6 days later, the castle press prep room…

This attempt by the crown tailors was much better, albeit a bit baggy. Smart, but they made him look much larger than he actually was. The shirt hem is dutifully tucked into his trousers schoolboy style, otherwise it would have looked like he was wearing a dress. The bust section felt very breezy, his pectorals were not large enough to fit properly.

Still, Cyrus is grateful they aren’t ripping his nipples apart every time he shifts around in his too-small chair. The staff couldn’t procure a princess-sized one, they were all being used in the room next door where a score of gossip hungry journalists fought over each other to ask their incredibly deep and definitely-not-leading questions.

Raven Inkwell, who Cyrus had deduced is just about as short and blunt as Luna, is lecturing Cyrus on exactly what to do during a press conference. He is only really half listening, the other half of his brain is occupied by vomit inducing nervousness, not helped at all by the things Raven was saying.

“-and be sure to smile with every answer. Like I said before, that is very important for you to do. Don’t show your freaky teeth though, that’ll scare em’. Good luck.” Raven finishes to Cyrus' rapid nodding. Satisfied, she wastes no time with goodbyes, trotting away posthaste. Cyrus deduces that she is a very busy mare judging by the mile-long list of items she was furiously scribbling on as she walked away.

Cyrus covers his face with his hands, his tongue subconsciously tracing his teeth, trying to figure out exactly what Raven meant by ‘freaky’.

Too sharp? Too pointy? But Thestrals have fangs? All questions running through the anxious human’s head. He can’t help but eject his nervousness with a loud groan. Cutlass’ ear perks up from her post on the other side of the room at the sounding of her friend’s distress.

Muffled shouts leak from the press room and into Cyrus’ ears, doing nothing for the scattering butterflies in his stomach.

Celestia will keep it all in check, right? Cyrus prays, clasping his hands into a begging position, hoping the venerable Sun Goddess of Equestria was working her Luna-endorsed diplomatic magic, she’s been doing this for over a thousand years. It'll be okay… but, man, what they wrote about me…

Cyrus’ mind can't help but latch onto that particularly grisly article he had read from Equestria Times about how there was a new monster creeping around the castle. He was reading the paper for sporting news; August was coming to an end and semi-consistent to Earth, the ‘Premium League of Soccer’ was starting back up. Cyrus had to know what shape Arsenal was in before the start of the season; it was his prerogative.

Which is why about three days ago he was kowtowing in front of Cutlass, begging her to buy him a paper.

Cutlass had refused. It was a ‘direct order from Princess Luna’.

Which is why, after shamelessly begging Cutlass for the better part of an hour, Cyrus had smashed his forehead against the ground in front of the princess of the night, beseeching her for a newspaper.

Luna had also refused, she knew it would do no good. Unfortunately, Cyrus’ ‘list of ponies to beg for stuff’ ends there, so he had to settle for espionage. A little rooting around the rubbish bin in the toilets and behold: a partly damp copy of Equestria Times.

The fuck do they mean, mind controling monster? And what’s this about me being ‘in cahoots’ with Nightmare Moon? I swear, it’s like they’re making-

“BUEHGGUTH?!”

An elegant cry escapes Cyrus’ mouth at the feeling of a hoof impacting his arm. The culprit snickers, flashing a sly smile at the jittery human.

“Wasaamatter? Never seen you this freaked out before.” Cutlass jabs, wrapping a wing around Cyrus’ back and nudging his body with her wither. Cyrus simply snorts, scowling and crossing his arms.

“Aren’t you supposed to not abandon your post? What if a stab hungry homeless pony walks in?” Cyrus snarks with childish irritation. Cutlass gives him an unimpressed eyebrow, muzzle squishing to display her silent disapproval. Soundlessly, she brings her wing back, loading up for the smack of all smacks, reserved only for when her siblings were at their worst.

Cyrus’ head jolts forward at the impact, too shocked to utter out a cry of pain. His furious visage is met by Cutlass’ confident smirk as she deftly twists out of the way of Cyrus’ counterflick. Those fingers of his, while comfortable when providing ‘scritches’, had proven to be deadly weapons if utilized properly. Especially around the ears.

The staff don’t stop to watch. This was a common occurrence.

Taking to the air, Cutlass avoids yet another clumsy swipe from Cyrus. She hovers for a second before landing, making an arrogant show of keeping her back turned. Her ears, however, are always on high alert. They pick up the loud screech of a chair being pushed backwards and the rustling fabric of a gangly biped reaching toward her. She slithers out of the way of the clumsy grapple and, without skipping a beat, turns to poke a tongue out at the glowering human.

“You done being a cunt?” Cyrus demands, pointing an accusatory finger at Cutlass’ snoot. She snorts and rolls her eyes, blowing onto her frog. That gesture means fuck off, but not as bad as a tongue-in-the-frog.

“Depends. Are you?” She replies, interrupting Cyrus before he can counter by sticking up her hoof, “Just bucking relax, okay? As you say, ‘it’s not that deep’.”

“Easy for you to say, they don’t call you a ‘half-shaven fiend’-” Cyrus claps a hand over his mouth, realizing what he had just let slip. Cutlass’ eyes widen as worry and frustration grip at her muzzle.

“I told you- you really shouldn’t- why…” Cutlass stammers, unable to choose between scolding that nosy two-legged-bucker or reassuring him. Cyrus flops back into his seat with a groan, utterly defeated. Choosing concern, Cutlass pulls a seat up next to him, planting a hoof on his back. Cyrus peeks out from behind his hands, half glaring, half dejected.

“Don’t listen to them, the press is always going to be shit. They’ve got nothing better to report on.” Cutlass assurges, injecting her opinions on the Canterlot newspapers into the tone of her voice. Sighing, Cyrus retreats from his hand-shield, bringing them up to fiddle with his hair. The sweat patches growing on Cyrus’ armpits do not escape Cutlass’ notice.

Shit. It’s really gotten to him… Cutlass deduces, flipping through the reassurance playbook in her head. Deciding on a risky strategy, Cutlass leaps onto Cyrus’ lap, earning a short yelp out of the human. Before he can protest, he is grappled by a mighty hug, wings and hooves working in tandem to lock him into place. With a firm hold, Cutlass whispers: “Forget about them and what they think. I’ll still be your friend, no matter what. I’ll always stick up for you.”

Cyrus relinquishes his resistance, letting Cutlass deliver her hug. He needed it.

Unfortunately, the door bursts open and two very important looking staff members enter.

“Mister Cyrus! It is- uhhhhhhh…” The one on the left trails off upon witnessing the precarious position the human found himself in. They both look away.

Cutlass untangles herself, giving Cyrus a smile and a ‘you got this’ nuzzle to his chest. Standing, Cyrus flips his suit jacket on before undoing the damage wreaked on his outfit by Cutlass’ earlier stunt. Skittishly fixing his hairband for one last time, Cyrus jitters out and into the press room.

The first attack is the lights. There was no mercy.

Instantly, he is forced to bring a protective hand to his eyes as numerous flashes explode throughout the room, filling the air with the smell of burnt magnesium. Wincing, he tries to blink the white spots away whilst stumbling around for his seat, unable to process the rapid snapping and popping of the cameras. Eventually, his searching hand graces the back of his seat. Still blinking away the splotches of light dotting his vision, he flops down.

The second attack is the noise. The questions come like pouring rain, washing through the room in torrents.

“What is your purpose here?”

“Where did you come from?”

“A palace source says you are solely carnivorous, can you comment?”

“Why do you look like that?”

On and on, overlapping in to a symphony of pure chaos until a splitting voice cries out into the room.

“SIIIIIIIIIIIIILENCE!!!”

Celestia gives a nod of approval, mask of complete calm still adorning her features. Cyrus glances over for a modicum of help, but finds nothing but a cold forward stare from the sun princess. Gulping, he redirects his attention back to the crowd of journalists in the room. They wait with bated breath, inspecting Cyrus with incredible intensity.

Cyrus does not feel unlike a prostitute.

True to Celestia’s speech pattern, she clears her throat before beginning: “Thank you, sergeant Pipes. I would advise the room to remain silent and respectful. Please treat our guest, Cyrus, with respect, one question at a time please.”

At once, every hoof rockets into the air, twitching and shaking for attention like toddlers in a preschool.

“Um… do I?” Cyrus asks, turning to Celestia once more for guidance. A gentle nod confirms his suspicions. He turns back to the ravenous crowd, saying: “Okay, uhhh… third row, flower in hair?”

The mare in question, quite literally, stands up so quickly her seat is sent directly into the chest of the poor stallion sitting behind her. Ignoring his cry of pain, she blurts out her question with the force of a ten ton truck: “Hello! Goss Flips, The Canterlonian. There are many rumors surrounding your sudden appearance here, do you have any comments?”

“I- uhhhh… don’t k-know about any r-rumors?” Cyrus stutters, tripping over his words. He wasn’t briefed on this. Goss Flips’ eyes glint with pure animal predatory glee, leading questions of the most devious kind forming in her head.

“Such as the circumstances of your arrival. A reliable Crown source had informed us that your appearance left no mana signature? Only magics able to erase mana signatures are either incredibly difficult to cast, or require help from forbidden entities. Care to elaborate?”

Celestia grimaces inwardly, mask faltering for a fraction of a second. Worry grips deep at her chest; no matter how Cyrus answered, he was doomed. The press was not supposed to know that piece of information. Rats everywhere, it would seem.

“I- uhhh… well yeah okay, it didn’t exactly work out like that. But it makes sense? I mean I myself don’t-”

“No comment.” Celesta cuts Cyrus short before he falls into the trap. Her mind turns, trying to deduce who exactly in her cabinet would have been able to leak that information. Goss Flips sits down with a smug grin, scribbling down her drivel into her notepad. The tightness in Celestia’s stomach grows as the hooves shoot into the air once more.

If they know that… we just might be doomed, Celestia grimly surmises, the urge to eat incredibly sugary food biting at the back of her mind, the kitchen patisserie had better be prepared or they're all fired.

She casts a short glance sideways. The nervousness upgrades from butterflies to stomach knots.

Cyrus is sweating like a pig on the sun, fanning his collar to try in an attempt to cool himself down, looking as guilty as he can possibly look. Shakily, he wipes the sweat away with the sleeve of his shirt.

Incredibly rookie mistake, but Celestia can't blame him. Poor human.

The room lights up, reeking of magnesium once more as the cameraponies do their dirty work. Celestia swallows incredibly thickly.

“I- uhhhhh… y-you fifth row with the black and blue striped tie…” Cyrus mumbles, pointing at the pony. He stands up, casting his colleagues a wily grin of triumph.

“Thank you. Overtly Heard, Private Glance,” his languid voice drips with ego, “I would just like to confirm. Do you eat meat?”

“Yes, I do.” Cyrus replies, happy to finally have a simple question to answer. Overtly Heard nods in response, that had gone way better than he could have possibly hoped, a direct quote! This would sell…

Only when Overtly’s rump contacts the chair once more did Cyrus realize exactly what he had implied. Embarrassed salvage mode activates as he blurts out a follow up: “Well, not only meat! I can eat vegetables too but my… biology… makes it so… I have to eat… meat.”

Utter silence, his salvaging speech crashes and burns in the most spectacular fashion. Celestia cringes, glancing at the clock. Five more minutes and salvation would be delivered. Uttering a prayer to any and all deities above, Celestia hopes the next question isn’t too terrible. Hooves fly up once more. The sun princess’ desperate prayer is denied by the powers that be.

Oh Harmony… not her. Celestia grouses inwardly, eyes tracing the trail between Cyrus’ finger and the journalist he had picked for his final question.

“Hardy Digger. Thank you. Equestria Times. Our sources from within the palaces have spotted you, on numerous occasions, with Her Highness, Princess Luna. Given her… history-” Celestia’s eyes widen for a split second before she regains control, “-may I ask your intentions here? Our readers worry for their safety.”

That little… Celestia fumes to herself, skin crawling at the sheer nerve of it all, her inner demeanor shattered by the spear of anger flying through her emoscape. She parts her mouth to deliver brimstone, but is interrupted.

“Hang on. Now that’s a step too far!” Cyrus shouts, standing up from his seat, confidence returning to his voice.

What is he… Celestia thinks, her eyes snapping to the seething Cyrus. Slamming his palm on the table, he leans forward, drawing a gasp from the crowd.

“Okay, you can write whatever the fuck- buck you want about me. Call me a ‘hairless ape’, ‘unnecessary burden on the taxpayer’, or ‘vicious monster barely under the control of the princesses’, I don't care. But you leave her out of it, okay? Bloody hell, no matter where you go, it’s just buckin’ vultures. Shame on you.” Cyrus rants to the shocked room, jabbing a finger directly at Hardy Digger’s heart. He collapses back into his seat with an angry huff, muttering Chineighese curses under his breath.

The experienced photographers, knowing that shots of angry Cyrus is akin to pure gold, take advantage of his new mood, letting out a few flashes into the room. The peeved human looks up to Celeista, a look of pure incredulity adorning his features. Celestia keeps the facade up. Flicking her flowing rainbow mane, she erects a barrier before flashing Cyrus a grateful smile of respect. Cyrus gives a slight nod in return.

Hopefully that should keep her mouth-

“Um… you didn’t answer the question?” Hardy Digger bleats without a hint of shame, having recovered from the shock of earlier scolding. Cyrus turns to meet Digger’s gaze in the slowest way he possibly could. Hardy Digger was about to experience the pure, vile, and unfiltered wrath of a League of Legends player who had once been chat restricted for an entire month.

“Beg your pardon? I ‘didn't answer the question’? Okay, how about you answer me this question, are your parents alive? Because you’re showing me some fatherless behavior right now, you fucking lobster-low. Bet your dad ‘went out’ for milk and cigs when you were five and never came back. Don’t blame him, the way you turned out. 傻逼，操你妈 [Fuck you, stupid cunt]. What, writing career didn’t work out? Have to rely on gossip for food? Sister, there is no difference between you and a sixty year old retiree with a gambling addiction playing bingo every night and flipping gossip because without it they’ll be relegated to the reject table. Thing is, you’re already sitting there, piggie.”

The room is dead silent.

Celestia’s mask completely shattered, an expression of shock made plain on her face. She’s deciding between jumping up in a massive cheer, or smacking the shit out of the human sitting next to her.

To be perfectly honest, the former wins out by a mile.

The pure flow Cyrus had rapped his insults with was exceptional, not a hint of apprehension or trepidation could be heard. It sounded almost rehearsed with how little stuttering or stammering there was, a pure stream of rage. But, despite the vitriol, he didn’t shout, he didn’t need to, it would have taken away from the power of the speech. Every syllable was uttered with calm, ice cold fury.

And that’s what made it so unbelievably raw. The entire room traces Cyrus’ body as he calmly steps up from the table and makes his way out the room.

Okay… Wow… Respect. You’re bucked nine ways to Tarturus… but… thank you. Celestia lauds inwardly, donning her mask of calm once more.

“*ahem* I think that concludes our time together. If you’ll please join me outside for the swearing of fealty to the crown.” Celestia declares, trying not to break into giddy giggles at the sight of a frozen and flabbergasted Hardy Digger. Taking advantage of Cyrus’ verbally induced stun-lock, Celestia slips out the door, followed by her contingent of guards.

A collective blink is shared before the room breaks out into utter chaos.

.

.

.

.

A few moments later, backstage of the Royal Greene…

“Thou said WHAT?”

Really, it was the only acceptable response.

Cutlass was in stitches, unable to speak through the gasping bursts of laughter, every so often repeating to herself a few choice phrases from Cyrus’ speech to commit them to memory. Luna was pacing the backstage to vet her nerves, unhappy at the new turn of events.

She did expect to go poorly. Just not that poorly.

“What. They were chatting shit about you, what else was I supposed to do?” Cyrus mutters, arms crossed and a half scowl decorating his face. Luna stops her pace, spinning around with an exacerbated expression.

“Well… not that! I think thou do not understand the repercussions!” Luna shouts with a stomp. Expelling a short and gritty nicker to try and calm her jitters, she resumes in a calmer tone: “Before thou try and rebut, understand this. The purpose was never to paint thee in a ‘good’ light, twas damage mitigation! IF we gave the press nothing to discuss, they’d eventually move on. And now…”

Luna’s speech subsides, she’s gotten the point across. Groaning, Cyrus can do nothing but stare. His resentment gives way to reason as the logic starts to click. Raven did say ‘they will grill you, just don’t give away too much’, and he had completely ignored that advice. Once again, Cyrus had let his impulse get the better of him.

“I’m going to head to the changing room.” Cyrus mumbles, shuffling to the room in question, cloud of anger now broken to make way for the harsh, beating rays of despair. Luna brings a hoof to her forehead with an explosive sigh, landing on her rear once more. She musters enough mental capacity through the fog of fatigue to ring the service bell. Instantly, a dapperly dressed stallion flitters to her side with a flourished bow.

“Two espresso. Please.” Luna tiredly orders, her previous injection of caffeine (three double-shots) starting to wear off. The servant somehow dips his head lower, retreating with a ‘yes your highness’. Luna allows for a rare moment of weakness, sagging her wings and withers in tandem to alleviate the growing pain of keeping her posture straight. Her back aches for the comfort of her mattress, her head for the solitude of her pillow. For some reason, the geniuses in the public relations department had scheduled the swearing ceremony for three in the afternoon.

Dipping in and out of reality, Luna’s mind wanders through all the articles she had read about herself……

RETURN OF PRINCESS LUNA: THE FACTS

Hark, for our sovereign of the night has returned to us at last. Rumors have been flying ever since the climactic showdown during the millennial Summer Sun Celebration (more on page 12). What can we expect? Where did she suddenly come from? Is she really the Nightmare Moon of legend? Do not fret, dear readers, for this article shall reveal all.

Firstly, yes, Princess Luna is the Nightmare Moon of legend and our palace source can confirm that indeed the old mare’s tale is true! Yes, she did try and usurp her sister’s position over jealousy. Which begs the question, why is she still allowed to not only roam, but be given authority over Equestria? Given her past inclinations, wouldn’t it be wise to…

Luna can not contain her anger. The paper bursts into a ball of brilliant blue flame, charred black dust flittering down onto her desk. She wasn’t supposed to read it, but she couldn’t help herself-

“Your Highness.”

The most unusual form of speech snaps Luna out of her daydream, she whirls round to the source. Cutlass is standing there, saluting with a stony face. Shaking her head, Luna replies: “Yes, Sergeant Stellabright?”

“Permission to speak freely.” Cutlass clicks. Luna gives her a quizzical look, unsure as to why she was resorting to clicked tongue. Cutlass remains stoic, ever the professional.

“Fine. Speak.” Luna relents to Threstalian clicks, matching Cutlass. Relaxing, Cutlass gives a nervous throat clear, buying time to organize her words.

“If I may, he was simply standing up for you…” Cutlass lets the implication hang, giving her wings a nervous shuffle. Luna stares.

The implication dawns.

That’s…

Luna feels an odd feeling in her chest.

“Thank you, sergeant. Duly noted.” Luna clicks halfheartedly, resuming her pacing and pursing her lips in contemplation, stopping every once in a while to sigh or shake her head. The servant reappears with two espressos, dutifully balanced upon the silver plate in his hooves. Without breaking her pace, Luna picks them up with cerulean glow, downing the scalding liquid in two short flicks.

Yearning once more for bedly respite, Luna dives into her wings for the fifth time since entering the backstage, straightening her already straight primaries.

Again.

.

.

.

.

Meanwhile, Royal Greene changing rooms…

The cold water slaps were not working whatsoever, the jitters would not retreat. Cyrus stares at his reflection, repeatedly cursing his stupidity.

Just had to mouth off, fuck’s sake. Cyrus chastises himself, violently pulling at his long hair and dislodging a few strands. Bringing his hand back under the cold stream of water, Cyrus prepares for another strike across the face.

Fucking idiot.

*Slap* “Guh.”

Didn’t listen.

*Slap* “Bleh.”

Your life is-

“Well, that’s quite the pre-performance routine.” Celestia’s voice floats from behind him like a stream of tranquility, jolting Cyrus out of his anxious self-tirade. His hand shuts the water off and his eyes dart to the mirror, meeting Celestia’s eyes in the reflection.

She’s here to blow me up. Cyrus gruffly surmises, the pit of anxiousness giving way to dread. Muttering a prayer to whatever deities above, Cyrus turns to meet his fate. Celestia strides up to the mirror, floating a manebrush through her rainbow hued mane, grimacing whenever she rips apart a particularly nasty knot.

“You know, Luna was right, you really are an artist with words…” Celestia mumbles, eyes focused on the shape of her flowing strands of mane instead of Cyrus’. The manebrush is replaced with a rather painful looking comb, black iron jutting out into sharp pointy tips. Without wasting a moment, Celestia sets to work, straightening out any offending fibers on her perfect snow-white coat. Cyrus shuffles, idly fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

“Um… s-sorry…” He squeaks, finally summoning enough courage to make his vocal cords vibrate once more. Celestia casts a side eye to Cyrus, letting out an uncharacteristic chuckle. Cyrus flips to confusion, his hand now frozen at his collar button.

“What for? That bitch had it coming… cunt. Or as you say, lobster-low. Whatever that means…” Celestia spits her insults like rotten oats, flashing her comb away before turning to Cyrus with a sly smile, “incredibly well said. Somehow, you’ve put all the thoughts I had about that rat of a pony into the most beautiful poem I’ve ever heard.”

Cyrus chokes on his spit, not quite believing his ears. Coughing rapidly to the rising sounds of Celestia’s laughter, he brings his hands above his head to clear his airways. Celestia levitates a paper towel next to Cyrus.

“Thanks? I guess? You know, to be honest I thought you were here to cut my head off…” Cyrus admits, swiping the paper towel held in Celestia’s golden glow with a nodded thanks, bringing it to his face to rid himself of dampness. Snorting, as she never does, Celestia volleys with a raised eyebrow.

“Why would I do that? By tomorrow, I’m sure every rag-reader and noble will be banging down your door to do so,” Celestia jabs a hoof into Cyrus’ face in a way she’d only have done one thousand-five hundred years ago, “you are so unbelievably bucked.”

Reminded once more of his impending doom, Cyrus sighs, pulling himself up to a sitting position on the sink counter, slouching his posture into an acute angle. Once there, he runs a hand down his face, almost pulling the skin off, muttering: “Yeahhhhh… I mean. Only one word can save me now…”

Celestia looks on with morbid curiosity. Craning upright with fake bravery, Cyrus rockets his hands onto his hips, proudly proclaiming: “Worth.”

Celestia laughs, deep from her belly. Mirthful sounds for her but harrowing blasts of mockery for Cyrus. He sags back down into depression, defeated. Summoning a cloth, Celestia gives her regalia a much ‘needed’ spiffening, wiping away at the offending grime (two specs of dirt). She flicks the cloth under Cyrus’ nose to gain his attention, letting loose a genuine smile.

“I really appreciate you standing up for my sister. Whatever you need, if it’s in my power, I’ll grant. I owe you one.” Celestia says, giving Cyrus a warm touch of the shoulder with her own, a gesture she seldom imparts, before slipping out the door. Cyrus lowers himself from the sink and onto the floor.

Of course, the implications of Celestia’s newfound casualness is completely lost on Cyrus. Can’t exactly blame him, he has no reference point. Sighing he runs the cold water again.

Three more strikes and he’s ready to face the world.

.

.

.

.

Moments later, on the Royal Greene stage…

“-and so, by Sun, Moon, and Harmony, I, Cyrus Huang, swear fealty to the crown of Equestria. May the princessdom extend eternally.” Not as elegant as it could have been, but good enough. Cyrus remains kneeling, head bowed to the point where his neck hurt. His knee was begging for mercy as it stayed firmly planted on the carpet, right in front of the two towering princesses. Behind them, the smell of burnt magnesium wafts, carried over by a gentle breeze along with the pops of camera flashes.

Celestia was beaming her usual smile of love and acceptance, AKA smile number five, AKA the ‘public relations’ smile. What she really wanted to do was beam her smile of justified smugness, AKA smile number NEVER, AKA I-only-do-this-to-Luna smile.

Cyrus, that beautiful bastard, using his perfect hurricane of words, had absolutely blasted the flock of rag-writers gathered among the audience at the Royal Greene into a sense of pure fear. Something that Celestia wished upon every iota of her blazing sun that she could do herself.

She wishes she could do a lot of things. Sadly, ‘image’ exists, lest things become too difficult for her.

Celestia strains her ears. Only nature fills them. Not a single word of badgering annoyance from the press. The equivalent of a beautiful symphony.

The towering white alicorn breathes out a silent sigh of utter contentment. It was a beautiful day. She looks to her sister who is currently having her hoof kissed by Cyrus in a rather odd display. Cyrus wasn’t bent quite low enough for Luna to comfortably place her hoof into his… flesh talon thing, so she had to awkwardly splay her hindlegs a bit for better purchase on the floor. As in she had to assume the ‘position’. Celestia tries her damned hardest not to laugh. Cyrus remained as clueless as ever, pressing his lips against Luna’s baby-blue regalia.

Hm… truly a boon. Perhaps I shall invite him for lunch one day. I’d like to know more about him… Celestia muses, her mind already ravaging the sure to be fully stocked pantry of pastries the kitchen staff were ordered to prepare before she got on stage. Luna’s hoof finds its place on the wooden stage with a muffled clop. Cyrus, head still bowed as he was instructed, shuffles in front of Celestia.

Well. My turn to look ridiculous… Celestia shuffles her hind legs, lifting her hoof in the air with utter regality, splayed like a mare in heat…

She couldn’t care less, she was giddy, practically prancing on clouds.

Her sister finally had a real friend again. A friend who would stand up for her, thick and thin. A friend who would brave the consequences of having public opinion against him if it meant protecting the honor of little sister.

She had only heard from Luna, never seen with her own eyes the character of Cyrus. Too used to dealing with the painted, perfect masks of politicians and social climbers, Celestia always kept doubts, a nasty habit.

Cyrus Huang… interesting name. I shall endeavor to keep you safe… Well as much as I can. Celestia resolves, watching as Cyrus planted a dainty kiss square on the sun shaped crest of her regalia. Celestia’s ear flicks.

Without looking, hearing, or feeling, Celestia somehow surmises that her sister has noticed the position she was in. There was no logic behind it, no fact to justify.

But, she was right. Call it a sixth sense.

Luna’s chest bobs in repressed laughter, only the sound of a short ‘snrk’ escapes her muzzle, incomprehensible to anycreature but the three standing on the stage. Celestia knew for a fact that Luna was smirking the largest and most unprincesslike smirk she could possibly muster behind that royal azure mane of hers.

A thousand years ago Celestia would have been the most annoyed mare on the planet, ready to grate, grind, and grouse to Luna about her ‘inappropriateness’.

But now, Celestia’s heart soars higher than an eagle.

Her only family. And now, maybe, after a thousand years of utter soul crushing solitude, a new friend.

Cyrus cranes back upright, only Celestia’s horn giving her the edge in height. Cyrus spins and shuffles, just like in the clobbered together dress rehearsal, awkwardly squeezing himself behind the two sisters.

*Clomp, clomp*

Cyrus’ shoes hit the ground in practiced cadence.

Her que.

Muscle memory takes over while Celestia imagines the bursting, flavorful sweetness that was sure to come when she bit into her first almond croissant.

Smooth rivulets of sunshine, rainbows, and sickening flowery language flow from Celestia’s mouth, as masterfully practiced as a musician. A tale of how Harmony above had brought a new creature unlike anything Equestria had seen before into the fold of ‘our princessdom’. Tommyrot, poppycock, phooey, and bellywash. All for that nasty dominatrix, ‘image’. Celestia knew too well.

They’ll have only nice things to say about me… bet they’ll badger on about how ‘generous’ I am hosting this ‘monster’. Rats… Celestia’s bitter machinations are almost enough to spoil Celestia’s second course of imaginary cake.

Almost. The power of raspberry lava cake is boundless.

The speech ends to a round of marvelous applause and the three step exit stage left, Celestia leads, followed by a still bowing Cyrus who is flanked by Luna. Once wrapped in the solitude of the Royal Greene backstage, the trio let out a collective sigh.

Celestia sighs swooningly, for her marvelous lover, sugar, was waiting for her in the castle.

Cyrus sighs shortly, for his feeling of impending doom was back and hovering above his head, threatening to slam down with the force of a meteor.

Luna sighs in somnolence, for she was really running on fumes at this point.

Celestia is the first to leave, a quick good night to the two nocturnal of the three and she’s racing toward her salacious mistress, leaving the two friends to sag onto the floor. Cyrus covers his face again, retreating behind his shield. The thoughts latch on instantly.

Fuck me man what have I done what did Celestia mean when she said I was bucked will they really come through and try and cut off my head I really don’t want to constantly be-

“C-cyruushhhhhhh *yaaaaawn*” Luna mumbles through mile thick layers of fatigue, the coffee she had drunk coming to collect its toll, plus interest. Cyrus drops his shield, and he is incredibly glad he did, his heart almost melts when he locks eyes with Luna.

Her eyelids remain drooping and dipping, her ears flopped to the side of her face as she was no longer able to keep them standing. She’s letting out the mother of all yawns, a sagging hoof raised to give her decency while her wings spread across the ground in a feathery heap. Sat on her haunches, her dim, star-studded mane circles in front of her chest, flowing like a brook.

Oh. My. God. She can barely keep her eyes open… Cyrus thought as he tries to keep his giggling in check. Luna brings her wing up to her face, rubbing her eye in an attempt to banish her drowsiness. Cyrus’ heart almost liquefies with cuteness.

“Cyrushhhh, I need to shay somefing to thee…” Luna barely squeaks out, dragging herself over toward Cyrus, “Cyrushhhh, thy convicshon ish… *yawn* most…”

Luna’s eyes start to drift close as slumber takes over her brain, her surroundings melting into inky blackness as her body plummets toward the floor. Cyrus, complete with shit eating grin, reacts swiftly, scooping an arm under Luna to protect her head from the floor.

Luna remains drifting, her face a pure display of peace and calm only beat by a slumbering newborn. Tentatively, Cyrus runs a hand through Luna’s mane, marveling at the silky smooth texture of the fibers as they dance along his fingers. Oddly, it did not feel like mist.

Huh. It’s really pretty up close… and her coat is so smooth… Errant thoughts, they disappear as quickly as they arrive in Cyrus’ head. Unable to contain his mirth any longer, he begins to chuckle, the vibrations jolting Luna out of her well deserved peace for a little. Cracking her eyelids open a tad, she brings her brilliant orbs of teal onto Cyrus’ face. Luna’s visage splits into a massive goofy grin.

“Hehehehehe… T-thou art truly too *yawn* forward… Thou dare to touch thy princhess in this sala- *yawn* -chious…” Luna couldn't finish her raunchy joke, words bleeding into yawns back into words. The warmth emanating from Cyrus’ chest was too narcotic for her to keep focus, her wing already subconsciously wrapping around his back like he was her pillow.

Well, according to her sleep deprived brain, Cyrus was her pillow.

Shutting her eyes, she buries her muzzle deep into Cyrus’ neck, seeking the warmth within. She shifts too much and the tickling sensation of her coat on sensitive skin causes Cyrus to let out a few involuntary belly laughs, irritating Luna’s stillness. She jolts up with an adorable snort, snapping her eyes wide open.

“I wished to thank thee for thy conviction in defending me!” Luna blurts, logical brain injecting enough embarrassment into her system to make her realize that practically molesting Cyrus was probably not an okay thing to do. She shifts her mane in front of her purpling cheeks in an attempt to hide the burning shame. Calming down from being victimized by Luna’s precious sleep-deprived antics, Cyrus plants a firm hand on her shoulder.

“Hey, forget about it. You probably would have done the same for me.” Cyrus says, putting on the bravest face he can.

That odd feeling sparks in Luna’s chest again. Only for a flash, quicker than a spark.

Nodding in appreciation, Luna’s muzzle cracks open for perhaps the biggest yawn of the evening. Cyrus quirks an eyebrow.

“Hey, Luna.” He starts.

“Yersh?” The reply from the night princess.

“Bed.”

“*snort* Thou… do not tell-”

“Shut up. Go.”

A large pout.

“Come with me.”

Luna’s prefrontal cortex is just a tad too slow.

Did I just…

“What?” Cyrus blinks.

Did she just…

“No-nothing…”

A brilliant blue flash ignites the room.

.

.

.

.

Hyde Park…

The rancid smell of manure wafts into Cyrus’ nose, causing it to wrinkle in disgust. Near him, the caretakers set to work in grim fashion, shoveling and spreading that crucial shit all over the green. Nasty, but without it, Hyde Park would never look as beautiful as it does. The perfect green grass, the rustling oak leaves whispering in the breeze, the beautiful blue lake reflecting the surrounding city in its infinite depth.

The ducks and swans meander and mingle on the water, allowing animal fancy to take them. Cyrus stops to admire the swans as they dive beneath the mirror-like surface, scavenging for morsels resting at the bottom of the lake. As elegant as they look, he knows that one wrong step and the swans would turn into territorial demons, ready to snap the bones of any creature silly enough to encroach on its personal space.

The flowers were just about blooming, still shy from the increasingly common late frosts that have been hitting. Still, they remain as beautiful as ever, and Cyrus simply has to take a moment to admire them. Always astounding how much beauty existed and how much of it you could see just by stepping out your door.

Hyde Park is a weird one. Smack dab in the middle of central London, it is flanked by some of the most affluent districts London has to offer. Not to mention, the infamous Oxford Street, with all it’s money-laundering American candy stores, runs directly toward it.

But that shit was for tourists. Cyrus was a local, which is why he found himself located on the left side of the Serpentine bridge, down by The Long Water. Away from the jumbled mess of random languages being shouted at volumes that really should be illegal. Twas a Londoner’s dogma to avoid tourists, and Cyrus was no exception to the rule.

Peaceful. There are other local families milling about, pushing strollers past the lake in their secluded cliques. Along the green, sugar-hopped children chase each other whilst barking out made up rules to whatever game they were playing.

“No tagbacks!”

“You didn’t hit me~ I ducked!”

Where the hell do they get their energy, man, Cyrus laments to himself, mind cast back, fishing for memories of his youth, these kids could play for hours. I get tired after thirty minutes of-

A pigeon breaks his line of thinking, swooping in kamikaze style near his head. Cyrus, of course, engages his reflexes and gracefully dips out of the way, throwing out a ‘哇擦 [WTF]’ at the offending rat-with-wings. Turning, he shoots the pigeon a dirty look of annoyance as it pecks at the flakes of crumbled pastry left by a passing businessman as he rammed his Greggs sausage roll down his throat.

We need to start shooting pigeons again, they’re getting too fearless-

As if the universe was listening, Cyrus spots another pigeon out of the corner of his eye making its reckless head dive straight toward him. Cyrus spins.

This time the pigeon course corrects. It wasn’t aiming for the crumbs.

Digging its talons into Cyrus’ head, the pigeon crash lands onto his head, ripping his scalp apart with relentless pecks. Screaming, the poor human rips his hand toward the general direction of the pigeon in an attempt to smack the shit out of it. He makes contact.

The pigeon does not budge, instead its pecking intensifies. Cyrus howls in pain.

The horde is alerted. A cloud of squab attack, cooing, digging, ripping, and eating. Cyrus flails his hands around like a madman, crying murder all the way. His clothes dampen and stick, slicked by blood. Unbeknownst to him, the peaceful scenery melts away into the ground, shadows creeping forward as the sun darkens into the moon.

“OIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII HELLLLLLLLPPPPPP!!” Cyrus gasps through his wild movements, trying to shake any of the randomly murderous birds clinging to his body like he was the first meal they’d had all day. He takes off toward the water in an anguished sprint, diving in as a desperate last resort.

He never makes it to the water, his shoulder comes into contact with soft, spongy grass. The birds disappear in an instant, leaving the poor human to grasp at his now non-existent wounds.

“Gah! Guh! Get off me! Ahh-”

Cyrus’ mind catches up. He shoots up onto his feet in embarrassment, instantly spinning around to confirm just how many people had seen him have his freakout on the lawn.

There is no-one there. The moon shines a deep, haunting silver onto the surrounding nature, stretching their shadows into frightful proportions.

“Well that was quite the display of… uhhh…”

Cyrus whips around to the noise. There stands a very familiar looking old man. His blue suit almost looks metallic under the intense glowing moonlight. Wrinkles break out around his smug smile, spreading in deja vu inducing patterns.

Who is? How did I miss him?! Cyrus ponders, frustration at his incredibly evident lack of knowledge growing in his chest. The old man gestures to a bench that wasn’t there before, sitting and crossing his legs calmly.

“Um. Do I know you?” Cyrus asks, squinting and scrunching his features as if that would help him pick out some connecting detail to solve his current conundrum. The old man lets out a string of harsh laughter in response, flicking his head to the sky and sending his silver hair spiraling in the process.

“Yes and no. Maybe so? 告诉你啊，我也不知道 [I’ll tell you what, I don’t even know].” The old man flips between Chinese and English with such practiced ease, not a single drop in pronunciation present. Pulling out his also incredibly familiar red rimmed slab of a book, he starts to skim, muttering as he flips through the pages. Sensing Cyrus’ stirring discontentment and unease, the old man holds a hand up while keeping his eyes glued on the flipping pages.

“No, not this… no… I was sure… Ah! Found it!” The old man whoops in a cheer, hand landing on the paragraph of tiny text he was looking for. Squinting, he folds his body to bring his face as close to his book as possible.

Cyrus desperately wants to pretend like this somehow incredibly sharply dressed and linguistically skilled weirdo wasn’t interacting with him and silently shuffle away.

But there was just something tugging at the back of his mind. Something telling him that this old man was worth listening to. Something about advice.

“Okay, Here we go! Noctra Za’lav mannerisms and culture!” The old man brings his piercing green eyes back to Cyrus, “this is going to be really important soon so I suggest you pay attention.”

The young pianist cocks an eyebrow, but his innate curiosity glues his feet to the ground. Clearing his throat, the old man cranes back down to read out a section.

“Noctra Za’lav do not bow their heads as a sign of respect. It is, in fact, the opposite. If a member of Noctra Za’lav raises their head while hiding their fangs with their tongue, it means they are showing you great respect. The head raising is them exposing their throat to potential predators, while the hiding of the fangs should-”

“Okay what the fuck does any of this have to do with me?” Cyrus blurts, impatience starting to win out. The old man looks up, rolling his eyes in a show of pure annoyance and shooting Cyrus a death glare.

“红线小子 [Red string kid], you keep quiet, okay? I’m taking a big gamble here, imparting this information upon you. Kinda leaving myself open for that motherfucker to land a big dent in my plans. Have a little respect and keep that yapper of yours shut.” The old man snaps with the crankiness of a thousand angry retirees rejecting the soup they just ordered on the grounds that it looked too salty. Cyrus glowers, but relents. Something was telling him that this old man was trying to help. Snapping the book shut, the old man stands, his eyes stabbing straight through Cyrus’ soul as if he knew every secret Cyrus had ever kept in his life.

“We good? Okay, cuz that bitch of a guard dog you have is starting to bark really fucking loud. Listen. They’re coming. You gotta try and remember what I told you about them. I’m cheating here, so that means mister-”

The old man is cut off by the sudden, rapid reddening of their surroundings. The old man lets out a guttural slew of Chinese cuss words as he scans the sky. He brings his attention back to an increasingly nervous and confused Cyrus.

“树，他的项链- [Tree, his necklace-]”

The old man never gets to finish his thought as he explodes in a brilliant shower of crimson. Where he once stood, a towering black spike of obsidian stands.

Cyrus’ voice goes hoarse from the screams. Above him, the moon crumbles to dust, leaving a rust coloured eye where it once stood, training its malicious pupil right onto Cyrus. The sky begins to crack, shards of night crashing to the ground, sending clouds of dirt and debris upwards in giant-

Blood.

Pain.

The chanting, it hurts his ears.

Rip them down!

On everything precious to him, he’d turn his back for-

Cyrus blasts upright in his bed.

His head finds his hands, the tears find his cheeks.

The fear gnaws. His mind churns. It arrives, right on cue.

The battleground is wrought with misery once more.

.

.

.

.

The badlands…

Swaths of brown stretches as far as the pegasus can fly, unending and unceasing in its sun-baked drabness. Ordinarily, daytime travel would be made impossible by the ruthless sun, slaughtering any creature foolish enough to toil under it. That is why travel only happens at night, or through the spiraling labyrinth of tunnels located under the cracked earth.

Vegetation scarcely exists, save for some of the hardiest shrubs nature had to offer. Animal life is equally minimal, the only diversity provided by the tough insects and rugged birds. Which is why, at this current moment, two very out of place batponies were haggling with a poor traveling pegasus merchant.

“Ve trade for ze vood, yes?”

The merchant is shaking to the point his wares are slipping out of his saddlebags. Lakla sighs, shaking her head in sweeping, dejected arcs, Darvius gulps, strained smile still lingering on his face. The merchant’s skittish gaze flickers between muzzle and harsh red eyes, unsure which is the freakier feature.

Perhaps haggling was the wrong word. Convincing may be more appropriate.

“Umh. Did I zay wrong? Vood,” Darvius gestures toward the caged badland three-tailed wombat in the merchant’s cart with his leathery wing, “vor zis,” he shakes the bag of gold held tightly in his hoof, flashing his fangy smile again.

Lakla’s heart warms at the sight of her lover’s smile, its fanged countenance glinting in the silvery moonlight. She loved the way his cheeks dimpled and how the corners of his eyes would crinkle, the perfect framing for his deep pupils of kindness. She adored running her hoof through his curly mane of sparkling navy blue, tracing its flowing rivulets toward his withers, groomed to perfection. To her, he was the pinnacle of stallion-like grace and beauty.

On the other hoof, the merchant almost pisses herself as the red eyed batpony’s fangs split wider in his maw. She can't help but imagine her neck in the way of them, sinking deeper and deeper as they ferry her to her demise. His eyes reflect the moonlight, glinting exactly like the century old demon who guarded the vault of souls from the latest issue of Hearts Intertwined (Equestria’s premier supernatural smut series). His mane is slick, glowing mystically under the moon (again, much like in Hearts Intertwined). To her, he was the pinnacle of I-will-murder-you-and-there-will-be-no-trace (not from Hearts Intertwined, rather a detective series known as Manehatten Murders).

Perhaps she reads too much.

The petrified merchant lets out a pathetic squeak. Darvius sighs, defeat winning out. Dutiful as ever, Lakla steps out, delicately draping her wing onto his back, rubbing the spot she knows he likes in a hasty circle. Clearing her throat, she wrenched the attention of the merchant onto her.

“Hello,” Lakla’s accent is much more practiced, “we were wondering if we could purchase that three-tail over there.” She flicks her snoot to the slumbering wombat, hiding her fangs with her tongue. Of course, she was wearing her special see-through blindfold as mandated by those who are allowed outside the coven.

They really should have received some training… Lakla muses, unease at their current situation taking root at the pits of her stomach once more.

It was all too soon. So strangely rushed and hurried that Lakla couldn’t help but lose multiple nights of sleep thinking about all the tiny things that could go wrong.

But the High Elder had spoken. Most unlike him.

Darvius’ grateful nuzzle snaps Lakla out of her funk. She turns her attention back to the shivering merchant. If they didn’t secure food within the next forty five minutes, that meant they’d have to go with his plan. That fleabag.

Brantus.

Creature! He has doomed us all in his rancid haste! Hot-headed stupidity-

“U-Um, h-he’s n-not for sale!” The merchant finally squeaks out, finally regaining her wits, “h-he’s my p-pet!” The focus is shifted from dark rumination and back onto the procurement of food.

“P-e-t?” Darvius confusedly sounds out to himself, rolling the syllables around in his mouth like an unfamiliar strain of blood, “so, vat means-”

“Deepest apologies, dear traveler, we did not mean to cause offense. Unless there is another animal we can trade for, we shall be on our way.” Lakla firmly cuts through before Darvius’ bumbling can make the situation any worse. The merchant desperately shakes her head, ejecting a shrill ‘nope’ in response before zipping off at the speed of sound, leaving behind only a silhouette of dust. Darvius raises his eyebrow, glancing at Lakla with perhaps the most innocently confused expression she had ever seen him with.

“So, whats a… P-E-T?” Darvius clicks, romanizing the unfamiliar word as carefully and slowly as possible so as not to be misconstrued. Threstalian is a difficult language. Lakla looses a half frustrated, half conceded sigh; it had been a long night.

“Sort of an animal that you keep around for companionship. You don’t eat them.” Lakla tries her best to explain to the increasingly befuddled Darvius.

“Why keep an animal around if you aren’t-”

“They just do! Okay? They just do!” Lakla snaps, gnawing frustration chewing through her patience and coming through in her impassioned clicks. Darvius flinches. Lakla cringes, knitting her brow into something more empathetic, fluttering in for an ‘I’m sorry’ nuzzle.

“Apologies, love, I lost to my anger. It’s just… this situation has been…” Lakla can’t summon the courage to click out the rest of her thoughts. Darvius’ muzzle shifts to a ponderous pout.

“Yes. This situation… I believe the decision was too hasty. I’m sure you feel the same. We are marching without a clear destination. And the compromise…” Darvius’ nostrils widen in an incredibly rare display of anger at the thought of their companions. House Acheron, Brantus and Y’valt. Their overzealous, dangerous, and incredibly violent traveling partners. Lakla instantly picks up, snorting out her own vexation through her nose.

“Yes… them. Grass-eaters… speaking of…” Lakla spreads her wings, stepping in front Darvius, crouching and baring her fangs. Brantus strides forward, unfazed by the aggressive and protective display of Lakla. Y’valt creeps like a shadow behind Brantus, fixing her battered muzzle directly onto Brantus’ back. Lakla growls.

Of the scouts, Y’valt was probably her least favorite. In fact, she was everypony’s least favorite given the amount of times the squad had to clean up her messes. Kvarid-Slishlef, Hate-Unchained, was her unofficial nickname.

Of course, true to her nickname, as soon as Y’valt spots Lakla, she pounces to meet her muzzle, a snarl of her own imprinted on the scarred tissue snaking her visage. Brantus spits on the floor.

“You let them get away.” He coldly clicks, stomping a hoof in anger. Lakla’s head lowers closer to the ground, her lips slowly rising to unsheathe more and more of her pearly fangs. Y’valt matches, hissing and frothing at the mouth at the prospect of combat. Darvius scoffs, flapping a wing dismissively.

This makes Brantus inconsolably mad. But he must keep his cool. The High Elder has spoken.

“We will find food. You two stay. Lakla, we take flight.” Darvius orders, cooly stepping past the rabid Y’valt with a calm grace. Lakla drops her hostility and follows her lover’s instruction, not before kicking dust onto Y’valt’s hooves. Y’valt bristles, rearing back on her hind legs.

She would not be disrespected in this way.

Brantus’ hoof finds her wither. She lowers to the ground, still glowering, disappointed her fangs did not make contact with flesh.

“Patience, dear. The High Elder has spoken. Best not to disrespect his orders. Worry not. Once Noctra Havarax is informed of house Hunt’s blatant weakness…” Brantus whisper-clicks into Y’valt’s ear. It’s barely enough to contain her as she traces the silhouettes of Darvius and Lakla flying through the sky. She wishes she could tear them from the clouds and rip their wings off, string their guts across the ground like the disgusting weaklings they were.

Hate is not spared between house Acheron and house Hunt.

But the High Elder had chosen them. They would make the pilgrimage.

It certainly is a long way to Canterlot.

Author's Note

ELLO!

Slow update, soz, but hope it's good.

So... how about that Jude Bellingham goal, huh? You can thank him for this chapter. Without his goal I probably would have spent the week in a massive funk sulking instead of writing.

AS ALWAYS FEEDBACK APPRECIATED & thank you guys for reading!