The Spark that Ignited the World
Synovial leaned against the large map table, dark purple eyes scanning over the terrain and figures. His horn glowed as he made a minor adjustment to his fez; it was the only non-standard part of his Hive Marshal uniform. The long, flowing black coat with popped collar and bright lapel worked well with it, he believed. The proud silver trident was emblazoned with a dark red, the same color as his fez.
“How much more can we shift to the north?” Synovial asked aloud. His Herzlander was a pleasant drawl.
“We’ve already brought out the 23rd and 24th Strike Divisions,” one of his adjutants replied. Synovial did not remember her name, nor did he care to learn it. The Hive Marshal nodded.
“Good. Add the 25th to them. I want-”
“Sir,” another changeling interrupted. He smoothed a hoof over a close-cut black shirt and frowned around his fangs. “Dispatch from General Elvir.”
“Has he cornered the filly?” Synovial spared a quick glance at the Duskwood. “Once she’s finished, strike the Celestial Plain. They’ve left themselves exposed.”
The messenger licked his fangs. “She’s trying to surrender, sir. She’s encircled.” He tapped a hoof on the forest.
The small, two-story cottage west of the Duskwood Forest quieted. It was once part of some tiny pony village, but the Commissariat had relocated the population to one of the major factory hubs years ago. The village still served its purpose well; it was close enough to command the battle, but far enough away from the bombers.
Changelings pulled their headsets off and nudged each other away from their radios and messages. Synovial’s ears twitched at the sounds of his commanders reporting in from exposed earpieces. He savored the room with a rare smile, then propped himself up with a hoof. “Repeat that?”
“She’s begging,” the younger messenger clarified. “The General is waiting for your response.”
“Kill her,” Synovial said bluntly, “then move to the plain.”
“The Queen wants her alive,” the blue-armored Queen’s Guard interjected from his corner in an angry tone. Synovial did not know his name, either, and he especially did not care to learn it.
“My cousin can take it up with me once the battle’s won,” Synovial responded dryly. “I am not devoting resources to dragging her off the field. She’ll have to be content with the alicorn’s corpse.”
The messenger nodded and the chatter from the radios resumed. Synovial spared once last look at the Duskwood. Begging? he laughed to himself with a clack of his fangs. Pathetic, but typical. He returned his focus to the north.
Several minutes later, he called out, “Is she dead yet?”
“Diverted more shells to them, Hive Marshal,” the original messenger answered, sticking his head up from the radio. “Shield’s up, but she’s no longer moving.”
Synovial scoffed. “Break the shield and smear her into paste.”
The changeling nodded and lowered his head. After a second, he poked his head back up. “The General says she’s crying,” he added with smirking fangs.
Synovial gave a rare smile, and an even rarer chuckle. “Tell Elvir I’ll buy him a drink. What’s your name?”
“Keldren, sir.”
“You’re welcome to join us,” Synovial promised.
Keldren buzzed his wings and sat down again joyfully.
I just made your career, Synovial smirked. An eye lazily scanned the forest.
There were a lot of small figures on it, from the reserves, to the support units sheltering from the air attack, to the trucks and supply lines diverted towards the encircled Princess. He traced her progress with purple eyes, watching how she had fled one supply camp and traveled further into the Duskwood, deeper into the center of the forest. She was utterly cut-off and far away from any reinforcements.
Synovial clicked his fangs at the units pulled off from the Celestial Plain, including General Elvir’s armored brigade and what was left of the entrenched guns. The Hive Marshal saw how the aborted retreat and ambush turned into a mad dash to chase her down and corner her, and how several supply lines converged around her position. She couldn’t have picked a worse spot.
A memory came to him: A sobbing, ten-year-old filly approached her mother, wanting nothing more than to go home. She was utterly wretched and pathetic with an inhibitor ring on her horn, and her emotions burned bright in the Aquileian Parliament. Her muzzle even trailed snot as her mother pulled her into a hug, and the filly’s sharp horn tucked under her taller mother’s muzzle…
“No,” Synovial gasped aloud. He placed his hooves on the map and leaned over it with buzzing wings. His eyes swept over the figures in the forest, remembering how her large wings curled around her mother’s legs to hold her in place, how pathetic she neighed snottily, and then the rush of blood as the horn tip rammed upward.
“C-can we go home now, Mom?”
“No!” the Hive Marshal screeched.
The other changelings in the room twisted around to see him heaving atop the table. Synovial locked eyes with Keldren. “Get them out!” he screamed. “Pull them back!”
The changeling removed an earpiece. “Sir?” he asked in complete bewilderment.
“Tell Elvir to fall-”
A bright light flashed through the cottage windows to the east. There was a sound, a soft pop that somehow echoed like a thunderclap. The golden flash faded in an instant.
And then the wave hit. A sheer wall of magic, the concussive shockwave from a spell, slammed into the cottage. The windows shattered. Changelings and their equipment were thrown against the west wall with enough force to crack chitin. Synovial was blown back from his table, flung through the window behind him before he could even buzz his wings.
He landed several meters away, rolling to a stop along a cracked, overgrown cobblestone street. For several moments, he thought he was dead. But then the pain registered and he heaved himself upright.
His fez was missing, and his sleek jacket smoked with blue embers. Synovial coughed and felt a chipped fang with his forked tongue. He coughed again as he staggered back to his command center.
The old wooden door had been blasted off by a flung changeling, and Synovial was reminded of the Canterlot Wedding as he stared blankly at the village. His entire command staff had been thrown clear from their positions, all except Keldren and the Queen’s Guard. Radio equipment had pinned them to the wall, and the large pool of blood spreading underneath them indicated they were dead.
Synovial limped through the puddle and exited out the annihilated front door. He gazed east, then collapsed onto his knees. Some ‘ling rushed forward in burning coat, shouting something, but he didn’t hear them. The Hive Marshal only stared; his proud lapel frayed off the top of his coat collar, smoldering into ash.
Chrysalis, the Queen of the Changelings and Empress of Equus, chose the trophies along her left wall first. Her long, holed legs stalked over to the shelf, and her gnarled horn glowed with gentle green light as she pulled the curtain back. Chrysalis smiled with sharp fangs at the four crowns, then raised her wine glass and took a small sip.
“This is excellent,” she said to the wine glass. “Where was this gathered, again?”
“Bales, my Queen,” Vaspier Orn Kladisium answered. The yellow-eyed changeling pulled his coat closed, shivering slightly from the cold wind blowing in from the balcony.
Chrysalis, completely naked in her suite atop her tower, waved a wide gossamer wing to the roaring fireplace. “I won’t tolerate you falling ill,” she warned.
“I don’t intend to stay long, my Queen,” Vaspier assured her. “The initial reports were correct. The Reich is weak, and the Riverlands will seize the opportunity. After we win.”
“Do I detect doubt, Vaspier?” Chrysalis said mockingly. “They are led by a cub and filly. How goes my agents?”
Vaspier sighed, probably from the chill. “The dogs watch Grover too closely, and I have agents near the pony camp.” He hesitated. “This would be easier if-”
“I want her alive,” Chrysalis interrupted with a sudden frown. She turned away from the black crowns and glared down at Vaspier. “She doesn’t get to die easily.”
“The Alicorn of Death is already reckless,” Vaspier answered, using the name his agents spread through the Changeling Lands and hopefully beyond. “There is a high chance she’ll die in the field.”
“I want her alive,” Chrysalis repeated. “I have said it twice. There will not be a third time.”
“As you say, my Queen,” Vaspier bowed.
“You missed your chance with Starlight Glimmer,” Chrysalis hissed the name, “and Trixie Lulamoon and Thorax.” The last name was an open snarl. “If you cannot take her alive, say so. I have let you try for years with no result.”
“I can do it,” Vaspier promised.
Chrysalis licked her fangs as she judged his honesty, then buzzed a wing in dismissal. “Leave. I await my reports from the front.”
The spymaster trotted out hurriedly. Once he was gone and the Queen’s Guard shut the doors behind him, Chrysalis turned to the only other occupant in the room. She took another sip from her wine glass.
“Where are you from, again?” Chrysalis asked the maid. The small changeling was in a black uniform with white frills. She did not look up at her Queen.
“Soryth, my Queen,” the maid answered.
Chrysalis hummed. “Who ruled that one again?” she asked languidly.
“You do, my Queen,” the maid said quietly. “You always have.”
“Good answer,” Chrysalis complimented her, “but I believe it was Yaria, was it not?”
“I don’t know that name, my Queen,” the maid said in Herzlander.
Chrysalis replied in the old tongue. “You’ll go far in my service.”
The maid did not reply.
“Oh, you’ll go very far,” Chrysalis laughed. She waved a hoof at the black crowns. “The one to the far left was hers,” she said in Herzlander. “You may dust it off first, if you wish.”
Chrysalis left the maid and stalked to the trophies on her right wall, namely the line of armor stands and one obsidian stool. The fireplace crackled. Chrysalis stopped between a set of purple crystal barding and a set of gilded Royal Guard armor. Crowns rested on shelves above them, two crystal, two gold, and one silver.
“I hear your daughter has armor,” Chrysalis spoke aloud to the stallion’s set of armor. “I’ll be sure to put it between you.” She turned to the purple barding. “And if you’re lucky, dear Cadenza, I’ll even put you together in cocoons. Was it worth it? Dying for them?”
She looked up to the crowns. There was an empty spot above the obsidian stool. “Her crowns aren’t very nice,” she admitted, “but I do like to complete a collection.” She walked along the row, passing Twilight Sparkle’s absurd coronation dress, then Celestia and Luna’s carcanets. They were spares, but the silver and gold gleamed in the light from the fireplace, polished to a shine.
Chrysalis walked to her open balcony and let the wind blow through her wavy green mane. Her slit eyes danced with delight as she took another sip of the love-infused wine. It truly does taste better, nothing like that synthetic stuff Marsilio attempted. Some griffons believed that suffering tempers the soul, but it apparently applied to love and wine as well.
Vesalipolis, the beating heart of the Changeling Hegemony, stretched out before her tall tower. The factories hummed and sang. Tall black spires, none as tall as her tower, stretched into the sky as changeling buzzed from balconies and worked. The streets below were filled with cars, including many luxury Equestrian models. Chrysalis’ bright green slits skipped over the ration lines and closed-down buildings near downtown.
The large Pink Tumor to the north was still an eyesore, but the Crystal Heart had always been a fickle thing. Once the war in the south was resolved, her Heer could deal with it. It wouldn’t matter. After today, everything would work out.
“This is going to be perfect,” the Queen sighed to herself.
A flash lit up the eastern horizon, just for a moment. Chrysalis blinked at it, and took another sip of her wine glass. Her wings buzzed as she waited to see if it would repeat.
The wind usually blew from the north, but a gale struck the balcony to the east. It was not a strong wind, but the Queen extended her tongue and tasted the magic in the air. She hissed at a blue mote dancing before her muzzle and it faded with a small pop.
The Queen gazed east, then laughed high and loud. She strode back into the suite and lowered herself onto the couch. Chrysalis rested the stem of the wine glass in a holed hoof while she lifted the phone to her ear with a glowing horn.
“I wish to have Project Gotterdammerung reactivated,” she drawled in silky Herzlander. “All available resources.”
“It will be done, my Queen,” the changeling on the other line assured her.
“And execute the ‘ling that ordered it mothballed,” Chrysalis ordered, fully aware that she was the one that gave the command years ago.
“Yes, my Queen,” the changeling replied with absolute faith.
Chrysalis hung up the phone. I wonder who they’ll execute, she snorted. Doesn’t matter. She looked over her shoulder at the maid, who was gently dusting the black crowns off. The little ‘ling was saving Yaria’s crown for last.
Oh, you’ll go very far with me, Chrysalis thought and picked the wine glass up. She strode back to the two armor sets and stood between them. She studied both of them for a moment.
“I suppose I should have seen this coming,” Chrysalis said lightly. “The two of you were the only ones to wear proper armor, useless as it was.” Her eyes drifted to the crowns above. “If any of you fought like her, our war would’ve been so much more fun.”
Chrysalis finally looked down at the obsidian stool, and her oddest trophy. No changeling ever questioned it, though many looked. Even the maids seemed to be befuddled, though the Queen did not care for their opinions, nor for any of them.
A weather-beaten snail toy sat atop the obsidian stool. A button was missing from an eye and the remaining button was hanging on by a thread. It was once orange with a green shell, though age and wear had dulled its colors.
Chrysalis turned to the purple barding. “I was saving this for her,” she said to it, “but it seems your daughter has outgrown such things.” She set the wine glass down, resting the stem in a hole in her right hoof.
The snail was seized in a green aura and tossed into the roaring fireplace. Chrysalis followed it after taking the glass again in her magic. The Queen watched the stuffing ignite with a fanged smirk, then raised the glass and drained it dry.
Her tongue ran over the bump of scar tissue in her bottom palate. Chrysalis scowled, losing her smile, and glared at the burning snail. The one remaining button glowed in the firelight, taunting her. Only one of us gets to be Queen of the Ashes, filly.
There was a crunch of glass. Chrysalis turned to her floating wine glass, now a condensed ball of shards vibrating in her magic. She let them drop to the floor.
“Clean this up,” the Queen ordered to the maid.
Two dozen deer gathered in a secluded shack in the Olenian Mountains. They were high-up, isolated, and it snowed at all times of the year. The Changelings, although they lived in northwestern Equus, never handled the cold too well, and that made the range perfect to strike from.
A deer in a heavy fur-lined coat pushed open the door and slammed it closed. He was a stag, though his antlers had been sliced short to hide his silhouette. A scoped rifle bounced against his right flank. He stopped, letting the Seers stare into his eyes, then the twins nodded and let him past.
The stag approached the faint fire and knelt. “My Queen,” he intoned.
Velvet Jelzek, the rightful Queen of Olenia, was swaddled in bundled cloth. She looked very frail, though her blue horns still stuck out proudly above her short muzzle. Blue eyes reflected the dying flames.
“Tell me what you saw,” Velvet ordered. Despite her frail frame, her voice was still strong.
“A cloud followed the flash over the Equestrian Heartland,” the stag reported. “It’s too far away to make out more.”
Velvet twisted her antlers to the stolen Changeling radio. “Can we see it from here?”
“Barely,” the stag answered.
Velvet raised her forelegs up to him. “I would like to see.”
The stag hesitated, then shuffled around so that his Queen could wrap her hooves around his neck. Another doe moved to help her, but Velvet quelled her with a look. She pulled herself onto his back.
When the stag stood, several of the furs slid off Queen Velvet, exposing her lean hind legs and how they dangled uselessly below a long scar across her spine. The doe replaced the blankets without argument and Velvet clutched them around her forehooves.
The stag slowly exited the shelter and trotted a short distance, stopping on a plateau. They could see to the east, though the wind blocked most of their sight. Vanhoover was somewhere across the Olenian Peninsula, and the Equestrian Heartland stretched beyond it.
Velvet’s eyes tracked the sky. Blue embers blew against the mountain. She rested her muzzle beside the stag's antlers.
“It could be a bomb,” he offered.
“It is not, Rudolph,” Velvet replied with absolute certainty.
They watched in silence for another moment.
“Do you remember that old Seer’s prophecy?” the Queen asked suddenly.
“Which one?” Rudolph asked back. “That’s distressingly vague, my Queen.”
Velvet laughed daintily. “I believe it was Nimue.”
Rudolph wracked his memory. “Is that the one that declared a Time of Turnips?”
“Yes,” Velvet agreed. “She was Discord-touched. Died prancing naked atop a mountainside after eating some mushrooms.”
Rudolph glanced worriedly at the falling snow. “I don’t understand.”
“She had other prophecies,” Velvet explained in a slow voice. “I remember one: ‘A child will be born of the elder blood, and then comes the time of the axe and sword. A seed shall sprout fire and engulf the world.’ I always thought it was about Celestia.”
“It is about Celestia,” Rudolph answered. “She could’ve mentioned panzers instead of axes, you know.”
“Celestia was not born an alicorn,” Velvet whispered, eyes still looking east. “The Changelings have pulled most of their garrisons, yes?”
“Yes,” Rudolph confirmed.
“What about my brother’s collaborators in Hjortland?”
“Diminished.”
The stag and doe gazed over their mauled and mangled home, then at the cloud to the east. “It is time,” Queen Velvet announced. “I will need to travel.”
Second Wind flashed down the hallway, hooves kicking off a window pane depicting Chrysalis leading some armored victory that never occurred. The tan pegasus heaved his wings, having discarded his rifle and even uniform for speed.
The Queen’s Guard taking cover below him were too busy firing at the guards storming their positions. Canterlot Castle was never built for prolonged siege warfare; the hallways were too wide and had little cover.
But the same applied for the Canterlot Guard. They had cleared the east wing and center, but not the west. The Queen’s Guard had contested every room and every hallway, trying to buy time.
Second Wind rounded the corner, following the instructions Jachs had shouted at him. It was another plain hallway with windows facing the west so that the setting sun could pour through. The doors were all nondescript, plain wood.
Guest quarters.
Second Wind would have believed he missed a turn, if not for the cowering changelings in white coats backing away from a random interior door. Lacin Cardo, the Lord Commander of the Queen’s Guard and resplendent in polished blue heavy plate, kicked open the door with an armored hoof. He leveraged an assault rifle between his hooves, aiming into the room.
Second Wind had no armor, no uniform, and only a knife gripped in his muzzle. But he did have two wings. He pumped them as hard as he could, and crashed into the Lord Commander’s back just as he pulled the trigger.
The bullets sprayed up the hallway wall wildly, and Cardo fired until the gun ran dry, struggling with the pegasus on his back as Second Wind tried to stab the knife down. It glanced off the blue helmet with squeals of clashing metal.
Lacin dropped the gun and seized Second Wind’s forelegs. Rearing up onto his hind legs, the Lord Commander slammed himself against the doorframe. Second Wind whinnied as he felt his wing snap; the knife fell from his mouth.
Cardo heaved and flipped the pegasus into the hallway. He spat blood onto the floor. One of the glancing blows had carved into his fanged muzzle.
“Traitor!” the Lord Commander hissed. “You think this changes anything!? You think you’re going to save her!?”
Second Wind coughed and rolled to his hooves, but Lacin slammed an armored hoof into his barrel and pinned him against the side of the doorframe. The sounds of gunfire grew closer, only a hallway away. Whinnies and screeches melded together.
Second Wind blinked tears of pain from his eyes and looked at one of the changelings in a white coat. She stayed still on the floor, eyes averted. He tried to push the hoof off, but Cardo was stronger.
The Lord Commander tilted his head at the encroaching gunfire. “You’re years too late, pony,” he said mockingly. The horn atop his head glowed as he pulled a stick grenade free from his flank. “You should’ve done this before.”
“I wanted to,” Second Wind spat up into the changeling’s muzzle. “I’ve regretted it every day.”
“Regret no longer,” Cardo quipped and pulled the pin. “Long live the Queen.”
A light flashed in the windows behind them, and a wave of magic crashed through the hallway a moment later. It blew out the stained glass, and Second Wind saw a dozen Queen Chrysalises shatter against the floor in a flurry of blue sparks. Lacin stumbled and the pegasus pulled himself free; the grenade hovered in the doorframe.
Time seemed to slow. Second Wind reached out his good wing as he reared up, snatching the live grenade from the flailing green aura. He pulled with all the strength he had, and the grenade tore free from the disoriented Lord Commander’s grip.
The pegasus planted his forehooves against the Lord Commander’s shoulders, blocking the open door with his own body. He shoved the live grenade under Lacin’s exposed muzzle with his wing, holding it in place. Lacin recovered and tried to pull back, but it was too late.
“Long live the Princess,” Second Wind spat at him.
The grenade went off between them.
Sunset Shimmer fell onto her knees. Blood trickled down her muzzle, and she tasted metal in the back of her throat. The others in the Mages were worse off. Some had already collapsed.
We can’t keep doing this, she thought sluggishly.
A flash of light to the west blinded her. As she blinked her eyes, Sunset thought she saw white wings descending from the sun. She almost wept.
And then her vision cleared, and Sunset realized she was facing the wrong direction.
She stared west with the other unicorns. Her horn tip was charred black. A blue ember drifted in the wind, landing atop her horn. After a moment, Sunset spat blood into the grass.
I will not be outdone by a filly, especially not Cadance’s filly. She shoved herself back up and her horn blazed. “We’re still in this fight!” she screamed at her unicorns. “Lock horns and pool together! Let’s go!”
Spike’s claw was the only thing keeping Barrel Roller alive. Both of them knew it. Blood seeped between the talons.
“You have to take command,” Barrel coughed. The nub of his ear twitched.
“Stop talking,” Spike growled. The dragon leaned against the burning half-track, treads ruined and armor blown apart. Gunfire sped around them as the Changeling assault nearly overran the road.
“Lime’s hit,” Barrel gasped. “It has to be you.”
“Stop. Talking.”
Barrel Roller turned unfocused orange eyes to his right foreleg. Unlike all the other ELF leaders, he wore the Imperial Snowflake. The purple band was flecked with his own blood.
“She needs you,” he coughed.
A flash of light lit the west. It was blocked by the winding road, but the flash was so bright that it could be seen around the mountain. A pop echoed, then the rush of magic was unmistakable. Spike flinched as blue crackles of flames impacted his scales.
Barrel laughed. It turned into a choke. “Go.”
The gunfire stalled, even the artillery and anti-air guns. Spike stared up at the sky. “You need a medic,” he finally said.
“Go now,” Barrel answered. “Break them.”
Spike took his bloody claw off the wound, then climbed atop the half-track. Uncaring and unhurt by the fires, the dragon tore the heavy machine gun free and wrapped the ammo belt around an arm. The gun buzzed under a roar.
Barrel gazed up at the sky with dim orange eyes. The pegasus watched the dancing sparks. He smiled as he died.
“You are praying at the wrong time,” Moonspeaker Meztli cackled.
“So are you,” Tlatoani Light Narrative replied. He was wearing his bandana and eyepatch, and his wooden leg rested to his side, detached from the stump.
Meztli waved a scabby wing in front of her blind eyes. Her grandson led her beside Light Narrative. “It’s always night to me,” she laughed. “Who are you praying to? The Moon, the Princess, or the Nightmare?”
“Whoever will listen,” Light responded. “You heard the radio.”
“Hope will fight,” Meztli declared. “Perhaps she will die. No prayers we can say will change that. It is up to the Tzinacatl with her.”
“And the other ponies,” Light added.
“We’re the best fighters,” Meztli boasted. She knelt with Light Narrative in the center of the mosaic moon while the guards watched. Her knees popped from the effort. Her grandson fluttered away and waited patiently.
“He doesn’t even remember his mother,” Meztli said quietly, near a whisper.
“Your daughter was a fine Thestral,” Light Narrative replied.
“She was a bitch that never sent birthday gifts,” Meztli snorted.
“It seems to run in the family,” Light responded with a small smirk.
The Moonspeaker smiled with more gums than teeth. She bowed her head and prayed. Minutes passed in silence, then a wind blew down from the opening in the top of the cave.
Light Narrative frowned and looked up at the small blue sparks falling in the shaft of light.
“My daughter is a stronger god than any Nightmare,” Meztli said softly. “I hear the birds are pushing to cut off the south. You should summon the Conclave; Hope will have need of our warbands soon.” She extended a wing and caught a blue cinder on it.
Meztli smirked to Light Narrative with blind eyes. “Hope burns, Tlatoani.”
Dragon Lord Ember stared at the small blue flicker in her left claw. Her right held the Bloodstone Scepter, the purple staff and glowing red gem that made her Dragon Lord. She looked back to the north, across the narrow strait that separated the Dragon Isles from southeast Equestria.
“Dragon Lord?” Smolder asked. The slim orange dragon took a step out to the volcano’s edge. “Did you hear me?”
“The Changeling submarine fleet has retreated from Appleoosa,” Ember repeated. “I heard you. It’s not as if we have anything to trade.” The blue dragon stared out over her desolate island. She scuffed a claw on her armor and the blue spark faded.
It’s not as if armor helped Dad, she snorted. And then she closed her eyes.
“Gallus is with the Kaiser?” she asked behind her.
“Yes,” Smolder answered quietly.
“And Thorax is with the Princess?”
“Yes.”
Ember turned and regarded the ash-clogged radio. The two dragons stood on the tallest peak of the Dragon Isles, and it was the only good place to get radio reception. She flexed her claw, still feeling the warmth of the magic.
Ember slammed the staff into the volcanic rock. The gem atop the scepter flashed a blood red, and the magic pulsed over the isles. From her position, she could see the elder dragons shift atop the other mountains.
Smolder’s scales began to glitter. “Dragon Lord?” she asked.
“We are dragons,” Ember said. “If the world is to burn, we join the fire. You have armor?” She turned around with a lashing tail to face the younger dragon.
Smolder nodded.
“Wear it.”
A blue ember drifted in from a dusty window. The noise of picks and heavy machinery drifted with the spark, and underneath all of it harsh commands barked in Herzlander echoed. The two siblings inside were used to the noise.
A pink earth pony stirred slightly on her foalhood bed. Her sister set a spoon down with patchy gray hooves, then held a hoof to her sister’s. The pink pony stilled after a moment, and her eyes returned to their far-away, distant look. Her sister patted her hoof gently, then resumed spooning the soup into her sister’s mouth.
An orange earth pony stared north, leaning heavily against a wooden balcony railing. Rows upon rows of apple trees stretched out before her, a near countless number to her, though the Changelings certainly knew how many. The same Changelings were rushing like scattered ants around the plantation, trying to head north and break some attack, but there were too few of them to make a difference.
She brushed her hat off her head and let her prematurely gray ponytail blow in the sudden wind. A blue cinder fell onto the wide brim, and the earth pony let it smolder for a moment before touching it with a hoof. She had felt that magic before, and sighed. The earth pony walked back into the empty manor to fetch another bourbon.
Deep within the Everfree, an unusually placid young hydra twisted its heads to the sky. Though most would call it a monster, the eyes were troubled and several mouths frowned before one turned back to a dark cave. It crooned softly.
A tattered yellow pegasus emerged with a wild pink mane. Her fur had grown out along her legs, and her tail was a long, rough swirl. Several dozen animals, from plain bears to Timberwolves to Cockatrices to an old, scabby rabbit followed her. The wild pegasus looked up through a gap in the thick canopy. After a moment, she sighed and returned to the cave.
Thorax set the knife down with a chittering sigh.
“I’m going to hold up a map,” he said to the VOPS agent, “and you’re going to mark the tunnel you used to get here. It will be the same tunnel your partner points to.”
The bound agent sobbed around the rag stuffed between his fangs.
Thorax held the map up to the left, so the agent could use his remaining eye to see the entire tunnel system below Canterhorn. “Use your fang,” Thorax advised. He pressed the map closer to the agent’s muzzle.
The VOPS agent angled his head downwards and tapped on a small, barely visible side tunnel. Thorax checked the map with a raised brow, then set the small paper down beside the knife. “If you’re lying…” he trailed off and pulled the rag out of the agent’s mouth.
“I’m not,” the Changeling sobbed. “I’m not. I swear it.” He turned his head over a bound wing to stare at his partner. “She’ll tell you. She’ll tell you.”
Thorax hummed with dual-tones. “Ocellus?” he asked behind him.
“I…” Ocellus paused. “I think he’s telling the truth.”
A flash to the west illuminated the canvas walls of the tent, then a loud, echoing pop. The rush of magic rippled the tent walls, and Thorax breathed deeply, tasting the sparks in the air. It was the same magic as the Crystalling that drew him to the Empire so long ago, and Thorax suddenly felt old. He still smiled.
Arex stuck her head into the tent. “Sir!”
“She’s alive,” Thorax answered before Arex could say anything.
“You still need to see this.”
Throax buzzed a wing in dismissal. “Ocellus, take the map to Price. Have him blow that tunnel.”
“You don’t want to check?” Ocellus asked, but lifted the map in her aura and tucked it into a purple jacket pocket.
Thorax picked up the knife in his magic and slid it between the ropes binding the VOPS agent’s chest. The changeling rattled a weak hiss, but died immediately. Thorax stood, crossing to the other agent bound on the floor.
She gaped at the body. “He…he told you what you wanted!”
“You know what the proudest day of my life was?” Thorax started as he stopped in front of her. “The day Shining Armor said that he trusted me around his daughter, and I knew he wasn’t lying.”
The changeling glanced over a wing, back at the body. “I think about that a lot,” he admitted, and turned back to the bound mare with hard eyes and sharp fangs. “Then, I think about Chrysalis shoving my niece into a cocoon and torturing her, while all the Queen’s good little ‘lings watch.”
Thorax considered the agent. Ocellus pushed the tent flap open and closed it in a flurry of blue cinders behind him.
“I’m not telling you anything,” the VOPS agent promised. Thorax selected a pipe wrench out of a rusty tool box taken from Nova Griffonia. It levitated above his head.
“That’s all right,” Thorax hissed calmly. “I believed him.”
Three ponies leaned against a balcony, staring southwards. One was a pearl unicorn mare with a woven purple mane, and the other two were crystal ponies in proud white and purple uniforms. The unicorn stared at the pink sky, watching the low clouds gather around the top of the shield while pegasi with goggles dispersed smog clouds.
The factories of the Crystal City, the largest city in the world, churned around the tall spire in the center. The city rang with the sounds of industry, but it did not mask the cracked crystal buildings and empty streets. The city was not rebuilding; trucks ambled along the cobblestones loaded with weapons and towed artillery. A truck with strange, heavy rockets parked below the balcony, and a changeling with a Stalliongrad accent ranted to a crowd below about their power. More were lining up along side streets.
The largest city in the world was geared for war.
Rarity sighed. The air inside the shield was warm for early spring; she could stand naked on the balcony. Governor Arctic Lily observed the unicorn’s deflating muzzle from her left.
“Do you not like the uniforms?” the Governor asked, jerking her head to the plaza.
“You designed them,” Colonel Heartsong stated to the unicorn’s other side.
“I did not wish to come here and make more uniforms,” Rarity said softly. “I am tired of war.”
“War is not tired with us,” Heartsong answered. Thousands of hooves beat the cobblestones underneath the balcony.
“When I came here, it was not to put foals in military uniforms,” Rarity snorted. “Orphans that have lost everything have no place on a frontline.”
“You could be describing the Princess,” Governor Lily said harshly.
“I am,” Rarity confirmed, “and I am describing this.” She jerked her horn out to the city. “She shouldn’t be fighting. Both of you know it.”
“Why?” Heartsong whickered. “Because the others did not?”
“Because Equestria was never led by the point of a horn,” Rarity stated.
A flash of light blinked on the southern horizon. The trio ceased arguing and stared at it.
A wave of magic hit the sparkling pink shield wall, and the surface flexed before erupting with blue and golden arcs of electricity. They spanned across the entire surface, stretching over the Crystal Empire from border to border, and horizon to horizon.
The sounds of hooves stopped abruptly as everypony watched. Rarity’s breath caught as she blinked at the coiling colors of magic rolling along the shield. It was beautiful, like a thousand candleflames that flickered across the northern lights. The sparks faded as suddenly as they came.
Heartsong smiled; his crystal coat glittered as red as a ruby around the purple collar. “She was our Princess before she was yours,” he said to the unicorn. “And she is from the Empire, not Equestria.”
“Your Princesses failed to save us from Sombra,” Arctic said from the unicorn’s other side. “Let us see if ours can save you from the Queen.”
“She’ll need help,” Heartsong added. He stared down into the plaza with Arctic Lily and the Element of Generosity.
Thirty thousand crystal ponies stood in rows in the large square. Their hooves beat a rhythm as they resumed drilling in white uniforms with purple armbands. Above the wrecked statue of Sir Spike, the Imperial Snowflake flew from a flagpole made out of a panzer turret tipped to the side. Other ponies in crystal armor stalked between the rows of new infantry.
“Who are we?” a voice called out.
“We are the Imperial Army.”
“Who do we serve?”
“We serve the Princess.”
“Who do we fight?”
“Our enemies are the enemies of the Princess.”
Rarity watched them, most as young as the Princess they proclaimed to follow. The unicorn shook her head. “There is more than one Princess,” she said softly.
“Not in the Empire,” Heartsong spoke. The two Imperials nodded together, then left the Equestrian on the balcony.
Queen Novo snapped her beak at her daughter. She whirled back onto the wide palatial balcony at the summit of Mount Aris. “I will hear no more of this,” the hippogriff vowed with clenched magenta eyes.
“I am heir,” Princess Skystar replied desperately. “Do my words mean nothing?” The younger tannish-gray hippogriff chased her mother. Claws and hooves echoed on the hard stone. The wind blew around the balcony, but neither hippogriff minded. They flexed their wings as they circled each other.
“You spend too much time with Silverstream,” the Queen dismissed. “Her empty head is filled with false promises. What did the School of Friendship accomplish for Equestria?”
“I will not let you march into Seaquestria,” Skystar answered. “They are our subjects.”
“They are rebelling!” Queen Novo snarled, “and you would have me coddle them! We are surrounded by enemies! Zarca eyes our outer islands, and the bats-” She cut herself off, lest she begin screaming at the Chiropterrans again.
“They’re scared,” Princess Skystar pleaded softly. “They just want to retreat below the sea again. We have to show them we still care, and not with soldiers.”
“And when war comes again?” Queen Novo sighed. “What then, daughter? Precious promises cannot stop bullets.”
“We reach out into the world,” Skystar replied, more confident than she felt.
Her mother laughed at her; her voice was lost in the wind. “Who? Would you ask the griffons that helped savage us? The minotaurs, driven back to their islands? Rivers hiding behind their forts?”
The Queen paced to the edge of the high balcony. “The Kirin and the Hindians glare at each other. The Stormlands ravage the south. Saddle Arabia still fights their civil wars. We have to rely on our own strength.”
“Our strength should not be spent on our own people,” Skystar said behind her mother. The smaller hippogriff stared over their island kingdom, only just beginning to recover from their earlier loss and facing a final blow.
“There is no one left, daughter,” Queen Novo sighed. “None will ever come for us.”
A gust of wind hit the high balcony, blowing from the north. A few faint blue sparks trickled along with it. Queen and Princess, mother and daughter, paused to watch them dance along the balcony's railing with ruffling wings.
“I will think about it,” Novo relented. “And you will trouble me no more with this.”
Princess Skystar stared north. She caught a feeble spark in a claw and felt the tingle of magic. It seemed familiar.
Gabriela Eagleclaw, Duchess of a much-diminished Strawberry Duchy, drank deeply from her wine glass. She spared a glance out the window, towards Griffenheim Square below the front gates to the palace. The Duchess turned her radio off with a claw; she was tired of the music.
“Well,” a male griffon drawled in a Romau accent, “I suspected I’d find you here.”
“And I thought you’d be praying,” Gabriela responded.
The Archon of Eyr, Erion XII, flared pale yellow wings underneath red vestments. He crossed the room and settled onto the plush chair opposite of Gabriela. “Oh, millions of Eyr’s faithful pray for the Kaiser. One more does no difference.”
“It’s telling you don’t pray,” Gabriela said blandly to her fellow regent.
“Who says I don’t?” Erion scoffed. “You? You are not praying either.”
The pink griffon looked away and sipped more wine.
“Perhaps you do pray,” Erion allowed. “If the Kaiser dies, you can hold the throne.”
“I am female,” Gabriela retorted. “I will never sit the throne, nor did I ever want to.”
“Well, the civil war you fought suggests otherwise.”
“Archon Eros nearly ruined the Reich!” Gabriela slapped a claw down. “All that piety and priests and temples.” She waved the claw to the window. “Look at what it cost! Do you think he would not have fought me?”
“I am sure he would have,” Erion agreed, “but he did not. You nearly tore us apart while our enemies circled like vultures. How does it feel for the Kaiser to never trust you again?”
“He doesn’t trust you either,” Gabriela countered.
“Nor should he,” Erion said flippantly. “But you are family. His last family.”
Gabriela returned to the window. “It would’ve never happened if I was regent. The old bird dropped dead too soon.”
“Or too late,” Erion shrugged. “Chaos is an updraft that carries even clipped wings to new heights.” He helped himself to an empty wine glass and poured from her bottle. The Archon poured a large amount, more than propriety would suggest appropriate.
“I seem to recall,” he said after a sip, “even you screeched that Grover was allowing too much with his reforms.”
“It was better than what happened afterwards.”
“Or did you just see a way to claw back some of your power with votes?” He chuckled. “Can you even imagine a Pan-Griffonian parliament? We would be beating each other to death with our senate seats within a few weeks. But a good way to restore noble privileges,” Erion hummed.
Gabriela said nothing.
A faint wind blew through the window, trailing two blue sparks no more than dots. Neither griffon noticed.
“Come,” Erion sighed. “We can at least toast Proteus’ death.”
“That’s treason,” Gabriela accused.
“Please,” Erion scoffed. “I spent years with him while you were in cushy house arrest. He would love to die in a Crusade.”
“This entire war was a mistake,” Gabriela sighed.
“It surprised me as well,” Erion agreed with a sloshing glass, “and it will be the Kaiser’s failure if we lose. There might be opportunity for one of us in that. Especially if Proteus dies.”
Gabriela begrudgingly clinked her glass to his. “I look forward to crushing you,” she said amicably.
“And I look forward to finally taking your head,” Erion said just as lightly.
Gabriela returned to the window. “But,” she said, “that relies on us losing.”
River Swirl leaned her head against her hooves. “We are not discussing this,” the Chancellor of the River Federation groaned pitifully. Her navy and white mane, usually naturally swirly, draped over her horn.
Director Arclight paced in front of her table. The light brown earth pony adjusted a cufflink on his suit. “A decisive strike can make it to Griffenheim within two weeks, long before any ship can return from Equus.”
“We have forts,” River Swirl said from the table. “We spent a great deal of money building those forts, and an army to guard them.”
“It is still sufficient to overtake the Reichsarmee’s defenses.”
“According to who?” River Swirl nickered. She twisted her horn to stare out the window to Rijekograd, the capital of the once River Republic and now River Federation. The Chancellor scuffed a hoof on the table. “I’m not trusting reports from King Diamondshield or Lake City.”
“The Bakaran navy reports that they can easily hit Wingbardian naval bases. And Beakolini says-”
“Do not,” River Swirl huffed, “tell me that the OHS believes his words. Or Vivienne’s.”
Arclight shrugged. “They’ll be useful puppets if it comes to it.”
“I’m not starting a war just before an election year. That gives Nova Whirl and her communists an opening.”
“There are ways to deal with that.”
“And I am not doing them, Arclight!” River Swirl snapped. “I have tolerated the OHS for many years, but we do not stoop to political assassinations!”
Arclight twisted an ear to listen to the guards outside. He nodded at the shuffling of hooves. “Stress is getting to you,” he said quietly. “Of course I would never suggest such a thing.”
“Don’t play games with me,” River Swirl spat. She braced her hooves on the table. “The Changelings burned the school I graduated from, and it was censored on your orders.”
“Fine,” Arclight shrugged. “The OHS will stop, and the River Federation will learn about all the horrors of the Changelings, all of which happened during your campaign to make an Equestria of the East in the Riverlands.” He flicked an ear. “As the Equestria of the West burned.”
River Swirl glared at Arclight, but said nothing.
“You are too fond of the Princesses,” Director Arclight sighed.
“They are useful symbols. For unity.”
“Speaking of unity,” Arclight changed the subject. “Lake City is protesting against the griffon refugees.”
“We can’t send them back; they won’t go back even if they wanted to.”
“At the very least,” Arclight said smoothly, “we should delay the citizenship process for the latest bunch. Nova Whirl is doing good work radicalizing them. She’s already winning over Bakara.”
“That still leaves me with more seats than her.”
“Half your supporters want a war,” Arclight warned.
A wind blew in from the open window, nothing more than a zephyr. A single blue spark trailed in and landed on the carpet. Neither the Chancellor nor the Director noticed.
“If the opportunity comes,” River Swirl sat back down behind her desk. “They will get one.”
Far east from where the three rivers met in Rijekograd, a series of elegant townhouses stood on the bank of a riverbend. Away from the bustle of any major city and industry center, it was a peaceful place. The river churned quietly with lapping waves. It was an unimportant fork in one of the major rivers; a true rarity in the developing River Federation.
Most of the townhouses had their windows open, facing the river and the west. Music drifted from several of the windows, but a two-story building amongst the dozen was quiet. The second-story window was open, slightly ajar with deep blue curtains.
The window led to a drawing room. A tasseled, velvet rug ran along a maple floor underneath the window, and a small fireplace, nothing more than a nook, glowed in the corner. It was only truly there for the ambience; the actual fireplace was downstairs.
Two sisters were in the room. The elder laid atop a wide plush couch with heavy cushions. She had folded her hooves underneath her. A book was propped up on the corner of the settee; the creased spine and dog-eared pages indicated that it had been read before. It was a tawdry romance set in the borderlands between the Reich and the Riverlands. The elder turned the pages with a golden aura from a white horn.
The younger sister sat before an easel and canvas. She was closer to the window, and a paintbrush hovered in a delicate cobalt aura that matched her dark blue coat. Several cups of varied paint rested on the windowsill next to the curtains. The younger added several delicate touches of paint.
The room was quiet, except for three sounds: the crackle of the lone log in the fireplace, the turning of a thin page, and the swoop of a paintbrush.
There was a radio on a set of cabinets, one of the newer models with a mahogany case. It was off. A slight layer of dust gathered on the knobs, having not been used for some time.
A series of newspapers rested beside the cabinets on the floor. There were two stacks. The papers on the bottom gathered dust and the pages had turned slightly yellow. The twine bundling them together was still attached.
There was no wind from the west, not truly. There was only the faintest possible ripple in one of the dark blue curtains. Most would never even notice it moved at all.
The paintbrush paused mid-streak. The younger stared at her painting for a long moment before ruffling her indigo feathers. Her horn glowed as she dipped the brush down into a cup on the windowsill.
A page turned. The elder blinked soft magenta eyes and found a new sentence. They moved along the words without stopping.
The paintbrush returned to the canvas with slow strokes. The strokes turned into dabs. The younger sat placidly before the canvas; her sparkling mane caught the light from the window and drank it in, moving like nightfall.
“She walks a dark path,” the elder suddenly said and broke the silence.
The paintbrush dabbed on the canvas.
“It is a path we’ve walked before,” the elder continued, “and it leads to nothing but ruin and heartache.”
The younger bobbed her horn. Perhaps in agreement. Or simple acknowledgement that the words were heard.
The paintbrush stroked the canvas, the log crackled, and a page rustled as it turned.
“I tried,” the elder said again. Her eyes did not leave the page. “I wrote to her for years. She never replied. Her father poisoned her mind. I should’ve never let him take her.”
The horn did not bob this time. The younger set her paintbrush down against an old cloth and grabbed a finer one. It dipped into a different shade of color. The swirls resumed, softly scratching across the canvas. Another page turned.
“I told them,” the elder said. Her voice did not waver. “I told them what would happen to their family, to our family. I begged-” she cut herself off suddenly as her eyes lost the sentence she was trying to read.
The younger lifted a glass of lemonade to her lips with her hooves and sipped. The clink of ice against the rim rippled through the room. Her swallow was even louder.
“There was nothing left to say,” the elder finished.
The younger finished as well and levitated the painting off the easel. She took a paintbrush in her mouth. The smaller sister carried it in her dark aura and crossed the drawing room, stepping around the settee and low table.
A paper and pen rested atop the coffee table; they had not moved for several days. The page was blank, and the ink had dried on the tip of the pen.
“Where are you going?” the elder asked. Her eyes finally looked up to track her younger sister.
“It needs to dry,” the younger said in a soft voice, slightly muffled by the brush.
“May I see it?” the elder requested.
The younger turned the painting around in her magic. It was a beautiful sunrise, shadowed by a tall mountain. The mountain was unfamiliar, as was the land that stretched around beyond it. The night sky receded around the corners of the painting as the dawn replaced it.
The elder returned to her book. “It is lovely.”
The painting bobbed with the younger’s horn. She left the drawing room, carrying the painting before her. Just before she crossed the doorframe, she dropped the paintbrush in the wastebasket beside the door. It fell atop a folded page.
“What was that?” the elder said. Her back was to the door; her flowing tail trailed over the other end of the couch.
“The hair is ruined,” the younger explained. “I have more.”
“We’ll go to the market soon,” the elder said. She did not hear a reply. Hooves left the rug and clopped against the maple floor.
“You’ll be back?” the elder asked suddenly, muzzle lifting from the book. The question was said casually, in an easy tone, as if not expecting an answer in case the recipient had already left.
In the doorway, the younger noticed the tightening of two primary feathers along her older sister’s right wing, and the subtle twitch of fur along her flank. The beaming sun seemed to tense with the muscles below it.
“Yes,” Luna promised. “I love you.”
“I love you,” Celestia said to her younger sister. Her muzzle lowered and a page turned. The hooves clopped against the wooden floor of the hallway until the sound faded.
The discarded paintbrush settled in the wastebasket, brushing against the folded letter.
The letter was abruptly seized in a golden aura and flung into the fireplace. It collided against the smoldering log with a muted impact and the paper ignited. The parchment burned quickly. Swirls of golden and blue sparks popped from the paper as the spell on the letter reacted to its destruction.
It was done after several seconds, and the ash joined the small pile underneath the grate in the fireplace. The waves lapped at the shoreline beyond the window. Celestia twisted her horn away from the fireplace and turned another page.
Her sudden movement had jostled the golden tiara atop her head. It bumped against her spiraled horn, and she nudged it back into place with a chime of magic. The alicorn turned another page afterwards.
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This has me so heated. Her father isn't the poison. It is the world she allowed to exist. Amazingly out of touch, Princess.
It would be interesting to know what the sparks really mean.
"I have good news & bad. The good news is she's alive."
General Jeb Stuart in the Battle of Yellow Dog Tavern refused medical aid & urged a counterattack. His last words were "I'd rather die than be whipped.". He turned out to be both.
Celestia is angry that her little utopia collided with the real world, she is more angry with a dead pony than with the queen who is killing and torturing her ponies. How much courage she gave me when she disrespected shining.
Loved the prose here
Shining armor died a martyr, as did his wife, and sister. YOU have done nothing but give MEANINGLESS words, and refused to even offer a lick of help. History will REMEMBER them as heroes and YOU as Celestia the COWARD.
I didn't even think of her suckering Chrysalis in the very beginning when she was begging.
Very interesting to see the POVs of the world. Probably going to forget about the letter that was just sent(?) because I'm crap.
Celestia is point blank a coward, and I think she is using guilt to keep Luna at her side. She has kept Luna there because she cannot bear to lose her again.
And for that she sacrificed Equestrian lives, she sacrificed Starlight Glimmer, Trixie, Cadance and Shining Armor, Twilight Sparkle her heir, even Harmony itself. And she is willing to sacrifice Flurry Heart as well.
I think Luna has begun to resent that treatment. She fought Chrysalis before. She lives her sister. But guilt can become a burden. Here us hoping Luna does the Right thing. She does her duty. The duty her sister has forgotten.
Screw Celestia and Luna. May they burn in in the depths of Hell.
Celestia is so out of touch it's not even funny
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It was the letter Flurry sent before the battle.
And the reply that never made it into words.
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It kinda explains how Equestria fell in the first place those. She's so out of touch it's almost a delusion.
Odd that Ember would inquire more of Thorax than Spike. Then again, there's probably no need to. She knows Spike will be with Flurry.
Wonder how Smolder knows Gallus is with the Kaiser? Do they correspond with each other? Or is it Spike who is using his correspondence magic to talk with Smolder?
Huh, guess there's no need for the Crystal Empire to develop the bomb. Their princess is the bomb (double pun intended).
Please don't tell me that Chrysalis'a project is a nuke.
Jesus, Celestia's mad out of touch. Like, painfully so. We need some major trolling to occur right now.
What path do you want her to take?
Ughh and people ask me why I always turn equestria into a republic in my hoi4 games
Yeah... As other people here have noticed, and I've finally come to realization, Celestia's behaviour is uhhhh.... my vocab is probably small. Pizdiec.
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Celestia in this seems like a stupid hardcore pacifist, like yes Flurry's actions are extreme, but she has no one else to guide her, no one else to countermand her, and she's asked for your help multiple times what else do you want her to do Celestia?
Wow I didn’t think Chrissy would acknowledge herself as Queen of the Ashes. But it seems like she’s fine with her capital becoming Stalliongrad lite.
Looking forward to everyone coming together, Deer, Dragons, and maybe Luna if she dose decide to leave her disillusioned sister.
Fingers crossed Dusty and Duskcrest are okay.
I want a thorax and velvet ship
Oh boy, here comes Daybreaker
How have i been so blind?! Thorax is Joel from The Last of Us
https://youtu.be/064o1Hpqpm0
Ah, there's the horseshoe I was thinking of. Dusty and left in a closet to rot.
Well, Chryssie was never that great at thinking ahead when there's gloating to be done, eh? Even if that gloating is nonstop, for a decade or so...
(no sarcasm there, that's really in-character for her)
NOOOOOOO NOT WHAMMY! Of all the worst things that could happen. This is The! Worst! Possible! Thing!
more good shit.
And so we see the Spark that Ignited the World. I wonder what the world will do next.
I think I'll hold off on much of my thoughts and feelings about this world's Celestia and Luna until I finally get to The Princess of the Sun and take a good, long look before saying anything else. In the meantime, I do have something to say.
What the fuck, Celestia? You're thousands of years old in this world if I can recall correctly. Have the years really made you so numb to everything around you?
You know, I've mentioned it in my first comment on this fic. I'm an unabashed Celestia lover, and I think it's telling how pained I am at her depiction in this story. In fact, I've felt the pain coming for a long while now as I kept reading, and I have a feeling that it's only going to get worse in the later chapters. Now that's not to say that I think that part of the story is not great because of it, no. I actually have some thoughts about the relation of the sisters' behavior with Flurry's and how it ties in to the theme of this story, but I'm hoping to save it for The Princess of the Sun.
For now though, I don't know what else to say other than this: I may be a Celestia fan, but I'm only one in the first place because I believe in a Celestia that could pull her head out of her ass and actually do something. The bitch we've (barely) been seeing throughout this is clearly not.
I love all the different pov's. The sister's feel sorta jaded and don't really care about what's happening anymore