leaving her path back unobstructed.

A dark smudge became a shadow, and soon the tips of the trees towered once more above Briar’s head. With a muffled, choking cry, she broke through the brush and into the Everfree. She didn’t stop running until the familiar trickle of water reached her ears, piercing through her haze and forcing her to slow to a walk.

The glade stood as it always had, empty and quiet. The falls emptied into the basin below, yet the mist seemed to muffle the sound. The shadows seemed to cluster around her, each tree and bush welcoming Briar into their fold.

Finally, after what seemed like years of running, Briar let herself collapse to the ground. The grass was soft and cool on her coat, and the rush of water into the pond helped to clear her thoughts.

It was over, she realized. That stupid, foolish dream was dead. How could she have even dreamed that she’d be right?

She’d been wrong. And Matron—sweet, knowing Matron—had been right all along. Briar struggled to hold back a sob. How could she have disobeyed? How could she have questioned what was obviously right in front of her face the entire time?

“I can’t go back,” she whispered. The wind in the grass whispered back: You must.

Where else did she have to go? She couldn’t return to the village. Nor could she strike out on the road alone. She let out a cold bark of laughter—what did she know of the world beyond? Ironwood had been her one chance to escape this forest.

Could she even survive in the forest, alone? She swallowed. Would she? Over a point of pride?

Matron would take her back. Wouldn’t she?

“She has to,” Briar whispered.

At last, you know where to look, the wind whispered to her.

She knew. She’d been blind for so long—wishing, hoping to leave. And look where that had gotten her.

Look. With a muffled, choking sob, Briar tore herself from the ground and wrenched her head to the side, staring straight into the pond. Two bright green eyes stared back at her.

They were still glowing, she realized dully—but no; were they dimming, even as she watched? Even with the light gone, though, they would still be there: That evil, damnable green.

Her hoof hit the surface of the water, splashing through with all her strength. She stumbled, water dripping down her face—and froze.

She could hear something coming. Something in the brush.

A bear—

She spun, eyes wide—Use it, something whispered to her. There’s no use denying it any longer—and stopped in place.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Briar,” Ironwood said. “Open your eyes.”

“No. I won’t.”

“Briar, please.” He sounded tired. “Please. Open your eyes.”

“No,” she said. “Don’t you hate me?”

“How could I hate you?” he asked.

“Aren’t you afraid?” Why wouldn’t he understand? Couldn’t he understand?

“Please, Briar,” Ironwood said. “You don’t have to look me in the eye, okay? But you can’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know that,” she spat. “You saw what I did to that stallion.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

Yes, it was. “I’m not taking that chance.”

He sighed. “Do you want to hurt me?”

Never. “No.”

“Then you won’t.”

“It’s not that simple. You—”

“Briar,” he said, his voice soft. “Open your eyes.”

She opened them.

Ironwood across the glade from her. His face was puffy, his cheeks stained and dirty. His every breath came with a strangled gasp, but Briar could nearly feel the weight of his gaze on her chest. She let her head drop toward the forest floor. Her face burned.

“That’s a start,” Ironwood said. He took a deep breath. “Now. Can you tell me what the hay happened back there?”

Tell him.

Don’t.

He deserves to be told.

He can’t be trusted.

He’s Ironwood.

Briar opened her mouth, glanced up, and then let her head drop back down. She gave a harsh bark of laughter.

“I’ll tell you,” she said. “But it’s a lot to explain.”

Thump. When she looked back, she saw Ironwood sitting on the forest floor, his legs folded neatly beneath him.

“I’ve got time,” he said.

So she told him. About her eyes, about the animals, about the mark on her neck. About the things she’d seen in those ponies’ souls. About the fear that she held after hearing Gladius’s tale. She even told him about Matron, and about her own short-lived escape from the Everfree.

“But I can’t go back,” she said, forcing back the tears. She wouldn’t cry again. Not here. Not now.

“We can try to persuade them,” he said. “The villagers, I mean—my parents, maybe, or—”

“No,” she said. “No.”

Ironwood’s mouth became a thin line, but he nodded. He let out a low chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“I just never expected this when you rescued me,” Ironwood said. He shook his head, mane swaying in the night breeze. “That you’d be some kind of ridiculously amazing woodsmare? Maybe. But that you’d have some kind of magical ability, too? Briar, there are unicorns out there who couldn’t even dream of doing what you can!”

Briar chuckled, too. She couldn’t help it. He was so...enthusiastic. So innocent. Or at least trying to be, for her sake.

“Actually,” she said, “that’s not all I can do.”

“What do you mean?”

A small smile curved her lips. She held her hoof to her chest, caressing the small wooden wing that hung there. She felt the words take shape in her mind.

“Watch.”

She didn’t need to say them, she realized—but her lips formed the movements anyway. She barely needed to think; the words were just there, flowing together as easily as if she’d been born knowing them. The necklace felt warm against her chest, and she pulled her hoof away. She didn’t need to look to know it’d worked, but she glanced down anyway.

The wing glowed a soft, pure white, casting light all around them. The shadows danced around the edges of the pond, their darkness greyed out by the reflected shine. Briar felt her smile push against the sides of her mouth until it hurt to hold it in place.

She’d done it.

“Amazing,” Ironwood breathed. He’d leaned in close, his head almost directly under her own. “And you’re not even a unicorn.”

“It’s a charm,” Briar murmured. “Matron taught it to me. She always said that you don’t need to have a horn to do real magic.”

“I guess so,” he said. He shook his head and leaned back. “Briar, that’s incredible! Do you realize what this means?”

“What?”

“You’re an earth pony!” His face had lit up, shining through with earnest joy like she’d never seen before. “And you can do magic! Nopony can do that! Briar, you can show this to the world—everypony would know your name!”

“No!”

She regained control of her senses scarce seconds after her shout. “No,” she repeated, taking a deep breath. She looked down at the ground, and the glow around her neck faded. “I can’t. Not with my eyes. I can’t leave this forest—not after what happened tonight.”

“Never leave?” Ironwood asked, his voice small. “Briar, but what about our promise?”

She’d said that she would travel the world. She’d said that she wouldn’t leave his side.

But that dream is gone. Torn apart. Dead.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Leaving was a mistake. I can’t make that mistake again.”

And not when it might put him in danger, too. But she couldn’t say that—he’d protest it, try to force her to relent. She had to stay strong. She had to be selfish, no matter what Ironwood would want.

“I…” He stepped back. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said.

Ironwood nodded. “So now what?”

“Now?”

Briar looked up at the trees, towering far above them. “Now,” she said, “I go back home.”

“I guess I do, too,” Ironwood said quietly.

Briar was quiet for a moment. Then,

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you—for everything. For showing me that there was something other than the forest. Even if it was a mistake to leave, I’m still happy to just know it for myself.”

“And thank you, I guess,” Ironwood said. A weak grin grew on his face. “Someday, when I’m on top of the world, I’ll look back here and shout to the wind that I made it, all because you showed me that it was possible. And you’ll know.”

“Somehow,” she said. She couldn’t help it. She was smiling too.

“Somehow,” he echoed. The clearing fell silent.

“So this is goodbye,” she said. Her eyes stung, and she sniffed, raising a hoof to wipe the moisture away.

“Yeah,” Ironwood said. He held out a hoof, and she took it. “But not forever.”

Briar’s hoofsteps felt heavy on the mist-soaked grass.

The moon sat high overhead, almost invisible behind the clouds. What little light seeped through to the forest floor was weak, casting the ground in a sickly mass of shadow. The cottage waited in the center of the clearing, its windows glowing faintly amidst the darkness surrounding it.

As Briar approached the door, a lone, ringing caw echoed through the night. She glanced up; a raven, its feathers jet-black, sat upon the roof above the door. As her hooves met the first step, it let out another cry and fled to the air, the moonlight glinting off of its wickedly curved beak.

Briar reached for the door. She could do this, she told herself. She wasn’t too proud to admit that she’d been wrong.

Matron would take her back. She had to.

The door creaked open, and light leaked out from the inside of the cottage over the steps. Tentatively, Briar stepped inside.

Matron stood beside the fireplace, her back to the door. Flames danced in the hearth before her, casting twisting shadows across the floor toward Briar’s hooves. All light in the room was focused at Matron’s hooves, all other corridors and corners as black as the night outside.

Briar swallowed and stepped forward. The door swung shut behind her.

It was impossible for Matron to not have noticed her entrance—but regardless, she spoke not a word. Briar chewed on her lip, searching for the right words to say as the silence descended over her shoulders like fog.

Finally, she spoke.

“I’m sorry,” Briar said. Her voice was hoarse, but she gave the words all of the earnesty that she could.

Matron didn’t respond.

Briar stared down at the floor. “I was foolish,” she blurted. “An idiot. I saw things that weren’t there, and forgot who I was. I should have listened to you, and I didn’t.”

Matron gave no reply, but Briar thought that she saw a twitch of her head—but perhaps it was just a trick of the firelight. Briar mustered up her courage and went on.

“You took me in. You took care of me, and I disobeyed you,” Briar said. She swallowed. “I should have listened—the ponies in the village couldn’t be trusted.” Ironwood would understand, she hoped. “The forest is the only place safe for me—here, with you. I’m sorry for ever leaving you.”

Briar’s heart beat in time with the dance of the flames in the fireplace. Finally—slowly—Matron turned to face her.

The shadows drifted to cover half of Matron’s face, while the other half remained lit by the fire, her mane now a dim, glowing crimson. Briar quickly averted her eyes as Matron raised hers.

“I have your apologies,” Matron said quietly. “But do I have your word?”

Briar nodded silently.

“Then so be it,” Matron said.

Briar swallowed.

“You will focus more on your studies,” Matron said. “It is clear that I gave you far too much time alone to ponder the world beyond the trees.”

That was fair. Briar nodded again.

Besides, she could make the most of it. She’d learn more magic—and if nothing else, she could do it in memory of her friendship with Ironwood.

And she’d mastered the spell, hadn’t she? She would tell Matron—and for once, maybe there’d be a glimmer of pride in the old mare’s eyes, and she’d learn more, and forget about what she’d lost.

“It’s clear to me that you are unfit to learn any more magic.” Matron’s voice echoed in Briar’s ears as though in a cave. “At least until I know that I can trust you once more.”

Briar nearly opened her mouth to reply—but what was there to say? Instead, she simply nodded.

The wooden wing felt cold on her neck, and she brushed a hoof against its surface. She kept her head down, and waited for Matron to finish.

“Now,” Matron said, her voice still quiet. “It’s time for this day to end. To bed with you—and let the bones of those foolish dreams sleep as well. I will see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Matron,” Briar said meekly.

That night, she lay alone in her bed. Her thoughts drifted in her head like birds in the Barrens: lost, and shrouded in darkness.

Good night, Briar, a voice whispered.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered back. She didn’t know if, by some miracle, Ironwood could hear her or not, yet some part of her soul hoped that he could. “I’m sorry, but you’ll be safer this way. Everyone will.”

She turned over in bed as the curtains drifted in the evening wind. Eventually, her eyes fluttered closed.

Good night, little chrysalis.

Briar somehow managed to stumble through the next day, but each moment felt like a patch of mud, sinking deeper with every passing second. She did her chores without being asked, as she always had, but drifted through each in a haze.

Matron barely spoke ten words to her for much of the day; even breakfast took place through a mere exchange of nods. When the time came for Briar’s lesson, the recitation of herbs felt more like a dream than real. As Briar stood by the desk, she felt the same buzz that she always had, but her thoughts were elsewhere—not flying through the clouds, but sinking into the shadows of the trees.

By the end of the day, she felt numb in body and mind. Each step was a struggle, every breath a dulled sensation. Finally, with Matron’s permission and a boiling stew over the hearth, Briar retreated to the glade to think.

She sat there amongst the cool grass, the water trickling through the pond mere feet away. The falls pounded away into the basin, but she was grateful for the roar. It washed away her thoughts, clearing her mind of doubts and confusion. Above, trickles of moonlight seeped through the canopy and over her coat.

Briar closed her eyes, feeling her chest rise and fall with each breath.

So this was her life once more—her future. Would she learn magic again? Matron had said that she could regain her trust, but even so, there was no guarantee that new spells would be possible without Ironwood’s encouragement.

And what would she do? Life was longer than she’d thought; just meeting Gladius had made that clear. Had Matron really been here in the forest for all her life, tending her herbs and practicing her charms?

Would Briar one day take over for her? Would she wake up one morning, and find that Matron had vanished as her parents had? Would the cottage and woods one day be hers, and hers alone?

Instead of scoffing—though the thought seemed so ridiculous; Matron felt so permanent—Briar opened her eyes and looked up at the moon. She wondered, for perhaps the final time, what it would be like to fly like a pegasus through the sky. The moon would be so close, then—as though she could merely reach out and touch it.

Only part of the moon’s surface was visible through the treetops, but as she watched, a cloud drifted over across its part of the sky, blocking its light from view. A shadow passed over the glade, casting the falls and brush into darkness. Briar felt a shiver go up her spine.

A branch cracked in the night, and Briar whirled around.

A figure stood in the shadows at the edge of the brush. Before she could move, it lurched forward and fell into the clearing.

Briar’s eyes opened impossibly wide.

There, lying on the forest floor, his coat matted with red, was Ironwood. He raised a hoof toward her, blood running down his face.

“Briar,” he choked out. “H-help.”

Chapter Seven

Before she even realized what she was doing, Briar found herself at Ironwood’s side. This close, there was no doubt about the crimson stains on his fur: Their thick, coppery scent was instantly identifiable. Ironwood’s blood had been spilled.

He’d been assaulted. Attacked. Briar swallowed, her legs shaking.

Ironwood’s crumpled form trembled on the ground, a shadow covering his face. His mane was matted with blood, and one of its limbs twisted at an unnatural angle. The trail of red ended beneath his legs.

“No,” Briar whispered. She took his head in her hooves. “No, no, no!”

Ironwood’s eyelids fluttered. “B-briar.”

“I’m here,” she said. “I’m here.”

“There was...a mob,” he said. “Yarrow’s...wife. Gave birth. Foal had green eyes. Mark on its neck.”

Briar’s blood went ice-cold. “That’s not possible,” she whispered.

“Thought you’d cursed them.” Ironwood turned to the side and coughed as though retching. Dark red spattered the grass. “I...tried to stop them.”

“Shush,” she said. “Don’t speak. You’ll only hurt yourself further.”

“I’m sorry,” Ironwood said. “They...they were marching into the woods. To find you. One of them...said he knew where to find you.”

The cottage. They couldn’t know. Briar swallowed.

But maybe they did.

Matron wasn’t safe.

“One…hit me. Right here.” Ironwood held a weak hoof up to point at the side of his head. “Blacked out. Crawled away here. Briar, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she said. “It’s not your fault. Please stop talking—I can find some herbs. I can help.”

He closed his eyes. “I don’t think that this is the kind of thing…that I can walk away from.”

“But—“

Please,” he said, coughing again. “D-don’t worry about me. You need to escape. You can’t let them hurt you.”

Tears dripped from Briar’s eyes. Her vision blurred, and her lungs felt like they were trying to tear themselves from her chest. “But you can’t die! I lo—“

She choked on the words.

Ironwood watched her, the kindness never leaving his face. “I—I know.”

There had to be a way. There had to be a cure; some kind of fix. This was Ironwood; he couldn’t die—

Slowly, his eyes fluttered shut.

No.

“No,” Briar said. “No. No. No. Ironwood—“

But he didn’t answer. His body lay quietly, silent on the grass. Briar collapsed onto his chest, her sobs shaking her body and his.

She let the tears come this time, streaming down her face. She took his head in her hooves and laid her head across his chest. “No,” she said again, that one word the only coherent thought in her mind. She lay there, with sobs wracking her body as Ironwood sat, unmoving, beneath her weight. “No—please, no.”

And then she remembered.

They knew where to find her.

“Matron,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, no.”

She unsteadily got to her hooves, squeezing her eyes shut as Ironwood’s unmoving body filled her vision. “I’m sorry,” she choked out—and fled.

The sky was dark overhead as she galloped through the night, without a single shard of moonlight to guide her way. Yet she knew the way by heart, and so, stumbling over roots and staggering around thornbushes, finally arrived in the clearing that held Matron’s cottage.

Most of the woods were in shadow. As she moved past the halfway point, though, the wisps of cloud moved—letting silver light flood the woods once more.

Briar’s hooves froze beneath her.

The front door of the cottage had been ripped off of its hinges. Iit lay on the forest floor a whole five paces away from the steps, as though it had been torn off and then flung away. One of the windows had been smashed, with cracks spiderwebbing over its glass surface.

“No,” she whispered. “No. No, no, no.”

The steps were stained a dull red, crimson liquid pooling at their base. Her throat seized.

“No!”

She rushed into the house, hooves galloping over the damp soil. She all but flung herself inside, the front door no longer an obstacle to her entrance. Her eyes were wide, her chest seizing with every breath.

“Matron!” she called out as she burst into the cottage. “Matron, are you here?”

Her breath caught in her chest.

The inside of the cottage had been ransacked as much as the outside. Masks had been torn from the walls and smashed onto the floor. Dishes from the sink lay in pieces on the floor, broken china mixing with pools of spilled water. The room looked like it’d been hit by a tornado—and Matron was nowhere to be found.

“Matron!” Briar cried, stumbling inside. “Matron!”

She teared through the rooms—her bedroom was, surprisingly, untouched; Matron’s own small room, which she’d rarely ever entered, was empty as well. She left Matron’s bedroom with her legs shaking and her vision blurred by tears. Phlegm dripped down her throat and choked her even further.

A pair of knitting needles lay on the floor by Matron’s armchair, abandoned.

Briar tore back outside. One of her hooves caught on a shard of broken glass that had been left beneath the window. She barely felt the sharp, stabbing pain even as blood leaked from her hoof and onto the ground. She stood back in the clearing outside the cottage, the silver light of the moon shining down on her.

“Matron!” she shrieked. “Matron!”

She screamed Matron’s name until her throat had been rubbed raw—and still she rasped, begging, pleading for Matron to return. Yet the trees remained silent, refusing to answer with even the slightest reply.

Briar collapsed to her knees.

“Matron—please,” she sobbed. “This isn’t funny. First I-Ironwood, and now you—please just be hiding. Please.”

Nothing.

And then she remembered.

There was one more place—one place she hadn’t looked. One room that had been Matron’s sanctuary, hiding her in the night. A room of power.

“Matron’s study,” Briar whispered to herself. She slowly got to her hooves, though every muscle in her body screamed at her to stop. Her hoof throbbed with pain, blood still leaking from where the glass had pierced her skin—but she pushed the feeling away and limped back inside

The silence within the cottage was deafening. It lay upon her shoulders like a shroud, and each creak of the floor beneath Briar’s hooves echoed like a crack of thunder. She stepped through the main room and turned to the side.

The door to the study was closed, the handle still in place—but a bright yellow light spilled from the crack beneath. She raised a trembling hoof and turned the handle.

The door swung open without even a creak, and Briar stepped inside.

Some part of her instantly knew that something was different in this room. The decor itself stood out: Strange jars lined the walls, and shelves creaked with heavy tomes whose titles had been scrawled in languages that Briar had never seen. The walls, unlike the rest of the cottage, were a dark, heavy brown, and the air was thick with…

Briar’s nose twitched. She knew that smell—from when she’d found the remnants of an abandoned mine out in the Cliffs. Matron had told her what it was.

Sulfur.

She carefully stepped further inside, the door swinging shut behind her. Her eyes flickered toward the back of the room. There was the desk sitting there, the single candle still flickering on its surface. There were the jars lining the walls, their contents drifting through clouded, dark fluid.

And there was the book, larger than all others, sitting patiently in the center of the desk.

Something whispered in her ear, words unintelligible, but the meaning clear. She found herself stepping toward the desk—and then stepping again, and again, until she was standing directly over its wooden surface, remnants of tears falling to leave blotches on the paper below.

She wanted to turn away, to leave, to cry—but something kept her here, staring into the pages of this strange book. She reached out a hoof to touch it—and jerked when she felt the texture of the spine.

Leather. Animal skin.

Briar swallowed. She wanted to turn back. She wanted to close the door and leave this book behind.

But she couldn’t return now. The book was beneath her hooves, and every other door had slammed shut behind her. She opened it to the first page.

The very text seemed to writhe on the page, spidery script twisting and turning around and into the paper on which it lay. She could just barely make out a word here and there if she squinted—at least it was written in a language that she could understand.

“Life,” she murmured, staring down at the page. “Life. There has to be something in here about life.”

She flipped through the pages, the paper blurring before her eyes. Her feverish mutterings echoed in the room, sounding dark and sinister in her own ears. But it made sense—magic could do anything. It could heal. It could harm.

Ironwood’s face flickered in the back of her mind.

There had to be magic that could bring a pony back to life.

On and on she searched, turning the page, squinting at the first few lines, and then flipping to the next one. Some pages seemed to hold stories, while others held ingredient lists for potions or spells. More than one was filled with the image of a plant or creature—and not all looked natural or friendly.

Sweat had begun to bead on her forehead. This book was much bigger than it appeared—how many pages had she turned? How many chapters?

How much time had passed?

She glanced up. The candle had burned no lower in the time that she had been searching. The flame, though, had shifted—no longer was it a bright, cheery yellow, but a blood-red crimson. Briar’s eyes themselves were bloodshot, her head throbbing with each heartbeat.

On she searched, her pace not slowing as the seconds and minutes drew on. There had to be something in here—something that could bring him back. She found potions to cure warts, incantations to bring a hex upon yeast, but nothing to cure or alleviate death.

A dawning horror twitched at the back of her mind. There was nothing here. Nothing could bring Ironwood back to her. Matron was gone—likely dead as well, her corpse lying abandoned in a  ditch somewhere in the woods. They weren’t coming back, and there was nothing she could do—

Briar stopped searching. Her hoof landed on a final page, shivering as if dipped in ice.

No. Her lip curled, her breath calming from uneven gasps to a steady pulse. There was something else that she could do.

Revenge.

She would find those that had done this, and she would make them pay.

Her eyes flickered down to the page she’d stopped on. It was the image of an alien creature—shaped like a pony, yet with black, glimmering skin. There were holes in its legs and body, and a jagged horn stood straight up from its skull. A pair of blue-grey wings, not dissimilar from those on a dragonfly, stood out from its back. Its eyes were those of an insect: blue-grey, like the wings, and multifaceted. The artist had rendered these with extra care, somehow depicting the full features of a bleeding, terrified stallion in each of those individual pupils.

The Changeling

Briar read on.

The changeling, she learned, was an ancient, lost species. As their name suggested, they held the ability to change their shape to resemble those they fed upon—their prey, she read, was the love of a victim pony. Born and bred with both wings and horn, the changelings used their fangs and magic to fight. They formed a single, powerful Mind—unlike the individual soul of a pony’s, the changeling hive was a singular, undivided creature.

Once, the book said, the skies were black with changelings. Their wings blocked out the sun, their buzz driving all who heard it to insanity.

Beneath the description lay text describing a simple ritual: to bring forth the changeling hivemind from its slumber. The speaker of such a spell, the book said, would gain dominion over a force of changelings for a short period of time—enough, Briar realized, to punish the villagers for what they had done.

After attacking one of their own, it was only fitting that they would be destroyed by things wearing their own faces.

The room was well-stocked, and she was easily able to find the ingredients needed for the ritual. There were a mortar and pestle sitting on the desk, and as she ground the ingredients together, a thick, deep green smoke began to spread through the room. Her eyes watered, but she forced herself to turn back to the page and read.

The letters she understood; the language she did not. As she spoke the first word of the ritual, struggling past the squirming, shifting nature of the text, she did not hear her own voice so much as an echo. She read the next syllable and heard a hiss, worming through her ears and curving in the air.

She read on, the words forming in her mind with each new syllable. These were no incantations, no spells or charms that she was reciting. This was something deeper. Something darker.

As she reached the halfway point, she faltered. The darkness in the room had coalesced and seemed to throb with each syllable she spoke. She breathed in, and the smoke poured into her throat, choking her and forcing back the words. With her eyes and throat burning, she forced the next word out. She would not give up. She would not let Ironwood die in vain.

She would have her revenge.

With a note of triumph and defiance, she reached the final syllable. It crashed in her ears like a peal of lightning. The walls and floor shook around her, the air twisting and churning—

The candle went out, and the room as plunged into darkness. Before Briar could react, however, a new light appeared.

It came from behind her, flickering across the walls like starlight in a pond. That prickling—that feeling of being watched—returned, screaming at her to run, to hide, to freeze—but she forced it back down.

Slowly, her shoulders set and her teeth grit, Briar turned around to face the source of the light.

It was an eye.

No pony stared from its depths, however. Its surface was divided into thousands of individual pupils, each glimmering a sickly green. Each bore a blurred image, and with a start, Briar realized that the image was of herself—yet it was no reflection.

One image showed her alone in a dirt road, emaciated and bloody. Another held the backdrop of a forest; she stood over the corpse of a beast, its entail torn out and blood dripping from her lips. In another, she watched herself burning in an inferno, though whether she was screaming or laughing, she could not tell.

YOU HAVE SUMMONED US.

The voice smashed through Briar’s skull, piercing it with a thousand burning lances. She grunted in pain and squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to keep herself under control.

“Yes,” she choked out. “I did.”

FOR WHAT PURPOSE?

“I wanted revenge,” she said. “I need your power.”

The eye regarded her coolly. In a moment of horror and disgust, she realized that each of those images was looking straight at her—as though a multitude of Briars was staring past her eyes and into her soul. FOR WHAT PURPOSE? it asked again.

“The villagers,” she said. The words poured out of her. “They killed Ironwood, and they need to pay for what they’ve done.”

IRONWOOD, the voice rumbled.

“He was—“

THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE.

Her breath caught in her chest.

“N-no,” she said, voice shaking. “He—“

WE DO NOT DISAPPROVE, the voice rumbled. WE, TOO, HUNGER FOR LOVE. TO HAVE NEVER KNOWN, AND TO DESIRE IT. TO HUNGER. TO FEED.

And then she recognized the voice she heard.

Goodnight, my sweet chrysalis.

You can leave her behind.

Use it. There’s no use denying it any longer

“It’s you,” she whispered. “It’s been you all along. Whispering in my ear. All this time, I thought that they were my own thoughts—but you’ve been watching me this whole time.”

But for what?

For this.

The eye stared at her, and Briar squirmed beneath its gaze. It felt as though she were being weighed—like flour or water. Pieces. Unmade. Not even a pony.

“Will you help me, then?” she demanded, some of the strength returning to her voice. “Or not?”

THAT DEPENDS ON WHAT YOU MEAN BY HELP.

“What do you mean?”

WE CAN PROVIDE A FORCE, the voice rumbled. A SMALL ONE. A GROUP OF CHANGELINGS TO SERVE AT YOUR WILL. WE WILL OBEY YOU, AND IN TURN, YOU WILL PROVIDE FOR THEM SUSTENANCE FROM THESE VILLAGERS THAT YOU SO WANT TO DESTROY. THAT IS ONE OPTION.

“And the other one?”

WE ARE AN ANCIENT RACE. FORGOTTEN. WE SLUMBER BENEATH THE EARTH, AND TO THE EARTH WE WILL RETURN WHEN OUR CONTRACT IS COMPLETE. THIS SPELL IS THE ONLY MEANS BY WHICH WE MAY COMMUNICATE WITH THE WORLD BEYOND.

Briar’s eyes widened. “You want to do more than that,” she said. “You want to be able to come back on your own.”

YES. BUT FOR THIS PURPOSE, WE REQUIRE A LEADER STRONG ENOUGH TO RAISE US FROM OUR ETERNAL SLUMBER, AND TO SCOUR THE WORLD ONCE MORE. WE REQUIRE A QUEEN.

“A—“

Briar’s voice caught in her throat. “A queen.”

YES.

“You—you can’t—you can’t want me for this.”

AND WHY NOT? Each image in the eye’s depths watched her unblinkingly, their gazes never flickering. WE ARE THE HIVE. YOU ARE THE ONE WITHOUT LOVE. WE ARE MORE ALIKE THAN YOU MAY REALIZE.

“I—I don’t know—“

IF YOU REJECT THIS OFFER, WE WILL NOT TURN AWAY. YOU WILL HAVE YOUR FORCE OF CHANGELINGS. REJECT THIS OFF, AND YOU WILL PUNISH THE VILLAGERS.

Something darker, slicker, entered the voice. ACCEPT, AND YOU WILL DESTROY THEM UTTERLY. YOU WILL LIVE FOREVER IN FEAR AND DARKNESS, FREE OF YOUR CURSE.

SO. WHAT SAY YOU?

“This…this would change everything,” she said. “I’m not sure—“

YOU HAVE NO OTHER LIFE LEFT TO LIVE.

She froze.

It was true. Ironwood was dead, and Matron likely gone with him. The villagers would never take her in—especially not now. With the cottage ransacked and much of it destroyed, it was doubtful that she could make it through the winter alone. The images she’d seen in the eye returned to her: Would she leave to wander the world and die alone? Sacrifice her mind, and live in the forest as a beast? Set the walls alight and burn in agony until the end finally came?

She met the eye’s gaze and spoke again. She was proud when her voice came out strong and firm, without a trace of hesitation.

“Then I will accept.”

THEN IT IS DONE.

As the final syllable rang in her ears, a jolt of electricity lanced down her spine—and Briar fell to the floor screaming.

Her muscles were tearing, her bones grinding against one another as her body shifted beneath her. Her organs were on fire, burning in a pool of acid and flame. Her body lengthened, her neck and limbs stretching until they were easily twice as long as they’d been before.

She watched with horror as her black fur fell out from her coat, leaving only bubbling skin behind. A hard, chitinous shell erupted from her flesh, spreading across her torso and speeding hungrily toward her face and neck. She let out a cry of agony as pain lanced through her legs, the muscles tearing, bones shattering—holes, each the size of a hoof, had erupted from her legs and lower body, carving her limbs into a mockery of wholeness.

Blood streamed from her mouth. Her teeth fell to the ground, clattering to the floor as a pair of fangs poked out from behind her gums.

With a loud tearing of skin, two new limbs ripped from her back—wings, she realized through her haze of pain. Insect wings, like the ones that she’d seen in the book. They dripped with mucous, the light reflecting off of the black lines spiderwebbing over its surface.

She felt a burning—a scratching, burning pressure at the base of her skull. The force intensified until it felt as though a hammer had been driven into her forehead. Stars drifted across Briar’s eyes, foam falling from her mouth as she spasmed helplessly on the floor.

A roar tore from Briar’s throat. A jagged black horn erupted through her skull, bright green energies crackling around it like lightning. Her body gave a final spasm, and then it was over.

Sweat dripped from her body, mixing with the blood on the floor. She slowly pushed herself back up, stumbling as she attempted to stand with this new, unfamiliar form. Her legs were too long, her muscles alien and twisted. Her eyes, thankfully, seemed much the same, but the new weight on her head pressed on her neck.

Her eye caught on a shard of glass, her reflection glinting from its surface.

A misshapen monster stared back at her.

BEAUTIFUL.

Her head whipped around—but the eye had disappeared.

WE RESIDE WITHIN YOU NOW, OUR QUEEN, the Hive rumbled. AND YOUR SOUL IS AS BEAUTIFUL AS YOUR BODY.

Briar stared. Hesitantly, she raised a hoof. Her reflection did the same, the bookcase behind it clearly visible through the holes in its leg.

“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was deeper, richer. She watched in fascination as her reflection’s hair—a dimmer green, tinged with specks of grey and black—swung behind it. Her lips curled until two fangs grinned back at her from the depths of the glass. “It’s perfect.”

YOUR ARMY AWAITS, the Hive said.

Briar nodded. Slowly, gathering her will to bear on this new, alien body, she drew herself up and exited the room.

“I feel…different,” she murmured. “Something in the air—there’s some kind of pressure around my horn.”

Her horn. She had a horn.

YOU ARE FEELING THE MAGICAL ENERGIES SURROUNDING YOU. THEIR FIELDS EXTEND THROUGHOUT THIS WORLD.

“Would a normal unicorn feel this all of the time?” she whispered.

WE DO NOT KNOW. IT IS LIKELY, HOWEVER..

She stepped through the doorway, shielding her eyes from the bright moonlight. The clearing was empty. “You said that they would be here,” she said, her lips curling unpleasantly. “Where is the army I was promised?”

PATIENCE, OUR QUEEN.

“I’m tired of being patient,” she said. “I am your Queen, and I summon you. Now.”

The Hive’s reply seemed almost amused. WE COME.

The earth shook beneath her hooves. Briar reared back as the mud seemed to ripple—and then stared as she realized that the ground was moving—or rather, things were moving beneath it.

A clump of mud shifted in the center of the clearing. Cracks appeared across its surface, the outer shell splitting to reveal jet-black skin beneath. The shape drew itself up into the air and, with an ear-splitting screech, burst from the earth in a shower of earth and thick, yellow mucous.

The first changeling blinked up at her, its blue-green eyes reflecting a thousand stars from their depths.

Briar stared back—and then felt a smirk growing across her face. “Yes,” she hissed. “Come! Your Queen is impatient!”

The earth split open in five—ten—twenty more places. All around the cottage, the dirt rolled and boiled, with new dark forms bursting free with every passing second. Each was nearly the size of a pony—though, Briar reflected with satisfaction, due to her new height, none came above her knees. Each new changeling’s wings buzzed to life with an ear-splitting whine, adding to the cacophony of noise that was rapidly filling the clearing.

On and on they went, springing from the soil like weeds after a storm. Briar watched, eyes wide, as more and more changelings burst from the soil. They seemed to stretch into forever, their dark forms forming chains that stretched deep into the wood. Their voices were an overpowering chorus, their black skin shining with reflected starlight.

And they all were watching her. Waiting.

“What do they want?” she whispered.

The Hive spoke to her. WE AWAIT YOUR COMMAND.

Briar stared—and felt something bubbling up in her chest. Her command. Her orders.

She threw her head back and laughed.

“Fly!” she commanded. “And destroy the village!”

The sky was black with smoke.

Lingering peals of laughter shook Briar’s frame as she watched the destruction through each of her soldiers’ eyes. Evidently, she possessed a closer link to the Hive than just that mental link. She could see what they saw; hear what they heard. Yet she did not feel what they felt—for what was there for a changeling to feel?

She watched as one of her children faced an older stallion. He was obviously drunk, and had chosen to brandish an old fire poker at the intruder rather than the sword which sat merely paces away. The changeling hissed, its haunches tensing.

“Get away!” the stallion hollered, his face red—and with a start, Briar recognized him as Bit—the one whose drunken rage had begun this entire affair

“Kill him,” she hissed, and the changeling pounced. Bit’s eyes opened wide, the poker clattering to the floor—and the changeling tore through his throat. Blood and gore dripped to the ground as the corpse fell. Briar was shocked to find that she felt no disgust at the act: merely a dull, dark satisfaction.

A high-pitched shriek pierced the air and the changeling whirled, snarling. A mare cowered in a corner, her hooves held over her head. The changeling smirked, and Briar turned her attention away as its features began to change.

Her children would feast.

She paused, her wings buzzing behind her as they kept her aloft above the village. A few changelings, their wings longer and more powerful than the others, circled behind her, forming a guard for her protection. Children? Where had that come from?

YOU ARE OUR QUEEN. OUR MOTHER.

“I didn’t realize that the two came together,” Briar muttered.

The Hive seemed to laugh. THEN LOOK, MOTHER, AND BEHOLD WHAT YOUR CHILDREN HAVE WROUGHT.

Her lips tightening into a dark grin, Briar left her mind dive back into the Hive. Instantly, a new perspective took her, overlaying her own. She watched as another changeling set fire to the Town Hall, the flame it carried blistering its hooves and biting through the old wood. The streets around it were black, the air filled with the bright green pellets that were the changelings’ offensive magic. One burst into another house, exploding and leaving a deep black scorch mark. Flames licked around the point of impact, dancing along the roof as the screams from within rose in pitch.

Each injury or death rang in Briar’s head like the crash of a bell. Each piece of destruction—they were all for Ironwood, she reminded herself. It was his vengeance, his spirit—and she, a whirlwind of fury to strike back against his aggressors.

She dove back into the Hive, laughing all the way. She stopped when she found what she’d been looking for.

A party of stallions stood at the edge of the village, watching the burning remains. The changeling lurking behind them hissed; the stink of alcohol was strong upon them. Other changelings lurked nearby, awaiting Briar’s command.

Briar’s lip twisted. The stallion at the head was Yarrow, his eyes dull and unfocused.

Go, she sent. Her children emerged from the brush, snarling.

The stallions leapt back.

“What...what is this?” one sputtered.

“Monsters,” Yarrow whispered.

“Not monsters,” Briar said through the first changeling. “Avengers, for the death you’ve brought and the madness you’ve shared. For this, I condemn you.”

“It can speak!” a stallion said.

“We’ve done nothing,” Yarrow slurred. “And I’ve never seen you before! How could you do this to us!”

“Your village feared a curse, and so brought it upon itself.” Briar gave a mental push to the changeling she’d seized. She felt a certain thrill as the green flames washed up around its hooves, licking at its sides as its bones twisted and deformed. Its spine lengthened, new hair emerging from its sides.

Another Briar, looking as she had before her transformation, bared her teeth at Yarrow. “Do you recognize me now?”

He took in a sharp breath. “You.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice already feeling strange through her old self’s vocal chords. “Me.”

Her lips curled back. “You thought to kill me for making your child into a monster—but what you failed to realize was that you were the monsters all along.”

“But you—” Yarrow fell to his knees. “My daughter. You cursed her! I…”

‘I did nothing,” Briar hissed. “You leapt to your own foolish conclusions, choosing to hate what you didn’t understand.”

And now Ironwood was dead because of it.

“But the village,” Yarrow whispered. “How?”

“You stole the thing dearest to me,” Briar said, her voice dull. “Now I’ve taken the thing dearest to you.”

She withdrew from the changeling’s mind and let it relapse into its normal form. She sent a single, ringing word through to the group there.

Feed.

She dove back into the Hive. Memories, pictures, and sensations of every type flashed though her mind. Another changeling’s point of view flashed across her mind’s eye—and she froze.

She held onto it, drawing forth the information through the psychic link. The scene bloomed in her mind like a flower, with color and outlines spreading across her vision even as she felt the changeling’s mind move aside for her own. She felt the weight of its wings on its back, heard the crackling of flame behind it.

And saw the two ponies standing across the room.

“Get back!” Flaxseed hollered. “Don’t you dare take one step closer!”

The older mare’s face was smudged with ash and tears. She held baguette in her hoof, brandishing it like a weapon. A writhing mirth bubbled up in the Hive at the pitiful sight, but Briar could only feel horror and disgust.

“Why?” Brioche stood behind her, his normally gentle face contorted into an expression of rage and agony. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I choose to.”

Briar spoke through the changeling she’d possessed, seizing control of its vocal chords and clumsily putting them to use. Its mouth was different from her own, its voice more guttural, its tongue longer and more sharply forked, but she managed to get the words out regardless.

“Because this village committed a crime,” she said, her voice sounding hollow to her own ears. “This is retribution.”

“What retribution? You’re destroying the entire village!” Brioche burst out.

“I swear, if you’ve laid one hoof on my son—” Flaxseed began.

“Ironwood is dead.”

Flaxseed let out a strangled gasp.

“Not by my hoof,” Briar said. “Murdered by his own peers. It’s for his spirit that I come today.”

“You—you—”

“You monster,” Brioche spat. “Ironwood would never want such a thing.”

“You lie,” Flaxseed whispered, her face a pale white. “You’re a filthy liar.”

Briar closed her eyes. Ironwood’s face—kind, compassionate, and forgiving—flashed across her vision.

In the blink of an eye, her clawed hoof was at Flaxseed’s throat. She’d pinned the mare to the wall before Brioche could react. The changeling in her hissed—it wanted to claw, to bite, to feed—

“Don’t you ever call me a liar,” Briar whispered.

As Brioche’s mighty hoof came crashing down behind her, Briar’s changeling form blurred. She re-appeared by the door, having moved so quickly as to seem as though she’d teleported.

Flaxseed collapsed with a thump. She curled up on the floor, weeping as Briar turned to the door.

“This village is dead,” Briar said quietly. “Your son is lost to you.”

Flaxseed let out a wail, and Briar flinched before continuing.

“You would do well to leave it behind, and never return.”

She withdrew her mind from the changeling she’d possessed. She felt it drop to the ground, exhausted from the exertion of bearing the Queen’s will for so long—and swayed in the air as her the whiplash from her body rocked her consciousness.

The village was half-destroyed by now, its houses and buildings covered in smoke and fire. Ponies lined the streets: some running and screaming, and others limp upon the ground, their bodies unmoving.

Briar squeezed her eyes shut, and commanded the Hive to retreat. Its reply came instantly

OUR QUEEN—

“I have given you an order,” she said. “Are you going to disobey?”

WE COME.

The skies turned black with changeling flesh as the streets emptied below them. Buzzing filled the air, each changeling grunt taking to the air at the same instant as its brethren. Briar winced, an uncomfortable pressure forming behind her forehead—and dismissed it with a grunt.

Her wings spread wide, pushing her through the air until she lay at the head of the swarm. Not once did she look back at the village’s burning remains.

When next her hooves touched ground, it was once more upon the forest floor, the grass rustling underhoof.

Briar pushed her mane out of her eyes—and found herself taken by the holes in the hoof that she’d raised. Was she really so empty?

She looked about the clearing around her. The wreckage of Matron’s cottage sat behind her, while the forest before her was full of changelings. Not a single one buzzed or chittered; all sat silently, staring at her.

Then,

WE DID NOT EXPECT YOUR WITHDRAWAL.

“I gave the order,” she said. “That’s all that matters.”

WE THOUGHT YOU WANTED REVENGE.

“The village is gone,” Briar said, a scowl crossing her face. “Burned to a crisp. There’d be no point in going on.”

THE SURVIVORS—

“Will not last long. You’ve had your fill. Any more would be gluttony.”

The Hive was quiet for a moment. Then,

AS YOU WISH, OUR QUEEN.

“That’s right,” she said. “Your Queen. Don’t you dare question me again.”

The Hive fell silent.

Briar turned back to the cottage. There was one final thing she had to do.

She gave a mental command to a team of changelings to begin digging the hole. Another, she sent to find a suitable tablet of bark.

Ironwood’s grave wouldn’t be anything fancy, but she wouldn’t let him go without a proper burial.

“It’s what his parents would have wanted,” she whispered. She gave a silent thanks when the Hive made no comment.

There his body lay—slumped against the side of the house. Most of the blood had dried by now into a brown-red stain across his fur. Briar approached, her hoof-falls like thunder in her ears.

He looked so small now. So weak—like an infant. She stood over him, her new height forcing her to crane her neck to look down at his huddled body.

Slowly, she bent down and pressed a hoof to his chest.

It was still warm.

Briar’s eyes widened, and she quickly brought her other hoof up as well. Was that—no, it couldn’t be—yet, clear as day, there was a pulse behind those ribs. If she squinted, she could just barely make out the rise and fall of his chest.

Ironwood was still alive.

Briar’s hoof went to her mouth as her eyes filled with tears. Ironwood was alive, he was here, he was—

It was for nothing

Tears came to her eyes. She’d destroyed the village to avenge him—but he’d been alive all along?

Oh, gods. What had she done?

THEY WOULD HAVE KILLED REGARDLESS, the Hive rumbled in the back of her mind. SPARING HIM WAS NOT THEIR INTENTION.

Briar drew back, her hoof going to her mouth. That was right—it had to be. She’d done what was right, hadn’t she?

Ironwood was alive. That was all that mattered.

A low groan came from Ironwood’s open mouth. He stirred at her touch. Slowly, his eyelids cracked open.

“B-briar? Is that you?”

“It’s me,” she whispered, leaning in to press her cheek against his. “Oh, thank the gods.”

“I had a dream,” he said in a small voice. “That I died. Crazy, huh?”

“Crazy,” she said. Tears fell from her eyes, dripping over her helpless smile.

Ironwood squinted up at her as she pulled away. “You look...different.”

“I feel different,” she said. “But you’re okay, you little moron, and that’s all that matters.”

Ironwood chuckled weakly. “Same old Briar,” he said.

He looked up at herg. “Briar, there’s—there’s something I want to say to you.”

“I already know,” she said. Something dark squirmed in her chest, but she ignored it—Ironwood was alive, and that was all that mattered.

“I don’t know if I can say it,” he whispered. “I want you to look into my eyes and see it for yourself.”

“I—”

She couldn’t deny him. Not now. Not like this.

Hooves trembling, she took his head in her grasp and met his gaze.

The blood disappeared. So did the grass, and the sky, and the moon. Soon, Briar was all that was left, cradling Ironwood’s head in her hooves.

And then he, too, disappeared—and the sky flashed blue.

Briar shielded her eyes. The buzz of the Hive was gone, leaving her feeling empty and cold. Yet as she looked up, that cold disappeared.

Another Briar, her coat and hooves still those of a pony, stood, atop a great mountain. Ironwood stood at her side, gazing out into the sunset. Their hooves were held tight, clasped together.

Clouds reached across the sky and across the horizon. The golden sunlight danced over each part of the land it touched: glimmering oceans, impossible deserts, and lush forests the likes of which Briar had never dreamed.

And there they stood: there at the top of the world. Together.

The other Briar turned to look into Ironwood’s eyes, and he smiled back. No words were said, but Briar understood them all the same.

I love you, those eyes said, shining from atop the mountain. I love you.

The mountain vanished, and the forest returned.

“And I love you,” she whispered—and then her lips were pressed against his.

He recoiled at first—but then pushed back into her, his hooves clutching around her head. He tasted sweet, like sugar, and she eagerly pressed her mouth even further against his.

The thing in her chest squirmed again, and in the back of her mind, Briar saw something bright glowing in Ironwood’s chest. It felt warm, and she felt so cold—

She reached in, probing, and touched it gently.

It blazed to life, pushing her further into lust and love for Ironwood. Their tongues met, dueling for superiority as the pair rocked back and forth—

—Briar’s mind tugged on the light, pulling it toward her mouth. She inhaled, suddenly feeling warm. The light tasted so good, flooding her body with energy with each flicker that it gave. Her hooves were trembling, her spine tingling with electricity.

She sucked down greedily. The light flickered, its ends splitting into tendrils that snaked their way down Briar’s throat, each one warmer than the last. Briar’s eyes rolled back up in her head. She felt good, she felt full—

Ironwood’s body dropped to the forest floor.

Briar screamed.

His dead, vacant eyes stared up at her as she racked her mind for the cause. Oh gods, she realized—she’d been feeding on him. Feeding—

LIKE A CHANGELING.

“What have you done to me?” she whispered.

She should have felt disgusted. She should have been horrified. She should have hated herself—but she felt nothing more than a dull ache and a sense of fullness that hadn’t been there before.

YOU ARE ONE OF US. THE HIVE EVER HUNGERS.

“You’ve killed him.”

YOU FED UPON HIM.

“He loved me.”

AND FED YOU WELL.

“I—”

She swallowed.

“I wanted it,” she said. “I needed it—and I don’t regret it. What is wrong with me?”

SUCH IS THE NATURE OF THE HIVE, the voices rumbled. WE ARE EMPTY, AND SO WE TAKE UNTIL WE ARE FULL.

DO NOT FEAR. THERE WILL BE MORE LOVE, BRIAR.

“No.”

The Hive’s awareness turned to a searching confusion.

“Not Briar,” she said, eyes dark. That thing inside of her was squirming—and with one mental lash, she took it and made it her own.

Goodnight, my sweet chrysalis.

“That mare is dead,” she spat. “That day has passed. From this day forth, I take a new name.”

Like the day, she had been reborn into night. Like a caterpillar, she had been remade—refashioned into the shell of a changeling.

“I am Chrysalis,” she whispered. “Queen Chrysalis.”

HAIL, the Hive rumbled. HAIL, QUEEN CHRYSALIS.

Chrysalis turned her eye to the blackened, smoke-filled sky. “We’ll need to find somewhere else to go—the Badlands, perhaps. Perhaps we’ll explore other, strange lands.”

WHY?

Her mouth twitched.

“To find new sources of love, of course.”

YOU HAVE GIVEN YOURSELF FULLY OVER TO THE HIVE?

She looked up at the blackened sun. “Long live the Hive,” she said.

“And may Queen Chrysalis’s reign last forevermore.”

Chapter One

The leaves were rustling.

Briar paused, her head halfway to the ground. A spindly fern sat patiently between her forehooves, its ridged leaves bristling against the ground. She cocked an ear, listening.

Rustling leaves hadn’t been the sole cause for her attention. This was the edge of the Everfree: here, there was always a wind in the air, always a critter scampering away just out of sight.

No. It wasn’t the wind that had caught her ear. It was the voice that had come with it.

Snout melting into a frown, Briar pulled away from the fern and stared toward the brush she’d heard the voice from. She’d heard of birds that could mimic a pony’s voice—screamjays, Matron called them—but they lived in the southwestern part of the forest, easily miles from here. The voice couldn’t be Matron herself; Briar knew better than that. As far as she knew, though, nopony but she chanced these woods.

Holding herself perfectly still, she held her head aloft, straining to catch a whisper of sound on the breeze. For few moments, she heard nothing more—only the wind in the leaves, and the call of a bluejay from a faraway tree. There came a reply: a fellow jay, answering the call of its mate.

And with it, ever so faintly, came a low, whimpering voice. Briar’s eyes narrowed. She leaned down to pick her basket from the ground. A few clipped leaves fluttered to the forest floor as she trotted to the end of the brush, half-filled basket dangling from her mouth.

There came the cry again. Not entirely knowing why, Briar quickened her pace to a trot. She slipped through the forest toward the mysterious sound, her nerves stinging with a sense of urgency. Her trot became a smooth, whiplike canter.

Her deep green mane flew behind her as her moved. Branches whipped past her. She avoided them all save for one, leaving a tuft of short black hair on its gnarled tip.

She heard the cry again—louder, this time. Her eyes narrowed further. She knew where it was coming from; she was no fool. She knew her way around the forest as well as anypony. Admittedly, for her, “anypony” was a fairly short list.

She silently cursed as she pushed past the last of the brush. Who in their right mind would come to the Barrens and get themselves into trouble?

Her motion slowed, each step deliberate and cautious. Above, threads of sunlight snaked their way through the treetops, alighting on the bare earth below. The brush had vanished behind her, leaving in its place clumps of dirt and dying grass amid the remains of overgrown boulders.

She brought her hoof up, froze, and pulled it back. Lying before her, though disguised by piles of decaying leaves, was the edge of a sheer drop.

Dammit. At least she’d been watching where she was going. She didn’t want to think of what would have happened if she’d been careless enough to skip through instead of checking her every step. She’d probably be no better off than whichever wretched creature was calling from the thorns.

Briar pulled her hoof back, drawing her lips back and furrowing her brow. This was the Barrens: a desolate landscape where little light shone, filled with pitfalls and slippery gorges. She peered over the side into the one that’d almost caught her.

At the bottom of each pit here lay a jungle of thorny vines, each swollen to the width of a pony’s leg. They blended with the shadows of the lower pit, with only the occasional dull yellow of a thorn showing through.

Briar disliked the Barrens. Hated them. But there came the cry again—whimpering, quieted, and nearby—and so she drew herself back up and stepped around the pit.

She kept her balance as though on a tightrope, sharp eyes darting from side to side with every step. She took a step to the right, shifting her weight away from a protruding line of spikes. Bit by bit, she made her way through the pits, and toward the cries she’d heard.

“Help…”

Briar started. Words—so there was somepony else here. But the voice sounded strange. Deep. Rough around the edges. With narrowed eyes and a careful step, she peered over the edge of the nearest pit—

She squinted, but the shape at the bottom was unmistakable. There was a pony lying prone at the bottom. There was something odd about him.

A stallion! she realized. His caramel-colored coat was scratched and covered in clumps of mud, while his mane, a darker brown, lay torn and dirty around his head. He appeared not to have noticed her, as silently as she’d moved toward him: Instead, he was staring at the ground, his eyes concealed from view.

It seemed there wasn’t anything else to do. Briar dropped her basket onto the ground and stood up a little straighter. She let out a cough.

He seemed to notice that. Instantly, his head whirled, clumped mane flying over his eyes before sliding down to his shoulders. “Who—who are you?,” he asked. His voice was weak; he wheezed like a bird caught in a winter freeze.

She ignored his question. “How did you manage to get yourself down there?”

“I fell.”

He sounded almost sheepish. Briar resisted the urge to ask why he would be so stupid as to come into the Barrens in the first place. Instead, she bit her tongue and asked, “You can’t climb out yourself?”

Her voice was sharp, cutting through the air. He shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I—my leg. I think it’s broken.”

Briar peered down at him and frowned. The stallion’s leg was twisted around at an odd angle, but she took it in stride. She’d seen enough animals stumble into these pits to know what they could do to a body, and this pony was luckier than most. Her brow furrowed as she searched her mind for the appropriate treatment.

She paused. Of course, she had to do something else, first.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll get you out. Give me two minutes.”

“Wait!” he began.

But she was already gone.

Briar turned on her hoof, glancing about the area. It wouldn’t be easy getting him out, but there had to be something around here that she could use. There always was—a pony just had to know what to look for. Her gaze caught on the edge of a branch and her lip curled.

There.

Just under two minutes later, she was back, a clump of vines in her mouth. “Here,” she said, spitting the vines out into the pit. “Most of the thorns are gone, so you should be able to get out without a problem. Just grab the stick I’ve tied onto the end and hold on.”

The stallion nodded and took the stick in his mouth.

Briar took the other end of her improvised rope and bit down, hard. She took a second to scope out a safe angle behind her, devoid of rocks and pits as she could make it. Clamping the vine between her teeth, she steeled her neck and shoulders and stepped back.

And stepped back again.

And again.

She grunted; the stallion was surprisingly heavy. To his credit, he didn’t let out more than an occasional whimper of pain—at least he wasn’t screaming or crying. Another gasp escaped her, her hooves slipping on the crumbly soil.

“You...fat-flank,” she said through gritted teeth. “I...swear…”

She could barely hear his response—a muffled grunt., barely audible over the scrape of his weight on the dirt. She had to firm her weight each time she took a step, making sure that she wouldn’t just fall right in beside him, or into one of the many other pits that lurked around her.

Something in the rope went tight. She glanced back up: The tip of an ear, almost invisible, poked up over the edge of the pit.

Almost there. She took a deep breath through her snout and locked her neck into place. Some part of her mind was screaming at her for walking backwards through the Barrens.

Step. Step. Her muscles were sore, and there was sweat dripping down her forehead. Step. Step. Step—

“I’m out!”

Her eyes snapped open.

The stallion lay on his side, just barely over the edge of the pit. “I’m out,” he wheezed, holding his side. “You… You can stop now.”

Briar spat the vine out to the side. “Good,” she said. She sounded muted. She coughed to the side, taking a moment to regather herself. “Good.”

“I—thank you.” The stallion beamed up at her as she stepped toward him. He held his legs close to him, with one foreleg pressed against his chest. “I must have been in there for almost an hour. I thought that I was going to die down in that ditch.”

“Why were you even out here in the first place?” Briar asked.

“I was gathering wood.”

She almost snorted. “In the Barrens?”

“Is that what this is called?” he asked.

She stared. No words came to mind—what kind of pony threw themselves into pits in strange parts of the forest?

Ponies like this one, it seemed. She bit down on her tongue and resisted the urge to insult his intelligence or, at the very least, his survival instinct. Instead, she just closed her eyes and sighed.

“Look,” she said, “you’re cradling your leg. Let me see it.”

“Thank—”

“Just let me see it,” she said, “and spare the pleasantries.”

He nodded. She leaned down and took his hoof in her own. It was still twisted around at an awkward angle, but the damage looked better than it had before. She hissed—there were tiny holes, pinpricks of blood, around its circumference, likely from where the thorns had pierced his skin. A flicker over his abdomen proved that the rest of him hadn’t escaped unscathed either. She turned back to the leg.

Lightly, she put some weight on it.

The stallion gasped through his teeth.

“I’m guessing this hurts?” she said.

“Yeah,” he said.

She tried again, lighter. “Now?”

He shook his head.

Briar leaned in closer, inspecting his leg. Now that she had a chance to see it out here, rather than in the darkness of the pit, the situation didn’t seem quite so bad. She prodded his leg, giving it an experimental flex and nodding to herself when the stallion didn’t grunt in pain.

“So I was supposed to be gathering firewood,” the stallion said. “Only I haven’t really been in the forests before, and I got lost.”

“Lost. That’s one way of putting it.” Briar took a seat beside him and set the injured leg on her lap. “Hold that straight.”

“My brother’s usually the one who does this kind of thing. I just work the ovens.” The stallion nudged his head toward his flank. There was a mark there: three loaves of bread, neatly sliced.

Briar grunted, peering over her shoulder. “Uh-huh.” If only there was something she could use…

Her eyes fell on the vines and stick she’d used to pull him out. She nodded to herself and leaned down.

“Except he’s been been a little sick lately,” the stallion said, “and so I thought I’d come out and get the chores done instead. I got the water okay, but when I came out here to get some more wood, I guess I just kind of got turned around.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Briar asked around the stick in her mouth. She held the leftover vines in her hooves, cradling the stallion’s injured leg in her lap.

“Guess not,” the stallion admitted. “My name’s Ironwood, by the way. What’s yours?”

“Briar.” She lowered her neck, brought it up and around, and then lowered it again.

“I haven’t seen you in the village. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I live here,” she replied. She wondered if he ever got tired of hearing himself speak. Even a screamjay was quieter.

She tied off the end of the vines around the top of his leg and bit off the excess. “There. All done.”

“You live here? In the woods? In the Everfree Forest?”

“Do you have to ask so many questions?” She flicked her eyes up. His face was clean-shaven, his snout more obviously rounded than hers. His mouth, of course, was open.

She glanced away as he looked down at her. She couldn’t meet his eyes—not here, not now. That was a risk that she couldn’t take. Instead, she merely stared down at the ground, her mouth a thin line. There was a beat of silence before Ironwood spoke again.

“Sorry,” he said. He chuckled sheepishly and scratched the back of his neck. “I guess I’m just chatty.”

Briar stood back up and dusted herself off. “Your leg was sprained, not broken. Just keep that brace on for a few days and keep your weight off of it and you’ll be fine. Get those cuts looked at, too; the Barrens thorns aren’t poisonous, but they might get infected.”

“Got it,” Ironwood said. “So you live in the Everfree. Wow. Is that your Cutie Mark—survival? Woodsponyship?”

“What?” she asked.

“Your Cutie Mark,” he said. “You know, like my loaves of bread. Come on; you must have one.”

A frown crossed her face as she glanced back at her flank. Her bare flank. She shifted her weight away from Ironwood, suddenly feeling very self conscious.

“No,” she said.

“You don’t have a Cutie Mark?” Ironwood asked. “How can a pony not have a Cutie Mark? It’d make sense if you were a filly, but a mare like you?”

“I guess I just don’t need one,” she said.

“Maybe.” He sounded doubtful. “What’s that in your mane?”

Briar’s hoof automatically went to her ear. The familiar weight on the side of her head belonged to a hairpin that she kept in her mane. The pin itself was nothing special, she’d always thought; it was pretty enough, but to any other pony, she believed, it would be just a trinket.

To her, though, it was a memento.

She caressed the lock of hair, making sure that the pin was firmly in place. “It’s nothing,” she said quietly.

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“It’s nothing that you need to be concerned about.”

“And what about the thing around your neck?”

Briar stiffened. “Try the leg,” she said, changing the subject. “The brace should have worked to keep it straight.”

“Oh—right!” Ironwood drew himself back. He first placed his good foreleg on the ground, testing his weight, before shifting his haunches into the air. He held his injured leg an inch or so off the ground, the splint keeping it in place.

He gave his shoulder an experimental roll. The leg moved a bit from side to side, but the brace held. Briar grinned in spite of herself.

“It works,” Ironwood announced. He looked back up, beaming at her. “I don’t know how I can thank you.”

“Don’t get lost again.” Briar turned, searching—there it was. She stepped carefully toward the edge of the Barrens with Ironwood in tow. She snapped up her basket, a few ferns dangling over the sides.

“What’s that?”

“Devilwort,” she said. “It’s the herb that I was gathering before you showed up.” Before you interrupted, some part of her wanted to add. She shoved that part back down, hard. No reason to go after him for getting himself injured. It wasn’t like he meant to make her late.

Though he could have avoided the whole problem by staying out of the Barrens in the first place, she let herself grouse.

“Now, I can lead you out of the woods if you tell me which direction your ‘village’ is in,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder.

“Um.”

She glared at him before letting out a long, suffering sigh.

“Any landmarks? Things to look out for?”

“Well,” he said, “there’s a nice waterfall by the edge of the forest that I came in by.”

“You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

“It was all shimmery and—”

Briar’s eyes lit up. “The Ice Falls. I know where that is.”

“The Ice—”

“Come on,” she said, slipping past the brush. “It’s just past here.”

They walked for at least fifteen minutes. Several times, Ironwood did his best to strike up a conversation, but Briar ignored him.

He seemed not to get the hint.

“—So there I was, right in front of the customer, and it turned out that I’d made him a loaf with sesame seeds. Except he didn’t order any seeds!”

Ironwood allowed for what he undoubtedly thought was a dramatic pause. “And…”

Briar pushed aside a tree branch. The Ice Falls were just past here. Just another minutes or so...

“Aren’t you interested in what happened next?” he asked.

“Not particularly.”

Ironwood huffed. “Oh, come on. You could at least chat a little bit. Maybe tell me more about the forest—I’ll bet it’s fascinating living here all the time. Did you know that most ponies are actually scared of the Everfree?”

His voice lowered to a whisper. “I’ve heard it even makes its own weather.”

She heard the Falls before she saw them. Their low roar was unmistakable—she’d been here enough times to know the sound by heart. Behind her, Ironwood chattered on, but his words slid away from Briar’s ears like butter. Instead, the sound of running water bubbled across her ears.

She nudged past a final bush, the dangling branches of holly brushing over her mane. The brush ended here, with only a few scattered trees standing over the grass.

“Do you recognize this?” she asked.

“It looks familiar,” he said. “I think so, at least.”

“Well, what about those?” Briar jerked her head toward the Falls themselves.

The Falls wasn’t the largest waterfall that Briar had found in the Everfree, but it was her favorite. A soft mist rose from its bed, casting droplets into the air where they hung like morning dew. Below, a small gully carried a brook away from the Falls and disappeared into the woods, winding between the trees.

The crest of the Falls, though, had given Briar the inspiration for its name. Behind the chute of rushing water, barely halfway above the nearest tree trunk, the rock face glimmered with blue and purple light.

When the sun or moonlight shone on the rock, it shone like freshly frozen ice, an alien violet against a backdrop of green. The rest of the clearing formed a glade, a quiet place amidst a forest of otherwise chittering beasts and birds. Mossy rocks dotted the vibrant green grass, their surfaces weathered from years of fallen mist and erosion. Here and there, veils of afternoon sun drifted lazily through the canopy, illuminating motes of dust and mist.

“Wow,” Ironwood said.

“I come around here a lot,” Briar said. “Usually in the evenings, when I’ve nothing else to do. It’s a nice place to think and just…”

“To be alone?”

“Something like that.”

Ironwood turned back to the Falls. “In any case,” he said, “I definitely remember those.”

“Good. So—”

His eyes widened, and he cursed. “Oh, no. I must’ve lost my saddlebags down in that pit—and I’ll be coming back without any wood. My mother’s going to be furious.”

Briar’s lips twitched. She doubted that his mother’s wrath would be any worse than Matron’s on a bad day. From the look of his hips, Ironwood likely had all of the love a mother could offer.

Something in her chest twinged. Something that you don’t, something whispered to her.

She shook her head as Ironwood muttered angrily to himself. She turned back to the Falls, her ears perking up.

“—guess there’s nothing to be done, then,” Ironwood finished. He scowled and scuffed a hoof in the dirt—and hit a pebble. “Ouch!”

“So you’re leaving now?” Briar asked.

He turned back to her. She averted her eyes and stared steadily at his shoulder.

“Well...yeah,” he said.

He paused. “Oh, maybe you can come with me!” he said. “You said you’d never been outside the forest, right? Come see the village—meet some ponies. I can introduce you. Maybe you’ll even get your Cutie Mark.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” Briar muttered. “But I’m afraid not. I’ve got my own responsibilities here.” Matron still needed those herbs picked, after all.

“So not today, then,” Ironwood said. “That’s fine, really. No worries. Happy, uh, responsibility-ing.”

“I’ll try.”

She glanced up. It was beginning to get dark. “You should probably leave now,” she said. “The woods get much harder to navigate when the sun goes down.” Especially, she thought, to a stallion who’s already gotten himself lost once.

“Right! Yeah,” Ironwood said. He grinned at her. “So, uh, thanks again. Really.”

He nodded down at his makeshift splint.

She shrugged. “I’ve taken care of injured animals before. It wasn’t really anything new.”

“Well, I—wait!” Ironwood said. “Are you calling me an animal?”

Her lip curled. “I’ve got to go. Don’t get lost again.”

By the time Ironwood had opened his mouth to reply, she had already turned to leave. In a blur of black and green, she was gone, back into the woods. Whatever Ironwood had wanted to say, sadly, was lost to the winds and bubbling brook.

As the last rays of light slid through the trees, Briar came to a small clearing in the woods. The grass was short, but a healthy green, and a few birds called one another from just out of sight. Briar slowed her pace, taking care to make sure that nothing fell from her basket.

There was a structure built just off of the center of the clearing: a cottage, single-floored, and with a single fogged window at its front. Briar approached it, savoring the last warmth of the day as the shadows at the base of the cottage lengthened.

She took a moment to stomp out any mud that had clumped on her hooves before wiping them on the entry mat. She leaned forward and nudged the door. It creaked open, and she stepped over the threshold and inside.

The air became thick with incense, touched with the scent of smoking rhubarb. The wood floor creaked beneath Briar’s hooves. She continued on until she came to a weathered old table and tenderly set the basket of devilwort down on its surface. Behind her, the door swung shut with a thump.

“You’re late.”

Briar’s reply came automatically. “I apologize, Matron. Something distracted me.”

The other voice was rich in tone, but creaked and cracked like the floor beneath Briar’s hooves. “Well, that’s your fault, then. Start up the fire and get a stew going, girl.”

Briar turned. She kept her back straight, and neither lowered nor raised her head. “Yes, Matron.”

There was a chair near the end of the room. Its colors had long since faded from what Briar could only guess to be a bright blue to a dimmer shade of blue-grey. Its cushions were scratched and worn, and they sank easily under even the light weight of its occupant.

If there was one word that could be said to describe Matron, it was “sharp.” Everything about her suggested angles and pointy bits; her legs were razor-thin, her eyes narrow and cold white, and her jaw cut like the head of an arrow. She had wrinkles, and her forehead sagged a bit over her eyes, but there was something in that face that suggested that it had once held a great beauty. There was a single wart on the end of her nose,  and her black mane fell in such a way as to frame the grey fur covering her snout. She wore a pair of spectacles: one eyepiece was cracked, and the other slightly blurry.

“Distracted,” Matron murmured as Briar moved to retrieve a cauldron from beside the fireplace. “Distracted by what, might I ask?”

“I found something in the Barrows.” Briar leaned down, holding twin firestrikers in her mouth and hoof. She snapped them against one another, and a spark leapt onto the pile of wood waiting beneath the cauldron.

“And Devilwort grows in the Barrows, now?”

“I found the Devilwort in the greenglades,” Briar said. “There was something else in the Barrows.”

Matron snorted. There was a pair of knitting needles in her hooves, and as Briar moved to kindle the fire, the older mare set the needles and yarn down on her lip. “Something else? Spit it out, girl.”

“I found another pony in the pit there.” Briar paused in her work and peered back over her shoulder. “A stallion.”

Matron’s eyes widened, almost imperceptibly. Briar knew her well enough to tell surprise when she saw it, though.

“A stallion,” Matron said. “In the Barrows. Dead, I presume?”

“I saved him,” Briar said. The newborn fire cast a warm glow over the cottage, its light washing over the walls and the cracked wooden masks mounted there. “He’d fallen into a spike-pit and sprained his leg.”

“So you’re a charity case, now. And I suppose that was sufficient reason for being late?” Matron glared at Briar as she opened her mouth. “Good heavens, girl. You’re useless flapping your gums like that. Go fetch water for the stew.”

Five minutes later, Briar returned from the pump outside. She took the bucket she was carrying—it was heavy with water, and swung from side to side whenever she took a step—and set it down on the floor by the fire. As she made to pour it into the cauldron, Matron spoke again.

“So this...stallion,” she said. “What was he? A traveller of some kind?”

“He said he was from the village.”

“The village!” Matron scowled as Briar turned back to the kitchen. Briar bent down to look through the basket of vegetables sitting on the counter; she picked out a few select carrots and a potato and carried them back to the pot. “I warn you; nothing good will come of associating with ponies from the village. Mark my words—you’ll regret mixing with them.”

Briar opened her mouth to reply, but Matron held up a hoof, silencing her. “Now, let’s let that water stew for a bit. It’s time for your lesson.”

“Yes, Matron,” Briar said.

With a spryness that seemed unnatural in a mare her age, , Matron hauled herself from her chair and onto the floor. Her hooves hit the aged wood with a clickity-clack.

She trotted toward Briar. “Come now, girl. To the study.”

The study had always stood out in Briar’s mind. It may have been the coloring of the walls: a dark, heavy brown that stood in stark contrast to the light cedar that made up the rest of the cottage. It may have been the eternal smell of sulfur that suffused the air. More likely than not, however, it was the prickling that Briar always felt on the back of her neck when she entered the room, as though she was being watched.

The prickling was here in full force tonight. As unable to shrug off the sensation as she had been every other night of her life spent in this room, she settled for an uneasy glance back over her shoulder—there was nothing there, of course—before trotting in after Matron. The door shut behind her with a heavy thud.

The decor of the room had always stood out to her. Strange jars lined the walls, and shelves creaked with heavy tomes whose titles had been scrawled in scripts that Briar hadn’t seen when Matron had first decided to teach her her letters. Her hooves scraped over the floor as she walked toward the back of the room.

There was a desk sitting there, a single candle flickering on its surface. A book, even larger than the rest that crowded the shelves around here, was illuminated by the candle’s dim yellow light. Its cover was a dark, leathery brown, cracked across the surface and bearing a title written in golden, indecipherable script.

Briar came to a stop and, just as she always did before a lesson, reached out for the book. Just as always, Matron’s hoof came up and pushed it away.

“I’ll be testing you tonight,” Matron said.

That was a surprise. It had been only a week before that Matron had tested her last. Briar let one eyebrow creep up into her forehead, though she made sure not to let Matron see her disbelief.

“I’m ready,” she said. She turned to face the older mare. Standing as she did now beneath the bookshelf, the flickering shadows of the corner on her face, she looked ominous—dangerous, even. It had taken Briar far too long to come to realize her mentor’s flair for the dramatic.

“Let us begin, then,” Matron said, her old voice cracking. “What are the properties of aconite?”

“Each plant consists of a green, spiralling stem topped with large, purple flowers, which can be used as anaesthetic in small quantities,” Briar said. “The herb can be absorbed through the skin or, preferably, through the lips. If swallowed in a larger dose, it can induce nausea, vomiting, and death, which makes it ideal for use as a poison. Its roots can also be used in several antidote meant to counteract transformative substances.”

The words came easily, flowing like water. For a moment, Briar’s surprise returned. Why was Matron asking her about such a simple topic? She’d known what aconite was since she’d been eight years old.

Still, an easy question was nothing to complain about. She kept her mouth shut until Matron spoke next.

“How can asphodel be used in an elixir?”

That was a better question. Briar’s lips tightened as she stared up at the ceiling, her eyes darting from side to side as she searched for an answer. An elixir was not a potion, she reminded herself; it was medicinal rather than transformative.

Asphodel. What was it good for? She could picture it in her mind: a greyish stalk and leaves, tipped with pale yellow flowers. Her lips moved, sounding out the words as she assembled the thoughts in her head.

“It can be used as an anti-venom,” she said at last. “Especially against rattlesnakes.”

“Anything else?” Matron’s question, though sweetly phrased, carried an edge of cold steel to it. The question hung over Briar’s head like a blade, waiting for one wrong movement.

Briar licked her lips and took it in stride. “It can also be used as the primary ingredient in sleep-draughts, freezing the body in place so that slower treatments can have the time to act.”

She opened her eyes again, this time unable to stop the slight smile that curved her mouth.

“Correct,” Matron said. She flashed a sharp smile, unnaturally white, straight teeth glinting behind liver-spotted lips. “Where might I find a timberwolf pack and why might I want to do so?”

The questions went on as Briar’s brain was poked and prodded, probed for any gaps in her knowledge. She knew that she had reason to be happy with her performance: not once had she faltered or doubted a reply, and not once had she supplied an incorrect answer.

She didn’t know whether she was there for five minutes or an hour—time in the study always seemed to blend together, like water bubbling over a patch of rapids. By the end of it, Matron still looked unimpressed, but Briar thought that she could hear a tone of approval in her cracking voice.

“Satisfactory,” Matron at last proclaimed, though her narrowed eyes made it clear that she had had every intention of making the test end otherwise. “Your surgical knowledge, though, is lacking—read The Last Healer again before anything else.”

“Of course, Matron,” Briar said smoothly. She’d gotten every one of the surgical answers correct, replying to Matron with precise detail. For goodness’ sake, she’d set Ironwood’s leg almost perfectly in the forest before.

She didn’t resent the old mare’s pettiness—not as such, really, but she did feel a twinge of annoyance in the back of her neck at being assigned a book that she must have read a half-dozen times before.

Ironwood. Briar licked her lips, wondering if she should press the subject.

Why not? she decided. It seemed that Matron was in a good mood.

“Wasn’t the author a travelling healer?” Briar asked casually.

“Asclequus? He was,” Matron said. “What’s your point?”

“Well,” Briar began, “if I’m to be properly trained in the medicinal arts, it makes sense that I should be able to get experience.”

She half-expected Matron to tell her off for presuming to tell her what she should do. When no such rebuttal was forthcoming, though, Briar bit down and pushed forward.

“What better place to get that kind of experience than one where lots of ponies meet and live? Someplace like—”

“—a village?” Matron cut in. Her eyes flashed dangerously, and Briar took a step back, her mane swaying behind her.

She stood up a little straighter, refusing to look down. Instead, she stared straight at Matron’s snout: not directly into her eyes, but high enough to show that she refused to be cowed so easily.

“Yes,” Briar said. “A village.” The village, she silently added.

“I forbid it.”

“Why?” She was powerless to stop the question—it burst out of her like thunder through the treetops. She lowered her gaze, as though trying to lessen the strength of her challenge. By Matron’s harsh tone, though, it was barely effective at all.

“For a number of reasons,” Matron rasped. “The villagers are naught but blind and superficial. They’ll fill your head with dangerous thoughts. I won’t have it.”

“How do you know that?” Briar asked. “Have you been there?”

“Are you questioning me?”

She fell silent.

When Matron next spoke, her voice was low, crackling like the last embers of a fire. “You have every reason in the world to stay away from the village. I’m surprised that you would be foolish enough to even consider it. Have you forgotten your eyes?”

Her eyes.

Her green, piercing eyes.

Briar closed them and bowed her head. She’d first realized that her eyes were—well, “special” wasn’t quite the right word to use, perhaps, but it was the best she had—special at a young age. She’d been barely out of foalhood then, still prone to happy babbling as birds from the forest outside came to investigate this strange, wooden structure.

Matron had found Briar then, crouched on the floor with a trio of birds perched before her stubby little filly’s legs. The slam of the door hadn’t persuaded the birds to flee, and so Matron, as she told it, had decided to investigate further.

Each of the birds shared the same trait: eyes, pupils dilated, with irises glowing the same bright green as Briar’s own. They hopped feebly up and down as Briar giggled, barely knowing what power she’d wrought over the creatures. As Matron had picked her up and turned her around, the spell was broken.

The sparrows flew away. Matron’s eyes met the foal’s.

Staring into the mirror some nights, Briar could still recall some of the memory. She could remember flashes of lightning, crashing through dark clouds as laughter shrieked through the heavens. She could remember fire, burning beneath the earth, and a shadow that danced among the trees.

In that moment, their gazes locked in place, Briar had not seen Matron so much as Seen her, gazing through past flesh and into what lay beyond. Whatever power she had exercised over the birds, however, was not present here; Matron’s eyes simply flashed a dark, angry yellow and the spell was broken.

At times, Briar would look into her reflection’s eyes, wondering what Matron had seen there. The first few nights after the incident, she had laid awake in her bed, shivering as those yellow eyes glared down at her from the ceiling. It was only months later that she once more dared meet the eyes of another living creature, though she’d never again dared gaze into Matron’s.

Even though the opportunity had been an accident, a younger Briar had taken a curious sort of glee in exploring what she could do with the deer she’d found, its own irises glowing as green as her own.

And then the deer had dropped dead of dehydration. That was how Matron had found it; Briar had forgotten to let it drink. She’d cried, she’d buried the body, and she had remembered.

She remembered now.

“No,” she said, turning away. “I haven’t forgotten them.”

“Do you want to risk that?” Matron asked. “Catching the eye of some drunk or soldier, and fleeing for your life when he realizes that his mind has been touched? Ponies are irrational, fearful creatures, villagers doubly so. Is that what you wish?”

“No,” Briar said dully.

“Good.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” Matron said. “Let’s move on from such unpleasant, foolish subjects. That light charm that I gave you last month—I want to see it.”

“Now?”

Her lips twisted. “I believe that I implied as much.”

Briar lowered her head and nodded once. She lifted a hoof to her chest and touched the necklace hanging there. It was a small wooden piece held by a length of string. She’d carved it herself, whittling the fresh pine into the shape of a wing by scraping the edges with an arrowhead she’d found in the forest.

All spells needed a focus. At one time in her life, she’d wondered why she didn’t use her pin instead. It seemed wrong, somehow, to use the only remnant of her parents in such a way.

She cradled the focus in her hoof as she tried to clear her mind of all distractions. A clean mind was essential for a clean spell, Matron had once told her. Yet each of her thoughts seemed to bump up against one another, jostling for space and refusing to settle down.

Briar’s lips formed the first syllable of the charm, testing out the feeling. Slowly, she began to recite the words that Matron had taught her. They were in no language that she recognized, but she could feel them, somehow, all the same. The air seemed to thrum with energy as the second syllable spilled from her mouth, the atmosphere buzzing with the third and then fourth.

She repeated the chant again, trying to feel the energy that she knew had to be there. All charms worked through the Ambience, their caster molding them in place rather than forcing energy from their own magical fonts. Briar had always thought that a unicorn’s way of doing things sounded painful.

The chant repeated: once, twice, three times. The space above Briar’s hoof, however, remained stubbornly vacant of any light. She repeated the charm again more quickly, her voice rising in volume and strain with each iteration.

“Stop.”

The last syllable balanced uncertainly on the tip of Briar’s tongue, but she swallowed it. Hesitantly, she glanced down at the space above her hoof.

A tiny, flickering mote of light sat there, giving her hoof a gently warm glow.

It was pathetic.

“I see you’ve not been practicing,” Matron observed. A lump rose in Briar’s throat.

“I have been practicing,” she insisted. “I just—”

“No excuses,” Matron said. She held up a hoof, and Briar fell silent. Her face was unreadable: stony, like a mask. “We’re done for tonight. That stew should be ready by now. Go get some bowls.”

Briar closed her eyes. “Yes, Matron.”

That night, she slept through dreams of strange stallions and thatched-roof houses, and a whisper in her ears.

Good night, Briar, the wind whispered to her, drifting through the open window. It rippled across her thoughts like a memory covered in velvet, soothing her mind as it had done every night since she could remember. Good night, my butterfly.

Her pillow warm beneath her head, Briar slept on, her rose pin set quietly aside on a table.

Good night, the wind repeated. Goodnight, my sweet chrysalis.