“Are you kidding? She’s smart and organized and cool under pressure. There’s nothing she can’t handle.”
- Unknown
24 Years Before the Ascension (24 BA)
It was a night of portent and a night of wonder. Time held its breath under a frosted sky hung with brightly twinkling stars, and the spirits of the world that was and had been slept, oblivious to the creeping unstoppable momentum of history as it passed by their burrows and brooks. Silence reigned, quivering with anticipation and fear.
In Canterlot, not a soul stirred. The snow covered streets sparkled under the orange glow of a few struggling oil lamps, desperate in their effort to ward off a chill more ancient than the mountain itself. On one particular corner, hidden in the faded shadow between two such lights, stood a being. She was draped in a cloak that hid her form and face.
“A child is born,” she said, voice a soft jingling of hope and peace. “She comes to us on winter’s breath, and her name is magic.” On the wind–carried from the dawn of time–the faint and distant thrill of music played, cautiously triumphant, though none had ears to hear it that did not lie in slumber.
And then, the lights from a nearby home lit, casting its warmth out upon the street, and the shrill cry of a newborn foal spilled out into the night.
“She comes,” the being said once more. The stars nodded and smiled down at her. They were old and wise and knew things even the being had long forgotten.
“Yes, child,” they whispered. “She comes to calm the storm and rule all nations. She comes to set creation right, and peace will follow after.”
The music changed, and as the foal wept its birthing cry into the cold winter air, a song took shape. It was a song of triumph and light that swelled the being’s heart and brought tears to her eyes. She tried to join the chorus, though her voice was overwhelmed with joy and wavered.
“The Princess Twilight cometh. Behold…”
Year 100 of the Era of Harmony (100 EoH)
Twilight Sparkle, Element of Magic and Princess of Friendship, sat quietly beneath a stained glass window in the Oratory of Kindness. The sun was setting, and its fiery light shimmered against her coat in shifting hues of orange and burnt rose. The subject of the window, a pegasus sitting tall and confident with a halo of singing birds around a delicate white crown, looked down on Twilight with a gentle smile on her lips. Twilight missed her, not because she’d left or passed on, but because for the better part of ten years, they’d hardly spoken a word to each other.
The Oratory was mostly empty, creeping shadows casting the benches into stark relief against the patterned marble floor. At the edge of her vision, the shadows seemed to shift actively, slithering slowly in unnatural directions. If she closed her eyes, she thought she could hear them whisper. It wasn’t real, of course. If she turned her head to look directly at them, they’d reveal themselves to be mostly stationary, as shadows were meant to be. She let them writhe and ignored them.
Aside from herself and her shadowy companions, a quartet of young ponies stood off to her left in an alcove. They were chanting an evening hymn, and though their voices were clear and hinted at power, the song itself was soft and echoed pleasingly along the high-vaulted ceiling. Young ponies… Twilight grimaced. They were all at least forty years old, and it was demonstrative that she couldn’t think of them as anything but young.
There was also a genuinely young unicorn, barely more than a colt, who was moving quietly along the walls, watering the large pots of flowering nightshade and peonies that grew there.
“They sing for you,” Twilight whispered to the window. “Not for me.” With a small and weary sigh, she stood to leave only to notice that the young custodian watering the flowers had stopped and was now looking at her curiously. Twilight smiled–a matronly smile she’d learned from Celestia–and nodded. “You may speak,” she said quietly and with as much kindness as she could muster. “So long as you keep your voice down. I’d hate to ruin their performance.” She gestured towards the singers.
The young unicorn was fit and kept himself well groomed, the latter being a requirement for working in the palace… In the castle, she thought, repeating the old mantra in her head. It’s still a castle. Still, she was glad to see that his livery was clean and well starched and that his badge was polished to perfection. For a custodian, that badge was a simple jeweled brooch shaped to resemble Twilight’s cutie mark–a symbol of his membership in her household–but it gleamed fiercely in the slanted evening light.
“That’s awfully kind of you,” he drawled quietly–just louder than a whisper–, “but I’ve nothing fit to say to a princess.”
An Apple, Twilight thought, or perhaps not. Some ponies from Appleloosa weren’t actually related to the Apples. A rarity for sure, but not unheard of.
“You seemed sad is all,” he continued, “and to my shame, I began to wonder what sorrows could weigh on a heart such as yours. I apologize for the impropriety. It isn’t my place to think such thoughts, let alone to voice them.”
Twilight maintained her smile to show the eloquent colt she didn’t mind. The way he spoke and the twig of pink blossoms on his flank tickled Twilight’s memory.
“You’re Spring Couplet?” she asked. An Apple indeed, and a promising one at that.
“I am, Your Majesty.”
“Well, young Couplet, to care is nothing to apologize for. I’m touched by your concern.”
The unicorn blushed furiously and looked down at his hooves. “Ah, well, Your Majesty, I wasn’t really concerned so much as… well, that’s to say…” He trailed off and looked back up at Twilight, then finished in the smallest voice, face as red as a beat. “I was just curious.”
“Still,” Twilight said, stifling a giggle to maintain her matronly façade, “it was an expression of kindness, which seems appropriate considering where we are.” She gestured at the room around them.
“As you say, Your Majesty, it’s just that… well, I was taught to mind my own business and not to intrude on others’ grief. I’d like to think my mother has some wisdom in her, and that always seemed like good advice.”
“It is good advice,” Twilight said, though it made her sad to do so. Spring Couplet looked so earnest, so willing to try to do what was right. She could imagine him as a foal, listening at the hooves of his mother as she imparted to him the lessons of her short life. Those lessons had likely seemed true and useful to both her and her son, but even a well-weathered life was less complex than most ponies could imagine. Spring Couplet seemed to sense something of what she was thinking because his brow drew down in thought. Twilight had that effect on ponies, more so now than when she was younger. It was a thing of magic, sometimes useful, sometimes not.
“I suppose…” he said slowly, considering his words. “I suppose it makes assistance difficult. How else would you know when to intervene on somepony’s behalf except to ask? Still, I can’t pretend to know when it’s proper and when it’s not.”
“Neither can I,” Twilight said, looking back at Fluttershy’s likeness in the window, “but it’s often on my mind.”
A small smile tugged the corner of Spring Couplet’s mouth.
“What?” Twilight asked.
“Does this happen to you often, Your Majesty? Chance meetings and simple conversations turning into little lessons?”
Despite herself, Twilight laughed. Even that was controlled, not too loud, and it must have been a pleasant sound, because it made her companion blush. “Yes,” she said, “often.”
The quartet finished their chanting, and the thick silence of stuffy summer evenings settled over the Oratory. With the ending of the song, the shadows seemed to settle a little as well, though Twilight still did her best to ignore those.
Spring Couplet bowed with a thoughtful expression on his face. “I best return to my work, Your Majesty. Mistress Glimmer would not be well pleased to find me wiling away the time in idle conversation. By your leave?”
“You have it, young Mr. Couplet. We wouldn’t want to anger Starlight.” A true and unembellished statement. The unicorn bowed once more before returning to the abandoned watering can and his botanical pursuits.
Twilight watched him for a moment then turned to leave the Oratory, but the singers hadn’t quite left yet, and when they saw that she too was heading towards the door, they all stepped aside and bowed. The bows were not particularly deep, just exaggerated nods of the head, but they were respectful. She knew each of the singers by name. That was becoming more of a challenge as the number of castle residents continued to multiply, but these four had been members of her household for almost twenty years.
“Your Majesty,” Lilac Melody murmured as she passed. Twilight wanted to stop and share some words of kindness and appreciation for their work, but she was interrupted by the arrival of a cream colored mare with a vibrant red mane and startled looking green eyes. She wore a deep purple sash that matched the flowering green strawberry plant of her cutie mark but clashed horribly with her mane.
Her continuously startled expression was an unfortunate side effect of eyes that were just a little too large placed in an achingly innocent looking face, but Twilight knew her to be keen of mind and quick to action. She reminded Twilight of a poorly made doll, the saccharine kind Cozy Glow would sometimes buy at Rainbow Falls.
Strawberry Patch bowed deeply, more so than the singers had, but omitted the customary “Your Majesty” in favor of haste. “They’re ready for you,” she said, falling in at Twilight’s side.
Twilight sighed and nodded. “I should at least get my cloak.”
“No need.” Strawberry said, producing the garment from her saddlebag as they left the Oratory. “We won’t have to leave the castle. The guards are all down in the Martial Chamber waiting for you, but I assumed you’d want to meet them wearing this and your crown.” Twilight took the cape with her own magic and draped it around her shoulders, releasing a soft breath as tension she’d not realized was there drained from her shoulders.
The cloak was a thick fur-lined creation that Rarity had given her for Hearth’s Warming Eve several years prior. She’d told Twilight the white fur–actually pile fabric–, dark ocean-teal silk, and golden embroidery accentuated Twilight’s eyes and mane beautifully, but more importantly it felt impeccably regal, not too gaudy but pretentious enough to seem proper for a monarch.
Twilight loved the thing. It was warm and comforting like a hug, and she wore it as much as she could for official functions. A comfort blanket, if a one hundred and twenty-four year old princess could be said to need such things.
Strawberry also pulled Twilight’s crown from the saddle bag and a pair of golden circular wire-frame glasses. Twilight took the crown but frowned at the glasses.
“Ah yes,” Strawberry said, placing the glasses on the bridge of Twilight’s nose without asking for permission. “Mistress Glimmer said you might be displeased that I brought these. She said you’d lost them, but she found them under a bundle of books in the back of the Blue Room. Wasn’t that lucky?”
Twilight had left them behind on purpose, not quite willing to destroy a gift, but not wanting to wear them either. She didn’t really need them. Not unless she was reading, and even then, she thought she could see just fine, even if she sometimes got a mild headache after a few hours. She chalked it up to poor lighting. Quite conspiratorially, Starlight had selected the glasses for her with Rarity’s seal of approval.
“They fit you so well, Twilight,” Rarity had said, pointing out how they matched the cape and how wise they made her look. Twilight thought they made her look scatterbrained and confused. She wasn’t sure why she was so willing to appease Rarity when it came to appearance, but if there was any pony in Equestria to listen to when it came to fashion, she was the one.
“Thank you,” Twilight muttered, adjusting the slightly off center glasses and fitting her crown–a heavy and raucously ornamental tall-spiked tiara covered in gems–snug to her head. Strawberry pretended not to notice Twilight’s tone of voice, or at the very least, if she did notice, she was too sensible to take offense. Starlight had picked her as a protegee for precisely that reason. Well, it was one of several reasons, but they all reflected well on the mare.
The Hall of Crested Spears, or the Martial Chamber as most ponies referred to it, was one of the larger ballrooms on the Castle of Friendship’s ground floor. Decades ago, the castle had been made up of mostly purple and blue crystal configured in the partial shape of a tree. As the years crept along, the castle had begun to change, morphing to match the architectural sensibilities of its inhabitants and growing to encompass the now more than three hundred ponies who called the building home.
It covered a large swath of land next to the School of Friendship, and boasted multiple wings, six stories, and an enclosed courtyard. The building itself no longer looked like a tree, but the calcified crystal that now made up its walls was dotted with evenly spaced windows held in place by intricate tree shaped frames, and many of the load bearing pillars within the castle were shaped and decorated in ways which called to mind branches, leaves, and sprawling root systems. In the center of the expansive courtyard, there now stood a large fountain of purple crystal that looked suspiciously like a much smaller version of the original building.
All of this was to say that by the time they’d completed the walk from the Oratory of Kindness–located on the fourth floor in the west wing–down to the Martial Chamber, the sun had set entirely, and the moon was peeking up over the horizon. A weathered old pegasus dressed in a smart dark suit with a large purple buttonhole flower on his breast stood outside the ornately gilded doors of the ballroom, clearly waiting for the two of them.
“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing his head so deeply Twilight thought his graying mane might brush the floor. “These hooligans you’ve seen fit to grant entrance to the palace are gathered within. At Mistress Glimmer’s suggestion, they’ve been provided food, music, and a modest amount of watered down wine. I took the liberty of choosing one of the less expensive vintages and nothing from the Dame’s orchards, of course.”
Twilight sighed and fought the urge to rub the bridge of her nose. “We’ve been over this before, Kerning, it’s a castle, not a palace, and those hooligans are royal guards. Each and every one of them has earned their place. It’s been years, and I really wish you’d learn to work with them.”
“If you say so, Your Majesty.” If he felt even the slightest bit chastised by her words, he failed to show it. Between him and Strawberry, Twilight often felt less like a princess and more like an unruly ward who frequently failed to do what was proper. Besides, he was right about the Castle of Friendship. It really did look entirely like a palace now and nothing at all like a castle. The decision to water down the wine had probably been wise too, even if it had been Starlight’s suggestion and not Kerning’s.
“Announce me,” she said in the least acerbic way she knew how, “please.”
The stallion bowed once more; a matter of propriety that was entirely divorced from his personal opinion of Twilight. Of all the ponies in her household, he, most of all, could be counted on to do what was precisely proper at all times, nothing more and certainly nothing less. He then turned and pushed open the doors with a strength that seemed at odds with his age. The three entered together; he at the head and Strawberry following closely behind and to the right of Twilight.
The Hall of Crested Spears had an ostentatious name for a room that offered little in terms of decoration or finery compared to some of the more elaborate dance halls and reception rooms in the Castle of Friendship. The floor, made of the same calcified crystal as much of the rest of the castle, had the appearance of intricately patterned and well-polished marble, and a row of dark coupled columns ran along the walls supporting a narrow mezzanine which spanned the full length of the ballroom. A relatively modest chandelier hung from a gently vaulted and painted ceiling and seemed to cause the room and all its inhabitants to glow softly.
To the left from where they’d entered, along the wall, a string quintet was performing Spring Rain on a Thracian Morning. Trebles’ opus number forty-two in C major, Twilight thought, pleased to find that she was able to identify the piece. She hadn’t actively studied music history in some time.
The composition was reserved but pleasant, meant to relax without feeling somber. It seemed to work as intended. The ballroom was filled with ponies and a few other creatures as well, and as far as Twilight could see, most of them were chatting amicably while sipping their drinks accompanied by an overall air of light-hearted content.
Although few among the attending crowd wore armor, they were, to the last, her personal guard. For the better part of the last one hundred years there had been three distinct and official guard forces in Equestria. The Solar and Lunar Auxiliaries of the Canterlot Royal Guard served Celestia and Luna, and the Imperial Guard of the Crystal Empire served her sister-in-law, Princess Cadance. As of five years ago, there were now four. It had been necessary, but it sometimes unsettled Twilight. Still, she felt pride at the trials and tribulations they’d overcome in that time, each one binding them closer to her.
Today had been the fifth anniversary of their founding, and they looked happy, proud even. Many of them had been drawn from Canterlot and the Crystal Empire, young guards excited at the prospects available to them in a smaller and newer organization. Others were veterans who for some reason or other had decided that their loyalties lay with The Element of Magic and not with any of the other princesses. The remainder were an eclectic assortment of ponies and other creatures, many who had traveled great distances to be there and whose reasons for joining her Guard were as numerous as they were.
Like the quartet in the Oratory of Kindness, Twilight knew each of them by name. She’d carefully selected each individual for inclusion and had herself overseen the rigorous trials required for entry. The Ponyville Royal Guard, affectionately referred to as The Twilight Guard, were perhaps the most likely of any force in Equestria to be called upon for combat, and they were easily the most well-traveled. She could say, with some confidence, that the one hundred and ninety-two individuals before her were some of the most capable and loyal she’d ever met.
Only a few ponies nearest to the doors noticed her entrance, but Kerning stepped forward with a look that clearly signaled his intent to rectify that oversight.
“In this, the one hundredth year of the Era of Harmony,” he intoned, his deep voice reverberating through the ballroom, “you stand before Her Majesty Twilight Sparkle, Princess of Friendship, Element of Magic, Ruler of One Fourth of all Equestria, Guardian of Harmony, and the First Star of Six. May Her reign last one thousand years and one thousand more. Kneel.”
The imperative was unnecessary. Without effort, Twilight knew that the stars in her mane were twinkling brighter. She knew that a soft light had begun to radiate from some indefinable spot immediately behind her while the light everywhere else seemed to dim just a little. She knew that the colors in her eyes seemed to shine and swallow any who looked directly into them. She’d seen the same happen around Celestia, Luna, and Cadance a hundred times before, and had, for many years, assumed it was a spell, some intentional magic used to enhance their presence. It wasn’t, but none of them knew the how or why of it.
As one, the crowd dropped to their knees and the music ceased. A small part of Twilight still wanted to tell them to stop being silly, to stand up and look her in the eyes, but she didn’t. Not yet at least. The years had taught her that this too was necessary, no matter that she felt like a clown on display. She opened her mouth to address them but stopped herself when she noticed that somepony was indeed still standing.
Among the group of guards who’d been conversing closest to the door when Twilight entered stood a handsome white unicorn in a dark swallow-tail coat. His pale gray mane was of middling length, with an unkempt ruffled look that could only be achieved through meticulous effort. From appearance alone, he couldn’t be older than thirty, but there was a ruggedness of experience to him that enhanced a face that had surely once been too refined. If Twilight hadn’t known better, she would’ve guessed that he grew up in the Canterlot court. But of course, she did know better. Yes, he looked quite stately and quite experienced–which he was–, but he also looked stunned, and Twilight had to assume that she was the cause.
“Captain Winter Shield,” she said, filled with a desire for mischief but trying her best to sound innocent. “Formerly of Hope Hollow, I believe?” Captain Winter opened his mouth but clearly struggled to find his words. Twilight couldn’t help herself and nodded to Kerning who turned his attention to the kneeling crowd.
“Rise!” For a pony without magic, he possessed a wonderful vocal quality that very nearly approached the royal Canterlot voice. The gathered creatures stood, but Twilight kept her attention on Winter and the crowd remained silent. This happened sometimes. Captain Winter Shield had only recently joined her guard, and this was the first time he’d seen her in person. The experience could be quite shocking.
“Is something the matter, Captain? If there’s something caught in your throat, I can have Kerning fetch you some wine.” A snicker rose among the gathered, but Twilight ignored it. The intention was not to belittle the captain, but rather to provide a good-natured rib. If she remembered his files correctly, the stallion was a clever no-nonsense sort–quick with a joke at his guards’ expense–and she hoped her comment would put him at ease. Sure enough, Winter shook his head and smiled.
“Ah, Your Majesty, I apologize. It seems I lost my head there for a moment.” His voice was sturdy but contained the jovial lilt common to ponies from Hope Hollow.
“If you’ve regained it, Captain, you best kneel.” She leaned in closer and whispered so only he could hear. “It wouldn’t do to flout propriety more than we already have.”
Winter kneeled, one leg forward in perfect form, and bowed his head deeply. “I’m your humble servant, Princess. Please forgive my thoughtlessness.” The crowd murmured in approval. To them, this was how it should be. Twilight, their princess, set apart and above the rest of them. She hid a grimace. She understood the logic of hierarchies, and after all these decades, she’d grown used to it, but it seemed to fly in the face of those things she embodied most strongly.
The Book of Friendship and the Principles of Harmony, parts of which Twilight had written herself, both dedicated a great number of pages to discussing the equal and inherent value of all creatures. She’d also produced papers on economic equity, political violence, and executive overreach. That last one had left Celestia none too pleased with her.
A shadow behind Winter wriggled and seemed to smile. “We can’t just dance around with con-artists, make rainbooms in the sky, and expect everything to work out…”
Normally, Twilight tried to ignore the apparitions, but she couldn’t help but mentally hissing at the shadow to be quiet.
“…we are not enough,” it whispered, voice fading into the distance as it grew still once more. It’s not real, she thought to herself, taking a deep breath. Not real. She had to deal with the world as it was–with Equestria as it was–and do her best from there.
“You may rise, Captain. Please return to your friends. I have some words I wish to share with you all.”
Captain Winter nodded. “By your leave, Princess.”
“That’s an interesting accent,” Strawberry said, watching him as he walked off to join the group of ponies he’d been speaking to when they entered. Kerning grunted dismissively.
“From some backwater, no doubt. What did you call it, Your Majesty? Hope Hollow? I’ve never heard of it before.”
Twilight sighed. “You’re right, Strawberry, it is an interesting accent. It’s characterized by a relatively closed oral posture and monophthongal vowels in words like ‘face’ and ‘goat’. Sunburst wrote an excellent book on northern Equestrian speech patterns that goes into greater detail if you’re interested. And Kerning, Hope Hollow is a beautiful town. I recommend you visit it sometime. I imagine it’ll do wonders for your disposition.”
Strawberry smiled at that, but Kerning sniffed and shook his head. “If you say so, Your Majesty. He still seems an ill sort to me.”
Twilight let herself study the young guard for a moment, ignoring Kerning’s combative response. He’d returned to his group and stood with his shoulder angled towards Twilight. He was smiling and laughing, no doubt the butt of several jokes from his comrades, but his eyes seemed keen, sharp almost, and though he never appeared to look directly back at her, she was certain he kept her in view.
“I’ll make good use of that one,” she muttered to herself. “Good use.”
“I believe you had some business with these ruffians, Your Majesty?”
Twilight sighed and shook her head. “Yes, Kerning, I do. I’d also remind you to watch your tone if I thought it’d do any good. I am still your princess and presumably will be for some time.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
She might as well have been speaking to a rock for all the emotion his voice conveyed. She stepped forward, and as she did, Strawberry gestured at the musicians who had ceased playing when Kerning announced Twilight. The quintet knew their job well and began to play a quiet but hopeful tune that Twilight often used as accompaniment during public addresses and official speeches.
Most of the gathered knew it well, and even those who came from distant lands or were new were now at least familiar with it. They all turned towards her, conversations fading away as they waited for her to speak.
“First of all,” she said while beginning to weave a dense and complicated spell, “I wish to congratulate all of you on five years of impeccable service. I know these years have been strenuous,” she paused to let the crowd laugh at that–strenuous was genuinely an understatement– “but the fact that you’re all standing here now is a testament to not only your strength and courage, but also to the many ways in which you embody the Principles of Harmony.”
She kept working on the spell as she spoke. Invisible strands of magic bunched around her horn, growing until the bundle popped, blooming into pulsing shimmering threads that made their way through the crowd, searching for suitable recipients. She was glad to see that one of the threads wound itself around Captain Winter’s mind. Unfortunately, the crowd made it difficult to see exactly who else the spell selected, though the nature of the magic ensured she’d find out eventually.
“Though I’m sure many of you came to me in hopes of finding adventure and danger, it is my sincerest desire that in the coming year none of you will be tasked to do more than keep order in a growing Ponyville, and should the need arise, occasionally assist your comrades in Canterlot and the Crystal Empire.”
It was true. Applejack could quibble about word choice all she wanted, but Twilight spoke from the heart. Did it matter that her desires were futile? Perhaps it would if she were a better pony… but apparently, she wasn’t. She wrapped her justifications around herself like a comforting cloak and finished casting the spell. Seeing that some of the guards shared meaningful looks told her that few of them believed the coming year, or any future year for that matter, would be as mundane as she’d tried to make it seem. That was probably for the best. If Twilight had to keep secrets, at least they’d still be prepared.
“All that said, I’m honored by your desire to be here,” she continued, forcing herself to smile, “and by the efforts you’ve all already made in my name. I guess I just wanted to say that I am incredibly proud.” She bowed her head to the gathered guards who greeted her words with cheers and applause. Nothing so thunderous as she’d heard at sports events or royal events in Canterlot, but heartfelt and genuine nonetheless. The string quintet switched back to music more suitable for mingling, and the steady hum of conversation picked back up.
Twilight closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It had been a long day, a long few years, really. She’d faced Celestia’s disapproval, Rarity’s anger, and Applejack and Luna’s disbelief. It hurt, but Twilight would do what needed to be done.
“Your Majesty?” Strawberry said, placing a hoof on Twilight’s shoulder. “You look tired. Perhaps you should retire for the evening?”
Twilight gave a start at her touch, then chuckled and rolled her eyes. “You know I don’t actually need to sleep, right?”
“Yes, well, Mistress Glimmer told me to remind you, and again, these are her words, that you tend to get melancholy and grumpy when you don’t.”
“Besides, Your Majesty,” Kerning added, “I believe you might still benefit from the rest, even if you do not sleep.”
Twilight grimaced and fought the urge to dismiss them both. They were right. She did need rest and being stubborn did nothing but make her look silly.
“Fine, but I don’t need babysitters to ensure I get to bed. The two of you may spend the evening as you wish.” Twilight turned and left, and no sooner had she stepped into the hallway than, with a loud pop and a shower of magenta sparks, she teleported herself away from the ground floor and up to her study. Her big, comfortable, perfect study.
A massive gilded astronomical clock–four strides across–was set into the wall above a crowded blackboard behind a wide desk cluttered with stacks of scribbled-on papers and a few teetering book towers. The clock had been a gift made in jest, but like everything else in the study, it served its purpose well. Bookshelves lined the circular walls of the room, only stopping to make space for an elevated platform next to a series of three exceptionally wide arched windows that stretched from the marbled floor almost all the way to the vaulted ceiling.
The windows were spider-webbed with delicate gold filigree, and the ceiling was painted in copper tones and teal wherever it didn’t depict lavish and fictional scenes of mythical or historical figures engaged in feats of strength and legendary academic pursuits. Atop the platform were several tables covered in pages upon pages of annotations, all surrounding a massive telescope cast in heavy bronze and bound in wood aimed up at a cluster of particularly colorful and lively stars.
A fireplace, deep and wide behind the desk and under the blackboard, played host to a smattering of glowing cinders left too long alone and on the verge of death. To the side of the desk, up on a small and meticulously engraved platform, slept a large fish owl with his head tucked under a mottled gray and brown wing, his steady breathing playing like a whispered melody through the room. A smattering of rugs in every shape and color covered large swathes of the floor in a way that seemed intentional but had come about by accident and carelessness, and all over the place, on little stools and on bookshelves and tables, lay curiosities and oddities from across Equestria and beyond. Scrolls, maps, figurines, several bones, skulls, and even some fully assembled skeletons, a few magical artifacts, the list went on.
Starlight called it messy. Rarity called it a roco-hobo-bohemian hodgepodge, but she meant the same thing. To Twilight it was comfort… or at least it had been. On the other side of the desk from where her owl was sleeping stood a fluted brass tripod supporting a metal latticework cage. Within the cage rested a perfectly smooth orb that appeared to be made of some kind of smoky opaque glass. As Twilight watched it, it changed its shape slowly into a complex polyhedron and back again, emitting a barely audible chime.
It was an orbuculum. Twilight had made it herself, and as far as she knew, it was the first one to be made since before even Discord could remember. A faint magical aura pulsed from it, washing over her fur, tingling a little like electricity. She ground her teeth and ignored it. Looking at it too long made her angry, both at it and herself.
“I’ll be done with you soon,” she muttered, turning towards the door to her bedchamber, nestled between two bookshelves. “I’ll be done with you soon, and then I can throw you into the depths of the sea and...” an image of Fluttershy staring at her, eyes filled with condemnation and pain made her almost stumble. She could hate the orbuculum all she wanted, but the orb hadn’t actually done anything. Twilight only had herself to blame.
“I’m not a bad princess,” she muttered to the empty study, “just a bad friend.” Nopony answered. Her owl continued to sleep.