In a large and sumptuous office within the Asinial Parliament Building, by a window that looked over the dark and moonlit harbour, Burro Delver sat and watched the world turn. The moon’s reflection cut a lazy path across the quiet waters, with only a few wandering tugs and fishing vessels marring its path.
He reached round to his desk and casually hefted the half-full coffee pitcher, dragging long and deeply at the spout. Cups on the desk gathered dust.
It had been a busy past few hours. Quite apart from pacifying Asincittà, he’d had to re-establish contact with the far-flung elements of the Merchant Fleet and check that their ships were all restored and not eating anything or anyone. Letters had been sent off in different directions. One had gone to Gellert, an invitation to meet and drink themselves out of their skulls the next mutually free moment they got. Another had been dispatched to Ceratos, apologising for the conduct of rogue elements of the Merchant Fleet and offering new trade terms privileged towards Ceratos for all the inconvenience.
The latter letter could have waited - Ceratos was happily half the world away once again. But after what he’d seen from Celestia ....
Her own letters on the matter of the Ceratos treaty ports had grown increasingly shirty over the last months. She could be spared any provocation.
Burro wondered if the rest of the world would have the same view. He sipped from the pitcher, and looked out towards the still night. As still as you got around Asincittà, at least. And only quiet for now.
If you sought peace, and all that.
“It’s probably unfair to assume they’ll all turn into krakens,” he muttered.
“Beg pardon, Arch-Minister?” said Silhouette, his secretary.
“Do me a favour, Silhouette. Before you retire for the evening, send a message to Ms Amiatina of the Brineside Shipwrights. The Asinial executive’s interested in placing an order.” Burro looked back down towards the dark and ever-churning tide, and heard the echoes of roaring and fire. “Enquire after the price she’d assign to three Fear Nowt-class ships. We’ll haggle, of course.”
“And with one quick swipe of a claw, I hefted the Dread Emperor of Ceratos up by his neck!” said Gellert, punching the log he was perched on with a fist. Light flickered up from a campfire and made shadows dance across his angular face. “He struggled and fought, but I held him fast using all the strength I had, bracing myself for the Grand Duke of All Hippopotami charging in while I was distracted. Onwards the scoundrel came, onto my other claw, as I swept overhead with the Emperor still in my grasp and drove the duke into the dust! Holding him there, I saw the fight wasn’t over. The Capricious Crown of Capra, glowing with dark magic, holding fast to the head of the biggest, ugliest, hairiest goat I ever saw, three times taller than I! Thinking fast, I met his advance with a stiff uppercut -”
“Dad, you’re somehow using three claws at once in all this,” said the griffoness at the fire’s other side, spearing a brace of salmon on a stick and roasting them above the flames. “If you’re going to embellish, at least keep it internally logical.”
“Nobody likes a griffon who nitpicks on the grounds of mere physics, Gilda darling. Now where was I ... ? Ah, yes, that was when this entire flight of dragons entered from the cage’s side -”
“Cough,” said Fairy Floss.
The butterfly looked sullen.
“Cough,” said Fairy Floss, in a tone of voice and with an expression that in conjunction had been known to make hardened Archons cry softly with terror.
The butterfly grumpily opened its mouth and coughed, bringing up a flailing, spluttering black-coated ram in steel armour. The butterfly discorporated in a flurry of chaotic sparks, and Fairy Floss waited as the black sheep rose unsteadily to his hooves. “A full Black Company once again. Excellent,” she murmured.
“Tyrant? I - ah, I find myself somewhat behind on events.”
“Don’t we all, from time to time,” replied the Tyrant. “The Archons have been summoned for an emergency meeting in the Thousandfold Chamber; other company members should be retrieving them as we speak. Be a dear and escort your sovereign. We have much catching up to do. And so much preparation to be done.”
“Bullwalda, with all respect, we’ve never bound ourselves to the west, to Equestria and Asinia, in such a manner. Loose pacts of convenience, yes, upon occasion, such as during the last Corvid Incursion. But these sorts of premature bindings … it flies in the face of our independence. Your sovereignty. If Bovaland is ever in a place to be dictated to ...”
The Royal Concubine of Bovaland, Steel Thews, a tall and strapping minotaur bull, spoke at length. The thick tapestries and carpets lining the royal bedchamber swallowed the sound, kept all discussions discreet, and muffled the sound of the rain outside. The Royal Consort, Goldtorc, a small and reserved aurochs cow, occasionally chimed in with agreement and fervent nodding.
Greenhorn ignored them both. His armour had been removed, and now rested on a stand in the room’s corner. His unburdened attention was on a cradle and its tiny calf occupant, sleeping softly under the candlelight. He occasionally reached out with his magic to rock his daughter gently.
“Please listen to Steel Thews, dear,” said Goldtorc. “The notion drives right at our very traditions. We cannot tether ourselves.”
“Even if it helps us keep our grounding?”
“Beg pardon, Bullwalda?” said Steel Thews.
“I have not decided upon this lightly, but rather in light of events today,” said Greenhorn quietly, giving the cradle another rock. “We must prepare. A snare draws around us, and to press on as we are risks it growing tight about us. The Crown grows ever-wilder. A new Cormaer threatens in the east.”
“Cormaers are the greatest calamities of the days in which they spawn, I do not dispute that,” said Steel Thews. “But her rule is new. She will need time to cohere the clans and beat the drums for war. We can yet marshal our own resources, Bullwalda. If the lords were mustered -”
“The clans are cohered. The drums have been beating since the end of the last great Corvid Incursion. And she has been negotiating with Capra, the older enemy.” Greenhorn dragged a hoof down his face and looked away from the cradle. “We will face a war on two fronts. We will need help. And I will not, in the last, go to my ancestors as the Bullwalda who lost Bovaland. Let me spare myself that shame.”
He rested a hoof on the cradle’s edge and said, in a voice so low neither Goldtorc or Steel Thews could hear. “No matter what, let me meet them with pride.”
“Forward! Forward, you sons of mothers! Take it on the points!”
Thunder clamoured in the depths as the Diamond Dog squadron advanced on the Dweller Below. The umbral creature flolloped all of its multitude of polyps at them, fires reflecting in its multifaceted eyes, and keened uncannily. Barks and yaps greeted it.
“Spears out!” barked Rex. “Fire lances!”
Spears jutted out from the tight dog phalanx, longer poles bobbing out from their midst, crowned with canisters and torches. Firedamp gas hissed out from the canisters as their bearers yanked levers, swinging the contraptions out towards the Dweller’s sides. Fire met gas, and a solid wave of heat and sound and light and fury erupted and all but blew Rex off his paws, intermingled with the perplexed toots and vwoorp-vwoorp-vwoorp sounds produced by the Dweller. Dazzled, it surged onwards towards the squadron, tentacles cutting through dimensions as it came.
“Brace! Brace!”
The whole squadron shuddered as the Dweller crashed down upon the bristling spear-heads. Sharp mithril met unspecified organic matter, and the Dweller was pushed off with one great heave, leaking uncoloured ichor from a dozen wounds. It chirped, discarded several acid-spraying protrusions in a fit of confusion, and then turned to blunder down into the depths of the tunnel.
“After it!” said Rex. Several other dogs opened cages, and armoured war-canaries took flight after the Dweller, pecking at its squamous back. Dig Dogs immediately started ploughing through the earth at their paws with cries of “Cut it off! Cut it off down below!”
“Infestations of the buggers all throughout the works!” snapped Rex’s lieutenant, slotting a new canister into a spent fire lance. “Barely took ‘em hours, amidst all the chaos!”
Despite it, Rex couldn’t help but grin.
Spare him the open sky and a pack of wittering half-wits and a berserk alicorn. Down here in the homely dark, you could trust things to be sensible.
Mirage, Vicereine of Saddle Arabia and the closest thing to anything like a competent authority figure in Saddle Arabia at any time, was withers-deep in management. So many enquiring Saddle Arabians, so many that had to be fobbed off with variations on, “I’m sure everything is being managed well by greater powers,” and “Our fate, as always, is in the hands of a psychopathic universe, Creator help us all,” and “Look, get back to your homes, you idiots! The evening sandstorm’s on its way!”
It had been hours since the magical chaos had died down, and hours more since Simoom had vanished. She was deep in the archives, calmly debating whether or not to bury herself in more work or permit a mild breakdown into panicked tears, when there came a knock on the door.
She turned, brushing quickly at her eyes, and stopped when she saw the familiar, wonderful, benignly vacant smile of her husband.
“Simoom? Simoom!” The mare rushed over to wrap him in a sudden embrace. “Where were you? I was worrying myself sick, you handsome idiot of a stallion -”
“It’s alright, dear, it’s alright. I was just out … somewhere. Equestria, I think.” Simoom kissed her and put on his best amiable smile. “Met a lot of world leaders there. Bit shouty, some of them, but I’m sure they all mean well.”
“Did … did you?” Mirage paused to consider all the possible terrible implications of this. “Simoom, darling, maybe you should sit down and tell me exactly what you said to each of them. I’ll get my notebook -”
“Just some helpful advice, here and there,” Simoom said airily. “There was more fun afterwards. I helped negotiate a ceasefire!”
“You what?”
“A partition, then.”
The stars hung silent over the meeting place between Punda and Milia, a upraised platform on the disputed border open to the elements. Several empty chairs and several empty bottles of tej shared the space with them, provided by a shuffling staff of mummified servants. One lurched over, trailing wrapping, and gurgled as they offered another bottle between their teeth; Punda took it and waved them away.
“A partition!” declared Milia. “Upper Zebrica for you, and Lower Zebrica for me. Like the two pharaohs in centuries gone by. Equal and resplendent and something-or-other.”
“Not … not permanent, though,” said Punda, who was trying and failing to stay sharp past the muddying influence of bottles of honey wine. “See, I have a plan. We settle down, right? We rule. Don’t step on each others hooves too much. And … we have firstborns! See?”
“Oh,” said Milia. “Oooh. Make the little bastards marry!”
“‘Zactly! They marry, since it’s only proper to keep royalty within the family. We die off sooner or later, and then they take the reunited Zebrican throne. Happiness all round.”
Milia nodded blithely, the wine forming a warm and comfortable cloud in his brain. Something niggled, though. “Hold on,” he said.
“What?”
“Suppose … suppose both our firstborns are colts? Or both fillies? That could play merry hell with the whole ‘siring future members of the dynasty’ thing. Bloody nobles like to raise a ruckus at the slightest lack of protocol.”
Punda sat in silence and contemplated, Milia and the stars as his audience.
“When you think about it,” he said eventually, swaying slightly, “that’s not really our problem. They'll sort something out.”
South of Ungula, the sea rolled on and on until it met the archipelago of the Burning Mountains, where the sky was painted black with smoke, the water in the sounds between the islands was cold and lifeless, and where the passages and caverns riddling the craggy islands were filled with gold.
Here Be Dragons.
It was possible - if only on the cusp thereof - to negotiate a path through the Burning Mountains, avoiding the usual circuitous trading routes to the Ceratos Sea and any other vessels one might wish to avoid. If you didn’t mind having to avoid storms and poisonous water and lava, of course. And the dragons.
Desperada had been smuggling through quick routes in the archipelago for decades now, in a little old-fashioned brig that was as hard and weather-beaten as the jenny herself. But there were still some things she could encounter here that would give her pause.
She crouched next to her daughter on the vessel’s deck, which itself rested beneath a sheltering lip of rock. In the distance, a colossal red dragon, so large that Desperada’s faint grasp of metaphors failed her utterly, perched on the side of one of the larger islands and growled as it tried to push its way down a tunnel in the surface. Said tunnel was sized for a much smaller dragon, however, and the effort was very much ongoing. Flocks of smaller dragons wheeled around in an attempt to be of use, and their roars were distant thunder.
“Ma, do we … do we help it?” said her daughter, the younger jenny cautiously cradling a heavy crossbow in her hooves. “If it’s trying to get at something in there -”
“No, Conquista. No, we do not help it. We avoid whatever this whole mess is, and we sail far away from it.”
Lord Regent Trumpeter of Ancient and Glorious Pachydermia lay behind the low desk in his office and regarded his nephew.
“And did you notice anything … unusual about the others there, Your Grace?” said Trumpeter. “Did they say anything to you that immediately sticks out in your mind?”
“Don’t know, uncle. What’s ‘unusual’?” said Sailears. He scratched one of his ears absently with his trunk. “I don’t think anyone was saying all that odd. Just all grumbling and shouting like when Court’s in session, except with more species. Nobody really stopped until the Equestrian princess went all firey and started yelling at everyone.”
Trumpeter, who had been tapping a quill pen against parchment, missed a beat. “Celestia? Yelling? Are you quite sure?”
“Yes. She was angry. Even angrier than you get sometimes. Does she do that lots?”
“I do not get angry, Sailears. I simply conduct myself so as to preserve a proper balance of humours,” said Trumpeter curtly. He controlled himself and continued. “And no. No, she doesn’t exhibit that … at all, to my immediate knowledge. She just lost control?”
“Yelled at everyone to shut up, went all firey, picked up everyone and threw them around, said something about conquering. And then a rainbow just swept through and it all just stopped. Why was that?”
Trumpeter didn’t answer, his gaze somewhere past his nephew. “I shall have to re-read the histories,” he said eventually, quietly. “This could be bad. Exceedingly bad. Pachydermia may have to take steps to control matters. I shall see who on Ungula may be receptive to a concord. If it comes down to projecting force, Asinia will certainly be an obstacle more easily removed at their end of things. I shall see.”
“What?”
“Never mind for now.” Trumpeter set his pen back to the paper, his purple magic shimmering up his tusks. “Did you speak to anyone there in any detail, Your Grace? I may have some sherbert in my desk for a bright calf who can recall an honest account.”
Sailears brightened. “I met an ibex. She was nice. I think she was a servant to someone else there, and she’d been pulled along by the -”
“Sailears, you mustn’t waste time talking to mere servants, no matter how nice they are. They have nothing useful to tell you, and it risks them thinking beyond their station. Did you speak to anyone more important?”
The little elephant considered. “I met the king of the donkeys, I think! I asked him about his fleet.”
“Oh?” Trumpeter smiled. “And what did he say about it, Your Grace? Any comparisons to our own? Any positions? Any plans?”
Sailears thought hard. “Well, he said that you could take a mast and shove it sideways up your -”
“Holy depths, you’re not seriously suggesting we pin our hopes on an expedition into the Interior?”
“We know the remains of Antlertian outposts still stand there, untouched by anything civilised since the Fall,” said the warthog delegate stoutly at the centre of the circular room. It had been one of the longest sessions of the Gazellen Congress in years, and everyone who was still upright and speaking had cultivated a certain hoarseness. “If there are any useful artefacts as yet unclaimed, that’s where they’ll be. I’m rather taken with the notion of having our own Sun Blade - or something greater - to defend ourselves with in light of today. Aren’t you?”
“Every expedition into the Interior has ended in disaster. The environment’s as hostile as anything outwith the Ungulan North. Even if there was something Antlertian to be salvaged -” said the okapi delegate.
“Failure isn’t inevitable; proper outfitting and planning is not beyond us,” the warthog replied. “There are always adventurers ready to risk themselves for a reward. Remember that pegasus that broke into that old temple in the outer jungle? She could be recruited -”
“Let’s not add a possible Equestrian agent into what could be a reasonable plan,” said the hippopotamus Grand Duke. “Does Celestia really need to possibly gain another Antlertian artefact? We do ourselves no favours by still regarding her as a benevolent force. Not now.”
“Oh, come now,” said the camel delegate. “Her whole style and manner wouldn’t let her -”
“Celestia’s style is to apparently sit on her dreams of world conquest until given something like an excuse,” said the Grand Duke. “I support this plan. Our conventional forces are not enough. We need a greater weapon. We need an unexpected edge, whatever form it might take.”
“I detect a certain hostility in the honourable Duke’s tone towards Celestia,” came a new voice. The gazelle delegate, sitting in a place of honour at one side of the room, their chair a deep shade of red.
“Does that seem so unreasonable?” said the Grand Duke. “You were there in that cage. You saw what could be unleashed, what they can bring to bear, what’s waiting. Equestria must be contained before it is too powerful to be stopped.”
“It’s more reasonable to set ourselves against that than the alternative?” said the gazelle. “So much as acquiring a weapon to wield against Equestria, even if for self-defence’s sake, will set us onto a certain trajectory. We may not like the end result.”
“We can venture into the Interior and at least attempt to arm ourselves,” said the warthog, “or we can remain defenceless. The choice is entirely ours.”
In the airy darkness of the chamber, delegates shuffled and muttered until the camel delegate sighed and rose. “Shall we put it to a vote?”
In far Ceratos, under different stars and indigo skies, the Emperor studied a foreign letter that had arrived mere moments ago. It had been carried by telegram wires and courier-fire and, for the final stretch, by palace bureaucrats. A sigil on the front presented the sea and the dawn sky. Or the dusk sky. And the sun. Or a coin.
He opened it, grimness passing like a shadow across his face. He read the contents, and was smiling by the end.
Emptiness, the philosophers said, begged for filling. A retreat, said the military tacticians, invited an advance.
“Attend us,” the Emperor said aloud. A rhinoceros servant stepped smoothly away from the throne room’s wall and kowtowed before looking up to the Emperor.
“Deliver our instruction that the Lord Ministers are to meet with us an hour earlier than scheduled on the morrow. We have several ideas we wish to see discussed, and would see them given ample time.”
The servant kowtowed once more and left. As they turned at the prescribed number of ten backwards steps, the Emperor permitted himself to smile.
It was true that Ceratos had a great many trees, a lot of metal, a lot of coastline, and a lot of catching-up to do. And it was especially true that the Emperor paid his debts with interest to spare.
Stormclouds darker than the night sky crowded out the stars over Corva, sending down wave after wave of light drizzle. They gathered, threatening thunder, and cold winds scythed through the tips of the vast forests and around the endless mountains.
At the top of a copse of titan pines, matching the mountains themselves for size, mingling branches had been woven into a rough circle. Several corvids perched around, dipping their beaks briefly into jars of whisky. A covered oil lantern dangled down at the centre, giving a measure of guttering light and something almost like warmth.
“Gie’s the clype, then,” said one of them, a lean and straggly magpie, one of her eyes murky. “Discord’s dealt wi’. Whaur’s he noo?”
“Wha can say? After all had passed, Celestia took off wi’ only a few parting words,” said the Cormaer. She was deepest into her own jar, and still steady upon the branch. “She’ll hae her own designs on him, I shouldnae wonder. Naebody after was up fer asking whit.”
“Even ye?” This from a small hooded crow next to the magpie. His tone held a hint - just a hint - of scorn.
The Cormaer was silent initially. “When the bards sing of the Battle of Dream Valley, some few dare tae sing that the Seventh Cormaer fell wi’oot a fight. He just burned.” She looked into the depths of her jar. “I believe them noo. The cuddy queen’s a force ye don’t daur meddle lightly wi’.”
“Ye dinnae mean ye’re just going tae give up, are ye?” The crow sneered. “Ye werenae acclaimed as Cormaer tae turn tailfeathers at the first hint o’ -”
“Weesht, ye shilpit gowk.” The Cormaer’s eyes narrowed. “The cuddies are as in my sights as they ayways were. As I’m sure they always were for every member of this company.”
Nods came from around the circle. A few were more hesitant than others. The Cormaer smirked and turned back to the whisky jar.
“Equestria’s still in my sights. We’re just gaunny … caw canny aboot it. I’ve approached others wi’ similar interests, we’ve had a guid blether. Arrangements are in the making. Equestria will have had its day. And we shall hae oor vengeance.”
“Others? Whit others?”
The Cormaer smiled tightly, and guttering fires danced in the darkness of her eyes.
In mountain-girded Bellbylon, it was long past curfew, and the city and central citadel were quiet. Thunder pulsed through the dark sky, muted by the enchantments plastering the fortress’s walls. Lightning tore silently through the sky. The Crown watched the storm play out, resting on a stone plinth atop an open-topped tower. Rain trickled down in rivulets around the nigh-invisible dome of force that protected the Crown.
The Crown thought. There were scarcely many other things it could do.
Today had been enlightening. So many revelations about the larger world, so many things inferred. Possible pressure points identified, who was vulnerable to whose actions, who was dependent and who wasn’t. What military forces were available where, different tricks each nation had to play. A great deal to plan with.
And diplomatic windfalls! The Crown had made an ally - an ally of convenience, certainly, who was as forfeit as any of the others come the final tally - but a formidable ally regardless. Corva had once sent a black tide thundering across all Ungula; and Capra could use that this time around. Others to be plucked, cajoled into a coalition - Celestia’s outburst could do her no favours in the medium- or long-term.
Admittedly, the Crown felt it had perhaps miscalculated in its provocations. That sort of outburst came with its own short-term disadvantages. Discord’s statue had been beyond retrieval and was now back in Equestria somewhere, most certainly beyond access. The creature could have been a good weapon, a good threat, or even another ally given enough of a soft diplomatic touch before being unleashed. Everything had its levers. You rode the chaos, rather than merely weather it. Other rulers had been cowed. No use beginning negotiations now, surely. Time would be required.
Several servants waited below the tower trapdoor in trembling silence, fleeting briefly across the Crown’s consciousness as the rankling thoughts passed by. But there’d be no need to vent this time. Today had been a good day on the whole.
Restore the Capric Empire.
The same old thought, the Crown’s heartbeat. It was a constant, and it pressed. There were days it hurt, days when progress to the goal had been stunted or avoidably delayed, days where it thundered and demanded attention to the point where the Crown vented with wild abandon, trying to lose itself in the thrill of battle, any battle. Curse its creator to the hundred hells on days like those.
But today, it was a mere satisfied whisper, almost as good as it had been back when the Asinial Dales and the far west of Bovaland had been forcibly re-annexed. Good days. Let there be many more like them.
Restore the Capric Empire.
The Crown couldn’t smile. But its jewels fleetingly blazed the colour of the sun, and that was close enough.
And in Canterlot, not a peep or grumble about the shoddy state of modern architecture was to be heard that night. At least, not from the city itself.
Alloy trotted down a set of stairs into the lower caverns of Canterlot, bearing a tea tray on one upright forehoof. Celestia had sent off the request, and although Alloy only had an approximate idea of where she’d based herself, he was sure finding it couldn’t be too hard -
The stairs wobbled and distorted around him, and Alloy found the descending stone staircase he was on vanish. He instead found himself in a small cavern, crystals glittering in the walls and plants sprouting up along the sides. Several orbs of sunlight drifted casually in the space below the high ceiling. A distressingly familiar statue sat at the centre of it all.
“Wuh?” he said, decorum briefly abandoning him.
“Ah, thank you, Alloy,” came the voice of Celestia to his left. Alloy whirled as the tea tray was plucked smoothly from his grasp by the alicorn, and quickly converted the motion into a smooth bow. He rose to see Celestia attending a row of flowerbeds, tulips sprouting up in a medley of colours from them. An ibex hovered near her, dipping a watering can over other flowering pots.
“Mind the quantities, Tundra,” said Celestia gently. “We don’t want to drown the poor things.”
The ibex immediately fell into a deep bow. “My apologies, Your Majesty, I truly didn’t intend -”
“Rise, Tundra. And please don’t worry. Earth pony magic does grant me a knack for salvaging them.” Celestia gently pushed the ibex up with a helping hoof. “Could you give the hedge on the other side another going-over with the shears? As close to straight edges as you can manage.”
The ibex rushed gratefully off, stopping only briefly as she passed by Alloy to bob a shorter bow. Alloy blinked, shrugged off the urge to bow back to her, and trotted closer to Celestia. The alicorn sipped gratefully from a cup of tea as she turned towards him. “My apologies if the stairs disorientated you, Alloy. I’ve taken the liberty of placing a memory-wiping ward on the route here so the pathway can never be exactly recalled by others. I hope that’s not too uncomfortable a prospect for you.”
“That’s quite alright, Your Majesty,” said Alloy, cursing internally. “May I enquire as to the new help?”
“Tundra?” Celestia glanced around at the busy ibex. “A … refugee of sorts. Things were said and done in a recent conference that may have brought ill upon her and her kin. Luckily, in this instance, she’s a foundling, and I was quick to offer her residency and work here. If she struggles to acclimatise, please help show her the ropes, Alloy.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Alloy looked back to the statue and the surrounding gardens. “Your Majesty … if I may be permitted a multitude of questions ...”
“Discord has been contained once again, thanks to the Element Bearers. And secured again, thanks to long-gone gem miners who needed a storage chamber,” said Celestia, smiling as she followed Alloy’s gaze. “Happily, a flaw in the previous defences was identified. Rest assured that no foals shall be permitted here without my strict supervision.”
“Ah ...”
“Please make certain parties aware of this situation, Alloy. I’m sure I don’t need to elaborate.”
“... Yes, Your Majesty.” If there was any situation more complex than being a spy, Alloy knew, it was being an exposed spy. “Is there anything else you would have expressed?”
“Reaffirm Equestria’s genuine friendship. And that we shall stand by them for whatever follows.” Celestia’s expression grew grimmer as she regarded the statue. “Frying pans and fires come to mind. I hope to navigate events with as few getting hurt as possible.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Alloy wasn’t sure how else to respond. He waited to be dismissed, but no order came. Instead, Celestia stood still, her countenance grim and creased.
“There’s a storm coming,” she murmured. “Not tomorrow. But some day, maybe sooner, maybe later. Perhaps it can be avoided, if there’s enough skill left in these old bones. If not … we shall simply batten down and bear through it as best we can. I’ve faced terrors in my time and pulled Equestria through them. Others have always helped shoulder the burden. Creator’s quill scribe it so, this time it shall not cost them dearly.”
Alloy didn’t react. Celestia kept her gaze upon Discord. “Interesting times await, at least,” she continued. “I imagine all sorts of strange alliances are in the making. Perhaps I’ll even make some of my own. We can but wait and see and act accordingly.”
She rose from her slight slump, snapping out of whatever mood had held her, and turned to smile at Alloy. “Retire for the night, Alloy. Tundra and I shall attend to the tea tray. Sleep well. The world will continue to spin.”
Alloy bowed and turned, and he heard Celestia’s soft voice at his back. “I will make sure of it, come what may.”