Applied Mathemagics

Eventually, the sobs slow.

My body still aches, my breath still shudders, but the sheer overwhelming relief has settled into something else.

Something solid.

Something determined.

I sniff, rubbing the tears and snot off my face with a half-hearted flick of my magic. Rachel’s stone chest is damp with them, a dark streak marring the otherwise pristine surface.

I fix that too.

A precise application of telekinesis wipes her clean, smoothing the surface, returning her to the perfect, immaculate construct she was meant to be.

She stands there, unmoved, as I do it.

As if my breakdown meant nothing to her.

Because it didn’t.

Because she isn’t alive.

And that’s… good.

That’s why I made her.

She isn’t alive. She isn’t vulnerable. She doesn’t die or break down or lose hope when things get bad.

She is constant.

And that is exactly what I need.

I sniff again, grabbing my rune book from the cart and flipping it open, my eyes scanning the pages as my resolve hardens.

I need to make her stronger.

If I deteriorate any further, if I get too weak to defend myself, Rachel needs to be able to protect me.

She’s already durable—stone is stone, and her construction is solid—but right now, she’s just an extension of my will. A tool. A glorified pack mule with arms.

That’s not enough.

I carve.

My magic presses into her stone gently, adjusting the surface, etching new runes into her back and limbs with deliberate precision. If I mess up, it doesn’t matter—I can fill in the mistakes and adjust.

The process is fast, efficient, methodical.

She will be able to fly.
She will be able to strike.
She will be able to avoid attacks automatically.
She will be able to defend.

She will be able to fight for me.

INITIAL CONDITIONS
creator_detected = false
following_creator = false
stopped = false
holding_target = false
target_detected = false
destination_set = false
attacking = false
flying = false
evading = false
defending = false

creator_position = [0,0]
golem_position = [0,0]
target_position = [0,0]
destination_position = [0,0]
attack_target = [0,0]
defend_target = [0,0]

body_parts = struct('head', true, 'arms', true, 'legs', true, 'torso', true)
total_mass = initial_mass

DETECTION RUNE
if detect(creator)
→ creator_detected = true
→ creator_position = get_position(creator)

if detect(target)
→ target_detected = true
→ target_position = get_position(target)

FLIGHT COMMAND RUNE
if command_heard("fly")
→ flying = true

if command_heard("land")
→ flying = false

if flying
→ disable_gravity()
→ engage_flight_stabilization()
→ adjust_altitude(creator_position or attack_target or destination_position)

if not flying
→ apply_gravity()

FOLLOW COMMAND RUNE
if command_heard("follow")
→ following_creator = true
→ stopped = false

if following_creator and not stopped
→ if flying
→ fly_to(creator_position)
→ else
→ move_to(creator_position)

STOP COMMAND RUNE
if command_heard("stop")
→ following_creator = false
→ stopped = true

PICK-UP RUNE
if command_heard("pick up") and target_detected and not holding_target
→ move_to(target_position)
→ hold(target)
→ holding_target = true

HOLD & FOLLOW / TRANSPORT RUNE
if holding_target and following_creator
→ if flying
→ fly_to(creator_position)
→ else
→ move_to(creator_position)

if command_heard("bring to") and target_detected
→ destination_position = get_destination()
→ destination_set = true

if holding_target and destination_set
→ if flying
→ fly_to(destination_position)
→ else
→ move_to(destination_position)

SET DOWN RUNE
if holding_target and command_heard("set down")
→ release(target)
→ holding_target = false
→ destination_set = false

MOVEMENT CORRECTION RUNE
if flying
→ engage_flight_stabilization()
→ adjust_altitude(creator_position or attack_target or destination_position)

if not flying
→ if following_creator or moving_to_target or moving_to_destination
→ engage_leg_joints()
→ balance_weight_distribution()
→ step_toward(target_position or creator_position or destination_position)

if off_ground and not intentional_float and not flying
→ apply_gravity()

ATTACK COMMAND RUNE
if command_heard("attack") and target_detected
→ attacking = true
→ attack_target = target_position

if attacking
→ if flying
→ fly_to(attack_target)
→ else
→ move_to(attack_target)

→ if within_range(attack_target)
→ strike(attack_target)
→ evaluate_damage(attack_target)
→ if target_defeated(attack_target)
→ attacking = false
→ target_detected = false

DEFEND COMMAND RUNE
if command_heard("defend") and target_detected
→ defending = true
→ defend_target = target_position

if command_heard("stop defending")
→ defending = false
→ defend_target = [0,0]

if defending
→ monitor_area(defend_target)
→ if detect(entity) and entity != defend_target
→ attack_target = get_position(entity)
→ attacking = true

ATTACK AVOIDANCE RUNE
if detect(incoming_attack)
→ evading = true
→ determine_evasion_path()

if evading
→ if flying
→ execute_aerial_evasion()
→ else
→ execute_ground_evasion()

→ if attack_missed()
→ evading = false

REGENERATION RUNE
if any_missing(body_parts)
→ nearest_earth = find_earth_source()
→ move_to_source(nearest_earth)
→ absorb_earth()
→ restore_missing_parts(body_parts)
→ update_mass(total_mass)
→ motion_state = "repairing"

I move back, inspecting my work, rolling the concepts through my mind, ensuring every function is sound before I activate anything.

She's almost perfect now.

…But there is one more thing I could add.

My eyes flick to the sentience rune.

The one that would make her think.

That would make her aware.

That would give her a mind of her own.

I stare at it for a long moment, my magic hovering over the page, hesitation curling in my chest like a slow, creeping shadow.

Rachel would be more than a construct.

She would be herself.

She would be alive.

I swallow hard.

I look around at the hellscape I’m trapped in.

The blackened stone. The endless caverns. The monsters lurking in the dark.

The sheer, merciless cruelty of this place.

Rachel is perfect because she is unfazed.

Unyielding.

Unbroken.

What would happen if she could think? If she could feel? If she could want?

She would suffer.

Just like me.

My eyes linger on the sentience rune for a moment longer.

Then, slowly, I pull back.

Rachel stays as she is.

I hover myself onto the cart, positioning myself carefully so that my weight is evenly distributed. My legs ache, but it’s dull—manageable.

For now.

I inject magic into the runes, feeling the faint hum of power as the carved symbols activate. The cart shifts slightly beneath me, responding instantly.

“Activate: West.”

The cart moves.

Rachel follows.

The wall of the massive cavern stretches endlessly to my right as we glide forward, the lava river flickering dimly in the distance. The air is thick, humid from the heat, but it feels lifeless—like something that hasn’t changed in centuries.

I occasionally open the stone basin and drink from the water, letting the coolness refresh me. I eat some of the centipede meat, chewing slowly, deliberately.

But I can tell.

I’m getting worse.

My legs ache more than before. The swelling hasn’t gone down, not really. I don’t know if I moved too much today or if it’s just progressing on its own, but the realization sits heavy in my mind.

Still, I push forward.

There’s nothing else to do.

Nothing but keep going, resting in-between.

After resting, we push out of the small cave within a cave and set off again.

My legs aren’t stiff anymore. They’re dead weight.

The pain isn’t sharp—not yet—but it feels wrong, deep beneath the skin. Like something has settled inside my flesh and started rotting from within.

But I don’t have time to think about it.

Because I hear them before I see them.

A low, buzzing drone, faint at first.

Then closer.

Louder.

Something is coming.

I lift my head weakly, scanning the cavern.

Then I see them.

A swarm.

Dark, writhing, crawling over itself in a living mass.

I don’t know what they are.

I don’t care.

They move with purpose, rushing toward us in a shifting, wriggling wave, hundreds of them, their small, chittering bodies glinting in the lava light.

I react instantly.

“Rachel—attack!”

She moves.

For the first time since she arrived, Rachel lunges forward, her stone limbs shifting fluidly, her joints moving seamlessly. The runes work perfectly—she dodges, she strikes, her fists crushing the creatures beneath her, sending shattered carapaces flying.

But there are too many.

I lift myself into the air, hovering just above the cart. My telekinesis lashes out, grabbing a chunk of loose stone from the cavern floor and pulverizing it midair, turning it into a cloud of fine, razor-sharp dust.

Then I force it outward.

A shockwave of sharp particles erupts, slicing through the swarm, tearing wings and limbs from their bodies.

They screech.

They scatter.

And then—

It’s over.

The cavern is silent again.

I exhale, shaking, my body trembling from exertion. I check myself over, making sure no bugs got through.

Then I realize—

One of my legs is worse than the others.

Much worse.

I look down.

The leg looks wrong.

The other three? Still swollen, still aching, but not as bad. The pain has eased slightly, the stiffness less suffocating.

But the fourth leg…

The flesh is taut, stretched too tight over the limb. Darker than before. Bruised? Maybe. But there’s something else.

Something off.

A dull, throbbing heat pulses beneath the skin, slow and wrong. The kind of warmth that feels unnatural, like something is cooking me from the inside out.

I swallow hard.

This isn’t good.

This is really not good.

I try to move it, just to test it—

A sharp, searing pain explodes up my limb, tearing through my body like fire.

I bite down a shout, my vision flashing white from the agony. My stomach churns, my mind blurs with the sheer intensity of it.

I pull away, breathing heavily.

The realization sinks in.

It’s not just pain.

It’s dying.

My leg is dying.

It's been around a day. Or not, hard to tell.

I can’t move the leg anymore.

It’s heavy. Dead weight.

I barely slept. Every time I drifted off, I’d jolt awake from the deep, gnawing ache crawling up my bones.

I drink. I eat.

But I don’t feel better.

It’s spreading.

I can tell.

My body feels wrong—not just in my legs, but all over, like my blood isn’t moving right.

Like something inside me is failing.

I don’t want to think about it.

I just keep moving.

The cart hums softly as it drifts forward, Rachel walking silently beside it. She never tired, never slowed, never felt pain.

She just existed.

I stare at her as we move, my body cold, my chest tight.

I wonder how much longer I will.

I’m burning up.

Not from the heat of the cavern—not from the magma river still flickering in the distance.

It’s internal. Deep.

A sickness crawling through my blood, thick and heavy like molten lead. My body aches, the fever sinking into my bones, leaving me lightheaded and detached.

I barely notice when I start shivering.

It’s not cold here.

But my body doesn’t know that anymore.

I glance down at my dead leg—the rotting, useless limb still attached to me.

It’s black.

Cold. Numb.

The flesh looks dry, cracked—like it belongs to something long-dead.

I don’t need a doctor to tell me what comes next.

I either cut it off now—or I die with it.

I veer off course, directing the cart toward a smaller magma stream branching from the main river.

Rachel follows.

She doesn’t question. She doesn’t understand.

Good.

I hover myself onto solid ground, lowering my slab carefully. Every movement shakes me, my limbs trembling uncontrollably from fever, exhaustion, pure fucking dread—

But I can’t stop now.

I won’t.

"Rachel, Defend: Creator."

I gather my materials.

A plan. A method. A way to make it work.

If I mess this up, I bleed out.

If I hesitate, the infection spreads.

I take a shaking breath.

And I begin.

I lift my obsidian sword over the magma, holding it still as the heat bleeds into it.

The black glass darkens—then glows red-hot, the heat rippling through the air.

The edges are sharp, but I don’t need to cut with it.

Not yet.

I press the flat edge close to the surface of the magma, ensuring it’s evenly heated, making sure it holds the temperature.

The world tilts slightly.

I can feel my heartbeat in my ears.

Too fast. Too weak.

I don’t have long.

I lift the blade.

And press it against my leg.

Pain explodes.

A searing shockwave tears through my nerves, and my magic flickers.

The blade shudders, nearly slipping from my grip.

I grit my teeth, pulling my power back under control.

The heated obsidian sinks into dead flesh, sealing arteries before they can open.

I can’t scream.

I can’t breathe.

I just focus on the method.

Small sections. Work in pieces.

I sear the blood vessels before the stump is fully exposed, keeping control, not letting it get out of hand.

The smell of burnt flesh is thick—suffocating.

But it means it’s working.

I keep going.

The blade dips for a moment. My telekinesis flickers again.

The heat bites into raw nerve endings, and for a second, I nearly drop it.

I catch it just before it falls, forcing the magic steady.

Almost there.

Another pulse of agony—my horn sparks, my grip weakens.

No—

I shove the blade back against the wound, finishing the last section before my power gives out completely.

It clatters to the ground.

I barely register it.

I nearly black out when the cauterization is finished.

Everything spins.

My whole body is screaming in protest, drenched in sweat, burning with fever, shaking so violently I almost lose control of my magic.

But I can’t stop yet.

I grab a chunk of earth, compacting it, shaping it carefully, pressing it into form.

I heat it over the magma—not to glowing-hot levels, but just enough.

Sterilized.

I smooth the inner surface, ensuring it won’t cut into the healing flesh, making sure it’s not rough or jagged.

The heat is seeping into me, pressing against my already burning skin, my fever-wrecked body barely holding together.

Just a little longer.

I hold the cap in my grip, hovering it over the stump, ready to seal the wound.

I brace myself.

I press it down.

Gently—but firmly.

The heat bites into my raw, cauterized flesh, the pressure securing the wound, keeping it from reopening, locking out infection. I adjust it to clamp on my stub.

It cools slowly, hardening in place.

A barrier. A pressure dressing. A foundation for whatever comes next.

It’s over.

I exhale sharply, my vision blurring, my limbs failing—

I slump sideways, collapsing against Rachel’s stone legs, my body giving out completely.

Everything feels far away.

Distant.

My mind drifts, slipping further—

Until everything goes dark.

The world is a blur.

My body burns, my mind floats, slipping between fevered delirium and brief moments of agonizing awareness.

I am dying.

I feel it.

And yet… I am not dead yet.

Because every time I fade out, something pulls me back.

The sounds of stone meeting flesh—a wet crunch, a final gasp of some unseen attacker before silence falls again.

Bodies pile up around me.

I see them in glimpses—half-dissolved shapes of twisted creatures, their forms shattered, limbs crushed.

Rachel is protecting me.

Of course she is.

She doesn’t tire.

She doesn’t fear.

She doesn’t fail.

I shudder, my breath ragged, my fevered mind clawing for clarity.

I am weak. Too weak.

If this continues…

If I slip any further…

Rachel will keep fighting.

But that’s all she will do.

And when the monsters stop coming?

When the threats are gone?

What will she do then?

She will wait.

She will stand beside my corpse, unmoving, unthinking.

And she will do nothing.

Because I never made her understand me.

I need her to be more.

I don’t get up.

I don’t need to.

I carve.

My magic flickers, barely holding together, but I force it to obey. The rune is simple, its lines already burned into my mind.

The rune etches deep into her surface, glowing faintly as it sets.

And as it seals itself, a thought—a whisper of intent—bleeds into the magic, accidental, unbidden.

I hope she’ll recognize that she’s mine…

And I hope she’ll still care for me.

My magic seeps away, the rune pulsing once before dimming.

I watch.

I wait.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then—

Rachel moves.

Not her limbs. Not her body.

Her head.

Slowly, deliberately, she turns—not in response to a command, not from some pre-written function, but because she wants to look.

She does not speak—she has no mouth.

She does not blink—her eyes are motionless stone.

But she is aware.

I can see it.

She takes in the world like it’s new, because to her—

It is.

The world tilts around me, my vision swimming in and out of focus.

I can barely keep my eyes open.

My body is burning, every breath feeling like embers in my lungs. My skin is slick with fever, my head too heavy to lift.

I need water.

I try to speak, but my throat is too dry—the words scrape out like something dying, barely audible.

“Bring...water.”

Rachel doesn’t react.

Not at first.

She is still, her massive form looming over me, her unmoving stone face watching.

She doesn’t understand.

I watch her in return, my mind sluggish, but aware. Her posture is different. There is a hesitation to her stance—not like before.

She is thinking.

Slowly, she moves. Not with purpose, not with certainty—but with a hesitant curiosity.

She bends, reaching for something.

A moment later, she sets a chunk of centipede meat in front of me.

I blink.

No—

I push it away weakly with my magic, shaking my head.

“...No... Water.”

Rachel pauses.

Her head tilts slightly.

The movement is slow, deliberate.

She is trying to understand.

For a long moment, she just stares at me.

Then, she turns—searching.

I hold my breath, my chest tight with desperation, my body aching with thirst.

Rachel finds the sealed water basin.

She hesitates.

Then she picks it up and brings it to me, setting it down carefully beside me.

Relief floods through me, but I am too weak to even reach for it.

I struggle, my hooves trembling, my magic flickering in an attempt to unseal it—but I can’t.

Rachel watches.

She sees my struggle.

She sees my need.

And something clicks.

Without hesitation, she lifts the basin in both hands—

And crushes the side of it open.

The stone shatters, and water pours out, spilling across the ground.

I don’t get any of it.

It soaks into the cavern floor, disappearing before I can even taste it.

I let out a weak, broken noise, my breath hitching, my vision blurring from exhaustion and frustration.

Rachel is still.

She sees.

She knows she did something wrong.

But she doesn’t understand why.

Not yet.

The water is so close.

I force my body to move, my limbs trembling, the pain unbearable as I try to wiggle forward.

Every shift sends sharp shocks through my shattered bones, my breathing ragged, my vision blackening at the edges.

But I keep going.

I have to.

The half-full basin is just out of reach.

Rachel watches.

She doesn’t move.

But she sees.

She sees me struggle.

She sees me reach for something I cannot reach.

And—

She acts.

Without command.

Without hesitation.

She lifts the basin in her hands—carefully, delicately—and brings it closer.

Then she tilts it, just enough.

Water pools near the edge.

Close enough for me to drink.

The moment the first drop touches my tongue, my body shudders, something raw and instinctive taking over. I gulp it down desperately, my throat aching, my body demanding more.

Rachel does not move.

She keeps the basin steady, letting me take what I need.

The water is warm, but it doesn’t matter.

It is life.

I pull away eventually, gasping for air, my body shaking from exertion.

I have three legs.

All of them broken.

But I am still alive.

And so is Rachel.

Watching. Learning.

Understanding.

I lay back down, my body too weak to fight anymore.

The water settles in my stomach, a cool weight in the burning ache of my fever. My limbs are numb, the pain still there, but distant—like my body is finally too tired to scream at me anymore.

I let my eyes close.

Rachel is still there.

Waiting.

I wake abruptly, my body jolting from deep sleep—

And immediately regret it.

Pain flares through me, every muscle and joint stiff and unforgiving. My breathing is shallow, my mind still foggy, still slow.

And then—

I realize something is there.

Right there.

An inch from my face.

I flinch violently, my pulse spiking, my magic sparking weakly in defense—

Rachel.

She is crouched low, staring at me.

Not moving.

Not blinking.

Just watching.

I breathe hard, heart hammering from the shock, my body frozen for a moment before my mind catches up.

It’s her.

Of course it’s her.

I let out a slow, shaky breath, willing my racing heart to settle.

Rachel does not react.

She does not understand why I was afraid.

But she sees the tension leave my body.

She waits.

I cough weakly, my throat still dry, and whisper:

“Water.”

She does not move immediately.

For a moment, I think she doesn’t understand.

Then, she slowly stands, turns, and moves toward the half-broken basin still sitting nearby.

She picks it up—more carefully than before—and brings it to me.

She doesn’t spill it this time.

I drink.

This time, I do not feel desperate.

This time, it is controlled.

Rachel crouches again as I drink, watching me intently, her massive stone form motionless.

She waits.

When I finish, I take a slow, measured breath, exhaling weakly.

“Food.”

She stands again.

This time, there is no hesitation.

She picks up a chunk of cooked centipede, moves forward, and places it beside me.

She is learning.

She is understanding.

I chew slowly, forcing my body to accept the food, my limbs still aching, my mind still swimming in fevered exhaustion.

Rachel crouches again.

She does not look away.

Time blurs.

I drift in and out of fevered sleep, the pain and exhaustion too much to fight for long.

But I wake.

I drink.

I eat.

And Rachel is always there.

She keeps the monsters away.

She keeps the water close.

She brings food when I ask.

I am still broken.

Still weak.

Still far from okay.

But I am alive.

And now?

Rachel makes sure I stay that way.

Time has blurred beyond recognition.

I don’t know how many days have passed.

But I know this—

I don’t feel good, but I feel better.

Not strong. Not healed.

But enough to work.

Enough to move again.

My magic thrums faintly in my mind, a familiar hum that had once been barely a whisper. It isn’t at full strength, but it’s growing, recovering alongside me.

Which is good.

Because my water is gone.

I sigh, using magic to rub at my face. The last drop had vanished yesterday—or maybe longer ago, I don’t know anymore.

I need more.

And there’s only one way to get it.

I grit my teeth and lift myself, my broken body floating up as the slab beneath me shifts gently under my magic.

The pain is distant now, dull and constant, but I have adjusted.

I move toward the nearest corpse—one of the massive lobster-looking monsters that Rachel has killed.

Its chitinous shell is cracked open, its many legs curled inward in the way of dead insects. It must have attacked in the night, and Rachel silently crushed it without me waking.

I slowly pull a the water free, extracting the liquid with delicate control, watching as it coalesces into a floating mass, gathering into a single clear sphere of purified water.

When it’s enough, I direct it into the basin, refilling it once more.

Relief settles in my chest.

I am not dying today.

I breathe out, hovering back slightly, my exhausted body still shaking from exertion.

I glance at Rachel.

She stands motionless, watching me, just like she always does.

Waiting.

I look at the massive lobster-thing’s body, then at the magma stream nearby.

I have an idea.

Slowly, I speak:

“Rachel… cook.”

She doesn’t move.

She does not understand.

Yet.

I exhale, gathering my strength, and try again.

I gesture weakly toward the corpse.

“Take… meat.”

Rachel pauses, tilting her head slightly.

Then she moves.

Not fluidly. Not perfectly.

But purposefully.

She reaches down, her stone fingers digging into the corpse, pulling free a large chunk of meat.

I nod, ignoring the ache in my body.

“Now… magma.”

Rachel turns her head, following my nod toward the lava flow nearby.

She moves toward it slowly, standing at the edge.

Then she pauses.

And waits.

She is thinking.

She does not know what to do next.

I take a shaky breath.

“Put… meat… near.”

Rachel tilts her head again.

I nod my head at the magma.

She moves carefully, kneeling beside the magma, placing the raw chunk of meat on the hot stone at the edge, just near enough for the heat to sear it.

I watch.

She watches.

And as the meat begins to sizzle, the surface darkening, the smell of cooked flesh filling the air, I see it.

Something clicks in Rachel’s still, unmoving form.

She understands.

Not perfectly.

Not deeply.

But enough.

Days pass.

I drift between sleep and wakefulness, my mind a constant haze of pain, exhaustion, and slow recovery.

Rachel cooks for me.

She guards me.

She kills for me.

And I barely have to ask anymore.

She has learned.

When I wake, there is always food waiting. Always Rachel, watching silently, unmoving unless I need her.

And when monsters come, she tears through them like an unstoppable force of nature—a living stone weapon with no hesitation, no exhaustion, no fear.

Her battles are brutal.

Efficient.

Ruthless.

But when she turns back to me?

She is careful.

Gentle.

Caring.

She lifts my water basin delicately, tilting it just enough to let me drink.

She helps me eat, ripping the meat to bite-sized pieces, setting it in front of me, waiting patiently as I take my time.

She even adjusts my positioning, setting me upright, making sure I’m comfortable.

It’s a stark contrast to the way she fights.

A part of me should be unnerved by how easily she switches between the two states.

But I’m not.

I am grateful.

Because without her, I would be dead.

More days pass.

The fever has broken, but my body is wrecked.

My legs are still useless, but my magic is stronger now—strong enough that I can lift myself onto the cart without slipping into unconsciousness.

I take a slow, shaking breath and brace myself.

Rachel stands at my side, watching, waiting.

She always waits.

Her battles have not slowed—if anything, they have intensified. The creatures never stop coming, but she never stops winning.

And when she is finished, she turns to me with the same soft patience, the same careful attentiveness, making sure I drink, eat, and rest.

She does it without orders now.

Even when I’d rather she didn’t.

She frets, adjusting my position when I shift too much, moving the basin of water closer before I even ask.

I sigh, rubbing at my face with weak magic.

“Rachel… I can do things myself, you know.”

She does not react.

But she does not stop, either.

I huff. Too tired to argue.

Instead, I float myself onto the cart, my limbs aching from the effort, my muscles still too weak to function.

Rachel moves forward, adjusting the cart as I settle in, her hands brushing against me briefly, adjusting my positioning so I don’t slide too much.

I roll my eyes.

“Rachel… I’m not going to break.”

She still doesn’t react.

I sigh again.

I reach for the rune commands, my magic settling into them, feeling the faint hum of power beneath my hooves.

“Activate: West.”

The cart begins to move.

Rachel follows.

The cart moves steadily, the runes humming beneath me.

Rachel walks beside me, her movements eerily smooth, her stone form silent except for the occasional crunch of a dead thing beneath her feet.

I don’t talk.

There’s nothing to say.

Nothing except the growing bitterness in my chest.

My thoughts drift.

I saved them.

I fought for them.

And they cast me out like a monster.

Like I was just another thing to be rid of—no different from the changelings.

Like I was a threat, not an ally.

Not one of them.

I should have known better.

I should have stayed out of it.

The wedding wasn’t my problem.

Chrysalis wasn’t my fight.

I could have just let it happen—let Twilight get thrown into the caverns, let her find Cadance on her own, let Celestia fall, let it all play out the way it was supposed to.

But no.

I had to get involved.

I had to pull at the threads.

I had to think, for some idiotic reason, that I could help.

And now I was paying for it.

Cadance.

That fucking idiot.

Of all the ponies in that room, she should have understood.

She’s the Princess of Love.

Love is her entire existence.

She doesn’t just feel it—she can sense it, she can manipulate it, she can change ponies with it.

So how?

How in the hell did she look at me—at everything I did, at everything I sacrificed—and see a monster?

I protected them.

I worked hard to keep their perfect little story on track.

I let Twilight play her part, let her get cast aside, let her find Cadance in the caves so that everything would unfold as it was meant to.

And when Chrysalis revealed herself, I didn’t stop her.

Not because I couldn’t.

Because I chose not to.

Because Shining Armor and Cadance had to win together.

Because the only way to purge every changeling from Canterlot was to let their love do it.

And what did I get for my trouble?

Cadance flinching away from me like I was some kind of beast, clinging to her brainwashed fiancé like he was her only protection.

She said it first.

Not Twilight. Not Celestia. Not the nobles.

She looked at me, at what I was, and decided—without hesitation—that I was something to be feared.

Like I was wrong.

Like I was unnatural.

Like I didn’t belong.

She should have known better.

She should have felt it.

I had no hatred for them.

No malice.

I didn’t want to rule Canterlot.

I didn’t want to hurt them.

Everything I did was for them.

To ensure the best outcome.

And yet, the moment I spoke outside the script, the moment I didn’t fit into the storybook fantasy—

She cast me out.

I breathe in, slow and measured, forcing down the growing bitterness clawing at my chest.

I can’t let this consume me.

I can’t afford to.

But I also can’t let it go.

Not when it still hurts.

Rachel doesn’t understand.

She walks beside me, silent, her heavy stone steps an unshakable rhythm against the cavern floor. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong. She doesn’t question the anger simmering off me in waves.

But she reacts.

At first, it’s just small things.

She adjusts the cart’s position with more care, ensuring the ride is smooth.

She lingers closer, her fingers brushing the edge of the cart every so often, like she’s making sure I’m still there.

And then—

She reaches out.

It’s awkward. Stiff. Hesitant.

Her stone hand presses lightly against my side, then retreats, then presses again. Not forceful. Not demanding.

Just checking.

Like she’s trying to comfort me.

Even if she doesn’t know why.

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly, forcing the tension out of my jaw.

I can’t be angry forever.

Not here.

Not when I have bigger problems.

Rachel’s still learning.

She understands enough—how to fight, how to help, how to keep me alive—but she still isn't complete.

And if we’re going to survive this place?

She needs to be.

I glance at her, then at my rune book, my magic flipping the pages until I find what I need, the True Sight rune.

I carve her eyes, separating them from the stone encasing them. They're free moving balls instead of carved in divots. I add little curved hoods, following the eye back, able move up and down, eyelids.

It’s easier now, my magic strong enough to guide the stone with precision. The runes etch deep into the pupil of Rachel’s eyes, as small as I can make them, forming the intricate patterns needed to grant sight beyond sight.

I move back.

And her eyes move.

Not randomly.

Not wildly.

They track me.

I freeze, watching as her newly carved stone irises shift, adjusting their focus, locking onto me with a sharp precision she didn’t have before.

I stare back.

I have no idea what she's thinking.

And it unsettles me.

Rachel tilts her head, her new true sight irises tracking me in a way that feels too… deliberate. Too human.

I swallow hard.

I’ve already gone this far.

Might as well finish the job.

I let my magic settle into her face, scanning the structure of her jaw, the rigid lines where her lips should be. Right now, she has no mouth—just a sculpted pout, an eternally neutral expression.

If I’m going to give her speech, I need to give her a mouth.

Even if she doesn’t need it.

Even if the rune will handle the talking for her.

Even if this is all just to make her feel more real.

The problem with stone is that it doesn’t bend.

A human mouth moves with soft tissues—lips, muscles, tendons all working together in a precise, flexible system.

Stone? Rigid. Unyielding.

So I have to cheat.

I begin by etching out the mouth, carving a thin opening along where her lips should be, just deep enough to separate the upper and lower jaw into independent sections.

The lower jaw has to be able to move, to open and close freely.

For that, I need a hinge.

I create two anchor points inside the jaw, acting as pivots—smooth sockets carved directly into the sides of her face.

I separate the jaw itself, rounding the upper corners into ball joints, making them perfectly spherical.

Now, the jaw can rotate freely, swinging open like a human jaw, but only within the limits of the sockets.

Good.

But she needs more than just a jaw that opens and closes.

She needs to articulate.

The tongue is the tricky part.

A human tongue is a complex mass of muscle, shifting in every direction to form words.

I can’t do that with solid stone.

So instead?

I make segments.

I carve a series of thin, overlapping stone plates, stacked in a way that allows sliding motion—each one connected by thin joints that allow for slight movement in multiple directions.

Each segment is cut with precise, curved edges, allowing the plates to slide over one another while still appearing as a single structure when at rest.

At the base of the tongue, I carve a pivot joint, allowing it to lift and press against the roof of the mouth like a real tongue would.

It can’t move as fluidly as a human tongue.

But it can rise, lower, press, retract—enough for basic articulation.

Enough to make speech believable.

I move back, taking in my work.

Rachel’s mouth moves now, at least in the way I need it to. Her jaw hinges open and closed, her tongue shifts just enough to be useful.

But her lips…

I can’t fix them.

Not here. Not yet.

I try. I carve, I adjust, but every attempt leaves them looking wrong—unnatural in a way that unsettles even me.

The tops and bottoms are just too stiff, too unyielding. Without soft tissue, they can’t press together in any way that looks right.

I need rubber. Or leather. Or something that can flex without breaking the illusion.

I don’t have it.

So I stop.

For now, the entire mouth moves together—opening and closing as a single unit. Her lips remain stiff, unchanging, no matter what shape she makes.

It’s not perfect, but I’ll fix it later.

When I find something better.

I let out a slow breath.

One step at a time.

Her mouth moves, but she still can’t speak.

I flip through my rune book, scanning each poorly named, vaguely described marking, searching for something that might work.

Most runes don’t have names—not proper ones, anyway. Some are labeled, but the names rarely have anything to do with their actual function.

It’s all guesswork. A scholar’s best attempt at understanding magic that was never really standardized or studied.

I’ve been renaming them myself in my own notebook—making them clearer, easier to reference later.

But right now?

I’m at the mercy of centuries-old descriptions.

My eyes catch on something.

A rune. Small. Simple.

It’s not labeled as a speech rune, but the description stands out.

To carry forth shaking waves unseen. A touch of the air, and the weight of the world, pulled into form.

I frown.

That sounds… close?

It doesn’t mention voices exactly, just waves, carrying forth.

I read it again.

"...shaking waves unseen."

Vibrations.

It has to be about vibrations.

I don’t know if this will work.

But it’s the closest thing I have.

I etch the rune carefully, carving it into the roof of Rachel’s mouth, right where the tongue can press against it.

The moment it seals, I feel a faint hum of energy pulse through her.

She doesn’t move.

She doesn’t speak.

But something has changed.

I stare at her.

She tilts her head, stone irises tracking me with unsettling precision.

She’s waiting.

But for what?

I frown, moving closer. “Rachel.”

She doesn’t respond.

Her mouth is open slightly, the segmented tongue resting against the rune I carved into the roof of her mouth.

But she doesn’t understand.

Of course she doesn’t.

The function is there—the capability—but she doesn’t know what to do with it.

I sigh, wishing i could rub a hoof down my face. “You can talk now,” I tell her. “Try.”

Rachel doesn’t move.

I wait.

She still doesn’t try.

“Come on.” I gesture vaguely with my head. “You can do anything else I tell you to do. Just… say something.”

Nothing.

Her mouth shifts slightly, but no sound comes out.

I grit my teeth.

She’s not refusing—she just doesn’t understand.

For every rune I’ve ever put on her, I’ve always told her what it does via the rune code. I gave her commands—clear, structured logic to follow.

But now?

I haven’t written logic for her.

Rachel is the logic.

I didn’t write an order for speaking.

I just gave her the ability.

She has to figure it out herself.

As I'm thinking, her eyes slowly drift off to our surroundings.

I exhale slowly, adjusting my approach.

“Rachel.”

Her eyes flick to me immediately.

“Liiike thiiis,” I say, exaggerating my voice. “Vibrate the air. Push it out.”

Still nothing.

Her jaw shifts again—just slightly—but it’s hesitant.

She doesn’t know what “push it out” means.

I sigh. “Just… try. Do anything.”

A pause.

Then—

A low, uneven hum.

Not a word.

Not speech.

But something.

Rachel stiffens slightly, like she felt it more than she expected.

I blink.

“That’s it,” I say, cautiously hopeful. “Again.”

She does it again—this time stronger, more deliberate.

The hum warbles, disjointed, shifting in tone as she experiments, trying different intensities.

I watch, fascinated.

She’s learning.

The vibrations are off, the sound warped, but she’s figuring it out.

The thought sends a chill down my spine.

She’s never done this before.

Never tried to learn something outside of what I explicitly built her for.

She has initiative.

I swallow, shoving the thought down.

One thing at a time.

“Keep going,” I tell her, keeping my voice steady. “Try shaping it. Make… words.”

She tilts her head, mouth shifting again.

The hum deepens, cracks, warps—she’s trying, but the sound is still just… noise.

I frown.

The rune works, but it’s like giving someone vocal cords without any muscle control.

She has the ability to speak, but she doesn’t have the practice.

She doesn’t know how to shape it into meaning.

I’m going to have to teach her.

I take a breath.

One step at a time.

The hum sputters, shifting into a harsh, grating pitch before dying away entirely.

I lift my head, forcing a softer tone. “It’s okay. You’re doing fine.”

Rachel’s eyes track me the moment I speak, the faintest tilt of her stone jaw acknowledging my words. She tries again—a broken warble, halting in mid-breath.

“Good—very good.” My voice lifts, a slight coo of encouragement. “Keep going.”

The reaction is immediate.

Her posture straightens, her segmented tongue flexing with renewed effort, adjusting as if searching for a stable pitch. She emits a trembling note, still oddly mechanical, but closer to something like a voice.

I exhale, letting my relief slip into my words. “That’s it! That’s better.”

At that, Rachel’s eyes flick toward me, focusing on my face. Her jaw moves in a stuttering half-circle, mouth opening and closing with uneven timing as if she’s feeling through the motion. The initial humming noise returns—softer this time, rising and falling in quick succession.

“See?” I coo again, nodding my approval. “You’re making real sounds now. Good.”

Her entire form seems to settle, as though basking in the wake of my words. She attempts the hum once more—first a low rumble, then a ragged slide upward. It cracks near the top, but she holds it, determined not to lose the note again.

I find myself chuckling despite the roughness of the sound. “That’s perfect. Just… keep trying.”

She presses on, forging one awkward pitch into another, her gaze never leaving me. Every time I murmur a quiet word or two—“That’s it,” “Not bad,” “You’ve got this”—her movements become more insistent, her attempts more frequent. She shifts her shoulders in measured, fluid motions, as though steadying her body helps her find and hold the right vibrations.

The harsh scraping eventually settles into a semi-stable tone, building in subtle volume. She sustains it, tongue moving fractionally, testing subtle changes in pitch. Though it’s still far from a true word, it’s closer than ever before.

“Excellent,” I murmur, my voice filled with gentle praise.

Something in her stance shifts again, and she tries a new angle, letting the tone waver back and forth, almost mimicking the way I naturally let my words rise and fall. Her stone fingers clench briefly, then relax against her side.

I smile, nodding as I speak. “You’re learning really fast, Rachel. Keep it—”

She cuts me off with a sudden lurch in pitch—too high, too abrupt—then falls into silence. Her mouth snaps closed. The newly formed jaw stiffens, as if bracing for my reaction.

I keep my tone gentle. “That’s okay. That was a great try. Just keep practicing.”

She lifts her head slightly, eyes fixed on me once more. After a moment of stillness, she returns to that low, halting hum, picking up where she left off.

It’s messy. It’s uneven. It’s somehow endearing.

And she doesn’t stop. Not until I finally move back, letting out a breath and offering another soft coo of approval.

Her response is unmistakable in the way she shifts closer, drawing herself up as though waiting for more. But I just smile, nodding and murmuring one last, “Nice work,” before trailing off.

Rachel’s eyes flicker to my lips—where the sounds come from—then back to meet my gaze. She tries once more, a final, shaky note escaping her newly carved mouth.

At that, she goes still. There is no subtle adjustment, no hum of correction—the session is over for now. But she remains poised, as if ready to continue the moment she thinks I want her to.

I let the silence settle.

She stands there, unmoving except for the slight tilt of her head, gaze never wavering from my face. I notice the slow, steady rhythm of her movements—a little more fluid, a little more confident than before.

Rachel follows in steady silence as the cart continues its slow trek forward.

I don’t know how long it’s been. Days? Weeks? The cavern walls blur together in endless darkness, an infinite stretch of stone and molten rivers.

I’m exhausted.

But then—

I see it.

A door.

Huge. Monolithic. Black as obsidian, etched with glowing red runes—twisting, curling, spiraling across its surface like veins of molten light.

The center bears a round design, vaguely reminiscent of the sun.

And beneath it—

Four square locks, each perfectly aligned, unyielding.

I stare.

My chest tightens—not in fear, but in something dangerously close to relief.

I know what this is.

This place—this twisted, warped hellscape—it isn’t just some random cavern.

This is Tartarus.

Not exactly the Tartarus from the show—no cages, no towering prisons—but the concept is here.

And if this is Tartarus…

This is the way out.

I exhale, letting my magic tighten around the cart’s controls, stopping it just short of the massive structure.

Rachel halts beside me, her eyes locking onto the door, studying it with eerie stillness.

It looms over us, ancient, unmoving.

But before I can even begin to examine the locks—

A huff.

A deep, low breath—heavy, gravelly, shaking the air.

I freeze.

Slowly, very slowly, I turn my head.

And I see him.

Cerberus.

He’s right there.

Massive, hulking, curled in on himself just feet away from where I stopped, his enormous, three-headed form resting against the cavern wall.

His fur is charcoal black, thick and matted, his sheer size making him look more like a living mountain than an animal.

Three heads—three massive, brutal jaws capable of tearing through anything.

He could kill me instantly.

Rachel is already turning, shifting her stance, prepared to fight if necessary—

But Cerberus doesn’t move.

One of his heads lazily cracks open an eye, his glowing red pupil locking onto me.

I hold my breath.

A long, slow huff escapes his throat.

And then—

He closes his eye again.

That’s it.

No snarl.

No immediate attack.

No acknowledgment beyond sheer apathy.

He doesn’t care about me.

I exhale sharply, shoulders loosening slightly.

Rachel remains tense, her gaze flicking between me and the beast, but I shake my head.

“Stop defending,” I murmur.

She doesn’t react at first, her hands still raised in preparation—until I repeat it, firmer this time.

“Rachel. Stop defending.”

Slowly, she lowers her hands.

The tension lingers, but she listens.

Cerberus doesn’t react to any of it.

He just exists, sprawled across the stone, radiating indifference.

I turn my gaze back to the door, my mind already calculating.

Four locks.

A sealed gateway.

A guardian that apparently doesn’t care if I pass or not.

This is it.

This is my way out.

I stare at the massive obsidian door, its runes glowing with an ominous red light, each square lock humming with a faint magical presence.

I exhale sharply. “Wow.”

This looks… complicated.

My gaze drifts along the intricate carvings, the way the symbols weave together in an ancient, unreadable pattern. This kind of lock? This would take time.

Time I don’t have.

My eyes flick to the wall beside the door.

The unmarked, regular stone wall.

I tilt my head.

Rachel tilts hers, mirroring me.

I nod once, decisive. "Yeah, screw this."

I reach out with my magic—careful, deliberate, spreading my telekinetic force across the structure, pressing into the space between its particles.

And I cut.

The stone separates instantly, breaking apart along the intergranular bonds, clean and precise.

Chunks of rock pull free, slabs of unsealed stone breaking away as I carve a hole directly next to the door.

Rachel watches, unmoving, her tracking irises following each section as I pull them away.

Then—

A breeze.

Light.

The last layer crumbles away, and through the opening, I see it.

The outside.

Sky. Open air.

I freeze for a second, mind struggling to process the sheer normalcy of it.

And then—

I turn my head, gaze locking onto Cerberus.

The massive, three-headed beast doesn’t move.

Not even when I pull another chunk free.

Not when I widen the tunnel.

Not when I begin sliding forward.

One of his heads lifts slightly, cracking an eye open to watch me.

A long, slow huff escapes his throat.

And then—he shuts his eye again.

I don’t question it.

I don’t hesitate.

I guide the cart forward, Rachel following silently, her massive stone form ducking under the tunnel’s low ceiling as we pass through.

I keep one eye on Cerberus the entire time, my body tense, waiting for a reaction—

But he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t try to stop me.

He doesn’t even move.

And when we finally reach the other side, I turn back, watching as the jagged tunnel we just made seals itself behind us, my magic fusing the rock back together, closing off the path forever.

Still—Cerberus stays.

Silent. Unbothered.

Like I was never his problem to begin with.

I exhale sharply, my chest tightening as I turn back toward the light.

And then—

The world blinds me.

The moment we emerge, my eyes burn, the sheer intensity of the sunlight stabbing into my vision like a blade.

For so long, there had only been darkness.

Now—there is sky.

It takes a few seconds for my vision to adjust, for the details to take shape beyond the blinding glow.

Rachel steps out beside me, the sun glinting off her stone surface, her new irises flicking between the open space and me.

I breathe in.

Air. Fresh air.

For the first time in weeks—maybe longer—I am outside.

I made it.

I escaped Tartarus.

I take a slow breath, letting the hot air fill my lungs.

The Badlands stretch before me, an endless sea of sand and rock, the horizon hazy with heat waves.

No trees. No water. Nothing.

I close my eyes briefly, steadying myself.

I didn’t escape Tartarus just to die in a desert.

I need to find civilization. Fast.

With a flicker of magic, I lift myself higher, my slab gliding smoothly into the air, carrying me above the dunes.

Rachel stands motionless below, waiting, her new irises tracking my ascent.

The wind howls, whipping sand in every direction. Blinding. Suffocating.

But then—

Far in the distance, beyond the dunes, past the cracked, barren landscape—

A village.

I barely process my own relief before I’m already descending, guiding the slab back to the cart.

Rachel doesn’t react when I land, her stone form as unshaken as ever.

I take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. I add four more in-between directions to my cart. "Activate: North-East."

The runes hum to life, the cart smoothly adjusting direction before gliding forward, carrying us toward the only sign of life I’ve seen in weeks.

Rachel follows, her heavy footfalls trailing beside me.