Chapter 7: A Glimpse of Fire

Bad Apple lay sprawled on the dingy cot, his body aching with every shallow breath. The room smelled of sweat, blood, and damp stone, the underground air heavy with humidity. His wounds, sluggishly closing on their own, left faint trails of steam as his magic worked to mend his battered flesh. He coughed hard, spitting blood onto the floor—it hissed as if boiling on impact.

"Celestia," he muttered, voice rough as gravel. "Almost overdid it." His tongue swiped over a split lip. "That bastard Griffin. Damn near went for my eyes." He exhaled sharply, wincing as his ribs protested. "Hope they ain't dead. Nah, they were still breathin'... reckon their wings ain’t busted neither."

He shifted, staring at the stained curtain separating him from the rest of the makeshift infirmary. Movement beyond it caught his eye, subtle but unmistakable. He wasn’t alone. Someone had been lingering there for a while, waiting—watching. He narrowed his eyes.

Could be three options, he thought grimly. A slave, the doc... or—

"Ahhh, what a fight!" a voice interrupted, slick and oily, dripping with mockery. "The blood, the tears, the crunch of hooves on Griffin beak! What a show, pony. What a soul you’ve got there!"

The curtain swished aside to reveal a Diamond Dog bedecked in gaudy finery. His golden fangs gleamed as he grinned wide, his fur patchy but well-groomed. Every inch of him sparkled—rings on his clawed fingers, jewels inlaid into his leather vest, a gold chain dangling loosely around his neck.

"Bling," Bad Apple grumbled, slowly pushing himself upright despite the protests of his healing body. "Where’s my damn bits?"

Bling’s grin faltered momentarily, but only long enough to shift into something more calculated. He sauntered closer, his claws clicking against the stone floor. "Ah, yes, yes, pony’s bits. Always so impatient." His voice carried the telltale Diamond Dog accent, but it was smoother, almost serpentine. He produced a small bag from somewhere within his ornate vest and tossed it casually onto the cot.

Bad Apple eyed the bag with suspicion. "Looks light."

Bling’s smile grew sharper, and he reached into his vest again, producing a second, equally full bag. This one he lobbed with a bit more flair, causing it to land with a satisfying thud. "Happy now? Pony has sharp eyes! Are you sure you’re not half Diamond Dog? Maybe half of a half?"

Bad Apple snorted, his expression unamused. "If I was, I wouldn’t be a half. I’d be a quarter or a third." He gave the Diamond Dog a flat look. "And no, I ain’t got a drop of that mud blood in me. Not somethin’ I’m losin’ sleep over neither."

Bling cackled, slapping his thigh as though it were the funniest thing he’d ever heard. "Ah, but what a shame, pony! If more of you had a little Diamond Dog in you, maybe you'd dig holes better, hmm? Might make your kind more useful."

Bad Apple’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling slightly. "Don’t know why y’all even need ponies diggin’. Thought y’all were supposed to be the best at it. Seems... counterproductive."

Bling wagged a finger, his grin unwavering. "Ah, but you ponies! You have soft hooves, soft backs. Ponies complain so much about little digging. Makes it entertaining for us. And maybe, just maybe, you dig better when you’re desperate."

The room fell into a tense silence, Bling’s chuckle filling the space. Bad Apple didn’t respond immediately, just leveled him with a hard, unblinking glare. The Diamond Dog scratched at one of his golden fangs, finally breaking the moment. "Well, pony," he said with a mock bow, "your bits are paid. Your wounds are healing, yes? My business here is done."

Bling turned on his heel, the glitter of his back catching the dim lantern light. But as he reached the doorway, he cast a sly look over his shoulder. "But do let me know when you’re ready for your next fight, hmm? You make such a... spectacular mess."

Bad Apple didn’t answer, watching silently as Bling disappeared. He spat another glob of blood onto the floor, listening to it hiss.

"One o’ these days," he muttered to himself, voice low, "that mutt’s gonna bite off more than he can chew."

Bad Apple leaned back on the cot, his legs stretched out as his muscles loosened with each creak of the worn Stone beneath him. The two heavy sacks of bits sat within reach, their presence a strange comfort. He slid them closer with a forehoof, his lips pulling into a contemplative line.

How’m I gonna explain this one? he thought, his eyes narrowing. "Did some extra work for the Rich family" was the first excuse that crossed his mind, but he discarded it just as fast. His dad’d talk to Filthy Rich’s dad at the market, and that lie’d fall apart in no time.

Ma wouldn’t buy it either. She’d already been askin’ too many questions about where he disappeared to on the weekends and how he’d been squirrelin’ away so much money. He groaned softly, the ache in his chest unrelated to his wounds.

Could just say I took on some city work, he mused. But even that meant he’d have to leave Ponyville for real—spend a weekend or two outta sight to make it stick. His mind drifted to the smugglers, the memory surfacing uninvited. The thought of working with them again made his stomach twist. The last job had been profitable—too profitable. But it had also been wrong, the kind of wrong that left a stain he couldn’t wash off.

His jaw tightened, teeth pressing together as the images resurfaced unbidden. The last delivery—a cart of ponies. He’d promised himself never again, no matter how big the payday. He remembered that mare with the blonde mane and familiar green eyes. Applejack’s eyes. His chest twisted with guilt, his teeth grinding until he tasted a faint copper tang.

No. Not that. Never again.

He let out a sharp breath, shaking off the thought as he stared at the worn ceiling. He barely noticed the faint click of nails on stone until a new voice broke the silence.

“Well, well. Champ’s awake,” the voice crooned, raspy but unmistakably feminine, carrying a mocking edge. “Not lookin’ for tender care, are ya? You want that, best stick with yer pony doctors. Not some unlicensed bitch workin’ the pits.”

Bad Apple turned his head and smirked at the silhouette of the Diamond Dog stepping into view. She was smaller than most of her kind, wiry rather than bulky, her patched fur a light sandy color. Her features, though marred with a few faint scars, had a sharper elegance than the usual rough-hewn appearance of her kin.

“Don’t sell yerself short, Tova. Whatever you rubbed on me did the trick,” he drawled, his accent thick with lazy sarcasm.

Tova huffed, crossing her lean forearms with claws idly tapping against her elbows. “Don’t waste flattery on me, pony. I ain’t one o’ those soft mares you chat up in your little village. We both know you’re healin’ fast ‘cause o’ that dragon blood in yer veins, not my care.”

Bad Apple chuckled low, wincing slightly as the motion tugged at his side. “Ain’t as special as you think. Wouldn’t work so good if you hadn’t sprinkled somethin’ fancy on me.” He sniffed the faintly lingering scent of the salve on his coat. “Could smell the sapphire in it.”

Tova’s lips curled into a smirk as she walked closer, her claws clicking lightly. “Don’t thank me. Thank Bling. He told me to fix ya up good. Wouldn’t waste our best stuff on just any fighter.”

“Guess it’s good to be the champ then,” Bad Apple quipped, his smirk sharpening.

Tova let out a dry chuckle as she invaded his space, her sharp yellow eyes scanning his wounds. She leaned close, tilting her head. “Most of it’s healed,” she murmured, her voice softening slightly as she tapped a claw near his split lip without touching it. “That one? That’ll take a bit longer. Any normal pony’d be stitched up by now, but you...” She trailed off, a note of curiosity coloring her tone.

“Weird, ain’t it?” Bad Apple muttered, watching her expression.

Tova smirked, her gaze meeting his as she tilted his chin slightly. “Gonna tell me which fool pony got themselves under a dragon to make you?”

He jerked his head back, scowling. “Not how it happened.”

“Touchy,” she teased, holding up a paw in mock surrender. “Just jokin’, pony.”

“No, you weren’t,” he shot back before calming himself with a long exhale. He rested his head against the cot, closing his eyes. “Like I said before. Mad doc tampered with ponies, spiked ‘em with dragon blood. Most of ‘em didn’t make it. The ones that did...” His voice trailed off, eyes opening to meet hers. “Well, here I am. Guessin’ the success rate wasn’t great.”

Tova snorted, retreating to her cluttered workbench. “Ha! If that was real, your doc’d be a hero. A genius. Pity experiments like that ain’t legal, huh?”

“Yeah, pity,” Bad Apple murmured with bitter sarcasm, shifting until his back popped. “And the only one outta the litter that got these ‘abilities’? Me. If that tells ya anythin’.”

Tova paused, her claws idly rolling a small vial of sparkling liquid. “Fair point. Though maybe you’ve been hangin’ with us too long. You’re startin’ to sound like a Diamond Dog.”

Bad Apple chuckled low, watching her lithe frame from where he rested. Her build was compact but well-formed, her movements efficient and quick. There weren’t many scars on her, not for a pit medic—maybe she was smarter than most of her kind. His blood stirred faintly, a familiar heat boiling beneath his skin. He forced himself to calm, swallowing the urge down as he muttered, “So, no scars?”

Tova glanced over her shoulder, her voice matter-of-fact. “None. That bird didn’t get through that ridiculous hide o’ yours. Split lip’s about it.”

“Guess I should be grateful.”

“Guess so,” Tova replied, returning to her workbench with a faint smirk lingering on her lips.

Bad Apple couldn’t help himself. His eyes trailed over Tova’s toned form, from the subtle flex of her lean legs to the idle wag of her sword-like tail. She moved with precision, her every action sharp and deliberate, a stark contrast to the bulky, clumsy Diamond Dogs he’d grown used to. When she flicked her bloodstained doctor’s coat aside to reach for something, it gave him the briefest glimpse of her tight, glistening—

“Whoa there, whoa there!” Applejack’s voice cut in, loud and sharp. Her freckled face was already turning as red as one of Granny’s prized apples. “Ain’t no reason to go that deep, Bad Apple! Celestia’s sake, we don’t need ta know what you’re into!”

Her expression twisted as though she’d just bitten into a rotten apple. “Diamond Dogs, though? Really? Don’t know how ya even find ‘em attractive. They remind me too much o’ Winona when she’s all muddy and matted!”

Big Mac, who’d been quietly sitting off to the side, hid his amusement behind a hoof, his green eyes twinkling as he threw Applejack a sly look.

Bad Apple rolled his eyes, leaning back lazily. His polished tone carried just a hint of his old accent, like a ghost of Sweet Apple Acres haunting his words. “You’re still squeamish about sex talk, AJ? Seriously, how old are you now?”

Applejack fidgeted, glancing away as she muttered, “Ain’t got nothin’ ta do with age, you ornery—”

Bad Apple’s smirk widened, cutting her off. “Hold up a minute,” he drawled, letting his voice slip into an exaggerated parody of their childhood twang. “Don’t tell me you’re still a virgin, Applejack.”

Applejack’s eyes widened to the size of saucers, her whole body stiffening like she’d been caught buckin’ the wrong tree. “I—no! Course I ain’t!” she blurted, her voice cracking slightly as she forced a nervous grin. “Had plenty o’ stallion dick!”

The awkwardness of her delivery hit like a buck to the ribs. Bad Apple raised an eyebrow, utterly unconvinced. Her terrible lying had always been her undoing.

“Oh really?” he said smoothly, glancing toward Big Mac with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Hey, Big Mac. You ever seen Applejack with any stallions? Or mares, for that matter?”

Applejack’s face turned an even deeper shade of crimson, her jaw dropping. The scandalized look on her face made Big Mac’s lips twitch as he fought to suppress a laugh. After a moment’s pause, he deadpanned, “Nope.”

And that was all it took. Bad Apple broke into laughter, the sound rich and full, while Big Mac chuckled low and slow, clearly enjoying his sister’s mortified silence.

Applejack’s patience snapped like a twig under pressure. She lunged forward and smacked Bad Apple’s shoulder with enough force to rock him slightly. “Ow!” he barked, though the grin never left his face.

“That’s what ya get fer bein’ a jerk,” Applejack huffed, crossing her hooves indignantly.

“Alright, alright,” Bad Apple said, waving a hoof as his laughter finally started to die down. “But next time, don’t interrupt me, and maybe you won’t have to deal with my colorful commentary.” He winked, and Applejack grumbled under her breath, her ears still burning.

Big Mac leaned back, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips as Applejack muttered, “Jus’ finish your stupid story already.”

Bad Apple stretched his legs out, the pop of his joints audible as he settled back into his storytelling mode. He closed his eyes briefly, letting his mind drift back to the memory he’d been recounting.

Tova’s sharp, raspy voice and the flick of her tail filled his senses again, the faint scent of sapphire in the air grounding him as the flashback surged forward like a wave.

“Still here, pony?” Tova teased, her voice lilting with amusement. She turned from her workstation, a deviant smirk curling across her muzzle. “You finally ready to roll in the hay with me?”

Bad Apple felt his cheeks warm despite himself. He stood quickly, brushing off his embarrassment with a shake of his mane. “Maybe another time,” he replied coolly, trying to sound nonchalant as he made his way toward the exit, a curtain marking the cage’s entrance.

Behind him, Tova giggled, the sound soft and raspy. She barked sharply, catching his attention just before he pushed the curtain aside. “Oh! Don’t head to the third cave—it collapsed earlier. You’ll need to go around. The path’ll take you closer to the Everfree entrance.”

Bad Apple let out a heavy sigh, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. “At least tell me there’s someone guardin’ the entrance outside. Don’t wanna deal with those wooden mutts again, or worse, end up with more rumors about me sneakin’ around the Everfree. Last time, ponies started talkin’ ‘bout rituals and dark magic after I had to fight through a pack of Timberwolves.”

Tova chuckled darkly, her teeth flashing as she leaned casually against the table. “Cryin’ about a few wooden wolves? It’s not like their teeth can even pierce your skin, champ.”

Bad Apple rolled his eyes, his tone dry. “True, but that sticky sap they call blood gets everywhere. Try scrubbin’ it off after—it’s worse than pitch. Besides, I don’t even know why they have it, seein’ as they reform themselves anyway.”

Tova smirked, a low chuckle rumbling in her throat. “You’ll live. But, yes, there’re a couple of the new recruits guarding the entrance. They’ve got a fire goin’ to keep the wolves away. Quit yer whining.”

Before he could respond, she slapped his flank with her paw, the sharp smack ringing out in the cavern. “Now get moving, pony,” she said, already turning back to her lab without a second glance.

Bad Apple shot her a sideways smirk as he adjusted his posture. “Tell ya what—next time I come down here, let’s grab a drink together.”

Tova didn’t even turn around, her voice clipped and teasing. “Win your next fight first. I don’t drink with losers.”

He barked out a laugh, shaking his head as he pushed through the curtain.

The path ahead was dimly lit by torches spaced unevenly along the walls, casting jagged shadows that danced across the rough stone. Bad Apple walked with a confident gait, his smirk lingering until a sudden sound shattered the stillness—a crack of a whip, followed by a sharp cry.

His steps faltered, and he turned his head just enough to catch sight of the collapsed tunnel. Two ponies—exhausted, dirt-streaked, and trembling—were digging at the rubble with their bare hooves. Their frantic movements were painfully ineffective, a pitiful attempt to clear the debris.

Bad Apple clenched his jaw, forcing his gaze forward. He quickened his pace, trying to ignore the burning stares he could feel on his back, the quiet accusation in their eyes.

It’s just bits, he told himself. Don’t think about it. Just get out.

But the image of their bloodied hooves and hollow stares stuck in his mind, trailing after him like ghosts as he made his way toward the exit.

The cavern widened as he neared the mouth of the tunnel. A faint glow from the fire outside spilled inward, casting long, flickering shadows. Before he could step out, two Diamond Dogs blocked his path, their spears crossed in front of him.

The first, a hulking brute with thick, patchy armor, growled low and deep, his yellow eyes glaring down at the pony. The second was slightly smaller, wiry but still intimidating, his mismatched armor clinking as he shifted.

“Where do you think you’re goin’, pony?” the larger one rumbled, his voice rough and menacing.

Bad Apple stopped, snapping out of his thoughts as he looked up at them both. “Out,” he replied simply, his tone steady but laced with just enough Canterlot refinement to remind them he wasn’t fazed.

The smaller dog sneered, his grip tightening on his spear. “Not so fast. You think we just let you walk outta here?”

Bad Apple simply grunted, his patience hanging by a thread. He lifted his head, his emerald eyes shifting into sharp, slitted dragon pupils. He fixed the two Diamond Dogs with a glare that seemed to cut through the cold night air. “Less you want to be fertilizer for this forest,” he growled, his tone low and dangerous, “move outta my way.”

Both Diamond Dogs immediately recognized him and stumbled back, ears flattening against their heads.

“Oh! Sorry, champ!” the larger one barked, lowering his spear with a nervous gulp. “Didn’t mean to disturb ya! Have a good night!”

“Yeah, yeah,” the smaller one added, stepping aside hurriedly.

Bad Apple wasn’t in the mood for more conflict. He closed his eyes, letting his breath even out as he calmed himself. The fiery tension simmering in his veins ebbed slightly, though he couldn’t help but notice his sharper fangs as his tongue brushed against them. Breathing out into the cold night air, he exhaled a thick cloud of smoke-like vapor, momentarily shrouding his face.

“Not a big deal,” he muttered to himself as he resumed his walk, glancing up at the night sky. The stars twinkled brightly against the inky black canvas, and the moon hung heavy and luminous, casting silvery light across the forest. Bad Apple let a small smile curl at the edges of his lips. “Good to see the sky again,” he murmured.

The thought of the mare in the moon flickered in his mind, but he shook it off and focused on the path ahead. His trek brought him closer to home—closer to the west orchard, which he could use to sneak back unnoticed. He broke into a gallop, his hooves pounding softly against the dirt.

fifteen minutes minutes later, Bad Apple slowed to a cautious pace, moving silently through the familiar rows of trees. The rich scent of apples and earth filled the crisp night air as he guessed the time—probably around midnight. His gaze landed on the farmhouse, dark and quiet, its lights out, a clear sign everyone was asleep.

His ears twitched as he listened intently, ensuring the coast was clear. Satisfied, he moved toward the house, slipping around to the back. His heart lightened slightly when he spotted his bedroom window still open. Good, he thought. Means no one’s been in there. I can just say I’ve been in my room all night.

Bad Apple scanned the yard one last time before crouching low. With a small bounce to test his spring, he leapt straight up, his hooves catching the edge of the window frame. He pulled himself up with practiced ease, a cocky smile crossing his face—until he saw her.

His mother, Pear Butter, was sitting in the shadows of his room, her face lit only faintly by the moonlight streaming in. She was staring at him with a frown that could make even Big Mac think twice about talking back.

Bad Apple froze for a moment, then quickly recovered with his usual bravado. He flashed a sheepish grin and chuckled nervously. “Well, what brings you ‘round these parts at this hour, young lady?” he quipped, tipping an imaginary hat.

Pear Butter didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smile. Her piercing gaze swept over him, catching every detail—the split lip, the faint scratches on his coat, the lingering scent of blood and sweat clinging him.

Her silence was deafening. Bad Apple fidgeted, hoisting himself the rest of the way through the window and onto the creaky wooden floor. His eyes darted around the room, searching for any sign of his pa, Bright Mac. But there was none. Either he was still asleep, or he was waiting just outside the door, ready to lay into him the second he stepped out.

Pear Butter’s glare remained unyielding, her lips pressed into a thin line. She glanced out the window, taking note of the late hour, and let out a slow sigh. Finally, she moved to sit on the edge of his bed, her expression softening slightly—but only slightly. She didn’t say a word, but her gesture made her intention clear.

Bad Apple swallowed hard, the usual swagger draining from him. He sat down beside her, the bed creaking under their weight. The silence between them stretched uncomfortably, thick as molasses.

Pear Butter’s gaze lingered on her son, her soft green eyes full of concern. Her frown deepened as she took in the sight of his split lip and the faint scratches marking his coat. Then her attention dropped to the two bulging pouches he’d brought with him, their weight unmistakable—they were either full of bits or something equally valuable.

Her ears flicked slightly as she spoke, her voice firm but tinged with worry. “Are you gonna finally tell me where you’ve been sneakin’ off to?”

Bad Apple’s eyes darted away, avoiding her piercing stare. He’d always been a good liar, but something about his ma made it impossible to lie outright. So instead, he didn’t respond, letting the silence hang heavy in the room.

Pear Butter’s ears tilted back slightly, a subtle tell of her frustration. She let out a slow breath, nodding to herself as though coming to a decision. “Wait right here,” she said simply, turning and trotting out of the room.

As soon as she was gone, Bad Apple released the heavy breath he’d been holding. He took a moment to collect himself before leaning down and sliding the pouches under his bed. The familiar pile of gold and jewels greeted him, barely fitting into the cramped space anymore. Gonna have to start buryin’ this stuff out in the orchard again, he thought grimly.

His parents knew about the stash under his bed—how could they not? They’d asked about it before, but he’d always refused to explain. Just as stubbornly, they’d refused to take the bits, no matter how much the family could’ve used them.

Still, he’d found ways around their refusal. Two years ago, he realized he didn’t need their permission to pay for things—repairs to the barn, new equipment for the orchard, even an extension on the house. He’d slip the bits where they were needed and let the tax ponies handle the rest. Sure, his parents had argued about it with the local officials once or twice, but the nobles and tax collectors didn’t care where the money came from, so long as it came.

Sliding the last pouch into place, Bad Apple climbed back onto the bed, ready to collapse into much-needed rest. But before his head could hit the pillow, the door creaked open again. His ma stepped back inside, balancing a well-worn first aid kit on her back.

“You can’t go to sleep with open wounds,” she said matter-of-factly as she made her way to his bedside. “Even if most of ‘em will heal by mornin’.”

She sat down beside the bed, deftly pulling the kit open with her muzzle and retrieving a cotton ball soaked in alcohol. Bad Apple flinched as she dabbed it against the first cut, the sting biting deep into his nerves.

“Don’t squirm,” Pear Butter said with a smirk, her tone teasing. “You’re big enough to get these cuts and bruises, but not big enough to take care of ‘em yourself, huh?”

Bad Apple rolled his eyes, muttering, “I was doin’ just fine.”

His ma chuckled softly, her smirk growing wider. “Sure ya were, sugarcube.” She worked methodically, cleaning each wound with care, even as Bad Apple hissed through clenched teeth at the sting of the alcohol.

Her hooves moved with practiced ease, steady and sure, as though she’d done this a hundred times before—which, of course, she had. But there was a tenderness in her movements, a quiet understanding that said she wasn’t just tending to her son’s injuries—she was grounding him, pulling him back to the home he seemed so determined to keep slipping away from.

As she continued, Pear Butter’s gaze flicked briefly to his split lip. She dabbed at it gently, her voice softening. “You know, I used to clean up your pa after his scraps, too. Stubborn stallions, both of ya.”

Bad Apple let out a faint snort, leaning back against the headboard as he watched her work. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased, the weight of the night fading under the careful touch of his mother’s hooves.

Pear Butter let out a long, quiet sigh, her green eyes softening as they lingered on her wayward colt. Bad Apple sat still, watching her carefully, but he could see her gaze drifting—not at him, but through the window, out into the dark expanse of the orchard. Her expression seemed distant, like she was reaching for something far away, something secret and untouchable.

A small, bittersweet smile crept across her muzzle before she spoke. “Have I ever told you about when you were born?”

Bad Apple shifted slightly on the bed. He’d heard this story more times than he could count, but he didn’t interrupt her. She’d been telling it more and more lately, as though clinging to it, and he didn’t have the heart to stop her.

When he didn’t respond, Pear Butter continued, her voice gentle and steady. “When you were born, I could tell right away you were a fighter. You fought when the doctors told me you weren’t gonna make it. Sixteen months later, I had you anyway. You fought through all the complications, all the problems. You fought the day you came into this world…”

She paused, her smile faltering slightly as her eyes glistened with something deeper. “Even when we didn’t believe you’d make it, you fought. You were born with four strong hooves and one stubborn muzzle.” She let out a soft chuckle, though the sadness lingered in her gaze. “Even when you had that fever—so high, we thought a dragon was cookin’ you from the inside out—you fought through it all.”

Bad Apple remained quiet, his ears tilted back slightly as he listened.

“I prayed,” Pear Butter said softly, her voice growing quieter. “I prayed to Celestia. I prayed to Harmony. I prayed to the Great Mother herself. I would’ve prayed to Discord, too, if I thought it’d save you.”

Her voice hitched briefly, but she pushed through. “Your pops… he ran out of the house, galloped who-knows-where. Two days later, he came back with a doctor—one I’d never seen before. For two whole days, it was just you fightin’. You fought harder than any foal I’ve ever seen.”

Her smile returned, warm and proud, though her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. “That doctor saved your life. At the time, I didn’t care where he’d come from or why—I was just so relieved you were alive. But, I’ll admit, I almost bucked your pops’ teeth in for leavin’ us like that. Granny Smith’s tongue-lashin’ was worse than any hoof I could’ve swung, though.”

Pear Butter chuckled softly, shaking her head at the memory before her expression grew serious again. “I didn’t learn the truth about that doctor until later. He called you ‘perfect,’ cried about you bein’ a ‘success.’ I didn’t understand it back then. But when Celestia came sniffin’ around and the whole hullabaloo started, I learned more than I ever wanted to.”

She paused, her voice turning thoughtful. “Your father told me the doctor was a good pony… but one willin’ to make bad decisions. At the time, I couldn’t see it. I was angry. But now? Now I think I understand what he was thinkin’. Even if I’m not happy about it, I’m grateful. You’re here, and that’s what matters.”

Her eyes softened as she leaned closer, brushing a hoof gently against Bad Apple’s mane. “From the moment you were born, you’ve been a fighter. You fight when somepony badmouths the farm, the family, or your brother and sister. You fight about nothin’ and everythin’. And while I admire your fire, sometimes… sometimes fightin’ ain’t the answer.”

Bad Apple blinked, his ears perking up slightly as his mother’s words sank in.

Pear Butter’s tone grew firmer but never lost its warmth. “Sometimes, sugarcube, you gotta stand tall without swingin’ a hoof. Show ‘em your strength by not fightin’. Show ‘em your values mean more than winnin’ a scrap. Sometimes you gotta talk. Sometimes…” She hesitated, her lips pressing into a small line before continuing. “Sometimes you gotta admit you were wrong. Maybe even grovel a little, if it comes to it.”

Her hoof cupped his cheek gently, her green eyes meeting his with a look so full of love it made his chest ache. “It’s strong to fight for what you believe in. But it’s even stronger to know when not to fight. I hope you’ll remember that.”

Before Bad Apple could reply, she leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, her lips lingering for just a moment. Then she straightened, smoothing out her mane as she turned toward the door.

Pear Butter stopped briefly in the doorway, glancing back at her son. Her expression was softer now, almost wistful. “Goodnight, sugarcube,” she said quietly before stepping out and closing the door behind her.

Bad Apple stared at the closed door for a long moment, his mother’s words swirling in his mind. He let out a deep breath, his gaze drifting to the ceiling as he processed the weight of what she’d said.

Bright Mac sat in bed with a book resting against his forelegs, the flickering light of the lantern casting soft shadows across the room. His eyes moved lazily over the page, but his ears perked up at the sound of the door creaking open. He looked up as Pear Butter stepped in, her mane slightly disheveled but her smile warm as ever.

“Evenin’, darlin’,” he drawled, setting the book aside as she trotted over.

“Evenin’,” she replied, slipping under the covers and snuggling up next to him. She nuzzled his neck affectionately, and he leaned into her touch, though his smile faltered slightly.

He tilted his head, his brow furrowing. “Reckon you were talkin’ with him again?”

Pear Butter’s smile didn’t fade as she looked up into his eyes. “I was,” she said simply.

Bright Mac exhaled through his nose, a faint huff of steam puffing into the cool air. “Am I gonna have to sit him down myself?” he asked, his tone caught somewhere between frustration and concern.

Pear Butter let out a soft chuckle, her voice light with teasing warmth. “No, you’re not. You know how that’d go. You’d try to have words, but by the time y’all finished hollerin’, Applejack’d come rushin’ in with tears in her eyes. You’d feel lower than a rattler in a gopher hole and end up givin’ her whatever she wanted just to calm her down.”

Bright Mac’s ears flicked back, and he looked away with a sheepish grunt. “You don’t think I can put a firm hoof on that colt?”

Pear Butter giggled softly, shaking her head. “You ain’t your paw or your ma, Mac. You’ve never raised a hoof to any o’ these foals, and you know it.”

Bright Mac sighed, his voice growing quieter. “Back when he was just a little thing, all I had to do was raise my voice or give him a glare, and he’d straighten right up. Now, though…” He paused, his tone firming. “I might need to change my approach—at least with that one.”

Pear Butter reached out with her hooves, gently tilting his chin so he had to look her in the eye. “Mac, we both know Bad Apple’s different. Always has been. Tryin’ to control a pony’s nature… that ain’t what the Great Mother intended. You go against what’s in a pony’s heart, and you’re askin’ for trouble.”

Bright Mac frowned, his green eyes dark with thought. “I hear ya,” he said finally, though his tone still carried a note of hesitation. “I just don’t want him turnin’ into somethin’ he ain’t. Fightin’ all the time for no reason. That colt’s got a temper, Butter. And if he don’t find a better way to use it, it’ll burn him out faster’n a bonfire in a dry season.”

Pear Butter stayed silent, her calm gaze encouraging him to continue.

“Rebellion ain’t the problem,” he went on, leaning back against the headboard. “He’s too grown for his own good, actin’ like he’s the only thing holdin’ this farm together. Another bill gets paid, another harvest’s good, and he still works like there’s Ursa Minors breathin’ down our necks. Ponyville wouldn’t let this farm fall if it meant losin’ their own homes, but he can’t see that.”

Bright Mac let out another sigh, his frustration clear. “Maybe it’s time he sees it for himself. We send him away. Somewhere beyond the farm, beyond this small little town. Let him learn the farm’ll survive just fine without him hangin’ onto it like a colt clutchin’ his favorite toy.”

Pear Butter tilted her head, her ears perking slightly. “Hmm,” she murmured, considering his words. “You think my daddy’s cooled off enough to let Bad Apple come stay for a bit?”

Bright Mac chuckled softly, though there was a faint edge to it. “That old coot should’ve dropped his grudge by now. If not, he’s just bein’ stubborn, and he’ll regret it if he don’t come ‘round.”

Pear Butter snorted, giving him a playful tap on the nose with her hoof. “Don’t call my daddy an old coot,” she chided, though her tone was light and affectionate.

Bright Mac grinned, leaning down to press a kiss to her cheek. “Sorry, dear. But I think you’re right. We can talk to Granny in the mornin’—see what she thinks ‘bout sendin’ him off to visit family for a spell.”

Pear Butter nodded, resting her head against his shoulder as the two settled into a comfortable silence. Outside, the wind whispered through the orchard, and the farmhouse creaked gently with the weight of the night.

Three figures stood in the shadows of the Everfree Forest, their gazes fixed on a distant barn illuminated faintly by the moonlight. The first voice broke the silence, a strange, dual-toned murmur that seemed to echo within itself.

“He’s here.”

A second voice, light and airy with a hint of mockery, chimed in. “Really? In this dump?”

“Of course he’s here,” the third voice answered, softer and more melodic, though laced with venom. “Look at this tacky little farm. It reeks of desperation and dirt. A fitting place for him to hide.”

The third figure, larger and more imposing than the others, let out a low, menacing growl. Its voice was deep and guttural, carrying the weight of authority. “It doesn’t matter where he is. The amulet says he’s the one. Our Lord’s words are law, and we are bound to them.”

The dual-toned voice laughed, the sound grating and dissonant. “If he’s destined to join us, why are we wasting our time? They always come to us in the end.”

The melodic voice giggled in agreement, its tone syrupy sweet. “You’re not wrong. They all do. Eventually.”

The third figure turned its head sharply, its gaze piercing through the dense forest. It growled low and long, silencing the others. “Do not be so arrogant. Harmony’s design is unknowable, always twisting and shifting. But our Lord will not be denied—by it or by anything else.”

A solemn pause followed before all three figures spoke in unison, their voices weaving together in a sinister chant.

“For the Lord.”

“For the Lord.”

“For the Lord.”

Author's Note

So friends and people who choose to read my stuff been a little busy with holidays and all of that but don't worry this will be three to two chapters left they should be finished up maybe in the month or the next week 2 months but life is random big sometimes can go back and forth so thanks for reading.