The central portion of Canterlot, largely abandoned even by animals since the day the Behemoth first had made its steps felt upon it, was as empty and motionless as it had been for months. Some occasionally did venture there, yes, and more rarely still some moved away from the area, but those were outliers. Neither were the creatures who did cross in and out of the area anything short of being among the most special of their kind. Reasonable, as only creatures of a certain standing could hope to last long in proximity to the Behemoth. Fitting, even, perhaps, that only certain individuals ever could be allowed in its presence. Maybe only those that would play or had played a part in shifting the course of history, but maybe the mere fact that they were able to stand there classified them among that group.
But none were there in that moment. In that day, unnaturally stretched just as it had unnaturally been snuffed and reignited. Most of those who could make a difference were elsewhere, doing exactly that or trying to. Even the Charioteer had for the time left his station atop his mount, and the unicorn who'd come to study it was not doing so in a time like that. Save for two lives still held by stone, and for how many else may have been hiding imprisoned in the gardens in that same way, the Behemoth stood alone.
But for the first time, and perhaps the last, it was not motionless despite its loneliness, despite the lack of its guide atop it to direct its motion. It did not step, no, but it did move. Its head did, its eyes, those which had stared at Twilight the day it had arrived and which she'd stared back into. Moving of its own will, if a will it could be said to have, maybe of its instinct if a creature like that possessed that sort of thing, the Behemoth looked northwards, towards the Empire. Towards the battle still playing out and the ponies there and the creatures with them.
It did not care for the outcome. It could not, and would not. It would in time continue its march atop Equestria, regardless of who or what was in it, regardless of which side won, regardless of who would live or die on that day. It was not bound to the paths of those living through the world it had come to, and whether victorious or condemned to night eternal the Equestria it walked would bear the weight of its future steps and march with it towards their destination.
But still it turned. Still it looked. Not for the battle, not for the ponies there, not to see who would win or lose or what things would happen and why and how. Almost out of some form of embedded respect, it turned to acknowledge what was there among everything else. What should not have been there, but the Behemoth did not care about that. It turned and looked to acknowledge the thing closest to it to manifest its presence to that Equestria since the day it had arrived. And had someone been there, and able to witness the act, and able to comprehend its reason, they would have wondered if the Empire too, like the centre of Canterlot, would become barren and motionless and inhospitable to those unable to withstand the presence of such a being.