Saturday, July 25th, 909 AB (the next day)
Entirely too Early in the Morning

The two combatants cross the floor in an instant, the sound of wood cracking against steel-like bone and the chaotic flurry of feathered and membranous wings lashing out fiercely for a fraction of a second before they separate.

“Good! One last time!” Song commands, ducking into a pounce to once again launch herself at her pupil.

A grunt of acknowledgement is the only response he gives before throwing himself into another charge.

Cure pulls on the air to adjust his trajectory, coming in to her right high. The bat’s left wing dips, rotating her right up, blade at the ready to intercept. The colt counters, angling his right wing to put himself in a flat spin and bringing his left around to intercept. Song’s eyes widen at the twin set of blades fast approaching. Her right blade is parried wide, spinning her body towards him as hooves clash with hooves, but her left wing is too far out of position to respond when his right scythes through the air, landing a solid blow across her padded ribs.

It’s over in a tenth of a second; the dueling pair’s momentum pulls them past each other, both landing on their hooves, anchoring one and spinning on the other three to whirl around.

Cheers erupt from the audience, the flash of a single camera abating after catching the pivotal moment. The other instructors let it go for a moment before getting the foals back to work putting their gear away.

Student and teacher each raise a wing in salute, then approach for a hoofbump. “Nice move, sir. I’m not sure that’s something anypony else could do.”

Cure sheepishly bobs his head in agreement. “I think you would need the earth pony TK field to wrench yourself upwards and sideways midair without getting your wings out of position at the same time.” His snout wrinkles and he adds, “I’ll try not to cheat like that anymore, sarge. It feels like it kinda defeats the point, ya know? I didn’t hit ya too hard, did I?” he asks, leaning to his right to check her pads.

“No,” she assures him, prodding at her side. “Thank the maker you didn’t put too much behind it.”

“Good. Wouldn’t want to rough up my favorite instructor too much,” he teases.

“Mmhmm. I figure one or two more sessions and I won’t be the instructor. C’mon,” she motions to the equipment rack, “let’s get that stuff off’a us so we can get out of here. Some of us have to work tonight.”

Cure releases the Enlarge, shrinking to his normal size as he follows her. They still insist he wears padding despite knowing that there’s effectively no way for them to harm him. He gets it; nopony wants to risk somehow braining the new prince, no matter how unlikely they think it is and impossible he knows it to be. After all, only a moron would keep their entire brain in one spot, especially the spot literally everycreature knows to aim for.

“You gonna clean up before ya head out?”

“No offense, sarge,” he almost silently replies, panning over the multiple fillies whose ears swiveled their direction, “but if I go in that shower room I’m not sure I’m makin it back out with my innocence intact.”

An undignified snort and halfhearted nod are her initial response. “Well, two things there. First, you’re a tad young, so the worst that would probably happen is you’d have twenty-some-odd fillies happy to help scrub your everything.”

“Not the worst way to go,” he grants.

“The other point is that I don’t think they could actually do anything to you that you didn’t let them. I read the train report, even if it was redacted to near uselessness. If you didn’t hold back, how fast could you incapacitate everypony in this building?”

A quick glance around shows about sixty foals, the number of attendees having swelled since he’d started showing up. That includes a few pegasi, most of whom stop coming once they realize he practiced with adults almost exclusively. Another eighty or so adults line the walls at various heights chatting while their foals get ready to go. Add in the official photographer, the six guards in armor, six more instructors - Song included - and he comes up with a hundred and fifty ponies, give or take.

“Maybe fifteen seconds? I mean, not everypony would pass out instantly, so it’s hard to say.”

“Exactly.” Their conversation comes to an end as they approach the racks. A few quick flashes of his horn has his gear stowed away and one more eliminates any sweat buildup. Like a wet dog, the colt shakes his mane back into position, stretches his wings wide to resettle his feathers, retrieves his regalia from his guards, and stands a few meters to the side of the door.

As has become a bit of a custom, parents and foals approach the colt to help speed their recovery from the exercise or, for many, take advantage of the opportunity to get healed or simply chat with their prince. His weekly sessions are the only convenient opportunity the nocturnal citizens of Baltimare have to see him, so despite it being five in the morning, he dutifully spends an hour fixing up strains, sprains, cuts, colds, and numerous other minor issues before departing.

With the twins cuddled together and snoozing under a wing, Cure watches on, horn at the ready, as his infant sister takes to the air. “Nice job, Savvy! You’re so good at this! Who’s going to be the best little flyer ever?!”

Flopping back to the floor, the little filly excitedly bounces over to her brother with an enthusiastic “Ah! Ah!”

The colt doesn’t hesitate to wrap her up and pull her against his chest. “That’s right! You bet you are! You’re so smart!” he cheers nuzzling into and grooming on her adorable oversized pink ears.

“That right there is downright lethal levels of cute,” Amethyst stage whispers to Lemon. Both mares are laying with their daughters as the pair take turns reading from a starter book. The girls are doing exceedingly well; far better than Cure recalls Alanna doing even when she was a year older. By his reckoning they’re each cognitively about where a six or seven year old human should be.

It’s a point he’s made a thousand times over the last ten months; these ponies don’t have any idea how good they have it thanks to magic, assuming it is the force enhancing the speed with which creatures gain intelligence. It makes him wonder why the top end seems to level out; neither ponies nor any other sentient being he’s encountered seem to be any smarter than most humans Ed associated with.

Then again, Ed actively avoided hanging out with morons; an effort he considers worthwhile even if it did result in a few potential friendships dying an early death. Perhaps the average IQ of ponies is slightly higher than humans. He can’t point to more than a couple foals at school that were legitimately dumb and not just lazy.

Even decades later Ed could recall dozens of schoolmates that couldn’t seem to put one and one together right. Of course, his highschool’s enrollment numbers alone were a significant portion of many Equestrian suburbs’ entire populations, so that may not be a fair comparison.

Her immediate need of sibling slobber satisfied, the little filly writhes free of the colt’s embrace and hops up on a couch, flapping wildly and leaping off, quickly spiraling out of control towards a wall. The soft grip of a telekinetic hand stops her sideways momentum and levels her out, preventing a harmless but unnecessary collision.

“Nice catch, sport,” his sire calls as he trots by to open the front door. “Well lookie here,” he calls, pulling a section of the paper out. “A special edition insert. Dancing on the Bay: Prince Serpentus’ Night on the Town!” he reads aloud.

“You’re not…” Cure sighs, hanging his head. “Of course you’re serious.”

The sound of scampering hooves can be heard up the stairs as Vines comes charging down from their bedroom. Title follows more sedately, and a moment later, all five parents are piled onto a couch with Deed in the center, Amethyst half on top of Vines on his left, and Lemon lying on Title’s withers on the right. The girls, not wanting to be left out, hop on their father’s back to peek around his neck on either side.

Sitting opposite the group, Cure can only see the front and back covers of the special edition insert. The back is a map of the strip in Baltimare with a timeline and smaller pictures of them entering, exiting, or looking in various stores’ windows.

The entire front page is a color-added photo of him and Glacial on one of their attempts to do a more traditional pegasus two-legged dance. He’s somewhat grateful that they used a photo where the pair appear to be pulling it off. He didn’t have any problem dancing like that, but she was struggling with keeping her balance without relying too much on her wings.

One thing in particular bugs him; he can’t figure out how the picture was taken. In order to get that good of a picture, especially with current camera technology, a camerapony would have to have been right there on the ship with them. Granted he was somewhat distracted, but there is no way he would have missed that, especially since the shot was taken when he was facing approximately the direction of the camera.

Two possibilities come to mind: somepony snuck on the ship and stayed invisible all evening, or a unicorn was using a scrying spell of some kind. He’s confident he would have detected somepony attempting the former, either via scent, heat, or even hoofsteps where none should exist. Also, his guards would almost certainly have some kind of invisibility detection method as standard protocol when protecting a royal.

Similarly, he would have expected the sergeant to be capable of detecting an attempt to scry the area. Perhaps he figured that so long as nopony was actively interfering then it wasn’t a big deal. They were, technically, out in public, after all, and the existence of the pictures isn’t a problem in any way. Cure doesn’t particularly care that they exist, but he makes note to talk to Celestia about how to detect and interfere with such things in the future.

“Anything good in there?” he asks the cooing pile of one stallion and six fillies and mares.

“There’s a bunch of very good pictures, honey. Show him that one,” Vines instructs, poking at her husband, “He’d mentioned that would probably show up.” Deed turns the paper around to show the picture of Drift sitting on top of him in the carriage. The caption declares that “Iris” must be the dominant one in the relationship and wonders if she’ll eventually be the prince’s first wife.

“Well at least they had the decency not to make any suggestive comments.”

“I’m sure that’s only due to your age,” Title points out. “If you weren’t both obviously young foals that would have been a whole different story.”

“Yeah. Any good ones at the restaurant? The jerks that floated over us on a cloud were from small time rags, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they sold the pictures to the big names.”

Title shakes her head no, saying, “None from inside or the balcony. At least, not from close up; they must have had somepony on a nearby building or a cloud because there are a few from farther away. Mostly they’re of the carriage pulling up, you being escorted in, then when you left.”

“There’s a statement from the owner of the restaurant,” Vines points out. “Club Oceano was delighted to host his highness and honored that he chose our fine dining establishment for his first romantic outing. He and his party were exemplary guests and we would be thrilled to have them anytime his highness so desires.”

Title continues after his dam. “There’s also some interviews with other customers that were there. They refused to give their names, but a couple complained about not getting an opportunity to talk to you. The paper is quick to stand up for ya, though, pointing out you were there on a private date and shouldn’t have been bothered at all.

“Some bat ponies pointed out how happy they are that his highness has embraced their culture’s omnivorous diet.” She looks away from the paper to glance his way with a smirk. “Between the Junior Guard thing and this I think maybe you’re winning them over even more than the princess.”

“She’d said something similar before,” he comments. “I am kinda surprised the paper is sticking up for me, though. I kinda expected them to be more interested in stirring the pot than taking my side.”

“It’s the Baltimare Sun, champ. I don’t reckon a local paper is gonna want ta do anything ta tick ya off.”

“Don’t nopony wanna get on yer bad side, colt,” Amethyst agrees.

“That’s probably why nopony has revealed your identity yet,” Lemon suggests. “I mean… how hard would it really be for a reporter to figure it out?” she rhetorically asks. “I bet hundreds have a pretty good idea who you are but are too afraid of what’ll happen if they let it slip.”

“There’s a few lines in here about where you bought your flowers,” Title says, pointing to another article. She reads aloud, “Marigold May and Magnolia Sunrise reported that a young colt approximately Prince Serpentus’ age and build entered their store shortly after reports indicate he left the hospital yesterday afternoon. The colt bought two bouquets of daisies for a couple fillies that he said he would be taking out for their first date later that evening.

“In a show of respect for his highness’s privacy they have refused to disclose any details regarding his appearance. The proprietors of M&M’s Finest Floral Arrangements is now offering what they’ve dubbed the ‘Be my Princess’ bouquet; a festive arrangement of daisies perfect for young colts to show their special someponies how much they mean to them.”

“Oh wow… I hadn’t even considered that. How friggin stupid of me!” he exclaims while rubbing at his forehead. “They coulda spilled the beans on the disguise I use everywhere I go. The range, flying the girls around, running chores… I even used that cutie mark in Canterlot!”

“Sounds like ya might owe ‘em a thank you, son.”

“Maybe. But maybe it would be better not to confirm their suspicion.”

“Didn’t you use that when you went to the spa too?” his dam inquires.

“Well, kinda. I didn’t give myself a cutie mark, but I bet the mare that did my grooming would have recognized the rest. She may anyhow just based on the comment about my build. I don’t remember exactly what I told her, but it was something along the lines of having an earth pony grandsire.”

“Eh, it’s probably fine, then,” Title suggests. “In an area like this you wouldn’t be the only thicker pegasus flying around. Summer and Fall will certainly be bigger than their dam.”

“I dunno, ma. I’ve not seen many in Baltimare, and the few I have aren’t muscular, just larger framed. We should probably at least take some precautions.” His eyes drift to Cherry and Lotus who are both looking at the pictures around his sire’s neck. “They need messaging crystals and I need to give them scent markers like I did for Wind. I’ll eventually need to do it for all my friends too.”

“It’s probably not a bad idea,” she agrees, craning her neck to look at the girls. “They won’t have anywhere near enough magic to recharge them, though.”

“Not quickly, no. But if they only Send a few words every hour or two it’ll help start growing their magic and they’ll have ‘em in an emergency.”

“Do it,” Amethyst instantly agrees, climbing off of Vines’ back. “And if anypony ever forces ‘em ta use it…”

“Then my plant could always use more biomass,” Cure growls, earning an approving nod from the purple mare.

“Works for me, champ. We’re gonna have ta get going soon, though,” his sire says, nudging Vines to hop down so he can get up. His dam takes the special edition insert and heads up the stairs with it, he assumes to put it wherever she keeps important things. “Ya ‘bout ready ta head out?”

“Sure am. You two sure you don’t want to come?” he asks, glancing between Lemon and Amethyst as the pair wrangle their daughters back over to their letter book.

“Gotta head in like… now if I want everything ready for the store to open.”

“Me ‘n the girls are gonna come lend a hoof, then I’m meetin up with Daisy and her little ones, probably go to lunch with ‘em later. We’ll see you when ya get back, so don’t go having too much fun.”

“Fun. Yeah,” Cure scoffs. “I put this off any more and grandpa’s gonna send a good squad to abduct me.” Slowly lifting his wings, he takes a moment to levitate his siblings onto his back. Deed is quick to come over and love on the pair as Cure casts a curious look at his sister, asking, “What are we gonna do about her? What do ponies normally do when they have a pegasus foal and no good way to keep ‘em from just zipping off?”

“Make her a harness with a leash attached,” her dam suggests. “That’s what I’ve seen other parents do.”

“Really?” he asks, giving the filly a considering look. “Isn’t that kinda… I dunno… demeaning?” Ed had seen plenty of human parents start doing the same thing towards the end of his life. It struck him as simultaneously brilliant and dehumanizing, both lowering the child to the level of an unruly dog and yet allowing the parent a way to keep the kid nearby instead of having a complete panic attack when they disappeared.

McKynzie had done exactly that to Ed and Cyndi once. Aside from the chicken nugget choking fiasco and the last few days of his life it was probably the most panic-inducing event he’d ever experienced.

The girl was only six at the time and decided to play hide-and-seek in the clothing area of their local Wal-Mart. The utter gut-sinking feeling of having a child disappear on them was indescribable, only made worse by the fact that a particularly sketchy looking guy they’d seen earlier disappeared at the same time. Josh had no idea where she’d gone, and other nearby shoppers gave conflicting answers.

Fortunately the staff, contrary to his expectations for Wal-Mart employees, responded quickly and effectively, calling in a Code Adam. Their Loss Prevention Team Lead had his people start looking at camera footage and determined she hadn’t exited the store. It only took a few minutes for them to find Kynzie’s hiding spot; thankfully locating the girl prior to having to call the police. The only consequences were an extremely stern talking-to for the girl and a very difficult drive home after the spike of adrenaline finally wore off.

Title rolls her eyes, waving at the girl in question. “She’s six months old, honey. I don’t think she’ll be too upset, and I’d rather that then have her try to hop out the train window or something.”

“Fair enough,” he agrees with a shrug, floating the filly closer despite her efforts to go in different directions. With a loop around each foreleg and the creation of a little white half-onesie vest that leaves her wings free, the girl is tethered to her dam and the half-family is ready to head out.

The leash ended up being a godsent. With her newfound mobility and the unending energy that only a foal can possess, the little filly would have otherwise been a nightmare to contain. At his mom’s behest, Cure ended up putting a loop on the other end of the tether to go around Title’s neck. They had originally anchored it to her right foreleg thigh, but it ended up getting wrapped around her neck anyhow thanks to the filly flying circles around the group.

Title got quite a few sympathetic looks from other parents watching as Savvy cackled in glee, flying in circles above the herd like a rotating helicopter blade. She had to sit the girl between her forelegs and hold her in place on the train itself while ignoring the smug, teasing looks and comments Vines sent her way.

Cure still completely disagrees with her dam about the whole wings issue, but knows arguing about it would be pointless and, as far as he’s concerned, disrespectful. She knows his opinion. If the foals want wings or horns when they grow up he’ll happily provide them, but until that day comes the decision about the twins is, as it should be, entirely up to their parents.

The herd is pleasantly surprised to find not only the expected escort, but also a carriage awaiting them when they arrive at the Baltimare station. Arcane Blast and the team that acted as the family’s security squad for their Canterlot trip greet them as they step off the train. Vines and Deed get the twins settled between them on one bench while Cure and Title snuggle on the other.

Title, especially, is thrilled to see the accommodations, even if she wasn’t expecting them. “Seems a little over the top,” she comments. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you, what with little miss can’t-sit-still over here,” she says, nosing at the fidgety filly, “but we’re just going to his office, right?”

“Maybe ‘cause the colt’s a prince now?” his sire wonders aloud.

“It’s probably because of the foals,” Vines points out. “We have two newborns and an infant that we didn’t last time we met. We were also going to his house, not his office.”

“Where is his office anyhow? I know he has a bunch of different businesses, but they can’t all be in one spot.”

“We’re goin to his actual office office, son. Yer great grandsire has separate locations fer each’a his businesses, but he uses a main office fer all’a the… whatta ya call it… administrative stuff. His distilleries and breweries are in the more commercial areas ta the southwest, he’s got some warehouses by tha dock fer his delivery ‘n shippin companies and ta move his booze, then the sanitation facility is further south and to the west ‘a Ferndale, outside ‘a city limits.”

“Ah… he must have all the mail coming there then. Maker above, I wonder how much is waiting…”

“Dunno, champ. Reckon we’ll find out soon enough.”

“True,” he sighs, nodding against his mom’s shoulder. The moment of peace is broken by a pink filly hopping between her sire and his dam, flapping her wings wildly and demanding attention. “Good Lord, mom, what’d you feed the girl this morning? Straight sugar?”

“Shattap, she’s a healthy, energetic filly,” the mare defiantly insists. “There ain’t a thing wrong with having lots of energy. Besides… if she burns it all off before we get started that just means she’ll be easier to manage when we’re busy.”

“Reminds me of a certain colt when he was ‘round that age,” Deed remarks, leaning to brush against his wife. “Remember that time at the grocery store, babe?”

Vines groans, draping her right fetlock over her muzzle to cover her eyes. The blush and heat from embarrassment still shines through her green cheeks. “Send like every Celestia-blessed box on the shelf,” she quietly laments.

“Oh, here we go,” Title snickers.

“Again?” Cure sighs. “I swear I’ve heard it a million times. You,” he points an accusatory hoof at the pair, “are becoming that old, married couple that tells the same stories again and again.”

Deed scoffs and rolls his eyes, arguing, “Quit hyperbolatin, colt. We ain’t told that many ponies.”

Cure and Title share a look, both of them simultaneously repeating the story, matching Deed’s mannerisms as they say, “Barely took mah eyes off’a ‘em a second, next think ya know the colt’s up on tha top shelf!”

Cure does a fake voice for a random mare and turns to Title. “On the top shelf?! How’d he get up there?!”

The mare continues the story, still imitating her husband, “Maker only knows! Climbed up on a barrel at the end of the shelves and hopped up, I reckon.”

“Smartasses,” Deed quietly comments as Vines shakes in laughter beside him.

Still in the unknown mare’s voice, Cure asks, “Well what happened then, stranger?”

“Glad ya asked! The dern colt went tearin down the aisle on up that shelf knockin half’a the boxes off, all the while giggling and squealin like a pig in mud. Finally caught up ta the wife, then hopped down inta the cart usin the bread ta soften his landin. Took half an hour ta clean up and I had smushed toast every mornin fer the next week.”

The pair finish the story with a hoofbump and give the stallion a set of entirely too smug looks.

Deed leans to look out the window, grumbling aloud, “Seems like we oughta be there by now.”

A whine and a soft cry, followed quickly by a second, signal that the twins are ready for their second breakfasts. Vines pulls a feeding mat out of her pack and lays it down, repositioning herself for the foals to nurse.

Curious what her siblings are doing, Savvy climbs up and across Deed to settle on Vines’s side as she turns to feed the two. The filly has learned not to muscle in and take over, but as soon as Golden finishes she’s quick to take her little sister’s spot. She neither acknowledges her dam’s attempts to call her over to feed off of her or the small pout she gets upon ignoring them.

While all of that is happening the colt receives a Sending he hadn’t been expecting.

<< Me, Drift, and the other girls are all meeting at Dawn’s once Ferric gets off work. Did you see the paper? >>

“Ah crap. Glacial just Sent me a message saying all the girls are meeting up at Dawn’s this afternoon.”

<< Yep. My parents and I looked over it this morning. We’re in Baltimare now, headed to meet with my great grandsire about the Prince’s mail situation. Dare I ask what the meeting is about? >>

Cure holds a hoof up to forestall the incoming question from his parents while he awaits her answer.

<< The others just want to know how it went. >>

<< Ah. Good luck. >>

“Apparently the other girls want the down-low on how it all went. I’m sure I’ll hear all about it later.”

“They probably just want to know if you were blowin smoke, babe,” his mom suggests. “The paper makes it sound like everything was perfect, but those two will probably give them a different perspective on the evening.”

“I guess. I mean, there’s no hiding or changing it. Like I said a few times last night… they’ll each have to decide if they want all this for themselves, ‘cause it ain’t always all it’s cracked up ta be.”

He no more than finishes his sentence when the carriage comes to a stop in front of a two story office building. While the parents are packing up the foals Cure pops open the door and hops down, taking in his great grandsire’s main office.

From the looks of it, it had previously only been only one story. The brick making up the top half has slightly more vibrant colors still, not quite as faded as the bottom’s older material. A short, but wide, concrete staircase leads to the doors and a hoof-painted blue sign reading “Brick House Consolidated, Inc.” in large white letters is overhead. A smaller, cursive script reads “Est. 881” in the bottom right corner in yellow.

Once assembled, the family follows Arcane into the office while the others take the carriage around to a back storage lot. A dark red earth pony stallion with a Security hat is sitting behind the reception desk. He glances up from his paper when the door opens, gives the blue unicorn a respectful nod, and looks over the family in curiosity.

“Yo, Beet!” Arcane calls in greeting. “The captain in his office?”

“Nah. Boss’s over in the meeting room down by mail.” He regards the family, noting the solid, muscular frames, including the colt’s. In a teasing tone he says, “Didn’t know we was hirin. Four new members of the security team?”

“HAH! I wish. Nah, cap’s grandson, Clean Deed,” he says, motioning to the much larger stallion as he leads them all to a set of double doors, “and his fam. Got some family business, ya know?”

The guard straightens up a little, nodding in acceptance. He greets everypony with a respectful “sir,” “ma’am,” or “young mister” as the group passes by. They follow Arcane through the doors and down a hallway towards the northeast corner of the building. He pushes a door open and leads them inside what was once a large meeting room.

The room has apparently been repurposed into an extension of the mailroom. A dozen short, but long tables have piles of open mail strewn about. Each one has a designated purpose and they are separated out by date from left to right. A quick glance shows how much volume has picked up over the last two weeks since he started at the hospital. He estimates a solid eighty percent of the mail is dated from 7/13 on.

Brick and Sabre are looking over a clipboard near the front of the room. Cure has to suppress a smirk when he notices them both looking down at the paper, peering over their snouts as if they’re still looking through bifocals. It’s been months since their youth and sight were restored, but after years, if not decades, of doing something a certain way it just takes a while to stop.

“Welcome to your inbox, colt,” his grandsire calls out.

Sabre gives her husband a good natured, but impactful punch at the tease and earns herself a scowl in response. “You don’t need to worry about most of this,” the silver mare tells him as she approaches the group. Brick follows behind her slightly as she reaches them, first wrapping Deed in a hug and kissing each cheek, then the moms. She pauses and coos at the three foals, tilting her head to the side when she notices Savvy’s new limbs.

Her gaze slowly pans to Title, then to Deed and she cocks a brow in question. Arcane Blast takes the opportunity to move a few paces away, standing to the right of the family and well clear of the impending blast zone.

“Somethin wrong grandma?” her sire mischievously asks.

“I… well… that is…” the puzzled mare sputters, looking between the foal and her biological parents. Finally she growls and casts a fierce look at Title. “I was not aware that your family has pegasus blood in it,” she states in a very accusatory tone.

“Oh, it doesn’t. All earth ponies,” Title casually answers, scooping the foal up and nuzzling into her wings. “She musta got that from her sire.”

Sabre’s eyes go wide and her head whips around to glare heatedly at her chuckling husband. “The colt did it, honey,” he explains, waving at the disguised alicorn. “You’ve seen him hide his horn and wings enough times and you know he’s helped more than a few regrow them.”

“Oh,” she softly mumbles as her posture relaxes. “But if she’s not a pegasus -” the sentence stops abruptly when Title lets go of the eager filly and she flaps free, taking to the air and flying loops around the group.

“Pegasus weight reduction and cold mitigation are biological functions. So is the grabby field we have, the sharpening aura griffons have, and the tough, armor-like thing minotaurs get. None of that is metaphysical, so I can reproduce it all.”

“Oh,” she repeats as she watches the filly do helicopter loops around her dam. “And you’re okay with her…” her muzzle scrunches like she’s about to curse, “flying like that?”

“Flying is awesome,” Cure insists.

Title waves at the colt and bobs her head. “He seems to enjoy it enough. Besides, she’s all earth pony… she can just fly, that’s all. No weather or nothin like that.”

“Oh, right… cloud walking,” Cure adds. “She can do that too. Almost forgot. That’s kinda important for the whole blending in thing.”

“Huh. Interesting,” Brick contemplates. “What about horns?”

“Horns are easy. You want a horn, grandpa?” Cure asks, pulling one of his out of his neck sleeve and offering it to the stallion. Arcane takes another half step back. “I have a spare.”

Vines jabs the colt in a haunch, scolding him saying, “Behave. No hoofing body parts to other ponies unless they ask.”

“Fiiine!” he whines, sticking the horn in place on his head. “It works best if I make it out of you anyhow, grandpa. It would take a few weeks before you would be able to properly channel magic through a donor horn. By the way, this is all confidential until the princess says otherwise.”

“Understood.” He turns and waves to the room at large explaining, “The vast majority of the letters here are things we can deal with without your intervention. We have standard replies for almost everything.

“We’ve gotten hundreds of requests for interviews, loads of product endorsement requests,” he waves to a flatbed piled high with toys, exercise equipment, vitamin bottles, and unicorn training gear, “so-called business opportunities, and more requests for you to come help somepony or just attend some kind of function than you would believe.”

“I assume the ponies asking for help are being referred to their RHA, right?”

“Of course. My understanding is that most are asking for you to travel to their city so they don’t have to take a train here. Lazy ingrates,” he grumbles, shaking his head. “I suppose some have legitimate reasons. They can’t miss work easily or something along those lines,” he finishes with a shrug.

Cure points a hoof at an unlabeled, overly laden table in the far corner. “What’s that table have, grandpa?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Sabre quickly answers as she steps between him and the table in question.

“Really?” he asks, shifting to his left so he can peek around the mare. “It looks kinda important, grandma.”

“Well it’s not,” she insists, leaning to keep herself between him and it.

“I dunno, grandma. I gotta feelin down in my belly that there’s important letters over there.”

“Your parents can worry about -”

The colt disappears in a flash, reappearing next to the table as the silver mare wheels around. Title snorts in laughter while her husband quietly chuckles. Vines just sighs, watching on as her grandmother squawks in surprise and takes off like a loosed ballista bolt, trying to stop the colt before he can read anything.

Brick watches on in silent shock as the colt levitates a box of correspondence, looks over his withers at the charging mare, then disappears in a flash again, settling onto Deed’s back and plucking out a random letter. Sabre slides to a stop just shy of the table, then turns and shoots a withering glare at her great grandson.

He doesn’t even look up to notice it.

“Sweet Me!” the colt exclaims. “This letter says they’ll give me fifteen thousand smackeroos ta knock up their daughter in a few years!” He grabs another and, eyes darting down the page, shouts, “Twelve grand for this one! Hot damn, I could retire a dozen times over if I just pound out half the girls in this box. Oh hey, here’s one for you, pa!” He turns and lays on his sire’s neck, forelegs wrapped around him in a hug as he levitates the letter where they can both read it.

Title leans over to take a peek, then blows out an impressed whistle. “Six grand for a filly, fifteen for a colt as long as his highness verifies you’re his sire. Not bad for a few minutes’ work, babe.”

“A few minutes my tail,” the stallion scoffs. “Must be thinkin ‘a yerself with that,” he snarks.

“Both of you behave! I swear,” Vines chides.

Brick, Sabre, and Arcane watch on in surprise at the casual discussion of sex in front of the nine year old foal, unsure whether or not they should be mortified. Cure catches their silent exchange and reminds them, “I’ve delivered a couple thousand foals by now. Do you really think I don’t know exactly how they’re made? Besides… Alicorn of Life, ya know? That’s kinda part and parcel to my domain.”

It only takes a second for realization to dawn on Brick. “You did something during the coronation, didn’t you? All those articles…” he trails off, narrowing his eyes.

“Maaaaybe,” he drawls, looking away from the accusatory stare.

Brick’s muzzle scrunches in thought as he asks, “Why in the world would you give yourself a second… Stallion?!” he asks, pausing only a moment to come up with an acceptably inoffensive word for penis.

“Math!” the colt answers with a smirk. “See grandpa, the average earth pony stallion has about three wives. I figured somewhere between six and eight fillies pursuing me and I only recently turned nine! At this rate I’ll need at least one or two more just to keep up!” He pauses a beat. “No pun intended.”

“Cure Wave!” Vines shouts in admonishment. “Too far!” The scold is slightly less effective with half the room’s adults quietly chuckling.

He rounds on the mare and points a hoof, shouting, “That’s what she…” before the glare clues him in to stop before he’s too far behind. “I’ll be good,” he insists, teleporting the box back onto the table and hopping off his sire’s back.

“Tha colt’s had tha talk an’ he’s seen more’n his share’a stuff already,” his sire explains. “Besides, that whole parade prank weren’t even his idea ta begin with.”

Deed, Vines, and Cure all slowly turn their heads in Title’s direction, much to the surprise of both elders. The pink mare makes a noble attempt to look innocent, but soon snorts and begins laughing. “You can’t deny it’s pretty funny.”

“Foals,” Sabre sighs. “So immature.”

“The princess thought it was funny too,” Cure points out in defense of his mom.

“I… could see that,” Brick begrudgingly concedes as Sabre sighs and closes her eyes radiating disappointment. “Enough of that,” he grumbles. “We’ve been replying that his highness is too young for that to be considered at this time, but we have compiled a list of who, where, how much, etcetera. We’ve similarly replied that his highness is not currently seeking the hooves of a suitress at this time.” With an eye roll he adds, “No matter how ‘well bred’ they are.”

“Yes, because an average earth pony foal from Baltimare will only demand the finest of pedigree,” Cure mockingly agrees.

“I have something I want to discuss with you all later that’s somewhat related to that,” the stallion mysteriously replies. “We’ll discuss it upstairs with the attorneys.”

Cure glances up at his parents and finds them equally confused. “Attorneys, grandpa?”

“Later, son.”

“Um. Okay.”

“The thank you’s and other miscellaneous correspondence are in a compressed bag for you to take home,” he says, pointing at a nearby table.

Cure levitates the bag over and puts his hoof inside. He withdrawals a few hoof-written letters with their envelopes stapled on. “I have fan mail?”

“Ya helped who-knows how many mares just in the capital, colt. Of course ya got fan mail.”

“Fixing me up changed my life,” Arcane fervently declares. “If I didn’t know ya I woulda sent ya one myself.”

“Oh. Well, you’re welcome,” he awkwardly replies. He puts the letters back in and passes the bag to his sire. “I wonder if the girls would like to help me look through some of it.”

“I would also like to, honey. There’s way too many to keep, but I wouldn’t mind having some of your first ones for keepsakes.”

“There’s plenty to go around,” Brick says. “There’s also a letter from Marchioness Yorkshire that just came the other day. It wasn’t marked private, but since you were coming out this way we didn’t open it.”

“Were you expecting something, sweetie?”

“I had made an offhoof comment about looking for a good financial planner. Maybe she actually sent me details on who she uses.”

“You’re interested in investing?” Brick asks. “How’d you even learn about that stuff?”

“I’ve always been interested in finding ways to make money work for me as much as I work for it. Pa tried to learn about it back in January, but it wasn’t exactly his cup’a tea.”

“It were interestin, but I didn’t feel it callin ta me like the real estate business does,” the stallion agrees.

“Hrm. Well, that’s in the bag, too.”

“Hey grandpa? I gotta ask… how much is all this,” Cure waves a hoof at the operation, “costing you?”

“Normally it would be about five grand a month in wages and benefits for the staff, plus another six for office space, supplies, return postage, utilities, and so on. The initial setup was a fair amount more, obviously, what with the equipment, sorting bins, and a couple compressed bags for deliveries for your use.”

The colt’s snout wrinkles involuntarily at the expense. He doesn’t doubt that the figures are in line with industry standards; it’s just an outflow he hadn’t considered. “I have enough on me to pay for a couple months, grandpa. Maybe we can set up an account at the bank that I can deposit money into each month to cover all this and get ya reimbursed for anything I’m short.”

“What?!” Sabre shouts, shaking her head no. “You’re not paying for any of this! We’re getting reimbursed for all of it!”

“It’s all official crown business, Cure,” his grandsire explains. “Like I said, normally it would be five grand a month. Her majesty had Countess Evergreen have everything squared away. It all comes out of your expense account.”

“I have an expense account?”

The rejuvenated stallion’s brows furrow as he takes in the confused looks on everypony’s faces. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, he slowly nods his head as he answers, “Of course you have an expense account. That’s how stuff like your guard escorts, hospital lunches, and other odds and ends are paid for.”

“Oh. I had absolutely no idea how the whole guard thing worked and I figured the hospital was just feedin me ‘cause I was volunteering.”

“I’m sure they would feed you either way,” Sabre says, “but ultimately the ledgers all need… wait, do you know what a ledger is?”

“Yeah, they,” he jerks his head to his mom and sire, “showed me how to do my books for my business back in November.”

She gives a firm, approving nod and says, “Good. It’s an important skill for everypony to have.” She raises a hoof in a lecturing pose and insists, “Never completely trust your accountant. Double check those numbers at least a few times a year!” She finishes the sentence with another nod and a chop before setting her hoof down.

The mare cocks her head to the side and asks aloud, “What was I saying?” Before anypony can remind her, her eyes open wide and she mumbles, “Oh right. Expense account. Any expenses that you, in your royal duties or, in this case, while ‘working’ as Prince Serpentus, incur are invoiced to the Baltimare Taxes & Revenue Department. They manage the fund and ensure no fraud occurs.”

Brick asks, “If you didn’t know about your expense account, how did you pay for everything last night? Your own money?”

“Of course.”

“Did you keep the receipts?”

“Yeah.”

“Then submit them and get reimbursed from your individual account. That’s where your stipend is going.”

“I get a stipend?!”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“I’m a workin stallion, grandpa!” Cure growls. “I earn what I spend!”

The stallion hums and nods in approval. “Well, proud as I am to hear that, you do have an account that your stipend is being deposited into. Think of it like your salary for all the extra stuff you have to do because of your position.”

The colt wrinkles his snout again at the idea. “I can’t say I’m fond of the idea of takin taxpayer money to pay for my own purchases. I’ll hafta ask the boss lady ‘bout that when I talk to her tomorrow.” He looks at his parents and asks, “Did y’all know about any of this?”

“None of us would have had any way of knowing, sweetie. The princess certainly never told us anything.”

“Oh.” He takes a moment just to take everything in and, after a few seconds, walks up to his grandsire and nuzzles into the stallion’s chest, careful not to jab him with his horn. “Thanks for taking care of all this for me, grandpa. I honestly have no idea what I’d do without ya.”

A hoof settles on his withers as the distinctly uncomfortable stallion does his best to return the embrace.

After a quick tour of the mail sorting area and a look at the thousands of still unopened letters from the last few days, the family follows the grandparents up to the second floor. At the colt’s request the old warpony let them have a peek at his office; a far more spartan setup than one would expect from the head of a multi-industry conglomerate.

It has all the expected trappings; a nice, but rather plain large desk, a few couches, maps of the Greater Baltimare Area, and a few bookshelves that Cure was particularly interested in. Brick must be particularly proud of his whiskeys; several rows of trophies, ribbons, and plaques decorate the shelves where they’ve won various tasting competitions or recognition from one magazine or another in the city.

A row of accolades from the city show that the stallion’s sanitation business must do bang-up job, too. It stikes Cure as a little odd, in a way, to get recognized for cleaning up trash promptly and efficiently, but in the grand scheme of things he’s aware that the proper execution of that duty is no less important than distilling “The Baltimare Gentlestallion’s #1 Single Malt” for five years running.

Aware that lawyers aren’t cheap, especially if they’re on the clock on a weekend, the impromptu tour is wrapped up rather quickly and everypony follows along to a conference room a couple doors down from the office. As they’re making their way into the room, Cure idly comments, “I feel like I spend an inordinate amount of time in conference rooms these days.”

“Just goes ta show how important ya are, son. Much as I appreciate the maintenance pony fixin the sink when it leaks, I don’t reckon ol’ Monkey Wrench gets called ta meetins much.”

“The dude’s name is Monkey Wrench?!” the colt echoes in disbelief as he hops up on his booster. Brick must have felt that, despite being his grandson, it wouldn’t be proper for a prince of the realm to not be at the head of the table. Cure knows his sire doesn’t care, but he still feels a slight twinge of guilt for, in a way, surpassing the stallion at such a young age. Regardless, there’s outsiders present and they already know his true identity, so the colt is undisguised aside from a few color enhancements he’s grown rather fond of since he’d marched into the throne room with them back at the end of April.

The lack of a crown, peytral, and golden shoes apparently doesn’t change the fact that a genuine alicorn prince is in the room.

The lawyers are seated on his right and, as with the Countess during his meeting with Marquis Merryland, Cure is somewhat surprised to recognize the pair of unicorns. They had visited him shortly before his ascension to take advantage of the spouses discount he offers on deaging treatments for married creatures. The husband, Concise Brief, has nearly identical colors to Cure’s sire. White lines had previously bled into the stallion’s coat and mane, but he looks to be barely half his true age thanks to Cure’s efforts.

Swift Motion sits a seat further down from the colt. It seems like very few ponies Cure comes across have nearly identical colors for their coat, mane, and tail. The mare had one of the brightest purple color schemes going he’d ever seen on a pony. It’s a lovely color, he’ll grant, and Brief will never have a hard time spotting her in a crowd, but it strikes the colt as nearly boring to be all one solid color, even if it is a unique one compared to most.

Neither of the ponies have taken their eyes off of him since he walked through the door. While everypony else is getting situated, he figures if he’s going to be a spectacle he might as well go all out. A flash of his horn has the bag on his sire’s back pop into existence on the table to his left between him and his dam, and, after a withdrawal from his biomass supply under his left wing, he sets a hoof wide ball of tightly wound vines between it and him.

The lawyers’ eyes flick back and forth between the alicorn and the mystery plant, unsure exactly what’s going on. While idly whistling “Hi Ho,” the colt reaches over and unwinds a single vine and crams it into his withers. A thin vine uncoils and begins reaching in the bag, extracting a letter while the end of another stalk blinks open revealing an eye that begins scanning down the page.

The other vines all get to work too, removing and scanning down the pages four or five letters at a time while everypony stares at the display. Vines’ sigh is one of exhaustion, and the mare slowly shakes her head while doing her best to ignore her son’s antics and keep the twins occupied. Title’s whole body is shaking with quiet laughter at the sheer craziness the colt can casually unleash.

“Son,” Brick slowly calls from the opposite end of the table, “what in the flaming pits of Tartarus is that?!”

“This is Audrey Four,” Cure answers, petting the little tentacle horror. “She’s really fast when it comes to reading mail, what with all the extra eyes and stuff.” He gives it a nudge and says, “Wave hi to everypony, Audrey.”

Not pausing its work for even a second, a single eye stalk shifts to the right to peer around the paper it was previously reading. A tentacle reaches around the letter and waves using the last few centimeters of its length, then both retreat back behind the next letter that comes out of the bag. “She’s a little shy,” he lightly comments with a shrug. “Don’t worry about the little lady,” he instructs over top of his mom’s quiet snickers, “she’ll keep to herself.”

“Colt…”

“Yes, father?” he innocently asks.

Deed sighs, shaking his head like his wife. “Just… make sure Audrey doesn’t scamper off.”

“You bet, pa! We wouldn’t want a repeat of the last time, would we?”

Brick turns to his left and shares an utterly baffled look with his wife. The mare shrugs, assuming the plant is some kind of weird pet. He lets out a weary sigh and waves to the two attorneys, both of whom have scooted away from the colt a couple hoofspans. “I want to introduce you all to Mr. Concise Brief and Mrs. Swift Motion. I asked them here to cover a few things.

“The first is your business proposal in Canterlot. Unfortunately, while the lot is still for sale, the accounting office has deemed the project too risky given the… uniqueness of the idea and the logistical challenges involved with its distance from our primary operations,” he explains, waving at the room. “There were also a number of concerns regarding permits and licenses to allow the launching of projectiles off the mountain, even if they are harmless golf balls.” The stallion pauses to draw a long breath and sighs. “Long story short, it’s too risky for the cost, assuming we could even get permission in the first place.”

“That’s a bummer. I can’t say I’m completely surprised, though. It would also be a pretty significant change to the visual aesthetic of the mountain.” He regards the attorneys and looks back to his great grandsire noting, “I’m pretty sure there’s more to it, given present company.”

“Indeed,” the stallion agrees, waving for the attorneys to speak up.

The husband takes it from there. “While the Canterlot market presents a number of issues that are not easily overcome, that doesn’t necessarily mean the idea isn’t potentially profitable in more nearby areas. Specifically, we’ve identified several available commercial lots of adequate size in Fillydelphia where our marketing teams believe sufficient demand for such an entertainment venue exists.”

Swift nods and cuts in, explaining, “The rail line that is being added between here and Fillydelphia should be up and running by next spring. That will eliminate many of the challenges we would face ensuring that a remote location is adequately stocked, and would turn what is now a six or seven hour train ride into a short, hour or less trip. That will ease every facet of the project aside from initial construction, which should not be significant regardless of the, admittedly, somewhat vague plans that have been put forth.”

“We haven’t hired an architect yet, is what she means,” Sabre explains. “It shouldn’t be hard to find somepony to put together some plans, but until we figured out if it even could be feasible we held off on committing a lot of resources to it.”

Cure bobs his head in a nod, saying, “That’s completely logical. I have some ideas, but I obviously don’t know what kind of volume to expect, so scaling will be the main issue.” He pauses and looks at the plant on his left. “Sorry, sweetie, you’ll have to get to those later,” he gently explains. Several of the eyestalks sag in dismay at the dismissal, but the plant dutifully deposits the letters it was working on back in the bag before coiling itself back into a ball.

He tucks Audrey IV back under his left wing and pulls out a fat stack of papers out from under his right. The move gets more curious looks from everypony, including Concise Brief, who had leaned slightly to his left to try to see what all the colt had underneath there. “If you gaze into the abyss, Mr. Brief,” he softly whispers, trailing off. Cure’s unaware of an equivalent saying here, but the unsubtle warning not to try to peek under the alicorn’s wing still causes the unicorn to sit back up ramrod straight.

He floats a collated and bound packet to each adult with some concept drawings of the grounds he envisioned, mostly duplicated from Ed’s memories of Top Golf with some ideas he stole from other popular adult hangouts.

Several minutes of silence pass as everypony looks over the brief, the whole time Cure sits there and watches everypony’s reaction with smug satisfaction. His parents are almost completely unfazed, but the unicorns and his grandparents pause on every page to share looks of disbelief at the detail and quality of the renders as well as the ideas they likely hadn’t considered.

“This… is not at all what I expected,” Brick solemnly admits. “I’ve certainly never seen a gift shop like this.”

“It’s all about merchandising and growing brand strength, grandpa. Just imagine everything that’s even slightly related to booze, golf, or any of your brands. Shot glasses, snifters, mugs, hats, visors, golf bags, balls, old whiskey barrels reshaped into end tables or other furniture, seasonal merchandise like Brick House Distillery Gift Boxes to warm somepony up for the holidays. You name it, ponies will buy it, and when other ponies see the brand more and more, they’ll get curious and come check the place out themselves.

“The rest of that is just some mock-up ideas I put together. Call it a vision, if you will. The driving ranges can be split so there’s one for serious golfers, then one for ponies out to have a good time. Flags and distance markers on one side and funny, silly, or seasonally appropriate ones on the other. The Running of the Leaves is a few months away; set up wooden trees with big leaves that have different point values for ponies to knock off the branch, then at the end of the night whoever has the high score gets a limited edition gift basket or something. You get the idea,” he finishes with a shrug.

“Not exactly the idle doodlings of a normal foal,” Brick comments. “I guess they wouldn’t be, though. Well…” he sighs, looking at the packet in contemplation. “That’s certainly more fleshed out than anything we have. I’m sure the development team and architects will appreciate having something more solid to start with.”

“Absolutely,” Swift agrees. She looks between Brick at one end of the table and the alicorn of at the other and says, “Now, in regards to the technicalities of developing this idea…”

“Do you plan on selling stock to cover the initial expenses?” Cure asks his great grandsire.

“No. While it is incorporated, I am the only shareholder of Brick House Consolidated.”

“So you’re proposing a partnership or something?”

“Exactly.”

“Silent on my part?”

A brief look of surprise crosses his grandsire’s face. “Given your age, I’d assume.”

“That works better for me. What would the buy-in be?”

The parents look back and forth between the colt and the stallion like they’re at a tennis match.

“Variable up to forty nine percent. It depends on how much you would like to invest in the idea.”

“Have you been able to estimate startup costs?”

All heads swivel to the pair of attorneys. Concise Brief takes a second to realize even his wife is looking at him for an answer. “Um… there’s a few lots we’ve identified; accounting for location, size, and so forth, the land itself shouldn’t be more than seventy thousand. It’s too early to accurately estimate construction costs, but I would guess between a quarter million and four hundred thousand depending on size and amenities.

“Add another hundred grand for permits, licenses, advertising, equipment, supplies, and initial staffing expenses… I suppose it would be safe to say somewhere around six hundred thousand bits. We’ll have a more accurate figure once we have actual blueprints drawn up and can get a better feel for the overall build cost.”

Vines’ jaw nearly lands on the table. Cure can sympathize; for a mare that grew up on a farm and has had little exposure to big financial decisions, the numbers they’re discussing surely seem unfathomably high. Simply having a few thousand bits in savings at the end of the month was an accomplishment to be proud of a year ago, and now she’s sitting at the table listening as her son and grandfather are discussing a half to three quarter million bit project.

“Damn. That’s… Well, honestly, that isn’t terribly far off from what I guestimated. I only have about a hundred and seventy grand liquid right now. What’s the deadline here?”

“You have how much?!” Sabre squawks.

“Umm… one hundred and seventy thousand bits, which doesn’t include the nearly forty fucking grand,” he snarls before visibly calming, “set aside for last quarter’s taxes.”

“CURE! LANGUAGE!”

“Sorry, dam. But c’mon! Taxes!” he whines.

“Maker above,” his sire groans under his breath.

“Taxes aren’t my field,” Swift hesitantly speaks up, “but as a prince does his highness even have to pay taxes what with the whole… being royalty?”

“Stars and sun, please don’t,” Title pleads.

“Yes,” Cure venomously spits. “Trust me, I already barked up that tree plenty. I am getting a ‘credit’ of a sorts for all the medical inventions and improved crops I’ve provided, so effective the beginning of this month I should be good to go on that front, but I still owe for second quarter. That’s why I said a partnership is better than a stock purchase for my purposes.”

“Oh. It’s very unusual for a foal to be aware of corporate tax law,” she observes.

“So I’ve been told. Anyhow, deadline. When are we looking at, here?”

Brick explains, “At this point we’re looking at starting to build the day after Wrap Up next year with an optimistic open date somewhere in late July, early August.”

“Sounds good. I can commit up to forty grand by the end of the month. When can we get some hard numbers?” he asks, turning to the attorneys.

“The end of August?” Concise suggests, turning to his wife for assurance.

“Early September at the latest,” she agrees.

“Oof. That’s cutting it a little close.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to put in that much, son,” Brick explains.

“We knew you were doing well. We had no idea you’d made that much,” Sabre agreeingly adds.

“I can afford it,” Cure answers. “My earnings will only go up. Also, I had previously floated an idea of arranging trips to other cities to make some extra cash.” Cure turns to look at his parents and continues, “I may speak to Snowstorm about hitting Fillydelphia and Manehattan for weekend trips exclusively for deaging and other big ticket services.”

“Snowstorm?” Deed questions.

“She doesn’t work, so she may be more available. I don’t know what Rain’s schedule is like. I guess I could check with Thunder and Tailwind… maybe even Song. I dunno. I figured you would want me to have an adult with me, just in case, and being pegasi and whatnot…”

“Ah, gotcha. Fly up, pack in the appointments, knock ‘em out, and fly back?”

“Yep. I mean, technically, I could just go by myself, but I figured you wouldn’t be down with that.”

“I have security teams,” Brick points out. “If need be, I’m sure I could find some volunteers to accompany you for some overtime pay on the weekends. I don’t like the idea of you traveling out of town without proper protection, disguised or not.”

“That is a possible solution, grandpa. I think we’ll hash out the details and, if we go that route, I’ll Send you a message. Sound good?”

“Sure. We’ll work on getting the numbers sorted. If you,” he turns to the parents, “would be interested in buying in as well, let me know. I honestly hadn’t expected him to be able to provide so much capital. Or, for that matter, know what in Tartarus he was talking about.” He shakes his head and blows out a sigh. “That brings us to the other major topic I wanted to discuss. Swift?”

“Certainly, sir.” The mare reaches into a saddlebag and pulls out several packets, then passes one to each parent and another to Cure. “With the elevation of your son to the position of Grand Prince, your family has a rather unique opportunity that Mr. Brick has begun preliminary work on.”

“A noble house?” Title voices in question.

“Exactly. Only those with titles of Count, Countess, or higher are permitted to establish a noble house. While mostly ceremonial, it is still considered a great honor to be a member of one. It can help significantly with job opportunities, give foals access to better, more prestigious education opportunities, and has a number of other more unofficial benefits. Members are also far more likely to be elevated to legitimate nobles by their own right as well.”

Her husband steps in seamlessly, adding, “You will find that it would open doors to exclusive organizations, private memberships, or even gated communities that you may otherwise not have been otherwise allowed to purchase property inside of. It’s difficult to quantify the benefits, and many will likely not apply to you, but a noble house remains a noble house in perpetuity unless it is stripped of its status or the last remaining member dies with no heir, an unlikelihood given the amazing young colt who made it all possible.”

Cure voices the immediate question that comes to mind. “Would this all be public record?”

“Yes,” Brick answers, “but there’s not any particular rush here. In fact, it would probably take a few months to get all of the paperwork in order to file, assuming you approve. Even if we started tomorrow I doubt we’d have it ready before winter. I was thinking we may be able to announce it at our family reunion next summer, unless...”

Cure scoffs, nodding along. “I can’t fathom the thin veneer of my false identity lasting that long. Please tell me this isn’t going to be named after me.”

“It could be,” Brick answers. “You are the reason this is possible, after all. You would normally be considered the patriarch of the house, but given your age…” he trails off.

“Dad would act as patriarch in my stead?” The stallion in question goes wide-eyed at the suggestion as almost everypony at the table looks his way. “Is that something you would even want, pa?”

“Actually, your dam would be the acting house matriarch,” Brick corrects.

The mare has a panicked look when all heads turn her direction. “Oh. Oh my! Umm, perhaps somepony else would like to volunteer? Grandpa Brick, this sounds like something you’d be great at.”

“I appreciate that, my dear,” he graciously accepts. “This is an undertaking I am prepared to see through, should you so wish,” he finishes, looking to Cure for approval.

“Sounds good to me, grandpa.” The colt pauses, inclining his head in thought. “Huh. House Vita sounds appropriate, given my domain.”

Sabre chuckles while jabbing a hoof into her husband’s side. At the curious looks she explains, “We’d said the same thing. The old coot thought it’d be presumptuous given you’re the one that made it all possible.”

“Much to my dismay, I don’t think I’ll be lacking in stuff named after me, grandma.”

“I’m sure not,” she easily agrees.

A thought occurs to Cure and he turns to the lawyers to ask, “Just out of curiosity, how’s the whole noble house thing work as far as studding contracts and whatnot?” Both unicorns freeze at the casual mention of studding by a young foal. He gives them a look of pure exasperation, “Come on, really? Downstairs there’s a whole table of letters from ponies offering me hundreds of thousands of bits total to have sex with their -”

“Cure!”

“- daughters.” The colt jumps at his dam’s scold and turns to face her, holding his forelegs out in a helpless shrug. “What?! Is there, or is there not a table downstairs in this very building,” he taps the table for emphasis, “covered in letters offering tens of thousands of bits each for a foal from either me or my sire?”

Vines’ snout scrunches up in frustration, not only at the colt’s bluntness, but also at her wife’s none-too-quiet laughter. That Savvy is following her dam’s example and giggling along isn’t helping, nor is the fact that his statement is one hundred percent accurate.

“You don’t have to say it like that,” she weakly argues.

“It is what it is, dam. I could certainly phrase it a whole lot worse, after all.” Playfully, he asks, “Wanna hear some suggestions?”

“Not if you want to see the outside of our house for the next few weeks.”

Deed lets out a sigh as the two stare each other down.

He isn’t sure why the colt bothers; everypony that knows him also knows he’ll fold long before his dam will. Sometimes he wonders if the brat just instigates arguments with the mare just so he can fold and reassure her that he still sees her as an authority figure, memories, ascension, or otherwise. In fact, unless I’m missin my mark, the colt’ll be throwin in the towel in three, two -

“Fiiine!” he petulantly whines. He turns back to the unicorns and, with a full-bodied roll of his eyes, takes a deep breath, then pauses, furrowing his brow. He turns back to his dam and says, “Ya know, honestly, I can’t think of a much more,” he rolls his hoof, “genteel way of saying it. They are studding contracts,” says, tapping his hooves together on each of the last two words. “That’s exactly what they are. They are literally offering money to sire a foal. That intercourse is involved is kind of a given, ya know? What exactly do you want me to say here instead?”

“If I may?” Swift gently interrupts. Vines nods her assent and Cure gives her a “go-ahead” wave of his wing. “Noble house membership is not conveyed to foals produced from a studding contract unless it is specifically written that the foal be included, such as if an heir is urgently needed. That is something you will have to be aware of and watch for should you decide to participate in those.”

“That applies retroactively?” Sabre asks. Cure hadn’t expected her to chime in with a question, but Brick has been a successful businesspony for years and, objectively, met most of the criteria mares would have wanted in a sire. Then again, she may be referring to other members of the family, including Cure’s actual grandsire that he’s just waiting to find on his doorstep someday; he’s certain that, if not sooner, immediately after his identity is revealed.

“It does,” the mare confirms.

Title speaks up with a question next. “What about his sisters?”

“Cherry and Lotus,” Vines quickly clarifies. “Sisters via marriage.”

“That would be up to you for now and, later, to his highness,” Concise answers while nodding to Cure. “Relatives via blood or marriage to members are in automatically. They would fall into a gray area due to being simultaneously both, yet neither. In those situations, similar to if a member were to adopt a foal, the head of the family can grant membership. Similarly, should reason arise, members can be ejected from the house at the family head’s behest.”

“Unilaterally?” Cure asks.

“Yes. Particularly in this case where not only is your highness the head of the house, but far beyond that, second in line for the throne. His highness’s authority is really only limited by what her majesty sets as its bounds. Publicly, none exist that I am aware of.”

“None exist privately, either.” The grandparents and lawyers both pause a moment to process that assertion. “Which makes the whole needing an executor thing a little ironic, all things considered. Oh well,” he shrugs, “as far as I’m concerned Grandpa can act as executor of the house for as long as he wants. Maker knows I have enough on my plate as it is, and I doubt that’ll decrease at all when I hit majority.”

The stallion puffs his chest out proudly and gives a solemn nod. “I would be honored, son.”

“Great! So… I’m guessing we probably have a few things to sign?” he asks, turning back to the attorneys.

“Only one today,” Swift nods, reaching into her bag again. She passes a form to Vines and explains, “This simply authorizes your grandfather to act on your behalf while we begin the process of gathering the necessary proof. It must be renewed annually, so if we don’t move forward by this time next year we’ll need to do another authorization.”

His dam nods in understanding as she reads down the form, then signs it and slides it back.

“Excellent!” Despite it being the most energetic exclamation Cure’s seen from the older stallion, Brick’s body language is still that of a grumpy old pony. He counts it as a victory that his great grandsire is genuinely smiling for once.

“Seems to me we have reason to celebrate,” Sabre says as she reaches into her bag. She withdraws a Sending crystal and holds it up, suggesting, “How about we see if Lucky and everypony else is free and have ourselves a big family lunch?”

Mid afternoon

Two quick raps and a call of “Knock, knock!” has all ears swiveled in the direction of the front door. Dawn is quick to hop down to let Cure in, greeting him with a warm nuzzle. “Hey everypony,” he calls out as he walks into the living room, “I swung by the mom’s store on the way here. Who wants a candy bar or some sweets?”

He can admit to himself that he feels more than a little guilty when a memory of taking the kids to the farm involuntarily creeps to the forefront of his mind. The way the girls all light up and run over, tails wagging and eyes full of excitement is entirely too similar to how a herd of hungry goats would react when they figured out who in the group was carrying their feed.

His eyes are immediately drawn to the largest of the group, Ferric Shine, with her deep red coat and pitch black mane. “Maker have mercy, Red, have you grown another friggin hoof in the last five days or something?” A hoof is an exaggeration, but she definitely seems taller than last time he’d seen her.

“She’s gonna be taller than our sire,” Sapphire agrees as she grabs a Wonderbar from the bag. She can have them all as far as he’s concerned; even as a pony coconut just about makes him want to gag. Cure isn’t even sure where ponykind gets some of the things they do; coconuts were imported to the US from what he recalls. The same applies to stuff like bananas and pineapples, yet all of that is available at the store somehow.

“I have grown a little,” the bashful girl admits.

“Well make sure you’re eating enough. Celestia knows you’re using the energy, after all.” Snacks divvied up, everypony piles back on the couches. The way they split up makes him feel like he’s almost being forced to pick a favorite. Sapphire and Ferric are on the couch closest to the front of the house. Dawn and Rising take the center with a copy of the insert to the former’s right. The pegasi are leaning against each other on the couch closest to the kitchen.

With no obvious right choice to make, Cure joins the two brightest ladies on the center one, hopping up and laying across Rising’s withers from her left side and shares a quick nuzzle with her and Dawn on her right. “So, y’all got to see a hint of what being involved with ‘Prince Serpentus’ would really be like. I’m guessing Drift and Glacial gave you a more behind-the-scenes picture of the evening?” he asks, glancing meaningfully at the paper.

“We hadn’t really gotten that far,” Glacial tells him. She shares a look with Drift who nods in response to an unasked question. “Having everypony watching everything you do is creepy. It’s a whole lot worse when there’s ponies everywhere with cameras taking pictures of you nonstop. Up ‘till when we left the shopping strip I was worried somepony was going to do something.”

“Even with all the guards?” Cure asks, surprised that she felt that anxious.

“Sort of,” she hesitantly admits. “I don’t know what, it’s just that being surrounded and feeling… trapped like that all evening,” she trails off.

“Oh. Shit, sorry, G, but just so you know, those guards aren’t there for me. They’re there to keep you safe in case I need to act.”

“How does that make any sense?” Rising asks. “Those are Royal Guards.”

“He thinks he’s a hardflank,” Drift teases.

“One of these days, Drift,” he sighs.

The filly scoffs, rolling her eyes at the implied threat.

“He did beat all the foalnappers,” Ferric points out.

“Uh huh. All two of them, probably,” she snarks. “I bet Solar did everything.”

“There were dozens,” Dawn corrects, “and Solar says he didn’t do anything but watch and help. He never had to. Cure took out all but the first group from a train car away.”

“The fuck?” Drift wonders aloud. “How?”

“Remember the vines I put up in the cars?” Everypony nods and voices their acknowledgement. “I can use my talent through them. They never had a chance. That doesn’t matter though. The important thing is that you don’t need to worry about your safety when I’m around. All of those guards are there to get you to safety so I can act without risking hurting anypony, same as with the princess.

“Enough about all that,” he dismisses. Waving at the darker pegasus he asks, “Drift, thoughts? How do you feel about last night?”

“It was frustrating, but still fun. The guards helped, especially once you told them to Stun anypony that went too far,” she answers, unsubtly smirking in the colt’s direction. “The main thing that I didn’t like was having to go through all the extra crap just to go out. If that’s how ponies act when you’re older we’re going everywhere in disguise just so we don’t have to take a stupid carriage or go to some dumb base first.”

“So what you’re saying is that me going around in a disguise, while inconvenient, is much easier than not doing so?” Cure knowingly asks.

Despite the smugness radiating from the colt, Drift can’t deny the point. “I think it would have been a lot less annoying to go out in disguise,” she begrudgingly agrees. “The most fun part was the boat ‘cause nopony was stalking us the whole time. I’m curious how they got those pictures, though.”

“My guess is a scrying spell. I had the same thought. I plan on asking the boss how to jam those when I talk to her tomorrow. She probably has a trinket or two that will do it. If not I can probably put together a set of plates with a privacy spell built in.”

“Good!”

“So,” he starts, panning over the others, “even though the whole point was to show you all how much of a nuisance having a public identity would be, I’m not ignorant of the fact that we,” he motions to the pegasi, “got to go out. Now that you know what to expect, would anypony else like a date with Prince Serpentus?”

The unsure glances and wrinkled snouts on Ferric, Rising, and Dawn show how unsure they are about the suggestion. Sapphire’s expression is different; she looks curiously between the other three as if she isn’t involved in the conversation.

“Saph?” he calls, getting the girl’s attention. “I have to confess, I don’t even know if you’re romantically interested in me at all. I’m not going to be upset if you’re not, I’m just saying I haven’t really caught the signs one way or another.”

Drift barks out a laugh earning a sharp look from Glacial while Dawn leans away to turn and give the colt a disbelieving look. “Seriously?!”

“What?” he innocently asks. “No offense,” he says in the filly’s direction as he looks back to speak to the room at large, “but our interactions are more… fraternal? I guess that would be a good word, rather than romantically inclined.”

“Aww, you’re pretty enough, Cutie Wave, but I’m not really into anypony like that,” the girl confesses.

Ferric reaches over her sister and pulls the smaller girl to her side. “Sissy’s still a little young still,” she insists.

Cure’s immediate reaction is that Sapphire is older than him and the same age as Rising and Dawn, but he knows when to keep his mouth shut, so aside from a momentary look of confusion he doesn’t immediately react. “Oh. I mean, that doesn’t change anything as far as I’m concerned, I just didn’t know where we stood, that’s all.”

“You thought she liked you?” Drift mockingly cackles.

“I didn’t know for sure, Drift, hence the question,” he testily replies.

“He can’t help it,” Rising responds in his defense. “Dam says colts can’t always tell, that’s why mares take care of the relationship stuff.” She lifts her head to give him a reassuring nuzzle on his chin. “Don’t worry about it, Cure. It’s not your fault.”

Somehow the attempt at consoling him feels more condescending, even if he is fine passing the buck on that whole mess.

“Umm… okay. Well, regardless, I’m guessing nopony is overly eager to feature in the next special edition?” When none of them volunteer he nods in understanding. “Can’t blame you. It was too stressful. We could have a lot more fun going out in disguise instead.”

“Daddy said ponies were trying to bribe the guards, you know,” Drift comments. “Some … Well, they didn’t threaten them, exactly, since they’re guards, but tried to intimidate them to get up to see you. The lieutenant had to threaten to arrest a few.”

“I’m not surprised. For whatever reason they think sucking up to me will get them something. Or they think they can somehow take advantage of the naive foal. Who knows?” he finishes with a helpless shrug. “So, speaking of ponies wanting to get a hold of me, I brought a bag of letters to Prince Serpentus that my great grandsire set aside. Dunno if y’all have plans, but if you want we could look at some of ‘em. I’ve only read a few so far. Lots of Thank You’s, some general fan mail from folks, and I even saw at least one askin me to officiate their wedding.”

Author's Note

Okay, so I will definitely be taking a week off, maybe two. I've mentioned a few times over the last several months how IRL crap has been off the hook and I've decided to take everyone's advice and have myself a little breather. I have the next few chapter outlines done, but there's a whole lot of work between here and when they're ready to go.

So, lots going on this chapter. I can't rightly fathom what all kinds of things people, or in this case, ponies, would write to their new prince about. I'm sure it would run the gamut from marriage proposals to... well, probably not death threats given pony society, but strongly worded complaints seems likely. Then again, there's always a nutter or two out there, isn't there? Either way, it's a that I am not sure I've ever seen explored in any other story with an alicorn MC, which is really kind of odd. I would suggest that ponies aren't as inclined to respond with rabid fanaticism when it comes to celebrities, but I'm pretty sure there's plenty of evidence to the contrary there.

It's not a point I want to spend a whole lot of time on, but it's not one that I think should be immediately dismissed either. We'll touch on it here or there, but as with all things this whole Serpentus craze will eventually die out. How long will it take? Sadly, longer than I'm sure Cure would prefer. Even flash-in-a-pan celebrities take at least a few months to slink out of the spotlight, and he'll literally never be able to completely go away.

Oh well, he knew that when he agreed to take the crown. Now he'll just have to find a way to deal with the consequences. See what I did there? I'm so clever!

Anyhow, thanks for reading, as always, and I hope you all enjoy this week's chapter. If I don't pop in beforehand I hope everyone - at least, those celebrating it - has a safe and fun holiday next week.

Later!