They walked for a long time, and for the most part it was without stopping. The encounter with the Daemon Engine had finally snapped the already-strained patience of the Astartes, and Adamant Tower’s dislike at being out in the wilderness before had been refined into a near inability to even think straight while he was. He hadn’t told any of his towering companions about that, but the pony guessed they were relatively aware even without him speaking up. And so, they just walked, stopping to rest only when they had too and following the twisting and in some places, nearly indecipherable, path of the train-tracks. Most of all, they attempted to ignore the occasional malicious chuckles that carried through the air around them, dogging their heels at every step.
Some part of Adamant Tower had assumed that they were going to follow the line all the way to the very end, marching right into whatever was left of the city of Canterlot – though he had no idea how much was even left, given that every story he’d heard said a different thing, though they all agreed that it was a haunted place now. He’d been trying to peer up to the mountaintops way in the distance, to see if he could spot any of the remnants of the Capital for himself, but that seemed in vain too. Thick clouds of smoke and mist that were almost certainly not natural coiled around where it would sat, and on occasion the former guard was even able to spot the dark shapes of sky-borne daemons sailing through the skies and towards the peak like it was some kind of debased eyrie. That particular observation left him especially uncomfortable; he’d considered pointing that out to the Astartes, though had swiftly realised that they wouldn’t much care.
In either case, however, Canterlot was not their immediate destination. On the ragtag band’s march, they had passed through the splintered remnants of a few towns, many of them apparently having been ravaged by the Daemonic hordes in the past. Those were the lucky ones; a few, that they always circumnavigated, seemed to have taken the corruption into the souls of their buildings. Corrupted spires made of bone reached up, some ludicrously high and nearly touching the clouds, whilst bulbous growths pulsed on the side of some structures that remained. The only time the Space Marines ever spoke to Adamant Tower at all was when they saw a town, and only then to tell them about it. Some he knew, some he didn’t, but at the very least the armoured aliens always seemed satisfied with his answer.
Eventually, the snows began to recede, opening up onto what would once have been a temperate grassland. The death of the sun had soon put paid to the agreeable climate, all the blades of grass standing to attention beneath their feet and hooves as they passed over it. From what the pony understood, Cloudsdale should have been near here, pumping the sky full of weather. Then again, he didn’t even know if Cloudsdale still existed. Far to the right, just at the edge of his vision, sat the Everfree Forest. Adamant Tower repressed a shiver. Barrack room gossip had always said that the forest was a cursed place, and he didn’t even want to think about what evil lurked beneath its boughs now. It looked like great furrows had been carved through the tree line; there were huge expanses of barren land, as if one or many things had ripped the trees asunder in their fury.
At least one thing had, the pony reminded himself. The dark shape hurtling from the heavens, brining death upon their world.
“It’s…it’s Ponyville.”
It was the first time in a long time that Adamant had spoken without being prompted, and that was enough to make the Astartes stop too, even the Iron Hands training the yellow slits in their helmets upon him. For once, he wasn’t bothered by their scrutiny, or even by the constantly blood-hued sky. The sight he could see from atop the hill they had crested, resting down in the valley below, was enough to send a shiver through him.
“It’s…Ponyville.” He said again, as Nehemiah tilted his helmet within its robes – the closest the Angel ever got to asking a question. Taking a moment to swallow and compose himself, the former Crystal guard nodded. “This was where the Elements of Harmony lived.” ‘Was’ was the operative word; the town was as much a ruin as most of the ones they’d seen before, little more than the skeletons of buildings that were somehow still smoking. In the back of his mind, something told Adamant that they never stopped.
“’Elements of Harmony’?” Helsturnn asked, lupine features creasing in a small sneer. “Never heard of them.”
“You have.” Zuriel countered, voice as soft as it ever got as he nodded. “Fluttershy, their queen-like figure. She was some sort of manifestation of these Elements…some form of psychic power.” He finished, shoulders rising in a shrug. All in all, the pony was merely glad they didn’t ask him to explain what the Elements were.
“Does it matter?” Voss asked, disinterest clear in his machine-like voice. Before the Vigilator could go on, the Dark Angel sergeant stopped him.
“It matters immensely.” Nehemiah said, red eye-lenses refocusing on the town. “If this is where their Elements lived, then this is also where they lived.” He growled the world, and Adamant Tower felt the rest of the Astartes tense at it. He felt himself tense at it, his own sense of outrage mixing with the unrelenting fury that bled from all the Space Marines.
“Especially when we take that into account.” The words came from an Angel, Gideon. His words were not met with questions, not straight away at least. Instead, all followed the point of his green-armoured finger. Once again, they all tensed. The edge of the forest could just about be seen looming into vision, and at its outskirt sat a monster; once, though Adamant Tower could not have known, it had plied the heavens in its mission to carry warriors to forge the Imperium of Man. Later, it had carried those same warriors to destroy what they had built. Its name was Olympian Sun, and even in death the very sight of it was enough to inspire a feeling of dread – or as close to it as the Astartes could feel - in those that looked upon it. Dread, and anger.
“Do we investigate?” Helsturnn asked, raising his chainsword a little in anticipation. Nehemiah remained silent, crimson eyes seeming to burn a hole in the sundered vessel’s flank.
“No.” He decided, and it was clear that the decision cost him. “There is nothing to suggest that our objective lies there, and I have no desire to set foot in that filth.” The Wolf gave a small growl, but he did seem to recognise the sense in that, lowering his weapon. “We will investigate the town.” The Dark Angel decided, refocusing his attention once more. “My brothers will go with Voss, and scout the main town. Moulkain, Helsturnn, Zuriel…Pony.” He said, catching Adamant a little off guard. “That structure, there.” He nodded, inclining his head towards the shattered remains of a farm-house. As one, the Marines all set off, leaving Adamant sprinting to catch up.
They reached the farmhouse in little time, Helsturnn prowling ahead like the lupine beasts from which his Legion took its name, Zuriel and the near-silent Iron Hand Moulkain flanking the pony. They walked through the skeletons of trees in a ruined orchard, across war-ravaged fields that could produce nothing. As they walked, they passed a pole, erected quite haphazardly in the middle of one of those fields. A charred corpse was slumped at the bottom of it, the ropes that had held the pony up burned away by the fire that had also claimed their life. Adamant gave a small wince, quickly moving along. What waited inside the remnants of the farm-house was little better; bodies, three of them, scattered across the floor. One had been cleaved in twain at the waist, whilst the other two’s skulls were shattered beyond repair. As the Astartes spread out, pacing through the remains of the house – not that there was much worthy of examination – the pony trotted over and looked down at the body. Once, a deep sadness might have fallen over him at the sight. Now he just felt tired.
“Did you know them?” He just about managed to stop himself jumping in surprise as the voice spoke up behind him, the surprise coming from both its suddenness and its unfamiliarity. Moulkain, the Iron Hand tactical marine, looked down at the body impassively. It was the first time one of the two black-armoured warriors had actually spoken to Adamant, but that forced only a few moments of silence upon him.
“…would you care?” He retorted, voice flat. Moulkain didn’t say anything, and Adamant found he didn’t care about that either.
“Attend us.” The sudden sound of Nehemiah’s voice from across the vox-network dragged their attentions away from the remains. “In the town square…we have found them.” The link went dead before Moulkain could ask, but it was unlikely that he would have done so anyway. Adamant glanced at him, but the Medusan had already started walking, turning and stomping his way clear of the building. The pony followed, not sparing the bones behind him another look.
I’m becoming more like you. Only in little ways, only bit by bit, but the more time I spend with you the more natural it becomes.
Helsturnn and Zuriel had apparently already got the message, though considering the silence the Marines always walked in it was hard to tell. The rest of the town was just as much a charnel house, the still -decaying bodies of ponies littering the streets. Occasionally, the singular bark of a bolt discharging or the sound of steel being drawn could be heard nearby, but from the fact that no great monstrous hordes descended upon them it seemed likely that these were just to scare off or incapacitate individual lesser daemons prowling round the streets. If nothing else, Adamant could see for himself that the invaders had been thorough. There was not a building left intact; to his left, the remains of a boutique, flattened almost in their entirety. To his right what looked like a bakery, smashed clean through and with more than one roof-timber burnt to a cinder. None of that seemed to interest the Astartes, though, who concentrated around the wreckage of a town square. The moment Adamant joined them, waves of blatant hatred emanating from them hit him, lighting an angry fire in the pony’s belly.
There were bodies. They were not of ponies. Despite the soot and ash, not to mention simple dirt, that had settled upon the plates of the armour scattered around, he could still see the silver glinting beneath. It was not alone. Another body was a few feet away, cracked and curved horns pointing to the sky. Beside it, a gun, almost appearing to be seeping into the earth itself. The flicker of hate swelled brighter in his breast, but it was nothing compared to the Astartes. They stared down at all the corpses, clearly having to fight the urge to desecrate them as they stared at the warped, twisted parodies of themselves.
“So,” Helsturnn growled, loathing thick in his already-rough voice. “It seems the fourth didn’t burn this world without a fight after all.” He prodded the greave of a dead traitor with the tip of his boot, before snarling and giving a harder kick. The body moved ever so slightly, armoured head rolling to the side. With eerie calm, Zuriel stepped forward. The apothecary looked down at the corpse, kneeling beside it. With all their eyes on him, he extended the arm baring his narthecium – that was what it was called, Adamant knew – the drill spinning to life. Tilting the Iron Warrior’s head back, he drilled down into the neck, and then the chest. Withdrawing his bloody arm, the pony could just about see what he held – two innocuous looking organs, one extracted from each location.
“The progenoids.” The Blood Angel said, voice forced to mellowness as he regarded them. “The genetic data of Perturabo.” The scene was very reminiscent of what had happened to Uzzael’s body back in the Crystal Empire, but Adamant tried not to think at that, staring at the two bloody chunks like the rest of the Space Marine.
With a clench of his fist, Zuriel crushed them.
“Wait.” Zuriel was still kneeling as Baramiel spoke, the Dark Angel glancing over all the bodies as their eyes fell on him. “Wait…something about these bodies…it’s strange.” He said, evidently frustrated he couldn’t explain better. “Something is not right.” The other returned their eyes to the dead; predictably, it was the apothecary who worked it out first.
“Their wounds.” He said, glancing over them all again. “These were made with Astartes weapons.” The group looked at him in surprise, before re-examining the evidence. Sure enough, it seemed, the medic had the right of it; the wounds on them were not things ponies could easily have done.
“So?” Voss asked, looking back up. “Traitors killed other traitors. Are we supposed to be surprised?”
“This was not some random, opportunistic act of betrayal.” Zuriel answered, still pouring over the Chaos Marines’ injuries. “Many of them were to the front. And these guns, too, were fire in this area, but there are few pony bodies.” He looked up, giving Voss a sidelong glance. “This wasn’t a backstab. This was at least two factions trying to forthright kill each other.”
Adamant Tower was not really listening to him. His face had hardened, eyes unblinking as an ear twitched. There was a rumbling sound, rising above the constant background noises, heavy treads on the ground that got closer and closer. The pony looked up, Nehemiah beside him.
“I heard it too.” The First Legion sergeant confirmed, before something huge and horrible smashed its way through the side of a building.
***
Lorkhan was, by his own admission, not a reader. He didn’t mind admitting that if asked; he saw himself more as a man of action, in his own mind at least. But he did know people who were readers, and those people had told him a great many things. One of those things, he believed it had been from Mordecai, was about the five stages of grief; some detached part of him, the purely rational side of his brain, told him that this was what he’d just experienced over the course of the last hour.
Well, four stages. He hadn’t quite moved past soul-crushing despair yet.
“We’re going to bloody die.” He mumbled, head in his hands and body hunched over as he sat, which he supposed counted as acceptance in a way. The rest of the cramped, odd-smelling music room had fallen silent now, the rest of the group standing rather sheepishly around a collection of old, battered-looking instruments.
“I…didn’t think we were that bad.” Barbus attempted, giving a small shrug as he folded his arms. The looks the rest of the group, even Mordecai, gave him were enough to shut him up. Lorkhan stayed where he was, face still buried in his hands, giving a stifled groan before looking up and placing his palms together.
“Ok,” He said, with a calm he clearly didn’t feel. “Let’s just…check we’re all on the same page.” He paused again, as if taking the stark reality facing them in. “This Battle of the…the…of the losers is what, this weekend?” They all nodded. “And, with the sole exception of Mordecai’s weird skill with the keyboard…not one of us has any sort of musical talent whatsoever.” The boy who had been complemented gave a little smile of satisfaction, whilst the others just looked at each other gormlessly again. Lorkhan sighed, slumping down in his chair even more. “We’re going to bloody die.” He repeated, mumbling even more this time.
“I do…rather think you’re viewing this rather pessimistically, my friend.” Mordecai interceded, still smiling. “We are just…experimenting, as it were…although I admit that that has never been our strongest point.” He grimaced.
“We don’t even know what types of band we are yet.” Zuko pointed out. Lorkhan looked up, about to concede that the boy wasn’t talking out of his arse for once, when the others all decided to chime in as well.
“Classic rock.”
“I’m rather partial to simply classical.”
“Rap.”
“Smooth jazz, yah?”
“Oh come on, look at us.” Rorke snarled, spitting and narrowly missing an amp. “We have to be heavy metal.” Something about that was oddly fitting, but none of them quite wanted to admit that Rorke had made a fair point about anything.
“Let’s just…start right at the beginning.” Varvillon insisted, pulling his coat around him a little tighter. “Let’s just work out a name…maybe the rest will come from that.” It was a weak suggestion, but it was the best they had at the moment, all of the boys looking at the ground in thought.
“Well…” Lorkhan started, rolling his tongue around a cheek. “If we do go down the…’heavy metal’ suggestion, we should have a metal in our name…” There was a chorus of mumbles, and a few nods. “And we’re sort of the underdogs in this, so we should link to fighters too.” He went on. “Some kind of…metal fighters…” They all lapsed into silence again, turning the problem over.
“Hey.” Zuko said, helmeted head lifting a little. “What about the ‘Iron Wa-“
“What about ‘Tin Titans’?” Rorke growled, cutting the other boy off. Lorkhan thought it over a moment, before shaking his head.
“Tin’s not an imposing metal.” He pointed out. Rorke cursed, returning to thinking.
“I’m serious, guys.” Zuko tried again. “I have a good feeling about ‘Iron Wa-“
“’Brass Bombardiers’?” Varvillon offered, looking up. Again, they decided against it; according to Lorkhan, it made them sound too much like a marching band.
“I still reckon we should have a try at ‘Iron Wa-“
“’The Olympia Experience, featuring the Warsmith?’” Mordecai proposed. Despite the fact that the use of his self-appointed codename did do a fine job of bolstering Lorkhan’s ego, again the suggestion was discounted.
“Look, would you all just listen?” Zuko snapped, temper starting to fray beneath the crash helmet. “I am telling you, ‘Iron Wa-“
“What about…’Steel Soldiers’.” Barbus attempted, a thoughtful expression on his face. Ignoring the way Zuko threw his arms up in despair, the other boys all though it over. None of them, not even Rorke, was able to come up with an objection right away.
“Zat is…actually not terrible, provided ze style of music fits.” Vortun rumbled, giving a small shrug of acknowledgement. Barbus allowed a grin to creep across his face again, pleased with that compliment at least.
“It implies…aggressive music.” Mordecai nodded. “Hard rock, industrial noise, hippity-hop…yet, I agree that it has a certain charm to it.”
“It’s campy.” Lorkhan admitted, grimacing. “It’s campy as fuck…but that’s the sort of thing those Canterlot bastards will eat up.” He raised his head, nodding at Barbus. “Not bad.” Ignoring the mumble of ‘that’s two you owe me’ from the other boy, he looked round the rest of the gathering. “So. ‘Steel Soldiers’. Are we all decided?” As one, their gazes all fell on Zuko.
“…Yeah, fine.” The boy grumbled, folding his arms over his chest. “I don’t give a shit anyway.” That was good enough for them, the atmosphere in the room relaxing a little now that at least some progress had been made.
“So,” Varvillon asked, trying to keep the momentum going. “What’s our next objective?” A moment’s silence lingered, before the group gave out a collective groan; none of them knew what to tackle next, and none of them had the patience remaining to work it out.
“Well…this has been enlightening, gentlemen,” Mordecai assured them, stepping away from his keyboard and slinging his rucksack over his shoulder. “But I am afraid I must bid you good day, I have a guest tonight. Toodle-oo.” Before any of them could argue, he’d turned on his heel, marching out the door with effortless grace. They all watched him go, not diverting their eyes until the Music room door shut, returning their attentions to Lorkhan. He returned the gazes, meeting all their eyes in turn, before giving a sigh of defeat.
“Yeah…piss off, then.” He mumbled. “But you idiots better have thought of something by tomorrow.”
***
Earlier that day, however, life carried on outside the dreary and stifling confines of Olympia High. Whilst the Canterlot students were still a little bemused as to what exactly had caused the impromptu fire-drill the day before – and if Principal Celestia knew, she wasn’t telling – the interests of at least one group of girls had shifted rather notably.
Sunset Shimmer’s locker creaked as it opened, but the girl was hardly listening to that. Bending over to rummage around, and conscious of her friends’ eyes on her back, she eventually found what she was looking for; grinning, she stepped back, turning around.
“When…I was Principal Celestia’s student back in Equestria, she gave me this.” She brushed the dust off the cover of the thickly-bound book, revealing the sun image emblazoned on the cover. “Even after I abandoned my studies, I held onto it…” She grimaced a little, voice growing wistful. “Deep down I guess I knew I was making a big mistake, but I might still have a way to reach out to her…” She flicked through it, finding an empty page and running a hand over it tenderly. “Maybe it still works.”
“…That’s a book, darling.” Rarity’s voice wasn’t unkind, but it was disbelieving. It was Fluttershy and Applejack who had really suggested the need to try and get Princess Twilight back, to help combat the spell of the Dazzlings; with the Prinicipal and Vice-Principal apparently under the trio’s sway, there weren’t many the Rainbooms could turn to. “What do you mean ‘if it still works’?”
“It used to be that if I wrote something here, it would appear in the pages of a book back in Princess Celestia’s library.” Sunset explained, clutching the tome close to her breast. “I get a message to her, and she can get a message to Princess Twilight.”
“What are you waiting for?” Dash’s raspy voice stole her attention, as did the pen suddenly dangling in Sunset’s face. “Get to writing!” Dash insisted, a grin plastered across her features. Sunset took it, looking at it unsurely, before giving a small sigh.
“Long time since I’ve written these words…” She mused, committing the pen to paper. “Dear Princess Celestia…” The pen slid across the paper easily, purple light trailing in its wake.
She wrote. When she was done, they waited. Seconds passed, then minutes. Sunset seemed to accept that it would be a while before they found out if it worked, but the others seemed to have been expecting…well, anything more.
“Is…something meant to happen?” Pinkie asked, glancing up at her friend. Then the book started to shake.
“Hey, it’s working!” Dash grinned, looking at it. Sunset’s eyes widened, her breath coming shallowly, shaking her head as she took a step back and dropped it to the ground.
“N-no…” She insisted, a palpable feeling of dread hitting her like a train. “No, something’s wrong! It…it’s not supposed to do this!” As soon as she’d spoken, the others took note, drawing back warily as the book continuing to violently shudder. It opened and closed at random, straining at some invisible leash like a restrained beast, and though it was surely impossible it almost seemed to be…screaming at them.
Fluttershy was holding onto Applejack for dear life, the farmer hugging her back as she watched on horrified. The pages inside flicked, like a child’s flip book. As they did, Sunset saw years of her life burn away; every page, even those with writing on them, were left momentarily blank. On every one, something pushed its way to the fore. The image of a bladed, eight-pointed star slowly began to become visible, covering every scrap of parchment within the tome, burning onto both paper and Sunset’s retinas. She closed her eyes as looking upon it started to become physically painful, legs shaking and dropping the girl to her knees. She panted hard, vaguely aware of tears streaming down her cheeks as she did. The book continued to roar and howl as if it were alive, and as it did a sibilant whisper filled the air around it. Sunset couldn’t work out what it was actually saying, but the sound was ringing loud in her ears, making her squirm involuntarily. It felt like the sensation she’d experienced when transforming into the she-daemon, but even the power in the air around the book was ten times as potent. What part of her mind was still capable of functioning raced, desperately trying to find some answer; something was clearly intercepting the magic, latching onto to the arcane qualities of the book and making it its own, but what?
What force in the cosmos could do…this?
It stopped suddenly, the whispering and the pain leaving as if it was never there. Sunset’s body shuddered, her teal eyes snapping open and lungs drawing in a sharp gasp. Once she could breath again, she shakily wiped the lingering tears away, looking round. The book was closed, lying still, a foot firmly clamping the cover down. Slowly and breathlessly, Sunset looked up. The figure who had saved them wore his usual hooded jacket, though in her half-delirious state it almost looked more like a monk’s ceremonial robe.
“M…Mr Cypher…” She managed to stammer, shivering again. The man looked round at her, dark and cool eyes holding the girls, but he did give a small nod. Stepping off the book, he knelt, holding it under an arm before straightening.
“I think I had better take this.” He said, voice as deep as always. She wanted to tell him no, to explain the importance of the book, but it seemed their chance to contact the Princess had gone anyway – and in any case, Sunset didn’t have the strength remaining to her. She felt a strong hand take her under an armpit, helping her back to her feet.
“Y’alright, Sugarcube?” Applejack asked, letting Sunset lean against her as she did. The former unicorn looked around, taking in the still-recovering forms of the others; she’d been hit the hardest for whatever reason, perhaps her greater magical connection or something darker, but they weren’t unaffected. Dash was shaking all over, prismatic hair thoroughly ruffled. Fluttershy was pale as a ghost, and with an angry red bite mark on her bare arm that almost looked self-inflicted. Rarity seemed in the worst shape of all, taking deep pants and crossing her legs, face red with shame. It appeared she’d wet herself. Sunset winced, nodding weakly, leaning against a locker as the substitute teacher walked away without another word.
“What…what the hell…w-was that?” Dash asked, her voice more afraid than accusing. Sunset watched Mr Cypher go, swallowing nervously.
“I…I don’t know.” She admitted. “But…I get the feeling I…really shouldn’t have done that…”
***
Mordecai’s fingers froze above the keyboard as the memory washed over him. It had been at school, earlier that day, about halfway through one of the group’s musical ‘practices’. That was all Mordecai could really say, because in truth he wasn’t sure what had happened; a feeling of light-headedness had washed over him, an unusual but not unpleasant tingling feeling lighting in his gut, making him stagger momentarily. It had passed as quickly as it had come, leaving him more confused than anything else. The fact that his compatriots had seemingly been unaffected by it made it all the stranger still.
He’d tried not to let it distract him, at least to the best of his abilities, but for some reason the thought had lingered. It was not the first time Mordecai had been rocked by an inexplicable feeling that seemed to target him alone, but never one that had made him outwardly react as noticeably. Odd. Very odd indeed. He shook it off, realising he’d allowed himself to become bogged down in introspection before returning his nimble fingers to the electric keyboard before him.
He’d managed to dig the instrument out of the depths of his closet once he’d returned home, and after rooting through his house – it was quite a small, cramped place, but given the family’s single salary it was all his mother could really afford – he’d eventually been rewarded with the two batteries he needed to get the blasted thing operational. From then on, it had just been…practice. Endless, focused practice, the boy unwilling to even look away from the instrument as he worked. Mordecai had used to be quite good at it, and that still made him the best player in their ‘band’ at the moment, but that still left him rusty and out of practice.
That was something the boy wanted to fix, because in truth, he really did want to win this competition. Partly to avoid decimation, he didn’t mind admitting that. And partly, it was because getting that victory would be some form of validation. It would prove that he and the others were worth a damn. It would be a jolly amusing thing, to see the reaction to such a group from left-field taking the title. It might even get Lorkhan over his peculiar obsession with their erstwhile adversaries, though Mordecai wasn’t holding his breath on that account.
He paused as he did, annoyed with himself even as he did, glancing absent-mindedly around the room. It wasn’t much, but it was his. A few books lined the shelves, accompanied by the occasional globe or other such item of culture he’d managed to scrounge up from a variety of places. The desk he sat at sat just in front of the window looking out over the street. He could hear the sound of police sirens echoing through the night from somewhere in the town. His rucksack was slumped by his bed – it was a double that he’d somehow managed to squeeze into the cramped chamber, and was certainly surprisingly comfortable. Lorkhan was the only one of the others who’d ever seen it, and though he’d claimed it was “poncy as hell” Mordecai suspected he was really just a little jealous.
He shook the indulgent thoughts off for the second time that night, internally chiding himself for being so easily distracted and returning his attention to the keyboard. More musical notes filled the empty air of the house, a little awkwardly at first, then gradually growing more fluid.
Mordecai was so engrossed in his playing, he did not notice the sound of the front door opening. Even if he had, he would have probably simply assumed it was his mother returning from a grocery shopping trip. When the door to his room opened, however, the familiar chuckle was not one he could ignore.
“Of all the things I expected to find you doing, attempting to restart your brief musical career was not one of them, my friend.”
It was a male voice. More importantly, it was a male voice he recognised. Stopping in his tracks, Mordecai felt an ecstatic grin slowly cross his face; he spun his chair round, jumping to his feet and opening his arms magnanimously in response to the other, newly-arrived boy’s own grin.
“Ah, Ahriman!”