Bistrena jolted upright, the faint, cold glow through the sash window clawing at her eyes. The ceiling pitched down hard above her, close and claustrophobic, making her chest tighten as though the walls themselves had crept closer overnight. Outside, the wet tangle of rose vines scraped against the window, their soft, erratic noise barely audible in the stillness. The dim light smeared across the glass marked the day’s slow crawl from darkness. The bed clung to her, suffocating and sticky with heat. Her chest ached with something she couldn’t name, a gnawing restlessness that demanded release.

She pushed herself up and onto her hooves, the cold biting at her legs as she stood. The room smelled faintly of old wood and dust, and her breath misted briefly in the frigid air. No need for routine—just water, a quick bite, and a way to outrun her thoughts. Bare and ready, she eased out of the room, her hooves pressing the creaking floorboards like hesitant heartbeats.

Outside, the world felt raw and unfriendly. A harsh wind whipped against her coat as she stretched under the pale sky, sipping the last of her water bottle. The damp smell of the earth mixed with the salt of the nearby sea. She set off, her Hooves clicking against the uneven cobblestone street as she found her rhythm.

The old town emerged as she crested a familiar rise, its slate-roofed buildings standing stubborn against the elements as they had for centuries. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional splash of surf battering the sea wall. She headed straight for the sloping steps near the hill. They would do. She wanted effort, strain, the kind that turned her mind silent and filled her chest with fire.

She launched into the first sprint, her legs burning as she pushed to the top at full tilt. The wind howled around her, carrying a faint mist of sea spray, but she kept going. The bounce down the steps was hardly a reprieve—her legs wobbled under her, and her breathing came in shallow bursts. Still, she shook it off, bashing her calves with her hooves as if punishing them for their weakness. Then she went again.

By the sixth relay, her whole body screamed for her to stop—her chest felt caved in, her legs trembling, her coat slick with a mix of sweat and cold rain. She didn’t care. She wanted to run herself into the ground, beat back the mess clawing at her insides. The ache, the exhaustion—it was better than the weight she’d carried the night before. It didn’t fix anything, but for the first time in what felt like forever, She could feel her mind clear, if only for a moment, the fog thinning to let her breathe. Just breathe.

On the way back down, she veered toward the sea wall, the crashing waves calling to her like an old friend. The flagstones gave way to sand, wet and heavy, clinging to her legs as she stopped just shy of the frothing tide.

The sea churned under the force of the wind, breaking into bursts of white foam that sprayed the air with salt. Its murky brown and grey surface roiled unpredictably, the tide spreading tendrils of froth across the coarse sand. Beneath the water, unseen currents carried gritty sediment, swirling in abrasive vortices that rasped against her legs—part soothing massage, part ominous tug, a quiet promise of danger if she ventured too far. Without hesitation, she plunged in. The freezing ocean swallowed her up to her neck, shocking her lungs into gasping as her body struggled to adjust. She tilted onto her back, letting the waves lap against her, her mind going blissfully blank. Floating there, she counted the seconds between breaths, the cold stripping her of everything but the present moment. Two minutes. That was all she allowed herself, careful not to drift toward the jagged groynes she knew lurked twenty meters offshore, their dark edges hidden just beneath the surface.

When she emerged, her legs felt stiff and numb, her skin stinging as the icy grip of the water gave way to the sharp bite of returning sensation. Each step onto the sand was unsteady, her hooves sinking slightly as she forced herself forward, dragging air into her burning lungs. Her breaths billowed in ragged clouds against the cold, her body trembling as it fought to reclaim warmth. The morning felt stark and unforgiving, the wind cutting against her damp coat as she fast-marched home, the flush creeping back into her face and limbs a slow, painful burn.

Back at the house, Bistrena warmed down in the courtyard, stretching her sore limbs while steam rose faintly from her damp coat. Inside, she ran herself a hot bath, sinking into the muscle-relaxing soak with a deep sigh. It wasn’t indulgence—it was necessity. Her body needed care, even if her mind rebelled against it.

In her room, armed with coffee, now feeling steadier, she sat at her small desk and stared at the blank paper before her. The pen hovered above it, trembling slightly in her grip. A letter to Cinereus. That’s what she needed to write. But as she poised to begin, doubts flooded her mind.

What would she say? She could tell him how much she missed him, how every day felt heavier under their parents’ expectations, and how the thought of him never coming back kept her awake at night—but what good would that do? It wouldn’t bring him home, and it wouldn’t make anything easier for either of them.

Bistrena sat staring at the blank page, her mind churning with conflicting thoughts. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say, but she knew what she didn’t: empty platitudes or sugar-coated reassurances. That wasn’t who she was, and it wasn’t what she needed.

She’d spent enough time wrestling with the tidy, boxed-up version of the world her parents seemed so determined to maintain. She wasn’t writing to soothe Cinereus with warm memories or family gossip. He already had that from their parents’ letters, filled with carefully chosen words and glossed-over realities. No, this letter needed to be something different.

She wanted the truth, the raw, unvarnished kind. What was it like on the front? Did he believe in the war they were fighting? Did he think it was worth the cost? And more than that—she needed him to know who she was becoming. Baltimare was changing, and so was she. She had joined the reserves despite everything, even her parents’ disapproval. Maybe she didn’t fully know why, but it felt like the only choice that made sense.

Her pen hovered over the page. She exhaled sharply and began to write.

Dear Cinereus,

I wasn’t sure if I should write this or not, but the truth is, I needed to get a few things off my chest. Maybe it’s selfish, but I guess you know what I’m like—little sisters’ privileges and all that.

Everything here feels different now. I look around, and it’s like Baltimare is barely the same city. You wouldn’t even recognize it. Too many faces are gone. The port’s swamped with supply crates and fresh recruits, all of them just like you, just like me, pretending to know what the hell they’re getting into.

I joined the reserves. Mom and Dad hate it, but I knew I had to. For myself, at least. Part of me wanted to join the Army outright, come find you, drag you home. But that’s just the little filly in me talking—the one who still thinks the world plays fair and that wars end with happy endings.

I’m attaching my Reserve address with this letter, so you can write me directly if you want. Mom and Dad won’t see it, and I won’t try to sugarcoat things. In return, I’m asking you to be honest with me. I don’t want the “best-son-ever” bullshit you send home to make them feel better. I want to know what it’s really like. What does the front look like when the Canterlot Herald isn’t there to dress it up? And how are you, Cin? Like, really? Spare me the heroic nonsense, okay?

Stay safe, keep your head down, and for Celestia’s sake, don’t try to be a hero.

Love,
Bistrena

The smell of coffee and warm waffles filled the modest kitchen as sunlight streamed through the thin, beige curtains. The table was set as it always was: four places, one unused. The empty plate, napkin, and polished glass at Cinereus’s spot always seemed to mock Bistrena. Her mother bustled about, retrieving the butter dish from the counter and placing it within reach of Dad.

Her father, in his work overalls and with the Baltimare Daily propped in front of him, was halfway through his plate of waffles. He sipped his coffee absentmindedly, occasionally flipping a page. His gloves and tool belt sat near the front door, waiting like an obedient second spouse.

“Good batch this morning, love,” her father said, nodding toward her mother as he smeared another piece of waffle with butter and syrup.

Bistrena sat across from him, her appetite dulled by the weight of the conversation she knew she had to start. Her mother turned toward her with a small, expectant smile and set a fresh plate of waffles in front of her.

“Thanks,” Bistrena murmured, picking up her fork.

Her mother lingered for a moment, as though wanting to say something but stopping herself. This breakfast routine was important to her mother, Bistrena knew. A way to cling to normalcy. The night shifts her father used to work to earn extra pay had frayed her nerves, leaving her snapping at everyone. Bistrena had begged him to stop, just to give her mother some peace of mind. He’d relented eventually, but not without one of those rare heart-to-hearts where she saw past his gruffness to the pony who’d do anything for his family, even if he didn’t always know how to show it.

Her fork clinked against the plate as she poked at her waffle. The conversation around the table was light—work, the weather, inconsequential things. It wasn’t enough to distract her. She finally set her fork down and took a deep breath.

“Can I talk to you both for a minute?” Her voice was steady, but her stomach churned.

Her father lowered his newspaper, brow furrowing slightly. Her mother sat down, looking at her with mild apprehension.

“I know you already know,” Bistrena began, her eyes flicking between them. “But I need to say it out loud. I joined the Reserves.”

Her mother’s face tightened immediately. Her father glanced at his coffee, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“I know you’re not thrilled about it. I know you think it’s reckless, or dangerous, or... whatever else. But this isn’t just some whim,” Bistrena said, her voice gaining strength. “I need to serve. I can’t sit here and do nothing while so many others are putting everything on the line.”

Her mother opened her mouth, but Bistrena raised a hoof. “Please, just... let me finish.”

They fell silent, though her mother’s expression was taut with worry.

“I’m not doing this to hurt you. I’m staying in Baltimare for you. If it weren’t for that, I’d be on the front lines, with Cinereus. I’d put my life on the line for a war I don’t even fully believe in because I do believe in defending this family. This city. Our way of life. Isn’t that what matters?”

The room was heavy with unspoken words, her parents exchanged a glance that spoke volumes.

“Starting tomorrow for two weeks, I’ll be at the barracks in Fort Highmane,” Bistrena continued. “After that, I’ll probably be stationed somewhere in the city. I don’t know yet. But I’ll tell you what I can, when I can. I’ll be transparent. That’s all I’m asking in return—transparency. And your support.”

Her father finally spoke, his voice low and careful. “We want you safe, Bistrena. That’s all we’ve ever wanted.”

“And I’m doing my best to stay safe,” she said firmly. “But I’m an adult now. I need to make my own decisions, even if they scare you. If you can’t accept that... I’ll pack my things and go. I’m not Cinereus. I’m not your perfect little colt. I’m me, and I’m done apologizing for that.”

Her mother’s shoulders slumped, her face drawn with exhaustion and hurt. “We’re not asking you to be him,” she said softly. “We just... we don’t want to lose you too.”

Bistrena’s chest tightened, but she forced herself to hold their gaze. “You won’t lose me,” she said. “Not unless you push me away.”

The words hung in the air. Her parents exchanged another glance, their weariness plain. Finally, her father nodded slowly.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll support you. We may not like it, but we’ll support you.”

Her mother didn’t speak but gave a small, reluctant nod.

“Thank you,” Bistrena said, her voice thick. “That’s all I ask.”

Her parents rose quietly to prepare for work. Bistrena stayed at the table, watching through the window as they stepped into the courtyard. Her mother looked creased with worry, her father leaning in to kiss her cheek. She caught a few words as his lips moved, though the rest was lost to the morning breeze: “...we need to let her...”

As they walked down the path and out the gate, Bistrena felt a strange sense of peace. She stood, her heart lighter, and went upstairs to pack her bag for basic training.

Author's Note

Thank you for reading! Any feedback or criticisms are always welcome and much appreciated. I'm always looking to improve, so feel free to share your thoughts!