Heart and Hearth

The frost painted the hillside silver, crunching underhoof as Bistrena shifted her weight. Her lined waterproof was wrapped tightly around her, but the winter chill still bit her through the wool. The sky was softening now, heavy with pre-dawn grey, but the darkness lingered stubbornly in the hollows of the landscape. The sirens had been silent for hours, replaced by the distant hum of uneasy quiet.

Corporal Slate had come by earlier, her red flashlight casting long, flickering shadows on the frost-bitten ground. She’d been moving from hole to hole, her voice low but firm as she checked each recruit.

“Don’t worry, gals,” she’d murmured, the flashlight trembling in her teeth. “We’re giving them more than they’re giving us. Our skies are still ours.” Her tone carried forced confidence, the kind of bravado meant to rally, to reassure, even as the horizon glowed orange with fire and the air stank faintly of ash.

Bistrena had nodded but said nothing. She wasn’t sure if Slate believed her own words, or if they were just another shield to keep the fear at bay. From their position on the hillside, they had an unobstructed view of Baltimare’s northern quarter, where the worst of the bombing had struck. Fires flickered faintly in the distance, their glow painting the low-hanging smoke in shades of orange and grey. She’d watched the destruction play out, wave after wave of sleek, insectile airships streaking in, dropping their payloads, and retreating. Efficient. Calculated. Like clockwork.

She’d barely slept. Unlike Dusklight, who was curled up next to her beneath a shared blanket, her breath soft against Bistrena’s shoulder. The mare had been a wreck through the raid—panicked, restless, her voice shaking with every distant explosion. It wasn’t until hours into the attack, when her exhaustion finally caught up with her, that she’d succumbed to fitful sleep.

“You’re fine,” Bistrena had whispered to her earlier, steady and sure, despite the gnawing ache in her own chest. “They’re south of the river. Your family’s fine. They wouldn’t cross it—not with all this going on. They’re safe.”

Dusklight had nodded, her face damp and pale, but Bistrena wasn’t sure if her words had gotten through. They’d been spoken more as a lullaby than a promise—a fragile reassurance meant to calm, not to guarantee.

Bistrena, though, couldn’t offer herself the same comfort. Her family wasn’t south of the river. Her family was north. And from where she sat, she’d seen the northern quarter burn, the airships circling like vultures before disgorging their destruction. The fires there burned the brightest, the worst of the damage clear even through the heavy canopy of trees. She’d imagined her parents countless times—her mother pinned beneath rubble, her father trying to reach her, both crushed under falling masonry as the ceiling gave out.

The not knowing was the worst of it. It gnawed at her insides, clawing through every quiet moment, every second she tried to push the images away. She clenched her teeth, the frost stinging her lips as her breath misted the air. The chill helped, and kept her grounded, but only barely.

Her gaze wandered back toward the horizon, where the fires in the still flickered faintly against the gloom. The sight had dulled somewhat over the hours, the flames settling, but the damage was done. Her stomach twisted, her thoughts racing, stumbling over themselves. What had they thought in their last moments? Of her? Of Cinereus? Or was it just pain—the crushing, suffocating kind that stole everything else?

The frosty stillness was shattered by the pounding of hooves and sharp cries. Bistrena looked up just as Corporals Slate and Jetstream came barreling across the foxholes, weaving through the frost-coated trees like wolves on the hunt. Their green field coats flapped against their sides, rounded metal helmets catching the faint light.

“Up and out, 3rd Platoon!” Slate barked, her voice cutting through the morning air like a whip. “Move it! Now!”

Jetstream wasn’t far behind, his tone quieter but no less commanding. “Form up at the square. Let’s go, let’s go!”

Dusklight stirred beside Bistrena, her eyelids fluttering as she groaned, “Mom?” She blinked, her disoriented gaze landing on Bistrena. A frown tugged at her eyes. “What’s going on?”

Bistrena smirked, shoving off the blanket and standing stiffly. “Oh, nothing. Just the morning wake-up call. Who needs coffee when you’ve got Slate screaming at you?”

Dusklight gave a weak laugh, rubbing her eyes. “Great. Guess that’s our cue.”

They climbed out of the foxhole, limbs stiff and aching from hours in the cold. Each step across the frostbitten ground was a protest, joints creaking and muscles reluctant to cooperate. Breath puffing in the frigid air, they joined the sluggish shuffle of ponies trudging toward the square.

By the time 3rd Platoon formed up with the rest of the company, the sun was just beginning to stain the horizon with faint streaks of pale orange. Seven platoons, weary and worn, stood in uneven ranks as Captain Wheatstone limped into view. His scarred muzzle was set in a grim line, his eyes scanning the crowd with an experienced, steady calm.

“Listen up!” His voice carried over the assembly, gravelly but strong. “The city’s taken a beating. The bastard Changelings hit us hard last night, and the Mayor’s calling for all hooves. That means you.”

The murmurs of discomfort rippled through the ranks, but Wheatstone didn’t let up. “I know your training isn’t complete. I know some of you don’t feel ready. But there’s no time. You’ll learn fast, lives are depending on it.” He gestured to the instructors standing at attention nearby. “Your training yesterday determines where you go today—riot control, firefighting, medical support. You’ll be divided into groups and sent to assist. Questions?”

Bistrena’s chest tightened. Her eyes flicked toward the distant skyline, where faint columns of smoke still climbed into the frosty air. Her family was out there—north of the river, where the worst of the bombing had been. The thought gnawed at her, sharp and relentless.

She raised her hoof before she could think twice.

Wheatstone’s gaze locked on her, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. “Yes, Recruit?”

“Sir,” Bistrena began, her voice steady despite the unease bubbling under her skin, “when can we go home and find our families?”

The murmurs grew louder, agreement rippling through the ranks like a current. Dusklight glanced at Bistrena, her face pale but determined.

The instructors visibly tensed. Slate looked ready to bark something harsh, her jaw tightening, but Jetstream’s wing flicked against her side, a subtle restraint. Wheatstone’s expression didn’t change, but his scarred muzzle twitched as if he were biting back a sigh.

“Your families,” he said, his tone sharp but not unkind, “are why you’re here. To keep them safe. Right now, the best thing you can do for them—and for this city—is follow orders and do your duty.”

The murmurs faded, replaced by a heavy, reluctant silence. Wheatstone swept his gaze over them again, his limp more pronounced as he shifted his weight. “We’ll get through this. Together. Now fall in and wait for your assignments.”

Bistrena swallowed hard, lowering her hoof. She didn’t feel reassured. Not by his words, nor by the stiff, uneasy looks the instructors exchanged as they turned back to the platoons.

She just wanted to go home.

The winter morning was clear, but its beauty was a cruel contrast to the devastation around them. The sun sat low on the horizon, its pale light glittering on the frost, yet offering no warmth. It felt distant like it belonged to another world, one untouched by airships, bombs, and screams. Bistrena clutched her canteen tightly in her hooves, her breath pluming in the icy air. Around her, the members of 3rd Platoon shifted uneasily in their dented black riot gear. Other platoons had been strapped into faded, soot-stained firefighting gear, and some others wore training armour marked with bright red crosses, white bands tied around their forelegs to designate them as medics.

The city was in shambles. Smoke coiled in sluggish tendrils over the skyline, merging into a vast grey smog that clung to the horizon. It wasn’t total destruction—not yet—but the scars of the attack were everywhere. The tramlines were down, power was out, water and utilities had been shut off. Baltimare was a city of nearly half a million, and all of them were now trapped in the pandemonium, hemmed in by fire and rubble with nowhere to go.

They were packed into wooden carts, ten ponies per cart, bumping along the rutted roads toward the city. The carts were pulled by teams of burly ponies from Fort Highmane Private Hire, a local firm commandeered by the army to ferry troops to their assignments. Bistrena winced as the cart jolted again, the wooden slats digging into her sides. Dusklight, seated beside her, muttered something about her aching flank, but Bistrena barely heard her. She was too busy watching the Free Spirit Key Bridge loom ahead of them.

The bridge was packed. Soldiers and civilians swarmed across it, moving in both directions in a chaotic tide. Families dragged carts piled high with belongings, foals crying as their parents urged them forward. Some carried nothing but the clothes on their backs, their eyes hollow with exhaustion and fear. On the opposite side of the bridge, Baltimare Army Command had set up roadblocks and makeshift cordons, barking orders to stem the flow of refugees. The central lane had been cleared, reserved for military traffic, and Bistrena’s company was rushed through under the watchful eyes of grim-faced officers.

She craned her neck, trying to catch sight of more reinforcements—something, anything, to suggest they weren’t alone in this. A single company to reinforce an entire city? It seemed absurd. Word among the recruits was that the army was stretched thin, with battalions diverted to another battle further north. Baltimare had only been given a few squadrons of pegasi, and even they were little more than overburdened couriers, hauling supplies and acting as spotters for the beleaguered fire crews. Bistrena caught sight of them above the bridge, their aerodynamic forms darting between the smoke trails like restless crows.

When they reached the end of the bridge, the carts halted abruptly. “That’s as far as we go,” barked Corporal Slate, leaping out and motioning for the platoon to disembark. “On your hooves, 3rd Platoon. We’re marching the rest of the way.”

Groans rippled through the ranks as the recruits clambered out onto the frost-covered road, their limbs stiff and aching. Bistrena adjusted her armour with a grimace, her joints protesting with every step. The company formed up and began their march, following a winding route that took them through the southeastern outskirts of the city.

They passed Hawkins Point first, a sprawling muster area where more troops were stationed, though they were no less weary and battered than Bistrena’s company. From there, they crossed a drawbridge over Curtis Creek, the water below choked with floating debris. The area had been hit hard; the warehouses and docks stood abandoned, some reduced to smouldering skeletons of steel and wood.

As they moved deeper into the city, the damage became more personal. In Brooklyn Park, the once-bustling neighbourhoods were eerily silent, their streets littered with broken glass and splintered wood. Shops stood gutted, their windows blown out, and the acrid stench of smoke clung to the air. A mare stumbled out of an alley, her mane matted with soot, clutching a foal to her chest. She didn’t even glance at the soldiers as they passed, her eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the horizon.

Further along, they saw the Baltimare Police Department struggling to maintain order. Officers roamed the streets in small squads, their blue uniforms streaked with ash, while pegasi chariots hovered above, attempting to rescue stranded ponies from crumbling buildings. Tugboats patrolled the Patapsco River, their pumps dousing the last of the fires that still raged along the waterfront. Despite their efforts, it was clear the BPD was overwhelmed. The city was falling apart faster than they could hold it together.

In the suburbs near Lakeland, the march slowed as they encountered more refugees. Families trudged through the frost, their faces lined with exhaustion. Some sat on the roadside, shivering beneath tattered blankets, while others argued with soldiers at hastily constructed checkpoints. The army was trying to control the flow of ponies, creating a cordon around the city to prevent anyone from leaving—or entering. Tensions were high, and Bistrena could feel the anxiety rippling through the crowd like a current.

It was near Violetville that she saw them. A pair of ponies in long trench coats and dark sunglasses, their every step purposeful. Even among the chaos, they stood out—silent sentinels of the Domestic Security Agency. Bistrena shuddered, watching as one of the agents pinned a flyer to a lamppost. The image was stark: half a pony’s face, and half the chitinous, insectoid visage of a Changeling. Beneath it, bold letters screamed: COULD A PONY YOU KNOW BE AN IMPOSTER?

The agents moved swiftly, their horns glowing as they scanned passing civilians. Bistrena caught a glimpse of them dragging a stallion into an alley, his protests quickly muffled by the sharp thud of hooves against flesh. Another agent stormed into a nearby house, barking orders as his team tore through furniture, upending cabinets and ripping apart floorboards.

The frost crunched faintly beneath their hooves as the column marched on, the sound blending with the low murmurs of soldiers ahead and behind. Ribbonweave walked just behind Bistrena, close enough that their breaths mingled in the cold air. The sight of the DSA agents lingered like a sour taste. Ribbonweave kept stealing glances at Bistrena, and though she didn’t say a word at first, Bistrena could feel her curiosity like a knife poised over her shoulder.

Finally, Ribbonweave leaned in, her voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry. “You saw them, didn’t you?”

Bistrena kept her eyes forward, her gaze fixed on the back of Dusklight’s head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The agents.” Ribbonweave’s tone sharpened slightly, though it still barely rose above a whisper. “You saw them. In the alleyway.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Bistrena muttered, and turned her head, “everyone saw them.” She hoped the flatness of her tone would end the conversation, but it only seemed to spur Ribbonweave on.

“Don’t play dumb. You didn’t just notice them—you shut down for a second. I saw your ears go flat the second they came out of that house.”

“Let it go, Ribbon,” Aurelia said quietly from the other side of the formation. Her voice was calm but firm, like she’d been waiting for this conversation to happen and had already grown tired of it.

“Let it go?” Ribbonweave glanced at Aurelia but didn’t back off. “She’s not telling us something, and I’m not buying that flu bullshit. Nopony gets over it that fast.”

Bistrena gritted her teeth, her ears flattening. “Maybe it’s because they’ve got better doctors than we do, alright? They gave me something—medicine, spells—I don’t know. That’s why I’m fine now.”

Ribbonweave’s brow furrowed, her eyes narrowing. “Oh, sure. ‘Good doctors.’ You know what else they’ve got where they took you? Truth serum. Mind probes. So what—are you working for them now? Some kind of spy?”

Bistrena whipped her head around, glaring. “What the buck are you talking about?”

“You tell me,” Ribbonweave shot back, her tone sharp. “They don’t just drag ponies off for the flu. And those agents? They scared you, Bistrena. I saw it.”

Aurelia sighed, but there was an edge to it. “Ribbon’s not wrong. It didn’t make sense then, and it doesn’t now.”

Dusklight shot a glare over her shoulder, hissing at them to lower their voices. “Keep it down. You want the Staff to hear you?”

Bistrena’s throat tightened. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, keeping her gaze fixed forward, the rhythmic crunch of hooves beneath her blending into a dull roar in her head. She couldn’t answer, not without dredging it all up again—the MP leading her away, the windowless room, the questions. The memory spell. The things they made her relive.

But she wasn’t there anymore. She was here, marching, breathing, moving forward. And that had to be enough.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” she said finally, her voice quieter than she meant it to be.

“No,” Ribbonweave shot back. “But you owe us the truth. Whatever they’re here for—it’s not good. And if it’s got something to do with you, we deserve to know.”

“It doesn’t,” Bistrena snapped, her voice just loud enough to draw a curious glance from the pony ahead of them. She winced, lowering her voice again. “It doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

Aurelia’s expression softened, though her gaze remained sharp. “You don’t get to decide that, B. We’re in this together, like it or not. If the DSA starts asking questions, we need to know what we’re up against.”

“It’s not about you,” Bistrena whispered harshly. “It’s not about me.”

“Then what is it about?” Ribbonweave pressed.

Bistrena clenched her jaw, her teeth grinding together. She wanted to say it—wanted to scream it, just to shut them up—but the words stuck in her throat, sharp and jagged. Even thinking about it felt like letting the noose tighten.

“Bistrena...” Aurelia’s voice was softer now, almost coaxing. “Whatever happened, you’re not alone. You can tell us.”

For one brief, flickering moment, Bistrena thought about telling them everything. About Blackguard. About Lockstep. About how Captain Wheatstone’s assurance that it was “handled” had felt like a cage door slamming shut.

She shook her head, her mane brushing against Ribbonweave’s cheek. “Drop it,” she said, her voice hollow. “It’s not your business.”

Ribbonweave opened her mouth to argue, but Dusklight cut her off with a sharp glare. “Pack it in,” she hissed. “Jetstream’s looking this way.”

They fell silent, the argument between them settling into an uneasy pause. Bistrena kept her gaze forward, her heart pounding against her ribs. She didn’t need to look back to know that Ribbonweave and Aurelia were still watching her, their eyes filled with questions she wouldn’t answer. Not now, and maybe, not ever.

The march wound through the frostbitten streets, past rows of sagging houses and shuttered storefronts, their windows either boarded or shattered. A bitter wind carried the acrid stench of burnt wood and something fouler—something that had seeped into the pavement, into the brick and mortar of West Baltimare itself.

As the company reached Violetville’s outskirts, the military presence became impossible to ignore. Barricades choked intersections, manned by Royal Army soldiers in dull-grey fatigues and BPD officers in navy riot gear. Checkpoints lined the main roads, filtering a steady stream of weary civilians—some clutching papers, others stopped for questioning. Behind them, families huddled in makeshift holding areas, their breath rising in thin, ghostly plumes against the cold.

Beyond the cordon, Violetville Park had been transformed into a staging ground. Pegasi teams darted between rows of grounded chariots, their wings kicking up loose dirt as they prepped for sorties. Medics peeled away from the formation, heading toward Ascension St. Aegis Hospital—a towering gothic relic of black stone and frost-laced spires that loomed over the neighbourhood like a watching sentinel. Even from a distance, the glow of lanterns flickered behind its stained-glass windows, casting strange, shifting shadows.

Nearby, the firefighting platoons were being loaded onto reinforced chariots, their harnessed pegasi teams stamping impatiently. They would be air-dropped into the city, either to battle lingering fires or sift through collapsed buildings in search of survivors.

Bistrena’s detachment peeled off with another group—each of them clad in black riot pauldrons and helmets, their plexi-visors fogging with every breath. The rubber batons at their sides felt like dead weight. Ahead, a squat house stood with half its roof missing, jagged beams stabbing skyward like broken ribs. The frost on its walls had melted in places, revealing soot-streaked brick beneath.

A BPD officer stood near the collapsed porch, waiting. Behind him, a projector cast a pale, flickering image onto the house’s battered siding. Bistrena rolled her shoulders, adjusting the straps of her riot gear as she stepped closer. The march had left her warm, but the air still carried the sharp bite of lingering smoke and frost.

The BPD officer stood near the collapsed porch, his grey fatigues streaked with dirt and ash. "BPD" was printed in bold yellow across his chest, half-hidden beneath the heavy poncho draped over his shoulders. His riot helmet sat snug on his head, the plexiglass visor pushed up, revealing a face lined with exhaustion. A baton hung at his hip, resting against thick winter boots scuffed from hours in the field.

He didn't waste time. "Alright Army, listen up." His voice was steady, curt. "Your job is to reinforce our units at Ascension St. Aegis. Looters and rioters are heading this way—fifteen thousand of them, give or take. They're clogging up Route 1 Alternate, pushing south. Pegasi teams are tracking their movement. They're looking for shelter, for medicine—some of them just want a place to sleep." He let that sink in for a second. "But the hospital's full. No room, no supplies. They're not getting in."

He tapped the map projected onto the battered siding of the house, his shadow stretching over the images of streets and landmarks. "The army’s handling the bulk of them, but some are gonna slip through the net. When they do, they're gonna be desperate. You're gonna have to turn them away." His gaze swept over the assembled reservists. "You need to be ready for that."

He pointed at two key locations. "We've got checkpoints along 1 ALT and the East Barricade at Carrot Avenue. You'll be patrolling between Mill Hill and St. Aegis. It’s gonna be dark in a few hours. Expect movement, expect trouble."

Then his voice dropped slightly, just enough to make the next words land heavier. "And listen up—Changeling infiltrators are confirmed among us. Watch each other’s backs. No one goes off alone. I don’t care if you have to take a leak—get a buddy to shake it for you, understood?"

A pause. Then he reached into a weathered satchel, pulling out a stack of briefing packets. "Whoever’s leading your squads, take one. Read it, memorise it, burn it. Capeesh?"

He let that settle, then lit a cigarette and exhaled thick smoke through his nose. "That’s all. Get to it."