Chapter 1: Princess of Darkness
Mistress of the Night
by D. G. D. Davidson
Chapter 1: Princess of Darkness
High on Mount Eohippus, deep in a craggy gorge buffeted by winds and approachable only from the air, stood the Aerie. An enormous walled fortress of black basalt built in Equestria’s wilder days, the Aerie protected the mountain springs feeding the Latigo Falls flowing through Canterlot. Formerly, the pegasi had constructed and guarded the Aerie, but now it was the haunt of the gray-furred and bat-winged wraith ponies, as well as the residence of the proud and elusive Luna, princess of the night.
On a tall platform of hewn stone in the midst of the Aerie’s dark interior, Princess Luna dozed on a canopied daybed. On the high steps around her lounged the wraiths who served as her guards and attendants. As they dreamt, the wraiths' tufted ears twitched, their tripartite hooves jerked, and their thick lips quivered, occasionally exposing their long, sharp teeth. Overhead, hidden in the recesses of the vast, vaulted ceiling, bats rustled their wings.
Not a single creature stood awake or kept watch, for there was no need: dark wards, terrible and ancient, guarded Luna as she slumbered. Her bed stood in the middle of a great circle etched in the stone, the groove of which had in millennia past, to the chanting of terrible mantras, been filled with foals’ blood. Carved into the oak of the bed itself were awful runes, their meaning now lost to common ponies. These emblems, and more, kept at bay all forces that might seek to harm the princess.
As the day grew old, a wraith stallion lying near the foot of Luna’s bed rolled over, blinked his yellow eyes, scratched himself, yawned, and rose to his feet. His slit pupils widened as he glanced up at the tiny window high in the western wall. The beam of light it cast through the dancing dust motes had grown reddish and dim.
The wraith yawned and scratched himself again as he stretched his bat-like wings. Turning to the bed, he gazed down at the princess resting amidst a heaped-up pile of silk. A loose chiffon robe, as insubstantial as a feathery cloud hanging in an evening sky, barely concealed her reposing form. He reached out with a forelimb and gently caressed her cheek with one of his heavy, three-toed feet.
Luna’s large, bright eyes snapped open and flashed with anger. With the agility of a fencer, she wrapped a fetlock around the offending limb and yanked the wraith off balance, at the same time ramming a hoof under his chin and slamming him down onto the bed.
The wraith chuckled.
Luna’s eyes narrowed. “Shivers. We ordered thee to waken us, varlet, not to stallionhandle us.”
Looking up at her, Shivers replied with a wide, toothy grin, “Aye, Yer Worship, that ye did, and waken ye I did, just as ye were askin’. But as for this, now--I was just tellin’ me lads that one o’ these days ye would take me to yer bed, but I never thought t’would be today!”
Luna tossed him roughly to the floor. Leaning over the edge of the daybed, she pierced him with a glare. “Thou art too saucy by half, Shivers, and too free in thy discourse. We have no need for some rude, unwashed lover.”
He laughed again and picked himself up. “Someday ye’ll realize how lonely ye are, Yer Worship, and what it is ye be missin’.”
Luna raised an eyebrow and gave him a faint, sardonic smile. “Someday, Shivers, thou wilt be old and decrepit, and we shall still be young and beautiful.”
He nodded. “Aye. Aye, I be lookin’ forward to it.”
Her glare returned. “Tell Mandrake Root to prepare our bath. And ready our armor. We ride in full bard tonight.” Rising from the bed, she slipped off her robe and threw it at him.
Unclothed, Luna turned and walked to the back of the platform, where a narrow doorway opened on a steep staircase. She climbed several stories through a winding, dark passage until she emerged at the top of the Aerie’s windswept tower, where stood a high brass pole topped with the emblem of the crescent moon.
Looking out over the ramparts, Luna gazed at the rugged, mountainous lands to the west and the low, fertile valley to the south. The sky on the horizon burned a fiery red, but faded overhead to a dim purple. No stars yet shone.
Luna’s ethereal mane, studded with stars, whipped back and forth in the breeze. She took a deep breath and opened her wings. She flapped, lifted herself into the air, and raised her head.
It took a moment of concentration to draw power out of her heart and into her horn. She could sense the moon calling to her from beyond the rim of the world. A frisson of energy ran the length of her spine from her head to her tail, and her horn and eyes grew hot as she raised her power. For a moment, the moon refused to budge, and she felt its recalcitrance as a pressure in her chest. She pulled up more energy, and her horn grew hotter still, but then the pressure released and she could sense the moon at last moving into the sky. She closed her eyes, lowered herself again to the rooftop, and took in deep breaths of the chilly air. When she opened her eyes and looked up, the moon hung overhead, bright and full, and around it twinkled the band of the Milky Way.
Luna nodded in satisfaction. A clear night and a full moon--it was the perfect time to go riding.
The bath house was a chamber built up against the rough natural stone of the cliff, where one of the Latigo Springs originated. Out of the rock burst foaming white water, which poured in a vigorous cascade into a broad pool at the cliff’s base. The water was ice-cold, and hanging in the waterfall were large cheesecloth satchels stuffed with jasmine and clove. Beside the pool, arranging brushes and vials of oil, lay a young wraith mare with a short, coltish manecut.
Her yellow eyes widened and she rose quickly to her hooves when Luna swept into the room. Making a deep bow, she whispered, “Mistress.”
Luna replied with a curt nod. “Mandrake Root.” Without further ado, the princess walked down the steps into the pool and submerged herself, remaining underwater for several minutes. She resurfaced with a gasp and swam to the waterfall, letting it stream through her mane. Her misty, insubstantial hair blended with the water, bleeding out until the pool appeared full of stars.
Luna turned from the waterfall, tossed her head, and began to swim back and forth. Mandrake Root wordlessly picked up her vials and poured them in--juniper oil, essence of lavender, and almond milk.
Luna flipped onto her back and plunged under again. When she resurfaced, she opened her wings, splashed them, and then lifted them up, letting the water run off her feathers. At last, she walked up the steps out of the bath and stood while Mandrake toweled her off. After that, Mandrake slipped a curry mitt over one of her hooves and began to brush out Luna’s coat.
Luna closed her eyes and lifted her chin. “Art thou content, Mandrake Root?”
Mandrake paused. “Mistress?”
“Art thou content?”
“I dinna ken, Mistress.”
“Keep working.”
Obediently, Mandrake resumed brushing.
“We created the wraiths a millennium ago when we were Nightmare Moon,” Luna said. “We promised you an eternity of darkness in which to revel, and you remained faithful to us throughout our exile, even living in holes and caves to escape Celestia’s purge. For generations, you passed on our story to your descendants and looked forward to our return.”
“Aye. We all love ye, Mistress.”
Luna took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “Yet we kept none of our promises to you.”
Mandrake dipped her hooves in oil, rubbed the oil into Luna’s mane, and began to comb. “We serve the princess of the night even if she be bringin’ no evernight and even if she ain’t leadin’ us to rule the ponies as she promised. We love her anyway.”
“Have we betrayed thee, Mandrake Root?”
“Not me, Mistress.”
“Have we disappointed thee?”
Mandrake paused a moment, but then swiftly continued combing in silence. Her hooves trembled as she worked.
“Are we what thou didst envision when thy dam set thee at her hooves and told thee the prophecy of our advent?”
Mandrake trembled again.
“Did she tell thee that we were great and terrible to behold, that our voice shook the mountains, that ponies quailed in terror when we rode forth, that lightning coursed the sky when we revealed our wrath? Doth the true princess of the night match the princess of thine imaginings?”
Luna turned her head sharply and glanced at her. In surprise, Mandrake Root dropped her comb and ducked to pick it up.
“Look at us, child.”
Her lips quivering, Mandrake looked up. Luna’s eyes, full and bright, gazed down at her; intense, ever-shifting emotions ran across them like clouds scudding across the moon.
“I canna answer ye, Mistress,” Mandrake said, choking back a sob. “Please don’t ask me any more.”
Luna turned away, sighed again, clenched her teeth, and, under her breath, whispered, “So Celestia truly bested me in the end, just as she always has.”
Fearfully, Mandrake Root resumed her duties. After oiling and combing Luna’s tail, she whisked her coat again, first with a body brush and then with a finishing brush. After that, she trimmed Luna’s whiskers, the hair in her ears, and the feathers on her fetlocks. Then she blacked Luna’s hooves.
“Shall I get ye yer bell boots an’ tiara, Mistress?”
Luna smiled and patted Mandrake’s cheek. “Neigh, that is all for now. We have no need of them tonight.”
Luna returned to the Aerie’s main chamber where Starch Pudding, her majordomo, stood stiffly, wearing a high white collar, a slovenly bowtie, and a pair of neat black saddlebags. Beside him was a portable table on which he had placed a covered dish. Nearby, Shivers and D’Artagnan, her chariot steeds, lounged on the floor with Steel Brush, the armor bearer, who had laid out the pieces of Luna’s barding.
Without a word, Luna walked to the table. Starch Pudding slid a velvet pillow under her haunches as she sat, and then he removed the cover from the dish, revealing a pile of rich marsh grasses, a loaf of artesian bread, a boiled egg, and a stemmed glass of liquor distilled from the nightshade, a plant deadly to most ponies, but which Luna could consume without hurt. Lying beside the glass was a polished amethyst.
Luna looked over the simple repast and gave a small nod.
Starch Pudding returned to his stiff stance, his eyes fixed on a distant wall. “Will ye have a readin’ for yer breakfast this evenin’, Yer Highness?”
“From the master, as usual,” Luna replied. “Begin on page seven fifty-one.”
Having anticipated the request, Starch Pudding turned his head and pulled a thick volume out of his saddlebag. Gruesomely bound in real leather and written in foals’ blood, this forbidding tome was Equestria’s last remaining copy of the Equinomicon of Abdul Alhorsred, the mad Arabian. The other copies Celestia had burned centuries earlier while destroying the covens of witch-ponies who worshiped Nightmare Moon; but Celestia had feared to attack the wraiths in their mountain fastness, so they had preserved much of Luna’s ancient library of arcane lore, a library that now resided in the Aerie.
Luna broke fast while Starch Pudding opened the book and began matter-of-factly to read in his wraithish brogue from a passage depicting a gruesome ritual to conjure divels out of Tartarus for the purpose of carnal knowledge. The wraiths lounging on the floor or on the dais hissed and stopped up their ears, and the bats shrieked in their hidden recesses overhead. As he read, sweat broke forth on Starch Pudding’s forehead, and his voice turned ragged, his breath coming in puffs and gasps.
Luna paid no mind to these reactions, but instead imagined what sort of pony the author of this ritual must have been, a wild stallion with eyes shot red and a foaming mouth with lips pulled back from broad, white teeth, a crazed horse thundering through the heat-blasted sands of Saddle Arabia and scribbling madly the visions that came to him when he chewed the sassafras root.
Luna took up the amethyst from beside her dish, tasted it to make sure it was genuine, and waved it over the food. It did not crack, so there was no poison. She ate quickly, neatly, and systematically, first dispatching the grass and the bread, and then pulling the shell from the egg. After she ate the egg, she carefully crushed the shell into tiny fragments so nopony could inscribe her name in it and gain power over her. When she had finished the food, she drained the glass of liquor, turned to Starch Pudding, and said, “Enough.”
With a sigh of relief, Starch Pudding stopped reading mid-sentence, shut the book, and mopped his face with a kerchief.
Luna walked from the table and looked at Steel Brush. “Dress us.”
Steel Brush stood, dipped his head, and nickered in acknowledgment. He took up Luna’s black saddle, which was of ornately carved leather trimmed in silver, and secured it to her back. To her chest, he attached a broad peytral of banded Damascus steel, decorated in relief with silver images of barded ponies jousting in the lists. Over her breast, in silver, platinum, and gold, rested a sculpture of the gorgon’s head, said to protect the bearer in combat. Steel Brush then clasped a criniere around her neck. Also decorated with silver relief, it was cleverly contrived to protect her throat while allowing her long, vaporous mane to flow free.
D’Artagnan took up the princess’s flanchard and hooked it to rivets on her saddle; it covered her flanks, but its gaps allowed her the use of her wings.
Then Shivers, leering and showing his teeth, took up her croupier and prepared to place it on her hindquarters, but Luna turned her head and shot him a sharp glance.
He grinned sheepishly. “Aye, Yer Worship, I remember the order well: ‘Shivers is nary t’ touch ye royal haunches.’ Ain’t that ‘bout right?”
“That is right, Shivers,” Luna said. “Steel Brush may finish clothing me.”
Steel Brush, with a faint clearing of his throat, took the croupier from Shivers and laid it over Luna, fastening it to the flanchard and making sure it did not inhibit her tail. When he finished, he took an ornate champron, slid it down over her horn, and fastened it under her chin and behind her ears. It left her eyes exposed, but covered her forehead and muzzle. Built into it was a high crown of silver and black onyx.
“Are ye comfortable, Yer Highness?” Steel Brush asked. “Anything loose? Anything pinch?”
“Thou hast done well, Steel Brush. Bring us our bell boots.”
Steel Brush brought over a set of boots; larger and heavier than the silver boots Luna usually wore, these were of steel with silver chasings, stretching almost to her knees on the forelegs and to her hocks on the rear.
Once she was fully barded, Luna walked back and forth, listening to the armor rustle. She nodded in satisfaction. “But one thing remaineth.”
Laid in the stone floor of the Aerie’s great hall was a vast pentagram of cold iron and brass. Its center, even after a thousand years, was still scorched black from the malignant presences that had visited it in days of old when Nightmare Moon called up beasts of Tartarus and by her weird arts forced them to do her bidding. Luna cantered into the midst of the pentagram, spread her wings, and rose into the air.
“Come to us, pets,” she called. “Come to your mistress.”
On the stairs leading to the dais, the lounging wraiths lifted their heads. A few licked their lips. A few hissed.
Out of the nooks and crannies of the vaulted stone roof, the bats broke forth. Shrieking and flapping, they circled Luna as she turned lazily in the air.
“Yes,” Luna said. “Yes. Little mice with wings, little children of the night, beloved servants, your mistress has need of you. Come!”
They swirled around her in a black cloud of rustling, leathery wings. Then, all at once, they dove at her, shrieking, clutching her armor or digging their claws or mouths into any spot of exposed fur. The wraiths grew louder in their hissing.
Luna’s horn pulsed once with harsh light. The bats’ wings spread, grew, and melted together. Their bodies began to melt as well, flattening out as their shrieks became high-pitched and desperate. Then their bodies disappeared completely, and their membranous wings lost every hint of bone or claw, melding into a seamless cloak of supple leather, like the finest lambskin.
Luna dropped back to the floor with a loud boom, and she pulled the hood of this living cloak over her face until nothing showed except her bright eyes and her high horn.
Shivers gave a wolf whistle and stomped his hooves against the floor. “Ye know, Yer Worship, ye could forego this magic mumblety-peg an’ have a cloak made to yer cut like any normal pony, wot?”
Luna walked to him and glared in his eyes. Cocking her head, she lifted one armored hoof, placed it against his breast, and ran it slowly up his jugular groove until she reached his muzzle, which she gave a contemptuous shove.
“Get in thy harness, Shivers.”
He clicked his sharp teeth together. “Can’t gainsay an order like that, eh? C’mon, D’Artagnan, let’s you an’ me bard up our own selves. An’ look lively, mate, for our princess has decided to give us a fair extra weight to pull tonight.”
Luna’s great black chariot, decorated with wrought-iron sculptures of gargoyles and bats, rested in a broad bay high above the main chamber. Clad in their own armor, Shivers and D’Artagnan hitched themselves to heavy chains while Luna mounted the chariot behind.
“’Ave I ever told ye that ye are like a chain on me neck, Yer Worship?” Shivers called over his shoulder.
“Indeed. I’d rather lay my whip across thy back than have thee laid across mine, Shivers.”
“Aye, but we can do both, eh?”
Lowering her eyelids and twisting her mouth, Luna took up a whip and cracked it in the air. “Fly, my wraiths, while the night is still young.”
Snarling and snapping their teeth, Shivers and D’Artagnan spread their broad, bat-like wings, pushed off with their hooves, and launched out into the cool air, pulling the chariot behind.
Luna flared her nostrils, taking in the wild scents of the night. She could smell the ice riming the springs behind the heavy walls of the fortress below, she could smell the flowers budding in the high meadows clasped in the mountain’s crags, and she could smell the cold remains of Canterlot’s evening cookfires. Now free of the Aerie’s close walls, she let her wild moods roam free; as Celestia was like a constant ray of sunlight, Luna was a dark thunderstorm, given to fits of passion that could appear and disappear as quickly as a desert cloudburst. Fury, sorrow, and joy shot across her heart, one after the other, and in answer to her moods, swirling black thunderheads appeared in the sky and rolled after the chariot, vomiting cracks of lightning.
Her bright eyes easily piercing the darkness, Luna gazed out over the world. Spotting a silent black shape several hundred yards distant, she bent down and picked up a spear out of the chariot’s rack. Clutching it in the fetlocks of her forelegs, she took aim and let fly.
The spear caught the flying creature in the base of its throat. Releasing an ear-splitting shriek and clutching futilely at the shaft of wood lodged in its neck, it tumbled end-over-end toward the rough mountain slopes below. Luna watched it as it fell: it had been a wyvern, no doubt out of the Everfree Forest; such creatures occasionally ventured forth in the dead of night to steal young foals from their cribs. As the princess of the day, Celestia was expert at diplomacy and speech-making, but as princess of the night, Luna usually needed more direct means of dealing with contingencies.
Far below, Canterlot came into view, visible only by its twinkling streetlamps. Luna closed her eyes, steadied her breathing, and recited a spell to focus her mind. Entering a trance, she delved into the Realm of Lighter Slumber and divided her soul: she was conscious of standing in her chariot and guiding its reins, but a separate and invisible dream-self broke off from her body and dove for the ground.
Focusing her mind into her dream projection, Luna swept into Canterlot and, following her nightly custom, cast the spells that would protect the city from the lesser ghasts and gaunts that might attempt to snatch ponies from their beds or devour their souls as they slept. After that, she dipped into the Realm of Deeper Slumber and observed the ponies’ dreams.
Luna could at any time see the mind of a sleeper. No secrets were safe from her, though she usually exercised discretion. She touched each mind she came upon only briefly; if a pony’s dreams were peaceful, Luna moved on. If the dreams were troubled, she whispered soothing words before she left. In one instance, she came upon a weeping child in the midst of a nightmare. It was not a True Nightmare of the sort she could deal with directly, so she merely held the child and muttered reassurances before continuing her rounds. None of the sleepers would remember her presence upon waking.
She was about to leave Canterlot when she detected an alien presence in the city--a dangerous creature out of the lower parts of the Deeper Slumber, a monster that had somehow slipped past her wards.
She raised her dream projection high above the white palace and cast her gaze about, trying to find the disturbance. She remained calm; this was her nightly duty, and she had extensive training in the arcane and martial arts, yet she knew that speed was of the essence, for if she did not destroy the monster quickly, it would likely devour a pony’s soul and carry it down to Tartarus to spend eternity in the divels’ torture pits.
A sharp spike of pain entered her heart--that would be the monster making its move; and now Luna knew exactly where it was. Her dream projection dove deep into the Deeper Slumber and entered the mind of a young, aspiring musician dozing in a flat amongst the low-rent houses teetering on the cliffs of Canterlot’s northern edge.
As soon as she entered the mind, Luna heard shrill, terrified screaming.
“Silence!” she ordered, her Royal Canterlot Voice echoing through the dreamscape. The screaming immediately ceased.
Luna snorted. Celestia might think the Royal Voice was outdated, but Luna had use for it: nothing shocked a frightened dreamer back to her senses faster.
Luna looked about and cursed to herself. It was a cavern interior, its walls flickering red as if lit from some unseen fire. No doubt it was a maze with many tunnels. She ran and chanted spells as she went, letting her magic weave a series of intangible threads through the maze, seeking out the dreamer or the beast that was menacing her.
The magical threads pulled against her, and she turned sharply to the left, diving down a narrow tunnel that glowed with a faint blue light. The tunnel turned steep, and Luna slid the last several feet, emerging into a broad cave full of dimly sparkling gems that occasionally, accompanied by clear notes as if from a glass organ, sprouted new crystals.
Luna swept her eyes around. In a corner, a young mare with a gray coat was shivering and clutching a cello. She was covered in blood.
Ignoring the blood, Luna walked to her, chanting identity spells: this was not a dream-being nor a mental projection, but the dreamer herself. Luna felt a moment of relief; the monster had not yet managed to drag her away.
The dreamer hyperventilated, and her eyes were glazed. She looked up at Luna; for a moment, she didn’t seem to see her, but then terror overran her face and she shrieked.
“Silence!” Luna shouted again. The crystals throughout the cave responded with a hum.
The dreamer waved the bow for her cello as if it were a sword. “Stay away! Stay away from me!”
Luna raised an eyebrow. “Is this how thou greetest thy princess? We are here to protect thee, ungrateful churl.”
The dreamer blinked.
“Thou art asleep,” Luna said. “Thy dream hath been invaded, and thou canst not wake until the monster is vanquished. Where didst thou see it?”
The dreamer pointed her bow toward the far end of the cave.
Luna whirled. “By Hypnos, Thanatos, and Nyx, I command thee. By Morpheus, Phobetor, and Phantasos, I bind thee. Reveal thyself, beast!”
Deep, ugly laughter echoed through the cave, followed by a high, scratchy voice. The dreamer moaned and covered her ears.
“Who dares command me?” the voice asked.
Luna reared and twisted her front hooves to make the Voorish sign. “Hmm,” she muttered, “not a ghast, and not a ghoul either. It can’t be a zoog. It could be a gug.” She weaved her hooves back and forth, making invocations. She grew frustrated as she failed to identify the monster.
The laughter echoed across the chamber again.
“Dost thou resist our spells?” Luna called, dropping back to all fours. “Then we compel thee by our own self. Stand forth!”
A black smoke curled into the cave. Whenever it touched the crystals, their colors faded to gray, and they ceased to give forth pure notes, but instead unleashed cacophonous rumbles. The dreamer shuddered and wept.
“Who dares dally with my prey?” the high voice whispered. The black smoke coagulated into the center of the room and formed a swirling column. “Who dares step into the dream world to face me? I am a creature of darkness, a black shadow of the night. Who are you?”
Grinning, Luna tossed her head, throwing back her hood and exposing her armored face. “I am the princess of darkness,” she answered, “and I own the night.”
With a sharp hiss, the smoke took on the form of a hunched gargoyle with twisted ram’s horns on its head and a scimitar in its claw. Baring great fangs, it raised the sword and swung it.
Parting her lips and neighing loudly, Luna reared again and met the blade with her horn. Her heart pounded in her chest as she slid her hooves through the paces. Her muscles relaxed and went taut again as she met the blade, tossing her head with precision, first in a parry and then a riposte. Using the strength of her thickly corded neck, she enveloped the monster’s blade and then attempted a flick at its wrist.
Its angry expression changed to one of fear and uncertainty, the monster fell back. Staring it down with teeth bared and ears laid back, Luna pawed a hoof against the ground. Celestia had often complained of Luna’s constant exercise in the martial arts, never quite understanding that the ways of war were not merely a passion, but the very soul of what it meant to be the princess of the night. Creatures such as this soul-stealing beast were a great danger to the ponies, but Luna took pleasure in them anyway, for they were the opponents against which she nightly tested her mettle.
Apparently desiring to avoid another close engagement, the monster snarled and changed its form. Its color changed, and it became more solid, taking on the appearance of a large white boom box with enormous speakers.
Behind Luna, the dreamer whimpered.
Luna laughed. “Now I know why thou didst not respond to the Voorish sign, and why my summons had no effect on thee. Thou art a lich, and thou takest the life from the living by feeding on their fears.”
The boom box began to play. Its speakers pumped in and out as it blared with pounding house music. All around the cave, the glowing crystals darkened and cracked. The dreamer wrapped her forelegs around her head and rocked back and forth, groaning.
Luna stomped a hoof against the ground. “Enough of that!” she shouted. “You, play!”
The dreamer looked up, tears running down her face. “Play--?”
“Yes! It is merely a lich! Thou canst fight it if thou wilt not allow it to overwhelm thee. Play!”
Shaking, her eyes wide, the dreamer rose to her rear hooves and put her bow to the cello.
Luna nodded.
The dreamer played one note and the house music stopped.
Luna nodded again, and the dreamer began to play. The piece she played had a sad and lonely sound, hinting of vast southern deserts; she played with both great passion and great control.
As Luna watched, the crystals throughout the cave glowed brighter, and their colors returned--brilliant reds, vibrant greens, and bright blues. With pure notes, they joined the music and grew, sprouting off new branches of crystal until the gray stone of the cave’s walls and floor were covered.
The boom box lost its shape, turning again into an inky cloud of smoke, which settled against the floor. “It burns!” it cried.
Luna opened her wings, rose into the air, and flapped toward the lich.
“Spare me!” it begged.
She gazed down on it. “We came into this world to guard the night and watch over the ponies as they slept. We fell in our duty once, but we will not fall again.”
Lowering her head, she plunged, thrusting her horn into the midst of the writhing mass of smoke. The lich let out a piercing shriek.
Luna whispered, “Upon the enemies of the ponies, we have no mercy.” The smoke came apart and disappeared. The sound of the cello grew louder yet, reaching a crescendo.
Luna did not remain to hear the end of the piece. Recombining with her corporeal form, she opened her eyes in her chariot and released a great sigh.
With thunderclouds in its wake, the chariot passed over Canterlot and rolled on to the southwest.
To be concluded . . .
