Fatelocked: Bone Song

Your “reward” was an immediate reassignment: command of Unit Y. The last team’s disappearance in Hayseed Swamp was still a sensitive topic,if not a warning. Their investigation into the swamp’s “ancient machines” ended in tragedy, though the details were scarce.

Officially, the report said the case had been transferred to S.M.I.L.E. on the Crown’s orders. In reality, everypony in P.H.E.E.R. knew what that meant,whatever they’d found in that swamp wasn’t meant to see daylight.

Either way, you have a unit to lead, well soon they will be arriving today. At least you get a chance to meet them. You’ve been living in an old stone and thatch cottage sat in on the moors a little east of baltimare.

You glance down at the paperwork on your desk, it is littered with operative dossiers and casefiles. You flick though them, it’s been a long week organising the paperwork and getting this place livable. Well at least it isn’t lonely.

 

You glance up as a faint red glow flickers across the room, humming like static. The light gathers at your desk, forming into a ghostly mare clad in the old leather armor once standard for operatives decades ago. The spectral figure bears a gaping hole where her heart should be,its edges frayed and blackened, as though torn away by time itself.

“Doodles,” you sigh, rubbing a hoof over your face. “You know my unit’s due any minute. Didn’t we agree you’d keep hidden?”

“I’m bored,” she complains, her voice carrying that airy echo unique to the dead. “It’s not like I can pick up a quill or chalk and start, well- doodling or something.” She waves a hoof through the quill and inkwell, making them ripple faintly as if disturbed by a cold breeze.

“You could, you know… cross over,” you tease, smirking. “Or I can find you a new paddle boat to haunt.”

Her cheeks puff indignantly, eyes glowing faintly red as she glares at you. “You don’t have to be rude!”

You chuckle softly and return your attention to the papers scattered across your desk. Having a spirit tethered to you isn’t exactly regulation, but after a week with Doodles hovering nearby, you’ve almost gotten used to the company. Almost.

“Did you pick your new operatives yet?” she asks, her tone hovering somewhere between curiosity and mischief.

“I did,” you reply, rubbing your temples as you stare at the stack of dossiers spread across your desk. “Though I’m struggling to remember who I actually accepted.”

Paper rustles as Doodles drifts closer, her translucent hoof phasing through the top file. “You really should sleep more, The living kind of need that.”

You sigh. “Tell that to the paperwork waiting on my desk.”

You glance back at the pile of paperwork, realizing you’d forgotten you’d placed the accepted dossiers on the left side of your desk. Pulling three files from the stack, you spread them in front of you as you read off the names aloud.

“Shimmering Vale — Paranormal Field Engineer. Elder Stitch — Medic. Shadow Murk — Scout.”

“No rune specialist, then?” Doodles asks as she loops lazily through the air, pausing upside down to peer at you. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Well, I know a few runes,” you reply dryly. “And I’ve got you.”

“Aaaand are you implying I work for free?” she retorts, flipping upright with her forelegs crossed.

“You’re using my energy to stay visible. Maybe I wouldn’t be so tired if you didn’t keep borrowing it,” you grumble.

The ghost gives a sharp tsk. “Fine,” she huffs, then swiftly changes the subject. “What about a researcher?”

“Eh, we’ll share the workload,” you shrug.

Before she can respond, there’s a knock at the door — your “office,” though it’s really just a converted living room. The living quarters have long since been moved down to the basement. You wave Doodles away, and she vanishes in a quick flash of red light.

“Enter,” you call.

The door creaks open to reveal an older stallion with glasses and a greying brown mane. His beige coat has the faint, worn look of somepony who’s spent a lifetime in the field. He speaks in a low, gravelly voice tinged with a frontier accent.

“Ya Marrow?”

“I am. Come in,” you reply, gesturing toward the desk. “Elder Stitch, I presume?”

“Ah, just call me Doc.”

He steps inside, and you can’t help but notice the small safety pin piercing his upper ear, a tiny, unassuming detail that somehow fits him perfectly.

 

“I’m going to cut to the chase,” you say, scanning his dossier. “How efficiently can you mend somepony’s wounds under pressure — limited time, limited resources?”

Doc lets out a low hum. “Straight to the point, huh?” He studies your expression for a moment before nodding. “A’right, I can work with that. Pretty well, I’d say. But don’t expect miracles.”

“Can you serve as both an operative and a medic?” you ask, raising a brow.

“I’d rather be an operative,” Doc replies with a faint grin. “If I’m healin’, then something’s already gone wrong.”

You lean back slightly in your chair. “Alright, tell me one thing you can absolutely be trusted with, and one thing you’d rather not do alone.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Now that’s a new one.” After a pause, he nods to himself. “Patient confidentiality. You could stand me up at Tartarus’s gates, and I still wouldn’t mutter a word. As for what I’d rather not do alone? Heavy liftin’. Let’s face it, I’m past my prime.”

You smirk faintly. “Fair enough. How’d your last mission go?”

“Other than patchin’ a few scrapes from dealin’ with a building full of angry poltergeists, pretty well,” he says with a nostalgic nod. A small smile flickers across his muzzle, though his eyes drift for a moment. You can tell he’s thinking about his old team, whoever they were, and that maybe it’s better to save the question about his transfer for another time.

You glance down at the notes on his dossier. “Now… about your fate.”

Doc lets out a low chuckle, the kind that sounds more tired than amused. “Ah, there it is. I knew that’d come up sooner or later.” He takes a moment to choose his words. “I took the oath to help anypony who asks. Guess fate’s got a twisted sense of humor. I heal something that shouldn’t be alive.”

You tilt your head. “As in?”

He scratches the back of his neck, eyes unfocused as he recalls the vision. “Don’t rightly know. Looked like a mare, but she was… stitched together. Her limbs, her wings -none of ’em hers.”

Your gaze flicks to another note in the file. “What about the pinned shadow?”

Doc’s expression tightens. “That’s in the notes too, huh? Guess HQ really do keep tabs on a pony.” He sighs through his nose, tone quieter now. “Not somethin’ I like talkin’ about much, but… that shadow ain’t mine.”

Your eyes drift to the small safety pin piercing his ear. “And that pin’s what holds it?”

He nods once. “It has since I was a colt. Done me well so far.”

You don’t press further. There’s something in the way he says it, a tone that suggests the pin’s the only thing standing between him and something far worse.

You watch a faint red glow flicker across the floor, it hovers near Doc’s shadow for a heartbeat before darting away like smoke caught in a breeze. You pretend not to notice.

“Last question,” you say, steering the conversation elsewhere. “How can an attached or possessed pony compensate for the energy drain?”

Doc raises a brow at that,“The better question is why the pony keeps the spirit around.” He pauses, the lines around his eyes deepening as he thinks. “But if you’re talkin’ about coping, eat well, rest often, and for Luna’s sake, keep your emotions steady. Anger, guilt, grief, they’re open doors. It all depends on the spirit’s intent.”

He leans back, his tone turning grim. “Most attachments are parasites. They’d rather you never know they’re there, just feed off your spark ‘til there’s nothin’ left.”

You give a slow nod, though your thoughts drift elsewhere.

The spirit attached to you isn’t feeding, or hiding.

 

 

“That’ll be all,” you say, leaning back in your chair. “Feel free to set up your bunk. You’re the first here, so…first dibs, I suppose.”

The old stallion nods once and turns to leave, but pauses at the door. “I hope the rooms aren’t small. Where are the bunks?”

“Upstairs,” you reply, motioning vaguely with a hoof. “Office and kitchen are on this floor, living area’s in the basement. And if you see anypony else arrive, send them my way.”

“You didn’t mention the size of the rooms,” Doc remarks, halfway through the doorframe.

“At least we’re not sharing like the other bases,” you counter with a faint smirk.

He exhales through his nose, part sigh, part laugh. “Suppose that’s somethin’.”

The door creaks shut behind him, leaving the office quiet once more.

“You know I’m not going to do that, right?” comes Doodles’ disembodied voice from somewhere above you.

“Do what?” you ask, glancing around the dimly lit office.

“Well…drain your spark until there’s nothing left. Like that stallion put it.” Her voice grows clearer as her form shimmers into view across the desk. She props her forehooves on the surface, resting her chin on them with a ghostly sigh.

You arch a brow. “Then what are your intentions with me?”

She shrugs faintly, eyes flicking away. “Honestly? I didn’t exactly plan to stick around this long…” she admits, her tone softening near the end.

You tut under your breath. “You can’t cross over, can you?”

For a moment, Doodles says nothing. Then, with a reluctant nod, she confirms, “…No.”

“Unfinished business?” you press.

Her ears lower slightly as she meets your gaze. “Unfinished business,” she echoes quietly.

“Well, your body’s miles under by now, along with that ship,” you say after a long pause, rubbing your temples. “I don’t think I can help with that.”

She shakes her head quickly. “No, no. It’s not my body. It’s who I am.”

“A nobody?” you tease with a faint smirk.

Doodles puffs out her cheeks in a pout, and the air temperature drops several degrees. A cold gust sweeps across your desk, sending your paperwork fluttering to the floor. “Not funny! I’m being serious here!”

“Damn it, Doodles,” you mutter, ducking to retrieve the papers. “I’m messing around…”

“You shouldn’t make fun of ponies with disabilities,” she huffs, crossing her forelegs. “It’s rude.”

You groan, shuffling the papers back into place. “Being dead isn’t a disability. Besides, wasn’t it common fifty years ago to toss the disabled into asylums?”

“Well, yeah,” she says matter-of-factly. “But medical science was advancing! Mana shock therapy was just becoming a thing. I can’t imagine what it’s like now.” Her eyes light up suddenly. “Oh! They’ve probably found a cure for thestralism by now!”

You glare at her for a long moment before dragging your hooves down your face. “Doodles, stop. We’re getting off topic.” You make a mental note not to repeat the conversation from a few days ago. “So, what makes you you?”

Her expression softens. The ghostly mare looks down, her red eyes dimming as she searches for an answer. “I don’t know,” she finally admits, her ghostly wings drooping. “It’s like I was supposed to do something… something I didn’t finish. Maybe fate’s giving me a chance to make it right before I go.”

“And you don’t know what that is,” you say quietly.

She floats a little higher. “Well you can figure it out! You’re part of P.H.E.E.R., for the Goddess’s sake!”

You meet her gaze with a weary look. Maybe telling Doc about Doodles soon would be worthwhile.

The spirit drifts down and perches on your desk, her tail swaying lazily through a stack of papers.

“Has anypony told you your ear twitches when you’re thinking?” she teases.

You ignore the remark, exhaling through your nose. “You wouldn’t happen to know anypony still alive today, would you?”

Doodles taps her chin, her expression thoughtful. “I can’t think of anypony. I was the youngest in my team, and I doubt anypony in P.H.E.E.R. from my time’s still around.”

“The longest-serving operative would be the leader of Unit C…” you murmur, trailing off as your thoughts drift. You’ve met her a few times, those gem-like eyes of hers could chill even a ghost. Rumor has it she’s been around since before P.H.E.E.R. had its name. You pull a quill from the inkwell and start jotting notes.

“Did you have a family?” you ask, quill still between your teeth.

“Other than my sister, no,” Doodles says softly. “I don’t know if she crossed over or if she’s still trapped on the ship. I searched for her, but…” Her voice fades. “I never found her.”

You nod and write that down. There’s no point asking about parents, they’d be long gone. “Alright. I’ll look into it. But for now, I need to finish setting up the unit.”

“Thank you!” Doodles beams and darts forward, attempting to hug you,only to pass straight through your chest. The shock of icy energy makes you shudder. She recoils quickly, hooves fidgeting as she sinks halfway through the desk. “Sorry…”

You rub your foreleg, the chill still lingering in your bones. “Just… warn me next time.”

You finish jotting down your notes, leaving one last bullet point open, ask about double-circled runes.

Doodles glances toward the door, her expression unreadable, before fading out of sight in a wisp of red light.

Right on cue, the door swings open. A young unicorn steps in, her light blue mane a tangled mess with a pair of worn leather goggles strapped loosely beneath it.

“Are you the chief? Some old stallion told me to report to you,” she says, voice brisk and confident.

“I take it you’re Shimmering Vale?” you ask, raising a brow as your eyes flick to the matching dossier on your desk.

“Just Vale,” she corrects, brushing at a few invisible flecks of dust on her off-white coat.

“That old stallion is one of your teammates, Vale,” you say.

“Really?” Vale chuckles. “Guess we’ll be picking him up on the Ki-meter before long.”

“Experience is hard to come by,” you reply, leaning back in your chair. “Let’s begin. Tell me one thing you can absolutely be trusted with,and one thing you’d really rather not do alone.”

“Whoa, tough question.” Vale’s smirk fades as she thinks. “Well, you can trust me to keep your equipment running. Saves you the trouble of sending it back to HQ or waiting on an inventory request.”

“That’s useful,” you admit. “P.H.E.E.R.’s logistics aren’t exactly… efficient at the best of times.” You tilt your head. “And the second part?”

“Hmm. Something I’d rather not do alone?” She shrugs. “Assignments. I don’t like working solo in the field. Back at base, sure—leave me be. But out there? No thanks.”

You nod, then glance down at her dossier. “This mini phonograph listed under your equipment—what’s that about?”

“Oh, that?” She perks up. “It records ghost voices. The new Ki-meter V2’s spirit speaker misses certain frequencies, so I use the phonograph to catch the ones that slip through. You know how the speaker only spits out a word or two? The phonograph gets everything.”

“I see.” You flip through the papers. “Is that standard issue for field engineers? It’s the first time I’ve seen your role listed as a specialist.”

“Not really,” Vale admits. “We engineers drag all kinds of gear with us. The phonograph’s just my thing. I guess you missed the memo, HQ’s been transferring some of us from R&D into the field after the budget cuts.”

“That explains it.” You tap the page with a hoof. “So, what exactly do field engineers do?”

“Pretty much what it says, repair Ki-meters, field-test new gizmos, and fill in wherever we’re needed. Otherwise, treat me like a regular operative.”

“Right…” You pause, eyeing the next line. “And about this phonograph again, it says here you record ghosts’ regrets?”

Vale groans. “They actually put that in there? Alright, cards on the table: I’m a bit musically inclined. I, uh… got caught remixing evidence cylinders and pressing them onto vinyl for a side hustle. Got reprimanded, already paid for it, so save the lecture.”

You wave a hoof dismissively. “As long as it doesn’t happen again, whatever. It’s your engineering skill that caught my eye, not your rhythm. So, why P.H.E.E.R.? Why not a normal engineering gig?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Saw the ad in the back of a newspaper, right in the obituaries section, actually. I’d flunked out of college and wanted to prove to my parents I could still make it as an engineer.”

You nod along, then ask quietly, “And your fate?”

The humor drains from her face. “That vision still haunts me,” she admits. “I was trapped in a room… all I could hear was static. Then I fell to the floor, shaking, biting my tongue until…” she stops herself, eyes distant. “It was pretty messed up.”

“Were you alone in this room? What kind of building was it?” you ask, tilting your head.

“I don’t know,” Vale says quietly. “The walls were stone, but I couldn’t see a door. No glowstick, no light source,just darkness.” She shakes her head.

You raise a hoof, motioning for her to stop. Her voice is trembling now, and you can tell the memory still stings. “I get it. Sounds vague—like mine.”

“Can I ask?” she says after a pause.

“Sure,” you reply. “I was running from dogs,or maybe Tarhounds,in the rain. I slip, then get mauled.”

“I suppose you avoid the rain now, huh?” she asks, a faint smirk returning.

“Yeah, I try,” you say, letting out a dry chuckle. “But the weatherponies tend to have other plans.” You try to lighten the mood, but curiosity pulls you back. “Ever since you saw your fate, has it affected your work at all? Maybe made you hesitate… or feel like the static’s still there, whispering? Guiding you?”

“Not really,” she says after thinking it over. “I haven’t had much field time anyway. Mostly temporary attachments or filling in for operatives out sick.”

You nod, jotting something down on the dossier. “How’s the field treated you so far?”

“It’s… something,” she admits. “R&D has no idea what you operatives go through. We used to joke about you all whining over faulty Ki-meters and glowsticks” she smirks faintly that quickly fades “but now I see why.”

“Well, that’s all from me,” you say, setting the quill down. “I’ll leave it to you to pick a room. This base has an odd layout - living areas in the basement, bunks are upstairs, and the kitchen’s next door.” You gesture toward the door.

Vale nods and turns to leave.

“Before you go,” you add, “the last operative to arrive is a batpony. If you see him, send him my way.”

“Sure,” she says, pausing at the door. “I was wondering if there’d be one.”

“Will that be a problem?” you ask.

“Pfft, no. Half the units I’ve worked with were mostly bats,” she replies with a grin before pulling the door shut behind her.

A faint silence settles before a familiar voice cuts through it. “Are you sure about her, Marrow?” Doodles asks, drifting into view.

You glance up from your desk. “Why? She seems fine. Maybe a bit of a troublemaker, but who isn’t in P.H.E.E.R.?”

“I don’t mean like that,” Doodles says, her tone dipping lower. “She’s a horn-head. Unicorns are extremely susceptible to possession. Their horns act like a direct gateway to the brain. They used to be forbidden from becoming operatives… or so I thought.”

“They can join,” you explain, leaning back in your chair. “They wear special rings that make sure energy can only flow one way. Still, it’s rare. The old stigma stuck around.”

You rise from your seat, joints cracking as you stretch. Sitting all day has left you stiff.

“Where are you going?” Doodles asks, floating after you.

“Nowhere. Just stretching my legs.” You roll your shoulders and walk to the window. The sun hangs low over the grassy flatlands, the horizon broken only by the dark silhouette of a lonely tree. “I also need to check the patrol orders soon,” you add quietly. “Though, I can’t imagine there’s much out here to keep an eye on.”

You trot back to your desk and start rummaging through the drawers. The largest one at the bottom rattles as you pull it open, revealing a neat file system. You flip through the folders, muttering each label under your breath,“Maintenance… Reporting… Accounting… Operatives…. Of course nothing in alphabetical order…Hah, Patrols.”

You tug the file free, and place it on the desk. As you flip through the documents, your brow furrows. The patrol order is dated over thirty years ago,no amendments, no redactions, not even a note from HQ or past unit leaders. Just blank untouched aging paper gathering dust. You turn it over and there is a scribbled note with a list of instructions. You read it.

To all P.H.E.E.R. Operatives,

If you wish to survive the moorlands between assignments, you must follow these instructions precisely.

These lands are older than our records, and soaked with more blood than you can imagine.

By the brook: There is a tree where a songbird sings. If your thoughts turn uneasy while you listen-ignore them. They are not your own.

 

 

To the west, in the forest: If you see smoke through the trees and voices of those who stand watching-do not make eye contact. Salute once, then leave.

 

 

If there is a bustle in your hedgerow outside your cottage, leave a silver bit for the Fae Queen.

 

 

Along the road: If you hear a sound like crashing waves or humming bees, the Piper is calling you to join him. Do not follow the music.

 

 

At dawn: For those who stayed too long, the forest will echo with laughter. Do not move.

 

 

In the forest: If you find a staircase that should not be there, and hear whispers in the wind—do not climb, do not investigate, do not talk about it. Leave.

Remember:

Some things in the moorlands remember us better than we remember them. The locals remember well.

Take care.

 

You slide the note toward Doodles, who has drifted in close enough to hover over your shoulder. A faint chill grazes your cheek from her presence.

“What do you make of it?” you ask.

“It’s definitely not a patrol order,” she says, squinting at the page. “But back when I was alive, Unit Y was… well, very superstitious. Come to think of it, most units stationed in Eastern Equestria were.”

“With Hollow Shades and Blackhoof Hill just over the mountains north of here, I understand why.” You shrug and return to the stack of paperwork. Digging deeper, you pull out a thick operative file, it hits the desk with a heavy thunk. The folder bulges with dossier after dossier, some pages yellowed and brittle with age.

“Why Blackhoof? That’s a lovely little town, I used to vacation there. Very batpony-friendly, too…” Doodles drifts into your field of vision, confusion creasing her ghostly features.

“I think you need to catch up on some history,” you mutter. “That place is somewhere I’d rather never see again—and somewhere no modern PHEER operative should go, either.”

“Why’s that?” Doodles eases closer, curiosity pulling her forward.

“It’s an abandoned ghost town,” you say flatly. “We lost a lot of operatives there. Count yourself lucky that assignments in that region go to the expert units, A, B, or C.”

“Why would I be glad? I’m dead.” Doodles smirks, shrugging in that weightless way ghosts do.

“From what I’ve heard,” you huff, flicking through the remaining files, “even the dead aren’t safe there.”

You pause, frowning at the paperwork. “This should’ve been archived decades ago. The patrol folder is practically empty, and the operative folder is packed with… well, literally dead files, the accounting has questionable expenditures where they've been drinking at the local inn nearly every other night...I mean who authorised this at HQ?”

Doodles shrugged, “We just hid the expenditures in the minor repairs float…Besides it happened in my time too, we all like to drink.”

“All the units are guilty of it but this…” You hold up a copy of an approved invoice, “They basically put drinky time in the description, and drawn a smiley face…Then have a cheek to say it cost fifty bits. And it was approved.”

You glance down at the desk now covered in paperwork, you notice the sunlight has now dipped, as on cue the candles around the office flicker then spark into a flame that dances on the wicks.

“Did you do that?” Doodles asks.

“They’re auto-light candles. They have gems embedded beneath them that activate when it gets dark enough.” You reply. The batpony should be here soon, you hope he isn’t too tired getting up so early, being nocturnal and all.

You glance out the window. The world beyond has already sunk into near-total darkness, the flatlands swallowed whole by shadow. You can’t help but wonder what actually lurks out there—if anything the strange note hinted at is still true. A map would help. It should help.

You pull open drawers, rifling through them one by one, hoping for even a rough sketch of the area. Nothing. Not a scrap, not a chart—just empty wood and dust. There has to be one somewhere in this cottage.

A sudden knock breaks the silence.

“Come in!” you call, raising your voice.

Doodles vanishes in an instant, zipping straight up to the corner like a startled firefly.

A stallion batpony opens the door, his light grey fur glistens in the candle light, his purple eyes adjusts. “Are you the unit leader?”

You nod, “I am. You must be Shadow Murk”

“I am, and sorry for being late, can’t see anything with the sun-” Shadow Murk steps in then immediately pauses, he looks at you then around the room as if he is searching for something.

“Is there something wrong?” you ask.

The batpony pauses just inside the doorway, ears flicking as he scans the office. Only after a moment do his eyes settle on you again.

“Nothing… just felt like somepony else was here.”

“Are you sensitive to ki fluctuations?” you ask, though you already know-it’s in his dossier.

“A little,” he admits. “Don’t know if it’s instinct or training, but when I get a feeling, I trust it.”

You shuffle through the paperwork in front of you. “It says here you whisper your direction out loud to ‘keep spirits honest.’ What exactly does that mean?”

“It’s simple,” Murk replies. “Spirits tend to warn me when I’m about to step somewhere I shouldn’t. If I speak my intention, they usually steer clear… or steer me away.”

“Does it work?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” He gives a casual shrug of his wings.

“I suppose so.” You lean back in your chair. “Alright, next question. Tell me one thing you can absolutely be trusted with—and one thing you’d rather not do alone.”

“Trusted with? Easy. If you’re ever lost, I’ll find you. Being dead or alive, that’s more on you.” Murk chuckles lightly. “As for something I won’t do alone? Patrols. If you want me coming back, don’t send me out solo.”

“You’d refuse the order?” you ask with a raised brow.

“Don’t take it as insubordination. It’d be fate,” Murk says evenly.

“That leads into my next question,” you reply.

Murk nods, already knowing. He lets out a slow breath. “My vision? I saw myself take a wrong turn… then ended walking paths that never ends.”

“Anything else you can tell me about it?” you press.

“I presume I was on patrol,” Murk replies. “I had the full kit on—patrol orders tucked under my wing. That’s all I remember.”

“I see.” You close the folder on your desk. “I’ll keep your fate in mind when assigning you for night work—especially patrols.” After a brief pause, you continue, “How about your last assignment? How did it go?”

Murk huffs out a dry, almost tired laugh. “We got an emergency call from an amateur ghost hunter. His friends were trapped in the basement of an abandoned house he claimed was haunted. Said a spirit had sealed them in.” He rolls his eyes. “Turns out they were so panicked they didn’t try pulling the door. Just kept shoving at it.”

You can’t help but shake your head. “I’ve run into a few groups like that. The worst part is trying to warn them they’re in danger without actually telling them they are in danger.”

“Exactly.” Murk flicks an ear. “And they call themselves ghost hunters. Have you ever actually heard of one hunting a ghost?”

You snort softly. “Not once.”

“What about your Ki sensing gift, like helping ponies who are physically here but lost themselves?” You ask.

Murk looks at you for a moment, looking a bit confused, “As in undead? A husk? If you're talking on the spiritual or emotional level I’m no shrink.”

“Sorry it’s been a long week,” You rub your eyes, “I’ll rephrase it, can you sense any other energy?”

He shakes his head, “Just Ki, I look out for my team just as any good operative.”

“If one of our operatives goes missing, how are you able to track and find them?” You ask.

“Well research, find out how they are and how they think. Once I have a rough location, then it’s a matter of time I find them.”

You place Murks folder back into the drawer, “Well that seems a little vague.”

“Most of it is intuition.”

You glance at the massive folder of past operatives of unit Y, “You think the old unit Y will ever be found?”

“Well if we are the new unit Y, I suspect HQ are certain they aren't coming back. SMILE got that case shut tight. If you are thinking about sending me to the swamps then prepare to be disappointed.”

You shake your head, “Unless SMILE gives the case back to PHEER, then no.” you give a short huff, “Have a look at this.” You slide the old instructions written on the back of the patrol orders, towards him.

He takes a moment to read though, his brow furrows as he reads through it, "Instructions how to survive here? The moors is an active place being so underpopulated. Is this folklore, superstitions? Are there any other reports about this?”

“None, the patrol orders are empty, and no mention of it anywhere.” You reach forward then flip the paper over to show the empty patrol order. “It’s written on very old official paperwork. So it had to be a past operative.”

“Well the easiest way of finding out if the instructions are something we need to follow or not is to ask the locals. If they do it, so do we. Though a few of these should be reported as a case themselves. The Piper one is concerning enough, let alone a fae queen.”

“Do you know much about these moors?” You ask.

“Other than the land is flat. But in terms of history, a battle took place in the forest”

“Which were?” This piqued your interest.

“Ah,I need to think back to history class…” Murk scrunched up his face in thought, “I think, it was one of the last big battles of the pre-unification wars, between the separatist unicorns and the unificist. But this doesn’t add up, most battle-site hauntings are residual, not active.”

“There are no reports to say it’s active, the instructions say otherwise.”

“Then take my advice we need to talk to the locals, see what's going on.” Murk replies.

 

“I think I will. Can you call in the other two? I want everypony on the same page,” you order.

Murk gives a single nod. He whispers something under his breath thats barely audible,before slipping out the door.

As the latch clicks shut, a red glow begins to gather in the corner of the room. It swirls, tightens, and slowly shapes into a familiar form.

“He’s good,” Doodles remarks, her voice low. “I wasn’t even fully manifested and he still looked right at me.”

“Hence why it’s a good idea to reveal you to them now,” you reply. “It’ll only be a matter of time before they work it out.”

“I hope so,” Doodles murmurs, a fragile thread of hope in her voice.

The door creaks open again. Doc, Vale, and Murk file in, taking position in a neat line before your desk. Doc and Vale exchange a tense glance; neither looks eager to hear whatever comes next. Murk, however, doesn’t look at you at all, his eyes lock onto Doodles’ shimmering outline. He squints, head tilting, as though trying to force her fully into focus.

You glance toward Doodles. She’s giving Murk a small, hesitant wave,more playful than confident.

Murk’s brow furrows, eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to confirm whether he actually sees what he thinks he sees. Slowly, almost cautiously, he raises a hoof and returns the wave.

“As we’re all here…” You straighten up in your chair. “There are a few things I want to go over with you. But first, I need to confess something.”

“Sorry, Marrow, but we need to talk about the spirit to the left of you.” Murk blurts out before you can continue. “I knew something was off when I came in. I was going to mention it later, but this—”

You glance at Doodles as she drifts down from the air, ghostly hooves touching the floor with a soft shimmer. Doc and Vale look around the room, trying to locate whatever Murk is reacting to. You sit back, unsure whether to step in or let it unfold on its own.

“You see something?” Doc asks.

“There.” Murk points firmly. “There’s a shadow right next to Marrow. Looks like a mare… earth pony?”

Doodles snorts, trying not to laugh. She stretches out her wings in a dramatic flare.

“No—batpony. Now I see the outline of the wings…” Murk adds, squinting harder.

“I’m not seeing anything,” Vale mutters, giving him a confused look. “I suppose you bats have crazy vision…”

Doc looks from you to the empty corner where Doodles stands. “So we’ve got ourselves a haunted base.”

“Not exactly,” you interject. “The spirit is attached to me and,”

“Well go find an exorcist, you idiot!” Vale snaps.

You wave her down. “Let me finish. She’s called Doodles, member of Unit T, from fifty years ago. She followed me from my last assignment.”

“And you’re sure she isn’t a demon in disguise?” Vale presses.

You shake your head. “If she were, I’d be dead by now. It’s been a week.”

Doc draws in a slow breath, worry tightening his expression. “That explains the question from earlier.”

You nod. “I’m exhausted. I was hoping you’d have suggestions to alleviate the symptoms.”

“Attachments do that to you. It is a form of possession,” Doc explains. “Like I said before, eat well, rest. I’m guessing you can see her fully?”

“I can. Though sometimes she’s just a red light or a drifting voice.”

“I see. Well, Miss Doodles, if you can hear me,” Doc says, addressing the air, “try to limit manifesting when Marrow is already tired.”

Doodles tuts. “He can see me because we’re sharing the same energies. Or frequencies…” She trails off as Doc’s eyes drift blindly across the room. She sighs. “And he can’t hear a word I’m saying.”

“She says I can see and hear her because of the attachment,” you relay. “We’re sharing energies.”

“And why have you attached yourself to Marrow?” Doc asks.

You lift a hoof toward Doodles, signaling that you’ll handle it. “She needs help. She can’t cross over.”

“Unfinished business?” Doc asks.

“Unfinished business,” you confirm. “We’re still figuring out what that is.”

The old stallion nods slowly. “Well… if you’re alright living with a low-level possession, that’s on you. And as for Miss Doodles, if you’re sincere about needing help, find a way to communicate with me.”

You clear your throat. “Bottom line: I offered to help Doodles cross over, and that’s what I’m going to do. Isn’t that what we do? Help the living and the dead?”

Murk glances down at the floor. Vale breaks eye contact entirely, staring at the wall. Doc offers you a small, approving smile.

Not the reaction you wanted, but workable.

“Anyway,” you continue, shifting gears, “we’ve all seen enough ghosts not to freak out.” You slide the old patrol note across the desk. “I found this earlier while going through paperwork. Murk suggested talking to the locals about it, to confirm or deny its authenticity.”

Doc and Vale step forward, leaning in to read the note.

“Instructions?” Doc murmurs, tilting his head as he scans the page.

Vale’s brows knit together. She frowns at the scribbled lines, her jaw tightening, though she keeps her thoughts to herself.

“Have either of you seen anything like this before? Any idea what we’re dealing with?” you ask.

Doc shakes his head. “Nothin’ like this from the frontier.”

“Why leave instructions?” Vale finally says, breaking her silence.

“Less instructions and more warnings,” you reply. “The kind you find in folklore. But that’s all we’ve got. Old Unit Y either left no notes—which is hard to believe…”

“Well, they’d fail a base audit if that’s the case,” Doc grumbles.

“That’s my point. Either the records were removed, or Unit Y had terrible paperwork habits. And why would they do that? Murk, any ideas?”

You look up to find Murk still staring in Doodles’ direction.

“Uh… maybe?” He steps forward to join the others, whispering under his breath as he approaches the desk. “I know their case got passed to SMILE. Maybe when the files were classified, SMILE took most of the paperwork too? We all know what they’re like with secrecy.”

“Well, we’re not going to find answers sitting in this office.” You fall away from your chair onto your hooves. “I know it’s our first night, but we need to orientate ourselves and get this operation going.”

Your team responds with a chorus of low grumbles.

“We’re just going to look around the cottage tonight,” you tell them. “As you familiarise yourselves with the place, keep an eye out for any clues from old Unit Y. Let me know if you find anything.”

The three nod, then turn to leave.

You catch Murk giving Doodles one last, lingering look before the door shuts behind him.

“Well… that went okay,” you say, exhaling. Then you turn to Doodles. “We need to find some way for you to communicate with the rest of the team.”

Doodles trots straight through your desk and drifts toward the door. “Murk seems to be able to see me. Though he only mentioned me as a shadow…”

“Well, thanks to him seeing something, at least it proves I’m not going crazy.” You open the door and wave for her to go through.

“You know I can just walk through it,” Doodles chuckles.

“I was being a gentlecolt,” you groan, though truthfully, you just briefly forgot you’re talking to a ghost.

The hallway is short, lit only by a flickering lantern. You walk past the kitchen, where Vale is rummaging through cupboards with the intensity of a pony searching for hidden treasure.

You stop in the doorway just in time to see her pull out a dusty glass bottle. She squints at the label, pops the cork with a quick flash of magic, and takes a long, unapologetic swig.

You give her a sharp glare.

She wipes her mouth with a foreleg, “What?”

“What are you drinking? I can’t imagine that tastes okay,” you ask.

“I thought you were going to chew me out,” Vale replies, examining the bottle. “A port, I think. Tastes awful.”

“Maybe save the drinking for after the searching,” you say, stepping fully into the kitchen. Vale’s magic casts the room in a cool blue glow, the old logburner at your side warm with dust and disuse. Doodles drifts in behind you as an idea takes shape.

“But listen,your phonograph captures more frequencies than the spirit speaker, right?”

“It does. Much more sensitive.” Vale recorks the bottle but continues holding it aloft. “What are you suggesting?”

“Could you rig something specifically attuned to Doodles? Something that’ll let the rest of us hear her?”

Vale squints thoughtfully. “I can, but the phonograph is more of a record-then-play device. Not real-time, like your spirit speaker. That’s the trade-off.”

“I didn’t mention it earlier, but she’s a rune specialist,” you add. “Her input could be useful. And maybe she can pick up things in her… state… that we can’t.”

Vale mulls it over. “Personally, I don’t care about any of that.” She pauses, swirling the bottle in her magic as she purses her lips. “But… alright. I’ll do it.”

She lowers the bottle slightly, giving you a firm look.

“On two conditions: I keep this port and the other she helps me with my other projects, then we have a deal.”

“Sure. Just don’t get wasted or open another bottle until we’re done. If you can make something that lets the rest of us hear her, I’m sure she’d be happy to help,” you reply. You turn toward Doodles. “You alright with that?”

Doodles nods. “Sure. It’ll be nice to see what kit P.H.E.E.R. has now.”

“She says it’s fine,” you confirm.

“Then follow me,” Vale says, looking around as if she doesn’t see Doodles floating right in front of her. She steps through the ghost and passes you. “Now I can do what I do best.” She gives you a small smile.

You watch the unicorn leave, a faint red dot of light tracing her path.

“Did you check the other cabinets?” you call after her as she disappears into the hallway.

“Yeah. Just coffee and hay bars way past their date,” she shouts back.

“Well, you could put them in the bin,” you mutter, glancing around the kitchen. Some cupboards had been restocked by you earlier this week,you know there’s nothing of interest here. Your mind drifts to the living area in the basement; you’ve barely been down there, aside from dropping off supplies for assignments.

You leave the kitchen, walk along the hallway, and open a door leading to a candlelit stone stairway. The steps creak softly underfoot as you descend to the living area, which spans the length of the cottage.

Two sofas face a low wooden coffee table in the center of the room. To the left, bookshelves line the wall, crammed with hundreds of books, both large and small, new and worn. On the right, a massive engraving dominates the wall: a bold title reading UNIT Y, followed by a long list of names—those who met their fate. One entry stands out; instead of KIA or MIA, it simply reads Retired.

At the back of the room, a large fireplace sits flanked by neatly stacked wood, ready to be used. Above it hangs a massive silver-framed portrait: a male Alicorn in golden armor and a crown, locked in battle with a thestral. The Alicorn’s face is twisted in fear as he faces the dagger clenched in the thestral’s jaws.

 

You step closer to the picture above the fireplace, drawn in by its sheer scale. At first the Alicorn and thestral dominate the scene, but as your eyes adjust, the background pulls you in.

Behind the battling pair,on the alicorn’s side,the forest is a wall of fire. Unicorns hurl spell after spell into the burning treeline, each blast lighting up the smoke in violent flashes. Through the inferno, fleeing silhouettes stagger into view: pegasi and the occasional batpony, some limping, some dragging the fallen, and some… still burning.

The artist captured the panic too vividly; for a heartbeat, you swear you can hear the crackling wood and the distant screams.

Your gaze drifts to the thestral’s flank. There,partially hidden in the smoke,is a purple batpony wearing a hood. One hoof is raised toward the scorched ground, and ghostly wisps of light spiral up from the earth at her touch. A rune specialist, or something older?

You keep scanning. Far in the distance, three ponies clash violently on a ridge,one pegasus, one unicorn, and one earth pony, locked in a brutal triangular struggle. Off to the side, almost missed among the rocks, a small batpony peeks out from the mouth of a cave, eyes wide with terror or awe,you can’t tell which.

Finally, at the farthest point of the painting, almost swallowed by smoke and distance, you spot a grey pony with a pointed hat and a long, flowing beard. He stands atop a forested rocky ridge, horn blazing with silver light as he casts a wide protective shield over two tiny alicorn foals huddled beneath him.

But the longer you stare, the darker the scene becomes.

Silhouettes of unicorns burn inside the haze surrounding the shield, burning, collapsing, their outlines barely holding shape through the fire and smoke. And woven through that chaos, half-hidden behind the flames, are the faint shapes of batponies.

They’re laughing.

Not joyfully,more like a cruel, triumphant laugh echoing through the destruction. Their grins are sharp. Their eyes glint white through the haze. They watch the unicorns burn with a disturbingly calm amusement.

You lower your gaze to the bottom-left corner of the frame. Carved neatly into the silver border, in a style far older than the cottage itself, are the words:

The master of equines fall – White Spirit

 

You tear your eyes away from the picture. Your mind keeps trying to piece together its meaning, and you’re certain it has something to do with history. But those two battling equines in the foreground… something about them tugs at a familiar thread. Maybe it’s tied to those old legends the batponies in PHEER like to ramble about after a few too many drinks.

You shove the thought aside as your gaze settles on the engraved wall.

Your eyes drift to the beginning, scanning the earliest entries. To your surprise, you spot the name White Spirit, listed as the second pony ever to be KIA in Unit Y.

You follow the line of names down the cold stone, each carved letter carrying decades of weight. Then you pause. Near the very end, the one entry stands out, not marked KIA, not MIA.

Retired.

The only one on the entire wall.

Your ear flicks. That means there’s a chance this pony is still alive.

You lean in to read the name.

Brio Belle.

 

You go back through the names, slower this time, but nothing stands out—no patterns, no symbols, no hidden meaning. Just a long, quiet list of ponies who met their fate.

You glance at the painting again, then back at the wall. Aside from the painter’s signature, White Spirit, you can’t see any connection between the imagery and the memorial. You make a mental note to ask Murk about the painting later.

Your attention drifts to the tall bookshelf behind you.

You trot across the room, the floorboards creaking underhoof, and begin tracing the spines from one end to the other. Rows of dusty tomes, journals, and mismatched volumes fill the shelves. A few titles stop you in your tracks:

“More of the Maps: Maps of the Moors”

“Moor Legends and Myths”

“More Songs of the Moor Ponies”

“Word Puns and Where to Find Them”

 

 

 

 

You pick up the book about maps of the moors. The cover is stiff, the binding older than most of the shelves around it. As you open to the first page, something thin slips free and flutters to the floor.

A folded piece of paper.

You blink, then crouch to retrieve it. When you unfold it, you find a hoof-drawn map.

Next, you pull down Moor Legends and Myths. You open it, flipping straight to the contents page.

A short list of local folklore fills the contents page, each title sounding stranger than the last:

The Moor Hounds and the Temple

 

 

Piper and the Foals

 

 

The Thestrals’ Daughters Hanging

 

 

Ghostly Fires of the Forest

 

 

Hornburn’s Last Mayor

 

 

Ritual of Swirl Bridge

 

 

Lights on Foal Mountains

 

 

The Road to Baltimare

 

 

The Priest’s Resting Stone

 

 

The Unknown Bone Song

 

 

 

You read The Moor Hounds and the Temple

 

 

In the sleepy village of Hornburn stood a temple,quiet, old, and supposedly built atop the ruins of an even older shrine, one dedicated to a long-forgotten god. Hundreds of years ago, the locals claimed, something happened there that no pony ever found the courage to properly explain.

The story speaks of a young mare sprinting through the cobbled streets long after midnight. The town awoke to barking, deep, vicious, and everywhere at once. Yet when the villagers leaned out of their windows, no dogs, no wolves, not even a fox could be seen. Only the mare, fleeing, screaming, glancing back at things nopony else could see.

The priest on duty later wrote his account by trembling candlelight. The mare burst into the temple, slamming the heavy doors behind her, her mane wild and matted. He tried to calm her, but her words collapsed into hysterical babble,something about a sin, about breaking a promise written into fate itself.

Then he recognised her. She was one of the plague-marked outcasts the town had driven away months earlier.

He ordered her to leave.

When he pushed open the temple doors to cast her out, horror flooded the threshold.

The barking returned in a deafening chorus, though still, nothing could be seen.

And in that empty doorway, before the priest’s eyes, an unseen pack tore the mare limb from limb.

The claw marks of the unseen beast are still visible on the temple doors today.

 

You flip through a few more pages and stop at The Hanged Thestral Daughter.

When batponies first appeared among the familiar three tribes, not all of them bent the knee to Princess Luna before her fall into Nightmare Moon. A small, defiant sect rejected her entirely. They came to be known as the Thestrals Daughters—a group now regarded with confusion or pity, their rituals dismissed as archaic oddities. But in their own time, they were met with equal parts reverence and terror.

They were believed to wield forbidden magic. Every blighted crop, every sick foal, every unexplained shadow on the moors was blamed on their influence. Among the oldest tales is the account of a young batpony mare said to have been caught singing heretical songs beneath a lone tree at night.

The villagers, already frayed by superstition, beat her with sticks and stones before dragging her to the village hall. There she was accused of “thestalism”—a catch-all for supposed curses, hexes, and unseen ill omens. Sharp stones and polished iron found nearby were offered as proof of her rituals.

Ironically, in modern times, thestalism has been reclassified as a diagnosable hereditary condition affecting batponies. Its symptoms include compulsive bug-eating, unpredictable biting, and extreme mood swings,behaviors that centuries ago were mistaken for dark magic.

Unfortunately for this young mare in this story was swiftly sentenced to death with little defence.

A noose was tightened around her throat… but in the frenzy, nopony remembered a vital detail of hanging pegasi and batponies: her wings were never broken.

For nearly half a day she fluttered helplessly, suspended between life and death, blinded by the relentless sun, beating her wings until exhaustion claimed her. When she finally collapsed, her own weight snapped her neck.

The story claims her last thoughts clung to the hanging tree, steeped in wrath.

And those who dare approach that tree now feel her hatred brush against their minds,

a whisper, a curse, a promise of revenge from the mare who died.

You flick to Rituals on Swirl Bridge.

This story takes place decades ago, the most recent of the collection. One morning, the village ponies awoke to find Swirl Bridge covered in strange runes and glyphs. Fortunately, a government-backed paranormal agency had a base nearby. Four agents were dispatched immediately. After inspecting the chalk markings and discovering bones scattered near the river, they ordered the villagers to evacuate east to the farm.

“Marrow?”

When the villagers returned, only two of the agents remained—battered, bloodied, and silent. The air still carried the sharp tang of sulphur, and a heavy, haunting fog clung to the river.

“Hey, Marrow?”

To their horror, two ponies were carried off on stretchers. Their bodies were said to be scorched and shriveled, their limbs twisted in impossible angles. Legends claim that at night, a beam of light could be seen over the Foal Mountains near Hollow Shades.

“MARROW!”

You flinch, spinning around to see Murk standing by the sofas.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was asking… Did you find anything?”

“I did. What were you asking?” you say, trotting over with the map and book tucked under one foreleg.

“Nothing. It’s not important.” Murk shrugs his wings, eyes drifting anywhere but you.

You give him a look. “Normally when ponies say that, it is important.”

He hesitates, barely. “Alright… I saw Vale with a bottle of port. Is there any more?”

You blink. “I don’t think so.” You shake your head: “Anyway, I found a map of the moors, and this book might be helpful.”

You unfold the map across the table. Murk leans in, his head tilting as his eyes track the tiny inked details.

“If you don’t mind,” he says, “I’ll make a copy of that later.”

You nod. “Go ahead. And the book’s worth reading. So far we’ve got tarhounds, the probable origin of the tree warning, and this one…” you tap the page, “I can’t place it, but it involves runic horrors and sulphur.”

Murk’s ears fold slightly. “Let’s hope that last one stays in the past. Sulphur’s a telltale sign of demons or tarhounds. And honestly? I don’t know which is worse.”

“Me either.” You grimace at the thought of being chased by invisible dogs. “But personally? Tarhounds. Anyway,I’ll leave both here.”

Your gaze drifts away, landing on the painting above the fireplace. “Also… how well do you know your history? Anything about that painting?”

Murk looks it over, moving closer. He studies it for a long moment.

“The artist was called White Spirit,” you add. “Ever heard of her?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Never.”

Another pause. His brow furrows. “Not sure why the alicorn looks terrified of a little dagger like that… I don’t know who they’re meant to be, but everything behind them—those are pre-unification battles.”

“I know a bit more than Hearth’s Warming bedtime stories,” you mutter.

Murk gives a short nod. “Right. Well… most of what the four pony tribes did to each other back then was horrendous. Nopony’s hooves were clean.”

“I noticed the lack of earth ponies.”

He squints at the painting again. “This one seems focused on the Pegasi–Unicorn conflict. Those battles were the bloodiest. And the batponies you see? Probably because this is about eastern Equestria. Earth ponies fought mostly west—around early Ponyville.”

“Any battles come to mind?”

Murk steps closer, tapping his chin as his eyes move across the painted chaos.

“Well… those unicorns firing bolts into the forest-that’s a battle that took place near Oldtown. And that one there-” he points to the purple batpony with glowing runes, “that’s Follow Wisp. She created some of the runes we still use today. Here-” he gestures again, “she’s releasing the spirits who died there.”

His eyes drift to the distant ridge.

“And… you should recognize them. The grey stallion is Star Swirl. And in his shield are Celestia and Luna.”

He exhales, still staring at the scene. “That’s all I’ve got.”

“Do you know if there were any major battles around here? That warning about saluting the forest to the west sounds like it could be connected to restless spirits from those times,” you say.

Murk trots back over to you. He flutters up and lands on the sofa with a soft whump, sliding the map closer with one hoof.

“I had the same thought,” he admits. “I’d say we should take a visit to Hornburn Village soon.”

“Did you find anything else in the cottage?” you ask as you stroll back to the bookcase. You pick up More Songs of the Moor Ponies and tuck it under your foreleg. Vale might be interested—she did mention she’s musically inclined.

Murk shakes his head as you turn to face him. “Nothing worth mentioning.”

Your ear twitches. There’s clearly a puzzle to be solved in the Moors, but without the evidence in front of your hooves, all you can do is guess. “Murk, can you try cross-referencing the book with old Unit Y’s warnings?”

He gives a small, fanged smile. “I’ll get on it. Those warnings are still on your desk, right?”

You nod.

Before you can say anything else, he zips across the room and vanishes up the stairs. Moments later he returns, the paper fluttering from his mouth. He settles on the sofa, wings giving a light, absent-minded flap as he spreads the notes out.

You decide to leave him to it. Maybe it’s time to check on Doc. He’s the only one you haven’t assigned anything yet.

You glance back at the painting one last time. The little bat pony is still there, half-hidden among the rocks. Up close it’s obvious she’s a mare, small frame, pale grey coat, a stark white mane draped over one eye. You note the details, then turn to Murk.

“I’ll catch up with you later. Let me know what you find.”

He nods, and you make for the stairs.

The kitchen sits empty as you pass by, silent except for the faint hum of the old icebox. You climb another flight, the wooden steps creaking and groaning under your hooves as though complaining about the weight of years.

At the top, you step into a narrow hallway lined with five doors. The one directly ahead is marked Bathroom in chipped paint. From somewhere down the hall, you hear music,a low, smoky jazz tune drifting from behind one of the doors. Slow rhythm, steady beat, the kind of song played after midnight.

You follow the sound.

♪She grew up under bright lights,♪

♪Las Pegasus in her veins.♪

♪Couldn’t tell the truth from glitter,♪

♪Learned to dance away the pain.♪

Peering inside, you spot Vale at a desk, completely absorbed in her work. Precision tools float in the grip of her blue aura, dipping and twisting inside an open metal box filled with tiny springs, wires, and gears. A cluster of mana gems sits to one side, glowing faintly in response to each careful motion of her magic.

She hasn’t noticed you yet.

♪But one night she met a stranger♪

♪Who spoke promises real low~♪

♪Said he’d change her losing future

♪For a fate she didn’t own.♪

You glance further into the room. On the bed, Doodles lies on her back, head bobbing to the steady beat, her ghostly tail swaying lazily in time with the music.

[What is you next move]

Leave them be.

Continue looking for Doc.

 

You rap gently on the door.

“One second,” Vale calls, finishing the delicate clip of a spring into a wooden box. She sets down her tools and flicks her magic to lower the gramophone’s volume tucked behind the door. Turning, she takes a look at you then flinches before lifting her goggles. “Nothing worse than staring at a pony at ten times magnification.” She rubs her eyes then blinks twice. “If you’re expecting this to be done, start praying for miracles.”

You shake your head and step inside, tucking the book under your leg. “No, I found this in the living quarters. Thought it might be something you’d be interested in.” You hand her the book.

Vale examines the cover, Doodles floats over, peering over her shoulder. “More Songs of the Moor Ponies, huh?” she muses, flipping through a few pages. “You’d be surprised how much folklore ends up in songs.”

“I was hoping you’d find something useful in it,” you reply.

The unicorn nods, “I’ll let you know…”

“Thanks.” You move toward the door, stopping mid-step. “Have you seen Doc?”

“He’s in his room, next door. Saw him pass by a little while ago,” Vale answers without looking up, already absorbed back into her work. “Oh before you leave, is Doodles still here?”

“She’s sitting next to you, watching you work. See you both later.” You give a respectful nod to the two mares.

“Bye Marrow.” Doodles waves, her form shimmering slightly.

“Later,” Vale replies, turning the gramophone’s volume back up.

You step back into the hallway and make your way to the last door, giving it a firm knock on the old oak wood.

“Just come in,” Doc’s gruff voice calls.

You push the door open to find him unpacking his equipment.

“Ya goin’ have to forgive me. Didn’t find anything, so I decided to unpack the old-fashioned way, unlike Miss Magic-Flash-Its-Done next door,” Doc grumbles, tossing a small bundle into a drawer.

“You have a problem with magic?” you ask.

“No, no,” the old stallion smirks, rummaging through another box. “When you’re my age, you like to find things to grumble about.” He sets a bag of medical instruments into a drawer then slides it shut. “So, what can I do for you?”

“I was going to ask if you found anything…did you just look in here? any more rooms we, or anypony else, haven't looked in yet.” you ask.

“Yep,” Doc replies, tapping his hoof lightly against the drawers. “Checked every drawer, even looked under the bed. I’m leavin’ the other bedrooms to their owners, don’t want to be diggin’ through other ponies’ belongings.” He says it with a certain old-frontier respect, like it’s a rule carved into stone. “Is there anythin’ else?”

You explain everything you found in the living quarters, laying out the oddities, the old picture, and the map and books.

Doc listens with a low hum, then snorts. “Huh. Hittin’ the ground runnin’, aren’t you? But don’t forget what I told you. With Miss Doodles glued to your tail, you need to make sure you stay healthy.” He pushes the empty box under his desk with a hind hoof.

“I feel fine. I just need to work out what’s going on here as soon as possible,” you say, trying not to sound defensive.

“Yeah, I can see that. And no questions about your work ethic—rivals any stallion I knew back on the frontier.” Doc adjusts his glasses and gives you a pointed look. “But it’s knowin’ when to rest that keeps a pony breathing.”

He nods toward you. “You’ve got bags under your eyes big enough to fit the next harvest. Go on. Get some rest.”

You give in and nod. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Notta problem.” He gestures toward the door with a flick of his hoof. “Now go on-git.”

You leave his room and head to your own. The decor is basic: a wardrobe, a set of drawers, a desk, and a bed that looks far more inviting than it should. You walk over and flop face-first into the pillow. You’re out before you can think another thought.

When you finally stir, it’s later than you intended. Your eyes blink open to find Doodles perched on your chest, staring down at you with wide red eyes.

“Are you trying to give me a night terror?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “Because you’re bad at it.”

Doodles chuckles. “No. I’ve been trying to wake you up for the last hour. Hard to do when my hooves pass right through you.”

You drag the sheets off yourself,watching them fall clean through her, and stretch, several joints popping in protest.

“Did you know your ear flicks while you’re sleeping?” Doodles asks, fascinated.

“No, no I didn’t,” you say, yawning so hard your eyes water. “Funny enough, I don’t monitor my ears when I’m unconscious.”

After washing up in the bathroom, you head downstairs. The old oven is still radiating heat as you pass the kitchen, and a warm smell drifts up from the living quarters, haybacon and eggs.

You follow it down the stairs.

Doc and Vale are sitting on one sofa, while Murk is sprawled on the opposite one, head tipped back and snoring softly. A book lies open on his lap, and a rasher of haybacon rests on his muzzle like someone set a trap for him. His tongue occasionally lolls out, trying to catch it.

Vale covers her giggles with a hoof. Doc just shakes his head, trying and failing to hide his smirk. He looks up when he notices you.

“Ah, Marrow. Just made somethin’ up, here, dig in.” He nudges a plate across the table.

You sit down carefully so you don’t wake Murk. The plate is loaded with haybacon and eggs, still steaming. You don’t waste time before taking a few bites.

As you chew, Doc drops a small stack of letters in front of you. “From the post this mornin’.”

You quickly chow down on your food, in an almost ravenous hunger. Your plate wiped clean with a slice of toast. You swallowed the rest of your meal then sighed with satisfaction.

Your mind wanders as the others finish their meal. Your eyes drift to Doodles, who floats in front of the bookcase, scanning the rows of worn books and journals. You can’t help wondering how much of your energy she’s burning through to do all that. Whatever the number is, the labcoats back at HQ would love to get their hooves on it.

You turn back to Doc, who’s watching you over the rim of his glasses.

“Is there a problem?” you ask.

“Just checkin’ up on you,” Doc replies. “You look a little better—”

He’s cut off by a heavy thud. A book has fallen to the floor. Doc glances over. “Was that Doodles?”

“Yeah…” You follow his gaze. Doodles has her muzzle buried in a book, determined. After a moment she tries to flick the page, only for her hoof to pass straight through it. She tries again. And again. Then she blows at it. No luck. She pauses, thinking hard, then grins. Backing up, she swoops past the book, the gust flipping the page for her.

With a tiny floating air-dance of triumph, she settles back down and continues reading.

“She’s trying to read,” you say.

“Great, now we’ve got a resident poltergeist…” Vale says dryly. She pauses, thinking it over. “Though honestly? Last night I didn’t feel any discomfort when she was in my room. Just a cool breeze now and again.”

Murk snores loudly and shifts on the sofa, his head lolling to one side. His mouth opens and closes in slow motion as he instinctively tries to snag the haybacon still balanced on his muzzle.

Doc adjusts his glasses, watching the scene without the slightest hint of concern,only interest.

“Has she shown poltergeist activity before?” he asks, tone curious rather than worried.

“A few times,” You confirm.

Doc gives you a dry look. “And you’re sure she ain’t drainin’ you too much?”

“Pretty sure.” You hesitate. “Mostly sure.”

He raises a brow.

You shrug. “I haven’t passed out yet?”

“Comfortin’,” Doc mutters.

Your attention drifts to the stack of post on the table—a perfect excuse to change the subject. You pick up the first letter and unfold it. Promotion papers, along with your compulsory new pension plan. You can almost hear the investors laughing and rubbing their hooves together, fully aware that the chances of you ever cashing it in are slim. Your eyes flick toward the memorial wall, all those names carved in stone, and you can’t help but wonder why the pension is mandatory at all.

You set the paperwork aside and open the next envelope. HQ’s weekly newsletter. You scan through the headlines, each one as absurdly normal as ever:

Unit Y reforming…

V2 Meters still rolling out…

Operative deaths down ten percent this year…

Alcohol accounts for thirty percent of the annual budget; lead accountants unwilling to explain this to Princess Luna…

Refer a friend to join PHEER and receive a twenty-bit gift voucher upon their successful signup…

You exhale through your nose, unsure whether to laugh or sigh. You open the final letter.

It’s your first case assignment,looks like they couldn’t wait to put you to work. You tear open the envelope and unfold the thin sheet inside.

ASSIGNED UNIT: Y

CASE NAME: Temple Tantrums

LOCATION: Hornburn Village — Celestian Temple

BRIEF:

The head priest of the Celestian Temple has requested an investigative team. The temple’s underground vaults have shown signs of paranormal activity. Recently, due to the building’s aging and unstable foundations, builders were hired to reinforce the structure. Shortly after the work began, reports of unusual disturbances followed.

You check the envelope again, half expecting a set of instructions from the unit leader or at least a suggested plan. Nothing. Just the case sheet and the usual formalities.

Then it clicks.

You remember your old unit leader complaining,half joking, half exhausted,that HQ wanted units to have “more autonomy.” Which, translated from bureaucratic nonsense, really meant less work for HQ and more work shoved onto unit leaders.

Great.

Balancing fresh cases with nightly patrols is going to be a nightmare.

“Looks like we got our first case,” you announce, giving Murk a gentle nudge.

The batpony snorts and jerks upright, blinking blearily. “Is it sunset already?” he mutters.

“No, it’s the afternoon,” Vale corrects.

“Too early…” Murk grumbles, his eyelids drooping shut again.

“We have a case, Leather Wings…” Vale tugs his ear with her magic, earning a sleepy flick and a quiet hiss.

Doc slides a plate of food in front of him. “Come on now there ain’t no rest for the wicked, an’ sounds like it’s gonna be an early start for you.”

“Alright, alright, I’m awake…” Murk mutters. He peels the rasher of haybacon off his muzzle, gives it a suspicious look, then eats it in one bite. “So,” he says through a mouthful, “what’s the brief?”

You read out the brief as Murk starts eating his meal.

The four of you sit a moment of silence mulling over the details.

You break the silence and look at Murk, “The temple that tarhounds, if the legend from that book is to be trusted, can't enter?”

The bat pony chews his food for a moment, then swallows, “We don’t know much about Tarhounds due to a very limited survivor pool, but there is the claim of sanctuary that Sun and Moon temples uphold to this day.”

“It’s taken very seriously on the frontier, even a warrant from Celestia or Luna themselves cannot undo your claim to sanctuary.” Doc adds.

“Sanctuary or not, I don’t think we need to worry about any hounds. This sounds like a regular disturbed-spirits case,” you say. “But we should start simple,interview the construction crew, then the temple staff, before going down there.”

Everyone nods.

“And we need a plan for the day,” you continue. “We can either split up,two ponies investigate the town while the other two sleep for tonight’s patrol,or we go together.” A prickling unease crawls up your spine. “How seriously should we take those patrol warnings?”

“Well, technically, we don’t have any patrols,” Vale says, waving a hoof. “Those weird notes on the back of the form aren’t real orders.”

“Feels like you’re splitting hairs there, Vale,” Doc rumbles. “Marrow, cases come first, then patrols. HQ won’t kick up a fuss if you skip a patrol because of an active case.”

Murk finishes the last of his haybacon. “Patrols are usually just keeping tabs on residual hauntings and anomalies.”

“That’s not what this sounds like,” Doc counters. “Those warnings read like active hauntings.”

“But why nothing has been done about it is the real mystery,” you mutter, either way a decision has to be made, “Alright, let’s get suited up. I’ll head to the village temple and take a look.”

“Ah… maybe not me,” Murk says, lifting a hoof defensively. “It’s still daylight outside…”

You sigh. You meant to ask him about replacement glasses last night. “Where are your sunglasses?”

Murk fidgets, tapping the tips of his hooves together. “I… lost them.”

Vale rolls her eyes with her horn letting out a blue flash. A pair of red, heart-shaped sunglasses clatter onto the table in front of him.

“One, I’m not wearing those,” Murk protests. “And two,I didn’t think you’d own something like that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Vale snaps, ears pinning back.

“Well you seem…” Murk stops himself at her expression. “Nevermind.”

You decide it’s best to intervene before an argument breaks out.

“Alright,” you say firmly, “we’re splitting the team into two.”

“Vale, you’re with me.” You rise from the sofa. “Doc, Murk continues research into the moors, if you make good progress then start work on a patrol route.” You turn to the unicorn, “Full equipment, Vale.”

Doc starts gathering plates. “Let me wash these before we go”

A bright blue flash engulfs the dishes.

“Done,” Vale chirps, already heading upstairs.

“You could’ve carried them with you!” Doc shouts after her. The plates vanish from his hooves in a second blue flash. He sighs. “Unicorns…”

“You’re telling me,” Murk mutters, grudgingly slipping the heart-shaped sunglasses onto his muzzle.

“You look ridiculous,” Doc deadpans.

Leaving the two stallions, you head up to your room on the top floor. You slip into your gear: the padded vest lined with Your Ki-meter, Epon Salt, your glowsticks, hoofpick, chalk, and your saltblaster. With everything secured, you trot back downstairs.

Vale is already waiting at the bottom, fully suited up. Beside her sits a long, slightly scuffed wooden box strapped to her saddlebags. The enchantments along its surface flicker faintly with her aura.

You open the front door and step outside. The air is cool and faintly damp, the sky a blanket of overcast grey with the sun making a half-hearted attempt to slip through the seams in the clouds. You and Vale head down the cobbled path, boots tapping lightly as you pass the tall hedgerows flanking the entrance.

Both of you pause.

The leaves rustle softly in the breeze, nothing more. No shifting, no whispering, no subtle distortions. Just hedges being hedges. You trade a glance, a silent good, before continuing west along the dirt road.

Fields stretch out on either side behind old, weather-worn fences. Beyond them, the long grass of the moors rolls away into the horizon, rippling like a muted green sea.

You think back to the map you found earlier. If your memory’s right, it’s about a ten-minute walk to the village. As you walk, you glance over at Vale—there's a faint red glimmer pulsing behind her, some mana feedback from whatever she’s carrying.

“Alright, the silence is killing me,” Vale finally says.

“It’s only been, what… two minutes?” you reply.

“Well, I don’t want this turning into some awkward, silent trek through the moors.” She flicks her tail and looks ahead down the road. “So let’s break the ice. What did you do before joining PHEER?”

“Retail assistant,” you mutter. It wasn’t a glamorous job, but it paid the bills. Mostly. After surviving a single Black Friday, though, you quit on the spot. You still remember the thousand-yard stare of a blood-splattered green stallion working the neighbouring store as you both left the mall that night.

Neither of you said a word.

Neither of you had to.

You had both seen things.

“Really?” Vale raises her brows. “With a name like yours, I expected something more macabre. Graveyard shift, morgue attendant, corpse-arranger… something spooky.”

You smirk and shake your head. “Nope. My parents were funeral directors, sure—but that line of work never grabbed me. I was more interested in what happens after you’re dead and gone, you know?”

Vale chuckles. “That actually explains how you ended up here…”

“Yeah,” you say, shrugging. “I saw a job posting on a board one night and thought: Well, it can’t be worse than retail.”

This earns you a proper laugh from Vale. “That bad, was it?”

You glance at the ground, not wanting to spoil her mood with a thousand-yard stare.

“Yeah… pretty much.” You force a small smile. “What about you? You mentioned you dropped out of college.”

“I’ve done a few jobs here and there.” Vale shrugs. “Funny thing—my parents actually tried sending me to the School of Gifted Unicorns.”

“I wondered about your magic,” you say. “I’ve been told object teleportation is a complicated spell to pull off.”

“Pfftt.” Vale waves a hoof dismissively. “When you understand everything is frequencies, it’s easy. You just match the frequency of the object’s material with your magic—add a little spatial adjustment,and poof, it’s somewhere else.” She explains it as casually as talking about boiling water.

“I have no idea what you just said,” you admit, shaking your head. “So what happened? Why didn’t you go?”

“Let’s just say I didn’t fit in with the snooty Canterlot unicorns.” Vale flicks her tail. “They didn’t get my interest in extreme precision telekinesis. They assumed I’d drop out anyway… like I did in regular college.” She sighs.

“Yet you still ended up in PHEER.,” you say.

Vale nods. “Yeah. Well, at least the snootiness is zero, and management’s so incompetent they stay out of your mane.” She smirks. “And the pay’s good.”

You look ahead,and spot a lone tree standing beside the brook, its branches twisted in all directions.

You stop walking. “That must be the Songbird Tree.”

Your eyes follow the bend in the path, a little farther ahead, the old stone bridge rises in a gentle arch over the water, moss clinging to its sides like a permanent shawl. Beyond it, just visible, sits the village of Hornburn

You cross the bridge, circling back toward the tree. Even from a distance you can see where the bark has blackened, charred long ago by some forgotten fire. The air grows still as you approach, a strange hush settling over the brook and the path behind you.

An uneasy chill creeps under your vest, nothing overt, just that quiet pressure of being watched by something that isn’t there.

You lift your gaze to the twisted branches.

Perched on one of them is a single, tiny bird. It finishes its song with a soft trill, then flutters away into the grey daylight, leaving the tree silent.

You glance at Vale who is circling the tree, inspecting every nook and cranny within the bark. You wonder what she is doing, it’s clearly just a tree. Is the unicorn trying to impress you or something?

She pulls out her Ki-meter and holds it in her hoof.

“I thought I would have to remind you not to use your magic to hold the Kimeter…” You make a comment. You can’t help feeling that this unicorn is going to need constant foals sitting in this case. You should’ve chosen Murk, probably not Doc, he’s too old and useless to be much use.

Vale turns to you with a furrowed brow, “Yeah. I know. My magic would interfere with the Zen readings.”

Vale huffs and shakes her head at you. “Are you really getting fooled by intrusive thoughts?”

Your eyes widen. It’s like an angry fog lifts from your mind in an instant, your chest lightens, your thoughts clear, and the sudden guilt hits hard.

“Vale… I’m—”

She cuts you off with a short laugh. “No, it’s fine. I’ve been getting negative thoughts about you and Doc too. Strangely not about Murk though.”

“Same here. I wanted him here,” you admit, the words feeling heavier now that you hear them aloud.

Vale gives a curt nod. “Right. So whatever’s affecting us? The ring on my horn only resisted it just enough that the thoughts I had were,well,obviously not mine. Completely foreign.”

She taps the metal band around her horn, her ears angling back uneasily.

It didn’t block them,” she continues, “just… blurred them. Like hearing somepony else whispering inside my head and trying to pass it off as me.”

You exhale slowly, the chill beneath your vest deepening.

“Great. So the tree’s haunted and psychic.”

Vale snorts. “Yeah. And apparently it thinks we’d make terrible coworkers.”

You manage a weak laugh, but your gaze drifts back up to the twisted, blackened branches.

The silence around the tree feels thicker now.

“You see anything, Doodles?” you call, spotting a faint red light drifting around the tree.

“Wait, Doodles is here?” Vale snaps her attention toward you.

“Well, yeah. She followed us,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Vale groans and fumbles with the dial on her Ki-meter. “Dammit, Marrow, you have to mention that. Otherwise, we get false positives.”

The red light loops around the tree one more time before Doodles fully manifests in the air ahead of you. She shakes her head. “Nothing,” she reports.

“How are you feeling?” you ask.

“Normal,” Doodles replies, settling slowly onto all four hooves.

“Are you having bad thoughts about me?” you press.

You hear Vale give a short smirk, overhearing the one sided conversation.

Doodles’ ghostly cheeks blaze a hot pink. “Marrow! You know I’m dead, right?”

“What?” You pause as it dawns on you what you just said. “No! I mean… like hating me or something,” you clarify

“No, I haven’t” Doodles avoids eye contact with you.

“Oh, I wish I knew what she’s saying right now,” Vale laughs, eyeing the Ki-meter again as the needle settles. “Alright… now that I’ve factored Doodles in, I’m getting nothing.”

“According to the legend, a bat mare was hanged here… maybe that’s why it targets non-bats,” you muse aloud. “I was expecting her spirit to linger.”

“Well, there’s no spirit here,” Vale corrects herself, “No spirit other than Doodles.”

Vale circles the tree and stops beside it, frowning. “Just got a tiny tau spike… and another one. It’s like a pulse,barely registering on the Ki-meter, but it’s there.”

“A pulse?” you ask. “Can you pinpoint where it’s strongest?”

Vale circles the tree again. “Here. It’s funny, it's ticking like a metronome.” She taps her hoof and silently mouths numbers as she counts. “Whatever’s causing it, it’s in four-four,” she finishes with a short laugh.

“An empty, steady rhythm then?” you ask.

Vale nods. “A steady beat of dark magic. Now I’ve seen everything…”

“Seems harmless enough to leave for now,” you decide. “We’ll ask around in the village. We’ve still got an assignment from HQ, and if this is tied to that executed bat legend, it’ll probably get more active at night. We can check again on our way back.”

“Sure,” Vale says, tucking the Ki-meter away.

She trots up beside you as you head toward the village. A few minutes later, a small stone building comes into view,its entrance flanked by two royal guards in golden armor. A sign above them marks it as the village barracks. Judging from its size, it barely houses a few soldiers.

As you pass, both guards eye you warily.

“Great. More weirdos,” one mutters. “Probably here for whatever that crazy bat is hosting at the inn…”

He’s promptly thumped in the ribs by the guard beside him.

“They’re PHEER operatives, you idiot. Go tell the captain the new spooks have arrived.”

“Is it even legal for them to open carry those frontier weapons in the village?” the first guard whispers, glancing at the gear on your back.

“For-” The second guard cuts himself off with a sigh. “Yes. Now go. And for Celestia’s sake, stay out of their way.”

The chastised guard trots around the side of the barracks and slips inside.

You glance at Vale; she clearly heard the whole thing. She just shrugs.

You turn to the remaining guard.

“It’s probably worth telling the captain. We’re the new Unit Y, based out of the old cottage.”

The guard squints at you both.

“There’s only two of you?”

“Four,” you correct him. “The others are back at base.”

“Well… thanks for the heads-up. And welcome to Hornburn.” His expression softens. “News about the old unit hit the locals hard. Be good to them, they’re good ponies.”

“Where can we find the construction crew who reported the temple basement is haunted?” you ask.

The guard snorts, shaking his head. “Sweet Celestia… the way those stallions were screaming and sprinting out of that place, I thought Hornburn was under attack.” He points a hoof past you. “You’re in luck. We’ve been keeping an eye on Blessed Ashes and Rounded Screw over there. They’ve been arguing for a while now.”

You turn to look.

Across the street stands a white-walled building, cleaner than anything else in sight. The paint is fresh, edges crisp, the stone steps scrubbed recently. A golden Celestian crest hangs above the doors, glinting even in the dim, cloud-strained light.

It’s modest for a temple: only two stories, with a simple bell tower rising above the roofline. A bronze bell rests still, its rope swaying lazily in the open arch.

Two stallions stand arguing at the doors.

“The one in the builder’s hat is Rounded Screw,” the guard adds. “He owns the construction company renovating the place.”

You thank him and head up the short stone steps.

The stallion who you presume is Blessed Ashes, is a unicorn in a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His look is more “failed business pony” than “holy clergy.” A cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth, trailing a thin ribbon of smoke. His coat is a muted brown, his black mane disheveled like he only gave it one half-hearted pass with his hoof this morning.

A white collar hangs loose around his neck, as if it's more accessory than uniform. The small Celestian crest pinned to it is the only thing confirming he’s temple staff at all.

Rounded Screw shoves his yellow builder’s hat back and lets out an exasperated huff.

“With all due respect, Father, my crew is about ready to walk out of the job. And isn’t banishing evil spirits supposed to be your department?”

Blessed Ashes sighs as a bit of ash drops to the floor. His voice comes out flat, almost bored.

“I’m a priest, not an exorcist. My job is to remind ponies that Celestia loves us all.” He takes a long drag, then exhales. “Besides, weren’t you the one insisting ghosts aren’t real?”

“Oh for the love of-” Rounded Screw jabs a hoof at the door behind them, “My stallions are tough. Whatever’s down there has them bawling like foals. All I’ve heard in the office this week is ‘ghost this, spirit that.’”

You approach the two stallions and wait until both finally turn their attention toward you.

You address the unicorn first.

“I presume you’re the head priest who filed the haunting report? I’m Marrow, and this is Vale. We’re with PHEER.”

Blessed Ashes looks between you and Vale, then lets out a long, relieved sigh.

“I am. And thank Celestia you’re here, I was starting to worry they weren’t going to send a replacement at all.”

Rounded Screw squints. “What’s PHEER?”

“Paranormal investigators,” Vale answers dryly.

The construction pony raises his brows, then snorts. “You know what? Whatever.”

He turns, already descending the stairs with heavy steps.

“If it’s enough to convince my crew to stop screaming, get back to work, and actually finish this project, then fine by me.”

You all watch Rounded Screw disappear down the street.

“Don’t worry about him, he’s a good stallion.” Blessed Ashens speaks up, “He just wants to see this project finished and his ponies paid.”

You turn back to the priest, “I was hoping to speak to him more, or at least get more information from his staff.”

“I can at least tell you what’s been happening,” he says. He finally finishes his cigarette, which vanishes in a brief yellow flash of magic, scattering into harmless sparks. “Follow me.”

The priest pushes open the heavy dark-blue door, and you and Vale step inside after him.

The temple is modest but dignified. Rows of old oak pews line the stone slab floor, leading all the way up to the altar. The altar itself is draped in a clean white cloth, flanked by two burning candles and crowned with a golden centerpiece shaped like the Celestian sun.

Light spills through the stained-glass windows, painting the floor and walls in shifting rainbows. Each window depicts a past Bearer of the Elements of Harmony, their names rendered in ancient Equestrian script.

Blessed Ashes stops halfway down the aisle, and the three of you pause there, framed by the twin rows of pews stretching out on either side.

From the front pews, you catch the low murmur of voices. A mule mare sits near the altar, quietly reading while a few young foals play with wooden toys at her hooves, their laughter soft and echoing faintly through the vaulted hall.

A faint red glimmer drifts into view,Doodles’ light,hovering curiously around the foals. They don’t seem to notice her, but she circles them with gentle curiosity.

You keep an eye on her, just in case.

Blessed Ashes glances over his shoulder at them, then back to you and Vale.

“The hall itself is safe from spirits, I can guarantee there's none up here.” he says quietly. “I’ve salted the stairs leading down to the basement, and I’ve got sage burning in the crawlspace that leads toward the crypts.”

He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know you’d normally prefer the building cleared during an investigation… But when I took charge of this temple, I swore I wouldn’t drive anypony out of these doors. Not unless their lives were in immediate danger.”

“Can you tell us exactly what construction is happening?” you ask.

The priest nods. “The temple is subsiding. I suspect the crypts beneath us are beginning to collapse. I hired builders to reinforce the foundations and add support to the lower floors.”

“Good thinking with the salt and sage,” you say. “Have the construction ponies mentioned anything specific about what scared them?”

“It began with workers complaining about being watched,” Blessed Ashes explains. “Soon nopony would go down there alone. Once they crawled into the narrow space to inspect the subsidence, things escalated,tools flung across the room, strange humming, pokes, tugging at their manes…”

As he speaks, you notice a young pegasus filly wander away from the group. Her ears droop as she climbs onto the front pew, sitting apart from the other foals. Doodles’ red glow drifts after her, hovering nearby.

“Anything in the history of the crypt?” you ask.

“Well they say Hornburn is built on the ashes of revenge. Even this temple sits on another. Some claim it’s an old Lunite temple that was razed during the civil war. Others claim it’s even older, pre-unification even, thanks to an oubliette discovered down there.”

You ask another question “who’s buried down there,that stands out to you?”

“The crypts hold the last mayor of Hornburn, several early post-unification royal guards, and a handful of noble unicorns.”

You nod with your ear flicking. “My first thought is that something down there just doesn’t like being disturbed…”

“I can’t say who’s restless and who isn’t,” Blessed Ashes replies. “All I know is that it goes quiet when I invoke Celestia’s name. But whatever’s down there won’t cross the veil or lay to rest.”

“What about Luna? Have you tried invoking her name?” you ask.

The priest shakes his head. “The nobles buried down there lived during the civil war. If I call upon Luna, they might interpret it as invoking Nightmare Moon. I’d rather not have the spirits think I’m an enemy.”

“How many times have I heard exorcists run into that exact conundrum,” Vale mutters under her breath.

“Do you know if there are any bats among the construction crew? And if so, whether they’re treated differently?” you ask.

“As far as I’m aware, it’s only earth ponies and unicorns,” he replies.

“And this ‘last Mayor of Hornburn’… I found it mentioned in a book, but never got around to reading it,” you continue.

Blessed Ashes exhales, “That’s a tale best told over a few ales. The short version is this: shortly after the civil war, The Hornburn Mayor was found dead with four nobles, legend has it they were all beaten and bruised beyond recognition.”

“What happened to them?” Vale asks quietly.

Blessed Ashes shifts his weight, ears tilting back a little.

“You know that little bridge that crosses the brook? You must’ve crossed it coming in from the cottage.”

“We crossed it,” Vale confirms.

“Well…” He draws in a slow breath through his nose. “The tale goes, they were all found there,every one of them. Standing in the shallows with bloodied hooves. Their faces twisted with pure hatred.”

The priest’s voice drops lower.

“No wounds. No signs of struggle. Just… rage. Frozen on their muzzles like something had hollowed them out and left only that behind.”

“You seem to have a bit of familiarity with the paranormal—real experience,” you say. “Is that part of the temple’s spiritual training, or did you pick it up elsewhere?”

Blessed Ashes blinks, as if the question hit him sideways. For a heartbeat, he almost looks accused.

“No, no,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “As you progress through the temple, you pick these things up. Comes with the teachings.”

You’re not convinced. Something about him feels… practiced. Like he’s wearing a version of himself meant for public viewing.

Your attention drifts back to Doodles, now seated beside the filly. The little one is half-hidden behind her hoof, giggling at whatever Doodles just whispered.

“That filly over there,” you say, gesturing subtly. “She seemed upset earlier.”

Blessed Ashes follows your gaze, relief briefly flickering across his face—at least until he recognizes the filly.

“That’s Feather Fall,” he says softly. “She didn’t take the news about the old local P.H.E.E.R. unit very well. Her step-brother served in that unit…”

“Poor thing…” Vale murmurs.

Blessed Ashes takes a few steps down the aisle. “Feather, are you alright?”

The filly peeks up, smiling shyly. “I’m okay, Mister Ashes. I was laughing at a funny joke.”

“It’s good to see you smile again,” he says, his horn lighting as a pocket watch floats free from his shirt. He glances at it and mutters, “Ah, shoot—three o’clock. I’ve got that bell ringing…”

The mule mare at the front finally lifts her eyes from her book. With a gentle sigh, she closes it and claps her hooves together.

“Alright, colts and fillies, let’s get you home for your parents. Toys away! Come on, sweet-sweet.”

Blessed Ashes turns back to you and Vale. “I’ve got duties to attend to. You both have full access to the temple,these doors stay open for any lost soul seeking harmony, day or night.”

He nods politely, then trots toward the altar. He pauses to gesture.

“The door to the basement and crypts is on the left.”

He opens a door to the right, revealing a narrow staircase. “This one leads to my office and the bell tower.”

“Thank you,” you say.

He gives another short nod before disappearing into the stairwell, the door closing softly behind him.

You start walking toward the altar. “Let’s get some readings now, and tonight we’ll investigate.”

You barely make it three steps before a blur of purple fur and feathers shoots past your hooves. A filly barrels straight into the mule watching over the foals, nearly bowling her over.

“Feather Fall! Watch where you’re going!” the mule scolds, steadying herself. She lifts her long brown fringe out of her eye and gives you an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” you say, waving a hoof. “Foals are going to foals.”

“Whoa! It’s an agent!” A little blue colt trots right up to you, eyes wide.

You glance down to find a dozen curious faces gathered around your hooves.

“Operative,” you correct him gently. “I’m an operative.”

Vale snorts a laugh. “Agents are classified.”

“Claas-if-fried?” the colt repeats, trying to puzzle it out.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say. “It’s just a joke.”

Feather Fall slips in beside the group, beaming. “The kind batpony operative has funny jokes!”

“Where’s the batpony?!” a unicorn filly squeals, hopping in place.

“She’s over,,” Feather Fall turns, then frowns. “Oh. Where did she go?”

“Alright, you lot, let the kind stallion do his job! We need to be going. Come, come!” the mule calls out, herding the foals away. She mouths a silent sorry to you as the tiny hooves clatter after her.

The temple door closes with a soft thud, leaving just you, Vale, and the hovering red dot of Doodles.

You make a mental note to ask the filly later about whatever Doodles had been whispering to her.

Turning toward the door on the left side of the altar, you push it open. A narrow stone staircase waits behind it, cold air spilling up from below.

“Vale, with me,” you call.

Together you descend the tight steps. The first lower floor opens into the basement—mostly empty, the kind of storage room temples forget they have. Spare pews lean against the walls, stacked chairs gather dust, and a few folded tables crowd the corners.

You’re about to move on when something on the far wall catches your eye.

A portrait of Celestia.

Not the usual heroic depiction,not the gleaming golden armor, not the sweeping wings posed before a blazing sun, nor the stern blade held aloft in righteous judgment.

This one is different.

She stands solemn, almost fragile, her expression soft rather than commanding. A simple sword hovers above her head, but there is no grandeur to it,only quiet purpose, a weight she seems tired of carrying.

A far cry from the images most ponies know.

You hear Vale’s voice from behind. “Ki, Zen, and Tau all normal.” He snorts, then coughs. “Yeah… someone’s been burning sage down here.”

You take a brief moment to look at the details of the painting, you step closer, you were mistaken the sword isn’t hovering, but a single thread holds the sword above Celestia's head. You glance down at the text in the corner of the painting.

By an equines hair - White Spirit

You tear your eyes from the painting and scan the basement, remembering Blessed Ashes mentioning a crawl space. After checking along the three stone walls, you spot an old wooden door tucked into the far corner—so small and crooked it almost blends into the masonry.

You walk over and pull it open.

A wave of sage rolls out, thick enough to sting your nostrils. You lower your head and peer inside. The crawl space stretches back a few yards, timber beams pressing low overhead, shadows swallowing the far end. Even with your eyes straining, you can’t quite make out what waits on the other side.

“Just like Ashes told us,” you mutter as you straighten up. The salt on the stairs—how did that slip your mind? You glance toward the narrow stone steps and spot it at last: a thin, careful line poured into the corner where the final stair meets the floor. Placed perfectly so a pony could step over it without noticing.

You look a little higher up the stairwell.

Doodles hovers there, frowning down at the salt, wings half-spread in discomfort.

“Sorry there, Doodles,” you say quietly. “I can break the salt line and relay it when we’re finished here.”

Vale follows your gaze toward the stairs and snorts. “Honestly, Marrow, I’m glad you don’t do stuff like this in public…”

Doodles only shakes her head, her ghostly ears folding back. “There’s no point. The sage will be even harder to avoid.” Her form flickers faintly, a soft red shimmer around the edges. “And please, don’t linger near it for too long. My attachment to you is already slowly weakening.”

“I won’t be long,” you promise.

You take out your Ki meter, calibrate it, then flick on the spirit box. Static crackles sharply from the speaker. Vale flinches, then exhales through her nose.

“Sorry,” she mutters. “Static makes me jumpy, especially in a stone room like this.”

“You can wait by the stairs if you want,” you offer.

With the box still hissing faintly, you make a slow circuit around the basement, pausing at the painting before checking each corner. Ki remains a steady zero.

You tuck the spirit box into your vest, then pull out a glowstick. A quick snap,crack,and the green light blooms. You slide it into the loop on your vest and head toward the crawlspace.

“I’ll take a quick look,” you call back. “Won’t be long.”

“Sure… Uh, is Doodles with me?” Vale’s voice carries a thin edge of worry.

“She’s on the stairs. She can’t cross the salt line,” you answer, squeezing into the crawlspace. “I’ll call if I need you.”

Your gear scrapes against the tight stone walls as you shuffle forward on your belly. The spirit box’s static crackles and warbles, echoing unnervingly through the cramped passage. Your glowstick casts a narrow green tunnel ahead, stretching long, distorted shadows that crawl behind you. After a few yards, the space widens, and you pull yourself out into a small chamber.

You rise to your hooves and glance around.

An ancient stone staircase spirals down into the dark.

“Vale?” You call through the crawlspace, “Can you hear me?”

“I can,” Vale replies.

“There’s a staircase, I can’t see where it goes. But I presume it’s to the crypts below.” You say, “I’m taking some reading and I’ll be back.”

You pull your ki-meter back out, the spirit speaker continues to hum and crackle. You adjust the dials to calibrate it, then glance at the indicators. Nothing. But you can’t shake the feeling of something down there.

You take one last look around before you return through the crawlspace, as you turn an engraving on the wall piques your curiosity. You shine your glowstick light on it, the green light shines on the symbol, it’s a one you recognize. It’s a crest of Luna.

Your ear flicks as you try to make sense of it, if the ancient part of the temple is to Luna then why would post civil war nobles be buried here? You check the engraving again, the oddest part isn't defiled.

You turn away from the engraving and crawl back through the narrow crawlspace.

Vale is still by the stairs, her eyes tracking Doodles as the ghostly batmare bats playfully at her ear, making her look around.

“I’m back,” you announce, stepping up to join them.

“Find anything? Besides another stairway?” Vale asks, glancing down at you.

“There’s a crest of Luna engraved on the wall,” you reply.

Vale furrows her brow. “Well, Blessed Ashes Lunite temple, so… maybe that explains it.”

“That may be true,” you say, “but from what I know of history, every Luna crest, portrait, and statue was desecrated after the war.”

“So, what now?” Vale asks.

“I think we’ll come back tonight,” you reply. “For now, I want to take a look around the village before sunset.”

You climb the stairs, Vale and Doodles following close behind, and step out from behind the altar into the main hall.

You continue down the aisle and step out of the temple, pausing at the heavy blue door. As you pull it shut behind you, the afternoon light catches on the paintwork. Only then do you notice them, shallow impressions beneath the many layers of paint, long gouges arranged in sets of three. Claw marks. Dozens of them. Each one worn smooth by time, but unmistakably there.

Your ear twitches. For a moment, you imagine ghostly claws raking across the door, but it doesn’t add up. The legend speaks of Tarhounds, sure, but those things are spectres. Doors shouldn’t stop them.

Unless… the legend was built around scratches that were already here. A metaphor wrapped around a piece of history nopony remembered properly.

“They look like scratches,” Vale says quietly.

“I’m thinking the same thing,” you reply. “The legend says the mare was chased by Tarhounds, but those damned dogs can walk through walls.”

“Well, salt apparently stops them,” Vale points out.

“That’s not something I’m eager to test,” you mutter. After a moment of thought, you add, “Maybe Murk’s sanctuary theory fits here.”

You stare at the claw marks again. You have puzzle pieces, but none of them click.

“I’ve got nothing. Let’s get going.”

“Those written instructions are really getting to you, huh?” Vale says as she follows you down the steps and onto the street.

“The tree proves at least one haunting is real,” you reply, walking between the old stone buildings lining the street. “And you’re telling me that since the first Unit Y, nopony solved any of these cases? Or even forced them into dormancy?”

Vale hums thoughtfully as she trots beside you.

“Maybe we should pay the captain of the guard a courtesy visit,” you continue, “but first, those guards mentioned a crazy bat at the inn.”

“And… how is that a clue?” Vale asks, puzzled.

“Easy,” you say with a shrug. “Ponies anywhere between eccentric and outright unhinged somehow end up speaking the truth. They don’t mean to, they just do.”

You look up ahead. A large manor house sits at the village’s center, its side wall painted with bold lettering proclaiming it an indoor market.

“You know,” Vale says with a grin, “I would love to hear what goes on in that head of yours.”

“Trust me, you wouldn’t,” you reply. “It’s like an overcrowded jobs board—too many questions, not enough answers.”

You stop at a small three way crossroads. Thankfully, a weathered wooden signpost waits there, its arrows pointing in three directions:

South — Swirl Bridge

East — Barracks

West — The Inn

You turn toward the road leading west.

As you and Vale trot on, you glance left and notice a narrow storefront tucked between two taller buildings. The painted sign above its fogged windows reads The Old Book Shop in faded gold lettering.

Through the glass, you see a slightly plump earth pony mare, caramel-coated with a plated blonde mane, with oversized round glasses that make her eyes look overly large. She flips the sign from OPEN to CLOSED, then exits the shop, then lockers the store with an audible click.

Tucking her keys away, the mare trots past you with a polite but slightly awkward nod. She hesitates mid-step, glances back at you as if trying to place your face, then continues along the stone path that cuts through the grassy forecourt in front of the manor.

You watch her make her way toward the inn on the far side of the green.

“Ah. I see,” Vale says, already suppressing a laugh.

“What?” you ask, turning to her.

“You like the bookworm type, huh? I saw you watching that rump bounce.” She smirks shamelessly.

“No, I was just looking around. That’s all.”

“Oh, right, ‘seeing what’s available,’ was it?” Vale snorts and breaks into outright laughter.

“Yeah-” You stop mid-word as the implication hits you. Your ear flicks. “No. Vale. I meant I’m looking at what’s in the village. It’s good to know there’s a bookshop here. They’re more useful than you think.”

“Sure they are,” she teases.

You turn toward the inn and start walking. “Come on. Let’s check the inn.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Vale says, falling into step behind you, still wearing that smug grin.

You approach the inn, a broad, weathered stone building built in the same style as the manor. It wouldn’t surprise you if they’d once been part of the same estate. A couple of old benches and mismatched tables sit outside beneath the windows, their wood worn smooth by years of rain and hooves.

A small sign leans against the wall beside the door. You pause to read it.

“Tonight: Jazz Macabre, hosted by Philo Belle.”

You tilt your head. “What’s Jazz Macabre?”

“It’s a subgenre of jazz,” Vale explains. “You take a tragedy and give it an upbeat tune.”

You stare at the sign, unimpressed. “That’s… a bit depressing.”

“Nah,” Vale says, waving a hoof. “They’re great to dance to. I listen to a bit of it.”

You push open the door and step inside. The inn is quiet. Directly ahead, an old oak bar stretches along the far wall, its shelves crowded with bottles and casks of every age and color. In front of it sit tables and chairs just as worn and timeless as the inn itself. Candlelight flickers along the walls, and a fire roars warmly in the hearth to your left.

To the right, the seating has been pushed back against the walls, clearing space for an impromptu dance floor before a small stage. On it rests a gem-ribbon microphone, a bass, and a weathered upright piano. Off to the side, a polished trumpet waits atop a lone stool.

“Cosy.” Vale mutters as she looks around heading directly for the bar.

You hold out a hoof, “Let’s stay professional, for now I want to talk to this Philo Belle, I have a hunch she’ll lead us to Brio Bell, that one operative who lived long enough to retire.”

Vale huffs.

“We will have a drink here later, for now get something non-alcoholic.” You order.

“Sure.” Vale trots to the bar.

You scan the room, taking in the handful of locals nursing their drinks. Behind the bar, you spot the mule from the temple,now in an apron, pouring an ale with practiced ease. The caramel mare from the bookshop is there too, chatting quietly with a pair of patrons.

Your gaze shifts to the stage. A batpony mare with a soft dark blue coat and a light pink mane, stands there with a mug in hoof. mid-yawn, she rubs her eyes as if she’s only just woken up or hasn’t slept at all. Even looking groggy, there’s something charming about her: the slight fang peeking when she yawns, the sway of her tail, and the barely-contained energy beneath her tired expression that hints she’ll come alive the moment the music starts.

You glance toward the fireplace, where three old stallions sit crowded around a circular table. Their manes have long since faded to shades of steel and snow, though each wears the grey differently. One that's broad-shouldered and square-jawed, keeping his mane cropped short, giving him the sturdy look of a retired guard.

The second is leaner, his mane long and wispy, tied back in a loose tail; his eyes have the sharp, restless glint of a pony who’s spent a lifetime on the road.

The third is the softest of the three, chubbby with a kind, tired face and a mane that curls at the ends like old paper left out in the rain.

All three clutch tankards of frothy beer, laughing quietly among themselves, the firelight painting their wrinkles in warm gold.

You walk over to the batpony.

“Past me is going to have a good talk thinking it was a good idea to get up so early to get things ready…” The bat mare grumbles into her mug then takes a big gulp. With the mug still to her lips her pink eyes glances towards you.

“I was hoping to get a moment of your time.” You say taking a confident step towards her.

“If you're here for the show, then it doesn’t begin till seven.” She lowers her mug, her gaze starts at the top of your head then slowly drifts down, she tilts her head, “That uniform, you’re a PHEER operative right?”

“I am.” You reply.

The mare flicks her pink fringe from her face, “Alright, I got time, what do you want?”

Her gaze bores into you, overflowing with confidence, almost hungry.

You shrug off her gaze, “Just a few questions, are you Philo Belle?”

And just like her, confidence falls like a house of cards. She falls to her rump then rubs at the back of her head, “Y-yeah, I am. Sorry, my mother keeps telling me to be more confident, but it isn’t working isn’t it…”

You shake your head, “And you're hosting an event?”

“I’m trying to lift the mood of the village. I’m not sure if you realised we’re a tight knitted community and the old unit Y was a part of that.”

“That sounds like a nice idea,” you say, glancing around at the other patrons. “Everypony keeps saying this is a good community, so I was hoping to get to know it a little.” You look back to her. “Is this your first time performing?”

Philo Belle nods slowly.

“The villagers love hearing me sing, but… I’ve never actually performed on a stage.” She goes quiet, eyes drifting toward the little platform with its microphone and instruments. “But it’s for the community. For these ponies I’d do anything.” Her voice softens. “And I hope your new unit fits in here too.”

“We’re doing our best to fill the old unit’s horseshoes,” you reply, rubbing the back of your neck. “But they left no notes, no case files… nothing. It’s going to take a while.” You sigh. “And HQ isn’t helping by dumping an urgent assignment on us the moment we arrive.”

Philo’s ears perk up,just a subtle shift, but full of attention.

“Still,” you continue, “we’ll try to get the team together tonight and watch you perform. If we can figure out what’s haunting the temple in time.”

“The temple is haunted?” Philo asks, “That would be the last place I suspect. What do you think it could be?”

“I’m not sure, been there earlier today, can’t say much as this is still a live case.” You say.

“I understand. So, have you met any pony around the village?”

“Just two of the guards. Blessed Ashes and Feather Fall, she was with that mule behind the bar.” you point in the direction of the mule who is talking to Vale at the bar.

“Oh that's Meadows, she runs the daygroup in the temple before coming here to work,” Philo trails off, her voice dipping. “Well… at least Feather Fall is getting out of the house. Doesn’t a pegasus do any good to stay cooped up like that.” She takes a small breath. “Losing her step-brother shook the poor filly to the core. And her mother… she’s running herself ragged. Staying awake during the day for Feather, then working nights just to keep things together all while grieving for her son.”

“I presume she’s a batpony?” You ask.

“She is.” Philo confirms, "There's a fair few of us here. Walk around at night and you'll see us.”

“What was her step-brother’s name?” you ask.

“Astar Fall,” Philo replies quietly. “He was the youngest of the unit.”

You nod, then follow with another question. “What were they like, the old Unit Y?”

“They kept us all safe out on the moors,” she says, gaze softening with memory. “They knew Hornburn and the moors better than anypony.”

“How well do ponies here understand the paranormal? The workers who got spooked in the temple didn’t seem to,” you ask.

Philo lets out a long sigh. “The older ponies know the ways of the moorlands. They grew up with the stories,and the warnings. But the last two years…” She shakes her head. “We’ve had an influx of ponies from Baltimare and Canterlot looking for a ‘quiet life.’ Plenty of new homes going up on Songbird Way,that’s the road behind this inn.”

“I’m guessing there’ve been a few run-ins with the paranormal, then?” you ask. “That Songbird Tree outside the village must be hard to ignore.”

“There have been,” she admits. “Bless Ashes has been performing a blessing on that tree every single morning. It seems to help, there haven’t been any major incidents lately. Last week we just had two ponies arguing nearby. Thankfully, guards out on patrol was close enough to break it up before it escalated.”

“Bless Ashes certainly knows her craft,” you say. “And with the old unit being so rooted here, I imagine the locals learned a few things over the years.”

“Some have,” Philo says. “Because they saw things. Because they listened.” Her wings sag a little. “But the newer ponies… they don’t believe any of it. To them it’s just folklore. Superstition. They think we’re being dramatic when we try to warn them.” She looks toward the window, voice almost a whisper. “They just don’t understand Hornburn.”

The mentioning of Blessed Ashes brings your mind to the temple, “Can you could point us to one who knows about the temple, or rather what it's built on top of?”

Philo pulls her gaze from the window and nods toward the far side of the inn.

“That would be the three stallions over there,” she says, pointing.

“The white one is Lasting Spear, he used to be the captain of the guard. The stallion with his mane tied back is Lonesome Road, a retired merchant. Knows every road around Hornburn like the back of his hoof.” She hesitates, then leans closer and lowers her voice. “And the… well, I’ll just say it, the fat one is Bailey Bales. He used to be a farmer.”

She winces at her own bluntness, then whispers, “I don’t think he’s going to last long. All he does is eat pies and drink stiff cider. We keep warning him, but he just jokes that we’ll need to dig a bigger hole when he goes.”

“I’ll keep them in mind,” you reply.

Philo nods. “If it’s alright with you, I need to get set up and go over some songs.”

“It’s fine. I think you’ll look great on stage.” You return the nod and turn toward the bar. You give her one last glance just as she bashfully hops onto the stage, only to immediately knock the saxophone off its low stool. She curses softly and bends to check it for damage.

Your eyes linger despite yourself. Her tail sways as she leans forward, and you catch yourself sneaking a quick look at her rear. A part of you is tempted,she’s cute, and clearly kind,but you force the thought aside. You’re here to work, not flirt. Maybe later, when the job’s done, you’ll find the right moment to get to know her properly.

You turn back around to find a hovering tankard shoved into your chest, you look down to see a blue aura around it, looking back up you find Vale.

You turn back around just in time for a hovering tankard to bump into your chest. You blink down at the mug wrapped in a blue aura, then lift your gaze to Vale.

“I’m starting to think you’re secretly a batpony,” she says, grinning as she floats the drink into your hooves.

You take it from her magic and sip. “This cider isn’t alcoholic, is it?”

“Pfft, no...Barely… And don’t change the subject.”

“What subject?”

“I saw you looking.” She tilts her head toward the stage, smirking. “She’s pretty.”

“I heard something fall,” you counter, taking another sip. “I looked back to see if she was alright.”

“Uh-huh.” Vale narrows her eyes in playful suspicion, but her tone shifts as she asks, “So. Did you find anything?”

You nod. “A few things. There’s an influx of ponies coming in from the big cities, looking for a quiet life. And it seems they’ve been running into the paranormal,just not listening to the warnings from the old villagers.”

“I guess we need to talk to the village elders then?” Vale asks.

With your tankard in hoof, you stride toward the three old stallions gathered by the fireplace. “That’s precisely what I’m going to do.”

Vale falls in behind you as you step up to their table.

Bailey Bales,the fat stallion Philo pointed out, rests his tankard atop his belly, leaning back to peer up at you. A grin spreads across his round face, equal parts warmth and mischief.

“Well now,” he chuckles, “whose turn is it to complain about the foals of today? Yours, Mr. Road?”

Lonesome Road shakes his head, mane tied back and eyes sharp despite his age. He looks you over with an assessing squint.

“I think we’ve got ourselves some new operatives. ’Bout time too. Nah, these two young’uns fall under Spear’s area, I reckon.”

The old white stallion sets his tankard down on the circular table with a deliberate thud. When he speaks, his voice is gruff but not unfriendly, still carrying the weight of an old captain used to being obeyed.

“So,” Lasting Spear rumbles, fixing you with a level stare, “let me guess… you want to hear from us old un’s huh?”

“That’s my plan,” you reply.

The old guard props a hoof against his cheek, leaning into it with a weary sort of familiarity.

“What can I say? I guarded this village for over forty years. Still find myself looking out for you foals.” He pauses, then squints past you at Vale. “And stop hiding behind your stallion, missy. We’re all far too past our prime to be making moves on you now.”

“I’m just his operative. Marrow here is my unit leader,” Vale corrects, stepping beside you.

Lasting Spear shifts back, his posture straightening, the air around him sharpening. His eyes lock onto you with the weight of someone who’s seen too much.

“Tough position then. Lost a few guards over the years to whatever creeps around the moors. Nothing compared to the operatives I’ve seen come and go. I’m surprised the moors didn’t claim the last unit.”

“I saw the list of past operatives,” you say quietly. “It’s a long list.”

Spear grunts. “That cottage you’re staying in has been a P.H.E.E.R. base since your organization’s early days. Long before my time too.”

“Is that possible, Spear?” Bailey snorts, letting out a belly-deep laugh. “I just figured you were only a few years younger than Celestia herself.”

Lonesome Road smirks. “You’re one to talk, Bailey. You’re just a few pies away from meeting your fate.”

“Ah, let a stallion enjoy his final years,” Bailey says with a lazy wave of his hoof.

Spear shoots him a deadpan look. “I think these operatives are here for you, old colt. Sorry to break it to you they’re here to solve the case of the drunken lardrump”

“Oh no, Spear is telling jokes again! Somepony, call the nurse!” Lonesome Road gasps dramatically.

The three stallions share a laugh,well, two laugh outright. The old captain just smirks and shakes his head.

“Anyway,” Spear says, tapping the side of the wheeled walking frame tucked behind him, “sit, sit. Pull up some stools. Seeing you two standing there is making me jealous.”

Vale’s horn lights as she drags two stools over from an empty table. The old stallions shuffle around to make room. You sit, take a small sip of your cider, and set your tankard down on the scarred wooden table.

Bailey eyes Vale for a moment as she hovers just shy of the table. “Come on, missy—shuffle in. I won’t cop a feel. Doctor says I’ve gotta keep my blood pressure down.”

“So,” Lonesome Road says, leaning back with a chuckle, “what brings you to us old folk? If it’s a mare problem, the only advice I’ve got is: don’t get married.”

“The temple,” you say. “I heard it’s built on something… older.”

“Ah.” Lonesome Road nods knowingly. “Then you’ve heard about the crypts under the basement. Us three snuck down there when we were colts.”

The other two stallions nod grimly.

Spear takes a long swig of his beer. “Bones started rattling. Never went back after that.”

“That sounds like a story,” Vale presses.

“Not much of one,” Spear huffs. “Unit at the time hauled us out and scolded us raw. Then the guard had a go, then our parents. Ears are still ringing.”

“If I recall,” Lonesome adds with a grin, “you’re the one who got stuck in that hole down there, Bailey.”

“I didn’t see it,” Bailey mutters, lifting his tankard. “Still swear something grabbed my hoof…”

“We were lucky,” Spear says. “There are rules in the moors—a few most folk seem to forget these days.”

“I saw a list back at base,” you say. “Warnings about a Songbird Tree, a Piper, a Fae Queen…”

“That’s the lot,” Spear replies. “Follow those and you’ll do fine. Day-to-day, anyway. Cases are another matter.”

“Most of these are hauntings. Why haven’t past units dealt with them?” you ask.

The three stallions trade a long, quiet look.

“There are some things in the moors you don’t deal with,” Lonesome says at last. “You just learn to live with them.”

You fall silent. Their answer doesn’t sit right with you. Fae, sure—sometimes you have to learn to live with them. But spirits? Dead ponies stuck between worlds? Leaving them unable to cross the veil never sits well with you.

The three old stallions slip into talk about the village, the moors, and the usual gossip. Vale joins in easily. Some of it you already knew, some of it barely scratches your interest. Your mind keeps circling back to the temple, nagging at you. You want this case wrapped before the night ends so you can focus on what’s really going on in this village.

You wait for a lull in the conversation before you speak up.

“You said the bones were rattling in the crypt. Did you hear something, or did you actually see anything down there?”

“We could barely see a thing,” Spear says. “Only had one lantern—dim little thing, barely bright enough to light an outhouse. But the rattling? I heard that.”

Lonesome Road props his cheek against a hoof. “It was so long ago… I keep telling myself I saw one bone shaking across the floor. Can’t recall if that really happened or if it was just the nightmares afterward.”

“Do you think these other old haunts might be connected to whatever’s going on in the temple?” you ask, leaving the question open.

“Who knows,” Lonesome replies with a shrug. “I’ve traveled a lot of roads. Seen some odd things between Canterlot and Baltimare. Hornburn’s called the sister of Hollow Shades for a reason.”

You sigh softly. “I need to find somepony who knows about the crypts. Do you know anyone?”

“You see that mare up there?” Lonesome points toward the stage, where Philo is tapping the microphone, testing levels.

“That’s Philo. I talked to her earlier.”

“Well, her mother’s an ex-operative. Retired after a case went… bad. Name’s Brio Belle. She usually joins us around nine.”

Spear raises his tankard but pauses before drinking, his eyes sharpening as he fixes them on you.

“Listen. If you meet her, take a long look at her, and remember what I’m telling you: let things be. Investigate the temple, sure. The rest? Leave it alone. The Captain of the Guard sorts what gets passed to PHEER.”

Bailey’s expression tightens with sudden worry. “Spear… you’re saying too much.”

“Oh, hush,” Spear mutters, then turns back to you, steady and grim. “He’s trying to see the big picture. And he’s right. Go ahead, learn the history if you’re dying to know why. But the warnings? They work in a sick kind of harmony. Play along. And don’t interrupt them.”

“I’m still going to want to understand these things better,” you say. “At the very least so we can educate the newer residents.”

Spear exhales heavily. “I hope you can get through to them. To most of the newcomers, we’re just superstitious old folk standing in the way of civilization and science.”

“We can’t have ponies constantly harassed by fae, or anything else,” you counter. “And hauntings? Clearing those is standard PHEER procedure. If we don’t handle them, the higher-ups will start asking questions. We need a good reason not to follow protocol.”

The three stallions share another uneasy glance. Finally, it’s Spear who speaks.

“This isn’t some village-wide conspiracy,” he says quietly. “But generation after generation, we’ve watched unit after unit meet a terrible end out here. I just want you to consider your team. Maybe not the last one, but yours.”

You glance at Vale. She offers a small, warm smile—one that reminds you you’ve only known her for a day. Your old unit leader’s drunken words echo in your mind: Losing your first operative is the hardest. You think of the long wall of names back at HQ, and a cold worry settles in your chest. You don’t want to see any of your team carved into that stone. You’d rather see all four of you retire old and worn, not become memories.

Your thoughts wander to Brio Belle.

You turn to Lonesome.

“What exactly happened in the case Philo’s mother was working on?”

The stallions all look down. Their expressions soften, not with fear, but with grief.

After a long moment, Lonesome speaks. “The Songbird Tree,” he says quietly. “That case is the whole reason the Captain of the Guard vets PHEER. requests now. HQ ordered a cleansing. They had no choice but to carry it out.”

“You know it isn’t the Captain of the Guard’s responsibility to mediate between P.H.E.E.R. and hauntings,” you say.

Spear huffs, a weary sound. “I know. We all know. But you need to understand something—this keeps happening. A new unit comes to our village, we get to know them, and then one day… you’re all dead.”

Your stomach tightens. You turn back to Lonesome. “What happened with their case?”

The ex-merchant rubs a hoof down his muzzle. “The unicorn in her unit snapped. Lashed out at her, called her a traitor to the kestrels or something daft. Said she didn’t deserve to see the night.”

“Did she get hurt?” you press.

Lonesome nods, then looks to Vale. “Miss, you know the spell flare?”

“Of course I do,” Vale replies. “It’s one of the first spells foals learn. Parents teach it as a distress signal. The illumination spell works on the same principle, just without the kinetic kick.”

“Well,” Lonesome says, voice heavy, “Brio had that spell fired straight into her face, point blank. Then he broke both her wings. If it weren’t for the other two operatives, he would’ve killed her.”

You grimace at the image, raw, sudden violence erupting in the dark.

Vale frowns deeply. “Flare is a benign spell,” she mutters. “A foal hitting you with it will dazzle you at worst. That’s why it's one of the spells we teach early, we know full well they’ll blast each other with it.”

“Brio’s a batpony.” you counter. “We noticed the tree’s been charred. Did someone try to burn it?”

Spear shakes his head, “No. That tree always looked like that. Hornburn was built on ashes,that a great forest fire swept through the moors many many years before any of us were born. Burned everything to cinders.” He lifts his tankard, swirling the dregs as if peering into old history. “That songbird tree was the only one left standing.”

He sets the tankard down with a soft thud. “Fire didn’t touch it. Or maybe it did, and it just refused to fall. Either way, the charring’s older than anypony here.”

You hear the microphone crackle to life behind you. Philo’s voice drifts across the inn, warm but still carrying that sleepy rasp:

“Alright, everypony, Jazz Macabre Night will start in two hours!”

A few patrons lift their heads, offering small cheers or tapping their tankards against the tables. The piano gives a lonely plink as if in agreement, and Philo steps back from the mic, making quick adjustments to the stand while muttering to herself.

The three old stallions glance toward the stage, their expressions softening with something like pride.

“How has Philo dealt with what befell her mother? I think it's admirable that she’s putting herself out there all the same,” you say.

The three stallions nod in agreement before Spear answers.

“I don’t think she knows any difference,” he says quietly. “Her mother’s always been blind.”

Lonesome Road tips back the last of his beer and wipes his muzzle with the back of his hoof. “Brio’s something else. Lost her sight and still managed to bag herself a stallion.”

Bailey lets out a low chuckle. “Well… she was a looker back then. I’m no feather or leather, but I can sure appreciate a fine pair of wings on a mare.”

Spear shoots him a flat stare. “You appreciate all mares but your wife.”

Bailey shrugs, with a smirk. “What can I say? When I married my wife, it was to spare other stallions.”

The three of them share a brief warm laugh with the weight of their old memories. Beside you, Vale arches a brow at you, her expression saying plainly: “Who in Equestria would marry him?”

“Philo's father in the picture?” you ask.

The three stallions' expression drops for a moment, only to show a little mirth.

Bailey bursts into a laugh. “Ahh, checking if there’s a goalkeeper, are we?”

Spear snorts, shaking his head but still smiling. “Colt, you just got to town. Keep it sheathed for a while… Besides, the local bass player’s been sniffing around her tail lately.”

Vale breaks into a full, unrestrained laugh.

You groan into your hooves. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m trying to piece things together.”

Lonesome Road pushes himself up from the table and shuffles around toward the bar. “Her father owns this inn, you know. I’ll let him know you’re aiming to court his daughter.”

“No, no, no-” you protest quickly, sitting bolt upright. “I’m investigating Unit Y’s history. Trying to understand the full picture.”

The old stallion cracks a wide grin. “I’m joking. I’m getting another round. Spear? Bailey?”

Both stallions raise their tankards in answer.

Lonesome looks to you and Vale. “And what about you two?”

You glance toward the window, the last of the daylight is fading into the moor’s creeping dusk.

“Can you hold that offer?” you say, rising from your stool. “We’ve got to head out for a case. Hopefully we’ll be back in an hour or two.”

“Sure, we will be here.”

You give Vale a gentle nudge, and she slips off her stool to follow. With a quick wave to the trio, you step back out into the street. The air is cooler now, the last traces of daylight fading as you retrace your path through the familiar streets.

As the silhouette of the old temple comes into view, you notice two figures lingering near its entrance. A few steps closer, the shapes sharpen into Doc and Murk, waiting in the twilight.

“Doc? Murk?” you call up the temple steps.

“Marrow,” Doc greets with a dip of his head, while Murk gives a short wave of his wing.

“How did the research go?” you ask as you climb the steps, Vale close behind.

“Well, it seems those warnings are tied to local legends and myths. All of them,” Murk replies. “We also found out the Moors used to be a forest. That painting in our quarters? I think it’s referencing a massive forest fire caused by batponies clashing with unicorns near the end of the pre-unification wars.”

Vale frowns. “Bats were mostly mercenaries. Were they paid to attack?”

Murk shakes his head. “I found an old Starswirl text. It mentioned he was tasked with guarding two alicorns. The only reason I can piece together is that the batpony army couldn’t risk alicorns returning to power.”

“What- Starswirl the bearded, as in the most powerful unicorn who ever lived?” Vale asks.

Doc sighs and nods. “That was a tough read. Starswirl came up with the Harmony theory because of those wars. The book’s on the table if you want to look at it.”

You nod. “And anything about this temple?”

Doc adjusts his glasses. “We found something. There’s a pit inside, an oubliette. Means ‘forgotten.’ Executed criminals’ remains were thrown down there and left… well, forgotten. I’m no proper temple-goer, but I know full well that isn’t standard practice for Celestian temples.”

Murk adds, “Same goes for the Lunar temples.”

You take a moment to lay out everything you and Vale learned about the temple, making sure Doc and Murk are fully caught up.

“If those three stallions at the Inn were being honest, then these hauntings have been going on a long time,” Murk says. “Sounds like we need to get these spirits back to rest—or across the veil.”

“I think it’s time we head down into the crypts,” you say, pushing the temple door open. “Besides, there’s a Jazz Macabre Night happening at the Inn.”

“Now you’re talking!” Murk perks up. “I hope they do some Blue Notes.”

“Didn’t expect you to be a fan,” Vale remarks.

“I am, I-” Murk stops mid-sentence, staring directly at the glowing red light forming beside you. “Is that Doodles?”

“It’s Doodles,” you confirm, turning to the now materializing spirit. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Saving my energy,” Doodles says with a wicked grin. “And watching you eye up mares… Can’t believe you wanted to check if that bat-mare’s father was still around—”

“Doodles. It was a misunderstanding,” you snap.

“What is she saying?” Doc asks.

“Nothing,” you grumble as you step fully inside the temple.

The interior is silent, oppressively so. Two small candles flicker on the altar, barely touching the darkness. Moonlight spills through the high windows, washing the empty pews in cold blue light. The air is still and stale.

You and your team move down the aisle, circle behind the altar, and slip through the door on the left. The narrow staircase descends into the depths, stone walls tightening around you as you head downward.

You hear Murk mutter his intentions under his breath as you all step into the basement’s chill. One by one, you break and clip on your glowsticks, soft neon light blooming across your vests, as you adjust your gear in the tightening dark.

You turn back and spot Doodles lingering on the stairs, just like before, unable to cross the thin salt line laid beneath the final step. At least the heavy scent of sage has finally faded from the air.

You scuff the line with your hoof, breaking it just long enough for Doodles to drift past. Then you sweep a fresh line into place. A quick glance into your bag tells you you’ve got roughly four-fifths left.

Doodles watches you with a worried expression.

“It’s a precaution,” you reassure her gently. “Don’t want anything getting upstairs, other than you.”

You turn to the rest of the team as they finish checking their gear and give a short brief.

“We don’t know what’s down there, so stay sharp. The priest said the oubliette might date back to pre-unification times, which means the spirit or spirits could belong to just about any era or denomination.”

Your gaze drifts to the old portrait of Celestia hanging on the wall, her serene eyes watching over the room, then back to your team. “Whatever’s down there seems to respect,or fear, Celestia's name, at least…Murk can you take a look at that painting for me?”

“Sure. You know I’m not an art expert right?” Murk asks as he trots over to the old portrait, “Well it’s painted by the same mare who painted the one back at base, old Celly looks young there, the sword about her head I have no idea…”

You head to the crawlspaces door then open it, you crawl in as the rest of your team follow suit and crawl in one by one, you wait by the stairs.

You hear Doc in the tunnel, “Miss Vale,ah don’t want to be crass but can you lower your tail, I’m a medic not a gynecologist."

“Damn it” Vale curses, as she pulls herself out of the crawlspace, “I was trying to keep the dust from my tail.”

“You think you got problems,” You hear Murk behind Doc, “New rule, we crawl though tight spaces one at the time.”

One by one though, they emerge from the crawlspace. Finally Doodles crawls though.

“Doodles you could just go though the wall.” You state.

“I could, but I’m just pretending I’m alive and in another case.” Doodles bashful replies.

“Fair enough,” You reply, “Doc you are on meter duty,”

Doc nods and pulls out his Kimeter, using his yellow glowstick light to calibrate it.

You start down the ancient staircase, each step worn into a shallow curve by an untold number of hooves. The air grows colder as you descend, carrying the dry, mineral smell of old stone. The walls close in tight before the stairs twist sharply, spiraling you deeper underground.

Your glowstick lights spill across the stone, revealing old crude chisel marks in the walls that's older than the temple's construction aboveground. The stairs turn again, and the ceiling lowers for a moment before the passage finally widens.

The room is silent. You can hear your team’s breathing echo back at you. Both walls are lined from floor to ceiling with carved, out alcoves, each containing a stone sarcophagus or a tightly sealed tomb lid. Most are unmarked, their surfaces smoothed by time, but others still bear faint carvings

“Hey look at this,” You hear Vale, “These tombs have a mark, it looks like the royal guards coat of arms, but it lacks the crown.”

You move over to Vale, her blue light casts over the stone tomb, “I’m guessing that’s the early post-unification guards Blessed told us about.”

You lean in further, squinting at the worn inscriptions. The surface is rough with age, the lettering eroded to shallow grooves. Still, you can just make out the old Equestrian script:

Asheth to Asheth.

Below the phrase lies an ancient version of the royal guard’s coat of arms, recognizable in shape, but missing the crown. A symbol of service from a time when the nation was still uncertain, still healing, still forming itself out of the ashes of the old world.

“Well the construction crew came down this far.” You mutter.

You continue walking towards the end of the room. Careful not to fall into any holes you stop at metal barriers bolted to the floor that have been torn up and bent in all directions. “Doc Murk you got anything?”

“Ki keeps jumping to four, then flatlining,” Doc reports, tapping the meter as its needle jitters and dies again.

Murk finishes whispering his intentions and strides past the tombs, eyes narrowed. “They keep slipping in and out. There’s one standing right next to you-” He pauses, snorts softly. “Never mind. It’s Doodles, isn’t it.”

You glance to your side to find a familiar pair of red eyes hovering in the blue gloom. “Yeah, that’s her. Doodles, are you seeing any spirits down here?”

She shakes her head, “Not yet. It takes me a bit to see them.”

“What does that mean?” you ask.

“Well…” She fidgets, trying to put the thought into something the living can grasp. “It’s like spilling water on a book. At first you only see the page you ruined. But then the water starts soaking through, and suddenly the text on the next page begins to show itself.” She shrugs her ghostly wings, “Same principle. I need time before I see further into the veil. Whoever is down here died a very long time ago.”

You nod at Doodles’ explanation, letting the image settle in your mind as your attention drifts to the metal barrier set into the floor. Up close, the damage is even more obvious, its edges are curled upward, warped as though somepony had tried, repeatedly, to pry it open. Grooves score the surrounding stone where a tool has bitten into it again and again. The metal itself is thin with rot, the rust flaking away like old scabs.

You crouch beside it, squinting into the decay. “Vale, check your Ki-meter. Are we getting readings like we saw at the Songbird Tree?”

Vale pulls out her device, its crystal humming faintly in her blue glowstick light. She watches the needles for a few seconds, then shakes her head. “Just random Ki spikes. Zen is harmonic, Tau’s pretty light.”

You exhale slowly. Sometimes spirits come when you coax them, sometimes that’s exactly what they want. Time to take a page out of Murk’s book. You straighten, turn toward the dark, and raise your voice so it carries through the crypt. “We are Unit Y from an organisation known as PHEER. We know the spirits here have been disturbed. Our intent is to set you back to rest.”

Murk stiffens instantly. “Uh… alright, now I’m surrounded…” His wings twitch. “Four. I sense four.”

Doc moves to Murk’s side, eyes darting as he checks his Ki-meter. “Ki four, reading stable” he confirms quietly.

You react on instinct, stepping forward and raising your voice into the dark.

“The batpony is under my command. If you have questions, you deal with me.”

The crypt answers with a sudden, suffocating stillness. The temperature plummets, sharp, unnatural, your breath fogging faintly in the beam of your glowstick.

Then one hoofstep. Directly ahead of you. Slow and deliberate.

Your pulse beats.

Without taking your eyes off the blackness, you lean just enough to whisper, barely moving your lips. “Doodles… please tell me you can see them.”

“No,” Doodles whispers, her voice thin with strain. “But I can hear something. A conversation… muffled.” Her ghostly ears flick sharply, angling toward the darkness. “They’re talking, but,” she winces, “I can barely make out a word.”

“Everypony, be still, and quiet,” you order, your voice low but firm.

You rummage through your vest, pull out your Ki-meter, and raise it slightly toward the darkness.

“To the spirits here,” you announce, steadying your breath, “this device is a Ki-meter. It has something called a spirit speaker. If you come close and speak into it, we’ll be able to hear you.”

Vale unbuckles the wooden box from her saddlebags and sets it gently on the stone floor. She flips the latches, opens the lid, and begins working the switches with practised precision. Inside, the long black cylinder shudders to life, rotating as a thin needle drags across its surface with a soft scrape.

You click on your own spirit speaker.

Static bursts through the tiny grill, sharp, irregular pops that echo unnervingly in the cold crypt.

The spirit speaker drags another hiss of static through the room, long, low, like something breathing just out of sight. Then. “Stand… down… Bat… Operative… Armor different… Unit… different…”

The voice dissolves back into pops and hums.

Vale’s ears flick.

Murk shifts his weight.

Doc glances around.

Doodles immediately open her mouth. “Sounds like they know of P.H.E.E.R.— Oops!” She slaps both hooves over her muzzle as her own words bleed out through the speaker, chopped into metallic fragments.

You shoot her to look sharp enough to cut chalk.

She shrinks back, wings drooping.

Murk tilts his head, squinting at the Ki-meter. “One of them is a mare? I heard a mare saying they know-”

“That was Doodles,” you mutter, dragging a hoof down your face. “But the spirits seem oddly interested in you, Murk.”

“Good to know,” he says, though it quickly breaks into a grumbling ramble about how he’s “absolutely not here to cause trouble”

“What’s wrong with the bat?” You ask, staring into the darkness ahead.

The spirit speaker crackles,a sharp pop, then a dragging hum, before a voice pushes through, rough and strained, “Leave…Safer…Not thest…Still bat…”

The words smear into static.

You trade a look with Murk, he’s gone stiff, wings tight against his sides.

You clear your throat and try again. “What disturbed you? Why do you not rest?”

Nothing.

Not even static.

Just a loud, unnatural silence that presses into your ears.

Doodles leans in so close “They’re talking again,” she whispers. “One’s giving orders… I think they’re arguing.”

Before you can ask what about, something slams the metal barrier beside you.

BANG.

BANG.

BANG.

The entire wall shivers.

Your Ki-meter pops,hard enough to sting your ears,then erupts into a violent storm of static.

Through the distortion, a deeper voice rips through:

“…Before us… burned… Army… Thousands…Revenge…”

Your attention snaps to Murk just in time to see his wings flare in panic as he pulled backward toward the stairs, hooves scraping stone, eyes wide.

Something just dragged him.

“Murk!” you bark.

Doc is on him instantly, he lunges forward. With one smooth practiced motion he rips open his salt pouch and drags a thick white line across the floor in front of Murk.

Just as the batpony’s foreleg crosses it, Murk jolts to a stop, chest heaving.

The moment his hoof hits the near side of the salt, his tail falls to the floor.

Doc steadies him with a shoulder.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low but urgent.

Murk swallows hard, pupils pinpricks.

“Something… grabbed me,” he whispers. “Full force…Sweet Luna…”

“Good job, Doc. Excellent reflexes.” You reach them at a trot, checking Murk over with a quick glance before nodding toward Doc’s meter. “Meter check.”

“Four Ki. Harmony, light.” Doc reports, calm but focused.

Across the crypt, Vale is already snapping clasps shut and packing away her equipment. “Marrow, we need runes down now,”

“No.” You cut her off, raising a hoof. “I don’t think they’re attacking. They’re moving Murk away.”

The temperature in the chamber still bites at your coat, but the tension feels controlled. Orderly.

You sweep your gaze across the darkness, ears rotating as you listen for movement, anything.

“Murk’s presence might be disturbing something we are not equipped to deal with. Everypony, fall back to the stairs.”

You all retreat up toward the threshold, hooves echoing against ancient stone. Once everyone is gathered, you face your team.

“We need to reconsider our approach. These four,whoever they were in life,seem to be keeping everypony out. Protecting us from something worse.”

Your eyes drift to the metal barrier below, half-rotted and bent back by tools. A pit. A seal. A prison.

“I think that barrier is covering the oubliette. And whoever was thrown down there… their spirits can’t rest.”

Doc frowns. “Whose bones would those be?”

“I don’t know.” You swallow, thinking of carved tombs, ancient armor, and the echoing word from the speaker: burned. “But I have a feeling batponies here crossed blades with an army at one point, the royal army, pre-unification…I don’t know..”

Murk stares at his hooves, then up at you.

“Marrow… the speaker said burned. Think back to the painting in our living quarters, the unicorn army burned. And the bats…”

“We still need more information.” You hold up a hoof. “Let’s call it a night. The spirits with us,I don’t believe they mean harm.”

You stop.

Movement flickers at the edge of your vision.

Doodles is floating. Suspended by the back of her armor like a kitten by the scruff, legs dangling freely.

She giggles, mane shifting in a phantom wind. “They can see me! And their unit leader is a right gentlecolt…”

The unseen force sets her gently onto the steps.

A moment later: three sharp hoof-stomps echo behind you on the first stair, measured, military, final.

Doc checks his meter again, adjusting his glasses.

“Ki zero…” He exhales. “They’re gone.”

The crypt settles into silence again, the kind that presses on your ears.

“Let’s get out of here,” you say, voice low but firm. “I don’t want to accidentally anger those spirits. We’ll find more information and then return with a proper plan.”

You lead the way up the ancient steps, hooves echoing softly in the cold stone chamber. One by one your team follows, Murk still glancing behind him, Doc pausing for a moment to tuck away his Ki-meter, Vale muttering half-formed theories under her breath. Doodles red light glides along beside you.

You crawl back through the narrow passage, the stale air brushing over your coat. The moment you step into the basement again, the atmosphere seems lighter, less oppressive. You ascend the last staircase and push open the door into the temple hall.

 

The flames flicker gently, and the altar candles burn with a steady, undisturbed glow, as if nothing below had stirred at all.

Your team gathers automatically, forming a straight line along the center aisle. Equipment away, vests dusted off, eyes forward. They’re waiting for the case debrief.

You look over your team,Doc adjusting his glasses, Vale brushing dust from her vest, Murk staring off in thought, then blink as you realize someone is missing.

A pair of familiar red eyes.

A certain ghostly mare.

You let out a long, tired sigh. “Give me a moment. I forgot Doodles, she’s still in the basement. I completely forgot about the salt line on the last step.”

You turn and trot quickly behind the altar, hooves tapping sharply against the stone. Down the stairwell you go, the warm candlelight fading behind you. At the bottom, right where you left her, Doodles hovers with her forelegs crossed, expression somewhere between unimpressed and disappointed.

She floats just behind the thin, unbroken salt line.

“Sorry,” you mutter as you drag a hoof through the line, breaking it. “Didn’t mean to leave you trapped.”

Doodles lets out a dramatic huff and glides up past you, her tail flicking like she’s trying to gesture despite lacking weight or wind.

Once she’s clear, you sweep the salt back into place, sealing the boundary once more. Then you climb back to the temple hall, Doodles drifting along beside you.

Your team is still standing in formation, waiting patiently for you to resume the debrief, as if nothing at all had happened.

You rejoin them, drawing in a collected breath.

Time to continue.

“Sorry about that,” you say, rejoining the group. Then you straighten up and put on your best leader voice. “Good job, team. I know it feels a bit unsatisfying to go down there only to come straight back up, but we were clearly on the backhoof. Still,we made progress. And with Vale’s recording, we should have some good clues to work with.”

Their faces look a little heavy, so you add, “I don’t want to oversell it, but we’re still a fresh unit. We’re figuring out our footing, and tonight showed a lot of promise.”

You turn to Doc first. “Doc, great presence of mind. Really. That kind of quick reaction can save lives,even if the spirits were trying to help this time.”

“Ain’t nothin’, just years o’ experience,” Doc mutters, waving a hoof dismissively.

Next, you address Vale. “Vale, instantly on your instruments,good initiative. We didn’t need runes, but it was the right call to prepare them.”

Vale offers a small, proud smile. “Hopefully we captured something good.” She taps the wooden recorder strapped to her saddlebags.

Your gaze drifts upward to the ghostly mare hovering above the group. “Doodles—good to see you still thinking like an operative. We’ll sort out the spirit speakers and all that, but having you there, seeing a little closer to the veil? That helps.”

“Oh,uh,thanks…” Doodles’ ears droop bashfully. “Didn’t think you saw me as part of the team…”

“I do,” you reply firmly.

Finally, you turn to Murk. “Murk, you got a good scare. I hope you’re alright. Your Ki sense is incredibly useful. Announcing our intentions to the spirits helped a lot, I think you’re onto something… but there is something I need to talk to you about privately.”

“Marrow, I’d rather you say it in front of my team,” Murk says, lifting his chin.

“Alright then.” You pause, choosing your words. “You don’t have to answer now… but do you have thestralism?”

All eyes snap to Murk, Vale’s mouth hanging open, while Doc shoots you a brief look that clearly says I suspected as much too.

Doodles tilts her head. “Are you going to send him to an asylum for treatment?”

“No, Doodles,” you say with a calm sigh. “And there are no asylums. They were all closed two decades ago.”

Murk looks between you all, then exhales. “It’s that obvious, huh.”

Vale pales a little. “You mean you… eat bugs?”

Murk shoots her a sharp look. “Before you say anything else,no. I don’t have it bad. Nopony needs to worry about me sinking my fangs into your necks.”

“Vale,” you warn gently, “enough.”

 

You turn back to Murk. “We’ll talk more about it another time. As for the situation down there—you mentioned the burning army. And we keep hearing this place was built on ashes. I always thought it was the unicorns who burned the pegasi, but… maybe here the bats burned both sides and tossed their bones into the pit before Sequi Wisp could free their spirits.”

Murk scrunches his face. “If you’re talking about the Battle of Darkstone Woods, that was miles from here.”

Doc speaks up, adjusting his glasses. “Unless it was revenge from the batponies. Either that, or history likes to rhyme.”

“Either way,” you continue, “there might be an army of vengeful, bat-hating spirits sealed down there. For tonight we’re done, but I think our next steps should be clearer. First, talk to Rounded Screw or his workers. Figure out what exactly they needed to reach in the crypt. If they tried getting past that metal grille, I can see why the guard spirits tried to drive them off.”

You pace a little, ear flicking as you go from debriefing to free-flowing thought. “Then ask the guard captain about the history of the royal guards stationed here. Talk to Blessed Ashes about White Spirit and the undefaced Lunite emblem. After that, maybe we go back down without Murk, to see if we can discuss arrangements for construction that won’t disturb the oubliette. Because if there’s really an army in that pit… I don’t think we’re the ones who can exorcise them.”

You finally look back at them. Vale is smirking, Murk is sighing quietly, and Doc is staring out the stained glass window like he’s pretending not to be listening.

You catch their expressions and huff. “Alright, sorry for unloading all that on you. There’s a lot more to this case than it looked. Any comments?”

Three silent shakes of the head.

Vale chuckles. “I think you covered most of it, Marrow. But does your mind ever take a rest?”

“No… it doesn’t,” you admit. “Now let’s head to the Inn. I did promise you, after all, Vale.”

Vale brightens. “That’s more like it.”

You all step out of the Temple and make your way down the dark quiet street toward the Inn, hooves tapping softly against the cobblestones. Halfway there you stop and pat your chest.

“Damn. I don’t have any bits. Can’t even repay you for that drink earlier, Vale.”

Vale raises an eyebrow at you. “I didn’t buy them. I put it on a tab. The Inn sends an invoice to base every week.”

You stare at her. “And how exactly am I supposed to hide that in the unit expenses?”

She shrugs, completely unfazed. “I don’t know. That’s why we have unit leaders.”

You groan and start walking, already imagining the growing stack of drink charges and praying your team doesn’t turn out to be heavy drinkers

You keep walking, but your mind won’t leave the temple. It lingers on the hollow beneath it on whatever might be waiting down there. You’ll need to keep things quiet long enough for the workers to stabilize the foundation, but that won’t be enough. HQ maybe needs to be informed. With any luck they’ll send an attachment, or at least some proper equipment, before those spirits decide to remind everypony they’re still there.

You reach the Inn, and even from outside you can feel it,deep bass thumping through the door, piano keys rolling like warm rain, and every now and then a bright, sharp cry from a saxophone cutting through the night air.

You push the door open.

The Inn is alive.

Every table is packed, ponies squeezed shoulder to shoulder, drinks raised, conversations buzzing over the music. The impromptu dancefloor you'd seen earlier is now a swirling mess of hooves and wings, couples spinning, friends laughing, a few ponies swaying in their own little worlds as the rhythm moves them.

Up on stage, Philo is singing her heart out,one wing wrapped around the microphone stand, her voice smooth and smoky as it glides through the melody. Her free wing flicks in time to the beat, her eyes shimmering under the candle lights.

The double bass player, a tall, lanky stallion with a shaggy mane half-hiding his eyes, stands at the back of the stage, he plucks the strings with slow, confident strum. Each note thrums through the inn’s wooden floorboards, vibrating up your legs like a second pulse.

Beside him, perched on a padded stool, is something you didn’t expect, a gryphon pianist. Her feathers gleam bronze under the lights, and her talons dance over the keys with effortless grace. She plays like she’s not touching the piano so much as coaxing it.

And completing the ensemble, a unicorn stallion steps forward with his saxophone. His horn glows faintly as he adjusts the valves, then he leans in, eyes half-closed, and unleashes a ribbon of sound. Smooth and soulful

It’s a strange trio, unusual even for a travelling band, but together they sound incredible—tight, harmonious, like they’ve been playing for decades.

Vale leans closer to you, voice raised over the music.

“Okay… credit where it's due. This was a good idea.”

For a moment, the four of you just stand there in the doorway, letting the energy of the room wash over you. After everything in the crypt, the music feels almost unreal,too warm, too alive, too normal.But it's exactly what you need.

You and your team approach the bar. Extra staff bustle behind it now, sliding ciders down the counter, tapping beers, and measuring spirits for ponies who want something stronger.

“I’ll get the drinks. Ciders?” Murk asks, leaning his forelegs on the bar.

You and Vale nod.

“I’ll pass on cider. Too sweet for me,” Doc says. “Double whiskey. Anythin’ from the frontier’ll do. Neat.”

Murk nods and turns, but before he can call for service, the mule from earlier steps in front of him,Meadow, if you remember Philo’s introduction right.

“Oh! I was wondering if there was a bat in the new unit.” Meadow’s long ears perk as she smiles. “What can I get you?”

An awkward silence drops between them.

“What are you?” Murk blurts, skipping straight past any tact.

Vale snorts. “Smooth…”

Meadow laughs warmly. “I’m a mule. Never seen one before?”

“No… I-I haven’t,” Murk admits. “I, uh… four ciders, please…”

“Murk, three ciders. Three,” Vale corrects, grinning. “And a double whiskey for Doc.”

“Right. Three…” Murk mumbles, still staring at Meadow as if she’s the only pony in the room.

“I’ll get you three ciders and a double whiskey,” Meadow says, her ice-blue eyes full of nothing but kindness before she turns to pour the drinks.

A moment later, three tankards and a glass slide across the bar. “On the tab?”

“Uh… yes. A-and put a drink on there for yourself…” Murk stammers, his tail flicking like a metronome.

“Thank you. I’ll have it after my shift,...five minutes from now.” She gives him one more smile before flicking her tail and moving on to the next customers.

You roll your eyes and glance around. By the fireplace, the old stallions are still camped out, their table now buried under tankards and empty glasses. They’ve gained a newcomer, an elderly batpony mare who’s aged gracefully. Oddly, she wears a white blindfold, tucked neatly beneath her long fringe. A white cane rests against the table beside her.

You scan the crowd, half-hoping to spot the priest. Odd, maybe, but he strikes you as the type who enjoys a quiet tipple after a long day of service. No such luck. Instead, your eyes drift back to the old batpony seated with Spear, Lonesome, and Bailey.

Turning back to your team, you immediately notice Murk and Vale have already disappeared into the crush of the dance floor. Only Doc remains at your side.

With a sigh, you head toward the table by the fire. Spear looks up and sets down his tankard.

“Did the case go well?”

“Somewhat. The case is still open, so I can’t discuss much.”

“Is this the old pone corner?” Doc asks as he places his whiskey on the table.

Lonesome barks a laugh. “If you want to complain about the foals of today, this is the place.”

“Good enough for me.” Doc pulls up a stool. “Name’s Elder Stitch, just call me Doc.”

The three stallions nod and introduce themselves in turn. While they fall into small talk, your attention shifts to the old mare. She sits perfectly still, one hoof tapping lightly on the table in time with the music.

“You must be Brio,” you say.

“Are you a tax collector?” the mare cackles. “Ah, but yes, that’s me. And I know who you are. I can smell the salt and chalk on you.”

Your gaze drops to her cane, curiosity narrowing your eyes. “Since when do blind bats need canes?”

“To smack misbehaving stallions away from my daughter… and to toy with ponies who forget bats have very good hearing.” Brio shrugs. “Marrow, isn’t it?”

“I’m the new PHEER-” you begin, but she cuts you off.

“I know. News doesn’t take long to reach me, dear.”

“Is that thanks to your incredible hearing, or do you have contacts?” you ask.

“Hearing’s useful,” Brio says, tilting her head toward the old stallions, “but a network of retired ponies who love to gossip puts any agency to shame , even our classified friends.”

“Well, then you probably know we’re the new unit here to finish what the old one started.”

“Started? Hah.” Brio shakes her head. “In Unit Y, you maintain the status quo. I presume you know the warnings.”

“I do.”

“Leave the past buried and leave those spirits be. Solve a case now and then to keep HQ happy ,but the warnings,” She cuts herself off and flicks an ear toward the table of stallions. “Damn it. Follow me outside.”

“You need help?” you ask as she rises.

“Kind of you, but I know where the door is,” she says, tapping her cane once as she makes for the exit.

You follow her into the crisp night air, settling at one of the outdoor benches. Brio sits opposite you, facing the cool breeze.

Her ears swivel. “We should be fine to talk here. What I’m about to tell you is what I told the previous Unit Y.” She exhales slowly. “Accept the warnings as they are. They might seem unrelated, but they’re not. It’s layers of history. Peel too many away, and Hornburn will end up like Blackhoof.”

Hearing another operative speak of that hill in the open gives the words weight. This mare knows the nondisclosure still applies after retirement.

You frown. “I’ve only heard rumors, something about the veil being too thin there.”

“It’s true,” she says. “Some spirits work tirelessly to keep that from happening here. Beneath our hooves, the ashes of revenge still burn deep.”

“I keep hearing that,” you admit. Your mind flicks back to the Temple. “We had a case today, four spirit guards trying very hard to make our batpony leave.”

Brio is quiet a moment. “Did you find the cause of the haunting?”

You nod. “Somepony tried to open the metal cover of the oubliette. They bent it all up.”

A flicker of real fear crosses her face. “Then I’m glad they didn’t manage it. Nopony knows what’s down there. I don’t want to know. Leave those guard spirits be, and get that metal cover repaired.”

“This would all be easier if the notes and paperwork hadn’t vanished,” you mutter.

“What do you mean?” Brio asks.

“There’s nothing. It was all cleared out before the unit came to the Moors. All that’s left are the warnings.”

Brio stiffens. “Who are you accusing? I’ve no hoof in that. And wiping logs puts operatives at extreme risk.”

“I know,” you say. “But yes, all that’s left is a set of warnings written on an old patrol order sheet.”

“I’m sorry,” Brio says softly. “I can’t help you there. Whoever did it… it wasn’t me. And if that’s truly all that remains, then you lot are working half-blind.”

“I’m aware,” you reply.

A silence settles between you both, stretched thin by the muffled music drifting out of the inn. The chatter, the clinking glasses, the saxophone, all of it feels strangely distant.

“Your team,” you say at last. “The ones the old stallions keep hinting about. What happened to them?”

Brio groans softly. “Those old stallions flapping their gums again…” She shifts, the boards beneath her hooves creaking. “You mean after I ended up like this?”

“Yeah.”

“It was me and Darken Spark,that was the unicorn who attacked me at the Songbird Tree.” Her voice turns sharp, almost bitter. “And trust me, never bring a unicorn to that thing.”

“I already have,” you admit. “Vale had her horn ring on, thank the stars. She realised the thoughts weren’t hers. It took me longer to shake off.”

Brio tilts her head. “Sounds like you’re more receptive to possession than unicorns.”

“He’s really easy to attach to,” Doodles chirps as she materializes beside you, hovering just above the bench.

You keep your gaze straight ahead, refusing to indulge the ghost. “I’m aware,” you mutter. “I take precautions. Still… What happened to your team?”

Brio exhales slowly through her nose. “If you must know… it’s why the Songbird Tree is on the list now. Darken got charged, bodily harm, assault. Dishonourable discharge from PHEER. After that, I don’t know what became of him.”

“And the others?”

“Stars and Blinken,” she says quietly. “The other two bats. They kept working cases for a while, but… fate has a funny way of catching up to ponies like us.”

Your shoulders tense. “What happened to them?”

Brio folds her hooves, blindfold shifting slightly as she bows her head.

“Stars,” she begins, “was a show-off. Brilliant operative, stupid bravery. Tried to solo a case he should’ve waited on.” She pauses. “They found him dead in the graveyard.”

You swallow.

“And Blinken?” you ask, voice low.

Brio’s ears droop. “Poor mare blinked out of existence in the western woods. Just… gone. Nothing left but her vest and her gear.”

“I guess you expect us to sit on the sidelines until our fate catches up to us too,” you sigh. “But I didn’t join PHEER to stand around. I joined to help ponies, dead or alive.” You pause, letting the admission settle between you. “We can at least research them… for now.”

“You’ve seen that wall in the cottage?” Brio asks.

“I have. The villagers don’t want that list getting any longer.” You exhale. “Maybe more retired names will end up there someday.” Another thought occurs to you. “Rounded Screw and his ponies — they’re not from around here, right?”

“You mean the construction pony?” Brio tilts her head. “No. He and his crew are from Baltimare. They’ve also been building new houses here.”

Your mind returns to the bent metal cover of the oubliette. One of his workers must have damaged it, disturbing the spirits. Maybe it’s time to find someone who can repair it — or replace it entirely.

“Brio, is there a blacksmith in Hornburn? The metal down in that crypt is bent and rusted to Tartarus and back.”

“There is a smith,” Brio replies. “Used to have a sign, too, until the fool decided to tear it down. His workshop’s at the end of Old Crest. Best go see him.” She hesitates, then adds, “But I’ll warn you, he loves his conspiracies. Take everything he says with a pinch of salt.”

“We’ll get it sorted,” you say. “We can keep the status quo going for a while, but I’m worried somepony’s going to slip up eventually and light the powder keg themselves…”

Another silence settles. Brio’s face is unreadable beneath the blindfold, you’re left guessing at her expression.

“I know,” she murmurs at last. “Those new residents, I fear it’ll be one of them. Ponies these days don’t believe in the paranormal like they used to. They explain it away with ‘science’ they barely understand, or blame it on bad sleep.” She turns her head toward you, ears angled fully forward. “Ponies like you and me… we deal with the paranormal every night. We know the signs. We’re attuned.” Her voice lowers. “They aren’t.”

“What gave you the courage to want to stay here in this town?” you ask.

“Courage?”

“Doesn't this place remind her of too many bad memories, when her team was destroyed and disbanded?” you ask.

“I miss them, don’t get me wrong. But here I have friends along with the bad memories. If I left, that means the memories won.” Brio shakes her head lightly. “Besides, my stallion is here. Too bad I still don’t know what he looks like. So let me know if he’s a total hunk or not—nopony ever gives me a straight answer.” She laughs.

A cold gust slices across your coat. You glance around at the empty dark street. “Why did you ask me to follow you out here? Is there somepony inside you didn’t want listening in?”

“No pony in particular. Just escaping the gossip…” Brio says, her voice trailing off like she changed her mind halfway through.

“But you’re willing to talk to me, and be alone with me? We only just met,” you press.

“Marrow Dirge, isn’t it?” Brio folds her wings and shrugs. “I don’t know. I just like your name.” She stretches stiffly, shivering. “Come on. Let’s get inside. This cold is getting to these old bones, and I’m missing my daughter’s performance.”

Brio slips off the bench, trots to the door, and swings it open.

You follow her back in. The band pauses to retune, and Philo is already onstage. She gulps down the last of her drink and leans into the microphone.

“I hope everypony is enjoying themselves!”

Cheers erupt from the crowd, stomping and whooping for more.

“Alright, alright,” she laughs. “I’ve got a few more. Here’s one to the Blue Notes…”

The piano rolls out a few soft chords, then builds. The bass thumps in, slow and smoky.

Philo taps her back hoof to the beat. Then she starts to sing, her voice cheery yet soulful:

Crowds lined up by the marquee lights,~

Hooves tapping out the rhythm of the night.~

Blue Notes tuning on the shadowed stage,~

Warm brass humming like a caged-up blaze.~

Ponies cheering as the curtains rise~

No one sees the spark behind backstage ignite.~

Vale barrels up to you, grinning, flushed, smelling of liquor. You can smell the alcohol before she even stops moving.

“Marrow!” she shouts over the music. “Come on, let’s dance!”

You decide to cut loose. To be fair, you haven’t had a break all week,barely even gave the team a chance to settle before diving straight into a case. A little dancing won’t kill you. At least dancing isn't your fate.

Vale, already halfway to the stage, grabs your foreleg and yanks you along.

“Alright, alright, I’m going…” you laugh, stumbling as she spins you toward the crowd of swaying ponies.

Philo leans forward on the mic, her wing curled around the stand as the piano ripples into the pre-chorus. Lights shimmer off the brass player as the beat picks up.

Her voice curves into the room like smoke:

But the beat’s too sweet, and the groove’s too fine,~

To notice little embers dancing out of tiiiime~

1. You don’t know how to dance, just flail your legs around where even fate avoids you.

2. Just sway and tap.

3. You know how to groove. Just step out of time.

4. Swing that mare.

5. Outa my way, I’m the lord of the dance.

You move toward the center of the dance floor. Once you’re there,really there,your body remembers what to do. You know how to move your bones. Music has always had a way of unhooking the tension, letting you be.

Philo sweeps into the chorus, her voice rich and soaring:

Oh, the Blue Notes burn bright tonight,~

Music glowing hot like fire in flight.~

Swing so sharp it cuts like faaate,~

Smoke in the rafters keeping time too late.~

Oh, the Blue Notes burn bright tonight—~

And everypony keeps dancing through the niiight.~

The crowd surges with the beat, hooves pounding, wings flaring, the whole tavern thrumming like a living thing.

You catch Vale by the foreleg and pull her upright onto her hind legs. She gives a startled laugh,just before you swing her into your chest in one smooth, practiced motion. Her eyes go wide at the unexpected groove you drop her into.

The next beat hits. You pivot, swing her back out, keep hold of her hoof, and spin her around. Vale whoops, mane flying, still looking shocked.

Ponies nearby cheer as the two of you find a rhythm sharper than the band’s brass. The dancers around you instinctively part, giving space as you and Vale carve out a spotlight of your own.

Philo continues to sing, breaking into the next verse.

A crackle whispers through the saxophone’s cry,~

Bass rumbles deep like a storm in the sky.~

Flames creep slow up a velvet drape,~

Like a shy little shadow learning to escape.~

Ponies cheer louder as the solo soar,~

Never hearing smoke kiss the backstage door.~

You know how to dance, now does everyone else.

You continue swinging, and twirling Vale, she laughs and grins are you both dance to the music. You play it cool for now, just repeat the same moves,

Philo starts to sing another pre chorus, the beat is still up beat.

Heat curls around the rhythm section’s groove,~

But the crowd’s locked in…they don’t wanna move~

She gave no time but hit the notes cruising into the main chorus.

Ooooh, the Blue Notes burn bright tonight,~

Every chord a spark, every riff a bite.~

Trumpets blazing hotter than the rising haze,~

Dancing on a floor set to brighter days.~

Oh, the Blue Notes burn bright tonight~

Till the spotlight melts into a wildfire bite.~

 

You’re having too much fun to stop now,Vale can really shake her flank, and the temptation to show off just a little more is impossible to resist. The rhythm has fully ensnared you, pulling you along whether you like it or not.

Philo erupts into the final chorus, and suddenly everypony’s eyes are on you both. The crowd parts into a wide circle, ponies stomping and clapping their hooves in time, cheering you on.

Oh, the Blue Notes burn bright tonight,~

Melody racing the flames outright.~

Crowd breaks loose in a frantic tide~

You catch Vale’s hoof, spinning her out, her mane fanning behind her as she laughs breathlessly. Pulling her back in, you dip her low, then flick her cleanly to your other foreleg and spin her again, the room roaring around you.

Thunder of hooves in a desperate stride~

For the finale, your hooves find her waist. You gather power in your stance and lift,launching her upward with perfect timing and precision. Her horn barely misses the ceiling before she drops backward into your waiting forelegs, and you guide her through one final sweeping arc.

Oh, the Blue Notes burned bright that night,~

Till the stampede fled into the cold moonlight…

The singing fades as the pianist closes with a final flourish of chords. And there you are,Vale cradled in your forelegs, looking up at you, panting, eyes wide and alight with exhilaration.

You catch the faint blush blooming beneath her fur.

“Marrow… I…” she whispers, breath still unsteady,like she’s holding something back. “I think I need a drink…”

You gently let her slip from your forelegs. Vale steps away, bashful and glowing, then looks back with a shy, giddy smile before trotting toward the bar.

You follow after Vale for a few steps before deciding not to. Better to let the mare cool off for a moment.

You drift to the edge of the dance floor. Patrons pat you on the back as you pass, praising your moves; a few mares even offer their hooves for the next dance, but you decline with a polite smile. Your mind is set on finding Murk.

Your eyes sweep the room. By the fireplace on the far side of the inn, Doc sits with the old stallions. He’s mid-story, forehooves raised as he motions firing a saltblaster, likely retelling some dusty frontier case.

The piano starts again, slow and smoky.

Philo leans into the microphone. “Let’s turn it down a notch after that performance, don’tcha think?”

She taps her hoof, draws in a breath, and begins to sing in a velvet-smooth jazz tone:

Well I walked past my grave last Tuesday night,~

Caught my name in the lamplight glow.~

Fate called at me from the cobblestone street~

And said, “Honey, you already know.”~

You turn just in time to spot Murk being dragged onto the dance floor by the bar mule. She must’ve finished her shift, and immediately hunted him down after.

Murk looks like a bundle of nerves wrapped in a uniform, glancing around as if searching for an escape route.

Meadow laughs softly, then leans close and calls over the music, “Come here, rest your neck against mine and move in time…”

Murk hesitates, then steps in. Their necks touch lightly, and the two of them begin to sway back and forth with the rhythm.

So I tipped my hat to the shadow there~

Said, “You show up more than my friends.”~

Fate just laughed in that gravel-soft way~

“Relax, doll - we all meet in the end.”~

 

Philo continues to sing:

Oh, fate’s got a funny waaaay~

Of tapping your shoulder~

Right when you’re feeling fine.~

You raise a toast to brighter daaays,~

And fate whispers,~

“Don’t worry, sugar ~

You’re right on time.”~

 

You step up to the bar and rest your forehooves on the counter beside Vale.

“Are you alright there? I didn’t shake you around too much, did I?” you ask.

“Not at all.” She turns her head slightly,likely hiding another blush. “Where did you learn to dance like that?”

“More than likely my mother. She had a habit of putting fun in funerals.”

Vale snorts, then laughs. “You’re one weird pony, you know that?”

You wave down the bar staff and order a single whisky. A glass slides your way, and you take a small sip. You’d normally double up, but you’ve been on enough nights out with operatives to know they can become adventures of their own. Best to stay sober.

“Do you want another dance? This one’s a slow song,” you offer.

Vale hesitates, then shakes her head gently. “No… just here is perfect.”

A comfortable silence settles between you. No awkwardness, just the two of you listening as Philo croons through the smoky air.

I danced with fate at the winter ball,~

He stepped on my hooves twice through.~

He said, “You’re not on the list tonight,~

But I’ll make a date for you.”~

So I lit my smoke, sipped my spirit just so,~

And fate leaned over my drink~

“You’re doing great, but darling please,~

Don’t trust everything you think.”~

“You know,” Vale murmurs, “it’s moments like this that make being an operative worth it. And I have to admit,maybe it’s the drink talking, but you, Doc, and Murk… you’re not a bad bunch.” She raises her tankard. “Till fate.”

“Till fate.” You clink your glass against hers.

Vale leans forward, peering across the room at Murk. He’s stiff as a board, eyes wide, dancing with Meadow as if the wrong step might open a sinkhole beneath him.

“Well, it seems Murk is introducing himself to the locals,” Vale says with a smirk. “Look at him, he’s terrified.”

You turn, leaning back against the bar. “He’s doing fine. Honestly, I expected a bat to be a bit smoother.”

’Cause fate’s got a funny way~

Of slipping the bill to you~

Before you even sit down.~

You take a breath, you say you’re okay,~

And fate chuckles,~

“Sure you are-~

For now.”~

Vale sways lightly to the music, smiling. “Same here.”

You turn your attention toward the old stallions clustered by the fireplace,Baily in particular. Your mind drifts back into work mode. Something doesn’t add up. He claimed he’d fallen into a hole in the crypt, but the only hole down there is the sealed pit. Your ear twitches as you think it over. Maybe you should pull him aside later and ask-

A sudden smack on your ear makes you flinch.

Vale snorts. “Your ear is twitching. What are you thinking about?”

She narrows her blue eyes at you over the rim of her tankard, half amused, half suspicious.