(After herring the results from the royal battle.)

Rarity's sewing needle slipped from her magical grasp, clinking against the floor as her disbelief momentarily paralyzed her.

Scootaloo’s jaw dropped, eyes wide with awe. After a heartbeat of silence, the filly exclaimed, “That was amazing!”

Her voice, squeaky with the peculiar timbre of adolescence, carried a joyful amazement that only someone her age could summon.

Rarity could only nod in astonishment, her composure slowly returning. With a light shake of her head, she managed, “I’ll admit, it was… unexpected and truly out of the ordinary. But don’t let the excitement go to your head, darling. You still need to pick up my cloth from the station.”

Scootaloo blinked at the reminder, then stood upright, snapping a playful military salute. “On it, boss!” she chirped before darting out the door on her brand-new scooter, the attached trailer rattling behind her as she sped away.

The white mare chuckled softly at the filly’s enthusiasm. Her horn flared as she retrieved the fallen needle, but she couldn’t help clicking her tongue in mild irritation.

(I’m running low on gems again… Normally, this wouldn’t be an issue—I could just make a request to the guild. But finding someone trustworthy who wouldn’t scam me? That’s another matter entirely.)

As she resumed stitching a complex pattern of animals intertwined with delicate outlines of precious stones, her thoughts churned.

(Fluttershy would have been my first choice, but she’s gone back to her… “seclusion.” Jacky? Always busy, especially with those walnut trees taking root at the Acres. And Dash? Still no word about her location. And Nimbus…)

Her hooves faltered, her magic slowing as her mind lingered on the stallion. Memories of quiet moments shared, of confessions over tea, and of laughter during chaotic gem-hunting expeditions played out in her mind like a cherished melody.

Nimbus.

Reserved, enigmatic, yet undeniably warm. His melancholic smiles hinted at deeper stories, while his calm demeanor concealed a fiery passion—and an unmistakable pain.

Before meeting her and Jacky, he had been alone. Not the fleeting solitude of a quiet afternoon, but the profound isolation of someone who had borne a heavy burden and suddenly found himself free of it.

She knew the weight of that burden; he had been candid about the torment he carried. Yet even in his honesty, there was a strange detachment in how he spoke of his past—like a storyteller recounting a tale he had told too many times, the sting dulled by repetition, though never erased.

(In that way, you and Fluttershy are more alike than you’ll ever realize. I know you’re still in the capital; your letters tell me as much. But when you come back… you’d better take me with you. You still haven’t taught me to brew tea as perfectly as you do.)

Rarity’s stitching slowed to a halt. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she set her work aside, her thoughts lingering on the memories and the connections that stitched themselves into her life as intricately as the patterns on her fabric.

Applejack had to admit it—the walnut tree idea had been a resounding success, both financially and aesthetically.

Sweet Apple Acres, despite what its name might suggest, had never been solely about apples. For generations, the farm had diversified with crops like carrots, sweet potatoes, and the ever-popular seasonal pumpkins for Nightmare Night. Still, those other crops had always taken a backseat to the orchard's iconic apple trees, which held a special place in the family’s heart—and their legacy.

You see, the Apple family’s deep-rooted connection to apples wasn’t just tradition. It was destiny, etched into their very beings by their Cutie Marks. Every member of the Apple clan bore a mark tied to apples or another type of fruit, a symbol of their bond with the land and its harvest.

Well, almost every member.

There were exceptions, of course. Take the Oaks, for example. They were woodworkers down south, crafting furniture and tools from the timber of mighty trees. While their trade differed from farming, it still revolved around trees and their gifts.

But then there was the real exception to the rule: Applejack’s own grandfather, Welfoght Iron—or “Wesson,” as everyone called him.

Wesson had been an errant blacksmith, wandering from town to town, forging iron tools and weapons with his skilled hooves. That is, until he met a young Granny Smith. The fiery, headstrong mare had captured his heart, and as the old saying goes, “The rest is history.”

Applejack couldn’t help but smile at the thought of her grandparents’ unlikely romance. Despite his lack of an agricultural Cutie Mark, Wesson had found a place in the family and in the heart of Sweet Apple Acres, proving that destiny wasn’t always set in stone—or in this case, on a flank.

She glanced out over the fields, where rows of walnut trees now stood proudly alongside the apple orchards. Their broad leaves swayed gently in the breeze, casting dappled shadows over the soil.

(Gramps would’ve loved this, she thought. Hard work, a bit of risk, and a whole lot of heart—just the way he’d like it.)

The addition of the walnuts had been a gamble, sure, but one that had paid off handsomely. Not only had it brought in a fresh stream of income, but it also added a touch of variety and charm to the farm’s landscape.

And atmist the trees a filly and a calf played and laugh while a red Stallion stood vigilant, this bringing a smile to the mare farmer lips.

Sweet Apple Acres had always been more than just apples, after all. It was a testament to resilience, family, and the willingness to embrace new ideas—just as Granny had embraced Wesson all those years ago.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, a deep, growling threat that seemed to shake the air itself.

The familiar silhouette of an old stone bridge loomed through the storm, its weathered form standing sentinel near the ruins of a castle long abandoned.

Rain fell in torrents, aggressive and unyielding, drenching the land in a relentless cascade.

Mare-Do-Well stood still, her breath heavy and labored. Before her, her opponent lay motionless, crumpled on the ground near the raging river. The lifeless form, battered and broken, was framed by the chaotic dance of the storm.

Black, tar-like blood seeped from the vigilante’s wounds, mingling with the downpour as it washed away in inky rivulets.

She staggered forward, each step a battle against her weakened body. Yet she pressed on, undeterred, drawn to her kill like a moth to the flame.

A sudden flash of lightning split the heavens, illuminating the scene with stark, unnatural clarity. And then she saw it.

A small pink crystal, faintly glowing with a soft and fragile light, lodged deep in the ruined chest of her foe.

Her trembling hoof reached for it, and with a sickening sound—a mix of tearing flesh and the brittle crunch of shattered bone and wood —the gem came free.

She stared at it, her blood-red eyes reflecting the fragile glow. The crystal pulsed faintly, like a dying heartbeat, and then… it blinked.

Once.

She slipped it into her belt, the glow dimming as if resigned to its fate.

The crimson eye in her own sockets closed.

She whispered a prayer.

And then, fangs—razor-sharp and gleaming even in the dim stormlight—sank into cooling flesh.

A feast, brutal and unrelenting. A banquet for a beast.

When she had taken her fill, the remains were discarded without ceremony. The body tumbled into the raging river, vanishing beneath the unforgiving currents, swallowed whole by nature’s fury.

No trace remained. No witnesses to speak of, no evidence to linger.

No one but the ever-weeping moon, watching from above as it always had, silent and solemn.

Author's Note

A short chapter, till inspiration strikes me again.