//------------------------------//
// Introductions - The Ruler of Obsidian 
// Story: The Student of Sun and Shadow 
// by Journey Blue 
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Darkness blocks out the moonlight that streams through Twilight’s chamber windows. Save for herself and her mirror, all is consumed by shadows—the pale lamplight  a glowing island in a sea of blackness.

Yet she pays it no mind.

Her eyes are fixed on her reflection, and her thoughts are elsewhere. She has followed them back to Ponyville, back to her friends. She wonders what they are doing now: Applejack would undoubtedly be asleep, tired from a day’s hard work; Fluttershy would be cuddled up with her angel bunny, the little rabbit stealing most of the covers; Pinkie Pie might occasionally be up to check on the Cake Children, Pound and Pumpkin; Rarity would probably still be up at this late hour laboring away at one of her numerous orders; and as for Rainbow Dash, that mare sleeps more than any pony Twilight knows, so her bits are on asleep.

A sound pulls her from her thoughts.

A night breeze ruffling the curtains, perhaps. Has she forgotten to shut the windows? Maybe it’s the voices of the palace staff, if their voices could carry all the way up to her room. It sounded close, like a whisper.
 
A whisper calling her name

Twilight turns to look around at her chamber and sees nothing before her. When did it become so dark? Even if her eyes haven’t adjusted from the lamplight, there should be enough moonlight to see by. Curious, she takes several steps forward—ten to be precise, it is ten steps from her mirror to her bed—and sticks her hoof out to touch where she knows the bed’s frame to be. Or where it should be. But as she stretches her hoof to her leg’s full extent and sweeps it side-to-side, no contact is made.

Even more odd, Twilight notices that though she can see nothing in the darkness, she can still see her hoof. Its lavender fur and ornate golden horseshoe are still illuminated by the pale lamplight. Turning back to the vanity mirror and crystal lamp, Twilight sees that they too have vanished.
 
No light to see by, yet she can still see herself. How is that possible?
 
Her surprise subsides as she quickly recognizes the situation. It is an illusion. One that is both visual and tactile. That would explain what she is seeing, and why she couldn’t find her bed. In fact, she is probably still sitting by her mirror.
 

But this presents another question: who cast the illusion? Whoever it was has to be nearby. Regardless, the first thing she should do is to free herself from the illusion. Illusions could be tricky to deal with if you aren't aware of being influenced by one—the best illusions usually being the most subtle. But this one is far from subtle.
 
Twilight's horn begins to glow pink as she forms the proper counterspell—Marelin’s Truthful Unveiling. As she casts it, an aura of prismatic light expands around her like a balloon, spreading in all directions until it fades away. It takes a moment for her eyes to readjust, but once they do, Twilight had every expectation to see her chamber back to normal. But as she looks around to try and make out any discernible object, there are none to be found.
 
Okay, so maybe she misjudged this illusion.

Her ears perk up as the silence is broken again. This time by a more distinct, repetitive sound. Like a series of stifled coughs, or perhaps… a chuckle.
 
Somepony is laughing at her.
 
“You are right not to trust your eyes, but you are mistaken if you think this to be a mere illusion.”
 
The words, though spoken softly, have a weight to them. The voice is deep and comes from all directions.
 
“Who are you?” Twilight turns in a circle as she calls out, looking for the source of the voice. “Show yourself.” It is more a request than a command.
 
“I have waited some time to finally meet you face to face.” The voice comes from one direction now. Twilight spins around to see a figure, a stallion, emerge from the darkness. “Twilight Sparkle.”

The words are spoken with the delicacy and precision of a nail held before the hammer’s strike.
 
Twilight is slow to respond—her voice has caught in her throat, shock subduing her. Then recognition sinks in and shock gives way to disbelief. She knows what she’s seeing isn’t possible. But there is no mistaking him: a dark gray coat, wrought iron armor and crown, a regal cape of crimson, a red blade-like horn, a jet-black mane flowing out to merge with the surrounding darkness, and red slitted eyes with poison green sclera and flowing purple miasma.
 
Her chest tightens as she speaks, her voice coming out in a gasp.
 
“S-Sombra?”

He laughs. Sombra’s teeth are white and pointed.
 
This is impossible. She had seen him destroyed by the Crystal Empire’s protective barrier. She had seen him engulfed in the light of the Empire's magic, and his being shatter like glass.
 
“How?” She begins, then masters herself. If he could survive a thousand years banished in the ice, then he could survive the Empire’s Light—he had been underestimated. Now is not the time to act like a surprised little filly. She is a princess, like it or not, and it is time to act like one.

Twilight stands up straight, in what she hopes is a regal composure, and speaks with as much authority as she can muster, “Why are you here?”
 
“Is it not clear?” Sombra circles around her as he speaks—a puff of air as he passes. “I seek an audience with you, Twilight Sparkle.” He turns to face her. His eyes have taken on a more natural complexion—as a polite gesture. They are just maroon now, and they reflect light redly in tiny points.

Twilight feels the hair stand up on the nape of her neck.
 
“An audience? For what reason? And that’s Princess Twilight Sparkle to you.” She flares her wings as she speaks. Rainbow Dash would have done this to make herself seem larger, and more opposing, but Twilight did this instinctively to put a physical boundary between her and Sombra. He was moving too close to her.
 
“Ah.” He looks away. “My apologies, Princess. It seems that I missed your coronation.” He then continues to circle around her. “I am pleased to see that you have embraced your title at last…” He pauses. “Even if it is unbefitting of your stature.”
 
“And what is that supposed to mean?” she speaks, pulling a wing and hoof away as Sombra passes, the side of her mouth pulling back in a look of disgust.
 
“I meant no offense, of course. It is just that I find it a great shame that a mare such as yourself hesitates at her chance for greatness, choosing instead to remain in her mentor’s shadow. You think that you are undeserving of your title as Princess, when in reality you are deserving of far greater.”
 
“And why’s that?”
 
“Do you think it was by Celestia’s power that you ascended? No, it was by your power and yours alone. By granting you the title of Princess, Celestia has attempted to limit your potential.” He is in front of her again and turns to face her.
 
“Your potential to be a Queen.” As he speaks he holds up his hoof, and in a spurt of dark fire a slender circlet appears, held aloft in the flame. It is made of a violet obsidian, inlaid with amethyst, and a star-shaped rubellite as the centerpiece. When worn, it would rest around her horn in much the same way as Sombra’s spiked crown, but instead of spikes, the circlet is adorned with small, silver, feather-like blades that would curve around her head like a wreath: wings of the Vyatkyrie.
 
Elegant—that is how Twilight would describe it. By comparison, it makes her own diadem seem… gaudy. Though it lacks the extravagant design that Rarity is so fond of, Twilight is certain that she too would be pressed to find fault in it. Not that the same can be said for its creator.
 
Twilight doesn’t respond. Her thoughts have become fixated on the thin crown and on what Sombra implied by it.
 
“You asked why I have presented myself before you.” Sombra’s voice fills in the silence. “It is because you have earned my respect. Back in the Crystal Empire, when I first sensed that somepony had uncovered the way into my vault and then continued to thwart my enchantments, I had expected it to be Celestia or her moon-stricken sister. Imagine my surprise to discover that it had been a mere unicorn mare… Or so I had thought.”

He brings the circlet, embraced in flames, in front of him—its light dancing in his eyes like fireflies, behind them, endless night.
 
“In my castle, you showed a talent for dark magic that was nothing short of exceptional. A talent that Celestia, your mentor, has made no attempt to develop. The dark magic you used to open my vault, you learned from Celestia, but she did not teach it to you, did she?”

No, Twilight reflects, she didn't really. Yes, Celestia demonstrated dark magic to her. Demonstrated it in order to impress upon her the importance of stopping Sombra from reconquering the Crystal Empire. But no, Celestia didn't actually teach her how to use the dark magic. Twilight simply was able to figure out how to use it. Through the use of logic. Through experimentation.

Through intuition.

“Just think,” Sombra spoke as if in accord with her thoughts. “Think about how far you have come, how much you have achieved, and realize that you accomplished all of it with not even half of your true potential.”

Twilight shivers at the thought and wonders if there is any truth to it.

“Celestia wishes to keep you in the light. Her influence has blinded you from your true nature. Even now, you dress in the colors of dawn, when it is the colors of dusk that suit you best… See for yourself.” At that, dark flames leap up from beneath Twilight’s hooves. She yelps in surprise as the flames engulf her. Though she feels no heat, she can feel the flames clinging to her and solidifying into some sort of mass around her body.

When the flames subside, she finds herself surrounded by crystalline spires, each of their wide facets bearing her reflection.
 
Twilight’s attire has changed. Along with the circlet Sombra presented, she now wears a torc made out of the same violet obsidian. It rests around her neck and drapes across her barrel, serving as both regalia and barding. Her horseshoes, made of the same dark material, extend past her hooves and cover the cannon of each leg so that, like the torc, they serve as exquisite protection. In place of her extravagant pink and gold dress is a simpler one of silver and purple, made of an impossibly light fabric that ends just below her knees instead of dragging across the floor. The flank of the dress bears a stellate array that she recognizes as the constellation of Caspianiopeia. The design is as ornate as it is accurate—Twilight is sorry to note that this pleases her. Her previous attire was merely for appearances, whereas this attire is also meant to be functional. Under normal circumstances this would appeal to her, but these aren't normal circumstances.
 
Twilight looks into each of the crystalline facets, her reflections looking back at her, each bearing the colors of dusk, and each bearing a different expression. In one of these, a Twilight stands erect, with her head held high, her composure regal. Her face and demeanor speak wisdom and confidence.

“Do you know why you were able to defeat me, Princess?”

In another reflection sits a Twilight staring off into the distance with a serene expression, a slight smile, with an air of grace and mystique.

“I was not the one who defeated you. It was Spike, Cadence, and the Crystal Ponies.”

A Twilight with wings flared and horn aglow, in her eyes is fury, her image stands dignified and intimidating, and her maleficent stare bears down on the real Twilight.

“The Crystal Ponies had no more a hoof in my defeat than that little drake or their lovely princess. Nor did they more than a thousand years ago. It was you how found the Crystal Heart, was it not?”
 
Twilight turns and finds herself staring into her own vanity mirror, at her unadulterated reflection. She sees herself, her eyes wide and fearful, her wings ruffled and shaking slightly, and her mouth held agape. Her reflection stands in stark contrast to the others surrounding her—a diminished image of herself.
 
“What is the point of this, Sombra?” Anger is evident in her voice now, where before had only been anxiety.
 
“To show you what you how you are now and what you could be.” The voice comes from behind the crystals. Occasionally, Twilight could see King Sombra’s silhouette through the gaps in the spires. But, like the shark stalking its prey from the shadowy depths, Sombra circles around her crystalline enclosure largely unseen.
 
“And what makes you think this is what I want to be?” Hostility punctuates her sentence.

“I see in you great admiration for the other princesses. There is an innocence in admiration. It is found in those for whom it has yet occurred, that they too might one day be admired. Yet, so too is there foalishness. You have let yourself become blinded by Celestia’s light, and you choose to follow in her hoofsteps. But you reward your teacher poorly by always remaining her disciple.”
There is a pause. Then—
 
“You do not intend to stay in Celestia’s shadow forever.” It is a statement, not a question.
 
“So you propose I swap one shadow for another, is that it?” She tries to look for Sombra between the gaps in the spires, but keeps finding herself staring at her reflections.
 
“No, not a shadow, Princess. What I offer is the chance to learn magic that not even Celestia could hope to control, let alone understand. What you possess is the potential to be greater than Celestia ever could. A potential I would help you realize. With my help, you could obtain a level of power that few have ever possessed.”

Is it the tone in his voice, or the way he holds himself? Maybe it is his insinuation about Celestia, about herself, and what she desires. Or, perhaps it is how her reflections make her feel inadequate. Regardless, she finds that she no longer has the patience to listen to Sombra.
 
“You mean the same power you tried to take over the Crystal Empire with?" At first she speaks coldly and then with fire, "The power that was so easily defeated by the light and love of the Crystal Ponies? Ha! You speak of power, but that’s not power! Just look at you now! Twice you’ve tried to take over the Crystal Empire with this power! And twice you have failed! And the final time you were defeated by love. Love! That’s not power!” Twilight’s horn glows briefly, and brightly, then emits a shockwave that shatters the crystalline spires surrounding her—their fragments falling as jagged rain. “And you’re no king! You’re just a mere shadow forced to resort to petty trickery!”
 
Twilight turns to face Sombra, and she glares at the shadow of a king. Her wings are flared, and her horn glows. She is readying a spell in case she has to defend herself. She still wears the attire Sombra’s magic created. If the reflective facet bearing the maleficent Twilight still stood, one would be hard pressed to find a difference in their visage.
 
Sombra looks at the crystalline fragments scattered about with disinterest. With a thought, he lets them dissolve back into darkness. He then looks at Twilight; she finds she can’t read his expression.
 
“Just a mere shadow, you say. One forced to resort to petty trickery…” He turns away.
 
A palpable silence hangs in the air, broken only by a soft pulsing hum. Twilight thinks it comes from her horn, then she realizes it is the beating of her heart. It sounds in her ears like the hollow drumming of wings.
 
“Well, Princess.” His voice chills her. “Behold the power of a mere shadow!” He turns suddenly, fixing her with a burning stare, his eyes wide, the poison green glow blazing. Blazing as the purple miasma pours.
 
Twilight yells and releases the energy she has built up in her horn, forming a protective shield. For a moment everything is tinted pink as she surrounds herself with the telekinetic barrier. Then there is a white flash, the painful shock of magical recoil, and the sound of shattering glass as the barrier is crushed from all sides. Black crystalline spikes close in on Twilight like the teeth of a massive jaw, clamping down on her legs and torso.
 
With some small relief, the armor of her attire actually serves its purpose, causing most of the jagged edges of the crystals to only crush her instead of also cutting her. But in the areas not protected by the barding, the edges dig into her flesh, with the slightest movement causing excruciating pain. Twilight’s horn glows as she begins to summon magic to free herself, but the act is met with shock from the spikes, black and indigo electricity arcing over her body. The pain alone is enough to disrupt her magic.

 A stifled whimper escapes her lips, muffled largely by the fact that she can barely breathe.
 
“What is wrong, Princess?” Sombra smiles as he approaches Twilight. “Surely you have not been bested. By a mere shadow.” He stands face to face with her, grinning amusedly. After a moment, the smile fades. “Unwilling to acknowledge your potential are we? You are still holding back, Princess. That will not do.”
 
To her horror, Twilight watches as the crystals continue to advance, growing and expanding with every passing moment. Dendrites sprout and spread over her body, and the pressure exerted by the crystals increases. She realizes that soon she will be completely encased and unable to breathe, or simply crushed to death. Whichever happens first.

Twilight’s horn glows brighter now. No longer is she willing the magic to coalesce; she is seizing it with every ounce of resolve she possesses. When the shock comes this time, she is able to endure the spasms of agony and maintain her spell. She grits her teeth, pushing through the pain and fear attempting to consume her thoughts, and reaches out for exponentially more magic. 

For a brief moment she thinks she will succeed.

An agonized scream tears away from her throat as her focus snaps under the crystal’s unrelenting torment, and the magic she has built up rebounds on her. Her head falls forward limply. She has not lost consciousness, but the electrocution and subsequent recoil of her magic leaves her thoughts in shambles. It is several moments before Twilight can regain her senses.
 
Sombra turns and walks away. “I had hoped that things would have gone differently. You showed such promise, yet you seem so eager to waste it.” Sombra listened as Twilight made another vain attempt to escape—her screams of pain and frustration falling on apathetic ears. This goes on for a time, with Twilight becoming more desperate with every attempt.
 
Her effort was valiant, thought Sombra, but it is quickly becoming pathetic.
 
“You should not have disregarded my offer so quickly. There is so much I can help you with, so much I can teach you.”

Another silence. Twilight seems to have given up.

“Do you know why you were able to defeat me, Princess?”

He returns and stands in front of her. There he waits, but not for Twilight to answer. Once he knows he has her attention, he speaks.

“It is because we are more alike than you know.”
 
“We are nothing alike!” she spat—anger giving her strength in her agony, strength that is short lived. The crystal growth now encases most of her body and is making its way up her wings and neck. Her armor is beginning to give under the pressure, and her breaths are reduced to short, rapid gasps that cannot satisfy the burning in her lungs.

Her vision is fading, the light dying now. Or perhaps it is she.

“You think yourself so different from me, but were you to overcome your pointless reluctance towards dark magic, as you have before, you would find your current predicament to be a trivial task,” Sombra’s horn begins to glow crimson, then boils with green and purple magic, and he extends his head forward, intending to touch Twilight’s horn with his own. “All you need is a little push, and you will remember.”
 
For all the pain it causes her, Twilight pulls against her jagged restraints. She can feel the menacing energy radiating for Sombra’s horn. She can smell his breath: damp and metallic. All she can see now is the wretched glow of his eyes, their poison green reflecting in her own eyes—eyes wide opened and terrified, with pupils like pinpricks.

NO. NO. NO. STAY AWAY. STAY AWAY.

Unable to move. Unable to breathe. Unable to form any rational thought for all the pain, all the fear, all the anger clouding her mind. She reaches out desperately for her magic, for any magic. Her horn glows, and the crystals crackle around her, their malicious energy buzzing like angry bees. Black and indigo arcs dance across her coat, up her neck, towards her horn. She is drawing them to herself now, not fighting them. Through sheer will, she coalesces their power with her own.

“Stay Away From Me!” she roars. Dark violet coils of energy surge outwards. The fear and anger that consumed her mind is made manifest. Sombra reacts quickly; his body disappears into a shadowy mist that reforms a short distance away. From this new position, he watches Twilight’s magic consume the crystals imprisoning her, cutting off his control of them, rending and absorbing the power they possessed. The black crystals begin to glow with a violent lavender light, shatter, then dissolve.
 
Sombra’s teeth are white and pointed, and every one of them reflects the lavender light as he grins.
 
Twilight stands panting through clenched teeth, a familiar green light emanating from her eyes. In her mind, she grapples with her emotions as she had done in the past after using dark magic. But never has she been so fatigued; never has she used so much. Her body trembles as she tries to contain her fear, her disgust, her anger.
 
 “Well, Princess?” comes a mocking voice.

A snarl is her answer.
 
Before Sombra can react, a burst of malicious energy shoots forth—an undulating mass of dark magic that strikes like a whip across his head and neck. Pain erupts over the right side of his face as he is lifted off his hooves and topples over. For a moment, he does not move.
 
Twilight's surge of emotions dies down soon after her anger flared, and she is able to think clearly again. Clearly enough to realize what she has done.
 
With trepidation, she watches Sombra slowly rise to his hooves—rising without a sound. Then, with horror, she sees what she has done to his face.
 
On the right side, an angry red gash extends from the center of his cheek, across his eye, and up past his brow ending where the crown rests on his forehead—upon which a groove has been cut, a spike now missing.
 
Sombra hisses at the stinging pain as he attempts to open his eye, or what is left of it. There is no longer a red slitted iris, or glowing green sclera, only an empty socket weeping purple miasma.
 
Sombra turns to look at Twilight. A sneer has formed across the uninjured side of his face, and he speaks in a cold, mocking laugh.

“Well done, Princess.”
 

He was all too pleased.