Author's Note

Chapter 3 will likely get a rewrite sometime later, I'm not satisfied with how it went.

You may have noticed the increasing length. I don't plan on the wordcount increasing each time, I'll try not to flood the story with 100k long chapters.

Lmn your thoughts, I enjoy reading them.

Until next time.

Griffonstone

Luna drifted through the Astral Plane, her form—ethereal, weightless, lacking the solidity of reality—gliding effortlessly across the vast, star-filled expanse, though stars aren't what really dotted the realm. Dreams pulsed faintly around her like candles in the dark, each one a flicker of her subjects’ and every other being’s slumbering minds. She moved with practiced grace, her presence gentle yet watchful, safeguarding the peace.

Though her time as co-ruler of Equestria had passed, this was one responsibility that would always be hers.

Luna often found herself marveling at the Dream Realm’s otherworldly nature, its endless expanse shaped by the wills and emotions of the slumbering souls it cradled. Here, she was sovereign; the realm obeyed her every command, bending and twisting to her desires with an ease that felt almost natural. The dreams of her ponies formed clusters of light within the vast expanse, each one glowing with a distinct vibrancy that reflected its dreamer’s essence. The space between them was calm, a soft glow emanating from the unseen fabric of the realm. It was comforting, familiar.

Luna had been to every part of this domain, no inch of it was left unexplored. There was more out there, beyond where the sleeping souls of her ponies and others inhabited. Luna knew better than to wander too far there.

Beyond the edges of Equus’s dreams lay a vast unknown, a boundary she rarely approached and never crossed. There, the tranquility morphed into something stranger—darker. The comforting glow gave way to orderless patterns, swirling in unnatural currents that defied sense.

Once, long ago, curiosity had driven her beyond that self-imposed border. She had dared to venture into the uncharted depths, her magic shielding her as best it could. What she found there couldn’t be described. What was beyond seemed alive, pulsing with a malevolence that probed at her barriers and sought entry. A strange prattle of noises she never had heard danced in her mind, then a babeling, and a dread unlike anything she had ever known consumed her. She was washed with the unmistakable feeling that she wasn’t alone.

Luna had fled, tearing herself away from the encroaching danger and sealing her will tightly against it. She never spoke of what she saw—what she felt—and she never returned. Something had followed her that day—because of her foolish curiosity—she was only thankful itlingered no longer.

But here, among her ponies? This was her realm, as familiar to her as the stars and the moon. Yet tonight, an unease pressed against her, subtle at first—a discordant note in an otherwise harmonious melody. She paused mid-flight, her translucent midnight-blue wings fanning out as her senses sharpened. Something was wrong.

Her gaze turned northward, toward the area where the dreams of the Crystal Empire’s inhabitants should have shimmered like a cluster of vibrant gems. But the stars were dim there. But they weren’t dim. No—they were absent.

Even on nights of celebration, she knew when her ponies slept and when they woke. She could feel the rhythms of their lives, their joys, and their sorrows in the Dream Realm. Many of the Crystal Ponies should be sleeping, but with the sun almost set to rise not even one of the young foals were in bed. She reached out, her magic brushing against the plane where the Crystal Ponies’ dreams should have been. It was like touching the surface of an empty well—cold and hollow.

“None slumber,” she murmured, her voice a soft echo in the void, but no actual words could be spoken, only her thoughts made into nonexistent sound. Yet even as she spoke, she sensed it was not quite true. Some minds in the Crystal Empire were awake, but not all. And the absence of the others felt wrong, like a room stripped of its furniture—emptied of life.

Her wings flared as she turned her attention toward Silverton, a small northern settlement just on the border. It was the same. Luna’s breath hitched. She could feel the faint echoes of a few waking minds, scattered and frantic. Her brow furrowed, and her mind screamed for her to act.

She knew such an absence meant only one thing; but on this level? She couldn’t accept it as a possibility.

Gathering her power, she surged toward the Crystal Empire within the Dream Realm, her movements swift and determined. The dreamscape obeyed her will, bending and twisting to bring her closer to the source of the disturbance. The vast plains of the north rippled beneath her, shimmering like moonlit water. Then, without warning, an immense wave of light erupted from the direction of the empire.

The light was blinding and alive with an energy that defied the realms usual tranquility. Luna flinched, instinctively raising a shield of light-blue magic to protect herself. The wave crashed over her, its force palpable even through her protection. She braced herself, her hooves planted firmly on a conjured platform of starlight.

The sensation was overwhelming—heat and cold, pain and clarity, a paradox of feelings that made her wings tremble. Beneath the radiance, she felt something deeper: a lingering, a power she couldn’t place. It passed as swiftly as it came, leaving her breathless.

“By Faust…” she whispered as she lowered her shield. Her mind raced, grasping for answers. What could unleash such power in the Dream World? Her thoughts turned to the Crystal Heart. But no, even the Heart could not do this… could it?

She knew she had to leave. Her realm could aid her no more—it was the waking world that demanded her attention. With a surge of her magic, Luna willed herself back to her physical body, her consciousness snapping into place like a lock finding its key.

The transition was jarring. One moment, she was weightless, ethereal, her form shaped only by her mind; the next, her hooves touched the warm bedding then floors of her room in Silver Shoals. Her ears caught the faint rustle of the morning breeze through the window.

Her horn ignited, the glow casting long shadows as she prepared a teleportation spell. She didn’t pause to gather her thoughts—an itch told her there was no time. The air around her shimmered, and with a flash of magic, she was gone.

Luna reappeared high above the Crystal Empire, her wings beating against the fierce storm that greeted her. Snow whipped around her, carried by howling winds that bit at her coat despite her protective magic. She squinted through the chaos, her heart sinking as she beheld the city below. The first rays of dawn crept over the horizon, bathing the storm in an eerie light, but the sun’s presence did little to quell the desolation before her.

The once-vibrant city was unrecognizable. The streets, once glowing with light, were blanketed in dull gray snow. The shimmering buildings had lost their luster, their surfaces dulled. Ponies littered the streets, some still standing, their gazes hollow as they stared at the carnage. Others lay crumpled in the snow, their forms horribly still. Most she could feel hiding in their homes; hiding from the cold—and something else.

And at the heart of it all, the castle—the proud symbol of the Crystal Ponies—was reduced to a crumbled ruin. Its shattered spires jutted into the sky like broken bones, their jagged edges stark against the storm’s fury. Luna’s breath hitched, the weight of the scene pressing down on her chest. She flapped her wings harder, fighting the biting wind as she descended toward the ground.

Her eyes danced across every inch of the ruin around her, searching for anything that could be the cause of this. She found nothing, not the black magic of Sombra or a somehow returned Chrysalis. She couldn’t see any hint as to what evil inflicted this.

The storm obscured much of her vision, the thick flurries of snow swallowing the landscape. She cast a wide-ranging spell, her magic sweeping out like a wave to search for signs of life—or anything that might explain the devastation. But the spell returned nothing useful. Whatever had caused this destruction was hidden, either by the storm or by powers she could not yet discern.

Landing amidst the rubble, Luna’s hooves sank into the snow. Her horn flared as she cast another spell, pushing aside the debris. The broken remains of the once-grand structure scattered before her power. She shouted, “Princess Cadence, Captain Shining Armor!”

There was no response. Only silence.

Luna’s chest felt tight, but she refused to give in to despair. Reaching into the Dream World once more, she searched for any sign of life. There—a faint flicker. The unmistakable presence of a sleeping mind. Flurry Heart.

Luna focused her magic, her aura ripping through the debris. Finally, she uncovered a small, intact bubble of shimmering magic beneath the rubble. Inside, Flurry Heart lay curled, her tiny form protected by the remnants of a protective spell. Cadence’s magic lingered faintly, interwoven with Flurry’s own, but its strength was fading.

Luna’s gaze shifted to the figures cradling Flurry. Her breath caught, her vision blurring as she recognized them. Cadence and Shining Armor, their lifeless forms still holding their daughter close, shielding her.

Grief welled up within her. She stood frozen, her mind reeling. But there was no time for mourning—not yet. Swallowing her ache, Luna gently lifted Flurry Heart from the barrier with her magic, cradling the filly against her chest. The young alicorn shivered in her sleep, her breath faint but steady.

Luna turned her gaze to the storm raging around her. She could feel the remaining Crystal Ponies, scattered and hidden in their homes, their fear palpable even from afar. She would return for them. But first, Flurry needed safety.

With a surge of her magic, Luna cast a teleportation spell. Her surroundings shifted in an instant, the warmth of Canterlot Castle enveloping her. The familiar scent of polished stone and burning torches grounded her in the present. She appeared in a guest chamber, the room quiet and still.

Gently, she placed Flurry Heart on the bed, her magic tucking the filly beneath a thick blanket. She lingered for a moment, her hoof brushing the filly’s mane. “You are safe now,” she whispered, her voice heavy.

Straightening, Luna turned and left the room, her hooves striking the marble floor with purpose. She had to find the royal physician. She had to warn Twilight. She had to prepare.

Twilight sat in her study, surrounded by a fortress of books and scrolls. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, mingling with the faint scent of melted wax, ink, and parchment. Her quill scratched furiously across a sheet of notes, the words growing more erratic with each line. Around her, the once-pristine organization of her study had unraveled into chaos—books piled haphazardly, half-rolled scrolls scattered across the floor, and empty teacups abandoned on every available surface.

She paused, her wings shifting restlessly, and glanced toward the corner of her desk. A cup of tea, long forgotten, sat cold and untouched. With a sigh, she lifted it with her magic and took a tentative sip, grimacing at the bitter taste. “Ugh,” she muttered, setting it aside. “Cold tea never gets better with time.”

Leaning back in her chair, she rubbed her temples with her hooves, her thoughts drifting. Tomorrow—no, later today—she was supposed to have tea with a few nobles she could actually stand being near. Or was it brunch? She couldn’t quite remember. She made a mental note to check her planner later.

Her gaze flicked to the sketch pinned to the edge of her desk. The image stared back at her: a hulking figure encased in battered armor, its chestplate adorned with a winged skull that seemed to glare at her, mocking her inability to decipher its meaning.

Twilight frowned, her mind circling back to the being found near Dodge Junction. When the Royal Guard had reported the discovery—a crater with this massive, motionless figure at its center—she’d immediately taken charge of the situation. Guards were stationed around the site, and nopony was allowed near the body except her. It was too strange, too unknown, and Twilight wasn’t about to risk anypony else’s safety. The last thing she needed was a curious colt fiddling with it and setting off a bomb or something else just as horrible.

The being itself haunted her thoughts. Its size, its armor, the strange parchment affixed to its surface—all of it radiated an unsettling aura. This was no peaceful traveler. Whatever it was, it had been equipped with only violence in mind.

Moving it was tougher than she had expected, but she managed to envelope it and transport it back to Canterlot. Something about it resisted her magic, she had to put some focus and effort into it but she was able to force her spells to work.

Twilight pushed back her chair and began pacing the study, her hooves muffled by the thick carpet. She glanced out the window, where the morning sun now shone brightly over the waking streets of Canterlot. Somewhere out there, her friends were probably already starting their day—or wrapping up their mornings, in Pinkie Pie’s case. Twilight smiled faintly at the thought of Pinkie preparing an over-the-top breakfast spread for her Lil ‘Cheese, it was a cute thought.

She hesitated, her smile fading. Maybe I should write to them, she thought, her gaze drifting to the stack of scrolls on her desk. It had been too long since she had wrote to one of them. Even if for no reason in particular it would be nice to hear from them.

Her eyes returned to the bookshelves. Twilight scanned their spines with practiced efficiency, her magic tugging out an ancient tome. Its cracked leather cover bore the faded sigil of an unknown mage, and she hesitated before opening it. The pages smelled of age and dust, but the words offered no insight. She slammed it shut with a frustrated huff, her magic setting it on a growing pile of disappointments.

What are you? she thought again, her frustration simmering. The strange writing on the parchment affixed to the being’s armor remained an enigma. Even her most advanced translation spells had failed, producing only garbled nonsense. The closest she got was forcing a spell to change the unreadable calligraphy into her language, but the letters seemed random, thrown around with no order.

Twilight sighed, her quill hovering above her notes before dropping limply onto the desk. She glanced at the window again, squinting against the brightness of the sun. It had been two sunrises since she’d last slept, and it was starting to show. She briefly considered lowering the sun for a while—just to make the light less harsh—but dismissed the thought. Even a princess needed to follow the rules of nature, and Celestia wouldn’t approve of adjusting the day for her own convenience.

She flopped back into her chair, her wings drooping. Maybe I’m overthinking this, she thought. Her mind drifted to her friends again, the comfort of their camaraderie calling to her. Applejack would probably tell her to get some fresh air, and Dash would scoff at her for being cooped up for so long yet again. Fluttershy might gently suggest a cup of tea that wasn’t cold and bitter.

Twilight sighed softly, the sound breaking through the quiet of the study.

Her thoughts lingered on the plans she’d made for later in the day. A meeting with Mayor Mare about the upcoming Summer Sun Festival. A brief conference with the School of Friendship faculty. Maybe—just maybe—a little time to relax afterward. She made another mental note to squeeze in a quick nap somewhere in between.

She glanced at the sketch one last time, her eyes narrowing. "Tomorrow," she said aloud, her voice tired. "I’ll figure you out tomorrow, mister."

She bottled up her ink, set her quill somewhere it wouldn't get lost, and with a glow of her horn the heaps of paper began to sort themselves. She smiled with satisfaction at all her work flying to its organized place. Maybe I can squeeze that nap in now? She yawned.

A flash of blue light filled the room, followed by the sharp crack of teleportation magic. Twilight yelped, her wings flaring in surprise as she spun around. Standing in the center of her study was Princess Luna, her midnight-blue coat and mane shimmering faintly in the dim light.

“Princess Luna!” Twilight exclaimed, her voice shaky from the sudden intrusion. “What are you doing here? You startled me—”

“Princess Twilight,” Luna interrupted, her tone urgent but tinged with sorrow. “I bring grave news. There is no time to waste.”

Twilight blinked, her thoughts scrambling to keep up. She stepped closer, her mind already racing through a dozen possibilities. “Grave news? What are you talking about? Is something wrong?”

Luna’s turquoise eyes softened, the weight of what she had to say apparent in her expression. She inhaled deeply before speaking. “The Crystal Empire… it is gone.”

Twilight froze. “What?” she said, her voice caught between disbelief and confusion. “What do you mean… gone?”

Luna hesitated, searching for the right words. “The Crystal Heart is no more. The castle lies in ruins, its streets littered with the dead. Cadence and Shining Armor…” She faltered, her gaze dropping momentarily. “They are gone.”

Twilight stared at her, uncomprehending. “That… can’t be right. That doesn’t make any sense.” Her voice was calm, too calm, as if she were trying to convince herself. “I was just there a day ago, they were fine. If something had happened, they would have sent word.”

“I saw it with my own eyes,” Luna said, her tone steady but strained. “I stood among the devastation. The palace has collapsed. Your brother and sister-in-law gave their lives protecting Flurry Heart and their ponies. She is the only survivor I could find in the rubble.”

Twilight shook her head, a forced smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “There has to be a mistake. Maybe… maybe you’ve seen a bad dream from one of the ponies? Anything can happen in the Dream Realm, right? Somepony was just having a nightmare and—”

“Twilight,” Luna interjected, her voice firmer now. “I would not come to you with such claims unless I was certain. This is no misunderstanding. It is reality.”

The calm veneer Twilight had been clinging to began to wane. Her wings rustled at her sides, and her hooves shifted restlessly against the floor. “But… how?” she whispered. “How could this happen? The Crystal Heart—it’s supposed to protect them.”

“I do not know,” Luna admitted, her eyes heavy with sorrow. “A powerful force struck the city, so swift that by the time I had arrived it was gone.”

Twilight’s breathing quickened, her mind grappling for any shred of logic, any explanation that could make sense of what Luna was saying. “This doesn’t make sense,” she muttered, pacing frantically. “Shining and Cadence are strong. They wouldn’t just—”

Her voice broke, and she stopped mid-step, her head hanging low. “No,” she said, her voice barely audible. “No, this can’t be real.”

Luna stepped closer, her hoof resting gently on Twilight’s shoulder. “I grieve with you, Twilight,” she said softly. “But… we must act swiftly. Flurry Heart is safe for now, but the Crystal Ponies remain in peril. They need Equestria’s help.”

Twilight swallowed hard, her throat dry and tight. “Flurry Heart,” she croaked, her voice shaky. “Where… w-where is she?”

“She rests in a guest chamber,” Luna said. “The royal physician is tending to her. She remains unharmed, but she has yet to wake.”

Twilight’s legs carried her out of the study before Luna could finish speaking. Her hooves struck the marble floors in rapid succession, her breath coming in short gasps as she raced through the castle. The walls blurred around her, her focus narrowing to the single thought of her niece.

Twilight entered the guest chamber, her forehoof striking the door open. The room was quiet save for the soft murmurs of the royal physician, who stood by the bed where Flurry Heart lay. His horn glowed faintly as he worked, various equipment had made for a full bedside hospital setup, a heart monitor beeped softly. Flurry’s small form was swaddled in blankets, her chest rising and falling with a slow, labored rhythm.

Twilight approached the bed slowly, her hoof twitching as she reached out to touch Flurry’s forehead. The filly was warm, her breathing faint but steady. Twilight sank to her knees beside the bed, her wings drooping alongside the sudden weakness in her legs.

“They’re gone,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Shiny…Cady...” She lowered her head, tears spilling onto the blanket. “I wasn’t there. I should have been… Maybe I could have…”

“You could not,” Luna said from the doorway, her tone firm yet gentle. She stepped inside, her presence a steady anchor for Twilight. “What happened was beyond your control.”

The sight made before Twilight gave her an ache in her head. “How is she?” she asked, her voice quiet as she gazed down to her niece.

The physician, an older unicorn stallion with a pale gray coat and a somber expression, turned toward her. His horn dimmed as he gently set a clipboard aside. “Your Majesty,” he began with a bow of his head, his tone professional but laced with concern. “She’s stable, for now, but… her condition is unusual.”

Twilight’s wings twitched nervously. “Unusual? What do you mean? Is she hurt?”

The physician shook his head. “Not physically, Your Highness. At least, not in a way we’d typically expect. From what I can determine, she’s been exposed to a chemical sedative of staggering potency. Its composition is unlike anything I’ve seen before.”

“A sedative?” Twilight repeated, her brow furrowing. “How potent?”

The physician sighed, his gaze flicking to the filly on the bed. “Terribly potent. If the amount in her system had been even slightly higher, it could have caused severe harm—cardiac failure, organ damage, brain damage, even death. Frankly, Your Majesty, her being an Alicorn is likely the only reason she’s still with us. Her unique physiology let her take the worst of it.”

Twilight’s heart sank further, the implications hitting her like a physical blow. “If… if it had been a normal filly?”

The physician hesitated, his ears folding back slightly. “I wouldn’t even want to speculate, Princess. The damage would have been catastrophic. Whoever or whatever administered this to her… I doubt they cared if she woke up. That much is clear.”

Twilight’s jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing as she processed his words. Her gaze shifted back to Flurry, who lay motionless beneath the blankets. “Will she wake up?”

The physician nodded cautiously. “I believe so. The sedative is wearing off, albeit slowly. Her natural Alicorn resilience is helping her recover. But she’ll likely remain weak for some time, and the aftereffects could linger for days.”

Twilight exhaled shakily, her wings sagging slightly as relief mixed with simmering anger. She didn’t know who was responsible for this, but she would find out. Flurry Heart was family—her family—and the thought of anyone harming her was unbearable.

“Thank you,” she said softly, her voice steadier than she felt. “Please, keep me updated on her condition. I’ll need to know the moment she wakes up.”

Luna stepped closer, her expression etched with a mix of grief and determination. “Twilight,” she began, her voice steady but laced with a faint edge of concern, “would you have my sister and I assist you? Together, we can—”

“No,” Twilight interrupted sharply, then hesitated, her wings twitching at her sides. She softened her tone but kept her resolve firm. “No, Luna. This is my responsibility now.”

Luna’s eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing, allowing Twilight to continue.

Twilight took a deep breath, steadying herself against the storm of emotions roiling within. “Equestria is my kingdom. Its ponies look to me for guidance. Celestia and you stepped aside so I could lead, and if I can’t face something like this, then I don’t deserve the role you entrusted me with.”

Luna studied her for a long moment, her turquoise gaze piercing yet thoughtful. “Do not let pride cloud your judgment, Twilight,” she said gently. “Even rulers must know when to seek help.”

“It’s not that,” Twilight replied, though there was a faint tremor in her voice. “I… n-no you're right. I just… I just need time, I-I need a moment to think.” More than a moment, she thought.

Luna inclined her head, a shadow of a smile ghosting across her lips. There was no condescension in her expression, only respect. “Very well,” she said. “Then I will defer to your judgment, Princess.”

Twilight’s legs felt heavy, her mind racing with plans as she turned toward the door. She glanced back at Flurry Heart, still unconscious beneath the thick blanket. “Thank you for bringing her here, Luna. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.”

“You are welcome, Twilight,” Luna replied, her voice quiet but steady. “I will be there should you need me. For now… I will do what I can for the Crystal Ponies” With a flash of magic Luna disappeared.

Twilight nodded to herself, her comportment hardening back to the regalness expected of her as she moved swiftly through the castle’s halls. Her horn flared with magic as she summoned parchment and quills, sending orders to Equestria’s armed force. “Ready the airships. Gather supplies, medical teams, and winter gear. The army and airforce is to mobilize immediately and await further command,” she dictated, the scrolls vanishing with flashes of light as they flew to their recipients. Another scroll soon after to more senior officers, and another to any other she needed.

As she approached the grand balcony overlooking Canterlot, Twilight paused, her gaze drifting over the city bathed in the soft glow of sunrise. The sight did little to ease the weight in her chest. Grief and anger swirled within her, but she forced herself to remain composed. What kind of monster could do such a thing? she wondered, her thoughts returning to the Crystal Empire, to her—

Her chest tightened as a sudden lightheadedness swept over her, and she clutched the railing before she could hit the hard balcony floor. It felt as though the ground had tilted beneath her hooves. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the castle around her faded into a blur.

Her spine shivered, her heart pounding against her ribs. “Oh, Celestia…” she whispered hoarsely, her voice strained and her throat hurting. The words felt like a plea, though she wasn’t even sure who she was asking for help. Her former mentor?

Mom, Dad…

The thought struck her like a blow, and she sucked in a breath, her vision blurring with unshed tears. She would have to tell them. They deserved to know, but the very idea of speaking the words aloud made her shudder. Did they already know? It was unlikely. News of the Crystal Empire’s fate wouldn’t reach them so soon. That responsibility—like everything else—fell on her.

A part of her wished they knew already, that somehow the pain had reached them through some unspoken bond. At least then, she wouldn’t have to be the one to tell her father and mother that their child, her brother, is dead. But another part of her—the part that still longed to be their little filly, protected and loved—wanted to go to them. To see them, to hold them, to let their presence remind her of a simpler time when something so cruel could only exist in a nightmare.

More than any point in her life did she wish this was just a nightmare.

Her breathing grew uneven, her wings limp slightly as she fought against the rising tide of emotions. She lowered her head, squeezing her eyes shut as tears began to spill down her cheeks. “I wasn’t there,” she choked out, her voice breaking. “I couldn’t… I didn’t…” She couldn’t finish another word, the choking was too painful.

The cold seeped into her bones, but it was nothing compared to the chill that had settled in her mind. The weight of her guilt, her helplessness, pressed down on her as if she was struck by the very castle she stood on. Twilight Sparkle, the Princess of Equestria, the ruler entrusted with the safety of her people—yet when her family needed her most, she had been powerless. Instead of being there and stopping whatever cruel beast did this, she was wasting her time on a corpse.

Her breath was ragged, each exhale visible in the air. She pressed her forehead against the cool marble of the railing, the sensation grounding her—or at the very least letting her believe it did. Shiny’s laughter, Cadence’s warm smile, and the way Flurry Heart’s tiny wings had fluttered when she called her “Auntie Twily” played in her mind like cruel ghosts, taunting her that she wouldn’t hear Shining or Cadence do either, ever again.

The distant sound of hooves against stone drew her attention for a brief moment, but she didn’t turn. It was only the castle guards making their rounds, oblivious to the princess who stood crumbling on the balcony. She was alone here, and she was grateful for it. She didn’t have the strength to face anyone right now—not even herself.

“I have to be strong,” she whispered, as though saying the words aloud would make them true. But they felt hollow, as fragile as the frost beginning to form on the railing beneath her hooves, a frost only real to her. “For Flurry… for them.”

Slowly, she lifted her head, her tear-streaked face catching the sun's warmth. The star above seemed distant now, an unfeeling witness to her. Twilight swallowed hard, her chest still heaving, but her breathing began to steady.

She wasn’t ready to face her parents. She wasn’t ready to face her people. But she didn’t have a choice. Equestria depended on her, and now Flurry Heart did, too. The luxury of breaking down, of retreating and hiding from everything, was one she wouldn’t have again.

The grand hall of Canterlot Castle was a sanctuary that, for all its grandeur, now felt suffused with unease. The high, arched ceilings, adorned with gold filigree and intricate carvings of Equestrian history, seemed to echo the tension that hung around the room. Stained glass windows cast muted patterns of light across the polished floor, their depictions of harmony and triumph feeling like a lesser reassurance amidst the present crisis. Even the golden sunburst emblems—kept despite new leadership—etched into the draped banners seemed duller, as if reflecting the current demeanor of the room's occupants.

At the center of the hall, a circular table gleamed under the chandelier's soft glow, its surface reflecting the gloom of those gathered. Twilight sat at its head, her wings folded neatly at her sides, her crown resting lightly atop her head. To any observer, she appeared calm and composed—or at the very least she hoped that was the image she was presenting. She felt the weight of the room pressing on her shoulders—the worry, the expectations. All eyes turned to her for answers she wasn’t sure she could provide.

Around her sat representatives of Equestria's governance, their faces a mix of confusion, indignation, and frustration. Many hailed from the northern territories—leaders of towns like Vanhoover, Manehatten, and smaller villages nestled near the Crystal Empire. They had come not only to understand the crisis but to demand protection, and Twilight could feel the pressure of their unspoken fears.

The Crystal Empire’s absence felt like a deep wound. The Yaks had sent word through a courier that their borders were now closed, an action that many of Equus rulers had followed. Yakyakistan’s proximity to the ruins of the Empire had driven many of them to flee southward, abandoning their ancestral homes. Twilight ached for them—for the fear and uncertainty that had pushed them to such extremes—but she couldn’t fault their decision. In their position, could she have done differently?

The silence that lingered over the room was oppressive, like a gathering storm waiting to break. A noblepony seated near the far end of the table finally spoke, breaking the stillness. Duchess Reverie, a stately unicorn mare with a pale silver coat and piercing blue eyes, leaned forward slightly, her tone sharp though her voice failed to hide her worry. “Your Majesty,” she began, “the northern settlements are in a panic. Vanhoover alone has sent half a dozen requests for additional troops. And who can blame them? The Crystal Empire is gone. What assurances can you give that Equestria won’t be next?”

Twilight’s gaze met the Duchess’s, steady and unwavering, though inside, her thoughts whirled like a tempest. Assurances. What could she say to reassure them when she wasn’t even sure herself? When her own grief threatened to steal her focus every moment? She forced herself to speak, her tone measured and calm. “I’ve already ordered Equestria’s military to begin mobilizing,” she said. “Patrols have been established across the northern territories, and scouts are monitoring the area around the Crystal Empire. We’re also working to organize evacuation plans for any settlements that might be at risk.”

But even as she spoke, she questioned herself. Was it enough? Could anything they did truly be enough? Whatever had swept through the Crystal Empire did so swiftly and precisely. What hope did a dormant, volunteer-driven military—one that hadn’t been tested in more than a century—have if whatever monster was responsible faced them?

“Plans aren’t enough,” a stout earth pony stallion interjected, his voice heavy with frustration. Mayor Dustmane of Whinnyapolis leaned forward, his hooves planted firmly on the table. His gray mane was disheveled, and his eyes held a weariness. “We need action, Princess. My town has only a handful of reservists. If whatever did this comes our way, how are we supposed to defend ourselves?”

“Dustmane’s right,” another voice chimed in, this time from Count Highwind, a pegasus noblepony with sleek, silvery feathers. His wings pressing to his sides as he spoke, the tension in his frame palpable. “Equestria may be large, but we’re spread thin. The Army, the Air Corps—they’re barely functioning. And the Wonderbolts? They’re skilled, sure, but they’re not equipped to deal with this. How do we know Canterlot won’t pull resources from the smaller towns to protect itself?”

Twilight’s wings shifted slightly, betraying the frustration she worked so hard to suppress. She wanted to tell them that their fears were unfounded, that every town and village mattered to her. But would they believe her? Did she even believe herself? They would believe and trust Celestia, she thought. They would trust her. She straightened her posture, her voice calm but edged with assurance. “I understand your concerns,” she said. “I assure you, every settlement matters. We’re working to ensure that no area is left unprotected.”

“We’re doing everything we can to ensure Equestria’s safety,” she said, Twilight felt like she was just repeating herself. “The Army, Air Corps, and Wonderbolts are doing their best with what they have available. Yes, it has been… awhile since they’ve been needed, but that doesn’t mean we can’t trust their ability. If whatever harmed the Empire tries to harm us, we’ll be ready.”

The tension in the room remained, but the conversation shifted, moving away from direct challenges to Twilight’s actions to uneasy cooperation between the officials. A few arguments quelled was her main contribution, mostly she was watching over as the governors and mayors discussed what they would need and what they might need, among other things, and her saying yes or no when her input was needed.

Twilight’s eyes flickered briefly to one of the many stained glass windows lining the grand hall, its vibrant colors accentuated in the sun's light. It depicted a scene she had seen countless times before: Discord, subdued and sprawled on the ground, his form coiled in defeat. Celestia and Luna soared above him, their wings spread wide, their gazes resolute and the Elements in their grasp. The artistry captured their grace and power in a way that demanded attention, and most ponies would stop there, marveling at the depiction of harmony’s triumph.

But her eyes caught on a smaller detail, something nestled between the grandeur of the alicorns and Discord. An Earth pony stallion stood amidst the conflict, unassuming. His coat was a simple brown, his black mane devoid of flair, and his lack of ornamentation made him easy to miss. He wasn’t glowing with magic or armored like a warrior—just a lone pony, his head slightly tilted, as though lost in thought.

Twilight might not have given him a second glance had she not paused long enough to see the expression. It wasn’t triumphant or stern, nor was it joyful. It was… contemplative, almost detached. His gaze wasn’t directed at the scene around him but somewhere beyond the frame, as if watching something no one else could see.

She blinked, her mind brushing the oddity aside. It was an artistic choice she guessed, symbolic of unity or the ordinary ponies who stood strong during chaos. It wasn’t worth dwelling on, not with everything else demanding her attention.

The heavy doors of the grand hall creaked open, their groan echoing across the cavernous chamber. Twilight Sparkle’s gaze snapped toward the entryway as a griffon shuffled into the room. His movements were hesitant, lacking the strut typical of his kind. His feathers were unkempt, his wings slightly disheveled, and his sharp eyes darted nervously around the gathered figures before settling on the table. The cadence of his steps, uneven and halting, betrayed his unease—an unease that seemed to settle like a cloud over him.

Twilight straightened in her chair, masking her concern with a practiced air of calm. She had been waiting for the griffon’s correspondence, hoping the delay was easily explained away. She wasn’t expecting a reply in person. The griffons had taken longer than most to respond to her, and now, as the ambassador approached the table, it was clear why.

“Ambassador Garver,” Twilight greeted, her voice warm. “Thank you for coming. I know it must have been difficult to make the journey, and I’m surprised you have.”

Garver gave a stiff nod, his talons clicking faintly against the floor as he reached the table. He lowered himself into the seat with a heaviness that spoke of both physical and mental exhaustion. His claw began to tap the edge of the table, a nervous tick that seemed unconscious but incessant. He made no move to smooth the ruffled feathers along his neck, nor to adjust the faded sash draped over his shoulder—an emblem of his station that now seemed almost an afterthought.

Twilight studied him carefully, her practiced composure never faltering, though she was troubled at the sight. Griffons were a resilient people, known for their sharp tongues and sharper tempers. But Garver was a shadow of that. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes hollow with bags beneath, and the tension in his every movement spoke volumes.

“Ambassador,” Twilight prompted gently, hoping to coax him into speaking. “We are all here to work together. Please, tell us what has happened.”

Garver’s gaze flicked toward her, then around the room, as though he were searching for an escape route. His claws stilled for a moment, clutching the edge of the table before resuming their tapping. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough and quiet, each word tinged with a weariness unbecoming of his kind.

“Griffonstone’s gone,” he said simply, the words dropping into the silence like stones into a still pond.

The room collectively froze. Twilight’s stomach twisted at the bluntness of his statement, but she kept her expression neutral, her wings pressed tightly against her sides. “Gone?” she repeated softly. “May I ask what you mean, ambassador?” She knew, and never wanted to hear the word “gone” again.

Garver exhaled sharply, a bitterness escaping him. “What do you think I mean, Princess? It’s gone. Wiped out. Empty.”

The nobles around the table exchanged uneasy glances, their whispered murmurs filling the void left by Garver’s words. Twilight raised a hoof, silencing them. “Please,” she urged, leaning forward slightly. “Tell us what happened.”

Garver hesitated, his talons gripping the table edge hard enough to leave faint scratches. “We didn’t even see it coming,” he began, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to steady it. “One moment, the city was alive—griffons in the market, hatchlings playing in the streets. And then… it came.”

Twilight’s heart sank as Garver’s voice cracked. “What came?” she pressed gently.

He met her gaze, his golden eyes haunted. “An armored monster,” he said, his words clipped and raw. “It was huge, even standing on our hind legs we didn’t reach the top of it. It didn’t speak—w-well maybe it did, we heard something leaving those slits on its head. It got up from a crater it made in the ground, standing almost limply and then… then it just… killed.”

Gasps rippled through the room, and even most composed demeanors in the room faltered for a moment. Twilight’s mind tried to reconcile this account with the destruction of the Crystal Empire. Another one. There were more of these things. Her eyes widened, but she forced herself to remain calm.

An armored monster, tall enough to dwarf us. It was barely anything but it was something. She wanted reports of what the Crystal Ponies saw but none who had seen anything were in a state to comment—understandably more focused on getting away from the snow. An armored monster… Twilight worried that she knew what this armored monster looked like already.

“It moved through the city like it knew exactly where it was going,” Garver continued, his voice growing quieter. “The braver of us tried to stop it, but they didn’t stand a chance. Civilians ran, hid, but it didn’t matter. By the time it was over, the streets were empty. Those who could fled to the forests or beyond. I hid up on the tree, but I don’t think anyone else did, I’m lucky it didn’t climb it.”

Twilight’s wings twitched as she absorbed his words. “And the monster?” she asked. “What happened to it?”

Garver’s claws stilled, his gaze dropping to the table. “After it was done, it went to the cliffs,” he said. “We thought it would stop, but… it didn’t. It just leapt off, disappeared into the trees below. Last we saw, it was heading west. Toward here.”

Toward Equestria.

The room was deathly silent, the weight of Garver’s account pressing down on everyone present. Twilight’s mind raced, questions swirling faster than she could grasp them. Why? Why had it attacked Griffonstone? Why the Crystal Empire? What were they looking for? And—most of all—what would they do next?

She opened her mouth to speak, to offer reassurance she didn’t truly feel, but the sound of Garver’s claws tapping the table cut through her thoughts like a blade. It was a rhythm of helplessness, of frustration, and it echoed her own feelings far too closely.

Twilight’s gaze lingered on Garver, her mind churning with thoughts she couldn’t fully organize. The griffon’s account was fragmented, raw with his own inner turmoil, but she needed clarity. Every detail mattered, she needed to know everything.

She took a deep breath, straightened her posture, and turned to the gathered nobles and governors, who were already murmuring anxiously among themselves. “Thank you all for your input today,” she said, her voice calm and resolute. “This discussion is far from over, and I encourage you to continue planning and sharing ideas in the council chambers nearby. For now, I need to speak with Ambassador Garver alone.”

The room fell silent. A few nobles exchanged glances, some looking irritated, others relieved to have an excuse to leave. Duchess Reverie was the first to rise, her steps deliberate as she inclined her head toward Twilight. “Your Highness,” she said smoothly. One by one, the others followed, bowing briefly before making their way out of the grand hall.

The heavy doors shut behind them with a faint echo, leaving Twilight and Garver alone in the now-quiet room. The shift in atmosphere was easy to notice. The earlier hum of voices was replaced by a sudden silence, punctuated only by the faint sound of Garver’s talons tapping the table again—a nervous habit he seemed unable to suppress.

Twilight moved closer, her hooves soft against the polished marble floor. She took a seat beside him rather than at her usual place at the head of the table, her proximity meant to put him at ease. “Ambassador Garver,” she began gently, her tone quieter now, “I appreciate you sharing what you’ve seen, but I need to understand everything. No detail is too small or insignificant. Please, start from the beginning.”

Garver’s claw stilled against the table, his gaze flicking toward her, hesitant. For a moment, he said nothing, the weight of his memories dragging him down like an anchor. Finally, he sighed, his voice low and heavy. “It started with an ear splitting noise that woke everyone in town up. Then something absurdly bright flashed through our windows; I managed to get a look at it, some crack forming just above us.” he shivered at the memory. “Just looking at it was…”

“Please… take your time. I know this must be hard for you. It was…?” Twilight gently pushed.

“Nauseating.”

It was a calm night in Griffonstone, one that mirrored the town itself—quiet and weathered. The air was cool, carrying a faint breeze that rustled through the crooked, almost sagging rooftops of homes built long ago. The smell of damp wood and pine wafted lazily through the winding streets, mingling with the faint tang of iron from some of the older structures that still stubbornly stood.

The heart of Griffonstone lay still, its streets empty save for a few griffons who refused to let the night rob them of their pursuits. A lone baker toiled in his kitchen, his talons deftly shaping dough as the warm, faint glow of a fire illuminated his feathers. Nearby, an aged cobbler sat beneath a flickering lantern, muttering to himself as he worked on a pair of talonslips, the steady rhythm of his hammer echoing faintly in the silent air.

Down one of the narrow lanes, a pair of younger griffons whispered conspiratorially, their voices soft as they shared plans for mischief beneath the cover of darkness. Their laughter broke the silence in short bursts, though they kept it low enough to avoid the ire of their elders. Above them, an old watchgriff sat perched on a creaking balcony, his eyes half-closed but ever watchful, his beak resting against his chest.

For the rest of the town, the night was a time of rest. Homes were dark, save for the occasional candlelight that peeked through cracked shutters. The town felt timeless in its stillness, as though it could sleep forever, cradled by the gentle hum of the wind and the faint creaks of shifting timber.

This peace was not to last.

It began with a sound. A shriek of noise so violent that it seemed to split the very fabric of the world. It tore through the silence with a ferocity that defied comprehension, a sound so sharp and sudden it was as though a titanic ship of metal had been wrenched apart in an instant. The noise rolled across Griffonstone like a thundercrack, rattling windows and shaking the town to its foundations.

Then came the light.

A blinding brilliance flooded the night, banishing the glow of the moon and stars. It surged through the cracks in shutters and doorways, painting the streets in shades of violet and electric blue that shimmered and danced like an impossible aurora. Griffons who had been roused by the noise shielded their eyes, their feathers illuminated in the strange glow.

Garver was one of them. Startled from his sleep, he stumbled to his window, irritated but nonetheless spooked. As he looked to the sky, he froze.

There, hanging above Griffonstone, was a wound.

It was not like the tears in old buildings or the scars on stone—it was something far worse. The sky itself had been ripped open, exposing a roiling, twisted light that defied explanation. The tear pulsated and writhed like a living thing, its edges frayed and bleeding with energy that crackled and snapped in defiance of reality. The longer Garver stared, the harder it became to look away, his eyes watering as nausea built in the pit of his stomach.

The sound of crackling lightning filled the air, mingling with the low hum of something vast and alien pressing against the world. Garver gripped the windowsill tightly, his talons digging into the wood as his breaths came in short, panicked gasps. He felt something creeping into his mind, a vile sensation that churned his thoughts and made his feathers stand on end. It was wrong, utterly wrong—a presence that clawed at his soul, trying to force its way in.

Then, from the center of the rift, something fell. A shadow, barely discernible against the blinding light, plummeted toward the earth like a stone cast from the heavens. Garver barely noticed it; his gaze was fixed on the tear, the terrible wound that seemed to laugh at the gape of his beak.

It was gone.

The tear vanished with a suddenness that left Garver’s vision swimming, its light extinguished so quickly that the night seemed impossibly dark in its absence. The calm of the Griffonstone night returned, but it was no longer the same. The wind carried an unnatural stillness, and the familiar hum of the town felt hollow, like a song missing its melody.

Garver stumbled back from his window, his legs felt weak beneath him. All across Griffonstone, griffons emerged from their homes—most refused to leave theirs—their feathers puffed in shock, their eyes wide and darting with fear and confusion. They murmured to one another, trying to make sense of what they had seen, but no words could capture the horror that had unfolded above their heads.

Far from their sight, the thing that had fallen now lay still, its arrival unnoticed by all but the earth itself.

Some griffons turned their eyes to the ground where the figure had fallen, finally taking notice of it. While most remained frozen in their doorways or behind shutters, a handful of those still outside felt their curiosity—or perhaps a flicker of concern—compel them to investigate.

The figure had formed a shallow indent in the dry dirt and patchy grass where it landed. Its body was splayed out, unmoving, its back to the sky. For a moment, it almost seemed part of the earth, like a massive boulder flung from some distant mountaintop.

One griffon, the watchgriff who now was wide awake, was the first to approach. Whether he was driven by curiosity or, quite unlikely, a genuine worry for the seemingly lifeless being, the rest didn’t know. Truthfully the watchgriff didn’t want to go near the thing, but if he didn’t the rest might start wondering why a watchgriff not investigating was still getting paid his bits.

The others watched from a distance as he hesitated, talons flexing nervously. The figure was massive—far larger than anything he had ever seen. Even the largest of griffons would only reach its chest if they stretched themselves to their full height.

Still, he inched closer. His wings twitched involuntarily, ready to carry him away at the first sign of danger. He stopped just short of the figure, glancing over his shoulder at the others.

"Is it dead?" The watchgriff asked aloud. Garver—who had made the decision to stay and watch from his window—thought so. But Garver also doubted if this big metal thing was something that was alive enough to become dead, it certainly didn’t look like flesh and blood.

The griffons behind him murmured their agreement—yes, surely it must be dead. Maybe not from the fall, but they doubt whatever had just finished dropping it here did so kindly.

A low groan, the sound of metal grinding against metal, filled the air. It was an unnatural, dissonant sound that immediately caught gathered griffons’ attention. They took a step back, their talons scraping against the ground, as the massive figure stirred.

Slowly, it began to rise. A sharp hiss escaped from its face, as if it were exhaling or releasing some pent-up energy. The noise was strange, alien, and only added to the thickness now in the air.

The figure lumbered upward, its movements sluggish and almost mechanical, as though each motion required immense effort. Finally, it stood to its full height, casting a long, imposing shadow over the ones behind it. The griffons craned their necks to look up at it, their earlier curiosity now tinged with a sense of intimidation.

It didn’t move toward them. It didn’t speak. Instead, it seemed to stare upward, its gaze fixed on the moon as though lost in thought.

Its posture was off. The figure swayed slightly, its thick boulder-like shoulders slumped, its movements unsteady. It was like watching a beaten beast on the verge of collapse, its strength sapped. It was intimidating, yes, but there was also something deeply unsettling about its perceived vulnerability.

The griffons whispered among themselves, their voices low and uncertain.

“What is it?”

“A robot maybe?”

“It crushed my stand!”

None moved closer. The figure’s presence was enough to keep them at bay. There was an unspoken understanding that it did not belong in Griffonstone—or anywhere as far as they were concerned—and the air itself seemed to thrum with its alien nature.

The griffon whose stand had been crushed was the first to step forward, their fear eclipsed by indignation. Their feathers were ruffled, and their eyes glinted with a mix of greed and anger, a dangerous cocktail of emotions fueled by their destroyed livelihood.

"Hey! You big… whatever you are!" the griffon squawked, their voice sharp and grating against the tense silence. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done? That was my stall!"

The figure remained still, its hulking frame silhouetted by the pale light. It neither flinched nor acknowledged the griffon’s tirade, its gaze still fixed on the moon above. The griffon's shouting grew louder, emboldened by the apparent lack of response.

Other griffons murmured among themselves, some inching closer, others holding their ground. The mood was shifting. The fear that had kept them rooted in place began to erode, replaced by a creeping sense of defiance. This thing, whatever it was, looked slow and injured. Perhaps it wasn’t so dangerous after all.

The vendor, puffing out their chest, jabbed a talon toward the figure’s leg. "Are you even listening?!" they screeched, their voice cracking. "Look at me when I’m talking to you!"

Still, the figure did not respond.

Frustrated, the griffon stomped forward and placed a claw on the figure’s knee plate. “Look at me when I’m talking, tin head!” The talon scraped against the thick, battered armor with a faint metallic screech, but it did nothing to the surface.

That was when it moved.

Slowly, deliberately, the armored thing lowered its gaze. The moonlight caught the lenses of its helm, turning them into twin, soulless orbs that reflected the griffon's furious expression back at them. The griffon's indignant squawking faltered, their words catching in their throat.

The marine’s attention was unnervingly intense. It was not anger or even irritation—it was something colder, heavier. The kind of gaze one might reserve for a pest, insignificant but bothersome. Yet beneath that gaze, with the slight tilt of its head, it seemed almost confused.

The griffon, now visibly trembling, took a step back. "W-what are you looking at?" they stammered, failing to mimic their prior bravado.

The figure said nothing. Slowly, with an almost casual motion, it reached across its chest and drew its blade. The weapon was massive, to the point where the griffons who watched could only describe it as a sword. But to the figure, it was merely a knife—a massive and razor edged slab of hardened metal.

The griffons gasped as the blade caught the light, its edge gleaming with an unnatural sheen. The vendor stumbled back, their wings flaring in panic.

"Wait—no, I didn’t mean—"

Before they could finish, it moved.

It was swift, impossibly so for something so large. The blade lashed out in a single, fluid motion, its edge slicing cleanly through the air. The vendor had no time to even gasp when the thick metal cleaved into them with ease.

A sudden spray of pink mist followed by pools of red drenched the ground, the shocked mob stumbling as the dangling head of the wide eyed griffon struck the ground along with the slumped body, somehow the head was still attached, connected only by a few neck muscles and stretched skin.

Garver had never been one to call himself a hero. Like most griffons in Griffonstone, he kept to himself, looking out for his own interests and staying out of trouble. But tonight, trouble had found everyone. As the monster tore through the streets, leaving devastation in its wake, Garver found himself frozen in his doorway, his heart pounding like a drum.

He had told himself he would stay hidden, let the others deal with it. He wasn’t a fighter—he wasn’t even particularly brave. But when he saw the vendor fall, saw the blood pooling in the dirt, something overcame his fear. His talons gripped the door frame as he willed his legs to move.

“Run,” he whispered to himself, but his feet refused to obey.

The monster turned—Garver now immediately regretting letting himself leave his sanctuary—its massive form looming over the street like a shadow of death. Its soulless, glowing eyes scanned the panicked griffons, and for a moment, it seemed to settle on Garver.

Something leapt into his throat. “No, no, no…” Garver muttered, backing away. But it was too late.

With speed that shouldn’t be possible for its size, the giant lunged forward, its gauntleted hand closing around Garver’s midsection. His breath left him in a wheeze as the crushing grip pinned his wings to his sides. He flailed and squawked, his talons scratching against the monster’s unyielding armor.

“Let me go!” he had tried to shout, but all that came was panicked squawks.

It tilted its head, as if studying him. For an instant, its grip tightened, and Garver felt his ribs strain against the pressure. He closed his eyes, bracing for the end he wasn’t ready to see.

But then something unexpected happened.

A fierce cry rang out from above.

“Let him go, you brute!”

A griffon dive-bombed the monster, claws outstretched. It was an older griffon, feathers streaked with grey but eyes blazing with fury. His talons found their mark, digging into the black material beneath the monster’s armor below the pauldron.

It recoiled slightly, a low, guttural sound escaping its helmet. It wasn’t pain, exactly—it was surprise. Its grip on Garver loosened, and before the monster could react further, it flung him aside like a discarded toy. Garver tumbled through the air, hitting the ground hard and skidding to a stop in a heap of feathers and fur.

Dazed but alive, Garver looked up just in time to see the griffons fight back.

The older griffon circled back, joined by two younger ones. They darted in and out of the monster’s reach with practiced agility, their claws striking at its joints and weak points. Another griffon—a muscular female—swooped low and struck at the back of the monster’s knee, causing it to stagger.

“Take it down!” she roared, her voice rallying the others.

Encouraged by the bravery of their kin, more griffons joined the fray. They swarmed the monster from all sides, their wings beating furiously as they struck with talons and beaks. One griffon threw a heavy stone, which struck the giant square in the chest with enough force to make it take a step back.

Garver could hardly believe what he was seeing. The monster was slowing, its movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Sparks flew as their claws raked across its armor, and dark fluid dripped from the gashes they had managed to carve into its undersuit.

The monster stopped moving entirely, its head tilting downward. For a moment, the griffons felt triumph. To them it looked to be faltering, giving in to their strikes.

With a sudden burst of speed, it lashed out. Its hand grappled the lower jaw and neck of the female griffon, cutting off her cry before it could fully escape her beak. Her wings flailed weakly, her talons scratching at the unyielding armor in a desperate, futile attempt to free herself.

With a crunch her throat and jaw gave. She felt bone stabbing into her as gurgling escaped her oozing throat, said throat drowning her in ichor. She stumbled back, not noticing a piece of her still in its hand as she hit the ground, clawing at her exposed neck for air.

The monster turned, swatting another griffon out of the air like a fly. It moved with purpose now, its attacks focused. Even as the griffons landed blows, they began to realize a horrifying truth: their strikes, while enough to wound, were not stopping it.

Garver watched in horror as the older griffon who had started the attack lunged for the giant’s back, only to be caught mid-air. The monster’s hand closed around his skull, a gasp was the last thing the elder gave as his cranium bent and imploded, the body slumping down as the mass of brain matter and cranial bone was flung away by the monster.

Another, one of the two young males who had helped the older one, yelled as he tried for the monster's neck. Finally it brought its blade out again, smacking the griffon to the ground with a thud. It didn’t use the sharp side, maybe not even noticing as it proceeded to bash at the downed griffon again and again with the blunt back of the blade.

Again and again it struck, even long after any fleeting life had already left the corpse. It struck again, a spurt of blood coating over the dried blood on its armor. It didn’t stop until what was left resembled a rotten soup.

“No…” Garver whispered, his voice trembling.

The remaining griffons faltered, what courage they had abandoning them. Blood dripped from its armor. It didn’t even seem to notice the injuries it had sustained, only a now dry stream of clotted blood and puncture holes evidence it was hurt.

Garver staggered to his feet, clutching his side where bruises were already beginning to form. He glanced around, looking for any way to escape. Many griffons had already chosen to flee, taking to the skies while the monster focused on their unlucky kin. Garver followed their example.

He shot to the air, immediately diving towards the massive tree that the more wealthy called home. He didn’t care to wait for invitation as he crashed himself into the closest building, resting on a thick branch. The home was empty. He raced around the home, looking for something to hide in. He finally stopped and simply huddled to the ground, shaking and pooling sweat. He heaved and hacked dry breaths.

He could hear more screeching as they were torn apart, those voices coming from the few who sought shelter in their homes that the monster simply bashed into. Even from where he hid he could hear splatters and screaming hatchlings. He covered his eyes, pleading for it to end.

Quiet came, he didn’t move for a long moment but eventually he dared to clamber up to the window he had flung through, if only to be sure it wasn’t climbing up the dry wood to reach him.

It stood at the cliff. Then leapt off.

Garver’s talons tapped against the table still, the nervous rhythm increasing in tempo. His eyes were unable to settle on anything for long.

“I… I didn’t volunteer for this,” Garver stammered, his voice uneven. “I mean, I didn’t even want to come here. They shoved a bag of bits in my claws and pushed me out the door.” He paused, glancing down at his talons, which had stilled for a moment. “They slapped ambassador on my name, but…” He shook his head. “I’m not one. I’m just… I just saw most of it.”

Twilight tilted her head slightly, her quill hovering mid-air as she took in his words. “And you left to come warn us,” she said gently, her tone devoid of judgment. “That matters, Garver.”

Garver let out a strained laugh, more a dry wheeze than anything else. “Does it?” He leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table as though it could steady him. His eyes, wide and haunted, locked onto hers. “I-I’m here because they couldn’t force anyone else to go. Nobody wanted to go wherever it was going.”

Twilight’s wings shifted as she set down her quill, her violet eyes softening. “What you did—what you’re doing—is important. You brought us a warning we might not have had otherwise. I think that is brave.”

Twilight waited, giving him space to continue. When he finally looked up, the weight in his gaze was enough to make even her stomach twist. “It’s not just that it killed, Princess,” he said. “It… it enjoyed it. Or maybe it didn’t care. I don’t know which is worse.” He swallowed hard, his feathers bristling slightly. “We tried to stop it. We really did. But it just… kept going. It was like we were nothing.”

Twilight’s expression grew more serious, but her voice remained steady. “And when it left Griffonstone, you said it went west?”

Garver nodded quickly, a little too quickly. “Straight off the cliffs,” he said. “It jumped like it didn’t care where it landed. Just—gone. I didn’t see where it went after, but I heard rumors. Some griffons said they saw it moving through the forest. Fast.” He hesitated. “Like it knew where it was going.”

Twilight’s eyes flicked to a map laid out on the table beside her. “West,” she murmured, her horn lighting up as she traced a line across the parchment. “That would take it towards the ocean, and crossing that would be Baltimare.” Her quill resumed its motion, scribbling notes in a precise hand. Any of her eastern towns or cities were at risk now. Baltimare, Manehatten, Filly Delphia. It was frustrating, having no idea where it was, where it was going—when it would arrive.

Garver’s talons froze mid-tap. “You can stop it, right?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly. “You have to stop it. I don’t think it's gonna stop, it won’t—” He broke off, his breath catching. “You don’t understand. You think you’ve seen monsters, but this… this thing isn’t just a monster. It’s something worse.”

Twilight nodded, though her expression was solemn. “Garver, I will do everything I can to protect Equestria, and all of its friends. That includes you.”

Garver blinked at her, his beak opening slightly as though to argue, but then he closed it again. He stood, his legs shaky beneath him. “If you’ll excuse me, Princess,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I think I need some air.”

“Wait,” Twilight said. Garver turned back to her, pausing for whatever she would say.

“Do you know Gilda?” She needed to be sure.

“Gilda? Not really, no,” Garver only needed a moment to know the real question being asked. “I didn’t see her, or her family. But they are fine, or at least I know it didn’t get them.”

“Thank you, Garver.” She didn’t feel relieved, but it was one less tragedy, for what that was worth.

Twilight watched as he shuffled toward the door, his wings tucked tightly to his sides. Her quill hovered in place as her gaze returned to the map, her mind racing. She had faced countless threats before—monsters, villains, forces of nature. She never thought she would hear of something so irredeemably cruel, so filled with malice.

Finally alone, Twilight let out an exhausted breath, rested her hoof to her head and her chin to the table. She wanted sleep—the sweet embrace of unconsciousness—so much now. If only to escape everything for just a moment.

Those thoughts came back again, and before she could choke on them she stood, letting her parchment go with a puff back to her study. She would help the griffons, they needed it. First, she felt Garver needed a helping hand.

More commands were issued, each one meticulously crafted and dispatched with urgency. Forces preparing to march north were now redirected east, their objectives shifting in response to new threats. All of this for two—at least two. Twilight now knew exactly what the monsters looked like. They shared the same appearance as the body housed deep in the castle, she only needed to make a general sketch and copy it. drawings were sent to every scout, every patrol, with explicit orders: any sighting, any trace, was to be reported to her immediately.

She couldn’t let them vanish into the unknown, free to bring the same destruction they had wrought upon Griffonstone and the Crystal Empire.

Twilight sat on the balcony of her chambers, the cool night air brushing against her coat and tugging at her feathers. The room behind her still felt foreign, its polished elegance wasn’t yet a home to her—not her home, at least.

Her gaze was fixed on the moon, its pale silver light casting Canterlot in an ethereal glow. It softened the sharp edges of the city’s towers and spread long, still shadows across the clean streets below. The sight brought Luna to mind.

Luna had kept her updated on the Crystal Empire through letters. Aid had arrived swiftly, with pegasi working tirelessly to assist the Crystal Ponies. They ferried the injured to field hospitals set up just beyond the storm’s edge, while those still able to walk were transported south to Canterlot.

Celestia had joined Luna in the north, both now putting their retirement to the side, as Twilight learned through their correspondence. Knowing that brought her a sliver of relief. Celestia’s presence was a beacon, one that could rekindle hope even in the most despairing hearts. If anypony could lift the spirits of the Crystal Ponies, it was her.

Twilight felt… hollow. The ache in her chest had dulled, settling into a strange numbness. It was as though her grief had reached a point where it could no longer be expressed, leaving only an unbearable quiet.

A faint ripple of magic washed over her, soft and familiar. Twilight turned her head sharply, her breath catching as a warm glow filled the doorway to her balcony. There, stepping gracefully into the moonlight, was Princess Celestia. Her flowing, radiant mane shimmered in bright hues, and her serene expression carried both strength and tenderness.

“Twilight,” Celestia greeted softly, her voice as warm and comforting as a hearth on a cold night.

“Celestia,” Twilight breathed, standing from her cushion. For a moment, the weight on her shoulders lessened. “You’re here.”

Celestia nodded, stepping closer until they stood side by side. “I wanted to see you,” she said, her voice gentle but purposeful. “I thought you could use some company.”

Twilight blinked, her ears twitching. “But… shouldn’t you be in the Crystal Empire? Luna said you were helping the ponies there.”

“I was,” Celestia replied, her gaze turning briefly to the horizon. “And I will return soon. But Luna is more than capable of managing things in my absence. She is leading them admirably. Right now, I wanted to check on you.”

Twilight’s wings twitched, and she looked away. “I’m fine,” she said quickly, her tone betraying her words. “Everything is going smoothly now, the mayors are still demanding more protection in the north and east, they already have all their reserves raised.” She didn’t mention many in the south making the same demands, another thing she would have to handle.

Celestia tilted her head, her eyes soft but searching. “And what about you, Twilight?”

Twilight stiffened, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I’m fine,” she repeated, more firmly this time. “There’s too much to do to worry about me.”

Celestia stepped closer, her expression gentle but insistent. “Twilight,” she said softly, “I know that look. It’s the same one I wore after losing my sister to the Nightmare. You’re carrying more than you should alone. Please, talk to me.”

Twilight’s composure wavered, her jaw tightening as she fought to keep the emotions at bay. “I don’t even know what to say,” she admitted finally, her voice trembling. “I’ve faced so many crises before, but this… I couldn’t stop it. Cadence, Shiny, the Empire—it’s all gone, and I wasn’t there to help. I wasn’t there to save them.”

Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over as her voice broke. “How do I fix this? How do I carry this?”

Celestia extended a wing, gently draping it over Twilight’s back. “You don’t have to carry it alone,” she said softly. “Twilight, your strength has always been your heart—your ability to bring others together. That strength is still yours, even now. Let others help you. Let me help you.”

Twilight sniffled, leaning into the comforting warmth of Celestia’s wing. “I just… I don’t want to lose anyone else,” she whispered. “I don’t know if I can take it.”

Celestia’s voice was quiet, filled with both sadness and reassurance. “Loss is a weight no ruler should bear alone. I know that pain too well, Twilight. I’ve lost friends, allies… even those I thought would never leave. When my sister was gone, I thought I had nothing left. And in the early days, I nearly gave in to that despair.” She paused, her gaze fixed on the moon. “But I held on because of the connections I made. My sister, when she returned. My friends, even in their fleeting years. And you.”

Twilight blinked, her breath hitching at the depth of Celestia’s words. “Me?”

Celestia nodded, her eyes filled with warmth. “You, Twilight. And now I see that strength in you. Let those around you share your burden. You are not alone.”

Twilight nodded, her tears falling silently as she looked back at the moon. For a long moment, they simply sat together, the elder offering solace and the younger finding strength in her presence.

“How’s Luna?” Twilight asked after a while, her voice steadying.

Celestia’s smile returned, faint but warm. “She is doing well. The Crystal Ponies look to her as a beacon, and she has risen to the challenge beautifully.”

Twilight gave a small nod, her gaze distant. The ache in her chest hadn’t vanished, but it felt less unbearable now.

After a pause, she turned to Celestia. “Can we just… sit here? For a while?”

“Of course,” Celestia said softly, her smile tinged with solemnity.

And so, they sat side by side, watching the moon as its light bathed Canterlot in a gentle glow. The city below hummed faintly with life. For a moment, Twilight felt lighter.

The sound of waves crashing against the shore echoed faintly in his ears, a steady rhythm that tugged at something within his mind. He stood at the edge of the tree line, his massive frame partially obscured by the shadows of the dense foliage. The salty tang of the ocean air mingled with the scent of earth and bark, grounding him—if only for a fleeting moment.

He felt… more lucid. The haze that had clouded his mind since his emergence flickered, allowing him brief clarity. His blade had long been sheathed, the act of doing so a vague memory. For now, his hands remained empty, hanging loosely at his sides, though the tension in his massive fingers betrayed the restlessness simmering beneath his calm facade.

Before him lay a modest port, a cluster of wooden docks stretching out into the water. Small ships bobbed gently on the waves, their sails fluttering in the breeze. The scene was almost tranquil—simple creatures scurrying about their tasks, unloading crates, shouting orders, and casting lines. The distant clatter of cargo and the creak of timbers reached him, familiar yet alien to his ears.

He watched from the shadows, his crimson lenses fixed on the activity. He didn’t dare move closer. Not yet.

The ocean stretched endlessly beyond the port, its dark, roiling surface glinting faintly in the light of the rising moon. It called to him, whispering promises of passage westward. His path lay beyond that horizon, he knew. But the waters were deep, and though his armor could withstand the crushing pressure of the sea bed, he couldn’t trust the journey. The tides were treacherous, the depths an abyss he couldn’t risk.

And the ships. He had observed them long enough to know their frailty. The wooden vessels, creaking and swaying under the weight of their meager cargo, wouldn’t hold him. He would sink them the moment his boots touched their planks.

He needed something stronger.

The marine’s thoughts swirled like the eddies in the ocean, a constant churn of fragmented memories and gnawing urges. His focus wavered, his gaze flicking between the workers and the vessels as his mind struggled to hold on to the moment.

He clenched his fists, the servos in his gauntlets whining softly.

Then he saw it.

A larger vessel, hulking and metallic, glided into the port. Its size dwarfed the other ships, and its steel hull gleamed faintly under the moonlight. Cargo containers were stacked on its deck, their weight a testament to the ship’s sturdiness. This… this could hold him.

He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he studied the vessel. It was a freighter of some sort, its crew bustling about as it docked. They moved with precision, tying ropes, securing the gangplank, and shouting orders to one another. The sight stirred something faint in his mind—a memory of ships far grander, vessels that sailed the void rather than the sea. He pushed the thought away.

The sailors were strange. Some kind of four legged creature, not like the feathered things before. They had hooves, he could hear the clicking of their hooved feet. They seemed to be some kind of horse.

He would need to board it, but not now. He had to wait, to watch. His patience was frayed, but he forced himself to remain still. His mind fought against him, fragmented thoughts tugging at the edges of his focus.

You are wasting time. Go.

No. He needed to plan. He couldn’t afford to be careless. Not here.

The minutes stretched into hours as he observed from the shadows. The crew unloaded cargo, crates and barrels moving steadily from the ship to the docks. Lanterns flickered in the night, their light casting long shadows across the water. He noted the patterns of their movements, the moments when the dock grew quieter, when fewer eyes would be watching.

Finally, he moved.

His boots crunched against the gravel of the shoreline, leaving deep impressions behind as he approached the dock.

The workers, initially too absorbed in their tasks, soon noticed the towering figure striding toward them. Voices faltered, crates and ropes were dropped, and a tense silence fell over the bustling port. Some froze, their wide eyes reflecting the lantern light; others slowly backed away, their ears pinned and tails twitching nervously.

He ignored them. They were insignificant distractions, not worth the energy to acknowledge. His crimson lenses remained fixed on the metal ship before him, the low groan of his armor’s servos punctuating the quiet.

When he reached the gangplank, it shuddered under his weight. Each step was accompanied by a deep, ominous creak, the wooden parts of the dock protesting loudly. He adjusted instinctively, shifting his bulk to stand only on the metal supports, which groaned but held.

As he stepped onto the deck, the ship itself seemed to resist his presence. The steel beneath him warped ever so slightly with each movement, the vibrations rippling outward in low, dissonant tones. He paused, his head tilting slightly as he processed the sensation.

The crew had gathered near the center of the deck, their expressions a mixture of fear and confusion. The ponies ranged in size and color, but all of them wore rough, practical clothing suited for dock work or sea travel. Some clutched tools or ropes, though none seemed prepared to use them.

His gaze swept over them, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. These creatures… they were strange. Equine in shape, but their proportions, their colors, even the intelligence in their wide, fearful eyes were alien to him. His thoughts fractured further as he tried to make sense of them, his mind tugged in conflicting directions.

He stopped before a smaller group, his attention settling on one who seemed older, their weathered features marked by age and authority. The captain, he assumed.

The marine stared down at the pony, his red lenses reflecting the flickering light of the ship’s lanterns. He felt… nothing. No curiosity, no hostility, not even the faintest spark of understanding. They were shapes, movements, sound.

Finally, he spoke.

“This ship… is it yours?”

The voice that emerged from his vox-grille startled even him. It was dry and broken, a gravely rasp that seemed to claw its way into the air. The distortion of the vox only made it worse, reducing his words to a guttural growl barely recognizable as speech.

The ponies flinched at the sound. The captain, though shaken, managed to take a step forward, his hat slipping slightly as he craned his neck to look up at the armored giant. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, as though searching for an answer—or the courage to give one.

The marine tilted his head, the movement slow and deliberate. The silence stretched, broken only by the groan of the ship beneath him and the faint whisper of the waves.

“I asked…” he began again, his voice scraping like metal on stone. “Is it yours?” He believed they could understand them, he didn’t know why.

The captain’s voice wavered as he finally managed to respond. “Yes. Yes, it’s mine.” His words tumbled out quickly. “What do you want with it?”

The marine paused, the question reverberating in his head. What did he want? The answer came slowly, emerging from the tangled depths of thought.

“To cross,” he rasped. “West.”

The captain blinked, momentarily taken by confusion. “West?”

“Yes.” The marine's tone hardened, his patience fraying. “Your ship. Will it hold?”

The captain glanced at the deck beneath the marine’s feet, where the metal plating was already groaning under his weight. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.

The marine straightened, the towering bulk of his frame casting a shadow over the group of ponies. His fractured mind churned with indecision, the pieces of his thoughts splintering further with each passing moment. Finally, he looked down at the captain.

“It will hold,” he said with finality.

The captain, despite every nerve in his body screaming at him to avoid provoking the giant, knew he couldn’t simply abandon the cargo and the job entrusted to him. His crew was watching, and though fear gripped them all, they needed him to maintain at least the appearance of authority.

He hesitated before asking, his voice was steady enough to carry. “Do you… have payment?”

The words hung in the air, the weight of his question pressing down on the deck. The moment they escaped his lips, he regretted them. It was a foolish question, one he had asked out of reflex, the way he always did when dealing with travelers. But this was no ordinary traveler.

The marine stared down at him, unmoving. The red glow of his lenses locked onto the captain, and an unbearable silence followed. Around him, his crew shifted nervously, some gripping tools or ropes as if they might serve as weapons—not that any of them believed such things could harm the figure.

The silence dragged on, the tension rising with every passing second. The captain swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the marine’s gaze. To him, the stillness felt like judgment, like a predator assessing whether its prey was worth the effort.

Finally, the marine spoke, his voice a rasping growl. “No.”

The answer was blunt, delivered without hesitation. It wasn’t an apology, nor did it carry any hint of shame. It was simply the truth. He had no payment, no currency to offer. What he carried—his weapons, his armor—was worth more than the ship itself, but none of it was something he would part with.

The captain’s ears flattened against his head, and he nodded quickly, eager to diffuse any potential anger. “That’s… that’s fine,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’ll be heading out soon anyway.”

The marine gave no indication that he had heard or cared about the captain’s words. He simply stood, his massive form a silent, immovable presence on the deck. His lenses turned back toward the horizon, the faint hiss of his armor’s systems the only sound accompanying him.

The captain turned to his crew, motioning for them to continue their work. He whispered sharp commands, urging them to focus on the cargo and the ropes, to keep their eyes low and avoid drawing the figure’s attention. The ponies obeyed, though their movements were jittery, their hooves clattering nervously against the deck.

The marine watched the waves. He didn’t see ocean often, only from orbit. He had felt the ship begin its voyage, barely noticing its movement until they were far from shore.

He had time to think, and think he did. He wondered what he would find west.

He listened to the horses’ whispered words, and heard them talk of some settlement called… Man hat ten? That was the destination it seemed.

He wondered if Locari had survived.