Chapters The world burned all around her. Smoke filled her lungs as she tried to breathe. Her coughs, however, were a heaven sent miracle, painful as they were. They meant she was alive. She tried to stand, but her body roared with furious pain, her muscles threatening to abandon her all together. The scent of blood filled her nostrils as she remembered her wounds.
A great maw of severed flesh and torn muscle yawned across her breast. Her eyes itched with dust and sand as she squinted through their swollen lids. Her horn had snapped and sent waves of fire through her head and neck. Her mane and tail had been nearly burned off of her, and she was sure at least one leg was broken.
“Tia...” Came a soft whisper from somewhere to her left. The voice, though muffled by blood, she recognized as her sister's. Turning her head, she saw a fuzzy mound of blue and red fur lying crumpled on the cracked earth. “Luna!” she cried, though it barely came out as a croak.
She began to crawl for her sister, each foot a thousand miles for the agony it gave her. When she finally reached her, her breath caught in her throat. If her own injuries could be called serious, Luna's would be mortal. Her sister looked at her, a hazy glaze over her eyes. “Is... is it over?” she asked.
Celestia gazed around herself for the first time. Fire was everywhere, as were bodies. Bodies of friends and foes alike, dead or dying. The sounds of battle still raged, the clatter of iron and steel sending her ears to ringing. Somewhere a war-horn sounded. Just off to her left lay a truly massive Minotaur, Calphir she recalled, battleaxe still in hand and cleaved from shoulder to sternum. Both of the horns that had decorated his head stood shattered and he was missing an eye, but his boorish smile was still plastered across his face.
Tears began to slide down her cheeks and she shut her eyes as tightly as she could. Not right now. Not when she should be standing. Her legs and hooves shuddered as she rose. Halfway up she buckled, but Calphir's smile forced her legs to stiffen, and her jaw to clench.
Now she could see them all. Young Wild Fire, the colt who dreamed of being a knight, lying with a spear in his belly. General Goldhoof surrounded by the more than thirty it had taken to bring the old stallion down. To her right lay gentle Prince Somber Reign, moaning but thankfully not dead. Next to him was another friend, Crystal. She too was alive, but barely. A great cut ran across her once beautiful face. Brikken was studded with arrows.
She would have wept for them then and there were it not for a shrill, stunted laugh from where she had previously lain. Though she had scarce noticed him before, now she saw that Rend had fallen there to. What grey fur of his that was left was matted and splotchy with grime. His mismatched eyes swollen and bloodshot. Blood burst from his mouth as he laughed again. She would have been angry with him, but there was no humor in his voice. It was a laugh of failure and defeat.
“No sister. It is not.”
Finally she turned to see the only one left. The one who had struck them all down.
She turned to Wrath, and his eyes of fire.
Celestia approached Wrath slowly. Each step fire. Each step blood.
Wrath stood with easy grace. He was not like any being that Celestia had ever seen before, nor would ever see again. A nightmare made flesh and metal, he stood upon two armored legs that ended in clawed feet. His raven-like wings stretched from his back and cast the world into shadow. His arms were bare, muscled things that were covered in burns and scars that ran all across his chest, red and angry. In his hands were a pair of blades, oddly simple and made of steel, that were caked with blood and gore. His face was hidden behind a featureless porcelain mask.
All but his eyes.
“One still stands” he said, his voice deep and harsh.
Celestia trembled to hear him speak. She stopped moving just out of his reach. To her credit, she did not cower, though it took her incredible effort. Instead, she stared right into those eyes of his. His burning eyes.
His eyes of fire.
Still Celestia held her ground. She gave him a simple nod in response, which sent him into a fit of laughter. Never had she hated him more than in that moment. Not because he was laughing at her. She was sure he wasn't. No, he was laughing at her friends who could not stand.
Fury had never motivated Celestia before, but now it pulsed through her like her own blood. She leapt at Wrath, swinging her hooves wildly. He simply stepped to the side and let her carry herself past him. Celestia would not be deterred though, as she flung herself at him again and again.
Soon enough Wrath grew bored with their game of tag. The final time she leapt he swatted her with the broad side of both blades. Celestia barely registered what was happening before pain shot up her spine and rendered her unable to move.
Time seemed to slow as Wrath strolled to where she lay, and she finally felt true fear. But more so she felt her own failure. She had lost. Everybody had died for nothing. It was over.
Is that really all you've got pipsqueak?
Celestia's ears poked up rapidly. She turned her head frantically trying to find where the question had come from. She wanted to tell whoever had said it that, yes this was all she had and screw them. She saw nobody but Calphir.
Just Calphir and his axe. Only a couple of feet away.
Its not going to get any closer if you just sit there and wait to die.
And there was the voice again. This time she knew who it was. Only one being could both injure her pride and strengthen her resolve simultaneously. On shaky hooves she began to crawl towards him. In just a few moments, though it felt like hours, she reached out and grasped the handle of Calphir's huge axe. But she knew it was too late.
Wrath stood over her, blades raised to strike. “You did well Celestia. I thank you for the sport.”
The whirling sound of death and metal. The blinding blue light. A scream of pain.
Celestia was stunned, staring at Luna standing in front of her in disbelief. Luna's blast had knocked Wrath back a few steps, and the surprise was evident. “You will not touch her.” Luna said. It was not a demand, but a statement of fact. Wrath regathered himself quickly.
“Oh really?” He said as he stepped forward.
Damaged as she was, Luna should not have been able to use any magic in the first place, let alone teleporting as she had. Yet the moment Wrath's foot hit the ground her magic revved to life. A deafening blast of blue energy shot from the shattered tip of Luna's horn and straight into Wrath. Once again he staggered, but this time Luna appeared to be done talking. A second blast followed by a third, then a fourth. All hitting their marks.
Celestia stared in absolute awe at her sister. Luna was standing. Luna was fighting.
Luna was winning.
Blood dripping down her sister's cheek. Fresh blood. From her horn. Luna's legs were beginning to shake, as if they could give out any moment. Luna wasn't winning.
She was stalling.
Celestia renewed her grip on Calphir's axe. The handle was cold, slick with blood, and it was immensely heavy. She tried with all of her physical might to lift it, but could not. Luna could not wait any longer. Wrath was, albeit slowly, making his way to them.
Her horn lit with magic. Her entire body erupted with the sensation of thousands of white hot spikes being shoved carelessly into her. Her vision began to blur, and her breath began heavier and more ragged than it already was. Her limbs felt weak, and sleep, true sleep, was calling her to it.
And the axe began to lift.
She kept her grip on the handle and strengthened her magic. She turned back to Luna. Wrath was over her now, and she did not seem to have another shot in her.
“Luna!”
She wasn't sure if Luna heard her or not, but a final ear shattering blast rang from her sister's horn. Wrath crossed his blades, ready to take the blow head on, but it was off that mark. It went low. Towards his feet.
A crash. A tyrant falling to his knees in shock.
And Celestia struck.
Calphair's axe buried itself in Wrath's head, grinding through mask and bone. All was still for that moment, as if time itself had been stunned into silence. Celestia made sure to look at Wrath one last time before he died. Right into his eyes. His burning eyes. His eyes of fire.
Now put out.
Book 1: The Crystal Empire
Celestia sipped shakily at her tea, desperately trying to calm herself. While she was no stranger to nightmares, those that had plagued her the previous night were some of the worst and most constant. It had been months and yet Wrath still plagued her dreams. The red bastard.
Her body ached as she stretched what few parts of her body she could without too much pain. Despite her transformation into an Alicorn, along with months of recovery, she couldn't flex any of her extremities without her old wounds flaring up again. It seemed that Wrath had truly left his mark.
Perhaps in more ways than one.
Sleep had not come easily to her since she had shoved an axe into Wrath's porcelain face. She would wake several times a night in a cold sweat, the dagger she kept next to her bed floating in her magic, ready to slice and stab and kill. Her eyes would dart around her chambers and she would not breathe until she was sure that the danger had passed. Then she would realize that the danger had passed months ago.
Another sip at her tea. No not a sip, it seemed, but a long draft. The scalding liquid burned its way down her throat and made her eyes begin to water, but she felt better. The dreams began to fade, and the weight of her weariness made itself known, but she had work that would best be done in the few hours she had before the morning came.
A heavy tome floated her way, enveloped in a warm yellow light. It was soon followed by two more. The Encyclopedia of Law: Editions One, Two, and Three. Gods did Celestia hate those books. Taking another draft of tea, she turned to the next chapter she had to read. The Encyclopedia of Law: Edition One, Chapter Two.
It was going to be another long morning.
______________________________
“Tia.”
“Huh? What?” Celestia's head flew about the room as her blurry vision began to correct itself. Feeling something oddly wet on her cheek, she brought a hoof to her face. Drool. She must have fallen asleep. It was too bad she hadn't used the books for makeshift pillows, for all the help they had given her. She had only just made it to chapter three it seemed.
“Tia.”
And there was the voice again, small and high pitched, just off to her side. And there was now a furry something viciously poking her sides with a fury rivaling that of a smith's stoking iron. She didn't have to guess who was there. Now that she was royalty, no common pony would willingly touch her without her consent. Even then, there was only one pony who was ever allowed to call her Tia. So she drowsily turned to her rather impatient sister.
Luna withdrew that damnable hoof as Celestia turned. She stood with a slight, but ever present, scowl scrunched up against her otherwise adorable little face. She was much smaller than Celestia, nearly a full head shorter, but she had an easy grace about her. Her coat and mane were a striking set of blues that contrasted beautifully with her hard teal eyes. Hard but unsure, Celestia thought.
“What is it Luna?”
Luna scoffed. “Its time to raise the sun dearest sister, or hadst thou forgotten?”
Celestia groaned as she stood. “Luna, you know you don't have to be so formal with me when we're alone. Drop the thee's and thou's would you please?” Not waiting for an answer, Celestia turned back towards her chamber's bathing room.
Celestia's chambers were rather large and ornate, and filled to the brim with fluffy pillows and furniture. The curtains were full of bright and vibrant shades of green and blue, and patterned in the fashion of the waves that ever rocked the sea. The windows had been thrown wide, and several moonbeams shone through. Still she never felt comfortable. The walls were cold, uncaring stone coloured gray and chipped with age and weather.
She had thrown out all of Wrath's furnishings, and for good reason. Wrath had enjoyed rather... uncouth... tastes during his tenure as Emperor. She remembered retching for hours after she had flung the door wide that first time.
Not that she had been surprised. By the end of it, Wrath had committed worse atrocities than what was to be found in his bed. No, it had been the smell that made her ill, not the shock. One look had told her what kind of being he had been.
But this was no longer the time for such worry. With Wrath's death, her homeland had been reborn! The greatest blight that her world would ever face had been washed away, and the golden era of ponies lay on the horizon. So it had been shouted across the tables in taverns as the common ponies shared drink in celebration. So it had been said at the alters as prayer was lifted to the gods. So it had been announced by every noble as they genuflected and threw themselves prostrate at the foot of their thrones. The nightmare was over.
So why did her's keep recurring?
She pondered this as she sank up to her ears into the scalding bath she had drawn, much to her sister's annoyance.
“Is this really the time?” she barked, her face scrunching up, warning of a legendary hissy-fit to come if the wrong words were spoken. As terribly amusing as it would have been –Luna could have been a world class contender if anypony had bothered to turn such things into a competitive sport– to watch the meltdown of the ages, neither of them had the time.
“Absolutely. It is our royal duty to make sure that were are at least presentable at all times, no?”
Luna bristled, but said nothing. She gave Celestia a curt nod, then –gracefully– stormed out of the room. Satisfied that another crisis had been narrowly averted by her smooth and skilled diplomacy, Celestia focused once again on the luxury of actual soap. Gods how she had missed soap during the war. Being the commander in chief of a multicultural revolution had had many perks, but soap was rarely one of them.
Her bath was over far to soon for her liking. If anyone supposed to ask the farmers, they might have said it ran to long, that winter had little enough sunlight as is, proper princess etiquette or not, so could she please move her keister before we all starve?
And now her headache was back. She had almost forgotten about the grain shortage. She groaned as she trotted towards the door. It would be meetings all day again today. Gods how she would never get used to the meetings! Oh they were necessary, but most would be tedious or trivial affairs. 'Princess, I am glad to inform you that our treasury has benefited from increased taxes', or 'This pony chipped that pony's fence', or even worse still, 'This Clan is being mean to my Clan
Though it would not be princessly to admit, Celestia had grown envious of Luna. No one came to Luna's nighttime court, so she was free to do as she pleased. No dealings with nobility. No tax meetings. It must be nice to have all of that time to adjust.
Time. Time was something she too frequently lacked. Ever since their ascension Celestia had been running around with her head on fire every day, hoping beyond hope that nothing would break before she went to bed. And break things surely would.
Celestia's father had been a smith, not a king. No one had taught her how to rule. So she blundered.
And what blunders they were. Clan Lulamoon lays claim to a swath of farmland due to ancient birthright? Reasonable. The land should go to the original owners, right? Too bad that land is currently claimed by Clan Sparkle by equally legitimate birthrights. Whoops.
Someone suggests a new tax be levied on the harvest, doubling the national treasury overnight? Fantastic. Clan Storm might have a small problem with it though, as that tax targets mostly earth ponies. Oh, and lets not forget those pesky farmers again.
Or the dinner with the Griffon Ambassador.
Celestia felt a small shudder stomp its way down her spine.
Celestia stepped across the threshold from her personal chambers to the common room between the two royal apartments, and was immediately set upon by the maids. They scrambled over each other, much like a ravenous hoard, shoving her regalia onto her hooves and neck and head. The already difficult nature of the task (most likely due to the lack of any real chain of command or organization) was compounded both by an unwilling victim, and her new height.
Soon enough though, the maids stepped back. Compared to most royalty she was dressed sparsely, but the armor-like jewelry she now wore was all that would fit her. Even still, the metal felt tight across her neck and hooves. She wasn't sure how much bigger she would get, but done growing she was not.
She gave the maids a dismissive nod before heading off towards the grand balcony.
____________________________________________________________________
Push. Lift. Push. Lift.
Working the bellows was a simple and steady motion. Push the air into the fire. Let it roar, then lift life back into the bellows. Make the fire breathe. In and out. Up and down. Push. Lift.
“That's enough for now Celly.”
With that a little pink maned unicorn (not that one would be able to tell it was pink under so much soot) stood back from the forge and watched as her father snatched a bar of white hot metal from its maw. His hammer came down with a precision born of decades of labor. Each strike forced the metal to writhe and twist into form and rhythm. He would fold it upon itself, then draw it out until it might tear only to fold it back. Soon enough, too soon in this cold, the heat left it, turning the metal from white to a muddy red. Back into the fire it went, and the filly back to the bellows.
Push. Lift. Fold. Draw.
This was the rhythm that Solaris had taught his daughter. Rhythm was the life blood of the forge, of ponies. It gave purpose. Station. Form. The smith was the master of rhythm, and there was no greater smith in Skyhold than Solaris.
Five more rounds with the hammer they went before the morning horn blew its note. Solaris sighed at the interruption of his work and set the metal aside. “Go wash yourself Celly and mind the counter while I am gone.” he spoke as he patted her head affectionately. The filly nodded before racing out of the shop and back into the house.
It was a comfortable place, one room carved into the side of Skyhold's mother mountain. A fire was nestled into its hearth in the back wall, bringing a steady warmth made one forget about the biting wind outside. Two cots sprawled around the hearth, upon one of which lay her little sister, sound asleep still. Thank the gods for that. For when Luna woke up, she would be hungry and fussy and demanding of all her big sister's attention. The little two-year old filly was absolutely adorable though, so Celestia didn't really mind.
Celestia sneaked her way to the washbasin on the other side of the room, careful not to waken Luna. She splashed her face and washed her short mane quickly, then made her way back to the shop. Just in time, she thought as she heard the door bell tinkle.
“Hello. How may I help.... you...” she began to stammer, her eyes wider than they had ever been. Standing in the shop was a cobalt minotaur, and by the gods was he big. His head was framed by two twisting ivory horns that had cracks running down their length. Two huge cloven hooves he balanced upon with an authority that was absolute. He wore six rings, five on his fingers inlaid with jewels, and one golden one in his nose. Across his muscled frame was strapped an axe, surely as tall as he was. On the whole, the shop seemed too small for him. Perhaps all of Skyhold was too small for him.
Celestia gulped, unsure if she should run. Minotaurs were not a common sight in Skyhold, and she had certainly never seen one this close, but they were not unheard of, though they typically camped outside of the city. Her father said that they guarded the caravans against bandits on their way to and from the city. He also said that they were very dangerous, that they could break bricks by squeezing them too hard, so she had better behave herself.
So she stared at him, and he at her.
But then a boorish grin came across his face, and a deep bellowing laugh burst from his lips. “Don't worry little one. I'm not here to eat you.” he said. Celestia breathed a mall sigh of relief. Good then. He extended his hand to her.
“My name is Calphir.”
_____________________________________________________________________
Celestia shook off the old memory as she stepped onto the grand balcony. Luna was already there, tapping a hoof impatiently. Celestia nodded to her sister as they took up positions on either end of the balcony. Celestia's horn lit with yellow light, her sister's blue. Celestia took a deep breath, and reached for the sun. She remembered her father having to do this everyday with the other unicorns in Skyhold. Hard to believe that she and Luna were now strong enough to do it alone.
The sun greeted her sleepily as she roused it. Celestia liked the sun, even if it was a bit lethargic at times. Soon enough, though, it was awake and eager to start the morning. Now came the hard part.
Celestia pumped her magic under the sun, and began to lift. She had never figured out where the sun was at night, but it had been no trouble to guess its weight. Absurdly heavy. Her magic groaned with effort, and soon her muscles joined it. Slowly the sun began to rise. Celestia risked a look toward Luna, who didn't seem to be having any easier a time with the moon. Celestia swore the two orbs were just like spoiled children.
Finally, it was done. The sun began to crest over the horizon and took control of its own trajectory, while the moon settled in to sleep, neither paying any mind to the two alicorns gasping for breath below. A small smile passed between the sisters. They were getting much better at this.
Celestia stretched before making her way towards Luna. The blue alicorn threw a subdued smile her way. Exhausted, probably.”How was the night court, sister?” Celestia asked.
“Absent, as usual. We would converse with thee, sister, but a carriage awaits us.”
“Carriage?”
“To the Crystal Empire.” Luna nodded to her guards, standing almost invisible against the walls, then began to trot towards lower floors. Celestia trotted after her, her own guards falling in line.
“The Crystal Empire? Why?”
Luna's head snapped around, eyebrows furrowed. “Is there a reason why I shouldn't?!”
“Curiosity, sister. Only that.”
Luna's expression softened. “We apologize. We do not know why we snapped.”
Celestia answered with an affectionate nuzzle. Gladly accepted.
A door flung wide to allow them into the gardens. Luna's carriage as a bulky, shiny black mound in the morning sunlight. Two burly pegasi were hitched to it, and seemed to be eager to take off. Luna turned to Celestia.
“We wish to visit Prince Somber and Crystal. We wish to know if they are in trouble.”
Celestia's eyebrows rose. “Is there something amiss?” Luna shook her head.
“Only rumors. Little things. Prince Somber spends his nights without sleep. Crystal refuses to see anypony and the like. 'Tis likely nothing.”
“But you go anyway.”
“But We go anyway.”
Another nuzzle, and Luna crawled into the carriage. “We will write if there is anything amiss.”
The pegasi, as if they had been whipped, charged forward, their wings pounding out a harsh beat. Upward. Upward.
Sister, I hope you are right.
Gone.
Author's Note
Note: Nightmare is an unedited volume.
Quicksilver supposed he should be grateful that this time they weren't dragging him face-down. That had not been a pleasant experience. In comparison, though any such comparison of dragging must be considered altogether relative, this particular dragging was almost kingly. As it turned out, barely being conscious put the sensation into a whole new light. Imagine that.
Never mind his profusely bleeding skull, or the bruises that would surely form, as long as his face didn't scrape across every pebble before he was thrown in front of which ever noble thought to imprison him this time, Quicksilver was content.
He opened eyes as far as he could without developing a headache. His vision was still blurry, but enough detail was returning to allow him to identify which manor he had been taken to.
Rathborne's. It had to be Rathborne's.
Quicksilver had nothing against griffons. Most of the time he liked them better than his fellow ponies. Count Rathborne, however, was a bastard covered bastard with bastard filling. He had tried to have Quicksilver executed on more than one occasion, and was otherwise entirely rude when Quicksilver had never done anything to him. Well besides regularly robbing him blind. But, come on, Quicksilver robbed everyone. There was no need for some special beef.
A door slammed open somewhere ahead. One of his captors, a gray feathered fellow, took grip of his short mane in one claw, while smacking him quite rudely with the other;.
“Wake up.”
“Oh, but a nap sounds so appealing right now.” Quicksilver coughed through a freshly bleeding jaw. The griffon gave a short grunt before tossing him into a nearby room. Hmph. No humor on that one. The landing hurt as much as he thought it might. Surely by now something in his body had been broken. Pride, if nothing else.
Quicksilver took stock of his surroundings after the initial post pain nausea began to wear off. The place was oddly plain. Bare walls, no carpet or fluffy couches. A small coffee table sat in the center, unvarnished. No dust anywhere. This room was new.
Its only other inhabitant, however, was not. Count Rathborne's feathers, once the very essence of autumn tones, had started to lose their coloring. His beak was a crooked cruel black hook set upon a squashed face. Two cobblestone eyes squinted forward with barely hidden contempt.
“Quicksilver” he spat with a nasally voice.
“Reginald.”
The griffon bristled. “You will address me as My Lord, peasant.”
“As my lord Reginald wishes.”
“Glibness will find you no profit here.”
Perhaps, Quicksilver reflected, poking a bear that was already contemplating a pleasant mauling with a stick would be considered by most a terrible idea, but Reggie deserved it. He was a pompous ass, and Quicksilver had let him know that on multiple occasions. Not that it ever stuck. He was still a pompous, violent, featherbrained, specist, classist ass. Perhaps a reminder was due.
“You're an ass.”
“I advise you to watch your tongue, thief”
“Apologies. You are an ass. My. Lord.”
“Of course this would be a waste.” Rathborne rose from his seat and made for the door. As he made his exit, his thugs took hold of Quicksilver once again. They hoisted him to his hooves, such a small courtesy, before dragging him from the room.
“And I thought our courtship was going so well Reggie.”
Count Reginald Rathborne scowled to his guards. “Put him in the dungeon. Maybe a few days without food will make him more willing to listen.”
_________________________________________________________________
Quicksilver awoke very, very sore, and very, very hungry. Six days. Six long days he had been locked in this cell. Six days. At least he thought it had been six days. There was no real way to tell down here.
He rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling, and tried not to think about food. He tried not to think of the merchants in the streets above him, peddling their lemon cakes and loaves of sweet bread. Oh! The sweet bread! The Crystal Empire may be primarily famous for its jewels, but surely the sweet bread was worth a few pages in history.
His stomach growled, and pain followed soon after. He curled into a ball, praying to anything and everything that he would just die. He didn't. Instead, a small sound was heard down the hall.
Hoofsteps.
Quicksilver slunk as deep into the shadows as was possible, his breath short and quiet. They had been coming every few hours to taunt him with food, or just to outright beat him. Rathborne may have wanted to talk originally, but now he seemed content to take vengeance on Quicksilver for every crime, real or merely perceived. His black fur and feathers would have rendered him invisible in the gloom had it not been for his disheveled silver mane, which glowed like a beacon in the darkness.
He could try to out maneuver them, but the cell was too small. He could fight, but his starved body would be too weak. No, there was no escaping this. All he could hope was that they would kill him this time.
But it was not the griffons who came to unlock his cage. A cloaked figure, standing shorter that Rathborne's lackeys, shuffled in carrying a tray of sweetbread and beer. A hood covered most of its face with only the tip of a small pink muzzle peaking out. A pony. Thank the Gods!
The pony set its tray in front of him and sat, staring. Quicksilver couldn't see the ponies face, but it made no threatening gesture. Still, Quicksilver did not trust it. Rathborne had it in him to stoop very low indeed. So he stared back. For a while, nothing happened.
“Eat.”
Her voice was gentle and firm, and it was most definitely a her. Quicksilver, more than willing to follow the order if still untrusting, kept one eye planted firmly on her as he took a bite. The sweetbread had certainly tasted good in his imagination. Now it was heaven. Soon everything was forgotten as he dove in. Only when he had finished his meal did she speak again.
“Come.”
Quicksilver was not given a chance to respond. The mare stood and walked from his cage, not bothering to check if he was following or not. She didn't need to. Quicksilver had grown very tired of his cell.
Rathborne's dungeons were the stuff of horror stories. A damp, decrepit musk hung in the nostrils, accenting the stains smeared across dark stone walls and floors. Cruel black iron chains and bars were perhaps the only new and well maintained things here. The prisoners certainly weren't. What few of them there were were silent and starving. They stared as the two passed. The mare did not notice.
Quicksilver noticed. A peculiar guilt tingled down his spine. This mare had fed him while the others had looked on. Their mouths would have become wet and flavored with imagined tastes. No she had freed him. Perhaps it would be best if he followed her example and walked with his eyes forward.
She led him down several more cell lined halls, thankfully unoccupied, and up a spiraling staircase until, at last, they exited the undercroft. Out they went through a large door of brown oak into the back foyer of the mansion.
The back foyer was not built with guests in mind. The floor was made of unpolished wood. Various archways and doors were splattered along the walls asymmetrically, none giving any sense of where they lead.
The mare – likely through some sort of divination, for she could not have been farther from Rathborne's usual taste in lackeys – trotted through an archway to their left. After two more turns they found themselves in the front foyer; one door away from freedom.
A door guarded by two of the three griffons in the world Quicksilver wanted to see the least. The bigger one locked eyes with him. He shoved an elbow into his fellow. The two made to stop the two ponies immediately.
Of course , Quicksilver thought, Who ever heard of a tale where walking out the front door actually worked?
The mare made no move to stop. The forward griffon – a burly greyfeather – smirked before lunging at her with a newly drawn dagger. He never made it.
Breathe in.
Flash in the moonlight. Splatter and gurgle.
Muffled yell. Twisting crack.
Breathe out.
Quicksilver could not comprehend what had just happened. Where the guards had just stood now lay two fresh corpses. The mare, cloak drenched in blood, dragged him outside and into a full sprint before he remembered to breathe again. Somewhere a bell sounded.
He could feel something hot on his muzzle. It dripped into his open mouth. It took everything he had not to wretch then and there. He had had no idea that could be that much blood in someone.
They made a sharp turn into an alleyway littered with trash. A sudden stop, then the mare tackled him into what must have once been a shop of some sort. She shoved a hoof in his mouth to keep him from screaming.
Outside he could hear the paws, claws, and shouts of what was surely hundreds of griffons frantically giving chase. Their chain mail hissed as they tore the world apart trying to find them.
They will find us! He thought, Surely they can smell the blood!
He could certainly smell the blood. The stench was overpowering. It filled his nostrils until all he could remember was the sight of metal ripping open the guard's neck. All he could hear was the final desperate gurgle the griffon had made as he drowned.
Breathe in. Breathe out. They can smell... Breathe... Blood. Breathe...breathe...brea–
Faint.
