“Like moths to cloth!” his Queen yelled. Where it was directed, he wasn’t exactly sure, but her voice was so loud it bounced off the walls silencing the hoofsteps; it could have meant for everypony if she was so inclined. “We’d be left with a patchwork city after we’ve cleaned up this mess. All because that abomination decided now, at all times, to escape! And what of my prize?”

“Unfortunately, my Queen, lost,” he replied, pursing his lips, “we will catch him again, even in all this discord. There's nothing outside the boundary of the city except the endless stretching of dunes and hills. They’d have to be stricken with madness to rather bake under Tia’s light than whatever you fated for them, my Queen.”

“Thank you, captain. But I’m afraid it doesn’t put me at any ease,” she replied, clenching her jaw. He didn’t dare look at her while she was like this. Her normally marble look was smashed to bits, with unbrushed fur revealing some of the skin beneath, her normally regal and radiant golden locks appeared like strands of twine not yet pulled from the reed; the disheveled monarch looked almost like somepony else entirely. The fatigue was clearly weighed heavily upon her sweat reeked body and sunken, rose red sclera. “My brother,” he could hear the contempt in her voice, “what of him?”

“We have yet to encounter him. Doubtless that if he had chosen to charge to you with his destitute band we would have gutted him before he had lain an eye you, my Queen,” he spoke with deliberate confidence if only to put her at a higher sense of ease. He saw the fate of the guards that were put there to assure no plots, all of them green, all of them dead. He could only look at them with an expression of poorly kept together stoicism, as sheets were placed over the many corpses, their blood pooled on the stone; more than one missing a head.

“Yes, and only if that were so. Now he and the rest of his fungal companions have spread dissent among my ponies, corrupting my crop, leaving rotten grain to grow from between every crack,” she seethed, spit flying from her mouth as she spoke in her low voice, stressing all the phonetics Like a hammer pitching a new brass bell.

“Then I’ll be the sickle,” he remarked, continuing to match her stride, “we can cut down the dissenters, cull them even! If that is your desire, my Queen.”

She was quiet for a moment. A heavy one not unlike an erudite scholar’s; her face began screwing up. He couldn’t tell if she was disgusted or simply pondering how many ‘sheafs’ she wanted. “Don’t cause too much bloodshed. It cannot be helped that the plebs are so easily distracted and deceived by the sweet words of traitors. A display of mercy would be appropriate at this time.”

Anvil felt a tug at the corner of his lip, looking at her sideways. “Mercy, my Queen? If you would allow me, I must say that I am pleasantly surprised.”

“‘Surprised,' captain? And here I believed you to be a sycophant, vying purely for my favor,” she smirked, looking at him sideways.

“You know me better than that, my Queen,” he replied, mimicking the Queen’s sideways look, half-smiling. “I vye for something much grander and greater than either riches or favor.”

“Yes,” she replied, looking at him with an expression that he knew was coy, “It does seem you proved to be your own detriment though bringing my groom-to-be right here.”

They both turned a corner into another corridor, a galloping guard-pony prompting Anvil to trap shut his jaw, reciprocating the nod the guard threw to him as he ran past; remaining quiet until he could no longer hear the hoofsteps before looking back to her with a shrug. “Loyalty and duty are very different things compared to my own wants and desires, my Queen. I’m not a somatic inquisitor or philosopher, but what’s the point of having loyalty and duty at all if they’re just as uncontrollable as the heart.”

She remained quiet, in what he hoped was pensiveness, her expression either stoic or merely blank - he couldn’t tell.

The rest of their trek was in silence. Anvil flanked the Queen's right as they made their way through the dimly lit corridors until they reached the doors of the grand throne room; their passing through them was met with a thunderous single stomp upon the floor by several hundred guards. The entirety of the castle garrison gathered in waiting, hooves to their chests in silent salute. Never at ease, Anvil remarked inwardly, trailing behind his Queen. There are those who believed that the pride the guard had in themselves was nothing more than superbia, unlearnt and misplaced, and he regarded them both with and as phlegm.

He followed his Queen up the few marble steps to the throne, lagging behind her as she took root at the front and center of the slight podium, giving her watch over the entirety of the garrison; forcing their eyes to glance upward as not to have her out of sight. Anvil couldn’t help but attach his eyes to her as well, watching the metamorphosis into a leader fromqueen in a seamless transition. Her entire body appeared to relax, the pinnacle of composure, but he saw the muscle around the joint of her jaw become slightly pronounced as she steeled it.

Her eyes surveyed the room, head unmoving. She looked down to the floor, blinking, before looking back up over her stallions in armor; parting her lips and releasing a barely audible exhale. Then Anvil looked over the garrison as his Queen inhaled to speak. “Madness. Chaos. Famine. Death. Ruin… when the world was consumed in the decay that Tia wrought, burying our cities, our fellow ponies, and our lives in the sand. When the south was lost to the frost, cold, the unyielding blizzards brought by Na, it was Vanhoover that stood above it all and said ‘no,' battling back these troubles, remaining prosperous and safe! When the horned beasts from the West rampaged across the salt plains and sought to bring destruction and death to these lands, we said ‘no’ to their reavers and rapists! When the pegasi in their sky haven sought to rain down their barbarism upon our city and steal away our prosperity, we said ‘no’ to their insolence! Now an upstart abomination has fueled rebellion in our city, drowning it in smoke and dissidence, bringing the ruin that plagued the world so long ago right into the borders of our city! And again, we will cry again into the heavens that singular word we have screamed into the face of every blackguard and threat to our great city: no!” the full weight of her proclamation carried across the entire chamber, rousing the entire garrison into concurring cheers, stamping their hooves upon the floor so heavily and hard that Anvil broke his stoic expression with a tiny tug at the corner of his cheek. They’ll bring it crashing down, he mused with a smirk. “So go! Go forth to battle! Bring me the mutinous cur in chains and quell this rebellion. For your Queen!”

“For the Queen!” the voices of entire congregation roared with a near zealous fervor, the sound of three hundred hooves banging on the metal of their cuirasses followed, hoof over the heart. Orders were called from the front, every fifty guards ordered into a contingent and filed out the throne room in a march, lead each by a guardspony wearing a bronze helm.

Anvil watched them for a moment until the room was quarter empty. He looked sideways to his Queen as he took a few steps to stand beside her. “Inspiring,” he complimented, still wearing the slight tug at his lip.

“This will be a scar on this city’s visage,” she replied somberly, eyes locked forward at the leaving guard, “and after today I suspect many of them will have them as well.”

“Scars fade, my Queen,” he consoled, offering her a reassuring smile. “Some of your guards won’t be fussed. I haven’t met a stallion yet who didn’t want to boast about their accomplishments, and to a soldier, every scar is a trophy.”

His Queen sighed, glancing down. “I worry this might be the last day. It gnawed at me. You know that. This could be our fall if the city is lost. Become ash alongside the tapestries and buildings.”

“Do not concern yourself with those thoughts. Have confidence in your guard. Have confidence in me. I will stamp out these flames, I promise you. I will bring the one responsible for this back to you on a platter, I promise this too. Finally, I will deliver to you, again, your prize. I promise all of these, my Queen, and these thoughts of your fall will become nothing more than fictional echoes,” Anvil tensed his jaw, looking at her furrowed brows before tearing his eyes away, walking ahead of her down the throne’s steps.

“Anvil,” he heard her mutter, barely audible.

He stopped, looking over his shoulder, ear twitching at the mention of his name. “Yes, my Queen?”

“Come back to me,” she commanded softly, her porcelain features cracking, a small, sad smile on her face.

Anvil stood in place, looking into her blue eyes, lost. “As you command, my Queen,” he replied, lip curved into a half grin before he forced his eyes off her, walking down the steps; the marching hooves becoming muted as he walked off to fulfill his duty, the single command of his Queen echoing in his mind.

He trailed at the back of the small army. He knew the city proper has a sizable garrison by itself, but they’d be quickly overwhelmed unless the reinforcements gallop to their relief. He looked over the well-disciplined unit, their blunt unsightly helmets used for incapacitation if hooves were not enough to quell the rebellious fire within a pony. Helmets were more accessible to utilize than conventional weaponry. Whilst true they possessed many excellently crafted weapons, most could only be gripped between the teeth; the tools mostly a remnant of a bygone era of unicorn garrisons and looted pegasi weapons. His own silver cast regalia of service possessed a spiraled silver horn unique to him, the other lower ranking officers had horns that were merely no more than brutal looking spikes, abandoning all pretenses of mimicking the horned ponies of yore.

As they neared the great gate that blocked the interior from the outside, he jogged ahead to parting stallions, arriving at the front of his guard as they all stopped; no sound other than the faraway yelling and banging on the citadel doors could be heard. He looked to his sides, a guard was stationed at each wheel, their hooves resting on the spokes ready to open the gate at his immediate command. He turned to face the regiments, each of stood with diligent expressions, like looking over an army of statues. “A sickness has consumed our city,” he stated loudly and clearly, sniffing. “Let’s go cure it. For the Queen!”

“For the Queen!” the loud voices filled the entirety of the castle as they replied in chorus, stamping a hoof upon the stone as Anvil turned to face the castle doors, bracing himself as the iron gate lifted and the series of chains began to pull the doors inward apart.

“Charge!” his voice a lion’s roar as he began to break out into a gallop, immediately the orchestra of clopping hooves followed him, just as the red light from outside poured on in alongside a mob that was bathed in it. Audacious dolts, he thought with derision as his stallions clashed with the rabble, adrenaline spiking in his core. They were a faceless mass of traitors to him, regarding them with no sympathy as he struck them and shoved ahead, tackling forward with his armour clad shoulder; sending pony after pony reeling to the ground. “Push, push!” he encouraged, teeth bared. “For the Queen!”

He saw every expression turn to regret as his ivory colored hoof collided into their muzzles. Minutes into the brawl he kept an eye shut, another’s blood spurting into his eye. Longer and longer, his hoof began to tire, the mob beginning to flee and disperse, leaving behind a few unfortunate souls to cover their escape. He saw guard stamp upon the heads of a few of the fallen as if in applause but saw no expressions of delight upon their faces. The last pony he sent to the ground in cowering submission was a lithe looking stallion, who hid his busted lip and two blackened eyes upon the stone, shivering.

Anvil wiped his eye as his guards rushed passed him, the Vanhoovan ‘legion’ pursued the runners, spreading out in a manner that some would call disorganized. To Anvil, they were only rushing to their next station - bringing order to the city - and did not voice out the order to halt. Law and some semblance of society needed to return, and swiftly at that. He took a few steps forward until he stopped under the portcullis of the citadel, a few guard brushing past him, but eyes didn’t wander from the city before him. His eyes fostered the color orange as he looked to the sky. Discord, he thought with an expression of loose stoicism; watching the tide of flames that drowned the city. The embers were fluttered up on high by the smoke, making the very air itself look alight in a fire, reflecting off the helmets of every guard that galloped past. He could see the tapestries burn, bonfires erected around the city that rivalled some buildings in height, everywhere he looked he could only see burning; which filled him with a farrago of rage and enchantment. In its own way, it was beautiful. He could feel the heat upon his coat like a caress, and the air tasted of soot and copper. It reminded him of the forges from when he was a foal, and like those forges, the city was being smelted. Not to be shaped by a talented blacksmith or metallurgist, but to be shaped by the foe into a guillotine that wished to strike the head of the society and purge all civility from the land with her blood. He doubted refined steel would be the product of such a choking anarchy, only the misshapen and brittle blade, but he knew that mistakes of the forge could be smelted again; bent and shaped into something stronger. Something better.

Anvil took a moment to compose himself, walking forwards until the encumbering thought and captivating sight fell from his shoulders, and he joined his guard in galloping into the city proper.

The soldiers, upon coming into the inhabited boundary, streamed down every alley and street like a flood. Anvil stuck to the main road, his task much higher than merely dealing with rabble rousers and rebels. Lining the roads closer to the citadel, guards were already dealing with much of the strife, with ponies of various wellness gathered in groups and forced onto their knees, some guard still beating the more insubordinate ones into deeper holes of submission that they’d likely never climb out of again.

Terrible, the single word summation was stated plainly in his mind, keeping his amber eyes locked ahead. The closer one got to the citadel and the foundries, the more numerous the guards patrolling the streets grew. The further from the vicinity from the monarch’s quarter he got, the more gaulish the situation became; his attention was reluctantly forced ahead. The upstart prince would stay to lead his pack of maggots, but the father and her majesty’s prize will not be so eager to remain. That leaves only one place... He passed brawls on the roadside, sometimes between guard and citizen, other times citizen on citizen. Loyalists or vanguard property owners, every little bit helps, he mused with mot, reaching the dreg quarter in a canter. The bastard would be safest here, he thought as he passed a few idle guard, bloody and bruised; some leaning against the wall of a building with their dented helmets by their side. Must have been outnumbered, he thought with a grimace as he watched them spit crimson blood onto the ground beside them, panting for air greedily.

Here he became skittish. He was by no means incapable of fending anypony off, but his odds of victory decreased with every subsequent foe that attacked him simultaneously, and the peasants knew all the right places to hide here. They’re like insects here. Burrowing in the sand, he remarked inwardly, glancing from side to side; checking the windows for the twinkle of eyes, and the alleyways for silhouettes.

He turned onto Slag Street from Glass Way, where the beginning of the dry canals from a time long gone crisscrossed throughout the district, the empty lanes home to sand, scrap metal, and the occasional beggar. A risky but necessary shortcut. Hopefully, it doesn’t lead to my abrupt end, the thought intruded on him, but he was self-aware of the paranoia that inflicted him, and he began to see figures in the wisps of smoke through the windows.

Anvil’s ear pricked, surprised, hearing voices in what sounded like a conversation rather than a plot. They weren’t whispered words, but loud and distant, and of an acrimonious variety. He slowed his steps to a brisk walk, listening out for the voices as he got closer.

“Fuck you,” he heard a voice growl, young and quivering. He hurried into a jog as soon as he listened to a splutter from the young speaker and a grunt from a second unseen pony, the unmistakable clobber of a punch was the loudest sound he heard in this disconcertingly quiet part of the city.

“Don’t kill ‘im. Oo-else is supposed to work in the ‘fineries when we’re living it up in the silver district’?” he heard mare’s voice, a dichotomous tone of vain authority and lower class drawl.

“‘E won’t shut ‘is trap,” he heard a stallion gripe, just as Anvil stopped around the corner of an alley, slowly peaking his eye around.

“Maybe your mare should do the hitting instead. Maybe then I’ll feel something,” the tied up stallion mocked, Anvil recognized the spite and mettle. They caught one of my stallions, he clenched his teeth, crouching low as he turned the corner.

The stallion grunted as he swung at the guard again, clocking him in the jaw and sending blood spouting from his mouth, splitting his lip. “I don’ care what that ‘orned prick sez, I’ll kill ya like we’ll kill your cuntin’ ‘arlot of a queen,” the stallion threatened, growling, continuing to pound the subdued guard.

“Ey, ‘hose that?” the mare asked, eyes landing on Anvil, who had decided to forego stealth at the stallion’s last remark. “‘Nother fuckin’ guard, is it?”

The stallion turned to him with a sneer, crease between his brow. “Fuck off ‘fore I bash yer skull in. This our city now,” the stallion snarled, taking a few antagonistic steps toward Anvil. “You ‘ear me? Git outta ‘ere before I kill ya,” he threatened, Anvil continued to stride to him, his face not bending into any expression. “You deaf? I’ll knock ya upside the head,” the stallion rushed toward Anvil, snarling like a hound as he swung his hoof at Anvil like a club.

Anvil’s movement was swift. The captain dodged to the right, wrapping a hoof under the stallion’s thrown hoof and pit, aiming the horn of the helmet at his eye and striking it forward like a lance; piercing the green marble. The stallion tried to form a pained scream in his throat, but it never left his mouth; immediately falling limp in Anvil's hooves, dead.

“No, no, no,” the mare screeched as Anvil discarded the stallion’s corpse on the ground before him, lingering an eye full of detesting upon the body, before walking past it with indifference as the mare took the one-eyed head in her hooves; weeping.

“Are you alright?” he asked the tied up guard as he lowered down, pulling at the rope with his teeth.

“Peachy,” the stallion replied weakly, taking a few hoarse breaths. “Sorry. ‘Sir.' They roughed me up bad. It’s hard to talk,” each short sentence was followed by a large gulp of air.

“Save rank for when civility is restored, private,” his tone was that of sympathy, holding the stallion in place before he slumped over. Barely a stallion, he remarked inwardly, looking over the helmetless guard with pursed lips; the youth evident in his shaggy brown made and sparse yellow coat. Anvil recognized the rattle of death from his throat every step he gasped for air. Choking on his blood. Abominable way to die, the sorrowful thought forced a frown on his face, and he was thankful for the low light. “You’ve been roughed up pretty bad.”

“Will I be alright?” the stallion asked him, looking up at him with one eye, too tired to put any emotion into his words.

“Yes,” Anvil lied, swallowing the melancholy, placing a hoof on the stallion’s shoulder. “You’ll probably want to sleep it off. Get some rest, I’ll protect you.”

“Okay, okay,” the young guard complied, shutting his eyes and leaning his head against the brick wall, his breaths slowing. Anvil kept the hoof in place, the moment passed in silence, the guard eventually resting upon his outstretched leg until his breathing stopped; at which point Anvil drew his hoof back to himself, as the young guard slumped over to the side and the fell cheek first to the ground. His lifeless face was washed over with the orange light of the ember filled sky.

I didn’t even get his name, the thought passed through him as he got back up, casting a scornful eye toward the weeping mare. “You there. Weep for him later. I need you to tell me whe-”

“Fuck you,” she spat, sobbing, holding the dead stallion’s head close to her chest. “You killed ‘im. You killed ‘im!”

“Then we’re even,” he replied coldly, taking steps toward her. “That guard you and your stallion had tied up is dead. Choked on his own blood, comparably slow and painful than what I did to him,” he explained, stopping a couple of feet behind her. “So you’re going to tell me what I need to know before I pierce your chest and what your suffocate,” he told her just, ending with a tired exhale through his nostrils.

The mare froze, catching a sob in her throat and sniffling. “What?” she croaked, her body a quiver.

“Where is the Prince?” he spat the question at her.

“W-who?”

“The unicorn, the upstart, the deformed abomination behind this entire facade of rebellion,” he explained.

She remained silent, all he could hear out of her was her breaths. “We last saw ‘im goin’ to the ‘Racht Quarter,” she answered limply, any trace of the vigor she had before had faded.

He cursed, and galloped away from her, passing the corpse of his fallen subordinate, but he couldn’t stop to mourn. Vracht Quarter. So he’s accompanying them to the train. That makes things… difficult, he thought, seething.

Anvil cut through through many backstreets and alleys in the shortcut to get back to the main road, joining a swathe of galloping guards, each one with a yellow streak painted down the side of their helmets. He ran alongside one of them, a stocky looking mare. His hooves began to ache. “This is the entire Diamond Quarter garrison, sergeant,” he spoke between shallow breaths.

“The bastard’s been spotted heading toward Vracht. We’re going to intercept him, sir,” she said, determined, her lips closed tight.

“At least you didn’t underestimate him,” he half-complemented, looking ahead to the twenty galloping soldiers in front and glancing to the eight behind. I don’t think it’s enough, the pessimistic thought ran through his head alongside the image of the dead colt in the alley. “He’s got something with him. Something important to our Majesty.”

“What is it?” she asked, casting to him a curious blue eye. Anvil responded with a hard look, prompting her to look back ahead, lips pursed. “Sorry, sir.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to assist you this matter, sergeant. Every second that goes by the prospects of giving our Queen back what is rightfully hers dwindles,” he revealed, his eyes stone.

“I…” she tapered off, furrowing her brows. “I understand, sir.”

“Good,” he replied quietly, not looking at her.

They continued their charge, their galloping hooves a pin drop compared the sound of the destruction all around them, but it was Anvil’s beating heart that soundest loudest to him. The adrenaline that embraced him when he left the palace still coursed through him, and it took him clenching his jaw to stop the shivers… fear hadn’t occurred to him, he didn’t want to think himself afraid of what was ahead, nor did he want to dwell on the risk. Flashes of the dismembered and beheaded prison guard entered his mind, the pieces of bone on the stone, the blood running through the cracks in the mortar. There will be suffering and there will be anguish, for we are sent against the vanguard of Tartarus, he recalled the line, baring teeth, and he unleashes upon the world the cleansing fire, his minions seeing nought to remain but plunder and petty cruelties, he came to pass buildings in ruin, blood staining the rubble, but the darkness he wrought will replace with light, for the dusk and dawn still remain in the world, and we its twilight.

“Cover!” a stallion’s voice broke him from stupor, just as a large piece of rubble splattered an unnamed guard into gore, sending dust and shards of the granite paving stones into the air, leaving everyone coughing and screaming in alarm.

Anvil covered his eyes in reaction, looking at the small crater in horror, casting an eye to a nearby alleyway and fleeing towards it; clenching his teeth in a fury. “Shit,” he cursed, seeing the morale immediately crumble of the regiment. “Fucking unicorn.”

“He knew we were coming,” the sergeant joined him, panting, her voice shaking. “We have to pull ba-”

“No,” he interrupted, staring at her, lip revealing his lower teeth. “We have to continue the charge.”

“Sir, he just threw a bould-”

“Gather your guard. Now. We have to go immediately,” he stressed through teeth. “The only way into the district is that road.”

“We could organize into two groups to flank him from the Bronze quarter,” she offered, her lips in a frown.”

“No time,” he spat. “Gather them. Now!”

“O-okay, as you command, sir,” she stuttered, pausing for a moment to breathe before the run back out into the open to assemble the stragglers.

“You’ll never be faulted for your loyalty,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing the bridge of his muzzle before he jogged out safety to join the demoralized brigade.

He didn’t say any words of encouragement. His mouth felt too sour for that. The guard had filled an alley on the adjacent side of the street, their courage and bravado went. Riots and strikes didn’t prepare them for this. Glory is a reward that quickly loses the appeal, he thought as he observed them. The sergeant glanced at him but immediately looked away, her mouth scrunched.

She marched to the end of the alleyway beside Anvil, and he heard her sigh, cracking her neck and adjusting her helmet before turning back to her regiment. “We charge,” she stated the order simply and bluntly, looking over them, “for the Queen.”

“For the Queen!” they all yelled with exhorting, Anvil joined them doing so, turning with the sergeant toward the street… and then they galloped.

They passed the splattered remain of the guard, their hooves stomping on the stones as they charged to certain doom. There was a dreadful quiet before the sound of demolishment and destruction sounded out loud. “Watch out!” Anvil called out to them, seeing the chunk of rubble flying through the air, the blue tinge of the unicorn’s grip dissipating as momentum carried it through the air toward them. It smashed into the road before them, and they skirted around it, just as another piece of torn off building colliding and rolled over two rash guards; leaving them rough paste on the stone. Keep going.

The rubble kept coming, and it kept killing, dwindling them to less than twenty. It’s like doomsday, Anvil thought, glancing at the orange sky, ready to dodge the falling debris that rained from it. I have to get to them, the mind urged him as the lone figure came into view, the two familiar smudges of orange and white fleeing off behind him; his attention drawn to the smaller white speck. Her prize, he remarked, teeth grit. He looked back to the unicorn, whose features were more apparent as he came further away from being just at the edge of his vision. He growled in detestation, seeing a backstreet appear in his peripheries, his escape. He veered off, immediately feeling himself fill with self-loathing and hatred, his galloping hooves landing upon the stone with greater force as anger carried him.

“Captain?” he heard the sergeant called for him, her voice quick to become distant to his ears, the alley making an immediate left turn.

I’m sorry, his compunction of thought he wished to say out loud but couldn’t part his jaw, his lungs too greedy for the air that carried him. He heard their last vestiges, voices, and screams before they became too far to be understood. At the end of the alley he saw the dirt path that connected back to the main road, but more importantly, he saw the tail end of the locomotive, which became his immediate destination.

His legs began to burn as he trod up dirt, hearing the hiss of the brakes becoming undone. He leaped onto the rearmost cart, climbing up and slamming open the back door, continuing forward with immediate haste. He jolted when he felt the floor move beneath him, and he looked over his shoulder, seeing the scene beginning to move away from him. He’s going North? What does this madpony thing he’s doing?

He moved from cart to cart, pushing apart the doors and hopping the gap to the next, his body begging him for respite. When he reached the passenger cart, much of seats and walls still coated with dried blood. Anvil moved up and saw through the glass the father and cold with one another, the older orange stallion moved his lips while looking to Anvil; although he knew what he was saying wasn’t meant for him.

His hooves carried him on, and he saw the door to the conductor’s cabin slam shut as the father stepped away from it, the haggard looking father standing before it; his hooves spread apart and locked in place, guarding it. Anvil entered the shared cart, the father’s expression stern and unforgiving, his jaw jutting out. He stood there, looking at his foe and last barrier between him and his Queen’s prize. The silence continued as the train began picking up more speed.

“We didn’t refuel it. Once you're in the barren North, you’re not coming back,” Anvil informed, taking a few deliberate steps toward him. “Give me the colt, and mercy is assured.”

“No,” he spat in a defiant growl, huffing. “Just go, leave us be.”

Anvil smirked, sucking his teeth, tasting smoke. “No.”

The captain dashed forward, feigning movement to the left as Sunder reacted with a punch, at which Anvil dodged under it and grappled around the extended limb. Eager to get it over with, he stabbed his helmet toward his face, although to his surprise the older stallion possessed a more significant deal of strength than he expected; slamming down and instead sending Anvil piercing his side instead, the sickening sound of a breaking bone was heard, and Anvil was sent reeling away, panting. He saw blood on the stallion’s chest but refused to relent, and charged forward again. Sunder hopped backward but immediately fell in a grunt of pain, but Anvil collided into the side of a seat, embedding the horn and keeping stuck in place. He yanked in a futile effort to get it free again before growling lowering his head, popping out of the helmet, his clay-colored mane swaying down the sides of his face.

He looked to his opponent and was immediately sent reeling, a hoof striking into his muzzle, causing him to bite down on his tongue and tasted immediate copper; blood spitting from his mouth. He had no time to break out of his daze before another strike followed, hitting him on the side of the face before a uppercut came right after, sending him on his back. The entire day’s burden fell upon him all at once, and every muscle that lined his body was screaming for him to stop, but one single sentence echoed in his mind that fueled him on. Come back to me he heard her voice, and he climbed back to his hooves; seeing Sunder back away, a hoof grasping his bleeding side.

Anvil screamed, a mixture of blood and spittle flying from his mouth as he rammed head first into Sunder’s chest, wrapping his hooves around his neck and pushing his hand hooves forward; sending the larger stallion on his back. He straddled around Sunder's barrel, his legs crushing the wound and his forehooves thrashing at Sunder’s face, beating it to a pulp.

“No!” he heard a young voice howl, and upon glancing up he felt something his neck, just in time to see the azure light disappear from his horn and the colt looking at him with a quivering frown; tears falling freely from his eyes and down his cheeks.

Anvil swallowed, feeling a blockage and immediately coughed a small geyser of blood onto the floor just over Sunder’s head. Breathing through his nose, he calmly got back onto his hooves and turned shakily around. He limped forward a few steps but found his movement hindered by a weight around his neck. Glancing, he saw his helmet. What’s that doing there, he thought with diminished sanity. He pulled it from his neck, causing blood to flow freely from the wound, and he put the blood covered apparel back on his head. He tried to walk again but immediately fell to the ground, his eyes looking out the window to the uncovered sky.

“I can’t breathe, my Queen,” he croaked, “I can’t…”

Author's Note

Hi, all. This is mainly here just to inform you there are only two more chapters left, and then the story is completed. I apologise to both SPark and the people interested that I didn't complete it in time for the deadline. Regardless, I will complete this, although unburdened by the deadline I will spend considerably more time on writing the ending. Something you must know in advance, they're considerably less 'actiony'.

Massive, gigantic and colossal thanks to Mix-up for the cover art

An additional equally huge thanks is extended to SPark for their wonderful illustration of Queen Rarity

I am immensely sorry for the wait.