The World Turned Upside Down

Two diamond dogs plod up the staircase, a changeling following them overhead, its carapace open and wings buzzing, lighting the way with a sunstone headlamp. The large dog walks on two legs, armoured like Rex had been, but holding its shield in its paw, and wields the same style of axe the statues used. The squat one, however, shorter than me by a head, walks on all fours and makes do only with a helmet and padded vest. It’s easy to mistake it for being unarmed if it weren’t for a quiver of barbed javelins slung across its back.

They march and fly with purpose, scanning left and right, keeping eyes on their flanks despite the narrowing walls on either side; they don’t want to miss anything. The dogs slow every dozen paces or so to test the air, and the changeling takes the opportunity to adjust the headlamp or dust itself off. None of them talk, however, too focussed on their task for idle chatter.

It’s rather unnerving, watching them gradually pass. They probably won’t see us, hidden in the dark of this small offshoot tunnel on their right, but they seem professional. Trained, experienced — whatever I’m supposed to call it. Everything we aren’t. For all I know, they’ve been preparing their whole lives for this job, working with each other, forming bonds, understanding each other’s mindsets. Twenty years is a long time, after all.

As for me, I’d met one of my companions just an hour ago, and the other… no more than three weeks earlier. At least, I think that’s how long it’s been.

Regardless, neither timeframe’s enough to really get to know someone, are they?

But eventually, the patrol passes by, and the golden light of their sunstone with it, and I remind myself to not think too hard, lest I put us all in danger like I had in the Hall of Stories, or whatever the original builders called it.

I wait until they’re completely out of sight, and then until the sounds of their footsteps, armour, and humming wings have faded, and then a minute or two after that, just to be safe, before I shuffle out. Instantly, the air feels lighter and easier to breathe, though it’s dry, and motes of dust hover like mayflies. But I relish the feeling of being able to spread my arms out wide — the first time in the last fifteen minutes, I reckon. Fifteen nerve-wracking minutes where the only thing keeping me from freaking out was the knowledge that there are people somewhere in this forsaken place who’re worse off than me.

Responsibility isn’t my jam. It never has been, and I don’t think it ever really will be. But I’m not doing this because it’s my responsibility, either to myself, Selene, or the slaves, I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do. If we leave, so does everyone else. It’s not fair otherwise.

And standing in this winding staircase, I don’t need Razzmatazz to tell me where to go next. I can hear it loud and clear from below, where a strong orange glow illuminates the exit: the faint clink of metal chipping away at stone; the occasional bark of an order; the crack of a whip; the cry that follows.

I glance behind me, double-checking patrol has well and truly left, then to the tunnel, where Razzmatazz creeps out and into the stairway, and Amber on his tail, and then I start descending. I keep close to the wall and angle my body on instinct, minimising my profile as much as possible, what good it’d do me should another guard stand by the entrance and simply look up. But there isn’t a guard there, and no one’s looking up; we’re safe for now, and that’s all that matters.

Baby steps, as Selene once said.

The passageway itself is about as wide as the average bedroom, if quite a bit taller, but the ceiling, walls and stairs are irregular and crudely carved. There are no decorations, no sense of style or pride, just rounded edges and uneven surfaces, and steps that are annoyingly tricky to cross with any sense of rhythm.

Either the old masons were more concerned for function over form in this part of the city, or it was made by another, more recent set of hands. Or paws, as the case may be. I’m leaning toward the former option, though; I get the feeling these people are more rebel than colonist. Under Duke’s leadership, at least.

Finally, I reach the bottom, and the clinking and barking and cracking are louder, each impact and shout and echoing snap plucking at my nerves like a harp, trying their best to whittle me down. But on I press, crouching lower, sneaking across a fine layer of pebbles and powder as I make my way to the entrance. I look left and right before I exit, and once I see the coast is clear, I ease myself onto my hands and knees, careful with my bad leg, then clench my teeth as I crawl forward to the edge of this outcrop. And what I see when I lie down and peer over… equally awes and sickens me.

Another huge cavern, and while it’s nowhere near as expansive as the first one I saw, it’s still intimidating; a giant, layered pit, rather than an impossibly long trench, like a football stadium. But there’s no cheer to be had here.

On every level, an armoured dog oversees a group of ten or so miners. Ponies make up the vast majority of the workforce, their fur and hair of all colours and styles marred by dirt, grit and sweat. Some swing their pickaxes like a normal human would, others use their mouths, and a rare few their magic. But there are others too — creatures I can’t rightly put a name to with absolute certainty from this high up, in case I get them wrong; the only one I recognise is a minotaur, cloven-hoofed and black all over.

A dozen yaks — normal-looking, for all intents and purposes — haul baskets of rocks away from the teams and down the levels the bottom, where more ponies sift through the piles left for them. But these seem… different; their colours are washed-out, and their coats and manes glisten in the light, like glitter. Dust from the ore, most likely.

A dog at the bottom on the far end toys with a whip in its paws, looking smug as two changelings drag a limp, snivelling form away. Ziggy, I realise — no other dog has a coat as grey as his. Duke’s right hand man, by the looks of it, and he doesn’t seem too unhappy with the current state of affairs.

If there’s to be a coup, it can’t come soon enough.

I blink and assess the situation more thoroughly; about a hundred captives, less than twenty guards. No walk in the park by any stretch of the imagination, but not entirely impossible. After all, where there’s a will, there’s a way.

I can’t be that…

…Best not finish that thought.

Amber and Razzmatazz sidle up on either side, careful and quiet, and peer over the edge with me. There’s a tense pause as they too make their assessments, she as disturbed as I was, and he the most composed among us.

In fact, he seems almost… determined. Resolute. From a certain angle, keen. His eyes betray a subtle glint of trepidation, as do his parting lips, but there’s daring in them too, and his mouth stretches into a very faint, very small smirk; he doesn’t just see an obstacle, but a challenge. And then he turns to me, and the smirk becomes more confident. “You’re a bold one,” he says, nodding in approval. “I like that.”

Just like Selene perking up outside the house at how I’d accepted her deal, hearing something similar from him does nothing to ease my mind.

“Are you insane?” Amber hisses, staring at us with wide, anxious eyes, then glances at the pit again. “Sweet Selene, look at it. What’re we supposed to do?”

“Help them,” Razzmatazz answers straightforwardly.

“But how? It’s just three of us against all those dogs and changelings, and they’re armed and armoured. What do we have?”

“Hope.”

She baulks. “What hope? Since when does hope change anything?”

“We can’t leave them, Amber,” I interrupt, feeling the dread inside me well up again, like I’d knowingly doomed us all. “If we were in their place, we’d want someone to help us too.”

She meets my gaze wearily, burned-out from the arguing and the stress. Even the sapphire blue of her almost luminous eyes seems to have dulled. It’s a look that tears at me — begs me to listen, because I’m teetering on a cliff’s edge, and she wants to talk me down before I jump.

She slowly shakes her head, ears flat and brows upturned. “It can’t be done.”

I turn to the mine once more. Shackles are clamped around everyone’s ankles, rattling as they walk or shift their feet to swing their pickaxe. A dog smacks a creature that looks like a griffon across their beak, sending them staggering to the floor. A changeling prods a yak with a spear to get them moving again, even when it’s clear to all how exhausted they are. Ziggy beckons for the next insubordinate slave — a ponylike creature with frilly mane and scales on its back — with a small, sadistic wave of his paw.

Twenty years.

For twenty years, they’ve been doing this, knowing it’s bad, knowing they’re hurting the wrong people for the wrong reasons, and persisting anyway. Some of the captives in this chamber may have been here from the very start.

Who knows how many slaves they’ve worked to breaking point — how many lives they’ve stolen from friends and family, only for them wind up in this damp, dark, dusty ditch, treated no better than the tools they use, and replaced just as easily. Spared no punishment. Cast aside. Forgotten.

“Aut inveniam viam aut faciam.”

She blinks, an ear rising a meagre fraction.

I return to her with a soft, yet determined frown. “We’ll find a way or make one.”

She continues to stare, looking…

Betrayed…

I switch to Razzmatazz before my heart leaps to my throat. “Is there an exit here?”

He nods, pointing with a hoof as well as he can to a tunnel entrance on one of the lower levels, large enough for maybe only two at a time; three, if everyone squeezed, or a single yak, large dog or minotaur. “The river’s not far down there. All we need to do is make sure we’re not spotted.”

“Any ideas?”

He shrugs. “Pick off the stragglers?”

“Start small, work our way up?”

He nods again. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Good.” I nod in turn, taking a moment to fathom what I’d just agreed to, then look to Amber.

She appears dismal, her despondent gaze travelling from one end of the pit to the other, growing ever more hopeless. She’s not about to quit — and when our guide’s on my side of the debate, I don’t suppose she can — but she’s absolutely daunted by the task ahead.

So am I. I guess I’m just better at hiding it. “Amber.”

She slowly comes back to me.

“We can’t do this without you.”

She pauses, then morosely shakes her head. “I can’t fight.”

“If we have the element of surprise, we won’t need to.”

“If.”

I shut my mouth. Yes, that’s definitely a very big if — better to have said when — but I can’t back down. “Please, Amber. I need you on this. Together.”

Her ears twitch, and her eyes gradually go from pleading to peeved, brows lowering to a frown. I’d struck another nerve, and this one’s genuine. “You say that again, I’ll chip another tooth.”

I nod understandingly. At least she’s out of her funk. “Is that a yes?”

She winces faintly — perhaps in surprise, though I can’t rightly say at what — and goes back to analysing the situation. And I can tell she’s trying to see everything the same way twice, and failing; it seems more tangible now, and if it can be hit, it can be broken. Daunting, no matter how anyone slices it, but in the same way Selene was by the lake: beyond reproach at first, and then fair game.

I feel horrible, pushing her buttons so deliberately and knowing what response I’d get. But if it needs to happen so we can help the many… I suppose, in this very rare and singular instance… the ends do justify the means. Or at least, they should.

It’s not a bad thing to do, is it?

…Or does the fact I have to ask myself that mean I already know the answer?

“Fine,” Amber grouses, shaking her head and rolling her eyes, then returns to me. “Screw it, we’re doing this.”

“Well,” Razzmatazz laughs, “that was fast.”

“Shut your face or I’ll bite it off.”

His grin falls.

She continues scowling at him, making sure the warning sticks, then takes a fleeting glance at me, which turns into a long, pensive stare. “This still won’t end well.”

“Only one way to find out,” I say, hoping to feel more resolute, and I’m not sure if it works.

We creep along the deserted floor beneath our initial lookout point, about five or six generous strides wide from wall to drop-off; plenty of distance, unlike the airship highway Chitin led me down, and that’s something I can be thankful for. There are only a few sunstone lanterns we have to watch out for too — the majority concentrated where the work is below. A small alcove here and there offer additional shelter, where the workers dug deeper to find whatever ore, gems or precious stones they were after.

Funny, how the shadows are scary when I just want to get to the fridge late at night, but as soon as I need to get from point A to B without being seen, that fear more or less goes away. I guess there’s some kind of anxiety pecking order at work, prioritising one phobia above the others.

Whatever the case may be, we continue to sneak as far from the edge as possible. I take up the centre, Razzmatazz ahead, and Amber behind. Both ponies walk with their heads lowered while I walk with a hunch. All of us are careful with our footing, wary of any loose rocks we might send skidding, or crevices we might trip up on and twist our ankles.

But Razzmatazz doesn’t do any of that; he’s as surefooted as they come, never once looking down except to slake his interest for a broken pickaxe we pass, as if this were a walk in the park for him. A dangerous walk in a perilous park, granted — he acknowledges that by behaving the same as Amber and I — but he never misses a step, as if he knows the place like the back of his hand. Or hoof.

If Amber hadn’t put faith in his navigational abilities from the start, I’d be growing suspicious right about now. I’m still curious, of course, but at least I’m sure he’s not leading us into a trap. He’s had plenty of opportunities to do that before, and it wouldn’t make sense to start now.

Eventually, the end of the our level comes into view, as well as the tell-tale clink of chains and metal on stone; we’re approaching the closest and most isolated group. And the anticipation builds — there’s a tightness in my chest, knowing what’s about to happen, how much is at stake, and not just for myself. And on top of that, there’s the knowledge that, for any of this to work… we’ll probably have to hurt someone.

Someone who might just be doing a job, like Chitin.

Someone who might bear no ill will towards me, like the guard Amber knocked out.

Someone who might not totally agree with what they’re doing, like Rex and Rostrum.

More realisations, more dread; there are no mindless goons here, just people. Bad people, twisted by false ideals and corrupt worldviews, but people all the same.

But if they get in the way of justice…

…They’ve brought this on themselves.

Razzmatazz sinks to the ground like a tiger stalking its prey and Amber and I follow suit, each step now slower and more deliberate than they were already. My knee’s good enough to bend, but too far in and the pain stings like a needle straight through, making me grimace and hitch my breath every so often. Hopefully not loud enough for anyone to hear.

But as we approach the ledge, fortune appears to favour us.

A lone dog of medium build, wearing no armour and armed with only a spear and shoulder-mounted shield, watches over a group of three: a pony, a griffon, and the minotaur. They swing and chip away at what I can only assume is the start of a new tunnel. They’ve already made it a solid metre in. The dog hasn’t heard us or caught our scent yet — too much noise and dust in the air, I suppose.

Good. That’s good. Very… very good.

Now all we have to do is… well…

Subdue it.

And risk everyone and everything we’re trying to save.

Much, much easier said than done, but… we’ve made it this far. And by breaking out of the cell, we’ve already crossed the Rubicon. We have no choice.

I look over my shoulder to the right.

Amber continues staring at the scene before her with a taut expression for a moment, but notices I’ve turned away and meets my gaze.

I don’t say anything. Not just in case I might be heard, but because I don’t need to.

She knows what I’m asking for.

It’s not her face that changes, or the angle of her ears, or anything else about her I can see; it’s in the air between us — a connection neither of us want to sever, but it’s sure as hell being stretched to breaking point. And the more I ask, the more that connection’s strained.

But with a soft, silent, outward breath through her snout, she goes back to the scene before us. And, just as quiet, she slowly, carefully shimmies closer to the edge, lifting her belly from the floor, wings tensing and opening a fraction — maybe only a handspan away from her body on either side. Eventually, she finds herself perched like a gargoyle, neck low, ears alert, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Unlike a gargoyle, however, her heart isn’t made of stone; her delay’s less about opportunity than it is about steeling her nerves. She may hide it behind that brooding, stalwart mask, but her eyes betray her. She tries assuring herself, convincing herself there’s no other way; it’s the right thing to do, and she can do this. But there’s doubt in her mind, and fear. This could go so very wrong so very quickly, and it all hinges on her.

And I’ve put her in that position.

…This is wrong, isn’t it?

I should… stop this, shouldn’t I?

But before I’m able, she leans forward and leaps off.

My voice is sucked back into my lungs like water down a drain before it even reaches my throat.

She sails through the air for what feels like an eternity, rear hooves aimed for the guard’s back, forelegs bracing herself, falling with wings unfurled, but limp and trailing behind uselessly.

The only warning the dog’s given — to which his ears perk and his head slightly turns — is the faint scrape of hooves of rock, and rush of wind through feathers. But by the time he realises there may be something more to those sounds, a little under two nerve-wracking seconds later, it’s already too late.

Amber sends him straight to the floor, flopping forward with a heavy thud, head slamming into the ground without so much as a startled whimper. She keels over from the force of the impact, landing awkwardly on her shoulder and skidding a short distance away from him, kept from rolling by the bag on her back. And by the pained look on her face — wide-eyed, ears low, mouth clasped shut — she’s this close to yelping herself.

The prisoners stop their mining and turn around.

Work continues as usual in the rest of the pit.

Somehow, we’d done it.

Amber sways onto her stomach, and from there, slowly, unsteadily heaves herself up to her elbows, grimacing as she gathers the strength to rise any higher.

The prisoners watch on for a few seconds more, before the minotaur kneels and, just like that, breaks off his shackles with a metallic snap as if they were plastic. He does the same for the pony and the griffon, who simply stare at him and Amber in bemusement, and when he’s done with them, he strides over to her.

She takes notice, observing him from over her shoulder in silent alarm.

My insides hollow. Icy talons run down my spine.

But all he does, much to everyone’s relief, is kneel once more and offer a hand.

Amber hesitates, glancing from his small, beady eyes to the massive, open palm in front of her and back again. But she doesn’t accept, instead slowly, unsteadily lurching to her hooves and standing shakily, facing him, a wing drooping, its feathers ruffled.

The minotaur rises with her, letting his hand fall by his side again, showing no outward reaction to her rebuttal — neither smiling nor frowning, merely accepting things as they were. And when he’s satisfied she needs no further attention, he turns to Razzmatazz and I and stands under the ledge with arms outstretched, beckoning us down.

Razzmatazz looks to me with a raised eyebrow and an approving smirk, lightly bobbing his head. “Not bad at all,” he whispers, before shuffling forward, sitting on his rump, and sliding off and falling into the minotaur’s waiting grasp, who cradles him to the floor.

The words don’t sit well with me, like a pebble in my shoe, and they only grow more upsetting when I look at Amber again and how she’s nursing her wing and dusting herself off. But now’s not the time for that. I need to focus. So, I shimmy over and sit on the ledge, then hop down when the minotaur’s ready again.

He catches me under the arms, not unlike a baby, and I feel just as fragile in his grip as he carefully sets me down and lets me go. And as he returns to full height, I’m left in awe, my jaw dropping.

He’s easily as tall as any of the bigger dogs, and while he lacks their claws and teeth, and his horns have been shaved to a nub, he shares their strength. Even through the fur covering his torso, denser and shaggier from the waist down, his muscles are sculpted like a bodybuilder. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could shove his fist through a solid brick wall without flinching.

“Thanks,” I weakly mutter.

He merely nods, unphased, giving a small grunt from his dust-covered, bovine snout.

The strong, silent type. We can work with that. Intimidating, but better on our side than not.

I nod as well, then turn to Amber, who’s still tending to her wing, and cautiously wander over, careful to steer clear of the unconscious guard. “You okay?”

“What does it look like?”

I shut my mouth, but don’t respond. I need to give her a moment to blow off the steam.

She sits on her haunches, frowning at the ground as she kneads the joint and all the points around it as best she can with her hooves. “No, I’m not,” she corrects, softening her tone, but still agitated. “Landed wrong.”

“Anything serious?”

A pause. “Nothing a day’s rest can’t fix,” she huffs, then looks up at me and shakes her head, eyes revealing just how scared she’d been. “Please don’t ask me to do that again.”

“I won’t,” I answer automatically, and feel all the better for it. Then I look behind me to the minotaur. “I don’t think I’ll need to, anyway.”

He bows his head.

“But you have to admit, that was pretty darn impressive” Razzmatazz chimes in, standing beside me, gesturing to the guard. “Not anyone can take out a dog like that.”

Amber follows his gaze, and her massage stops after a short while as she lingers on her fallen opponent. Her frown grows troubled. “Let’s just… keep going,” she mumbles, now sharing that frown with us. “The sooner we’re done, the better.”

I nod once more, choosing not to dwell on any of this, and turn my attention to the griffon and the pony still frozen in place at the entrance of the tunnel. The pony — a unicorn, I realise, taller than Razzmatazz and Amber by at least half a head, and more slender — stares on in disbelief at the guard. The griffon, however, about as tall and white all over, is focussed on me. Together, they remain perfectly quiet, mouths agape as they continue processing what’s happened.

But there’s no time to dawdle. “What about you two?”

They glance at each other, somewhat stunned I’d acknowledged their existence.

“Are you coming or what?”

They share another glance, hesitating still, but when the unicorn meets my gaze again, she shuts her mouth and upturns her brows, then bows and shakes her head as she stiffly backs away. Her midnight blue coat and mane of a paler shade blend well with the shadows — so well she’s almost pitch black in the shelter of the tunnel.

The griffon watches her retreat without a word, as shocked as I am, but then blinks and looks to me once more. His beak and claws are a silvery grey, and markings of a similar hue dot the plumage on the snout and around lilac eyes, which betray a sense of regret — the very same I feel. But with an inward breath and a shuffle of his wings, he plods his way toward us.

Two would leave, one would stay a slave; so far, an attrition rate of thirty-three percent. Not ideal in any circumstance. I wish we had time to argue this with her, but we don’t. Maybe if we take out more guards — build momentum, show her we mean business — then she’d be more receptive. Trying to escape couldn’t be worse than this.

Yeah, we’ll come back for her. No one left gets behind. Not if I can help it.

“We set?” I ask the group.

There’s a pause as they all share even more looks between themselves, some apprehensive, one stoic, one eager, and they all mumble or nod in agreement.

“Good.” I nod in turn. “Then let’s get this show on the road.”

The dog’s ears twitch when it hears the sound of gravel shifting from the cavern behind it, and it turns its head up the slope to the entrance. Whether it saw me hurriedly duck behind the corner, I can’t say, but deep in my pounding heart, I somehow know.

“You sure about this?”

I peer down at Amber through the gloom.

Her eyes catch the ambient light radiating from outside. Despite her brave façade, I can tell she’s as scared as me. Neither of us let it show, though, and I’m pretty sure it’s for the same reason: fear’s a sickness, and we can’t let it spread.

“No,” I answer quietly, and then I press my back against the wall as a hear and feel the heavy, padded footsteps of the dog approaching. But I don’t move; it’d give chase, and that wouldn’t do us any good. Better to just stay here and stick to the plan, even though my muscles, nerves, and every fibre of my being screams for me to bolt.

Its shadow creeps through the opening, and then its bare foot, and then the other, and then the trousers, tunic, armour and axe, and it quickly catches sight of us. A deep frown creeps across its brows beneath the visored helmet — a plainer version without the plume or scale patterning — and it stands quietly on its hindlegs, towering over and watching us closely.

We simply stare back.

And in the momentary and relative peace, I somehow get the impression it is a she. Compared to the Topaz brothers, her teeth are less pronounced, and her features are softer, even with the fur and the shadows keeping everything from clarity. She isn’t as bulky as them either. Still intimidating, to be sure, else I wouldn’t feel so cold, but not as thick in the arms or torso.

I suppose some differences are universal, even between dimensions.

“You picked the wrong side, human,” she rumbles.

My gaze hardens in response, and I suddenly don’t feel so cold. “Doesn’t look that way to me.”

She opens her mouth again, either to reply or call for help, but before she can, an arm as big and strong as hers wraps around her throat and yanks her into the darkness. There’s a struggle on the floor; feet and hooves flail about. The fuzzy silhouette of a pony grapples dangerously with her axe as a griffon heaves a rock above her head, and with the dull thump of stone on metal, a sudden stillness descends on the cavern. And finally, there’s silence once more.

“She’s out,” Razzmatazz announces, retrieving the axe from the dog’s paw and hobbling toward Amber and I with it clasped to his chest. He pants lightly through his nose and, but doesn’t seem too bothered overall, even looking directly at me with a hint of a smile. “We’re in the clear.”

“Good,” I say, and I’m surprised to find myself mean it as I relax from the wall and peek around the corner again.

Seven ponies, two more griffons, and another of those ponylike creatures with a frilly mane and scaly back. One of their number watches the entrance with a single eye — the other patched over with a bandage. Before long, the whole group’s turned in our direction, all with desperate looks on their faces.

I’m more than happy to oblige. They’ve waited far too long for this. “Someone grab the shield too — we might need it at some point.”

“Way ahead of you,” Amber answers, trotting over to the massive, limp form and the griffon already fiddling with the straps.

And then the thought strikes that we’re basically stealing. Alternatives like requisitioning and appropriating come to mind, but they’re nicer, more flowery words for the same action. The dog’s not innocent, and if she woke, she’d more than likely do everything she could to hurt or hinder us. And yet… I can’t help asking myself if it’s the right thing to do.

Everyone else certainly thinks so, or they wouldn’t be giving the minotaur the axe and shield.

But we’re gaining momentum and we’re gaining confidence, and seeing that final, thankful ray of hope in those captives’ eyes makes me all the more determined to see this through to the end. I can do this. We can do this. And we’ll be coming back for that unicorn before it’s all over. We just need a little luck.

The changeling buzzes past the corner, and upon seeing our motley crew of fifteen on its left, is immediately welcomed by a swift and decisive punch. It flies back, hitting the opposite wall, then slumps to the floor, unconscious. The spear it carried is claimed and passed down, and our resident minotaur flexes his hand while he keeps an eye on the comatose guard, his axe held alongside the shield for the time being.

With the threat cleared, the white griffon steps closer and peers around the bend. “One more,” he whispers. “Diamond dog, medium build, lightly armoured. Four slaves.”

This’ll be the last of the outlying groups, by Razzmatazz’s reckoning. Afterwards, things will be markedly more difficult without alerting anyone, not that it wasn’t hard enough already.

“What about Libby?”

The group collectively turns to a pony behind me, somewhere towards the centre. A male, judging by the voice, and now there’s a sample to choose from, I can tell the differences between them. As a whole, they seem to be more or less about the same build, even the unicorns — the one up top must’ve been an exception — but the males have broader, more robust snouts.

This unicorn has a cream-coloured coat and a wavy, windswept mane of soft yellows and oranges, and watches the griffon closely with turquoise eyes. “My wife, Liberty Belle. Do you see her? Pegasus, pink coat, green mane?”

A terrible sinking feeling overwhelms me.

“No, sorry,” the griffon replies, going back to way ahead. “Only two ponies, and one’s…”

His sudden silence is deafening, but it manages to shake me out of my momentary stupor and I look to him again. “What?” I ask, anxious to take a gander myself. “What do you see?”

“Is it her?” the pony questions.

Still, the griffon remains quiet, and from the angle I have on him, I can see his eyes wide and beak agape with shock. Not the paralysing, fearful kind, but the dangerously enraptured sort; a volatile mixture on a knife’s edge, waiting to slip.

He’s seen something, and he wants to take action.

Amber’s the closest to him, and she sees the unpredictable tick as well. “Don’t do it,” she warns at a whisper’s pitch, shaking her head with her ears angled back. “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t you dare.”

But he doesn’t seem to hear, and a second or two later, he darts ahead.

The minotaur, Amber and I all reach as far and as fast as we can, but none of us are quick enough, and the escapees behind us do the best they can to stifle their collective gasp. We can only watch and listen in horror, and a ghastly chill strikes me like lightning.

The griffon gallops onward in bounds and leaps, wings unfurled but tense and close to his sides, like a diving hawk, and neck low like a prowling lion. None of this feels planned, more… reflexive. Impulsive. Instinctual. As if he’d been reduced to little more than an animal — which, in a way, I suppose we all had been. But this wasn’t fear he was acting on: this was rage. A silent fury that didn’t care how much noise it made on the rocky, scraggly ground.

The guard looks over his shoulder, then baulks and spins about hurriedly, readying his spear.

But the griffon’s quicker on the draw and pounces, ramming the dog over with a solid, weighty shove to the chest, then grabs the shaft of the spear in both foreclaws and presses it against his throat.

A new chill strikes me and I dash out of cover toward them, hunched over to keep myself from being seen by anyone down below. Amber follows, and maybe one or two more — I don’t check.

The guard struggles for breath. The griffon doesn’t relent.

“No!” I hiss through grit teeth, gripping his shoulders and frantically trying to yank him away.

He looks to me with a livid glower, but the anger’s not directed at me; the confusion is, however, but he only lets go when he feels a second pair of hands — or hooves — wraps around his chest and neck. He staggers back a few steps on his hindlegs, before resting on all fours again and blinking at myself and Amber in confounded anger. “What do you mean?” he demands, glancing between us, then gestures to the dog on his back with a paw to his throat. “He’s the enemy, isn’t he?”

“He is.” I nod, and take the opportunity to sneak another glimpse of the guard in question. “But we’re not taking it that far.”

He watches me with a frightened frown, as perplexed as the griffon, but quietly thankful.

Amber watches me with a frown of her own from the corner of her eye. Whether or not she agrees with me, I can’t tell, but I know she doesn’t like being put on the spot like this, forced to stand by me while I draw a line in the sand.

“You think they care how righteous you are?” the griffon spits, sweeping a wing to the pit below. “Look around you! That’s the extent of their mercy! I’ve suffered through it for I don’t know how long, and I haven’t seen Snowball in all that time, and if anyone threatens him…”

I wait expectantly, even though I loathe what I’m sure he’s trying to say, but I soon notice his gaze has been drawn to something behind me, and I turn to follow it.

Another earth pony, pale blue in the coat, blonde in the mane, stares back at him in disbelief with wide, peachy eyes.

The griffon waits a few moments more, and then walks, then trots, then canters closer, and when they’re within reach of each other, they wrap a foreleg around the other’s nape. They rest their foreheads together. They close their eyes and breathe stuttered breaths. And they sniffle.

Feeling a lump deep in the back of my throat, I swallow, but my mouth’s dry. This is a reunion. Between whom, I can’t exactly say, and it’s not the right time to ask either. I need to focus — distance myself from the raw, vulnerable scene happening there and figure out what to do next.

The group has slowly trickled through, the rest are still behind the corner. Half look to me, including Razzmatazz, and half watch the pony and griffon share a tender embrace. All look troubled to some degree, except the minotaur, who’s as silent and stoic as always.

“You,” I gesture to him, “break the chains.”

“No,” a feeble voice pleads.

I look down to the guard.

He pulls a twine loop over his head and offers it to me, a key dangling at its end. “Take them, please. Just don’t hurt me.”

I hesitate, caught on whether this was some kind of ruse, considering the hostility pretty much every other dog and changeling. But then I ask myself whether I can afford to question it, and I cautiously accept the offer. “Hey, big guy?”

The minotaur grunts.

“Keep an eye on this one. If he tries anything…”

“I won’t, I promise!”

I slowly shake my head. “Can’t take that risk.”

His ears droop as the minotaur looms over us both.

I leave the two alone, trudging over to the slaves. It… intrigues me how effortless saying all that was, but I try not to dwell on any of it. Once this is all over, maybe, but not a second sooner. Instead, I concentrate on making sure I don’t step on any loose rocks. Despite the comfortable distance from the wall on my left to the edge on my right, it’s quite a drop to the next tier, and no one needs to hear me shriek.

“Hey.”

I glance to my right and see Amber looking back as she walks alongside me. There’s an uneasy crease in her brows and a steadfast glint in her eyes.

“We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t.” I kneel by Snowball’s hindlegs and hope I’m not making either he or the griffon uncomfortable as I unlock the shackles. They’ve rubbed his fur on his ankles down the skin, red and raw. I’m sure I hear a relieved sigh come from him as I pull them loose.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“It’s nothing,” I mutter, unlocking the second. And then I stand up and start moving to the next prisoner — a hippogriff, it seems, with the back end of a horse as opposed to a lion, and about as tall as Selene. This one reminds me of a whimsical painting of the seashore.

“We do,” Amber insists, still following. “You just don’t want to.”

“Can’t this wait?” I snap, flashing her a warning frown as I kneel again.

“No, it can’t,” she snaps back, unphased. “Because what you’re doing… it’s unsustainable.”

“We’ll make it work.”

“Oh, for the love of…” She purses her lips and glances away. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“Loud and clear.” The shackles on the hippogriff come free and I stand up and stride for the next: a griffon with the colours and patterns of bald eagle. “If that’s all you wanted to say—”

“Whether you want to admit it or not, that griffon has a point.” She shadows me still. “If you want to keep doing this, you’ll have to make sacrifices. You can’t just hope everything’s going to go right when this is our only chance and everypony’s lives are on the line. There’ll be at least one guard we can’t sneak past or put to sleep, and they won’t turn a blind eye even if we ask them nicely.”

Another pair of shackles fall to the floor, and I march for the next: a grey pegasus with dark hair and wide, lime green eyes. He watches me with furrowed brows as I approach — a troubled frown of some description. Probably trying to figure out what I am.

“You’re playing with fire, and sooner or later, you’re going to get your hooves burned. Either we cut our losses and we save who we can, or… things get messy. But whatever we do, none of us are walking out of here with a clean conscience.”

“The only reason we can’t is because you say we can’t,” I retort, spinning to and shooting her a glower as soon as the fourth pair of shackles have come loose. I’d shout if it were possible. “I say we can. We’re doing this, Amber. We’ve come too far to give up now.”

“But you will,” a third voice murmurs.

Amber’s the first to look, and slowly, I turn around to face the speaker.

The pegasus continues staring at me and me alone. And it’s an unsettling stare, as if he recognises me, and somehow pities me. Despairs for me. Knows what he’s about to do will hurt me. And then he gives a small, gentle shake of the head, ears folding down. “You should’ve stayed in your cell, Adam.”

I blink, taken aback, then squint and lean in as my lips curl to ask how exactly he knew my name. But the answer hits me like a hammer on an anvil before I have the mind to ask, and the chill from the shock of it makes me fall on my rear, hands propping me up. My mouth’s drier than it’s ever felt before, and I’m starting to feel a shudder emanate from my chest — all the bottled-up tension finally finding a moment of weakness where it can let itself loose.

But… it couldn’t really be… could it?

“…Chitin?”

He pauses in silent acknowledgement. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, shaking his head, and then turns to stride and leap off the edge.

I reach out a hand to its fullest extent. “No, wait, Chitin, please!”

Just before he jumps up, he skids to a halt on the very brink, tiny pebbles and a layer of dust sliding off in his stead. His forward half’s low, his wings unfurled and standing tall, and his eyes shut in a pained grimace.

I’ve caught his attention. I only need to hold it, and from there, convince him. “Please,” I beg, no louder than a breath, “please, just… look at me.”

Slowly, reluctantly, as if they very thought were hurting him, he opens his eyes and angles his head in our direction.

I’m holding it. Just one more step to go. And like I’d done with Amber by the lake, the only way I can think of doing it’s by appealing to his better nature — a side of him I know he has. I saw it firsthand. It was fleeting, it was hollow, but I saw it. “Look at us,” I implore, peering over my shoulder.

Razzmatazz sits by the dog, trying to make conversation, and appears to be met with some success, even if the unfortunate guard’s still wary of the minotaur staring down at him. The rest of the group mill about, murmuring amongst themselves, pony, griffon, hippogriff, and others alike, careful not to make too much noise and stand too close to the drop. A few look our way curiously, each lingering once they’ve recognised something’s gone wrong, but thankfully, none spread their fear down the line. Amber simply watches on without a word, letting me speak my piece.

“We’re not your enemy,” I urge, voice quavering as I return to the imitation in front of me. “We don’t mean you any harm. I’m just a kid from Canada, and all I want to do is go home — that’s the only reason I’m working with her. I didn’t choose this.”

“Nor did I.”

I pause, and I realise how demonstrably false his response is. But if I call him out, I’d have to call myself out as well, because I’m just as guilty in that regard. “Well, now you can.” I slowly, ever so cautiously scoot my way a little closer. “Let them go. They’ve done nothing to you and you know it. Let them go, and I’ll make sure she’s lenient. This doesn’t have to end in violence.”

There’s a long, stressful, nerve-wracking silence as I wait for the air to change — for the mood to lighten, or at least shift to something less dangerous. That had to have worked; the answer was so obvious. If the higher-ups were whispering in the dark, then surely the grunts were just as divided. And I’d offered an olive branch. There couldn’t possibly be any other alternative.

But then his gaze hardens, and the pained look fades.

My guts suddenly feel like they’ve been coated with ice.

“Tell that to her,” he snarls, and in a flash of bright green flames, a black and yellow changeling stands hunched before me, glaring with crimson eyes. It launches into the air immediately, wings buzzing, putting as much distance between itself and us as possible, crossing over to the centre of the giant pit.

I’d cry out to him, but it’s already far too late.

“THE PRISONERS! THE PRISONERS ARE HERE!”