"Bells played a central role in premodern Equestria. They were used to broadcast time of day, special messages, weather information, emergencies, celebrations, and more. A manuscript from 1500 BNM describes one of the grandest uses of a town's bells - an indulgent medley that signalled the arrival of the Princesses.
'So the streets were decked in flowers of every coloration, and the bells cried hoarsely, so loud they could be heard deep in the Everfree, where they scared off game. The Princesses, in their stately gowns, bid hush so we could better hear their dulcet tones. I have never heard them sound so sweet as when Luna Herself was transfixed by their song…'"

Longhoof, "Liturgy in Premodern Equestria."

I second-guessed myself before I stepped out of the front door.

It was far too late at that point - Spike had been tucked into his childhood bed, Mom and Dad had been assured that this was a routine outing, and Celestia was none the wiser. My saddlebags were full to bursting; emergency supplies, research notes, and my journal (aglow with a scrawled message). The gears were in motion - they weren’t going to screech to a halt for a little anxiety.

None of that stopped the wormy sensation of doubt that wiggled its way through my lungs, growing larger and larger until it felt dense and tangible - a hairball I could have choked on.

I closed my eyes and repeated what Mom had said to me last night when, on this very doorstep, I’d been on the verge of tears. Breathe. Ground yourself. If you want to turn back - so be it. This will always be your home, Twilight.

I crossed the threshold and made sure to shut the door behind me.

The sky was still dark, though bands of light were marching in legions towards the zenith. Lamplights beat against their glassy cages, sending shadows fluttering like butterflies. The streets all seemed to converge towards the eastern horizon - invisible behind the skyline, whose buildings got taller every year. Sometimes, it felt like everything in this kingdom grew towards the sun.

I kept a steady tempo as I walked. One hoof, two hoof, canter, carefree. The first step to not being suspicious was acting like you had nothing to hide. The second step was believing it.

Onwards, sprightly as a sparrow, down Theater Boulevard (a marketing stunt so successful the name had persisted long after the business had shuttered), along the Cousine Canal (a hotspot for the candycane black market), to the manufacturing district, where machinery sang unceasing hymns to industrialization and the canals ran black with soot. I cantered just a little faster and tried not to breathe.

The manufacturing district, with its belching smokestacks and endless stream of workers, was the bulwark of the richer neighborhoods. I supposed the industrialists preferred seeing their factories on the horizon to the slums that - make no mistake - they had had just as much of a hoof in creating.

I slowed when the streets narrowed to single-file width. If I walked just a block or two further, the city would fall away under my hooves.

Built as it was on the side of a mountain, Canterlot didn’t have much room to expand. So, anytime land near the castle got bought up to build another rich neighborhood, the people living there were pushed further and further out, until eventually they were over the rim of the Canterhorn and clinging to sheer cliff faces like mountain goats.

I couldn’t go down there, where the streets plunged towards sea level and the houses cried for succor from gravity. I could barely even stay here, where the buildings twisted upwards like competing trees, swallowing the last of the nascent sunlight into their concrete canopies.

Academically, I knew that it was the best possible time to go for a walk: at that precise hour, I was threading the needle between the haunt of the ne'er-do-wells and the hours when the streets were packed with day-workers. I knew that it had been years since the last major landslide, and almost a decade since one without survivors. I knew that Celestia had assigned her best structural engineers to the area - in fact, looking over the edge for a vertiginous millisecond, I could see the scaffolding keeping some of the more precarious constructions in place.

I could rattle off crime statistics, and which streets to avoid, and how to blend in. I had, many times, in preparation. Still, every shadow loomed, and every side-alley rattle made me jump.

I turned left and continued walking.

The edge (“The Lowlands”, in posh speak) was prime real estate, fresh pickings for young professionals who wanted a bit of spice in their life before they returned to their family homes and stately furnishings. Most buildings around here were apartments, a minimum of five stories high and with private security. The alleys around them smelled of burnt incense with an undertone of dead things.

My voice wobbled like laminated paper. “Spike, take a - nevermind.”

The echo persisted for a couple of seconds, mocking me with its shakiness and lack of conviction. At least if I was being followed, I’d hear it pretty easily.

What kind of tail would follow me in here, anyways?

I didn’t bother pursuing the thought. If there was a will, there was a way - and Celestia’s agents were more cunning than most.

And, now, I was overthinking. Catastrophizing. If I was going to get caught, it would’ve been when I’d snuck into the restricted section of the Canterlot archives. Or when I’d tracked down Sun Chaser, a former academic of erstwhile renown who’d spent the past five years living off the land in Whitetail Woods. Or when I was corresponding with -

• I wasn’t going to think about that. One thing at a time, I told myself. Worry about getting there, and then you can worry about her.

Besides, they weren’t going to wait until I went to a place where even the streetlamps had ulterior motives to haul me off in handcuffs. If they wanted me gone, they would’ve found me on their own terms.

The absurdity of it was almost funny. The implications of my rebellious actions hadn’t even felt real until today morning - until I’d grappled with leaving everything I’d ever known behind. Spike. My parents. Raven. Crotchety old Inkwell. Shiny. Cadance. Hay, even Celestia. She’d been my mentor for seven years - a couple of epistolatory conversations couldn’t even begin to change that.

Still, here I was. Deep in a brick-and-mortar forest, answering the call of the Big Bad Wolf, hoping the Bigger, Badder Grandma hadn’t set her people on my scent.

She wouldn’t have. Blood of the covenant and all.

You better hope you’re right, a mutinous voice sneered. Blood of the womb didn’t stop her doing much, much worse…

I tried to keep my breathing steady. Hyperventilation was suspicious. A panic attack here would attract attention I didn’t want. And couldn’t afford.

They could have lured you here. They could have captured her when she came out of the mirror and taken her journal. In fact, I think they have. Now, they’re going to disappear you. Just like they disappeared Luna.

“Sunshine, sunshine, ladybirds awake…”

I sang under my breath the rest of the way, tapping out a tune with my steps when I was gasping so hard I couldn’t make a peep. It was only two blocks, at that point, so it didn’t matter that I was playing hopscotch to make progress.

You’re almost there. Three steps, two steps, one…

I stopped at a cross-street that looked like it had been scored with a knife. Slab-of-brick buildings hemmed it in on both sides, and if I’d been just a little wider I wouldn’t have fit.

I removed my saddlebags, levitated them in front of me, and walked the length of the street without hesitation. There was no room for hesitation, here and now. If I’d wanted to hesitate, I should’ve done it before agreeing to this harebrained scheme.

The sun had just crested the horizon when I emerged onto the spur, jutting out from the Canterhorn into the sky. Canterlot hadn’t yet grown desperate enough to literally build into thin air, but with the way things were going I gave it only a couple more years. There was only one structure here - a Gothic belfry, towering and imposing, built into the side of the mountain. My destination.

I walked right past its imposing facade and wrought-iron trellis. Instead, I followed a trail worn into the dirt - a natural continuation of the street I had just been on. It led me a ways up the spur, onto a knoll with knee-high grass billowing in the early-morning wind.

There, I stopped.

I closed my eyes.

I turned towards the horizon, letting the wind and sunlight play in tandem across my face.

I breathed. In, out, in, metronomic and even.

“You’re here,” I said, and had to sit down.

Anxiety was a strange mistress. For awhile, it gripped you by the throat. Then, abruptly, it faded. Hope blossomed. Dreams returned. The world seemed… brighter, somehow.

Or maybe that was just the rising sun, splitting the sky into a rainbow of color. In that light, with the dew against my barrel and warmth against my eyes, what could possibly do me harm?

I thought of the route I’d just walked. How different would the sidewalks look after the revolution? The buildings? The canals? The people?

I thought of the journal and the last message Sunset had left me before she’d (presumably) crossed through the mirror.

Meet me at the Lunar Cathedral - it’s an abandoned building on the easternmost spur of the Canterhorn. I’ll be there at first light.

I thought of Luna and how we were going to bring her back.

The spire of the cathedral caught the light of the sun, glinting like an uncut jewel. It was a grand old thing, all gargoyles and vaulted arches and granite. I let my eyes track down its squat posture, all the way to the base…

…where a cloaked figure, all shadows and soft edges, was barreling towards me with far too much haste for comfort.

Anxiety is a strange mistress. It’ll make you worry endlessly about distant, inconsequential, or even impossible threats, while for some reason making you ignore real ones.

In fairness to me, my bout of hyperventilation had probably deprived my brain of all the oxygen I needed to make split-second decisions. So, even as the figure advanced towards me, I didn’t move.

“Can I help you?” I asked. I guess I was thinking it was a crusty old crone who was going to ask me to get off her lawn.

“Look away,” the figure said in tones far more dulcet than any shadowy figure I’d ever known.

“What?” I asked, and by the time it finally clicked that I might be in danger, it was already too late.

“Look away!”

The figure flicked her hood up - I saw a flash of red hair, green eyes, a blazing horn -

• then everything went black.

Author's Note

Wow, I wasn't kidding when I said this thing was going up in whatever state I got it to. Tone is kinda all over the place, I had a really hard time balancing where I want this to be (campy adventure) with the seriousness of Twilight and Sunset fighting a deep seated conspiracy in the highest levels of governance. But I'm proud of it, especially with all my false starts and especially since I wrote this entire thing in the five hours I had after work today. There might be some broken formatting in here, let me know if so and I will fix it. Hope y'all enjoy!