Corvus

by Delerious

Chapter VII

Soft.

It was though she had woken up from her first dream. Or had it been her last dream—or even a dream within a dream? Now she was back in her bed, trying as hard as she could to remember what it was she had dreamed about.

Her bed was soft.

But was it her bed? As she tried her best to retrace her mental steps, she made a discovery that would have been extremely unpleasant were it not for how pleasant her surroundings felt.

I … don’t …

With the greatest effort she could remember expending—that is to say, the first she could remember now—she opened her eyes.

Light.

The room was golden and hazy, illuminated in soft light in every direction. Windows lined all four walls, and there were no shadows whatsoever.

Slowly, reluctantly, she rose up from her bed, noticing the whiteness of it all, how pure and spotless the pillows and sheets were, and how deceptively stark and simple it looked. There was nothing else inside the room at all—no dresser, no mirror, nothing. Aside from the bed, it was completely empty.

… Where … where am I?

With another tremendous effort of will, she forced herself to take a step forward, feeling her hoofsteps on the warm wood. Her body was stiff and achy, and wanted nothing more than to return to her bed—to whatever it was she had been dreaming.

Were those voices?

She listened for a few seconds longer, hoping to catch more of the strange noises she had just heard. She frowned, shrugged, then returned to her current situation.

It was easier to walk now; no longer did it take so much out of her to just take a simple step. Her movements were still jerky and slow, and she felt herself swaying from side to side—though only a little—but she was quickly improving.

How long had she been asleep?

Her nose was only a foot away from the glass of the window, and she could just barely something move outside. She squished her eyes shut, and opened them again. Something was definitely out there, and whatever it was could clearly see her, but she could only recognize a vague feeling of form. She racked her brain for any more words to describe that form, knowing full well that it was in vain, and no words existed within her mind to do so.

She turned away from the glass.

Out of the corner of her eye, the form turned back.

It hit her only then that that form was herself; it was just her reflection. She felt a little more relaxed now—insofar as a pony that, at the moment, amounted to little more than an empty shell could be relaxed.

Now her hooves were moving again, carrying her forward. This time her steps were more fluid—much more so than before, perhaps even too much. It did not feel like she was fully in control of herself; like her self had been shifted aside, and made to stand like a passenger while someone or something else had taken control. If that was the case, then who … ?

Wordlessly, she raised a sock-clad hoof, pressing it gently on one of the walls. She was only a little surprised when that section of the wall swung outward, revealing a hallway filled not with windows, but with doors. The same pleasant light shone from slits near the ceiling.

There were other forms as well; these were not her reflection, she knew. Some were taller than she was, while some were smaller. Others were wider, and still others thinner.

But she did not need to futilely probe for memories that were no longer there, or find words that constantly escaped her knowledge, to know that absolutely none of them looked remotely like her.

What … is this?

She heard the noises again, and this time she was sure they were voices, and that they belonged to the beings that half-walked, half-floated past her. But they were not voices in the sense she had imagined they would be; they were high-pitched, delicate and mewling, neither young nor old—and seemed to bypass her ears completely, and penetrate the very core of her body.

The hallway ended here; another door stood before her. The edges were brighter than even the golden light, and her first impression was that something—a very powerful something—stood behind that door. For a moment, she was in control of her faculties once again, and her foreleg, stretched out to push the door open, shied away for only a moment. Then, whatever it was that had possessed her had reasserted its control, and her hoof rested upon the wood, and pushed.

The light was blinding. For a moment of time that felt both too long and too short, she forced her eyes shut, unwilling to open them again until they had readjusted to the glare. When they had, and she felt it was safe, she gingerly opened her eyes.

And she stared.

The first time she opened her eyes, and beheld the scene before her, would forever define every moment of her existence, waking or otherwise. She did not bother trying to think back this time; she was absolutely certain she had never seen anything quite like this.

Stars. So many stars around her: it was a number that could never be counted in all of time, every last one of them drifting slowly around her, too far away to be properly measured. They burned and twinkled with every color imaginable—every color and more. They were every possible size, but they were all so very small in comparison to the rest of their surroundings—the largest could have been fully eclipsed simply by holding her hoof in front of it.

She was so absorbed in this impossibility that it was several minutes before she discovered that her jaw had been hanging slack this whole time, and that she was short on breath from simply forgetting to breathe.

Then she looked upward, and all the wonder and awe drained from her body. Where there was light all around her, there was absolutely none above her. It was a vast, unending expanse of … nothing. The more she looked at it, the more terrified she was, and the more she wished to turn away and run back to her room. But her hooves stayed rooted to the spot, while her body shook with the sort of fear that always comes when confronted with something as alien and unknown as nothing. The swirling masses of stars around it turned the entire void into an enormous eye—the eye of something infinitely old and infinitely powerful.

The hairs on her neck began to rise as she finally turned her gaze away from that great eye, and focused on her more immediate location. It was a deck, she surmised, tapping the wood beneath her subconsciously. It was both wide and wide open, and tapered to a point before her.

A … ship?

And it was at that moment that fear gripped her again, a fear far greater than that brought on by the massive void that stared down at her. For while many fears in existence are of things that cannot be known or are not yet known, the most terrifying fear is caused by things that are known to mortal minds, that do indeed exist in some concrete form or fashion—yet in a place where they clearly should not exist.

Impossible … I …

Deep within the dense fog that clogged her mind, something flickered, a brief moment of recognition from another lifetime.

I … know this place …

She turned around, and jumped as she saw the tall figure that had soundlessly appeared before her.

It looked like a mare, and yet not. There were four hooves, a barrel, and a muzzle, but from there, nothing could be defined; everything was a hazy black mass devoid of color and physical form—somewhere between smoke and fire. Some of those ethereal wisps billowed out from behind and either side—perhaps half-formed wings and a tail? What might have been ears, a mane, and perhaps even a horn wafted from the top of a vague head, like the shadows of steam curling up from hot water, and added even more height to a figure already half as high again as she was.

The—whatever this being was—stared straight ahead, unmoving, and she had the impression that it was somehow able to see right through her, despite having no apparent eyes. Closer examination, however, revealed three distinct points of light within the swirling mass of darkness that constituted its “head.” At least two of them might have been eyes, and the one in the center was considerably higher placed than the others—almost in the middle of her forehead—and it shone with a light that could rival any one of the stars around the ship on which they stood.

Hello … Gienah.

The voice was neither male nor female; it was soft and intimate, and clear as day. But it resonated deep within body, mind and soul, and she felt her entire self vibrating, shaking like a plucked string. Though the thing before her had no visible mouth, something told her that it had spoken those words.

Gi … e … nah?

She felt her lips moving, soundlessly repeating the unfamiliar word. Was that her name, then? It did not sound like any name she had ever imagined to hear before. She raised her hoof to her head, intending to scratch her mane in puzzlement, but gasped when she felt something hard and metallic graze against her mane. She looked at her hoof, and was even more confused.

It was not a shoe—at least, not any shoe she would have thought was practical. Crafted from shiny, black steel, it covered her entire hoof—frog, sole and all. In the center was a glass lens, perhaps three inches wide. She peered into this lens, squinting; she could almost imagine there was something behind it.

As she continued to study it, that something blinked to life. Startled, she leaped back, but immediately felt a calming sensation spreading through her body. She felt content and at peace, forgetting the stars, and forgetting the void. Totally entranced, she stared with wide eyes at the glowing light behind the glass.

The glass lost its transparency, and glimmered with the pale luminescence of a hundred phantoms. They shifted across the glass’ surface, and into depths unable to be measured. Then they coalesced into lines, thick and thin alike, expanding and contracting, and contorting into geometric patterns both simple and complex. And in the middle of it all, like a tiny negative of the giant eye above her, a single point of light stared back at her from the exact center of the glass.

She would never have believed that while this amazing, miniature light show was taking place, her very self was being probed. Her body was being mapped; her reactions compiled, and her mind, once teeming with memories of a past life that could not be remembered, was being rewritten, refilled, its original contents preserved in a far more durable shell.

How long the process lasted, she did not know, nor did she care. By the time it had finished, any semblance of the pony she had once been no longer existed, remembered only by the being behind the glass; a living repository of the memories of untold thousands of sentient creatures. Those memories were part of her now, as if she had always remembered them.

She looked away from the strange device, and at the smoky-looking equine, the slow signs of recognition spreading across her face. Her mouth turned upwards in a fond little smile. They needed no words for this moment; old friends reuniting with one another after spending so many years apart rarely did.

But all too quickly, the moment passed.

Are you ready? The voice was gentle, but firm and authoritative. It was not a question up for debate.

The mare called Gienah stiffened, and her eyes lit up with duty. Her new memories had told her everything that was happening a whole world away, and what she would have to do in order to stop it.

I’m ready … Ebene.

Delfin Palace, 7:00 P.M. local time

500 ft below sea level

Delfin was the birthplace of Aquastrian civilization. Here, on a huge pinnacle of coral-covered rock that descended thousands upon thousands of feet into endless darkness, the sea ponies had laid the foundations of their society millennia ago. Tens of thousands of ponies had reshaped this natural formation over the years, carving it into a gigantic spire that resembled a mile-high conch shell. From this spire, dozens of outcroppings of coral stretched out hundreds of feet, and each one was dotted with myriads of small golden bubbles that twinkled in the water. They were only small in relation to their surroundings—the smallest bubble would have encompassed a fair-size house.

At the top of this spire sat the largest bubble of them all; enclosed within this glowing sphere, hundreds of feet high, the grand palace of the Aquastrian Empire was the crown jewel of sea-pony architecture. On any average day, its golden spires shone with many colors in the midst of all the blues, greens, and blacks of the waters around it.

Tonight, however, was sadly not an average day.

Tonight, this bubble was stained in a demonic shade of red. The entire population of Delfin—male and female, young and old, from the graceful, iridescent mermares to the tough, chitin-plated lobstallions and every imaginable amalgamation in between—was suspended inside its transparent walls, each one encased in its own private vortex of rapidly swirling liquid. As the pockets of water swirled around them, clouds of red issued from the bodies of the helpless population, drifting out in a straight line that pointed in the direction of the highest spire of the palace …

… towards the open maw of a sea-pony that defied description. While his upper torso was mostly sleek and slippery, his hindquarters and tail had fused to form one fan-shaped organ, covered in thick organic armor. Where there were once ribs, there were now a number of segmented legs that clicked, clacked, and snapped at the water as if they had minds of their own. A single long, spiny dorsal fin ran along the length of his back all the way to his completely bald head.

Praesepe’s face was something out of a nightmare; he had two wide eyes, red and glowing as the dawn—even the whites—where a normal pony would have them, but above these were two more eyes, beady and gleaming like ripened fire rubies, extending from his forehead on long, thin stalks. The entire right side of his jaw—if it could be called that, considering it was festooned with tubular feelers and clawed mandibles—was simply gone, a lasting reminder of his humiliation earlier today.

And as if that had not been enough, then there had been the unexpected—albeit temporary all the same—setback in which he’d swum headlong into what felt like an entire field of miniature novae. Though his true form could take—and had taken—much more punishment than that, the same could not be said for his disguise. Battered and weakened, then, Praesepe had limped to Delfin—at times, he had been reduced to simply drifting with the current, which was why it had taken much longer to arrive than he would have tolerated. But arrive he finally did, and he had quickly reasserted his will over the populace of the city.

It had been just as easy the first time as it was years later; the insipid politics of this world and these two nations proved the perfect distraction for him to slip in without too much of a problem. Their Empress had been consumed in a matter of seconds. He hadn’t bothered being as flashy with her as he was being with her former subjects right now. Nor had he stood on ceremony with the crews of the strange little boats that could sail underwater. They had been most interesting prey--it wasn't often his food had the chance to fight back, let alone the will.

«Almost done,» Praesepe thought to himself as he flexed his scaly, webbed forelegs. One hour of feeding had made him much stronger than before, though—and the first thing he was going to test that strength on was that upstart of a pony who had dared to spill his blood. Oh, he was going to enjoy crushing his neck in his jaws—

Praesepe paused, looking around. Where was that voice coming from?

He could swear it sounded familiar.

A flicker of movement far below distracted Praesepe from his confusion. Looking down, he saw a figure approaching the entrance to the palace, a tiny speck from his perch on the parapet above.

It looked like—a pony?

Meanwhile, on a completely different ocean, on a ship that sailed the stars like they were water, Ebene made her move.

Now, Corvus!

As you wish.

Monster and mare regarded each other for one tiny moment longer. Neither of them felt any fear; one was confident in its arcane power, the other was committed to a sacred duty. Finally, both acted.

As Praesepe crouched into a jumping position, the mare called Gienah clenched her foreleg—the one containing the glass-and-metal contraption—and held it to her barrel until it glowed a deep and fiery gold. Then, she thrust it outwards as far as she could.

Her hoof exploded in a blaze of light, and slammed onto the vitrified coral beneath her with the force of an avalanche, cracking the surface. The all-consuming illumination crept up Gienah’s foreleg, and spread over her body like an out-of-control fire. In its wake, the light left behind something completely different—black as night, smooth and cold as ice, but burning with the ancient fury of a sun in its prime.

One final explosion, and that something now stood where Gienah had once been. Clad head-to-hoof in heavy black armor, as tall as an alicorn, the pony’s eyes blazed behind a beak-like helm with an arcane violet light as it prepared to unsheathe the weapon strapped along her armored barrel.

Draw.

At Ebene’s command, the transformed Gienah did so. The scabbard separated into dozens of iron shards, and disintegrated into purple fire that wound along the edge of the claymore, seeping into the ornate filigree. Balancing her body into a two-hooved stance, Gienah twirled the weapon this way and that with all the skill of the hundred-odd warriors that had come before her, whose memories were now just as much a part of her as Ebene was.

Praesepe laughed evilly as Gienah brandished the blade in his direction. «So, you finally decided to force your hand, eh, Corvus?» he bellowed. «Good! Finally I’ve got an excuse to cut loose!!»

With a mighty roar, Praesepe’s already misshapen form expanded, all the while constantly contorting and kneading into itself like dough. Corroded plates of iron, burning with energy, replaced his slippery scales and toughened chitin, and his forelegs stretched and split down the middle, dividing in half from hoof to knee, mutating into enormous, rusted pincers that could cut through an oak tree like a scythe through wheat.

All this happened in a few seconds; by that time, Praesepe was no longer an abomination of the sea-ponies—he was an abomination unto himself. Easily three times as tall as Gienah was now, and at least six times wider, he looked like a failed experiment of crossbreeding a crab with a lobster. Pitted metal spikes covered his carapace, each one as long as a pony stood tall, and glowing like a furnace. A sulfurous stench pervaded the palace grounds—along with a few other smells Gienah did not wish to know about.

Praesepe launched himself from the palace, dozens of feet above the towers. His corroded claws began to glow with the same fiery color. «Come on!» he roared at Gienah, smashing them together. A sphere of bluish-green energy sizzled within his claws. «Show me what you got!!»

He flexed his metal claws inward, and there was a sinister, echoing series of clicks. Louder and louder they became, faster and faster they repeated—until it all melded together into one long, deafening hiss.

«Die!!»

Praesepe thrust his claws outward, and there was a massive, reverberating BOOM. The force of the blast he’d generated was such that it generated tremors all over the grounds, unbalancing Gienah and throwing her unceremoniously to the grass. The giant bubble protecting the palace failed completely, shattering into translucent pieces of magical construct—and the blast did not stop there; as far as Gienah’s eyes could see, the sheer force of it was displacing all the water around the palace for miles around, creating bluish-green walls as high as skyscrapers. And when the effects of the blast wore off, there would be nothing to stop all that water from crashing back from whence it came, destroying anything in its path.

This was a problem.

Change.

Gienah obeyed. Within seconds, purple flame consumed her, and reformed her body into something more suited for casting spells on a large scale. When her unicorn form was completed, Ebene spoke again.

Channel.

Gienah slammed her blade to the coral surface with an adrenaline-fueled shout. With a sound like a thunderbolt, a blast of magic radiated from the point of impact. It caught up to the gigantic wave Praesepe had created within seconds, disintegrating the wave before it could grow any larger. A second such motion from Gienah—more fluid and controlled than the one before—released a much slower wave to keep the water from rising too fast, thereby minimizing any damages that might have been incurred otherwise.

Concentrate.

Some tiny, hidden part of Gienah wanted to protest, but she knew Ebene was right. Praesepe was too great a danger; he needed to be addressed first—not the sea ponies. A moment of silence passed before she spotted the double meaning in Ebene’s command. Another moment after that, and she was an earth pony again, crouching to the ground, focusing her magic—their magic—into her hooves as she prepared to jump.

Fly.

The exact moment she soared into the air, the surge of seawater snapping at her hooves, Gienah transformed a third time—now she was a pegasus; armored feathers on her newly created wings shining like a hundred knives. She sped for Praesepe like a bullet, directing a large quantity of magic to her wingtips. Seconds later, the recently vacated space between sea level and Delfin Palace erupted in magical purple lightning. The multiple blasts of energy emanating from her wings were highly spread out—the increased area of effect would take away any of Praesepe’s escape routes, trapping him like a—

A second energy blast from Praesepe distracted her. The magical shockwave deflected her lightning attacks easily, redirecting them into the ocean below, exploding harmlessly on the waves.

«Is that all?!» Praesepe taunted her from above, his claws still stretched outward, glowing with arcane magic as he continued to levitate above the warrior. «I haven’t even broken a sweat!» He flexed his claws again. «I have consumed thousands of these pitiful creatures,» he bragged. «I have stripped them of their strength and life, and I have bound them to another life—mine!

«Come then, my slaves!» he screeched. «Your master calls you to his side!!»

Gienah only just realized what was going on. Quickly, just for an instant, she risked a glimpse downward. The entire ocean surface had erupted in tiny explosions; in their wake, glowing blue missiles streaked upward, bearing straight for her.

Study.

Gienah let the amethyst-colored flames wash over her, returning to her unicorn form again. Her eyes flashed purple, and she analyzed the incoming projectiles. They were organic—sapient, she noted—and then realized that Praesepe had just summoned every last one of the sea ponies he’d trapped in the palace grounds earlier, eyes glowing like hot coals. He was going to use them as cannon fodder.

Deeper.

She frowned. What did Ebene mean by that? If she went back underwater, Praesepe would regain his advantage. Or, she thought, maybe she was telling her to study the sea ponies further. Her eyes flared again, brighter this time. What this spell revealed, Gienah never saw coming: Praesepe was channeling his magic into the vortices that surrounded his ponies, overriding it, forcing it into one single point inside their bodies. Praesepe was going to overload them—he was turning his own thralls into guided bombs!

Quick as she could, Gienah descended to the surface of the water, sword raised in a stable, two-hooved blocking position. Her eyes flitted back and forth, taking note of the sea ponies as they surrounded her.

«Blow them back to the River!» roared Praesepe.

The sea ponies charged.

Equal.

Gienah spent a few dangerous seconds pondering the meaning behind that before she understood: the magic Praesepe had used to condense that of the sea ponies was cast using a very specific frequency. If she could match that frequency exactly … She gripped her claymore tighter; slowly, the filigree of the blade began to glow a bright fuchsia as it responded to its wielder’s silent command.

Reach.

This time, Gienah understood her completely. As the sea ponies closed in around her, she altered her stance, preparing to unleash a devastating horizontal swing. The blade glowed a bright, blinding purple.

Defuse.

As the first thrall crossed within striking distance, Gienah swung the blade with all her might. As she did so, a ribbon of lavender magic issued from the tip of the blade, catching everypony in its path with a sizzling burst of light and an otherworldly, mournful scream as the physical forms of the unfortunate thralls disintegrated into a harmless mist, never to hurt another being against their will again.

The armored warrior continued to slash this way and that, more beams of lilac-colored energy slicing through the air, and did not stop until she had released every last one of the sea ponies from their unlife. Gienah stared up at Praesepe, who continued to hover some hundred feet above the ocean, and was faintly aware of a rage burning inside her—but it did not feel like her rage, which was strange; perhaps she was—

Up.

The command was more forceful than usual, and for a split second, Gienah wondered if maybe Praesepe was getting to Ebene somehow. She buried the thought immediately afterward; she could faintly sense the frustration Praesepe was feeling. They both knew he was fighting on his last legs.

Speaking of …

Her armor erupted in a violet explosion as she was struck by a thought, and she was a pegasus once more; bearing upwards like a rocket as she brought her blade to bear. Fifty feet … twenty … ten … five—

Freeze.

Immediately as she drew level with Praesepe, Gienah felt a surge of energy radiate out from her body that she knew did not belong to her. She could see Praesepe leering at where she had been just seconds ago, his ugly, mechanical face snarling defiantly at an enemy who was no longer there. Then it hit her that “freeze” had not just been a command, but a spell of Ebene’s own; somehow, she had commanded time itself to stop with just a single word. She had frozen this space, Praesepe and all, and in doing so, she had given Gienah the perfect window to attack.

Then the spell had ended, as quickly as it had been cast. Praesepe, noticing that he was glowering at nothing but air, instinctively looked up. Seeing Gienah right there in front of him, he gave a startled growl, and tried to leap back. But that moment of distraction was all Gienah needed. One lengthwise cut from her claymore later, and the mechanoid horror had been cloven in two at his croup. Red-orange liquid and arcs of magical electricity spilled from the wound, and Praesepe bellowed in agonizing pain as his severed lobster-tail sank into the depths with a splash.

Finish.

Gienah, still in her pegasus form, continued to hover where she was. She began to twirl her still-glowing blade, pointing it upward like an arrow ready to be loosed.

"Praesepe!" Gienah thundered—or was that Ebene speaking through her? she wondered. "In Corvus’ name, and in his blade, we hereby judge you for your treasonous crimes against Eridanus! What say you?"

«You don’t have that power anymore.» The abomination’s voice was faint, and much less bellicose in the wake of the extreme damage he had sustained, but it was clear that he would be defiant to the end. «Only Kraz can judge me now.»

He laughed evilly, the remains of his cybernetic body beginning to glow. «And he will judge you very soon.»

Gienah moved only a handful of milliseconds too late. Roaring in exertion, she hurled her scintillating claymore at Praesepe with a mighty heave, like she was throwing a javelin. The enchanted blade flew straight and true, and passed through Praesepe like he wasn’t even there.

The problem was, that was exactly the case: with a blinding flash of reddish light, the half-dead horror vanished into thin air—just as Gienah’s blade passed through where his heart ought to have been.

Gienah had no time to feel any disappointment; Ebene had discovered Praesepe’s last moment of treachery only a second before she did. Now, she felt that alien rage returning, hotter than before, licking her insides like dragonfire.

Then, suddenly, it disappeared, leaving an uncomfortable void behind.

Return.

The tone of Ebene’s telepathic voice scared Gienah as she slowly descended from the sky. She had never heard a creature that commanded such power sound so … burnt out? Defeated?

But it was not her place to question Ebene. There was little else she could do but obey her master’s instruction for now. Any questions could wait until after she returned to Eridanus.

Sheathing her claymore, then, she finally touched down on the ocean. A second later, her armored form erupted in purple yet again. There was a flash of light, a roar of magical fire, and then she was gone.

Manehattan

Sun & Moon Plaza, 80th floor

Inside the darkness of the empty conference room, a tiny spark of light flickered to life.

The spark grew larger. Then, it grew brighter. Within a short time, it burned hotter and brighter than even the sun. Then, just as it did so, it faded away into the darkness.

Where that spark had flared, the battered form of Praesepe stirred, glistening with blood from a dozen wounds. He was panting heavily, a combination of the onset of fatigue from his retreat and the extent of his injuries—but more so the incandescent wrath that burned inside him at the thought of how he had run like a coward from Corvus’ wrath.

Suddenly, a far brighter light than that which had transported him here erupted around him. Brighter, but there was no warmth to it at all. Even less warm was the single golden eye that was currently staring back at him.

“M-my lord!” Praesepe stammered, the shock of seeing the unicorn before him etched upon his iridescent face. “I-I have urgent news for you. Corvus—”

“—has found a successor to Chiba,” Kraz interrupted. There was no trace of emotion in his silky voice whatsoever. “I am aware, yes. I am also aware that you fought her just now—and that you failed.”

Praesepe swallowed. “N-no, my lord,” he replied. “The successor was powerful, yes. I merely wished to further gather my strength, and to seek your counsel as to how I should kill her—”

“Spare me your excuses, Praesepe,” Kraz said dispassionately. “That is not the failure I speak of. You had the strength to oppose Corvus’ new champion. More than enough, I daresay, to have killed her then and there. And you amassed a great deal more over the years since Chiba’s death—but instead of using that strength to help fulfill our plans, you wasted it on your own selfish ends.”

“No, my lord!” Praesepe shouted. “I became stronger to serve you!”

“And that, Praesepe,” Kraz chided him softly, “is why you have failed. You do not serve me. You never were supposed to serve me. You were supposed to serve them, just as I do.”

He raised his false hoof. The eye implanted within blinked, and opened wide.

“And since you have chosen to forget them in your greed, you no longer have anything to contribute towards our great cause.” Kraz’s voice was tinged with acid. “You’re of no use to any of us now.”

The eye began to glow. “I’m sorry, Praesepe,” Kraz whispered, not sounding sorry at all.

“No, my lord! Please, don’t kill me! There’s another one out there! He knows me! He attacked me! I can still—!”

The light from the eye condensed into a bright, concentrated beam; this then solidified into the perfectly balanced, ornately carved, whisper-thin blade of a sword. Kraz twirled the weapon around his hoof with the experience of entire centuries. His blank expression never left his countenance at all—not even as he lunged at the fallen sea-pony with the speed of a shooting star, not even as he fed his luckless subordinate every last inch of the star-forged metal, and not even as Praesepe’s freshly slain body glowed with demonic red light, and was consumed in celestial fire until nothing remained but a few charred embers, resting on the ebony wood of the table.

Only then did Kraz shift his expression to one that betrayed just a little more concern. His horn glowed briefly, and the lights of the room brightened further still until the entire conference room was bathed in its glow.

The rest of his loyal followers had been stationed against the walls the entire time, the shadows from before having concealed them completely. There was nothing on their faces to suggest they were fearful of further retribution from their lord and master, nor was there any inkling of an opinion that Praesepe had gotten what he deserved—either at Corvus’ hands or Kraz’s hooves.

“Antares?” Kraz asked.

A unicorn with a coat the color of red wine rose up from her cushion. Her mane was as sleek and black as night itself, and was expertly styled into two long, intricate braids that fell behind each ear and past her head, while her tail was nothing but one long, thick plait, and coiled every which way with a mind of its own, and all the grace and danger of a cobra ready to strike.

“My lord?” Antares’ voice was deep, rich, and every bit as intimate as the classical temptress of olden tales.

“Do you remember the Star-Beasts?”

Reverently, almost lovingly, she brushed a hoof over the symbol on her flank. “I remember them, Lord Kraz.”

“Basilicus?” A stocky pegasus with a sienna coat and a full beard and mane the color of a roaring hearth likewise stood, and likewise touched his own sigil.

“I remember them, Lord Kraz.” He spoke in a low, purring baritone.

“Antecanis? Canicula?”

The two lone Diamond Dogs stiffened. The chosen species of their masquerade was all they had in common; from there, any similarities ended. The one called Canicula, a muscular, golden-furred specimen with a tattoo that rested over one of his olive-green eyes like a strange monocle, stood tall and erect, in stark contrast to most of the species he had chosen to mimic.

His companion, Antecanis, was far more difficult to describe. Perhaps, in another lifetime, he might have resembled a Diamond Dog, but the bone-thin monstrosity was now more battle-scarred than even his master. What little of his body was not clad in bandages or an oversized, tattered trench coat was nothing but scabbed flesh and patchy, dirty-brown fur. Heavy, opaque goggles obscured the quasi-canine’s eyes—above which rested his own unique tattoo—and every last one of his sharpened teeth was visible in his mouth, permanently stretched into a nightmarish rictus that served as a smile.

That rictus now moved, and produced sounds that might have been speech, but was instead a horrifically auto-tuned imitation, filtered and distorted nearly to the point of incomprehensibility—yet with just the faintest hint of something that was, for want of a better term, just plain wrong in the head.

Evidently, however, Canicula appeared to understand his companion’s words well enough. “We remember, Lord Kraz,” he affirmed. His voice was terse and clipped, but surprisingly lacked much of the grating harshness that characterized most Diamond Dogs’ speech. This, combined with his appearance, gave him the air of a bad-tempered floor manager who absolutely hated to be bothered with trifling matters.

Kraz looked around the conference room. “And the rest of you?” he asked.

“We remember, Lord Kraz.” The chorus from the remainder of his supporters was scattered, but their devotion was no less diminished.

“And will you serve them, in life and death, until our cause is fulfilled?” Kraz raised his voice the tiniest fraction of a decibel.

This time, the consensus was more unified. “We shall serve!” they cried out.

For the first time tonight, Kraz smiled. “Then go now. The Star-Beasts sense that the balance in this world has been restored, and now they are more restless than ever. Continue to serve them faithfully, and we will be that much closer to achieving our goals.”

With these words, the gathering had come to a close. Most of them filed out through the doors; the others—the mare with the braided mane, the stallion with the bushy beard, and both of the Diamond Dogs—remained where they stood at a glance from Kraz.

“There are still too many pieces out of place,” Kraz conferred to them. “Praesepe spoke of someone else who attacked him—before Corvus even made his move.”

“Impossible,” Basilicus scoffed. “Only he and the thrice-cursed Ebene have the power to defy us.”

“Perhaps this one is rogue,” mused Antares. “This may make him dangerous.”

“It would make him misinformed,” growled Canicula. “He would grossly underestimate us.”

Antecanis laughed, a grating, glitch-filled giggle, before launching into an unintelligible monologue punctuated with glowering looks at Antares and Basilicus.

“True,” Canicula agreed. “Whatever threat this new arrival may pose is irrelevant. We ought not waste any more resources in hunting down a so-called rogue, my lord.”

Kraz, deep in thought, furrowed his brow. “Even so … ” He stiffened. “Tell the rest of the Fixed to redouble their efforts. With any luck, our increased activity can draw out the rogue—and perhaps Corvus’ new toy as well—without us having to take any unnecessary risks.” He nodded once. “You may go.”

As the quartet departed the conference room, Kraz strode to the window, regarding the view of the city below. Perhaps he might have admired it, and he could certainly understand it if the lesser beings of this world found beauty in such a sight. But to invite those feelings into his heart was to invite more of the corruption that he knew had stained this city like blood.

He would not give in.

He could not give in.

“Why?” he whispered, partly to himself, partly to the earth a thousand feet below, and partly to a certain group of stars in the night sky that had played a part in the events of tonight, unseen amidst the clouds. “Why do you still refuse to acknowledge me?”

Why do you not listen to your savior?

Three days later

“From EBC Studios in Manehattan, I’m Head Line with your News at Noon. Our top story today: After more than two years of total isolation, the Aquastrian Empire stunned the world yesterday by reopening communications with Equestria. Princesses Celestia and Luna are currently en route to Delfin to meet with the new Aquastrian Empress, who is expected to hold an internationally televised conference regarding the period of silence, and provide details on the events that took place within that time.

“Closer to home, Blue Aegis announced this morning that in the wake of the attempted attack on Manehattan, he is stepping down from his position as Fleet Admiral of the Equestrian Royal Navy, effective immediately. Mr. Aegis has denied reports that he was pressured to resign, instead citing concerns over his health in light of the Aqua-Equestrian Crisis. The former Fleet Admiral had this to say:”

“‘Nopony will ever know exactly what happened out there. There are a few things that even I’m not sure about. But I can tell you that in my time, I’ve seen a lot of brave mares and stallions sacrifice their lives in the line of duty—and I will tell you now, their sacrifice was not in vain. Even so, each and every one of those sacrifices has weighed heavily on my heart for some time. Today, I have decided that their loss has been affecting my ability to make the judgments and decisions that are required for a pony of my position. It is for that reason that as of this morning, I am no longer in the service of our Sisters’ armed forces. Ancestors preserve them, just as they have preserved us all. Thank you.’”

“Blue Aegis also stated that he would not be seeking another term as Equestria’s Chief of Naval Operations, and that the future of his current term was quote-unquote, ‘in serious doubt’—”

Blue Aegis sighed, watching his likeness fade from the television screen before finally switching it off.

“It wasn’t as tough a decision to make as they’re making it sound,” he told Inkie Pie, who lay in her hospital bed. She was happily munching on her third rose of the dozen he’d sent over, undaunted by the bandage wrapped around her healing head wound and tied off in a comically large bow. She’d been given the go-ahead to leave in a few days’ time; when Aegis had heard the news, he had gone over to a nearby florist’s and purchased the best roses he could find. Never let it be said I don’t back down from a wager, Nurse, he thought. Or from an old friend, he added on further reflection.

He resumed his story. “When they tried to offer me a commendation for this whole thing the other day, I knew then and there that they’d gotten their priorities way out of order.”

“A commendation?” The director of the Equestrian Geological Survey punctuated her surprise with a reedy, exaggerated gasp.

“I know,” Aegis huffed. “It was like they had no sense of decency at all. The life of any beast, no matter how monstrous, is not worth that many lives. And it certainly isn’t worth a medal that won’t end up doing more than sit in a shelf and collect dust at the end of the day. I’d tell you where I told DWRDIV they could shove their commendation, but that probably got classified, too—along with everything else about this thrice-cursed clusterbuck.”

Inkie laughed.

“Still, if they hadn’t kept anything under wraps the way they did,” Aegis continued, “I’d imagine the whole of Equestria’s armed forces would be in the middle of a PR fiasco right now. The nobles in Canterlot have been screaming their stuffy heads off at the Royal Court for going on two days! Decline in military power, reluctance to defend our soil—you name it.”

“Oh, you poor dear. Those nasties haven’t been getting to you, too, have they?” said Inkie sympathetically. She ruffled Aegis’ mane, something that caused no small discomfort.

“Inkie, please. My wife is outside!” he said in mock pleading tones.

The old gray mare immediately stopped. “You’re right—my left flank hasn’t started itching yet!” she giggled. The two shared a few seconds of mirth at this.

“I am worried for Silver, though,” Aegis said after a while. “I’ve gotten a few black notes in my mailbox already.” The black note was exactly what it said on the tin—a small sheet of parchment, completely black. It was the worst kind of threat a noble could give to anyone, though considering the rate at which they followed through, this said very little—a fact which Inkie quickly brought up.

She tut-tutted. “Oh, Bluesy. That was hot air fifty years ago, and it’s still nothing but hot air today.”

Aegis nodded ruefully. “Yeah, but still. Silver Coronet and I have been married for thirty years now. Our foals are all grown up—they’ll be heading into college soon enough. What if they get targeted next?”

Inkie didn’t answer. Aegis thought he might have known why—as a sister to one of the Elements of Harmony, Inkie had probably bridled at the prospect of “fame by association” when she was that age. And fame could go both ways, Aegis knew; if somepony didn’t like another pony that happened to be famous, and wanted to do something about it, then more often than not they went for one of the immediate family.

“You really shouldn’t let them discourage you, dear,” Inkie said kindly, laying a hoof on his withers.

“I know. I’m trying not to, but—”

“Don’t try.” Inkie’s voice carried all the weight and wisdom of her sixty-seven years. “If you’re going to be this serious about keeping everything hunky-lunky-dory in your family, then don’t try. Do.”

There was a pause.

“I’m heading back to Canterlot in a few days,” Aegis said heavily. “DWRDIV still needs the Joint Chiefs’ say on all those classified files. And I want to make sure they don’t get buried forever.”

“That’s gonna take awhile,” Inkie said in a sing-song lilt. Aegis knew it was true—with the Equestrian legal system, it would be half a decade before the last voyage of Diomedes would even have a chance to see the light of day.

“I don’t care how much red tape I’ll have to go through,” he said resolutely. “The public needs to know just what it costs to keep Equestria safe. I can only hope that telling the truth won’t put any more ponies off from enlisting.”

“Blue?” Inkie asked the question hesitantly, as though she were trying to choose her next words very carefully. “If you had a chance to … you know … start over again? Would you ... have chosen me?”

The sudden change in thought confused Aegis at first, but he recovered in short order. “I think you already know how I’ll answer that,” he replied. A half-smile crossed his face. “Besides,” he added, “Silver thinks I already spend enough time with you as it is.” He laughed. “I’d tell her she’s right, but we both know how much time she spends gossiping with you.”

Inkie smiled. “You care a lot about your family, then,” she remarked. It was not a question. When Aegis nodded in reply, “Well, if everypony else cares as much about their family as you do, then I don’t think you’ll have any problems with getting new recruits.”

Aegis patted her shoulder gently. “Thanks, Inkie. And talking of family, I think I’ll head back home to Hoofington when I’m done in Canterlot. Silver’s probably been worried sick about me these past few days, and I could stand to see the kids at least one more time before I start thinking about Miamare Beach.”

The door to Inkie’s room opened, and Nurse Vita strode in.

“Mr. Aegis.” Her voice was warm, but dutiful. “We’ll be changing Ms. Pie’s bandages momentarily.”

“Of course,” Aegis said politely. “I’ll be out of your way in two shakes of my tail.”

He stood up. “Stop by for dinner when you get the chance, okay?” he said to Inkie. “You’ll always be welcome under our roof.”

“Is that an order?” Inkie’s wrinkled muzzle was split in a smile that made her look fifty years younger.

Blue Aegis smiled. “The last order I’ll ever give.”

He performed a mock salute, and stepped out the doors of the ward, and into the fresh Manehattan sunshine of a new day—and the inviting prospect of a new life.