Heart and Hearth

by MajorPaleFace

Rating: teen
Tags: Adventure, Violence, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Alternate Universe, Sad, Original Character
Length: 55289

As war looms over Equestria, Bistrena faces a choice that will test her deepest loyalties. Torn between duty and love, she must find her path as her world stands on the brink.

Bistrena stands at a crossroads, torn between loyalty and duty as the shadow of war grows closer. With a choice to make and time running out, she must decide where her true path lies—before the world as she knows it changes forever.

Published 2024-11-02 15:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2025-02-05 16:17:22 UTC

ELEVEN

The whistle jolted Bistrena from her sleep. Once, it would have startled her awake, heart racing and disoriented. Now, the suddenness had become so routine that she could almost drift back to sleep—if not for the autonomous early morning ritual drilled into her. Hooves hit the floor, the cold biting through her coat. Around her, the barracks stirred, a low murmur of rustling sheets and quiet movements.

Underneath the opposite bunk, the barracks’ resident rat—a creature as large as a small dog—circled on patrol. Its beady eyes gleamed in the dim light before it slunk into a hole beneath the floorboards, vanishing back into anonymity.

She made the bed. Tugging the blanket tight, smoothing the sheets, and aligning the pillow. One task at a time. Her mind felt blank, almost hollow, as if the previous day's events hadn’t happened—or couldn’t have. She thought she’d be angry, maybe shaking or falling apart, but nothing happened. Just a dull ache somewhere deep she didn’t want to look at.

Dusklight glanced her way. “You okay?”

Bistrena didn’t answer at first. The bed was nearly perfect. A wrinkle at the edge of the blanket caught her attention. She fixed it, then looked at Dusklight. “Fine.”

Dusklight hesitated, then nodded. Across the room, Ribbonweave muttered something under her breath, probably about how cold it was. Aurelia triple-checked her boots like usual. The routine kept them moving, just like it did Bistrena.

The door swung open, and Corporal Jetstream strode in, flanked by Slate. Jetstream’s eyes swept over the recruits as he stepped into the middle of the room.

“Listen up,” he called, his voice sharp but not raised. “Week two starts today. You’re moving to another barracks.”

Bistrena blinked, momentarily thrown. A transfer wasn’t something she’d expected, and judging by the looks around her, the others hadn’t either.

“Strip your bunks, pack your gear, and be outside in fifteen minutes,” Jetstream continued. “Keep it tight. Slate’s watching the clock.”

Slate remained silent, her gaze passing over the recruits like a blade.

The recruits didn’t need to be told twice. Around the room, blankets were pulled free, and hooves worked quickly to pack gear. Ribbonweave cursed under her breath, muttering something about having just made her bed, while Dusklight worked quietly.

Bistrena focused on rolling her blanket. Her hooves moved automatically, but her mind wandered. Lockstep wasn’t there. The absence felt strange, like a chair missing one leg. She wasn’t sure what to make of it—was it related to yesterday?

Jetstream’s voice pulled her back to the present. “Fifteen minutes. Get to it, ladies!”

He turned and left, Slate following wordlessly. The door clicked shut behind them, and the room settled into focused movement.

Bistrena tightened the straps on her pack, while Dusklight worked to help her buckle her armour, and took a steadying breath. She shoved aside her thoughts about Lockstep. Whatever awaited them at the new barracks, there was no point in worrying about it now.

The cold hit hard as they stepped outside. Frost crunched under their boots as they marched to the field. Snow clung to their coats, their breath steaming in the air.

The company formed up by platoon, in files as straight as they could manage. At the front, Captain Wheatstone and Staff Sergeant Barnside stood on a crate, watching as the recruits settled into place. Wheatstone cleared his throat, his voice cutting cleanly through the crisp morning air.

“We’ll be marching to a training town on the other side of the lake,” he began. “It’s about two hours away at a solid hoof. You’ll be carrying everything—full armour, kit bags, all of it, so don’t leave anything behind.”

He scanned the lines briefly. “When we arrive, we’ll eat as a unit. You’ll learn how to handle field rations, foraging, and basic camp-making skills. Once that’s done, the platoons will split. First, Second, and Third Platoons will muster for Riot Control training under Staff Sergeant Barnside. Fourth and Fifth will head to the Fire Training College, while Sixth and Eighth stay back at camp for First Aid. These rotations will last two days per unit. The seventh day will be rest—you’ll have earned it by then.”

Wheatstone nodded once and stepped aside. “Barnside, they’re yours.”

Barnside didn’t waste a second, her voice sharp and direct.

“This week’s going to push you. You’ll be dragged through every kind of scenario we can throw at you—some of our simulations will feel real, but they're not. This is where you get to screw up. You’ll have specialists on stand-by to show you the right way, and you’ll keep doing it until you get it right. That’s the point of training: learning here, so you don’t kill yourself—or another poor bastard—out there.”

She paused, letting her gaze rake across the rows of recruits. “Take it seriously. Learn everything you can. And don’t waste my time pretending you’ve got it figured out when you don’t. Now get ready to move. It’s a long march, and we're burning daylight.”

The company fell into motion, their boots crunching in rhythm as they prepared to head toward the training town.

As 3rd Platoon fell into their column, an officer in black approached Wheatstone. He handed over a scroll sealed with the insignia of the Military Police.

Wheatstone read it quickly, his frown deepening. When he finished, his gaze moved across the battalion, finally landing on Bistrena.

Dusklight noticed. “What’s he looking at?” she whispered.

Bistrena’s stomach twisted. Wheatstone spoke quietly with the officer, then nodded. The officer walked toward them.

“Recruit Bistrena,” the officer said when he reached their line. “You’re to come with me for questioning.”

Dusklight’s eyes widened. “What’s this about?” she asked, stepping closer to Bistrena.

“Platoon, stand fast!” Jetsream’s voice cut through the growing whispers. “Recruit, move out.”

Bistrena swallowed hard, stepping out of line. Her mind was spinning now, but her body moved on its own. She followed the officer, her steps stiff, her back straight. Behind her, she could feel the eyes of her platoon, the questions they weren’t asking out loud.

The MP led her through the camp, heading towards the regional fort. A tall central keep with six semi-circular bastions. A dry moat stretched beneath the drawbridge, and a stone gatehouse stood proudly on the other side, flanked by two tall flagpoles.

The fort’s drawbridge creaked under Bistrena’s hooves as she followed the MP inside. The old stone keep loomed above, its weathered walls almost foreboding against the morning light. Inside, the air was damp and musty, the cold sinking into her bones.

At first, it seemed like any old castle she’d read about in school—arched ceilings, crumbling tapestries, and sconces that still held remnants of burnt-out torches. But as they walked deeper, things began to feel… off.

Thin metal wires snaked along the walls, and strange glowing panels replaced where torches might have been. There were machines here—large, blocky things with blinking lights and faint hums that made her ears twitch. She couldn’t begin to guess their purpose.

She caught sight of a smooth black device resting on a pedestal, its glass surface flickering with images and strange markings. It looked like some sort of enchanted mirror, but the symbols weren’t runes. They were too angular, too alien.

The MP said nothing, his steps steady as he led Bistrena down a narrow stairwell. The stone steps were slick, and Bistrena leaned on the cold wall for balance. At the bottom, a heavy steel door came into view, its surface too clean, too precise to belong in a place like this.

The MP tapped a series of buttons on a small panel embedded in the wall. With a low hiss, the door slid open, revealing a sterile room that couldn’t have been more different from the old fort above.

The stone walls were bare, save for a single strange device mounted on the far side—a black box with a flickering green light. Wires trailed from it like vines, vanishing into the ceiling. A metal table sat in the centre, flanked by two simple chairs.

And then there was him.

The unicorn stallion waiting inside looked as out of place as the machines. His storm-grey coat and neatly combed black mane were unremarkable at first glance, but something about him made her uneasy. His eyes, silver and unblinking, seemed to cut straight through her.

Then she noticed his foreleg.

At first, she thought it was armour—a polished metal gauntlet that gleamed under the harsh lights. But as he moved, the joints flexed unnaturally, the plates shifting like living metal. Whatever it was, it wasn’t just armour.

“Recruit Bistrena,” he said, his voice low and even. “Sit.”

She hesitated but obeyed, her hooves scuffing the spotless floor as she slid into the chair.

The MP nodded to the stallion and left without a word. The door hissed shut behind him, leaving Bistrena alone with the metal-legged stranger.

“I’m Agent Silverhoof, Domestic Security Agency,” he said, gesturing to a small device on the table. It was about the size of a book, with glowing symbols she didn’t recognize. He pressed a button, and a soft hum filled the room.

“This device ensures privacy,” he said, his tone clinical. “No sound leaves this room while it’s active.”

So, this was what they looked like? The DSA - shadowy Crown Agents who fought Equestria's hidden enemies? Not what I was expecting. Bistrena’s ears flicked, her unease growing. Privacy spells weren’t unheard of, but this didn’t feel magical. Or legal, her mind chirped.

He started taking snaking wires from another machine, it looked like a thin black typewriter, but there were only a few buttons. "This is a lie detector machine," he said, attaching the clips to her foreleg, and a sticky pad behind one of her ears with delicate movements. “Otherwise known as a biometric analyzer. It measures your body’s responses to determine truthfulness. Do you understand?”

Bistrena swallowed hard, sweat beading on the back of her neck. The pad was cold and itchy, she fought the desire to twitch her ear. “I think so.”

“Good. Let’s begin.”

The machine hummed softly, its needles twitching across the paper. Silverhoof asked her simple questions at first—her name, her rank, the date. She answered automatically, her gaze flicking between him and the machine.

But then, his tone shifted.

“Tell me about yesterday.”

Her chest tightened. She recounted the events in short, halting sentences—the guard’s advances, his hooves on her, her desperate struggle, Lockstep's arrival. Her voice wavered, but she forced herself to keep going.

Silverhoof didn’t interrupt, and his expression didn't change. When she finished, he leaned back slightly, his metallic foreleg resting on the table.

“Did you feel threatened?”

“Yes.”

“Did you believe your life was in danger?”

“Yes.”

“Did you intend to kill him?”

Her heart pounded. She shook her head. “No. I just wanted him to stop.”

The needles jumped sharply, and she flinched, though Silverhoof did not indicate what it meant. He leaned forward, his silver eyes narrowing.

“Do you regret it?”

Bistrena’s ears flattened, anger bubbling to the surface. “Regret what, exactly?” she shot back. “Do I regret cleaning the bathroom? Or being assaulted?”

Silverhoof’s tone remained cold. “Do you regret his death?”

The question struck her silent. She stared at him, her mind racing. Did she? The guard’s face flashed in her memory, twisted with drunken lust and then shock. She hadn’t meant for him to die. But regret?

Her eyes flicked to the machine. If it worked, lying wouldn’t help.

She took a deep breath. “No,” she said firmly. “I don’t regret it. I didn’t expect it—any of it. But when it happened, it felt like…” She hesitated, searching for the right words, remembering what Lockstep had told her. “Like the world just proved how rotten it is.”

For the first time, Silverhoof’s expression shifted—just a flicker of something unreadable. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his forelegs, the machine’s rhythmic hum the only sound. His silver eyes remained fixed on Bistrena, watching, evaluating.

“Let’s move on,” he said. “The war. What do you believe it’s about?”

Bistrena blinked. The question caught her off guard, as did the casual tone in which it was asked. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

Silverhoof tilted his head slightly as if studying her from a new angle. “This war's been going on for more than two years now, and you’ve been training to fight it. Surely you have an opinion.”

She shifted in her chair, her mind racing. “I used to think it was about patriotism. Defending Equestria from invaders. Doing my part for the homeland.” Her tone hardened. “But now? I think it’s just... happening. Ponies like me don’t get to decide why or how. It’s just there. If I have to fight to protect my family, my home, I will. That’s all.”

Silverhoof nodded slowly, his expression flat, like this was something mundane for him, like just another interview. “And what if protecting your home meant fighting against ponies you thought were your allies?”

Bistrena stiffened. The question dug deeper than she liked, scratching at fresh wounds. She thought of Blackguard and Lockstep, of the blood on the tiles. “I defended myself when I had to,” she said carefully. “I’ll do it again if I need to.”

His horn flickered with electric-blue light, and the air seemed to hum. His silver eyes dulled momentarily, replaced by faint blue, and she swore she saw tiny lines of writing scroll across them. His expression turned distant, almost vacant, as though reading something only he could see.

“Cinereus,” he said, suddenly robotic, his voice deepening. “Your brother. He’s with the 90th Shock Battery, correct? Been in the thick of it for a few years now. Few commendations. By all accounts, a hero.”

Bistrena’s heart skipped. “Y-Yes. I’m proud of him. Always have been. He’s the reason I joined. I wanted to follow him, but… family kept me here.”

Silverhoof’s gaze snapped back to her, sharp and probing. “What if Cinereus came home one day… and turned out to be a changeling infiltrator? Could you kill an enemy that wore your brother’s face?”

Her breath caught. “What kind of question is that?!”

“Just answer it.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

The machine spiked, its needles jumping erratically. Silverhoof’s eyes returned to their silver sheen, and he glanced at the readout, his expression neutral."These questions ensure the safety and survival of Equestria, recruit."

He leaned forward, his voice harsher now. “I'll ask you again. What if Cinereus came home, but he wasn’t really him anymore? What would you do?”

Bistrena clenched her jaw. Anger burned inside her, hot and visceral. Who was this stallion? What gave him the right to twist her thoughts like this?

“If Cinereus came home, I’d be ecstatic to see him,” she said slowly, measuring her words. “But if he turned into… some kind of monster, I can’t imagine it.”

Silverhoof pressed further. “I'll paint you a picture; Imagine he was like the guard who attacked you. Pinning you down. Hurting you. What would you do then?”

"My brother would never hurt me," she said defiantly. Stalling for an answer she didn't wish to provide.

The Agent frowned, "It's a Changeling. The enemy. Not your brother. Imagine you're talking with him, and he turns into a monster, he attacks you and pins you down. Imagine it went like yesterday."

A low growl escaped her throat. “I’d defend myself.”

Silverhoof’s face remained impassive. “And if the changeling infiltrator threatened your parents? Or the young foals next door?” He listed their names, each one landing like a hammer blow. Bistrena felt a chill creep up her spine.

Her voice trembled. “How do you know so much about me? I thought this was about an unprovoked attack, and now you’re…” She struggled for the words. “… messing with my head!”

Silverhoof’s metallic hoof slammed onto the table, the sharp clang reverberating through the room. Bistrena flinched, pressing back against her chair.

“Would you or would you not kill an enemy of Equestria, be it a changeling, a pony, or something in between?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

Her heart pounded. Every instinct told her to choose her words carefully. “I…” She hesitated. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “If my brother came home and turned out to be… not himself, or if he tried to hurt my family or my neighbours, and it was obvious he wasn’t himself, or I couldn't save him... then yes.”

Silverhoof exhaled deeply, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. His silver eyes flicked between hers, and she noticed for the first time the faint indent his artificial foreleg had left in the table.

Satisfied, he leaned back and began analyzing the machine’s printouts, which had grown into an unwieldy pile. He made a few notes in a slim file, his pen scratching against the paper.

Bistrena sat in stunned silence, her heart racing as she tried to process what had just happened. Blood and adrenalin coursed through her body, and she yearned for the open air, the fresh outdoors. Not to be trapped in this stifling little box.

Finally, without another word, Silverhoof stopped the machine, placing it and the sheet of readouts in a bag, he disconnected the wires from her silently and walked to the door. He paused for a moment, glancing back at her with a cold, unreadable expression before leaving. The door clicked shut, and the room fell into an uneasy silence.

Bistrena sat, the lack of sound very prominent, staring at the blank walls, her mind circling back to the questions Silverhoof had asked. What if Cinereus came home and wasn’t himself? The thought made her stomach churn, and her blood pressure rise, and she forced herself to look away, to just breathe and calm down, focusing instead on the sterile room around her.

Out of boredom, her eyes travelled to the corner of the room, where a strange object was mounted on a bracket. It was cylindrical, with a small glass lens at its centre. Curious, she stood and approached it cautiously, noting the faint mechanical whir as it shifted to follow her movements.

“What in Equestria…” she muttered, stepping to one side. The device rotated smoothly, keeping its lens trained on her. Her ears twitched at the faint sound of servos inside it. She tilted her head, half-expecting it to do the same, but it remained fixed.

The quiet hum of the room was interrupted by the muffled sound of a door opening down the hallway. Her ears swivelled instinctively, catching the sharp echo of hoofsteps growing closer. She quickly moved back to the chair, sinking into it just as the door to her room opened.

She expected to see Silverhoof again, but the figure that entered was unfamiliar. At first, she thought it was another stallion, tall and broad-shouldered with a storm-grey coat and a black mane tied back in a no-nonsense braid. Their eyes were a deep, almost-black brown, giving them an intense, piercing gaze.

The figure carried a thick file under one foreleg, which they dropped onto the table with a dull thud before taking a seat opposite her. They sat with deliberate heaviness, as though displaying their physical power.

Bistrena studied them openly, trying to get a read on this new interrogator. When their head cocked slightly to one side, it seemed either curious or unused to being scrutinized.

She glanced away quickly, hoping to seem casual, but something about their presence made it hard to relax. It wasn’t until they spoke that she realized she’d been wrong.

The voice was low but undeniably feminine, smooth and controlled, with a quality that could make train announcements sound comforting.

“Recruit Bistrena, I'm Agent Ashveil,” the mare introduced herself simply.

Bistrena blinked, caught off guard by the contrast between the agent’s imposing build and her measured voice.

The agent adjusted her coat, the fabric straining slightly across her barrel as she shifted, revealing forelegs so muscular that Bistrena’s jaw almost dropped.

"You've already met my colleague," the agent said in a voice smooth as velvet but carrying an undeniable edge.

Bistrena couldn’t take her eyes off her forelimbs. They were like solid tree trunks, the sinew and muscle visible as the Agent rolled her tailored coat's sleeves to quarter-length. This mare, as a unicorn, was supposed to be dainty, even delicate. Bistrena herself was an average earth pony mare, and would normally have a few kilos on the other races - even the males. Yet this unicorn could put the biggest stallions she’d ever seen to shame. Her chest was broad, her neck thick like the hydraulic arm of some machine, straining the seams of her dress shirt.

Yet, for all that raw power, her face remained strikingly feminine—jawline soft but defined, eyes that glimmered with sharp intelligence. Bistrena couldn’t help but think, damn, she’d look good on a billboard. Maybe for some Canterlot high-society de-ageing serum or luxury soda ad.

Realizing she hadn’t said anything for an awkward stretch of time, Bistrena forced herself to answer. “Yes,” she choked out before clearing her throat. “We just met,” she sighed at length, "I'd sure like to sock that asshole in the mouth, the shit he asked me."

The agent tilted her head slightly, opening the folder she’d carried in. Her eyes flicked up, and for a brief moment, there was an almost playful glint in them.

“Yes,” the agent said, clicking a pen and scribbling a note. “He can have that effect on ponies.”

Her tone shifted, serious now. “Bistrena,” she said, her pen poised, “do you have any significant others? Or are you part of a herd?”

The question caught Bistrena off guard. “A herd?” she echoed, laughing involuntarily. The agent frowned, clearly unamused.

Right, Bistrena thought. Herds. The age-old solution to Equestria’s lopsided birth ratios. Something about magic-infused pregnancies favouring mares, or maybe it’s just how things are. Everypony has their theories. She let her inner monologue pause, and then Current’s face flashed in her mind.

His soft smile, the way his ears twitched when he was nervous. Her heart did a small leap, and she mentally cursed herself. Calm down, Bi. You’re just feeling vulnerable. Your brain thinks cuddling will make all the monsters go away. If he’s even still alive.

She hesitated, realizing there was no lie detector this time. But honesty seemed the better option, especially since these ponies probably already knew everything. Or at least they wanted her to think they did.

“Yes,” she said finally. “I’ve got somepony special I’m waiting for.”

The agent scribbled another note without looking up, then slid an envelope across the table. It was plain, rectangular, and covered with the stamps of the Royal Army Postal Service. Her name was scrawled neatly on the front.

Bistrena froze as her eyes drifted to the return address: Camp Amberbrook.

Her breath caught. It was familiar—so familiar it took her a moment to realize why. That’s where Cinereus’s letters had come from two years ago when he’d first left.

Her pulse quickened, but she frowned. It wasn’t her brother’s hoofwriting. She’d memorized every curl of his script over the years.

Then who…

The agent said nothing, just watched silently as Bistrena tore the envelope open. Inside was a brief letter:

Dear Bi,

I’m almost done with basic training. They say in a few days, we’ll ship out. I can’t say where—not supposed to—but I’ll be on the front soon. I guess there's no risk of me drowning in a latrine, right? Ha.

I hope you’re doing okay. I’ve been thinking about you a lot. Wanted to send you this to let you know I’m alright. Hope to hear from you soon. Mail my unit through the Royal Army Postal Service, 809th Infantry Division, 12th Battalion, 4th Company.

Take care of yourself,

Current

Alongside the letter was a small photo, the kind used for identification. In it, Current’s mane was shaved close, his face more angular, with lines of worry etched into his expression. Around him stood a group of other stallions, all grinning as though on holiday at the beach.

Bistrena stared at the image, her chest tightening. Barely recognise him.

The agent interrupted her study. “Something wrong?”

Bistrena shook her head, folding the letter and photo back into the envelope, and stuffing it into her coat. “No,” she said, though her voice sounded far away.

The agent tilted her head again, observing her. “Good,” she said, closing the folder in front of her. “Then let’s move on.”

The room felt colder now, though Bistrena wasn’t sure if it was her nerves or the agent’s words chilling the air. Another dammed interrogation. I'm the wronged party here! Her mind protested.

Ashveil flipped a page in her file, her pen scratching briskly. “Recruit Bistrena, the next part of this process is going to be... difficult. Possibly traumatic for you.”

Bistrena frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ashveil looked up, her expression neutral but her dark eyes gleaming with a quiet intensity. “We’ll be using a mnemonic spell to review the events surrounding the assault. That means I’ll be in your head. I’ll see what you saw, hear what you heard, feel what you—” She hesitated deliberately, letting the weight of the sentence hang. “Felt.”

Bistrena stiffened, her wariness spiking. “You’ll… be in my head?”

“Yes,” Ashveil confirmed, voice even. “And I’ll need you to guide me through it. Shepherd my focus, direct me to the important moments. All while supplementary spells analyze the memories to ensure they’re genuine.”

“Genuine?” Bistrena echoed, her voice rising. “Why wouldn’t they be genuine? Why would I lie about something like this?

Ashveil placed the pen down carefully, folding her hooves over the file. “There are plenty of reasons why ponies fabricate details, even in cases like this.” Her voice turned clinical like she was listing mundane trivia. “To cover up something worse, to gain leverage over someone, to avoid blackmail, failed bribery, personal grievances. Perhaps you simply didn’t like him.”

Bistrena’s jaw dropped. “Didn’t like him?” Her voice cracked with disbelief. “Are you serious right now? I didn’t like him because he tried to—” She stopped, her chest heaving.

Ashveil raised an eyebrow but didn’t flinch. “Emotions run high in cases like these. That’s why we rely on spells and impartial investigators to cut through subjective recollections and find the truth.”

Bistrena jerked her hoof on the table. “The truth? The truth is I didn’t kill him! Corporal Lockstep did, and she did it to save me!”

Ashveil tilted her head, jotting something down. “Yes, we have her statement here. Do you blame Corporal Lockstep for what happened?”

“How could I?” Bistrena snapped. “Thanks to her, Blackguard didn't have his way with me."

Agent Ashveil tapped her pen against the file. “Yet, Lockstep’s report indicates she had prior knowledge of Blackguard’s behaviour but failed to act.”

Bistrena felt her stomach churn with anger. “Funny,” she shot back, her tone biting. “As far as I know, Lockstep reported it, but the bonehead who used to run this place just sat on his hooves. How many mares do you think paid the price for that lack of action? Do you even care?”

Ashveil’s composure didn’t falter, but her pen paused mid-scribble. “I’m the one asking the questions here, Recruit.”

Bistrena leaned forward, her voice trembling with both fury and challenge. “Fine. Let me ask you something, Agent Ashveil. Do you have anyone you care about? Kids, maybe? Family?”

Ashveil’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What’s your point?”

“What if Blackguard had pinned one of them down? Tried to hurt them, violate them. Would you kill him?”

Ashveil’s answer was immediate and sharp. “In a heartbeat.”

Bistrena blinked, startled by the agent’s unhesitating reply.

Ashveil leaned back, folding her hooves again. “But this isn’t about me. It’s about you. So let’s refocus. Corporal Lockstep. Did you know she had prior knowledge of Blackguard’s behaviour?”

Bistrena ground her teeth. “No. Not until after. But even then, how could I blame her for any of it?”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Then what are you asking?” Bistrena snapped. “Because we’re going around in circles. If you want to poke around in my head, be my guest. Just be careful you don’t see something you won’t like.”

Ashveil’s calm mask flickered for just a moment before she picked up the pen again. “Noted.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Bistrena sat back, forelegs crossed, her breathing heavy. Ashveil made a few more notes before finally looking up. “We’ll begin the mnemonic spell shortly. Take a moment to compose yourself.”

“I don’t need to compose myself," Bistrena scowled, her eyes narrowing. "Let's just get this over with."

Author's Note

Hello viewers,

We're finally Introduced to the DSA. They'll crop up again here and there, as secret agents tend to do. If you'd like more information on them and some other aspects of the lore, you can read a few CODEX entries: here.

Please like and comment, anything, just a "I like this," will suffice. I'm down on my knees, pleading, crying and shi-

Until next time - Paleface

ONE

Bistrena and Current, two earth ponies, walked side by side along the Royal Promenade in Shetland Hills, a neighbourhood in the bustling city of Baltimare. The city was lively with its cobblestone streets, iron lampposts, and shopfronts displaying everything from nautical equipment to small artworks celebrating their harbour town. The city's air had a faint scent of salt and seaweed, reminding the friends of summers spent along the shore.

“Do you remember when Miss Starbloom caught you snoozing at the back of class?” Bistrena snickered, giving Current a nudge. “You looked like you were about to tumble right off your chair!”

“Oh, please,” Current scoffed, smirking. “She clapped her hooves, and I was just... applauding her passion for history. Honestly, I wasn’t even fazed.”

“Not fazed?” Bistrena laughed. “You jumped so high I thought you’d take off like a pegasus! Your face was priceless.”

“Hey, that’s called commitment to character,” Current shot back. “I was just bringing some drama to history class. I bet even Starbloom was impressed.”

“Right,” Bistrena rolled her eyes. “By the ghost-white colt sweating like it was a final exam? Sure, Current.”

They shared a laugh, comfortable in each other’s company as they passed by “Briny’s Sweet Treats,” a small candy shop that had been a favourite since their school days. Inside, the shelves seemed a little sparser than Bistrena remembered, and some of the jars, once brimming with sweets, held only a handful now. They picked out honeyed oat flapjacks and bottles of fizzy pome-soda, handing them to the shopkeeper, who gave a small nod as he marked their ration cards with a faint stamp. Current tucked the treats beneath his saddlebag with a grin, as if they’d snuck in an indulgence.

The Baltimare Grand, a beautiful old theatre with velvet curtains and a flickering marquee, is their destination. The interior is dimly lit, casting warm light over the brass fixtures and plush red seats. Bistrena and Current find themselves sitting towards the back, sneaking glances at each other as they settle in.

As the lights dim and the movie begins, Bistrena is transfixed by the on-screen world. The film, The Star Speckled Mare, tells the story of a young pegasus who falls in love with his mentor—a graceful and mysterious flight instructor. The scenes are bathed in soft moonlight as the two characters share tentative looks, suggesting something beyond professional courtesy.

Bistrena caught herself leaning closer to Current, who was watching with rapt attention. For a brief, enchanted moment, the theatre and the world outside faded away. Suddenly, the theatre’s screen flickered and the lights dimmed even further. A heavy silence filled the room as the magical broadcast overrode the film, projecting an image of Princess Celestia surrounded by the Royal Guard, smoke and the red glow of distant fires visible behind her.

“My dear ponies of Equestria,” she began, her voice calm but urgent, “we stand at a precipice. As the tides of devastation rise, we will not falter. We will defend our shores, our families, and our way of life. We shall fight for our freedom, for every home and hearth from the highest peak of Canterlot to the depths of the Everfree Forest. Together, we will face this darkness.”

Bistrena tried to keep her attention on Celestia’s words, but her thoughts drifted to her brother, Cinereus, somewhere on the front line. She imagined him in the thick of battle, courageously carrying out his duty, but wondered at the price he must be paying. She remembered the last letter he sent, the faint scent of iron lingering on the paper, and the carefully crafted words meant to hide more than they revealed.

The movie had resumed, but the magic was lost. Bistrena’s mind was now heavy with worry, and she could feel Current watching her with quiet concern. She didn’t want to speak, as though giving voice to her fear might make it real.

In the darkness, Current placed a gentle hoof on hers, grounding her back in the present. She glanced at him, seeing her own worry reflected in his eyes. There’s an unspoken understanding between them—Current has dreams beyond Baltimare, but he’s stayed close, waiting for Bistrena to be ready. The thought tugs at her heart, a reminder of the quiet love that’s always existed between them.

With the film over, they step out into the chilly Baltimare night. The stars above are faint, shrouded by the city’s smoke, and there’s an unnatural stillness in the air. They walk together in silence, each lost in thought. Bistrena felt a mixture of fear and responsibility—she’s the only sibling her parents have left at home, but the thought of leaving her town and joining the defence of Equestria also gnawed at her. The pull to serve, to follow her brother's path, battles with her sense of duty to her family.

They arrived at her home, a terraced property passed down from her great-grandparents. The stone ground level built over 150 years ago can still be seen, although later generations of her family went up a couple of levels, turning it into a gothic townhouse with a wrought iron gated courtyard. Current, sensing her inner turmoil, broke the silence. “You know,” he said softly, “whatever you choose, I’ll stand by you. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Before she could say anything, he gave her the last of the flapjack and turned to trot off. She watches him for a moment, before entering the courtyard, the gate clanging gently behind her. Bistrena was reminded that tonight is one of those nights. The mood for the next few days will be decided by the reading of her brother's fortnightly letter. They usually arrive early in the week, depending on the postal mare that day, and her mother always waits for her father to come home from the factory.

Before the war, her parents were retired—her father was an ex-blacksmith and her mother a fishermare. Now Dad worked twelve-hour shifts at the Royal Iron Works, turning ore into ingots for the war. Meanwhile, Mom volunteered at the Ingleside Cannery, transforming seafood by-products into military rations. That meant they got more food than most families; the guards weren’t the only ones on rations. This war had been going on for two years, and there was no sign of it ending anytime soon.

The living room was a comfortable affair, with cosy seating and decor that spoke of warmth and care. A small brick fireplace was being tended to by a lean old stallion, hair greying at the temples and slicked back with mane styler product. Her mom swooped down the oak and walnut staircase, banded iron tying it together. She unbound her apron, hung it up at the coat rack, and entered the kitchen.

Moments later, they were all sitting around the fire. They murmur about their day. Work is the same, like always—hard but vital to the war. Bistrena knows they do it for her brother. They slave away, giving what they have left physically, imagining their son enjoying a fish ration or protected in iron armour from the ingots her father smithed. Bistrena tells them about the theatre, and her parents smile genuinely, pleased she is living a “normal life.” But inside, she doesn’t feel like she deserves it. After all, she was old enough to serve, and why shouldn’t she go? But her parents need her here.

They gather around the coffee table, the atmosphere thick with anticipation as they unfold the letter together. A collective sigh escapes them, filling the room with tension. Bistrena’s mother glances at the newspaper that rests on the coffee table, her expression grave. “I checked the casualty list this morning,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “A colt from down the street... just a few years older than you are, Bistrena.”

Bistrena’s heart sinks as images of families like hers flash through her mind—a faceless child disappearing from a parent’s family portrait. Another vibrant smile extinguished. “And last week, it was Clover,” her mother murmurs, her voice trembling. “Do you remember her, Bi? You used to play together at the park.” The weight of loss feels like a pinprick through Bistrena’s heart, a sharp reminder that it could have been her. Coward, a voice in her mind whispers, taunting her for staying behind.

Her father clenched his jaw, his eyes narrow. “It’s brutal out there,” he said, his tone steady but filled with sorrow. “We need to stay strong for Cinereus. He wouldn’t want us to worry like this.”

“But I can’t help it,” Bistrena admitted, feeling the familiar swell of emotions rising within her. “I should be out there, helping. I owe it to Equestria, to my friends.” She looks from her father to her mother, searching their faces for understanding.

Her mother reached out, placing a comforting hoof on her shoulder. “Bistrena, your brother needs you here just as much. We need you,” she insisted gently. “Every time we get a letter and it’s his hoofwriting, it’s a relief. You can’t imagine what it feels like to think...”

Bistrena nodded, her throat tightening. “I know. I just... it’s almost too much to bear,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “I feel so helpless. I should be doing more. And every time I see you both ageing a little more with each letter, it’s like I’m losing pieces of you.”

Her father’s shoulders sagged, the toll of months of worry etched plainly on his face. “Your mother and I, we’re doing what we can,” he said, turning to her mother and taking her hoof in his own. She gave him a small, encouraging smile. “Each ration we pack, every ingot we forge… it’s for him. For all of them. And you’re a part of that, Bistrena.” His voice softened. “This family needs you here, too.”

“It doesn’t feel like enough,” she whispered, tears pricking at her eyes. “It’s like I’m trapped here, waiting for the day a letter comes that isn’t from him.” She looked at her parents, the familiar worry deepening in their faces. “Every pony my age has left for the fight,” she added, her voice rising slightly. “Ponies look at me, and I can see them thinking I’m avoiding my duty. They think I’m just sitting here, doing nothing.”

Her mother’s grip tightened around her, and her father placed a gentle hoof on her shoulder, but she continued. “The fighting is getting closer, I hear it at night, like some terrible storm rolling in over Baltimare. How much longer can we pretend I can just sit here and wait?”

Her mother pulled her closer, her voice soothing but firm. “You’re stronger than you realize, sweetheart. We’ll get through this, together. We just have to hold on to each other.”

Bistrena shook her head, struggling to push down her anger. “But it’s not just about holding on,” she said. “It feels hollow. I’m losing Cinereus bit by bit, and I’m losing you both too, even though you’re right here. I can’t stand watching you waste away, working yourselves to exhaustion... all so I can stay home.”

Her father met her gaze, his eyes filled with a mix of sadness and pride. “There’s nothing hollow in being here for your family, Bistrena,” he said quietly. “This—being here with us, supporting us—it’s a choice. And it’s just as important as any choice Cinereus made.”

Bistrena looked between them, feeling the weight of their sacrifices and her doubts settled heavily in her chest. For a moment, silence filled the room, but it was no comfort, only a reminder of the waiting that hung over them all.

Bistrena leaned briefly into her mother’s embrace but felt herself pulling back, a swell of conflicting emotions tightening in her chest. As she met her father’s eyes, the usual steadiness there seemed strained, as if her doubt and frustration were wearing him down, too. He placed a gentle hoof on her neck, his brow furrowing, a silent plea for her to hold on and stay close. But that small touch only reminded her of the impossible choice she faced: either risk her life fighting or stay here, feeling herself wither a little more every day.

“Please, just try to understand,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I can’t keep going like this, pretending nothing’s wrong. Some days I can barely get out of bed, like nothing even matters. I try to ignore the war, to feel normal—but something always brings it back. I don’t even recognize myself anymore.” She pressed a hoof to her forehead, feeling the ache settle in. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending.”

Her mother’s face crumpled, a small sob escaping before she could catch it. “Think of us, Bistrena,” she said, her voice thick with worry. “This isn’t just about you. If we lose you and Cinereus... if we have to bury both of our children…” Her voice broke, trailing off as she covered her face with a trembling hoof.

Bistrena’s heart clenched at the sight of her mother’s pain, guilt twisting inside her. “Mom…” she started, reaching out, but stopped short. A part of her couldn’t bear to let them keep pulling her back, to let their fear bind her here. She leaned back into the armchair, the words spilling out before she could stop them. “Go ask the mothers of Clover and that colt down the street how they manage it. Ask them what it’s like.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Her mother’s face was pale, her father’s expression frozen in stunned hurt. Bistrena swallowed, feeling regret gnaw at her even as she braced herself, forcing herself to hold their gaze a moment longer.

“I’m… going for a run,” she said finally, her voice flat. Without another word, she got up and walked out the door, leaving the tense quiet of the room pressing heavily behind her.

Author's Note

Hello everyone!

Trying something a bit different this time. If you enjoy it, please give it a like and leave a comment—I’d love to hear your thoughts! And let me know what you’d like to see next!

A. Bistrena enlists, despite family’s pleas.
B. Bistrena stays but feels isolated from peers.
C. Bistrena joins the local guard to support without leaving Baltimare.

Until next time!

-PaleFace

TWO

It had been a couple of days since the conversation with her parents, and Bistrena hadn’t slept well or eaten much since. She felt physically nauseous and exhausted, avoiding her parents at all costs. To keep her mind off things, she stayed out late, sneaking in to avoid confrontation and leaving early to keep busy. She ran two or three times a day, trying to fill her time with anything other than thoughts of the future. Relief finally washed over her when she made up her mind about what to do. The urge to fight burned within her and the idea of doing nothing felt like drowning. She had made her decision.

If Bistrena joined the Guard and went to the frontline, she might never come home. The thought of leaving her parents behind was painful, and staying meant getting letters from her brother, Cinereus, would become even harder. She dreamed of finding him on the battlefield, but then what? No, she needed to stay, no matter how difficult that conclusion was. Still, being an anchor for her parents was weighing too heavily on her; she needed space, time to herself, and a way to contribute to the war effort. Otherwise, she felt she would go mad.

She hadn’t told them. Not because she didn’t care—if she didn’t, she’d already be on the front lines. But because she couldn’t stomach the long conversations, the pleas to reconsider, the weight of their worry pressing on her like a stone. It was her decision, her life. They’d understand someday, or they wouldn’t. Either way, she couldn’t let their fear dictate her future.

The office was dark and dusty, mid-morning rays filtering through slat blinds and illuminating the steam rising from her mug of instant coffee. Bistrena sat alone, save for the receptionist—a frail old mare with bifocals perched precariously on her nose. When Bistrena had requested papers for the Baltimare Civil Defence, the receptionist had rolled her eyes, rummaged in a bottom drawer, and handed her a manila folder and a pen, instructing her to fill it out and wait for the recruitment officer to return from a lunch appointment.

The metal-framed glass door rattled open, and a stallion trotted in. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, dressed in a tan service uniform adorned with a silver bar at his neck and two medals pinned neatly below. A thin band of pink scar tissue peeked above his collar. At first, he stood side-on to Bistrena, but he quickly turned to notice her. She tried to avert her gaze from the missing ear and the jagged chunk taken out of the side of his head, but it was too late; she could feel his eyes studying her for a reaction. She gulped thickly, not disturbed, but wondering if Cinereus would return home with similar wounds, if he came home at all.

After a few seconds of scrutiny, his face flickered with a politician’s smile as he extended a foreleg toward the office at the back. “If you’ll come with me, miss, we can discuss whatever you came here for.”

The “office” was barely more than a cramped cubicle, likely converted from an old bathroom, judging by the faded tiles lining the walls. A rusty, grimy little window—no bigger than a sheet of paper—let in just enough grey light to dimly reveal the mess of electrical cables coiled through a hole in the base of the wall. The cables powered a single hanging bulb, a battered cathode-ray monitor, and a portable transceiver radio that looked like it had been pulled straight from a museum display.

The recruitment officer gave the cord on the bulb a sharp tug, and it flared to life with a harsh, buzzing yellow light. The sound was strangely soothing, like the hum of a honeybee. “Go ahead, take a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the only chair—a sagging metal thing that had certainly seen better days. “I’m Lieutenant Wheatstone, Civil Defence Recruitment. Let me guess, you’re here to sign up?” He extended his foreleg for the file, and as he reached out, his cuff rolled back, revealing a network of thin scars on his wrist.

Bistrena tried not to stare, but Wheatstone noticed and gave her a slight, knowing smile as he flipped open the file. “Bistrena, is it?” he asked, glancing up. She nodded. “Alright, Bistrena,” he continued, “any health issues I should be worried about?”

“None that I know of,” she replied, steadying her tone.

He made a mark in the file and then paused, studying her. “So, why the Civil Defence? Why not the Army?”

She wrapped her hooves around the lukewarm mug of instant coffee she had no intention of finishing. “My brother volunteered,” she said, her voice stable but soft. “So my family already meets the royal decree—one per family. And my parents…” she hesitated, searching for the right words, “they need me here. But I still need to help. So… here I am.”

Wheatstone nodded, sympathy flickering briefly across his otherwise stoic expression. “Understandable. Keeping things together on the homefront is just as important. And hey, the Civil Defence might not have the same prestige, but you’ll get your hooves dirty all the same,” he added, with a slightly wry smile. “A lot of folks think this is the ‘safe’ option, but you know that’s not exactly the case, right?” he asked, a hint of irony in his voice as he handed the file back to her.

“I don’t care where they put me,” she said quietly but firmly. “As long as I can do something that matters.”

Wheatstone met her gaze, and for a moment, something softened in his expression. “Good answer.”

He shifted in his chair, leaning back with a faint smirk. “I know the feeling, believe me. I was at the front long enough to pick up a few souvenirs.” He chuckled, motioning to his collar where a thin scar crept up his neck. “Apparently, they don’t take returns on shrapnel. But I’m told I make quite the cautionary tale.”

Bistrena’s gaze flicked to the scars on his foreleg, the stiffness in his movements. Her mouth opened to ask something, then closed. She wasn’t sure if he wanted sympathy, but the slight bitterness in his words felt like something she understood. “Do you miss it?” she asked softly, surprising herself.

Wheatstone met her eyes, an eyebrow raised as though weighing whether to answer. “Some days. But war has a way of reminding you you’re replaceable, whether you’re in a trench or sitting behind a desk.” He gave a short, humourless chuckle. “Now I get to vet recruits. Just as dangerous, in its own way.”

They shared a moment of silence, and then he cleared his throat, pushing the manila folder toward her. “Alright. You’re eligible. You’ll need to pass a medical and fitness evaluation at Crystal Peak Training Center. If that all checks out, you’ll start training soon after.”

Bistrena gave a small nod, a sense of relief settling over her—not quite satisfaction, but close. She felt the inevitable, nagging doubt rise up, but she ignored it, steadying herself with quiet resolve. This was the right choice, she told herself. Or, at the very least, the necessary one.

“Where do I sign?”

Wheatstone ducked down and rummaged through a drawer, pulling out a form and sliding it across the desk along with a pen. He leaned back, giving her an approving nod and the faintest hint of a smirk. “Right there, Bistrena. Welcome to the Civil Defence. You’re part of something bigger now, and that counts for more than you’d think.”

He paused, a glint of whimsy flickering in his eyes. “And if they ever try sticking you behind a desk? Make a better run for it than I did.”

Author's Note

A very short chapter, I'm a bit busy in real life, and wanted to post something. Please like and comment with any thoughts, if you'd like to see something in particular you can always comment and I'll have a think about it!

That's all for now.

-PaleFace

THREE

Despite the early afternoon, the sky was dark and overcast, creating a cold, windy gloom over the city. The air was thick with the briny smell of the ocean, mixed with the fish market’s morning catch. Gulls flitted and cawed, circling hungrily above the fisher ponies at the sea wall, squabbling over scraps of fish guts.

Bistrena had left the recruitment office with an appointment for later that afternoon. With a few hours to spare, she’d decided to make the trek on hoof—running the twenty-five kilometres from the city centre to Fort Highmane on the far side of Old Rode Bay.

The route was a gruelling slog through steep, uneven neighbourhoods, down cobblestone paths that twisted around the historic districts, clearly built with little thought for runners. Whenever possible, Bistrena cut through grassy paths that branched off the city’s brick-paved boulevards. In the quieter park areas, the winding roads offered a brief respite from the city’s bustling corridors, growing wider and more open the farther east she went.

Then, as if mocking her, the skies split open with thunder and flashes of lightning. The wind turned brutal, nearly knocking her back, as rain came down in torrents. She was soaked and battered within minutes, mud-splattered along her legs and belly, and she could feel the grit of sand in her teeth as she panted.

Eventually, the weather eased to a biting chill. Fog rolled in thick over the roadway, and about two hundred meters from the gates to Fort Highmane Park, Bistrena took a sharp turn toward the shoreline at Shallow Creek, slowing to catch her breath. The water was a murky, churning brown, lapping angrily at the rocky shore. Without a second thought, she waded in up to her neck, letting the icy water wash away the mud and sweat. Despite steeling herself for the chill, she gasped as it shocked her system, stealing her breath and making her heart race.

After slogging back out of the tide, she set off again at a steady jog, covering the final kilometre to the Fort’s gate. Inside the guard post, a middle-aged pony sat hunched over a small oil lamp, warming his hooves while skimming a well-worn copy of the Baltimare Chronicle. He nearly choked on his buckwheat soup when she emerged out of the fog, soaked and dripping.

“Afternoon,” she said with a tired but cheerful smile, “I’m here for an evaluation. Any idea where I’m supposed to go?”

The stallion blinked in surprise, clearly gathering his wits as he took her in, waterlogged and muddy. After a beat, he leaned out of the window, lifting his cap to get a better look at her.

“Right… well, you’re looking for the building just there on the left,” he said, nodding in its direction. He chuckled slightly, as if to reassure himself he wasn’t seeing things. “Might want to dry off a bit first. They might think you’ve been through basic training already.”

Bistrena grinned, exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "Thanks. And, uh... any chance you could point me to the showers first?" she asked with a half-laugh, giving a mock shake to send a few droplets scattering.

The stallion chuckled, jerking a hoof off to the right. "Straight down the path, look for the brick building with the barred windows. Can't miss it.”

Inside the squat brick structure, Bistrena found a row of metal stalls lined up along the far wall, each with iron-grated windows set high above. The shower stalls had all the charm of a holding cell, but the shelves overflowing with shampoo bottles and soap bars showed they were well-used. Enough supplies here to scrub down a battalion, she thought, raising a brow.

She twisted the handle, and water blasted out in a shockingly cold stream—evidently, the only temperature option. Gritting her teeth, she rinsed off quickly, barely lingering in the freezing downpour. After shutting off the flow, she grabbed a couple of towels from the stack on the rack beside the sinks, drying off as best as she could.

Once somewhat less waterlogged, she took a steadying breath, straightened her mane, and headed out, back onto the path toward the building she’d been directed to.

Fort Highmane wasn’t just a guard depot; it was the heart of a small settlement. The sign on the way in had declared 3,003 ponies called this cluster of brick buildings home. It looked like it was trying to be a rustic, homey village, but it lacked any of the charm. Inside the fenced area, where the reservist guard battalion lived and trained, obstacle courses and squat barracks surrounded the original artillery fort.

The fort itself stood as a relic—a tall central keep with six semi-circular bastions. A dry moat stretched beneath a drawbridge, and a stone gatehouse stood proudly on the other side, flanked by two tall flagpoles. Bistrena found the building the gate sentry had pointed her toward, a one-story stone house with "ADMIN" on the door in fading, chipped letters. She stepped inside.

The warmth hit her instantly, almost too much after the chill outside. A crackling fireplace against one wall cast a soft orange glow, joined only by a single dim bulb overhead. Several desks with lamps, typewriters, and neatly stacked folders occupied the room. Behind one desk sat a stallion of about fifty, his eyes ticking back and forth between two files he was comparing. His handlebar moustache gave him an air of quiet, unassuming authority.

Without looking up, he muttered, “You must be lost, mare. You look too young to be with this outfit.” Finally, he raised his gaze, his face blank, his eyes tired. Not exactly a warm welcome, Bistrena thought.

“I’m here for an evaluation for the reserve, sir,” she said, stepping closer to the desk. “Lieutenant Wheatstone sent me.”

The stallion gave a short, dry huff, as if about to launch into a rant, but then he paused and sighed. “Do I look like an officer to you?” He gestured to his sleeve chevrons and looked back at her expectantly.

“Oh—sorry, er… Sergeant?” Bistrena ventured, catching herself a little too late.

The stallion rolled his eyes. “Wrong again, mare. Corporal. Good to see your sight’s sharp, anyway.”

Bistrena winced and gave a small, apologetic smile. “Right. Corporal. Sorry.”

The Corporal marked something on his clipboard, then gave her a quick once-over. “You’re here for an eval, yeah? Well, we’re a bit short on ceremony around here; I won’t get into the why of it, so don’t ask.” He finished marking her in the log. “You’re ‘present and accounted for,’ unlike some I could mention. Staff Sergeant Barnside’s out in the yard with a couple more newbies—if you hurry, she’ll add you to the session. It’s not glamorous work, and it sure isn’t heroic. We’re not the Princess’s personal guard. Most of us aren't far off from retirement, so don’t burn yourself out trying to impress. Got it? Now, any questions?”

Bistrena raised an eyebrow and gave him a wry, half-smile. “Just one, Corporal.” She leaned in, her voice pleasant but pointed. “My name’s Bistrena. Not ‘mare.’ And if you’re ever looking for another chevron… maybe a bit more courtesy couldn’t hurt.”

The Corporal’s smirk vanished as his eyes narrowed, his tone turning frosty. “Listen here, Bistrena. You may be a civilian now, but in this outfit, rank matters. If you want to make it through this evaluation, I’d suggest you learn to mind your mouth.” He clicked his pen, his gaze hardening as he added, “Now, unless you’re planning to keep talking yourself out of an opportunity, get moving. Staff Sergeant Barnside’s patience makes mine look saintly.”

Her ears flattened instinctively, heat rising to her face as she stepped back. She hadn’t meant to push so far, but the words had slipped out before she could stop herself. The way he dismissed her felt personal, and it gnawed at her more than it should have. Only after his glare sharpened did she realize she might’ve crossed a line.

As she left, she thought she caught him muttering, “Kids like you don’t last long here,” but she shoved the thought aside. She had bigger things to worry about than some grumpy old stallion.

“Twenty-one! Twenty-two!” A bellowing voice echoed across the parade ground as Bistrena arrived, cutting through any last remnants of doubt. The Staff Sergeant was everything her name suggested—built like a barn, a towering, heavyset pegasus with a fierce scowl etched into her face. She barked a count at a trembling unicorn struggling to complete her push-ups, who finally collapsed into the dirt.

“Pathetically underwhelming, recruit,” the Staff Sergeant sneered, eyes narrowing as the unicorn lay panting.

“Sorry, Staff,” the recruit managed, still catching her breath.

“Back in line,” Barnside said, barely pausing before she barked, “Next!”

The weary unicorn stumbled up to join a pair of greying stallions: one a pegasus with a stoic look, the other an earth pony with the rugged face of someone used to hard work. Bistrena slid into the line beside them, feeling the weight of Barnside’s gaze land on her.

The pegasus recruit took his place and braced himself for the push-ups. “I expect double from a pegasus!” Barnside snapped, her tone merciless.

“Yes, Ma'am!” he panted, struggling through another rep as his wings twitched with strain.

“Did I hear ‘ma’am’ slip out of your mouth?” Barnside thundered, eyebrows arched. “I’m a Staff Sergeant, not your tea party hostess. It’s Staff, understand?”

“Yes, Staff,” the group replied in unison, shaken.

Barnside’s gaze settled on Bistrena, circling her like a hawk sizing up a mouse. Bistrena stared straight ahead, careful not to meet the Staff Sergeant’s eyes, remembering the horror stories her brother had written about what happened when recruits got caught staring. Her eyes fixed on a spot just over Barnside’s shoulder.

Barnside finally stopped in front of her, giving an exaggerated once-over. “You lost? You look far too fresh and alive to be one of my washouts.”

“No, Staff,” Bistrena replied. “I’m here for the reserve evaluation, Staff.”

Barnside narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. “You look a bit run-down, though. What’s wrong with you? Heart problem? Or just a few hay bales short of a barn?”

“I’m fit and well, Staff,” Bistrena said firmly. “Just tired from running here.”

Barnside cocked an eyebrow. “Ran here, did you? From where, three streets over?”

“No, Staff. From Shetland Hills in the city centre.”

Barnside’s eyebrow rose higher. “That’s at least twenty klicks, give or take.”

“Yes, Staff. And then some.”

Barnside studied her with a grudging look of approval before her face hardened again. “If you’re lying to me, mare, I’ll shove my hoof so far up your rear, you’ll taste the sweat off my brow. Now down on your face!”

Bistrena immediately dropped and started her push-ups, grinding through the burn in her forelegs as Barnside’s voice counted aloud. She pushed through thirty-six reps, falling short only to the earth pony, who managed thirty-eight.

With the warm-up over, Barnside lined them up for the next test.

“Five laps around the parade ground, timed!” she commanded. “Move!”

The recruits began the run, two kilometres around the grounds, while Barnside shouted, “Faster! Pick up those hooves!” By the end, Bistrena’s breathing was laboured, but she finished with the group, aching but undaunted.

Barnside next led them to a line of stuffed dummies shaped like ponies. “This is your casualty evacuation drill. You’ll drag these through mud trenches and over the wall—no magic, no wings, just brute strength!”

Grabbing a dummy’s collar between her teeth, Bistrena pulled through the mud, trudging up the trench and hauling the dummy over a chest-high wall. Her legs ached with every step, but she made it through, gritting her teeth past a stitch in her side.

They tackled an obstacle course next, navigating walls, ropes, and a marsh pit under a tightrope. The unicorn recruit slipped into the muddy water below, groaning as she climbed back up. Bistrena finished with a soaked coat but a sense of determination.

After the obstacle course, they moved to a strength test: throwing heavy sandbags while seated. Bistrena managed a solid toss, with the earth pony landing his across the line as well. Finally, Barnside led them through warm-down stretches before bringing them to a small hangar for written tests.

The recruits sat quietly at desks, taking timed math and reading exams to test their skills. By the end, their brains felt nearly as drained as their muscles.

Barnside returned, glancing over their scores with an approving nod. “You’ve all passed. Don’t let it go to your heads. You’ll receive your training schedule by mail next week.”

With that, she marched off, leaving them in the hangar, a sense of relief settling over the small group. They exchanged glances, exhausted but relieved.

They walked in a loose circle, aiming for the gate, glad to have passed the relentless eval. Finally, Bistrena glanced around at the others, breaking the silence. “Well,” she said with a faint grin, “after all that, I think we’ve earned the right to know who we’re suffering alongside.”

The unicorn mare spoke first, brushing some dirt off her leg. “Dusklight,” she said with a half-smile. “Though I’m starting to think ‘Dustlight’ might be more accurate after today.”

The older earth pony chuckled, rough and warm. “Brassforge,” he said, stretching out a kink in his back. “And I’m way too old to be doing this nonsense. But… figured I’d see if there’s any spark left.” He shot a glance at the pegasus. “Looks like I’m in good company, at least.”

The pegasus grinned. “Stormchime. And you’re right, Brass; they could’ve at least warned us we’d be hauling half the parade ground along with us.”

Bistrena smirked. “Thought I’d signed up for the reserves, not a retirement home.”

Dusklight glanced at the older stallions, raising an eyebrow. “Guess not.”

Brassforge, who’d been sipping from his canteen, choked and spit the water out with a cough. “Retirement home? What, you think we’ll get a shuffleboard set and bingo nights?” He wiped his mouth, chuckling.

“Could be,” Bistrena said with a grin. “But hey, as long as the snacks are good.”

Stormchime shook his head, his wings rustling. “You’ll see. Training’s just the start.”

Brassforge slapped her on the back. “Better be ready to do it all again next week, kid.”

Bistrena rolled her eyes, her grin widening. “Just as long as it’s less ‘napping’ and more ‘nausea,’ yeah?”

They all shared a tired laugh, and then one by one, they headed off in different directions.

Afterwards, Bistrena took the train home, the quiet hum of the tracks lulling her into a calm she hadn’t felt in months. Finally, as she sank into bed, she surrendered to a deep, dreamless sleep—the kind she hadn’t known since the start of the war. For the first time, she felt just a little closer to where she belonged.

Author's Note

Another short chapter. I'm aiming to update more regularly and maintain what is hopefully a high degree of polish. Flexed my banter and humour muscles this time around, I promise I'm funny in real life, but shit me, writing comedy is so damn hard.

Please like and comment, let's get some reader interactions going, shall we? If you want to get anything you can think of into the story, don't be afraid to pitch it to me in a comment or a PM, and I'll have a go.

Lastly, look after yourselves, tell your friends and family you love them, and be kind to yourselves. You're all special and irreplaceable.

Until we speak again.

-PaleFace

FOUR

The morning fog clung thickly to the cobbled street as Bistrena walked home, her gaze drawn to a new poster pasted on the wall beside her front gate. The poster was strikingly clear, the print bold and sharp against the faded stone: Beware the Changeling Threat! They’re Everywhere! A watchful eye glared out from the image, and the dark silhouettes of changeling figures lurked in the background, distorted and ominous.

She paused, her thoughts drifting as she stared at the poster. The Changelings… they were supposed to be the enemy, the ones to blame for all this misery. But despite everything she’d been told, part of her didn’t see them as monsters. They did what they had to do, she reasoned, like all creatures trying to survive. It was a traitorous thought, one she’d never share—she didn’t want to end up in prison as a sympathizer. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more complicated behind it all.

Inside the house, her mother was in the kitchen, carefully pulling out the letter Bistrena had left in her coat pocket. “Oh, for the love of…” Bistrena grumbled, striding over to her mother and snatching the paper back. “Can I not get any privacy here?”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed, worry etched into every line of her face. “Privacy? Do you think I wanted to see this? You’re signing up for the guard without even telling us?” Her voice was tight, fear seeping into the edges.

Her father, who’d been standing nearby, stepped forward. “Ponies die in the guard, Bistrena. Reserve or not, this isn’t some game, this is—”

“War, I know,” Bistrena interrupted, barely keeping the irritation out of her voice. “And I know it’s dangerous. But I can’t sit here, wrapped in a bubble, while the rest of the world is falling apart. The war doesn’t care who I am, and the enemy isn’t going to ask if I’m someone’s daughter before they rip me apart.” She clenched her teeth, her jaw tight with frustration.

Both her parents looked stricken, her father opening his mouth to respond when the phone suddenly rang, its metallic trill slicing through the heavy silence. Bistrena turned to the old rotary phone on the wall, its cord curled and tangled. She lifted the receiver, the clacking of the rotary dial barely masking her mother’s anxious glance.

“Hello?”

“Bistrena?” Current’s voice crackled through the line, low and strained. “Can you meet me? Down by the inner harbour. It’s… important.”

Bistrena felt her heart skip. “An hour?”

“Yeah. An hour.” His tone was off, flat and lacking its usual warmth. She didn’t question it, just nodded to herself, gripping the phone tightly before slamming it down.

As she turned to leave, her eyes flicked back to her parents. Her father’s shoulders had slumped, and her mother’s face was creased with hurt. She knew they only wanted her safe, but they couldn’t understand how much she needed to make her own choices, to live for herself. Why couldn’t they see that?

Out in the chilled streets, Bistrena’s thoughts turned to Current and whatever news he carried. The air by the inner harbour was thick with the scent of salt and the faint tang of fish, and as she reached the small seafood bar, she spotted him hunched over a small table inside. He looked as though he’d aged overnight; his eyes, usually bright, were shadowed, and he wore an expression that was deeply conflicted.

“Current?” she said, sliding into the chair opposite him.

He didn’t meet her gaze immediately, his eyes fixed on the table. When he finally looked up, she could see he was trying to stay composed, though his voice wavered as he spoke. “My draft papers came through, Bistrena. I’m…I’m going. They haven’t told me where yet, but it’s happening.” He glanced away again, his jaw clenching.

Without a second thought, she leaned forward, determination in her voice. “I’ll revert my guard application. I’ll enlist in the army, Current. We can go together.”

He shook his head, giving her a rueful smile. “Bistrena, they won’t let us stick together. We’ll be assigned wherever they need us, and I don’t think I could stand knowing you’re out there at the front while I’m…scrubbing toilets in some officer’s mess.” He gave a humourless chuckle. “I’d have to drown myself in one of the latrines.”

Bistrena tried to mask the sinking disappointment she felt, forcing a smirk. “Do us all a favour and don’t go drowning yourself in the latrine. I’d rather not hold my breath through your funeral.”

Current let out a small, genuine laugh at that, the sound lifting some of the weight that hung between them. But as his laughter faded, a thick silence fell over the table, one that neither seemed ready to break. They exchanged a look, and Bistrena, almost impulsively, reached across the table to take his hooves in hers.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, more serious now. “This…isn’t funny, I know. And you’re not going to die, alright? You’re not going to die. ” She squeezed his hooves tightly, the words almost a desperate promise to herself as much as to him.

For a moment, his gaze softened, and he shook his head with a half-smile. “Yeah, well,” he sighed, his tone shifting, “life feels pretty damn short these days, doesn’t it?”

She bit her lip, leaning back, her eyes drifting as memories surfaced. “Remember the time you kissed me after prom?” Her voice was playful, trying to lighten the heaviness. “When we ‘dated’ for all of two weeks before we figured it’d be better just as friends?”

Current looked away, scratching the back of his head, embarrassed. “Didn’t really want to give up so soon, if I’m honest.” He shrugged, smiling shyly. “Guess I was…well, waiting on you.”

Bistrena’s face softened, her heart squeezing as she looked at him. If she was honest with herself, she’d always known that too. But between her family’s needs, her own uncertainties, and now the war, the thought of a real relationship had just seemed too much. She’d hoped it would fade, that he’d move on.

“Current,” she started, choosing her words carefully, “I just…with everything going on, I didn’t think I had the energy. Figured if I waited, maybe you’d—”

“Find someone else?” he interrupted, a gentle, earnest intensity in his voice. “Bistrena, there is no one else. It’s always been you. I want you to come home to.” He leaned forward, his eyes locked on hers. “Look, I know this isn’t easy, and I don’t expect you to just…jump in. But I want the chance to prove this isn’t some one-sided thing. Let me take you out tonight. Let's do something together, even if it’s just a stupid dinner, let me remind you why I’m worth keeping around.”

Bistrena couldn’t help it—she laughed, genuine and light, as she took in his slightly flustered face. “You’re really laying it on thick, you know that?”

He chuckled, shrugging. “Yeah, well, desperate times and all that.”

For a moment, she just stared at him, her heart full. There was a sweetness to his urgency, a kind of reckless sincerity that she found herself drawn to. “Alright,” she said, standing and tugging him up by the hooves. “Let’s get something to eat. We’ll see where the day takes us.”

As they left the bar and walked side by side, Bistrena felt a strange lightness settle over her. It was nice to feel nice, she realized.

As they strolled through the snowy streets, Bistrena and Current found themselves drawn toward the old observatory. It had been years since either of them had come here, but seeing it now, its domed roof dusted with snow against the winter sky, brought memories rushing back. Bistrena nudged him, smirking as they both spotted the entrance sign.

“Remember that trip here during school?” she asked, her breath clouding in the cold. “The mayor’s ‘Astronomy for Young Minds’ campaign? They were trying to turn us into budding astronomers.”

“Oh, I remember,” Current said with a grin. “Pretty sure we proved astronomy was not for us that day.”

They laughed, glancing up at the observatory windows, which now seemed both grand and distant.

“I still can’t believe they let us anywhere near that projector,” Bistrena said, shaking her head. “We spent, what, a whole hour convincing the tour guide that we had to ‘enhance’ the constellations?”

Current chuckled, eyes lighting up. “We had some real gems in there, too. 'The Donut', 'The Dancing Pony'—oh, and what was that one? ‘Celestia’s Left Hoof’?”

Bistrena snorted. “And The Gassy Pegasus! The mayor kept asking if the projector was broken. Can’t blame him, those constellations were insane.”

They shared a glance, both of them still tickled by the memory. “We were so busy fooling around with the projector that we didn’t notice the pressure sensor under our hooves,” Bistrena said, wincing at the memory. “The second we shifted, that sensor must’ve tripped, because suddenly the whole place went into full lockdown.”

“Right!” Current laughed, leaning against the fence as he caught his breath. “Security scrambling, staff freaking out—and there we were, standing at the projector, trying to explain to the mayor how ‘The Princess’s Legs’ was an ancient constellation.”

Bistrena’s smile grew as she remembered their superintendent stepping in. “I thought we were done for, he looked at the nonsense we’d put on the projector, then sighed and said, ‘Ah, yes, a revolutionary new theory about how stars might look in a parallel universe. Very brave, very bold.’”

Current grinned. “Bold, all right. He might have been the only one who didn’t buy it, but he still managed to convince the staff to let us off with a warning.”

“He even talked the guide into giving us a little ‘extra credit’ for our ‘work in modern constellation design,’” Bistrena said, wiping away a tear of laughter. “Couldn’t believe it.”

They stood there, gazing up at the observatory, a warm silence between them. The last light of the day softened the sky to lavender, casting a glow across the dome’s roof.

Current shifted, breaking the silence. “Seems like the whole world’s turned upside down since those days,” he murmured. “Used to feel like we had all the time in the world.”

Bistrena’s voice was softer. “Now everything just feels... fragile. Like we could wake up tomorrow, and it would all be gone.”

He nodded, gazing into the distance. “War does that, I guess. But... I don’t want to leave things unsaid.”

Her breath caught as he looked at her with something deeper in his eyes, something warm and intense that made her heart twist.

“Bistrena,” he said, almost shyly, “I don’t want this to sound like I’m putting you on the spot, but—well, I never stopped wanting more than friendship. Even when we stopped dating back in school, I’d always hoped we’d find a way back to... this.”

She blinked, then looked down, an ache settling in her chest. “I guess I knew that,” she admitted, barely a whisper. “And I knew it wasn’t fair to leave things hanging. But everything’s just been... too much.”

They held each other’s gaze, unspoken feelings caught between them, flickering like the first stars appearing in the darkening sky.

Finally, she broke into a small smile, defusing the heaviness in the air. “What if we both just made an agreement to see where things go, no pressure?”

Current’s eyes lit up, and he brushed her hoof with his. “I’ll take that. I just—” he paused, grinning nervously, “I don’t want to be the guy you think of as just ‘that friend who never tried.’”

Bistrena gave a small, dry smile. “Well, you’re already sitting here, aren’t you? So technically, you’ve tried. If you play your cards right, maybe I’ll let you try again later.”

Current’s face turned a shade darker, and he quickly looked away, awkwardly clearing his throat. “Uh, right. Yeah, I can do that... try again.”

Bistrena leaned in a little closer, just enough to make him squirm, her gaze lingering on his lips for a beat too long. Then, in one swift move, she pressed her lips to his—just a brief, teasing kiss—before pulling away, her smile wide and mischievous.

“What was that?” Current sputtered, his frustration clear, but his eyes were lit with a playful hunger.

Bistrena giggled, eyes twinkling. "You’ll have to work for the rest of it," she teased, a challenge in her voice.

Before he could respond, she was already turning, her hooves kicking up the snow as she dashed down the slope, laughing over her shoulder.

"Hey! Wait!" he called after her, not missing a beat. With a frustrated grin and a determination that made Bistrena’s heart race, he chased after her, his hooves slipping on the icy terrain.

They both laughed, the weight of everything else momentarily gone, replaced by the thrill of the chase.

Bistrena’s hooves dug into the snow as she dashed down the slope, her heart racing. She hadn’t expected this when she woke up today—not running down a hill, not laughing like this. The war, her family’s worries, all the pressure—it seemed far away now. It was just her and Current, having fun, for once.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw him gaining on her, the sound of his laugh pushing her to go faster. It felt so good to let go, to be free of everything else, even if just for a moment.

Then, out of nowhere, their names echoed across the snow.

“Bistrena! Current! Is that you?!”

She skidded to a stop, breathing hard, still grinning. Reality came rushing back with the shout.

“Saved by the bell,” she said, panting.

Current caught up, laughing as he slowed beside her, his face flushed from the run. “Guess they can’t let us have too much fun.”

“Look who’s back in town!” Glimmer’s voice rang out, bright and clear, her eyes gleaming under the dimming sky. She stood tall, her dark chestnut mane braided tightly down her neck, a radiant energy about her that hadn’t changed since their school days. Beside her, Willow stood a little quieter, her sleek black coat blending her shape into the evening’s fading light. The green in her eyes sparkled with a familiar warmth, a silent compliment to Glimmer’s louder enthusiasm.

“Looks like we’ve got some catching up to do,” Current murmured to Bistrena, his grin matching hers. There was an ease to his voice, the kind of familiarity that came with knowing someone far too well. It was the kind of ease she hadn’t even realized she missed until now.

The two of them trotted over, exchanging quick hugs and laughter with their old friends, and the moment settled into something comfortable. Despite the gap since they'd last seen each other, here they were, slipping effortlessly into the same rhythms as if nothing had changed.

“We should grab drinks,” Glimmer said, practically bouncing on her hooves. “Willow and I got engaged a few days back, so we’ve been celebrating. You two are definitely coming out with us tonight.”

“Engaged?” Bistrena blinked, the news catching her off guard, though she couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the two mares side by side, their closeness obvious. “You two really didn’t waste any time.”

Willow smiled shyly but nodded. “We didn’t see the point in waiting. Life’s short, you know?” She nudged Glimmer gently, the two of them clutching legs, walking as one unit.

“You should come,” Glimmer added, giving a teasing look to Current. “First round’s on us, right?”

“First round’s on us,” Current said without missing a beat, then looked at Bistrena with a grin. “Then we’ll see who really owes who.”

The group began heading toward the city, and as they walked, Bistrena and Current found themselves side by side with Glimmer and Willow, who trotted effortlessly, their bodies naturally locked together at the hip. Bistrena glanced over at Current and smirked, nudging him lightly.

“Take my hoof, Sir Current?” she asked in a dramatically lofty voice.

Current raised an eyebrow, playing along. “But of course, my dear Bistrena.” He added a flourish, and she burst into laughter—he sounded just like the mayor.

Laughing at the absurdity of it, Bistrena reached out and took his hoof. They tried to mimic the easy, synchronized pace of their friends, but their legs tangled awkwardly, sides brushing together in a new, unfamiliar way. The closeness felt strange at first, and Bistrena found herself fidgeting slightly to adjust, but it didn’t take long for the heat of the contact to make her heart race. The sensation was thrilling and disorienting, a rush of warmth she hadn’t anticipated.

As they trotted through the dimming streets, the hum of the city coming to life around them, the closeness between them became more natural. For the first time in a while, Bistrena felt her worries melt away with each step, lost in the rush of the night and the quiet chemistry between them.

The cold winter air was sharp against their faces, but the warmth from the closeness of their bodies was enough to make Bistrena forget everything else for a moment. The clink of hooves on the pavement echoed around them as they navigated through the streets of Baltimore, the city alive in its weekend chaos. The glow of nearby bars and shops bathed the streets in warm reds, greens, and yellows, sharply contrasting the deepening blue of the evening sky. Laughter and chatter drifted on the winter air, adding to the lively hum of the city as they walked.

Bistrena felt herself caught between the thrill of the evening and the heavy weight of everything she had yet to face. The war, her family’s concerns, everything still waiting for her when the night ended—none of that seemed to matter right now. For the first time in what felt like forever, there was only this moment.

The night was young, the city was buzzing, and they were in it together.

And for now, that was enough.

Author's Note

Hey there, lovely readers! This romance is meant to reflect the impulsiveness of youth, where decisions are made in the heat of the moment, especially during times of uncertainty like war. I hope it resonates with readers as a natural but flawed part of Bistrena’s journey.

Wishing you all the best—
PaleFace

FIVE

The apartment was unusually quiet when Bistrena stirred awake. She shifted on the couch, the blanket barely clinging to her as she stretched her legs. The cushions felt stiff under her, and the pillow carried the faint scent of Current—salt, snow, and something faintly smoky that lingered.

She sat up slowly, her mane dishevelled and her mind hazy. The living room was still shadowed in early morning light, curtains drawn tight against the sun. The faint clink of mugs and soft murmurs drifted from the kitchen, grounding her in the moment.

Then, it hit her.

He’s gone.

The thought tightened her chest. No note, no goodbye—just the quiet finality of his absence.

Her ears swivelled toward the kitchen. She could make out Glimmer’s voice, soft and murmuring, and Willow’s sharper, lilting reply. The sound of their familiar rhythm should have been comforting, but Bistrena felt only a creeping unease.

She rolled off the couch, landing lightly on her hooves, and padded toward the kitchen.

Willow noticed her first, her gaze flicking up from her coffee mug. “Well, look who’s alive,” she said, her tone wry but heavy with implication.

“Morning to you, too,” Bistrena muttered, trying to mask the sting.

Glimmer turned from the stove, a plate balanced delicately between her hooves. “Eggs?” she offered, her voice neutral but her eyes a little too knowing.

“No, thanks,” Bistrena replied, lowering herself onto one of the mismatched cushions around their small dining table. She tried to focus on the grain of the wood, the faint scratches and stains from countless late-night meals and hastily scrawled notes. Anything but the way Willow was watching her.

“So…” Willow began, her voice casual but cutting. “Did you even bother to say goodbye before he ran off, or was that part of the ‘no time’ plan, too?”

Bistrena stiffened, her ears flattening. “I didn’t know he’d leave so early,” she shot back, defensiveness sharp in her tone.

“Oh, come on, Bi,” Glimmer said, setting the plate down with a clatter. “We were all there last night. It was pretty clear we were throwing him an impromptu farewell. Did you honestly think he’d stick around after that?”

Bistrena’s jaw tightened. “I just thought—” she broke off, her words faltering under their pointed gazes. “I don’t know what I thought. I figured we’d have the morning, at least. That’s all.”

Willow leaned forward, her expression unreadable. “You really thought last night was the time to…y’know. Get him in bed?”

Bistrena’s eyes flashed. “Oh, please don’t start with that.”

“Well, what were you thinking?” Glimmer pressed, her voice softer but no less firm. “You barely gave yourselves time to talk before you jumped into something like that. Why not wait?”

“Wait?” Bistrena’s voice rose, incredulous. “Wait for what? For him to be halfway across the country, or dead in some trench?” Her hooves struck the table as she leaned forward. “I didn’t want to regret it, alright? I didn’t want to send him off and spend the rest of my life wondering what if.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and raw. For a moment, neither Willow nor Glimmer responded.

Then Glimmer spoke, her voice quiet. “But did you think about him? About how he might feel, waking up and knowing he couldn’t stay? Or did you just…do it because it was convenient?”

Bistrena recoiled as if struck. “Convenient?”

Willow snorted, not unkindly, but sharply enough to cut through the tension. “Yeah, convenient. You bought him, what, four, five drinks last night? Were you trying to make it easier for him to say yes?”

“We were all drinking,” Bistrena snapped. “Don’t act like I was the only one buying rounds.”

Glimmer’s expression softened, but her gaze remained steady. “That’s not the point, Bi. You rushed it. You didn’t stop to think about what it would mean—not for him, not for you.”

Bistrena’s chest heaved as she fought the anger bubbling inside her. “Screw your moral superiority,” she said, her voice trembling. “You sound like my parents. You know that? Always criticizing, always acting like I don’t know what I’m doing with my own life.”

“Maybe that’s because you don’t,” Willow said bluntly, earning a sharp glare from Bistrena.

“Willow,” Glimmer said softly, though there was no reproach in her tone.

“What?” Willow continued, her voice gentler now but no less direct. “Look, Bi, we love you. But sometimes it feels like you don’t think things through—not really. You just…react.”

Bistrena’s ears flattened, her gaze darting between them. “So what? I’m just some impulsive mess to you?”

“No,” Glimmer said, moving closer, her voice warm but firm. “You’re our friend. And we see how much you’re struggling—how much you want to prove something. To yourself, to your parents, to…everyone. But, Bistrena, rushing into things isn’t going to fix that.”

“And it’s not going to fix how you feel about Current,” Willow added, softer now. “If you’re scared, admit you’re scared. If you’re not sure, say so. But don’t…don’t hide behind what you think you’re supposed to do. It’s not fair. To him or to you.”

For a moment, Bistrena didn’t respond. She stared down at the table, her thoughts a tangle of defensiveness, guilt, and something raw and aching she couldn’t quite name. Her mind raced with all the ways she could explain herself—shut it down, deflect, retreat—but it wasn’t enough this time.

Finally, she looked up, her voice quiet but steady. “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” she said, her eyes fixed on the table. “I didn’t even think it would—”

“Hurt him?” Glimmer finished, her eyes softening. “No, Bi. I don’t think you meant to hurt him. But you have to think about what you want. Not just for today. For tomorrow, too.”

Bistrena’s hooves clenched against the edge of the table, and she let out a long, ragged breath. The words that spilled out felt almost too raw, too vulnerable, but she couldn’t stop them now. “What I wanted... I wanted to have fun. I wanted to sleep with him. I wanted to send him off with good memories, so maybe… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much when he was gone.” She paused, her throat tightening. “I know what that sounds like. But I wanted to know for sure. You know, if we were really... compatible. I didn’t want to think I loved him, and then he comes back—if he comes back—and it’s... not even right. I’ve had enough of fumbling stallions and bad experiences. You can’t build anything on that.”

She felt her cheeks flush, but her jaw stayed set. Her friends didn’t get it—how could they? This wasn’t just about the war or their friendship; this was about her. About knowing what she wanted, even if it felt selfish.

Willow opened her mouth to say something but stopped, clearly surprised. Glimmer blinked, her ears flat against her head. Neither of them seemed to know how to respond. For a few heartbeats, the air felt thick, charged with a silence that made Bistrena uncomfortable in her own skin.

Finally, Glimmer shook her head, her voice low and cautious. “Bi, that’s— that’s not the kind of thing you do just to prove something to yourself. It’s not... a test.” She glanced at Willow, who nodded quietly. “You can’t just use someone like that. Not if you care about them.”

“I didn’t use him,” Bistrena snapped, feeling her chest tighten with frustration. “I— I wanted to be sure. I’ve been uncertain about everything for so long, and I’m not going to feel bad because I wanted to take control of one thing.”

Willow leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. “That’s the problem, though. If you really cared about him, you wouldn’t think of it like that. This isn’t just about you, Bi. It’s about him, too. He deserves more than just some ‘fun’ night before a war.”

The words hit her like a cold wave, and for a moment, Bistrena felt her throat catch. But she was done listening to their judgement.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she said firmly, her eyes flashing as she met both their gazes. “I don’t want to hear that I’m wrong, or that I’m selfish. I made my choice. I did what I thought was best. If you don’t get it, that’s on you.”

The tension in the room thickened, the weight of Bistrena’s defiance hanging heavy in the space between them. Glimmer exchanged a look with Willow before both turned their attention back to Bistrena. The silence that followed felt almost unbearable.

Willow spoke first, her voice quieter now, more measured. “If you don’t get it, Bi... then I guess that’s on you too.”

Bistrena glared at them both, but deep down, she knew they were right. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not yet.

Bistrena stood up abruptly, her frustration rising again. “I said drop it,” she muttered, her voice sharp. “I don’t need you telling me what I already know. I need to figure this out on my own.”

She turned toward the door, eager to escape the room and the weight of their words. She didn’t want their sympathy or their advice. She just wanted to be alone.

But as she reached the door, Glimmer’s voice stopped her.

“Bi, hold on.”

Bistrena paused, her hoof on the handle, but she didn’t turn around. Glimmer and Willow both appeared in the doorway, their faces soft but firm.

“Look, we’re not saying you’ve got to figure everything out right now,” Willow said, her tone gentle but concerned. “But—” she glanced at Glimmer before looking back at Bistrena, “—it’s cold out. Don’t leave without a coat and scarf. You’ll catch something.”

Bistrena’s chest tightened, and she opened her mouth to argue, but Glimmer spoke next, her voice much quieter. “We’re your friends, Bi. We don’t want you getting sick out there.”

Bistrena stood in the doorway for a long moment, staring at the floor. She was exhausted, emotionally drained, and the last thing she wanted was to stand there and listen to them lecture her more. But their concern was there, hanging in the air, and it was hard to ignore.

With a sigh, she turned back to face them, and they both gave her a quiet but expectant look. She hesitated, then nodded, her voice barely a whisper.

“Alright,” she muttered. “I’ll take it.”

Willow hurried over, grabbing a scarf from the nearby coat rack and draping it gently around her neck, while Glimmer fetched a heavy coat. They both moved with a kind of quiet care that softened the edges of Bistrena’s frustration, making her feel, for just a moment, like they truly saw her.

When she was bundled up, she gave them both a tight-lipped smile, still distant but no longer as combative.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice quieter now, but the words still carrying weight. “I’ll… be fine.”

With that, she turned and stepped out the door, the cool night air biting at her face. But as the door clicked shut behind her, she didn’t feel entirely alone anymore.

The chill of the morning air hit Bistrena’s face as she stepped out into the street. The building door shut behind her with a heavy thud, and for a moment, she stood still, letting the quiet weight of the world press down on her.

Her hooves carried her down familiar streets, though she barely registered the turns. The city was waking up, the distant clatter of carts and chatter blending with the sharp cry of seagulls overhead.

Before she knew it, she was standing at the docks.

The sea stretched out before her, grey and restless, the waves lapping against the wooden pilings below. She leaned against the worn railing, the rough grain of the wood pressing into her chest, and stared out at the horizon.

The salt air stung her nose, sharp and bracing. It reminded her of last night, of the way Current’s scent had lingered on her fur, mingling with the tang of spilt drinks and the faint smokiness of the bar.

Her throat tightened.

What was she supposed to feel?

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to sort through the mess inside her. There was regret, sure—but for what? For the fact that he was gone? For the way she’d rushed things? Or was it just the sinking, gnawing guilt of knowing she’d taken something from him, something she wasn’t sure she could give back?

A sharp gust of wind whipped at her mane, tugging it across her face. She didn’t bother brushing it aside.

What did I even want from him?

She exhaled sharply, the sound almost a growl. Did she care about him, or was it just…easy? He was there, he was familiar, and he was leaving. It had felt like the right thing to do. Like it would mean something.

But now? Now, she wasn’t so sure.

Her mind drifted to Willow and Glimmer’s words, their voices echoing in her ears. “You rushed it…you didn’t stop to think…” They’d said it like it was so simple, as if she could just pause life and weigh every decision like some kind of scale.

But life wasn’t like that. It was messy and short and full of things you couldn’t take back.

Her hooves scraped against the railing as she shifted, her movements restless.

Would I even wait for him?

The thought hit her like a punch to the gut.

It was an ugly question, one she didn’t want to answer. But it hung there, insistent and cruel. Did she really believe he’d come back? Or was some part of her already counting on his absence to make things easier?

She hated herself for even thinking it.

“Selfish, impulsive asshole,” she muttered under her breath, the words bitter on her tongue.

But wasn’t it true? Wasn’t that what everyone thought? Her parents, her friends, maybe even Current himself? She acted without thinking, she took what she wanted, and she left everyone else to deal with the fallout.

Her chest tightened, her breath hitching. She pressed her forehead against the railing, the cool wood grounding her, even as her thoughts spiralled.

Why is everything so damn hard?

The sea didn’t answer. It just kept moving, restless and uncaring, the same way it always had.

When her house came into view, Bistrena’s steps slowed, her eyes narrowing at the unexpected sight of two uniformed Baltimare Police Department officers standing at the front gate. Their polished badges gleamed in the pale afternoon light, catching the sun as they stood by the faded gate. Her mother was just inside the property, speaking quietly with them.

The shorter officer, his mane silvered with age, was scribbling something in a notepad suspended in his magical grasp. The taller one, a stallion with a bristling moustache that seemed to move with every word, wore a calm but serious expression. Her mother nodded at something he said, her posture composed, though her lips pressed into a thin line.

Bistrena ducked instinctively behind the low stone wall of her neighbour’s property, her heart hammering.

What if it’s about Cinereus? The thought leapt to her mind, unbidden, freezing her in place. What if he’s…

She gritted her teeth, forcing the rest of the thought away. No. That didn’t make sense. If something had happened to her brother, it wouldn’t be the local police at their door; it’d be uniformed military messengers bearing sealed letters.

Still, the sight of the officers filled her with unease.

Her mother’s calm demeanour finally registered, pulling her from her spiralling thoughts. There was no panic in the way she stood. No frantic gestures or desperate tears. The taller officer even cracked a faint smile before the two turned to leave, trotting briskly down the street. Her mother lingered at the gate for a moment, glancing toward the wall to her left before heading back inside.

The front door clicked shut, and Bistrena let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

She stepped out from behind the wall, her hooves carrying her slowly toward the gate. As she reached it, her gaze fell on the spot her mother had looked at before going inside.

The propaganda poster was impossible to miss, plastered against the stone wall with its lurid colours and ominous message: Beware the Changeling Threat! They’re Everywhere! A single, glaring eye loomed from the centre, its cold stare fixed on shadowy figures that crept along the edges.

But the poster had been defaced.

Bright red graffiti slashed across it in wild, jagged strokes, transforming the once-authoritative message into something subversive, even furious. The bold letters now read: The Real Threat is the War. Beneath it, an accusatory scrawl added: Canterlot's Game, Our Lives in Play.

The margins were crowded with smaller words and phrases, angrily crammed wherever there was space: Farce, Lies, Profit. The defacement turned the entire wall into a chaotic manifesto of bitterness and dissent.

Bistrena stopped in front of it, her ears twitching as she scanned the angry words.

For a moment, she felt a strange sense of detachment, as if the poster and its vandalism existed in a world separate from her own. But that feeling didn’t last. The words, jagged and haphazard as they were, struck something deep in her chest—a complicated tangle of emotions she didn’t quite know how to unravel.

She understood the frustration behind the graffiti. Not every family in their neighbourhood had it as good as hers. Her parents both had steady work, and that meant decent ration tickets, warm meals, and the small comfort of stability. But others weren’t so lucky. Some families were barely scraping by, their able-bodied sons and daughters sent off to war while those left behind were consigned to dwindling supplies and hollow promises from the Royal Crown.

Her gaze lingered on the words Canterlot’s Game, a bitter taste rising in her throat.

Is that how the neighbours see this war? How my family might be seen?

And then there was Cinereus. Her brother wasn’t just “playing Canterlot’s game.” He was out there, risking his life, doing what he thought was right. Bistrena wanted to support him—she did—but staring at the jagged red letters, she couldn’t help but wonder if she truly believed in the cause he was fighting for.

Her hooves shifted uneasily on the cobblestones, her chest tight. She hated how uncertain it all felt.

Finally, she turned away from the poster, her eyes following the faint trail of hoofprints in the frost near the wall. Had her mother been looking at the graffiti? Or was it something else? A break-in, maybe? With so many families struggling, desperation wasn’t uncommon. It was hard to keep that in mind, though, when the thought of thieves or vandals so close to home made her stomach churn.

Her mother’s voice rang faintly in her head, scolding her from years past: We’re lucky, Bistrena. Not everyone has what we do. Remember that.

It didn’t make her feel better.

When she reached the front door, Bistrena paused, her hoof hovering just above the handle. She glanced back at the defaced poster one last time, the red scrawls standing stark against the stone wall. She didn’t know what to think. About the poster. About the war. About anything.

With a sharp exhale, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

When Bistrena stepped through the front door, her mother was waiting just inside the entryway, forelegs tucked beneath the edge of a heavy winter shawl. Her expression was neutral but watchful, her eyes flicking over Bistrena with a knowing gaze.

“What’s wrong, Bistrena?” her mother asked, her tone light but probing.

Bistrena shrugged as she unwound the borrowed scarf from her neck, shaking out her mane with a sigh. “A lot is wrong,” she murmured, avoiding her mother’s eyes. “But the world keeps turning anyway.”

Her mother frowned faintly, tilting her head as if studying her. “That habit of yours—pushing everyone away. It doesn’t suit you.” Her voice softened, carrying just enough concern to needle at Bistrena’s defences. “You never used to keep so much to yourself.”

Bistrena froze, caught between the urge to brush it off and the ache of words she couldn’t hold back anymore. Before she could think, the confession tumbled out: “I slept with him.”

Her mother blinked, clearly shocked. Her expression faltered for a moment, her brows knitting together in confusion. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, as if unsure of how to respond. But then, realization dawned, and her eyes softened with understanding.

“Ah,” her mother said quietly. “And now you’re not sure how to feel about it?”

Bistrena let out a sharp laugh, bitter and raw. “Not sure? No, I’m completely sure—I feel like a total idiot. I didn’t think about what it meant. Not for him, not for me. And now he’s gone, and I don’t know if it even mattered.” Her voice cracked slightly, and she glanced away, swallowing hard. “Do you think I’m impulsive? Or stupid? My friends sure seem to think so.”

Her mother didn’t answer immediately. She watched Bistrena closely, her gaze searching. Finally, she sighed, stepping forward and resting a hoof gently on Bistrena’s shoulder. “Impulsive? Maybe. Stupid? No. But, Bistrena… it sounds like you weren’t thinking about much of anything except yourself.”

Bistrena’s ears pinned back as her mother’s words hit her squarely in the chest. “That’s not fair,” she said defensively. “I cared about him. I do care.”

“I don’t doubt that,” her mother replied, her voice still calm. “But caring isn’t enough. Actions have consequences, Bistrena. You made a choice—not just for yourself, but for him, too. And now you’re here, worrying about how it made you feel, while he’s the one who’s out there risking his life.”

Bistrena flinched, her mother’s words cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. “I didn’t think it would turn out like this,” she muttered. “I thought… I thought we’d have more time.”

Her mother softened slightly, her hoof dropping away as she let out a slow breath. “That’s the thing about time, Bistrena. You don’t get to decide how much of it you have. But you do get to decide what you do with it.” She paused, tilting her head. “So, what are you going to do now? Keep wallowing in guilt? Or use it to grow?”

“I don’t know,” Bistrena admitted quietly. Her voice was small, hollow, and she hated how it sounded.

Her mother regarded her for a long moment, then gave her a small, firm nod. “Then start by being honest—with yourself, and with others. If you care about Current, don’t let this be the last thing he remembers of you. Write to him. Tell him how you feel. Or, if you don’t know how you feel, tell him that, too. But don’t keep hiding from it. You owe him that much.”

Bistrena hesitated, her throat tight as she tried to process her mother’s words. They stung, but in a way that felt… right. Necessary.

Her mother straightened, her briskness returning. “Now, go change into something more comfortable,” she instructed lightly. “And bring more refreshments to the front room while you’re at it. Current’s parents are here, and your father is boring them half to death with his engineering talk.”

Bistrena let out a soft, exasperated huff but didn’t argue, heading for the stairs. As she changed and prepared the tea and lemonade, her mother’s words replayed in her mind, settling deep into her chest like stones. She didn’t like what they revealed about her—but maybe, just maybe, she needed to hear it.

Author's Note

After reflecting on some recent feedback, I realized that I wasn’t being as definitive with Bistrena’s character as I should have been. I didn’t fully explore her internal thoughts, motivations, or emotional reactions, which led to a disconnect between her actions and her deeper struggles. This chapter represents a conscious effort to dive deeper into her inner world—her conflicting feelings, her impulsive decisions, and her struggle to reconcile her desires with the reality of the situation. I hope this chapter helps to clarify her character, her emotions, and where she’s coming from. Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy the read!

SIX

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!

SEVEN

Author's Note

Content Warning: This chapter contains scenes of death and destruction that may be unsettling for some readers. While no explicit details are provided, the themes and imagery may be disturbing. Please proceed with caution, and I'll consider adjusting the story tags accordingly for a better reading experience if there are any.

Please like and comment on any thoughts or whims.

SEVEN

Bistrena jerked awake at the sound. A dull, heavy boom that rattled the loose glass in her window. She sat up, heart thudding. For a moment, she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it, but the silence that followed felt too thick.

She swung her legs off the bed and rubbed her face, still groggy. She’d barely gotten to sleep. Her bag for tomorrow sat by the door, neatly packed. It wasn’t thunder, was it? The rain had started earlier, just a slight drizzle.

The sound came again—closer this time. Not thunder. Her chest tightened. She shuffled to the window, her hooves scuffing the floor. The street outside was quiet. The rain glistened on the cobblestones, pooling in the gutter under the pale yellow glow of the street lamps.

Something flickered above the rooftops near the coast. Blue light.

Bistrena stirred, half-lidded eyes catching faint, irregular flashes. Lightning? No. The shadows moved wrong—sharp and staccato, vanishing as quickly as they appeared. She rubbed her eyes, fighting the fog of sleep as she sat up and squinted toward the horizon.

Dragons? For a fleeting moment, the thought emerged. Migration season was decades past, and rogue dragons never came this far inland—certainly not in numbers. But the shapes she saw didn’t belong to anything alive.

A chill ran through her as the realization settled.

She shoved the window open, letting the damp winter air slap her awake. It tasted of rain and salt, cold and sharp as it filled her lungs. She leaned out, blinking against the drizzle.

Shapes loomed in the distance, cutting through the low-hanging clouds with unsettling precision. Their outlines were enormous—long, angular bodies with rigid, unnatural wings that stretched flat and straight. At the edges, faint green light pulsed rhythmically, throwing faint glimmers onto the water below.

Her ears caught a strange, layered hum. It was distant at first, but it grew steadily louder, a discordant vibration that seemed to seep into her chest. The sound didn’t belong to the natural world, nor to anything she could name.

Green light flickered beneath the distant ships—brief but unmistakable. No, not light. Openings.

Dark shapes fell from the underbellies of the great vessels. Hundreds, maybe more, tumbled in a steady stream toward the city. She squinted, her heart pounding as the first silhouettes disappeared behind the rows of rooftops.

The first explosion came moments later, a deep, gut-punching thud that shook the air. She gasped, jerking back as green fire fashed briefly against the night sky. More followed in quick succession, the rhythmic detonations forming a terrible heartbeat that consumed the harbour.

She leaned farther out, ignoring the rain pelting her mane. Shapes moved in uneven clusters around the massive airships, shifting and swirling like living clouds. At first, Bistrena thought they might be birds—hundreds, maybe thousands of them, flocking and diving in chaotic unison. But their movements were sharper, more purposeful. As the faint light of distant fire caught their edges, she saw them—dark, jagged silhouettes with thin, translucent wings that seemed to shimmer. They darted and weaved through the sky in swarms, clinging close to the hulking ships like a shield of living shadows.

Then, something brighter.

At first, she thought they were pegasi—streaking lights against the blackened sky, their wings alight with unnatural brilliance. But no pegasus had wings like that. These weren’t feathers or flesh. The wings shimmered, radiant and sharp-edged, made entirely of magic. Their colours dazzled: ruby, aquamarine, tangerine, turquoise—a rainbow of blazing energy that defied the gloom.

Bistrena’s breath caught as the realisation dawned on her. Unicorns.

They moved in disciplined formations, streaking through the air like meteors. Beams of energy arced from their horns, crashing into the enemy swarms. As they dove toward the swarming changelings, the enemy seemed to ripple like water struck by stones, breaking apart and reforming in chaotic waves. Beams of energy lashed out from the unicorns' horns, bright arcs of magic slicing into the living cloud. The changelings scattered, some spiralling into flaming remnants, others regrouping and surging back to close the gaps.

The unicorns cut deeper, their streaks of colour leaving faint trails in the night as they plunged into the heart of the defensive veil, relentless. The changelings retaliated with ruthless precision. Their horns blazed with green fire, magic bolts streaking across the rain-slick sky. The blasts illuminated the chaos—a grim light show of survival and slaughter. The unicorns were outnumbered ten to one, and every changeling that spiralled away in flames seemed to be replaced by five more, surging forward with relentless hunger.

The ponies threw everything they had. Beams of violet and sapphire energy arced wildly, some finding their marks, others swallowed by the writhing mass of changeling bodies. Tight formations shattered under the onslaught. Shields of shimmering light flared up in desperation, taking the brunt of the enemy fire. Some held firm, glowing faintly before flickering out; others cracked under the strain, shattering into nothingness.

A direct hit ripped through one unicorn’s defences. The shield gave way with a distant crack, and the pony’s glowing wings flickered and died. A green contrail followed their limp form as they spiralled down, vanishing into the city below. Bistrena’s stomach turned as she glimpsed another, wings gone, trying to conjure a fresh shield, only to be struck again—one final burst of light before they too fell to the hungry dark.

The changelings swarmed with an animalistic grace, their movements erratic but deadly, a hive mind dancing to some unseen rhythm. They darted through the mayhem, weaving around spells and picking off stragglers with cruel efficiency. It was like watching wolves tear apart a wounded herd. Every second of defiance from the ponies seemed to drag them closer to oblivion, but still, they fought, the odds impossibly stacked against them.

Bistrena clutched the windowsill, watching in frozen disbelief. One of the ships flared suddenly, orange fire bursting from its hull as a beam of magic struck true. It wobbled, arcing unnaturally through the air as flames trailed behind. The ship veered toward the city outskirts, disappearing from view just before a dull, thunderous boom lit the horizon in orange light.

The harbour was in flames now. Ships burned at their moorings, casting warped reflections onto the water. Explosions rippled through the dockyards, sending fire and debris into the air.

Bistrena stumbled back from the window, her chest heaving. Across the street, her neighbour stood on her balcony, eyes locked on the harbour with a look of blank terror.

“What’s happening?!” Bistrena’s voice cracked as she shouted, but the mare didn’t answer.

The sky roared, the night consumed by a symphony of falling bombs, wailing sirens, and the unrelenting hum of the ships.

This couldn’t be real.

But the war had come to Baltimare.

Bistrena stumbled down the stairs, her hooves barely finding purchase on the wood as the house trembled with another distant blast. Her mother and father were already on the landing, both wide-eyed and frantic. Her mother was jabbing at the light switch on the wall.

“Why isn’t it working? Why isn’t it working?” she muttered, her voice shrill and rising. She clicked it over and over, the motion sharp and useless.

“There’s no power,” her father said through gritted teeth, pulling open a narrow dresser drawer by the bannister. His hooves shook as he fumbled with tealight candles, clinking against one another. “What in Tartarus is going on out there, Bi?”

Bistrena swallowed hard, her throat dry. “I… I saw them.” She tried to catch her breath, but the words tumbled out in a rush. “Ships. Flying. Not like boats—different. They were dropping something, and there were pegasi—no, not pegasi, but they were flying, and there was fire, and—”

Her mother spun on her, eyes narrowing. “Flying ships? Bistrena, don’t talk nonsense. Ships don’t fly. You must have been dreaming!”

Another explosion tore through the air, distant but heavy enough to vibrate the walls. The windows on the house opposite flared briefly with green light, then orange, as another shockwave rumbled through the street.

Her mother shrieked, the sound warbling out of her throat, panicked and unsteady, before clamping her hooves over her mouth. Bistrena ducked instinctively, her ears ringing as the vibration rippled through the house, rattling picture frames on the wall.

“Come on!” Her father’s voice cut through the chaos as he yanked the candles from the drawer. He placed them on the bannister and began lighting them with a match, the small flames trembling as the sirens outside grew louder, screaming a crescendo of dread. He shoved the matches into her hoof. “We’re going to the cellar. Right now!”

Bistrena nodded, grabbing the candles as her father stormed toward the lounge. Her mother hesitated, wringing her hooves as she glanced toward the darkened window.

“Glory, let’s go!” he barked. “Now!”

The three of them hurried into the lounge, lit only by the weak, flickering candlelight. Her father kicked the coffee table over, the stack of magazines and mugs on top clattering to the floor.

“Be careful!” her mother snapped, her voice cracking with tension.

“No time for careful,” he snapped back, his tone hard and clipped.

Bistrena leaned down to help as her father yanked the thick rug off the floorboards, tossing it aside. Together, they found the recessed edge of the heavy wooden trapdoor. It was wedged tight. Her father strained against it, his muscles trembling.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

“Here, let me,” Bistrena said, planting her hooves and gripping the knotted cord with her teeth. The rough fibres bit into her jaw as she heaved, the weight of the door threatening to overpower her. Finally, it gave, scraping open with a reluctant groan from the unused hinges.

Her father went first “Come on! Down the stairs, carefully!”

The cellar air hit them immediately—cold, damp, and stale, carrying the faint must of age. The stone walls glistened with condensation. The faint outlines of jars and tins from decades past lined the shelves. Bistrena held the candle high as they descended, the flickering flame casting long shadows.

Her mother stumbled on the last step as another blast rocked the house. She yelped, tumbling backwards.

“Mom!” Bistrena shouted, dropping the candle to catch her. She managed to grab her just in time, steadying her. “I’ve got you. Careful, careful.”

Glory panted, holding tightly to her daughter. “Thank you, sweetheart. I—”

“Get the door!” her father shouted from below.

Bistrena scrambled back up, gripping the rope once more. She heaved with everything she had, the door closing with a heavy thunk that sealed them into the cellar’s dark, muffled stillness.

By the time she got back down, her father had managed to get the old woodstove going. The faint warmth radiated outward, easing some of the chill that bit at their coats. Bistrena lit more candles, setting them carefully on shelves and the ground as her mother pulled a pair of blankets from an old chest.

The three of them huddled close, one of the blankets under them on the cold stone floor, the second draped over their shoulders.

“What’s happening?” Glory whispered, her voice trembling.

“It’s the war,” her father said grimly, staring at the glowing embers in the stove.

“But the war is far away,” her mother argued, tears in her eyes. “It’s not supposed to come here!”

Bistrena hugged her knees, staring at the faint flicker of the flames. Outside, the sirens grew softer, the explosions less frequent. But the dread hung in the air, thick and oppressive.

They didn’t speak much after that, just sat in silence, waiting for dawn to come.

The sunrise cast a warm light over a city scarred beyond recognition. After they’d left the cellar, Bistrena had hugged her parents tightly, clinging to them longer than usual. She hated how small and powerless the attack had made her feel. If she could, she’d have been up there with the unicorns, fighting back, blasting those changeling bastards out of the sky and nailing them to the walls of their damned hives. But she couldn’t. She’d done nothing but hide. The morning felt hollow; they’d left early, no breakfast, no routine, each of them running on fumes. When her dad had asked if her training was today, and she’d said yes, his quiet “Good luck” carried the weight of everything he didn’t say. Be safe. The lines on his face looked deeper, his mane streaked with a little more gray.

On her way to training, she felt compelled to see the damage up close. Her hooves carried her to the fishing district, weaving through miles of shattered tiles, splintered beams, and weary ponies clearing the rubble of what had been their lives. The stench of smoke still lingered in the air, heavy and acrid. She didn’t know what she was hoping to find, but she kept walking, unable to look away from the devastation.

Bistrena stood on the sea wall alongside hundreds—maybe thousands—of ponies, all silently watching the destruction laid bare. Across the Patapsco River, near downtown in the Westside, entire streets were still smouldering. Buildings that had once been homes, shops, and offices were now heaps of rubble and jagged steel. Smoke curled lazily into the air, obscuring the skyline.

In the harbour, merchant ships, their hulls twisted and wrinkled like old parchment, sat burning in the shallows. One vessel, a hulking cargo liner, had capsized completely. Maintenance ponies and engineers scrambled across its upturned hull, shouting frantically to cutting teams. The ship was slowly sinking, its bow dipping inch by inch into the slick, oil-coated water. The current was relentless, pulling the hulk further into the bay with each passing hour. Trapped within were its crew, pounding and yelling for help as water crept higher inside the steel coffin.

The water itself was a sickening tableau. Blackened with oil and fuel, it carried the lifeless forms of hundreds of ponies. Their colours, so vibrant in life, were dulled by death and grime. Among them were the passengers of a civilian ferry caught in the channel during the attack. They’d been holidaymakers, families returning from a scenic cruise around the Zebrican Peninsula. Now they were bodies, floating aimlessly. Gulls circled above, descending hungrily to pluck at eyes and open wounds.

Rescue teams on rafts navigated the carnage, weaving through the bodies with long poles. They prodded and rolled the dead, checking for signs of life. Occasionally, they found a survivor—though far less often than they found the lost. On the shoreline, the dead were passed along sombre lines of volunteers, tears streaking their soot-stained faces as they gently laid them down. Quiet sobbing rippled through the crowd, mixing with the distant sound of flames crackling and the soft lap of the tainted water.

Bistrena swallowed thickly, her throat dry despite the nausea threatening to choke her. Her gaze locked on a raft where two ponies hoisted a colt onto the deck. He wasn’t moving. She wanted to look away, to shut it out, but her hooves refused to move. Somewhere, a voice in her mind whispered: That could’ve been me. It could’ve been all of us.

Above, Baltimare Police Department chariots hovered in slow, purposeful circles. Pegasi officers in black uniforms floated in harnesses, the wheeled chariot bodies gliding as if weightless behind them. Amplified voices crackled over megaphones, adding a discordant layer to the chaos.

“Citizens of Baltimare, remain calm and stay indoors. Emergency protocols are in effect. Roads to Westside and the harbour district are restricted to emergency services only.”

The warnings were interspersed with hauntingly specific announcements: missing pony reports. A stallion’s voice, thin and weary, called out names: “Chestnut Grove, aged 8. Misty Skies, aged 6. If found, please report to your nearest police station.”

Bistrena clenched her jaw, bile rising in her throat. She didn’t need to ask where those foals were. They were either trapped beneath the rubble or among the floating dead. Or, worse, here in the crowd, their wide, empty eyes staring at a world that had suddenly become monstrous.

The city was breaking under the weight of what it had endured. Fires burned unchecked in the Westside, black smoke curling against the morning sky. The Mayor’s broadcast continued faintly in the background, his voice competing with the BPD’s warnings. Nothing he said mattered. The city was alone. Three days until the army arrived. Three days too late.

A surge of anger rose in Bistrena, cutting through the numbness like a razor. She wanted to scream, to fight, to do something. Her city was bleeding, and all she could do was watch. Her hooves trembled, not with fear, but with the need to act.

Her eyes darted to the crowds around her. Many were frozen, just like her. Some clung to loved ones, others whispered prayers to a silent sky. She took one last look at the harbour, the wreckage, and the lifeless forms drifting in the water. Then, with a deep breath and grim determination, she turned away.

She shoved through the masses, her body on autopilot as she made her way to her Reserve barracks. Her first muster was in an hour. If the army wasn’t here, then she would be the army. Whatever it took, she was going to make herself useful. One way or another, she would return the favour to the godless bastards who had done this to her city.

The smoke on the breeze smelled acrid, clinging to the air like an unshakable memory. From the elevated vantage of Fort Highmane, the city below looked wounded and battered. Thick, dark smog blanketed the streets, smothering Baltimare beneath it. Bistrena couldn’t help but compare the scene to old history books depicting the coal-choked days of centuries past, but this was no industrial revolution—it was devastation. The harbour was a twisted scar on the landscape, with black smoke pillars stabbing upward like accusing fingers. They rose high, piercing the cloud cover and vanishing into the heavens, as though trying to scar the sky itself.

The chariot ride here had been a trial of its own. The driver, a wiry stallion pulling the closed cab, kept glancing nervously over his shoulder while talking. His Canterlot accent was proper, the words tumbling out in bursts. “Never thought I’d see it,” he muttered. “Baltimare? Hit by war? Didn’t think it was possible.”

Bistrena sat stiffly in the back, peering through the small window, the haze giving the city an ethereal, almost haunted look.

“Y’know, I came out here to avoid all this Royal Army shit,” the driver continued. “Thought, 'Hey, Baltimare’s quiet, safe—‘ Guess I was wrong, huh?” He let out a humourless laugh, the kind that carried more fear than levity.

She didn’t reply at first, her mind preoccupied, but his voice pressed on, as if the silence unnerved him more than her indifference.

“What about you?” he asked, straining to make eye contact through the cab’s small window. “Family at Highmane?”

“No,” she replied shortly. “I’m reporting in.”

“Reporting?” His ears perked up. “To the Fort? What for?”

“I’m in the Reserves,” she said, straightening her posture as though the words themselves demanded discipline.

The stallion let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Wanted to join when I was your age, but they wouldn’t take me. Heart condition.” He chuckled nervously, then sighed. “Figure this is the next best thing. Ferrying Navy and Army ponies where they need to be. It's the least I can do, you know?”

When they finally reached the gates of the fort, Bistrena reached for her bit pouch, but the driver shook his head firmly. “No charge,” he said, sliding her a small card with his name and number. “You ever need a ride, you call me. On the house.”

Bistrena hesitated, her mouth opening to argue, but the earnestness in his eyes stopped her. She tucked the card away. “Thanks,” she said simply, stepping down onto the gravel road.

Fort Highmane was almost unrecognizable compared to Bistrena’s first visit. Once a modest outpost, it now bristled with hasty yet effective defences. A trench had been dug along the perimeter, flanked by two-meter-high metal fences topped with loops of razor wire that gleamed under the dull light. The old wooden gatehouse was gone, replaced by reinforced steel gates embedded with magical runes that faintly pulsed in warning.

Inside, the atmosphere was suffocating. Patrols of uniformed ponies moved in pairs, their eyes darting with suspicion at every shadow. Many led snarling canines on short leashes; the dogs tugged and strained, their noses twitching madly as they sniffed the air and ground. Tension hung as thick as the haze of smoke drifting in from the harbour below.

At the gate, Bistrena encountered a squad of guards that radiated weariness and suspicion in equal measure. The young mare in charge—slim but wiry, with a dark coat and a purple mane tied back in a severe ponytail—fixed her with a stare as cold and calculating as a knife. She couldn’t have been much older than Bistrena, but her demeanour screamed experience beyond her years.

“Papers,” the unicorn said curtly, holding out a hoof.

Bistrena complied, handing over the documents she had meticulously prepared. She felt several pairs of eyes on her, their collective weight oppressive.

Behind the unicorn, a stout, bearded stallion rifled through her luggage with little regard for its contents. His magic gripped a small yellow gem mounted on a metal rod, which he waved back and forth over her belongings.

“What’s that?” Bistrena asked, her voice cautious but curious as she watched the gem flicker faintly.

The unicorn didn’t even glance up from the paperwork. “Shut it,” she said sharply. Her horn ignited with a vivid red glow, and a tingling wave of magic washed over Bistrena. The sensation prickled against her coat like static electricity, leaving her uneasy. Her pulse quickened involuntarily, and her stomach clenched.

“She’s clean,” the unicorn finally declared.

The bearded stallion hastily shoved her belongings back into her bag, his earlier brusqueness melting into an awkward, half-hearted apology. “Sorry for the trouble,” he muttered.

Bistrena’s gaze shifted to another guard—a gaunt-faced mare with sharp, hollow features and a perpetual scowl. Her hoof, which had been resting on the hilt of her sword, slowly relaxed, though her piercing eyes never stopped scrutinizing Bistrena.

“What’s with all this?” Bistrena asked, gesturing toward the razor wire, patrols, and overall air of paranoia.

The unicorn popped a stick of gum into her mouth, chewing loudly as she finally handed back the papers. “Changelings,” she said, as though the answer was self-evident. “Army Central says the city’s crawling with saboteurs. Disguised as ponies, naturally.”

Bistrena raised an eyebrow. “And you believe that? That sounds… unlikely.”

The unicorn snorted. “Oh, yeah? You the expert now? Tell me, what does a changeling infiltrator look like?”

The silence that followed was pointed.

“Exactly,” the unicorn said smugly, blowing a bubble and letting it pop. “Word is, a few of the bastards fell off that hulk last night.”

“Hulk?”

The unicorn waved a hoof dismissively, chewing her gum. “Big bug airship. We shot it down outside the city. Word is the DSA hauled survivors out of the wreck and carted them off to Canterlot for, uh…” She grinned wickedly, “... questioning.”

Bistrena stiffened. The mention of the Domestic Security Agency sent a chill down her spine. She’d heard rumours about them—whispers in hushed voices of ponies who worked in the shadows, using dark magic and strange technology to combat threats nopony else could face. The DSA was the stuff of conspiracy and nightmares. Officially, they didn’t exist—or so the Crown would have ponies believe.

Her unease deepened as the unicorn continued nonchalantly, “Bet those bugs are wishing they died in the crash, huh? DSA doesn’t mess around.”

Bistrena swallowed hard. Hearing an actual soldier talk about them so casually made the shadowy organization seem disturbingly real.

“Move along,” the unicorn barked, motioning toward the fort’s interior.

Inside the squat administrative building, the air was just as tense. Bistrena scanned the room, her heart sinking when she recognized a familiar face. The corporal from her last visit was there, his expression cold and detached as he approached her.

“Welcome back,” he said curtly. “Briefing starts in ten minutes. Don’t be late.”

Bistrena hesitated. “Listen, Corporal, about last time—”

He cut her off with a tight smile. “Say no more, mare.” The word carried a sting of condescension. “Water under the bridge.”

But his eyes betrayed him. There was no forgiveness there, only a lingering bitterness that made her regret speaking up at all.

Stupid, she thought as she watched him walk away. Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut?

The hall was cavernous, filled with the low hum of dozens of voices. Rows of chairs stretched in uneven lines, occupied by ponies of all shapes, sizes, and ages. Most were older, their faces worn and their manes flecked with grey. Yet scattered among them were younger faces, fresh but uneasy, their whispers carrying a mix of curiosity and dread. At the front of the hall, two stallions in uniform stood on a low wooden stage. A third pony, fussing with the wiring of a battered speaker system, muttered curses under his breath as a shrill squeal pierced the air.

Bistrena entered the hall, her hooves tapping softly on the floor. Nearly every seat was filled, the low hum of conversation blending with the occasional scrape of a chair. The air felt dense, heavy with unspoken fears. She scanned the rows until she spotted Dusklight, who caught her gaze and raised a hoof to wave her over.

Dusklight was sitting with Brassforge and Stormchime. The two stallions were locked in a low conversation as Bistrena approached.

“…wasn’t just the docks,” Brassforge was saying, his voice firm but grim. “They hit the warehouses too. Saw the fire from my place last night, burning like it’d never stop.”

Stormchime nodded, his gaze distant. “They say they’re still finding bodies in the rubble. Friend of mine from the weather station said the smoke nearly blacked out the whole western sky this morning.”

Dusklight scooted over to make room for Bistrena, appraising her lengthways from hoof to snout. “You were close to the harbour this morning, weren’t you?” she asked, her tone cautious.

Bistrena hesitated before sitting down. “Yeah. Close enough.” Her throat tightened as she spoke. “It’s bad. Worse than you’d think. The port's just… gone. Mangled wrecks. Smoke everywhere, bodies in the water…” She shook her head, forcing the images back. “You can’t even tell where the harbour ends and the city starts anymore. It’s all one big ruin.”

Dusklight’s voice dropped, steady but low. “My aunt said she saw something during the raid. One of them—one of the changelings—landed right in the street. Turned into a pony, just like that.” Her ears flicked nervously. “She’s sure it was real.”

Brassforge frowned, his brow furrowing. “How sure are we talking? Panic can make ponies see all kinds of things.”

Dusklight’s nostrils flared, but she didn’t snap. “She was close, Brass. Close enough to see its wings fade, its horn shrink. Said it looked right at her, like it knew she’d remember.”

Stormchime leaned back, his tone even. “If that’s true, and they’re walking among us…” He didn’t finish, his gaze drifting past the others.

Bistrena crossed her forelegs, biting back her unease. “We got scanned at the gates. They wouldn’t let something slip through that easily.”

“Wouldn’t they?” Dusklight shot back, her voice sharp. “You think they’re not already ahead of us? They’ve been planning this for who knows how long.”

Stormchime gave a small nod. “If they’re here, we’ll find out soon enough.” His voice was quiet but firm.

Brassforge exhaled, glancing toward the dimming lights. “Well, if it comes to that, we’ll be ready.”

No one responded, the weight of the conversation hanging just long enough before the stage took their focus.

Bistrena shook her head, the unease settling deeper in her gut.

Before she could answer, the lights shut off. A distorted crackle echoed from the speakers, followed by a sharp squeal that made the crowd wince. The two stallions on the stage stepped aside, leaving a single figure standing before the microphone.

The stallion removed his cap, revealing a mane streaked with grey and a pair of piercing blue eyes that seemed to scrutinize every soul in the room. His voice cut through the murmurs, steady and clear. “Good morning. I am Lieutenant Colonel Reed.”

His uniform was spotless, the silver oak leaves on his collar gleaming faintly. He stood straight-backed, every movement deliberate, his sharp gaze sweeping the room as though cataloguing every face and detail. There was no softness to him, no wasted motion—only the quiet intensity of a pony used to being obeyed.

“Welcome to the 7th Company, 2nd Battalion, 608th Reserve Regiment,” the officer began, his voice sharp and clear, cutting through the quiet tension in the room. “You may have signed on expecting to serve with the Baltimare Civil Defense.” He paused, scanning the room. “That organization no longer exists. As of last night, the Civil Defense has been formally absorbed into the Royal Equestrian Army Reserve.”

A wave of murmurs rippled through the room, ponies exchanging confused glances. Some whispered, others shifted uneasily in their seats.

Reed didn’t wait for the noise to subside. “For those of you expecting to patrol parks and manage ration lines, I suggest you reevaluate your expectations. You are now soldiers in the Reserve. That means new protocols, new standards, and new leadership. With that, let me introduce your new Company Commander.”

He paused, letting the moment linger before turning sharply toward the side of the stage. From the shadows, a stallion stepped into the light. His gait was uneven, favouring one side, and the stage lights caught the thin pink scar that ran just above his uniform’s collar. The harsh glare also revealed the stark absence of his left ear and the jagged notch carved from the side of his head. For a moment, his gaze swept the room, sharp and searching, as if daring anyone to flinch.

“That’s the recruiter,” Dusklight whispered, leaning toward Bistrena. “What’s he doing here? I thought he was some desk jockey.”

Bistrena didn’t respond. She remembered their brief exchange at the recruitment office—the sharp, haunted look in his eyes. Whatever this stallion had seen, it hadn’t been confined to an office.

Reed greeted the newcomer with a firm hoofshake, pulling a small box from his jacket. Inside gleamed a pair of silver captain’s bars. “Congratulations, Captain Wheatstone,” Reed said. “The command is yours.”

Wheatstone accepted the insignia with a curt nod. He saluted, and as Reed stepped down from the stage to join a row of officers, Wheatstone took his place at the microphone.

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze sweeping the room. His eyes were hard, his face set like stone. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, unpolished, and direct.

“I know what you think,” he began. “You’ve heard the jokes. ‘Reservists eat ice cream in the morning, sunbathe in the afternoon, and chase mares by evening.’ You think this is some cushy assignment, far from the frontlines, where you’ll sit out the war and play at being soldiers.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, and Wheatstone raised a hoof to silence it.

“Not under my command. This isn’t the old civil defence. That nonsense ends here and now. I’ve served with the Army. I’ve trained with them. I’ve fought beside them. And I’m going to train you the same way. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be more than Reservists. You’ll be firefighters, medics, riot control, and casualty evacuation teams. And when the time comes, you’ll fight. You’ll fight as a cohesive unit. You’ll fight like soldiers. And if necessary, you’ll kill.”

The room fell silent, his words hanging heavy in the air. He let them linger before continuing, his tone softening just enough to pierce the stillness.

“Most of what we’ll do won’t be glamorous. It’ll be hard, thankless work. You’ll pull foals from burning buildings, drag ponies bleeding from twisted ship wreckage, and face down mobs of scared, desperate civilians. But this war isn’t just on the frontlines. It’s here. In our homes. In our streets. And if we fail, Baltimare will burn.”

Wheatstone reached into his coat and pulled out a scroll, the edges worn from handling. He held it aloft, his jaw tightening.

“And now,” he said, his voice low but steady, “by order of the Royal Sisters, this is what your lives will become.”

"By decree of the Royal Sisters, Princess Celestia and Princess Luna, and for the security and survival of Equestria, the following measures are declared and enacted without delay. All able-bodied stallions and mares of age are required to serve. Every family must give at least one member to the defence of this nation—no exceptions, no exemptions. In homes with more than two, up to eighty per cent of the youth will answer the call. Resources critical to survival—grain, fuel, fabric—will be rationed. Hoarding is an act of treason. Movement is restricted; curfews are now in place, and any travel beyond your local district will require explicit government approval. Industries vital to the war effort are now under the direct control of the crown, and any disruption—strikes, protests, sabotage—will be met with swift and absolute consequences. Communication channels will be closely monitored, with censorship in place to prevent the spread of enemy propaganda. All citizens are required to participate in civil defence training: first aid, shelter construction, and emergency drills are no longer optional. Internment and relocation are authorized for any individual or group deemed a threat to national security. The enemy is among us—they wear familiar faces, sow chaos, and thrive on division. These measures are not for punishment but survival. This is not just a war over territory or power; this is a war for our existence. Sacrifices will be great, and the burdens heavy, but let there be no misunderstanding: Equestria will endure, or it will fall. Together, we decide which."

His voice dropped, but the words still carried weight. “The time for questions, for doubt, is over. The war isn’t something you’ll read about in the papers anymore. It’s here. At your door.”

Bistrena’s jaw tightened as Reed’s voice faded into silence, her thoughts tumbling in chaos. This is where it starts. The real war. She’d thought she understood hardship—rationing, worry, the quiet tension in her parents’ voices—but now, that all felt childish. We were sleepwalking before. This is the wake-up call.

Her mind flicked to Current. It had only been a few days since he left, barely enough time to miss him properly, but his absence gnawed at her all the same. She told herself it was love—or at least something close enough. That was the whole reason she’d let herself have him that night. The timing was awful, her friends had said so, but she’d ignored them. In the moment, it had felt right, like one last chance to pretend life wasn’t falling apart.

Except now, sitting in this cold hall with Reed’s decrees still echoing in her ears, she couldn’t shake the truth clawing at the edge of her mind: I wanted an excuse. She hadn’t really been in love with him, not the way she pretended to be. Maybe not at all. What they’d shared hadn’t been about him—it had been about her. About clinging to something that felt good before it could be ripped away.

She hated how easily she could imagine him not coming back. How the thought didn’t fill her with dread, but relief. If I’m honest, I don’t know if I want him to. That scared her more than anything else—how cold she could be, how selfish.

He was probably still in training anyway, she thought, pushing the guilt aside. It’s not like he’s dead. Not yet. Maybe the war wouldn’t swallow him whole. Or maybe it would, and she’d move on. Either way, it was easier not to think too much about him.

Her parents, though—they were another story. Her father’s face floated into her mind, lines etched deeper with every day of worry, every sleepless night. Her mother’s hooves were always busy, as though keeping them moving would keep the fear away. They wouldn’t handle these new decrees well. How could they? How many more sacrifices do we have to make?

The weight of it all was crushing. For a moment, she almost wished she could just disappear into the machine Reed described. No more choices, no more guilt. Just orders to follow.

But then she sat straighter, shoulders squaring. That wasn’t who she was. If this war was going to take everything, she’d make sure it cost the enemy just as much. She’d be the one to fight, not just survive. And if Current made it through, so be it. If not, well… she had more important things to worry about.

EIGHT

The low hum of the hall erupted into chaos the moment Wheatstone’s words settled over the crowd. Ponies shot out of their seats, their voices rising in a wave of outrage and confusion.

“This is ridiculous!” shouted a stallion near the back, his face flushed. “I’m fifty-five! I’m too old for this!”

“We signed up for civil defence!” a mare’s voice cut through. “Not the damn army!”

“Are they shipping us to the front now?” another pony demanded, their tone shrill with panic. “Is that what this is about?”

The rows of ponies shifted uneasily, some pressing forward, others retreating to the back. Chairs scraped against the floor, hooves stomped in agitation, and the din grew louder, threatening to spill over into a full-blown riot.

Bistrena felt the crowd around her press tighter, shoving her toward Dusklight, who stood frozen, her eyes darting between the stage and the agitated ponies. Brassforge and Stormchime braced themselves, their stances wide and uneasy.

“This is getting out of hoof,” Brassforge muttered, his voice tense.

On the stage, Captain Wheatstone remained still, his expression unreadable. The officers near Reed exchanged wary glances, some stepping down to form a line alongside the training instructors now moving into position. At the head of the group, a towering Pegasus mare—Staff Sergeant Barnside—bellowed, her voice cutting through the uproar.

“INSTRUCTORS! FORM UP!”

The seven instructors under her command snapped into motion, spreading out to create a physical barrier between the stage and the crowd. Barnside’s sharp eyes scanned the hall, her wings partially flared. “Everyone, SIT DOWN before you make a mistake you’ll regret!”

Her words did little to quell the rising tide. An older stallion’s voice boomed, “This isn’t right! You can’t just change the rules like this!”

Bistrena stumbled as the pony next to her pushed past, their face twisted in anger. The mare’s voice rose above the chaos, directed squarely at the stage. “You’re no better than the changelings! Turning on your own like this!”

Before Bistrena could steady herself, a deafening blast tore through the air. The hall fell silent, the sound still echoing off the walls. Bistrena’s ears rang, her head spinning from the shock.

When she looked up, Wheatstone was holding something unfamiliar in his hoof—a grey, oblong tube with a blocky handle, its metallic surface gleaming faintly in the light. The weapon seemed cold and mechanical, exuding an unsettling sense of finality. Around the room, the crowd froze, every eye riveted on the ominous object as the tension thickened palpably in the air. Smoke curled from its open end. Above him, the metal roof bore a fresh spray of holes, grey daylight streaming through.

Every eye in the room was on him now. Even the instructors and officers turned to look, their faces marked by a mix of apprehension and disbelief. Wheatstone’s face was calm, his gaze sharp and deliberate as he cycled a mechanism on the weapon, a distinct click echoing through the hall. Slowly, he levelled it at the pony nearest the centre aisle.

“Sit. Back. Down.” His words carried no emotion, no hesitation—only the weight of absolute authority.

The pony froze, their defiance draining away as they sank back into their seat. Wheatstone’s eyes swept over the hall, his tone unyielding. “All of you. Asses in seats. Right. Now.”

The tension held for a heartbeat, then another. Slowly, chairs creaked as ponies began sitting down, their heads lowered, their movements stiff. The instructors relaxed marginally, backing toward the stage, though Barnside’s sharp gaze never wavered from the crowd.

Wheatstone gestured toward the officers who remained standing on the stage. “Yes, even you.”

The officers exchanged glances before moving to take seats at the back of the stage. The hall was silent now, except for the occasional hoove scrape on the floor.

Satisfied, Wheatstone lowered the weapon and placed it back behind the lectern. He took a deep breath before addressing the room again, his voice softer but no less commanding.

“I expected some pushback,” he began, his tone carrying the edge of grim understanding. “I don’t blame you. None of us asked for this war, and none of us asked to be here. But here we are.”

He paused, his gaze moving across the rows of recruits. “I’ll make this clear: the Army doesn’t make mistakes. You’re here because you’re needed. Because this city is going to need every single one of you to hold it together when things get worse—and they will get worse.”

The hall remained silent, though Bistrena could feel the tension in the air shifting. Some ponies looked ashamed, their eyes downcast. Others still held expressions of anger or disbelief, but none dared to speak.

Wheatstone’s voice hardened. “As Army Reservists, you won’t be sent to the front. Not unless the front comes to Baltimare.” His words hung heavy, their implication clear. “Your primary role is to protect this city. To patrol its streets, maintain order, and keep its civilians safe. When—not if—refugees and wounded start pouring in, when there isn’t enough food to go around, and ponies start to turn on each other, you’ll be the ones standing between chaos and survival.”

Bistrena shifted in her seat, her unease growing. How he spoke—as if the collapse of order wasn’t an impossibility but an inevitability—gnawed at her. She glanced at Dusklight, who was staring at the floor, her jaw tight. Brassforge and Stormchime sat stiffly, their expressions unreadable.

Wheatstone’s eyes scanned the room again. “What you just pulled? That proves it. Do you think ponies will stay calm when the food runs out?” When they’re scared and desperate? You’ll see it for yourselves soon enough. And when that happens, it’ll be on you to hold the line.”

His words left a heavy silence in their wake. Bistrena’s gaze wandered the room, noting the shame on some faces, the lingering resentment on others. No pony spoke.

“Good,” Wheatstone said after a long moment. “Now we can move forward.”

Staff Sergeant Barnside’s voice cut through the room like the guttural bark of a boar staking its claim, low and hard-edged, commanding without flourish. She worked her way through the list of 250 recruits, calling out each name and assigning them to one of the seven platoons.

"Appleby, 2nd Platoon. Airstream, 4th Platoon. Adelaide, 7th Platoon," she announced in rapid succession, her delivery steady and brisk. Each name was met with a murmured acknowledgement or the shuffling of hooves as ponies mentally took note of their assignments.

“Blazewind, 1st Platoon. Bluejay, 5th Platoon. Brightmane, 6th Platoon. Brassforge, 7th Platoon. Bistrena, 3rd Platoon.”

Bistrena’s ears perked, her heart skipping slightly at the sound of her name. She scanned the room briefly, eyes meeting with Dusklight as her name was called, while Barnside continued without pause.

“Dappled Sky, 4th Platoon. Dustplume, 2nd Platoon. Dusklight, 3rd Platoon.”

Dusklight let out a sharp breath, her eyes locking on Bistrena’s. The look they shared was quick but clear: an acknowledgement that neither of them was facing this alone. At least they had that. For now, that small comfort would have to be enough.

Barnside finished calling the last name, closing her clipboard with a sharp snap. She scanned the room, her gaze cutting through the recruits. "If anypony wasn’t called, speak up now." Her voice hung in the air, a challenge no one dared to meet. The room remained silent, the shuffle of hooves stilled. "Good," she said curtly, and that was that.

"Listen up!" Barnside barked, her tone demanding absolute focus. "You are now split into seven platoons. Forty ponies each. Mares with mares, stallions with stallions. And let me be perfectly clear:" she paused for effect, eyes scanning the crowd, "if I catch any of you spit-swapping or sneaking off for a little horizontal refreshment, you’ll be running a thousand laps of this fort. Are we clear?"

A few muffled snickers broke the silence, but they died quickly under Barnside’s glare. "I said: Are. We. Clear?"

"Yes, Staff!" the company shouted back in unison, though some voices wavered.

"Good. Now get outside and form up by platoon. Move it!"

Outside, the recruits spilled onto the parade ground, shivering against the biting wind. Snow drifted lazily under the glow of tall streetlamps, and the temperature seemed to drop by the second. They shuffled awkwardly, dragging suitcases, bags, and bundles of winter clothes toward their assigned platoons. It was chaos: ponies calling out for direction, bumping into one another, and clutching at scarves and hats as the cold seeped through their layers.

Bistrena adjusted the strap of her satchel, her breath fogging in the chill air. She caught sight of Dusklight a few steps ahead and quickened her pace to fall in beside her. The two exchanged a look of quiet relief as they both found themselves directed to the same group—3rd Platoon.

A small victory, Bistrena thought.

“All right, you lot!”

The voice that cut through the confusion wasn’t loud, but it carried a weight that drew everypony’s attention. Their instructor stepped into view. He was a black Pegasus with a mane and tail to match, his silky coat gleaming faintly under the lights. His eyes, a piercing yellowish-green, scanned the recruits with a calm intensity. He didn’t need to shout. There was something about the quiet precision of his movements and the unspoken promise of consequences that kept everypony rooted to the spot.

“Welcome to 3rd Platoon,” he said simply. “My name is Corporal Jetstream, you’ll address me as Staff, or Corporal - but never sir. First task: paperwork. Follow me.”

As the recruits formed into a loose line of two ranks behind him, Bistrena’s ears twitched at a metallic clink nearby. She turned her head and caught sight of a strange structure just beyond the parade ground—a platform-mounted machine with twin black prongs glinting under the streetlamps. Two earth ponies in heavy coats stood by, one adjusting a series of dials while the other pulled on what looked like a long metal chain threaded with cylindrical, shining links.

“What’s that?” she whispered to Dusklight, nodding toward the contraption.

Dusklight followed her gaze and frowned. “No idea. Some new kind of siege weapon, maybe?” She sounded unsure, her usual confidence absent.

“Quiet in the ranks!” Jetstream’s voice snapped them both back to attention, his sharp gaze cutting their conversation short.

The recruits filed into a schoolhouse-style building, the air inside stale and cold. Rows of desks awaited them, each holding stacks of forms and cheap pens. Bistrena slumped into a chair and glanced at the stack in front of her. Next of kin, personal details, and—her stomach twisted slightly—a last will and testament.

She exchanged a glance with Dusklight, who stared at the will form as though it might bite. The unicorn’s lips tightened into a thin line. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispered.

Bistrena tried for a reassuring tone. “It’s just a precaution. Probably something they’ll file away and forget about.”

Dusklight’s frown deepened. “Doesn’t make it less unsettling.”

Bistrena’s pen hesitated over the paper. Her thoughts drifted to her brother, Cinereus, posted on the front lines. Did he fill one of these out? Did he agonize over it, or dismiss it as pointless bureaucracy? Her mind flicked back to the strange machine outside, the gleaming barrels and the cold finality they seemed to represent. She forced herself to refocus, scribbling down her answers with detached efficiency.

She told herself it didn’t matter. If she died, her possessions would mean nothing—to her, at least. Being dead, she mused grimly, was like being stupid. Only painful for everyone else.

Their next stop was the quartermaster hall. By the time 3rd Platoon arrived, 1st Platoon was already inside, and 6th Platoon—an all-stallion group—was running circuits outside. Their instructor, a heavyset stallion with a voice like a cannon, barked commands as his recruits slogged through the snow. Some carried logs, others used their own luggage as relay markers. Bistrena spotted Brassforge, the older stallion from earlier, hauling a log with another pony. His breath came in hard, visible puffs, and the instructor’s relentless taunts seemed to weigh heavier on him than the log itself.

Jetstream didn’t even glance at the scene. “Formation. Jumping lunges. Now.”

Groans rippled through the platoon, but they obeyed. Jetstream moved among them like a shadow, correcting form with quiet words and sharp gestures. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. The chaos of the 6th Platoon’s punishment was a vivid, unspoken warning, and no pony dared to test him. Bistrena’s legs burned as she pushed through the exercises, her breath puffing in short bursts. Still, she couldn’t help but marvel at Jetstream’s control. He wasn’t cruel. He was deliberate. And that, she realized, made him far more dangerous.

As the recruits powered through their lunges, Bistrena caught sight of a massive trailer parked at the far end of the parade ground. The machine mounted on it immediately drew her attention: a squat, steel brute with a barrel that jutted skyward. Nearby, four ponies in patched olive overalls and helmets clustered around it, their movements deliberate and purposeful.

“What is that?” Dusklight whispered, her breath frosting the air as she glanced over mid-lunge.

Jetstream, walking the line with his usual sharp-eyed vigilance, answered without breaking stride. “Anti-airship gun. Mark III Thunderstrike. You’ll see them on the front and anywhere else that needs protecting.”

Bistrena’s ears perked as one of the crew hauled a thick belt of shells toward the weapon, sliding it into place with a mechanical clatter. The team adjusted the controls, the barrel swivelling smoothly against the snowy sky.

“It’s... loud, isn’t it?” Dusklight ventured, clearly fishing for details.

“Very,” Jetstream said curtly. “But it does the job. Fires high-velocity shells that don’t care what wings you’ve got. Gryphon, changeling, dragon—it’ll ground you before you know what hit you.”

Another crew member pulled a lever, producing a solid clunk as the gun shifted. Bistrena found herself staring, the metallic noise carrying an unfamiliar weight. Not magical, not elegant. Just cold, functional steel.

“This isn’t a fight for glory,” Jetstream said, his voice quiet but firm. “It’s a fight to outlast, outthink, and outwork the other side. Start practicing that now.”

Bistrena glanced at Dusklight, who wore a frown that was equal parts confusion and unease. Dusklight's ears twitched slightly as if straining to understand something unsaid. Bistrena offered a small, uncertain shrug in return. She wasn’t sure what to make of it either.

The world she thought she knew—the one where her brother, Cinereus, stood tall in gleaming battle armour, sword at the ready—felt as though it were slipping away. She could almost picture him now, not in heroic melee but hunched over a cannon like this, mane tangled with sweat, his face hardened against exhaustion and smoke. Was this the reality of war? Crews of ponies tending machines that roared and spat fire, their precision and teamwork more vital than any single combatant?

The idea unsettled her. She’d grown up imagining battles as chaotic but noble—a clash of wills, not mechanisms. But here was this gun, indifferent to bravery or valour. It didn’t care about honour or even who pulled the trigger.

Dusklight leaned in slightly, whispering, “It’s not what I expected.”

“Neither is the war,” Bistrena replied softly, her voice heavier than she intended.

The clang of metal and the bark of a reservist’s voice snapped them both out of their thoughts. Jetstream’s sharp gaze caught theirs briefly, and they fell back into line, the weight of what they’d seen settling uncomfortably on their shoulders.

When it was finally their turn to enter the quartermaster hall, the warmth of the interior was a welcome relief. The air smelled of oil and grease, and the room was dominated by a metal fence enclosing mountains of crates and supplies. Behind the caged desks, dozens of Ponies in cream overalls moved like ants in well-organised circuits, rotating through files, sorting paperwork and checking through mountains of personal belongings, before issuing equipment.

Bistrena stepped forward when called, surrendering her satchel, coat, scarf, and a small purse of loose change. The supply pony handed her a receipt, tearing the duplicate copy and giving it to her.

“You’ll get it back at the end of training,” he said flatly, before moving on to the next recruit.

In return, Bistrena received a mismatched set of gear: armour plates—some too large, others slightly small—a dented helmet, a bedroll, a mess tin, two towels, a canteen, and uniforms. The sets of overalls were plain olive green, meant for daily use. The formal uniform, with its short-billed cap, was reserved for the pass-out parade at the end of training.

Bistrena glanced over as Dusklight and a pair of other mares clustered near a workbench at the far side of the quartermaster’s hall. Something gleamed in the muted light, and the quiet murmur of curiosity drew her closer. A mare in a cream-colored overall, her mane tied back with a no-nonsense kerchief, stood behind the bench, holding a strange metallic object.

“What’s that?” Dusklight asked, her ears flicking forward.

The quartermaster didn’t immediately answer. She raised the object for the small group to see—a compact construction of dark metal and wood, its polished barrel catching the light. A blocky frame rested beneath it, with intricate grooves along its length and a small lever protruding from the side. The assembly exuded a sense of precision and purpose.

“It’s called a Mark I Defense Compact,” the quartermaster said, her voice even. She set it down on the bench with a deliberate clunk. “Or as we call it in the field, a Boltcaster. These just came up from Ferrusreach this morning.”

“Ferrusreach?” Dusklight tilted her head. “Isn’t that where they make... I don’t know, lightbulbs and power cables?”

Bistrena nodded, chiming in. “Or plumbing fittings. My brother said they supplied half the faucets in Canterlot.”

The quartermaster smirked, adjusting her kerchief. “They do. But it turns out Ferrusreach makes a few more trinkets than just household toys.” She leaned down, cycling the lever on the Boltcaster with a sharp clack-clack that sent a shiver up Bistrena’s spine. “This beauty right here is their latest ‘trinket.’”

The mares exchanged uncertain glances. Bistrena’s stomach churned as she tried to reconcile the unassuming name of Ferrusreach with the cold, functional menace of the weapon before her. Whatever she’d imagined war to be, it hadn’t included tools like this.

Dusklight broke the silence, muttering under her breath, “Guess those faucets are only half the story.”

Bistrena peered at the weapon, her brow furrowing. “What’s it do?”

The quartermaster smirked faintly, then pressed her hoof against the slide on the underside of the barrel. The mechanism clicked, and she pulled the fore-end backward, the sound sharp and mechanical. A brass shell was ejected from the chamber with a metallic ping, spinning onto the workbench. She then pushed the slide forward, the action smooth and almost hypnotic. Another click followed as the bolt locked into place.

“It fires these,” she said, tapping a small metal cartridge resting beside the weapon. “Powder and lead. You pull the trigger, and the powder ignites inside the casing, sending the bullet flying out of the barrel. Fast. Accurate. Lethal.”

Dusklight tilted her head. “Powder? Like the kind used in fireworks? Or naval cannons?”

A flicker of approval crossed the quartermaster’s face. “Close enough. Cannons and fireworks use black powder—smoky stuff that leaves a mess. This is different. Smokeless powder. Cleaner. Burns hotter and faster, without clogging the barrel or blinding you in a fight.”

The mares exchanged glances. Dusklight leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “But doesn’t that mean… it’s easier to keep firing? You wouldn’t have to stop to clear the smoke?”

“Exactly,” the quartermaster said, nodding. “And it’s reliable. No flash, no delays. You aim, pull the trigger, and trust it’ll work every time.”

Bistrena reached out cautiously, her hoof brushing the smooth stock of the Boltcaster. It was heavier than it looked, solid and cold against her touch. She could feel the faint grooves in the wood, worn smooth by use.

“It’s… not magic,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

“Nope,” the quartermaster replied. “And that’s its strength. No spells to fizzle out. No charms to counter. Just powder, lead, and steel.” Her gaze swept over the small group. “Make no mistake—this changes the game. With the right training, this thing will save your hide. Or end something else’s.”

The weight of the words settled over them, heavier than the weapon itself. Bistrena glanced at Dusklight, who seemed just as unsure, then back at the gleaming Boltcaster. For all its plainness, it felt alive in its own way—a small, unassuming thing that could alter the course of a battle in the right hooves.

“Don’t just stare at it,” the quartermaster said, breaking the moment. “You’ll get your chance to train with one soon enough. Now move along.”

The recruits piled their new equipment awkwardly and followed Jetstream back into the cold.

The barracks were a tin shed with rows of metal bunks, their cold frames devoid of any personal touches. A single fireplace sat in the corner, its grates rusted and unlit. Jetstream gestured for the platoon to enter.

“Pick a bunk, get situated. Full gear in five minutes. We’re doing a twenty-kilometre march. Move.”

As the recruits scrambled to comply, a sudden squeal of alarm cut through the air. A large rat scurried across the floor, its sleek body vanishing under the floorboards through a small hole. Dusklight recoiled, her ears flattening against her head. “Ugh! That thing’s disgusting!”

Jetstream’s expression didn’t change. “It’s braver than most of you,” he said evenly. “And it’s been here longer.”

“How can you just ignore it?” Dusklight demanded, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Jetstream’s lips twitched in the barest hint of a smile. “Welcome to the Army.”

Bistrena stifled a laugh and nudged Dusklight. “Maybe we can train it. Teach it to fetch.”

Dusklight glared. “Not funny.”

“Gear up!” Jetstream barked, his tone snapping the recruits to attention. “Five minutes starts now. Hurry up.”

Bistrena exchanged one last glance with Dusklight, their shared exasperation momentarily cutting through the tension. Then she turned to her pile of equipment, her fingers already fumbling with the unfamiliar straps and buckles.

The Night After the March

The wind howled outside, snow whipping across the parade ground in swirling gusts as 3rd platoon staggered into the barracks. Bistrena didn’t know what tired truly meant until that moment. Every muscle in her legs burned, her coat was crusted with sweat that the snow had turned icy, and her armour clung uncomfortably to her body. But when the door swung open, the heat inside hit her like stepping into a forge.

Somepony had managed to get the heater working, and the barracks felt almost unbearably warm after hours in the frozen march. The relief was immediate but temporary; they still had their armour to clean before they could even think of eating. Bistrena’s stomach growled loudly as Jetstream’s sharp voice reminded them to get moving.

The recruits clattered their mismatched sets of brass training armour into a pile near the centre of the room. Jetstream moved with purpose, his steps confident and his actions efficient. He grabbed a dull armour plate from the pile and began cleaning it, demonstrating each motion with deliberate precision. His instructions came sharp and to the point, leaving no room for ambiguity as he corrected mistakes and walked them through the process step by step. There was no shouting for the sake of it—his tone carried authority without excess bluster. Bistrena suspected that under normal circumstances, they’d have six months to turn ponies into soldiers. Now, they had six weeks. Everything—discipline, training, even the gruelling punishments—was condensed into brutal simplicity. Jetstream’s efficiency reflected that urgency. It was all about getting results, not perfection, and it was clear he knew how to make the most of the limited time.

Bistrena worked furiously, her aching limbs protesting as she scrubbed at the scuffed brass plates. By the time she finished, her armour gleamed under the barracks’ dim light. Despite the dents and scratches, the transformation felt like a small victory.

“Not bad,” Jetstream said, giving her work a critical glance before moving on. For a moment, Bistrena felt a flicker of pride.

The shower block was next. Forty mares crammed into the tiled space, their hooves clattering on the cold floor as icy water sprayed down from rows of ageing showerheads. Bistrena flinched as the first drops hit her back; it felt like being pelted with hailstones. Still, the recruits didn’t linger. They soaped up, scrubbed their manes, and rinsed in hurried motions, driven by the freezing temperature and the knowledge that there was a towel room waiting at the other end.

There, two unicorns from their platoon stood at the centre of a shimmering, rippling energy field. A tall, pinkish mare with ruby-red eyes and a cotton-white mane worked in tandem with her companion, a golden-coated mare with a flowing white mane and tail. The warm field of magic they'd conjured dried coats and manes instantly, turning moisture into clouds of steam that rose into the air.

Bistrena hesitated, watching the shimmering aura with wary curiosity. She wasn’t uncomfortable around unicorns, but they were rare in Baltimare before the war. When her turn came, she stepped through the field tentatively. The sensation was unlike anything she’d ever experienced: the biting chill that had soaked into her body vanished, replaced by a deep warmth that seemed to reach her bones. For a fleeting moment, it felt like being wrapped in a soft duvet on a lazy morning.

She lingered too long, and the press of recruits behind her shoved her forward.

The mess hall was dimly lit, the warmth from its iron stoves barely cutting through the chill that seemed to cling to everypony’s coats. The air carried the mingling scents of stew, fresh bread, and damp fur. Long wooden tables stretched across the room, packed with weary recruits hunched over their trays.

Bistrena sat beside Dusklight, absently poking at a blocky vegetable bar on her tray. Across from her, Brassforge and Stormchime were slumped in their seats, their eyes heavy with exhaustion. Brassforge’s usually stern expression was replaced with something haunted, his mane still damp from the cold shower.

“So,” Bistrena said, looking up from her plate. “How was your day?”

Brassforge snorted, his voice low and gravelly. “Digging graves.” He looked up, meeting her gaze. “We were carted into the city, put to work in the cemetery. Just us and the frozen ground.”

Dusklight’s ears perked. “Graves? For who?”

Brassforge shook his head. “Harbor attack victims. Mayor doesn’t want an official count getting out. Too many rumours already.” His tone darkened, and he looked down at his tray. “A thousand, maybe more. And they had us dig graves too small for adults.”

Bistrena’s stomach turned. “Foals?”

Brassforge didn’t answer right away. He stabbed at a piece of bread with his fork, then sighed. “Too many,” he said softly.

No one said anything for a while after that, all deep in thought.

Stormchime started talking, trying to restart the conversation. “Could’ve been worse, I guess.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, making it creak. “We didn’t leave camp, but our Lead Instructor… well, let’s just say he enjoys watching ponies suffer.”

Dusklight raised a brow. “How bad?”

Stormchime rubbed the back of his neck. “Marched in full armour until our hooves were raw. Then it was the obstacle course, over and over, until one of the recruits keeled over. Old stallion. Had to be pushing sixty. Chest pain took him out. They sent him to the medics and called it a day.”

“Sixty?” Bistrena echoed, blinking in disbelief. “Why’s somepony his age here?”

Stormchime shrugged. “Dunno. Probably volunteered. Worked his whole life, from the looks of him. Don’t think he’ll survive this, though.” He took a long sip from his water cup. “If he even comes back.”

The table fell into silence again, save for the clatter of trays and muffled conversations from the other recruits.

Dusklight huffed, nudging her tray aside. “Well, we didn’t have it much better. Marched twenty-five kilometres down the Isle in the dark, freezing our flanks off. Got back covered in frost, and the barracks?” She rolled her eyes. “Rats as big as we are.”

“They didn’t even flinch when we walked in,” Bistrena added with a grimace. “Just stared at us, like we were the intruders.”

Brassforge gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Guess we all got the royal treatment, huh?”

They fell back into quiet, picking at their food. The trays were loaded with a mishmash of sustenance: thick stew, dense dumplings, and bean curry. Not bad, exactly, but far from appetizing. The vegetable bar was dense enough to double as a hoof warmer. Bistrena forced down a few bites, her hunger outweighing the taste.

Then an NCO appeared at their table, carrying a tray of steaming mugs. “Hot chocolate,” he announced, placing a mug in front of each pony. “Drink up. You’ve earned it.”

The recruits’ eyes lit up. Bistrena wrapped her hooves around her mug, savouring the warmth that seeped through the ceramic. She took a cautious sip, and the sweet, creamy richness spread through her, chasing away the day’s bitterness for a fleeting moment.

“This,” Dusklight murmured, her ears flicking forward. “This almost makes it worth it.”

“Almost,” Brassforge echoed, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

For the first time since the day had begun, a light murmur of laughter spread among them, fragile but genuine. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

After the mess hall had cleared and the last plates had been scrubbed, the recruits trudged back to the barracks. The night outside was merciless—howling winds whipping through the frozen trees, and snow piling against the walls of the buildings. Inside, however, the barracks held a tenuous warmth. A fire crackled in the corner hearth, the flames licking at the iron grate and casting faint shadows across the room. It wasn’t cozy, but compared to the icy gale outside, it was paradise.

Bistrena didn’t bother saying much; everypony was too tired to talk, their breaths still fogging faintly in the air as they shuffled to their bunks. Dusklight muttered something about her hooves being frozen stiff, and Bistrena managed a sympathetic grunt in reply, but even that felt like effort.

Jetstream entered as they were settling in, the sound of the door opening letting in a brief gust of freezing air that made everypony shiver. Clipboard in hoof, he walked directly to the fireplace. With precise, almost methodical movements, he grabbed the iron poker and stoked the embers, coaxing the fire to life again. Sparks danced upward, and the flames grew, filling the room with a bit more heat.

“If any of you want more firewood,” he said without looking up, “there’s a shed outside. It’s already cut. Just remember—if you’re stupid enough to go out there tonight, I won’t hear your whining about frostbite.”

A few nervous chuckles rippled through the room, but they died quickly as Jetstream straightened and began calling roll. His gaze swept over each recruit as he ticked names off the list, sharp and assessing. When his eyes landed on Bistrena, she thought she caught the faintest flicker of curiosity, a quick but deliberate pause. Then it was gone, replaced by his usual no-nonsense demeanor.

He finished the roll quickly, his voice as clipped as ever. Setting the clipboard down on a nearby table, he turned to address the platoon.

“Let me make this clear,” he said, stepping to the center of the room. His voice carried a weight that made the already subdued recruits sit up a little straighter. “You’re tired now. Good. Stay that way. But if I hear so much as a hoofstep after lights out, there will be consequences. Severe consequences. Understood?”

“Yes, Staff!” the platoon chorused. A few voices quavered, but no one dared to stay silent.

Satisfied, Jetstream turned and barked, “Lights out!”

The firelight was the only glow remaining as the room plunged into near-darkness. Shadows flickered on the walls as the flames crackled faintly. Bistrena rolled onto her side, whispering a quick, “Goodnight, Dusklight.”

“G’night,” Dusklight mumbled, her voice heavy with exhaustion.

The barracks quieted, save for the occasional creak of a bunk or the soft rustle of blankets. Bistrena’s eyelids grew heavier with each passing second. The warmth of the fire and the dull ache in her muscles lulled her into a dreamless, mercifully deep sleep.

Sleep ended with a thunderclap. Or at least, that’s what it felt like. The lights flared on, harsh and blinding, followed by an ear-splitting metallic racket that jolted every mare from her bed. Jetstream stood at the double doors, a dented tin trashcan in front of him. He was wielding a wooden training sword, scraping it around the inside of the can in long, grating sweeps. The noise was relentless, designed to leave no chance of slipping back into sleep.

“Up! Out of bed! MOVE!” Jetstream’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip.

Mares stumbled and fumbled, some tangled in their sheets, others shielding their ears. The unicorn aide from the gate—Corporal Lockstep—marched into the room, her horn glowing as she ripped the blankets off the stragglers. Bistrena watched as four mares were unceremoniously yanked from their beds, their startled yelps drowned out by the racket. Another aide, a blonde earth pony with a permanent scowl, stormed down the opposite aisle, barking insults with the kind of volume that made the walls vibrate.

“Get your lazy flanks out of those racks! I’ve seen corpses move faster than this!”

Bistrena gritted her teeth, the sting of indignation flaring in her chest. She yanked her own blanket into order, muttering a string of obscenities under her breath. The blonde passed her bunk, and Bistrena froze, heart hammering as the aide’s eyes lingered on her for a moment. Then she moved on, yelling at the next unfortunate recruit.

“Armour on! Helmets on! OUTSIDE, NOW!” Jetstream’s voice cut through the din. “You have five minutes to form up! Twenty-five kilometres, let’s see who survives!”

The barracks turned into a frenzy of motion. Hooves scrambled to pull on gear, some struggling with straps and buckles. Bistrena’s breath fogged in the cold air as she adjusted her helmet, the weight of it unfamiliar but oddly grounding. She shot a glance at Dusklight, who was fumbling with her canteen strap.

“C’mon,” Bistrena muttered, tugging her friend upright. “We’ll deal with it outside.”

The two of them joined the others, spilling out into the frozen night.

The parade ground was a barren sheet of frost and packed dirt, dimly lit by the flickering floodlights above. Snow fell in a slow, steady drizzle, dusting helmets, manes, and shoulder pauldrons alike as Jetstream’s voice rang out, cutting across the chill like a whip.

“Form up! Warm-ups now!”

The mares scrambled into two uneven lines, their movements stiff and sluggish. Their breath fogged the air as they stretched, hopped, and trotted in place. Bistrena, at the front, loosened her legs with fluid movements honed by years of practice. Others were less graceful—Dusklight fumbled with her stretches, already panting lightly, while the older, softer mares grimaced with each step.

“Canteens filled!” Jetstream barked, motioning toward the spigot near the edge of the grounds.

The recruits shuffled to the spigot, filling their canteens in tense silence. The sound of rushing water only heightened their thirst.

“Not a single drop,” Jetstream warned, his voice low and dangerous. “If any mare touches her canteen, I’ll have the platoon digging a trench deep enough to bury yourselves in."

The mares stiffened, nodding as the command sunk in.

Jetstream led them off at a steady jog, his pace exacting and unrelenting. Behind him, the platoon ran in two ragged lines. The frozen ground crunched beneath their hooves as they wound through the fort, passing the dim outlines of barracks and watchtowers. Frost glittered in the weak glow of lanterns, and the snow, though light, was relentless, clinging to their coats and manes.

The pace was manageable at first, but as the trail dipped into the woods, the incline sharpened. The path was uneven, riddled with frost and half-frozen mud that made each step a battle for traction. Jetstream maintained his pace, seemingly unfazed, while his aides—the blonde mare and the unicorn corporal—paced the edges of the formation like wolves.

“Faster!” the corporal snarled at a lagging mare near the back. “What is this, a stroll? MOVE IT!”

The blonde aide added her own sharp tone. “Get those legs up! You’re embarrassing yourselves!”

As the hill rose higher, the formation began to fracture. The fitter mares, Bistrena included, pushed ahead, their breath fogging in rhythmic bursts. The less fit lagged behind, Dusklight among them, her head lowered as she fought for every step.

“You want a break? RUN FASTER!” the corporal snapped, her voice cutting through the noise of Bistrena's laboured breath.

The platoon split naturally into three groups: the fittest, led by Jetstream at the front; the middle group, struggling but holding on; and the stragglers, hounded relentlessly by the aides.

Bistrena kept her eyes forward, ignoring the dry ache in her throat. The canteen at her hip was a constant taunt, its weight swaying with every step. She didn’t dare drink. Not with Jetstream’s unwavering pace and the aides’ hawk-like glares.

When they crested the hill at last, the forest opened into a snowy field. The wind cut across the open space, sharp and bitter. Bistrena’s lungs burned, but she held herself steady.

Jetstream’s voice carried over the panting and shuffling. “You think we’re done? Grab a partner and form up at the log pile!”

A haphazard mound of felled trees lay nearby, the logs thick, heavy, and dusted with snow. Frosted ropes bolted to their ends gave the only grip.

Bistrena paired with Dusklight, who was still catching her breath. Together, they clamped onto a rope, the frozen fibres rough against their lips. The log was heavier than it looked, and each step across the churned snow was a struggle.

“Keep moving!” Jetstream barked. “You don’t stop until I say so!”

The first group worked tirelessly, hauling log after log across the field. By the time the second group arrived, their legs were shaking, and Dusklight was visibly flagging. The third group stumbled in last, faces pale and eyes glazed. Jetstream, flanked by his aides, watched impassively.

“Not there,” Jetstream said, his voice calm but steely. “Over there. Move them again.”

A collective groan rose from the platoon. Bistrena’s jaw tightened as she grabbed another rope. Her muscles burned with each step, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but she pushed forward.

An hour passed. Then another. When Jetstream finally called a halt, the mares slumped where they stood, shoulders heaving. Bistrena exchanged a weary glance with Dusklight, who looked ready to collapse.

But there was no time for relief. Jetstream clapped his hooves together. “Form up! We’re heading back!”

The downhill run was no easier. The snow fell harder now, the wind driving it into their faces like icy needles. The path was treacherous, the frost-covered ground slick beneath their hooves. Some mares stumbled, retching into the roadside snow.

By the time they reached the fort, the pace had slowed to a laboured march. The mares stood in uneven rows as Jetstream ordered them to unscrew their canteens and upend them. Water splashed onto the frozen ground, a bitter waste.

“Pour it out!” the corporal snapped. “All of it!”

Bistrena obeyed, her gaze forward, even as exhaustion threatened to consume her. The corporal wasn’t satisfied.

“Eyes front, mule! This isn’t a damn tea party!”

Bistrena didn’t react. She was too numb to care.

Then came the punishment. The mares who had drunk from their canteens were singled out, but the entire platoon paid the price. Jetstream led them to the frozen lake, where they were ordered into the surf.

The icy water bit into Bistrena’s legs like fire. They did push-ups in the shallows, the waves lapping at their sides, before hauling logs through the freezing muck. By the time it was over, they were drenched, shivering, and numb.

Jetstream’s voice rang out, cold and unyielding. “There’s no ‘you’ anymore. There’s only the platoon. One of you screws up, you all pay. Understand?”

“Yes, staff!”

Back at the barracks, the showers were a rare mercy. The mares stood under the streams, letting the comparative warmth seep into their frozen limbs. Bistrena drank deeply from the spigot, her thirst finally quenched. After, the same pair of unicorns from last night dried them off before they formed up outside to finally get their breakfast.

The group trudged along the dirt path, hooves scuffing against loose gravel as the morning sun crept higher. Dusklight strode ahead, her sharp ears swivelling as Bistrena lingered with the two unicorns behind her.

“Thanks for that spell back there,” Bistrena said, glancing at the pink mare. “Never thought I’d be grateful to have my tail dried out.”

The unicorn smiled faintly. “It’s nothing. I’m Ribbonweave. Used to be a seamstress, before... all this.”

“Aurelia,” the golden mare beside her added. “She dragged me here, more or less.”

Ribbonweave gave a soft laugh. “We lived in Canterlot—neighbours. I didn’t exactly give her a choice when the call-ups started.”

“Call-ups?” Bistrena frowned.

Aurelia shrugged. “All unicorns have to serve. Detection parties, conscription, you name it. The crown decided we’re best at sniffing out spies, so here we are.”

“Why leave Canterlot, though?” Bistrena asked. “I mean, it’s the capital—safest place there is, right?”

Dusklight slowed her pace, glancing back with a smirk. “Safe? Sure. If you don’t mind Changelings crawling under every floorboard.”

Ribbonweave sighed, her expression shadowed. “She’s not wrong. It’s not like they’ve taken over or anything, but... you can feel it. That paranoia. Everypony looking over their shoulder, wondering if their neighbor’s been replaced. It started after the wedding invasion.”

“The what?” Bistrena tilted her head.

“You know.” Ribbonweave blinked, then gave a hesitant smile, as if she’d just realized she was explaining something obvious. “The wedding attack? Princess Cadance? Queen Chrysalis? Everypony learned about it in school.”

“Oh, that.” Bistrena waved a hoof dismissively. “We had a little song about it. Something about friendship saving the day, I think. Didn’t really sound like that big a deal.”

Dusklight snorted. “That’s what they want you to think, B. But it was bad. Like, worse-than-the-gossip-level bad. Changelings infiltrated the palace, replaced the bride, and almost toppled the whole city.”

Bistrena raised a skeptical brow. “Uh-huh. And this was forty years ago? My mom says it was blown out of proportion—just a wedding gone wrong. She said Princess Twilight handled it like she handles everything else.”

Aurelia’s ears flicked back. “That’s because they didn’t tell us the half of it. Ponies vanished in the weeks before. The guards didn’t know who to trust—heck, nopony did. By the time the shield came down, it wasn’t just drones attacking. They’d already infiltrated every level of the city.”

Ribbonweave hesitated, her gaze dropping to the ground. “My aunt used to talk about it. She lived in Canterlot then. Said it was like everypony was under a spell, not knowing who to trust. When the Changelings were thrown out, the city felt... hollow. Like they’d taken more than just ponies.”

“That’s just talk,” Bistrena countered, though her voice wavered slightly. “My teacher said it was a fluke—some rogue queen looking for a power grab. The Elements of Harmony fixed it. Everything was fine after that, right?”

Dusklight snorted. “Fine? Sure, if by ‘fine,’ you mean forty years of pretending Changelings weren’t biding their time. And now look where we are. Cities burning, ponies vanishing left and right. Maybe if we’d taken it seriously back then, we wouldn’t be fighting for scraps now.”

Ribbonweave nodded slowly. “They knew. The crown. They just didn’t want to scare us. But you don’t draft every unicorn in Canterlot for nothing. The war might’ve started two years ago, but the Changelings were already winning decades before that.”

Bistrena’s ears flattened, her mouth opening to argue, but the words didn’t come. She had always trusted the crown, and the Princesses, the stories told in school, the steady reassurances on the radio that Equestria was strong. But now, trudging beside soldiers who spoke of truths she’d never considered, doubt gnawed at the edges of her thoughts.

“Maybe.” She shrugged, her voice carefully neutral. “But all that’s ancient history now. We’ve got a war to win.”

Dusklight gave a low chuckle. “Ancient history has a funny way of catching up with you, B.”

The cafeteria was chaos.

Recruits crammed into long rows of benches, trays clattering against wood as they jostled for space. The air smelled of overcooked vegetables, sweat, and something vaguely metallic. Bistrena sat with Dusklight, Ribbonweave, and Aurelia at a table near the far wall, their trays loaded with stew and bread that looked better than it tasted.

“It’s not terrible,” Ribbonweave said after a tentative bite. “Better than what we got in Canterlot.”

“That’s a low bar,” Aurelia muttered, stabbing a chunk of potato with her fork. “Canterlot was ration hell. They only let you eat if you were ‘contributing.’”

“Same everywhere,” Dusklight said, her voice flat. “Guess I was lucky to get into the program when I did.”

“What program?” Aurelia asked.

“The carer thing,” Dusklight replied. “Signed up so my parents wouldn’t starve. Got a nice little card for extra rations and a caretaker for them. Only cost me the rest of my life in service.”

Aurelia gave a dry laugh. “At least you had a choice.”

“Didn’t you?” Bistrena asked, frowning.

Ribbonweave and Aurelia exchanged a glance. “Not really,” Ribbonweave said softly. “When they came for us, they said mares our age without kids had three paths.”

Dusklight raised an eyebrow. “And those were?”

“Breeding programs,” Aurelia said bluntly. “Pop out foals for the cause. We’d live in a dorm with other broodmares, get meals and medical care... and basically no life outside making soldiers for the crown.”

“Holy buck.” Dusklight looked horrified.

Ribbonweave’s voice was quieter. “Option two was being ‘re-tasked.’ They’d send you to places like Manehattan or Neighverest to work in logistics or as a servant. But that’s just another way of saying they’d work you until you dropped.”

“And the third option?” Bistrena asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Aurelia’s eyes hardened. “Military or civil service. With the Gilded Hooves breathing down your neck, making sure you didn’t step out of line. And if you did?” She drew a hoof across her throat.

“The Gilded Hooves?” Dusklight asked.

Ribbonweave smirked grimly. “The Sisters. That’s what we called them in the city. They sit in their golden towers, passing decrees that turn everypony else’s lives to shit. You can bet they’re not eating this slop or marching until their hooves bleed.”

The table went quiet. Around them, the cafeteria buzzed with the sounds of hungry recruits, but the conversation left a heavy pall over their little corner. Bistrena stared at her tray, her appetite gone, as Dusklight muttered a curse under her breath.

“I thought this was supposed to be for Equestria,” Bistrena said finally. “For all of us.”

“Maybe it was,” Aurelia said. “Once. Now? It’s for them.”

Bistrena broke the small pause first. “What do you mean, ‘for them’? The Sisters are doing what they have to. Equestria’s at war.”

Ribbonweave snorted softly, her gaze fixed on the bowl of stew she stirred without eating. “At war, sure. But ask yourself—when did it start? Did we ever have a choice in this? Or did they make sure we’d be too busy thanking them to notice the walls closing in?”

“You’re saying they planned this?” Dusklight’s voice was sharp, incredulous. “You sound like one of those ponies who thinks Princess Luna is still stuck on the moon.”

“I’m saying they knew,” Ribbonweave replied, her tone cutting but calm. “The wedding invasion wasn’t a fluke. Changelings don’t just swarm cities on a whim. They were testing us, gauging how far they could push. And when they regrouped for this war, the Sisters—”

Aurelia raised a hoof to stop her. “Alright,” she said firmly, and craned her neck across the table to whisper. “Look, we’re not saying they wanted this. But they had forty years to prepare, and what did they do? Put up posters? Tell us to trust them?” She shook her head. “I lost my brother at the Siege of Cloudsdale. He was in the first wave when the Changelings attacked from both above and below. You know how long they lasted? Three hours. Three hours, and the entire city was gone.”

Bistrena frowned. “I heard Cloudsdale was evacuated before the fall.”

Aurelia’s lips twisted into a bitter smile as she leaned back. “Sure, that’s what the posters say. Tell that to the families waiting for ponies who never made it to the ground.”

The table fell silent. Around them, the clatter of trays and low hum of conversation seemed suddenly far away.

“My cousin was stationed in Windspire during the counteroffensive,” Ribbonweave added quietly. “She sent me a letter before she...” Her voice cracked, and she steadied herself with a deep breath. “She said they were running out of everything—supplies, food, even magic. The Sisters called it a victory, but it wasn’t. It was a slaughter. They keep telling us we’re holding the line, but everypony knows the front’s moving closer every day.”

Bistrena shifted uncomfortably. “You don’t know that for sure. Propaganda works both ways, you know. Maybe the Changelings want us to think we’re losing, so we’ll give up. Tear ourselves apart from the inside.”

“Do you have family on the front?” Ribbonweave asked, her gaze steady but not unkind.

“My brother,” Bistrena admitted after a moment. “He’s with the Army. He’s supposed to write back soon.” She looked down at her tray. “He would tell me if it was really that bad.”

Aurelia arched an eyebrow. “Would he? Or would he tell you what they told him to say?”

Bistrena’s jaw tightened. “My brother’s not some brainwashed drone, if that’s what you’re saying. He’s a good pony. A loyal soldier. He’d tell me the truth.”

Aurelia arched an eyebrow. “Would he, though? Or would he think you couldn’t handle it? Maybe he wants to keep you from worrying while he’s out there slogging through mud and blood.”

“He’s not like that,” Bistrena snapped.

“Then ask yourself this,” Ribbonweave said quietly. “If he wrote something real—about what’s really happening—would the letter even get to you?”

Bistrena froze, her tail lashing once. “What are you talking about?”

“The DSA,” Ribbonweave murmured, her voice so low Bistrena had to lean in to hear.

Aurelia nodded, her expression grim. “Domestic Security Agency. Officially, they don’t exist. But unofficially? They’re the reason you’ve never seen a letter that makes the front sound like hell.”

“That’s just a story,” Bistrena said, though doubt was creeping into her voice. “Like the kind ponies tell to scare foals.”

“They’re not a story,” Ribbonweave said firmly. “I knew a mare in Canterlot who worked in communications. She told me about the censors—how they comb through every scrap of mail, every report, making sure nothing gets out that might ‘undermine morale.’”

“And if something does?” Aurelia’s eyes darkened. “The DSA knocks on your door and.. takes care of it. Quietly.”

Dusklight groaned. “You two sound like paranoid idiots. You think the Crown’s got time to babysit every letter coming out of the front?”

Ribbonweave’s eyes narrowed. “You think they don’t? Morale’s the only thing keeping this war from collapsing in on itself. Ponies don’t fight if they think they’re already dead.”

Bistrena stared at them, her heart pounding. “So... what? My brother’s just writing what they tell him to?”

“Maybe,” Aurelia said with a shrug. “Or maybe he’s not writing at all. Maybe some DSA stooge is sending you letters that sound just real enough to keep you from asking questions.”

“That’s insane,” Bistrena said, though her voice lacked conviction. “That’s... that’s not how Equestria works.”

“You don’t know how Equestria works,” Ribbonweave said softly. “None of us do. Not really. Because the ponies running the show don’t want us to.”

An awkward silence settled over the table.

Finally, Dusklight spoke, her voice steady but cold. “Believe what you want, Bistrena. Just remember—every story you’ve ever heard about the Changelings, about the Sisters, about the war... they all came from somepony who wanted you to believe it. Maybe your brother’s letter will tell you the truth. Or maybe it’ll just be another story.”

Bistrena swallowed hard, the stew in her bowl congealing into an unappetizing mess. For the first time, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what her brother would write.

Author's Note

Hello viewers, this chapter took a bit longer, trying to weave the narrative, blend the characters and worldbuilding, and integrate exposition without making you fall asleep, all while spinning yarns and inventing new characters, is a real "ball-ache."

Regardless, I'm enjoying where the tale is going, and I hope you are too! Any thoughts, feedback or criticisms - please leave them below, I'd really like to hear them! Additionally, like the story, it helps others to find it!

Lastly, I wrote some codex stuff which essentially explains some of the behind-the-scenes worldbuilding, and I thought I'd post it in a blog update on my profile. Let me know if that's something you'd be interested in reading, it would have information on the lore, major players and events that have shaped the world to this point.

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, and I hope Santy Clause got you something good. Happy New Year, and I'll see you all in 2025!

NINE

Author's Note

Hello viewers, CAUTION / ADVISORY This chapter contains strong themes of sexual violence, descriptions of physical violence, and sequences some might find emotionally difficult to get through.

Any feedback, good or bad, is welcome.

- Paleface

NINE

Today was the seventh day of training and the end of the recruits' first week. The morning began with 3rd platoon enduring a grueling 5 a.m. run in horrid weather. Rain and hail pelted down, eventually melting into freezing sleet that stung Bistrena’s eyes and caused her hooves to slip on the boggy forest terrain.

Jetstream remained behind today, leaving his aides, Corporal Lockstep, the sharp-eyed unicorn who had overseen Bistrena’s arrival at the fort, and Corporal Slate, a blonde earth pony with a no-nonsense demeanour, to drive the platoon relentlessly through a dense training area many kilometres from the fort.

When they finally returned for showers, the mare’s block was already grimy from other platoons. Bistrena noted the tight coordination of the instructors: platoons rarely crossed paths, and shared spaces like the mess hall or showers were methodically cycled. Exhausted, she endured the filthy conditions, longing for the brief reprieve of warm water.

After a rushed breakfast, they dove into classroom sessions. Hours of tactics, strategy, safety protocols, disaster relief organization, and evacuation theory passed in a dull blur. The technical content dragged on, testing their patience. When Jetstream dismissed them, it was with a mix of relief and dread: week one was complete, and week two began tomorrow. For now, they had the evening off to relax—but not too much.

Bistrena was almost out the door when Corporal Lockstep caught her. “Trainee Bistrena,” she said curtly. “You’re cleaning the mares’ shower block. It’ll take an hour, tops. Nothing you can’t handle.”

Bistrena glanced around, wanting to protest—why her? Why alone? Why not a unicorn who could do it faster with magic? She didn’t dare voice these thoughts, knowing Lockstep’s apparent dislike for her since their first meeting. “Yes, staff,” she said, resigned, and trudged off to the task.

The acrid smell of bleach filled the shower block as Bistrena scrubbed the floor, bent over with a dense-bristled brush gripped tightly between her hooves. Her eyes watered and her nose stung, but she pressed on, determined to make the place spotless and avoid another tongue-lashing from Lockstep. She was so focused she barely registered the sound of approaching hooves.

When she finally noticed the presence behind her, she thought Lockstep had returned. Peering between her legs, her stomach churned at the sight of Corporal Blackguard - the clerk she'd had a slight disagreement with during her evaluation day - standing there, his eyes fixed on her with a sickening leer. The bile of disgust rose in her throat. That slimy bastard was ogling her rear like some depraved animal.

All ponies were nude much of the time, and flashes of flesh weren’t inherently shocking. But this was different. This wasn’t accidental or innocent—this was predatory. And Blackguard, old enough to be her father, made her skin crawl.

Straightening sharply, Bistrena pressed her back against the wall, legs closed defensively as her tail flicked instinctively to cover herself. Blood rushed to her cheeks in anger and embarrassment. “What are you doing here?” she snapped, glaring at him. “This is the mare’s shower block. You don’t belong here.”

Blackguard smiled, his yellowed teeth and whiskey-soured breath making her stomach turn. “Relax, mare,” he drawled. “Just came to check on you. You’re looking real good, though.”

“Thanks,” she said dryly, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Now leave.”

Instead of leaving, he stepped closer, his movements unsteady. His words slurred slightly, his breath heavy with the stench of cheap cologne and alcohol. “You owe me an apology,” he began, his tone shifting. “For disrespecting me during your eval. Hurt my feelings, you did. That doesn’t fly in the Army.”

Bistrena’s stomach knotted as he gestured to his uniform. “Not the Civil Defense anymore. I’m Army Reserve now. Time to pay up.”

“Pay up?” she repeated incredulously. “I don’t owe you anything. I tried to apologize, and you blew me off.”

He laughed, more of a detestable cackle, "speaking of blowing off..." he said with a despicable grin, and leaned closer, his presence suffocating. “You’re a mare, aren’t you? There's six of you for every four of us. Nature says you’re mine if I want you. You know how it works. Time to learn how a real stallion treats his mares.”

Her disgust boiled over. “This is sexual misconduct,” she warned. “I’ll report you if you don’t leave right now.”

He smirked, undeterred, his hoof lifting toward her face. “Now be a good mare and turn around,” he murmured, his other hoof moving beneath him.

Bistrena snapped. Without space to turn and kick him, she coiled her neck muscles and lashed out with a powerful headbutt. Her forehead slammed into his muzzle with a sickening crack. He staggered back and crumpled to the tiles, groaning. Pain radiated through her skull and neck, but adrenaline pushed her forward.

He groaned, blood spurting from his nostrils as she stumbled to loom over him. “Don’t you EVER—”

Before she could finish her threat, he lashed out with a kick, sweeping her legs out from under her. She fell heavily onto him, and they wrestled violently on the wet tiles. He might've been four sheets to the wind, but the old-timer was slick, Blackguard’s experience gave him the upper hand despite her anger and youth. He struck her hard in the face, she felt her nasal bone fracture, bloodying her nose, and his forelegs clamped around her throat in a crushing choke. She clawed at his grip, but she slipped and his forelegs tightened.

Her vision blurred. Darkness crept in. The fight was slipping away.

When she awoke, her body ached and her head throbbed. She was on her stomach, cold tiles beneath her. Blackguard’s weight pressed down on her, his breathing ragged and heavy. He fumbled clumsily with his body, and she realized with horror what he intended to do.

A surge of primal fear and fury shot through her. She screamed—a high, piercing wail that echoed off the tiles and seemed to rattle the walls. Blackguard jerked in surprise, giving her the moment she needed. She twisted violently, kicking out with her hind legs and connecting solidly with his groin. He yelped and fell back on his side, clutching himself.

“Bistrena?!” Lockstep’s voice rang from the doorway. Bistrena, flat on her back, tilted her head to see her upside-down saviour framed by the wintery sky. Relief swept over her, mixing with the swell of anger and fear as the instructor stormed in. Lockstep froze momentarily, taking in the scene: Bistrena, exposed, battered and breathless, and Blackguard writhing on the floor, fumbling with his genitals.

“He tried to rape me!” Bistrena cried a mixture of tears and unwelcome, nervous laughter breaking free. She pointed a trembling hoof at him, her chest heaving.

Lockstep didn’t hesitate. Her horn ignited, the magenta magic surging like a storm. Blackguard, who was trying to rise, found himself enveloped in an unforgiving aura.

“Wait!” he gasped, spitting blood. “It’s not what it looks like—”

Lockstep cut him off by slamming him into the tiles with sickening force. Her magic flared and his body was rag-dolled against the hard wall repeatedly, as the tiles cracked and his bones broke. Blood ejected from his mouth as the Corporal snarled, "I fucking warned you!" Though Bistrena couldn’t grasp the full meaning. Another impact shattered tiles, widening cracks in the wall. Blackguard’s body convulsed with each brutal slam. Blood spattered, painting the floor, walls, and the mares.

Bistrena’s tears stopped. She lay there, staring, her terror shifting to shock. Lockstep’s face remained a mask of cold precision, emotionless as she crushed him into a widening crater of broken tile and stone. She’s a killer, Bistrena thought, the truth sharp and undeniable. She’s done this before. And she’ll sleep soundly after.

Lockstep released him, cutting off the magical flow. Blackguard hung suspended for a moment before dropping like a stone, hitting the ground with a grotesque thud. Blood trickled from his ears and mouth, pooling under his head. He made disbelieving eye contact with Bistrena, before convulsing briefly, limbs twitching. Then he lay still, eyes half-rolled, chest motionless.

“Should we help him?” Bistrena asked, her voice breaking. Her hooves scraped against the tiles as she tried to rise, or at the least, get away from her assailant.

Lockstep didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stepped closer, glared down at the lifeless body, and spat, her contempt palpable. “Fuck him,” she growled. Turning, she took Bistrena by the foreleg, her grip firm but not unkind. “Come on. We’re telling the Captain.”

Dazed and trembling, Bistrena followed. As they stepped outside, midday gloom enveloped them. A handful of recruits loitered nearby, drawn by the commotion. They froze as Lockstep emerged, blood-splattered and imposing, dragging Bistrena behind her.

“What happened?” one stammered, his voice hesitant.

“Everything... alright?” another ventured, blanching at the sight of blood dripping from Bistrena’s nose.

Lockstep didn’t slow or spare them a glance. “There’s a body in the shower block. Cordon it off. No one goes in or out until I return.”

The recruits exchanged uneasy glances. “Fuck,” one muttered, nodding reluctantly. “Got it.”

Satisfied, Lockstep pressed on, not breaking her stride. Bistrena stumbled in her wake, her mind spinning, unsure of what to think or what awaited them next.

Captain Wheatstone’s office bore the marks of luxury but felt anything but welcoming. The mahogany tiles, gold-crested candles on the window ledge, a marble bust of an Equestrian hero in a helmet, and heavy curtains framing the Equestrian flag—all of it clashed against Wheatstone’s sheepish demeanour as he gestured for them to sit.

“I didn’t ask for the deluxe suite,” he muttered, almost apologetic, “but they said there wasn’t anywhere else to put me. Haven’t had time to…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely. “Redecorate.” Then his eyes sharpened, zeroing in on the blood-speckled mares. “Corporal Lockstep. Trainee Bistrena. Judging by the state of you, I’m about to join you in taking a bite out of a shit sandwich. Speak freely—no drama, no bullshit.”

Lockstep stood straighter, meeting his gaze with unwavering resolve. “Sir,” she began, “I instructed Trainee Bistrena to clean the shower block. When I returned to inspect her progress, I found her in a... compromised position with Corporal Blackguard.”

Wheatstone’s brow furrowed, but Lockstep continued steadily. “He has a history of inappropriate behaviour with female recruits. I confronted him. He resisted.” Her voice hardened. “He’s dead, sir.”

The silence was heavy. Wheatstone’s jaw tightened as he processed her words. “You knew he had a history of this. Why wasn’t it reported?”

“I did report it, sir.” Lockstep’s voice held no hesitation. “To the previous battalion commander. My concerns were dismissed. After that, I was assigned the worst duties, repeatedly. I suspected complicity, but I couldn’t prove it.”

Wheatstone leaned forward, his forelegs interwoven atop his desk. “And yet you stayed quiet?”

“No, sir.” Her tone was sharp, clipped. “I confronted Blackguard personally. Warned him to stop. As far as I knew, he wasn’t forcing himself on anyone, but... I was wrong.”

Wheatstone looked Lockstep right in the eyes, “Corporal, I need you to be perfectly clear; a no-bullshit recital. Define ‘compromised position.’”

She paused as if searching for the right word, her jaw tightening. “To rape her. I thought he was extorting favours or bribes from recruits, but this—this was beyond what I expected.”

Wheatstone raised a hoof, stopping her from continuing, but without sharpness. “Thank you, Corporal. That’s clear for now.” He picked up the phone on his desk, dialled a single number and waited. "Sunny, drop whatever your doing and get your butt in my office, now." He slammed the phone down.

A moment later, hoof clicks echoed from the corridor. There was no knock, the door burst open and a thin mare in an officers work uniform entered, her sapphire gaze swept over Bistrena and Lockstep, before calmly settling on the Captain, then she closed the door at his gesture and stood aside.

"Thank you, Sunny," Wheatstone said, clearing his throat, "you're a witness to this, understand?"

Sunny nodded nervously after a moment but declined to speak, curiously watching Bistrena and Lockstep.

Wheatstone's eyes shifted to Bistrena, who sat rigid, her ears pinned back. “Trainee, I need to hear your account in full. Every detail.”

He turned to Lockstep. “Corporal, pen and parchment," then rotated the digital clock on his desk. "Today's date and time, write everything she says, omit nothing.”

“Yes, sir,” Lockstep replied, her horn glowing as she retrieved the items. Bistrena hesitated, then began.

Her voice trembled as she spoke, the memory raw and vivid. She described Blackguard’s predatory approach, the suffocating chokehold, the weight of his body crushing her. Her desperate scream. The moment Lockstep burst in, drunkenly radiating hostile intentions. She kept her recount concise but thorough, Lockstep’s pen scratching steadily as she documented every word. Occasionally, Lockstep glanced up, her expression unreadable, but her writing never faltered.

When Bistrena finished, her breath hitched as she fought tears. Wheatstone’s silence stretched for a moment before he nodded. “You did well,” he said softly, his tone reassuring. “Corporal, pass her the parchment.”

Lockstep obeyed, sliding the written account to Bistrena along with the pen. Wheatstone folded his forelegs. “Trainee Bistrena, you will now record Corporal Lockstep’s version of events. Write everything. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Bistrena whispered, gripping the pen tightly as Lockstep began her recount.

Lockstep’s tone was steady, recounting how she entered the shower block and found Blackguard attacking Bistrena. Her voice grew colder as she detailed her response: the magic surge, the violent confrontation, the sickening cracks as Blackguard hit the tiles. She spared no detail, and Bistrena’s hoof trembled as she captured each word.

When the recount was complete, Bistrena set the pen down, the weight of the moment settling over them all. Wheatstone reviewed the written pages carefully, his expression unknowable. He had them all sign it, including Sunny, before dismissing the officer. Finally, he folded the report and locked it in a drawer.

To their surprise, he retrieved a key from another drawer and set it on the desk. “There’s a private bathroom next door. Clean yourselves up, warm up, and eat something. I’ll handle the fallout.”

Both mares hesitated, their exhaustion mingling with relief. Wheatstone’s gaze softened slightly. “Leave the office locked when you’re done. Return the key to me later.” His voice carried an unmistakable finality, as he inspected himself in the gold-trimmed mirror. Straightening his dress shirt, before putting on his jacket and cap. He left, the door clicking quietly behind him.

Lockstep and Bistrena exchanged a glance. They were far from unscathed, least of all psychologically, but in that moment, they felt a measure of safety they hadn’t expected.

TEN

Author's Note

Warning: This chapter contains minor descriptions of sexual violence and references to other types of nastiness.

Please like, comment and tell me any thoughts, feedback or anything you'd like to see from the story narratively.

That's all for now, - Paleface

TEN

Night had turned the barracks into a realm of uneasy quiet. The faint rustle of sleeping forms filled the air, but it was pierced by a sudden thrashing. Bistrena’s hooves kicked against her cot, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.

“Get off me!” she snarled, her voice thick with sleep and terror. She swung her legs violently, the blanket tangling around her limbs like the ghost of Blackguard trying to pull her down again.

Dusklight was at her side in a flash, shaking her gently. “Bistrena! Wake up. Bi, it’s just a dream!”

Bistrena jolted awake, her eyes wild, her pulse hammering against her throat. Her muscles were coiled, ready to strike, but Dusklight pressed a calming hoof against her shoulder.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re safe. You’re safe, Bi.”

It took a few heartbeats for the nightmare to dissipate, and when it did, Bistrena’s shoulders sagged. She sat up, running a hoof over her sweat-dampened mane. Her breath felt heavy in her chest, her legs aching with the ghost of tension.

“I—” Her voice broke. She swallowed hard, then shook her head. “Damn it.”

All around them, groggy murmurs and annoyed muttering rose from the bunks. Bistrena glanced at the shadowy forms of her platoon mates. They were awake, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t about to apologize. They weren’t the ones who had to deal with what she had.

Dusklight didn’t move, just stayed close. “You alright?” she asked softly.

“No,” Bistrena muttered.

They sat in silence for a while, the tension between them unspoken but understood. Finally, Dusklight broke it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not in the mood,” Bistrena replied, swinging her legs over the side of the cot. “I need some air.”

Dusklight looked wary. “If Jetstream catches you out there, we’ll all pay for it.”

“Then don’t tell him.”

Before Dusklight could argue, Bistrena grabbed her coat and slipped into the cold night.

Outside, the chill of the snow-covered ground bit into her hooves, but her boiling blood kept her warm. Her breath fogged in front of her as she took deep, grounding breaths. The world was dark; the camp maintained a strict blackout to avoid enemy detection. As her eyes adjusted, the shadows took on sharper forms.

Across the way, a figure moved, slipping along the edge of the barracks opposite hers. Head low, they seemed lost in thought, lingering near the mare’s shower block.

Her heart jumped, an irrational fear gripping her. Blackguard. It wasn’t possible, but her body didn’t care. She followed the figure, her hooves crunching softly in the snow as she crept closer.

When the figure disappeared inside the shower block, her gut twisted. Blackguard was dead, but the place where it had happened still carried his memory like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

The CAUTION, DO NOT CROSS tape fluttered in the faint wind, a barrier both symbolic and futile. Bistrena ducked under it, her anger a shield against any lingering fear. Whoever was in there, they were going to answer for it.

Inside, the shadows gave way to dim moonlight filtering through a crack in the roof. At first, she saw nothing. Then, a quiet voice broke the silence.

“Heard you coming a mile away.”

Bistrena’s ears swivelled toward the sound. Lockstep was sitting against the wall, her face calm but her eyes watchful as she scrutinised the impact where she'd swung Blackguard into it. “Couldn’t sleep?”

The anger drained from Bistrena’s shoulders. Her head drooped as sadness replaced it, heavy and unwelcome. “No,” she admitted, walking closer.

“Me neither,” Lockstep replied. She didn’t look away from the wall she was studying, her tone steady but tired.

Bistrena sat down across from her, leaning against the cool tile. “You come here often?” she asked dryly.

Lockstep snorted. “Yeah, it’s real cosy.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the space pressing down on them. Finally, Bistrena broke it. “How’d you do it?”

Lockstep turned to her. “Do what?”

“Kill him. Blackguard. Just… like that. It was so fast. One second, he was alive, and then…”

Lockstep’s expression darkened. She leaned back, her jaw tight. “You’re asking the wrong question.”

Bistrena frowned. “What’s the right one, then?”

Lockstep exhaled slowly, her voice softer now. “Why I did it. Not how.”

The room seemed to shrink as Lockstep began to speak. Her words came haltingly at first, but soon they flowed with raw, unfiltered emotion. She leaned back against the wall, eyes on the faint cracks in the tile as though they held the memories she was dredging up.

“Fillydelphia,” she began. “I’m from Fillydelphia originally. Place always smelled like smoke, iron, and rain—like the city couldn’t make up its mind if it wanted to burn itself down or drown.” She snorted faintly, then sighed. “Not much to tell about my folks. They were hardworking. My mom taught me to braid my mane so tight my scalp felt like it was about to peel off. My dad… he worked long hours. Came home tired, but he always had a joke, you know? Never anything fancy, just… something to make us laugh.”

Bistrena said nothing, letting Lockstep fill the space with her story.

“When I was twelve, I told them what my uncle had been doing to me. Took me years to work up the guts. Started when I was maybe... six or seven. Innocent, really, at first I mean - sharing a bed or helping with baths when my folks were too worn out, seemed normal, but... he started calling it our special playtime, I didn't understand, but, he was touching me, well, you know..." she paused while Bistrena inhaled sharply, just hearing it was difficult.

"One day, I was twelve, he came in my room and, well..." she motioned with her forelegs, trying to dig the word out. She looked Bistrena in the eye, "he raped me."

Bistrena turned away, her body taut with a surge of anger and unspent violence. The urge to go back in time and exact justice clawed at her. She imagined herself standing over the uncle, a mallet in her grip, bringing it down with all her strength. She pictured his skull fracturing, splintering like Blackguard’s had. That’s what ponies like him deserved—no trial, no appeals, just swift and merciless retribution. The thought burned hot in her chest, a grim comfort in its simplicity.

Lockstep glanced at Bistrena, her expression softening, one eyebrow raising slightly in concern. “You alright?” she asked, her voice gentler now. “I can skip ahead if it’s too much. I know you just went through something similar… well, not exactly, but—” She caught herself, fumbling for the right words. “Not to say what you’ve been through isn’t bad or anything, just—”

Bistrena held up a hoof to stop her, swallowing hard. Her throat worked visibly, like she was trying to choke back bile. “Sorry,” she said hoarsely, her voice cracking under the weight of something unspoken. “Keep going. I need to hear it.” She took a shaky breath and looked down, her voice quieter but no less resolute. “It’s just—I feel like I’m only just seeing the world for the first time. I never knew that stuff happened. Nopony talks about it.”

Lockstep gave a single, humourless laugh, the sound dry and bitter. “Hurts, don’t it?” She leaned back, her gaze hard and distant. “Life’s a bitch, and then you die. Sooner you come to terms with that, sooner you can learn to say ‘fuck the world’ and try and make a difference.”

Lockstep let out a slow breath, her ears flicking back briefly as if she was swatting away an unwanted thought. The brief silence hung heavy between them, but then she pressed on, her voice taking on that same steady, detached cadence she used to keep herself from breaking.

“And when I told them,” she continued, her tone sharpening like the edge of a blade, “they didn’t believe me. Said I must’ve been imagining things. He was ‘such a good stallion.’” She spat the last three words like venom, her lip curling slightly in disgust.

Her gaze drifted past Bistrena for a moment, as if she was staring into a distant memory, something that clawed at her even now. But she didn’t let it linger; she exhaled sharply, dismissing the thought, her eyes flicked to Bistrena’s, gauging her reaction, but Bistrena just nodded, urging her silently to go on.

“Couple months after that, my parents died in some freak accident. A bridge collapse, of all things. It wasn’t even raining. Just one of those things, I guess. Random and cruel.” She clenched her jaw. “Guess who my godparent was? Yep. Uncle Knitting Needle himself.”

“Knitting Needle?” Bistrena asked, her brow furrowing.

“Yeah,” Lockstep said with a humourless grin. “He was a tailor. Made suits, dresses, scarves, the works. Had a little shop down on Trotter’s Lane. Ponies loved him. ‘Such a talented stallion,’ they’d say. And the first night I stayed with him after my parents died, he decided to ‘comfort’ me. Said he needed it to help with his grief.”

Lockstep’s hoof scraped against the tile, her voice dropping to a low, cold rasp. “I’d already decided I wasn’t going to let him touch me again. I’d rather die. So I snuck one of his knitting needles into bed with me. An old iron spike, heavy as a hammer.” She drew a shaky breath, her eyes unfocused.

“When he came into my room that night, I pretended to be asleep. He got on top of me, muttering all this disgusting stuff about how I reminded him of my mom when she was young. He started… you know.” She glanced at Bistrena, then away again.

Bistrena’s face hardened, but she didn’t speak.

“That’s when I struck. Used every ounce of magic I had to drive that needle right through his eye socket. Felt it crunch through bone and… other stuff. He went stiff, made this weird sound—like air escaping a balloon—and then just collapsed on me. He was too heavy to move, so I lay there with him pinning me down until I could wiggle free.”

Lockstep shivered, but her voice steadied. “I left that night. Didn’t take anything, didn’t look back. Just ran. Spent a few weeks on the streets, barely surviving, until I managed to sneak onto a steamliner bound for Ocean City. I’d never even seen the sea before. It was… huge. Scary.”

Her lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Turns out foster care in Ocean City was just as bad as living close to my uncle in Fillydelphia. Different faces, same story. But I gave them a fake name—didn’t want anyone digging into my past and finding out about my uncle. Stayed there until I turned sixteen, then got the hell out. Joined the Fillydelphia Civil Defence. Figured if I could fight, maybe I could find a purpose," she smiled fondly, "then I got into the Coast Guard."

Bistrena tilted her head, her voice low but curious. “How’d you end up in the Coast Guard?”

Lockstep let out a mirthless chuckle, shaking her head. “Transferred when I was twenty. Thought I wanted to see more of the world. Big mistake. The world’s uglier than you think, kid. Worked on small cutters, patrolling the seas. Plenty of action—scavengers, smugglers, pirates. The works. Some nights, I wish I could forget half the shit I saw out there.”

Bistrena frowned. “Like what?”

“Like Gryphons ripping into sapient races for food. They call it a delicacy.” Her lip curled. “Minotaurs with slaves—herds of ‘em, chained up like animals. And Diamond Dogs?” Her voice dropped, colder than the snow outside. “Those bastards don’t care what it is, as long as it bleeds. They’ll fight it, fuck it, or both if they can manage. And the sex traffickers?” She paused her words like venom. “Every damn one I ever came across was a Dog. Not a single exception. Vicious, sick monsters.”

Bistrena’s jaw tightened, her voice barely above a whisper. “Sounds rough.”

“Rough?” Lockstep snorted, shaking her head. “Rough doesn’t even come close. Some of it you could stomach, you know? At least feel like we were better. Superior. Ponies, I mean...” Her face darkened, voice thick with contempt. “We were on that side of the line too. Plenty of smugglers and traffickers were ponies. Selling their own. Taking the weak and scared and shipping them off like cargo. That’s when you realize—it’s not species, it’s just the world. It’s rotten, all the way through.”

She exhaled sharply, her gaze hardening. “It was like staring straight into Tarturus, and some days, I swear, it was staring right back.”

Bistrena swallowed, the weight of Lockstep’s words settling over her.

Lockstep’s gaze softened, and she shrugged. “Anyway, I had a messy affair with an officer when I was twenty-three. Stupid of me. He was married, and it all blew up in my face. Transferred back into Civil Defence to get away from it. Ocean City was full, so I came to Baltimare. Been here ever since, teaching trainees how to lace their boots and clean toilets.” She smirked faintly. “It’s not glamorous, but I like the job. Mostly.”

Bistrena was quiet for a long moment, processing everything she’d heard. Finally, she said, “That’s how you were able to kill him, huh? Blackguard?”

Lockstep nodded. “Yeah. Once you’ve done it enough times, killing’s easy as breathing.”

The two mares sat in silence after that, the weight of the conversation settling like the snow outside.

TWELVE

In the cold cell, the air was damp, and the stone walls seemed to press inward. Bistrena clutched the coffee the MP had brought her, grateful for the warmth in her hooves but irritated by how the steam seemed to swirl and twist unnaturally before her eyes. It was another trick of her mind—another aftershock from that damned mnemonic spell.

The bedroll and heater made the space less prison-like, but her head throbbed with the force of her thoughts. Fragmented images flitted through her mind: a sunny day during her childhood, laughter echoing from a face she couldn’t place, and a sharp scream that didn’t seem to belong to her memory at all. Or did it?

Her head throbbed, her vision tilted, and she felt like the ground was rushing away from her like water. Her vision thrashed blue, and she heard a strange, strident, and tumultuous echo that made her feel as if she was in the middle of a bustling city and not a dead quiet cell. Her gasping breaths were the only noise—artefacts leftover from the spell and whatever was in that syringe.

She ground her hooves against her temples, willing the spinning to stop. A pang of nausea surged through her, and she swallowed hard, eyes clenched, to suppress it.

The MP reappeared at the bars, his shadow slicing through the dim light. He noticed her wince as she shifted. "Still feeling it, huh?"

Bistrena nodded weakly. "I’d think clearer if I had a concussion instead."

He grimaced. "That bad, huh? Well, the worst of it should pass in a few hours. If it doesn’t..." He hesitated, then shrugged. "I'll see if I can sneak some meds past the brass. They don't want us helping too much, but you look like shit."

“Thanks,” she said gratingly.

The heater hummed quietly, filling the cell with a growing warmth, but Bistrena couldn’t shake the icy tendrils of doubt and exhaustion that gripped her. She had to rest, to recover, but even closing her eyes felt risky. Like she'd be pulled under kicking and thrashing if she dared. The agent had warned that paranoid delusion was to be expected. Routine, she’d said. Bistrena wasn’t buying it. Trusting a clandestine crown agency to have her best interests at heart felt like trusting a blade not to cut.

Every so often, her mind would warp and separate. As if some vile demon had stuck its claws in and torn her brain in two like splitting a clementine, and a memory slithered out to haul her consciousness back into the dream world.

She was six again. The air was fresh, the sun blazing in a way it never did in Baltimare. She could smell the grasses, hear the hum of insects and the occasional lowing of distant cattle. Her brother, Cinereus, had been showing off, daring her to race across the uneven field behind their grandparents’ farm. His laughter echoed in her ears—a sharp, clear note of joy she’d forgotten until now.

She didn’t even see him trip, but the sound was unmistakable. A crack, followed by the most horrifying scream she’d ever heard.

“C-Cinny?” she called, her voice trembling as she skidded to a halt, her hooves slipping in the grass.

He was sprawled in a shallow ditch, his back leg bent at a sickening angle. Blood slicked the ground around him, dark against the green. She stared at the jagged white edge of bone protruding from his skin, and the world seemed to tilt around her.

He screamed again, his face scrunched and flushed purple, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Help me! Bistrena, help!”

But she couldn’t move. Her legs locked up as terror gripped her. There was no one around—no parents, no grandparents, just her and her brother and the realization that she had no idea what to do.

“Bi! It hurts! Do something!” Cinny shrieked, and the sound drilled into her skull, leaving a permanent scar.

She remembered now, how she had screamed back at him to stop crying, to stop yelling, to stop making her feel so useless. She’d tried to pull him up, but the moment her hooves touched him, he let out another scream, and she let go, horrified.

“Don’t die!” she’d cried, her own tears streaming now. “Don’t die, Cinny! Please, I’m sorry!”

And then she had run. Not to get help, not at first. She’d just run, fleeing the sound of his sobs, the sight of his blood, the crushing guilt of her helplessness. She hadn’t remembered that part before—not until now.

The memory faded, and she found herself curled in the corner of the cell, her forelegs wrapped tightly around her middle. She was trembling violently, her coffee spilt across the floor, the sharp smell cutting through the damp air.

The MP appeared at the bars, his voice startling her. “Hey, you okay in there?”

She blinked at him, her breath coming in ragged gasps. For a moment, she wasn’t sure where she was. The warmth of the heater and the soft blanket nearby seemed foreign, like relics from another world.

He tilted his head, frowning. “You’re sweating like crazy. Need me to get the doctor? You’re not gonna keel over, are you?”

“No,” she croaked, her voice barely audible. “I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t fine. She wasn’t fine at all. The memory of Cinereus’s screams still echoed in her head, and the accusing implication of it pressed down on her chest, suffocating her. She hadn’t thought about that day in years, had buried it so deep she’d almost convinced herself it had never happened. But the spell had dredged it up, ripping open old wounds and leaving her raw.

She pressed her face into the blanket, inhaling its neutral scent, and forced herself to breathe. In and out. Slow. Steady. She wasn’t six anymore. Cinereus had survived—her grandparents had found him in time. But the memory of his broken leg, of her failure, had somehow been left behind, buried like a boobytrap in her mind, until now.

Bistrena stared at the spilt coffee pooling on the floor and clenched her teeth. Fear flooded her like a dam breaking, what if the spell hadn’t just examined her memories? What if it had planted something?

Her head throbbed in warning, the last coherent thought she managed before blacking out was the memory of the needle—the sharp prick as Agent Ashveil had injected her with the memory-summoning concoction. It was still in her, running its course, festering like a poison.

Time had no meaning anymore. It stretched and compressed, playing tricks on her mind as Bistrena lay sprawled on the thin bedroll. The damp walls of the cell seemed to close in, their solidity wavering, as if the very room were alive and breathing. Her memories blurred together, a relentless, punishing cycle of pain and helplessness.

She remembered the interrogation, every agonizing detail. The agent, her horn glowing with calm intent, had leaned in close, her voice a cold whisper. “This won’t take long.”

The needle’s sting had barely registered before the magic hit her like a hammer, the mnemonic spell ripping through her mind. It dragged her back to the shower block, the bitter scent of bleach and dampness filling her nose as though no time had passed.

Corporal Blackguard strode in. His lecherous gaze twisted her stomach as he cornered her against the wall, his hooves nearing. She remembered the panic, the helpless fury as she fought back, rearing up and slamming her head into his muzzle. Blood spattered, and he snarled like a wounded animal. She was on the ground, helpless to stop it, as his legs closed around her neck, crushing her windpipe, her vision dimmed and her body went slack.

She awoke belly-down to the sickening sound of him moving into position behind her. The weight of him pinned her down, his breath hot and rancid as he muttered obscenities. His grip was defiling, and her struggles only seemed to push him.

Then came the scream—her scream, high-pitched and desperate. Lockstep appeared. Her voice cut through the trauma, laced with fury. “I fucking warned you!”

Bistrena blinked through her fear and saw Lockstep, her horn glowing like a beacon of justice. Blackguard rose into the air, his body flailing helplessly, “Wait, it’s not what you think!” He managed to blurt out the excuse pathetically before she slammed him against the wall. Once. Twice. The tile cracked on the third blow, and the sound of his body breaking was unmistakable. Blood painted the tiles, and when Lockstep let him fall, he didn’t move again.

The cell rushed back into focus, and Bistrena clutched her stomach, bile rising in her throat. She groaned, wiping at her face, only to find her hoof smeared with blood. Hers, or his? The uncertain thought twisted her insides.

She was six again, but not in the field with Cinereus. No, she was under the old stone bridge. Blackguard was there, but he didn’t belong, reeking of cheap booze and cologne, his drunken leer sending a chill down her spine. His slurred words—good filly, such a good filly—burned like acid in her ears. Her legs trembled as he dragged her beneath the arch, his hooves rough and invasive, roaming places they had no right to.

Her mind screamed in protest—this wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real. But the sensations were vivid, visceral. She kicked and writhed, but his weight was unbearable, holding her down just as it had in the shower block, his cruel laughter drowning out her pleas. She was powerless, a small, terrified filly caught in a nightmare she couldn’t escape.

And then, just as suddenly, she was back in the cell. Her heart thundered against her ribs as she gasped for air, her body drenched in cold sweat. The smell of the bridge still clung to her nostrils, mingling with the damp, musty air around her.

But the spell wasn’t done. Cinereus appeared next to her, his small, trembling form lying on the ground as their grandfather worked furiously to splint his broken leg. His cries were softer now, pitiful whimpers that made Bistrena’s heartache. The neighbour’s voice was calm but grave as he warned of blood poisoning and oxygen bubbles in the artery. The smell of antiseptic vodka mingled with the memory of Blackguard’s cologne, creating a sickening blend that turned her stomach.

A flicker of reality intruded: the MP standing at the cell door again, concern etched on his face.

“Hey,” he called, his voice distant and distorted. “Are you okay? Do you need another coffee… or maybe a doctor?”

She tried to answer, but her body betrayed her. Her stomach twisted violently, and she barely had time to roll to the side before she vomited, the contents of her stomach splattering across the floor in a grotesque spray of brown bile. The acrid taste lingered in her throat as her head swam, her vision blurring at the edges.

The cell dissolved again. She was back in the shower block, the mnemonic spell dragging her through the memory again with cruel precision. Different this time, no, she thought desperately, please don’t do this again, I don’t want to do it again! Her own voice shrieked, filling her head like having an airhorn go off in your eardrums and she lost her voice.

Blackguard had her pinned, the cold tile grinding against her back as his forelegs pressed down hard on her throat. His rancid breath filled her nostrils, and she clawed uselessly at his grip, gasping for air, her vision tunnelling.

Then the door slammed open. Lockstep was there, and in the next instant, Blackguard was ripped off her. She didn’t just attack—she destroyed him. Lockstep’s magic flared, and he was hurled against the wall with a force that cracked stone. Again and again, she slammed him, the wet sound of breaking bones echoing in the room. His ribs caved, blood-spattered, and his head lolled to the side, one eye burst and leaking. By the time Lockstep stopped, Blackguard was a broken, lifeless heap on the floor.

The memory faded, but its aftershocks left her trembling once again on the floor of the cell. Her vision dimmed, the world spiralling out of focus. The MP’s voice came again, distant and muffled, but she couldn’t make out the words. Her body felt like it was sinking, heavy and unresponsive. Her vision blurred, the memory clawing at her again. It wouldn’t let go.

She wasn’t six anymore. She wasn’t in the shower block. But she wasn’t in the cell, either. She was lost, adrift in a sea of broken moments, the spell dragging her deeper into its grasp.

When Bistrena awoke, the world was a blinding sheet of white. Her eyelids fluttered, squinting against the harsh glare cutting through her skull. She flinched as a sharp pain lanced across her temple, and instinctively raised a hoof to her nose. Sticky, drying blood clung to her fur. Her throat was raw, her stomach a hollow pit.

“Good,” came a voice, brittle with age and no patience. “You’re up. Hold still.”

A mare loomed over her, wiry and angular, wrapped in a white lab coat that hung loosely from her gaunt frame. Her coat was pale cream, her mane pulled into a loose knot streaked with iron-grey. A stethoscope dangled from her neck, clinking softly against the ID badge clipped to her pocket. In her hoof was a tiny flashlight, the source of the merciless beam piercing Bistrena’s skull.

“Pupil response normal,” the mare muttered, snapping the flashlight off. Her piercing blue eyes flicked over Bistrena, sharp and clinical as if cataloguing the damage.

Bistrena groaned, her voice cracked and hoarse. “Where…?”

“Clinic,” the mare said curtly. “DSA can’t exactly parade you into a public hospital. Wouldn’t want anypony asking questions, would we?”

Bistrena’s gaze darted around the room, trying to piece together her surroundings. It was small and sterile, walls painted the lifeless grey of state compliance. The corners were bare but for a single metal cabinet bolted to the floor and a rolling tray of instruments beside the narrow cot she lay on. The air reeked of antiseptic.

Behind the mare, the MP stood at attention, his expression unreadable. He shifted uneasily as the mare glanced at him.

“Well, she’s conscious,” the mare said with a pointed arch of her brow. “You’re dismissed, son.”

The MP hesitated, his eyes flitting between Bistrena and the doctor. “She’s to stay in the cell,” he said, his voice firm but uncertain. “Orders from the top.”

The mare’s mouth curled into a thin, withering smile. “And now I’m ordering you out. This is doctor-patient care. I have the final say here. Unless you’re dying to explain to the Special Branch why you think DSA protocol trumps medical ethics?”

The MP blanched, his confidence visibly crumbling. “Y-yes, ma’am.” With a stiff nod, he turned and retreated from the open doorway.

“Good riddance,” the mare muttered under her breath. She turned her attention back to Bistrena, her tone softening by a fraction. “Now, let’s have a look at you.”

As she worked, her movements were brisk but precise, her hooves deftly cleaning the blood from Bistrena’s face and checking for injuries. Her voice was steady, but there was a hard edge beneath her words, a bitterness worn into the grooves of her years.

“The effects of the spell are fading,” the mare said, dabbing a cold compress against Bistrena’s temple. “You’ll be sore for a while. And the serum they used—” she sniffed disdainfully, “—cheap, poorly refined garbage, if you ask me—will take another few hours to fully metabolize. You’re lucky you’re still upright.”

Bistrena managed a weak, bitter laugh. “Feels more like sideways.”

“Count yourself fortunate. Ponies far stronger than you have been reduced to babbling wrecks by that combination. Once upon a time, the process was humane—rest, gentle coaxing, and therapy to ease the mind open. These days?” She snorted, the sound filled with contempt. “These days, they kick down the doors and smash through your head. Drag the memories out, screaming, whether they’re ready to come or not.”

Bistrena winced, the description too painfully apt. “And if they find something they don’t like?”

The mare’s expression darkened, her voice dropping to a grim whisper. “If they decide you’re hiding something? Or worse, if you remember the wrong thing?” She let out a hollow, humourless laugh. “Congratulations. You’ve just signed your own death warrant. No trial, no appeal. Just a dark train ride north, where you’ll dig until your hooves crack and the frost takes you. Or maybe they won’t bother with that much effort, maybe you'd end up in a shallow, nameless grave." She shrugged like it didn't make a difference. "No matter. Either way, you wouldn't be coming back.”

As if summoned by the doctor’s rebuke, Agent Veilguard appeared in the doorway, her imposing frame filling it completely. Her tailored coat was neatly pressed, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal sinewy forelimbs that resembled tree trunks. This unicorn mare was a contradiction—elegant and refined, yet built like she could wrestle an ox into submission. Her presence was as suffocating as the cell Bistrena had woken up in.

“How is she, doctor?” Veilguard’s voice was smooth and rich, like silken honey, but her tone carried an undercurrent of menace.

The doctor didn’t even flinch at the agent’s sudden entrance, her back turned as she scribbled on a clipboard. “Alive,” she replied curtly. “Hasn’t lost her mind yet, no thanks to you.” She turned, the clipboard held firmly in her magic as she met Veilguard’s gaze without fear. “My Hippocratic Oath compels me to remind you that your methods are intrusive and harmful. If you want anything genuinely useful out of these ponies, you’d do better with a more subtle approach.”

Veilguard cocked her head, her curiosity piqued. “Only guilty consciences break,” she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Her gaze shifted to Bistrena, who was watching the exchange from the cot with growing apprehension. “Come on, Bistrena,” Veilguard said smoothly, her voice suddenly lighter, almost playful. “We’re not complete barbarians. We’ll even feed you.”

Bistrena swung her legs off the cot and attempted to stand, but her limbs betrayed her, wobbling under her weight. She staggered toward the doorframe, using it to steady herself before she almost collapsed entirely. Veilguard, looming beside her, made no move to assist.

Bistrena glanced back at the doctor, who had already turned her attention back to her charts. “Thanks, doc,” Bistrena muttered dryly, “you’ve given me a lot to think about in my free time.”

The doctor stiffened at that. She turned her head, her eyes narrowing as they appraised Bistrena sceptically. “Thoughts aren’t free,” she said evenly, “and neither is your time.” Then she returned to her work without another word.

Bistrena pushed herself upright and followed Agent Veilguard, her steps unsteady but gaining confidence with each step. They moved down a dimly lit corridor, the stark fluorescent lights overhead flickering intermittently. The air grew cooler as they descended into a stone stairwell, the walls rough and unpolished, remnants of the fort’s original construction.

Bistrena trailed Veilguard into what looked like a cavernous platform, its design at odds with the rest of the structure. The space was expansive, with stone archways framing the platform edges and the faint scent of rust and oil lingering in the air.

Her ears flicked forward at a distant rumble, a faint tremor that grew steadily louder. The sound of rushing steam filled the chamber, and a moment later, an old pony carriage clattered into view, rolling to a stop with a hiss of pressure valves.

The vehicle was boxy and open-topped, with benches lining its walls. Painted a faded yellow, it looked like it had seen better days, it's chipped paint and scuffed metal speaking to years of wear. Bistrena’s nose wrinkled at the oily smoke curling from its underside.

A pony conductor, perched in a small cabin at the front, operated the levers with practised precision. The carriage felt out of place, like a relic from a bygone era, but its functionality was undeniable.

“Where are we?” Bistrena asked, her voice strained but curious as she stepped closer to the strange transport.

Veilguard glanced at her, then back to the carriage. “Still in the fort,” she replied. “This train line was used back when the fort had cannons. It moved ammunition from storage to the guns, back before electricity and modern logistics.” She gestured to the much more recent carriage. “Now it’s a glorified shuttle. This one moves personnel to and from the old storage site.”

Bistrena raised an eyebrow at that, sensing there was more to the story. “And what’s at the storage site now?”

Veilguard hesitated for a moment, as if weighing her words. “The Unicorn Defense Squadron,” she said finally, her voice carrying a faint note of pride. “One of the units responsible for keeping Baltimare’s skies secure.”

Bistrena stared at the carriage again, her unease growing. Whatever was waiting at the other end of the line, she knew it wouldn’t be good.

The train’s wheels screeched and groaned as they rolled through the dark tunnel. Every jolt of the tracks rattled Bistrena’s bones, the rough journey leaving her clutching the edge of her seat. Steam hissed from the undercarriage, mingling with the deafening grind of metal against metal. The acrid smell of oil and smoke clung to her nostrils.

Her mind wandered as she stared at the tunnel walls flashing by. Was this the storage site the agent had mentioned? Perhaps. Or perhaps one of the countless tunnels had branched off earlier, leading her to the interrogation room or her cell. In her dazed state, it was impossible to say. All she knew was that wherever she’d been, it hadn’t been far.

The train screeched to a halt, and Agent Veilguard rose without a word, stepping off the carriage onto another platform. Bistrena followed her lead, her legs stiff and unsteady from the journey. The air was cooler here, damp and heavy with the faint scent of mildew. Veilguard led her up a spiral stone stairwell that seemed to stretch endlessly upward.

Finally, they emerged into a corridor that felt as if it had been forgotten by time. The walls were a dull, chipped olive green, streaked with stains that no one had bothered to clean. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed unevenly, casting a sickly, flickering glow.

Veilguard guided her into a medium-sized cafeteria. The room was empty, the stainless steel countertops gleaming under the harsh overhead lights. Refrigerators lined one wall, their hum blending into the background noise. A single coffee machine sat on the counter, a relic of simpler times.

Without a word, Veilguard turned and left, her hoofsteps echoing down the corridor. Bistrena stood in the quiet space, her stomach growling. She rifled through one of the refrigerators and found a container of reheatable stew. The coffee machine spat out a thick, almost tar-like brew that she drank, grimacing at the bitterness but grateful for the jolt of energy.

She had barely finished a few spoonfuls of the lukewarm stew when the cafeteria door creaked open. Bistrena looked up, startled, as Corporal Lockstep entered.

At first, Bistrena barely recognized her. Without her uniform, Lockstep looked almost... ordinary. Her mane, usually tied in a strict ponytail, hung loose around her face. Her eyes, typically sharp and calm, carried a distant, haunted look. Her coat seemed duller, paler, as if she’d been drained of something vital.

Lockstep moved mechanically, grabbing a tray, coffee, and a bowl of soup before sitting at the same table. Only then did she seem to notice Bistrena. Her eyes widened, and she froze, her expression a mixture of shock and confusion.

“Recruit?” she whispered, her voice shaky, as though she were seeing a ghost. She leaned closer, her tone sharpening into a harsh hiss. “What are you doing here? I didn’t think they’d drag you in—I’m the one who killed him!”

Bistrena blinked, her mind reeling. “What did they do to you?” she asked quietly, her voice heavy with concern.

Lockstep’s hooves trembled as she held her mug. “They questioned me,” she said flatly. “Deep dive. They saw everything—memories I didn’t even know I still had. My uncle. The day I...” Her voice cracked, but she swallowed hard and pressed on. “The day I killed him. Being homeless. Running away from home. Over and over. It was like living it all again. They pulled it apart, picked through it.” Her voice faltered, and her gaze dropped to the table.

Bistrena reached out, placing her hoof gently over Lockstep’s. The mare flinched but didn’t pull away. “Be strong,” Bistrena said softly, her eyes locking onto Lockstep’s. “At least we’re not alone, right?”

Lockstep’s eyes widened at that. The words seemed to snap her out of her despair, drawing her focus back to the moment. She looked at Bistrena, her haunted expression giving way to something more grounded. Her hoof tightened around Bistrena’s, and they shared a moment of unspoken understanding.

"It's good to see you," Bistrena offered genuinely.

Lockstep's eyes started to mist, and she shook her head, "You have no idea."

Bistrena hadn’t felt this before, not like this. It was strange, this connection—almost like staring into a mirror, seeing the other half of herself. Odd, wasn’t that how she was supposed to feel about Current? But she never had.

Lockstep’s grip firmed, anchoring them both in the moment. Whatever hell they were trapped in, they weren’t alone anymore.

Author's Note

Hellow viewers, not much to say here. Enjoying where this is going, hopefully. Like and comment. Tell me any thoughts, good or bad.

THIRTEEN

Bistrena and Lockstep were heading back to her unit this morning. She and Lockstep marched silently through the biting cold toward the training town, their breath fogging the air. Frost clung to the track's edges linking the fort to the town, which crunched beneath their hooves. Snow dusted the oak and beech trees in the hills, while mist hovered low in the fields, veiling the distance in pale grey.

At the depot, a sour-faced MP mare handed them their uniforms, kit bags, and armour. She barely looked at them, shoving the gear across the counter with a sharp clatter. “Sign here,” she muttered, pointing to the ledger.

Lockstep’s face was pale, her usual commanding presence replaced by something frail. She scribbled her name without a word, her hoof trembling slightly. Bistrena followed suit, avoiding the MP’s glare.

The frost seeped into Bistrena’s bones as they walked on. The quiet between them felt as heavy as the mist. Lockstep broke it, her voice hoarse and uneven. “I feel like half the mare I was.”

Bistrena didn’t respond immediately. Her own thoughts were a tangle of half-formed images. The assault, the interrogation, the mnemonic spell, the serum—all of it left her head feeling disconnected. The nightmarish hallucinations had finally stopped, but the anticipation of going under again lurked at the back of her mind. It was as if those memories belonged to someone else - a story she'd read as a child but couldn't quite remember

They’d been made to sign forms before they left the heart of the fort. The fine print was clear: no speaking of the Domestic Security Agency, the attack, or the methods used on them—not even to each other. “Morale,” the agents had said, their voices chillingly synchronized.

Bistrena glanced at Lockstep, but the corporal kept just enough distance to make her position clear. No questions. No answers. Her gaze flitted back to the shadow of the fort behind them, shrinking in the mist as if the DSA’s watchful eyes extended even now.

Atop a hill overlooking the training town, they reported to Captain Wheatstone in his command post, a weather-beaten olive-green tent bustling with activity. Radios buzzed, maps sprawled across tables, and a small cadre of clerks shuffled papers.

Wheatstone looked up as they entered. For a moment, he seemed almost saddened to see them. His weary eyes took them in, and his expression softened. The stallion wasn’t one to be fooled. He understood what they’d been through.

“I hope you’re feeling better,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. “Flu, was it?”

Lockstep and Bistrena exchanged a glance, reluctant conspirators in the DSA’s cover story. “Yes, sir,” they said in unison, voices flat.

Wheatstone nodded, though his jaw tightened imperceptibly. “Corporal,” he said, turning to Lockstep, “Sergeant Glaive is out of action. Fell into a ditch last night. I need you to take over his position on the line.”

Lockstep hesitated. “Anti-airship crew, sir?” she asked. “I’ve only had basic training. Never fired one of those things.”

Wheatstone gestured toward the tent’s entrance, where the dark silhouette of a massive cannon loomed. The gun’s sleek barrel stretched nearly two meters, its steel body mounted on a rotating platform. Beside it, a belt of brass shells gleamed faintly in the cold light.

“You’ll get plenty of practice,” he said, pouring himself coffee from a battered thermos. “Military Intelligence thinks there’ll be a raid tonight, so we’re digging in.”

Bistrena glanced at the map on his desk, squinting at the markers and notes. Wheatstone noticed and folded it over with a sharp flick. “No cheating, recruit.”

She snapped upright, like a child caught with her hoof in the biscuit tin. “Sorry, sir.”

Lockstep snorted softly. “Military Intelligence?” she muttered. “Now there’s an oxymoron.”

Wheatstone’s lips twitched in what might have been amusement. He came around the table. “You’ll manage, Corporal,” he said firmly. Then, to Bistrena: “Recruit, 3rd Platoon is conducting riot training. Report to the long halls about 500 meters into town. Can’t miss them.”

They saluted and left the tent. The cold hit them immediately, sharp and biting.

As they reached the point where their paths would split, Lockstep hesitated. “Well… good luck, Bis—” She caught herself. “Recruit,” she corrected, her tone uneasy.

Bistrena studied her. The Corporal’s foreleg hovered awkwardly, as if she couldn’t decide whether to shake hooves, pat her on the shoulder, or just leave. Seeing no one nearby, Bistrena dropped her kit bag and armour, stepping forward to close the gap.

She wrapped a foreleg around Lockstep’s neck, pulling her into a firm embrace. “You’ll be alright,” she said, feeling the tension in the mare’s frame. “We both will.”

Lockstep tensed but didn’t pull away. When they separated, her eyes looked distant, unfocused. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “You too.”

Without another word, she turned and walked away.

Bistrena watched her go before picking up her gear. She slung her kit bag over her shoulder, adjusted her armour, and started toward the training town, her breath puffing in the icy air.

The hall was vast, cold, and crammed with bodies. Over a hundred ponies—mares and stallions alike—stood in loose rows, their black riot pauldrons and helmets glinting under the stark ceiling lights. The steady murmur of idle conversation ebbed and flowed as the stragglers found their places. The air was tinged with the metallic tang of sweat and equipment oil, the scrape of hooves on concrete mingled with the rustle of equipment, every sound carrying in the cold, cavernous space.

Sergeant Barnside stood on a raised platform at the front, her sturdy frame wrapped in a battered field jacket. Her expression was flat, eyes scanning the room with practised disinterest. On either side of her, junior officers shuffled about and adjusted a rudimentary map on an easel. When Barnside spoke, her voice was steady, cutting through the murmurs without the need to raise it.

“Right. Listen up.” She let the silence settle before continuing, her tone measured but brisk. “Today, you’re running formations, crowd control, and close-quarters drills. You ought to know the theory, so I expect it to look tidy. Shields locked. Steps in unison. No gaps, and no freelancing. Got it?”

The room responded with a half-hearted murmur of assent. Barnside didn’t seem to care whether they meant it. She adjusted the angle of her baton, tapping it idly against her foreleg.

“Third Platoon,” she said, her eyes flicking toward the cluster of mares near the back, “you’ll be in the south block for room-clearing drills. First and Second, you’ll be running dispersal manoeuvres on the east field. I want everypony geared up and in position in ten minutes. If you pay attention and follow your non-coms, we'll all get through this with as little bullshit as possible.”

The door creaked open at the side of the hall, a brief gust of cold air stirring the crowd. Heads turned briefly as Bistrena slipped inside, her kit bag still slung awkwardly over one shoulder. She hesitated for only a moment before moving to the edge of her platoon, finding a spot near Dusklight, Ribbonweave, and Aurelia.

Barnside didn’t miss the movement. Her gaze lingered on Bistrena for a fraction of a second, but she didn’t break stride. “Late arrivals,” she said with a faint edge of irony, “will need to learn fast. No room for catch-up.”

There was no laughter, no ripple of amusement. The ponies nearest to Bistrena barely glanced at her before returning their attention to the Sergeant. The briefing moved on seamlessly, Barnside pointing to the map as she outlined the specifics of today’s drills. Her voice was crisp, devoid of flourishes.

“You’ll run this as many times as it takes to get it right,” Barnside said, her voice carrying over the murmurs in the hall. “This is simulated disruption, so if you can’t handle it here, you’ll definitely fuck it up out there. When it’s real, you’ll have ten thousand angry voices bearing down on you, rocks pelting your shields, firebombs exploding at your hooves, and no option but to hold the line. Your job is to delay rioters, protect property, enforce the Crown’s will, or stop them from stealing supplies and rations. Whatever they’re after, you make sure they don’t get it.”

Her gaze swept the room. “Break formation or drag your hooves, and you’ll be back here after hours until you figure it out.”

Bistrena shifted uneasily, before setting her bag down quietly, her movements automatic. Dusklight leaned closer, her breath warm against Bistrena’s ear. “Took you long enough,” she murmured, her eyes filled with unspoken questions.

Ribbonweave elbowed her gently. “Don’t spook her, Dusty.” She glanced at Bistrena, adding in a softer voice, “Good to see you back.”

To her side, Aurelia caught her eye. Normally, the mare would’ve cracked a quiet joke or whispered something cheeky, but not now. All she offered was a small, encouraging smile and a quick wink.

Barnside’s voice cut back through the quiet exchange. “That’s all I've got for you. Move out. South block, east field—wherever you’re assigned, I expect you to be in formation on time. Dismissed.”

The hall began to stir, ponies moving in clumps toward the exits. Ribbonweave lingered for a moment, her hoof brushing Bistrena’s shoulder in an almost motherly gesture. “Stick with us,” she said quietly. “You’ll get back into it.”

Bistrena nodded, slinging her bag over her shoulder again and falling in with her platoon as they made their way out. The day stretched ahead, heavy and unrelenting, but she welcomed the grind. Better to keep moving than to dwell on what had already happened.

After Lead Instructor Jetstream had intervened, welcomed her back, and given her new orders, Corporal Slate led Bistrena to the temporary barracks, a crumbling shed reeking of mildew and rat droppings. It was a sorry sight, but the slow burner in the corner provided enough warmth to make it bearable. Bistrena dropped her kit and armour onto one of the rickety bedframes, which groaned under the weight. Slate leaned against the wall, crossing her forelegs as she began to speak.

“Listen, rookie,” Slate started, gesturing toward the whiteboard with pre-drawn diagrams of riot formations. “You missed a lot yesterday. Camping drills, cooking stations, trench digging, theory lectures. All boring stuff. But that means you’re behind. We’re just getting into the riot control manoeuvres today, so consider yourself lucky you didn’t get stuck in the mud like the rest of the platoon.”

Bistrena nodded, reaching for her gear. Slate handed her a worn set of riot pauldrons, a helmet with a scratched visor, and a baton with the grip dulled from use. She ran her hoof over the battered equipment, wondering how many ponies before her had used the same tools.

“You’ll need these,” Slate added. “Not much use going through drills without the kit.”

Bistrena adjusted the gear, pulling it closer as she tried to ground herself. She needed to focus. The past few days had been a whirlwind of drama - an upset - but she couldn’t afford to let her thoughts spiral now. She pictured herself getting careless, distracted in the field, and shuddered at the imagined consequences. Forcing the worries aside, she turned her attention back to Slate.

It took her a moment to realize the Corporal was watching her intently, a rare softness in her otherwise sharp expression. “What happened to you and Lockstep?” Slate asked, her tone unusually quiet. “And where is she now?”

Bistrena stiffened. Slate was hardly one for small talk, let alone probing questions. “Flu,” she said flatly. “We both had it.”

Slate’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Flu? Lockstep seemed fine before, and you don’t just catch flu and shake it off in a day.”

Bistrena shrugged, feigning indifference. “That's what I was told to... what the doctor at the fort told me. She’s fine now. Captain Wheatstone reassigned her. She’s taking over for Sergeant Glaive.”

At that, Slate’s ears perked up. “Sergeant Glaive?” she echoed. “So they finally found him?”

“Found him?” Bistrena repeated, confused. “Wheatstone just said he fell in a ditch.”

Slate frowned, her expression hardening. “He didn’t show up to the staff meeting yesterday. He’s been missing.” She hesitated, then shook her head sharply. “Forget you heard that. End of discussion.”

Bistrena blinked, unsure how to respond. “It’s probably better that way,” she said carefully. “There’s clearly stuff neither of us is supposed to know.”

Slate’s lips twitched in a wry half-smile, her gaze lingering on Bistrena for a moment longer before she pushed away from the wall. “Maybe,” she said cryptically. “Now, let’s get back to the basics before you embarrass yourself in front of the platoon.”

She launched into an explanation of riot control manoeuvres, her tone brisk and authoritative once more. Bistrena let the words wash over her, absorbing the details as she tried to anchor herself in the present.

Corporal Slate marched Bistrena back to the south block, where three platoons were assembled behind a row of charred, crumbling houses. Looming over the scene was the concrete training tower, its second story engulfed in flames. Bistrena slowed, watching as ponies in soot-blackened firefighting gear scaled ladders, their hoses pumping water into the inferno. Thick smoke billowed out, obscuring the figures dragging smouldering dummies out of the structure.

Barnside stood under the awning of a building marked with the faded word "Saloon." She cast a brief smirk at the burning tower before turning to address the gathered platoons.

“That’ll be you lot tomorrow,” she called out, her voice carrying easily. “So pay attention today, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll be that much more ready.” Her grin twisted into something grim. “I won’t sugarcoat it: today is gonna suck. One of those days. But if you want to save lives, you’ll get through it.”

She laid out the plan. First, they’d work through the half-flooded trenches nearby. Then, they’d move into town to practice field formations. There’d be plenty of yelling, sweating, and fire—and no room for mistakes.

The training began with hours of brutal repetition. In the trenches, mud clung to their legs as they waded through stagnant water, shields held high despite the strain on their shoulders. Out in the field, shouted orders rang out as the platoons practised moving as one. Shields locked, hooves stomped, and muscles burned. The endless cadence of Barnside’s bellowing drove them forward:

“When the flames are licking at your legs, you’ll want to run. That’s normal. That’s natural.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “But you’re not gonna give in to instinct. You’re gonna get used to the heat. Sit in it. Bear it. Because when it matters, you’ll trust the gear to keep you safe—even when it feels like you’re getting cooked.”

Bistrena grit her teeth as the exercises dragged on, every muscle in her body protesting. The enchanted riot gear kept her safe from the mock flames, but it didn’t stop the sweat or the oppressive heat that sapped her strength.

Eventually, they moved into the town, where the real hardship began. The three platoons rotated through roles: one held formation, while the other two acted as rioters.

It was madness.

Bistrena’s platoon moved down the street in tight formation, shields locked together, as “rioters” hurled bricks, rocks, and flaming projectiles at them. The enchanted firebombs rolled beneath their hooves, erupting in plumes of heat and smoke. Firecrackers exploded near their legs, deafening in the enclosed space. One of them caught on her shield above her head and went off with a crack. The ringing and muted sound made her cringe inwardly, she hoped her hearing would come back.

The noise was overwhelming—chanting, shouting, the clatter of projectiles against their shields and helmets. Bistrena flinched as fire spread across her shield, racing up her legs. Her breath came in short gasps, her vision narrowing as panic clawed at her mind. That dammed ringing wouldn't stop. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to flee the inferno, but she couldn’t. She was pinned in place by the tight formation, jostled on all sides by the mares around her.

It stopped being about the flames or the oppressive torrent of thrown projectiles and became a desperate struggle to stay upright. She forced herself to listen for shouted orders, to match the movements of the platoon even as her body begged for relief.

After what felt like an eternity, they were granted a brief reprieve. Bistrena stumbled out of formation and collapsed onto the edge of an awning, too drained to care about the grime streaking her coat. Dusklight slumped beside her, groaning about cramps and pouring water over her head in a vain attempt to cool down.

Bistrena didn’t say a word. She stared at the ground, watching the restless shuffle of hooves as the other platoons switched roles, and listened her ears ringing. Her turn to act as a rioter came soon enough.

Throwing rocks and firebombs was cathartic, if fleeting. The brief thrill of revenge somehow made the misery worth it.

They cycled through the drills again and again, formations locking and breaking under the strain of simulated riots, until the whistle blew for lunch. Exhausted and drenched in sweat, the ponies crowded into the fake saloon, where they found no alcohol waiting to soothe their aching bodies—just lukewarm water and ration packs.

After lunch, her platoon had regrouped at one of the larger structures for drills. They sparred lightly with batons and shields, the movements precise but without the bone-rattling stakes of dummy rioting, or the gruelling damp of trench work. It was almost a relief to be in the warmth of indoor air, to face padded swings instead of charging stallions twice her weight.

As the sun dipped and the temperature plummeted, Corporals Jetstream and Slate corralled them into a quick run around the town. Their hooves struck the frozen ground in rhythm, breath steaming in the icy air. By the time they were released to the showers, Bistrena’s muscles hummed with exertion, the lukewarm water washing away the day’s sweat and strain.

Dinner followed, and with it, the inevitability of questions. The cover story—flu—felt paper-thin even to her. She hated lying, especially to them, but what choice did she have?

In the cafeteria, she picked the table farthest from the crowd, her back firmly to the wall. She needed to see the door, to watch who came and went. It wasn’t a conscious decision; it just felt necessary now. She wouldn’t be caught off guard again.

She’d just started poking at her stew when they arrived, trays in hoof. Ribbonweave sat across from her, Aurelia slid in beside her, and Dusklight flanked the other side. There was no escape.

Ribbonweave was the first to speak. “So,” she began her voice light but pointed. “Flu?”

Bistrena shrugged, her gaze fixed on the door. “That’s what they said.”

“Flu for a day?” Dusklight raised an eyebrow. “You were fine yesterday morning. And then—poof.”

“I’m a fast healer.”

“Uh-huh,” Aurelia said, leaning forward. “And I'm an Equestrian Princess... what about Lockstep? She disappeared the same morning. We heard she’s outside the camp now. Sitting on a cannon or something.”

Bistrena finally looked at them. “Strange times,” she murmured.

Ribbonweave frowned. “You’re dodging.”

“I’m being careful.”

“Why?” Dusklight pressed. “Careful of what?”

Bistrena tapped a hoof against her cocoa mug, her gaze sliding back to the door. “Eyes and ears everywhere,” she said softly.

Aurelia blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, drop it,” Bistrena replied, her tone sharpening. “Please.”

The others exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing. The conversation shifted to the earlier riot drills without much ceremony, Ribbonweave absently rubbing the dark bruise under her eye.

“That stallion from 1st,” she started, shaking her head. “He’s lucky we’re not using our swords. I’d have gone for his knees.”

“Sure,” Aurelia snorted. “Right before he turned you into a ribbon pretzel.”

“Hey, at least I tried to help,” Ribbonweave snapped back. She gestured toward Bistrena. “She got flattened, and I wasn’t just gonna stand there. And what do I get for it? A shield to the face.”

“I mean,” Dusklight chimed in, “you did sort of run right into it.”

Bistrena stared into her cocoa, and frowned while swirling it slowly. “We did okay. We held our own.”

Ribbonweave ignored the faint compliment. “Tell me it didn’t feel good, though,” she said, leaning forward. “When you swept him? Nailed him right in the balls.”

“It did the job,” Bistrena said simply, though her lip twitched upward for a fraction of a second.

“Did the job,” Aurelia mocked with a smirk. “You hear that? She’s out there cracking stallions in the walnuts, and it’s just another Tuesday for her.”

“Hey, whatever works,” Dusklight said. “Rest of them stallions calmed down after seeing that. They thought they were gonna steamroll us, and we made it messy for them. That’s what counts.”

Ribbonweave gave a satisfied grunt, leaning back. “Damn right.”

The chatter ebbed, and they turned to nurse their cocoa and eat, soft clinks of metal trays breaking the lull in conversation. It had been a long day, sweat-soaked and muscle-aching, but this—the warm food, the low hum of voices, the faint buzz of the overhead lights—was familiar, comforting.

Then the sirens started.

It wasn’t a sharp sound. It rose low and steady, a deep, keening wail stretching across the horizon, trembling in the bones. It pulled heads up, ears swivelling toward the ceiling as if the doom bearers were on the roof.

The cafeteria froze. A fork hovered mid-air, forgotten in the grip of a trembling hoof. A stallion by the serving counter turned slowly, his tray sliding against his chest as his gaze darted toward the windows. For a moment, it was like the whole building held its breath.

Then the lights died.

Panic erupted, voices overlapping in a rush of confusion and fear. Ponies scrambled to their hooves, questions flying—“What’s happening?” “Is it them?” “What do we do?”—only to vanish into the deafening murmur of the crowd.

Bistrena sat unmoving, her breath quickening but steady. Immediately she remembered what Lockstep had said, Military intelligence, now there's an oxymoron. She almost smirked, seems they were right this time. That thought didn't comfort her. Her heart kicked in her chest, the echoes of nightmares and old memories stirring to life—the port, the Changelings, the bombing. The crush of heat and smoke. She clenched her jaw, and, as usual, anger sparked through her instead of fear. Those bastards are coming, and there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it. She accepted the helplessness—the sheer inevitability— the feeling raced through her, white-hot and steadying.

The door slammed open, the sirens outside cutting sharper and louder. New alarms joined the cacophony, shrill and urgent, and the base’s once-calm air was now saturated with chaos. A platoon instructor burst into the room, a red flashlight gripped in his teeth, its beam slicing through the blackness.

“Okay, recruits! You know the drill!” he barked, voice raised above the din. “Get outside to the parade ground! Bugs don’t usually come this far inland, so you’ll be fine. Just get into the fields, find your holes, and take cover! Move, move, MOVE!”

The room broke into motion, ponies pouring toward the door in a frantic tide. The air outside was cold, biting, and filled with a franticness so overwhelming, that it vibrated in their chests. Bistrena joined the throng, moving alongside them toward the parade ground, her eyes catching the dim glow of red lights strung along the route like breadcrumbs. It was so dark she could barely make out the shapes of her platoon mates, only the vague impressions of ponies and the shuffle of hooves.

Over the distant skyline of Baltimare, the night lit up with solid searchlight beams, followed by ribbons of orange fire streaking across the sky like burning threads of silk. Bistrena squinted, pausing to watch the bursts crisscross the blackness—anti-airship fire, she guessed. The guns were answering something.

She tilted her head, focusing. There—just faint shapes, sleek and large, gliding through the flashes like shadows swimming beneath ice. The hum came next, droning and invasive, the kind of sound that made the inside of her teeth buzz. One of the shapes flared bright, caught in the path of those burning threads. It burst into a rolling fireball that scattered across the sky, the glow reflecting in the distant cloud cover before fading away.

She watched as tiny points of light began to rise, barely visible against the night sky—unicorn interceptors. Their glowing wings shimmered faintly, their colours muted by distance, but unmistakable. Bistrena’s eyes narrowed as she followed their ascent, tracing the streaks of magic they sent arcing into the black.

One of the massive Changeling airships veered too low, caught in a net of spells. For a moment, it seemed to hesitate in the air, its sleek hull illuminated by its own sputtering fire. Then it erupted. The explosion rolled through the night, a bloom of angry orange and red that painted the smoke-choked sky. Pieces of the ship scattered, falling like streaks of shadow into the city below.

Bistrena’s breath hitched as she tracked one of the falling fragments. It tumbled through the air, a smouldering silhouette against the rising flames. The crash came moments later, distant and dull, but she felt it like a punch to the chest. Her stomach tightened as she realized where it struck—just north of the docks, near where her family’s home had been.

She stared at the growing plume of fire, her anger flaring hot and laced with something sharper—worry. Her chest tightened as the thought stabbed through her: It wasn’t them. It couldn’t be them. But even as she tried to convince herself, doubt crept in, insidious and gnawing. No. Please. Let it be someone else’s home. Not mine.

Her teeth clenched, a bitter taste rising in her throat at the cruelty of the thought. But wasn’t that the truth of it? She didn’t want to lose them. Her gaze fixed on the flames as they climbed higher, painting the night in hues of destruction, and a fresh spike of guilt churned in her gut. Someone’s family was in there. Someone’s world was ending. The knot in her stomach wouldn’t untangle. Every part of her screamed to be there, to know. But she was here—miles away, useless.

Bistrena pulled her gaze down, pushing it out of her head, blinking at the residual light on her vision. Somewhere in front, the line of recruits moved on, marked by the faint pulse of red lights strung through the trees. The world around her darkened again, the sky disappearing beneath the swaying canopy of branches.

Bistrena focused on the trail, locking onto the light bobbing ahead of her—Jetstream, she thought, or a pony like him. She followed it to the edge of the field, hopping into a shallow hole where her head just barely poked above the rim. Before she could settle, another pony slid in beside her, their body pressing into hers.

“Who—” she began.

“Me,” came the shaky reply. It was Dusklight.

Bistrena turned, but couldn’t make out the other mare’s face in the dark. Dusklight’s voice trembled as she spoke. “What in Celestia’s name is going on? I can’t take another night like this, Bistrena. I can’t—” She broke off, breath hitching. “The last time… the bodies. I saw them—”

Her voice cracked, and she started to hyperventilate, each breath coming in ragged gasps.

Bistrena blinked, stunned. Just minutes ago, they’d been sitting in the cafeteria, talking over stew and cocoa. Now this. It didn’t feel real. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if it was all some elaborate ruse, a test by the instructors to see how they’d handle a real emergency.

Then the sound of distant cannon fire rolled over the hills, the deep, resonant booms followed by the sharper cracks of explosions. It rumbled through the ground, rattling the hole’s edges, and there was no mistaking it anymore.

This was real.

FOURTEEN

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."

FIFTEEN

Checkpoint Wishbone, Morning

Bistrena stood in the cold, wet streets of Baltimare, shifting her weight as the dull ache in her hooves crept upward. Ivy Team—her team—had been assigned to the checkpoint hours ago, paired with Clover Team to hold the line northeast of the hospital.

She and Dusklight had been reunited with their old induction mates, Stormchime and Brassforge, but now they had two new faces in their mix—Tailwind and Ironwood, all stallions pulled from a male platoon. Ribbonweave and Aurelia rounded out their numbers, standing under their hoods like wraiths in the grey morning.

The rain slicked off their black riot gear—pauldrons and chest plates hidden under thick ponchos, steel helmets weighing down their heads. Their visors, streaked with water, fogged up slightly every time they exhaled. It made them look bloated, and shapeless, more like moving barricades than ponies.

Bistrena adjusted her grip on the new piece of equipment they’d been issued—the baton. A steel rod, clad in thick rubber, long as a foreleg with a twin-pronged prod at the tip. Pressing the trigger sent a thin arc of blue electricity dancing between the prongs. She had tested it earlier, watching the spark jump, and let out a nervous laugh. Wouldn't want to get poked with that sucker.

"Five thousand volts," Ironwood had said, a hint of pride in his voice. "We used weaker ones to herd cattle back home. These’ll drop a full-grown bull."

Brassforge scoffed, shifting under his poncho. "Wouldn’t even need to use the prod. Get some momentum, could break a jaw with one of these."

Stormchime exhaled through his nose, wings rustling under the plastic draped over his armour. "They don’t want us breaking anything. Just holding the line."

Tailwind let out a short breath, flexing his wings beneath his own poncho. "Yeah? Let’s see what they say when a crowd of desperate refugees rushes us."

"It’s why we’re in teams," Dusklight muttered, adjusting her grip on her baton, “‘sides, we blow on our whistles and shoot up a flare, then half the division will be right here with us.”

Ironwood snorted, “Yeah, good luck with that, you’ll get your head kicked in and that whistle rammed down your windpipe before anyone at the park can turn their heads. An unruly mob's a lot like a herd of mean cows - better to drop one or two of the more violent ones… and the rest will fall in line.” He had a slightly cruel look on his face and beat one hoof with the baton.

Bistrena kept quiet, glancing north and wondering if her family were ok or not. The smog from the fires still hung over northern Baltimare, thick and oppressive, turning the skyline into a dull smear of grey. Every now and then, the sky would flash, followed by the distant crack of bolt fire. Pegasi squadrons arced through the haze, drawn to another Changeling flare-up. Even from here, they could hear it—the muffled echoes of the skirmishes still raging beyond the cordon.

The mayor was still moving ponies out despite the army’s warnings about infiltrators. Bistrena couldn't quite believe they were in the city. Her city, her home. This didn't make any sense.

She adjusted the baton at her side and exhaled. They’d been at this checkpoint all morning, stationed northeast of the hospital, standing under the rain as refugees trickled in from the warzone beyond. Those with valid passes were scanned, searched, logged, and sent further east toward the park, where medical tents and triage teams waited.

It had been slow. Tedious. But necessary.

A mare stepped forward, hesitantly holding out a damp, wrinkled pass in her magic. She looked exhausted—soot-covered and shivering in the cold drizzle. Dusklight took the pass wordlessly, scanning the enchanted sigil with her horn. A soft green glow confirmed its authenticity.

"Name?" Bistrena asked.

"Linen Breeze," the mare said weakly.

Behind her, a stallion clutched a foal under his wing, his stance protective, his eyes wary.

"You with her?"

"My husband," the mare confirmed, providing their names, voice barely above a whisper.

"Alright,” she logged the information, “Step forward. We’re just going to scan you and search your bags."

Brassforge and Ironwood moved in, their approach methodical, patting them down with the same thoroughness they’d used on every other refugee, while Dusklight used a detection spell. The shaken family barely reacted, and the stallion just held onto the foal tighter. Bistrena looked at the tiny bundle of fur and the small face that poked out of the wrappings, the child looked unharmed, Bisrena would have expected them to be crying their lungs out. But they were quiet, motionless.

From beyond the checkpoint, another sharp burst of bolt fire echoed through the city. More pegasi patrols veered toward the disturbance, their dark shapes vanishing into the thick skyline.

Stormchime, standing near the checkpoint's edge, narrowed his eyes. "They've been at it all morning," he muttered.

Ironwood exhaled cigarette smoke through his nose. "Probing for weaknesses, that’s all." Another distant burst. A sharp, chittering noise followed—just faint, almost lost to the rain.

“I’d rather just see one up close than all this cloak-and-dagger shit,” Tailwind murmured.

"Careful what you wish for."

Dusklight finished logging the mare’s information. "They're clear. Send them through."

Bistrena motioned them forward. "Next!"

The line shuffled again.

She barely paid attention to the next pony stepping forward. Her mind had drifted, her hooves moving on instinct. She barely remembered half the faces she’d checked that morning. It was a blur of tired eyes, soot-covered coats, and damp ponchos. None of them are familiar.

Her mind wandered to her family.

Were they safe? Had they gotten out? Or were they buried like she’d imagined in her worst moments, crushed under the weight of their home when the bombs fell?

Or were they on the road right now, slogging through the same muck and ash as the refugees passing through this checkpoint?

She wanted to leave. Just for an hour. Just to find out.

But there was no slipping away. No sending letters. No answers.

The rain started hammering down in heavy sheets, pooling on the muddy road and turning the checkpoint into a miserable, waterlogged mess. Bistrena barely felt it. She stood watch, half-listening to the distant roll of thunder, and occasional burst of bolt fire as ponies trudged through, their heads bowed against the downpour.

Dusklight’s horn glowed, her magic sweeping over each pass as they came through. The enchanted spell flickered brightly whenever the document was real. The line moved steadily and thinned again until there wasn’t anyone. After a few minutes, another pony approached from the row of buildings by the stream—a lone stallion wrapped in a rain-slicked coat.

Dusklight took his pass, her horn flashing as she checked it.

Nothing.

The spell should have reacted instantly. Her eyes darted up to Bistrena, wide and uncertain—

And then the stallion moved.

The strike came fast and brutal. A hoof smashed into Dusklight’s face before she could react. Her head snapped sideways, and her magic winked out as she crumpled to the ground.

Bistrena barely had time to flinch before the next blow crashed into her. A shoulder slammed full force into her chest, sending her sprawling onto the soaked dirt. Fuck! The impact drove the air from her lungs, and she lay gasping up into the rain.

A heartbeat later, Ironwind and Stormchime were on him. Ironwind lunged in first, baton swinging. But the stallion was fast. Too fast. He slipped under the arc of the strike and drove an uppercut straight into Ironwind’s jaw. The sound it made was ugly—a wet crack of hoof on bone. Ironwind reeled, blood spitting from his mouth, as he dropped.

Stormchime was next, bringing his baton down like a hammer. The thwack was sickening, sending a jolt through Bistrena as it connected with the stallion’s cheekbone. A flash of sweat and rainwater made a small vapour cloud. The stallion staggered, but only for a second.

Ribbonweave scrambled to the side, grabbed her warning whistle, and blew. The shrill sound cut through the storm, sending nearby ponies into panic.

“Move! Move!” Brassforge and Tailwind shouted, shoving at the already accepted refugees. But they were already scattering, shoving past each other in a blind scramble to get away.

Aurelia stormed forward, her horn sparking to life. “Get back get clear!” she barked, her voice sharp. The others barely had time to register the warning before her stun baton crackled to life—a violent arc of electricity snapping between the prongs.

She drove it into the stallion’s ribs.

The effect was immediate. A sharp static sound, the crackling snap of energy jumping through wet fur and skin. The stallion’s body jerked violently, his back arching as a hoarse snarl tore from his throat.

Then he collapsed.

A long, awful silence stretched over them, broken only by the weather and their hard breathing.

Ironwind wiped blood from his mouth, managing to get to his hooves, but he looked shaky. “Fuck me,” he muttered, voice thick with pain. “That dude can throw a mean right hoof.”

Bistrena exhaled, forcing herself to her hooves as well.

The stallion twitched. A muscle spasm. Then another. Then his whole body jerked like a puppet yanked upright by invisible strings.

No.

The air shifted. A pressure—wrong and suffocating—pressed against her lungs. Then came the heat. Green fire erupted from his body in a blinding flare, the sheer force of it knocking them back. The energy hit like a burn, Bistrena biting down a cry as it sizzled against her skin.

Then the stallion was gone.

Or rather, the disguise was.

What rose in his place was not a pony.

The creature towered over them, wickedly thin yet grotesquely strong. Its ebony-black carapace gleamed in the rain, segmented and unnatural, a twisted mockery of equine form. Two massive insectoid wings flared from its back, translucent membranes flickering in the dim light.

It hissed.

Bistrena froze.

Slitted eyes—sickly green—locked onto her. Fangs bared. Spittle dripped from its jagged maw, crystalline teeth refracting the dim light like shards of broken glass. Its limbs—pitted with twisted holes—flexed, and its horn, a spiralled, bladed thing, glowed.

Bistrena's heart slammed against her ribs.

They exist. She’d known, of course, but in the back of her mind, she had never truly believed it. Not until now. Not until she was staring at one. And in the next few seconds, she might die for it.

Author's Note

Hello viewers, our first real look at the black menace! I went very Aliens on this one. If you've read my other story, you'll see how they're portrayed there.

Please don't like and unsubscribe! Thanks.

Any feedback or thoughts, put em' in the comments so I can read em'.

That's it, goodbye.