"N... No... no... n... n-no..."
This was not happening. This could not be happening... thought Pennaprose. His mind was spiraling out of control, lost in shock.
"Lyra Blackheart. Such a fitting new name for a commander-in-training, isn't it Quiwi?" asked Chrysalis.
Quitangu smirked. "Did you come up with that yourself, or did Krayka have something to do with it?"
"Both."
Lyra stood there, unmoving. In his shock, he willed her in silence to give a sign of recognition, a token amount of knowing. But he found only her stare, cold and cruel, a mixture of a changeling's pure blue iris and hints of her natural gold.
"Now..." began Chrysalis, leaning back a small amount into her throne. "As patrons of the arts, what say we hold a play? A desperate dirge to preclude a morose march. Quiwi?"
"Yes, yes... that's why I brought this," answered Quitangu, pulling out a single blade with her magic. "A personal high point, if I may brag."
It was elaborately designed, a short blade of masterful craftsmanship. The hilt curled and twisted, reaching toward the point as if in hunger. The blade, two hues on either side; seafoam green and blood red. She handed it to Lyra.
"I've named it, 'Djiingoh', after an old changeling fairy tale," said Quitangu. "I thought it would suit what she has become."
"Hmm... very much so, Quiwi," replied Chrysalis. "Should we let her test it out?"
Quitangu squealed in delight, a sound that almost made him hurl. "Uhuhuhuhu... but of course. But!"
Quitangu vanished into a flurry of snow. Her voice echoed through the chamber as the flurry expanded to the walls. "One piddly weakling isn't enough to test either of the new weapons. We need a more substantial test. Chriii-iisssy?"
She rolled her eyes. "Mmph, whatever. Some troops from Apparatus IV should suffice. ...But first..."
She stomped a hoof against her throne. Suddenly, metal chains fell from the ceiling, wrapped around Pennaprose, and bound him to the ceiling.
"I'm not one for bondage, but that is such an excellent seat for the play. We can't let him just face his death without knowing how it will befall him," said Chrysalis. "I'd advise you not look away, little squishling. As if you could help it."
Below him, Lyra had taken a place right underneath him, silently gazing up. He wanted to cry out, to try and reach her, but his voice seemed to have stopped working. Everything had seemed to have stopped working.
"Guards."
The walls of the arena gave way, revealing a small armada of changelings. They were all clad in light armor and wielding identical blades of their own. They poured out, encircling the arena, all single focused on Lyra.
"So... Let us see the results of our experiment. My subjects, a new warrior had entered our ranks," said Chrysalis. "I sense great potential from this one... so I ask of you; fight her in a battle to the death. By my witness, I intend to make her the new commander of your Apparatus if she succeeds."
There was visible unrest in the ranks. Some of them diverted their gaze to Gosthette, who was still bound.
"Rest assured, Gosthette is still a head commander. I do not think she will be outperformed here..."
Seemingly satisfied, they began to close the circle, closing the door. There was now no way out. The flurry stopped, collecting next to Chrysalis. Quitangu reformed, looking almost psychotic in excitement.
"Let the bloodbath... begin."
They brought each of their blades to bear, unhesitant. The chains had bound him in such a way that he could not move his head. All that he could do is close his eyes, but even that was beyond him now.
They pounced as one, letting a wave of black and roaring crash forward. Then...
Nothing.
The chamber filled with pure white snow, raging in a storm that no true winter could match. Sight and sound were wiped from existence for a brief moment, but as suddenly as it flared, it vanished.
"...Magnificent," exalted Chrysalis.
Lyra stood, unmoved as before, blade planed in the ground below her. The hoard of changelings had vanished; in their place, thin trails of red streaked from all corners of the room to meet Lyra and her blade, both pristinely clean, in the center. Not a trace of armor was to be found.
"...Well, well, well. I do say you've manage to forge a masterpiece this time, Quiwi..."
"Uweheheheheh. Both of them," replied Quitangu.
Pennaprose's voice snapped back suddenly, dry from fear but stronger than he thought. "She's not your weapon! Anyone's! Chrysalis!"
"Ah? I almost forgot about you," said Chrysalis. "Gosthette did me quite the favor in bringing me this pony as bait for you, despite her intentions being far more innocent."
She got off her throne again, straying to the edge of the arena, still looking up at him. "I daresay that a bag of bits bought me a bar of gold... plus or minus a little penny."
Without warning, the chains loosened, dropping him to the arena below. He hit the ground gracelessly, feeling as if the fall had sprained something. As he struggled to get up on his hooves, another sword flew through the air and implanted itself in the ground in front of him. It was long and thin, like a rapier, but in contrast to Lyra's Djiingoh, the guard curled downward, wrought in silver and emanating an enigmatic sadness. The blade itself was two-toned; gleaming silver-white and an icy blue.
"Pennaprose Lochflow," began Chrysalis. "Before you is Lyra. For our entertainment, you are going to fight with her. But I'll let you get the first strike—it would be unfair otherwise..." She snickered. "Of course, you could do nothing, give up, and join my army like Lyra has done..."
"The blade's name is Changeré, by the way," added Quitangu. "As a counterpart to Lyra's Djiingoh."
Lyra had moved, blade at the ready, across the chamber. He stared, bereft, into her eyes, the last vestiges of hope trickling down his face. In his tears that froze as they left his face, he could have sworn that she was crying too...
"...Will you raise your blade, Pennaprose?" asked Chrysalis. "Or will you become yet another sacrifice to greatness?"
He placed a hoof on the hilt of Changeré, wiping his tears away. His thoughts seem to crawl, both from the cold and fatigue. He examined his reflection in the blade; his face was half frozen and his mane nearly completely white from the snowstorms. But underneath it all—the frost, the fear, the fur—he could see clearly the feelings that had wrought themselves in the grooves of his face.
"Well?"
He sighed, cursing his weakness. He could feel himself giving up, the hope draining from him and the coldness seeping into his skin to replace it. But in the bleakness of it all, one thought, a seed of an idea, sprouted. ...There is... one way... he thought, weakly but with growing conviction.
He understood in an instant what he desired from this cursed situation. He felt nothing, though his heart may cry out in pain, as he took up the blade with his magic.
He brought it to bear at the one thing his mind, not heart, told him was right.