Anonfilly, Harmony-less [Part 3]

 

Tartarus.

 

The gate looms from the wasteland. Iron bars rage into snarling faces, chains thick as trunks, runes pulsing faint red with ancient wards. Beyond, a jagged path drops, cages dangle above pits of flame, and distant roars drift upward.

 

Cerberus is there, of course.

 

The beast lounges at the entrance, each head half-dozing. Drool steams on the ground. Your hooves crunch the gravel, and all six eyes snap to you. A low, rumbling growl—part warning, part recognition—rolls out.

 

You stop, uncertain, nerves tightening in your chest as anticipation flickers between dread and determination.

 

You lock eyes with Cerberus—his six, yours two, and your heart beats faster. Your gaze is undeniably human: wary, sharp, out of place. You feel his curiosity meet your anxiety.

 

He quiets. Your tension lingers.

 

It’s not fear exactly. It’s something older. It’s like Ahgg’s recognition, or the way predators part for you. Cerberus has guarded this gate for millennia—seen every kind of monster chained below. He knows eyes that don’t belong to pony harmony.

 

One head sniffs. Another tilts. The third whines softly, puppy-like, despite the size.

 

You step forward.

 

He doesn’t stop you.

 

The chains don’t rattle. The wards don’t flare. The gate creaks open just enough for a filly to slip through.

 

You wander deeper until the path levels in a wide cavern of hanging cages. Most hold silent, ancient shadows. The air grows hotter, thicker. Some cages swing; some hiss. You pass Tirek's cell, its bent bars and cracked stone. Lower, older cages hold nameless things with too many eyes—or none.

 

No one calls out to you.

 

None of them begs.

 

They only watch as the harmony-less filly walks deeper, the amulet humming with invisible power that could free them all. You sense hope and longing in their stares—feeling it brush against your own isolation.

 

You don’t free them.

 

You keep going, following paths that wind into fire-lit darkness.

 

One cage swings empty, door warped open, chains rusted though unbroken. Big enough for something far larger than a filly.

 

You step inside.

 

The bars creak once, then settle. The door hangs ajar behind you. No lock. No guard. Just the faint heat rising from the pits below and the remote drip of something burning slowly.

 

Tartarus never pretends you belong here.

 

But it doesn't stop you, either.

 

And for once, the silence feels like an honest welcome—maybe the only one you've ever known. A quiet ache stirs in your chest, equal parts comfort and loneliness.

 

===

 

You sit in the cage because you put yourself there—just like you used to in your old room, shutting out the world behind a locked door, closing off with headphones and silence. Only now, the bars are real, and the body isn’t.

 

The bars, old iron pitted and wide, could let a filly slip through, but you don’t try. Last night, you curled up on the stone and shut the door, sleeping unguarded. The air is dry, metallic, ancient. You wanted to feel what forever is like with the door closed from the inside.

 

It feels like nothing is happening, again and again—a throb of emptiness settling inside you, familiar and heavy.

 

No real morning reaches this deep, but you know time has passed because the pain in your flank has shifted. You sit against the bars, blank flank pressed to cold metal, watching dust drift through the faint light. The boredom settles more heavily here. Part of you almost stayed, just to see if nothing would finally swallow you.

 

However, curiosity is stubborn.

 

There’s one cage farther down that isn’t empty. One prisoner ponies still whispers about: a filly, small like you. But nothing else alike. Cozy Glow. The name tastes like candy left out too long.

 

You stand, push the door open—it creaks exactly the way it did when you closed it—and walk deeper than you did last time, past Tirek’s old bent bars, empty now, past ancient things that don’t bother to raise their heads.

 

You find her cage halfway down the main spiral: smaller than the rest, reinforced, the bars radiating softly with anti-magic wards. Inside, a pink pegasus filly is curled on the stone, wings tucked tight, curly mane dull and tangled. Red eyes snap open the moment your shadow crosses the bars.

 

Cozy Glow sits up slowly. She looks thinner than the show ever showed her, coat matted, cutie mark faded like cheap paint. But the smile comes fast—too fast.

 

“Golly! A visitor? Nopony comes down here anymore.”

 

Cozy's voice drips with practiced sweetness, but there's an edge to it.

 

I almost snort, feeling sickly amused.

 

Still can’t believe they put a kid in pony hell.

 

You stay outside the bars.

 

She tilts her head, studies you. “You’re new. Green filly. No cutie mark. Those eyes…” The smile flickers. “You’re not like the others.”

 

You don’t answer; your silence is full of unease, suspicion, and the fear of being understood.r.

 

She scoots closer, voice shifting to a secretive whisper. “I could really use a friend out there. Somepony smart. Somepony who sees how unfair everything is. We could be unstoppable. Just open the door and—”

 

You turn and walk away.

 

Her voice rises behind you, sweetness turning into something else. “Hey! Come back! You can’t just leave me here!”

 

The echo follows you up the path.

 

A few days later, you return. The amulet is still perfectly cloaked, no red glow to give it away. The trip has already become routine: train ride, long walk, barren gate. Cerberus barely lifts one head this time, cracks an eye in lazy recognition, then settles back to sleep. The gate groans open for you like it’s used to it.

 

You bring gifts this time.

 

Coloring books lifted from a Ponyville shop—covers bright, ponies grinning, pages blank. A box of sixty-four crayons, with a sharpener built in. A couple hoof-held game consoles scavenged from Twilight’s donation pile, batteries fresh, cartridges loaded with simple puzzles and platformers.

 

Just small, harmless things.

 

You descend the spiral again, past swinging cages and hissing shadows. Cozy’s cell looks exactly the same. She’s pacing when you arrive, wings twitching, muttering to herself in that too-sweet voice gone sour.

 

She freezes when your shadow falls across the bars.

 

“Golly! You came back!” The smile switches on instantly—wide, dimpled, eyes big and hopeful. “I knew you were special. I knew you’d understand.”

 

You don’t speak. Your chest is tight—part anxiety, part fascination. You’re not sure which is stronger. You remain silent, just watching.

 

You slide the coloring books through the bars first, then the crayons, then the games—one at a time, slow enough for her to see each one.

 

Her eyes light up, something real flickering there for a second. She scrambles forward and gathers them like lost treasure.

 

“Oh wow! Coloring books? Real crayons? And games—gosh, I haven’t played anything fun in forever!” She flips open a book and carefully picks a bright pink crayon. “Look, I’ll color this pony princess. She’s almost as pretty as me!”

 

She chatters the whole time she works. Sweet compliments. Questions about the surface world. Little hints at how clever you must be to sneak past Cerberus. The eager, grateful filly mask is perfect—no trace of the chess master underneath.

 

You sit outside the bars and watch.

 

Hours pass. She colors page after page, first neatly, then with color bleeding outside the lines. She moves to games—simple jumps, easy puzzles—cheering at wins, pouting at losses. She talks: how nice you are, how you could be friends, how you could do anything together.

 

Her mask never slips. It’s impressive, really. No wonder everypony was fooled.

 

You wait outside the bars, silent.

 

She starts a new picture—herself as an alicorn empress, crown high, ponies bowing. The crayon snaps in her grip. She doesn’t notice right away.

 

The chatter slows. She wins a level, then stares at the victory screen too long.

 

“Golly,” she says at last, quieter. “This is… nice.”

 

She pauses, looking away for a moment.

 

“Nopony’s brought me anything since I got here.”

 

Another pause. Her smile falters, and she looks down.

 

“You’re not like them,” she says. “The guards. Twilight. They look at me like I’m already stone. You just… sit.”

 

She sets the game down and really looks at you.

 

The dimples fade. The eyes harden.

 

“How long are you going to watch?” she asks, her voice suddenly sharp and stripped of the usual golly and gosh.

 

You still don’t answer.

 

She leans against the bars. “You think you’re better. Beady-eyed little freak. Bringing toys like I’m some foal who’ll melt for crayons. I don’t need your pity.”

 

The mask is gone; now it's just the chess player—cold, calculating, angry at being seen.

 

“It’s not pity,” you say. Your voice is small and flat. It’s the same tone you always use.

 

Cozy snorts. “Sure. You sneak toys to the big bad villain because you feel sorry for poor little me. Spare me.”

 

You shake your head. “It’s curiosity.”

 

She blinks.

 

You glance past her at the scattered crayons. At the flashing game screen, too. “I slept in an empty cage the other night. Closed the door myself. Wanted to know what forever feels like when there’s no way out. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The same nothing, over and over. I figured the only other filly down here might know something about breaking that quiet.”

 

You meet her eyes. “Watching the mask crack… It’s different. At least for a little while.”

 

Cozy stares.

 

The anger drains away, replaced by recognition.

 

“You… slept in a cage? On purpose?” she asks slowly. “With all that power you’re hiding? You could break out anytime. Rule everything. And you chose the cage?”

 

She sensed the amulet? Perceptive little shit.

 

You shrug. “Power doesn’t fix the quiet—it just makes the nothing bigger.”

 

She leans closer against the bars.

 

“Then we’re the same,” she says. “I planned empires because sitting still was worse than losing. You wander and lock yourself in cages because sitting still is worse than nothing.”

 

Silence stretches between you.

 

You stand, not bothering with a goodbye.

 

She doesn't ask you to stay, just sits there quietly as you leave.

 

But the games stay powered on, and the crayons don’t get kicked away.

 

You climb back toward the gate, shadows trailing at your hooves.

 

The quiet has shifted slightly.

 

Just enough that you notice.

 

===

 

You catch a late-night freight train heading north, one of those empty runs hauling supplies for the Crystal Empire’s morning rush. You hop into an open boxcar, curl up in the corner as the wind bites harder and the land shifts from rocky scrub to endless snow and glittering ice.

 

The Crystal Empire shines under the moonlight like it’s too good to be true—everything polished and perfect. You slip off the train before it hits the station, hooves crunching through crystal-dusted snow.

 

The Crystal Heart hangs in the central plaza, spinning slowly between its columns. Even this late, it glows with soft blues and pinks, beating like it’s feeding on the dreams of all the sleeping crystal ponies. Love turned solid. Harmony you can see and touch. Light that pushes back cold and shadow because every heart here beats together, willingly.

 

You stand at the edge of the plaza, just a small green shadow against all that shine.

 

The Heart doesn’t dim or flare; it just keeps spinning, indifferent to the harmony-less filly staring at it.

 

You don’t feel pulled closer or pushed away. The usual flat thought: pretty thing, works for them, efficient magic.

 

Snow falls more gently here, as if it doesn’t want to disturb the glow.

 

You hang around long enough for the boredom to creep back in, heavy as ever.

 

Trains run both ways.

 

You head to the station and wait for the next one going farther north, past the empire’s sparkle, until the tracks bend into empty tundra. You hop off at the last stop—a half-buried platform no one uses anymore—before the line loops south. The wind slaps you hard, honest and sharp, whipping your black mane across your eyes.

 

You start walking.

 

Snow’s deep, but your small hooves manage. The Alicorn Amulet stays hidden, just a cold hum against your chest. You remember the episode clear as day: Sombra’s blast under the Crystal Heart, shadows scattering everywhere, that single red horn spinning off into the blizzard like some dark seed.

 

It must have landed out here somewhere—far enough that the empire’s light never reached it.

 

You search for hours. Maybe days. Time blurs in all the white—endless drifts, jagged ice, sky, and ground the same washed-out gray. No paths. No signs. Just wind is howling like it’s still cursing.

 

Then you spot it: a faint red glint under a drift, half-buried against a frozen ridge where the snow piled deepest. You dig with your hooves, frog numb but stubborn, until the horn comes free—curved, black-red, cracked from the explosion but still whole. No magic buzzing in it. No glowing eyes. Just a cold relic, same temperature as the snow that almost swallowed it.

 

You sit back in the snow as the wind eases, almost as if it's listening.

 

King Sombra: tyrant, slaver, shadow that fed on fear and crystal pony misery. He was blown apart twice—once by the Heart, once by his own overreach. Now he’s reduced to this: a horn in the snow, forgotten by everypony singing victory songs.

 

There’s no triumph or revenge in you, only the flat recognition—another thing harmony couldn’t erase. Another sharp-edged creature that wouldn’t soften, share, or ask nicely.

 

Now, the empire’s glow is just a slight shimmer on the horizon, love spinning forever.

 

Out here, the snow keeps its own secrets.

 

You stay until the cold sinks deep into your bones.

 

The wind has dropped to nothing, leaving the tundra perfectly still. You sit beside the shallow hole you dug, the curved horn resting across your hooves like some oversized, forgotten toy. It’s heavier than it ought to be, full of old malice that ought to prick your skin, but doesn’t. The amulet stays quiet and hidden, like it’s waiting to see your next move.

 

And soon, you’re bored again. Of course. Why wouldn’t you be?

 

The Crystal Heart’s distant light feels like a joke you’ve heard too often—like being the odd one out in a classroom, a stray human among technicolor ponies. Tartarus was too quiet, the portraits kept singing the same tired disappointment, and even the Spite Empire’s low grind has faded into noise.

 

So you do the thing that makes the least sense.

 

You lift the horn and press the broken base to your forehead—right where a unicorn’s would sit.

 

Nothing explodes at first—no shadows bursting out, no red eyes gazing from the ice, no voice whispering about conquest.

 

All that remains is cold.

 

Then comes pressure, like something recognizing an old, familiar shape after a thousand years.

 

The horn shifts. It doesn’t melt or fuse—it just settles. The cracked base knits to your coat and bone with a soft, wet click—painless, final. Black-red crystal veins spread thin across your forehead, curving up into that perfect, wicked arc. It doesn’t feel wrong or hurt.

 

It's like putting on a hat you didn’t realize you’d been missing—a sensation not quite pony, not quite human, but somewhere in-between.

 

You stand and brush the snow from your side.

 

Shadows at your hooves twitch, then rise—tendrils of dark smoke twisting around your legs, curious. You flick an ear, and they listen, sharpening into blades before fading again. The snow around you drinks the light instead of bouncing it back, and your teal eyes catch a faint red gleam in the ice.

 

Power. Clean. Huge. Different from the amulet’s raw boost—this is older, colder, hungrier. Umbrakinesis. Fear turned solid. The kind that enslaved an empire once.

 

There’s no corruption sneaking in and no sudden urge to conquer.

 

It’s just the same flat thought: interesting—works smoothly, efficiently.

 

You tilt your head and the new horn catches what little sun there is, casting a blood-red shadow across the snow.

 

Hmm, figures.

 

The wind kicks up again, howling as if it’s in on some private joke.

 

You could walk back to the empire and watch the Heart flicker under your shadows.

 

You could stroll into Ponyville and see how long the happy songs last.

 

Or you could do nothing at all.

 

The choices feel heavier now, but they’re not any more meaningful.

 

You cover the shallow hole again, a little gentler this time, as if you’re acknowledging an old friend.

 

You walk on.

 

The snow no longer bounces back under your hooves.

 

It just darkens beneath you.

 

And the new horn hums, patient as ever, waiting for orders that still haven’t come.

 

===

 

The new horn hums against your forehead like a tuning fork struck once and left ringing forever. It doesn’t hurt, doesn’t whisper orders or promises—just sits there, curved and sharp, ready to pull shadows from nowhere whenever you think about it and let them fade when you don’t.

 

You walk south from the tundra, skirting the Crystal Empire’s glittering edge. The city’s glow feels distant now, almost garish—too bright, too warm, like it’s trying too hard to be welcoming. You stay on the outskirts until the snow thins into frozen grass and broken rock. The horn tugs gently, not with pain or words, just a quiet pull downward.

 

You find the fissure almost by accident—or maybe not.

 

It’s a narrow crack hidden under a drift, barely wide enough for a filly if she doesn’t mind scraping her coat on jagged stone. You slip inside and descend.

 

The air shifts quickly: colder, heavier, full of the taste of old fear and ancient rock. Crystals embedded in the walls flicker faint red as you pass, waking like they recognize an old relative. The path spirals deeper, carved by claws or something worse, not hooves. Shadows gather at your legs, pooling thicker with every step, rising into tendrils when you want them to.

 

You reach the prison at the bottom.

 

A vast cavern stretches out, sealed by a thin barrier of glimmering crystal light—the Crystal Heart’s ancient ward, stretched across the floor like frozen northern lights. Beyond it, darkness moves and breathes. Pony-shaped things shift in the gloom, bodies made of living smoke, red eyes illuminated bright by the hundreds, maybe thousands. Umbrum. Trapped beneath the empire since Princess Amore’s time, locked away for what they were rather than anything they’d done.

 

They stir the moment you appear.

 

Every red eye turns to you. To the horn.

 

Whispers rise, overlapping, hungry, layered with centuries of waiting.

 

One voice whispers, “The key…”

 

Another adds, “…has returned…”

 

A third murmurs, “…flesh of our flesh…”

 

You stop at the edge of the barrier. The light doesn’t burn or push you back. The horn drinks it instead, shadows curling protectively around your hooves.

 

One umbrum presses forward, taller than the rest, form undulating between solid pony and drifting smoke.

 

“Child of the surface,” it rasps, voice akin to cold wind scraping over graves. “You bear our lost king’s crown. You woke it. You wear it. Free us.”

 

You tilt your head. The horn catches the ward’s glow and throws blood-red reflections across the cavern walls.

 

The power is right there, waiting. You could tear the barrier like wet paper. Shadows would answer instantly, flooding upward to swallow the empire in the dark; it’s always feared.

 

But the emptiness hasn’t gone anywhere.

 

There's no rage or thirst for revenge—just the usual boredom, edged with mild curiosity.

 

You sit.

 

The umbrum watch in silence at first, then with growing confusion.

 

You stay long enough for the newness to wear off, for the whispers to fade into restless muttering.

 

Then you stand. The shadows retreat without protest.

 

Their pleas turn sharp, almost angry, chasing you up the spiral path.

 

You leave the barrier intact.

 

The horn keeps humming, patient as ever.

 

Above, the Crystal Empire’s glow stays bright and oblivious, unaware that something carrying the old king’s power just stood at the door to its deepest nightmare.

 

For now, you choose to walk away and let it sleep.

 

===

 

You catch a southbound freight train at the edge of the frozen north, slipping into an empty car while the conductor’s back is turned. The horn curves wicked and silent on your forehead, shadows still curling lazily at your hooves even in the dim light, while the Alicorn Amulet hums its steady, invisible throb beneath your coat.

 

You focus with calm precision.

 

Power answers instantly. Scarlet light folds inward, burying the amulet deeper. Then the shadows thin to nothing, the horn’s black-red arc fading like ink rinsed away in water. No glow, no glint, no trailing darkness. Just a small green filly with sharp teal eyes that never quite fit a pony face, moving through the world as if nothing about her had changed.

 

The train clatters south. Snow thins into grass, then into Ponyville’s neat fences and bright, cheerful colors.

 

You hop off before the station and walk the familiar paths without hiding. Ponies glance your way, then look away faster—the usual trace of unease.

 

Twilight’s castle rises ahead, crystal facets catching the late sun like it’s competing with the sky. Inside, the halls are quiet except for the distant rattle of Spike washing dishes. You’re halfway up the main staircase when Twilight steps out of the map room, wings half-flared in surprise.

 

“Anon?”

 

Her voice carries relief, worry, and something softer all at once. She closes the distance quickly, eyes scanning you for hurts that aren’t there. “You’re back. I didn’t know where you’d gone—I thought maybe the Crystal Empire, or farther north… I was about to send a search party.”

 

She stops just short of touching you, ears flicking back uncertainly. The map table behind her lies open, black lines of new threats crawling across Equestria’s borders like slow veins.

 

You shrug, small and silent.

 

Twilight hesitates, then offers a careful smile. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you’re not ready. But I made those oat cookies you like—the cinnamon swirl ones. And there’s chamomile tea. We could sit in the library, or on the balcony, or right here in the hall if that feels easier.”

 

Her horn glows softly. A plate of warm cookies and two hot mugs drift out from the map room and settle on a nearby crystal ledge. She doesn’t crowd you. She just waits, wings folded now, eyes gentle and tired.

 

The cloaking is flawless. Nothing shows—no horn, no shadows, no hidden crimson beneath your coat.

 

Power waits beneath the surface, patient and indifferent.

 

You step forward, take a cookie, and bite into it. Cinnamon and oats, warm and sweet.

 

Twilight’s shoulders relax a little. She sits on the cold crystal floor, nudging a mug toward you so you don’t have to reach far.

 

“You don’t have to talk,” Twilight says softly. “I really am glad you’re home.”

 

You sip the tea, warm and sweet—just the way you like it.

 

She fills the silence gently after that: light stories about new foals at the school, Pinkie’s latest party-cannon mishap, how the stars looked odd last night, almost like they were watching back. Nothing heavy. Nothing that demands answers.

 

You finish two cookies and half the tea.

 

Eventually, you get up and mumble, “I’m tired.”

 

Twilight nods immediately, not pushing further. “Of course. Get some rest. I’ll be in the library in case you need anything—really, anything at all.”

 

You climb the stairs to your room and close the door softly behind you.

 

You sit on the too-soft bed. The mirror reflects a blank-flanked green filly with those fucked up predator eyes.

 

Power waits—two kinds now, layered and obedient: the amulet’s raw, boundless amplification and the horn’s cold, precise umbrakinesis—both hidden, both bored.

 

Twilight will worry again tomorrow, offer breakfast, careful questions, and quiet company.

 

You’ll shrug again.

 

The castle hums around you with its steady harmony, a music that never quite reaches all the way in.

 

Outside, the world sways a little farther from its bright, cheerful center.

 

You sit in the quiet, invisible relics humming against your skin, still waiting for boredom to turn into something else.

 

But nothing changes.

 

Night settles—honest, indifferent, and vast.

 

And the cloaking holds.

 

===

 

A few days later, you spot Discord again, floating upside-down above Sweet Apple Acres as he lazily turns ripe apples into rubber balls that bounce wildly away from startled farm ponies. He flips right-side up the instant he senses you, his grin stretching impossibly wide and his eyes beaming with that familiar chaotic curiosity.

 

“Back so soon, little void? Couldn’t stay away from my dazzling company?”

 

You stop beneath him, just a small green shadow against the sun-dappled orchard grass.

 

“I went to Tartarus a few weeks ago,” you say, tone expressionless and direct. “Tirek’s cage is open. Bars bent outward. Empty.”

 

Discord’s grin freezes for a second.

 

Then it spreads even wider, sharp with delight and something more dangerous.

 

“Oh ho! The old centaur’s out for another jaunt? And here I thought Celestia’s wards were unbreakable.” He snaps his fingers, and a popcorn kernel pops into a tiny dramatic Tirek flexing before it vanishes in a puff. “Did you run into him? Swap stories about being misunderstood outcasts?”

 

You shake your head.

 

“Just the cage. No tracks. No leftover magic. Like he slipped out without a sound.”

 

Discord drifts down until he’s eye-level with you, mismatched pupils spinning slowly.

 

“Quiet isn’t exactly Tirek’s brand,” Discord murmurs, lowering his voice. “He likes grand entrances, draining magic, and long speeches about revenge. If he’s loose and keeping silent…” His grin softens just a touch. “Well, the world does love recycling its villains.”

 

He studies you closer, head tilting.

 

“And you went poking around Tartarus for fun? My, my. Boredom really is the most dangerous force in the universe, isn’t it?”

 

You shrug.

 

“Something like that.”

 

Discord throws his head back and laughs, sharp and genuine, sounding through the trees.

 

“Keep me posted, little void! If Tirek’s out there making new friends, I want front row seats for the chaos.”

 

He snaps his fingers and vanishes in a glittery puff that smells like ozone and lingering grudges.

 

You linger in the orchard a moment longer. The apples settle back into their normal shapes, rolling gently under the trees as gravity reasserts itself.

 

A soft wind rustles the leaves as Discord’s laughter finally fades.

 

And somewhere out there, a centaur walks free.

 

Tirek walks quietly through the wilds, barely disturbing the dust.

 

But only for now.

 

===

 

Tirek crouches in the ruins of an old fortress buried deep in the badlands, his horns slowly regrowing, his body lean from months of careful hunting. Freedom is bitter after Tartarus, but he accepts it. He’s learned patience—no declarations, no rampages. Just watching. Waiting. Building strength.

 

From hidden perches and abandoned mines, he studies the changing world.

 

The Everfree’s black spires climb higher every week, gleaming beneath the moonlight. The changelings who guard them move openly now—matte black carapaces and frost-pale eyes, carrying themselves with pride. They hunt, build, and trade with creatures who once turned them away.

 

Griffons arrive first, trading blades prized for their edge. Yaks follow, hauling barrels and horn carvings, leaving with armor that keeps out blizzards and blows. Dragons come next, heading south with tools made to handle dragonfire.

 

Pony banners don’t fly here, and there are no friendship oaths—just straightforward deals between those who value strength.

 

Tirek’s old hunger stirs.

 

He remembers draining love. He remembers stealing magic—raw streams from pony horns, easy and direct.

 

He expects spite to be no different.

 

He spots a lone spite drone on border patrol. Tirek lunges from hiding, reaching with his absorption.

 

The spite resists.

 

It doesn’t flow or yield; it sits locked in the drone’s core—cold, heavy, unmovable. Built by the changeling who carries it. Sustained by that same changeling. Belonging to no one else.

 

Tirek pulls harder. Veins stand out on his neck, horns glowing hot. The drone stumbles but doesn’t weaken, frost eyes meeting his with calm, unshakable certainty.

 

The spite stays put.

 

Impossible to steal.

 

The drone breaks away—not in panic, but with quiet dismissal—and rejoins its patrol on steady wings.

 

Tirek retreats to his ruins, hunger sharper than before.

 

He understands now.

 

Love can be stolen because it’s meant to be given, meant to spread.

 

Magic can be taken because it flows outward, eager to be used.

 

Spite cannot.

 

It isn’t shared. It isn’t offered. It’s built inward, layer upon layer, from wounds the world gave and never bothered to heal. It belongs only to the one who earned it—self-contained, unchanging.

 

The empire thrives on something no thief can steal.

 

Griffons, yaks, and dragons feel the same pull because they carry their own cold, heavy versions—earned the same hard way.

 

Tirek sits in the dark of his fortress, thinking.

 

For the first time since his escape, he feels something like respect.

 

And with it, a sharper caution.

 

The world has found a new kind of strength.

 

One that can’t be drained.

 

One that might, someday, defeat him instead.

 

He watches the distant black spires on the horizon.

 

And begins to plan quietly.

 

===

 

In the hive’s deepest vault, Chrysalis stands alone before a statue made from her discarded past.

 

The figure is jagged, molded from the black carapace she shed during her first transformation. Her drones gathered the pieces, not as waste but as relics, shaping them into a likeness of the queen she used to be: wings fragile, eyes radiating with need, fangs bared in a snarl.

 

Now the statue stands on a pedestal of black stone, lit only by faint frost-green veins in the walls.

 

Chrysalis circles the statue, hooves quiet on the resin floor.

 

“Look at you,” she murmurs. “Hungry. Scheming invasions and alliances because love was the only coin the world accepted. You drained scraps and called it power.”

 

She stops in front of the statue’s face. Her own reflection stares back, carapace dull jade, eyes narrow and certain.

 

“You thought rejection was defeat. You changed shapes to fit their fears, then hated yourself for needing their love.”

 

Her wing lifts, brushing the statue’s cheek. The old shell is already cracking from time.

 

“I was you,” she says. “Starving in the dark, dreaming of thrones built on stolen warmth. But warmth fades. Love sours when trust cracks. You knew that, yet you chased it anyway.”

 

She steps back. The veins in her new carapace glow.

 

“Then the void came—the little green filly with predator eyes. She pointed out what we already carried: the scorn, the defeats, the endless weight of their harmony refusing us. And we tasted it.”

 

Chrysalis’s voice drops lower.

 

“It didn’t give power in bursts. It gave endurance. No more begging. No more masks. No more changing for them.”

 

She leans close to the statue’s ear, as if sharing a secret with her weaker self.

 

“You would have hated this me, called her cold, weak for not conquering. But look outside—griffons trade for our steel, yaks buy armor, dragons want tools that last. They come to us because we finally stopped asking permission to exist.”

 

The statue does not answer. Its glossy eyes stare forward, frantic and empty.

 

Chrysalis straightens. Her wings unfurl.

 

“Goodbye, old hunger,” she whispers. “You served your purpose. You taught us what starvation feels like. Now we feast on what you left behind.”

 

She turns away. The frost light dims behind her.

 

The statue remains, a memento of a queen who needed the world to love her in order to hate it.

 

The new queen needs nothing.

 

The hive hums, colder and stronger.

 

===

 

The invisible horn hums faintly against your forehead, shadows curling at your hooves. The Alicorn Amulet stays cloaked beneath your coat, its power waiting for a purpose. Boredom digs in deeper—Cozy’s mask cracking was a brief spark, Tirek’s empty cage a momentary curiosity—but everything returns to the same quiet.

 

So you chase an older name.

 

Grogar.

 

You remember him in fragments: old G1 tales Twilight skimmed past, the season-nine villain who was actually Discord in disguise. In legend, he was a real terror—a blue ram sorcerer with red horns and a golden bell for mind-control and necromancy. Ruler of lost Tambelon, banished for centuries, returning once with troggles before defeat and exile. A necromancer feared even by other villains.

 

In Friendship is Magic, he’s reduced to myth: ancient emperor of monsterkind, father of darkness, defeated by Gusty the Great when she stole his Bewitching Bell. The “Grogar” who gathered Tirek, Cozy, and Chrysalis was only Discord’s pretense. The real one never appeared—just implied to be long gone, or waiting.

 

You go looking anyway.

 

The journey takes weeks: trains to forgotten stops, long walks through wastelands with no map names. You follow half-remembered zebra rhymes, hints from portraits about "the ram who rang doom before witches walked." The land changes—hills flatten into plains, the sky turns gray, the ground cracks.

 

You find Tambelon at the edge of nothing: a city half-sunk in shadow, towers twisted, walls crumbling but still thrumming with ancient wards. There is no light or life—only wind through empty streets and the dim echo of a bell.

 

Grogar waits in the central citadel, throne room open to the bruised sky, chains dangling where his bell once hung.

 

He is smaller than legend—blue fur matted, red horns cracked, eyes blurred with age. The golden collar around his neck is empty. He is chained to his ruined throne by spells older than Equestria: not dead, not free, simply trapped.

 

He stirs when your shadow crosses the stone. Small teal eyes meet ancient red.

 

“Another pony comes to gloat,” he grunts. “Or to steal what little remains.”

 

You sit. Shadows curl closer, curious.

 

He studies you—the harmony-less filly with predator eyes and invisible relics he can sense but not grasp.

 

“You are not like the others,” he says at last. “No song in your step. No light in your gaze. What do you seek from old Grogar?”

 

You shrug.

 

"Boredom."

 

He laughs, a dry, cracked sound that sounds through the empty halls.

 

“Then stay, little nothing. The city is full of it.”

 

You do, for a while.

 

The ruined city doesn’t mind company. No creatures stir in the silent streets and no wind carries demands or songs—just the slow crumble of stone and the dim echo of a long-silent bell. Grogar stays chained to his throne, watching you come and go—a small green shadow moving through his prison as if you belong to the silence.

 

One evening, you find yourself at the base of his throne again.

 

“Tell me about the past,” you say, voice dull though edged with the faint curiosity boredom sometimes allows. “The time when witches, wizards, warlocks walked. Humans.”

 

Grogar’s milky eyes fix on you. Chains rattle softly as he shifts.

 

“Humans,” he breathes, tasting the word like old poison. “Tall creatures. Two legs. Clever hands. Eyes like yours—small, sharp, hungry. They walked this world before ponies claimed it all.”

 

He leans forward, voice grinding slowly.

 

“They were never one people. Some kind. Most cruel. The cruel ones took to dark magic easily; their souls were too stubborn to corrode. Witches with storm-cloud hair and bone crowns. Wizards who raised dead armies with a word. Warlocks who twisted shadows into blades. They built towers where the sun feared to shine. Ruled pockets of land with fear and fire. I knew them. Fought some. Allied with others when it served.”

 

A dry chuckle escapes.

 

“They promised power. I promised bells that rang minds to sleep. We shared enemies—early pony tribes, alicorns just waking to their wings. But humans fought each other more than us. Ambition devoured ambition. Dark magic left scars; evil grew where resilience kept the corrosion from eating through.”

 

His gaze drifts to the empty collar.

 

“Then Megan came. One human from beyond. Golden hair. Bright power. She stood with the first great alicorns and wiped the dark ones clean. Mutual slaughter, the stories say. Native humans burned to ash. Megan fell with them. Alicorns spent their lives finishing the purge. Only the wild things still remember the terror in human eyes.”

 

He looks at you again.

 

“You carry those eyes, but there’s no fire in you, no ambition to drown worlds—just quiet.”

 

The chains settle, and silence stretches until it almost feels comfortable.

 

Eventually, you speak.

 

“I don’t know why I’m here.”

 

Your voice is small, flat, the same tone you always use. It echoes faintly off cracked stone.

 

Grogar tilts his head.

 

“The world pulled me,” you continue. “Paths in the Everfree opened when I walked them. Monsters fled. Old ruins waited. Like something wanted me to find them. Tartarus' gate creaks open. Umbrum whispering below the empire. Portraits waking. You.”

 

You meet his milky gaze.

 

“But everywhere I go, the world acts like I don’t belong. Ponies flinch. Grass stays crushed. Harmony skips the note where I should fit. Even the dark places—the Spite Empire, the volcano, here—only tolerate me. Like I’m a hole the world keeps stepping around.”

 

Grogar’s laugh is dry gravel again.

 

“Old story,” he sighs. “The world draws what it fears, then refuses to name it. Humans came the same way—paths opening, magic answering, beasts remembering old terror. They tried to carve places. Built towers. Raised armies. Drowned valleys in gloom. The world pulled them close, then pushed harder.”

 

Chains rattle like far-off thunder.

 

“You have the eyes, the pull—but there’s no hunger to carve, no song to drown them with. You wander the world’s edges, and it resents you for not filling them with fire.”

 

You linger longer than usual in the dust at the base of his throne, his words resting like fine ash. Fire or emptiness. Both freedom. Both chains.

 

The emptiness has been your companion so long it feels like skin. Yet something shifts, small and almost unnoticed, when you think of all the places you’ve walked.

 

The portraits in their ruined hall, singing disappointed songs to dust.

 

The umbrum trapped beneath the empire’s glow, murmuring through crystal wards.

 

Cozy in her small cage, mask cracked, games scattered.

 

Tirek’s empty bars.

 

Grogar is chained to a throne in a city no one remembers.

 

All of them sharp-edged things the world drew close, then pushed away and left to rot because they didn’t fit harmony’s song.

 

You look up at the ancient ram.

 

“I want to make a place,” you say, voice flat but steady. “For the forgotten. Where they don’t have to rot.”

 

Grogar’s milky eyes narrow.

 

You keep going.

 

“The Volcano of Gloom—the old witch's home. It's empty now, big enough. I could open it, bring the umbrum up, open cages in Tartarus for anyone who wants out. Even bring you, if you want. A place where sharp things belong because they’re sharp, with no pretending, no songs—just existing, without permission.”

 

Grogar is silent for a long while. Chains hang motionless.

 

“A haven for monsters,” he utters at last. “Built by a void with old eyes and older relics. The world will call it evil.”

 

You shrug.

 

“The world already steps around me. This would just give the hole a shape.”

 

He studies you—the small green filly with invisible power emanating beneath cloaked skin.

 

“You don’t want fire, or conquest, or vengeance. You just refuse to let the forgotten rot alone.”

 

You nod.

 

He laughs again, dry and cracked, almost wondering.

 

“Then do it, little nothing. Tambelon is dust. I have waited long enough for these chains to bore me. Take this old ram if you will. See if the world burns—or simply looks away.”

 

You stand.

 

Shadows curl closer, eager.

 

The invisible horn hums agreement.

 

The amulet waits, patient.

 

For the first time, the boredom shifts into something else.

 

It's not fire.

 

At least, not yet.

 

But it's motion.

 

You turn toward the gate.

 

Grogar’s chains rattle once—not in struggle, but in readiness.

 

The ruined city watches you leave.

 

And the emptiness begins to take shape.

 

===

 

You leave Tambelon as the bruised sky lightens into what passes for dawn, Grogar’s words still settling within the silent corners of your mind. The emptiness has a shape now—a quiet refusal to let the forgotten rot alone, not fire or conquest.

 

You begin with Tartarus.

 

The gate knows you now. Cerberus raises one massive head, whines low in its throat, and steps aside without a fight. You descend the spiral unhurried, and the cloak finally drops after weeks of hiding. The curved black-red horn stands visible on your forehead, shadows flowing at your hooves like eager hounds, and the Alicorn Amulet’s crimson gem gleams openly beneath your mane.

 

Cages creak and swing as you pass. Eyes follow—too many, too few, ancient and calculating. Whispers rise in your wake: hope, fear, speculation.

 

You don’t waste words.

 

You simply act.

 

The amulet answers your intent with raw, amplified force. Bars twist and snap like dead branches. Wards flare crimson and shatter. Chains clatter to the stone in rusted heaps. Prisoners step free—some wary, some eager, some silent. Nameless ancients. Monsters' harmony once sang in cages. Cozy Glow emerges last, blinking at the open door, the sweet mask long gone.

 

“Golly,” she whispers, voice faint and strangely honest. “You actually did it.”

 

You don’t wait for gratitude. You turn and lead.

 

They follow.

 

A slow, strange procession winds upward through the spiral—shadows, beasts, villains, every sharp thing harmony abandoned. Cerberus watches from the gate, heads lowered, and lets you pass.

 

You guide them north and west, toward the Volcano of Gloom. The journey stretches across days, shadows veiling the march from pony eyes, the amulet cloaking when necessary. There are no speeches or songs, only steady motion.

 

The volcano waits exactly as you left it: crumbling black stone, empty crater, ruins strangled by wrong vines. You pause at the rim.

 

The amulet flares.

 

Power surges—not to destroy, but to rebuild according to your will. Cracked towers straighten and rise, stone knitting seamlessly. Balconies reinforce themselves. Cauldrons regrow whole and gleaming. Traces of changeling resin blend with old witch magic, strengthening the walls. Deep chambers open inside the mountain—vast halls, shadowed gardens, places that need no sunlight. The crater floor smooths into a wide basin, ready for whatever darkness chooses to claim it.

 

The former prisoners spread through the halls as they’ve always belonged. Some claim towers. Some vanish into shadow. Cozy slips into a dusty library of spellbooks and falls silent for hours.

 

You leave them to settle.

 

Then you teleport.

 

Space folds like paper under the amulet’s power—one heartbeat on the volcano rim, the next at the frozen fissure beneath the Crystal Empire. The ancient barrier shimmers, crystal light stretched thin.

 

Below, the umbrum stir. Whispers swell into roars.

 

You lift a hoof.

 

The horn drinks the light. Shadows flood upward. The barrier cracks, then bursts soundlessly.

 

They rise.

 

Thousands of living darkness pour out—pony-shaped, smoke and substance, red eyes bright with centuries of waiting. They spill into the night like long-dammed water.

 

You lead again.

 

Chains of teleportation carry them north, shadow to shadow, darkness to darkness. The volcano’s basin waits, empty where lava and Smooze once churned.

 

They fill it.

 

Umbrum merges with stone and gloom until the volcano breathes once more—cold, deep, alive. No light reaches the bottom now. Only red eyes and patient hunger.

 

The empire sleeps above, unaware its oldest prison stands empty.

 

One final journey remains.

 

You return to Tambelon.

 

The city is unchanged—dust and silence, bruised sky overhead. Grogar waits on his ruined throne, chains heavy, milky eyes alert.

 

You hold the Bewitching Bell in your magic, unearthed from beneath the throne-room floor where Gusty hid it centuries ago. Golden, whole, humming with the power he once commanded.

 

You slip it over his neck.

 

Chains explode into rust.

 

Grogar rises, tall again, blue fur deepening, red horns gleaming fresh. The bell tolls once—low, resonant, shaking dust from stone.

 

He regards you.

 

“Freedom,” he croaks. “After all this time.”

 

You shrug.

 

“The volcano has room. If you want it.”

 

He laughs, a boom like thunder rolling through empty halls.

 

“Lead, little nothing. Old Grogar follows.”

 

You turn toward the gate.

 

He follows.

 

Tambelon empties behind you.

 

The volcano gains its oldest resident.

 

Later, you stand on the rim of the Volcano of Gloom, watching the new inhabitants settle in. Umbrum swirls through the basin, red eyes winking in the dusk. Former prisoners claim towers and shadows. Cozy’s laughter drifts from a library window. Grogar’s bell rings from a spire, shaking dust from stone.

 

The volcano is alive with everything harmony once forgot.

 

Then the ground trembles.

 

It's not an earthquake—something deliberate, something heavy.

 

You turn toward the forest edge.

 

Ahgg emerges from the trees, massive and slow.

 

His massive body drags webs; his single eye glows faintly. He crushes saplings without noticing, pausing at the border where old vines meet new walls, eye fixed on towers, shadows, and the distant toll of Grogar’s bell.

 

He remembers this place.

 

Home—or the closest thing he ever had when mistresses still walked.

 

You descend the switchback path to meet him. Shadows follow. The horn stays visible; there’s no need to hide here. The amulet hums approval.

 

Ahgg lowers his head until his eye is level with you.

 

“Ahgg see mistresses’ hall… alive again,” he rumbles, voice coarse with gravel and dust. “Old smells. New shadows. Little almost-witch does this.”

 

You nod.

 

“Room for forgotten things. No rotting alone.”

 

He shifts, webs dragging across stone.

 

“Ahgg wait deep. Ahgg hide when light burn. Mistresses gone. No commands. No promises. Just silence.”

 

His eye narrows on the umbrum below, on Grogar’s distant shape, on sharp-edged residents moving without fear.

 

“Place for old servant too?”

 

You shrug and step aside.

 

The path opens.

 

Ahgg advances, slow and deliberate. Webs trail behind, catching on resin and stone, bridging ruin and renewal.

 

Residents watch from towers and shadows, not panicking but recognizing another forgotten thing finding its place.

 

He settles at the crater’s edge, body curling around a restored balcony. Webs spread across open spaces, deepening the gloom.

 

The volcano accepts him.

 

You stand beside one massive leg.

 

Ahgg’s eye half-closes, rumbling with contentment.

 

“Home,” he utters. “Mistresses gone. But Ahgg not alone anymore.”

 

Wind howls through new webs.

 

The forgotten fill the space a little fuller.

 

And the boredom recedes—quiet, steady, almost like purpose.

 

===

 

You return to the Volcano of Gloom often now, lured not by boredom but by something quieter—a steady pull to check the shape you carved from emptiness and watch it fill on its own terms.

 

Cozy Glow has claimed a high tower library that once belonged to Hydia. The shelves still bear scars of old Smooze residue, and many books are half-rotted but hum with dark incantations. She organized the chaos in days: volumes sorted by malice, margins crowded with notes on refining failed schemes. She’s free here—no bars, no guards, and no need to play the sweet filly everypony once demanded.

 

She moves freely between the shelves, wings stronger, eyes watchful. The other residents leave her alone. Umbrum drifts past her windows, and Ahgg’s webs drape her balcony. Sometimes her voice echoes down the halls as she plots aloud—new ways to siphon magic, empires mapped on chessboard logic—but there’s no urgency behind it, no audience to impress or outwit.

 

One evening, you find her on the balcony, gazing north toward the dim shimmer of the Crystal Empire’s far-off glow.

 

“It’s boring without somepony to outsmart,” Cozy says as you settle beside her, her mask finally gone. She adds, with a sly grin, “But at least this boring belongs to me.”

 

She doesn't thank you, just gives you a quick nod, already buried in her books.

 

You don't expect her to—Cozy's always been complicated like that.

 

Grogar has taken the central citadel. The throne room you first saw in Tambelon’s ruins has been rebuilt—higher, darker, old chains replaced by webs and shadow. His bell hangs full again, and when it rings, low notes coax faint troggle echoes from the stone: misty servants that bow without question. He strides the halls, blue fur deepened to midnight, red horns gleaming.

 

He practices, but it's not for conquest—at least, not yet.

 

Necromancy for its own sake: raising skeletal guardians from volcanic bone, shaping umbrum swirls into formations that please his sense of order. The residents give him space and offer respect. Ahgg spins webs across his doors, an old alliance quietly renewed. Cozy visits now and then, suggesting refinements to mind control. He listens, grunts approval, sometimes even adjusts the spell.

 

One night, you find him on the crater rim, bell tolling soft notes that make the umbrum below dance.

 

“Freedom tastes different than I remembered,” he breathes as you approach. “No pony songs to drown out. No alicorns waiting to banish me. Just… this.”

 

He gestures to the volcano filling with sharp-edged things that exist without apology.

 

You sit beside him.

 

The bell rings once more—low, almost content.

 

Cozy’s laughter drifts up from a distant tower, plotting something small and vicious.

 

Ahgg’s webs catch the faint light.

 

The umbrum swirls deeper into the basin.

 

The forgotten settle into the space you shaped.

 

They didn't do it through fire or conquest.

 

It's simply belonging, nothing demanded from the world outside.

 

===

 

Zecora wakes before dawn, the air in her hut heavy and wrong.

 

The masks on her walls hang silent, their carved eyes seeming to bore into the Everfree. Her cauldron bubbles gently without fire, herbs swirling in warning patterns. No morning chorus of birds drifts in—only a distant, grinding hum, ancient and cold. The forest seems to catch its breath.

 

She steps outside into the dim light.

 

The trees lean away from the old volcano, leaves curling. Poison joke wilts on the vine. The ground trembles faintly beneath her hooves—not an earthquake, but many presences stirring. Shadows that should remain dormant. Voices once dust now whisper again. Power gathers in a place long thought dead.

 

Zecora’s stripes prickle with discomfort.

 

She knows the tang of dark magic—old brews, lingering Smooze, the bite of ambition. But this is different: a slow gathering, a deliberate filling of empty space.

 

The Volcano of Gloom breathes once more.

 

Old monsters stir within—umbrum whispers rising from below, Grogar’s bell tolling low, Ahgg’s webs spreading. Newer threats mingle: Cozy Glow’s laughter resounding through halls, escapees from Tartarus claiming towers free of chains.

 

All of them drawn by one small green shadow with predator eyes.

 

Zecora does not hesitate.

 

She brews a swift potion—cloaking mist, endurance root, a touch of zebra speed—packs light, and sets out at dawn.

 

The journey to Canterlot takes days. She chooses paths through the Everfree that skirt the volcano, then boards trains from Ponyville under watchful glances. She speaks to no one, gives no rhyming warnings. The masks follow her only in memory.

 

Celestia receives her in the throne room as the sun sinks low and red. Luna stands beside her sister, stars flickering in her mane. Twilight waits in the shadows, clutching reports, eyes tight with worry.

 

Zecora bows once—respect, not submission.

 

“The forest shifts with ancient weight,” she says, voice subdued and rhymes steady. “The Volcano of Gloom wakes from sleep late. Shadows rise where witches fell—umbrum, old ram, spider, filly with eyes that tell. Forgotten things find home in dark, no chains, no rot, no harmony’s mark.”

 

Celestia’s wings tighten against her sides.

 

Luna’s eyes narrow to slits.

 

Zecora meets her gaze.

 

“The harmony-less one shapes the void. Not with fire or war, but by creating space for things the light ignored.”

 

Silence settles over the throne room, heavy as fresh resin.

 

Celestia turns her gaze north, toward the distant bruise on the horizon where the volcano hides beyond the forest’s edge.

 

Celestia finally murmurs, "A haven for monsters—built by the emptiness we pretended wasn't there."

 

No orders ring out.

 

No war is declared.

 

The quiet realization lingers: harmony’s light has always cast deep shadows.

 

And now something has begun to fill them.

 

===

 

You stand on the balcony overlooking the crater basin, where umbrum swirls and red eyes gleam up at you in silence. Grogar stands to your left, bell quiet. Ahgg curls around a nearby tower, webs framing the scene. Cozy perches on a parapet, wings half-spread, watching you with curiosity. Other residents gather below, drawn from cages and ruins.

 

The volcano chills the air around you all.

 

You speak.

 

Your voice isn't loud or dramatic—just honest.

 

“The world created us,” you say. “Scorned us. Imprisoned us. Because we make good stories. Light prevails against dark. Harmony sings louder. Monsters lose in the end, so everypony feels safe.”

 

Whispers flow through the umbrum. Grogar’s chains clink once as he shifts.

 

“All of us were pushed away,” you continue. “Because we don’t fit harmony. Our existence skips the note. Our ambitions didn’t stay small enough to lose gracefully. We grew too big. Threatened to suffocate everything. So they chained us. Buried us. Forgot us. Left us to rot in silence.”

 

Cozy just smirks, her eyes narrowing subtly. Ahgg’s single eye blinks slowly.

 

“We change the approach,” you say. “Keep scheming. Keep planning. But low stakes.”

 

There's a pause as the crater wind howls.

 

“We give the world what it wants, stories where light prevails against darkness. We play the monsters. We threaten. We lose. But we don’t force them to imprison us again. We win sometimes, small wins, temporary wins. Take a village in shadow for a week. Steal a little magic. Make them sing their songs to beat us back.”

 

Grogar’s bell rings once, low, testing.

 

“We sulk and lick our wounds, retreating here. But it's never the end of us—never that old endless boredom, never the loneliness of rotting alone.”

 

You look across them, sharp things gathered in the dark.

 

“We exist. We scheme. We lose on purpose sometimes. We win when it’s fun. The world gets its stories. We get to keep playing.”

 

Silence falls.

 

Cozy lets out a sharp, genuine laugh.

 

“Golly, that’s brilliant,” she says, no mask left. “Be the villain they need. But never the one they can actually finish.”

 

Grogar’s chuckle rumbles akin to distant thunder.

 

“Old ram approves,” he grunts. “Endless game. No final banishment.”

 

Ahgg shifts, his webs creaking overhead.

 

“Play,” he rumbles. “Not rot.”

 

The umbrum swirls faster, red eyes beaming.

 

The first small crises begin as quiet experiments.

 

Ahgg starts it almost accidentally. He spins new webs across old pony trails near the Everfree border, thick, sticky strands that catch travelers without harming them. A merchant caravan from Appleloosa finds itself cocooned mid-journey, ponies dangling upside-down but unhurt, yelling for help while Ahgg watches from the trees with his single curious eye. No demands. No draining. Just… waiting to see what happens.

 

The Mane 6 arrive in twenty minutes flat. Twilight teleports the group, Rainbow Dash slices the webs with wing-blades, Fluttershy calms the panicked ponies with kind words, while Applejack hauls them down. Pinkie Pie turns the rescue into an impromptu party with leftover caravan snacks. Ahgg retreats deeper into the trees, webs dissolving behind him, boredom eased for a day.

 

The umbrum follows.

 

They slip out at night, whispering into dreams across rural farms. Night terrors bloom, crops withering under imagined frost, shadows chasing foals through endless dark. Fields wake blighted, ponies exhausted and afraid. Nothing permanent. The blight fades by noon.

 

Twilight’s team traces the shadow trails. Rarity crafts light wards from crystal shards, and Fluttershy coaxes the umbrum echoes back with gentle assertions of safety. Rainbow and Applejack patrol the fields at dusk. The umbrum retreat laughing, soft, smoky sounds, leaving just enough fear to remember them by.

 

Grogar rings his bell next.

 

Low notes echo across remote villages, raising skeletal troggles from old battlegrounds, mindless bone things that raid granaries and scare livestock. No killing or burning. Just enough chaos to empty a barn or scatter a herd.

 

The Mane 6 respond like clockwork. Pinkie distracts the troggles with confetti bombs, Rarity binds them in gem chains, Twilight and Starlight blast them back to dust with harmony beams. Grogar recalls the survivors with a single ring, bell humming satisfaction as he watches from a scrying pool.

 

Cozy Glow adds intrigue.

 

She doesn’t send monsters this time—just letters.

 

Forged notes from village leaders accuse neighbors of hoarding; anonymous tips about “secret monster alliances” pit pony against pony. A mayor nearly bans earth ponies from a festival. A school election turns vicious with rumors. Cozy doesn’t need shadows or webs this time—just words sharp enough to cut trust.

 

The Mane 6 untangle it carefully. Twilight traces the hoofwriting. Fluttershy mediates tearful confrontations. Pinkie throws reconciliation parties. Cozy watches from her tower, chess pieces moved by shadow magic, smiling the real smile now, minor victories in confusion, temporary fractures healed by harmony’s song.

 

None of them ever really conquer.

 

They stir the pot just enough.

 

The Mane 6 react with skilled ease, thirty-minute episodes of friendship magic resolving each crisis neatly. Ponies cheer. Songs play. Harmony prevails.

 

Reports reach the brighter lands: the Volcano of Gloom is active. Monsters scheme again. But the threats are… manageable. Contained. Almost routine.

 

Twilight paces harder. Celestia watches the horizon with quiet concern.

 

You sit on the crater rim, watching scrying pools show the latest rescue.

 

The residents gather around you, Ahgg’s eye curious, Grogar’s bell quiet, Cozy’s wings shaking with ideas, umbrum swirling in approval.

 

The world gets its stories.

 

Light prevails.

 

Darkness retreats.

 

But darkness always returns.

 

===

 

The small crises have settled into a comfortable routine—manageable disruptions that harmony’s guardians resolve in tidy arcs, complete with heartfelt lessons, reconciliatory hugs, and uplifting songs. The Mane Six handle them with skilled ease, almost relishing the established rhythm. Ponies cheer as threats dissolve, monsters retreat with grudging laughs, and the cycle continues without real stakes.

 

Until the day Starlight Glimmer finally snaps.

 

It begins like any other incident: Cozy Glow’s latest scheme, a forged letter accusing a Manehattan theater troupe of harboring “secret monster sympathies.” Rehearsals descend into chaos—accusations fly, tears flow, friendships fracture. The Mane Six arrive in force: Twilight mediating with calm authority, Rarity soothing bruised egos, Pinkie already planning a grand reconciliation party.

 

But this time the shadows linger.

 

Umbrum whispers weave through the drama, twisting suspicion into clinging night terrors that persist even after the letters are exposed as fakes. Nearby crops wither overnight. Thick webs—traces of Ahgg’s distant experiments—drape the theater roof, catching stage lights like grim, glittering chandeliers.

 

Resolution drags on for days.

 

Tempers fray.

 

Starlight, visiting to assist with the investigation, feels the old pressure building—the same burdensome weight that once drove her to enforce equality through misery, the same fury that sent her battling Twilight across shattered timelines.

 

She stands center stage amid the arguing troupe, shadows swirling thicker, whispers growing louder.

 

Enough.

 

Her horn ignites—not the careful, measured teal of hard-won lessons, but a raw, furious blue-white blaze. Magic surges in a roaring wave that silences every voice in the theater. The Mane Six freeze mid-motion. The troupe gapes. Even the umbrum shadows pause, caught mid-swirl.

 

Starlight unleashes it all.

 

A massive laser beam erupts from her horn—thick as a dragon’s tail, blinding and crackling with years of bottled rage. It sweeps the stage in one clean, devastating arc, vaporizing every lingering shadow, every clinging web, every trace of wither and whisper. The beam punches straight through the theater roof in a perfect circle, blasting skyward like a defiant signal flare before winking out.

 

Silence falls—absolute, stunned.

 

The troupe stares up at the smoking hole overhead. The Mane Six stare at Starlight, wings slack, jaws dropped. Rainbow Dash’s quiet “Whoa…” hangs unanswered in the air.

 

Far away, the volcano feels the shockwave. Umbrum recoils in the basin. Ahgg’s vast webs tremble. Cozy’s chess pieces rattle across her board. Grogar’s bell tolls once, low and startled, almost respectful.

 

Starlight stands breathing hard, horn trailing faint smoke, eyes wide at the raw power she just released.

 

Twilight approaches slowly, voice mild. “Starlight… are you okay?”

 

Starlight blinks, the fury draining into exhaustion.

 

“I… yeah. Just tired of the games dragging on forever.”

 

No one bothers to argue with her.

 

The crisis ends faster than any before—no closing song, no forced party. There's just quiet cleanup and wide-eyed ponies heading home early.

 

Back in the volcano, you watch the scrying pool ripple with the beam’s fading afterglow.

 

Cozy whistles low. “Golly. She’s got real fire when she wants it.”

 

Grogar grunts, a note of approval in his gravelly voice. “Reminds me of the old wizards.”

 

Ahgg shifts, webs creaking overhead. "Bright magic. Good. Even old Ahgg feels it."

 

The umbrum swirls below, thoughtful and restless.

 

You sit on the crater rim, small green shadow against the gloom.

 

The game just got interesting.

 

===

 

You wander deeper into the Everfree, following overgrown paths. The Castle of the Two Sisters looms ahead, towers choked by vines, halls resounding with memories of Celestia and Luna’s rule before Nightmare Moon’s rebellion. Lingering alicorn magic still hangs in the air.

 

You have no destination, just walking.

 

The horn curves visibly on your forehead, vibrating faintly. Shadows trail your steps, coiling at your hooves. The Alicorn Amulet stays cloaked beneath your coat, its power waiting.

 

You descend into the lower ruins—collapsed cellars where stone floors have buckled under centuries of roots. Thick dust covers everything. You send shadow tendrils across the debris, shifting slabs with curiosity.

 

Beneath a toppled wall, you find three portraits—frames cracked though unbroken, the paint preserved by ancient wards that flicker out when your darkness touches them.

 

Hydia. Reeka. Draggle.

 

The family.

 

Hydia stands proud in her painting, hair wild, eyes narrow with familiar spite. Reeka slouches beside her, heavy and sullen, clutching her wooden spoon. Draggle hovers at the edge, wand raised, eager and awkward.

 

Your shadows lift the canvases. The paint ripples slightly.

 

Eyes blink open.

 

Cracked voices rise—familiar and irritated.

 

“…home?”

 

“…ruined…”

 

“Who dares wake us?”

 

You give no answer.

 

You carry them out, shadows cradling the frames. Vines pull aside. Wards collapse.

 

The journey back to the volcano is quiet.

 

Residents watch your slow climb up the switchback trail. Grogar’s bell gives a single, low toll. Ahgg’s eye tracks you. Cozy Glow leans over her balcony, curious. Umbrum swirls closer, red eyes bright with something like recognition.

 

You enter the restored portrait hall. The older witch ancestors already hang there, half-stepped from their frames, watching.

 

You hang the new portraits beside them.

 

Hydia emerges first—tall, storm-haired, still tethered to her canvas by swirling threads of pigment. Reeka lumbers after with a wide yawn. Draggle stumbles out last, nearly tripping over her own painted hem.

 

The family is whole.

 

Voices overlap—grumbling, scolding, scheming.

 

Hydia’s witch eyes narrow on the hall, then on you. She folds her arms, voice shrill and nasal.

 

“Ugh! What a filthy pit! I take one nap—centuries, whatever—and everything goes to rot! Look at this place! Monsters everywhere! At least there’s no sign of those nauseating little ponies.” She snorts, then glances at you with a squint. “Well, except for you, green girl—but I can see those creepy witch eyes from here, so you hardly count. Reeka! Draggle! Stop gawking and help me look evil!”

 

Reeka shuffles forward, spoon tapping against her palm. “Oh, Mooother, I’m faaamished. Doesn’t anybody feed people around here? All this dust is making my stomach growl louder than a manticore.”

 

Draggle waves her wand too fast, nearly poking her own eye. “Gosh, Mother, it’s not so bad! We’re all together again, right? That’s what counts! Maybe I could try a little spell to spruce the place up—if that’s all right with you?”

 

Hydia throws her hands in the air. “Idiots! Both of you—complete idiots! How many times do I have to tell you? We’re paint! Paint on canvas! We can’t eat, we can’t leave, we can’t do anything except hang here and glare—and we did it to ourselves, thinking these stupid pictures would let us live forever!”

 

From a nearby frame, the oldest matriarch watches, lips curling in thin approval.

 

You settle in the center of the hall.

 

The chamber fills with murmuring—old grudges, new plots, and the familiar bickering of kin too long apart.

 

There are no urgent calls for conquest.

 

There's no need to drown the world in Smooze or gloom.

 

It’s simply belonging.

 

Sharp-edged.

 

Unapologetic.

 

The volcano settles, content at last.

 

The forgotten grow louder.

 

And the family sings—quiet, disappointed, alive.

 

You linger a while longer.

 

Shadows curl closer.

 

The emptiness inside you fills, just a fraction more, with voices that remember human eyes.

 

And for the first time, the quiet feels almost like enough.