REGRET (Good Ending)

I don’t venture into town often. It’s not worth the trouble, really, but every now and then, I force myself to leave the crumbling remnants of my castle. Food, supplies, books—things I can’t conjure or repair on my own. Each visit is a grim reminder of what I’ve become and the world I’ve returned to.

Ponies stare. They always stare. Some try to hide behind carts or corners, their wide, frightened eyes just barely peeking out. Others aren’t so subtle, trembling openly as I pass, as if my mere presence might bring catastrophe. Once, a mare screamed at the sight of me, bolting down the street as if her life depended on it. That kind of reaction doesn’t bother me anymore. It’s… expected. I’ve seen it too many times to care.

What does bother me, however, is the other kind of attention.

They always show up when I go into town—those ponies with the crazed, unblinking eyes. They never speak, never approach, but they’re always watching, their gaze fixed on me like I’m some divine figure they’ve been praying to for centuries.

At first, I thought they were just eccentric locals, ponies who’d been drawn in by the myth of Nightmare Eclipse. But as the pattern repeated, I realized it wasn’t that simple. There was something organized about them—the way they moved, the way they followed me without ever getting too close. Eventually, I overheard a conversation in hushed tones:

“The Children of the Eclipse.”

I couldn’t help but scoff when I first heard the name. A cult? Devoted to me? It was absurd. I’m a villain in their history books, a monster in their bedtime stories. I’m supposed to be the cautionary tale, the warning whispered to foals who don’t behave. I’m not someone to revere, and yet… they do.

Why?

I’ve tried to understand their obsession, but the answer eludes me. Maybe it’s the legend they admire. The "Manic Alicorn," the ghost story who escaped her eternal stone prison. Perhaps they think I’m some dark savior, here to finish what I started all those centuries ago. But I’m not. I’m just a broken pony, clinging to whatever scraps of life I have left.

The marketplace was quieter than usual on my latest trip. The shopkeepers were there, as they always were, but none of them greeted me. Not even a polite, terrified smile. Instead, they cowered behind their counters, pretending not to see me as I gathered what I needed.

I tried to speak to one—a middle-aged stallion whose trembling hooves barely managed to ring up my purchase.

“Thank you,” I said softly, hoping it might ease his fear.

He flinched as if I’d struck him. No reply. Just a stammering nod before he practically shoved the bag of goods across the counter.

I sighed and left without another word.

The walk back to my castle was uneventful, aside from the inevitable presence of the cult. I caught glimpses of them in the shadows, their gazes piercing and unwavering. They didn’t try to stop me or speak to me, but their silent worship was almost worse. It was as though my every move was being cataloged, studied for some greater purpose I couldn’t fathom.

By the time I reached the castle, the sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long, jagged shadows across the ruins. My once-pristine home was still in shambles, but it was slowly becoming livable again. Piece by piece, I was rebuilding it, repairing what I could with the limited resources I had.

The kitchen was my most recent project. It wasn’t perfect—far from it—but it was functional. The broken tiles and soot-streaked walls didn’t bother me as long as I could prepare a meal.

Cooking had become something of a routine for me. I’m not good at it—most of what I make is barely edible—but there’s something oddly satisfying about the process. It’s an outlet, a way to focus my mind on something other than the weight of my guilt.

Tonight, I prepared a simple stew. The vegetables were fresh, a rare luxury, and the spices I’d salvaged from the pantry added a surprising amount of flavor. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine, and for a moment, that was enough.

As I sat at the worn wooden table, the bowl of steaming stew in front of me, I allowed myself a small smile.

Maybe… maybe there’s something in this world worth holding onto.

Later that night, as the moon rose high above the castle, I found myself staring out the shattered remains of a window. The forest beyond was quiet, the only sounds the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl.

I thought about the cult—the Children of the Eclipse—and the absurdity of their existence. What did they see in me? Why would they devote themselves to someone like me?

I’m not a hero. I’m not even a villain anymore. I’m just… pathetic.

Isn’t that what they see? A washed-up relic of a bygone era, hiding in the ruins of her own failure?

“Pathetic, is it not?” I muttered to myself, the words barely audible over the sound of the wind.

And yet, they still follow me. They still watch.

I don’t know if I’ll ever understand them, but maybe it doesn’t matter. Let them worship their twisted idea of me. It won’t change who I am or what I’ve done.

I turned away from the window, the shadows of the room swallowing me as I retreated deeper into the castle.

Tomorrow, I’ll return to the repairs. There’s still so much to do, so much to rebuild.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find something worth living for in the process.

Meanwhile, in Canterlot…

Luna stood on her balcony, gazing out at the horizon. The night was calm, but her mind was restless. She thought of her student, Last Page, and the strange fervor that had consumed him when they spoke of Nightmare Eclipse.

She had chosen him for his potential, for the brilliance that shone through despite his flaws. But she couldn’t ignore the dangerous obsession that drove him. She could see it in his eyes, the way they lit up whenever her sister’s name was mentioned, or Twilight’s.

“Nightmare Eclipse…” Luna whispered, the name a bitter reminder of her own past.

Was she making a mistake? Could she guide Last Page away from the path of darkness, or was she simply giving him the tools to follow it?

The wind carried her thoughts into the night, and for a moment, she allowed herself to hope.

If I can save him, perhaps I can save her too.

Back in his room, Last Page sat hunched over his desk, the dim light of a lantern illuminating the pages of his notebook. He was working on a new rune, one that might—if his calculations were correct—amplify his magic enough to sustain a transformation spell.

He didn’t just want to learn from Luna. He wanted to ascend.

Nightmare Eclipse had done it. She had risen from a simple unicorn to an alicorn, and even if the stories painted her as a monster, Last Page couldn’t help but see the beauty in her power.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, echoing her own self-reflection from miles away. But his voice was tinged with determination.

“I won’t be pathetic. Not anymore.”

As the lantern flickered and the rune began to take shape, Last Page allowed himself a small, triumphant smile.

This was only the beginning.