The tipping point did not come during a searing flash of magical lightning or a shriek of crossing blades, even though these were never few or far between. Nor did it come in the times when their struggle became a flurry of flying kicks and well-aimed punches, though these were just as common.

It came as the battle shifted from above the clouds to the skyline of the great city, the metropolis that both had once known as a small collection of wooded cabins, and had watched it grow and blossom and prosper and wilt and grow again through the ages, like a mother would watch over her own child.

It came as they descended upon its tallest spire, a massive construction of stone, metal and glass that towered above its brethren like a great oak before new shoots of grass; it came as the summit of this great tower became the focus of what both gladiators knew would be their final confrontation.

It came when a force without age or form resolved itself into the champion it had helped to guide for all these years.

It came when that champion finally found himself helm-to-helm with his silver-clad nemesis.

For only an instant, a flash of lightning had illuminated the sky above their battlefield, casting shadows on the silver pony before him. In that instant, as the black fighter looked into two wholly different eyes—one carried since birth, another that stared back at him with the cold, dancing lights and calculating indifference of a machine—the ebony-clad warrior had seen the truth, the truth that had concealed itself inside the gray armor of the unicorn he had once considered his friend and compatriot.

Somewhere in the thousands of years—had it really been that long?—since this silver warrior had taken on the mantle of a legend far older than the city a thousand or more feet below, something had happened to him. He himself had grown into a legend in his own right. But his friend had kept on growing, kept on evolving, kept on changing into something—no longer somepony—something wholly different than the hero he had once tried his best to emulate. He was no longer a protector of the city.

He had seen the city’s magnificence and splendor, its awe and mystery. As it had grown into the crown jewel of a prosperous civilization, so too had he matured to be a paragon of justice and security even among his own kind. But he had also seen its decline and squalor, its decay and deterioration. And one forgotten day, for a brief, forgotten moment, this great protector had pitied the less fortunate residents of this metropolis, and despised that so many were forced to live in such poor conditions; he had opened his heart out to them.

What had begun as a fleeting moment of sympathy had mutated into an obsession. And he had mutated with it; now it was impossible to tell where the pony ended and the corruption began.

This was no longer a rivalry, the black pony realized. This was an intervention.

Even the voice of the silver unicorn did not sound entirely natural; it was distorted and slightly filtered, with traces of a high, cold monotone that reminded the ebony warrior of wind rushing against a swordblade. Whether it was because of his helm, more arcane machinery, or something more malevolent, Chiba did not know, nor did he wish to.

“I only fear what you became, Kraz,” he answered. There was no trace of emotion in his voice at all, even as he readied his blade in preparation for an attack.

“I have become nothing,” Kraz declared coldly. “I am not finished becoming.”

His glowing metal horn was all the warning Chiba had. Kraz’s sword had moved for only an instant, swinging inward in a tight arc as though he was preparing to parry a blow. Then it had abruptly swung back outward, and the blowing snow surrounding them was dispelled. The unblockable blast of wind he had just conjured rushed straight for Chiba, catching him like a fully spread sail and sending him tumbling over the edge of the skyscraper.

Kraz did not seem to move. In less time than it took for another bolt of lightning to leap from one cloud to the next, he had disappeared and reappeared mere inches in front of Chiba, stretching out a metal-clad hoof and preventing him from plunging to the streets far below. With a great heave, he pulled Chiba up by the helm and right up to his own armored muzzle.

There was no doubt that the millions of ponies who called this land home had become a highly advanced society. It was not apparent on first glance—the combustion engine, for example, had not yet fully caught on in a society that still preferred the old-fashioned horse-drawn carriages, despite having been invented over half a century ago. But there were certain frontiers that even they had yet to breach.

It was not completely out of inconvenience that nopony had flown where no pegasus could fly before. It was the dream of many a young colt and filly to see the “sky beyond the sky”—that great black canvas that provided a medium for the ever-changing masterpieces of their Princess of the Night. That was often reason enough—while a pegasus could conceivably skirt the outermost layer of the skies above Equestria, the space that lay beyond that was unquestionably the Alicorns’ domain. Breakthroughs in science and mathematics made sure that every young pony knew just how unbelievably massive the sun, moon, and stars were compared to how they appeared to be from Equestria, and it was a testament to their rulers’ power that even these great celestial bodies could be commanded by their ancient magic.

Out of reverence for them, therefore, nopony had bothered to pay serious thought to what could possibly be beyond even the “sky beyond the sky.” For what star, they said, could possibly match the power of Celestia’s own?

Only if somepony had been expecting it to happen would it have been noticed, and given its largely unimportant place in the heavens, even a completely clear sky over Manehattan would not have given it any sort of attention. This star, however, did not belong to Luna, or to her sister. It was not alone—not every star in the sky was thrall to Luna’s power over the night. Perhaps it was because many of them were so insignificant in the grander scheme of things that they did not warrant her attention, and were left alone as a result.

This star, however, had apparently decided it was tired of languishing in the background, and was now determined to outshine even the moon. But just as it looked like it was about to succeed, something swirled around the tiny point of bright light—something formless, blacker than even the void around it.

Suddenly there was no star anymore, but a single eye—lidless and pupil-less, a tiny point of blinding light wreathed in darkness—staring at an even darker presence as it prepared to kill in cold blood, many miles below.

As quickly as it had appeared, the eye had closed shut, and the star was back in its rightful position; in place of the strange oculus was a silent echo of words, spoken in a language that no living pony in Equestria had even heard aloud before, nor would hear tonight.

Time felt as though it had slowed to a crawl, and still the wind was screaming in Chiba’s ears as he continued his uncontrollable descent to the street below. He guessed he had fallen about three hundred feet already, which wasn’t good. His kind were substantially more durable than the average equine even without the heavy armor they often wore, but nothing remained durable for long during a thousand-foot freefall such as this one—even his armor, enchanted with magic far older than the world below him, would not be unscathed, let alone the rest of him.

Then, in some back corner of Chiba’s mind—distinguishable even through the shriek of the wind—he heard it.

Look to the east, look to the west,

Look to the north, look to the south,

Look to the earth, look to the sky,

Feel his shadow, hear his cry,

Behold! The legend, here and now!

As the last word faded in Chiba’s thoughts, he felt something coursing through his armor—no, his body. It was a slightly warm feeling, like the sunshine he could never truly feel again spreading its rays all over his coat. He could feel it strengthening his body; the words had reinvigorated him as only they could. Now Chiba could feel the warmth concentrating on him; gradually the rest of his body was cooling down, while at the same time less and less of his body was still heating up. Before long, his left forehoof felt like he was holding it in a roaring fire.

Only at that moment did Chiba understand entirely what was happening, though not entirely why, and without a second thought, he raised his burning hoof—now starting to glow a faint orange from the sheer heat from within—his gaze searching for the speck that was Kraz, hundreds of feet above him …

Kraz had been watching his nemesis fall for the few seconds that had passed for the ponies below, and what might as well have been a lifetime for himself and for Chiba—well, he reflected with a faint smirk, perhaps only for himself. He had then turned away from the stone precipice, the battle seemingly won.

Then, from the corner of his eye, Kraz saw a thread of orange light split the sky down the middle, and over the howling wind, he could hear the faint but rapid clink-clink-clinking noise of a ratchet and chain. He followed the path of the scintillating cable until he saw its glowing pinpoint burrow its way into one of the stone columns that encircled the space he occupied as if they themselves were witness to this battle.

He turned back to the edge of the skyscraper where he had sent Chiba to his apparent death, and sure enough, faster than a fleeting shadow, there was the ebony equine, tethered to the other end of the chain as he propelled himself to the tip of the spire. There was the dull crunch of metal on stone as his armored hooves connected with the towering structure, followed by the faint but harsh scrape of a sword being pulled from its scabbard.

Kraz smiled as the black pony brought his blade into an attack stance, one that he himself mirrored as he unsheathed his own weapon. Swaths of blue flame washed over his silver armor, consuming his metal unicorn horn to make way for the earth pony’s superior physical strength. As soon as he felt the telltale invigoration in his legs, he crouched low to the ground, took a deep breath, and leapt into the air.

As the two warriors sailed towards each other like missiles primed to strike, the sky directly over the great tower began to glow once more. For an instant, the world around them was obliterated, replaced by some enormous, fragile flower whose stem was as blindingly white-hot as its petals. At any other moment in time, the two ponies might have set aside their differences, and agreed that seeing this moment—frozen in time around them for an eternity too short to be measured—was more beautiful than anything in the world. But the lightning bolt dissipated all too quickly; the blast of thunder muffled the sound of Kraz’s and Chiba’s blades crossing, the sparks flying from the impact far inferior to the one that had dared to intervene in their contest.

Also flying was Chiba; the force of the lightning—coupled with a well-placed buck from Kraz’s left hind leg—had sent him careening the other way. Only the reflexes he’d spent entire centuries honing to perfection had kept him from smashing through one of the stone columns; instead, his body had briefly blazed, and armored wings had unfurled to slow his velocity enough to where the aged rock merely cracked under the impact of his four hooves.

Kraz was not done, however; right as he’d kicked Chiba away from him, he’d transformed back into his unicorn self, using his magic to separate some of the razor-sharp scales of armor covering his hooves. These he launched at Chiba like knives, glowing faintly blue from his telekinesis. The black pegasus was forced to assume his own unicorn form, conjuring a citrus-colored shield to protect himself from the worst of the shrapnel.

He could see that Chiba was determined to stay on the offensive, however. The instant the last of the missiles had struck either shield or stone, he had reverted back to his pegasus form, streaking for Kraz with the desperation any pony would feel if they possessed the desire to win at any cost.

Kraz possessed that same will as well—which was why he had finally decided it was time. It was with mixed feelings that he came to this decision; he had much rather enjoyed tonight, and though he had yet another long life to live ahead of him, it would admittedly be a lonely life without having anypony to call a rival around. But even his kind had limits—and Chiba was testing his.

Even as Chiba took to the air, he could see the gray unicorn hovering high above him, sword magically suspended mere feet away from his muzzle. His front hooves were moving rapidly, forming patterns and poses too quick for a normal eye to see. But Chiba did not need to see them; he could already sense the air around Kraz was changing. The sensations he felt around the gray pony were at once familiar and unfamiliar, but they were definitely energies that he recognized as his own—and that was what alarmed him the most.

In a split-second, Chiba had extended his wings to their fullest capacity. But he already knew it was too late—he’d built up too much speed. Even turning into a unicorn wouldn’t do him much good; on top of the time he’d need to transform, he would need so much magic to arrest his momentum that if the force of deceleration didn’t kill him on its own, then he’d be so depleted that Kraz would finish the job.

And so Chiba decided, rather calmly, that this would be his last, highest gamble.

He put on another burst of speed; it was clear to him that Kraz was doing some kind of incantation. Why, Chiba did not know; their kind had enough power as it was, not to mention that that power could be exercised in a much more efficient way than simple gestures. Only just now had it occurred to him that perhaps Kraz was performing this incantation because he needed the time. Which meant that whatever he was doing, the results were bound to be devastating—which in turn meant that Chiba had to act fast to stop him.

He drew back his front hoof, ready to lash out with his blade—and was instantly blinded by a piercing light. Initially, he thought there had been another lightning strike, but immediately rebuked himself after not hearing the thunder that would have followed. No—this light seemed to be coming from Kraz himself.

Then, as suddenly as the light had been born, it had faded into darkness. In its place was something so unexpected—so logic-defying—that even the normally stoic Chiba felt his jaw go slack at what he was seeing.

Kraz the unicorn was still there, still chanting as if nothing had ever happened. But the two massive, silver-armored wings that had sprouted into being from his shoulder blades told Chiba everything he had wanted to know—and much that he had never wanted to.

The pegasus/unicorn—to call it an alicorn would have been blasphemy—turned its head slowly, almost insultingly, to regard him. Then there was another flash of light, this time from the unsheathed blade in Kraz’s telekinetic grip. The glow engulfed the sword, and suddenly there was not one blade, but two—

Each sword, identical to the other, began spinning in deadly arcs like sawblades. The tiniest effort of will from the abomination that controlled them sent them both shrieking through the air—straight for Chiba. The pegasus, too numbed by the sight of what he had just witnessed, did not notice where the twin swords were heading until they’d sheared through his outstretched hoof—and both of his wings.

It was surprisingly painless—a testimony to the sharpness of Kraz’s blades, Chiba thought in reluctant admiration. However, not having any pain to concentrate on made the pain to come that much more unbearable. Without anything to slow his velocity, Chiba was nothing more than an errant arrow that had just missed its target. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the luxury of silently landing in a grassy field—only the sickening crunch of his armored body ricocheting off a stone pillar, then plowing into the unyielding concrete surface fifty feet below him.

The pain was excruciating—a sobering reminder that his kind, though immensely powerful, were far from invulnerable. As Chiba tried to ignore the stabbing sensations that had erupted all over his body, he heard the faint sound of metal against stone—his sword, he realized, clattering to the ground. With some difficulty, he forced his eyes open; through the worsening snowstorm and the blood trickling from the wound on his head, he could barely see the faint glint of his blade—twenty feet away, perhaps, and just off to his right.

Something further in the distance distracted him, some dozen feet behind the sword. He heard the hooffalls of spiked shoes against the concrete, and forgot all about his injuries.

It was almost insulting how slowly Kraz—the wings nowhere to be seen, but the horn still very much visible—was closing the distance between the two ponies. Some small part of Chiba knew he was only being toyed with, that Kraz was trying to goad him. The rest of him, shaking not only because of the blood loss, knew he was succeeding.

Without glancing downward or breaking step, Kraz leisurely plucked the blade from its resting place with his magic, gave it a telekinetic twirl, and launched it straight for Chiba. The crippled pegasus had no time to cry out as the blade found its mark—

Kraz smirked as he saw the once-proud warrior’s body at his hooves. In ancient times, back before even he had been in his prime, to die by one’s own sword was considered by certain cultures to be a form of atonement for a grave dishonor committed in life. It was what Chiba would have deserved, he considered. Like him, Chiba had also seen the best and worst of the city they had watched over the centuries. But while Kraz had accepted the reality of the situation, Chiba had rejected the truth, closed his eyes to the light, but most disgraceful of all, he had shunned the less fortunate below. Sooner or later, Kraz knew he would have to make amends for this.

And tonight, he’d provided him with the one opportunity to atone for his dishonor. But something inside him had stayed his hoof for the tiniest moment, and the blade—on course to impale Chiba through his skull—had veered just a little to the left, nicking him on the ear but shattering his helm, exposing his face for Kraz to see.

He saw quivering eyes the color of red wine, fresh blood matting the chestnut coat and dark gray mane—he saw fear. He was so surprised that he nearly lost his composure then and there. Surely, he thought, Chiba would be at peace with himself by now, and would welcome death with open hooves after he had given it his all in this battle. But no—he was shaking like a scared little foal, and that was enough to destroy any temptation to laugh.

“Do you fear me now, Chiba?” he sneered, his synthesized voice freezing the bile in his words into icicles.

The broken pegasus’ mouth moved, but for a few seconds no words came out, until—“H-how could you?”

Kraz arched an eyebrow. So it wasn’t just the fear he was shaking from, was it? “I was just the better swordspony tonight,” he answered simply. Then, as an afterthought, “Those were your words, you know. The first time we trained against each other? Do you still remember those days?”

“A-always,” Chiba choked out, though the anger in his voice was still palpable. “I kn-knew you’d—ergh—fallen a long way.”

“And yet you still thought you change that?” Kraz had to do his best to stifle another chuckle. “You always were the optimist,” he said sarcastically.

“Until—augh—tonight,” Chiba said scathingly, teeth clenched both in pain and rage. “You betrayed Ebene tonight, Kraz. You … you betrayed all of Eridanus. Even we weren’t meant to—unnh—to go as far as you did.”

“Have you forgotten who gave me this power in the first place?” Kraz asked, raising his voice only a little.

A pause. “No,” Chiba replied. “Because … because I know that that power can never be truly mine. And it will never be yours.” A grimace flitted across his bloodied face. “Corvus would … would be ashamed of you,” he added. He was coughing now, and beginning to hack up some blood.

Kraz readied his sword—he had had enough of this. “You tell him that,” he said. “You’ll be seeing him soon enough.”

The blade came up. “And you can tell him—from me—that you will be the first.”

There was a great explosion of light, and Kraz was forced to brace himself against the unexpected shockwave. Through a barely-opened eye, he saw the suit of black armor disintegrate completely, a thousand pieces swirling around the fallen warrior like the feathers of a bird, though they were not being carried by the wind.

As Kraz watched, the vortex spun higher and higher, becoming lost in the storm clouds in a matter of seconds. Then—as swiftly as this mystical tornado as been born—there was another flash of light, a deafening boom, and Chiba, body and all, was gone.

Kraz turned away from where Chiba had once lay dying, but his gaze did not leave the point in the sky where the vortex had vanished. Tonight was truly a night of firsts, he thought, a slight smile on his face. Though even his magic could not clear the sky above him—or rather, he reflected, not yet—he could imagine that a certain faraway point of light was shining just a little bit brighter tonight.

He did not dwell too much on it; he knew that even the stars could never live as long as a legend. But he had more important things on his mind right now. He could sense that some distance below, on one of the highest floors of this skyscraper, the future was waiting for him.

For the last time tonight, Kraz replaced his blade in its scabbard. The tiny clank was lost in the howling wind even before he, too, vanished into blue flame, leaving the battlefield as empty as it had ever been before tonight.

The conference room already took up half of the eightieth story of the Sun & Moon Plaza, but its minimal furnishings made it seem even more massive. The featureless surface that served as a table, splitting the forum down the middle, was hewn from the dark wood of the Zebrican ebony tree, and obsessively polished to a mirror finish. The entire east wall of the room was composed of clear glass panels that opened into a balcony; here, on a clear morning, Celestia’s sun would shine while directors and executives of companies and firms throughout Equestria would meet and plot—discussing the fates, for better or worse, of everypony and everything that called this land home.

The last of the attendees had arrived five minutes ago. Most of them stood against the walls, while the others had taken seats at the great black table. All told, they numbered around twenty. Their faces were largely hidden in shadow; several glowing orbs of magically conjured light had compensated the lack of sunlight. They hovered over the dark surface, flickering like candles.

Yet their light did not compare to the great orb suspended inches over the balcony outside; a glowing sphere, bright as day and large enough to admit a fully-grown stallion, held their undivided attention. The congregation could sense the power presently contained within; they knew better than any creature in Equestria that it was not something to be trifled with—and so they waited. The first to come had already waited for over an hour, but they were all prepared to wait for an eternity—or longer, if their master wished them to.

But now the sphere was fading, the bright light resolving into translucent, and finally transparent spheres within spheres, layered with arcane glyphs of a language that no longer existed on this world. These, too, dissolved in a matter of seconds, and the form that had been floating inside it like an unborn child had levitated to the ground.

Two of the glass partitions glowed a faint periwinkle, the telekinetic force of the magic shifting them left and right without a sound, opening wide for the latest arrival as he strode in. Every other step he took was accompanied by a dull metallic clunk. Then, with a sound like a match being struck, a second ball of pale blue light flashed into being. It lazily drifted over the table, growing in size and luminosity until the other mage-lights in the room had been consumed by it, and the entire room was bathed in its cool light.

The unicorn was certainly a remarkable specimen; he was thin but sleek-looking, and stood a head taller than the average stallion. His sky-blue mane had been swept to one side of his face, obscuring the strange device that rested where his left eye ought to have been, but not the sigil that adorned the other side of his head. His gray coat was indicative of the obsessively neat—or perhaps the obsessively vain—; the glow of his mage-light reflected off his fur so perfectly that it might have been liquid metal.

Though his eye was closed, the unicorn could feel the eyes of everyone present locked on him, and he wondered privately if perhaps they were trying to avert their gaze from his right foreleg; it was mostly covered up by a thick sleeve of black wool, but just enough of the false hoof showed through this sleeve to give anypony plenty of reason to stare, however impolite they were being. The thought entertained him for only a moment, as he reminded himself that the creatures before him had already proved their allegiance to him a thousand times over, and respected him greatly, but the thin smile still lingered on his face as he finally broke the utter silence of the conference room.

His voice was breathy and quiet, as though he was talking to himself as much as he was to his assembly, and his mouth had scarcely moved when he had spoken. But they had heard him, and they had understood, and nodded their assent.

“They do not,” said the unicorn, his head jerking imperceptibly toward the open balcony, indicating the sprawling skyline eighty stories below them. “They have forgotten why they were permitted to live in this world—why their right to exist can never be called a right at all, but a clause … a condition.”

His words were tinged with acid. “They have even forgotten us,” he added, “their memories of the Star-Beasts of old, and the celestial thread that connects their world with this one—everything has been purged. They only accept the Sisters now.” He emphasized that word with a stomp of his artificial hoof; the impact left an indentation in the hardwood floor beneath him. “And this cesspool is the result of their foalish and misplaced adulation.”

The unicorn opened his single golden eye, and a bright but tiny spark flared to life beneath his mane, where his other eye used to be, and scanned his audience.

The congregation was a motley sort indeed; mares and stallions of every type of pony regarded him with a look that could only be described as blind loyalty. There were even a few non-equines here and there; a pair of Diamond Dogs was in attendance—one of which was seated at the table, the other resting behind and to his right—, a tough-looking griffin female stood next to the doorway like the bouncer of a nightclub, and a phoenix rested on the withers of the equally intimidating mare next to her, occasionally ruffling its smoldering feathers.

“You and I have sacrificed a great deal to come this far,” said the unicorn as he looked at them all, “and for that, you have my greatest of blessings, to use however you may wish. But there is still much to be done, and very little time to accomplish it.” The forces of the Sky-Bridge were not ignorant, he knew. By now, they would have sensed the destruction of their comrade, and he was certain that they had already begun to search for a successor. Even he did not know how long it would take—in his experience, it could be anywhere from a few days to a few decades.

He knew his audience could sense the urgency in his words, and he betrayed a glimmer of silent admiration when he saw the pony at the opposite end of the table—a burgundy mare whose jet-black mane and tail were styled into thick, segmented braids—rise to her hooves.

“We are at your command,” she responded, her voice low and throaty, but clear as a bell, “and your disposal, Lord Kraz.” Murmurs of assent, like waves breaking on a shoreline, echoed her words.

“How long do we have?” asked another pony seated at the table, a burnt-orange stallion with a mane as bushy as his beard.

Kraz had anticipated this question. “Little enough,” he said simply. “But we must not forget.”

He raised his false hoof, flexing it, admiring the ornate handiwork before he turned the contraption so that—on a living hoof—he would be staring at the triangular frog and the bare sole. On this hoof, however, an oculus somewhat larger than his own eye had been implanted into a recess. The eye blinked a metal-clad eyelid several times, and then it flared with a bright blue light, outshining even Kraz’s own mage-lights.

Kraz stretched out his metal hoof for all to see. He lifted his head a fraction of an inch, looking everyone gathered in the eye, and told them, “We must remember the Star-Beasts.”

And they will remember us, he privately thought. After all these long years, they will all remember us once again …

Didn’t you hear any of that? Didn’t you hear what they were trying to do? We have to stop this somehow!

There are too many. If you challenged them to battle, Chiba would not be the only one who died tonight.

With Chiba gone, this city lacks a protector. Kraz’s actions have disrupted the balance of power here; if any one of us were to assume Chiba’s duties now, then their city would be at stake.

It is up to Corvus now. Until then … This city is old, and it has weathered much tragedy and disaster in its time. Perhaps they will survive.

You’re putting your trust in Corvus?! It could take ages to find somepony! Kraz has a window of opportunity that he’d be a foal to ignore right now, and you’re saying we should just do nothing?!

Kraz is not a foal at all. But what he is planning will take time. There is a chance that Corvus will find a successor before Kraz can make his first move. It will have to be enough.

Corvus

by Delerious

Chapter III