Death is as light as air, and law as heavy as the earth. This is the correct way.

To achieve order in the world, one must find order in the self.

My form is weak, and yearns for decay. My soul is strong, and yearns for release from the form. A time will come when I must choose between death for the sake of righteousness, and life at the cost of wrongfulness. When this time comes, I must choose death. By living each day with this in mind, the choice between death and dishonor will become no choice at all. This is the only way.

To live in accordance with the Logos, to preserve the sacred law and order, I must live as though I were dead already. I say, “I will die,” and in this truth I find the courage to do what is right, even if it costs me my life. This is the only way.

— Recitations from “The Books of Black and White”, the sacred text of the Authority

The difference in mood between the departure from the Citadel and the arrival in the Dreamweave was easy for Proximo to see. Leaving his friends in the Blogosphere had been accompanied by parades, fanfare and cheering. Speeches were given, gifts were exchanged, fond goodbyes were made.

When the Wonderbolt and its five companion ships docked in Dreamweave harbor, they found it relatively free of other ships— a few traders, some pleasure yachts from Indelio or belonging to local owners, but largely deserted. It had taken more than an hour to depart the ships, with each of the six vessels relieving itself of its passengers and luggage as well. The latter would be delivered to the Palace of Aureliano separate from its owners, taken in shifts. The former organized themselves into rows and columns and prepared to march to the palace on foot.

The Bronies moved themselves in lines of six, walking in tandem down the main street from the docks while the city watch cleared the path ahead of them. Proximo stood beside Lady Violet and the Warden of Honesty, with two rows of Honest Friends striding in front, each armed and armored in gold and orange—though with their swords sheathed at their hips.

Both the Warden of Generosity and her assistant had chosen less martial attire: a long, flowing purple dress with white accents for Lady Violet, and similarly-colored shirt, suit, and tie for Proximo. Both outfits were as finely made as they were modest in style, free of ostentatious jewelry. It had taken the better part of the evening, but in the end the two of them had decided to have their fashioned attire be modest. Too much finery or overuse of white in their clothing would not endear them to the Authority in their first meeting, as the Mods were known to use the latter in their uniforms and frown upon the former.

The thought of how enjoyable the hours of swapping ideas, changing clothes, and deciding on fashion had brought a smile to Proximo's face, but it quickly cleared it away. Walking with his friends down the path cleared for them, it was clear that now wasn't the time for grins or jokes. The crowds had been watching them intently since they stepped off the ships, hundreds of glassy eyes following each of the Bronies closely as they made their way through.

“Clear a path!” one of the city guards in the front yelled to the mass of people poured into the path ahead, “Out of the way, all of you! City watch!” The leading guardsmen were shoving their way through, pushing the crowds to either side of the road and brandishing cudgels to let the escort through, but most of the people blocking the way cleared away when they saw the uniforms they wore. Those that remained stood on the sidewalks to the left and right of the cobbled streets, watching the procession.

It was strange to see how different the reactions were. A few laughed and waved, though they didn't get any response: obviously those ones saw a certain humor in the situation, or didn't care much for the gravity of it. More than a few seemed less amiable: stares and glares, scowls, whispers, harsh words, a few drunken shouts. It was to be expected, given where they were and why they were there. But most were nothing of the sort. On a corner, Proximo could see a gaggle of well-dressed men, likely nobles. Looking to his left, there was a baker carting hot trays. On the right was a storefront with a bored-looking owner inside, and in front of that was a mother with three children around her. And when Proximo saw their eyes on him, there wasn't humor, hatred, or fear. Curiosity, perhaps, but more ambivalence than anything else. It's just another day to them, Hart thought. Well, maybe a slightly stranger one, but still.

A certain feeling of tension was still palpable, however. Since stepping off the ship to begin the long walk, their party would march forward several yards, before encountering a crowd that the city watch would force out of the way. But every time they pressed on, the crowd would close the gap behind them, swallowing all of them inside the mass of pushing, straining people like an island in a human sea. And every so often, they would enter a more narrow portion of the street and the circle around them would tighten, forcing the the border made by the guards to push closer and closer still towards the captive Bronies.

Once or twice, a man would push his way to the edge and begin screaming or threatening to throw a bottle or rock at the closest Honest Friend. The friend's hand would twitch around their sword-hilt, but then the rabble would be pushed away, and the rows would start to move. Citizen, guard, and friend alike were becoming more anxious, more fearful, more claustrophobic by the moment; Proximo prayed they would reach the clear soon, before it could erupt into something worse.

And with every step they took, a building in the distance loomed ever nearer. Proximo had seen it in the harbor, something shining yellow and red on the horizon. At the end of the main road leading from the docks, on top of a hill that saw across the entire city, the Palace of Aureliano stood as old and proud as the last time the assistant been in the Dreamweave. A long manse of brick, glass, and bronze, the house of the Martes had stood vigil over its builder's city since it was constructed so many years ago. It caught the light of the sun like nothing else, gleaming above the petty homes and roads below like a lantern planted on the highest hill.

Proceeding down the Way, it became clearer as they approached: two rectangular, multi-floored wings on the left and right, connected in a concave shape to an even larger building in the center; with great pillars covered in bronze plates in the front and a staircase going down the middle to the streets. Proximo Hart had seen the Palace several times in the past, and even been invited inside once, but never before had he been so apprehensive of it—though whether that was due to how foolish he had been when he had last come, or some paranoia he had gained in his later years, he could not say.

Finally, after what seemed to be a long time, they managed to push their way into a large plaza that led to several diverging streets, flanked on all sides by shops and houses. Most of them were made of wood and brick with a smattering of concrete foundations and pillars here and there, and many had small, unlit paper lanterns hanging upon their windows and balconies.

But as colorful as it was, there was a feeling about much of city that Proximo couldn't shake: one of decay. Paint was chipped off the side of homes and wood was left to rot, the once bright letters and designs ornamenting the sides of the taverns were faded and worn down to bare, the very stone of the street beneath them was cracked and filled with shoots of grass that no one had bothered to maintain.

In the center was a fountain with a statue that read “Our Founder” beneath it, with the wise-looking marble figure wearing a handsome robe and pointing proudly at the Palace he had made. But the only water in the fixture was stagnant and sallow, and parts of its sides had been chipped away without repair. Both statue and fountain were white, but it was obvious from the small pools of residue that they had only recently been repainted, likely to cover up graffiti. The buildings themselves seemed to sag under their weight, like an aging man becoming heavy-set and exhausted as the years pushed down on him.

People had come out onto their balconies and storefronts to coo at the passing Bronies, but with fewer people crammed into the main plaza than the narrow streets of Aureliano's Way, they were able to ignore them and make good progress while circling around the fountain to continue on their path. This plaza was the last intersection before the Palace itself: at the north end was a separate road that led to cast-iron gates with the letter A and M on either side, then another pair of gates beyond that.

At each point, a dozen guards stood watch, wearing the same uniforms as those escorting the Brony group: red coats covered in chain-mail that slid over yellow shirts underneath, with bronze plates sewn onto both the chest and the half-helms on their heads. Proximo could see their eyes on him when he passed, some vigilant and others seeming bitter. Hart tried to avoid eye-contact as he passed the first gate, but glanced after the group was through: the guards were still looking after them intently, and he could see money being exchanged between a few of them as they relaxed from their stations.

Up a set of stairs, they came to the second gate. It was taller than the first, topped with sharp spikes and with the design of a winged tiger on the doors. After they swung open, the rows of six marched again up and up the staircase, coming ever closer to the Palace. Every other step had a guard on both sides, armed with long spears and sheathed swords, whom the rows had to pass by to reach the top. The city watch's presence was clearly making some of the group uncomfortable: Caleb appeared to be sweating his entire body weight, Theosyrius seemed to be coughing more than was necessary, and several of the Honest Friends had hands hovering just slightly away from the weapons at their belts.

Finally, they reached the top. Proximo knew that, had he looked behind him, he would have had a clear view across the city to the ships they had crossed the Painted Sea upon, with their blue sails still billowing in the wind. But his vision stayed fixed upon the door. Two heavy-set, oaken barriers stood in front of them, crossed with lines of iron and closed shut. The design on the front of it was the same as the previous two gates: a tiger with an eagle's wings, snarling fiercely, with the letters AM at every corner. There was a phrase etched in gold letters at the top, but it was printed in Scriptspeak, and Proximo hadn't the time to translate it before the doors groaned open and they were bid to enter.

The guards filed in first, and the Bronies followed behind, compressing their rows to fit inside the doorway. They stepped carefully into a large, long hall, decorated with fine-made rugs, bracing pillars and swirling designs upon the walls and stain-glass windows. The inside was filled with people, lined up along the sides of the entrance in droves to see the curious visitors: nearly all were well-dressed gentlemen and ladies, gaping at the arrivals and murmuring among themselves as Proximo and the others walked past. They seemed interested in the entire party that was marching through the Palace, but Proximo noticed that many were staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the Warden of Honesty, pointing at his massive frame and turning to each other urgently. Some of the nobles here might have never even seen a servant of the Collective before, so Proximo could only imagine that seeing one over seven feet tall and armed for battle was even more surprising.

At the end of the hall, there was a raised dais complete with two separate floors, three seats on the first level and three seats on the second, all of which were behind covered tables that would expose only the shoulders and heads of those who sat behind them. The bottom table was adorned with two banners draped over the sides: a black flag, with a white shield in the center and, in the center of that, a black hammer—the austere symbol of the Moderator Authority. No doubt this was where the representatives from Central would be seated.

Before traversing too much of the hall, Lady Violet gestured her hand in the air. Seeing the signal given, all of the fifty-four Honest Friends attending them (save for the Warden) stopped in place and sharply turned inward. Taking a step back, the orange guards allowed the Wardens and the diplomats in the center to proceed on their way to the front. Lady Violet had thought that perhaps approaching their judges with a fully-armed escort surrounding them would send the wrong impression, and after some debate she had convinced Honesty the same. Moving on their own, the remaining friends moved further down the carpet to the end, passing pillar after pillar on the way.

Finally, they stopped before the platform. Behind it was a large portrait that presumably depicted Aureliano the First, the rich robes and wise weathered face of its subject resembling the statue they had encountered in the plaza below. Beneath that was an alcove, containing a marble statue of the same winged tiger they had all seen throughout the Palace and the city. They stood in front of the seats for a moment, but it did not take long for someone to emerge. A door on the left opened, and the crowds turned to face the two figures that emerged.

First was a woman, and a beautiful one at that. Long, dark hair hung down gracefully from her head, only slightly dropping in front of her thin, mischievous-looking eyes. Her skin was slightly less tan than Proximo or Lady Violet's, and she had a somewhat longer nose than some, but it complimented her face in such a way that it only served to make her more attractive.

The other one to emerge was a man, delicately holding her hand and trailing behind her. He did not truly compare to his companions' looks: though not ugly in any sense or even truly plain, his eyes were shallow and his face seemed to have an unsightly droop to it. His hair was the same style as hers, but cut much closer—Proximo could not help but notice the similarity to the style worn by the Aureliano in the portrait behind him. The man's chin was slightly weaker than that of the woman's sharp features, and he had made no attempt to cover it with facial hair, remaining entirely clean-shaven.

Both wore exquisite robes: not the modest ones used in the Citadel or the rough-spun habits of the Authority, but gorgeous silk-upon-silk, perfectly fitted and colored with overlapping yellow and bronze-red. Fine jewels were heaped on both of them, forcing both of them to take effort not to jingle as they walked past the front to take their seats in the top row.

A guard in the corner stamped the butt of his spear on the ground and called out. “All see! All see the most high and noble Lord Aureliano Martes, the third of his glorious name! Lord of the Dreamweave, Archon of the Island, First Commander of the Armed and First Sailor of our Seas, Light of the City, Friend-Servant of the Moderator Authority, and One of Gifted Lineage!” he cried to the crowd. “All see his wife and love, Lady Pilara Martes, formerly of the Blurr, now of the Dreamweave and the joy of our people. Long may they live, long may they reign!” He stamped his spear again and the hall repeated the last wish of his call, though Proximo and his friends remained silent.

The Lord and Lady of the Dreamweave gently lowered themselves in the middle and left seats of the uppermost level—whomever was customarily seated on the right was obviously not in attendance today. Lord Aureliano took the moment to turn his drooped face down onto the thirteen colorful ambassadors below him, posturing himself to look as far down his nose as possible with a distinct frown.

Lady Pilara had her face towards her husband, but her eyes were down on the Bronies as well, and a small smile graced her lips. It may have seemed more courteous than her husband, but there was something unnerving about the smile: no warmth came along with the way she turned her mouth, and Proximo could not shake the impression of a cat overlooking the day's choice vermin. She took her husband's hand and said something in his ear that made him soften slightly and smile at her, all while keeping her eyes on the people before her.

Lord Aureliano seemed as though he were about to speak, when another man called out. Dressed in black and white, he clenched his left fist and raised it to his right shoulder, before crying out, “All attend to the honorable judges, the Lord Moderator Dyren Halforth, Knight Arbiter Borlund Barr, and Knight Censor Alwin Cameron!” Then, a separate door in the back of the room opened beside the guard, and the three Moderators filed in one-by-one.

From the descriptions that Proximo had heard, the first could only have been Sir Borlund. To be fair, he wasn't that fat: pudgy in the face, with a keg of a belly that struggled to remain inside his robes, but it likely would have been more excessive had he not been a Moderator, expected to lead an ascetic life. He had prominent jowls hanging from his red cheeks, and a combination of thick mustache and thinning hair that seemed to have gone white before their time: Proximo guessed his age at only mid-forties, despite looks to the contrary. A pair of small, brown eyes sat sunken into his large head, squinting around as he walked across the room.

The next was Alwin Cameron, much younger and the complete opposite physically. The young man's face was plain, a small head stuck on a long neck stuck on a gangly body, and a reedy frame of stick-thin arms and legs that loomed over Sir Borlund—six feet tall at least. He stumbled clumsily as he walked out of the door to take his seat in the left-most chair, his large eyes darting about the room anxiously.

From the stories, Proximo might have expected someone taller. The Lord Moderator was of only middling height, though he stood utterly straight and upright as he walked into the hall. When he showed his face, the first thought that came to mind was the image of some bird-of-prey: a long, crooked nose, sharp chin, and small, flinty, gray eyes that had the cold shine of an avian predator. His features were harsh, lined, and weathered from years of experience and asceticism, the product of long fasts and long campaigns in enemy lands, deprived of luxury and necessity alike.

The robes afforded to him by his office were, for the most part, pitch-black, a robe that folded across his chest and hung down to his shins. Only the ends of the habit were white, along with the edge of the fold that pinned below his collarbone and the white cloth that wrapped around his waist. Tucked into the cloth-belt was a small black gavel, the symbol of his office. Like most Moderators, he wore a pair of tight-fitted gloves on his hands and a wide-brimmed, flat-topped hat on his head, all black as well. The two Knights accompanying him had similar uniforms, but ones with far more white than Lord Halforth's: a sign of their lower rank in the Authority. Both turned to face their superior, and repeated the guard's salute by clenching their fist and bringing it to their shoulder as Halforth entered the room, while the Bronies, the Martes, and most of the attendees bowed.

Halforth did not acknowledge them, and instead walked calmly to the middle seat on the row given to the Moderators, sat down, and steepled his fingers. Without a word, he looked intensely at the people assembled in front of him, scanning over every face, every hair, every detail. Then his eyes fixed on the Wardens—if he had the same surprise regarding the Warden of Honesty's appearance that the nobles had, he did not show it. After a moment of silence, Proximo realized that they were expected to speak.

In the Citadel, Lady Violet rarely felt the need for a formal announcement of her name and rank, but this was the Painted Sea, and here men were given respect as according to their prestige. If the Martes had a slew of titles, so must the Wardens, or they would not be seen as equals. So it was when Proximo Hart stepped forward to deliver the introduction to the court.

“Presenting the Lady Warden of Generosity, Violet Brushshape,” he called, careful to measure the confidence of his voice. “Champion of Charity, Shaper of Dreams, One of Gifted Lineage, Servant of Faust and Thiesson and the Six and One, the Eternal Generous Hand and the Lady of Diamonds.”

Lady Violet stepped forward from the line, bowing to the Lord Moderator before returning to her place. Proximo then spoke again. “Presenting the Lord Warden of Honesty,” he said, “Champion of Trust, Shield of the Collective, Commander of the Brony Guard Forces, Servant of Faust and Thiesson and the Six and One, the Eternal Honest Eye and the Lord of Apples.”

For a moment, the Warden did not react. Then he stepped forward, turned his head to Lord Halforth, and stepped back just as suddenly. Proximo fought the urge to wince, and imagined that Lady Violet did too. He didn't bow, Hart thought, would it have been so hard to bow? They hadn't even spoken properly with the Lord Moderator, and his misgivings with the Warden of Honesty were already starting.

Lord Halforth stared intensely at the two and continued his silence. Proximo realized why. We are fewer than he expected, the assistant realized as he remembered Lord Feylen's plan. Halforth was indeed expecting all six Wardens to arrive, not just Violet and Honesty: Proximo could only hope that the gamble paid off.

The Moderator's hawkish eyes flickered, then he dismantled the steeple of his hands. “This investigation,” he said in a refined Centrellian accent, “begins now. You stand to defend the two members of your fandom from charges of the murder or conspiracy to commit the murder of Sir Harald Corey of the Order of the Guided Hand and his squire, Dale Linesend. You have also been accused of taking part in said conspiracy by Lord Aureliano. Have you anything to say before our proceedings formally begin?”

It was a straightforward answer, and Halforth seemed to appreciate that. He nodded, then stood. “We are dismissed for now. I will speak with you privately, Brony Wardens, in the other room. Bring whomever you feel requires my attention. Martes, follow me as well.” He then turned and walked briskly to the room he came from, while his two companions looked to one another and followed after.

The rest of the room broke into whispers and murmurs as the Martes bestirred themselves and walked slowly out. People began to leave as Lady Violet turned to the rest of them. “I shall stay and speak with Lord Halforth and the rest. Honesty, it would be unseemly if the other Warden wasn't by my side, so you'll come with me. The rest of you can go, if you like: follow the guards to your quarters.”

They bowed and filed away, preparing to be led away to their respective rooms. Proximo prepared to join them when Lady Violet took his arm. “And where does my assistant think he's going?” She smiled. “If I'm to face the fearsome Dyren Halforth, will you leave me unattended?”

The three of them walked into the small room on the side. It appeared to be a sitting room, though it seemed substantially less comfortable when Lord Dyren Halforth was standing in the center of it. Proximo could see up close that his once dark hair had gone almost entirely gray from his age, though the black hat Halforth wore covered most of it. His cheeks were hollow, his frame rod-thin, and his uniform immaculate. Behind him were the two other Moderators: Sir Borlund seemed to bristle as the three entered the room, bushy mustache turning with a scowl, while Sir Alwin was fixed wide-eyed on the Warden of Honesty.

“The horse-lovers have arrived, your honor,” said Sir Borlund. His voice was gruff, and not lacking in contempt as he looked angrily at the three. Halforth was speaking with Aureliano, but turned his attention to Lady Violet when he saw them enter.

“Spare me your pleasantries horse-lover, they will do you no good here,” the lord cut in. As Proximo tried to prevent his face from going red, the Moderator quickly turned back to Lady Violet. “You are younger than I expected.”

“I trust you are experienced enough to understand the gravity of these accusations?”

“A peaceful envoy, cut down in a peaceful city,” someone said in a rich voice. It was Pilara Martes, stepping out from her husband's side: the Lord Moderator had not asked for her presence, but it seemed that Aureliano's wife went where she pleased. She gave another cat-like smile. “Your rebels and fanatics have tried to steal my husband's home, but even I was shocked by the cowardice of brave Sir Harald's murder.”

Her husband nodded, his yellow-gold chains jingling as he did. “Cowardice, yes cowardice. I'll see that justice is dealt for it, mark my words.”

“Lord and Lady Martes,” Violet answered with every courtesy, “I don't believe we had a chance to speak until now. It is good to meet you, at last.”

“Enough,” Lord Halforth said. He betrayed no emotion in his voice, but one could tell his irritation at the exchange. “I believe I asked you a question, Brony.”

“The gravity is entirely understood, my lord. And I can assure you, our innocence of such a grave crime will be proven in short order.”

“If you value your continued existence, you should hope so.” Halforth's gray eyes were piercing as he stared at Lady Violet. “If you or they are found guilty, the sentence is death. So it is written.”

The threat made the Warden of Honesty stir. His mouth turned to a scowl as he looked down on the Lord Moderator, until Lady Violet shot him a quick glance that made him relax his stance. Lord Halforth noticed nonetheless, and walked over to the giant. Though the Warden towered over him, the Moderator looked at him the same as he did everyone, without the slightest hesitation. “You are the Warden of Honesty?” he asked.

“I heard some fool say you were a demon.” Halforth looked up and down the thick armor covering the Warden's body. “You are certainly taller than most.”

The gray eyes squinted. “Ordinarily, men refer to me as 'Your Honor' or 'My Lord'.”

Proximo was sweating when Lord Halforth leaned in closely to the Warden, staring directly into his single gold eye. “Do you normally talk this much?” he asked with a scrutinizing glare.

The Warden of Honesty bore down, and stared back at the Lord Moderator. “Yes.”

The two simply looked at one another for a time, completely silent, until Lord Halforth turned. “We may get along,” he said, and then walked away.

He strode over to a table in the center of the room and rested his hand on it. “You and the rest of your people are confined to the Dreamweave until this investigation concludes,” he said to Lady Violet. “You may walk freely within the city, but both the city watch and my Authority Peacekeepers will be watching closely. Your investigation team will report to Sir Depravity Blair so they can learn about the details of this case today, then they may begin their inquiries. They will be allowed to collect evidence and testimony to prove your innocence and will be given a certain leave throughout the city—within reason.”

Sir Borlund huffed. “They should be in cells, your honor, along with their 'friends'.”

Lord Aureliano nodded. “Yes, I won't have them polluting my city further. This is my city, I thought we had discussed th—"

"You discussed it. Regularly,” Lord Halforth replied contemptuously, “I, however, agreed to nothing then and will agree to nothing now. The mere fact that you accused them means little, and they will be given a chance to disprove those claims during this investigation. That is the law, and justice does not bend for this man or that. Keep that in mind.”

Borlund crossed his meaty arms, and Aureliano pursed his lips, but the two said nothing more. Lady Violet bowed. “Understood, my lord. My honest friend,” she said to the other Warden, “could you perchance speak with your investigation team and inform them of their duties for today?”

The Warden of Honesty nodded, sharply turned, and immediately walked out, orange-gold cape billowing behind him. Lord Halforth's eyes followed intensely as the giant ducked his head beneath the doorway and exited.

Even after Honesty left, Halforth continued to stare after the departing Warden. “Where in the Web did you find that creature?” he asked incredulously. “He looks like a galleon with legs.”

“My honest friend joined the Collective himself, for his own reasons, my lord,” replied Violet.

“I would like to hear that story for myself, in time. A pity, though: someone that fearsome would be of great use to a more practical organization. The Knight Prefects, perhaps.” He seemed to consider that for a moment, then turned away from the door. He waved a hand to his two fellow Moderators. “You already heard the names of Sir Borlund and Sir Alwin, I imagine. That tedium we just went through made them near impossible to avoid.”

“Hello,” Sir Alwin said meekly to the Bronies, raising a hand in greeting. When he realized that perhaps waving wasn't the appropriate greeting, he tried to recover by bracing his shoulder in a salute. The knight was likely older than Proximo, but his gawkish appearance and robes that appeared too small on his long limbs made it difficult to take the man seriously—the assistant thought it amazing that he managed to secure a knighthood at all, family connections or not.

“Well met, sir,” Lady Violet said with a kind smile and a bow. The knight seemed to appreciate it and gave an abrupt bow of the head in return. “And to you as well, Sir Borlund.”

Borlund snorted and turned his face to her. “Trying to cover your deviancy with false courtesy? Typical horse-lover trash, playing nice instead of speaking like real men. Your honor, I'd like to take my leave from this.”

Lord Halforth glared. “What you like or dislike is irrelevant, Barr. You will take your leave when I say you do, and until that moment you will recall where your station is on this assignment.” He took the moment, however, to pull a cheap, plain pocket-watch from the sleeve of his robes, and glanced at the time. “It would seem, however, that you may have your wish, sir. With all the time that idiocy in the hall took up, I am behind my schedule for the day. I will bid you good day for now, Lady Violet.”

“There are fewer of you here than there should be. Do not try to play with my words again, or you will regret doing so.” His eyes were very cold. Somehow, they reminded Proximo of another man. “As I said, good day.”

The Lord Moderator tipped his hat, folded his arms behind his back, and quietly walked out. The way his robe trailed behind him, he seemed to almost glide as his stepped past the Martes and out the door. The two other Moderators followed behind like ducklings, with Borlund refusing any eye-contact as he stomped out. Sir Alwin glanced hesitantly at the Bronies, and then did the same. Lord Aureliano was left giving a unpleasant look to Lady Violet, until his wife smiled and took his arm. “Come my love, let's leave these two to their plotting. I'm sure Lady Violet has much to discuss with her boy-pet,” Lady Pilara said as she led him out.

Lady Violet gave another courteous bow, but Proximo could see that her eyes were unamused. “I do not care for her,” she said mildly after the two had left.

“I'm not sure any of them inspire confidence, my lady,” Proximo replied. It was the first time he'd spoken up since Lord Moderator silenced him, and he was still grappling with the mistake. Fool, he thought, obviously the Lord Moderator wouldn't care for honeyed courtesies. Anyone could tell that from how he dressed. Stark, bleak, a pure uniform without ornament or display of any kind. Anyone could see that it belonged to a man who had no time for hollow words or pretty ceremony. He would have to do better next time, for his friend’s sake—and Lady Violet's. “She does seem rather disagreeable though, doesn't she?”

“That's not necessarily the word I would use, Mister Hart. But the preferred term is not fit for proper society.” She turned to her assistant. “How do you feel?”

“Fine,” he lied. “Foolish,” he sighed. “I'm sorry about what happened when I was speaking to the Lord Moderator, I should ha—“

“That? Proximo, please.” She put a hand on her waist and cocked her head. “It was a split error, and one that anyone could make. Don't fret yourself about it now, when we have more important things to keep in mind.” Her hand went to his shoulder, and she smiled reassuringly.

He gave an embarrassed smile in return. “Thank you, my lady.” His mind clear, Proximo thought to the rest of the meeting. “He seemed to accept Lord Feylen's gamble, at least.”

“Yes, not that it wasn't a close thing. You could have peeled paint with that stare of his.” She shook her head. “Still, it seems like Mars' intuition was right. Lord Halforth seems committed to starting this investigation without delay.”

“Fine for us. The sooner we start, the sooner we can leave the Martes behind us with our friends in tow.”

Lady Violet laughed. “Now that is a plan I can support wholeheartedly, Mister Hart. Come on, then; we should see to what kind of rooms they've allowed us here.”

Diligent as always, Proximo Hart followed close behind. Truthfully, he was curious to see what kind of quarters he would have as well. After the reception they had received, he wouldn't be surprised to find himself in the kennels.

Servants of the Authority are expected to perform recitations every day—once at dawn, once at noon, and once at dusk—as part of a daily ritual to remind them of their purpose. There are hundreds of these simple phrases and sayings, all recorded in the Books of Black and White, and by repeating them at set times each day the Authority hopes that their followers will never forget their duties and responsibilities, both to the Logos and the preservation of justice. To the Authority, every person in the world has a purpose and a place, and people require constant reminders of their own role in life.

The Bronies of the Collective have a practice not unlike this, which is designed for much of the same purpose. A Brony is expected, every day, to spend time immersing themselves in the glory of the fandom— appreciating its art and music and poetry, reading the words of their friends, and contributing to this institution however they can. Through this quiet contemplation, a Brony can be reminded of the wonders of the fandom, and what their own task in upholding it is. For harmony states that everyone has a reason to be, and will have a time to fulfill this reason.

The World Within the Web

by Lord Max

Chapter XIII: Here on the Moon