> Fate/Another
>  by Stalin the Stallion
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Chapter I: The Old Mage and the Mare
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

    With a pleased sigh, she settled back into her comfy chair. With a content smile on her face, she levitated a cup of earl grey tea with her solar magic, pausing it before her mouth as she allowed the intoxicating aroma to permeate her scenes.

    “Grr, confoundred thing,” her sister growled under her breath.

    She looked over to her sister, who was fidgeting in her own red velvet chair as she fumbled with a cup of tea in her forehooves. “The modern word is ‘confounded’, Luna.”

    Luna frowned at her sister. “That’s not helping, Celestia.”

    “Well, you could just use your magic,” she offered.

    “Nooo,” Luna half-whined, stretching her word out just long enough to get her point across, yet just short enough as to not come off as annoying to Celestia – a way of speaking Luna had nailed down to an art. “I want to do it by hoof.”

    “And why is that?”

    “Because.” With a motion, the cup dropped from her hooves. Gasping, Luna grabbed it in her field of magic before it could spill a drop. Gritting her teeth, she muttered, “Misella landica!”

    Rolling her eyes, Celestia chuckled. “My, you’ve still got quite the mouth.”

    Luna glared at her sister. “Stop laughing.”

    “Fine, fine,” Celestia replied, smiling as she took another sip of tea. She looked out the nearby window. It was that wonderful time of day when the sun had not yet quite set, and when the moon had not quite risen.

    Sighing, Luna looked towards the fireplace. “Ic wȳscan–”

    “Uh-uh-uh,” Celestia said in a playfully condescending tone. “I told you: I will not speak to you in Old Equestrian.”

    Luna twitched a wing, narrowing an eye at her sister. “I don’t know the word. Wȳscan. What is it in Modern Equestrian?”

    “The word is ‘wish’, dear sister.”

    Blowing out a puff of air from her mouth, Luna rolled her eyes. “You know what? Nevermind. It wasn't important.” A pause. “It’s a nice... a nice evening, don't you think?”


***


    In the adjacent hallway, a wandering guard found his knees shaking. His eyes were locked to the unnatural pupils before him.

   The creature with the strange pupils raised one of his six hooves, placing it on the guard's shoulder. “Tell me, then, dear boy,” he said in a voice that sounded like the unholy cross between gravel and liquid fire. “Princesses Celestia and Luna are... where?”

    “I... I... I...” the guard sputtered.

    He chuckled in a friendly tone, utterly baffling the guard. “I’m sorry, sir – feel free to just point in the direction, since I appear to be terrifying you.”

    Mouth moving but producing no real words, the guard pointed down the hallway to the door on the far left.

    “Thank you,” he said, bowing his head to the guard. Then he slid his hoof to the guard’s neck. “Say, do you have children?”

    Swallowing a visible lump in his throat, the guard nodded.

    Removing the hoof from the stallion’s throat, he proceeded to walk past the guard. “Lucky you. Make sure to tell them that you love them tonight. You never know when some lunatic’s just gonna show up and kill you for fun.”

With a flick of his hoof, the guard collapsed to the ground. Grabbing the guard by the wing, he opened a supply closet, and shoved the body within.

“Let’s hope they don’t penalize for sleeping on the job.”

Closing the closet, he continued down the hallway.


***


    “Now, now, dear sister, there’s no need to get feisty,” Celestia remarked, struggling to keep down a smirk. “If this just so happens to be your new favorite pastime, I cannot–”

    “No,” Luna said. “I am trying to express my fascination that many ponies out there seem to use what I’d think of as medieval torture for... fun... and I had no idea the word ‘fun’ covered such a wide range of feelings and opinions.” One of her wings twitched. “I mean, whips and chains not for torment but for... Hey, did we leave the door open?” she said, pointing at the room’s door.

    “Hmm?” Celestia mumbled as she turned to face the door. “No... no, I definitely closed it.”

    “Then why is it–” Luna gasped, her entire train of thought coming to a jerking halt as somepony behind her put a hoof to her shoulder.

    “My, my,” an inequine voice said. “Little Luna... you’re all grown up now... all you’ve gained over these years–” he smirked “–you got hot.”

    Slowly, Luna turned her head to look at the hoof on her shoulder. he followed the long, slender, and armored leg up to the creature's face, with her eyes. Standing proud upon six legs was something that almost resembled a stallion. Each leg, at about the shoulder or hip, was a glowing gemstone imbedded in the dark armor – one set red, another blue, and the last pair green. He smiled at her, his dark helmet resting comfortably on his head.



“You!” Celestia hissed. Jumping out of her seat and raising herself to her full height, she flared out her white wings.

    He removed his hoof from Luna and took three steps back. “So, I hear you’re calling yourselves ‘Princesses’ now. How’d that happen?”

    “T-Tia, who is he?” Luna asked, her mind swirling with a vague feeling of recognition.

    “Ah, yes, little Luna doesn’t remember me, does she?” he chuckled, running a hoof over his helm which covered half his head. “I’m good ol’ Hestrir–” he bowed “–at your service, O she with fine curves.”

    “What are you doing here?” Celestia demanded, lowering her head by a good few inches.

    “Well, after our last encounter, Princess, I thought it’d be good to lay low.” Hestrir gave his reptilian tail a single swing, offering each mare a smirk.

    “Last encounter?” Luna asked, glancing between Hestrir and her sister.

    “Yes,” he said, his tone going a smidgen darker. “Turns outs, Princess Celestia over here can be quite the vindictive lady. Oh, and I saw what you did to Discord – turned him into a statue; now that’s hardcore evil right there, I’d say.”

    “How did you get here?” Celestia demanded, her horn glowing with magic.

    “Well, the good afterlife’s gates were bolted, you see, and it turned out that they didn’t want me in Tartarus. I still have the scars, you know. Though you can’t see it through my armor, I still have the marks from the oh so tight noose; the marks from the fire, the marks more visible on my back; and from the nails she drove through my wrists and hooves, you know, Celestia.”

    “I repeat: how did you get here?”

    He rolled his eyes. “I walked.”

    “You will leave this instant, Hestrir, and she shall have no quarrel with you. Stay and I cannot promise–”

    Hestrir waved a hoof at Celestia. “Oh, please. You think I hadn't considered that beforehoof? You forget who I am.”

    Luna rose a hoof into the air. “Hi, um, yes – forgive me, but I don’t exactly know who you are.” She shrugged. “I don’t suppose it would be too hard for you to, perhaps, explain just what is going on, hmm?”

    He snickered. “That’s rich.” Hestrir took a step to the left. “You know, you two both do have such lovely hair. Yours in particular, Luna – so long, so flowing with magic, and so blue...”

    “Well then,” Luna deadpanned, glancing between Celestia and herself. She faux coughed into a hoof.

    “Lovely,” Hestrir snickered.

    Celestia stamped a hoof, demanding, “Would you stop hitting on my sister?” 

    “Why else do you think this is so funny to me, you anal-retentive wench?”

    “What did you just call me?” Celestia said in a cold tone of voice, narrowing her eyes.

    “Um, I still hate to interrupt,” Luna peeped up, “but I’m still rather lost.”

    Hestrir shrugged. “To keep it brief – I’m that one guy who did that thing with the person that ended with all the stuff and haves and have-nots.”

    “Gee, how helpful,” Luna said.

    “If you want to feel fancy, you can call me Amadeus. It isn’t my name, but it sure sounds like a nice name.” He gestured to Celestia as he took a step back. “Don’t you have anything to say, love?”

    “One. More. Chance. To. Leave,” Celestia replied, glaring at him.

    “Eh, that wasn’t the question I was–”

    “Why are you here?” Luna offered, prompting Hestrir to point a hoof at her.

    “Brilliant girl,” he replied. “I can see who got both the brains and looks in the family. Why didn’t you ask me that, Celestia?”

    “Of what reason would I have to trust your words, Hestrir?’ Celestia replied, narrowing her eyes.

    “Still suspicious of my motives, Celly?” he chuckled, flashing the Princess a grin.

    “Always.”

    “Isn’t that just like you, though?” he remarked, taking a step towards her. “Is it still like the olden days, hmm? Oh, how sickeningly pleasant for me to hear such holy songs from a chaste mouth which accepted no flesh into–” Hestir blinked. “I’m getting carried away with being needlessly dramatic, and that’s far from what I’m here for. Apologies.”

    “You are here for something?” Celestia asked, her wings still outstretched.

    “Well, I’m certainly not here to twirl some mustache and hogtie Princess Luna here to a railroad track, that’s for sure... And now I’ve dropped my overly pretentious manner of speaking in favor of a more colloquial dialect. How spiffy.”

    “Celestia,” Luna said, “I’m still confused.”

    “Look, you two Royal Pony Sisters – I’m here on a good deed..“ He muttered beneath his breath, “Ignoring the guard I knocked out and shoved into a closet.”

    “What was that?”

    “Nothing at all. But where was I, Celestia, before you distracted me...? Ah, yes – warning you about impending doom.”

    “Doom?” Celestia scoffed. “And just what are you going to do?”

    Hestrir rose his forehooves into the air. “Hooves to G... the heavens, it has nothing to do with me... other than having everything to do with me. And I know you and I’ve got some bad – okay, acidic and utterly festering with worms and rot – blood between us, but that was then and this is now.”

    “Ex...cuse me?”

    He took a deep breath. “What if I were to tell you that out there in the wide, wide world was an object capable of granting any wish?”

    “I’d call you a liar and a scoundrel. But that would be redundant on my part, given who you are.” Celestia shifted her weight as she furled her wings to her body.

    “That’s a good start,” he said with a nod. “Now, imagine if I weren’t lying but were being absolutely honest. Now, picture that this object is in Equestria, right now, and that in order to activate it there needs to be a competition.”

    Celestia furrowed her brows. “What kind of competition?”

    “A competition which will results in deaths. The kind that can destroy cities. A competition, a battle royale, between seven chosen individuals.”

    Luna rose a hoof into the air. “Hi, yes, me again. Just to clarify – by ‘grant any wish’, do you mean the ability to grant something abstract, like something along the lines of ‘find my true love’; or you to mean in the sense of an object that can allow me to seize anything I desire, like a weapon of some unimaginably powerful sort?”

    “A good question, my dear.” Hestrir shrugged. “Shame that I don’t know myself. From what I gathered, in the past it has been the cause of the deaths of millions, and some say it was indirectly responsible for bringing about the windigoes and the subsequent Exodus to Equestria.”

    “If it’s so powerful, why is it that I’ve never noticed it in the endless years I’ve ruled Equestria?” Celestia asked.

    “Because it was never in Equestria.”

    “Explain.”

    “Well, Equestria is far from the only nation state of ponies. Far across the great seas are nation states of ponies that dedicate themselves to culture rather than racial unity. This holy object followed them after the Exodus, not to Equestria, and that is why the faith still survives in everywhere but Equestria.”

    “I... don’t follow.”

    Hestrir chuckled. “You don’t get out much, do you? I bet you’re too busy running this little nation of yours to worry about inconsequential events half the world over, aren’t you?” He shook his head. “Don’t get distracted, Hestrir – there’s bigger things at hoof.” He took a deep breath. “Irregardless, this object is now coming to life in Equestria. Its power makes you both look like little bi... No, bad idea to throw pointless insults just for emphasis.”

    “So, are you proposing that we need to stop this object?” Celestia asked, cocking a brow.

    Gritting his teeth, Hestrir sighed. “No... no, not at all. I’m here to tell you that you mustn’t under any circumstance intervene in this war.”

    “War?”

    “This is going to a war between seven people – not just ponies – and seven beings of extraordinary power.”

    Celestia scoffed. “You honestly think I would just stand by and let my little ponies die?”

    “Not just ponies, you racist – people. As in, sentient things that may or may not be ponies. By some pretentious metaphor to a relevant deity, I hate how the modern dialect refers to ponies over everything.”

    “Well, that doesn’t change a thing.”

    “The life of this world demands that this ritual proceed. It is powered by the very blood of–” Hestrir bit his tongue. “They dedicated an entire religion to this individual, and from his chalice shall a victor suckle from, drinking from this teat a wish. Many will die, yes, but if you intervene, many more will die... I come, I suppose, as something of an act of repentance for past sins – it was my curious prodding that made with holiest of holies set its eyes upon Equestria. It is important that you keep this a secret from the populace–”

    “You expect me to keep something this potentially dangerous a secret?”

    Hestrir snickered. “Wow. I didn’t think you’d try that on me. You know even better than I that revealing such a thing would cause a mass panic, and you know just how dangerous that could be, possibly more fatal than the upcoming war itself. So that attempt to gain leverage fails.”

    “And what would stop me from trying to fight this object, with war, by myself?”

    He threw his head back and laughed. “Really now? My, quite ballsy for a lady. I mean, you are the bitch that everpony knows by name – you raise the sun, but you are hardly a deity. This object, on the other hoof? This is the blood of the... of a god. This is the kind of thing that could destroy your very soul if misused.” He stomped a step forwards. “I came here to tell you not to interfere, lest your little ponies all die a brutal death! I’m sorry for this, I truly am! But for the sake of der Herrgott, shove a vibrating rod of ice up your tight, little–” he made a ramming gesture with a hoof, aiming it with an arc to Celestia. “Just listen to me, dammit! I know you hate me, and that you do so for as good a reason as any, but this is bigger than you, bigger than me! We can but watch and observe, and I came here to warn you that to interfere would result in pure disaster! In seven days’ time, the war will be waging between seven Masters, and the winner will be granted a wish of endless possibilities... We can only hope the winner is on your side.”

“And your advice was always been a good idea correct? Even when it's clear you're trying to manipulate me,” Celestia scoffed.

    Hestrir jerked a hoof out to the side. “I’m sorry you refuse to listen to me, ye bitch whom everypony knows by name, but it is your prerogative... And when I say ‘interfere’, I mean along the lines of stopping it. Perhaps it is possible to nudge whom you wish to win in the right direction, but I cannot say... This is goodbye, Princesses Celestia and Luna.”

    With a rush of air, Hestrir evaporated into a storm of autumn leaves.

    Luna blinked. “What was... Sister, I...”

    Celestia nodded, thought kept looking at where Hestrir had been. “I... I can only assume the worst.”

    “Do you think he was lying? That he was just trying to get within your head?”

    “I would not put it past him. Yet, the way he phrased everything, a part of me wants to think he created this object just to torment me.”

    “Like Discord did?”

    Celestia took a deep breath. “Though he’s not so much into sowing random chaos, he makes Discord look like a saint.”


***


    Spike sighed, lying on the couch with his arms crossed behind his head. A small smile crept onto his face, despite how sore his muscles were. His eyelids grew heavy. For a moment he tried to fight his eyelids’ efforts, only to give up as quick as he had started, his mind drifting off to all sorts of places.

    The library’s front door swung open with a loud crash. At the sound, Spike’s eyelids burst open. He let out a yelp, and jerked his body, sending him falling to the floor with the light thumping sound of scales on wood. Growling at the noise, he raised his head, running a hand through his green frills as he glared at the offending door.

    There was Twilight, trotting in from the outside, a book suspended in her magical aura. Her steps landed harder than usual, but that’s not what Spike took the time to gawk at. What enraptured Spike’s attention wasn't just the eager grin on her face, like a filly with a crush, or the thick, brown-covered book she held, carrying it like some prized first-place trophy, it was the fact that she was humming – honest to Celestia humming!

    At first, Spike just blinked, his mouth utterly unwilling to accept and input other than to a jaw drop. Her tune was nothing he recognized, probably just something she was making up on the spot. That in itself wasn’t surprising, Twilight was, after all, known to create surprisingly harmonious tunes and hum them at the same time. Rather, what sent the skin under his scales itching was the way she was humming – it was the kind of tone that just giggled “I have a secret and I’m very proud of it”, yet something about even that, gave him a bad feeling in his gut.

    Twilight trotted past Spike, then paused, her eyes proceeding to dart over Spike. “What are you doing on the floor, Spike?” she asked, momentarily breaking out of her hum.

    “Well, I was taking a nap. That was pretty cool. Lasted for about... hmm.” He brought up a hand and began counting on his claws. “One, two, three, four... Hmm, about no time at all, but you know.”

    “Are you in a bad mood?” she asked.

    “No, I’m certainly not annoyed that you had to slam open the door when I was sleeping, That’s certainly nothing to be ticked off about.”

    She smiled, chirping, “Glad to see I didn’t bother you – I was worried there for a second!” Resuming her jaunty-tuned hum, Twilight cantered past Spike, then rounded around the couch and proceeded up the stairs. Still humming, she made a sharp turn and walked into her bedroom.

    Spike sighed. “She’s gonna need me in–” he held up three fingers, moving one down for each word as he spoke “–three... two... one...” Nothing. “Huh... I guess she must really need my help,” he muttered, walking up the stairs, his tail dragging upon the ground.

    Upon reaching the top of the stairs, he sauntered on into Twilight’s bedroom, fighting the urge to grumble to himself. Entering the room, he found Twilight lying on the bed, her legs curled beneath her and the book splayed out and opened on her pillow. Horn glowing, she held her magical grasp on the book, as her eyes ran up and down the book’s contents.

    “So,” she murmured. “What secrets do you hold... Hmm, know that one... know that... familiar with that... that one always stumped me but I’m getting better. Hmm, don’t suppose you’ve got any–” Her face lit up like a Hearth’s Warming tree. “You do,” she purred, her tone borderline sultry. “I don't suppose you–” She gasped, a tiny, almost witch-like smile appearing on her face – the kind Spike had seen upon the faces of those really evil guys from those horror movies Twilight never let him watch but he did anyways. “I am gonna have fun tonight,” Twilight crooned.

    Spike swallowed a lump in his throat. Twilight wasn’t just talking, she was talking to herself. If his experience was anything to go by, a little mumbling to yourself is fine, it can even help you remember things. This, however, just made Spike think of the last time Twilight had a problem with talking to herself.

    He took a deep breath. It was time to toughen up like in those Alastair movies or those superhero comics. “Twilight?” he said, prompting Twilight to jerk into the air and flop off the bed, not unlike he and the couch but a minute earlier.

    “Spike, don’t sneak up on me like that!” Twilight chided, standing back up before setting herself back upon the bed.

    “I didn’t sneak up on you,” he deadpanned, “I just walked in here.”

    “Still, you shouldn’t do that.”

    He continued his deadpan expression. “I could make so many remarks on that, it isn’t even funny.”

    “What do you mean?”

    Spike shook his head. “Nevermind.” He pointed a finger at the book on Twilight’s bed. “What’s that thing?”

    Her eyes darted to the book, then back at Spike. “What? This old thing?”

    Crossing his arms, he gave her a skeptical look. “You had the kind of mischievous face you had that one time I found you nose-deep in that ‘biology’ textbook,” he said. 

    Twilight’s eyelids fluttered open, her cheeks going florid. “N-no, no, no! This has nothing to do with that!” she replied, her words coming out so fast that she almost tripped over herself. “Magic! It’s a magical book! Really old, really rare, really astounding!”

    “Mind if I take a look?” he inquired.

    She beamed at him, her smile excessively wide, as she lifted up the book and offered it to Spike. “Check it out, Spike!”

    “Calm down there, pardner,” Spike replied.

    “Pardner?”

    He shook his head. “I’ve been watching too many Westerns.”

    “Since when have you liked Westerns?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

    “Since always,” he replied, snatching the offered book up in his hands. “But especially since Dash let me watch one with her and Pinkie.”

    “When did this happen?”

    Spike held up a hand. “Don’t distract me.”

    “W-well, can we talk about this later? I feel kinda bad for missing out on that.”

    “Sure, sure,” he replied. “So, it’s called the...” Spike squinted. “I have no idea what this is, but at least it lacks the phrase ‘Sutra’ anywhere in the title, and that's always a good start when reading strange literature.”

    Twilight faux coughed into a hoof, darting her eyes away from Spike. “Yeah.”

    “So, what is it?”

    She smiled. “It’s a super rare book!”

    He cocked a brow. “You didn’t take this from anywhere, did you?”

    Twilight scoffed. “Why would you think–”

    “Third grade, Twi’,” he said plainly. “Remember how you ‘liberated’ that ancient book from the Smithponian?”

    Her expression deadpanned as she muttered, “Wasn’t my fault I was too short to read the ‘not’ part of the ‘do not touch or take’ sign. And besides, the Epic of Gil–”

    Spike laughed. “I'm just messing with you. I need to get rid of this random sense of tension, don't I? After all, it's in my job description.”

    “Spike, do you wanna look at the book and care what I'm doing, or would you rather not?” she replied in an annoyed tone.

    “Fine, fine.” Skimming through the page, Spike observed, “Twilight, you do realize that you know literally all these spells, right?”

    “Well, yeah,” she said, shifting her weight on the bed, causing her to momentarily bounce and jostle. “At least a good many of them, that is.”

    Spike sighed. “If this is anything like that last eldritch book you found – the one which accidentally summoned Mr. Tentacle-Faced Waitress Daemon Monster Esq. – I’m going to burn this. And ditto if – like that necklace you bought at the market that one day – this transforms Princess Luna – like when she came over for tea that one day – into a self-proclaimed cute Gothic lolita maid waitress. Remember? And... where was I going with this? Oh yeah! If it does anything like that, I’m also burning it.”

    “No, no, no! I swear, it’s nothing like those times!”

    “That’s what you said about the Necronomicon.” He rolled his eyes. “And we all know how that turned out.”

    “Spike! We agreed never to talk about that ever again!”

    “My point exactly.”

    “Why are acting so acidic today, Spike?”

    Spike sighed. “Because, Twi’, this is far from the first time something bad has happened around here.” He muttered, “At least I’m capable of learning from the past. I mean, I honestly feel like I’m the only one in the whole world who can remember that bad things happen around here whenever something at least vaguely interesting occurs.”

    “Spike, that’s rude,” she chided. “I know, that on a few spare occasions, bad things have happened as a result of unforeseen–”

    “Except by me; I always see this kind of stuff coming.”

    “–consequences, but I assure you, Spike, nothing bad is going to happen.”

    “Fine, then we make a bet.”

    “A... a bet?” she scoffed through a chuckle.

    “Yeah. If something bad happens – and it will – then I get the next month – starting tomorrow – off from work.”

    Twilight laughed. “You don’t really think I’d make that kind of bet, do you?”

    “So, you’re saying something bad is going to happen, and that you’re perfectly okay if – like those many times – something horrible happens?”

    “Of course not.”

    “Then take me on. What do you have to lose if you’re right?”

    “What do I have to gain?”

    He sighed. “Twilight, please, I’m doing this because I care. If I didn’t care... Well, I wouldn’t care – simple as that.”

    “Look, you want to play it like that?” Twilight huffed, her cheeks now going red. “Fine! I’ll take your bet, and now give me that book so I can prove nothing bad's going to happen and to make you stop trying to mess with things!” By the time she was done her her little tirade, Twilight was panting.

    In accordance, Spike waited until her pantings died down before speaking again. “Are you done yet?”

    Twilight sighed, rolling onto her back, the bed beneath her groaning a little in protest. “Yeah... yeah, I think I am.”

    “Good.” He hesitated “Please don't take this as the wrong way, but I'm being ‘acidic’ because I'm trying to help you...”

“R-really?”

“If I never tried to help you when I know a problem's about to occur, what kind of friend would I be? And before you reply, the answer is ‘a bad one’... Now then, why don’t you explain to me what this is – I want to make a prediction about how we’ll end the world this time.” He chuckled.

    After blowing away a small lock of hair from her face, Twilight groaned, still lying on her back, her head hanging over too the bed and looking at Spike. “It’s an ancient magical tome – one hoofwritten by Starswirl the Bearded himself. It’s a collection of spells he wrote when he was alive. The very same spells which would go on to be the basis for modern magecraft.”

    Spike cocked a brow, “Err... difference between ye olde and modern magecraft being...?”

    Twilight rolled over and onto her stomach, splaying her limbs out. “The so-called ‘silent magecraft’ – spells which don't require the utterance of words and phrases, and likewise don’t have a need for material objects to use – is what we use today. In the old days before Starswirl, all magic was done by using verbal enchantments or required mystical fetishes, or both.”

    “Um... fetishes?”

    She groaned, rolling her eyes. “It means an object regarded with awe as being the embodiment of spiritual or magical power.”

    “Oh.”

    “I have no idea how it came to be a psychology term which signified that.”

    “Um, so...” Spike rubbed the back of his neck. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s say we get back to talking about that weirdo book, Twi’?”

    She smiled. “It’s a spellbook – but not just any spellbook.”

    “Yeah, we already got that across. But let me guess: it’s a spellbook which then turns Pinkie into the self-proclaimed ‘Freakazoid’?” he chuckled.

    “That was just that one time, and I apologized to the Cakes and Princess Celestia until my mouth nearly fell off,” Twilight retorted. “Look, I bet I can totally cast a spell in here without causing a problem – I’ll pick one at random, even.”

    Spike glanced out of the window behind Twilight’s bed, momentarily observing a whisp of autumn leaves falling from the tree. “Look, Twi’, let's just do this.”

    “And I’m going to prove to you that you’re wrong about there being a problem,” Twilight said, opening the ancient tomb with infinite care, then flipped with equal care to a random page. “Ooh, here’s a spell I don’t know... Hmm, the Song of Dēath... Um, no.” She flipped a page. “Ooh, this looks promising, Thes Song apó the Forloren Wīsard...” Twilight inched her eyes closer to the book. “Interesting... the penponyship on this spell is in a slightly different style from all the other spells – it’s as if the writer kept forgetting what they were doing or something; also, it appears to require an incantation, the spell’s name.” She shrugged. “Seems as a good a place as any to start.”

    Twilight focused her magic into her horn as she recited the incantation, channeling and incorporealizing it, changing it from cause into effect.

    Suddenly, without any warning – but not to Spike’s surprise – a huge column of white light erupted from her horn, creating a boom as loud and powerful as a sonic rainboom. As the light blinded Spike, he managed to hear the sound of their windows exploding outwards.

    As the blotches left Spike’s eyes, he drew his arm away from his face, surveying the aftermath. Thrown off the bed, her back against the wall, was Twilight. She was rubbing her eyes, so Spike felt no immediate concern if she was still conscious. What he cared about was the third body in the room.

    There, sprawled out on the floor, was a pony clad in a starry great cloak. Breathing heavily, the stallion opened his eyes, looking around.

    Groaning, Twilight opened her eyes, which then went as wide as saucers as she stared at the grounded stallion. She sprung to her hooves, sending her stumbling forwards to the bed, and causing the stallion to focus his eyes to her.

    “I’ve got a lot of questions to ask you,” he said in a resonating bass voice. Crawling up and onto his knees, he asked a question. “You can start from–” standing up straight, he dropped the tone of his voice, becoming almost threatening “–where I am.”


***


    The air whipped and thrashed as it was torn asunder by smoke and fire. Rivers of illuminated magic – orange and silver – danced through the unsteady air. He watched the pentagram inscribed upon the stone floor glowed as the rivers drained into it, carrying their magic to the shape, like silt into a delta.

    “A most interesting method,” a masculine, baritone voice said, prompting the three glowing rivers to freeze in place.

    “And unique, too,” another replied, rolling down the sleeve of his black robes till it stood at the wrist of his hoof.

    “I have still have my misgivings about you... magi,” the first voice opined, rubbing his hands together. “Need you keep it so cold in here, Master?”

    “Cold is good for the mind and body – self-deprecation, if you will.”

    “I call it 'masochism'. And I should know, they told me I was one. But even then, there's a fine line between 'tolerance of pain' and 'real-life masochist'.”

    “Are you complaining, Hugues?”

    Hugues chuckled. “Of course not, Master... though I cannot but remark upon how cool it is within there, while outside is... a rather warm day.”

    “It isn’t exactly day yet.”

    “Call it what you will,” Hugues replied, crossing his arms over his armored chest. “And oughtn't you be sleeping? After all the energy you’ve wasted this morning, would not it make sense?” He tapped two fingers to his right horn. “Isn't it bad form to be up and about so late, or rather, so early?”

    The priest chuckled. “There are more important matters to attends to, sleeping can wait. And besides...”

    “Besides?” Hugues repeated, cocking a brow.

    After shaking his head and turning around, facing down the empty alley flanked by pews, the priest stated, “I am a shepherd without a flock. It is not like I shall be actively sought out or needed here.”

    “Un pâtre sans un troupeau,” Hugues mused, stroking his short chin beard, his French flawless but with a hint of a Procençal accent. “What sin did you commit to get that?” he chuckled.

    “I am far from home,” the priest replied, walking past the rows of dusty pews and through the aisle, his hooves making no noise on the once-polished marble of the floor.

    “Have not even the locals sought out your light and guidance?”

    “Especially not the locals,” he growled, opening up the wooden double-door leaning outside, and Hugues followed, his own hooves making a slight noise, though it was mostly muffled by long-ago mothballed carpets.

    Hugues managed to rejoin with the priest just as the latter was standing over the edge of a fenced-off hill. Now standing next to him, Hugues looked down over the hill, seeing a quaint hamlet.

    “And this place is called... what, again?” Hugues asked, leaning over the railing, which was meant for a being less-than half as tall as he.

    “They call it ‘Equestria’, since it is the land of ‘equines’ or some nonsense,” the priest intoned.

    “Don't like it?”

    The priest shrugged, then set his forehooves to the railing. “Perhaps I’m just xenophobic of such an... odd culture.” He tapped the crucifix hanging from his neck. “They don't even have a proper word for ‘church’ – to them, it's just another kind of temple used by the ancients.”

    “Back in my day,” Hugues offered, “we used to put unbelievers to the sword.”

    “You cannot be an ‘unbeliever’ without ever having once believed.”

    “Nonbeliever, then.” He waved a hand. “It's all the same to me – without faith, they are to be shown the light. If they refuse the light, they get to meet my sword.”

    “I can see why you were canonized, St. Payens,” the priest remarked, his tone dry. “And the first one of your kind, too.”

    “And I can't see how you perform magic,” Hugues retorted, “you earth pony.”

    The priest grinned, then rolled up a sleeve. “We ponies all can use magic. It just depends on what kind and how you use it.” He gestured to the rows upon rows of red tattoos running up his exposed arm.

    “So, what, you have a thing for self-mutilation – or as modern folks like to call it, 'tattoos'. Just like those damnable things you ponies all have on your flanks.”

    The priest waggled his brows. “Tattoos? Not exactly, but you could call them such if you wish. These are just like cutie marks; however, these are infinitely better.”

    Hugues spat over the ledge. “Say what you will, I still hate magicians. I can't believe the Church ever absorbed the magi into one organization. It sickens me to see us fall this far.”

    “That happened thousands of years ago.”

    “Yeah, and back then was after I died. I still remember when, if a unicorn tried any magic beyond levitation, they were burned. As rightly it ought to be. An earther like you, and a shepherd no less...” He shook his head. “It's just wrong.”

    “This coming from a bull born to pagan parents.”

    Hugues snorted. “I had neither mother nor father save for that which the light gave to me. Perhaps they died by my hand – it matters not.”

    “Saint Hugues Payens,” the shepherd mumbled. “The greatest swordsbull of all time.” The sounds of buckles and belts prompted him to look over at his companion, who was standing there without armor, wearing only a set of brown trousers.

    Upon his well-toned and muscular chest was a giant cloth cross. The cross was stitched into his flesh, literally with black stitched in through the edges of the cross and into his skin. Its color was a deep crimson, like long-ago-dried blood. Hugues tapped two fingers to its top, its leftmost edge, then its rightmost, then clasped his hands together.

    “Isn't that just the thing, Father Requiem?” he said. “What, then, would you have your Servant do, Master?”

    Father Requiem smirked, then pointed out across a sweeping landscape of verdant green to a castle city sitting upon the side of a mountain. “Do you see that, Servant of the Saber Class?”

    Hugues followed his Master's point. “You mean that place that looks like it should fall down any second now?”

    “Within that city are two mares – two pegasus-unicorn sisters named ‘Celestia’ and ‘Luna’.”

    “Pegasus-unicorn? Isn’t that some kind of ice cream flavor?”

    “No. If you want to sound more ‘natural’, call them ‘alicorns’.”

    Hugues' brow furrowed. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't ‘alicorn’ the magical substance which composes a unicorn's horn?”

    Requiem nodded, proceeding to shrug. “Do not ask me why that is the modern slang, but now you've distracted me.”

    “Sorry, Master.”

    He cleared his throat. “Celestia is said to solely control the sun, and Luna–”

    “The moon, no?” Hugues offered, prompting the priest to look at him. “Luna means ‘moon’.”

    “Quite right,” Requiem said with a nod.

    “Control the sun and moon,” he scoffed. “I still recall the days when the sun and moon moved of their own volition.” Hugues shook his head. “And then do you know what happened? Those damn unicorns ruined it all. Now we need two super-powered false gods to do it for us.” He spat, “Pathetic.”

    “It may be a sad chain of events, but you would take care to remember that they are the sovereigns of the Kingdom of Equestria – though they call themselves 'Princesses’ Celestia and Luna, and I don't know why. But see, they are both incredibly powerful, possibly bordering on the levels of a Heroic Spirit like yourself.”

    “Why are you telling me this?”

    “Because we must be wary of them, as either one is immortal. The eldest, Celestia, is particularly disinclined towards what we are doing here in Ponyville.”

    “Worst name for a hamlet ever,” Hugues opined.

    “But so long as we can prevent them from finding out what we are doing for long enough and allow the Grail to gather the other six, she can do nothing. What say you to that, Saber?”

    “I say that the modern world is infinitely confusing to me. Is there a local library I could visit, that I may read up on what happened over the last few thousands of years?”

    “See that giant tree down in yonder hamlet?” Father Requiem asked, pointing.

    After a brief moment of squinting, Hugues nodded. “They hollowed it out and built a library within. If you want books, go there. But I would not recommend it, as Princess Celestia's personal protege resides there – I am unsure why.”

    “Right, then, Master – needn’t you rest now, after all that spellcraft?”

    “In a moment. I need to go back and finish that spell, you see.”

    Hugues nodded. “Is there anywhere I might find a young lamb, Master?”

    A pause.

    “Yes,” the priest said, pointing to a cottage near the borders of the nearby forest. “Why?”

    “I must slaughter a sacrificial lamb to Him, that we may earn His fortune and grace for this coming war. Tonight, I intend to do this.”

    “I wouldn't recommend that.”

    Hugues chuckled. “Ah, yes. Purified and good, the thorn full of blood, and thus cometh the holy flood.”

    “In the modern era, Saber, you serve upon your knees, not with fire and sword.”

    He grunted. “Ain’t no excuse not to attempt to obviate our situation...”

“You just used ‘ain't’ and ‘obviate’ in the same sentence.”

“I did. What of it?”

    Father Requiem shook his head. “Let's just get on with today’s ceremony.”

    “If you insist, Master.”




***


    “I repeat,” he said, running a hoof through his great white beard: “where am I?”

    “I-I-I-I-I-I,” Twilight stammered.

    The stallion rolled his eyes. “Lȳtele gyrela, listen up – I need to know where I am, and if you’re my Master or not.”

    “Master?” Twilight sputtered,

    “Yes. Are you my Master, she whom I obey?”

    “But-but-but-but who are you?” she finally spat out.

    The unicorn bowed down. “I am a Servant of the Caster Class.” Standing back up, he said, “I demand of you an answer: are you my Master?”

    “But-but-but-but–”

    “Indeed, yours is bare,” he deadpanned.

    Twilight blinked. “I–bu–wha?”

    “So, are you my Master?” He cocked a brow. “Or, rather, my Mistress... no, wait, that has a generally negative connotation in the modern age. Eh, just stick with Master.”

    “I... I don’t know!”

    “Well, then what do you know? I could use the...” He looked upwards. “Er, what’s the words? Some... er... uh... sitrep? Is that it? I think that’s the–” He looked at Twilight. “Um, so, are you my master or not? No, wait, better question – did you summon me?”

    “I don’t know! M-maybe?”

    “Then you are my... Master,” he said, his last word coming out as something of a purr.

    “Master? What are you talking about?”

    He blinked. “You... don’t know...? Huh, that makes one-and-a-half of us.”

    “What?”

    “Um,” Spike peeped up, “I don’t mean to be rude here, but does nopony realize that this guy looks kinda like Starswirl the Bearded?”

    The stallion turned his attention to the dragon, starring with an utterly blank expression. At that same moment, Twilight was staring at the stallion and his long beard.

    “Starswirl... the... Bearded?” Twilight intoned, her eyes going even wider, and Spike thought they might just fall out of her head.

    Turning back to the Twilight, the stallion said, “Yes, that is my name... I think. I tend to forget every so often.” He shrugged. “But I am Starswirl the Bearded, Servant of the Caster Class.” He bowed down to Twilight. “At your service, my Master.”

    “Master?”

    Starswirl rolled his eyes. “Well, you summoned me, and I am now bound to you as Servant, thus you are my Master. But you already know this... right?”

    “Know what?”

    He blinked, tilting his head to the side. “Er, shouldn’t you already know this?”

    “How would I know anything?”

    “Because... you summoned me.”

    “I did?”

    “No, he came because he wanted to ask you out,” Spike intoned, prompting Twilight to glare at him. “What?” he said with a shrug.

    “Well, I, uh,” Starswirl stammered, “figured that since you sort of summoned me, that I’d... uh... words. Words would word words.”

    “What?” Twilight asked.

    He pointed at her. “Well, you at you – you’re clearly my Master, and not just because you summoned me.” He licked his lips. “Huh. That’s so weird – your modern language lacks an informal, singular form of the word ‘you’, save for the apparently archaic ‘thou’. Wow. I think this is the only language I know which doesn’t distinguish between singular you and plural you. Funny.”

    “Uh...”

    The bearded stallion shook his head. “Look, you’re my Master – one of your... modern word is... er... Really? It’s called a ‘cutie mark’? That’s stupid. I mean, wow.”

    “Anypony else have no idea what’s going on?” Spike said, prompting Twilight to once again glare at him. “I regret nothing,” he grumbled, folding his arms over his chest.

    “I... I still have no idea what’s going on,” Twilight said, shaking her head.

    The stallion’s brows furrowed. “But... I can clearly see the mark of the Master on you?”

    “What do you mean?”

    He blinked, gesturing a hoof at Twilight. “It’s, uh, I can see it on you... I mean, I wasn’t looking, but, uh, I have good eyes and, uh...” He facehoofed. “Upon one side of your naked flank is the mark.”

    Twilight blinked, twisting her head to her haunches. “I don’t see–”

    “Other side, ma’am.”

    Looking to the other side of her rear, Twilight’s heart sank into her stomach. “My cutie mark!” she gasped, her face filling with a palpable pallor.

    “Twilight!” Spike shouted, sprinting around the room to her. “My Celestia, Twilight, what's wrong‽”

    Hyperventilating, Twilight just sputtered out an incomprehensible drivel of sounds, her eyes locked to her right side.

    Grinding to a halt, Spike gasped. “It’s-it’s-it’s,” he stammered.

    “Er, are y’all okay?” Starswirl prodded.

    “My cutie mark is gone!” Twilight cried out, tears welling up in her eyes.

    “Wait, can I say ‘y'all’? I mean, I have the compulsion to distinguish between singular and plural you, and that’s the word it told me to come up with... Wait, we were having a problem? Oh yeah, your cutie mark’s gone.” Starswirl took a breath.  “Well, one of your cutie marks is gone,” he offered in a nonchalant tone, shrugging.

    “How can you be so calm‽” she demanded of Starswirl.

    “Eh,” he said, shrugging. “I’m still trying to figure out if... trying to figure out where that train of thought was leading... I think to Maredorra, but I never liked Maredorra – the ponies there are dirty. Well, were, you know, since Maredorra hasn’t been a place since after the Three Tribes formed, but whatever. Those ponies were still dirty.”

    “What‽”

    “Just saying,” he replied with a shrug.

    “Twilight, where’d your cutie mark go?” Spike asked.

    “I don’t know!”

    Starswirl put a hoof to his foreleg. “Huh, that’s weird. I’m going through the modern dictionary in my head and, apparently, the modern word for ‘arm’ is ‘foreleg’; that’s so weird. All the old languages called your forelegs things like brazo, brachium, bras, brátso, Bānha, arm, and Arm – to name a few, and they all mean ‘arm’, but arm and Arm are from two different but related languages. Funny how language changes over the years and are related, eh?”

“Why is my cutie mark gone‽” Twilight demanded at Swirl, snapping him out of the thoughts. 

    “What? Are we talking about your Command Spell?”

    “My what?”

    “What?”

    “My cutie mark!”

    “Oh, yeah, that...” He shrugged. “That was the price you willingly paid for summoning me.”

    “I willingly paid‽”

    “Well, yeah – you summoned me, I guess. You knew this would happen.”

    “No, I didn’t!”

    “Well, did you read the book?”

    “Yes! There was no mention of … this!” 

    “Let me see that,” he muttered, levitating up the book. “Hmm...” He chuckled. “Woops, my bad.”

    “Your bad‽”

    “Yes, ma’am. See, I got distracted when writing this spell. I was writing about using the power of the–” he mumbled something “–to bring my granddaughter back, but instead I ended up writing a lovely recipe for chicken soup... Hmm, I need to remember that – it was such a lovely dish.”

    “What‽

    “Hmm... Oh yeah, the Equestrian diet is quite different from your ancestors, isn’t it? How quaint.” He smiled. “Oh well, nothing we can do now.”

    “My cutie mark is gone!” she snarled, tears streaking down her cheeks.

    Starswirl sighed, his shoulder slumping. “Dammit, I hate to see a pretty face cry.” He licked his lips. “Look, there’s no sense to crying over this.”

    “It was my cutie mark!” Twilight snapped, a tear drop splashing to the ground.

    “Yeah – but no matter what happens to your body, the cutie mark is but the physical manifestation of a piece of your soul. It’s what’s on the inside that matters. And just because you have a series of magical... er, tattoos – that’s what the thing tells me the word ought be – doesn’t mean that you’re any less wholesome a pony.”

    “But-but-but-but–”

    “I know your culture puts more of a prideful, boastful nature to the cutie mark, and I suppose I have little to no comprehension of what you’re going through, but... Uh... Where was I going with that...? Oh, right! We need to prepare ourselves.”

    “Prepare?” Spike asked. “For what?”

    “Neat that she has her own personal dragon slave,” Starswirl opined.

    Spike blinked. “I’m not a slave.”

    “You sure about that? You look like...” The stallion shrugged. “Apparently, modern folks also have morals against slavery. How quaint... Wait – I think I was saying something about the upcoming war.”

    Twilight’s puffy red eyes looked to Starswirl. Lip quivering, she asked, “W-w-what?”

    Starswirl nodded. “It dawns on me that you summoned me as your Servant by random mistake. Simply put, this means you’re like a chicken running around with its head cut off – but will probably end with a lot more of your blood.”

    “What?”

    He took a deep breath. “From now on, you will address me solely as Caster. To call me anything but Caster will mean my certain death. Do you understand?”

    “I...”

    “Do. You. Understand‽”

    “What?’

    “Do you‽” he demanded, taking a single stop forwards.

    “Yes! Yes! Your name is Caster, nothing else.”

    Caster took a deep breath. “Good. I’ve a lot to teach you about these upcoming days, and forgetting my name was lesson one. Mention it but once and I die – I die, you die. Simple as that. That is, were I to die, there'd be nopony able to protect you; being that you're a Master, they'd have to kill you to ensure that you don't make any pacts with other Servants who lost their Master. Since if you die and I'm alive, I can go on living for a brief while without your magic; I could then form a pact with any other Master who lost his or her Servant, so they'd kill you as fast as could to render you useless.”

    “What?”

    “I am your Servant. We Servants are not to think, we serve. Or, as an old proverb goes in my fatherland, ‘Denk nicht diene’ – ‘Think not, serve’. Shame that we left that place for Equestria, this place doesn’t have the rough charm and beauty home had.” He shrugged. “Oh well, no sense whining about that now.” Caster froze in place, his eye glazing over as he stared out of the window.

    A pause.

    “Um... S–er, Caster, are you okay?” Spike prodded.

    Caster blinked. “Hmm? Oh, yeah – sort of just phased out there at that nice castle out on yonder mountain.” He took a deep inhale through his nostrils. “Ah, serfdom.”

    “What?” Twilight asked, wiping drying tears from her eyes.

    The stallion shook his head. “Anyways, by summoning me, we’ve signed a binding contract that enters us into a war as a pair, as Servant and Master.”

    “What?”

    “Is ‘what’ your favorite word?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, look, hey – no hat.”

    “What?”

    “There you go again – what, qué, wat, que, ti, was, quid.”

    “Huh?”

    “Much better. Anyways... uh... See, you are but one Master in a sea of seven – or at least there will be when all Servants are with their respective Master. Each servants goes like this: Caster, Saber, something-or-other-with-an-L, Berserker, Assassin, and that-last-one-whose-name-eludes-me. Oh, and the seventh one technically doesn't exist under normal circumstances. Don't ask me why they include that, though I heard it showed up in one or two of these events.”

    “Anypony else get the feeling that is going to be long, painful ordeal that will end with lots of bad things?” Spike remarked.

> Chapter II: Showdown at Tambelon
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

	He stood there, in the center of a large ring of salt, observing his handiwork. As the midday sun beat down upon his black-and-white stripes, he watched as the last drop of blood poured out of the vial’s neck. The blood landed in the center of the red pentagram, spattering out into smaller droplets which were absorbed by the hot sand.

Putting the bottle back into his pack, he proceeded to bend forwards, putting his forehooves together. “Damu yangu kwa ajili yenu,” he said. Standing back up, placed a hoof on his temple. After taking a deep breath, he slowly slid it down his face and to the ground..  “My name,” he continued shakily, “is Tuluki.”

Setting the first forehoof back to the ground, he stared down into the sand. He felt the hot wind ruffling his short mane, the hotness brushing against his necklace of golden fetishes. Making note that the wind-blown sand was starting to pick up pace, he shut his eyes, focusing his thoughts towards locating and classifying any sort of local electromagnetism.

“I have performed the ceremony – why do you not work‽” Tuluki growled.

That’s when he felt it – the sort of distant vibration only supposed to be felt by animals, the sense of an impending disaster, the feeling of the ground trembling. Then the air whipped by with a sudden chill, and he felt the electromagnetic field of the whole desert going crazy.

A little smirk formed at his lips, as he felt thick pillars penetrate up, and through, the sand. It scattered to make way for the ascending obelisks. Taking in the scent of the air, he noticed the dryness, too, was gone, replaced by a palpable moisture, almost as if a thick miasma were around him – no, exactly as if a miasma were surrounding him. Yet as he stood there, protected within his circle of salt and pentagram of blood, he felt something else, felt the heat and electromagnetism of a body some ten meters before him.

From where he stood, he could gauge, via energy running through this other body, that it was likely tall and well-built, the body’s muscular electricity placing the bulk at thrice that of his own. Tuluki could feel the amount of air being moved with each breath, so he surmised that the presence possessed large, powerful lungs to complement its body.

Tuluki smirked even harder as he sensed the presence walk towards him. Yet he also felt the cold air shifting over his body, as if the coolness were the tentacles of some voracious invertebrate, curling and shifting and rubbing his body in all the wrong ways. To him it felt as if there was a third entity in wherever he was: the location itself.

As he felt the hot, rancid breath of the being before him, he ceased his smile, focusing every last bit of concentration onto the being before him.

“Servant of the Caster Class?”

The body snorted.

“Ah, so you are a Servant of the Berserker Class?”

The other being grunted.

“Good. Now, who were you in life?” He held out a hoof, touching the face, then rubbing the other’s head and ram-like horns. Then, setting his hoof down, he went back to feeling with electromagnetism. Yet this time he felt outwards, focusing on his surroundings and not just one thing.

Surrounding him on all sides was a powerful weave of crisscrossing and interconnecting branches of a certain type of electromagnetism, the fallout of magic – and it was fresh, so fresh that it told him that the spell was still active. As he took a deep breath, he sent out his electromagnetic feelers into the source of the fallout, and was astounded that he hadn’t felt it sooner.

All around him was the magical outline of an urban megalopolis, the structure of it feeling beyond medieval. The city, as he now perceived it, was channeling and pulsating and vibrating with the tailwhips of energy, so much so that he was amazed that it didn’t momentarily render his abilities numb.

Pulling his focus back to his most immediate surroundings, he felt at the body before him. “I have heard of this place... This is the ancient acropolis of Tambelon, the city of lights and dreams, the city of empires... You are he, the Tyrant of Tambelon, the Great Betrayer.”

The Great Betrayer snorted.

“You are named Grogar, and I am called Tuluki.”

A pause.

“Thus I am your Master, Grogar, and you are my Servant.”

And at that exact moment, he felt another presence, one standing atop the parapets of a tall tower nearby. Tuluki did nothing for nary a minute, except wait. His muscles tightened, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. But when nothing happened, he found his annoyance overwhelming his sense of caution, and so he forced his mouth to form words in the local language.

“I know you are here.”

The body jumped ahead, and then moved an inordinate distance forwards. It landed on a building a story up from Tuluki, who guessed that the newcomer was, logically, a pegasus.

The pegasus whistled, then said in a decidedly male voice, “Well, well, it appears that the bitch was wrong – there is something new this way.” He licked his lips. “Lovin’ the youthful body back, me. Feel like I can take on the whole world by myself... again!”

Tuluki snapped his head in the direction of the stranger, and Berserker did too.

“Ah, you’re a zebra, then, huh? Pretty damn cool, mate. I never met a zebra before... always figured they’d be more talkative...” He whistled. “Oi, buddy – wanna open your eyes? It’s rude to sleep in class.”

The zebra opened his milky-blue eyes.

“Oh, how snappy! You’re an invalid, ain'tcha?” He snickered. “Father, I sure do love this damn language – so simple and direct, no need to remember which word is feminine or masculine or neutered or how to add declension to my stuff!” He gestured a hoof to Berserker. “And who’s the big blue goat?”

Grogar snorted.

“Whoa-ho! Thū mōste bēon Berserker, aron nōwiht thū?” He put a hoof to his mouth. “Whoops, let that one slide. Promise it won’t happen again, mate!”

Tuluki continued to stare, and his Servant did little but the same.

“Y’all ain’t a talkative lot, are you?”

A pause.

“Eh, that is, as they say, cool.” He glanced around. “So, I couldn’t help but notice as I was flying about – avoiding a certain bitch, actually – that this big city just sorta sprang up out of nowhere.” He put a hoof to his breast – a breast which Tuluki recognized as having some sort of armor. “Though I will say this: this city looks really old, I should know. But this looks like something you’d see in a storybook, not in real life. So what gives, eh, zebra and sheep thing?”

Berserker hissed, digging a hoof into the concrete.

The pegasus snickered. “Ah, so I get it, all of it makes such perfect sense now! You’re a fresh Master and Servant, ain’tcha?”

Tuluki took a deep breath, sending out his electromagnetic feelers to a default level. His feelers now encompassed a wide berth but left little room for precise calculations, only keen estimations.

He bowed. “Well then, my name is Archer, and I too am a Servant.” Archer pulled out something, which Tuluki assumed to be a bow. Within the span of an instant, far faster than any archer should logically be, Archer set loose a slip of projectiles, their numbers too great for Tuluki to count with his current configuration.

There was but time for a single series of estimates in Tuluki’s mind, and then only the skin of his teeth let him act upon them.

As the dust settled, Archer whistled. “Son of a... you’re alive, you bastard.”

Tuluki brushed a drop of his blood from his shoulder, the result of a lone flaw in his math.

“I must admit,” Archer continued, changing his accent and speaking with almost a kind of conceited reverence, “I am most impressed by this display here. Yet I find myself wondering why an agile zebra like you would get the hulking behemoth that is Berserker?”

Berserker snorted.

Archer sighed. “You know, silence is generally considered extremely rude.” Putting a hoof to his breast, he said, “Unless I am offending you, O Master and Berserker. Because it ain’t my fault you need to break the stick out of your ass, pardon my French.” Shaking his head, Archer brought his bow back to bear. 

Focusing all of his abilities onto Archer, Tuluki detected the indications of a massive magical buildup. Then his senses honed in thousands – no, countless – arrows, each one forming out of the thin air, every one aiming for him and ignoring Berserker entirely.

Tuluki acted with every ounce of speed and determination in his body.

Kneeling and doing his best to steady his breath, the zebra rose his head to Archer, sensing the electricity in the Servant’s face and noting how he was gawking. The attack was over, he was alive, and all was right with the world.

“No... no way,” Archer said. “There’s no damn way a zebra bastard like you – a mortal like you – survived that... What in His name are you?”

“My name,” he growled, “is Tuluki.” The zebra pointed at Archer. “Berserker, do with him as you will.”

Without any hint of warning, the ground beneath Berserker exploded into a slurry of dust, dirt, and shattering stone. The titanic mass of muscles, meanwhile, catapulted into the air, making a beeline for Archer.

Flaring his wings, Archer darted sideways through the air, and Berserker based within just inches of him. “Holiest of Holies!” he shouted as Berserker’s body collided with some sort of stone tower, turning the stones into a fine, chalky mist.

With nary a second wasted for his effort, Grogar tore through the air, away from the tower and back at Archer.

“It’s time to kick ass, and spank other, more shapely, and feminine, asses – and I’m all out dames!” Archer boasted as he readied his bow. In an instant the air was set afire as a fury of arrows were conjured out of the very wind itself, all then sent hurtling towards Berserker.

With the force of some titanic gale, the countless arrows let themselves loose, all targeting Berserker. With some of intrigue, Tuluki noted that each of the thousand arrows individually self-course-corrected towards Grogar, as if they all had little minds of their own.

In the span of an instant, they crossed the gap between Archer and Berserker, shredding into the latter’s body, and some even pierced all the way through through Grogar’s bulk. Yet for all the kinetic force, Berserker never once slowed down, never once flinched, never once wept blood, and he kept on hurdling towards Archer.

Gasping, the pegasus threw himself to the side, one of his hooves passing within mere centimeters of Berserker. “Sacred blood!” Acher barked, pulling backwards from Grogar, who now stood perfectly still on the roof that he himself had just been hovering above. The way Berserker had stopped, it was as if Neighton’s laws had forgotten about him. As he stared at Berserker’s bloodless yet gaping wound, they began to invaginate – folding in upon themselves and fusing, pushing out the arrows.

Then Berserker’s horns began to flow with energy, which Tuluki figured as a likely candidate for producing light. With a roar of thunder the horns’ energy sapped itself, and a bolt of heavenly fury tore into the tower immediately behind Archer. When struck, the tower was sundered in half.

“Whoa! By His name!” Archer shouted, dodging to the side and avoiding getting splattered by a falling brick. “But if you were aiming for me, you most certainly missed!” He put a hoof to his chin. “So, Berserker’s got some kind of a healing factor? ‘Kay, then I gotta approach and defeat you like how I take out the ladies at a fancy gathering – with a single move.”

Flapping his wings, Archer tore into a seemingly random direction, then shifted his form. Soon, he was flying in a great loop around the area Tuliki was in, the Servant’s circles getting thinner and thinner with every move

Tuluki gasped as his electromagnetic feels utterly lost Archer, and a million questions began to ring out in his head: “Where is he?”, “Where’s he going?”, “How’d he do that?”, and “How do I catch him?”

Jerking his head to the side, Tuluki felt that Berserker had some sort of circle surrounding him – and he sensed they were saggital in shape, exactly like giant arrows. Grogar thrashed his head forwards, racking himself against the arrows, yet the cage refused to give way.

Still having no idea where Archer was, Tuluki only stood there, sending out his feelings in erratic directions until–there! Tuluki sensed Archer, flying just above the ruined tower. But then Tuluki realized something: it wasn’t that Archer had slowed down, per se, it was that Archer had generated such a powerful field and energy that he was literally becoming like a magical beacon.

“The Bow of the Lord Commander! Hurricane!” Archer bellowed, and the mass of energy congealed into a single mass, about the precise size of an arrow. And Tuluki’s heart sank into his stomach as Archer vanished, his energy signal being replaced by the ultra-dense arrow-like shape, which itself was ripping the air in half as it charged at the captive Grogar.



Before the arrow could even hit, the arrows which had caged Berserker began to undulate with energy, and then they became themselves swirling tornado-like masses. Each lick of the tornadoes’ wind hacked and slashed the thrashing Berserker, and all his attacks were in utter vain.

Then the main arrow hit, and Tuluki was forced to yelp and cover his eyes as the force of the energy physically burnt his very soul.

Within seconds, it was all over, and there was a huge splash of something hot and thick on the stones of the street, with one drop landing on Tuluki’s cheek.

That’s when Archer landed before Tuluki. “So, I guess that means you lose. But I suppose that’s just the chorus of things – who’d’ve thought an invalid who acts as dumb as he is visionless would’ve had a Berserker Class Servant?... Now, where’ll it be, sir?” He tapped Tuluki’s head. “Bang, bang – headshot, methinks.”

“So, you are the famous Lord Commander Hurricane, first and last supreme leader of the Pegasi Commonwealth, no?” Tuluki said, and Archer blinked.

“Yeah – that’s exactly right.” He bowed his head. “Lord Commander Amadeus Hurricane, or Hlāford Comandere Amadeus Hurakán, in the original tongue.”

“Hurakán? That is not a pegasus name, is it,” Tuliki stated, not asking because he already knew the answer.

Sheathing his bow, he pulled out a knife he had strapped to his shoulder. “Well, it ain’t a proper pegasus name – it’s a Helot’s name.” He smiled. “And I slaved night and day for my country.” The Lord Commander put his knife to Tuluki’s jugular. “Hīe sægde lifde sweorde – they said he lived by the sword... about me, that is. But, truly, I lived through fire and sword and bow. Though I need to ask you something: how did a mortal like you dodge my arrows?”

Tuluki merely smiled.

“Zebra of few words, eh? I can respect that. I can respect that, indeed.” He chuckled. “Don’t mean you’re gonna live to see tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

“Lookout below,” the zebra whispered.

“Excuse me?”

The street beneath Archer’s hooves exploded as a bolt of white hotness struck the plaza, sending him tumbling backwards. “By His son!” he shrieked as a second bolt made for him, and it missed by a distance that singed some of his fur. Archer, darting to the side, looked up at the source of the lightning.

Standing upon a nearby balcony was Berserker, his eyes locked to Archer’s. The Servant had not a scratch on him, no indication that anything bad had happened to him. He just stood there, as if he had found the perfect spot for relaxing.

“Anointed blood,” Archer cursed under his breath. “How can you still be in one piece, let alone be alive‽” 

As Tuluki watched Archer’s yelling, he found himself smirking.

“Quit smiling, you stripey bastard!” the Servant snapped.

“You’re an idiot for not killing me outright,” Tuluki said as if offering Archer an ancient zebra proverb. 

“If I die, the Servants becomes nigh useless. If the Servant dies, the Master is fine.”

Archer took a deep breath as spread his wings, then he gave a sadistic chuckle. “Then fall, Tambelon.” With the speed of an expert, he dove skywards. Twisting sideways for but a moment, he skirted around a bolt of Berserker's lightning. Now flying high in the air, he bellowed, “Thy will be done! On Earth as it is in Heaven!” 

As with before, Tuluki sensed an absurd amount of magical radiation from Archer. But then the Servant’s mouth and eyes began to light up the zebra’s senses, emitting a type of energy that should logically produce white light.

“No! No! Master, why‽” Archer shouted. And then Archer was gone.

In the silence did Tuluki stand in, basking it in, inhaling it, enjoying it for all of a minute. When Berserker appeared next to him, Tuluki turned his head to the behemoth. “So then, Great Betrayer, it would appear to me that this great city, this Tambelon, is your Noble Phantasm.”

Grogar grunted.

“And I do not think that Archer knows who you are, not yet. He said ‘Tambelon’, I’m sure, as some sort of allusion. If not, he would have done something differently, I’m also sure.”


***


“Listen, babe,” he said, leaning back, a bottle of alcohol in his hoof, “I’m all for service and the like, but not so much for you.”

“Do not call the Great and Powerful Trixie ‘babe’, Archer!” she hissed.

“Yeah, see – I get how service and that sort of thing’s probably your kink, but that just ain’t me.” He took a sip of his drink. “Aaand modern alcohol tastes like piss and water.”

The mare blinked. “Trixie does not have any sort of ‘kink’!”

“And by the Nth level of Hell, what is with your irrational phobia of first person pronouns? They’re a required part of every language ever, O Master o’ mine.” He glanced around the dimly-lit tavern, then to the little booth in the corner that he and the mare occupied.

“Will you shut up and obey Trixie‽”

“Yeah, see – the only way to get around with not using a first person pronoun is to use the royal we. And, truth be told, nopony really used the royal ‘we’ by the time of the Exodus. I mean, I should know – I killed the last royal family that used the royal we, by my own two forehooves, mind you... mares and foals alike.” He took another glug of his alcohol. “It may suck, but at least it’s alcohol... or beer... or whatever you call it.”

“You’re supposed to be Trixie’s Servant, but why do you refuse her‽”

He gestured to Trixie, saying, “Lower your voice, Mistress, or else you’ll get unwanted attention.”

The mare groaned, her head falling to the wooden table. “Hestrir did not tell Trixie that a Servant would be so bothersome...”

Archer put a hoof on the mare’s shoulder. “Aw, cheer up, blue girl! Where I’m from, ponies used to wear clothes; basically, with everypony naked, it’s pretty fun and dirty to watch.”

“How does that cheer her up?” she spat, swatting his hoof off her.

“Well, I’m happy. Really. That’s about it. Be happy for me that I’m enjoying my... thoughts. I’m also lovin’ how I was summoned with my young body – I feel so invincible without all that old stallion stuff! That’s why you should be happy.”

Trixie groaned.

“’At a girl!”

“Excuse me, sir, would you be needing anything else?” a plucky mare asked, holding a notepad.

Archer smiled. “Well, my dear, I could most certainly use more pretty faces like yours brightening up my gloomy life.”

The waitress giggled.

“Though if you could get me another drink... and... I dunno – hit me up with some vodka.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, noting it down on her pad before walking off.

“Ahh, tavern wenches,” Archer sighed, leaning back against the wall. “And I must say, the mares nowadays are so easy. Back in my day, you had to pretend you were in love before you even got to see some ankle. Now?” He laughed. “Everything’s for show.” He whispered to Trixie in a clandestine tone, “It makes it much easier to appraise who’s really hot and who's not! And boy–” he whistled “–are the girls ever so fine today.”

“You’re the worst,” Trixie muttered into her forelegs. “We’re supposed to be trying to win this... thing or whatever, and all you insist upon doing is getting drunk and seeing how many girls you can–”

“And it’s because you’re an awful Master. I was just about to win us a major battle, when – outta nowhere – my Master forces me back home.”

“Here you go, sir,” the waitress chirped, setting down a glass of a clear liquid on the table.

“Thank you, beautiful,” Archer replied in a tone just as chipper.

Smiling and shaking her head, the waitress walked off.

“How is Trixie supposed to win when her means to do so would rather spend the day marenizing?”

“Simple, mín hlǣfdige: I’m the best there is,” he said, rubbing a hoof to his armored breast. “Really, all you need to do is leave me be and–”

“No!” Trixie barked. “Trixie will not let you run rampant; you need her guidance. Why else would I be a Master?”

Archer took a sip of his drink. “Ooh! Heavy!... And sort of grainy... Anyways, you’re a Master because you were tricked into it, because you’re an idiot.”

“Trixie is not–”

“You wasted a Command Seal – one of the three you had – because you were scared and alone. You wasted a chance to command me, your Servant, and that takes an idiot to do, especially when I was doing just dandy on my own. And that command seal – of which only has three charges, you get from summoning a Servant, and replaced one of your cutie marks with a tattoo – is now currently 1/3rd useless. You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know what it means to be a Master, you don’t really know what a Servant is, and you’re a talentless hack.” He took another sip. “Any questions?”


***


This was the moment. They had been preparing it for eon, it felt. Today the order came down from the top, and now she was to perform the ceremony and summon him. Where Nightmare Moon had failed, he would not. Not this time, at least.

So in the darkness they chanted: “Pater noster, qui es in caelis: sanctificetur Nomen Tuum; adveniat Regnum Tuum; fiat voluntas Tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra. Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie; et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris; et ne nos inducas in tentationem; sed libera nos a Malo.”

Clad in her starry cloak, the mare stood up slowly; her eyes were trained on the shattered, obsidian throne. Surrounding the throne was a faintly glowing pentagram written in equine blood. Taking a deep, steadying breath and running a hoof through her verdant-green mane, she steeled herself.

“Thou who doth keepst the Darkness, heedst my call! My blood is thy blood! My will is thy will, and thy will’ be done. Enter the Plane of Reality and fulfill our dreams, as we would to thou. For we, those born of the night, call thy name!”

As she finished speaking, the pentagram began to glow with a heavier aura. Then, without warning, a force tore asunder a shred of reality before the throne, creating a swirling purple vortex. Her heart began to throb and pound as she stared into the abyss beyond, listening to the gale-like roar of it.

A great red hand reached out of the vortex and grabbed the edge of the rip in reality. Holding tightly to the edge of the portal, the red fingers all began to flex, as if testing out their ability to move. Then, louder than the chanting and the howl, a sinister laugh wafted out from the abyss as a second hand shot out, grabbing the other side of the portal. This new hand flexed too, tapping the edges.

Everypony gasped as the arms flexed and pulled forth a red body. The first thing she saw was a face wreathed by an immaculate lion-like mane, yet the face itself was perfectly shaven. Eyes going wide, she observed that from the top of his head protruded two bullish horns, their roots shrouded by his mane. As the figure continued to pull, she got a great look as his red chest flesh, complete with hulking abdominals and biceps.

As he continued to pull his body forwards, two fur-clad legs stepped out, each ending in a black hoof. With a measure of walking, another pair of muscular legs stepped out of the portal. Stretching his arms out, the portal vanished, and he just as quickly sat down upon the black throne. The mare got a good, long, hard, lovely look at his legs and body, her heart rate hastening with every glance to his serene body. With the black slits that passed as his pupils, he stared down at the mare in the cloak.

“I ask you, are you my Master?” he said in a terrible yet soothing voice.

The mare bowed. “Master is such a... a dirty word, Lord Tirek. At the end of the day, we are but your humble servants, for we share a goal. We would much rather be comrades, compatriots, the humbled masses yearning to breathe free... a tool to be used and abused as you see fit, if you’re feeling dramatic.”

Leaning his head forwards and smirking, Tirek chuckled. “A clever answer. Were you to claim mastery over me, I’d destroy you before you could use those fancy spells of yours.” He clasped his hands together. “Now, tell me your name, you who is wise enough to not be my Master.”

She swallowed. “My name is Falling Star.”

“Falling Star,” he said as if tasting it. “Good. Now, prove to me that you shall not be my Master.” He gestured a hand at her. “Dispose of your Command Spells. Only then shall you receive my trust.”

Falling Star nodded. “Par the course, my Lord.” She took a long, hard breath. “By the power of the Command Spells, I plead for you to rule us, O mighty Tirek, and use us to your heart’s content.”

Tirek frowned, and Falling Star’s heart felt like it was going to explode.

“B-by the power of my second Command Spell, I beseech you to crush all enemies that stand in your way.” She swallowed, doing her best to keep her voice from quavering. “By the p-power of my last Command Spell, I beg you to levy the beauty of the Night Everlasting.” Feeling the last scrap of magic leave her left flank, she knelt down.

Still frowning, Tirek put a hand to his cheek. “I ask of you, what is that which you sought to raise me for?”

“To bring upon the Night Everlasting, as was your goal in times past, as did the pitiful failure that was Nightmare Moon.”

“And who is ‘us’?”

“Us?” she said, blinking.

“Who is this plural pronoun of which you use? I see only homunculi here.”

“Why, my Lord, I am by no means the only enlightened individual with this particular lust. I am but the Voice of a powerful clique.”

“To see ponies come so far,” Tirek murmured to himself. “Then I shall grant your wish, for then I shall rule unabated as was in the before times.”


***


A puff of smoke breathed out, the edge of the cigarette burning. Bringing a hoof to his forehead, Alastair wiped the sweat off. Exhaling another breath of burnt tobacco, he looked down to the stallion laying face-up in the dirt, his foreleg hoofcuffed to Alastair's own. The stallion's face was swollen, bruised, and bloodied.

Holding the cigarette in his teeth, he felt a hoof over his own face, including the bandages over it and the white strips which taped his left eye shut. He didn't even want to bother looking at his white undershirt, caked as it was with a certain crimson fluid.

Alastair knelt down and blew a puff of smoke into the stallion's face. “So,” he said, almost casually, “ya like cuttin' up girls, do ya?”

The grounded stallion merely smirked, as if he were keeping the world's funniest joke to himself. He gave his shackled foreleg a short jerk, but it did no good.

Taking another puff of smoke, Alastair surveyed his wooded locale. “You know, you picked a swell place to live – secluded; outside the city; no neighbors to hear you scream, especially at such a late hour as this.” He took the cigarette out of his mouth. “Say, how many girls have you preyed on? Five? Six? Seven? More? Yeah, you've probably done in more dames than the ones I found mounted on your wall.”

“Marv?” a mare prodded, stumbling through the woods. Where her left forehoof should have been, there was only a stump hidden beyond a cloth rag. Her eyes went wide as they took sight of the two stallions. “Marv... oh, oh my Celestia... Marv?”

“Aaaaand cut!” another voice announced, prompting everyone's posture to relax. “That's a wrap ponies! Good job, good job.”

Alastair jabbed the cigarette into the ground, sighing, “Finally! Took forever to get here.” He blinked. “Oh, uh, right.” He flicked the hoofcuff, prompting it to slide off, then held out a hoof to the stallion on the ground. “Come on then, Lance, get on up here.”

The grounded stallion grabbed the offered hoof, getting pulled to his hooves. “Ay, thanks a ton, bud.”

“Don't mention it.” Alastair turned around to the stallion sitting in the director's chair. “That everything, then? We get it all?”

The director nodded. “Think so, think so.” He turned to the mare operating the camera next to him. “We got all that, yeah?”

The mare affirmed.

“Sweet.” As he spoke, the scene beyond the direction came to life as ponies appeared out of seemingly nowhere, each on going to a particular piece of equipment – the microphone booms, the cameras, the lights – and the room lit up, momentarily blinding Alastair, who held a hoof over his eyes.

Lance tapped Alastair on the shoulder. “Hey, Al, after we get all this makeup and crud off, me and the lads were gonna be off clubbin' later. You in?”

Alastair chuckled. “Love to, mate. But I've been working nonstop for the past week–”

“I know! That’s why we need to get you out and about! See the town, meet the–” he wiggled his brows “–babes, get wasted – you know, fun and relaxation!”

Shaking his head with good humor, Alastair replied, “Can't, Lance. I relax by sitting down with a fine wine and a good book – not random drink, strange ladies, and not knowing who I am when I wake up.”

Lance shrugged, making an over-the-top frown. “Hey, that's your business. But if you were me, I'd use that chiseled jaw and Hollywood credentials to get in good with the mares.” He put a hoof to his breast. “Ay, that’s just me though.”

Alastair rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah – when you get into trouble with all those girls, I'll be over on the sidelines and laughing.”

“You do that, mate, you do that – I'll still be the one who’s got tail.”

A stallion whistled. “Hey, don't care what your policy with ladies is, but get off the set. I gots to fix 'er up.”


***


Looking over his pristine, unblemished face, and checking his brown fur for anything out of place, Alastair sighed. “Looks good, colt. Yes it does.”

With neither rhyme nor reason as far as Alastair could see, his eardrums exploded as a wave of sound and pressure consumed him. The force ripped his from his seat, hurling him at the ground.

“Indeed, it does,” a feminine and snake-like voice cooed.

The voice strung a chord in Alastair’s mind, and he uttered a cross between a growl and a gurgle as he grabbed at his head, his body erupting into a fit of convulsions, a trickle of foam forming at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, I'm sorry – did I startle you?” the mare intoned.

Forcing his control over his body, he willed himself to cease convulsions. His face now to the floor, Alastair’s eyes looked upon the black, long, and slender legs before him. Following them up to her body and face, his blood pressure skyrocketed. He opened his mouth to speak, but his lips quivered and quaked too hard, the only sound coming out being a sputter.

“Is this how you greet your Queen after so long away, subject?” she purred.

Alastair swallowed hard, nearly choking on his own spit, and wiped the foam away with a foreleg. “Qu-Queen Chrysalis,” he sputtered. “Bu-but I thought–they you were–why am you of–”

“Do not ramble on in such a way; it annoys me.” Her eyes scanned over Alastair. “Subject, change out of that... wretched skin.”

Legs shaking and teeth clattering, his heart threatening to burst through his chest, Alastair rose to a stand, then closed his eyes and muttered something





With a flash of green he reopened his now-cyan eyes, rolled his shoulders, and flexed his insectoid wings. “Wh-what can I do for you, m-my Queen?”

He looked at her gigantic body, easily twice or so his own height. With her bug-like wings, Spanish-moss-like hair, and crooked black horn, she looked to Alastair like a monster. The Queen's black, bark-like exterior did nothing to help the look, and neither did her almost glowing teal eyes, much like his own. She smiled at him.

“Much better,” she cooed, “to see you as you were born.”

Taking a step back, his knees quivering, Alastair asked, “M-my Queen, what brings you from... away to your humble servant?”

“You have been off the leash for too long, subject, and it is time I break you in once more.”

“I–”

“Regardless, I have come to give you purpose in life once more, for you have spent too much time intermingling with ponies.” She glanced towards the door to the dressing room they were in, looking to the name emblazoned on a golden star upon the door. “Alastair, you call yourself?” she chuckled. “What an unusual name.”

“I got it from a book,” Alastair whimpered.

Queen Chrysalis shook her head. “A changeling like yourself does not deserve a name.”

“Of course not,” he said through gritted teeth, keeping his head down so that she wouldn't see. “Only... one as noble as yourself would have the right to a name.”

She smirked. “Good to see these... ponies have not corrupted you beyond recognition.” The Queen waved a hoof at him. “But I have an urgent matter to discuss with you.”

“Anything, my Queen,” Alastair replied, forcing down the suicidal urge to growl at his Queen down his throat.

“You were once a treasured tool, but no doubt you have heard of my... complications in Canterlot during these past few month since it.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

The Queen turned from Alastair, looking at herself in his dressing-room mirror. “Once, subject, you were my right hoof, but then I sent you into the land of ponies.” She glanced back at Alastair. “I am only too glad my agents were able to track you down, for I require your skills as my servant once again.”

“Name it, my Queen,” he said. Jaw closed, he began to grind his teeth.

“Tell me, have you heard the beasts talking about an object of immense power? That whomsoever wields it will be granted the power of a god... of a goddess?”