Missing Textures

Chapters

Where does one belong?
Nice meeting you.
Living History.

Where does one belong?

Author's Note

Honest opinions are highly appreciated thank you. Hope whoever reads this enjoys. I will be adding tags as the story progresses.

Where does one belong?

What does it mean to be a great hunter? Is it the ability to stalk prey without them ever noticing you? Being able to track anything without ever being picked up? Or is it the fame that comes with hunting huge beasts? The truth is, no one knows. What is certain is Leandros isn’t good at hunting at all.

Up in a tree, overlooking a group of wild deer with his bow fully drawn. Taking a deep breath in. “Three,” steadying his aim. “Two,” the deer, unaware that death is looming. “O—”

The branch snaps, sending him tumbling down the tree. The deer, without even turning, bolt away, vanishing into the underbrush.

“I told you that wasn’t going to work,” comes a low, rumbling voice as a colossal brown Minotaur steps out of the underbrush. “If you had just listened to me, you wouldn’t be on the floor.”

“Mhmm,” Leandros mutters, clearly unimpressed, sitting on the ground as he brushes dirt off his clothes. Simple grey cloth trousers and a tunic. His arms and legs sting from fresh cuts.

“Next time, listen.” Torus extends a massive hand, helping the boy to his feet. Inspecting him first before hitting him on the head “Walk,” Picking up the bow and taking note of ice that formed on the grip. “We’re done here”

Leandros takes the lead, with Torus following close behind—his sharp eyes catching sight of something on the ground where Leandros had been sitting. A black blade, faintly glinting in the fading light. Torus frowns, picking it up without a word.

“I had them,” comes a whispered reply from Leandros. “It was going to work.”

“You keep believing that,” Torus says, his tone as stern as ever.

“It was!” Leandros spins around to face him, both stopping just before the edge of the forest. “If that branch didn’t snap, I would’ve been able to hit one.”

“The branch you decided to stand on,” Torus counters, his deep voice calm but pointed. “If you’d taken the shot from the ground, you’d have something on your back right now.”

“No, b—” Leandros begins, but the words die in his throat. Sighing in defeat, he turns and keeps moving, his steps heavy with lingering frustration, until he emerges from the forest.

The sight before them is nothing short of breathtaking. Snow-capped mountains rise like silent guardians, their peaks piercing the crisp autumn sky. The valley below, still untouched by winter’s full grasp, lies bathed in golden hues. Scattered patches of snow dot the grass and trees, a quiet reminder of the approaching frost.

Torus steps up beside Leandros, placing a firm hand on his back. “See the birds?” he asks, nodding toward a cluster of grey-feathered birds pecking at the grass for worms.

“Yeah?” Leandros replies, his brow furrowed in mild confusion.

“They’ve gotten bigger,” Torus says, his voice low and steady. “What does that mean?”

“Winter must be close,” Leandros answers confidently, a hint of pride creeping into his voice.

Torus smiles, ruffling the boy’s snow-white hair. “Correct.” He strides past Leandros, motioning for him to follow.

Together, they ascend the hillside, their footsteps quiet on the cool, dry grass. At the top on the plateau,the boy turn around to see the valley stretches out before them, stark and serene. Far to their right, a waterfall tumbles into the river below, its icy blue waters mirroring the chill in the air.

Taking in a deep breath and exhaling with contentment, Leandros smiles. This never gets old.

“Come, we have work to do,” Torus says, already striding toward the house.

Leandros takes one last look at the valley, the cool air brushing against his skin, before turning to follow. In the distance, a grey house rests at the base of the mountain, its weathered walls blending with the rugged landscape. The mountain face behind it casts a looming shadow, and a thin column of smoke rises steadily from the chimney, curling into the crisp autumn sky.

Running to catch up with Torus, Leandros stayed close behind, patting himself down. Something was missing. Frantically searching his person, he begged silently that it was just misplaced. Anywhere but my belt...

“Looking for something?” Torus asked, his deep voice cutting through the sound of panicked movements.

“I... uh, no. Just checking something,” Leandros replied nervously, his heart pounding as he desperately hoped to find it before they reached the house. I’m fucked.

Hands on his head, he braced for the punishment he was sure was coming—until a small thud caught his attention. Looking down, he spotted his blade lying in the dirt.

“I’ve told you many times to take care of your knife,” Torus said, his tone unamused.

“I had it on me a mome—”

“Leandros…”

With a defeated sigh, Leandros moved ahead, lowering his hands—though he still earned a light smack on the back of his head. “Look after your equipment!”

“Sorry, Dad,” Leandros mumbled, rubbing the spot where Torus had hit him.

Once they reached home, both began checking themselves—and each other—to ensure nothing was missing. After brushing off the dirt and grime clinging to their clothes, they finally headed inside.

The aroma that greets them is nothing short of heavenly. Molocha, a cream-coloured Minotaur with warm amber eyes, stands in the kitchen. She wears her usual green-and-brown dress paired with a white apron, now dusted with flour and pastry dough despite her efforts to keep clean.

“Just in time!” she beams as the two enter. Spread across the table before them is an inviting array of food. “I made steamed mushrooms, carrots with olive sauce, and for you, baby boy,” she adds, glancing at Leandros with a grin, “I threw in some deer.”

“You thee, thon, thish ish why I married your mother,” Torus mumbles, mouth full of food, his deep voice slightly muffled by the meal.

“Thanks for dinner, Mom,” Leandros says, offering a small smile.

“Anytime, dear,” Molocha replies warmly.

She joins them at the table, sitting down to enjoy the meal herself. The atmosphere is calm, and everyone seems to be relishing the food. But Molocha glances at Leandros, noticing a faintly sad expression clouding his face.

“Leandros, what’s wrong?” she asks, her tone gentle yet concerned.

Leandros looks up from his plate, his attempt to mask his feelings betrayed by his deep blue eyes. “Nothing, just thinking,” he says, though the sadness lingers. “I just messed up, that’s all.”

“Messed up?” Molocha presses softly.

“I uhh, I lost my knife again,” he admits, his voice low.

“No use lingering on it now! There’s food in front of you, boy,” Torus belched before diving back into his meal.

Leandros finally picks up his fork, stabbing a piece of deer on his plate before inhaling it. Molocha, her smile soft, returns to her own plate, though her eyes linger on Leandros. That same sadness still clouds his expression.

She glances at Torus, who’s utterly consumed by his food. Nudging him slightly, she gets his attention. Torus looks down at her, a brow raised. Molocha tilts her head toward the boy, her eyes silently urging him to notice.

Torus raised his shoulders slightly, a subtle shrug of uncertainty. Molocha’s unimpressed glare bore into him, her expression sharp enough to make death itself proud.

Understanding dawned quickly. Torus gave a small nod, silently acknowledging her unspoken command. “Leandros,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the quiet clatter of dinner. Leandros looked up from his plate, his mouth still stuffed with food. “I’ve got something to show you after dinner,” Torus added, giving a brief head bob before returning to his meal.

Molocha, now satisfied, smiled warmly and resumed eating, her earlier sternness giving way to contentment. The sound of clinking utensils and soft conversation filled the room as the three of them enjoyed their meal.

“Another wonderful meal,” Torus remarked, pushing his empty plate aside and reaching for the drink at his side. He raised the glass, and Molocha leaned over to refill it with amber liquid. Without a word, she took a swig straight from the bottle, a familiar habit that earned a faint smirk from Torus.

Leandros watched them for a moment, their laughter becoming softer as the alcohol took hold. A quiet sigh escaped him as he stood and slipped away from the table, leaving his parents to their revelry.

His room is modest but functional—a reflection of their simple life in the mountains. The bed, a humble frame stuffed with hay-straws, is softened by a well-worn cloth blanket. To the right, his small wooden table is cluttered with stacks of homework Torus and Molocha assigned him. Living so far from civilisation meant homeschooling was his only option. Mixed in with the books and papers, sketches of weapons peeked out—a testament to his admiration for his father.

Leandros paused, staring at one of the drawings. His chest tightened, shame knotting in his stomach.

“FUCK!” The word ripped out of him as he hurled the black blade across the room. It struck the wall with a dull thud, the tip embedding itself deep in the wood.

Pacing now, his fists clenched at his sides. His boots thudded against the floor as his thoughts churned like a storm. You idiot. You had ONE JOB! His breaths came shallow and fast, his frustration twisting into self-loathing.

You’ve gone over this again and again, and yet you can’t even look after a fucking knife. The thought burned in his mind, his fists clenching at his sides. His gaze darted around the room, searching for something to smash—but everything here mattered. Every item carried some piece of him, some memory, some meaning.

With a frustrated growl, he flung his arms in the air, his movements wild and aimless, as if throwing off the weight of his own failure. After a moment, his breathing slowed. His chest still rose and fell heavily, but the storm inside him began to settle.

He sank into the chair at his desk, fingers gripping the edge for a moment before reaching for a pencil. The familiar act of sketching soothed him. Each line drawn onto the paper grounded his thoughts, pulling him away from the chaos in his mind.

Weapons. Blades. He could almost see them coming to life under his hand. Leandros loved this—taking the ideas swirling in his mind and putting them onto the page. His people, the minotaurs, were masters of craftsmanship. It was in their blood, and his father embodied that legacy.

Leandros’ pencil paused mid-sketch. He wanted to be like him—to reach the heights his father had achieved. But how could he, if he couldn’t even take care of the knife he’d been given?

After sketching countless swords, axes, and warhammers, Leandros leaned back in his chair, stretching his stiff arms. The candle beside him flickered weakly, its flame barely clinging to life. He stared at it for a moment, realising he’d been drawing for hours.

Pushing himself up, he wandered into the living room. To his left, near the fireplace, the colossal form of Torus lay sprawled out, his chest rising and falling in soft, steady breaths.

“You alright?” came Molocha’s gentle voice from the kitchen. “You haven’t left your room all night. Something up?”

Leandros flinched slightly at her words, turning to find her cleaning a few dishes. “You didn’t even have dessert,” she added, her tone light but probing.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I… got a bit frustrated with myself, that’s all.”

“Really? Frustrated?” Molocha’s eyes flicked toward him, a knowing glint in them. “You sounded a bit more than frustrated.” She returned to her task, her casual tone an invitation rather than a demand.

Leandros sighed and wandered over to the dinner table. His slice of pie sat untouched, perfectly intact. “Made it just the way you like it,” Molocha said softly.

“Thanks, Mom.” He didn’t touch the pie, his gaze fixed on it as if it held answers he couldn’t find.

Molocha glanced over, noticing the familiar shadow in his eyes. She wiped her hands on her apron and leaned against the counter. “Leandros… what’s on your mind?”

He hesitated, his hand hovering over the fork before pulling back. “Mom…” His voice wavered slightly. “Am I a failure?”

The question caught Molocha off guard. She froze, the warmth in her expression fading into something unreadable. For a moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of the fireplace and Torus’ steady breathing.

“I–I’m sorry?”

“Am I a failure?” Leandros shifts his gaze to Molocha, his voice trembling.

“Honey, wha–where’s that coming from? No, you’re not a failure.” Molocha moves closer, taking a seat beside him and brushing a strand of his hair back gently.

“I–I don’t know… it just doesn’t feel like I’ve done much,” he says, staring into her eyes.

Those deep blue eyes. What troubles you so? Her hands cup his face, her amber gaze searching his.

“Leandros, you’re seventeen. Of course you’re not going to have everything figured out.”

“But from the stories I hear about you and Dad—”

“That was a different time,” she interrupts, glancing toward Torus slumbering by the fire. “We don’t live like that anymore.” She pauses, her voice softening. “Well, your father still likes to think we do, but the world’s changed. Don’t beat yourself up by comparing yourself to others, Leandros. It steals your happiness.”

Leandros closes his eyes and leans into his mother’s arms. Her snout rests gently against his soft, white, puffy hair as she rubs slow, comforting circles on his back.

“It’s about the knife, isn’t it?” she asks softly.

“Yeah…” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Why does it trouble you so much that you lost your knife?”

“I tried to impress him today. Climbed a tree, fell, and when I hit the ground, it slipped out of my belt.”

“So? You still have your knife,” she says, tilting her head slightly.

“Only because he picked it up and gave it to me,” Leandros admits, a faint edge of self-resentment creeping into his voice. His hands curl slightly into fists as he lets out a shaky breath. “He’s always told me to keep my gear in check, and yet I fail every time. I try so hard to be like one of you guys, but I always fall short.”

Molocha’s hand continues to rub his back, her touch steady and grounding. She doesn’t respond immediately, letting the weight of his words settle between them. Finally, in a voice as soft as the night, she asks, “Like one of us?”

“I try to walk like you, fight like you, think like you,” he confesses, his voice faltering. “But every time I try, it just doesn’t… it doesn’t feel… right.”

“Leandros.” Molocha gently but firmly props him up, her golden eyes locking onto his. It feels as though she’s peering straight into his soul. “I cannot imagine a world where you aren’t one of us. And even then”—she places a firm finger over his heart—“you are who you are. Don’t let anyone—anyone—tell you otherwise.”

Her words sink deep, filling the cracks in his doubt. Without a word, he leans forward, wrapping his arms around her in a hug that feels as essential as air.

“Thanks… Mom,” he whispers against her shoulder.

“Anytime, dear.” Her voice is soft, soothing. She ruffles his hair gently before releasing him. “Now, go get some sleep. I’ll make sure there’s some pie left for you in the morning.”

Leandros pulls away and stands, moving toward his door. “Love you, Mom,” he murmurs without looking back, closing the door softly behind him.

A faint sigh escapes as he leans against the door, his shoulders slumping. “I just want to be like you guys,” he whispers to himself. Looking at the black spiral markings on his arms.

He shrugs off his tunic, tossing it aside, and climbs into bed. The straw mattress creaks beneath him as the faint glow of moonlight filters through the window, casting soft shadows across the room.

Like one of you guys…

His gaze lingers on the ceiling as the thought loops in his mind. Slowly, his eyelids grow heavy, and the quiet hum of the night lulls him to sle-\

Knock… Knock… Knock…

“Come in,” he calls, opening his eyes and glancing toward the door. No further movement follows. Really? “Come in!” he repeats, watching expectantly, but the silence persists.

Why are you doing this?

Sitting up in bed, he mutters, “I know you’re trying to be funny.”

This time, three loud slams echo through the room. Fuck’s sake. He pushes himself off the bed and strides toward the door, the cold air biting at his skin. The icy touch of the knob doesn’t faze him.

“WHAT?” he growls, swinging the door open.

But all that greets him is an endless sea of frost.

What the f-

A sudden gust of wind howls through the opening, slamming the door wide and throwing him backward. The force hurls him through the wooden wall, splinters flying as the icy gale swallows him whole.

"Grrnnnn," Leandros groans, clutching his right side as pain ripples through him. Curled into a fetal position on the icy ground, his breath comes in short, sharp bursts, each one visible in the frigid air. His mind races, struggling to make sense of what just happened.

Blinking against the cold, he lifts his head slightly. Snow stretches endlessly in every direction, a vast, blinding expanse under the silvery glow of the moonlight—the only thing granting him even a sliver of visibility.

What is this? The thought claws its way through his panic as he scrambles to look around. His heart pounds faster with each passing second as his eyes dart through the frost and darkness, desperate to spot something—anything—that resembles home.

Standing, Leandros squints into the distance, searching for any sign of direction. There it is. A faint speck of light flickers in and out of existence, barely visible against the endless snow. It feels impossibly far, but it’s something.

As soon as he starts moving, the wind picks up, biting at his skin and howling in his ears. The snow grows deeper with every step, swallowing his legs until he’s hip-deep. Each movement is a struggle, the weight of the snow pulling at him, draining what little strength he has left.

“You bear the marks…” A voice echoes around him, disembodied and chilling. It seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

The marks? He freezes, heart pounding as he glances around. But there’s nothing—nothing but snow stretching endlessly in every direction.

Turning back, his breath catches. The white light is no longer distant. It hovers right in front of him now, impossibly close. Suspended at head height, it pulses faintly, unconnected to anything, neither menacing nor inviting—just there, casting a faint glow against the frost.

Leandros stands frozen, at a complete loss for words. His mind feels eerily blank, as if wiped clean of any thought. The icy assault that had clawed at his skin moments ago vanishes, yet the relentless blizzard remains.

The being drifts slowly away, its movements deliberate and almost hypnotic. And then, it happens—an urge to follow, one he can’t resist.

Stop. The thought is sharp, desperate, but his body doesn’t respond. He’s no longer in control. It’s as though he’s become a spectator within himself, his limbs moving of their own accord, blindly trailing the light.

Snow crunches beneath his boots as the journey stretches on, until at last, the light leads him to a cave. But not just any cave. His breath hitches. This is Dad’s cave.

Recognition flares as his eyes dart around, trying to make sense of it. The walls are etched with strange runes, their intricate patterns glowing faintly purple. The light dances across them, casting shifting shadows on the stone.

“What… are… you?” The voice returns, curling around him like a wisp of smoke. This time, it carries a note of curiosity, almost probing.

“I don’t know what I am,” Leandros snaps, the words spilling out before he can stop them. He regains full control of his body now, his muscles tense and his mind sharp. Agitation creeps into his tone, his eyes darting around the cave as he braces himself, waiting for something—anything—to happen.

Leandros stands just inside the mouth of the cave, his breath clouding the air as he hesitates. Glancing back over his shoulder, he eyes the swirling storm, its ferocity a stark contrast to the eerie calm within the cave. For a moment, he contemplates leaving, but the biting wind and impenetrable frost outside make the choice for him. With a quiet resolve, he steps further in, softening his footsteps.

“You… are… lost,” the voice reverberates through the cavern, the words bouncing off the stone walls and twisting around him.

Leandros pauses, his heart pounding, but his father’s foresight quickly comes to mind. He reaches for a torch mounted on the wall, its wooden handle smooth and worn from use. With a flick of the lighter built into its base—a design his father had crafted with meticulous care—the torch flares to life, casting flickering orange light against the cave walls.

What wouldn’t Starswirl give to find this? he muses. The thought lingers as his eyes adjust to the surreal sight around him. The glowing purple runes dominate the stone, their intricate patterns pulsing faintly. Interwoven among them, like veins of shadow, are black runes, twisting and curling in stark contrast. The sight is almost hypnotic, drawing him deeper into the cave.

He brushes his fingers along the walls as he walks, the rough stone cool beneath his touch. A strange energy hums beneath the surface, faint but unmistakable, like the thrum of a heartbeat.

“You… are… lost… child,” the voice whispers now, quieter, as though it’s leaning in close.

Leandros flinches instinctively, his shoulders snapping tight. “Uhuah… Don’t do that,” he mutters, shivering as the voice’s eerie tone lingers in his mind. It reminds him of the old stories his father used to tell—tales of spirits that wandered caves like this.

The path twists ahead, narrowing slightly, and he slows his steps. The faint crackle of a fire reaches his ears, its warmth just out of reach. Leandros stops at the final turn, his breath catching. The sound is too deliberate, too alive.

With measured care, he blows out the torch, plunging himself into shadow. Slowly, inch by inch, he creeps toward the corner, his movements silent and deliberate, every sense on edge.

Peeking around the corner, Leandros scans the space. His father’s workbench comes into view, cluttered with tools and scraps of equipment. Sacks filled with random odds and ends are stacked haphazardly nearby. The fireplace crackles softly, its flames fresh and lively, casting flickering shadows against the walls. Yet, there’s no sign of life.

This is exactly like the stories Dad used to tell me. The thought lingers, his mind beginning to churn.

Stepping cautiously out of hiding, Leandros approaches the fire. His eyes dart across the familiar scene. There’s no evidence of anyone entering the cave—no disturbed snow, no misplaced items. Everything looks exactly as it had two days ago when he last checked. Even the tripwire his father had rigged against intruders remains intact.

Paranoid much, Dad? The silent quip does little to ease the tension curling in his gut.

Leandros shifts his weight, his unease gradually lessening, though his guard remains high. His gaze never stops moving, sweeping the room for anything amiss. His voice, steady but tinged with suspicion, cuts through the crackling of the fire.

“What do you want?” The question hangs in the air, unanswered. The silence presses in around him, broken only by the low whistle of the wind outside.

“Actually…” he starts again, his voice firmer this time, though his unease lingers. “What are you?”

“What I am… is not… important,” the voice echoes, reverberating off the cave walls like a distant, disembodied hum.

Leandros exhales sharply, frustration beginning to rise. “Well, that doesn’t help me at all,” he mutters, his annoyance creeping into his voice.

A sudden hiss breaks the silence, sharp and unsettling. His gaze snaps toward the back wall of the cave, where the runes come alive, their glow intensifying. Pulses of light throb rhythmically, radiating an almost hypnotic energy.

At the centre of it all, the runes converge. The black symbols twist and coil, encircling a smaller cluster of purple markings. They form a perfect circle, drawing his attention to a single rune in the middle—a deep blue, wreathed in faint tendrils of black smoke, as though exhaling its own aura.

Leandros steps closer, his breath catching as recognition dawns. “Eyes…” he murmurs, the word slipping out almost involuntarily. It’s the symbol for eyesight in old Minoan—a language his father had taught him in passing.

Did Dad put this here? His thoughts race. If so, when?

The voice cuts through his mind once more, low and deliberate.

“You… wish to be… whole?”

Leandros flinches at the question, but before he can respond, movement above catches his eye. From the shadows of the roof, something begins to descend. Slowly, deliberately, it lowers—a suit of matte black armour, its polished surface absorbing the flickering light.

But it’s not just any armour.

“That’s Dad’s armour…” he whispers, disbelief etched into every word.

A knot of unease twists in his chest. The voice speaks again, more insistent, yet still calm.

“Where did you find that armour?” Leandros demands, his tone sharp, cutting through the charged air. His mind races with questions, but one thought screams louder than the rest: Where the hell did this thing come from?

Is this still a dream? It can't be, can it? Could it be? Leandros clutches his head, torn between disbelief and panic. The lines between reality and illusion blur. "This isn’t real. This—this has to be a dream." A strained laugh escapes him. "You’re not real. None of this is real."

"Oh… Leandros, I assure you… this is… real."

"Prove it," he says defiantly, his gaze locked on the glowing circle of markings. "Hah, prove this is real." Confidence flickers, as if he’s just cracked the code. Letting his guard slip for the briefest moment, he’s snapped back by the sting of a pebble striking the back of his head. The sharp pain cuts through his delusion. Too real to ignore.

"I am… not one to… toy around. I am… giving you an… offer." The voice grows heavier, the last word echoing as the runes flash brilliantly. A sudden gust extinguishes the fire, plunging the cave into shadow.

Leandros steps back, his defiance burning brighter. "You really expect me to believe you? After blowing me through my bedroom wall, hijacking my body, dragging me to this cave, and stealing my father’s armour?" His voice rises, unshaken. "I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m declining."

Silence engulfs the space. The storm outside hums faintly, the only sound filling the void. One by one, the glowing symbols fade into darkness. Leandros exhales sharply, his fists clenching. That’s what I thought.

Grabbing his head, Leandros winces as an alien presence worms its way into his mind—an intruder, something relentless, feeding him whispers laced with venom. The words are fragments, sharp and jagged.

“You do not belong.”
“Don’t you want to see?”
“They don’t know you.”
“You do not belong.”

“Stop!” The pain climbs, radiating from his skull to every nerve in his body. His voice cracks under the weight of it.

“You do not belong.”
“They are lying.”
“You need the truth.”
“You do not belong.”

Leandros collapses to his knees, the agony blotting out everything else. His vision swims, the cave’s dim glow twisting into a blur. He claws at his mind, trying to force the intruder out, drawing on every scrap of magic he’s ever practised—but it’s useless. The voices are relentless, multiplying until they’re a cacophony.

“Stop it! I…” Words fail him as the barrage crescendos.

“You do not belong.”
“Everything is a lie.”
“See the truth.”
“YOU… DO… NOT… BELONG.”

Then, as suddenly as it began, the pain vanishes. Leandros curls into himself, gasping for air, his body trembling. The runes ignite in his peripheral vision, snaking along the walls in erratic, serpent-like patterns. The blue rune in the centre hums with a deep, resonant vibration, almost alive.

Leandros staggers to his feet, dirt clinging to his hands and knees, but he barely notices. Something beyond his control propels him forward, his body no longer his own. “I don’t belong…” he mutters, his voice barely audible, trembling with emotion.

As he moves closer to the glowing circle, the black and purple runes seem to slither toward him, wrapping around his presence like tendrils. The spirals on his arms—dark marks he thought inert—begin to pulse with the same blue light as the rune.

His vision blurs with unshed tears. “I… I want the truth.”

Reaching out with a trembling hand, Leandros touches the blue rune. A distant sound echoes in the back of his mind—like the toll of a church bell, low and ominous. He instinctively steps back, his eyes widening as the runes on the walls vanish. In their place, they etch themselves into his skin, intertwining with the black spirals already marking his arms.

“Gooood...”

Pain explodes behind his eyes, sudden and overwhelming. A guttural scream tears from his throat as searing heat blossoms across his face. He clutches his head, desperate to stop the agony, but the sound of sizzling flesh is unmistakable. Black tendrils ooze from the walls, twisting and writhing as they envelop the armour. The pieces lift as if alive, slithering toward him with dreadful purpose.

The armour begins to bind to his body, each piece bending and shifting to mould perfectly to his frame. The tendrils hiss as they meld the metal against his skin, forming a second layer—an unrelenting prison.

Leandros’s screams grow hoarse, his nails scraping against his face in a futile attempt to claw out the torment radiating from his eyes.

When the process is complete, the black metal encases him entirely. His body collapses to the floor, twitching as the pain wracks him, far too great for him to withstand. The voice returns, low and commanding, a promise laced with dread.

“You will be made anew.”

Nice meeting you.

“GET BACK ERE!” Shade hears behind him, the voice echoing through a remote valley blanketed in snow. The crunch of frozen ground under hoof is a constant reminder that winter has taken full effect.

“Stop, you damn pony!” The shouts are ragged now, exhaustion weighing heavily in their words.

But Shade isn’t free from exhaustion either. His limbs grow heavier with each passing moment. I don’t have long. He pushes himself forward, slipping through the narrow gap between a fallen branch and a downed log.

Then it happens. His front left hoof clips a jagged stone, sending him tumbling into the snow.

Pain flares as he scrambles to his hoofs, breathing hard. “Arghh... shit,” he mutters, his gaze falling to his left front fetlock. A deep cut gleams crimson against the snow. Trying once more to push on, trying another step once more, gritting his teeth. His leg feeling numb, He opts to limp forward.

Trying to stay as low as possible to avoid being seen, Shade finds a hole covered by tree roots. This’ll work. Backtracking over his own steps, he circles another tree a few metres to the right. Opening his saddlebag, he pulls out a small vial of red liquid. Pouring it over his injured fetlock, his eyes go wide with pain, a scream caught in his throat. He empties the vial completely, then limps back along his trail. Crawling into the hole, he covers the entrance with snow, masking his tracks.

“He’s here!” A sharp, masculine voice cuts through the cold air, carrying a distinct gryphonic accent.

“Well, I don’t see ’im!” This one was unmistakably a diamond dog, his gruff tone heavy with frustration.

“Look at the blood trail. He can’t be far.”

Shade listens, his breaths shallow and controlled. The voices grow closer, accompanied by the crunch of snow and two distinct sets of steps. The diamond dog sniffs the air, lowering his nose to the ground.

The sniffs come closer—right on top of Shade, separated only by the thin barrier of tree roots.

Holding his breath for dear life, Shade remains frozen, willing himself not to make a sound.

“You find anything?” The gryphon's sharp voice interrupts the hound’s search.

“Mrgggh… no. Nothin’s ’ere,” the diamond dog growls in dissatisfaction, rising back up.

“The trail ends here.” The gryphon gestures towards the red-streaked snow that stops abruptly at the tree line.

“He made it to the clearing. The boss isn’t going to be happy about this.”

“If you listened to me, this neva would’ve happened.” The diamond dog stomps away, grumbling. “Come on, you’ve made enough of a mess.”

The first set of steps fades into the distance, followed by the second.

“Stupid pony,” the diamond dog mutters, punctuating the insult with a sharp kick of snow before the sound of their retreat disappears entirely.

Forcing his breath out, just laying still trying to catch it again. Not wanting to take any chances. Give it 30 or so. Not wanting them to see him get out of his hidy hole. He’s totally and utterly exhausted. Good workout. “Hehehe” cuckling at his predicament, trying to make some light of it.

Slowly and quietly, easing out of the hole as much as his injured hoof would allow. First, pushing through his bags, then himself. Once free, he stays low, scanning his surroundings. His ears standing tall, swivelling as he listens for any sounds. All that meets him is the soft wail of the wind and his own breath.

Rising cautiously, he picks up his bags, inspecting their contents to ensure nothing is missing. Satisfied, he secures them over his wings. The bag is crude, cobbled together by hoof from scraps of various materials. They weren’t pretty, but they got the job done.

Testing his injured hoof, he places it on the ground and applied light pressure. The sharp pain drew a hiss from his lips as he quickly pulled it back. I’ve got maybe a few kilos in me, he thought grimly. Need shelter—and fast.

Limping toward the clearing, he reached the forest’s edge. Pausing, he cast one last wary glance back before stepping into the open field.

It wasn’t an easy battle. The climb up the semi-steep hill proved grueling, each step sending sharp reminders of his injury. What might take a healthy creature fifteen minutes stretched into a punishing forty-five. His strained body protested with every movement, his legs screaming for rest. If I stop now, I’m not getting back up.

Snow began to fall, soft flakes drifting around him, blurring the already monochromatic landscape. Shade scanned his surroundings for shelter, the unrelenting white threatening to erase every detail. Then, amidst the haze, the dark maw of a cave stood out along a rockface. Bingo. Changing direction, he inched his way forward, each step measured and cautious.

Reaching the cave entrance, Shade steps cautiously inside, his hooves crunching against the uneven stone floor. His gaze falls on a rusted sconce lying discarded in the dirt, its surface degraded beyond recognition. "No pony’s been here for a while," he mutters under his breath.

A shiver runs through him as he ventures further, the air growing colder with each step. The cave walls glisten faintly, coated with a thin sheet of ice that thickens as the darkness deepens. Ain’t gonna find anything better than this.

Reaching a bend, he pauses, leaning heavily against the icy wall. His breath comes in uneven bursts, fogging in the chilled air. His eyes drift to his blood-streaked fetlock, the wound leaving a faint crimson trail in his wake. I can’t move much more.

With a deep exhale, he sets his bag down, rummaging inside until he pulls out a bandage. Carefully, he wraps it around the cut, gritting his teeth against the sting. Once finished, he grips the bag in his teeth and drags it forward, inch by inch, his body protesting every movement.

Rounding the corner, Shade halts. The sight before him freezes him in place. In the centre of the cave stands what appears to be a massive metal golem, its form entombed in ice crystals. The crystals spiral outward like delicate flowers, glowing faintly with an otherworldly light.

"Sweet Celestia…" Shade whispers, his voice barely audible, eyes locked on the glowing figure. With trembling legs, he lowers his bag to the ground before collapsing onto the cold stone floor. This is far enough.

His breaths come in shallow gasps, his vision blurring at the edges. The faint blue glow from the golem is the last thing he sees, along with a thin crack beginning to splinter across the ice shell. His head drops to the ground, and darkness takes him as exhaustion claims his body.

The cracks spread, weaving intricate lines over the icy surface. The soft glow intensifies, casting shifting shadows across the cave walls. The ice flowers shatter one by one, crystalline shards scattering to the floor. Then, with a deafening crack, a hand bursts free from the frozen cocoon.

The figure claws at the ice, tearing away chunks of the shell with sharp, deliberate movements. Moments later, it steps forward, fully emerging from its prison. The golem stands tall, encased in matte black armour that radiates a cold, ethereal energy. A chilling blue aura envelops its frame, and its glowing eyes, the same ghostly blue, pierce through the dimness of the cave like twin beacons of icy light.

Leandros glanced around, unfamiliar with the sight before him. Everything shimmered under a thin sheen of ice, pulsating with shifting colours that moved chaotically, as though alive. Pulling his hands up in front of him, he froze at the sight of his own aura—a swirling mixture of light blue laced with tendrils of black. Is this... magic? His gaze roamed over his body, every inch encased in black armour. It clung to him seamlessly, with no gaps, the same ethereal glow radiating from his frame.

“What happened to m—” The words cut off as pain surged through him. It was the same torment he’d endured during the transformation: his eyes burned, and his body screamed with ache. Falling to his knees, Leandros watched as the vibrant colours faded, along with the glow of his own aura. The agony dulled, but it lingered, a subtle reminder of whatever had ‘just’ transpired.

Forcing himself upright, he scanned the icy walls. “The markings... they’re gone?” He reached out, running a gloved hand along the smooth, frosted surface as he walked. His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden jolt—a dull thud as his foot hit something solid.

Leandros looks down, his gaze falling on something… some creature he never expected. A pony? This far north? He takes a step back, his armored feet crunching the ice beneath him. The pony lies on the ground, motionless, its grey pelt blending almost seamlessly with the frost, an equally grey mane tangled against its bruised body. Leandros kneels, his dark gauntlets grazing the snow as he examines the red-soaked bandage wrapped around the pony’s foreleg. How long have you been here? His eyes trace the bruises and small cuts scattered across its frame. Looks like a him. “You haven’t been here long… have you?” he mutters under his breath.

His gaze shifts to the pony’s bag, which lies nearby in disarray, its frayed edges spilling its contents onto the frozen cave floor. Colored vials and handmade bandages litter the area. Carefully, Leandros picks them up one by one, placing each item back into the bag. He props it upright against the cave wall, next to the unconscious pony, glancing at him briefly before rising to his feet.

The sound of water dripping catches his attention. He notices the ice beginning to melt, forming small rivulets that reflect the faint light in the cave. Leandros grabs one of the empty vials from the pony’s bag and positions it under an ice stalactite, using a few scattered rocks to stabilize it. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips before he steps toward the front of the cave.

The crunch of his boots fades as he reaches the entrance. He stops, his eyes narrowing at the faint red trail outside, flecks of blood leading to where the pony must have collapsed. Must’ve been chased. He steps forward cautiously, light spilling into the entrance, and immediately feels the familiar sensation of burning creeping over his skin. It’s manageable this time, though it gnaws at him with every step.

Creeping further out, Leandros takes in the vast, snow-covered landscape beyond. The same hill stretches before him, the world blanketed in white, and yet… it feels different. Colors dance and shimmer at the edges of his vision, bouncing off the snow, like energy pulsing from the earth itself. It’s as if he can feel the land—its very essence—without touching it.

As fast as the sensation comes, it fades. The colors flicker briefly before vanishing altogether. Leandros shakes his head, trying to fend off the lingering ache—it helps, but not by much. Taking a few steps away from the cave, he pauses in the clearing outside. “Time to go home…” The words come out faintly, as if he’s trying to convince himself. Turning in slow circles, he scans the horizon, searching for anything familiar. “Home…” He says it again, quieter this time, but the surroundings remain entirely alien. No landmarks, no direction. “Where am I?”

The unease gnaws at him as he climbs the nearby hill, hoping for a clearer vantage point. Cresting the top, his eyes catch on a small house in the distance.

“They probably know where we are,” he mutters, locking onto the only sign of civilization. Without hesitation, Leandros starts toward it. The house lies a few kilometers away, the trek mercifully manageable. Yet as he moves, a strange sense of déjà vu wraps around him like a fog. Why does this feel so familiar… yet so foreign? The tree lines flanking the clearing flash in his mind like distant memories, but every time he tries to grab hold of a thought, it slips through his fingers.

As he approaches the house, its condition becomes clearer. The place is worn down, its age and neglect etched into every detail. The wood siding isn’t fully rotted but shows the beginnings of decay, the edges soft and splintered. Tools left outside are rusted, their handles cracking and warped by time and exposure.

Reaching the wooden steps, he ascends cautiously. Each step creaks under his weight, the groan of old wood almost a warning. At the door, he hesitates before lifting his hand to knock.

KNOCK KNOCK.

The sound of his fist against the wood reverberates through the silence, but something shifts—the door creaks open under the force. A brittle snap follows as the lock breaks away, the metal tumbling to the floor with a dull clang.

Frowning, he bends down, fingers brushing the handle before he picks it up.

"Hello?" His voice cuts through the still air. "I'm sorry about the door. The handle came off when I was knocking."

Silence.

Pushing the door open fully, he steps inside, the wood beneath his boots groaning with each movement. "Anyone?" Again, no reply.

His hand finds the dining table in front of him, the surface rough and cold. The outside of the house had seemed in better shape, but inside… Inside, it’s bleak.

The wooden walls are plagued with rot, their decay creeping through like a slow disease. The furniture is withered beyond use, its original form barely recognisable. Against the back wall, the fireplace has collapsed inward, leaving jagged gaps where snow seeps through. The windows—either shattered or missing—allow the wind to come and go as it pleases, weaving through the abandoned space.

To his left, the kitchen is little more than a wreckage of splintered wood, scattered glass, and fragments of marble-like stone. Cupboards lie toppled across the floor, rotted food smeared between them. Was this raided? There are no burn marks, no signs of weapon damage.

He brings a hand to his chin, thinking. The destruction seems natural, left unchecked for years. But something about it feels... wrong. There’s something else at play here. Something bigger.

Pushing the thought aside, he steps past the table, moving toward the two inner doors. The first leads into a bedroom—a once-lived-in space reduced to decay. A square-framed bed sits against the wall, its mattress long gone. A broken nightstand leans on its side, while a chest rests at the bed’s base. Kneeling, he lifts the lid. Inside, a few scattered letters remain. The ink has mostly faded, but some bear a faint branded symbol: a cursive T&M. He turns them over in his hands before dropping them back inside. Nothing else. Nothing useful.

Leaving the first room, he approaches the second. The moment his fingers brush the handle, a strange sensation spreads through his right hand—a muted coldness, distant yet sharp. Ice blooms from the point of contact, spreading unnaturally fast. He jerks his hand away. The frost keeps growing, webbing over the door and creeping onto the surrounding wall.

He stares at his palm. A thin mist seeps from his skin, vanishing as it reaches the floor.

Wriggling his fingers, he feels the numbness creeping in. He shakes out his hand, uneasy.

"I'm not taking any chances," he mutters, holding his right hand well away from anything in reach. Instead, he grips the handle with his left—but it’s too late. The knob has frozen solid, its surface now an extension of the ice-bound door. It won’t budge.

Now what…?

An idea forms. A bad one. But an idea nonetheless.

Taking a few steps back, he braces himself—then throws his shoulder into the door. Ice shatters on impact, shards exploding outward as the weakened wood gives way beneath him.

Pain lances through his shoulder.

He exhales sharply, rolling it with a grimace. "That... may not have been my best…idea”

The room is utterly destroyed. A massive hole gapes in the wall beside what looks like a bed frame, jagged edges of shattered wood and ice scattered across the floor.

Leandros grips his head with his left hand as the burning sensation flares behind his eyes. Colours return—but this time, they are grey and lifeless, streaked with veins of black. The image before him feels... dead. No warmth lingers here. The rest of the house, though fading, still holds traces of something—memories, perhaps. But this room? It’s a void.

He stumbles back, his breath unsteady. The colours cling to him, brushing against his skin as if sensing his presence, sharpening his awareness of the house’s lingering heat. “Must’ve been nice” he mutters under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper.

Turning toward the open front door, he strikes the side of his head with his palm. “Arrgghhh…” Frustration bubbles up as the tingling sensation creeps along the back of his skull.

Stepping outside, the world erupts into colour once more—shades twisting and shifting in that same hypnotic dance. The brightness stings, forcing him to pause, eyes adjusting to the sudden vibrancy.

He exhales, long and slow. Sigh… Maybe there are people in the surrounding area that can help. His gaze lingers on the horizon for a moment before he starts walking, leaving the ruined house behind.

“But first, I have a pony to tend to.”

Reaching the cave, Leandros carries a handful of gathered supplies—wild plants from the surrounding area and a small collection of berries. He knows what can be used to ease injuries and which berries are safe to eat.

He crouches beside his sleeping visitor, placing the items carefully on the ground. His eyes flick around the cave, scanning his surroundings until they land on a cluster of old wooden crates stacked against the wall. How have you not rotted?

Rising to his feet, he steps over to them, running a hand across their rough, timeworn surfaces. One of the crates is still locked, but as soon as he touches it, the rusted mechanism falls away, clattering uselessly to the floor. The lid creaks open, revealing an assortment of items—bowls, tools, and bags of varying sizes. He reaches in, sifting through the contents, but most crumble at the slightest pressure, disintegrating in his hands.

Still, a few wooden bowls remain intact. Serviceable enough.

Returning to the pony’s side, he sits down, placing the bowls in front of him. One for the berries. Another for the crushed flowers and herbs, mashing them together with slow, deliberate movements.

The concoction begins to glow, a bright pink hue radiating from the bowl. Wisps of steam curl into the air, shifting between shades of purple and red. As he adds the last of his harvest, the liquid bubbles violently, splattering onto the cave floor before finally settling into a warm, pulsing pink.

This should be enough.

Carefully, he grabs a handful of empty vials from the bag, their glass thin and fragile. The weight of his gauntlets makes handling them cumbersome, but he moves with precision, filling each one without a single crack. Once done, he places them gently back into the bag and turns his attention to the unconscious pony.

Leandros watches it in silence. Then, hesitantly, he reaches out with his right hand. His fingers hover inches from its fur, uncertain—until the pony shifts slightly. The movement jolts him, and he instinctively pulls his hand back. He exhales sharply, shaking his head. Not yet.

Straightening, he focuses on something more immediate—fire. The cave’s centre is still cluttered with rubble, so he clears a space, brushing aside broken bits of wood and stone. Scattered rocks are gathered into a rough ring, forming a makeshift fire pit about half a metre in diameter.

Stepping outside, he returns moments later, arms full of dead winter wood, pinecones, and thick clumps of sap. Working quickly, he stacks the wood in a compact box-like structure—the largest logs forming an alternating pattern, with the smaller twigs nestled in the centre. The sap coats the wood, slick and sticky, ensuring an easy flame.

Kneeling, he grabs two rough stones from the crate’s remains. Leaning over the fire pit, he strikes them together, sending tiny sparks into the dry kindling.

The wood catches with a sharp crackle, embers blooming to life as the sap-fed flames spread hungrily. The fire casts a flickering glow against the cave walls, painting them in shades of amber and gold. Leandros watches for a moment, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face, before stepping back. He moves towards the same wall where the pony lies, lowering himself to sit a short distance away, careful not to intrude.

Time passes in stretches of silence. Leandros stares into the flames, his mind drifting in their hypnotic dance. Occasionally, he rises—checking the weather, gathering more wood, placing it within reach of the fire. The routine feels grounding, but it doesn’t come without its troubles.

Every so often, the colours return, bleeding into the world like ink spilling across a canvas. And with them, the insistent tingling at the base of his skull. His fingers brush against a log, and frost blooms at the point of contact. He grimaces, watching the ice creep along the bark before pulling his hand away. I really need to get this under control.

By dusk, the snowfall thickens, a soft veil settling over the landscape outside. Inside, the fire’s glow keeps the shadows at bay. Leandros keeps his gaze on the pony’s slow, steady breathing, his watchful presence unshaken. He had already fashioned a makeshift pillow of moss and tucked it beneath its head.

Then—a sound. A faint shift in breath, the stir of movement.

Leandros tenses, eyes flicking over. Shade is beginning to wake. He doesn’t move, barely even breathes, hoping not to startle the poor thing.

A groan, low and sluggish. “Urghhh…” Shade lifts a hoof to his head, blinking against the haze of returning consciousness. Trying to lift himself, but his legs give out, sending him back down with a thud.

“That isn’t advisable.”

The words leave Leandros’ mouth before he even thinks. The sound of his own voice catches him off guard. Deeper. Not rough, not coarse—just firm, steady. When did that happen?

“You don’t think…” Shade’s voice is strained, neither deep nor high-pitched. It lacks the weight of Leandros’s but isn’t squeamish by any means.

“If you’re here to take me, just kill me instead.” He closes his eyes. Listening. The fire’s crackling fills the silence.

“Why would I do that?” Leandros responds, curiosity threading his voice. Why would I do that? The thought lingers as he tilts his head slightly, then fully turns to face the downed one. “You’ve done nothing to warrant such treatment.”

Shade lets the silence stretch again. He doesn’t know if he’s in the company of his captors or some stranger—neither option feels safe.

“So you’re not from the Cage?” There’s a flicker of hope in his voice, buried well beneath suspicion.

“I do not know this ‘Cage’ you speak of. To be honest, I don’t know much of anything anymore. My memory seems to be… elsewhere.”

“That’s a first. You’re the first creature I’ve seen that isn’t tied to that… thing.” Shade’s words are laced with disgust, resentment curling at the edges.

His eyes shift, spotting a bowl of berries and another filled with some kind of pink liquid.

Leandros notices. “I made you a remedy to help with your injuries. I also gathered some berries.”

Shade eyes the bowls, his distrust plain in the way his body tenses. Shifting slightly, he finally looks at the owner of the voice.

Shade’s eyes widen. His mouth opens, ready to speak—but he stops himself. Instead, he stares, speechless, at the figure before him, clad head to toe in black.
Just calm down. Play your cards right, and you’ll be fine… you’ll be fine.

Leandros notices the unease in Shade’s movements and shifts slightly, adjusting his posture to seem less imposing. “I understand that you do not trust me, but know that I do not intend to harm you.” The words feel as much for himself as for Shade.

“I get that you’re trying to help me, but it really doesn’t help that you look like you came straight from Tartarus itself. Your looks don’t match what you’re saying.” Shade’s voice isn’t fearful—more sceptical than anything else. He knows better than to take words at face value.

“My looks?” Leandros asks, tilting his head slightly.

“Yeah, your looks.”

“What is wrong with my looks?” There’s a slight edge to his voice, mild offense creeping in.

Shade gestures vaguely. “I don’t know… how often do you see somecreature covered in full armour?”

Leandros doesn’t respond immediately. He simply stares.

Shade studies him further. “That armour looks expensive. Well made. You don’t get that around here easily—and it doesn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen.” He shifts slightly, edging closer to his bag, taking his eyes off Leandros for the first time. “And to be honest, you just look menacing. No offence.”

Leandros doesn’t respond right away, processing the information. He looks down at his arms, really seeing the armour for the first time. He hadn’t even considered its design before now. The metal is rough, not smooth like the usual plate armour worn by other creatures. Sharp edges run along its structure, his gauntlets ending in almost claw-like, knife-tipped fingers. How did I miss this?

“You see what I mean?” Shade’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. Leandros doesn’t look up, still staring at his armour.

“I do now, yes,” he replies, his tone more understanding this time. Lowering his arms, he finally looks toward Shade, who is busy rummaging through his belongings.

“I didn’t take anything,” Leandros adds. “I did fill some of your vials with the pink liquid.”

Shade holds the vials up to his eyes, inspecting them closely. They seem untouched aside from being filled, which earns Leandros a small but notable point in his favour. Satisfied, Shade tucks them back into his bag.

His gaze drifts to the bowl of steaming pink liquid. He watches it carefully before pointing a hoof at it. “And this?”

“It is medicine,” Leandros says plainly.

Shade raises a brow. “Medicine? What kind?”

“A recipe I know,” Leandros explains. “Like I said, it will help with your injuries. I filled the vials in your bag for future use. It aids recovery—mainly cuts and lacerations. Helps with blood flow.”

Shade shifts his attention to the other bowl, filled with berries of various colours. “And the berries?”

“It’s food I gathered for you,” Leandros answers. “I don’t know pony diets well, aside from the fact that you’re herbivores.”

Shade eyes the bowl, then flicks his gaze back to Leandros. There’s no other visible food in the cave. His scepticism lingers, but so does the growing hunger gnawing at his stomach.

“I recommend eating first,” Leandros says. “Taking the medicine on an empty stomach might not be pleasant.”

Shade’s attention sharpens. He studies Leandros closely, scrutinising every minute detail. Years of hardship have given him a skill—the ability to read creatures, to pick apart their words, searching for the slightest crack. A hesitation. A misplaced inflection. A lie.

But Leandros gives nothing away. Not even the T-shaped slit in his helmet betrays a hint of deception.

Shade shifts his approach. “What about you? Where’s your food?”

“I am not hungry.”

Is that a trick? Or is he being genuine? Shade frowns. “Why?”

Leandros pauses as if considering the question for the first time. “I do not know why I am not hung—”

“No.” Shade cuts in. “Why are you helping me?”

That catches Leandros off guard. “I… do not follow.”

“This.” Shade gestures to the food. “Why go through all this?” He waves a hoof at everything around him—the fire, the shelter, even the fresh bandages wrapped around his injured fetlock.

Leandros is silent for a moment. “Do I need a reason?” he responds softly.

Shade narrows his eyes. “Typically, around these parts—yes.”

The silence drags on. Leandros watches as the pony stares him down, misty grey eyes drilling into him, searching.

"I do not have a reason. I saw you needed help and helped."

Shade finds no deception. He’s being genuine. I can’t believe it. His eyes narrow. There has to be a catch.

"So you want nothing in return for helping me? Nothing at all?"

"There is one thing," Leandros responds.

He rises from his seated position, approaching. Shade tenses, shrinking back slightly as the armoured figure looms closer. Leandros stops just across from him, settling down past the bowls of berries and medicine.

"I would like your name," he says simply, expectantly.

Shade stiffens. "My name? Why?" His voice is sharp, defensive.

Leandros studies him, noting more scars woven through the short fur. What has happened to you to make you this guarded?

"I simply find it distasteful to keep thinking of you as 'the pony.'”

Shade exhales slowly, his body relaxing—if only slightly. Still wary. That’s it? Just my name?

"That's it? My name?"

"Yes. That is all I want in return."

Shade watches him, still searching, still testing. "I'll give it to you on one condition." He studies Leandros carefully, waiting—expecting the smallest shift in body language, a flicker of deception. But once again, nothing. Nothing but stillness.

Finally, Shade sighs, lowering his head slightly. Fine.

"My name is Shade."

Leandros lets the name settle in his mind, rolling it over as if weighing it. Then, he leans back slightly. "Shade..."

"And the condition?" Leandros now curious.

Shade exhales through his nose. "There was no condition." His voice carries a note of surrender, as if admitting defeat.

Leandros hums in thought before responding, "Then I will create one." He shifts forward, extending a hand. "My name is Leandros. It is a pleasure to meet you."

Shade stares at the outstretched gauntlet, unmoving. The motion is foreign. What… does he expect me to do?

"It is a greeting," Leandros explains, his voice calm.

Hesitantly, Shade lifts a hoof, pressing it against the cold black metal. It feels like the talons of a griffon—sharp, sturdy, offering no warmth. A faint shiver crawls up his spine, but he hides it well.

As they part, Shade clears his throat. "Nice meeting you, Leandros."

Author's Note

Please let me know what you think!

Living History.

Leandros watches as Shade eats his berries, finally allowing himself to relax. He hopes to build some form of rapport with him. So far, it has been a slow burn, but he can see the potential of them traveling together. A faint smile tugs at his lips, accompanied by a light-hearted snort.

"What?" Shade mumbles, mouth full of berries.

"Just pondering what’s to come." Leandros stands and walks over to the fire, grabbing a stick from the side. He spreads the embers, ensuring the flames stay ablaze, before tossing the stick into the fire and sitting down with a heavy metallic thud.

Shade frowns as he looks down at his now-empty bowl. With a sigh, he turns his attention to the other one filled with the pink liquid. Do I really have to drink this? He glances between his injured leg and Leandros, who simply watches the flames. Yup. With a resigned breath, he grabs the bowl and, in one swift motion, drinks the medicine.

The taste starts off earthy, but it quickly shifts, taking on a mixture of different berry flavors. Licking his lips, he hums in mild surprise. "Huh… that wasn’t as bad as I thought."

"It is good you did not take it on an empty stomach," Leandros remarks, still watching the fire. "It uses what you ate before ingesting the serum as a flavoring. Had you taken it without food, it would have tasted entirely different."

Shade props himself up slightly. "Did you learn to make this yourself?"

Leandros turns his gaze toward him. "Do not move too hastily. The medicine has a strong painkiller built into it. You should not push yourself too hard."

"I’ll be… fine." Shade struggles but still manages to stand, limping over toward the fire before lying down next to it. Close enough to feel its warmth, yet keeping enough distance from Leandros.

Leandros notices but says nothing, watching without turning his head. “No. The medicine… I learned it from my… father?” The thought wavers, slipping from his grasp as soon as he reaches for it. His mind recoils, forcing him away. “…To be honest, I don’t remember where I learned it.” His gaze drops to the ground.

“You don’t remember much, do you?” Shade asks, a hint of amusement lacing his words.

Leandros doesn’t answer immediately. His thoughts churn as he sifts through the haze, recalling fragments—his name, his training. But there’s no depth. No substance. Like memories that don’t belong to him.

“How long have you been here?” Shade’s voice pulls him back.

Leandros blinks. “Sorry?”

Shade gestures vaguely to their surroundings. “How long have you been here?” His hoof motions toward the nearly-melted ice coffin Leandros had emerged from earlier, its presence looming like a question in itself.

Leandros tries to navigate his fogged mind, but the answer remains elusive. “…I don’t know.” He exhales, frustration barely hidden. “Sorry, but my memory seems to be… scattered.” His fingers brush against his chin in thought.

“Scattered?” Shade repeats, curiosity flickering in his voice. Great… he’s a lunatic.

Leandros continues, undeterred. “Some parts are missing. I remember the fundamentals of sword fighting, yet I can’t recall where I learned them. It’s the same with the medicine—I know how to make it, but not who taught me. Not where. Not why.”

“Uh-huh,” Shade deadpans. There goes my chance of getting anywhere. He exhales, shaking his head. “Welp. I’m going to bed. Hopefully (not) I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Leandros simply nods. “As do I. Good night, Shade. I will keep watch.”

Why are you like this? Shade groans internally. “Good night,” he mutters, dragging himself toward his makeshift bed. He lowers himself with a dull thud, shifting until his back is pressed firmly against the cave wall before finally shutting his eyes. Somecreature save me.

Leandros sits in silence, alone once again. The fire before him fades, shrinking into embers, yet the cave around him feels brighter. The tingling at the back of his mind returns. The frost on his hands creeps back.

Suddenly, the cave isn’t a cave anymore. Light floods in as though someone had torn the roof away, exposing it to the sun. He looks down, and his gauntlets are no longer blackened metal. Ice-blue spreads across them, threading with black veins, overtaking the surrounding colours. His palms glow with a misty light, frost curling at his fingertips.

He stares at them. At himself.

What am I?

High up in the towers of Canterlot, Celestia sits at her study desk, deep into paperwork. Hours have passed as she meticulously reviews the reports from the north, ensuring no information is leaked while preparing for what is to come.

A sudden voice breaks her focus.

“Sister, thou hast been at thy paperwork for hours. Perhaps it is time for rest?”

Luna strides through the large bedroom doors, closing the distance between them before wrapping Celestia in a gentle embrace.

Celestia exhales, leaning into the hug. “Oh, Luna, you know I cannot do that.” She pulls back slightly. “We must be ready to depart soon. I simply cannot allow myself to rest.”

Luna sighs, reluctant to let go. “At the very least, thou couldst allow me to help…” Her gaze lingers on her sister’s tired features—she dislikes seeing her this overworked.

Celestia offers a small, reassuring smile. “I am almost finished. Do not worry, I will be fine.” She turns her attention back to the reports spread across her desk.

Most contain the same information—confirmation that the Crystal Empire has returned. That much she already knows. What she is searching for, however, is the return of a certain pony.

Her frown deepens. Where are you hiding?

So far, not a single report has mentioned him.

She’s made sure of it—twice now, she has gone over every single document brought before her, scanning for any sign.

“When are we departing?” Luna’s voice carries a trace of boredom as she reclines on the bed, idly watching the small magical stars drift across Celestia’s ceiling.

“In a month,” Celestia confirms.

Luna bolts upright. “In a month? Why not sooner?” Her tone sharpens with confusion.

Celestia smiles. Always too quick to haste. “We must not act recklessly. I have already sent scouts to verify the reports. This is a delicate matter, and if we leave the castle too soon, ponies will grow suspicious. And you know what they are like when suspicion arises.”

Luna exhales, flopping back onto the bed. “I do…” she echoes, recalling the past—how even the slightest unrest could ripple through the kingdom.

“Well then, I must begin my duties.” She pushes herself up, climbing off the bed in one fluid motion. “If you need anything, dear sister, please let me know.”

“Always,” Celestia murmurs, her focus still fixed on the documents. “I will see you at dinner.”

“See you then.”

With that, Luna steps through the massive bedroom doors, leaving Celestia alone once more.

Sighing, she leans back in her chair. There’s nothing more to go over.

Her gaze drifts toward the balcony. Another day gone…

Rising from her seat, she steps outside, the evening air cool against her coat. Her horn ignites, golden light wrapping around the sun as she focuses her magic. Slowly, it begins its descent, sinking below the horizon.

She watches over Canterlot, her expression softening into quiet pride. The streets below hum with life—ponies of all colours and backgrounds moving about, the last light of day painting the city in a warm glow. A sight to behold.

Letting the moment settle, she finally turns away, stepping back inside. A glance at the clock above her study desk—19:00. Two hours until dinner.

Without hesitation, she moves toward her bedroom doors, stepping into the dimly lit hallway and pulling them shut behind her.

The guards flanking the entrance straighten instantly, hooves snapping to salute.

"Princess," they say in unison, their expressions unreadable, their voices even.

"As you were," Celestia replies smoothly, striding past them.

She knows the castle. Of course she does. She’s lived within these walls for a thousand years. She never gets lost, but it never gets old when she spots a pony who is.

Rounding a corner, she notices a maid standing with her back turned, shifting nervously on her hooves. Clearly unsure of where she is. Celestia quiets her steps, moving forward inch by inch, her expression betraying a touch of mischief.

Just within reach, she clears her throat.

The poor maid startles with a squeak, spinning around before immediately bowing her head, trembling.

“Y-Your Highness!” Her legs barely hold her upright. “I-I’m s-so sorry, I got a bit lost and—”

Lowering her head to meet the pony’s gaze, Celestia offers a reassuring smile. “It’s quite alright, Cherrypie. The castle is big, isn’t it?”

“Y-Yes, Your Highness.”

Celestia watches as Cherry struggles to look her in the eyes. You poor thing. With a soft sigh, she settles onto the floor beside her, draping a wing over the smaller pony’s back. “Hush now. It’s alright.”

The trembling fades, Cherry’s breathing evening out.

“If you’re looking for the maid’s quarters, they’re the third door on the right,” Celestia says, gesturing down the hallway with a nod.

“Thank you, P-Princess.”

Celestia withdraws her wing, allowing Cherrypie to scurry off down the hall.

They’re always so cute.

Rising to her hooves, she continues on her way to the royal library, passing by multiple rooms and stationed guards. Each one straightens the moment they see her, offering a crisp salute. She acknowledges them with a slight nod but does not stop.

Upon reaching the grand doors of the library, the guards stationed there immediately push them open for her.

“Thank you,” she says, dipping her head slightly in gratitude before stepping inside.

The library is massive, its walls lined with towering bookshelves, their spines forming a tapestry of colours and history. Grand staircases sweep up either side, leading to multiple levels, while smaller bookcases divide the vast space down the centre.

A few ponies are scattered throughout, some buried in their books, others jotting down notes by candlelight. As the doors open, a few glance up, but the moment they see her, they quickly return to their work, making no attempt to acknowledge their princess.

Approaching the front desk, Celestia spots a small, elderly beige pony rummaging through a stack of papers. He remains absorbed in his task, only looking up when she is standing directly before him.

“Welcome, Your Highness. I’m sorry about the mess—just trying to finish today’s paperwork before closing up.”

“That’s quite alright. How have you been, Night Lite?”

She’s known him for years, never tiring of the sight of his enthusiasm when it comes to books. Reminds me of another pony.

“It’s been good, Princess. Not as busy lately with school being closed, but I’m keeping myself occupied.”

Hopping down from his chair, he walks around the desk, falling in step with Celestia as they make their way down the the library. “How may I be of assistance?”

“Could you please assist me in finding books on the Crystal Empire?”

“Most certainly! We’ve even had some new additions to the library!” Night Lite’s pace quickens slightly, his enthusiasm evident. Celestia, however, keeps her steps measured. “Would you like to see them?”

“Yes, please.”

They stop at a towering bookshelf, a golden plaque above them reading Histories of Empires.

“I personally tend to these, so this shouldn’t take too long,” Night Lite assures her, climbing onto a ladder. He starts at the top, carefully scanning each title as he works his way down. Books of varying sizes and thicknesses begin to pile up in his hooves.

“This here is what we currently have,” he says proudly, setting the final book on the growing stack. “We do have more coming in from the northern border—where the Crystal Empire used to be.” He pauses before adding, “I must say, though, I’m rather curious about your sudden interest.”

“I am simply refreshing my memory,” Celestia replies with a soft smile. “I was also hoping you might read through them with me.”

Night Lite’s face lights up. “Of course! I just need to grab my coffee!” He jolts away toward his desk.

Celestia watches him go, a fond glimmer in her eyes. Never change.

Turning back to the stack of books, she envelops them in her magic and carries them to a nearby desk. Settling in, she lifts the top book—a hefty tome titled Empires and Cities. The cover boasts intricate portraits of various cities and architectural marvels from different eras, each one steeped in history.

Opening it, her eyes fall on the introduction. This book was written 1,247 years after the ascension of the Alicorn Sisters.

“Nearly a thousand years ago,” she murmurs, tilting her head slightly. Am I really that old? A quiet snort escapes her as she shakes her head.

The sound of approaching hoofsteps pulls her from her thoughts.

“Alright, sorry about that. Now—let’s begin.”

Night Lite settles into the seat across from her, shifting to get comfortable before placing his coffee on the desk.

For the next two odd hours, they pored over the history of the Crystal Empire, skimming through book after book in search of anything relevant. From its founding to its golden age, and finally, to its tragic disappearance under King Sombra’s rule.

“And that’s everything we have here on the Empire,” Night Lite said, motioning to the pile of books stacked on the table. “Is there anything else I can help with?”

Celestia glanced around. The library had emptied, the only sounds left were the faint flicker of candlelight and the distant ticking of the grand clock. It was just the two of them now.

“No, thank you. That will be all for today. I appreciate your help, Night Lite.”

“You’re welcome, Your Highness. Anytime.” He dipped his head slightly before pushing back his chair and gathering the books. Years of practice allowed him to stack them perfectly onto his back without a single one toppling.

“Thank you. I’ll see you next time,” Celestia said, rising from her seat and making her way toward the exit.

“Bye, Princess.” He waved a hoof before turning back to his task, already focused on sorting the books back to their rightful places.

Approaching the grand library doors, Celestia lifts her gaze to the ornate clock mounted above the entrance. The longer hand hovers just before twelve, the shorter pointing at eight. Just in time for dinner.

With a flick of her magic, the doors open smoothly, and she steps into the quiet halls, her hooves barely making a sound as she makes her way toward the royal dining room.

As she nears the doors, muffled voices drift through—it’s Luna, speaking with the maids. Pushing the doors open, Celestia steps inside. A long banquet table stretches before her, adorned with an array of familiar dishes, each prepared with careful attention to detail. Across the room, Luna dismisses the last of the maids before turning to greet her with a proud smile.

"Welcome, dear sister." Her voice is warm, her pride unmistakable. "I have prepared thy favourite meals." She gestures to the spread, watching expectantly. "I do hope you enjoy."

Celestia steps closer, taking in every detail—the golden crusts, the delicate pastries, the rich aromas curling into the air. She turns back to Luna with a fond smile. "My Luna, this looks wonderful."

Luna straightens slightly, pride lingering in the way she holds herself. "They are just the way I like them." Celestia smiling.

Luna exhales, satisfaction evident. "Now then, let us dine."

They settle across from one another, the quiet punctuated only by the soft clink of utensils and the occasional hum of approval. The warmth of the meal fills the room, a comforting contrast to the weight of the day’s work.

After finishing a savoury, Luna dabs at her muzzle with a napkin before speaking. "How is the paperwork fairing?" She regards Celestia fully now, her plate momentarily forgotten.

Celestia swallows the last bite of her apple pie, mirroring her sister’s gesture with her own napkin before answering. "It was slow, but at least I am now finished. Trying to keep The Crystal Empire’s return quiet is no easy task." A hint of weariness lingers in her tone, though some of the burden has eased from her posture.

"I can imagine. Nor was it when it first vanished without a trace." Luna glances down at the table, selecting another treat before continuing. "And your search in the library?"

Celestia sighs, just barely. "Most of it was history I already knew. Every record of Sombra ends the same—he vanished along with his empire. Yet I strongly suspect he has returned with it."

Luna catches on immediately, her expression darkening. "You just don’t know where that beast is." Venom laces her words.

"Correct… I have instructed the scouts to keep their distance. They are to observe only." She lifts a fresh piece of pie onto her plate, her voice steady but firm. "We shall know soon enough if there is any sign of him."

"There will be… He’s always been a plague. We will defeat him just as we once did." Luna’s voice carries a quiet certainty, unwavering in its resolve.

"Hopefully, it won’t come to that." Celestia’s gaze drops to her plate, her expression betraying something deeper. All those years of knowing him, tarnished by his actions. And for what?

Luna watches her sister carefully. "You think we can save him?" She sets down her utensils, giving Celestia her full attention. "Sister, I don’t th—"

"We must try!" The weight of Celestia’s sorrow presses into her words. "We must…"

The silence that follows is thick, charged with unspoken history. When Celestia lifts her head, their eyes meet—pleading against reason. "We have to at least try."

Luna doesn’t speak immediately, her expression unreadable. When she does, her voice is measured. "We will see. But I will not endanger anypony if it goes south. And I trust that you will follow?"

"Yes." Celestia’s features remain steady, unwavering. "If it comes to that." She picks up her utensils once more, resuming her meal as if the conversation hadn’t shifted something in the air. "But you’re right… We will see."

The remainder of dinner carries on as usual, the two diarchs discussing their duties, their words flowing as they always do. Yet, beneath the surface, the tension lingers—a quiet presence neither of them acknowledges.

As the last plates are cleared, they part ways. Luna departs for night court, while Celestia retreats to her chambers, the weight of the evening settling over her shoulders like a shadow.

Walking over to one of her dressers, Celestia removes her golden regalia piece by piece, setting them down with quiet care. She lingers in front of the mirror, studying her reflection. The fatigue is there—evident in the slight droop of her eyes, in the way her mane, though ever-flowing, seems to lack its usual brilliance.

Sitting down, she lifts a brush in her magic and begins running it through her hair, the gentle rhythm soothing. A quiet hum escapes her lips, a melody from long ago, one she barely remembers where she first heard.

Moments like these are rare… Even as ruler of the largest nation in the world, even as a figure of legend, there are times she simply wishes to exist—away from the weight of duty, from the ever-present expectations. They forget that Luna and I are still just ponies too…

Finishing up, she sets the brush aside and rises, stepping out onto the balcony. The cool night air greets her as she watches the moon climb into the sky, Luna’s stars twinkling to life one by one. You were so little… The memories drift in—of laughter, of a filly stumbling through her first attempts at raising the moon.

She stays for a few moments, letting nostalgia settle before turning away. The bed before her is soft and inviting, the sheets mirroring her snow-white coat, the pillows a gentle golden hue, like the sun she shepherds each day.

Climbing under the covers, she gazes at the little glowing stars scattered across the ceiling, their slow movement lulling her thoughts. Perhaps I do deserve a vacation… A quiet chuckle escapes her before sleep pulls her under, embracing her in its warmth.

Shade’s eyes slowly open to the same cave as the day before. The air is surprisingly warm, despite the absence of a fire.

“Grgghhh…” A low groan escapes him as his body reminds him of yesterday’s punishment. His limbs feel frozen stiff, every ligament and muscle aching at the slightest movement. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he forces himself upright. The cave looks much the same as before—untouched, save for the snowy footprints leading to Leandros, who is crouched by the entrance, filling another bowl with berries.

Shade exhales and lets himself sink back down. So it wasn’t a dream…

“I hope you slept well.” That same deep, steady voice. Shade cracks an eye open to see Leandros approaching, two bowls in hand. The armoured figure kneels beside him, setting them down within reach. “I gathered more food and prepared another dose of medicine,” Leandros adds.

“Mhmm,” is all Shade manages. Mornings have never been his strong suit. Now, he’s stuck in the middle of nowhere with a stranger—one he still doesn’t fully trust. He isn’t happy about it, but compared to what usually greets him in the mornings… this isn’t the worst.

“The medicine has taken effect nicely. I inspected your wound—it’s mostly healed overnight.”

Leandros settles beside Shade, much to the pony’s discomfort. “But I’d still recommend drinking one more bowl. The painkiller’s effects have worn off.”

A realisation clicks in Shade’s mind. So that’s why it didn’t hurt as much yesterday.

Opening his eyes fully, he reaches for the bowl of berries, tilts his head back, and stuffs his mouth with as many as he can manage. He swallows them in one swift motion before moving to the pink remedy, downing it in a series of heavy gulps.

Almost instantly, warmth spreads through his body. He feels the concoction taking effect, the pain dulling, fading… until it’s gone entirely.

“You have to teach me how to make that. That stuff is gold.”

Shade sits up, trying his best to ignore the discomfort, though he’s terrible at hiding it. Leandros notices and shifts slightly, giving him space.

“You still do not trust me?” Leandros asks, his tone curious rather than offended.

Shade exhales, his voice careful, measured. “Listen… I do appreciate what you’ve done for me so far. And for that, I’m grateful. But please don’t take this the wrong way—I don’t know you.”

Leandros remains silent, his gaze fixed on the cave wall. Simply listening.

“And I haven’t had the best experience when it comes to trusting anycreature, so… it’ll take time.”

“…Noted.” Leandros finally turns, his helm shifting slightly as he regards Shade. “Anything else?”

“What?” Confusion flickers in Shade’s voice.

“Anything el—”

“No… I say I don’t trust you, and you just brush it off?” Shade interrupts, incredulous.

“I am not brushing it off. I merely respect your position.”

Shade lets out a short, exasperated chuckle, his frustration rising. “You see that? That isn’t normal.”

Leandros remains utterly still, unreadable. A wall of matte-black steel and silence.

“I’ve never met somecreature that’s so… I don’t even know anymore. But that—” he gestures at him, “—that isn’t normal.”

The silence stretches between them. Shade stares into the abyss of Leandros’ T-shaped visor, hating that he can’t read him.

“Your wounds run deep… don’t they?”

Shade freezes.

Leandros doesn’t press further. He doesn’t need to. The words land exactly where they’re meant to. Silence settles over the cave, thick and unmoving. Shade says nothing—lost in thought—while Leandros offers him the space to do so.

Then, shifting his weight, Leandros rises. The movement is slow, deliberate, the quiet grind of metal filling the still air.

“I won’t be long.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Doesn’t turn. Just strides toward the cave’s entrance and disappears into the cold.

Shade remains still, even as the air grows lighter in Leandros’ absence. His gaze drifts—tracking the cave walls, flicking down to his injured fetlock. It feels better. Still sore, but manageable.

The one time somecreature actually helps you, and you still manage to fuck it up…

With a sigh, he rolls onto his back, staring at the jagged ceiling.

“Why…” The word slips out—soft, almost bitter. Frustration laced with confusion.

Shaking his head, he rolls over and pushes himself upright, testing his weight on all four hooves. The pain in his fetlock warns against sudden movement, but it’s nothing like yesterday. Slow, careful, he begins pacing in a wide circle, forcing his body to adjust.

True to his word, Leandros returns not long after, the sharp chill of winter clinging to his armour. Ice particles scatter from his gauntlets as he shakes them off.

He takes one look at Shade’s movement and speaks.

“I admire your determination,” he says, tone even, “but it might still be a bit early.”

Brushing Leandros off with a flick of his hoof, Shade keeps moving, though not without a few grunts. “I need my body to be functional. Doesn’t matter if it hurts, as long as I can move.” He grits his teeth, testing his weight on the injured hoof. The sting flares up, but he pushes through it.

Leandros watches, arms crossing over his chest. “Well then. We should plan.”

Shade doesn’t stop, his focus locked on his steps. “Plan for what?”

“Well… we can’t stay here forever. We need to decide where to go next.”

Shade exhales sharply. He makes a good point. Slowing slightly, his brow furrows. “Mhmm. Let’s just survey the surrounding area first. We can decide from there.”

“Agreed,” Leandros nods, then adds, “But make sure you don’t hurt yourself any further.”

"Uh-huh." Shade huffs, not liking being told what to do. "You don’t need to do that. I can look after myself."

"I am only trying to look after you."

"I get that, but… I don’t need to be babied." He finally looks up at Leandros, annoyance flickering across his face.

"Noted." Leandros doesn’t argue, his tone as steady as ever. "I will begin preparing."

"And I’ll be here. Walking in circles…" Shade mutters, shaking his head before resuming his slow, deliberate steps.

He hears Leandros leaving again, the soft crunch of snow marking his departure. Silence settles over the cave, pressing in like the cold outside.

Shade stops, glancing toward the entrance. This is going to be something else… hopefully…

Deep in the heart of the northern frost stands the newly emerged Crystal Empire. At its outermost edges, four ponies stand, their white pelts blending seamlessly into the endless expanse of snow. Their masks, matching the colour of their fur, shield their faces from the bitter cold, while saddle bags filled with equipment weigh against their sides.

“We set up camp here. No closer,” Snow Globe commands, his voice steady with years of experience. He is older than the others, a veteran of the cold, having spent most of his military career navigating unforgiving tundras like this. The three ponies beside him—Sky, Pyre, and Lighter—were hoofpicked for this mission, each chosen for their skills and resilience.

“We rest tonight. We begin scouting at dawn.” His words carry the weight of authority, as does the thick, grown-out beard covering his muzzle.

The others nod, silent but alert. They look nearly identical in the enchanted armour issued to them, their features obscured beneath layers of protective gear. Only their eyes, sharp and watchful, give them distinction. Snow swirls around them, the wind howling in the distance. The Empire looms ahead, a glimmering spectre in the frozen wasteland.

“We don’t know what may be found.”

The four ponies begin setting up camp, their movements practiced and efficient. Above the distant mountains, the sun lingers at the edge of the horizon, casting its last feeble warmth over the frozen land. Soon, the cold will deepen, and the north will reclaim its grasp.

“What do you think we’ll find, Chief?” Lighter asks, tearing open a sack and pulling out tent poles, setting them into the snow with firm, steady hooves.

Snow Globe exhales, his breath visible in the frigid air. “I’m not sure… but I doubt it’ll be anything good.”

He knows more than he’s letting on. The princesses were clear—his subordinates weren’t to know the full extent of their mission. Not yet. And he understands why. If they knew what might lurk in the Empire’s shadow, would they still be so eager?

“Don’t be like that, Chief! We just got here.” Pyre’s voice rings with youthful enthusiasm as she tosses a heavy tarp over the half-assembled tent frame. “We may as well enjoy our vacation!”

“Vacation…” Snow Globe snorts, shaking his head as he rummages through one of his saddlebags and pulls out his orders—sealed, stamped, and heavy with meaning.

This is anything but a vacation.

Looking up, he watches as the first tent is already standing. They work fast. That, at least, is reassuring.

Stepping inside, he retrieves a small magic crystal from his saddlebag and tosses it onto the snow-covered floor. With a low hum, the crystal activates, its glow creeping outward as the ice melts away. The water seeps into the ground, replaced by a solid crystalline surface—smooth, sturdy, and just warm enough to stave off the cold.

Snow Globe exhales through his nose. He never liked how much the Equestrian military relied on magic. Made them soft. Too used to convenience.

Pulling out his bedroll, he lays it down in the centre of the tent, placing his bags beside it with habitual precision. The motions are familiar, routine. They keep his mind from wandering too far.

Stepping outside again, he finds the other tents already up, their forms stark against the deepening twilight. The last slivers of sun barely crest the distant peaks, sinking into the horizon like a dying ember.

“Alright,” he calls out. “Get to bed early. We move at 04:00. And I’d better not have to drag any of you out of bed.”

“Yes, sir,” the three voices return from within their tents, muffled by the fabric walls.

Snow Globe lingers a moment before turning back inside. His gaze drifts over his belongings, settling on the envelope bearing the royal seal.

One more before retirement…

He stares at the wax stamp, expression unreadable. The wind outside howls against the tent walls, distant yet ever-present.

After a moment, he pushes the thought aside, lowering himself onto his bedroll. Sleep would come eventually. It always did.

Author's Note

Let me know what you think. Thank you.