Arrival
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Applied Mathemagics

Arrival

I come to lying on my side in what smells like a swamp, the damp earth pressing into my face. My limbs feel all wrong, too short and bent in ways they shouldn’t be. The air is thick and damp, filled with the scent of wet leaves, dirt, and something acrid that stings my nose. Groaning, I try to sit up, but the moment I push myself upright, I catch sight of tan-furred stumps where my hands used to be.

What the hell?

Hooves. My brain struggles to process what I’m looking at—what I am. My heart pounds in my chest as I take a shaky look at the rest of me. My body’s covered in short, smooth fur, like some kind of horse. My legs bend awkwardly beneath me, too slim and wiry. My tail—a goddamn tail—flicks against the ground without my permission, sending shivers up my spine.

The worst part? When I look down at the murky puddle next to me, there’s a reflection. Blonde hair, like a mop, hangs over my eyes, and jutting out from my forehead is a light tan horn, spiraled like something out of a fantasy movie. My face is also tan, long and narrow, my nostrils too wide, my eyes absurdly big, its horrible to look at. They’re almost human, which makes it even worse—they stare back at me, full of confused fury.

“What in the actual hell…” I mutter, but the voice that comes out isn’t mine. It’s softer, higher-pitched albeit still male, it makes me wince. A part of me hopes this is some messed-up dream, but the way the damp cold bites into my fur tells me otherwise.

I stumble to my hooves—legs—whatever they are now—and nearly fall on my face. My knees buckle, and the world tilts violently before I manage to plant all four hooves firmly on the ground. It takes a humiliating amount of effort just to stay upright.

Great. Not only am I a freak, but I’m a clumsy one.

The forest is silent. No birds, no bugs, just the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional creak of tree trunks shifting in the wind—if there even is wind. The air feels stagnant, heavy with humidity that clings to my fur and soaks through to my skin. Every step I take sends a squelch through the muck, and the sound is far louder than it should be. It feels like the forest is listening.

I need to move. Staying here, where I woke up, feels wrong. The trees press in on all sides, their jagged branches clawing at the gray sky above, and the path ahead—if you can even call it a path—is nothing more than a narrow break in the oppressive undergrowth. I can’t shake the feeling that those branches are reaching for me. Watching me.

Shoving the thought aside, I force my shaky legs into motion, each step a concentrated effort to not fall flat on my face. The tan fur covering my body is already streaked with mud and who-knows-what else, but I can’t bring myself to care. Survival first, dignity later.

The forest only gets darker as I push forward. The light from above is faint, a sickly green filtered through the dense canopy. Shadows pool around the roots of the trees, which twist and bulge unnaturally, like frozen coils of massive snakes. They shouldn’t be shaped like this. It’s like the trees themselves are alive, frozen in grotesque poses mid-motion.

I pause to catch my breath, leaning against one of the gnarled trunks. Its surface is slick and cold, but the moment I touch it, my skin crawls. There’s something about it—an almost imperceptible vibration beneath the bark, like the faint hum of machinery or… something worse. I jerk back, my hooves slipping on the wet ground, and stumble away.

That’s when I hear it.

A sound, faint but distinct, breaks the unnatural stillness. It’s a whisper, distant and airy, like voices carried on the breeze. Only, there’s no breeze. My ears swivel instinctively toward the sound, and I curse the fact that they move on their own now. The whisper grows louder, though I can’t make out words. It’s coming from somewhere deeper in the forest.

“Nope,” I mutter, forcing my legs to turn me in the opposite direction. “Not playing that game.”

But the whisper follows. It’s not just a sound anymore—it’s a sensation. A prickle at the base of my horn, like static before a lightning strike. My fur stands on end, and a cold sweat drips down my neck. My heart pounds as I quicken my pace, stumbling over roots and slipping on mossy stones. The forest closes in, the path narrowing with every step, but I don’t dare stop.

The whisper turns into a low hum, surrounding me, vibrating through the ground and into my bones. It’s not natural. It doesn’t belong here—I don’t belong here. Panic claws at my throat, and my breath comes in short, ragged gasps as I burst into a small clearing.

The air feels different here. Still wrong, heavier. Oppressive. The clearing is empty, save for a massive tree in the center, its trunk twisted and blackened like it’s been charred in a fire. The branches above are bare, clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. Carved into the bark are strange, angular markings, their edges glowing faintly with a sickly green light. They pulse in rhythm with the hum, which has grown deafening now, reverberating through my skull.

I back away, my hooves trembling beneath me. My instincts—whatever’s left of them in this cursed body—scream at me to run, to get as far away from this tree as possible. But my legs won’t move. I’m rooted to the spot, staring as the glow intensifies, the markings shifting and writhing like living things.

Then, without warning, the hum stops. The silence is worse. It’s absolute, pressing down on me like a physical weight. My breathing sounds unnaturally loud, and even my heartbeat feels muffled, like I’m underwater.

Something moves behind me. A soft, almost imperceptible rustle of leaves. My ears swivel before I can stop them, but I don’t turn around. I can’t. My body is frozen, every muscle locked in place as the presence—whatever it is—draws closer. The air grows colder, biting into my skin through the fur, and the smell of damp earth is overwhelmed by something metallic. Coppery.

Blood.

A voice, low and guttural, whispers directly into my ear. The words are garbled, incomprehensible, but the tone is unmistakable. It’s hungry.

My legs scream at me to run, but I barely manage a shaky step before my hoof catches on a root, sending me sprawling forward. I hit the ground hard, mud caking my fur and seeping into my mane. The voice grows louder, that guttural whisper drilling into my skull, and the thing behind me begins to move.

It doesn’t walk like anything alive should. It shuffles, dragging itself closer with wet, slapping noises, like meat hitting a butcher’s block. My heart is hammering so loudly that I can barely hear the thing over it. I scramble, trying to get back up, my hooves sliding and slipping uselessly in the muck. I can’t even crawl properly—every time I push off the ground, my legs buckle beneath me.

“Go away,” I croak, my voice cracking with desperation. Tears sting my eyes, blurring the nightmarish shapes around me. “Just… just go away!”

I don’t want to look. I don’t want to see it. But my head turns anyway, as if some morbid part of me can’t help but confirm my worst fears.

It’s worse than anything I could have imagined.

The creature stands in the dim light of the clearing. Its body is a grotesque patchwork of flesh, stitched together with jagged seams that ooze something dark and viscous. Pieces of skin hang loosely from its frame, flapping slightly as it shifts its weight. The shape is vaguely equine but wrong in every possible way—its legs are mismatched lengths, one shoulder slumping lower than the other, and its body sways unnaturally, as though it’s about to collapse under its own weight.

But the worst part is its face. A blank sheet of skin where features should be. It ripples, a nauseating movement, as though something beneath is trying to push its way through.

I choke back a scream, tears streaming down my face as I try, uselessly, to pull myself away. My muscles feel like lead, my limbs refusing to cooperate. Every second feels like an eternity as the Skinbag takes another step forward, its hoof—a grotesque lump of bone and sinew—sinking into the mud with a sickening squelch.

I’m going to die here.

“No… no… NO!” The words burst out of me in a broken sob, my mind spiraling into panic. My body is trembling uncontrollably now, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I can feel it—the weight of its presence bearing down on me, the metallic stench filling my nostrils as it leans closer.

Go away. Please, go away. Just leave me alone! The thought pounds through my head, desperate and raw, and something… shifts.

A sharp pressure builds at the base of my horn, like a balloon about to burst. It’s searing and electric, making my vision blur and my teeth clench. The Skinbag lurches closer, its blank face inches from mine now, and I can feel the heat of its breath—or whatever passes for breath in that thing—on my fur.

“GO AWAY!” I scream, raw and guttural.

And then, everything explodes.

A surge of force erupts from my horn, a blinding, golden light that floods the clearing. It hits the Skinbag like a freight train, slamming into its malformed body with a sickening crunch. The creature is thrown backward, crashing into the blackened tree with such force that the bark splinters and the glowing markings sputter out. The Skinbag crumples to the ground in a motionless heap, the sickly green glow fading from its patchwork body.

Silence falls over the clearing again, but this time it’s different. The oppressive weight is gone, replaced by a strange stillness. I’m left lying in the mud, panting, my body shaking uncontrollably. My horn aches, the pain radiating through my skull like a dull throb, but I’m alive.

I’m alive.

I stare at the Skinbag’s lifeless form, my chest heaving as the realization sinks in. I killed it. I don’t know how, but I killed it.

A shuddering sob escapes me as I curl into myself, the adrenaline draining from my body, leaving me hollow and exhausted. The forest is still watching, I can feel it, but for now, the danger is gone.

My legs finally decide to work, though barely. Trembling and weak, I push myself up from the mud, slipping twice before I manage to stand. The Skinbag doesn’t move, but I can’t bring myself to trust that it’s truly dead. The way it was stitched together, the way it felt—it wouldn’t surprise me if it stood back up and came after me again.

I stumble backward, not even bothering to wipe the tears from my face or the mud caked in my fur. My hooves squelch in the muck, the sound making me wince with every step, but I don’t stop. I can’t.

The blackened tree looms behind the corpse, its markings dark and lifeless now, but the sight of it makes my chest tighten. Whatever power was there, whatever created that thing, I want nothing to do with it. I just need to get away.

Every step feels like it takes an eternity, my legs buckling every so often as I try to navigate the uneven ground. The forest doesn’t let up—its twisted roots and gnarled branches seem determined to trip me. My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out the faint noises of the forest, but the oppressive silence from before is gone.

That should be comforting. It’s not.

I glance over my shoulder every few steps, expecting to see that horrible, rippling blank face staring back at me, but there’s nothing. Just the dense shadows of the trees.

When I’ve finally put what feels like a safe distance between me and that thing, I collapse against a tree trunk, my body heaving with exhaustion. My legs are covered in scratches and mud, my chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. My horn still aches, a dull throb that pulses with my heartbeat.

“What the hell just happened?” I mutter, my voice hoarse.

I lift a shaky hoof to my horn, hesitant to touch it, half-afraid it might explode again. That surge of energy, that force—whatever it was—it saved my life. But how did I do it? My mind replays the moment in a haze: the panic, the fear, the overwhelming desire for that thing to just go away.

Was it… magic?

I glance around the clearing, looking for something—anything—to test the theory on. There’s a small twig lying a few feet away, brittle and half-buried in the dirt. Focusing on it makes my stomach churn, memories of that monster’s blank, rippling face flashing in my mind.

But I have to try.

I squint at the twig, willing it to move. Nothing happens. My ears flick back in frustration, and I grit my teeth, narrowing my focus until my vision tunnels.

Move, I think, the word sharp and forceful in my mind. Still nothing.

“Come on,” I growl, glancing at my horn like it’s a faulty piece of equipment. I dig my hoof into the mud, planting myself firmly, and try again. This time, I feel it—a faint, buzzing pressure at the base of my horn, like static building up. My jaw tightens, and I focus harder, willing that damn twig to so much as twitch.

The buzzing intensifies, and for a moment, I think I’ve done it. But the twig remains stubbornly still, half-sunken in the dirt.

Then it moves. Or at least I think it does. It’s barely perceptible, a tiny, jerky motion that might have been the wind. My heart leaps into my throat, and I almost call out in triumph before doubt creeps in.

Did I really make it move? Or is the forest just playing tricks on me?

I stare at the twig until my vision blurs, waiting for another sign, but nothing happens. The buzzing fades, leaving my horn aching again, and I slump against the tree, defeated.

“Great,” I mutter, closing my eyes and letting out a shaky breath. “So I’m useless unless I’m about to die. That’s just perfect.”

The air around me is heavy, damp, and cold, but I can’t bring myself to move yet. My body feels drained, like that burst of magic—or whatever it was—sapped everything I had. Still, I can’t afford to stay here long. Not in this forest.

I open my eyes and stare at the twig again, silently daring it to move. Nothing. My ears flick, catching the faintest rustle of leaves in the distance, and my chest tightens. I don’t know if it’s the wind or something worse, but I’m not sticking around to find out.

With a groan, I push myself back onto my hooves, wobbling as I regain my balance. “Guess I’ll figure this magic thing out later,” I mumble to myself, though the words feel hollow. I don’t have a choice—if I can’t figure it out, the next monster I meet won’t give me a second chance.

The light fades faster than it should, like the forest is sucking the day straight out of the sky. I keep moving, tripping over roots and slipping in the mud as my body fights me every step of the way. My hooves are clumsy, catching on things I’d normally step over without a second thought, and my legs feel like they belong to someone else—someone uncoordinated and about three drinks deep.

The dark creeps in, not just around me, but inside me too. Every shadow looks like it’s watching, every distant rustle feels like it’s getting closer. I grit my teeth, pushing forward, but my body is running on fumes. The aches in my legs, my back, even my neck—it’s too much.

I need to stop. I need to figure something out before it gets pitch black.

My breath clouds in the cooling air, the temperature dropping sharply now that the sun—or whatever passes for it here—is gone. The thought of spending the night in this cursed place, exposed to who-knows-what, sends a fresh wave of panic through me. My legs buckle as I lower myself to the ground, shaking with exhaustion.

I need a fire.

The idea hits me like a slap. Fire means warmth, light, safety—or at least the illusion of it. It’s basic survival. I glance around the clearing, spotting a few fallen branches scattered nearby. My hooves drag against the ground as I stand again, the effort making me wince. Gathering sticks and logs with hooves is about as fun as it sounds. Every time I try to pick something up, it slips away, or I fumble it. By the time I’ve got a pile of dry wood together, my legs feel like they’re going to give out again.

I slump down next to the pile, chest heaving. “Alright,” I mutter, trying to steady my breath. “Fire. Easy.”

I stare at the wood like it’s a math problem I forgot how to solve. No hands, no matches, no flint, no nothing. And unless I want to go full caveman and start rubbing sticks together with my hands—which, again, I don’t have hands—I’m out of options. My eyes drift to my horn, and I feel a twinge of hope, immediately crushed by the memory of how badly my last attempt went.

But what other choice do I have?

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves. The pressure at the base of my horn is still there, faint but constant, like a low hum I can’t turn off. It worked before, I remind myself. I didn’t die. That’s something.

I focus on one of the logs in the pile, the smallest one. My jaw tightens as I concentrate, trying to picture it floating, moving, doing anything. The hum in my horn builds, that static pressure buzzing in my skull, but the log doesn’t budge.

“Come on,” I growl under my breath. “Move, damn it!”

Nothing.

I try again, harder this time, pouring every ounce of frustration, fear, and exhaustion into that one thought. My horn burns with effort, the buzzing now a sharp, electric ache. And then… the log twitches.

Barely. It might’ve been the wind again. But I felt something—a connection, however faint. My heart pounds as I grit my teeth and push harder, the pressure building to the point of pain.

The log shifts. It’s small, barely an inch, but it’s enough to make me gasp. I collapse back onto the ground, my chest heaving, my horn throbbing like someone drove a nail through my skull.

“That’s it?” I whisper, my voice shaking. “That’s all I can do?”

I glance at the pile of wood, mocking me with its stubborn stillness. The realization sinks in: there’s no fire coming tonight. I’m not going to be able to defend myself, or stay warm, or keep anything away.

The night presses down, colder now, the darkness swallowing the edges of the clearing. My breath comes out in shaky clouds as I curl up near the pile, my body trembling—not just from the chill, but from the crushing weight of how helpless I am.

But I can’t stop trying. I can’t let this… weakness be the end of me. I stare at the pile of wood again, teeth gritted, and focus on that one faint spark I felt. It’s there, somewhere. I just need to find it again.

The night creeps in around me, slow and suffocating. The faint light that filtered through the twisted canopy above is gone now, leaving only the faint glimmer of distant stars through the cracks. The air feels colder with every passing minute, the damp chill clawing through my fur and sinking into my skin like icy needles. I shiver uncontrollably, my legs drawn tight against my chest, my tail tucked around me in a feeble attempt to keep the heat in. It doesn’t work. Nothing works.

The ground is wet, cold, and unyielding beneath me, seeping its misery into my body. Every inch of me aches—my legs from the clumsy, endless walking, my horn from the useless bursts of effort, my chest from the dull, hollow ache of trying to hold myself together. My mane hangs in damp, stringy clumps over my face, dripping water into my eyes every time I shift. I don’t bother brushing it away anymore.

I’d give anything to be warm. A coat, a blanket, a fire—hell, even a hug from someone, anyone, just to feel less cold, less… alone.

The forest around me is a void, a black expanse that swallows sound. Every now and then, a distant rustle or crack of a branch breaks the silence, sending my heart racing. My ears twitch on their own, trying to pinpoint the noises, but they always seem to come from nowhere. My mind plays tricks on me, turning every shadow into a monster, every sound into a threat.

My thoughts spiral, faster and darker with every minute that crawls by. The weight of everything presses down on me—this body that doesn’t feel like mine, this forest that wants me dead, this… whatever the hell I am now. I don’t know how I got here, or why, or if there’s even a way back. The thought twists my stomach into knots.

Tears well up in my eyes, hot and stinging, and I don’t even bother wiping them away. They mix with the dampness already on my face, and I let out a choked, shaky breath that turns into a sob before I can stop it. The sound echoes in the clearing, and I clamp my hooves over my mouth, horrified. I wait, listening for something to stir in the shadows, but nothing comes. The silence returns, and I’m left with only my own ragged breathing.

I bury my face in my hooves, my body trembling, and let the tears come. The hopelessness of it all hits me like a freight train—the cold, the wet, the loneliness. I’m not just lost. I’m trapped. Trapped in a body I don’t understand, in a world that feels like it wants me gone.

It’s not just the physical misery—it’s the fear, the isolation, the sheer wrongness of everything. I’m supposed to be human. I’m supposed to have hands, and a voice that doesn’t sound like this, and a home to go back to. The realization that none of that exists for me anymore… it’s unbearable.

“Why me?” I whisper, my voice hoarse and shaking. “What did I do to deserve this?”

The forest doesn’t answer. It never does.

The night drags on, every second feeling like an eternity. The cold becomes a constant ache, sinking into my bones, making it hard to even move. My breath comes out in weak, shaky puffs, and my eyes burn from the tears I’ve cried.

I try again. One last desperate attempt to make something happen, to feel like I have even the smallest bit of control. I focus on the pile of wood, on the faint buzzing in my horn, on the desperate need for warmth and safety. My whole body tenses as I push every thought, every shred of willpower into the effort.

“Please,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Just… please…”

The buzzing flares for a brief moment, sharp and electric, and I think I feel the log twitch. Or maybe it doesn’t. It doesn’t matter. The cold, the exhaustion—it’s all too much. My head droops, and the buzzing fades to nothing.

I’m too tired to cry anymore. Too tired to feel anything except the biting cold and the hollow ache in my chest. My body curls in on itself, a pathetic attempt to preserve what little warmth I have left.

The night stretches on, and I sit there, shivering and alone, waiting for the morning that feels like it will never come.

Morning comes slowly, almost reluctantly. The faintest gray light seeps through the tangled canopy, and with it, the oppressive darkness finally begins to fade. But the cold doesn’t go away. Neither does the damp. I’m still curled up near my pathetic pile of wood, trembling from head to hoof, my body stiff and aching from a night of misery.

My eyes crack open, and the world around me is hazy and dull. The forest is still there—twisted, gnarled, and watching. It feels more alien in the light than it did in the dark. The trees are grotesque silhouettes, their bark split and oozing with something that glistens in the weak light. The ground is damp and uneven, littered with roots that look more like veins, pulsing faintly if I stare too long.

I try to move, but my legs don’t cooperate. My joints feel locked in place, and every attempt to shift sends a fresh jolt of pain through my body. My muscles ache, my hooves sting from the constant stumbling, and my horn still throbs with the ghost of last night’s futile efforts. I let out a groan, the sound raw and pitiful, and collapse back into the dirt.

The shivering hasn’t stopped. My fur is still damp, clinging to my skin in a way that makes me want to tear it off. My mane is a tangled, filthy mess that hangs in my eyes, and every breath I take is shallow and shaky. I feel hollow, like I used up every ounce of strength I had just surviving the night, and there’s nothing left to keep me going.

I glance at the pile of wood I worked so hard to gather. It’s still there, mocking me with its uselessness. A bitter laugh bubbles up in my throat, and I choke it back before it can turn into something worse. The thought of crying again makes me feel sick.

“Great job, genius,” I mutter, my voice raspy and weak. “All that effort for nothing.”

Talking to myself feels pathetic, but it’s better than the silence. Better than the constant feeling that the forest is listening.

My stomach growls, a sharp reminder of another problem I can’t solve. I haven’t eaten since… I don’t even know when. Back when I was human. Back when everything made sense. The memory feels like a lifetime ago, and it only makes the ache in my chest worse.

I try to sit up again, gritting my teeth through the stiffness and pain. It takes longer than it should, but I manage to get upright, wobbling on unsteady legs. My body feels foreign, clunky and awkward, like I’m wearing a suit that doesn’t fit. I can barely keep my balance, let alone move with any kind of purpose.

The forest around me is quieter than I expected. No birds, no animals, just the faint rustle of leaves in the wind. It should be comforting, but it’s not. The silence feels wrong, like something’s missing. Or watching. My ears swivel on their own, tracking sounds I can’t hear, and the motion makes me wince.

I need to move. Staying here won’t solve anything. It’s not safe, and it’s not like I can wait for someone to magically find me. My legs shake as I take a hesitant step forward, then another. Every movement feels like a struggle, my hooves slipping on the damp ground, but I force myself to keep going.

“Just keep moving,” I mutter under my breath. “One step at a time.”

The mantra doesn’t help much, but it’s something to hold onto. The cold air bites at my skin, and my body protests with every step, but I can’t stop. Not now. Not when the alternative is sitting in the mud, waiting for the forest to swallow me whole.

I glance up at the faint light filtering through the trees, my breath clouding in the chilly air. The sky is a pale gray, offering no warmth, no comfort. Just another reminder that this place isn’t home.

Home. The thought makes my chest tighten. I don’t even know where home is anymore—or if it still exists. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, I stop, my legs threatening to buckle beneath me.

But I can’t afford to break down again. Not here. Not now.

I force myself to take another step, then another, my hooves crunching against the damp leaves beneath me. The forest stretches endlessly in every direction, a maze of shadows and twisted shapes. I don’t know where I’m going, or if I’m even going anywhere, but I have to keep moving.

Because if I stop, I don’t think I’ll get back up.

The forest stretches on forever. Every step feels like a battle against my own body—hooves slipping on damp leaves, legs trembling with every awkward motion. But I force myself to keep going. Stopping feels too much like giving up, and I refuse to do that. Not yet. Not while there’s still some tiny spark of hope flickering in the back of my mind.

My mane hangs in wet, filthy strands over my face, and my fur is streaked with mud and leaves. I must look like something dragged out of a swamp. But who cares? There’s no one here to see me, no one to judge. It’s just me and this cursed forest.

Then I hear it. A faint, trickling sound, almost too quiet to notice over the soft crunch of my hooves. My ears swivel toward it, and for once, I’m grateful for their weird, independent movement. It’s water. A stream.

My heart leaps, and I pick up my pace, stumbling through the undergrowth toward the sound. The terrain is uneven, and I trip more times than I care to admit, but the thought of fresh water keeps me moving. The trickling grows louder, clearer, until I finally break through a tangle of bushes and see it.

The stream winds lazily through the forest, its water clear and glistening in the pale light. Smooth stones line the edges, and the gentle current carries away bits of leaves and debris. For a moment, I just stand there, staring, the sight almost surreal after hours of trudging through endless mud and shadows.

I limp toward the bank, my legs shaky but eager. The cold water laps at the stones, and I lower my head to drink. The taste is sharp and clean, a welcome change from the misery of the forest. It’s not much, but it’s enough to give me a shred of comfort.

As I drink, I notice movement beneath the surface. Tiny fish dart through the water, their scales flashing silver and gold in the light. My stomach growls loudly, the sound echoing in the quiet. The sight of the fish fills me with a desperate kind of hunger, the kind that makes your mouth water and your mind race with ideas that you know won’t work.

Food. Right there, just out of reach.

I step closer to the water, watching the fish with an intensity that borders on obsession. My hooves splash in the shallows, and the fish scatter, darting away faster than I can react. My stomach twists with frustration, and I let out a sharp, angry breath.

I try to reach down with my hooves, but it’s useless. They slip on the wet stones, and I nearly fall face-first into the stream. My tail flicks in irritation as I straighten up, glaring at the water like it’s mocking me. The fish come back, swimming just out of reach, taunting me with their easy, graceful movements.

“Come on,” I mutter, my voice low and bitter. “Just one.”

My eyes drift to my horn. I don’t want to try again—not after last night’s failure. But what choice do I have? I can’t keep walking on an empty stomach. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath to steady myself. The buzzing at the base of my horn is faint, like a low hum waiting to be called on.

I focus on one of the fish, the biggest one I can see. My jaw tightens as I concentrate, trying to picture it lifting out of the water, hovering toward me. The buzzing grows stronger, sharper, and I feel the faintest tug, like a string being pulled.

The fish doesn’t move. Or maybe it does—a tiny twitch, barely noticeable. My legs shake with the effort, my horn throbbing in protest, but I keep going, pouring every ounce of focus into that one thought. Move. Just move!

The buzzing reaches a peak, and the fish jerks, its body twitching in the water. My heart leaps, hope flaring for a brief moment—then the connection snaps, and the fish darts away, disappearing into the deeper parts of the stream.

I collapse onto the bank, panting, my horn aching and my body trembling with exhaustion. Tears sting my eyes again, but I blink them away, refusing to let myself break down. Not here. Not now.

The fish is gone, and my stomach growls louder, a painful reminder of how much I’ve failed. But I can’t afford to sit here and wallow. I force myself back onto my hooves, wobbling slightly as I take a few hesitant steps.

I limp back to the water’s edge, glaring down at the stream. The rippling surface mocks me, silver flashes of fish just beneath it like dangling promises I can’t reach. My stomach twists, an ache so deep it feels like it’s clawing up my throat. I can’t afford to give up. Not on this. I need to eat.

The big fish are too much. I can feel it in my horn, like trying to lift something too heavy for hands that aren’t strong enough. Fine. I’ll aim smaller. My eyes dart to the little ones, their quick, erratic movements a challenge but at least within the realm of possibility. I hope.

I lower myself to the bank, my hooves sinking into the wet stones as I stare at a tiny fish darting near the edge of the stream. The buzzing in my horn stirs faintly as I focus, summoning every bit of energy I have left. My body trembles, cold and weak, but I don’t let go. Not yet.

The fish doesn’t notice me—its movements are light, fluid, and oblivious to the predator trying to will it out of the water. My horn aches as the buzzing grows sharper, more focused. I grit my teeth, sweat beading under my fur as I push harder. Come on. Just a little more.

The faintest shimmer of magic wraps around the fish, a fragile glow that feels like it might shatter if I breathe too hard. It twitches in the water, and for a second, I think I’ve got it. My heart races, hope surging in my chest, and I hold my breath as I lift.

The fish jerks upward, breaking the surface, suspended in a weak field of golden light. I stare at it, disbelieving for a moment, the sight almost surreal. It’s small, no more than the size of my hoof, but it’s there. Floating. I actually did it.

“Yes!” The word bursts out of me, giddy and triumphant, and I nearly laugh—until the connection breaks.

The glow around the fish flickers, then snaps like a thread, and the fish plummets back into the water with a splash. I freeze, staring at the ripples as they fade, leaving nothing but the empty stream behind. The fish is gone, darting back into the depths like it was never there.

“No. No, no, no!” My voice cracks, and I slam my hoof into the stones, the pain barely registering through the rush of frustration and despair. My chest heaves as tears blur my vision, my breaths coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

I had it. I had it. And now it’s gone.

The ache in my horn feels unbearable, a dull, pulsing pain that matches the beat of my racing heart. I curl up on the bank, shaking, my body trembling with exhaustion and cold and hunger. My mane clings to my face, damp and filthy, and I bury it in my hooves, trying to hold back the sobs that threaten to break free.

This place doesn’t care about me. It doesn’t care that I’m starving, or that I’m alone, or that I don’t belong here. The forest feels alive in the worst way, and every part of it seems to whisper the same message: You don’t matter.

I shudder, my breath hitching as I force myself to sit up again. The stream gurgles softly, a soothing sound that only makes me angrier. I can’t let this beat me. I won’t.

“Okay,” I whisper, my voice shaking but determined. “One more time.”

My horn buzzes faintly, and I focus on another fish—a smaller one, slower, something I might actually hold onto. My stomach churns, and my body protests, but I block it out. I have to keep trying. It’s all I can do.

I wipe my face with a muddy hoof, smearing dirt but pushing the tears away. The world blurs in front of me, and I blink hard, forcing myself to focus on the shimmering water. A tiny fish flickers near the edge of the stream, its movements slower than the others. My stomach growls loudly, a sharp reminder that this is my only shot.

“Alright,” I whisper to myself, teeth gritted. “This time. This time, it’s mine.”

The buzzing at the base of my horn stirs again, faint but growing stronger as I zero in on the fish. My legs tremble, my head aches, and my chest feels tight, but I don’t let up. The fish moves lazily, darting a little closer to the bank, and I seize the chance.

I imagine grabbing it—not gently, not carefully, but with a sudden yank. My magic flares, jagged and unsteady, and I jerk my head back as if it’ll help.

The fish rockets out of the water.

For a moment, I just stare, my brain struggling to catch up as the little silver creature flips end over end through the air. It hits the muddy bank with a dull slap, flopping wildly, and a strangled noise escapes my throat—half laugh, half cry of disbelief.

“I did it!” I shout, scrambling toward it. My hooves slip on the wet stones, but I don’t care. I’ve never felt such an overwhelming surge of relief in my life. My stomach aches, and my heart pounds, but none of it matters because I did it.

I crouch over the fish, watching it thrash in the mud. It’s small—barely enough to count as a meal—but it’s food. Real, tangible food. My mouth waters as I lean closer, the instinctive need to eat overriding everything else for a moment.

Then it hits me.

I have no way to cook it.

The realization sinks into me like a lead weight. My elation fizzles, replaced by a cold dread that makes my stomach twist even harder. My eyes flick to my pile of wood, then back to the fish, my mind racing in a frantic loop.

My breathing quickens, and the ache in my chest grows sharper. I glance down at the fish, its movements slowing as it flops weakly against the mud. The sight makes my throat tighten.

What am I supposed to do? Eat it raw? My stomach churns at the thought, and a wave of nausea sweeps over me. But what choice do I have? Letting it go isn’t an option. I worked too hard for this.

My gaze flickers to my horn. The dull ache is still there, a constant reminder of last night’s failures. If I couldn’t even lift a log, how am I supposed to start a fire? The thought makes my chest tighten even more, panic clawing at the edges of my mind.

I stare at the fish, my body frozen, my thoughts spiraling. My triumph feels hollow now, like the universe dangled hope in front of me just to snatch it away.

You got this far, I tell myself, though the words feel flimsy and weak. You’ll figure the rest out.

The fish lies there, twitching weakly in the mud, and I can’t stop staring at it. My stomach growls again, loud and insistent, and I feel like I’m being mocked. My mouth waters and my chest tightens at the same time—desperate hunger fighting against helpless frustration.

I tear my gaze away from the fish, scanning the forest around me. I can’t eat it like this. I won’t. I need fire. Somehow, I need fire.

The old pile of wood is long gone, abandoned somewhere back in the forest during my frantic trek to find the stream. It doesn’t matter. I’ll just get more. My legs ache as I stand, and I nearly fall back down, but I grit my teeth and push forward. My body feels like it’s falling apart, but the raw determination in my chest is louder than the pain. Spite keeps me moving.

I stumble through the undergrowth, my hooves catching on roots and slick patches of mud. The forest looms around me, the trees twisted and uninviting, but I find what I need soon enough: dry branches scattered among the roots of a massive oak. The wood looks brittle, splintered from falling who knows how long ago, but it’ll have to do.

I bite down on one of the larger sticks to carry it back, nearly gagging at the taste of damp earth and mold. My hooves drag the rest, clumsy and slow, until I’ve assembled a fresh pile of wood by the stream. It’s smaller than the last one, but I don’t care. It just has to work.

The next step is the hard part.

I pull out two smaller sticks, holding one awkwardly between my hooves. My limbs tremble as I try to position the other stick upright, but it keeps toppling over, slipping from my grasp like soap. My hooves feel more like blunt clubs than tools—no grip, no precision, just raw, unwieldy stumps. Every time the stick falls, my frustration grows sharper.

“Damn it,” I hiss, slamming my hoof into the ground. The impact sends a jolt up my leg, but I barely feel it over the raw anger bubbling in my chest. “Just stay up!”

My horn throbs faintly, like it’s mocking me, and an idea sparks in my mind. It’s not a good idea—it’s born of desperation and exhaustion, but it’s something.

Balancing the stick is the problem. Fine. If my hooves can’t do it, maybe my magic can.

I focus on the upright stick, staring at it like it’s a puzzle I can brute-force my way through. The buzzing at the base of my horn stirs, faint and weak, but enough to work with. I concentrate harder, trying to picture the stick standing still, balanced and steady.

It wobbles at first, the glow of my magic flickering erratically, but it holds. Just barely.

My heart races, and I grab the other stick with my hooves, my grip clumsy but determined. My legs shake as I position it under the balanced stick, angling it just right. The buzzing in my horn falters, the stick teetering dangerously, but I press on.

“Come on,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “Just work. Just work!”

I press the sticks together and start spinning the top one in my hooves, awkward and uneven as my telekinesis holds the end, balancing it.. My grip slips constantly, and the spinning is jerky at best, but it’s movement. It’s friction. The sound of wood scraping against wood fills the air, and for a brief moment, hope flickers in my chest.

The stick wobbles again, the glow of my magic flickering like a dying lightbulb. My jaw clenches, and I push harder, the buzzing in my horn turning into a sharp ache. My hooves slip, the stick jerks sideways, and I almost lose it entirely.

“Damn it!” I shout, my voice breaking. My legs shake as I reset the sticks, my breathing ragged and shallow. Tears prick the corners of my eyes, but I shove them down. I can’t afford to cry. Not now.

My whole body trembles as I try again, spinning the stick with clumsy, frantic movements. The upright stick wobbles, the glow around it flickering like a candle in the wind, but I don’t let up. I don’t care how much my horn aches, or how raw my hooves feel, or how much the forest seems to mock me with every failure.

I will make this work. I have to.

The sticks scrape against each other, faster and faster, the sound growing sharper as I press harder. My horn buzzes wildly, the upright stick tilting dangerously, but I keep going. Every ounce of strength, every shred of willpower, goes into this one moment.

And then I see it—a faint curl of smoke rising from the base of the sticks. My heart skips a beat, and I almost lose control in my excitement. The smoke thickens, tiny embers glowing faintly in the brittle wood.

I drop the spinning stick and crouch low, blowing gently on the embers, my breath shaking. The glow brightens, and a small flame flickers to life, weak but real.

I did it. I actually did it.

I feel a spark of triumph. It’s small and fragile, but it’s mine. A fire. Warmth. Life.

I stare at the tiny flame, my chest heaving with exhaustion and relief. My hooves ache, my horn throbs, and my body feels like it’s about to collapse, but I don’t care. For the first time, I’ve won.

The flame is barely more than a flicker, a fragile little tongue of orange clinging to the brittle wood. My chest tightens as I crouch over it, my breath shallow and trembling. Every gust of wind, every stray movement feels like it could snuff it out, and I can’t let that happen. Not after everything.

I grab the driest twigs I can find from the pile, my hooves fumbling as I try to position them over the flame without smothering it. It’s maddening work—every movement feels too clumsy, too risky. The glow wavers, the flame shrinking slightly, and panic claws at my chest.

“No, no, no,” I whisper, the words shaky and desperate. My heart pounds as I lean closer, shielding the fragile fire with my body. “Stay. Stay with me.”

The flame gutters, flickering dangerously low, and I bite back a sob. My hooves tremble as I place another twig near the ember, angling it carefully. The flame hesitates, licking at the wood, and then grows, just a little.

A weak laugh escapes me, part relief, part disbelief. “That’s it,” I murmur, my voice barely more than a breath. “You can do this. Come on.”

The fire is small, barely enough to warm my hooves, but it’s there. It’s real. I sit frozen, afraid to breathe too hard or move too fast. The thought of losing it now is unbearable, the fear gnawing at the back of my mind. My horn still throbs, and my body aches, but I don’t dare stop. Not until the flame is strong enough to survive on its own.

I grab another stick, this one slightly thicker, and position it over the flame. My hooves slip, and the stick wobbles dangerously close to smothering the tiny fire. I flinch, pulling back as the flame flickers violently.

“Damn it,” I hiss, my voice cracking. My legs shake as I adjust the stick, carefully nudging it into place. The flame clings to the wood, catching hold with a faint crackle. I let out a shaky breath, my body sagging with relief.

The fire grows slowly, the embers glowing brighter as the twigs catch. It’s still fragile, but it’s stronger now, less likely to vanish at the slightest mistake. I sit back on my haunches, staring at the small but steady flame, my chest heaving with exhaustion and relief.

For a moment, I let myself feel the warmth. It’s faint, barely more than a whisper against the cold, but it’s enough to keep me going. Enough to remind me that I’m still here, still fighting.

The fish lies nearby, forgotten for the moment, its dull silver scales glinting in the light of the fire. My stomach growls, the sound loud in the quiet, but I don’t reach for it yet. First, I need to keep the fire alive. It’s all I have.

I glance at the pile of wood, my mind racing with thoughts of what I’ll need to do to keep this going. Bigger sticks. More kindling. Something to shield it from the wind. My body screams for rest, but I know I can’t stop yet.

“Alright,” I whisper to myself, my voice hoarse but determined. “One step at a time.”

The forest presses in around me, dark and cold and unforgiving, but the fire burns on. Small. Fragile. But alive. Just like me.

My stomach growls again, a sharp, painful reminder of the fish lying nearby. I glance over at it, its silver scales catching the light of the flames. It’s small, but it’ll be enough to keep me going. At least, I hope it will.

I reach for the fish with trembling hooves, fumbling to hold it in place. Its body is slick with mud and water, and it slips out of my grasp more than once before I finally manage to lift it. My grip is clumsy at best, but I shuffle closer to the fire, trying to figure out the best way to cook it.

There’s no spit, no grill, no fancy setup. Just me, my hooves, and a tiny fire that looks like it could go out at any moment. I crouch down, holding the fish awkwardly near the flames, trying to angle it so it cooks evenly. The heat feels good, soothing against the cold that’s seeped into my bones, but the fish flops weakly in my hooves, startling me.

It’s still alive.

A jolt of panic shoots through me as the fish thrashes again, slipping out of my shaky grip. “Hey!” I shout, scrambling to catch it, but the damn thing flops once, twice, and then hurls itself straight into the fire.

pfft. The tiny flame sputters and hisses as the wet fish lands on it, smothering the embers in a single, catastrophic moment. My heart sinks as I watch the glow fade, the fire reduced to a faint wisp of smoke and a patch of scorched wood.

“No,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “No, no, no!”

I lunge forward, brushing the fish aside in a desperate attempt to save the fire, but it’s too late. The embers are cold, the wood blackened and useless. My chest tightens, and my vision blurs with tears as the reality of what just happened crashes over me.

“You stupid, useless—” My voice breaks into a snarl as I grab the fish with my hooves. It thrashes weakly, but I’m beyond caring. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I slam it against the ground, over and over, the dull, wet thud of its body hitting the dirt filling the air.

“Why can’t anything just—work?!” I shout, my voice cracking with frustration and anger. Each word is punctuated by another slam, my hooves trembling with rage and exhaustion. The fish finally goes still, its body limp and mangled, and I let it drop to the ground.

I sit there, panting, staring at the ruined fish and the cold ashes of my fire. My chest heaves, and my whole body shakes—not just from the cold, but from the sheer, overwhelming despair that’s settled over me like a weight I can’t lift.

I wipe at my face with a muddy hoof, smearing dirt and tears across my fur. “Why?” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “Why is this happening to me?”

The forest doesn’t answer. It never does.

I sit there for a long moment, staring at the mangled fish lying in the dirt. My breath comes in short, ragged bursts, and my chest burns with frustration. Everything in me wants to scream, to cry, to just give up and lie down in the mud. But I can’t. I won’t.

“Fuck this,” I mutter, my voice low and venomous. “Fuck this forest. Fuck this fish. Fuck everything.”

I force myself back onto my hooves, legs shaking as I stagger toward the smoldering remains of my fire. The sight of the cold ashes makes my stomach churn, and a fresh wave of anger surges through me. My horn throbs, my body aches, but I don’t care. I’m going to get that fire back, even if it kills me.

“Alright, you stupid fucking pile of sticks,” I growl, crouching down to pick up what’s left of my firewood. My hooves fumble with the brittle pieces, and one slips out of my grasp, landing in the mud. “Shit!”

I grab another stick, shoving it upright. It wobbles immediately, and I slap it with my hoof to steady it. “Stay. Stay the fuck up.”

The buzzing at the base of my horn stirs again, faint and irritating, like a persistent itch. I focus on the stick, my teeth gritted as I force my magic to hold it steady. The glow flickers weakly, and the stick leans dangerously to one side, but I don’t let go. “You’re not going anywhere, you cunt.”

With the stick barely balanced, I lut a hoof on each side and start spinning it against the first. My hooves are clumsy and uncoordinated, the motion jerky and uneven. The sound of wood scraping against wood grates on my nerves, but I keep going. My breath comes in angry, shaky gasps, and every muscle in my body screams for me to stop.

“Fucking—spin!” I shout, slamming the stick harder against the base. “Work, you goddamn useless pieces of shit!”

The upright stick wobbles, and the glow of my magic falters. I grit my teeth, the buzzing in my horn flaring into a sharp ache as I force the stick back into place. My hooves slip again, and I let out a frustrated roar, slamming the spinning stick into the ground.

“Why can’t anything just fucking work?!” The words come out in a snarl, my voice raw and shaking.

But I don’t stop. I grab the sticks again, my breath ragged and my hands—hooves—trembling with fury. The buzzing grows sharper, louder, as I force my magic to keep the stick upright. My movements are frantic now, the spinning faster but no less clumsy. Sweat drips down my face, mixing with the dirt and tears streaking my fur.

Finally, I see it—a faint curl of smoke rising from the base of the sticks. My heart leaps, but I don’t dare stop. I blow on the embers, my breath shaky but determined, and the glow brightens, faint but steady.

“Yes,” I hiss through gritted teeth, my voice low and venomous. “You fucking stay alive this time.”

The flame flickers to life, small and fragile, but real. I crouch over it, shielding it from the wind with my body, and feed it the driest twigs I can find. My hooves fumble constantly, and the flame gutters with every misstep, but I refuse to let it die.

“Come on,” I mutter, my voice shaking. “You’re not going out again. Not this time.”

The fire grows slowly, stubbornly, until it’s a small but steady flame. My chest heaves, my legs feel like they’re going to give out, and my horn feels like someone drove a nail through it, but I don’t care. I did it.

I sit back, staring at the fire with a mix of triumph and pure, unfiltered rage. “Fuck you,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “I win.”

The fire crackles louder now, casting a warm, flickering glow that pushes back the oppressive cold of the forest. I keep feeding it, piling on sticks and branches, shoving more wood into the flames until it’s roaring. The heat is intense, washing over me in waves that sting my face and dry the mud clinging to my fur. I don’t care if it’s overkill—I want it big. I want it to burn so hot and bright that nothing in this cursed place can snuff it out.

My legs wobble as I grab another branch, shoving it onto the fire with a grunt. Sparks fly up into the dark canopy above, and I watch them rise with a strange sense of satisfaction. The fire is mine, and this time, it’s not going anywhere.

I sit back on my haunches, wiping sweat from my face with a muddy hoof. My body feels like it’s been put through a blender—my muscles ache, my horn throbs, and my stomach growls louder than ever. But for the first time, I feel like I’ve gained some control. The fire is strong now, alive and defiant, and it feels like a small victory in a world that’s done nothing but kick me while I’m down.

My eyes drift to the stream, the water glinting in the firelight. The fish are still there, darting in and out of the shadows, their movements mocking me like before. My jaw tightens, and my ears flick back as my frustration flares. Not this time. I’m not letting them win again.

I scan the water, searching for an easy target. A smaller fish catches my eye, its silvery body flickering near the surface. My horn buzzes faintly, the magic stirring at the edge of my consciousness, and I grit my teeth, focusing on the fish.

“Alright,” I mutter under my breath, my voice low and rough. “You’re mine.”

The buzzing sharpens as I concentrate, the faint glow of my magic flickering to life around the fish. My grip is weak and shaky, but I don’t need finesse. I just need one good jerk.

I clench my jaw, pouring every bit of frustration, hunger, and spite into that single moment. My horn flares, the buzzing turning into a sharp, electric hum, and I yank with everything I have.

The fish rockets out of the water.

It’s not graceful. My magic doesn’t so much lift it as throw it, physics taking over the second the glow around it snaps. The fish flips wildly through the air, water spraying off its slick scales, and crashes into the dirt near the fire with a wet, satisfying smack.

I stare at it, breathless, my heart pounding in my chest. A grin spreads across my face, shaky and almost feral. “Got you,” I whisper, a low, triumphant laugh bubbling up from my throat.

I scramble over to the fish, ignoring the way my legs tremble beneath me. It flops weakly on the ground, its movements sluggish and uncoordinated. My hooves hover over it for a moment, unsure, but then I slam one down, pinning it to the dirt.

“Not getting away this time,” I mutter, my voice sharp and venomous. I glance at the fire, its heat washing over me in waves, and my grin widens. “Now we do this right.”

The fish twitches one last time before going still, and I finally let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. For the first time since waking up in this godforsaken place, I feel like I’ve actually won.

The fish flops weakly in the dirt, its silver body glinting in the firelight as it struggles against the inevitable. My chest is heaving, my muscles trembling from the effort of getting it out of the water, but I don’t let myself pause. Not this time.

I glare down at it, the anger and hunger twisting together into a single thought: You’re not going to ruin this.

My hoof comes down hard, slamming into the fish with a wet, crunching sound. It twitches once, then goes still. I keep my hoof pressed against it, panting, my breath sharp and ragged. The fire crackles behind me, its heat brushing against my back as I stare at the lifeless fish.

“Not this time,” I mutter, my voice low and hoarse. “You’re not screwing this up.”

I lift my hoof, staring at the flattened, lifeless body of the fish. My stomach growls loudly, the sound cutting through the crackle of the flames. I don’t even feel bad about what I just did—there’s no room for guilt right now. Not when I’m starving. Not when survival is the only thing that matters.

Grabbing the fish with my hooves is clumsy work, but I manage to lift it, dragging it closer to the fire. The heat radiates off the flames, and I pause for a moment, hesitating as I try to figure out the best way to do this. I’ve never cooked a fish like this before, not without a pan or tools or anything remotely useful.

“Alright,” I mutter, crouching down and carefully placing the fish near the edge of the fire. “You’re gonna cook. You’re not gonna ruin my fire. And I’m gonna eat.”

The fish lies there, lifeless and slightly charred as the flames lick at its scales. The heat makes my eyes sting, but I stay close, watching intently. Every pop and crackle of the fire makes my chest tighten, and I keep glancing at the flames like they’re about to betray me.

“Stay,” I whisper to the fire, like it can hear me. “Just stay alive. That’s all I’m asking.”

The fish begins to sizzle, the smell of cooking meat wafting up and mixing with the smoky air. My stomach twists with hunger, and I can’t stop myself from leaning closer, my mouth watering as I watch the skin start to crisp. It’s far from perfect—uneven, charred in places—but it’s food. Real food.

For the first time since waking up in this nightmare, I feel like I might make it. Just barely, but it’s enough.

The smell of the fish cooking is overwhelming. It’s not exactly pleasant—burnt scales mixed with the smoke from the fire—but it’s food, and that’s all that matters. My stomach growls so loudly it feels like it might tear itself apart, and I can’t wait any longer.

I crouch near the fire, my hooves trembling as I nudge the fish away from the flames. The edges of its skin are blackened and crispy, and the heat radiates through my fur as I struggle to pull it toward me without dropping it. My hooves are clumsy, the fish slick and awkward to hold, but I manage to flop it onto a patch of dirt a few feet from the fire.

The thing looks terrible. Its scales are still intact, charred and curling in places, and the meat beneath is unevenly cooked at best. But it smells like food, and that’s all I care about.

I hesitate for a second, staring at the thing like it’s going to somehow turn into a meal I recognize. But I know better. There’s no way to descale it, no tools to clean it, nothing to make this easier. It’s just me, my hooves, and this barely-cooked fish.

“Alright,” I mutter under my breath. “Here goes nothing.”

I lower my head, biting into the fish without ceremony. The texture is awful—rough, scaly, and burnt on the outside, mushy on the inside. The taste isn’t much better, a mix of char and something metallic, but the meat underneath is warm, and it makes my stomach ache with anticipation. I tear off a piece, chewing awkwardly as bits of scale stick to my tongue.

It’s disgusting. It’s exactly what I need.

I eat as quickly as I can, ripping pieces off with my teeth and swallowing them down without caring about the taste or the texture. The scales scrape against my gums, and I spit out a few that stick to the roof of my mouth, but I don’t stop. Every bite feels like a battle against my own gag reflex, but the warmth spreading through my stomach is worth it.

By the time I finish, my mouth feels raw, my tongue coated in a mixture of burnt ash and salt. I sit back, panting, staring at the charred remains of the fish’s skeleton. My stomach feels heavier now, the ache dulled but not gone. It’s not enough—not even close—but it’s something.

I wipe my mouth with a muddy hoof, spitting out a piece of scale that stuck to my teeth. “That was… fucking disgusting,” I mutter, my voice hoarse. “But at least I’m not starving anymore.”

The fire crackles softly, its warmth still brushing against my fur. I glance at it, then at the stream, my mind already turning to the next fish. I’ll need more if I want to keep going. If I want to survive.

I glance at the stream, the water glinting faintly in the firelight. The fish are still there, darting in and out of the shallows, their movements quick and erratic. My chest tightens as I remember the effort it took to catch the first one, but the memory of food—real, tangible food—pushes me forward.

“Alright,” I mutter, pushing myself to my hooves. My legs tremble beneath me, but I force them to stay steady. “Let’s do this.”

The process is clumsy and exhausting. Each attempt to jerk a fish out of the water takes every ounce of focus and strength I can muster. My horn buzzes with effort, the glow flickering weakly as I yank fish after fish from the stream, their slippery bodies flopping onto the muddy bank.

By the time I’m done, three more fish lie in the dirt, their silver scales catching the firelight. My chest heaves, my horn throbs, and my legs feel like they’re about to give out, but the sight of the fish fills me with a strange sense of triumph. It’s ugly and primal, but it’s mine.

I repeat the process of cooking them, crouched by the fire as I nudge each fish into the flames. The smell is just as awful as before, the charred scales and unevenly cooked meat filling the air with a mix of smoke and salt. I don’t care. I rip into each fish with the same desperation as the first, tearing chunks of meat from their bodies and spitting out the scales as I go.

By the time I finish, my stomach is full, and the raw ache of hunger has finally dulled. I sit back on my haunches, staring at the remnants of the fish—a few scattered bones and charred bits of scale. My mouth feels raw, my hooves are caked in mud and ash, and my horn still throbs like someone’s been hammering on it, but I feel… better. Not good, not by any stretch, but better.

The fire crackles softly, the warmth brushing against my fur as I glance at the stream. My eyes follow its gentle curve, the water winding lazily through the dark forest. It’s not much, but it’s a direction. A path to somewhere, even if I don’t know where that is.

I push myself to my hooves again, wobbling slightly as my legs protest the movement. The fire flickers behind me, its light casting faint shadows on the trees, but I don’t look back. The fire has served its purpose, and now it’s time to move.

“Downstream,” I mutter to myself, my voice low and hoarse. “That’s where the water’s going. Maybe there’s… something.”

I don’t finish the thought. There’s no point. Whatever might be downstream, it’s better than staying here. I take a shaky step forward, my hooves slipping slightly on the damp ground, and then another. Each step feels steadier than the last, the food in my stomach giving me a flicker of strength I didn’t have before.

The stream gurgles softly beside me, its sound a constant companion as I begin my slow, unsteady journey downstream. The forest is still dark, the trees gnarled and twisted, but the fire in my chest burns brighter now. Spite and survival fuel each step, pushing me forward into the unknown.

The Swindler's Apprentice
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Applied Mathemagics

The Swindler's Apprentice

After finishing my meal, I take a leisurely route back toward the inn, letting the food settle as I stroll through Ponyville. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the bustling square, and for a moment, I actually feel... content. Strange, but I’m not complaining.

As I turn a corner, I hear the sound of hushed giggles and whispering. A trio of fillies sits nearby, huddled together by a wooden crate stacked with art supplies. One of them, a yellow-coated earth pony with a red bow in her mane, Apple Bloom, points at me, and the whispering gets louder.

“Hey, mister!” she calls, trotting over with a big grin. Her two friends—a white unicorn with a curly mane, Sweetie Belle, and an orange Pegasus with stubby wings, Scootaloo,—follow close behind. “What’s yer cutie mark mean?”

I stop mid-step, blinking at her. “My… cutie mark?”

The filly nods eagerly. “Yeah! We’ve been tryin’ to figure it out for a while now. It looks all complicated, but it’s gotta mean somethin’ cool, right?”

The other two chime in. “It’s so weird!” says Sweetie, her voice high and curious. “Like, what even is it supposed to be?”

“Yeah,” adds Scootaloo, narrowing her eyes at my confused look. “You do know what it means, right?”

I feel my face flush. “Of course I do,” I say quickly. “I mean, I haven’t really, uh, thought about it in a while.”

“Wait,” the Apple Bloom says, her grin dropping into a frown. “You don’t know what yer own cutie mark means?”

“That’s not what I said,” I reply, a little too defensively. “I’ve just been busy. Haven’t looked in a while, that’s all.”

They exchange skeptical glances, and I can feel my dignity crumbling under their unimpressed stares. With a resigned sigh, I turn in place, craning my neck to finally get a look at my flank.

The mark is… complicated. It’s not a simple symbol or an image like I expected. Instead, complex formula, derivatives with variables I don't immediately recognize. For a moment, it feels like staring at an abstract painting.

But then, like pieces of a puzzle snapping into place, it clicks.

“Oh,” I say, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “I get it now.”

“What do ya mean, ‘you get it’?” the Apple Bloom asks, clearly exasperated. “Ain’t it supposed to be your cutie mark?”

“Yeah!” the Sweetie adds, her brow furrowing. “You’re supposed to know what it means already!”

Scootaloo shakes her head, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “How do you even get a cutie mark and not know what it’s for?”

“I do know,” I say, turning back to face them. “It just means I’m... really good at magic," I say smoothly, pasting on a confident smile.

The three fillies exchange doubtful glances.

"Magic?" the Sweetie asks, tilting her head. "But… it looks all math-y. Are you sure?"

"Positive," I reply, leaning into the lie. "Magic isn’t just about waving your horn around. There’s a whole layer of precision to it—calculations, balance, that kind of thing. My cutie mark just reflects that I’ve mastered the… technical side of magic."

Apple Bloom frowns, clearly not convinced. "So yer sayin’ all that scribblin’ means yer good at spells?"

"Exactly," I say, nodding emphatically. "You saw the rain spell at the party, didn’t you? That’s not just anypony’s magic—that’s precision magic. It’s all connected."

The orange Pegasus squints at me. "Huh. So you’re, like, some kind of nerd wizard?"

I can’t help but laugh at that, despite the mild sting of the word nerd. "Yeah, something like that."

Sweetie’s skepticism fades slightly, replaced by a glimmer of awe. "So, do you know all kinds of spells?"

"Loads of them," I say, crossing my hooves casually. "But, you know, they’re complex. Not really party tricks."

"Aw," the earth pony groans. "Guess we were hopin’ fer somethin’ flashier. Like a fireball or somethin’."

I shake my head with a small chuckle. "Flashy isn’t always better. You’d be surprised how useful precision magic is."

The fillies exchange glances again, this time with less skepticism and more curiosity. Sweetie steps forward. "Can you teach me some day? I wanna learn magic like that!"

"Maybe," I say, brushing off the question with a half-smile. "If you stick with your studies."

"Okay!" she chirps, beaming.

"Alright, then," Apple Bloom says, nodding firmly. "Come on girls, lets go try to get our buggin' ponies cutie mark. Ah' feel like we were close last time."

"Uh, bye then," I reply, watching as the trio trots off, chattering among themselves.

Once they’re out of earshot, I let out a long breath and glance back at my cutie mark. The sight still makes my head spin a little, but the implications are clear. Good at magic, huh? More like good at physics, but it’s not like anyone here would understand the difference.

I shake my head as I continue down the street. "Sure, let’s go with that."

The rest of the day passes in a quiet haze. After the encounter with the fillies, I find myself wandering Ponyville aimlessly, soaking in the sights and sounds of this strange but vibrant town. The marketplace is bustling as usual, with merchants shouting over one another to advertise their wares. I don’t buy anything—I’m still nursing my bits carefully—but it’s nice to just exist in the flow of life here.

I pass by the Golden Oaks Library at one point, the towering tree catching my eye again. The idea of stepping inside tugs at me, but I push it aside for now. Maybe another day. Instead, I head to a quiet spot near the edge of town, a small hill overlooking the surrounding countryside. It’s peaceful here, the sounds of Ponyville fading into the background as I sit beneath a tree, letting the cool breeze ruffle my mane.

The horizon stretches out before me, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. For a moment, the weight of everything—the bizarre turn my life has taken, the constant improvisation to survive—feels a little lighter. I let myself relax, if only for a while.

As night falls, the town quiets down, the streets lit by the soft glow of lanterns. I make my way back to the inn, the familiar warmth of its interior greeting me as I step through the door. The innkeeper gives me a nod, and I nod back, heading straight for the stairs. My body aches with a pleasant kind of tiredness, the kind that comes from a day of walking and thinking but not scrambling to solve impossible problems.

Once in my room, I drop onto the bed with a satisfied sigh, the soft mattress a welcome relief after the day. The coin pouch sits on the bedside table, a comforting reminder that I’m not completely broke—for now, at least. I kick off the blanket, too tired to worry about anything else, and close my eyes.

As sleep pulls me under, I can’t help but feel a faint sense of accomplishment.

The morning sunlight filters through the thin curtains, rousing me from sleep. I groan and stretch, feeling the stiffness in my limbs from the previous day’s wandering. For a moment, I lie there, staring at the ceiling, letting the comforting weight of the blanket hold me in place. But the day waits for no one, so I force myself out of bed.

After a quick rinse in the small basin provided in the room, I grab my coin pouch and key, heading downstairs to the inn’s common room. The faint hum of morning activity greets me, along with the now-familiar scent of fresh bread and porridge. The innkeeper smiles as I approach the counter, sliding a plate toward me without needing to ask.

Breakfast is the same as always: a slice of crusty bread, a bowl of plain porridge, and a cup of lukewarm tea. It’s filling enough, but the monotony is starting to wear on me. I chew methodically, staring out the window as the town begins to stir. Ponies move about their morning routines, their conversations muffled by the glass. It’s peaceful, in its own way, but I can’t shake the growing itch for something more.

After finishing my meal, I place the empty dishes back on the counter with a small nod to the innkeeper. “Thanks,” I say, though my tone lacks enthusiasm.

“Of course, Mr. Flux,” she replies cheerfully. “Have a good day.”

I step out into the crisp morning air, the town already coming to life around me. The cobblestones are damp with dew, the scent of earth and greenery hanging in the air. The short walk to Town Hall is uneventful, and I take my time, enjoying the quiet moments before the day’s chaos inevitably finds me.

When I reach my office, the familiar creak of the door greets me. Everything is as I left it: the simple wooden desk, the stack of blank parchment, and the small window letting in a beam of golden light. I drop my coin pouch on the desk and settle into the chair, exhaling deeply.

Another day as Ponyville’s so-called Town Mage. Whatever that means. I lean back, waiting for the first knock at the door, knowing it’s only a matter of time before somepony comes in with a problem they’re sure only magic can solve.

The morning stretches on in quiet stillness. I idly doodle on a scrap of parchment, the quill wobbling slightly in my telekinetic grip. The hum of activity outside filters in faintly, a reminder that Ponyville doesn’t stop moving, even if I’m stuck here waiting for the next “magical emergency.”

Then, as if on cue, there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in,” I call, sitting up straighter and setting the quill aside.

The door creaks open, revealing a frazzled-looking earth pony stallion with a scruffy brown coat and a mane that looks like it hasn’t been combed in weeks. He steps inside hesitantly, his wide, veiny eyes darting around the room before settling on me.

“You’re the mage, right?” he asks, his voice a little too loud.

“That’s me,” I reply, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. “What seems to be the problem?”

He plops down, his hooves fidgeting on the armrests. “It’s my tools. They’ve stopped workin’. Every time I use ‘em, somethin’ goes wrong. Nails bend, wood splits, screws won’t catch. It’s gotta be some kind of curse.”

I raise an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “A curse?”

“Yeah,” he insists, nodding vigorously. “I’ve been a carpenter for twenty years, and I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like they’re fightin’ me. Ain’t no explanation other than magic.”

I resist the urge to groan. “And you’re sure it’s a magic issue?”

“What else could it be?” he asks, throwing his hooves in the air. “Tools don’t just go bad on their own.”

I take a deep breath, “Alright. Let me see these tools.”

The stallion hesitates, then reaches into his saddlebag and pulls out a hammer, a saw, and a few nails, setting them on the desk. I pick up the hammer in my magic, turning it over carefully. The handle is cracked near the base, and the metal head is loose, wobbling slightly as I move it.

“And you’ve been using this?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“‘Course I have,” he says, sounding defensive. “It’s my hammer. Always worked fine before.”

I set it down and pick up the saw. The teeth are dull, barely sharp enough to cut butter. The nails he brought are bent and rusty, their tips blunted from overuse. I glance back at the stallion, my patience thinning.

“These aren’t cursed,” I say plainly. “They’re just old.”

“What?” He blinks, looking genuinely confused.

“Look here,” I say, holding up the hammer. “The handle’s cracked, and the head’s loose. That’s why it’s not working right. The saw’s dull, and these nails are rusted and bent. You need new tools.”

“But they’ve always worked fine before,” he protests.

“Yeah, well, they’ve probably worn out over time,” I reply with a bite. “Tools don’t last forever. It’s not magic—it’s wear and tear.”

He stares at the tools, his expression a mix of disbelief and frustration. “You’re sure it ain’t a curse?”

“Positive,” I say, leaning forward and looking him in the eye. “Go get some new tools, and you’ll see the difference. And keep them in better shape this time. A little care goes a long way.”

The stallion reluctantly hands over ten bits, mumbling something about “fancy unicorn nonsense” under his breath. I pocket the coins with a polite nod, watching as he gathers his tools and leaves the office. Barely a second passes before another knock sounds at the door.

“Come in,” I say, bracing myself for whatever’s next.

The door opens, and in steps a pristine white unicorn with a perfectly coiffed purple mane. Rarity. I recognize her instantly, even before she speaks. She glides into the room with the kind of grace that makes me feel immediately nervous, her veiny blue eyes shimmer, scanning the office with mild curiosity.

“Good morning,” she says in a melodic tone, her head held high. “You must be Kinetic Flux, Ponyville’s esteemed Town Mage.”

“That’s me,” I reply, forcing a neutral expression. “What can I do for you, Miss…?”

“Rarity,” she says with a dazzling smile. “Owner of the Carousel Boutique, purveyor of fine fashions, and elder sister to Sweetie Belle.”

Ah. The name Sweetie Belle sets off an immediate alarm in my mind. What now?

“Right,” I say cautiously. “And what brings you here today?”

“Well,” she begins, taking a dainty seat across from me, “it seems you’ve made quite the impression on my dear little sister.”

“Oh?” I ask, though I already have a sinking feeling about where this is going.

“She mentioned that you offered to teach her magic, should she stick to her studies,” Rarity continues, her tone light and pleasant. “I must say, I was thrilled to hear it. Sweetie Belle has struggled with her spells, and a proper tutor would do wonders for her confidence.”

I freeze, my mind scrambling for a response. “Uh… well, I might’ve said something like that—”

“Which is why I’d like to formally hire you,” she says, cutting me off. “Your expertise would be invaluable, and I’m more than happy to compensate you for your time.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

I force a smile, my heart pounding in my chest. “That’s, uh… very generous of you. But you should know that magic instruction can be… complex.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is,” she says, waving a hoof dismissively. “Sweetie Belle is eager to learn, and I trust you’ll be able to guide her.”

I swallow hard, my mind racing. I don’t actually know magic—at least, not in the way they think. All of what I’ve done so far has been improvisation with physics and basic telekinesis. Teaching an eager filly magic sounds like a one-way ticket to disaster.

“Well,” I start, trying to find the most polite way to decline, “I’m not sure I’m the best fit for—”

“Fifty bits an hour,” Rarity interjects, her tone smooth and confident.

I freeze. My mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out. Fifty bits an hour? That’s five nights at the inn for every hour of work. My mind races through the math. Even a few sessions could pad my wallet nicely, and with the way my luck’s been, turning down fifty bits an hour feels like madness.

“I… uh…” I stammer, the words catching in my throat.

“Oh, don’t be modest,” Rarity says, her smile widening. “Sweetie Belle told me about your precision magic. She needs a tutor who understands the intricacies, and you’re clearly the pony for the job. Consider it an investment in her future—and yours.”

I force a tight smile, my brain screaming at me to back out before I dig myself into a deeper hole. But fifty bits is fifty bits.

“Well, when you put it like that,” I say slowly, “how could I refuse?”

“Splendid!” Rarity beams, clapping her hooves together. “I’ll bring her by tomorrow at three o’clock sharp. She’s so excited to begin.”

“Looking forward to it,” I say, my voice strained as she stands and gracefully heads for the door. She pauses before leaving, turning to give me one last dazzling smile.

“Thank you, Kinetic Flux. You’re doing a wonderful thing.” And with that, she’s gone.

As the door clicks shut behind Rarity, a wave of panic hits me like a freight train. I stare at the desk for a moment, the weight of my impulsive decision sinking in. Fifty bits an hour might be great, but teaching Sweetie Belle magic? What the hell am I supposed to do?

I need help. I need… knowledge.

The image of the Golden Oaks Library flashes in my mind, and I groan. I’ve been putting off visiting it for days, but now? Now I don’t have a choice. If I’m going to bluff my way through tutoring Sweetie Belle, I need to at least sound like I know what I’m doing.

Without wasting another second, I grab my coin pouch and head out the door. The walk to the library is quick but tense, my mind racing with thoughts of what I’ll need: basic magic theory, spell exercises, maybe something on teaching methods. The sun beats down on me as I weave through Ponyville’s streets, dodging carts and ponies going about their day.

When I reach the Golden Oaks Library, I pause at the door. The massive tree looms above me, its windows glowing faintly in the sunlight. For a moment, I hesitate. The idea of walking into a library and rifling through books feels bizarre after my time just making it up as I go. But there’s no time to waste.

I push the door open and step inside. The air is cool and faintly musty, the scent of old paper and wood filling my nose. The space is cozy, with shelves carved directly into the walls of the tree, each one crammed with books of various sizes and colors. A small desk sits near the entrance, a sheet of parchment pinned to it with a quill resting in an inkpot. The honor system, I assume.

“Well, here goes nothing,” I mutter to myself, stepping further inside.

The shelves are labeled, albeit haphazardly, with wooden signs dangling from the edges. History of Equestria, Cutie Marks, Magical Creatures, and—finally—Basic Magic Theory. I make a beeline for the section, scanning the spines of the books for anything remotely helpful.

After a few minutes, I pull out a book titled The Fundamentals of Unicorn Magic, its cover worn but intact. Another book, Teaching Magic to Foals: A Practical Guide, catches my eye, and I grab it too. I browse a little longer, adding Practical Spells for Beginners and The Art of Magical Focus to the pile.

Balancing the stack precariously, I head to the desk near the entrance and pick up the quill. The parchment is a simple log, with columns for the book titles and borrower names. I carefully write my name—Kinetic Flux—next to the titles, feeling slightly ridiculous as I do.

With the books in tow, I glance around the library. The cozy, quiet atmosphere is perfect for what I need. The tables here are larger than the cramped surface of my office desk, and I’m going to need the space if I want to figure out what I’m doing.

I pick a table near the back of the library, setting the books down with a satisfying thump. After arranging them in a neat stack, I open The Fundamentals of Unicorn Magic and start flipping through the pages. The first few chapters are dry—history lessons and philosophical musings about magic’s place in the world—but eventually, I hit a section that catches my eye: “How to Cast a Spell.”

The page is dense, but I force myself to read every word. The text reads:

How to Cast a Spell
Unicorn magic relies on the precise combination of mental focus, verbal invocation, and intent. While basic telekinesis requires only concentration, more complex spells demand the caster to visualize specific patterns while reciting a spell in Ancient Equestrian. This spoken component acts as a conduit, harmonizing the caster’s intent with the magical energies around them.

To cast a spell:

Prepare your focus. Picture the result you wish to achieve in your mind’s eye. Clarity is key.
Recite the incantation. Ancient Equestrian phrases channel magic effectively. Below is an example for a basic light spell:

Lux vera, domina luminis,
Ignem sacrum invoco.
Illumina tenebras,
Fiat lux, nunc et semper! 3. Maintain the pattern. While reciting, visualize the magical pattern for the spell. Imagine light flowing from your horn like ripples on a pond, dispersing the darkness.

I stare at the incantation, my eyes narrowing. The text continues to explain how specific patterns and words influence the outcome, but my attention is stuck on that block of Ancient Equestrian.

“Are you kidding me?” I mutter, running a hoof down my face. Latin. It’s basically Latin. And not only do I not know Latin, but the idea of chanting this kind of thing while keeping an intricate mental image and the desired result in mind is… daunting.

I glance at the example for the light spell again. Lux vera, domina luminis... Yeah, no. There’s no way. Not a chance. I shake my head, closing the book for a moment as I process.

“I’m so screwed,” I say quietly to myself, the words echoing faintly in the empty library.

But as much as I want to give up, I can’t. Sweetie Belle is expecting a tutor, and Rarity’s expecting me to deliver. I reopen the book, skimming for shortcuts or anything that might make this process simpler. Maybe if I simplify the incantation, or fake my way through with basic telekinesis...

I sigh, grabbing Practical Spells for Beginners next. There has to be a way to make this work—or at least look like I know what I’m doing.

I pull the book closer, flipping through its pages. At first glance, it seems less dense than the last book, with diagrams and step-by-step instructions sprinkled throughout the text. Maybe this will be easier to follow.

My optimism is short-lived.

About halfway through, I come across a section titled “Basic Beam Spells.” Intrigued, I stop and start reading. The introduction explains that beam spells are a foundational part of unicorn magic, useful for everything from clearing debris to self-defense. A footnote mentions that even foals can master the basics with enough practice.

Sure. Sounds simple enough.

Then I see the incantation.

Basic Beam Spell Incantation:
Ignis caelestis, fulgur mortis,
Percute inimicum meum!
Vis tua devastet,
Fiat ruina, nunc et semper!

I blink at the words, my brow furrowing. Ignis caelestis? Fulgur mortis? What the hell does any of this mean? I don’t speak Latin—Ancient Equestrian, whatever—and I’m pretty sure just trying to pronounce it would tie my tongue in knots. The chant is accompanied by a diagram labeled “Visualization Pattern,” but while less intricate it makes my head hurt just thinking about the mental multitask.

I stare at the page for a long moment, my hoof hovering above it as if that’ll help the words make sense.

“Nope,” I mutter, slamming the book shut. “Absolutely not.”

I lean back in the chair, letting out a frustrated sigh. These spells are ridiculous. Chanting in a language I don’t understand while mentally juggling patterns while imagining the effect? There’s no way Sweetie Belle—or anyone, for that matter—could pick this up easily.

“How the hell did they discover this?” I mutter, rubbing my temples. “What’s next? Expecting me to recite the entire periodic table in rhyme?”

I glance at the stack of books, my annoyance bubbling over. It’s clear that if I’m going to teach Sweetie Belle anything, it won’t be from these overcomplicated rituals. I don’t even know how much of this is necessary and how much is tradition. What I do know is physics—and maybe that’s enough.

I shove the books aside and rest my head on the table, staring at the carved ceiling of the library. Teaching Sweetie Belle magic is starting to feel less like a task and more like an elaborate game of bluffing my way through the impossible.

“Alright,” I say quietly, more to myself than anything. “If the books won’t help, we’ll do this my way.”

I gather up the books in one telekinetic sweep, stacking them carefully on the table. For a moment, I hesitate, the guilt nagging at me. Am I really about to teach Sweetie Belle how to hack magic with physics? A grim chuckle escapes my throat. At this point, I don’t see any other option.

Sliding the pile of tomes into the crook of my foreleg, I head for the door. I’ve already signed them out, so there’s no harm in taking them with me. I'll bring them back... eventually. The sun outside is lower in the sky than I expect, painting the library’s interior with deep orange light. A reminder that time’s running short.

Stepping onto Ponyville’s streets, I make my way back toward the inn. The bustle of the day has died down to a mellow buzz, ponies finishing their final errands or heading home for supper. My hooves feel heavy with each step, the stack of books pressing against my chest like the weight of my half-baked plan.

It’s not that I’m proud of conning Sweetie Belle—or anypony else. But at the end of the day, I’m not some arcane wizard who can chant Latin phrases and make energy beams shoot out of my horn. I’m a guy who fiddles with atoms by brute force and calls it “magic,” and so far, I’ve managed to stay afloat.

At the inn, the familiar smell of bread and porridge greets me as I slip inside. The innkeeper offers a polite nod, and I return the gesture, heading straight upstairs without a word. My room is dim, the curtains drawn against the setting sun. Perfect for the mood I’m in.

I set the books on the small desk in the corner, staring at them for a moment. You’re really gonna teach her this half-assed approach? She deserves the real thing, right? My conscience nags. But survival instincts roar back: You don’t know the real thing. And you can’t afford to look incompetent.

“Right,” I mutter, kicking off my hooves to peel away the day’s tension. “This’ll have to do.”

I collapse onto the bed, ignoring the faint creak of the mattress. My eyelids feel heavy as I think of tomorrow—of telling Sweetie Belle that magic doesn’t have to be all chants and patterns if you understand the underlying rules of the universe. Sort of. The thought tugs at my guilt again, but the exhaustion wins out.

Show must go on, I remind myself, letting my eyes drift shut. And with that, I sink into uneasy sleep, the looming task of faking magic mastery never quite leaving my mind.

The next morning, I drag myself out of bed, the remnants of a restless night clinging to my mind. I’m already anxious about the upcoming lesson with Sweetie Belle, even though I know I’m probably overthinking it. I force myself to get dressed, grab my books and coin pouch, and head downstairs to breakfast.

The same bland porridge and stale bread greet me. I force down the food, but it feels like lead in my stomach. My mind is buzzing with thoughts of what I’m about to do, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m walking into a mess of my own making. What if she doesn’t get it? What if I screw it all up? What if she starts asking questions I can’t answer?

“Stop it,” I mutter under my breath. “You’ve got this.”

But the doubts won’t go away. I finish my breakfast in silence, paying the innkeeper, and then make my way back to my office. The walk feels longer than usual, the weight of what’s coming pulling at my every step.

As I approach Town Hall, I can’t help but feel like an imposter. I’ve been faking it this whole time, and now I’m about to teach a filly how to do something that’s supposed to be the realm of experts. I’m not an expert. Hell, I don’t even understand magic the way these ponies do.

I open the door to my office and step inside, trying to shake off the nervous energy. The desk is as empty as I left it, but it feels like the room is closing in around me. I glance at the clock—still a little bit of time before Sweetie Belle is supposed to arrive.

I sit at my desk, staring at the stack of books I checked out yesterday. I can’t help but wonder if I should just throw in the towel, give her a refund, and walk away. But then I remind myself of the fifty bits an hour. That’s too much money to pass up, and if I don’t at least try, I’ll regret it.

I rub my temples, taking a deep breath. “Focus, Flux. You can do this.”

I glance at the door as it opens. It's almost time.

I sit behind my desk, tapping a hoof against the wood in a feeble attempt to steady my nerves. The morning sunlight filters through the window, highlighting the neat stack of books I borrowed from the library. I’ve already flipped them open and skimmed random pages, pretending I’m doing last-minute prep. But really, I’m just hoping things won’t fall apart the moment we start.

My ears perk up at the sound of soft voices outside the door. A moment later, the doorknob turns, and in steps Rarity, her mane styled to perfect coils, followed by a bright-eyed Sweetie Belle. The filly’s gaze sweeps the room, and her face lights up with excitement. I notice, with a touch of relief, that the younger ponies don’t have those unsettlingly large, veiny eyes. Hers look downright normal in comparison.

“Kinetic Flux,” Rarity says, offering a polite nod. “I’ve brought Sweetie Belle for her first lesson. She’s been absolutely buzzing about it all morning.”

Sweetie Belle bounces on her hooves, her smile nearly splitting her face. “Hi, Mr. Flux! I’m so excited to learn magic from you!”

I force a reassuring grin. “Good morning, Sweetie Belle. Happy to have you here.” My pulse throbs in my temples as I glance at Rarity. “Thanks for bringing her by. You can, uh, leave her with me now if you want.”

Rarity tilts her head, a touch of concern in her eyes. “Are you certain you don’t need any assistance? I’ve studied spellcraft myself—”

“No, no,” I cut in, perhaps a bit too quickly. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got a lesson plan ready. She’s in good hooves.”

She hesitates for a moment, clearly torn between her protective instincts and her faith in my so-called expertise. But Sweetie Belle is practically vibrating with excitement, and I think that sways Rarity’s decision.

“Very well,” she says, pressing a gentle hoof to her sister’s shoulder. “Behave yourself, Sweetie. Listen closely to everything Mr. Flux says.”

“I will!” Sweetie Belle chirps. “Thanks, Rarity!”

Rarity offers a final nod to me and glides out the door, shutting it softly behind her. The instant she’s gone, I let out a long, silent exhale and turn my attention back to Sweetie Belle.

Sweetie Belle all but vibrates with excitement once Rarity leaves. She’s practically bouncing on her hooves, her eyes sparkling in the morning light. I can almost feel her enthusiasm crackling in the air.

“So,” I say, trying to sound confident. “You want to learn some spells?”

She nods so hard her curly mane bobs around her face. “Uh-huh! But not just light spells, or beam spells. I wanna do…” She frowns in thought, then brightens. “Illusions! Like, I want to cast real illusions—fake objects and shapes and stuff that can move around. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

I blink, my mind scrambling for a response. Illusions, of course. Because a simple glowing orb wasn’t intimidating enough. “Illusions, huh?” I echo, forcing a small smile. “That’s… an interesting choice. What kind of illusions?”

She hops in place, eyes shining. “I dunno! Maybe I can make little creatures appear and run around, or make a big scary dragon that roars!” She rears up on her hind legs, trying to look fierce, then giggles. “I just think illusions are super fun. It’s like drawing, but with magic!”

Drawing with magic. Right, I think, ignoring the weight in my stomach. Illusions in the books I’d skimmed were covered by several pages of complicated incantations and very meticulous visualization patterns. Not exactly a beginner’s challenge. And definitely not something I can whip up with half-baked “atom manipulation.” But I can’t just say no, not now.

“Okay,” I say slowly, tapping a hoof on the desk. “Illusions. That’s our goal. But illusions can be tricky—”

“I know,” she interrupts, her voice earnest. “But I really, really wanna learn.”

I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. At least she’s got heart.

“Alright,” I say, trying to keep my smile steady. “Illusions are the goal, but we’re going to start with something simpler—something that’ll help you build up to that.”

Sweetie Belle tilts her head, her ears perking up. “Like what?”

I glance around the office, searching for inspiration. My eyes land on the empty glass sitting on the edge of the desk. “Water,” I blurt, grabbing the glass with my magic and setting it in front of her. “We’re going to start with water.”

“Water?” she repeats, her nose scrunching. “How’s that supposed to help with illusions?”

“Trust me,” I say, though even I’m not convinced. “It’s about understanding how magic interacts with, uh, the physical world.”

She blinks up at me, clearly confused. I sigh inwardly and press on. “Okay, so, here’s the thing. Magic can… influence stuff. Objects, the air, even the water in this glass. But to do it, you have to understand what that stuff is made of.”

“What it’s made of?” she asks, leaning closer. “It’s made of water!”

“Right, but water’s made of even smaller things,” I explain, my words stumbling as I try to break down physics for a filly who probably thinks the world runs on enchantments and fairy dust. “Imagine, uh, tiny little pieces so small you can’t see them. They’re called atoms. Everything—water, air, even you and me—is made of them.”

Sweetie Belle stares at the glass like it’s suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world. “Atoms?”

“Yep,” I say, nodding. “And they’re always moving. In water, the atoms kind of slide around each other, like a big dance. When you heat water, the atoms move faster, and when you cool it, they slow down and stick together to form ice.”

Her eyes widen. “Whoa. So you can use magic to make them move?”

“Exactly,” I say, seizing the opportunity. “Here, let me show you.”

I focus on the glass, my horn buzzing faintly as I reach for the water inside. My magic wraps around it, nudging the atoms into faster motion. The glass begins to fog slightly as the water warms, and a thin wisp of steam curls upward.

“See that?” I say, trying to keep my tone steady even as my horn starts to ache. “That’s me making the atoms move faster. Now watch this.”

I release the heat and focus instead on slowing the atoms down, nudging them into a tighter arrangement. The surface of the water shimmers, and a thin layer of ice begins to spread across the top.

Sweetie Belle gasps, clapping her hooves together. “That’s amazing!”

“Not bad, right?” I say, leaning back and shaking off the effort. “Now, this isn’t a spell you’ll find in a book—it’s more about understanding how things work and using your magic to nudge them the way you want.”

She looks up at me with wide, sparkling eyes. “Can I try?”

I hesitate, glancing at the glass. “Alright,” I say finally. “Just think about the atoms dancing, and try to make them move faster.”

Sweetie Belle nods eagerly, her horn lighting up with that soft green glow. I watch as the light flickers and pulses, the water trembling slightly. It doesn’t warm—not yet—but the focus on her face tells me she’s giving it her all.

“Good,” I say, keeping my tone encouraging. “Just keep trying. It’s all about practice.”

As she works, my mind spins with ideas. If I can teach her to manipulate the basics—temperature, motion, even patterns in water or air—it might just be enough to keep her occupied long enough to figure out physics based illusions.

Sweetie Belle’s horn flickers, her face scrunched in determination as she stares at the water. The surface trembles faintly, the faintest ripple spreading across it, but nothing more happens. Her jaw tightens, and the glow around her horn flickers dangerously close to sputtering out.

“Ugh!” she finally groans, stomping a hoof against the floor. “It’s not working! I’m trying to make the atoms dance, but they’re just sitting there like a bunch of lazy lumps!”

I bite back a laugh, not wanting to make her feel worse, but it’s clear she’s starting to get frustrated. “Alright, hold on,” I say, raising a hoof to stop her. “Let’s take a step back.”

Her ears droop, and she looks up at me, her big green eyes filled with disappointment. “What am I doing wrong?”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” I assure her quickly. “This is tricky stuff. Honestly, I should’ve explained something important earlier.”

Her ears perk up slightly, but she still looks skeptical. “What? There's something else?”

I levitate a quill from my desk and grab a blank sheet of parchment. “Okay,” I begin, sketching a quick rectangle to represent the glass. “The water in the glass isn’t just one solid block—it’s made up of lots of tiny layers, all stacked on top of each other.”

Sweetie Belle leans closer, watching intently as I add lines to divide the rectangle into thin sections. “Layers?”

“Right,” I say, nodding. “And when you’re trying to make the water heat up, you can’t just focus on all of it at once. It’s too much to handle. Instead, you work on one tiny bit at a time—just a thin slice—then move on to the next.”

Her brow furrows. “So I have to do it piece by piece?”

“Exactly,” I say, tapping the quill against the parchment for emphasis. “You’re kind of like an artist, adding a little color here, a little there, until the whole thing comes together. In math terms, it’s called integration—basically adding up all the little parts to make a whole.”

Sweetie Belle blinks, her expression a mix of curiosity and confusion. “Integration?”

I grin. “It sounds fancy, but really, it just means taking small steps. Focus on heating one thin layer of the water, then move to the next. Your magic is like a paintbrush—you don’t have to cover the whole canvas at once.”

Her eyes light up, and she nods quickly. “Oh! I think I get it now! Can I try again?”

“Of course,” I say, motioning toward the glass. “Just remember: small steps. One layer at a time.”

She takes a deep breath, her horn glowing faintly once more. This time, the glow is steadier, more focused, and the water ripples slightly under her magic. It’s not much, but I can tell she’s getting the hang of it.

“Good,” I say, keeping my voice calm and encouraging. “Just keep at it. You’re doing great.”

Sweetie Belle grits her teeth, her tongue poking out in concentration as she continues to work. I lean back in my chair, watching her progress, and make a mental note: Next time, explain the fundamentals before jumping into the hard stuff. This actually be harder than I thought.

As Sweetie Belle sits hunched over the glass, her horn glowing faintly as she focuses on heating the water layer by painstaking layer, I lean back in my chair. My mind drifts, partly out of boredom, but mostly out of sheer panic about what I’ve gotten myself into. Illusions.

The word echoes in my head, taunting me. How the hell am I supposed to teach illusions when I don’t know how to cast them myself? The books made it look like an art form, requiring a deep understanding of spell patterns, and fluency in some ancient language I can barely pronounce.

But then there’s my magic—half-science, half-spite, and no ancient incantations required. If I can manipulate atoms to heat or cool water, could I… manipulate light itself?

I grab a pinch of dust from the desk, my telekinesis holding it aloft. It dances in the faint glow of my horn, particles drifting aimlessly. My thoughts turn to the Doppler effect—a concept I learned back in my mechanical engineering days. Light changes color when its wavelength is compressed or stretched. If I can move these dust particles fast enough, maybe I can shift the colors of the light scattering off them.

The problem? Speed. To shift something from green to blue, I’d need the dust particles to move toward the observer at around 33,000 meters per second. That’s fast. Too fast for comfort.

I glance at Sweetie Belle, still engrossed in her task, then back to the dust. No harm in experimenting, right? I focus, wrapping the particles in a tight telekinetic field. With the faintest nudge, I start oscillating them, pulling some forward and pushing others back.

At first, nothing happens. The dust just vibrates faintly, like an unimpressive shimmer in the air. I grit my teeth and increase the speed. The particles hum, a faint flicker of light catching my eye. A tiny patch of the brown dust glows a dark yellow, then shifts toward a greenish yellow.

“Holy crap,” I mutter under my breath. The light wave compression is working, though the effect is faint.

But then, I push a little too hard. The particles oscillate wildly, and a sharp hiss fills the air as the dust heats up. I jerk my magic back, letting the particles scatter harmlessly onto the desk. My heart pounds as I glance at Sweetie Belle, hoping she didn’t notice.

No reaction. She’s still focused on the water.

Okay, I think, wiping sweat from my brow. Lesson learned. Vibrating particles at that speed isn’t just tricky—it’s dangerous. If anyone touched something like that, they’d probably end up with a nasty burn or worse.

Still, the principle is sound. By carefully oscillating the particles, I could theoretically create a spectrum of colors, blending them into an illusion. The image wouldn’t be solid—it’d be nothing more than light and dust—but it’d look convincing enough. The only downside? It’d take intense focus to pull off without frying the particles—or myself.

My horn tingles faintly from the exertion as I lean back in my chair, staring at the scattered dust. Sweetie Belle sighs, drawing my attention. She’s made some progress—the water ripples faintly, and there’s a small wisp of steam curling from the surface.

“I think I’m getting it,” she says, glancing up at me with a determined smile.

“Good,” I say, forcing myself to sound encouraging. “Keep at it. You’re doing great.”

As she goes back to work, I stare at the dust and let out a slow breath. Alright, Flux. You’ve got a rough idea for illusions. Now you just have to flesh it out and figure out how to explain it to a kid without blowing yourself—or her—up in the process.

The faint hum of my horn fills the office as I focus on the dust particles, trying to push them into a more stable oscillation. Sweat beads on my forehead as I carefully manipulate the tiny grains, aiming for a larger, more solid figure. The faint green light flickers and shifts, threatening to stabilize into something more defined.

Then, a small hoof nudges my side.

“Mr. Flux?”

“Not now,” I mutter, gritting my teeth as the dust quivers under my telekinetic grip. But the nudge comes again, firmer this time, and my concentration wavers. The flickering light vanishes in an instant, and the dust scatters harmlessly onto the desk.

“What?” I snap, turning to Sweetie Belle. She’s staring at me with wide, innocent eyes, and a sheepish smile on her face. I immediately regret my tone. “Sorry, Sweetie. What’s up?”

She points to the glass on her desk. “I did it! Look!”

I glance over, expecting to see a small wisp of steam or maybe a faint ripple in the water. Instead, the glass is empty. Not a single drop remains. The faint smell of scorched minerals lingers in the air, and the glass itself feels warm to the touch.

“You… evaporated it?” I ask, blinking in surprise.

She nods, her smile widening. “Yeah! I think I got the hang of it. It was tricky, but once I started thinking about layers—like you said—it just worked!”

I glance at the clock on the wall. Two hours have passed since we started. My stomach sinks as I realize how much time I’ve spent fumbling with my own experiments. Rarity is due back any minute, and I don’t have much to show for it.

“Great work, Sweetie,” I say quickly, trying to mask my panic. “But, uh, we need to set this up again before your sister gets here.”

Her smile falters. “Why? I thought we were done.”

I raise an eyebrow "Don't you want to show off what you’ve learned to your sister?” I say, trying to sound encouraging. “You’ve worked really hard for this.”

Sweetie Belle brightens instantly. “Oh! Yeah, I do! She’s gonna be so impressed!”

I give her a quick nod and step back as she refocuses on the glass. Her horn glows faintly as she walks to the well just outside town hall. By the time the door creaks open and Rarity steps into the office, the glass is already full and Sweetie is waiting impatiently.

“Good afternoon!” Rarity announces, her tone cheerful. She glances at Sweetie Belle, then at me. “I trust the lesson has gone well?”

Sweetie grins, practically bouncing on her hooves. “Rarity, look! Watch this!”

I stand off to the side, doing my best to look casual while internally praying this goes smoothly. Sweetie Belle’s horn brightens, and the water in the glass begins to bubble. In a few moments, it’s evaporated into thin air, leaving behind only the faintest wisp of steam.

Rarity’s eyes widen. “Sweetie Belle!” she gasps, stepping closer. “That’s—why, that’s incredible! I can’t believe it!”

Sweetie beams under the praise. “Mr. Flux taught me how to do it! It’s a warming spell!”

Rarity turns to me, her expression a mix of surprise and gratitude. “I must admit, I had my doubts when Sweetie told me she wanted to start learning under you. You’re not the first tutor I’ve hired for her, you know.”

I blink, caught off guard. “I’m not?”

She shakes her head, her perfectly styled mane swaying with the motion. “No, you’re the third—or is it the fourth? Either way, none of the others managed to get her past basic levitation.” She glances at Sweetie Belle with a soft smile. “But now look at her! A proper spell!”

I stare at Sweetie, who’s still grinning ear to ear, and feel a pang of guilt. I didn’t know she’d struggled so much, and here I’ve been teaching her a workaround. Still, a spell’s a spell, right? And it’s not like I can back out now.

“Well,” I say, scratching the back of my neck. “She’s a quick learner. Once she understood the fundamentals, the rest just clicked.”

“Quick learner, indeed,” Rarity says, turning to Sweetie. “Darling, I’m so proud of you! This is a marvelous step forward.”

Sweetie blushes, her smile stretching even wider. “Thanks, Rarity!”

Rarity turns back to me, her expression serious but kind. “You’ve done more than I’d hoped, Mr. Flux. Sweetie Belle couldn’t have found a better tutor.”

I force a modest smile, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in my chest. “Just doing my job.”

For now, at least, it seems to be working. But as Rarity gathers Sweetie Belle to leave, her praise ringing in my ears, one thought keeps nagging at me: how long can I keep this act going?

The office grows quiet again after Rarity and Sweetie Belle leave, the faint sound of their hoofsteps fading into the distance. I exhale, letting my posture sag as the weight of the past few hours presses down on me. Sweetie’s enthusiasm is great and all, but the stakes feel like they’re climbing higher with every moment.

I glance at the stack of books on my desk, then at the floating speck of dust in my telekinetic grasp. The illusion spell still nags at me. If I’m going to teach Sweetie anything remotely close to what she wants, I need to figure this out.

The idea of color manipulation keeps swirling in my mind, and I decide to take another crack at it. Pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment, I start scribbling notes. The concept of treating oscillations like pixels keeps coming back to me. Each oscillating particle could act as a single "pixel," with its frequency determining the color. If I think of the dust cloud as a screen, then shifting its oscillations in coordinated patterns might produce a recognizable image.

At least, that’s the theory.

I set the parchment aside and refocus on the speck of dust. My horn hums faintly as I extend my telekinetic field, gathering more particles into a small, loose cloud. The faint smell of disturbed dust fills the air, tickling my nose, but I press on. I divide the cloud into a mental grid, each section representing a “pixel,” and try to control their oscillations individually.

“Alright,” I mutter to myself. “Let’s start simple. Just one color shift.”

I focus on a single "pixel," increasing the frequency of its oscillation to push its light toward the blue spectrum. The change is faint, barely perceptible, but it’s there, a pale greenish hue. Encouraged, I try to do the same for a cluster of pixels, coordinating their oscillations to create a uniform color.

The buzzing in my horn intensifies as I scale up the effort. My mind races to keep track of each "pixel," dividing my focus into dozens of tiny threads. It’s overwhelming, like juggling far too many balls at once, but the visualization of a screen helps keep me grounded. Slowly, the dust cloud begins to shimmer faintly, a gradient of faint green rippling across its surface.

“Progress,” I whisper, a small smile tugging at my lips.

Emboldened, I try to add a second color. The process is painstaking—adjusting the oscillations, keeping the grid in mind, and ensuring the transitions between colors are smooth. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my horn throbs with effort, but I keep going. The green fades into blueish green, then back again, the dust cloud rippling like a shifting aurora.

For a moment, I lose myself in the work. The world outside the office fades away, replaced by the mental grid of oscillations and colors. The particles dance in my telekinetic field, responding to my every adjustment. It’s mesmerizing, almost hypnotic. And not giving off as much heat as expected.

The sound of hoofsteps outside breaks my concentration, and the shimmering cloud collapses into a dull, unremarkable puff of dust. I glance at the door, straightening up as I prepare for whatever comes next.

“Alright,” I mutter, brushing dust from my desk. “Let’s see who’s next.”

The hoofsteps grow louder, and a moment later, the door swings open to reveal a broad-shouldered stallion with a scruffy orange coat and a mane that looks like it’s seen better days. His reflective vest and tool belt leave little doubt about his profession. The stallion hesitates in the doorway, his bloodshot eyes darting nervously around the room.

“Uh… you the Town Mage?” he asks, his deep voice rumbling like a distant thunderstorm.

“That’s me,” I reply, gesturing for him to come in. “What’s the problem?”

The stallion steps inside, his movements stiff, like he’s trying to carry the weight of the world on his back. He takes a seat across from me, his hooves fidgeting against the edge of the desk.

“It’s my crew,” he says after a long pause. “They think we’ve been… hexed.”

I barely manage to suppress an eye roll. Hexed. Of course. It’s always a hex, a curse, or some kind of ancient magic gone awry. At this point, it’s almost routine.

“Go on,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “What makes them think that?”

The stallion shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s the accidents,” he says, lowering his voice. “We’ve had more than a few lately. Ponies falling, tools breaking, wagons overturning… It’s bad. Real bad.”

“How bad?” I ask, though I already have a suspicion this has less to do with magic and more to do with common sense.

“Bad enough,” he mutters, not meeting my eyes. “We’ve lost a few ponies. Injuries, too. Everypony’s spooked. They’re saying it’s a curse.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “And you’re sure it’s a magic issue?”

The stallion looks up, his expression equal parts frustration and desperation. “What else could it be? We’ve been building for years, and this kind of thing never happened before.”

I nod slowly, forcing a thoughtful look. “Alright,” I say, trying not to sound too skeptical. “I’ll take a look. Where’s the site?”

“Just outside town, near the riverbank,” he says, visibly relieved that I’m taking him seriously. “I can show you the way.”

“Fine,” I reply, standing up and grabbing my pouch of bits. “Lead the way.”

As we step out into the sunlight, I fall into step beside him. He starts explaining bits and pieces of the site’s history—how they’ve been trying to finish a new bridge for months, how things started going wrong a few weeks ago, how the workers are convinced something unnatural is at play.

I listen, nodding along at the right moments, but my mind is already racing ahead. Hexes and curses, huh? Let’s see what’s really going on.

The walk to the construction site isn’t long, but the atmosphere changes as soon as we approach the riverbank. The sounds of hammering, sawing, and shouted instructions fill the air, accompanied by the occasional thud of something heavy hitting the ground. The bridge looms ahead—a skeletal structure of wood and stone spanning the river, its incomplete frame stark against the clear blue sky.

As we draw closer, I start to notice the workers. Or rather, what they’re not wearing. No hardhats, no protective gear, no sign of safety measures whatsoever. Ponies scramble up wooden scaffolding that looks like it was thrown together in a hurry, balancing precariously on beams with no harnesses or guardrails. Tools dangle from belts without lanyards, swinging wildly as their owners move. A pony pushes a wheelbarrow along a narrow plank, wobbling dangerously close to the edge.

I blink, my stomach tightening. It’s not a construction site—it’s a disaster waiting to happen.

The stallion beside me gestures toward the activity. “That’s the bridge. We’re trying to get it done before the rainy season, but… you see what I mean, right? Ponies keep falling, things keep breaking. It’s like something doesn’t want this bridge finished.”

I scan the area, watching as a unicorn levitates a massive stone into place over two earth ponies wrestle with ropes to stabilize it. The stone tilts precariously, and my breath catches until it finally settles into position.

“Yeah,” I mutter, forcing my tone to stay neutral. “I see what you mean.”

In the back of my mind, though, I’m screaming. This isn’t a hex. It’s a complete lack of safety precautions. No wonder they’re having accidents—half these ponies look like they’re one misstep away from disaster.

I step closer to the bridge, my hooves crunching against the gravel. A pony perched on a high beam glances down at me, then immediately shifts his focus back to his precarious task. I spot a ladder propped up against the side of the bridge, its base balanced on uneven ground. Another pony climbs it with a hammer clenched in his teeth, the whole structure wobbling dangerously under his weight.

“Alright,” I say, turning to the stallion who brought me here. “Give me a second to think. Let’s start with the basics.”

He nods eagerly, clearly expecting me to whip out some kind of magical diagnosis. Meanwhile, I’m already trying to figure out how to explain “this is all your fault” without getting run out of town.

I clear my throat, gesturing toward the precarious mess of activity on the bridge. “Alright,” I say, keeping my tone even. “Here’s what I’m seeing. These accidents? They’re not just bad luck or a curse. It’s… a disruption of the natural magical balance.”

The stallion beside me squints. “Disruption of what now?”

I resist the urge to rub my temples. “Look, when you’re working on something this big, especially something that spans a river—a liminal space, if you will—it’s crucial to maintain a set of, uh, magical rituals to ward off bad energy.”

“Rituals?” he echoes, his brow furrowing.

“Yes,” I say, nodding firmly. “I call them the Four Pillars of Safety Magic: Oathbinding, Shielding, Hexproofing, and Ascension. Together, they create a protective barrier against misfortune. Or OSHA for short.”

The skepticism in his eyes deepens. “That sounds… complicated.”

“It’s really not,” I insist, stepping closer to the bridge. “Let me explain.”

I point to the scaffold where a worker is wobbling on a beam, balancing a precarious stack of tools. “Oathbinding is the first step. It’s a ritual to ensure every worker is dedicated to their task—like tying their tools to their belts so they don’t fall and invite bad energy. Simple, but critical.”

The stallion tilts his head, watching the wobbling worker. “Alright… what about Shielding?”

“That’s the second ritual,” I say, pointing to the scaffolding itself. “Shielding is about protecting the body. Hardhats, for example, are enchanted barriers against curses falling from above. You’ve got ponies up there with no protection. That’s practically begging for trouble.”

He frowns. “Hats, huh?”

“Yes,” I say, biting back my frustration. “Hats. And then there’s Hexproofing.” I motion toward the ladder leaning against the bridge. “That’s about stabilizing your foundations. Ladders, scaffolding, anything you climb on—it needs to be properly blessed. No wobbles, no loose planks. Otherwise, you’re amplifying the negative energy.”

He eyes the ladder skeptically. “And the last one?”

“Ascension,” I say, lowering my voice like I’m revealing some ancient secret. “This is the most important ritual. It’s about creating a safe passage to higher ground. Ropes, harnesses—anything that prevents a pony from falling. If you don’t complete Ascension properly, the whole structure is vulnerable to chaos.”

The stallion stares at me, his face a mix of confusion and reluctant belief. “So… you’re saying these rituals will stop the curse?”

“Absolutely,” I say, nodding gravely. “But they only work if you follow them consistently. Half measures won’t cut it. You need to implement all four pillars for the magic to take effect.”

He rubs his chin, looking back at the bridge. “Alright, Mr. Flux. If you say so. But how do we start?”

I suppress a smirk. “Leave that to me. First, go get some hardhats and ropes. You can’t cast magic without the proper tools.”

I stand at the edge of the construction site, doing my best to look like I know what I’m doing. The workers glance at me with a mix of curiosity and skepticism, their eyes darting to their forepony for confirmation. The stallion gives a short nod, and they reluctantly start paying attention.

“Alright, everypony,” I say, raising my voice over the noise of hammering and sawing. “First things first—Oathbinding. This ritual ensures that no tools are lost to the void—uh, or the river.”

I grab a length of rope from a nearby pile and hold it up with my telekinesis. “Every tool needs to be tied securely to your belts. If it falls, it takes your focus and the structure’s energy with it. That’s how bad luck gets in.”

One of the workers, a gray-coated stallion with a scuffed mane, raises a hoof. “Uh, you’re saying my hammer’s cursed if I drop it?”

I nod solemnly. “If it falls and disrupts the ritual, yes. Curses thrive on carelessness.”

The workers exchange uneasy glances but start tying their tools with the ropes I pass around. One mutters something about “fancy unicorn nonsense,” but I let it slide. Progress is progress.

“Next up—Shielding,” I say, turning to the forepony. “This one’s critical. Everypony needs a hardhat. No exceptions.”

“What's a hardhat?,” the forepony says, frowning. “Like a stone hat?.”

This time I do actually groan. “If you don't know, then let’s make them. Find some sturdy material—wood, metal, anything that can deflect falling debris—and fashion something protective for you're head. It doesn’t have to be pretty, but it has to work.”

The forepony grumbles but gestures for a couple of workers to start scrounging for materials. I turn to the rest of the crew.

“Hexproofing is next,” I say, pointing to the scaffolding and ladders. “Check every plank, every joint, every rung. If it wobbles or creaks, it’s inviting disaster. Secure it with nails, ropes, or whatever you have. This ritual is all about stability.”

A few workers nod and begin inspecting the structure, their hooves knocking against the wood to test its strength. One finds a loose plank and hammers it down, muttering something about “keeping the magic happy.”

“And finally,” I say, gesturing to the workers climbing up the scaffolding, “Ascension. This is the ritual of safe passage. Ropes and harnesses for everypony working above ground. No exceptions. If you don’t secure yourself, you’re leaving the structure open to chaos.”

The forepony raises an eyebrow. “We’ve never used ropes or harnesses before.”

“And that’s probably why you’re cursed,” I reply bluntly. “Trust me, you’ll feel a lot less cursed when you’re not dangling by a hoof.”

The forepony glares but doesn’t argue, which I take as a small victory. Slowly but surely, the site begins to transform. Tools are tied, scaffolding is reinforced, and makeshift hardhats appear on heads. It’s far from perfect, but it’s a start.

I step back, watching the workers move more cautiously, their actions deliberate and measured. “See?” I say, addressing the forepony. “The rituals are already taking effect. You’re stabilizing the energy of the site.”

The forepony scratches his head, eyeing the workers as they follow my instructions. “I don't know about energy, but I’ll admit… things do look a bit safer.”

“It’s not just about looking safer,” I say, keeping my tone steady. “It’s about building a foundation of trust between the structure and the ponies working on it. That’s how you ward off bad luck.”

The forepony nods slowly, the skepticism in his eyes giving way to reluctant belief. “Alright, Mr. Flux. We’ll give it a shot.”

“Good,” I say, stepping away. “Keep up the rituals, and I guarantee you’ll see fewer… disruptions.”

The forepony approaches me after the workers have started getting into the swing of the "rituals." His gruff expression softens slightly as he reaches into a small pouch tied to his belt and pulls out a handful of bits. “Here,” he says, holding them out to me. “For your time.”

I glance at the coins—a neat stack of fifty bits. It’s more than I expected, and honestly, more than I feel I deserve for turning basic safety into a magical charade. Still, I take the coins with a small nod, slipping them into my pouch.

“Thanks,” I say, keeping my tone professional. “Remember, it’s not just about the rituals. Consistency is key. If you stop following the practices, the bad luck might come back.”

The forepony frowns slightly but nods. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll keep it up. Just hope it works.”

“It will,” I assure him, though part of me cringes at the dishonesty. “Good luck with the rest of the project.”

He grunts in acknowledgment and turns back to the site, barking orders at the workers to keep the "magic" going. I watch for a moment longer, then turn and make my way back toward town.

As I walk, the weight of the bits in my pouch is a comforting reminder of my progress. I still feel a twinge of guilt for essentially duping them, but at least they’re safer now. If calling it magic keeps them from breaking their necks, it’s worth it, right?

The mid-morning sun glints off the cobblestones as I approach the town square, my thoughts drifting to lunch. With fifty more bits, I’m sitting at a respectable 349. Maybe I’ll splurge on something better than the usual sandwich. Or maybe I’ll just hold onto it—Celestia knows what kind of expenses might come up next.

For now, though, it’s time to get back to the office. No doubt another “magical emergency” is waiting just around the corner.

Author's Note

Spoiler: It's actually less dangerous than he thinks.
Doppler specs For Brown Dust:

Blueshift (Toward Observer)

Darker Yellow → Greenish Yellow: ~24,000 m/s (24 km/s)
Greenish Yellow → Green: ~42,000 m/s (42 km/s)
Green → Blue-Green: ~60,000 m/s (60 km/s)
Blue-Green → Muted Blue: ~75,000 m/s (75 km/s)

Redshift (Away from Observer)

Brown → Dark Orange: ~24,000 m/s (24 km/s)
Dark Orange → Reddish-Brown: ~42,000 m/s (42 km/s)
Reddish-Brown → Dark Red: ~60,000 m/s (60 km/s)
Dark Red → Near-Black: ~75,000 m/s (75 km/s)

Heat Generated by the Dust Cloud:

Total energy: ~1,800 J for a 1 cubic meter dust cloud at 60,000 m/s
Local air temperature increase: ~1.5°C (2.7°F).

The Day They Looked Closer
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Applied Mathemagics

The Day They Looked Closer

The diner is just as Pinkie promised—cozy and bustling with energy. Ponies fill the booths and tables, laughing and chatting as plates of food are carried out by cheerful servers. The smell of sizzling hay patties, fries, and baked desserts fills the air, making my stomach growl again.

We settle into a large corner booth, the girls chatting animatedly as menus are passed around. I scan the options, the words blurring together as exhaustion catches up to me. Pinkie leans over, pointing enthusiastically at an item on the menu.

“You have to try the hayburger!” she exclaims. “It’s sooooo good!”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I say dryly, but when the server comes by, I order one anyway. When in Ponyville, I guess.

It doesn’t take long for the food to arrive. The others dig in eagerly, their enthusiasm infectious as they bite into their hayburgers, munch on fries, and sip milkshakes. My hayburger sits in front of me, looking innocent enough—a perfectly grilled patty nestled between a fluffy bun, with all the fixings.

I pick it up, taking a cautious bite.

It tastes like… hay.

Just hay. Dry, grassy, and unmistakably hay.

I chew slowly, doing my best to keep a neutral expression as the others watch me expectantly. Pinkie beams, leaning forward. “Well? Isn’t it amazing?”

“Uh… sure,” I say, swallowing with difficulty. “It’s… something.”

Rainbow Dash snorts, clearly seeing through my act. “Don’t tell me you’re not a hayburger fan. This stuff’s the best.”

“Totally,” Applejack agrees, taking another big bite. “Ain’t nothin’ like a good hayburger after a hard day’s work.”

I glance around the table, baffled by how genuinely delighted they all seem. “It’s… definitely unique,” I say carefully, setting the burger down.

Rarity dabs her mouth with a napkin, her expression amused. “Darling, you look as though you’ve just eaten something dreadful. Perhaps hayburgers aren’t quite to your taste?”

Fluttershy tilts her head, her voice soft. “Do… do you not eat hay?”

“Oh, I do,” I say quickly, not wanting to explain that my palate doesn’t exactly align with theirs. “I just, uh, prefer it… plain.”

Pinkie gasps, looking horrified. “No ketchup? No mustard? No pickles? That’s a hayburger crime!”

I chuckle weakly, pushing the burger to the side. “Guess I’m a hayburger criminal, then.”

Twilight narrows her eyes at me, her analytical brain clearly latching onto something. “Wait a minute,” she says, her tone suspicious. “You’re not just being picky, are you? How long has it been since you last ate hay?”

“Uh…” I hesitate, trying to think of a reasonable answer. “Not that long.”

Her expression sharpens. “Define ‘not that long.’”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I don’t know. A couple of weeks?”

The table goes silent, all eyes on me. Twilight looks genuinely alarmed, while Rainbow Dash bursts out laughing.

“A couple of weeks?” Twilight exclaims, her voice tinged with horror. “Kinetic, do you have any idea what happens to ponies who don’t eat enough hay?”

I shrug, trying to brush it off. “I’m fine. It’s not like I’m starving.”

Twilight leans forward, her brow furrowed in concern. “You might feel fine now, but skipping hay for that long can cause serious problems. You need the fiber, the nutrients—it’s essential for our digestive systems! Without it, you could experience lethargy, stomach cramps, or even nutrient deficiencies. Have you been feeling… off?”

I open my mouth to deny it but hesitate. I have been more tired than usual, and my stomach hasn’t exactly been thrilled with me lately. But there’s no way I’m admitting that in front of this group.

“I’m fine,” I insist, waving her off. “Really.”

Twilight doesn’t look convinced. “You don’t look fine. Actually…” She narrows her eyes, scrutinizing me like a specimen under a microscope. “You’re paler than usual, and you were wheezing pretty hard after the race.”

“That’s because I’m out of shape,” I counter, crossing my forelegs. “Not because of hay.”

“That’s part of it,” she agrees, “but two weeks without hay? That’s… Kinetic, you’re going to make yourself sick!”

Applejack nods, her expression more sympathetic. “She’s got a point, sugarcube. Hay ain’t just a snack—it’s somethin’ our bodies need. Ain’t good ta go skippin’ it fer that long.”

Rarity tilts her head, her gaze appraising. “You do look a bit… peaked, darling. Perhaps Twilight’s right. A proper diet is crucial, even for an Archmage.”

“Especially for an Archmage,” Twilight adds pointedly, her tone firm. “You have responsibilities! You can’t neglect your health!”

I groan, slumping in my seat. “Alright, fine. You win. I’ll eat hay later. Happy?”

Twilight gives me a skeptical look. “Promise?”

“Sure,” I mutter, hoping she’ll drop the subject.

Pinkie grins, sliding my hayburger back toward me. “How about now? There’s plenty of hay right here!”

I glance at the burger and sigh, realizing there’s no escaping this. Reluctantly, I pick it up again and take another bite. The taste is exactly as I remember—dry, grassy, and entirely unappealing. I chew slowly, my face scrunching up in distaste.

My expression must give me away because Rainbow Dash immediately starts snickering.

“Wow,” she says, smirking. “You look like you’re eating a pile of dirt. What’s your deal?”

I swallow with some difficulty, grimacing slightly. “Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll admit it. I… don’t like the taste of hay.”

The reaction is immediate and dramatic. Everypony at the table gasps in unison, their eyes wide with shock and disbelief, as if I’d just confessed to a heinous crime.

“You… don’t like hay?” Twilight repeats, her voice laced with incredulity.

Rainbow Dash slams the table in disbelief. “Whoa, hold on. Did I hear that right? The Archmage of Ponyville doesn’t like hay? That’s like saying you don’t like happiness!”

Pinkie’s jaw drops so far, I’m half-worried it might unhinge. “But hay is amazing! It’s, like, the most versatile food ever! You can have hay fries, hay smoothies, haycakes… How can you not like hay?!”

Rarity clutches her chest dramatically, looking as though she might faint. “Darling, surely you’re joking. Everypony loves hay! It’s practically a cultural staple!”

“Not this pony,” I mutter, pushing the hayburger away. “It’s just… not my thing, okay?”

Applejack looks at me like I’ve just sprouted a second head. “But sugarcube, hay’s about as natural as breathin’. What do ya even eat if ya don’t like hay?”

“Literally anything else,” I reply, deadpan. “Fruits, vegetables, bread… You know, normal food.”

Fluttershy peeks out from behind her mane, looking like she wants to protest, but is unwilling to speak.

Twilight, ever the problem solver, suddenly perks up. “This is serious! If you’re not eating hay, you could be missing out on key nutrients! No wonder you’re so tired all the time. We need to fix this.”

I groan, leaning back in my seat. “It’s not a big deal, Twilight. I’m fine.”

“Clearly, you’re not,” she insists, pulling out a notebook from seemingly nowhere. “Don’t worry, Kinetic. I’ll make a meal plan that incorporates hay in ways you’ll actually enjoy. We’ll fix this.”

I stare at her, horrified. “Twilight, no.”

“Twilight, yes,” she counters, her quill already scribbling furiously.

I watch, completely helpless, as Twilight furiously jots down notes like she’s planning an international summit instead of figuring out how to force-feed me grass.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. “I don’t need a meal plan.”

Twilight doesn’t even look up. “Yes, you do.”

“I’m not some malnourished foal.”

“You might be,” she says, narrowing her eyes at me. “Two weeks without hay? You’re lucky you haven’t collapsed.”

I throw my hooves up in exasperation. “I just ran an entire race!”

“And you nearly died doing it,” Rainbow Dash quips, smirking. “Like, seriously, I thought we were gonna have to drag you across the finish line.”

Applejack chuckles, tipping her hat back. “Sugarcube, ya looked like ya were ‘bout to keel over. If that ain't a sign you need to start eatin' proper, I don't know what is.”

Rarity gives me a sympathetic but firm look. “Kinetic, darling, I understand having preferences, but refusing to eat hay is simply uncivilized.”

I scoff. “Uncivilized? Rarity, I have taste. That’s not the same thing.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Oh, yes, because I’m sure a hayburger is simply beyond your delicate palate.”

Pinkie suddenly gasps, her hooves slamming down on the table. “Oh! What if we just… hide the hay in stuff? Like how you sneak veggies into foals food when they don’t wanna eat them?”

“I’m not a foal,” I groan. “You’re not gonna trick me into eating hay.”

“Oh, we so will,” Twilight says, her quill still scratching across the page.

I glare at her. “Twilight, I swear to Celestia—”

Twilight snaps her notebook shut with a loud thwap, her determined expression making my stomach sink. “You know what? This is pointless if I don’t even know what you’re eating in the first place. We’re going to your house.”

I freeze, staring at her in disbelief. “What?”

“You heard me,” she says, her horn lighting up as she tucks her notebook into her saddlebags. “We’re going to your house so I can see for myself what you’re eating—or not eating.”

Rainbow Dash snorts, leaning back in her chair. “Wait, hold up. He lives in that little shed by the edge of town, right? What’s there to check? Pretty sure all he’s got in there is dust and a bed.”

I groan inwardly, rubbing my temples. “It’s not a shed.”

Rainbow raises an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah, it is. I’ve seen it.”

I sigh, knowing this conversation is about to get a lot more complicated. “It looks like a shed,” I admit reluctantly, “but it’s not.”

Rainbow blinks, clearly not following. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s enchanted,” Twilight says matter-of-factly, her tone suggesting this is old news. “The inside is bigger than the outside. Much bigger.”

Rainbow’s eyes widen, her wings twitching with interest. “Wait, seriously? Like… how big?”

I hesitate, not wanting to open this particular can of worms. “Big enough.”

“That’s not an answer,” Rainbow presses, grinning now. “Come on, Kinetic, how big are we talking? Like, mansion big? Castle big?”

“It’s… complicated,” I mutter, avoiding her gaze.

Twilight narrows her eyes at me. “How complicated?”

I glance between the two of them, then at Rarity, who’s watching with thinly veiled curiosity. “Look, it doesn’t matter how big it is. It’s my house, and that’s all you need to know.”

Rainbow leans forward, her grin turning mischievous. “You’re hiding something. I can tell.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” I say, though the defensive edge in my voice probably isn’t helping my case.

Twilight sighs, clearly exasperated. “Let’s just go. You’re wasting time arguing when we could already be there.”

The other ponies glance at each other, clearly debating whether to join in on this impromptu house visit.

Applejack adjusts her hat, a hint of regret in her voice. “Much as Ah’d love ta see what kinda magic tricks you’ve got goin’ on, Ah gotta head back to Sweet Apple Acres. Got a heap of chores waitin’ on me.”

Pinkie Pie bounces in place, her usual energy on full display. “Oh, oh! I’d totally come, but I’ve got cupcakes in the oven! And cookies! And a cake! If I don’t watch them, they might try to escape!”

Fluttershy takes a small step back, her eyes darting nervously to me. “I, um… I need to check on my animals. Make sure they’re okay after… everything.” Her voice trails off, and she glances away.

Rarity tilts her head, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Well, I don’t have any pressing engagements, and I must admit I’m intrigued. I simply have to see this so-called ‘enchanted house.’”

Rainbow Dash flaps her wings, hovering slightly above the ground with a smirk. “Yeah, no way I’m missing this. I’ve gotta see how a guy like you pulls off something this cool.”

Twilight, ever the pragmatist, adjusts her saddlebags. “I was going there anyway, so let’s not waste any more time.”

With that, the group splits up. Fluttershy, Pinkie, and Applejack head off in different directions, each calling out their goodbyes.

“See y’all later!” Applejack says with a wave.

“Bye! Save me some snacks if you find any!” Pinkie chirps.

Fluttershy gives a small, nervous nod. “Um… bye…”

I sigh, turning toward the path that leads to the H.A.R.D.I.S. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

The walk is relatively quiet, save for Rainbow Dash asking increasingly ridiculous questions about the size of my house.

“Is it, like, ten rooms big? Twenty? Do you have a pool? Oh, what about a secret treasure room?”

I don’t answer, my frustration building as we approach the unassuming structure. Finally, we arrive, and Rainbow stares at it in disbelief.

“This is it?” she asks, hovering closer to inspect it. “It looks even smaller up close.”

I unlock the door, pushing it open with a sigh. “Just go in.”

Rarity steps in first, her hoofsteps echoing faintly as she enters the vast interior. Her jaw drops as she takes in the sight: floating orbs of light casting a warm glow over a massive living room, complete with plush furniture and elegant decor. A staircase leads to the second floor, where a master bedroom and four guest rooms await.

Rainbow Dash steps in next, her eyes going wide. “Whoa! This is insane! It’s, like, ten sheds big! No, twenty!”

Twilight follows, her expression shifting from mild interest to outright shock. “Wait… I thought it was just a modest expansion spell. This is… how far does it go?”

I lean against the doorframe, crossing my forelegs. “Depends on how curious you are.”

Rarity finally finds her voice, her tone a mix of amazement and disbelief. “Darling, this isn’t a house. This is a palace!”

Rainbow zips toward one of the endless hallways, her wings buzzing with excitement. “What’s behind all these doors? Do you even know?”

Twilight glares at me, her notebook already floating beside her. “This is highly advanced spatial manipulation. How is this not documented anywhere? Where did you even learn to do this?”

I sigh, rolling my eyes as I close the door behind them. “I already told you, it was like this when I got it.”

Twilight’s gaze sharpens. “How can you not be curious about how it works?”

“I’m a little curious,” I admit with a shrug, “but not enough to risk messing with it. Probably some ancient enchantment from a mage way more powerful than me.”

Rainbow Dash peeks into one of the endless hallways, her voice echoing slightly. “So you’re just, like, squatting in some ancient wizard’s house?”

“Not squatting,” I say, crossing my forelegs defensively. “The mayor gave it to me. It’s mine. Legally.”

Semi-legally.

Twilight narrows her eyes, clearly unimpressed. “How does that even happen?”

“Remember when Nightmare Moon showed up?” I reply, giving her a pointed look. “The mayor needed someone to go investigate, and I said I’d do it. In exchange, she gave me this place, since the last town mage mysteriously disappeared.”

Rarity raises an eyebrow, glancing around the expansive living room. “And you didn’t think to mention this before?”

“You were there for the deal!” I shoot back. “I didn’t think it was worth bringing up again.”

Twilight huffs, clearly unsatisfied. “And you never wondered what happened to the previous mage? Or why this house exists in the first place?”

“Not really,” I say, ignoring her incredulous stare. “I figured it was better not to ask questions.”

Rainbow Dash snickers. “Classic Kinetic. Just rolling with whatever’s in front of him.”

As they continue to snoop around, Twilight’s attention zeroes in on the kitchen. She opens the cabinets one by one, her frown deepening with each empty shelf. Finally, she turns to me, her eyes blazing.

“Kinetic,” she says, her voice dangerously calm. “Why is your kitchen completely empty?”

I wince, scratching the back of my neck. “Uh… I don’t really use it.”

“What do you mean, you don’t use it?” she demands, throwing open another empty cabinet for emphasis.

“I mean I always eat out,” I admit sheepishly. “It’s just easier.”

Twilight stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You live in an endless house with a fully functional kitchen, and you don’t even use it?”

Rarity gasps dramatically, clutching her chest. “Darling, that’s practically criminal! All this space, and you don’t even entertain guests with a proper meal?”

Rainbow Dash bursts out laughing. “This guy lives in a magical mansion and still eats at the café like the rest of us. That’s hilarious.”

Twilight, meanwhile, looks like she’s about to explode. “Do you even cook? Ever?”

I shrug, not bothering to hide my indifference. “Nope.”

Twilight lets out an exasperated groan, pacing in circles as she tries to process this. “You’re unbelievable! How can you call yourself a functioning adult if you don’t even cook?”

“Who said I called myself that?” I mutter under my breath, earning a snort of laughter from Rainbow Dash.

Twilight stops pacing, her horn glowing faintly as she points it at me. “Grab your bits. We’re going shopping. You’re stocking this kitchen if it’s the last thing I do.”

“What? Why?” I ask, groaning as I push off the counter.

“Because you can’t live like this!” Twilight snaps. “You’re practically feral! No food, no meal plan—what even are you doing with your life?”

“Having a great time, obviously,” I deadpan, but I comply, heading to one of the side rooms where I keep my bit bag.

When I come back, the bag is overflowing with bits, the drawstring barely holding it together. Rainbow Dash’s jaw drops as she stares at the sheer amount of gold.

“Whoa! That’s a lot of bits!” she exclaims, zipping closer to inspect the bag. “Why are you carrying that much around?”

I shrug, slightly defensive. “It’s just… all I have.”

Twilight blinks, looking at me like I’ve just admitted to something scandalous. “Wait. All you have? Why don’t you keep it in a bank?”

I hesitate, shifting awkwardly. “I don’t have a bank account.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Twilight stares at me, her mouth opening and closing as she tries to form words. Rainbow Dash bursts out laughing, falling onto the floor and clutching her sides.

“You don’t have a bank account?” Twilight finally sputters, her voice high-pitched with disbelief. “How are you even functioning? What do you do, just carry your entire fortune around in that bag like some kind of… of—”

“...pirate?” I offer with a shrug, adjusting the bit bag on my shoulder. “Because that sounds kind of cool.”

Twilight’s face contorts, somewhere between frustration and disbelief. “No! It’s not cool, Kinetic! It’s irresponsible! What happens if you lose that bag? Or if somepony steals it?”

“I’d notice,” I reply dryly. “It’s not exactly light, Twilight.”

She groans again, clearly not done lecturing me, but Rainbow Dash interrupts, still laughing as she hovers above us. “This is too good. First, no food, then no bank account. What’s next? You don’t pay your taxes either?”

The grin on my face freezes.

Twilight catches it immediately. Her eyes narrow, and she slowly turns to face me, her voice dangerously low. “Kinetic… you do pay taxes, don’t you?”

I cough, suddenly very interested in a spot on the floor. “Uh… define ‘pay.’”

Her jaw drops, and she stares at me like I’ve just sprouted three extra heads. “You don’t pay taxes?”

“It’s not like I don’t want to,” I say quickly, holding up a hoof. “I just… haven’t figured out how to, uh… start.”

“No…” Twilight says, her voice trembling with a mix of horror and outrage. “No, no, no. You’re the Archmage of Ponyville. You have a legal title, you make money, and you’re telling me you don’t pay taxes?!”

I wince, taking a small step back, the weight of my bit bag suddenly feeling heavier. “Uh… technically, I’ve only been in Equestria for two weeks, so it's fine right?”

I realize what I've said too late, and the room falls silent. Twilight stares at me, her jaw dropping slightly, while Rainbow Dash blinks in confusion.

“What?” Twilight says, her voice quiet and dangerously calm. “What did you just say?”

I raise a hoof as if to wave the comment away. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

“No,” she snaps, stepping closer, her eyes narrowing. “You’ve only been in Equestria for two weeks? How is that even possible? How did you become the Town Mage?”

I groan inwardly, knowing there’s no way out of this now. “Look, the test was really easy, okay? All I had to do was heat some water, freeze it, and levitate a thing. Boom, instant mage.”

Twilight’s left eye twitches, and she looks like she’s about to have an aneurysm. “That’s it? That’s all you had to do to get this job?”

“It’s not my fault the standards are so low!” I protest, holding up my hooves defensively. “I didn’t make the rules! The mayor just asked for a quick demonstration, and apparently, that was enough.”

Rainbow Dash bursts out laughing, doubling over in midair. “Oh, this is priceless. The ‘Archmage of Ponyville’ got his job by doing party tricks!”

Twilight, meanwhile, looks like her entire worldview is crumbling. “How—why—this doesn’t make any sense! You’re supposed to have advanced magical knowledge, not just… boiling water!”

I throw up my hooves defensively, sensing Twilight’s rising frustration. “Hey, I can do way more than heat and freeze water now. The Archmage thing? That’s a whole different test—crown-regulated. I went to Canterlot for that exam, remember? That was no walk in the park.”

Twilight rolls her eyes but doesn’t contradict me. After all, she’s seen me pull off some truly impressive feats since I became Town Mage. Rainbow Dash grins, still clearly amused by the whole situation.

“Yeah, well,” Dash says, snickering, “the bar for Town Mage might’ve been set pretty low. But you sure make up for it with your spells. Not to mention your ability to dodge taxes and ignore basic adult responsibilities.”

“Which is exactly why,” Twilight interjects, her tone resolute, “I’m taking you into town to make you into a real stallion.”

I blink, startled by the sudden shift in her demeanor. “A real stallion, huh? Didn’t know you were into that kind of thing, Twi.” I let a mischievous smirk cross my face. “And here I was under the impression you were an innocent little filly.”

Her cheeks flush pink, and she shoots me a withering glare. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it! Now come on.” She prods me in the flank with her hoof, pushing me toward the door. “We’re getting you a bank account, some groceries, and learning how to be a functioning member of society.”

“Easy there, Sparkle,” I joke, waggling my eyebrows. “Didn’t think you were into pushing me around in public. Not that I mind—”

“Ugh!” Twilight cuts me off, her face now fully red. “Out! Now!”

Rainbow Dash howls with laughter, hovering overhead as she watches Twilight march me out the door by force. “Oh man, this is better than any Daring Do book.”

Rarity trails behind us, shaking her head with a half-amused, half-disapproving smile. “Honestly, Kinetic, must you make every situation… awkward?”

“Only when it’s entertaining,” I throw back, stumbling slightly as Twilight practically shoves me towards Ponyville.

“Move it, Archmage,” she grumbles, ears flattened. “We’ve got a long day of ‘real pony’ activities ahead of us.”

Rainbow stretches her wings with a yawn. "Alright, I'm out. Banking and grocery shopping? Yeah, no thanks." She smirks, giving Twilight a teasing nudge. "Have fun making Kinetic into a real stallion, Twi."

Twilight groans, covering her face with a hoof. "Can you not phrase it like that?"

Rarity giggles behind her hoof, already turning to leave. "I must agree with Rainbow, darling. While I would love to see you whip him into shape, I have far more pressing matters to attend to. There’s fabric to sort, designs to finalize—perhaps next time."

I sigh dramatically. "Oh no, left alone with Twilight Sparkle. Whatever shall I do?"

Rarity waves over her shoulder, barely suppressing a chuckle. "Try not to make her combust, dear."

Rainbow gives me a final salute before zipping off into the sky, leaving me alone with Twilight. She watches them go, takes a deep breath, then turns to me with narrowed eyes.

"Bank. Now."

I roll my eyes. "Yes, ma'am."

The bank is… exactly as I expected. Quiet, dull, and filled with paperwork. Rows of wooden counters, teller windows, and an old-looking vault door at the back. A few ponies wait in line, discussing interest rates or deposit slips in hushed voices.

I glance around, unimpressed. "Well, this is exciting."

Twilight shoots me a look. "Yes, because financial responsibility is such a thrill ride."

Before I can retort, a bank teller—a prim-looking stallion with round glasses—greets us from behind the counter. "Good afternoon! How may I assist you today?"

Twilight nudges me forward. "He needs to open a bank account."

The teller blinks, his friendly smile never wavering. "Ah, excellent! Do you have a prior financial history with us, sir?"

I shake my head. "Nope."

"Any other banks?"

"Nope."

The teller's smile twitches slightly. "Alright, well, do you have a financial record we can transfer?"

"Nada."

Twilight lets out a long, suffering sigh. "He keeps all his bits in a bag."

The teller's smile finally falters. "...I see."

I shrug, placing my overflowing bit pouch onto the counter with a thud. "Yeah, so I'd like to, uh, put these in an account or whatever."

The teller adjusts his glasses, eyeing the bulging bag. "Well… we certainly can do that. May I have your full name?"

"Kinetic Flux."

He writes it down, then pauses. "Occupation?"

"Archmage and Town Mage of Ponyville."

The teller's quill hovers mid-air. He slowly looks up at me, then at Twilight. "Is he serious?"

Twilight pinches the bridge of her nose. "Unfortunately."

The teller clears his throat and continues writing. "Very well. Do you have an official form of identification?"

I blink. "...No?"

Twilight’s eye twitches. "You don’t have an ID either?"

"Didn't need one," I say. "Mayor Mare just gave me the Town Mage job. And, y'know, Princess Celestia didn't give me anything to prove the Archmage title, so..."

Twilight looks two seconds away from slamming her head into the counter.

The teller sighs. "We’ll… figure something out."

I smirk at Twilight, leaning in slightly. "See? It's all working out."

Her glare could set things on fire.

After checking some papers behind the desk, the teller coughs awkwardly. “Right. Well, in order to open an account, we’ll still need some form of official documentation. Do you have a birth certificate?”

I blink. “No.”

Twilight’s head snaps toward me so fast I hear her neck crack. “What do you mean, no?”

I shrug, shifting slightly as Twilight stares at me in utter disbelief. “I don’t have one.”

The teller clears his throat. “Sir, every pony has a birth certificate.”

“Well, I don’t,” I reply, trying to keep my tone neutral. “Never needed one.”

Twilight presses a hoof against her temple. “That’s not how this works, Kinetic.”

The teller hesitates before continuing. “Right… in that case, before we can open an account for you, we’ll have to verify your status through official channels. As you claim to be an Archmage, we will need to send a request to the Crown to confirm your credentials and establish your legal identity.”

I narrow my eyes. “So, you’re saying I need Celestia to personally vouch for me to open a bank account?”

“Yes,” the teller says without hesitation.

I groan. “That’s bureaucratic nonsense.”

Twilight jabs me in the ribs with her hoof. “That’s how bureaucracy works, Kinetic! You need legal documents! You need a paper trail! This is what happens when you go through life just... existing with no structure!”

I cross my forelegs. “Sounds like a ‘them’ problem.”

“It’s your problem,” she hisses. “You’re basically a walking anomaly.”

“I told you, I’m just built different.”

Twilight glares daggers at me, then turns back to the teller. “Fine. Send the request. I’ll make sure Princess Celestia gets it.”

The teller nods. “It may take a few days, but once we receive confirmation, you’ll be able to open an account.”

I sigh, waving a hoof lazily. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anything else you need? My soul perhaps?”

The teller adjusts his glasses, not looking amused. “That won’t be necessary, sir.”

Twilight lets out a long breath and drags me away from the counter before I can make another comment. “Alright, step one is in progress,” she mutters. “Now onto step two.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Which is?”

She glares at me. “Groceries.”

I groan dramatically. “Twilight, do we have to?”

“Yes,” she says firmly, pushing me toward the door with an almost manic determination. “You are going to become a real, functioning pony if it kills me.”

I smirk as she practically shoves me out of the bank. “Y’know, Twilight, if you wanted to domesticate me so badly, you could’ve just said so.”

She lets out an exasperated groan. “I am not trying to domesticate you! I’m trying to keep you from withering away into a hay-deprived husk of a pony!”

I chuckle. “Sure, sure. But just saying, if you keep taking me out to do all these responsible activities, ponies are gonna start thinking we’re courting.”

Twilight’s entire face goes red. “W-We are not—! UGH!” She stomps her hoof, ears flattening in frustration. “Will you just take this seriously?”

“Oh, I am,” I lie, grinning. “You, me, a shopping trip—it’s practically a date.”

She makes a noise somewhere between a whimper and a scream, dragging a hoof down her face. “You are impossible!”

Before she can start ranting again, we reach the market, the bustling stalls packed with ponies buying and selling goods. The air smells of fresh fruit, hay, and warm bread. Twilight takes a deep breath, regaining some of her composure before slipping into lecture mode.

“Alright,” she starts, her voice shifting to that ‘teacher’ tone she loves so much. “A balanced pony diet consists of three main food groups: grains, fruits and vegetables, and hay. You need all of them to be healthy.”

I nod along, half-listening. “Right. So, how much of that do I actually need to eat before you stop harassing me?”

Twilight shoots me a look, her horn already glowing as she levitates the shopping list in front of her. “I’ll stop harassing you when I’m sure you won’t drop dead from malnutrition.”

“I feel like that’s a pretty low bar.”

“And yet you’re barely clearing it,” she mutters before striding toward the first stall.

We approach a vendor selling fresh oats and grains. A burly earth pony stands behind the counter, eyeing us with the bored patience of someone who’s been selling the same thing all day. Twilight clears her throat and smiles politely.

“Hello! We’ll take a half sack of oats, please.”

The vendor raises an eyebrow. “That’ll be twelve bits.”

I move to pull out my bit pouch, but before I can, Twilight’s eyes narrow slightly. “Twelve? For a half sack? The stall down the road is selling full sacks for fifteen.”

The vendor barely blinks. “Their oats ain’t as fresh.”

Twilight tilts her head, unconvinced. “Really? Because I just saw somepony buy from them, and their stock looked identical to yours.”

I blink, mildly impressed. She came prepared.

The vendor shifts slightly, his confidence flickering. “Alright, fine. Ten bits.”

Twilight doesn’t move. “Nine.”

“Ten.”

“Nine and a quarter.”

I squint at her. Can they do that with bits?

The vendor sighs, clearly not wanting to argue with a unicorn who looks like she has a whole thesis paper on oat pricing stored in her head. “Fine. Nine bits.”

Twilight nods, satisfied, and I hand over the coins while she levitates the sack to me and I hold them with my telekinesis. As we walk away, I give her a side glance.

"So you even haggle over oats?"

She looks at me like I just admitted to eating dirt for breakfast. "Obviously. Do you have any idea how much ponies overpay if they don’t question prices? If you just accept whatever number a vendor throws at you, you’re basically throwing bits away!”

I hum thoughtfully. “That’s actually kinda impressive. I usually forget to haggle.”

Twilight stops dead in her tracks, her head snapping toward me so fast I hear her neck crack.

"You—you forget to haggle?" Her voice rises in pitch with every word.

I blink. “Uh. Yeah?”

She gasps dramatically like I just confessed to being a timberwolf in disguise. "Kinetic, do you know how much money you've probably wasted?!"

I shrug. “Nope.”

She groans, pressing a hoof to her forehead. "This is worse than the hay thing. This is worse. You have so many bits, but you’re just letting ponies rob you blind because you forget?"

“Look,” I say, trying to contain my amusement as she spirals. “I just don’t think about it, okay? When I want something, I buy it. It’s not like I’m broke.”

Twilight stares at me like I just said gravity is optional. "It’s not about being broke! It’s about principle! It’s about being a smart consumer!"

I chuckle. “Twilight, you sound like a financial self-help book.”

She points an accusatory hoof at me. "And you sound like some bit-rich disaster stallion who’s been wandering through life with no financial literacy!"

I smirk. “I am a bit-rich disaster stallion with no financial literacy.”

Twilight lets out a strangled groan, rubbing her temples like she’s fighting off the urge to scream. "If you weren’t so—!" She cuts herself off, gritting her teeth.

I raise an eyebrow. “If I wasn’t so what?”

She huffs, looking away. "So… ugh! So infuriatingly capable despite being an absolute mess! If you weren’t—" She waves a hoof at me like she’s trying to physically pluck the right words from thin air. “If you weren’t so clever and powerful and—" Her voice stutters, her face heating up. “And annoyingly mysterious!"

I blink, caught slightly off guard. "Annoyingly mysterious?"

She groans again, refusing to meet my gaze. "You know what I mean!"

I grin. "No, actually, I don’t. Please, do go on."

Twilight grumbles under her breath, her ears twitching furiously. "It’s like something out of a book," she mutters, mostly to herself. "A powerful rogue mage with questionable morals but undeniable skill, swooping in and making everything look easy while frustrating the competent, bookish mare trying to keep everything in order…”

I tilt my head, my grin widening. “Twilight, that sounds suspiciously like one of those cheesy romance novels you read.”

Her entire face erupts in red, her eyes going wide with panic. "It is not!"

I chuckle. “Oh, it absolutely is. What was that, ‘mysterious rogue mage’? ‘Undeniable skill’? Twilight Sparkle, do you have a type?”

“I—No!” she sputters, stepping back. "I was just making an example! It’s not like I—ugh!" She covers her face with her hooves. "You’re impossible!"

I lean in slightly, my smirk never fading. “You sure you’re not falling for my mysterious rogue charm, Twilight?”

Twilight lets out an exasperated groan and lights her horn, grabbing hold of my coin pouch and chalk bag in her magic. “You know what? Forget it! We’re moving on! I swear, if I let you keep talking, I’m going to have an aneurysm.”

She yanks them both, attempting to physically drag me forward by them.

And then they pop right off.

Twilight stumbles slightly as the bags come free with almost no resistance. She blinks, staring down at them now floating uselessly in her magic. Then she slowly looks up at me, her expression shifting from confusion to dawning horror.

I grin. “Oh, yeah. I forgot about that.”

Her eye twitches. “Explain.”

I shrug. “They’re not actually attached to me. I just keep them there with telekinesis.”

Her mouth falls open slightly. “You—you don’t even tie them to yourself?”

“Nope.”

“You’re just… holding them in place? All the time?”

“Pretty much.”

Twilight stares at me, her left eye twitching. “So you’re telling me… you don’t own saddlebags?”

“Nope.”

“Or even a rope to tie your coin pouch to you?”

I shake my head. “Haven’t needed to.”

She inhales sharply, her face twitching as she struggles to process this new addition to my ever-growing list of horrible life choices. Then, suddenly, something clicks in her mind, and her eyes narrow further.

“I’ve seen you cast spells while wearing those.”

I nod, completely unbothered. “Yeah.”

Her voice rises in pitch. “While fighting! While running! While doing literally everything else!”

“Yep.”

Her hoof slams into her forehead. “You—you’re multi-casting just to hold onto your own stuff?!”

“Yeah, I’m pretty good at multitasking,” I admit nonchalantly.

She just stares at me, her mouth opening and closing as she processes just how stupid this is. Then, finally, she lets out a deep breath and mutters, “You are going to give me a heart attack.”

I smirk. “Hey, look on the bright side. At least I’m consistent.”

“Consistently infuriating!” she snaps, shoving my bags back at me. “We’re buying you saddlebags. Right now. No arguments.”

I catch them in my magic, casually reattaching them to my sides with a bit of extra flourish. “Fine, fine. If it’ll keep you from blowing up.”

Twilight groans and rubs her temples as she leads me deeper into the market, her frustration levels reaching critical mass.

“Okay,” she mutters, more to herself than to me. “If you don’t have saddlebags, then what else don’t you have?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Define ‘don’t have.’”

She stops walking and slowly turns to look at me, her face eerily calm. “Do you own a broom?”

“Yes.”

She blinks, clearly not expecting that. “Okay. Good.” She hesitates. “Do you own… a dustpan?”

I think about it for a moment. “No.”

Her eye twitches, but she pushes forward. “Fine. What about a mop?”

“Yes.”

“Bucket?”

“Aside from the one for my drinking water? …No.”

Twilight groans. “How do you even—?! You know what? Never mind.” She breathes deeply, composing herself. “Do you have a hammer?”

“No.”

“Nails?”

“No.”

“A sewing kit?”

I stare at her. “Why would I own a sewing kit?”

She looks personally offended. “Because everypony should own a sewing kit! What do you do when your cloak rips?”

I give her a blank look. “I don’t wear cloaks.”

Twilight gasps like I just admitted to practicing dark magic in front of Celestia. “But you’re a mage! Mages wear cloaks! It’s practically tradition!”

I shrug. “Guess I’m a trendsetter.”

Her eyes twitch. “Okay, fine. But you own some clothes, right?”

I hesitate.

Twilight’s eyes narrow. “Kinetic.”

I rub the back of my neck. “Technically, no.”

She stares at me, waiting for me to correct myself. When I don’t, her ears flick in agitation. “You don’t own any clothes?”

I shrug. “Ponies don’t need clothes.”

Twilight’s mouth opens, then closes. She takes a deep breath. “But you are a unicorn with a prestigious title! You should at least own a formal suit or a robe or—something! What do you wear to important events?”

“Uh… nothing?” I offer, trying not to laugh.

Twilight looks personally offended. “Nothing? Nothing?! What do you wear when Princess Celestia invites you to Canterlot?!”

I smirk. “Confidence.”

Twilight’s left eye twitches so violently I’m concerned she might need medical attention. “You—you absolute disaster of a pony!” she shouts, throwing up her hooves. “How have you survived this long?!”

“I like to think it’s my roguish charm.”

She groans, grabbing her own face. “You are going to be the death of me!”

I grin. “Then I guess you should start planning the funeral.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she mutters darkly. “I already am.”

With a sharp huff, she turns back toward the market stalls. “We’re adding clothes to the list now. Celestia help me, I refuse to let you live like some feral spellcaster scraping by on raw talent and dumb luck.”

I smirk, trotting after her. “Twilight, you love my dumb luck.”

She glares at me over her shoulder. “I loathe your dumb luck.”

I chuckle, catching up to her. “You loathe how much you love it.”

She groans again, stomping toward the saddlebags stall. “You are insufferable!”

“And yet, here we are,” I say cheerfully.

She grits her teeth, grabs a pair of saddlebags, and shoves them into my hooves. “Buy them. Right now.”

I grin and hand the vendor my bits. “Yes, dear.”

Twilight makes a strangled sound and refuses to look at me for the rest of the transaction.

Twilight marches through the market like a mare on a mission, dragging me from stall to stall with an intensity that’s honestly kind of impressive. By the time we’re done, I’ve acquired an array of things I’m fairly certain I don’t need, but Twilight insists are “basic necessities.”

Here’s what we end up buying:

Items Purchased

Saddlebags (obviously, the first thing she made me get)
Rope (Twilight muttered something about me “finally tying down my coin pouch”)
A sewing kit (I still think this is unnecessary, but I wasn’t winning that argument)
A hammer and nails (Twilight called this “basic home maintenance 101”)
A small toolkit (includes a wrench, pliers, and a screwdriver because “what kind of adult doesn’t have tools?”)
A dustpan (to replace my current method of “just sweeping dirt out the front door”)
A mop bucket (apparently using the sink bucket is “barbaric”)
Two cloaks (Twilight insisted I at least look like a proper mage sometimes)
Formal attire (a simple suit she picked 'Don't tell Rarity we bought it premade.')
Groceries (a mix of grains, fruits, vegetables, hay, and spices because “variety is important”)
Basic cookware (pots, pans, utensils—because I “can’t live on café food forever”)

Final Cost

By the time we’re done, I’ve gone from nearly 800 bits to a meager 400.

We finally trudge back to my house, the H.A.R.D.I.S., and I unlock the door. She’s still in full-on “fix Kinetic Flux” mode, floating the bags of supplies ahead of her as she barges in.

“Alright,” she says, dumping everything onto the living room floor with a loud thud. “Let’s put all this where it belongs. And while we’re at it, I’m doing a full inventory of your house.”

I groan, collapsing onto the nearest couch. “Twilight, you’ve already turned my life into a checklist. Can’t I at least take a break?”

She shoots me a glare that could melt steel. “You can take a break after you prove to me that you’re capable of basic adulting.”

I sigh dramatically. “Fine. Lead the way, O Mighty Sparkle.”

She rolls her eyes, already heading for the kitchen to unpack the groceries. As I drag myself off the couch to follow her, I mutter under my breath, “I can’t believe I’m being reformed by a librarian.”

Twilight doesn’t even turn around. “And I can’t believe I’m reforming a mage who doesn’t even own saddlebags.”

Touché.

Twilight, still in full-on organization mode, levitates a notebook and quill from her saddlebags, flipping it open with a determined glare. “Alright. First, we’ll take stock of what you actually own, and then we’ll put everything we bought in its proper place.”

I sigh, rubbing my temple. “Twilight, this house is infinite. You’re not gonna be able to inventory it.”

She gives me a withering look. “Then I’ll stick to the important rooms.”

I hold up my hooves in surrender. “Fine, fine. Just don’t go too deep into the side hallways. Things… get weird in there.”

She narrows her eyes at me but doesn’t argue, instead marching toward the kitchen.

Kitchen Inventory

The kitchen, surprisingly, isn’t as bad as Twilight was expecting. Sure, it had been nearly empty when she first checked, but at least it wasn’t cluttered or destroyed.

Running Water: ✅ (Still just a hose-spigot in the sink, but functional.)
Counter Space: ✅ (Marble countertops—because at least I have taste.)
Shelves and Cabinets: ✅ (Previously empty, now stocked with the food she made me buy.)
Cooking Equipment: ❌ (Until today, one pot.)

Twilight hums in approval as she puts the new cookware in place. “Well, at least now you can cook. Whether or not you actually have the ability to is another issue entirely.”

I lean against the counter, arms crossed. “I can cook, Twilight. I just don’t.”

She scoffs. “Right. And I can teleport to the moon, but I just don’t.”

I roll my eyes.

Next, she moves to a random hallway door and it turns out to be an entire tool room that I had found about a week ago and promptly forgotten existed.

“Oh yeah.” I blink as Twilight flips on the light, revealing a surprisingly well-stocked space. “I have a tool room.”

Twilight slowly turns to look at me, her expression unreadable. “…You forgot that you have an entire room for tools?”

I scratch the back of my neck. “In my defense, this house is infinite.”

Twilight sighs heavily and starts rifling through the shelves. “Okay, you actually do have some supplies.”

Hammer: ✅ (Which means I didn’t need to buy one. Fantastic.)
Nails: ❌ (Unfortunately, most of them are rusty.)
Saws, Wrenches, Screwdrivers: ✅ (At least I’m covered on general maintenance.)

I frown at the rusty nails. “So I didn’t need to buy a hammer, but the nails are useless. Fantastic.”

Twilight smirks, clearly enjoying my suffering. “See? This is why organization matters.”

Feeling victorious from her tool room discovery, Twilight moves on to cataloging the main rooms of the house:

Living Room: ✅ (Large, well-lit by floating orbs, currently filled with bags of new supplies.)
Master Bedroom: ✅ (Messy, but otherwise normal—Twilight wisely chooses not to go near my personal stuff.)
Guest Rooms: ✅ (Four in total, surprisingly clean because I never use them.)
Bathroom: ✅ (Basic, but functional. Twilight spent way too much time making sure I have proper hygiene supplies.)

Satisfied with the normal sections of the house, she finally moves toward one of the side hallways again… and that’s where things fall apart.

Twilight cracks open a door in one of the endless hallways… and immediately slams it shut apparently seeing something she didn't like.

“…What,” she says slowly, “was that?”

“No idea,” I admit, eyeing the door warily. “I told you things get weird in here.”

Curious but cautious, she opens another door… only to find a decayed alchemy lab.

Another door? A library—the same one I found before.

Another? A room full of nothing but chairs.

Twilight slowly turns to face me, her expression unreadable. “Kinetic.”

“…Yes?”

“What is your house?”

I sigh. “Big. Obviously.”

Twilight groans and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Nope. We’re done. I refuse to question this further.” She levitates her notebook up and crosses something out with way more force than necessary. “We are sticking to the main rooms.”

“Good call.”

I try not to smirk as she slams the hallway door shut, sealing away whatever strange horrors lurk within.

By the time she’s done with her “inventory,” she looks exhausted, but slightly more at peace knowing I now have at least the basics of adult responsibility.

“Okay,” she sighs, closing her notebook. “You technically have what you need to function.”

I smirk. “So does that mean I’m officially a real stallion now?”

Twilight flushes red, then promptly levitates a broom and smacks me in the side with it thrice.

“OW—okay, okay! Geez, Twilight, at least pretend I have dignity.”

She huffs. “I will when you start acting like a real adult.”

I roll my eyes. “Good luck with that.”

Twilight groans but doesn’t argue, instead collapsing onto the couch. “Sweet Celestia, I need tea after this.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “You? I’m the one who just lost 400 bits.”

She shoots me a glare. “You deserved it.”

I snicker. “Yeah, yeah.”

Despite all her complaining, I can tell she’s actually relieved that I have some semblance of structure now.

Twilight gathers her things, standing in the center of my now significantly more organized living room, her notebook still floating in her magic. She looks around one last time, seemingly satisfied—though she quickly shifts to one of her signature stern lectures.

“Kinetic Flux,” she begins, her tone leaving no room for interruption, “this was just the first step in turning you into a functional member of society.”

I sigh, already regretting every decision that led to this moment. “Twilight, I—”

“No,” she cuts me off, pointing a hoof at me like an accusing teacher. “You listen. Today, we got you basic household supplies, a stocked kitchen, and—hopefully—started the process of you becoming financially responsible with that bank account.”

“I still don’t have a bank account,” I remind her with a smirk.

She glares. “Yet. But when Princess Celestia verifies your status, you will. And when that happens, you are going to use it properly. No more hauling your entire fortune around in a pouch like a—”

“Pirate?” I offer, earning a frustrated groan.

“You are not a pirate!” she snaps. “You’re the Archmage of Ponyville! You have a title! You have responsibilities! You need to act like it!”

I hold up a hoof, trying to placate her. “Okay, okay. I get it.”

“Do you?” she asks, narrowing her eyes. “Because so far, you’ve shown me that you’re disorganized, reckless, and completely unwilling to plan for the future. That’s not how an Archmage should behave!”

I sigh, leaning back against the couch. “Twilight, you’re acting like I’ve ruined the country or something.”

“You haven’t,” she admits, “but only because you’ve somehow managed to stumble through life with pure luck and raw talent. That’s not sustainable! You need structure! Routine! A plan!”

I rub my temples, feeling exhaustion creeping in. “Twilight, I appreciate the effort. Really. But you’re not my mom.”

She freezes, her cheeks flushing slightly. “I-I’m not trying to be your mom! I’m just… trying to help you not self-destruct!”

“Right,” I say, smirking. “Well, mission accomplished. I’m officially stocked and prepared for the future. Can I go now?”

Twilight groans, dragging a hoof down her face. “Fine. But if I find out you’re still skipping meals or ignoring basic hygiene, I’m coming back here, and I will bring checklists.”

I chuckle. “Noted.”

She lets out a long sigh, finally putting her notebook away. “Okay. I’m leaving. But remember, Kinetic—this isn’t just about you. As Archmage, ponies look up to you. They expect you to set an example.”

I nod, doing my best to look serious. “Got it.”

“Good. I'm bringing tax forms next time.” She turns toward the door, muttering under her breath, “Honestly, sometimes I don’t know how you’re still alive…”

I chuckle softly as she leaves, the door closing behind her with a faint click. The house falls silent again, and I let out a long sigh, collapsing onto the couch.

By the time I drag myself upstairs to my room, the day’s events have caught up to me. My legs feel like lead, my head is pounding, and my stomach still hasn’t quite forgiven me for the hayburger incident.

I flop onto the bed with zero grace, staring up at the ceiling as the floating orbs cast their warm glow across the room. For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel… oddly grounded.

Sure, Twilight had basically dragged me kicking and screaming into adulting, but maybe having a stocked house and a bit of structure wouldn’t be so bad.

With a yawn, I pull the blanket over me and let my eyes drift shut, the events of the day fading into a haze as sleep takes over.

Forest
View Online

Applied Mathemagics

Forest

The stream guides me like a lifeline, its soft gurgling the only consistent sound in the otherwise oppressive silence of the forest. The path isn’t easy—muddy banks, tangled roots, and the occasional sharp drop-off force me to navigate carefully. My hooves still feel like blunt instruments, clumsy and unwieldy, but at least I’m staying upright more often than not. That’s progress, right?

The light filtering through the canopy is faint, a pale gray that barely keeps the shadows at bay. The forest seems quieter now, but not in a comforting way. It’s the kind of silence that makes you feel like you’re being watched. My ears swivel constantly, tracking phantom sounds, but I keep my eyes on the stream. As long as I keep moving, I’ll be fine. I have to believe that.

Every so often, I pause to use my magic, testing its limits on small things: a loose branch in the way, a rock I can nudge into the water, a stray twig that I spin idly between my hooves and my horn. The buzzing sensation is still there, sharp and electric, but it’s less overwhelming now. The movements are clumsy, jerky, but they’re movements, and that’s more than I could manage yesterday.

The more I use it, the more I start to feel a connection to the magic. It’s faint, like trying to work with a tool I don’t fully understand, but it’s there. I can feel the way it tugs and pulls, the way it flickers when I lose focus. The stick I’m levitating wobbles in the air, tilting dangerously before I steady it again.

“Not bad,” I mutter under my breath, a faint smirk tugging at my lips. It’s still exhausting, but it doesn’t leave me gasping and trembling like before. I’m getting the hang of it. Slowly.

The stream curves sharply ahead, and I stop for a moment, catching my breath as I lean against a tree. My legs ache from the constant walking, and the dull throb in my horn hasn’t gone away, but the food I managed to eat earlier is keeping me going. I glance at the water, watching the way it flows over the rocks, and a strange sense of calm settles over me. It’s the first time I’ve felt anything close to peace since waking up here.

The forest looms darker ahead, the trees thicker and more twisted, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. The path along the stream narrows, forcing me to walk closer to the water. My hooves splash in the shallows, the cold biting at my legs, but I keep going.

I test my magic again, this time picking up a larger rock from the streambed. The glow around it flickers, but it holds, and I manage to lift it a few inches before my grip falters. The rock drops with a splash, and I let out a frustrated sigh, wiping the sweat from my forehead with a muddy hoof.

“Better,” I mutter, forcing myself to take another step forward. “Still shit, but better.”

The stream grows louder as I continue downstream, the gentle gurgling turning into something more forceful. A waterfall, maybe? The thought fills me with equal parts curiosity and dread. Waterfalls mean height, cliffs, danger—but they might also mean a clearing, or even a way out of this forest.

I take a deep breath, my chest tight with a mixture of exhaustion and determination, and press on. The stream is my guide now, and as long as it’s moving, so am I. With each step, my magic feels a little less foreign, my hooves a little less clumsy, and my resolve a little stronger.

The sound of rushing water grows louder with every step, a low roar that vibrates through the ground and into my hooves. The stream beside me widens, its flow quickening, churning white as it approaches what I can only assume is a drop. My heart pounds in my chest, equal parts anticipation and unease as the forest opens up slightly, revealing the source of the sound.

The stream ends abruptly at the edge of a cliff, the water tumbling over in a silvery cascade that disappears into a misty abyss below. I stand at the edge, peering down at the drop, my stomach twisting at the sight. The cliff is steep, its surface jagged with sharp outcroppings of rock and the occasional patch of stubborn greenery clinging to the sides. The waterfall pours into a dark pool far below, the water churning violently before continuing downstream.

For a moment, I just stand there, staring. The view is beautiful in a harsh, untamed way, the kind of thing you’d stop to admire in a better situation. But here, in this nightmare forest with no clear way forward, it’s just another obstacle. A massive, deadly obstacle.

“Of course,” I mutter, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because walking in a straight line was working too well.”

I step back from the edge, my hooves digging into the damp ground as I try to calm the gnawing anxiety rising in my chest. There’s no clear path down—no stairs, no trail, nothing but a sheer drop and the faint hope of finding something I can use. My ears flick back as I glance at the waterfall, its roar almost drowning out my thoughts.

“Alright,” I say to myself, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Think. You’ve got… magic, shitty hooves, and sheer fucking spite. Figure it out.”

The cliff face isn’t completely smooth. There are ledges, outcroppings, and small gaps that could maybe serve as footholds—if I had hands, or claws, or anything that could grip. My hooves, however, feel about as useful as bricks tied to the ends of my legs.

I glance at the waterfall again, following its path down to the pool below. It’s a long way, the kind of drop that would break every bone in my body if I slipped. My stomach churns at the thought, and I shake my head, trying to push the fear away.

“Okay,” I mutter, stepping closer to the edge and peering down. “You can do this. Just… don’t die.”

The buzzing in my horn stirs faintly, and an idea sparks in my mind. My magic isn’t strong, but it’s better than nothing. Maybe I can use it to steady myself, to hold onto something while I climb. It’s risky, but staying here isn’t an option.

I glance around, spotting a sturdy-looking root jutting out from the cliff face a few feet below. It’s thick, gnarled, and half-covered in moss, but it might hold my weight. My horn aches at the thought of using it again, but I don’t have a choice.

I focus on the root, the faint buzzing in my horn flaring to life as I summon my magic. The glow wraps around it, unsteady and flickering, but it’s there. I take a deep breath, trying to push down the rising panic in my chest.

“Alright,” I mutter, stepping closer to the edge. “One step at a time.”

I lower a hoof over the side of the cliff, feeling for a foothold. My legs tremble as the wet rocks beneath me shift slightly, but I manage to brace myself. My magic tightens around the root, and I imagine it as a rope, something I can hold onto, something that will keep me safe.

I reach for the next ledge, leaning into my magic, expecting it to support my weight as I shift downward. My hooves scrape against the rock, and the I hold for a moment—just long enough to give me hope.

Then the glow around the root vanishes, and I realize too late that my magic isn’t tethered to me like a physical rope. It doesn’t pull, doesn’t support. The root stays where it is, untouched by my desperate attempt to make it work.

My hoof slips.

The air rushes past me, cold and sharp, as I fall. My stomach lurches, and a scream tears from my throat, drowned out by the roar of the waterfall. The jagged cliff face blurs past me, and I twist instinctively, flailing in a futile attempt to grab onto something—anything.

My body slams into an outcropping, the impact driving the breath from my lungs. Pain explodes in my side, and I tumble, skidding across the rocky surface before dropping again. Another ledge, another impact, each one jarring and bone-shaking as I bounce down the cliff like a ragdoll.

I hit the water hard. The freezing shock of it drives every ounce of air from my lungs, and for a moment, the world is nothing but cold and dark and pain. The current drags me under, pulling me into the churning depths at the base of the waterfall. My limbs flail, but the water is relentless, battering me against unseen rocks as it sweeps me downstream.

Panic grips me, and I kick desperately, my head breaking the surface for a brief, gasping breath before the current pulls me under again. My chest burns, and my vision blurs as I fight against the water’s pull, my mind screaming at me to keep going.

Somehow, I claw my way to the shallows, my hooves scraping against the rocky bottom. The current finally releases me, and I collapse onto the muddy bank, coughing and choking as water pours from my lungs. Every inch of me hurts—my side feels like it’s been crushed, my legs are shaking, and my horn throbs so badly I can barely see straight.

I roll onto my side, gasping for air, the sound of the waterfall still roaring behind me. The cold seeps into my body, but I don’t have the strength to move. My chest rises and falls in uneven, shallow breaths, my vision spinning as I stare up at the tangled canopy above.

“Well,” I croak, my voice barely audible over the pounding in my head. “That… fucking sucked.”

For a long moment, I just lie there, too exhausted and beaten to do anything but breathe. The pain is overwhelming, but it’s also proof that I’m still alive. Somehow.

Eventually, I manage to sit up, wincing as my side protests the movement.

Sitting up feels like a battle in itself. My entire body protests, every movement sending sharp, burning pain through my limbs and ribs. My side throbs where I must have slammed into a ledge, and my legs tremble so badly I have to plant my hooves wide just to keep from collapsing again. My fur clings to me, soaked and cold, but as I glance down, I realize that the muddy grime I’ve been carrying is mostly gone.

“Well, silver fucking lining,” I mutter, spitting out a mouthful of water and dirt. “At least I’m clean now.”

The humor does little to lift my spirits, but it’s enough to keep me moving. My mane drips into my eyes, and my tail is heavy with water, but I push it all aside. I’m alive, and that’s all that matters right now.

The air near the waterfall is thick with mist, the constant spray chilling me to the bone as I glance around. The rocky shore is uneven and covered in slippery moss, but the pool itself is calmer now that I’ve made it out of the main current. The river continues downstream, winding away into the forest, its path gentler and more forgiving than the chaos I just survived.

My body aches with every step as I force myself upright, legs wobbling beneath me. My hooves scrape against the rocks as I stumble toward the riverbank, each movement slow and deliberate. The pain is relentless, but I bite down hard, forcing it to the back of my mind.

“Alright,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “One fucking disaster at a time.”

I take a moment to drink from the river, the cold water sharp and bracing. It soothes the raw burn in my throat from nearly drowning, though the taste of the water feels sharper now—metallic, like the memory of panic. I shake it off, splashing my face to stay awake. The chill keeps me moving, even as exhaustion weighs heavily on my shoulders.

The river is my guide. I know that much. Following it downstream is my best option, the only lead I have in this strange, hostile place. If nothing else, it’ll lead me somewhere—maybe out of the forest, maybe to food, maybe to someone or something that can help.

My legs feel like they’re made of lead, but I force them to move, step by agonizing step. The ground is softer here, the mud clinging to my hooves as I limp along the riverbank. The roar of the waterfall fades behind me, replaced by the softer, calmer babble of the stream. It’s almost soothing, though the oppressive weight of the forest doesn’t let me relax for long.

I test my magic again as I walk, nothing else to do, lifting a small rock from the ground and spinning it clumsily in the air. The glow around it is faint but steady, and I feel the buzzing in my horn less sharply now. It’s still there—like an itch I can’t quite reach—but it doesn’t overwhelm me the way it did before.

“Well, at least that’s getting easier,” I mutter, watching the rock wobble in midair before I let it drop with a dull thud. The practice helps distract me from the pain, though it’s clear I’m still far from mastering even the basics.

The ground is uneven, the river winding unpredictably through the trees, but I don’t let myself stop. Stopping feels too much like giving up, and I’ve come too far for that.

The sound of rushing water fades into the background, replaced by the steady rhythm of my hooves against the ground and the faint hum of my magic as I test it again. The ache in my side hasn’t gone away, but it’s dulled now, a constant reminder that I’m still here. Still alive.

“Downstream,” I whisper to myself, my voice barely audible over the sound of the river. “Just keep going.”

The forest stretches endlessly ahead, dark and uninviting, but I follow the river anyway. It’s the only direction I have, and as much as I hate this place, as much as I want to scream at the universe for dropping me here, I can’t stop.

The forest grows darker with each passing moment, the fading light replaced by the deep, oppressive shadows that seem to swallow everything around me. The temperature drops sharply, and the chill seeps into my fur, making me shiver as I limp along the riverbank. My hooves are sore, my side still aches, and my legs feel like they could give out at any moment. But I know I can’t stop—not without a fire.

The memory of nearly freezing last night is still fresh in my mind, and the thought of enduring that again makes my stomach twist. I glance at the scattered sticks and branches along the riverbank, already dreading the process ahead. It worked before, but it wasn’t easy, and I know it won’t be easier this time. But I don’t have a choice.

I gather what I can: a mix of dry twigs, brittle sticks, and one larger piece of wood to use as the base. My hooves scrape against the muddy ground as I drag the pile closer to a small clearing near the river. The sound of the water is softer here, almost soothing if not for the cold and the darkness pressing in around me.

Sitting down heavily, I take a deep breath and focus on the task ahead. My horn buzzes faintly as I lift one of the sticks, the golden glow of my telekinesis wrapping around it. It feels steadier now, less erratic, but still far from easy. My magic flickers slightly as I position the stick upright, balancing it awkwardly on the larger base.

“Alright,” I mutter, my breath fogging in the cold night air. “Let’s get this over with.”

I grab another stick with my hooves, the rough texture scraping against my skin as I position it against the upright one. My legs tremble slightly, but I steady myself, gritting my teeth as I begin to spin the stick between my hooves. The movement is jerky at first, the stick slipping out of position more than once, but I adjust quickly, forcing the rhythm to even out.

The buzz in my horn grows sharper as I focus, keeping the upright stick steady with my magic. It’s still clumsy, the glow flickering occasionally as my concentration wavers, but it’s better than last time. At least it feels like I have some control now—if only barely.

“Come on,” I mutter, the words sharp and bitter. “Just fucking work.”

The wood creaks faintly as the friction builds, the faint smell of burning rising into the cold air. My hooves ache from the constant movement, and the muscles in my forelegs burn, but I don’t stop. Not until I see the first wisp of smoke curl up from the base of the sticks.

“Yes,” I hiss through gritted teeth, leaning closer as I blow gently on the embers. The smoke thickens, and a faint orange glow appears, tiny and fragile but unmistakable. My chest tightens with a mix of relief and desperation as I grab a handful of dry twigs, placing them carefully over the ember.

The flame flickers to life, weak but growing as it catches on the kindling. I sit back on my haunches, my body trembling with exhaustion, but I don’t let myself relax yet. I feed the fire slowly, adding more twigs and sticks, watching as it grows stronger with each passing moment.

By the time the flames are steady, I’m shaking all over—partly from the cold, partly from the sheer effort of keeping my magic and hooves steady long enough to make it work. But it’s done. The fire is alive, its warmth brushing against my fur and chasing away the worst of the chill.

I stare at it for a long moment, my chest heaving as I catch my breath. “Fucking finally,” I mutter, my voice hoarse.

The fire crackles softly, its light flickering against the dark trees around me. I lean closer, letting the warmth seep into my aching body, and for the first time all day, I let myself feel a small flicker of pride. It still sucks. It’s still a struggle. But it’s progress.

The fire crackles softly, its warmth seeping into my fur and dulling the sharp edge of the cold. It’s small—barely more than a campfire—but it’s mine, and it feels like the only thing keeping the dark at bay. I sit close to it, hunched over with my legs tucked beneath me, watching the flames dance as they cast flickering shadows across the forest.

I don’t dare let it go out. Not again.

Every few minutes, I grab another stick from the pile I’ve gathered, feeding it to the fire with deliberate care. The flames sputter and pop as they consume the wood, and I lean closer, shielding the fragile light from the occasional gust of cold wind that creeps through the clearing.

The forest around me is eerily quiet. No rustling leaves, no distant animal calls, nothing but the soft murmur of the river and the crackle of the fire. It should be comforting, but it’s not. The silence feels too heavy, too deliberate, like the trees are holding their breath, waiting for something. I glance over my shoulder every so often, my ears twitching at phantom noises that aren’t there.

My hooves are filthy, caked with mud and ash from tending the fire, but I don’t care. My legs ache, my side still throbs from the fall, and the buzzing in my horn hasn’t gone away, but none of it matters. The fire is alive, and that’s what counts.

“Stay alive,” I mutter under my breath, tossing another stick onto the flames. “That’s all I need you to do.”

The hours drag on, the darkness pressing in closer as the night deepens. I force myself to stay awake, even as exhaustion pulls at my body, tempting me to lie down and rest. The fire needs me, and I can’t risk it dying—not when the cold is waiting to seep back in, not when I don’t know what’s out there in the dark.

My magic flickers weakly as I grab a larger branch, holding it steady while I position it over the flames. The effort makes my horn throb, but the glow stays steady, and I manage to feed the branch into the fire without dropping it. The flames leap higher, and I let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through me.

“This is fine,” I mutter, more to myself than anything. My voice is hoarse, cracked from the cold and the stress, but the sound keeps me grounded. “Everything’s fine.”

I glance up at the sky, or what little I can see of it through the tangled canopy above. The stars are faint, barely visible between the thick branches, but their pale light filters down in patches, mixing with the warm glow of the fire. It’s almost peaceful, in a way—if I ignore the aches in my body and the ever-present sense of dread lurking in the back of my mind.

The fire crackles again, and I lean forward, poking at the embers with a stick to keep them glowing. My movements are clumsy, my hooves slipping more than once, but I manage to keep the flames alive. The light flickers against my fur, warming my face as I settle back down.

The night feels endless, the hours stretching into an eternity as I sit there, hunched by the fire, feeding it stick after stick. My thoughts drift, unfocused and scattered, but one thing stays constant: I can’t let the fire die. Not now, not ever.

By the time the first faint traces of dawn begin to creep over the horizon, the fire is still alive, its flames steady and bright. My body feels like it’s been through hell—my legs stiff, my side screaming in protest every time I move—but I’m still here. And so is the fire.

I sit back, my chest heaving with exhaustion and relief, and let myself smile. Just a little. For the first time in what feels like forever, I made it through the night.

The first rays of dawn creep over the horizon, bathing the forest in a pale, silvery light. The fire crackles softly, its warmth still radiating against my fur, and I feel an odd sense of accomplishment. I kept it alive all night, and for once, things feel like they’re not completely falling apart.

My stomach growls loudly, the sound echoing in the quiet morning. It’s an insistent reminder that I’m not done yet. I glance at the river, its surface shimmering faintly in the early light, and the shadowy shapes of fish darting beneath the surface catch my eye.

“Alright,” I mutter, standing up and shaking the stiffness from my legs. My body protests the movement, my side still sore and my hooves raw, but I ignore it. I can’t afford to stop now.

I crouch by the riverbank, my eyes scanning the water for a larger target. The smaller fish were enough to keep me going yesterday, but I need more if I’m going to keep my strength up. My horn buzzes faintly as I summon my magic, the golden glow flickering to life around a sizable fish swimming near the surface.

It’s bigger than anything I’ve caught before, and the weight of it is immediately apparent. My telekinesis trembles, the glow around the fish flickering as I focus harder, gritting my teeth against the strain. “Come on,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes as I picture the fish flying toward the shore. “You’re mine.”

With a sharp jerk, I yank the fish out of the water. It rockets through the air, flipping wildly as it sprays droplets everywhere, before landing with a wet thud on the muddy bank. The impact startles it into a frenzy of flopping and thrashing, and I quickly step forward, slamming a hoof down to pin it in place.

“Not this time,” I mutter, staring down at the wriggling fish. My stomach growls again, and I feel a spark of satisfaction as I press harder, the fish finally going limp under my weight.

I drag it closer to the fire, careful not to get too close to the flames, and begin the now-familiar process of cooking it. The scales pop and sizzle as the heat works its way through, the smell of charred skin filling the air. It’s not exactly appetizing, but my mouth waters anyway. This is survival, not a five-star meal.

The fish cooks unevenly, some parts blackened while others remain pale, but I don’t care. Once it’s done—or at least close enough—I pull it away from the flames and tear into it. The meat is hot, salty, and far from perfect, but it’s filling. It’s more food than I’ve had since waking up in this nightmare, and it feels like a victory.

For the first time in days, I feel something other than despair. Pride swells in my chest as I finish the fish, my stomach finally full. The fire is still alive, my magic is more reliable, and I’ve managed to make it another night without freezing, starving, or getting eaten by whatever’s lurking in this forest.

I sit back, wiping my mouth with a muddy hoof, and stare at the fire as it crackles and pops. “Not bad,” I mutter to myself, a faint grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Not bad at all.”

The river murmurs beside me, the sound soothing in the quiet morning, and I let myself relax for a moment. It’s not much—it’s still cold, the forest is still terrifying, and I have no idea what’s ahead—but for now, I’ve won another small battle.

The forest thins gradually, the oppressive darkness giving way to a softer, more open landscape. The tangled, gnarled trees begin to spread out, their twisted branches no longer reaching like claws overhead. The ground grows firmer beneath my hooves, less mud and more solid earth. For the first time in what feels like days, I can see the horizon—a pale line where the morning sky meets the land.

My chest tightens at the sight. Relief? Maybe. Or dread. The forest was awful, but at least I knew what to expect: darkness, cold, danger. Whatever lies ahead is a mystery, and I’m not sure if I’m ready to face it.

The river leads me to a small stone bridge, its surface weathered and moss-covered. It arches gracefully over the water, connecting the path I’ve been following to a village on the other side. I stop at the edge of the bridge, staring at the scene ahead with wide eyes.

At first, I don’t recognize it. The buildings are quaint, with thatched roofs and colorful facades, but they look wrong somehow. The edges are too sharp, the materials too real—cracked wood, uneven stone. It’s familiar, but not. Like a dream distorted into something far less comforting.

And then I see them.

Ponies. The kind I’ve somehow become. They mill about the village, walking in pairs or small groups, chatting in low, indecipherable tones. But they’re not like the cheerful, harmless creatures I half-remember. These ponies are real, and they look… wrong.

Their bodies are small and stocky, their fur uneven, marred with patches of sweat and dirt. Their manes hang limp, tangled, and greasy, and their ears flick constantly as if swatting at unseen flies. But it’s their eyes that are the worst.

Their massive, oversized eyes dominate their faces, bulging slightly in their sockets. The whites are streaked with red veins, spidering out from the corners like cracked glass. The irises are far too vivid, almost luminous, and they catch the light in a way that feels unnatural—wrong. When they blink, it’s slow, deliberate, and wet, the sound faintly audible even from where I’m standing.

A chill runs down my spine as I watch them. They move like normal ponies might—bobbing their heads, trotting lightly—but the way their eyes shift, darting side to side, makes it feel like they’re always looking for something. Or someone.

I swallow hard, my throat dry as I take a step back from the bridge. My instincts scream at me to turn around, to go back into the forest, no matter how terrible it was. But I can’t. Not really. The forest is a death sentence, and this… this might be a chance. A horrifying, cursed chance, but a chance nonetheless.

Taking a deep breath, I step onto the bridge, the stone cool and damp under my hooves. Each step feels heavier than the last as I cross the arch, the village growing closer with every movement. The ponies in the distance don’t seem to notice me yet, their attention focused on their own strange routines.

As I reach the far side of the bridge, the chatter grows louder, interspersed with the clatter of hooves on cobblestones. I hesitate at the edge of the village, my legs trembling as I glance back at the forest. The darkness looms in the distance, a reminder of what I’ve left behind.

Turning back to the village, I steel myself, taking a shaky step forward. “Alright,” I mutter under my breath, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. “Let’s see what fresh hell this is.”

The ponies haven’t noticed me yet, but it’s only a matter of time. The closer I get, the more I realize there’s no turning back. This is it—whatever this place is, whoever these ponies are, it’s my next step.

And God help me, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.

Charlatan
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Applied Mathemagics

Charlatan

I step off the bridge, my hooves clicking softly against the cobblestones as I enter the village. My body tenses, every muscle ready to bolt back toward the forest, but none of the ponies seem to notice me. They move about their day with cheerful energy, chatting, laughing, and going about their routines like everything is perfectly normal.

Except they don’t look normal.

Up close, the details are even worse. Their massive eyes glisten in the daylight, catching every flicker of movement. The thin webs of blood vessels in the whites seem almost alive, throbbing faintly with each blink. Their fur, while vibrant in color, is rough, patchy, and matted in places. Their mouths, when they smile, stretch too wide, showing teeth that are just a little too big for their jaws. It’s like seeing something familiar through a warped lens—everything is just a bit too real, too tangible, and it makes my skin crawl.

But despite their unsettling appearance, their voices are warm and bright, their laughter ringing through the air like music. A pink pony with a curly mane—Pinkie Pie, my mind supplies—bounces past, her movements almost cartoonishly exaggerated. She hums a cheerful tune, her steps light and bouncy, but her face… her face doesn’t match. Her huge eyes dart around, almost too aware, and the smile on her face is so wide it feels more manic than happy.

She stops mid-bounce, freezing in place as if someone hit pause. Her ears flick toward me, and her wide, too-bright eyes lock onto mine. The smile on her face stretches impossibly wider, teeth flashing in a way that’s meant to be friendly but feels… predatory.

“Hi!” she chirps, her voice loud and chipper, completely at odds with the unnerving intensity of her gaze. Before I can even think to respond, she’s suddenly in front of me, moving so fast I don’t even see her take a step. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before! And I know everypony in Ponyville, which means you must be new!”

I freeze, my brain scrambling to keep up. Her words are rapid-fire, tumbling out in a cheerful stream that leaves no room for interruption. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. What do I even say to this?

Pinkie leans in closer, her massive eyes seeming to fill my entire field of vision. The blood vessels in the whites pulse faintly, and I can see the glint of light reflecting off her too-big pupils. She smells faintly of sugar and sweat, an oddly disconcerting combination.

“You are new, aren’t you?” she asks, tilting her head so far to the side that I hear the faint pop of joints. “Ooh, this is so exciting! A new pony in town means we get to have a ‘Welcome to Ponyville’ party! I’ve got streamers and balloons and cake and—”

“Uh, no thanks,” I blurt out, my voice cracking slightly as I finally manage to find my words. I take a step back, trying to put some distance between us. “I’m not really in the mood for a party.”

Her smile falters, just for a split second, and her eyes narrow ever so slightly. The change is so subtle that I might have imagined it, but it sends a chill down my spine. Then, just as quickly, the manic grin snaps back into place.

“Not in the mood for a party?” she repeats, her tone overly dramatic, like I’ve just said something scandalous. “How can you not be in the mood for a party? Parties are the best!”

I take another step back, my hooves scraping against the cobblestones. My heart pounds in my chest as I glance around, hoping for some kind of escape route. The other ponies are still going about their business, oblivious to the increasingly uncomfortable interaction unfolding in the middle of the street.

“Yeah, uh, I just…” I stumble over my words, my mind racing. “I’ve had a long day. I’m tired. Just… need some time to settle in, you know?”

Pinkie’s head tilts again, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly, and I swear I can see her teeth grinding behind that stretched smile. For a moment, I think she’s going to argue, to insist on dragging me to some kind of loud, chaotic event I can’t handle right now.

But then she stops, her posture relaxing as she bounces back a step. “Ooooh, I get it!” she says, her voice returning to its usual high-pitched cheer. “You’re the shy type! Don’t worry, I’ve got just the thing for that. We’ll start small! Maybe just cupcakes! Cupcakes are perfect for breaking the ice. And then, once you’re feeling better, we can throw the real party!”

Before I can protest, she spins around and bounds away, her curly mane bouncing with each step. “Don’t you worry, new pony! Pinkie Pie’s got this covered!” she calls over her shoulder. “See you soon!”

I stand there for a long moment, staring after her as she disappears into the distance. My legs feel like jelly, and my chest is tight with a mix of relief and lingering unease. She didn’t force me into anything—yet—but the intensity of that encounter left me shaken.

I glance around, the village suddenly feeling much smaller and more claustrophobic than it did a moment ago. The other ponies still pay me no mind, their cheerful chatter filling the air as they go about their day. But the memory of Pinkie’s too-wide smile and unblinking stare stays with me, a lingering weight I can’t shake.

I let out a shaky breath, forcing myself to take a step forward. “Great,” I mutter under my breath, my voice low and bitter. “Welcome to Ponyville. This is going to be fantastic.”

As the adrenaline from my encounter with Pinkie Pie starts to fade, another problem looms large in my mind: I have no idea what to do next. The village is bustling, alive with activity, and every pony seems to have a purpose, a place to be. Meanwhile, I’m just standing here, completely lost, with nowhere to go and no plan.

Worse, I don’t have a single bit to my name. If this place works anything like a normal town, that’s going to be a problem. Food, shelter, even basic supplies—all of it costs money. And unless there’s some charity I don’t know about, I’m out of luck.

My stomach churns, and I glance at the ponies moving past me. They still look grotesque, their massive, bloodshot eyes darting around as they chat and go about their business. But they’re also normal in the way they act—smiling, laughing, living their lives like everything is fine. Like they’re not horrifying to look at.

I need to talk to one of them. The thought sends a wave of anxiety through me, but I don’t have a choice. I can’t survive out here without help, and if I don’t ask for it, no one’s going to offer. My legs feel like lead as I scan the crowd, trying to pick out a pony who looks… approachable.

Eventually, I settle on a beige pony with a short brown mane, carrying a saddlebag loaded with papers and quills. They’re standing near a cart of vegetables, chatting with the vendor. Their features are just as unsettling as everyone else’s—those huge, veiny eyes and too-wide smile—but something about their relaxed posture makes them seem less threatening. Or maybe I’m just desperate.

Taking a deep breath, I force my hooves to move, one step at a time. My heart pounds in my chest as I approach, my mouth suddenly dry. By the time I’m standing near them, I feel like I’m going to collapse from sheer nerves.

“Uh… excuse me,” I say, my voice cracking slightly. The pony turns to me, their smile widening as their oversized eyes lock onto mine.

“Yes?” they say, their voice pleasant and cheerful, but the way their teeth flash when they talk makes my skin crawl.

For a moment, my brain goes completely blank. What do I even say? My chest tightens as the silence stretches, and the pony tilts their head slightly, their smile not wavering.

“I… I’m new here,” I manage to stammer, the words tumbling out awkwardly.

“I don’t really know how things work here, and, uh… I’m looking for a job.” The words feel clunky as they tumble out, but at least they’re out. My legs tremble, and I force myself to hold their gaze, even as those massive, bloodshot eyes make my skin crawl.

The beige pony’s expression brightens even further, which I didn’t think was possible. “Oh, you’re looking for work? That’s wonderful! Ponyville always has opportunities for ponies eager to lend a hoof. There’s a notice board just down the road, near the town square. It lists all the current job openings.”

“Thanks,” I say, nodding stiffly. I start to turn away, but the pony’s voice stops me.

“Oh! I didn’t catch your name,” they say, tilting their head slightly. Their bloodshot eyes widen just a fraction, the veins pulsing faintly with each blink.

“Kinetic Flux,” I blurt out, the name feeling foreign and awkward in my mouth.

The pony nods enthusiastically. “Well, Kinetic Flux, I'm Klee Nex, welcome to Ponyville! I’m sure you’ll find something on the board that suits your talents. Good luck!”

I mutter another thanks and walk away quickly, my hooves clopping unevenly against the cobblestones as I head toward the town square. The notice board isn’t hard to find; it’s a large wooden structure with dozens of papers pinned haphazardly to its surface. A few other ponies stand nearby, scanning the listings, their grotesque faces looking oddly focused.

I take a deep breath and step closer, scanning the papers. The jobs are all over the place: farmhand, baker’s assistant, construction helper. Each one sounds straightforward enough, but I know better. My coordination is still terrible—hooves instead of hands have made even walking a chore. The thought of plowing a field or carrying trays of baked goods makes me cringe. The idea of working construction? Laughable.

I sigh, my frustration mounting as I skim through the listings. Nothing seems remotely doable. Then my eyes land on a particular sheet of paper near the corner of the board. Its edges are worn, like it’s been hanging there for a while, and the heading reads: Town Mage Needed.

Curious, I lean closer, reading the details:

Ponyville is seeking a capable unicorn to fulfill the role of Town Mage. Responsibilities include assisting residents with magical needs and inquiries, resolving minor magical issues, and providing guidance to those wondering, “Can I hire a mage for this?” No previous experience required. Compensation based on services rendered. Position does not include lodging.

I blink at the description, my heart thudding. It’s vague—intentionally, I think—but it’s the first thing I’ve seen that doesn’t require brute strength or coordination. Magic. It’s the one thing I’ve been using, however clumsily, since I woke up here. It’s not much, but it’s something I can work with.

The lack of lodging is a problem, but one I can figure out later. Right now, I need a start, and this might be my best chance. My horn buzzes faintly as I step back from the board, my mind racing. Town Mage. I could do that, right? If I fake confidence long enough, maybe no one will notice how little I actually know.

I glance around, my eyes drifting over the bizarre, grotesque ponies moving through the square. None of them seem to notice me, too busy with their cheerful conversations and daily routines. Taking a deep breath, I steady myself.

“Alright,” I mutter under my breath. “This is it. Time to be a ‘mage.’”

The words feel ridiculous, but I don’t let myself think too hard about it. I need to find whoever’s in charge of this position and convince them I’m the right pony for the job—before I lose my nerve.

The flier’s instructions are simple: report to Town Hall for details. My stomach churns as I reread the words, my eyes flicking to the towering spire at the heart of the village. Of course, it had to be official. It couldn’t just be some casual thing where I’d talk to a single pony and get started. No, this is a government position. Great.

I take a deep breath and set off toward Town Hall, my hooves clopping against the cobblestones. The streets are a little quieter now, the morning rush giving way to a more leisurely pace as ponies settle into their routines. They still look unsettling, their massive eyes catching every flicker of movement, but I force myself to focus on the task ahead.

The building looms larger as I approach, its pale beige walls and thatched roof giving it a strangely quaint appearance for what I assume is the heart of Ponyville’s government. The front doors are wide and wooden, worn smooth from years of use, with brass handles that gleam faintly in the sunlight.

I hesitate at the entrance, my stomach twisting. This is it. No turning back now. I push one of the doors open with a hoof, stepping inside.

The interior is surprisingly simple: polished wooden floors, a few potted plants, and a large desk near the back where a pale brown pony with gray hair sits, sorting through papers. Her mane is neatly styled, her glasses perched low on her nose, and her expression is one of focused efficiency. She doesn’t look up as I approach, too engrossed in whatever document she’s reading.

“Excuse me,” I say, my voice wavering slightly.

Her ears flick toward me, and she glances up, her oversized eyes locking onto mine. The veins in the whites of her eyes are faint but visible, and her wide smile stretches just a little too far. “Oh! Good morning! How can I help you?” she asks in a pleasant, professional tone.

“I, uh…” My throat feels dry, and I clear it awkwardly. “I saw the notice about the Town Mage position.”

Her expression brightens, and she sets down her papers. “Wonderful! It’s been open for a while now. We’ve been hoping for somepony to step up and take on the role.” She gestures for me to come closer, and I step up to the desk, trying not to let my nerves show.

She adjusts her glasses, studying me intently. “What’s your name, dear?”

“Kinetic Flux,” I say automatically, the name still feeling strange but easier to say now.

Mayor Mare nods, jotting something down on a sheet of paper. “Well, Kinetic Flux, it’s a pleasure to meet you. As you probably saw on the notice, the Town Mage position is an as-needed role. You’ll be available to help residents with magical problems or questions, and they’ll compensate you directly for your services.”

I nod slowly, my mind racing. “Right. And, uh… what kind of problems are we talking about?”

“Oh, it varies,” she says, waving a hoof dismissively. “Sometimes it’s something simple, like helping with a stuck door or retrieving something from a hard-to-reach spot. Other times, it might be assisting with a more complicated magical issue. You’d be surprised how often ponies ask, ‘Can I hire a mage for this?’” She chuckles lightly, but the sound feels almost hollow.

“And there’s no… training or anything?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

She shakes her head. “Not for this role. Ponyville isn’t exactly Canterlot, you see. We don’t need an archmage, just somepony with a horn and a willingness to help.”

“Got it,” I say, trying to sound confident, though my stomach twists with doubt.

Mayor Mare leans back in her chair, her oversized eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “There is one thing, though. A test of basic magical competence. It’s not extensive—just a quick demonstration to make sure you can handle the fundamentals: telekinesis, freezing, and heating an object.”

I nod slowly, trying to maintain my composure, but inside, I’m screaming. Freezing? Heating? What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Telekinesis I can manage, barely, but the rest? I’ve never even thought about trying to freeze or heat something. Still, I force a calm expression and remind myself to smile.

She gestures to a side room, rising from her desk and beckoning me to follow. “Come along. We’ll start with telekinesis—it’s the most straightforward.”

I follow her into a small room with a simple setup: a wooden table, a few chairs, and a small metal ball resting in the center of the table. The room feels cramped, the air thick with the weight of what’s about to happen. My pulse quickens as she steps aside, motioning toward the ball.

“All you need to do,” she says, her voice even, “is lift this ball with your magic and hold it steady for a few moments.”

I swallow hard, my gaze locking onto the ball. It’s small, smooth, and utterly mundane, but it might as well be a mountain with the way my nerves are fraying. My horn buzzes faintly, a now-familiar sensation that I focus on as I take a deep breath.

You can do this, I tell myself, though I’m not sure I believe it.

The glow of my magic flickers to life around the ball, shaky and uneven at first. I grit my teeth, concentrating harder, and the buzzing in my horn intensifies. Slowly, the ball begins to lift, wobbling slightly as it rises above the table.

My chest tightens as I hold it there, every fiber of my being focused on keeping the damn thing steady. The glow flickers again, but I force it to stabilize, gritting my teeth as the effort sends a sharp ache through my horn.

The ball hovers in midair, trembling slightly but holding. My heart pounds as I glance at Mayor Mare, who nods approvingly, her unsettlingly wide smile giving me no comfort.

“Very good,” she says, her tone pleasant but professional. “Now keep it steady for a few more seconds.”

I nod mutely, sweat beading on my forehead as I lock my focus on the ball. It wobbles again, but I adjust quickly, the glow around it holding firm. My horn feels like it’s on fire, but I grit my teeth and bear it. This is the first step—the one thing I know I can do. I can’t afford to fail here.

After what feels like an eternity, she speaks again. “That’s enough. You can set it down now.”

I let out a shaky breath, carefully lowering the ball back onto the table. The glow around it fades, and I step back, my legs trembling slightly from the effort.

“Well done,” Mayor Mare says, jotting something down on a clipboard she’s somehow produced. “Your telekinesis is quite solid. Shall we move on to the next test?”

I nod again, my mouth dry. Solid? I don’t feel solid. My head is pounding, and my nerves are shot, but I can’t stop now. There’s still the freezing and heating tests to go, and I have no idea how I’m going to manage them.

“Of course,” I say, forcing a weak smile. “Let’s do it.”

Mayor Mare leads me back to the small table, this time placing a shallow bowl of water on it. The clear liquid ripples slightly as she sets it down, and her unsettlingly wide smile never wavers as she steps back. “Now for the heating and freezing tests,” she says cheerfully. “Just heat the water until it begins to steam, then cool it until it freezes.”

My stomach lurches. Steam and ice? I don’t even know where to start! My pulse pounds in my ears as I stare at the water, my mind racing.

The problem isn’t just the magic—it’s that I have no clue what freezing or heating spells are supposed to look like. My horn can manage telekinesis, sure, but this? This is a whole new level. Panic bubbles up in my chest as I try to think of a solution.

Okay, think. You know physics. You’re a mechanical engineer, for God’s sake. Heat and cold aren’t magical—they’re just energy. Heat is the motion of atoms, and cold is the lack of it. Not a total lack, but close enough. If I can move those atoms… maybe I can fake it?

The thought sparks a tiny flicker of hope, and I latch onto it, forcing myself to breathe deeply and focus. I know the basics: heating something means making its atoms move faster, and freezing it means slowing them down. If I can control the motion of the water molecules, I might be able to pull this off.

But how? My telekinesis isn’t precise—it’s clumsy at best. Controlling a whole bowl if water is laughable. But the fish from earlier taught me something: smaller tasks are easier. Instead of trying to affect all the water at once, I can work in tiny layers.

I picture the bowl of water as a stack of infinitesimally thin layers, like slices of paper. Each layer can be heated or cooled individually, and by integrating over the whole volume—essentially summing up the effects on each layer—I can control the temperature of the water. It’s not elegant, but it’s the only idea I have.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Mayor Mare prompts, her voice breaking through my thoughts.

I nod stiffly, my horn buzzing faintly as I focus on the water. The molecules are already moving—they vibrate naturally, their speed determining the water’s temperature. My magic wraps around the first thin layer, and I imagine the atoms moving faster, their bonds stretching and vibrating more intensely.

The water begins to ripple faintly, the surface trembling as I push the molecules into motion. My horn throbs with the effort, the buzzing growing sharper as I move to the next layer, then the next, gradually working my way down. The heat builds slowly, and I grit my teeth, concentrating harder.

A thin wisp of steam curls up from the surface of the dish, and I exhale shakily. “Check it,” I mutter, stepping back to let Mayor Mare inspect my progress.

She leans forward, her wide eyes scanning the water. “Impressive,” she says with a nod. “Now, freeze it.”

I swallow hard, my head already pounding, but I nod again. “Alright,” I whisper, focusing once more.

Freezing is trickier. I can’t just stop the motion of the atoms—I need to orient them correctly to form stable hydrogen bonds, the key structure of ice. My magic flickers as I focus on the atoms in the topmost layer, hoping I'm aligning them so the bonds lock into place. I only know its working when I see the surface glisten, a faint crust of frost forming as I move to the next layer.

The integral approach works again, each layer freezing as I work my way down. It’s painfully slow, my horn burning with the strain, but I keep going, the frost thickening until the entire dish is a solid block of ice.

I step back, gasping for breath. “Check it,” I say again, my voice hoarse.

Mayor Mare leans in, tapping the frozen surface with a hoof. “Well done,” she says, her smile widening.

“Wonderful,” Mayor Mare says, her smile stretching just a little wider. “You’ve demonstrated excellent control over your magic, Kinetic Flux. Welcome aboard as Ponyville’s new Town Mage.”

I blink, barely processing her words. I got the job? Relief washes over me, followed quickly by a surge of exhaustion. My horn feels like it’s been run through a blender, and every muscle in my body aches from the sheer effort of faking competence. But I force myself to stand straighter, offering a weak smile in return.

“Thank you, Mayor Mare,” I manage to say, my voice still shaky. “I’ll do my best.”

She nods approvingly and gestures for me to follow her back out into the hallway. “Excellent. Let me show you your office.”

My office? That stops me in my tracks for a moment. I hadn’t expected that—honestly, I wasn’t expecting much more than a pat on the back and vague directions to figure things out on my own. The idea that this job comes with an actual space feels… surreal.

Mayor Mare leads me down a short corridor, her hoofsteps echoing softly against the polished wooden floor. The hallway is lined with simple doors, each labeled with small brass plaques: Records Room, Storage, Meeting Room. At the very end, she stops in front of a door with a dusty looking engraved plaque that reads Town Mage.

“This will be your workspace,” she says, pushing the door open to reveal a modest room inside. It’s not much—just a simple desk, a few shelves, and a single window that lets in soft, natural light—but it’s more than I expected. A small bulletin board hangs on one wall, and an empty inkwell sits on the desk beside a stack of blank parchment.

I step inside, the wooden floor creaking faintly under my hooves, and glance around. The room smells faintly of dust and old paper, but it’s clean and quiet. My space. Mine.

“You’ll receive requests here,” Mayor Mare continues, her tone brisk and professional. “Ponies in town know to come to the Town Mage when they need magical assistance. As the position doesn’t include lodging, I recommend starting with smaller tasks to earn bits quickly and secure accommodations.”

I nod slowly, still taking in the sight of the room. “Right. Got it.”

She adjusts her glasses, her bloodshot eyes narrowing slightly as she studies me. “You’ll also need to keep records of your work—nothing elaborate, just enough to track your services and payments. If you need supplies, let me know, and we’ll see what can be arranged.”

“Thank you,” I say again, the words automatic. My mind is already racing with the implications of this job—what it means to be the person every pony in town comes to when they’re out of options.

Mayor Mare steps back toward the door, her smile softening just slightly. “I have high hopes for you, Kinetic Flux. Welcome to Ponyville.”

With that, she leaves, her hoofsteps fading down the hall. I’m left standing in the middle of the room, staring at the desk and the empty shelves, the reality of my new position sinking in.

An office. A real job. It’s more than I expected when I stumbled into this strange, unsettling world, but the weight of it feels almost crushing.

I sink into the chair behind the desk, the wood creaking under my weight, and rest my hooves on the surface. My reflection stares back at me from the polished surface of the desk—tan fur, blonde mane, a faint sheen of sweat from the effort of getting here.

“Well,” I mutter to myself, leaning back in the chair. “This is… something.”

The room is quiet, save for the faint murmur of voices in the hall. For the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself relax, if only for a moment. I survived the tests. I have a job.

Now I just have to figure out how to actually do it.

The hours drag on as I sit in my new office, the quiet only broken by the occasional creak of the floorboards or the muffled sounds of ponies moving about outside. I’m not sure what I expected—ponies bursting in with urgent magical emergencies? A line forming down the hall? Instead, it’s just me, staring at the desk, the blank parchment, and the stack of quills that I don’t even know how to use yet.

My horn still aches faintly from the tests, but I try not to dwell on it. Instead, I focus on my surroundings, looking for anything to distract myself from the gnawing anxiety in my chest. The window offers a view of the town square, where ponies go about their day, their grotesque but cheerful faces making my stomach churn. I glance at the bulletin board, wondering if I should pin something up to advertise my services.

I’m in the middle of debating whether I should try to organize the empty shelves when the sound of hoofsteps in the hall makes me sit up straight. My ears swivel toward the door, and I hold my breath as the steps grow louder. They stop just outside my office, and for a moment, I think whoever it is might turn away. But then the door creaks open.

A pale yellow pony steps inside, their oversized, veiny eyes darting nervously around the room. Their green mane is messy, sticking up in odd angles, and they carry a small satchel slung over one shoulder. The pony hesitates in the doorway, their expression uncertain, before their gaze lands on me.

“Um… hi,” they say, their voice quiet and hesitant. “Are you… the new Town Mage?”

“That’s me,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. I gesture toward the chair across from my desk. “Come on in.”

They step inside slowly, their movements awkward, like they’re not used to being in an office. They sit down, their hooves fidgeting against the edges of the chair. For a moment, they just stare at me, their too-big eyes blinking slowly, and I resist the urge to look away.

“So, uh… what can I help you with?” I ask, leaning forward slightly to break the silence.

The pony shifts in their seat, their satchel rustling as they open it and pull out a small, battered pocket watch. They set it on the desk between us, their hooves retreating quickly as if afraid to touch it any longer.

“It’s broken,” they say, their voice barely above a whisper. “It belonged to my grandfather, and I don’t know what’s wrong with it. I was hoping… maybe you could fix it? With magic?”

I stare at the pocket watch, my eyes widening. A surge of familiarity washes over me as I pick it up, turning it over in my hooves. The weight, the craftsmanship, the delicate gears visible through the tiny cracks in the casing—it’s all so familiar, so grounding. Before I ever got into mechanical engineering, I used to repair watches to make ends meet. It was my first job, and for a moment, the memories of tiny screwdrivers, magnifying lenses, and the satisfying click of a working gear drown out the strangeness of where I am.

“I… I think I can help,” I say, my voice more steady than I expected. I glance at the pony, who’s watching me nervously. “But, uh, repair spells are… delicate. It’s best if you wait outside while I work.”

The pony nods quickly, almost too eagerly. “Oh, of course! I understand. I’ll just be right outside.” They shuffle out of the room, the door creaking softly shut behind them.

The moment they’re gone, I let out a long breath and set the watch down on the desk. “Alright,” I mutter to myself, rolling my shoulders and focusing on the task at hoof. “Just me and a pocket watch. You’ve done this before.”

I light my horn, the golden glow of my telekinesis wrapping around the watch. It’s not as precise as using actual tools, but it’ll have to do. The first challenge is getting the backing off. Normally, I’d use a blade from a pocket knife or a flat head screwdriver to pry it open, but with no tools in sight, I have to improvise.

Gritting my teeth, I apply pressure with my magic, trying to wedge the edge of the backing up. The watch resists, the metal stubborn and unyielding. My horn buzzes sharply as I strain, the glow around the watch flickering as I push harder.

“Come on, you little bastard,” I mutter, beads of sweat forming on my brow. I adjust the angle, imagining the tiny lip of the backing in my mind, and push again. With a faint pop, the backing finally gives, the metal plate flipping off and landing with a dull clink on the desk.

“Yes!” I hiss, a grin spreading across my face. “Still got it.”

Inside, the gears are jammed and the spring looks dangerously overwound. It’s a simple problem—well, simple for someone who’s done this a hundred times before. My magic wraps around the delicate parts, carefully nudging them into place. I focus on the gear train first, loosening the stuck teeth and making sure they align properly. Each tiny adjustment sends a faint throb through my horn, but I ignore it, my mind absorbed in the intricate mechanisms.

The spring is next. I release a bit of its tension, working slowly to avoid snapping it. The telekinesis isn’t as precise as I’d like, but I manage to unwind it just enough for the gears to turn freely again. I test the movement by gently nudging the balance wheel, and the entire mechanism springs to life, ticking steadily.

“Perfect,” I murmur, watching the gears turn smoothly. The familiar rhythm of the ticking fills the quiet room, and for the first time since I arrived in this bizarre world, I feel a sense of control—of accomplishment.

I replace the backing with another push of my magic, making sure it clicks securely into place. The watch looks as good as new—or at least as good as it can, given its age. I set it gently on the desk and call out, “You can come back in now.”

The door creaks open, and the pony steps inside, their nervous expression replaced by cautious hope as their eyes dart to the watch. I push it toward them with a hoof, leaning back slightly. “It’s fixed. Try it out.”

Their oversized eyes light up as they pick up the watch, the ticking filling the silence between us. “It’s working,” they whisper, a smile breaking across their face. “It’s really working.”

I nod, unable to keep the pride from my own grin. “It just needed a little… delicate work.”

The pony looks at me, their expression grateful. “Thank you so much, Kinetic Flux. My grandfather would’ve been so happy to see this working again. How much do I owe you?”

I pause, caught off guard. I hadn’t actually thought about pricing. Back in the day, I used to charge depending on the complexity of the repair, but here? I have no frame of reference.

“Uh… ten bits?” I say hesitantly, throwing out a number that feels reasonable. It’s not too high, but not insulting either. Hopefully.

The pony nods eagerly, reaching into their satchel and pulling out a small pouch. They count out ten shiny coins and set them on the desk with a clink. “That’s more than fair. Thank you again, Kinetic Flux. This means so much to me.”

I wave a hoof dismissively, trying to play it cool despite the excitement bubbling inside me. “No problem. I’m glad I could help.”

The pony tucks the watch carefully back into their satchel, their expression one of pure relief. “I’ll be sure to tell everypony how helpful you were. Have a great day!” With one last wide-eyed smile, they turn and trot out of the office, leaving the door ajar behind them.

As soon as they’re gone, I lean back in my chair, staring at the pile of bits on the desk. My first job. Ten bits. It’s not a fortune, but it’s a start—proof that I might actually be able to make this work. A grin spreads across my face as I scoop the coins into a neat pile, the metallic weight reassuring in a way I didn’t expect.

“Not bad for my first day,” I mutter to myself, leaning forward to drop the coins into the small drawer of the desk. My horn still aches from the effort of repairing the watch, but the satisfaction of a job well done outweighs the discomfort.

The room feels a little less empty now, the quiet a little less oppressive. I glance at the window, watching the ponies outside go about their day, and for the first time since I arrived in this strange, unsettling world, I feel like I belong—just a little.

I rest my hooves on the desk, letting the moment sink in. Sure, the job wasn’t glamorous, and ten bits won’t get me far, but it’s a start. And if I can fix a pocket watch with nothing but telekinesis and a bit of ingenuity, who knows what else I can do?

I lean back, staring at the ceiling as a small laugh escapes me. “Town Mage,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head. “Guess I’m off to a decent start.”

The hours tick by, and no one else comes through the door. I spend most of the afternoon sitting at my desk, fiddling with the stack of blank parchment, trying to look busy in case anyone walks in. But the hallway outside remains quiet, the creak of the floorboards my only company. Every now and then, I glance out the window at the ponies passing by, hoping someone might glance my way, but no one does.

By the time the sun starts to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, I’ve come to an unsettling realization: that first customer might be my only one.

The ten bits sitting in my drawer are all I have to my name, and the weight of their insufficiency presses heavily on me. I pull one out, turning it over in my hooves. The golden coin gleams faintly in the dim light, its edges smooth and slightly worn. It’s more money than I’ve had in days, but it’s not nearly enough for a room at an inn.

I run the numbers in my head, trying to estimate what a night’s stay might cost, and every scenario leaves me short. My stomach churns as I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.

“Great,” I mutter, the word dripping with sarcasm. “Just great. Town Mage, huh? Can’t even afford a place to sleep.”

The idea of going back to the forest sends a shiver down my spine. No way I’m doing that—not after what I went through to get here. But that leaves me with only one option: staying here. My office. It’s not exactly cozy, but it’s better than freezing outside or risking whatever might be lurking in the dark.

I glance around the room, my eyes settling on the space under the desk. It’s cramped, sure, but it’ll do. With a sigh, I get up and pull the chair out of the way, crouching down to test the fit. The floor is cold and hard, but it’s not much worse than the forest floor—or the muddy riverbank I collapsed on two days ago.

“This is fine,” I mutter to myself, squeezing into the narrow space. “Totally fine. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

I fold my legs under me, leaning against the side of the desk for support. The room is quiet, the sounds of the village outside fading as the night deepens. The faint glow of the moon filters through the window, casting pale light across the floorboards.

It’s not comfortable. It’s not even remotely ideal. But it’s a place to sleep, and that’s more than I had last night. I close my eyes, letting out a slow breath as I try to ignore the ache in my legs and the lingering soreness in my horn.

As the quiet settles in, I remind myself of the small victory I had today. Ten bits, one satisfied customer, and a job title—even if it’s more symbolic than anything. It’s not much, but it’s something.

I wake to the sound of knocking, sharp and insistent, echoing in the quiet room. For a moment, I forget where I am, my mind still tangled in sleep and memories of home. Then the stiffness in my neck and back brings me back to reality—I’m crammed under my desk, a crick in my neck, and the wooden floor pressing into my side.

The knock comes again, louder this time. “Just a second!” I call, scrambling out from under the desk and shaking off the stiffness. My legs protest as I stand, but I force myself to straighten up and glance in the small mirror hanging on the wall. My mane is a mess, sticking up at odd angles, and my fur’s a little ruffled, but it’ll have to do.

I take a deep breath and open the door, plastering on a professional expression that I hope hides my exhaustion. Standing on the other side is a familiar orange earth pony with a blond mane tied back in a loose ponytail. Her wide-brimmed hat is slightly askew, and her massive, veiny eyes fix on me with a mix of determination and concern. Applejack.

“Howdy,” she says, tipping her hat slightly. Her voice is as warm and rich as I remember from the show, though hearing it in person sends a weird chill down my spine. “You the new Town Mage?”

“That’s me,” I say, my voice a little hoarse. I clear my throat quickly. “Come on in.”

She steps inside, her hooves clacking against the wooden floor as she looks around the office. Her nose wrinkles slightly at the faint smell of dust and whatever lingering dampness my makeshift sleeping arrangements left behind, but she doesn’t comment on it.

“Name’s Applejack,” she says, turning back to me. “I run Sweet Apple Acres, just outside town. Got a bit of a problem I’m hopin’ you can help with.”

“Applejack,” I repeat, nodding. “Yeah, I’ve heard of Sweet Apple Acres. What seems to be the problem?”

She frowns, her ears flicking back slightly as she glances toward the window. “Our apple trees ain’t doin’ so hot. Yields’ve been droppin’ every season, apples comin’ out smaller and less juicy. Trees’re lookin’ weaker too—yellowin’ leaves, stunted growth. And don’t even get me started on the pests. Seems like we got every critter in Equestria chompin’ on our crops.”

I nod, scribbling notes on a piece of parchment to look busy. “Anything else? Soil quality? Weather?”

“Yeah,” she says, her frown deepening. “Soil’s hard as a rock these days, and it don’t hold water like it used to. We’ve even had some erosion—bare patches where the topsoil’s just gone. Been wonderin’ if it’s got somethin’ to do with the Everfree Forest. It’s right on the edge of our property, and, well, weird things’ve been happenin’ over there lately.”

I tap the quill against my hoof, my mind racing. The symptoms she’s describing don’t exactly scream “magic problem,” but I can’t just dismiss her concerns. “Alright,” I say, looking up at her. “I’ll need to take a look at the farm to figure out what’s going on. Can you show me?”

She brightens slightly at that, nodding. “Course I can. I was hopin’ you’d say that. We’ll head out soon as you’re ready.”

“Give me a minute to grab my things,” I say, turning to shuffle around my desk and pretending to gather supplies. Really, I’m just stalling to buy myself time to think. This isn’t what I expected when I signed up to be Town Mage, but it’s my job now. Somehow, I have to figure this out.

I turn back to Applejack with nothing in my hooves and what I hope is an air of confidence. “Alright,” I say, nodding toward the door. “Lead the way.”

As we step out into the bright morning light, my mind is already working through possibilities. Poor soil quality, pests, erosion—it all points to an ecological issue, not magic. But Applejack’s convinced the Everfree is to blame, and if I want to solve this, I’ll need to tread carefully. Time to see what Sweet Apple Acres has in store.

As we make our way through Ponyville and out toward Sweet Apple Acres, Applejack takes the lead, her confident strides matched by the upbeat tone of her voice. The early morning sun casts a golden glow over the village, and the air is cool, carrying the faint scent of dew and freshly turned soil.

“So,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at me, “how long you been in Ponyville?”

“Not long,” I reply curtly, keeping my gaze fixed on the road ahead. My legs still ache from yesterday, and the thought of what’s waiting for me at the farm does little to improve my mood.

“Figured as much,” she says, not missing a beat. “Ain’t seen you around before, and I make it a point to know everypony in town. You settlein’ in alright?”

“Sure,” I mutter, though it couldn’t be further from the truth. Sleeping under my desk and surviving on the hope of a steady income isn’t exactly what I’d call “settling in.”

Applejack doesn’t seem fazed by my lack of enthusiasm. “Well, if you need anything, don’t be afraid to holler. Ponyville’s a friendly place—we look out for each other.”

I grunt in acknowledgment, which she seems to take as a cue to keep talking.

“What about before Ponyville?” she asks, her tone curious but casual. “Where’d you come from?”

“Far away,” I reply, not meeting her gaze. “Doesn’t matter.”

Applejack raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press the issue. “Fair enough,” she says after a moment. “Everypony’s got their own story, I reckon.”

Silence falls between us for a few minutes, and I let myself relax slightly, thinking she might give up on the small talk. But then she speaks again, her voice bright and friendly.

“You ever done this kinda work before? Magic stuff, I mean?”

“Something like it,” I say, the lie coming out before I can stop it. I don’t have the energy to explain the whole “engineer-turned-reluctant-mage” thing, and frankly, I doubt she’d believe me anyway.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” she says with a nod. “Sweet Apple Acres could sure use some help right now. Feels like every year, somethin’ else comes along to make things harder.”

Her words carry a faint note of weariness, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the weight she’s carrying. Running a farm isn’t easy, especially when things start going wrong. Still, I’m not in the mood for sympathy—or much of anything, really.

“You always this chatty?” I ask, unable to keep the grumble out of my voice.

Applejack stops mid-step, glancing back at me with a raised eyebrow. For a moment, I think I’ve offended her, but then she lets out a hearty laugh, the sound echoing down the dirt road. “Yup,” she says, grinning. “It’s kinda my thing.”

I roll my eyes but keep walking, the corner of my mouth twitching in what might almost be a smirk. “Great,” I mutter. “Lucky me.”

Applejack just chuckles, her pace picking up as we approach the edge of town. “You’ll get used to it,” she says, tipping her hat back slightly. “Besides, a little friendly chatter never hurt nopony.”

“Debatable,” I mutter under my breath, but she doesn’t seem to hear—or maybe she just chooses to ignore it.

As we cross the bridge leading to Sweet Apple Acres, the sprawling orchards come into view, their rows of apple trees stretching out as far as the eye can see. The sight is impressive, but even from here, I can see the signs of trouble. Bare patches of soil, drooping leaves, and a noticeable lack of ripe, vibrant apples stand out against the otherwise picturesque landscape.

“Well,” I say, taking a deep breath as we approach the gate. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

“Don’t worry,” Applejack says, her tone optimistic. “I’ve got a good feelin’ about this. You’ll figure it out.”

I don’t share her confidence, but I nod anyway, bracing myself for whatever’s waiting in the orchard.

I step into the orchard, the cool morning air thick with the scent of earth and damp leaves. At first glance, Sweet Apple Acres is beautiful—rows of apple trees stretching into the distance, their branches heavy with green leaves and small, underwhelming fruit. But the signs of trouble are everywhere: yellowing leaves, stunted growth, and bare patches of compacted soil scattered across the fields.

Applejack watches me intently as I move from tree to tree, my eyes scanning the branches, the ground, and the fruit. “So,” she says after a moment, “what d’ya think? Is it the Everfree messin’ with the orchard?”

“Not sure yet,” I say, crouching down to run a hoof through the soil. It’s hard and dry, clumping together in a way that screams poor water retention. I glance up at her, my mind racing with questions. “How long has this been going on?”

She tilts her head, thinking. “Couple years, I’d say. Started small—just a few trees not producin’ as much—but now it’s spreadin’. More pests, too. We’ve had codling moths, apple maggots, you name it.”

I nod, filing that away as I stand and move to another tree. The bark is rough and slightly cracked, the branches sagging under the weight of their meager fruit. “What about the soil? Have you done anything to improve it? Compost, mulch… fertilizer?”

“Fertilizer?” she echoes, her expression shifting to confusion. “No, we ain’t needed any of that. These trees’ve been growin’ just fine for generations, all natural-like. Why mess with somethin’ that works?”

I bite back a sigh, turning my attention to the ground again. “How often do you plant other crops in this area?”

She frowns. “Other crops? We don’t. This here’s apple country—we grow apples, plain and simple.”

That’s what I was afraid of. I lean against the nearest tree, running a hoof through my mane as I try to piece everything together. Years of planting nothing but apple trees, no crop rotation, no fertilizer—it’s a recipe for nutrient depletion. The soil’s probably stripped of everything the trees need to thrive: nitrogen, phosphorus, potassium, and a dozen other micronutrients.

But I can’t just say that. Applejack’s looking at me with an expectant expression, clearly hoping for some magical explanation. And honestly, I need this job.

“Alright,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “Here’s what I’m seeing. The trees aren’t getting what they need from the soil. Over time, even the best soil runs out of, uh… magical energy. The trees use it up, and if you don’t replenish it, they’ll start to weaken.”

“Magical energy,” she repeats, nodding slowly. “Huh. Never knew about that.”

“Exactly,” I say, relieved she’s buying it. “And here’s what we’re going to do: you need to plant clovers in between the rows. They harmonize with the apple trees’ magic, helping replenish the energy in the soil.”

“Clovers?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Ain’t that just a weed?”

“Not in this case,” I insist, trying to sound authoritative. “Clovers work with the soil to restore balance. They, uh, pull in magic from the air and channel it into the ground. You’ll also need to alternate your apple rows with other crops—something hearty that works well with the orchard. It’ll let the soil rest and recover.”

Applejack frowns, rubbing her chin with a hoof. “So, plant clovers and other crops. And that’ll fix the trees?”

“It’s not just the clovers,” I say, trying to keep the explanation simple while my mind races with the actual science. “There’s more to it. You’ll need a few other… magical materials to fully restore balance to the orchard.”

“Like what?” Applejack asks, her brow furrowing as she leans closer, clearly eager for a solution.

I take a deep breath, mentally organizing what I know about soil health and deciding how to frame it in a way she’ll accept. “First, you’ll need crushed shells—eggshells, oyster shells, anything like that. They’ll infuse the soil with… uh, grounding energy. It helps the roots absorb magic and keeps the soil structure stable.”

“Crushed shells,” she repeats, nodding. “Alright. What else?”

“Wood ash,” I say. “It’s full of magical warmth that the trees need. Think of it as a way to balance out their energy flow, especially after a rough harvest.”

“Wood ash,” she murmurs, her expression thoughtful. “I reckon we’ve got some o’ that lying around.”

“Good,” I say, building momentum. “You’ll also need bone meal or fish remains—anything that’s rich in… deep earth magic. It strengthens the connection between the trees and the soil, giving them the foundation they need to thrive.”

Applejack wrinkles her nose slightly. “Bone meal? Fish remains? That don’t sound too pleasant.”

“Maybe not,” I admit, shrugging, “but it works. It’s like feeding the soil directly.”

She nods slowly, still listening intently. “Anything else?”

“Mulch,” I say. “Straw, leaves, whatever you’ve got. It locks in moisture and keeps weeds from stealing the trees’ magic. Plus, it keeps the soil cool during hot days and warm during cold nights.”

Applejack tilts her head, her expression shifting to something like admiration. “Y’know, I never thought magic could be so practical. Sounds like it’s a lotta work, but if it’ll save the orchard, we’ll do it.”

I nod, relieved she’s buying into the explanation. “It will take some time, but if you stick with it, the orchard will recover. You’ll see bigger apples, healthier trees, and fewer pests.”

“And this’ll all work?” she asks, her voice tinged with hope.

“Absolutely,” I say, keeping my tone steady. “Just trust the process. The magic in the soil needs time to rebuild, but once it does, you’ll have the best apples in Equestria again.”

Applejack grins, her veiny eyes glinting in the sunlight. “Thank ya kindly, Kinetic Flux. I can tell ya know what you’re talkin’ about. I’ll round up what we need and get started right away.”

She offers a hoof for a shake, and I hesitate for half a second before meeting it with my own. “Glad I could help,” I say, forcing a small smile.

As we walk back toward the farmhouse, I can’t help but feel a strange mix of pride and guilt. Pride because I might’ve actually saved her orchard—and guilt because I didn’t tell her the truth. It’s not magic. It’s science. But if calling it magic gets the job done, I’m not going to argue. After all, keeping my job means keeping this act up.

And besides, if it works, who’s to say it isn’t a little bit magic?

Suspense
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Applied Mathemagics

Suspense

As we near the farmhouse, a thought strikes me—one that wipes the small glimmer of pride right off my face. The method I suggested, while solid, isn’t a quick fix. Soil doesn’t just bounce back overnight. Clovers take time to grow and do their thing. The crushed shells, wood ash, bone meal, and mulch all need weeks, if not months, to start showing noticeable effects.

I’m not going to get paid for this, I realize, my stomach sinking. Applejack’s not going to see results right away. How am I supposed to stay afloat when I’ve just spent a good chunk of my energy on a job that won’t pay out for weeks—maybe even years?

The realization gnaws at me as I glance at Applejack. She looks determined, her pace brisk as she leads the way. For a moment, I consider trying to explain. Tell her that this is a long-term solution and I can’t guarantee immediate results. But before I can figure out how to phrase it, she stops abruptly, turning to face me.

“You’re lookin’ awful quiet back there,” she says, her sharp gaze locking onto mine. “Somethin’ on your mind?”

I hesitate, rubbing the back of my neck with a hoof. “Just… thinking about the timeline,” I admit. “This kind of thing takes time to work. Months, maybe even years, before the soil fully recovers.”

Applejack raises an eyebrow, her mouth curling into a faint smile. “Well, sure, long-term fixes always take time. But I’ll be able to tell if this is workin’ in a week.”

“A week?” I echo, disbelief creeping into my voice.

She nods, her expression unwavering. “Yup. That’s the beauty of Earth pony magic. We’ve got a connection to the land, y’see. I’ll be able to feel it in the soil—whether it’s startin’ to come back to life, if the trees are respondin’. Might not see the full results right away, but I’ll know if we’re on the right track.”

I blink, trying to process her words. She says it with such confidence, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe, in this place, it is. I don’t fully understand how Earth pony magic works—hell, I barely understand my own magic—but if she believes it, that’s good enough for me.

“Well,” I say after a moment, forcing a small smile, “that’s… convenient.”

Applejack chuckles, tipping her hat back. “Sure is. Don’t you worry, Kinetic Flux. You’ve done good work here, and you’ll be seein’ your pay soon enough.”

The knot in my chest loosens slightly, but I can’t help the flicker of doubt that remains. What if she doesn’t feel any changes? What if I missed something? I shove the thoughts aside, reminding myself that I’ve done the best I can with what I know.

As we reach the farmhouse, Applejack pauses, turning to me with a firm nod. “Thank ya again for your help. I’ll let ya know in a few days how things are lookin’. And don’t worry—I always pay my debts.”

“Thanks,” I say, my voice quieter than I intend. “I appreciate it.”

She grins, and for a moment, the grotesque edges of her too-realistic features soften into something almost comforting. “You’re welcome back anytime,” she says, tipping her hat before heading inside.

I watch her go, the door swinging shut behind her, and let out a long breath. One job down, and maybe a bit of hope for the future. I turn back toward the road, the weight of uncertainty still pressing on my shoulders but feeling just a little lighter.

The walk back to Ponyville feels longer than the trip out, my thoughts tangled in everything that just happened. Applejack’s confidence in her Earth pony magic is reassuring, but it doesn’t completely quiet the doubts swirling in my head. Still, there’s a strange sense of satisfaction knowing I actually helped. Even if it wasn’t really magic, it was good advice, and that has to count for something.

By the time I reach my office, the sun is high in the sky, and the village is bustling with activity. Ponies move through the streets, chatting and laughing, their grotesque but cheerful faces oddly familiar now. I push the door open with a hoof, half-expecting the room to be as empty and quiet as I left it.

Instead, I’m greeted by the sight of a pony sitting in the chair across from my desk. They’re a light gray unicorn with a mane that’s neatly combed but looks slightly frazzled at the edges, like they’ve been worrying about something. Their oversized eyes dart up as I enter, glistening faintly in the light filtering through the window.

“Oh, good,” they say, their voice tinged with relief. “You’re back. I was starting to think I missed you.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Uh, yeah. Just got back. Can I help you?”

They nod, sitting up straighter. “I hope so. I’ve got a bit of a problem, and everypony keeps telling me, ‘Oh, just see the Town Mage—he’ll know what to do.’”

I close the door behind me, my curiosity piqued despite my exhaustion. “Alright,” I say, setting my bit bag on the desk and settling into my chair. “What’s the problem?”

They hesitate, fidgeting with their hooves. “It’s my bakery,” they say finally. “I run a small place just off the square. Lately, my bread hasn’t been rising properly. Cakes come out flat, and cookies don’t have the right texture. It’s been driving me crazy.”

I lean back slightly, trying to mask my confusion. “And… you think it’s a magic problem?”

“Well, it has to be, doesn’t it?” they say, their tone pleading. “I’ve been using the same recipes for years. My oven’s in perfect working order. I even tested a batch with some flour from a friend, just to rule out a bad bag. Nothing worked.”

I nod slowly, filing away the details. This doesn’t sound like a magic issue—it sounds like a baking issue. But the pony is looking at me with such desperation that I can’t just brush them off.

“Alright,” I say, sitting up straighter. “Tell me everything. Have you made any changes recently? New ingredients? New tools? Anything at all?”

They shake their head firmly. “Nothing. Everything’s exactly the same as it’s always been. That’s why I’m so sure it’s magic.”

I bite back a sigh, my mind racing for a plausible explanation. “Okay. How’s the humidity in your bakery? Have you noticed it being higher or lower than usual?”

The pony blinks, their expression shifting to confusion. “Humidity? What does that have to do with anything?”

I take a deep breath, resisting the urge to rub my temples. “Humidity can affect how ingredients interact. It’s the moisture in the air. When it’s too high, it can mess with things like flour and leavening agents.”

They tilt their head, their oversized eyes narrowing slightly. “Leavening agents?”

“You know, yeast,” I say, leaning forward. “The stuff that makes your bread rise. It’s really sensitive to its environment—temperature, moisture, even air pressure. If any of those are off, it can mess up your dough.”

The pony gives me a blank stare, their confusion as plain as the dull sheen of their expression. “Yeast?” they repeat slowly, like it’s the first time they’ve heard the word. “What’s yeast?”

I blink, taken aback. “What’s—” I cut myself off, my jaw tightening as I feel the flicker of frustration rising. How do you run a bakery without knowing what yeast is? Don’t blow this, Flux. Don’t blow it.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. “Okay,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “Yeast is… a magical ingredient. It works by creating bubbles of magic inside the dough, making it rise and giving bread its fluffy texture.”

The pony’s expression brightens slightly, and they nod. “Oh! You mean barm!”

“Barm?” I echo, frowning.

“Yeah,” they say, their tone eager now. “The frothy stuff from brewing beer. We use that for leavening—it’s what we’ve always used.”

I stare at them for a moment, my mind racing to catch up. “Right,” I say slowly, piecing it together. “Barm. That’s… basically the same thing. It’s a byproduct of fermentation, and it’s full of magical properties that make dough rise. The magic in the barm interacts with the dough to create… uh, energy bubbles that expand during baking.”

They nod enthusiastically, finally seeming to follow. “That makes sense! So, you’re saying the magic in the barm might be off because of the humidity?”

“Exactly,” I say, relieved they’re on board. “Too much moisture in the air can weaken the magic, making it less effective. You’ll need to adjust your process—use less water in the dough to balance things out. And if you can, try storing your ingredients in a cooler, drier place.”

They sit back, their expression thoughtful. “Alright. I’ll give that a try. Anything else?”

I hesitate, then add, “If the problem keeps happening, you might want to look into getting fresh barm. The magic in it can degrade over time, especially if it’s not stored properly.”

They nod again, their confidence growing. “Got it. Thanks, Kinetic Flux. I really appreciate this.”

“Of course,” I say, forcing a small smile. “Let me know how it works out.”

They fish a few bits out of their satchel and place them on the desk. “I’ll be back if I need more help. Thanks again!”

As they leave, I lean back in my chair, staring at the coins. Another client helped, another problem solved—without a single real spell. The lie about magic is starting to feel like second nature, but the guilt still lingers. Magic, science—whatever works, I tell myself, tucking the bits into the drawer. For now, it’s enough.

As the day wears on and no more clients come by, I decide to take a break and head into town. The streets are lively, ponies bustling about with their usual energy. It’s almost easy to forget how unsettling their appearances are when they’re all so cheerful. Almost.

My stomach growls as I pass a bakery, the warm scent of freshly baked bread wafting out and making my mouth water. I sigh, rubbing a hoof over my grumbling belly. The five bits from the baker, combined with the ten from the watch guy, give me a total of fifteen. It’s not much, but it’s something.

I glance at the inn as I approach it, its sign swinging gently in the breeze. The building is modest, with warm yellow walls and a welcoming glow from the windows. Inside, I know there’s a soft bed waiting, the kind of comfort I haven’t felt in days.

Steeling myself, I step through the door. The innkeeper, a sturdy earth pony with a chestnut coat and a no-nonsense demeanor, looks up from the counter.

“Good evening,” she says, her voice brisk but not unkind. “Need a room?”

“Yeah,” I say, forcing a small smile. “How much?”

“Ten bits a night,” she replies, her expression unreadable. “Includes breakfast.”

Ten bits. I do the math quickly in my head, my chest loosening a bit. I can swing that. A warm bed and a meal in the morning. It’s worth it. “Alright,” I say, reaching for my coin pouch.

But then my stomach growls again, loud and insistent. I freeze, my hoof hovering over the pouch. Ten bits for a room leaves me with five. Five bits won’t get me far for food, especially if I don’t get any more clients tomorrow.

I glance at the innkeeper, her expectant gaze making my chest tighten. I could spend the money on the room, sure—but then what? Go hungry? Or spend the night under my desk again and save the money for food?

The thought of curling up on the hard floor again sends a wave of frustration through me. But hunger has a way of gnawing at you, wearing you down in a way discomfort can’t match. You can’t eat a bed, I think bitterly.

“Actually,” I say, pulling my hoof back, “never mind.”

The innkeeper raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press. “Suit yourself,” she says, turning her attention back to her ledger.

I step back out into the cool evening air, the sounds of Ponyville filling the quiet ache in my chest. Fifteen bits, and it’s still not enough. I sigh, my legs heavy as I head back toward my office. Looks like it’s another night under the desk and another day of hoping for clients tomorrow.

As I make my way back through the town square, the gnawing hunger in my stomach becomes impossible to ignore. The smells of food—fresh bread, roasted vegetables, and sugary treats—hang heavy in the air, mocking me with their tantalizing warmth. I glance down at my pouch, feeling the weight of the remaining fifteen bits.

You have to eat, I tell myself. Otherwise, what’s the point of anything else?

I stop at a small food stand run by a cheerful earth pony with a green mane tied in a loose bun. The menu hanging above her is simple: sandwiches, salads, and a few soups. It’s all vegetarian, of course—no meat anywhere in sight. The idea makes my stomach churn, but not because I’m nauseous. I miss meat. Real food. The kind that sticks to your ribs and feels like a proper meal.

“What’ll it be?” she asks, her oversized eyes locking onto mine.

“Just… a sandwich,” I say, scanning the menu and choosing the cheapest option: a daisy and cucumber sandwich for seven bits. Seven bits for this? Seriously?

She nods, sliding a plate across the counter with practiced ease. The sandwich looks decent—fresh bread, crisp cucumbers, and a handful of daisies sprinkled on top like garnish. But the sight of it makes me wince. I grab it with a mumbled thanks, dropping the bits onto the counter before walking to the nearest bench to eat.

I sit down heavily, staring at the sandwich like it’s a personal insult. “This is fine,” I mutter, trying to psych myself up. “It’s food. It’ll keep you alive.”

I take a bite, and the bread is soft, the cucumbers are cool and crisp, and the daisies… well, they taste like flowers. Because they are flowers. My jaw tightens as I chew, swallowing the bland, plant-filled mouthful with effort. It’s not bad, exactly, but it’s not satisfying either. It’s like eating the garnish off a real meal.

“You’re eating plants,” I grumble under my breath. “Like a rabbit.”

Each bite feels like a chore, but I force myself to finish the sandwich. It’s not enough to banish the hunger completely, but it dulls the edge. I stand up, brushing crumbs off my chest, and glance at the sky. The sun is dipping lower, the golden light fading to a cooler gray.

With eight bits left, I trudge back toward my office. The sandwich sits heavy in my stomach—not because it’s filling, but because it’s a reminder of how little control I have in this world. No meat, no comfort, just survival.

By the time I reach my office, the faint warmth of the sandwich is gone, replaced by the familiar chill of uncertainty. I push open the door, step inside, and let it swing shut behind me. Another night under the desk awaits, along with the hope that tomorrow will bring another client—and maybe a better meal.

I wake up to the pale gray light of dawn filtering through the window, my back stiff and my neck sore from another night under the desk. The floor’s unforgiving surface didn’t do me any favors, and I groan as I stretch, wincing at the sharp ache in my muscles. Still better than the forest, I remind myself, though the thought doesn’t bring much comfort.

I crawl out from under the desk, shaking off the lingering grogginess, and glance around the office. The room feels just as empty and lifeless as it did yesterday. No knocks on the door yet, no eager clients waiting for my supposed magical expertise. Just silence and the faint creak of the floorboards as I settle into my chair.

For a while, I just sit there, staring at the blank parchment on the desk, tapping a hoof against the wood in a restless rhythm. My thoughts drift, swirling with everything that’s happened since I woke up in this strange world.

What’s the plan, Flux? I think bitterly. You’ve got eight bits to your name, no tools, no proper magic, and no real place to stay. You’re barely scraping by here.

The idea of heading back into the forest flashes in my mind, but I dismiss it immediately. No way am I going back there, not after what I’ve seen. But staying here isn’t much better. I can’t keep living under my desk, surviving on vegetarian sandwiches and hoping for the occasional client to wander in.

I lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling. What’s the endgame here? It’s not like I can just pack up and leave. This is my life now, for better or worse. And if I want to make it work, I need a real plan.

The problem is, I don’t know what that plan looks like. Do I keep pretending to be a mage, solving mundane problems and spinning science into magic? Do I try to learn more about how this world works, figure out a way to fit in better? Or do I aim higher—figure out how to make real magic work for me, not just the scraps of telekinesis I can manage now?

The thought of learning real magic sends a flicker of hope through me, but it’s quickly overshadowed by doubt. I don’t even know where to start. Books? Teachers? Would anyone even take me seriously if I asked?

I sigh, running a hoof through my mane as my stomach growls faintly. Eight bits. Enough for another sandwich, but not much else. If I don’t get another client today, I’ll be in the same spot tomorrow. Hungry, broke, and stuck.

You need to think long-term, I tell myself. Figure out how to make this job sustainable. Maybe I could advertise more, put up signs around town or offer discounts for first-time clients. Or maybe I should focus on building relationships, like with Applejack. If I word gets out that I solved her farm’s problem, that could lead to more work—and maybe even a steady income.

The sound of hoofsteps in the hallway pulls me from my thoughts, and my ears perk up instinctively. I sit up straighter, the rhythm of the steps growing louder as they approach my door. A flicker of hope rises in my chest.

Looks like the day’s about to start, I think, forcing a neutral expression as the hoofsteps stop just outside. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for whatever new problem walks through the door.

The knock at the door startles me, breaking the silence that’s been hanging over the office all morning. I sit up straighter, brushing off my mane with a hoof and trying to look somewhat presentable. Alright, Flux, time to see what’s next.

“Come in,” I call, keeping my tone steady.

The door swings open, and in steps a well-groomed earth pony stallion with a light tan coat and a slicked-back mane the color of dark chocolate. His sharp blue eyes scan the room briefly before settling on me. His tailored vest and polished demeanor scream wealth, and I instantly recognize him: Filthy Rich, Ponyville’s resident business mogul.

“Well, good morning,” he says, his voice smooth and confident. “I take it you’re the new Town Mage?”

“That’s me,” I reply, gesturing toward the chair across from my desk. “What can I do for you, Mr. Rich?”

He steps forward, his hooves clicking softly against the floor as he takes the offered seat. “You’ve been making a bit of a name for yourself already,” he says, his tone polite but measured. “I’ve heard from a couple of ponies around town—Applejack and that baker over on Mane Street. Seems you’ve got a knack for solving problems.”

I nod, trying not to let the sudden pressure show on my face. “I do what I can.”

“Well, I’ve got a problem that could use your attention,” he says, leaning back slightly. “It’s about my supply chain. Lately, the goods coming in from my distributor have been showing up in terrible condition—crates broken, products damaged. It’s causing delays and costing me money. I need to know what’s going on.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Your supply chain?” I repeat. “That doesn’t sound like… a magic issue.”

His sharp eyes narrow slightly. “Doesn’t it? Everypony I’ve spoken to says there’s no obvious cause. The distributors insist they’re doing everything right, and I’ve even replaced a few of the delivery ponies, but the problem persists. If it’s not bad luck, then it must be something magical.”

I resist the urge to groan. Of course, it must be magic. Still, he’s here, and if I can figure out what’s going on, this could lead to bigger opportunities—or at least a decent payday.

“Alright,” I say, leaning forward and resting my forelegs on the desk. “Tell me everything. When did this start? How often is it happening? And do you have any other details—locations, specific times, anything unusual?”

Filthy Rich leans forward, his polished demeanor showing a hint of frustration as he explains. “It started about a month ago. At first, it was just one or two deliveries, but now it’s happening almost every other shipment. The crates arrive splintered, products damaged beyond salvage. I’ve inspected the goods before they’re packed—everything’s fine on the distributor’s end. It’s during transport that things go wrong.”

I nod, taking in the details. “Same distributor every time?”

He shakes his head. “No, I use a few different suppliers. It’s the transport that’s consistent—all the deliveries are handled by the same courier company.”

“And the routes?” I ask. “Are they consistent, or do they vary?”

“They’re consistent for the most part,” Filthy Rich says. “But I’ve checked the roads myself—there aren’t any obvious issues. No new potholes, no damaged bridges.”

I rub my chin, already forming an idea. “Alright. I’ll need to take a look at the carts they’re using.”

He raises an eyebrow. “The carts?”

“Yeah,” I say, standing up. “If it’s happening during transport, the carts are the common factor. Maybe there’s something off with them. I’ll need to inspect a few.”

Filthy Rich nods, though his expression remains skeptical. “Very well. The courier company keeps their carts at a depot just outside town. I can have one of their supervisors meet you there.”

“That works,” I say, grabbing my bit bag. “Let’s head over.”

The depot is a simple setup on the edge of Ponyville, a large open yard with carts of various sizes lined up in neat rows. Ponies bustle about, loading and unloading goods, while a supervisor—a stout earth pony with a thick mustache—greets us with a nod.

“Mr. Rich,” the supervisor says, tipping his hat. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I’m here with the Town Mage,” Filthy Rich says, gesturing toward me. “He’s looking into the issues with our shipments.”

The supervisor glances at me, his massive eyes narrowing slightly before he nods. “Alright. What do you need to see?”

“The carts,” I say simply. “I need to inspect a few of the ones used for recent deliveries.”

The supervisor nods again, motioning for us to follow. He leads us through the yard, stopping beside a row of well-worn carts. “These are the ones that’ve been in use for the past month. Take your pick.”

I step forward, examining the first cart closely. Its wooden frame is sturdy enough at first glance, but as I move around to inspect the wheels, something catches my attention. There’s no suspension—nothing to absorb shocks or stabilize the load during travel. It’s just a simple wooden bed resting directly on the axle.

I glance at the next cart, then the one after that, finding the same issue. No suspension, no damping. Each cart’s frame is slightly different, likely from wear and tear or hasty repairs. Some are clearly in better condition than others, while a few look downright unfit for heavy loads.

Filthy Rich watches me silently, his expression unreadable. “Well?” he finally asks. “What are you thinking?”

I take a step back, my mind racing as I try to piece together how to explain this. The carts are the problem—that much is clear. But how do I present this in a way that doesn’t sound completely mundane? “It’s... an interesting setup,” I say slowly, buying time to form my explanation.

The real problem here isn’t magic—it’s basic mechanics. But judging by Filthy Rich’s expression, he’s expecting something far more dramatic. I decide to hold off on conclusions for now, focusing on gathering more information.

“I need to see how these perform under load,” I say. “Can you arrange for one of these to be loaded and driven along its usual route?”

The supervisor nods. “Can do. Give me a few minutes to set it up.”

As they get to work, I step back, folding my legs under me as I sit and wait. My gaze lingers on the carts, the lack of suspension glaringly obvious now. This is going to be fun to explain, I think, already bracing for the inevitable questions.

The controlled test doesn’t take long. The supervisor arranges for two carts to be loaded with identical crates—one in decent condition and the other one of the more beat-up models. They’re sent along a bumpy section of the usual delivery route, with a few couriers reporting back after each leg of the trip.

By the end of the test, the results are painfully clear. The cart in better condition arrives with its cargo intact, while the older, poorly constructed cart returns with its load damaged—splintered crates, crushed corners, and loose goods rattling around inside.

“Well,” I say, standing beside Filthy Rich as the damaged goods are unloaded. “There’s your problem.”

He frowns, his expression a mix of annoyance and confusion. “The carts?”

“Exactly,” I say, gesturing toward the offending vehicle. “They’re not built to handle the loads you’re putting on them. No suspension, uneven construction—it’s all contributing to the damage.”

“Suspension?” Filthy Rich repeats, raising an eyebrow. “What in Celestia’s name is that?”

I hesitate, realizing I’m going to have to explain this in a way they’ll understand. “It’s… a system that helps absorb shocks and keep the cart stable,” I say. “Without it, every bump in the road gets transferred directly to the cargo, causing damage.”

The blank looks from both Filthy Rich and the supervisor make my stomach sink. I try again, this time adding a bit more detail. “Think of it like… a cushion for the cart. It reduces the force of impacts and keeps the load from bouncing around.”

Filthy Rich tilts his head, clearly still not getting it. “And how does that work?”

I rub the back of my neck, thinking quickly. “I’ll show you. Can someone bring me some paper and a quill?”

The supervisor nods, trotting off to fetch the supplies. A moment later, I’m seated at a nearby table with a blank sheet of paper in front of me. I light my horn, gripping the quill awkwardly with my telekinesis, and start sketching.

“This,” I say, drawing a simple rectangle to represent the cart, “is the cart.” I add two circles underneath for the wheels. “When it moves over uneven terrain, the wheels hit bumps, right?”

They both nod, leaning in slightly.

I draw an exaggerated bump on the ground beneath the cart, showing how the force travels upward. “Now, without suspension, that force goes directly into the cart—and the cargo.” I scribble some arrows to show the direction of the force. “Newton’s Second Law—”

“Newton?” Filthy Rich interrupts, his tone baffled. “What’s a Newton?”

I stop mid-sentence, clenching my jaw as I realize I’ve already lost them. “Newton’s a… uh, theoretical mage,” I say quickly, switching gears. “He discovered that for every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction.”

Filthy Rich and the supervisor exchange confused looks. I sigh, putting the quill down. “Forget Newton. Just think of it like this: the cart needs a magical artifact to absorb those forces. Something to cushion the impact and protect the cargo.”

“Ah,” Filthy Rich says, his expression brightening slightly. “A magical artifact. That makes more sense.”

I nod, relieved to see them following along. “Exactly. I can design one for you—something that’ll work with the carts and make sure your goods arrive safely.

As Filthy Rich and the supervisor lean closer, I start sketching the "artifact." It’s a simple design: a few coiled springs and a set of dampers to absorb shocks and keep the cart stable. I add some exaggerated swirls and lines to make it look more "magical," because apparently, that's what sells here.

“The artifact,” I say, pointing at the drawing, “would sit between the cart’s body and the axle. These coils—uh, magical conduits—will absorb the energy from impacts and spread it out, while these dampening runes”—I tap the dampers—“will prevent the cart from shaking too much.”

Filthy Rich nods thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing as he studies the sketch. “I see. And you’re saying we can attach this to every cart?”

“Exactly,” I say, trying to sound confident. “It’s a quick fix, but you’ll need to make one for each cart. The materials might take a little effort to gather, but once you have them, the rest is straightforward.”

“What kind of materials?” the supervisor asks, his tone cautious.

“Well…” I trail off, thinking quickly. “Something durable for the coils. It needs to handle the weight of the cart and the cargo without breaking.”

The supervisor’s brow furrows. “Steel?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Strong, springy metal. You’d need—wait.” I pause, my mind catching up to the conversation. “You have steel?”

“Of course we do,” Filthy Rich says, his tone almost offended. “What kind of backwater do you think this is?”

I stare at him, momentarily stunned. Steel. Real, actual steel. For a moment, I’m overwhelmed by the possibilities—suspension systems, stronger tools, even basic mechanics that I thought were out of reach in this world. My mind races with ideas, but I force myself to focus.

“Great,” I say, recovering quickly. “Steel will work perfectly. You’ll need to shape it into coils, like springs, and then attach them to the carts using bolts or rivets. If you don’t have the tools for that, I can help design those too.”

Filthy Rich studies the diagram again, his expression thoughtful. “And you’re certain this will work?”

“Positive,” I say. “It’s designed to handle impacts and reduce damage to the cargo. Once you install these artifacts, you’ll see an immediate improvement.”

He nods slowly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Alright, Kinetic Flux. I’ll get my smiths on this right away. What do we owe you for the design?”

I pause, caught off guard. Pricing something like this is tricky. Too high, and he’ll balk. Too low, and I’ll regret it later. “Let’s call it… thirty bits for the design,” I say, holding my breath.

Filthy Rich raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he nods decisively. “Thirty bits per cart? That seems fair.”

I blink, momentarily stunned. Per cart? Wait—no, that’s not what I meant. My brain scrambles to come up with a response, but before I can correct him, the supervisor chimes in.

“That’ll add up quickly,” he says, his tone cautious. “We’ve got a lot of carts in rotation.”

“And it’ll be worth every bit,” Filthy Rich replies, waving a hoof dismissively. “If it saves me the cost of damaged goods and missed shipments, it’s a bargain.”

I glance between them, my heart racing. Do I clarify? If I do, I risk looking incompetent. But if I don’t… thirty bits per cart could mean a huge payday.

I clear my throat, trying to sound as professional as possible. “Uh… yes. Thirty bits per cart. That includes the design and the enchantment framework.”

“Good,” Filthy Rich says with a satisfied nod. “I’ll have my team get started on the first batch immediately. Once we see the results, I’ll have you consult on scaling it up for the entire fleet.”

“Of course,” I say, forcing a calm smile even as my mind reels. Entire fleet? How many carts does he own?

Filthy Rich turns to the supervisor. “Make sure to have the smiths work closely with Kinetic Flux if they run into any issues. I want this implemented as quickly as possible.”

The supervisor nods, and Filthy Rich pulls out a small pouch of bits, setting it on my desk. “Here’s your initial payment for the first few carts. I’ll pay the rest as we roll out the upgrades.”

I glance at the pouch, the weight of it immediately noticeable. It’s more money than I’ve seen since arriving in Ponyville. “Thank you,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ll make sure to be available if your smiths need any help.”

“Good,” Filthy Rich says with a sharp nod. “I’ll relay the results soon.” With that, he turns and strides out of the office, the supervisor following close behind.

As the door swings shut, I slump back in my chair, letting out a long breath. Thirty bits per cart. This could either be the biggest break I’ve had since I got here—or the biggest disaster waiting to happen.

I glance at the pouch of bits again, the weight of responsibility settling in alongside the coins. No pressure, Flux. Just hope your hastened reinvention of the suspension systems works in a world that barely understands the concept. And make it magical, too.

Despite the stress, I can’t help but feel a flicker of excitement. If this works, I might finally be on the path to something sustainable—something bigger than just scraping by. For now, though, there’s a lot of work to do.

Back at my office, I sit at the desk and open the pouch Filthy Rich left behind. The glint of gold inside is enough to make my breath catch. Carefully, I count out the coins, stacking them into neat piles. Ten bits, twenty, thirty... by the time I finish, I’m staring at 120 bits.

“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath, leaning back in my chair. It’s more money than I’ve had since I got here. With the eight bits I already had, that puts me at 128 bits total. My mind immediately starts running the math.

The inn charges ten bits a night, which means this could cover twelve nights of a proper bed and a roof over my head. Twelve nights of not sleeping under my desk. But then there’s food. The inn provides breakfast, but lunch and dinner are on me, and those sandwiches run seven bits a pop. If I eat two meals a day outside the inn, that’s fourteen bits. Add ten for the room, and I’m looking at twenty-four bits a day.

Alright, let’s break this down. I start scribbling numbers on a scrap of parchment, the calculations helping me feel a little more in control.

Daily Expenses:

Inn room: 10 bits
Two meals: 14 bits
Total: 24 bits

My Funds:

Current total: 128 bits
Number of days: 128 ÷ 24 ≈ 5 days

“Five days,” I say aloud, staring at the math. If I stick to this budget, I can make it work for five days before I run out. That’s assuming no new clients come in and no unexpected expenses crop up.

I lean back, rubbing my temples. It’s better than nothing, but it’s tight. Too tight. If Filthy Rich keeps his word and pays me for every cart, I could turn this into something sustainable. But until then, I’m five slow days away from being back under the desk.

The thought of spending another night on that hard floor sends a shiver through me. You’ve got the bits now. Go enjoy a bed for a few nights. Figure out the rest as you go.

Resolving to head to the inn, I gather my things, sticking the pouch of bits to my side with my telekinesis. It’s not much of a plan, but it’s better than sitting here stressing over what-ifs. For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m going to sleep in a real bed—and that’s worth something.

I step into the inn, the warm glow of the interior a stark contrast to the cool evening air outside. The smell of something baking wafts through the room, and for a moment, I let myself savor it. It’s the kind of cozy atmosphere that I’ve been missing—soft chatter from a few ponies in the corner, the faint crackle of a fire in the hearth. It almost feels… normal.

The innkeeper, the same chestnut-coated mare from before, looks up from her ledger as I approach the counter. Her oversized eyes glance briefly at the pouch of bits floating in my magic before meeting mine.

“Changed your mind, have you?” she asks with a faint smirk.

“Yeah,” I say, setting the pouch down on the counter. “One night, please.”

“That’ll be ten bits,” she says, pulling out a key from beneath the counter.

I count out the coins carefully, dropping them into her waiting hoof. She inspects them briefly before nodding, sliding the key toward me. “Room three, just up the stairs to your left. Breakfast is served from seven to nine in the morning.”

“Thanks,” I say, picking up the key with my magic.

She watches me for a moment, her gaze softening slightly. “First time staying in town?”

“Something like that,” I reply, not wanting to get into the details.

“Well, welcome to Ponyville,” she says with a small smile. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

I nod, murmuring a quick thanks before heading toward the stairs. The key floats in front of me, and I tighten my magical grip on the bit pouch, the faint hum of my horn buzzing in the back of my mind. It’s not heavy, but I’m hyper-aware of its presence—my lifeline for the next few days.

The stairs creak under my hooves as I climb to the second floor, and I quickly find room three. The door is plain, with a simple brass number nailed to its surface. I slide the key into the lock, twisting it with a satisfying click, and push the door open.

The room is small but clean. A single bed with a neatly made quilt sits against the wall, a small wooden desk and chair tucked into the corner. There’s a window overlooking the street, and the faint sound of ponies chatting below drifts through the glass. It’s nothing fancy, but after days of sleeping under a desk and on forest floors, it might as well be a luxury suite.

I close the door behind me, locking it out of habit, and set the pouch of bits on the desk. For the first time in what feels like ages, I let out a long, slow breath. This is mine, even if only for one night.

My stomach growls, and I glance toward the window, debating whether to grab something to eat. But the thought of leaving this quiet, comfortable space makes me hesitate. For now, I decide to stay, savoring the simple joy of not being on the move.

Tomorrow will bring its own challenges, but tonight, I’ll finally have a chance to rest.

On The Spot
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Applied Mathemagics

On The Spot

The morning light filters through the thin curtains, casting a faint glow over the small room. I stir under the quilt, groaning as the stiffness in my back and legs reminds me that even a proper bed can’t erase days of sleeping on hard surfaces. Still, it’s better than the floor, and for that, I’m grateful.

My stomach growls, a sharp reminder of why I need to get up. Breakfast is included, and there’s no way I’m skipping a free meal. Forcing myself out of bed, I stretch, yawning loudly before fumbling my way to the door. The air in the hallway is cool, carrying the faint scent of something cooking—bread, maybe, or oatmeal. My mouth waters as I follow the aroma, hooves clopping softly on the wooden floor.

The inn’s common room is already lively, with a few ponies scattered at tables chatting over steaming cups of tea and plates of food. The cheerful murmur of voices is almost enough to make me turn around, but hunger wins out. I shuffle toward the serving area, still half-asleep, and grab a plate from the stack at the end of the counter.

The spread is simple: bread, fresh fruit, and a pot of porridge with a ladle sticking out of it. Nothing fancy, but it’s enough. I scoop a generous portion of porridge onto my plate, adding a slice of bread and a few apples for good measure. Balancing the plate in my hooves, I find an empty table in the corner and sit down, letting out a tired sigh as I dig in.

The porridge is warm and hearty, the bread soft and fresh. It’s not much, but it fills the void in my stomach and gives me a moment of peace. As I eat, I let my mind wander, half-listening to the conversations around me. Most of it is mundane—weather talk, plans for the day—but it’s comforting in its normalcy.

For the first time in a while, I feel like I can breathe. No clients, no forest, no immediate crises—just a quiet morning and a warm meal. It won’t last, I know that much, but for now, I’ll take it.

After finishing the last bite of porridge, I push the plate away and let out a small sigh of satisfaction. It’s not the best meal I’ve ever had, but it’s warm, filling, and more than I’ve had in days. As I stand up, the dull murmur of the inn’s common room fades into the background. Time to head back to the office and see what the day has in store.

I retrieve my coin pouch from the table, glancing around to make sure no one’s paying me too much attention. With a faint hum from my horn, I lift the pouch and press it against my side as I always do, holding it there with a subtle nudge of telekinesis on the side facing in. To anyone watching, it looks like the pouch is tied securely in place, but really, it’s just me keeping it there with an awkward amount of focus.

Stepping out of the inn, the crisp morning air hits me like a splash of water, chasing away the last bits of grogginess. Ponyville is already bustling, the streets filled with ponies going about their routines. It’s as cheerful as ever, their distorted faces somehow more tolerable in the daylight. I keep my head down, my hooves clicking softly against the cobblestones as I make my way toward Town Hall.

The pouch shifts slightly as I walk, and I tighten my magical grip on it, my horn buzzing faintly with the effort. Need to figure out a better solution for this, I think. Maybe I can justify buying a real bag soon.

The town square is lively, with vendors setting up stalls and ponies chatting in small groups. I weave through the crowd, keeping to the edges where it’s quieter. The towering spire of Town Hall comes into view, and I quicken my pace, eager to get out of the chaos.

As I approach the familiar wooden doors, I let out a small breath of relief. The coin pouch stays firmly pressed to my side, but the effort is starting to grate on my concentration. I push open the door with a hoof, stepping into the quiet interior of the building. The warmth inside is welcoming, and the faint creak of the floorboards feels oddly comforting.

I make my way to my office, finally letting my magic release the pouch as I step inside. The pouch drops onto the desk with a soft thud, and I sit down heavily in my chair, glancing at the blank parchment waiting for me.

Time to see if today brings any new challenges—or clients.

I barely have time to settle into my chair before the sound of hurried hoofsteps echoes in the hallway. I straighten up, my ears swiveling toward the noise. A few moments later, there’s a sharp knock at the door, and before I can even call out, it swings open.

Standing in the doorway, bouncing on her hooves like she’s powered by some unseen spring, is none other than Pinkie Pie. Her curly mane bounces with every movement, and her massive, veiny eyes are wide with excitement, making her unsettling appearance even more intense. She grins at me, her too-wide smile somehow managing to radiate warmth.

“Hiya, Kinetic!” she says, her voice as energetic as ever. “Remember me? We met the other day—well, I saw you, and you saw me, so we technically met, even if it wasn’t a full introduction introduction. But now it’s time for the real introduction!”

I blink, caught completely off guard. “Uh… yeah, I remember,” I say cautiously. “What can I do for you, Pinkie Pie?”

She gasps dramatically, her hooves flying to her cheeks. “You remembered my name! That’s amazing! I mean, of course, it’s my name—it’s hard to forget—but still, yay! Anyway, I need your help.”

“My help?” I repeat, already bracing myself for whatever chaos she’s about to unleash. “With what?”

She bounces closer, her movements impossibly fluid and energetic. “I’m planning a super-duper-awesome party, and I need a magician! Somepony who can add a little razzle-dazzle, a little pizzazz! And everypony in town says you’re the pony to go to for magic stuff.”

“A magician?” I ask, my brain struggling to keep up. “Pinkie, I’m not exactly—”

“Oh, don’t be modest!” she interrupts, waving a hoof. “You’re the Town Mage! That means you’re perfect for the job. You can do some spells, maybe make things float, pull a bunny out of a hat—ooh, do you have a hat? I can get you a hat! And bunnies! How do you feel about bunnies?”

I stare at her, my mind spinning. She’s like a whirlwind of energy, and it’s impossible to get a word in edgewise. “Pinkie, I’m not a performer,” I finally manage to say. “I don’t—”

“That’s okay!” she chirps, undeterred. “You don’t have to be a performer—you just have to be you. Trust me, everypony’s going to love it.”

I rub a hoof over my face, trying to process what’s happening. “Alright,” I say slowly, realizing there’s no way I’m getting out of this. “When is this party?”

“Tonight!” she says, beaming. “I’ll come by and get you when it’s time. Oh, this is going to be so much fun! You’ll love it, I promise.”

Before I can protest, she spins around and bounces out the door, humming to herself. The sound of her hoofsteps fades down the hallway, leaving me alone in the office.

I sit back in my chair, staring at the door. “What just happened?” I mutter to myself.

The quiet of the office settles back in after Pinkie Pie’s whirlwind visit. For a moment, I let my head rest against the back of my chair, staring at the ceiling. A magician? Really? But it’s Pinkie Pie, and saying no to her feels like trying to stop a runaway cart.

I resolve to push the worry aside. That’s tonight’s problem, I tell myself. Right now, I need to focus on my actual job.

Not long after, there’s another knock at the door. This one is slower, more measured, but firm. I sit up straighter. “Come in,” I call, bracing myself for whatever odd request might walk through.

The door creaks open, revealing an earth pony stallion with a deep brown coat and a short, shaggy mane. His eyes, while still unsettlingly large, have a tired look about them. He carries a wooden tankard, the surface scuffed and stained, as if it’s been handled a thousand times.

“Uh, good day,” he says, stepping inside. His voice has a rough edge, like he’s been shouting or arguing recently. “You’re the Town Mage?”

“That’s me,” I reply, gesturing toward the chair across from my desk. “What can I do for you?”

The stallion hesitates, his hoof lingering on the tankard’s handle as he sits down. “It’s my brewery,” he says finally. “Somethin’s gone wrong with the beer.”

I blink, trying to process what he just said. “Your beer?”

“Aye,” he says, his voice low. “It’s… well, it’s cursed. Has to be. There’s no other explanation.”

Here we go. “Alright,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Tell me what’s been happening.”

He sets the tankard on my desk, his hoof tapping nervously against the wood. “It started last week. The batches were comin’ out sour—bitter in a way they shouldn’t be. And the foam… it smells wrong, almost rotten. We’ve been brewin’ the same way for years. The same barrels, the same water, the same barm. Nothin’s changed. But now…”

He trails off, his expression grim. “Now the beer’s undrinkable. It’s ruinin’ my business. If it’s not fixed soon, I’ll have to shut down.”

I frown, leaning forward to inspect the tankard. The faint smell of sour yeast wafts up from it, sharp and unpleasant. “And you’re sure it’s not a problem with your ingredients?” I ask. “The water, the grain, the barm?”

He shakes his head, his movements jerky. “Everything’s the same as it’s always been. It has to be magic—some kind of curse. I need you to lift it.”

I sit back, tapping a hoof against the desk as I think. It doesn’t sound like a curse—it sounds like something’s gone wrong with the fermentation process. But explaining that to him might be tricky, especially if he’s already convinced it’s magic.

“Alright,” I say slowly. “I’ll need to take a closer look at your brewery—your barrels, your barm, and your process. That’s the only way I can figure out what’s going on.”

The stallion nods quickly, relief flashing in his eyes. “Of course. Whatever you need, just… fix it.”

“I’ll do my best,” I say, standing up and grabbing the tankard in my magic. “Lead the way.”

The brewery isn’t far, just a short walk on the outskirts of Ponyville. As the stallion leads me through town, I try to piece together what I already know and what I need to ask. He’s clearly desperate, which means I’ll need to tread carefully if I want him to listen to me.

We arrive at a modest building made of dark wood, its roof sloped and weathered by time. A faint smell of hops and malt lingers in the air, mingling with something sour that makes my nose wrinkle. The stallion pushes open the heavy wooden door, motioning for me to follow.

Inside, the space is dimly lit, with large wooden barrels lining the walls and a series of copper kettles dominating the center. The air is thick, damp, and carries the unmistakable tang of fermentation gone wrong.

“This is where the magic happens,” the stallion says, his voice hollow. “Or where it used to happen.”

I nod, stepping further into the room. The barrels are well-worn, their surfaces etched with years of use, and the kettles have a dull sheen that speaks to countless batches brewed within them. But there’s also grime—a faint layer of residue clinging to the edges of the barrels and the joints of the kettles.

“So,” I say, turning back to him, “walk me through your process. From start to finish, what do you do to make the beer?”

The stallion rubs the back of his neck, clearly uneasy. “Well, we start with the water—drawn fresh from the well out back. It’s always been good, clean water. Then we add the grain and boil it in the kettle over there.” He points to one of the larger copper vessels. “Once it’s ready, we transfer it to the barrels, add the barm, and let it ferment.”

“And the barm?” I ask, tilting my head. “Where do you get it?”

“We keep it from the last batch,” he says. “Always have. It’s tradition. Everypony does it that way.”

I nod slowly, filing that away. “How often do you clean the barrels and kettles?”

He hesitates, his ears flicking back. “We, uh… rinse ’em out after every batch.”

“Just rinse?” I press, my tone staying even.

“Yeah,” he says defensively. “They don’t need more than that. The flavors from the old batches stick to the barrels—it’s part of what makes the beer good.”

I bite back a sigh, glancing at the barrels again. “And the well water—you’re sure nothing’s changed with it? No odd smells or tastes?”

He shakes his head firmly. “The well’s fine. It’s the same water we’ve been using for years.”

“And the grain? Same supplier, same quality?”

“Yes,” he says, his voice growing more agitated. “Everything’s the same. That’s why it has to be magic.”

I nod, turning back to the barrels and kettles. Everything’s the same, I think, my eyes narrowing. Except for the cleaning—or lack of it.

“Alright,” I say, my voice calm. “I’m going to take a closer look at your equipment. If there’s a curse, it might be lingering there.”

The stallion nods quickly, stepping aside to give me space. As I approach the nearest barrel, the sour smell intensifies, making my stomach churn. I force myself to focus, my horn buzzing faintly as I lift the lid. Inside, the faint remnants of the last batch cling to the wood, a slimy film coating the surface.

This isn’t a curse. It’s contamination. But convincing him of that without breaking his belief in magic is going to take some careful explaining. For now, I keep my expression neutral and continue my inspection, piecing together the story this equipment is trying to tell me.

I inspect the barrels and kettles thoroughly, my horn buzzing faintly as I lift lids, peer into cracks, and scrape at the slimy residue clinging to the wood. It’s poor maintenance. The barm they’re reusing is a breeding ground for microorganisms, and the barrels are practically teeming with them.

Still, explaining that to a pony who doesn’t know what microorganisms are—or what yeast actually does—is going to be a challenge.

I step back from the barrels, turning to face the stallion. He’s watching me intently, his oversized eyes filled with a mix of hope and desperation. “Alright,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “I know what’s wrong, and I have a solution.”

“You do?” he asks, leaning forward. “What is it? Is it a curse?”

“No,” I begin, but I catch myself. Ease into it. “Not exactly. It’s more like… an imbalance. Your brewing equipment has been… influenced by forces you can’t see.”

His brow furrows. “Forces I can’t see?”

“Exactly,” I say, nodding. “Tiny… creatures, so small you can’t see them, live on the barm and in your barrels. Normally, they help with the brewing process—they’re what make the beer ferment. But if things aren’t clean enough, the wrong kind of… magical influences can take over. That’s what’s causing the sourness and the bad smell.”

He stares at me, his expression shifting to skepticism. “Tiny creatures? You mean, like mites?”

“No, not mites,” I say, rubbing my temples. “Smaller than that. So small they’re invisible. They—”

“Sounds like nonsense,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “Invisible creatures ruining my beer? Come on, Mage. Just tell me how to get rid of the curse.”

I sigh, biting back a sharp retort. Fine. Curse it is. “Alright,” I say, switching tactics. “It’s a magical contamination. It’s clinging to your barrels, your kettles, and especially your barm. To fix it, you’ll need to purify everything and start fresh.”

“Purify?” he echoes. “How?”

“You’ll need to scrub everything down with a cleansing agent—vinegar works best,” I say, keeping my tone firm. “The vinegar will break the magic’s hold and reset your equipment. Then, you’ll need to get new barm from another brewer. Fresh barm will carry the right kind of magical essence to restore balance.”

He looks uncertain. “But the barm we use—it’s from the same batch we’ve been using for years. You’re saying it’s no good?”

“It’s too saturated with the curse,” I say, folding my forelegs. “Reusing it will just bring the problem back. You’ll need fresh barm to ensure the next batch is clean.”

He frowns, clearly reluctant, but the desperation in his eyes wins out. “Alright,” he says finally. “I’ll clean everything with vinegar and get new barm. Where do I get it?”

“Try another brewer in town,” I suggest. “One who isn’t having the same problem. And make sure they understand you need it for a fresh start.”

He nods slowly, his expression grim but determined. “Alright, I’ll do it. And if it works, you’ll have my thanks—and my coin.”

“Good,” I say, stepping back. “Let me know how it goes. And remember: no cutting corners. Clean everything thoroughly, or the curse will just come back.”

He nods again, already muttering about finding enough vinegar and a willing brewer. As he starts organizing his plan, I step outside, letting the fresh air wash over me.

Another crisis averted, I think, shaking my head. But the day is far from over, and I’ve got a party to prepare for—whether I want to or not.

After leaving the brewery, I decide to wander for a while. The morning air is crisp, and the streets of Ponyville are lively but not overwhelming. It feels good to walk without an immediate destination, letting my mind wander as I take in the strange mix of quaint charm and unsettling details that make up this town.

I pass by the market square, where vendors call out their wares, their grotesquely cheerful faces almost blending into the chaos of chatter and movement. My coin pouch feels heavier at my side, not physically, but with the weight of responsibility. I’ve solved two problems today, but Pinkie’s party looms over me like a storm cloud. How am I supposed to play “magician” when I barely know what I’m doing as a mage?

Lost in thought, I barely notice the pink blur barreling toward me until it’s too late.

“There you are!” Pinkie Pie’s voice cuts through the noise like a bell, and before I can react, she’s bouncing up beside me, her veiny eyes gleaming with excitement. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

I stop in my tracks, blinking at her. “Pinkie? What’s going on?”

She gasps dramatically, her grin somehow stretching even wider. “What’s going on? What’s going on?! It’s party time, silly! You didn’t think I forgot, did you?”

“Party time already?” I repeat, my voice laced with dread. “I thought that was later.”

“It was later,” she says with a giggle, “and now it’s later! Come on, you’ve got to see what I’ve set up! It’s going to be the best party ever!”

Before I can protest, she hooks a hoof around my foreleg and starts dragging me down the street. I stumble after her, my attempts to explain that I’m not ready falling on deaf ears. Pinkie’s energy is a force of nature, and resisting her feels as futile as trying to stop a river with a bucket.

“Pinkie, I—”

“Nope! No time for talking!” she interrupts, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm. “You’re going to love this. Trust me!”

As we weave through the streets, I catch glimpses of ponies glancing our way, their odd, oversized eyes following us. A mix of curiosity and excitement seems to ripple through the crowd, and my stomach churns. Whatever Pinkie’s planned, it’s going to be big. And there’s no backing out now.

Pinkie drags me through Ponyville with the enthusiasm of a foal pulling their favorite toy cart. Her bouncing hooves are surprisingly steady, considering the speed she’s moving, while I’m half-stumbling, trying to keep up. The streets blur past, the chatter of ponies mingling with Pinkie’s endless stream of bubbly commentary.

“You’re gonna love it, I promise! There’s music, games, and snacks—oh, you have to try the cupcakes! I made them myself, and they’re extra super-duper special for you!”

“Pinkie,” I manage to gasp between breaths, “what—what’s this party even for?”

She slows just enough to give me a beaming smile, her massive eyes sparkling. “You, of course! You’re new in town, and everypony deserves a big, warm welcome when they come to Ponyville. Especially if they’re the new Town Mage! It’s a combo ‘Welcome to Ponyville’ and ‘Congrats on Your New Job’ party!”

My stomach sinks as the realization hits me. “You’re throwing a party… for me?”

“Duh!” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And trust me, it’s gonna be legendary!”

Before I can argue, we round a corner, and suddenly we’re standing in front of Sugarcube Corner. The bakery is decked out in streamers, balloons, and banners, all proudly declaring, WELCOME KINETIC FLUX! in bright, glittering letters. The colors are so loud they practically shout at me, and the sound of cheerful music drifts from inside.

I stare at the decorations, my throat dry. “Pinkie, this is…”

“AMAZING, I know!” she finishes, bouncing in place. “Now come on, everypony’s waiting!”

Before I can even process the situation, she pushes me in the door, revealing a room packed with ponies. The sight hits me like a wave—dozens of huge, veiny eyes, grotesque smiles, and colorful fur crammed into one space. The cheerful chatter dies down as heads turn toward us, and suddenly, I’m the center of attention.

“Everypony,” Pinkie announces, her voice cutting through the room like a bell, “meet Kinetic Flux, Ponyville’s new Town Mage!”

A chorus of cheers erupts, and I feel my face flush as the crowd surges toward me. Hooves reach out to shake mine, voices shout greetings and congratulations, and I’m caught in a whirlwind of energy that’s somehow even more overwhelming than Pinkie herself.

“Uh, hi,” I say awkwardly, forcing a small smile. “Nice to meet you all.”

The ponies don’t seem to notice my discomfort, their enthusiasm washing over me like a tidal wave. Pinkie nudges me forward, her grin practically glowing. “Go on! Mingle! Have fun! Oh, and don’t forget to save room for cupcakes—they’re my specialty!”

As the crowd swirls around me, I realize there’s no escape. This party is happening, whether I’m ready or not. For now, all I can do is brace myself and try to survive the onslaught of Ponyville’s bizarre yet relentless hospitality.

As the party whirls around me, I do my best to keep up. Ponies keep introducing themselves—names I vaguely recognize from what I remember about the show: Lyra, Bon Bon, Carrot Top, Cheerilee. Their voices blur together as they smile and congratulate me on my “big, magical job,” their eyes twinkling with excitement.

But something feels off. As much as I’m being bombarded with introductions and conversations, there’s one face I haven’t seen. One pony who, in my mind, should’ve been front and center at something like this.

Where’s Twilight?

I shake a few more hooves, trying to discreetly scan the room. There’s no sign of her purple coat, no streaks of pink in her mane, no calm and analytical presence that would stand out in this sea of manic enthusiasm. I lean toward the nearest pony, a mint green mare with a lyre cutie mark—Lyra, I think.

“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Quick question.”

She tilts her head, her too-large eyes blinking at me. “Yeah?”

“Where’s Twilight Sparkle?” I ask. “I figured she’d be here.”

Her brow furrows, and she gives me a puzzled look. “Twilight Sparkle? Who’s that?”

I blink, taken aback. “You don’t know her?”

Lyra shakes her head, her confusion deepening. “Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell. Is she a friend of yours or something?”

I hesitate, the realization dawning on me. “Uh… not exactly. Never mind.”

She shrugs and goes back to chatting with Bon Bon, leaving me standing there, my mind spinning. This is before Twilight came to Ponyville. The thought settles over me like a heavy blanket. No Twilight. No Elements of Harmony. no library to turn into a magical nexus.

I glance out the window, needing a moment to anchor myself. That’s when I spot it: the Golden Oaks Library, its branches stretching toward the sky, adorned with the iconic lantern I remember. It’s there, standing quietly amidst the chaos of the town. Twilight doesn’t live there yet, but the library still exists. A small sense of relief washes over me. At least I know where to find information if I need it.

Before I can dwell on the thought, Pinkie Pie’s voice cuts through the crowd like a firecracker. “Alright, everypony! It’s time for the main event!”

The room falls silent, all eyes turning to her. My stomach twists. Main event? Please don’t—

She points a hoof directly at me, her grin as wide as ever. “Our new Town Mage is going to show us a magic trick!”

The room erupts into cheers, and I feel every pony’s oversized, veiny eyes lock onto me. My mouth goes dry. “Wait—what? But it's my—”

“Come on, Kinetic Flux!” Pinkie says, bouncing in place. “You can do it! You’re the Town Mage! Show us something amazing!”

I stand there, frozen. I didn’t prepare anything. Hell, I don’t even know enough magic to fake my way through a trick. My mind races, but the crowd’s expectant stares leave me no room to escape. Think, think, think.

My eyes dart around the room, landing on the punch bowl sitting on the refreshment table. An idea—half-formed and absolutely reckless—pops into my head. “Alright,” I say, swallowing hard. “Give me some space.”

The ponies eagerly back away, creating a wide circle around me. My horn buzzes faintly as I focus on the punch bowl, my mind grasping at the physics I know. What I can do and what I can wing. Water is just a collection of molecules, bound together in a liquid state. If I can excite those molecules again, they’ll break apart into vapor—evaporation.

Basic, we already know it works, I think, channeling my magic.

The punch bowl glows faintly as my telekinesis wraps around the water inside. I focus on agitating the molecules layer by layer, picturing them vibrating faster and faster as I feed energy into the liquid. The buzzing in my horn intensifies, and I feel a bead of sweat roll down my forehead.

At first, nothing happens. Then, slowly, steam begins to rise from the bowl. The water level drops as the liquid turns to vapor, disappearing into the air. The crowd gasps, and I feel a surge of panic. That’s only half the trick—now its up to luck.

I reach out with my telekinesis, grabbing at the scattered water vapor. It’s harder than I expected—like trying to herd smoke—but I manage to gather the molecules into a small, swirling cloud. I grab some dust from a corner of the bakery and sprinkle it in to act as a condensation nuclei. My magic hums as I compress the vapor, attempting to condense it into tiny droplets.

“just… do it,” I mutter under my breath, willing the droplets to coalesce further. The cloud hovers above the circle of ponies, dark and faintly shimmering. For a moment, it hangs there, and I think I’ve failed.

Then, a single drop falls. Then another. The cloud releases a soft drizzle, the droplets pattering gently on the floor. The ponies gasp, their eyes wide with wonder.

“It’s raining!” Pinkie shouts, bouncing in place. “Inside!”

The crowd bursts into applause, their enthusiasm almost drowning out my thundering heartbeat. I step back, releasing the spell as the tiny cloud dissipates. My legs feel like jelly, and my horn aches from the effort.

“That… was amazing!” Pinkie says, rushing up to me. “You’re like a real weather wizard!”

“Yeah,” I say, forcing a shaky grin. “Magic.” Inside, I’m screaming. I can’t believe that actually worked.

The applause continues as ponies crowd around to congratulate me, their excitement palpable. For the first time, I don’t feel completely out of place—just exhausted. And maybe a little proud.

The applause finally dies down, and the crowd disperses, though a few ponies linger to pat me on the back or murmur their amazement. I nod along, trying to keep my shaky smile in place. My horn still throbs from the effort of the "magic trick," and my legs feel like they could give out at any moment.

Pinkie Pie bounces up to me, her grin practically glowing. “That was amazing, Kinetic Flux! You’re officially the coolest Town Mage ever!”

“Thanks, Pinkie,” I mutter, my voice barely above a whisper. “I just… did what I could.”

“You did great!” she says, shoving a cupcake into my hooves. “Now you have to celebrate properly. Eat up! There’s plenty more where that came from!”

I glance down at the cupcake—a pink frosted monstrosity with enough sprinkles to blind a pony—and force a small laugh. “Right. Thanks.”

Taking a bite, I’m hit with a wave of overwhelming sweetness. It’s like someone condensed pure sugar into frosting form. Still, I chew and swallow, grabbing a glass of cider to wash it down. As I move through the refreshment table, I help myself to some bread and a slice of carrot cake, keeping my focus on the food and trying to avoid more conversations. The bread is plain but hearty, the carrot cake surprisingly well-spiced. Not bad for party fare.

The room buzzes around me, ponies chatting and laughing, their distorted faces glowing with joy. It’s a lot, even without the lingering ache in my horn. I glance toward the door, weighing my options. I’ve done the trick, eaten the food, and mingled enough to keep up appearances. Slipping out wouldn’t be too hard.

Pinkie’s back is turned as she chats animatedly with a group of ponies near the punch table. Seizing the opportunity, I quietly make my way toward the door. My hooves are light against the floor, the noise of the party masking my movements.

Once outside, the cool night air washes over me, a stark contrast to the heat and noise of the party. I let out a long breath, my shoulders sagging with relief. The town is quieter now, the streets mostly empty except for a few ponies heading home.

I glance back at Sugarcube Corner, the colorful lights and sounds spilling out into the dark. Thanks for the welcome, Pinkie, but I’ve had enough for one day.

I turn away from Sugarcube Corner, the distant hum of the party fading into the cool night air as I make my way toward the inn. The cobblestones beneath my hooves feel uneven, but I focus on the simple rhythm of walking, letting it drown out the lingering buzz in my head. The streets are mostly deserted, and the silence is a welcome change after the chaos.

The inn comes into view, its warm light spilling through the windows. The familiar smell of wood and faint traces of food drift out as I push the door open. The innkeeper looks up from her ledger, her oversized eyes glinting in the low light.

“Back again?” she asks with a knowing smirk.

“Yeah,” I say, stepping up to the counter and setting my pouch of bits on the worn wood. My horn buzzes faintly as I count out the coins, careful not to lose track. “One more night.”

She nods, taking the ten bits and sliding another key toward me. “Same deal as before. Room three. Breakfast starts at seven.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, picking up the key with my magic. The pouch feels lighter as I place it back against my side, holding it there with a faint telekinetic grip as I head up the stairs.

The room is just as I left it: plain, quiet, and mercifully clean. I lock the door behind me and set the pouch of bits on the desk, taking a moment to count what I have left. One hundred and six bits. Enough for a few more nights, but I’ll need another job soon if I want to keep this up.

I let out a slow breath, glancing toward the bed. My body aches from the day—walking all over Ponyville, pulling off that ridiculous magic trick, and dealing with more ponies than I care to think about. I flop onto the bed, the thin mattress creaking beneath me.

The quiet hum of the town outside lulls me, and before I know it, sleep pulls me under, leaving the thoughts of tomorrow for when the sun rises again.

The faint light of dawn filters through the thin curtains, pulling me from sleep. My muscles are still stiff from the day before, but the promise of breakfast is enough to drag me out of bed. I rub the sleep from my eyes and shuffle toward the door, grabbing my coin pouch and key on the way.

Downstairs, the inn’s common room hums with the low murmur of early risers. The air smells of fresh bread and warm porridge, the kind of simple food I’ve learned to appreciate. I help myself to a plate and sit at a corner table, chewing methodically as I watch the other ponies go about their mornings.

The bread is crusty but fresh, and the porridge is plain but filling. I wash it all down with a cup of lukewarm tea before returning the empty plate to the counter with a nod to the innkeeper. Another day, another round of pretending I know what I’m doing.

By the time I reach Town Hall, the morning sun has fully risen, casting golden light across the cobblestones. The building is quiet as usual, the air inside cool and still. I push open the door to my office and settle into my chair, setting the coin pouch on my desk with a soft thud. I lean back, savoring the brief moment of quiet.

But it doesn’t last long. There’s a polite knock at the door. I straighten up. “Come in.”

The door opens, revealing Mayor Mare, her gray mane impeccably styled as usual and her expression calm but purposeful. “Good morning, Kinetic Flux,” she says with a small smile. “I hope you’ve settled into your position well.”

“As well as I can,” I reply, trying to sound confident. “What can I help you with today?”

She steps inside, holding a small stack of papers in one hoof. “There’s a matter that requires your unique expertise,” she says. “A minor crisis, but one I believe you can resolve.”

I nod, my curiosity piqued. “Alright. What’s the problem?”

Mayor Mare sets the papers on my desk, her eyes meeting mine. “The town’s weather supply has been disrupted. Our scheduled rainstorm from the weather factory hasn’t arrived, and the fields near the Everfree Forest are drying out. The local farmers are getting worried.”

I frown. “The weather factory messed up?”

“Something like that,” she says, adjusting her glasses. “I’m hoping you can either investigate or, if possible, provide a temporary magical solution.”

I suppress the urge to groan. “Weather magic, huh?”

She gives me a knowing smile. “Yes. I’ve seen you conjure a raincloud before.”

I rub the back of my neck. Of course, she saw that party trick. “Alright,” I say finally. “I’ll look into it.”

I glance at the stack of papers Mayor Mare left behind, filled with notes about the drought and complaints from worried farmers. The problem gnaws at me as I turn the situation over in my head. The weather factory is in Cloudsdale, a literal city in the sky made of clouds—an architectural impossibility and a logistical nightmare for a unicorn like me. By the time I look up she's gone.

I stand and quickly step out of my office, catching up to Mayor Mare in the hallway. “Mayor,” I call, and she stops, turning back with a polite smile. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but Cloudsdale is… well, I’m not exactly built for clouds.”

Her brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a Pegasus-only city,” I explain, trying to keep my tone even. “The whole place is made of clouds, and only pegasi can walk on them. Unicorns like me would fall straight through.”

Her expression shifts to concern. “I see. That complicates things.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” I mutter, running a hoof through my mane. “So, what exactly can I do about a Pegasus problem when I can’t even get there?”

Mayor Mare adjusts her glasses, her thoughtful gaze turning back to me. “You’ve already shown that your magic has… creative potential,” she says. “If the rainstorm isn’t coming, perhaps you could do something to keep the fields watered until the weather factory gets back on track?”

I let out a slow breath, my mind racing through what little I know about weather and evaporation. Sure, I managed a tiny raincloud as a party trick, but scaling that up to cover actual farmland is an entirely different challenge. Not to mention, I’d be doing it without any formal knowledge of weather manipulation—or real magic, for that matter.

Still, she’s looking at me with a hopeful expression, and turning her down doesn’t feel like an option. “Alright,” I say finally, rubbing my temples. “I’ll see what I can do. But I’m going to need more help. Maybe some pegasi willing to lend a hoof?”

“Of course,” Mayor Mare says with a nod. “If you need assistance, let me know, and I’ll do my best to rally the town. Thank you, Kinetic Flux.”

I give her a half-hearted smile as she turns to leave, my stomach twisting with unease. Conjure a rainstorm? I barely managed a drizzle at the party. Still, there’s no time to waste. If I’m going to figure this out, I’ll need a plan—and maybe a bit of luck to keep my façade of competence intact.

I head out to the fields near the Everfree Forest. The dry ground crunches under my hooves, the once-vibrant soil now cracked and hard. Rows of crops droop under the oppressive heat, their leaves curling and yellowing. It’s obvious the farmers are getting desperate, and the sight sends a pang of guilt through me. Alright, Flux, time to think.

The weather team has managed to gather a few clouds in the sky above the fields—fluffy, unassuming, and frustratingly useless. I squint up at them, trying to recall what little I know about cloud seeding. If I can find a way to introduce particles to these clouds, I might be able to coax them into releasing rain.

Problem is, I have no access to the chemicals used for modern cloud seeding. And even if I did, I wouldn’t know how to explain them here. But there are natural alternatives—substances that could mimic the process.

I think back to my conversation with Mayor Mare about supplies. “Salt,” I mutter to myself. “And maybe fine ash, like from wood. Both could work as condensation nuclei.” My mind flickers to the medieval tools available. I might need to grind the ash finely or dissolve the salt in water and mist it into the air. Either way, I’ll need help—and some serious improvisation.

I return to the town square, where the Pegasus weather team is gathered near the edge of the fields. Among them, a cyan blur zips back and forth, leaving a rainbow trail in her wake. Even before she lands, I know exactly who she is.

Rainbow Dash touches down with a confident grin, her magenta eyes gleaming. “You must be the new mage everypony’s been talking about,” she says, tilting her head. “What’s the plan, magic guy?”

I take a steadying breath, trying not to let her energy throw me off. “Alright,” I start, addressing the whole group. “Here’s the deal: the clouds you’ve gathered aren’t charged like the ones from the weather factory, but we can still use them. With the right… magical additions, we can get them to produce rain.”

“Magical additions?” Rainbow Dash echoes, raising an eyebrow.

“Exactly,” I say, forcing confidence into my voice. “But it’s delicate work. I’ll need salt—finely ground—and wood ash. Can you help me gather those?”

The Pegasi exchange confused glances, but Rainbow Dash shrugs. “Sure, we can grab some supplies. What’s the ash for?”

“It’s part of the spell,” I lie smoothly. “The salt and ash act as catalysts to harmonize the clouds’ moisture with the ground’s energy.”

She nods slowly, her skepticism showing through. “Alright. If it gets us rain, I’m in.”

With the supplies gathered, I set up near the edge of the field, using a mortar and pestle borrowed from the town apothecary to grind the ash into a fine powder. The salt is easier to handle, though I have to dissolve some of it in water to make a crude misting tool using a repurposed watering can. It’s primitive, but it should work.

The Pegasi hover above me, their wings kicking up faint breezes. Rainbow Dash leans down, watching me work with a curious expression. “So, uh, how’s this 'magic' supposed to go?”

I glance up, my mind scrambling for a magical explanation. “The salt and ash will bond with the moisture in the clouds,” I say, motioning toward the fluffy shapes above. “Once they’re seeded, the clouds will be able to release their rain. You’ll need to fly through them to spread the materials evenly.”

Rainbow Dash smirks. “Sounds easy enough.”

“Good,” I say, standing up and brushing ash from my hooves. “But remember—it’s a precise process. No rough flying. We need these clouds intact.”

“You got it, magic guy,” she says, saluting with a playful grin.

Rainbow Dash and her team start to take off, muttering to herself, “Yeah, sure, ‘magic salt and ash.’ Sounds totally legit.” Her tone drips with doubt, but she does as I ask, grabbing the pouch of finely ground ash with her hooves while another Pegasus takes the watering can of saltwater mist. The rest of the team hovers above, waiting for instructions.

“Alright!” Rainbow Dash calls down. “Ready to make it rain, oh mighty mage?”

Her sarcasm isn’t subtle, and I can feel my jaw tighten, but I force a calm tone. “Just follow the plan. Spread the ash and mist evenly across the clouds, no rough flying, and we’ll see results.”

She gives a lazy salute, her wings flicking with impatience. “Got it. Let’s do this!”

The Pegasi ascend, the saltwater misting and ash sprinkling as they crisscross the clouds. I stand below, focusing hard on the clouds with my telekinesis. Come on, Flux. It’s just molecules. Moisture condenses around nuclei, gravity does the rest. Just keep them from scattering.

At first, nothing happens. The clouds hang there, stubbornly fluffy and useless. Rainbow Dash zips down, her expression skeptical. “So, uh, when’s the ‘magic’ supposed to kick in?”

“Give it a minute,” I snap, the effort of manipulating the clouds making my horn buzz painfully.

She groans but flits back up, helping the team spread the materials. I grit my teeth, focusing on nudging the moisture particles toward each other, creating denser clusters. Slowly, very slowly, the clouds start to darken.

Then, finally, a single droplet falls.

Another follows, then another, until a light drizzle begins to fall. The Pegasi pause, their eyes wide with shock as the rain intensifies, soaking the dry fields below. The soil eagerly drinks up the water, darkening with moisture, and I hear a few relieved cheers from the farmers watching in the distance.

Rainbow Dash zips down to me, her face lit up with an enormous grin. “No way! It’s actually raining!” She darts back up into the clouds, spinning through them with a triumphant yell. “Did you see that? It’s working! You’re not a total fraud, magic guy!”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I mutter under my breath, though a small part of me can’t help but feel proud.

As the rain continues to fall, Rainbow Dash loops through the sky, laughing and shouting encouragement to her team. “Keep spreading it! More clouds, more rain! Let’s get this whole field soaked!”

Her energy is infectious, and soon the Pegasi are working with renewed enthusiasm, spreading the remaining ash and mist until the entire area is covered in a steady downpour. The fields glisten under the rain, the once-dry crops standing a little taller.

Rainbow Dash lands next to me, her mane dripping but her grin as bright as ever. “Okay, that was awesome,” she says, nudging me with her hoof. “You’re officially cool in my book, Kinetic Flux.”

So she does know my name. “Glad to hear it,” I reply, suppressing a relieved laugh. “And… thanks for helping. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Yeah, yeah, team effort and all that,” she says, waving a hoof. “But seriously, this was great. You really pulled it off, magic guy.”

The Pegasi gather around, their spirits high as the rain continues to fall. For the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself relax a little.

As the rain continues to fall steadily over the parched fields, a few farmers approach, their faces glowing with relief and gratitude. One, a burly earth pony with a mud-streaked coat, tips his hat to me.

“Thank ya kindly, Mr. Mage,” he says, his voice thick with sincerity. “We’ve been prayin’ for rain, and you delivered. You’ve saved our crops.”

Another farmer nods, her mane plastered to her face by the rain. “We didn’t think it’d happen, but you pulled through. Thank you, truly.”

I wave a hoof dismissively, though their thanks do spark a warm feeling in my chest. “Just doing my job,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. “Make sure to keep an eye on the fields for runoff. Don’t want all this water going to waste.”

They nod eagerly, their gratitude plain as they turn back to check on their crops. I watch for a moment, then shake the rain from my mane and start the trek back to town.

By the time I reach Town Hall, the rain has eased up, leaving a damp freshness in the air. I push open the door to my office, water dripping from my hooves, and find Mayor Mare already waiting for me. She’s at my desk, flipping through some papers, but she looks up as I enter.

“Oh, you’re back,” she says, standing up and brushing off her glasses. “How did it go?”

“It’s done,” I reply, shaking the moisture off my tail before stepping inside. “The fields are watered, and the farmers are happy.”

She blinks, her eyebrows shooting up. “You mean… you actually made it rain?”

“Yes,” I say, a little sharper than intended. “You said it was urgent, so I figured it out.”

Her mouth opens, then closes again as if searching for words. Finally, she adjusts her glasses and lets out a laugh. “Well, color me impressed. I wasn’t sure it could be done, to be honest.”

I freeze, my ears twitching. “Wait. You didn’t think it was possible?”

“It was a long shot,” she admits, her tone apologetic. “The weather factory issue seemed insurmountable, and I thought… well, maybe a mage might surprise us. And you did! Wonderfully, I might add.”

I stare at her, my annoyance building. “You gave me an impossible task, thinking I’d fail?”

She waves a hoof quickly. “Not fail, just… I thought it might be beyond reach. But you’ve proven me wrong, Kinetic Flux! Ponyville is lucky to have you.”

I sigh, forcing a small, tight-lipped smile. She’s technically my boss, and I’m broke. Picking a fight won’t get me anywhere. Instead, I decide to pivot to something more productive.

“Well,” I say, sitting down behind my desk and pulling out a blank sheet of parchment. “It’s done, and the farmers are satisfied. Now we need to settle payment.”

Mayor Mare blinks, looking surprised. “Payment?”

“Yes,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “This was an urgent job, and I handled it. I also had to procure materials—salt and finely ground ash—which involved costs and labor. Not to mention I had to rely on the weather team for implementation.”

“Oh, of course,” she says quickly, adjusting her glasses. “What are we looking at?”

I dip the quill into the inkwell and start writing, my magic steady despite my exhaustion. “One hundred bits for the job itself,” I say, jotting down the total. “It wasn’t easy coordinating everything and ensuring the rain reached the fields without any mishaps.”

She nods slowly, and I continue, “Additionally, the materials cost another hundred bits. That’ll go directly to the apothecary for the ash and the weather team for their effort.”

Mayor Mare leans closer to glance at the parchment as I slide it toward her. Her lips purse as she reads, but she doesn’t argue. “That seems… fair,” she says after a moment. “It was an urgent request, after all.”

I nod. “I’ll make sure the materials payment is distributed appropriately. The apothecary and Pegasi deserve their due.”

“Agreed,” she says, reaching into her saddlebag and pulling out a pouch of bits. She counts them carefully, separating the payment into two stacks. “Here’s one hundred for you, and one hundred for the materials.”

I take the bits in my magic, slipping one pouch into my drawer and setting the other aside. “Thank you, Mayor Mare. I’ll ensure the second payment reaches the right ponies.”

She smiles warmly. “You’ve done excellent work, Kinetic Flux. Ponyville is fortunate to have such a capable mage.”

Her praise feels a little hollow given the circumstances, but I nod politely. “I’ll do my best to live up to the title.”

With that, she leaves, her hoofsteps echoing down the hall. I glance at the pouch of bits on my desk, relief washing over me. I’m still exhausted and frustrated, but at least I’ll have enough for another few nights at the inn and some decent meals.

Maybe this whole mage thing will work out after all.

With the payment from Mayor Mare safely tucked into my telekinetic grip, I head straight for the apothecary. The quaint shop sits on the edge of Ponyville’s marketplace, its weathered wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze. Inside, the air is thick with the earthy scent of herbs and dried flowers hanging from the rafters.

The apothecary, a pale green unicorn with a short, frizzy mane, looks up from behind the counter as I step in. Her eyes narrow slightly before recognition sparks, and she smiles.

“Kinetic Flux, right? The new mage?” she says, setting down a bundle of lavender she’d been sorting.

“That’s me,” I reply, floating a section of bits the onto the counter. “Here’s payment for the ash and salt I used during the rain job.”

Her eyebrows lift, and she takes the pouch in her own magic, counting the bits quickly. “Oh, well, thank you. Didn’t expect such prompt payment.”

I shrug. “Figured it’s best to settle these things while I can. Thanks for helping out.”

She nods, slipping the bits into a drawer beneath the counter. “Anytime. Let me know if you need anything else for your spells.”

I mutter a quick thanks and step out, heading toward the weather team’s usual gathering spot near the edge of the town square. The team is lounging on a low cloud, chatting and laughing. Rainbow Dash spots me first, swooping down with her usual energy.

“Hey, magic guy! What’s up?” she says, grinning. “Here to congratulate us on a job well done?”

“Actually, I’m here to pay you,” I say, levitating another section of bits. “This is for the rain job—your share.”

Rainbow Dash blinks, momentarily surprised. “Wait, really? You didn’t have to do that!”

“I did,” I say, giving her a flat look. “You helped, and you deserve it.”

She shrugs, taking the bits with a satisfied grin. “Well, thanks! I’ll make sure the rest of the team gets their cut.”

“Good,” I say, nodding. “And thanks again for the help.”

“Anytime,” she says, zipping back up to the cloud. “Catch you later, Kinetic!”

With my obligations settled, I find myself wandering the town square, the buzz of activity providing a strange kind of comfort. Ponies move between stalls, their cheerful chatter filling the air as merchants hawk their wares. I take my time, weaving through the crowd and glancing at the various booths—baskets of fresh produce, handmade trinkets, and even a stand selling quills and parchment.

Eventually, my stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Spotting a cozy café with outdoor seating, I step inside and order a simple meal: a vegetable stew with a side of crusty bread. It costs me seven bits, but it’s worth it for the hearty flavors and the chance to sit down for a while.

The server—a pale orange mare with a kind smile—brings my food promptly, addressing me by name. “Here you go, Mr. Flux. Enjoy!”

I nod my thanks and dig in, savoring the warmth of the stew. It’s filling, and the bread is fresh and perfectly chewy. As I eat, I let myself relax for the first time all day, the weight of the morning’s work finally easing from my shoulders.

206 bits down to 199, I think, doing the math absently. Still enough for a few nights at the inn and meals to get by. For now, at least, things are stable.

Be Prepared
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Applied Mathemagics

Be Prepared

As I approach the office, I notice the door is already ajar. My ears perk up, and my steps slow. My stomach tightens as I push the door open fully.

Inside, Mayor Mare stands near my desk, flipping through a stack of papers with her usual air of authority. She looks up as I enter, her oversized eyes glinting in the morning light.

“Ah, Kinetic Flux,” she says with a warm smile. “Perfect timing. I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

I force a neutral expression, my mind already running scenarios. “Mayor Mare,” I reply, stepping inside. “What can I do for you?”

She sets the papers down and adjusts her glasses, her tone turning serious. “As you know, the Summer Sun Celebration is fast approaching. Princess Celestia herself will be attending this year’s festivities here in Ponyville.”

Her words hit me like a bucket of ice water. Summer Sun Celebration. Celestia.

Twilight Sparkle.

I keep my face carefully blank, though my heart pounds in my chest. This is it—the event that sets everything into motion. Nightmare Moon. Eternal night. And Twilight Sparkle, Celestia’s star pupil, arriving to put it all in motion. If she shows up and takes one look at my so-called “magic,” my entire charade could fall apart.

“I see,” I say, trying to sound calm. “And what does this have to do with me?”

Mayor Mare smiles, stepping closer. “You’re the Town Mage, of course. We’ll need something truly special to impress the Princess and her entourage. A magical display—something memorable to showcase Ponyville’s unique charm.”

My mind races. A “magical display” in front of Celestia’s personal student? I might as well sign my confession and pack my bags. This isn’t just about pulling off a party trick; this is walking a tightrope with no net.

“That’s, uh, quite the honor,” I say, forcing a tight smile. “Do you have anything specific in mind?”

The mayor taps her chin thoughtfully. “Well, something elegant and refined. Light displays, perhaps. Or an illusion of Princess Celestia’s cutie mark? I trust your judgment, Kinetic Flux. You’ve already proven yourself capable of great things.”

I nod stiffly, my thoughts spiraling. “Of course. I’ll, uh… get started on some ideas right away.”

“Wonderful,” she says with a satisfied nod. “Oh, and one more thing.”

Her tone shifts, and I immediately sense that the other horseshoe is about to drop.

“Princess Celestia has sent her personal student, Twilight Sparkle, to oversee the preparations for the celebration,” Mayor Mare continues. “She’ll be checking in on all the major events, including yours, to ensure everything meets the highest standards.”

My stomach twists into a knot. Of course. Of course Twilight Sparkle would be overseeing everything. It’s not enough to just perform a magical display—I’ll have to do it under the scrutinizing eye of one of the most talented unicorns in Equestria.

“That’s… understandable,” I manage, forcing a tight smile. “It makes sense to have someone of her caliber overseeing things.”

The mayor beams. “I knew you’d agree. She’s arriving on the day of, so I’d suggest preparing something impressive right away. I’m confident you’ll make Ponyville proud.”

She gives me one last approving nod before heading for the door, leaving me alone in my office with a mind full of panic and absolutely no plan.

I collapse into my chair, my hooves gripping the desk as I stare at the pile of library books I borrowed. Twilight Sparkle. The name echoes in my mind like a death knell. She’s not just some talented unicorn; she’s the unicorn. The one who’s practically an extension of Princess Celestia herself. And she’s coming here to inspect my magic?

I grab the nearest book, flipping through the pages with shaking hooves. Illusions, advanced transfiguration, elemental control—all of it is written in the kind of intricate spellwork that I can’t even begin to fake. The Latin chants, the intricate focus patterns, the centuries-old magical theory… It might as well be written in another language. Oh wait, it is.

“What am I going to do?” I mutter, slamming the book shut. I lean back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling. I can’t bluff my way through this like I’ve done with the townsfolk. If Twilight catches even a whiff of incompetence, she’ll see right through me.

My mind drifts back to the light manipulation I’ve been working on—the rudimentary color-shifting Doppler effect illusion I’ve been tinkering with. Maybe I can scale it up. Maybe if I make it big and flashy enough, it’ll pass for real magic.

But even as I think it, I know it’s a gamble. I don’t have much time, and I’m betting everything on a trick that could easily fall apart under scrutiny. Still, it’s better than nothing.

“Alright,” I mutter, standing up and pacing the room. “Let’s make this work.”

Twilight Sparkle may be a prodigy, but she hasn’t met Kinetic Flux: master of overcomplication and shameless improvisation.

The walk to the apothecary feels longer than usual, every step weighed down by the growing pressure of the Summer Sun Celebration. The streets of Ponyville are alive with ponies preparing for the festival, their cheerful chatter a stark contrast to the storm brewing in my head.

When I push open the apothecary’s door, the familiar scent of dried herbs and earthy minerals washes over me. The shelves are lined with jars and pouches of all shapes and sizes, each labeled in a neat but slightly faded script. The pale green unicorn stands behind the counter, her frizzy mane barely contained by the kerchief tied around her head. She’s sorting through a tray of dried flowers, her horn glowing faintly as she arranges them.

She looks up when the bell over the door jingles. “Ah, Kinetic Flux,” she says with a warm smile. “Back again? What’s the Town Mage up to this time?”

I hesitate, momentarily thrown off by her friendly demeanor. We’ve crossed paths a few times, but I never caught her name. I clear my throat and offer a small nod. “Good to see you again. And, uh… you are...?”

She blinks, then chuckles. “Rosemary. But most ponies just call me Rosie.”

“Rosie,” I repeat, filing the name away. “I’m working on a display for the Summer Sun Celebration. Something magical to impress the princess.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “For Princess Celestia herself? That’s quite the honor. What do you need?”

I glance around the shop, my mind racing. The idea of using white as a base for the Doppler illusions has been bouncing around for a while, but I didn’t want to spend bits on something I wasn’t sure would work. Now, with the deadline looming, I don’t have a choice.

“I need something white,” I say, scanning the shelves. “Something fine, powdery, and reflective. It has to stand out when illuminated.”

Rosie tilts her head, her frizzy mane bouncing slightly. “Powdery and white? Hmm… We’ve got ground bone, chalk, or fine limestone. Bone meal’s usually for gardens, though, and limestone’s a bit gritty.”

Chalk. Perfect. I try to keep my expression neutral. “Chalk will do. How much for a good-sized pouch?”

She pulls a small burlap sack from under the counter, shaking it gently to show its contents. “ten bits for the bag.”

“Sold,” I say, sliding the coins across the counter. Her horn lights up as she levitates the sack into my saddlebags—or where saddlebags would be, if I had any. Instead, I grip it with my telekinesis, keeping my movements casual.

“Good luck with your display,” Rosie says as I head for the door. “And let me know how it goes. I’d love to hear about it.”

“Will do,” I reply, stepping back into the bustling streets of Ponyville. The chalk pouch bobs slightly in my telekinetic grip as I make my way back to my office, my mind already piecing together how to make the illusions work.

Now, all I have to do is figure out how to make this “magic” impressive enough to fool Twilight Sparkle. No pressure.

Back in my office, the faint scent of chalk fills the air as I pour some of the powder onto a small dish I’ve set on the desk. The soft afternoon light filters through the window, highlighting the swirling particles as I lift a bit of the chalk dust with my telekinesis. The fine grains shimmer faintly in my magical grasp, a blank canvas waiting to be shaped.

I start small, isolating a tiny cluster of dust particles. My horn hums softly as I vibrate the atoms within the cluster, speeding them up gradually. The color begins to shift from white to a pale yellow, then to green. The process is slow, painstaking, but it works. Encouraged, I try reversing the effect, slowing the vibrations. The cluster reddens, then fades to a soft orange.

“Okay,” I mutter to myself, releasing the dust and letting it settle back into the dish. “That’s the easy part. Now I just need to scale it up—and not screw it up.”

I pour more chalk onto the desk, creating a larger cloud of particles. My telekinesis wraps around the grains, lifting them into the air in a shimmering, shifting mass. This time, I divide the cluster into sections, each one vibrating at a slightly different frequency. The result is a gradient of colors, from violet at one end to red at the other.

The effect is mesmerizing but unstable. The colors flicker and shift, and maintaining the oscillations takes more effort than I’d like to admit. I focus harder, trying to smooth the transitions and align the colors with specific speeds:

As I work, the particles dance in the air, forming spirals, waves, and abstract patterns. Each motion stretches or compresses the light differently, creating dynamic color shifts. It’s not perfect—some sections flicker unpredictably, and a few grains escape my control entirely—but it’s progress.

After an hour of trial and error, I manage to create a simple “illusion”: a glowing ribbon of light that oscillates between colors as it weaves through the air. It’s rough and far from the elaborate displays I’ll need for the Summer Sun Celebration, but it’s a start.

I release the chalk cloud, letting it settle back into the dish, and rub my temple with a hoof. My horn aches faintly from the sustained effort, but I can’t stop now. I grab a notebook and jot down the associations I’ve worked out, sketching rough diagrams of the oscillation patterns for each color.

“Just a little more,” I mutter, ignoring the growing fatigue creeping into my limbs. I levitate another batch of chalk dust into the air, pushing the boundaries of what I can control. This time, I try to shape the particles into something recognizable—a simple cube. The structure flickers in and out of focus, the colors blending unevenly as my concentration wavers.

“Damn it,” I hiss, releasing the particles and watching them drift lazily back to the desk. My vision blurs for a moment, and I shake my head to clear it. The clock on the wall ticks softly, marking the hours that have slipped by unnoticed.

The cycle repeats: lift the particles, vibrate them, adjust the colors, fail, and try again. My horn throbs with each attempt, the strain of maintaining precision taking its toll. The air in the room grows heavy, the faint smell of chalk mingling with the sharp tang of sweat. I lose track of time, my focus narrowing to the cloud of particles in front of me.

At some point, I stop noticing the little things—the ache in my back, the dryness in my throat, the faint rumble of hunger in my stomach. It’s just me and the chalk dust, the illusion slowly taking shape in the space between failure and frustration.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I manage to create a small, stable figure: a crude sphere hovering in the air, glowing faintly with oscillating colors. It’s imperfect, the edges rough and the transitions clunky, but it holds. I let out a shaky breath, staring at the tiny success as a flicker of pride cuts through the exhaustion.

“Alright,” I whisper to myself, my voice hoarse. “Let’s try something else.”

I push the sphere into a more complex shape, sculpting it into a flattened circle, then elongating it. The colors shift erratically as I work, the vibrations refusing to synchronize. My frustration mounts, but I push through, tweaking the oscillations and stabilizing the structure.

When it finally stabilizes, I realize what I’ve made: a small, simple illusion of a burger. The "bun" glows a soft golden yellow, the "patty" a rich brown, with faint green and red hints for the "lettuce" and "tomato." It’s rudimentary, more suggestive than realistic, but it’s unmistakably a burger.

I stare at it, equal parts amazed and horrified. “A burger,” I mutter, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. “After all that… a freaking burger.”

The illusion flickers once, then collapses as my concentration finally gives out. The chalk dust settles back onto the desk, leaving me slumped in my chair, utterly drained. My horn feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder, and my legs tremble as I stand.

“Enough,” I say aloud, though there’s no one to hear it. “I’m done for now.”

I drag myself to the small corner of the office where I keep my pouches, gathering my notes and sketching out a few adjustments for tomorrow’s attempts. The illusion wasn’t much, but it’s a step in the right direction. For now, it’s all I can do to stumble out of the office and head back to the inn for some much-needed rest.

The next morning, sunlight filters through the thin curtains of my room, bathing everything in a warm, golden glow. I blink awake, stretching out the stiffness in my limbs. For the first time in what feels like days, I don’t have an immediate pounding headache or an overwhelming sense of dread hanging over me. My horn still tingles faintly from yesterday’s exertion, but it’s manageable. Small victories.

After a few minutes of lying there, savoring the relative calm, I force myself to get up and prepare for the day. Breakfast is the usual spread of porridge and bread, which I’ve started to dread almost as much as my mounting responsibilities. Still, I eat quickly, the familiarity of the routine grounding me.

I bring my empty plate to the counter, I glance at the innkeeper. She’s humming softly to herself as she wipes down the counter, her movements efficient and practiced.

The walk to my office is peaceful enough, with the crisp morning air helping to clear my lingering grogginess. Today is for preparation, focus, and making sure I don’t screw this up.

At least, that’s the plan.

As I round the corner to Town Hall, I spot two familiar figures waiting near the door to my office. My stomach sinks. Sweetie Belle stands beside her sister, Rarity, her smaller eyes bright with excitement and her curly mane bouncing as she talks animatedly. Rarity, as always, looks perfectly composed, her purple mane gleaming in the sunlight as she listens with a polite smile.

Fuck.

I completely forgot about Sweetie Belle.

My hooves falter for a second, but Sweetie Belle spots me before I can turn tail. “Mr. Flux!” she calls, waving eagerly. “You’re here! I’ve been waiting for you!”

Rarity looks up, her smile widening as she steps forward. “Good morning, Kinetic Flux,” she says smoothly. “Sweetie Belle has been talking about nothing but her last lesson. She insisted on coming by for another today.”

My brain scrambles for a response. “Oh, uh… good morning, Rarity. Sweetie Belle. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Well, we didn’t want to impose,” Rarity says, tilting her head in that elegant way she does. “But Sweetie was so enthusiastic, and I thought, why not keep the momentum going?”

Sweetie Belle bounces on her hooves, her enthusiasm practically radiating off her. “I practiced so much after the last lesson! I can’t wait to learn something new today!”

I force a smile, my mind racing. Another lesson? Today? I need to work on my illusion project, not juggle atom manipulation lessons with a filly who thinks I’m an actual mage.

“Of course,” I say, trying to keep the strain out of my voice. “I’d be happy to teach her again.”

“Splendid!” Rarity says, her tone bright. “I’ll leave her in your capable hooves, then. Sweetie, darling, remember to listen carefully and follow all of Mr. Flux’s instructions.”

Sweetie Belle nods eagerly. “I will!”

“Thank you,” I say, nodding politely as Rarity turns to leave. The moment she’s out of sight, I turn back to Sweetie Belle, who’s already bouncing with anticipation.

"Alright, Sweetie Belle," I say, plastering on a smile while my brain scrambles for a way to both teach her and keep her occupied long enough for me to sneak in some work on the Doppler illusion. "Last time, we talked about heating things up with telekinesis, right?"

She nods so enthusiastically I worry her head might pop off. "Uh-huh! I practiced heating water all week! I even made tea for Rarity! She said it was ‘passable,’ but I think that’s just her being fancy for ‘really good!’"

"Great! Well, today, we’re going to learn how to… cool things down," I say, carefully measuring my words. "Freezing, if you will. A vital skill for any aspiring mage."

Her eyes light up, and she hops in place. "Oh wow! Freezing stuff sounds so cool! Literally!"

I resist the urge to groan at the pun and usher her inside my office. As soon as the door closes, I quickly sweep away some papers on my desk to make space, then grab a small bowl of water from a shelf. “Okay, so freezing is… well, it’s a little more complicated than heating.”

Sweetie tilts her head, her big, curious eyes locking onto me like I’m some all-knowing sage. If only.

"To freeze something, you don’t just slow down the particles—er, the little tiny pieces that make up everything," I begin. Her blank stare tells me I’ve already lost her. "It’s like, uh, you have to convince the water to ‘hold hooves’ in a very particular way. When enough of them do it, they turn solid."

She blinks. "Water holds hooves?"

"Hooves. Uh, connections." I wave a hoof vaguely, wishing I’d thought this through better. "Look, the point is, there’s something called hydrogen in water—"

"What’s hydrogen?"

My jaw tightens as I try to figure out how to explain it without completely blowing her mind. Then an idea strikes me, and I grin despite myself. "You know what? It’s better if I show you."

Her ears perk up. "Show me? Like an illusion?"

"Exactly. But…" I give her a serious look. "This is advanced magic, Sweetie Belle. It’s not something you can touch or mess with, okay? It’s dangerous."

She nods solemnly, her excitement barely contained. "I won’t touch! Promise!"

I take a deep breath and focus my telekinesis, reaching into the core of the Doppler illusion I’ve been toiling over. It’s not finished, but it’s enough to make a point. The air shimmers as the illusion springs to life, a swirling, glowing representation of water molecules and their bonds. With precise effort, I manipulate the illusion to show the hydrogen and oxygen atoms linking together, slowly forming the lattice structure of ice.

Sweetie Belle gasps, her eyes sparkling as she watches the shifting colors and shapes. "That’s amazing!" she squeals. "It’s so pretty! And that’s what water looks like?"

"In a way, yes," I say, gritting my teeth as the effort to maintain the illusion takes its toll. Sweat beads on my forehead, but seeing her awe-struck expression makes it worth it—for now. "This is what happens when water freezes. The connections between the… parts… lock into place, creating ice."

"Wow!" She practically bounces on her hooves, her tail swishing with excitement. "Can I try?"

"No!" I blurt, a little too sharply. Her ears droop, and I quickly soften my tone. "I mean, not yet. This magic is… unstable. It could hurt you if you’re not careful."

She nods, her enthusiasm dimming only slightly. "Okay, I understand. But it’s still the coolest thing I’ve ever seen! Can I at least watch you do it again?"

I chuckle nervously, letting the illusion fade before it drains me completely. "Maybe another time, Sweetie Belle. For now, why don’t you practice freezing water the safer way I showed you?"

She beams. "You mean convincing the water to hold hooves? I can do that!"

"Exactly," I say, already half-turning to the stack of notes on my desk. "Why don’t you try with this bowl while I, uh, prepare the next lesson?"

Sweetie Belle dives into her task with gusto, and I let out a quiet sigh of relief. At least she’s occupied—for now. As I scribble notes for the Doppler illusion, the thought of my 50-bit hourly rate creeps into my mind. This much effort just to keep the act going… is it even worth it?

I glance at Sweetie Belle, who’s concentrating so hard her tongue sticks out slightly. She mutters under her breath about “hooves” and “connections,” and I can’t help but smile faintly. Maybe it is worth it—at least a little.

Sweetie Belle is thankfully still absorbed in her “hand-holding water molecules” exercise when I slip out the office door. She’s concentrating so intently, eyes squeezed shut and horn glowing, that she barely notices my departure. Which is perfect, because I desperately need a moment outside to work on my own “lesson”—the one that’s going to save my hide at the Summer Sun Celebration.

I inhale the crisp air, taking a few careful steps away from Town Hall. The sun’s already pretty high, and a light breeze stirs the flags and banners overhead. Even that gentle wind has the potential to sabotage my illusion, considering how delicate it is on a larger scale.

Closing my eyes, I channel my magic through my horn, summoning the building blocks for the Doppler illusion I’ve been tinkering with for days. A faint, golden shimmer blossoms in the air in front of me, flickering and twitching as I push my telekinesis into shape. Piece by piece, it forms the vague outline of Celestia’s cutie mark—a stylized (albeit more realistic) sun. Normally, I’ve only tested illusions the size of a serving platter. But Mayor Mare wants something that can be seen across the square, maybe even all the way down the main street.

The first problem: wind. Even the slightest puff can disrupt the shimmering shell of my illusions if I don’t protect them. So I set up a thin telekinetic shield around the perimeter—a second invisible layer that, in theory, keeps stray gusts from messing it up. It’s like juggling with one hoof while balancing on the other three, because I'm already dedicating a massive amount of mental energy to shaping each tiny point of light within the sun.

The second problem: size. Scaling this up is, frankly, brutal. My horn throbs as I carefully expand the illusion, each minuscule unit requiring constant adjustment. I’m effectively orchestrating a thousand moving parts, each one shifting color, brightness, and position—plus the intangible shell that needs to remain rock-steady against the wind.

Sweat beads along my forehead as the illusion slowly swells until it’s about six feet across. The bright, swirling form flickers and pulses like a living flame, and if I squint just right, I can almost convince myself it’s the real sun. A three-dimensional sun, no less, hovering a few hooves above the ground.

“Come on, hold together…” I mutter under my breath. My horn feels like it’s got a clamp tightening around it, but for a moment, everything seems stable.

Then a slightly stronger breeze sweeps past, rustling my mane—and the flickering edge of the sun warps. I grit my teeth, redoubling my focus on the protective shell. It’s a constant back-and-forth of pushing the illusion outward while reinforcing the invisible barrier. My breathing gets ragged as I hold it all in place.

Mayor Mare wants something show-stopping, but how long do I really have to maintain it? If my memory of the show’s timeline is right, once Twilight Sparkle arrives, all Tartarus is going to break loose pretty quickly. Nightmare Moon will show up, Celestia will vanish, and… yeah, maybe this big fancy display won’t even matter at that point. But I can’t exactly bank on it failing—I need to be prepared if it doesn’t.

I manage to hold the sun for a good thirty seconds before I have to let go. The illusion collapses into shimmering fragments that disperse in the wind. I stagger, panting, my horn numb from the effort. Another day of practice like this, and I might just pass out mid-spell.

Still, I got it bigger than before, and that’s something. Maybe if I build up my stamina, I can hold it for the entire ceremony—whenever that is. I grimace. I should probably find out soon. But the less I know, the less I have to worry, right?

“Baby steps,” I whisper to myself. “Just… baby steps.”

I straighten up, massaging my temple with a hoof. A rush of fatigue washes over me.

I straighten up, massaging my temple with a hoof. A rush of fatigue washes over me, and I fight the urge to just slump against the wall and call it a day. For a moment, I close my eyes, reminding myself that I’m not done. I need to check on—

“Mr. Flux!” a shrill voice yells from behind me.

Sweetie Belle practically skids around the corner, a triumphant grin on her face. She’s clutching a glass of water—well, ice now—like it’s a trophy. “Look! I did it!” She hops up and down, the ice inside clinking like a tiny bell choir.

My stomach twists. That was… fast. “Wow,” I manage, trying not to sound too astonished. “You really froze it, huh?”

Sweetie Belle thrusts the glass toward me, her eyes gleaming. “Look how solid it is! I did that ‘hydrogen-hoof-holding’ thing you told me about.” She pauses, scrunching her nose. “Or… something like that. Either way, it worked!”

I force a smile, suppressing the little voice that wants to ask, Why am I such a good teacher? I was hoping she’d take a while—maybe the rest of the morning. More time for me to wrestle with my illusions in peace.

“That’s… excellent progress,” I say finally, clearing my throat. “So, you’ve mastered freezing water. Good job.”

She perks up. “So what’s next? Another lesson?” She practically bounces in place. “Do I get to learn illusions next? Pleeease?”

Her expression is so earnest it’s almost painful. And of course, illusions are exactly what I’m trying to master myself. If she pulls some amazing feat before me, I’m toast. Or if she digs too deep into how it actually works… I’m double toast. Still, I can’t exactly brush her off without arousing suspicion, and we all know who pays me fifty bits an hour to keep her occupied.

My mind whirls, trying to stitch together a plan. “Right. Illusions. Sure.” I swallow, nodding more confidently than I feel. “I guess we can move on to what’s, uh… known as the Doppler Illusion Spell.”

Her face lights up. “That’s the one you showed me earlier! With the swirling colors, right?”

I wince inwardly. I really didn’t want her paying too much attention when I used it to demonstrate water molecules. But her recall is, as usual, better than I’d like. “Yes, that one. It’s… complicated. Advanced. Even for me.”

“Cool!” she chirps, rocking up onto her hind legs. “I’m ready!”

I let out a slow breath, scanning the area. A light wind ripples the nearby flags, not enough to ruin a smaller-scale test, but enough that I’ll have to stay vigilant. “Alright. Let’s go somewhere with a bit of space, but not too public. I don’t want anypony—er, I mean, I don’t want to cause a stir.”

Sweetie Belle nods fiercely, and we head a short distance down the side of Town Hall to a little alcove shielded from the main street. I plant my hooves firmly and motion for her to stand beside me. My horn still throbs from my earlier attempt, but I gather my telekinesis again, feeling that familiar buzz behind my forehead.

“So the idea,” I begin, eyes half-lidded in concentration, “is that you’re going to manipulate the atoms in the air. You’re essentially moving them toward and away from the observer—”

“What’s an observer?” she interrupts.

“Anypony watching,” I say, resisting the urge to sigh. “When the atoms moves toward them, it looks bluer. When it moves away, it looks redder.”

She blinks owlishly. “Why?”

“Because due to—er, the spell—stretches or squishes the light waves as they move,” I explain, keeping my voice calm even as I scramble to frame it in pony terms. “When the light waves are squished closer together, they look bluer. When they stretch out, they look redder. It’s a natural effect of manipulating light with telekinesis.”

Sweetie Belle tilts her head, her horn faintly glowing as if she’s already trying to picture it. “So… the spell changes the colors by squishing and stretching light? Like stretching dough?”

“Uh, yes, exactly like dough!” I latch onto the metaphor, relieved she’s buying it. “The harder you push or pull the ‘magic dough,’ the more dramatic the color changes.”

Her eyes sparkle with understanding, and she nods enthusiastically. “Okay, that makes sense! So how do I do it?”

I clear my throat, stalling for just a moment. “First, you need to focus on a small amount of dust in your magic. That’s your starting point. Once you’ve got that, you’ll use your intent to ‘push’ and ‘pull’ the magic dough in a controlled rhythm very quickly.”

Sweetie Belle narrows her eyes in concentration. “So… make it glow, then push and pull. Got it.”

“Not so fast,” I interject, raising a hoof. “You also need to visualize the pattern. This isn’t just about moving light—it’s about creating an illusion that flows smoothly. Imagine the atoms vibrating, shifting from blue to red and back again. The more precise your visualization, the smoother the effect.”

Her horn glows brighter as she frowns in thought. “Okay, so… atoms, push-pull, and vibrating pattern. Is there a chant?”

Sweetie Belle’s question stops me cold. My brain stutters for a moment as I try to think of an answer that won’t expose me as a fraud.

“A chant?” I repeat, buying time. “Uh… well, no. Not for my spells.”

Her ears perk up in curiosity, and her head tilts again. “Why not? Everypony says spells need a chant. Rarity told me it’s like… the words give the spell its shape. If you don’t have the chant, how does your magic work?”

I feel the metaphorical trap closing around me, and my mind races for an excuse. “Well, uh, you see… my magic is a little different,” I start, my voice trailing off. “I, uh… use a more… intuitive approach.”

Sweetie Belle blinks at me, her expression equal parts intrigued and confused. “What does that mean?”

“It means…” I cough awkwardly, suddenly very interested in the dirt at my hooves. “It means that my spells are… um, advanced. Really advanced. They don’t need chants because they’re, uh… self-contained! Yeah, self-contained. They pull the intent and visualization directly into the spell without needing words.”

Her brow furrows. “So… you’re saying your magic skips a step?”

“Exactly!” I say quickly, latching onto her interpretation like a lifeline. “That’s why I’ve been able to teach you so quickly. It’s, uh, a unique technique I’ve developed. Streamlined, you know?”

Sweetie Belle looks impressed, her eyes wide. “Wow! That’s so cool! So you’ve invented your own magic?”

I laugh nervously, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead. “You could say that, sure. It’s, uh, not something just anypony can do, though. It takes a lot of practice. Years of… study.”

She gasps. “So does that mean I can learn how to make spells like that too?”

My stomach does a flip. “Well… let’s not get ahead of ourselves. that's, uh, very advanced. And honestly, it’s not always practical for every spell. Most ponies are better off using chants—it’s more reliable that way.”

Sweetie Belle nods slowly, clearly deep in thought. “I guess that makes sense. But it’s still amazing you can do it without chants. You must be one of the most powerful mages in Equestria!”

My heart skips a beat, and I force a shaky laugh. “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. I’m just… experienced. That’s all.”

She beams at me, completely oblivious to my internal panic. “I can’t wait to tell Rarity about this! She’s always saying how important chants are, but now I can tell her there’s a better way!”

“Wait—no!” I blurt, a little too loudly. Sweetie jumps slightly, and I quickly soften my tone. “I mean, let’s keep this between us for now, okay? It’s… uh, part of your special training. We don’t want to confuse anypony else.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh! Like a secret spell technique?”

“Exactly!” I say, nodding emphatically. “A secret spell technique. Just for you.”

Sweetie Belle nods solemnly, her little chest puffing out with pride. “Got it! I won’t say a word, Mr. Flux. I promise!”

“Alright, Sweetie Belle,” I say, pulling a small leather pouch from beneath my desk. Inside, the powdered chalk gleams faintly in the sunlight filtering through the window. It’s not enchanted or special in any way—just plain, white chalk from the apothecary. But Sweetie doesn’t need to know that.

“This is what you’ll use to practice the Doppler Illusion,” I explain, pouring a small mound of the chalk into my hoof. I blow on it gently, scattering a few particles to demonstrate how fine it is. “The chalk is important. It’s light enough to move easily with your magic, and the white color ensures the spell works properly. Colored powders scatter light differently, and that could mess up the effect.”

Sweetie Belle’s eyes widen as she leans in, her curiosity palpable. “Wow! So it’s like… special mage chalk?”

“Exactly,” I say, fighting the urge to roll my eyes at my own lie. “It’s delicate and precise, just like the spell itself. You’ll need to control every particle carefully to get the illusion just right.”

I hand her a single speck of chalk, barely visible against her pale hoof. “For now, I want you to focus on moving just this one. Start small—it’s not about how big or flashy your illusion is. It’s about precision.”

Sweetie Belle frowns, clearly skeptical. “Just one speck? How’s that supposed to look like an illusion?”

“Baby steps,” I say with a shrug. “If you can’t move one speck properly, how do you expect to move hundreds? This isn’t about showing off. It’s about learning properly.”

She nods slowly, her horn already glowing faintly as she levitates the speck of chalk in front of her. It wobbles slightly in the air, the faint shimmer of her magic holding it in place.

“Good,” I say, stepping back toward the open door. “Now, try shifting it forward and back. Imagine the vibrating pattern we talked about. Keep the motion steady.”

Sweetie Belle bites her lip, her eyes narrowing in concentration. The speck of chalk moves a fraction forward, then jerks backward unevenly. She lets out a frustrated groan. “This is so hard!”

“Welcome to illusions,” I say, suppressing a grin. “They’re not supposed to be easy. Just keep at it. You’ll figure it out.”

She huffs but doesn’t argue, her focus locked on the chalk. Satisfied that she’s sufficiently occupied, I grab the pouch of powdered chalk and step outside to work on my own spell. The Summer Sun Celebration is looming, and I can’t afford to waste any more time.

Out in the open, I scatter a generous handful of the chalk into the air, letting it form a faint cloud in front of me. My horn lights up, and I channel my telekinesis into the particles, pushing and pulling them in carefully measured patterns. The illusion begins to take shape—a three-dimensional sun, glowing faintly gold with ripples of red and blue shifting across its surface.

The wind picks up, scattering some of the chalk and disrupting the pattern. I grit my teeth and adjust the telekinetic barrier around the edges, reinforcing the shell to keep the particles contained. My horn aches with the effort, but the sun grows steadily larger, its glowing form flickering like a living flame.

It’s not perfect—far from it. The edges waver, and the colors aren’t as vivid as I’d like. But it’s getting there. I can almost see it: the finished illusion hovering above Ponyville, awe-inspiring and majestic, just as Mayor Mare requested.

And then, finally, I can stop worrying about this spell and move on to the next. Sweetie Belle’s eager questions and rapid progress are a constant reminder that I need to stay ahead of her. If she masters this before I do, my carefully constructed facade could start to crumble.

For now, though, I focus on the sun. One particle at a time, one oscillation at a time, I shape the illusion, determined to perfect it before the Summer Sun Celebration—and before Sweetie Belle catches up to me.

As I work on the shimmering illusion of Celestia’s sun, I hear a frustrated groan behind me. I glance over my shoulder to see Sweetie Belle stomping her hooves, her horn still glowing faintly as she struggles with her speck of chalk.

“This is impossible!” she cries, her magic faltering. The chalk tumbles to the ground, and she glares at it as though it insulted her. “How do you make it look so easy, Mr. Flux? Your sun thing is amazing, and I can’t even get one speck to move right!”

I wince internally but keep my expression neutral. Her frustration is understandable—she’s a filly trying to replicate something I’m only barely managing myself. But the last thing I need is for her to start questioning why it’s so hard. “Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself,” I say, trying to sound reassuring. “I’ve been practicing this spell for months," I lie, "It takes a lot of time and effort to get it right.”

Sweetie Belle looks up at me, her brow furrowing. “Months? Really?”

I nod, keeping my voice steady. “Absolutely. Illusions are some of the most advanced magic out there. You’re doing great for your first try. Just keep practicing, and you’ll get there.”

Her ears droop a little, but she nods, her determination flickering back into place. “Okay… I’ll keep trying.”

“Good,” I say, turning back to my illusion. I tweak the edges of the sun, smoothing out a ripple that threatened to distort the whole structure. The colors shimmer faintly, and for a moment, I feel a flicker of pride—before it’s quickly swallowed by exhaustion.

The sound of hoofsteps approaching pulls me out of my focus, letting the chalk dust fall freely. I glance up to see Rarity strolling toward us, her perfectly styled mane gleaming in the sunlight. “Sweetie Belle! Kinetic Flux!” she calls, her tone as refined as ever. “I trust your lesson is wrapping up?”

Sweetie Belle immediately brightens, rushing over to her sister. “Rarity! You’re here!”

Rarity smiles indulgently, her gaze flicking to me. “I hope she wasn’t too much trouble, Mr. Flux. Sweetie can be quite… excitable when she’s eager to learn.”

“Not at all,” I say, managing a polite smile despite the growing ache in my horn. “She’s been very focused.”

“Focused on failing,” Sweetie mutters, kicking at the dirt. “I couldn’t do the illusion spell. It’s way too hard.”

Rarity raises an elegant brow. “An illusion spell? My, that does sound advanced. Perhaps a bit ambitious for a filly your age.”

Sweetie Belle perks up. “But I did learn the freezing spell!” she blurts, holding up the glass of frozen water she’s been carrying around. “Look! I can freeze stuff now!”

Rarity’s eyes widen as she takes the glass, inspecting it with genuine surprise. “You learned a freezing spell?” She glances at me, her voice rising slightly. “You taught her this?”

I nod, feigning modesty. “She picked it up quickly. Sweetie Belle has a lot of potential.”

Rarity’s expression shifts from surprise to something closer to awe. “This is incredible! Sweetie, you just learned the heating spell the other day. And now freezing? Most unicorns take weeks—months, even—to master a single spell. The chant phonetics alone are a challenge, not to mention balancing the pattern and intent.”

Sweetie Belle beams, puffing out her chest. “Mr. Flux is the best teacher ever! He said his magic is different—it’s, like, more advanced or something. That’s why I’m learning so fast!”

What the hell Sweetie.

I suppress a nervous gulp as Rarity’s gaze lands on me again, her wide, glistening eyes unblinking. The sheer intensity of her focus makes my stomach churn. She knows. She has to know. My “magic” isn’t special; it’s smoke and mirrors—literal in some cases. I brace myself for the accusation, the judgment, the inevitable exposure.

But instead, Rarity’s expression softens. Her lashes lower ever so slightly, and she takes a slow step closer. Too close.

“Well, Mr. Flux,” she purrs, her tone suddenly lilting in a way that sets every alarm in my brain blaring, “you truly are a remarkable teacher. It’s rare to find somepony so skilled, so… dedicated to their craft.”

My heart skips a beat, and not in the good way. No, no, no, this can’t be happening.

“Oh, uh, it’s nothing,” I say, my voice cracking slightly. I take a small step back, only for her to close the gap with a graceful flick of her tail. “Just… doing my job.”

“But what a job you’re doing,” she says, her smile widening to reveal those gleaming teeth that somehow manage to look predatory despite her lack of canines. “Sweetie Belle has struggled with her magic for so long, and yet in just two lessons with you, she’s made more progress than with any other tutor. I must admit, I find myself quite… impressed.”

Her eyes lock onto mine, huge and moist, the veins under her pale coat faintly visible in the harsh afternoon sun. I feel a cold sweat break out along my back. My legs twitch with the urge to run, but I can’t just leave Sweetie Belle standing there. Focus, Kinetic. You’re a professional. You can handle this.

“That’s, uh… kind of you to say,” I stammer, trying to keep my tone even. “But really, it’s Sweetie Belle who deserves the credit. She’s a quick learner.”

“Hmm,” Rarity hums, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You’re far too humble, Mr. Flux. Such talent deserves recognition.”

I swallow hard, my stomach twisting into knots. The more she talks, the harder it is to look at her—those enormous, bulging eyes, the way the sunlight catches every little vein. My vision swims as I feel the bile rising in my throat.

“I should, uh, get back to preparing for the Summer Sun Celebration,” I say quickly, taking another step back. “Lots to do, you know.”

“Oh, of course,” Rarity says, her voice dropping into a teasing lilt. “I imagine a Town Mage like yourself must have many important tasks. Perhaps we could… discuss them over tea sometime?”

I freeze, my brain grinding to a halt. Did she just—? No. No way.

“I—uh—tea? That’s, um…” I trail off, my mouth dry as I desperately search for an escape. “I don’t… really drink tea.”

Rarity raises a brow, looking genuinely surprised. “No tea? How peculiar. Perhaps coffee, then? Or perhaps you’d prefer something… stronger?”

I force a laugh, though it comes out sounding more like a strangled cough. “Oh, no, I, uh… I’m not much of a drinks pony. Work keeps me… busy.”

“Of course,” she says smoothly, her smile never wavering. “Your dedication is admirable. But do let me know if you ever find a moment to relax. A pony like you deserves a little indulgence now and then.”

I manage a weak nod, every instinct screaming at me to get out of this conversation. “Sure, I’ll… think about it.”

“Wonderful,” she says, giving me a lingering look before turning back to Sweetie Belle. “Come along, darling. Let’s leave Mr. Flux to his important work.”

Sweetie Belle skips happily to her sister’s side, oblivious to the tension in the air. “Bye, Mr. Flux! Thanks for the lesson!”

“Yeah,” I croak, watching them walk away. “Anytime.”

The moment they’re out of sight, I collapse against the nearest wall, my legs shaking. My stomach churns violently, and I lean forward, dry-heaving into the grass. What just happened? Of all the things I’ve had to endure in this bizarre pony-filled world, this might be the worst yet.

I all but stumble back into my office, slamming the door shut behind me. The cool dimness is a relief, but it doesn’t stop my stomach from churning or my brain from replaying that conversation. Rarity. Flirting. Why? My whole body shudders at the memory of her unnervingly large eyes staring into mine, every vein under her coat seemingly magnified by the unforgiving sunlight.

I slump against the door, willing myself to stop thinking about it before I actually puke. “Okay, Kinetic,” I mumble, dragging myself upright. “Bigger problems. Focus.”

I shuffle to my desk, the pouch of powdered chalk still resting on it. It’s comforting, in a way—something concrete to work with. Something I can control. My horn lights up as I pour a small amount of the chalk onto the desk, watching the fine particles scatter slightly in the faint breeze from the window.

My mind drifts back to the illusion of Celestia’s sun I’d been working on earlier. Associating the color shift with a speed had made all the difference.

I summon a small handful of chalk into the air, focusing my telekinesis to keep the particles suspended in a perfect sphere. The faint shimmer of light catches the edges, and I begin to shift the sphere forward and back, imagining the red-to-blue pattern as the particles move. To my surprise, the effect is strikingly vivid. The reds glow with a warmth that seems almost alive, while the blues feel icy and sharp.

“Wow,” I mutter, a genuine smile creeping onto my face for the first time all day. “That’s… pretty good.”

I tweak the sphere, adding a slow rotation to simulate the sun’s movement. The colors shift seamlessly, rippling like waves on water. It’s mesmerizing, almost hypnotic. For a moment, I forget my exhaustion, my panic, and the utterly bizarre conversation with Rarity.

This is what I’m good at. This is what I know.

I push the illusion a step further, shaping the sphere into the faint outline of Celestia’s sun once more. The three-dimensional effect holds beautifully, the radiant colors rippling along the edges as though alive. The precision is better than I’d ever managed before, and I can’t help but feel a surge of pride.

Maybe Sweetie Belle’s right. Maybe I am great at this.

The thought makes me pause, my horn faltering slightly. Sweetie Belle. She’s picking up spells—or at least my versions of them—far faster than I expected. And Rarity’s comments about how quickly she’s learning only add to the pressure. If Sweetie keeps advancing like this, it’s only a matter of time before she asks questions I can’t answer or wants to try something I can’t fake.

The sphere flickers and collapses into a faint cloud of chalk, and I groan, slumping onto the desk. “One thing at a time,” I mutter to myself. “Get through the Summer Sun Celebration. Then you can panic about everything else.”

I glance out the window, the banners of the upcoming celebration fluttering in the distance. Time is running out, but for the first time, I feel a flicker of confidence. If I can perfect this illusion, if I can pull off the show Mayor Mare is expecting, maybe I can keep this charade going a little longer.

With a deep breath, I gather the chalk again, forming a new sphere. “Alright,” I say, steadying my focus. “Let’s make it sharper.”

As the sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across Ponyville, I decide I’ve done all I can for the day. My head throbs from overexertion, and my hooves drag as I make my way back to the inn. The thought of a bed—even a lumpy one—feels like a distant dream.

Pushing open the inn’s creaky front door, I’m greeted by the same pegasus mare who’s always stationed behind the counter. Her coat is a soft yellow, her mane a nondescript brown, and I still don’t know her name despite staying here for weeks. I’ve just been calling her “Miss” whenever we’ve interacted. It’s… awkward.

She glances up as the bell above the door jingles, her wide, curious eyes locking onto me. “Good evening, Mr. Flux,” she says, her voice carrying that same polite cheer as always. “Long day?”

“Something like that,” I mutter, trudging over to the counter. “Hey, quick question. What’s your name?”

Her ears perk up slightly. “Oh! I don’t think I ever introduced myself. I’m Buttercup Breeze.” She offers a small smile, tilting her head. “And you?”

“Kinetic Flux,” I reply, though she clearly already knows. “Nice to officially meet you, Buttercup.”

“Likewise!” she chirps. “Was there something you needed?”

I glance around, making sure nopony else is within earshot. “Yeah. When exactly is the Summer Sun Celebration?”

She blinks, looking mildly surprised. “You don’t know? It’s tomorrow night. Well, technically, it starts tomorrow night and ends at sunrise the next morning. It’s a whole big thing.”

“Of course it is,” I mutter under my breath, rubbing a hoof against my temple. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Buttercup says, her cheerful tone unshaken. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, I’m good,” I say, already turning toward the stairs. “Have a good night.”

“You too, Mr. Flux!”

I don’t bother responding as I trudge up to my room, my mind racing despite my exhaustion. Tomorrow night. Tomorrow night?! Mayor Mare couldn’t have told me this sooner? I’ve been scrambling, assuming I had at least a week to get this illusion perfect. Instead, I’m finding out now—less than twenty-four hours before the event.

I throw open the door to my small, cramped room and flop onto the bed with a groan. The feathers depress under my weight, and the pillow feels like it’s stuffed with hay—because it probably is—but I’m too tired to care.

“Alright, calm down,” I mutter to myself, staring up at the ceiling. “You’ve got most of it down. The sun illusion is decent. You just need to tweak it a little. It’s fine.”

Except it isn’t fine. The thought of the entire town watching me perform a grand magical display makes my stomach churn. The thought of Princess Celestia herself watching is even worse. And then there’s Twilight Sparkle, the magical prodigy who’s almost certainly going to see right through my tricks the moment she lays eyes on them.

But then I remember the timeline—the one thing keeping me sane. If the Summer Sun Celebration is tomorrow night, that means Nightmare Moon is showing up. Celestia’s going to be captured, Twilight’s going to go rushing off to the Everfree Forest, and Ponyville is going to descend into chaos. By the time I’m supposed to perform, there probably won’t even be an audience left to see it.

The thought is oddly comforting. I let out a slow breath, my muscles relaxing slightly. “It’ll all go to hell before I have to do anything,” I mutter, almost convincing myself.

Still, I can’t afford to slack off. If things don’t fall apart like I’m expecting, I need to be ready. The sun illusion needs to be flawless. Perfect. I’ll give it one more round of practice in the morning.

For now, though, I close my eyes and let exhaustion drag me into an uneasy sleep, my dreams filled with swirling lights and looming, veiny eyes.

Author's Note

White dust doppler.

1. Blueshift (Toward Observer)

When the dust moves toward the observer, the wavelengths shorten (shift toward violet/blue).

Target Color| Start Wavelength |End Wavelength|Speed Required
Violet 450nm (Blue) → 380nm (Violet) ~47,000 m/s (47 km/s)
Blue 500nm (Green) → 450nm (Blue) ~33,000 m/s (33 km/s)
Green 570nm (Yellow) → 500nm (Green) ~42,000 m/s (42 km/s)
Yellow 620nm (Orange) → 570nm (Yellow) ~24,000 m/s (24 km/s)
Orange 750nm (Red) → 620nm (Orange) ~52,000 m/s (52 km/s)

2. Redshift (Away from Observer)

When the dust moves away from the observer, the wavelengths stretch (shift toward red).

Target Color| Start Wavelength |End Wavelength|Speed Required
Blue 380nm (Violet) → 450nm (Blue) ~47,000 m/s (47 km/s)
Green 450nm (Blue) → 500nm (Green) ~33,000 m/s (33 km/s)
Yellow 500nm (Green) → 570nm (Yellow) ~42,000 m/s (42 km/s)
Orange 570nm (Yellow) → 620nm (Orange) ~24,000 m/s (24 km/s)
Red 620nm (Orange) → 750nm (Red) ~52,000 m/s (52 km/s)

Well, Well, If It Isn't The Consequences Of My Own Actions.
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Applied Mathemagics

Well, Well, If It Isn't The Consequences Of My Own Actions.

I wake up to the sound of muffled voices and hoofsteps outside my room. Sunlight filters through the cracks in the shutters, and for a brief moment, I lie there, trying to convince myself I don’t have to get up. But the Summer Sun Celebration is tonight, and I don’t have the luxury of procrastinating.

With a groan, I roll out of bed and drag myself downstairs to the inn’s small dining area. Buttercup Breeze is behind the counter, as cheerful as ever. “Good morning, Mr. Flux! Did you sleep well?”

“Like a rock,” I mutter, which isn’t entirely a lie. “What’s for breakfast?”

She gestures to a modest spread: a steaming pot of oatmeal, a small platter of sliced fruits, and a pitcher of juice. Nothing fancy, but it’s better than going hungry. I fill a bowl with oatmeal, grab a couple of apple slices, and sit at one of the tables near the window. The chatter of other guests filters in around me as I eat, the creamy oatmeal and sweet fruit doing a decent job of shaking off the last remnants of sleep.

Once I’m done, I thank Buttercup with a nod and head out into the bright morning sunlight. Ponyville is buzzing with activity. Ponies are hanging banners, arranging flowers, and setting up tables in the town square. The excitement is palpable, even for me.

When I reach Town Hall, the preparations are in full swing. Ponies scurry about, carrying decorations and supplies, while a few others rehearse songs and speeches. I weave through the crowd, eventually finding Mayor Mare near the stage, directing the setup with an authoritative air.

“Good morning, Mayor,” I say, approaching her.

She turns, her expression lighting up. “Ah, Mr. Flux! I’m glad you’re here. How are your preparations coming along?”

“Pretty well,” I say, trying not to let my nerves show. “I’ve got the illusion mostly ready. It’s a three-dimensional representation of Princess Celestia’s cutie mark—the sun. I can unveil it whenever you need.”

Her eyes widen, and she claps her hooves together. “Oh, that sounds marvelous! Just the kind of grand display we need to make this celebration unforgettable. Let’s have it appear just as Princess Celestia is announced.”

“Got it,” I say, nodding. “I’ll time it for the announcement.”

She beams at me before turning to oversee more of the preparations. I take a deep breath, mentally running through everything I’ll need for the illusion. It’s all coming together—except for one glaring problem.

The celebration is happening just before dawn. My illusions rely on light to scatter and shift, and while there’ll be some ambient light from the moon and stars, it won’t be nearly enough for the sun illusion to look right. I’ll need a light source.

I leave Town Hall, my mind racing. Lanterns. Paper lanterns should work. They’re cheap, lightweight, and easy to set up. The apothecary carries them—I saw them when bought the chalk there.

I head to the shop, where the familiar scent of herbs and dried flowers hits me as soon as I step inside. The mare behind the counter greets me with a warm smile. “Welcome back! Need more chalk?”

“Not today,” I say, glancing around the cluttered shelves. “Do you have any paper lanterns?”

Her ears perk up. “Oh, yes! We just got a shipment for the celebration. How many do you need?”

“Six,” I say after a moment’s thought. That should be enough to provide decent lighting for the illusion without overcomplicating things.

She ducks behind the counter and comes back with a bundle of folded lanterns and a small box of candles. “Here you go. Anything else?”

“No, this is perfect,” I say, dropping a few bits onto the counter.

With the lanterns tucked under one foreleg, I head back to Town Hall and set about finding the best spots to hang them. A few curious ponies give me questioning looks as I fiddle with the placement, but they don’t say anything. By the time I’m done, the area above the stage will be bathed in a soft, warm glow—enough to give my illusion the light it needs to really pop.

“Not bad,” I mutter to myself, stepping back to admire my work. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do. Now all I have to do is wait for tonight—and hope everything goes exactly as planned. Or, failing that, hope it all goes so wrong that nopony notices my part in it.

As the day drags on and the buzz of preparation grows louder, I make my way toward the central spot where Princess Celestia is supposed to appear during the Summer Sun Celebration. The stage is set, the decorations are pristine, and ponies are bustling about, adding finishing touches to every corner of Town Hall.

I can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on me. If my illusion fails, I’ll be exposed in front of the entire town. Worse, if Twilight Sparkle—the magical prodigy herself—catches on to my little scam, I might not even make it through the night.

Still, I cling to the faint hope that I’ll avoid her entirely. She’s supposed to oversee the preparations, but maybe she’s too busy checking on the food, music, and decorations to bother with my part. Yeah, right, I think bitterly.

As I round the corner to the designated stage area, my hope dies a quick and painful death. Standing there, waiting, is none other than Twilight Sparkle. Her lavender coat gleams in the soft evening light, and her mane is perfectly in place despite the apparent stress she’s under. Beside her is a baby dragon—Spike, if I remember correctly—holding a clipboard and looking equally busy.

“Oh, no,” I mutter under my breath, stopping in my tracks. My pulse quickens as a cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. I briefly consider turning around and running, but her sharp eyes lock onto me before I can move.

“You must be Kinetic Flux!” she says, striding toward me with a professional smile. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Uh… you have?” I ask, my voice cracking slightly.

“Yes!” she says, stopping a few paces in front of me. “I’m Twilight Sparkle, Princess Celestia’s personal student. I’m overseeing the preparations for the celebration, and I’ve heard you’re in charge of the magical display.”

I force a smile, trying to steady my nerves. “That’s right.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, though her expression remains polite. “I’ll admit, I’m curious. Illusions like the one you’re planning typically require a lot of mana. I assumed there would be a team of unicorns working together, but Mayor Mare mentioned it’s just you. How are you managing that?”

My stomach sinks. Of course, she’d know about the mana requirements for a proper illusion spell.

“Oh, well,” I say, stalling as I desperately search for an explanation. “It’s, uh, a unique technique. I’ve developed a method that… minimizes mana consumption by focusing on precision rather than brute force.”

Twilight tilts her head, clearly intrigued. “Really? That’s fascinating. Can you show me?”

My heart skips a beat. “Show you? Now?”

“If that’s not too much trouble,” she says, smiling politely. “I’d love to see how it works.”

“Uh…” I glance around, trying to think of an excuse. “I was planning to save the full effect for the celebration.”

“Oh, I understand,” she says quickly. “You don’t have to show me the whole thing. Just a demonstration would be fine. I’m always eager to learn about new magical techniques.”

Her enthusiasm is almost palpable, and I can feel the noose tightening around my neck. She doesn’t seem suspicious—yet—but if I can’t sell this, it’s game over.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm. “Alright,” I say finally. “I can show you a small version. But keep in mind, it’s still a work in progress.”

Twilight nods eagerly, her eyes practically sparkling. “Of course! Take your time.”

I suppress a groan as I pull a pinch of powdered chalk from my pouch and scatter it into the air. My horn lights up, and I channel my telekinesis into the particles, focusing on creating a small, simplified version of the sun illusion. The sphere forms slowly, its edges shimmering faintly as I manipulate the colors to shift.

Twilight’s eyes widen as the illusion takes shape, the faint shimmer of color rippling across the small, glowing sphere. “That’s… amazing,” she says softly, leaning closer. “But—wait a second. That was so fast. Illusions usually require a chant, don’t they? A really long one, and the visualization is incredibly complex. How did you manage it so quickly?”

My heart races as I try to come up with a plausible explanation. Big words, just use big words. “Ah, well, you see, my method streamlines the process,” I say, waving a hoof vaguely. “It eliminates the need for extensive verbal components by… uh… using a recursive cognitive loop to reinforce the visualization directly.”

Twilight’s brow furrows in thought, and my stomach drops. “Recursive cognitive loop…” she repeats, her voice trailing off. “You mean you’re using a layered mental structure to reduce the mental load of the intent while allowing real-time corrections to the visualization?”

“Yes!” I say quickly, latching onto her interpretation. “Exactly! That’s, uh, precisely what I meant.”

She nods, her curiosity clearly piqued. “Fascinating. But wouldn’t that still require a significant amount of mana to sustain? I didn’t sense much magic at all when you cast it.”

“Oh, that’s because I… uh… use a resonance stabilization technique,” I say, throwing out another vague term and hoping it sticks. “It minimizes the energy cost by aligning the magical field with the natural oscillations of the particles involved.”

Her eyes light up with understanding. “Oh, so you’re amplifying the inherent energy in the particles themselves to reduce the strain on your mana pool! That’s brilliant! I’ve never heard of a unicorn doing that before. It must take incredible precision.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, nodding along like I totally understand what she’s talking about. “Lots of precision. Years of practice.”

Twilight leans in closer, studying the glowing sphere with an intensity that makes me nervous. “And why the chalk?” she asks, gesturing to the faint cloud of particles still lingering in the air. “Illusions don’t normally require physical components. Is it some kind of focus for the spell?”

“Yes!” I blurt, grasping at the lifeline. “The chalk is a… catalytic medium. Its particulate nature allows for finer control over the refractive index, which is crucial for the color shifts.”

She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. “So, it’s more like a conduit for the spell than a component of the illusion itself?”

I blink, caught off guard. “Uh… yes. That’s exactly it.”

She nods, seemingly satisfied, and reaches a hoof toward the illusion. “May I?”

“No!” I snap, stepping forward and extinguishing the illusion in a flash of light. Twilight jumps slightly, her hoof frozen midair as she looks at me in surprise.

“Why not?” she asks, her tone more curious than offended.

I force a chuckle, trying to cover my panic. “It’s, uh, incredibly delicate. The slightest physical disruption could destabilize the entire spell matrix. It’s not… safe.”

Twilight frowns slightly but nods. “I see. That makes sense. A spell like this must be very fragile, especially with such precise particle manipulation.”

“Exactly,” I say, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. “It’s not something you want to touch.”

She smiles again, her enthusiasm returning. “Well, I can’t wait to see the full display tonight. It’s going to be incredible, I’m sure of it.”

I nod stiffly, my nerves still frayed. “Right. Incredible. I’ll, uh… make sure it’s ready.”

Twilight beams at me one last time before turning to Spike, who’s still scribbling notes on his clipboard. “Come on, Spike. We’ve got a few more things to check before tonight.”

“Got it,” the dragon says, giving me a quick wave before following Twilight.

As they walk away, I let out a shaky breath, my legs nearly giving out beneath me. She bought it—barely. But her questions were way too close for comfort. I only skated by because she filled in the blanks herself. If she pushes any further, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep up the act.

For now, though, I’ve dodged the bullet. And with any luck, by the time she realizes anything’s off, it’ll be too late for it to matter.

The festival slowly comes to life as the evening sets in. Stalls line the square, ponies chatter excitedly, and the scent of sweets and roasted treats wafts through the air. Lanterns flicker softly, casting warm, golden light over the crowd as I wander among the stands, trying to distract myself from the looming performance.

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Spotting a stand selling caramel apples, I approach the vendor, a cheerful earth pony mare with a green coat and an apron dusted with sugar.

“One caramel apple, please,” I say, pulling out a few bits.

“That’ll be three bits,” she says, setting one of the glossy, golden treats on the counter.

I nod and place the coins on the stand. She blinks at me, then shrugs, pocketing the money. I grab the caramel apple and turn away, already taking a bite. The sweet, sticky caramel and crisp apple are a welcome distraction, at least for a moment.

“Hey, magic guy!”

I nearly choke on my apple as Rainbow Dash drops out of the sky, landing in front of me with a cocky grin. Her mane is wild as always, her wings half-extended, and she has the air of someone who’s been looking for trouble and found it.

“Oh, hey,” I say awkwardly, trying to remember the last time we talked. It was when I made it rain using cloud seeding, which I had to frame as a magic spell. She’d been both impressed and skeptical at the time, which had made the whole charade even more nerve-wracking.

Rainbow’s grin widens as she nods toward my caramel apple. “You just paid three bits for that?”

I blink. “Yeah? That’s what she said it cost.”

Her laugh is loud enough to make a few ponies glance our way. “What are you, new here? You’re supposed to haggle, dude. Nopony actually pays the first price!”

“Haggle?” I repeat, feeling stupid. “It’s just a caramel apple. How much cheaper could it get?”

“That’s not the point!” she says, rolling her eyes. “It’s about, y’know, showing you’re not a pushover. You’re supposed to go back and forth a bit. Like, ‘Three bits? How about two?’ Then she says, ‘Two and a half,’ and bam! You save half a bit.”

I stare at her, trying to process this. “You haggle… for everything?”

“Well, yeah,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What, you just pay whatever ponies tell you?”

“Uh… yeah,” I admit, suddenly realizing how much this explains about my struggles with money in Ponyville. “I didn’t know haggling was… normal.”

Rainbow Dash raises an eyebrow, looking at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Where were you before you came here? Everypony haggles.”

“That’s… complicated,” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral.

She narrows her eyes, the curiosity in her expression sharpening. “Complicated? What’s complicated about it? You live under a rock or something?”

I force a laugh, trying to sound casual. “Something like that.”

Rainbow doesn’t buy it. “C’mon, where were you? Manehattan? Canterlot? Somewhere fancy where ponies don’t have to think about bits?”

“No, nothing like that,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “I just… moved around a lot. Didn’t really settle anywhere until recently.”

She tilts her head, studying me. “Weird. You don’t sound like somepony who moves around a lot. You talk all, like, proper and stuff.”

I shrug, trying to act indifferent. “I guess I just picked it up.”

Rainbow doesn’t look convinced, but before she can press further, she grins again. “Well, whatever. Next time you’re buying something, haggle. You’ll save yourself a lot of bits.”

“Sure,” I say, eager to end the conversation. “Thanks for the tip.”

“No problem, magic guy,” she says, giving me a playful jab in the shoulder. “Hey, when’s your big magic thing? Before or after Princess Celestia shows up?”

“Right when she’s announced,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “It’s supposed to go off as she appears.”

“Cool,” Rainbow says, flapping her wings. “I’ll keep an eye out. Don’t screw it up, alright?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, forcing a smile.

She smirks and takes off, leaving me standing there with my half-eaten caramel apple and a gnawing sense of unease. That was too close. Between her questions and Twilight’s earlier interrogation, it feels like the walls are closing in. But the night’s not over yet, and I still have a role to play.

Just get through the Celebration, I tell myself again. Then you can worry about haggling, money, and nosy pegasi. For now, I take another bite of the caramel apple and start walking, keeping my head down and hoping no one else decides to strike up a conversation.

As I wander through the festival, I spot Applejack’s stand, a cheerful setup brimming with apple-based treats. The smell of freshly baked pies and fritters wafts through the air, and despite the caramel apple I’m still working on, my stomach grumbles.

Applejack spots me as I approach, tipping her hat with a warm smile. “Well, howdy there, Kinetic Flux! Ain’t this festival a sight?”

“It’s something, alright,” I say, managing a smile. “Your stand looks great.”

“Thanks kindly,” she says, wiping her brow. “It’s been a busy few days, but we’re finally ready. So, what brings ya over? Lookin’ for somethin’ tasty?”

“Not this time,” I say, shaking my head. “Just wanted to check in, see how everything’s going.”

Applejack’s grin widens. “Funny you should ask. I was just thinkin’ about you. That magic you worked on my farm? It’s already makin’ a difference.”

I blink, caught off guard. “It… is?”

“Sure is,” she says, leaning casually against her stand. “It’s only been, what, a week? But I can feel it. The land’s startin’ to hum again. The trees ain’t sproutin’ new leaves yet or nothin’, but I can tell they’re comin’ back. Feels… healthier, y’know?”

I nod slowly, trying to keep my expression neutral. Nothing magical about it—just good science. But to her, it’s all “magic,” and I’m not about to correct her.

“That’s great to hear,” I say. “I told you it might take a little time, but the results will be worth it.”

Applejack nods, her expression growing thoughtful. “Ya know, I reckon most ponies wouldn’t understand what it’s like to feel the land the way earth ponies do. It’s like… a connection, deep down. I can tell when somethin’ ain’t right, even if it don’t show on the surface yet.”

She looks me in the eye, and for a moment, I feel a pang of guilt. She’s trusting me completely, and I’m letting her believe in something that isn’t true. But then I remind myself that it’s working. Her farm is recovering, and that’s what matters.

“I’m glad your magic is workin’,” she says warmly. “Don’t you worry—I’ll get ya paid after the festival. I haven’t forgotten.”

“Take your time,” I say quickly. “No rush.”

Applejack laughs. “Shoot, after what ya did, I reckon you’ve earned it already. But we’ll talk bits later. For now, go enjoy yourself, ya hear?”

“Will do,” I say, tipping an imaginary hat as I turn to leave. “Thanks, Applejack.”

“Anytime, partner,” she calls after me.

As I walk away, I feel a strange mix of relief and unease. Applejack’s faith in me is absolute, and her connection to the land means she’ll know immediately if something doesn’t work out. For now, though, the farm is on the mend, and she’s satisfied. That’s one less thing to worry about—at least for the moment.

Now, if only everything else would go as smoothly.

As the festival continues, the energy in the air grows more electric. Ponies fill the square, their laughter and chatter mixing with the soft melodies of the musicians near the stage. Lanterns glow warmly in the deepening twilight, casting long, flickering shadows. Everywhere I look, there’s an air of anticipation, a shared excitement for the moment the Summer Sun Celebration reaches its climax.

I, on the other hoof, feel like I’m going to throw up.

I hover near the edge of the square, trying to blend into the crowd while my thoughts race. My part in the event is simple: trigger the illusion of Celestia’s sun as soon as Mayor Mare announces her. A show-stopping display to herald the Princess’s arrival. Except I know she isn’t coming.

Celestia is about to be captured—if she hasn’t been already—and Nightmare Moon will appear instead. The moment I trigger my illusion, it’ll be obvious something’s wrong. My mind keeps running in circles, debating whether I should fake a mistake or just let the illusion fail entirely.

“Pull it together,” I mutter under my breath, forcing myself to take a steadying breath. “Just act like everything’s fine. If chaos breaks loose, nopony will notice you.”

The crowd’s murmur grows louder as Mayor Mare steps onto the stage, her voice amplified by a simple spell. “Fillies and gentlecolts, welcome to the Summer Sun Celebration!”

A cheer ripples through the crowd, but I can barely hear it over the pounding in my ears. My heart races as I glance toward the lantern-lit stage. The mayor is smiling confidently, her poise at odds with my mounting panic.

“As we prepare to witness the magic of Princess Celestia raising the sun,” she continues, “I’d like to thank all of you for your hard work in making this celebration truly special. And now…” She gestures toward the curtained balcony above. “It is my great honor to introduce to you, the ruler of our land, the very pony who gives us the sun and the moon each and every day—Princess Celestia!”

The crowd erupts into applause. Everypony’s eyes are on the balcony, waiting for their princess to step into view.

I stand frozen, my horn glowing faintly as the crowd cheers and all eyes turn to the curtained balcony. This is it. Mayor Mare just said the words, and my illusion needs to start. My chest tightens as I hesitate, knowing full well that Celestia isn’t going to appear.

Just do it, I tell myself, swallowing hard. No one will blame you for following the plan.

I close my eyes briefly, gathering my focus. My horn brightens as I scatter the powdered chalk into the air, the particles shimmering as they catch the faint lantern light. A heartbeat later, my illusion takes shape—a glowing sun, rippling with golden hues and vibrant shifts that give it an otherworldly depth. The colors ripple outward like a living flame, its edges sharp and precise.

Gasps of awe ripple through the crowd as my sun rises slowly into the air, casting warm light over the square. It’s the largest version I’ve ever managed, and every second I hold it feels like balancing on a tightrope over a pit of fire. My horn throbs, and sweat trickles down my temple as I fight to keep the illusion stable.

But then the applause dies down, replaced by confused murmurs. The ponies are staring at the balcony, waiting for their Princess. Waiting for Celestia to step forward into the light of the sun I’ve conjured.

She doesn’t.

Seconds stretch into an eternity. My illusion flickers as my concentration wavers. Keep it together, Kinetic, you get paid by the job. I think desperately, forcing the image to stabilize. But the crowd is restless now, their confusion palpable.

“Where is she?” somepony asks, their voice cutting through the uneasy silence.

Mayor Mare’s confident smile falters, and she glances toward the balcony, clearly as bewildered as the rest of us. And then, before she can say a word, a chill runs through the square. The lanterns dim as an unnatural cold sweeps over us.

And then, she arrives.

A voice like dark silk echoes through the hall, chilling me to the core. “Oh, my beloved subjects… it’s been so long since I’ve seen your precious, sun-loving faces.”

Nightmare Moon steps onto the balcony, her dark armor glinting in the faint starlight. Her mane, a swirling mass of stars, flows behind her like an endless void. The crowd gasps, ponies shrinking back in fear as her piercing eyes sweep across them, full of malice and amusement.

Twilight Sparkle’s voice rings out from somewhere near the front of the crowd. “Where’s Princess Celestia?! What have you done with her?”

Nightmare Moon’s smile widens, revealing sharp teeth. “Why, am I not royal enough for you? Don’t you know who I am?”

Nightmare Moon’s voice rises, dark and commanding, cutting through the murmur of fear rippling through the crowd. “Does my crown no longer count now that I have been imprisoned for a thousand years? Did you not recall the legend? Did you not see the signs?”

Twilight Sparkle steps forward, her voice trembling but firm. “I did. And I know who you are. You’re the Mare in the Moon—Nightmare Moon!”

A gasp ripples through the crowd, but Nightmare Moon’s attention snaps to Twilight, her eyes narrowing with a dangerous glint. “Well, well, well. Somepony who remembers me. Then you also know why I’m here.”

Twilight hesitates, clearly gathering her courage. “You’re here to… to bring eternal night!”

Nightmare Moon’s laughter fills the hall, cold and mocking. “You’re quite the clever one, aren’t you?” she sneers, her starry mane swirling ominously. “Indeed, I am here to claim what is rightfully mine. The night shall last forever!”

The crowd recoils in terror as her mane expands, casting dark shadows that seem to drain the warmth from the room. I shrink back, hoping to blend into the mass of frightened ponies. But then Nightmare Moon’s gaze sweeps over the crowd—and lands squarely on me.

Her expression shifts, her eyes narrowing dangerously as she steps closer to the edge of the balcony. “You,” she says, her voice cold and sharp as a blade. “You were the one who conjured the… sun.”

I freeze, my heart hammering in my chest. Before I can say anything—or even think of an excuse—her mane lashes out like a whip, dragging me forward through the air. I yelp, the ground disappearing beneath my hooves as I’m yanked to the foot of the stage.

My sun vanishes.

The crowd gasps, but nopony dares move. Nightmare Moon towers over me, her piercing eyes burning into mine. “Who dares to mock me with such an insult?” she hisses, her voice dripping with venom. “You think yourself clever, casting your pathetic little light in my domain?”

“I—uh—I wasn’t—” I stammer, my words dying in my throat.

She sneers, her mane coiling around me like a constrictor. “Do not waste my time with excuses, worm. Your little ‘illusion’ was no mere trick, was it? I felt its heat, its energy. Tell me what it is, or I shall tear the truth from your mind!”

My pulse races as I struggle to think of an answer, but Nightmare Moon doesn’t wait. Her mane tightens, something probing at the edges of my consciousness. I grit my teeth, trying to resist the invasive sensation.

The world seems to blur as Nightmare Moon's oppressive magic presses down on me, suffocating and intruding. My mind races, desperation clawing at my thoughts. I don’t want to hurt her—I know somewhere deep down, Luna is still in there. But right now, Nightmare Moon isn’t giving me a choice. If I don’t act, I’m finished.

My horn lights up, trembling under the weight of her magic. I focus every ounce of my telekinesis on the air around her flank, vibrating the atoms faster and faster. The energy builds in an instant, and before she can realize what’s happening, the heat strikes.

A sharp hiss fills the air, and Nightmare Moon flinches violently. Her eyes go wide in shock as the sudden burst of heat scorches her flank, singeing her dark coat. Her magic around me falters, and I collapse to the ground, gasping for breath.

She whirls on me, her starry mane lashing like an angry storm. “You dare?” she snarls, her voice filled with both fury and pain. Her wings flare, and for a moment, I think she’s going to obliterate me on the spot.

But then something shifts. Her gaze narrows, and the corners of her mouth curl into a dangerous smile. “Clever,” she hisses, her voice dripping with malice. “Crude, but clever. I see now… you’re more dangerous than you appear.”

Her mane snaps back, swirling around her like a vortex of stars. “But this isn’t over,” she growls, her voice echoing ominously. “Enjoy your fleeting moments of light, for they will be your last.”

With that, she vanishes into a swirling cloud of darkness, leaving the hall cold and eerily silent. The crowd is frozen in shock, their wide eyes darting between me and the empty balcony.

I stagger to my hooves, my legs shaking. My horn aches, and the lingering smell of burnt hair clings to the air. I don’t dare look at the crowd—if I meet their eyes, I might crumble under their stares.

I shuffle back into the crowd, keeping my head low, hoping the growing chaos will be enough to let me fade into the background. Many eyes track me still. Ponies are panicking, murmuring in frightened tones, while others look to Mayor Mare for guidance. Twilight Sparkle, her eyes filled with determination, is already talking to Spike, her words too hurried for me to catch.

Just disappear, I tell myself. Let them deal with this. You’re not a hero.

Twilight suddenly breaks from the crowd, heading toward the library at a gallop. My heart lifts as I see the rest of the ponies parting for her. If she’s leaving, she won’t have time to interrogate me further. I take a step back, blending into the huddled townsfolk.

But my relief is short-lived. Not five minutes later, I spot Twilight returning, followed by five ponies I immediately recognize. Applejack, Rainbow Dash, Rarity, Pinkie Pie, and Fluttershy trail behind her, their expressions a mix of fear and determination. And to my growing horror, they’re heading straight for me.

“You!” Twilight calls out, pointing a hoof in my direction. The crowd parts, and suddenly all eyes are on me again.

I freeze, my heart sinking. Great. What now?

“Me?” I ask weakly, trying to sound confused. “I’m busy—uh—making sure everypony’s okay. Talk to you later?”

Twilight skids to a stop in front of me, her eyes sharp and focused. “We need your help.”

“My help?” I stammer, looking between her and the others. “What for? You seem to have a whole… team thing going on.”

Applejack steps forward, tipping her hat. “We saw what ya did, burnin’ Nightmare Moon like that. If ya can hurt her, maybe ya can help us stop her.”

My stomach twists as I try to think of an excuse. “Look, that was… a fluke. She caught me off guard, and I just reacted. I’m not exactly equipped to deal with something like this.”

Rainbow Dash lands beside me, smirking. “Yeah, right. That sun thing you made? That was awesome! You’re obviously some kind of magic powerhouse.”

“I’m not—”

“He is,” Twilight interjects, cutting me off. “His theories about minimizing mana expenditure through particle manipulation were advanced. I saw his demonstration. He’s clearly capable.”

I gape at her, stunned. Why is she helping?

Twilight ignores me. “We need you. Nightmare Moon is too powerful to face without your magic, you’ve already proven you can hurt her.”

I shake my head, trying to back away. “I’m not a hero. I just—uh—help around town. I don’t do grand battles or—”

Mayor Mare suddenly steps in, her expression both pleading and determined. “Kinetic Flux, I’m sorry, but you’re the Town Mage. This is your duty.”

“I don’t work for free,” I say quickly, latching onto the only out I can think of. “If you want me to risk my life, you’re going to have to—”

“You can have the old Town Mage’s house,” Mayor Mare interrupts, clearly desperate. “It’s… uh… currently being used for storage, but it’s yours. Free of charge.”

I blink, stunned into silence. A house? I’d been living in a cramped room at the inn for weeks.

The weight of the situation is momentarily eclipsed by a wave of irritation. The Town Mage’s house? I think bitterly. Should that've been mine from day one?

“You’re telling me,” I say slowly, fixing Mayor Mare with a look, “that there’s been a house for the Town Mage this whole time, and you’ve been using it as a storage shed?”

Mayor Mare looks sheepish, shifting uncomfortably under my glare. “It wasn’t exactly being used, and we needed somewhere to keep the festival supplies…” She trails off, clearing her throat. “But it’s yours now. Completely yours.”

I open my mouth to say some very unpleasant things, but Rainbow Dash cuts in, jabbing me in the shoulder with a hoof.

“Forget the house,” she says impatiently. “We’ve got bigger things to deal with! Nightmare Moon is out there, and she’s not gonna wait for you to decorate your new place.”

“She’s right,” Twilight says, her tone firm. “The fate of Equestria is at stake. You can worry about the house later.”

I grit my teeth, still annoyed but unable to argue. They’re not wrong—Nightmare Moon isn’t exactly going to pause her plans so I can complain about real estate.

“Fine,” I mutter, glaring at Mayor Mare one last time before turning to Twilight. “What’s the plan?”

“We’re going to the Everfree Forest,” Twilight says, her voice steady despite the unease in her eyes. “That’s where the Elements of Harmony are. They’re the only thing that can stop Nightmare Moon.”

“Great,” I say sarcastically, “a trip to the most dangerous place in Equestria. What could go wrong?”

Rarity steps forward, her nose wrinkling slightly. “I agree it’s not exactly an ideal situation, but we don’t have much of a choice, do we?”

Fluttershy looks like she’s about to faint, but she nods meekly. “It’s… it’s for Equestria,” she whispers.

Pinkie Pie, on the other hoof, is bouncing on her hooves, her usual energy undampened. “This is gonna be so much fun! Like a big, spooky adventure! Ooh, I should’ve brought snacks.”

I rub my temple, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

Twilight nods, her expression resolute. “Let’s go. The sooner we find the Elements, the sooner we can stop Nightmare Moon.”

As we start moving, I glance back at Mayor Mare, who looks both relieved and guilty. I’m definitely bringing up the house thing again later, I think, suppressing a sigh. For now, I’ve got bigger problems—namely, keeping myself alive in a forest full of things that want to eat me, all while playing the part of the “brilliant mage” these ponies think I am.

Out Of My Depth
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Applied Mathemagics

Out Of My Depth

The Everfree Forest looms ahead, dark and foreboding. The air feels heavier the moment we step beneath the canopy, the warmth of the festival replaced by a chilling dampness. The shadows stretch longer, twisting unnaturally as the faint moonlight filters through the dense leaves above. Every sound—a rustle of leaves, the snap of a twig—seems magnified, and even the most confident among us begins to tread more cautiously.

Twilight takes the lead, her determined expression unwavering, though the tension in her shoulders betrays her unease. “The Everfree Forest,” she begins, glancing over her shoulder, “is unlike any place in Equestria. The clouds move on their own, the animals fend for themselves, and the plants grow… without magic.”

“That’s why it’s so creepy,” Applejack says, her voice hushed. “Nothin’ here works the way it’s supposed to.”

“Pfft, creepy?” Rainbow Dash scoffs, flying overhead. “This place isn’t creepy. It’s awesome! You just have to know how to handle it.”

Pinkie Pie hops along, completely unbothered by the oppressive atmosphere. “I think it’s neat! Look at all the twisty trees and the spooky shadows—it’s like a big, creepy party!”

Rarity grimaces, stepping gingerly to avoid the mud. “It’s more like a dreadful slog through filth. Ugh, why couldn’t the Elements of Harmony be somewhere… nicer?”

“It’s not that bad,” Fluttershy says softly, though her wide eyes betray her nerves. “The animals here are just… different. They don’t mean any harm. Usually.”

Rainbow Dash smirks, landing in front of us and blocking the path dramatically. “Oh, come on! It's not like this is the scariest place ever.” She narrows her eyes and leans in close, her voice dropping to a low, ominous tone. “Unless, of course, you’ve heard the stories…”

The group pauses, their gazes flicking toward her warily. Even Twilight hesitates, her confident stride faltering.

“Stories?” Fluttershy whispers, her wings trembling.

“Oh yeah,” Rainbow says, drawing the moment out. “The Everfree Forest isn’t just spooky—it’s dangerous. Everypony who’s ever come in has never…” She stretches the pause, her grin widening. “...come… out!”

Fluttershy squeaks and ducks behind Applejack, who gives Rainbow a flat look. “Now, why’d you have to go and say somethin’ like that? You’re just makin’ everypony nervous.”

Pinkie Pie giggles, completely unphased. “Ooh, spooky! Do you think there’s ghosts? Or maybe big, scary monsters with glowing eyes and sharp claws?”

Rarity rolls her eyes. “Honestly, Rainbow Dash, must you be so dramatic? We have enough to worry about without you adding unnecessary theatrics.”

“Unnecessary?” Rainbow laughs. “You’re all thinking it—I’m just saying it out loud!”

I roll my eyes, hanging toward the back of the group. Great, I think bitterly. They’re bickering, we’re in a death forest, and I’m stuck with them. This is going perfectly.

But before I can wallow in my frustration, a deep rumble shakes the ground beneath our hooves. The group freezes, eyes darting around as loose stones tumble down the sloped path ahead.

“What was that?” Twilight asks, her voice sharp.

Another rumble answers her, louder this time. The ground beneath us shifts, cracks spiderwebbing through the dirt. Applejack shouts, “Everypony, move!”

But it’s too late. The ground collapses sideways with a deafening roar, and suddenly we’re sliding. Dirt and rocks give way as we skid down the steep cliff, ponies yelping and shouting in alarm. I scramble to find footing, but the slope is too steep, and gravity pulls us relentlessly downward.

The cliff rushes by in a blur of jagged rocks and loose dirt as we all tumble downward. Shouts and screams echo around me, and for a moment, it’s chaos.

“Fluttershy, quick!” Rainbow Dash’s voice cuts through the noise. I glance over to see her dive, snatching Pinkie Pie just as she starts to tumble toward the edge of a rocky outcropping.

“Gotcha!” Rainbow grins, wings flapping hard as she struggles to keep them both from plummeting further.

“Rarity!” Fluttershy’s timid voice rises with surprising urgency as she flutters down, catching Rarity just before she crashes into a sharp boulder. The unicorn shrieks but grabs onto Fluttershy, her mane a tangled mess as they hover awkwardly downward.

Applejack, meanwhile, grabs onto a sturdy root sticking out of the cliffside, anchoring herself just as Twilight skids toward her. “Hold on, I'ma comin'!” she shouts, her voice barely carrying over the rush of wind. Applejack lets go of the root and reaches out, catching Twilight’s hoof in an iron grip. Twilight yells something back, but I can’t hear it clearly as the world shifts beneath me.

I’m alone now, sliding uncontrollably toward the edge. My heart pounds as panic grips me. There’s no one left to grab me, no last-minute save. I’m going over.

The moment my hooves leave the cliff, my stomach drops, and for a few terrifying seconds, I’m weightless. The air rushes past me, howling in my ears as the ground races up to meet me. Above me, I hear the girls shouting, their voices tangled in panic, but there’s no time to focus on them.

I’m falling.

Think! My brain screams. My horn lights up as I pull every ounce of focus I can muster into one desperate act. With a flicker of magic, I reach out to the air in front of me, compressing it with my telekinesis. The resistance builds quickly, and just before I hit the ground, the air cushions the fall enough to keep me from splattering.

The impact still hurts—a lot. I hit the ground hard, the force of the landing sending a jolt of pain through my legs and shoulders. For a moment, all I can do is lie there, gasping for breath and trying to ignore the sharp ache radiating through my body.

Above me, I hear panicked shouting.

“He’s gone!” Applejack’s voice echoes, tinged with horror.

“He fell!” Fluttershy cries, her soft voice breaking.

“No way!” Rainbow Dash’s voice is louder, more frantic. “He can’t be—”

“Everypony, get down there!” Twilight shouts, her tone sharp and commanding.

I groan, rolling onto my side as the sound of hooves scrambling down the cliff grows louder. My body feels like it’s been through a rock tumbler, but nothing seems broken. I force myself to sit up just as the group comes into view.

“There!” Pinkie Pie yells, pointing a hoof. “He’s alive!”

They rush toward me, a mixture of relief and shock on their faces. Twilight is the first to reach me, her eyes wide and disbelieving. “Kinetic, how—how are you okay? That fall was—”

“I’m fine,” I interrupt, forcing myself to my hooves. I ignore the sharp protest from my legs and shoulders, plastering on the most casual expression I can manage. “It’s just a little drop. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Rainbow Dash stares at me, slack-jawed. “What? You fell off a cliff! How are you not, like, a pancake right now?”

“I cast an air cushion spell...” I say smoothly, brushing dust off my coat. “Right before impact to slow myself down. Pretty basic stuff, really.”

Twilight’s brow furrows, and she steps closer, her gaze scrutinizing. “You did that while falling? That fast?”

“Of course,” I say with a shrug, feigning nonchalance. “It’s all about staying calm under pressure.”

“But…” Twilight trails off, clearly thinking. “You’d need to think the chant, visualize the pattern, and focus your intent—all while plummeting. That’s—” She pauses, her eyes narrowing. “That’s incredibly advanced spellwork.”

I force a laugh, waving her off. “Advanced? Nah. Just takes a little practice.” My insides are screaming in protest at every step, but I keep up the charade. “It’s really not a big deal.”

The others look at me with a mix of awe and bewilderment. Applejack adjusts her hat, shaking her head. “Well, color me impressed. That’s some mighty fine magic, Kinetic.”

Fluttershy nods, her voice soft. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Pinkie Pie bounces in place, grinning. “I knew you weren’t a pancake! I told you guys—he’s like a super-awesome wizard!”

I glance at Twilight, who is still eyeing me suspiciously. Her gaze feels like it’s peeling back layers, digging for the truth. I quickly redirect the conversation. “So, what happened up there? Looked like everypony made it down fine.”

Rainbow Dash puffs out her chest. “Well, duh. I saved Pinkie, no big deal.”

Fluttershy adds, “I, um… I caught Rarity.”

Applejack nods toward Twilight. “Caught her on a ledge and made sure she got down safe. Guess we didn’t figure you’d need help, what with all yer magic.”

I force a grin, swallowing the lump in my throat. Didn't need the help. Sure.

“Well, I’m here,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Let’s not waste time. Nightmare Moon’s still out there.”

Twilight nods, though her gaze lingers on me a moment longer. “Right. Let’s keep moving.”

As we press deeper into the forest, my legs ache with every step, but I keep my head high, the facade of confidence firmly in place. Twilight’s words echo in my mind, though, her suspicions gnawing at me. She thinks I’m some prodigy—a master of spellcraft under pressure.

We continue walking through the Everfree Forest, the oppressive darkness pressing down on us. The atmosphere is tense, with every rustle of leaves or crack of a twig making the group jump. My legs ache with every step, the soreness from the fall radiating through my body. I do my best to hide the limp, staying toward the back of the group and keeping my head low.

Twilight occasionally glances back at me, her sharp eyes no doubt noticing something’s off. I keep my expression neutral, pretending I don’t see her.

The path narrows, twisting through gnarled trees and uneven ground. Pinkie hums softly to herself, the only one who seems unaffected by the eerie surroundings. The rest of us stay quiet, our ears twitching at every unfamiliar sound.

Then it happens.

A deafening roar shatters the silence, and a massive shape crashes through the underbrush. A manticore emerges, its golden fur bristling, its bat-like wings flaring as it snarls. Its tail lashes menacingly, the stinger glinting in the faint moonlight.

“Run!” Twilight shouts, her voice sharp with panic.

The others scatter, darting into the trees or scrambling for cover. I instinctively step back, but the sharp pain in my leg makes me stumble. Running isn’t an option—not with this limp. My heart pounds as the manticore locks eyes with me, its growl deep and menacing.

Think, Kinetic. Think fast.

My horn lights up as I grab a pinch of chalk from my pouch, tossing it into the air. The dust sparkles faintly in the dim light, and I channel my telekinesis into it, forcing the particles into a Doppler illusion.

The image forms quickly—a manticore, just as big and fearsome as the real one, charging straight at the creature. The illusion ripples with shifting colors, its edges pulsing with a faint red and blue hue in the improper lighting. I focus on making it as realistic as possible, adding the snarl, the flared wings, the fury in its eyes.

The real manticore stops, its growl turning into a confused snort. It takes a step back, its gaze darting between me and the illusion. For a moment, it seems to work. The creature looks genuinely unsure, pawing at the ground as it assesses the fake threat.

Then, Fluttershy steps forward.

“Wait!” she calls out, her soft voice trembling but steady. “It’s hurt.”

I blink, barely processing her words as she walks straight toward the manticore. The illusion flickers slightly as my concentration wavers. “Fluttershy, what are you—?”

“I just want to help.” She says, her voice calm and gentle.

The manticore growls low, but it doesn’t attack. Instead, it watches her cautiously, its tail lowering slightly. Fluttershy steps closer, her wings partially spread, her movements slow and deliberate. “Shh, it’s okay,” she murmurs, her voice soothing. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The manticore hesitates, then lifts its massive paw. Sure enough, a long, jagged thorn is embedded in its pad, the skin around it swollen and red.

Fluttershy smiles gently. “Oh, you poor thing. Let me help.”

The others watch in stunned silence as she carefully removes the thorn. The manticore winces, but it doesn’t lash out. Instead, it lets out a low, grateful rumble and nuzzles her cheek, purring like a giant housecat.

“That… actually worked,” Rainbow Dash says, her voice filled with disbelief.

I let the illusion dissipate as they discuss Fluttershy's success, the particles fading into the air as I slump slightly, exhaustion creeping in. Fluttershy steps back, giving the manticore a final pat before it bounds off into the forest.

Twilight turns to me, her expression a mix of amazement and suspicion.

“That was… incredible,” Twilight says, her eyes narrowing as she studies me. “You created that illusion in seconds. It wasn’t just realistic; it reacted perfectly, like a real manticore. And you maintained it while the real one was right in front of you.”

I shrug, trying to look nonchalant despite the ache in my legs. “ It wasn’t perfect, and I already told you—it’s all about the layered mental structure. Reducing the load lets me adjust the illusion on the fly.”

Twilight’s skepticism deepens. “But even with your method, the level of detail you achieved would take incredible precision. That’s not something most unicorns could pull off. It’s not just about reducing the mental load—it’s about execution.”

I force a laugh, waving her off. “What can I say? I’ve got a knack for it.”

Her gaze sharpens, and I know she’s not buying it. She’s piecing together more than I’d like. Just stick to your guns, I think.

“Honestly,” I say, raising an eyebrow, “you’re overthinking it. It’s not about the complexity—it’s about staying calm under pressure. And let’s face it, Sparkle, I’m pretty good at staying calm.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but before she can press further, a low growl rumbles through the forest. The group stops, their eyes darting around nervously. The trees seem to twist and shift in the dim light, their gnarled trunks and branches forming monstrous faces. Sharp teeth, hollow eyes, and gaping maws leer down at us from every side.

“W-what’s happening?” Fluttershy whispers, her wings trembling.

“It’s the forest,” Twilight says, her voice tight. “This place… it’s alive.”

Rainbow Dash takes a defensive stance, glaring at the trees. “Let them come. I’ll take down whatever’s out there.”

Applejack snorts. “Ya can’t buck a tree, Dash.”

Pinkie Pie, however, is unfazed. Her grin widens, and she starts bouncing in place. “Ooooh, spooky tree faces! You know what this calls for?”

“Pinkie, this is not the time for—” Twilight starts, but Pinkie cuts her off with a cheerful song:

🎵 “When I was a little filly and the sun was going down…” 🎵

I blink, watching in disbelief as Pinkie begins to dance around the clearing, singing about laughing at fears to make them disappear. The others stare at her, their expressions ranging from confusion to horror as she hops up to one of the “monsters” and blows a raspberry at it.

🎵 “If you just laugh at all your fears, they can’t harm you—hohoho!” 🎵

One by one, the monstrous faces dissolve into harmless trees as Pinkie’s laughter echoes through the forest. The tension in the group slowly eases, and even the others start to laugh, their nervous chuckles joining Pinkie’s infectious mirth.

I stand at the edge of the group, forcing a smile and a weak laugh, but it feels hollow. My body aches, my nerves are frayed, and the last thing I feel like doing is laughing. Pinkie glances over at me mid-giggle, her smile faltering slightly.

“That’s a funny laugh,” she says, tilting her head. “Are you okay, Kinetic?”

“Of course,” I say quickly, straightening up. “Why wouldn’t I be? That was… hilarious.”

Pinkie’s eyes narrow slightly, her usual cheer dimmed for a moment as she studies me. “Hmmm…”

I look away, focusing on the path ahead. The trees are back to normal, and the others are ready to move on, but Pinkie lingers for a moment, her usual boundless energy replaced by something quieter. She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her watching me as we continue deeper into the forest.

As we make our way deeper into the forest, the group’s chatter becomes a constant hum in the background. I’m not paying much attention, too focused on keeping my aching legs moving and trying not to fall behind. The forest feels endless, and every shadow seems to stretch unnaturally long, making it harder to tell how far we’ve come.

The quiet is broken by a loud wail, and I snap back to reality. Up ahead, a massive purple sea serpent thrashes in a river, its dramatic sobbing echoing through the trees. His mustache is torn in half, and he’s going on about how he can’t possibly go on without it.

I blink, zoning out as the others try to reason with him. Something about vanity, mustaches, and… is Rarity cutting off her tail? I glance up in time to see her magically sever her tail hair and attach it to the serpent’s face, forming a makeshift mustache.

“Oh, fabulous!” the serpent exclaims, twirling his new mustache dramatically. “Thank you, my dear!”

The group crosses the now-calm river, chatting about Rarity’s sacrifice, but I barely register the conversation. My hooves feel like lead, and the ache in my shoulders has only gotten worse. By the time we reach the rickety wooden bridge, my focus is entirely on putting one hoof in front of the other.

Rainbow Dash takes off, flying across the gap to secure the bridge. She lands on the other side and begins tying it off, but she’s taking her sweet time. I can hear bits of conversation drifting back—something about shadowy figures—but it’s all just background noise to me.

When the bridge is finally secured, the others start crossing one by one. I hang back, watching as the wooden planks creak and sway under their weight. The bridge looks like it could snap at any moment, and I’m not about to take chances.

As I step onto the bridge, my horn lights up faintly. I focus my telekinesis under each plank I step on, pressing just enough to support my weight and keep it steady. It’s a delicate balancing act, but it works. I make it to the other side without incident, though my horn throbs from the added strain.

When we regroup, the trees thin out slightly, revealing a massive stone structure ahead. The ruins are ancient, covered in vines and moss, with an air of power that seems to hum faintly in the background.

“There!” Twilight says, her voice filled with hope. “The Elements of Harmony should be inside.”

We step into the main chamber, and there they are: five stone spheres, each resting on a pedestal. Twilight’s face lights up as she rushes forward. “The Elements of Harmony…” she murmurs, her voice filled with awe. “We found them.”

I stare at the stone orbs, trying to suppress the sinking feeling in my gut. Of course they’re just sitting here, waiting for us, I think dryly.

Twilight doesn’t seem to share my skepticism. “Let’s get them down,” she says, her horn glowing as she begins carefully lifting the orbs with her magic. “Once we figure out how to activate them, we can stop Nightmare Moon.”

The others crowd around, murmuring excitedly. I stay near the edge of the room, leaning against a crumbling pillar and trying to catch my breath. Something about this feels off, but I can’t quite put my hoof on it.

And then, just as Twilight sets the orbs on the ground, the faint hum of power in the air grows stronger. A chill runs down my spine, and I instinctively step back.

This isn’t over, I think grimly. Not by a long shot.

As we stand in the chamber, Twilight examines the Elements carefully, her brow furrowed in concentration. She mutters to herself, piecing together what she knows about the ancient artifacts. The others watch her with a mix of awe and curiosity.

“Alright,” Twilight says finally, her voice resolute. “I think I need to activate them with a spark. It’s… a magical connection. Something to awaken their power.”

Applejack nods. “Sounds like somethin’ ya should do alone, sugarcube. We’ll give ya some space.”

“Good luck, Twilight!” Pinkie chirps, bouncing toward the exit.

The others file out one by one, offering words of encouragement. I linger near the back, watching the Elements as Twilight steps closer to them. There’s a faint hum of energy in the air, and my stomach churns with unease. Nightmare Moon's about to show up.

Twilight glances back at me. “Kinetic, aren’t you going with them?”

I hesitate, then shake my head. “Actually, I think I’ll stay. You know, in case something happens. I’m good with magic too, remember?”

Twilight raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. “Alright, but stay back. This might be dangerous.”

I nod, my hooves already carrying me toward the Elements. Twilight turns her focus back to the orbs, her horn glowing as she channels her magic into them. The hum in the air intensifies, and I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I limp a bit closer to the elements. My steps are slow and deliberate, as I wait for the Nightmare Moon to act.

A dark vortex swirls into existence around the Elements, the air twisting and pulling like a whirlpool of shadows. Twilight gasps, her magic flickering as she stumbles back. “What’s happening?!”

I don’t stop moving, my gut twisting as I watch the Elements rise into the vortex. I have to get through.

“Kinetic, wait!” Twilight shouts as I step toward the vortex, but it’s too late. The dark energy surges, and before I can think twice, I’m pulled in.

Twilight doesn’t hesitate. With a determined cry, she jumps in after me.

The world twists and turns as the shadows engulf us, and for a moment, everything is chaos. I can hear Twilight’s voice, faint and distant, calling out in confusion. Then, suddenly, we land—hard—on a cold stone floor.

The room is dark and foreboding, lit only by the faint glow of the Elements, now arranged in a circle around us. Nightmare Moon stands at the center, her imposing form framed by her swirling, starry mane. Her piercing eyes lock onto us, and her lips curl into a wicked smile.

“You fools,” she says, her voice cold and mocking. “Did you really think I would allow you to use the Elements against me?”

Twilight scrambles to her hooves, her horn glowing as she glares at Nightmare Moon. “We won’t let you win!”

I push myself up slowly, my heart pounding. I knew this was coming, but being here—facing her—is entirely different from watching it on a screen. My mind races as I glance at the Elements, trying to think of a way to make myself useful without drawing too much attention.

Nightmare Moon laughs, the sound echoing through the chamber. “You’re welcome to try, little unicorns. But you’ll find that I am far beyond your power.”

Twilight squares her stance, her magic building. I step to the side, orbiting Nightmare Moon. Whatever happens next, I need to be ready.

I just hope I don’t regret this.

Nightmare Moon glares down at us, her gaze shifting between Twilight and me. There’s fury in her eyes, but when her gaze settles on me, it sharpens into something colder, more calculating. She hasn’t forgotten what happened earlier. My stomach twists. Great.

Twilight dashes toward the Elements, her horn glowing as she leaps past Nightmare Moon’s reach. The alicorn snarls, her starry mane lashing out to intercept her, but Twilight is too quick, teleporting around the attack and skidding to a stop in front of the stone orbs.

I begin another heating 'spell', but as I vibrate the atoms atop her chest, her horn glows, and there's no damage.

I barely have time to process what’s happening before Nightmare Moon turns her full attention to me. “You,” she growls, her voice dripping with malice. “You dare challenge me again?”

My heart pounds, but I force a smirk, trying to hide my nerves. “What can I say? I’m full of bad ideas.”

Nightmare Moon’s eyes narrow dangerously, and her mane writhes like a living storm. She steps toward me, each hooffall echoing through the chamber. “You’re nothing but a fool playing with forces you cannot comprehend. Do you think your little tricks will save you?”

I take a slow step back, keeping her attention firmly on me. “Tricks? You wound me, Your Majesty.” I bow slightly, my tone dripping with mockery. “You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? I have an element of my own.”

She freezes, her gaze flicking over the room, searching for something she might have missed. I let her stew for a moment before pulling a pinch of chalk from my pouch. Her eyes snap back to me, her expression hardening.

“You’ve forgotten the most important element of all,” I say, smirking as I toss the chalk dust into the air. With a quick burst of telekinesis, I fling it toward her face.

Nightmare Moon reacts too slowly, the fine powder striking her eyes. She snarls in pain, rearing back as her wings flare out, her mane lashing wildly. “You insolent—what is this?!”

“The element of surprise!” I quip, watching as she stumbles, blinded and furious.

Her magic lashes out in a blind rage, raw energy crackling through the chamber. I dart to the side, narrowly avoiding a streak of magic that scorches the floor where I’d just been standing. The air hums with power, and every instinct in me screams to run, but I stay put, eyes trained to her horn, trying to keep her focused on me.

“Do you always lose your composure this easily?” I taunt, my voice louder than it needs to be. “No wonder Celestia got the better of you. You’re all theatrics and temper tantrums.”

Her roar of frustration shakes the walls, and another blast of magic tears through the air. I duck behind a broken column, wincing as the shockwave rattles my bones.

From the corner of my eye, I see Twilight crouched by the Elements, her horn glowing as she tries to activate them. She’s murmuring something to herself, her face set with determination.

“Keep talking, little unicorn,” Nightmare Moon snarls, her mane whipping toward me like a striking serpent. I leap out of the way, landing awkwardly. “It will be the last sound you make.”

“I’ll give you this,” I say, my voice carrying a forced confidence as I straighten up. “You do make a grand entrance. Very theatrical. The whole ‘eternal night’ thing? Classic villainy.”

Nightmare Moon’s eyes flare with fury, and her horn ignites with a menacing glow. Her magic surges forward, a beam of pure energy tearing through the chamber, aimed directly at me.

The attack pierces through my chest.

Or at least, through the illusion of me that I had conjured. The moment I ducked behind the broken column, I’d layered a Doppler illusion and sent it out. The fake version of me staggers back dramatically, flickering with faint reds and tans, before collapsing to the ground, motionless. The sight is convincing enough to draw a victorious sneer from Nightmare Moon.

“You were nothing but a nuisance,” she hisses, her voice dripping with disdain. “Now, you’re nothing at all.”

Hidden behind the column, I suppress a shaky breath, wiping the sweat from my brow. My horn aches from the strain of holding the illusion steady, but it’s worth it to stay out of her line of fire. As long as she thinks I’m down, she won’t be looking for me.

From my vantage point, I watch Twilight. Her horn glows brighter as she works with the Elements, the hum of ancient power filling the room. The others are gathering around her now, their presence seeming to energize her efforts. The Elements begin to glow, faint at first, but growing stronger with each passing second.

Nightmare Moon notices. Her victorious expression falters, her gaze snapping toward the Elements and the group surrounding them. “No!” she roars, her mane flaring wildly. “I will not be defeated by the likes of you!”

Nightmare Moon steps forward, her dark energy swirling as she prepares another attack, but Twilight doesn’t flinch. Her voice rings out, steady and resolute, cutting through the chaos.

“You’re wrong, Nightmare Moon! You think you can stop us, but you’ve already lost!” Twilight turns to the others, her expression softening as she begins to speak. “Applejack, who reassured me when I was in doubt, represents the spirit of… honesty!”

A brilliant light engulfs Applejack as the Element of Honesty activates, its power flowing into her like a warm glow.

“Fluttershy, who tamed the manticore with her compassion, represents the spirit of… kindness!” Twilight continues, her words drawing gasps of realization from the others. Fluttershy’s timid smile grows as a similar light envelops her, her element awakening.

“Pinkie Pie, who banished fear by laughing in the face of danger, represents the spirit of… laughter!” Pinkie hops in place as the light surrounds her, giggling uncontrollably. “Ooh, it tickles!”

“Rarity, who calmed a sorrowful serpent with a meaningful gift, represents the spirit of… generosity!” Rarity stands taller, her poise returning as the glow of her element fills her.

“Rainbow Dash, who could not abandon her friends for her own heart’s desire, represents the spirit of… loyalty!” Rainbow hovers above the group, her wings flaring proudly as her element activates.

The energy from the Elements surges, but before it reaches its peak, Twilight turns, her eyes locking onto me. My stomach twists as she speaks my name.

“And Kinetic Flux, who distracted Nightmare Moon and bought me time to reach the Elements..." she starts.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch a faint, ominous glow. My heart stops. A suspiciously round rock in the corner of the room begins to vibrate subtly, its surface glimmering with an otherworldly light. It’s faint—barely noticeable—but I see it.

Panic surges through me as I extend my telekinesis, gripping the stone and holding it firmly in place. My horn lights faintly as I press it down, willing it to stay still, to stop glowing, to stop being anything. I can’t let Twilight—or anyone—see this.

“—is unrelated,” I cut in, my voice sharper than intended as I force a confident grin. “Completely and utterly unrelated. Not even worth mentioning, really.” I wave a hoof dismissively. “Please, go on.”

Twilight hesitates, her brow furrowing slightly, but she nods. “Right…” She turns back to the group, her focus shifting back to the Elements. “And the final piece—the spark that resides in the heart of us all—creates the sixth element: the Element of… magic!”

The light from the Elements flares brilliantly, engulfing Twilight as the sixth Element forms above her. The magic swirls and coalesces, a radiant force that pulses with pure energy. Nightmare Moon’s expression shifts from anger to panic as the power grows, the chamber trembling under its intensity.

I press harder with my magic, keeping the vibrating stone pinned to the ground. Sweat beads on my brow as I silently will the moment to pass, to let the light and noise drown out anything suspicious. Whatever that thing is, I can’t let it become a problem.

The Elements unleash their full power, a rainbow of light cascading through the room and enveloping Nightmare Moon. She lets out a defiant scream as the energy surrounds her, breaking apart her dark form. The shadows dissipate, leaving only a smaller, trembling figure behind—a blue alicorn with a flowing mane like the night sky.

The chamber grows quiet, the light fading as the Elements return to their inert state. Twilight and the others look around, their faces a mix of relief and awe.

“Did… did we do it?” Twilight asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Applejack steps forward, her hat tilted back. “Ah reckon we did.”

I finally release my hold on the stone, letting it settle back into stillness. My horn dims as I step forward, forcing a casual smirk. “Well, that was something, huh?”

Twilight glances at me, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re awfully calm for someone who just witnessed one of the most powerful magical events in history.”

“Calm?” I scoff, brushing imaginary dust off my coat. “I was trembling in my hooves the entire time. Really, it’s just my natural charisma making me look composed.”

Pinkie Pie bounces up beside me, grinning. “You’re funny, Kinetic! But I don’t think you were scared at all.”

The atmosphere in the room is heavy with the aftermath of the Elements’ power. Princess Luna, now smaller and unarmored, looks around with wide, uncertain eyes. The tension in the air seems to ease slightly as the group collectively exhales. Then, the faint sound of hooves tapping against stone echoes through the chamber.

A warm, golden light filters in, casting soft rays over the crumbled ruins. The ponies gasp as a regal figure steps into view, her wings flared and her mane shimmering with hues of pink, green, and blue. Princess Celestia.

She strides gracefully into the chamber, her expression serene but with a hint of warmth that seems to calm everyone instantly. The others, save Twilight, bow low, their movements instinctive and fluid. I hesitate, glancing around as my stomach twists. Do I bow? Would it draw more attention if I don’t?

I lower myself slowly, mimicking the others, hoping my delay isn’t noticed. Just blend in. Don’t screw this up.

Celestia’s voice rings out, gentle yet commanding. “Twilight Sparkle, my faithful student. I knew you could do it.”

Twilight's face lights with a mix of pride and surprise. “But… you told me it was all an old pony’s tale.”

“I told you that you needed to make friends,” Celestia replies, her smile widening. “Nothing more. I saw the spark in you when I sent you to Ponyville, and now I see it here today. You have proven that when you bring together the magic of friendship, you can overcome even the greatest darkness.”

Twilight beams, and the others exchange smiles, the weight of their accomplishment sinking in. Celestia turns her gaze to the trembling figure of Luna, her expression softening further.

“Princess Luna,” she says, her tone filled with both authority and tenderness. “It has been a thousand years since I have seen you like this. It is time to put our differences behind us. We were meant to rule together, little sister.”

Luna looks up, tears welling in her eyes. “Sister… I’m so sorry. I missed you so much.”

Celestia steps forward, lowering her head to nuzzle Luna. “I missed you too.”

The room is silent except for the quiet sniffles of Fluttershy and Pinkie Pie, who both wipe away tears. Even Rainbow Dash looks like she’s trying to play off a watery eye.

I hesitantly rise from my half-bow, keeping my face neutral. Touching. Really.

Celestia straightens, her gaze sweeping over the group. When her eyes land on me, my heart skips a beat. She smiles faintly, a look I can’t quite read. “And you,” she says, her voice calm yet curious. “Kinetic Flux, I presume?”

I blink, trying not to flinch under her gaze. “Uh… yes, Your Majesty.”

Celestia’s serene smile lingers, but there’s something in her eyes—sharp, perceptive, and just a little too knowing. It’s the kind of look that makes me feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.

“You’ve had quite the eventful night, Kinetic Flux,” she says, her tone light yet deliberate. “From what I observed, you’ve been… resourceful.”

My throat tightens. Observed? How much did she see?

“Oh, well,” I stammer, forcing a chuckle. “I just did what I could to help. Nothing compared to what Twilight and her friends pulled off.”

Celestia tilts her head slightly, her ethereal mane flowing as if moved by an unseen breeze. “Modesty is an admirable trait, but your actions speak for themselves. Few ponies would act so decisively in the face of such… uncertainty.” Her gaze flicks to the spot where Nightmare Moon’s vortex had appeared, just for a moment. “You have a knack for anticipating pivotal moments.”

I swallow hard, my mind racing.

“Well,” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady, “sometimes you just get lucky.”

“Perhaps,” Celestia replies, her tone remaining pleasant but with an undercurrent I can’t quite place. She takes a small step closer, her towering presence intimidating, impossible to ignore. “Luck is an unpredictable ally, but preparation is what truly makes a mage.”

There’s a weight to her words that makes my heart sink. She knows. Or at least, she suspects something.

Celestia shifts her gaze, addressing the group at large. “Tonight has shown the strength of friendship and unity, but it has also revealed talents and potential that must not go unnoticed.”

Her eyes return to me, her smile softening but not losing that edge of scrutiny. “Kinetic Flux, I believe you have shown great promise. To that end, I would like you to take the Archmage Test in Canterlot.”

My stomach drops. “The… Archmage Test?” I repeat, trying to sound surprised and not horrified.

“Yes,” Celestia replies, her voice warm yet resolute. “It is a practical examination of magical skill and ingenuity, designed to test the limits of even the most gifted unicorns. I believe it is a challenge you are well-suited for.”

I shake my head, my mind scrambling for a way out. “I’m, uh, not exactly… book learned. A paper test? I’d bomb it. My knowledge is more, you know, hooves-on.”

Celestia’s smile doesn’t waver. “The Archmage Test is not written. It is entirely practical. You will be asked to demonstrate your magical ability directly.”

My throat tightens as I force a laugh. “Oh, well, even then, I’m not really—uh—Archmage material. I’ve got responsibilities here. My apprentice, Sweetie Belle! I’m teaching her, uh, advanced magic.”

Celestia tilts her head slightly, her expression as serene as ever, but her eyes sheen with quiet amusement. “An Archmage would be an even greater resource for an eager young student. Sweetie Belle would undoubtedly benefit from having her mentor receive such a title.”

I hesitate, realizing I’ve walked myself into a corner. “Right, but Ponyville has needs too. The Town Mage position is important! The, uh, crops won’t rotate themselves, and who will manage the… seasonal enchantments?”

Celestia seems amused, her eyes twinkling as if she’s watching a foal try to wiggle out of a lesson. “You are correct, Kinetic Flux. Ponyville does need its Town Mage. And what better way to fulfill that role than with the wisdom and resources of an Archmage?”

My excuses aren’t landing, and it’s starting to feel like I’m cornered by a very large, very patient predator. I glance at Twilight, who is watching with a mixture of admiration and curiosity, clearly thinking this is some great honor.

“Look, I appreciate the offer,” I say, trying to sound earnest, “but I’m just not the type for big, fancy titles. I like to keep things simple, you know?”

Celestia’s smile softens further, her voice light but with unmistakable authority. “Becoming an Archmage is not about titles. It is about service—to the kingdom, to your community, and to those who seek knowledge. And, of course, the stipend of 1,000 bits per month may help with such endeavors.”

My ears perk up involuntarily, and my mind screeches to a halt. “A thousand bits?” I repeat, my tone betraying my sudden interest.

“Yes,” Celestia says, her tone smooth. “A modest sum to ensure that Archmages have the resources to dedicate themselves fully to their craft.”

The moment the words "a thousand bits" leave Celestia's lips, my entire perspective shifts. My hesitation, my doubts, my flimsy excuses—all of it evaporates like dew under the morning sun. A thousand bits. Per month.

I straighten up, adjusting my posture to appear dignified and composed. My voice takes on a newfound confidence as I flash my most charming smile. “Well, Princess, when you put it that way, how could I refuse such a noble opportunity? Naturally, I’d be honored to take the Archmage Test.”

Twilight’s eyebrows shoot up, and she tilts her head at me, clearly suspicious. “You just said you weren’t Archmage material.”

“That was modesty,” I reply smoothly, waving a hoof as if brushing the thought aside. “I didn’t want to boast, but if Equestria needs me in such a capacity, how can I say no? It’s my civic duty, after all.” And one thousand bits.

Celestia’s serene smile doesn’t waver, but her eyes twinkle with more of that subtle amusement that makes me a little uneasy. “I’m pleased to hear that, Kinetic Flux. I will see to it that the arrangements are made. You’ll travel to Canterlot in one week.”

“A week?” I repeat, my voice cracking slightly before I catch myself. “Plenty of time! Yes, more than enough time to prepare.”

“Excellent.” Celestia inclines her head slightly, a gesture that feels both regal and definitive. “I look forward to seeing what you will bring to the test.”

Her phrasing makes my stomach twist. What does she mean by that?

As Celestia steps away, her regal presence leaving a lingering weight in the air, my mind spins. Will she be there during the test? The idea makes my stomach churn. It’s one thing to bluff through local jobs or even a high-stakes battle against Nightmare Moon. But having Celestia herself watching me closely? That’s a whole new level of scrutiny. What if she’s already seen through me? What if she’s planning to confirm her suspicions during the test?

The thought doesn’t sit well, but I shove it aside. Focus on the prize. A thousand bits a month. Just get through the test, and you’ll never have to worry about bills again.

The group starts heading back toward Ponyville, the weight of the night lifting as the dawn begins to break. Celestia and Luna walk ahead, their presence dignified. The others chatter excitedly, already talking about how this will be remembered forever.

Pinkie Pie bounces along beside me, her energy boundless despite the long night. “Oh my gosh! This is going to be the best ‘We Saved Equestria’ party ever! There’ll be cake and streamers and—ooh! We need fireworks! Lots of fireworks!”

I force a chuckle, still lost in my thoughts. The reality of the test looms over me like a dark cloud, but Pinkie’s infectious enthusiasm makes it hard to dwell on it for too long.

By the time we reach Ponyville, the town is already buzzing with activity. Word of Nightmare Moon’s defeat has spread like wildfire, and the streets are lined with ponies cheering as we arrive. The decorations for the Summer Sun Celebration are still up, but now they feel like part of a victory parade.

As we approach the town square, Pinkie Pie somehow manages to dart ahead and organize an impromptu party in record time. Tables appear out of nowhere, piled high with food and drinks. Streamers and balloons float through the air, and a lively tune plays from somewhere—probably a magic artifact, I doubt they have gramophones.

Ponies gather around, congratulating Twilight and the others. I do my best to stay on the edges, smiling politely and nodding whenever somepony mentions my “heroic efforts.” It’s flattering, sure, but the attention is unnerving.

Twilight eventually finds me near the refreshment table, a plate of pastries hovering beside her. “So, Kinetic,” she says, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. “What’s your plan for the Archmage Test? Got any big spells you’re saving?”

I nearly choke on my drink. “Big spells? Uh, well, you know, I’ve got a few ideas. Can’t reveal all my secrets just yet.”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “You realize Celestia will expect more than just clever tricks, right? The Archmage Test is about mastery and depth, not showmanship.”

Fantastic. I force a confident grin. “Of course. I’ve got it all under control.”

Her skepticism is palpable, but she doesn’t press further. Instead, she looks toward the crowd, her expression softening. “You know, tonight really was incredible. I’ve never felt so… connected. Like we’re all part of something bigger.”

I pause at her words, letting them hang in the air. Twilight’s looking at me with that earnest sincerity that’s practically radiating off her. She clearly means it. For her, this whole night has been a life-changing revelation about friendship, unity, and whatever else the Elements of Harmony are supposed to symbolize.

“Yeah,” I say, taking a sip of my drink to stall for time. “You guys are… something bigger, alright.”

It’s not a lie. They are something bigger. I mean, they literally just saved the world together. The connection between them is palpable, and they’re all basking in it. But even as I say it, there’s a hollow feeling in my chest.

Because I don’t feel like part of that something bigger.

I glance over at the others—Pinkie Pie bouncing around, Rainbow Dash retelling the cliff incident with exaggerated flair, Fluttershy quietly tending to a flower arrangement, Applejack laughing with a group of townsfolk, and Rarity chatting with Luna about fashion. They’re all so… together. Like they’ve been friends forever, even though I know they only met a day ago.

And then there’s me. The outsider. The guy who got left to tumble off a cliff and fend off a manticore on his own. I don’t hold it against them—not really—but it’s hard to forget. When things got tough, I wasn’t part of their something bigger. I was on my own.

I shake the thought away and focus on Twilight. She’s still looking at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to say something profound. I give her a half-smile. “It’s a good thing you all came together when you did. Equestria needed you.”

Her brow furrows slightly. “Not just us, Kinetic. You helped, too.”

I shrug. “Sure, in my own way. But this—” I gesture vaguely toward the group. “This is your thing. You and your friends. I’m just the guy who threw some chalk and hid behind a pillar.”

Twilight looks like she wants to argue, but before she can, Pinkie Pie bounds over, her energy as boundless as ever. “Hey, you two! Stop being all serious and come party! There’s cake!”

Twilight hesitates for a moment, then sighs and smiles. “Alright, Pinkie. We’re coming.”

As she walks away, I linger by the refreshment table for a bit longer, watching the others revel in their victory. The warmth of the celebration buzzes around me, but it feels distant, like I’m on the outside looking in. Eventually, I set my empty cup down and step away from the refreshment table. There’s something more pressing on my mind—something I was promised.

The house.

Overthinking
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Applied Mathemagics

Overthinking

The thought of finally having a real place to stay, one that isn’t a cramped inn room, sparks a faint glimmer of satisfaction. Potentially a thousand bits a month and a house? If nothing else, I’m finally catching a few breaks.

I weave through the crowd, scanning for Mayor Mare. She’s easy to spot, standing near the stage and chatting with a group of ponies. Her smile is broad, but the faint lines of exhaustion on her face suggest she’s been running on adrenaline all night.

As I walk toward her the pain in my shoulder suddenly flairs. With each step closer, a sharp, stabbing pain lances through my side, radiating outward with every breath. It’s not the dull ache I’ve been dealing with—it’s sharper, deeper, and wrong. I pause for a moment, clutching my chest, my breaths coming short and shallow.

Then, I feel it: a faint bubbling sensation beneath my skin, just below my collarbone, as though something is shifting where it shouldn’t be. That’s… not good. My classes as a mechanical engineer didn't cover much biology, but even I can guess what might be happening. Lung puncture? Great. That explains the wheezing.

The pain worsens as I move again, especially near my shoulder where every motion tugs on the injured rib. I grit my teeth and force myself forward, leaning slightly to one side to lessen the pressure. My vision blurs slightly, and I have to focus to keep from stumbling. Just get to her. Keep it together.

By the time I reach Mayor Mare, she’s mid-sentence, her voice chipper as she addresses the gathered ponies. I muster what little strength I have left, interrupting as politely as I can. “Mayor… I need… help.”

She turns, her smile faltering when she sees my face. “Kinetic? You look—oh dear! Are you alright?”

“No,” I manage, my voice hoarse and strained. “I think… I need to get to a hospital.”

Her eyes widen, and she quickly steps forward to steady me as I sway on my hooves. “You’re hurt! Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“Didn’t… feel this bad before,” I admit, wincing as the pain spikes again. “Can you…?”

“Yes, of course,” she says, her voice brisk as she gestures to a nearby pony. “Bring a cart! Quickly!”

Within minutes, I’m being loaded onto a wooden cart, the rough movement sending fresh waves of agony through my chest. Every bump feels like it might tear something inside me. The the crackling air under my skin has spread, making every breath a strange, unsettling sensation.

We arrive at the small Ponyville hospital, an unassuming building with a simple green cross over the door. Inside, the smell of antiseptic and herbs fills the air as a nurse ushers me into an examination room. The doctor, a middle-aged unicorn with a disheveled mane and a tired expression, takes one look at me and frowns.

“What happened?” he asks, levitating a clipboard.

“Fell,” I wheeze. “Cliff. Something… wrong with my ribs.”

The doctor narrows his eyes and lights his horn, a faint glow washing over me as he mutters something under his breath. His frown deepens as he finishes, though the magic seems to provide him with no real insight. “Hmm,” he says vaguely, looking as though he’s just been told to solve a riddle. “That doesn’t look good. Definitely some kind of… internal issue.”

I suppress an eyeroll through the pain. “No... shit.”

He raises an eyebrow and gestures to a nurse. “Get me the spellbook. Healing volume two.”

The nurse disappears into a back room and returns with a hefty, dusty tome. The doctor levitates it in front of him, flipping through the pages with an absent expression. His lips move as he reads, his horn glowing faintly as he murmurs the mental chant of each spell, likely to jog his memory. He finally stops on a page, tapping it with a hoof. “This one should do.”

“Should?” I wheeze, my voice sharp despite the strain. “You don’t sound very... confident.”

The doctor waves a hoof dismissively. “Healing magic is more art than science. You just need the right spell and the intent to fix the problem. It’ll sort itself out.”

I blink at him, my brain struggling to comprehend the sheer casualness of that statement. “That’s it? You don’t... even have to know... what’s wrong?”

“Not really,” he replies, his tone matter-of-fact. “The spell does the heavy lifting. All I need to do is focus on the idea of healing and let the magic work.”

I stare at him, my chest tightening—not just from the injury, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. “You just… wing it?”

“Pretty much,” he says with a shrug, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. “The magic knows what it’s doing.”

I lean back against the examination table, my mind reeling. Magic knows what it’s doing? That’s their entire method? I think back to the hours I spend agonizing over every detail of my illusions, calculating particle vibrations, visualizing patterns, crafting layer by layer. And here’s this guy, flipping through a book like he’s picking out a dessert recipe, trusting that magic will just figure it out.

It takes everything I have not to scream. Instead, I manage a strained laugh that quickly turns into a wheeze. “Great. Just great.”

The doctor doesn’t seem to notice my exasperation. He closes his eyes, his horn glowing brighter as he begins the spell. The air around me grows heavy with magic, a warm, golden light enveloping my chest. I feel a faint tingling sensation as the spell takes hold, the pain in my side and leg easing slightly. The bubbling sensation under my skin fades, and I can finally draw a deeper breath without feeling like I’m being stabbed.

“There we go,” the doctor says, stepping back and wiping his brow. “That should take care of it. Just take it easy for the next few days. No heavy lifting, no running, and definitely no falling off cliffs.”

I nod slowly, still processing everything. The pain has lessened significantly, but I can’t shake the frustration bubbling under the surface. “Thanks, Doc.”

He gives me a reassuring pat on my good shoulder. “No problem. You’ll be good as new in no time.”

The absurdity of the situation churns in my mind, but then I remind myself: their magic is far from simple. I’ve seen how unicorns mumble those mental Latin chants, with intricate visualizations, and align their intent just right to make spells work. It’s a kind of complexity that I can grudgingly respect, even if it still feels like they’re stumbling through it without really understanding the mechanics.

At least it’s not entirely effortless for them, I think, leaning back against the table with a groan. It’s just… different. I have to know every piece of the puzzle, while they trust the magic to fill in the blanks.

The thought doesn’t soothe all my irritation, but it’s enough to keep me from spiraling further. I push myself off the table slowly, testing my legs. My ribs still ache, and there’s a stiffness in my chest that makes deep breaths uncomfortable, but it’s a far cry from the stabbing pain I felt earlier.

I pay, (100 bits!), and shuffle out of the hospital, squinting against the midday sun. The fresh air feels good, even if my body is still sore. As I make my way back toward the town square, I rehearse what I’m going to say to Mayor Mare about the house. Part of me wonders if I should be pushy about it, but she did help me get to the hospital.

The town is still bustling with activity. Ponies are cleaning up from the earlier festivities, chatting in small groups, and returning to their routines. The cheerful atmosphere contrasts sharply with my own lingering discomfort, but I do my best to blend in.

Finally, I spot Mayor Mare near the edge of the square, overseeing a team of ponies dismantling a stage. She looks up as I approach, her eyes widening slightly when she sees me. “Kinetic! You’re up and about already? The doctor said you were in rough shape.”

“Yeah, well,” I say, forcing a grin, “magic fixes fast. Speaking of fixing things, I wanted to check in about the house you mentioned earlier.”

“Oh! Of course,” she says, her tone turning slightly awkward. “I, uh, meant to get it sorted sooner, but with everything going on…”

I wave a hoof dismissively. “I get it. Last night was a lot. Just wanted to make sure it’s still on the table.”

She nods quickly, gesturing for me to follow her. “Absolutely. It’s just a short walk from here. I’ll show you.”

The house Mayor Mare leads me to is… underwhelming.

It sits at the edge of town, nestled between two modest homes, looking less like a place of residence and more like a glorified garden shed. The paint is peeling, the windows are small and grimy, and the roof tilts slightly, as if even it is disappointed with its lot in life.

“This is it?” I ask, my voice tight. My ribs still ache, and my patience is running thin. “This is the Town Mage’s house?”

Mayor Mare winces, her smile strained. “I know it doesn’t look like much from the outside, but it’s—well, it’s what we have. It’s been empty for years, and I’m sure with a little cleaning, it’ll be perfectly—”

“Perfectly shed-like,” I mutter under my breath. My irritation grows. After everything—the cliff, the manticore, Nightmare Moon—I expected something, anything, better than this. “This is what I get for being conscripted into mortal danger?”

Mayor Mare doesn’t seem to catch my tone. She produces a key, unlocks the door, and gestures for me to enter. “Why don’t you take a look inside?”

Grumbling, I step forward and push the door open. The hinges creak, and for a moment, I brace myself for the disappointment of cramped quarters and musty air.

But then I step through, and my jaw nearly hits the floor.

The interior is vast. Impossibly vast. What should have been a single small room opens into a sprawling space, complete with a high, arched ceiling, multiple rooms branching off a central corridor, and a staircase spiraling upward to a second floor. The walls are lined with bookshelves, each packed with ancient tomes, and the air smells faintly of parchment and ozone. The space is well-lit, with glowing orbs floating near the ceiling, casting a warm, steady light.

“It’s…” I start, my voice trailing off as I step further inside. “It’s bigger on the inside.”

Mayor Mare nods, looking pleased with herself. “It’s enchanted, of course. Every Town Mage has lived here. It’s… practical.”

Practical? This place defies everything I know about, well, space. I glance back at the doorway—it’s still the same size, the small exterior entirely incongruous with the interior dimensions. My mind races as I try to make sense of it.

“How?” I ask, turning back to her. “How does this even work?”

She shrugs. “Magic.”

Of course. I rub my temples, already feeling the beginnings of a headache. Magic is the universal answer here, but it’s not enough for me. There has to be a way to explain this.

I step into the main room, my boots echoing faintly on the polished wood floor, and begin piecing it together. If I had to recreate something like this without magic…

General Relativity. Space-time is malleable—gravity bends it all the time. If the enchantment somehow folded space within the walls of the house, creating a bubble where the interior volume expanded exponentially, it could explain the size discrepancy. But… there’s no sign of gravitational distortion. I’d be heavier or lighter inside depending on how the space-time curve worked. Scratch that.

Quantum Superposition? Maybe the house occupies multiple states at once, its interior dimensions shifting depending on where you stand. But that would lead to overlapping probabilities, and I’d be noticing flickering or inconsistencies. Everything here feels stable, solid. Not quantum.

Then... Holographic Principle? Now, this has potential. If the entire interior of the house is encoded on the surface of the structure—the walls, the doorway—it could act like a projection. The small exterior would serve as the “boundary” for a much larger virtual space inside. It would function like a holodeck, where the space adapts to movement, creating the illusion of a vast interior while the actual physical space remains small.

“That’s got to be it,” I murmur, pacing the room. “The walls are acting as some kind of encoding layer, projecting a larger interior volume. It’s not really big in here—it just feels that way because I’m walking through a projection.”

Mayor Mare blinks at me. “Are you alright?”

I wave her off, still pacing as my thoughts race. “Yeah, yeah, fine. Just… thinking out loud. This place is incredible.” I glance around, letting the vastness of the space sink in. If this really works the way I think it does—if it’s somehow using a projection principle to create a functional interior—then maybe I could adapt it. Maybe I could use the same principles to enhance my illusions.

The Doppler illusion I’ve been perfecting is already pretty advanced. It manipulates light and color through particle vibrations, creating an effect so convincing that even Twilight was fooled. But this house takes things to another level entirely. It’s not just creating the illusion of space—it’s making it usable. Could I do something similar? Create an illusion so comprehensive, so immersive, that it feels real?

I stop in my tracks, my mind leaping ahead. If I could scale up the Doppler illusion, combining it with controlled sound and tactile feedback, I might be able to create a space that traps someone in an entirely fabricated environment. A prison of light and vibrations. It’s a chilling thought, but the possibilities…

“Maybe not a prison,” I mutter to myself, spinning the idea around. “A containment field? An escape mechanism? Something practical.”

Mayor Mare clears her throat, snapping me out of my musings. “I’ll leave you to explore. It seems like you’re… enjoying the place.”

I glance at her, suddenly remembering the last Town Mage. “Wait. You said this place was empty for years. What happened to the last mage?”

Her expression falters slightly. “Well… he just stopped showing up one day. No note, no explanation. We assumed he moved on to bigger things, but it’s hard to say.”

I frown, the idea unsettling. “So he just vanished?”

“Yes,” she says, her tone brightening as if to brush away the implication. “But I’m sure you’ll do fine here. Everypony already speaks highly of you.”

I force a smile, but her words stick with me. Vanishing without a trace isn’t exactly comforting, and the house’s bizarre nature doesn’t help. “Thanks. I’ll, uh… get settled in.”

She nods, passing the key to me and steps back toward the door. “If you need anything, you know where to find me. Welcome to your new home, Kinetic Flux.”

With that, she leaves, closing the door behind her. The silence that follows is heavy, the vastness of the house suddenly feeling less inviting and more… ominous.

I wander further into the main room, my thoughts circling back to the holographic principle. If this house works the way I think it does, it’s way beyond what I can recreate. I shake my head, letting out a bitter laugh. “Guess I’m not as clever as I thought.”

The realization stings a little. For all my tricks, all my bluffs, there are still things out here—magical or otherwise—that are far beyond me. I run a hoof along one of the bookshelves, the tomes there ancient and worn. Maybe the answers are here, waiting to be found.

But for now, one thing is clear: this house is mine. Whatever happened to the last mage, they'll have to pry it out of my cold, dead hooves before I abandon it.

I stand in the center of the cavernous main room, trying to take it all in. The soft glow of the floating orbs overhead bathes the walls in a warm light, highlighting the intricate woodwork and the faintly shimmering runes carved into the baseboards. The place has an ancient, almost sentient feel to it—like it’s been here forever and is still watching me.

With nothing better to do, I start exploring.

The first door I try leads to what appears to be a kitchen. The layout is simple—stone counters, wooden cabinets, and a sturdy table in the center. There’s even a large, cast-iron stove tucked into one corner. For a moment, I’m impressed. A fully functional kitchen? Maybe this place isn’t so bad.

Then I open one of the cabinets, and the stench hits me. My nose wrinkles as I peer inside to find food—if you can even call it that. Bread loaves that have long since turned to rock, jars of preserves caked in fuzzy mold, and sacks of flour that now seem to house colonies of bugs. My stomach churns, and I quickly slam the cabinet shut.

“Great,” I mutter, stepping back. “Guess the enchantments don’t extend to food preservation.”

I move on, leaving the kitchen behind. The next door opens into a long hallway, lined with more doors than I can count. The place feels like it goes on forever, a labyrinth of rooms and passages. My hooves echo faintly on the polished wood floors as I wander, stopping at random doors to peek inside.

One room turns out to be a laundry room, complete with a large, rusted washbasin and a drying rack. There’s a pile of old linens in the corner, most of them too far gone to save. Another door leads to a sitting room, its armchairs covered in faded upholstery and its bookshelves thick with dust. There’s even a small fireplace, though the ashes inside are long cold.

I find a master bedroom near the center of the house. The bed is massive, its canopy frame draped with tattered curtains. Despite the decay, there’s something regal about it—like this room was meant for someone important. A quick search of the adjacent wardrobe reveals a collection of moth-eaten robes and cloaks, their colors faded beyond recognition.

Beyond the master bedroom are three smaller guest rooms, each identical in layout. Simple beds, plain dressers, and a single window in each. The windows, I notice, don’t show anything outside. Instead, they glow faintly, as if mimicking daylight. It’s eerie, but I suppose it beats staring at a blank wall.

The more I explore, the more rooms I find. There’s a study with an ancient desk piled high with loose parchment and broken quills. A workshop filled with rusted tools and half-finished contraptions. A music room with an out-of-tune piano and a set of dusty string instruments. The place feels endless, as though the house is bending space just to keep expanding.

“Does this place even have a limit?” I mutter to myself, stepping into yet another hallway that stretches far longer than it should.

The sheer scale of it is overwhelming. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s impressive—far beyond anything I could ever create with my illusions. For all my bluster and tricks, this house operates on a level I can’t even begin to comprehend. It’s a humbling thought, one that keeps nagging at me as I wander through the endless corridors.

Finally, I stop in what looks like a library. The walls are lined with bookshelves, their contents ranging from leather-bound tomes to loose scrolls. A large, comfortable-looking armchair sits by a cold fireplace, and I sink into it with a sigh.

This house… it’s a lot. Too much, really. But it’s mine now. And if I’m going to live here, I’ll have to figure out how to make it work. I head back to the master bedroom, glancing at the bed closer, the blankets look rough but the bed itself seems intact, and soft. I sink into the plush bed, it's a bit unsettling, but I set my pouches on the bedside table, falling asleep near instantly.

The next morning, I decide the house isn’t going to clean itself. With the state it’s in, I’d be lucky if it didn’t sprout mushrooms by the end of the week. There’s no way I’m living in a rotting mage’s shack, TARDIS-sized or not. Time to pay Rosie a visit.

The apothecary’s shop is just as chaotic as ever, its shelves crammed with everything from dried herbs to jars of dubious liquids. Rosie is behind the counter, her familiar face lighting up when she sees me walk in.

“Kinetic! Back for more chalk dust? Or are you finally branching out into real potions?”

“Neither, unfortunately,” I say with a smirk, gesturing to the cluttered shop. “I’m here for cleaning supplies. Lots of them.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Cleaning? What’s gotten into you?”

“Got a house now,” I say casually, as though the very idea doesn’t still feel surreal. “Figured I should make it livable.”

Rosie chuckles, already moving to gather some items. “You? Cleaning? This I’ve got to see.”

She pulls out a bundle of rags, a few bottles of herbal soap, and a straw broom that’s seen better days. “This should get you started. Anything else?”

“Baskets,” I say, scanning the shop. “Big ones. I’ve got a lot of trash to haul out.”

Rosie grabs a couple of woven baskets from a shelf. “That’ll be 15 bits.”

I wince. 15 bits feels steep for a broom, some soap, and a couple of baskets. But then I remember Rainbow Dash’s words about bargaining. It’s time for my first haggle.

“15 bits?” I say, trying to sound incredulous. “Come on, Rosie, these baskets look like they’ve been here for years. How about 10?”

She narrows her eyes, clearly amused. “10? Please. These baskets are hoof-woven. 13.”

“They’re also covered in dust,” I counter, picking up one and giving it a shake for emphasis. “12, and I’ll throw in a good word about your shop around town.”

She snorts. “You think ponies don’t already know about me? 13 is my final offer.”

I hesitate, then nod, pretending to consider it longer than I need to. “Alright, 13. But only because I’m feeling generous.”

Rosie grins, clearly enjoying the exchange. “Pleasure doing business with you, Kinetic. Good luck with the cleaning.”

Back at the house, I unload my supplies and get to work, starting in the kitchen. The rotting food is the worst of it, the stench almost unbearable as I toss everything into the baskets. The marble counters are grimy, the stone floors sticky with who-knows-what. It takes hours to scrub the place down, but eventually, it starts to look like a real kitchen again.

When I find the faucet—an old, tarnished spigot sticking out of the wall—I’m floored. Running water. Inside. I twist the knob, and a steady stream flows out, splashing into the basin below. It’s not like the sinks I’m used to, more like a hose faucet, but still—running water.

“Where’s this coming from?” I mutter, crouching to inspect the spigot. Is it pumped from a well? Maybe an underground reservoir? Or is this, like everything else about this house, fueled by magic?

I let the water run for a moment, marveling at its clarity and steady flow. If it’s magical, it’s a subtle kind of enchantment—nothing flashy, just functional. And it’s the only running water I’ve seen in Equestria so far, which makes it all the more intriguing.

The rest of the house takes most of the day to clean. I scrub the grime from the master bedroom, clear out the rotting linens from the laundry room, and haul broken furniture and trash from the sitting room. By the time I’m done, the place looks almost livable, though my muscles ache from hours of work.

I collapse onto one of the newly cleaned chairs in the library, wiping sweat from my brow. The house may be bigger on the inside, but at least now it feels less like a forgotten relic and more like… home.

The library is quiet, the soft glow of the floating orbs casting a gentle light over the rows of books. I lean back in the chair, letting my head rest against the padded back. My body aches from a full day of scrubbing, hauling, and generally doing things my muscles aren’t accustomed to, but it’s a satisfying kind of ache. The kind that says, You did something worthwhile today.

For the first time since arriving in Ponyville, I feel like I have a place to call my own. Sure, it’s weird and magical and far beyond my comprehension, but it’s mine. A place to rest my head without worrying about the cost per night.

Eventually, I haul myself out of the chair and make my way to the master bedroom. The massive bed, freshly dusted and with the least-tattered linens I could salvage, looks like pure bliss. I set my bit bag and chalk pouch on the bedside table, then collapse onto the mattress with a groan.

It’s soft. Luxuriously soft. The kind of bed you sink into, like it’s hugging you back. My muscles practically melt as I stretch out, the aches and pains of the day fading into a pleasant numbness. “Alright,” I mutter to myself, my eyes already drooping. “Maybe this place isn’t so bad.”

Sleep comes quickly, deep and dreamless.

When I wake, the first light of dawn is filtering through the faintly glowing windows. For a moment, I just lie there, enjoying the warmth of the blankets and the softness of the mattress. But eventually, duty calls.

I swing my legs off the bed, wincing slightly at the residual soreness in my side. The doctor’s magic might have patched me up, but the muscles around the injury are still tender. Grabbing my bit bag and chalk pouch, I make my way out of the house glancing back at it. It doesn’t seem as tilted as before, in fact the roof looks nearly straight.

The walk to Town Hall is peaceful, the crisp morning air helping to clear the fog of sleep from my mind. The streets are quiet, with only a few ponies out and about this early. I nod to a couple of them as I pass, their cheerful greetings making me feel more at home than I expected.

When I arrive at my office I step inside and set my things down on the desk. The window lets in the morning light, illuminating a small stack of papers that Mayor Mare must have left for me.

I sigh, settling into the chair behind the desk. “Alright, Kinetic,” I mutter to myself. “Another day pretending you know what you’re doing.”

I sit at the desk, idly flipping through the stack of papers. Most of them are mundane—requests for minor enchantments that I can't make, a few complaints about the weather schedule, and a report on a barn that could use some “magical reinforcement” for its beams. I file them into neat piles, half-listening to the faint creak of the floorboards and the occasional chatter of ponies outside.

But my mind keeps drifting to the Archmage Examination. What exactly are they going to ask me to do? Practical test or not, it’s bound to involve high-level spells—the kind that only unicorns with years of dedicated magical study can pull off.

Teleportation feels like an obvious one. It’s flashy, versatile, and a cornerstone of advanced magic. I’ve seen Twilight do it in the show, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s a favorite of Celestia’s students. But how the hell am I supposed to replicate something like that? My tricks revolve around manipulating the physical world—particles, light, vibrations. Teleportation is on a completely different level.

I drum my hooves on the desk, scowling at the thought. Maybe I could fake it? An illusion of disappearing, followed by moving somewhere out of sight? But no, if the test is in front of Celestia or any skilled mages, they’ll see through that in a heartbeat.

The problem gnaws at me, frustratingly out of reach. I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling as if it holds the answer. There has to be some way to—

The door swings open, and I snap upright, startled. A young stallion stumbles in, his eyes wide with panic and his chest heaving like he’s run a mile. His mane is disheveled, and there’s a faint singe mark on his left flank.

“Town Mage!” he gasps, skidding to a stop in front of my desk. “I—I need help. It’s my sister! Something’s wrong with her magic!”

I blink, caught off guard. “Your sister’s magic? What happened?”

“She’s—she’s glowing,” he stammers, his voice shaking. “Her horn won’t stop sparking, and everything she touches gets zapped! She can’t even pick up a glass of water without it shattering. I think she tried a spell, and it… backfired or something.”

My stomach tightens. This isn’t another farmer needing crop advice or a carpenter wanting safety rituals. This is real magic—a problem I can’t just science my way through.

“Alright,” I say, keeping my voice steady despite the pit forming in my gut. “Take me to her.”

The stallion nods frantically and leads the way out of the office. As I follow him through the streets, I mentally prepare myself for whatever I’m about to face.

Magic gone wrong. This is going to be tricky.

We move quickly through Ponyville, the stallion leading the way as he weaves between houses and carts. His panic is infectious, and I can feel my chest tightening with each step. This isn’t some trick I can pull out of thin air—this is an actual magical crisis, and I don’t even know where to start.

When we reach his house, the first thing I notice is the faint hum in the air. It’s like static electricity, making my coat prickle. The stallion pushes the door open, and I step inside, greeted by a scene of chaos.

The living room is a mess. Cushions are torn, furniture is scorched, and the air smells faintly of ozone. In the center of the room stands a young mare, her horn sparking wildly with arcs of blue energy. Her eyes are wide with panic, and she flinches as another jolt of magic shoots out, smashing a nearby vase.

“Stay back!” she cries, her voice trembling. “I can’t control it!”

“Uh…” I glance at the stallion, who’s looking at me like I’m his last hope. My stomach churns. Think, Kinetic. Think.

I take a cautious step forward, keeping my voice calm. “Alright. Let’s figure this out. What were you trying to do when this started?”

“I—I was just practicing a light spell,” she stammers. “Nothing big! Just a little glow to help me read at night.”

I frown, trying to piece it together. A light spell doesn’t explain this level of magical discharge. Her horn is practically a lightning rod. “And then what happened?”

“I don’t know!” she wails. “It just—” She gestures wildly, another arc of magic zipping through the air and singing the curtains. “—it exploded!”

I grit my teeth, trying to make sense of it. Light spell. Explosion. Out-of-control magic. Could it be some kind of magical feedback loop? Maybe she overcharged the spell, and now it’s stuck, constantly building and releasing energy. But how do you stop something like that? I don’t know enough about magic to be sure.

“Alright,” I say, trying to sound confident. “First thing we need to do is stabilize the situation. Can you stop channeling magic? Just… turn it off?”

“I’ve been trying!” she cries, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t! It won’t stop!”

Of course not. That would’ve been too easy.

I step closer, feeling the hum of her magic grow stronger. The air around her feels charged, almost like static electricity before a storm. My brain races, scrambling for something—anything—that might work.

If this were physics, I’d treat it like an overloaded circuit. Maybe I can ground the excess energy? Or redirect it somewhere harmless? But this isn’t physics. It’s magic, and I have no idea what rules I’m working with.

Still, I have to try.

The hum of the charged air grows louder as I step closer, the energy radiating off her horn making the hairs on my coat stand on end. My mind latches onto the idea of treating this like electricity—it’s the only framework I have to work with.

“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “This is like an electrical circuit. If there’s too much current, you need a place for the excess energy to go. We need to ground it.”

“Ground it?” the stallion asks, his voice shaky. “How do we do that?”

I scan the room, my eyes darting over the mess. No wires, no modern tools—nothing even remotely helpful. My thoughts flicker to the medieval-era materials around me. “We need something conductive,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “Something that can safely draw the magic away from her horn.”

The stallion stares at me, clearly confused. “Conductive?”

“Metal,” I clarify, snapping my gaze to him. “Do you have anything metal? A rod, a chain—anything long and sturdy?”

He blinks, then nods quickly. “We have an old iron poker for the fireplace!”

“Perfect. Get it.”

As he scrambles to find it, I focus on the mare. Her sparks are becoming more erratic, and I can feel the heat of the discharged energy. “Listen,” I say, trying to keep her calm. “We’re going to redirect the magic. It’s going to feel weird, but it’ll stop the sparks, alright?”

She nods, her eyes wide and tearful. “O-okay.”

The stallion returns with the iron poker, his hooves trembling as he hands it to me. The metal is old and slightly rusted, but it’ll have to do. I grip it in my telekinesis, testing its weight.

“We’ll need to get this into the ground,” I explain, thinking out loud. “The earth can absorb the energy safely.”

The stallion’s eyes widen. “There’s soil right outside!”

I nod while giving him a bit of a flat look. “Good. But she'll need to direct the magic from her horn to the poker. That’s the tricky part.”

The room is charged with tension, the magical energy crackling faintly as the mare’s horn continues to spark. I carefully guide the stallion to jam the iron poker into the garden soil just outside the door, ensuring it’s planted firmly enough to stay upright. The faint smell of ozone lingers in the air as I assess the situation.

“Alright,” I say, turning back to the mare. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to focus on directing all that energy into the metal poker. Think of it like a storm cloud sending lightning to the ground. The poker is your lightning rod—it’ll take everything and send it safely into the earth.”

Her expression is panicked, her ears pinned back as she glances nervously at the sparking energy around her. “But… how do I do that? I don’t know how to stop it!”

“You don’t need to stop it,” I say quickly, trying to keep my voice steady. “You just need to aim it. Right now, your magic is like wild lightning—uncontrolled, striking everything. But with a little focus, you can guide it where it needs to go.”

Her lip quivers, and she takes a shaky breath. “Okay… but I don’t understand how.”

“Alright,” I say, stepping closer but keeping a safe distance. “Let me explain. Magic like this works with intent, right? You’re thinking about light, but your magic got overloaded, so it’s spilling everywhere. What we need to do is shift your intent. Instead of making light, think about sending that energy out—out of your horn, out of the room, into the poker. Visualize it as a single line of light, like a thunderbolt connecting your horn to the metal.”

She frowns, her brow furrowed in confusion. “A thunderbolt?”

“Lightning,” I say, simplifying further. “When the clouds send lightning to the ground, it’s looking for the fastest way down. Your horn is like the cloud. The poker is the ground. All you have to do is tell your magic to flow to the poker, and it’ll do the rest.”

Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of understanding crossing her face. “So… I just think about the lightning going there?”

“Exactly.” I gesture to the sparking magic. “Close your eyes if it helps. Picture the energy in your horn moving down into the poker, like water pouring out of a jug.”

The stallion looks at me, his expression dubious. “Will that really work?”

“It should,” I say, more confident than I feel. “Magic obeys intent, and if she focuses hard enough, the energy will follow her command.”

The mare closes her eyes, her horn still sparking erratically. Her breathing is uneven, but she starts to calm as she concentrates. She walks slowly to the door, a short distance from the grounded rod. I step back, watching closely as the arcs of magic begin to shift, their chaotic bursts becoming more focused.

“That’s it,” I say softly, keeping my voice steady. “You’re doing great. Just keep visualizing.”

Slowly, the sparks around her horn dim, condensing into a single bright thread of energy. It arcs toward the poker. The air hums as the energy flows into the metal, the poker glowing faintly as it channels the excess magic into the ground.

The room falls silent except for the faint crackle of dissipating energy. The mare opens her eyes, her horn no longer sparking. She looks at me, her expression a mix of disbelief and relief. “It worked?”

I let out a long breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Yeah. It worked.”

The stallion claps a hoof on my shoulder, his voice filled with gratitude. “You saved her. I don’t know how, but you did.”

I force a smile, my chest still tight from the tension. “Just… using what I know.” And what I made up.

As the mare steadies herself, I glance at the glowing poker, the faint warmth still radiating from it. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s enough for now. My mind churns, already considering how I could refine the method, but for now, I just feel relieved that it’s over.

“Thank you,” the mare says quietly, her voice trembling. “I thought it was going to destroy everything.”

“You’re welcome,” I reply, the weight of the night settling over me. “Just… take it easy with your spells for a bit, alright?”

She nods quickly. The stallion gratefully hoofs me 50 bits and I step outside, the cool night air hitting my face. The garden is peaceful, the soil undisturbed except for the glowing poker sticking out of the ground. As I lean against the doorframe, catching my breath, one thought lingers:

I really need to figure out how magic works before it kills me.

The walk back to my office feels heavier than it should. The adrenaline of the event has worn off, leaving me with a dull ache in my ribs and the humbling realization of just how far out of my depth I am.

Still, the practical magic test looms in my mind like a storm cloud. I slump into the chair at my desk, absently twirling a clump of chalk in the air.

Teleportation.

I’m almost certain it’s going to come up. If I know anything about the dramatic flair of magical societies—and I’m starting to feel like I do—it’ll be the centerpiece of the test. Some impossible challenge: a high tower, a sealed chamber, or a sheer cliff with no obvious path. “Get here,” they’ll say. “Prove you’re worthy.”

The whole concept of teleportation feels maddeningly out of reach. Moving from one place to another instantly? That’s not something I can fake, even with my best illusions. I stare at the far wall of my office, the bricks worn and irregular, and let my thoughts drift.

What if I didn’t need to move instantly?

The idea unfolds slowly, and I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. Maybe the problem isn’t about going somewhere in the blink of an eye. Maybe it’s about bypassing obstacles to ensure I can get there eventually. If the goal is simply to reach an inaccessible location, perhaps I don’t need to defy physics—I just need to cheat them.

My gaze sharpens on the wall. The grains of the bricks catch the light from my desk lamp, uneven and coarse. Each brick is a collection of smaller particles, bound together by mortar, friction, and a lattice of chemical bonds. If I can’t go around the wall… what if I could go through it?

The idea of vibrating my body like some comic-book speedster crosses my mind, but I dismiss it almost immediately. Physics doesn't work that way.

The idea of vibrating my molecules to phase through the wall is tantalizing in theory, but it crumbles under scrutiny. For one, quantum tunneling—the idea that particles can pass through barriers due to wave-particle duality—isn’t practical at a macroscopic scale. The probability of every single atom in my body tunneling through simultaneously is so astronomically low that it might as well be zero. And even if I somehow managed it, the energy required to vibrate my molecules at such a frequency would generate immense heat, enough to cook myself alive before I even got halfway through the wall. Not to mention the likelihood of structural failure in my body. No, vibrating like that is definitely out.

But loosening the bonds between the grains of the wall? That feels plausible. Bricks aren’t solid monoliths—they’re held together by a combination of weak intergranular forces and the chemical bonds of the mortar. If I could weaken those bonds, just enough to create a temporary path, I might be able to push the grains aside with telekinesis and slip through.

The more I think about it, the more the idea takes shape. The wall isn't an unyielding barrier—it's a collection of grains, bound together by forces that, while strong on a structural level, might be manageable on a smaller scale. If I could disrupt the intergranular forces—the weak bonds between the grains of the bricks and the mortar—I could loosen the material just enough to displace it.

I push myself up from the chair and move closer to the wall, running a hoof along the rough surface. Each grain of sand and piece of stone feels distinct under my touch, a patchwork of materials fused into one solid whole. The trick, I realize, is to work section by section, loosening and displacing just enough material to create an opening while minimizing the energy required.

I close my eyes, my horn lighting faintly as I focus on the wall. The familiar hum of my telekinesis fills the room, but this time, I narrow my intent. Instead of brute force, I imagine a delicate touch, like loosening the threads of a tightly woven fabric. If I can gently disrupt those weaker connections, the grains should shift, like sand spilling from a clenched fist.

I focus on a small patch of wall, about the size of a hoofprint, and push my telekinesis into the microscopic spaces between the grains. It’s like trying to pry apart the layers of an onion without damaging the skin. Slowly, painstakingly, I feel the bonds weaken, the grains loosening their grip on each other.

“Alright,” I murmur to myself, my voice barely audible over the hum of magic. “Now, move.”

I push the loosened grains aside, sliding them into the surrounding brick like pieces of a dense puzzle. The material resists at first, the friction and mechanical interlocking fighting against me. But with enough pressure, the grains begin to shift. The wall ripples faintly, like clay under a sculptor’s hands.

I repeat the process, working section by section, loosening and displacing the grains as I go. Each motion is deliberate, each patch of wall a new challenge. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my horn aches with the sustained effort, but I press on, forcing the material back in place behind me.

After what feels like an eternity, I finally make it through the other side. I step out of the wall, breathing heavily, my legs shaking from exhaustion. The air on the other side feels cool and fresh, but my relief is short-lived. When I glance back at the wall, my stomach sinks.

A pony-sized gap in the pattern mars the brickwork, the grains I displaced failing to settle back into place. The bricks sag slightly, the pattern broken and uneven, like a poorly patched wound.

I stare at the damaged wall, frustration bubbling up. This wasn’t phasing through the wall—it was breaking it, squeezing through, and then haphazardly trying to rebuild it. The result? A mess. A glaring, uneven scar on what used to be a solid surface.

“Great,” I mutter, pacing in front of the wall. “All that effort, and it’s just glorified demolition and reconstruction.”

I sit down heavily, my horn still throbbing from the exertion. The experiment technically worked—I made it through the wall—but the method was painfully inefficient. Not only did it drain me, but it also left behind an obvious, ugly patch. If I tried this during the Archmage Test, it wouldn’t impress anyone. It would just look like I didn’t know what I was doing.

I stare at the broken wall for a long moment, replaying the process in my head. The issue wasn’t the technique itself—it was how I used it. I’d tried to loosen and move the entire wall, grain by grain, as I passed through. That kind of brute-forced micromanagement was bound to be exhausting.

Then it hits me. Why did I try to move the entire wall like some kind of living ooze? Why didn’t I just remove one section entirely?

I smack my forehead with a hoof. “Of course! Just cut a square.”

The solution seems so obvious now. Instead of trying to make the entire wall pliable, I could focus on a single, precise section—a square cutout. By loosening the bonds in just that line and pulling it out, I wouldn’t have to waste energy on the rest of the wall. It’d be like cutting a door, stepping through, and then putting the piece back in place.

“Simple. Efficient,” I say, shaking my head at myself. “Why didn’t I think of this sooner?”

Eager to test my new idea, I step up to the wall again, horn glowing faintly as I prepare to focus on a clean, square section. This time, I picture the process clearly in my mind: loosen the bonds along a precise line, pull the square out in one motion, and replace it without disturbing the rest of the structure. Easy, right?

I push my magic forward, expecting the usual hum of telekinetic energy to fill the air. But instead, I feel… nothing.

I blink, confused. My horn glows faintly for a moment, sputters, and then fizzles out completely. I try again, this time concentrating harder. The result is the same—nothing happens.

“What the…” I mutter, tapping a hoof against my horn as if it’s a faulty lightbulb. “Come on. Work.”

I try once more, gritting my teeth and pushing harder. For a fleeting second, I feel a faint flicker of magic—a spark of potential—but it vanishes almost instantly, leaving me with an empty, drained sensation.

That’s when it hits me: I’m out of mana.

The realization makes my stomach drop. I’ve never run out of mana before. Sure, I’ve felt tired after big 'spells' or prolonged use, but this? This is a whole new level. It’s like trying to take a deep breath after running a marathon, only to realize there’s no air left.

I stagger back from the wall, the exhaustion hitting me like a wave. My legs feel weak, and my head throbs dully. The soreness in my body from earlier experiments intensifies, and I slump to the ground, my thoughts racing.

“Great,” I groan, covering my face with a hoof. “Not only did I fail, but now I’m literally useless.”

The emptiness in my horn feels unnatural, almost wrong. I’m so used to relying on magic for even the smallest tasks that its absence feels like losing a limb. I can’t even test my improved wall-cutting idea. What’s the point of having a breakthrough if I can’t use it?

Frustration bubbles up, but it’s tempered by a creeping sense of vulnerability. I’ve always thought of my magic as a tool, something I could summon at will. But now, sitting here, drained and powerless, I realize how fragile that assumption is. Without magic, what am I? Just a pony with some chalk and a lot of bad ideas.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. Panicking won’t help. I just need to rest, eat something, and hope my mana replenishes itself. That’s how it works… right?

I linger on the ground for a while, staring at the wall I just climbed through—or rather, the awkward, mismatched patch where I disrupted the brick pattern. It's not a gaping hole, thankfully, but it’s obvious. Too obvious. If anyone sees this, I’ll have some explaining to do.

With a weary sigh, I stand up. The emptiness in my horn is still unsettling, but I’m too tired to dwell on it. It’s been a long day, and I’ve hit my limit. Time to call it a night.

Only then do I remember: I left my chalk pouch and bit bag on my desk inside the office. Of course, my brilliant plan to walk through the wall didn’t account for basic logistics like carrying my stuff. Now I’ll have to do the walk of shame—right back through Town Hall’s front door.

“Fantastic,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Just fantastic.”

I make my way around the building, every step a reminder of my lingering exhaustion. The air is cool, the streets quiet now that most ponies have turned in for the night. When I reach the main entrance of Town Hall, I hesitate, glancing around to make sure no one’s watching. The last thing I need is an audience.

I push open the door and step inside, the faint creak of the hinges echoing in the empty space. My office is just down the hall, but the walk feels longer than it should. The silence makes my hoofsteps seem louder, like the building itself is judging me.

When I reach my desk, my chalk pouch and bit bag are exactly where I left them. Grumbling under my breath, I grab them both in my mouth—because, of course, I’m too drained to use telekinesis—and head back out.

As I step into the hallway, I nearly collide with Mayor Mare.

“Oh! Kinetic!” she says, blinking in surprise. “What are you still doing here?”

I freeze, the chalk pouch and bit bag dangling awkwardly from my mouth. I mumble something incoherent, realizing too late that I can’t speak with them in my teeth. Mayor Mare tilts her head, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Is everything alright?” she asks, clearly trying to piece together what she’s seeing.

I nod quickly, offering a muffled “Mhm!” before scurrying past her. My face feels hot, and I silently curse my luck. Could this day get any more humiliating?

By the time I step outside, the cool night air is a welcome relief. I make my way back to my house, trying to push the day’s events out of my mind. When I finally reach the front door, the sight of the familiar, impossibly small exterior is oddly comforting. I step inside, the vast interior stretching out before me, and let out a long, tired sigh.

Dropping my chalk pouch and bit bag onto the nearest table, I take a moment to absorb the silence. The house feels almost too big, too empty, but tonight, that’s exactly what I need.

I shuffle to the master bedroom, my hooves dragging slightly on the polished floor. The bed is just as inviting as it was the night before, and I sink into it with a groan, the soft mattress cradling my aching body.

“Tomorrow,” I mutter to myself, closing my eyes. “I’ll figure out the test. I’ll figure out… all of it.”

The day’s exhaustion pulls me under quickly, I don’t dream.

Author's Note

Spoiler: That is not how the house works.

Assumptions

Wall Dimensions:

A "person-sized hole" is approximately 2 meters tall, 0.6 meters wide, and 0.2 meters thick.
Volume of the hole: V=2 m×0.6 m×0.2 m=0.24
Brick Properties:
- Bricks are primarily made of clay, with a density of about 2000 kg/m^3.
- Mass of material: m=ρ⋅V=2000 kg/m3×0.24 m3=480 kgm
Bond Energy:
- The energy required to weaken bonds is approximately the energy to overcome van der Waals forces between grains.
- Assume 1 Joule per gram of brick material is required to disrupt intergranular bonds (a rough estimate based on molecular interaction energy).

### Energy Required

Total energy to loosen bonds: E=480 kg×1000 g/kg×1 J/g=480,000 J

### Comparison

480,000 Joules is equivalent to:
- About 115 food calories (1 food calorie = 4184 Joules).
- The energy released by a 0.1 kg (100 g) mass falling from a height of ~50 meters.

And that's without the chemical bonds.
Fuck i just realized hes not person shaped, oh well.

If I Don't Tell Her, She Won't Know
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Applied Mathemagics

If I Don't Tell Her, She Won't Know

I wake up to the warm light of dawn filtering through the curtains of the master bedroom. For a moment, I lie still, letting the comfort of the bed lull me into staying put. But the quiet buzz of thoughts about the Archmage Test, the experiments, and everything else pulls me up. Four days until I have to go to Canterlot.

With a reluctant groan, I roll out of bed, stretch, and head toward the kitchen. After a quick breakfast of stale bread and water—I still haven’t restocked properly—I grab my chalk pouch and bit bag and head out the door. The air is crisp, and the early morning light casts long shadows across the cobbled streets of Ponyville.

As I walk toward Town Hall, something catches my eye—a small wooden box perched on a post just outside my house. A mailbox. I hadn’t noticed it before, and now I feel vaguely embarrassed. How long has it been sitting there?

Curious, I step over and flip open the lid. Inside is a small stack of letters, neatly arranged. Most of them look like the usual boring correspondence: a flyer for some kind of farmers’ market, and a couple of envelopes addressed to “The Town Mage.” I sort through them quickly, pausing when I reach an ornate envelope sealed with a golden emblem.

My stomach twists as I break the seal and pull out the letter inside. The paper is thick, the kind of stationary that radiates importance. Along with the letter are two golden tickets that catch the morning light, glinting in a way that makes my heart sink before I even read the message.

Dear Kinetic Flux,

It is my pleasure to inform you that you have been invited to this year’s Grand Galloping Gala as a guest of honor. The Gala is an opportunity to celebrate unity and achievement, and your contributions to Ponyville and Equestria make you a deserving participant.

Enclosed are two tickets for the event. Your presence is not only welcomed but expected, as I believe you will find the evening both enriching and memorable. Please do not hesitate to bring a companion of your choosing.

I look forward to seeing you there.

Warm regards,
Princess Celestia

My eyes linger on the word expected. Of course. This isn’t really an invitation—it’s a royal decree dressed up as politeness. As if I don’t already have enough on my plate with the Archmage Test.

I let out a long sigh, glaring at the tickets as if they’re personally responsible for my predicament. “Enriching and memorable, huh? Sure.”

Stuffing the tickets and letter into my bit bag, I close the mailbox with a snap and continue toward Town Hall. The quiet streets of Ponyville offer a brief reprieve from the weight of the letter, but the thought of dressing up and mingling with Canterlot’s elite gnaws at the back of my mind.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath. “Just great. More politics and pomp. Just what I needed.”

The day has barely started, and I’m already dreading it.

As I make my way toward my office, the morning air is filled with the soft hum of Ponyville life. Ponies chatter, carts creak, and the occasional bird chirps overhead. It’s almost peaceful—until I hear a voice that stops me in my tracks.

“Darling, I simply can’t stop thinking about him,” Rarity says, her voice carrying with its usual dramatic flair. I glance to the side and spot the Mane 6 seated outside at a café, enjoying an early lunch. I’m close enough to hear them, but they haven’t noticed me yet.

“Who?” Rainbow Dash asks, her tone already teasing.

“Kinetic Flux, of course,” Rarity replies, sighing wistfully. “He’s just so… mysterious. That rugged demeanor, the way he vanishes so quickly. It’s like he’s running from something.”

My stomach twists. Oh no. This can’t be happening.

“Rarity, really?” Twilight asks, her voice skeptical. “He’s interesting, sure, but he doesn’t exactly strike me as the… romantic type.”

“Oh, nonsense, Twilight,” Rarity chimes. “That only makes him more intriguing! He’s clearly a stallion of great depth, not to mention his magical aptitude. You yourself said his theories made you question your own aptness, didn’t you?”

Twilight hesitates, her expression shifting slightly. “Well… yes, his approach is unique, but that doesn’t mean—”

“He is pretty cool,” Rainbow Dash interrupts, shrugging. “I mean, he took on Nightmare Moon, didn’t he?”

“And made that sun thingy for the festival!” Pinkie Pie adds, bouncing slightly in her seat. But then her tone shifts, losing some of its usual cheer. “But… he doesn’t seem very happy, does he? He fake-laughs a lot, like he’s trying too hard.”

I feel a flicker of irritation. How does she notice stuff like that so easily? Is she keeping tabs on me? How much does she really know?

“Oh, poor dear,” Rarity says, her voice softening. “Living all alone in that dreadful little shack. It breaks my heart. Honestly, I’d love to scoop him up and take him home. Show him what true care and comfort look like.”

The thought sends a shiver down my spine. Absolutely not.

The thought of Rarity—or any of them—thinking they could “fix” me by meddling in my life makes my skin crawl. And how does she even know where I live? I barely know where I live. My mailbox was a discovery for me just this morning.

“You think he’d go for that?” Rainbow Dash asks, grinning. “I mean, the guy’s slippery. Every time we try to talk to him, he’s gone before we can ask anything.”

“I think he’s just busy,” Twilight says, though she doesn’t sound convinced.

“I dunno,” Applejack chimes in. “Somethin’ about him seems… skittish. Like he’s carryin’ more than he lets on.”

Fluttershy stays silent, her eyes downcast, but the others nod in agreement. I feel my stomach churn, a mix of irritation and unease bubbling up. It’s bad enough that Rarity seems infatuated, but now the whole group is analyzing me like I’m some kind of puzzle to solve.

And then Rarity says the words that make my blood run cold. “Speaking of him, I simply must take Sweetie Belle to her magic practice with him this afternoon. She’s been chattering non-stop about it since the last session.”

That’s my cue. Without waiting to hear more, I turn and dash toward my office. If Rarity is planning to show up with Sweetie Belle, I need to get there first. The last thing I want is another awkward encounter—or worse, to give her more reasons to swoon over me.

I reach my office, grateful for the solitude and the chance to regroup. The morning sunlight filters through the window, casting soft shadows on the walls. I have some time before Rarity and Sweetie Belle arrive, so I sit at my desk, the faint hum of the town outside serving as background noise.

The Archmage examination looms in my mind like an immovable obstacle. Now that I’ve figured out how to bypass physical barriers, I have to face the opposite challenge: bridging gaps or heights. If the test involves getting to a point that’s visible but completely inaccessible—say, at the top of a sheer cliff or across a chasm—I need a solution.

My first thought is simple: Why not just lift myself with telekinesis?

I stand and focus, channeling my magic to envelop my body. The glow surrounds me, and I feel the familiar hum of energy. I push upward, expecting the satisfying sensation of lifting off the ground.

Instead, my magic fizzles out abruptly, like a candle snuffed by an unseen wind. I stumble slightly, the effort leaving a faint ache in my horn. Confused, I try again, but the result is the same. The magic wraps around me, starts to lift—and then collapses, as though the energy is being pulled away.

“Great,” I mutter, slumping back into my chair. No self-levitation. Figures.

I lean back, running a hoof through my mane. The self-levitation idea had been a long shot, but its failure leaves me without a clear path forward. It seems magic has some kind of inherent interference when applied directly to living beings—like trying to use a magnet on another magnet with the same polarity. The more I think about it, the more it frustrates me.

I don’t have time to dwell on it. A sharp knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts, followed immediately by the sound of the door creaking open.

“Mr. Flux!” Sweetie Belle’s cheerful voice rings out as she trots into the room, her horn glowing faintly. Rarity follows behind her, her expression as radiant as ever.

“Hello, darling,” Rarity chimes, her voice dripping with enthusiasm. “I hope we’re not intruding.”

I stand quickly, smoothing my mane and forcing a smile. “Not at all. Perfect timing, actually.”

Sweetie Belle beams at me and says, “Look what I figured out!” Her horn flares briefly grabbing some chalk from a bag she tied to her neck, and a small illusion materializes in front of her—a tiny, shimmering version of me. It’s surprisingly accurate, with my tan coat, blonde mane, and even a faint glow around the illusion’s horn.

Rarity claps her hooves together, her eyes sparkling with pride. “Isn’t it marvelous? My little Sweetie is an absolute prodigy!”

I stare at the illusion, my mind racing. I’d only just started teaching her the basics of the Doppler illusion—vibrating chalk with levitation to manipulate light—and she’s already managed this? It’s rough around the edges, sure, but the fact that she grasped the concept and applied it on her own is impressive. I force a grin. “Wow, Sweetie. That’s… really something.”

“I practiced a lot while you were gone,” she says, her voice brimming with pride. “I wanted to show you I could do it!”

Rarity sighs dramatically, leaning slightly toward me. “You’re such an incredible teacher, Kinetic. Truly. I don’t know how you manage to teach her so quickly. Most tutors couldn’t get Sweetie to sit still, let alone master illusions.”

I cough, stepping back subtly. “Well, she’s a quick learner. Credit goes to her, really.”

Rarity’s smile widens, and she opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off with a hurried, “Why don’t we get started on today’s lesson? Sweetie, let’s see what else you’ve got.”

Rarity looks momentarily disappointed but allows herself to be ushered toward the door. “I’ll be back to pick her up later. Don’t work her too hard, now.”

As soon as the door closes, I turn back to Sweetie, still a bit thrown by her progress. I’d planned to have her continue working on the Doppler illusion, but now I need a new plan. Something more challenging, but still within her reach.

“Alright,” I say, pacing slightly as I think. “Today, we’re going to take a different approach. Instead of me showing you the solution, we’re going to work through the process of creating a spell from scratch.”

Her eyes widen. “From scratch? Like… make my own spell?”

“Somewhat,” I say, nodding. “Magic, especially the kind I use, isn’t just about memorizing chants or copying patterns. It’s about understanding the problem and figuring out how to solve it. So let’s start with this: if you needed to cross a gap too wide to jump, but magic is your only tool, what would you do?”

Sweetie Belle tilts her head, her expression thoughtful. “A gap? Like a really big one?”

“Exactly,” I reply. “Imagine there’s no bridge, no way around, and you can’t fly. How would you use magic to get across?”

She furrows her brow, tapping her chin with a hoof. “Hmm… I could use my horn to lift myself?”

I shake my head. “Good idea, but it doesn’t work. Trust me, I’ve tried. Magic has trouble affecting living things like that. Think about the gap itself. How could you change it or work around it?”

Sweetie’s face scrunches as she thinks. “Maybe… make something to stand on? Like a floating platform?”

“Not bad,” I say, nodding. “What would you use for the platform?”

She hesitates, glancing around the room. “Um… rocks? Or maybe the ground?”

“Good thinking,” I say with a nod. “Let’s go outside and try it. Sometimes, hands-on—or, uh, hooves-on—is the best way to figure these things out.”

Sweetie Belle’s face lights up with excitement, and she trots eagerly behind me as we make our way out of the office and around the back of Town Hall. The area is clear and flat, with a few sparse patches of grass and dirt. There are no loose rocks or anything particularly useful lying around, but that’s part of the challenge.

Sweetie glances around, her enthusiasm dimming slightly as she notices the lack of materials. “Um… there’s nothing here to use.”

“Exactly,” I say, gesturing toward the ground. “You’ve got to work with what you’ve got. Can you figure out a way to make something solid enough to stand on?”

She frowns in concentration, her horn lighting up as she directs her magic at the dirt. A patch of ground begins to shimmer faintly, vibrating as she tries to shape it. Slowly, it rises, forming a crude platform about the size of a dinner plate.

“There!” she says, stepping toward it. “That should work, right?”

“Try standing on it,” I suggest, folding my hooves and watching closely.

Sweetie places a hoof on the platform, but it sinks immediately, scattering into loose dirt. She frowns, scrunching her nose. “It’s like sand! Why didn’t it hold?”

“Good question,” I reply, prompting her to think. “What do you think went wrong?”

She stares at the platform—or what’s left of it—her brow furrowed. “Maybe… I didn’t make it strong enough?”

“Could be,” I say. “What’s making it collapse? Is it the magic, or something else?”

Sweetie hesitates, glancing back at me. “The dirt isn’t sticking together… like it’s too loose.”

“Exactly,” I say, nodding. “Materials like dirt or sand don’t naturally hold their shape unless they’re compacted or bound together somehow. That’s because their particles are held together primarily by weak intermolecular forces, like van der Waals forces, and sometimes by electrostatic interactions if there’s moisture involved. These forces alone aren’t strong enough to support a large structure unless the material is compacted to reduce gaps or combined with something adhesive to create bonds between particles.”

Sweetie tilts her head. “So... how would I fix that?”

“Well,” I say, “if you’re using telekinesis, you could theoretically manipulate those forces directly. On a microscopic level, you’d have to exert enough precise pressure to push the particles together, compressing them until friction and contact forces provide structural integrity. Alternatively, you could create artificial bonds by ‘gluing’ the particles together with magical energy that mimics the effect of cement or another binder. Imagine using your magic to form tiny molecular connections between the grains, like ionic or covalent bonds.”

Her ears perk up slightly, eyes wide. “Covalent bonds? That sounds advanced.”

“It is,” I say with a chuckle. “But think about it: covalent bonds happen when atoms share electrons to create a stable connection. If your telekinesis can manipulate particles at the atomic level, you could simulate that by forcing atoms to share electrons where they wouldn’t normally. It’s the same principle that makes solid materials like rocks hold together.”

Sweetie frowns thoughtfully. “So… to make a dirt platform, I’d either squish it super tight or weave magic between the particles to hold them together?”

“Exactly,” I say, grinning. “And if you want something even stronger, you could try forming crystalline structures, like quartz or diamond. That would take even more precision, though. For now, just focus on compressing and binding it enough to hold its shape.”

Sweetie tilts her head, her horn glowing faintly as she tries again. This time, the platform is smaller, and she focuses on compressing the dirt as tightly as she can. She steps on it carefully, and while it doesn’t collapse entirely, it still shifts under her weight.

“It’s better,” she says, her voice tinged with disappointment, “but it’s still not good enough.”

“That’s because a big platform like this takes a lot of energy,” I explain. “You’re doing great, but magic doesn’t just make problems disappear. It works best when you understand the materials and physics behind what you’re doing.”

Sweetie Belle sighs, sitting back on her haunches. “So how do I make it better?”

I watch her closely, seeing the gears turning in her head, but I decide to give her a nudge in the right direction. “Here’s a question for you, Sweetie. Do you really need a platform that big?”

She blinks, tilting her head. “What do you mean? I need something to stand on, right?”

“Sure, but think about this: the bigger the platform, the more energy it takes to make it solid and hold it up,” I explain. “What if, instead of making one big platform, you made four smaller ones? Just big enough for your hooves.”

Her eyes widen. “Four? But that’s, like, four times the work!”

“Not exactly,” I say with a small smile. “Remember the Doppler illusion? You already learned how to split your focus to make multiple vibrating patterns at once. This is just another kind of multitasking. Not more energy, just more focus.”

Sweetie Belle looks thoughtful, her ears twitching as she considers the idea. “So… I could make little disks for each hoof instead of one big platform?”

“Exactly,” I say, nodding. “It’s like walking across stepping stones instead of trying to stand on one big raft. Each disk is only a fraction of the size, thus a fraction of the energy. Plus, you’ll get practice balancing and coordinating at the same time.”

She bites her lip, clearly still a bit unsure, but I can see the determination in her eyes. “Okay,” she says finally. “I’ll try it.”

I step back, giving her plenty of space as she focuses her magic. Her horn glows brightly, and the dirt beneath her hooves starts to shimmer and shift. Slowly, four small disks of compacted dirt begin to form, each one about the size of a dinner plate. They hover just above the ground, held aloft by her magic.

Sweetie takes a cautious step onto one of the disks, her hoof settling on the compacted surface. It holds. She smiles hesitantly, then steps onto the next disk, her magic adjusting to keep the others steady. By the time she’s standing on all four disks, her face lights up with pride.

“I did it!” she exclaims, her voice brimming with excitement.

“You sure did,” I say, smiling despite myself. “How does it feel?”

“It’s a little wobbly,” she admits, shifting her weight to keep her balance. “But it’s working! I’m not sinking!”

“That’s because you’re managing the disks well,” I say. “It’s not easy to keep all four stable, but you’re doing great. Now, try walking.”

Sweetie hesitates, but after a moment, she carefully shifts one disk forward, stepping on to the air before moving the next. The movement is slow and deliberate, but it works. She makes it about ten steps before the glow of her horn starts to flicker, and the disks collapse into the dirt.

“Phew,” she says, plopping onto the ground and wiping her brow. “That was harder than I thought.”

“It’s not easy,” I agree, “but you did an amazing job. You figured out the problem, came up with a solution, and made it work. That’s what magic is all about.”

Her smile is radiant, and for a moment, I feel a twinge of pride. Teaching Sweetie Belle might not be what I planned, but seeing her progress like this makes it worth it.

I watch Sweetie Belle's glowing smile, an idea forming in the back of my mind. Her little experiment worked, and while it was far from perfect, it gave me something new to try. I step forward, brushing off the dirt from my hooves as I ignite my horn.

“Not bad,” I say casually, as if her accomplishment didn’t just inspire me. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

Sweetie tilts her head, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. “You’re gonna try it?”

“Of course,” I reply, channeling magic into the dirt below my hooves. “I’ve… uh… done something like this before.”

Her eyes widen slightly, and I suppress a smirk. Keeping up the 'wise sage' act never gets old.

I focus on the dirt, compressing it into small, sturdy disks beneath each hoof. It’s a bit tricky to balance, but as I lift my front hooves, the dirt disks stick like makeshift shoes, moving with me. I take a cautious step forward, then another, feeling the strange sensation of walking on air.

The balance is delicate, but it’s surprisingly easy to maintain once I get the hang of it. The magic draw is minimal—far less taxing than displacing an entire section of wall or trying to lift a larger platform. I lift my hind hooves, stepping upward into the air. The disks hold firmly, and I manage to walk a few steps into the sky before an idea strikes me.

What if I didn’t have to step?

I shift my weight forward slightly, angling my hooves downward. The disks slide under me, almost as if I’m skating. The motion is fluid, effortless, and for a brief moment, I’m gliding through the air with only the faint hum of magic as a reminder of how ridiculous this is.

“Well,” I say, letting my hooves touch the ground again, “it works. Not bad for an old trick.”

Sweetie Belle stares at me, her jaw practically on the floor. “That was amazing! You didn’t even step—you just… glided!”

I wave a hoof dismissively, hiding the fact that I’m mentally filing away this “trick” for later use. “It’s all about efficiency. Less energy, more results.”

She beams, her tail swishing excitedly. “What’s it called?”

I hesitate, realizing I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Uh…”

Sweetie Belle bounces slightly, practically vibrating with excitement. “Can I name it?”

I nod, suppressing a grin. “Sure, go ahead.”

Her eyes light up as she ponders for a moment, then declares proudly, “The Lift Disk spell! It’s like you’re lifting yourself with disks of magic!”

“Lift Disk,” I repeat, as if testing the name. “Not bad. It fits.”

Sweetie beams, clearly thrilled that I let her name the spell. I step down from my hovering position and dust off my hooves, hiding the faint ache in my horn from the experimentation.

“Alright,” I say, gesturing for her to follow. “Let’s head back inside. You’ve earned a break.”

As we walk back toward my office, Sweetie chatters excitedly about how she’s going to practice the Lift Disk spell, her enthusiasm contagious despite my lingering exhaustion. I can’t help but smile, even as I mentally catalog the possibilities this “spell” might open up for me in the future.

As we approach the office door, I glance down at Sweetie Belle, her expression beaming with excitement. I can already see her mind racing with ideas for how she’s going to use the Lift Disk spell. Her enthusiasm is contagious, but it also makes me nervous. She’s young, eager, and probably not thinking about the dangers.

“Alright, Sweetie,” I say, my tone firm but gentle. “Before you go practicing this all over town, there are a few things you need to remember.”

She stops mid-bounce, her ears perking up. “What is it?”

“First,” I say, gesturing toward the ground, “don’t go too high. Keep yourself close to the ground, no more than a pony’s height. If something goes wrong—if you lose focus or the disks give out—you don’t want to fall from too far up.”

Her excitement dims slightly, and she nods, looking thoughtful. “Okay… no higher than this,” she says, holding a hoof just above her head.

“Good,” I say, pushing the door open and stepping inside. Sweetie follows me, and I set my chalk pouch and bit bag on the desk before turning to face her again.

“Second,” I continue, “don’t go too fast. There’s this thing called air friction. When you’re moving through the air, the faster you go, the more the air pushes back against you. If you try to go too fast, it’ll be harder to control the disks, and you could lose your balance.”

Sweetie tilts her head. “Air friction? Like… when the wind blows in your face?”

“Exactly,” I say, glad she’s catching on. “The faster you move, the stronger that force becomes.”

Her brow furrows. “But Rainbow Dash goes super fast all the time, and she’s fine.”

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Yeah, about that… Pegasi are weird. They’ve got their own kind of magic that lets them do things like that. It’s not just about wings—it’s something deeper. Like, they can control weather, walk on clouds, and apparently ignore most of the rules of aerodynamics.”

Sweetie’s eyes widen. “So… it’s their magic?”

“Yeah,” I say, acting like it’s a fact I’ve known forever. “But we’re not pegasi, so we don’t get to play by those rules. You’ve got to be extra careful when you’re using the Lift Disk spell.”

She nods, looking more serious now. “Okay. No going too fast.”

“Good,” I say, feeling a little relieved. “And one more thing—momentum.”

“Momentum?” she echoes, tilting her head again.

“Yeah. It’s the thing that makes objects keep moving once they start. If you’re gliding along and you suddenly try to stop, all that momentum has to go somewhere. It could throw you off balance or make you crash into something.”

Sweetie winces, clearly imagining the potential mishaps. “Oh. That sounds… bad.”

“It is,” I say. “So when you’re practicing, make sure to slow down gradually. Don’t try to stop all at once.”

She nods earnestly. “Got it. No sudden stops.”

“Good,” I say with a small smile. “You’re getting the hang of this.”

Sweetie grins, her tail swishing. “Thanks, Mr. Flux! I’m gonna be so careful.”

“You’d better be,” I say, though my tone is light. “Because if I find out you’ve been zipping around town like Rainbow Dash, I’ll—” I pause, thinking, “—make you write out all the equations for air friction and momentum by hoof.”

She giggles. “Okay, okay! I promise!”

After a brief break to let Sweetie Belle’s enthusiasm simmer down and give myself a moment to breathe, we head back outside to practice the Lift Disk spell. The morning sun has shifted slightly, casting long shadows across the grassy area behind Town Hall. Sweetie’s practically bouncing as we set up, her horn already glowing faintly in anticipation.

“Alright,” I say, standing a few paces away from her. “Let’s try it again. This time, focus on keeping the disks steady and balanced under each hoof. Don’t rush it—just one hoof at a time until you’ve got all four working.”

“Got it!” she chirps, her tail swishing excitedly.

Sweetie lights her horn, and four small disks form beneath her hooves, glowing faintly as they shimmer in the air. She steps onto them gingerly, her tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. The disks wobble at first, but she steadies herself, managing to lift off the ground by about half a hoof’s height.

“Yes!” she exclaims, beaming as she hovers in place. “I did it!”

“Great job,” I say, nodding approvingly. “Now, try moving forward—slowly. Remember what we talked about: air friction and momentum. Keep it smooth.”

She nods, focusing intently as she shifts her weight. The disks glide forward, and Sweetie moves along with them, a huge grin on her face. “This is so fun!”

“Careful,” I remind her, keeping a close watch. “It’s not a race. Just keep practicing control.”

She glides a little farther, making small adjustments to the disks to stay balanced. After a few successful passes, she stops and hops off, the disks dissipating as she lands. “This is so cool!” she says, bouncing in place. “I can’t wait to show the Crusaders!”

I raise an eyebrow. “The Crusaders?”

Sweetie freezes mid-bounce, her cheeks turning pink. “Oh, um… yeah. You know, Apple Bloom and Scootaloo. My friends.”

“I know who they are,” I say, crossing my hooves. “What are you planning?”

She glances away, her ears flattening slightly. “Well… we were talking about how we could try something new to get our cutie marks, and I thought… maybe I could make Lift Disks for all three of us, and we could try flying together?”

I blink, trying to process the sheer chaos that would result from that plan. “You want to put all three of you in the air at once?”

Sweetie nods sheepishly. “It’d be fun! And maybe we’d get our cutie marks in… I don’t know, flying magic or something?”

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose with a hoof. “Sweetie, I admire your enthusiasm, but do you realize how dangerous that sounds? You’re barely able to control the disks for yourself, let alone for two other ponies. What happens if one of them panics? Or if the disks fail?”

Her ears droop further, and she looks down at the ground. “I just… thought it’d be cool to do something together.”

I soften my tone, crouching slightly to meet her eye level. “I get it. You want to share something amazing with your friends. But magic like this takes practice. A lot of practice. If you want to get your cutie marks, you should work on something all of you can do safely.”

She hesitates, then nods slowly. “Okay. I won’t do it. Not yet, at least.”

“Good,” I say, standing back up. “Because the last thing I need is to explain to your sister why all three of you crashed into a tree.”

Sweetie giggles at the thought, her mood lightening. “Yeah, she’d be so mad.”

“Mad doesn’t even begin to cover it,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Now, let’s get back to practicing. You’re doing great so far, but I want to make sure you’ve really got this before we call it a day.”

Sweetie grins, her confidence returning. “Alright! Let’s do it!”

The afternoon sun is high in the sky by the time Sweetie Belle really starts getting the hang of the Lift Disk spell. She zips around in short, careful bursts, her hooves perched on the glowing disks as they glide smoothly above the ground. Her control isn’t perfect—occasionally, a disk wobbles or fades out, but she quickly adjusts and recovers. Watching her progress is oddly satisfying, even if I have to keep my nerves in check every time she wobbles a little too much.

“Alright,” I say after her latest successful loop around the practice area. “Let’s call it a day. You’ve made a lot of progress, but you don’t want to overdo it.”

“Aww,” Sweetie pouts, hopping off her disks and letting them fade away. “I was just getting good at it!”

“You’re doing great,” I say with a smile, genuinely impressed. “But magic like this can tire you out faster than you think. Take it slow, and you’ll get even better.”

Sweetie grins, clearly proud of herself. “Thanks, Mr. Flux! This was the best lesson ever!”

Before I can respond, a familiar voice calls out from behind us. “Sweetie Belle! What in Equestria were you doing?”

Rarity strides toward us, her eyes wide as she takes in the scene. “Were you… flying?”

“Uh-huh!” Sweetie chirps, running up to her sister. “It’s called the Lift Disk spell! Mr. Flux taught me!”

Rarity’s jaw drops, and she looks between Sweetie and me with an expression of disbelief. “Lift Disk? I’ve never heard of such a spell!”

“Well,” I say, scratching the back of my head and forcing a nonchalant tone, “it’s a bit of a… rare spell. Sweetie here ‘reinvented’ it during our lessons. Very impressive, really.”

Sweetie nods enthusiastically. “He already knew it, but I made it work all on my own!”

Rarity’s astonishment quickly shifts into excitement. “Darling, this is incredible! You’re teaching her things I didn’t even know existed!” She turns to me, her eyes sparkling. “You’re truly remarkable, Mr. Flux.”

“It’s nothing,” I say quickly, waving a hoof. “Sweetie’s a natural. She deserves the credit.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Rarity says, stepping closer, her tone dripping with admiration. “You’ve clearly unlocked her potential in a way no other tutor has. Your methods are so… unique.”

Her tone takes on a familiar, overly sweet lilt, and I immediately feel the warning bells in my head go off. “You know,” she says, her voice dropping slightly, “I could certainly use a private tutor myself. Magic isn’t my forte, but perhaps with the right instructor…”

I cut her off with a quick laugh, hoping to steer the conversation away from wherever she’s headed. “I think you’re doing just fine without magic, Rarity. Besides, I’ve got my hooves full preparing for the Archmage Examination.”

“Oh, but surely a pony of your talents could spare a little time,” she persists, taking another step closer. “It doesn’t have to be strictly magical instruction. I’m sure we could… collaborate on something.”

The emphasis on the word “collaborate” makes my skin crawl. I glance at Sweetie Belle, who’s too busy inspecting the ground for chalk dust to notice the subtext, and force a polite but firm smile. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve really got to focus on the exam. Celestia’s expectations are… demanding.”

Rarity pouts slightly but seems to take the hint. “Very well, Mr. Flux. But do keep me in mind, won’t you? Talents like yours shouldn’t go to waste.”

“I’ll… think about it,” I say, knowing full well that I won’t.

Sweetie Belle tugs at Rarity’s foreleg. “Can we go now, Rarity? I want to tell Apple Bloom and Scootaloo about the spell!”

“Yes, of course, darling,” Rarity says with a sigh, her eyes lingering on me for just a moment longer. “Do be careful, though. Magic can be so unpredictable.”

As soon as Rarity and Sweetie Belle are out of sight, I let out a long breath and head in to town, after eating and loitering a bit, I head back to my not-so-ordinary shed. Stepping inside, the familiar vastness greets me—high ceilings, endless hallways, and that faint hum of magic in the air. I make my way to the master bedroom, the soft glow of the floating orbs lighting my path.

I’m done for the day. I don’t care about Celestia’s examination, Sweetie Belle’s spells, or Rarity’s relentless flirtation. All I want is to collapse into bed, close my eyes, and pretend I’m anywhere else. Preferably somewhere without talking pastel horses.

I twist the spigot in the corner, the metallic creak followed by a stream of water splashing into a nearby basin. Splashing some onto my face, I shake off the day’s lingering tension and crawl onto the bed. The mattress is absurdly soft, a strange luxury in a place so steeped in weirdness. For a moment, it’s just me and the quiet, and I feel myself drifting off.

Then, a sharp knock echoes through the house.

I groan and bury my face in the pillow, hoping whoever it is will just go away. But the knock comes again, louder this time. Whoever it is, they’re not giving up.

Dragging myself out of bed, I shuffle toward the door. “Who in Equestria knocks on a shed at this hour?” I mutter.

When I open the door, there’s Twilight Sparkle, her eyes bright with curiosity and something bordering on manic energy. “Kinetic!” she says, brushing past me before I can say anything. “We need to talk.”

I rub a hoof over my face, already regretting answering the door. “Couldn’t this wait until tomorrow? I was just about to—”

“No, it can’t,” she cuts in, spinning to face me with that determined gleam in her eye that always spells trouble. “That Lift Disk spell Sweetie Belle was using… It doesn’t match any known magical framework. I’ve been researching all evening, and I can’t find anything remotely similar.”

“It’s just a basic application of telekinesis,” I say, keeping my voice as casual as possible. “Nothing groundbreaking.”

“Basic? Basic?!” she sputters, her nostrils flaring slightly. “Are you serious? That spell requires an immense level of control, precision, and an understanding of material cohesion! That’s not basic telekinesis!”

I sigh, leaning against the doorframe. “It’s not as complicated as you think, Twilight. Sweetie figured it out after one lesson. She’s got the talent—you’re overthinking this.”

Twilight narrows her eyes, her gaze darting around the room. “And this house! How are you living in a dimensional anomaly? This place violates every known law of thaumic and spatial theory!”

“It was like this when I got it,” I say with a shrug. “Probably some ancient enchantment. I don’t mess with it.”

“You’re living in it!” Twilight shouts, gesturing wildly at the endless corridors. “How can you not be curious about how it works? Aren’t you the least bit concerned about the potential dangers of unstable pocket dimentions?”

“Not really,” I say. “It hasn’t exploded yet.”

Twilight glares at me, her mane starting to frizz at the edges. “You’re unbelievable! You’re sitting on groundbreaking magical discoveries, and you’re just… brushing them off like they’re nothing!”

“Because they’re not my discoveries,” I say firmly. “The house was here before me, and the Lift Disk is just a clever trick with telekinesis. That’s all. No deep magic, no ancient secrets. Just physics.”

Twilight freezes. “Physics?” she echoes, her head tilting slightly. “What’s physics?”

Oops.

“Oh, uh… I meant telekinesis,” I say quickly. “Just telekinesis. Basic stuff.”

Her expression sharpens. “No, you didn’t. You said ‘physics.’ That means something, doesn’t it? Something you’re not telling me.”

I wave a hoof dismissively, trying to look nonchalant. “It’s just a word. Forget I said it.”

Twilight doesn’t move, her eyes narrowing like a hawk zeroing in on its prey. “No, I don’t think I will. You’re deflecting. Again. This isn’t just telekinesis—telekinesis can’t compress loose earth into a stable platform strong enough to hold a pony.”

“Sure it can,” I say with a shrug. “If you’re good enough.”

Her jaw tightens. “No, it can’t. I’ve studied telekinesis extensively. It’s about moving objects, chunks of earth, not manipulating their internal structure. When you gather loose earth you just slide through. The kind of precision and force required to compress earth like that would—” She stops mid-sentence, her eyes widening as realization dawns. “You’re doing something to the particles themselves, aren’t you? Like with the illusion. You’re manipulating… something smaller. Something… fundamental.”

I keep my face as neutral as possible, but inside, my brain is screaming. Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking!

Twilight starts pacing, her hooves tapping rhythmically against the floor as her mind works furiously. “If it’s not just telekinesis, then it’s something else entirely. Maybe… maybe you’re using some kind of harmonic resonance to stabilize the particles? Or could it be a spell that manipulates the cohesion of matter itself?”

“Sure,” I say vaguely, “if that makes sense to you.”

She stops pacing and fixes me with a piercing stare. “You’re not denying it.”

“I’m not confirming it, either,” I say with a smirk, leaning casually against the doorframe.

Twilight groans, her ears twitching in frustration. “You’re impossible! Do you realize what this could mean? If you’ve discovered a way to manipulate matter at a fundamental level, it could revolutionize magic as we know it! And you’re just brushing it off like it’s nothing!”

“Because it is nothing,” I say firmly, waving a hoof. “It’s just a trick. No deep magic, no ancient knowledge. Just… intuition.”

Twilight narrows her eyes. “Intuition doesn’t let you bypass the foundational laws of magic! What you’re doing isn’t just advanced—it’s unheard of. And then there’s Sweetie Belle.”

I raise an eyebrow, trying to appear uninterested. “What about her?”

Twilight’s voice takes on an exasperated edge. “How is Sweetie Belle—a filly who struggles with basic spells—able to use something as intricate as the Doppler Illusion in seconds? I watched her cast it, and that spell requires layered mental structuring to reduce the mental load of the intent while allowing real-time corrections to the visualization to bypass the chant! You said that’s how it works! Do you have any idea how advanced that is?”

I sigh, scratching the back of my head. “She’s got a knack for it.”

“A knack?” Twilight sputters. “She could barely levitate objects without her magic sputtering out, and now you’re telling me she can create an illusion that perfectly simulates motion and perspective shifts? With no chant? No framework? Just a knack?”

“Pretty much,” I say, shrugging. “Maybe she’s a prodigy.”

Twilight glares at me, her frustration palpable. “Stop playing dumb, Kinetic! You’re the one who taught her! You explained how the spell works—layered mental structures, real-time adjustments, amplifying inherent energy in the particles. That’s not something you just stumble into. It’s a level of control even I would struggle with, and you’re acting like it’s nothing!”

“Well, maybe I’m just a really good teacher,” I say, flashing a grin that I know will irritate her.

Her eye twitches, and she takes a deep breath, clearly trying to stay calm. “If you’re such a good teacher, then explain it to me. Step by step. How does the Doppler Illusion work?”

I hesitate for half a second too long, and Twilight’s expression sharpens. “That’s what I thought,” she says, her tone biting. “You can’t explain it because it’s not magic. At least, not the kind of magic anypony knows.”

“It’s magic,” I say quickly, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Just… unconventional.”

Her brows narrow, and she stomps a hoof. “Unconventional?! You’re bending the rules of magic—or breaking them entirely—and you’re not even taking it seriously! Do you have any idea how much research this could inspire? How much this could change?”

I sigh, leaning against the doorframe again. “Twilight, it’s not that deep. It’s just a different way of thinking about magic. That’s all.”

“A different way of thinking?” she echoes, her voice rising. “What does that even mean? What kind of thinking?”

I glance at the floor, at the walls, anywhere but her piercing gaze. “Creative thinking.”

She groans, throwing her hooves in the air. “You’re infuriating! First the Lift Disk, now the Doppler Illusion, and you won’t explain anything! It’s like pulling teeth trying to get a straight answer out of you!”

“Maybe you’re just overthinking it,” I say lightly, though my insides are twisting into knots. “Sometimes simple things seem complicated when you analyze them too much.”

Twilight takes a sharp step forward, her face twitching with agitation. “Overthinking? You’re claiming Sweetie Belle—Sweetie Belle—managed to pull off an advanced spell that takes years of study, and it’s just because I’m overthinking it? Do you even hear yourself?”

“Loud and clear,” I say, suppressing a sigh. “Look, Twilight, I get that this is important to you, but you’re really making a mountain out of a molehill. It’s late, and I think we could both use some sleep.”

Her ears flatten, her eyes narrowing. “You’re trying to get rid of me.”

“No, I’m trying to get some peace and quiet,” I counter, rubbing my temples. “You’re a great mage, Twilight. Really. But this? You’re obsessing over nothing.”

“Nothing?” she snaps. “The fundamental principles of magic—of reality—aren’t ‘nothing!’ You’re hiding something, and I—”

“Twilight,” I interrupt, my voice firm but tired, “I think it’s time for you to go before you cause more of a disturbance.”

Before she can respond, there’s a low rumble, and to my surprise, the floor beneath her hooves begins to shift. Like a conveyor belt, the polished wood moves Twilight toward the door, her hooves skidding as she scrambles to keep her balance.

“What—what’s happening?!” she shouts, wobbling to stay upright.

“I… uh…” I stammer, just as bewildered. “The house does that sometimes.”

“The house?” she yells, her voice high-pitched with both indignation and confusion. “You live in a house that throws ponies out?”

“It’s more like a gentle nudge,” I say, watching helplessly as the floor slides her toward the open door.

“This isn’t a nudge!” Twilight shouts, as she tries to resist the inexorable movement. “It’s kicking me out!”

I hold up a hoof. “It’s nothing personal. The house just… has its own way of saying goodnight.”

As if to punctuate my words, the conveyor belt speeds up slightly, depositing Twilight just outside the doorway. She stumbles but manages to catch herself, turning to glare at me as the door creaks ominously shut behind her.

“Unbelievable!” she shouts, her muffled voice barely audible through the thick door. “You and your ridiculous house! I’m not done with this, Kinetic Flux! I will figure out what you’re hiding!”

I lean against the door and let out a long, weary sigh as her hoofsteps finally recede into the distance. “Sure you will,” I mutter under my breath.

The house hums softly around me, as if pleased with itself, and I glance down at the now-still floor. “Thanks for the assist,” I say dryly.

The house doesn’t reply. The hum fades into the usual faint ambiance of the space, leaving the silence to settle back in like nothing happened.

I blink down at the now-ordinary floor, my thoughts racing. “Are you…?” I trail off, half-expecting some sign of acknowledgment, but the house remains still. Dormant.

I take a cautious step back and glance around the expansive room. Everything looks the same—same glowing orbs lighting the space, same shelves of dusty tomes lining the walls, same faint scent of parchment and ozone hanging in the air. But now there’s an undercurrent of tension in my chest. This house had always been weird, sure. Bigger on the inside, defying every law of physics I knew, but alive? That was new.

“Okay,” I mutter, pacing a little. “Maybe it’s some kind of… enchantment? An autonomous system? Or maybe…” My voice trails off as my mind veers into uncharted territory.

I shake my head quickly. No. Overthinking it won’t help. This house has been nothing but convenient since I moved in—spacious, with running water, and apparently able to eject unwanted guests. If it’s alive, then at least it’s on my side. For now.

But the thought sticks with me as I wander back toward the spigot to splash some water on my face again. The metallic creak of the tap feels louder in the stillness, the cold water biting against my fur. Staring at my reflection in the basin, I take a deep breath.

“Right,” I tell myself firmly. “It’s fine. The house is fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

The silence feels heavier now, like the house is listening, even if it’s not responding. I glance around again, half-hoping for another hum or some sign that it’s awake, but nothing comes.

With a sigh, I turn and head back toward the master bedroom. My hooves echo faintly against the wooden floor, the sound reminding me of just how vast this place really is. As I crawl back onto the absurdly soft mattress, I can’t help but glance at the door, expecting another interruption. But the door remains closed, the quiet uninterrupted.

Lying there, staring up at the high, arched ceiling, I let the questions swirl in my mind. How does the house know when to act? Is it aware of everything inside? Is it even really alive, or just some ancient magic running on autopilot?

I turn over with a groan, burying my face in the pillow. “Don’t overthink it,” I mutter to myself. “It’s just a house. A weird, possibly alive house that knows when to toss ponies out. Totally normal.”

The words don’t convince me, but eventually, the tension starts to fade, and exhaustion takes over. As I drift off, one final thought floats through my mind:

If the house can do that, what else is it capable of?

Author's Note

Summary

Big Ground Platform:

Lift Energy: ~0.35 kcal → To lift a 1 m² ground platform 0.1 m thick, weighing 150 kg, 1470 J (0.35 kcal) is needed.
Move Energy: ~0.18 kcal/m → To move the platform horizontally 1 m, overcoming friction (735 J or ~0.18 kcal) is required.
Total Energy: ~0.53 kcal/m → Combining lift and movement gives a total of 2205 J (0.53 kcal).

Four Hoof Disks:

Lift Energy: ~0.004 kcal → Each disk (area 0.00785 m², thickness 0.1 m) weighs ~1.18 kg, requiring 11.56 J (~0.004 kcal) to lift. For four disks, total lift energy is 46.24 J (~0.004 kcal per disk).
Move Energy: ~0.013 kcal/m → Moving each disk 1 m horizontally requires 5.78 J (~0.013 kcal for all four disks).
Total Energy: ~0.017 kcal/m → Combining lift and movement for all four disks gives 69.36 J (~0.017 kcal).

Proofs

1. Big Ground Platform

Mass of Platform:

Volume: V = 1 m² ⋅ 0.1 m = 0.1 m³
Mass: m = ρ ⋅ V = 1500 kg/m³ ⋅ 0.1 m³ = 150 kg
1. Lift Energy:
E = m ⋅ g ⋅ h = 150 kg ⋅ 9.8 m/s² ⋅ 1 m = 1470 J
1. Move Energy:
Friction force: F_friction = μ ⋅ m ⋅ g = 0.5 ⋅ 150 kg ⋅ 9.8 m/s² = 735 N
Work to move: W_move = F_friction ⋅ d = 735 ⋅ 1 = 735 J
1. Total Energy:
E_total = 1470 + 735 = 2205 J
Convert to kcal: E_total, kcal = 2205 / 4184 ≈ 0.53 kcal

2. Four Hoof Disks

Mass of Each Disk:

Disk area: A = πr² = π(0.05 m)² ≈ 0.00785 m²
Disk volume: V = A ⋅ h = 0.00785 m² ⋅ 0.1 m ≈ 0.000785 m³
Disk mass: m = ρ ⋅ V = 1500 kg/m³ ⋅ 0.000785 m³ ≈ 1.18 kg
1. Lift Energy for 4 Disks:
E_lift per disk = m ⋅ g ⋅ h = 1.18 kg ⋅ 9.8 m/s² ⋅ 1 m ≈ 11.56 J
Total: E_lift total = 4 ⋅ 11.56 ≈ 46.24 J
1. Move Energy for 4 Disks:
Friction force per disk: F_friction = μ ⋅ m ⋅ g = 0.5 ⋅ 1.18 ⋅ 9.8 ≈ 5.78 N
Work per disk: W_move per disk = F_friction ⋅ d = 5.78 ⋅ 1 ≈ 5.78 J
Total: W_move total = 4 ⋅ 5.78 ≈ 23.12 J
1. Total Energy:
E_total = 46.24 + 23.12 ≈ 69.36 J
Convert to kcal: E_total, kcal = 69.36 / 4184 ≈ 0.017 kcal

Because I didn't know:
In scientific usage, a “calorie” (with a lowercase c) is the amount of energy needed to raise 1 gram of water by 1°C. One kilocalorie (kcal) equals 1,000 of these small calories.

However, when we talk about food energy (the “Calories” on food labels, often capitalized as Calories), we’re actually referring to kilocalories (kcal). In other words:

1 “food Calorie” (kcal) = 1,000 small calories.
1 “food Calorie” (kcal) ≈ 4,184 joules (J).

Considerations
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Applied Mathemagics

Considerations

The next morning, I wake up to the soft glow of the floating orbs overhead, my brain already buzzing with the same relentless thoughts that plagued me all night. No dreams, no peace, just endless circling questions.

Rolling out of bed, I grab a sheet of paper from the desk in the corner. Writing things out usually helps me sort my thoughts, so I jot down the two options I can’t stop weighing.

Option 1: Admit the truth

Pros:

Finally be honest. No more lying or dancing around questions.
Twilight might back off once she understands I’m not doing magic but just clever tricks.
Sweetie Belle might be disappointed, but she’s young. She’ll get over it. Over me.

Cons:

Lose my job as Town Mage. Ponies would probably riot if they found out their so-called “mage” is just a fraud using physics.
No Archmage title. Goodbye, 1,000 bits a month.
Teaching ponies dangerous things that could hurt many people is bad. Probably.
Sweetie Belle might think I betrayed her. Teaching her fake magic is practically fraud, isn’t it? What if Rarity sues me for it?
I’d be just some guy. No, worse—just some liar. I’d go down in Ponyville history as the biggest fraud since the Flim Flam brothers.

Option 2: Keep lying

Pros:

Keep my job, my stipend, and my house.
Keep up my reputation as a mysterious and brilliant mage.
No need to deal with angry mobs calling for my head or asking me to explain concepts they’ll never understand.

Cons:

It’s exhausting keeping up the act. How long can I keep fooling them?
Twilight’s too smart. She’ll probably figure it out eventually.
If the truth ever comes out, the fallout will be ten times worse. Fraud? Dishonesty? Betrayal? I’d be lucky if they just kicked me out of town.
What if Celestia finds out? What happens then? Would she banish me? Imprison me? Banish me and imprison me in the place she banishes me to?

I stop writing and rub my temples, the quill trembling slightly in my telekinetic grip. The thing that scares me the most—the thing I can’t bring myself to write—is how much I actually want them to believe in me. The respect, the admiration, the attention… I don’t want to lose that. If I’m not Kinetic Flux, Town Mage and rising Archmage, then who am I?

A fraud.

The word sits like a lead weight in my stomach as I fold the paper and shove it into a drawer. My gaze drifts around the room before landing on the house itself. The… H.A.R.D.I.S., as I’ve started calling it in my head. House And Relative Dimensions In Space. It’s mine, but… is it really?

The sudden realization hits me like a slap. I’m not even an actual citizen of Equestria. What if there are laws about who can own property? What if I’ve been living here illegally this whole time?

The panic drives me out of the room and down the seemingly endless hallway toward the front door. The house remains eerily silent, as if it knows I’m trying to leave and is waiting for my return.

I head straight to the Mayor’s office, trying to appear casual as I approach her desk. Mayor Mare looks up from her paperwork with a polite smile. “Good morning, Kinetic Flux. How can I help you?”

“Oh, uh, good morning, Mayor,” I say, clearing my throat. “I just had a… hypothetical question.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“Hypothetically,” I begin, forcing a smile, “what would happen if, say, somepony wasn’t an official citizen of Equestria? Would they still be allowed to own property? Like, I don’t know, a house?”

Her smile falters slightly, and I immediately regret asking. “Well,” she says, adjusting her glasses, “under Equestrian law, only citizens are permitted to own land or property. If somepony were found to be living on land they didn’t have the right to own, the property could be confiscated and… well, the individual might face fines or other consequences, depending on the circumstances.”

I swallow hard, trying to keep my expression neutral as Mayor Mare continues.

“Additionally,” she says, flipping through a thick binder on her desk, “non-citizens are not allowed to hold official positions within Equestrian governance or administration. That would include titles like Town Mage or Archmage.”

The weight in my stomach grows heavier, but she’s not done.

“They also cannot legally sign contracts, own businesses, or receive state stipends like the one you’re likely eligible for should you become an Archmage. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”

“Of course,” I say weakly, my throat suddenly dry.

She looks up at me, her expression shifting to something closer to concern. “And if somepony were to enter the country illegally, the situation would be even more complicated. Depending on the circumstances, they could face deportation, imprisonment, or—if they were deemed a threat to Equestria—banishment.”

“Banishment?” I echo, my voice cracking slightly.

“Yes,” she says with a nod. “It’s rare, of course, but it has happened. Entering Equestria without proper documentation, especially if the individual takes up residence or a public position under false pretenses, is considered a serious offense. Again, purely hypothetical.”

I nod quickly, eager to escape this increasingly uncomfortable conversation. “Right, purely hypothetical. Well, that’s—uh—good to know. Thanks for clarifying, Mayor Mare.”

But she’s not done.

“Oh, and,” she continues, flipping another page in her binder, “should a non-citizen be found working under false pretenses, any wages or benefits earned during that time would be considered void. They would likely have to repay any earnings to the government or the affected parties.”

Absolutely not.

The words “repay any earnings” clang in my head like a gong. I barely hear the rest of what she’s saying. Lose my house? My job? My stipend? That’s not happening. Not now, not ever.

By the time I’m outside the Mayor’s office, I’ve already made my decision. Admitting the truth is officially off the table. Shut it down. Bury it. Burn the evidence. Whatever it takes, I’m keeping this act going. All my bits are on the line here.

I don’t care if I have to keep teaching Sweetie Belle “fake” magic or deal with Twilight’s endless questions. I’ll double down on the act. Sure, the guilt eats at me a little, but bits are bits. You can’t buy loyalty, but you sure can rent it, and if I’m paying rent to myself? Even better.

Besides, I’ve already sunk too much into this. Losing it all now would be worse than never having it to begin with. No, I’ll smooth this over with Twilight. Redirect her attention. Convince her that she’s overthinking things, that everything she saw was just basic telekinesis and clever application.

She’s smart, sure, but she’s also obsessed with magic. That’s her weakness—she wants to understand everything. I’ll feed her just enough breadcrumbs to keep her chasing the wrong trail.

The walk to find her feels long, my mind racing with half-formed excuses and calculated deflections. I finally spot her near the library, her nose buried in a scroll as she paces back and forth.

Perfect. The curiosity is still eating at her. Time to work some magic.

“Twilight!” I call out, putting on my most casual, approachable smile. “Just the pony I was looking for.”

She looks up, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Kinetic,” she says, her tone clipped. “I was going to come find you later.”

Of course you were, I think. “Great minds think alike,” I say aloud. “I wanted to clear the air about last night. You seemed… frustrated.”

“Frustrated?” she repeats, her ears twitching. “You mean when you refused to explain anything about your spells and then your house threw me out?”

I hold up a hoof in mock surrender. “Okay, fair point. But I realized I might’ve come off as dismissive, and that wasn’t my intention.”

Her expression softens slightly, though suspicion still lingers in her eyes. “Go on.”

I clear my throat, adopting my most patient, mentor-like tone. “First of all, I want to apologize if I made you feel like I was being evasive. That wasn’t my goal. It’s just that some of the spells I’ve developed—like the Doppler Illusion—are deeply personal to me. I spent years refining it, and honestly, I’m too… attached to it to teach anyone who isn’t my direct disciple.”

Twilight raises an eyebrow, her skepticism practically radiating off her. “You’re saying you’re too emotionally invested in a spell to share it with others?”

“Exactly,” I say, nodding earnestly. “It’s like an artist with a masterpiece or a chef with a secret recipe. Some things are just too close to the heart.”

She gives me a long, searching look, clearly not buying it entirely but also not dismissing it outright. “Alright,” she says slowly, “but what about the Lift Disk Spell? Are you saying that one’s also too personal to share?”

I shake my head. “Not at all. That one’s actually very straightforward. I’d be happy to show you how it’s done if it’ll help clear up your doubts.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’ll teach me the Lift Disk Spell?”

“Sure,” I say with a shrug. “But only if you promise to stop harassing me about my other spells afterward. Deal?”

Twilight huffs but nods. “Fine. If you can prove that the Lift Disk Spell is just telekinesis, I’ll drop it. But if you’re lying…”

“I’m not,” I say quickly, holding up a hoof. “And you’ll see for yourself.”

She gestures for me to proceed, her expression skeptical but intrigued. “Alright. Show me.”

I take a deep breath, doing my best to project confidence even as my mind races. This has to work. “Alright, Twilight. Pay close attention.”

I focus on a patch of dirt nearby, drawing on as much of my telekinetic power as I can muster. Slowly, I compress the loose earth into a compact, solid disk, holding it together with sheer force. It’s not easy—sweat is already starting to bead on my forehead—but I manage to get it stable.

“The trick,” I say, my voice straining just a little, “is compressing the dirt enough that it behaves like a single mass. Loose earth is tricky, sure, but if you apply consistent force to hold it together, it’s no different than standing on a stone.”

Twilight watches intently, her skeptical expression softening into one of curiosity as I carefully step onto the disk. I can feel it wobble slightly under my hooves, but I grit my teeth and maintain the pressure. With a slow, deliberate motion, I glide a few feet across the ground.

“You see?” I say, forcing a grin. “Nothing complicated. Just a simple application of telekinesis.”

Her eyes narrow slightly as she scrutinizes my movements. “You’re holding it in place with telekinesis alone?”

“Exactly,” I say, stepping off the disk and letting it crumble back into loose dirt. The relief of releasing the strain is immediate, though I try not to show it.

Twilight’s horn glows as she steps forward. “Let me try.”

My stomach drops slightly, but I force myself to nod. “Go ahead. It’s all about maintaining consistent force. Just compress the dirt enough to hold its shape.”

Her horn brightens, and with a surprising level of finesse, she replicates the process. The dirt compresses into a disk, solid and steady, as she steps onto it. The ease with which she manages it makes my earlier effort look amateurish, but I keep my face neutral.

Twilight hovers a few feet in the air, her movements smooth and controlled as she glides around on the disk. “Huh,” she says, her tone thoughtful. “It really is just telekinesis.”

“Told you,” I say lightly, trying not to let my exhaustion show.

Twilight lands gracefully, her horn dimming as the disk crumbles back into loose dirt. She turns to me, her ears flat and her cheeks a vivid shade of pink. “I… I owe you an apology,” she says, her voice unusually quiet.

I raise an eyebrow, caught off guard. “Apology? For what?”

“For everything!” she blurts, her ears twitching awkwardly. “For doubting you, for accusing you of… well, of all the things I accused you of. I should’ve just tried the spell myself instead of assuming it was something impossible.” She winces, clearly uncomfortable with admitting she was wrong.

I crack a small smile, hiding it almost immideately. “Well, I’m not one to hold grudges.”

Twilight groans, her embarrassment clearly deepening. “No, seriously, Kinetic. I’ve been hounding you about this spell, thinking it was some kind of breakthrough or anomaly, and it turns out it’s just—” She cuts herself off, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly. “Just telekinesis.”

“It’s an easy mistake to make,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Not every day you see somepony compressing loose dirt into a floating platform, right?”

“That’s no excuse for how I acted,” she insists, her voice full of guilt. “I should’ve known better. And to make it worse, I was so wrapped up in proving myself right that I didn’t even stop to think about how it must’ve felt for you—having somepony constantly question your methods.”

“Well…” I hesitate for a moment, trying to decide whether to milk this or let it go. Ultimately, I settle for magnanimity. “It’s water under the bridge. You were curious. I get it.”

Twilight fidgets, looking up at me with a sheepish expression. “You’re being way nicer about this than I deserve. I’m honestly really embarrassed.”

“You shouldn’t be,” I say, offering a reassuring smile. “If anything, I’m flattered you cared enough to dig that deep. Shows how much you love magic.”

She lets out a breathy laugh, her ears perking up slightly. “Well, I guess that’s true. But I’ll try to reign it in next time. And… thank you. For being patient with me.”

“No problem,” I say, waving a hoof. “It’s what I do.”

Twilight nods, her blush fading but her gratitude still evident. “I’ll let you get back to your studies. And… I promise I won’t bother you about this spell again.”

I watch as she turns and heads back toward the library, her pace quickened, probably to escape the lingering embarrassment. Once she’s out of sight, I exhale a long, relieved breath and slump slightly.

“Close call,” I mutter, glancing at the now-scattered dirt. At least she didn’t ask me to explain the Doppler Illusion again. Or fly more than a few feet.

With that, I start back toward the H.A.R.D.I.S., ready to collapse into the nearest chair and savor the sweet taste of victory—for now.

As I stroll, enjoying the relative peace after dealing with Twilight, the sound of a crowd and excited chatter catches my ear. I glance down the street and spot a stage set up in the town square, its bright, flashy banners adorned with the name “The Great and Powerful Trixie!” in bold, over-the-top lettering.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I wander closer. The crowd is already gathering—a mix of ponies I recognize, including Spike, Rarity, Applejack, and Rainbow Dash, all with varying degrees of skepticism on their faces. Front and center, a blue unicorn with a starry purple cape and hat is standing tall, her horn glowing as she conjures a series of sparkles and smoke.

“Behold!” she declares, her voice ringing with dramatic flair. “The Great and Powerful Trixie shall now dazzle you with feats of magic the likes of which have never been seen!”

The crowd murmurs, a mix of polite interest and poorly veiled amusement. I lean against a lamppost, watching as Trixie launches into her act. She pulls off some basic illusions—fireworks, glowing orbs, and a bouquet conjured from thin air. Not bad, really, but I can see the snide glances from the crowd.

“Pfft, big deal,” Rainbow mutters loud enough for everypony to hear. “Twilight could do that in her sleep.”

“Tch, this here ain’t real magic,” Applejack says, shaking her head. “It’s all just smoke and mirrors.”

Even Rarity can’t resist chiming in. “A bit… theatrical, don’t you think?”

I feel a pang of sympathy for Trixie. Sure, she’s laying it on thick, but I can’t help but feel a sense of kinship with her. A showmare, a charlatan, just trying to dazzle the crowd and carve out a place for herself. I know that game all too well.

Trixie’s ears flick at the muttering, and I see her jaw tighten. But she doesn’t miss a beat. With a dramatic flourish, she points a hoof toward the crowd. “It seems some of you doubt the magnificence of Trixie’s magic! Perhaps a volunteer from the audience will help Trixie prove her unmatched skill!”

There’s an awkward pause as everypony avoids her gaze. Then, with an almost predatory grin, she spots me.

“You there!” she calls, her eyes gleaming. “You look like somepony with a flair for the dramatic! Come, assist The Great and Powerful Trixie!”

The crowd parts, and all eyes fall on me. I hesitate, caught between the urge to slink away and the sudden realization that refusing might draw more attention. Slowly, I step forward, doing my best to keep my expression neutral.

Trixie smirks as I approach the stage. “What is your name, brave volunteer?”

“Kinetic Flux,” I say, trying not to sound too reluctant.

“Ah, a fine name for a fine assistant!” she declares, throwing a hoof around my shoulders in an overly familiar gesture. “Now, Kinetic, prepare yourself! Trixie shall demonstrate magic so astounding, so powerful, that your very senses will tremble!”

The crowd chuckles softly, but I can feel their skepticism. I glance at Trixie, who’s clearly enjoying the attention, and a strange sense of conflict rises in my chest. She’s a charlatan, like me—playing up her tricks to impress the crowd. If I show her up, I could ruin her act. But if I take a dive, I risk looking like an idiot in front of everypony.

“So, Kinetic,” Trixie says, turning to me with a smug smile. “Do you think you can outdo the magic of The Great and Powerful Trixie?”

I meet her gaze, my mind racing. Do I prove her wrong and let the crowd tear her down, or do I let her have her moment and risk my own credibility?

The crowd is waiting, their eyes flicking between us with growing anticipation. I feel a bead of sweat roll down my neck as I force a grin. “What exactly did you have in mind, Trixie?”

“Oh, nothing too challenging for The Great and Powerful Trixie,” she says with a wink, her horn beginning to glow. “Let’s see if you can match this!”

Trixie’s horn flares as she conjures an illusion of a roaring dragon, smoke curling from its nostrils as it looms over the stage. The crowd gasps, some with genuine awe, others clearly unimpressed. I glance at the dragon, then at Trixie, who’s smirking at me like she’s already won.

“All yours, Kinetic Flux,” she says, stepping back dramatically. “Show us what you’ve got.”

The weight of the town’s eyes feels unbearable. I just managed to satisfy Twilight’s endless scrutiny earlier, and now the entire square is watching me like I’m some kind of spectacle. My pulse pounds in my ears as I weigh my options. I could obliterate Trixie’s illusion with a simple trick, unravel her act for what it is.

Taking a deep breath, I step forward, my horn glowing faintly. With a bit of telekinesis, I create a clumsy puff of smoke, accompanied by a small, flickering orb of light. The crowd falls silent for a moment, and then somepony coughs awkwardly. Trixie’s smirk turns into a full grin as she steps back in, dramatically banishing her dragon with a wave of her hoof.

“Ah, a valiant effort!” she declares, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “But as you can see, The Great and Powerful Trixie’s magic is simply unparalleled!”

The crowd erupts into laughter—not mean-spirited, but enough to make my cheeks burn. I force a weak smile and step back off the stage. As I walk away, I catch Twilight’s gaze, and my stomach sinks. She knows.

A few minutes later, I’m standing behind the stage near a tree, trying to cool down and shake off the embarrassment. Of course, Twilight finds me.

“You took a dive,” she says bluntly, her expression a mix of irritation and curiosity.

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “You caught that, huh?”

“It was obvious,” she says, frowning. “Why didn’t you just counter her illusion? You could’ve easily matched it—or even outdone it.”

I glance back at the stage, where Trixie is basking in the crowd’s applause. “Because it’s her livelihood, Twilight. What’s the point of ruining her act? She’s just trying to make a living.”

Twilight blinks, her frown softening. “I guess… that makes sense. I mean, I wouldn’t want somepony destroying my career just to prove a point.”

“Exactly,” I say, relieved she’s seeing my side. “It’s not worth tearing someone down just to show off.”

But before I can feel too good about myself, Rainbow Dash swoops down, followed closely by Applejack, Rarity, and Spike.

“You totally let her win!” Rainbow accuses, jabbing a hoof at me. “I saw that little puff of smoke you did. Lame!”

“Why’d you hold back?” Applejack asks, narrowing her eyes. “That Trixie’s act ain’t nothin’ but hot air.”

Rarity sighs dramatically, flipping her mane. “While I admire your compassion, darling, allowing a fraud like her to go unchecked only encourages her to continue deceiving everypony.”

“Hey!” I snap, a little sharper than intended. “She’s not hurting anypony. She’s just putting on a show. You think it’s easy standing up there in front of everypony, trying to impress them?”

Rainbow huffs. “Doesn’t matter. If she’s gonna claim to be the ‘greatest,’ she should be able to back it up.”

Twilight steps in, holding up a hoof. “I think Kinetic’s point is valid. But… maybe it wouldn’t hurt to see if she can actually handle a challenge.”

“Exactly,” Rainbow says, grinning. “And we’re just the ponies to give her one.”

Applejack adjusts her hat. “If she’s gonna boast about bein’ the best, let’s see how she stacks up.”

Rarity nods. “I suppose it’s only fair. A little competition might do her some good.”

I groan, realizing there’s no stopping them. “Fine, but just… don’t destroy her, okay? She’s still a pony trying to make a living.”

“No promises,” Rainbow says, already flying back toward the stage. The others follow, leaving me standing there, wishing I’d stayed in bed.

This is going to be a disaster.

The crowd buzzes with anticipation as the mares climb the stage one by one, each eager to prove Trixie’s magic nothing more than smoke and mirrors. Trixie, however, looks completely unbothered, her smug grin plastered across her face as she stands confidently at the center of the stage.

First up is Applejack. She steps forward, tipping her hat. “Alright, sugarcube. Let’s see if yer fancy magic can handle some good ol’-fashioned rope skills.”

Applejack grabs her trusty lasso and begins twirling it expertly, looping and spinning the rope with ease. The crowd cheers as she tosses the lasso into the air, catching it and pulling it taut in a perfect knot.

Trixie yawns dramatically. “Impressive—for a rodeo, perhaps. But allow The Great and Powerful Trixie to demonstrate what real skill looks like!”

Her horn glows, and Applejack’s lasso suddenly whips out of her hooves, wrapping itself tightly around her. Before Applejack can protest, Trixie yanks the rope, pulling Applejack onto her back like a hogtied calf.

“Hey!” Applejack protests, struggling against the rope. “That ain’t fair!”

“Fairness is for amateurs,” Trixie says with a smirk, her voice dripping with mockery. The crowd laughs, and Applejack grumbles as she’s helped off the stage.

Next up is Rainbow Dash. She hovers confidently above the stage, her chest puffed out. “Alright, Trixie. Let’s see you top this!”

Rainbow rockets into the air, spinning and looping through the sky in a dazzling display of speed and agility. She dashes through a cloud, bringing water behind her. She finishes with a burst, creating a miniature rainbow that lights up the stage. The crowd cheers wildly.

Trixie, however, remains unimpressed. “A flashy performance, but let’s see how well you handle this!”

Her horn glows, and a swirl of magical wind encircles Rainbow Dash. Before Rainbow can react, she’s caught in a vortex, spinning wildly out of control. The pegasus flails as the crowd gasps, her normally graceful mane and tail whipping around like crazy.

“Trixie demands applause!” the showmare declares, and the crowd, unsure whether to laugh or gasp, gives polite claps as Rainbow stumbles off the stage, wobbling dizzily.

Rarity steps forward next, tossing her mane dramatically. “A proper performance should have elegance, style, and above all, beauty. Allow me to show you how it’s done.”

She levitates a bolt of shimmering fabric and begins weaving it into a stunning dress, the fabric flowing and sparkling as it takes shape. The audience “oohs” and “ahhs” as she creates an intricate, dazzling garment in mere moments.

Trixie watches with a sly grin. “Oh, how quaint. But allow Trixie to add her own… artistic touch!”

With a flick of her horn, a burst of magic shoots toward Rarity. The unicorn shrieks as her mane and tail transform into a tangled, green rats’ nest—complete with actual rats poking their heads out. The crowd bursts into laughter, and Rarity bolts off the stage, wailing about her ruined appearance.

“Enough!” Trixie declares, holding up a hoof as the laughter dies down. “You see now that The Great and Powerful Trixie is beyond compare! But let me share a story to truly cement my greatness!”

The stage dims, and Trixie’s horn glows brighter as she conjures an illusion of a monstrous bear, its translucent form towering over the crowd. “The Great and Powerful Trixie once defeated an Ursa Major, saving an entire town from its rampage!”

The audience gasps, some in awe, others clearly skeptical. Spike crosses his arms, muttering, “Yeah, right.”

But Trixie is undeterred. “Yes, it was Trixie who stood against the beast, wielding her unparalleled magic to drive it back to the Everfree Forest! No other unicorn could possibly hope to achieve such a feat!”

As the crowd murmurs, I can’t help but shake my head from the sidelines. She’s digging herself a deep hole.

The Mane 6, now regrouped but still disheveled, exchange glances. They’re clearly not done with Trixie yet, but I can already see the chaos brewing in their eyes. This isn’t going to end well—for anyone. But the show is over, so I leave.

The sun hangs low in the sky as I finish my late lunch, the taste of mediocre hay fries lingering as I meander back toward my H.A.R.D.I.S.. There’s a strange, nagging feeling in the back of my mind, like I’m forgetting something important, but I brush it off. Maybe it’s just the lingering embarrassment from earlier—or the looming dread of Twilight inevitably grilling me again.

As I near the edge of town, the sound of startled cries and thundering footsteps shakes me from my thoughts. My ears perk, and I glance toward the noise, my heart dropping like a stone.

An Ursa Minor.

The massive, translucent bear stomps through the outskirts of Ponyville, its starry form shimmering ominously in the fading light. But it’s not the town it’s heading for—it’s heading straight for my H.A.R.D.I.S.

I stop dead in my tracks, a chill running down my spine. Oh no. Not the house. Not my house.

The H.A.R.D.I.S. is the one thing I can’t afford to lose. It’s my shelter, my sanctuary, my best-kept secret. If that thing lays a single paw on it, I lose all that.

Gritting my teeth, I shove my usual hesitation and fear aside. This is survival.

I pull my chalk bag off my shoulder. I don’t even hesitate as I telekinetically hurl a cloud of it into the air, the fine particles spreading in a shimmering mist around the Ursa Minor’s massive head.

The creature snorts, its glowing eyes narrowing as it stops in its tracks. Perfect. I channel everything I have into the Doppler Illusion, vibrating the particles of chalk into a dazzling, shifting mirage. The air around the bear’s head shimmers and warps, the illusion taking form.

A forest path materializes—perfectly real to the Ursa Minor’s eyes—leading away from my house and deeper into the woods. Stars twinkle above, and phantom trees sway in an invisible breeze.

The bear hesitates for a moment, then starts lumbering toward the illusion, its massive paws crushing the earth beneath it.

Sweat drips down my brow as I maintain the illusion, every ounce of focus honed on keeping it flawless. It’s purely visual—no sound, no smell—but I’m gambling that the creature’s curiosity and limited intelligence will buy me enough time to lead it away.

But as I guide it further into the woods, my mind flickers to the worst-case scenario. What if it doesn’t work? What if it realizes the illusion isn’t real and turns back? I glance at the shimmering chalk particles, my jaw tightening. If it comes to it, I’ll have to do something I’ve never done before.

I’ll kill it.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine, but I push the unpleasant feeling aside. The Doppler Illusion isn’t just for show—the particles already move at absurd speeds. If I accelerate those particles fast enough, I could turn them into projectiles. A deadly, invisible barrage.

I swallow hard, my focus unyielding as the Ursa Minor continues lumbering deeper into the forest. Its massive form brushes against the phantom trees, its head occasionally turning to inspect the illusion.

The Ursa Minor snorts, its glowing eyes narrowing as it swipes a massive paw through the shimmering chalk particles on its face. The illusion flickers violently, and a sharp, burning sensation shoots through my horn like a jolt of lightning. I stagger, the feedback from the disrupted illusion searing through my skull.

“Damn it,” I mutter, clutching my head as the Doppler Illusion collapses. The bear lets out a low growl, its gaze locking onto me. My legs tremble, but I don’t run. There’s no point now.

I stare at the bear, my jaw set, my chest hollow. There’s no anger in me, no hatred—just an unbearable weight of remorse. I don’t want to do this. But it’s already done.

The particles still hover faintly in the air, my last chance to make this quick and painless. My horn sparks as I gather the remnants of the illusion, compressing the particles tighter and tighter. I can feel the energy building, the atoms vibrating faster, teetering on the edge of a catastrophic release.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the words barely audible over the thunderous growl of the Ursa Minor. It takes a step forward, and for a moment, I see its face clearly—not the monster everypony else sees, but a confused, scared creature.

I always knew it would come to this. Chrysalis, Tirek, Sombra—it could have been any one of them. This world is too real for idealism, too raw for the kind of peace I’ve tried to maintain. I always knew I wasn’t cut out to be one of those ponies—the kind who solves problems without bloodshed.

It was always going to happen.

The atoms tremble under my control, ready to launch through the creature’s skull. I steel myself, preparing to release the energy.

“STOP!” a voice cries out, sharp and commanding.

I freeze, my horn flickering as Twilight appears in a flash of purple light. She stands between me and the Ursa Minor, her eyes wide with determination.

“Twilight, what are you—” I start, my voice hoarse, but she doesn’t even glance at me.

The bear roars, but Twilight doesn’t flinch. Her horn glows brightly, and in a moment of pure serenity, a massive bottle of milk appears, floating in the air before the Ursa Minor. The creature’s growl falters as it sniffs the bottle, curiosity replacing aggression.

“It’s just a baby,” Twilight says softly, her voice calm and steady. “It’s scared and hungry.”

The bear reaches out, grabbing the bottle and drinking deeply. Its massive body relaxes, the tension in its muscles melting away. I let the particles dissipate, the energy fading as my legs finally give out. I slump to the ground, staring at the scene before me.

Twilight gently coaxes the Ursa Minor away, her magic weaving a calming spell as she leads it back toward the Everfree Forest. The bear follows her obediently, its earlier fury forgotten.

When she’s gone, and the square is quiet again, I sit there, my chest heaving as the weight of what almost happened settles in. I was seconds away from crossing a line I could never uncross.

I knew it was just a baby. I’d known from the start. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t some magical powerhouse who could conjure milk or calm a rampaging creature with a wave of my horn. My magic isn’t built on harmony or understanding—it’s built on force, precision, and physics that ponies like Twilight will never comprehend.

That’s who I am. That’s who I’ve always been.

Even as I justify it to myself, though, the nagging doubt creeps in. Could I have done more? Was there another way? I rub my aching horn, my thoughts spiraling. This time, Twilight showed up just in time to stop me. But next time? What if there’s no Twilight? What if I’m the only one standing between something dangerous and everything I care about?

I don’t want to admit it, but I know the answer. I’ll do what I have to. I’ll cross the line again. Maybe it won’t be an Ursa Minor next time. It could be anything. But I’ll always end up here: staring down something I can’t outthink or outmaneuver, forcing myself to use the tools only I understand.

My jaw tightens. The danger isn’t just out there. It’s in me, too. The things I can do with my “magic”—if ponies like Twilight or Celestia knew what I was capable of, they’d never trust me again. And they’d be right not to. My physics-based tricks aren’t flashy illusions. They’re dangerous, precise weapons, and in the wrong hooves—or the right ones used the wrong way—they’re catastrophic.

This is why I can’t teach anyone. I’ve always known that. But now it’s staring me in the face. If Sweetie Belle keeps learning from me, she might stumble across something I can’t take back. A spell she doesn’t understand fully. A trick with consequences she can’t predict.

I clench my teeth, the weight in my chest growing heavier. Sweetie’s a good kid—she deserves better than me. She deserves a teacher who’ll inspire her, not one who’ll drag her down this path. Maybe it’s time to let her go as my student. For her sake. For everypony’s.

I haul myself to my hooves, my legs still trembling. The silence of the square feels suffocating, and I glance toward the Everfree Forest, where Twilight disappeared with the Ursa Minor. She didn’t know what I was about to do. She doesn’t know how close I came to breaking everything.

But I do. I know it too well. And I know it’ll happen again.

I take a shaky breath and start toward my H.A.R.D.I.S., my mind a storm of guilt, doubt, and something darker—something inevitable. All I can do is hope I don’t lose myself completely when the next line comes. Because I’ll cross it.

I always do.

Author's Note

Compressed Dirt Slab

Initial Volume and Density:

Volume: V = 1 m² ⋅ 0.1 m = 0.1 m³.
Initial density (ρi): 1500 kg/m³.
Mass: m = ρi ⋅ V = 1500 ⋅ 0.1 = 150 kg.
1. Compressed Volume:
Final density (ρf): 2000 kg/m³.
Final volume: Vf = m / ρf = 150 / 2000 = 0.075 m³.
Final thickness: hf = Vf / A = 0.075 / 1 = 0.075 m (7.5 cm).
1. Energy Required for Compression:
Compaction energy: 2 MJ/m³ (typical soil compaction value).
Energy for 0.1 m³: E = 2 ⋅ 0.1 = 0.2 MJ = 200,000 J.
Convert to kcal: Ekcal = 200,000 / 4184 ≈ 47.8 kcal.

Summary

Final Dimensions: 1 m² area, 7.5 cm thickness.
Energy Required: ~47.8 kcal to fully compress the dirt into a dense slab.

Key Differences

Method: The uncompressed slab is simply lifted and manipulated to maximize the forces holding it together, while the compressed slab involves simply compacting the dirt. The Compressed dirt does not stay settled, and needs to be held together tightly by telekinesis to stay a disk.
Energy Cost: Compressing the slab requires significantly more energy.
Strength: The compressed slab is much stronger and more durable due to reduced porosity.

With precise targeting (e.g., the Ursa Minor's eye or brain), you could use a 0.1 g projectile traveling at 30,000 m/s to deliver sufficient damage. This requires 45 kJ of energy, which is about the energy of 10 grams of TNT. (10.8 kcal)

Breaking
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Applied Mathemagics

Breaking

The H.A.R.D.I.S. feels unusually cold as I step inside. The weight of the day’s events presses down on me like a lead blanket. My legs ache, my horn throbs, and my chest feels hollow. I don’t bother turning on the lights. The faint glow of the floating orbs overhead is enough to guide me to my room.

I collapse onto the absurdly soft mattress, my body begging for rest even as my mind refuses to quiet. The thoughts keep swirling—Sweetie Belle, the Ursa Minor, the Doppler Illusion, Twilight stepping in at the last second. And the deeper thoughts, the ones I try not to dwell on but can’t quite escape: What happens the next time I’m in that situation? What happens when there’s no one to stop me?

Eventually, exhaustion wins, and the swirling thoughts blur into darkness.

I find myself standing in a vast, empty void, the air heavy with silence. Then, a soft golden glow begins to fill the space, and from it, Celestia emerges, her serene form radiating warmth and authority. Her mane flows with its usual ethereal grace, her eyes calm and knowing.

“Princess Celestia?” I say, my voice echoing oddly in the void. “Where am I?”

“This is a dream, Kinetic Flux,” she says, her voice gentle yet commanding. “A place where truths are often revealed.”

The void shifts, and suddenly we’re standing in the middle of a beautiful, sunlit meadow. It’s tranquil, almost idyllic, but I can’t shake the unease creeping up my spine. Celestia looks at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to speak.

The lack of inhibition hits me. The words slip from my mouth. “I can do incredible things,” I say finally, my voice low. “With what I know, I could make beautiful, helpful things—change the world for the better. But I could also…” I pause, the words catching in my throat. “I could eliminate a city. Leave it uninhabitable for years.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “And would you?”

“No,” I say quickly, the denial reflexive. “But it doesn’t matter. I know how, and that’s the problem. If ponies like me existed in this world… it would only be a matter of time.”

She steps closer, her gaze piercing. “What do you think this world would become if such knowledge were to spread, Kinetic?”

I glance away, unable to meet her eyes. “It wouldn’t be good. But… ponies could use it to build amazing things, too. Things that would make life better for everypony.”

She studies me in silence for a moment, and the weight of her gaze feels like it’s crushing me. Then she speaks, her tone steady and calm, but with an edge that chills me. “Do you know why Equestria has no such technologies, Kinetic?”

I shake my head, and she continues.

“It’s because I ensure it never does,” she says simply. “In every age, there are inventors, thinkers, and visionaries who, like you, dream of a better world—or of power unimaginable. And I… remove them.”

My blood runs cold. “You… remove them?”

She nods, her expression unchanged. “Knowledge is power, and some knowledge is too dangerous for the harmony we strive to protect. There are lines that cannot be crossed, ideas that must not be allowed to flourish. For the sake of all my little ponies, I ensure that such individuals cannot bring their ideas to fruition.”

I take a step back, my chest tightening. “So you… what? Silence them? Imprison them?”

“Sometimes,” she says, her voice still calm. “But more often, they must be eliminated.”

The word hangs in the air like a death sentence, and I feel my legs go weak. “You can’t be serious.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, a glint of steel in her gaze. “You admitted it yourself, Kinetic. The power you wield could destroy a city. It could unravel the very fabric of harmony we have worked so hard to maintain. Would you trust that power in the hooves of another?”

“No,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

“And yet, you carry it,” she says, stepping closer. “You carry it, and you admit that it could—and perhaps will—be used for destruction.”

I try to step back, but the ground beneath me doesn’t move. My voice trembles as I speak. “But I haven’t done anything. I’ve kept it to myself. I’ve—”

“It is not a matter of what you have done,” she interrupts, her voice cutting through mine like a blade. “It is a matter of what you can do. And that, Kinetic Flux, is why I cannot allow you to remain.”

Her horn begins to glow, a blinding light radiating from it. I try to speak, to plead my case, but the words catch in my throat. The light grows brighter and brighter until it’s all I can see.

I wake with a start, my heart pounding and my fur damp with sweat. The room is dark and silent, the glow of the orbs muted. For a moment, I sit there, shaking and gasping for air, the weight of the dream pressing down on me.

I run a hoof through my mane, trying to steady myself. It was just a dream. Just a dream.

But as I glance toward the faint outline of my desk, where my unfinished notes and sketches sit, a chilling thought creeps into my mind: What if it wasn’t?

The sweat clings to my fur as I sit in the darkness, the echoes of the dream still swirling in my mind. I try to rationalize it—convince myself it was just my subconscious playing tricks on me. But the feeling won’t go away, that creeping suspicion gnawing at the edges of my thoughts.

Luna can enter dreams. Who’s to say Celestia can’t?

The serene, all-knowing tone of her voice in the dream replays in my head, and I shiver. Remove them. The words felt too real. Too precise.

I glance around the room, the soft glow of the orbs casting faint shadows. For the first time, the comforting vastness of the H.A.R.D.I.S. feels oppressive. It’s quiet—too quiet. My ears twitch at every creak, every faint hum.

Get it together, I tell myself, but the knot in my stomach tightens.

When the first rays of sunlight peek through the window, I’m still awake, still haunted by the dream. I drag myself out of bed, hoping a splash of cold water from the spigot will clear my head. It doesn’t. My reflection stares back at me, eyes sunken and filled with doubt.

The sound of hooves crunching outside breaks the silence. My ears perk, and my stomach drops. Peering cautiously out the window, I see it—a golden chariot gleaming in the morning sun, flanked by two armored pegasus guards. My heart starts pounding.

They’re here.

The chariot isn’t a dream. It’s real, and it’s right outside my house.

I open the door a crack, just enough to see the guards’ stern faces. One of them steps forward, his armor glinting. “Kinetic Flux,” he says firmly. “We’re here to escort you to the Archmage Examination in Canterlot.”

I swallow hard, forcing a weak smile. “Oh, right. About that. I’m, uh… not feeling great today. Maybe I could reschedule?”

The guard’s expression doesn’t change. “Princess Celestia herself authorized this transport. The Archmage Examination cannot be delayed.”

“Yeah, I get that,” I say, edging the door closed slightly, “but, you know, health is important. Don’t want me passing out mid-test, right?”

The second guard steps forward, his voice sharper. “We were told you might be… reluctant. We have orders to ensure your presence by any means necessary.”

My breath catches, and the weight of the dream slams into me all over again. They know. She knows.

“No need to get aggressive,” I say quickly, my voice cracking. “I’ll, uh… I’ll come quietly.”

The guards exchange a glance, then step back to allow me room to exit. I grab my pouches, my movements slow and deliberate. My mind races with half-formed escape plans, but the cold, unyielding looks on their faces crush any hope of slipping away.

As I step outside, the morning sun feels too bright, the chariot too polished. Every clink of the guards’ armor sets my nerves on edge. They motion for me to board, and I hesitate for a moment, my legs like lead.

“This is all just protocol, right?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light. “Nothing… unusual about this?”

Neither guard answers.

With a resigned sigh, I climb into the chariot, my heart pounding like a drum. The guards take their positions, their wings spreading as they prepare to take off. The moment the chariot lifts into the air, the knot in my stomach tightens further.

I stare at the horizon, Canterlot’s spires growing closer with every passing second. The dream’s words echo in my mind, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being led to something I can’t escape.

The chariot cuts through the morning sky, the wind whistling past my ears. Canterlot grows larger with every passing second, its pristine spires gleaming like a beacon of hope to some—but not to me. To me, it’s a guillotine. The dream keeps replaying in my head, Celestia’s calm, damning words echoing like a death knell.

“Remove them.”

The guards are silent, their faces stoic, offering no reassurance. I sink deeper into my thoughts, my mind racing. This isn’t just an examination—it’s the end. She’s bringing me to my execution. That’s why the guards were told to take me by force. She knows what I am, what I can do. She can’t allow me to live.

I don’t want to think about it—about what I would do if I had to defend myself against her. But the thoughts come anyway, dark and unbidden. If she forces my hoof, if it comes down to her or me…

I grit my teeth, my stomach twisting. Don’t go there. Don’t even think about it.

But I can’t stop myself. My mind spirals into contingency plans, desperate and morbid. Celestia is more powerful than any other being I’ve encountered. Her raw magical strength dwarfs anything I can muster. Fighting her head-on would be suicide. I’d have to rely on my tricks—my illusions, my precision.

An illusion. That’s the key. She’s a ruler, a protector. Her greatest strength isn’t just her magic—it’s her sense of justice, her compassion. If I could manipulate that…

I shudder, hating myself for even considering it, but I can’t help it. If I had to kill her, I’d need to create something that would draw her focus—a distraction that would appeal to her deepest instincts. Something she couldn’t ignore. Something she’d rush to save without thinking twice.

A foal.

The thought settles like a stone in my gut. A sad, pathetic-looking foal, caught in some fallen debris. The idea feels vile, but it’s perfect. She’d see the illusion, her sense of justice would override her caution, and she’d move to save it.

And then...

My mind snaps to the chalk dust I always carry. My telekinesis is precise enough to manipulate the particles, to compress them into a dense, railgun-like projectile. If I accelerated those particles fast enough, they’d hit with unimaginable force. I could fire it from inside the head of the illusionary foal, a grim irony that makes my stomach churn.

Stop it. I shake my head, trying to push the thoughts away. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to hurt her.

But the thoughts keep coming. Splitting an atom would be far more destructive, but I don’t have the materials for that—not unless I somehow acquire fissile material. The railgun idea is simpler, more within my reach. I don’t need to wipe out a city, just…

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to drown out the spiral. I don’t want this. I don’t want to hurt her. But if she’s already decided to remove me, to kill me like she has so many others, what choice do I have?

The chariot begins its descent, the towering gates of Canterlot Castle looming ahead. The guards are still silent, their faces unreadable. My chest feels tight, my thoughts a chaotic storm of fear, regret, and desperation.

Please, let me be wrong. I cling to the faint hope that this is all in my head, that I’m overthinking everything. But as the chariot touches down and the guards motion for me to step out, I can’t shake the feeling that this is the beginning of the end.

The chariot glides through the gates of Canterlot Castle, the grandeur of the palace almost mocking me with its serenity. The guards escort me directly to the main hall, their silence doing nothing to ease my fraying nerves. Every step echoes in the vast corridors, the towering ceilings and ornate decorations feeling more oppressive than impressive.

As we approach the throne room, my heart pounds so hard it feels like it might shatter my ribs. She’s waiting for me. The plan keeps running through my mind, the steps I’d need to take if—when—this all goes wrong. The chalk dust in my bag feels heavier than ever, like a promise I can’t escape.

The guards push open the massive doors, revealing Celestia seated on her throne. She’s as radiant as ever, her mane flowing in its ethereal way, her expression calm, almost amused. The golden glow of the room feels unnatural, suffocating, as if the sunlight itself is judging me.

“Kinetic Flux,” she says warmly, her voice carrying the same soothing authority it always does. “Welcome to Canterlot.”

I force a smile, though my legs feel like jelly. “Princess Celestia,” I say, bowing slightly. “An honor, as always.”

Her lips quirk upward in a faint smile, and she gestures for me to approach. “I trust your journey was uneventful?”

“Uneventful,” I echo, my voice tight. Sure, if you don’t count the existential dread.

She studies me for a moment, her gaze calm but piercing. “You seem… tense.”

I swallow hard, my mouth dry. “It’s not every day one gets summoned by royalty, Your Highness. I suppose I’m just nervous about the examination tomorrow.”

Her expression softens slightly, though there’s a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “There’s no need to worry. The Archmage Examination is challenging, yes, but I have no doubt in your abilities.”

Her words should be reassuring, but they only make my paranoia spike. Is this part of the game? Lulling me into a false sense of security?

Celestia rises from her throne, stepping down to stand before me. Despite her serene demeanor, her sheer presence feels overwhelming. “Before the examination, I thought it would be wise to speak with you privately. There are things I’d like to discuss.”

My muscles tense, my mind racing. This is it. She knows. She’s going to confront me.

“Of course,” I say, my voice carefully even. “What would you like to discuss?”

She tilts her head slightly, her gaze unreadable. “Your apprentice. Sweetie Belle.”

The words hit me like a thunderclap, and I barely suppress a flinch. “Sweetie?” I echo, feigning confusion. “I… I wouldn’t call her my apprentice, Your Highness.”

Her brow lifts slightly, a flicker of curiosity in her expression. “No? I was under the impression you’d been teaching her. When I first suggested the Archmage Examination, you mentioned needing to stay in Ponyville to oversee her progress.”

My mind scrambles for a response, the weight of the moment pressing down on me like a vice.

I force a laugh, though it sounds hollow even to me. “Ah, yes. I may have… exaggerated her potential to avoid coming here at the time. Truthfully, Sweetie Belle is a sweet filly, but… she’s not cut out for magic. Every attempt at teaching her has been… less than successful.”

Celestia’s expression doesn’t change, but her gaze sharpens just enough to make my pulse quicken. “I see. That’s unfortunate to hear. Sweetie Belle is a determined young pony. I thought she might flourish under your guidance.”

“She’s enthusiastic,” I say quickly, keeping my tone light. “But enthusiasm only goes so far. Some ponies just… aren’t meant for advanced magic.”

The words taste bitter, but I force myself to keep smiling. It's better this way.

Celestia hums thoughtfully, her gaze lingering on me in that way that makes my fur stand on end. The silence stretches, heavy and expectant. Finally, she speaks again, her tone gentle yet probing.

“Twilight has mentioned you in her letters,” she says, her voice carrying a note of curiosity. “She seems quite intrigued by you, though she also expresses some concern.”

My stomach twists. Twilight. Of course, she’s been writing to Celestia. Why wouldn’t she?

“Concern?” I ask, forcing a chuckle. “That doesn’t sound like Twilight. She’s usually so… positive.”

Celestia’s faint smile doesn’t falter. “She is, but she is also observant. She’s noticed how you keep a certain distance from her and her friends. She wonders why that is.”

I feel the weight of her words settle on my chest, heavier than the pouches presses into my side. Because I can’t afford to get close to them, I think, though I don’t dare say it out loud.

“I’m just… a private pony,” I say, doing my best to sound casual. “I don’t mean to come off as standoffish. I just find it easier to keep to myself.”

Celestia tilts her head slightly, her gaze steady. “Easier, perhaps. But is it better? Twilight believes you have much to offer—not just to her, but to all of Ponyville. She sees potential in you, Kinetic.”

Potential to what? Blow up a town? Turn her world upside down?

“That’s… kind of her to say,” I reply, my voice tight. “But I’m not sure what she sees in me. I’m just a mage trying to get by.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, though her tone remains calm. “Are you?”

The question hangs in the air like a weight, and I scramble for an answer. “Of course. I’m not—” I stop myself, biting back the words I almost let slip. Not what? Not a human? Not dangerous?

Celestia steps closer, her serene presence somehow more oppressive than the silence. “Twilight believes in you. She believes you have the capacity to be a force for good, to inspire others. I wonder, do you believe that about yourself?”

I stare at her, my throat dry. “I… I don’t know,” I admit finally, my voice barely above a whisper. It’s the closest I can come to the truth without unraveling completely. A world of my inspiration is a dangerous place.

She regards me for a long moment, her expression softening slightly. “Kinetic, you may think you’re protecting yourself—or others—by keeping your distance. But sometimes, the walls we build to keep the world out only serve to trap us within.”

I force a smile, though it feels like my face might crack. “I’ll… keep that in mind, Your Highness.”

Celestia’s expression softens further, but there’s something inscrutable in her gaze—a knowing that sets my nerves on edge. Then, as if sensing the tension radiating off me, she shifts the conversation, her voice light but deliberate.

“My sister, Luna, has also expressed interest in speaking with you,” she says casually, as if this were an everyday occurrence. “Perhaps later tonight, once you’ve had a chance to rest.”

I blink, caught off guard. Luna? Why would she want to talk to me? The idea of facing another alicorn, especially one known for her connection to dreams, sends a cold shiver down my spine. But Luna isn't Celestia, she's more manageable.

“Of course,” I say, my voice strained. “I’d be honored.”

Celestia doesn’t seem to notice—or perhaps she does, and she’s choosing to ignore it. Instead, she simply nods and smiles. “For now, you may retire to your quarters. Rest well, Kinetic Flux. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

And just like that, it’s over. No accusations, no sudden confrontation, no cryptic remarks hinting that she’s onto me. She just… lets me leave. The guards escort me back through the gilded halls, and the quiet only deepens my unease.

The guest quarters are as opulent as I expected—plush furniture, a massive bed with silk sheets, and an unobstructed view of Canterlot’s breathtaking skyline. It’s the kind of luxury I’ve only read about, but it feels wrong. Out of place. Like it’s all part of some elaborate setup.

Before I have a chance to gather my thoughts, there’s a knock at the door. Two servants enter, wheeling in a tray laden with food so exquisitely arranged it looks more like art than dinner. Roasted vegetables, fresh bread, and some kind of glistening fruit tart take center stage, their aromas filling the room.

“Compliments of Princess Celestia,” one of the servants says with a polite bow before they both leave without another word.

I stare at the food, my stomach growling despite myself. It looks incredible, and I haven’t eaten today. But the nagging paranoia refuses to leave me alone.

What if it’s poisoned? The thought worms its way into my mind, twisting my hunger into something darker. What better way to deal with a potential threat than a silent, untraceable poison in the guise of kindness?

I sit on the edge of the bed, eyeing the food warily. My rational side tells me it’s ridiculous—that Celestia wouldn’t go through all this trouble if she planned to eliminate me with something as crude as poison. But the fear won’t let go.

In the end, I don’t touch it. I lie back on the bed, staring at the ornate ceiling, my thoughts churning.

She’s too calm. Too composed. What is she planning? And why does Luna want to speak with me?

The paranoia gnaws at me, and I realize with a sinking feeling that I might not sleep at all tonight.

I lie on the bed, staring at the ornate ceiling. The soft, ambient glow of the moonlight filtering through the curtains does little to soothe my racing thoughts. Sleep feels like an impossibility, my mind replaying every interaction, every word from Celestia, and every potential trap I might be walking into.

The untouched tray of food sits on a nearby table, its rich aromas taunting me. My stomach growls, but the knot of paranoia in my gut keeps me from touching it. The silk sheets, the plush pillows—none of it feels real, as though the room itself is conspiring against me.

The hours stretch on, the quiet of the castle pressing down like a weight. Just as I start to drift into a restless haze, a soft knock pulls me from my thoughts.

I sit up, my muscles tense. “Yes?” I call out, my voice wavering slightly despite my effort to sound composed.

The door creaks open, revealing a thestral—a bat-winged pony clad in dark armor. His slit-pupil eyes gleam faintly in the dim light as he steps inside, his expression calm but unreadable.

“Princess Luna requests your presence,” he says, his voice low and even.

I hesitate, my heart skipping a beat. Of course. Luna. But strangely, the thought of meeting her doesn’t fill me with the same dread I feel toward Celestia. Maybe it’s because I’ve already faced her—or rather, her darker half—during Nightmare Moon’s return. Granted, I’d barely survived that encounter, but I’d played a part in defeating her. Sort of.

“Lead the way,” I say, forcing myself to stand. My legs feel like jelly, but I manage to steady myself. The thestral nods and steps back, motioning for me to follow.

The castle is eerily quiet as we walk through its labyrinthine halls. The torches lining the walls cast flickering shadows that dance like phantoms. The thestral doesn’t speak, his hooves making almost no sound against the marble floors. I find myself envying his calm demeanor.

The farther we walk, the darker the corridors become, the light growing softer and more subdued. Eventually, we stop in front of a pair of massive, intricately carved doors. They’re adorned with lunar motifs—crescent moons, stars, and swirling patterns that seem to shimmer faintly in the dim light.

The thestral pushes the doors open, revealing a grand chamber bathed in soft blues and silvers. The ceiling stretches high above, painted to resemble a starry night sky that seems almost alive. At the far end of the room, seated on a midnight-blue throne, is Princess Luna.

She looks every bit as regal as her sister, though her presence feels less… overbearing. Her mane flows like a river of starlight, and her gaze is sharp yet contemplative.

“Kinetic Flux,” she says, her voice resonant and steady. “Welcome.”

I step forward, my hooves echoing faintly in the vast chamber. “Princess Luna,” I say, bowing slightly. “An honor to be summoned.”

She studies me for a moment, her expression unreadable. “Rise. There is no need for formalities tonight. We have much to discuss.”

I straighten, my unease tempered slightly by her tone. There’s something about Luna that feels more… grounded. Less of the aloof serenity that Celestia exudes, and more of an honesty that I can’t quite place.

Still, I can’t let my guard down completely. “What would you like to discuss, Your Highness?” I ask, keeping my voice measured.

Luna tilts her head slightly, her mane shimmering as if stirred by an unseen breeze. Her voice carries a regal yet curious lilt. “Thou art an intriguing pony, Kinetic Flux. My sister spoke of thee earlier this day. She claimed thou seemed most... disquieted.”

I feel my jaw tighten, the paranoia that’s been my constant companion clawing its way back to the surface. “Disquieted,” I repeat, my voice clipped. “She said that, did she?”

“She did,” Luna replies, her expression calm yet probing. “She is most perceptive, as thou surely knowest. And yet, thy nerves intrigued her more than thy skills. A mage of thy supposed caliber—one called to the Archmage Examination—should not quake so.”

I take a sharp step forward, my irritation overriding my caution. “Well, maybe I have a good reason for being on edge,” I snap. “Maybe I don’t appreciate being dragged here under the guise of an ‘examination’ when it’s clear your sister has already decided to get rid of me.”

Luna’s eyes widen slightly, though her composure remains steady. “Get rid of thee? Pray, elaborate.”

I let out a harsh laugh, my fear and frustration boiling over. “You know what I’m talking about. She invaded my dreams, threatened me! She knows what I’m capable of, and she’s decided I’m too dangerous to keep around. Don’t pretend you don’t know!”

Luna’s gaze sharpens, her eyes narrowing as her mane seems to ripple more intensely. “Thou dost accuse mine sister of dream-walking and issuing threats? A bold claim.”

“Bold, but true,” I fire back, my chest heaving. “I saw her, heard her. She knows what I can do—what I’ve done. And now she wants me gone.”

There’s a pause, the air between us thick with tension. Then, Luna speaks, her tone firmer but not unkind. “Thy words reveal much, Kinetic Flux. Far more than thou perhaps intendest. Thy advanced magics—secrets thou thinkest hidden—are now plain. Yet thou art mistaken in thy accusations.”

I blink, thrown off by her response. “What?”

“Celestia cannot traverse the realm of dreams,” Luna says, her voice steady and absolute. “Not without mine aid. ‘Tis my domain, and mine alone. The dream thou speakest of—if dream it was—was not of her doing.”

I stare at her, my mind spinning. “You’re saying… she didn’t do it?”

“I am,” she replies, her tone softening slightly. “If mine sister wished to confront thee, she would do so directly, not through deceitful means. ‘Tis not her way.”

Her words hang in the air, and for a moment, I’m at a loss. It’s plausible—more plausible than I’d like to admit. But that doesn’t mean I trust her.

Luna watches me carefully, her expression unreadable. “Thy paranoia is evident, Kinetic Flux. Thou trusteth neither mine sister nor myself. But thy accusations—unfounded as they are—speak to thy guilt. What is it thou fearest so greatly?”

I take a step back, the weight of her gaze pressing down on me. “I don’t… I just—” I stop, realizing I’ve said too much already.

“Thou art afraid of thy own power,” Luna says softly, her voice almost gentle now. “Afraid of what thou couldst become, and what others might see in thee.”

Her words cut deeper than I’d like to admit. I meet her gaze, my throat dry. “What do you want from me?”

“To understand,” she replies simply. “To know why thou buildest such walls, why thou keepest everypony at a distance—even those who seek only to help.”

I hesitate, Luna’s steady gaze boring into me. Her words hang in the air, challenging me in a way that feels almost impossible to avoid. She’s not judging, not pressing—just waiting. And somehow, that makes it harder to hold my tongue.

I sigh heavily, the weight in my chest too much to bear. “Because the magic I use isn’t safe,” I admit, my voice low. “It’s not like the spells other ponies cast. It’s dangerous, volatile. If ponies knew what I was really capable of… the things I’ve figured out…” I trail off, shaking my head. “The less ponies know, the safer they are. The safer everypony is.”

Luna tilts her head, her mane shimmering like a pool of stars. “Thou speakest of thy magic as if it were a curse,” she says thoughtfully. “Is it all so dire? Hast thou created nothing of beauty or kindness?”

I pause, the question catching me off guard. My mind flashes to Sweetie Belle, to her bright, excited eyes as she mastered the Lift Disk Spell. To the awe and pride on her face when she performed the Doppler Illusion.

“No,” I say quietly. “It’s not all bad. There’s… potential in it. Good potential. I’ve seen that. But the bad outweighs the good by a mile. It’s like walking a tightrope over a bottomless pit. One wrong step, and—” I stop, swallowing hard. “It’s easier to just not walk at all.”

Luna regards me in silence for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she steps forward, her tone curious yet firm. “Thou hast revealed much to me this night, Kinetic Flux. Secrets thou hast guarded so fiercely. Pray, tell, why dost thou speak so openly to one whom most ponies fear?”

I blink, caught off guard by the question. “Fear?” I repeat, tilting my head. “Why would I be afraid of you?”

Her lips twitch into a faint smile, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of warmth in her eyes. “Most ponies cower before the Princess of the Night,” she says, her tone wry. “They see only the shadow of what I once was. But thou… thou dost not flinch, even as thou dost hurl accusations and bare thy secrets. ‘Tis… refreshing.”

I glance at her, trying to find the right words. “I guess… I don’t really see a point in being afraid of you,” I admit, my voice casual, though my thoughts are anything but. “Maybe it’s because I think I could take you.”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I freeze. That wasn’t supposed to come out. Why would you say that?

Luna’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, but then something unexpected happens: she smiles. It’s not a mocking smile or one filled with condescension—it’s warm, almost amused.

“Thou thinkest thou could best me?” she asks, her tone light yet tinged with curiosity. “A bold claim, Kinetic Flux.”

I rub the back of my neck, heat rising to my face. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I mutter, though part of me isn’t entirely sure. “It just… slipped out.”

She chuckles softly, a sound that feels surprisingly gentle. “And yet, thou speakest it with conviction. Though thou art wrong, thy boldness is… endearing.”

I glance away, unsure how to respond. My eyes land on her, and I immediately regret it. Like all ponies, her oversized eyes glisten with a startling clarity, the faint lines of blood vessels visible against the soft blue of her irises. Her fur, though flawless in most eyes, reveals faint patterns of veins beneath its surface, a reminder of just how unnervingly real she—and all ponies—are.

I shift uncomfortably, tearing my gaze away. “Ponies aren’t really my thing,” I say quickly, hoping to push past the awkwardness.

Luna’s smile falters slightly, her gaze softening. “Thou art not alone in thy discomfort,” she says, her voice quieter now. “Many ponies still see me as the shadow I once was. To be feared, to be avoided. I have not regained their trust.”

I shake my head quickly, feeling the need to clarify before this gets even more awkward. “No, it’s not that,” I say, my voice firm but tinged with unease. “It’s not you, specifically. It’s… ponies in general.”

Luna blinks, clearly puzzled. “Ponies in general? But thou art a pony thyself, art thou not? Why shouldst thou find thine own kind unsettling?”

I grimace, trying to find the right words to explain. “It’s not… It’s just—” I groan, rubbing the bridge of my muzzle. “It’s the eyes, okay? And the fur. And—ugh—those massive blood vessels you can see in the whites of your eyes. It’s unnerving. Everypony looks so… real.”

Luna tilts her head, her confusion deepening. “The vessels in our eyes?” she echoes, as if the concept is entirely foreign to her. “And the fur? Surely thou dost jest.”

“I wish I was,” I mutter, avoiding her gaze. “It’s not something I can help. Every time I look at another pony, it’s all I see. The veins, the tiny imperfections, the way light catches just wrong on fur—it’s all too much. Like everything’s magnified. I can mostly Ignore it. But when ponies try to get close to me... bleh.”

Luna’s expression softens, though her brow remains slightly furrowed. “Thou speakest as though thou art apart from us. As though thou dost not share in these traits.”

I hesitate, her words hitting uncomfortably close to home. “I… I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe I just notice it more than other ponies do. Maybe it’s just how I see things.”

“‘Tis a curious plight,” Luna says, her tone thoughtful. “Yet it must weigh heavily upon thee, to find discomfort even among thy peers.”

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. “It is what it is. I’ve gotten used to it, for the most part. I just… try not to think about it.”

Luna steps closer, her gaze searching mine. “And yet, thou hast shared this discomfort with me. Why?”

I glance at her, struggling to put my thoughts into words. “Because I didn’t want you to think it was about you,” I admit finally, my voice low. “It’s not about who you are or what you’ve done. I didn’t want you to think I’m avoiding you because of Nightmare Moon or whatever. It’s… not like that.”

Luna blinks, her expression softening even further. “Thou didst not wish to wound my feelings,” she says, almost to herself. A faint smile graces her lips, her eyes shimmering with something I can’t quite place. “Thy honesty is most unexpected, Kinetic Flux. And… appreciated.”

I shift uncomfortably under her gaze, unsure how to respond. “Yeah, well, don’t read too much into it,” I mutter. “I just figured you deserved to know the truth.”

She chuckles softly, the sound light and almost musical. “Even so, ‘tis rare for a pony to speak thusly to me. Many still tremble in my presence, seeing only the shadow of what I once was. But thou… thou dost treat me as though I am merely another pony.”

I blink, unsure if that’s a compliment or not. “I mean… you’re still a princess,” I say awkwardly. “But yeah. I guess I just don't have the stigma.”

Her smile widens, and for a moment, she looks almost vulnerable, as though my words have reached a part of her she seldom shows. “Thou art a curious one, Kinetic Flux,” she says, her voice soft. “I am glad we spoke this night.”

I nod, the tension in my chest finally starting to ease. “Yeah, me too. But I think I’m done for the night. It’s been a long day, and I need some sleep.”

Luna inclines her head gracefully. “Of course. Rest well, Kinetic Flux. The morrow shall bring its own challenges, but I have faith thou shalt meet them with thy peculiar boldness.”

I chuckle dryly, already turning toward the door. “Here’s hoping.”

By the time I return to my quarters, the exhaustion has fully set in. The untouched tray of food sits where the servants left it, the once-delicious aromas now muted and stale. My stomach growls, but I ignore it. Even if the food isn’t poisoned, it’s certainly not worth eating now.

I collapse onto the bed, the silk sheets cool against my fur. The conversation with Luna replays in my mind, her words lingering like a faint echo. Despite my initial hesitation, I feel… lighter. Like I’ve shed a piece of the weight I’ve been carrying.

But as my eyes close and sleep begins to take hold, a nagging thought creeps in. Why does she trust me?

The question lingers, unanswered, as the darkness finally takes me.

The next morning, I’m shaken awake by a sharp knock on the door. Groggily, I open my eyes to see a guard standing there, his expression impassive. “The princesses request your presence at breakfast,” he says simply.

I groan inwardly, my body still heavy with sleep. But I know better than to refuse. Rubbing my eyes, I drag myself out of bed and try to make myself presentable. A splash of cold water from the basin helps me wake up, though the lingering hunger from last night doesn’t do me any favors.

The dining hall is as grand as everything else in this castle—massive chandeliers, a long, polished table, and windows that let in the warm glow of the morning sun. At the far end of the table sit Celestia and Luna, already engaged in quiet conversation.

“Ah, Kinetic Flux,” Celestia greets warmly as I enter. “Good morning. Please, join us.”

Her tone is as light and serene as ever, that same hint of amusement in her expression. I take a seat at the table, trying to suppress the lingering unease from yesterday. To my surprise, it’s easier than I expected. Maybe the talk with Luna helped more than I realized.

“You look much better today,” Celestia notes, her eyes sparkling faintly. “I trust you were able to get some rest?”

“Some,” I reply, keeping my voice even. “It was a long day, but I think I’m ready for whatever comes next.”

“Good,” she says, smiling. “The Archmage Examination is no small challenge, but a composed mind is often the key to success.”

Luna chimes in, her tone more playful than I anticipated. “It seems thy bold spirit hath returned, Kinetic Flux. I am pleased to see it so.”

I nod politely, glancing between the two of them. Their dynamic is fascinating—Celestia’s calm, measured warmth paired with Luna’s more direct and slightly mischievous demeanor. It’s a strange balance, but it works.

The food is brought out shortly after, an impressive array of fruits, pastries, and other breakfast fare. My stomach growls, and I don’t hesitate this time. The thought of poisoning feels absurd now, especially after last night.

The meal starts quietly enough, the clinking of silverware and the soft rustle of wings filling the air. I focus on my plate, content to let the princesses carry the conversation.

“Didst thou see the new garden layout, sister?” Luna asks, her tone light. “The florists have outdone themselves this season.”

Celestia nods, a small smile gracing her lips. “I did. The roses in particular are quite striking this year. It’s a shame we don’t often get the time to enjoy such simple pleasures.”

Luna huffs softly, her tone turning slightly playful. “Mayhap thou shouldst delegate more, dear sister. It is not fitting for Equestria’s ruler to neglect the beauty of her own realm.”

I raise an eyebrow, glancing between them.

“It’s hardly neglect,” Celestia replies, her smile teasing. “But perhaps I shall make an exception. What do you think, Kinetic Flux? Should I spend more time among the flowers?”

I blink, caught off guard by the sudden attention. “Uh… sure?” I say, trying not to sound as unsure as I feel. “I mean, everypony deserves a break, right?”

Celestia chuckles softly. “Wise words.”

Luna leans forward slightly, her gaze twinkling. “And what of thee, Kinetic Flux? Dost thou find joy in such pursuits? Or art thou too busy crafting thy mysterious magics to appreciate a garden?”

I shrug, stabbing a piece of fruit with my fork. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it. Most of my time is spent working on… well, things that aren’t exactly relaxing.”

“A pity,” Luna says, her voice carrying a note of mock solemnity. “Thou dost miss much by ignoring life’s simpler pleasures.”

I snort softly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The conversation meanders from topic to topic—upcoming festivals, the history of Canterlot, even a debate about the best type of tea. For a while, it’s easy to forget the tension from the day before. The princesses seem almost normal, their royal personas set aside in favor of casual banter.

As breakfast winds down, Celestia sets down her teacup and smiles at me. “Well, Kinetic Flux, it seems the time has come. Your examination awaits.”

I freeze mid-bite, the reminder hitting me like a bolt of lightning. I’d almost managed to forget. Almost. “Right,” I mutter, trying to sound composed. “Where is this… examination, exactly?”

“At my School for Gifted Unicorns,” she replies, her tone as serene as ever. “It’s an excellent venue for such events, as it fosters an atmosphere of learning and growth.”

The mention of “school” sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. I hate schools. Hate them. After trudging through the gauntlet of elementary school, middle school, high school, and college, I’ve had more than my fill of lectures, tests, and judgmental stares. The thought of walking into a school again, even as an adult, makes my stomach churn.

“That’s… great,” I say weakly, forcing a smile.

Celestia’s gaze sharpens slightly, as though she can sense my discomfort. “Unfortunately, I cannot attend personally. Royal duties demand my attention today.”

Somehow, that almost feels like a relief. The thought of her watching me stumble through the examination would’ve made things ten times worse. “That’s… understandable,” I say, doing my best to sound neutral. “I wouldn’t want to take up more of your time.”

She nods, her expression still warm. “Good luck, Kinetic Flux. Remember, this examination is not about perfection, but about showcasing your unique talents.”

I nod, swallowing my unease. “Thanks. I’ll… do my best.”

Luna gives me a small smile as I rise from the table. “May fortune favor thee, Kinetic Flux. I shall look forward to hearing of thy triumph.”

Author's Note

A sharp mind can outwit itself in fascinating ways.

Testing The Archmage
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Applied Mathemagics

Testing The Archmage

The chariot ride to the School for Gifted Unicorns is mercifully short, but my discomfort grows with every passing second. When we arrive, the sight of the massive building—its pristine towers, manicured grounds, and polished stone façade—makes my stomach twist. It’s exactly the kind of place I’ve spent my life avoiding.

The guards escort me inside, leading me through halls lined with portraits of unicorns I assume are notable alumni. The air smells faintly of parchment and ink, and the faint hum of magic permeates the atmosphere.

Finally, we reach the examination room. It’s massive, closely resembling a courthouse with its raised seating areas, save the large open space at the center. Rows of ponies are already seated above, their curious eyes fixed on me as I enter. A wave of unease washes over me; I hadn’t expected an audience.

I scan the room, taking in the elevated seats where a panel of examiners—likely senior mages or professors—sits, their expressions ranging from neutral to vaguely interested.

The judges stand as the many candidates assemble in the center of the arena. A unicorn at the far left, an older mare with a meticulously groomed mane and a no-nonsense expression, steps forward. “I am Ivory Quill,” she announces, her tone brisk. “A specialist in theoretical magic. I will be observing your creative application of spells.”

The zebra follows, their voice smooth and deliberate. “I am Zuri. I bring the wisdom of enchantments and magical alchemy. Your approach will show not only your strength but also your ingenuity.”

The earth pony grunts, standing without much ceremony. “Name’s Stonehoof. Rune mage. I’ll be keeping the tests grounded—literally.”

Then there’s her.

She’s seated in the center of the panel, a white unicorn with a flowing blonde mane and a sun covered by couds as a cutie mark. To anyone else, she’s just another esteemed judge. But I know better. The subtle tilt of her head, the way she holds herself with an air of serene authority, the deep magenta eyes—it’s Celestia in disguise. There’s no doubt in my mind.

I suppress a grimace. Of course, she couldn’t just let me have this one.

The white unicorn steps forward. Her expression is warm, but her eyes hold a calm intensity. “And I am Sunny Smiles,” she says in a measured tone that sends a shiver down my spine. “I represent the harmonious application of magic. Remember, composure is as important as strength.”

As the judges finish their introductions, Ivory Quill steps forward again. Her horn glows as a series of runes light up in the center of the arena. “Your first challenge will test your ability to adapt under pressure. The objective is simple: survive the turrets and stay within the designated zone for five minutes.”

The floor of the arena shifts, stone tiles moving aside to reveal many rune-covered turrets rising from the ground.The turrets are simplistic in design, more of a capped tube on a rock. The turrets hum with latent energy, their runes glowing faintly.

I stare at the rune-covered turrets, my mind spinning. I haven’t seen anything this advanced since I came to Equestria. Sure, it’s a bit primitive—nothing compared to the tech back on Earth—but the fact that I don’t know how it works bothers me. The craftsmanship of the runes is precise, each one carved with purpose, glowing faintly with an energy I can’t quite place.

How did they even make these? I've been guessing they’re stuck in a medieval era, where trial and error is their best method for getting things done. Did somepony just stumble onto the right combination of runes by accident? Or is there a system here, some kind of logic I’m missing?

Ivory Quill continues, her tone brisk. “Each candidate will defend themselves from four turrets. The turrets will activate one by one until all are operational. They each fire one of the main elements. How you survive is up to you. We encourage creativity.”

The candidates exchange nervous glances, but I focus on the turrets, my mind already working through possibilities. The vagueness of the task is deliberate—it’s an open invitation to show off. My heart pounds, but I force myself to stay calm. I move to my designated spot.

Survive for five minutes. That’s it. You’ve handled worse.

The first turret activates, its runes flaring red. A jet of flame bursts forth, heading straight for me. I react instantly, using telekinesis to form a tight zone of held air in front of myself. I slow the atoms in the path of the flame, creating a buffer zone that absorbs the heat before it can reach me. The flames dance harmlessly against the invisible shield.

The second turret hums to life, its rune glowing blue. A jet of water shoots toward me, but I maintain my focus. I angle the flow around my barrier, channeling it away like a stream diverted by a dam. The water pools harmlessly on the floor.

The air turret is next, glowing white, unleashing a powerful gust aimed directly at me. The force of the wind threatens to throw me off balance, but i extend the zone to surround me further, creating a denser pocket to counteract the pressure. The gusts buffet the barrier, but I hold steady.

Finally, the earth turret activates, glowing a deep brow and launching shards of stone with alarming speed. The projectiles slam into my telekinetic shield, each impact sending a tremor through my magic. My horn aches under the strain, but I grit my teeth and reinforce the compressed air barrier, deflecting the shards.

All four turrets are active now, their attacks relentless. Fire, water, air, and earth assault me, and the strain of maintaining my defenses starts to take its toll. My breath comes in sharp gasps, sweat dripping down my face.

Then I decide to end it.

My horn glows brighter as I focus on the turrets themselves. The runes are the weak point—the source of their power but to me, it does not matter. I isolate the atoms of the nearest turret with my telekinesis, targeting the bonds that hold them together. With a sharp burst of telekinesis, I separate them, splitting the turret cleanly in half.

The turret collapses, its runes flickering out. I repeat the process with the others, each one falling apart under the precision of my magic. The arena falls silent, the glow of the runes fading as the last turret crumbles to the floor. I wait for the clock to run out.

The timer chimes, signaling the end of the test. I exhale shakily, my legs trembling under me.

Ivory Quill speaks first, her sharp voice directed at me with curiosity. “That was… unexpected. And rather efficient in the use of your mana. I hesitate to say I didn't catch when you began casting the spells you showcased. How, exactly, did you manage that?”

I glance at her, my expression carefully neutral. “Will I lose points for not explaining?” I ask, my voice steady despite the exhaustion.

“No,” she replies, her curiosity undimmed. “But we would appreciate your insight.”

My smile grows like a weed. “It came to me in a dream,” I say, waving a hoof dismissively.

Ivory Quill’s expression tightens, her patience clearly wearing thin. “A dream?” she echoes, her voice laced with disbelief. “You expect us to believe that such an advanced technique simply… occurred to you in your sleep?”

I shrug, my smirk widening slightly. “Dreams can be powerful,” I say with a casual wave of my hoof. “Inspiration can come from the most unexpected places. Or perhaps…” I pause dramatically, letting the moment hang. “Perhaps the stars whispered their secrets to me.”

Her ears flick back in irritation, and she takes a step forward. “The stars—”

Stonehoof cuts her off with a snort of laughter. “Many mages are secretive about their methods, Quill. Let it go. The challenge was to survive, and he did that. Creatively, at that.”

Ivory Quill turns to glare at him, but Zuri nods in agreement, her golden rings clinking softly as she moves. “Indeed. His method may be unconventional, but it adheres to the spirit of the test. We are here to evaluate results, are we not?”

Quill looks ready to argue, but Celestia—Sunny Smiles—interjects smoothly. “Kinetic Flux’s solution demonstrates both ingenuity and precision. While I share Ivory Quill’s curiosity, we must respect his choice to remain discreet. Not all knowledge is easily shared.”

The disguised alicorn’s words carry a weight that silences further debate. Ivory Quill mutters something under her breath but finally steps back, her frustration palpable.

“Very well,” she says curtly. “Your solution is… acceptable.”

I incline my head, a faint edge of mockery in my tone. “Thank you.”

The room remains tense as the judges make their final notes and comments on the other's tests. Some of the other candidates shift nervously on their hooves, clearly rattled by what they just witnessed. The ones who failed are ushered out of the room heads held low, some sobbing. I suppress a sigh of relief, keeping my composure intact.

As I return to the waiting area, the weight of the judges’ scrutiny lingers in the air. I know I’ve drawn attention—not all of it welcome. But for now, I’ve survived the first challenge.

Ivory Quill steps forward again, her expression calm but stern. “Your next task is simple: reach the other side.”

The floor beneath us begins to rumble. I freeze, my ears twitching as the sound grows louder, the vibrations shaking the entire room. The candidates exchange nervous glances, some instinctively lighting their horns.

Without warning, the center of the room splits apart, the tiles dropping away into a seemingly bottomless chasm. The far wall moves farther and farther, until the gap has expanded to what looks like the length of a football field. The air feels charged with magic—spatial magic, no doubt.

Simple. Sure. Because a giant pit of doom screams simplicity.

I glance around, noting the reactions of the other candidates. Some look confident, their horns already glowing as they prepare to teleport. Others look uncertain, their eyes darting between the judges and the distant edge of the chasm.

The judges say nothing more, leaving the candidates to figure out their methods.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. I glance at the stone floor beneath me, thinking of the plan I've had since I made the 'spell'. It’s solid, stable. Perfect for my Lift Disk Spell.

I focus my telekinesis, cutting four circular disks from the stone floor. They hover in the air around me, each one perfectly sized for my hooves. I step onto the disks, balancing carefully as I adjust their positions. With a small push of magic, I glide forward, the disks carrying me across the chasm like a skater on air.

The feeling is smooth, almost effortless. I control the movement with small adjustments to my telekinesis, my horn glowing faintly as the disks respond to my commands. The air rushes past me, and for the first time, I feel… relaxed. This is easy. This is mine.

Around me, the other candidates try their own methods. Most teleport, their horns flaring as they disappear in flashes of light, only to reappear—hopefully—on the other side. But not all of them make it. One unicorn teleports too short, reappearing mid-air and plummeting into the chasm below. Another doesn’t reappear at all.

A particularly bold candidate tries an earth based spell, launching themselves with a powerful burst of stone from beneath their hooves. They soar through the air with impressive speed, but their trajectory falls short. They vanish into the pit, their scream echoing faintly before it’s swallowed by the void.

I glide smoothly to the far side, stepping off the disks as they fall into the pit below. The other side feels almost too quiet after the chaos of the crossing, but I ignore the uneasy silence and glance back at the chasm. The remaining candidates continue their attempts, each one pushing their magic—and their nerves—to the limit.

One mare with green fur and a brown mane, watching me, hesitates before attempting to imitate my method. Instead of cutting disks from the floor, she gathers large stones with telekinesis, moving them under her hooves. Her movements are unsteady, the uneven surfaces making it hard to balance. But with determination and focus, she manages to make it across, her expression a mix of relief and pride.

As the chaos subsides and the surviving candidates gather on the far side, the mare who imitated my method approaches me. She’s breathing heavily, her horn dim but still faintly glowing. Her green coat is matted with sweat, but her expression is one of cautious gratitude.

“Hey,” she says, her voice low but clear. “I just wanted to say… thanks. If I hadn’t seen your method, I don’t think I’d have made it.”

I glance at her, momentarily caught off guard. “You did all the work,” I reply, shrugging. “I just happened to go first.”

She shakes her head, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Don’t sell yourself short. That was clever. I was about to teleport, but… it would’ve drained me completely. I’d have nothing left for the next tests.”

I raise an eyebrow, glancing over at the other candidates who had teleported. Sure enough, many of them look worse for wear. Their horns flicker faintly, their eyes tired. Even the ones who arent completely wiped are clearly struggling to recover.

“Teleportation’s a brute force solution,” I mutter, half to myself. “Burns through your reserves fast.”

The mare nods, her gaze following mine. “Yeah. I could’ve made it, but at what cost?” She looks back at me, her eyes sharp. “Your method’s just telekinesis, isn’t it?”

I smirk faintly, appreciating her honesty. “What gave it away?”

She chuckles softly. “I might’ve been a little shaky with it, but it’s not hard to figure out once you see it in action. Still, it’s smart. Simple, efficient. I’ll give you that.”

I nod, not sure what to say. It’s rare for anyone to acknowledge my approach without trying to pick it apart—or accuse me of hiding something.

“I’m Glimmer Spark, by the way,” she says, extending a hoof.

“Kinetic Flux,” I reply, shaking her hoof briefly.

She steps back, her expression thoughtful. “Good luck with the next challenge. I’ll try not to copy you again.”

I watch her as she moves to sit with the other candidates, her confidence visibly bolstered. Despite myself, I feel a flicker of something almost… positive. Maybe it’s the novelty of someone recognizing my method without questioning it—or maybe it’s the relief of knowing not everypony is out to tear me down.

The remaining candidates—twenty, by my count—stand in uneasy silence as the judges rise once more. The failed examinees from the last test are herded out of the room by a pair of guards, their heads hanging low. It’s an uncomfortable sight, a reminder of how quickly this process weeds out the less capable.

The floor rumbles softly as it rises, the chasm disappearing as the tiles lock back into place. Though the arena is now whole again, the elongated dimensions remain, giving the space an almost theatrical feel.

Ivory Quill steps forward, her sharp gaze scanning the candidates. “The next test,” she announces, “is one of strength, strategy, and composure under extreme pressure. You will face a summoned opponent—a dragon, constructed entirely from mana.”

The room stirs, whispers spreading among the candidates. A dragon? That’s not something most unicorns encounter in their lifetimes.

“The dragon,” Quill continues, her tone even, “will display all the traits of a real dragon. It will breathe fire, lash out with claws and tail, and defend itself aggressively. Though it cannot truly die, it will respond to damage as though it were flesh and blood.”

Stonehoof speaks up next, his gruff voice carrying through the room. “Don’t think this thing can’t hurt you just ‘cause it’s made of magic. It’ll hit back, and it hits hard. Be smart.”

“You will face the dragon alone,” Zuri adds, her tone more measured. “One at a time. We will observe how you handle the challenge. Remember, success is not measured solely by victory but by your approach.”

“Prepare yourselves,” Celestia—still disguised as Sunny Smiles—says, her calm demeanor unchanged. “This will be unlike anything you’ve faced before.”

The candidates shift nervously as the judges confer quietly, their magic weaving together in a display of glowing runes and shimmering light. The runes coalesce in the center of the arena, forming a swirling pool of mana that grows brighter with each passing second.

The first candidate is called forward—a young stallion with a bright blue coat and a nervous flicker in his eyes. He hesitates but steps into the arena, the swirling mana beginning to solidify into a hulking dragon. Its scales shimmer with a ghostly glow, its massive wings spreading as it lets out a deep, rumbling roar.

The fight begins, and it’s clear the stallion is overwhelmed. His spells are slow, defensive shields buckling under the dragon’s relentless assault. He tries to strike back with bursts of energy, but his attacks barely faze the beast. The fight ends quickly, the dragon pinning him with a claw before dissolving back into mana.

The second candidate, a mare with a fiery orange mane, fares better. She summons barriers and uses relatively fast, precise spells to strike at the dragon’s weak points. Her agility keeps her alive longer, but the dragon’s sheer size and power eventually overpower her. She’s forced to concede the fight after depleting her mana reserves.

As I watch, a pit forms in my stomach. These aren’t just tests—they’re spectacles. Each fight draws murmurs from the crowd and sharp looks from the judges. The candidates give everything they have, but it’s clear this isn’t a test many are capable of passing.

“Next,” Ivory Quill calls, her gaze falling on me.

I take a deep breath, stepping forward as the swirling mana begins to coalesce again. The dragon takes shape, its gleaming form larger and more imposing than I expected. Its glowing eyes lock onto mine, and it lets out a deafening roar that shakes the very floor.

The dragon towers over me, its shimmering mana scales glinting like shards of molten glass. It snarls, the air rippling with the force of its breath. The arena feels unnervingly quiet except for the low hum of magic emanating from the beast.

I stand my ground, my heart pounding but my mind clear. It’s just mana, I remind myself. Nothing more. No guilt. No hesitation.

The dragon lunges, its massive claws slicing through the air. I leap back, narrowly avoiding the attack, and gather a small cloud of chalk particles from my bag, letting them swirl in front of me. My horn flares as I focus, compressing the particles into a dense, compact mass.

Physics doesn’t care if the target is flesh, stone, or magic.

I accelerate the particles, pushing them to an absurd velocity. The compacted projectile—barely the size of a pebble—launches toward the dragon’s head at a blistering speed. The sound of the release is sharp, almost like a whip crack, as the projectile pierces the air with terrifying force.

The dragon doesn’t even have time to react. The chalk bullet tears through its head, punching a clean hole through the glowing mana. Its roar cuts off abruptly, its massive body faltering before collapsing in on itself. The shimmering form dissolves into a cloud of flickering light, then vanishes entirely, leaving only silence in its wake.

The judges exchange glances, their murmurs filling the room. Some look surprised; others, like Ivory Quill, seem downright perplexed. I can feel their eyes on me, scrutinizing every detail of what just happened.

Ivory Quill is the first to speak, stepping forward with a mixture of curiosity and irritation. “That was… unorthodox,” she says, her tone clipped. “I’ve never seen a spell like that before. How did you achieve such speed? Such force? The cast time was almost nothing as well.”

I shrug casually. “Will I lose points if I don’t explain?”

Her eyes narrow. “No, but—”

“Then it was an interpretation of the wind,” I say, cutting her off, my tone as casual as if I were commenting on the weather. “You’d be surprised what you hear when you just... listen.”

Ivory Quill’s face tightens, a vein practically visible on her temple. “The wind? You expect us to believe that was inspired by the *wind*?”

I keep my expression deliberately neutral, though I’m enjoying the rising frustration in her voice. “Wind can be powerful, focused, and even lethal if you understand it well enough. I just… followed its example.”

She opens her mouth to retort, but Stonehoof’s rough voice interrupts. “Ain’t about the how,” he grunts. “It’s about the fact that he did it. The dragon’s gone, and that’s that.”

Zuri nods, her calm tone soothing in contrast. “It is rare for a candidate to end the challenge in such a decisive manner. It warrants observation, no matter the explanation.”

Ivory Quill exhales sharply, clearly unsatisfied but unwilling to argue further. “Fine,” she says tersely. “Let’s move on.”

The next candidates step forward one by one, their approaches varying widely. Most put up impressive fights, demonstrating skill and ingenuity, but the dragons prove too much for them in the end. Several contenders sustain injuries—minor burns, scrapes, or magical backlash from failed spells. A few are carried off by medics.

I watch with interest as Glimmer Spark is called up. She steps into the arena, her stance firm and her horn glowing faintly. There’s a determination in her eyes that’s hard not to respect. The dragon materializes again, roaring as it looms over her.

Glimmer Spark moves quickly, casting while moving, she summons barriers of stone to deflect its attacks. She strikes back with precise blasts of magic, aiming for the joints and perceived weak points in the dragon’s shimmering form. For a moment, it looks like she might gain the upper hoof. But the dragon counters with a sweep of its tail, shattering her defenses and sending her sprawling.

She grits her teeth, rising shakily and continuing to fight. Her magic falters under the relentless assault, her barriers cracking and her attacks losing their edge. Finally, a claw swipes toward her, and she’s forced to concede, the dragon’s claw stopping inches from her face.

As she limps back to the lineup, her expression a mix of exhaustion and disappointment, I offer her a small nod. She fought valiantly, even if the odds were stacked against her.

By the end of the test, no one else managed to kill their dragon. The judges stand once more, their expressions ranging from impressed to unreadable. Ivory Quill steps forward, her voice sharp but measured.

“This test was designed to challenge you beyond your limits,” she announces. “It was not expected—nor required—for any of you to succeed in defeating the dragon.”

Her gaze flicks briefly to me, and I feel the weight of her curiosity. “Your performance was judged on your strategy, resourcefulness, and composure under pressure. Completion was never the objective.”

The room falls silent as the remaining candidates exchange uneasy glances. The implications are clear: we were set up to fail. But I didn’t.

Zuri steps forward, her tone calm and authoritative. “You have shown us your strengths and weaknesses. The examination will continue, but for now, take this time to rest and recover.”

As the candidates disperse, I can feel the weight of their gazes on me. Some are impressed, others wary. I catch Glimmer Spark’s eye as she walks past, her expression pensive. For now, I’ve set myself apart—but not without consequence.

The room is quiet as we return to the arena, the tension heavier than before. The remaining candidates, myself included, look noticeably more focused—or perhaps just more cautious. The earlier challenges have taken their toll.

Ivory Quill steps forward, her sharp gaze scanning the group. “The next challenge,” she begins, her voice carrying an edge of anticipation, “is to create a legacy.”

The candidates exchange confused glances, and even I can’t help but arch an eyebrow. Create a legacy? What kind of vague bullshit is that?

Quill continues, her tone brisk. “Your task is to design and create an enduring artifact or effect—something that serves the kingdom or advances magical understanding. You will be provided with materials and a three-hour time limit. Use them wisely.”

Stonehoof chimes in, his gruff voice cutting through the air. “The goal ain’t just to make something fancy. It’s gotta mean somethin’. Somethin’ that lasts.”

Zuri nods, her expression calm. “The artifact or effect must reflect your understanding of magical principles and your ability to apply them creatively. Show us what you are capable of.”

Sunny waves her horn, and tables filled with various materials appear at the edges of the room—crystals, enchanted metals, rare herbs, and other magical components. My lips curl into a slight sneer as I glance around. This is tailor-made for me, isn’t it?

I glance at the other candidates, noting the way they huddle over the materials, clearly brainstorming. Some are already sketching out ideas or assembling components, their horns glowing faintly.

But me? I’m not about to show all my cards. Not here. Not now.

I scan the materials, intentionally avoiding anything too elaborate. I don’t need something flashy or groundbreaking. I just need something… functional. My gaze lands on a small, dull loop of iron, weighing around a pound, among the enchanted metals, and an idea sparks in my mind.

A magnet. Simple, practical, effective.

Using telekinesis, I pick up the iron ring and position it on the table. I focus, manipulating the electrons within the material, using a steady flow of magic to move them in a loop through the iron. The movement induces a current, and, following Ampere’s Law, the current generates a magnetic field.

The iron begins to hum faintly, the effect invisible but unmistakable to my senses. I test it by bringing a smaller piece of metal near it. The two snap together with a satisfying click.

Perfect.

I glance around, noting how some of the other candidates are pouring their energy into elaborate, glowing constructs or inscribing runes with painstaking precision. By comparison, my little magnet looks… underwhelming. But I don’t care. It works.

I step back from the table, my small, humming magnet resting inconspicuously amid the more ostentatious creations around the room. As I glance around, the contrast is almost laughable.

One unicorn has created an enchanted crystal that emits a soothing light, supposedly designed to calm distressed minds. Another has etched intricate runes into a steel plate, claiming it will absorb and reflect offensive spells. Glimmer Spark, as bold as ever, is crafting what appears to be a barrier of some sort. The way some of the legacies spark and sputter leaves me weary of their effectiveness.

When the time runs out, the judges signal the end of the challenge. One by one, the candidates present their artifacts, each explanation met with murmurs of approval at a working device or disapproval of a failed creation.

Finally, it’s my turn.

I levitate the magnet onto the table in front of the judges, its simplicity earning more than a few raised eyebrows.

“And what, exactly, is this?” Ivory Quill asks, her tone sharp with skepticism.

“It’s a magnet,” I reply plainly, holding the smaller piece of metal up to demonstrate. The faint click as the metal snaps to the magnet echoes in the quiet room. “It attracts metal.”

The judges exchange glances. Even Celestia, disguised as Sunny Smiles, tilts her head slightly, her expression calm but curious.

“And what purpose does this serve?” Zuri asks, her tone more measured. “How does it advance magical understanding?”

I shrug. “It’s practical. You can use it to pick up metal objects, sort materials, or even hold things in place.”

Stonehoof leans forward, squinting at the magnet. “Ah've seen somethin’ like that before,” he mutters. “What’s the enchantment?”

“There isn’t one,” I reply casually. “It’s not enchanted. It’s just… a property of the material, enhanced through manipulation.”

Ivory Quill narrows her eyes, clearly dissatisfied. “How did you achieve this effect? This is not a known spell or rune.”

I smirk faintly, savoring her irritation. “Will I lose points if I don’t explain?”

Ivory Quill’s expression shifts, a subtle smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth as a spark of satisfaction gleams in her eyes. “Yes,” she says sharply, her voice tinged with triumph. “Part of the task is to serve the kingdom or advance magical understanding. If you cannot explain how your artifact works, it fails the criteria.”

Her words wipe the smirk off my face, but I recover quickly, suppressing my irritation. “Fine,” I say, my tone clipped. “It’s an application of physical principles through magic.”

Stonehoof raises an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “Physical principles? Explain.”

I sigh, knowing there’s no escaping this if I want my bits. “It works through the manipulation of electrons—tiny components of matter. By moving them in a loop through the material, I create a current. That current generates a magnetic field, which gives the iron its ability to attract other metals.”

The judges exchange glances, their expressions ranging from intrigue to confusion. Even Zuri looks momentarily unsure.

Ivory Quill sniffs, her tone skeptical. “Electrons? Current? Magnetic fields? These are unfamiliar terms. Simplify.”

I rub my temple, biting back my frustration. “Alright. Imagine the material has invisible threads inside it, and I made those threads move in a circle. When they move, they create an invisible pull that attracts metal objects. That’s it.”

The room falls silent as the judges digest my explanation. Stonehoof nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Huh. Never heard of such a thing, but it’s solid. Simple, like you said. Could have practical uses.”

Zuri hums softly. “It is unique, I’ll grant you that. And it does serve a purpose, albeit a modest one.”

Ivory Quill looks less convinced. “It lacks elegance. There is no beauty, no refinement.”

“Not everything needs to glow or hum to be useful,” I counter, my tone firm but not disrespectful. “Sometimes practicality is its own kind of elegance.”

There’s a pause, and to my surprise, Sunny Smiles—Celestia—speaks up. “I must admit, I find the concept intriguing. It is… unconventional, but there is value in exploring new perspectives.”

Ivory Quill’s eyes narrow slightly, but she says nothing. The other judges murmur among themselves, and after a moment, Stonehoof announces, “Alright. We’ll deliberate.”

As I step back into the lineup, I notice Glimmer Spark watching me, her expression unreadable. The candidates whisper among themselves, and I catch fragments of their conversations—some skeptical, others impressed.

As the judges continue their deliberations, I glance at the other candidates and their creations. Most are clustered near their artifacts, nervously watching the judges or muttering to one another. Glimmer Spark stands off to the side, her focus on what looks like a small, glowing dome.

Curious, I approach her. “That’s yours?” I ask, nodding toward the artifact.

She looks up, her expression guarded at first, but then she nods. “Yeah. It’s a self-repairing barrier. Well, it’s supposed to be.”

I tilt my head, intrigued. “Self-repairing?”

She gestures to the dome, her horn lighting up briefly. The surface ripples faintly as if alive, small fractures forming and then sealing themselves almost immediately. The glow remains steady throughout, as if unaffected by the damage.

“It’s meant to be a defensive charm,” she explains. “Something that could protect ponies in dangerous situations—natural disasters, combat, that kind of thing. The barrier regenerates itself as long as it has magic to draw from.”

I whistle softly, genuinely impressed. “That’s… not bad.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “Not bad? You could at least pretend to be impressed.”

I chuckle. “Alright, fine. It’s impressive. Happy?”

Shields like that are beyond me—my magic just doesn’t work that way. I’ve learned to make do, using telekinesis and an understanding of physics to mimic one. But a charm that regenerates and protects, just by feeding magic? That, I would love to have.

She smirks, but there’s a hint of tension in her expression. “I’m not sure it’ll be enough. The judges seem… hard to please.”

“They are,” I agree, glancing back at the panel. “But your artifact actually looks useful. That’s gotta count for something.”

She watches me for a moment, her smirk fading into something more contemplative. “And what about yours? That magnet thing?”

“It’s practical,” I say simply. “Not flashy, but it works.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And you think that’ll be enough?”

I shrug. “If it isn’t, it isn’t. I didn’t make it to impress them.”

“Then why did you make it?” she asks, her tone genuinely curious.

I hesitate, considering my answer. “Because it’s useful,” I finally say. “Because it’s something new. That’s enough.”

She studies me for a moment, then nods. “Fair enough.” Her gaze drifts back to her barrier. “I just hope they see the value in what we’ve made.”

“They will,” I say, surprising even myself with how confident I sound. “Sometimes the best ideas are the simplest.”

Glimmer Spark smiles faintly. “I’ll hold you to that.”

The judges deliberate for what feels like hours but is probably only a few tense minutes. Finally, Ivory Quill steps forward, her expression as inscrutable as ever.

“Kinetic Flux,” she begins, her voice carrying across the room, “your artifact is unconventional and difficult to categorize. However, it demonstrates a unique perspective and potential for practical application. It passes.”

I nod, keeping my expression neutral, but inside, relief washes over me. One more challenge down.

One by one, the remaining candidates are evaluated. Glimmer Spark’s self-repairing barrier earns her high marks, the judges praising its ingenuity and potential for disaster response. By the end of the evaluations, only ten candidates remain. The rest are quietly escorted out, their artifacts and dreams left behind.

Ivory Quill addresses the remaining contenders. “You have proven your worth through creativity, resourcefulness, and skill. But the final phase of this examination will push you even further.”

Zuri steps forward, her voice calm but firm. “Tomorrow, you will face each other in the arena. A tournament of duels will decide who among you has the strength, strategy, and composure to hold the title of Archmage.”

Stonehoof grunts, clearly enjoying the prospect. “Nonlethal only,” he says, his tone gruff but serious. “You’re all proven mages, so we trust you know how to control your spells. Injuries are acceptable; killing is not.”

The room hums with tension as the words sink in. A tournament. A direct contest of skill against other accomplished mages. I glance at the remaining candidates, sizing them up. Glimmer Spark catches my eye and offers a small, determined nod. Others avoid my gaze entirely, their focus already inward.

“Rest well tonight,” Ivory Quill continues. “You will need it. The tournament begins at dawn.”

With that, the judges leave, and the tension in the room dissipates slightly. Some candidates start murmuring among themselves, but I make my way back toward the exit, my thoughts already racing.

A tournament of duels. Nonlethal, sure, but that doesn’t mean easy. Everypony here is proven, and none of them are going to hold back. I’ll have to be careful, precise—one mistake could end everything.

Glimmer Spark falls into step beside me as we leave the arena. “A tournament, huh?” she says, her tone light but with an edge of nervousness. “Should be… fun.”

I glance at her. “Fun’s not the word I’d use.”

She chuckles dryly. “Fair. But hey, we’ve made it this far, right? Just one more day.”

“One more day,” I echo, the words heavy on my tongue.

We part ways at the dormitories, the tension in the air making it hard to exchange more than a few words. As I close the door behind me, I lean against it, my mind already running through scenarios, strategies, techniques I’ll need to refine.

Tomorrow, the gloves come off.

Author's Note

Magnetic Field Calculation
Given:
- Energy available: 100 food calories = 418,400 Joules.
- Magnetic field formula: B = μ₀ * N * I / (2 * R), where:
- μ₀ = 4π × 10⁻⁷ T·m/A (permeability of free space),
- N = 1 (single loop),
- I = Current through the loop (calculated below),
- R = Radius of the loop (assumed 0.1 m).

Resistance Calculation
Resistance (R_resistance) = ρ * L / A, where:
- ρ = 1 × 10⁻⁷ Ω·m (resistivity of iron),
- L = 2πR (circumference of the loop),
- A = 1 × 10⁻⁴ m² (cross-sectional area of the iron loop).

R_resistance = (1 × 10⁻⁷) * (2π * 0.1) / (1 × 10⁻⁴) = 6.28 × 10⁻⁴ Ω.

Current Calculation
Using the energy formula, E = I² * R_resistance * t:
I = √(E / (R_resistance * t)).

Substituting:
I = √(418,400 / (6.28 × 10⁻⁴ * 10)) ≈ 8160 A.

Magnetic Field Strength
B = (4π × 10⁻⁷) * (1) * (8160) / (2 * 0.1) ≈ 0.0514 T.

Force and Weight Calculation
The lifting force (F) of a magnetic field is given by:
F = (B² * A) / (2 * μ₀),

Where:
- B = 0.0514 T (calculated above),
- A = Cross-sectional area of the magnet = 1 × 10⁻⁴ m²,
- μ₀ = 4π × 10⁻⁷ T·m/A.

Substitute:
F = (0.0514² * 1 × 10⁻⁴) / (2 * 4π × 10⁻⁷),
F = (2.64 × 10⁻⁴) / (2.51 × 10⁻⁶),
F ≈ 105 N.

Weight Lifted
Weight is the force of gravity:
W = F / g, where g = 9.81 m/s² (gravitational acceleration).

W = 105 / 9.81 ≈ 10.7 kg.

Final Result
- Magnetic field strength: 0.0514 T.
- Maximum weight lifted: 10.7 kg (approximately 23.6 pounds).

The Price Of Haste Is Paid In Failure.
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Applied Mathemagics

The Price Of Haste Is Paid In Failure.

As I step out of the school’s grand hall, the cool evening air greets me like a reminder that the day is finally over. My legs ache, my mind feels like a tangled web of spells and strategies, and all I want is a quiet place to sit and unwind.

But then I see it—a gleaming golden chariot parked right outside the gates, its polished surface catching the fading sunlight. A pair of armored pegasi stand ready to pull it, their stoic expressions giving nothing away.

I glance around, noticing the other candidates trickling out of the school. None of them have chariots waiting for them. Most are walking back toward the city’s inns or dormitories, chatting among themselves or trudging in tired silence.

Why do I get special treatment?

The question needles at me as I approach the chariot. One of the pegasi nods respectfully. “Kinetic Flux, we’re here to take you back to the castle.”

“Of course you are,” I mutter under my breath, climbing aboard. The ride is smooth, the rhythmic beat of wings providing an almost hypnotic backdrop as we ascend over the city. The view is breathtaking, the sprawling lights of Canterlot shimmering below, but I can’t enjoy it. My mind is too preoccupied with questions I don’t want to ask out loud.

Why me? Is this part of Celestia’s plan? A test? Or something else entirely?

The chariot lands gracefully in the castle courtyard, and I’m greeted by a servant who promptly escorts me inside. My unease grows with every step as I’m led through the familiar halls toward the dining room. When the doors open, the sight of the royal sisters waiting at the table is enough to make my stomach twist.

Celestia sits at the head of the table, her serene smile firmly in place. Luna is to her left, her posture more relaxed but no less regal. The table is set with an array of dishes, the scents rich and inviting. But I barely notice. My focus is locked on Celestia—or, more accurately, on the memory of her as Sunny Smiles.

Does she really think I don’t know?

The thought is almost insulting. It’s not even a good disguise. A change of mane color, a slightly different cutie mark, and she expects me to be fooled? The nerve of it grates on me, but I bite my tongue. Bringing it up now might affect my score, and I can’t afford that.

“Kinetic Flux,” Celestia says warmly as I approach. “Welcome back. I trust the day’s challenges were enlightening?”

I force a polite smile, taking my seat across from Luna. “They were… certainly something,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral.

“Thou dost speak with caution,” Luna interjects, her voice carrying a curious lilt. “Surely, thou canst spare more enthusiasm for thy own triumphs?”

I glance at her, my polite smile slipping into something closer to genuine amusement. “Triumphs? I wouldn’t call surviving a fake dragon or skating across a chasm triumphs, Princess. More like… not embarrassing myself.”

Luna chuckles softly, her mane shimmering in the dim light. “Then perhaps thou art too modest. I watched thy performance from the spectators’ seats, though I was not visible to thee. Thy ingenuity was most impressive.”

I blink, caught off guard. “You were there? In disguise?”

She nods, her expression warm. “Indeed. I wished to observe without drawing undue attention to myself. ‘Twas a delight to witness thy approach to each trial.”

I don’t admit it, but the thought of her watching—actually paying attention to what I was doing—stirs a faint flicker of satisfaction. Not that I’ll let her see it. “Well, I hope I didn’t disappoint.”

“Quite the opposite,” she replies, her smile growing. “Thou art a cunning one, Kinetic Flux. Thy methods are unlike those of thy peers.”

Celestia watches the exchange with her usual serene expression, though I catch the faintest glimmer of curiosity in her eyes. She says nothing, letting Luna take the lead.

Leaning back in my chair, I decide to lean into my act, playing up the charlatan mage persona. “What can I say? I like to keep ponies guessing. It’s more fun that way.”

Luna tilts her head, intrigued. “Thou dost revel in mystique, yet thy actions suggest a depth thou dost not often reveal. Why is this?”

I smirk faintly, keeping my tone light. “Maybe I just enjoy being unpredictable. Keeps things interesting.”

Luna regards me thoughtfully, her eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and understanding. “Theatrics may amuse the crowd, but dost thou not think it a burden to always perform? To always wear a mask, even amongst allies?”

“Sure,” I say, leaning back and feigning a casual air. “But isn’t it better to let ponies see what they expect and leave the rest a mystery? Keeps everypony happy.”

Celestia, who had been silently observing us, raises an eyebrow. “Happy?” she repeats, her serene demeanor faltering just enough to reveal a touch of confusion. “How does withholding parts of oneself create happiness—for you or for others?”

I glance at her, debating how to answer without revealing too much. “It’s about keeping things simple. If ponies see what they expect, there’s less confusion, fewer questions. Sometimes, less is more.”

Luna tilts her head, her gaze sharpening. “And what of those who see beyond thy mask? Those who perceive the truths thou dost hide?”

For a moment, I feel like she’s referencing more than just our cryptic conversation. “Well,” I reply, holding her gaze, “those ponies are rare. And if they do see something … they usually stay quiet.”

“Or they attempt to understand,” Luna counters gently. “Not every revelation is met with fear.”

Celestia’s confusion deepens as she looks between us, her expression soft but clearly puzzled. “I feel as though I’ve missed part of this discussion,” she says lightly, though there’s a faint pout in her tone. “Are we speaking in riddles now?”

I smirk, shrugging. “Just a little friendly banter, Princess. Nothing to worry about.”

Luna chuckles softly, her smile turning mischievous. “Indeed, sister. ‘Tis but the idle musings of minds untethered by convention.”

Celestia blinks, clearly not buying the explanation, but she doesn’t press the issue. “If you say so,” she murmurs, though her tone suggests she isn’t entirely convinced.

As the conversation meanders into lighter territory, I can’t help but feel a strange sense of relief. Luna, despite her probing questions, isn’t pushing me to reveal more than I’m comfortable with. And Celestia, while clearly curious, seems content to let the riddles pass without digging deeper.

It’s a precarious balance, but for now, it holds. And as I sit there, listening to the royal sisters discuss everything from castle renovations to the upcoming summer festival, I feel an odd flicker of contentment. Even if I can’t trust them fully, there’s something… reassuring about not being alone in the room.

The soft clink of the guard’s armored hooves against the stone floor echoes faintly as I follow him back to my room. My own hooves fall silently by comparison, but my mind is anything but quiet. The upcoming tournament looms large in my thoughts, and I know I’ll need to bring my A-game if I want to win.

If it’s on a platform, that’s simple enough. Platforms are just another surface to manipulate. Cut a section of the floor beneath my opponent, use telekinesis to fling them off balance—or better yet, off the platform entirely. It’s crude, but effective. Most mages don’t think to watch the ground beneath them when they’re focused on casting spells.

Then there’s the option of bypassing shields. Magical barriers might be great for stopping projectiles or energy, but what about something subtler? I could force apart the dirt or stone underfoot, exploiting interangular and other forces to create a near-invisible tunnel underground. If I keep the hole small enough, no one would see it coming—not even the judges.

From there, I’d have options. I could direct my magic through the tunnel, bypassing the shield entirely to mess with them directly. Or, if I’m feeling particularly clever, I could send a tiny bit of chalk dust through. The chalk wouldn’t be a weapon—not directly—but I could use it to cast an illusion around their head. Disorient them. Confuse them. Maybe make them think they’re surrounded by enemies or trapped in darkness. Anything to throw them off their game.

Once they’re rattled, it’d be a simple matter of cutting the ground beneath them, using it to trap or force them into submission. A good plan is all about layers—contingencies within contingencies.

As we near my room, I let out a quiet breath, my thoughts momentarily settling. The guard opens the door, nodding silently as I step inside. The room is quiet, as it always is, but tonight the silence feels heavier. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the faint moonlight streaming through the window.

These strategies are just possibilities, I remind myself. The tournament could throw any number of curveballs at me. But the more I plan, the more confident I feel. This isn’t about being flashy or impressive—it’s about winning.

I lie down on the bed, staring at the dark ceiling as the faint moonlight dances across the room. The day’s events play over in my mind, but they’re soon overtaken by thoughts of the tournament. My strategies, potential counters, and the unpredictable nature of unicorn magic churn in my head like an unstoppable tide.

Unicorns are unpredictable. No two spell repertoires are the same, and each one comes with its own strengths and quirks. That variability makes them dangerous. It’s not like fighting a textbook opponent or countering something I’ve seen a dozen times before. Every mage is a unique problem waiting to happen.

And that’s why I need to end the matches quickly. I can’t afford to let them get creative or find the time to cast some elaborate, game-changing spell. My telekinesis doesn’t have a cast time—it’s instant, direct, and adaptable. That’s my edge, and I have to exploit it.

I turn onto my side, my mind racing through possible scenarios. A mage who specializes in fire magic could try to overwhelm me with an inferno. I’d need to smother it before it grows—a vacuum might work, or directly reducing the heat with my ability to slow atoms.

A defensive specialist might throw up barriers or shields. That’s easy enough to circumvent if I exploit the ground, forcing through those intergranular forces. If I can bypass their shield with a small enough opening, they’d never see it coming.

Then there’s the wildcard—someone who uses illusions or mind-altering spells. Those are harder to predict, but disorienting them first might give me the advantage. An illusion around their head, perhaps, or forcing their own surroundings to turn against them.

My best bet is to go on the offensive the moment the match starts. Keep them reacting, scrambling to defend themselves. Telekinesis isn’t flashy, but it’s versatile, and its lack of cast time means I can act faster than most spells require. That’s my trump card.

I shift on the bed again, frustration building as sleep continues to evade me. It’s not fear or doubt keeping me awake—it’s the endless stream of ideas, each one a possible key to surviving the tournament. What if someone tries something I can’t predict? What if—

I shake my head, forcing myself to breathe deeply. No. Overthinking is a trap. Keep it simple. Hit first, hit fast, and don’t let them get the upper hand.

The thoughts finally begin to fade, replaced by a heavy, restless fog as exhaustion catches up to me. My eyes close, and I drift off, my mind still echoing with strategies and countermeasures.

I wake up to the faint glow of dawn spilling through the curtains, the room bathed in soft golden light. My body feels heavy from the restless night, but the prospect of breakfast—and the looming tournament—forces me out of bed.

The castle halls are quiet as I make my way to the dining room. The guards at each corner stand rigid, their expressions unreadable. Their presence feels heavier today, though that’s probably just my nerves playing tricks on me.

When I step into the dining room, I notice immediately that it’s emptier than usual. Only Luna is seated at the table, her presence commanding even in the absence of her sister. The spread on the table is as extravagant as always—fruits, pastries, and an assortment of dishes I can’t pronounce. Despite the feast, the room feels oddly subdued.

“Good morning, Kinetic Flux,” Luna greets me warmly, her voice carrying a more relaxed tone than usual. She gestures for me to take a seat opposite her. “Thou art prompt, as always.”

“Morning, Princess Luna,” I reply, sliding into the seat she’s indicated. My eyes flicker toward the head of the table, where Celestia usually sits. “No Celestia today?”

Luna shakes her head, her mane rippling like a starry river. “Nay. Mine sister attends to other matters this morn. ‘Tis only thee and I.”

I nod, unsure how to feel about her absence.

Luna studies me for a moment before speaking. “Thou dost appear rested, though thy mind seemed burdened last eve. Didst thou find respite in thy dreams?”

I shrug, grabbing a piece of fruit from the platter. “I guess so. I’ve just been thinking a lot about the tournament.”

Her gaze sharpens slightly, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. “Thou art preparing strategies, then? Contemplating thy approach?”

I smirk faintly. “Something like that. Unicorn magic is unpredictable. I’ve got to be ready for anything.”

“Wise,” Luna says, her tone approving. “The tournament will test not only thy skill but thy adaptability. Yet, I wonder… dost thou see it as merely a contest, or something more?”

I pause, the question catching me off guard. “What do you mean?”

Luna leans forward slightly, her expression thoughtful. “The tournament is a stage upon which thy magic shall be revealed. Thou hast spoken of thy power with both pride and caution. ‘Tis clear thou wieldest it with care, yet this challenge may demand thou reveal more than thou art wont to.”

I frown, her words striking uncomfortably close to home. “It’s just a test,” I say, keeping my tone light. “Another hurdle to clear. Nothing more.”

Luna’s gaze lingers on me for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. Then she nods, leaning back in her chair. “As thou sayest. Yet, I shall watch with keen interest.”

I nod slowly, turning my attention to the food. The quiet between us feels less strained now, though her words leave a faint unease in the back of my mind.

After breakfast, I make my way back to the castle gates, feeling slightly more composed than I had the day before. The morning air is crisp, the kind of chill that wakes you up whether you want it to or not. I brace myself as I step outside, already expecting to see—

Yep, there it is.

The golden chariot gleams in the sunlight, parked in the exact same spot as yesterday. The two pegasi guards stand stoically in front of it, their armored forms practically blending into the shine of the chariot itself. For a moment, I wonder if they’ve been waiting here all night.

I chuckle as I approach. “You guys must have the patience of saints. How long do they make you wait for me every morning?”

The guards don’t respond, their stony expressions unchanging. One of them simply nods toward the chariot, silently urging me to climb aboard. I sigh, shaking my head as I step in. The chariot takes off smoothly, the sound of beating wings filling the air as we ascend over Canterlot.

The flight is quick, as usual, and before long, the grand silhouette of the School for Gifted Unicorns looms into view. But this time, we don’t land in the same spot. Instead, the chariot veers slightly to the right, heading toward an even more imposing structure nearby.

A colosseum.

The massive stone structure rises high into the sky, its arches and columns a testament to Equestrian craftsmanship. The roar of a gathering crowd can already be heard faintly, even from this distance. My stomach churns as the chariot descends toward the open arena floor, where several candidates are already assembling.

The pegasi guards touch down gently, and I step out, my hooves landing on the smooth, tiled surface. The arena is enormous, far larger than I’d imagined, with rows upon rows of seats packed with ponies eager to watch the tournament. The sheer size of the crowd makes me swallow hard.

Focus. They’re just here to watch a show. You’re here to win.

A familiar voice cuts through my thoughts as I step toward the gathered candidates. Ivory Quill stands at the center of the arena, flanked by the other judges. Her tone is as sharp and commanding as ever.

“Welcome to the final phase of the Archmage Examination,” she announces, her voice amplified by magic to reach every corner of the colosseum. “Today, you will face each other in combat, demonstrating not only your magical prowess but also your composure, strategy, and adaptability. Remember: these duels are non-lethal, but they are no less challenging.”

The crowd murmurs in anticipation, and I glance around at the remaining candidates. Their expressions range from confident to downright terrified. Glimmer Spark catches my eye, offering a small, determined nod. I nod back, though my mind is already racing with possibilities.

Ivory Quill continues, her gaze sweeping over us. “The rules are simple: victory is achieved by rendering your opponent unable to continue or forcing them to submit. Excessive force or lethal intent will result in immediate disqualification.”

The tension in the air thickens as Ivory Quill continues. “Before the match begins, you are permitted to precast one spell of your choosing. You may not release it until the match officially starts.”

My stomach sinks. Precasting? That complicates things. My methods rely on quick thinking and execution, not drawn-out setups. The others, with their fancy pre-designed spells and layers of enchantments, will undoubtedly have an edge.

“Fantastic,” I mutter under my breath, trying to keep the annoyance from showing on my face.

Ivory Quill gestures to a small velvet bag held by Stonehoof. “The first round will involve four participants in two simultaneous matches. The other six candidates will receive a bye and advance to the second round. Pairings will be decided by lot.”

The candidates shuffle nervously as Stonehoof steps forward, his gravelly voice calling out names as he draws slips of paper from the bag. I watch, tension coiling in my chest as the first few names are called.

“First match: Kinetic Flux versus Arcane Gleam.”

Of course. My name would get drawn first. I glance toward my opponent, a tall unicorn with a pale lavender coat and a mane that seems to shimmer with faint magical energy. He smirks, clearly confident.

“Second match: Radiant Glow versus Mystic Spiral.”

The other two step forward, sizing each other up. The rest of the candidates exchange relieved glances. Glimmer Spark, who got a bye doesn’t even try to hide her relief as she catches my eye, mouthing, 'Good luck'.

I nod, though my thoughts are anything but composed. Precasting and an audience. Great.

The candidates with byes are escorted to the waiting area, while the rest of us are directed to the arena floor. I step into my designated ring, the tiles cool under my hooves. Across from me, Arcane Gleam stands tall, his horn already glowing as he begins weaving his spell.

I step into the ring, my hooves feeling the cool stone beneath me. The crowd hums with anticipation, the sound like an ever-present static that presses against my senses. Across the arena, Arcane Gleam stands with his horn already glowing, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as if he’s already won.

The referee glances at me. “Kinetic Flux, are you going to precast a spell?”

I wave off the notion with an air of nonchalance, a sly grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. "Why bother? There's no need."

The referee raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press further. Arcane Gleam’s smirk widens, the glow of his magic intensifying as he finalizes his preparation. I stand there, unmoving, watching him like a hawk.

The referee steps back and raises her hoof. “Begin!”

Arcane Gleam wastes no time. His first move is predictable—a shimmering, multi-layered barrier that materializes around him. Its translucent surface ripples with energy, a spell designed to absorb impacts and deflect magic.

Perfect.

My horn lights up as I focus on the ground beneath his hooves. With a sharp burst of telekinesis, I sever and lift the stone beneath him in a clean, circular motion. The sudden shift in footing catches him off guard, his barrier flickering as his concentration falters.

“What—?!” he stammers, his shield collapsing just as I lift the slab of stone into the air.

He scrambles to maintain his footing, but I don’t give him the chance. With a calculated twist, I rotate the slab sharply, forcing him to stumble and lose balance. His legs flail as he’s thrown off, landing unceremoniously on the arena floor with a loud thud.

Before he can recover, I lower the slab above him, tilting it threateningly as if about to crush him. It’s a show of dominance, the weight of the massive stone looming just inches above his prone form.

The crowd gasps, the murmurs growing louder. Arcane Gleam glares up at me, his horn sparking weakly as he struggles to form a counterspell. But he knows the moment he tries he's done.

My horn burns slightly from the effort of manipulating the heavy stone, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I hold the slab in place, watching him closely. His breathing is ragged, his earlier confidence completely shattered.

“Do you yield?” I ask, keeping my voice calm but firm.

For a moment, he hesitates, his pride warring with the reality of his situation. But then, with a frustrated growl, he nods. “I yield.”

The referee steps forward, her horn glowing as she signals the end of the match. “Winner: Kinetic Flux!”

I release the slab, letting it drop harmlessly to the side. The crowd erupts into cheers and murmurs, the judges conferring quietly among themselves. I glance at Arcane Gleam as he’s helped to his hooves, his face a mixture of embarrassment and grudging respect.

Walking back to the waiting area, I allow myself a small, satisfied smirk. The tournament’s only just begun, but I’ve already set the tone.

Glimmer Spark catches my eye as I pass, her expression somewhere between impressed and amused. I shrug casually.

The crowd settles back into their seats as the referee steps to the center of the arena once again. "Next match: Radiant Glow versus Mystic Spiral!" she announces, her voice amplified by magic to cut through the murmuring audience.

Both unicorns step into the ring, their expressions stoic and focused. Radiant Glow, a golden-coated mare with a bright, fiery mane, exudes confidence as her horn begins to glow faintly. Mystic Spiral, a darker-toned stallion with a swirling blue-and-silver mane, mirrors her determination, his horn lighting up with a steady, icy hue.

The air grows tense as they each begin their precast spell, their focus absolute. They stand still, eyes locked on one another, their horns humming faintly but with no visible effect yet. The audience waits with bated breath, the anticipation crackling like static in the air.

The referee raises her hoof. "Begin!"

The moment the match starts, Radiant Glow releases her spell, a series of radiant orbs materializing around her like miniature suns. They hover, spinning lazily, but their glow hints at latent power. She moves swiftly, keeping her distance, clearly waiting for Mystic Spiral to make his move.

Mystic Spiral counters by releasing a spell that creates a shimmering, spiraling vortex of energy in front of him. The vortex moves with him, absorbing one of the glowing orbs that Radiant Glow sends his way. The absorbed energy causes the vortex to grow, its spirals elongating and becoming more erratic.

Radiant Glow doesn't falter. She dodges around the arena with practiced ease, sending her remaining orbs toward Mystic Spiral in calculated bursts. Each orb that connects with the vortex seems to empower it further, the spirals whipping violently as if barely contained. Mystic Spiral uses the growing vortex to his advantage, positioning it between himself and Radiant Glow to shield against her relentless attacks.

The time between their spells becomes glaringly evident. With each dodge and feint, both unicorns are forced to rely on movement and strategy rather than rapid casting. The arena feels alive with tension, the gaps between spells filled with bursts of evasion and counter-moves.

Finally, the shimmering vortex begins to dissipate, its energy spent. Mystic Spiral’s horn glows again, his expression tightening as he begins casting another spell. The strain is clear—his magic takes time to build, leaving him vulnerable.

Radiant Glow seizes the opportunity, hurling her last orb directly at him. He narrowly dodges, the orb skimming past and exploding harmlessly against the arena wall. The crowd gasps at the close call.

And then Radiant Glow does something unexpected.

She pulls out an artifact—a small, ornate pendant that catches the light as it glows faintly in her magic. The same one she had created for her legacy. The audience murmurs in surprise, and even the judges exchange glances. Technically, artifacts weren’t restricted by the rules.

Radiant Glow doesn’t hesitate, activating the artifact with a sharp burst of magic. A dazzling beam erupts from the pendant, its energy crackling with intensity as it streaks toward Mystic Spiral. He barely manages to dive out of the way, the beam grazing his side and leaving a faint scorch mark on the arena floor.

Mystic Spiral’s horn flares as he attempts to complete his spell, but the time it takes leaves him open again. Radiant Glow, clearly experienced in using the artifact, adjusts her positioning and fires another beam, this one aimed with surgical precision.

The beam strikes Mystic Spiral’s hastily raised shield, shattering it with a loud crack. He stumbles, the force of the blow sending him skidding across the arena floor. Before he can recover, Radiant Glow activates the artifact a final time, sending a wide arc of energy directly at him.

The energy hits, and Mystic Spiral collapses, the magical backlash forcing him to the ground. He groans, clearly drained, and raises a hoof in surrender before the referee can even step forward.

“Winner: Radiant Glow!” the referee announces, her amplified voice cutting through the noise of the crowd.

The audience erupts into cheers, though the atmosphere feels more charged than celebratory. The unexpected use of the artifact has clearly stirred debate, with some ponies shouting their approval while others seem more skeptical.

Radiant Glow returns to the waiting area, her expression calm but triumphant. As she passes the other contenders, she meets my gaze briefly, her smirk carrying a silent message: I play to win.

I glance toward Mystic Spiral, now being helped up by the arena staff. He looks frustrated but not angry—more resigned than anything. It’s clear he hadn’t expected such an unconventional tactic, and his magic wasn’t suited to counter it.

The arena settles as the final matches of the first round conclude. The referee steps forward once again, her magically amplified voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. “The first round is complete! Congratulations to our victors, who will now proceed to the quarterfinals.”

The remaining eight contenders are called to gather near the center of the arena, where Stonehoof holds a small pouch containing slips of parchment. “Match pairings for the quarterfinals will now be determined by random draw,” he announces.

I step forward with the others, tension hanging thick in the air. One by one, Stonehoof calls out names, and my chest tightens as he draws my match.

“First match: Kinetic Flux versus Brimstone.”

I glance at the pony stepping forward—a bulky unicorn with a dark red coat and a mane like flickering embers. Brimstone glares at me, his expression oozing hostility. He sneers, leaning closer as he passes. “Hope you’re ready to burn, Flux.”

I raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “We’ll see.”

The next pairing is announced, and my stomach tightens again when I hear it. “Second match: Glimmer Spark versus Radiant Glow.”

I look toward Glimmer Spark, who exhales sharply, her expression a mix of determination and unease. Radiant Glow, on the other hand, stands tall, her confidence unshaken from her artifact-assisted victory in the last round.

As the remaining pairings are announced, I sidle up to Glimmer. “Good luck,” I say quietly, offering a faint smile. “You’ve got this.”

She glances at me, her lips curving into a small, grateful smile. “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

We step back to the sidelines, the first matches set to begin shortly. My thoughts churn as I size up Brimstone. His aggressive demeanor suggests a reliance on brute force. Still, I have an advantage: telekinesis is instantaneous, and if I act quickly, I can disrupt him before he even gets started.

The colosseum roars to life as the quarterfinals are officially announced. My match is first, and as I step back into the arena, the plan I’ve been mentally refining sharpens into focus.

End it quickly. Don't let him set the pace.

As I step into the arena, the roar of the crowd grows deafening. Across from me, Brimstone strides confidently to his position, his dark red coat glistening under the sunlight. The way he carries himself screams arrogance, his smirk practically daring me to take him seriously.

Before the referee can even speak, Brimstone raises his voice, his horn flaring with a fiery glow. “Prepare to be incinerated, Flux! With my Endless Fire charm, I can conjure flames that never die, fueled by the unyielding heat of my magic!”

I blink, tilting my head. “A monologue? In the middle of a competition?” My tone is laced with incredulity, and I can’t help but smirk. “Bold strategy, let's see how it works out for you.”

The crowd chuckles, and Brimstone’s smirk falters for a split second before he snarls. “Laugh while you can. You won’t be smiling for long.”

The referee steps between us, her expression neutral as she addresses me. “Kinetic Flux, do you wish to precast a spell?”

“No...” I say, shaking my head smugly. “I think he needs all the help he can get.”

Brimstone snorts, his horn glowing brighter. “You’ll regret it.”

The referee steps back, raising her hoof. “Combatants ready? Begin!”

Brimstone wastes no time, activating the artifact hanging around his neck. The Endless Fire charm glows fiercely, and a torrent of flames erupts from his horn, rushing toward me in a swirling inferno.

I watch the fire approach, my horn flaring as I focus on the air between us. By slowing the movement of the atoms, I sap the heat from the flames, rendering them harmless. The once-roaring inferno dissipates into harmless wisps of smoke before it can even reach me.

Brimstone blinks, his confident expression faltering as he sees his attack fizzle out. “What—”

“Was that it?” I say, my voice calm but tinged with amusement. “I thought this was supposed to be ‘endless fire.’”

His eyes narrow, and he conjures another blast, even larger this time. I counter it just as easily, the heat dissolving into nothing before it can touch me. He grows more frustrated with each failed attempt, hurling flame after flame, while I stand there, unbothered, the heatless fire dissipating harmlessly.

“You might want to check that charm of yours,” I quip. “Seems like it’s running a bit cold.”

Brimstone grits his teeth, his horn flaring brighter as he pours more power into his attacks. I dodge lazily, letting the flames miss me by inches, playing along for the crowd’s amusement.

But then, he changes tactics.

Without warning, Brimstone stomps a hoof, releasing a spell I forgot he was holding, and the ground beneath me erupts in a fiery burst. The spell catches me off guard, sending a sharp wave of heat and force through my legs. I stumble, hissing in pain as the edges of my coat singe.

My amusement evaporates instantly.

"You sneaky little bitch," I growl, glaring through the sting of pain.

Anger flares as I glare at Brimstone. My horn glows brighter, the air around me crackling with latent energy. My instincts scream at me to end this now, to shut him down before he pulls another stunt.

I focus on the air near his head, channeling my magic into compressing it tightly. The plan is simple: generate a shockwave close enough to his ear to rattle him, to show him he’s out of his depth without actually hurting him. A harmless scare tactic.

But my anger clouds my precision.

The air compresses too quickly, too tightly. When I release the spell, the shockwave detonates with far more force than I intended. The blast reverberates through the arena with a deafening CRACK, loud enough to make the crowd wince. Brimstone recoils violently, stumbling as his hooves scrape against the arena floor. He cries out in pain, clutching his head, his artifact clattering uselessly to the ground.

For a moment, the world feels frozen, the crowd falling into a stunned silence. Even the referee pauses mid-step, her expression one of shock. Brimstone collapses to his knees, his face contorted in agony as blood trickles faintly from his ears. My horn dims as I take an instinctive step back, my heart pounding in my chest.

What did I just do?

The crack of the shockwave echoes in my mind, louder than it had been in the arena. I hadn’t meant to hurt him—not like this. It was supposed to be a scare, a harmless display of power to throw him off his game. But I’d put too much into it, and now…

Brimstone groans, his hooves pressed tightly against his head. The arena staff rush forward, their horns glowing as they begin casting healing spells. One of them looks up at me, her expression grim but professional. “He’ll be fine,” she says, her voice firm. “Healing magic will take care of the damage.”

The referee steps forward, her voice cutting through the tension. “Winner: Kinetic Flux!”

The announcement does little to ease the weight in my chest. The crowd, however, does not react kindly. Boos and jeers erupt from the stands, their displeasure rippling through the arena like a physical force. A few ponies shout insults, calling me reckless, dangerous, and worse.

I stand there, frozen, my mind racing. The rules allowed for injuries—it was part of the tournament. But this wasn’t the same as a singed coat or a bruised flank. This felt… excessive.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the judges conferring, their expressions varying from curiosity to concern. Even Celestia, still in her Sunny Smiles disguise, looks unusually serious, her usually serene face drawn into a faint frown.

The crowd’s boos and jeers follow me as I walk off the arena floor, the sound growing louder with every step. It’s not the triumph I’d imagined—not that I’d wanted to humiliate Brimstone in the first place. I just… lost control.

I don’t meet anyone’s eyes as I return to the waiting area. My hooves feel like lead, every step heavier than the last. The other examinees watch me as I approach, their expressions a mix of wariness, judgment, and, in a few cases, pity.

I sit down heavily on one of the benches, resting my head in my hooves. The weight in my chest hasn’t lifted. If anything, it feels worse now, like a physical reminder of my failure to keep myself in check.

This doesn’t feel like a win.

I rub my temples, trying to block out the noise of the crowd. The memory of Brimstone’s scream plays on repeat in my mind, each iteration louder and more accusing than the last. The shockwave, the blood, the look in his eyes—all of it churns in my head, refusing to settle.

Across the waiting area, Glimmer Spark approaches cautiously, her expression unreadable. She stops a few feet away, hesitating before speaking. “Kinetic?” she says softly.

I glance up, my voice low and flat. “What?”

“You okay?” she asks, her tone carefully neutral.

I scoff, shaking my head. “Am I okay? You saw what happened. What do you think?”

She shifts uncomfortably, glancing toward the arena entrance where the medics are still tending to Brimstone. “It was an accident, right? You didn’t mean to—”

“Of course I didn’t mean to!” I snap, the words coming out sharper than I intended. Her ears flatten slightly, and I sigh, pinching the bridge of my muzzle. “Sorry. I just… I messed up.”

Glimmer sits down next to me, her voice quiet but firm. “Yeah, you did. But the rules allow for injuries. It's not like you kicked him while he was down. You didn’t break any laws, and they’ll heal him. It’s not the end of the world.”

I glance at her, her calm demeanor doing little to soothe my frayed nerves. “Maybe not. But it’s the kind of thing that sticks, you know? That crowd out there? They’re not going to remember me as the guy who won. They’ll remember me as the guy who hurt him.”

She shrugs, her tone light. “Let them. You’re not here to make friends with the crowd. You’re here to prove you’re capable.”

“Capable of what?” I mutter. “Losing my temper? Overcompensating?”

“Capable of handling magic most ponies can’t,” she says, her voice gaining an edge. “Look, I’m not saying what you did was perfect, but you’ve got power. You just need to learn how to control it better.”

Her words sting because they’re true. I stare at the floor, my mind churning with everything that’s happened.

The referee’s voice echoes from the arena, calling the next match. Glimmer Spark stands, adjusting her stance and offering me a faint smile. “You’re still in the tournament, Kinetic. Don’t forget that.”

I nod weakly, watching her walk off. The sound of the crowd swells again as the next combatants take the stage, but I barely notice. My mind is still stuck on the shockwave, on Brimstone’s scream, on the part of me that felt satisfaction in winning, even if it came at too high a cost.

The crowd settles as the next match is announced, the anticipation in the air practically buzzing. “Next match: Glimmer Spark versus Radiant Glow!” the referee declares, and the arena erupts into cheers and applause.

I lean back on the bench, my legs still heavy from my fight. Despite the noise, my mind is oddly quiet, focused entirely on the two unicorns now stepping into the ring. Glimmer Spark and Radiant Glow are both formidable in their own ways, and this match promises to be… interesting.

Both mares stride to their starting positions, their expressions focused but unreadable. Radiant Glow’s fiery mane practically crackles with intensity as her horn begins to glow, and she reaches for the artifact hanging around her neck—the same one that had taken down Mystic Spiral with those devastating laser attacks. But she doesn’t activate it right away. Instead, she begins casting a spell of her own, her horn flaring with an unfamiliar energy.

Glimmer Spark mirrors her, the soft green glow of her magic illuminating her determined face. She doesn’t hesitate to bring out her own artifact, the self-repairing shield she crafted during the legacy test. It shimmers faintly in the air before her, its presence a subtle but steady reassurance.

As they work through their casting, I can’t help but feel a twinge of envy. Their magic flows with a practiced elegance, a simplicity I’ll never have. They pick up books, study runes, and follow well-trodden paths of magical knowledge. Meanwhile, I’m left cobbling my spells together from scratch, forcing physics to behave like magic through sheer determination. It’s effective, sure, but it’s also exhausting. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to have that kind of straightforward power at my hooftips.

The referee raises her hoof, and the arena falls silent. “Combatants ready? Begin!”

The air crackles as the match starts. Radiant Glow immediately releases her spell—a swirling column of fire, radiant and hot, spiraling toward Glimmer Spark. It’s not the focused precision of her artifact’s lasers, but a broad, sweeping attack designed to overwhelm. The flames hiss as they spread, the heat palpable even from the spectator benches.

Glimmer Spark doesn’t flinch. Her horn glows brightly as her shield artifact activates, shimmering into a translucent, dome-like barrier that absorbs the fiery onslaught. The flames lick against the shield, but the artifact hums softly, repairing itself faster than the fire can damage it. The crowd murmurs in awe, clearly impressed by the artifact’s resilience.

Radiant Glow narrows her eyes, clearly realizing that brute force won’t be enough to crack the shield. Her horn flares again, and the fire shifts, splitting into smaller, more targeted streams that whip around the shield like serpents, probing for weak spots.

Glimmer responds quickly, her horn glowing as she casts a spell of her own. The shield’s surface ripples, and suddenly, spikes of green energy protrude from its surface, striking at the incoming fire streams. Each spike disrupts the flames on contact, forcing Radiant Glow to pull back and rethink her strategy.

For a moment, there’s a lull, the two unicorns circling each other like predators sizing up their prey. Radiant Glow’s horn glows faintly as she reaches for her artifact, her expression calculating. She doesn’t activate it yet, though, clearly saving it for the right moment. Instead, she casts another spell—a series of glowing orbs that float around her, crackling with energy. They hover menacingly, waiting for her command.

Glimmer Spark doesn’t waste the opportunity. She reinforces her shield, layering it with additional green energy that pulses faintly with each beat of her magic. The self-repairing artifact continues its work, ensuring the shield remains intact despite the stress of multiple spells.

The orbs surrounding Radiant Glow suddenly dart forward, each one streaking toward Glimmer’s shield at blinding speed. The first two slam into the barrier, their energy dispersing in brilliant flashes of light. The third manages to break through, exploding just inside the shield’s perimeter and forcing Glimmer to take a step back. The shield wavers but quickly stabilizes, the artifact humming as it mends the damage.

Radiant Glow’s expression tightens, and she finally activates her artifact. The pendant glows brightly, and a focused beam of energy shoots forth, slamming into Glimmer’s shield with a deafening crack. The crowd gasps as the beam cuts through the air, its intensity unmatched by anything Radiant has used so far.

Glimmer grits her teeth, her horn glowing fiercely as she pours more power into her artifact. The shield shimmers under the assault, the edges flickering like a candle in the wind. But the self-repairing magic holds, and the shield endures, if only just barely.

Radiant Glow presses the attack, directing the beam with precision, forcing Glimmer to stay on the defensive. But then, Glimmer does something unexpected. She lets the shield drop, dodging the beam.

The sudden absence of the barrier catches Radiant off guard, and her beam strikes empty air. Glimmer steps forward, her horn glowing as she casts a spell of her own. A surge of green energy races across the ground, splitting into jagged lines that converge on Radiant Glow.

Radiant Glow stumbles back. She grits her teeth, struggling to regain her footing as Glimmer Spark presses the advantage.

Glimmer’s movements are calculated, her magic flowing steadily as she advances. The air around her crackles with residual energy, her confidence growing as she closes the distance. She’s clearly in control now, her shield artifact hovering behind her as a safety net while she shifts to a more aggressive approach.

The crowd begins to cheer louder, sensing the tide of the battle turning. Glimmer’s precision and resilience have earned her the favor of the spectators, their excitement building as she prepares her next move.

Radiant Glow, for her part, doesn’t look panicked. If anything, she looks… frustrated. Her artifact remains active, glowing faintly as it charges for another beam. But she doesn’t fire. Instead, she takes a defensive stance, her eyes narrowing as Glimmer draws closer.

And then it happens.

Glimmer steps into striking range, her horn glowing brightly as she prepares a close-range spell, likely intended to finish the fight. But instead of retaliating with magic, Radiant Glow shifts her weight and delivers a powerful buck with her hind legs.

The blow catches Glimmer completely off guard, slamming into her chest with a dull thud and sending her sprawling across the arena floor. The audience gasps, the unexpected physical attack cutting through their cheers like a blade.

Glimmer Spark hits the ground hard, her shield artifact flickering erratically before deactivating entirely. She groans, clutching her side as she tries to push herself up, but her legs give out beneath her. The referee steps forward, her horn glowing faintly as she examines Glimmer’s condition.

“She’s out,” the referee declares, raising her hoof. “Winner: Radiant Glow!”

The crowd’s reaction is instant and visceral. Boos and jeers echo through the colosseum, their disapproval at Radiant Glow’s unconventional—and arguably unsporting—tactic filling the air. Ponies shout accusations of foul play, even though the rules technically allow for physical attacks.

Radiant Glow stands in the center of the arena, her expression defiant as she lets the boos wash over her. She doesn’t look triumphant, but neither does she appear apologetic. Her artifact dims as she deactivates it, the faint glow fading into the necklace’s golden surface.

Glimmer Spark is helped off the field by medics, her face a mix of frustration and pain. She doesn’t look toward Radiant Glow, her focus instead on the ground as she’s guided to the sidelines.

I watch the scene unfold from my seat among the other contenders, my chest tightening with a mix of anger and unease. Radiant Glow had been winning the crowd over with her magic, her clever use of spells and her artifact’s power. But this? This was something else entirely. It felt wrong.

As Radiant Glow leaves the arena, her head held high despite the crowd’s scorn, I glance toward Glimmer Spark, now sitting on the sidelines with her shield artifact resting dimly beside her. She's been healed but she looks drained, her usual determination dimmed.

For a moment, I think about going over to check on her. But I stop myself, unsure of what to say. Instead, I stay seated, my mind churning with thoughts of the upcoming matches—and how I might have to face Radiant Glow myself.

She’s not just ruthless; she’s unpredictable. And unpredictability can be dangerous.

Author's Note

To generate a shockwave capable of bursting an eardrum:

Threshold Sound Pressure Level (SPL) = 160 dB.
Sound Pressure, P:
P = 20 × 10⁻⁶ × 10^(160 / 20) = 2000 Pa.
Energy Density (E_d):
E_d = P² / (2 × ρ × c)
E_d = 2000² / (2 × 1.225 × 343) ≈ 4759.92 J/m³.
Volume of the spherical region:
V = (4/3) × π × r³
V = (4/3) × π × (0.1)³ ≈ 0.00419 m³.
Total Energy (E_total):
E_total = E_d × V
E_total ≈ 4759.92 × 0.00419 ≈ 19.94 J.
Convert to kilocalories:
1 Joule = 0.000239006 kcal.
E_total_kcal = 19.94 × 0.000239006 ≈ 0.00477 kcal.

Final Result:
- Energy required ≈ 19.94 Joules or 0.00477 kilocalories.

Unfolding
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Applied Mathemagics

Unfolding

The remaining matches in the second round proceed without much fanfare, the contenders engaging in duels that showcase their skill and creativity but lack the raw spectacle of the earlier fights. As the dust settles and the arena is prepared for the semifinals, I find myself standing in the waiting area, going over my strategies.

The semifinals are announced, and the crowd’s excitement builds once again. My name is called, along with my opponent’s—an average-sized unicorn stallion with a deep green coat and a cutie mark resembling a glowing rune. His name, if I recall correctly, is Verdant Glyph. Normally, I’d think nothing of it—just another opponent. But when I step into the arena, it’s clear something’s off.

Verdant Glyph looks nervous. His hooves shuffle on the tiled floor, and his horn flickers faintly as he prepares his precast spell. His eyes dart to me briefly, then away again, unable to hold my gaze. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why.

The incident with Brimstone.

I don’t miss the way the crowd murmurs as I take my place across from Verdant Glyph. The memory of my last match still lingers in the air, the burst eardrums and the crowd’s disapproval fresh in everyone’s minds. It’s clear that the reputation I’ve inadvertently built has started to weigh on my opponents.

The referee steps forward, her expression neutral as always. “Combatants, prepare your precast spells.”

Verdant Glyph lights his horn.

I stay still, my horn silent. The referee glances at me. “Kinetic Flux, will you be precasting a spell?”

I tilt my head, letting a forced sly smirk play on my lips. "No. And trust me, you wouldn’t like me to change my mind."

The crowd stirs at my response, their whispers carrying a mix of surprise and expectation. Verdant Glyph looks even more unsettled, his nervous energy palpable.

The referee raises her hoof. “Combatants ready? Begin!”

Verdant Glyph doesn’t waste a second. His barrier snaps into place, a glowing dome that crackles faintly with stored energy. It’s defensive, it's clear he’s already on the back foot, expecting an immediate assault.

I don’t move right away, watching him carefully. My horn flares faintly as I assess the situation. I could overpower him outright, but after what happened with Brimstone, I need to tread carefully. There’s no reason to risk hurting him—at least, not physically.

An idea forms, and I focus on the floor beneath his barrier. My magic reaches out, subtly tugging at the forces holding the stone together. Slowly, quietly, I create a small hole, just wide enough to slip through unnoticed. Glyph, too preoccupied with his next spell, doesn’t seem to notice.

I levitate a small amount of of chalk dust from my bag, guiding it through the hole and beneath his barrier. The moment it emerges on his side, I make it oscillate rapidly, creating a faint but unsettling hum. Glyph startles, his horn flickering as he glances around, visibly unnerved.

“Stay calm, Glyph,” I murmur under my breath, though he can’t hear me. “You’re just giving me more to work with.”

The chalk’s oscillations intensify, the sound growing deeper and more resonant. Glyph hesitates, clearly distracted, and I seize the moment. My horn glows brighter as I activate the Doppler illusion, wrapping his head in a swirling veil of refracted light. The chalk becomes a dome, forming a distorted, chaotic landscape around him—a twisted approximation of hell.

Flames and brimstone erupt around him, their hues vivid and unnatural. The monsters I conjure are grotesque amalgamations of nightmares: towering figures with elongated limbs that end in claws too sharp to be natural, their faces featureless save for wide, gaping maws filled with jagged, uneven teeth. Shadows writhe like living things, taking on shifting forms that seem to grow closer every time Glyph blinks.

One creature stands out—a hulking, sinewy beast, its skin glistening with a sickly red sheen. Its elongated limbs end in razor-sharp claws, its face a gaping maw filled with jagged teeth, and a perpetual, bone-chilling grin. Another monster, smaller, scuttles on too many legs, its movements unnaturally jerky. Its skin seems to shimmer, flickering between translucent and solid, revealing pulsating organs beneath.

Glyph’s breathing grows ragged as he stumbles back, his spells forgotten. The illusion intensifies as I use my telekinesis to create a tube-like barrier in front of my mouth, lowering the pitch of my voice to a deep, otherworldly rumble.

“Before there was time… before there was anything… there was nothing,” I intone, my voice echoing unnaturally.

Glyph freezes, his eyes wide with terror as he looks around frantically.

“And before there was nothing… there were monsters.”

The crowd watches in stunned silence, unaware of the specifics but sensing the gravity of what’s unfolding. Glyph’s knees hit the ground, his horn dimming and the shield falling entirely as his magic fails him. He’s trembling, tears streaming down his face as he cries out, “No… no, I’m a good pony! I don’t deserve this!”

I press on, the illusion shifting around him, the flames licking closer as the monsters loom ever nearer. “You cling to goodness, Glyph? Can you feel it now, slipping away in the presence of such horrors?”

He drops to his knees, his horn sparking as if trying to cast a spell but failing. The fear in his eyes is palpable, his confidence utterly shattered.

“Please!” he begs, his voice cracking. “I surrender! I’m a good pony! Get them away from me!”

The referee steps forward, waving her hoof sharply. “Stop! Kinetic Flux, stand down! Verdant Glyph has surrendered!”

I release the illusion immediately, the monstrous landscape vanishing in an instant. Glyph collapses, trembling on the arena floor, his eyes wide and unblinking as he clutches his chest. The crowd is dead silent for a moment before breaking into scattered murmurs. Their discontent from my previous match now seems to have turned into outright disapproval.

I stand there, a frown slowly forming on my face, my chest tight with a mix of anger and disbelief. I didn’t lay a hoof on him, but the fear in his eyes suggests I might as well have.

With each heavy step back to the examinees’ bench, the weight of their stares and whispers bears down on me. Their murmurs trail behind me like accusingly, their unease cutting deep. My heart pounds, not from the fight, but from the injustice of their scrutiny—how far I have to go to secure a victory in a 'pony' way.

Verdant Glyph is led off the arena floor, still trembling as the medics check him over. The referee announces my advancement to the final round, but the words barely register. I slump into my seat, the wooden bench creaking faintly under my weight. Around me, the remaining examinees give me a wide berth, their expressions a mix of wariness and disdain.

I don’t care. Not about them, not about the crowd, not even about the judges.

The next matches are called, but I barely pay attention. The sounds of spells colliding, the cheers and gasps of the crowd—they’re background noise to the storm in my head.

Eventually, the semifinals narrow down to the final two: Radiant Glow and me. She strides back to the waiting area, her head held high and her fiery mane glowing faintly in the arena’s light. She glances my way, her smirk sharp and self-assured, as if daring me to try my tactics on her.

The tension between us is palpable, even from across the waiting area. She’s confident, likely because she knows how to use her artifact to devastating effect. I don’t doubt her skill. But I’m not about to let her win easily. Not after everything I’ve put myself through to get this far.

“Final match: Kinetic Flux versus Radiant Glow!” the referee announces, her voice cutting through the noise of the crowd.

I push myself to my hooves, my body moving almost mechanically. The murmurs among the crowd grow louder as I step onto the arena floor, their unease now mixed with anticipation. Radiant Glow takes her place opposite me, her smirk unwavering, her artifact already glowing faintly as she prepares.

The referee looks at us both, her expression stern. “Combatants, prepare your precast spells.”

Radiant Glow doesn’t hesitate, her horn flaring as she begins to weave a complex spell. Her artifact hums with energy, its glow intensifying. She’s going all out, clearly aiming to end this match decisively.

I stand still, my horn silent, my expression unreadable.

“Kinetic Flux, will you be precasting a spell?” the referee asks, her tone neutral.

I shake my head, masking the weariness with a smile. "Nah. I like to keep things spontaneous."

The crowd stirs again, their whispers growing louder. Radiant Glow’s smirk widens slightly, as if she’s already won.

The referee raises her hoof. “Combatants ready? Begin!”

The arena falls silent, the air charged with anticipation as the final match begins.

Radiant Glow stands tall as the match begins, her horn flaring brilliantly as she casts a shimmering shield that envelops her entirely—including the ground beneath her. It’s a smart move. She’s clearly been paying attention, learning from my earlier tactics of bypassing shields through the floor. The crowd murmurs appreciatively at her ingenuity.

I take a moment to assess. A shield like that is tough, no doubt, but it’s also energy-intensive. Fine. I’ll force her to play my game.

I reach into my bag, pulling out a small amount of chalk and compressing it into a dense, pebble-sized projectile. My horn glows faintly as I focus, accelerating the tiny chalk mass to an absurd velocity—my railgun 'spell'. But I aim carefully, targeting the edge of her shield rather than the center, away from her body. No point in risking harm unnecessarily.

The pebble releases with a sharp crack, its velocity so extreme that the air around it ripples faintly. The projectile slams into her shield with tremendous force. The impact isn’t just a hit—it’s catastrophic. The shield shatters like glass under a hammer, sending radiant fragments of magic spiraling outward in a burst of energy.

The crowd gasps as the pebble doesn’t stop there. It strikes the arena’s protective barrier, punching through it with a resounding crash before disappearing about an inch beyond the shield. Clearly, the arena has safeguards to prevent projectiles from causing real damage outside its bounds. Still, the display leaves the audience in stunned silence.

Radiant Glow staggers, a pained expression crossing her face as the magical backlash from her shattered shield hits her.

She recovers quickly, gritting her teeth as she activates her artifact. The pendant flares to life, and I know in a moment a concentrated laser beam will shoot toward me. Her movements are calculated—she’s aiming for precision and power, clearly trying to end this before I can retaliate.

But she’s not the only one who’s learned from previous matches.

I’ve been watching her for a while, studying how she fights. Her beams are fast, deadly, and precise—a challenge for anyone relying on conventional defenses. I can’t use shield spells like most others, so I’ve had to think outside the box. I knew this moment would come, and now, it’s time to see if my theory holds.

I focus on the air between us, my horn glowing brighter as the gas ionizes in an instant, ripping electrons from their atoms. A with a deafening BOOM a brilliant white-blue curtain of plasma erupts , the searing heat radiating outward in waves.

The beam from her artifact strikes the plasma curtain but fails to penetrate. Instead, the photons scatter, their energy absorbed by the superheated, ionized gas. The light of her laser dims as it dissipates harmlessly into the plasma. Another beam meets another shield. She fires seemingly endless beams as Radiant’s expression shifts from determination to visible frustration as her trump card is rendered ineffective. Though I try not to show how draining it is, I'm not wholly unaffected.

With Radiant Glow’s shield gone and her artifact neutralized, I decide it’s time to end this. My horn flares as I gather the remaining chalk from my pouch, compressing it into a series of small, dense pebbles. The effort is precise, the chalk forming perfect spheres as they hover in the air around her, glinting faintly under the arena lights.

The crowd holds its breath as I move the pebbles into position. One by one, they encircle Radiant Glow, orbiting her at different heights and angles. Their slow, deliberate movement is designed to be intimidating, each one a reminder of how quickly I could turn the tide if I wanted to.

Radiant Glow’s eyes dart to the pebbles, her horn glowing faintly as she considers her next move. But she hesitates, clearly calculating the risks. One wrong move, and the chalk could strike—not as hard as I hit the shield, but enough to ensure her defeat.

"Radiant Glow," I rasp, dragging up a smirk despite the burn in my lungs. "No shield, no artifact, no way out. Care to make this easier for both of us?"

She glares at me, her fiery mane seeming to blaze brighter with her frustration. For a moment, it looks like she might try something desperate, her horn sparking as if to cast another spell. But the pebbles around her shift slightly, tightening their orbit, and she freezes.

The crowd watches in tense silence, the energy in the arena thick enough to cut with a knife. Even the judges seem on edge, their expressions unreadable as they observe the standoff.

“Truly a worthy effort!” I say, keeping the strain out of my voice. “But I’m afraid the curtain’s falling on your act. Time to take a bow and call it quits, hmm?”

Radiant’s eyes narrow, her pride clearly warring with her sense of self-preservation. Finally, with a heavy exhale, her horn dims, and she raises a hoof.

“I surrender,” she says, her voice strained but clear.

The referee steps forward immediately, raising her hoof. “Winner: Kinetic Flux!”

The crowd erupts into a mix of cheers and murmurs, the tension giving way to an uncertain excitement. I release the pebbles, letting them fall harmlessly to the arena floor as I step back, my chest heaving slightly from the exertion.

Radiant Glow shoots me a sharp look as she walks past, her pride clearly bruised. “You’re good,” she mutters, her voice low enough that only I can hear. “But your luck won't hold out next time.”

The roar of the crowd is deafening as the referee declares me the winner. I step back, sweat dripping down my face as the weight of the tournament begins to sink in. It’s over. I’ve won. The tension that’s been my constant companion throughout these trials begins to fade, replaced by an odd mix of relief and unease.

Radiant Glow strides off the arena floor, her head held high despite her defeat. Her parting words linger in my mind, but I push them aside. This wasn’t about pride—it was about survival, about proving myself. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

As I glance toward the judges’ booth, expecting some semblance of acknowledgment or approval, my chest tightens. They’re not cheering, not even clapping. Instead, they’re conferring quietly, their expressions grim and serious.

Sunny sits with her serene mask firmly in place, but her eyes betray her disappointment. Stonehoof looks outright irritated, his thick brows drawn together as he gestures emphatically. Ivory Quill’s sharp gaze is fixed on me, her lips pressed into a thin line. Even Zuri, usually calm and measured, wears a faint frown, her head tilted in thought.

The stark contrast between the crowd’s celebration and the judges’ somber demeanor makes my stomach churn.

I step off the arena floor, my movements automatic, and head back toward the waiting area. The noise of the crowd fades as I sit down, my legs heavy, my mind racing. The weight of their judgment presses down on me harder than I’d expected.

Had I gone too far?

Glyph’s terror-stricken face flashes in my mind, followed by the image of Brimstone clutching his ears in agony. I hadn’t meant to harm anyone. But intentions don’t always align with outcomes, do they?

The moments after the final match pass in a blur. When I’m called to the podium to accept the victory laurels, the applause feels hollow, as though it’s meant for someone else. The judges approach, their expressions still dark, and the crowd’s cheers taper off as the mood shifts.

Sunny Smiles steps forward first, her voice calm but edged with a seriousness that feels foreign from her usual tone. “Congratulations, Kinetic Flux. Your ingenuity and strength have secured your victory. But…”

The word hangs in the air, heavy with implication.

Stonehoof crosses his forelegs, his gruff voice cutting through the silence. “You were reckless. That pebble of yours could’ve hurt somepony in the audience if the safeguards hadn’t kicked in.”

Ivory Quill’s sharp voice follows. “Your treatment of Verdant Glyph was unnecessary. Cruel, even. Intimidation is one thing, but making a fellow unicorn believe he's been sent to Tartarus? That goes beyond the spirit of this competition.”

Zuri nods, her tone softer but no less firm. “Your talent is undeniable, but your methods… they lack discipline. Magic is a tool, Kinetic Flux. A dangerous one. Wield it without care, and you risk becoming a danger yourself.”

I clench my jaw, keeping my face neutral. Inside, though, the words cut deep. I didn’t mean for things to get out of hand. I was just trying to give it my all. Is that such a crime? I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like an excuse, so I stay silent.

Sunny tilts her head slightly, her expression softening. “You have great potential, Kinetic Flux. But potential is only as valuable as the choices you make. Consider today not just a victory, but a lesson.”

I nod slowly, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I… understand.”

The crowd’s murmurs fade as Sunny steps forward, her presence commanding even in her assumed guise. Her serene smile is gone, replaced with an air of gravitas that makes the weight of her next words even heavier.

“While your victory in the tournament is undeniable, Kinetic Flux, the path of an Archmage is not determined by strength alone,” she says, her voice carrying over the stillness. “Discipline, restraint, and wisdom are equally vital. And it is in these areas that we must still see your potential.”

Her words sting, even though I can’t argue against them. I remain silent, waiting for her to continue.

Stonehoof steps forward next, his gruff voice filling the air. “So here’s the deal. One last test. One last chance to prove you’ve got what it takes to be more than just raw power.”

I look up at Stonehoof, his steely gaze boring into me. He gestures for me to follow, his tone carrying no room for argument. “Come with us.”

The judges lead me out of the arena, away from the lingering murmurs of the crowd. The hallways of the colosseum grow quieter with every step, the echoes of our hooves on the stone floor the only sound. After a few turns, we arrive at a massive, heavy door flanked by two royal guards.

Stonehoof gestures for the guards to open it, and the runes shimmer faintly as the doors creak inward, revealing a large, dimly lit chamber. The room is stark, its only illumination coming from faintly glowing orbs along the walls. Inside, tables and shelves are lined with materials: steel, iron, wood, rope, crystals, enchanted metals, and even a few seemingly mundane items like chalk and parchment.

In the center of the room stands a metal pull door. Unlike the entrance, this one radiates an almost oppressive aura. Its surface is blank, lacking the runes the other door had.

Sunny steps forward, her voice calm but firm. “This is your final test, Kinetic Flux. Before you stands a door that has been enchanted to be impervious to nearly every spell and force we could devise. Your task is simple: open it.”

“Simple,” I echo under my breath, my tone dripping with irony.

Sunny’s gaze sharpens slightly, but she doesn’t respond. Instead, she gestures to the room. “You may use anything within these walls. There are no rules, save for one: you may not leave this room. Doing so will end the test, and you will fail.”

Stonehoof steps up beside her, his gruff tone filling the chamber. “We’ll be watching. No hints, no help. Show us what you’ve got.”

Zuri and Ivory Quill remain silent, their eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. It’s clear they’re here to judge not just my abilities but my approach. Every move I make will be scrutinized.

I take a deep breath, stepping into the room. The door behind me closes with a heavy thud, the sound echoing ominously. The judges follow, taking up positions near the walls to observe.

I turn my attention to the enchanted door.

Great. This is going to be fun.

I glance around the room, taking stock of the materials. Steel and iron loops catch my eye first, along with a small anvil and a set of basic forging tools. On another table, I see crystals humming faintly with stored magic. There’s wood, rope, chalk, parchment—everything a unicorn might need for crafting or experimenting. The sheer variety is overwhelming, but I know I need to focus.

First, I test the door’s limits. I try a simple telekinetic pull, but the door absorbs the force effortlessly.

The judges remain silent, their gazes heavy on my back. I can feel their scrutiny, their expectation.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself as I grab a piece of chalk from one of the tables. The simple material feels familiar in my magic, grounding me amidst the storm of thoughts racing through my mind. Grinding the chalk into a fine powder with my telekinesis, I refill my chalk bag. Truthfully I dont think I'll use it, but I wanted it so I took it.

The door looms in front of me, its stillness practically daring me to try something unconventional. I focus on the air around the door, my horn glowing faintly as I vibrate the particles, generating an intense friction that heats the surface. The door remains unchanged.

Good. Let’s see how it handles the opposite extreme.

Without hesitation, I reverse the process, forcing the air particles to slow and lose energy, rapidly freezing the surface. Frost crawls across the middle of the door. The door begins to creak under the temperature shift. A faint crackling sound echoes through the chamber, and I allow myself a flicker of hope. It’s working.

I press on, amplifying the vibration and freeze cycle, alternating between the two in rapid succession to stress the material further. Small fractures form along the surface of the door. The cracks widen, and the sound of warping metal fills the room.

But then, as suddenly as they appeared, the fractures vanish. The door shines brilliantly, and the cracks knit themselves back together with a smooth, almost fluid motion. It’s as if the door simply rewound time, undoing the damage entirely.

I stagger back, my chest heaving. The door stands as pristine as ever, its surface once again unmarred. I glance at the judges, expecting some reaction, but their faces remain impassive. Not a word, not even a raised eyebrow. They’re giving me nothing.

Frustration claws at me, but I shove it down. They’re testing me, waiting to see what I’ll try next. Fine. Let’s give them something worth watching.

I turn back to the door, my gaze narrowing as I reach into my chalk bag. Pulling out a small pebble I’d previously compressed, I hold it aloft in my telekinesis, feeling the dense weight of its potential. This spell has never failed me before, and if there’s even a sliver of hope that brute force might crack this thing open, I’ll take it.

“Step back,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at the judges. My voice is calm, steady, but it carries the weight of a warning.

They don’t move, nor do they react in any visible way. Stonehoof’s stony expression remains unchanged, Zuri watches me with her serene yet calculating gaze, and Ivory Quill’s sharp eyes remain fixed on the door. Sunny Smiles—Celestia—stands still, her serene demeanor as impenetrable as the door itself.

Ignoring their silence, I turn back to the task at hoof. The hum of vibrating air grows louder, the tension in in the room thick as I align the shot. With one final push, I release the pebble.

The air cracks like a whip as the pebble shoots toward the door at an incredible velocity, the force of its movement creating a faint ripple in the air. But as it reaches the door, something unexpected happens. Instead of shattering the surface or even leaving a mark, the pebble vanishes. Gone. No impact, no sound. Just… nothing.

For a moment, I think I see a faint flicker of light out of the corner of my eye, coming from where the judges are standing. My head snaps toward them, but they’re exactly as they were—still, silent, watching. No one has moved.

I turn back to the door, my mind racing. Whatever this thing is, brute force isn’t going to cut it. Fine. If I can’t break it, I’ll try something else. Something more… unconventional.

My gaze sweeps over the materials in the room, finally landing on some iron loops. An idea sparks—one I’d been toying with before but dismissed as impractical. It’s time to see if I can turn theory into practice.

Grabbing one of the iron loops with my magic, I lift it into the air, focusing intently as I begin to work. Using telekinesis, I manipulate the electrons within the iron, forcing them to move. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my horn begins to ache as I pour more energy into the task.

Minutes drag by, but eventually, I feel the shift. The loop begins to hum faintly, a subtle vibration coursing through it as the magnetic field strengthens. It’s crude and not nearly as efficient as it could be, but it’s enough. I push harder, amplifying the field until the pull is unmistakable. The magnet is strong now—strong enough to tug at the heavy enchanted door.

I aim the magnetic field toward the door, keeping it just off the surface. At first, nothing happens. But then, with a groaning creak, the door begins to shift. The door flares brighter, but the magnet’s pull doesn’t relent. I spare a look at the judges.

The judges exchange glances, their previously unreadable expressions betraying a flicker of unease. Ivory Quill’s sharp eyes narrow, her lips pressing into a thin line. Stonehoof’s usual scowl deepens, and even Zuri tilts her head slightly, her calm demeanor wavering.

The door groans louder, moving incrementally under the strain. My chest tightens with effort as I push the magnet to its limit, the energy required becoming almost unbearable. But then, with a shuddering heave, the door moves further—just enough to reveal a sliver of the space beyond.

I glance back at the judges, expecting them to intervene or give some reaction. Sunny Smiles remains stoic, but there’s a tension in her posture that wasn’t there before. Ivory Quill looks downright nervous, her hoof twitching faintly as if resisting the urge to step forward.

Before I can process their reactions fully, I look back at the door—and freeze.

The door is closed again. Not just closed—sealed. The mechanisms untouched, as if the last few moments hadn’t happened at all. The space itself feels… off, like the air has shifted subtly. It’s as if reality itself adjusted, undoing my progress.

I pull back and release the magnet, my horn dimming as the iron clatters to the floor. My breath comes in sharp gasps, exhaustion pulling at me as I stagger back. The door remains unyielding, its surface unchanged.

My mana is running low.

From behind me, I hear a faint sound—a sigh of relief. I glance back to see Ivory Quill exhaling softly, her shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

What the hell is going on? Why would she be relieved? What are they not telling me?

The room falls silent again, the door standing as resolute as ever. My mind churns with frustration and confusion, but one thing is clear: this test is more than just about opening the door. Something else is at play here, and I’m running out of ideas.

I stand there, staring at the door that seems to defy every effort I’ve thrown at it. My breathing steadies as I take a step back, letting the silence of the room settle over me. My horn aches from overuse, and my thoughts feel scattered, like puzzle pieces scattered across a table. But one thing sticks in my mind—the judges’ reactions.

They’re not just observing. They’re involved.

Ivory Quill’s sigh of relief, the faint flicker of light I caught earlier, the unease when the door moved—it all adds up. My gaze drifts to them, standing impassively along the walls. Each of them is watching me closely, their expressions carefully neutral. Too neutral.

It’s not just the door I need to solve. It’s the situation.

I close my eyes, letting the events of the test play back in my mind. The seemingly impossible door, how the test is meant to show I'm not just all magic muscle, the unspoken hints in their behavior, the fact that they, too, are within this sealed room. None of it makes sense until I look at it from a different angle. If the test is just about opening the door, then why are they in here with me? Unless…

The realization hits me like a bolt of lightning. They’re keeping the door closed. The test isn’t about breaking the enchantments. It’s about something else entirely.

Friendship.

The word feels foreign, almost laughable, given the intensity of everything leading up to this moment. But as I glance back at the judges, their calm, expectant faces, it starts to make sense. The lessons from the tournament, the way they emphasized discipline, restraint, and being more than just a force of nature—it was all building to this.

I take a deep breath, turning fully to face them. My voice is calm, measured, as I ask the question I’ve been dreading.

“Would you mind opening the door, please?”

The silence that follows is deafening. For a moment, none of them move, and I wonder if I’ve miscalculated. But then, slowly, Sunny steps forward, her serene expression breaking into a warm, genuine smile.

“Of course, Kinetic Flux,” she says, her voice carrying a note of approval. “All you needed to do was ask.”

The glow of her horn is soft, almost gentle, as she casts a spell. The door shimmers, and with a quiet creak, the door swings open, revealing a simple corridor bathed in soft, golden light.

The other judges step forward, their expressions more relaxed now. Ivory Quill smiles faintly, her sharp features softening. “Magic is a powerful tool,” she says, her tone carrying a hint of satisfaction. “But it is not the only tool. Wisdom lies in knowing when to use it—and when to rely on others.”

Stonehoof grunts, crossing his forelegs as he nods. “A lesson a lot of mages forget. You can’t always brute force your way through life.”

Zuri steps closer, her calm gaze meeting mine. “Strength and intelligence are vital, but humility and trust are just as important. You have shown all four today.”

I look at them, a mix of relief and frustration swirling in my chest. “So this whole thing… it wasn’t about opening the door at all, was it?”

Sunny Smiles shakes her head, her smile widening. “The door was a metaphor, Kinetic Flux. A reflection of the challenges you will face as an Archmage. Some problems cannot be solved with power alone. The people around you are just as important as the spells you cast.”

I stand there, letting the weight of their words settle over me. The idea of friendship as the key to the test still feels a little… contrived.

Sunny Smiles steps forward, her regal composure now undeniable. Her magic flashes briefly, and her disguise melts away, revealing her true form. She regards my lack of surprise with a calm, knowing expression, as though she'd expected it all along.

Celestia gestures toward the now-open door. “Shall we?”

The judges step aside, motioning for me to walk through. The corridor beyond glows softly, the golden light almost inviting. I steel myself and step forward, the judges following close behind.

As we move, the light grows brighter, the hum of the crowd outside growing louder. The path opens into the colosseum once more, and the cheers of the audience explode around me. I blink against the sudden brightness, the sound washing over me like a wave. The arena is packed, every seat filled, and the energy is electric.

“Ponies of Equestria,” she calls out, her voice amplified but still serene. “Today, we gather not just to witness strength, skill, and ingenuity, but to celebrate the values that define us as a kingdom: wisdom, courage, and the ability to connect with one another. Kinetic Flux has demonstrated these qualities, proving himself worthy of the title of Archmage.”

The crowd’s applause feels almost surreal. I force a calm smile, though my chest feels tight. As I step forward, Celestia nods, her horn glowing as a golden laurel appears in the air before her.

“With this, I formally appoint you, Kinetic Flux, to the rank of Archmage,” she says, her voice ringing with authority. The laurel lowers gently onto my head, and the crowd roars their approval.

The spotlight is on me now, and I can’t resist the call of the crowd. Bowing deeply, I sweep my hoof theatrically across my chest. “Thank you, thank you,” I say, my voice carrying just the right amount of playful arrogance. “I humbly accept this honor… though, between us, I did have a suspicion I was destined for greatness.”

A ripple of laughter moves through the crowd, cutting through the overwhelming noise. Even Celestia raises an eyebrow, her serene smile showing a hint of amusement.

“But of course,” I continue, straightening up, “such achievements are never reached alone. My thanks to the judges for their… illuminating lessons and to my fellow competitors for the, ah, spirited competition.”

More laughter, more cheers. It feels oddly comforting, leaning into the performance, turning the focus away from the weight of what just happened.

Celestia nods approvingly as I turn back to the judges. Their expressions range from mild amusement to begrudging approval. Even Ivory Quill, sharp as ever, seems to be holding back a smirk.

As I look out over the crowd, the cheers washing over me, one thought lingers in the back of my mind.

What now?

The moment feels like it should be triumphant, but my chest tightens as Celestia steps closer, her serene gaze sharp and unyielding. She gestures to one of the attendants, who brings forward a small scroll, its edges trimmed with gold and bearing her royal seal.

“Kinetic Flux,” she begins, her voice calm but carrying that unmistakable authority that makes every word land like a decree. “As tradition dictates, a unicorn Archmage of Equestria must demonstrate mastery over the Flarebound Missive spell—an essential tool for direct communication with the crown.”

The crowd falls silent, their collective gaze drilling into me. I force a smile, tilting my head in a show of casual curiosity as I accept the scroll with my telekinesis.

Shit.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” I reply smoothly, unrolling the scroll and scanning its contents. My stomach knots as I read.

"Scriptum volat, caelum secat,
Verbum meum longe vehat.
Igne sacro nunc feratur,
Ad destinatarium transitur.
Draconis flamma duce viam,
Mandatum perveniat iam."

The spell’s instructions are simple, deceptively so, yet completely alien to me. A mental chant in Latin, a relatively simple visualization pattern, and intent focused on establishing a magical link. It’s the kind of magic I’ve avoided my entire time in equestria. I’m painfully aware of my limits—telekinesis is all I’ve got. No chants, no patterns, no skill outside of brute manipulation of matter.

“Ah,” I say, clearing my throat. “A classic spell, no doubt. Though I must admit, I wasn’t aware it was part of the tradition for unicorns alone.”

Celestia’s smile doesn’t falter, but there’s a glint in her eyes. “Indeed. A long-standing tradition, one that demonstrates not only magical skill but also the Archmage’s commitment to maintaining communication and collaboration.”

I nod, rolling the scroll up with deliberate precision as I stall for time. “Naturally, naturally. A fine tradition, one that I’m honored to uphold.”

I pause, looking up at her with a carefully measured expression. “Though I must confess, Your Majesty, I wasn’t entirely prepared for this particular spell. You see, my training has always focused on, shall we say, practical applications. Combat spells, environmental manipulation… the kind of magic one might use in the field.”

Celestia’s expression softens, but only slightly. “The Flarebound Missive is practical, Kinetic Flux. Communication is a cornerstone of effective leadership, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course!” I say, forcing a laugh that sounds just a bit too loud to my ears. “Absolutely. Communication is vital. And I assure you, I am fully committed to learning this spell.”

“Excellent,” she replies, her voice carrying just enough warmth to feel like a trap. “You may proceed whenever you’re ready.”

I freeze for half a second, the crowd’s expectant silence pressing down on me like a physical weight.

“Well, the thing is,” I begin, rubbing the back of my neck with a hoof in what I hope comes across as endearing awkwardness, “it’s been a… taxing day. The tournament, the final test… my magical reserves are, shall we say, running on fumes. I’d hate to fumble such an important spell due to sheer exhaustion.”

Celestia raises an eyebrow, her smile tightening ever so slightly. “An understandable concern. However, I’ve observed you throughout the tournament, and your magical stamina appears… substantial.”

I laugh again, a strained sound that earns a few chuckles from the crowd. “Ah, well, appearances can be deceiving, Your Majesty. A bit of cleverness can go a long way in conserving energy, but even I have my limits.”

“Limits we’re eager to see you overcome,” she says smoothly, gesturing to the scroll. “The spell is straightforward enough for a unicorn of your… experience.”

The implication isn’t lost on me, and I’m painfully aware of how closely she’s watching, how the crowd’s silence is starting to feel like a noose tightening around my neck.

“Well, then,” I say, rolling the scroll open again and scanning its contents as if studying it intently. “A brief moment to gather my thoughts, if I may?”

Celestia inclines her head, her expression unreadable. “Take all the time you need.”

The problem is, I could have all the time in the world, and it wouldn’t matter. My mind races as I try to concoct a plausible excuse, a way out that doesn’t unravel everything I’ve built.

I unroll the scroll again, pretending to study its intricate diagrams and symbols with exaggerated care. Behind the façade, my mind works furiously. There’s no way out of this—not without a plan, not without a trick.

My focus casually drifts to one of the small pouches held to my side, the one filled with finely ground chalk powder. It’s a precaution I always carry, though I never expected to rely on it in front of the princess herself.

“Fascinating,” I murmur, pretending to examine the scroll’s arcane script. “You know, Your Majesty, spells like this remind me why magic is such a profound art. So many layers to it, so much… subtlety.”

Celestia’s serene smile doesn’t waver, but her gaze sharpens. She knows I’m stalling, but she isn’t calling me out—yet.

“Subtlety is indeed vital,” she says. “It is the mark of a true master.”

“Quite right,” I reply, nodding as I subtly tilt the scroll to shield my actions. With a flick of telekinesis, I unseal the pouch and coax out a thin stream of chalk dust, keeping it low and out of sight.

The crowd is still silent, the weight of their collective attention pressing down on me like a physical force. No pressure. None at all.

I hold the chalk dust just below the scroll, forming a near-invisible cloud. My telekinesis begins to oscillate it rapidly, creating the foundation for my favorite trick: the Doppler Illusion.

“Now then,” I announce, forcing a confident smile, “let’s give this a try, shall we?”

Celestia tilts her head slightly, her curiosity barely masked.

I close my eyes for effect, pretending to focus intently. The mental chant? Not happening. The visualization pattern? I couldn’t replicate it if my life depended on it. Instead, I concentrate on the chalk dust, oscillating it faster and faster, manipulating the light and air around it.

A faint green glow begins to shimmer at the edges of the scroll. The crowd murmurs, the sound a low wave of anticipation.

I let the glow intensify, the chalk particles scattering in a controlled burst that simulates the effect of the scroll catching fire. The illusion of green flames dances along the parchment, consuming it in an ethereal blaze.

The crowd gasps, and I hear Celestia’s sharp intake of breath.

“Remarkable,” I say, my voice calm and steady as the “burning” scroll begins to disintegrate in the air. With a precise flick of telekinesis, I make it vanish completely, simulating the teleportation effect I’ve seen Spike use countless times.

But I’m not done.

As the last of the “flames” flicker out, I make the scroll reappear in front of Celestia in a flash of green light—No longer a solid thing, but a series of vibrating particles. The scroll looks pristine, untouched, exactly as it was before.

The crowd erupts into cheers, but Celestia doesn’t reach for the scroll. Her eyes are locked on mine, sharp and searching.

“Well done,” she says, her tone light but laced with something unreadable.

I incline my head modestly, forcing a confident smile. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I’m glad the demonstration met your expectations.”

Celestia’s gaze lingers on me, and I feel a bead of sweat roll down the back of my neck. The crowd’s applause is deafening, but it does little to drown out the sound of my heartbeat hammering in my ears.

“I must admit,” she says slowly, her voice carrying an edge of curiosity, “your execution was… unconventional. I’ve seen the Flarebound Missive performed many times, but never quite like that.”

“Ah, well,” I say with a chuckle, waving a hoof as if brushing off a compliment, “unconventional is something of a specialty of mine. A bit of flair never hurts, wouldn’t you agree?”

Celestia’s lips curve into a faint smile, but her eyes remain sharp. “Indeed. Still, the spell seemed… different. It lacked the usual residual magical signature.”

My stomach flips, but I keep my face carefully neutral. “A side effect of my particular style, no doubt,” I say breezily. “You know how it is—every mage has their own… unique touch.”

Her smile doesn’t falter, but there’s a knowing glint in her eyes that sets my nerves on edge. “Unique, indeed. Tell me, Kinetic Flux, what inspired you to modify such a foundational spell?”

“Ah, inspiration is a fickle thing,” I reply, leaning into my act with all the confidence I can muster. “I suppose you could say I saw an opportunity to innovate. Magic is an art, after all—why not make it my own?”

“Why not, indeed,” Celestia murmurs, her gaze unwavering.

The scroll hovers between us, suspended in my telekinetic grip. I know better than to let her take it—it’s nothing more than compressed chalk and air, a fragile illusion that would shatter under the lightest touch. But the longer I hold onto it, the more suspicious she’ll become.

With a flick of my magic, I send the scroll spiraling into the air. It vanishes in a flash of green light, eliciting another round of cheers from the crowd.

“There,” I say, turning back to Celestia with a bright smile. “All accounted for. A seamless delivery, if I do say so myself.”

Her expression remains unreadable, but there’s a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth, as if she’s suppressing a smile—or perhaps a laugh. “Seamless, indeed.”

For a moment, we stand there, locked in a silent battle of wills. The crowd’s cheers begin to die down, their attention shifting as the announcer steps forward to address the audience.

“I must say,” Celestia continues, her voice low enough that only I can hear, “you’ve surprised me, Kinetic Flux. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but you’ve proven… resourceful.”

“High praise from the Princess of the Sun herself,” I reply, keeping my tone light. “I’m honored.”

Her gaze sharpens, and for a moment, I feel as though she can see right through me. “Resourcefulness is an admirable trait, but it’s not a substitute for honesty.”

My smile falters, just for an instant. “Honesty, Your Majesty?” I ask, feigning innocence.

“Honesty,” she repeats, her voice soft but firm. “A trait I value highly in those I place my trust in.”

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. I swallow hard, forcing myself to maintain my composure.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” I say, inclining my head. “Honesty is a virtue I hold in the highest regard.”

Her smile returns, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I hope so, Archmage. I truly do.”

And with that, she turns, leaving me standing in the center of the coliseum, the weight of her words pressing down on me like a lead cloak.

The crowd cheers again, but this time, it feels distant, almost hollow. As I bow and wave, my mind races with questions and doubts.

She knows.

Author's Note

plasma shield

Adjusted shield thickness (t_shield) = 0.015 m (1.5 cm)
Beam power (P_beam) = 10,000 W (10 kW)
Beam diameter (d_beam) = 0.1 m
Plasma temperature (T_plasma) = 5,000 K
Initial air temperature (T_initial) = 300 K
Air density (rho_air) = 1.225 kg/m^3
Specific heat capacity of air (c_air) = 1,005 J/(kg·K)
Energy required to ionize air (E_ionization) = 4.8 × 10^(-18) J per molecule
Molar mass of air (M_air) = 0.029 kg/mol
Avogadro's number (N_A) = 6.022 × 10^(23) molecules/mol
The beam is sustained for 1 second

Step 1: Calculate the shield volume
r_beam = d_beam / 2 = 0.1 / 2 = 0.05 m
V_shield = pi × (r_beam)^2 × t_shield
Use pi ≈ 3.14159
V_shield = 3.14159 × (0.05)^2 × 0.015
V_shield ≈ 1.18 × 10^(-4) m^3

Step 2: Calculate the mass of air in the shield
m_air = rho_air × V_shield
m_air = 1.225 × (1.18 × 10^(-4))
m_air ≈ 1.45 × 10^(-4) kg

Step 3: Calculate the energy to heat the air to 5,000 K
Q_heating = m_air × c_air × (T_plasma - T_initial)
T_initial = 300 K
Q_heating = (1.45 × 10^(-4)) × 1,005 × (5,000 - 300)
Q_heating ≈ 6.86 J

Step 4: Calculate the energy to ionize the air
n_air = m_air / M_air
n_air = (1.45 × 10^(-4)) / 0.029
n_air ≈ 5.00 × 10^(-3) mol

Molecules = n_air × N_A
Molecules = (5.00 × 10^(-3)) × (6.022 × 10^(23))
Molecules ≈ 3.01 × 10^(21)

Q_ionization = Molecules × E_ionization
Q_ionization = (3.01 × 10^(21)) × (4.8 × 10^(-18))
Q_ionization ≈ 14,448 J

Step 5: Total energy required to maintain the plasma shield
Q_total = Q_heating + Q_ionization
Q_total = 6.86 + 14,448
Q_total ≈ 14,455 J per second

By setting the shield thickness to 1.5 cm, maintaining the plasma shield requires approximately 14,455 J per second.

You've Got To Know When To Hold 'Em
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Applied Mathemagics

You've Got To Know When To Hold 'Em

As the crowd’s cheers continue to echo through the coliseum, I exit the arena. Immediately outside I see a grand royal carriage waiting just beyond the arena gates. It’s a polished masterpiece, adorned with golden filigree and pulled by four pristine white pegasi guards. Celestia waits patiently in front of the carriage, her serene expression unwavering. Her wings fold neatly at her sides as she gestures toward the carriage.

“Kinetic Flux,” she says, her voice warm and inviting, though I can’t help but detect an undercurrent of something sharper, “you’ve had quite a day. Allow me to escort you back to Canterlot. We have much to discuss.”

“Oh, Your Majesty,” I reply, forcing a laugh as I bow my head, “you’re too kind. But surely a humble stallion like myself doesn’t deserve such royal treatment. I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Nonsense,” she interrupts, her smile widening ever so slightly. “You are no longer simply a ‘humble stallion,’ Archmage. Besides, I insist. It would give us a chance to… reflect on today’s events.”

The way she says reflect makes my stomach turn. There’s no getting out of this, not without drawing even more suspicion. I nod with as much grace as I can muster, pasting on my best smile.

“Well, far be it from me to refuse the Princess of the Sun,” I say, trying to sound gracious rather than cornered. “It would be an honor to accompany you.”

“Wonderful,” she replies, her voice as smooth as silk. She gestures toward the carriage, and one of the guards opens the door with a respectful bow.

I climb inside, doing my best to keep my movements casual despite the unease twisting in my gut. The interior of the carriage is just as opulent as the exterior, with plush cushions and intricate carvings along the walls. Celestia follows me in, her regal demeanor unshaken, and the door closes behind her with a soft click.

The carriage lurches forward, the hum of the crowd fading into the background as the pegasi pull us into the sky. I glance out the window, watching the coliseum grow smaller below us. The view should be breathtaking, but all I can focus on is the silent tension filling the carriage.

Celestia sits across from me, her posture relaxed, her expression one of pleasant interest. Yet her eyes—those sharp, piercing eyes—remain fixed on me, as though she’s studying every detail, every twitch of my face.

“You must be exhausted,” she says, breaking the silence. “The Archmage Examination is no small feat. Few have passed it with such… flair.”

I chuckle nervously, leaning back against the cushion. “Ah, yes, well… flair has always been something of a specialty of mine.”

“So I’ve noticed,” she replies, her tone light but laced with something unreadable. “Your choice of magic is certainly… unique. I imagine it’s a reflection of your background?”

I nod quickly, eager to steer the conversation away from dangerous territory. “Exactly, Your Majesty. My upbringing was… unconventional, you could say. It’s given me a different perspective on magic. Innovation through necessity, and all that.”

“Fascinating,” she says, leaning forward slightly. “Tell me, Kinetic, where did you study? I don’t believe I’ve heard you mention it before.”

Of course she’d ask that. My mind races as I cobble together an answer. “Oh, here and there,” I say vaguely, waving a hoof. “I’ve always been something of a wanderer, picking up knowledge wherever I could find it. Books, mentors, field experience… the world is a classroom, after all.”

“A classroom,” she echoes, her smile widening just enough to set me on edge. “How poetic. And yet, your methods seem far removed from traditional unicorn spellcraft. It’s almost as though your magic operates on an entirely different principle.”

My throat tightens, but I force a casual laugh. “Ah, well, as I said, innovation through necessity. I’ve always found traditional methods to be a bit… restrictive. Why follow a rigid formula when you can adapt and improvise?”

“Why indeed,” Celestia murmurs, her gaze never leaving mine.

The carriage sways gently as it soars through the sky, the rhythmic flapping of the pegasi’s wings the only sound filling the tense silence. Celestia’s gaze remains fixed on me, and I fight the urge to look away, knowing that any sign of nervousness could unravel my carefully maintained façade.

She finally speaks, her voice calm yet probing, “I was particularly impressed by your performance during the duel with Radiant Glow. That spell you used to block her magic beams… I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“Oh, that?” I say, forcing a chuckle. “Just a little trick I picked up along the way. It’s nothing too complicated, really—just a matter of redirecting energy. You know how it is.”

Her brow arcs slightly. “Redirecting energy? Most unicorns would describe a shield spell as an act of willpower, creating a magical barrier through focus and intent. But you… interfered with the beams themselves.”

“Ah, yes, well…” I wave a hoof nonchalantly, as though the intricacies of my ‘magic’ were hardly worth discussing. Inside, my brain screams at me to think faster. “I suppose you could call it a shield, in a sense. Just… a different interpretation of one.”

Celestia tilts her head, her gaze unrelenting. “A different interpretation indeed. You manipulated the beams themselves, almost as if you… understood their nature.”

Her choice of words feels like a blade pressed to my throat. Ponies don't have the vocabulary for things like interference patterns, let alone the physics behind light and energy. If I explain too much, I risk sounding nonsensical—or worse, revealing myself.

“Oh, Your Majesty,” I say, forcing a warm laugh and leaning back in my seat. “It’s really not as complicated as it sounds. Sometimes, when faced with danger, you don’t think—you feel. You let instinct guide you. I suppose that’s what happened there.”

Her smile doesn't waver, but her eyes grow sharper, more curious. “Instinct can be a powerful force. Yet what I saw in your duel with Verdant Glyph was… less instinctual and more calculated. The way you wrapped that illusion around his head… It was as if you were weaving a dream, trapping him in it with such precision. The last time I saw magic like that was—” She pauses, her expression softening, though the intensity of her gaze never wanes. “—Nightmare Moon herself, before her banishment.”

My stomach twists. Of all the comparisons she could have drawn, she picked the one that would paint me as either a prodigy or a heretic. I scramble for an answer, my mind working overtime to twist her suspicions into something innocuous.

“Well, I can assure you, Your Majesty,” I say, injecting as much humor into my tone as I dare, “I’m no Nightmare Moon. Just a humble Archmage with a knack for improvisation.”

Celestia’s expression doesn’t change, though I can see the gears turning behind her calm façade. “Improvisation,” she repeats. “That’s a generous word for something so… precise. Most illusion spells require intense focus and a deep lengthy chant. Yet you managed it in mere seconds, mid-duel. Fascinating.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it deep understanding,” I say quickly, waving a hoof as if dismissing the notion. “More like… intuition. I guess I just got lucky. Sometimes a flash of inspiration strikes at the right moment, and you have to run with it.”

Celestia chuckles softly, but it doesn't feel reassuring. “Luck can be an excellent ally,” she says, leaning forward slightly. “But such consistent success suggests more than just luck. Tell me, Kinetic Flux, when you create these… innovations of yours, do you ever feel as though you’re discovering something entirely new? Something beyond the reach of traditional spellcraft?”

The question hits me like a lightning bolt. She isn't just probing—she's testing me. I force a casual shrug, though my heart is pounding. “I wouldn’t say beyond traditional spellcraft. More like… taking what’s already there and looking at it from a different angle. Sometimes the old ways just need a fresh perspective, wouldn’t you agree?”

Her smile widens, but her eyes don’t soften. “A fresh perspective. Yes, I suppose that’s one way to describe it. You must have spent years refining your techniques, studying these… alternative approaches.”

“Years,” I echo, nodding emphatically. “Oh, absolutely. Countless late nights and trial-and-error. It’s been quite the journey.”

“And yet,” she says, her voice dipping into something almost playful, “...there seems to be no record of this journey,” Celestia finishes, her tone as light as a feather but cutting deeper than any blade. “In fact, when I looked into your history, I found… nothing.”

The word hangs in the air, suffocating and heavy. My mouth goes dry, and I stare at her, struggling to maintain the mask of confidence that has already begun to crack.

“No birth records. No documentation. No mentions in census data or town registries,” she continued, her gaze never leaving mine. “No friends, no family, no sightings—at least, not until two weeks ago, when you arrived in Ponyville.”

I swallow hard, my throat tightening as panic begin to claw its way to the surface. The implications of her words slam into me like a freight train. No records mean I'm not a recognized citizen of Equestria. And that meant…

Fines. Banishment. Imprisonment. Repayment of every bit I’d earned, every bit I’d spent. My H.A.R.D.I.S.—the enchanted mage’s house I’d just started to settle into—would be stripped away. I’d be left with nothing, tossed out of the only sanctuary I’d managed to carve for myself in this world.

And Celestia—Celestia, the all-seeing, all-knowing ruler of Equestria—had figured it out.

“Your Majesty,” I stammer, a bead of sweat trickling down my temple, “I—I understand how this must look, but there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

“Is there?” she asked, tilting her head ever so slightly. Her serene expression betrays none of the sharp intellect that lurks behind it, dissecting me with every word.

“Yes, of course,” I say quickly, forcing a weak smile. “You see, my homeland is… remote. Small. Very small. It’s… not uncommon for records to, well, be lost. Entirely due to… local issues. Fires, floods, you know how it is.”

Celestia raises an eyebrow. “I see. And the name of this homeland?”

I blink, my mind scrambling for an answer. “It’s, uh, the—um, the Village of—of…”

Her silence stretches on, suffocating, as her gaze bores into me like a drill. “Go on.”

“The—Village of Westridge!” I blurt, grasping at straws. “Yes, Westridge! Far to the west, beyond the—”

“There is no Westridge,” Celestia interrupts smoothly, her voice gentle but unyielding. “I’ve traveled this world for centuries, and no such place exists. Try again.”

The room feels smaller, the walls closing in as my mind scrambles for another excuse. “Westridge is… a hidden kingdom! Yes! Shielded by ancient magic—”

“Magic that even I cannot sense?” she interrupts again, her tone still maddeningly calm. “Tell me, then, how you managed to cross the protective barrier.”

I open my mouth, then close it again, the words withering under her gaze. “I—I’m afraid it’s… a secret. Sworn to secrecy, you know how it is.”

Her smile deepenes, almost imperceptibly. “How convenient.”

Each excuse I conjure only seemes to draw her closer to the truth, her words a scalpel peeling away the flimsy facade I’d wrapped myself in. My pulse thunders in my ears, and my breathing grew shallow. I'm running out of lies—and time.

“Perhaps,” she says, leaning forward slightly, “we should begin again. This time, with the truth.”

I feel my eyes start to burn, the weight of everything threatening to pull me under. My mind races, searching desperately for an escape, a loophole, a way to explain the unexplainable.

“I… I don’t…” My voice crackes, and I cursed myself for the weakness. My vision blurs, and before I can stop them, oversized tears spill down my cheeks. “I didn’t mean—”

Celestia’s expression softens, her regal composure faltering as she leans forward. “Kinetic Flux…”

“No!” I blurt, my words tumbling out in a panicked rush. “I’m not—whatever you think, I’m not— I just… I just wanted a chance!” My voice breaks again, raw and trembling. “I didn’t have anything before, and when I got here, it all seemed so… so perfect.”

The tears come faster now, and I can't hold them back. The weight of my fears, my lies, everything I’ve built crashing down on me, is too much to bear. I look away, unable to meet her gaze, ashamed of how small and helpless I feel.

Celestia’s hoof moves, as though she's about to reach for me, but she hesitates. Her serene mask is gone, replaced by something almost… human. Concern. Guilt. She hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected me to crumble.

“Kinetic,” she says softly, her voice no longer the probing tone of a ruler, but something gentler. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I swear I wasn’t trying to trick anypony,” I interrupt, my words coming out in a jumbled mess. “I just wanted a place where I could be… something. Where I could matter. I didn’t think… I didn’t think it would come to this.” My voice breaks again, and I bury my face in my hooves, shaking with the weight of everything I’ve held in. The lies, the fears, the desperation—it all spills out in a torrent of tears and half-formed words.

Celestia is silent for a moment, the air in the carriage heavy and still. When she speaks, her voice is quieter than I’ve ever heard it. “Kinetic… I didn’t realize…” She trails off, her words faltering as though she’s unsure how to continue.

I don’t look at her. I can’t. Instead, I press my hooves tighter against my face, my tears soaking into the soft fur of my coat. “I thought… if I did a good enough job, if I worked hard enough… if I was good enough…” I choke on the words, my chest heaving. “I thought it would be okay. That nopony would notice. That nopony would care.”

“Kinetic…” Her voice is closer now, and I feel the faintest touch of her hoof on my shoulder. It’s a gentle gesture, but it makes me flinch, the shame and fear too overwhelming to bear.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the words trembling as they escape me. “I didn’t mean to… to lie, or deceive, or—” My voice cracks again, and I can’t finish the sentence. “I just wanted a home.”

The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating. I feel her hoof linger for a moment before she pulls it away, the absence of it somehow even heavier.

“Kinetic Flux,” she says finally, her tone softer than I’ve ever heard it. “I… I didn’t know. I didn’t understand how much you were carrying.” She pauses, and I hear the faint rustle of her shifting in her seat. “You’ve worked so hard, haven’t you? To prove yourself. To belong.”

I nod weakly, unable to trust my voice.

“And you’ve done so much good,” she continues, her voice filled with something that almost sounds like regret. “You’ve helped ponies. You’ve shown courage and ingenuity, even in the face of impossible challenges.”

“I just wanted to matter,” I murmur, my voice barely audible. “To be someone worth… keeping.”

Celestia’s breath catches, just barely, but I hear it. Her silence feels heavy. She lowers her head slightly, meeting my gaze even though I can barely bring myself to look up.

“Kinetic,” she says softly, her voice trembling at the edges, “you are someone worth keeping. I see that now. I should have seen it sooner.”

The tears don’t stop. They fall faster, soaking my fur as I shake my head weakly. “But I’m not… I’m not even supposed to be here. I don’t belong. You’ll take everything—my house, my title, everything I’ve worked for—and I’ll have nothing. I’ll be nothing.”

Celestia leans closer, her gentle presence filling the space between us. “No,” she says firmly, the word carrying a surprising weight. “That’s not true. You do belong. You’ve proven that with every step you’ve taken, every obstacle you’ve overcome. Ponyville—Equestria—needs ponies like you.”

I sniffle, struggling to believe her. “But the laws… the fines… the banishment…” My voice wavers, and I feel the panic clawing at my chest again. “I can’t—”

Celestia’s hoof touches my shoulder again, firmer this time, grounding me. Her voice is steady, though there’s a faint tremor beneath the calm. “Kinetic, listen to me. None of that will happen. I won’t let it. I promise you, as Princess of Equestria.”

I finally look up at her, my tear-blurred vision meeting her eyes. For a moment, I expect to see judgment, or disappointment, or even pity. But instead, there’s something I don’t expect: regret. She looks at me as if she’s the one who’s done something wrong.

“I didn’t mean to push you like this,” she says softly. “I… I just wanted to understand you. You’re so unlike anypony I’ve met before. Your magic, your mind, the way you approach problems—it’s all so different. And…” She hesitates, her cheeks coloring faintly, a rare crack in her regal composure. “If I’m being honest, I… enjoyed matching wits with you.”

My ears perk up slightly, the words catching me off guard. “You… what?”

Celestia lets out a soft sigh, her gaze dropping briefly before meeting mine again. “It’s rare for me to encounter someone who challenges me, Kinetic. Not as a ruler, but as… a pony. Everypony I meet either defers to me or tries to impress me. But you… you make me think. You make me work to keep up.” She chuckles lightly, though there’s no mockery in it. “Do you know how long it’s been since somepony did that?”

I blink, my tears slowing as her words sink in. “I… I didn’t realize…”

She smiles, but it’s tinged with sadness. “Of course you didn’t. I never gave you a chance to. Instead, I prodded and pushed and tested you, all because I wanted to see what you would do. I thought it was harmless, just… curiosity. But I didn’t stop to think how it might feel from your perspective.”

Her words sink in slowly, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The warmth in her tone feels genuine, and for the first time in what feels like hours, the tight knot of fear in my chest begins to loosen. I sniffle, wiping my face with a hoof, trying to pull myself together.

“I just… didn’t want to mess it all up,” I admit, my voice still shaky. “I thought if I made one mistake, if you figured out I wasn’t like the others… everything I’ve worked for would be gone.”

Celestia shakes her head gently, her mane shimmering like a living aurora. “You’re not like the others, Kinetic. And that’s not a flaw—it’s a gift. Your creativity, your perspective, your resilience… those are what make you extraordinary. Not the spells you cast or the titles you hold.”

I can’t quite meet her eyes, but her words do help, even if the lingering shame and doubt haven’t fully left me. “But I’m not like the other unicorns,” I murmur. “I can’t chant spells. I can’t even… I don’t know Lat-er, Ancient Equestrian! I just fake it.”

Celestia blinks, her serene composure cracking as genuine confusion floods her expression. “What?” she asks, her voice rising just slightly. “You don’t know how to cast spells?”

I sniffle again, the weight of the admission making my ears droop further. “No,” I whisper. “I don’t know any of it. I can’t chant spells, I don't visualize patterns. I can’t… I can’t do magic the way other unicorns do. Everything I’ve done—it’s just tricks. Physics and telekinesis. That’s all I have.”

Her mouth opens, but no words come out at first. She looks at me as though I’ve just told her the sky isn’t blue, her regal demeanor replaced by raw, unfiltered surprise. “Physics?” she echoes, tilting her head. “What is… physics?”

“Exactly!” I burst out, tears streaming once more as I wave my hooves in frustration. “You don’t even know what it is! Nopony does! I can’t explain it without giving myself away, so I just make up spell names and pretend I know what I’m doing! I thought if I kept it up, if I made it convincing enough, you wouldn’t notice!” My voice cracks again, and I press my hooves to my face, sobbing.

Celestia leans back slightly, her face a mixture of confusion, realization, and something else—something softer. She starts to speak but is interrupted by the faint shift of the carriage as it lands.

The door opens, revealing the grand entrance to Canterlot Castle, its towering spires bathed in the warm hues of the setting sun. At the base of the steps stands Princess Luna, her midnight coat shimmering in the twilight. A warm smile spreads across her face as she approaches, clearly eager to greet us.

“Kinetic Flux!” Luna calls, her voice filled with excitement. “Our new Archmage returns triumphant! We are proud to call thee friend!” But her jubilant tone falters the moment she sees my tear-streaked face. Her smile vanishes, replaced by a sharp frown as her gaze snaps to Celestia. “Sister. What hast thou done?”

Celestia shifts uneasily under Luna’s glare, her wings twitching slightly as though she’s bracing herself. “Luna, it’s not—”

“Do not ‘Luna’ me,” she snaps, her voice like thunder, cutting Celestia off. Her teal eyes narrow as she steps closer, her focus entirely on her sister. “We left him in thy care, joyful and smug as always, and now he is weeping! Explain thyself, now.”

I sniffle, trying to wipe my face with my hoof as the situation spirals. “It’s not her fault,” I mumble, my voice weak and raw. “I just… I just—”

“Silence, Kinetic Flux,” Luna says, her tone softening as she looks at me. “We shall address thee in a moment, but first, our sister must answer for this.”

Celestia sighs, her usual composure faltering as she meets Luna’s fiery gaze. “I didn’t mean to upset him,” she says, her voice quieter than usual. “I asked questions, perhaps too many. I didn’t realize…” She glances at me, guilt flashing across her face. “I didn’t realize how much he’s been carrying.”

“Thou didst interrogate him,” Luna says sharply, her voice rising. “We see it plain as day! Thy curiosity hath overwhelmed thy sense! Dost thou not see he is fragile?”

“I didn’t think he was fragile,” Celestia counters, her tone tinged with frustration. “He’s always so confident, so… so aloof! I thought he would enjoy a challenge.”

Luna lets out a huff, her wings flaring slightly. “And yet here he stands, broken before thee! Thou hast pushed him too far, Celestia. It is unworthy of thee.”

I shuffle awkwardly, feeling like a foal caught between two arguing parents. “I’m not broken,” I say softly, though my trembling voice betrays me.

Luna’s attention snaps to me, and the fiery intensity in her gaze melts away in an instant. Her expression softens into something maternal, almost heartbreakingly tender. She steps closer, lowering her head to my level, her starry mane flowing around me like a comforting blanket.

“Oh, thou poor thing,” she says, her voice gentle and filled with emotion. “Look at thee, trembling and tear-streaked. Thou art no broken soul. Thou art merely overwhelmed by the cruelty of this moment.” She turns her head slightly, casting a pointed glare at Celestia. “A cruelty inflicted unnecessarily.”

“Luna…” Celestia begins, but her voice is soft, almost defeated.

Luna ignores her and focuses entirely on me, her wings spreading slightly as if shielding me from the world. “Come here, little one,” she coos, her tone so gentle it catches me completely off guard. “Thou hast carried so much alone, and we did not see it. We are sorry, Kinetic Flux. Truly, deeply sorry.”

I blink, my tears still falling but slower now, as Luna’s warmth and sincerity seep into the cracks of my crumbling composure. “I-I’m fine,” I stammer, though my voice wavers.

“Thou art not fine,” Luna says firmly, though there is no harshness in her tone. “Thou dost not need to be fine. We see now that thy aloofness, thy confidence, hides a heart burdened by far too much. Come closer, and let us comfort thee properly.”

Before I can protest, she wraps her wing around me, pulling me gently but firmly against her side. The gesture is surprisingly warm, her soft feathers muffling the sounds of the world around us.

I sit there, awkwardly pressed against Luna’s side, her wing holding me like some sort of oversized blanket. The warmth is nice, sure, but the intensity of her attention suddenly makes me acutely aware of everypony watching. My guilt and sadness start to ebb, replaced by a growing discomfort as I realize how much of a spectacle this has become.

“Uh… I-I think I’m good now,” I mumble, trying to squirm out from under her wing. “Really, I appreciate it, but—”

“Nonsense,” Luna interrupts, her tone still brimming with exaggerated tenderness. She tightens her wing’s hold slightly, keeping me firmly in place. “Thou art not ‘good.’ Thou art but a delicate flower, crushed by the weight of thy burdens. We shall hold thee until thy spirit is restored.”

I glance at Celestia for help, but she’s watching with an amused expression, her lips twitching like she’s trying not to laugh. Great. No help from her.

“Seriously, Luna, I’m fine,” I insist, my voice edging toward desperation. “I just need some space, and—”

“Space?” Luna gasps, feigning shock as she looks down at me. “Dost thou not enjoy the comforting embrace of the Night Princess? Truly, we are hurt by this rejection.”

I groan, my cheeks burning. “I’m not rejecting you, I just—”

She cuts me off again, her voice turning melodramatically mournful. “Alas! We have failed in our noble duty to bring solace to this poor, weary soul. Truly, we are unfit to rule if even our embrace is unwanted.”

I stop squirming, staring at her with a mix of disbelief and embarrassment. “You’re messing with me,” I accuse, narrowing my eyes.

Her lips curl into a sly smile, the hint of a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Perhaps,” she says, her tone light and teasing now. “But tell us, Kinetic Flux—dost thou feel less burdened than before?”

I pause, realizing with some annoyance that she’s right. The awkwardness and absurdity of the situation have completely chased away the storm of sadness and panic I’d been drowning in moments ago. I still feel embarrassed, but the weight on my chest is gone.

“Okay, fine,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “You win. I feel better. Happy now?”

Luna’s smile widens into something smug and triumphant. “Indeed, we are most pleased,” she declares, puffing out her chest with exaggerated pride. “Thou art fortunate to have received the tender ministrations of the Night. Few are so blessed.”

I groan, slumping against her wing. “Great. Lucky me.”

Celestia finally steps forward, her expression softer now, though there’s a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes. “Luna, perhaps you should release our Archmage before he melts into the floor from embarrassment.”

Luna sighs dramatically, as though letting me go is some great personal sacrifice. “Very well,” she says, folding her wing back and freeing me at last. “But only because we are merciful.”

I stand up, brushing myself off with a huff. “Thanks. I think.”

Celestia takes a step closer, her gaze warm but serious now. “Kinetic, you’ve had a long day—and an even longer evening. I think it’s time you got some rest.”

“I’m fine,” I protest, though my voice lacks conviction. In truth, I’m exhausted—mentally, emotionally, physically. The events of the day have left me drained, and the thought of a bed is starting to sound pretty appealing.

“You will rest,” Luna says firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. “And while thou dost slumber, we shall discuss how best to assist thee.”

I frown, a flicker of unease returning. “Discuss? What do you mean?”

Celestia places a reassuring hoof on my shoulder. “We won’t do anything without your input, Kinetic. But your… unique approach to magic is something we need to understand better. For your sake, and for Equestria’s.”

My ears droop slightly, but I nod. “Okay. Just… don’t make it a big deal, alright?”

Luna smirks, clearly unable to resist getting in one last remark. “Fear not, Kinetic Flux. Thou shalt be the subject of only minor intrigue and speculation. Mayhaps even a royal decree or two in thy honor.”

I groan, rolling my eyes. “Thanks for the reassurance, Princess.”

Luna chuckles softly, clearly satisfied, while Celestia gives her a disapproving look that barely conceals her amusement. “Enough, Luna. Let him rest.”

Celestia motions to a pair of guards standing nearby, who immediately step forward. “Escort Kinetic Flux to his chambers,” she instructs them, her tone gentle but firm. “Ensure he has everything he needs for the night.”

The guards nod, and one of them gestures for me to follow. I glance back at the princesses, feeling an odd mix of gratitude and lingering embarrassment. “Goodnight, Your Majesties,” I mumble, dipping my head before turning to follow the guards.

The halls of Canterlot Castle are quiet at this hour, the grand corridors bathed in the soft glow of moonlight streaming through stained glass windows. My hooves echo softly against the polished marble floors as the guards lead me through the labyrinthine halls.

As I walk, my thoughts drift to the events of the day—and the future. The title of Archmage, the recognition, the expectations. It’s overwhelming, to say the least, but one thought pushes through the noise in my mind.

A thousand bits a month.

The doubt creeps in again, and I shake my head, trying to push it aside. I can’t think like that. Celestia said she wouldn’t take anything away from me.

“We’re here,” one of the guards says, stopping in front of my room.

I step inside, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly at the familiar sight. “Thanks,” I mumble, turning to the guards.

The one who opened the door nods. “If you need anything, just call for us,” he says before stepping back and closing the door behind him.

Alone at last, I let out a long, shaky sigh and collapse onto the bed. The weight of the day presses down on me, but the softness of the mattress helps dull the edges. My thoughts swirl as I stare up at the ceiling, exhaustion pulling at me from all sides.

Tomorrow, I think, my eyes growing heavy. I’ll figure everything out tomorrow.

For now, sleep takes me.

The morning light filters through the tall windows of my room, casting a soft golden glow over the polished floors and plush furnishings. I wake slowly, the weight of yesterday’s events still lingering in the corners of my mind. For a moment, I lie there, staring at the intricate carvings on the ceiling, letting the quiet hum of the castle fill the room.

Well, I’m still here, I think, the realization both comforting and nerve-wracking. I push myself up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes before sliding out of bed. The soft rug beneath my hooves is a small luxury I still haven’t quite gotten used to, but it does help ground me as I move to the washbasin to freshen up.

The routine is simple—splash water on my face, brush my mane into something resembling order, and check myself in the mirror to make sure I look presentable. My reflection stares back at me, the same as always, but there’s a subtle difference in the way I hold myself.

After a final glance in the mirror, I straighten my posture and step out of my room. The castle is already bustling with activity, guards and staff moving with purpose as I make my way to the dining hall. The familiar scent of fresh bread and sweet pastries wafts through the air, guiding me toward the grand double doors.

As I push them open, I’m greeted by the sight of Princess Celestia and Princess Luna seated at the long dining table. The table is laden with an impressive array of breakfast foods—fluffy pancakes, golden waffles, fresh fruits, and steaming cups of tea and coffee.

Luna is the first to notice me, her face lighting up with a warm smile. “Ah, Kinetic Flux! Thou hast awoken. Come, join us!”

Celestia glances up from her plate, her expression much more subdued. Her usual serene demeanor is still there, but there’s a distinct tension in her eyes—a lingering guilt that wasn’t present the night before. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why.

“Good morning, Kinetic,” Celestia says softly, offering me a small smile. “I trust you slept well?”

I nod, taking a seat at the table across from them. “Yeah. Thanks for asking.”

Luna gestures grandly to the feast before us. “Eat, dear Archmage! Thou must replenish thy strength after such a trying day.”

I help myself to a plate, the scent of the food making my stomach growl. As I start piling pancakes and fruit onto my plate, I can’t help but notice the subtle tension between the sisters. Luna’s smug satisfaction is barely concealed, her gaze occasionally flicking to Celestia with an air of triumph. Celestia, meanwhile, looks like she’s been on the receiving end of a particularly stern lecture.

“So…” I say carefully, breaking the silence. “I take it you two had a… discussion last night?”

Luna chuckles, clearly pleased with herself. “Indeed we did! We made certain that our sister fully comprehended the error of her ways.”

Celestia sighs, setting her teacup down with a soft clink. “Luna has made her feelings abundantly clear,” she says, her tone measured but tinged with resignation. She looks at me, her expression earnest. “I truly am sorry, Kinetic. For everything. I let my curiosity and… enjoyment of our exchanges cloud my judgment. I didn’t mean to cause you distress.”

I nod slowly, swallowing a bite of pancake before replying. “I appreciate that. Really. I know you didn’t mean to… you know, push me that far. I just—” I pause, searching for the right words. “I’m not used to ponies looking that closely at me, I guess.”

Celestia gives me a small, understanding smile. “I will do better, Kinetic. I promise.”

Luna, clearly satisfied with this exchange, leans back in her chair with a contented hum. “Good. Then we may proceed to the matter at hoof: thy remarkable spells.”

I freeze mid-bite, the fork hovering just inches from my mouth. “My… spells?”

“Indeed,” Luna says, her eyes gleaming with interest. “Thou art no ordinary mage, Kinetic Flux. Thy methods may differ from the norm, but they are no less extraordinary. We would understand them better, that we might aid thee in perfecting them.”

Celestia nods, her tone gentler but equally curious. “You’ve achieved things that even the most seasoned mages would struggle with. If you’re willing, we’d like to learn more about your… unique approach.”

I glance between them, my appetite suddenly dampened by the weight of their attention. This is the moment I’ve been dreading—the moment where I have to explain my “magic” without revealing where it really comes from. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, setting my fork down.

“Well…” I begin hesitantly, “I guess the first thing you should know is… it’s not really magic. At least, not in the way you think of it.”

Luna leans forward, her interest clearly piqued. “Not magic? Pray, what dost thou mean?”

I scratch the back of my neck, trying to find the right words. “I mean… okay, so you know how unicorn magic usually works, right? Chants, visualizations—”

“And intent,” Celestia adds gently, her gaze steady.

“Right. All of that,” I say, nodding. “Well, I don’t do any of that. I… I can’t. What I use is just telekinesis, really. It’s the only magic I can actually cast.”

Luna tilts her head, her expression thoughtful. “Thou hast created illusions, shields, even powerful strikes. And yet, thou dost claim it is all telekinesis?”

I nod, my stomach twisting nervously. “Yeah. That’s where physics comes in.”

“Ah, yes, this ‘physics’ thou didst mention,” Luna says, leaning closer. “Speak plainly, for we are most intrigued.”

I let out a slow breath, my mind scrambling to condense years of knowledge into something they’ll understand. “Physics is… well, it’s kind of like the rules that govern the world around us. How things move, how energy works, how forces interact. It’s not magic, exactly—it’s… science.”

Celestia’s brow furrows slightly. “And how does this 'physics' help you do what you do?”

“It’s…” I trail off, trying to think of a good analogy. “Okay, imagine you have a ball on an incline, you let it go and it starts rolling down the hill. The ball moves because of something called gravity—a force that pulls things downward. That’s physics. Or imagine you’re pushing something heavy. You’re applying a force, and the object moves because of it. That’s physics too.”

Luna taps her hoof on the table, her gaze sharp. “We understand these concepts. They are… intuitive, though we hath not thought to name them thus. And thou usest these principles in thy spells?”

“Exactly,” I say, relieved she’s following so far. “When I made Radiant Glow’s magic beams bend—or stop, really—I wasn’t blocking them with a solid barrier. I was using telekinesis to manipulate the air in front of me, exciting it until it turned into plasma. Plasma is this superheated, ionized gas that scatters light and absorbs energy. By creating a layer of plasma, I could disrupt the beams. It’s a bit like how light scatters in a fog, but way more intense.”

Luna’s eyes widen slightly. “Fascinating. And thy illusions? Thy air shields?”

“Well, the illusions are kind of the same thing. I use telekinesis to move tiny particles, like dust or chalk, in a way that changes how they look relative to who's watching, creates images. The shields are just compressing air or other materials into a barrier. It’s… really just a lot of pushing and pulling.”

Celestia looks at me, her expression a mixture of curiosity and amazement. “And where did you learn this… physics? These rules of the world?”

I stiffen slightly, my nerves spiking. “Oh, uh… here and there,” I say vaguely, avoiding her gaze. “Books, mostly. A lot of trial and error. It’s just… something I figured out over time.”

Luna narrows her eyes, clearly catching my hesitation. “Must every word thou speakest be woven of falsehood?” she says, her voice firm but not unkind. “If thou hast such remarkable knowledge, why dost thou still cling to lies? What art thou hiding?”

I freeze, my heart racing. “I’m not hiding anything,” I say quickly, though the crack in my voice betrays me. “I just… I don’t like talking about it.”

Luna leans forward, her gaze unwavering. “We are not blind, Kinetic Flux. Thy evasions speak louder than thy words. If thou dost trust us, as thou hast claimed, then speak plainly. From whence dost thy knowledge truly come?”

Celestia remains quiet, her calm presence adding to the weight of the moment. She doesn’t press me, but her steady gaze makes it clear she’s just as curious as Luna.

“I…” My throat tightens, and I glance down at my plate, suddenly feeling very small under their scrutiny. “It’s not… I mean, it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” Luna prompts gently. “We have time, dear Archmage. Explain as thou canst.”

I take a shaky breath, my thoughts racing. I’ve kept this secret for so long, buried it under layers of deflection and misdirection. But now, with the two most powerful ponies in Equestria watching me, waiting for answers, I feel the walls I’ve built around it begin to crumble.

“You wouldn’t believe me,” I say softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Try us,” Celestia says gently, her tone encouraging but patient.

I swallow hard, my hooves trembling slightly as I grip the edge of the table. “I wasn’t always… this. A unicorn, I mean. I wasn’t even a pony.”

Luna tilts her head, her curiosity deepening. “Then what were thee?”

I close my eyes, the words catching in my throat. When I finally speak, my voice is shaky but steady enough to carry the truth I’ve been hiding. “I was… human.”

The room falls silent, the weight of my confession hanging in the air. I don’t dare look at them, too afraid of what I might see—confusion, disbelief, maybe even rejection.

“A human,” Luna repeats, tilting her head. Her voice carries a blend of curiosity and uncertainty. “We must confess, we are unfamiliar with this term. What is a human, Kinetic Flux?”

"A featherless biped,” I reply immediately.

Celestia tilts her head, curious but silent. I shake my head, chuckling quietly. “Okay, that’s a joke only I get. Humans are… different,” I begin cautiously. “We walk on two legs, not four. We don’t have fur, just hair on our heads and a little on our bodies. No wings, no horns, no magic. But we’re… clever. We use tools and build machines to do things we can’t do with our bodies.”

Luna’s brow furrows, her curiosity deepening. “No magic at all? How dost thy kind accomplish anything?”

“We have something else,” I say, my voice steadying as I find my footing in the explanation. “We have science—knowledge of how the world works. We study it, test it, and use it to create solutions. Machines, technology, even ideas like physics—it’s all about understanding and applying the rules of nature.”

Celestia leans forward slightly, her expression calm but focused. “So, the knowledge you’ve used here—your ‘physics’—comes from this… human world?”

I nod. “Yeah. It’s how we survived. We didn’t have wings to fly or magic to cast spells, so we figured out how to build planes to take us into the sky and machines to make life easier.”

Luna’s eyes widen, her curiosity deepening into something almost childlike. “Machines that allow flight without wings? Thy kind must have been remarkable indeed. These ‘planes’… how dost they work?”

I hesitate, scratching the back of my neck. “Uh… well, they’re complicated. They use engines that burn fuel to create thrust, and the wings are shaped in a way that lets air push them up. It’s all about manipulating forces like lift, drag, and gravity.”

Luna blinks, her gaze filled with awe. “Incredible. Thou hast achieved feats that rival even the greatest magical spells… without magic at all.”

“It’s not just me,” I say quickly, feeling a flush of embarrassment. “Humans, as a species, worked together over centuries to figure all this out. I just… studied it.”

Celestia tilts her head, her expression thoughtful. “Your kind’s ability to collaborate and innovate is impressive, Kinetic. But tell me—how did you come to be here, in Equestria? Surely such knowledge could not have been brought by mere chance.”

I shift uncomfortably, the question pulling at wounds I’d tried to bury. “I don’t know,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “One moment I was… there, in my world. Then I woke up here. Like this.” I gesture to my body, my ears drooping slightly. “No explanation, no warning. Just… here.”

Luna’s expression softens, the awe in her gaze giving way to concern. “And thou hast carried this alone since thy arrival?”

I nod, my eyes fixed on the table as a familiar ache wells up in my chest. “Yeah. I didn’t know who to tell or if anyone would even believe me. And what if they thought I was… dangerous? I thought it was safer to just keep it to myself and… figure things out on my own.”

Luna leans closer, her gaze full of sympathy. “Thou art no danger, Kinetic Flux, save perhaps to thine own peace of mind. To be torn from thy world, thy kind, and thrust into ours with naught but thy wits… it is a burden we would not wish upon anypony.”

Celestia’s voice is quieter, more contemplative. “And yet, you’ve persevered. You’ve adapted, learned, and even thrived in your own way. That speaks to a strength of character few possess.”

I glance up at her, surprised by the softness in her tone. “I didn’t really have a choice,” I say, a weak smile tugging at my lips. “It was either adapt or die.”

“Still,” Celestia says, “what you’ve done is extraordinary. Few would have the resilience to endure what you have, let alone excel.”

Luna nods, her expression firm. “Indeed. Thou art most remarkable, Kinetic Flux. Thy strength, thy ingenuity—it is no wonder thou hast risen to the rank of Archmage.”

I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head. “Archmage. Right. The ‘mage’ who can’t even cast a single real spell. Doesn’t that kind of… disqualify me?”

Celestia and Luna exchange a glance, their expressions calm but thoughtful. It’s Celestia who speaks first, her tone gentle but firm. “Kinetic, being an Archmage isn’t about conforming to a single standard of magic. It’s about innovation, talent, and the ability to inspire others.”

Luna nods, her gaze steady. “There are many types of magic, Kinetic Flux. Not all are tied to horns or spells. Magic flows in the creativity of an artist, the strength of a warrior, the wisdom of a leader. Thy understanding of this… science… is its own form of magic. A way of shaping the world.”

I frown, struggling to reconcile their words with my own doubts. “But the others—the unicorns—they can all cast spells. Real spells. How can I stand among them when all I have is… telekinesis and tricks?”

“Real spells?” Luna repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Pray, what is a spell but the manipulation of the world to achieve a desired outcome? Thou dost accomplish this in ways they cannot even fathom. Thy methods are no less valid.”

Celestia leans forward, her gaze earnest. “Kinetic, the title of Archmage is not given lightly. It was bestowed upon you not because of how you cast magic, but because of the results you achieve, the creativity you bring, and the way you approach problems that others see as insurmountable.”

“And let us not forget,” Luna adds with a sly smile, “thou didst best many a skilled unicorn during the Archmage Examination. Thy illusions, thy shields, thy ingenuity—they were not mere ‘tricks.’ They were feats of brilliance.”

I shift uncomfortably, the weight of their praise making my stomach twist. “I just… I don’t feel like I’ve earned it. Like I’m playing a role I don’t belong in.”

“Impostor thou art not,” Luna says firmly, her voice carrying the authority of a thousand years. “Thy achievements speak for themselves. Thou hast earned thy place, not through deceit, but through merit.”

Celestia’s expression softens, her voice filled with warmth. “You are an Archmage, Kinetic Flux. Not in spite of your differences, but because of them. Your perspective, your knowledge, your ingenuity—they are what make you extraordinary. And they are what make you worthy.”

For a moment, I just sit there, their words washing over me. The doubt and fear that have clung to me since the beginning begin to loosen their grip, replaced by a cautious hope.

“Do you really mean that?” I ask quietly, my voice trembling.

“We do,” Celestia says simply.

Celestia’s calm smile grows slightly, and she straightens in her chair, adopting a more formal tone. “And with that in mind, Kinetic, I have decided on your first formal task as Archmage.”

I blink, my cautious hope immediately replaced with apprehension. “Task? Uh… what kind of task?”

Her serene gaze doesn’t waver. “You are to live in Ponyville and provide assistance to the Element Bearers.”

I was hoping she forgot about those.

I freeze, my mind immediately racing. The Elements. I knew this was coming. Of course, I knew. The moment I got involved with Nightmare Moon’s defeat, I knew my life wouldn’t stay quiet. But still, I’d hoped…

“I already live in Ponyville,” I say quickly, trying to sound casual. “And I already helped them with Nightmare Moon. Isn’t that enough? I mean, they’re capable, right? They’ve got the Elements of Harmony—what more could they need?”

Celestia’s gaze remains steady, her calm demeanor unreadable. “The Element Bearers are indeed capable, but they are not without challenges ahead. They will face trials that will test their unity, their resolve, and their understanding of themselves. Your insight, ingenuity, and perspective may prove invaluable.”

“Insight?” I echo, trying to keep the nervousness out of my voice. “I don’t know anything about… friendship magic. Or whatever it is they do.”

Celestia tilts her head slightly, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You underestimate yourself, Kinetic. Your unique perspective could be exactly what they need in moments of uncertainty.”

I frown, searching for another excuse. “But I’m not good with… ponies. I’m not a social pony. I’d just get in the way.”

Luna chimes in, her tone light but pointed. “Thy wit and charm would beg to differ, Kinetic Flux. Thou hast navigated the high courts of the Archmage Examination with aplomb, earning respect even from skeptics.”

I wince, feeling the walls close in. “But they’ve already got Twilight,” I blurt out, grasping for a reason—any reason—to get out of this. “She’s practically a walking encyclopedia of magic. What could I possibly add?”

Celestia’s expression softens, but her tone carries an undercurrent of steel. “Twilight is indeed extraordinary, but even she has her limits. There are things she will not see—things you will see. You’ve already proven that your methods can complement hers.”

I open my mouth to argue further, but her next words stop me cold.

“There are events in motion, Kinetic Flux,” Celestia says, her voice turning more serious. “Events tied to the Element Bearers, events that require a positive outcome. Your presence could make all the difference.”

Her words hang in the air, heavy with implication. I know exactly what she means, even if she’s being vague. The show. I know what’s coming. Discord. The Changelings. Sombra. Tirek. And worse. I know how fragile that positive outcome really is—and the idea of being pulled into it all, of being responsible for it, makes my stomach churn.

“I really don’t think I’m the right pony for this,” I say weakly, my voice barely audible.

Celestia’s gaze sharpens, though her tone remains kind. “You may not think so, but I do. And so does Luna.”

Luna nods, her expression firm but not unkind. “Thou art more capable than thou givest thyself credit for, Kinetic Flux. The Element Bearers will face many challenges, but with thy guidance, they shall prevail.”

I sigh, slumping slightly in my chair. “And I don’t have a choice, do I?”

Celestia’s smile returns, gentle but unwavering. “You always have a choice, Kinetic. But I believe you’ll make the right one.”

I let out a long, defeated groan, my head thumping softly against the table. “Fine. I’ll help them,” I mutter. “But I’m going on record saying this is a terrible idea.”

Luna chuckles, clearly amused. “Thy protests are noted, Archmage. And ignored.”

I glare at her half-heartedly, but she just smirks, her amusement only growing.

“Very well,” Celestia says, her voice carrying an air of finality. “I’m glad you’ve agreed. The Element Bearers will need your support more than they realize, Kinetic. Trust in yourself, and trust in them.”

I nod reluctantly, a pit of unease still churning in my stomach. The idea of being so close to the events I know are coming terrifies me.

All I can do is pray my involvement doesn’t make things worse.

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Applied Mathemagics

What's Poppin?

The breakfast concludes with a final exchange of reassurances, promises, and my half-hearted attempts to wriggle out of the task again. Celestia remains serene, Luna smug and teasing as ever. It’s a relief when the conversation shifts to my departure.

Celestia stands as the carriage is prepared, her expression warm and gentle. “Remember, Kinetic, you are not alone in this. If you ever need guidance, you know where to find us.”

I nod, though my nerves still simmer under the surface. “Thanks…”

Luna, of course, can’t let me leave without a dramatic sendoff. She steps closer, her wings spreading slightly as she regards me with exaggerated seriousness. “Take care, Kinetic Flux, and remember our words of encouragement. Should thou falter, worry not. We shall descend upon Ponyville ourselves to assist thee.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Wait, are you serious?”

Her lips curl into a mischievous grin. “Indeed! We find thy company most entertaining, and thou dost amuse us greatly.”

I groan, shaking my head with a weak smile. “I don’t think Ponyville’s ready for a royal visit from the Princess of the Night.”

“Then thou dost underestimate our charm,” Luna quips, puffing out her chest dramatically. “Ponyville would surely welcome us with open hooves, would they not?”

“I’m sure they would,” I mutter, unable to suppress a small chuckle. “But let’s try to keep things low-key, yeah?”

Luna smirks, clearly satisfied. “Very well, Archmage. We shall refrain from stealing thy spotlight—for now.”

Celestia steps forward, her tone calm but carrying a playful edge. “You’ll have your hooves full enough without Luna stirring things up. Besides,” she adds, her gaze softening, “I’ll be visiting Ponyville later today myself, though only for a casual visit with Twilight. I’m sure you’ll cross paths.”

My ears perk up at that. “Casual visit?”

“Indeed,” Celestia says with a small smile. “I like to check on my faithful student from time to time. And now that you’re her neighbor, I might check on you as well.”

I laugh nervously. “Great. No pressure, then.”

The royal sisters share a knowing glance before Luna speaks again, her voice brimming with mock gravity. “Go now, Kinetic Flux, and fulfill thy duties as Archmage. But remember—if thou dost falter, we are but a summons away.”

I sigh, giving them a half-smile as I make my way to the simple carriage waiting outside. The pegasi guards stand at attention, their polished armor gleaming in the morning light. I climb aboard, missing the plush seats from celestia's larger carriage.

As we begin to ascend, I look back at the two princesses. Celestia offers a graceful wave, her serene smile reassuring. Luna, of course, takes a more theatrical approach, raising a hoof to her chest as if bidding farewell to a noble knight.

“Farewell, Archmage!” Luna calls dramatically, her voice echoing across the castle grounds. “May thy journey be swift, thy task fruitful, and thy wits sharp enough to rival our own!”

I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “I’ll do my best,” I mutter under my breath.

As the carriage soars higher, Canterlot begins to shrink below me, its gleaming spires fading into the distance. Ahead lies Ponyville. And now, with the weight of this new task on my shoulders, it feels both familiar and daunting.

The carriage touches down at the outskirts of Ponyville, and my first clue that something is off is the eerie silence. Normally, the town is alive with chatter, laughter, and the occasional chaos courtesy of Pinkie Pie or Rainbow Dash. But now, it feels like a ghost town.

As I step off the carriage, the pegasi guards exchange uneasy glances. “Everything alright, Archmage?” one of them asks, his voice low.

I glance around, my unease growing. “I’m not sure,” I admit, scanning the deserted streets. The windows of the nearby houses are shuttered, and faint movements behind curtains hint at ponies peeking out but unwilling to step outside.

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell the guards, nodding to them as they prepare to leave. “You might want to take off before—”

A buzzing sound cuts through the silence, faint but growing louder. My ears swivel toward the source as a swarm of small, round creatures with wings flutters into view. They’re oddly adorable, with their big eyes and colorful bodies, but the way they descend on a nearby fruit stand and devour every apple in seconds is anything but cute.

“Oh, great,” I mutter. “Parasprites.”

The guards gape at the scene. “What are those—?”

“Parasprites,” I repeat quickly, cutting them off. I look at the buildings and carts for signs of damage, but see none. “They appear to be only interested in food for now. You might want to head back to Canterlot before that changes."

The guards nod hastily, taking off without a second thought. Their armor gleams briefly in the sunlight before they vanish into the sky, leaving me alone with the buzzing swarm.

They’re everywhere—devouring grass, munching on flowerbeds, and swarming around market stalls to strip them of anything edible. A few of them notice me and flit closer, their curiosity—or hunger—piqued.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” I mutter, lighting up my horn.

With a flick of telekinesis, I grab a cluster of the creatures mid-air and focus my telekinesis on the air around each of them to pop them like tiny balloons. Pop, pop, pop. The sound is almost comical, but the effect is anything but. Their bodies fall to the ground, mushy and twitching. More Parasprites approach, seemingly undeterred by their fallen companions, and I keep at it, dispatching them in groups with quick bursts of force.

The swarm is relentless, and while my method is effective, it’s clear I’m barely making a dent. The Parasprites aren’t even attacking me—they’re just everywhere, their singular focus on consuming anything edible.

From the corners of my vision, I catch glimpses of movement behind closed curtains and shutters. Ponies are peeking out at the spectacle, their faces a mix of fear and unease as they watch me work.

“Yeah, I get it,” I mutter under my breath, pausing to swat a particularly persistent Parasprite. “It’s not exactly a friendship lesson, but you’re welcome.”

I move further into the town, popping clusters of Parasprites as I go. The creatures are so numerous that I end up brushing against them more than once, but their focus remains on food. Even with my telekinesis compressing the air and popping dozens at a time, it feels like I’m fighting a losing battle. For every group I dispatch, more seem to replace them, drawn by the chaos.

And then it hits me. Twilight.

If she’s around, it’s only a matter of time before she tries some kind of spell to deal with this. I know what’s coming—her brilliant-but-terrible idea to make the Parasprites stop eating food, but accidentally causing them to target inorganic matter instead. The thought makes my stomach drop.

I glance at the swarm and the ponies watching from their homes. “Do I stop her?” I mutter to myself. “Or do I let it happen and… deal with the fallout?”

Stopping Twilight might keep things from spiraling into an even bigger disaster, but it would also raise questions I’m not ready to answer. Still, watching the Parasprites continue their endless consumption makes me second-guess my hesitation. It would be easier to deal with them now than to clean up the mess later.

The buzzing grows louder as I near the town square, the swarm thickening around the buildings and open spaces. Sure enough, there she is—Twilight Sparkle, standing in the middle of Ponyville, her horn glowing brightly as she prepares to cast.

“No, no, no,” I mutter, breaking into a trot. “This is bad. This is very bad.”

“Twilight!” I call out, raising my voice over the cacophony of buzzing wings. She glances up, her face lighting up briefly when she sees me, though her focus doesn’t waver from the spell, the glowing energy gathering around her horn.

“Kinetic!” she says, her tone a mix of relief and urgency. “Great timing! I’m just about to fix this!”

“Wait!” I shout, skidding to a stop a few paces from her. “Don’t cast that spell!”

Her brow furrows, and she gives me a skeptical look. “Why not? the Nibble Nullifier is from Starswirl the Bearded’s Guide to Pest Control! This spell is specifically designed for infestations like this.”

I take a deep breath, trying to keep my voice steady. “Look, I know it sounds perfect, but trust me—it won’t work the way you think. It’s just going to make things worse.”

“Worse?” Twilight repeats, her skepticism deepening. “These Parasprites are eating everything! If I don’t do something now, Ponyville won’t have any food left by the end of the day!”

“I get that,” I say quickly, glancing nervously at the growing swarm around us. “But changing their behavior with magic—it’s risky. You don’t know what kind of unintended side effects—”

“Kinetic,” she interrupts, her tone firm but not unkind. “I appreciate your concern, but this isn’t my first spell. Starswirl’s work is meticulous, and I’ve double-checked everything. It’s going to be fine.”

Twilight doesn’t wait for another word from me. Her horn flares brightly, the spell rippling out from her in a wave of shimmering purple energy. The Parasprites pause mid-flight, their wings stuttering as the magic washes over them.

For a moment, the square is silent except for the faint hum of her horn and the crackling of the spell dissipating into the air. Twilight stands tall, a triumphant gleam in her eye as she looks at the now-motionless Parasprites.

“See?” she says, her tone brimming with confidence. “Problem solved.”

I don’t respond. I can’t, because I’m too busy bracing for what I know is about to happen.

The Parasprites twitch, their wings buzzing back to life. At first, they seem disoriented, their movements erratic as they dart around in small circles. Then, one of them lands on a nearby wooden cart. Its tiny jaws open wide, impossibly so, and with a crunch, the cart is gone.

Twilight’s confident smile freezes. Her eyes widen as another Parasprite lands on a lamp post, swallowing it whole. Then another chomps through a mailbox, followed by a fence, a wagon wheel, and even part of a cobblestone pathway.

“What?” Twilight stammers, her voice cracking. “What are they—? No! They’re not supposed to eat that!”

I let out a long sigh, watching as the swarm descends on Ponyville with newfound enthusiasm. “Yeah,” I say flatly. “This is what I was trying to tell you.”

Twilight turns to me, panic etched across her face. “Why didn’t you explain it better?!”

“I tried!” I shoot back, gesturing at the carnage as the Parasprites devour everything in sight. “You were too busy quoting Starswirl the Bearded to listen!”

Twilight opens her mouth to argue but closes it again as the sound of a roof collapsing draws both our attention. A group of Parasprites has gnawed through the support beams of a market stall, sending it toppling over. Ponies scream from the safety of their homes, their faces pressed against the windows as they watch the destruction unfold.

Twilight’s panic deepens as she takes in the chaos. “This… this can’t be happening! The spell was supposed to fix this! It’s supposed to redirect their appetite, not… not make it worse!”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, taking a deep breath to steady myself. “Alright, no point crying over spilled milk—or, in this case, eaten roofs. Let’s figure out how to fix this before the whole town disappears.”

Twilight nods frantically, thinking as she speaks. “Yes! Yes, you’re right. I just need to find a counterspell—there has to be one—”

While Twilight panics, trying to remember, I refocus on the swarming Parasprites. With a grimace, I light up my horn and resume popping the creatures like tiny balloons. Each one dies with a faint pop, leaving only a pile of intestines and fluids behind.

As I continue, I notice some familiar figures lingering nearby in the square. Rarity, Fluttershy, and Rainbow Dash hover on the edges of the chaos, their expressions ranging from horrified to deeply unsettled. Fluttershy hides behind her mane, Rainbow looks half-ready to dive into the fray, and Rarity… Rarity is staring at me with wide, almost insulted eyes.

“What are you doing?” Rarity finally asks, her voice high and appalled. “Is that really necessary?”

“Yes,” I reply bluntly, popping a cluster of Parasprites that got too close to a flower cart. “Unless you’d rather let them eat the whole town.”

Rarity opens her mouth, probably to deliver a lecture on my lack of decorum, but before she can say anything else, a Parasprite flits over her shoulder and straight through the open door of her boutique. She gasps, spinning around just in time to see the little creature devour a hat stand in one swift gulp.

“No! Not my boutique!” she shrieks, breaking into a gallop toward the building.

I pop another nearby Parasprite and follow her reluctantly, sighing under my breath. By the time I catch up, Rarity is pacing outside her shop, her magic snapping the door shut as more Parasprites begin to swarm toward the windows.

“Kinetic!” she cries, her voice tinged with desperation. “You must help me! They’re eating everything—my fabrics, my displays, my designs! I simply cannot—”

“Why can’t you do it?” I interrupt, arching an eyebrow as I gesture toward the boutique. “You’re a unicorn. You’ve got magic.”

Rarity falters, her eyes darting between me and the parasprites gnawing at the window frame. “I… I can’t,” she admits quietly, her voice trembling. “I just can’t bring myself to… to harm them.”

I stare at her, dumbfounded. “You can’t pop a Parasprite, but you want me to?”

“They’re such awful creatures,” she says quickly, her tone defensive. “But they’re so… so adorable! I simply don’t have the heart.”

I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head. “That’s a little hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” she says, flipping her mane dramatically, “but it’s the truth. And if you don’t do something, I’ll lose my entire boutique!”

I sigh, my horn flaring as I begin popping the Parasprites clustered around the building. “Fine,” I mutter. “But you owe me for this.”

“Oh, thank you, Kinetic!” she exclaims, batting her lashes at me in what I’m sure is supposed to be a charming manner. “You’re simply wonderful.”

I grimace, doing my best to ignore her as I clear out the swarm around her shop. The Parasprites pop like overinflated bubbles, their blood leaving faint splatters of bug blood on the wall. By the time I finish, the majority of her inventory is intact, and the little pests are paste on the floor.

“There,” I mutter, stepping back and catching my breath. “Your boutique is safe… for now.”

Rarity beams at me, her eyes shimmering with gratitude. “Oh, Kinetic, you’re an absolute hero! Truly, I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

“Probably cried,” I mutter under my breath, earning a look from Rainbow Dash, who’s lingering nearby with her hooves crossed.

Before Rarity can say anything else, a new buzz draws my attention. I glance over my shoulder and feel my stomach drop. The Parasprites, as relentless as ever, are now swarming toward my H.A.R.D.I.S., the small shed-like building that serves as my home.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” I snap, lighting my horn again as I trot toward it. “You can eat all the fences and flowerpots you want, but that is off-limits!”

The buzzing grows louder as I approach, and I know I need to do something drastic. Popping them in little groups isn’t enough anymore. They’re everywhere, pouring out of houses they’ve already infested and spreading across the town like a plague.

I grit my teeth, an idea forming in the back of my mind. It’s a little over-the-top, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Lighting my horn, I focus on the ground beneath me, envisioning the forces at play.

Intergranular bonds. Compression. Balance. The steps come together in my mind as I manipulate the earth beneath me, carving out and compressing disks of dirt with telekinesis.

With a sharp exhale, I step onto the floating disks, adjusting their balance and lift as I rise into the air. The ground falls away beneath me, and from this vantage point, I can see the full scope of the infestation. Parasprites swarm every street, rooftop, and garden, their insatiable appetite leaving destruction in their wake.

“Alright,” I mutter, steadying myself on the platform. “Let’s see how you like this.”

Channeling my magic, I extend my telekinesis outward in a sweeping wave, catching as many Parasprites as I can in one go. The magic tightens, compressing the air around each individual one, and then—

Pop!

The entire swarm bursts like overripe fruit, their remains splattering over the town in a fine mist of blood and… well, Parasprite guts. The buzzing dies down for a moment, replaced by an eerie silence as the ponies watching from their windows take in the scene.

I glance down at the mess and grimace. “Gross,” I mutter, wiping a bit of splatter off my coat. “But effective.”

The Parasprites are relentless, though. As soon as I clear one wave, more pour out of infested homes, their numbers seemingly endless. I repeat the process, lifting myself higher and popping them in large clusters, each sweep of my magic more draining than the last.

“Come on, Pinkie,” I mutter under my breath, my horn starting to ache from overuse. “Anytime now…”

I know she’ll come through—her one-mare band is the only thing that can lead these pests out of town for good. But until then, it’s up to me to keep the damage under control. With each wave of magic, I force myself to focus, popping Parasprites and clearing the skies as best I can.

The ponies below watch in a mix of awe and horror, their faces pressed against windows and doors. I catch snippets of conversation—murmurs about the Town Mage, questions about my magic, and more than a few comments about the mess.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, popping another wave. “I’m sure you’ll all thank me later.”

As another wave of Parasprites explodes above the rooftops, I feel my magic start to wane. I’ll keep going as long as I can, but I can only hope Pinkie arrives soon. This isn’t sustainable—and Ponyville can’t take much more of this chaos.

The parasprites continue their relentless swarming, pouring out of houses, munching on rooftops, and gnawing at anything they can reach. My horn pulses with strain as I keep popping them, one cluster after another, trying to keep the infestation somewhat manageable.

But it’s clear I’m losing ground. For every wave I clear, more seem to appear, like some kind of never-ending nightmare.

“Where is she?” I mutter, my breath heavy as I adjust the floating disks beneath my hooves, keeping myself balanced in the air.

As if on cue, a familiar sound cuts through the buzzing—a jangling, clanging melody of cymbals, drums, and other instruments all being played at once. The Parasprites pause mid-air, their tiny wings faltering as they turn toward the source of the noise.

Pinkie Pie bounces into view, her one-mare band strapped to her in a chaotic medley of sound and motion. She hops rhythmically through the square, her ever-present grin as wide as ever as she plays her absurd collection of instruments in perfect (if nonsensical) harmony.

“There we go,” I mutter, sighing in relief. “About time.”

The Parasprites are transfixed. One by one, they abandon their swarming and destruction, their wide eyes locked onto Pinkie as she parades through the streets. They pour out of houses, shops, and alleyways, forming a trail behind her as she leads them away with her merry tune.

For a moment, I’m tempted—oh, so tempted—to just pop the rest of them. They’re right there, following in a line, and it would be so easy to finish the job. No more destruction, no more buzzing, no more Parasprites.

But I hesitate, my horn still glowing faintly as I hover above the square. The ponies below are watching, their eyes filled with cautious hope as they see the Parasprites following Pinkie instead of being obliterated.

“Yeah, they probably wouldn’t like that,” I mutter, letting my magic fade. “Not exactly a pony thing to do, is it?”

I lower myself to the ground, the disks settling as I step onto the cobblestones. The strain in my horn eases slightly, though the ache of overuse lingers. I glance around at the scattered remains of popped Parasprites and the damage already done to the town. It’s a mess, but at least it’s not getting any worse.

Pinkie continues her parade, leading the swarm out of sight as the last few stragglers emerge from the buildings and join the procession. The buzzing fades with each step she takes, replaced by the faint, ridiculous melody of her one-mare band.

I let out a long breath, finally relaxing as the square falls quiet. The ponies around me cautiously step out of their homes, their faces a mix of relief and lingering unease.

“Well,” I say, brushing some of the splatter off my coat, “that was… something.”

Twilight approaches, her mane slightly frazzled and her eyes wide with panic. She glances around at the splattered Parasprite remains, the damaged buildings, and the bits of debris strewn across the square. Her ears droop, and her lower lip trembles.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no!” Twilight mutters, her hooves fidgeting against the cobblestones. “The princess is coming, and the town is a disaster! This is—this is terrible! She’s going to think I can’t handle things here, that I’m not responsible enough, that—”

“Twilight,” I interrupt, waving a hoof dismissively. “Relax. She’s not going to banish you over a bug infestation.”

“But look at this!” she wails, gesturing to the chaos around us. “The town is covered in Parasprite guts! Half the buildings are chewed up! The princess can’t see this—she just can’t!”

I glance at the carnage, then back at Twilight’s near-tearful expression. A part of me—the tired, annoyed part—wants to shrug it off. After all, I warned her not to use that spell. But the other part of me, the one that knows what it’s like to feel the weight of the princesses’ expectations, softens slightly.

“Alright,” I say with a sigh. “We’ll head out to intercept her before she gets here. Maybe I can… do something about this.”

Twilight blinks, her panic momentarily replaced by hope. “You really have something that’ll work?”

“Probably not,” I admit. “But it’s better than letting her walk into town and see what's happened.”

We quickly gather the others—Rarity, Rainbow Dash, Fluttershy, and Applejack—and head out of Ponyville.

As we make our way toward the road to Canterlot, Twilight’s anxiety only grows. “What if she’s already here? What if she—”

“She won’t,” I cut in, lighting my horn. “Because she’s not going to see anything.”

With a deep breath, I reach out with my telekinesis, pulling chalk particles out of my bag and vibrating them into a panel that stretches across the view of Ponyville. The Doppler Illusion takes shape, forming a pristine, picturesque version of the town—a neat trick that works like a painted screen hiding a wrecked set, angled a bit to cover it from above as well. The strain on my already low mana reserves is more tiring than I'd like to admit.

Twilight stares at it, her eyes wide. “You… you can do that?”

“Same spell, different trick,” I say, shrugging. “It’ll hold up as long as she doesn’t get too close.”

The sound of approaching hoofbeats makes us turn. A royal carriage glides into view, Celestia seated gracefully inside. She steps down as the carriage halts, her serene smile lighting up the road.

Celestia steps down gracefully, her radiant presence instantly commanding attention. Her serene smile softens as she approaches, her gaze sweeping over our small, nervous group. Twilight and the others quickly try to look composed, but their guilty faces betray them.

“Twilight, my faithful student,” Celestia greets warmly. “And Kinetic Flux. I’m glad to see you here as well.”

Twilight lets out a strained laugh, her smile twitching. “H-hello, Princess! What brings you to Ponyville today?”

Celestia’s eyes briefly flick to the illusion behind us before she returns her attention to Twilight. “I was hoping to have a casual visit,” she says lightly, “but it seems another matter demands my attention. There’s an infestation in Fillydelphia that requires my intervention.”

Twilight’s eyes widen, and she lets out an awkward laugh. “Fillydelphia? Oh, wow, uh… that’s unexpected! I mean, who could’ve seen that coming?”

I glance sideways at her, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. Smooth.

Before Celestia can respond, the jangling sound of Pinkie’s one-mare band grows louder. We all turn to see her bouncing down the road, a trail of Parasprites following her like an adoring crowd. Pinkie waves cheerfully as she passes us, her instruments clanging and thumping in a chaotic rhythm.

Celestia watches the parade with an amused smile. “What a delightful performance,” she says, her tone warm and playful. “It seems Ponyville is quite festive today.”

Twilight freezes, her smile faltering. “Oh, uh, yes! Festive! That’s exactly what it is. Pinkie just… loves to keep things lively around here!”

I glance at Celestia, her expression betraying no sign of skepticism. Either she’s playing along, or she genuinely doesn’t mind the ridiculousness of the situation. “Yeah,” I add, keeping my voice light. “Just Pinkie being Pinkie. Always keeping the town… upbeat.”

Celestia’s gaze shifts to me, her smile taking on a curious edge. “You’ve been quite busy, haven’t you, Archmage?”

Twilight’s head snaps toward me, her jaw dropping. “Wait—Archmage?!”

I sigh, giving Celestia a sidelong glance. “Thanks for that.”

“You hadn’t told her?” Celestia asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Not exactly,” I mutter, shifting uncomfortably. “It didn’t… come up.”

Twilight stares at me, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re an Archmage? When did—how—what?!”

“It’s a long story,” I say quickly, waving a hoof. “Let’s just focus on the princess’s visit, okay?”

Celestia chuckles softly, clearly enjoying the chaos. “Unfortunately, my visit must be brief. Fillydelphia’s situation is urgent, and I’ll need to leave immediately.”

Twilight lets out a relieved breath, clearly thankful for the reprieve. “Of course, Princess. We understand.”

Celestia looks at me again, her expression calm but thoughtful. “Kinetic, I’ll trust you to assist Twilight and her friends with any… unusual occurrences. It seems Ponyville has its fair share of excitement.”

“Yeah,” I reply, managing a weak smile. “I’ve noticed.”

With a final nod, Celestia steps back into her carriage. As it takes off toward Fillydelphia, I let the illusion dissolve, revealing the chaotic mess of Ponyville behind it.

Twilight glances at me, her expression torn between disbelief and guilt. “Archmage,” she mutters again, shaking her head. “I can’t believe it.”

I can’t help but smirk as Twilight stares at me, her expression a mix of shock, disbelief, and utter confusion. “Well,” I say my grin growing wider at the opportunity to mess with her, “you knew I was taking the test, didn’t you? And tell me, Twilight—when have I ever failed at anything?”

She gawks at me, her mouth opening and closing as she tries to form words. “You—what—you’re the sketchiest stallion alive! How did you—how is this even possible?!”

I tilt my head, giving her my best smug expression. “Oh, ye of little faith. Honestly, I’m a little offended, Twilight. You doubted me?”

“Yes!” she blurts, throwing her hooves up. “Yes, I doubted you! You’re always so secretive about your spells, and you never explain how they work—”

“And you promised to stop asking about that,” I interject smoothly, raising an eyebrow.

Twilight groans, rubbing her forehead with a hoof. “I did promise,” she mutters, her tone begrudging. “But that was before I found out you’re an Archmage! How am I supposed to not ask questions now? This is huge! Archmages are supposed to be… well, you know…”

“Regal? Mysterious? Unparalleled geniuses?” I offer, each word dripping with mock arrogance.

“Trustworthy!” she snaps, narrowing her eyes at me. “And you—you’re just so—so—you!”

I chuckle, hiding the hurt and enjoying her frustration far more than I probably should. “And yet, here I am, standing before you as the newly appointed Archmage of Equestria. It’s almost like I know what I’m doing.”

Twilight stares at me, her jaw set, but I can see the gears turning in her head. She’s trying to reconcile the stallion who pulls off bizarre, unexplainable spells with the prestigious title I now hold. It’s a losing battle, and we both know it.

“You must have done something to convince the princesses,” she mutters, more to herself than to me. Twilight’s muttering turns into a series of quick, half-formed sentences as her mind runs wild. “Something… unusual. Something big. There’s no way you just— I mean, the princesses wouldn’t just—”

She suddenly stops, her eyes widening as if a light bulb has gone off in her head. She looks at me, her expression shifting from frustration to horrified realization.

“No,” she whispers, taking a step back. “No way.”

I raise an eyebrow at her sudden shift. “Uh… no way what?”

Twilight’s pupils shrink as she points a hoof at me, her voice trembling with disbelief. “You… you seduced them! That’s how you did it!”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, I’m too stunned to respond. Then I burst out laughing, unable to stop myself. “I what?”

“You must have!” Twilight insists, her voice climbing in pitch. “It’s the only explanation! You—” She stops, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “You act all smug and mysterious, and you’re always pulling off these incredible spells that nopony can explain. It’s classic charm tactics!”

I blink, utterly baffled. “Twilight, you can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I am serious!” she declares, starting to pace back and forth. “Think about it: you’re confident, clever, and you’ve got this whole enigmatic air about you. Princess Luna clearly would like your wit, and Celestia keeps giving you these opportunities to show off. You’re… you’re interesting! They’d totally fall for that!”

The rest of the Mane 6, who have been watching this entire exchange, stare at her with varying degrees of amusement and confusion. Rainbow Dash is biting her lip to keep from laughing, while Applejack just raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.

“Twilight,” I say slowly, trying to keep a straight face, “I think you’re giving me way too much credit.”

“No, I’m not!” she says, her pacing becoming more frantic. “You’re brilliant and resourceful, and you’ve got that whole ‘mysterious rogue’ thing going on! It’s exactly the kind of thing that would… would…” She trails off, her cheeks flushing as her thoughts seem to spiral.

I cross my forelegs, smirking despite myself. “Wow, Twilight. I had no idea you thought so highly of me.”

She freezes, her face turning bright red. “I-I don’t! I mean, I do! But not like that! I—” She cuts herself off, her eyes darting around as if searching for an escape.

“Uh-huh,” I say, my tone dripping with teasing. “Sure. Anything else you’d like to add?”

Twilight looks like she’s about to explode. “I—no! That’s it! You—just stay away from me!”

Twilight bolts down the street, her panicked cries echoing behind her. The remaining group stares after her, stunned into silence for a moment. Then, predictably, Rainbow Dash cracks first, doubling over in laughter.

“Oh my gosh! Did you see her face?” she wheezes, tears streaming down her cheeks. “She looked like her brain was about to implode! That was amazing!”

Rarity lets out a melodic chuckle, her eyes glinting mischievously. “Well, darling, it seems you’ve made quite the impression on Twilight. And honestly, who could blame her? You do have a certain… charm.”

I groan, already dreading where this is going. “Don’t start, Rarity.”

“Oh, but why not?” she purrs, fluttering her lashes at me. “You’re clever, mysterious, and apparently irresistible. It’s no wonder even the princesses couldn’t resist your… allure.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to ignore the growing heat in my face. “Can we not do this right now?”

“But darling,” Rarity continues, her voice dripping with playful mockery, “it’s such a delightfully juicy topic. Tell me, what’s your secret? Is it your dashing wit? Your rugged good looks? Or perhaps…” She leans in slightly, her smile turning sly. “Is it that air of aloofness that keeps everypony guessing?”

“Rarity,” I say flatly, “I don’t even like ponies like that.”

The words slip out before I can stop them, and the air grows awkwardly still. Rarity’s teasing smile freezes, and the rest of the group exchanges confused glances.

“What do you mean by that?” Applejack asks, tilting her head.

“Uh…” I hesitate, realizing I’ve just opened a very dangerous can of worms. “I mean, uh… look, ponies just… aren’t my type, okay?”

Rainbow Dash snorts, clearly not letting this slide. “Not your type? What, you into griffons or something?”

“No!” I snap, my frustration bubbling over. “I just… it’s not like that! I don’t think ponies are… attractive. At all.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Fluttershy takes a small step back, her eyes wide with a mix of confusion and unease. Rarity blinks at me, her cheeks slightly pink, but she quickly schools her expression into one of forced composure.

“Well,” she says after a moment, clearing her throat. “That’s… quite a revelation.”

Rainbow bursts out laughing again, slapping her hoof on the ground. “Oh, wow! You’ve been turning down Rarity’s flirting this whole time because you don’t even like ponies? That’s hilarious!”

Rarity huffs, flipping her mane dramatically. “I’ll have you know, Rainbow Dash, that Kinetic’s tastes—peculiar as they may be—are none of your business.”

“Oh, they’re definitely my business,” Rainbow shoots back, still grinning. “This explains so much! No wonder he’s so weird all the time.”

I roll my eyes, trying to ignore them as my gaze shifts to Fluttershy, who’s now half-hidden behind her mane. Her wings are slightly flared, and she looks… scared. I feel a pang of guilt, realizing that my Parasprite-popping spree must still be fresh in her mind.

Fluttershy’s wide eyes glance at me, then quickly dart away. She shuffles nervously, her hooves lightly scraping against the ground as if she’s trying to shrink into herself.

“Fluttershy,” I say softly, taking a step toward her. “I know what I did earlier probably scared you, but… I wasn’t trying to be scary. I was just… handling the problem.”

Her ears twitch, but she doesn’t look at me. “I-it’s okay,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “I know you were… trying to help.”

“Right,” I say, keeping my tone as gentle as I can manage. “And I’m sorry if it upset you. Really. I don’t exactly love what I had to do either, but those Parasprites were out of control.”

Fluttershy nods quickly, but her posture doesn’t relax. She still seems uneasy, and I can’t say I blame her. I sigh, stepping back to give her some space.

Rainbow Dash, of course, can’t resist chiming in. “Yeah, Kinetic, you really made an impression with your whole ‘Parasprite annihilation’ routine. I mean, geez, you were like some kind of bug-popping machine.”

“Not helping, Rainbow,” I mutter, shooting her a glare.

She smirks, unfazed. “What? I’m just saying—it was impressive. Creepy, but impressive.”

Applejack shakes her head, cutting in with her usual bluntness. “Alright, that’s enough, y’all. Let’s not pile on Kinetic. He did what he had to do, and it’s not like any of us had a better idea at the time.”

Rarity, who has been uncharacteristically quiet since my earlier outburst, suddenly speaks up, her tone oddly subdued. “Applejack’s right,” she says, her voice softer than usual. “Kinetic, you… you handled the situation with remarkable efficiency. I suppose I owe you my thanks again for saving my boutique.”

I glance at her, expecting another teasing remark, but her expression is unreadable—almost guarded. “Uh, sure,” I say awkwardly. “Anytime.”

The moment stretches uncomfortably, and Rarity quickly flips her mane, her usual elegance returning. “Well, I suppose we should all get back to cleaning up this dreadful mess, shouldn’t we?”

The others murmur in agreement, though Rainbow Dash keeps shooting me amused glances, clearly still reveling in the chaos. As the group starts to disperse, I can’t help but notice Rarity stealing a glance at me before turning away, her cheeks still faintly pink.

My magic still drained, I don't even think I could pick up more than a pebble right now. And with the group scattering to clean up the remnants of the Parasprite invasion, I decide I’ve had enough social interaction—and teasing—for one day. The lingering tension from earlier hangs in the air, but it doesn’t stop me from quietly slipping away, heading back toward the outskirts of Ponyville.

As I make my way through the streets, I can’t help but notice the aftermath of the chaos. A few chunks of buildings are still missing, and the occasional chewed-up signpost or fence post stands as a reminder of the disaster. But all things considered, it’s not nearly as bad as it could have been. Most of the major structures are intact, and the damage is manageable—much less catastrophic than I remember from the show.

“Small victories,” I mutter to myself, stepping over a broken wagon wheel as I leave the town square behind. “At least it’s fixable.”

The sight of my H.A.R.D.I.S. waiting for me brings a sense of relief. But as I get closer, I notice something… off. The exterior of the little shed looks droopy—almost like it’s sagging with exhaustion or sadness. The corners of the roof seem to slump, and the normally vibrant wood looks a little dull, as if it’s sulking.

“Oh, come on,” I groan, rolling my eyes. “I wasn’t gone that long.”

The H.A.R.D.I.S. creaks faintly as I approach, the sound eerily like a sigh. I can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. I know it’s just a structure—or, well, a semi-sentient magical construct—but sometimes it acts almost alive, like it has feelings. And judging by its current state, it definitely thinks I abandoned it.

“I’m fine, see?” I say, patting the side of the doorframe as I push it open. “Still alive. You don’t need to get all dramatic on me.”

The interior is just as I left it: a cozy, impossibly large space filled with shelves of books, odd magical trinkets, and the faint hum of its arcane mechanisms. I step inside, the floating orbs growing a bit brighter, almost as if the H.A.R.D.I.S. is perking up now that I’m back.

“Yeah, yeah, I missed you too,” I mutter, shaking my head as I head upstairs.

The master bedroom is quiet and dimly lit, the heavy curtains drawn against the evening light. The bed, large and absurdly comfortable, looks more inviting than ever. I barely make it to the edge before collapsing onto the mattress, the weight of the day finally catching up to me.

“Archmage,” I mumble to myself, staring at the ceiling as exhaustion washes over me. “What a joke.”

Author's Note

(This is how many he could, not how many he did. Approximately grapefruit size.)
1. Energy Per Parasprite:
W_per_parasprite = P * V * ln(Pf/Pi)
W_per_parasprite = 101,325 * 0.001 * ln(4)
ln(4) ≈ 1.386
W_per_parasprite = 101,325 * 0.001 * 1.386
W_per_parasprite ≈ 140.4 joules per parasprite

Available Energy:
1 kcal = 4,184 joules
300 kcal = 300 * 4,184
Available energy = 1,255,200 joules
Number of Parasprites Affected:
Number_of_parasprites = Available_energy / W_per_parasprite
Number_of_parasprites = 1,255,200 / 140.4
Number_of_parasprites ≈ 8,940 parasprites
Parasprites Remaining:
Total_parasprites = 10,000
Unaffected_parasprites = Total_parasprites - Number_of_parasprites
Unaffected_parasprites = 10,000 - 8,940
Unaffected_parasprites = 1,060

Final Results:
- Parasprites affected: 8,940
- Parasprites remaining: 1,060

The Struggle of the Seasons
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Applied Mathemagics

The Struggle of the Seasons

The morning comes slowly, sunlight filtering in through the bright white windows of the H.A.R.D.I.S. As usual, the windows don’t offer a view of the outside world, just their perpetual glow. It’s oddly comforting—like being in a bubble disconnected from everything else.

I stretch lazily in bed, the events of the previous day feeling like a distant memory. The bed beneath me is a little too soft, but I’m too comfortable to care. Eventually, I pull myself up and shuffle downstairs, my hooves clicking softly against the wooden floors.

The kitchen is quiet, its marble countertops gleaming faintly in the morning light. I fill a glass with water from the hose-like spigot, taking a long sip before glancing around the room. The H.A.R.D.I.S. is just a house today—no signs of life or personality. It’s always a little eerie when it gets like this, but I try not to think about it too much.

After finishing my water, I decide to check the mailbox. Stepping outside, the fresh air hits me, cool and crisp, a welcome contrast to the stillness inside. The mailbox, perched on a crooked wooden post at the edge of the path, looks slightly overstuffed.

As I open it, a bag of bits nearly falls out, its drawstring pouch hanging precariously from the edge. I grab it, my brow furrowing as I feel the unmistakable weight of coins. Inside the mailbox, there’s also a folded piece of parchment with Applejack’s familiar scrawl across the front.
Unfolding the note, I read:

Howdy, Kinetic,

Much obliged for sharin’ them rituals ya mentioned! All that fancy stuff you told me—plantin’ clover, grindin’ shells, coverin’ the bases of the trees—it’s doin’ wonders for the orchard. I ain’t never seen the soil so happy!

This here 500 bits is just a little thank-you from the Apple family. We appreciate your help, even if it’s a little… unorthodox.

Come on by Sweet Apple Acres sometime—maybe I’ll have some cider waitin’ just for you!
—Applejack

I stare at the parchment, reading Applejack’s handwriting like it’s some kind of ancient puzzle. “She… actually writes like she talks?” I mutter to myself, raising an eyebrow. “Who does that?”

Shaking my head, I toss the letter onto the counter and glance at the bag of bits. It’s generous, sure, but also a reminder that keeping up my “Town Mage” persona takes constant effort. At least it pays well.

After a while, the emptiness of the H.A.R.D.I.S. feels too heavy, and my stomach growls, reminding me that there’s no food in the house. “Guess it’s time to venture into town,” I say to no one, grabbing a pouch of bits before heading out.

The streets of Ponyville are alive with activity again, though the damage from the Parasprites is still noticeable—gnawed fences, patched rooftops, and the occasional missing signpost. As I wander toward the café, I catch snippets of conversation from the ponies around me. Most give me polite nods but keep their distance, which suits me just fine.

I settle at a small table outside the café, ordering a simple breakfast, a peanut butter and banana sandwich, and sipping on a cup of tea. It’s quiet, peaceful even, until the moment it isn’t.

“Yo, Kinetic!” Rainbow Dash’s voice cuts through the chatter as she strolls up like we’ve been best friends for years. Without waiting for an invitation, she plops herself down in the seat across from me, grinning.

I blink at her, my mouth half-open to protest, but then I remember the whole “friendship” thing I’m supposed to be maintaining with the Elements of Harmony. “Uh, hey, Rainbow.”

“Whatcha up to?” she asks, leaning back casually. “You looked like you were in your own little world.”

“Just… having breakfast,” I reply, eyeing her as she makes herself comfortable. “You know, like normal ponies do.”

Rainbow snickers. “Yeah, sure. Normal ponies don’t usually sit around looking all mysterious and broody, though. You’re like some kind of weird loner mage from one of Twilight’s adventure books.”

I roll my eyes, taking another sip of tea. “Glad to know I’m such a source of entertainment for you.”

“Totally,” she says with a grin. “You’re full of surprises. Like yesterday—what even was that? You were popping Parasprites like some kind of bug-exploding wizard. Fluttershy’s still kinda freaked out, by the way.”

I wince slightly but shrug. “They were eating everything. It needed to be done.”

Rainbow shrugs, apparently unfazed. “Yeah, I guess. Anyway, you hear about the Running of the Leaves?”

“Barely,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “What about it?”

Rainbow leans back in her chair, her grin growing wider. “Me and Applejack have been competing since early this morning—y’know, to get in the zone. We’re gonna race during the Running of the Leaves. Twilight’s joining too, for some reason. Pinkie and Spike are doing the announcements from Twilight’s hot air balloon.”

“Good luck with that,” I reply, smirking as I sip my tea. “Sounds like it’ll be… chaotic.”

Rainbow snickers. “Oh, it’s gonna be awesome. Applejack’s all, ‘I’m the strongest pony around,’ and I’m like, ‘Yeah, but you can’t beat me in a race.’ Classic rivalry stuff.”

“Classic,” I echo dryly, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

She tilts her head at me, her magenta eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “You sound totally unimpressed. What, think you’re too good to race?”

“I didn’t say that,” I counter, setting my cup down. “I just don’t see why I’d want to run around watching you and Applejack try to one-up each other all day.”

Rainbow rolls her eyes, leaning forward across the table. “C’mon, Kinetic. Things are more fun when you’re around. You’ve got that whole ‘grumpy mage’ vibe, but you’re hilarious without even trying.”

I blink at her, caught off guard. I’m not sure if she’s being serious or just messing with me, but either way, it’s… weirdly nice to hear.

“Well,” I say after a pause, “if you’re gonna flatter me like that…”

Rainbow grins triumphantly. “So you’ll come?”

I sigh, shaking my head but unable to keep the small smile off my face. “Yeah, fine. I’ll sign up. Just don’t expect me to break any records.”

Her grin widens, and she jumps up, her wings flaring with excitement. “Awesome! You better not back out, Kinetic. This is gonna be great.”

As she takes off into the air, I can’t help but chuckle softly. “Great,” I mutter to myself, finishing the last bite of my breakfast. “Just what I needed—public humiliation in the name of ‘friendship.’”

With breakfast finished and my fate for the day sealed, I make my way to the town hall. The autumn air is crisp, the streets bustling with ponies preparing for the Running of the Leaves. Colorful banners hang from lampposts, and the excitement in the air is almost contagious—not that I’d admit it.

As I step inside the town hall, the cool, polished floor echoes faintly under my hooves. The mayor’s office is just ahead, the door ajar. I knock lightly before pushing it open.

Mayor Mare looks up from a stack of papers, adjusting her glasses with practiced efficiency. Her expression brightens when she sees me, though there’s a mischievous glint in her eyes that puts me on edge.

“Kinetic Flux,” she says warmly, “What brings you to my office? Are you finally ready to start taking clients as the Town Mage again?”

I freeze in the doorway, caught off guard. “Uh… not exactly,” I say, scratching the back of my neck. “I’m actually here to sign up for the Running of the Leaves.”

The mayor blinks, her smile turning quizzical. “The Running of the Leaves? You?” Her gaze briefly flicks down, her lips twitching. “Well, it’s… nice to see you getting some exercise. Heaven knows, it wouldn’t hurt.”

I stare at her, my mouth falling open. “Excuse me?” What the fuck?

Realizing her mistake, Mayor Mare waves her hooves frantically, her face flushing. “Oh no, no, no! That’s not what I meant! I didn’t mean— I just—” She stumbles over her words, clearly horrified. “I mean, of course, you’re perfectly… fine as you are! Just… healthy competition, right? Builds character!”

I narrow my eyes, my ears flicking back slightly. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

She clears her throat, hastily shuffling some papers on her desk. “A-anyway! Let’s get you signed up, shall we?”

Grumbling under my breath, I approach her desk and watch as she pulls out a clipboard. She quickly jots down my name, clearly eager to move on from her blunder.

“Here you go,” she says, handing me a small numbered tag to pin on during the race. “You’re all set! Good luck out there, Kinetic.”

“Thanks,” I reply dryly, tucking the tag into my pouch. “I’ll need it.”

As I turn to leave, she calls after me, her voice a little more tentative. “And, uh, for what it’s worth… I think it’s great that you’re getting involved. Really.”

I glance over my shoulder, offering her a half-hearted smile. “Sure. Thanks.”

Walking out of the town hall, I can’t help but shake my head. “Unbelievable,” I mutter. “Ponies really know how to brighten your day.”

The crisp air and lively atmosphere of Ponyville do little to soothe my grumbling thoughts as I wander through the streets. Still, it’s nice to see the town coming together after the chaos of the Parasprites. Bright decorations, friendly chatter, and the occasional smell of baked goods wafting through the air make for a pretty decent backdrop to my wandering.

“Hey, is that... Kinetic!”

The cheerful, familiar voice draws my attention, and I turn just in time to see Sweetie Belle galloping toward me, her face lighting up with a wide grin. “You’re back! I thought you were gone forever!”

“Gone forever?” I ask, raising an eyebrow as she skids to a stop in front of me. “I was only gone for a few days.”

“It felt like forever,” Sweetie says earnestly, bouncing slightly on her hooves. “I’ve been practicing creating spells like you taught me!”

My stomach sinks slightly. Oh, god. What ‘magic’ did I ‘teach’ her this time?

Before I can ask, Apple Bloom and Scootaloo trot up, their expressions a mix of curiosity and recognition.

“Hey, ain’t you that mage Sweetie keeps talkin’ about?” Apple Bloom asks, tilting her head.

“Yeah, you're that guy who didn't know what his cutie mark meant!” Scootaloo adds, squinting like she’s trying to remember.

“Uh, sure,” I reply, waving a hoof vaguely. “Good to see you again.”

But Sweetie Belle isn’t waiting for me to catch up. Her horn glows faintly, and a tiny, transparent cube of shimmering air materializes in front of her. She beams proudly, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Look! I made this! It’s a… um… well, I don’t know what it is, but it’s cool, right?”

I blink, leaning closer to examine the strange cube. It’s small, about a cubic centimeter, and looks completely hollow. The air inside shimmers oddly, like a heatwave, but the space outside of it seems… off.

“Uh… Sweetie, what exactly is this?” I ask, my voice a mix of curiosity and unease.

Sweetie Belle grins even wider. “I just wondered what would happen if I moved all the air in one place… away from it. You said atoms are everywhere, right? So I thought, what if I just, you know, pushed them away?”

My eyes widen. Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

“Sweetie,” I say slowly, stepping back slightly, “do you know what this is?”

“Not really,” she says cheerfully. “But watch this!”

Before I can stop her, the cube vanishes with a loud POP, sending a sharp gust of wind outward. The sound isn’t deafening, but it’s loud enough to startle all of us—and to send me reeling.

“What was that?!” Scootaloo shouts, her wings flaring in surprise.

“Sweetie!” I exclaim, trying to keep my voice calm. “That wasn’t just ‘cool.’ That was a… a vacuum! You just removed all the air from that space!”

Sweetie Belle tilts her head, looking at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Vacuum? What’s a vacuum?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to find a way to explain it in simple terms. “Okay, so… you know how air is everywhere, right? It’s all around us, even if we can’t see it?”

She nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, you said it’s made of tiny things called atoms!”

“Right,” I say, relieved she remembers that much. “Well, when you use your magic to move all the air out of one spot, like in that cube you made, it creates a space with nothing in it. That’s what we call a vacuum.”

Sweetie furrows her brow. “So it’s like… empty space?”

“Exactly,” I say. “But here’s the thing: air doesn’t like being pushed away like that. It always wants to rush back in and fill the empty space. And when it does…” I gesture to the spot where her cube popped. “That’s what happens. A lot of force gets released all at once.”

She blinks up at me, her expression turning curious. “So it’s dangerous?”

“Yes,” I say firmly, “It can be really dangerous. If that cube was bigger or popped near something fragile, it could’ve broken something—or worse, hurt somepony.”

Sweetie’s ears droop, and her gaze falls to the ground. “I didn’t mean to… I just wanted to see what would happen.”

I sigh, my frustration melting into something closer to understanding. “I know, Sweetie. And I’m not mad. You’re curious, and that’s not a bad thing. But you have to be careful, okay? Experimenting is great, but you’ve got to think about the consequences too.”

She looks up at me, her eyes shining with determination. “Okay. I’ll be more careful next time. I promise.”

“Good,” I say, giving her a small, encouraging smile. “You’ve got a lot of potential, Sweetie. Just… maybe stick to things that are a little less likely to explode for now.”

Apple Bloom and Scootaloo, who have been watching the exchange with wide eyes, finally chime in.

“That was awesome!” Scootaloo says, her wings buzzing with excitement. “Can you teach us how to make those cubes too?”

I hesitate, my initial instinct to shut that idea down immediately. “I… only really know unicorn magic,” I say, trying to sound as regretful as possible while simultaneously hoping they drop the topic. “It’s not exactly something you two can learn.”

Apple Bloom squints at me, clearly not buying it. “But what about other types of magic? Ain’t there somethin’ we could do that doesn’t need a horn?”

I open my mouth to argue, but then a thought strikes me. Rune magic. It’s obscure enough that they’ll lose interest trying to figure it out… right?

“Well,” I say slowly, “there is rune magic. It doesn’t require a horn, but it’s a lot more complicated. You’d have to study symbols, practice drawing them, and learn how they interact with the world around them. It’s not easy, and it takes years to master.” I finish, pulling the information from my ass.

To my horror, their eyes light up like I’ve just told them the secret to eternal happiness.

“Rune magic?” Sweetie Belle says, her voice filled with awe. “That sounds amazing!”

Apple Bloom bounces on her hooves. “We could totally do that! Cutie Mark Crusaders: Rune Masters!”

Scootaloo grins. “Yeah! How hard could it be? We just need to find some books or somethin’, right?”

Before I can stop them, the three fillies dart off, chattering excitedly about runes, magic, and how they’re going to figure it all out. I stand there, dumbfounded, as their voices fade into the distance.

“Wait—” I start, but they’re already gone. I let out a long sigh, shaking my head. “Well… it's not like it's my problem.”

Sorry to their relatives.

Shrugging it off, I turn back toward the main square and make my way to the starting area for the Running of the Leaves. The preparations are well underway, with ponies bustling about, setting up banners, refreshment stands, and check-in stations. I weave through the crowd, eventually reaching the table where a cheerful volunteer is handing out numbers.

“Name?” she asks brightly.

“Kinetic Flux,” I reply, and she rifles through a stack of tags before pulling one out.

“Here you go!” she says, handing me a numbered bib. “Good luck out there!”

With my number pinned to my chest, I step away from the registration table and scan the growing crowd of participants. The starting line is buzzing with energy as ponies stretch, chat, and prepare for the race. Among the crowd, a familiar trio catches my eye: Applejack, Rainbow Dash, and Twilight.

As I approach, I can hear Rainbow Dash’s unmistakable voice teasing Twilight. “Seriously, Twi, you’re gonna race? You? The pony who spends all her time reading? You’ve never even run a race before!”

Applejack, standing beside her, is doing her best to stifle a laugh, but her smirk gives her away. “Ah gotta admit, sugarcube, it’s a mite funny seein’ you out here. Thought racin’ wasn’t really your thing.”

Twilight, for her part, looks both exasperated and determined. “I may not have raced before,” she says, lifting her chin, “but I’ve read all about it. I know all the techniques, the strategies, the—”

“From books!” Rainbow cuts in, bursting out laughing. “Oh, this is gonna be good. Twilight Sparkle, racing expert… from books.”

Twilight huffs, narrowing her eyes at Rainbow. “Laugh all you want, but I’ll have you know that understanding the principles of running is half the battle. Proper pacing, conserving energy, optimal strides—it’s all in A Mages Compendium of Physical Prowess.”

Applejack lets out a chuckle. “Well, I reckon it’ll be mighty interestin’ to see how far a book’ll get ya in a race.”

Twilight opens her mouth to retort, but then she spots me approaching. Her expression shifts instantly—from confident annoyance to flustered panic. Her ears twitch, her tail flicks nervously, and she takes a small step back as if bracing herself.

“Kinetic!” she says, her voice a little too loud. “What… what are you doing here?”

I raise an eyebrow, mildly amused by her reaction. “Uh, I’m signed up for the race. Same as you.”

She narrows her eyes slightly, as if trying to read my intentions. “Really? You’re not here for… anything else?”

I stare at her, deadpan. “Twilight, it’s a race. What else would I be here for?”

Her face flushes red, and she glances away, fumbling for a response. “I-I don’t know! Maybe you had some… ulterior motive. You always have something up your sleeve!”

Applejack smirks, nudging Twilight with her hoof. “Aw, c’mon, Twi. Let the stallion run. Don’t need ta overthink it.”

Rainbow snickers. “Yeah, Twilight. Maybe Kinetic’s just here to enjoy himself. You know, like the rest of us.”

Twilight mumbles something incoherent, clearly flustered, and I decide to let her off the hook—for now. The last thing I need is her going on another wild tangent about me “seducing” ponies.

The starting bell rings, snapping everyone to attention. The gathered ponies line up, stretching and getting into position. I take my place next to Twilight, who still won’t meet my gaze, and glance to the side to see Applejack and Rainbow Dash already in their usual competitive stances.

The announcer, Pinkie Pie’s unmistakable voice, rings out from above as the hot air balloon drifts overhead. “Welcome, everypony, to the Running of the Leaves! Are you ready to shake those branches and bring the autumn season to life?”

The crowd cheers, the energy palpable. I swallow hard, realizing just how out of place I am among these enthusiastic athletes. Sure, I’ve got magic and some clever tricks, but running? Not exactly my forte.

Pinkie counts down with exaggerated flair. “Three… two… one… Go!”

The crowd surges forward, hooves pounding the dirt as the race begins. Applejack and Rainbow Dash take off like rockets, their competitive spirits already in full swing. Within seconds, they’re a blur of orange and cyan, leaving the rest of us in their dust.

I, meanwhile, start at a much more… measured pace. By which I mean, slow. My legs already feel like lead, and the first few steps send an alarming reminder of just how out of shape I am. Still, I manage to keep my expression calm, hoping to at least look like I’ve got this under control.

Twilight jogs beside me, her gaze focused straight ahead as if she’s trying very hard not to acknowledge my presence. Her ears flick nervously, and every time I glance at her, she quickly looks away.

“You okay there, Sparkle?” I ask, more to distract myself from my own misery than anything else.

“I’m fine!” she says quickly, her tone a little too high-pitched to be convincing. “I’m just… concentrating.”

“Right,” I reply, smirking. “You’re concentrating so hard you can’t even look at me?”

Her pace falters for a split second before she regains her rhythm. “I’m just… trying to focus on the race. That’s all!”

“Am I allowed to, you know, talk? Or is that going to ruin your concentration?” I ask innocently, though my tone suggests otherwise.

Twilight groans, her annoyance bubbling to the surface. “Listen, Kinetic, this is a public event. I need you to be on your best behavior.”

I feign surprise, pressing a hoof to my chest. “Me? Twilight, when have I ever caused trouble?”

She gives me a deadpan look. “Do you want the list alphabetically or chronologically?”

“Okay, fair,” I admit, chuckling. “But seriously, I’ll behave.”

Twilight narrows her eyes, clearly not convinced. “No tricks, no weird comments, and no… no trying to seduce anypony!” Her voice spikes, and her cheeks turn pink as she realizes how loud she’s gotten.

I blink at her, caught off guard by the accusation. “Seduce? Twilight, when have I ever—”

“You seduced the princesses!” she hisses, her voice a mix of panic and frustration.

“I did not seduce the princesses!” I protest, though a grin tugs at the corners of my mouth. “But for argument’s sake… what if I did?”

Twilight glares at me, flustered beyond words. “Just… just promise me you won’t do anything weird, okay?”

I pause, giving her a mock-serious nod. “I promise…” I begin, before adding with a sly grin, “…d other ponies that I’d be on my worst behavior. And I gave them my word, so…”

Twilight gasps, her eyes wide with indignation. “Don’t make me disbar you as an Archmage!”

I arch an eyebrow, genuinely amused. “You can’t do that. You're just Celestia's student. You don’t have disbaring authority.”

Her jaw tightens, and she straightens her posture. “Then I’ll pre-disbar you.”

I scoff, stepping slightly closer. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch this,” she retorts, pointing a hoof at me. “You’re pre-disbarred.”

I stare at her, stunned but trying not to laugh. “You can’t just make things up, Twilight!”

“Oh, yes, I can!” she snaps, her face red with a mix of anger and embarrassment. “And when I figure out how you seduced the princesses, I’m going to tell everypony and you'll be full disbarred.”

I smirk, leaning in just slightly. “If you figure it out... And if you haven’t fallen in love with me by then.”

Twilight’s face goes from red to crimson in an instant, her horn sparking slightly as if she’s fighting the urge to zap me right there. “You’re insufferable!” she shouts, her voice cracking with frustration. “You’re the most aggravating pony I’ve ever met!”

I shrug, letting the smirk linger on my face. “I aim to please.”

She lets out a high-pitched groan and gallops ahead, shouting over her shoulder, “You’re pre-disbarred forever!”

The other racers give her a wide berth as she barrels past them, leaving a trail of confusion and awkward silence in her wake. I can’t help but chuckle, shaking my head. “She’s going to pop a vein one of these days.”

But my amusement is short-lived. The race is still on, and I’m barely keeping up as it is. My legs feel like lead weights, every step an effort that sends a reminder of how woefully out of shape I am.

The vibrant autumn trees blur together as I huff and puff, trying to keep a calm facade despite the burning in my lungs. Ponies trot past me in small groups, some casting amused glances my way. I grit my teeth, determined not to let them see just how much I’m struggling.

“You’ve got this,” I mutter under my breath, though even I don’t believe it. “Just… one hoof in front of the other. Easy.”

Another pony zips by, giving me a cheerful “Good luck!” as they disappear ahead. I glare after them, wishing I could summon some energy to glare harder.

By the time I reach the first incline, my calm facade is cracking. Sweat drips down my face, my mane sticking awkwardly to my neck. My breathing is loud and ragged, and my hooves feel like they’re trudging through molasses.

“Who… invented this… torture?” I wheeze, stumbling slightly as I reach the top of the hill. My legs scream in protest, and for a moment, I consider just lying down in the grass and letting the rest of the race pass me by.

But then, up ahead, I spot Twilight and Applejack. They’re not running anymore; in fact, Applejack’s sitting in the dirt, scowling and brushing herself off while Twilight hovers nearby, clearly unsure what to do. For a moment, I think about stopping to catch my breath, but the scheming voice in my head screams, Don’t let them see you struggling!

I muster what little energy I have left and push forward, my hooves dragging through the dirt as I catch up to them.

“Applejack?” I wheeze, trying to sound casual despite feeling like my lungs are on fire. “What… what happened?”

Applejack turns her head sharply, her green eyes blazing. “Rainbow Dash happened! That no-good showboat tripped me, Ah know it!”

Twilight tilts her head, frowning. “Applejack, are you sure? I didn’t see Rainbow anywhere near you.”

“Course I’m sure!” Applejack snaps, before her gaze shifts downward. Her ears flick, and she narrows her eyes at a large, jagged rock half-buried in the trail. “Oh. Nevermind. Reckon it might’ve been that.”

I let out a small, breathless laugh, wiping sweat from my brow. “So… the dastardly rock gets the blame this time?”

Applejack shoots me a withering glare but softens almost immediately, probably noticing how pathetic I look. “Don’t you go gettin’ cocky, Kinetic. Ain’t like yer in better shape than me.”

I manage a shaky grin, my legs wobbling beneath me like they’re made of jelly. “Oh, I’m in great shape,” I wheeze, struggling to keep my voice steady. “I’m just… savoring the moment.”

Applejack raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press it. She adjusts her hat, her expression already shifting back to determination. “Well, don’t get too comfy, sugarcube. This race ain’t gonna finish itself.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply, leaning slightly against a tree as subtly as I can manage. My lungs scream for mercy, and every muscle in my body feels like it’s staging a full-scale rebellion. But I keep my breathing as steady as possible, because if there’s one thing I can’t let happen, it’s them figuring out how much I’m dying inside.

Twilight, meanwhile, looks at me suspiciously, but thankfully doesn’t comment. “Come on,” she says, motioning for Applejack to follow. “We should keep moving.”

Applejack nods, and the two of them start jogging ahead, their pace quickly picking up. I force myself to straighten, plastering on a calm expression as I shuffle forward. Once they’re a safe distance ahead, I let out a strangled groan under my breath.

“Why… why did I sign up for this?” I mutter, trying not to trip over my own hooves as I push myself to run again. “This is not worth the friendship points. Or the bragging rights. Or… anything.”

The sound of pounding hooves fills the air as more ponies pass me by, their cheerful chatter only making me feel worse. I keep going, though, focusing on the rhythmic sound of my own steps, the crunch of leaves beneath my hooves, and the distant sight of Twilight and Applejack ahead.

For a brief, fleeting moment, I think I might be able to catch up to them again. Then reality sets in as my legs start to tremble and my breaths come in ragged gasps.

Keep it together, I tell myself, pushing forward despite every fiber of my being screaming to stop. You’ve got a reputation to maintain. Even if you’re dying, you can’t let them see it.

The scenery blurs as I focus on the trail ahead, my mind a haze of exhaustion and determination. Twilight and Applejack are still within sight, but the gap between us is widening with every step. I grit my teeth, forcing myself onward even as my pace slows to an unsteady trot.

“Just… keep… going,” I whisper to myself, the words barely audible over the sound of my labored breathing. “You’ve got this. Probably.”

The rest of the race is a blur of agony and self-loathing. My legs are noodles, my lungs are on fire, and every step feels like wading through molasses. Worse, I don’t see another pony for what feels like hours. It’s just me, the trail, and the occasional mocking sound of rustling leaves.

By the time I reach the final stretch, the finish line is a distant, shimmering mirage. My hooves scrape against the dirt as I trudge forward, my pride long since obliterated. The cheers of the crowd grow louder, though they’re clearly not for me—they’re probably for the winners who’ve already crossed the line, celebrated, and moved on with their lives.

As I stumble into the clearing, the sight that greets me is both humiliating and oddly comforting. Twilight, Applejack, Rainbow Dash, and the others are all gathered near the finish line, laughing and chatting as if they’ve been waiting for hours. The instant they spot me, their faces light up—not with encouragement, but with barely-contained amusement.

“There he is!” Rainbow Dash hollers, nudging Applejack with a grin. “Told you he’d finish eventually.”

Applejack tips her hat back, smirking. “Took ya long enough, sugarcube. Thought maybe you got lost out there.”

Twilight covers her mouth, but the twinkle in her eye betrays her attempt to look sympathetic. “You, uh… you okay there, Kinetic?”

I can’t answer. Words are impossible when you’re wheezing so hard it feels like your lungs might collapse. Instead, I collapse onto the grass just past the finish line, sprawling out in a dramatic heap as the last of my energy drains away.

“Wow,” Rainbow says, peering down at me with a grin. “You look like you just fought a manticore. And lost.”

I glare at her—or at least, I think I do. It’s hard to say when my vision is spinning. “I’m… fine,” I rasp, though my voice is barely audible over my ragged breathing.

Rarity steps forward, her expression equal parts amused and horrified. “Darling, you’re absolutely drenched in sweat. You look positively… dreadful.”

“Thanks,” I croak. “Appreciate… the support.”

Fluttershy hovers nearby, looking concerned. “Um… do you need water? Or a doctor?”

“I need… dignity,” I manage, though it comes out as more of a wheeze. “Too late… for that.”

Pinkie Pie bounces over, giggling uncontrollably. “You did it, Kinetic! You finished the race! Last place, but hey, at least you didn’t give up! That’s gotta count for something, right?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, letting my head fall back against the grass. “I’m a real inspiration.”

The sound of elegant hoofsteps draws closer, and I squint through my exhaustion to see Princess Celestia approaching, her serene smile tinged with unmistakable amusement. Of course, she’s here. Because my life isn’t humiliating enough already.

“Well, well,” she says, her voice as warm and teasing as the sun above. “If it isn’t my Archmage, crossing the finish line with all the grace and vigor of a collapsing tower.”

The girls burst into laughter, and even Twilight, who had been doing her best to stay composed, lets out a snort before quickly clapping a hoof over her mouth.

I groan, flopping onto my side like a particularly useless potato. “Good to see you too, Princess. Came all this way just to rub it in?”

Celestia chuckles softly, her golden shoes glinting in the sunlight as she steps closer. “Not at all. I’m here to celebrate the Running of the Leaves, and I must say, your performance was… unforgettable.”

“Unforgettable, huh?” I mutter, still wheezing. “Pretty sure my lungs will remember it at least.”

Celestia’s smile widens, and she tilts her head in mock thoughtfulness. “I suppose I should commend you for your determination. It takes a special kind of bravery to run a race knowing full well you’ll finish last.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” I say flatly, though the corner of my mouth twitches in what might be a smile. “Really motivating.”

“Motivation is important,” she replies, her tone light but teasing. “Though perhaps next time, a bit of preparation wouldn’t hurt. After all, an Archmage should lead by example.”

Rainbow Dash cackles, nudging Applejack. “Hear that, Kinetic? You gotta step it up. Can’t have Ponyville’s Archmage being the slowest pony in town.”

Applejack smirks. “Might even have to train with us next year. Maybe we’ll whip ya into shape.”

“Oh, I can’t wait,” I deadpan, dragging myself into a sitting position. My legs are jelly, and I’m sure I look as miserable as I feel, but I manage to muster a tired grin. “I’ll start… never.”

The laughter eventually dies down as the rest of the racers and spectators mill about, dispersing to enjoy the post-race festivities. Celestia, ever the picture of grace, bids the group farewell with a warm smile and a few parting words of encouragement before stepping into her chariot and ascending into the sky.

As the sound of Celestia’s departure fades, the Mane 6 gather around me, still grinning at my expense. “Well, sugarcube,” Applejack says, adjusting her hat, “ya did finish the race, so I reckon that counts for somethin’.”

“Yeah,” Rainbow Dash chimes in, her grin stretching wider. “Counts for ‘last place.’ But hey, at least you didn’t pass out. That’s gotta be, like, a win for you, right?”

I roll my eyes, too tired to muster a proper comeback. “Glad I could provide everyone with some quality entertainment.”

Twilight adjusts her mane, a small, awkward smile tugging at her lips. “You were, uh… determined, at least. That’s… admirable?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m talented, I know,” I mutter, forcing myself to stand on shaky legs. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find somewhere to collapse in peace.”

Pinkie Pie bounces into my field of vision, her usual energy undeterred by the long day. “Or you could come eat with us! There’s a new diner in town, and I heard they have the best hayburgers ever. And milkshakes! Ooh, and pie! You like pie, right?”

“Pie?” I echo, raising an eyebrow. “Is that your sales pitch?”

“Did it work?” she asks, tilting her head with a mischievous grin.

I sigh, realizing I don’t have the energy to argue. “Fine. Food does sound good.”

“Great!” Pinkie cheers, hopping in place. “Let’s go! My treat for the last-place champ!”

“Generous,” I deadpan, but I let her pull me along as the group heads into town.

Author's Note

Sweeties vacume:
Energy to create the vacuum:
W = P * V * ln(P1 / P2)

P1 = 101300 Pa (atmospheric pressure)
P2 = 0.0001 Pa (near perfect vacuum)
V = 1 cm³ = 1 × 10^(-6) m³

ln(P1 / P2) = ln(101300 / 0.0001) = ln(1.013 × 10^9) ≈ 20.73
W = P * V * ln(P1 / P2)
W = 101300 * (1 × 10^(-6)) * 20.73
W ≈ 2.1 joules

Force from vacuum collapse:
F = P * A

Volume: V = 1 cm³
Assume a cubic shape: L = (V)^(1/3) = (1 × 10^(-6))^(1/3) ≈ 0.01 m
Area of one face: A = L² = (0.01)² = 1 × 10^(-4) m²
F = P * A = 101300 * (1 × 10^(-4))
F ≈ 10.13 N

Results:
- Energy to create a vacuum (1 cm³): ~2.1 joules
- Force exerted during collapse: ~10.13 N

(This is the max volume sweetie could make, not what she did make.)
Sweeties Energy = 25 Kcal
Energy to create the vacuum:
W = P * V * ln(P1 / P2)
P1 = 101300 Pa (atmospheric pressure)
P2 = 0.0001 Pa (near perfect vacuum)
W = 25 kcal * 4184 J/kcal = 104600 J

Rearranging for volume:
V = W / (P1 * ln(P1 / P2))
ln(P1 / P2) = ln(101300 / 0.0001) = ln(1.013 * 10^9) ≈ 20.73
V = 104600 / (101300 * 20.73)
V ≈ 0.0498 m³ (49.8 liters)

Force from vacuum collapse:
F = P * A

Volume of vacuum: V = 0.0498 m³
Assume a cubic shape: L = (V)^(1/3) = (0.0498)^(1/3) ≈ 0.37 m
Area of one face: A = L² = (0.37)² ≈ 0.137 m²
F = P * A = 101300 * 0.137 ≈ 13871 N

Force of a punch:
Average punch force: F_punch ≈ 700 N
Comparison:
Vacuum force / punch force = 13871 / 700 ≈ 19.8

Skyblock
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Applied Mathemagics

Skyblock

I wake up the next morning feeling… surprisingly well-rested. No aches from running myself into the dirt during the race, no immediate life-threatening hunger pangs, and—most notably—no Twilight Sparkle standing over me with a checklist, ready to force-feed me responsibility.

All in all, a good start.

I stretch lazily before rolling out of bed and trudging downstairs. The house is eerily quiet, the glowing orbs floating lazily overhead as if they, too, were still waking up. My hooves click against the polished floors as I make my way to the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

Then I see it.

The kitchen. Stocked. Filled with food.

A deep, primal sense of dread settles in my gut.

Right. Twilight made me buy groceries. Which means I… technically have to cook something.

I stare at the neatly arranged shelves of oats, grains, and—most terrifyingly—hay. I grab a bundle of hay and inspect it like it’s some sort of cursed artifact. It’s just… dry strands. Fibrous, tough, and completely unappetizing in its raw form.

How do ponies cook hay?

Do they steam it? Fry it? Do I need seasoning? Twilight had given me the whole speech about nutrition, but I’d been tuning most of it out.

I put the hay back down as if it personally offended me. “Nope,” I say to the empty room. “Not doing this.”

There’s a perfectly good food place nearby, and unlike me, they actually know what they’re doing.

The streets of Ponyville are already bustling by the time I make my way into town. Vendors are setting up their stalls, foals are playing, and the air is thick with the scent of fresh-baked bread and morning meals. My stomach rumbles approvingly.

I head to a small café on the main road, the kind of place that smells like warm coffee and good life choices. A few ponies glance my way as I step inside, but most are too occupied with their meals to care.

Sliding into a seat, I glance at the menu. I should probably get something with hay in it, if only to keep Twilight off my back.

When the waitress trots up with a bright smile, I sigh and make my choice. “I’ll have… whatever the breakfast special is. As long as it has hay in it.”

She nods. “That’d be the Hay & Oat Pancakes with a side of fresh fruit. Sound good?”

I resist the urge to ask if they could just… not put hay in it. Instead, I force a smile and nod. “Yeah, sure. Sounds great.”

The waitress trots off, and I lean back, rubbing my temples.

Twilight would be so proud.

I’m halfway through my first cup of coffee, quietly congratulating myself for dodging the whole cooking hay fiasco, when I spot a familiar purple shape in my peripheral vision.

My heart sinks. Oh, no.

Sure enough, Twilight Sparkle is trotting by outside the café window, her saddlebag slung over her back. My stomach lurches, and I immediately slouch behind the menu, peaking out and desperately hoping she doesn’t notice me.

No such luck. Her gaze sweeps across the inside of the café, and our eyes lock. Her eyes widen in disbelief, and I can practically see her blood pressure spike. Fantastic. She gives me a look that screams Really? Really?! before stomping over.

I sigh, trying to casually lower my head further behind the menu as if that might hide me. It doesn’t. In mere seconds, Twilight is standing at my table, her saddlebag draped over her back, her mane already frizzing with annoyance.

“You,” she says through gritted teeth, “are unbelievable.”

I blink, affecting my best innocent look. “Morning to you too, Twilight.”

She places both forehooves on the edge of the table and leans forward. “You said you knew how to cook, that you didn’t need to eat out all the time!”

“I can cook,” I protest, setting my tea down carefully. “I just—look, I don’t know how to cook hay.”

Twilight’s nostrils flare, and she glances pointedly at the half-eaten hay-laden breakfast in front of me. “So you just let somepony else do it for you?”

I shrug, letting out a small chuckle. “Hey, I’m supporting the local economy. Isn’t that what you wanted? Being a responsible citizen?”

Her left eye twitches. “I wanted you to use the groceries we bought! You know, at your house? Where we spent all those bits so you wouldn’t need to come here!”

“I tried,” I say defensively, raising my hooves. “I stared at that hay for a good five minutes and had no idea what to do with it. I mean, do you boil it? Fry it? Pour sauce on it? I’ve got no clue!”

Twilight throws her head back, groaning loud enough to draw a few curious glances from nearby patrons. “You add it to recipes. You can sauté it with vegetables, mix it into casseroles—there’s a million ways!”

I poke the half-eaten stack of hay-and-oat pancakes. “Never would’ve guessed you could mash hay into pancakes,” I admit, then wave my fork. “But, hey—somepony here figured it out.”

She closes her eyes, clearly doing her best to stay calm. “You are going to learn. Today. You can’t just keep spending bits—” She breaks off, shaking her head. “No, this is fine. This is fine. Because now we know exactly what the lesson is today: Hay Cookery 101.”

I swallow a sudden lump of panic. “You say that like you’re about to chain me to a stove.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Twilight mutters, slumping into the seat across from me with a defeated sigh. “Honestly, Kinetic, you’re one step forward, two steps back.”

“More like half a step forward,” I joke, pushing the remains of my breakfast around with a fork.

“Exactly!” she snaps, her mane frizzing more. “You were this close to being self-sufficient!”

“I’m self-sufficient,” I argue. “I have a house, I have bits, I’m alive. Boom—done.”

She slaps a hoof on the table, rattling the plates. “But you promised to eat at home!”

“Technically,” I say, emphasizing the word with a small smirk, “I only promised to try cooking. Then I realized I don’t know how, so I came here. Not my fault the system failed me.”

Her glare could melt steel. “The system didn’t fail you; you failed you.”

I laugh despite myself. “Fine, fine. I’ll let you teach me. Satisfied?”

She eyes me warily, but her anger seems to diminish a fraction. “No, but I'll take what I can get.”

I gesture to my plate. “Want some pancakes? Might help you calm down.”

Twilight bristles, standing up so quickly her chair scrapes against the floor. “Finish your meal, pay your bill, and meet me at your house in half an hour. We’re cooking breakfast. For real this time.”

I grin, lifting my cup in mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Grumbling under her breath, she trots away, leaving me to savor the last bites of my hay-laden pancakes in relative peace.

After finishing my breakfast (and my tea, because I wasn’t about to let Twilight ruin my morning entirely), I pay my bill and take a leisurely stroll back to my house. No point in rushing—if I’m going to suffer through a cooking lesson, I might as well enjoy my last few minutes of freedom.

As expected, Twilight is already waiting at my front door when I arrive. She taps her hoof impatiently, her saddlebag filled with what I assume are instructional materials like Hay: A User’s Guide.

I smirk. “You’re awfully dedicated to making sure I don’t starve.”

She rolls her eyes. “Dedicated? No. Frustrated beyond reason? Absolutely.”

“Sure, sure,” I say, unlocking the door and pushing it open. “You care, though. Don’t think I don’t see it.”

Twilight groans as she follows me inside. “I care about not letting my friend make terrible life decisions! That’s not the same thing!”

“Sounds pretty close to me,” I say with a grin, strolling into the kitchen.

She huffs, setting her saddlebag on the counter. “Alright, listen up, because this is important. Cooking hay is about balancing flavors. On its own, it’s bland, dry, and grassy.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Wow, so you do admit it tastes bad.”

She glares. “It’s an acquired taste! The trick is pairing it with other ingredients to enhance the flavor. Got it?”

I sigh dramatically. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with.”

Twilight levitates a frying pan onto the stove and starts rummaging through the ingredients we bought yesterday. She pulls out some fresh vegetables, oil, and seasoning before turning to me with the authority of a general preparing for battle.

“First, we’ll make a simple sauté. Hay, carrots, peppers, a little onion—easy, quick, and edible.”

I cross my forelegs. “And if it still tastes like hay?”

Twilight glares. “It won’t if you cook it right.”

I smirk. “So what you’re saying is, you care about me eating something I actually like.”

She groans, lighting the stove and shoving a wooden spoon at me. “Stir.”

I chuckle but comply, pushing the hay and vegetables around the pan as the aroma of caramelizing onions and sizzling oil fills the air. I have to admit, it smells… not terrible.

“See?” Twilight says smugly, watching me work. “Cooking isn’t that hard.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. “Still feels like a waste of time when I can just go out and buy food.”

She smacks my shoulder with a rolled-up scroll. “We literally just went over this.”

After a few more minutes, the mixture looks reasonably edible. Twilight serves it onto a plate and watches eagerly as I take a bite.

It still tastes like hay.

But the vegetables and seasonings almost make up for it. It’s less like chewing on dried grass and more like… well, seasoned dried grass.

Twilight studies my face carefully. “Well?”

I chew slowly, considering my words. “…It’s better than plain hay.”

Her eye twitches. “Better? That’s it?”

I smirk, setting the fork down. “Hey, that’s high praise coming from me.”

She groans, dragging a hoof down her face. “You’re impossible.”

I lean back in my chair, still smirking. “And yet, here you are, making sure I eat properly.”

Twilight glares but doesn’t argue.

I take another bite.

…It’s still hay. But at least it’s hay with flavor.

“Well,” she says, levitating the dishes into the sink. “At least you ate it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, wiping my mouth. “Congratulations, Twilight, you’ve successfully forced me to eat something vaguely nutritious.”

She smirks. “And don’t you feel so much better now?”

I stretch, considering my response. “I feel… exactly the same.”

Twilight rolls her eyes. “Of course you do.”

We step outside into the bright morning light, the marketplace already alive with ponies milling about. As we walk, Twilight’s expression shifts slightly, and I can feel her working up to something.

“So,” she says casually, “the girls and I are heading to Cloudsdale for the Best Young Flyer Competition.”

I hum noncommittally. “Cool.”

She gives me a look. “And you should come.”

I snort. “I should, huh?”

“Yes.” She tosses her mane and lifts her chin. “Rainbow Dash is competing, and we’re going to cheer her on. You are part of the group now, like it or not. You'll regret not coming.”

I squint at her. “That sounded like a threat.”

She smirks. “It was.”

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Ugh, fine. But how exactly am I supposed to get up there?”

Twilight brightens immediately. “I thought you’d ask! I found a spell that can give temporary wings, but it’s really advanced, and I could only pull it off once.”

“So what I'm hearing is the great and powerful Twilight Sparkle isn't good enough at magic for it?” I tease.

She glares. “I am that good. The spell is just really difficult and impractical for multiple ponies. So we’re using a different spell—one that lets non-pegasi walk on clouds.”

I nod along, pretending to be interested. “Alright, sounds easy enough.”

We make our way toward the launch site, where the others are already gathered. Rarity, as expected, is fluttering about gracefully with a pair of iridescent, shimmering butterfly wings. Applejack, Pinkie, and Twilight all stand near the hot air balloon, which is already prepped for takeoff.

“You sure about this, Twi?” Applejack asks, watching her. “Ain’t exactly normal for us to be trottin’ around on clouds.”

Twilight nods. “I’m positive. The spell is perfectly safe.”

She turns to me, her eyes narrowing slightly. “And you should cast it yourself.”

I blink. “What.”

She smirks, the challenge clear in her voice. “Since you’re so impossibly talented at magic, I assume you don’t need me to do it for you.”

I force a smile, my mind racing. Oh. Oh, this is bad. Twilight still doesn’t know that I can’t cast real spells—but I can fake them, and I’m not about to ruin my perfect (inside Ponyville) track record.

“Of course,” I say smoothly, rolling my shoulders. “What kind of Archmage would I be if I couldn’t do a simple cloud-walking spell?”

I close my eyes, humming as if channeling magic.

The trick is simple: I don’t actually walk on clouds.

While Twilight and the others rely on her spell, I stick to my own method—my disk lift technique. Underneath each hoof, I manipulate thin, compacted dirt discs, lifting and adjusting them ever so slightly as I walk. They act as a nearly invisible platform, they'll make it look like I’m stepping on clouds when, in reality, I’m standing on my own personal platforms.

It’s just like wearing makeshift horseshoes—except, you know, mine are secretly levitating pieces of earth.

We get in the hot air balloon and slowly drift up and closer to Cloudsdale.

When we touch down on a soft, pillowy street of clouds, I make sure my first step looks cautious but confident, just like everypony else’s. I let out a slow breath, feeling the dirt disks shift and adjust under me.

Perfect.

Twilight eyes me, watching for any sign of hesitation. “See? Not that hard.”

“Yeah,” I reply smoothly. “Super easy.”

Pinkie bounces excitedly on the clouds, giggling. “This is so floofy! It’s like walking on marshmallows!”

Applejack shifts uncomfortably. “Ah dunno if Ah like this. Feels too much like standin’ on nothin’.”

Rarity, who is far too busy admiring her shimmering, gossamer wings, doesn’t seem to care. “I can’t believe I finally get to experience Cloudsdale in such style!”

Twilight nods, pleased that her spell is holding. “Alright, we should find some seats. Rainbow Dash is probably getting ready by now.”

As we start walking through the floating city, I can’t help but be impressed. Cloudsdale is exactly what you’d expect from a civilization built by and for pegasi—vast, open, and breathtakingly high in the sky. White marble-like structures rise from the clouds, shaped seamlessly into domes, spires, and vast courtyards. Waterfalls of condensed moisture trickle down the edges of buildings, feeding into swirling rivers of mist.

It’s like stepping into a dream.

And it would be a dream—if I weren’t focusing every second on keeping my act together. Every step, every subtle movement has to be perfect.

As the group continues onward, Twilight keeps glancing at me from the corner of her eye, like she’s waiting for me to slip up.

I smirk at her. “You’re staring, Sparkle. Falling for my mysterious rogue charm again?”

She huffs. “No, I’m just making sure you don't do anything stupid.”

“Wow,” I say with mock offense. “You still don’t trust me?”

She rolls her eyes. “I trust your magic, not your life choices.”

Fair.

We reach the stadium soon enough, the grand floating coliseum already filling with pegasi eager to watch the Best Young Flyer Competition. As we settle into the stands, I breathe a little easier.

All I have to do is sit here, watch Rainbow do her thing, and not fall to my death.

Easy.

As we take our seats in the stadium, I glance up toward the VIP booths. And sure enough, there she is—Princess Celestia, seated high above the crowd in a grand, ornate viewing box.

And she’s looking right at me.

Oh no.

Her serene, knowing smile only deepens as she lifts a hoof in a casual wave, clearly expecting me to join her.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

I immediately turn my head, pretending I didn’t just see her. Maybe if I act really interested in the clouds or the stadium architecture, she’ll assume I’m too busy to notice—

Twilight nudges me. “Did Princess Celestia just wave at you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say quickly, keeping my gaze firmly on the competition stage.

Twilight frowns. “Kinetic, she’s right there.”

“Wow, look at that cloud formation,” I say loudly. “Nature’s amazing, isn’t it?”

Twilight’s frown deepens. “She’s still looking at you.”

“Who?” I ask innocently.

Twilight groans, dragging a hoof down her face. “Oh, for the love of—just go!”

Before I can protest, two Royal Guards land beside me, their golden armor gleaming under the sunlight.

“Sir,” one of them says formally, his face completely neutral. “Princess Celestia requests your presence in the royal viewing box.”

I give them my best I’m totally innocent smile. “Oh? That’s weird, I don’t think I got an invitation.”

“The Princess insists,” the second guard says, his tone leaving zero room for argument.

Twilight leans in, smirking. “Looks like you don’t have a choice.”

I sigh dramatically. “Guess not.”

As I stand, Twilight adds, “Try not to embarrass yourself.”

“No promises,” I shoot back, giving her a wink before following the guards toward the royal booth.

Well, I think to myself as we ascend toward Celestia’s private seating. This is probably going to be awkward.

As the guards lead me up toward the VIP booth, I trudge with all the enthusiasm of a stallion walking to his own execution. The stadium below is a swirling mix of colors and cheering ponies, but all I can focus on is the all-knowing smirk Princess Celestia is surely wearing.

And sure enough, as I step into her private viewing box, there it is—the smug, impossibly graceful smile of a pony who has all the cards and knows it.

“Kinetic Flux,” Celestia greets, her voice warm and playful. “How wonderful of you to join me.”

“Yeah, wonderful,” I mutter under my breath, stepping forward. “Great view you’ve got here.”

She chuckles softly, gesturing to the seat beside her with an elegant wave of her hoof. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

I hesitate, then take the seat as far from her as politely possible.

Celestia merely smiles, her gaze flicking over the stadium for a moment before settling back on me. “I must admit, I was beginning to wonder,” she says lightly.

I blink. “Wonder about what?”

She tilts her head, her voice casual but unmistakably sharp. “Twilight.”

I freeze, my mind instantly going into oh no mode.

Celestia continues, sipping delicately from a glass of tea. “She hasn’t sent me any letters about your magic.”

I swallow. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Celestia says, as if she hadn’t just dropped that particular bomb. “It’s quite curious, isn’t it? Twilight is thorough. Diligent. She would normally write extensively about the Archmage of Ponyville. His spells. His abilities. His unique style.”

I force a casual chuckle. “Well, she’s busy. Y’know, friendship studies and all that.”

Celestia raises an eyebrow, her smirk deepening. “Or perhaps… she doesn’t know?”

I exhale sharply, looking away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, Kinetic,” Celestia says with a small laugh, setting her tea down. “We both know that’s not true.”

I grip the edge of my seat. “Twilight doesn’t need to know.”

Celestia’s gaze turns softer, but no less piercing. “And why is that?” she asks, her voice kind. “Why haven’t you told her?”

I shift uncomfortably. “Because she doesn’t need to freak out about it.”

“Ah,” Celestia hums knowingly, reclining slightly. “So you do intend to tell her?”

“…eventually.”

Her smile is way too amused. “Of course.”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. “Look, Twilight is obsessed with magic. She gets excited when she finds a new spell, she writes essays about small discoveries—do you have any idea what she’d do if she found out about me?”

Celestia hums. “She would ask questions.”

“She would never stop asking questions,” I groan. “She would analyze everything, test everything, and lose her mind trying to explain it. And I like my life Twilight-drama-free.”

Celestia gives me a knowing look. “And how long do you plan to keep this up?” she asks. “Forever?”

I hesitate.

She leans in slightly. “Because Twilight Sparkle is many things, but oblivious is not one of them. She will find out.”

I sigh, leaning back in my seat. “Yeah, well. That’s a future me problem.”

Celestia smiles, ever infuriatingly patient. “Very well,” she says lightly.

I narrow my eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, immensely,” she admits with a small laugh. “It’s quite fascinating to see how long you think you can keep up this charade.”

I groan, dragging a hoof down my face. “Why did you even call me up here? Just to taunt me?”

Celestia’s smile softens. “I simply wanted to check on you,” she says, her voice genuinely warm. “You’ve been quite the interesting addition to Ponyville.”

I roll my eyes. “Gee, thanks.”

I exhale, sitting back in my chair as the competition begins to start below. “You’re not going to tell her, are you?”

Celestia smirks. “No, Kinetic. That is a lesson you must learn on your own.”

I sigh, already regretting everything about today.

The competition drags on as various pegasi take their turns, each performing increasingly impressive aerial maneuvers. Celestia watches with serene amusement while I try my best to ignore her knowing gaze.

I keep my eyes on the sky, waiting for Rainbow Dash’s turn. The crowd cheers for each contestant, and while some are impressive, none have quite the same reckless flair as Ponyville’s 'fastest pegasus'.

Finally, after what feels like forever, the announcer calls her name.

“And now, for our next contestant—representing Ponyville—Rainbow Dash!”

The crowd erupts into cheers, and I spot Twilight, Pinkie, and Applejack in the stands below, waving and hollering as loudly as they can. I smirk. Figures.

Then, before Rainbow even takes off, something unexpected happens.

"And, uh, Rarity!" the announcer calls hesitantly.

Rarity steps onto the launch platform.

I blink. "The hell is she doing up there?"

Celestia hums in amusement. “Ah. I had a feeling she’d do something dramatic.”

I lean forward slightly as Rarity gives an exaggerated bow to the crowd, fluttering her elegant butterfly wings with a flourish. The stadium gasps in awe at the shimmering, translucent magic.

Twilight, down below, has her face in her hooves.

“Oh no,” I mutter. “She’s inserting herself into Rainbow’s act.”

Celestia chuckles. “Confidence can be a powerful thing.”

I watch as Rainbow Dash fidgets on the platform, clearly not thrilled about this new development, but before she can protest, Rarity leaps into the air with a dramatic twirl.

The crowd loves it.

Rainbow clenches her jaw, wings twitching with irritation before she takes off after her.

The performance starts decently enough—Rainbow Dash executes her stunts, weaving through hoops, spinning midair, and pulling off sharp dives that get the audience roaring. Rarity, meanwhile, doesn’t do much more than float gracefully around her, waving at the crowd and striking elegant poses.

I watch with increasing secondhand embarrassment.

“This is so not what Rainbow signed up for,” I mutter.

Celestia hides a chuckle behind her hoof. “She does seem… less than pleased.”

I can almost feel Rainbow Dash’s frustration radiating from up here. She tries to focus, building up speed, but Rarity keeps stealing the spotlight, gesturing dramatically, letting her enchanted wings catch the light.

And then she goes too high.

I see it before she does—the sunlight growing harsher, the faint shimmer of the wing spell flickering at the edges.

“Uh-oh,” I mutter.

Then, as if the universe wants to make a point, Rarity soars toward the sun, striking one final extravagant pose.

And her wings ignite

There’s a Fwuf of magic as they burn away in an instant, vanishing into nothingness.

Rarity hangs in the air for a heartbeat.

Then she plummets.

The collective gasp from the stadium is deafening. Ponies scream as she tumbles through the air, flailing, her voice shrill with panic.

After a brief moment Rainbow Dash sees it.

And suddenly, she’s diving.

As soon as Rarity starts plummeting, the stadium erupts into chaos. Screams and gasps ripple through the crowd, ponies pointing in horror as she tumbles toward certain doom.

Rainbow Dash, to her credit, reacts immediately. She tucks her wings in, dives at breakneck speed, her prismatic trail streaking through the sky like a comet. But Rarity is falling fast, and Cloudsdale is high—too high.

I move.

Without hesitation, I shift my weight, breaking the illusion of walking on clouds. My disk lift spell reacts instantly, dirt moving down as I fall through the clouds like a stone. I'm suddenly moist and cold. The moment I breach the lower layers, the world opens up below me—Rarity is still flailing, her screams echoing in the open sky.

Rainbow Dash is closing in, but I don’t take any chances. My horn ignites as I compress the air near the ground beneath Cloudsdale. A large pocket of thickened air pressure forms right where Rarity is headed—a safety net invisible to the naked eye.

If Rainbow fails, she won’t die.

She’ll bounce... probably.

The wind howls in my ears as I adjust my disks, slowing my own descent. I keep my eyes locked on Rarity, heart pounding in my chest.

Come on, Dash. You’re faster than this.

And then—

BOOM

A sonic explosion of color erupts through the sky.

A Sonic Rainboom.

The force shakes the air itself, sending a shockwave of prismatic energy rippling outward. The crowd above loses their collective minds. I feel the vibration even from below, the sheer force of it rattling my bones.

Rainbow snatches Rarity midair, pulling up in a jaw-dropping arc. I watch as they soar back toward the clouds, the Rainboom still lingering like a celestial afterimage in the sky.

I let out a long breath, dispersing the air pocket I had compressed beneath them. No need for it now.

I was never worried, really. I swear.

I hover beneath the clouds for a moment, letting the cheers from the stadium wash over me. The energy in the air is electrifying—Rainbow Dash just pulled off a Sonic Rainboom for the first time since she was a filly. The Wonderbolts are staring at her like she just ascended to godhood. Rarity is sobbing dramatically into Applejack’s shoulder.

And nopony even knows I was down here.

Good.

I take a deep breath, making sure my heart isn't about to explode from all that excitement. Then, with a flick of my magic, I levitate straight up through the cloud floor and into the Princess’s private viewing box. The wetness doesn't bother me as much as I'd imagined.

I emerge with an effortless glide, as if I had been here the whole time, and 'walk' neatly next to Celestia, shaking off the water clinging to my coat. She turns to me with an amused expression, not at all surprised.

Somehow, dispite not seeing me do it, she knows.

I fold my legs, leaning against the railing as if I hadn’t just casually risen from the underworld. “Enjoy the show?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Celestia’s serene smile doesn’t waver. “Oh, immensely,” she says, her voice warm with amusement. “It’s always a rare pleasure to witness a Sonic Rainboom. And, of course…” She pauses, her eyes twinkling as they meet mine. “I was quite fascinated by the backup plan.”

I pretend to inspect my hoof. “Backup plan? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She chuckles softly. “Of course not.” Then she leans in just slightly, lowering her voice so that only I can hear. “You didn’t have to let Rainbow Dash save her, you know.”

I glance at her, pretending to be indifferent. “Didn’t I?”

She tilts her head, still smiling, but her gaze sharpens. “You had a safety net in place. You could have caught her yourself, made it higher. But you didn’t.”

I shrug. “Didn’t want to steal her moment.”

Celestia hums approvingly. “Indeed. And it was quite the moment.” She turns her gaze back to the stadium, where Rainbow Dash is being lifted into the air by the Wonderbolts, the crowd chanting her name. “Few ponies would have the awareness—or the humility—to make that choice.”

I scoff. “I just didn’t want to deal with the attention.”

Celestia chuckles knowingly. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Archmage.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help the small smirk that tugs at my lips. “Well, if I did have a backup plan, purely hypothetical, of course, I’d say it worked out fine.”

Celestia nods. “It did. Though I must say, I find it interesting that you’re so… comfortable working from the shadows.”

I arch a brow. “Are you saying I should be more public with my heroics?”

“Oh, not at all,” she says, smiling. “Just making an observation.”

I shift my weight, watching Rainbow Dash revel in the praise below. For a moment, I wonder what it would have been like if I had caught Rarity instead. Would I be the one standing in the center of the stadium, basking in the cheers?

Probably.

But I have no interest in that. Let Rainbow have her glory. I just want to go home, eat something that isn’t hay, and avoid Twilight’s inevitable meltdown over Rarity’s reckless stunt.

Celestia watches me for a long moment, then, with a graceful motion, gestures toward the exit. “Go on, then. Enjoy the celebration. Or hide from it. Whichever suits you.”

I snort. “Yeah, yeah.” With one last glance at the roaring stadium, I stretch my legs and start making my way out.

I make my way down from Celestia’s private booth, weaving through the cloud-formed stadium with ease. The sound of the roaring crowd still fills the air, but the moment of excitement has passed—now it’s just celebration.

As I approach the rest of the group, I barely get a chance to open my mouth before Rainbow Dash practically crashes into me, grinning ear to ear. “Did you see that?! I just pulled off a Sonic Rainboom!” She hovers midair, practically vibrating with excitement.

I smirk. “Oh yeah, I saw. Hard to miss when you explode the sky.”

Applejack tips her hat with a proud smile. “That was some mighty fine flyin’, sugarcube. Didn’t think we’d ever see another Rainboom, but dang if you didn’t prove us wrong.”

Pinkie Pie is bouncing in place, her energy somehow more than usual. “It was AMAZING! BOOM! WHOOSH! SPARKLE! And then you just caught Rarity like ‘I gotcha!’ and she was all ‘Oh, my hero!’ and—” Pinkie gasps dramatically. “You’re gonna be famous!”

Rarity, who has somehow composed herself after the trauma of falling from the sky, lets out an elegant huff. “Yes, well, I do suppose it was quite the daring rescue. Thank you again, Rainbow Dash. You truly saved my life.” She flips her mane dramatically, as if she planned the entire thing.

Dash puffs up, practically glowing. “Yeah, well, y’know. I am the best.”

I chuckle. “Well, congrats, Dash. Looks like you just got yourself a golden ticket to the Wonderbolts.”

Rainbow grins even wider—if that’s possible—before narrowing her eyes at me. “Wait a sec. Where were you? You disappeared after we got here, and now you just casually show up again?”

Before I can answer, Twilight chimes in with a pointed, unimpressed look. “Oh, I’ll tell you where he was. In Celestia’s personal booth.”

The group goes silent for a moment.

Pinkie gasps. “Ooooooh, fancy.”

Rarity’s eyes widen. “You ditched us for royalty?”

Applejack snorts. “Figures. Kinetic’s too good to sit with us regular ponies.”

I groan. “Oh, come on. It’s not like I chose to go up there. I tried to ignore her, but then she sent guards.”

Twilight crosses her hooves, unimpressed. “Right. And I suppose you had no choice but entertain her too? She only gets that look when she's having fun.”

I smirk. “Hey, don’t blame me if Celestia actually likes my company.”

Twilight grinds her teeth. “You—! Ugh!”

Rainbow shakes her head with a grin. “You’re the weirdest Archmage I’ve ever met.”

Pinkie gasps again, throwing her hooves in the air. “Wait, how many Archmages have you met?”

Rainbow pauses. “...Just him.”

“Exactly,” I say with a smirk.

Twilight groans louder. “Can we please just get back to celebrating Rainbow Dash before I lose my mind?”

I chuckle and raise a hoof in surrender. “Fine, fine. Let’s celebrate the real hero today.”

Rainbow Dash grins, looping a hoof around my neck and pulling me into a side hug. “Now that’s more like it.”

The celebration continues for a while longer, with Rainbow Dash soaking in every bit of praise and admiration she can get. Ponies are practically lining up to congratulate her, and the Wonderbolts are clearly taking notice. Pinkie Pie somehow manages to pull party supplies from somewhere, and before long, there’s an impromptu mini-party happening right there in the stands.

Even Twilight—who had been grumbling about my very important Celestia meeting—loosens up and enjoys herself.

But then, Twilight suddenly stiffens, her eyes widening in realization. “Oh no.”

Applejack glances at her, raising an eyebrow. “What’s wrong, sugarcube?”

Twilight looks at the clouds beneath her hooves. “My spell is starting to wear off! We need to get back to the balloon before anypony starts falling!”

The others immediately react with urgency.

Rarity lets out a dramatic gasp. “Falling?! Twilight, darling, do not say such things so casually!”

Applejack frowns. “Alright, everypony, let’s move before we go right through these here clouds.”

Pinkie just giggles. “Oh, that would be so silly! One second, we’re standing here, and then—” She makes a whistling noise and flails her hooves like she’s plummeting.

“Pinkie!” Twilight shrieks, already ushering everypony toward the balloon.

I, of course, pretend to be in a hurry, but really, I could walk around Cloudsdale all day and be fine. Still, I play along, making a show of carefully stepping over the clouds.

Rarity, whose enchanted wings had burned away during the competition, now had Twilight’s cloud-walking spell cast on her instead. “Twilight, I would appreciate a warning when you place my life in danger with a temporary spell!”

Twilight sighs, ushering everypony faster. “I told you before we came here that it wouldn’t last forever!”

Rarity scoffs. “I assumed you had accounted for that!”

“I did! That’s why we’re leaving now! And I just cast yours. You're fine.”

We hurry through Cloudsdale, and I keep an eye on the others while subtly maintaining my own ‘cloud-walking’.

Rainbow Dash flies ahead, checking the way is clear. “Balloon’s still where we left it! Hurry up!”

The others rush to the hot air balloon, and Twilight double-checks everypony before they climb inside. I step in last, watching her count us with a muttered checklist under her breath.

She exhales in relief once we’re all aboard. “Okay. We made it.”

Rarity lets out a breath of her own. “Finally. I am never trusting experimental wings again.”

Pinkie gasps. “But they were so pretty!”

Rarity pouts, touching her mane. “Yes, but not worth falling to my untimely demise.”

Applejack chuckles, settling into the balloon’s basket. “Well, Ah’d say we had ourselves an adventure.”

Twilight nods, still slightly frazzled. “Yeah. Let’s just get back home before I have to explain why a group of earth ponies and unicorns fell through Cloudsdale.”

Rainbow Dash leans against the basket, wings spread comfortably. “Eh, I coulda caught you guys. Probably.”

Twilight gives her an unimpressed look. “Not helping.”

I smirk. “Well, I dunno, Twilight. I thought today went pretty well.”

She glares at me suspiciously. “You didn’t do anything.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Exactly.”

Twilight narrows her eyes, like she knows I’m hiding something, but before she can press the issue, the balloon gently begins its descent toward Ponyville.

I relax, watching Cloudsdale fade into the sky behind us.

One more ridiculous day survived.

The balloon ride back to Ponyville is, thankfully, uneventful. By the time we touch down, everypony seems eager to return to their usual routines—except for Rainbow Dash, who is still riding the high of her Sonic Rainboom. She’s practically bouncing in the air, already talking about how she’s gonna tell everypony in town, “in detail,” about how she totally saved the day.

Twilight is still side-eyeing me, probably still trying to figure out if I had done anything “suspicious” during the whole Cloudsdale trip. She doesn’t press the issue, though, much to my relief.

After splitting off from the group, I head back to my house—where, for the first time in a while, nothing happens. No royal summons, no magical catastrophes, no Twilight Sparkle breaking into my home for a lecture.

Just… quiet.

I make some tea, sit down, and enjoy a rare moment of peace.

It lasts for about an hour.

Then, a knock at the door.

I sigh. Of course.

When I open it, I find Rarity standing there, looking as elegant as always, a polite smile on her face. “Ah, Kinetic! So glad to see you home.”

I raise an eyebrow, blocking the way in. “Rarity. What brings you to my incredibly normal, not-at-all-mysterious doorstep?”

She waves a hoof. “Oh, just a small matter! I wanted to personally invite you to an event tomorrow evening.”

I lean against the doorframe. “An event?”

“Yes, dear. The Ponyville Schoolhouse is hosting its annual Talent Show for the fillies and colts. Sweetie Belle will be performing, and she would absolutely love for you to attend.”

I blink. “Sweetie Belle’s in a talent show?”

Rarity nods proudly. “Oh, yes! She and her little friends have been working very hard on their act.”

“And you’re inviting me… because?”

Rarity tilts her head. “Why, because you’re her magic teacher, of course.”

I stare at her. “I… what.”

She smiles. “You’ve been such an inspiration to her. Why, she speaks of you all the time! ‘Kinetic this, Kinetic that—did you know that atoms are always moving, even when things look still?’ It’s adorable.”

I blink, suddenly stiffening. “…She remembered that huh?”

I hope Rarity doesn't know what those words mean.

“Indeed!” she says cheerfully. “Which is why I simply must insist that you attend. It would mean the world to her.”

I glance at the sky, thinking. A school talent show? Not exactly my scene. But then again… Sweetie Belle has been genuinely excited about everything I’ve taught her—fake magic or not. I can’t exactly crush a filly’s enthusiasm, especially when it’s aimed at actual learning.

“…Alright,” I say finally, sighing. “I’ll go.”

Rarity beams. “Marvelous! I knew you wouldn’t disappoint.”

I groan. “This isn’t a big thing, right? Like, I don’t have to dress up or anything?”

She gasps, scandalized. “Darling! One should always dress appropriately for an occasion! Today is a wonderful opportunity to spend the day together getting you an outfit.”

I shrug. “Oh, uh, that's fine. I’ll just wear the suit I bought with Twilight.”

For a brief moment, Rarity’s expression freezes, her eyes widening just a fraction before she smooths it over with a well-practiced smile. “Ah. I see.”

I blink. “What?”

She tucks a stray curl behind her ear, her smile still perfectly intact—but there’s something just a little too practiced about it. “Oh, nothing, dear. I just wasn’t aware that you… had already acquired a suit.”

I nod. “Yeah. Twilight insisted I get one during that whole ‘teaching me how to be a real pony’ thing.”

“Twilight insisted,” she repeats, her voice light, but there’s something behind it.

I tilt my head. “Yeah?”

She lets out a perfectly measured hum, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before she smiles again. “Of course. That makes perfect sense.”

I stare at her. “Rarity.”

“Yes, darling?” she says sweetly.

“Are you mad I didn’t ask you for a suit?”

She lets out an exaggerated laugh, waving a hoof dramatically. “Mad? Oh, heavens no! Why ever would I be mad?” She places a hoof over her chest, her voice taking on a faintly dramatic lilt. “It’s not as if making refined, elegant attire is my literal profession! Nor is it as if I take great pride in crafting the finest suits in all of Equestria!”

I open my mouth, but she isn’t done.

“Oh, no no, darling, I understand completely! Why, if I were in your position, I too would obviously seek the fashion expertise of a bookish academic instead of a professional designer! Why settle for perfection when you can have something… practical?”

I sigh. “You are mad.”

She turns her nose up. “I am merely… disappointed.”

I groan, rubbing my forehead. “Rarity, it’s just a suit. It wasn’t a big deal.”

She gasps, placing a hoof to her forehead like she’s about to faint. “Just a suit? Just a suit?!” She dramatically turns away, her voice filled with feigned agony. “Oh, the tragedy!”

I roll my eyes. “Alright, fine. Next time I need fancy clothes, I’ll come to you.”

She flips her mane, suddenly absolutely fine. “See? Was that so hard, darling?”

I sigh again. “Yes. I hate when you guilt trip.”

She giggles. “Oh, I love that I do.”

I shake my head, a smirk tugging at my lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

Rarity smirks, but there’s still something behind it—something else she isn’t saying. I can see it in the slight tension in her shoulders, the way she’s avoiding looking at me too directly. Something’s bugging her.

I debate pushing the topic, but she quickly regains her usual grace, lifting her head with a polite smile. “Well! I shall see you tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah, yeah. See you then.”

She gives a final nod and trots off, her tail flicking just a little too sharply. I watch her go, rubbing the back of my neck.

I sigh, shaking my head as I watch the door click shut behind Rarity.

That was... something.

Whatever. Not my problem right now.

I glance toward the kitchen and grimace. Twilight’s fury still lingers in my mind, and despite every fiber of my being screaming at me to just eat out again, I know that’s not an option. If she catches me skipping a home-cooked meal after everything, she’ll probably set up a magical alarm system in my kitchen just to monitor me.

Grumbling, I drag myself toward the stove, eyeing the cursed sack of hay I bought with a deep sense of regret.

With the precision of a pony on death row preparing his last meal, I toss a portion into the pot, adding just enough seasonings and vegetables to make it not taste like dried grass. I stir it with half-hearted effort, staring blankly at the bubbling pot.

Cooking hay.

This is my life now.

After what feels like an eternity of suffering, I plate my meal and take a bite. It’s… tolerable. Not great, but not awful. I chew slowly, wondering if this is what surrender tastes like.

At least Twilight won’t strangle me in my sleep.

Once I finish, I clean up—begrudgingly, of course—and shuffle off to my room. The events of the day catch up to me all at once, exhaustion settling into my bones.

I flop onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Tomorrow is the talent show.

Sweetie Belle’s excited.

Rarity’s acting odd.

Twilight’s still probably plotting ways to turn me into a responsible pony.

I sigh, closing my eyes. Tomorrow’s going to be another long one.

With that thought, I drift into sleep.

Today We Cause Problems On Purpose
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Applied Mathemagics

Today We Cause Problems On Purpose

Morning comes too soon. The soft glow of the floating orbs in my room dims as I roll over, staring at the blank white "window" on my wall. It never shows the outside world, just an endless glow that never wavers, never changes. Honestly, it's the most reliable thing in my life.

I groan, sitting up and stretching until my back cracks. Today’s the big day—Sweetie Belle’s talent show. I should be excited, but I can already feel the weight of everything hanging over me. Rarity’s strange behavior, Twilight’s scheming, Celestia’s ever-watchful gaze, it’s a lot to juggle for one stallion.

Still, Sweetie Belle would be heartbroken if I bailed, and I’m not a monster. A liar, sure. A con artist? Absolutely. But not a monster. Most days.

I sigh, forcing myself out of bed. At least I don’t have to worry about an empty pantry anymore—Twilight made sure of that. My house is now suspiciously well-stocked, like she’s trying to domesticate a wild animal. Which, given how she looks at me sometimes, is probably accurate.

I throw together a quick breakfast that isn’t just hay out of sheer defiance, wash up, and step outside. The town is already buzzing with activity. Ponies are setting up decorations, foals are running around in excited chaos, and in the center of it all stands the talent show stage—a rickety wooden platform that looks like it was hammered together by enthusiastic, but under-skilled, hooves.

I’m halfway to the stage when I hear a frantic voice.

“Kinetic! Kinetic! We need help!”

Sweetie Belle barrels toward me, her tiny legs moving faster than I thought possible. Apple Bloom and Scootaloo are right behind her, all three looking equally panicked.

“What did you three do?” I ask, because I know that look. That’s the we did something really ambitious and now it’s a disaster look.

Sweetie Belle skids to a stop in front of me, her hooves kicking up dust. “It’s the runes! The ones you told us about!”

My brain slams the brakes. “...The what now?”

Apple Bloom bounces on her hooves, talking a mile a minute. “The rune magic! You said non-unicorns use symbols for spells, so we thought if we used ‘em, we could make our red cart float for the talent show!”

Scootaloo spreads her wings, beaming with pride. “It’s gonna be awesome! A floating stunt cart! We spent hours drawing the runes just like you said!”

I stare at them. My brain scrambles. I told them about runes? Oh. Oh, no. I did do that.

It was supposed to be a distraction! They had been pestering me about learning magic, and I figured rune theory would bore them into submission. Turns out, I vastly underestimated the Cutie Mark Crusaders' determination to cause problems.

Sweetie Belle tugs at my leg. “But it’s not working! The cart isn’t floating, and the runes look... weird.”

I glance toward the stage and spot their little red cart parked off to the side. Sure enough, the wood is covered in chalked-in symbols—an absolute mess of lines, spirals, and glyphs, all blending together in what I can only describe as a crime against symmetry.

Oh. This is bad.

“Okay,” I say, adjusting my nonexistent wizard hat. “Let’s take a look. Show me the book and what you've got.”

I have no idea how to fix this. But I sure as hell have to act like I do.

Sweetie Belle floats a book up to me, her magic shimmering with that soft, pale green hue. I take it, flipping to the page where they got their rune pattern.

And, wow, this is awful.

The diagram in the book is absurdly complicated—dense interwoven shapes, tiny precise angles, and ridiculous spacing requirements. No wonder their chalk version looks like a disaster. If my guesstimates are correct, even if they copied it perfectly, a hoof drawing just isn’t precise enough to handle something like this. And precision is probably important when it comes to rune magic.

I nod sagely, pretending to study it while my brain frantically scrambles for a way out. I know nothing about rune magic. But I do know physics, and I do know how Sweetie Belle thinks.

I tap the page. “Alright, here’s the issue. The runes aren’t being drawn clearly enough. This kind of magic needs perfect precision—as clearly as you can see it in your mind, that’s how clearly it needs to be on the material.” I say, making a lot of assumptions.

Apple Bloom frowns. “But we copied it exactly!”

Scootaloo squints at the mess on the cart. “...More or less.”

I shake my head. “Nah, a hoof drawing's not gonna cut it. Too smudgy, too loose. You need something way sharper, way more exact.” I pause, exhaling through my nose. “Which means… we’re going to have to carve it in.”

Sweetie Belle blinks. “But how? I don’t have a knife!”

I smirk. “Sweetie, you don’t need a knife. You’ve got something way better—telekinesis.”

Her ears perk up. “Wait… but how am I supposed to use that to carve something?”

I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my muzzle. I really, really don’t want to teach her this. But at this point, I have no choice. Well, I do, but I don't want to learn rune magic to teach it to her so...

“Alright, listen up,” I say, crouching to her level. “You remember when I taught you about atoms, right? That everything’s made up of teeny-tiny particles?”

She nods rapidly. “Yeah! And they stick together because of those… uh… forces?”

“Exactly,” I say, snapping a hoof in approval. “Those forces are what hold solid objects together. But what if we temporarily weakened those forces in a very, very specific spot?”

Her eyes widen. “Then… I could move those atoms apart!”

“Bingo,” I say, pointing at her. “And if you do it in the shape of the rune, you’re not drawing it—you’re imprinting it directly into the material. No chalk, no smudging. Just pure, flawless perfection.”

She gasps. “That’s so cool! I wanna try!”

The other two, however, don’t look so thrilled.

Scootaloo scowls. “Great. So the unicorn gets to be the only one who’s good at non-unicorn magic.”

Apple Bloom crosses her hooves. “Ain’t this kinda against the whole ‘earth ponies and pegasi can do magic too’ thing?”

I shrug. “Hey, don’t blame me. Blame reality. Some stuff’s just easier with certain tools. I mean, you wouldn’t complain if a pegasus used their wings instead of their hooves to do something fancy, right?”

Apple Bloom opens her mouth, then shuts it. Scootaloo just grumbles.

I turn back to Sweetie Belle, tapping the cart for emphasis. "Alright, so here’s how this works. The reason solid objects stay together is because of a bunch of forces at the atomic level. The main one keeping everything in place is called intergranular force. That’s just a fancy way of saying that atoms in a solid stick together because of their grain structure, like how puzzle pieces fit together."

Sweetie nods quickly. "Right! Like how the wood is made up of tiny bits that are all holding onto each other!"

"Exactly. But that’s not the only thing keeping it solid. You’ve also got van der Waals forces, which are weaker interactions between molecules, and electrostatic attraction, which is how negatively charged electrons keep atoms bound to positively charged nuclei. That’s what gives a material its shape and structure. You mess with those? You can separate things down to their finest layers."

Her eyes light up. "So I have to push apart the atoms just a tiny bit to carve it?"

"More like slip them apart," I correct. "If you just force them, the whole structure might fracture. But if you focus your magic on reducing the intergranular cohesion just in the exact shape of the rune, the material will part as cleanly as if you cut it with a razor."

She closes her eyes, horn sparking as she concentrates. I step back, mostly so I don’t get blamed if this goes wrong.

At first, nothing happens. Then, slowly, the chaotic chalk mess on the cart starts to vanish, replaced by thin, delicate carvings that sink into the wood like something was peeling it away, layer by layer. Every swirl, every line, every intricate detail from the book takes shape exactly as intended.

I blink.

Huh. That actually worked.

Sweetie Belle gasps, opening her eyes. "I did it!"

Apple Bloom and Scootaloo peer at the runes, both impressed and vaguely annoyed.

Scootaloo sighs. "Great. Now Sweetie gets magic, and non-magic."

Apple Bloom rubs her chin. "Ah mean, at least it's our idea? So it's still kinda our thing?"

I clap my hooves together. "Fantastic work, girls. Now, let’s—"

"Cutie Mark Crusaders, you’re up next!" a voice calls from the stage.

All three of them freeze.

Sweetie Belle panics. "Oh no! We don’t even know if it works!"

I sigh. "Well, you’re about to find out."

I make a swift, tactical retreat to my seat, settling in among the other ponies as the Crusaders rush onto the stage with their cart. The audience murmurs in curiosity, clearly unsure what to expect.

On stage, Apple Bloom steps forward, puffing out her chest with confidence. “Fillies and gentlecolts, get ready to witness the future of travel! The Cutie Mark Crusaders present to you…” She gestures dramatically to the cart. “The first-ever self-propelled, rune-powered, flying stunt cart!”

Scootaloo spreads her wings. “With our revolutionary new magical system, this cart will take flight, soaring through the air with complete control!”

Sweetie Belle beams. “And it’s all thanks to advanced rune magic!”

I resist the urge to put my head in my hooves. The audience gasps in amazement, but I can already feel Twilight’s skeptical gaze boring into my skull from across the seats.

Oh yeah, she’s definitely adding this to the ‘Kinetic Flux is hiding something’ file.

Rarity looks somewhat impressed—though mostly concerned—as she watches Sweetie take center stage. Meanwhile, Rainbow Dash looks way too interested in a possible new extreme sport.

Apple Bloom gestures for Sweetie Belle to take her place in the cart. “And now, we’ll show ya how it works!”

The three of them clamber inside, and Sweetie Belle’s horn lights up. The rune carvings glow with a soft, eerie shimmer, spreading from one symbol to the next.

The crowd collectively leans forward.

The cart lifts.

Ponies gasp.

The Crusaders cheer.

Oh, good, it actually works, I think, allowing myself to breathe.

Then it keeps going.

And going.

My relief morphs into a sharp, cold realization. Oh, no. Oh, no no no no no.

The Crusaders’ excited expressions begin to shift into something more nervous as the cart rises past the roof of the stage.

Scootaloo glances down. “Uh… Sweetie?”

Sweetie Belle’s smile tightens. “I-I think it’s working a little too well.”

The cart drifts higher.

Apple Bloom tugs on the sides. “Maybe turn it down?”

Sweetie Belle's horn flickers. “I don’t know how to turn it down!”

By now, the audience is craning their necks to follow the ascending cart. Pegasi in the crowd start spreading their wings, muttering to each other.

I sink lower in my seat.

I really should have asked what those runes actually did.

Rainbow Dash is the first to react, shooting into the air. “I got ‘em!” She speeds toward the cart, reaching out to grab it—

And then gets yanked upward as the cart keeps going.

A second pegasus grabs onto Rainbow.

A third grabs onto them.

Now there's a full-blown chain of pegasi getting pulled into the sky like some kind of bizarre balloon accident.

I close my eyes, exhale sharply, and mumble under my breath. “I am not responsible for this. I am not responsible for this. I am not—”

Twilight is already flipping through her spellbook at an alarming speed.

Rarity looks one second away from fainting.

Ponies in the audience are starting to panic.

I should probably do something.

…Or I could just keep sitting here and pretend this is all part of the show.

I glance back up at the cart, which is now well past the treetops.

Yeah. No. Definitely need to do something.

I get up with a sigh. “Alright. Let’s fix this before they reach orbit.”

I take a deep breath and settle back into my seat, trying to look very casual as I watch the chaos unfold. The Crusaders are way too high now, and the pegasi chain is struggling to pull them back down. If I don’t do something, we’re about to have Ponyville’s first unplanned space program.

I could try to play it off, wait for Twilight to do some fancy spellwork, but that would take time, and I have no idea how much higher they’re going to go. No, I need to end this now—and I need to do it without making it obvious.

I can’t see the rune itself anymore, but I do know exactly where it is.

I focus, feeling out the cart’s shape in my mind. The rune should be carved right into the wood beneath them, somewhere on the bottom panel. I don’t need to destroy the whole thing—just enough to break the pattern. A small cut, right through the base.

I let my magic reach out, thin and controlled. The same technique I taught Sweetie Belle, applied from a distance. Instead of forcing the cut, I nudge the atoms apart, slipping them out of alignment in a precise, almost surgical motion.

The wood gives way.

A tiny hole, no bigger than a bit, opens in the bottom of the cart.

And just like that, the rune’s pattern is broken.

The glow flickers out in an instant.

The cart stops.

Gravity remembers it exists.

A split second later, the pegasi yank it down.

Rainbow Dash and the others struggle to keep it level as they guide it back to the stage. The Crusaders, still gripping the sides for dear life, look thoroughly shaken but otherwise unharmed.

The audience erupts into wild applause, cheering at what they clearly think was part of the act.

I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and slump back into my seat, making sure to keep my expression neutral.

The Crusaders step out of the cart, still wobbling but beaming at the applause.

I just shake my head.

I really need to start asking more questions before I help them next time.

Once the excitement dies down and everypony stops talking about the "incredible aerial performance" that nearly sent three fillies into low orbit, I find myself sitting in my seat, bored out of my mind. The talent show continues, but let’s be real—after a flying stunt cart, a filly juggling torches just doesn’t have the same energy. The show ends and the ponies start to disperse.

I glance around for anything interesting. Nothing.

I could go home, but then I'd still have to find something to do. There's no internet here, so its rather boring to stay inside.

Or…

A slow grin spreads across my face.

I could mess with Twilight.

Yeah. That sounds way more fun.

With my new objective set, I stand, stretch lazily, and start making my way toward Golden Oak Library. Ponies are still caught up in the aftermath of the talent show, so no one really notices me slipping away. Twilight probably hasn’t left yet, but that just makes it better—walking into her space when she’s not there, touching her things? That’s an instant way to get a reaction.

I push open the library door without knocking—because why would I knock? It’s a library. She’d argue otherwise, but public buildings are public buildings.

Inside, it’s quiet. Peaceful. The shelves are packed with books, everything neat and organized, just how she likes it.

I hate it.

Not because I have anything against books—knowledge is power, after all—but because it's too orderly. I can already picture Twilight’s little checklists, her meticulously categorized sorting system, the way she probably has a list of books organized by how often they’re borrowed. A far cry from the original honor system. I still haven't returned The Fundamentals of Unicorn Magic or Practical Spells for Beginners.

I grin. Time to introduce an element of 'fun' to the sorting.

I casually walk over to the nearest shelf, pick a random book, and slide it one slot over.

Then I take another and put it back upside down.

Then I find a third, flip to a random page, and dog-ear it.

I’m barely two minutes into this masterpiece of subtle destruction when I hear the door creak open behind me.

I don’t even turn around before she speaks.

“Kinetic,” Twilight says, voice already full of exasperation. “What are you doing?”

I plaster on my most innocent expression and turn to face her. “Oh, hey, Twilight. Just catching up on some reading.”

Her eyes narrow immediately. “You never come here to read.”

I gasp, placing a hoof on my chest like she just insulted my very soul. “That hurts, Twilight. I am deeply offended by that accusation.”

She marches past me and immediately spots the upside-down book. Her eye twitches.

My grin widens.

“You—” she growls, yanking it off the shelf. “You did this on purpose!”

“Twilight, please,” I say, shaking my head. “You can’t just go around accusing ponies without evidence.”

She points to the shelf. “This book is upside down!”

“Maybe it likes being upside down.”

“And this one is in the wrong spot!”

It's honestly surprising how she finds each change so quickly.

“Maybe it was tired of being next to the same books all the time.”

“And this one has a folded page—” She stops mid-sentence, sucking in a sharp breath like I just personally attacked her.

I lean in slightly. “You okay there, Sparkle?”

She takes a deep breath, eyes closed, visibly trying to center herself. When she finally speaks, it’s slow and measured. “Why are you actually here?”

I shrug, leaning against a shelf like I own the place. "Just visiting my favorite purple unicorn."

Twilight stares at me, deadpan. "You are definitely just here to mess with me."

I grin. "Can't it be both?"

She groans, rubbing her temples. "You don’t live here, Kinetic. You can’t just barge in whenever you feel like it."

I tilt my head. "Oh? So you can just waltz into my house, tell me how to eat, make me buy things, and criticize my perfectly functional lifestyle, but when I show up uninvited, it's a problem?"

She sputters. "That—That’s different!"

"Not really."

"It is absolutely different!"

"How?"

"Because—because I was helping you!" she snaps, pointing a hoof at me. "You would starve if I didn’t intervene!"

I wave a hoof dismissively. "Details, details."

She glares at me, eyes twitching, clearly debating if I’m worth the headache. Of course, the answer is always yes.

Before she can lecture me further, the library door swings open again, and three energetic fillies tumble inside.

"Twilight!" Sweetie Belle shouts. "We wanna hear how you got your cutie mark!"

Apple Bloom bounces up beside her. "Yeah! Ya got it from magic, right? Did ya make somethin’ explode?"

Scootaloo’s wings buzz. "Was it a huge explosion? Please tell me it was!"

Twilight immediately shifts gears, her face brightening as she steps into teacher mode. "Oh! Well, actually, it’s a pretty interesting story—"

I see my chance. As she tells her story I take a step back, then another, inching toward the door before anyone notices.

Sweetie Belle whirls around. "Wait! What about you, Kinetic? How'd you get your cutie mark?"

I freeze.

Twilight smirks. "Yes, Kinetic, why don’t you tell us how you got your cutie mark?"

I turn slowly. "Y’know, I’d love to, but I just remembered—uh, I left my stove on. In my—uh—H.A.R.D.I.S. Which I should definitely check on. So, you all have fun—"

I take another step toward the door.

Twilight’s horn glows.

I feel my tail get yanked.

I flail dramatically, dragged back into place. "This is assault, Sparkle."

She rolls her eyes. "You are not getting out of this. Sit down and tell the girls your cutie mark story."

I groan but comply, mostly because she still has a magical grip on my tail, and I’d rather keep it attached to my body.

The Cutie Mark Crusaders sit eagerly in front of me, eyes wide and full of expectation. Twilight watches with her usual mix of amusement and suspicion. Sweetie Belle, though—she is the problem. She knows too much. I’m going to have to be careful.

I clear my throat. "Alright, fine. It all started when I was just a colt, attending my entrance exam for Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns."

Twilight’s expression shifts from smug satisfaction to confusion. "That’s—"

"—where I was asked to hatch a dragon egg," I continue smoothly, watching her eyes narrow. "I focused my magic, but nothing happened at first! And then—BOOM! A huge explosion of magic burst out of me, and suddenly I was floating, my eyes glowing, books flying everywhere—"

Twilight scowls. "That’s my cutie mark story."

I gasp, placing a hoof on my chest. "It is? Oh no! What a crazy coincidence!"

She levels a glare at me, deadpan. "Tell. The real. Story."

I sigh, dramatically throwing myself onto the floor like this is the greatest injustice of my life. "Fine, fine, I guess I’ll tell you the real story."

I sit back up, clearing my throat again. "So there I was, deep in the jungles of Equestria, searching for the lost Tome of Eternal Arcana."

Scootaloo leans forward. "That sounds way cooler."

Twilight groans. "Oh, come on."

I ignore her. "I had been traveling for days, my supplies running low. The path was treacherous, filled with traps and puzzles designed to keep unworthy seekers away. But I wasn’t just any unicorn—I was determined. And as I reached the final chamber, I saw it—a pedestal holding the tome, surrounded by enchanted flames!"

Apple Bloom gasps. "Then what happened?"

I smirk. "I stepped forward, ready to claim my prize—but then the floor crumbled beneath me! I fell into an underground cavern, where I was met with a mystical guardian, a creature of pure magic, protecting the knowledge of ages."

Twilight rubs her temples. "None of this happened."

"It challenged me to a duel," I say, ignoring her entirely. "Not with magic, but with wits. It posed a series of riddles, each more difficult than the last. I had to think fast, using my knowledge of ancient magic and powerful spells to outsmart it."

Sweetie Belle frowns. "But—"

I panic. Before she can say anything, I casually place a hoof over her mouth. "Sweetie, please, I'm telling a story. Anyway, after answering the final riddle, the guardian granted me access to the tome. The moment I opened it, power surged through me! The secrets of the universe flooded my mind! And at that exact moment—" I dramatically gesture at my flank. "Boom. Cutie mark."

Scootaloo’s wings buzz excitedly. "That is so much better than a boring school exam!"

Apple Bloom nods. "Ah bet that means yer special talent is ancient magic!"

"Exactly," I say quickly. "Super rare, super mysterious magic. Definitely not anything else. Nope."

Sweetie Belle finally pries my hoof off her mouth. "But I thought—"

"Shhh, I know it was an intense story, and you're overcome with emotion, there's no need to speak. I understand," I say convincingly.

Twilight squints at me, eyes full of suspicion. "That is the least believable story I’ve ever heard."

I gasp. "Twilight! You wound me."

"You did not get your cutie mark by battling a guardian of pure magic."

"You don’t know that."

"Yes, I do."

The Crusaders, however, seem less concerned about truth and more about the sheer cool factor of the story.

Scootaloo nudges Apple Bloom. "Do you think we can find a guardian of magic and challenge it to a duel?"

Twilight immediately shakes her head. "Absolutely not."

Apple Bloom sighs. "Aww."

I stand up, stretching. "Well, this has been fun, but I think that’s enough fairy—er, recalling for one day."

Twilight huffs. "I will find out the truth eventually, you know."

I grin, already backing toward the door. "Sure, Twilight. Good luck with that."

I make a smooth exit before she can grab my tail again. Sweetie Belle is still staring at me like she wants to say something, but thankfully, she’s too polite to blurt it out in front of Twilight.

I’ll have to deal with that later.

For now, though? Mission accomplished.

I hum to myself as I trot back toward the H.A.R.D.I.S., feeling pretty satisfied with how today turned out. Sure, the Cutie Mark Crusaders nearly achieved low orbit, Twilight almost caught me in a lie, and Sweetie Belle is one awkward conversation away from blowing my cover—but overall? A solid day.

As I reach my door, I spot the little mailbox in front of my house. I never really check it since most ponies in Ponyville deliver messages in person, but every now and then, something official comes through.

I pull out the envelope and immediately notice the royal wax seal.

My ears perk up. This is it.

I rip it open, and the first thing that falls out is a crisp, gold-trimmed Letter of Credit—1000 bits, straight from the crown. My grin stretches from ear to ear.

"Finally!" I shout, punching the air.

I’ve been waiting for this forever. Ever since Celestia gave me the title of Archmage, there had been a lot of talk about getting proper benefits—an official stipend, access to research materials, and, most importantly, money.

And here it is. 1000 bits. Enough to actually buy things without Twilight dragging me around like a lost foal.

I dig into the envelope again and pull out something small and metallic. It glints in the light—a badge, etched with the royal sun emblem and the words Archmage of Equestria.

I flip it over, and there’s my name, engraved in fancy script.

It’s official.

I actually have ID now.

No more "Sir, you need proper documentation," or "Are you sure you're an Archmage?" or "We can't verify your identity, we need confirmation from the Princess."

I hold it up, marveling at it. This little piece of metal is the key to so many future scams—I mean, legitimate professional opportunities.

I shove both the badge and the Letter of Credit into my saddlebags, resisting the urge to do a victory dance.

I step inside my H.A.R.D.I.S., close the door, and lean against it, sighing in pure contentment.

1000 bits. A royal stipend. Official ID.

Everything is finally coming together.

I toss myself onto my bed, staring at the ceiling, still grinning like an idiot.

For once, everything is going right.

With that thought, I drift off to sleep.

Morning comes too fast, but for once, I wake up in a good mood.

Not because I’m well-rested—Celestia forbid—but because today’s the Grand Galloping Gala.

A night of fancy ponies, absurd wealth, and absolutely no expectations that I’ll behave.

I stretch, rolling out of bed, and throw on my trusty, questionably tailored suit. It’s not great—Twilight made me buy it during her "Let's make Kinetic a proper pony" intervention—but it does the job. It’s dark, slightly wrinkled, and technically fits, which is all I care about.

I grab my saddlebags, making sure my very real Archmage ID is safely tucked inside, then step outside.

I’m halfway to the train station when I stop and actually look at the train.

It’s sleek, polished, and—okay, this thing is definitely not coal-powered.

But it should be. The design is throwing me off—there are no visible exhaust vents, no proper firebox, and the wheels are weirdly proportioned. It’s like someone wanted it to look like a steam engine but skipped the actual engineering part.

I squint at it, running through mental calculations, and conclude that I have no idea how this thing works.

It bothers me.

A lot.

But not enough to actually ask.

I walk up to the ticket booth and slap down some bits, still reveling in my financial security.

"One ticket to Canterlot," I say with a smug grin, because for once, I can actually afford things.

The mare behind the counter gives me a look before sliding the ticket over.

I step onto the platform just as the rest of the girls arrive. They all have dresses on.

Rarity, of course, is immaculate, dressed in something probably hoof-stitched with imported silk. Twilight is trying way too hard to keep herself composed. Applejack’s carrying a cartload of apple goods, looking like she’s about to start a street stall inside the castle. Fluttershy is practically vibrating with excitement, and Pinkie is… well, Pinkie.

Rainbow Dash flutters above them, already bragging about Wonderbolt connections she absolutely does not have.

I nod at them, casually stepping onto the train like I do this every day. "Ladies."

Twilight sighs. "Please try to behave tonight, Kinetic."

I smirk. "Oh, I absolutely will try."

She groans, already regretting everything.

The train whistle blows, and I find a seat near the window, watching as the station drifts away.

Canterlot, here we come.

This is going to be fun.

I settle into my seat, propping my head against the window as the train glides smoothly along the tracks. The scenery outside blurs past—rolling hills, thick forests, the occasional farm. It’s nice, peaceful.

And for once, I do absolutely nothing.

I don’t poke Twilight about her obsessive note-taking. I don’t make sarcastic comments about the Gala. I don’t even nudge Rarity about whatever ridiculous expectations she has for the night.

I just sit there. Silent. Minding my own business.

The reaction is immediate.

Twilight, seated across from me, flips through a book, but every so often, she glances up, her ears twitching. At first, it’s just casual curiosity.

Then she glances again.

And again.

She shifts in her seat, turning the page of her book way too fast to have actually read anything. Her quill—because of course she brought a quill and parchment—hovers in her magic, completely untouched.

I keep my face neutral, gazing out the window like I’m not enjoying this immensely.

Finally, after what must be unbearable silence on her end, she clears her throat. "Kinetic."

I glance at her lazily. "Yeah?"

Her eyes narrow slightly. "You’re being… quiet."

I nod. "Yep."

More twitching. "You never just sit quietly."

"Guess I do now."

She blinks, her mouth opening slightly before she shuts it again. I can see the gears turning.

The others aren’t paying much attention—Applejack and Rarity are deep in conversation about something, Pinkie’s rambling to Fluttershy about cake, and Rainbow is off in her own world—but Twilight? Twilight is spiraling.

She forces a chuckle, flipping a page in her book with fake casualness. "Well, it’s nice. A bit… unexpected, but nice."

I nod. "Good to hear."

Her ears twitch again.

She waits. Five seconds. Ten.

I don’t say anything.

Now she’s really squirming.

She frowns, setting her book down. "Okay, seriously, what’s going on?"

I raise a brow. "What do you mean?"

"You’re not annoying me," she blurts out.

Rarity, who had been mid-sentence with Applejack, pauses and glances over with interest.

Twilight keeps going. "You always have some kind of comment, or you mess with my books, or you—something! But you’re just… sitting there!"

I shrug. "Didn’t feel like it."

She stares. "Didn’t… feel like it?"

"Yeah." I stretch my hooves out, leaning back against the seat. "Figured I’d just sit and enjoy the ride."

She blinks rapidly, clearly not buying it. "But—but you always mess with me!"

"Sounds like you should be having a good time then, Twilight."

Rarity is very obviously trying to hide her amusement behind a polite sip of tea.

Twilight, however, is not amused.

"Did I do something?" she suddenly asks.

I tilt my head. "What?"

"Did I do something?" She gestures vaguely. "Are you mad at me? Is that why you’re not—" She cuts herself off, flustered.

I stare at her for a second. Then I grin. "Twilight, are you saying you miss my usual antics?"

She stiffens. "No! Absolutely not!"

I raise a brow. "Sure sounds like you do."

"I don’t!" she says, a little too quickly.

Rarity, who has been following this whole thing like it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen, finally interjects. "Darling, you do seem rather… concerned about Kinetic’s behavior."

Twilight sputters. "I—I’m not concerned! I’m just—curious!"

Rarity suddenly perks up, eyes gleaming with opportunity.

"Well, Twilight," she says smoothly, setting her teacup down with a delicate clink, "if Kinetic is no longer entertaining you, perhaps he simply needs better company."

I immediately sense danger.

Twilight just squints. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Rarity brushes a hoof through her perfectly curled mane and shifts a little closer to me. Not too close, but enough that I notice. Enough that Twilight notices.

"Oh, nothing, darling," she says in that overly sweet tone that makes my internal alarms blare. "I simply understand if Kinetic wishes to engage in more… refined company. After all, some of us appreciate the finer things in life. Intelligent conversation. Elegance. Charm."

I stare at her blankly.

Twilight snorts. "Charm? Kinetic?"

I wave a hoof. "Hey, I am very charming."

Twilight raises a brow. "You stuck a book in the freezer just to see how I’d react."

"Oh, you caught that one too huh?" I say, mildly impressed.

Rarity hums. "A playful charm, then. Why, I find it quite endearing."

I need to leave. Immediately.

I glance toward the train station, then at Rarity, then back to the train.

"Wow, would you look at the time!" I announce loudly, taking a step back. "I just remembered—I’ve always wanted to see how the train works! Super important Archmage stuff, you wouldn’t understand. See you later!"

Before Rarity or Twilight can react, I turn and bolt toward the front of the train.

I hear Twilight calling after me. "Kinetic, you don’t care how the train works!"

"Sure I do!" I yell over my shoulder, not slowing down.

I weave through the departing passengers, making a beeline for the locomotive. The engineers and staff are wrapping up their post-trip checks, and I spot the conductor standing near the controls.

Time for some creative abuse of authority.

I straighten up, slap on my best 'official unicorn who knows what he’s doing' face, and pull my brand-new Archmage badge from my saddlebag.

The conductor, an older stallion with a thick mustache, raises a brow as I approach. "Can I help you?"

I flash the badge. "Yes, you can. Kinetic Flux, Royal Archmage of Equestria." I lower my voice, adding just the right amount of mystery. "I’m here for an inspection."

His eyes widen. "Oh! Well, uh, we weren’t told about an inspection…"

I nod sagely. "That’s the point. Surprise inspections ensure quality and efficiency. Now, if you’d be so kind as to show me how this magnificent machine operates…" I gesture toward the controls like I actually know what I’m looking at.

The conductor hesitates for only a second before stepping aside. "Right this way, sir."

Perfect.

I step into the train’s engine room, eager to see what actually makes this thing run. I’m expecting something mechanical—maybe a hybrid setup, a magical booster system, something with gears and pistons and actual engineering.

Instead, I’m greeted by a series of glowing runes carved into metal plates.

I stare.

The conductor beams. "A marvel of modern enchantment! The entire system runs on a series of magically inscribed rune circuits, powered by an integrated leyline converter! Efficient, clean, and requires no manual labor!"

I resist the urge to scream.

Of course it’s just magic.

I let out a long sigh, rubbing my temples. "So… no steam engine? No pistons? No actual mechanics?"

The conductor frowns. "What are those? No. It’s got a rune that holds it up to lighten it, and a rune that pushes it along. It's all powered by the layline."

I sigh again, feeling deeply disappointed. "So you’re telling me this is basically just a floating platform with wheels?"

He blinks. "Uh… I suppose you could put it that way, but—"

I hold up a hoof. "No, don’t ruin it further. Just let me mourn."

He looks thoroughly confused but wisely decides not to press the issue.

I give the glowing runes one last disappointed glance before turning away. "Alright, inspection complete. You’re all… doing fine, I guess."

The conductor nods eagerly. "Excellent! I’ll be sure to report that the Archmage personally approved our systems!"

I wave a hoof, already walking out. "Yeah, yeah, just don’t let any of this get to your head."

As I step back onto the platform, my good mood from earlier is completely gone.

Magic is such a lazy solution.

Canterlot is exactly as I remember it—tall, pristine, and filled with ponies who look like they were born knowing how to sneer. The last time I was here, I took a flying carriage straight to the Archmage Examination. No wandering the streets, no rubbing elbows with the nobility. Just a straight shot to my so-called destiny.

This time, though? I’m walking through the city like a normal pony, surrounded by Twilight and the rest of the girls as we make our way toward the castle. The streets are bustling, with finely dressed ponies moving toward the Grand Galloping Gala, their outfits ranging from tasteful to whatever Rarity considers tasteful.

The girls start singing some song, and I tune them out while walking.

I glance down at my own suit. It’s… functional. Slightly wrinkled. Definitely cheaper than most of what I’m seeing. But I have something far more valuable than fancy fabric—my Archmage badge and the royal stipend burning a hole in my saddlebags.

It’s the little things in life.

We’re almost at the castle when I remember something important.

I have a plus one.

A free extra ticket. A golden opportunity. How best to use this to my advantage?

I smirk.

"Hang on a sec," I say, stopping in my tracks.

Twilight pauses. "What? Why?"

I scan the street, my eyes landing on a random unicorn mare standing near a café, looking through her bag. She’s dressed nicely but clearly not on her way to the Gala.

Perfect.

I walk straight up to her. "Hey, you busy tonight?"

She blinks, looking up. "Uh… no?"

"Great. Want to go to the Grand Galloping Gala with me?"

Her eyes widen. "Are… are you serious?"

"Dead serious." I hold up my extra ticket. "No strings attached. Just need a date for the evening. You in?"

Behind me, I hear Twilight make a strangled noise.

Rarity gasps. "Kinetic! You cannot be serious!"

The mare looks between me and the ticket, clearly confused but not opposed to the idea. "This isn’t a prank, is it?"

I shake my head. "Nope. Just thought it’d be funny."

Twilight stomps up beside me. "You cannot just grab a random mare off the street!"

I glance at her. "Why not?"

"Because—that’s not—"that’s not how you’re supposed to do it!"

Rarity looks like she’s about to faint. "This is high society! There are expectations! You can’t just drag a random stranger into a royal event!"

The mare shrugs. "I mean… I wouldn’t mind going."

I grin. "See? She’s fine with it."

Twilight sputters. "That’s not the point!"

I turn back to the mare. "What’s your name?"

"Uh… Amethyst Star."

"Cool. I’m Kinetic Flux. I’m an Archmage, apparently. Now you’re my plus one. Ready?"

She laughs. "I mean, why not?"

Twilight looks deeply distressed. Rarity looks personally offended.

I’m having a great time.

With my new completely legitimate date secured, we continue toward the palace. Amethyst Star walks beside me, looking both amused and a little bewildered. Twilight, meanwhile, keeps glancing at me like she wants to say something but can’t quite figure out what.

Rarity, on the other hoof, is very vocal about her disapproval.

"This is an absolute travesty!" she huffs as we approach the gates. "A random mare off the street? What must ponies think?!"

I smirk. "Probably that I’m a stallion of mystery and intrigue."

Twilight groans. "That’s definitely not what they think."

Amethyst Star giggles. "I dunno, I think it’s kind of fun."

"Exactly," I say, nodding. "You get it."

Twilight twitches. "Why are you like this?"

"I ask myself that every day," I say sagely.

Twilight glares. "Just behave like you promised."

The guards at the gate barely glance at us before stepping aside, letting us into the castle grounds. Once inside, the golden glow of chandeliers, polished marble, and excessive wealth surrounds us. A lot of ponies are already mingling, chatting in their high-society tones. Classical music drifts through the air, mixing with the faint sound of clinking glasses.

I take a deep breath. "Smells expensive."

Applejack rolls her eyes. "Smells like a buncha ponies with too much money."

I grin. "Same thing."

As we step further in, Twilight still looks flustered, her eyes darting to me and Amethyst every few seconds.

"You okay there, Sparkle?" I ask, raising a brow.

"I—I just don’t understand why you’d do this!" she blurts out.

I blink. "Do what?"

"Just—this!" She gestures wildly at Amethyst. "You had a plus one, and instead of inviting somepony you know, you just—picked somepony at random! It doesn’t make sense!"

I shrug. "Seemed like the best way to use it."

Twilight groans. "But why?"

Rarity nods dramatically. "Yes, why?"

Amethyst Star, to her credit, is just enjoying the chaos.

Twilight glares at me, waiting for an answer.

I smirk. "Maybe I just enjoy keeping you on your hooves, Twilight."

She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her face scrunches up, her ears flicking like she’s trying to process something deeply upsetting.

"You know what? Fine," she finally huffs, turning away with a dramatic flick of her tail. "Do whatever you want."

"Oh, I will," I say cheerfully.

As she stomps off, Rarity gives me a withering look before trotting after her.

I turn to Amethyst Star. "So, wanna go pretend we belong here?"

She grins. "Absolutely."

Tonight’s off to a fantastic start.

I lead Amethyst Star straight to the most important part of any fancy event—the sweets table.

Towering cakes, perfectly arranged pastries, tiny little delicacies that probably cost more than my rent—this is exactly where I belong.

I grab a plate, loading it up with the most expensive-looking treats I can find. Amethyst Star does the same, clearly getting into the spirit of things.

"This stuff’s free, right?" I ask, stuffing a miniature éclair into my mouth.

Amethyst Star snorts. "I think that’s the point."

"Good, good. I’d hate to start my first Gala as an Archmage with theft charges."

A few nearby nobles glance over at us, already side-eyeing our existence. I grin. Time to have some fun.

I lean toward Amethyst, lowering my voice just enough to make sure the ponies around us can still hear.

"You know, it’s funny," I say, taking another bite of cake. "Most ponies think the Archmage position is all research and spellcraft."

Amethyst raises a brow. "It’s not?"

"Oh, no," I say, shaking my head. "It’s mostly secret missions."

A unicorn in a ridiculous feathered hat subtly leans closer. I can feel the curiosity radiating from the ponies around us.

Amethyst catches on immediately, nodding along. "Really? What kind of missions?"

I sigh dramatically, like I’m about to reveal classified information. "Well, I shouldn’t say, but since we’re at a royal event, I suppose a little slip won’t hurt…"

The nobles are fully eavesdropping now.

I glance around, then lower my voice. "You know how the Griffon Empire’s been suspiciously quiet lately?"

Amethyst nods. "Uh-huh."

"Yeah," I say, shaking my head. "That’s because of me."

Gasps. A mare actually drops her champagne glass.

Amethyst barely keeps a straight face. "No way. You?"

I nod gravely. "Mmm. Let’s just say there was an incident at the embassy a few months back. You wouldn’t believe the things I had to do to avert disaster."

The nobles are now whispering to each other.

"Wait," Amethyst says, playing along perfectly. "You mean that whole thing with the ambassador's mysterious illness—"

I hold up a hoof. "I can’t confirm or deny that I may have been involved in a covert magical operation to prevent an international crisis."

The feather-hat unicorn gasps again.

I take another bite of cake, chewing dramatically as if I definitely didn’t just drop a fabricated international scandal into high society’s lap.

The nobles around us are riveted.

Amethyst Star, barely holding in her laughter, leans in. "That’s incredible," she whispers loudly. "But surely you weren’t alone on such a delicate mission?"

I sigh, shaking my head. "Of course not. There were others—agents, specialists, operatives—but some things only an Archmage can handle."

A stallion in a ridiculously oversized cravat practically chokes on his drink.

"Like what?" Amethyst asks, playing the perfect conspirator.

I glance around, lowering my voice again. "Let’s just say… certain magical artifacts are better left undisturbed." I pause meaningfully. "Unless, of course, you want to wake up with a griffon curse."

A chorus of scandalized whispers erupts from the nobles around us.

One of them—a mare with a pearl necklace that probably costs more than my entire existence—tilts her head. "You’re saying there’s a cursed artifact in the Griffon Empire?"

I tap my chin, as if considering whether I should divulge more. "Technically, it’s not in the Griffon Empire anymore…" I let my words hang, watching her eyes widen in horror.

Amethyst Star gasps. "Wait. Wait. Are you saying it’s here?"

I exhale through my nose, giving her a grim look. "Let’s just say, if you start having… unusual dreams tonight, I suggest seeking a healer immediately."

The pearl-necklace mare actually turns pale.

A noble stallion next to her mutters, "I knew something felt off tonight…"

Amethyst is openly grinning now, but she somehow keeps her tone serious. "This is huge. Why hasn’t the princess addressed this publicly?"

I take another slow bite of cake, chewing thoughtfully. "You don’t really think Celestia tells everypony everything, do you?"

At that moment, I swear half the nobles physically recoil. One mare actually clutches her chest like I’ve just shattered her worldview.

Amethyst Star nods sagely. "Of course. It makes so much sense now."

I sigh again. "It’s a burden, really. The things I know. The things I can’t say. But hey," I grab another pastry, tossing it into my mouth, "that’s the job."

The feather-hat unicorn is practically vibrating with the urge to run off and immediately spread this nonsense to every pony in the ballroom.

Mission accomplished.

I dust off my hooves and turn to Amethyst. "So. More cake?"

She lets out an actual snort of laughter, nodding. "Oh, absolutely. But I swear, if I have unusual dreams tonight, I’m tracking you down."

I wink. "Good luck finding me."

As we turn back to the sweets table, I catch a glimpse of Twilight across the room, deep in conversation with Celestia.

And she looks directly at me.

I hold her gaze.

She narrows her eyes.

I grin.

Yeah. This night’s going great.

As I'm busy stacking my plate with yet another round of high-society sugar, I hear the unmistakable voice of Princess Luna echo across the ballroom.

"Kinetic Flux! Thou scoundrelous rogue!"

I turn just in time to see a tall, dark alicorn striding toward me, her ethereal mane flowing like a slice of the night sky. Her expression? A perfect mix of excitement and mischief.

"Luna," I say, grinning. "Been a while."

She stops just in front of me, looking me up and down with a smirk. "Indeed. Too long! We have been bored in thine absence." She tilts her head. "Hast thou been causing trouble in our fair lands?"

I hold up my badge. "Officially, no. Unofficially, I maintain my right to silence."

She snorts. "Thou art a menace, and we adore thee for it."

Amethyst Star, standing beside me with a half-eaten tart in her hoof, watches the exchange with open curiosity. I nod toward her. "Oh, where are my manners? Luna, this is Amethyst Star, my lover of ten years."

Amethyst Star chokes on her tart.

Luna deadpans. "Ah, yes, truly a touching tale of devotion." She narrows her eyes playfully. "And yet, when last we spoke, thou didst claim to despise the equine form, particularly due to the—how didst thou put it—'grotesquely large and offensively veiny eyeballs'?"

Amethyst Star is now coughing violently.

I clear my throat. "Ah, well. You know how it is. Love finds a way."

Luna smirks, stepping closer. "And tell us, dear Amethyst Star, how didst thou ensnare our dear friend, knowing his… deeply held aesthetic grievances?"

Amethyst, to her credit, recovers quickly. She flashes a dazzling smile. "Oh, it was quite simple, your highness. I just kept my eyes closed for the first five years."

Luna throws her head back and howls with laughter.

The nobles within earshot, who had already been quietly scandalized by my presence, now look utterly lost, unsure if they should be horrified or amused.

Twilight, who I spot from across the room, looks entirely horrified.

Luna wipes a tear from her eye. "Oh, how we have missed thee, Kinetic! Thou art a breath of fresh air amidst this dreary parade of self-important peacocks."

I smirk. "I do what I can."

She leans in conspiratorially. "Tell us, what schemes dost thou have planned for the evening?"

I grin. "Well, I already started a rumor about a cursed griffon artifact hidden in Canterlot, so we’re off to a good start."

Luna gasps in delight. "Truly? A most noble endeavor!" She places a hoof on her chest dramatically. "We shall ensure the rumor spreads swiftly."

I nod. "I expected nothing less."

Amethyst Star leans in. "Didn't you tell Twilight that you were going to behave tonight."

I give her an innocent look. "I am behaving... poorly."

Luna nudges me with a wing. "Come! We must mingle further. 'Tis rare we find one as entertaining as thee amidst these insipid festivities!"

Amethyst Star grins. "Oh, I like her."

I smirk. "Yeah. She's alright."

Luna grins back. "We heard that!"

This night just keeps getting better.

I follow Luna and Amethyst Star through the ballroom, occasionally picking up another random dessert from a passing waiter. The energy of the Gala is shifting—whispers of the cursed griffon artifact are spreading, nobles are nervously glancing over their shoulders, and more than one pony is now clutching a lucky charm for protection.

Luna is thrilled.

We’re in the middle of discussing whether I should escalate the rumor by dropping hints about a secret anti-curse task force when I start noticing something strange.

Namely, the fact that I’m no longer the biggest source of chaos in the room.

Across the ballroom, Applejack has abandoned any attempt at elegance and is now aggressively selling apple-based goods to passing nobles like she’s at the Ponyville market. She’s cornered a particularly overwhelmed-looking stallion and is currently waving a caramel apple in his face like it’s a high-stakes business deal.

On the other side of the hall, Rarity’s expression has gone from dreamy to horrified as Prince Blueblood—Canterlot’s most self-important stallion—turns his nose up at every polite thing she’s tried to do for him. He just made her open a door for him. I can feel the impending explosion from here.

Pinkie Pie, in the center of the dance floor, is… well. Pinkie Pie-ing. The Gala’s upper class does not know how to handle her energy, and their stiff, refined dancing is rapidly dissolving into barely contained panic.

Meanwhile, Fluttershy is—oh. Oh no.

I spot her near the royal gardens, stalking a group of clearly frightened animals. I swear I see a squirrel visibly shaking as she inches closer.

And then there’s Rainbow Dash, who’s been glued to the Wonderbolts all night, trying to impress them. I don’t know how that’s going, but given the increasingly irritated looks on their faces, I’d say not well.

Twilight, standing near Celestia, is watching all of this unfold with growing horror.

I nudge Luna. "So, question."

She raises a brow. "Ask, and we shall answer."

"Did Celestia actually think this was going to be a nice, peaceful evening with this crowd, or was this all part of some elaborate prank?"

Luna follows my gaze, eyes flicking over the sheer amount of problems currently unfolding.

Then she grins.

"We suspect," she says, "that our sister knew precisely what would transpire."

I smile. Of course Celestia saw this coming. She probably invited them knowing full well what kind of disaster they’d unleash. I respect the long game.

At this point, things are actively falling apart. Applejack is now yelling about “honest country cooking” while trying to force-feed some noble a slice of pie. Pinkie has fully hijacked the dance floor, bouncing around while horrified nobles scatter like roaches. Fluttershy—sweet, gentle Fluttershy—is chasing a peacock through the ballroom with the manic energy of a mare on the edge.

Then, the cake incident happens.

I turn just in time to witness it in all its glory—some unfortunate waiter stumbles, sending a towering, beautifully decorated cake flying through the air. Prince Blueblood, seeing the incoming confectionary doom, grabs Rarity and uses her as a shield.

There’s a glorious splat as Rarity takes a full-on, frosting-covered impact to the face.

A moment of silence follows.

Then, she screams.

The entire ballroom erupts.

Glasses shatter. Ponies panic. Tables flip. Fluttershy finally snaps and starts shrieking at the animals. Somewhere in the chaos, I hear Pinkie cheering.

I nod, taking a deep breath. "Yep. That’s my cue."

Luna sighs dramatically. "Alas! Duty calls. We must confer with our sister."

I pat her on the shoulder. "Go do royal things. I’m gonna focus on what’s important."

She raises a brow. "Which is?"

I gesture toward the dessert table. "Making sure all this free food doesn’t go to waste."

Luna grins. "A noble cause. Go forth, brave Archmage."

I salute before heading over and absolutely looting the sweets table. I shove pastries, eclairs, and whatever else I can carry into my saddlebags before casually making my way toward the exit. Amethyst Star follows, balancing a small plate of treats on her back.

As soon as we step outside, the muffled chaos of the ballroom fades into the cool, quiet air of the castle gardens. I let out a long sigh, stretching.

"That," I say, "was beautiful."

Amethyst Star laughs. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen nobles look that terrified."

"You should come to more events with me," I say, sitting on one of the garden benches. "This kind of thing happens a lot."

She plops down next to me, taking a bite of some fancy pastry. "You really don’t take anything seriously, do you?"

I shrug. "Why would I? Have you met the world? It’s ridiculous."

She smirks. "Fair point."

We sit there for a bit, just enjoying the night air and watching as very distressed guests start spilling out of the ballroom. After a while, Amethyst Star sighs and stands up.

"Alright, I think I’ve had my fun. I should probably head home before I get roped into cleaning up whatever’s happening in there."

I smirk. "Coward."

She flicks my ear with her tail. "Survivor."

I watch as she trots off, disappearing into the Canterlot streets. I lean back, munching on an eclair, feeling very satisfied with how this night turned out.

At least she kept Rarity off my back for the night.

Chaos
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Applied Mathemagics

Chaos

I sit back on the garden bench, savoring my ill-gotten desserts as the distant sounds of the Gala Aftermath continue inside the castle. It’s peaceful out here. Cool night air, the faint hum of Canterlot city life beyond the palace walls, and the lingering satisfaction of knowing I left the ballroom at exactly the right time.

Eventually, the doors swing open, and the Mane Six stumble out, looking… rough.

Their dresses are torn, their manes are messy, and they all look exhausted. Applejack has what looks like frosting smeared across her hat, Rarity still has cake in her mane, and Fluttershy’s dress is missing half of its fabric.

Celestia walks with them, smiling in that calmly amused but definitely planned this whole thing way she does.

Twilight spots me lounging on the bench, looking far too comfortable for someone who was technically at the same event.

"Where’s your date?" she asks, her voice tinged with something I can’t quite place.

I shrug. "Eh. Easy come, easy go."

She frowns slightly but says nothing, just nods as she takes a seat beside me.

The rest of the girls collapse onto nearby benches, clearly done with the night.

Celestia, ever the composed one, gives me a knowing look before excusing herself. She’s definitely going back inside to survey the wreckage.

After a few minutes, we start heading back to the train station. The group walks together, tired and defeated, but Twilight… Twilight sticks a bit closer to me than usual.

I don’t really think much of it at first—ponies naturally group up, right?

Then I casually move a little to the side, giving myself more space.

Twilight immediately shifts closer again.

I glance at her. She doesn’t say anything, just keeps walking like this is normal.

I squint.

I move again, just a little.

She instantly moves with me, still pretending like nothing’s happening.

Okay.

I move one more time.

This time, she bumps my shoulder—not enough to shove me, but just enough to make a point. I glance over and see her give a withering glare out of the corner of her eyes.

A very silent, very deliberate point.

I get the message loud and clear. Don’t do it again.

I, of course, willfully ignore the implications of this.

She’s probably just tired, right? Yeah. Just tired. She had a long night. It’s not weird.

We keep walking.

Twilight stays right next to me the entire way to the train station.

And I pretend not to notice.

The train ride back to Ponyville is quiet. Everyone’s exhausted, their high expectations for the night thoroughly crushed. Rarity still looks like she wants to murder Blueblood, Applejack grumbles about "fancy folk who wouldn’t know good food if it bit ‘em," and Fluttershy is muttering to herself about "stupid animals who don’t appreciate kindness."

Me? I’m feeling great. This night went exactly as I expected, and I even got free food out of it.

The train pulls out of the station, and everypony settles into their seats. I slide into a nice, comfortable spot by the window, fully prepared to ignore everyone and enjoy the ride back home.

Then Twilight sits right next to me.

There are plenty of other open seats, mind you. The train isn’t packed. She could sit anywhere.

But no.

She sits next to me.

I glance at her. She’s staring out the window, totally silent.

Alright. Fine. She’s tired. Whatever.

I lean back, relaxing, letting the steady rhythm of the train fill the silence.

Then I notice something else.

Twilight is sitting way too close.

Like, not normal close.

Like, pressed right up against my side close.

I glance down. Yep. Her shoulder is touching mine. And she isn’t moving away.

Okay.

I decide to test something.

I shift slightly, just enough to make a little space.

Twilight immediately shifts with me, closing the gap.

I blink.

I move again.

She follows.

Oh. We’re doing this now.

I sigh internally and decide to just accept my fate. If Twilight Sparkle has decided that I am her preferred leaning post, then so be it.

I try to start a conversation. "So, did you at least have fun before everything fell apart?"

No response.

I glance at her. She’s still staring out the window, expression completely neutral, as if I don’t exist.

Huh.

"Twilight?" I try again.

Nothing.

Okay, so she’s ignoring me, but still sitting pressed against me?

What is this? Some kind of passive-aggressive punishment?

I sigh, shaking my head. "Alright. Cool. Guess we’re doing the silent treatment now."

Still nothing.

Fine. Whatever. I lean my head against the window, deciding to just enjoy the ride.

Twilight stays glued to my side the entire trip, ignoring me the whole way.

When we finally pull into Ponyville, everypony shuffles off the train, still half-asleep.

I stretch, rolling my shoulders. "Alright, that was fun. Time to—"

Twilight shoots me a look—a subtle, warning glare, like she knows I’m about to vanish.

I take that as my cue to immediately vanish.

"—head home!" I finish quickly, turning and walking off before she can stop me.

She huffs behind me, but doesn’t follow.

Crisis averted.

As I step onto the path leading to my H.A.R.D.I.S., I shake my head.

Twilight is acting weird.

Probably just tired.

Definitely nothing to think about.

I step into the comforting, magic anomaly that is my house, shutting the door behind me with a satisfied sigh. The H.A.R.D.I.S. is quiet, the glowing orbs floating gently in place, casting a soft, steady light over the marble countertops of my kitchen.

I head straight for the counter, pulling my saddlebags off and setting them down. Then, with the reverence of a scholar handling ancient texts, I carefully extract my ill-gotten desserts and arrange them on a plate.

A tower of pastries. Eclairs, tarts, and fancy little treats that probably cost more than my entire outfit.

Perfect.

I lift the large glass cloche from the counter—one of the few nice things I actually own—place it carefully over my prize, and step back to admire my work.

Beautiful.

A trophy. A testament to my cunning.

Satisfied, I give the plate a final nod of approval and make my way to my room, stretching as I go.

Flopping onto my bed, I stare at the ceiling for a moment.

The Gala was exactly what I expected.

A disaster.

A fun disaster.

I close my eyes, smirking to myself.

Yeah.

Nothing to think about.

With that final thought, I drift off to sleep.

I wake up to the sound of relentless pounding on my door.

For a second, I debate just ignoring it—whoever it is, whatever they want, it’s not my problem. But the knocking doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets louder.

I groan, rolling out of bed. "Alright, alright! Calm down!"

Dragging myself to the door, I yank it open, blinking blearily at the ponies standing outside. It’s Twilight. And she looks stressed. Which, honestly, isn’t unusual.

Behind her, the other Elements stand at varying levels of concerned.

"Alright," I say, rubbing my eyes. "Who died?"

Twilight doesn’t even waste time explaining—she just points to the sky.

I look up.

The clouds are pink.

And raining chocolate milk.

I blink.

Then I close the door.

The pounding starts again immediately.

"Kinetic, open the door!"

"Nope."

"Kinetic!"

"Not my problem!"

"It is your problem!"

I sigh, opening the door just enough to squint at her. "How exactly is this my problem? You’ve got your fancy Elements of Harmony, go fix it."

Twilight glares at me. "We’ve been called to Canterlot. You are coming with us."

I stare at her. "No, I am not."

"Yes, you are."

I cross my hooves. "Twilight, let me explain this very simply—I am not an Element of Harmony. I do not have a rainbow laser of friendship. You do." I gesture vaguely at the group. "So, go use it."

Twilight’s eye twitches. "Princess Celestia personally asked for you."

I pause.

Okay.

That’s a problem.

Because I know what’s happening.

The others don’t—not yet. They just think this is another villain-of-the-week situation. But I know what’s about to wake up. And dread that I might know exactly why Celestia wants me there.

Because of the Seventh Element.

I suppress a groan, running a hoof through my mane.

I rejected it. weeks ago.

When the Elements found their bearers, the Seventh was supposed to have one too. But it never happened. I never told anyone about it, and as far as I could tell, the others worked just fine without it.

It just sat there, a dead stone. Useless.

And I left it there.

I sigh. "Fine. Let me grab my stuff."

Twilight nods, satisfied, as I shut the door behind me.

This is going to suck.

The flight to Canterlot is uneventful, aside from the fact that the sky is still an absolute mess. Pink cotton candy clouds, chocolate milk rain, and, at one point, I swear I see an entire house slowly spinning in midair. The whole thing screams chaos.

Because, well… it is.

Twilight and the others are still mostly focused on their mission. I, meanwhile, am just trying to mentally prepare for what’s coming.

I know Discord is waking up. I know the Elements are our only shot at stopping him. What I don’t know is why Celestia specifically called me.

Unless—

I push that thought way down.

The carriage lands directly in the castle courtyard, and Celestia is already waiting for us. She looks calm, but there’s an unmistakable tension in her posture.

"Thank you all for coming so quickly," she says as we step out of the carriage. Her eyes land on me. "Kinetic, I appreciate your presence as well."

I nod, keeping my expression neutral. "Well, you did ask nicely."

Twilight, still wound way too tight, cuts straight to business. "Princess, what’s going on? We saw the sky, but what exactly are we dealing with?"

Celestia gestures for us to follow. "I will explain everything on the way. Come."

We walk through the grand halls of the castle as Celestia speaks.

"Long ago, before my sister’s banishment, Equestria was ruled not just by alicorns, but by another—a being of pure chaos. Discord."

Twilight gasps. "The Spirit of Chaos and Disharmony!"

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

Celestia nods. "He ruled over the land in a state of disorder and madness. My sister and I, together, used the Elements of Harmony to turn him to stone, ending his reign of chaos."

Rainbow Dash grins. "So we just zap him again with the Elements, right? Easy."

Celestia’s expression darkens. "Yes… but the Elements are kept in a secure vault. I called you all here to retrieve them."

I frown slightly. If it were that simple, why would she call me?

Unless—

That thought bubbles up again. I shove it back down.

We arrive at the massive doors of the vault. They glow with golden magic, reinforced with layers of security enchantments. Celestia steps forward, her horn lighting up as she inserts it into the lock. The doors groan as the mechanisms turn, and slowly, the vault creaks open.

Inside the vault, a stone pedestal stands at the center of the chamber, pristine and untouched. Upon it rests a finely crafted golden box, lined with the sigils of the Sun and Moon—Celestia’s own magic. The room is utterly silent as Celestia steps forward, her horn glowing as she unlatches the lid and opens it.

The box is empty.

A cold weight settles in my gut.

Twilight gasps, stepping forward. "What? But… but that’s impossible! The spells, the wards—"

Celestia’s expression hardens, her jaw tightening. "No. It is not impossible. It is him."

And just like that, the room darkens.

The torches lining the walls flicker and dim. The air shifts, thick with something wrong. I feel it crawling up my spine before I see it—the murals along the walls of the chamber begin to move.

At first, it’s subtle. A ripple in the painted sky. The ponies shift ever so slightly. Then, the image of a great, winding beast, painted in ancient colors, stretches and grins.

A voice, smooth and full of laughter, slithers through the air.

"Did you miss me, Celestia? I missed you."

The mural Discord’s eyes glint with wicked delight as he lounges against the image of a painted cloud.

"It’s quite lonely being encased in stone, but you wouldn’t know that, would you?" The voice hums, thoughtful. "Because I don’t turn ponies into stone."

Celestia steps forward, her wings flaring, her face an unreadable mask. "Discord."

The painted creature grins wider, slithering from one mural to the next, shifting from wall to wall as though he’s never truly still.

"Ah, and these must be your little champions," he muses, his attention now flicking toward the Elements. "Let’s see…"

He studies them.

I don’t like it. His gaze lingers too long.

Discord’s grin widens, his painted form slithering between the walls as if inspecting a collection of prized objects.

"Ah, Applejack," he drawls, his voice laced with amusement. "The most honest liar I’ve ever seen. Always tellin’ the truth—except when it really matters. What would dear ol’ Granny Smith say if she knew how many times you held your tongue just to keep the family together?"

Applejack stiffens. Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t speak.

"And Rainbow Dash," he continues, flowing seamlessly across the wall like an ink spill. "Brave, fast, loyal—oh, so loyal. But tell me, what happens when loyalty is tested? When you have to choose between what you want and what’s right? Between one friend and another?" He tsks. "I do wonder."

Rainbow bristles, her wings flaring slightly, but she doesn’t take the bait.

Then Discord shifts again, his gaze settling on Fluttershy. He softens his tone, feigning sympathy. "And sweet little Fluttershy. So kind, so gentle. But kindness has its limits, doesn’t it? How many times have you bit your tongue, swallowed your hurt, let others walk all over you? Will kindness save you, I wonder? Or will it be the thing that breaks you?"

Fluttershy doesn’t move, but I can see her trembling.

"Ah, Pinkie Pie!" he exclaims suddenly, his voice taking on a cheerful lilt. "The funny one. The party pony. The mare who makes everypony laugh—because if she doesn’t…" His voice dips into something mocking now. "How tiring it must be, keeping up the act. Smiles can crack, you know."

Pinkie’s usual grin falters, just for a fraction of a second.

Discord doesn’t pause. He’s relentless.

"And Rarity." His tone turns sickly sweet. "Such generosity! Such grace! But what is generosity when it’s built on the need to be admired? You give, and you give, and yet—how often do you truly receive?"

Rarity’s lip twitches, but she maintains her composure.

Then he shifts his attention to Twilight.

"And you," he purrs. "Celestia’s perfect little student. So bright. So special. But tell me, Twilight, do you really believe in friendship? Or is it just… convenient? A tool. A system. Something to be understood, studied, used." He leans in, his painted form looming over her. "Tell me… if it all fell apart, would you fight to keep them? Or would you accept that you were always meant to be alone?"

Twilight’s ears flatten, and I see her take an instinctive step back.

Then his gaze turns to me.

And he hesitates.

His playful grin falters, just slightly, his eyes narrowing in something too calculated to be amusement.

"Now, you…"

The weight of his attention slams down on me, sharp and assessing.

His eyes flick over me, unreadable.

Then, his head tilts.

"You’re not supposed to be here."

I feel my muscles tense, my mind already calculating. If he fully manifests, I can fight. But if he’s still bound to the murals—

Snap.

The world vanishes.

No build-up. No time to react.

One second, I’m standing in the castle vault, Discord’s painted eyes on me.

The next, I’m somewhere else.

I stumble forward, the ground beneath me rough and uneven. Dirt. Grass. The heavy scent of damp earth.

The air is thick, humid. The trees around me loom like silent sentinels, their gnarled branches twisting into a tangled canopy above. I don’t need to look around to know where I am.

The Everfree.

Right where I first arrived.

My pulse hammers in my ears as I take a slow, steady breath. My body feels wrong, disoriented, like I was yanked out of reality and shoved somewhere else too fast for my senses to catch up. My mind flickers back to those first frantic moments when I had landed here weeks ago, utterly lost and terrified.

The silence is oppressive.

Then, he speaks.

“Oh, dear me, you look concerned.”

Discord’s voice slithers through the trees, but I can’t see him. It’s everywhere and nowhere at once, sinking into the very air.

I grit my teeth and inhale sharply. Alright. First things first—I need to get out of here. I plant my hooves firmly on the ground and prepare to use the disk lift spell.

I summon my magic, reaching out with the familiar mental tug—

There’s a snap of white-hot pain.

I stagger, my breath hitching, and my head feels wrong. Like something's missing. Like a part of me just—isn’t there.

My heart slams against my ribs as I raise a hoof to my forehead.

My horn is gone.

I hear Discord chuckle.

“Oh my,” he purrs. “You rely on that little thing so much, don’t you? What an inconvenience.”

My breaths are coming too fast now. I have to calm down, to think. Focus.

I straighten, gritting my teeth. "What do you want?"

He sighs dramatically. “Oh, I’ve already gotten what I wanted.” His voice hums through the forest, shifting, slinking through the trees. “You, gone.”

I clench my jaw, already moving. I think I remember which way I walked last time. I just have to keep moving.

Then he speaks again.

And I freeze.

“But, you know,” he muses, his tone almost conversational, “I have to admit, you are fascinating.”

I start walking again, forcing myself forward. "Go be fascinated somewhere else."

"But why would I do that? You're the strangest little thing I’ve come across in centuries."

The weight of his presence coils around me, unseen but undeniable. My muscles tighten as I keep moving, keep walking, refusing to engage. I just need to get out of here.

“Oh, don’t be so cold, John.”

I stop.

The forest suddenly feels very small.

"...What did you just say?" My voice comes out quiet. Too quiet.

The air grows heavy, pressing against me, thick with something wrong.

I swallow hard, pushing forward. Don’t stop. Don’t react.

But he doesn’t stop talking.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Discord sighs, his voice curling around me like a snake. “We are friends, aren’t we? No? Well, we could be.” A chuckle. “Not like they’d ever accept you if they really knew you.”

I don’t stop moving.

“Because you know, don’t you?” His voice dips, rich with amusement. “You told dear Celestia and Luna what you are… but not what that means.”

I falter. Just a fraction. But he catches it.

He laughs.

“Ah, there it is,” he purrs. "The real fear. The thing you don’t like thinking about."

His voice lowers, slithering into something almost… fond.

"You talk about ponies like they're so unbearably ugly. You joke, you mock, you push them away. But it's not them, is it?" His voice slithers through my thoughts, saccharine and knowing. "Not their veiny eyes, staring too wide—no, that’s just an excuse, isn’t it?" His voice slithers through my thoughts, saccharine and knowing. "It’s you."

My stomach knots, cold and tight.

"You see it, don’t you?" Discord purrs. "Those oversized, glistening eyes, so round, so trusting. Looking at you like you’re one of them, like you belong. Like you could ever be so soft, so pure." His voice lowers, curling at the edges with something almost gentle, almost cruel. "But you never were, were you? Not even as a child. No wide-eyed innocence, no simple, stupid faith in the world. You were something else—something jagged, something hollow. And yet, when they look at you, they believe in something that never existed."

A pause. A chuckle, rich with amusement.

"I wonder," Discord hums, "what's worse? That they see what you never were... or that, for a moment, you almost wish you could be?"

I force myself forward, my mind running calculations, searching for an exit, anything.

“Let’s see,” Discord continues, thoughtful now. “How much do you think they’d forgive? A little deception? A few lies? Or… everything?” He hums. "Would they still stand beside you, knowing what you really are? Knowing what you're capable of?"

I keep walking. I don’t react.

Because I know he’s right.

And Discord knows that I know.

He laughs, the sound rolling through the trees. “And oh, you have such wonderful plans for me, don’t you?” His voice drops, almost a whisper. “What was it, again? Oh, yes.”

A pause.

Then—

“You’re going to kill me.”

My breath hitches.

I stop.

The forest is silent.

Discord’s voice is an echoing whisper in my ear, amused and terribly pleased with himself.

"You calculated it," he murmurs, his voice coiling around my spine. "Measured the odds, considered the outcomes. You planned to eliminate me before I could become a threat." He chuckles, almost fondly. "Oh, my dear John, you’re not an Archmage."

I swallow hard.

"You’re a predator."

The forest around me seems to hold its breath, as though every branch and leaf and twisted root is leaning in to listen. Discord’s voice caresses the back of my neck, soaking into the damp air. I force myself to move—one hoof in front of the other—clinging to a thread of composure.

My mind reels, trying to piece together an escape route, to think of any advantage left to me—but he took my horn. All I have are my hooves and my wits, and they feel painfully inadequate against this.

“But you know,” Discord says softly, voice curling around me like a serpent, “even if you did manage to fire off a few 'spells', even if you had the perfect plan…” He chuckles. “What would it change?”

I clench my jaw, refusing to answer.

“Let’s be honest here, John.” He practically purrs the word, letting it reverberate in my skull. “Ever since you showed up, have you truly changed anything? The ponies had their adventures, solved their problems, made their friends. With or without you, they’d be just where they are now.”

He’s lying, I tell myself. He’s lying. But a part of me starts digging through my memories, searching for any evidence he’s wrong.

“And let’s see,” Discord continues, unhurried, almost lazy. “Nightmare Moon? The Elements blasted her without your help. The parasprites? Pinkie’s polka took care of that. Even this fiasco with me would have happened exactly the same, except now you’re complicating things with your… otherness.”

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. I can’t seem to muster any words in my defense.

“Face it,” he whispers, voice distant and close all at once. “You’re a foreign body in a story that was never yours. You’re the out-of-place puzzle piece that doesn’t fit. Every ‘heroic act’ you’ve done, every ‘lesson’ you’ve taught… the timeline marches on, unaffected. You could vanish tomorrow, and nopony would notice. They’d survive—thrive, even—without you.”

I want to shout at him, to demand he stop. I want to say it’s not true. But the words lodge in my throat.

“Look at yourself,” he presses on, his tone icy-sweet. “You claim you’re some brilliant mage, a cunning con artist, a champion of knowledge. But is there one single crisis you truly prevented? One friend you saved that wouldn’t have been saved anyway?”

There’s a roaring in my ears, like a tide rising, threatening to drag me under. My hooves falter; I stagger.

“They are the Elements of Harmony,” Discord croons. “They beat Nightmare Moon, and they will beat me—no matter what you do. So tell me… why are you here?”

He doesn’t expect an answer. He doesn’t need one.

A tremor runs through me. My vision blurs at the edges, and I can’t tell if it’s the forest spinning or my own mind unraveling.

“If you never existed,” Discord murmurs, “everything would still be okay. They’d find their destiny. They’d form their bonds. They’d be the heroes Equestria needs. You? You’re just… background noise.”

I sway on my hooves, a hollow ache radiating through my chest. My heart feels like it’s beating too fast, yet I can’t muster the will to fight. His words burrow into every insecurity I’ve ever had.

“You are an intruder here,” he says, quieter now, more intimate. “Deep down, you know it. You can pretend all you like, but you’ll never belong.”

A small, desperate part of me whispers that he’s manipulating me, that this is how he works. But it’s buried under the weight of his accusations—accusations I can’t refute.

“Come now,” Discord continues, almost pityingly. “Wouldn’t it be easier… if you just left? If you let the real story unfold without your interference? No fuss, no mess—no one else needs to know how much you don’t belong.”

I can hear my own ragged breathing, harsh and broken. My legs shake.

He gives a low, knowing laugh. “Yes… that’s it. Don’t you see how simple it is? Just… stop.”

And something inside me gives.

A numbness crawls through my veins, like ice water replacing my blood. My legs slump. My ears droop. I feel heavy.

I catch a glimpse of my own fur in my peripheral vision. The tan color… fading. Bleeding away into a dull, lifeless grey.

“Oh, there we go,” Discord says, his voice echoing through my skull. “That’s more like it.”

All at once, the last flicker of will drains from me, and I collapse onto my haunches, staring blankly ahead. The forest seems colorless, washed out. My mind is… quiet. Heavy. I don’t care anymore. He’s right. Nothing I’ve done has made a difference. Nothing I could do would matter.

I let out a shuddering breath, my vision blurring. I don’t even register that my body is changing—until I look down.

My forelegs—gone. Instead, there are arms. Pale skin, five-fingered hands, trembling. My chest twists with revulsion, but the emotion is distant, muted. In the reflection of a muddied puddle, I see the shape of my old face—human. Eyes shadowed and hollow.

I drift.

Not out of the forest.

Deeper.

The trees press in, their gnarled limbs like skeletal fingers, clawing at the sky. The world is silent, save for the dull crunch of leaves beneath my feet. I don’t think. I don’t plan. There is no reason, no motivation, no purpose.

Just a cold, hollow anger.

It has no direction, no target, no meaning. It is simply there, simmering beneath my skin, wrapped around my bones like a parasite. I am aware of it, but I do not feel it. Not really.

I keep walking.

The darkness thickens. The air becomes damp, heavy, clinging to my skin like an oil slick. The scent of rot festers in the undergrowth, and I know—something is watching me.

I don’t care.

A noise. A rustling in the distance.

Then, a shift in the shadows.

The thing steps forward.

Its shape is wrong.

Too many joints, too many limbs. Its body is long, emaciated, draped in sagging flesh, its limbs too spindly, too stretched. Its fingers curl unnaturally, the tips stained a sickly black. Its face—if it has a face—is a featureless expanse of bone-white flesh, save for two cavernous sockets where eyes should be. A mouth—too wide, too gaping—splits open, revealing jagged, uneven teeth.

The air grows colder. The thing tilts its head, movements twitchy, erratic.

I meet its empty gaze.

I should run.

I do not.

I stand.

It moves first.

Fast.

A blur of clawed hands, reaching, grasping.

I don’t dodge. I don’t plan. I react.

A scream tears from my throat—not of fear, not of desperation. Just rage.

Pure, unfiltered hatred.

I lunge.

It doesn’t expect that.

My fists collide with its ribs, the sickening crack of impact reverberating through the trees. It staggers—but not far. The thing is fast. Its arm lashes out, a clawed hand raking across my shoulder.

Pain blossoms.

I do not care.

I grab its wrist. Twist. Something snaps.

It screeches. A high, wailing, unnatural sound.

It tries to pull away. I do not let it.

I drive my elbow into its chest. It stumbles. I am already moving. My fist collides with the side of its faceless head, sending it reeling. It does not fall.

I want it to fall.

It lashes out again, claws slicing across my side.

I grab its throat.

I squeeze.

Its body thrashes, limbs flailing, talons digging into my skin. I don’t let go.

My grip tightens. I feel cartilage buckle. The thing spasms, its movements growing erratic, desperate.

I do not stop.

There is no thought, no hesitation.

Just pressure.

Crushing.

Until the thrashing stops.

The thing goes limp.

I drop it.

The body crumples, twitching once before going still.

My breath is ragged, heavy. Blood drips from my arms, staining my hands, soaking into my skin. Mine. The creature’s. I do not care.

The forest is silent again.

My body aches.

But I don’t feel it.

I look down at my hands. The human hands Discord gave me. They are cracked, bruised, bloodied.

I stare.

Then I keep walking.

Deeper.

I wander.

The Everfree stretches, endless, swallowing all light, all warmth. I do not think about direction. I do not think about leaving. I do not think about anything.

I walk. I fight. I bleed.

The next creature comes in the dead hush between heartbeats. A thing with too many eyes, gleaming in the dark, its body slithering unnaturally through the undergrowth. It does not hesitate. Neither do I.

It lunges. I meet it.

Fangs sink into my forearm. I barely register the pain before I drive my knee into its underbelly. It wails—a horrible, ear-splitting thing—but I do not stop. I wrench its head back, ignoring the wet tearing sensation as its teeth drag through my skin.

It writhes, snapping, thrashing, desperate.

I slam it against a tree.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Something crunches. It stops moving.

I drop the body and move on.

My vision blurs at the edges, but I do not stop. The forest breathes around me, watching, waiting.

Something else stirs.

Long-limbed, hunched, with skin stretched too tight over an emaciated frame. It does not walk. It crawls, jittering, clicking, twitching toward me on twisted joints.

I let it come.

Its fingers—long, needle-like—rake across my ribs.

I grab its wrist.

It snaps like dry kindling.

The creature screeches, a wretched, high-pitched cry that sets my skull vibrating. I see the jagged edges of its teeth. It lunges, aiming for my throat.

I shove my fingers into its mouth.

I pull.

There is a wet, awful sound as its jaw separates.

It doesn’t get back up.

The pain should slow me down. I feel the warmth of my own blood, pooling, dripping, leaking. I ignore it.

I wander.

I fight.

The next one is faster, moving like a broken marionette. Its limbs bend where they shouldn’t. It lunges, striking low. Its claws rake my legs. I stagger.

I do not fall.

I grab the back of its skull and drive it into the ground.

The body twitches. I lift its head again.

I slam it down.

And again.

Something wet splatters. I feel it on my face, on my hands. I do not stop. I do not think. I do not care.

The thing stops moving.

I move on.

I do not know how long this lasts. Time has no meaning here.

My body is torn, my breath ragged. My knuckles are raw, split open, bleeding. The pain is distant, unimportant. My body moves because it must.

The forest watches.

Waiting.

I keep walking.

The forest does not end, but I reach something different.

Ruins.

Broken stone, crumbling towers, the skeletal remains of a castle long abandoned. The Castle of the Two Sisters.

I step through the shattered remains of the entrance, moving without direction. My breath is slow, shallow, my limbs heavy with exhaustion and blood loss, but I move.

My body aches. My wounds scream. But I do not stop.

Something draws me deeper.

I descend broken staircases, moving into the bowels of the ruin. Darkness presses in, thick and unmoving, but I do not care. My feet find the path, following something unseen, something pulling me toward it.

Then I see it.

On the ground, next to a platform, forgotten, sits a single stone sphere, cracked, lifeless.

The Seventh Element.

The one that never awakened. The one that had no bearer.

The one I left behind.

I stare at it, my breath coming slow, my chest hollow and heavy.

Then, I reach out.

My fingers graze its surface—rough, cold, dead.

Nothing happens.

No light. No energy. No warmth.

Just stone.

It should feel meaningless. It shouldn’t matter.

But something inside me twists, ugly and raw.

I pick it up.

It is heavy in my hands, heavier than a dead thing has any right to be.

My grip tightens. My breath shudders. A sick, clawing need coils in my chest, curling around my ribs like a parasite.

Give it to me.

I want it.

I want it to work.

I want it to do something.

I clutch the stone tighter, as if I can force it to awaken, as if I can demand it to give me power, purpose, meaning.

It does not respond.

Nothing changes.

Nothing ever changes.

My fingers dig into the rough edges, the cracks beneath my grip. My body shakes with rage.

I deserve this.

I need this.

But the stone does not care.

Because Discord was right.

I am nothing.

I was never meant to be here.

And nothing I do will ever change that.

Still, I do not let go.

I clutch the useless, lifeless thing, holding it close like a wretched, starving creature hoarding scraps of food.

A thought slithers into my mind.

A sick, wretched, perfect thought.

If I don’t matter…

If I shouldn’t be here…

Then what’s the best way to exit stage left?

I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of the stone in my grasp. Cold. Lifeless. Just like me.

Discord’s words churn in my skull, sinking into the marrow of my bones.

I am an intrusion.

An out-of-place thing in a story that doesn’t need me.

Nothing I have done has mattered.

Nothing I could do will change anything.

But there is something left.

If I am a monster—

Well.

I know ponies who fight monsters.

The thought coils tight, insidious, logical.

I let out a slow, shaking breath. The grip on the Seventh Element tightens until my knuckles ache.

The answer is so simple.

It makes sense.

I have spent so long trying to fit, to belong, but if I can’t—if I was never supposed to—then what else is left?

They will come.

Of course they will.

They always do.

They’ll stop me.

And then, finally, the story can move forward without me in it.

I take one step back.

Then another.

The castle walls loom around me, but I do not feel their weight.

I have a plan.

For the first time since Discord spoke, I feel… something.

A bitter, twisted sense of purpose.

I turn, the Seventh Element clutched in my hands, and walk out into the night.

I trudge through the Everfree, the broken stones of the castle disappearing behind me. My body aches, torn and battered, my mind is numb, but I move. Step after step.

The trees begin to thin. The air grows lighter.

And then, finally, I reach the edge of Ponyville.

And it is normal.

No cotton candy clouds. No chocolate rain. No shifting, chaotic nonsense.

The houses stand as they always have, lights glowing warmly against the night. Ponies move through the streets, chatting, laughing.

They won.

Of course they did.

The story is back on track.

I was never needed.

I tighten my grip on the stone.

No one notices me at first.

Why would they?

I’m not a pony anymore.

I’m nothing they recognize.

A shadow, a shape in the dark.

Then, a filly—one I vaguely remember, a face in the background of a town that was never mine—spots me.

She freezes. Her eyes go wide.

I take a step forward.

She stumbles back, hooves scraping against the cobblestone.

A stallion turns, following her gaze. Then another. Then more.

The hum of conversation fades. A ripple of silence spreads through the streets.

I see their ears pin back, their tails twitch.

Fear.

They don't know what I am.

And I don’t correct them.

I let my shoulders hunch, my posture sag. My fingers twitch at my sides. A ragged breath shudders through me, my chest rising and falling unevenly.

Then I scream.

It is not a word, not a sound of reason or restraint. It is a howl, a raw, jagged explosion of rage and agony tearing from my throat. It echoes through the town, rattling windows, sending ponies scrambling.

They run.

I lurch forward, shambling, limbs unsteady, like some nightmare dragged from the depths of the Everfree. My breath rasps, deep and uneven, every exhale a growl. My body is torn, my skin slick with blood—some mine, some not—and I do not care.

A stallion stumbles over his own hooves, trying to get away. I slam my foot down on the cobblestone, the impact ringing loud, sharp, wrong. My fingers flex at my sides, twitching, curling, hungry.

Let them be afraid.

Let them see me.

A cart overturns as a mare shrieks, yanking her foal away. A stallion calls out for somepony—anypony—to get the guard.

Good.

Panic rolls through the crowd, a tide of gasps and cries and hooves pounding against the ground. A mare trips, scrambling to right herself, her eyes locked on me with wild, white-rimmed terror.

I move.

I lunge—not toward her, not toward anything in particular—just a sudden, violent movement, a snap of motion too quick, too unnatural.

She screams.

They all do.

The streets empty fast, ponies ducking into their homes, slamming doors, locking windows.

I hear somepony ring a bell. An alarm.

The guards will come.

But that’s not who I want.

I want them.

The ones who fight monsters.

The ones who fix things.

The ones who always win.

I throw back my head and roar again, louder, a bellowing challenge that shakes the air. My throat burns, but I do not care.

Come and stop me.

Come and fix this.

Come and end me.

I wait.

I stand in the center of the street, hunched, bloodied, breathing.

Waiting.

For the heroes.

They arrive.

The heroes.

I hear them before I see them, galloping hooves, the clatter of metal, the hum of magic ready to fire. Then, they round the corner, and there they are. The Elements of Harmony, standing tall, looking right at me.

Their eyes widen.

I see the calculations flickering through their minds, the way their stances shift. They see my shape, my bloodied form, the raw, ragged thing that stands in the street, panting like some rabid beast.

They see a monster.

Good.

"Who—what is that?" Rainbow Dash says, wings flaring as she hovers above the others.

"I—I dunno," Applejack mutters, adjusting her stance. "But look at ‘im. He’s covered in blood."

Fluttershy makes a strangled sound. Rarity takes a cautious step back. Pinkie Pie doesn’t bounce, doesn’t smile. She just stares.

And Twilight—Twilight narrows her eyes. "Are you one of Discord’s?"

The accusation rolls over me, meaningless. My breath rattles in my chest.

They don’t know me.

Of course they don’t.

They were never supposed to.

Twilight steps forward, caution in her every movement. "Listen," she says, slow, deliberate, like she’s speaking to a cornered animal. "We can help you. Just—tell us what happened."

I don’t answer.

I don’t think.

I lunge.

Twilight barely has time to teleport back before my fist cracks the ground where she stood.

Rainbow reacts first. "Okay, nope, I knew it was evil!"

The others brace, ready to fight.

Twilight’s horn glows. "If you're discord's... Where is Kinetic Flux?" she demands.

My body locks.

The name slices through me, jagged and cruel.

I tighten my grip on the Seventh Element. My chest heaves. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache.

I don’t answer.

I charge.

A burst of magic slams into me—Twilight’s, no doubt—but it barely registers. I barrel forward. The world narrows, sharpening into one singular objective.

Twilight fixes things.

Twilight solves problems.

So why is she letting me exist?

I catch her.

The others shout—Rainbow dives at me, Applejack surges forward—but I grab Twilight first. My fingers lock around her throat, my weight slamming her into the cobblestone.

The wind rushes from her lungs.

"Twilight!" Fluttershy cries.

The others move.

I press down.

Her hooves scramble against me, magic flickering at her horn, but I’m too close.

"Useless," I snarl, voice raw and jagged. "Useless!"

Her eyes widen.

The others are shouting, moving, reacting—Applejack rams into me, Rainbow kicks—but I don’t let go.

I lean in, voice breaking with something beyond rage.

"Twilight!" I roar. "Fix this! Make it stop!"

She struggles, hooves pressing against me. "How do you know my name?!"

Everything stops.

The question crashes over me like a wave, shattering through the haze of fury.

I blink.

Her eyes—those too-wide, too-veiny, too-pony eyes—are looking at me with something new.

Not fear. Not anger.

Recognition trying to form.

As if, for the first time, she’s actually seeing me.

The moment I falter, they take their chance.

A body slams into me—Applejack, her strength raw and unrelenting. I stagger, but then Rainbow Dash is on me too, driving a hoof into my side, forcing me down. My Element falls from my grasp, rolling away .

I roar, thrashing, fighting—but there’s magic, thick and crushing, pressing down. Twilight’s aura wraps around the dirt around me, locking my limbs, pinning me to the cold cobblestone.

I struggle. I twist, wrenching against their grip, but I can’t move. The weight is suffocating.

Twilight gasps for air, clutching at her throat as she regains herself, her horn blazing. She takes a step forward, her expression torn between fury and confusion. "What—who are you?"

I snarl, baring my teeth. "Let me go."

"Not happening," Rainbow spits. "You just tried to kill Twilight!"

"You attacked us first!" Applejack growls, tightening the ropes she’s already wrapped around my arms. "Ah don’t know what you are, but you better start talkin’."

Twilight steps closer, her eyes burning into me. "You know me." She isn’t asking. She’s stating. "You knew my name."

I don’t answer.

Because if I speak it will be the truth.

And the truth is a weight I don’t know if I can bear.

She leans in. "Who are you?"

I breathe heavily, my chest heaving against the ropes, against the magic, against the crushing weight of everything.

I should lie.

Tell them I’m some leftover of Discord, some stray monster from the Everfree.

But the words I want don’t come.

"My name is John."

The words leave me like a dying breath.

Silence.

The pressure in the air shifts. The magic stills.

Twilight stares. "John?" she repeats, like she doesn’t understand the shape of it.

Applejack and Rainbow exchange glances.

Rarity speaks next, hesitant. "That’s… not a pony’s name."

"No," I murmur. "It’s not."

Twilight’s eyes search my face, her mind racing, connecting dots that shouldn’t be there. "You know us. You knew my name. Who—what are you?"

I don’t answer.

Not because I don’t have one.

Because I don’t want to give it.

Because if I say it—if I admit it—then it’s real.

I stare at the ground, my breath heavy, ragged. The ropes bite into my skin, the magic pressing against my ribs, my arms, my throat.

They are waiting.

They want something from me. Something I don’t have.

Something I don’t want to have.

Twilight shifts closer. "John." My name sounds wrong in her mouth. Too careful. Too delicate. She looks at me like she’s trying to see through me, like she’s peeling back my skin to find the truth underneath.

I feel my lip curl.

"What do you want from me?" I growl.

Her ears flick back. "Answers!" she snaps, frustration breaking through. "You showed up in Ponyville looking like some kind of monster! You knew my name, you knew all of us, but I’ve never seen you before in my life!" Her horn pulses, flickering with restrained power. "Who. Are. You?"

I laugh.

It’s not a nice laugh. It’s not anything.

"I told you," I rasp. "John."

"That’s not what I meant!"

I grit my teeth, eyes locking onto hers. "I know what you meant."

The others are tense. Rainbow hovers just above, her muscles wound tight, ready to move. Applejack has the rope in her hooves, knotted and firm. Fluttershy is frozen, wide-eyed, wings half-spread.

Twilight’s jaw tightens. "Where is Kinetic Flux?"

Something inside me snaps.

"Gone!" I snarl, lunging forward against my restraints. The ropes pull, the magic burns, but I don’t care. "He’s gone! He was never real to begin with!"

The words echo in the street, bouncing off stone and glass and wood.

Silence.

I see it sink in.

I see it register.

Twilight’s breath catches. "What… what are you saying?"

I hate this.

I hate how they’re looking at me. Like they’re confused, like they almost understand, like they might reach out and pull at the threads.

I let out a slow, shuddering breath, my head tilting forward, the weight of everything pressing down. The ropes, the magic, the expectation.

"You want the truth?" I murmur, voice low and ragged. "After all this time, Twilight, after all the pushing, the prodding, the suspicion—you finally want the truth?"

She doesn’t move.

None of them do.

They’re waiting. Listening.

I lift my head, my lips curling into something that isn’t a smile, isn’t a snarl—just teeth.

"Kinetic Flux was never real," I say again, slower this time, letting the words sink in. "He was who I needed to be for you. For all of you." My voice cracks, but I don’t stop. "He was the mage you expected, the charlatan who played the part, the puzzle piece forced into a place he was never meant to fit."

Twilight’s jaw tightens. "That—That doesn’t—"

I laugh, sharp and humorless. "Doesn’t make sense?" I finish for her. "Yeah, well, welcome to my life, Sparkle. I spent weeks—months—pretending, performing, just to keep up with your expectations. And for what?" I yank against the restraints, the fibers burning into my skin. "For what, Twilight?"

She flinches.

I lean forward, voice dropping to something sharp, something poisonous.

"You wanted the truth," I whisper, my breath ragged, my vision dark at the edges. "So tell me… does it taste as good as you thought it would?"

Her pupils shrink, her mouth opening slightly—then closing, words dying before they can form.

The others shift uncomfortably. I can feel them trying to process, trying to understand.

I give them nothing.

I just breathe. Heavy. Hollow.

The silence stretches.

Then, Twilight whispers, "Why?"

I let out a slow, bitter breath, my fingers curling into the dirt beneath me, nails biting into the cold stone. My whole body shakes—not from fear, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of it all. The truth, finally dragging itself into the light, heavy and cruel.

"Look at me," I rasp, voice raw, broken. "Really look at me, Twilight."

She does. They all do.

I see the horror creeping in at the edges of their expressions, the quiet, uneasy realization that the thing tied before them—the thing—isn't just a monster from the Everfree, isn't some remnant of Discord's chaos.

It's something worse.

Something they knew.

Something that lied.

I laugh, sharp and ragged. Not because it’s funny. Because it’s pathetic.

"Do you get it now?" My voice cracks, but I don’t stop. "Unlovable. Ugly. Shameful." My fingers curl tighter, my nails digging deep into my palms. "How could I exist in your orbit? How could I stand next to you, next to any of you, and pretend I belonged?"

Twilight doesn’t look away. Her face is a storm of emotions—confusion, hurt, understanding. I hate it.

I hate that she looks like she understands.

Because she doesn’t.

None of them do.

I grit my teeth, my body trembling against the restraints, against the pressure in my chest, against the suffocating reality of my own words. "I was never meant to be here. I was never meant to be part of your story, your magic, your perfect little world!" My breath shudders. "I was just a mistake that never got erased!"

Twilight flinches.

But I don’t stop.

"You think I wanted this?" My voice is raw now, fraying at the edges. "You think I wanted to be the freak? The thing that doesn’t fit?" My breath is short, my vision narrowing. "I faked it. Every single day, I faked it, because it was better than this—better than being a ghost in someone else’s life, better than being some… some—thing to be pitied!"

Twilight’s eyes widen. "John—"

I snarl, yanking hard at the ropes, my breath ragged. "Don't say my name like you care!"

She recoils.

The others tense.

I burn.

I am rage. I am frustration. I am a deep, seething hatred at everything, at myself, at the universe for letting me exist like this.

And then she does the one thing I hate more than anything.

She hugs me.

The world tilts.

I freeze.

Her hooves wrap around me, firm, solid, wrong.

I can’t breathe.

I hate this.

I hate that she’s touching me, that she’s holding me like I’m something worth holding.

My body jerks on instinct, trying to wrench away, but the restraints hold me still. I thrash, desperate to escape, but she doesn’t let go.

She just holds on tighter.

"Stop," I rasp, my breath shaking. "Stop pitying me."

"I’m not," Twilight says, and her voice isn’t soft—it’s stubborn, like she’s refusing to let me break apart.

I shake my head, my whole body trembling. "You don’t get to do this, Twilight. You don’t get to act like I’m something that matters."

She presses her forehead against my shoulder. "You do."

I want to scream.

I want to tear free.

I grit my teeth, every fiber of my being screaming against this.

Against her.

Against the warmth pressing into me, the steady weight of her holding on like she can keep me from slipping through the cracks.

I hate it.

I hate that it’s working.

"Let me go," I growl, my voice ragged, but the fight is already bleeding out of me, slow and reluctant.

"No," Twilight says, unwavering.

My breath stutters. "You don’t even know me."

"I do," she insists, gripping me tighter. "I know you hate mornings and you’re awful at organizing. I know you pretend to be irritated when ponies bring you food, but you eat it anyway. I know you complain about magic, but you love showing off with it. I know you—Kinetic—have been frustrating, infuriating, and completely ridiculous since the moment I met you, but you are not nothing!"

My fingers twitch, curling into weak fists against my will.

I shake my head, but the motion feels sluggish, my breath shallow. "I—I was never supposed to be here."

Twilight doesn’t hesitate. "But you are here. And I don’t care if you weren’t ‘meant to be’—that doesn’t mean you don’t belong."

I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath coming in shallow gasps.

"You don't need me," I mutter, voice thin, fraying at the edges. "You did it all without me. The Elements. Luna. Discord." My fingers twitch against the ropes, my body sagging as the last of my anger bleeds into something else, something hollow. "Nothing I did ever mattered."

Twilight doesn't let go. She doesn't step back, doesn't loosen her hold. She just presses closer, like she can force me to hear her heartbeat, to feel her words.

"But we want you."

My breath hitches.

I go still.

Twilight's grip tightens. "You think it’s about needing you? That if the story could go on without you, it should?" She shakes her head, and I can feel her frustration, her stubbornness seeping into every word. "That's not how this works, Kinetic."

I flinch at the name.

She uses it anyway.

"Kinetic, you think we would have been fine without you? Maybe we would have. Maybe everything would’ve played out the same. Maybe." She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, her expression fierce. "But I don’t want to know what that world looks like."

Something cracks in my chest.

I can't breathe.

She searches my face, her expression raw. "You matter because you matter to us," she says, firm and unyielding. "Because you're our Kinetic Flux. Our impossible, infuriating, obnoxious Archmage." Her mouth quirks, small, barely there. "And whether you like it or not, you do belong here."

I stare at her.

My fingers, still clenched into fists, loosen.

I feel something. It’s distant, weak, like the warmth of a sun long forgotten. It curls around my ribs, settles into the hollow spaces Discord left behind.

Something in me… shifts.

The gray in my hands flickers.

Twilight watches, eyes flicking over me, taking in the way the dull, washed-out color of my skin starts to warm. It’s slow—cautious—like the universe itself isn’t sure if it should happen.

I watch, numb, as the color bleeds back into my fingers, up my arms, sinking into my skin like ink spilled into water.

My hands aren't hands anymore.

I flex my hoof. My hoof.

I stare at the tan fur creeping back up my legs, the messy blonde strands of mane falling into my face.

The ropes around me slacken, Twilight's magic dimming as she watches me with something hesitant, something waiting.

I sit there, still reeling, still trying to process everything that just happened—everything I just said.

And then the realization hits me like a brick to the face.

Oh.

Oh no.

I said all that out loud.

In front of everyone.

My ears flatten, my face burning with the full, horrifying weight of what just transpired. The raw confessions, the melodramatic existential crisis, the way I screamed my own name like some tragic protagonist in a bad novel—

Dear Celestia, I’m never going to live this down.

Twilight is still looking at me with those big, earnest, overly sympathetic eyes, like she’s seeing something fragile in me that I really don’t want her to see. They all stare.

They just look… sad.

Like they pity me.

Like I’m broken.

I need to salvage this.

I need to get that look off their faces immediately.

I clear my throat, sitting up straighter, brushing imaginary dust off my very much still bloodstained coat. I flash a very forced, very awkward grin.

"Well. That was dramatic."

Twilight flinches. Just slightly. Not enough for most ponies to notice. But I do.

"...What?" she asks, her voice softer than before.

I wave a hoof lazily. "You know, the whole self-loathing monologue, the color-draining despair arc, the big hug-based redemption moment—classic stuff." I sigh, stretching my limbs like this is all a big joke. "Honestly, I give it a solid eight out of ten. Could’ve used more subtlety, but I am known for my flair for the theatrical."

Rainbow lets out a laugh, but it’s hollow. Like she’s forcing it. "Dude."

Twilight scowls. Not angry—hurt. "Are you serious right now?"

"Absolutely not." I brush my mane back, regaining exactly zero of my dignity. "I am an Archmage, Twilight, I do not have feelings, I have calculated responses to environmental stimuli."

She exhales sharply, shaking her head. "That’s not funny."

"Sure it is." I smirk. "In a darkly ironic sort of way. Which is my entire brand, so, really, you should have seen this coming."

"Why are you like this?" she mutters.

"Because it makes things easier," I reply without thinking.

The silence that follows is heavy.

Applejack looks down, like she’s trying to choose her words carefully. "Sugarcube..."

"Nope," I say, cutting her off before she can do the voice. That slow, gentle, ‘I’m worried about you’ voice. I hate that voice.

Fluttershy is looking at me with so much sadness that I physically recoil. "It’s okay to feel sad," she says softly, like she’s speaking to a wounded animal.

"Pass," I say immediately. "Hard pass. I prefer to keep things bottled up, where they belong, like a perfectly normal, well-adjusted pony."

Pinkie sniffles. "That’s not normal at all!"

"Debatable!" I shoot back.

Rarity frowns, her expression unusually serious. "Darling, you don’t have to—"

"Oh, look at that, we’re out of time!" I stand up abruptly, stretching my legs. "This has been lovely, truly, but I really must be going."

I bolt.

Not a polite exit, not a casual departure—I turn and run.

"Hey—!" Twilight starts, but I’m already gone, hooves pounding against the cobblestone as I book it down the street.

I don’t do feelings.

I don’t do talking about things.

I especially don’t do group interventions on my well-being.

Nope. Absolutely not.

The wind rushes past me, the cool night air biting against my still-dried-blood-covered coat. The town is mostly empty now, ponies having long since retreated indoors after my earlier performance, and thank Celestia for that—if any of them were still outside, they’d see their esteemed Archmage fleeing the Elements of Harmony like a spooked cat.

I turn a corner, my house finally coming into view, and I slam into my door, fumbling with the key before throwing it open.

The moment I’m inside, I shove it shut behind me, locking it and pressing my back against the wood. My chest rises and falls rapidly, my heart pounding against my ribs.

Silence.

I listen.

No hoofsteps. No shouting.

No Twilight bursting through the door demanding I talk about my feelings.

I let out a long, shuddering breath.

Safe.

For now.

I peel myself off the door, rubbing my face with a shaky hoof. My entire body feels wrung out, like I’ve just gone ten rounds in an arena I wasn’t prepared for.

Because, well… I wasn’t.

I groan, dragging myself to the kitchen, where my stolen desserts still sit under the glass cloche. I lift it with my magic, grab a tart, and shove it into my mouth.

Sweets solve everything.

Probably.

I don’t actually taste it. My mind is still racing, replaying everything, every single humiliating second of what just happened.

I was weak. I let myself break. I said things—horrible, personal, painfully honest things.

And Twilight…

She wouldn’t let me take it back.

I squeeze my eyes shut, the weight of her words pressing in again.

"But we want you."

I shake my head sharply. No. No, I can’t let that stick. That way leads to more feelings, more talking, more acknowledging things.

I shove another pastry in my mouth.

Everything is fine.

Everything is back to normal.

I just need to lay low, let this whole thing blow over, and—

Knock knock knock.

I freeze.

The sound echoes through the house, muffled but insistent.

My stomach drops.

I don’t need to open the door to know who it is.

I groan, slamming my head against the counter.

Of course.

Of course she followed me.

The Awkward Part
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Applied Mathemagics

The Awkward Part

Knock knock knock.

I don’t move.

I don’t breathe.

If I stay perfectly still, maybe she’ll think I’m not here. Maybe she’ll go away.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the universe to give me this one mercy.

Another knock. "Kinetic." Twilight’s voice is muffled through the door, but I can hear the stubborn edge in it. "I know you ran home. Open up."

I remain silent.

She sighs. "Okay, maybe you’re not here. Maybe you ran off into the Everfree again, or maybe you’re sulking in some alley. But just in case—"

She knocks again, firmer this time. "I’m not leaving."

I stare at the door like it personally betrayed me.

I don’t move.

I will not move.

Seconds stretch into minutes. Maybe if I wait her out, she’ll get bored.

Twilight never gets bored.

"You do realize I can teleport inside, right?"

I jerk upright. "You wouldn’t dare."

Damn it.

The words are out before I can stop them.

I hear her smirk. "Oh, so you are in there."

I groan, dragging my hooves down my face. "Twilight, for the love of Celestia, go away."

"No."

I bang my head against the counter again. "Why are you like this?"

"Why are you like this?" she fires back, way too quick. "You ran off instead of talking like a normal pony."

"I don’t do feelings, Twilight. You of all ponies should know this by now."

"Too bad." She knocks again. "I refuse to let you rot in there all night just because you embarrassed yourself."

"I am not embarrassed," I lie.

"Oh, you’re completely embarrassed," she counters. "You said deep, personal things, had a massive identity crisis, let me hug you—"

"Don’t bring up the hug."

"—and now you’re hiding in your house like a foal."

"I am not hiding!" I absolutely am. "I am choosing to avoid unnecessary interaction."

"So hiding," she says flatly.

I scowl at the door. "What do you want, Twilight?"

"I want you to come outside and actually talk to me."

"Not happening."

"Then I’ll just stay here."

I groan. "Twilight."

"Kinetic."

I rub my temples, letting out a slow breath. "You really have nothing better to do?"

"Not really."

I drag a hoof down my face.

She’s serious.

She’s really going to stand outside my house all night just to make a point.

I sigh dramatically, leaning back against the counter. "Twilight, you standing outside my house all night isn’t going to change anything."

"Maybe not," she says, far too casual. "But it sure is inconvenient for you, isn’t it?"

I grit my teeth. "Are you enjoying this?"

"Immensely."

"Of course you are."

She knocks again. "Hey, serious question."

"Doubtful."

"Your injuries—" she pauses, as if choosing her words carefully. "—when you were, uh, like that. Are they gone?"

I blink.

That actually makes me hesitate.

Because… I don’t know.

I remember the fights, the claw marks, the bruises—back when I wasn’t this. Back when I was human, twisted by Discord’s corruption, wandering the Everfree with nothing but anger and pain.

When I changed back… I didn’t check.

I glance down at myself, at my hooves, my coat, the familiar shape of me. It feels like it’s all gone, but…

What if it’s not?

"…I think so?" I say, hesitantly. "I haven’t really looked."

Twilight hums. "You should probably check."

I frown. "I’ll do it later."

"Or," she says, "you could open the door and let me check, just to be sure."

I scowl at the door. "Nice try, Sparkle."

"Oh, come on," she whines. "You wouldn’t want to suddenly collapse from internal injuries, would you?"

"I’m fine."

"Kinetic, I saw what you looked like. You were practically dripping blood, and I don’t know how that transformation works—maybe it didn’t heal everything."

I hesitate.

Twilight is annoyingly thorough about things like this. And if there is some remnant of damage left behind…

"…Just for a second," I mutter, unlocking the door with my magic. "Then you leave me alone."

"Of course," she says sweetly.

The moment I crack the door open, I realize my mistake.

Because I see them.

All of them.

Applejack. Rainbow. Pinkie. Rarity. Fluttershy.

Standing just outside the door.

Waiting.

My eyes widen. "You—"

They pounce.

"Oh, son of a—!"

I hit the floor in a tangle of hooves and magic, Twilight’s holding the door open, Applejack’s rope already wrapping tight.

"GOTCHA!" Rainbow crows triumphantly.

"I trusted you!" I snarl, thrashing, but Applejack’s already yanking the rope tight.

Twilight smirks, stepping over me. "I told you to open the door. You just didn’t ask if I was alone."

I scream internally.

I walked right into that one.

Pinkie grins, looming over me. "Now that we have you, mister, you’re gonna talk."

"I refuse to participate in this interrogation!" I shout, struggling.

"Oh, hush," Rarity says, adjusting her mane. "We just want to help."

"Help me by letting me go!"

Fluttershy, ever the quiet one, tilts her head. "…No."

I groan, flopping dramatically against the floor, my hooves still tied. "I demand a lawyer."

Twilight rolls her eyes. "You’re not on trial, Kinetic."

"Feels like I am," I grumble.

Applejack sighs, tightening the rope slightly just to make a point. "We just wanna talk, sugarcube. You ain't exactly been honest with us."

I raise a brow. "Oh, the irony."

Rainbow crosses her hooves. "So? What even are you?"

I shift slightly, my ears flicking back. "You already saw what I was."

"Yeah, but what is it?" Rainbow presses. "You had—" she makes a vague motion with her hooves, "—those weird paws, that weird face, and no fur except for that scraggly mane. You looked naked!"

I grimace. "Great, thanks for that mental image."

"Rainbow," Twilight sighs. "Let’s focus."

She turns back to me, serious now. "You said your name was John. That Kinetic Flux was just… what? A disguise?"

I glance away, ears twitching. "Something like that."

Pinkie tilts her head. "So, you weren’t born a pony?"

I exhale through my nose. "No."

Fluttershy frowns, her wings twitching. "But you’ve been a pony all this time?"

I nod. "Since I got here."

Rarity hums, studying me carefully. "And just where is 'here'?"

I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I glance down at my hooves, flexing them slightly as if expecting them to change again.

I don’t want to answer.

I don’t want to talk about it.

Because talking means acknowledging, and acknowledging means dealing with it.

And I refuse to deal with it.

So I do what I do best. I redirect.

"Look, is this really important?" I say, shifting slightly against the ropes. "What I was doesn’t change what I am now."

Twilight narrows her eyes. "What you are now is a pony who had a breakdown, ran into the Everfree, turned into a mystery creature, tried to pick a fight with us, and then immediately ran away when things got emotional."

I scowl. "Oh wow, what a neat little summary."

Applejack nudges the rope. "She ain’t wrong."

I roll my eyes. "Look, I repeat, "why does it matter? What’s done is done. We stopped Discord, everything's fine, and I’m back to normal."

Twilight steps forward, eyes sharp. "But are you?"

I freeze.

Just for a second.

Twilight sees it.

Her expression softens, just barely. "Kinetic," she says, quieter now, "are you really okay?"

I plaster on a grin. "Obviously."

"Yer lyin'," Applejack mutters.

"No, I’m not."

"Yes, ya are."

"No, I—"

Twilight sighs, rubbing her temples. "Kinetic, we’re not just going to drop this. We care about you."

I scoff, looking away. "Truly, a tragedy."

"Enough with the jokes!" she snaps, suddenly frustrated. "You almost died! You turned into something else entirely! And now you’re acting like it didn’t even happen!"

I don’t answer.

Because what am I supposed to say?

That she’s right?

That every moment of it is burned into my skull? That I can still feel the weight of Discord’s words crawling under my skin? That I hate how easily my mind twisted itself against me?

No.

Absolutely not.

So instead, I sigh loudly, tilting my head back. "Alright, fine, let’s make this easy: what do you actually want from me?"

Twilight crosses her hooves. "I want to understand what happened to you."

"We all do," Rarity adds.

I shrug. "Got corrupted by Discord. Happens to the best of us."

Twilight’s eye twitches. "Kinetic."

I huff. "Look, you saw the gray. The color-drain, the mood-ruining despair—classic chaos magic stuff. He got inside my head, flipped all the switches, and bam, instant identity crisis. Happens all the time, I assume."

Twilight narrows her eyes. "How did he do it?"

I blink. "Do what?"

"Get inside your head," she presses. "Discord’s corruption doesn’t just happen. He has to break you down first. He has to get you to doubt yourself."

I scoff. "Oh, so you’re an expert on chaos magic now?"

Twilight doesn’t flinch. "I know what it looks like."

The air feels heavier for a moment, like the conversation just took a step too far into dangerous territory. I feel my own muscles tense, my pulse quicken.

She’s right, of course.

Discord doesn’t just take you.

He gets in.

He talks.

And I let him talk.

I shake my head, forcing a smirk. "Oh, come on, Twilight, does it really matter? The important part is that you rainbow-blasted the problem away, and here I am, back to my usual, handsome self."

She doesn’t buy it.

None of them do.

Twilight exhales sharply. "Kinetic—"

I grin sharply. "You really wanna play this game?"

Her eyes narrow slightly.

I push forward.

"Fine. Let’s make it fair." I glance at all of them, taking my time. "How about you tell me what he did to you first?"

The shift in the room is immediate.

Rainbow stiffens. Applejack’s jaw tightens. Pinkie’s ears flick back, barely perceptible. Fluttershy looks down, and Rarity’s expression wavers.

I watch it all, and I grin wider.

"Bingo."

Twilight flinches, just slightly, before she scowls. "That’s not the same."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Oh, but it is the same, Sparkle. You think you can press me for details, but the second I turn it back on you, suddenly it’s different? That’s not how this works."

Twilight doesn’t back down. "How did you know?" she demands. "How did you know he did that to us too?"

I scoff, rolling my eyes. "Please. You all look shaken up—even Rainbow, who’s usually too proud to let things show." I tilt my head mockingly. "And if I got hit with the classic mind games, it’s not exactly a stretch to assume he did the same to you." I raise a brow. "What? You thought you were special? That he tailored his whole routine just for you?"

Twilight scowls. "You’re deflecting."

I smirk. "And you’re avoiding the question."

Applejack huffs. "We ain’t the ones actin’ like this conversation don’t matter."

I shrug against my restraints. "Yeah, well, I prefer not to dwell on existential crises and personal breakdowns, unlike some ponies." I give Twilight a pointed look.

Her ears twitch. "We need to understand what happened, Kinetic."

"Why?" I ask, exasperated. "So you can analyze it? Write a friendship report on it?" I scoff. "News flash, Sparkle—it happened. It sucked. I got over it. End of story."

She doesn’t back down. "That’s not how this works. If we don’t talk about what happened, how do we know you’re actually okay?"

I snort. "Wow, it’s almost like you don’t know, and that should be ok."

She glares. "Kinetic."

I glare right back. "Twilight."

We stare each other down.

The others are dead silent, watching like this is a tennis match of sheer stubbornness.

I sigh loudly, leaning my head back against the floor. "Look, let’s just agree to disagree on how much self-reflection is actually necessary, and I’ll go back to my very normal, well-adjusted life."

"You live in a house that doesn’t follow Euclidean geometry and forget to buy soap."

"Details."

Twilight groans, rubbing her temples. "Kinetic, please."

I raise a brow. "Why do you care so much?"

That makes her pause.

Just for a second.

I smirk. "See? You don’t even know, do you?"

Her jaw tightens. "That’s not the point."

I shrug. "Feels like the point."

Applejack lets out a tired sigh. "So what, you’re just gonna dodge us ‘til we get tired and let ya go?"

"Yes," I say flatly.

Rainbow groans. "Ugh, he’s so annoying."

"Finally, somepony understands my appeal." I grin, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

Twilight watches me carefully, expression unreadable.

She’s thinking.

I don’t like it when she thinks.

She exhales, slow and measured. "Fine," she finally says, stepping back.

I blink. "...What?"

She nods to Applejack, and suddenly the rope around me loosens.

I tense.

This feels like a trick.

Twilight just looks at me, something unreadable behind her eyes. "Go, then."

I hesitate.

Because that’s not what I expected.

My hooves twitch, instinct screaming at me to run, but…

Why does this feel worse?

Why does it feel like she just let something go?

I don’t like this.

I don’t like this at all.

The others hesitate. Applejack’s brow furrows, her grip still firm on the rope. "Twilight, what’re ya doin’? We got ‘im right here."

Rainbow flares her wings. "Yeah! If we let him go, he’s just gonna keep dodging everything!"

Pinkie’s ears droop. "Are we really just leaving?"

Twilight doesn’t answer. She just looks at me for a moment longer, her expression unreadable, then turns on her hoof and starts walking away.

The others hesitate, but after a beat, they follow.

I scoff, watching them go. "Oh, so that’s it? Just giving up?"

No answer.

"What happened to all that determination, Sparkle?" I taunt, but my voice feels off, like I’m not quite sure why I’m still talking. "You don’t wanna analyze me anymore? No detailed report on my psychological state?"

Still, nothing.

I let out a sharp laugh, shifting where I sit. "Wow. Didn’t think you were the type to quit."

Twilight keeps walking.

I can hear their hooves against the dirt, the way they slow, like maybe they want to turn back, but Twilight stays steady. And they follow her.

The knot in my chest tightens.

This isn’t how this was supposed to go.

I was supposed to be the one walking away, the one shutting the door, the one deciding when the conversation ended.

Not her.

Not them.

I push myself up, my hooves still unsteady. "You’re just gonna leave? Just like that?"

Nothing.

Twilight doesn’t even glance back.

I feel something ugly rise in my throat, something sharp and too real. I shove it down, forcing a grin that no one’s even looking at. "Fine. Great talk, everypony. Real productive!"

Still, no response.

They round the corner.

They’re gone.

I exhale sharply, shoving the door open with more force than necessary and slamming it behind me.

The house is silent.

Too silent.

I pace, ears flicking, tail lashing. My thoughts are a jumbled mess of irritation and something I don’t want to name.

I won.

Didn’t I?

I didn’t have to talk. I didn’t have to explain. I didn’t have to do anything.

So why does this feel like a loss?

I shake my head, stomping over to my bed and flopping down. The silence is wrong. I don’t like it.

But I’m tired.

I shut my eyes.

It still bugs me.

It bugs me until I sleep.

I wake up groggy, the remnants of uneasy sleep clinging to me like cobwebs. My body still aches, not from injuries—I checked—but from something deeper. Something that sits under my ribs like a stone.

I shove it down. Again.

Breakfast is a simple affair. Something quick, something thoughtless. I don’t feel like eating, but my body moves through the motions anyway, shoving food into my mouth as if sheer routine will force the unease out of me.

It doesn’t.

The silence in my house is unbearable.

I need to move.

So, I do.

I wander.

Hooves against dirt, against cobblestone. Through the market, past chatter and laughter and the sounds of a town moving on.

Like nothing happened.

Like I wasn’t a monster in these very streets just yesterday.

Ponies glance my way, some more cautious than usual, others blissfully ignorant. I see Lyra and Bon Bon, Roseluck arranging flowers, Davenport advertising his sofas and quills. Everything is normal.

And I hate it.

I keep walking.

Not thinking.

Not planning.

Just walking.

Then I stop.

I blink.

Oh.

I’m standing in front of Golden Oaks Library.

I scowl.

Why?

Why am I here?

I know why, but I don’t want to acknowledge it.

I could turn around.

I should turn around.

I don’t.

I just stand there, tail flicking, ears twitching, staring at the door like it’s somehow going to change anything.

But the problem isn’t the door.

It’s the fact that I can’t stop thinking about yesterday.

About Twilight turning her back on me.

About the way she walked away without a word.

About the silence.

I grit my teeth, exhaling sharply.

This is stupid.

This is so stupid.

I don’t care.

I shouldn’t care.

And yet, my legs won’t move.

The knot in my chest tightens.

I scowl at the door for a long moment, debating with myself.

Then, against all logic, I push it open and step inside.

The library is as it always is—quiet, filled with the faint scent of parchment and ink. The shelves are meticulously organized, books tucked neatly into their places, scrolls stacked with an almost obsessive precision.

And at the center of it all, sitting at her usual desk, quill in hoof, eyes scanning a thick tome, is Twilight Sparkle.

She doesn’t look up.

I pause.

This is fine.

I can work with this.

I clear my throat dramatically, striding in like I own the place. "Ah, my favorite overly studious unicorn! Fancy seeing you here in your own home!"

No reaction.

My grin falters for half a second before I push on. "No greeting? No eye twitch? No exasperated sigh?" I click my tongue. "Twilight, are you sick? Should I check for a fever? Call a doctor? Maybe an exorcist?"

Nothing.

I frown slightly, tilting my head. "Twilight?"

She turns a page, completely unbothered, as if I’m not even there.

The knot in my chest tightens.

Oh.

I… don’t like this.

I don’t like this at all.

I saunter closer, keeping my tone light. "Come on, Sparkle, ignoring me? That’s just petty." I lean on the desk. "I mean, I know I have a deeply punchable face, but usually, you at least grace me with a sigh before telling me to shut up."

Still nothing.

Not a flicker of acknowledgment.

My ears twitch. I force a smirk. "Ooooh, I get it. You’re trying to play my game. Giving me the silent treatment, huh? Classic move. Almost impressive." I straighten. "Buuut I hate to break it to you, Sparkle, you’re really bad at this. See, I thrive in silence. I live in it. I bathe in it." I pause, then shudder. "Okay, bad phrasing, but you get the point."

No response.

My chest tightens further.

I frown, ears flicking. "Twilight."

Nothing.

I take a step back, something uncomfortable curling in my stomach.

This isn’t how this works.

I push. She pushes back. I taunt. She snaps. I frustrate her. She fumes. That’s the game.

But this?

This is worse.

This is nothing.

I shift on my hooves. "Alright, fine. You win this round." I turn sharply. "I’ll just go."

Nothing.

I walk to the door, but… I hesitate.

Just for a second.

She doesn’t stop me.

And that stings far more than I expected.

step out of the library, the door clicking shut behind me. The air feels heavier now, pressing against my coat like a weight I can’t shake.

This is fine.

Twilight’s being stubborn. That’s all.

I can handle this.

I roll my shoulders, force my usual smirk back into place, and start walking toward the market. The sounds of Ponyville life carry on as usual—ponies chatting, carts rolling, the occasional foal laughing in the distance.

Normal.

I need normal.

And who better to provide some good, honest, down-to-earth annoyance than Applejack?

I spot her stand easily enough, stacked with apples in neat little pyramids, a bright sign boasting fresh produce. Applejack stands behind it, doing what she does best—selling apples and looking like she just stepped out of a country song.

Perfect.

I saunter up, smirk in place. "Ah, the hardest-working mare in Ponyville. A true vision of agricultural excellence. A real—" I tap the wooden stall with a hoof. "—pillar of the community."

Nothing.

She doesn’t even look at me.

I blink.

Oh.

Oh no.

Not her too.

I clear my throat, leaning against the stand. "You know, it’s real rude to ignore customers. What if I wanted to buy an apple?"

She adjusts the display, completely unfazed.

The knot in my chest tightens.

Okay. Fine.

"Applejack."

She grabs a few apples and bags them for another customer.

I narrow my eyes. "Oh, so that’s how it is?" I scoff. "What, did you all have a meeting about this? ‘Operation: Be As Infuriating As Kinetic’?"

No response.

I bristle. "Alright, fine. I don’t even like apples, you know. Too sweet. Makes my teeth hurt."

Still nothing.

I hate this.

Applejack always has something to say. She’s blunt, straightforward, and annoyingly honest. But right now?

She’s acting like I don’t exist.

I scowl, shoving off the stand and turning sharply. "You know what? Forget it."

She doesn’t stop me.

She doesn’t even glance my way.

I storm off, my tail flicking in frustration.

This is getting real annoying.

I stomp through the marketplace, irritation burning under my skin like a slow, simmering fire.

Fine. Fine. Twilight wants to play silent treatment? Whatever. Applejack’s doing it too? Annoying, but manageable.

But somepony has to crack eventually.

And then, I see her.

Sweetie Belle.

She’s walking near a fabric stand, looking at something with wide, interested eyes.

My chest loosens, just a little.

Sweetie Belle. My student.

If there’s one pony in this entire town who won’t ignore me, it’s her.

I approach, putting on my usual smirk. "Hey, kid. What’s up?"

She turns, ears perking up—her face lights up the second she sees me, her eyes bright and eager, like she’s about to rush over.

But then—

Rarity clears her throat.

Sweetie Belle freezes.

I see it happen, in real time.

That split-second shift in her eyes, the way her hooves stop mid-step. The conflict, the hesitation. The way she wants to answer me, but she—

She doesn’t.

She looks away.

Like I’m not there.

Like she was told I wasn’t there.

My stomach twists.

"Sweetie?" I say, my voice coming out far quieter than I meant.

She stiffens.

I look to Rarity, and she’s watching me carefully—expression unreadable, chin lifted, like she’s daring me to push.

I clench my jaw.

I look back to Sweetie Belle.

She’s avoiding my gaze.

She won’t look at me.

And it hurts.

It really hurts.

Because Sweetie has always been excited to see me. She’s always run up to me, always wanted to learn, always looked at me like I was some brilliant, amazing mage who could teach her all the secrets of the world.

And now?

Now she won’t even meet my eyes.

I swallow, my throat tight.

I force a smirk, but it feels like glass in my mouth. "Alright, kid. Be that way."

No answer.

I nod stiffly, turning away, my steps heavier than before.

Fine.

They really want to do this?

They really want to shut me out?

Then fine.

I can take a hint.

I walk without thinking, my hooves carrying me through Ponyville like a ghost drifting through its old haunts.

I don’t know where I’m going.

Not home.

Not back to Golden Oaks.

I just move.

And somehow, I end up at Sugarcube Corner.

The bright pinks and yellows of the bakery stand out against the town, a beacon of warmth, of life. The scent of sugar and fresh pastries drifts through the air, teasing at something familiar, something comforting.

Pinkie Pie.

Pinkie has to break first.

She’s Pinkie Pie. She’s never quiet. She’s never still. She can’t ignore anypony to save her life.

I push open the door. The little bell above jingles cheerfully.

Ponies chat at tables, sipping milkshakes, biting into muffins. Mr. and Mrs. Cake bustle behind the counter, moving with practiced ease.

And then I see her.

Pinkie stands behind the counter, wiping it down with practiced movements.

I grin, forcing energy into my voice. "Pinkie Pie! There you are! What, did you miss me? I know, I know, I’m very missable. It’s been agonizing for you, hasn’t it?"

She freezes.

I see it in her face—she wants to answer.

Her ears twitch, her hooves fidget, her tail flicks erratically, like she’s physically holding back from bouncing over.

Her mouth even starts to form words.

But then…

She catches herself.

And stops.

Her expression twists into something tight, something wrong.

And she doesn’t respond.

I stare.

I step forward, my hooves heavy. "Oh, come on, not you too."

She squeezes her eyes shut, turning her back to me, her shoulders tense.

"Pinkie," I snap, more desperate than I want to admit. "You literally can’t ignore ponies, that’s, like, your whole thing! Come on, laugh, say something weird, throw a cupcake at me—"

Nothing.

Not a word.

Not a giggle.

Not even a look.

The bakery suddenly feels too bright. Too warm, too fake. Like a stage, like a backdrop, like a carefully painted world that doesn’t need me in it.

My stomach twists.

I step back, my legs suddenly weak.

I don’t know what I expected.

I should’ve known.

But standing here, talking to nothing, trying to perform without an audience, trying to pull off a trick no one is watching—

I feel it.

That emptiness.

That nothing.

Just like before.

Just like when Discord twisted me into something hollow.

I thought I got away. I thought I clawed my way back.

But maybe…

Maybe he was right.

Maybe I was just noise.

Maybe I never mattered.

I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at nothing, feeling the weight of silence press in on all sides.

Pinkie doesn’t turn back.

She doesn’t speak.

She just grips the counter like it’s the only thing keeping her still.

And I feel something inside me crack.

I exhale slowly, my posture sagging, my ears flattening against my head.

Fine.

They win.

I turn, walking out of Sugarcube Corner with heavy, dragging steps. I don’t even try to put on a show anymore. No smirk. No quip. No final jab at their ridiculous little stunt.

Because this isn’t a game.

Not to them.

And if it was a game to me, I just lost.

I just walk.

Back home.

The streets feel emptier than before. The marketplace is winding down, the warm hues of late afternoon stretching over Ponyville in golden slants. I barely register any of it.

I just keep moving.

But the second my house comes into view, I stop.

Because Twilight is there.

Waiting.

She stands just outside my door, looking as patient and stubborn as ever, her hooves planted firm on the ground, her expression unreadable.

I hesitate.

I could turn around.

I could walk away.

Pretend I don’t see her. Pretend this isn’t happening. Pretend I don’t care.

But I do.

And the thought of walking into that house—alone—sitting in that quiet, silent space with nothing but my own thoughts?

No.

No, I can’t.

So I do the only thing I can do.

I step forward.

Twilight watches me carefully, not moving, not saying anything until I’m right in front of her.

Then, she tilts her head slightly. "Are you ready to talk yet?"

Her voice is calm, firm, but not soft.

She’s not giving me an easy way out.

I glance at the door, then back at her.

I don’t answer immediately.

Then, with a tired sigh, I lower my head.

"...Fine."

I don’t want to be alone.

So I choose this instead.

I push open the door to my house, stepping aside as Twilight follows me in. The familiar glow of the floating orbs lights up the space. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

I move toward the center of the room, my hooves heavy against the floor. Twilight closes the door behind her, standing firm, her expression unreadable.

I already regret this.

She watches me carefully before speaking. "Tell me what he did to you."

I exhale sharply, dragging a hoof down my face. "You really want to hear this?"

She doesn’t flinch. "Yes."

I huff, turning away from her, staring at nothing in particular. "He didn’t do anything."

Twilight frowns. "Kinetic—"

I cut her off, my voice flat. "I mean it. He didn’t need to. He just talked."

I hear Twilight shift slightly, her tail flicking. "Talked?"

I nod slowly. "Said things. True things. Things I’d already thought about. He just… put them in order." My voice feels detached, like it belongs to someone else. "He didn’t break me. He just let me break myself."

I let out a humorless chuckle, shaking my head.

Twilight is quiet for a moment. Then, carefully, she steps closer. "What did he say?"

I turn, looking her dead in the eye. "That I don’t belong here."

She opens her mouth, but I cut her off. "That I never mattered. That every problem, every disaster, every major event? Would’ve played out exactly the same without me."

Twilight’s ears twitch, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"That nothing I’ve done has changed a thing." My voice tightens, bitterness bleeding through. "That I could disappear tomorrow, and everything would go on like normal."

Twilight takes a slow breath, and I can see the thoughts racing behind her eyes.

Twilight doesn’t hesitate. "He was wrong."

I scoff. "Oh yeah? Prove it."

She lifts her chin, eyes burning with something fierce. "You helped stop Nightmare Moon."

I shake my head. "You would’ve figured it out anyway. You would’ve found the Elements, blasted her, and—bam—Luna’s back. You didn’t need me."

"But maybe we did!" Twilight insists, stepping forward. "Maybe we wouldn’t have found them in time! Maybe Nightmare Moon would’ve won without the extra time you bought us!"

I laugh, sharp and hollow. "That’s a maybe, Twilight. Not proof."

She doesn’t back down. "The parasprites—"

"Pinkie solved that."

"You got rid of them!" she snaps. "You exterminated most of them before Pinkie even had a chance! Without you, Ponyville could’ve been completely overrun! That wasn't part of some grand plan, Kinetic—that was you!"

I grit my teeth. "Yeah? And what about Discord? You had the Elements the whole time! You didn’t need me for that!"

Twilight’s expression darkens. "You think it all would’ve played out the same, but you don’t know that. You can’t know that!"

I hold back the bitter laugh clawing at my throat. Because I do know. I do know how it was supposed to go. The story had a script, and I wasn’t in it. I was never meant to be in it.

But I can’t tell her that.

So instead, I look away, voice tight. "I just think it would’ve happened anyway."

Twilight shakes her head, frustrated. "You’re not some piece of background scenery, Kinetic. You didn’t just watch things happen—you were there. You did things. You helped us."

I don’t respond.

Twilight exhales sharply, eyes searching my face for something—anything. I don’t know what she expects to find.

I don’t move. I don’t react.

She watches me for a long moment before her expression softens, frustration giving way to something quieter. “Forget all of that for a second.”

I blink, wary. “What?”

She takes another step forward, steady and sure. “Forget the big things. Forget Nightmare Moon, forget Discord, forget everything that made you think you don’t matter.” She tilts her head. “What about us?”

I go still.

I don’t like where this is going.

Twilight stares at me, unflinching. “We want you here.”

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. The same thing that stopped me before.

She doesn’t stop. “Maybe the world doesn’t need you to keep turning, but we want you here anyway.”

Something inside me twists.

I can’t stop the words before they leave my mouth. “Yeah… but I still feel useless.”

The second they’re out, I want to take them back.

Twilight’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, she looks like she expected that answer.

“Why?” she asks simply.

I clench my jaw. I don’t answer.

Because if I do… then what?

What changes?

What happens if I let this conversation keep going?

Twilight waits, but I keep my mouth shut, my ears flicking back.

Then, slowly, she exhales. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

I shrug, forcing an empty smirk. “Belief’s a strong word.”

She doesn’t rise to the bait. “You think that if you disappeared, nothing would change.”

I roll my eyes. “We’ve been over this, Sparkle.”

She steps even closer. “And if we disappeared?”

I freeze.

My chest tightens.

Twilight watches me carefully. “If we were gone. If I was gone. Would it be the same?”

The answer is obvious.

No.

Of course not.

But I can’t say it.

She steps back, nodding slightly, as if she’s already seen the answer written all over my face.

“That’s how we feel about you.”

I feel sick.

I take a slow, steady breath, but it doesn’t help. The weight in my chest doesn’t lift. Twilight is still looking at me, expecting something—some answer, some reaction—but I don’t know what she wants me to say.

I shift my weight. “That’s different.”

She frowns. “How?”

I scoff, waving a hoof. “Because you’re you. You’re Twilight Sparkle. You’ve got the Elements, the whole ‘friendship is magic’ thing, the fate of Equestria probably resting on your shoulders at all times. Of course it’d be different if you weren’t here.”

Her frown deepens. “And what about you?”

I hesitate.

“You’ve been with us this whole time,” she says, firm. “You live in Ponyville. You’re part of this group.”

I let out a weak laugh. “Yeah, sure. The seventh wheel, hanging around the edges of the friendship super squad.”

Twilight shakes her head, looking frustrated. “That’s not true.”

I sigh, rubbing a hoof down my face. "It is, though."

Twilight steps forward, stubborn as ever. "You were with us from the beginning."

"Was I?" I snap, sharper than I meant to. "Because that’s not how I remember it."

She flinches, but she doesn’t back down. "What do you mean?"

I let out a slow breath, trying to rein myself in, but something ugly and bitter is bubbling up inside me. I don’t know why I say it—I’ve buried it for so long—but once the words start, I can’t stop them.

"First day," I mutter. "First day I met you. We’re going through the Everfree, following the trail to the Castle of the Two Sisters, and then the cliff gives out."

Twilight nods slowly, watching me carefully, like she’s walking on unstable ground. “I remember.”

I let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Yeah? I do too.” My voice tightens, my chest constricting. “I remember how the cliff broke away, how everypony else got saved.”

I don’t look at her when I say it. I can’t.

“Applejack caught you,” I continue, voice distant. “Rainbow and Fluttershy caught Pinkie. Fluttershy caught Rarity.” I swallow thickly. “And I—I was just falling.”

Twilight’s breath catches, but she doesn’t say anything.

“I wasn’t fast enough,” I murmur. “Didn’t have wings. Didn’t have magic I could actually use. I had seconds—seconds to think, to act. No safety net, no heroic rescue. Just me, alone, falling, with nothing but air.” I inhale sharply, the memory clawing at my mind, fresh despite the weeks that have passed. “I had to cast a spell I’d never even tried before just to survive.”

I glance at her, watching as realization dawns on her face. “The air cushion spell,” she whispers.

I nod. "Didn’t even know if it’d work." I scoff, shaking my head. "But it had to. Because there was no other choice."

Twilight looks like she wants to argue, wants to say something to change the narrative I’ve wrapped myself in, but she doesn’t.

She can’t.

Because it’s true.

I wasn’t saved. I saved myself.

I keep going before she can find the words to stop me. "And after that, my leg was shot. Couldn’t run. Could barely walk. So when we ran into the manticore, I couldn’t scatter like the rest of you."

Twilight looks stricken.

"Rainbow flew off. Applejack jumped back. Pinkie bounced away. Fluttershy hesitated—but even she left." I let out a hollow chuckle. "And me? I had to stand there. Had to face it. Because running wasn’t an option."

“Kinetic, we—” Twilight starts, but I cut her off.

“I had to trick it,” I say, voice colder than I mean it to be. “Had to make myself bigger, had to be something it wouldn’t want to mess with. Used the Doppler Illusion spell in a way I never had before—mimicked the manticore right back at it.” I close my eyes, letting the memory wash over me. “And it worked. It scared it, just long enough for the rest of you to do your thing.”

Twilight stares, horror creeping into her expression. "We left you."

I let out a shaky breath. "You didn’t do it on purpose."

"But we still did," she whispers.

I glance away. "Yeah."

The room falls into silence, heavy and suffocating.

Twilight looks like she’s just been hit in the gut, her ears pinned back, her tail flicking anxiously. "I—I thought you were fine," she mutters, almost to herself. "You acted fine."

"Of course I did," I say, forcing a laugh that doesn’t feel right. "Had to be fine. What else was I supposed to do? Cry about it?"

She flinches again.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks.

Then, softly, Twilight says, “Is that why you always keep your distance?”

I look at her, really look at her, and I see it—the regret, the guilt, the realization that maybe I’ve never truly been part of the group the way she thought I was.

I swallow, my throat tight.

I exhale sharply, looking away. “Six is a nice, even number,” I mutter. “Neat. Symmetrical. Balanced.”

Twilight’s ears twitch. “What?”

I gesture vaguely. “Six friends. Six Elements. You each have each other. It just… works.”

She frowns. “Kinetic—”

“I was never part of that,” I continue, cutting her off before she can say whatever comforting thing she’s trying to find. “You six? You belong together. I was just there.” I wave a hoof dismissively, forcing a lopsided grin. “An extra piece in a puzzle that was already finished.”

Twilight looks like she wants to argue, but she doesn’t—not right away. She watches me, her expression unreadable. Then, carefully, she says, “You’re wrong.”

I snort. “Figures you’d say that.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “Because it’s true.”

I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter, Twilight. It’s not a bad thing. You don’t need a seventh wheel clunking up the harmony.”

Twilight takes a slow, measured breath. “You’re not some extra piece.”

I force a laugh. “Sure feels like it.”

She steps closer, her gaze sharp. “Then why did we come after you?”

I freeze.

She doesn’t stop. “If you were just ‘extra,’ if you didn’t matter, why did we try to help? Why did I sit outside your house and yell at you? Why did it hurt when you pushed us away?”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Twilight takes another step forward. “Why does it hurt now?”

I look away, my throat dry.

She exhales, quieter this time. “You think we don’t care, but we do. We always have.”

I let out a hollow chuckle, still not looking at her. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

Twilight flinches, but she doesn’t back down. “We made mistakes,” she admits. “We should have seen it sooner. I should have seen it sooner.” She swallows, voice firm. “But that doesn’t mean you didn’t belong with us.”

I clench my jaw, my shoulders tight.

She watches me for a moment, waiting, but I don’t say anything.

So she sighs, shaking her head. “Six is a nice, even number,” she says quietly. “But seven's always felt lucky to me.”

I scoff, the sound weak. "Lucky. Right."

Twilight doesn’t react to my dismissal. She just studies me, like she’s trying to piece something together. Then, carefully, she asks, "What were you? Before."

The words land heavier than I expect.

I freeze.

She watches me, expectant. "When Discord corrupted you, you changed. That form—you weren’t a pony." She hesitates. "What… was that?"

I let out a slow breath. I could lie. I should lie.

"A human."

Twilight blinks. "A… what?"

"A human," I repeat, trying not to let the word weigh too much in my mouth.

Her brows furrow, her mind already dissecting the information. "That doesn’t sound like anything from Equestria."

"It’s not."

She blinks again, her tail flicking as the pieces start to form in her head. "...You’re saying you’re not from Equestria."

I nod. "Not originally, no."

Her breath catches, but she doesn’t interrupt.

I rub my temple, trying to find the right words. "The Princesses already know."

And that gets a reaction.

Twilight’s ears flatten, and her eyes narrow slightly. "You told the Princesses," she says, a sharp edge to her voice, "but not me?"

I shift uncomfortably. "It wasn’t exactly something I could keep from them forever."

She steps forward, her tail flicking. "And yet, you did keep it from me."

I frown. "It’s not like it came up naturally in conversation, Twilight."

Her nostrils flare, but she reins it in. "When?"

I blink. "What?"

"When did you tell them?" she clarifies, her tone more controlled now, but no less irritated. "How long have they known?"

I hesitate, but there’s no point in dodging it. "...After the Archmage Examination."

Twilight exhales sharply through her nose. "So, what? You just… decided I didn’t need to know?"

I shrug. "They sort of figured it out. Once they caught on that I was lying."

Her eyes sharpen immediately. "Lying about what?"

Damn it.

I freeze, just for a second.

It’s enough.

Twilight steps closer. "Lying about what, Kinetic?"

I swallow, shifting slightly. "It’s not—"

"Not what?" She doesn’t back down, her frustration mounting. "Not important? Not relevant? Because it sounds relevant!"

I glance away, ears flattening. "Just… things."

"Like?" she presses.

I grit my teeth. "Like things, Twilight."

She narrows her eyes. "Kinetic."

I sigh, rubbing my face. "Look, it’s nothing that changes anything, okay? It’s just—"

"—another thing you didn’t tell us," she finishes, voice tight.

I huff. "Oh, come on, Twilight, don’t act like—"

"Like what?" She glares at me. "Like I thought we were friends?"

The words hit harder than I expect.

I don’t say anything.

Twilight shakes her head, her frustration boiling over. "Do you even trust me?"

I open my mouth. Pause.

I don’t know how to answer that.

Her ears flick back, hurt bleeding into her expression. "...Do you?"

I sigh heavily, dragging a hoof down my face. Every fiber of my being screams at me not to say it, not to let it out. But Twilight is relentless. She’s already cracked open too much, and now she’s digging for the rest.

I can’t win this.

So, against my better judgment, I say it.

"I don’t know magic."

Twilight blinks. "...What?"

I shift uncomfortably, my tail flicking. "I don’t know magic. Not really."

Her brow furrows. "That doesn’t make sense. You cast spells all the time—advanced spells! I’ve seen you!"

I exhale sharply. "Yeah, well. Turns out, you don’t actually need to know magic to fake it."

Her eyes widen, her mind already racing. "But—your illusions. Your heating and cooling spells—"

I shake my head. "Not magic."

She stares at me like I just told her the sky was green.

"But—" she sputters, "—but the Doppler Illusion—"

I sigh, shifting my weight. "It’s not an illusion, Twilight."

She shakes her head. "But I saw—"

"It’s just oscillating particles," I cut in. "I manipulate small particles—dust, chalk, whatever’s in the air—and make them oscillate at different speeds. That’s what changes the apparent wavelength of light. I’m not warping reality, Twilight—I’m redirecting it."

She reels back, like she’s trying to process the words but can’t make them fit. "How?"

I hesitate. Then, reluctantly, I answer. "Telekinesis."

Twilight’s jaw tightens. "What?"

"All of it," I mutter, my voice low, like I can hide the words even as I say them. "The air cushion? That was just me condensing air molecules together with telekinesis until they were dense enough to catch me." I shrug, the motion empty. "My heating and cooling spells? Just vibrating or slowing down atoms. Even my so-called illusions—they’re just physics."

Twilight inhales sharply. "Physics."

I nod.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, suddenly, Twilight’s eyes light up with something dangerous.

"I knew that meant something!" she exclaims, stomping her hoof. "I knew it!"

I blink. "...What?"

She glares at me, frustrated but vindicated. "You said that word before! In your house! a week ago! I knew it meant something important, but you just brushed it off!" Her ears flick back. "I knew your magic was strange, but I couldn’t figure out why!"

I let out a tired groan, rubbing my temples. "Yeah, well. I was trying to avoid telling you."

Twilight, in true Twilight fashion, is already spiraling into full-on academic discovery mode. Her ears are perked, her eyes bright with excitement, and I can feel the gears in her head turning at dangerous speeds.

"Do you realize what this means?" she practically shouts, her ears twitching in excitement. "Magic that doesn't require a mental chant or a visualized pattern! No spell matrices, no Ancient Equestrian—just direct manipulation of the world through sheer will!"

I groan loudly. "And this is why I didn’t want to tell you."

She’s not even listening.

"If you’re not visualizing spell structures," she continues, already pacing, "then that means you’re interacting with magic at a purely instinctual level! No formulas, no standardized frameworks—just raw manipulation!" She whirls back to me. "This is incredible!"

"It’s really not," I mutter.

"But it is!" She stomps a hoof, nearly vibrating with excitement. "If you’re not casting spells, but still achieving spell-like effects, that means magic can be applied in a completely different way than we ever thought possible!" She gasps suddenly. "This could revolutionize spellcraft! If we can understand how you do it, we might be able to create entirely new fields of study! New disciplines! Maybe even—"

"Twilight," I cut in, "my magic isn’t the same as yours."

She stops, blinking. "...What do you mean?"

I exhale sharply. "Real spells—actual magic—break physics. They let you do things that shouldn’t be possible. Teleportation? It ignores Causality, the uncertainty principle, and I'm pretty sure the second law of thermodynamics. Transformation spells? They alter mass and composition in ways that should violate every natural law."

Twilight frowns slightly, but she doesn’t interrupt.

I gesture vaguely. "But my ‘magic’? It doesn’t break physics. It is physics. I’m not changing the rules—I’m playing within them."

She stares at me, processing. Then, slowly, she says, "Then… it’s not the same as casting spells."

"Exactly," I say, nodding. "It’s not magic at all. It’s just an advanced application of force."

Twilight's frown deepens. "But you’re still using telekinesis."

I shrug. "Yeah, but I’m not using it like a spellcaster would. I’m not shaping reality—I’m just manipulating what’s already there. Your magic creates effects. Mine just... nudges things really, really hard."

She stares at me for a moment longer, and I think—for one blessed second—that she’s finally going to let it go.

Then she shakes her head, eyes glinting with determination. "No."

I groan. "Twilight—"

"No, listen!" She steps forward, eyes burning with that 'I just discovered something groundbreaking and I am not letting it go' energy. "If you’re manipulating the world through telekinesis alone, then that means you’ve developed an entire system of spellwork—without actually using spellwork. Kinetic—that’s a whole new school of magic!"

I blink.

That—that is a stretch.

"Twilight," I say, already exhausted, "this isn’t some new school of magic. It’s just science applied to telekinesis."

"But that’s the point!" she argues, eyes wild. "If nopony else uses magic this way, then it’s something entirely new! Do you understand what this means?" She starts pacing again, her mind already sprinting ahead. "It means there’s a way to use magic outside of spell matrices! It means there are alternatives to complex, time-intensive spells! It means—"

"—that I’m going to have to deal with you geeking out about this for the rest of my life, doesn’t it?" I groan, dragging a hoof down my face.

Twilight completely ignores me. "It means we've only been using magic in one way because that's how we've always used it! But you—" she jabs a hoof at me, her eyes blazing with academic fervor, "—you’ve proved there’s another way! A way that doesn’t require runes or predefined energy structures! If we study this, if we can understand it, we could rewrite everything we know about spellcraft!"

I back up slightly. "Okay, no, let's not start rewriting fundamental laws just because I got creative with telekinesis."

"But that’s exactly why we should!" she insists, stepping closer, looking half-tempted to shake me. "Magic has always been this vast, untouchable force that we manipulate through structure and theory, but you’re showing me that it’s—it’s just the world! That the rules of magic might just be the rules of nature expressed differently!"

I huff. "I told you that's not how it works."

Twilight lets out a sharp exhale. "Kinetic, you’re missing the point!"

"Am I, though?" I smirk. "Because to me, the point is that you’re now going to be even more annoying about this."

She groans loudly. "Of course you would turn a magical revolution into me being annoying."

"Because you are!" I shoot back, exasperated. "Do you have any idea how insufferable you’re going to be now? I could’ve kept my mouth shut and lived a normal life, but nooo, you just had to keep digging."

Twilight levels a deadpan look at me. "You? A normal life? Please."

I sputter. "I could have!"

She rolls her eyes. "Right. Because ‘Archmage Charlatan Extraordinaire’ screams normal."

I scowl, crossing my hooves. "I was doing just fine before you got involved."

"Uh-huh. And by ‘fine,’ you mean ‘lying to everypony constantly and bottling up all your problems until you exploded?’" She raises a brow. "So fine."

I glare at her. "Extremely fine."

Twilight sighs, shaking her head. "Look, I get why you didn’t want to tell me, but don’t you see how important this is?" She softens slightly, the fire in her eyes dimming just a little. "You’re not just some fraud tricking everypony into thinking you’re a mage. You are one—you’re just working with a different rulebook."

I shift uncomfortably. "Yeah, well. Still doesn’t feel like it."

She gives me a look. "Too bad."

I groan dramatically. "Great. Just what I always wanted—an overenthusiastic scholar dissecting my every move."

Twilight grins. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."

"It is a bad thing!"

"You’ll get used to it."

"Doubt."

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t push further. Instead, she steps back, watching me carefully. "You know… you could teach this."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

Twilight tilts her head. "You already have a student—Sweetie Belle. And from what I’ve seen, she adores learning from you."

I shift uncomfortably. "Yeah, because she doesn’t know I’ve been lying to her."

"Have you?" Twilight challenges. "Or have you just been teaching her your kind of magic?"

I open my mouth. Close it. Scowl.

She smirks. "Exactly."

I shake my head. "Look, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You are not dragging me into some grand lecture series on ‘Applied Mathemagics’ I am not about to become some kind of—ugh—professor."

Twilight hums. "We’ll see."

"No, Twilight."

"We’ll see," she repeats, smirking.

I let out the loudest, most theatrical groan I can manage, because I already know I’ve lost.

Twilight stretches her legs and gives me a final, victorious smirk, clearly pleased with herself. I glare at her, already regretting every single word I’ve said tonight.

"Well," she says, turning towards the door, "I think I’ve gotten everything I needed out of you for now."

"Great," I mutter. "Feel free to never come back."

She snorts. "Not a chance."

Then she pauses, glancing back at me. Her smug expression shifts into something more thoughtful. "I’ll let the others know."

I frown. "Know what?"

She tilts her head. "About what happened. About how you felt. How you still feel."

My stomach drops. "Twilight, no."

"They deserve to know."

"Absolutely not." I step forward, ears flattening. "That’s not something you just tell ponies."

She raises a brow. "Why not?"

I scowl, my tail flicking sharply. "Because it’s not done. You don’t—" I struggle for the words, my voice tightening. "You don’t just go around spilling things like that. You deal with it. You move on."

Twilight frowns. "That’s not moving on, Kinetic. That’s just ignoring it."

I shake my head. "They didn’t mean to leave me behind, Twilight! They didn’t even know! It’s not like they set out to screw me over! It just—" I exhale sharply, frustrated. "It just happened. It’s not some grand betrayal. It’s not something that needs to be dragged back up."

Twilight’s gaze softens. "But it still hurt you."

I bristle. "Yeah? So what?" I gesture vaguely. "That’s life! Things happen, you deal with it, you keep going!"

She studies me for a long moment. "That’s what you were raised to believe, isn’t it?"

I scoff. "Of course it is."

Her eyes narrow slightly. "And how’s that been working out for you?"

I stiffen.

She nods like she already knew the answer. "I thought so."

I glare at her. "This isn’t fair."

She shrugs. "Neither was you thinking we didn’t care about you for weeks."

I grind my teeth. "Twilight."

She sighs, shaking her head. "They deserve to know, Kinetic. They’ll want to know. And they’ll want to make it up to you."

I groan, dragging a hoof down my face. "That’s exactly what I don’t want."

Twilight gives me a small, knowing smile. "Yeah, well. Too bad."

I groan again, dramatically flopping onto my couch. "You’re the worst."

"Just returning the favor," she says breezily, opening the door.

"Twilight, don't."

She winks. "See you tomorrow!"

And with that, she trots off, leaving me alone with my horrible life choices.

I let my head fall back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

This is going to be a disaster.

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Applied Mathemagics

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I wake up feeling like I barely slept at all.

For a long moment, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts sluggish and unfocused. The weight of last night's conversation still lingers, pressing against my chest like something heavy and unavoidable.

Twilight said she’d tell them.

That thought alone makes my stomach twist.

I groan, rolling onto my side, reluctant to start the day. I don’t want to start the day. I don’t want to deal with whatever awkward mess Twilight has undoubtedly created.

But lying here isn’t going to change anything.

With a long sigh, I force myself up. My hooves hit the cold floor, and I shiver slightly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I move through the motions, slow and mechanical, heading toward the kitchen.

Pancakes. I can at least make pancakes.

I grab the flour, the milk, the eggs. I don’t really think about what I’m doing—I just let my hooves go through the familiar steps. Batter. Hay. Stove. Sizzle. Flip.

It’s slow.

Calm.

Quiet.

By the time I finish, I stare at the plate like I’m not really sure how it got there.

My house is too quiet.

I glance at the windows. They glow, as always—bright, soft white, the illusion of daylight stretching across them. I never really thought about it much before, but today it feels… fake.

Just like everything else.

I take my time eating, chewing slowly, staring at nothing.

Nobody knocks on my door.

Nobody calls my name.

For a moment, I wonder if Twilight actually didn’t tell them. If she changed her mind. If she decided I wasn’t worth the effort after all.

I don’t know if that thought makes me relieved or disappointed.

Either way, it doesn’t matter.

Eventually, I get up. Rinse the plate. Dry it.

Then, because I have to do something, I leave.

I step outside into the crisp morning air, blinking against the light. Ponyville is waking up around me—ponies chatting, stands setting up, life moving forward as if nothing had ever happened.

I exhale slowly, my breath curling in the cool air.

Alright.

Let's get this over with.

I make my way to Town Hall, hooves dragging slightly, not because I’m tired, but because I already know what’s waiting for me.

Paperwork.

Lots of it.

I haven’t checked in for over a week, and bureaucracy is like a fungus—it thrives in neglect.

When I push open the door to my office, I’m not disappointed. Stacks of parchment are piled high on my desk, an unholy monument to unfinished responsibilities.

I let out a low whistle. "Wow. That is... impressively bad."

With a tired sigh, I step inside, only to pause as my eyes land on the far wall.

The brickwork there is just slightly off, forming an unmistakable imprint of a pony-shaped hole.

I chuckle to myself.

Right. That.

A bit over a week ago, I had the brilliant idea to phase through the wall instead of using the perfectly functional door. I ended up destabilizing the intergranular bonds in the brick, walking through like it was sand, and then hastily re-solidifying it behind me. The result? A perfect outline of my body mid-step, immortalized in stone.

I still haven’t fixed it.

Chuckling under my breath, I shake my head and turn to the real problem.

I approach the desk, scanning the piles of parchment, looking for something simple. My job as Town Mage is about as loosely defined as it gets. Some days, I’m handling magical pest infestations. Occasionally, I’m asked to fix things—things being a broad category that ranges from structural integrity issues to local superstitions.

Let’s see…

I start flipping through the papers.

REQUEST: BARN TEMPERATURE CONTROL ISSUE
From: Sweet Apple Acres
Issue: The Apple family’s storage barn’s been coolin’ down all wonky overnight, makin’ us mighty worried ‘bout our stored produce.
Proposed Solution: Reckon we oughta check fer any magical funny business messin’ with the temperature.

I hum, considering. That one’s an easy fix. Probably just poor insulation combined with radiative cooling. But with how Aplejack is probably going to act, I'll save that for last.

REQUEST: WELL WATER TASTES ‘HAUNTED’
From: Lucky Star
Issue: The old well's water haunted and is filled with the curses of the past.
Proposed Solution: Town Mage to investigate supernatural activity.

I rub my temple. Tastes haunted? What does that even mean? It’s probably just mineral content affecting the taste. Maybe iron, maybe sulfur.

REQUEST: SUSPICIOUS ROCK FORMATION
From: Mayor Mare
Issue: A group of ponies believes a cluster of rocks outside town is a dormant golem.
Proposed Solution: Town Mage to assess and dispel if necessary.

I sigh, setting the rest of the papers down. Alright, let’s start with the well. Simple problem, simple solution.

Strapping on my saddlebags, I make my way out of the office and toward the old well near the southern edge of Ponyville. It’s a decently old structure—stone-built, a little weathered, with a wooden frame holding up the bucket pulley system. A small crowd of ponies lingers nearby, eyeing the well with suspicion.

One of them, an older mare, spots me approaching and gasps. “Oh, thank the stars! Archmage Flux, you’ve come!”

I fight the urge to sigh. “Yep. That’s me. Your esteemed Town Mage.” I glance at the well. “So. Haunted water, huh?”

The gathered ponies nod fervently. Another stallion pipes up, “It tastes wrong. Like something’s in it.” His ears flick back. “I felt strange after drinking it the other day. Like something watched me.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Right. Obviously the well is haunted.” I step closer, inspecting the stonework. "But, you see, a standard dispelling won't work if the spirits have latched onto the source of the water."

They all nod, eating up my nonsense.

Stepping to the well, I glance inside. The water at the bottom is murky. Not horrible, but not clear either. I lean forward, inhaling slightly.

Sulfur.

Figures.

I pull the bucket up and examine the water inside. A faint, off smell. Not too strong, but definitely noticeable. Could be mineral contamination—iron, sulfur, even bacteria. I need a way to filter this.

Alright. What can I actually use?

I run through what’s available in Ponyville. Limestone, charcoal, and sand. Perfect. That’s all I need for a simple filtration system.

I turn to the gathered ponies, putting on my best serious mage expression. “This well is tainted,” I declare, voice grave.

Gasps. Murmurs. I swear I hear somepony whisper I knew it under their breath.

“Dark energies have seeped into the water,” I continue, waving a hoof in an arcane-looking gesture. “These spirits—restless, ancient—must be purified before they do further harm.”

The murmurs turn to frightened nods. “What do we do?” the older mare asks.

I make a show of considering. “I will craft an arcane purifying medium to cleanse the spirits and restore harmony to this water.”

In reality, I’m about to MacGyver a medieval filtration system.

I head to the apothecary and purchase limestone, charcoal, and sand. The limestone will help neutralize acidity, the charcoal will absorb impurities, and the sand will act as a mechanical filter.

Returning to the well, I have some of the ponies gather some wooden barrels and a few clean cloths.

I layer the barrels as follows:

Top layer: Cloth, to catch large debris.
Second layer: Crushed charcoal, to absorb organic impurities and remove foul odors.
Third layer: Sand, to filter out smaller particles.
Bottom layer: Crushed limestone, to balance pH levels and remove some heavy metals.

This isn’t perfect, but for medieval Equestria, it’s a solid short-term solution.

I wave my hooves over the well, muttering complete gibberish under my breath. “Ostias vehmra, solvit impuritatis!”

I sprinkle some powdered limestone into the well—"a sacred reagent to drive out malevolent forces."

More nods. Some ponies actually bow.

Finally, I set up the filtration barrels and instruct them to pour the well water through them before use. “The spirits will be purified as the water passes through the blessed layers.”

They completely buy it.

I explain to them that this solution will help, but it’s not perfect or permanent. They need to first Pour water back and forth between buckets or through a cascading wooden trough to allow the spirits to pass between worlds. Alternatively, they can dig a secondary settling pond near the well, allowing water to stand before filtering. Over time, the well could accumulate more contaminants, and without proper maintenance, the filter layers will clog or become less effective. Ideally, they’d need to replace the charcoal and clean out sediment buildup every few weeks. I could also introduce boiling as a "further purification ritual," but one step at a time.

For now, though, the town believes I’ve banished the haunted taste.

One of the stallions dips a cup into the filtered water, sipping cautiously. His eyes widen. “It tastes… normal!”

The ponies cheer.

I force a smile, adjusting my saddlebags. “All in a day’s work.”

As they praise my incredible magic, and hoof over 50 bits. I step back, sighing inwardly. One problem down. Now, let’s go deal with that supposed golem.

I make my way to the so-called suspicious rock formation, still mentally rolling my eyes at the sheer ridiculousness of the request.

Honestly. Ponies and their superstitions.

The path winds just outside Ponyville, leading to an old clearing near the Whitetail Woods. It’s quiet—too quiet, even for the middle of the day. No ponies waiting for me, no concerned citizens pointing at the dormant golem in question.

Just me. And some rocks.

Big, jagged slabs of stone are stacked in a haphazard pile, some of them partially buried, others sticking out at odd angles. I circle the formation, unimpressed.

"Yep. Rocks," I mutter to myself. "Truly, the work of dark forces. Clearly, this is an ancient evil—the Forbidden Pebbles of Eternal Doom—and I, Kinetic Flux, Archmage Extraordinaire, am the only one who can stop them." I wave a hoof dramatically. "Begone, foul masonry!"

Nothing happens.

Because, obviously, it’s a pile of rocks.

I sigh, shaking my head. "Ponies, man. A few weirdly shaped boulders, and suddenly it’s a national emergency. What’s next? A haunted fence post? An ominous tree stump?" I scoff, tapping one of the stones with my hoof. "They probably saw some weird shadows and—"

A deep, guttural rumble rolls through the air.

I freeze.

The ground shifts beneath me, a faint vibration crawling up my legs.

Another rumble—louder this time. The sound of stone grinding against stone.

Slowly, the pile of rocks begins to move.

I take a step back, heart hammering, as massive slabs shift and slide into place, dust and dirt spilling from their surfaces.

A shape emerges—taller, broader, heavier. Limbs of ancient stone unfold from the earth, jagged and uneven, shifting with the deep groan of ages.

Two immense, hollow sockets—empty, yet somehow aware—lock onto me.

It stands.

Towering.

Colossal.

A golem.

I stare.

It stares back.

The wind howls between us.

“…Oh.”

I blink up at the towering mass of living stone, its hollow sockets locked onto me with an intensity that does not feel friendly.

"Okay," I say, clearing my throat. "I’ll admit when I’m wrong."

The golem responds by swinging a boulder-sized fist directly at my face.

"Okay, okay, that’s fair!" I shout, leaping back as the ground shatters where I was standing a second ago. Dust and debris explode outward, the sheer force of the impact sending a tremor through my legs.

Welp. Talking is out.

Time for tactics.

I channel my telekinesis into the earth beneath me, cutting four circular disks from the ground—one for each hoof. They break free with a snap, and before the golem can take another swing, I lift off, balancing on the makeshift platforms with practiced ease.

The ground shrinks beneath me as I hover upward, narrowly dodging another wild strike. The wind rushes past my ears as I weave through the air, adjusting the disks beneath my hooves with pinpoint precision.

Now for the real test.

I shift my focus, honing in on one of the larger boulders making up the golem’s upper body. It’s big, probably load-bearing. If I can weaken the right spots, I might be able to destabilize it.

Reaching out with my magic, I probe the stone’s structure, feeling for the tiny weaknesses between the grains—the intergranular bonds holding it together.

Then, with a calculated push, I begin tearing them apart.

A deep crack splits through the air as the massive rock fractures cleanly in half.

But it doesn’t fall.

Both halves remain suspended, still locked into place as part of the golem’s form, still floating as if nothing had happened.

I stare.

It stares back.

"Alright," I mutter under my breath. "That’s… mildly concerning."

I hover just above the golem’s range, scanning its shifting mass of stone, looking for something—anything—that might give me an edge.

Below me, the construct shifts, tracking my movements with eerie precision. Then, without hesitation, it hurls a massive chunk of itself straight at me.

I barely have time to swerve.

"Fuck!"

The boulder whistles past my head, close enough that I feel the displaced air drag at my mane before it smashes into the hillside behind me, exploding into shards.

Before I can even process that, the golem’s remaining arm plunges into the dirt. The ground rumbles. I watch as it pulls itself back upright, its missing limb regenerating from the earth itself, reshaping into a fresh stone fist.

I let out a slow breath. "Yeah. Okay. That’s a problem."

It’s fast, too fast for something so big. Every time it loses a piece, it just rebuilds itself with whatever material is nearby. And worse, it’s learning—adjusting its tactics every time I move.

But something's off.

It never turns its left leg away from me. Not once.

I narrow my eyes, circling wide, testing my theory. No matter how I move, it keeps that leg facing me. Almost like it’s shielding something.

I shift, angling myself to get a better look at its back.

And then I see them.

Runes.

Deeply carved. Complex. Intricate.

I don’t know what they say, but I don’t have to. I already know what I’m looking at.

A control array.

I grin.

"Found you."

With a burst of telekinesis, I force the intergranular bonds apart, carving a perfect hole into the marked section of the golem’s leg.

The effect is instant.

The glow in its hollow sockets flickers. The runes, still glowing faintly, suddenly dim. And then, like a puppet with cut strings—

It collapses.

The massive form breaks apart, not violently, not dramatically—just… falls. Like an old stone wall crumbling under its own weight.

One moment, it was a towering monster.

The next, it’s just a pile of rocks.

I float down cautiously, landing lightly on one of my hovering disks before stepping off onto solid ground. The air is still—not the oppressive silence of an active threat, but the peaceful quiet of a problem solved.

I approach the pile, shifting through the debris until I find what I’m looking for.

The rune-marked stone. The core of the control system.

I lift it with my telekinesis, turning it over, studying the carvings.

Even without knowing the exact spellwork, I can tell this was deliberate—somepony put real effort into this. It wasn’t just a collection of floating rocks that happened to animate. This was designed.

Which means it can be recreated.

I roll the stone over in my magic, running a hoof over the worn carvings. There’s an undeniable itch at the back of my mind, an idea forming even as I slide the rune-marked stone into my saddlebags.

I should make my own.

The thought isn’t even serious at first. Just an idle musing, something cool to try. But the longer I let it sit, the more it takes root. I don’t know how long this thing was out here, or who made it, but the concept works. That’s the part that matters.

A construct that can repair itself? One that adapts?

That’s useful.

My hooves crunch over shattered bits of rock as I leave the wreckage behind, my mind already running through potential applications. It doesn’t have to be a huge, lumbering beast. I could build something smaller, more focused. Something that moves fluidly, that works with a purpose instead of mindless aggression.

Yeah. That could be useful.

By the time I reach the H.A.R.D.I.S, I’m still half-distracted by the idea. The moment I step inside, I place the rune stone on my workbench and stare at it, running through everything I know about magical automation.

Which, admittedly, isn’t much.

Most magic in Equestria requires a constant input. Even enchanted objects—while semi-autonomous—work off pre-set instructions. Something built like this? Something that thinks? That responds dynamically?

That’s something else entirely.

I shake my head. Later.

I have other problems to deal with.

My gaze drifts to the job requests I’d taken earlier, and my stomach sinks slightly when I see Applejack’s barn repair request staring right back at me.

Right.

Twilight definitely told her.

Which means I’m going to have to deal with her.

I groan, rubbing a hoof down my face. It’s not like I can just ignore it—I’ve been slacking on my town duties enough already. And knowing Applejack, she’s not the type to dance around issues.

If I show up at Sweet Apple Acres, I’m getting cornered.

I sigh heavily, shifting my saddlebags over my back. "Might as well get it over with."

I step outside, bracing myself.

Sweet Apple Acres comes into view, the rolling orchards stretching out under the afternoon sun, and I already regret coming here.

The moment I step onto the farm, I see Applejack near the barn, hauling a few barrels of apples onto a cart. She hasn’t noticed me yet, which gives me exactly three seconds of peace before she does.

And when she does, she perks up immediately.

"Well, howdy there, friend!" Applejack calls out, waving way too enthusiastically as she trots over. "Didn’t expect ya so soon, but it sure is good to see ya, friend!"

I stop dead in my tracks.

Oh. Oh, no.

I knew she was gonna say something about what Twilight told her, but this? This over-the-top, aggressively friendly, almost saccharine behavior?

This is worse.

So much worse.

I stare at her. She keeps grinning.

"Uh-huh," I say slowly. "Right. The barn?"

Applejack beams. "O’ course, friend! Why don’t I just walk ya right over there, nice and friendly-like?"

I blink at her. "You’re doing a thing."

Her smile doesn’t budge. "What thing, friend?"

I squint. "The excessive ‘friend’-ing."

She waves a hoof dismissively. "Pfft, what? I ain’t doin’ nothin’ special, friend. Just happy to see ya! Mighty nice havin’ you here, doin’ your town mage friend duties, helpin’ out your good, close friends!"

I hate this.

She’s overcompensating. Hard. I don’t even need to guess why. She feels guilty. Because she and the others left me behind in the Everfree, and now that she knows that, she’s trying to fix it.

With friendship.

I feel my eye twitch.

"Applejack," I say, deadpan. "Just show me the barn."

She hesitates for half a second before chuckling, rubbing the back of her neck. "Heh, yeah, alright. This way, fri—uh… Kinetic."

Finally.

I follow her toward the barn, pretending I don’t hear her muttering to herself about "bein’ too obvious."

I step into the barn, the scent of apples and fresh hay filling the air. It’s dim inside, the late afternoon light filtering through the wooden slats, casting long shadows across the ground. Applejack stands beside me, still grinning like she’s trying to win an award for most aggressively friendly pony of the year.

I do my best to ignore it.

Instead, I focus on the problem.

I take a slow look around, scanning the wooden structure, the beams, the loft above. The temperature problem could be a few things—bad insulation, improper ventilation, maybe even moisture buildup affecting the airflow.

I walk over to the vents near the roof, narrowing my eyes.

That’s when I notice it.

Hay. Stuffed directly into the vents.

I stare at it.

I look down at the floor. More hay, bunched up near the walls, packed into crevices where air should be circulating.

I exhale sharply through my nose.

"Applejack."

She straightens up immediately. "Y-yeah, friend?"

I don’t turn around. "You stuffed the vents with hay."

A beat of silence.

Then—

"Well, now, I wouldn’t say I stuffed ‘em, per se," she says, voice suddenly way too casual. "Maybe just… temporarily adjusted the ventilation."

I turn my head just enough to look at her. She is not making eye contact.

I squint. "Why."

She kicks at the floorboards. "Uh."

I raise a brow. "Applejack."

She sighs loudly, removing her hat and holding it against her chest. "Alright, fine," she mutters. "I might have… encouraged the barn to get too warm so ya’d come on out here."

I blink. "You sabotaged your own barn to get me to show up?"

She clears her throat, shifting under my stare. "Ah wouldn’t say sabotage—"

"You tampered with the ventilation," I deadpan. "On purpose."

She rubs the back of her neck, chuckling awkwardly. "Well, ya weren’t exactly comin’ round on your own, now were ya?"

I groan, dragging a hoof down my face. "Applejack."

"Now, hold on, it ain’t like Ah broke the whole dang thing!" she protests. "Ah just… helped it along a little."

I turn fully to face her, exasperation clear on my face. "And you thought that was the best way to get me to talk?"

She shrugs, grinning sheepishly. "Well… ya are here, ain’t ya?"

I stare at her.

She stares back.

She is completely unrepentant.

I groan again, louder this time. "I'm charging you for this."

She laughs. "C’mon now, friend, no need to get all fussy."

I pull another wad of hay out of the vent and toss it onto the pile behind me, resisting the urge to chuck it at Applejack’s smug face.

"Sabotaging your own farm just to get me here," I mutter. "Y’know, normal ponies just send a letter."

She snickers. "Ain’t never claimed to be normal."

I huff. "Clearly."

For a moment, there’s only the sound of shifting hay as I continue pulling the mess apart. I’m already thinking about how to fix the airflow properly—maybe some insulation along the outer walls, something to keep the temperature steady overnight.

Then Applejack clears her throat.

"So," she says, a little too casual. "What’d ya tell Twilight?"

I freeze.

My hooves pause mid-motion, gripping a bundle of hay just a little too tight.

I inhale slowly. Exhale.

Then, carefully, I resume working. "Nothing important."

Applejack isn’t buying it. "Twilight don’t exactly make a fuss over ‘nothin’ important.’"

I grit my teeth. "That's not true and you know it."

She doesn’t respond right away, but I can feel her eyes on me, watching. Thinking.

Then, softly, "Y’know we just wanna help, right?"

I snort. "Yeah, sure. Real helpful. Like the whole pretending I didn’t exist thing. That was a fantastic move."

She flinches. I hear it, even if I don’t see it.

"...That weren’t fair," she mutters.

I turn to her, expression flat. "Wasn’t it?"

Her ears flick back. "We didn’t do it t’ hurt ya."

"Yeah?" I let out a bitter chuckle, stepping down from a ladder. "Then what was it supposed to do, exactly? Because it sure felt like you were proving Discord right."

Applejack’s jaw tightens. "That ain't what we were doin’. We—" She hesitates. "We were tryin’ t’ get you t’ see how much it hurt, pushin’ us away like that."

I blink. Stare at her. Then I laugh. Hard.

Applejack frowns. "What’s so funny?"

I wipe at my eye, still grinning, but there’s nothing warm about it. "So your plan to show me that I wasn’t alone was to... leave me alone? Genius."

She shifts her weight, uncomfortable. "When ya say it like that—"

I scoff, stepping past her. "No, seriously. That’s brilliant. Grade-A logic. Maybe next time somepony’s drowning, you can throw ‘em an anchor."

Applejack exhales sharply, closing her eyes for a second like she’s trying to keep her cool. "We messed up, alright?"

I don’t answer.

Because of course they messed up. And I know, I know they didn’t mean it that way, that they weren’t trying to prove Discord right.

But for a day, they did.

For a day, I didn’t exist.

And no matter how much I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that they were just trying to make a point—

It does.

Applejack sighs. "...Look. Ah know we went about it wrong. But Ah meant what Ah said. We wanna make it right."

I don’t respond right away. Just breathe.

Finally, I shake my head. "Just show me the rest of the barn, AJ."

She watches me for a second longer. Then, slowly, she nods.

"...Alright, sugarcube."

And for now, we move on.

Fixing the ventilation doesn't take long once I actually focus. I clear out the vents, adjust the airflow, and make a few minor tweaks to help regulate the temperature better. Simple. Practical. Something I can actually fix.

Unlike… everything else.

Applejack stays nearby the whole time, quieter than usual. She doesn't try to push me anymore—not directly—but I can feel it in the way she lingers, in the way she glances at me like she wants to say something but keeps deciding against it.

She feels bad. I know that.

And maybe she should.

But I don’t hold it against her. Not really.

I get it.

They didn’t mean to leave me behind. It wasn’t some malicious choice. It wasn’t even a choice at all—it was instinct. And that’s just it, isn’t it? It’s their nature. They’re heroes. Main characters. They move together, pull each other up, and when push comes to shove, they save each other.

And I?

I just exist around them.

A reoccurring guest star in their grand adventure.

I don’t say that to Applejack, though. Because saying it wouldn’t change anything. It would just make her feel worse, and I don’t have the energy to deal with that.

Instead, when the job is done and the barn’s temperature is stable, I pack up my saddlebags, adjust the strap, and step outside.

Applejack follows. "Kinetic—"

I hold up a hoof. "Don’t."

She closes her mouth, frowning.

I sigh, rolling my shoulders. "Barn’s fixed. Shouldn’t give you trouble anymore."

She hesitates, like she wants to argue, like she wants to say something real, but instead, she just nods. "Alright. Thanks."

I nod back, turn, and start walking.

The late afternoon sun hangs low, painting the fields in shades of gold and amber. The smell of apples drifts through the air, crisp and sweet. It’s peaceful. A good place.

Just not my place.

When I step through the door of my home the familiar weight of the place settles around me. The cool, white glow from the false windows, the smooth stone floor beneath my hooves, the impossibly vast space stretching beyond what the exterior should allow.

It’s comfortable. It’s mine.

And yet, as I set my saddlebags down and let out a slow breath, a thought I’ve been pushing down for days forces its way back up.

I could move.

It wouldn’t be hard. I have bits saved up. My job isn’t exactly specialized—any town in Equestria would benefit from an Archmage, even a fake one. And let’s be honest, it’s not like I’d struggle to impress a new mayor with a bit of carefully applied “magic.”

The thought twists in my gut.

I don’t hate Ponyville. I don’t hate my job. If anything, it’s easy—simple problems, simple solutions, so long as I frame them the right way. Superstitious medieval ponies are nothing if not eager to accept a magic explanation over anything grounded in real-world science.

And it’s not like I dislike the girls.

They’re good ponies.

They mean well.

I just wish they’d treat me like they did before I spilled my guts.

Before Twilight made me say all of that.

Before Applejack looked at me like she owed me something.

Before Pinkie nearly vibrated out of her own skin trying to pretend I wasn’t there.

Before Sweetie Belle—Sweetie Belle—had to be told not to talk to me.

They used to treat me like me. Like Kinetic Flux, the smug, ridiculous town mage who definitely knew what he was doing, thank you very much.

Now?

Now I feel like I’m walking around in a different skin.

A different role.

Like I’ve become a problem to solve.

I hate that.

I don’t need to be fixed. I just want things to go back to how they were.

But I know they won’t.

Not completely.

Not ever.

I rub my face, groaning. “Ugh. Stupid. This is stupid.”

Moving isn’t the answer. I like my home. I like my job. Leaving won’t fix this—it’ll just start it all over somewhere else.

I sigh and flop down onto the couch, staring up at the blank ceiling.

I’ll figure this out. I have to.

Maybe I just need time.

Maybe they do.

I close my eyes.

Either way…

I don’t think I’ll be getting much sleep tonight.

I wake up to the sound of distant chatter and movement outside. Ponyville's already waking up, ponies out and about, setting up decorations and stalls. I drag myself out of bed, stretching with a tired groan. As I rub the sleep from my eyes, I glance toward my window.

It’s glowing white, like it always does. My H.A.R.D.I.S. may be a house, but its windows don’t actually lead outside. Just a quirk of its magic. I have to step out the front door to see what’s going on.

And when I do…

Ponies. Everywhere.

I blink blearily at the scene before me. Banners, tables, food stands, games—costumed ponies darting between them, setting up for something.

I rub my chin. "What the…?"

I see foals running past, wearing fake bat wings and fangs, some dressed as ghosts or skeletons. Ponies are hanging up fake spider webs and placing enchanted candles in carved pumpkins.

I squint.

Right. Nightmare Night.

And, once again, I’m the last one to know about it.

I sigh, rubbing my face. I should’ve expected this. I really should’ve. I swear, this town just assumes I’ll figure things out eventually, like I’ve absorbed Ponyville’s entire event calendar by sheer osmosis.

But fine. Whatever. It’s a holiday. I can roll with that.

First things first—I need a costume.

Something simple. Something cheap. Something easy.

I glance toward the Everfree Forest, my mind already working.

A short walk later, I find myself near the tree line, scanning the ground for decent-sized stones. I lift a few with my magic, testing their weight, before settling on some that aren’t too heavy.

I start arranging them around myself with careful levitation. Nothing fancy—just layering the stones in a way that gives me a roughly golem-like silhouette. I place a few over my back, letting them rest gently against my shoulders with precise telekinesis. A few more form rough “gauntlets” over my hooves, making them look heavier than they actually are.

To anypony else, it’ll just seem like I'm just stones moving by magic. Which, technically, they are.

I glance at my reflection in a nearby puddle.

A lumpy, jagged rock pony stares back.

Perfect.

It’s not elegant, but it gets the job done. It’s cheap, easy, and best of all—nopony will recognize me in this.

With a satisfied nod, I turn and start heading toward town, already looking forward to blending into the crowd for once.

I wander through the town square, blending into the crowd in a way I haven’t been able to for a while.

And it’s glorious.

No pitying glances. No forced smiles. No awkward ‘we’re trying to make it up to you’ nonsense. Just ponies enjoying the festival, laughing, chatting, buying and selling.

And me?

Just another face in the crowd.

Okay, technically, I’m more of an animated pile of rocks in the crowd, but still.

I get to exist without ponies treating me a certain way. Without Twilight’s careful watching, without Applejack’s forced friendliness.

I can breathe.

I stop at a food stall, trading a few bits for a caramel apple, my voice deliberately rough and gruff to sell the disguise. The vendor doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t do a double-take—just nods, takes my bits, and moves on to the next customer.

No weird looks.

No pity.

Just… normal interaction.

It’s so much better than earlier.

I meander through the square, stopping at different stalls, bartering for trinkets, sampling festival treats. It’s nice. A little lonely, sure, but I’ll take lonely over being some sort of social project any day.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel comfortable.

Then, I hear an excited voice

chirping behind me. "Whoa! Look at that golem costume!"

I turn slightly, seeing a small unicorn colt dressed as a pirate, complete with an bandana hat and an eye patch that keeps slipping down his face. He’s surrounded by two other foals—one in a werewolf outfit, the other as a very ambitious-looking dragon with tiny cardboard wings.

The pirate colt beams up at me. “That’s so cool! How’d you do it? Are the rocks real?”

I let out a low, gravelly chuckle, making sure to keep my tone gruff and grinding. “Oh, these aren’t just a costume, little guy,” I say, shifting the stones slightly for dramatic effect. “This is a curse.”

The foals’ eyes widen, but then the dragon one narrows. The foals’ eyes widen, but then the dragon one narrows his. "Nuh-uh. You’re just using magic.”

I tilt my head, letting the stones grind together with a deep rumbling sound. “That’s what I said to the last pony who was cursed.”

The pirate colt gasps, immediately stepping back. “W-what do you mean?”

I lean down, lowering my voice. “Long ago, I made a deal—one I didn’t fully understand. I thought I was getting immortal life… but then, when I woke up, I was this.” I let the stones shift again, hollowing out my eye sockets for added effect. “I tried to remove the rocks, but they wouldn’t budge. They’ve become me.”

The werewolf filly frowns. “That doesn’t make sense.”

I let out a long, slow sigh. “That’s what I thought too. I struggled and spit and cursed, but nothing worked, nothing could free me. Until I realized the only way to be free…” I pause, drawing it out, letting them lean in.

“…is to pass it on.”

Dead silence.

Then, all at once, the foals let out a chorus of terrified shrieks and bolt, scampering off into the crowd. The pirate colt loses his hat in his panic, but doesn’t even slow down to retrieve it.

I chuckle, levitating the hat up and setting it on a nearby barrel. “Happy Nightmare Night,” I say to no one in particular, popping the last of my caramel apple into my mouth.

As I turn to wander further into the festivities, something feels… off.

The atmosphere has changed.

Ponies are no longer chatting, laughing, or darting between stalls. Instead, they’re huddled together, frozen in place, their gazes locked on something in the town square.

A deep, booming voice shakes the air.

“WE DEMAND ANSWERS, TWILIGHT SPARKLE! WHY DOST THOU CONTINUE TO EVADE THE QUESTION?”

I wince. Oh. That’s why.

The Royal Canterlot Voice is rattling windows, sending decorations tumbling, and reducing at least two carnival game stands to splinters. And standing right at the center of it all, wings flared, towering over the terrified crowd, is none other than Princess Luna herself.

Twilight Sparkle stands next to her, ears flat against her skull, her tail twitching with barely-contained stress. Even from here, I can see the way her eye twitches—like she’s just barely holding back a very public meltdown.

I really should just turn around and walk the other way.

But, of course, Luna’s eyes sweep the crowd, and the moment she spots me, they narrow.

“AH! THERE THOU ART, ARCHMAGE KINETIC FLUX!” she bellows, making sure everypony hears it.

I sigh, rubbing a hoof—I mean, a rock—against my face. Well. So much for a quiet night.

Ponies glance at me in confusion, murmuring amongst themselves. I can already hear the questions forming.

Who? Kinetic Flux? Where?

I cough and step forward, trying to move as naturally as possible in my floating rock disguise. “Oh hey, Luna,” I say casually, rolling my shoulders. “Didn’t see you there. You know, over all the shouting.”

She stomps a hoof, rattling the ground. “IT IS NIGHTMARE NIGHT! WE MUST HONOR TRADITION BY SPEAKING AS THE ROYALS OF OLD!”

I squint up at her. “Luna. You live in a castle with Celestia. Do you talk to her like this?”

She blinks. “OF COURSE NOT.”

“Do you talk to your guards like this?”

“NAY.”

“What about your assistants?”

She snorts. “OBVIOUSLY NOT.”

“So you choose to scream at just me and Twilight?” I ask, arching a brow—or at least shifting a rock where my brow would be.

Luna opens her mouth—then pauses.

She shifts on her hooves. “IT IS DIFFERENT.”

“Uh-huh.” I smirk. “Right. Totally different.”

Luna’s wings twitch. “WE SIMPLY WISHED TO—” she catches herself, clears her throat, and—shockingly—drops her voice to normal volume. “We simply wished to make our presence known. Properly.”

Twilight lets out a strangled noise. “You knocked over an entire candy stand.”

“Twas poorly built,” Luna sniffs.

“You collapsed half of the festival tents.”

“The stakes were weak.”

“You scared away half the foals!” Twilight’s eye twitches again.

Luna waves a hoof. “They shall recover.”

Twilight groans, rubbing her temples. “Why am I even arguing—You know what? Fine. I give up. Kinetic, please talk some sense into her.”

I blink, taking a step back. “Oh no. Absolutely not. I’m just here for the candy and the trauma-inducing pranks. This is your friendship lesson, Sparkle.”

Twilight groans again, muttering something exceptionally rude under her breath.

Luna smirks. “Twilight Sparkle doth not appreciate our festive spirit.”

I snort. “Yeah, she’s always been a little boring when it comes to—”

Twilight’s head snaps toward me so fast I swear I hear a crack.

I raise my hooves—er, floating rocks. “Okay, okay! I take it back. I take it back.”

Twilight glares for a moment longer before exhaling sharply. “I swear you and Luna share the same brand of maddening.” She glances between us, eyes narrowing.

Luna and I exchange a look.

Then simultaneously smile.

“Nonsense,” I say.

“Preposterous,” Luna agrees.

Twilight looks about two seconds away from setting something on fire.

I grin. Maybe tonight won’t be so bad.

Luna’s smirk fades slightly as she glances around at the scattering foals, some still peeking nervously from behind stalls and lampposts. Her ears dip, her posture shifting ever so slightly. “We… may have overdone it,” she admits, voice much softer now. “T’would seem the little ones truly fear us.”

I blink. Huh. Didn’t expect her to actually say it.

I let out a small sigh and shrug. “Yeah, they probably do. But, y’know, it’s kind of a game, Luna. The whole Nightmare Night thing? The kids want to be scared. Just not… y’know, actually terrified.” I gesture to the pirate colt from earlier, who’s still warily peeking from behind a food stand. “They run, they scream, but five minutes later they’re right back to stuffing their faces with candy and playing carnival games.”

Luna frowns, following my gaze. “We know this holiday is meant for jests and merriment, yet…” She exhales, wings shifting as she gazes out at the festival. “It doth sting more than we expected.”

I fold my forelegs—er, rocks. “Yeah, well. You did kinda try to take over the world two weeks ago. Not exactly ancient history.”

She glares at me.

I smirk. “I mean, hey, I’m just saying, you might wanna give it more than a fortnight before expecting ponies to start throwing you parties.”

She scoffs. “We do not expect such things! We merely…” She trails off, hesitating.

I tilt my head. “What?”

Luna looks away for a moment, then, voice barely above a whisper, mutters, “We wish to take this night back.”

I blink.

“…Huh.”

She looks at me again, eyes filled with something I can’t quite place. “Nightmare Night—‘tis built upon the legend of us. The boogeymare in the shadows. The great, dark villain to be feared.” Her expression darkens. “We… we are not her anymore. And we do not wish to be remembered only as a monster.”

I stare at her for a moment.

Then, sighing, I rub the back of my head. “Alright, look.” I gesture around us. “Ponies love their traditions. You can’t just show up after a thousand years and expect them to change overnight.”

Luna huffs. “We are aware.”

“But,” I continue, “that doesn’t mean you can’t change things. It just means you have to work for it.” I gesture to Twilight, who’s been silent, watching the exchange with a wary sort of curiosity. “Case in point: Sparky over there. She’s good at making ponies listen.”

Twilight blinks. “Uh, excuse me?”

I wave her off. “Point is, if you wanna convince everypony you’re more than just some scary story, you’re gonna have to show them. She can help. You can’t just make a big royal entrance and expect them to suddenly throw roses at your hooves.”

Luna gives me a flat look. “That was not our expectation.”

I raise a brow.

She exhales sharply. “Fine. Mayhaps it was a little our expectation.”

I smirk. “Admitting you have a problem is the first step in recovery.”

She eyes me suspiciously. “And dost thou believe this… attempt of ours shall fail?”

“Oh, absolutely.” I grin. “But I still wanna see you try.”

Her glare is fiery.

Twilight groans. “This is the worst team-up in history.”

“Yeah, probably,” I admit, cracking my floating rock neck. “But hey. It’s Nightmare Night. Let’s make it interesting.”

Luna’s attempt to reclaim her night is, to put it bluntly, an absolute disaster.

Every time she takes a step toward a group of foals, they scream and scatter like frightened birds. Every time she tries to greet a pony, they shriek and bolt for cover. Even Pinkie Pie, of all ponies, lets out an exaggerated gasp, flails her hooves, and vanishes in a blur of cotton candy-colored terror the moment Luna so much as glances in her direction.

Luna watches all of this unfold with increasing frustration.

I, meanwhile, am doing everything in my power not to laugh myself into a coma.

I mean, come on. She’s got the most aggressively disappointed look I’ve ever seen. Like she’s a parent watching their kid run face-first into the same door for the fifth time in a row.

Luna huffs, her wings flaring as she rounds on me. “THOU FINDETH THIS AMUSING, DO YE?”

I hold up a floating stone hoof, wheezing. “Luna, I am begging you. Please, please don’t stop. This is the best entertainment I’ve had in months.”

She glares. “WE ARE SUFFERING, KINETIC.”

“I know!” I wipe at an imaginary tear. “It’s great!”

Twilight groans next to me. “You could be a little more supportive, you know.”

I glance at her. “Hey, I’m very supportive.”

Twilight raises a brow.

“I’m supporting her attempts,” I clarify, grinning. “I’m just also supporting my right to find this absolutely hysterical.”

Luna mutters something that sounds suspiciously like an ancient curse under her breath.

Twilight sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose. I notice, once again, the way she keeps sneaking quick glances at me—like she’s checking to make sure I’m still in one piece.

Still treating me like I might shatter at any second.

I exhale, tilting my head toward her. “You do know you don’t have to handle me like I’m some fragile artifact, right?”

Twilight stiffens. “I—That’s not—” She stops, face twitching through at least three emotions before settling on a very uncomfortable frown. “…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I give her the flattest look imaginable. “Uh-huh. Right. Totally.”

She shifts, avoiding my eyes. “I just—we just—” She hesitates, then finally says, “You did kind of have a breakdown, Kinetic.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Twilight frowns deeper. “It was bad.”

I shrug. “And?”

“And we—I—” She exhales sharply. “I don’t know how to treat you anymore.”

That actually catches me off guard.

I blink, the humor draining from my face just a little. “Twilight—”

“EVERYCREATURE CEASE THY WHISPERING!”

Luna’s sudden bellow nearly makes me jump out of my disguise.

We both turn to see her looming over Pinkie, who has backed herself against a wall, eyes wide and jittery.

Luna leans down, smiling in what I assume is meant to be a friendly manner but mostly just looks like a cryptid discovering the concept of joy for the first time. “GREETINGS, PINKAMENA DIANE PIE! WE WISH TO PARTAKE IN THY FESTIVE MERRIMENT!”

Pinkie’s pupils shrink to pinpricks. Then she lets out a high-pitched EEEEEEEEE— and rockets off into the night, trailing a dust cloud behind her.

Luna’s eye twitches.

I cough into my hoof. “You may need a different approach.”

She whips around to me. “WE SHALL ACCEPT NO DEFEAT!”

Luna squares her shoulders, takes a deep breath, and approaches the next group of foals with gritted enthusiasm.

“GREETINGS, SMALL ONES! WE WISH TO ENJOY THIS NIGHT OF FRIGHTS ALONGSIDE THEE!”

Before she can gauge their reaction, a shriek pierces the air. A tiny colt in a pirate outfit—complete with a bandana—topples headfirst into the bobbing-for-apples bucket, his little legs flailing helplessly above the water. Without thinking, Luna lunges forward and snatches him up by the scruff of his neck, hoisting him safely onto the ground.

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

Then Pinkie Pie gasps dramatically. “She was gonna gobble him up!”

Luna’s wings flare in alarm. “TIS A LIE! THY BACKSIDES REMAIN WHOLE AND UNGOBBLED!”

But the foals don’t wait for an explanation—they shriek and scatter like a flock of terrified pigeons.

Luna visibly deflates.

I watch as she stares at the empty spot where the foals had been just moments before. Her ears droop. Her wings sag. The light in her eyes dims just a little. The sadness has obviously hit deeper his time.

And for the first time tonight, I don’t find it funny.

Secondhand embarrassment starts creeping up my spine. I shift on my floating stones, suddenly feeling awkward.

This isn’t just frustrating for her anymore—it’s actually starting to hurt.

She wanted to be a part of their fun. She wanted to be more than just a shadow lurking in the background of their legends.

And now?

Now she’s just standing there, watching ponies run from her, like she’s still some villain. Like Nightmare Moon never left.

I rub the back of my head. “Luna…”

She exhales sharply, standing tall again, but I can see the stiffness in her posture. The way she’s forcing herself to act like it doesn’t bother her. “PERHAPS OUR PRESENCE IS NOT REQUIRED.”

I wince.

Okay. Yeah. This has gone far enough.

I’m not the sentimental type, but even I know when a joke has stopped being funny.

I open my mouth to say something—anything to break the tension—when a certain pink menace reappears.

“AH-HA!” Pinkie Pie skids to a stop in front of us, pointing an accusatory hoof at Luna. “YOU’RE GONNA GOBBLE US UP!”

Luna flinches.

Pinkie, oblivious, continues. “I KNEW IT! NIGHTMARE MOON’S STILL IN THERE! YOU’RE JUST WAITING FOR THE RIGHT MOMENT TO—”

“ENOUGH.”

Luna’s voice isn’t booming this time. It’s not shaking the trees or rattling the windows.

But it cuts through the air.

Even Pinkie stops cold, blinking up at her.

Luna inhales deeply, then lets it out in a slow, controlled breath. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter. Not weak. Just… tired.

“We are not Nightmare Moon,” she says, gaze heavy. “We do not wish to bring thee harm.”

Pinkie frowns, clearly thrown off by the shift in tone. “But—”

“We only wish to partake in this night. We only wish to… belong.”

For a moment, no one speaks.

Luna shifts slightly, her eyes flicking downward. “Perhaps that is impossible.”

And suddenly, I am deeply uncomfortable.

Because I know that look. I’ve worn that look.

That’s the look of someone who wants to be a part of something but has convinced themselves they never truly can.

And I hate it.

Twilight, to her credit, steps forward, looking torn between regret and determination. “Luna, wait—”

And then, from the side, a small, trembling voice pipes up.

“Wait.”

Everyone turns.

The little pirate colt from earlier is peeking out from behind a barrel, hesitating.

He looks at Luna. Then back at Pinkie. Then back at Luna again. “S-she hasn’t eaten anypony yet…”

Luna blinks.

Pinkie tilts her head. “Huh.”

The colt steps forward, hesitantly. “M-maybe she really just wants to play?”

Pinkie’s eyes narrow, gears visibly turning in her head. “…But what if she gobbles you up the second you let your guard down?”

The colt looks at Luna again.

“…I dunno,” he says. “She just looks kinda lonely.”

Luna’s eyes widen slightly.

I let out a slow breath.

The shift is small at first. A few foals peeking out from hiding places. A few murmurs. And then, finally, after a long moment, Pinkie gasps dramatically.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

Luna blinks. “Say…?”

“If you just wanted to have fun, you gotta do it the Pinkie Pie way!”

Pinkie zips forward, grabbing Luna’s hoof. “C’mon! We’ll show you how to have the best Nightmare Night ever!”

And just like that, it changes.

Luna is dragged into the festivities. The foals are hesitant at first, but soon, they’re showing her the games, laughing at her enthusiasm, and explaining the silly traditions that once painted her as a monster.

I lean back on my floating rocks, watching the chaos unfold.

Well. I didn’t have to step in. That’s a relief.

Not that I wouldn’t have, but, y’know. Feelings. Gross.

Luna’s already having a blast, her initial awkwardness melting away as the foals pull her from game to game. There’s still hesitation, a bit of lingering wariness from some ponies, but she’s in. She’s part of it. And she’s smiling.

Which is good. I’d rather not see her mope again. That was… uncomfortable.

I turn to Twilight, but she’s already watching me with that unreadable expression.

I narrow my eyes. “What.”

She hums thoughtfully. “It’s funny.”

I arch a brow. “I’m not laughing.”

She gives me a too-sweet smile. “If only somepony else let ponies in like that.”

I physically recoil.

“Oh, no. Nope. We’re not doing this.” I shake my head and wave a hoof—er, rock—at her. “Don’t even try to flip this back on me, Sparkle. This is about Luna.”

Twilight shrugs, her smugness barely contained. “Mmm, sure.”

I grit my teeth. “I am not a friendship project, Twilight.”

“Never said you were.” She flicks her tail, voice obnoxiously casual. “Just observing.”

I scowl. “Observe somewhere else.”

Twilight just chuckles as I grumble to myself.

Unbelievable.

Of course she’d turn this into some kind of friendship lesson. She can’t help herself. It’s like a compulsion at this point. Probably gets a magical migraine if she goes too long without shoehorning some kind of moral into a conversation.

I shake my head, sighing. Whatever. Not my problem.

I adjust the floating rocks around me and prepare to slip back into the crowd, but Twilight is still staring at me.

I groan. “What now, Sparkle?”

She gives me that same knowing look. “You should spend more time with us.”

I blink. “Huh?”

“You know,” she gestures vaguely. “The girls. You don’t hang out much. You should.”

I scoff, waving her off. “I work, Twilight. Unlike certain ponies who get to just study friendship for a living, I actually have responsibilities.”

She raises a brow. “Your responsibilities include running your mouth and occasionally pretending to cast spells when ponies need you to fix something.”

I put a hoof to my chest, scandalized. “First of all, how dare you.”

She smirks.

I huff. “Second, I’m busy with other things, too.”

“Like what?”

“Like… research,” I say, nodding to myself. “You think it’s easy mimicking actual magic with telekinesis and physics? It takes work.”

Twilight rolls her eyes. “Kinetic, I research actual magic, and I still find time to go outside.”

I scoff. “Yeah, well, good for you, Sparkle. Not all of us have the privilege of being a government-funded friendship gremlin.”

Her smirk grows. “So what you’re saying is you’re just not as good as me at time management.”

I scowl. “I have important work to do.”

She tilts her head. “Like what?”

I scramble for another excuse. “Like… keeping up appearances! You know how fragile my reputation is? If ponies start seeing me lounging around with you guys all the time, they’ll start questioning my authority.”

She deadpans. “Oh, yes. Because nothing screams mysterious, powerful mage like wandering around Ponyville in a rock costume and scaring foals with fake curses.”

I point at her. “Exactly.”

She points back. “That’s not supporting your case.”

I grit my teeth. “Okay, fine, then what if—” I snap my hoof. “Reading! I read a lot. You know. Gotta stay informed.”

Twilight’s smirk twitches wider. “Oh? What was the last thing you read?”

I immediately regret my words.

I scramble for something, anything, but all that comes to mind is last week’s Ponyville Express, and maybe a sign above some store doors.

“…It was technical,” I say vaguely.

She raises an eyebrow.

I double down. “Advanced theory. Very niche.”

She’s not buying it.

I can feel the skepticism radiating off her like heat from a forge.

Twilight tilts her head, looking far too smug for my liking. “So you do spend time reading?”

I cross my floating rock legs. “Obviously.”

She hums. “Then you do take time for yourself. You do have time for things other than work.”

I pause, and then narrow my eyes. “…That doesn’t count.”

Twilight blinks, then smirks. “Why not?”

I scowl. “Because... shut up.”

She actually laughs. Full-on, head-tilted, shoulders-shaking laughs.

I roll my eyes. “Glad I could amuse you, Sparkle.”

She grins. “I’m just amazed at how bad you are at arguing against your own well-being.”

I groan, rubbing my face with a floating rock. "Twilight, why are you like this?"

"Like what?" she asks, all fake innocence, tilting her head like she hasn’t made it her mission to be the most infuriating pony alive.

I gesture vaguely. "Like some kind of... personal growth tax collector. Just going around, making sure everypony is ‘emotionally well-adjusted’ and ‘has a social life’ or whatever."

She raises a brow. "Wow. That’s a lot of words just to say, ‘I don’t want to admit I need friends.’"

I groan louder, dramatically flopping back onto my floating rock formation. "I have friends, Twilight. I just—" I wave my hooves. "—I just don't need to do the whole... group activities, ‘let’s all hang out and share our feelings’ thing."

Twilight taps her chin. "So what you’re saying is you prefer one-on-one interactions?"

"Yes! Exactly." I nod firmly. "One-on-one interactions are fine. Preferable, even. Much less overwhelming."

She smiles sweetly. "Perfect. You can spend the day at Fluttershy’s, then."

I freeze.

"Wait—"

"Fluttershy is one pony. You did just say one-on-one interactions are preferable."

I narrow my eyes. “You set me up.”

Twilight flicks her tail, smirking. “Maybe.”

I scowl. “Fluttershy doesn’t even like me.”

Twilight’s expression shifts, her smirk softening just a little. “That’s not true.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, come on, Sparkle. We both know she’s still freaked out by me after the parasprite thing.”

Twilight frowns slightly but doesn’t deny it.

Good. Because I’m right.

Sure, Fluttershy said she understood why I did it. Logically, she knew we couldn’t just let the little abominations eat the town into the dirt. But watching me pop them into bloody smears? That had shaken her.

She had flinched at me.

Tried to hide it, but I saw it.

And that’s not the kind of thing that just goes away.

I huff, crossing my forelegs. “So, again, why exactly would I go over there?”

Twilight exhales, rolling her eyes. "Because that's exactly why you should spend time together."

I blink. "What?"

She gives me that infuriatingly patient look—like she’s explaining basic math to a particularly dense foal. "You think Fluttershy doesn’t like you. But have you actually talked to her about it? Like, at all?"

I hesitate. "That’s not—"

Twilight smirks. "You haven’t."

I scowl. "That’s not the point."

"It kind of is, though," she presses. "If you just assume she doesn’t want anything to do with you, and she assumes you don’t want anything to do with her, then of course nothing’s going to change."

I scowl harder, feeling very done with this conversation. “Maybe nothing needs to change, Twilight. We don’t talk, she doesn’t talk to me, we exist in separate circles, and everything is fine.”

Twilight just hums in that obnoxious way that means she’s already decided I’m wrong. “Uh-huh. And if you actually talked, you might realize that neither of you actually hate each other.”

I scoff. “Didn’t say she hates me.”

“You implied it.”

I grit my teeth. “Twilight—”

“And even if she was nervous around you at first, that was a while ago. She’s not afraid of you now.”

I snort. “Oh yeah? She’s done a fantastic job proving that by never speaking to me since then.”

Twilight exhales through her nose, clearly trying to be patient. “Look, you two just… never had a reason to talk. And that’s exactly why this is a good idea.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re still not making a good case for why I should do this.”

Twilight’s smirk twitches wider. “Well, Rainbow Dash is going to be there too.”

I blink.

Then immediately scowl.

“Hold on. That’s two ponies.”

Twilight shrugs, far too pleased with herself. “Guess you’ll just have to endure.”

I point a hoof at her. “You lied to me.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You said one-on-one interactions.”

“I said they were preferable,” she corrects, looking unbearably smug. “I never said you wouldn’t be dealing with multiple ponies.”

I stare at her, utterly betrayed. “I hope your entire book collection spontaneously combusts.”

Twilight just gives me the most obnoxiously sweet smile imaginable. “Not happening. I have protective wards around my shelves.”

I groan, throwing my hooves up. “Of course you do. You’re insufferable.”

She nods in mock gravity. “So I’ve been told.”

Why is it so hard to say no to her?

“Fine,” I growl, already feeling my defenses crumble under her relentless positivity. “Fine. I’ll… go to Fluttershy’s. And meet with Rainbow Dash too. Great. Fantastic.”

Twilight’s grin widens. “I knew you’d see reason.”

I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t pop out. “It’s not reason; it’s me giving up just so you’ll stop bugging me.”

She doesn’t even try to deny it, just lifts her chin in victory. “Well, if it gets you there, I can live with that.”

“Whatever,” I mutter, turning away. “I’m done here, Sparkle. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Kinetic,” she calls after me, her tone still far too smug. “See you tomorrow!”

I don’t bother responding. I just march off into the night, the distant sounds of Nightmare Night festivities fading behind me as I head back to the H.A.R.D.I.S.

Once inside, I can’t help but pause in the entryway. The place is as silent and strangely vast as ever. There’s a chill in the air—maybe just from the lingering autumn cold. Or maybe from something else entirely.

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck with a hoof. “Great. Another social obligation tomorrow.”

I force a snort. “Hope they at least have decent snacks.”

Grumbling to myself, I head to my room. The bed’s as soft as ever, and it’s mine.

I flop onto the covers with a weary groan, shutting my eyes. My thoughts churn—frustration at Twilight, a flicker of old anxiety about Fluttershy, and a little dread about Rainbow’s inevitable teasing.

But it’s Nightmare Night, and I’m bone tired. Within minutes, I feel the tension in my muscles fade, my grumbling turning to a half-asleep mumble. I drift off to the muffled sounds of distant ponies still celebrating outside, the faint echoes of laughter and music seeping through the H.A.R.D.I.S.’s walls.

Tomorrow can sort itself out. For now, I’m done.

Obliviously Yours
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Applied Mathemagics

Obliviously Yours

I wake up feeling... fine.

Not good. Not bad. Just fine.

Which is honestly better than usual.

I stretch, cracking a few joints before rolling out of bed. My usual routine follows—coffee, ignoring the impossibly vast hallways of the H.A.R.D.I.S., its occasional strange noises and shifting, and staring blankly at a wall for a few minutes while my brain catches up.

Then I remember what I agreed to.

I groan, rubbing my temples. Right. Fluttershy’s. Tea. Sitting awkwardly while she and Rainbow talk.

Not ideal, but it’s not the worst thing in the world.

I’ve done worse.

I pull on my cloak—because obviously, I need to keep up appearances even if I’m just going to sit in somepony’s cottage for an hour—and saddlebags and head out.

Fluttershy’s cottage is exactly what I expect it to be: small, cozy, and teeming with little critters that I pointedly ignore.

The door opens within seconds of my knock, revealing Fluttershy, who blinks up at me with a soft smile.

“Oh! You actually came.”

I frown. “You sound surprised.”

She shifts slightly. “Oh, um. Not surprised. Just… glad.”

Huh.

I clear my throat. “Yeah, well. Twilight’s insufferable, and I figured it’s easier to just get this over with.”

Fluttershy’s smile twitches. “Well, um… come in.”

I step inside, mentally preparing myself for the awkwardness.

To my disappointment, Rainbow Dash is nowhere in sight.

Fluttershy notices me looking and quietly says, “She’s coming. She had weather duty this morning.”

I just grunt in acknowledgment and move to sit on the couch.

Fluttershy flits into the kitchen, preparing the tea, moving softly and deliberately like she’s trying not to startle me.

Which is... odd, I guess she's always been jumpy though.

I let the silence settle between us, figuring she’ll talk if she wants to.

And, surprisingly, she does.

“So… how is your apprentice doing?” she asks as she sets a cup of tea in front of me.

I blink, caught slightly off guard. “Sweetie Belle?”

Fluttershy nods.

I shift, shrugging. It's just Fluttershy, what could it hurt? “She’s fine, I guess. Still excited about learning. Still eager to show me every tiny bit of progress she makes.”

There’s a pause, and then she asks, “Are you happy about that?”

I snort. “Of course. She’s a good kid. Bright. Eager. Too eager, sometimes.”

Fluttershy tilts her head slightly, listening patiently.

I lean back a little, crossing my forelegs. “She reminds me why I bother with all this. Teaching her is fun. She actually wants to learn from me.”

I glance down at my tea, my jaw tightening slightly. “Or… she did.”

Fluttershy says nothing, waiting.

I huff. “It’s just… when Discord messed with my head, when everypony was trying to get me to break, to admit something was wrong… she ignored me too.”

I pick up the teacup, swirling it absently. “I get why Twilight and the others did it. They’re obsessed with making every problem a group project. But Sweetie? She’s my apprentice. She always wanted to learn from me, always looked up to me.” I exhale sharply. “And she just… acted like I wasn’t there.”

Like I was nothing.

My voice comes out tighter than I expect.

I hate that.

I rub my face, trying to shove the emotion down before it goes anywhere.

Then, suddenly, there’s a soft clink next to my hoof.

I look down.

A cookie.

I frown. “What.”

Fluttershy, still looking as gentle as ever, just nudges it slightly closer. “You looked upset.”

I stare at her. Then at the cookie. Then back at her.

“…So?”

She blinks innocently. “It helps.”

I glance back at the cookie.

It does look good.

And… well. I am a little stressed.

Without really thinking about it, I grab it with my magic and take a bite.

It’s good.

I take another bite, letting the rich, buttery flavor settle on my tongue. I guess it helps. A little. Not that I’m about to say that out loud.

Fluttershy just watches, sipping her tea, looking completely at ease.

I clear my throat. “So… yeah. Sweetie Belle.”

Fluttershy hums, prompting me to continue.

I frown. “I mean, I get it. Everypony else was doing it. Ignoring me, I mean. But she was always excited to see me. Always begging for lessons. And then, suddenly? Nothing.” I exhale sharply. “Like I was just some random unicorn she barely knew.”

Fluttershy’s expression softens. “That must have really hurt.”

I scoff. “I mean, yeah. A little. Whatever.”

There’s a pause.

Then—clink.

I glance down.

Another cookie.

I narrow my eyes.

Fluttershy sips her tea, utterly unfazed.

I stare at the cookie for a long moment before I huff and pick it up.

I take a bite.

It’s still good.

Fluttershy nods approvingly.

I squint at her. “You’re acting weird.”

She just smiles.

At some point, I find myself helping Fluttershy with her animals.

I don’t remember agreeing to this.

One second, we were talking. The next, I had a brush in my telekinetic grip, gently combing through the fur of some round little creature that Fluttershy insisted needed grooming.

I have no idea what it is. Some kind of oversized hamster, maybe.

I glance over at Fluttershy, who is tending to a group of rabbits. “How did this happen?”

She blinks at me. “Oh, well… you were already here. And you seemed like you didn’t mind.”

I frown. “…I do mind.”

She tilts her head. “Oh. Do you want another cookie?”

She holds the offending sweet out.

I squint.

Fluttershy just smiles, completely serene.

"Yes... thank you." I say, popping it into my mouth.

I sigh and go back to brushing.

Later, she asks me to help her bring in a bag of feed from the shed.

I grumble but oblige, levitating it effortlessly.

She thanks me, looking entirely too pleased.

Before I can respond, she sets a small bowl of fresh fruit in front of me.

I narrow my eyes.

She just sips her tea.

I pick up a slice of apple and eat it.

It’s good.

Fluttershy nods approvingly.

I get the strangest feeling that something is happening here, but I can’t quite put my hoof on it.

By the time Rainbow finally shows up, I’m sitting at the table, eating another cookie, feeling oddly relaxed.

Rainbow blinks at the scene in front of her, then smirks. “Wow. She got you, huh?”

I frown. “Got me how?”

Rainbow just snickers, flopping onto the couch. “Nevermind.”

Fluttershy smiles and places another plate of snacks on the table.

I stare at her.

She sips her tea.

I shake my head. Whatever. Not my problem.

I grab another cookie.

It’s still good.

I shift in my seat, clearing my throat. “Well, this has been… something, but I should probably get going.”

Fluttershy, who has been busy setting out another plate of fruit, glances up. “Oh?”

I nod, standing. “Yeah. Big, important archmage things to do.” I gesture vaguely. “You know. Mystical matters beyond mortal comprehension.”

Rainbow snorts from her spot on the couch. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

I shoot her a look. “What, you doubt my responsibilities?”

She just grins. “I doubt you have anywhere better to be.”

I scowl. “I have plenty of places to be.”

“Like?”

I open my mouth—then close it.

Damn it.

Fluttershy, silent this entire time, nudges a small plate forward. “You could stay a little longer,” she says softly. “I just made these.”

I look down.

Mini sandwiches.

Neatly cut. Perfectly arranged.

I stare at them.

She made these? Like, just now?

I glance back up at her, suspicious. “That’s… suspiciously convenient timing.”

She blinks. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

She tilts her head, giving me the softest, most innocent look imaginable. “But you haven’t even tried them yet.”

I narrow my eyes.

Then, before I can stop myself, I levitate one up and take a bite.

…It’s good.

I hate how good it is.

Fluttershy smiles just a little wider.

I chew, glaring at her.

She sips her tea.

Rainbow watches this exchange with pure delight, kicking her hooves up like she’s watching a show.

I exhale sharply, sitting back down. “Fine. A little longer.”

Fluttershy just nods approvingly.

Somewhere in the next half-hour, I realize something else is happening.

Fluttershy is… closer.

I don’t know when it started, but she’s slowly whittling away at my personal space.

It’s little things at first. A hoof brushing against mine when she reaches for the teapot. Sitting just a little closer than before.

At first, I ignore it.

She’s just a soft-spoken pony—naturally quiet, unassuming. Probably just used to sitting near other creatures without thinking about it. No big deal.

Then it escalates.

I’m finishing off one of those stupidly good daisy and cucumber sandwiches when I feel it—her hoof, lightly brushing against my mane.

I freeze.

No.

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s still talking like nothing happened. Like she didn’t just touch me.

I slowly pull back, ears flattening.

She doesn’t push. She just hums softly, withdrawing her hoof as if I was never meant to notice. Like it wasn’t even a big deal.

I narrow my eyes.

I know what that was.

That was soft pony tactics.

I tense, watching her carefully.

Fluttershy, unfazed, continues chatting in that calm, soothing voice of hers, letting the moment pass like it never happened.

“…and then Angel was just so fussy about his salad today. I even tried cutting the carrots into little flower shapes like he likes, but no, that wasn’t good enough. He wanted them in hearts.” She lets out a tiny sigh, smiling fondly. “I don’t know where he even got that idea. I’ve never done hearts before.”

I relax—just barely—before catching myself.

No. No, I am not going to be tricked into staying longer.

I shoot up suddenly, nearly knocking over my tea. “Alright! This has been great—real fun, real productive—but I really gotta go.”

Fluttershy’s ears flicker, and she tilts her head slightly. “Oh.”

I see the disappointment flicker across her face. The quiet understanding. Like she just spooked a wild animal, and now it’s bolting.

Which is exactly what I am doing.

She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest.

Instead—clink.

Another plate.

A golden-brown blueberry muffin, still warm, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon curling into the air.

I hesitate.

I narrow my eyes at the muffin, then at Fluttershy. “You planned this.”

She just tilts her head, all wide-eyed innocence. “Oh? I was just thinking you might like something sweet before you go.”

I scowl. “That’s suspiciously convenient.”

She shrugs. “Well, you did like the sandwiches.”

I glare at the muffin. It smells really good.

And the worst part? She’s not even pushing. She’s not begging me to stay, not guilt-tripping me, not arguing. She’s just offering.

It's like she always makes just enough food to make you feel bad for leaving hungry.

It reminds me of my grandmother.

The subtle way she always managed to keep me sitting at the table just a little longer. The soft, knowing smiles. The understanding that I was going to leave eventually, but oh, don’t you want another bite before you go?

And somehow, that makes it worse.

I grit my teeth, forcibly looking away. “Nope. Not falling for it.”

Fluttershy just nods, completely serene. “That’s okay.”

I glance back. She’s just sitting there, calm, unbothered.

Her eyes flick to the muffin once more, then back to me. “You can take it with you, if you want,” she says softly. “If you’re in a hurry.”

I raise a brow. “Oh, so now you want me to leave?”

Fluttershy shrugs with that same mild smile. “You seemed very determined to go, and I wouldn’t want you to miss out on it.” She nudges the muffin a little closer. “I was thinking of baking more on Tuesday, too. Maybe some extra blueberry ones.”

I feel my scowl deepen. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

She tilts her head, all innocence. “I like to have fresh treats ready, that’s all.”

I stare at her for a long beat, and she just keeps that calm, unruffled expression. Finally, I sigh, snatching the muffin with my telekinesis and hovering it by my side. “Fine. I’ll take it. But only because you made it already.”

Her smile widens—just a tiny bit. “That’s alright.”

I grumble, turning toward the door. I make it two steps before halting and glancing over my shoulder. “…You said Tuesday?”

Fluttershy nods. “Yes. I’ll be baking.”

I hate how casually she says that, like it’s just a simple statement and not a trap baited with delicious pastries. “Well, uh… good for you.”

She waits.

I wait.

Neither of us says anything.

Rainbow, from her place on the couch, looks like she’s about to explode with laughter again.

I shake my head, huffing. “I… might swing by. Maybe.”

Fluttershy just nods, expression serene. “Alright. Have a good day, Kinetic.”

I open my mouth, close it, and finally stomp out the door, blueberry muffin in tow.

The second I’m outside, I feel the crisp air hit my face, and let out a low groan. “Why,” I mutter to no one in particular, “is everypony in this town a scheming puppet master?”

The muffin smells amazing.

I bite into it as I walk, cursing quietly at how good it tastes.

Tuesday.

I can’t believe I’m actually considering it.

I pop the last of the muffin into my mouth, scowling at my own weakness. Then I glance back once, just in time to see the door quietly shut behind me.

“Dang it,” I grumble under my breath.

I make a beeline for Twilight’s library, my scowl deepening with every step.

This is her fault.

She did something.

Because there’s no way Fluttershy came up with that plan on her own.

I stomp up to the library door, throw it open, and march inside.

Twilight is at her desk, buried in a book, but the moment she sees me, she smiles. "Oh, back already?"

I slam the half-eaten muffin down onto the table in front of her.

She blinks. “Uh.”

I point a hoof at it. “Explain that.”

Twilight tilts her head. “That’s… a muffin?”

“A weaponized muffin,” I correct. “An ambush muffin. A trap designed to keep me in Fluttershy’s house longer.”

Twilight’s lips twitch like she’s trying very hard not to laugh. “And did it work?”

I scowl. “I took it with me, Twilight.”

She snorts. “And then you ate it.”

I glare. “That’s not the point.”

She smirks. “I think that’s exactly the point.”

I groan, dragging my hooves down my face. “What did you tell her?”

Twilight hums, tilting her head as if considering whether she should actually tell me. “Well… I might have mentioned you would respond better if she treated you like one of her more skittish animals.”

I stare at her.

“…Are you kidding me?”

She shrugs, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

I scoff. “Oh, sure. Because I definitely behave like a cornered raccoon.”

Twilight smirks. “More like a very grumpy stray cat.”

I throw my hooves up. “Unbelievable.”

Twilight is clearly enjoying this far too much, but then I say, “She tried to pet me.”

And immediately, her smirk vanishes.

She straightens slightly. “Wait. What?”

I nod, eyes narrowing. “Yeah. Just casually reached over and touched my mane like that was a normal thing to do.”

Twilight frowns, her tail flicking. “That… wasn’t part of the plan.”

I blink. “Hold on. What plan?”

She clears her throat and quickly turns away, flipping a page in her book like she’s suddenly very interested in whatever dry, academic nonsense is on it. “Nothing, nothing. Just… I may have underestimated how quickly she’d get comfortable.”

I squint at her. “Sparkle.”

She keeps reading.

I lean in slightly. “Twiiiliiight.”

She exhales sharply, setting her book down with a sigh. “Look, I thought she’d just ease you into things! Get you used to socializing in a way that wasn’t overwhelming. I didn’t think she’d—” she waves a hoof vaguely “—try to domesticate you.”

I groan, rubbing my face. “Great. So you admit this whole thing was your fault.”

Twilight crosses her forelegs. “Technically, I just gave her advice. I didn’t tell her to start—” she hesitates, searching for the right words. “—stroking you.”

I make a strangled noise. “Never say it like that again.”

Twilight smirks again, but there’s something slightly off about it this time. Like her usual smugness is covering for something else. She looks away, ears flicking. “Still. I didn’t think she’d, uh… escalate like that.”

I scoff. “Yeah, well, neither did I.” I pause, rubbing my temple. “I don’t even know what she wants from me.”

Twilight shrugs. “Maybe she just… likes having you around?”

I blink. “Why?”

Twilight gives me a flat look. “Kinetic, just because you think you’re a pain doesn’t mean everypony does.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Friendship lesson noted.” I make a vague gesture. “Now fix whatever weird animal-training program you enrolled me in.”

Twilight chuckles. “I don’t think it’s that easy.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

She hums, flipping through her book again. “Well, if you stop going over, she’ll probably just be sad.”

I shift uncomfortably. “That’s not my problem.”

Twilight side-eyes me.

I scowl. “It’s not.”

She smirks again. “Then why do you look so guilty?”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

I huff and look away. “This is ridiculous.”

Twilight, of course, doesn’t let up. “I don’t see what the problem is. You go, you get free food, and apparently, you’re likable enough that Fluttershy enjoys your company.”

I groan. “I am not discussing this with you.”

She grins. “Too late.”

I open my mouth to fire back, but she casually says, “With Hearts and Hooves Day coming up, you might want to get used to ponies being more affectionate.”

My brain stalls.

I blink. Slowly. Then look at her. “What.”

Twilight is still reading, still pretending to be completely casual, but her ears twitch slightly.

I know that look.

That’s the look of somepony who wants something.

Oh no.

Nope.

Not happening.

I immediately start backing toward the door. “Well, this has been an enlightening disaster, but I just remembered I have actual work to do.”

Twilight finally looks up, eyes sharp with amusement. “Oh? And what’s on the grand agenda of our mighty archmage today?”

I scramble for an excuse. “Uh. Research.”

She smirks. “On what?”

I grit my teeth. “Physics.”

Twilight hums. “Mm-hm. Any particular branch of physics?”

I scowl. “Applied.”

She leans forward slightly. “And what’s the focus?”

I scramble for something that sounds complicated enough to make her drop it. “Uh… non-equilibrium thermodynamics.”

Twilight blinks. “…Huh.”

I cross my hooves, lifting my chin. “Yeah. Pretty important stuff.”

Her ears flick, and then she slowly smirks. “That’s fascinating.”

I narrow my eyes. “It is.”

She hums, standing up and stepping closer. “So how does it work?”

I freeze.

Crap.

I clear my throat. “Oh, you know. A lot of, uh, energy transfer… and, uh, entropy considerations.”

Twilight raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”

I shift uncomfortably. “Well, uh, non-equilibrium thermodynamics is all about… things… not being in equilibrium. Obviously.”

She snorts. “That’s the name of it, yes.”

I scowl. “Look, it’s complex, okay? You wouldn’t get it.”

She smirks. “Try me.”

I hate her.

I hate that she’s good at this.

I groan, rubbing my temples. “Twilight, I swear—”

“Oh, I’m listening,” she says sweetly.

I glare at her. “Fine. It’s about how systems that aren’t in thermal equilibrium still have observable patterns of energy dispersion, and you can model it to predict things like heat flow, reaction rates, and—” I stop abruptly when I see the way her expression shifts.

She looks… too interested.

Not just ‘this is an interesting academic topic’ interested, but something else entirely.

I narrow my eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Twilight quickly schools her expression into something more neutral. “Like what?”

I gesture vaguely. “Like that. Like you’re thinking about something.”

She shrugs, a little too casual. “Oh, no reason.”

I squint. “No, see, I know that face, Sparkle. That’s the face of somepony about to say something really weird.”

She taps a hoof against her chin, feigning innocence. “I just… think it’s interesting, that’s all.”

I cross my hooves. “You’re a professional researcher, Twilight. You think everything is interesting.”

She hums, stepping a little closer. “True. But I especially think it’s interesting when you explain things.”

I blink.

Wait.

No.

Nope.

I straighten slightly. “What is that supposed to mean?”

She smiles—too sweetly. “You’re very—” she pauses, as if choosing her words carefully, “—articulate.”

I narrow my eyes. “Uh-huh.”

She keeps looking at me like that. Like she’s really enjoying this.

I don’t know if it’s the way her ears flick when I talk, the way she tilts her head just slightly, or the fact that she’s suddenly way too focused on my mouth when I speak—

I immediately stop talking.

She raises an eyebrow. “Why’d you stop?”

I glare at her. “Because I just realized what’s happening here, and I don’t like it.”

Twilight grins. “What’s happening?”

I scowl. “Oh, you know exactly what’s happening.”

She just tilts her head, all fake innocence. “But I was just listening to you talk about physics.”

I back up one step. “Nope. No. Absolutely not. I’m not getting pulled into whatever this is.”

Twilight lets out a soft hum. “I don’t know what you mean.”

I glare at her. Hard. “Yes, you do.”

Twilight just smiles, slow and knowing. She’s enjoying this way too much.

I shift uncomfortably, suddenly hyper-aware of how she keeps dragging me back into the conversation.

Every time I try to leave, she says just enough to pull me in again. And I keep falling for it.

The realization hits me—this isn’t just Fluttershy anymore.

The ponies have gotten too used to handling me.

I narrow my eyes. “Sparkle.”

She blinks, all false innocence. “Yes?”

I straighten. “I’m leaving.”

She tilts her head, ears flicking playfully. “Are you?”

I scowl. “Yes.”

She leans forward, just slightly, gaze far too entertained. “You sure?”

I cut myself off immediately, pivoting toward the door.

Nope. No. Nope.

I am not getting played by two of them in the same day.

I march out, slamming the door behind me.

Twilight’s laughter follows me all the way down the road.

I storm off in a huff, muttering to myself, my cloak billowing dramatically behind me. At least the wind respects my authority.

Damn ponies. Damn their tricks. Damn their stupid smug faces.

I’ve adapted to their giant, overly expressive eyes by now. Mostly. I can look at them without that uncanny valley feeling, without getting weirded out by the sheer amount of emotion they pour into a single glance. But that’s only because I know they do it naturally. It’s not for me.

It’s when they look at me like that—like I’m one of them, like they expect something from me—that it makes my skin crawl.

I hate that look.

It lingers in my head longer than I want it to.

I shake my head sharply, wrenching my thoughts back into something less irritating.

I don’t even find them attractive.

That part’s never changed. I can recognize when a pony is considered conventionally cute—because everything here is cute—but it doesn’t do anything for me.

They’re not human women.

That’s what makes the whole Twilight thing even worse.

I don’t like her. Not like that.

I just like messing with her.

And she likes messing with me.

It’s… fun.

I stop in my tracks, scowling.

No. Nope.

I shove that thought aside and bury it. I am not about to get existential over a smug unicorn.

I need something to do.

Something productive.

I’m officially out of ponies to talk to who haven’t pissed me off today, so I head to the market and buy a notebook. If I can’t spend my day tormenting Twilight or dodging Fluttershy’s schemes, I might as well get some real work done.

Back at the H.A.R.D.I.S., I flip open the notebook and start copying down the runes from the golem I fought.

I don’t know anything about runes yet. But that’s what this is for—documentation, figuring it out later.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

About twenty pages in, I stop, staring at the mess of symbols.

I sigh.

I’m not figuring this out on my own.

Which means I’m going to have to do a walk of shame back to the library for a book on runes.

I groan, dragging my hooves down my face.

I drag myself back to the library, mentally preparing for the inevitable smugness I’m about to endure.

Twilight does not disappoint.

The second I walk in, she looks up from her book and grins. “Back so soon?”

I scowl. “Don’t start.”

She leans her chin on her hoof, looking unbearably amused. “Oh, but it’s so interesting. I thought you had important physics research to do.”

I grumble under my breath and start scanning the shelves, looking for anything on runecraft. I don’t ask her for help. I refuse. I’ll find it myself.

I spend about fifteen minuets looking.

Then, having had her fun, Twilight’s magic plucks a book from a shelf and floats it in front of me.

Runes and Their Applications: A Mage’s Guide.

I blink. “What.”

She smirks. “This is what you’re looking for, right?”

I narrow my eyes. “…How did you know?”

She shrugs, far too pleased with herself. “I’ve seen Sweetie Belle working on some runes around town. And I know you don’t know runecraft. So I figured you’d need it eventually.”

I scowl. “Okay. First of all, stop being right all the time.”

She chuckles. “Can’t help it.”

I reach for the book, but Twilight keeps it just out of reach, her smirk widening.

I pause. Oh no.

I narrow my eyes. “What’s the catch?”

Twilight hums innocently. “Catch? Whatever do you mean?”

I glare. “You’re holding my book hostage.”

She taps her chin in mock thought. “Well, I could just let you have it…”

I cross my hooves. “Yes, you could.”

“…But,” she continues, ignoring me, “I think you owe me a favor.”

I scoff. “It’s a library, Twilight. You can’t just—”

“It’s my library,” she corrects, looking far too smug. “And let’s not forget all the books you never returned.”

I blink. “What?”

She grins. “Oh, don’t play dumb. The library used to run on an honor system before I took over. And you, Archmage Kinetic Flux, checked out three books and never returned them.”

I frown, avoiding her eyes. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

Twilight levitates a stack of old papers and pulls out a yellowed, dog-eared checkout slip. She flips it around dramatically and jabs a hoof at the name written on it.

Kinetic Flux.

My eye twitches.

She reads aloud, her voice practically dripping with amusement. “Teaching Magic to Foals: A Practical Guide. Practical Spells for Beginners. The Art of Magical Focus.”

I cross my forelegs, scowling. "Okay, but in my defense—"

"It's been two weeks," Twilight interrupts, looking unbearably smug.

I roll my eyes. "That’s not that long."

"The checkout was only good for a week."

I open my mouth to argue, then immediately close it. Damn it.

Twilight smirks, clearly enjoying this way too much. "So, consider this a late fee." She waves the rune book in front of my face. "You help me with a few errands tomorrow, and this is yours."

I frown. "What kind of errands?"

"Oh, nothing too complicated," she says airily. "Just some things around town. Carrying things, picking up supplies, helping with some organization."

I narrow my eyes. "That sounds suspiciously vague."

Twilight blinks at me, all fake innocence. "Oh? But you owe me a favor, remember?"

I grit my teeth. She’s up to something. I know she is. But… damn it, I do need that book.

I could just refuse and try to find another copy elsewhere, but that would take even longer, and I need to start decoding the golem runes now.

I really hate how well she’s playing this.

I sigh sharply, dragging a hoof down my face. "Fine. Fine. But just for the record? You’re the worst."

Twilight beams. "Noted." She finally levitates the book into my grasp, and I yank it from the air, stuffing it into my saddlebags before she changes her mind.

Twilight leans her chin on her hoof again, smiling way too smugly. "So, see you tomorrow morning?"

I groan. "Unfortunately."

She hums. "Try to get some rest. We have a big day ahead of us."

I do not like the way she says that.

I grumble under my breath and stomp toward the door. I got my runecraft book, but now I have to spend an entire day running Twilight’s errands.

I mutter curses all the way back to the H.A.R.D.I.S., already dreading tomorrow.

I set the rune book down next to my notes, cracking my neck before diving into the mess of angular symbols I copied from the golem.

Alright. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.

The book is... well, it’s a book. Not exactly a good book. It’s vague, full of flowery language about the ancient mysteries of runecraft rather than actually explaining how the damn things work or what they directly translate to.

So I have to infer. A lot.

I take a deep breath and start translating, scribbling down each rune into something I actually understand.

INITIAL CONDITIONS
creature_detected = false
distance_to_creature = unknown
creature_airborne = false
total_mass = starting_mass
hold_data = [body_parts]
body_parts = [head, arms, legs, torso]
target_position = [0,0]
golem_position = [0,0]
left_leg_facing = true
motion_state = idle
terrain_map = scan_terrain

DETECTION RUNE
if detect_creature()
→ creature_detected = true
→ target_position = get_creature_position()
→ distance_to_creature = get_distance(golem_position, target_position)
→ creature_airborne = check_airborne(target_position)
else
→ creature_detected = false
→ motion_state = idle

TRACKING RUNE
if creature_detected
→ track_target(target_position)
→ orient_left_leg(target_position)
→ motion_state = tracking

ATTACK RUNE
if creature_detected and distance_to_creature < attack_range
→ if creature_airborne
→ throw_arms(target_position)
→ else
→ melee_attack(target_position)
→ motion_state = attacking

REGENERATION RUNE
if missing_parts(body_parts)
→ nearest_earth = find_earth_source()
→ move_to_source(nearest_earth)
→ absorb_earth()
→ restore_parts(body_parts)
→ update_mass(total_mass)
→ motion_state = repairing

STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY RUNE
if unstable_structure()
→ hold_structure()

God that took forever.

I sit back, staring at the translated runes, running through the implications.

It had a logic flow. Decision-making. Condition checks. It wasn’t thinking, but it was following rules.

I run a hoof down my face.

Ponies don’t even know what mass is, yet some ancient rune-carver figured out how to make an autonomous, self-repairing, combat-capable golem.

What the hell?

I sigh, rubbing my temples. And now I need another book.

Because this? This is just a rough translation.

I need something that actually explains why these runes work the way they do.

I groan, already dreading it.

Another walk of shame back to Twilight’s library.

I find myself once again making the reluctant trek back to Twilight’s library. I don’t even bother muttering to myself this time. At this point, the universe has made it abundantly clear that resistance is futile.

Twilight is still at her desk, sipping tea and reading a book, looking far too smug for someone who should not technically know I was coming.

She doesn’t look up. “Three visits in one day?”

I exhale through my nose. “Don’t start.”

She hums in that way that means she’s starting but graciously lets me pretend she’s not.

I scan the shelves, looking for something—anything—that explains why the runes work the way they do. The book just told me what they did, not how they did it.

I search for a good ten minutes before Twilight finally decides to put me out of my misery.

"You’re not going to find what you're looking for."

I glance over. “And why’s that?”

She shuts her book and rests her chin on her hoof. “Because it doesn’t exist.”

I blink. "Excuse me?"

Twilight shrugs. "Runecraft doesn’t work the way you think it does. There’s no underlying theory behind it. No scientific principle or grand unified system. It’s just… trial and error.”

I stare at her. “…What.”

She smiles sympathetically. “Yeah. That’s how ponies have always done it. Somepony figures out a symbol that does something, then they refine it, see what makes it work better, and pass it down. There’s no why, just what works and what doesn’t.”

I blink slowly. “…That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Twilight laughs. "Yeah, I figured you'd say that."

I rub my temple. "Magic." Of course. Of course it just works without explanation.

Twilight tilts her head. “You do realize how ironic this is, right?”

I scowl. “What?”

She grins. “You, the famous archmage, relying on logic and physics for all your so-called magic tricks, are now stuck studying a system that defies logic completely.”

I drag my hooves down my face. “I hate this town.”

Twilight beams. “No, you don’t.”

I scowl harder, turning back to the shelves. “Fine. If I can’t get an explanation, then I at least need a better book than that garbage you gave me.”

Twilight hums, getting up from her seat and trotting over to the shelves. After a moment, she levitates a thick tome down and plops it in front of me.

"Runes and Refinements: The Art of Experimentation."

I stare at the title. I do not like the implications.

Twilight grins. “You wanted to know how runes really work? Here you go. This one actually has tests for you to try.”

I pick up the book warily. “And how much trial and error are we talking about here?”

Twilight smirks. “Hope you don’t mind exploding a few things.”

I groan loudly. “Great.”

She giggles and turns back to her desk. “Have fun!”

I grab the book and stomp back home, already regretting my life choices.

After hours of translating runes, my brain is done.

Trial and error. No theory. Just vibes. It’s like trying to debug a program when half the code is written in poetry.

I shove my notes and book into some drawers and stumble toward bed, too exhausted to even be annoyed anymore.

I will figure out how to make these runes without accidentally summoning something that will eat my face.

But for now? Sleep.

The next morning, I wake up to pounding on my door.

I groan, rolling over. “Go away.”

The knocking gets louder.

I fling a pillow at the door. “I said go away!”

A very smug voice calls out. “Oh, Kinetiiiic~”

I freeze.

Oh no.

I sit up sharply, already regretting everything.

Twilight.

Twilight is here.

And that means something terrible is about to happen.

I groan as I drag myself out of bed, running a hoof through my mane before shuffling toward the door. I fling it open, scowling. “What?”

Twilight stands there, grinning way too wide, looking far too pleased with herself.

I squint at her. “What are you so happy about?”

She blinks innocently. “What? Can’t a mare just enjoy the morning?”

I fold my forelegs. “No.”

She snickers, then gestures grandly. “C’mon. Errands.”

I groan. “You actually came to collect me?”

Twilight shrugs. “Of course! You made a deal.”

I grumble under my breath but step outside, shutting the door behind me. I start walking with her, still trying to shake off the grogginess.

Then I glance at her properly.

And immediately stop walking.

I stare.

Twilight has makeup on.

I narrow my eyes. “Okay. What is this?”

She blinks at me, all fake innocence. “What do you mean?”

I gesture vaguely. “The… the face.”

She tilts her head. “It’s my face?”

I scowl. “No, it’s different.”

Twilight smirks, batting her lashes dramatically. “Oh? You noticed?”

I hate that I did.

She never wears makeup. Never does anything that isn’t purely practical. The fact that she’s wearing it now means… something.

I point at her suspiciously. “You’re up to something.”

She gasps theatrically. “Kinetic, please. I would never.”

I cross my hooves. “Lies.”

She just grins. “C’mon. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”

I sigh and start walking again, still trying to figure out what exactly feels so off.

Twilight is being… weird.

Not bad weird. Just… different.

Like she’s expecting something.

I shake my head. Whatever. Just get through the errands and go back to translating runes.

Twilight leads the way, practically bouncing with barely-contained enthusiasm. I eye her warily. This is suspicious. This is very suspicious.

We step into the market, and Twilight starts her so-called "errands."

The first stop? A café.

I immediately raise an eyebrow. “This doesn’t look like an errand.”

Twilight hums, levitating a menu. “I need to eat, don’t I?”

I scowl. “You dragged me out of bed for your breakfast?”

She just smirks. “You’re here, so you might as well eat, too. I'll pay.”

I could protest. I should protest. But my stomach picks this exact moment to betray me with a low growl.

Twilight grins wider. “See? Your body agrees.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. But I’m getting the most expensive thing on the menu out of spite.”

She chuckles, levitating over two menus. “Go right ahead.”

I scan the options, frowning. “You’re lucky I can’t read half this flowery café nonsense. What’s the difference between a Moondancer Latte and a Celestial Swirl Cappuccino?”

Twilight smirks. “About three bits and some extra foam.”

I grunt. “Figures.” I shove the menu away. “Just get me something caffeinated.”

She orders for us—some fancy tea for herself and whatever high-powered coffee she picked for me.

The drinks arrive, and Twilight happily stirs her tea, eyes gleaming with amusement. I chug my coffee like it’s an elixir of youth.

“This is a pretty slow errand,” I note.

Twilight shrugs, smiling behind her cup. “No rush.”

I scowl. “That’s exactly what somepony wasting my time would say.”

She just hums, taking a sip.

After we finish, we finally move on to an actual errand.

Or so I think.

Turns out, Twilight needs to visit a flower stall.

I squint. “What, is this for a potion or something?”

She hums. “Nope. Just flowers.”

“…Right. And you’re getting flowers why?”

She grins. “Decoration, food, haven't decided yet.”

I stare. “You’ve never decorated anything in your life.”

She chuckles. “Maybe I’m trying something new.”

I roll my eyes as she browses through bouquets. I glance at a random arrangement and snort. “Wow. Overpriced plant carcasses. Truly the height of civilization.”

The florist gasps in horror. Twilight just laughs.

She picks out a bouquet—roses, which I pointedly ignore—and hands over the bits.

“You sure are putting a lot of effort into ambience today,” I mutter as we leave.

Twilight smiles smugly. “Oh, don’t worry, you’ll see the effort soon.”

I do not like the way she says that.

Next stop? A bookstore.

Finally. Something actually productive.

Except, of course, it’s not.

Twilight doesn’t even glance at the reference section. Instead, she drags me straight to the fiction aisle.

I scowl. “Twilight. I don’t have time to read storybooks.”

She hums. “You do today.”

I hate her.

She starts flipping through books, clearly enjoying herself. I lean against a nearby shelf, grumbling. “This is the worst errand list I’ve ever seen.”

Twilight chuckles. “Maybe you just don’t know how to enjoy yourself.”

I scoff. “Excuse me? I enjoy plenty of things.”

She smirks. “Name one.”

I open my mouth—but can't immediately think of anything.

Twilight watches me struggle, grinning. “Exactly.”

I groan, dragging my hooves down my face. “Are we done yet?”

She hums. “A few more stops.”

I hate this.

The next hour is a blur of nonsense.

A scenic walk through the park. A visit to a sweets shop where Twilight insists I try a hoof-made chocolate truffle.

A stop at a little boutique where she doesn't buy anything, and just browses.

As we step out of the boutique, I finally notice something odd.

It’s not just Twilight dragging me around like a wayward shopping bag—everypony is out.

And not just out—paired up.

Ponies walking side by side, sharing sweets, giving each other flowers, leaning against each other like they aren’t even embarrassed about it.

I slow my pace, squinting at a couple holding hooves at a café. Another pair across the street are sharing a milkshake like absolute nerds.

I gesture vaguely at the display. “Okay, what’s with all the mushy stuff? Did I miss a memo? Is there a ‘be unbearably romantic’ festival going on?”

Twilight stifles a laugh. “Kinetic. It’s Hearts and Hooves Day.”

I blink.

Then scowl.

“Oh.”

Twilight tilts her head. “You do know what that is, right?”

I scoff. “Of course, I do. I just… didn’t realize it was today.”

Twilight smirks. “And you somehow didn’t notice? Even after all the flower stands, the sweets, the décor, the couples everywhere?”

I cross my hooves. “Look, I just assumed ponies were always this disgustingly affectionate.”

Twilight snorts. “We do have boundaries, you know.”

I glance around again. A stallion is blushing as his marefriend nuzzles his cheek. Across the street, a pair of pegasi are sitting together on a cloud, tails intertwined.

I make a face. “Gross.”

Twilight chuckles. “Aw, does our resident grump have no appreciation for romance?”

I scowl. “I appreciate it just fine when it’s happening somewhere private.”

Twilight grins, sidling up beside me. “Okay, then. What’s your type?”

I blink. “My what?”

She shrugs, far too casual. “What kind of mare would actually win over our fearless archmage?”

I almost tell her I don’t do romance, but she’s looking at me expectantly, and if I say that, she’ll just dig deeper out of pure spite.

So I think about it for a second.

I don’t care about looks—not in the way ponies do. They’re not human. No flowing manes or big, sparkling eyes are going to make me like them more.

I roll my eyes, mulling it over. “I guess… I have to like them.”

Twilight raises an eyebrow. “That’s a really low bar, Kinetic.”

I smirk. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

She giggles but stays quiet, waiting for me to elaborate.

I exhale through my nose, glancing around at all the obnoxiously affectionate couples. “It’s not just about being ‘nice’ or ‘kind’ or whatever ponies put on their little love checklists. There are plenty of ponies like that, but if I can’t stand talking to them, what’s the point?”

Twilight hums, tilting her head slightly. "So you're saying you don't want them to be nice to you?"

I scoff. "I don't need somepony to agree with me just because it's polite. Where’s the fun in that?" I glance at her. "If I say something ridiculous, I want somepony who’ll call me out on it. Maybe throw it back at me, make it interesting."

Twilight’s smirk twitches wider. “So you like feisty mares?”

I roll my eyes. “I like ponies who can keep up.” I flick my tail. “Somepony who isn’t just nice, but… I dunno, sharp. Quick. Sweet in a way that still stings a little. Like honey with a kick.”

Twilight stares at me, ears flicking.

I frown. “…What?”

She clears her throat, looking off to the side. "Nothing. Just… for somepony who acts like they hate feelings, that was kind of poetic."

I scowl. "Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it."

She giggles, and I swear her eyes are glowing with amusement.

I shake my head, dismissing whatever weird energy is hanging in the air. “Alright, Sparkle. Your turn. What’s your type?”

Twilight hums, pretending to think about it, but there’s something in the way she smirks that immediately puts me on edge.

“Well…” she starts slowly, as if she hasn’t already thought about this. “I guess I like somepony smart.”

I snort. “Obviously.”

She grins. “And a little snarky.”

I blink. “Huh.”

“A bit of a bad boy,” she continues, eyes flicking toward me in a way I don’t quite register.

I scoff. “Bad boy? Really? You?”

She smirks. “What? I like somepony who’s challenging—somepony who doesn’t just go along with what I say, but pushes back. Keeps me on my hooves.”

I squint. “That sounds like it could get annoying real fast.”

She shrugs, still smiling. “I like arguing like that.”

I roll my eyes. “Nerd.”

Twilight laughs. “Somepony who’s a little insane, but in a productive way.”

I blink. “That’s a concerning requirement.”

She waves a hoof. “Not, like, dangerous insane. Just… y’know, somepony who’s too smart for their own good. Who gets caught up in their own ridiculous antics and doesn’t always realize how crazy they sound until somepony points it out.”

I frown. “Your dream stallion sounds like a real piece of work.”

Twilight giggles, tilting her head. “Oh, he would be. A real headache.”

I smirk. “Yeah, sounds great. Some stubborn, insufferable stallion who never lets you have the last word and probably gets himself into trouble every five minutes. Just what every mare dreams of.”

She sighs dramatically. “I know, right?”

I snort. “Real keeper, that one.”

Twilight grins. “He’d be interesting, at least.”

I scoff. “That’s one way to put it.”

She hums, still smiling. “I didn’t see the appeal at first, either.”

I arch a brow. “Oh?”

She nods. “Yeah. At first, I’d probably just find him infuriating—which, to be fair, he is—but then… it gets addictive.”

I blink. “Addictive?”

Twilight shrugs, looking entirely too entertained. “Something about the back and forth, the challenge. Figuring out what makes him tick—how to get under his skin. It’s fun.”

I squint at her. "That doesn't seem healthy."

Twilight grins, eyes glinting. "Maybe not. But the best things never are."

Twilight’s voice takes on a mischievous undercurrent. “I like the idea of outmaneuvering him,” she says, eyes dancing. “Outthinking him. Trying to see if I can one-up him when he least expects it.”

I blink, suddenly unsure if we’re still talking about some hypothetical stallion. “That sounds... borderline competitive.”

She laughs. “It is competitive. But it’s fun.”

I shake my head. “Yeah, maybe for you. Feels like you’d be constantly at each other’s throats.”

She hums, not denying it. “Keeps things interesting. If we’re always on our hooves, always trying to outwit each other, at least we’re engaged, right?”

I grunt. “All that bantering—how’s it supposed to lead to an actual relationship?”

Twilight’s confident smirk wavers. She hesitates, then sighs. “I... haven’t quite figured that part out.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You have a plan for everything, Sparkle. You’re telling me you don’t have a master strategy to land your hypothetical, borderline-insane stallion?”

She rolls her eyes, cheeks faintly pink. “Maybe I was hoping things would... work themselves out once we’re both invested.”

I scoff. “Bold of you to assume he’d ever ‘invest’ in all that.”

Twilight grins, looking far too sure of herself. “Oh, I’m persuasive. He’d come around eventually.”

I open my mouth to retort, but before I can, she leads me around the last corner and—finally—we’re standing outside the library.

I exhale in relief. “Thank the stars. Does this mean I can go now?”

Twilight chuckles. “Yes, I suppose you’ve fulfilled your end of the bargain.”

She reaches into her saddlebag and pulls out the bouquet of roses she bought earlier. Without ceremony, she offers them to me.

I stare at them. “What... what am I supposed to do with these?”

Twilight shrugs, a tiny smile on her lips. “They’re yours. I bought them, but... consider them a parting gift.”

I frown. “But... you bought them. For... food or something. Why would you just give them away?”

Twilight waves a hoof dismissively, her smile still in place but her ears flicking slightly. “Oh, I’ll live. I’m sure you’ll find some use for them.”

I stare at the roses like they contain some kind of hidden puzzle. “I mean… I guess I can just, uh… put them in a vase or something?”

Twilight nods. “That’s the spirit.”

She’s still smiling, still composed, but—there it is. The tiniest twitch of her eye. Barely noticeable.

I don’t pay it any mind.

Instead, I roll my eyes and turn on my hoof. “Right. Well. Good talk. I’m gonna go before you decide I owe you more favors.”

Twilight chuckles softly, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes this time. “See you soon, Kinetic.”

I walk away, roses floating awkwardly in my magic.

The moment I round the corner, I let out a deep sigh and shake my head. “Ponies are weird.”

I glance at the roses. What the hell am I actually supposed to do with these?

I could throw them away, but that feels… rude. Twilight didn’t have to give them to me.

I groan. I’ll figure it out later.

The H.A.R.D.I.S. is exactly how I left it—vast, empty, and uncaring about my personal dilemmas.

I step inside, tossing the bouquet onto a nearby table before flopping into a chair.

What a weird day.

At least it’s over.

At least I can finally get back to important things—like runes, and golems, and not dealing with whatever Twilight was on about today.

I close my eyes, exhaling deeply.

Tomorrow, I will make progress.

And whatever that was?

I’m not thinking about it.

Author's Note

Roughly the actual code (MATLAB-based).
% --- INITIAL CONDITIONS ---
pony_detected = false;
distance_to_pony = inf;
pony_airborne = false;
total_mass = initial_mass;
body_parts = struct('head', true, 'arms', true, 'legs', true, 'torso', true);
target_position = [0,0]; % Pony's position
golem_position = [0,0];
left_leg_facing = true;
motion_state = "idle"; % Can be "tracking", "attacking", "repairing"
terrain_map = scan_terrain(); % Function to analyze environment

% --- DETECTION RUNE ---
if scan_for_pony()

pony_detected = true;

target_position = get_pony_position();

distance_to_pony = get_distance(golem_position, target_position);

pony_airborne = is_airborne(target_position);
else

pony_detected = false;

motion_state = "idle";
end

% --- TRACKING RUNE ---
if pony_detected

track_target(target_position);

orient_left_leg(target_position);

motion_state = "tracking";
end

% --- ATTACK RUNE ---
if pony_detected && distance_to_pony < attack_range

if pony_airborne

throw_arms(target_position);

else

melee_attack(target_position);

end

motion_state = "attacking";
end

% --- 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";
end

% --- STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY RUNE ---
if not_stable_structure()

hold_structure();
end

Golem
View Online

Applied Mathemagics

Golem

I wake up early, determined to make actual progress on the golem runes. No distractions. No Twilight trickery. Just work.

Technically, I don’t need this thing to fight. I need it to do manual labor. Heavy lifting, digging, and carrying things so I don’t have to. Simple.

The runes are still a mess of trial and error, but I can adjust them as needed—weakening and reshaping the intergranular bonds of the material with my magic. It’s tedious, but with the right touch, I can carve, refill, and refine the runes with minimal effort.

All I need now is the raw material.

I head just outside the Everfree, picking out a large boulder embedded in the dirt. Solid, weighty, but not so unwieldy that I can’t shape it. I focus, applying pressure with my magic, compressing the stone, pushing the material inward, removing imperfections.

Once it’s condensed enough to carve cleanly, I start forming the shape.

I keep it simple—basic proportions, sturdy design, flexible movement. Ball joints at the limbs to maximize range of motion.

At least, that’s the plan.

But somewhere along the way, I get distracted, and the process takes a turn.

I step back, wiping sweat from my brow, and—

…Oh.

Oh no.

What… what have I done?

Standing before me, fresh from the stone, is…

A woman.

Not a pony. Not some boxy, utilitarian golem.

A tall, curved, elegant human woman—made of smoothed, condensed dirt and stone.

My eye twitches.

How the hell did this happen?

She has ball-jointed limbs, perfectly segmented for fluid motion. A slim waist, perfectly proportioned to emphasize her curves. A pouty, slightly unimpressed face that somehow conveys emotion despite being rock.

The hair—a sleek, straight bob that curves inward at the ends, forming a soft widow’s peak. It falls just above her shoulders, framing her face with frustrating precision.

And the outfit.

Oh, stars above, why does she have a leotard?

It’s part of the stone, carved into her form, giving the illusion of clothing without actually being separate from her body.

I stare.

She stares back.

I groan loudly, dragging my hooves down my face.

I did not mean to do this.

How the hell did I go from "generic labor construct" to "mystical goth goddess?"

I scowl at the stone-woman, pointing an accusatory hoof at her. "You were supposed to be a worker, not a fashion statement."

She does not respond.

Because she is a pile of animated stone.

I exhale sharply. It doesn’t matter. The shape isn’t important. She just needs to function.

I grumble, moving closer and inspecting my work. The joints are well-placed. The structure is solid.

Even if she looks like some forbidden earth goddess, at least she should be useful.

Still.

I really need to make sure no one ever sees this.

I decide to place the runes on her back—out of sight, where they won’t interfere with the aesthetics of the structure. Not that I care about aesthetics. This is purely for efficiency.

I carve the runes carefully, using my magic to weaken and reshape the stone as I work. The other golem’s rune structure serves as a useful framework, though I add some runes from Runes and Their Applications: A Mage’s Guide and adjust it to simplify the commands. I translated the whole thing to my notebook before carving.

INITIAL CONDITIONS
creator_detected = false
following_creator = false
stopped = false
holding_target = false
target_detected = false
destination_set = false

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

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

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

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

if following_creator and not stopped
→ 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
→ 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
→ move_to(destination_position)

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

I step back, shaking out my shoulders. The runes should work—basic follow and carry commands. Theoretically, all she has to do is respond to my commands and act accordingly.

I nod to myself, satisfied, and step around to inspect the golem properly.

…And immediately regret it.

Even knowing full well what I accidentally sculpted, it's still distracting.

Her face is carved with deliberate sharpness—a soft but precise jawline, and a faintly downturned mouth that gives her an eternally unimpressed expression. The angles of her eyes are narrow, almost brooding, and her brows rest in a natural arch that adds to the effect.

And then there’s the hair.

Even though it’s stone, it has the illusion of softness—a sleek, straight bob, the ends curving inward just enough to frame her face. The widow’s peak above her brow subtly emphasizes the smooth lines of her forehead, while the bangs, parted just off-center, make the overall effect impossibly polished.

It’s ridiculous.

I did not mean to make her this sexy.

I rub my temples. It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. She’s just a machine. Just a golem. Just a—

She moves.

At first, it’s subtle—a shift, a weight adjustment as the runes activate. Then, without warning, she rises off the ground.

Not in a controlled, walking movement.

No.

She drifts.

I blink.

She floats sideways. Then forward. Then up.

I scowl.

“…You were supposed to walk.”

She continues to hover, legs completely motionless.

I sigh, rubbing my temples. Great. Apparently, in my rush to refine the movement logic, I left out an actual walking function. Instead of using her limbs, she’s just following the movement path in the simplest way possible—which happens to be floating in whatever direction she’s supposed to go.

I didn't even add a fly rune.

I stare as she gently drifts in a slow arc around me, as if caught in some ethereal goth ballerina performance.

I drag a hoof down my face. “This is so much worse.”

Now not only do I have a tall, suspiciously beautiful stone woman as my golem, but she glides like some haunting spirit instead of walking like a normal construct.

I groan loudly. I need to fix this before anyone sees her.

I groan, staring at my floating dirt woman like she personally offended me.

“Okay. Why are you floating?”

She doesn’t answer—because, obviously, she can’t. She just continues to hover slightly above the ground, following the movement logic without any awareness of how ridiculous she looks.

I rub my temples. “The other golem walked. Why did you decide that floating was the optimal path?”

I replay what I remember of the golem I fought outside the Everfree. It had moved like a real creature—limbs engaging, weight shifting. It hadn’t been elegant, but it had followed proper kinematics.

So why was this one completely bypassing the walking function?

I frown, thinking it through.

Runes are all trial and error, Twilight had said. No underlying system, just what works.

Which meant…

I glance at my notebook.

I programmed a result, but I didn’t consider the process.

The other golem was built to walk. Whoever carved its runes expected it to move like a living thing. It had that intent baked into its design.

Me? I just wanted this one to move, and magic—being the frustratingly literal force it is—took the shortest path to make that happen.

I sigh. “Figures.”

Fine. Fine.

I grab my notebook, flipping to the movement logic, and start adding the missing functionality from something that seemed like gravity in the book.

MOVEMENT CORRECTION RUNE
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
→ apply_gravity()

I finish the adjustments, then carefully carve the new runes into the golem’s back.

Once the last line is etched, I step back and nod. “Alright. Try again.”

She twitches, then drops unceremoniously to the ground, landing with a heavy thud.

I exhale in relief. “Good.”

Then she moves.

Her legs shift, the ball joints clicking into place, and she takes a step forward. It’s smooth, precise, almost unsettlingly natural.

I watch as she follows the logic this time, each step deliberate, posture uncannily human despite being nothing more than compressed dirt.

“…Much better.”

And yet, somehow, still too much.

She walks toward me, her stone-carved features set in that same natural pout, her sleek bob resting perfectly in place.

I step back, feeling deeply uncomfortable. “Yeah, you’re way too refined for a stone puppet.”

She stops when I say, “Stop.”

I exhale slowly.

At least that works.

I glance at my notes. The process was simple—follow, pick up, bring, set down. Nothing complicated. And yet, because of intent, the design had been… enhanced.

I shake my head.

If Twilight ever finds out I accidentally made a beautiful dirt woman instead of a generic labor golem, I will never hear the end of it.

I watch as my newly walking golem picks up rocks and moves them as instructed. At first, everything works smoothly—she follows commands, moves efficiently, and actually looks like a functional construct.

Then I have her try to pick up a boulder that is very clearly too big.

There’s a sharp crack, and her right arm snaps clean off at the elbow, the severed limb crumbling into dust upon impact with the ground.

I stare.

Then sigh.

“Hmmm.”

I flip open my notebook, already working out a solution. If the other golem I fought could regenerate, there was no reason mine couldn’t.

I start carving in the regeneration logic, adding the missing INITIAL CONDITIONS so the construct actually knows what state it should be in.

INITIAL CONDITIONS
creator_detected = false
following_creator = false
stopped = false
holding_target = false
target_detected = false
destination_set = false

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

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

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 step back. “Alright, let’s see if this works.”

Nothing happens.

I frown.

She does not move. Does not repair. Just stands there like some aesthetically pleasing pile of broken dirt.

It takes me a second to realize the problem.

“Oh, for—”

Because I hadn’t set initial_mass before her arm broke, the current mass is what the golem recognizes as “normal.”

Which means her missing arm is part of her default state.

I groan.

I hate magic.

Fine. Fine. I’ll do it manually.

I cross out the runes to 'deactivate' them. Then I pull nearby dirt toward the stump, reshaping it carefully, condensing the material into a proper arm. After a few minutes of adjusting, the limb is back to its original state. I uncross the runes.

I step back. “There. Now, let’s see if the rune actually works.”

Unfortunately, the only way to test it… is to break her arm again.

I really don’t want to, but I need to know if the rune activates on its own.

I sigh. “Alright, big girl. Try again.”

She moves forward, reaching for the same oversized boulder.

Another sharp crack.

The arm snaps again.

This time, however, there’s a reaction.

The runes glow faintly. The golem twitches, scanning for an earth source, then slowly moves toward a patch of dirt.

I watch carefully as she kneels, pressing her broken stump to the ground. The surrounding earth shifts, particles pulling toward her, reforming the arm in real time.

A few seconds later, she stands again—fully restored.

I let out a slow breath.

“…Alright. That’s actually kind of cool.”

Even if the process feels a little cursed.

At least now I don’t have to manually fix her every time she overestimates herself.

I flip open the rune book, scanning for anything that might be useful. As expected, the descriptions are wildly inconsistent—half of them sound like someone just guessed what they did based on vibes alone.

Some stand out immediately:

"The rune of the fleet-footed will grant swiftness in times of need. A traveler must trust the wind beneath them."

Translation: Probably enhances speed or agility? Maybe makes things lighter? No actual explanation of mechanics. Useless.

"To see beyond what is seen, one must carve the eye of knowing. But beware—some things should remain hidden."

Translation: Vision enhancement? Maybe some kind of detection ability? Also, what’s with the ominous warning?

"A mind unchained walks paths unknown. To grant will where none exists is to step beyond mere craft and into creation."

I pause.

That one sounds… a little too interesting.

I scan for an example.

Nothing.

I squint at the passage, rereading it.

A mind unchained? Granting will?

I frown. That sounds like a sentience rune.

Or something dangerously close to one.

I don’t know what it actually does, and I’m not about to carve some vague, untested concept into my very functional dirt golem just to see what happens.

I underline the passage in my notes, marking it for later.

For now, I focus on the practical.

A few runes seem like they could be useful:

Weight distribution rune ("The bearer of this mark will not falter, no matter the burden upon them.") → Possibly improves balance? Could help her carry heavier loads.
Enhanced dexterity rune ("The artisan's touch is made steady, the blade finds its mark, and the hands move as if guided by unseen grace.") → Probably improves fine motor control? Might make her less awkward with handling objects.
Stability rune ("That which stands firm shall not be moved by wind nor quake.") → Seems like it would help with footing. Could make her sturdier when carrying things.

After marking down the ones that seem relevant, I close the book with a sigh.

Looking up at my golem—tall, silent, and still too pretty for a pile of dirt—I decide that calling her "the golem" forever is going to get annoying.

I glance at the book, then at her.

“Alright, Rachel. Let’s go home.”

She doesn’t react, obviously, but when I say, “Follow,” she moves into step behind me, walking with smooth, deliberate motions.

At least one thing went right today.

I make my way back to the H.A.R.D.I.S. as discreetly as possible, Rachel trailing silently behind me.

I don’t need anypony seeing this. Especially not Twilight.

The last thing I need is her smug face analyzing why my labor golem just happens to be a statuesque human woman.

I’m almost in the clear. The door is just ahead. I can already imagine the sweet, sweet relief of locking myself inside and pretending none of this ever happened—

“Whoa! What’s that?!”

I freeze.

Oh no.

I turn slowly, already feeling my dignity crumbling.

Sweetie Belle is standing a few feet away, wide-eyed and brimming with dangerous levels of curiosity.

I glance at Rachel, then back at Sweetie, forcing myself to act cool.

“Oh, uh. This?” I gesture vaguely at the entirely too human golem standing behind me. “This is just a… project.”

Sweetie Belle’s eyes light up. “You made a golem?!”

I clear my throat. “Well. Sort of.”

She gasps dramatically. “You built one?! From scratch?!”

I quickly shake my head. “No, no, I found a golem in the Everfree and… appropriated its runes for my own design.”

Sweetie squints at me, then at Rachel. “That’s so cool! But… why does it look like that?”

I stiffen.

Here it comes.

Sweetie tilts her head, clearly trying to make sense of Rachel’s shape. “She’s kinda tall… and she has a really small waist… and those—” she gestures vaguely at Rachel’s chest “—are kinda huge. Wouldn’t that just make her all wobbly?”

I open my mouth. Then close it.

Then open it again.

I can feel my brain overheating.

Ponies don’t have the same beauty standards as humans. They don’t register human proportions as attractive.

Which means, to Sweetie Belle, Rachel’s design isn’t sexy—it’s just weird.

I scramble for an explanation. Think, Kinetic.

I clear my throat. “That’s actually a… feature.”

Sweetie blinks. “Huh?”

I nod quickly, latching onto the lie. “Yeah, see, the, uh… proportions serve a functional purpose.” I gesture vaguely at Rachel’s torso. “The, uh, chest area acts as a ballast for movement. It stabilizes her center of mass, allowing for smoother motion.”

Sweetie Belle’s face scrunches up as she processes that. “…Really?”

I nod, completely serious. “Absolutely. Very important. Engineering, you know.”

She stares at Rachel, then at me.

Then shrugs. “Huh. I guess that makes sense!”

I internally sigh in relief.

Sweetie then grins. “Oh! Can she do anything yet?”

I glance at Rachel. “She follows commands. Picks things up. Puts them down.”

Sweetie hums, eyeing Rachel like she’s mentally dissecting my work. “She’s really smooth when she moves. Was that hard to do?”

I scoff, regaining some of my composure. “Please. You’re talking to me, Sweetie. Of course it was difficult, but I figured it out.”

She giggles. “I bet Twilight’s gonna be so impressed!”

I stiffen immediately. “Twilight doesn’t need to know.”

Sweetie Belle blinks. “Huh?”

I clear my throat. “I mean, uh. Not yet. It’s still a prototype.”

Sweetie nods like this is perfectly reasonable. “Oh, okay! Well, can I see her in action sometime?”

I hesitate.

Then sigh. “Yeah, yeah. Just—not today. I really have to go. Bye.”

Sweetie frowns a bit as I rush off. “Okay!” still staring as I leave.

I exhale, turning to Rachel as I trot. “Alright, let’s go before somepony else sees you.”

She, of course, says nothing. Just silently follows me inside.

As soon as the door shuts behind us, I lean against it and groan.

That was too close.

I glance at Rachel, frowning.

…Maybe I should do something about her proportions.

Then again, that sounds like a lot of work.

I sigh.

Whatever.

I frown as Rachel suddenly stops moving.

One moment, she’s standing there, perfectly functional. The next, she’s just… off. No reaction. No motion. Completely inert.

I sigh, rubbing my temple. “Oh, great. Now what?”

I move closer, inspecting the runes. Nothing seems broken. No cracks in the stone. No obvious malfunctions.

Then it clicks.

She ran out of magic.

I provided the initial energy for activation, but I hadn’t built any kind of sustained power source. Unlike unicorns, constructs don’t have an inherent pool of magic—they rely on something to keep them running.

But the golem I fought near the Everfree? It had been running for who knows how long.

So how was it still active?

I glance at the large slab of stone I’d salvaged from its remains, currently sitting in my workshop.

There’s something in there. Something keeping the magic flowing.

I narrow my eyes. “Alright. Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

I shear off the runes, turning it into more of a sheet of stone. I carefully begin cutting into the rest of the stone, using my telekinesis to weaken the intergranular bonds. Bit by bit, I break the rock apart, watching closely for anything unusual.

It takes time. I work methodically, slicing through layers of compressed earth.

Then—

A glint of red.

I pause, shifting my grip, cutting away more material. Slowly, a shape emerges from the stone.

A ruby.

Deep crimson. Diamond-shaped. Embedded directly in the heart of the golem’s remains.

I carefully pull it free with my magic—

And immediately feel a pull.

I tense as the gem draws in my magic, leeching energy from my telekinesis. Not enough to drain me completely, but enough to notice.

I frown. “So this is the power source.”

It’s a conduit—something that stores magic and gradually releases it back into the runes, keeping the construct running indefinitely.

I roll the ruby in my telekinetic grip, watching the way it absorbs and holds my energy. It’s a bit like a rechargeable battery—it doesn’t generate magic. It just holds it, acting as a stabilizer.

Which means…

I glance at Rachel’s unmoving form.

I can fix this.

I scan her head, considering the best placement. If this thing is acting like a core, then it needs to be positioned somewhere central, where it can distribute magic evenly, but also move to keep from harm's way.

I nod to myself.

Right in the forehead.

I carefully carve out a small, diamond-shaped slot, ensuring the fit is perfect.

Then, with careful precision, I place the ruby inside.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then—

The runes flicker. Glow.

Rachel’s body twitches, and slowly, she reactivates.

I step back, watching as she straightens, her limbs shifting into place. The glow of the runes stabilizes, her magic now sustained by the ruby rather than my own energy.

I exhale, crossing my forelegs. “Well. That worked.”

Rachel stands silently, back to full functionality.

I smirk, nodding at the now-stabilized construct.

“Welcome back, rock lady.”

I lead Rachel up the spiraling halls of the H.A.R.D.I.S., stepping carefully as her heavy stone footsteps follow behind me. She’s running fine now, the ruby acting as a stable power source, but I don’t want her just standing around in my workshop all the time.

I glance over my shoulder. “Alright, you’re getting a room.”

Obviously, she doesn’t respond. She just follows, her smooth stone features set in that eternal pout.

Eventually, I push open the door to one of the spare bedrooms on the second floor. It’s barely furnished—just a bed, a small writing desk, and an old bookshelf covered in dust.

I guide her to the bed, using my magic to gently move her into position.

She does not cooperate.

The second I position her onto the mattress—her back against the pillows, limbs relaxed—she just stands right back up.

I scowl. “Oh, come on.”

I push her down again.

She stands back up.

I groan, dragging my hooves down my face.

Right. Fine. If she’s just going to keep doing that, I need to add a proper off switch.

I pull out my notebook and quickly jot down a simple function:

ON/OFF RUNE
if command_heard("off")
→ disable_movement()
→ disable_response()

if command_heard("on")
→ enable_movement()
→ enable_response()

I carve the runes into her back, where I’ve already placed the others, making sure they integrate properly into the existing framework.

Once finished, I step back and test it.

“Off.”

Rachel immediately stops moving, going completely still.

I wave a hoof in front of her face. Nothing.

I poke her arm. No response.

I sigh in relief.

Finally.

I levitate her onto the bed again, and this time, she stays there.

I smirk. “Much better.”

Now she’s exactly where I left her, completely inert, waiting for reactivation.

I shake my head, dusting off my hooves.

“Sheesh. You’re more work than you should be.”

I glance at her one last time before stepping out of the room, shutting the door behind me.

Now I can finally get some sleep.

I wake up to the sound of knocking.

Too early for this.

I groan, rolling over in bed. Maybe if I ignore it, they’ll go away.

More knocking. Louder this time.

I sigh. Fine.

I climb out of bed, rubbing my eyes as I make my way toward the door. My first thought? It’s Twilight.

But when I open it, I’m met with a much smaller, much angrier unicorn.

Sweetie Belle stands at my doorstep, hooves planted firmly, eyes narrowed in righteous frustration.

I blink. “Oh. It’s you.”

She scowls. “Yeah, it’s me.”

I squint. “Why do you look like you’re about to chew me out?”

“Because I am!” she huffs. “You brushed me off yesterday! We haven’t had any lessons in days!”

I sigh. “Sweetie, it’s been—”

“Days!” she cuts in.

I pause. “Oh.”

Okay, maybe I did lose track of time.

She frowns. “I told Rarity, and she said if you weren’t gonna teach me, I should just go bug you until you do.”

I scowl. “That does sound like something she’d say.”

Sweetie Belle huffs. “So? Are you gonna actually teach me today?”

I really don’t feel like doing anything right now. I still have runes to refine, Rachel to improve, and coffee to drink.

I glance at Sweetie, then at the interior of my house.

I sigh. “Fine. You can come in and look at my golem.”

Her eyes light up. “Really?!”

I shrug. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t touch anything weird.”

She trots inside excitedly, only for her enthusiasm to pause the second she really looks around.

She turns in a slow circle, eyes wide.

“…Whoa.”

I smirk. Ah. There it is.

She finally realizes.

“It’s bigger on the inside,” she breathes, staring at the seemingly endless hallways stretching beyond the entrance.

I chuckle. “Yup.”

She whirls around to face me. “How?!”

I shrug. “No clue. It’s old magic. Got left behind by the last town mage.”

She looks back at the interior, amazed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I snort. “Because you’ve never been inside before.”

She blinks. “You couldn't have just told me while you were teaching?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Nope.”

She looks offended, like I’ve personally robbed her of an experience she should have had.

I roll my eyes. “Anyway, you wanted to see the golem, right?”

She nods quickly.

I turn to the upper floor and call out:

“Follow.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

CRACK—

SLAM!

The doors to Rachel’s room are ripped off their hinges.

Sweetie Belle screams.

I flinch. “Oh, COME ON—”

Rachel bursts out of the room, stepping over the broken doors as she moves to obey the command.

Sweetie Belle scrambles backward, eyes huge. “What the heck?!”

I groan, rubbing my temple. “You weren’t supposed to break the doors, Rachel.”

Rachel, of course, does not answer. She just moves to my side, waiting for further instruction.

Sweetie Belle slowly peeks out from behind the couch, staring up at Rachel’s perfectly sculpted features.

“…She’s so cool.”

I sigh, surveying the damage. “She’s destructive.”

Sweetie Belle grins. “Yeah, but in the best way.”

I groan. I really don’t have the energy for this today.

I guide Sweetie Belle to my workshop, where my notes and rune sketches are scattered across the desk. She follows eagerly, still buzzing from Rachel’s dramatic entrance.

“Alright,” I say, flipping open my notebook, “you wanted a lesson, so pay attention.”

Sweetie’s eyes light up, and she quickly nods, her hooves on the desk as she leans in.

I gesture to the pages filled with translated runes. “These are the symbols I used to get Rachel moving. Runes function on conceptual magic—each one represents an idea more than a specific function.” I tap a few of them. “Like this one—it’s not just ‘move forward.’ It’s more like… ‘advance toward a designated point in space.’”

Sweetie Belle hums, eyes scanning the messy, scrawled translations. “That’s so cool. So instead of telling it exactly what to do, you give it a concept, and it figures out the rest?”

I smirk. “Exactly.”

She beams. “That’s way more interesting than the basic stuff I learned! I only know simple ones—like the ‘Fly’ and ‘Direction’ runes.”

I nod. Those are common beginner runes—basic enchantments for levitation and movement assistance. Functional, but nothing fancy.

I continue, pretending I know everything about the subject (even though I literally just started learning it myself). “So, the power source is embedded in her forehead—that ruby acts as a magic conduit. The runes around her back control movement, response, and repair. Basically, she’s fully autonomous, as long as she has magic to draw from.”

Sweetie listens with rapt attention, nodding along like I’m revealing the secrets of the universe.

"What are those little mini hooves?" she asks, tilting her head.

"They're hands, the little branched things are called fingers."

But then her gaze drifts back to Rachel, and her expression scrunches up.

“…Okay, but why does she have a leotard?”

I freeze.

Oh. Right. That.

I glance at Rachel, at the distinctly sculpted lines of her stone form—the sleek bob, the aesthetic curves, the sharp, brooding facial structure.

There’s no point in hiding it now. The other ponies already know I wasn’t born here.

I shrug. “Because I was human. That’s just what I like.”

Sweetie Belle blinks.

Then stares.

Then slowly, slowly, tilts her head.

“…What the hay is a human?”

I sigh, already regretting this. “This,” I gesture vaguely to Rachel, “is a female one.”

Sweetie Belle’s jaw drops.

She points a hoof at Rachel, then at me, then back at Rachel. “You used to look like that?!”

“Well, not exactly like that,” I mutter. “But, yeah. Same general structure.”

Sweetie throws her hooves in the air. “Every time I talk to you, I get new crazy lore!”

I smirk. “You’re welcome.”

She doesn’t even acknowledge it, too busy pacing in frantic little circles. “So you’re saying you weren’t a pony. You used to be a whole other thing. And nopony told me?!”

I shrug. “I just assumed you knew.”

She gapes at me. “Why would I know that?! That’s not normal information!”

I roll my eyes. “It’s not a secret, Sweetie.”

She’s still stuck in existential crisis mode, so I figure I’ll let her process it for a second.

Then—

Out of nowhere—

She stops, turns to me, and narrows her eyes.

“…Is that why you don’t see Twilight’s attempts at romance?”

I blink. “What?”

She tilts her head. “Because you’re not really a pony? Is that why you don’t get it?”

I frown. “Twilight doesn’t like me.”

Sweetie Belle snorts. “Oh, come on.”

I scowl. “What do you mean come on?”

She gives me an unimpressed look. “She likes you likes you.”

I shake my head. “No, she doesn’t.”

Sweetie smirks. “Then why did you go on a date yesterday?”

I blink. “I what?”

Sweetie Belle giggles. “You went on a date! Twilight told Rarity all about it at dinner last night! She couldn’t stop talking about it!”

I just stare at her.

“No,” I say, slow and careful, as if explaining to a particularly dumb rock. “I ran errands with her.”

Sweetie shrugs. “That’s what you thought you were doing.”

I feel the blood drain from my face.

“Oh, dear god.”

Sweetie Belle grins, way too pleased with my suffering. “Yup! Twilight’s already making more plans, too. Even though she’s kinda frustrated.”

I groan, dragging my hooves down my face. “Great.”

Sweetie shrugs. “She’s stubborn. She’s not giving up just because you’re slow.”

I glare at her. “I’m not slow, I just didn’t know it was happening.”

She giggles. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

I sigh, shaking my head. “Whatever. Twilight’s Twilight. She overthinks everything. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Sweetie hums. “Maybe. But Rarity said she still likes you, too.”

I stiffen. “Excuse me?”

Sweetie nods. “Yeah. She said she’s just being generous and letting Twilight have first dibs.”

I stare at her. “First dibs?”

She shrugs again, completely unbothered. “Yup! But she also said if Twilight messes it up, she’s just gonna take you for herself.”

I reel.

My brain short-circuits.

“What?”

Sweetie tilts her head. “Yeah, she said, ‘It would be simply uncouth to steal him outright, but if Twilight fumbles, well…’” Sweetie waves a hoof vaguely. “Then she just kinda smiled all sneaky-like.”

I stare at her.

My brain is not equipped to deal with this.

“Rarity was first, though,” I say, slowly, as if that somehow helps make sense of this mess. “Why let Twilight go first?”

Sweetie just shrugs. “Because they’re friends?”

I blink.

I blink again.

Then it hits me.

It doesn’t matter.

Because I don’t like either of them like that.

I exhale hard, shaking my head. “You know what? Doesn’t even matter.”

Sweetie Belle giggles. “Wow, you really don’t get it.”

I scowl. “No, I get it. I just don’t care.”

She snickers. “Keep telling yourself that.”

I groan. This filly is going to end me.

Sweetie Belle, now way too emboldened by my suffering, leans in.

“So… back to the human thing. if you were human before, do you, like, miss it?”

I scowl. “Sweetie—”

“I mean, you’ve been a pony for a while, right?” she presses, her eyes gleaming with the enthusiasm of somepony who has zero self-preservation instincts. “So, like… does it feel weird? Do you still think like a human, or are you starting to think like a pony? Like, do you ever look at pony food and think, ‘Wow, I’d love to eat that now’?”

I stare at her.

She stares back.

I exhale sharply. “Sweetie Belle. Get out of my house.”

She gasps dramatically, hoof to her chest. “What?! But I have so many questions!”

I start physically pushing her toward the door. “Yeah, well, I have so many regrets about letting you in.”

She digs her hooves into the floor, still grinning. “Wait! What about hands? Do you miss hands?”

I deadpan at the ceiling. “Sweetie—”

“Oh! And—do you think you’ll ever go back to being a human? Like, what if there’s a way? Would you do it?”

I shove her through the doorway. “Goodbye, Sweetie Belle.”

She laughs as I slam the door in her face.

Through the wood, I hear her sing-song, “I’m gonna tell Rarity everything!”

I groan, pressing my forehead against the door.

That filly is too nosy for her own good.

And now I have to worry about what kind of insane gossip is going to spread from this.

I sigh.

A Throne of Lies
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Applied Mathemagics

A Throne of Lies

I stand there for a moment, forehead still against the door, taking a slow, deep breath.

I can already hear the conversation happening over at the Boutique.

Rarity, gasping dramatically. Twilight, getting way too excited. Maybe even Applejack, nodding along like this is just some natural course of events.

I groan. “Unbelievable.”

I turn back toward my workshop, my eyes landing on Rachel, who, mercifully, had remained silent during all of that.

At least she doesn’t talk.

I sigh, rubbing my temple. “What do you think, Rachel? If I added enough ‘if-then’ conditions to you, do you think they’d believe I was dating you?”

Of course, she doesn’t answer.

She just stands there, stone-faced and annoyingly attractive in a way that only makes this whole situation more embarrassing.

I grumble to myself, already imagining the absolute disaster that would unfold if Twilight or Rarity found out I built an artificial girlfriend just to avoid this nonsense.

Then again… if they did believe it, maybe they’d stop trying.

I shake my head. No. That’s insane. Even for me.

Still.

I glance at Rachel again.

“…You’re lucky you’re useful,” I mutter, before making my way back to my notes.

I need to get my mind off this. Back to work. Back to not dealing with whatever insane romance drama is now circling around me like a pack of hungry vultures.

I pick up my quill, flip open my rune book, and start sketching.

If I just focus, maybe—

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

I freeze.

The door.

I close my eyes, mentally preparing myself for whoever is about to make my life worse.

I exhale sharply, walking over and pulling it open.

“Oh, good!” Twilight beams at me, entirely too happy.

I stare.

“Nope.” I start to close the door.

Her magic stops it. “Kinetic.”

I scowl. “You have to give me a break, Sparkle.”

She smirks. “Never.”

Twilight stands there, smug, like she already knows she’s won.

“The girls and I are going on a picnic,” she announces. “And you’re coming.”

I scowl. “No, I’m not.”

She just smiles wider. “Yes, you are.”

I groan, rubbing my temple. “Twilight. We just spent all day together the day before yesterday.”

She hums. “And?”

I gesture vaguely. “And that’s enough socialization for one week.”

Twilight raises an eyebrow. “If you had it your way, you’d be a hermit.”

I cross my hooves. “I don’t see the problem.”

She smirks. “The problem is that we like you, and we're not letting you become a hermit.”

I scowl harder. “I have things to do.”

Twilight tilts her head. “Oh? Like what?”

I freeze.

I can’t tell her about Rachel. Not yet. She did give me the books on runes, but if she finds out I used them to make a six-foot-tall rock waifu, I’ll never hear the end of it.

I scramble for an excuse. “Uh. Research.”

Twilight raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. What kind of research?”

I grit my teeth. “Runes.”

She beams. “Perfect! A break will be nice, then.”

I groan loudly, dragging my hooves down my face. “Twilight—”

“C’mon,” she says, turning and already walking off, expecting me to follow. “It’ll be fun. Fresh air. Good food. Great company.”

I don’t move. I don’t respond. I just stand there, my brain spinning in eight different directions.

Because now—now—I know.

That last outing was a date.

For her.

And I was oblivious.

And now I have to sit in a field with her, pretending I don’t know that, while also pretending everything is normal.

Nope.

This is too much.

I take a slow step backward toward my house.

Twilight’s horn glows.

I immediately stop.

I narrow my eyes. “Sparkle.”

She smiles sweetly. “Yes?”

“You wouldn’t.”

Her grin widens. “Try me.”

I sigh deeply, already knowing I’ve lost.

“Fine,” I mutter. “But if this turns into another disaster, I will walk into the Everfree and let nature take me.”

Twilight giggles. “Duly noted.”

I don’t trust her at all.

I sit in the grass, scanning the spread Twilight has put together.

It’s… excessive.

Plates upon plates of different foods, carefully arranged on a checkered picnic blanket. Sandwiches, salads, fruits, pastries—way more than necessary for a simple picnic.

I shoot Twilight a look. “This is a lot.”

She hums, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “I just wanted to make sure there were plenty of options.”

I narrow my eyes. Suspicious.

Still, free food is free food. I start looking for something decent.

I spot a plate of grilled, seasoned fish.

I blink.

Huh. That’s rare. Ponies can eat fish, but it’s mostly a pegasi thing. Most earth ponies and unicorns stick to a vegetarian diet.

I shrug and grab a piece, along with some coleslaw and something that looks like Mexican street corn.

I barely register Twilight making a soft hmm noise as I do.

I pause, looking up. “…What?”

She blinks, too innocent. “Nothing.”

I squint, but move on, grabbing a small side of roasted potatoes.

Another hmm.

I glance up again.

Twilight’s expression is perfectly neutral.

I frown. Weird.

I grab a strawberry and kiwi sandwich.

Hmm.

Now I know she’s doing it on purpose.

I set the sandwich down slowly and narrow my eyes at her.

She just smiles. “Something wrong?”

I gesture vaguely at her. “You keep making noises.”

She tilts her head. “Do I?”

“Yes.”

She shrugs. “Oh. Don’t mind me.”

I don’t believe her, but I’m too hungry to care.

I take a bite of the fish first.

It’s good.

Twilight and the others, meanwhile, are subtly watching me eat it.

I slow my chewing. “…What?”

Applejack raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t take ya for a fish-eater.”

I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “It’s just not somethin’ ya see every day from unicorns.”

I pause.

Right.

They don’t know.

I clear my throat. “I just… grew up with it.”

Twilight hums again, her eyes sharp with observation.

I scowl. “Stop that.”

She sips her tea, smug as hell.

I get the distinct feeling she’s collecting data on me.

I do not like that feeling.

I shake my head and get back to eating, doing my best to ignore whatever Weird Twilight Thing™ is happening.

For now, at least, it’s just a normal picnic.

Hopefully.

I focus on my food, trying to tune out the very obvious way Twilight is mentally cataloging my every choice like some kind of overenthusiastic scientist.

I grab a slice of Tart de Bry.

"Hmm."

I glare at her.

She blinks, feigning innocence, and takes a dainty sip of her tea.

I exhale sharply through my nose but let it slide, instead tuning into the conversation around me.

Rarity is chatting animatedly with Fluttershy, something about a truly horrendous fabric she encountered the other day.

“It was simply dreadful,” Rarity huffs. “A crime against textiles. I wouldn’t use it to mop my floors.”

Fluttershy nods, her expression sympathetic. “That sounds awful.”

Rainbow Dash stretches her wings. “I still don’t get how fabric can be that bad.”

Rarity gasps. “Rainbow!”

“What? It’s cloth. Just don’t buy it.”

“That’s not the point,” Rarity insists, dramatically pressing a hoof to her forehead. “What if some poor, unsuspecting soul actually wears it?”

Rainbow rolls her eyes. “Then that’s their problem.”

Applejack chuckles. “Sounds like a lotta fuss over nothin’.”

Rarity looks scandalized. “A lot of fuss?! Applejack, fashion is a statement! It’s how we present ourselves to the world! It’s an art!”

Applejack shrugs. “If ya say so.”

Rarity sighs dramatically, turning to Twilight. “At least you understand, don’t you, darling?”

Twilight hums. “I mean, I appreciate aesthetics, but I think I draw the line at textile crimes.”

Rarity sighs again, shaking her head. “Simply uncultured.”

Rainbow snickers. “Y’know, if that’s your biggest problem this week, I think you’re doin’ alright.”

Rarity flips her mane. “That is not the point.”

I snort, popping another piece of kiwi into my mouth. “It’s kinda the point.”

Twilight hmm’s again.

I shoot her another look.

She just smiles, entirely too pleased with herself.

I swear to Celestia, I’m going to flip this entire picnic blanket.

The picnic is going smoothly when a very winded Spike suddenly comes charging across the field.

“Twilight! I… have… lemme just—” He takes a deep breath before letting out a loud belch, producing a scroll in a burst of green flame.

Twilight catches it in her magic, unfurling it as we all watch.

She clears her throat and begins reading.

“Dear Twilight, I am sure you are as excited as I am about the upcoming wedding in Canterlot.”

She pauses, blinking. “Wedding?”

The others perk up, ears twitching.

“I will be presiding over the ceremony but would very much like you and your friends to help with the preparations for this wonderful occasion.”

She skims ahead, eyes scanning the letter.

“Fluttershy, I would like you and your songbird choir to provide the music.”

Fluttershy gasps, holding her hooves to her chest. “Oh my goodness! What an honor!”

“Pinkie Pie, I can think of no one more qualified than you to host the reception.”

Pinkie explodes into movement. “Hip, hip, hooray!” She does a cartwheel for no reason.

“Applejack, you will be in charge of the catering for the reception.”

Applejack tips her hat back, grinning. “Well, color me pleased as punch!”

“Rainbow Dash–”

Rainbow lets out a loud yawn.

Twilight continues.

“...I would very much appreciate it if you could perform a sonic rainboom as the bride and groom complete their ‘I do’s.’”

Rainbow’s eyes snap open, wings flaring out. “YES!”

“Rarity, you will be responsible for designing the dresses for the bride and her bridesmaids.”

Rarity gasps so hard she nearly chokes. “The Princess wants me to—” she starts, before breaking into incomprehensible noises. “A wedding dress? For a Canterlot wedding? I, ah, ooh, oooh!”

And then she drops like a sack of bricks.

Twilight rolls her eyes and keeps reading.

“And as for you, Twilight, you will be playing the most important role of all: Making sure that everything goes as planned. See you all very soon. Yours, Princess Celestia.”

She pauses, frowning. “But… I don’t understand. Who’s getting married?”

Spike scratches his head. “Oh, wait! Uh, I was probably supposed to give you this one first.” He pulls out another scroll and hands it to her.

Twilight snatches it and quickly scans the words.

“Princess Celestia cordially invites you to the wedding of Princess Mi Amore Cadenza and…”

She stops.

Her pupils shrink.

Her face twitches.

“MY BROTHER?!”

I burst out laughing.

The whole table turns to stare at me as I cackle, slamming a hoof against the picnic blanket.

“Oh, that’s GREAT!” I wheeze. “Twilight, your own brother didn’t even tell you?! That’s hilarious!”

Twilight scowls, her face going red for multiple reasons. “IT IS NOT FUNNY!”

I wipe a tear from my eye. “Oh, no, it definitely is.”

The others, meanwhile, have moved past the initial shock and are now actually congratulating her.

“Your brother’s getting married? Congratulations, Twilight!” Applejack beams.

“Yeah, that’s great news!” Rainbow grins.

Twilight, however, is not having it.

“Yeah. Great news.” She glares at the invitation like it personally insulted her. “News that I just got from a wedding invitation. Not from my brother, but from a piece of paper! Thanks a lot, Shining Armor!”

She starts pacing, her tail flicking in irritation.

“I mean, really! He couldn’t tell me personally?!” She deepens her voice in a terrible impression of what I can only assume is her brother. “Hey, Twilight, just thought you should know I’m making a really big decision that changes everything!”

She snorts. “Oh, never mind! You’ll hear about it when you get the invitation!”

Rarity, who has recovered from her fainting spell, coughs delicately. “Well… who exactly is this Princess Mi Amore Cadenza?”

Twilight freezes.

She blinks.

She re-scans the invitation.

“Who in the hoof is that?!” she demands.

I chuckle to myself, leaning back. “Wow. Your own brother and his fiancée didn’t think to tell you. This just gets better and better.”

Twilight glares at me like she’s about to incinerate me with sheer rage.

Before she can explode, though, she scans the page one more time.

And then—

Her eyes narrow.

“Oh, and look at this,” she says pointedly, holding the letter up again. “Princess Celestia also included a special P.S.”

She clears her throat and glares directly at me as she reads.

“P.S. Archmage Kinetic Flux is also to accompany you all to Canterlot to assist with the wedding preparations.”

I freeze.

My ears flick back.

I groan, dragging a hoof down my face. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Rainbow snickers. “Oooooh, Archmage Kinetic, looks like you’re important after all.”

Pinkie bounces in place. “Ooooh! Do you think you get to wear a fancy robe? Or maybe they’ll give you one of those cool wizard hats!”

I scowl. “I am not wearing a hat.”

Applejack smirks. “Ya sure? Seems like a mighty fine occasion to dress up all proper-like.”

Rarity gasps dramatically, clutching her chest. “Oh! If that’s the case, we must get you a suit! Something elegant! Something refined! Something—”

I hold up a hoof. “I own a suit.”

Rarity blinks, looking scandalized. “Oh, darling, you can’t possibly mean—”

“The cheap one. Yes.”

She gasps, genuinely horrified. “You cannot possibly mean to attend a Canterlot Royal Wedding in something cheap!”

I smirk. “Watch me.”

She dramatically falls onto the picnic blanket like I just mortally wounded her.

Twilight watches the exchange with an amused glint in her eye before rolling up the letter. “Well, you’d better start packing, Kinetic.”

I grunt, still not thrilled about it. But, fine. If I have to go, then at the very least, I’m not showing up empty-hooved.

I stand up and shake off some grass. “Fine. I’ll grab my things.”

“See ya at the station!” Rainbow calls.

I ignore her and start heading home.

I step into the H.A.R.D.I.S., letting the door shut behind me with a heavy thud. The silence of the place wraps around me, a stark contrast to the chaos I just left at the picnic.

I sigh, rolling my shoulders. "Alright, let's get this over with."

First things first—my suit. I dig through my drawer, finding the pile of the only three items of clothing I own and yank out the suit. It’s simple, black, nothing fancy. The kind of suit that says, I tried, but not that hard. Perfect.

I toss it onto my bed and turn toward my saddlebags, going over the essentials—bits, a notebook, and the usual travel supplies.

Then my eyes drift toward her room.

Rachel is exactly where I left her, lying on the bed in complete stillness. Her stone form is perfectly motionless, carved with precision, every joint in place. She looks eerily lifelike—human, in a way that nothing else in Equestria is.

I chew the inside of my cheek.

This wedding isn’t just going to be a wedding. I know what’s coming. Changelings. An invasion. A fight.

A fight where I’ll need all the help I can get.

I groan, rubbing the back of my neck. “This is a terrible idea.”

I sigh, stepping forward. “Alright, Rachel. Time to move.”

I clear my throat. "On."

Rachel’s body reanimates. Slowly, she rises from the bed, her movements smooth, joints clicking into place. She stands at attention, waiting for further instruction.

I gesture toward the door. “Follow.”

She moves fluidly, eerily graceful for something made of stone. Her bare feet hit the floor with a dull thud as she follows me out.

This is fine. This is fine.

I sling my saddlebags over my back, grab my suit, and step outside. Rachel follows in silence, like a well-trained construct should.

No one will question this.

No one will say anything.

No one will—

The moment I step onto the train platform, every conversation dies.

Six pairs of eyes immediately zero in on Rachel.

Twilight is the first to react.

“What is that?!” she shrieks.

I scowl. “Gee, Sparkle, I don’t know. Looks like a golem to me.”

“That is not a normal golem!” She gestures wildly at Rachel. “That’s—why does she look like that?!”

Applejack adjusts her hat, eyes narrowing. “And what’s with the, uh... proportions?”

I blink. “What?”

Rainbow snickers. “C’mon, dude. The big flank? The big, uh... everything?”

I freeze.

Pinkie suddenly zips around Rachel, eyes wide. “Ooooh, even her hooves are super detailed! But wait, they’re not hooves! They’re—what are these?”

I grit my teeth. “Feet.”

Fluttershy tilts her head. “Feet?”

I wave my hoof vaguely. “Like hooves, but... different.”

Rarity, who has been silently observing this whole time, suddenly gasps, her eyes sparkling with intrigue. “Ohhh, my stars! Darling, is this what humans look like?!”

I groan. “We are not having this conversation.”

Rarity does not listen. “The proportions! The elegance! The curves! And her attire—why, it almost resembles a leotard!”

Twilight’s eye twitches. “Wait. You made her, right?”

I cross my hooves. “Obviously.”

Twilight levels a look at me. “Then why did you make her like that?”

I cough. “Functional design.”

Rainbow barks out a laugh. “Functional?!”

“Yes,” I say firmly, grasping at anything that sounds remotely logical. “The, uh, shape is necessary for... stability.”

Twilight deadpans. “Stability.”

“Yes.”

Applejack raises an eyebrow. “An’ what about, uh... the chest area?”

I swallow. “Ballast.”

Rainbow doubles over laughing. “Oh, this is gold.”

Rarity is still examining Rachel with open fascination. “And her face, darling—why, she’s positively striking!”

I shrug, forcing a casual tone. “Well, if she can only have one expression, it might as well be a good one.”

Rarity coos in appreciation, while Twilight lets out a frustrated huff. Her ears splay back for a moment before she masks it with a tight smile. I catch the way she eyes Rachel’s face—smooth, sculpted, undeniably human—and sense her unease.

She mutters under her breath, “Looks more than good. Looks like you spent way too much time on every detail.”

I bristle. “It’s just a golem.”

Twilight glares at me. “Sure it is.”

Before I can retort, the stallion at the ticket window clears his throat. “sir?” He points a hoof at Rachel. “You need a second ticket for… that.”

I snap my gaze to him. “She’s not a pony. She doesn’t even need a seat.”

He levels a glare. “If it’s comin’ aboard, it needs a ticket.”

A heavy sigh escapes me. “Fine, fine.” I slap down the bits, feeling an odd pang of guilt flit through my chest. This is all so unnecessary. But… also weirdly my fault.

With two tickets in tow, I step onto the train. Rachel follows silently, drawing stares from every direction. The rest of the girls find their seats—some taking a row together, others spreading out. I sit on one of the cushioned benches.

I try to maneuver Rachel beside me, muttering, “Off,” so she goes inert. With a faint click of her joints, she halts, expression still locked in that cool stare. I start to levitate her gently, aiming to set her on the bench next to me— But Twilight slides into the spot before I can try. I pause, blinking at her sudden intrusion. She’s pointedly not looking at me, but her jaw is tense, ears pinned back.

I hover Rachel in the aisle for a split second, then sigh and gently set her on the floor lean her against the wall. Her expression stays that same neutral pout, eyes half-lidded.

Twilight exhales a sharp little breath “You can’t just—” but she clamps her mouth shut, staring out the window with a dark frown.

I shift uncomfortably, trying not to read into it. Instead, I clear my throat. “So… looking forward to seeing your brother?”

She snorts. “Looking forward to giving him a piece of my mind, maybe.”

Her tail flicks in agitation. She turns a little, glancing in my general direction, but not quite meeting my gaze. “I still can’t believe he didn’t tell me. And who is Princess Mi Amore Cadenza, anyway?”

I shrug. “Maybe he’s busy. Guard captain stuff.”

She scowls at that. “He should’ve written me personally. Or come in pony.” For a moment, she looks like she might rant further, but then her eyes flick toward Rachel—staring, unblinking, from across the aisle—and Twilight’s voice fades. She presses her lips into a thin line and returns to glaring out the window.

I tap my hoof on the seat, unsure how to break the awkward silence. Eventually, I just give up and stare out my own side of the train. The rhythmic clack of the wheels is the only real conversation for a while.

It’s a long trip to Canterlot. And with Twilight stewing over her brother’s wedding—and apparently harboring some other frustration she can’t quite voice—I have a feeling it’s going to feel even longer.

I lean back against the seat, letting my head rest against the cool window. The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels does its best to lull me into a stupor, but unfortunately, the ongoing conversation between Twilight and Applejack makes that impossible.

"Why the long face, sugarcube?" Applejack asks, tilting her hat back as she eyes Twilight with concern.

Twilight sighs, her ears drooping. "I'm just thinking about Shining Armor. Ever since I moved to Ponyville, we've been seeing each other less and less. And now that he's starting a new family with this Princess Mi Amore Ca-whatshername, we'll probably never see each other."

I roll my eyes. Oh no, her grown adult brother has a life outside of her. What a tragedy.

I do my best to tune them out, watching the scenery blur past the window. Maybe if I stare at the hills long enough, I’ll forget that I’m currently being dragged into a wedding I want nothing to do with.

But Twilight, as always, finds ways to make my life harder.

She keeps glancing at me between sentences—just quick little side-eyes.

I ignore it at first. Maybe she’s just fidgety. Maybe she’s still mad that Rachel exists.

She continues, “It’s like, no matter how much I want to stay close to somepony, they just… get distracted with other things. And then suddenly, we barely see each other at all.”

Another pointed glance in my direction.

I exhale through my nose. Here we go.

Applejack, blissfully unaware of the subtext, pats Twilight’s back. “Aw, shoot, Twi. Just ‘cause he’s gettin’ married don’t mean he’ll just up and forget ya. You’re his sister. Family don’t just disappear like that.”

Twilight sighs. “I guess you’re right. But still… he didn’t even tell me about the wedding himself. It’s like he thought I wouldn’t care.”

Another glance.

I look straight ahead, pretending I don’t see it.

Applejack hums. “Well, maybe he just figured ya’d be excited no matter how ya found out?”

Twilight huffs. “That’s not the point. I should have been one of the first ponies he told. Instead, I’m getting invitations and second-hoof information.”

Another glance.

My eye twitches.

I press my hoof against my forehead. Twilight, I swear—

She exhales, shaking her head. “It’s frustrating, you know? Feeling like somepony’s just drifting away from you.”

Another glance.

I snap.

“Oh, for the love of—Twilight!” I throw my hooves up. “Do you need something? Because you keep looking at me like I’m a problem.”

She bristles, her cheeks puffing slightly. “I don’t—” She hesitates. “I mean, maybe!”

I groan. “What now?”

Twilight fidgets, looking like she regrets saying anything. “I just… you have been more distant lately.”

I blink. “Distant? I’ve always been distant.”

Applejack snickers. “He’s got ya there.”

Twilight scowls. “Not this distant. You’ve been more… closed off.” Her gaze flicks to Rachel again. “And distracted.”

I scowl right back. “I’m allowed to have hobbies, Twilight.”

She makes a strangled noise. “That’s not—ugh!”

Applejack wisely decides to stay out of it, leaning back and tipping her hat over her face.

Twilight mutters under her breath, then turns back toward the window, her tail flicking in irritation.

I lean back, rubbing my temple. This is going to be a long train ride.

By the time we get in viewing distance of Canterlot, I’m ready to fling myself off the train just to get away from this nonsense.

As we approach the city, though, something immediately stands out—there’s a forcefield surrounding the entire capital.

I frown, watching as the shimmering dome stretches high over the towers and spires, pulsing with magic.

“What in the hay?” Applejack mutters, tilting her hat back.

Twilight perks up. “A forcefield? That’s—wait. That’s Shining Armor’s magic!” She presses her face against the window. “Why would he put up a defensive barrier?”

I watch as the train barrels forward, heading straight for the shield.

The closer we get, the more I feel it—the unmistakable hum of condensed magical energy, thrumming like an overcharged battery.

Then, we pass through.

The instant the barrier washes over us, I feel a sharp sting along my horn and spine. I wince slightly, my limbs briefly tingling, but the sensation fades as quickly as it came.

I glance around. Nopony else seems to react.

Huh. Weird.

Before I can dwell on it, the train lurches to a stop at the station.

The moment the doors open, Twilight immediately jumps off the train, laser-focused on finding her brother.

The rest of us step out more casually, taking in the sight of a more militarized Canterlot. The usual bustling streets are a little more tense—guards are stationed on every major road, and patrols march in organized formations.

We don’t get long to gawk, though, as a stallion in royal armor trots up to us.

“Miss Rarity?” he asks, looking over the group.

Rarity straightens. “Yes, darling?”

“You’ll be escorted to the palace seamstress wing immediately. The Princess has arranged workspaces for you.”

Rarity beams. “Oh! Wonderful! Right this way, then?”

The stallion nods, leading her off.

A few more guards approach, handing out orders.

“Applejack, you’re to report to the kitchens for preparation duty.”

“Pinkie Pie, the event staff are awaiting you at the reception hall.”

“Fluttershy, your choir has already been gathered at the east garden.”

“Rainbow Dash, the princess has requested a flight briefing before the ceremony.”

Each of them nods and starts heading off in their designated directions, leaving just me.

A final pair of guards stop in front of me.

I raise an eyebrow. “Well? Where’s my grand assignment?”

The taller of the two—built like a brick wall—gives me a once-over. “You’re assigned to security detail.”

I blink. “…Huh.”

That’s… actually reasonable.

I exhale, rolling my shoulders. “Alright. Guess that makes sense. What’s the plan?”

The guard jerks his head toward the castle. “You’ll be briefed inside. Come with us.”

I glance back at Rachel, who still walks with a perfect stride behind me.

The guard looks at her, then at me. “Your… companion will need clearance.”

I sigh. “Yeah, yeah, she’s with me. I’ll handle it.”

The second guard steps forward, nodding. “Then let’s move.”

And just like that, I’m marched off toward my new security post.

This whole thing is going to be a disaster. I can already feel it.

The moment they lead me into the dimly lit tower room, I know something’s off.

One guard stays posted outside while the other steps in with me. The door clicks shut behind us, leaving only the flickering torchlight to cast long shadows against the walls.

I don’t let my posture change, but my magic subtly tightens around the small, compressed piece of chalk I’ve been holding.

Then I see it.

A faint flicker.

The briefest glow of green in the so-called guard’s eyes.

I don’t hesitate.

In a single fluid motion, I launch the chalk at insane speeds.

There’s a sickening crack.

The changeling—because obviously, it’s a changeling—barely has time to react before the projectile strikes dead center in its forehead. The sheer force sends its head whipping back, a jagged hole blasting straight through its skull. The illusion immediately vanishes, revealing a black bug pony.

The thing collapses instantly, twitching once before going completely still.

I blink.

“…Wow. They didn’t waste any time on trying to get me.”

I exhale slowly, already adjusting my strategy.

One changeling down. But the second one outside? It doesn’t know yet.

If the rest of the swarm realizes I’m onto them, all of them are going to be on me in seconds.

I have to make sure that doesn’t happen.

Quickly, I get to work.

First, the body.

I focus my magic, weaving it into the fallen changeling’s corpse. There’s moisture locked in its cells, residual from its biological processes. I systematically begin extracting it, using controlled telekinetic manipulation to force the water molecules to separate from the organic material.

Without moisture, decomposition halts—bacteria can’t break it down, and the flesh becomes brittle, more like dry parchment than a proper corpse.

With that step done, I move to phase two.

Breaking it apart.

Not smashing—separating.

I take hold of the molecular bonds within the changeling’s chitin, muscle, and bone, then systematically weaken the interatomic forces binding them together. Van der Waals forces, hydrogen bonds, ionic links—all of them, broken down piece by piece with meticulous precision.

It’s not fast. Not like combustion or outright destruction. It’s controlled disassembly.

The body starts flaking apart—not like ash, but like an ultra-fine powder. It’s not burning, not breaking, just separating into its base components.

Within seconds, all that remains is a cloud of near-microscopic dust.

I funnel it together into a single, nearly invisible stream, directing it out the only window in the tower's room with a faint pulse of air. The changeling is now nothing more than scattered molecules floating away on the wind.

I exhale, rolling my shoulders.

One problem down.

Now, the other changeling.

I turn back toward the door, my mind already working three steps ahead.

The changeling outside doesn't know what happened. If it did, it would’ve barged in already. That means I have a brief window to sell my next move.

Changelings identify each other using a brief flash of green in their eyes—it’s a subtle tell, but one I can replicate.

I pull some chalk dust out of my bag. Layering just in front of my eyes I will be able to shift the perceived color from my usual gold to green, just a flash, just enough to fool a fool.

I take a breath, letting my posture remain neutral.

Then I open the door.

The guard outside—who is absolutely another changeling—turns toward me immediately, its stance subtly tensed.

For a fraction of a second, I see its muscles coil, ready to strike.

I don’t react.

I just let my gaze lock onto it.

And then—just long enough for it to register—I let my eyes flicker green before quickly scattering the dust, returning my eyes to their natural color.

The changeling freezes.

I stare at it.

It stares at me.

The tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife.

I keep my expression carefully controlled. Changelings aren’t stupid. They rely on deception just as much as I do. If I give away even the slightest tell that I’m faking this, I’ll be fighting for my life before I can blink.

The changeling tilts its head slightly, scrutinizing me.

I resist the urge to adjust my stance. Instead, I do exactly what one of them would do—nothing. Just watching. Calculating.

After a long moment, the changeling gives a subtle nod.

I return it with the barest dip of my head.

It steps aside, allowing me to exit.

I do, making sure my pace is calm but purposeful—like I have somewhere to be, but not in a hurry. Like I belong here.

With one final glance over my shoulder, I step away from the tower.

Alright, I think to myself, now I just have to keep this up without getting found out.

Easy, right?

I make my way back to the castle, keeping my movements calculated, careful. I’m not exactly bad at blending in, but this is a whole new level of deception. I can’t act normal. I have to act like a changeling thinks normal looks like.

I step into the kitchen, where Applejack is setting out trays of food. The warm scent of cinnamon and fried dough fills the air. Twilight is there too, already in deep thought, eyes narrowed. She’s onto something—or at least, she thinks she is.

Spike, meanwhile, is playing with tiny figurines of the bride and groom that go on top of the wedding cake.

“I do. Do you?” he mimics in high-pitched voices, making the toys ‘kiss’ before nervously chuckling at himself.

I take my place in the corner of the room, my face carefully neutral.

Applejack beams, wiping flour off her hooves. “Cake, check. Ice sculpture, check. Best darn bite-size apple fritter you ever tasted—”

Twilight takes a slow bite, chewing with precision, like she’s cataloging each individual flavor. She swallows, then nods. “Mmm. Check.”

Spike, ever the little dork, continues his impromptu ceremony. His toy ponies press together, complete with exaggerated kissing noises. He laughs nervously, glancing up for approval.

Applejack just grins, setting another tray down with a satisfying clunk. "Hiya, Princess!"

Princess Cadance—or rather, the thing masquerading as her—steps into the kitchen with that eerily perfect smile. "Please, call me Princess Mi Amore Cadenza."

Applejack, bless her heart, doesn’t even hesitate. "Hiya, Princess Mi Amore Cadenza! You come to check out what’s on the menu for your big day?"

"I have!" She picks up a fritter, takes a bite, and for the briefest moment, her nose scrunches with distaste. Then she smiles again, almost too wide. "Delicious! I love-love-love them." Her laugh is high-pitched, forced.

I watch her carefully, keeping my expression neutral, my posture just slightly off—like I’m thinking about how I should stand, how I should act. I keep my movements slow, deliberate, mimicking the way the other ponies move but with just a hint of something... not quite right.

Applejack doesn’t notice. "Aw, shucks. Why don’t you take a few to go? I know how you brides can be. So busy, you forget to get a little somethin’ in your belly."

Cadance hesitates for half a second too long before smiling. "That’s... thoughtful of you." She levitates the bag and then, just as quickly, tosses it in the trash on her way out.

That is the exact moment Twilight locks up.

She stares, eyes wide, pupils shrinking, like she just witnessed a war crime.

I stay silent.

Applejack doesn’t even blink. "Did... you see what she—" Twilight begins, voice pitched with alarm.

Applejack shrugs. "What? She’s just watchin’ her figure, that’s all."

Twilight turns to me, eyes pleading, looking for confirmation, for support, for any sign that she’s not alone in this.

I tilt my head, just slightly, like I’m considering. Then I shake it, just once. "Seems normal to me."

Twilight’s jaw drops, just a little.

Because that’s the thing. I’m not agreeing with Applejack. I’m not dismissing Twilight’s suspicions. I’m just... not engaging.

A changeling trying to blend in wouldn’t question their queen. A changeling wouldn’t see anything wrong.

I let the silence linger just long enough to feel unnatural.

Twilight’s expression twitches, but she swallows whatever she was about to say.

Applejack, oblivious, carries on with her work.

Spike, still playing with his toys, makes another set of obnoxious kissing noises.

And me?

I keep my face blank, my stance too measured, my words just a fraction too careful.

Like a stranger, mimicking familiarity.

The castle halls feel a little too grand, a little too empty. Maybe it’s just my nerves, the constant awareness that I’m playing a part in a game I barely know the rules to. I keep my movements smooth, calculated, just a fraction too careful. Every step, every glance—just enough to not raise suspicion, but not enough to feel natural.

I follow Twilight as she storms into the dressing room where Rarity is putting the finishing touches on Cadance’s wedding gown. Twilight is practically vibrating with frustration, her hooves clacking hard against the floor.

"Oh, you should have seen how she acted back there," she huffs, pacing near Rarity’s workstation. "I don’t know when she changed, but she changed!" She deepens her voice, mockingly mimicking, "Please, call me Princess Mi Amore Cadenza."

I stay by the door, neutral. Watching. Calculating.

"Did I hear someone say my name?"

Twilight freezes mid-step.

Princess Cadance strides into the room, the very picture of poise. She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. The air shifts.

Rarity, ever the professional (and social climber), is already mid-bow. "Your Highness! Let me just start by saying what an honor it is to play a role in such a momentous occasion." She lets out a nervous little laugh, tail flicking in barely concealed excitement.

Cadance doesn’t react much. Her expression remains cool, detached. "Uh-huh. Is my dress ready?"

Rarity stammers, straightening up. "Yes, of course! Um, I’ve been working on it ever since I was given the assignment, and I think you’ll be pleased with the results!" She gives a nervous little giggle and pulls back the curtain, revealing the dress she’s poured her heart into.

Cadance steps forward, eyes scanning over the fabric, the shimmer of the material, the lacework.

Her nose wrinkles.

"I was hoping for something with more beading," she says, voice perfectly level. "And a longer train."

Rarity barely blinks before snapping into action. "Oh, yes, of course."

Cadance’s eyes flick to the bridesmaid's dresses again. "And those should be a different color."

From the side, Twinkleshine pipes up, "I think they’re lovely!"

Minuette nods enthusiastically. "Me too!"

Lyra Heartstrings beams. "I love them."

Cadance doesn’t even acknowledge them, narrowing her eyes. "Make them a different color."

She walks out without waiting for a reply.

Twilight sucks in a sharp breath, her face twisting with barely restrained irritation. "Gee, maybe her name should be ‘Princess Demandy-Pants’."

I school my expression into something neutral, noncommittal. Twilight is looking for someone to validate her anger, to stand by her, to confirm that something isn’t right.

I offer her nothing.

I let my silence stretch long enough for her to notice.

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t say anything.

I glance at Rarity, who looks torn between placating Twilight and not wanting to criticize literal royalty.

Twilight exhales sharply, her ears twitching in agitation. I know she’s fighting the urge to rant at me, to demand I say something.

Instead, I just give the smallest of shrugs.

Like a drone trying to mimic natural behavior.

Like I don’t really care.

Twilight bristles, her tail flicking in agitation, but she doesn’t push me on it.

Instead, she storms out, leaving Rarity sighing over the dress adjustments.

The moment Twilight stomps off, steam practically shooting from her ears, I exhale through my nose and pivot on my hooves. I don’t follow her. I don’t want to be in the splash zone when she inevitably explodes at someone. Instead, I take the nearest hallway out of the dressing room, eager for a moment of solitude.

I don’t get one.

A presence steps from the shadows, and I barely suppress the instinct to flinch. Midnight blue, sharp eyes, and a knowing smirk—Princess Luna.

"Kinetic Flux," she drawls, head tilting ever so slightly, like she’s enjoying herself already. "I see thou art up to thine usual charlatan ways."

I blink. "Charlatan?" My voice is neutral, unimpressed. "I have never charlataned once in my life. I am a professional magic user with highly sophisticated methods—"

"Thou art a liar and a fraud and I adore it," Luna interrupts, grin widening. "Thine deception is masterful. We should all aspire to such lengths."

I pause. Process. "…Are you complimenting me or insulting me? I genuinely can't tell."

She laughs, eyes glittering. "Both."

I sigh. "Great."

Before I can sidestep her and continue pretending to be a normal, totally-not-a-changeling drone, she shifts forward, dropping her voice just slightly.

"Walk with me."

That tone. The weight in those words. It’s not a request.

I fall in beside her.

Luna leads me through the winding halls of the castle, deeper into the structure where the marble walls start feeling heavier, the air cooler. Servants thin out. Guards appear at odd intervals, standing stiff and silent.

She doesn’t speak until we’re in a private alcove, away from prying ears.

Then, she turns to me, her expression losing its playfulness. "There is an unknown threat to Canterlot."

I blink. Keep my expression blank. "You don’t say."

Luna’s eyes narrow, amused but still sharp. "Do not play coy with us. We know thou art perceptive beyond measure."

I hum thoughtfully. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

She gives me a look.

I sigh. "Alright, fine. What kind of unknown threat are we talking about? The fun kind? The terrifying kind? Or the ‘why am I awake for this’ kind?"

Luna’s jaw tightens slightly. "We are uncertain. There is an unease in the air. We sense something... invasive. Foul. It is concealed well, but it is here."

I glance around the alcove, noting the high, sloping ceilings and the way the shadows pool in the corners. A good place for a private conversation—but I don’t take security for granted.

I raise an eyebrow. "Is this room secure?"

Luna's horn flares, casting a silent wave of dark blue magic over the walls, the floor, the very air itself. The spell settles like a curtain, dampening all outside sound, distorting the edges of the room ever so slightly.

"It is now," she declares confidently.

I don't react immediately. Instead, I watch her, expression unreadable. Then, I let out a slow breath through my nose.

"Yeah, it’s changelings."

For the first time, Luna hesitates. "Thou speakest as if with certainty."

"Because I am," I say flatly.

The moment the words leave my mouth, Luna’s entire expression changes.

It's subtle. One second, she's standing there, the Moon Princess in all her sharp regality—and the next, there’s something wrong about her. The way she holds herself is suddenly too perfect. Too deliberate.

Too still.

A fraction of a second later, her horn ignites in a sickly green blaze.

I don’t wait for the attack.

I can’t afford to.

Because a laser, a real beam of directed energy, moves at the speed of light. Even if I saw it fire, there wouldn’t be enough time to react before I was fried. The only way to defend against it is to act before the attack is fully formed, even If I'm not positive that a laser is what's being cast.

So I do.

I vibrate the air molecules in an instant, forcing them into a chaotic frenzy. Gas particles slam together, electrons ripped from their atoms by sheer kinetic energy, ionizing the air between us. In less than a millisecond, a thin sheet of plasma forms—superheated, charged, and hungry. A shockwave erupts as the rapid heating forces the air to expand at supersonic speeds, creating a deafening CRACK—a miniature thunderclap right in the enclosed space.

The moment her spell fires, the beam strikes the plasma barrier.

The green magic disperses, absorbed and scattered across the energized plasma field. Not a single spark reaches me.

The changeling disguised as Luna barely has time to react.

Because I already have my counterattack prepped.

A condensed chalk powder projectile, packed so densely it might as well be a bullet, is launched at extreme velocity—courtesy of my telekinesis.

It tears through the changeling’s skull before it even registers that it’s lost.

The impact is decisive, clean. The thing drops like a puppet with its strings cut, its disguise unraveling in sickly green fire as its twisted form crumples to the cold stone floor.

I exhale sharply, dragging a hoof down my face.

"Jesus Christ."

That was too convincing. It had the speech patterns, the mannerisms, even the smug little smirk down to an art form. I genuinely thought I was talking to Luna. The real Luna.

I didn't know they could change the color of their magic.

I glance down at the rapidly cooling corpse, my ears still ringing slightly from the aftershock of my plasma barrier. "Yeah. Nope. Not doing that again."

Because clearly, I can’t trust myself to tell the difference. And I do not like that.

From now on? I’ll just wait until the wedding—where I know Luna and Celestia have to be real. Probably.

With a sigh, I turn my attention back to the body. Can’t just leave it here. Can’t afford to have someone find it and ask questions.

So I do what I did before.

With a focused burst of telekinesis, I extract every last molecule of moisture from the changeling's body. I grip the bonds of the dried remains and begin unraveling them—atom by atom, separating the composite materials until nothing but a fine, inert dust remains.

It’s eerily quiet work.

With a final sweep of magic, I scatter the dust, dispersing it through the room and the cracks in the stone. By the time I step back, there's nothing left.

Just me, standing in a dimly lit alcove with the ghost of a headache pressing against my skull.

I take another breath. Roll my shoulders. Collect myself.

Alright. Back to the plan.

I pull my posture back into its neutral, slightly-off balance, the same way a changeling mimicking normal would. And with one last glance at the empty space where Luna had stood, I step back into the halls of Canterlot, slipping back into my role.

The halls of Canterlot Castle are quiet, bathed in the dim glow of moonlight filtering through the grand stained-glass windows. I move at a steady, measured pace, slipping seamlessly back into my role—just another face, just another pony passing through. The events of the last ten minutes are locked behind my eyes, tucked neatly into the back of my mind where no one can see them.

When I reach the main hall, a guard in golden armor steps forward, stopping me with a polite but firm nod.

“The princesses have retired for the evening,” he informs me. “Your companions as well. You should get some rest, sir.”

I don’t recognize this one.

Then again, I don’t recognize most of them.

I flick my ears, tilting my head just slightly, as if considering. "Right. Wouldn’t want to be sleep-deprived for the big day."

The guard nods once, professional and impassive. “Allow me to escort you to your chambers.”

I keep my expression neutral. Not suspicious, not wary—just tired enough that it makes sense I wouldn’t argue. "Lead the way."

He turns, and I follow.

I watch him carefully as we walk.

Not obviously. Not in a way that would tip him off. But I take note of every little thing—the way he carries himself, the cadence of his steps, the stiffness of his posture.

Doesn’t slouch. Doesn’t fidget. Doesn't even breathe wrong.

But neither did the Luna from earlier.

The trek through the castle is uneventful, but I don’t let my guard down. If he’s a changeling, he won’t make a move now. If they suspect I know, they wouldn’t be stupid enough to try something this soon.

Or maybe they would.

Because the only changelings who do know are dead.

And that means I don’t know if they know I know.

The door to my guest chamber looms ahead, carved with swirling gold patterns, absurdly ornate. The guard stops just short of it, giving me a crisp nod.

"Your room, sir."

"Appreciated," I say mildly, stepping forward. I push the door open with my magic, letting it swing inward.

Nothing jumps out at me. No sudden movement. No shadowy figure waiting just inside.

I turn back to the guard, offering him an easy nod. “Have a good night.”

He returns the gesture without hesitation. “You as well.”

And then he walks away.

I step inside, but I don’t close the door. Not yet.

Instead, I wait.

Five seconds.

Ten.

The guard doesn’t turn back. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t do anything other than disappear around the next hallway.

I scan the room quickly. Large, elegant, high ceilings, far too much decoration for my taste. A massive window opens to a view of Canterlot’s skyline, the night stretching out beyond the glass. Heavy curtains frame it, drawn halfway closed.

I step deeper inside. The door clicks shut behind me.

And I do not sleep.

I cannot sleep.

Because no matter how many plans I make, no matter how many countermeasures I prepare, the second I close my eyes, I lose control. The second I let go, I leave myself vulnerable.

The changelings are patient. They are smart. They won’t try something when I’m aware.

But the moment I’m unconscious?

They could come for me.

And I wouldn’t even know.

So I don’t sleep.

Instead, I pull a chair into the corner of the room, facing both the door and the window. I settle into it, still as stone, ears attuned to every creak in the walls, every whisper of wind beyond the glass.

The night is long.

But I will be awake to see the dawn.

The night drags on, stretching into the kind of quiet that feels wrong. Not peaceful—never peaceful. Just still. A silence that presses against the walls, pressing against me.

I don’t move. I barely blink.

Eventually, the darkness softens, giving way to the dull, gray light of pre-dawn. The city outside stirs slowly, the castle coming to life with the shifting of guards, the distant murmur of servants preparing for the day.

I let out a slow breath.

Morning.

A knock at the door shatters the silence.

My ears twitch, and I take just a second before responding, making sure my voice is steady. Neutral. Normal.

“Yeah?”

The door creaks open, and a castle servant—a unicorn mare in crisp attire—steps in, levitating a tray in front of her. Steam drifts from the covered dishes, the scent of fresh-baked bread and something spiced trailing after her.

“Breakfast has been prepared for you, sir,” she says with a practiced tone, setting the tray down on a table near the window.

I give her a slow nod. “Appreciate it.”

She inclines her head slightly before turning and walking out, the door clicking shut behind her.

I don’t touch the food.

Even if it wasn’t lethally poisoned—and I do not trust that it isn’t—it’s not worth the risk. I’d rather deal with hunger than play a game of ‘guess if the eggs are laced with mind-control magic.’

I let the meal sit untouched.

Instead, I push myself up from the chair, rolling my shoulders as I adjust my stance. No real rest, but I’ve gone on worse. The dull ache behind my eyes is manageable.

The rehearsal is soon.

Time to blend in.

The castle is alive with movement as I step into the main hall. Servants move with practiced efficiency, guards remain stationed at key points, and everypony seems too preoccupied with their own duties to pay me much mind.

Good.

I make my way to the rehearsal chamber—a grand, open hall near the main throne room, lined with tall windows and polished marble floors. The air hums with the murmurs of conversation, the occasional sharp instruction, and the rustle of fabric as Rarity makes last-minute adjustments to some of the decor.

The wedding party is already gathering.

The others are scattered, chatting idly. Apparently they've become bridesmaids somehow. Applejack is inspecting the food setup, Pinkie Pie is eyeing the decorations, Rarity is fretting over the dresses.

And her.

Princess Mi Amore Cadenza.

She stands near Shining Armor, the picture of a perfect bride. Smiling. Poised.

I move to my spot near the back. Just another guest. Just another pony in the background.

Blending in.

Waiting.

Watching.

Celestia guides them through the motions. “Perfect, girls. No need to rush. Then, of course, Cadance will enter.” The Bridal Chorus hums softly through the hall.

I keep my face neutral, watching but not really present.

Shining Armor stands tall at the altar, his expression a little dazed, but functional. “I’ll say a few words, and then we’ll begin with the vows. Shining Armor, you’ll get the ring from your best mare.”

Spike, the ever-dramatic little gremlin, lifts the mini shining armor and cadence he's stolen from the cake and mimics in a high-pitched voice, “Do you? I do!” again forcing them to kiss.

My gaze stays fixed ahead, but my mind is far, far away.

I could kill Chrysalis.

Right here. Right now.

Not even a challenge, honestly. She doesn’t know what I can do. She’d never see it coming.

It would be as simple as launching a projectile before she even realized I had one. Instantaneous. Decisive.

And yet, I don't.

I don’t, because… well.

I like shapeshifters.

In every possible way.

A whole race of creatures capable of taking whatever form they desire? That’s just fascinating. It’d be a shame to wipe them out before I had a chance to really study what they’re capable of. And sure, I could justify it with things like not wanting to shatter the timeline or making sure Shining and Cadance have their grand emotional moment, but at the core of it?

I just think they’re neat.

I keep my expression unreadable as the rehearsal moves forward.

Shining shifts slightly. “Hey… has anypony seen Twilight?”

Right on cue.

The doors slam open.

“I’m here!” Twilight’s voice is sharp, breathless, heavy with conviction. “I’m not gonna stand next to her! And neither should you!”

I watch, silent, as she storms forward, her frustration radiating off her in waves. There’s a distinct, painful kind of helplessness in her posture—like she already knows they won’t believe her, but she has to try anyway.

Shining frowns, confused. “I’m sorry, I… I don’t know why she’s acting like this.”

Cadance—the thing wearing Cadance’s face—keeps her expression smooth. Her voice is light, concerned, dripping with insincerity. “Maybe we should just ignore her.”

I don’t react.

Twilight does.

“You have to listen to me!”

Fluttershy, bless her heart, takes a cautious step forward. “Oh, goodness! Are you okay?”

Twilight waves her off. “I’m fine.”

Applejack, ever the skeptic, squints. “Ya sure about that?”

Twilight takes a steadying breath, and I can see the moment she doubles down. “I’ve got something to say! She’s evil!”

The tension in the room spikes instantly.

The others murmur, concerned. The royal guards glance between themselves.

I keep my face passive, neither confirming nor denying anything.

Twilight’s voice rises in urgency. “She’s been horrible to my friends, she’s obviously done something to her bridesmaids, and if that wasn’t enough, I saw her put a spell on my brother that made his eyes go all—” She waves her hooves around her head, her eyes bouncing around in her head. "🎵bells jangling🎵!"

Cadance gasps, eyes welling up immediately. “Why are you doing this to me?!” Her voice trembles, a masterclass in deception. She runs out of the room, twilight teleporting every now and then to catch up.

Twilight presses forward. “Because you’re evil! Evil! And if I don’t stop you, you’re gonna ruin my brother’s life!”

There it is.

The breaking point.

Shining stiffens, his jaw tightening. “You want to know why my eyes went all 🎵bells jangling🎵?” His voice is hard, defensive, like he’s been pushed just a little too far. “Because ever since I started having to perform my protection spell, I’ve been getting terrible migraines. Cadance hasn’t been casting spells on me. She’s been using her magic to heal me!”

Twilight flinches, her bravado cracking.

Shining’s words come faster now, like he’s desperate to justify, to fix things. “And she decided to replace her bridesmaids because she found out the only reason they wanted to be in the wedding was so that they could meet Canterlot royalty! And if she hasn’t been on her best behavior with your friends, it’s because with me being so busy, she’s had to make all the decisions about the wedding!”

Twilight’s voice is small now. “I was just trying to—”

Shining doesn’t let her finish.

“She’s been completely stressed out because it’s really important to her that our big day be perfect, something that obviously wasn’t important to you!” He takes a sharp breath, as if realizing the words as they leave him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and comfort my bride. And you can forget about being my best mare.” He hesitates, his anger settling into something colder. “In fact, if I were you, I wouldn’t show up to the wedding at all.”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Applejack clears her throat. “C’mon, y’all. Let’s go check on the princess.”

Twilight stares after them, her expression crumbling. “I was—”

Celestia’s voice cuts through the air, calm and final. “You have a lot to think about.”

The doors slam shut.

I glance at Twilight.

She stands there, shaking slightly, staring at the place where they all just left her. The weight of it all presses down on her at once. The sting of rejection. The suffocating loneliness of being right but having no one believe you.

I could step forward.

I could say something.

I could tell her that she was right. That she wasn’t alone. That I know exactly what’s going on and that I’m going to fix it.

But I don’t.

Because I need her to get captured.

Because I need her to find the real Cadance.

Because if I go down there first, then Chrysalis loses immediately—and that means Shining Armor and Cadance don’t get their moment. They don’t have their grand reunion. And without that, without them, there’s no emotional surge to blast all the changelings to the Badlands, weeding them all out of Canterlot.

No guaranteed victory.

And the best outcome—the one where all the changelings get launched out of Canterlot in one fell swoop—only happens if I do nothing.

So I leave.

I wait in my room.

A few hours pass. Canterlot carries on as if nothing is wrong.

Because, for now, nothing is.

Twilight’s in the caverns. She’s where she needs to be. The real Cadance will be freed soon. And the grand spectacle of the wedding—the real wedding—has to happen exactly as I remember it.

Worst-case scenario? I start killing changelings one by one, culling them with precise, quiet efficiency until there's none left. It's doable. Messy, but doable.

But the best outcome?

I let things play out.

So when the time finally comes, I head toward the ceremony.

Before leaving, I give a quiet command. “Rachel. Follow.”

The construct obeys instantly, falling into step behind me. The heavy stone of her body makes a dull thud with each step, her joints moving fluidly despite their rigid structure. She turns heads as we walk, but at this point, I don’t care. Let them gawk. Rachel is the only thing here I can trust completely.

The ceremony is set up exactly as expected—extravagant, bright, a picture-perfect royal wedding.

Celestia stands at the front, poised and regal as ever. "Mares and gentlecolts, we are gathered here today to witness the union of—"

She doesn’t get to finish.

Twilight’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. “Stop!”

Gasps ripple through the hall. Murmurs, nervous shifting.

I don’t react.

I keep my face neutral, even as Chrysalis puts on the performance of a lifetime, faux-sobbing into her hooves. “Why does she have to be so possessive of her brother? Why does she have to ruin my special day?”

I already know what happens next.

The real Cadance steps forward, fierce and unbroken. “Because it’s not your special day! It’s mine!”

Gasps.

The fake Cadance—no, Chrysalis—turns sharply, her voice twisting with irritation. “What? But how did you escape my bridesmaids?”

From somewhere behind them, voices can be heard gushing. “I want it!”

Chrysalis huffs. “Hmph. Clever. But you’re still too late.”

I keep still, standing at the back as the scene unfolds.

I could end this.

Right now.

I could remove the problem, take Chrysalis out before things escalate. Celestia wouldn't even have to fight. There’d be no battle, no laser clash, no risk of collateral damage.

But that’s not the best outcome.

Because if Cadance and Shining don’t have their moment—if they don’t win—then the changelings stay. They remain, scattered, hidden, embedded within Canterlot. The city will never be truly purged.

I shift slightly, watching as Chrysalis monologues, weaving the grand picture of her conquest. “My fellow changelings will be able to devour so much love, we will gain more power than we have ever dreamed of!”

Cadance stands her ground. “They’ll never get the chance! Shining Armor’s protection spell will keep them from ever even reaching us!”

Chrysalis smirks. “Oh, I doubt that. Isn’t that right, dear?”

Shining Armor, still caught in her spell, barely manages a weak “Mm-hmm.”

Twilight and Cadance both gasp.

Chrysalis gives a mock-pitying look. “He may not be my husband, but he is under my total control now. And I’m sorry to say, unable to perform his duties as Captain of the Royal Guard.”

Cadance’s breath hitches. “Not my Shining Armor!”

Chrysalis lets the moment hang before leaning forward, voice rich with victory. “Soon, my changeling army will break through. First, we take Canterlot. And then, all of Equestria!”

Celestia finally steps forward, her voice cutting through the tension. “No. You won’t.”

And here it is.

The moment.

Celestia’s horn ignites, golden and radiant. Chrysalis meets her with a beam of her own, twisting, writhing green magic clashing violently against divine sunlight.

The force shakes the walls.

And I almost move.

I could intervene.

I could end this before Celestia loses.

But if I do, then what happens next? The changelings would still be here. They’d retreat, regroup, scatter like insects into the cracks of Canterlot’s foundation.

No.

This has to happen.

Celestia has to lose.

Cadance and Shining have to win.

The world needs to see them rise.

So I watch, still as stone, as the battle unfolds.

Celestia falls.

The golden blast of her magic shatters like glass against Chrysalis' sickly green beam, and the room trembles with the force of her defeat. The impact sends her crown clattering across the floor, the weight of it meaningless without the power to back it.

"Princess Celestia!" Twilight's cry is raw with panic, the tremor of disbelief thick in her voice.

Chrysalis straightens, head held high, smug, victorious. "Ah! Shining Armor's love for you is even stronger than I thought! Consuming it has made me even more powerful than Celestia!"

I exhale quietly through my nose.

Celestia shifts, trying to rise, but she’s already struggling, her breath ragged. "The Elements of Harmony. You must get to them and use their power to defeat the queen."

Twilight nods, determination overtaking her panic. "Come on, girls!"

And just like that, the Mane Six rush off, their hooves clattering against the marble floor.

Chrysalis doesn’t even try to stop them.

Because she knows.

She knows they won’t make it.

And now, the only ponies left in the grand hall are those who cannot fight back.

Celestia. Cadance. Shining Armor, still under her spell. The nobles, Rachel, the guests—all wrapped in thick, pulsating layers of changeling goo, struggling against bonds that won't break.

And me.

I haven't moved.

I haven't spoken.

And that’s about to become a problem.

The changelings, dozens of them, begin encasing the remaining captives in their resinous slime. It comes quickly, their horns flashing with eerie green light as the viscous material slathers itself over struggling ponies.

I realize, in this moment, that I made a mistake.

I was fine with this until it involved me.

As one of the drones turns toward me, its horn igniting, I fire off the illusion— quickly pulling out the chalk dust, condensing the near-invisible fog just around my irises. Shifting just enough to flash my eyes green. A changeling signal.

I am one of you.

The drone hesitates for half a second.

And then its magic charges up again.

It sees through it.

Damn.

I don't let it attack.

Before its spell can fully form, I grip the particles of chalk dust in the air from the illusion and condense it into a projectile.

Then I fire.

It pierces straight through the changeling’s skull, the impact almost too clean, leaving a perfectly round hole before the creature collapses in a limp heap.

Silence.

The other drones do not move.

Chrysalis lifts her chin slightly, watching me now with something new in her eyes.

Interest.

Curiosity.

Suspicion.

The grand hall is deathly silent.

The only sound is the soft, echoing thud of the changeling drone hitting the marble floor. The green glow fades from its lifeless horn, and the air grows heavier.

I haven't moved.

I don't move.

Chrysalis stares at me now, calculating. She doesn’t order the others to attack. She doesn’t react with anger or fear. She studies me, eyes sharp, lips curling ever so slightly.

Amused.

Interested.

I exhale through my nose, slow and measured. My voice is quiet, deliberate, yet it carries through the chamber.

"You don’t want to fight me, Chrysalis."

The queen hums, tapping a hole-ridden hoof against her chin. “Oh? And why is that, little pony?” She spits the word out like venom.

I smirk, tilting my head just slightly. "You and I… we’re not so different, are we?"

Celestia, still pinned against the floor, breathes sharply. Cadance flinches, her wide, desperate eyes flicking between me and Chrysalis.

The queen lets out a low chuckle, circling me like a predator appraising prey. “Please. Enlighten me.”

I don’t take my eyes off her. "You’re a parasite, Chrysalis. You live because others suffer. You take what you need, whether they like it or not. That’s just how it is." I pause, letting the weight of my words settle. "And yet, is that so different from any other creature?"

I glance at Celestia, watching her reaction. Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t speak.

Cadance looks horrified.

I continue. "Ponies like to think they’re different. That they only take what’s freely given. That they consume without cost." I shake my head. "But at the end of the day, they eat. They burn. They cut down forests and carve mountains, all to sustain themselves."

I take a step forward—just one, controlled. The changelings stiffen slightly, but none of them move to stop me.

"Tell me, Queen of the Changelings… does the wolf ask permission before it tears into the rabbit? Does the lion feel remorse for the antelope?" I tilt my head. "Do you expect me to?"

Chrysalis’s smirk deepens. She licks her fangs, savoring the words. “And yet, unlike me, you still wear the skin of prey.”

"I wasn’t always a pony." My voice is steady, calm.

That gives her pause.

Celestia’s head snaps toward me. Cadance blinks, stunned.

Chrysalis studies me more intently now, intrigued. “Lies,” she scoffs, but there’s hesitation in her tone.

I shake my head slowly. "You can sense love, can’t you? You taste it in the air. The emotions of every being in this room." I spread my hooves slightly, grounding myself. "So tell me, Chrysalis—what do I taste like?"

The air shifts. The tension coils tighter.

For the first time, Chrysalis isn’t amused.

She isn’t smug.

She stares at me, her slitted pupils dilating ever so slightly. Her nostrils flare as she breathes in, as she tastes me.

And something in her expression changes.

The amusement vanishes. The arrogance drains away.

For a fraction of a second, I see it.

A flicker of something raw, something primal.

Revulsion.

Doubt.

Fear.

“You…” She swallows, her throat bobbing slightly. Her voice drops, quiet and unsteady. “…You’re wrong.”

Not incorrect.

Not mistaken.

Wrong.

An anomaly. A distortion. A thing that should not be.

Her horn ignites in a violent, crackling burst, and before another word can be spoken, she fires.

A beam of pure, sickly green death lances toward me, faster than a thought.

But I don’t move.

Because I don’t need to.

The air is already ionized with another concussive boom. The plasma field is already formed. The moment her attack collides with the barrier, it stops. The raw energy is consumed, diffused into the charged particles, scattering harmlessly into the atmosphere.

Chrysalis flinches back.

She is staring at me now—not with confidence, not with contempt, but with something far more satisfying.

Doubt.

I exhale slowly, letting the moment stretch, letting her feel the weight of her mistake. My voice is quieter now, but it cuts through the silence like a razor.

“That was unwise.”

Celestia stares, her expression unreadable, golden regality masking whatever thoughts race behind her violet eyes.

Cadance?

Her breathing is shallow, her pupils shrunk to tiny pinpricks. She looks at me like she’s seeing me for the first time—like I’m something she doesn’t understand.

Something she doesn’t want to understand.

I roll my shoulders slightly, my stance loose, casual. Unbothered.

I never break eye contact with Chrysalis.

“I wonder…” I tilt my head. “Have you ever truly known fear, Chrysalis?”

Her lips twitch. “Do not—”

I step forward.

The drones surrounding me shift, reacting instinctively, but she doesn’t give the order to attack.

She won’t.

Not yet.

I let my voice drop lower, almost thoughtful. “You’re used to being the predator, aren’t you? The wolf among sheep. The one with all the power.”

A pause.

Then I smile—just enough to be unsettling.

“You don’t feel like the wolf right now, do you?”

Her jaw tightens.

I let my gaze flicker to the drones at her sides, their wings twitching, their posture uncertain. They don’t understand why she hesitates.

Why she hasn’t ordered them to kill me already.

So I tell them.

“You’re afraid.”

I let the words sink in. Let them fester.

Let her feel it.

I breathe in, slow and deep, my eyes never leaving hers.

"I can taste it."

Chrysalis stiffens.

The words ripple through the hall, slithering into the silence, twisting around the fear that is thick in the air.

She doesn’t like that.

Her wings twitch. Her hooves shift slightly, weight redistributing like a cornered animal deciding whether to fight or flee.

Her voice wavers, just barely. “W-We have you surrounded.”

I let the moment stretch. Let the tension coil tighter.

Then, I exhale softly and shake my head.

"No."

A beat.

Then my voice drops, quiet and absolute.

"All I am surrounded by… is fear."

I lift my eyes to hers. Lock my gaze. Let the words settle.

"And dead changelings."

The drones shudder. They don’t move. They don’t speak.

They don’t know if I’m bluffing.

Neither does she.

Because even I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.

I have no moves.

No real options.

I can end her. Easily.

But barring that?

I’ve got nothing.

I just have to keep talking.

Keep stalling.

She’s watching me too closely to notice Cadance’s bonds loosening.

She doesn’t see the silent pull of my telekinesis, unraveling the changeling resin layer by layer, so subtly that even Cadance herself doesn’t know it’s happening.

I don’t look at her.

I don’t acknowledge her.

I just keep talking.

"I could take this city, you know."

Chrysalis blinks. “What?”

I let my smirk widen.

"I will take this city."

She recoils slightly, her fangs parting, confused.

I shrug, casual. "You’ve already done all the work for me. You’ve cut off the city’s defenses, weakened its strongest fighters, eliminated resistance before it could even begin. You’ve made it so easy."

I let my voice drop, let my words weave into her mind. "And all that’s left now… is for someone stronger to take it from you."

Her wings flare, panic creeping into her expression. “Lies.”

I take another step forward, slow and controlled.

"Why not?" My voice is light, almost teasing. "Wouldn’t it be poetic? That after all your planning, all your scheming, you didn’t conquer Canterlot… you delivered it?"

Her breath quickens. I can hear it now. I can see it.

She’s unraveling.

I can feel Celestia’s gaze boring into me. Feel Cadance inching away, freed and unnoticed, making her way toward Shining Armor in slow, quiet movements.

Everything is working.

I have her.

I just need to keep going.

I let my smile sharpen.

"And you, Chrysalis… you will be my queen."

A sharp inhale.

Celestia’s eyes narrow.

Cadance stops moving.

Chrysalis’ breath hitches, her wings flicking with uncertainty.

I tilt my head slightly, eyes glinting. "Not as a partner. Not as an ally. As a prize."

Chrysalis’ horn sparks. “You’re mad.”

"Am I?"

I chuckle softly. Let the sound echo.

"Everything is already in place. You just don’t realize it yet."

And for a moment—just one, beautiful moment—Chrysalis believes me.

I can see it in her eyes.

She doesn’t know what I am.

She doesn’t know what I’m capable of.

She thinks I’m a monster. A rival. A threat.

And she doesn’t know what move to make.

Which means I’ve won.

I don’t move.

I don’t blink.

And then—

"Enough!"

The word shatters the silence.

But it isn’t Chrysalis who speaks.

It’s Cadance.

And for the first time, I relax.

I don’t react immediately. I don’t even process it at first. Because in my mind, she’s talking to Chrysalis, telling her to stop, telling her that it’s over.

But when I glance over, she isn’t looking at Chrysalis.

She’s looking at me.

Clinging to Shining Armor, her wings trembling, her eyes wide with something raw and unfiltered.

Fear.

Not of her.

Of me.

"You’re a monster."

The words hit harder than any spell.

I don’t understand.

My thoughts grind to a halt, stuck in place, my mind rejecting the implication.

She doesn’t mean that. She can’t mean that.

I was helping. I was stalling. I was keeping Chrysalis off balance, making sure Cadance could free Shining, ensuring the best outcome.

And yet—

I realize something I should have thought about earlier.

I’ve never met these ponies.

Not really.

Not outside of this fight.

They don’t know me.

They’ve never seen the way I act around Celestia. They’ve never watched me banter with Luna. They weren’t there when I helped the element bearers, time and time again.

They only saw this.

A cold, calculating force. A creature standing toe-to-toe with a tyrant, speaking in the language of monsters, weaving a battle of dominance with nothing but words.

Cadance doesn’t see an ally.

She sees another threat.

A bigger threat.

I turn to Celestia, some part of me desperate for recognition, for a lifeline, for something.

And for the first time in my life, Celestia looks shocked.

I see her inhale sharply, see the moment the pieces click into place in her mind, see the flash of understanding behind her eyes.

She opens her mouth—

“No, wait—”

But she’s too late.

Shining Armor’s eyes glow with raw magic, his horn sparking as Cadance feeds her power into his.

The force erupts.

A tsunami of pure, blinding energy, crashing outward, unstoppable.

I barely have time to think before it hits me.

The last thing I feel is the force tearing through me, the overwhelming weight of it, the sheer power behind it.

The last thing I hear is my own heartbeat, thundering in my ears.

And the last thing I see—

Is Celestia, reaching out.

A second too late.

And then—

Darkness.

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Applied Mathemagics

Great Teamwork, Guys

I wake on impact.

The first thing I feel is pain.

Sharp, agonizing pain, lancing up my legs like fire.

A sickening crack splinters through my bones as I hit the ground, the force rattling through me like a snapped wire. The breath is ripped from my lungs, my body folding against itself as I skid through burning-hot sand, my broken legs twisting wrong.

I don’t scream.

I don’t have the air to scream.

I just exist in the pain, my body writhing against itself, my mind struggling to catch up with reality.

I don’t know how long I lay there.

Seconds. Minutes.

Long enough for the world to settle around me.

Long enough for the pain to become real.

It’s bright. Too bright. The sky overhead is searing, empty and endless, the sun beating down like an executioner’s blade. There’s nothing but sand, stretching far and wide, an ocean of dull, shifting gold.

My breath shudders out of me in weak, ragged bursts. My body hurts in a way that doesn’t feel fixable.

But something is wrong.

I can’t move.

Not just because of the pain—though that would be enough—but because my body is sinking.

The realization hits me too late.

The sand around me is shifting, pulling, dragging.

A sinkhole.

A slow, merciless descent into the earth, swallowing me inch by inch.

My chest tightens. Panic flickers at the edges of my mind, creeping in like a whisper.

No.

No, no, no, no—

I try to move, try to shift, try to crawl, but my legs are useless.

My magic—

I reach for it, but it slips through my mind like water through broken fingers. The pain—the pain—it’s too much, my focus splintering apart, my ability to grasp my own power severed by the agony radiating through my body.

I can’t breathe.

The sand rises past my chest, past my shoulders.

I struggle, but it only pulls me down faster.

I try to speak, but my throat is dry, my voice shredded from the impact.

I try to think, but my mind is clouded, dizzy, unable to string together anything that will save me.

I try to do anything—

But I sink.

The sand swallows my neck.

My mouth.

My eyes.

Darkness.

Thick, heavy, suffocating.

The weight of the sand presses in from all sides, coarse grains grinding against my fur, forcing themselves into my mouth, my nose, my eyes. My lungs burn, my body screams, and my mind—

My mind is fraying.

I reach for my magic again, but it slips through my grasp, slipping through the cracks of my fractured concentration. The pain is overwhelming, drowning out my focus, making it impossible to think.

This is it.

This is how I die.

Buried. Crushed. Alone.

A forgotten thing, swallowed by the desert.

I refuse.

With the last shred of my will, I force my magic outward—not as a shield, not as a grand spell, but as the simplest, most desperate thing I can manage.

Push.

The sand resists. It fights me, pressing, collapsing in from all sides.

But I push back.

It takes everything I have left. The sheer pain of it makes my head spin, my skull feel like it’s fracturing under the pressure of my own magic. But I keep going, gritting my teeth as I carve out the smallest, barest pocket of space—

Just enough to keep my head fron the suffocating weight.

Just enough to breathe.

The sand churns around me, pulling me deeper, deeper, dragging me down like I’m caught in the throat of a starving beast. My broken legs are useless, twisted in the wrong directions, sending white-hot agony through me with every slight movement.

I don’t know how long I sink.

Minutes? Hours?

It feels endless.

The pressure builds, the air thick and stale. The deeper I go, the harder it becomes to hold the pocket open. My magic flickers, my focus fraying, exhaustion creeping in like a death sentence.

The crushing sunlight is gone, replaced by an eerie, absolute darkness. There’s no sound, no wind, no movement—just the steady grind of shifting sand, an invisible force dragging me downward.

I feel like I’m falling.

Like I’m plummeting into the belly of the world.

And there’s no bottom in sight.

I don't hit the bottom.

I spill into it.

The sand collapses beneath me, and suddenly, I'm falling, tumbling, rolling down a steep incline of shifting grains. The momentum tears at my broken legs, jolting the shattered bones with every sickening bounce. My body twists, limp and weightless, before slamming into solid ground.

Jagged rock.

A fresh wave of pain lances through me. My breath leaves in a choked, rasping gasp, sand filling my mouth and clinging to my fur.

I'm alive.

Somehow.

But I don’t move.

I can’t.

Not yet.

I just lay there, sprawled on my side at the foot of the sand pile, trembling, trying to breathe past the sheer agony of it all. My pulse thunders in my skull, and the heat—gods, the heat—presses in from all sides, thick and suffocating, like a living thing.

It’s hot.

Not desert hot. Not sunburnt sand hot.

This is wrong.

I force my eyes open, blinking against the grit. My vision swims, unfocused and hazy, but the colors—

Deep, burning reds. Veins of molten rock pulse dimly in the distance, casting eerie, flickering light against the jagged cavern walls. Shadows stretch unnaturally, twisting against the uneven surfaces like something alive. The air is thick with the scent of sulfur, acrid and bitter against the back of my throat.

This isn’t the Badlands.

Is this hell?

The land does not end. It just keeps going, stretching out into blackened rock and yawning chasms, into depths I can’t even see.

I have no idea how far I fell.

No idea how deep this place goes.

But I know one thing for certain—

I’m not supposed to be here.

I lay there.

I don’t move.

I don’t think.

I just breathe. Shallow, ragged breaths that barely fill my lungs. Each inhale tastes like sulfur and scorched earth, burning my throat, making my chest ache.

The pain is unbearable.

My legs are ruined. Broken in ways that shouldn’t be possible. I can’t even tell which part of me hurts anymore, because it’s all just one giant, throbbing wrongness.

I should give up.

Just lay here. Let this place take me.

I let the thought sit there for a while.

Maybe minutes. Maybe hours.

I don’t want to move.

But I know I have to.

Slowly—carefully—I reach for my magic again.

It flickers at first, weak, unstable. Pain lances through my skull as I try to focus, my broken body rebelling against the very act of existing. The agony is too much, my mind too scattered.

I try again.

And again.

And on the fourth attempt, my horn sparks to life.

I exhale sharply, forcing my concentration forward, focusing not on my body, not on my pain, but on the ground beneath me.

I shift the intergranular bonds of the stone, manipulating the forces between them, weakening their cohesion just enough to cut.

A slab.

I carve out a thick, flat piece of stone, just large enough to support my midsection.

The first attempt is a failure—my magic sputters, the pain in my legs breaking my concentration, and the slab crumbles before I can even lift it.

I grit my teeth and try again.

The second attempt holds.

I breathe.

And then, with painful, deliberate effort, I shift my weight, sliding my torso onto the slab, dragging it under with shaky telekinesis.

The moment my broken legs leave the ground, the pain shifts—less sharp, more dull and distant. The relief is temporary, but it’s enough.

I dangle my useless limbs off the edges, letting them hang there, limp and motionless.

I move.

Slowly.

The slab glides above the rocky floor, carrying me forward, bypassing my shattered legs entirely.

I can't move quickly.

It’s not efficient.

But it’s something.

And right now, something is all I have.

The stone slab glides forward, slow and uneven, shifting slightly with each pulse of my telekinesis. It’s a rough ride, but it’s movement. It’s progress.

And as I move, I start to see.

Really see this place.

It’s massive.

Impossibly massive.

Despite being underground, the ceiling is high, huge stalactites covering the surface. The air is thick with the scent of sulfur and burning rock, oppressive and suffocating, but beneath that, there’s something else.

Something alive.

The cavern isn’t still.

It breathes.

Huge magma rivers twist and snake through the landscape, carving through jagged black rock like glowing arteries, their molten glow the only real source of light. Shadows flicker and stretch across the cavern walls, distorted and elongated by the wavering heat.

Massive, mountainous structures loom in the distance, formed not from time or erosion, but from something else. Something deliberate. The shapes are too precise, too carved, like remnants of things that once stood, now eroded into barely recognizable silhouettes.

Ruins?

I don’t know.

I don’t want to know.

Because the worst part—the part that really gets under my skin—

Is the sound.

I can hear them.

Creatures.

Moving. Watching.

Never close enough to see. Never more than a glimpse—a flicker of motion in my peripheral vision, a shifting shadow against the cavern walls.

But they’re there.

They skitter. They breathe. They whisper.

Soft, guttural sounds, low and distant, but unmistakably alive.

I am not alone down here.

The first warning is the wind.

A rush of air, sudden and unnatural, swirling the heat around me in a violent spiral.

Then comes the shadow.

It falls over me like a predator's gaze, vast and shifting, moving too fast to be something natural. I barely have time to react before the thing dives, a rolling wave of blackened soot cascading toward me like a living storm.

I move.

The slab beneath me jerks as I throw everything I have into pushing it sideways, my magic flickering from the sheer effort. Pain lances through my skull, my broken legs jolting uselessly with every shift.

I’m too slow.

The thing engulfs me.

Heat.

Burning, suffocating heat, wrapping around me like living smoke. The air is ripped from my lungs as the ash seeps into every crevice, pressing into my mouth, my nose, trying to choke me. My vision vanishes in the swirling black haze, thick and alive, coiling around me like it wants to be inside my lungs.

My magic sputters.

I panic.

Instinct kicks in, raw and desperate, and I lash out with the only thing I can still control—

Telekinesis.

I push.

The force ripples through the air, shoving the ashen mass back in a sudden explosion of movement.

The heat relents.

I gasp, sucking in the acrid, sulfur-choked air, coughing violently as the remnants of the burning soot cling to my fur. I can barely see through the haze, but the thing is still there, reforming, swirling back toward me, an amorphous cloud with glints of deep, angry red glowing within.

I see it now.

A drake.

Not flesh. Not bone.

A creature of pure ash, with wings made of smoke and a body of shifting, weightless soot. It doesn’t have a form, not really—just a roiling, semi-dragon shape, barely holding itself together.

It moves again.

I don’t think.

I grab.

Telekinesis locks around the swirling mass, seizing it mid-air.

It struggles.

The ash thrashes against my grip, shifting, breaking apart, trying to slip through. The heat burns against my magic, resisting, fighting—alive.

It’s strong.

I grit my teeth, pouring more into it, my horn aching from the exertion. My magic wobbles under the strain, nearly breaking—

No.

No, I won’t let go.

I tighten my grip.

The thing shrieks.

The sound is distorted, hollow, like wind howling through an empty canyon. It writhes in my grasp, twisting, trying to escape, but I won’t let it.

I condense.

I force the swirling cloud inward, crushing it, pulling it together like compacting a dying star. The resistance is immediate—a violent pulse of heat radiates outward, my magic straining to hold it.

It screams.

A horrible, fractured wail—deep, resonant, dying.

Then—

A crack.

Something shatters.

The heat vanishes.

The ash collapses in on itself, spiraling downward in a fine, lifeless dust.

And then—

A clink.

Shards of a red gem drops to the stone floor.

Dead.

I stare at it for a long moment, my breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

The drake is gone.

Silence settles over the cavern once more.

I don’t move.

I don’t breathe.

I sit there for a long moment, staring at the crumbling remains of the gem, my breath still unsteady.

Then, finally, I exhale and force myself to think.

I’m hurt. I’m exhausted. And now, apparently, I’m in a place where even the air wants to kill me.

I need to take stock.

Slowly, I shift my weight on the slab, wincing as the pain in my legs flares back to the forefront of my mind. I reach for my saddlebags, fumbling slightly as I check inside.

Still there.

I breathe a little easier.

Inventory:

Two books on runes (good condition, slightly sand-covered)
Small bag of bits (useless here, but still nice to have)
Chalk bag (thank everything for that, I’d be screwed without it)
A few odds and ends (quill, ink, some old notes, nothing particularly useful)

Nothing for food.

Nothing for water.

A pit settles in my stomach.

I don’t feel hungry or thirsty yet, but I will.

I need a plan.

I need to move.

I glance back at the pile of fine dust that was once a drake, then down at the shattered remnants of its gem core.

I don’t know what that thing was.

But I know it won’t be the last.

I steel myself, sucking in a slow breath.

Then, carefully, I direct my magic to the slab beneath me, tilting it forward slightly.

And I keep moving.

The glow of the magma river grows brighter as I drift closer, the heat intensifying with every inch. The air ripples around it, thick with sulfur and shimmering waves of distortion, making the whole cavern feel alive.

I don’t get too close. I’m not that stupid.

But the river is a landmark. A guide. A light. If I stay near it, I can keep track of where I’m going, maybe find something useful.

I don’t trust this place.

But I can use it.

Cautiously, I reach out with my magic, focusing on the air around me. The heat here is oppressive, rolling off the magma in waves, but I have an idea.

I slow the atoms, pulling the energy from them, forcing the surrounding heat to drop.

It works.

The air cools slightly in a small radius around me—not much, but enough to give me a moment to breathe.

I inch closer, scanning the river curiously, I've never seen lava before, I wonder if—

The surface erupts.

A massive form bursts from the molten depths, a wave of liquid fire cascading outward.

I barely pull my slab back in time, a blast of scalding air washing over me as something lands with a thud against the rock.

I see it now.

A salamander.

A big one.

Its skin is dark, mottled with ember-like patterns glowing just beneath the surface. Its limbs are thick, its claws sharp, its mouth stretching into a jagged snarl.

And it is angry.

It lunges.

I react.

I reach out with my telekinesis, grabbing a section of magma—pure, molten rock—and rip it from the river.

The heat is overwhelming. The strain on my magic is immense, the liquid fire resisting my grip, trying to burn through my hold.

But I don’t let go.

I wrap it around the oversized salamander.

And I cool it near-instantaneously.

The magma hardens, its heat ripped away in a fraction of a second, shifting from molten to solid obsidian in an instant.

And the salamander is caught.

The black volcanic glass encases its limbs, trapping it mid-strike, its jaws snapping just short of me.

It thrashes, eyes flaring with rage, but it’s too late.

I let out a slow, shuddering breath, staring at the half-trapped beast.

Then, with grim determination, I reach out again—

And pull another chunk of magma free.

I shape it. Fast.

The transition from liquid to solid is near-instantaneous, forming a long, jagged blade of pure, cooled obsidian.

A sword.

Not perfect. Not balanced.

But sharp.

The salamander lets out a shrill, furious cry, straining against its bonds, but I don’t hesitate.

I end it.

The obsidian blade drives deep, piercing through flesh and fire, silencing it in a single strike.

For a moment, all is still.

Then the cavern falls silent once more, save for the quiet hiss of cooling rock.

I stare at the creature’s lifeless body.

Then, slowly, I pull the blade free, the black glass gleaming in the dim, flickering light.

I have a weapon now.

And I’m going to need it.

I stare at the dead salamander for a long moment, my body aching, my head heavy from exertion. The heat from the magma river flickers across the cavern walls, casting deep, shifting shadows over its massive form.

My stomach twists.

It takes me a second to recognize why.

Hunger.

Thirst.

I haven’t had anything since… Canterlot. Since before I was blasted into this hellscape, before I woke up buried in sand with shattered legs.

It’s not desperate yet. Not bad. But it will be.

And down here, there’s no telling when I’ll get another opportunity.

I drag in a slow, measured breath and get to work.

The first step is liquid.

I use telekinesis to separate the salamander in half, pulling apart its molecular bonds with careful precision. The flesh parts effortlessly, cleanly, the inside still radiating warmth from the heat of its molten environment.

And it’s meat.

Not stone. Not fire. Not some incomprehensible, otherworldly anatomy.

Just flesh.

I exhale slightly in relief, forcing the ache in my limbs to the background.

Then I focus on what I really need.

Water.

I know bodies are mostly water. I know I can extract it, I've done it before.

I pull.

The effect is immediate.

The salamander's body shudders, its flesh darkening and shriveling as the moisture leaves it, rising into the air in shimmering droplets before merging into a floating, twisting mass of pure liquid.

More and more rises, pulling from deep within, until—

I realize just how much there is.

A lot.

A disturbing amount.

The sphere of water in front of me grows huge, shimmering in my telekinetic grip, the weight of it pressing against my magic in heavy, shifting waves.

Sixty liters.

At least.

I stare at it, stunned.

I knew creatures carried water, but this much?

Maybe it had something to do with its environment, how it survived inside magma. Maybe the water inside it had to be pressurized, compacted in some weird biological way to keep it from evaporating.

Doesn’t matter.

What does matter is that it’s pure.

By pulling the molecules apart and reconstructing them into a single mass, I’d stripped away everything else—minerals, impurities, contaminants. What I have now is clean.

I don’t even hesitate.

I drink.

I pull some of the liquid free from the main mass and down it in greedy gulps, the cool sensation spreading through me like life itself. The dryness in my throat vanishes, the burning ache in my chest fading slightly.

It’s like oxygen after drowning.

I don’t drink it all. I need to ration.

I separate thirty liters, keeping it suspended in my magic, the rest dripping uselessly into the rock below.

I can’t store it. I have no bottles, no canteens. The only way I can carry it is with my telekinesis.

So that’s what I do.

Water problem: solved.

Next step: meat.

I move the dried husk of one half of the salamander aside and turn to the other.

It’s still fresh. Still raw.

Still useful.

I shift it onto a slab and move it closer to the magma river, letting the waves of radiating energy cook the meat slowly. I control it, monitoring the temperature, keeping the process steady and even.

It sizzles, the outer layers crisping, the smell of roasting flesh thick in the air.

By the time it’s done, my body is tired. Every movement, every pulse of magic, every moment spent awake is agony.

But I eat.

I force myself to eat.

And I keep moving.

I keep moving until I can’t.

My body is done.

The pain, the exhaustion, the slow gnawing ache of my broken legs—it all catches up at once, pressing down like a weight I can’t shake off.

I need to rest.

I glance around, scanning the cavern for anything that could be shelter, anything that would hide me from the creatures I know are lurking just out of view.

The mountainous formations in the distance catch my attention.

Large. Solid.

They’ll do.

I glide toward one, slowing as I reach its jagged, uneven base. It’s pure rock—dense, thick. Good. I need something that will hold, something that won’t shift or crumble while I sleep.

I reach out with my magic, pressing my will into the stone, searching for the bonds that hold it together.

And I separate them.

It’s like slicing into butter.

The mountain yields beneath my will, the intergranular bonds of the rock breaking apart in an instant, clean and precise. A massive chunk detaches, revealing a deep, hollowed-out space inside.

It’s large enough for me and my stuff to fit, but not much else.

Good.

I glide my slab forward, sliding myself inside, and carefully trim the back wall, deepening the space just enough so I won’t feel trapped.

Then I seal it.

The rock I cut out shifts back into place, my magic sealing it with near-perfect precision—except for a few, small air holes.

I don’t trust the air in this place, but I trust suffocation even less.

With that done, I shift my focus to my water.

I still have about 22 liters hovering in my grasp, but I need it to keep.

I slow the atoms, pulling the energy out of them, dropping the temperature as far as I can, adjusting the atoms into a lattice, and freezing it solid.

It should hold.

I sleep.

I don't know for how long. The exhaustion runs deeper than just my body—it sinks into my bones, my mind, pressing me down into a nothingness so complete that for a while, I forget where I am.

But when I wake—

The water is gone.

I don’t understand at first.

I reach for it instinctively, expecting the cool weight of frozen liquid in my magic’s grasp—only to find nothing.

Not spilled. Not stolen.

Just... gone.

Evaporated.

Even after freezing it solid, this place stole it from me.

I stare at the empty space where it used to be, my mouth dry, my throat aching.

Fuck. Why did I even think that would work?

I don’t waste time panicking. I don’t have time to panic.

I need water.

And I know where to find it.

I leave my shelter, gliding forward on my slab, my body still aching, my broken legs dangling uselessly beneath me. The cavern stretches out before me, as desolate and merciless as before.

I make my way back to the magma river.

The heat is suffocating, thick, pressing down against me like an invisible weight. The molten rock churns below, the light flickering, casting distorted shadows against the cavern walls.

I poke at it.

I use my magic to mess with the surface—adjusting the flow, disrupting the patterns, sending small pulses of telekinetic force across the top.

Bait.

I learned my lesson the first time.

I don’t want to be ambushed. I don’t want something waiting for me beneath the surface, creeping closer when I least expect it.

I want it to come now.

I want it to think it has the advantage.

For a few seconds, nothing happens.

Then—

The magma explodes.

A massive shape bursts out, sending molten rock splattering in every direction, the sheer size of it casting an impossible shadow against the cavern walls.

A centipede.

Huge.

Monstrous.

Its segmented body is covered in rocky plates, cracked and jagged, glowing deep red from the heat beneath its shell. A dozen legs, each ending in sharp, hooked claws, scramble for purchase against the cavern floor, its massive, gaping mandibles clacking open and shut, dripping with molten saliva.

It doesn’t hesitate.

It lunges.

My slab yanks backward in an instant, my telekinesis ripping me out of range just as the centipede’s mandibles slam down where I was moments ago. The impact shakes the cavern, cracks splitting across the stone from the sheer force.

I don’t wait.

I look up.

The cavern ceiling is jagged, filled with sharp, towering stalactites, each one stretching downward like spears.

I grab one.

With a precise pulse of magic, I sever the bonds holding it in place.

The rock snaps free.

The centipede rears back, preparing to lunge again—

I guide the stalactites down, making slight adjustments as it falls.

It plunges through the air, its mass multiplied by the sheer force of gravity, cutting through the heat, cutting through the shadows—

And slams straight through the centipede’s back.

A wet crack fills the air.

The centipede screeches—a horrible, reverberating wail that echoes across the cavern walls. It thrashes, its entire body convulsing as the rock pierces through its armored shell, splitting it open like a cracked stone.

Blood spills out in thick rivers, oozing from the wound, hissing as it makes contact with the cold stone floor.

It twitches.

Shudders.

Then—

It stops.

Dead.

I let out a slow, shaking breath.

Then, I move forward.

I don’t waste time.

I do what I did before.

I pull the water from its body, ripping the moisture out, watching as the liquid coalesces in front of me

I pull a portion toward me, drinking deeply, letting the cool relief flood my parched throat. The taste is neutral, clean—better than anything I could have hoped for in this hellscape.

But I can’t afford to lose the rest.

I need storage—something this place can’t steal from me.

My eyes flick to the cavern floor, jagged and unyielding, but solid. I reach out with my magic, carefully manipulating the intergranular bonds of the rock beneath me.

Separate. Cut. Shape.

A hollowed-out stone container takes form, its sides smooth and thick. I lift it, inspecting it closely, making sure there are no cracks or imperfections.

It’ll hold.

I gently guide the water inside, watching as the shimmering mass pours in, filling the carved basin.

Then, with a precise application of magic, I seal the top, fusing the stone together. The result is a solid container, airtight, unyielding.

The weight is noticeable—heavier than carrying it as a floating mass—but that’s good.

It won’t evaporate.

Water: secured. Again.

With water no longer a concern, I turn my attention to food.

The centipede’s massive form is still sprawled across the cavern floor.

I move closer.

Using my telekinesis, I separate the flesh from the carapace, peeling away the rocky plating to reveal the soft meat inside. The texture is… strange, fibrous but not dissimilar to what I’ve eaten before.

I only take the fleshy bits, tearing them off before slicing it into manageable portions.

Then, like before, I use the magma river as a heat source, suspending the meat over the glowing surface, letting the intense radiating energy cook it through.

The scent is strong, rich, edible.

It isn’t perfect, but it will sustain me.

I eat while I cook, not rationing yet—I’ll have plenty to store when I’m done.

Food: secured.

Now I need to carry it all.

I could float everything with telekinesis, but that’s too much strain to maintain indefinitely. I need a solution—something to move itself.

Something simple.

I glance at my rune books and open them, flipping through the pages, refreshing my memory on the symbols I need.

A cart.

Something that can move without me needing to constantly guide it.

I carve out the base first, shaping a flat, thick slab of stone, reinforcing it so it won’t crumble under the weight. Then I carve raised edges, forming a container deep enough to hold my sealed water and cooked food.

Next, the movement system.

I etch two primary runes onto the underside:

A Fly Rune – to suspend the cart just above the ground, preventing unnecessary friction.
Direction Runes – one for each cardinal direction, ensuring the cart continues moving until told otherwise.
I don’t want to constantly direct it, so instead of an order-based system, I keep it simple:

INITIAL CONDITIONS
cart_active = false
direction_set = false
current_direction = [0,0]

ACTIVATION RUNE
if command_heard("activate")
→ cart_active = true

DIRECTION RUNE
if command_heard("north")
→ direction_set = true
→ current_direction = [0,1]

if command_heard("south")
→ direction_set = true
→ current_direction = [0,-1]

if command_heard("east")
→ direction_set = true
→ current_direction = [1,0]

if command_heard("west")
→ direction_set = true
→ current_direction = [-1,0]

if cart_active and direction_set
→ fly(current_direction)

STOP RUNE
if command_heard("stop")
→ cart_active = false
→ direction_set = false

Unfortunately the cardinal directions in this case just correlate to random directions I chose.

I carve the runes deeply, ensuring they hold, then activate the system.

The cart hovers just slightly, stable and waiting.

I guide the sealed water into place, stacking the cooked meat beside it.

Finally, supplies secured, I take one last look at the cavern— "Activate: North."

And move forward.

I follow the magma river for what feels like hours.

The glow of the molten rock flickers against the cavern walls, casting twisted, flickering shadows that stretch impossibly far. The heat is relentless, rolling off the river in waves, but I’ve gotten used to it—or at least, as used to it as I can be.

The cart follows steadily behind me, hovering just above the ground, the runes humming faintly with latent energy. It’s working perfectly, moving in the direction I set without complaint. All I have to do is supply the mana.

But my body is aching.

Even though I’m not walking, even though I’m not dragging anything, my exhaustion is growing again, pressing at the edges of my mind like a dull hammer.

And then—

The river ends.

I stop the cart.

Blink.

Stare.

The massive flow of magma I’d been following—my one reliable landmark—doesn’t twist or branch or lead to some deeper passage.

It just slams into a wall.

No cracks. No openings. No tunnels leading deeper.

Just a fucking wall.

My ears flatten. My eye twitches.

I spit onto the ground.

“Fuck... Shit!”

The words echo through the cavern, swallowed quickly by the oppressive silence.

I stare at the wall for a long moment, jaw clenched.

I have no idea where to go.

This had been my plan—just follow the river. It had been working.

And now?

Nothing.

No direction. No clear path forward.

Just a wall and a lot of fucking magma.

I grit my teeth, breathing slowly, trying not to let the frustration take hold.

I need to stop for the night.

Even if I wanted to search for another path, I don’t have the energy right now.

I turn, scanning the rocky surface, looking for a solid place to carve out shelter. The cavern wall where the river meets it is thick, dense, made of the same blackened volcanic stone as the rest of this place.

It’ll do.

I reach out with my magic, pressing into the structure, feeling for its weakest points—

And cut through it.

The bonds break cleanly, and a section of the wall slides away, revealing a small, hollowed-out space just large enough for me and my cart.

I roll inside, hovering the cart in behind me, and seal the entrance—not completely, but enough that nothing can get in easily.

It’s not perfect.

But it’ll hold for the night.

And in the morning, I’ll figure out where the fuck I’m supposed to go next.

I wake up feeling wrong.

Not just tired. Not just sore.

Wrong.

My legs—they don’t move.

The moment I try, pain explodes through them, white-hot and unbearable. My breath catches in my throat, my vision going dark at the edges as I barely manage to not scream.

I grit my teeth, my whole body trembling as I force myself to breathe.

Slowly.

Shallow.

The swelling is worse. I don’t even have to look to know. The joints feel locked, the muscles frozen in place, the kind of stiffness that means nothing is working right anymore.

I can’t move them.

I can’t move them at all.

I stare at the ceiling of my little alcove.

I don’t move.

I don’t try again.

For a long, long while, I just lay there.

I think about stopping.

I think about giving up.

It would be easy.

Just… stop fighting. Stop trying.

This place is going to take me eventually, isn’t it?

The food will run out. The water will run out. I’ll run out.

And for the first time since I got here, I realize—

I’m not even afraid anymore.

I feel numb.

Empty.

Maybe it would be better this way.

Maybe I should—

Thud Thud Thud

I freeze.

There’s a sound.

Something moving outside.

I hold my breath, ears straining, listening harder.

The shuffling is faint, but fast. Deliberate.

Getting closer.

I go still, my entire body locking up, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs.

I thought I wasn’t scared.

I thought I had already stopped caring.

But now, I hold my breath like my life depends on it.

Now, I wait.

I don’t move.

I don’t breathe.

I want to live.

I don’t want to die here, in this fucking hole in the wall.

The sound stops.

Right outside my alcove.

I wait.

One minute.

Two.

An hour.

It doesn’t leave.

It doesn’t move.

I'm not going to die in a box.

I can’t take it anymore.

I let out a slow, controlled exhale, my magic coiling, ready to strike the moment I open my makeshift door—

I open it.

And it’s Rachel.

I stare at her.

I don't breathe. I don't move. I just stare.

My mind struggles to catch up with what I’m seeing.

She’s here.

Rachel is here.

The follow command. It was still active.

She stands perfectly still, her carved stone body unmoving, her expression as neutral as it always was. Her joints, her stance, her posture—exactly as I designed them.

And yet—

I have never seen anything so beautiful in my entire life.

My throat tightens, a choked sound catching before I can stop it. My body wants to move, to reach out, to grab hold of her like she’s the only real thing in this nightmare—

But I can’t.

I can’t stand.

I can’t hug her.

I can barely even breathe.

So I do the only thing I can do.

I move my slab closer, floating myself right next to her, my magic flickering with the sheer weight of exhaustion and relief crashing into me all at once.

And I nuzzle her.

I press my face against the cool, solid surface of her chest, the stone smooth and familiar, and sob.

I don’t try to stop it.

I can’t.

Tears burn hot trails down my face, my shoulders shaking, my entire body shuddering as the weight of everything—everything—finally cracks me open.

She’s here.

I am not alone.

For the first time since waking up in this hell, I don’t feel like I’m going to die here.

I cling to that feeling, to her presence, to the only thing in this place that doesn’t want me dead.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself cry.

Author's Note

Adult human → ~60% water

Terrestrial Salamanders (e.g., Tiger Salamander) → ~75% water

For an average adult (70 kg / 154 lbs):

Total water content = ~42 kg (~42 liters or ~11 gallons)

(using human 60%)
overcome adhesion and capillary forces:
Assuming 1-10 kJ per kg for mechanical extraction:
42 kg × ~5 kJ/kg = ~210 kJ (~0.05 kg of TNT)
120 kg × ~5 kJ/kg = ~600 kJ (~0.14 kg of TNT)

50.19 kilocalories (kcal) for a human-sized being (~42 kg of water)
143.4 kilocalories (kcal) for a larger creature (~120 kg of water)

Hell (Gore)
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Applied Mathemagics

Hell (Gore)

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.

Free To Live, Free To Die
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Applied Mathemagics

Free To Live, Free To Die

The village appears out of place—a cluster of buildings and tents nestled among the barren wasteland, as if it shouldn’t exist here at all. The architecture is crude but sturdy, built from salvaged stone and hardened clay, blending with the Badlands' color palette of dull browns and faded oranges.

As I approach, the streets grow silent.

Ponies stop what they’re doing.

Eyes wide, muscles tense, ears flicking rapidly.

They don’t speak.

They just watch me.

I feel their unease immediately.

And, to be fair—I probably look like a fucking horror show.

A unicorn, floating on a slab of stone, three legs mangled beyond use, one completely missing, capped with a smoothly sealed chunk of earth as if it had always been part of me.

A second slab follows behind me, loaded with cooked monster meat, a basin of water, and an obsidian sword resting beside it.

And then, Rachel.

She follows closely, her towering stone form an imposing, inpony silhouette against the desert sky, her gaze tracking every pony around us.

I look like a fucking war veteran.

No wonder they’re terrified.

I clear my throat, wincing at how dry my voice sounds.

“…Do you have a healer?”

The silence stretches.

A few ponies exchange wary glances.

Then, slowly, one steps forward—a mare, her coat a dusty gray, her eyes a little too bright, her movements too careful.

She nods once, hesitantly. "This way."

I follow, the cart gliding smoothly behind me, Rachel silent and watchful at my side.

The ponies whisper as I pass, their voices low, hurried.

Their unease lingers.

Something about them feels… off.

But right now?

I don’t have the strength to care.

I need to get my legs fixed.

The mare leads me toward the edge of the village, where a large canvas tent stands separate from the other structures. The material is old but well-maintained, stitched together from multiple faded fabrics.

She stops at the entrance and gestures silently for me to go in.

I glance at her once—her expression is unreadable—before guiding my cart inside.

Rachel ducks slightly to fit through the entrance, her stone form brushing the fabric walls as she follows.

The air inside is thick with incense, the sharp scent of herbs mixing with something… off. Something I can’t place.

A stallion sits in the center of the space, hunched over a low wooden table covered in scattered tools and vials of murky liquid. His coat is a washed-out green, his mane a deep, messy brown. His eyes flick up immediately, sharp and assessing.

I don’t like them.

They linger a little too long.

He doesn’t greet me, doesn’t flinch at the walking corpse of a unicorn floating in front of him.

He just tilts his head. "Sit."

I hover myself down onto a woven mat, gritting my teeth as my limbs protest.

Rachel stays standing, looming just behind me she looms over the healer.

She doesn’t move.

But she watches.

So does the cat.

I blink, noticing it for the first time—a sleek black cat curled lazily in a corner, eyes half-lidded, tail flicking.

It watches me.

I watch it back.

Neither of us blink.

The healer clears his throat. "Your legs."

I tear my gaze away from the cat and look at him.

His horn glows a sickly green, magic weaving through the air as he scans my limbs.

For a moment, he just… stares.

Then he exhales sharply. "This is worse than I expected."

No shit.

His expression remains neutral as his horn dims. "I can fix them. The remaining three."

I let out a slow breath, relief settling in my chest. "Good. Do it."

But the stallion doesn’t move.

He just watches me, head tilting slightly.

"You understand, of course, that I can't regrow what was lost."

I blink.

"What?"

The healer shrugs, like it's obvious. "No unicorn could restore a missing limb. Once it's gone, it's gone."

I stare at him.

Something cold settles in my stomach.

That’s… not how pony magic works.

I was sure I could just waltz into a village, find a healer, and have them slap a new leg onto me with their bullshit magic.

Because that's what ponies do.

They bend reality over their knee like a cheap toy.

They fix impossible things.

They solve problems that shouldn't have solutions.

But now?

Now he's saying it’s impossible?

I can’t think of anything to say.

I feel like I just got sucker-punched in the ribs.

"You're joking," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady.

The stallion simply shakes his head. "I don't joke about these things."

I glance at Rachel. She doesn’t react.

I glance at the cat.

It yawns.

I inhale sharply through my nose. "Fine. Just—just fix the rest of me."

The healer nods, his horn lighting up once more.

And as the magic settles over my ruined legs, I can't shake the weight of loss sitting heavy in my chest.

The healer works in silence.

His magic seeps into my broken limbs, a deep pulse of energy sinking into bone and muscle, knitting me back together. It’s slow, uncomfortable—not painful, but not pleasant either.

I don’t watch.

I just sit there, staring at nothing, waiting for it to be over.

Rachel looms beside me, silent and still.

She doesn't understand what's wrong.

But she watches.

When the magic finally fades, the healer steps back. "It is done."

I flex my legs experimentally. They work.

They ache, sore from the healing, but they respond.

But the fourth one—the missing one—doesn’t.

Because it’s not there.

And it never will be again.

I swallow, my throat suddenly tight.

The healer says nothing, already moving to clean up his supplies. Like this is routine. Like I’m not sitting here realizing I’ve lost something forever.

My chest feels hollow.

It’s not fair.

I expected to be fixed. To be whole again.

But I’m not.

I don’t know how long I sit there.

At some point, Rachel moves.

She kneels beside me, pressing the weight of her stone form gently against my side, as if shielding me from something I can’t see.

I don’t react at first.

But then—

A soft weight presses against my remaining foreleg.

I glance down.

The cat.

It curls against me, its sleek black fur warm, its golden eyes blinking up at me with a slow, lazy curiosity.

I hesitate.

Then, cautiously, I reach out.

The fur is soft, surprisingly so, warm beneath my hoof as I trail it down the cat’s back.

It leans into the touch.

I let out a shaky breath.

I get it now.

This is why the cat is here.

The same reason human hospitals keep animals around—to calm patients down, to give them something simple to focus on, something alive.

Something that doesn’t demand anything from them.

I scratch behind its ears, watching the way it pushes into the touch, its tail flicking lazily.

Rachel shifts closer, still pressed against my side.

I sit there for a while, absently stroking the cat, my mind still too full, too raw.

I don’t know how long I stay there.

Eventually, though, I sigh, pulling my hoof back.

The cat immediately protests, shoving its head into my leg again, tail flicking in irritation.

I snort, rubbing my forehead. “I gotta go, little guy.”

The cat disagrees.

It claws gently at my hoof, then rubs against it again, purring loudly, trying to burrow into my side.

I frown. “Seriously?”

It mews loudly, the sound sharp and almost accusing.

The healer glances over but doesn’t say anything, his expression soft.

I sigh again, rubbing the cat’s head one last time before gently nudging it away. “I’ll be fine. Go bother someone else.”

The cat huffs, flicking its tail, but finally strides back to the healer.

I push myself up—my body protests but doesn’t fail—and make my way out of the tent.

Rachel follows without a sound.

The moment I step outside, the brightness stabs into my retinas like a knife.

I flinch, squinting against the sunlight. How long was I in there?

Everything feels too open.

Too… exposed.

I shake myself off and take a step forward—

—and nearly faceplant into the dirt.

My missing leg moves out of habit, like it’s still there, like it should be bearing my weight.

Except it isn’t.

I grind my teeth. “Right hoof. Had to be my right hoof.”

I adjust, forcing myself into a three-legged gait, ignoring the awkwardness, the unfamiliarity.

I hate this.

But I keep moving.

And soon, I meet the locals.

The town is a lot livelier now.

Ponies are out and about, watching me still, but with less fear and more… curiosity.

I don’t trust it.

Not yet.

Still, it doesn’t take long before a few of them approach.

A short, stocky stallion with a rough brown coat and a thick, tangled mane grins at me, stepping forward with an easy confidence. “Hey there, stranger. Name’s Brick, this is Dandelion and over there's Soot," he says, gesturing to a few ponies around. "You look like you’ve had one hell of a trip.”

No shit.

I give a noncommittal shrug. “Something like that.”

A tall, thin mare with a pale yellow coat—Dandelion—steps up beside him, her expression more cautious but not unfriendly. “We were… a little surprised to see somepony like you out here. It’s not often we get visitors in the Badlands.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What, is this place off the map?”

Dandelion and Brick exchange glances.

Then Brick grins again, “Something like that. You’re probably the first new face we’ve seen in months.”

Another pony—a young, bright-eyed mare previously named Soot—pipes up from behind them. “Yeah! It’s just—well, we don’t get a lot of unicorns out here, let alone ones as…”

She trails off, eyeing me carefully.

I know exactly what she was about to say.

I snort. “Fucked up?”

Soot turns red, sputtering. “I—I wasn’t gonna say that! I was just—um—”

Brick chuckles. “Well, you’re not exactly subtle, friend.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t actually mind the banter. It’s a stark contrast to how the town watched me before—now, they almost seem like they’re trying to keep things light.

Trying to lift my spirits.

I doubt it’ll work.

But… I appreciate the attempt.

Rachel, however, does not.

She looms beside me, unnervingly still, her carved irises tracking every movement around us. She doesn’t look at me. Not once.

But she watches everyone else like they’re a problem she’s waiting to deal with.

It’s subtle.

Her body doesn’t shift. She doesn’t make any aggressive movements. But she’s tense, the same way she would be when a monster was approaching.

She's not used to this.

She was born in Tartarus, where everything that moved tried to kill us. Where watching, waiting, and reacting with maximum efficiency was the only reason we made it out alive.

She doesn’t understand that these ponies aren’t enemies.

Brick keeps talking, seemingly unaware of the way Rachel’s gaze drills into him. “So, what’s with the… uh…” He gestures vaguely at Rachel, clearly struggling for words.

I hesitate.

How do I even explain her?

I glance at Rachel, who hasn’t looked at me once since we started talking.

Her focus is entirely on the others, her posture coiled, calculating.

I lick my lips. “She’s my… friend.”

I don’t know why I said it like that.

Maybe because I’m still figuring it out myself.

Rachel doesn’t react.

Brick, however, raises an eyebrow, his grin growing a little wider. “That so? Well, she’s… ah, unique. Didn’t take you for a sculptor.”

I snort. “I’m not.”

Soot leans forward, curious but hesitant. “Does she… talk?”

Rachel finally moves, her head snapping to Soot so fast it makes her flinch.

There’s no hostility in it, no actual aggression.

But there’s intent.

Rachel is still trying to figure them out.

And they’re still trying to figure her out.

I clear my throat. “Not yet.”

Dandelion, still eyeing Rachel cautiously, nods slowly. “Well, she certainly seems… protective.”

Understatement of the fucking century.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “She is.”

The conversation shifts, and I finally get to the most important question.

“How far am I from Ponyville?”

The question hangs in the air longer than I expect.

Brick furrows his brow. “Ponyville?”

I don’t like the way he says it. Like it’s something he’s never heard before.

Dandelion shifts slightly. “I don’t think we’ve ever had anypony from… Ponyville? You’re sure that’s the name?”

I nod, frowning. “Yeah. Small town, near the Everfree. Shouldn’t be that hard to—”

Brick interrupts, shaking his head. “Sorry, friend. We don’t know it.”

I blink.

I was expecting some distance.

But not this.

Ponyville isn’t some obscure dot on the map. It’s a real place. It should be known.

Shouldn’t it?

I push down my unease. “What about Canterlot?”

This time, their reactions aren’t hesitant—they nod, a few of them perking up slightly.

“Canterlot, yeah.” Dandelion gestures northward. “It’s about a month’s trip that way.”

A month.

I let out a sharp exhale. "That's... farther than I thought."

"You’d be better off stopping at Redstone Gulch first," she continues. "From there, you could reach Dodge City before hitting the train. It’s the safest route."

Safest.

That’s an interesting way to phrase it.

I nod slowly, filing that information away.

Brick flashes a smile "Hey, don’t look so down. With that fancy ride of yours, I bet you’ll be faster than a month’s trek."

I force a half-smile back. "Yeah. Probably."

Soot perks up. "If you’re heading out, we can get you some supplies! Nopony lasts long in the Badlands without extra rations."

That actually surprises me. "Really?"

Brick grins. "Yeah! Ain't right to send somepony off without helping 'em out. We don’t get visitors, but we take care of our own."

Something about the way he says it almost makes me pause.

But the thought doesn’t settle.

Instead, I nod. "Alright. I appreciate it."

They lead me to a supply area—mostly clay pots filled with what looks like dried fruits and grains, alongside water skins wrapped in thick cloth. A few wrapped packages that smell vaguely like salted meat.

It’s more than generous.

More than I expected.

I reach into my saddlebags, magic pulling out the same worn pouch I’ve been carrying since before all of this. The bits inside jingle as I levitate them toward the pile of supplies.

Dandelion’s eyes widen. “Oh—no, no, we don’t need—”

I frown. “What? Of course you do. This is a trade.”

Brick shakes his head quickly, pushing the bag back toward me. “Nah, friend. We don’t take bits out here. Ain’t worth much in the Badlands.”

I narrow my eyes slightly. “You sure?”

Soot waves a hoof. “Positive. Besides, you need them more than us. You’ll need actual currency when you hit Dodge City.”

I glance between them, waiting for some kind of catch.

But they just smile.

My chest warms a bit. It's uncomfortable.

I'm not used to... whatever this feeling is.

I hesitate, but eventually relent, stuffing the pouch back into my bags. "Fine."

Rachel shifts beside me, her head tilting slightly—watching them, watching me.

I don’t know what she’s thinking.

But she doesn’t like something.

She doesn’t act, though. Doesn’t move.

She’s waiting.

I begin loading the supplies onto my cart, levitating the wrapped food bundles into the floating storage slab.

One of the ponies—a younger stallion, maybe Soot’s brother—takes a step closer.

"Here, let me help—"

Rachel moves instantly.

A deep, grinding boom rumbles through her core as she pivots, her arm snapping up between me and him, blocking him entirely.

The stallion stumbles back, eyes wide. "Whoa—!"

I snap up before things escalate. “Rachel—Stop.”

She freezes.

She obeys.

But she doesn’t move away.

Her head turns toward me slowly, her carved irises shifting as if she’s double-checking my order.

The tension lingers.

I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “She doesn’t like ponies getting too close. She’s, uh… very protective.”

Soot swallows, her ears twitching. "Yeah, we noticed."

Brick lets out a nervous chuckle. “Guess we spooked her. No harm done.”

The other ponies visibly relax, though a few glance at Rachel uneasily.

Rachel, meanwhile, stays where she is, gaze locked on the stallion who got too close.

Like she’s memorizing him.

I make a note to be more careful.

I can’t have her attacking random ponies just for standing near me.

I make a few modifications to the cart, ensuring that north is properly north, and adjusting the rest of the directions to match.

The ponies make a few more polite attempts to keep me in town.

"Are you sure you don’t want to stay the night?"

"The desert’s dangerous after dark, friend."

"You just got healed, no need to rush."

I wave them off. “I appreciate it, but I need to keep moving.”

Dandelion sighs, clearly disappointed. "Alright. But take care of yourself, yeah?"

Brick grins, slapping my shoulder again. “Redstone Gulch is a few days that way. Stick to the valleys if you can—less heat, more shade.”

I nod, storing that away. "Got it."

Rachel and I move back to the cart.

I float myself onto my slab and take one last glance at the strange village.

They all watch me go.

Some waving.

Some smiling.

“Activate: Northwest.”

The runes hum, and the cart begins to move.

The journey starts smooth. The runes hum beneath me, the floating slab gliding forward in a steady rhythm. The supplies are secure, the food and water stored neatly behind me.

Rachel follows.

As always.

Her pace is steady, her gaze locked forward, every so often shifting to scan the horizon. I know exactly what she’s looking for—anything that moves. Anything that might be a threat.

She won’t find much, though. The Badlands are barren. At least, for now.

I glance back at her.

She’s been walking since we left.

I frown.

She doesn’t get tired. She doesn’t feel exhaustion the way I do.

But still.

The thought of her walking endlessly beside the cart, never stopping, never resting, starts to bother me.

“…Rachel.”

She turns immediately, stone irises locking onto me in perfect focus.

I gesture to the cart. “Get on.”

She doesn’t move.

I sigh. “You don’t have to walk.”

Still, she just stares.

I groan, rubbing my face. “Just—just do it, alright? I’ll manage.”

A pause.

Then, finally, she moves.

She climbs up onto the floating slab with me, shifting her massive frame with slow, deliberate movements, adjusting until she’s settled beside me. The cart dips slightly under her weight, but I adjust the levitation runes accordingly, keeping us balanced.

It’s heavier now.

I feel the drain immediately.

But I ignore it.

Rachel doesn’t need to walk forever just because she can.

For a while, she just sits there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Then, without warning, she reaches out.

Her stone fingers press into my mane, combing through the tangled strands with slow, deliberate strokes.

I freeze.

"Rachel—"

She continues.

Her fingers slide down my neck, smoothing my fur, adjusting the strands as if grooming me.

“Okay, you don’t—” I shift slightly. “Rachel, you really—”

She doesn’t listen.

She keeps brushing, her hands moving with unnatural precision, her fingers spreading through my hair, carefully fixing it.

I sigh, exasperated.

“This is not what I meant.”

She ignores me.

Of course she does.

She pets me like I’m some kind of fussy, exhausted animal, adjusting my mane, smoothing out stray hairs, carefully fixing me piece by piece.

It’s so dumb.

But.

But I let her do it.

Because… I don’t hate it.

While Rachel frets over me like a worried nursemaid, I pull my rune book out.

I flip through the pages, searching for what I need.

The Badlands are wide. Flat.

The scorpions I spot scuttling in the distance are huge, their armored forms gliding across the sand, their tails arching high. The slower, reptilian creatures—hulking things with rock-like shells—move in a way that makes them almost indistinguishable from the landscape.

Neither have noticed us yet.

I don’t want them to.

I need to get higher.

I find what I need.

My horn glows faintly as I carve two new runes into the cart’s surface.

One for Up.

One for Down.

And one to hold it in place.

I inject magic into them, feeling the hum of energy settle.

Then, I give the command.

“Activate: Up.”

The cart shudders—then rises.

The desert shrinks beneath us, the ground pulling away inch by inch until we hover far above the creatures below.

The scorpions remain oblivious.

The reptilian beasts don’t even look up.

I exhale slowly. Good.

Less risk of confrontation.

Less reason for Rachel to start breaking things.

The temperature up here is actually milder than I expected. The higher altitude takes the worst of the heat away, leaving us in a strange pocket of calm.

We travel in silence.

The Badlands stretch out beneath us, vast and lifeless, the cracked earth fading into a dull, endless horizon. The only movement is the occasional gust of wind kicking up loose sand, sending it swirling into the air before it settles again.

Rachel sits beside me on the cart, her weight shifting slightly as we hover over the terrain. Every so often, her hands twitch like she’s about to resume fussing over me, but I keep one ear flicked toward her in warning.

She seems to get the message.

Mostly.

I let my gaze wander across the landscape, my mind drifting in and out of focus.

Then—

Movement.

I squint.

A cluster of shapes circles in the sky, dark against the pale expanse of the clouds.

Vultures.

Circling low.

Something’s dying.

I hesitate for a moment before guiding the cart lower, shifting the runes. As we descend, the source of the vultures’ interest becomes clear.

A pony.

Sinking.

The sand around them churns in slow, deliberate spirals—quicksand. How familiar.

Even from here, I can see the telltale signs of a struggle. Wings flared, hooves paddling uselessly, the mare’s expression a mix of frustration and stubborn determination.

I recognize her almost immediately.

Daring Do.

I stare.

Huh.

I let the cart glide forward, stopping just within range.

I exhale through my nose and float a little closer. “Hey.”

Daring Do startles, her raspberry red eyes snapping to me.

I tilt my head toward her predicament. “You, uh… need a hoof?”

Her glare is immediate. “I don’t need help,” she snaps. “Daring Do handles her own business.”

Oh wow.

Okay.

I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah? That so?”

She scoffs, struggling harder. “I’ve gotten out of worse.”

I shrug. “Alright then.”

And I watch.

The quicksand pulls her lower.

Her wings flap harder, but it’s useless—the more she fights, the faster she sinks.

She grits her teeth.

Her chest is almost fully submerged now.

I lean forward slightly, voice dry. “You do know that even if the sand doesn't kill you, the sinkholes here mostly lead to Tartarus, right?”

Low sample size, but true.

She freezes.

Then narrows her eyes. “You’re lying.”

I smirk. “Why would I lie to a dying mare?”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

Her wings falter.

The sand pulls her a little further down.

A flicker of uncertainty crosses her face.

Daring glares at me, her jaw clenched tight.

She’s sinking faster now, the quicksand pulling her down past her shoulders. Her wings twitch uselessly, one hanging limply at an awkward angle—sprained at the very least.

Her eyes dart around, searching for something—anything—to grab onto.

There’s nothing.

And she knows it.

Her expression shifts. The bravado falters, just for a second. A flicker of hesitation.

She doesn’t want to ask.

She really doesn’t.

But she’s running out of time.

I watch her.

I wait.

Her nostrils flare as the sand creeps up her neck.

Her glare sharpens, but there’s something else behind it now.

A silent plea.

But I don’t move.

Not yet.

She growls under her breath, struggling one last time—

—and sinks deeper.

Her head tilts back, her ears flatten, her mouth presses into a thin line.

She looks at me.

She really looks at me.

“…Fine,” she mutters through gritted teeth. “Help me out.”

I smile. “What was that?”

Her eye twitches.

“Just pull me out!”

I don’t push her any further.

My horn glows, my magic condensing some sand around her with careful precision, using it to grip her.

She tenses—not used to being the one saved, huh?—but she doesn’t fight it.

I lift her slowly, making sure not to pull too hard or too fast.

Quicksand is tricky—yank too hard, and it’ll take whatever limb is deepest—so I spread the force evenly, guiding her body up and out, shifting the sand away as I do.

It takes a few seconds, but then—

She’s free.

I set her down gently on a solid patch of ground nearby.

She stays down.

Panting.

Covered in sweat and sand, her mane matted, her feathers ruffled.

I glance at her wing—yep, definitely sprained. She won’t be flying anytime soon.

She shifts, testing her limbs, then winces.

I raise an eyebrow. “Not your best work, huh?”

She glares at me but doesn’t deny it.

Instead, her eyes flick past me, finally taking in my cart.

The floating slab of stone, the smooth runes glowing faintly along its surface, the way it just hovers, defying gravity like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“…That’s not normal,” she mutters.

I smirk. “Yeah, well. Neither am I.”

She stares at it, her frustration briefly forgotten.

She’s intrigued.

Daring pushes herself up, groaning slightly as she tests her weight on her injured wing. She doesn’t bother dusting herself off—just gives her feathers a quick shake before locking eyes with me again.

She jerks her chin toward the floating slab. “Alright, I’ll take that.”

I blink. “…What?”

She gestures impatiently. “Your flying rock thing. I need it.”

I snort. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

She glares. “I don’t think you understand. I’m in the middle of something very important. This isn’t just some treasure hunt—I’m looking for the Sunstone.”

I tilt my head, unimpressed. “Uh-huh. And?”

Her ears flick in irritation. “And Ahuizotl already has one half. If he finds the other, he’ll have control over an artifact that can amplify sunlight to devastating levels.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Devastating how?”

She huffs. “Enough to wipe out an entire city if he misuses it.”

That makes me pause.

She sees it—seizes it—and doubles down. “I need to reach the temple before he does. I don’t have time to mess around in the sand, and since you just happened to fly in on that fancy little slab of yours, you’re going to give it to me.”

I scoff. “Yeah, no. I’m not.”

Her wings twitch. “What?”

I roll my eyes. “Even if I gave you the cart, it wouldn’t do you any good. It only works because I’m powering it. Without a unicorn feeding it magic, it’d be dead in minutes.”

Daring’s eye twitches. She takes a breath, squares her shoulders, and switches tactics.

“Fine. Then you’re coming with me.”

I stare at her. “What.”

She stomps a hoof. “You heard me. If I can’t use the cart without you, then you are coming with me.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, that’s funny. That’s really funny.”

She scowls. “What’s so funny?”

I level her with a look. “The last time I tried to help somepony out, I lost a leg for my troubles.” I lift my stump slightly, my voice sharp. “So forgive me if I’m not jumping at the chance to do it again.”

Daring freezes. Just for a second.

Her gaze flickers to my stump, her mouth opening slightly like she wants to say something—but nothing comes out.

She wasn’t expecting that.

Good.

Maybe now she’ll back off.

But then—she takes a slow breath. Closes her eyes. And when she opens them again…

Her entire demeanor shifts.

The sharp, forceful adventurer vanishes in an instant.

Instead, she softens.

Her expression shifts—her ears dip back slightly, her red eyes gleaming with something almost gentle. When she speaks again, her voice is smooth, persuasive, sweet.

"Hey," she murmurs, tilting her head just slightly. "I get it. You’ve been through a lot."

I narrow my eyes. Oh, she’s good.

She takes a step closer, careful, measured. “I didn’t mean to be so… pushy. I just—this is really important, you know?”

I don’t respond.

She pushes further.

Daring’s voice dips into something softer, smoother. Calculated.

“I mean, look at you.” She gestures, her eyes gleaming with something almost admiring. “You show up out of nowhere, floating on this incredible artifact—this thing that shouldn’t exist—with a golem at your side?”

She lets out a breath, shaking her head as if in awe.

“It’s like something out of a legend.”

I snort, unimpressed. “It’s a floating rock.”

Daring smirks. “Oh, please. This isn’t just some rock—you and I both know that. It’s a masterpiece. How old is it?” Her eyes flick to the runes, tracing them with genuine interest. “This kind of magic… it’s pre-Equestrian, isn’t it? Did you find it in some ruin? Was it passed down? I have to know.”

I blink.

Then, slowly, I smirk.

“You think I found this?”

She tilts her head. “Didn’t you?”

I let out a short, amused laugh. “No. I made this.”

Daring’s ears flick upward, her wings twitching slightly. “Wait. You mean—you built this?”

I grin, the edge of my exhaustion peeling back slightly. “Yeah. And if I wanted to, I could make fifty more.”

For a brief second, she actually looks impressed.

Her gaze drags over the floating slab, her hoof lightly brushing one of the rune markings. “You made this?” she repeats, more to herself than to me. She glances back up. “That’s… wow. This is some serious work.”

I shrug, but my ego is thriving.

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

It is very much something.

And she knows it.

She smiles, “Alright, you got me. That’s really cool.”

I try not to look too pleased.

She steps closer, eyes flicking toward Rachel now.

“And her?” Daring’s tone is still warm, still curious. “Did you make her too?”

Rachel, who up until now had been silent, tilts her head, her stone irises shifting to track Daring.

Surprisingly, she doesn’t seem to care how close Daring is getting.

Maybe because she doesn’t see her as a threat.

I hesitate.

Then nod. “Yeah.”

Daring lets out a low whistle. “Okay, now I’m impressed. Golems are ancient magic—barely anypony knows how to make them anymore. And yours? She’s… I mean, she’s perfect. The detail, the movement—it’s like she was made by a master craftspony.”

My chest puffs slightly.

Daring notices.

And keeps going.

“You’re a genius, aren’t you?” she teases, her voice light, playful. “A prodigy. You didn’t just find magic like this—you built it from the ground up. Ponies probably don’t even realize what you’re capable of, huh?”

I smirk. “They really don’t.”

Daring Do grins, leaning in slightly, her voice dropping into that silky smooth persuasion that I’m quickly realizing is very practiced.

“But I do.”

I narrow my eyes slightly. “Oh, do you now?”

She smirks. “Of course! It’s obvious. You’re brilliant, you’re innovative, and you’re wasting that big, beautiful brain flying aimlessly through the desert instead of, you know, actually solving problems.”

I roll my eyes. “Right, because I totally don’t have problems of my own.”

She waves a hoof. “Oh please. Surely a big, smart stallion like you can handle more than one thing at a time.”

I pause.

She presses on, sensing the hesitation. “I mean, really—think about it. This is exactly the kind of thing a pony like you should be doing. A lost temple? A legendary artifact? Ancient magic that’s just begging to be uncovered?”

She gestures wildly. “I mean, come on! Some hack out there would be writing books about your discoveries! Ponies would study your methods! And here you are, sitting on a technological marvel, brushing me off like you’d rather do nothing with it.”

I scowl. “I'm not doing nothing with it.”

She smirks. “Then prove it.”

I open my mouth, ready to argue.

But… she’s got me.

She knows she’s got me.

Because, dammit, she’s right.

This Sunstone artifact?

If it’s real, and if it’s as powerful as she claims, it’s not just her problem.

It’s my problem.

Because I know how this kind of thing goes—if I ignore it, some idiot is going to get their hooves on it, and suddenly I’m dealing with a massive crisis later.

Better to handle it now.

Better to be ahead of the problem.

I let out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing my forehead.

Daring sees the shift—the crack in my resistance—and grins.

“So,” she says, casually rolling a hoof. “Where exactly do I sit on this fancy flying thing?”

I groan, rubbing my temple with my hoof. “Fine. Just—get on.”

Daring Do grins like she’s just won a bet, adjusting her hat before hopping onto the floating slab with obnoxious enthusiasm. Rachel doesn’t react, her carved irises barely shifting to acknowledge the new passenger.

Daring settles in quickly, adjusting her wings with a small wince. “Alright, we head that way.” She gestures vaguely to the northwest, where the rocky formations of the Badlands stretch into the distance.

I adjust the runes, sending a pulse of magic through the cart. “Activate: Northwest.”

The slab shifts smoothly, picking up speed, the landscape rolling beneath us.

Daring takes in the ride, her eyes darting between the glowing runes and the seamless motion. “Okay, this is seriously impressive.”

I don’t answer.

Instead, I grab a few chunks of rock from the ground below and start working.

I just focus, compressing the intergranular bonds, layering the stone, reinforcing it piece by piece. I craft segments, locking them together in a structure that moves freely, adjusting itself as needed. Each part is separate, but the runes will handle cohesion.

Daring watches for a moment before narrowing her eyes. “Wait a minute…”

She leans in, scrutinizing the pieces as they snap into place.

Finally, she asks, “What the hay are you making?”

I exhale through my nose. “A leg.”

She blinks. “A what?”

I gesture vaguely to my very-missing right foreleg. “Y’know. A leg.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “Why didn’t you make that before?”

I shoot her a look. “Haven't had the time.”

She tilts her head, as if considering that. “…Okay.”

She watches closely as I carve the runes into the surface—ground detection, weight balancing, movement control—integrating them directly into the core of the structure.

Her curiosity gets the better of her. “How the heck is that going to work?”

I smirk. “Magic.”

She rolls her eyes. “No, really.”

I smirk wider. “Magic.”

She groans, rubbing her temple. “You’re impossible.”

I keep working, refining the load distribution, adjusting the shock absorption channels so I don’t shatter the damn thing the moment I step on uneven terrain.

INITIAL CONDITIONS
ground_detected = false
terrain_angle = 0
leg_extension = default_length
adjusting = false

GROUND DETECTION RUNE
if detect(ground)
→ ground_detected = true
→ terrain_angle = get_terrain_angle()
→ leg_extension = get_ground_distance()

LEG ADJUSTMENT RUNE
if ground_detected
→ adjusting = true
→ adjust_leg_length(leg_extension)
→ align_leg_angle(terrain_angle)
→ balance_weight_distribution()

if adjusting and leg_stable()
→ adjusting = false

TERRAIN COMPENSATION RUNE
if detect(incline)
→ shift_weight_upward()
→ extend_front_legs()
→ retract_rear_legs()

if detect_decline()
→ shift_weight_downward()
→ extend_rear_legs()
→ retract_front_legs()

if detect_uneven_surface()
→ independently_adjust_each_leg()

if off_ground and not intentional_float
→ apply_gravity()

MOVEMENT CORRECTION RUNE
if moving and ground_detected
→ engage_leg_joints()
→ step_with_adjustment(terrain_angle, leg_extension)
→ balance_weight_distribution()

I finish the last set of adjustments, double-checking the load distribution runes and terrain compensation engravings before lifting the leg up in my magic.

Daring leans forward, watching intently as I align it with the cap already fused to my stump. The stone socket was designed for this—it was always the first step in making something permanent, should the need arise.

The moment I press the leg into place, the runes flare to life.

A deep hum vibrates through the new limb as the segments shift, adjusting seamlessly to the connection point. The directional runes synchronize instantly, sending pulses of energy through the structure, checking angles, weight, and balance.

Then—

The leg moves.

Not with a delay. Not with stiffness.

But fluidly.

It adjusts its own stance, shifting subtly to match my posture. When I lift it slightly, the ankle joint flexes, the weight-distribution runes counterbalancing perfectly.

Daring Do stares.

“…What the buck.”

I test it further, pressing it against the slab. The ground detection rune picks up the surface instantly, feeding information back to the adjustment runes. The leg compensates, the interlocking plates shifting like a real limb.

Daring’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“Okay,” she says, shaking her head. “This is insane.”

I flex the hoof experimentally, feeling the way the magic threads through the structure, making micro-adjustments in real-time.

“Yeah,” I murmur, almost to myself. “That’s about right.”

Daring waves a hoof at it wildly. “This—this is beyond normal rune work. I mean, ponies do runes, yeah, but this?” She gestures again, as if trying to encompass the absurd level of engineering in front of her. “This is next-level stuff. Who even taught you how to do this?”

I shrug, rolling the new hoof against the slab’s surface. “No one.”

She squints. “Bullshit.”

I smirk. “Self-taught.”

She gawks at me, then at the leg, then back at me. “You just—figured this out? On your own?”

I nod.

I rummage in my saddlebags, pulling out my worn rune book. Runes and Their Applications: A Mage’s Guide.

Daring’s ears flick toward me as I crack it open, flipping past the first few pages of cramped, archaic writing and half-sketched runes. “This was given to me by a... mare, a while back.” I clear my throat. “Never really told me where she got it, just dumped it on me and told me to ‘try not to blow anything up.’”

She arches an eyebrow. “Sounds like a delightful friend.”

I snort. “You’d think so. I had to figure out about half of it on my own. The original text doesn’t exactly believe in clarity.”

I tilt the book, showing her the dense runic diagrams scrawled across page after page. Sections are scribbled over with my own notes—lines of more modern Equestrian script, directional arrows, corrections to the original text. It’s messy, but it’s mine.

Daring leans in, her eyes shining with fascination. “So this is where you got your starting point?”

“Something like that,” I admit, tapping a particular diagram with my hoof. “I cross-referenced it with other sources, but this was… well, the biggest piece of the puzzle.”

She squints at the page, then flips to the inside cover. Her gaze sharpens. “Uh, you realize this says Property of the Canterlot Royal Archives, right?”

I blink. “It says what now?”

She points a hoof, tracing the faintly embossed letters. They’re faded, barely visible, but definitely there:
PROPERTY OF THE CANTERLOT ROYAL ARCHIVES

I stare. “...Oh.”

Daring gives me a flat look. “You didn’t notice that?”

“I—” I shrug awkwardly. “I didn’t, actually. She shoved the book in my face, I shoved it in my pack. That’s the end of it.”

She smirks. “So you stole from the Crown?”

“Hey, she stole it, at most.” I lift a hoof in defense. “I had no idea it was from the archives.”

Daring’s smirk only widens. “Riiight. No clue at all.”

I roll my eyes and flip the tome shut. “Can’t exactly return it now, can I? It’s been incredibly useful—not to mention I’ve heavily edited a lot of these pages. Pretty sure the archivists wouldn’t appreciate my notes scribbled all over the margins.”

“Probably not.” She laughs under her breath. “Well, guess that explains why it’s so old and... cryptic. Ponies from the archives aren’t known for user-friendly texts. More like user-unfriendly.”

“You’re telling me. Half the lines in here are references to references. I had to invent new diagrams just to keep things straight. And I keep a separate translation of the runes I actually use in my notebook.” I tuck the book away, ignoring the pang of guilt that I technically shouldn’t have it. “Anyway, it’s mine now. Let them try and take it from me.”

“Brave words,” she says, waggling her brow. “I’d pay bits to see that showdown.”

“Right,” I mutter, eyeing the distant horizon. “I’m sure it’ll be a hoot.”

Daring just chuckles, settling back on the cart as our makeshift airship continues northwest across the desolate Badlands. Rachel, true to form, hasn’t moved, her stone posture as unyielding as ever—though her eyes flick once toward me, then back to Daring.

I stare at the newly attached stone leg, shifting it a bit and feeling the runes hum in response. It’s not quite like a natural limb—I can feel the absence of muscle, the subtle pressure differences—but it’s a step up from limping around on three legs.

At least I’m mobile.

And from the sly way Daring keeps eyeing my half-finished runes in the book, I suspect she hasn’t quite run out of questions yet.

We float across the Badlands for what feels like hours, scanning the broken terrain from our comfortable spot high above the desert floor. The sun beats down mercilessly, but the steady wind up here keeps things tolerable. Daring perches at the edge of the slab, her gaze sharp, ears twitching whenever she spots movement below.

I try not to look too self-satisfied about my brand-new leg, but I’ll admit: it’s a relief to not feel lopsided. It’s not connected to my mind—there’s no direct nerve link or anything—yet the runes interpret my weight shifts and forward motion, moving the stone with only a slight delay. I can feel the difference, but it’s far from debilitating.

Rachel, uncharacteristically, hasn’t fussed over me since we started flying again. She sits at the back of the slab, stony eyes set on the horizon. We’re all on the lookout for any hint of a looming structure or telltale shape… and then Daring makes a small gasp.

"There!" she exclaims, pointing with her uninjured foreleg. "You see it? Over by that weird jagged outcrop."

It doesn’t take me long to spot it: a squat, crumbling stone complex partially buried in the sand, its arches and pillars sticking out at odd angles. From the air, it looks like half the building has collapsed inward. Vines snake around the ruins, and I can just make out faint, worn carvings on the outer walls.

I nod. "Must be the temple."

Daring smirks. "That’s where we’ll find the other half of the Sunstone—if the legends are true."

I roll my eyes. "Because legends always get it right."

She swats my shoulder lightly. "Sometimes they do."

I just grunt and lean forward to adjust the cart’s runes. "All right, heading in."

With a pulse of magic, I guide us downward. The floating slab descends in an almost straight line, slowing as it nears the sand. A rush of hot desert air buffets my face, and a swirl of dust envelops us when we finally touch down a safe distance from the temple entrance.

I test my new leg again. The runes hum quietly as the segmented plates shift, settling into the sand with a surprising degree of give. It’s… jarring to have the limb move without me consciously doing anything, but it works. It’s reading my body’s weight shifts, matching them, supporting me in each step.

Daring jumps off the slab, stumbling just a bit when she lands—her sprained wing is clearly bothering her. She scowls but doesn’t complain. "We should be careful," she mutters. "Ruins like this tend to be… well, booby-trapped out the wazoo."

"Fabulous." I glance at Rachel, who’s climbed down with all the poise of a statue coming to life. "At least I’m prepared for… whatever."

Rachel offers no opinion. She simply stands guard, scanning the dusty surroundings in her ever-watchful way.

Daring leads the way forward, her hooves kicking up small clouds of sand. I follow, still reacquainting myself with having four limbs. The sand shifts under my new leg, but the runes compensate fluidly, adjusting the angle and extension so I don’t trip.

"This is going to take some getting used to," I mutter.

"Hey, you’re doing great," Daring calls over her shoulder, surprisingly chipper now that we’re near our destination. She halts just a few yards from the temple entrance—a crumbling archway flanked by sculpted stone figures, their faces eroded beyond recognition.

"Well," I say, eyeing the archway. "After you, Ms. Do."

She smirks, adjusting her hat with her good hoof. "Don’t worry, I won’t let you lose another limb."

I scoff. "Yeah, you’d better not. This one took me long enough to replace."

She steps inside, carefully angling her body to avoid jostling her hurt wing. Rachel and I move to follow, the dry wind scraping across the walls of the temple behind us, whistling like the ghosts of adventurers past. Already, I can see faint glyphs on the stone, telling stories worn away by time and sand.

Off to the side, the remains of an ancient door hinge still cling to the stone—evidence that once, this temple had a grand entrance. Now it’s just rubble. And possibly some lethal traps, a small voice reminds me.

But there’s no turning back. We’re here, and if Daring’s right, so is the other half of that Sunstone. We press on, cautious yet determined, my new prosthetic leg clacking against the ancient floor, runes humming softly as if excited by the temple’s hidden energies.

The temple’s interior is surprisingly intact, despite the collapsed outer walls. Ancient reliefs along the corridors depict half-eroded figures bowing to a solar disc—likely referencing the very Sunstone we’re here to find. The ambiance is exactly what you'd expect from an old ruin: dusty air, stale heat, and an ever-present sense that something (or someone) wants to skewer you.

Daring Do, despite her injured wing, takes the lead. She points out pressure plates camouflaged in the floor, bypasses a tripwire or two, and gestures when to step carefully around uneven stones. It’s all very practiced for her.

For me, it’s a new kind of frustration. My stone leg, guided by the runes, tends to overcorrect on uncertain ground. So whenever it tries to ‘help’ me by shifting weight, I have to counter that impulse with my magic—manually holding it in place so I don’t accidentally stomp on something lethal. But after a few tries, I get into a rhythm.

“Watch your step,” Daring calls from up ahead, hovering a hoof over a row of exposed floor tiles. “These are definitely rigged. See the tiny holes in that relief on the wall? Arrows. Guaranteed.”

I snort. “Great.” I guide my hoof carefully around the suspicious tiles, balancing my body weight as my leg’s runes attempt to tilt me forward. “Stop doing that,” I mutter at the unfeeling chunk of rock attached to my stump. A tiny telekinetic nudge keeps it steady.

Daring smirks at me over her shoulder. “Worried?”

“Worried that my own invention might get me killed? Yes.”

She laughs. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re doing fine.”

We move a bit further, passing through a narrow doorway into a new chamber. Statues of long-forgotten deities stand along the walls, their once-proud faces weathered to lumps. The floor here seems stable—no obvious triggers.

For about three seconds.

Then click.

Daring’s hoof sinks half an inch. She freezes, ears pinned back. “Oh, come on—”

The walls shift. Slots open up, revealing a forest of arrowheads. I don’t hesitate. With a flare of magic, I compress the air on either side of me and Daring, creating an invisible barrier. The arrows fire in a deadly salvo, pock-pock-pock-pock rattling through the corridor in a blinding flurry.

But none reach us.

They clatter to the ground, deflected away by the compressed air layer wrapping around us like a tight bubble. The last arrow hits the stone with a dull thud, and a dusty silence settles.

Daring Do exhales shakily, relief clear on her face. “Thanks. That was… close.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Told you I was good at this stuff.”

She lets out a breathy laugh, stepping carefully off the pressure plate so it doesn’t re-trigger. “I’m starting to see that. You saved my flank—again.” She presses a hoof to the wall, wiping sweat from her brow. “Seriously, that air trick was insane. How’d you even have time to think of that?"

I flick an ear, arching an eyebrow at Daring’s question. “—I am an archmage, after all.”

She blinks. “An archmage?”

“Mm-hmm.” I dispel the compressed air and roll my new stone leg, easing the tension in my shoulders. “Let’s go, Indiana—uh, Daring. We’ve got a relic to find.”

She opens her mouth, probably to ask for details, but I’m already turning away, guiding Rachel along through the corridor. We press deeper into the temple, carefully navigating more crumbling archways and suspicious-looking floor tiles. Every few steps, I raise my hoof so my stone leg doesn’t auto-adjust onto another booby trap.

Eventually, the passage widens into a massive chamber. Shafts of sunlight filter in from cracks in the ceiling, illuminating a raised stone dais. At its center sits a small plinth, ancient glyphs crawling up its sides.

And on that plinth?

A glowing shard of golden crystal—light refracting across the walls in shifting, dancing patterns.

Daring inhales sharply. “The other half of the Sunstone,” she breathes. “We found it.”

I open my mouth to say something snarky—because of course we found it—but a deep laugh echoes through the chamber, bouncing off the old stone pillars.

Ahuizotl.

He steps from behind a broken statue, towering over us with that hulking, blue-furred monkey-dog body and an extra hand at the tip of his tail. His eyes gleam with triumph. And he’s already holding another shard of the Sunstone—one that pulses in perfect harmony with the relic on the plinth.

“You ponies,” he sneers, “are so predictable. Always prancing about, stealing artifacts that rightly belong to my people. But not this time.”

He lifts his half of the Sunstone, eyes narrowing. “This time, I will take what’s mine—and ensure the pony race never defiles our heritage again.”

His cruel grin widens. “With both halves, the Sunstone’s power can amplify sunlight to unimaginable levels… enough to wipe out Equestria, if I so choose.” He huffs. “No more trespassing. No more theft. I’ll eradicate every last one of you.”

Daring’s stance shifts. “Ahuizotl, that’s insane! You don’t know how to control it—”

He ignores her, striding forward, tail-hand poised to snatch the temple’s Sunstone half from the plinth. “I’ll figure it out. And I’ll start by disposing of you first—”

CRACK!

Daring flicks her hoof, and before I can even register it, a whip snaps out, coiling around Ahuizotl’s wrist. He snarls in surprise. The second shard slips from his grasp, clattering off the dais and tumbling across the chamber floor.

“What the—?!” He tugs, ripping the whip aside with a violent yank, but Daring twists deftly, maintaining tension. “Since when do you carry a whip?” I mutter, half-amused.

She flashes me a quick grin, sweat beading on her brow. “Always bring a backup plan.”

Ahuizotl wrenches free, rage contorting his features. He lunges for Daring, but Rachel intervenes, stepping in with stone fists raised. Meanwhile, the artifact rolling across the stone floor bounces off a chipped tile and skitters right toward me.

I freeze.

It stops a hoof’s length away, glowing with a soft, golden light that pulses like a heartbeat.

Daring’s still tangling with Ahuizotl, her whip snapping around his tail-hand to keep him from the first half of the artifact. If those shards fuse, the resulting Sunstone might very well unleash a beam of scorching solar death on everypony in range.

And now, half the fate of Equestria is literally at my hooves.

Well, I think dryly, stooping to pick it up, guess it’s my problem now.

Ahuizotl’s gaze locks on me, his snarling features twisted in rage.
He lunges, tail-hand reaching for the Sunstone shard at my hooves.

I don’t do chase scenes.

Instead, my horn flares, and I lift the glowing fragment in my telekinetic grip. Everypony—and thing—seems to freeze, as if the tension in the air reaches a breaking point.

Ahuizotl takes a single step forward, claws splayed.
“Don’t you—”

Too late.

I separate the artifact atom by atom.

Crack.

A hush of radiant dust hangs in the air, where once the Sunstone half pulsed with ancient energy. I’ve torn every bond holding it together, letting it dissolve into a lifeless speckle of shimmering motes. A faint glimmer, then—nothing.

Ahuizotl’s roar echoes in the chamber, pure fury laced with disbelief.
“You insolent—!”

But I’m already picking up a small stone with my magic—barely bigger than a pebble—before firing it with a whipcrack force. It whizzes by his head, close enough to make his ear twitch, before slamming into the temple wall behind him.

He stops dead, tail-hand hovering in midair.

I don’t raise my voice. No need.
“I’m done with this,” I say, my tone flat as I hold another projectile ready. “Get out. Or the next one goes through you, not past.”

Ahuizotl snarls, chest heaving—but there’s something in my eyes, or maybe in the unwavering hum of my magic, that makes him think twice. He spits a curse in his native tongue, then backs away.

He glares at Daring one last time, then turns and disappears into the shadows of the temple, his footsteps echoing until they fade.

Silence settles.

Daring Do’s whip sags. She slumps, exhaling shakily.
“…That’s one way to handle it.”

I brush some dust off my new leg, ignoring the tremor of adrenaline in my spine.
“Better than letting him blow up Equestria,” I say dryly.

Daring’s gaze drops to the scattered motes where the Sunstone fragment once lay. She sighs, ears flattening slightly.
“That was history. It… belonged in a museum,” she mutters, half to herself. But then her eyes flick up to me, and she offers a faint smile. “Still, guess it’s better that this ended before a giant boulder tried to crush me or I got tied up above piranhas.” She grabs the other half of the sunstone and sticks it in her hat.

I smirk. "Oh?"

She turns away, scanning the temple as if looking for something else to focus on. But It's such a low-hanging fruit.

I tilt my head, voice smooth. “You look like the kind of mare that likes to get tied up though.”

Daring Do’s wings twitch violently. She stiffens, her ears flicking back as a red hue creeps up her face.

Her head snaps toward me, eyes wide. “I—what?!”

I shrug innocently. “Just saying. That whole ‘reckless adventurer in constant peril’ thing? Sounds like a lifestyle choice.”

She sputters. Actually sputters.

Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again—probably cycling through at least three different comebacks—before she finally scowls, shoving her hat down over her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

I chuckle, messing with my new leg and testing the balance. “Yep.”

Rachel, who has been watching this entire exchange silently, turns her head toward Daring. There’s no way she understands the context, but she knows Daring is flustered. The stone golem tilts her head, eyes tracking Daring’s ears as they flick in agitation.

Daring clears her throat aggressively, adjusting her saddlebag. “We should head back.”

“Uh-huh.” I flick some dust off my foreleg. “Before you end up dangling over lava or something.”

She glares, but there’s a twitch at the corner of her lips.

We make our way back through the temple ruins, Daring noticeably avoiding eye contact while I smirk the entire way.

As soon as we step out into the blazing desert sun, the floating cart comes into view.

Daring stops, squinting at it like she’s seeing it for the first time all over again.

“Yeah,” she mutters, rubbing the back of her neck. “That thing is still way too cool.”

I step up onto it, adjusting the runes for flight. “You gonna keep staring or you getting on?”

She huffs, flicking her tail as she hops on beside me. “You’re so lucky I need a ride.”

I smirk as the runes glow beneath us. “Uh-huh.”

Rachel climbs up last, settling into her usual spot, her gaze still flicking toward Daring every so often.

I feed magic into the controls. “Activate: Up.”

The cart rises, lifting us above the scorching Badlands, leaving the temple, the ruined Sunstone shard, and Ahuizotl far behind.

The badlands stretch endlessly beneath us, the floating cart gliding smoothly through the sky. The wind is warm, dry, and unrelenting, but up here, it’s not so bad. The altitude keeps the worst of the heat off, and with the traps and ancient death machines behind us, the ride is actually kind of… peaceful.

For once.

Daring Do stretches her wings—wincing slightly as she remembers one is still sprained—and sighs. "Alright, I gotta ask," she says, shooting me a sideways glance. "How’d a unicorn like you end up building this stuff?" She taps a hoof on the floating slab beneath us. "You don’t exactly seem like the artifact-hunting, ruin-diving type."

I smirk. "What, you mean I’m not constantly throwing myself into danger for fun? Yeah. No."

She snorts. "So what do you do?"

"Stay inside. Read. Build things. Try not to lose limbs.”

Daring chuckles, shaking her head. "You’re one weird stallion, you know that?"

I shrug. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She tilts her head, watching me for a moment. “Nah. Just different.” Then, with a smirk of her own, she leans back slightly. “Still, it’s weird that somepony as talented as you is wasting all that potential holed up at home.”

I roll my eyes. “I get it, I get it—you think I should be ‘out in the world,’ making history or whatever.”

She points a hoof at me. “Exactly.”

I scoff. "Not everypony wants to go raiding ancient death traps."

"Yeah, yeah. Still—" she gestures at me vaguely, her eyes scanning me like she’s trying to figure something out. "You’re good at this. The magic, the problem-solving, the whole ‘saving my flank’ thing. You could do a lot of good if you, you know, stuck around."

I quirk an eyebrow. "Stuck around?"

Daring Do's ears flick back slightly. She clears her throat, avoiding my gaze for the first time since I met her. “Yeah, you know. Maybe we could do this again sometime.” She rubs the back of her neck, suddenly very interested in the clouds passing by. "Wouldn’t be the worst thing to have a partner who isn’t actively trying to kill me."

Oh, she’s flustered. That’s interesting.

I smirk. "Are you asking me to be your sidekick, Daring?"

She groans, throwing her head back. "Oh, shut up."

I chuckle. "I dunno, you seem like you’re asking me to be your sidekick. I mean, clearly you need the help, what with all the quicksand incidents—"

"I had it handled!"

“Right. Totally. If by ‘handled’ you mean ‘sinking faster by the second.’”

She grumbles, crossing her forelegs and looking away. The redness in her face is almost impossible to miss. "I hate you."

I grin. "No, you don’t."

She mutters something under her breath, flicking her tail.

The teasing aside, I let the silence linger for a moment. I could humor her, maybe even consider it.

But… no.

I shake my head, sighing. “Sorry, adventuring’s not my thing. I’m a homebody, always have been. As soon as I get my bearings, I’m heading back to Ponyville. My house.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Then—slowly—she nods, her ears drooping slightly. “Yeah… yeah, I figured.”

I raise an eyebrow. "What, disappointed?"

She scoffs. "Pfft, no! I barely know you." She shifts, looking away again. "Just… would’ve been nice to have somepony watching my back for once, y’know?"

I smirk. “You’re really bad at asking for things.”

“Shut up.”

The cart hums as we glide forward, leaving the temple behind. The adventure’s over. And, for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m finally heading home.

But before the silence can settle too much, Daring Do flicks her tail, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye. “You know…” she says, her voice casual, too casual, “I might stop by.”

I blink. “What?”

She shrugs. “Ponyville’s not that far. And if you happen to be around, maybe I’ll swing by. See how the homebody life’s treating you.”

I smirk. "That so?"

She grins. "Yeah. Somepony’s gotta make sure you don’t get too boring."

I shake my head, amused. “Right. Because I’m the boring one.”

“Exactly.”

The cart drifts forward, the desert stretching out before us. And somewhere in the distance, the horizon beckons.

For now, though?

I’m just happy to be heading home.

A Break?
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Applied Mathemagics

A Break?

The sun dips below the horizon, staining the desert in shades of deep amber and violet. The heat that had been relentless all day finally starts to fade, leaving behind a cooling breeze that ruffles my mane.

We glide for a while longer before I finally guide the cart down, settling us onto a relatively flat stretch of sand near a rocky outcrop.

“Alright,” I mutter, stretching my legs as I step off the floating slab. “We stop here for the night.”

Daring hops off after me, rolling her shoulders. “Good call. Flying all day takes it out of a mare.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “You’ve been sitting all day.”

She smirks. “Mental effort still counts.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m too tired to argue. Instead, I focus on setting up camp. I gather some firewood—more accurately, dense chunks of dried cactus and desert brush—and ignite them with a simple spark of magic. The flames catch quickly, casting flickering shadows against the rocks. I grab out some of the food the ponies of Mirrormire gifted me, hoofing some to Daring.

Daring plops down next to the fire, stretching out with a satisfied sigh. “Now this is what I’m talking about. Good meal, warm fire, and good company. You’re not half bad to travel with, you know.”

I snort. “High praise, coming from the great Daring Do.”

She smirks. “Damn right.”

Rachel remains standing, watching over the area like an unmoving sentinel.

Daring watches Rachel for a moment, then turns back to me, shifting slightly so she’s leaning against my side.

I blink.

She’s not exactly cuddling, but she is closer than before. Too close for it to be just casual.

I glance at her. “...Comfortable?”

She smirks, stretching again, her wing brushing against me. “What? You’re warm.”

I roll my eyes. “Uh-huh.”

She shifts again, now fully leaning against my shoulder. “Admit it,” she says, her voice playfully low. “You like me.”

I scoff. “I tolerate you.”

She chuckles, her breath warm against my coat. “Mmhm. Keep telling yourself that.”

I feel her tail flick lightly against my side.

Okay. This is getting weird.

I clear my throat, forcing some distance between us by leaning forward to poke at the fire. “Get some sleep, Daring. We’ve got another long day ahead.”

She hums, a lazy, amused sound. “Yeah, yeah.”

She doesn’t move away immediately, but eventually, she stretches out beside me, resting her head on her forelegs.

I sit by the fire for a while longer, listening to the crackling flames, watching the stars slowly blink into view.

Rachel stands at the edge of the camp, unmoving, ever-watchful.

Daring shifts slightly in her sleep, her tail brushing my side again.

I sigh.

The sun rises over the Badlands, bleeding orange and gold across the endless dunes. The air is crisp in the early morning, the last traces of the desert night’s coolness clinging to the sand before the heat sets in again. There's a large dead scorpion nearby, I guess Rachel took it out in our sleep.

I stretch, testing my new leg. The runes adjust instantly, balancing my weight without a hitch.

Daring stirs beside me, grumbling something incoherent as she lifts her head. Her mane is a mess—wild and tousled from sleep—but she doesn’t seem to care. She rolls onto her back with a satisfied groan, stretching her limbs in every direction before shooting me a smirk.

“Morning, genius.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You sure? You still look half-dead.”

She snickers. “Yeah, well. That’s what happens when you drag me across a desert.” She sits up, shaking out her wings, then gives me a slow once-over, her red eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’re up early.”

I shrug. “Had things to check.” I lift my leg for emphasis.

She watches the motion, tilting her head slightly. “Still weird seeing a rock move like that.”

I let out a short laugh. “Magic.”

She smirks. “Right, right. ‘Magic.’” She flicks her tail lazily before hopping to her hooves. “So. We moving out, or do you wanna sit around and admire the sunrise some more?”

I snort. “Let’s go.”

Rachel follows without a word as I hop onto the cart. Daring joins me, settling in beside me with far less personal space than yesterday. I don’t comment on it.

I send a pulse of magic through the runes.

“Activate: Northeast.”

The cart lifts smoothly, floating forward with a steady hum. The morning air is still mild, but I can already feel the heat rising. The landscape rolls beneath us, vast and empty.

Daring stretches out, letting the warm wind ruffle her feathers. She’s more relaxed now, her smirk turning lazy, almost smug.

She’s up to something.

I glance at her. “What?”

She grins. “Nothing.”

I narrow my eyes. “Bullshit.”

She chuckles, shifting her position so she’s very comfortably leaning against my side. “Relax, genius. Just getting cozy.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t shove her off. “You’re awfully touchy for somepony who just met me.”

She shrugs, her wing brushing against my back. “What can I say? You’re growing on me.”

I snort. “Uh-huh.”

She tilts her head, giving me a slow, knowing smile. “Besides… A stallion with brains and magic? You don’t see that every day.”

I blink.

That… felt different.

I shoot her a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her smirk widens. “Nothing~.”

I frown, thinking about that for a second.

It’s subtle—so subtle I almost miss it—but there’s something in the way she talks, the way she leans into me like it’s expected, the way she teases without hesitation.

Something's different.

I don’t fully get it yet.

But Daring is looking at me like she’s on the hunt.

The cart hums steadily beneath us, floating smoothly across the desert air. The landscape stretches endlessly in every direction, the jagged rock formations and shifting dunes rolling by like an endless sea of gold and rust.

Daring shifts beside me, stretching her wings before tucking them in against her sides. “Not that I don’t enjoy a good scenic flight, but we could stand to pick up the pace. Feels like we’re crawling.”

I nod. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

Now that I actually have all my limbs functioning—well, mostly—I can afford to increase speed. I glance down at the runes inscribed into the cart’s surface. Right now, they’re optimized for stability and controlled motion, not raw speed.

That’s easy enough to fix.

I shift my weight slightly. “I’m landing us for a bit. Gotta make some upgrades.”

Daring raises an eyebrow. “Upgrades?”

“You’ll see.”

I give the command. “Down.”

The cart descends smoothly, settling onto the cracked, dry earth with a faint thud. I hop off, my new leg compensating for the uneven terrain instantly. The movement is still a little weird—the way it automatically balances when I move forward—but I’m getting used to it.

Daring stretches as she steps down, rolling her shoulders. “Alright, genius. What’s the plan?”

I tap the surface of the cart. “Right now, it’s designed for smooth, steady movement. But that’s limiting our speed.” I levitate my rune book, flipping to the right section. “I need to carve in a few acceleration runes.”

She smirks. “That sounds fun.”

I kneel down, my magic flaring as I begin carving.

The acceleration rune goes in first—a modification to the existing propulsion runes, allowing for a stronger burst of force without sacrificing control. Then, I add an adjustment rune to let me fine-tune the speed mid-flight.

As I work, Daring watches, her red eyes flicking between the glowing inscriptions. “You know,” she muses, “I’ve seen some crazy artifacts, but I’ve never met somepony who could just make them.”

I shrug, focused on my work. “Magic’s not just about spells. It’s about understanding how things work.” I etch another line into the stone, refining the stabilization sigil. “A lot of ponies just throw magic at problems and hope it sticks.”

Daring smirks. “And you?”

“I fix things,” I say simply. “I don’t just brute force my way through.”

She tilts her head. “Is that why you’re such a pain in the flank?”

I snort. “Probably.”

She chuckles, watching as I carve a few more adjustments.

After a few minutes, I step back, inspecting my work. The cart hums faintly as the new runes settle in, their magic syncing with the existing runes.

“That should do it,” I mutter. “But if we’re going to be flying faster, we need actual seats.”

Daring’s ears perk. “Seats?”

“Unless you like the idea of getting flung off at high speed,” I quip.

She smirks. “I do like a little danger.”

I roll my eyes and get to work.

Using my magic, I add some mass, and adjust the stone surface, carving out two proper seats—angled slightly for comfort, with raised edges to keep us from sliding off. It’s still rock, but it’s better than the flat, featureless slab we’ve been sitting on.

Daring flops into hers as soon as I finish, testing it out. “Huh. Not bad. Could use some padding.”

I sigh. “I’ll get right on that when we aren’t in the middle of nowhere.”

She grins. “I’ll hold you to that.”

I settle into my own seat, adjusting my position until it feels right. The new configuration lets me brace myself better, making high-speed travel a lot safer.

Daring shifts beside me, flashing a smirk. “Alright, professor. Let’s see what this thing can do.”

I shake my head, amusement tugging at my lips. “Hang on.”

I send a pulse of magic through the runes.

“Activate: Acceleration.”

The cart lurches forward, the propulsion runes kicking in with far more force than before. The landscape blurs beneath us as we surge ahead, cutting through the desert air with a speed that makes Daring’s hat nearly fly off. It sticks me to the back of my seat, so I slightly lower the speed.

She whoops, grinning. “Now we’re moving!”

I smirk.

Yeah.

This is much better.

The desert rushes past us, a blur of sunbaked rock and shifting sand. The upgraded acceleration runes hum steadily, their magic keeping the cart smooth despite the sheer speed we’re moving at. Though I do have to limit our speed due to the lack of a barrier to deflect the wind.

Daring adjusts her hat, holding it in place with a hoof. She’s settled comfortably into her seat now, having gotten used to the pace. For a while, we just enjoy the flight, the wind rushing past, the heat less suffocating up here in the open air.

Then, after a stretch of silence, she speaks.

“So…” she starts casually, like she’s not about to dig into something I definitely don’t want to talk about. “How’d you lose the leg?”

I don’t look at her.

I focus on the horizon, watching the Badlands stretch endlessly ahead. “You don’t want to hear that story.”

She leans back, raising an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

I let out a slow breath through my nose.

I really don’t want to get into this.

But… I doubt I’ll ever see her again after this. Once we get back to civilization, we’ll go our separate ways. She’ll go back to adventuring, and I’ll go back to my house in Ponyville.

So, really—what’s the harm?

I exhale. “Tartarus.”

Daring’s ears twitch. “Come again?”

I glance at her. “I lost it in Tartarus.”

She blinks.

Then sits up slightly. “You’re joking.”

I shake my head. “Wish I was.”

She studies me, her expression shifting from mild curiosity to something more serious. “You’re telling me you—what—fell into Tartarus? Got attacked? Escaped?”

“Yeah,” I say simply. “All of the above.”

She lets out a slow whistle. “Alright, you have to give me more than that.”

I sigh, rubbing a hoof against my forehead. "Fine. But you're not gonna like it."

Daring Do leans forward, intrigued. "Try me."

I exhale, staring at the horizon. "You know about the Canterlot wedding invasion, right?"

She snorts. "Who doesn't? It was huge news. Changeling Queen infiltrates the royal wedding, brainwashes the groom, takes down Princess Celestia herself. Then—bam—the whole swarm gets blasted out of Canterlot in one massive love-powered shockwave." She glances at me. "Don't tell me you were there."

I smirk, but it doesn't reach my eyes. "I was there."

Daring's ears flick up. "What?"

I nod, my expression unreadable. "Friend of a friend got me in. I wasn't supposed to do much—just guard a bit. But when everything started going south, I figured I might as well make myself useful."

Daring squints. "Alright. And?"

I inhale slowly, the memories creeping back, sharp and vivid. "I stalled the queen."

Her brow furrows. "What, like—fought her?"

I shake my head. "No. That would've been stupid. I wasn't there to win, I was there to disrupt. I needed her focused on me, needed her distracted enough to give the others time."

Daring folds her forelegs. "How'd you pull that off?"

I glance at her, my smirk turning sharp. "By making myself look too badass to ignore."

She raises an eyebrow. "Oh, please."

"I'm serious." I chuckle dryly. "I took down one of her guards in front of her. Clean. Quick. No hesitation."

Daring's amusement dims slightly, but she stays quiet.

"And then," I continue, "I said some things to throw her off her game."

"Like what?"

I tilt my head slightly. "I told her we were a lot alike."

Daring snorts. "That's usually her line."

"I know." I grin. "That's what made it work."

She shakes her head, but I can tell she's impressed. "Alright, fine. So you played mind games with the queen. Then what?"

I lean back, my voice turning a little distant. "I made myself seem... dangerous. More than just a rogue element. I made her think I had a bigger plan, that I was a real threat to her control."

Daring tilts her head. "How?"

I meet her gaze, a flicker of amusement in my eyes. "By telling her that after I took the city, I was going to claim her as my queen."

Daring's mouth drops open. "You what?"

I chuckle. "She didn't see that one coming, either."

She sputters, processing. "You—you—looked Queen Chrysalis in the eye and told her you were going to take her as your queen?"

"Yep."

Daring shakes her head, half laughing, half disbelieving. "You’re insane."

"Worked, though." I smirk. "She was too confused, too pissed off to think straight. Gave Cadence the opening she needed to do her spell."

Daring hums. "Alright. So you helped save the day. But that doesn't explain the leg."

I sigh, my expression darkening. "Because she—Princess Cadence—betrayed me."

Daring blinks. "What?"

I exhale sharply. "I freed her. I gave her the chance to power up that shield spell with her fiancé. And when it went off—when it launched every changeling out of the city—it launched me too."

Daring frowns. "Wait—hold on. You're telling me—"

"She hit me with the same blast." My voice is bitter. "Like I was just another monster."

She stares at me. "...Shit."

"Yeah."

A silence stretches between us.

She watches me, her face unreadable, before she finally speaks. "And you woke up in the Badlands."

"With all my legs broken," I confirm. "Then I got swallowed up by a sand pit and ended up in Tartarus."

Daring exhales, rubbing her forehead. "And after all that, you still made it out?"

"More or less." I gesture at my prosthetic. "One leg lighter. Went bad while healing, had to cut it off myself."

She shakes her head, an odd mix of disbelief and respect on her face. "That is the most insane thing I’ve ever heard."

I smirk slightly. "And you’re saying that."

She huffs a laugh, but it’s subdued. "Yeah, well. I’d be pissed too."

I shrug, not wanting to dwell on it. "Not much to do about it now."

She watches me for a long moment. Then, finally, she nods.

"Still," she says, voice softer than before. "That’s a hell of a thing to survive."

I don’t respond.

I just keep my eyes on the horizon, the hum of the cart filling the silence between us.

Redstone Gulch appears on the horizon like an oasis of civilization in the middle of desolation. The town is built against the side of a red rock canyon, the structures a mix of sunbaked wood and weathered stone. It’s not large, but it’s lively—ponies, griffons, and even a few diamond dogs move through the dusty streets, their voices mingling in a low hum of trade and conversation.

I bring the cart down carefully, adjusting the descent with a flick of magic. The floating slab settles just outside the main street, dust kicking up as we touch ground.

Daring stretches as she hops off, rolling her shoulders. "Finally. Solid ground."

I dismount more carefully, stepping onto my prosthetic, feeling the weight distribution adjust automatically beneath me. "First stop’s the healer," I remind her.

She sighs. "Yeah, yeah."

We make our way through the town, drawing a few curious looks. I can’t blame them—between my runes and Rachel looming behind me like a living statue, we’re probably the strangest thing they’ve seen in a while.

The healer’s clinic is a modest building tucked near the canyon wall, a wooden sign with a red cross hanging outside. We step in, the air noticeably cooler inside.

A unicorn stallion in a white coat greets us, adjusting his spectacles as he looks us over. “What’s the problem?”

Daring gestures to her wing. “Sprained it pretty bad.”

He nods, motioning her to a cot. “Easy fix. 50 bits.”

I reach into my saddlebag, already pulling out the payment, but before I can hand it over, Daring’s hoof slaps mine away.

“Uh, no,” she says firmly, reaching into her shirt pocket. “I can’t have a stallion paying for me. That would hurt my pride.”

I raise an eyebrow as she pulls out her own bits and drops them onto the healer’s desk. "That so?"

She nods, grinning. “I have a reputation, you know.”

I snort but don’t argue.

The healer’s magic flares to life, golden light weaving around Daring’s wing. She winces at first, but within seconds, her feathers straighten, the muscles realigning properly. She flexes it, testing the range of motion.

“All set,” the healer says, stepping back. “Try not to stress it too much today.”

Daring flaps once, then grins. “Good as new.”

I turn to leave, but she grabs my foreleg. “Hey.”

I glance back. “What?”

She hesitates, her usual confidence flickering slightly. “Stick around a bit?”

I sigh. “Daring…”

“Come on, Redstone Gulch isn’t so bad. We could grab a drink, find an inn—” She stops herself, clearing her throat. “Just for a little while.”

I shake my head. “I was just sticking around long enough to make sure you were okay. Now I’m heading on to Dodge City.”

Her ears dip just slightly before she schools her expression back into her usual smirk. “Alright, alright. Can’t keep a genius cooped up too long, huh?”

“Something like that.”

She sighs dramatically. “Fine. But don’t think you’re getting rid of me that easily. I will find you.”

And before I can react, she darts in, pressing a quick, heated kiss to my cheek.

I freeze.

She pulls back, winking. “See you around, Archmage.”

Then, with a powerful flap of her newly healed wings, she’s airborne, disappearing over the rooftops before I can even find words.

I blink.

Rachel, standing at my side, tilts her head at me.

“…Shut up,” I mutter, climbing back onto the cart.

I fire up the runes, setting my course for Dodge City.

Time to move on.

The journey to Dodge City is uneventful.

The wind sweeps through the open plains, the dry, cracked dirt shifting into firmer, well-traveled roads. The stars above are endless, untouched by city lights, stretching out in a way that makes the world feel far too big and far too empty at the same time.

I fly through the night, stopping only to rest briefly because I’m tired. Not physically, but mentally.

It gives me time to think.

Do I even want to go back?

That thought lingers, more than I expect it to.

Ponyville. My house. My life before all this.

But if I don’t go back… where would I go?

The Badlands are behind me, Tartarus is buried in my past, and every road ahead leads somewhere I’ve never been. I could vanish if I wanted to. Start over.

But would that be better?

By the time I reach Dodge City, I still don’t have an answer.

The town sprawls out beneath me, a true Old West settlement straight out of an era that should be long past. Wooden buildings, long porches, hitching posts—even a dusty main street wide enough for stagecoaches and wagons to roll through.

I bring the cart down, landing at the edge of town, dismissing the flight rune as I step onto solid ground.

Ponies move about, dressed in loose, practical clothes to combat the heat. I briefly wonder why they don't just forgo them. A few give me curious glances, my self-moving stone leg and looming golem companion drawing more than a few double takes.

I ignore it, looking around.

Then I see it.

A saloon.

An honest-to-Celestia saloon, with swinging doors and everything.

I grin.

"I've always wanted to bust in a saloon."

I thrust the swinging doors open with magic, stepping inside with the kind of controlled confidence that villains always have in movies.

The inside is dimly lit, warm, and lively. Ponies sit at round tables, gambling, drinking, laughing. A piano plays in the corner, the tune upbeat but lazy.

Everypony turns to look as I enter.

I walk forward, my stone leg moving with its automatic precision, my golem shadowing me like an ever-present specter.

I expect them to see something dangerous.

Something intimidating.

But instead, there’s a different kind of tension.

A shift in the air.

I can’t quite place it.

I make my way to the bar, ordering the first thing that comes to mind. “Mead.”

The bartender—a sturdy earth pony stallion with a graying mane—raises an eyebrow but nods, pouring me a glass.

I take a sip, glancing around.

That’s when she slides up beside me.

A mare settles onto the stool next to me, her presence casual, like she’s been waiting for me to show up. She’s got a coat the color of sunbaked wheat, with a wild auburn mane that falls just past her shoulders. A well-worn hat sits tilted over one ear, and her emerald eyes flick up at me with interest.

“Well now,” she drawls, her voice thick with a country accent, smooth as honey but with an unmistakable bite. “Ain’t every day a stallion like you waltzes into town.”

I pause mid-sip, side-eyeing her. “A stallion like me?”

She leans an elbow on the bar, giving me a slow once-over. “All broody ‘n mysterious. That’s a look, sugar.”

I blink.

That was… a line.

A flirtatious line.

At me.

I glance at my reflection in the polished surface of the bar.

I look like I belong in a villain’s wanted poster—hair frayed from travel, dark eyes half-lidded from lack of sleep, my prosthetic leg shifting and adjusting on its own. And Rachel, looming behind me like a silent guardian made of stone.

“…You sure?” I ask, turning back to her, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t exactly scream ‘approachable.’”
She tips her hat back, letting me see more of those bright green eyes. “Oh, sugar, if a stallion sets hoof in a place like this, rest assured somepony’s gonna mosey on over.”

I blink slowly, taking another sip of mead. “Is that so?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She leans in, not shy at all about bridging personal space. “Name’s Meadow Lily. An’ you?”

I cough softly, trying to gather myself. “Kinetic Flux.”

She smiles, showing a hint of teeth. “Well, Mr. Flux, you sure do make an entrance. That fancy rock leg of yours, an’… what in tarnation is that behind you?” She points to Rachel, who stands silently at my flank.

“My golem,” I say, watching Meadow Lily’s reaction. She doesn’t flinch, just takes in Rachel’s towering form with keen curiosity.

“A golem, huh?” She nods, impressed. “You sure are full of surprises.” Her gaze flicks back to me, something openly appraising there. “I like surprises.”

I exhale slowly, processing the sudden attention. “I’m just getting a drink. Didn’t expect… this.”

She chuckles, a low, warm sound. “Oh, honey, a handsome stallion like you comes strollin’ into a saloon and you think nopony’s gonna notice?” Her tone suggests it’s the most obvious fact in the world.

I squint slightly. “I… guess?”

Meadow Lily smirks, leaning an elbow on the bar. “You ‘guess’? Darlin’, you look like some mysterious loner blowin’ into town, cloak billowin’, fancy magic hummin’. That’s quite the sight to see.”

I don't have a cloak on.

I glance around. A few other mares in the saloon are giving me side glances too, whispering and eyeing me from a distance. The stallions, few that they are, are going about their business—some gambling, some chatting—but the mares look… intrigued.

I shift uncomfortably on my stool. “I thought I looked more… villainous.”

Meadow Lily’s grin widens. “Villainous? Oh, sugar, you look like trouble, sure enough. But y’know what they say about trouble.”

I tilt my head. “No. What do they say?”

Her eyes spark with mischief. “That the right mare just loves to chase it.”

I stare, trying to piece together this sudden wave of attention.

Meadow Lily notices my confusion and raises an eyebrow. “Somethin’ the matter, sugarcube?”

I quickly school my features into something neutral. “Uh, no. Just… not used to this.”

She chuckles, taking a swig of her own drink. “Well, get used to it.’”

I open my mouth, then close it, faintly aware that my ears are burning. “Right,” I manage, knocking back another gulp of mead. “So… you come here often?”

She cackles, slapping the bar. “Oh, that’s rich. Don’t you worry, sugar, I’ll do the smooth talkin’. You just sip that mead an’ look pretty.”

I sputter. “I—”

Meadow Lily just pats my shoulder, winking. “You’ll figure out how it works soon enough, pretty colt.”

A small, stunned laugh escapes me. “Can’t say I’ve ever been in this situation.”

She smirks. “Don’t look so spooked, now.” Her gaze flicks to Rachel, then back to me. “Your friend here doesn’t mind, does she?”

Rachel remains unmoving, carved irises unblinking as she surveys the room. “She’s not really the jealous type,” I say, voice a bit dry.

Meadow Lily lifts her glass in a mock toast. “Well then, here’s to us, handsome.” She downs the rest of her drink in one go.

And I… slowly sip mine, still grappling with the realization that I'm probably the one who should be careful about having too many drinks in this situation.

I groan.

Everything hurts.

My head is pounding, my mouth is dry, and my body feels like I got hit by a train. A very soft, warm, suspiciously comfortable train.

I crack an eye open.

Sunlight filters through wooden slats, casting golden beams across the room. The sheets are… softer than I remember. And the air smells faintly of sweat, whiskey, and something very distinctly not mine.

My stomach sinks.

I turn my head.

Meadow Lily is already up, standing near a wooden dresser, fastening a leather strap around her. Her wild auburn mane is slightly tamed, tucked behind her ears as she adjusts her work vest. A well-worn hat rests nearby, within easy reach.

She notices me stirring and smirks at me in the mirror.

“Mornin’, sugar.”

My brain grinds to a slow, agonizing halt.

I stare at her.

She smirks wider.

I glance down.

The sheets are barely covering me.

I glance at her again.

She finishes fastening her vest and turns fully, stretching lazily. The movement makes her muscles shift.

I want to die.

I definitely want to die.

Something in my expression must be entertaining, because she chuckles. “Feelin’ alright there, darlin’?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to remember how exactly this happened.

Flashes come back in patches.

The saloon. Drinks. Too many drinks. Her laughing, leaning against me, that damn smirk. More drinks. Her teasing. My face burning. More drinks.

Then—

Then I remember hooves.

A lot of hooves.

Her pulling me up the stairs.

My brain aborts that train of thought immediately.

I groan, dragging a pillow over my face.

“Ohhh, fuck.”

Meadow Lily laughs again, and it’s too pleased.

She steps closer, tilting her head down to my level. “Don’t tell me y’aint used to wakin’ up next to a mare, sugar.”

I groan louder.

She hums. “Mighty shy for a stallion who was all over me last night.”

I die.

Buried under blankets, I try to process the existential horror of the situation.

I feel used.

I peek out from under the pillow, my voice hoarse. “…We definitely—”

“Oh, yeah,” she confirms, adjusting her hat. “A few times, actually.”

She leans down, close enough that I can smell whiskey on her breath. “And sugar, you enjoyed yourself.”

I whimper.

She laughs, clapping my shoulder like this is the funniest thing she’s ever seen.

I sit up violently, gripping my head as my skull punishes me for it. “Ow.”

“Yeahhh,” Meadow Lily drawls, trotting toward the door. “You had yourself a mighty fine evenin’—‘til the Aqua Vitae caught up with ya.” She pauses at the doorway, turning back. “Ain’t often I meet a stallion that can keep up with me.”

I rub my face, still piecing myself together. “I—I don’t normally—”

“Uh-huh.” She smirks. “That’s what they all say.”

I groan, dragging a hoof down my face. “Please stop.”

She chuckles but doesn’t press it further. Instead, she adjusts her hat, grabs a work satchel, and makes for the door.

“Got work to get to,” she says. “You take your time gettin’ yourself together, handsome.”

I blink at her. “Wait, so you’re just—leaving?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Well, yeah. Ain’t like I expect ya to cook breakfast or somethin’.”

I stare.

She tips her hat with a lazy grin. “If y’ever come back through Dodge, sugar, you look me up.”

Then, just like that, she’s gone.

I am alone.

Hungover.

And absolutely, completely re-evaluating my life choices.

I flop back onto the bed.

Rachel is never going to let me live this down.

I sit up too fast again, groaning as my head reminds me that I am, in fact, still hungover.

Then another realization hits me like a brick.

“…Where the fuck is Rachel?”

Panic sets in immediately.

I shove myself off the bed, nearly tripping over my own legs as I scramble toward the door. My magic fumbles with the handle, still sluggish from the aftereffects of last night, but I get it open—

And there she is.

Standing.

Waiting.

Right outside the door.

Rachel.

My ever-present, ever-watchful, silent-as-the-grave golem daughter? Bodyguard? Question mark?

I freeze.

She tilts her head.

Slowly.

Like she’s assessing me.

Like she knows.

My stomach drops.

I stare at her.

She stares at me.

For a long, long moment, we just stand there.

Then, finally, I break.

I drag a hoof down my face, exhaling sharply. "If I’m supposed to be some kind of parent here… I’m definitely the worst.”

Rachel doesn’t respond.

Because she doesn’t have to.

The weight of her judgment is palpable.

I groan, rubbing my temple. “Don’t look at me like that.”

She tilts her head slightly in the other direction.

Like she’s evaluating that statement.

I sigh and step past her, moving stiffly, my muscles still deeply unhappy with me.

Rachel follows.

Silent.

Unyielding.

Unforgiving.

I resist the urge to die inside.

At least until I get some food.

I step out of Meadow’s house, the morning sun doing absolutely nothing to help the lingering fog in my head. The town is already alive—ponies moving through the streets, carts rolling past, the distant hum of conversations filling the air.

Rachel follows.

Still silent.

Still hovering at my side like a stone specter.

I ignore her.

What I don’t ignore is the unmistakable scent of food drifting through the air—something warm, buttery, pancakes.

I turn instinctively, scanning the street until my eyes land on a small diner tucked between two larger buildings. Dodge Eats.

Food.

I’m getting food.

The bell jingles as I step inside, the air immediately welcoming with the scent of syrup and coffee. The place isn’t too crowded—mostly locals, chatting over their breakfasts.

Rachel follows me in.

A few ponies glance up at her. One stallion does a double take.

I ignore them and make my way to a booth, sliding into the seat. Rachel sits next to me, the weight of her presence immediately noticeable as the bench creaks slightly under her mass.

A waitress—a pale blue earth pony with her mane in a tight bun—wanders over with a practiced smile. “Mornin’, sugar. What’ll it be?”

I don’t even look at the menu. “Pancakes. Big stack.”

She nods. “You want syrup with that?”

I blink. “Who orders pancakes without syrup?”

She chuckles. “You’d be surprised.”

I shake my head. “Yeah, uh—syrup. And coffee.”

“Comin’ right up.” She turns away, disappearing behind the counter.

Rachel, who had been still up until now, reaches out and starts playing with my mane.

I freeze.

She doesn’t braid it or anything. Just touches it, running her stone fingers through the strands like she’s idly inspecting them.

I sigh. “Rachel. Stop.”

She doesn’t.

I let my head drop onto the table.

“…Fine. Whatever.”

I feel like somepony’s doll.

A few minutes pass before the waitress returns, setting down my food and coffee. As I dig in—because I need this—Rachel continues her mane fixation, completely ignoring personal space.

After a few bites, I glance at the waitress. “Where do ponies find jobs around here?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Depends on what you’re lookin’ for. We got a job board right outside, usually got somethin’ pinned up.”

I nod. “Classic.”

She smirks. “Ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

I finish my pancakes, leaving a few bits on the table before stepping back outside. Rachel, of course, follows.

Just beside the saloon, I spot the job board—a big wooden structure covered in pinned flyers. I scan over them, eyes flicking across various listings.

Most are simple, local work.

Unicorn Wanted: Help Lifting Equipment (5 bits per hour)

Ice Delivery Needed (10 bits a block)

Fence Repair—Will Pay in Meals

Assistant Needed for Storefront Displays

Nothing too complicated.

I tilt my head, considering.

I could make some quick cash while I’m here.

I don’t need to leave just yet.

The idea of not rushing off immediately, of just being somewhere for a while, is surprisingly… appealing.

I glance up at the skyline, the desert warmth settling around me.

Maybe I’ll stay.

At least for a bit.

I take down the Ice job and head to the address, which leads me to an old earth pony stallion named Cold Stone. He’s sweating bullets in the morning sun, standing outside his shop.

“You’re here about the ice?” he asks, looking me up and down.

“Yeah. Still need it?”

“Absolutely. You can actually make ice?” There’s skepticism in his tone, but he wouldn’t have posted the job if he had a better option. He explains ice is hard to get in the savanna region. No unicorns specialized in cold magic, no natural frozen lakes, and no storage that keeps it from melting before delivery.

“Don't worry, I can make ice,” I say confidently. “Give me a few minutes.”

I take to the sky, flying towards the large reservoir on the outskirts of town—the town’s main water supply. It’s a still, reflective pool, well-maintained and clean enough that even I wouldn’t be afraid to drink from it.

Hovering just above the surface, I channel my telekinesis into the molecules, slowing their movement, sapping their energy. The temperature plummets as I push it into a lattice, and within seconds, sheets of ice form. I keep going, compressing and sculpting, until I have ten solid blocks, each about the size of a hay bale.

With a flick of telekinesis, I lift them onto my cart, arranging them so they won’t shift mid-flight. Each block glistens under the sun, already beginning to sweat, but they’ll last long enough.

By the time I get back to Cold Stone’s shop, he’s gaping. “Well, I’ll be… You actually did it.”

I unload the blocks onto his waiting platform, letting them thud into place. “That’s the job, right?”

He grins. “That’s the job. Here.” He tosses me a pouch of 100 bits, a decent payout for maybe fifteen minutes of work.

“Pleasure doing business,” I say, pocketing the bits.

“You’re something else, Mage.” Cold Stone shakes his head, still in disbelief. “Might have more work for you soon.”

I smirk. “Just put it on the board.”

With that, I take off, heading back into town. Easy money.

Now, what’s next?

With my pockets heavier, I make my way toward the Dodge City Post Office. It’s a dusty, sun-bleached building with a faded sign and a bored-looking pegasus stallion behind the counter.

Walking in, I remind myself that almost nopony here knows who I am. I’m not the famous “Archmage Flux” out here. Just another unicorn passing through, which is an incredible change of pace. Except for Meadow Lily, who I'm pretending doesn't exist. That suits me just fine.

I step up to the counter. “I need some scrolls, ink, and tags.”

The pegasus raises a brow but nods, rummaging under the counter before dropping a small bundle onto the wooden surface. “That’ll be five bits.”

I slide him the coins and take my supplies to one of the public writing desks. With a deep breath, I unroll the first scroll, dip my quill in ink, and carefully write:

I lived, bitch.
– Kinetic Fuckyou Flux

Simple. Direct. Beautiful.

I repeat this three more times, writing the same thing on each scroll. No context. No further elaboration.

Then, I take the small name tags and attach them to each scroll:

Twilight Sparkle
Princess Cadence
Princess Celestia
Princess Luna

I stare at the scrolls, a satisfied smirk creeping onto my face. Some ponies would write heartfelt letters. Some would explain what happened, clear up misunderstandings, maybe even apologize.

I am not some ponies.

Cadence, in particular, can go straight to Tartarus. She probably feels bad about what happened, but she should. Betraying me, launching me into the Badlands, and leaving me to die? Yeah, no amount of “oops” makes up for that. Twilight and Celestia might have just assumed I was dead, but they never checked. Luna? No clue if she even knew, but she’s getting one anyway.

Satisfied, I roll each scroll up, seal them, and take them back to the counter. The pegasus stallion eyes the tags before shrugging. “You wanna pay for express or standard delivery?”

“Express.” I slap down the extra bits. I want those scrolls in their hooves as soon as possible.

He stamps them and tosses them in a bin. “Should be in Canterlot by tomorrow, Ponyville by the evening.”

Perfect.

Now, for the only letter that actually matters.

I unroll a fresh scroll and dip my quill again, carefully writing a much more detailed message:

Sweetie Belle,
Hey kid, still alive. I’m in Dodge City right now. I got very betrayed, fell into Tartarus, crawled out, and now I’m here. I’m taking a break before heading back to Ponyville. I’ll tell you more later.

In the meantime, you have one task: Cause Problems On Purpose.

Be creative, but don’t get caught. You’re a genius. I expect results.

See you soon,
Kinetic Flux

P.S. You’d be proud of me. I annoyed at least one princess today.

I roll up the scroll, attach the tag with Sweetie Belle’s name, and drop it in the bin.

That’s enough productivity for one morning.

I step out of the post office, stretching under the midday sun. My work here is done. Ice delivered, messages sent, and, most importantly, I have successfully irritated at least one princess today.

Now, I just need to not do anything for a while.

Dodge City isn’t a big place, but it’s got a handful of inns. I pick the one that looks the least likely to have bed bugs—The Rusty Horseshoe. The wooden sign creaks in the breeze as I push open the door.

Inside, it’s quiet. A couple of ponies sit at tables, sipping drinks and chatting. The innkeeper, an older earth pony mare with a faded red coat and graying mane, looks up from the counter.

“Looking for a room?” she asks.

I nod. “Yeah, just for the night.”

“Ten bits.”

I pass her the coins, and she hands me a key. “Upstairs, second door on the right. Breakfast in the morning if you’re up for it.”

“Got it.”

I make my way upstairs, unlock the door, and step inside. It’s simple—a bed, a small desk, a window with the shutters slightly ajar. I drop my saddlebags, flop onto the mattress, and sigh.

This? This is luxury.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not surviving in a hellscape, not fighting for my life, and not being forced into some bullshit that isn't my problem,.

I roll onto my side, staring at the ceiling.

I should probably plan my next move. Figure out what to do from here. Maybe find more work?

…Yeah. Later.

Right now, I’m just going to close my eyes and—

Out.

I don’t do much the next couple of days. It’s a nice change of pace.

Dodge City is the kind of place where nothing happens unless you go looking for it, which suits me fine. I sleep in, eat decent food, and mostly just exist without worrying about survival.

But the highlight? Teaching Rachel.

She’s always been… present. Ever since I brought her to life, she’s been at my side. Quiet, watchful, efficient. But there’s a difference between a tool and a person, and I’m trying to push her into the latter. She’s learning. Slowly.

I set up a quiet place outside of town, an empty stretch of desert where we won’t be bothered. Rachel kneels beside me, waiting. Her blank stone lips don’t move, but her eyes watch me, unblinking.

I’ve made modifications before, but this is different. This isn’t just another combat function.

This is language.

I sit in front of her and tap my own throat. “Alright. Let’s start simple.”

I make a sound. “Ahhh.”

She stares.

I try again. “Ahhh.”

Rachel copies me.

It’s rough. The rune produces the sound, but there’s a delay, and it warbles strangely, like an old phonograph playing at the wrong speed. I nod encouragingly. “Good. Again.”

“Ahhh,” she repeats, still distorted.

We work through the vowels. “Ee,” “Oh,” “Uh.” She struggles, but I can see her learning. She's adjusting herself, refining.

Then, after what feels like hours, she stops.

She just stares at me, the rune flickering wildly. I wait.

And then—

“Kin... et... ic.”

I freeze.

She said my name.

It’s clunky, the tone is uneven, and it comes out as a statement rather than just a sound. But it’s my name.

Rachel stares at me like she’s waiting for something. I realize I’m just gaping at her.

I exhale, nodding. “Yeah. That’s me.”

She nods back.

I reach up, placing my hoof against the cool stone of her cheek. “Good job.”

She shivers.

We move on to more words. Basic ones.

I hold up a rock. “Rock.”

Rachel stares. “Rock.”

I nod. “Yes.”

I tap my chest. “Kinetic.”

She mimics the motion, tapping her own chest. “Rachel.”

I grin. “Yeah, that’s you.”

She learns “sky.” “Sand.” “Cold.” She starts understanding what they mean, not just repeating sounds. She looks at the sky when I say “sky.” She touches the sand when I say “sand.”

And then she discovers negotiation.

Halfway through the lesson, she stops responding. She knows the answers, but she just sits there, motionless. Her rune flickers, almost expectant.

I raise a brow. “Rachel?”

Nothing.

I sigh and, trying to motivate, coo at her. “Come on, Rachel, you’re doing so good.”

The rune pulses, and she immediately says, “Rock.”

I blink.

I hold up another object. “Sand.”

Silence.

I narrow my eyes. “Rachel.”

She stares, waiting.

I groan, rubbing my face. “You’re really gonna make me do this?”

Her rune pulses again.

I exhale. “Rachel, you’re such a smart girl.”

“Sand,” she immediately replies.

Oh. Oh, no.

She’s figured out that I'll coo at her to motivate her to get the answer right. And she’s withholding answers until she gets praised.

I have created a monster.

A very cute monster, but a monster nonetheless.

I know I should break the habit now, but damn it, it’s adorable.

Rachel may not have a real expression, but I can feel the smugness radiating off her.

She’s learning.

And honestly?

I’m proud of her.

I’ve been taking it easy for a few days, but I know it won’t last.

They’re going to come for me.

Twilight, Celestia, Cadence, Luna—at least one of them is going to track me down the second they get my letter. I don’t know how long it’ll take, but I’d rather not be here when they show up.

I need to move.

Back to Ponyville.

It’s not my first choice, but it’s where I built my reputation. It’s where Sweetie Belle is. It’s where I was the town mage before everything went to hell. I can slip back into my role, keep things normal. Besides, Ponyville is a buffer—if the princesses want to confront me, they’ll have to come there.

My flying slab—my ride through Tartarus, my lifeline—has been too useful to just abandon. But I can’t take it whole. It's too big. So, I cut it up.

Using my magic, I slice it into several smaller pieces, each compact enough to fit into a wooden crate. The stone still hums with runic energy, but broken up like this, it won’t look like anything important. Just rocks.

I check it as baggage at the train station, slapping down the necessary bits to have it sent ahead to Ponyville. The station worker barely glances at the crate before shrugging. Dodge City isn’t exactly a place where ponies ask questions.

That just leaves one more thing.

I find a quiet spot near the train station, far enough from prying eyes. My runed prosthetic has been useful, but it’s also a liability. If the princesses think I’m still combat-capable, they’ll try to throw me at another problem.

If I look crippled, they’ll leave me alone.

So, I do what I have to do.

I brace myself, focus my magic on the connection point, and sever the prosthetic. The stone cap remains in place, sealing the old wound. I hiss through my teeth at the phantom pain, my body remembering what it felt like to lose that limb the first time.

I give the detached prosthetic one last look before stuffing it into my bag. If I ever need it again, I’ll reattach it. But for now?

I’m just another crippled unicorn.

I grab my ticket, haul myself onto the train, and take a seat near the back. Rachel sits beside me, silent as ever.

As the train rumbles to life and pulls away from Dodge City, I lean back, closing my eyes.

I don’t know what’s waiting for me in Ponyville.

But I do know this:

They won’t expect me to fight if I can’t stand.

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I stare out the window, watching the savanna roll by. My ears twitch at the steady clack-clack of the train against the tracks, but my mind is elsewhere.

They’re going to freak.

It’s not my fault. I didn’t choose to get launched into the Badlands, didn’t choose to crawl through Tartarus, didn’t choose to almost die repeatedly just to make it back here. But none of that is going to matter.

The second I step off this train, I’m going to have to deal with them.

And by them, I mean Twilight.

She’s always been obvious about her feelings, but I’ve been pretending not to notice. She’s a good pony. I’m a liar, a charlatan, and, if I’m being honest, a coward.

I don’t do relationships. I don’t even do friendships all that well.

But Twilight?

She’s always been pursuing me. Inviting me places. Asking questions she thinks are subtle. Even went on that date with her without realizing it was a date.

And now?

She thought I was dead.

Until she got my letter.

And Twilight… Twilight does not handle stress well. She gets panicky. She spirals. I’ve seen her get overwhelmed just because she didn't get a friendship lesson done on time.

What’s she going to do when she sees me alive after months of thinking I was dead?

I drum my hoof against the armrest, heart thudding. I can picture it too clearly—Twilight seeing me, the way her face will twist between shock and fury, the way she’ll start hyperventilating, the way she’ll yell.

She’ll be mad. She’ll be relieved. Then she’ll panic because that’s just what she does. And I’ll be stuck in the middle of it, trying to explain what happened without actually explaining anything.

I rub my temples, trying to push the thought away, but it just keeps spinning.

She’s going to grab me. Shake me. Probably cry. I don’t know how to deal with crying. I never know what to say when ponies cry.

Rachel, silent as ever, reaches out and pets me.

Her stone fingers slide gently over my mane, slow and rhythmic. My first instinct is to pull away—then I realize I’m shaking.

Damn it.

I close my eyes, exhaling through my nose as I let her continue. She must have picked up on my stress. I should be annoyed that she’s treating me like a distressed animal, but… it’s helping.

I lean into it, just for a moment.

When I finally open my eyes, I notice some ponies on the train are staring. Whispering. Their eyes flick between me and Rachel, murmuring just low enough that I can’t make out the words.

I shrug it off. It’s probably my appearance again. A unicorn with three legs, one capped with stone? Yeah, that’s going to turn heads.

I’ve gotten used to it.

The train slows, the wheels screeching against the tracks as it pulls into Ponyville Station. I don’t move at first, just watching as the town comes into view. The same buildings. The same streets. Like I never left.

The doors slide open with a heavy clank.

I stand up, sling my bag over my shoulder, and step off the train.

And everything stops.

Ponies on the platform freeze. Their eyes lock onto me.

Some of them take a step back. Some gasp. A few drop whatever they were holding.

Like they’ve seen a ghost.

I furrow my brows, glancing at Rachel. She tilts her head slightly, waiting for my move.

Okay. Okay.

I should have expected this. They thought I was dead. But I didn’t expect the whole damn station to react like this.

I take another step forward. More murmuring. More wide eyes. Somepony drops an apple.

I let out a slow breath.

Alright. Let’s get this over with.

I keep my head down and start walking, slipping past the murmuring ponies. My first instinct is to bolt, but that would just make things worse. No sudden movements. No eye contact. Just… get home.

I avoid the main street. If I take the side paths, maybe—maybe—I can make it to my house without getting tackled, screamed at, or otherwise emotionally obliterated.

One block.
Two blocks.

I can feel ponies watching me. I keep moving. Rachel follows, silent and unbothered. If she notices my nerves, she doesn’t say anything.

Almost there. Just a few more turns, and—

Something pink enters my vision.

Oh no.

Flat mane. Puffy eyes. Bawling.

Oh no.

I barely get out a, “Pi—” before she lunges.

Pinkie slams into me like a freight train, her sobs loud enough to echo through the street. Her front hooves wrap around my neck, and my brain barely registers what’s happening before I topple.

Right.
Three legs.

I hit the ground hard, barely managing to not smash my head into the dirt. Pinkie clings to me like I’ll disappear if she lets go, her entire body shaking.

“You were gone—hic—you were gone!” she sobs, burying her face in my chest. “And—and I—” Another hiccup. “I thought—I thought I’d never get to throw you another party ever again—!”

I groan, shifting under her weight. “Pinkie—”

She tightens her grip.

“Pinkie, I can’t breathe.”

“Don’t care!”

Rachel tilts her head, watching the scene unfold like an uninterested observer.

I sigh, letting my head rest against the ground. Pinkie isn’t moving. She’s still clamped around me like a koala made of cotton candy and grief, sobbing into my chest like I just returned from the afterlife.

I make a few weak attempts to push her off, but my one remaining front leg is not enough to budge her. She’s deceptively strong for a baker.

“Pinkie,” I try again, softer this time. “I get it. I really do. But I really can’t breathe.”

She hiccups. Sniffles. Then loosens her grip just a fraction—but only enough to let me suck in air.

“When I got my twitch that you were back—I ran right over!” she cries. “I didn’t even wait—I knew it was you! I KNEW IT! My Pinkie Sense never lies! My whole body was like, ‘Kinetic’s back! Kinetic’s back!’ And I thought, ‘That’s impossible, he’s dead!’ But my Pinkie Sense was NEVER wrong before, so I dropped everything and—hic—I sprinted all the way here!”

I stare at her. “That’s… horrifyingly specific.”

“I KNOW!” she wails, clutching me again. “And I was like, ‘NO WAY,’ but it was right! You’re here! You’re real!”

I rub my face. “I am real, Pinkie. I promise.”

That only makes her sob harder.

Ponies are staring. The murmurs from before have turned into outright whispers.

I need to get out of here.

I look at Rachel, who has not moved.

“Rachel,” I mutter, “help.”

She does not.

She just sits there, watching like this is the most unimportant event in existence.

I groan. “Pinkie, listen—”

“No!” She sniffs hard. “You—you don’t understand! I—I thought you were gone forever! I—I couldn’t even throw a memorial party! Twilight was—was—hic—losing her mind! And—and—everypony was so sad!”

Twilight.

My stomach twists.

Oh.

Oh no.

If Pinkie is this bad…

Twilight is going to be worse.

I try again. “Pinkie. I promise, I’ll let you hold onto me later. But I really, really need to get up.”

She shakes her head.

“Nope! Nope! No!” Pinkie tightens her grip again, squeezing me like I’m some kind of trauma plushie.

I let out the longest, most exhausted sigh of my life. “Pinkie.”

“Nope!”

I stare up at the sky, contemplating my life choices. I could pry her off, but with one front leg, that’s not happening. I could beg Rachel to help, but she’s just watching this unfold like she’s studying bug behavior.

Which means I have to use the one thing I have left.

My brain.

“Pinkie,” I say slowly, voice full of calculated concern. “If you’re stuck to me like this…” I pause for effect. “Then how are you going to throw my Welcome Back From The Dead Party?”

Her whole body stiffens.

I keep going, pressing the attack. “I mean, you can’t bake. You can’t set up decorations. You can’t invite everypony.” I let out a fake sigh. “Guess I’ll just have to walk home alone and—”

She gasps.

Her grip loosens instantly.

“OH SWEET FROSTED CUPCAKES, YOU’RE RIGHT!” She leaps off me so fast I barely process the movement. One moment I’m pinned, the next I’m free, gasping for air.

“I—I—I have to hurry!” she babbles, her hooves tapping against the ground like she’s about to explode. “I need streamers—no, balloons first! And cupcakes! And confetti! OHHH, what kind of cake do you want?! Chocolate?! No, wait, vanilla! NO, CHOCOLATE VANILLA SWIRL—OH, WAIT, DO YOU EVEN WANT CAKE?! WAIT, DON’T ANSWER, OF COURSE YOU DO, EVERYONE WANTS CAKE—”

“Pinkie.” I sit up, dusting myself off. “You have so much to do.”

Her eyes widen.

“You’re right!” She salutes me. “Okay! I’m gonna go get everything ready! But don’t go anywhere!” She suddenly gasps again. “OH WAIT, I NEED TO TELL EVERYPONY—”

She sprints off at a speed that should not be possible.

I watch her disappear in a cloud of pink dust.

Rachel finally moves. She reaches out and pats me twice on the head.

“Don’t,” I mutter, brushing off my coat.

She pats me again.

I push myself upright, ignoring Rachel, and take a moment to steady myself on three legs. Pinkie’s gone—thank Celestia for that small mercy—and I can still hear her distant shrieking about balloons and banners. Any second now, the rest of Ponyville’s likely to descend on me, too.

“Let’s go,” I mutter, adjusting my saddlebags. Without waiting for a response, I hobble off in the direction of my H.A.R.D.I.S.

Thankfully, it’s only a few streets away. I keep to side paths, ducking behind crates and tool sheds whenever I spot a pony that might recognize me. A few times, I catch myself glancing over my shoulder, expecting Twilight to come barreling around the corner. But no one does.

By the time I reach my property, my heart’s thudding from more than just the walk. There’s my H.A.R.D.I.S., the run-down shed. The angles are wrong, the roof sags, and it almost feels like it’s pouting at me. I can’t say I blame it; it’s been sitting here, half-abandoned, while everypony thought I was six feet under.

“Hey there,” I mumble, feeling just a bit silly talking to a building. “I’m home.”

It looks… droopy. Sad. The paint’s peeled more since I left, and one hinge on the door is rusted. It’s like the place got word from the others that I was dead. I fish out the key from the bottom of my saddlebags and insert it into the lock. It clicks with an almost relieved sound, like the mechanism itself is exhaling.

The door swings inward, revealing the main room. The air that greets me is a wall of stale, rancid funk.

I grimace and press a hoof over my nose. “Ugh. Forgot I left the pantry stocked.”

Rachel steps in behind me, calm as ever, and just stands there while I cough. The small orbs of light float with a listless wobble, illuminating the interior of my impossibly large home. They’re usually brighter, more lively—like they’re reacting to my presence. Now, they’re dim and flickery, as if they’re reflecting the H.A.R.D.I.S.’s overall mood.

I gulp a breath of (mostly) fresh air from outside and then trudge deeper in. The smell is awful.

“Rachel,” I murmur, “close the door, would you?”

She silently pushes it shut. The latch clicks, and we’re enclosed in the familiar hush of the H.A.R.D.I.S. For all its infinite corridors and weird anomalies, it’s still home—just mustier and sadder than I remember.

I linger in the entryway, letting the tension seep out of me. Outside, Pinkie’s probably gathering half the town for a “welcome back from the dead” party. Which means I only have a short window to collect myself before the inevitable onslaught.

Right now, though? The stink, the gloom, the not-quite-right vibe of this place—none of it can kill the relief I feel to be alone again.

“I missed you, you weird old house,” I say under my breath. Then, louder, “Come on, Rachel. Let’s see how bad the pantry is.”

Without another word, I start forward. One crisis at a time.

I hobble toward the pantry door, trying not to breathe too deeply. The stench could knock a manticore out cold. Just as I’m bracing myself to open it, a thunderous knock reverberates through the walls.

THUD

I freeze. Another knock—heavy, like somepony’s trying to punch right through the wood. My heart jumps into my throat.

That’s… not good.

“...Helloooo,” a voice calls from outside. “Kine~tic…”

It’s Twilight. But her tone—it’s low, lilting, something akin to a dangerous purr. I’ve heard her excited, angry, even meltdown-level anxious… but never like this. My pulse speeds up, and my three legs feel like jelly. Rachel cocks her head, observing me in silence.

I swallow.

The next knock is more like a pounding. “Kinetic! Open the door!” She laughs, a sharp, humorless sound. “Oh, you’re so silly, making me chase you around town—after all we’ve been through!”

My ears pin back. “We… haven’t really been through that much…” I mutter under my breath, grateful she can't hear me. This is definitely not normal.

"You’ve been gone for two months! Gone! Do you have any idea how long that is? How much time we lost? Our compatibility index is suffering from all this separation, and based on my calculations, we have to make up for it now if we want to ensure optimal conditions for our relationship!"

I start inching back toward the front entrance—mostly because I can’t risk letting her destroy my entire home in some magical rampage. The door is already shuddering ominously. She might not be able to tear the H.A.R.D.I.S. apart—apparently the door is insanely robust—but if she keeps this up, I’m going to have a unicorn–shaped dent in my front door.

“Come on, Kinetic.” Her voice lilts again, like she’s trying to coax a small animal out of hiding. “We have so much to talk about. So much to plan! I’ve already started calculating our romantic compatibility—did you know we’re a 97.43% match for one another?” A bizarre giggle. “I checked the formula myself. sixteen times.”

I stop near the door, pressing an ear to it.

“I even triple-checked the math on each one!” She sounds thrilled, like she’s discovered a new element or solved an ancient puzzle. “And I thought, ‘Well, that’s basically 100%, right? Just a teensy margin for error!’”

There’s a scraping noise against the door. A corona of purple light seeps through the frame, it's like she’s trying to rip it off the hinges. The H.A.R.D.I.S. holds firm, but the whole entrance groans in protest.

“Let me in, Kinetic. We have so much of our future to discuss.” Her tone dips again, lower, more manic. “Like the wedding, the honeymoon, the twelve foals we’re going to have—maybe more if you’re feeling adventurous!”

I feel my stomach twist. “Twelve?” I whisper.

Rachel regards me with a blank stare, as if waiting to see how I’ll handle this. I press my forehead against the door, trying to think of something—anything—that’ll calm Twilight down.

She rattles the handle again. “Come on… Let me in. I can sense you, you know. You’re my special somepony, I know you’re in there. Don’t make me do something… drastic.”

I brace myself, one hoof on the door, heart hammering in my chest. The scraping sound outside intensifies, along with the hum of powerful telekinesis

But then it all halts with a shaky gasp.

“Drastic…” Twilight’s voice quivers, and there’s a long pause like she’s trying to swallow a sob. “I–I don’t want to hurt you or anything, I swear. I just… I thought—” Her tone cracks. “I thought you were dead, Kinetic. Do you know what that’s like? To be told—shown—that somepony you care about is just… gone?”

The doorknob rattles once more, but weaker this time, as if her magic’s faltering. I press closer, mind racing.

“It was so quiet without you,” she continues, so softly I almost can’t hear her. “I’d read all day and night, but nothing helped. I’d see a book to reccomend you and think, ‘Hey, I can talk to him about…’ and then I’d remember…” A ragged breath. “That I couldn’t talk to you. That you were gone.”

My gut clenches. Twilight’s voice is raw now, no longer tinted with that deranged edge. It hits me in a way I wasn’t prepared for, prying at something I’ve worked hard to bury.

She sniffles, and the next words come out in a trembling whisper: “I—I tried to move on. Really, I did. Everypony kept saying, ‘Time heals all wounds,’ but it just… it just made me realize how alone I was. And then—then Pinkie came rushing in, screaming that you’re back, and I… I didn’t know how to handle it. I don’t know how to handle it.”

There’s a heavy thump, like she’s resting her head against the other side of the door. I swallow, my throat painfully tight.

Twilight’s voice hitches. “The library… it was the only place that felt safe anymore. I tried to keep it neat, to keep some sense of control. You remember how you used to mess with me by putting books back in strange places, right? And… that day, I— I found the last one you placed there, hidden on the shelf. I—I saw it was upside down. And I just… I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t even touch it, because if I did… it felt like erasing the last thing I had left of you.”

I press myself against the door, barely breathing as Twilight’s sniffles grow softer. Each shaky exhale digs into my chest like a knife, twisting the guilt I’ve been trying to ignore.

She speaks again, voice trembling, “Every day, I’d go over my notes—magic theory, runic analysis, anything that reminded me of you. And even then, I couldn’t make sense of it all. Because how do I… how do I study losing somepony I—” Her words hitch, and I know she’s crying again.

My stomach churns. I’m not ready for this. I never wanted to be her everything. But she’s here, pouring out her grief against a locked door, and I’m the reason she’s in so much pain.

“Twilight…” I whisper, heart pounding.

She takes a shaky breath. “But you’re not dead. You’re right here, and I—I just want to see you. I don’t… I don’t care about anything else.” Another sob. “I’d give up the books—the reading, the library—for you to just be okay. To know you’re safe.”

I don’t know how much more of this I can take. The raw ache in Twilight’s voice, the guilt lodging itself like a thorn in my heart… It burns.

I rest my forehead against the door, letting her words wash over me. She’s sobbing softly now, her quiet weeping nearly lost under the thud of my own pulse. Every second that passes feels like a century.

Eventually, I can’t stand it anymore. Without a word, I turn the lock and ease the door open.

Twilight is right there, tears in her eyes. Her breath catches the instant she sees me. At first, her gaze locks on my face, searching, frantic. But then she glances downward.

She sees it: my missing leg, cut off at mid-foreleg, ending in a roughly compressed stone cap.

For a moment, I think she might scream. Her lips part, her expression crumpling in on itself. She stumbles forward, eyes flicking between my stump and my face, tears still tracking down her cheeks.

“No…” Her voice wavers, sounding broken in a way I’ve never heard before. “Kinetic… oh Celestia, your—your leg—”

I can’t find any words. I want to explain it away, to make it less horrible than it is, but there’s nothing I can say. It’s just gone, and there’s no hiding it anymore.

Twilight’s lower lip trembles. Her gaze lingers on the stone cap, then snaps back up to my eyes, pleading. She makes a small, choked sound—somewhere between a gasp and a sob—and then she lunges forward, wrapping her forelegs around my neck.

I stagger, struggling to keep my balance on three legs, but she keeps me upright, her hug surprisingly gentle despite the desperation in it. She presses her face into my mane and just cries, muffling her sobs against me. I stand there, stiff with shock, until I finally force my one remaining front hoof to move, returning her embrace.

My eyes sting. I try to blink away the threatening tears, but it’s impossible not to feel her grief radiating through me. We stay like that—locked together in the doorway of my battered H.A.R.D.I.S., surrounded by the rancid smell of my rotting pantry and the echoes of everything that went wrong.

Twilight’s voice wobbles, barely above a whisper. “It’s going to be okay,” she mumbles over and over. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll— we’ll figure this out. I promise.”

I draw in a shaky breath. Her mane smells like ink and parchment, a familiar comfort that makes my chest tighten. She shouldn’t have to be here, comforting me like this. I’m the fraud, the coward, the one who mouthed off and got myself thrown halfway to Tartarus.

Yet she clings to me as if letting go would break her all over again.

I close my eyes, fighting back every instinct to pull away and hide. Instead, I lean into her mane, feeling the dampness where her tears have soaked my coat.

“I’m sorry,” I manage, the words barely audible.

She just squeezes me tighter, tears coursing down her cheeks. “You’re alive,” she whispers fiercely, like she’s reminding herself. “I don’t care about anything else right now.”

We stand there for what feels like forever, wrapped in the kind of silence that hurts. Twilight’s hooves are still locked around me, holding tight, like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.

I take a shuddering breath in Twilight’s embrace as I try to steady my trembling heart. She pulls back just a fraction, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, and asks in a soft voice, “Kinetic… where have you been? What happened to you?”

I exhale slowly, breaking the silence first. “I… don’t really want to talk about it.”

Twilight stiffens slightly, and when she pulls back, her face is raw. She looks at me like I just kicked a puppy. “But… I need to know, Kinetic. Please.”

I sigh, rubbing my good hoof over my face. “It’s annoying to repeat the whole thing again.”

She flinches. It’s a tiny thing, just the slightest dip of her ears and a crack in her already broken expression, but I feel it like a gut punch.

I rub my temples and mutter, “Fine.”

Twilight’s ears perk up slightly, but she stays silent, waiting.

I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to think about it. But the way she’s looking at me, like she’s been waiting so long just to understand—I can’t just walk away from that.

So I start talking.

“Cadence’s blast sent me to the Badlands.” I force the words out, trying to sound casual about it. “I hit the ground hard. Broke all four of my legs.”

Twilight gasps so sharply it’s like I physically hit her. Her hooves fly to her mouth, and she looks absolutely horrified. “A-All four?” she whispers, eyes brimming with fresh tears. “Oh, Kinetic…”

I grit my teeth and keep going. “Yeah. Couldn’t move. Not right away. But, uh, where I landed? It wasn’t stable.” I swallow hard. “It was a sinkhole.”

She freezes.

I nod grimly. “I fell into Tartarus.”

Twilight stumbles back, shaking her head like she misheard me. “No. No, no, no. That’s—” She shakes a little. “You—you fell into Tartarus?! That’s impossible!”

“Tell that to the hole,” I mutter bitterly.

She grabs me again, her hooves shaking. “Kinetic, oh Celestia, that’s—” She cuts herself off, her breathing picking up. Her eyes are too wide, too full of emotions she’s barely holding back. She swallows hard. “I… I screamed at Cadence for hours,” she admits, voice breaking. “When she told me she blasted you, I—I lost it. But we thought—” She bites down on her trembling lip. “We thought you were just gone. We never imagined you—” She shudders. “We never thought to check Tartarus.”

I shift uncomfortably, trying to avoid her eyes. “Yeah, well. Neither would I.”

She sniffles, but I press forward before I lose my nerve.

“I couldn’t walk. So I had to, uh… improvise.” I motion vaguely with my hoof. “Used a floating slab of rock to get around. Kept my legs off the ground. Tried to… survive.”

Twilight’s jaw tightens. “You had to fight. Didn’t you?”

I nod. “A lot.” I remember the creatures, the constant struggle, the pain, the exhaustion—the heat. My body slowly deteriorating with every passing day.

Twilight shudders, rubbing her foreleg. “How long were you down there?”

I blink, thinking back. “Around a month, hard to say.”

Her breath catches. “A month.” She whispers it like the word hurts. “All alone.”

“Not alone,” I correct, glancing at Rachel. “She found me.”

Twilight’s gaze flicks to Rachel for the first time, and something shifts in her expression—gratitude, relief, maybe even reverence. “You… you saved him?” she asks, voice thick.

Rachel says nothing, but I know the answer. She did. I would’ve died if she hadn’t found me.

“She must’ve fallen through the same hole,” I continue. “Don’t know how long she was wandering before she found me, but by then, I was…” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “Not doing great.”

Twilight nods slightly, but her eyes keep flicking to my missing leg. She knows what I haven’t said yet.

I don’t want to tell her.

But she’s waiting.

I swallow, throat dry. “The three legs healed. But my right foreleg didn’t.”

Twilight holds completely still. Her breathing slows, like she’s bracing herself.

I press forward before I can hesitate. “It got infected. I couldn’t move. I was burning up with fever. If I didn’t—” My mouth feels like sandpaper. “If I didn’t do something, I was gonna die.”

Twilight barely whispers, “What… what did you do?”

I exhale, sharp and shaky. “I cut it off.”

Silence.

Absolute, crushing silence.

Twilight’s pupils shrink. Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. A choked noise, maybe a strangled sob, catches in her throat. Her body locks up, trembling so hard I think she might collapse.

I look away. “Rachel fought monsters while I healed. Kept me alive.” I stare at the ground. “After a while, I found a way out.”

Twilight suddenly lets out a small, broken sound. She looks so shaken, so utterly destroyed by what she’s just heard, that I don’t know what to do.

Her hooves press against her chest, her breath coming fast and shallow. “You… you—” She sobs, stepping forward like she wants to touch me but doesn’t know how. “I—I wasn’t there,” she whispers, horrified. “I—we all thought you were gone. We searched, Kinetic, we searched for weeks. We flew so far looking for you, but—” She hiccups. “We didn’t even think you could’ve gone that far. We found dead changelings, but they were closer.” Her voice wavers. “You must’ve been blasted farther than any of us thought.”

I let out a humorless chuckle. “Yeah. Lucky me.”

Twilight lets out a quiet, pained whimper. She reaches forward, hesitates—then throws her forelegs around me again, clutching me tightly. I can feel her shaking. Her entire body is wracked with grief.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers over and over. “I’m so, so sorry.”

I close my eyes, exhaling. “Not your fault.”

She hugs me tighter. “We should have found you.”

I don’t respond. Because I don’t know what to say.

We stand there, the weight of everything pressing down on us both. Twilight doesn’t let go.

Twilight doesn’t let go. She holds onto me like I’m something fragile—like I might slip through her hooves again if she so much as loosens her grip. I don’t know how long we stand there, but I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, uneven and erratic.

Finally, she sniffles, rubbing her muzzle against my shoulder before whispering, “Princess Celestia… she mobilized everything to find you.”

I blink. “…What?”

Twilight pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes. Hers are puffy, red-rimmed, but there’s still this intensity burning behind them. “The entire Royal Guard was sent out to look for you. Not just Canterlot’s forces—Celestia called on every guard division across Equestria. Pegasi squads searched the mountains, unicorns traced residual magic signatures, and earth ponies combed every inch of ground between Canterlot and the Badlands.” She swallows. “And we… we didn’t find a single trace.”

I stare at her, dumbfounded. Celestia sent everypony after me? That’s… more effort than I ever expected. More than I deserved.

Twilight isn’t finished. “And it wasn’t just them.” She sniffles, dragging a hoof across her face. “Celestia herself spent days trying to track you down. She personally scanned every major leyline for magical disturbances, trying to pinpoint where you might’ve landed. Luna even searched the dreamscape, looking for any sign of your consciousness.”

A sick feeling creeps into my stomach. “And they still didn’t find anything.”

She shakes her head, looking miserable. “Nothing. Not even the faintest magical imprint.” She lets out a shaky breath. “We had no idea you flew that far. No way of knowing you even survived. We only found dead changelings. That was it. Just… bodies.”

I rub the back of my neck.

Twilight bites her lip. “And then…” She hesitates, her gaze flicking to Rachel. “Celestia told me that she—” She gestures to Rachel. “—jumped after you.”

I frown. “Wait. What?”

Twilight nods, expression darkening. “After you were hit, Rachel went straight out the window after you. She just jumped. No hesitation. No delay. Right off the mountain.” Twilight’s voice cracks. “She followed you.”

My chest tightens, and I slowly turn to Rachel. She stares back at me, unblinking.

I don’t know why this surprises me. Of course she followed. I carved that command in myself.

Back then, she was just a construct. A machine running on simple directives.

I swallow. “She really just—jumped off the ledge?”

Twilight nods again, more forcefully this time. “Celestia and Cadence saw her go. But by the time anypony realized what she was doing, she was already gone.”

I exhale, pressing a hoof to my forehead. “No wonder you lost track of me.”

Twilight clenches her jaw. “Not following Rachel was a huge part of what I yelled at them for.”

I blink. “Wait. You yelled at Celestia?”

Twilight lets out a wet, humorless laugh. “Oh, Kinetic. You have no idea.”

The look in her eyes is exhausted.

I just stare at her. “You yelled at Celestia?”

She nods sharply. “Yes.”

Twilight Sparkle—the most devoted student in Equestria, the Twilight Sparkle, who practically worships the ground Celestia walks on—yelled at her.

I have to sit down.

Twilight keeps talking, voice thick with emotion. “I yelled at her. I yelled at Cadence. I yelled at everypony. I told them they were idiots for not chasing Rachel. I told Cadence she was reckless for blasting you away like that and that she should have thought for half a second before treating you like an enemy.” She wipes furiously at her eyes. “I—I told them that if they really cared, they would have done more.

Twilight’s voice shakes as she continues. “Celestia just—just listened to me. She let me yell at her for hours. And I wanted her to yell back. To get angry. To tell me I was being irrational, but she didn’t. She just stood there and took it.”

Her breath shudders, and she closes her eyes. “I kept expecting her to tell me to calm down, to scold me for screaming at a princess. But she didn’t. She just looked… tired. Tired and sad. And that—” Her voice cracks. “That was worse.”

I don’t say anything. I can’t. My stomach twists. I was dead to them. And Celestia, the most powerful being in Equestria, couldn’t do a thing about it. So she just stood there and let Twilight break herself over it.

Twilight wipes her eyes roughly and sniffles. “Cadence… she thought you were evil.”

I flinch.

“I knew it was a mistake,” she mutters quickly, looking up at me. “I knew. But at the time, I didn’t care. I just wanted to blame somepony.” She grits her teeth. “And I did. I blamed them all.”

I let out a slow breath. More conformation that cadence thinks I'm a monster. I try not to let the bitterness seep into my expression, but Twilight must see it anyway because she winces.

“I… I know she regrets it,” she says quietly. “I know she feels awful.”

I look away. I don’t want to talk about Cadence.

Twilight must sense that, because she doesn’t push it. Instead, she sniffles, wiping her face with the back of her hoof. “I just… I need you to know, Kinetic. We never stopped looking. We never wanted to stop. If we’d known—if we had even guessed—you were in Tartarus, we would have gone.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. I believe her. But it doesn’t make those weeks alone in the dark any less real.

She exhales sharply, trying to steady herself. “But it’s over now. You’re here.”

Her voice wavers on the last word. She leans into me again, hooves clutching me tightly, and I realize she’s still not letting go.

She’s not going to.

Not for a while.

I shift my weight, and Twilight moves with me, not loosening her grip even as I hobble further into the H.A.R.D.I.S. It’s a slow process—I’m already exhausted, and maneuvering with one front leg while carrying Twilight Sparkle like an emotional barnacle is not helping.

Rachel follows behind in silence, watching.

The stale funk of my rotting pantry hits my nose again, and I grimace.

Twilight doesn’t even react to the smell. She just buries her face against my shoulder, hooves gripping the fabric of my saddle bag like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she loosens up.

I sigh, stepping fully inside and nudging the door closed behind me. “You’re not going to let go anytime soon, huh?”

Twilight shakes her head.

I groan, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Fine. Just… don’t suffocate me.”

She sniffles but doesn’t respond.

I sigh, rubbing at my face with my good hoof. “Alright, Twilight. If you’re gonna be glued to me, at least move with me. I need to fix the pantry.”

Twilight snorts softly, like she doesn’t believe I’m serious, then finally pulls back just enough to let me shift. But before I can move toward the pantry, she lights up her horn and casually opens every cabinet at once.

A second later, with a single pulse of magic, the stench disappears.

I blink. “...What?”

She wipes at her eyes again, then sniffs. “I just incinerated everything rotten. You’re welcome.”

I stare at the now-clean cabinets, blinking in disbelief. That would have taken me forever to clean.

“You—” I blink. “You just—”

She sniffs again and clings tighter. “Shut up and let me take care of you.”

I open my mouth to argue, but before I can, there’s a knock at the door.

Twilight tenses against me, and I sigh. “Great. That’s probably...”

I turn, and walk over, twilight following closely.
I crack the door open.

And there they are.

Applejack. Rarity. Rainbow Dash. Fluttershy.

For a second, I think they’re about to say something. Maybe yell, maybe cry—maybe just be normal for five seconds.

But they don’t.

They stare.

I don’t understand at first. I don’t know why they’re frozen. Then I follow their eyes.

Oh.

Right.

I forgot.

They’re looking at my right foreleg—at the stump where it used to be. At the smooth, compressed stone cap, a crude, ugly thing sealing what’s left of me.

They just stare.

And then—

Fluttershy makes a soft, strangled sound and starts crying immediately.

Rarity’s hoof flies to her mouth, her pupils shrinking in horror.

Applejack tips her hat down to hide her eyes.

And Rainbow—Rainbow’s whole body is shaking.

I feel heavy all of a sudden. The weight of their stares, the emotions rolling off them in waves, all of it pressing down on me like a stone slab crushing my chest.

I’ve had it like this for so long—missing, gone, amputated—that I don’t even think about it anymore. I don’t wake up expecting it to be there. I don’t try to move it. It’s just gone.

But for them—this is the first time they’ve seen me like this.

I try to speak. To say anything. But before I can, they all start talking at once.

Crying. Apologizing. Shouting over each other in this messy, horrible tangle of voices and emotions.

“Oh, Kinetic—your leg—”

“Darling, how could—”

“We should’ve been there! We should have—”

“Why didn’t we—”

“This ain’t right! It ain’t—”

I can barely keep up. The words crash into me, jumbled, desperate, tripping over each other in a frantic storm of regret and grief. It’s all blending together, all of them trying to say too much at once—

But Rainbow’s voice cuts through.

“I left you.”

The others freeze mid-sentence.

I blink at Rainbow, my heart lurching at the look on her face.

Her wings are trembling. Her eyes locked on my missing leg. Her whole body shaking, like she’s barely keeping herself together.

“I left you with Chrysalis,” she chokes out. Her pupils are tiny, and her breath comes in sharp bursts. “We—we ran to get the Elements. We—we thought we could fix it, but—” Her face contorts, a mix of anger and self-loathing. “I left you.”

I blink, trying to follow what she’s saying. “Rainbow, I—”

“I should have stayed,” she snarls. “I should have fought with you. I should have—I should have done something.”

She hiccups sharply, sucking in a breath. “ I thought we’d be fast enough. That we’d come back in time. That you’d be okay.”

Her face crumples, her ears flat against her skull. “But we weren’t. And you weren’t.”

I open my mouth, but she keeps going.

“This—” She gestures wildly at my missing leg, voice breaking. “This all happened because we weren’t fast enough! Because I wasn’t fast enough!” Her breath is coming in short, panicked bursts now.

“You did what you had to,” I say, voice even despite the lump in my throat. “You went for the Elements. It was the right call.”

Rainbow flinches like I struck her.

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “No, it wasn’t. Because if it was, then why—” She gestures wildly at my missing leg, eyes glistening. “Why did this happen to you?!”

I take a breath, forcing myself to stand firm despite the crushing weight of their emotions.

“It is possible to do everything right and still lose,” I say, voice steady but quiet. “That’s not a failure. That’s just life.”

It was supposed to be encouraging, but something in my answer seems to have had the opposite effect.

Rainbow shakes her head violently. Applejack’s jaw tightens. Rarity shivers like I just said something awful. Fluttershy makes a tiny, hurt noise and looks away.

None of them are comforted by my words. They just wilt.

So I do what I always do.

I force a half-smirk, shrugging with my one good foreleg. “Hey, at least I get horseshoes 25% off right?”

Nothing.

Not even a ghost of a smile.

They just look at me.

Like I’ve just kicked them while they were already down.

Like I’ve made it worse.

Applejack steps forward, her movements slow and deliberate. “Y’ always do that, don’tcha?” Her voice is low, quiet. Not angry. Worse than angry.

I blink. “Do what?”

Applejack’s staring right into me. “Hide behind yer jokes.”

My breath catches in my throat.

Applejack doesn’t stop.

“Ya talk like it don’t matter. Like it ain’t a big deal.” She gestures to my leg, eyes dark. “But it is. You lost a part of yourself, Kinetic. And you ain’t even allowin’ yerself to be sad about it.”

I flinch.

Her voice softens, but the words hit harder.

“Y’ ever think maybe yer jokes ain’t fixin’ anything?” she murmurs.

I try to laugh. I try to shake it off, but it doesn’t come.

Applejack steps closer. Too close. I can’t look away.

“Tell me somethin’ honest, Kinetic.” She tilts her head, eyes burning into mine. “Are ya even okay?”

I open my mouth. I don’t know what I was about to say—some lie, some brush-off, some joke about how of course I’m okay, how I’m alive, aren’t I?

But then—

“Because it don’t seem like ya are.”

I force out a weak chuckle, shaking my head. “Come on, it’s just a joke, Applejack. Lighten up.”

She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t move.

I try again, gesturing vaguely with my good hoof. “Seriously, I—I’m fine. It’s just… what else am I supposed to do? Cry about it? That’s not gonna grow my leg back.”

She doesn’t let up.

Her gaze stays locked onto mine, and I feel my stomach tighten.

I hate this.

I hate how they’re all staring at me. I hate how they’re acting like they understand. Like they have any idea what I went through.

Applejack’s voice is quiet, firm. “Ain’t ‘bout cryin’. It’s about tellin’ the truth.”

My ears flick back. Fucking pony lie detector.

She leans in slightly. “So tell the truth, Kinetic. Just this once.”

I try again, “Look, if I didn’t joke—if I didn’t laugh—”

My voice falters for just a second, and I let it slip.

“I’d be furious.”

My voice is quiet at first. But then it grows.

“I’d be furious at Cadence for treating me like I was some villain. For blasting me away like I was nothing.” My breath hitches. “I’d be furious that no one found me, that I had to drag myself through Tartarus, that I had to watch my body fail me!”

The words come faster now, tumbling out in a rush I can’t control.

“I’d be furious that I don’t have some magic destiny protecting me like you do! I don’t just get to walk away from adventures with a few scratches and a moral lesson! I’m not like you!”

I take another breath, but it’s shaky, wild. My chest heaves.

I shake my head, feeling the burn behind my eyes. “You all—you all get to walk away. You get your victories. Your happy endings. You go on these adventures, and no matter how bad things get, you always make it through. You always come back. You always win.”

They all go still.

My breath is ragged, my chest tight.

“And where was my big hero moment, huh?!” I shout, voice cracking. “Where was my miracle save? My perfect timing? Oh, that’s right—I didn’t get one.”

My heart hammers.

“The only reason I survived is because of a golem I built myself. Because I never had anything but myself!”

Twilight flinches against me.

I let out a harsh breath, my whole body trembling.

No one speaks.

No one moves.

I expect them to argue, to tell me I’m wrong, to say I’m being ridiculous.

But as I scowl, angry at the world, Applejack smiles.

Soft. Knowing.

Like I didn’t just throw a fit.

Like she was waiting for this.

I stare at her, my pulse still hammering in my ears. “What are you so fuckin' happy for?!” I demand, voice hoarse.

Applejack exhales, shaking her head, that small smile still lingering. “Because, sugarcube…” She steps closer, her voice warm, but sure.

“That’s the first honest thing ya’ve said all night.”

I stagger, staring at her like she just slapped me.

“The first honest thing—” I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You think just because I admit it, that suddenly everything’s fine?!”

Applejack doesn’t move. She just watches me, steady and calm, like she’s not standing in the middle of my breakdown. Like she’s just waiting for me to keep going.

And I do.

“Like that’s it? That’s the grand solution?” I throw my hoof up, voice rising. “Oh wow, good job, everypony! I finally snapped, so now we can all pack up and go home!”

Rarity winces, ears flattening. Twilight’s grip on me tightens, but I don’t stop.

“You think this—this is some kind of win?! That just because I’m finally screaming about it, that it somehow makes it better?!”

They start murmuring, their voices soft, trying to calm me.

I don’t want to be calm.

“No! You don’t get to just act all smug about this!” My voice breaks, raw and furious. “You don’t get to just stand there all self-satisfied because you finally dragged this out of me!”

I shake my head, my whole body tense. “I didn’t even want to be there! You all keep dragging me into your bullshit! And then you—” I gesture wildly at them, my one hoof shaking. “You all just get to act like this is some—some tragedy that happened to you?!”

They flinch.

I press forward. “Like I’m just another lesson for you to learn from?! Like my leg—” My voice breaks, and I force it back under control. “Like my leg is some plot twist in your story?!”

Rainbow recoils like I struck her. Rarity’s breath catches in her throat. Fluttershy looks like she might just collapse.

I scoff, shaking my head, feeling the burn in my chest, the ache in my throat.

“Well, sorry if my pain makes for a great character arc,” I snap. “But guess what? I’m not your lesson to learn. I’m not some tragedy to add to your list of friendship problems.”

I take a step back, breathing ragged, the room spinning around me.

“This is my life. And I have to live with it. Not you. Me.”

I glare at Applejack.

“So stop trying to tell me how to cope.”

The room goes silent.

Not a single word.

I can feel Twilight trembling against me, her breath coming in uneven hiccups. Applejack’s face is unreadable. Rarity’s hoof is still pressed to her mouth. Rainbow’s wings twitch, like she wants to do something but doesn’t know what.

I stand there, heaving, my breath coming sharp and uneven. My ears ring in the silence I just tore through the room.

I know what I just did.

I said all of that to drive them away. To make them hurt, to make them uncomfortable, to make them leave.

But they don’t.

No one turns away. No one walks out.

I can feel my heart pounding, like a caged thing trying to escape. My whole body is tense, like I’m waiting for a fight. But they don’t fight me. They just… stand there.

Waiting.

Rainbow, the first to move, finally sucks in a deep breath. “You’re right.”

That throws me off.

I blink at her. “What?”

“You’re right,” she repeats, her voice tight. “We’re not the ones who have to live with this. You are.” Her wings twitch again, but she doesn’t step back. If anything, she moves closer.

I scowl. “Then why are you still here?”

“Because, Kinetic.” Applejack finally speaks, voice low, firm. “We care about you.”

I let out a sharp breath, shaking my head. “That’s not what I—”

Fluttershy, of all ponies, cuts me off.

“You’re angry,” she says. Her voice is soft, but not weak. “And you should be.”

She stares into my eyes and I freeze.

She continues, stepping forward just slightly. “You should be angry. You should feel everything you feel. No one’s saying you shouldn’t.” Her blue eyes shimmer with something deep, steady. “But that doesn’t mean we’re going to stop caring.”

Rarity inhales deeply, regaining her composure just enough to speak. Her voice is softer, but no less firm.

"Darling, of course this isn’t about us." She sniffs, pressing a hoof to her chest. "But don’t you dare act like you’re the only one who’s allowed to be upset."

I flinch.

She steps forward, her violet eyes glistening. "We care about you, Kinetic. That’s not something you can just… turn off." Her breath wavers. "I don’t care how angry you are—I don’t care if you hate me right now—but I will not stand here and pretend like you don’t matter."

She wipes at her eyes, taking a shaky breath.

"And frankly, darling, neither should you."

Before I can form a retort, Rainbow speaks up, her wings still trembling at her sides. “You think we’re treating this like a lesson?” Her voice is hoarse, rough around the edges. “Like you’re some kinda tragic backstory to make us better ponies?”

Her face twists into something almost hurt, and she shakes her head. “That’s not—that’s not what this is.”

I let out a short, bitter scoff, but she doesn’t stop.

“I’m not standing here wishing I could learn something from this.” Her voice is raw. “I just wish you didn’t have to go through it at all.”

I run my tongue over my teeth, my breath still uneven. My heart still pounds.

I don’t know what I expected from them. I wanted them gone. I wanted them to look at me, to see the anger, the ugliness, and just leave me alone.

But they won’t.

Even though they should.

Even though I just screamed in their faces.

Even though they have every reason to walk away.

Twilight shifts against me, still clutching my side like a lifeline. Her voice is barely above a whisper.

“We thought you were gone.”

I stiffen.

She shudders, her grip tightening. “We thought you were gone forever. And now you’re here, and you—you’re still here, Kinetic, and you’re angry and hurt and—”

Her breath shakes.

“And we can’t fix it.”

The words hit like a gut punch.

“We can’t fix it,” she repeats, swallowing hard. “But we can be here.”

I close my eyes.

Damn them.

Damn them for being so persistent.

Damn them for being kind.

Damn them for refusing to leave.

I let out a long, slow breath, dragging a hoof down my face.

Nothing is fixed.

Nothing is resolved.

And I don't think it will be for a while.