Canterlot Castle, Year 980 A.M. (After Moon)
Celestia sighed in relief as she came to the last piece of paperwork for the day—a scroll that bore the wax seal of the Mark Registry Department. Such documents were not truly work; the Department occasionally informed her when unusual and promising cutie marks were registered.
She opened the scroll and began to read.
To her Royal Highness and Eternal Light, Princess Celestia,
Find enclosed the Mark dossier for one TWILIGHT SPARKLE, as per standing order A77 (enacted 142 A.M., providing full disclosure of all Marks past, present, and future relating to: celestial bodies, astronomy, astrology, etc.)
In loyal service,
Manilla Beige, Mark Registry Manager
Celestia's breath caught. Order A77. Enacted over 600 years ago when a moon seer prophesied Luna's—no, she corrected herself—Nightmare's escape.
Unfurling the scroll with rigidly controlled magic, Celestia scanned to the bottom. There, expertly inked by a Registry illustrator, was a twelve-armed star surrounded by five points of light.
She stared at the mark, the foal it condemned, and shook her head. She had acted on less—far less—and would do so again. In matters such as these, sentiment had no quarter. For the sake of her subjects, she would not shirk from duty, no matter how it galled.
With a final glance at the scroll's attached photograph, she flared her magic in a subtle, seldom used sequence. After ten seconds, she felt the energy spike of an incoming teleportation spell.
An undulating, tar-like sphere coalesced in the far corner of her study, fading away to reveal a painfully thin, black pony with a scrap of cloth around his neck. He approached without kneeling or speaking.
Celestia held up the dossier. “A new target. Standard procedure.”
The pony cocked his head to the side, staring at the photo of two unicorns cradling a purple foal. “Who?”
“The newborn.”
The pony took the folder and squinted at the photo. The dad looked like a nice guy. Kind of like the arsonist he'd disposed of last week.
“The parents could be a problem,” he said.
“You know how to handle problems.”
Ah, he thought, one of those jobs. “Deadline?”
“Yesterday.”
He was gone without another word.
Night had fallen. The black pony stood in an alleyway across from the Sparkle residence. He would normally take his time with a job like this. It was like they said: to defeat your enemy you must know your enemy. To know your enemy you must watch your enemy, eat your enemy's food, wear your enemy's clothes, befriend your enemy, become your enemy's best man at his wedding, then, on your enemy's wedding night, kill him, skin him, wear said skin to bed, and leave a double-suicide note for the police.
That was how the black pony liked to operate. But if Her Majesty wanted a rush job...
He cricked his neck and shook out his legs. You didn't say 'no' to Celestia. He was just glad the procedure hadn't changed. He liked the rules for standard procedure: no witnesses, no evidence. Simple and clean.
He teleported to the shadows beside the house and cast a quick detection spell. Three occupants. Perfect.
He touched his horn to the wall, watching black tendrils race around the home's perimeter. He mentally braced himself, dozens of magical equations and permutations on the tip of his brain, ready to swiftly and silently bring down any defensive—
His silencing ward went up without the slightest resistance. He shook his head and readied a teleport spell.
No security. Typical.
The black pony arrived without a sound, every muscle tensed and horn coated in dark, globular energy. He glanced around the room and relaxed a fraction. He'd arrived in an empty kitchen. Light poured from under a door in the far wall. Two voices came from the other side.
He made half a step for the door, then paused.
Kitchens, he thought. His apartment didn't have a kitchen.
He looked around and spotted a wooden knife block. Pulling a large chef's knife out, he thoughtfully tested the edge.
He needed a better apartment.
Casting a quick shield spell, he slunk to the door, counted to three, and yanked it open.
Amateur mistake, really, he thought. Should have realized one voice had stopped talking.
Looking into the glowing horn of Mr. Sparkle, the black pony decided to improvise. “This isn't my bathroom,” he said, looking shocked.
Mr. Sparkle fired a bolt of pure purple energy.
A mistake on each side, thought the black pony, subtly curving the plane of his shield. That made them even.
The bolt impacted his shield with a high-pitched scream, ricocheting directly at Mrs. Sparkle. Swearing, she threw herself into a compact tumble. Somewhere upstairs, a foal stated crying.
Nice roll, thought the black pony, almost like—
Mr. Sparkle whipped a foreleg up, aiming for the intruder's forehead. He led with the hoof-edge, not the flat; a nasty trick favored by street brawlers.
The black pony ducked under and forward, moving like a black viper. Almost like they know what they're doing, he thought, drawing the knife across Mr. Sparkle's side.
Most civilians would have whinnied in pain and collapsed. Instead, Mr. Sparkle grunted and teleported to his wife.
“Send her,” he whispered, heavily favoring his cut side.
His wife's face hardened, and she shut her eyes against the flare of light that burst from her horn.
That moment her eyes closed, a chef's knife came whistling through the air towards her throat, only to clatter against a sudden sphere of purple.
The black pony scowled at the purple construct. He recognized the Lumos Aegis shield, and rather doubted the family pony had the clearance for it.
He squinted as Mrs. Sparkle's horn grew brighter. Whatever she was planning, it would be big. He readied a teleport spell.
Her horn went supernova for a split second, only to cut out as she lost lost consciousness, crumpling in a heap at her husband's feet. A stream of blood trickled from her nose.
The black pony waited, muscles and mind like coiled springs...but nothing happened. He frowned, then blinked. Cocking his head, he tilted an ear upwards.
The foal's crying had stopped, and the job had officially gone to Tartarus. It was time to go.
Reaching under the ragged cloth around his neck, he caressed a crimson necklace, unable to enjoy the jolt of power that surged up his leg.
Celestia would not be happy.
Everfree Forest, Nightmare Cult Compound Perimeter
The sentry approached the crying bundle with caution, wary of the forest's deceptions. He pushed aside the pink cloth with his spear, then froze.
“Merciful Moon,” he whispered.
It was a foal. Newly born, yet bearing a mark. The very same mark engraved on his spear and breastplate.
The mark of prophecy.
