The Conjuration Wizard

The room I had once called my own felt strangely hollow now, though nothing about it had truly changed.

The king-sized bed sat neatly against the far wall, its covers undisturbed for some time now. My workstation, with its countless scratches and ink stains, remained tucked into the corner near the balcony, a chair pushed neatly underneath. The small bookshelf next to it, filled with scrolls and books that had once played a vital role in my studies of the magical and mundane. Even the balcony door, slightly ajar to let in the crisp air, gave me the same view of the sprawling scenery that I had seen since I was first given this room.

And yet, as I carefully placed another stack of books into my Bag of Holding, the room felt foreign. Not in a way that was unpleasant, but rather as though it belonged to someone else entirely. Someone who didn’t exist anymore.

The Bag of Holding lay open on my old bed, its enchanted interior swallowing the items I placed inside with an almost greedy ease. Beside it, a haphazard array of belongings waited their turn: a set of vials filled with powdered reagents for enchanting, several neatly rolled scrolls glowing faintly with arcane runes, and an assortment of tools Luna had gifted me.

I crouched down to pick up a book that I had knocked to the floor earlier — a slim, blue book that looked familiar. I turned the book to read the spine. Basic Magic for Unicorn Foals. I paused for a moment when I recognized the title, before lifting it up and into my Bag of Holding. The action had felt awkward in my left hand, and I nearly missed the bag’s opening.

“Damn it,” I muttered under my breath, shaking my head.

My balance was still off without my right arm and eye, and the absence was becoming increasingly apparent. The simplest of tasks felt nearly monumental now, and the stubborn part of me that refused to use magic wasn’t making it any easier. I wanted to be able to function without having to heavily rely on magic for what should’ve been light work.

A cold breeze slipped in from the balcony, brushing against my neck and carrying with it the faintest promise of snow. Early winter had settled over Canterlot, painting the city below in shades of gray and white. From my vantage point, I could see ponies milling about in heavy cloaks, their breath fogging in the chilly air as they hurried about their business before the sun dipped below the horizon, and brought about a deeper chill.

I straightened up and moved to my workstation, eyeing the collection of crafting materials strewn across its surface. Small piles of various gemstones, bits of enchanted metals, and tools designed for meticulous engraving were spread out in a disorganized mess I hadn’t yet found the time to pack. One by one, I gathered the items, placing them carefully into the bag. My hand brushed against a shard of starstone, and for a moment, I paused, turning it over in my fingers. The stone was a leftover from the Moon Clock’s construction — a clerical error resulted in there being more starstone than necessary. Its faint glow reminded me of Luna’s mane, and of the stars she wove so effortlessly into the night sky.

The thought made my chest tighten — not in pain, but in something softer. Warmer. Her chambers felt more like home than this room ever had, although that was probably an unfair comparison, seeing as this room lacked Luna. A small smile found its way onto my face. I shook my head free from the distraction. I still have plenty of things to pack, and moving all of this was proving to be an exercise in frustration.

I stepped back to the bed, where a small mountain of scrolls waited. Balancing one in the crook of my arm, I reached awkwardly for another, nearly dropping the whole stack as I tried to steady it all. Gritting my teeth, I managed to set them down in a relatively neat pile near the bag.

“This is going to take all night,” I muttered, shaking my head as I moved to the next pile.

Minutes dragged by as I worked, the process was far slower than I liked and far clumsier than I would have admitted to anyone, ever. Each item felt like a test of patience, and the growing ache in my shoulder only added to my irritation. The room, once filled with my presence, was slowly being stripped bare, and as I looked around, the walls felt emptier, the silence heavier.

I returned to the workstation for another load of materials, when I glanced at a stack of scrolls I hadn’t yet packed. One of them caught my eye. A scroll of Unseen Servant. A scroll I had scribed from the early days of apprenticeship. I reached for it, the temptation to summon the invisible helper almost overwhelming. It would take seconds, and I could finish this in half the time without fumbling around like an idiot.

I paused, the scroll held loosely in my hand. The idea of giving in felt like admitting defeat, and I hated the thought of relying on magic for something so mundane. But my patience was wearing thin. My gaze went to the pile of books and tools that still remained, and a sigh escaped me.

Then my eye crept over to the Bag of Holding, and my mind returned to that blue book. Another idea spawned in my mind. What if I treated this like practice for unicorn magic? I hadn’t touched unicorn magic since I had confronted Chrysalis and petrified her swarm. Unicorn magic had felt… different then. Easier almost. Less taxing than before my time in the Boneyard and Nowhere.

It couldn’t hurt to give it a try.

I placed the scroll of Unseen Servant back onto the pile, flexing my left hand and staring at the cluttered desk. The thought of trying unicorn magic again gnawed at me, half-daring, half-daunting. In the past I channeled magic using my right hand, and unicorn magic tended to be quite taxing. The last time I’d used it however, I had channeled it… somehow, and I had already reached exhaustion from the gauntlet that was that day.

It had felt far more natural and almost instinctual last time compared to the times before.

But now, there was no right hand to hold out. Just an empty space where my arm ended abruptly at the elbow. I let out a breath and decided to try anyway. If I could use amplification on the swarm without my right arm then I should be able to move a few books. I would just have to use my remaining hand instead of my favored hand.

I concentrated, trying to summon the familiar flow of magic. In my mind’s eye, I pictured the stack of books, willing them to lift from the table. Slowly, I raised my right arm — or rather, what was left of it — out of habit. The motion was strange, a phantom sensation where my hand used to be, but I focused past the discomfort.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, to my astonishment, the books lifted. A faint shimmer of hazel aura wrapped around them, the golden center flaring faintly like a flickering flame surrounded by a sickly green halo.

I froze, staring at the hovering books in disbelief. My gaze darted to my left hand, then to the missing right one. My fingers twitched as I expected to see my aura, but there was nothing there. No glow, no physical sign that I was channeling magic.

That’s not normal. That’s not normal at all.

Instead, I felt it in my head. Like a presence just behind my eye, an invisible thread pulled taut as my aura connected to the objects I was trying to manipulate. The sensation was alien, almost too smooth. It lacked any of the strain or exhaustion I experienced with unicorn magic.

My heart started to race. I released the magic, and the books settled back onto the desk with a soft thud. What the hell just happened? I looked down at my left hand again, turning it over, willing the aura to reappear. Still nothing. But the sensation ignited behind my eye again.

I stepped back, the panic rising in my chest. What had changed? Unicorn magic never felt like this before. My breathing quickened, my thoughts racing as I tried to make sense of it.

The memory of my battle with Chrysalis surfaced unbidden — the wounds, the green aura of her magic, the horrific moments before everything went dark. The Boneyard. Aldin. Pharasma. Nowhere. Meridin. Awakening from death with Promise still planted through me.

No. This wasn’t right. My usage of unicorn magic had always manifested through my hands. That was how it worked. How it was supposed to work.

I needed answers, and only one way came to mind to get them. My gaze slid to the bathroom door. I hadn’t looked at myself in a mirror since… since before the attempted invasion. I knew the scars were there. I could feel them every time I moved, every time my clothes brushed against the sealed flesh of wounds that had marked my death.

My legs carried me across the room before I could hesitate. I shoved the door open and stumbled inside. I gripped the sink’s edge, and braced myself.

I forced myself to look up, and into the mirror.

The reflection staring back at me was someone I barely recognized. I gripped the edge of the sink tighter, my remaining eye wide and searching, scanning the warped visage before me. My breath hitched as I took in the damage, what remained of the battles I had fought and lost.

A bitter laugh dragged itself from my throat. No. This… this is what victory looks like.

A jagged scar began at the edge of my chin, slicing upward in a ragged line that tore through the corner of my mouth, my right cheek, and brow, ending just above the cavern where my eye had been. The socket was sunken and sealed, the skin there smooth and unnatural. It was as if Meridin's magic had fused flesh over bone in a desperate attempt to patch me together, but somewhere along the way he had forgotten what a human face was supposed to look like.

My jaw tightened as I traced the line of the scar with my eye. The disfigurement twisted my face into a grimace even in repose, my lips pulled just enough to expose a hint of teeth on the right side.

Horrific.

I reached up slowly, brushing my fingertips over the scar. The skin was taut and cold, foreign to the touch. My reflection mirrored the motion, but it felt disconnected, like I was looking at a stranger trying to convince me they were me.

My gaze shifted down to the stump of my right arm, just below the elbow. The flesh there was smooth and seamless, as if melted closed by an artist with no care for beauty. I flexed what was left of it, phantom pain flickering through fingers that no longer existed. My mind screamed at me that it was all wrong, but I forced myself to keep looking.

I needed to see.

Next came my chest. I hesitated, then slowly unbuttoned my shirt, my fingers trembling as I exposed the flesh beneath. The scar over my heart was grotesque, radiating outward like a jagged starburst. This was where Promise had pierced me, the blade that was supposed to protect me turned into the very instrument of my death. The thought made my soul shudder.

I glanced at the sword at my hip, its pommel bearing Luna’s cutie mark. My love’s blade, always by my side. It felt heavier now, as if weighed down by the memories of death, failure, and victory.

I exhaled sharply, my breath momentarily fogging the mirror.

The reflection in the mirror scowled at me through the fog. Every inch of me screamed of my inability to protect myself, to protect Aldin, to protect those I cared about. I looked horrific. Broken. The kind of person who wouldn’t inspire hope or trust, but fear and pity.

My breath came fast, shallow, the edges of my vision narrowing. I shook my head, gripping the sink until my knuckles ached. My remaining eye burned, and I realized with a start that it was glowing again. Gold surrounded by sickly green lit up the mirror. So bright was my eye’s light that it made the rest of the room appear darker in comparison.

I squeezed my eye shut, willing the glow to fade, to stop. When I opened it again, it was gone. The man in the mirror stared back at me. He looked like he’d been pieced together from fragments of a half-forgotten nightmare. He was not the person I used to be. The cold ceramic of the sink steadying me as my thoughts tried to spiral.

This was what remained of me.

“Ascension,” I muttered, forcing my voice to stay even. “That’s all it is. Just a part of ascension.”

The Laurel of Vast Intelligence glinted faintly atop my head, the silver leaves catching the light of Celestia’s sun as it yielded to Luna’s night. The laurel’s presence felt almost mocking, a symbol of my craft and ingenuity perched on a head that barely felt like my own anymore.

Testing the waters, I reached towards the well of power that coiled around my heart, and gingerly grasped at a tiny amount of the power. My eye shone with the faintest glimmer of light — a spark of mythical power radiating softly from deep within its depths. I blinked and let the power slip back around my heart, the glow vanishing as quickly as it had come, but the memory of it lingered.

Gold surrounded by sickly green. Hazel. It was my aura. Just different — better — than what it was before. It had flared just before my books had moved earlier, a clear sign of the magic I’d used. But now, it wasn’t limited to my hand or even the stump where my right arm had been. It emanated from my very soul, reshaped by a power that I barely understood.

Undoubtedly a side-effect of Meridin passing on his mythical power. Another boon borne from ascension.

I closed my eye and leaned forward, pressing my forehead against the mirror. The cool glass steadied me for a moment, and I used said moment to calm my frantic heart.

Meridin hadn’t mentioned anything about this when we spoke of ascension. Perhaps he didn’t know this would happen, or maybe it was something that slipped his mind. He was a shattered man unwillingly trapped in a pseudo existence within a plane where time, existence, and everything in between was questionable at best. I could hardly blame him for not mentioning everything while his mind and soul was breaking apart.

I focused on the feeling that sprouted when I grasped the power that caused my eye to shine like some hazel beacon. It felt… good, great even. It felt nothing like when Meridin used his corrupted version of mythical power — no, this power that coursed within me felt like the start of something wonderful. Like finishing a good book and finding out that the author has already released a sequel.

I had panicked over nothing.

I sighed, and lightly tapped my forward against the mirror. This ascension stuff is great and all, and I do enjoy being alive, but I just wanted this all to go back to the way it was. When everything was okay. When all I had to stress out about was some stupid dance, drinking with my friends, and endless flirting with Luna in an empty throne room!

Back when I still had—

A sharp knock at the door startled me, the sound echoing through the silence of my old room. I jerked upright, my pulse quickening. My reflection stared back at me, but I tore my gaze away from it, focusing instead on the door.

Whoever it was, they’d chosen a poor time to come knocking.

The knock came again, softer this time but insistent enough to fully pull me out of my haze. I wiped a hand over my face, as if that would somehow erase the turmoil written all over it, and took a steadying breath as I buttoned up my shirt. Whoever was at the door probably wasn’t going to wait much longer.

Promise bumped gently against my hip as I crossed the room, its familiar weight a small comfort. I hesitated and ran my thumb over Promise’s pommel, taking solace in Luna’s mark before pulling open the door.

The last pony I expected to see on the other side was Celestia.

She wasn’t wearing her crown or solar peytral — just the golden shoes she rarely seemed without. It was an understated look for her, but the expression on her face was far from casual. Her magenta eyes held something I couldn’t immediately place.

“Sebastian,” she greeted, her voice softer than usual, almost hesitant.

I blinked, momentarily at a loss. “Celestia?” Her name came out more like a question. “What… are you doing here?”

She gave me a small, almost sheepish smile. “My sister told me you might be here. May I come in?”

I stepped aside automatically, still reeling from the sight of her. Celestia rarely had time for unannounced visits. If she was here, it had to be about something important.

She entered with the kind of grace that only she could manage, her presence commanding the room without even trying. But something about her seemed off — less regal and more… subdued? She glanced around briefly before turning her attention back to me.

“Luna has spoken highly of your recovery,” she began, her tone careful. “But I wanted to see you for myself.”

Recovery.

That word felt like a cruel joke when I’d just been staring at what looked like some artist’s cruel rendition of a shambling corpse. I didn’t respond, unsure of what to say that didn’t sound either out of place or just plain mean.

Her gaze lingered on me, and for a moment, I wondered if she saw me the way I saw myself. Horrific. Broken. Less than a shadow of the person I used to be.

“I came to apologize,” she said finally, her voice heavier now. “For my failures before and during the invasion.”

I frowned, caught off guard. “Failures?”

Her expression hardened, though it wasn’t directed at me. “I failed to recognize that Chrysalis was posing as Cadance. I failed to listen to Twilight when she voiced her suspicions. And when the time came to fight, I failed to defeat Chrysalis.” She lowered her head slightly, a rare gesture of vulnerability. “If I had done as I should, none of this would have happened to you.”

I stared at her, stunned. Of all the things I’d expected, this wasn’t it. “Celestia, I…” I trailed off, unsure how to respond.

A bitterness that I’d buried deep inside threatened to surface. But it felt wrong — selfish almost — to take it out on her.

“You were put through horrors no one should ever endure,” she continued, her voice trembling ever so slightly. “And I bear responsibility for that. If I had seen through Chrysalis’ ruse, if I had acted differently, you wouldn’t have been… harmed.” Her gaze flicked briefly to the stump of my right arm before darting away. “You and Aldin wouldn’t have been killed.”

The weight of her words pressed down on me, stirring emotions I wasn’t ready to confront. Not with her. Anger, sadness, guilt — it was all there, tangled together in a knot that I couldn’t unravel.

“I won’t lie,” I said slowly, my voice rough. “It’s… been a lot to process. But blaming you won’t change what happened. Nothing can.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Perhaps not. But you need to know that your actions — the pain you endured — allowed us to prevail. Without you, Chrysalis might have won.”

I’d replayed that day in my mind countless times, fixating on what I’d lost, what I’d suffered. But I hadn’t allowed myself to think about what it had meant. What it had achieved.

Celestia stepped closer, her presence oddly comforting. “Your bravery, your sacrifice — it turned the tide. The day was won because of you.” Her gaze softened, filled with an almost maternal warmth. “And I will always be grateful for that.”

Her sincerity was undeniable, but it only made the turmoil inside me churn harder. How was I supposed to respond to that? What could I even say?

I looked down, my hand brushing against the hilt of Promise as if its presence alone could provide me with what to say. The weight of Celestia's words was suffocating, not because they were unwelcome, but because I couldn't bring myself to accept them. She spoke as though I were some kind of hero, but my reflection told me a different story.

"I don't—" My voice faltered, the words heavy on my tongue. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to meet her steady gaze. "I don't feel like I did anything worth thanking me for."

Celestia tilted her head, her expression shifting to something gentler. "Worth isn’t always something we recognize in ourselves, Sebastian. But it’s there."

I exhaled sharply, the sound bitter in my ears. "If I'd been stronger, faster, smarter... maybe we wouldn’t have died. Maybe I could have stopped Chrysalis before she ever got the chance to—" I bit down on the thought, the memory of that grotesque facsimile of Luna and our Promise searing through me like a fresh wound.

"You can’t face the memory of that day alone," Celestia said softly as she stepped closer. "And you don’t have to."

Her words, though well-meaning, struck a nerve. I tensed, my voice sharper than intended. "Easy for you to say," I muttered, unable to stop myself. "You weren’t the one who—"

The sentence hung unfinished, caught behind clenched teeth. I didn’t want to voice it, didn’t want to lash out — but the inescapable truth loomed. She hadn’t seen through Chrysalis’s hiding behind Cadance’s shape, even when Twilight spoke out against her. She hadn’t listened to her own apprentice. And because of that, Aldin and I—

"You’re right," Celestia admitted, each word laced with a quiet sort of remorse. "I wasn’t the one who suffered as you did. And I will live with that failure for as long as I breathe."

Her sincerity startled me. I lifted my gaze up to hers, searching her expression for any sign of deflection or pretense. There was none.

"I failed you," she continued. "I failed Luna. I failed Cadance and Shining Armor. I failed Twilight. I failed all of Equestria when I couldn’t see through Chrysalis’s deception. And for that, I am deeply sorry."

Her apology hit me harder than I expected. I wasn’t sure if it was because of her sincerity or because it mirrored the guilt I carried within myself. Either way, it left me feeling... exposed.

"You’re not the only one who feels like they could have done more," she said gently. "But blaming ourselves won’t undo the past. It won’t heal the wounds we’ve suffered, Sebastian. It will only deepen them."

I wanted to argue, to tell her that she didn’t understand. But the look in her eyes stopped me. There was pain there, yes, but also something else — a sort of strength born from centuries of carrying burdens far heavier than mine.

"You’ve done more for Luna than you realize," Celestia said after a moment, her tone shifting. "You were the only one who could calm her after..." She trailed off, her gaze softening further.

My brows furrowed. "How do you know about that?"

She smiled faintly. "Luna and I share everything, Sebastian. I know how close she came to losing herself to her anger. And I know it was you who brought her back from that anger."

Heat crept up my neck. "She told you that?"

Celestia’s smile widened, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. "She tells me a great many things about you."

I groaned inwardly, already dreading what else Luna might have shared. "I’m not sure I want to know."

Her soft chuckle filled the room. "Don’t worry. I’ll spare you the details — this time."

I rubbed the back of my neck, unsure of how to respond. Part of me was mortified, but another part, one I didn’t want to examine too closely, was... proud. Far too proud for my own good.

"Thank you," Celestia said suddenly, her tone serious once more. "For keeping her here. For convincing her not to go after Chrysalis. I don’t know if I would have been able to stop her myself.”

I shook my head. "It wasn’t easy. She was furious. And honestly? I couldn’t blame her."

"Nor could I," Celestia admitted. "But you made her see reason. I doubt that anyone else in your position could have calmed her down. That’s no small thing, Sebastian. It goes to show the bond you two share."

Her words struck a chord deep within me. I glanced down at Promise, the sword suddenly felt heavier. "I just didn’t want to lose her," I said quietly.

"And you didn’t," Celestia replied. "Because of you, she stayed. And because of that, we have a chance to rebuild what was nearly lost."

I looked up at her, meeting her gaze once more. "It doesn’t feel like enough."

"It rarely does," she said softly. "But that doesn’t diminish its importance."

Her words hung in the air, and I felt something other than anger or guilt or bitterness. It wasn’t quite peace, but it was somewhat close to peace.

"You’ve been through so much," Celestia continued, her voice warm and steady. "But your pain wasn’t in vain. It led us to this moment, to a future where Equestria continues to exist."

I didn’t respond right away, letting her words settle over me. She was right — even if I couldn’t bring myself to believe it fully just yet.

Celestia stepped back, her gaze never leaving mine. "You gave us that day, Sebastian. And for that, you will always have my gratitude."

I swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing against my chest. "I’ll... try to remember that," I said finally.

Her smile returned, soft and genuine. "That’s all I ask."