The Conjuration Wizard

The summit convened in a newly constructed wing of the castle. The new section was purposefully designed for such a significant gathering of so many heads of state.

The chamber was grand in every sense, with a vaulted ceiling so high that even Dragon Lord Torch’s immense size didn’t diminish the space. Vents were situated near the peak of the ceiling to give the room better airflow, and to counter the occasional exhale of smoke from the Dragon Lord. Sunlight poured in through towering stained glass windows, painting the walls and floor in a kaleidoscope of colors that shifted with the breeze outside.

At the center of this vast room stood a monumental round table carved from rich, dark wood, its surface polished to a mirror-like finish. Representatives from every attending nation occupied the table, their attention divided between the intricate details of their new surroundings, and the ongoing argument between the three griffon kings.

Their argument started almost immediately after Celestia welcomed everyone to the table, and had been carried on by their own momentum for almost half an hour now. If someone did not defuse their little spat, then likely nothing would get done today.

Which would mean another day of having Chrysalis exist in the same room as me.

Not good. Not good at all.

“…and I will not sit here and listen to the squawking of a fledgling who has never led a proper battle!” King Gerald’s voice boomed across the chamber, his talons scraped against the polished wood of the table as he leaned forward. His eyes narrowed at King Gable, who, to his credit, didn’t flinch.

“You call those proper battles, Gerald?” Gable shot back. “Raiding your rivals’ undefended towns and calling it ‘strategy’? Pathetic. The old kingdom deserves a leader with vision, not a relic clinging to past glories.”

King Gottfried snorted, his beak clicking sharply as he regarded the younger king with open disdain. “Vision won’t rebuild a broken kingdom, boy. Only strength and discipline will restore what our ancestors built — and I have more of both than the two of you squabbling whelps combined.”

The tension in the room was rising by the minute, the voices of the three kings growing louder with every exchanged barb. Around the table, the other delegates exchanged wary glances. Torch looked on with mild interest, his massive frame making even the oversized chair beneath him look comically small. Cadance sat stiffly, her lips pressed into a thin line, while Prince Rutherford shifted restlessly in his seat, his frustration at the lack of progress evident in the way he seemed to ponder the possibility of simply attempting to smash the table and be done with this.

Celestia raised a hoof, her voice calm but firm. “Please, my lords. This is neither the time nor place for such chaos. We are gathered here to resolve conflicts, not to further them.”

Gottfried’s eyes snapped to her, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might challenge her directly. But instead, he leaned back in his chair, folding his wings to his sides with an almost dismissive flick. “Forgive me, Princess,” he said, though his tone lacked any genuine remorse. “But it is difficult to discuss resolutions when some among us refuse to acknowledge reality.”

“Reality,” Gerald growled, his claws tapping impatiently against the table. “Reality is that your so-called claim to the throne died with your ancestors' failure to hold it.”

Gable scoffed, crossing his arms. “As if either of you would know what to do with the throne even if you somehow managed to sit on it.”

The voices rose again, overlapping into a cacophony of accusations and insults. Luna shifted beside me, her eyes narrowing as she exchanged a glance with Celestia. I knew that look — Luna’s patience was worn thin.

My patience, already strained by Chrysalis’ existence at the table, had worn to a single thread. Each word from the griffon kings grated against that frayed thread, their petty feuding consuming precious time I didn’t want to waste.

I let out a slow breath, my left hand curling into a fist atop my knee. The smooth, unfeeling surface of my Wizard’s Arm rested on the table before me, its polished silver reflecting the shifting light from the stained glass windows. The temptation to slam my metallic arm down to silence them was almost too strong to resist. Instead, I leaned back in my chair, my single eye fixed on the three kings.

“Enough,” I said.

None of the three kings noticed.

I glanced toward Luna, her jaw tight with suppressed irritation. Celestia attempted to speak to the griffon kings again, but her words were drowned out by their ongoing argument.

It was clear to me that they weren’t going to stop of their own volition.

I sighed, rolling my shoulders to release some of the tension coiled there. The weight of responsibility settled heavier on me as I prepared to step in, my mind abuzz with the numerous lessons Blueblood had crammed into my head over the past weeks. If these fools wanted to waste time with their posturing then I’d have to make sure their antics didn’t derail the summit entirely. Luna’s gaze turned toward me, and though she didn’t say anything, the slight incline of her head told me she was ready to support whatever I was about to do.

“Right,” I muttered under my breath as I steeled myself. Time to cut through their bullshit.

I stood, my chair scraping faintly against the stone floor. The sound was subtle but it was enough to shift some attention my way. My height gave me an edge, and I used it, letting my single hazel eye bore into each of the griffon kings in turn.

“Gentlemen,” I began, keeping my tone measured but firm, “you’re here because your nations are teetering on the brink of war. A war, might I remind you, that will cost lives, resources, and stability — not just for your griffons, but for everyone at this table. If your goal is to bicker until your kingdoms around you crumble, by all means, please continue. Otherwise, I suggest we move on to something more constructive.”

King Gerald, was the first to react. His sharp gaze snapped to me, his beak clicking in irritation. “Who are you to lecture us on the affairs of griffons? This is a matter of sovereignty. This is not some Equestrian upstart’s concern.”

“I am no griffon,” I replied evenly, ignoring the way he had said ‘upstart’. “But I know what happens when leaders let pride blind them to the bigger picture. You all claim to be fighting for your griffons, yet here you are, squabbling like hatchlings while those same griffons you swear to protect will be the ones to pay the price.”

Gottfried snorted, crossing his arms. “A convenient argument for an outsider. But you fail to understand the history at play here.”

“I understand enough,” I countered, leaning forward slightly, the polished silver of my arm catching the light. “Your history is the reason you’re in this mess. Three kings. Three claims. One shattered kingdom. You’re all so busy trying to prove your worth that you’re risking everything — including your own thrones, and the one you are all fighting over.”

Gable, the youngest of the three, shifted in his seat. His cerulean feathers ruffled slightly as he glanced between his counterparts. “He has a point,” he reluctantly admitted. “The skirmishes are destabilizing our borders. If this continues, we won’t have a kingdom left to rule.”

“Don’t tell me you’re siding with him,” Gerald snapped, narrowing his eyes at Gable. “You’re as weak-willed as ever, Gable. No wonder your griffons—”

“Enough.” My voice cut through the tension, sharper this time. “Insults won’t solve anything. You’re here because Celestia and Luna extended an olive branch to you all, giving you the chance to find common ground. If you can’t do that, then you’re proving to everyone at this table — and the world — that none of you deserve the throne.”

The room fell silent, save for the faint rustling of wings and the occasional creak of armor. Celestia offered me a faint, approving smile, while Luna’s expression remained neutral, though I caught the glimmer of pride in her eyes.

Gottfried exhaled sharply through his nostrils. “What exactly are you suggesting, Consort?”

“I’m suggesting you set aside your egos, at least long enough to address the issues that brought us all here. You don’t have to agree on who should lead the griffons today, but you do need to agree on how to stop tearing your kingdoms apart. Negotiate a ceasefire. Establish neutral zones. Something. Anything.”

Gable nodded slowly, though his expression was cautious. “A temporary truce could give us time to better assess the situation. But how can we trust each other when trust has already been broken?”

“That’s something you’ll have to work out,” I said, trying my best to keep my desire to sprinkle insults into my words. “But if you keep refusing to talk, your griffons will lose faith in all of you — if they haven’t already. And when that happens, none of you will have a kingdom to lead.”

Gerald’s gaze lingered on me for a long moment before he finally sat back, his posture less aggressive. “Fine,” he muttered. “A truce. For now.”

Gottfried’s feathers bristled, but he gave a begrudging nod. “Agreed. For now.”

Gable let out a soft sigh of relief. “For now.”

I exhaled quietly, the tension in my shoulders easing just slightly. Sitting back down, I glanced toward Luna, who gave me a small smile that was equal parts approval and amusement. Celestia’s voice filled the room once more, her tone calm and steady as she guided the summit’s attendees toward a more productive dialogue.

One problem temporarily solved. Now, on to the next.

“With the matter of the griffon skirmishes momentarily paused,” Celestia said, her voice soothing after all the tension, “we turn to the ongoing trade disputes between Yakyakistan and the Crystal Empire. Prince Rutherford, Empress Cadance, the floor is yours.”

Prince Rutherford huffed loudly. “Yaks trade routes best before Crystal Empire return! Now crystal ponies claim routes like they own them. Yaks not happy!”

Cadance’s tranquil demeanor remained unshaken as she responded. “I understand your frustration, Prince Rutherford, but the Crystal Empire’s reappearance has been a shock for all of us. We are simply trying to reestablish our connections to the wider world. We have no intention of cutting Yakyakistan off from vital trade.”

“Then why routes blocked?!” Rutherford demanded as he stomped a hoof that made the round table tremble.

“Because of misunderstandings, not malice,” Cadance replied gently. “This summit is the perfect place to resolve them. We can redraw the trade routes in a way that benefits both of our nations.”

The exchange continued, but it quickly became apparent that neither side wanted to escalate this dispute into something larger. After some measured input from Celestia and Luna, a resolution quickly began to take shape.

“May I suggest,” I interjected, keeping my tone even just as Blueblood had instilled into me to do, “that we send a mediator to oversee the agreements? Someone neutral, who can ensure both sides are heard.”

Celestia inclined her head slightly. “An excellent idea. Prince Rutherford, Empress Cadance, do you agree?”

Rutherford grunted in such a way that sent his massive head bobbing. “Yaks agree, if mediator fair.”

“Of course,” Cadance replied with a gracious nod. “I trust Equestria to choose someone suitable.”

Celestia’s gaze shifted between the two. “Prince Blueblood has experience in such matters. He will serve as mediator.”

A smile came to me. Blueblood would definitely fit right in with the yaks and crystal ponies. I can’t wait to inform him of his newest assignment.

With that settled, Celestia smoothly transitioned the discussion to the next topic. “Now, we must discuss the increasing threat of rogue dragons.”

The mere mention of dragons altered the room’s atmosphere in an instant. All eyes were drawn inexorably to Dragon Lord Torch. His immense frame loomed over his end of the table, a living mountain of scales and muscle. For a moment, his expression froze — like a beast caught in a hunter’s trap. Then, his molten-orange eyes narrowed, scanning the gathered rulers with a sharpness that promised he was no cornered prey.

“Rogue dragons,” he rumbled, his deep voice reverberating through the chamber. “A disgrace to the name of dragons. They are weaklings who have abandoned the traditions of the Dragon Lands. They bring shame to all dragons.”

“Shame isn’t the only issue,” Gable interjected, his tone sharper than before. “Their raids have been devastating. Villages have been burned, resources stolen, lives lost.”

Prince Abraxas nodded gravely. “The rogue dragons have also turned their greed toward Farasi. They have pillaged our trade routes and burned entire villages and outposts to ash. Their appetite for destruction and plunder grows unchecked.”

Celestia’s brow furrowed. “Equestria’s naval routes have suffered as well. This cannot continue.”

Torch let out a low growl, the sound akin to distant thunder. “It seems these rogues have forgotten the power of a true dragon. They grow bold. They think they can act without consequence.”

“And what will you do about it, Dragon Lord?” Gottfried asked, his tone skeptical. “Words alone won’t stop them.”

Torch’s glare silenced the griffon king. “I will remind them why dragons obey the Dragon Lord,” he spat, his voice like molten stone. “They think themselves above the laws of the Dragon Lands, but they are wrong. I will make an example of them. Those who refuse to submit will face my wrath.”

The room fell silent at his declaration. There was no mistaking the finality in his tone. He would kill the rogue dragons. Some of them at least. Torch’s solution was brutal, but it was clear he believed it necessary. I found it hard to feel too bad for the rogues. From the sounds of it they have been busying themselves with butchering the innocent.

Celestia inclined her head. “If you require assistance in coordinating with affected nations, we are willing to provide support.”

Torch snorted. “I’ll handle the rogues. If they flee into your lands, deal with them as you see fit.”

I could practically feel the tension easing in the air as the leaders began to discuss the logistics of addressing the rogue dragon problem. Torch’s decision to act in such a decisive manner had provided a path forward, and it seemed to put the gathered rulers at ease.

As the discussion continued, I leaned back in my chair, letting out a slow breath. Two down. The summit wasn’t over yet, but at least progress was being made.

The room shifted again as Celestia raised a hoof, drawing the discussion to a close on rogue dragons. “With that matter addressed, we move on to another pressing issue — one that, I fear, is far more delicate.”

The atmosphere grew thick with unspoken tension. Everyone knew what was coming next. I had managed to shove the topic to the back of my mind — even managing to not even look in her direction. I had kept myself distracted with the other problems focused on by the summit so far.

My pulse quickened, my hand tightening slightly around the armrest of my chair.

I wish the three griffon kings would just go back to snapping at each other.

Celestia’s gaze swept the table, her calm exterior betraying none of the unease I felt gnawing at the edges of my mind. “The changelings.”

The words lingered in the air, like a shadow that seemed to crawl over the gathered leaders. Chrysalis, seated at her end of the table, leaned forward slightly, a slow, mocking smile curving her lips. Her slit-pupiled eyes gleamed with an almost predatory delight, as if she relished the unease her presence wrought.

“Yes,” she purred, her voice a silken dagger. “Let’s discuss my hive.”

The room remained silent, every leader watching her with varying degrees of mistrust and wariness. Torch’s claws scraped audibly against the stone of the table, and Gottfried’s wings twitched as he exchanged a look with Gerald and Gable. For once, all three kings seemed to be in complete agreement.

“I think it’s clear why we’re here,” Chrysalis continued, her voice dripping with theatrical disdain. “You all wish to discuss the starving monsters lurking in the shadows, don’t you?”

“You brought this upon yourself,” Gable snapped, his tone sharp as a talon. “Your invasion of Canterlot—”

“Is irrelevant now,” Celestia interjected smoothly, cutting off the griffon king before he could really get going. “We are here to find a solution, not dwell on past grievances.”

I couldn't help but wonder if Celestia truly believed her own words or if they were merely a mask worn out of necessity. I wondered if she, too, found herself caught in the grip of nightmares, reliving that day in ways she’d never admit. Surely, being here with Chrysalis stirred something within her, no matter how well she masked it. Or had centuries of ruling alone taught her how to swallow discomfort, how to tolerate the intolerable — just as she had learned to endure a thousand years without Luna?

Chrysalis’ smirk widened, her fangs glinting. “Ah, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? None of you trust me. None of you care about my hive.”

“No,” King Gerald interjected coldly. “We don’t.”

Luna’s hoof pressed lightly against my thigh. My jaw tightened, but I kept my silence, unwilling to let Chrysalis see the effect she had on me.

Celestia’s expression remained serene, though there was an edge of steel in her voice when she spoke again. “The changelings are starving, Queen Chrysalis. Tell us how dire the situation is.”

Chrysalis’ amusement dimmed, replaced by something far darker. Her gaze swept the table, her expression unreadable for a long moment before she finally spoke.

“It is worse than you can imagine,” she began, her tone low and venomous. “The love we siphoned from Equestria during the invasion sustained us for a time, but it is long gone now. My drones grow weak, their wings tattered, their chitin cracking. The nursery chambers are silent now. Eggs fail to hatch, and those that do… don’t survive long.”

A heavy pause followed her words, the revelation settling over the room.

“The hive itself has begun to wither,” she continued, her voice dropping further, almost to a growl. “Our tunnels collapse. Resources are scarce. Even I am not immune to this hunger.”

Her gaze snapped to Celestia, and the familiar venom returned, sharp and pointed. “But of course, you knew this already, didn’t you? That’s why you ordered me here. To parade my misery before this little ‘summit’.”

“This is not a spectacle,” Celestia replied firmly. “We need to understand the severity of the situation if we are to determine the appropriate course of action.”

Chrysalis laughed bitterly. “And what will you do, Celestia? Extend the hoof of mercy to your parasites on a leash? I think not. None of you will.”

Her words hung in the air, her scorn obvious. Around the table, the other leaders averted their eyes or shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to meet her gaze.

She was right. None of them would help.

The tension in the grand hall was practically suffocating. An oppressive weight had settled over my shoulders and made it difficult to breathe. The air buzzed with quiet murmurs, but my attention was fixed, locked on the figure of Queen Chrysalis.

I couldn’t keep my gaze from her for long. My single remaining eye locked onto her, tracking every movement, every flicker of that predatory grin. Memories of her laughter — cold and sharp as broken glass — echoed in my mind, mixing with the phantom pain of my lost arm, my sealed eye, and the memory of Aldin’s death.

She had taken so much from me. My right arm. My best-buddy. My peace.

I clenched my left hand under the table, the curves of Luna’s crescent moon engraved into Promise’s pommel grounding me, but even that felt like a distant comfort in this moment. The room blurred for a moment as the memories surged, unbidden and merciless.

The hiss of her magic cutting through flesh.

Aldin and I’s emphatic link severing; with Aldin’s emotions vanishing as he died.

The mocking tenderness in her mimicry of Luna’s voice.

Promise ending it all.

Luna’s presence beside me was soothing, but it wasn’t enough to keep the nausea at bay. My love for her — the thing Chrysalis had drained so cruelly — pulsed in my chest like an open wound. I wasn’t sure what scared me more: the depth of my hatred for Chrysalis or the fact that I could somehow see her as more than a monster. Somewhere beneath the malice and cruelty was a queen who loved her hive.

A mother who loved her children.

Thorax had proven to me that changelings are more than what I thought of them to be. He was living proof that they were not parasites. He showed me that they could hope, dream, feel, and grow.

And yet, here Chrysalis was, her prideful sneer challenging the room, daring anyone to oppose her.

“Your hive is starving,” Celestia said, her voice calm but firm as she addressed her. “You’ve come to this summit seeking aid. If you are willing to cooperate, there are avenues we can explore.”

“Cooperate?” Chrysalis scoffed, her tone dripping with venom. “You mean grovel, don’t you? Let’s not pretend this is anything more than another attempt to humiliate me. As if this ‘Geas’ was not enough.”

Her words stirred murmurs among the delegates. The Three Kings of the Griffons exchanged glances, their talons tapping on the table. Dragon Lord Torch snorted smoke through his nostrils, unimpressed by the changeling queen’s theatrics. Even Twilight was frowning, and I could tell that she did not see this going anywhere good.

I kept my silence, unwilling to speak yet. My jaw tightened as I studied the queen. She was playing a game, one where her ego and her desperation were constantly at war. Every biting remark, every haughty gesture, was a shield to hide her weakness. Her children were starving and dying. Thorax’s family was starving and dying.

The proud queen who had once drained me of my love before murdering me, now sat at a table begging for scraps. Whether she admitted to it or not — she was groveling.

Damn… she is absolutely terrible at it.

“You claim to love your hive,” Luna said, her tone was icy, regal, and commanding — a few of the aspects I adored about her. “Yet here you sit, refusing to set aside your pride long enough to secure their survival. Do you believe your stubbornness will feed them, Chrysalis?”

Chrysalis bristled, her wing twitching. “Don’t presume to lecture me about love, Luna. I’ve sacrificed more for my children than any of you could possibly understand.”

I couldn’t stop myself. The words spilled from me before I even realized I’d spoken. “And yet it’s your pride that is killing them now.”

The room fell silent, all eyes turning to me. Chrysalis’s gaze snapped to mine, her expression darkening. Her smile twisted into something sharper, crueler. “Ah, the consort speaks,” she drawled, her voice filled with mockery. “Tell me, Sebastian, what wisdom do you bring? Or are you just here to glower at me with that one eye of yours?”

My knuckles turned white as I gripped the edge of the table, but I didn’t rise to her bait. Instead, I took a slow breath, and steadied myself. “You think I don’t understand sacrifice?” My voice was low and cold as ice began to fill my veins. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose everything? My arm, my eye, my best-buddy, my life — your hive alone didn’t just take those from me. You did.”

Her smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, and I pressed on. “But even after everything, I can see what you’re too blinded by your arrogance to admit. Your hive is dying, Chrysalis. Your children are starving, and it’s your fault. Not mine. Not Luna’s or Celestia’s. Yours.”

Her eyes narrowed, and the room’s tension thickened like a storm cloud had made its home here. I could feel Luna’s gaze on me, but I didn’t look at her. My focus remained on Chrysalis.

“You claim to love them,” I continued, my voice growing harder. “Prove it. Stop hiding behind your pride and let us help.”

Chrysalis laughed, the sound bitter and sharp. “Help?” she sneered. “It’s no secret that none of you truly want to help my children. Why would you—”

“Enough,” I interrupted, standing tall as I slammed my silversheen hand against the table, the black light of Decay just barely kept at bay. The sound echoed through the chamber, and silenced her. “I’ll find a way.”

“Y-You… what?” Chrysalis finally managed, her voice uncharacteristically uncertain.

“I’ll find a way to feed your hive,” I said firmly, my voice steady as I commanded the curse of Decay to yield. “I’ll find a real solution — not stolen love, not manipulation, but rather something sustainable. I don’t care how much you’ve taken from me. They don’t deserve to suffer because of you.”

Her mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. For the first time, Chrysalis looked genuinely shocked, her mask of arrogance slipping just enough to reveal a hint of what might have been desperation mixed with hope. The room has gone silent. Every delegate sat frozen as they watched the exchange.

I leaned forward, resting my hands on the table as I met her stunned gaze. “This isn’t for you, Chrysalis,” I spoke just loud enough for my words to reach her from across the table. “This is for Thorax. Thorax, and the rest of his siblings.”

Chrysalis’s expression twisted, her lips curling back to bare her fangs, but the anger in her eyes was no longer directed entirely at me. Her pride warred with something else — fear perhaps, or desperation. Both, most likely.

Chrysalis sneered, but her voice lacked its usual venom. "You think you can just march into my hive, take a look around, and fix everything? You truly believe that you can solve what I cannot?"

Her words were harsh, but I had already glimpsed the cracks in her façade. I allowed myself a moment to think before replying. "I can try. But I’m not going to take your word for anything, Chrysalis."

Her laughter was sharp and bitter. "And what, exactly, do you propose? That I give over the location of my hive on some naïve promise? That I trust you not to destroy what little remains of my children while you’re there?"

"You’ll show me your hive," I said evenly, "but not through words. Through memory."

That silenced her. Chrysalis stared at me, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Memory?" she echoed, her tone mocking. "And how do you propose to achieve that? With one of your pitiful spells?"

“Yes,” I replied, ignoring her weak attempt at a jab. “Through the Share Memory spell. You’ll show me the exact location within your hive. Then, I’ll see it for myself. I need to see it in person."

Her wing buzzed faintly, a reflexive sound of irritation — or perhaps unease. I had seen the same reaction plenty of times from Thorax before we’d set free one of his siblings, but I had never expected to see it on her. "You think I would let you into my mind, to pick through my memories like some sort of scavenger? You truly believe I would allow such an indignity?"

"You’ll allow it," I countered, my voice calm but firm. "Not because of the Geas. Not because I’m ordering you. But because your children are starving. If you truly care about them, then you’ll let me help."

Her eyes blazed with fury, but I could see the hesitation beneath it. The room remained deathly quiet, every eye on us. Even Celestia, so often composed, looked tense with her hooves pressed tightly on the table. Luna’s presence beside me was reassuring, her silence as much a message of support as anything she could have said given the situation.

"You presume much, Consort," Chrysalis hissed, but her voice lacked its usual edge. She seemed to hesitate, her gaze flashing between me and Luna. "If I do this, it will not be out of trust. Do not mistake this for anything other than necessity."

"That’s all I’m asking," I replied, my tone carefully neutral. "Necessity."

She didn’t move at first, her stillness stretching the moment tight. Then, in one sharp, almost defiant motion, she rose and stalked toward me. There was elegance in her steps, but it was a pale imitation of the authority that lived in my memories. The specter of command lingered around her, but it was thin and frayed at the edges. She had always looked down upon those before her, and perhaps she expected to do the same now. But when she reached me and I rose to my full height, something flickered in her eyes — she hesitated.

Her jaw clenched, and for a moment, I thought she might refuse with some venomous insult. But then, something shifted in her posture. Her wings twitched again — what remained of them — and she regarded me with a calculating gaze, her mask of arrogance slipping further.

"You want a memory, Sebastian?" she spat, her voice dark with something between fury and resignation. "Then take it."

The bitterness of her words pressed against me like a challenge, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, I lifted my left hand, steady and unshaken, and extended it toward her. "Unfortunately, this requires physical contact."

Her lips twisted into a snarl, but she extended a hoof, placing it in the palm of my hand. Her touch was cold, her carapace smooth. I closed my eye, my mind focusing as I murmured the incantation under my breath. My silversheen fingers moved through the air in precise patterns, the spell’s energy weaving like threads of silk.

A moment later, the magic took hold.

Images flooded my mind, sharp and vivid. I saw the hive through Chrysalis’s eyes: dark, twisting tunnels carved into the earth, illuminated by faintly glowing green resin. The walls were cracked and crumbling, sections of the hive collapsed or dangerously unstable. Changeling drones shuffled weakly through the passages, their movements lethargic, their bodies gaunt.

The memory shifted, showing the heart of the hive — a vast, hollowed-out chamber where Chrysalis’s throne once stood. Now, it was cracked and broken, the resinous structure barely holding itself together. The air was heavy with the oppressive scent of despair and death.

But what surprised me the most was the emotions that bled through the memory — Chrysalis’ emotions: desperation mixed with sorrow.

The memory took only a fraction of a second to reach my mind, but it felt like an eternity. When the spell ended, I pulled my hand away, my jaw tight as I processed what the spell had shown me.

The memory had to have been a lie somehow. It must have been some sort of fabrication to lead me astray. Chrysalis wouldn’t allow her hive to reach that point willingly. She must have shown me an older memory. Yes, that must’ve been what that was — some memory from the past used to trick me.

I remained silent, and so did Chrysalis. Her gaze was inscrutable. Whatever she was thinking remained locked behind that unreadable stare.

I turned to Luna. She was already on her hooves, her eyes carrying a cold sort of resolve.

"I'm going to the hive," I said. "I need to see it in person."

"Then I will accompany you," Luna answered, her decision made in an instant.

I gave a brief nod and wrapped my fingers around her hoof. No matter what awaited us, I knew one thing: there was no one I trusted more to have at my side.

Without another word, I focused on the memory Chrysalis had shared, letting the image of the hive’s heart fill my mind. The incantation for Greater Teleport slipped from my lips, and the spell’s power surged around us. I heard Chrysalis speak one last time, her voice low and tinged with something that almost sounded like hope.

"You truly are insufferable. Don’t blame me if you regret what you find."

No. It was just more manipulation. It must be.

The world shifted, the familiar pull of teleportation took hold. And then, in an instant, Luna and I were gone.

We arrived in darkness.

The heat was immediate, oppressive, and clung to my skin like a second layer. The air reeked of decay — thick and sickly, the kind that settled into the lungs and refused to leave. My remaining eye adjusted to the dim glow of green resin pulsing faintly from the walls, its light warping the jagged tunnels into almost alive. The pathways stretched and twisted in every direction, barely holding together, just as the spell had revealed.

Luna stood close, a steady presence against the unease creeping into my mind. Her gaze swept across the crumbling passage, sharp and unreadable, though the slight flare of her nostrils betrayed her distaste for the stench.

"Perhaps Chrysalis wasn’t exaggerating," she murmured, her voice tinged with something akin to disappointment.

I didn’t reply. My attention was pulled toward movement in the shadows — a changeling drone emerging from a side tunnel. Its chitin was dull and cracked, its limbs moving sluggishly as though the air itself weighed it down. The moment it saw us, it froze, its glowing blue eyes widening, caught between fear and suspicion.

Instinct took over. My fingers curled around the hilt of Promise as I prepared to unsheath the blade. Luna noticed. A silent shift of her wing brushed my hand in a silent gesture of restraint.

The drone hesitated before stepping forward. When it spoke, its voice was hoarse and fragile. "Are you... here to kill us?"

I stilled. The question landed like a blow. My grip on Promise tightened before I forced my hand to relax, my fingers easing away from Promise’s hilt. I glanced toward Luna — her stance remained firm, but something in her eyes had softened.

"No," I said, my voice firm as my words echoed faintly in the hollow tunnel. "We’re here to assess the situation. Nothing more."

The drone didn’t look convinced. Its wings trembled. It took a step back, like it had just realized how close it stood to something that could end its life.

"Mother said you might come," it whispered. "She said... she said you hate us."

A sharp pang shot through me, something cold curling in my gut.

I wanted to deny it. I wanted to say the words weren’t true. But even in my own mind, the words felt fragile and cracked under the weight of too many contradictions. Hatred wasn’t what brought me here, not exactly, but neither was forgiveness. What did they expect of me? To act as though everything had been wiped clean? To ignore the scars that still ached, the shame festering in the silence, the grief that still bled from my heart? Could I say, with any real certainty, that I wasn’t here to settle something within myself?

Luna stepped in before the silence could stretch too far. "We are not your enemies," she stated, her voice as steady as steel. “Your queen permitted our presence. If we meant you harm, you would already know."

The drone shuddered, its gaze darting between us before it slowly nodded. "If... if you want to see... follow me."

It turned, each step down the tunnel hesitant, as though the ground beneath it might give way.

We walked in silence, the oppressive atmosphere growing thicker with each step. More changelings appeared as we moved deeper into the hive. They watched us from the shadows, their gaunt faces and emaciated frames painting a grim picture. Some whispered to one another, their voices tinged with fear and suspicion. Others simply stared, their expressions unreadable.

When we reached the heart of the hive, I realized that Chrysalis’s memory hadn’t done it justice. The vast chamber was worse than the memory. The throne was indeed broken, the resinous structure visibly sagging under its own weight. The walls were cracked, large sections were crumbled to the floor. Pools of stagnant water collected in the uneven ground, and the air buzzed faintly with the weak, sporadic movement of insectile wings.

Luna stepped forward, her gaze sweeping across the chamber. Her expression was unreadable, but I could practically feel her judgment — her pity. I stayed close, my hand resting lightly on Promise’s pommel, though I doubted I would need to draw it. The changelings here weren’t a threat. Not in this state.

"Sebastian," Luna whispered softly, her voice laced with something close to sorrow. "This is... grim."

Before I could respond, my eye caught movement near the far end of the chamber. A group of changelings were huddled together, their bodies pressed close as if trying to share what little warmth they had. One of them — a youngling, barely larger than Mira — lifted its head to look at us. Its eyes were dull, its frame skeletal.

I swallowed against the dryness in my throat, my pulse pounded in my ears. Memories of chaos and bloodshed surged to the forefront of my mind — the screams, the faces of those I couldn’t save. And yet, as I stood here, confronted by the raw reality of their suffering...

They are victims too.

Like Citrine Dream. Like Meridin. Like Aldin.

The thought turned my stomach. I wanted to harden myself against pity, to keep pretending I could dismiss them all as monsters. Pity felt dangerous, pity was a weakness I couldn’t afford. Pity led to hesitation, and it was hesitation that allowed the changeling that wore Luna’s visage to steal half of the world’s light from me. If I had not been injured before my battle against Chrysalis, perhaps I would still have my arm.

Aldin would still be here.

If Aldin were here he’d probably hop over to the youngling and ask me if he could keep it. If Aldin were here… If Aldin were here he’d be ashamed of me. Ashamed that I’m even hesitating to help those in need. Ashamed that I had even considered killing the scared changeling that had led us here.

Then my thoughts turned to Thorax — brokenness was etched into every part of his hive, his family, his home. The weight of their suffering pressed down on me. The truth, no matter how much I wanted to suppress it, stared back at me: they didn’t deserve this.

Luna turned to me, her eyes searching my face. "What do you think?"

"I think..." I began, but my voice faltered. I took a deep breath, and forced myself to focus. "I think Chrysalis wasn’t lying."

Luna nodded, her expression grim. "We have seen enough. Let us return to the summit."

I hesitated, my gaze lingering on the youngling. Its eyes met mine, and for a moment I saw something there — hope, maybe? Fear? I wasn’t sure. But it further fueled my shame, and urged me to action.

I reached out to Luna, taking her hoof in my hand. I pictured the meeting room in my mind as I spoke Greater Teleport’s incantation. Even as I finished the incantation, I was unable to look away from the youngling.

That face would be burned into my mind, at least until I fixed all this.

The world shifted again, the oppressive heat of the hive was replaced by the cooler air of the summit meeting room. We stood exactly where we had left, the summit’s attendees attention turning to us as we spontaneously reappeared.

Chrysalis watched me in silence, her expression blank and devoid of the mockery I’d come to expect from her. She neither smirked nor sneered but rather sat still at the massive round table, her gaze distant and unfocused. When her eyes met mine, it wasn’t with recognition but with a detached awareness, as though she were looking through me.

"We will talk," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady, though every word felt like a step toward my own doom. “After the summit. We will talk.”

With those words spoken, Luna and I returned to our seats beside Celestia and Twilight. And to my surprise, no one asked what had happened during our absence, instead they went about their discussions as though nothing of importance had occurred. It didn’t take me long to realize why: none of them wanted to know. None of them cared to know.

Deep down, they would prefer if the changelings simply ceased to exist entirely.

To these rulers, changelings were nothing more than pests — leeches on the body of the world. Monsters that fed on love and left scars on the soul. They weren’t individuals to be reasoned with; they were a blight to be eradicated or forgotten. A problem better left to starve in silence than be addressed outright.

And somewhere in the darkest depths of my heart, a part of me still agreed. Despite everything I’d learned and experienced, a part of me was still that terrified man about to die.

I smiled then, a grim expression that seemed to fit perfectly on my mutilated face.

I remembered how brave I’d been back then, how I’d clung to hope that someone — anyone — would come to save me. But reality had crushed that fantasy, and Promise had come down to show me the harsh truth of this world — of every world: when you need a hero, when you cry for salvation, there will only be yourself.

No one came for Citrine Dream.

No one came for Meridin.

No one came for Aldin.

No one came for me.

I am a fool. An immensely stubborn and reckless fool with a bleeding heart.

Because I wanted to prove that truth wrong.

I want that youngling to grow up and say that a hero came to their hive one day, and saved them all.

And so, foolish as it may be, I will try.

I will try to save them all.

The meeting had devolved into predictable rhetoric by the time I tuned back in. Words flew around the room like arrows with no targets — each aimed at scoring points, none meant to land anywhere that mattered.

Torch rumbled something about strength dictating survival, his gravelly voice accompanied by the occasional plume of smoke that curled into the vaulted ceiling before escaping out a vent. The Griffon Kings nodded approvingly at the lord of dragons. Prince Rutherford banged a hoof on the table, shouting something about yak honor and the yak way of life, his bluster almost drowning out Abraxas’ attempts to steer the discussion back toward something half-resembling diplomacy.

Celestia remained poised and impassive, her practiced smile giving nothing away. She was the perfect image of composure, but I’d known her long enough to catch the faintest edge of weariness in her eyes. Luna, seated beside me, was less subtle than her sister. Her ears twitched at every dismissive comment, and her wings shifted restlessly against her sides. She didn’t look at me, but I could feel her attention turning to me. She was waiting for the moment I’d crumble under the weight of it all, just in case I needed her.

If I was being honest, I was holding myself together by a thread.

I couldn't ignore her now. Every time Chrysalis moved, even a little, a spike of adrenaline coursed through me. My stump itched against the Wizard’s Arm, phantom pain twisting through scars that could never truly heal. My eye kept darting toward her, unbidden, as though she might pounce the moment I looked away.

But she didn’t.

A part of me wondered if she even could.

Now, she sat in silence, her earlier interjections replaced by an eerie stillness. Her posture was slouched, her shoulders sagging in a way that felt alien for someone so usually proud. The jagged stump of her severed right wing twitched once in a brief involuntary spasm, before stilling again.

The changelings' plight had been laid bare, and the mask she wore — the cruel smirks and biting words — had crumbled under the despair of it all.

"Sebastian," Luna’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, soft yet firm. She leaned closer, her shoulder brushing against me. "Are you all right?"

I blinked, startled by the question. I wasn’t all right. I hadn’t been all right since the moment Chrysalis reappeared in my life. But lying to Luna felt impossible, wrong even. "No," I admitted, my voice quiet. "But I’ll manage."

She didn’t push further, though her frown remained. Instead, she pressed against me, her wing unfolding to wrap around me. The warmth of her closeness offered me a fleeting, invaluable sense of peace. This defied every lesson Blueblood had drilled into me about maintaining composure among rulers, but I found I couldn’t bring myself to care. None of them would call attention to it, because doing so would mean facing the reality they so comfortably ignored: that they had already condemned the changelings to a slow death of starvation.

Luna had stood by me, even when I had been too lost in my own agony to see it. I didn’t deserve her.

The meeting dragged on.

A tentative ceasefire was officially brokered among the three griffon kings, and they even managed to establish a neutral zone for their negotiations. How long such peace would hold, I couldn’t say. Even here, thousands of miles removed from their contested borders, their murderous glares promised that bloodshed was merely delayed, and not averted. The brewing trade dispute between Prince Rutherford and Cadance remained shelved, most likely to be duly nipped in the bud in the near future thanks to Blueblood’s intervention in smoothing over such trivial matters. Prince Abraxas gained some measure of assistance for his zebras, who suffered after repeated rogue dragon raids. Surprisingly, Twilight took the lead in those negotiations. Whether Dragon Lord Torch’s oath to punish the rogue dragons would hold remained to be seen, though the fire in his eyes suggested a reckoning was imminent.

Despite the tangible progress in some areas, it all felt hollow to me — this ‘progress’ was likely to be easily undone by the whims of time or circumstance. The relief efforts for Abraxas and the minor trade dispute between Yakyakistan and the Crystal Empire seemed to be the only agreements with a chance of enduring. Of all the topics discussed, none ventured near the plight of the changelings. Not a whisper of their struggles, not even a glance in Chrysalis’s direction since our return from her hive.

At last, the summit adjourned.

The delegates left in their respective clusters. Torch lumbered out first, shaking the room with each step. The griffon kings exited together, their silence charged with unspoken threats pointed towards each other. Prince Rutherford stormed off, huffing and muttering something about the choice in lighting. Cadance flashed a genuine smile before promising to catch up with us all, then she too departed.

Luna stayed close, her serene demeanor grounding me in the wake of the tension-filled meeting. She spoke to Celestia and Twilight in a tone equal parts calm and deliberate, the epitome of composure. Yet, when her gaze turned to me, her concern was laid bare.

"Come," she murmured gently once Celestia and Twilight had vacated the room. "You’ve endured enough for today, my love. Let us leave this place."

I opened my mouth to agree, but movement at the edge of the room caught my eye. Chrysalis hadn’t left. She sat alone now, her stillness unnerving, her eyes staring through the far wall as though seeing something no one else could.

Luna noticed too. Her brow furrowed, and for a moment, I thought she might use the Geas to order Chrysalis to leave, or perhaps to order her to bash her face into the round table. But then her expression softened, and she turned to me. "Do what you must," she murmured. "I will wait for you outside."

She didn’t wait for a response, her hoofsteps silent as she left the room.

I hesitated, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. Part of me wanted to walk away, to leave Chrysalis to her silence. She wasn’t my responsibility. She wasn’t my problem.

And yet… she was. She had become my problem the day of my ascension — when Meridin placed the Geas that subjugated her to Equestria, subjugated her to me.

Besides, I couldn’t ignore her. Not after what I’d seen in her hive.

I approached her slowly, my boots scuffing against the marble floor. She didn’t react, not even when I stopped beside her. Her gaze remained unfocused, her expression entirely unreadable.

"Chrysalis," I said, low but firm.

She blinked, her eyes slowly turning to meet mine. For a moment, she said nothing, her lips pressing into a thin line. Then, finally, she spoke.

"What do you want, Consort?"

I sighed, lowering myself into the seat beside her. The cool wood pressed against my back as I leaned against it, staring up at the vaulted ceiling.

"I don’t know," I admitted.

Chrysalis let out a bitter laugh, a sharp and hollow sound that cut through the silence of the now empty chamber.

"You don’t know?" Her voice carried its usual edge, but there was a distinct lack of venom behind it, only exhaustion was there.

I didn’t snap back. I didn’t have the energy for it. Instead, I glanced at her, watching the faint tremble in her frame, the way her tattered mane hung limp over her face. She looked like a husk — barely an echo of the proud and ruthless queen who had brought Equestria to the brink and killed me.

She wasn’t that queen anymore.

From the looks of it, that queen had died shortly after I did. When the Geas was placed and her children had begun to starve and die at her hooves.

“I think…” I started, my words slow and deliberate. “I think I can create something that might help your hive.”

Her gaze snapped to mine, sharp and incredulous. "Help my hive?" she repeated, her tone laced with suspicion. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I don’t expect you to believe anything," I replied. "But in the past I’ve created an item that used the Share Memory spell to allow the user to relive past memories. And when I used the same spell on you earlier I felt your emotions through the memory." I hesitated, unsure how much detail to give her. “It would be a combination of the spells Share Memory and Intensify Psyche. If it works, it could give your changelings the sustenance they need without—”

“Without stealing it,” she interrupted, her voice tight. Her eyes narrowed, though there was no malice in her expression. “You think you can replace love with magic?”

“Not replace,” I corrected. “But substitute. It wouldn’t be perfect, and I don’t expect the results to be half as good as true love, but it should be enough to keep them from starving or needing to resort to stealing it.” My gaze dropped to the table, my fingers tracing the grain of the wood. “It’s not for you. It’s for them.”

Her silence stretched between us like a chasm. I didn’t look at her, didn’t dare meet her eyes. The sensation of her gaze was more than enough.

I suddenly wished that Luna was here.

“And why,” she said finally, her voice softer now, almost at a whisper, “would you do that? After everything I’ve done to you, to your friends, to your city — why would you help me?”

I let out a long, slow breath. “Because it’s what Aldin would have wanted.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and raw. Her eyes widened, just for a moment, before her expression shuttered again. I didn’t give her time to respond. I didn’t want to see whatever reaction she might have. Instead, I stood, the chair scraping against the floor as I pushed it back.

“You can hate me,” I said, my voice steady. “You can doubt my intentions. But if this works, your hive will have a chance. And that’s more than you or I could have hoped for when this all started.”

She didn’t respond. Her gaze dropped to the floor, her expression unreadable once more. I waited a beat longer, then turned and walked away.

The cool night air greeted me as I stepped into the hall. Luna’s moon hung high in the sky now, casting its silver light through the windows of the castle’s newest wing. Luna stood a short distance away, her silhouette framed by the glow of her moon. She turned at the sound of my approach, her eyes searching mine.

“Are you alright?” she asked softly before she took a single step closer, her voice hardening. “Do I need to have a word with her?”

I pursed my lips, and for a moment considered siccing Luna on the queen, but instead I shook my head. “No need for that. I did what I needed to do.”

Her expression was unreadable for a moment, then she nodded. “Come, my moonlight,” she spoke, her tone turning gentle. “Let us find our nephew.”

The summit was still in full swing, with those who followed the rulers partaking in various diplomatic activities, but the rulers themselves had mostly retreated to their chambers for the night. The corridors of the castle stretched before us, quiet except for the occasional pair of Lunar Guards who snapped into salutes as we passed.

"Do you think he’ll have survived?” I asked, glancing at Luna.

Her lips curved into a sly smile. “Blueblood? Oh, I suspect he’ll have endured. Though I imagine his patience has been tested to its limits.”

I chuckled softly as we rounded a corner, and the faint sound of muffled whining reached my ears. I slowed, exchanging a glance with Luna. She tilted her head, her ears swiveling forward.

The whining grew louder, accompanied by the unmistakable high-pitched voice of Mira.

“...but, Uncle Blueblood, you said you’d tell me a story! A real story, not just some boring thing about trade routes!”

We entered the lounge to find Blueblood sitting on an overstuffed armchair, his mane slightly disheveled and his usual immaculate appearance marred by a frazzled expression. Mira stood before him, her tiny bat-like wings flapping for emphasis as she glared up at him with the unrelenting determination of a child denied dessert. She was still wearing the Teashades of Night, the oversized, tinted glasses perched slightly askew on her snout, giving her an air of rebellious charm as her golden eyes burned with indignation.

“I told you a story,” Blueblood retorted, his voice dangerously close to a whine of its own. “It was educational!”

Mira stomped her hoof. “It was boring! I want a story with monsters and heroes and—” She gasped, her golden eyes lighting up as she spotted Luna and me. “Uncle Sebastian! Auntie Luna!” She darted toward us, her little legs a blur as she practically tackled Luna’s foreleg.

Luna’s expression softened instantly as she bent down to nuzzle Mira. “Hello, my little star,” she said, her voice warm. “Have you been behaving?”

Mira hesitated, glancing at Blueblood before she mumbled, “Mostly…”

Blueblood let out a loud, exaggerated groan, throwing his head back against the chair. “She’s been a terror!” he declared. “Do you know how many questions one small creature can ask in an hour? Because I do now.”

Luna chuckled, and I couldn’t help but smirk as I stepped closer. “Come on, Nephew,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder with my flesh hand. “She couldn’t have been that bad.”

Blueblood leveled a glare at me that could have curdled milk. “She wanted to know why the moon doesn’t fall out of the sky. In detail. Do you know how much astronomy I remember from school? None. None at all.”

Mira peeked up at me, her expression the perfect picture of innocence behind those shades. “It’s not my fault Uncle Blue-Bored doesn’t know anything,” she said matter-of-factly.

I stifled a laugh, but Luna didn’t bother hiding hers. Blueblood shot us both a look of pure betrayal.

“Well,” Luna said, her tone one of mock seriousness, “perhaps we’ve been too harsh on you, Nephew. Mira can be quite… inquisitive.”

“She’s a menace,” Blueblood muttered under his breath. “A tiny, adorable menace.”

Mira beamed at the word ‘adorable’ and flapped her wings, the shades slipping slightly down her snout. “See, I’m not a menace!”

Blueblood opened his mouth to retort, but I cut him off with a grin. “Mira, why don’t you go grab your things? We’ll take you back to your mother.”

“Okay!” she chirped, darting off toward a corner where a small pile of toys and a stuffed bat plushie that I’d never seen before sat.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Blueblood slumped in his chair, looking as though he’d aged ten years. “Never again,” he exclaimed. “I’ll negotiate with dragons, I’ll endure another Zebratian rhyme party — but foalsitting? Never again.”

“Speaking of negotiations…” I began, my grin widening as Blueblood’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Yakyakistan and the Crystal Empire are having a bit of a… misunderstanding. And since you’ve proven yourself so adept at handling difficult situations…”

Blueblood stared at me, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” I said cheerfully. “Congratulations, Nephew. You’ve been chosen by Celestia to broker the trade dispute between the two.”

The look of sheer horror on his face was almost enough to make me feel guilty.

Almost.