• Published 15th Apr 2014
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An Extended Holiday - Commander_Pensword



Adventure, Mayhem, Magic of unknown origins, and talking colorful Ponies. All being unrelated events have brought three friends together into the wildest holiday that anyone could imagine.

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104 - They Dug Too Deep

Extended Holiday
Ch 104: They Dug too Deep
Act 15


“I’m sorry. Let me rephrase myself. What?” Hammer Strike questioned aloud again.

The Dwarves had led them through the tunnels, and down many twists and turns. As they walked, Hammer Strike realized they were going deeper, but seemingly not a lot farther away. New Unity couldn’t be more than five miles away, but they had to be a good three miles below ground by now. Just as he finished calculating the figures in his head, they exited a tunnel, and entered a massive cavern. It stretched beyond their line of sight in all directions. The walls had been carved smooth and flat, and a large carved stone staircase led down from the opening towards a city filled with stone buildings, each carved in beautiful angular patterns portraying the faces of various Ponies with Celtic and Nordic patterns trimmed with gold or silver surrounding them. They were arranged in straight groups that led from the edge of the city to the very center, and candles and other luminescent stones lined the halls and the windows like street lamps to help the travelers see.

Hundreds of Dwarf Ponies ran through the streets performing all manner of daily tasks. From this height, they looked more like ants. However, the thing that gained Hammer Strike’s reaction was the large stone statue of a familiar looking Earth Pony sitting on his haunches, leaning on a large smithing hammer, and wearing an unmistakable coat that had been artfully carved and crafted from from cobalt glass. A large star sapphire that had been perfectly cut and polished in the shape of a blooming rose hung above the behemoth’s head, supported in web of thin, nigh-invisible silvery-white chains that glowed with the stone to spread light over the entire cavern.

The lead Dwarf in their escort looked at Hammer Strike with determination. “You dunnae like it? Did we use the wrong stone? Did we not make you mighty enough? Tell us now, blue lard, and we’ll tear it down, and build another one.”

“I’m just a bit . . . stunned, at the moment,” Hammer Strike replied. “It looks almost unbelieveable.”

“My granddad would be happy. He was one of the apprentice stone cutters who hewed the rock they used to make the base.”

“How long did it take to build all of this?” Vital Spark asked. “And where did you find a gemstone that huge?”

“We of the Olflgan clan found this cavern three millennia ago. We’ve been working the stone to expand it ever since. We were outcast from our kind. Why? No one can remember. It’s been lost to us, but, originally, we were poor, and it was unknown how much longer we could stay here. We had no ore, and our tools were broken.” His eyes became dreamy as a more reverent tone snuck into his voice. “And then we found the blue lard. He guided us to the veins, and gave us the tools to mine them, such tools the like we’ve never been able to make. He saved our people much hardship.”

Hammer Strike seemed confused for all of a second, before he finally realized what the Dwarf was talking about. “Oh. I get it now,” he muttered.

“Mine own family is singularly blessed to wield the great forge hammer that you bestowed upon my great grandfather.” The Dwarf held up his hammer proudly.

“You’ve certainly kept it maintained throughout the years.” Hammer Strike nodded approvingly as he looked to the old hammer. Even with over a millennium behind it, it still looked fit for work.

“Well, it is a Hammer Strike original, so it makes sense it would make it through the years without too much difficulty,” Vital said. “Didn’t you tell me you had a few weapons from the Third Gryphon War era that survived to today, Hammer Strike?”

“They still needed some work done. Not much, but they would have been better, if they were maintained.”

“Somepony didn’t take care of the blue lard’s creations? Blasphemy!”

“I felt the same way, though with a bit more anger,” Hammer Strike commented.

They made their way down the staircase, and through a broad stone walkway into the city. This close to the floor of the cavern, they began to notice that more and more brass was visible while smoke stacks and pipes in general snaked around the rock walls, under stairs, and through ornately carved holes. Instead of destroying their architecture to make way for these new items, they forged their city around it to preserve the integrity of the stone and the cavern, while still maintaining the great Pony ideal of harmony with nature. The huff, puff, and hiss of steam machines reverberated as the little Ponies went about their crafts. As they passed one alleyway, it looked like they had a very rudimentary steam shovel working towards one of the walls. Two of the burlier Dwarves carried pipes as big as they were across their backs as they went about their business to transport them wherever the delivery needed to go.

“Looks like you and your people are a lot more industrious than the Ponies back on the surface,” Vital Spark noted.

“Oh? You mean you lot are still living in caves?” A Dwarf to the right of the group asked. “Finally seeing how smart it is to build under the earth?”

“No, we have dwellings above ground, usually crafted as a blend of wood and stone to create a sturdy structure to live in. It’s actually pretty cosy.”

“Don’t forget the metallic framework in specific regions,” Hammer Strike reminded him.

“Ah so you must end up burnin’’ them down a lot then. It must be impossible to keep the forges cool enough not to.”

“Oh no. The forge is placed underground, and surrounded by dense stone. No way I would build that near wood.” Hammer Strike shook his head.

“But then how do you forge while relaxing in the family room for the evening?” the Dwarf asked, thoroughly confused.

“I, uh, don’t get to relax often.” Hammer Strike rubbed the back of his head. “I usually work almost all day and night, though I do have an office and bedroom. I just only really use the office, because of paperwork.”

“But don’t you forge to relax, Blue Lard? Don’t you have coal spirits to do your paperwork for you?”

“I kinda do relax by forging, but, no, I don’t have . . . coal spirits to do the paperwork for me,” Hammer Strike replied, somewhat confused.

Another Dwarf laughed. “He does everything himself. He really is the greatest smith.”

“Um, I know I’m going to sound really stupid here, but . . . what exactly are coal spirits?” Vital Spark asked.

“Oh, they’re the little puffs you find around your place as you use coal. Sort of like a poltergeist, but friendly. They love to move your things around, but if you aren't careful, they can crack and ignite on you. Best be wary when that happens.”

“. . . And now I understand why you have everything made from stone and metal.”


Grif sat back in a chair with a relieved sigh. The paperwork from the battle had finally been filled out and sorted into a neat pile on his desk. The families that had lost warriors had been consoled to the best of his ability. Their losses had been mercifully few in comparison to what New Unity had lost, but it still felt like too many. Forty-five Gryphons had lost their lives in the battle, and a good deal more had been injured. Their families would be looked after, but there was little Grif could do to replace what they’d lost. Still, they had been seen to. Their surviving food stores had been counted and re-distributed as necessary. Damages to the wall had been scanned, and they had an accurate idea of how many weapons needed to be replaced. Grif’s part in the process was finished, at least for now.

Getting back to his paws, Grif left the workroom he’d set up in his house, and moved towards the main chamber, where Shrial and Avalon had busied themselves with happier times, preparing for the official presentation of the cubs to the clan and the naming ceremony. Many other Gryphons had volunteered to help, if only to avoid the horrible reality that had been the battlefield cleanup. And so, numerous members of the Bladefeather clan ran helter skelter.

“Oh, Gilda! I didn’t expect to see you here.” Grif chuckled as he came across the Gryphoness carrying a load of colorful flowers. “I thought all this baby stuff would be too prissy for you?” His tone kept a playful teasing quality to it, but he analyzed her carefully, even as he kept up the mask of joviality. Gilda had been on the front lines during the battle, and nobody knew what kind of unseen scars were healing, but having experienced those scars himself, he knew what signs to look for.

“Well, you know. It’s a naming ceremony,” Gilda said. Her tone was softer than usual. “It’s special for the kids. A big part of life, you know?”

“Yeah. I think we could all use something nice for once. Have you seen Shrial and the girls? I haven’t had as much time as I’d want with them. With everything finished for now, I figure it might be good to get some bonding time in.”

“Just keep going. Trust me; you’ll know where they are,” Gilda said with a chuckle. Grif raised an eyebrow in confusion as he kept going, until he saw what Gilda meant. Shrial was currently sitting on a chair with numerous Gryphonesses of all ages surrounding her.

With a silent chuckle, he made his way forward, shifting through the crowd as carefully as possible. “Excuse me, people, but I’d like to see the star attraction up close, if I might.” He kissed Shrial on the forehead as he finally broke through, and looked down at the two swaddled bundles in her arms. He felt a familiar warm glow in his heart as he looked down at his daughters. His daughters! The idea still blew his mind to even think about. He moved a talon to one of the bundles, and was surprised when a small taloned hand wriggled from the blanket and grasped his talon defiantly. “Looks like I have a challenger already.”

“Well what did you expect? She is her mother’s daughter, after all,” Shrial said with a playful smirk.

“Yes, she is.” Grif laughed. “And how have you been? I haven’t been able to see you during the last few days.”

“You’ve had others to worry about, just like you should,” she said pointedly. “It shows just how great a leader you are.”

“A great leader should still know the importance of his family. Have you gotten the rest you need?”

“You risked asking that with Kalima standing right behind you?”

“She can’t keep an eye on you all the time,” he said with a good natured roll of the eyes. “Hopefully you’ll be around for the next battle. I could have used you out there.”

Shrial chuckled. “I had plenty of my share of battle in here. These little tempests really wore me out.”

“Maybe, but you are still my most able second on the battlefield. And few who can get past me can get past you.”

“And if they try, Avalon will blow them into next week.”

“I wondered when you were going to start talking about me,” Avalon said cheekily as she spread her wings over the pair. “We really need to have more family moments like this,” she sighed.

“Well, fortune seems to favor us so far. We’re all still here.”

“Speaking of which,” Shrial said, “I’ve been thinking we should have Cheshire move in with us. She’s already family, and besides that, I think her baby will love playing with the girls once it’s born.”

“Thats a great idea. It’s not good for her to be alone in that house of hers,” Grif agreed.

“Make sure it’s her decision, though, honey. No ordering her to, alright?”

“I wouldn’t do that. And, honestly, could you see her listening to such an order, if I did?”

Avalon laughed. “He’s got a point there.”

“As he should, after all the sense he’s had to have knocked into him,” Kalima commented wryly.

“I’m nothing, if not consistent.” Grif laughed.

“And we all love you for it,” Shrial said as she pulled his muzzle down for a double team kiss with Avalon.


Pensword and Lunar Fang stood on the castle wall as they watched the skies towards Canterlot. Today was when Moon River would be returning to them, and they would get to know how she behaved while they were gone. Pensword looked to Lunar Fang and smiled as he nuzzled her. “You think she was a hoofull or an angel?”

“You’re asking if our daughter was a hoofull?” Lunar Fang snickered. “That should be obvious.”

“Well, I know how she is with us, but I wonder how Cadence handled her.” He couldn’t help but join in the snickering. “You know how I hope she acted. I just. . . .” He frowned. “It was something my parents asked each other over the years, sometimes seriously, and, like here, sometimes joking.”

“I’m sure everything was fine,” she laughed assuringly.

“Well, we can ask Queen Cadence when she arrives. I see her coming now. With an armed escort in a flying chariot, no less.”

Both parents took to the air, and glided down to the courtyard to await the chariot’s landing. Cadence smiled as the vehicle descended, and finally settled down on the cobbled stones with hardly a sound. A tiny bundle on the Alicorn’s back suddenly shot in a blur of motion, before crashing into Lunar Fang. Two tiny hooves wrapped tightly around the Thestral’s neck as a cute little muzzle nuzzled affectionately with the occasional churr.

Pensword didn’t dare try to separate the pair. He remembered only too well what had happened last time as he absently rubbed his nose. Even at such a young age, that little filly had some incredibly sharp teeth. He settled on approaching Cadence instead. He smiled as he lowered his head in greeting. “How was she?”

“She was good. I mean, she was practically everywhere, and seemed to disappear the second I took my eyes off her, but she didn’t cause any major trouble as far as I know.”

Pensword grinned. “Well, I am happy to hear that. Though you might want to ask around with the local foals for any bumps in the night they might have heard.” He looked back at her entourage. “I am guessing you have to head back to Canterlot?” he asked as he watched a guard carry a familiar bag to his queen.

“Yes. And I’ll be taking a train back home from there,” she said.

“Understood. Do you have to leave right away?” he asked as he absently picked up on the bat-like conversation between his wife and daughter.

“Unfortunately, Bellacosa has something he wants to present to the court, and, as Queen, I need to be there when he does,” Cadence said. “I had fun looking after her, though. It’s good practice for when . . . you know.” She blushed.

“I am happy. And you won’t be opposed to looking after her again in the future?” Pensword briefly considered asking about what the young warrior had planned, but thought better of it. It would doubtless be in the newspapers soon enough. “Should I be getting a letter about what this is about after it is done, or will it be before?”

“Probably after it’s finished.”

“Understood.” He smiled. “I am guessing you are getting used to caring for Thestral foals?”

“I may have to.” She laughed, then gave Pensword a mischievous wink.

“Indeed. May you forever have the strength and youth to keep up with them.”

Cadence chuckled. “I’m an Alicorn. I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

Pensword smirked. “Famous last words.” Then they both burst into a laughing fit.


The great hall was a rowdy place lined by statue after statue of giant stone Ponies, each wearing a hammer and a helmet beset with a diamond in its forehead. Table after table spanned the room to fit the many stallions that had come to sit. Each bore some emblem of office of stature in the form of a tool or weapon of some kind. Five in particular bore a tiny golden hammer with a large S engraved on all sides. These Ponies sat at a round table near an ascending stairwell that ultimately ended in a large throne carved from an intensely polished blue marble with rivulets of gold sparkling like waves on a distant shore.

A gigantic statue stood guard behind the throne in full battle armor as its forehooves rested on the knob of a gigantic twin bearded battle axe. Its two blades jutted out on either side of the throne, and towered over it, engraved with all manner of intricately carved runes, both Nordic and Celtic. The massive maw of a titanic dragon’s head snarled on the side, its eyes blank as the rest of its body rested under the warrior’s second set of hooves. The Pony sat on its haunches, even as it glared down at the gathering in the hall. A pulsing sapphire was mounted to its head, and . . . wait a minute, how could it be sitting and standing, and–?

“Is that . . . Sleipnir?” Vital Spark asked as he gaped at the statue. This question was answered by a Dwarf wearing a robe standing not far from the statue.

“Sleipnir the mighty! Sleipnir the unerring! Sleipnir the unassailable! To you we give praise! ” The Dwarf continued to shout random things like this, before looping around, and starting over. The other Dwarves seemed to do their best to ignore him.

“Forgive Heimskr, he is a little . . . overzealous in his faith,” Duncan, the Dwarf who had first led them to the hall, said.

Hammer Strike shrugged. “I’ve met worse.”

“He reminds me of an annoying zealot you once told me about in a game a long time ago, Hammer Strike. I believe you mentioned something about a land called Skyrim, if I recall correctly,” Vital Spark said.

Hammer Strike stared at him blankly for a minute before he shrugged. “Don’t remember that, but you kinda know why.”

“We really need to work on that,” Vital Spark sighed.

“Later.”

“So, uh, is this like some sort of clan meeting or something? And is that supposed to be a chair for a king? I’ve read a lot of lore about Dwarves, but I’m not sure exactly what’s true and what isn’t.”

“That’s the President’s chair.” One Dwarf shrugged.

“President?” Hammer Strike questioned.

“Ye thought we had a monarchy?” another Dwarf asked.

“Considering the situation topside for a majority of the races, I was expecting anything other than a democracy. What an interesting surprise,” Hammer Strike said.

“Very. I always thought Dwarves had kings, no matter what,” Vital Spark agreed.

“We used to call it the king, but we were voting him inta power anyway, so we figured just making things official made the paperwork easier.”

“And did it?”

“Yes.”

A loud gong sounded through the hall, followed by the sound of many drums and horns beating to a stirring march.

“What’s that?” Vital Spark asked.

“It’s our national anthem. We always do it before a clan meeting,” Duncan said.

“Really? How’s it go?”

“Well, first we have to wait for the President to show. He likes to make a grand entrance.”

Almost on cue, six finely dressed Dwarves entered two by two, and took positions around the President's throne. Each held an identical polished copper staff, and they began to pound them against the ground in unison. The sound of metal ringing against stone filled the air as a Dwarf dressed in steel plated armor with gold filigree around the breastplate entered the room. He walked in long slow strides in time to the pounding. His waist-length red mane was braided neatly behind him, and his beard was braided with colorful beads of varying metals. He carried a pickaxe in his hoof. Many intricate engravings scrawled across its surface. With a royal air, the Dwarf walked to his throne, turned, and sat at the round table as the last beat fell. A blue light shone from the jewel to rest upon him as he gazed in contentment at the hall.

“Told you,” Duncan sighed as he rolled his eyes. “Every bleedin’ time.”

The drums began to pick up speed as music swelled through the caverns. Then the President took a deep breath, and began to sing. Mares danced in with a flourish of their skirts as they poured honeyed mead into the colts’ goblets with synchronized ease, while musicians flowed into the hall in time to the music they were playing. Meanwhile, the mares had returned with plates and silverware, and gracefully added them to the tables, before retreating to let a virtual army of chefs arrive with heavy platters to slam down on the harty tables. They removed the lids to create a cloud of steam that obscured everything in the room for a moment, before clearing to reveal that the king had stood up from his place on his throne, even as he took up the final recant as he slowly descended towards his place of honor among the five other Dwarves at the round table. The entire chamber roared with the ending chorus, and all took their seats once again, before gazing at the giant pots of stew and platters of roasts that had been prepared.

Steaks glistened in the torchlight, bathed in a mushroom sauce, and giant crystals sat in silver bowls, waiting for consumption. One of the Dwarves snatched one up, before the President could give his approval or disapproval, and popped it into his mouth. He grinned as the sound of popping and fizzing sounded through his teeth. Lastly, thick slices of warm, fluffy, fresh-baked bread steamed as they were laid out to rest with slabs of freshly churned butter.

The President looked disapprovingly upon the offender, then gave a nod to where Hammer Strike stood. “Please, sit at the head of the table, Blue Lard, and bring your guest. We would normally ask you to watch over and protect us before we eat, but seein’ as you’re already here, we figure you can finally give us an answer.” He looked out at his fellow Dwarves. “May the blue lard protect us, and bring us strength, so we can have another meal on the morrow.”

Hammer Strike nodded as he moved towards the head of the table with Duncan and Vital following suit.

As he was given food, the President took a heavy swig from his own goblet. “So, Blue Lard, how have you enjoyed the tour of our fair city so far? Do you wish to use the holy forges tonight to craft something in memory of your visit?”

“I’m . . . very impressed, to be honest,” Hammer Strike replied as he glanced around once again. “As for the forges.” He maintained his flat look for all of about two seconds. “Oh, I can’t help it. Yes, I would actually like to see them, and potentially make something.”

“We’ll leave as soon as the meal’s through then,” the President responded as the Dwarves cheered, and drinks sloshed. Hammer Strike and Vital Spark were given goblets of their own. One smell told Vital Spark the beverage was anything but non-alcoholic.

“Um, not to be rude, but you wouldn’t happen to have some water I could drink instead, would you?” Vital Spark asked.

“That is water,” the mare to his left replied with confusion.

“I mean the cold stuff that flows out of the rocks sometimes? Clear? You know, not made from fermented grains?”

“You want to drink the liquid steam, laddie?” The mare to the right gasped in utter shock. “Are you looking to commit suicide?”

“He really is the assistant to the Blue Lard,” Heimskr lauded. “Praise be to the mighty warrior’s name! The blessings of the great Sleipnir rest upon them. The cries of their enemies shall be music to their ears as the ballads of their mighty deeds are written and sung!”

“Oh, shut up, Heimskr!” Duncan yelled.

“Um . . . about that water?” Vital Spark asked hesitantly.

“Aye. We’ll see what we can do,” Duncan said as he issued a server forward and whispered into his ear. The server stood back and looked at him like he was deranged. Duncan pulled the server back, and whispered something more. The Dwarf’s eyes went wide as he looked to Vital Spark before nodding and leaving.

“What did you just tell him?” Vital Spark asked. His voice was more concerned now than hesitant.

“That you’re some minor spirit that can drink liquid steam like ale, because that's what the blue lard called you forth from.”

“Well, I guess that’s half right,” Vital Spark mused.

Meanwhile, Hammer Strike was looking down into his own goblet, having taken a drink. “You know, I’m actually surprised.”

“How come?” Vital Spark asked.

“I’m surprised the goblet isn’t dissolving with what I was given…”

“Grog?”

“Please. That brew almost never dissolves the goblets as long as they're made from the denser metals,” Duncan laughed.

“Surprising. I could faintly taste it before it burned away,” Hammer Strike replied.

“Well, we try our best.” The Dwarf shrugged.

“... And now I’m incredibly glad I didn’t drink it. Alcohol and I don’t mix.” Vital shuddered.

And at that moment all the loud conversations that had been going on suddenly stopped dead. The Dwarves stared at Vital Spark as though he’d grown a second head.

“Well, it’s true,” Vital protested weakly as he slid down a little in his seat. “Alcohol to me is like what water is to the Demos.”

“But life without alcohol is impossible,” one Dwarf noted.

“I was raised without it my entire life.” Vital Spark shrugged.

“Well there goes hundreds of years of research down the drain,” one Dwarf sighed.

Vital Spark cocked his head in confusion. “Eh?”

“Our best biology researcher was pointing towards alcohol being a primary ingredient in sentient life.” The Dwarf in question had a long blond mane and light peach-colored fur. He seemed to be wearing what resembled a lab coat and thick glasses.

“How many forms of sentient life did you test?” Hammer Strike questioned.

“Well, we kinda only had the one focus group,” the Dwarf admitted.

“Yeah, might have to look into more fields, before going further into that research,” Hammer Strike replied as he took another drink.

“The blue lard has spoken. More money shall be put towards expanding our understanding of natural philosophy,” the President said, banging his mug on the table.

“I mean . . . I wasn’t–.” Hammer muttered before exhaling. “So that’s how things are going to go.”


While Pensword worked on writing letters of apology to the next of kin for the Ponies who died in battle, Clover and Trixie were busy meeting in her private two-story study.

“You wanted to see me, Clover?” Trixie asked somewhat nervously as she sat on the rug by a makeshift chemistry set, and what appeared to be a floating cauldron inside its own bubble of space. Clover was busy rummaging around for various books and magical implements. “Has Trixie done something wrong?”

“Trixie, did you notice anything strange about the shield spell while you held it?” Clover asked as she pulled out a dusty tome from a crate with the crystal empire’s seal on it.

“Strange? Do you mean Trixie got it wrong? Oh, I knew I must have gotten a calculation off somewhere. I’m so sorry, Clover,” she wheedled nervously.

“No, that's not what this is about, Trixie. As far as we could tell, you cast the spell perfectly. The matter I want to focus on is how when you cast the spell, your magic reacted in a rather unexpected way.”

“Oh. That. Trixie . . . had an experience of sorts back before she–,” she took a deep breath. “Before I took your infirmity, and freed you from the stone.” She absently rubbed her cutie mark, and the sickle that had formed there.

“Would this experience involve a certain dark magic artifact?” Clover asked.

“No, that was before this, though Trixie has had her share of experience with the artifact you speak of.” She seemed almost to shrink in on herself. “Trixie may have been smart about history and endurance, but she wasn’t very smart about her pride. She, that is, I . . . have learned my lesson from that. This was from an event that followed shortly after, when I was being held in New Unity pending charges for my crimes.”

“Trixie, I need you to cast that shield spell again, but on a smaller scale, just a small one around yourself. Can you do that for me?”

Trixie hesitated as her eyes darted left and right. “I . . . don’t know. Since then, my powers have been, well, let’s just say I’ve broken a lot of things trying to regain control again. I might accidentally shove everything in the room against the wall, and smash it with the force.”

“Trust me, Trixie,” Clover said. “Please.”

“I–” Trixie squirmed under Clover’s intense gaze, then finally sighed. “All right.” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly let it out as she gently released her magic, letting it flow slowly up the spirals on her horn, rather than releasing it in one go, as she had in the past. Eventually, the ball of light formed at the tip. Then the light began to spring out one streamer at a time, weaving itself like a spider’s web as she carefully controlled its release, before it broke from her horn, and rose to close itself into the shield. She risked opening one eye for a peek as the glow faded, and she firmly capped the well of her magic again, leaving only the slightest trickle to keep the shield going. “Is . . . is it over? Did I do it?”

Clover, who had started a spell of her own just as trixie started, ended hers with a shocked expression. “Trixie, has your magic felt any different lately?”

“I already told you it has, Clover. That’s why . . . why I’ve had to be so careful,” Trixie said as she dropped her gaze to stare at the flames, and how they caused the space bubble to sparkle and refract the light patterns across the room.

“Trixie, if Star Swirl could see you doing this, coming across this by accident, he’d eat his big tacky pointed hat!”

Trixie’s head turned so quickly, it nearly gave her whiplash. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Regular Unicorn magic, as you know, is considered ‘light magic.’ And as you’re aware, there is also ’dark magic.’ These two branches are considered the absolutes of magic with no divergence. Trixie, you’ve disproved Star Swirl’s fourth law of magic. You’ve married the two schools.”

“Um, isn’t that a bad thing?”

“Do you feel like murdering someone? Are you planning a psychotic rampage or world domination right now?”

“No, but–”

“When you cast the spell, I did a scan for corruption. It’s not something even the best dark magic users can hide. You’re not being corrupted, Trixie.”

“Well, yes, but isn’t this power still dangerous? I used to hardly be able to do the most basic tricks. Now Twilight says I’m as powerful, if not more so, than she was before she became an Alicorn. I don’t want to risk hurting anypony else,” she said as the shield faded and the tears ran down her cheeks.

“Then that's why you need to train,” Clover said consolingly as she wrapped a hoof around Trixie’s cape. “This is a whole new field of magic, Trixie. You’ve practically written your page in history already, and we haven’t even tested what you can do yet.”

“Test?” Trixie looked a little frightened as she looked into Clover’s eyes. She knew that look well. She’d seen it on Twilight’s face after the magic test results had come in.

“We’re going to stretch your limits, see the limitations of this gray magic of yours.”

“Arte.”

“What?”

“Twilight Sparkle called it the Gray Arte.”

Clover placed a pondering hoof to her muzzle. “I guess, in truth, neither of us can claim to name this. Technically, you should be the one to name it.”

“Arte, magic, aren’t they both just fancy terms meaning the same thing? It’s a new style of spellcraft, right? One that’s unique?”

“One that's currently unique to you,” Clover said.

“To . . . me? Just me?” Trixie fiddled with her hat as she mulled those words over.

“The last recorded instance of anything similar was a foal over three thousand years ago, and, sadly, Unicorns back then were less curious about the potential, and more fearful of it.”

“That–that’s amazing!” Trixie gushed as she leapt to her hooves. “You’re telling me that Trixie could become the foremost expert in this new field of magic? Write books? Craft new spells? Trixie really can be famous?”

“Yes, Trixie,” Clover chuckled. “You will be famous.”

The squee that filled the castle halls would rival even that of Rarity as it echoed and rebounded, shaking the very windows, and shattering the replacement window that had been brought in after Hammer Strike had slammed Chrysalis through the last one.


The night was calm and restful as Big Guns lumbered his way through the forest. He casually flexed a bicep, then felt along his horns, which he had taken the extra effort to polish and shine, before heading out. The plants seemed almost to whisper as he passed them, and if he took the time to stand completely still, he could almost hear voices. But perhaps hear wasn’t the right word so much as feel. It was difficult to describe. He snorted, and shook his giant head. He wasn’t coming through these woods on a pleasurable stroll, though he might consider coming through another time to fight a manticore. That actually sounded like fun.

“Big Guns would smash puny creature’s tail to bits. Then he’d smash manticore.” He grinned, then shuddered, and shook his head, doing his best to throw off the remains of the battle lust that had taken him during the siege. “This isn’t you, Big Guns. Pull yourself together,” he muttered as he passed by the totems, and into the clearing that was Zecora’s home. He paused to look at the craftsmanship, and felt a strange sense of longing as he touched the wood, and ran his fingers over the contours of the carvings. Again, he heard the whispers. Again, he felt the drums surging in his blood. He jerked his hand away like he’d been burned, then laid it on his war hammer for support. Its cool wooden shaft warmed against his touch, and he felt a sense of comfort, if not peace. It would suffice for now.

He made his way to the pool next to the tree that was literally a house, and washed his face to cool his hot blood. As the cool autumn breeze blew over his fur and mane, he enjoyed the sensation of it brushing his fur, while his tail swayed back and forth. Finally, he approached the heavy door, took a deep breath, and knocked. Zecora was prompt to answer, and her motherly smile was a welcome sight.

“Big Guns, what a pleasant surprise. Come in. Come in. Please, don’t be shy.” Zecora clopped back in to tend her cauldron, where an herbal brew bubbled.

“Zecora, I–.”

“There’s no need to speak. I know what you seek.” She sighed as she held a pair of bowls, and ladled the mixture into them. “You’re just in time to sup with me. These kinds of discussions are best held with tea.”

“Um . . . Thank you,” Big Guns said awkwardly as he took the larger of the two bowls. It seemed to be specifically crafted with Minotaurs in mind.

“Drink. Be calm. Collect your thoughts. Then we can discuss the . . . cure you have sought.”

The pair drank together, Big Guns sitting cross-legged, Zecora sitting on her rump. She cast her eyes around the room, then back to Big Guns, who looked significantly more relaxed, even as he removed his weapons, and placed them carefully beside him.

“You know that you changed, and you understand why, but the greater consequences yet are nigh.”

Big Guns furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

Zecora sighed. “Magic is a potent and dangerous force. When an object is changed, it must alter its course.”

Big Guns snorted. “I still don’t understand.”

Zecora sighed, then retrieved two diamonds from a cupboard, and placed them on the ground before them. “These two pieces look similar, but are not truly the same. They have different strengths, different forms, different names.” She took the two shards, and crushed each onto the floor with a hoof. A grinding crackle filled the air, and as she removed her hooves, the one stone remained intact, while the other had been shattered and ground to powder. She carefully swept the powder up, and placed it into a box.

“So what’s your point?” Big Guns took another sip of his tea, and watched intently. He felt a growing sense of impatience, but he knew better than to let that overtake him here.

Zecora waved a hoof over the box. When she opened it, the glass facsimile was whole once again. She passed it to Big Guns, along with its partner, the diamond. “Do as I just did before. Try breaking them both upon the floor.”

Big Guns was skeptical, but knew better than to question the wise Zebra mare. He placed them gently on the floor, then rose to his full height, and placed a hoof on each one. He was ginger at first, but as he added weight, the expected crack never came. He heard no tinkling, no grinding, only the steady numb pressure of the two items pressing against his hooves. Finally, he stood on top with his full weight bearing down on the stones. Nothing happened.

“What did you do?” Big Guns asked in awe as he picked up the stones, and returned them to her. The fingers in his left hand tingled as he held the stone there.

“The gem you hold within that hand was once nothing more than melted sand. It is glass no longer. That is not its name. Its new nature is diamond. It is no longer the same.”

“Not the same. . . .” A cold dread clutched at Big Guns’ stomach.

Zecora nodded. “To change the form is to change the nature, be it stone, be it glass, be it flower . . . or creature.”

The dread developed claws, and dug itself a pit. “So you’re telling me–.”

Zecora nodded. “The longer you stay within this form, the more you will act like a Minotaur born. Your nature is changing to fit the new norm.”

“Isn’t there some way to stop it, to hold it back or something?” Big Guns pleaded, even as he struggled to stop the dread’s progress, to fill the hole in, or find some sort of light at the end of the tunnel.

“Zecora shook her head sadly. “To change your form is to change in all ways. Such is the price that you chose to pay.”

Big Guns slammed his fist angrily onto the table, and smashed it into splinters, then looked in horror at what he’d done. “I . . . I didn’t even feel that.”

“Minotaurs are born with thickened hide. The better to protect their warrior’s pride.” Zecora sighed as she placed a consoling hoof on Big Guns’ arm. “Your urges are nothing to be ashamed. Your heart is still kind, and that part will remain. I will help you transition as best I can, until help can arrive from my native land.”

“What help?” Big Guns asked warily, even as he struggled to keep the red of his anger at bay.

“The Zebras and Minotaurs were once long divided, but our cultural gaps were not quite so widened. We both had our shamans who helped keep the peace. I’ve asked one to come to give you release. He will help you adapt, and move past your unease.”

Big Guns held his burly arms close to his chest as he looked back and forth between the Zebra and the remnants of her table. “I didn’t ask for this, Zecora. I wanted to be strong, but . . . not like this.”

Zecora laid a hoof against one of his biceps, and rubbed it consolingly. “I know, child. I know.” Big Guns collapsed into a sobbing heap as Zecora ran her hooves along his back in slow circular motions to calm him down. “I know.”


After they had eaten, the President himself had declared he would show Hammer Strike their industry forges, which Hammer Strike found out about later on while riding on the back of a scorpion the size of a truck down a long stretch of cavern.

“I never would have expected scorpions,” Hammer Strike muttered just loud enough for Vital to hear him.

“Neither did I. I feel like Theseus in Clash of the Titans,” Vital Spark whispered back.

“Ah, Margaret’s a big old pushover, aren't ya, girl?” The Dwarf leaned forward, and patted the chitin plate beneath him. The scorpion chittered happily. “As long as ya don’t touch her youngin’s. Real maternal types, scorpions are.”

“Didn’t know that,” Hammer Strike replied as he looked at “Margaret.”

The ride was mostly silent from then on, until they finally reached the forging chamber. The cavern wasn’t as massive as the city one, but it was still very large. Smaller scorpions skittered about carrying large baskets full of different ores and ingots draped on their backs. Smelters dotted as far as the eye could see at fifty foot intervals, while lines of forging stations covered the area in between. At most of them, teams of two or three Dwarves worked on various projects; however, most astonishing to Hammer Strike were the steam-powered hammers operated by a single Dwarf occupying multiple stations. A molten metal waterfall glowed in the back of the space, giving light and natural heat as the dwarves continued to ply their craft.

“Welcome to the forge,” the President said as he hopped off Margaret's back, and offered the scorpion a piece of rancid meat he’d kept in a special airtight carrying device at his side. The scorpion chittered with delight as she took the meat, and devoured it.

“The molten material-fall is quite the nice touch,” Hammer Strike commented as he dismounted.

“The slag metal goes from the smelters to the falls, where it sends the less useful material down to a volcanic chamber below ground,” the Dwarf explained. “The same chamber connects to where we keep the steam generators that power our city, so nothing's really wasted.”

“Clever.” Hammer Strike nodded. “What’s your current list of materials? Just the uncommon ones, none of the common ones.”

“Let's see. We got platinum; adamantian steel; cobalt; vocanum; bloodstone, though not much of it; silverite; veridium; and even a few scattered bits of dragon bone we’ve unearthed, though we haven’t been able to shape it.” The Dwarf shrugged. “Other than that, it’s just your average pretty metals. Gold, silver, those kinds of useless things.”

“Don’t blame you for being unable to shape dragon bone. I’ve broken more than a dozen anvils in my spare time.”

“Our smiths are always trying to figure it out, though. If they ever did, they’d be able to make weapons, armor, or tools that would be unrivaled.”

“Until the next best thing is found.” Hammer Strike chuckled.

“There’s something stronger than dragon bone?” Vital Spark asked, surprised.

“Bound to be. I mean, there could always be unobtainium.” Hammer Strike shrugged.

“If we can’t obtain it, then what use can it be?” the Dwarf asked.

“You see, you’ve got to work around the name to figure that one out.”

“Anyway, this is where we produce everything needed to keep the city running. We make the majority of the miners’ pickaxes, the goblets and cutlery for the city, the sections of piping, and anything else you need to make out of metal. Most families keep a small forge in their homes for smaller things, but we generally only allow the master smiths near the rarer metal stocks for special projects,” the Dwarf explained as he lead them through the cavern.

“What kind of special projects are we talking about? Because if one of them is an impressively made anvil–,” Hammer Strike started, “–I would love to hear about one of those.”

“Thats a problem we’ve been trying to solve for generations. Our master smiths seem to go through anvils like good ale.”

“One day, it will be made.” Hammer Strike sighed. “One day. Just not today, it seems.”

Vital Spark patted Hammer Strike consolingly on the back. “At least you don’t have to work on that ursa armor again, right?”

“Ursa armor?” the President asked.

“Ursa bone in particular. I made it for Luna. One of the best armor sets I’ve made.”

“The blue pony from the surface?” the Dwarf asked.

“Taller than most Ponies with wings and a horn, yes.”

“We’ve had Dwarves explore the surface from time to time, but they’ve been sworn to secrecy about details that might be . . . upsetting to the public eye. We’re a stubborn people. Baby steps, and all that.”

“Understandable.” Hammer Strike nodded. “Question. Would that be the reason I would feel someone watching me every now and then?”

“We’re a fair bit more stealthy than some would believe.” The Dwarf chuckled as he led them to an offshoot of the main chamber, the inside of which contained only a few forges with Dwarves working at them. Each had a large gold band on their foreleg.

“Oh, I’ll believe it.”

They approached one of the workstations, where a surprisingly young Dwarf was working. Hammer could tell she was younger, because she was smaller with less burns on her fur, and her actions were a lot more animated. Rather than a full sized forging hammer, she was wielding a smaller detailing hammer. As Hammer Strike got close, he realized what she was working on were engravings to a large, and rather intricately designed weapon.

The warhammer stood almost four feet long with a haft made of polished platinum, the top of which looped around the head of a large rectangular slab of quartz sandstone, which had been banded at both ends by a strange crystalline blue material Hammer Strike didn’t recognise at first, until he realized it was sapphire. The sapphire bands were connected by criss-crossing wires of silverite. His symbol stood proudly on the broad faces of the hammer. The shaft itself had been covered in a leathery material that couldn’t quite be identified on sight. The pommel ended with a large bloodstone spike that stuck out lethally. Runes had been engraved on every visible metal surface with two more large sapphires inlaid directly under where head and pommel connected. The Dwarf smith was just finishing her own set of runes on the last smooth piece of metal, when she noticed Hammer Strike, Vital, and the President standing in her workspace. Her face was a mix of emotions as she took in the three figures. First came anger, then annoyance, then fear, and, finally, awe. At last, she stepped away from her work, and gave a short bow.

“It humbles me that you graced my forge with your presence, Blue Lard. I am Alainna.”

“Alianna had just received her mark of mastery, and as all masters have done, she was adding her touch to the hammer,” the Dwarf said.

“That is an impressive amount of work,” Hammer Strike commented as he looked over the weapon.

“We named it Ulcrusher, but we don’t pressure you to keep the name, if it’s not to your liking. This is truly a momentous day for our people,” the President said.

“I am honored to be the last smith to leave a mark on the hammer,” Alianna noted.

“I feel like I just missed something.” Hammer Strike blinked a few times. After a moment, realization hit him like a truck-sized scorpion. “Oh. Ooh. Woah.”

“Please.” The Dwarf smith waved to the hammer. “It’s been waiting for you for generations.”

Hammer Strike reached forward and grabbed the hammer. He lifted it off the table, and tested its weight, noting that it weighed about as much as his ‘personal’ equipment. Looking it over a few times, he couldn’t help but smile at the amount of work that had been put into this single weapon. “Does there happen to be something to test this out on? Perhaps a training dummy?”

“We have dummies and a training ground back at the city, but if you're itching for a test run, perhaps one of the anvils?” the President said, gesturing to the pile of spares waiting to be used.

“Strike the anvil?”

“It’s alright. We’ve got more.”

“Wow. I actually get to witness Hammer Strike perform a hammer strike. Who'd've thunk?” Vital Spark said with a chuckle.

Hammer Strike sighed. “Alright,” After a moment, he moved over to said anvil, and prepped the hammer. The grin was still strong on his face as he raised the weapon, then brought it crashing down with what probably was more force than he should have. A loud booming crunch rang through the entirety of the Dwarven city as all those nearby Hammer Strike were blown back. As soon as the group was able to recover, and the situation was explained to those that suddenly entered the chamber, they were able to note that the point of impact was very obvious, as the indent in the floor would show. That, and the fine powder of the once solid anvil. Meanwhile, in Hammer Strike’s hooves, the hammer was still solid, and bore no flaws.

“Does Ulcrusher please you?” the President asked, grinning.

“Oh yeah, it does,” Hammer Strike nodded.

“Then take it as a gift from our people, and perhaps a payback on the interest for the loan of your tools.”

“I wish I had this in the fight with Chrysalis. Would have made things easier. But I am very impressed.”

“Come with me, Blue Lard, and I’ll show you where we keep the schematics next.” The President laughed heartily as he led him onwards.

“I am almost visibly showing excitement to see this.”

“Hammer Strike, you are showing visible excitement,” Vital Spark pointed out. “It’s about time, too.”


Pensword stood in a small offshoot of the hatchery, and looked at where Silver Spear remained suspended in the medical fluids. He frowned as he mulled over what had brought him there in the first place. Me-Me had told him there was a problem, and considering whose life hung in the balance, he rushed there immediately. He absently finished looking over the final reports from the battle. It had only been a day or two since the battle, and he was still trying to get a good grip on just what happened.

“Are you okay?” Me-Me asked as she entered.

“Getting a list for all the lives lost.” He sighed as he turned, and gave a Thestral bow. “On behalf of the Equestrian Military, I give my thanks, and convey my sorrow for the loss of your warriors.”

“They were only a first attempt,” Me-Me said clinically. “I have found several problems within the strain that I originally missed, and am already working on a solution.” Her tone was somewhat cold and unattached as she spoke.

Pensword nodded his head. From what he’d seen, that was how Changeling mentality tended to work, if Chrysalis was any indication, though he found that particular sentiment rather unsettling when considering where that might go. He quickly nipped that thought in the bud as he returned his focus to Me-Me specifically. “I still give my sympathy.” He looked back to the healing tube. “Your agent informed me that you needed to talk to me about Silver Spear?”

“Yes. First off, his injuries were more extensive than we first believed. He had taken several heavy impacts to the skull that may have led to minor brain damage. He also sustained severe nerve damage to his right eye. I have little doubt that the process will be able to heal these injuries; however, there may be . . . side effects.”

“What side effects exactly?” Pensword asked. “If you say death. . . .” He trailed off as so many different commercials from Earth played out that made the drug sound worse than the symptom.

“You have to understand this process was something made for Changeling drones when they’ve been injured, Pensword. While I do not doubt it can save Silver Spear’s life, I can’t guarantee the repaired tissue will be completely Unicorn in nature.”

“Because of the more severe injuries?” Pensword’s brow furrowed. “Do you foresee any other side effects? Because I want to be clear. I want him to live. If he gets angry, he can take it up with me.”

“He may end up–.” She stopped short for a moment, before steeling herself. “Given the brain damage, the repaired tissue may result in his mind being linked to ours,” she said.

Pensword stopped. He mulled it over, before looking at Silver Spear. His tone was determined, albeit a tad pained. “You may be having your first Hive General, then. You wanted Equestrian tactics. Now you’ll get them.”

“This was never my plan,” Me-me said defensively.

Pensword sighed. “I know it wasn’t your plan, Me-Me, but Faust seems to deem it a blessing for your hive. I just have one request. If, as you believe, he becomes a part of your hive mind, please make sure he becomes a General, not a drone.”

“It is my hope that, with work, I will be able to modify this procedure for all species. I’ve already seen how the nutrient chains connect differently, and I’m beginning to understand Equestrian biology better. Maybe next time the cost of saving a life need not be so severe.”

“Let us hope so.” Pensword nodded. “But I will be working on what to tell the troops when Silver Spear wakes up.” He paused. “Seeing as he is medically like this, I will have to gather his personal affects, and have them transported to your hive. Something isn’t sitting right with me as I think back on it.” He shook his head to clear his mind.

“His will to live is truly unheard of. Didn’t he disappear in the second day of combat?” she asked.

“He would make most military humans proud to know his will to survive is so strong, which is why I jumped at your offer. It would be wrong for me to throw away that kind of spirit by doing nothing.” He looked at Silver Spear. “I will make sure that his last Equestrian Rank is Colonel.”

“Well, I thank you for having one of the live drones brought down here. The . . . interrogation was quite useful into the way mother makes her drones.”

“That does bring up a few questions, actually. Won’t your hive mind be a little unsettled as you incorporate your sister into its structure?” Despite his best efforts, a twinge of guilt still showed on his face. “And why use the present tense? Chrysalis is dead, isn’t she? We burned her body, and her head is mounted on a pike back at the castle.”

“Death will be an inconvenience to Mother, yes, but as long as she has a suitable egg that's yet to hatch, it won’t be the last of her, I imagine,” Me-Me said. “The body is a shell, like I told you. It will be a long time before she’ll be in a state to be a threat, but since Pupa hasn’t the experience or the power to cut off Mother’s ties to the hive mind, she will be around for many years yet.”

Pensword’s face grew grim. “Hammer Strike is not going to like that. I don’t like it much, either, but you're the Changeling expert. If you say she isn’t dead, then she isn’t dead. But I would like to know. How did she get over a hundred thousand troops so quickly?”

“You have to remember, Mother keeps as few sentient drones as possible to run her hive mind,” Me-Me explained. “She could posses any mind within her hive at will, and not feel guilty. I, myself, have to keep an empty-minded unhatched drone in stasis, incase of accidents. It is the way of things. The only way we die is if our royal daughters overpower us, and then kill us, or we lose our connection to the hive.”

“Well, I will be happy to know that you will be an ally for ages to come.” He looked back at Silver Spear. “Is . . . is he going to remember things, or will his personality change?”

“The portions of his brain in charge of memory suffered no major damage, so that aspect of him shouldn’t change. As for his personality, who can tell? You are not the same Pensword you were yesterday, and I will not be the same queen tomorrow. Our personalities are shaped by our lives. We are never the same as we were, nor will we ever be the same as we are. This is the way of things.”

“You have been spending time around the Philosophy Ponies, I am guessing?” He shook his head. “By your logic, I was not even Pensword a year ago.” He let loose a hollow chuckle. After all, they both know that was fairly close to the truth. “And in a way, I only carry on the memory of Matthew.” He shook his head. “But I firmly believe the core of our personality, the core of our being–” he put a hoof over his heart “–stays the same.” He smiled. “Thank you for your honesty, and for showing that my worries won’t be as bad as I first thought.”

“Most people don’t know this, but Silver Spear was always kind to my children when he ran into them in the fortress. Most ponies still avoid us, or give wary looks. When I offered to save him, it was not only your fear, but my children's urging that drove me to do it.”

“I did not know that.” Pensword gaped as he looked at Silver Spear, and smiled gratefully, sending some love towards the hive, and to Silver Spear. “You have made me proud, Silver. You took the heart of what it means to be united, and went to the natural conclusion. He would have made a good head of House Spear, but, now, I fear I will have to contend with his father, and whoever becomes his successor.”

“I’ll try to make his transition as easy as possible for him,” Me-me promised.

“Thank you. I know you will live up to your word, Me-Me.” Pensword nodded gratefully. “If any of us can figure out the black box in your hive, we’ll let you know. And if you figure out how to open it. You will let us know?”

“Of course.” She nodded. “I need to go now. I just finished the new soldier strain, and I need to go lay.”

“Of course. Is . . . is it okay if I have a small desk down here? I would like to keep an eye on Silver, and I still have paperwork that needs to be done.”

“I will see to it that one is brought down to you. Ask one of the attendant drones, should you need anything else.” Me-Me lowered her head respectfully, before turning to leave.

“Pensword returned the gesture, before finding an attendant to talk to about the request, and to be led back out of the hive to the surface. His expression darkened as he turned back towards the castle. He would return to see Silver again, but, for now, he had to find Grif and Hammer Strike. If Chrysalis was indeed still alive, then they needed to prepare for her next attack. The couldn’t afford to have so many losses again. He ground his teeth together. She would pay for the lives she had taken.


The Changeling hive in the badlands was relatively silent as the Changelings went about their business like a well-oiled machine. Suddenly, everything ground to a halt as every Changeling felt the sudden crash. Chrysalis’ mind scattered, leaving them without leadership, without guidance, without the driving force to work. Then came the gradual stirring as the wave from the crash receded. Slowly, the chaos melted back into order as the familiar presence grew. Their eyes sparked like a stuttering ignition. Then the machine started up again as the presence passed through each of them on its way through the constantly changing halls to the dungeon.

Light emanated from a floating point in the room with no sign of magic or any other force. The air around it seemed to shudder, warping with some power. A light hum filled the air as drones passed by it, and it would soften as they left. Those Changelings who bothered to listen would hear thousands of voices whispering, all of them in some language that existed at one point centuries ago.

Deep in one of the hidden cells, surrounded by drones loyal only to one Queen, stood a lone egg that had been tied to a glowing wall of green slime. Crystals jutted out from the walls. Some of them glowed bright green, while others were a dead black. Suddenly, the egg pulsed and bulged as the being inside it started to hatch. The membrane tore as a white grub-like creature broke from it. Like most changeling grubs, it had a fully formed face, and many tiny little legs; however, unlike the rest, this one had a set of ornate ridges on top of her head forming the start of what would eventually become a crown. Verbally, the creature let out a grating skree of a cry, but, inside the hivemind, Chrysalis reasserted her dominance.

<You. Drone! Bring me the royal jelly,> she ordered angrily. <And you! Find my daughter.>

<Of course, my queen,> the drone on the left spoke as it turned and left for the royal jelly stores.

<Your daughter hasn’t returned yet, my queen> the drone on the right said.

<What?>

<She hasn’t returned, my queen. We’ve had no report of her or her guards.>

The scream that followed rippled through the hive like a storm, both physically and mentally. The few intelligent drones cringed, while those that were operating on minor orders staggered in their steps from the sheer volume and rage.

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