The World Turned Upside Down

I stare ahead with wide eyes and a slowly drooping mouth.

The storeroom is…

“No time for gawking.” Amber passes by and trots down the small flight of oversized steps, but I can tell she’s also disturbed by the sight, even if she doesn’t completely show it.

There are… piles and piles of… stuff. Things, possessions — items that have no place in a dungeon such as this; camping bags, cups, pots, pans, hats, hiking helmets, jackets, shoes of varying shapes and sizes. It all looks extremely out of place in an otherwise medieval setting.

Nothing in this room was made here. These came from someplace else. From other people. Hundreds, easily, judging by the number of backpacks stacked in the centre, heaped so high the mound’s taller than me by a head, and that’s not counting the dozens massed in the corners.

I swallow and take a heavy step, still fixated on the fact there are…

“So many…”

“And plenty more, no doubt.” Razzmatazz pulls a jacket from a pile against the wall on the right — a brown bomber with a high collar and fleece lining. He checks it front and back, then sits on his haunches and slings his forelegs through the sleeves. “I get the feeling the dogs have been here for a while.”

I blink, and then continue down the steps. “Is kidnapping people normal behaviour for them?”

“Normal?” He looks at me as he fastens the zipper, then shakes his head and does up the buttons. “Once upon a time, maybe, but no longer. Selene was supposed to have reformed them, but I guess she didn’t impress everyone.”

My brows crease; I’ve heard that word before. “Reformed?”

“Quit your yapping and get to searching,” Amber urges from the left side of the main pile, giving me a harsh glance as she rolls a sack over, then puts it back in place. “Get the bags and then we’re gone.”

“And the sunstone too,” Razzmatazz adds.

She stops and peers around the pile to him. “The what?”

“Sunstone.” He points to the glowing crystal bound in rope above her, dangling from the centre of the ceiling. “There’s a lot of darkness from here to the outside — we’ll want it for then.”

She stares at the crystal for a moment, and then frowns at him. “We’re trying not to be seen, thank you very much.”

“But if we don’t take it, we won’t be seeing anything. My sense of direction’s not that good.”

She pauses, then blinks and shakes her head in frustration. “Fine, whatever.” She glances over to me as she resumes her search. “You take it.”

I nod and stride forward, then waddle over the mound, careful not to trip or get in Amber’s way, and reach out for my quarry. This close, I have to squint through the light to see the details in the rope, let alone the quartz-like surface, but I see a knot on my right and gently tug at its bond, keeping one hand on the crystal itself for support.

For what appears to be a solid rock no larger than my head, it feels surprisingly… well, light — less than a kilo, certainly — but I don’t take any chances. As soon as the knot comes undone, I quickly slip my palm to its surface and slowly, gently ease it down to eyelevel. And I notice how all the shadows in the room shrink and stretch with the slightest movement.

“Good, good, goodie-goodie two-shoes.” Razzmatazz breathes out a quiet sigh of relief. “If you broke that, we’d be in trouble.”

I pause for a moment, wondering what new insults Amber would curse me with for wasting precious time. “They’re all over the place,” I reason, holding it up and wading out toward her side. Maybe some extra glow would make her job easier. “If this one broke, I’ll just grab another.”

“Uh, no, that’s… not exactly what I meant.”

“Then what?” I ask absently, bending low and checking a red-looking bag. Not mine, as it turns out, but I catch a name: Liberty Belle. Strangely normal in its own way, if a little on the nose, and another pang of guilt rings through me.

“Well, what I mean to say is… broken sunstones don’t just go kaput.”

I stop, then look up at him.

So does Amber.

He’s still sitting on his haunches, now facing us with lowered ears and upturned brows, baring his teeth in a half-grin, half-grimace, anxiously twisting an aviator hat in his forehooves.

“They go kaboom.”

I frown. “What?”

“You know, kaboom. E-e-explode.”

I glance at the crystal, then back to him. “Freaking what?!”

“Quiet,” Amber hushes, peering up at me from the corner of her eye. Whether she’s frightened by or even believes this new piece of information, I can’t say. If she does, she hides it well.

I shut my mouth and huff through my nose, feeling like I’ve been gagged. “You mean to tell me,” I whisper with a growl, scowling Razzmatazz as I gesture to the crystal, “that I’m literally holding a ticking timebomb?”

“Only if you’re not careful,” he shakily assures, waving his hooves in an effort to calm me down. “And you didn’t break it, so we’re all good, right?”

“All good?”

“Enough,” Amber hisses, silencing us both, and then frowns at me as she points to the main heap. “You, search.”

“But—”

“No time to argue, remember?”

Again, I shut my mouth and huff, then shake my head to myself as I resume the hunt.

“And you…” she returns to Razzmatazz, pointing the same hoof, now accusatory, “don’t forget what I said about double-crossing us.”

“I haven’t.”

“Good. From now on, you tell us everything upfront.” She lowers her hoof. “Now, what did you have when they brought you in?”

“My jacket, cap, and climbing gear.”

I find her rucksack on the top layer, still with all the pots and pans attached.

“Do we need to climb out of here?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Then forget the gear. Stand on lookout.”

There’s a pause — a nod, I assume — before hooves clop along the stone floor toward the entrance.

As he leaves, I gently pull the bag from its place, careful not to make too much noise, but with so much metal, it’s next to impossible. “Found yours,” I murmur, glancing at her. “Looks intact. Food, tent, bedroll. Everything’s good.”

She glances back. “Blanket?”

I look again. “No blanket, sorry.”

“Find it,” she orders, trotting off to another pile. “And get rid of all that metal, or we’ll be a walking dinner bell.”

I nod and get to work, kneeling cautiously on a canvas duffle bag and gently setting the sunstone beside me. “Explosive, huh?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Then why fill your halls with them?”

“No smoke, no fuel, and they take a long time to fade,” Razzmatazz answers from the doorway. “Catch the sun’s light once, and they last for half the year. The brighter the stone, the bigger the boom.”

Without much in the way for a point of reference, it now feels like I’m sitting next to a tonne of dynamite. “Not helping, Razzy.”

“Oh, sorry. I just thought you’d want to know.”

…Well, I can’t deny it’s useful info, but was it really the right time?

Alternatively, when would be the right time? When I’m juggling it around idly and accidentally drop it? When I beat a guard over the head with it? When I’m tossing it to either him or her and misjudge the distance? No, of course not. I’m just overreacting, aren’t I?

“Better late than never, I suppose.”

“Better early than late,” Amber counters humourlessly, turning around with a red backpack held in her forelegs. “Found yours.”

I nod again and continue with the lacing, now working on the other side. “Everything still in?”

“Feels like it.”

“Good. Just give me a minute, and then we can go.”

“Not without my blanket.”

I pause, brows creasing, but I keep on task. “We’re on the clock, Amber.”

“I’ll be quick.”

Somehow, I don’t think that’ll be the case. But I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. For now, I need to finish off these last four cups.

A small, thin patch of sweat builds along my hairline; the stress is starting to show itself again. I can keep my nerves in check, easily, especially now there’s no restraints and no trio of anthropomorphic gorilla-dogs towering above me, but it’s a sign I’m not out of the woods yet.

Well, cave, but the point remains: I’m still underground, I’m still in enemy territory, and I’ve thrown all my weight behind a complete stranger, who claims to know the way out of here, though I’d very much like to ask why he knows this. Something about being an earth pony, I’ve gathered, whatever that means, but that’s not enough; I want specifics and no room for doubt. There’s been far, far too much of it already.

The final mug comes free and I hoist the rucksack upright, turning to her. “Ready?”

Her rummaging continues.

“Amber?”

“Yeah-yeah, just give me a minute.”

“We might not have a minute.”

She doesn’t reply, rolling a few bags down her pile. Zippers and buckles jingle and clatter.

The bridge has been reached. Now I need to cross it. “Amber, we need to go.”

“Not yet.”

“It’s only a blanket.”

“It’s my blanket,” she snaps, spinning round to face me with a frown, and then canters back to the main heap and begins sorting through the luggage at the top. “I’m not about to let it gather dust in some stinking trophy room.”

“And if we don’t go now, we might be the trophies.”

Again, no reply, but her ears point back and her lips press together.

“We have food, we have a guide. What more do we need?” I shuffle about to face her directly. “Does a blanket really matter that much?”

“It matters to me.”

“Why?”

She stops. It isn’t a sudden stop, nor is it a slow one: it’s one where, as soon as both forehooves are on the pile, she bobs back and forth a few times, chewing her bottom lip with her mouth closed. She huffs through her nose, head bowed and steadily bowing further, shrunken pupils staring off into nowhere. No anger, no panic, but something else. Probably a lot of things.

My brows upturn and I lean closer. “Amber, if we don’t leave now, we never will,” I whisper, glancing for the door and a waiting Razzmatazz. “Whatever that blanket means to you, I’m sorry, but we have to go. We didn’t come all this way just to end up here, did we?”

She doesn’t react for a moment, but then slowly looks up and meets my gaze.

“Did we?”

A pause, and then a hesitant shake of the head.

“No, of course not. And we’re getting out of here, aren’t we?”

Another pause, and then a tentative nod.

I nod in turn, then lower my eyes and wait a moment, thinking, before pulling the rucksack from behind me and setting it between us. “I don’t know where I’m headed, Amber,” I confess, allowing myself to sound a little shaky, “but I know I’m not getting there without you.”

That unknown feeling in her eyes, whatever it is, fades slightly. Her breathing slows until it’s barely noticeable, her lips part a crack, and her ears begin to rise, as if all the pressure keeping them down had lifted.

I give her rucksack a soft nudge, offering it to her as I meet her gaze. “Together?”

Yet another pause, until she looks down to the bag, then back to me. And then she closes her mouth, accepts the offer with a hoof, and gently nods. “Together.”

Razzmatazz pulls the door open a crack and peers through, waits a few moments, then pulls it a little further and waves us closer, ducking out immediately after.

Amber follows him.

I follow her, poking my head through before I leave completely, just to be extra safe, but as soon as I realise what I’m seeing, my jaw drops.

A cavern. Just as wide as the airship highway, but even deeper. There’s no sky, though; we’re still underground, but the entire scene is illuminated by some kind of… ambient light, as if a single source were reflected and magnified by the rocks themselves. And I suspect that’s the case: certain sections twinkle with the faintest movement of my head; not sunstones, but veins of ore and unmined gems. Scores of it. A number too big to guess.

The dungeon opens out to a stone balcony with a stone railing as tall as me, each baluster a circle with a diamond inside. A staircase carved from the wall of the canyon leads off down to the left, disappearing behind a bend. The floor of the balcony is perfectly flat, if a little dusty in the corners, all one solid piece of rock.

I find myself idly strolling forward, spurred by the… awe, I guess, of seeing something so remarkable, and the curious urge to duck under the banister and peek over the edge.

The smell of rich, damp earth welcomes me, as does the sight of greenery at the very bottom, as well as a running river. To the right, the cavern stretches far off into the distance, circular windows pockmarking the tapering cliffs. Bridges of all sizes span the gap at every height, the largest exhibiting two giant statues on either entrance, sitting on their haunches, heads bowed as they welcome travellers.

But there are no travellers. No silhouettes in the windows, no… activity. No life. It feels like the darkest part of a closet or attic: forgotten; abandoned. Even the ambient light seems to obey this unspoken rule, fading out long before I can see the end.

To the left, however, things are more animated. The river coursing down the centre the main cavern flows into many little tributaries, forming miniature islands, upon which crops appear to grow. There are huts too, and sunstones held aloft in small towers, and gorilla-dogs tending to them all, along with a few creatures that look… somewhat like ponies, but not quite. It’s hard to tell what’s off about them from so high up, but I just know.

Some of the creatures fly on their translucent wings, either hovering above the fields for an unknown purpose or darting for one of the hollows in the northern rockface — assuming forward is north, of course. And these hollows — no more than a dozen — are distinct from the windows of the east in that they’re larger, and don’t seem to be a part of a bigger structure: they’re one room and one room only, each with a sunstone as the centrepiece, like a campfire.

In total, I count at least fifty dogs of a wide range of shapes, sizes and colours — overall, more earthly-hued than any pony I’ve seen, but still with a few blue-grey coats here and there — and about twenty of the as yet unidentified creatures. Changelings, I’m starting to think, in their true forms.

I haven’t forgotten why I’m here. I haven’t forgotten who put me here. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel right now. There’s the wonder of something new and undiscovered. There’s the fear of falling and impending danger. But there’s also… what?

Recognition?

Empathy?

I hear a laugh rise from below, echoed and hushed by the distance, and the conflicted knot in my chest grows; they’re my enemy, and yet they’re not acting like it.

…Who among them even know I exist?

“Hey.”

I almost jump, quickly stepping back from the ledge and blinking, looking to my left.

Amber watches me with a… strange expression. In a certain light, it’s tense and unwavering, but the raised eyebrow, angled head and ears suggest curiosity. Of the disturbed kind.

Behind her, Razzmatazz waits a few steps down the staircase, also watching me, his expression decidedly more concerned than anything.

“We need to go, remember?”

I blink again, then nod. “How long was I staring?” I ask, perhaps sounding a little absent, like waking from a spell — something I can say I’ve had experience with.

“Too long,” she says after a short pause, then glances down to the sunstone under my arm. “You should put that away too. Don’t want to be drawing attention to ourselves.”

I let the words register, then kneel down and unsling my bag, opening up the pocket with all my clothes; the more cushioning, the better. “Won’t it be dark?”

“Would you rather face the dark or a dog?”

“…Point taken.”

“They’d probably smell us long before they see us, anyway,” Razzmatazz comments.

We both turn to him.

“But don’t worry,” he quickly assures, eyes bulging for a moment as he realises his mistake, “the air’s damp, see? Scent won’t go far in damp air.”

“Sound will, so keep your voice down,” Amber replies with a warning frown. “Now, where are we heading?”

Razzmatazz waits a moment before responding, making sure the air had, metaphorically, cleared. “Down,” he answers, still a little shaky. “Way down. The river has to go somewhere, right?”

“…The river?” I disbelievingly gesture to our supposed destination. “Down there, where the changelings and dogs are? You’re taking us into danger to get us out of danger?”

“Not if I can help it.” Now he sounds more resolute. Not by much, but enough. “That river’s our way out, but there should be other ways to get to it.”

Amber takes a step closer. “Are you sure?”

He hesitates, but stiffly nods. If he weren’t wearing his hat, judging by the look on his face, I’m certain his ears would be pinned right back.

She continues to stare, testing him. “Then let’s get going,” she says, walking down the stairs, giving him a stern glare.

Razzmatazz watches her go for a few moments, then returns to me with the same look as before, but this time with an inquisitive, imploring eyebrow raised.

I pause, then scrunch my mouth up and softly sigh, and begin to follow Amber again, giving him a small, mindless, ineffectual pat on the head as I pass. “You’ll get used to it.”

The staircase descends a number of levels and takes us to the southern end of a bridge — another large one, also with massive statues adorning the entrances. These twins stand as mirror opposites, armoured in full suits of plate, mail and scale, a crescent shield held close in one paw and an axe in the other, which looks like a weaponised version of the climbing sort Miss Bishop used; a blade on the front, a pick on the back.

It looked vicious when she showed it to the class, and these ones are no exception.

But the statues themselves, in terms of sheer scale and artistry, are without a doubt some of the most astounding works of masonry I’ve ever seen, and that includes the old temples of Vietnam. Their paint has faded, either worn away by the passage of time or hidden under this fine layer of dust coating everything. Solid pieces of gold — actual blocks and bars of the stuff, not just golden leaf — accentuate certain edges, sometimes in jagged, triangular patterns. Gems of all colours glisten with what little light they catch, inlaid in swirling lines on the shields, pauldrons, and full-face helmets.

Beyond the giant arch the two statues guard is a room the likes of which I never thought possible — not outside the wildest imaginations of visionary directors, at least; a hall as tall as a short skyscraper, rows of pillars like ancient redwoods reaching up to a vaulted ceiling, stretching back as far as the eye can see. Bejewelled frescoes, murals, friezes and other sculptures cover every facet, the floor criss-crossed in swirls and zigzags and diamonds, as if it were tiled, but without the faintest hint of a seam in sight. Sunstones rest securely in planters protruding from the pillars, thankfully quite a bit dimmer than most.

As clichéd as it sounds, I feel like an ant in comparison. And not just in size; this place is old. It has age. History. A story to tell. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and this most certainly wasn’t either. Centuries, perhaps. Maybe even longer.

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

I look down to the left.

Razzmatazz smiles at me. “A shame we can’t stop and take pictures.”

I dumbly nod, casting my gaze to where the columns meet the roof. Some holes are cut into the ceiling, leading up into other rooms. Access hatches of some description, I assume, made more plausible by handholds leading away and down the pillars. The strength it would take to climb like that…

“Hard to believe they once had kingdoms of their own.”

I return to him and blink. “You mean there are more cities like this?”

“Oh, certainly.” He strolls past me with his neck low; chipper, but alert, keeping close to the nearest statue. “One or two are known and mapped, but the rest are lost.”

I begin to follow again. “Lost?”

“Yes. I don’t know the details, but at some point, things fell apart. Most dogs went nomadic, abandoned their cities, and that’s how they lived until fairly recently.”

“What changed?”

“Voices down,” Amber scolds, though it lacks her usual temper. She brings up the rears and gives us both sharp glances. “We’re better off not talking from here on out.”

“What?” Razzmatazz asks innocently. “The boy’s interested — who am I to disappoint?”

“You can save it for later. They don’t know where we are, and I’d like it to stay that way.”

I let out a small, defeated sigh, my efforts to gain a little more context thwarted once again. “She’s right, Razz.”

He looks behind from the corner of his eye, but says nothing, instead sighing much like I do.

So, we creep along at an average but notably cautious pace, heading as far as we feel comfortable going into the shadows while staying out of the sunstones’ light. All the while, I gape at my surroundings. Somehow, none of this feels real — something on this scale just shouldn’t be possible, no matter the effort, no matter the expertise. And yet, here it is.

It really is amazing, as Razzmatazz said. And despite our situation, I can’t help but marvel at it all. The skill it took, the… logistics, time and sweat — if gorilla-dogs sweat. What tools did they use? What techniques? How did they get it to stay so pristine? Just… how? And what was such a big space used for?

And then I step on something.

Everyone freezes.

It feels like the hall does too — some kind of metaphysical consciousness training all its eyes, ears and pointed teeth in my direction.

There’s a tense, collective breath.

Nothing.

Razzmatazz and Amber look to me.

I look down.

As my eyes adjust, I make out the colours and shapes of my shirt, shorts, shins, ankles, socks, shoes, and then a series of little white specks on the floor beneath my sole. I slowly, carefully reach for one, pick it up, and after feeling a snag and lifting my foot out of the way, the rest come with it.

“What is it?” Amber wonders, trying as best she can to peer over my shoulder without taking another step.

“A necklace,” I answer, holding it by the string at eyelevel and squinting through the dark. For as long as I can remember, my interest in finery was limited to picking out Mum’s earrings for her from the jewellery box, but something about this piece is different. “A… bone necklace?”

“Aquitanian quartz,” Razzmatazz corrects, “with pearls from… Saddle Arabia, I believe.”

My eyes widen and I gawk at him.

“Incredible,” he muses, still staring at the necklace, either oblivious or choosing to ignore my dumbfounded expression. “Five hundred years old and it still looks brand new.”

“…Saddle Arabia…”

“Yes.” He meets my gaze and appears unphased. “It must’ve been a very well-off city to have traders that far south. Back in the day, dogs weren’t fond of overland travel.”

“Saddle frigging Arabia?”

He draws his head back and creases his brows curiously. “It’s not that unbelievable, is it?”

“He’s from out of town.”

I blink, then peer back at Amber.

She fixes me with an ostensibly neutral stare. If I never knew her, I may very well have left it at that. But I do know her, and I see that warning, commanding glint, even through the gloom. However, she doesn’t threaten violence, but something just as harmful in its own special way: discovery. “I’m his guide,” she continues, switching to Razzmatazz. “He’s still getting used to Equestria.”

He keeps his eyes on her a little while longer, then looks as if he’d slapped his forehead in realisation. “Of course, a tourist — how could I forget?”

“Let’s just focus on getting out of here.”

“Yes, right, of course, let’s…”

A cold tingle dances across my shoulders at how he cuts himself off, and especially how he frowns at the ground, as if an infallible plan had gone horribly wrong. “What?”

He puts a hoof up to silence me.

The tingle grows stronger, and the longer our silence stretches, the colder it gets.

“Patrol,” he says quickly and quietly, then returns to me and Amber with an urgent look. “There’s a room not far ahead to the left. We should hide in there.”

I open the door, peek through, deem it safe, duck inside, wait for the soft patter of four hooves to follow, then close it again.

Another hall welcomes us. Much smaller, though — of a more comprehensible scale, if that makes any sense — and for the most part, seems less… artificial. The floor, walls and ceiling are bumpy, but smooth enough to walk across and sit on. The only flat segments come in the form of a footpath lined with gems and tiny sunstones, and a number of frescoed alcoves to which it leads.

In some strange way, it’s almost like a prestigious art gallery set inside an actual cave.

“Did they hear us?” Amber asks, looking to Razzmatazz.

He closes his eyes and bows his head for a moment. “They haven’t changed pace, no,” he answers, then turns to the door, “but they’re still coming this way.”

She snorts and looks away, pinning her ears, tensing her wings and frowning as she grinds a hoof on the floor. After a short pause, she questions, “How long?”

“A minute and a half, maybe?”

“Alright.” She nods to herself, then raises her head and shares a determined look with him. “We go deeper, find someplace to hide, sit tight. Sound like a plan?”

“Yep.”

She turns to me. “And you?”

I blink, hesitating. Why single me out, even though that’s next to impossible in a group of three? Had I missed something? Crossed another line? Or am I overthinking it, and she’s just asking my opinion? If so, why? Since when did she ever ask for my approval? Most importantly, is now the time to really be asking myself this? “Sure,” I say, trying to keep as much uncertainty out of my voice as possible.

She nods again, then sets off at a hurried march down the walkway.

Razzmatazz is close behind.

I blink once more and shake my head before I fall in line. Why I’d taken so much issue in being asked a simple question, I’ve no idea. Pent-up nerves, I assume — I want to assume — but I somehow doubt that’s the case; maybe there’s something else at play here. Or maybe I’m just jumpy and talking nonsense. Whatever the matter is, I’m glad to be on the move again.

So long as the ceiling doesn’t get any lower.

The flattened path descends a few long, shallow steps, winding around natural pillars, small nooks cut into them for… candles, surprisingly. All of them have been extinguished, granted, and old wax drips over the edges, but the fact remains: this place is different; they’d use a light source that needs more replacing than a sunstone to illuminate the space. A question thus arises: why?

Reaching the first alcove offers no answer, but the fresco, as it turns out, is actually a mosaic, and I find myself slowing my pace; in a civilization that seems to pride itself on mineral wealth, this is the only mosaic I’ve seen. And frankly, it’s spectacular.

A lone mountain stands proudly in the centre of a green field, hollow on the inside, home to a hoard of gold and silver jewels, upon which a dog wearing a diadem of sunstones sits nobly and happily. Outside, more dogs idle around aboveground huts and fires, talking, crafting, tilling fields, trading with a small group of… yaks, it looks like, in horned helmets. Each tile is finely shaped and crafted, interspersed with gems of matching colours that catch the light like glitter. Despite its stylised look, it shines line a printed photograph.

Everything’s peaceful. All is well.

In the second alcove, however, winter has come. Snow covers hills like rolling sand dunes while the sky is clogged with storm clouds and… floating cities. Pegasi, unicorns and earth ponies battle each other in the whitewashed landscape, on the ground or in the air, armed with spears, swords, axes, shields, bows, javelins, slings; all the panoply of war. Spells erupt from horns like lasers. Lightning from above decimates the masses. Figures lie strewn across the battlefield. There are no eyes, no faces, only hundreds of plumed helmets.

And below it all, dogs huddle together in caves, safe from the fighting, with only a few sunstone fires for warmth, and nary a jewel in sight.

At the third alcove… I slow to a halt and gawp.

Two alicorns stand side by side, one the with a coat of the purest white, and the other as dark and blue as midnight, their resplendent wings spread like wreaths in which they frame the sun and moon. The first and taller of the pair, whose eyes are a pale, sweet, flawless magenta, has a pink mane and tail that flow like a gentle river. The second, whose eyes are a fresh, cool, minty cyan, has her hair flowing in much the same way, but instead of being a single colour, and it reveals the deepest, darkest reaches of space and all the stars therein. One is dressed in gold regalia, the other is dressed in black.

They’re… a sight to behold. As calming as they are beautiful. Like a chilled vanilla milkshake on a balmy summer’s day, or a warm and fuzzy blanket in the depths of a winter’s night. And I find myself struck with a certain longing — a yearning to stay and bask in their splendour; to hear their soft words and heed their wise counsel, if they’ve any to give.

To simply know them, and for them to help me know myself.

“What the heck do you think you’re doing?!”

I jump, muttering some startled drivel as I duck away from and turn toward the sharp, cutting, but nevertheless whispered voice.

Blue eyes stare into mine. “They’re right on top of us! We have to move!”

“…But—”

An orange blur darts around and headbutts me in the small of my back. “Leg it, dingus!”

I stumble forward and the spell is broken, and I remembered where I am, who she is and what we’re doing, and I refrain from smashing my head against a wall at how stupid I’d been to let my guard down.

Amber quickly pulls in front, cantering as fast as she can while trying to stay as quiet as possible.

I follow, jogging with a limp yet again, zippers jingling with every bob and sway, not paying attention to where I’m going, only the path directly ahead.

We pass by another alcove, this one displaying the twins facing off against a menacing, serpentine creature with a goat’s head, mismatched wings, and legs and arms from various other animals. In the next, they battle a giant, horned, bearded, centaur-like creature with black fur and red skin. And the next, an armoured unicorn challenges them from atop a spire of dark crystals as two armies clash in the snow below, some dogs on both sides.

I want to stop. I want an hour, or even a spare minute to just stop and observe and think about what this all means. Who are these two? What did they do? How many enemies did they face? And why were their lives so important to the dogs who built this place?

But at the next alcove, and by far the largest, I do stop.

At the end of a long, high hallway, in the midst of a moonlit night, the white alicorn lies with back against a podium, upon which five diamonds — red, pink, blue, green, yellow — float about a globe. She’s beaten, but not broken, a purple, six-pointed star raised in her defence.

Screaming towards her, crashing through a window at the opposite end, trailing darkness and black fire, forelegs like lances, horn ablaze, eyes white-hot with fury… is the other alicorn.

Or what remains of her. This one reflects nothing; the gems used opaque and sinister. Wraithlike. As if this creature, this… hollow form, this… husk… was too wicked for any worldly light. Too far fallen from grace. Too overcome with rage.

There’s so much I don’t know. So many questions yet unanswered. And this silent tragedy only raises more, and strengthens my resolve to answer them all.

A foreleg wraps around my neck and yanks hard, so sudden and forceful I don’t have a chance to resist before I’m dragged to the floor with another hoof over my nose and mouth.

In a blind panic, I bring my hands up and try to break free, kicking and writhing, eyes wide, muffled cries echoing in the cavern.

“Shut up,” Amber hisses, tightening her grip as she glares down at me from the very edge of my vision. “Do you want to get us caught?”

I pause, still grappling with her chokehold, but soon stop completely and shake my head.

“Good. Then—”

Some way off in the distance to our right, over the ridge behind which we hide, comes the creak of metal hinges.

Amber sucks in a sharp breath, lying back and squeezing harder.

The pressure on my throat builds.

Paws and claws pad and scrape into the hall, but only from a single dog; there’s a set of hooves too, and the flitter of wings — insectile, rather than feathered. Three individuals, I reckon, before the door is shut behind them. Then there’s silence.

The air grows colder.

“Well?” a deep, gruff, rumbling voice questions in a quiet, impatient tone. “What do you want?”

Another long silence. I notice I’m blinking more than usual.

“Rex…” another voice calls, distorted and scratchy, but clearly female, and sounding more than a little pleading, “we’ve known you and your brothers for a long time now. We were the first changelings to find this place, after all. You took us in when you had no real reason to, and we’ve been nothing but thankful for that ever—”

“Get to the point.”

More silence. The shadows seem darker.

“…Well, you see… it’s just—”

“This has to stop,” a third voice interrupts. Male. Just as distorted, but steadfast.

“What needs to stop?”

“This… operation your brother’s running. We can’t keep doing this forever.”

“Then leave.”

A stunned silence, this time. I think my vision’s growing blurry.

“We’re not saying we disagree with the premise,” the female replies, slow and careful, as if she’d just been slapped and didn’t want to show how much it hurt. “The princess should pay. But…”

“You can’t kidnap and enslave the innocent and call it a retribution.”

The changelings’ words cut through the encroaching fog, and in an instant, I find myself wide awake, tapping Amber’s foreleg.

A flicker of movement from above, and then she lets go.

The respite is immediate, like loosening the valve on an airtight container, or pulling the trigger on a garden hose. The strange build-up of weight in my head starts to drain out, and I have to keep myself from gasping in relief.

“They support her,” Rex counters flatly.

“Not all of them,” replies the second changeling. “You know that.”

With my neck free, I take the opportunity to assess my surroundings.

I’m currently lying on my bag with my head propped up on Amber’s chest, parallel to the ridge. She meets my gaze with a blank stare, but says nothing. Behind me — or above, depending on how the compass works when flat on the back — Razzmatazz also sits curled up in the shelter of the ridge, holding Amber’s rucksack for her, surprisingly. He peers over the edge and watches curiously, which I’m sure is nowhere near the safest bet.

Of course, I go for it anyway, in spite of Amber’s bulging, pinpricked eyes and frantic gestures.

A few tens of metres away, at the peak of the gradual descent, Rex and his two much smaller companions stand on the plateau in front of the doorway. In the dim light, I can see his spear is gone, but he’s kept his armour. On the other hand, the changelings are unclothed and unprotected.

They look very much like ponies, having the same general form and proportions as the two on my right, but that’s where the similarities more or less end; their bodies are chitinous, multihued, and somewhat segmented, their tails membranous like a dragonfly’s wing, their eyes lustrous and one solid colour, their ears thin and lined with tiny barbs. They also have a single, curved horn at the top of their foreheads, and two short fangs protruding from their upper lips.

“And they aren’t the ones who wronged us,” the second and closest changeling continues. He’s a muddy brown with highlights of yellow, and striking turquoise eyes. “You know that too. Now, we went along with this scheme of his because we thought, maybe, there’s something more to it. We weren’t in a position to know any better and you and your people were all we had.”

“Again, we’re very grateful for all you did for us,” the other consoles, discomfort clear in her voice, if not her expression. She’s a smoky green with highlights of purple, and eyes a brilliant fuchsia. “It’s just… well…”

“You think he has no plan,” Rex finishes, his tone heavy with disappointment.

“Does he?” the second queries, sounding dangerously close to an open challenge.

Rex pauses for a long while, staring at the two with relative indifference. At least, that’s what I gather from so far away. “Why’s this a problem now?”

“It’s been a problem for years.”

“But why now?”

“Because of the creature,” answers the first. “That… human.”

The cold tingle returns, pricking the hairs on the back of my neck and tensing my joints.

“What about him?”

“Whatever he is,” the second continues, “wherever he’s from, he knows the princess personally, and she’s sent him on a mission. That never happens.”

“But if it did, she wouldn’t trust him to do it on his own,” the other carries on. “We’re not sure what role that pegasus plays, but she’d keep tabs on everything about them: what they say, what they know, how they act. Where they go.”

“We were lucky enough to get away with random nobodies for so long, but two royal spies?”

“She’d flatten the whole Unicorn Range to find them.”

“We won’t stand a chance.”

I feel hollow, and the tingle runs icy trails down my back. I look down to Amber on a whim, perhaps for reassurance, but find her anxious gaze fixed on Razzmatazz.

He’s retreated from the edge somewhat, now watching us both with creased brows and parted lips, though it’s impossible to say what his mood is. There’s tension in the air, definitely, but whether it’s fear, mute outrage, disgust, or something else entirely, I can’t say: the light’s too dim, and the shadows too dark.

“We’ve punched above our weight, Rex. We’ve gone too far.”

“Then what do you suggest?” he grumbles, irritated, leering at the second changeling. “We free them on good faith?”

“Provisionally,” the first answers. “If we open talks—”

“No,” he snaps. “Duke would never—”

“We’re not asking Duke,” the second interrupts.

Rex pauses, then draws his head back and retreats half a step. He’s genuinely shocked, and a creature less than half his size had done that to him. “I won’t betray my brothers, Rostrum,” he says almost breathlessly. “I won’t sink to her level.”

“Even if it means the end of us all?”

Another, much longer pause.

“There’s more than just your honour at stake,” Rostrum states imploringly. “We know loyalty’s important to you, but loyalty also means saving the people you love from themselves. You need to think about the greater good.”

“For all her flaws, she can be merciful,” says the other changeling, just as pleading, but less resolute. More timid. Trying to convince herself as much as Rex. She takes a few hesitant steps toward him. “By negotiating, we show our diplomatic side, and she’ll be more open to us. We let the pony go, and she gives her our terms: another Cloudsdale, in exchange for the human and all the sla… Hostages.”

My brows rise slightly. I’m not sure why; there’s nothing particularly fascinating or surprising being said — nothing pleasant or welcome, at least. Maybe it’s that hesitation at the end: she can’t call their captives for what they are, because it’s just too distasteful to say out loud.

Is that irony? She has the courage to stand against Selene — the leader of an entire nation, and a living, breathing, superpowered being — but not to face the truth.

Rostrum too takes a step closer. “What we’re asking’s difficult, we know, but we can’t sweep this under the rug. We have to make a choice: survival or blind loyalty. And I for one think it’s more virtuous to live and fight another day than stick by Duke’s short-sightedness.”

Rex’s eyes narrow. “Don’t you dare insult him,” he slowly rumbles. “You owe him your lives.”

“And in twenty years, what’s he done? Have we breached the walls of Canterlot? Have we turned Equestria against her? Established contacts with other rebel groups? No. We’re stuck in this mountain mining gems, drawing attention to ourselves with every new captive.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Our loyalty lies with the cause, not just family. Make a decision soon, or we’ll—”

A noise cuts through the relative quiet, and all three look to the door.

A horn?

No.

A howl. Long and chilling, loud and resonant. Three more join in rapid succession, and more still — dozens; a call to reach every corner in every hall of this ancient, forgotten hold.

Rex turns back to Rostrum, staring at him for a moment. “Do what you must,” he snarls, equal parts dismissive and threatening, “but you’ll find no friend in me.”

“Are you telling Duke?” the female queries in fright.

He snaps to her with a glare, but doesn’t immediately reply. “Not another word,” he says on the brink of a growl, lifting a single digit to her, then swings about, heads for the door, and holds it open expectantly.

The two changelings hesitate, but soon share an anxious look between themselves, then take their leave at a canter, giving him a cautious glance as they pass.

Rex watches them go, then moves to leave himself. But then he stops. And then he looks to the door. And then then he sniffs the handle.

I almost gasp as I duck below the ridge, and I feel every joint in my body freeze up, and all the hairs on my arms, legs, and the back of my neck and hands stand on end. The tingle has struck with a new, terrifying vengeance — enough to make me shiver all over. But even then, I have to be sure I don’t stutter my breath or chatter my teeth: the smallest sound, however slight, could make all the difference.

Amber stares at me with wide eyes and ears pinned flat, no longer scolding, just nervous. Frightened. Scared. As petrified as I am, or possibly worse; if it weren’t for me, she’d still be home, living her life in peace and quiet, and safety. But then I showed up, and I had to ruin everything — act selfish and take her along for the ride.

Razzmatazz has bowed his head and shut his eyes, a pleading grimace plastered across his muzzle and brows, also with his ears pinned flat. He’s just an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire, way in over his head, dragged into this, once again, because I said so; because he could be used. Not Selene, not Amber. Me.

And now here they are, by my side, hiding from a danger they have no business facing, all because I can’t bare the thought of leaving behind the only life I know. All because of me and my stupid need to make things right. All because I’d packed my things and walked out the door one morning.

…If I’d just kept my mouth shut…

But then another round of howling comes. In response, clawed paws pad away, and the door closes behind them, its final, reverberating click lingering in the still, cool air for what feels like an age. And our breaths at long last return.

A weight’s been lifted. The space feels larger. If I close my eyes for a second, I can actually imagine myself aboveground in an early morning mist. And so I relish what relief this fantasy gives me, because I know the rest of today won’t be so forgiving.

“So… royal spies, huh?”

Amber and I turn to Razzmatazz.

He inspects us closely, but not cynically despite his tone; again, he’s rather unreadable. Or perhaps he’s simply impassive and I’m reading too much into it, looking for something that isn’t there. Letting my nerves get the better of me.

“What of it?” Amber asks guardedly.

He pauses, then shrugs. “Just feels like something you should’ve told me sooner.”

“And if we said anything, we’d have gotten bogged down in questions like we are now,” she bluntly states, rolling over and standing up, fixing him with a hard stare. “But for the record, no, we’re not spies, we’re just…”

“What?”

Her eyes have lowered, as have her ears. Not in fear or anger, but something else entirely: the realisation of a sobering thought; the words to describe us escape her. And after a beat, she looks to me.

Frankly, I’m fairing no better than her on that front, but now’s not the time to say anything like that out loud. So I keep my mouth shut and hold her gaze, letting her find inspiration on her own.

But still, nothing comes to her, and her brows faintly crease with some faint sense of mute frustration, not quite confused, but vexed. Puzzled. “I don’t know what we are,” she says quietly and calmly, but still with a slight hint of tension, then returns to Razzmatazz, “but we’re not that.”

He nods, lips pursed, eyes narrowed in an expression caught somewhere between suspicion and sly amusement. “Spies who aren’t spies — the perfect spies.”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Look, whatever we are, we just want to get out of here. If they know we’re gone, they’ll lock this place down, which means we have to go now.”

“What about the slaves?”

Her ears perk up and she freezes.

Razzmatazz looks at me.

Slowly, very slowly, she does too.

An impatient frown worms its way across my face as I switch focus between the two, their silence stretching on for an uncomfortably long while. “We’re not doing nothing, are we?”

Her brows upturn in dismay, and her ears lower with them. She opens her mouth to say something, but the words don’t come. What’s left is a stifled breath of anguish.

“We can’t,” I baulk in disgust, shocked she’d even consider another option. “Didn’t you hear them? They’ve been doing it for twenty years and they know it’s wrong.”

Another pained breath as her gaze falls away to the right. “I’m… not saying we should… overlook it,” she mumbles shakily. “It’s just… getting us out will be hard enough. But a couple dozen, few hundred ponies extra?”

“We can do it.”

“How do you know?” She returns to me with a desperate look in her eyes.

I hesitate for a moment, but answer devoutly, “I just do.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not good enough.”

“It was good enough to save you.”

Now she’s the one hesitating.

“I told you before, I didn’t know what I was doing, I just… did. I convinced myself there was a way, and I went for it. Why should this time be any different?”

“Because dogs and changelings aren’t the same as a cockatrice.”

“Only if we let them.”

“That’s not how it works.” She shakes her head again, slowly and sorrowfully. “You got lucky once — twice, if you count me finding you on my doorstep — but you can’t rely on luck for everything.”

“We have to try.”

“You’re not a heroine. Neither am I. Things don’t happen just because we want them to.”

“Why can’t they?” Razzmatazz interjects.

We both turn to him.

He sits more squarely on his haunches, more engaged with the conversation, a hoof holding the rucksack upright as he raises a thoughtful eyebrow. “It worked for the Element Bearers, and all they had to do was believe in each other.”

“We aren’t them,” Amber insists, sounding evermore despairing. “Maybe that’s how things were once upon a time, but not anymore. If they were, none of us would be here.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, and you do too. Both of you.” Her focus switches back to me, practically begging. “There are some things you just can’t change, however hard you wish, however hard you try. Believe me, I know.”

“How?” I demand.

She doesn’t answer, instead shaking her head once more in rueful silence. “This won’t end well.”

I pause for a long while, steeling myself against that nagging, doubtful little whisper at the back of my mind she’s calling to. “Maybe not,” I admit, though I try not to believe it, “but we’re doing it anyway. I didn’t give up on you, and I’m not about to start with a hundred other lives on the line. A good person sees the odds and fights on regardless.”

“A smart pony doesn’t.”

The whisper grows a little louder, but still I ignore it. No more fears. No more doubts. So, I lean closer, eyes locked with hers, and candidly reply, “I’m not a pony.”

She stays on me for a while, searching for something — any lingering shreds of reservation — but eventually relents; either I hid my misgivings well, shameful as they are, or she can’t be bothered. In any case, she lowers her gaze and looks…

Broken.

It tears me apart to see her like that, but I know deep down she agrees with me. She has to, or else she’d be putting up more of a struggle. I look up to Razzmatazz. “Can you find them?”

He pauses, then nods. “Aye,” he says, an adventurous smirk growing on his lips. “I think I can.”