The World Shall Rise From Ashes

Who sold us out?

It was the thought that kept running through Azel's head as he combed the abandoned house that had, for better or worse, been home for the last several years. They had established several hiding spots, places that Amyra was small enough to tuck herself into if strange ponies came to the window or door. He'd made her promise to use them, had run drills so she knew how to get to them quickly and quietly, no matter how much she protested. And now, he was checking every last one of them, systematically, from closest from farthest from the door.

Nothing.

He hadn't told anypony where they were. Most members of the Cave System--the loose affiliation of thestral sympathizers had seen fit to give themselves a name a couple of years ago, and he still didn't know who had come up with it--had guessed that they were squatting in one of the more run-down districts, but he'd never given them an exact location. He went to them, every time, and had always traveled in and out of the building with his cloak on.

There were reasons that Sherbet could throw somepony under a carriage. She'd said herself that there'd been smuggling crackdowns, and spilling the details of who she was supplying was one way to wriggle out of a sentence. Lady Fleur de Lis was also under scrutiny, and gratitude only went so far when turning everypony in could save her hide. But neither of them knew. As far as he'd known, nopony did.

Clearly he didn't know everything.

As each hiding place turned up empty, his heart pounded harder, and he found himself going to the torn blanket. He grasped it in his teeth and yanked, driven by some feverish hope of finding his sister having just been hiding beneath, promising himself that if he found her, he wouldn't even be angry with her for scaring him.

The motion didn't reveal a filly underneath. Instead, a sheet of paper slowly floated down, scrawled with lines of ink.

Amyra couldn't read or write. She'd been too young when they fled home for her to have been given any schooling. He, however, could, and he scanned the page as best he could through the blur of tears. He just prayed--he didn't know to what, or who; there weren't many options left anymore that weren't banished, petrified, or dead--that the dried drops of blood at the corner weren't Amyra's.

Then he threw his saddlebags to the floor, charged through the door again, and flew.

Azel had been shown the theatre once, and only once, by his mother. It'd already been closed down, and she hadn't said much about it beyond that friends of his father had once attended shows there. It'd been the first time he'd heard of his father having friends in Equestria, and he'd mostly been confused as to why his mother was bringing it up at all.

As he'd lived in Canterlot longer, he'd learned the whole bloody story.

The Lippizan Theatre had belonged to Lord Derecho, a pegasus of extremely high social standing. An ancestor of his had been granted a title personally by Daybreaker, before she'd gone by "Daybreaker" at all, for some great act that likely only those who didn't have to worry about surviving moment to moment and could spend their time reading up on obscure history instead would know about. The resulting noble house had come to be associated with the arts more so than old heroism, and the young lord had been especially fond of plays.

Then he'd married a thestral.

An Equestrian thestral, rather than Chiropterran. Which meant that the newly-minted lady was different from Azel and his family. His father would have raved that their blood was diluted, that they'd lost their magic, and all kinds of other things, but all his mother had ever called them was different. The same tribe, but a slightly different breed, and still ponies just like everypony else. Given that they didn't need to smuggle rare oranges to survive, Azel considered them to have gotten the better end of that deal.

But breeding hadn't stopped the lady from being a Nightmare Moon worshipper, nor her new husband. After the lengthy executions of them and their co-conspirators, the theatre had just been allowed to fall apart and rot, as nopony wanted to risk the idea that it had been tainted with their foul, immoral magics. Even troublemaking fillies and colts didn't come near, because being caught there meant that their young age wouldn't save them from punishment.

Azel didn't care, about any of it. He was already guilty of a crime, the crime of being a thestral, and there was nothing worse than being caught committing that.

Even the guard patrols were thin here--after all, the bastard-stuffed night shift weren't going to go peeking in to see if there were any blood-splattered cultists making themselves at home when there were mares to harass for their amusement instead--and so he flitted from shadow to shadow, on as direct a route as he could manage while avoiding the glow of a few scant streetlamps, needing to dodge very few armoured ponies on the way.

The note had said to go, if he wanted Amyra to ever see another sunset. So he would go, he would get his sister back, and he would rip out the throat of the pony who took her with his teeth.

He landed near the back entrance and examined the door. Time had had it rotting away around the lock, and while he didn't have the strength of legs for a solid kick, a strike of his wing sufficed to knock it off one of its rusted hinges, and leave it dangling with enough space for him to step in. Dust swirled in clouds that taunted his nostrils, and he pulled up a wing to try to guard his snout from it after the first fit of coughing.

This had been backstage, once upon a time. If he headed in one direction, he'd eventually find the stage and curtain. In another, there were dressing rooms, along with costumes and props that had been left to be eaten by time. Yet another, there would be the controls for lights and other behind-the-scenes wizardry.

His mother had loved plays. She'd never gotten to take her children to one, after coming to Equestria. Never had the chance, before she was dragged off, and shortly after, there'd been a movement to ban thestrals from theatres anyway.

Azel had never been in a theatre like this, especially not backstage, but the note had left instructions, so he still knew where to go. The rotted wood of the stage creaked as he stepped onto it, and the curtains reeked of mold, with just a hint of ash. The ash was unsurprising, since there had no doubt been a few fires, from those brave enough to approach. Trying to purify with cleansing flames.

He found the right lever, and it took time for him to find the best posture to push something that looked like it'd been made for a biped--a minotaur, possibly, as there were a few in Equestria and the mechanical seemed to be their specialty--and then listened to every creak, grind, and groan as the trap door opened. Then he leaped, his wings opening for a glide.

What he found looked like the kind of small room one would expect for actors to fall into during such a performance. Azel then found the correct wall, tapped three times with the wrist of his wing, and the grinding of mechanisms resumed. Cool air washed over him as the passage slowly opened, and he stared down at the stairway that descended into pitch dark.

He was looking at where the first embers of civil war had sparked. The heart of the Lunar Uprising.

He just wanted his sister back.

Azel set his hoof onto the first stone step.

The stallion stood waiting, disgusted with the stone walls that surrounded him.

He was a unicorn from the oldest of noble houses. One that was said to have predated the birth of Celestia herself, and when she'd taken the throne of the gaggle of loosely-allied, quarreling states and created what would someday be her empire, she had taken a consort from it. It'd only been practical, with those unicorns having been the stewards of the sun before her, for their blood to intermingle, and create a grander breed of pony than before.

He was the one of his house who had expressed every trait, from his appearance, to his magic, to his vitality, that told the world that the solar blood still burned in their veins. He had been recognized for that, elevated--

not elevated enough

--and for Prince Blueblood, to now be within these cold, stone walls, away from the rays of the beautiful sun, felt like an insult. Derecho and his ilk should have never been allowed to even pretend at nobility, even before deciding to sully their blood with batponies and hurl their loyalty behind a traitor and monster.

At least after the rebellion had been quashed, his dear Auntie had started to see things more his way. It was on her request that he be here to greet the bat-colt, and so he endured it with all the noble bearing he could muster in such a place. A few guards were around him, the hooffull that had been granted to him as an official part of the royal family, but he knew he would hardly need it.

Azel Moonstrider was just a foal, would always be just a foal, and so he had nothing to fear. Even if just thinking the name Moonstrider made the scar that ran from the side of his face, along his neck, itch with rage.

Soon, he would be rid of them all. No more Moonstriders, no more Chiropterrans, and no more threstals to insult ponydom with their lowly existence. The laws, his laws, had been steadily closing in, surrounding the surviving bats within his beautiful city like an invisible noose. And the thought comforted him like a healing balm to the old wound.

Hoofsteps could be heard against the stone, and the single, flickering torch illuminated the dark shape that dared to step into the light. Blueblood watched golden eyes, with such inequine pupils, adjust to the light, and the monster pulled back lips to bare fangs that should have been ripped out years ago. "You."

Azel looked so much like his father. If his father had been drastically underfed, at least, and Blueblood sneered at the fact that he clearly hadn't been underfed enough if he still had the indecency to be alive. He was almost solid black, from nose to tail, and only a sharp eye could pick out the subtlety in the hues, that his body was truly an extremely deep grey and his mane and tail had a bluish tint.

There was a scar under one eye, and Blueblood knew exactly from whence it had come. One of the guards had managed to get a strike in, seemingly out of sheer dumb luck given their track record. The bit of blood spilled during the altercation had been good for tracking the troublemaker down.

If he hadn't taken personal interest in the mysterious attacks, Blueblood was certain the they'd still think that they were being haunted by a vengeful ghost or other such nonsense, rather than a colt in a magic cloak too big for his frame, pretending to be something more fearsome.

Prince Blueblood gave his most refined smile. It was lost on such a creature, but it wasn't truly for him. "Azel Moonstrider. How lovely for you to join us."

There were many secret passageways in the old theatre, and several rooms that they led to. This one had been a small, secure meeting place for those newly inducted into the rebellion, and as he lifted his head, he nodded to a balcony, that had originally been placed to allow the traitor lord and his monster bride to watch the resulting meeting from above.

Here in this dark place, the sun had descended to warm it, just for her nephew.

Azel had never seen Daybreaker face-to-face. He'd known that the day he did, it would be the day he died.

She was up on the balcony, watching him, and the same thing struck him that it did when seeing the pictures: That for a mare who was all bright, warm tones, her bearing was shockingly cold. She looked like she was carved from white marble, her body stiff as stone as she sat there, and there was the slightest idle thought of whether an immortal alicorn needed to breathe, because she didn't seem to be.

The only movement was her mane, waving in a breeze that didn't exist and pulsing with a glow like molten gold. It matched the regalia draped over her neck, shaped into the head and wings of an alicorn and decorated with blue and purple jewels, and the crown on her head, which twisted into those long, swooping false horns.

Next to her was a unicorn. A tiny mare dwarfed by the giant, wearing no finery of her own and her coat and mane in various shades of purple. He remembered her from the propaganda posters, the heroic Twilight Sparkle. But right now, she looked nothing like those pictures. She looked starkly out of place, and afraid.

Blueblood gave a soft tut-tut sound, which made his gaze snap back down to the smiling stallion. "Such poor manners. In the presence of royalty, it's customary to bow."

Azel snarled, his wings flaring open wide. "Where is my sister?"

He tutted again, shaking his head, all the while wearing that infuriating smile. "And why should I tell you that? When you're clearly such a bad influence on her." He puffed up his chest, strolling forward. "It took some work to find you. Running away from foster care, when they were just trying to give you a proper upbringing so not to turn out like your parents. Such ingratitude."

He felt himself pawing at the ground with his hoof. "Where. Is. She?"

"Once we realized you were using your father's cloak, however, all it took was getting the right unicorns to do some scrying... And how busy you have been, all these years. Bringing harm to Her Imperial Majesty's guards, aiding fugitives, and harvesting blood. But now we can at least save your sister."

"WHERE IS AMYRA?"

The shout didn't seem to faze him. Blueblood tilted his head, humming as if a new thought had occurred to him. "But perhaps, being left alone with you so long, it may be too late. Maybe instead of foster care, it'd be better to just cull the little vampony before she kills--"

The world went red.

Azel didn't hear his own voice, didn't know what he'd just said, if there were words in it at all. He'd just screamed, as he lunged right for Blueblood's throat.

So painfully predictable.

He'd been aware of the blood orange smuggling, and thanks to his time in Chiropterra, he'd learned a lot about vamponies. The fruit would keep them alive--that alone felt like reason enough for the crackdowns, as no fruit with such frightening properties should be allowed to take root in Equestria--but there were side effects. That the young stallion--

just a colt

always just a colt

they're all colts and fillies who should know their place

--hurling himself at him was so scrawny compared to his father was part of it, but vamponies living on blood oranges also had a terrible time controlling their emotions. Without stealing blood from ponies, they found it so much harder to pretend to be civilized creatures themselves, easily spurred into a vicious rage. So it was only a matter of time before he attacked like the monster he was.

And Blueblood knew what to do with monsters.

His horn lit, burning with golden sunlight, and Azel's lunge was halted mid-air by Blueblood's magic seizing him by the throat. The scent of burning fur rose, and he snarled, thrashed, and gasped, wings flapping and legs kicking with fury.

"So uncivilized..." He snorted, yanking Azel toward him with a strangled cry. "But perhaps that was my mistake, speaking to a beast as if it were a pony." He slowly constricted, and the smell of burning fur was joined with burning flesh. "So let me put this in ways that you will understand."

And then, with a flick of Blueblood's head, Azel's skull met stone.

Azel didn't know if the cracking sound had come from his skull, or the wall he'd just collided with, but as his ears rung and his teeth rattled, it felt like it didn't really matter. His vision was full of starbursts, and he dug at his own neck with his hooves, wings flapping madly, his lungs screaming for air he couldn't give them.

Then he was slammed into the wall again.

And again.

Not all of it was head-first. Blueblood hurled him from different angles, letting his hip take one blow, his spine another, his barrel a third to force what air he had left out of his lungs. Impacts split skin, and Azel could feel drops of blood rolling through fur. He was in pain in a thousand different ways and needed to fight--

The vice on his neck let go, and he landed in a heap on the stone floor. Breathing hurt after being denied it, but he didn't care, dragging air into his body as she tried to find his legs, tried to get up, wings beating. A wound on his head dripped blood into his eyes and he couldn't see, but he could smell the unicorn, and he just needed to get into the air and get his teeth into him and make him pay.

Then the kicking started.

Royalty walked about with shod hooves, and after the first impact hit his ribs, Azel would never again believe the description of gold as a soft metal. The hooves never landed the same place twice, going for chest, stomach, shoulders, jaw... an attempt to get his legs under him had them kicked back out, and Blueblood took his time grinding his hoof into leathery flesh when he stomped on a wing.

The strikes came from everywhere, but they came in a rhythm, as if Blueblood were using him as a percussion instrument in a song, and Azel only realized it was intentional when he heard Blueblood humming in time to the beating, and he recognized twisted renditions of several Hearth's Warming carols punctuating each vicious kick.

He needed to get up. He needed to fly, and he struck out with his own hind legs, wings beating the air anew. Even in the tight confines of the room, even so disoriented, Azel managed to get off the ground. Then he felt the burning surround one of his wings.

"We'll have none of that."

Azel had encountered unicorns who would use their magic to fire weapons at him. He had encountered some strong enough to grab a hoof or wing to try to yank him around. He hadn't fought one strong enough to lift him until today, and before that moment, he hadn't known that a unicorn's magic could be sharpened. Pain tore through him, burning light cleaving through flesh like paper, and when he fell, it wasn't from being dragged down.

It was because a pony couldn't fly with only a single wing, and he was dimly aware of the other one falling to the ground a second after he did with a smack.

"A surprising improvement. Remove the other, and you may almost look like a pony..."

As Blueblood advanced, and Azel laid there, his remaining wing flapping feebly. He looked up at the balcony, blinking desperately to try to clear his vision, and he would remember the way the two mares looked down at him for the rest of his life.

The statuesque alicorn stared at him with calm impassiveness, tinged with what he would come to recognize later as pity. It was a bit like a pony watching two wild animals fight, and lamenting the inability to fully tame the brutality of nature.

The little purple unicorn, instead, watched him laying on the bloodied stone, a hoof outstretched as if to try to reach him, her face frozen in an expression of wide-eyed horror.