Anonfilly, Harmony-less [Part 1]

You wake up under a sky that hurts to look at. The blue is almost painfully bright—too clean, too perfect. Grass cushions your side, but it feels fake. You push up on four green legs that don’t feel like they belong to you, but they work. Your black mane falls into your face. You flick it aside and catch your reflection in a puddle: teal eyes, too small, too sharp. Human eyes in a filly’s skull. Wrong eyes.

You swallow the scream. It coils in your throat, bitter and tight. No pony here would understand the desperation clawing at your chest.

Twilight Sparkle finds you three days later, half-starved, hiding behind Sugarcube Corner. She doesn’t ask where you came from. Just sees a lost foal: no cutie mark, no parents, nothing. She drags you home, dumps you in a castle room, and signs you up for school like picking up strays is just a Tuesday. Maybe it is. Who cares. She calls you “Anon” because you won’t take a pony name. It’s the last thing you’ve got that feels like armor.

You bottle the truth and never spill it. The thought of explaining sparks icy panic—nopony here would ever believe the real story. You’re stuck, exiled in pastel hell, a human mind screaming inside a cartoon filly’s body. Apparently, it’s forever.

School’s even worse than you thought it’d be.

The other foals sing when happy, slipping into harmony like it’s as easy as breathing. You stand in the back during Heartsong Day, feeling like dead weight. You feel nothing—no urge to join, no warmth when the lyrics swell. Just the certainty you don’t belong.

Cheerilee calls on you. You answer, too literal, too sharp, too human. The class shifts away, as if you’re contagious. They don’t even notice—but you do.

The grass in the schoolyard stays pressed down after you step on it. The other fillies run circles around you instead of through, never saying why. Maybe they don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Either way, you’re left on the outside, as always.

You smile because Twilight says ponies are supposed to. You pull your mouth up, but it never touches your eyes. Diamond Tiara calls you “creepy” once, in a low voice, like you’ll pretend you didn’t hear. Silver Spoon giggles, then stops quickly, maybe realizing it’s not safe. After that, you quit pretending to be something you’re not.

You touch Sweetie Belle’s hoof during a group project. She flinches. “Your hoof is warm,” she says, confused, “but… it feels cold, too.” She pulls away and doesn’t touch you again. You don’t blame her.

Apple Bloom tries the hardest—earnest, stubborn, the kind of pony who believes friendship can fix anything, a lot like Twilight. She invites you to the Crusader clubhouse. You go once, sitting in the corner while they brainstorm new ways to earn their cutie marks. They talk about destiny, special talents, and the magic of friendship, and you listen and nod at the right times. When they ask what you think your special talent might be, you shrug and say, “I don’t think I have one.” The words hang for a moment, heavier than you meant.

The silence that follows is uncomfortable.

After that, the invites dry up. School days blur together. You’re just another face in the back—another pony who doesn’t fit, drifting farther from whatever warmth the group pretends to have. You try not to care, but it still stings.

Twilight worries. All the time. She buries herself in books about ‘delayed magical resonance’ and ‘emotional integration,’ like she’ll find a fix for you in the footnotes. She schedules more lessons, keeps asking if you’re happy—her voice soft and careful, as if you might break if she pushes.

You say yes every time. It’s easier than explaining that happiness here is a language you never learned. It isn’t that you can’t be happy, just that there’s no reason to try.

Pinkie Pie tries. God, she tries. But you’re just done. You eat a cupcake, drink the punch, and bail before the singing starts up again. She never really gives up, but you stop hoping.

At night, you stand on the castle balcony, staring out at Ponyville. Lights shine in windows and laughter drifts up—Friendship really is magic here, but you only ever feel it from the outside.

You feel nothing. Not even the ache of missing out—just a hollow spot where it should be.

You’re out of place—an absence nopony notices until it’s all that’s left in the room and everypony’s already moved on.

Worst part? Some traitor part of you likes it. Human friends left scars. Here, nopony gets close enough for that. Maybe that’s a relief. Or maybe it just means you’re stuck this way.

You are Anonfilly.

You are alone, and it’s a kind of quiet that never really goes away.

And the grass still doesn’t bounce back when you leave, as if it refuses to forget you were ever there.

===

Some afternoons, the castle feels too bright, and Twilight’s gentle questions stack up—like she’s waiting for you to act like a normal filly. “Are you sleeping okay?” she’ll ask, voice soft, eyes searching your muzzle for something that isn’t there. “Do you want to talk about… anything?” She asks again and again, careful and patient, hoping you’ll finally open up and act like her idea of a foal. You don’t answer. You never really answer. You just mutter something vague, "Yeah, sure, maybe later." Your eyes fall to the floor, and you wait for her to turn back to her books, her worry hanging in the air.

Then you slip out without a word, letting the door click quietly behind you, and walk until Ponyville’s neat fences fade into tangled undergrowth.

The Everfree Forest doesn’t welcome anything, and that’s exactly why you keep coming back. It treats you like it treats everything else—like you don’t matter. No fake smiles, no forced friendship, just honest indifference.

You pass the last sign warning foals away. The atmosphere thickens, heavy and honest. No pegasi shape the clouds, no earth ponies force flowers. Things grow, move, and hunt as they want. If they catch you, they won’t apologize.

You settle on a fallen log at the edge of a clearing. Your small green body looks absurd against the rough bark, but nopony watches. A manticore roars further in the forest—raw, hungry, real. You don’t flinch. A timberwolf's eyes glow out of the dark and lock on you. No fake smiles, no small talk. Just that old animal math: prey or threat? Your heart pounds, but you keep your gaze steady.

You stare back with your stupid little sharp teal eyes, the same fucked up beady shit that makes everypony flinch and look anywhere else.

It weighs you for a second. Decides nah, not worth the hassle. Slips back into the brush like you were never there.

Figures. Even the goddamn wildlife knows better.

Sometimes you go farther—past poison joke you’ve learned to avoid and places with watchful air—until you reach ruined castle stones. Stone doesn’t sing, doesn’t demand you join a chorus. You’d buck it if it tried. Here, at least, you can sit and hear yourself think.

One afternoon, you slump beside an oily black stream under the canopy, reeds scratching at your sides. A cockatrice slithers out, fixing those stupid snake eyes on you. Magic buzzes in the air, sharp, promising stone. You stare back, not blinking. After everything, what’s one more magical animal attack?

You don’t blink, don’t even try. You’ve already been twisted into this wrong-shaped thing once—what’s one more coat of rock gonna do, really? The cockatrice snarls, low and pissed, like you personally ruined its day. Then it backs off into the reeds. Something inside you just... won’t go solid. Figures.

Twilight notices the dirt on your coat, the leaves woven in your mane, the scratches that never quite bleed properly. She asks where you have been. You shrug and answer, “Walking.”

She offers to tag along. Keep you safe, she says, voice soft with concern. You tell her no—quiet, done. She backs off. Ponies are too polite to push; they just wilt.

Still, the worry hangs off her like damp fur. The rest of Ponyville keeps their distance. If you lock your fucked up eyes with anypony, their gaze slides away fast—slick as oil over water. Every single time. You almost laugh at how predictable it is.

You keep returning because the Everfree never lies. Ponyville smiles too wide, sings too ready, and always offers forever in cupcakes. The forest offers nothing except honesty: it watches, waits, and sometimes tries to kill you. That honesty is something you can understand.

Lately, though, even that honesty has shifted.

You are picking burrs from your tail on the usual rotten log when the same timberwolf pack from last week appears. They spread through the ferns, confident in their own territory, until the alpha spots you.

It freezes completely. This is not the usual cautious pause. Its glowing eyes widen, its wooden body stiffens with a creak, and a frightened whine escapes it. The rest of the pack echoes the sound. Then they flee, crashing through brush and saplings as though pursued by something enormous.

You didn’t move. You hardly ever do—especially when it matters. You just watch everything play out, waiting for the next thing to go wrong.

Later, a scarred manticore approaches the clearing. It should see easy prey in a lone filly. Instead, it meets your eyes for an instant, bellows in pure terror, and bolts away.

Even plants flinch now. Poison joke wilts as you pass. Choke-vines that once snared your leg now recoil, scorched. It’s not just everypony that avoids you these days.

You sit for a long time afterward, staring at the empty spaces they left behind. The silence feels heavy, but you don’t bother filling it. You’re used to it by now.

Part of you wants to feel powerful—a small, unmarked earth filly frightening creatures that could swallow her whole. But mostly, you feel confusion, and that’s all you allow yourself.

Nothing in the show prepared you for monsters fleeing from a filly. You watched every episode—back when this was just pixels and background noise. Manticores charge. Timberwolves hunt in packs. Cockatrices petrify without hesitation. They don’t run from anypony, let alone a filly.

So why are they running from you?

You turn the question over the entire walk home. Maybe it’s the eyes—too small, too beady, too much like a creature that remembers old nightmares. Maybe you smell wrong, like an outsider. Maybe the forest can sense that whatever’s inside you isn’t supposed to be here.

You don’t know. You just keep walking, letting the question gnaw at the back of your mind.

You can’t ask anypony. If Twilight knew how far you really wander, she’d panic. The other foals already keep their distance. If they heard monsters fear you now, the whispers would only get worse.

So you keep the secret. You keep returning—drawn despite it all, because there’s nowhere else to turn. Even monsters keep their distance, and home is just a place you sleep, never somewhere you belong.

Because even when the Everfree itself has begun to fear you, it’s still the only place that never promises everything will be all right. Here, you know where you stand.

===

You venture deeper than usual today, farther than you normally go. The light filters through the vines and leaves, turning greenish and dim. Your hooves sink into the moist ground with each step. The Everfree doesn't bother hiding its sounds: distant roars, something feeding, leaves rustling as hidden creatures move nearby. It’s honest, at least. No harmony here—just nature doing what it wants.

You’re not looking for anything in particular when the scent of smoldering wood and crushed herbs hits your nose.

You stop abruptly.

You stumble into a tiny clearing you’re sure you’ve never seen before, and there’s Zecora standing in the middle, grinding herbs like she owns the place.

Her striped coat catches the dim light. Those gold rings (holy fuck they’re huge) gleam around her neck and ears while she grinds something steaming in a mortar. Masks hang from the branches overhead, just dangling. Her hut must be close. You've stumbled right into her space without meaning to. She hasn't noticed you yet. She hums a low, rhythmic tune—nothing like the bright, grating pony songs. More like a chant you almost recognize but can't place.

You know you should leave. Turn around and slip away before she spots the weird green filly with the fucked up eyes. Ponies in town already keep their distance; a zebra who chooses to live out here probably has even less tolerance for uninvited guests.

Your legs refuse to obey. You want to run, but you just stand there, stuck between wanting to bolt and wanting to see what happens.

Zecora raises her head. Her gaze settles on you immediately, as though she sensed your presence all along.

You brace for the usual reaction: the subtle flinch, the awkward retreat, the frozen smile that pops up whenever everypony senses how empty you feel inside.

None of it happens. Zecora just stares, patient, not judging, not afraid. It almost throws you off.

She tilts her head, ears flicking forward, and looks at you the way Fluttershy would look at a stray animal: curious, cautious, not scared. You’re used to making people nervous, not the other way around.

“A filly alone in the Everfree’s embrace,” she says in her low, rolling voice, “with eyes that hold a stranger’s face.”

You shift your hooves, stubborn, refusing to drop your gaze first. Of course she notices the eyes right away—everypony does. But at least she doesn’t look away.

You stay silent, uncertain how to start a conversation that doesn’t rely on lying your flank off. Your tail flicks nervously while you wait for her to break the silence.

Zecora sets the pestle aside. “The forest beasts have fled your path today. Their fear hangs thick like early fog. Tell me, little one, why do they run away when you have neither fang nor claw to twist?”

You blink in surprise. She noticed the predators fleeing, or perhaps sensed it. You assumed nopony paid close enough attention.

You shrug with a small, sharp motion. “I don’t know. They just do.”

She studies you for a long moment, offering no fake kindness or friendship speech. Just that steady stare, like she sees right through your act. You shift your weight, wishing she’d just look away.

“Come,” she says at last, nodding toward the stone. “Sit if you wish. The forest guards its secrets closely, but sometimes it shares them over a dish.”

A small wooden bowl rests beside her, holding a dark, steaming liquid that smells bitter and earthy—real, not some pony tea from the castle. You hesitate, uncertain if this is a test, genuine hospitality, or just another weird day in the Everfree. Your ears flick back as you watch her.

You pause. Every instinct tells you to bolt back to the castle, to the empty balcony where nopony asks questions. Yet here’s somepony who doesn’t pretend you fit in, who doesn’t pretend anything at all.

You step into the clearing, hooves unsteady but head held high enough not to look weak. You glance once at Zecora, searching her face for any sign of judgment. There’s none. You breathe out and sit down.

The air near her feels different. No fake harmony, just real and steady.

You settle on the root across from her, tucking your small hooves beneath you, trying not to look as nervous as you feel. Bitter steam rises from the bowl between you, curling around your muzzle. You keep your eyes low and wait for Zecora to speak first, ears flicking to catch every sound.

Zecora doesn’t push. She just waits, grinding another pinch of dried rust-colored herbs into the mortar. The scrape of stone against stone is the only sound for a while. You listen, letting it anchor you in the moment.

At last, you speak. Your voice is flat and small, just like always, but you force yourself to meet her eyes.

“It’s probably the eyes.”

You keep your gaze on the bowl, on its dark surface that reflects nothing properly.

“They’re too small. Too beady, I suppose. Not like pony eyes. Everypony in town stares for a moment, then looks away quickly, as if prolonged contact might bite them. The fillies and colts avoid playing near me. The adults smile only with their mouths. Even Twilight sometimes flinches when she believes I am not looking.”

You shrug again, more gently this time. The words feel heavier now, like you’re finally admitting it out loud.

“So if my eyes freak out ponies, it makes sense they’d scare the stuff out here too. Timberwolves, manticores, whatever. They look once and bolt. I never asked for it, but here we are.”

You look up at her, studying her unreadable expression.

Zecora’s expression doesn’t change—no pity, no fake reassurance—just that steady look, like she actually gets what you mean. It’s almost a relief.

She nods once, slowly. There’s no false comfort, no quick fixes—just honesty. The kind you almost appreciate.

“Eyes are windows, this is true,” she says, “but not all windows show the same view. Some reveal a storm within the soul. Others display a place where storms have taken toll.”

She taps the pestle lightly against the mortar’s rim, producing a soft clack. It’s a small, grounding sound. You focus on it while you gather your thoughts.

“Your eyes unsettle, this I see. Yet not from smallness or from bead. Something older still lingers there, a shadow cast by what you have been, or where.”

You tense—heart pounding loud in your chest, ears flicking back. For a second, you wish you could disappear, but you hold your ground. Zecora’s gaze doesn’t leave you.

She can’t possibly know. Nopony can know. You almost want to ask her anyway, just to see what she’d say.

Yet she does not pursue it. Instead, she slides the bowl across the stone toward you.

“Drink if thirst or curiosity calls. The brew is bitter, but it shows no false walls.”

You study the dark liquid, watching the way it swirls. It smells earthy, sharp, and unfamiliar. You wonder if it’ll taste as strange as you feel. You glance at Zecora for a sign, but she gives you nothing.

You are not yet prepared for whatever truth might lie at the bottom. But you make yourself stay, hooves pressed flat to the stone, refusing to back down.

Still, you do not depart. You wait, stubborn as ever, until you’re ready to face whatever comes next.

You stare at the bowl. Steam’s almost gone, the smell clings like dirt under your hooves. You’re not thirsty, just too tired to leave. Zecora isn’t making you.

You lean forward and drink. It burns a little going down, but you don’t cough—no way you’re giving Zecora that satisfaction. You set the bowl down and wipe your mouth with the back of your hoof.

It tastes worse than you thought. Bitter, like licking rust and old ashes. Sits in your gut like a rock. Nothing happens. Then this weird warmth crawls up, not friendly, just there, like something waking up inside you.

Zecora observes without triumph or concern. She merely waits.

You set the empty bowl down, careful not to spill. When you finally speak, your voice comes out rough, like you haven’t used it in weeks.

“Well?”

She tilts her head, gold rings clinking softly.

“A brew to quiet masks and veils,” she says. “It lets the hidden speak its tales.”

You wait for visions, some big reveal, or any sign that something’s changed. Nothing happens. Just the same old emptiness, now with a bitter aftertaste. You snort quietly and look away. Figures.

Zecora continues.

“I know another with a gifted gaze. The pegasus named Fluttershy, her Stare brings beasts to heel in gentle ways. A mother’s scold, a quiet shame. They wilt beneath it all the same.”

You know the Stare well. You remember the episode: Fluttershy locks eyes with a dragon until it cries. Cockatrices cower instead of turning her to stone. She makes it look easy, like everything else in Equestria.

You shift slightly on the root, glancing away as the memory hits. “Yeah. I remember.”

Zecora’s eyes narrow in thought.

“But yours is different, little stray. Her Stare can be turned away. She summons it when need arises and releases it when mercy calls.”

She leans forward. The masks on the branches seem to incline with her.

“Yours never rests. It never yields. It simply exists. And what it conveys is not a mother’s gentle rebuke. It is something more ancient, deeper, something that causes the wild to forget hunger and recall only fear.”

You sense it then: the brew’s warmth behind your eyes. It brings no vision, only clarity.

The timberwolves fled not because they perceived you as a threat.

They fled because your stare told them they were prey.

You can't turn it off. Never could.

You’ve tried everything: blink like a maniac, stare at your hooves, squeeze your lids shut till spots dance for minutes. Doesn’t fucking matter. One glance and whatever creepy old thing squats behind your pupils wakes up and says hello.

You stare at your dumb green hooves, still with no answers. Sure, you’re ex-human, but that shouldn’t make everything act like you’re about to eat their kids. You sigh, wishing for something as simple as a normal problem.

“So that’s it,” you mutter. “Permanent monster-repellent face. Fucking fantastic.”

Zecora neither laughs nor offers consolation.

“Repellent, yes. But not without cost. What drives away the beast may also drive away the friend you have lost.”

You almost snort; you already understood that truth. It’s old news by now.

The warmth recedes. Forest sounds return gradually—far-off calls, trembling leaves, everything resuming its ordinary rhythm. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Figures. The Everfree always goes back to pretending you weren’t there.

You stand up, feeling heavier for no good fucking reason.

“Thanks for the drink,” you say. Flat. Closest you've come to meaning it in months. You stand up. Alone. Still fucked up, still yourself.

You turn to leave. The clearing seems smaller now, or perhaps you do.

Her voice follows softly, still rhyming.

“The Stare you carry cannot cease. Yet even monsters sometimes find their peace.”

You don’t reply. Sometimes silence is the only answer you have left.

You walk deeper into the trees, where predators part before you.

For once, the silence feels truly yours. You walk on, not minding the weight of your own company.

===

You go deeper than Zecora’s clearing, farther than you’ve ever bothered before. The taste of her brew still clings to your tongue, bitter and sharp, like a warning you can’t spit out. The trail’s gone, just mud and vines dragging at your legs. Air thick with rot and old magic.

You seek nothing in particular, again. You simply walk until the castle and Twilight’s gentle, searching glances feel distant enough to ignore.

A sudden buzz of wings cuts through the damp quiet. Too many and too perfectly synchronized. These are not birds or pegasi.

Changelings.

You slip behind a curtain of hanging moss and peer through the gaps. Five or six of them glide in formation, black carapaces shining as wet stone, legs riddled with holes, horns jagged and cruel. They remain unreformed, untouched by Thorax’s colorful transformation. They move like a disciplined patrol, heads swiveling, tasting the air with forked tongues.

One stops abruptly. It sniffs, then turns toward your hiding place.

You step out into the open. Hiding seems pointless. You are small, alone, and long past pretending you fit anywhere in this world.

They notice you at once.

Their buzzing falters. Wings stutter in mid-air. The entire patrol hovers for a moment before landing in a loose half-circle that blocks both forward and backward paths.

The leader stands taller than the rest, a thin scar crossing one compound eye. He tilts his head and speaks in a voice veiled like scraping chitin.

“A filly,” the leader hisses, voice low and layered like overlapping whispers. “Deep in the Everfree. All alone.”

The others stir, wings buzzing faintly. You catch the wet click of fangs sliding free.

“She shouldn't even be breathing out there,” one rasps from the side. “The timberwolves would've dragged her down. The poison joke. Something should've claimed her by now.” Hundreds of faceted blue eyes snap to your face at once and narrow.

“Those eyes aren't a pony's,” the leader says, slow, tasting the words. “Not anypony we've scented.”

The understanding passes through them: nostrils flare in waves, heads tilt in eerie sync, and a low vibration rises in their throats.

“Not pony,” he finishes. “Not completely.”

You stay quiet. Meet every glittering stare without flinching.

The silence drags on between you, thick and watchful.

You expect hunger. Changelings feed on love, and you carry none. No warmth, no harmony, and nothing they could drain. You assume they will grow angry or attempt to take what little emotion you possess.

Instead, they hesitate.

One drone at the rear edge walks backwards. Another’s wings vibrate with tense energy.

The leader leans closer, attempting menace. “What are you, little thing? Lost your herd? We could help.”

False sweetness drips from his words as green magic flickers around his horn, the beginning of a disguise spell.

You hold his gaze steadily.

The green light sputters and dies.

His compound eyes widen. His legs stiffen. A low, fearful chitter escapes his throat.

The others react instantly. Wings fold tight against their carapaces. They retreat a step, then another.

“She’s empty,” one murmurs, voice textured like a dozen whispers at once. “There’s nothing inside her to taste. No love, no fear, not even a shred of panic. Just... hollow.”

Another shifts closer, fangs half-bared. “She feels wrong. Not sick, not injured. Just wrong. Like something that shouldn’t be walking around wearing pony skin.”

The leader’s wings snap once, a sharp, silencing buzz. He doesn’t look away from you. His compound eyes narrow, studying, calculating.

You haven’t twitched or said a word. You just stand there, small green hooves planted in the dirt, meeting the glittering stares one after another. You wonder if you should try to look less bored, but you’re not sure you care.

The patrol hesitates. A low, uneasy hum flows through them. Wings flutter, heads tilt in uneven waves. One by one, they edge back into the shadows, motions jerky and reluctant. You hold your breath until they’re gone.

Finally, the leader spits a thick glob of black ichor onto the leaves at your feet. It hisses lightly on contact.

“Not worth the risk,” he utters. “Leave her. We move.”

They melt into the undergrowth without another sound, leaving only the wet drip of venom and the low after-buzz in the air.

You stay exactly where you are.

The forest settles around you once more, quiet and indifferent.

Another creature has feared you. It should feel strange, but by now, you’re almost getting used to it.

Another creature has looked into your eyes and found something incomprehensible. You wonder if you’ll ever get an answer yourself.

You resume walking.

Something flickers for once—not hope, just that dead-end curiosity you get when you’ve already lost and nothing matters. You almost welcome it, just for being different.

You wonder what would happen if one of them actually held the stare. Didn’t flinch or bolt—just looked back, unafraid. Would anything change?

The thought sits there—heavy, pointless, and familiar. You let it drift away like so many others.

You almost want to see it. Almost.

But mostly, you just keep walking. Nothing ever really changes, does it?

Far from your solitary path through the forest, in a hive buried beneath contorted roots and poisoned soil, the patrol returns.

They arrive in a messy group, wings beating unevenly and carapaces scratched from reckless flight through thorns they’d usually dodge. Perimeter drones hiss challenges until they spot the scarred leader, then fall silent and step aside. The whole thing’s got a weird military vibe—fucking changelings and their drama. You wonder if they ever just relax.

The throne chamber is a cavern of resin and shadow. Jagged spires drip with the remnants of old cocoons. The air breathes of long-denied hunger and lingering fear.

Queen Chrysalis reclines on her throne of blackened chitin, long legs crossed, eyes half-lidded with boredom. Lazy green magic flickers around her perforated horn. She does not glance up as the patrol throws themselves to the floor before her.

“Report,” Chrysalis commands. Her voice slides smoothly and venomously through the chamber, low enough that it almost feels like it's crawling along your chitin.

The patrol leader lifts his head just enough to meet her gaze. His mandibles quiver, not from being tired. Something colder.

“My Queen,” he says carefully, “we found a filly in the deep Everfree. Alone. Unharmed. No sign of struggle, no wounds. Nothing.”

Chrysalis’s ears flick once. A single brow arches, slow and deliberate.

“A filly,” she echoes, tasting the word as it might bite back. “An easy meal wandering into our territory. So why do you and your drones stink of retreat instead of a full belly?”

The leader swallows. The sound is loud in the hush.

“She felt… wrong, my Queen. Small green coat, black mane. No horn, no wings, no cutie mark at all. But her eyes—” He hesitates, compound eyes glancing toward the others for a second.

Chrysalis leans forward, just enough. Her slit pupils narrow to threads.

“Her eyes,” she prompts. The words come out soft, almost gentle. The kind of gentle that promises teeth if he stalls again.

Another drone speaks before the leader can recover. “They aren’t pony eyes, my Queen. Small irises. Round pupils. Like a predator’s. Like something that hunts things like us.”

A ripple of uneasy chittering moves through the guards. Wings flutter, then go still.

Chrysalis doesn’t react at first. She simply watches them, permitting the silence press down until it hurts.

“And then?” she asks at last.

The leader forces the words out. “We surrounded her. We intended to drain what we could or drag her back for the pods. But when she looked at us… There was nothing to take. No love. No fear. No anger. Just emptiness. And behind that emptiness, something looked back at us like we were the ones who should be afraid.”

The chamber goes dead quiet. Even the usual background noise just stops.

Chrysalis rises slowly. Her shadow stretches across the green-glowing stone, long and jagged.

“You fled,” she says. Flat. No question in it.

The leader lowers his head until his horn almost brushes the floor. “Yes, my Queen.”

Silence again. Longer this time.

Then a low, rolling laugh escapes her—delighted, hungry, but colder than usual.

“A pony foal who carries no love at all,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Surviving in the deep woods where nothing should. Wearing eyes that send my finest scouts running like frightened larvae.” She paces once, twice. Hooves click sharply against stone. “Either the world has birthed something very old in new skin… or something so new the world itself wants no part of it.”

Her magic flares a green light that washes the walls, sharp and sudden.

“Find her again,” she orders. “This time, you watch from the shadows. No closer than necessary. No feeding. No capture. I want to know every path she walks, every creature that approaches her, every place she lingers. I want to know what she is before I decide what to do with her.”

She stops. Her smile is thin and sharp.

“If there is no love in her to harvest,” she says softly, “perhaps there is room for something far more useful.”

The patrol scrambles. Wings hum to life. They vanish into the tunnels without a backward glance.

Far away in the Everfree, you keep walking. One hoof in front of the other. The trees close in. The air is damp and watchful.

You don’t feel the colder eyes that have finally turned toward you. Not yet.

===

Days pass in a slow blur, marked only by how long you can remain in the Everfree before hunger drives you back or Twilight’s quiet, troubled glances become too heavy to ignore. You follow the same trails each time, venturing deeper until the faint game paths disappear entirely and you push through thick undergrowth that closes behind you as though erasing your presence.

You notice them before you see them.

The buzzing is less loud now, distant and cautious, lacking the frantic intensity of the previous encounter. You pause in a rare patch of sunlight that has pierced the canopy, tilting your head to listen.

High among the branches, partially concealed by leaves, dark shapes cling like oversized insects. Another changeling patrol. Perhaps different drones, but they share the same perforated wings and glowing eyes fixed intently on you.

They make no move to approach.

They simply observe.

You meet their collective gaze for a moment with your small, round teal eyes. Nothing happens, no fearful retreat, nor an aggressive advance. Only mutual stillness.

You shrug and continue walking.

Most days, their presence barely registers. You don’t have anywhere pressing to be, no grand plan, no burning reason to keep moving. It’s just you and the forest, passing time with each other. Sometimes you wonder if the changelings are just as bored as you are.

The castle’s just convenient—a place to grab bland hay-slop or an apple, scrub off Everfree mud so Twilight doesn’t fret about infections or “filly hygiene standards,” and crash in that too-soft bed long enough for her to skip organizing another goddamn search party at dawn. It’s not home. It’s just a pit stop.

You go back because dodging her worry is easier than dealing with it. Not because the castle feels like home. It doesn't. Never will. It’s just the place you crash when you’re out of fucks to give.

The changelings trail you at a safe distance. You catch the occasional rustle of wings or the light click of hooves on bark as they leap from tree to tree. They believe you remain unaware.

You almost snort. You notice everything. Hard not to, when nothing ever comes close enough to touch you. It all blurs together after a while.

Hours slip by. You sit beside a sulfur-scented stream and skip stones that sink without protest. You chew on an edible root you saw Zecora harvest, then lie on your back and watch clouds drift, untouched by pegasus magic.

The patrol maintains its vigilant pace.

At one point, one of them speaks, his voice subdued and carried on the breeze, intended for his companions rather than you.

“She wanders without purpose,” the first drone murmurs, mandibles clicking softly on each word. “No trail she follows twice, no goal she chases.”

A second drone shifts on the branch, wings giving a quick, impatient flutter. “Queen’s orders were clear. Observe. Nothing more. No contact. No risks.”

The first drone’s head tilts, faceted eyes catching faint moonlight. “She’s isolated. No herd scent on her. No guardians trailing behind. She slips back into that bright little pony town only when the light dies. If she truly has nothing for us to taste, what harm in a few words? Asking costs less than silence.”

A third chitters low, almost amused. “You sound hungry for answers, not love. Careful. Curiosity bites harder than fangs sometimes.”

The leader’s wings snap once, a sharp, irritated buzz that cuts through the buzzes like a blade.

“Enough.” His voice drops colder, more deliberate. “The Queen said, ' Watch. She did not say anything. Those eyes sent the last patrol scrambling like grubs from a kicked nest. We felt it: the emptiness staring back, older than hunger, and colder than stone. We stay at a distance. We report what she does, where she lingers, and who dares approach. That is all.”

The group stills. Wings fold. The low hum of their breathing fills the quiet.

“She drifts,” the first drone repeats, almost thoughtful. “And we watch her do it. For now.”

Later, you flop onto a sun-baked slab next to this pathetic little trickle of water. Light filters through the leaves in tired patches, turning everything sort of washed-out and dull. You've lain here long enough; the stone's gone warm under your back, even pressed a shallow dent where your small body keeps coming to rest.

Up in the branches, the changelings hang like dark knots in the shadows. Their buzzing stays low at first, almost thoughtful, then it sharpens: voices interweaving in that weird hive way where nopony quite finishes before the next jumps in.

One of them mutters, annoyed. “She’s just sitting there again. Same rock, same stream. No schedule, no direction.”

Another answers quickly, firmly: “Queen’s orders haven’t changed. Observe. Do not engage. We stay back and report.” The others nod, but you can hear the doubt in the air. Somepony always wants to ask questions.

A third voice pipes up: higher, younger, and still carrying that eager edge the older drones have mostly worn away. “She’s empty, though. We all felt it last time. No love to steal, no fear to drink. If we keep our distance from feeding, what’s the danger in a single question? Ask what she is, where she wanders off to every dusk, and why the first patrol scattered as kicked ants. Answers help the hive. If she stays silent, we’re no worse off. If she snaps at us... one drone’s a small price to pay. We’ve lost more to the Timberwolves.”

The buzzing dips for a second. A few wings flutter restlessly, then still.

Someone else grumbles low. “You talk like curiosity won’t get us dissolved.”

The young one doesn’t back down. “Curiosity got us this far. Ignorance gets us starved.”

Reluctant murmurs flow through them, grudging, half-hearted agreement laced with discomfort. Nopony sounds happy about it. The vibration settles again, tighter now, watchful.

You keep your eyes half-closed against the dappled light, just listening, not moving. You could fall asleep like this if you cared enough to try.

You hear a single set of wings descend.

One changeling drops down from the branches, landing softly and keeping his distance—far enough back that you couldn’t reach him even if you tried. He’s young, shell still shiny, no cracks in his legs. His eyes flick over you, wary, but he doesn’t run. You watch him, waiting for the usual retreat.

A dry click rasps in his throat.

“Uh... little filly?” The words come out trying to sound steady, but they waver at the edges, like he’s not sure what he’s even talking to. You raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to finish.

You push yourself up slowly and turn toward him, eyes locking on his without hesitation. Neither of you blinks.

He twitches, whole body jerks once, but doesn't bolt. Wings give a single anxious flutter and fold tight again.

“We’ve been watching,” he says, quieter now. “You keep coming back here. Every day. Alone. No herd trailing you, no real path you’re following. You don’t stalk like something that hunts. You just… exist.” His wings twitch as if expecting you to snap back.

He edges one hoof forward, barely a step. Hesitant. Testing.

“What are you even doing out here? What do you want from this place?”

The question hangs there in the thick, still air.

Up in the trees, the rest of the patrol stays dead quiet. You can almost feel their stares prickling the back of your neck.

You could just stand up, turn, and walk off. Leave him hanging like every other creature that tries to figure you out.

Instead, you shrug. Small motion. Barely there.

“Nothing,” you say. Your voice is thin and flat, like it’s been gathering dust for months. “I don’t want anything.” You shrug again, and for a moment, the silence stretches out, heavy and awkward. The changeling shifts his weight but doesn’t push.

His eyes blink fast, facets flashing surprise in little bursts. He clearly wasn't expecting words back. Definitely wasn't expecting that.

He glances up quickly toward the branches, searching for some signal, some order. Nothing comes.

“Then... why keep coming back?” he presses, a little bolder now. “Why the Everfree at all? You could stay in Ponyville—safer, brighter, more normal. Or is that the problem?” His voice wavers, like he knows he’s missing something obvious.

You look past him, into the endless green tangle that swallows sound and light alike.

“Because out here,” you mutter, “nobody pretends I fit.” You don’t look up as you say it. It’s the closest thing to honesty you’ve managed in weeks.

You stand. Brush dirt and bits of leaf off your coat with one foreleg. You kick the dirt under you because it feels right.

The young drone doesn't move to follow. Just watches, wings half-raised like he's forgotten what comes next.

You keep walking. Hooves crunch softly on dead leaves. The buzzing from the trees picks up again behind you: low, unsettled, arguing in whispers, but it stays where it is.

Yet you feel his stare, and those of the entire patrol, long after their buzzing recedes behind you.

High in the canopy, the leader hisses low at the young drone, mandibles clicking once for emphasis.

“Well? Did the empty one lash out? Did she show teeth?”

The young one shakes his head slowly, wings still trembling a little from the landing. “She answered. She spoke to me.” He glances at the others, as if he’s not sure it really happened.

A ripple moves through the patrol: wings flutter in short, disbelieving bursts, and a low vibration rising then dropping again.

“She said she wants nothing,” he continues, voice a little firmer now. “No purpose, no goal.” He hesitates, searching for the right words. “When I asked why she keeps coming back to the Everfree, she told me, ‘Because out here, nobody pretends I fit.’” The words hang in the air between them, heavy enough that nopony wants to break the silence.

The group goes quiet. Even the wind through the leaves seems to hesitate. The young changeling looks down, scuffing at the bark with his hoof.

An older drone tilts his head, compound eyes tightening thoughtfully. “Nobody?” He tests the word, like it’s something new and strange. The others exchange uncertain glances.

“Not ‘nopony,’” the young one confirms. “Nobody. The old word. From before ponies started reshaping everything to match their harmony song. Like she never picked up their tune in the first place.” He glances at the group, uncertain, then falls quiet.

The leader clicks his fangs once, slow and deliberate. “A pony filly who talks like something older than the woods itself. Eyes that don’t match any pony we’ve drained. No love leaking out, no fear to sip, and now words that don’t fit their language at all.” His voice is almost admiring, but not quite.

Another drone shifts his weight on the branch, wings giving an uneasy twitch. “She fits nowhere. Not prey, not pony, not even changeling. Wrong in a way the Queen will want to see for herself.”

The young drone meets his leader’s stare without flinching. “I told you asking would serve the hive.” A note of pride slips into his voice.

The leader snorts, a short, dry sound that carries no real anger. “You got lucky, she only used words. Next time you decide to play brave scout, remember those eyes don’t blink. They just... watch.”

Far below, you keep walking. Hooves crunch amid dead leaves in the same slow rhythm. The trees lean close, the air seems thick and green. You don’t feel the quick glances from above, or hear the hushed buzz that follows you like haze. You’re too lost in your own thoughts to notice.

The patrol lifts off one by one. Wings hum as they streak back toward the hive, carrying the report through resin tunnels and dripping chambers.

One word sticks among their shared mind, passed from drone to drone like a crack spreading through glass. The word tastes foreign in their mouths, but it feels important.

Nobody. The word lingers, strange and heavy, long after the patrol has gone.

===

Deep in the hive, the report spreads quickly from one changeling to the next. It sticks with them, an itch they can’t quite shake.

The returning patrol kneels in the resin-lit gloom. The young drone who spoke to you is nudged forward by the others. He recounts everything: your aimless wandering, your flat responses, and the words that remain like a chill.

“She said she wants nothing. That out here, nobody pretends she belongs.” The words bring a hush to the chamber, even Chrysalis’s theatrics pause for a moment.

Chrysalis remains motionless on her throne at first. Only the slow curl of green magic around her horn reveals that she listens intently.

Then she laughs.

It is not her usual theatrical cackle reserved for prisoners. This laugh is quieter, genuinely delighted, almost affectionate. It echoes through the chamber like shattering glass.

“Nobody,” she repeats, savoring the word. “Not nopony. Nobody.”

She rises and paces in a slow circle, her hooves scraping on the chitin floor.

“A pony child who speaks as though she fell through the cracks of the world. Empty of love. Empty enough that my drones sense nothing to take from her. Yet the forest parts before her, and my soldiers flee from her gaze.”

She stops and turns to the young drone.

“You were wise to speak,” she says. The unexpected praise makes him flinch. “Most would have watched in silence until curiosity or starvation claimed them. You have brought me a gift.”

Her eyes narrow, glowing more brightly.

“This filly is a hole shaped like a pony. Harmony rejects her. The beasts sense it. Even the trees refuse to welcome her. She knows this. She feels it. She seeks the wild because the wild is honest enough to show its teeth.”

Chrysalis flicks her tongue across her fangs.

“Imagine what we could pour into such a hole.”

The chamber falls silent. The drones wait, scarcely breathing.

“She belongs nowhere,” Chrysalis murmurs, almost to herself. “That means she could belong anywhere, to anything that offers a place without pretense.”

She smiles slowly, sharply, with certainty.

“Continue watching her if needed. Learn her patterns, the castle she returns to, the zebra she occasionally visits, the hours she spends staring at nothing. But when the moment arrives, invite her.”

She pauses, her voice quieting to silk over steel.

“Tell her we do not pretend here either.”

The invitation shows up on one of those identical gray days when the light barely pushes through the canopy, and the air hangs saturated with wet rot and the promise of rain that never quite arrives. You sit slouched on the same stone slab again, hoof dragging lazy loops in the dirt that vanish the second you lift it, when the buzzing finally drops down from the branches like someone got tired of pretending you weren't being watched all along.

Three changelings settle around you in a loose triangle, keeping careful spacing so they don't crowd you. The young one from earlier stands front and center, his glossy shell and straight posture, trying to be official. The other two hang back a step, wings half-cocked, eyes flicking over you like they're waiting for the moment you turn sharp.

“The Queen wishes to speak with you,” he says. No disguise, no fake smile, just the sentence plain and waiting.

You lift your head and meet those faceted stares with your small, round, teal ones.

They hold steady this time. They've practiced, or they're too stubborn to run again.

Your mind drifts half a second to the castle at the forest edge. Twilight's probably pacing right now, glancing at the clock, wondering if she should send out another search party before the soup gets cold. Then empty trails behind you, empty nothing ahead.

You shrug.

“Sure.”

No questions. No fear spike. The word drops flat and even, like agreeing that the sky looks cloudy today.

They blink all three at once. Quick little flashes of surprise across their facets. Then they turn and start walking, leading without a word.

You follow.

The path dives deeper than you've ever gone alone. Trees pack tighter for a while, branches scraping close, then suddenly give way. The air turns thicker and sweeter, laced with resin and that faint metallic flavor of hunger dwelling like old smoke. A ravine opens ahead. A hidden split in the rock face pulses soft green, slow breathing.

Inside, it matches expectations in places and defies them in others. Tunnels walled in black chitin gleam wetly in the low light. Cocoons glow dim along the curves and vibrate with whatever grows inside. Wings beat a constant low background noise that never quite stops.

Changelings pause as you pass. They stare one heartbeat, then look away fast, like eye contact might burn. Your hooves hit the resin floor and make almost no sound. The soft scrape gets swallowed amid the hum.

You keep walking one hoof after the other, neutral as the gray outside.

They guide you through the winding tunnels to the throne chamber.

Chrysalis waits on her jagged seat, tall and sharp like a spike someone left out, staying seated as you walk up while those poisoned-green eyes track every step.

“So,” she says, voice mellow and deep, “the little hole enters my hive of her own accord.”

You stop at the base of the platform and look up. “Don’t call me that. Little hole. Seriously. Fuck off with that.”

Her lips twitch almost into a smile. She leans forward anyway.

A dull chill crawls up her spine while she tries to trace whatever the hell makes her gut twist like this. She stares into your eyes, and you stare right back.

You watch the queen's smug grin slip every time your eyes lock, the composure cracking a little more. Slit pupils tighten to needles, then one wing twitches once, barely. She forces the smile wider, but the edges tremble anyway.

Your small, round, teal eyes stay locked on her, steady and unblinking.

Chrysalis exhales slowly through her fangs. The grin holds, but something behind it flickers while recognition settles within her gaze, one that makes even a queen feel small for half a second.

She leans forward again, voice still velvet wrapped around a blade.

“Fascinating,” she murmurs. “You truly carry nothing at all.”

A pause hangs there.

“Very well. Tell me then, child. Who are you? Where did you come from? Why do my soldiers tremble at your gaze? Why do your words carry the flavor of nowhere at all?”

You give her the easy parts. Never the whole mess.

“Anon. Crash at Twilight’s castle sometimes. Dunno why the eyes freak everypony out. They just do.”

She keeps circling. Who claims you? Who protects you? What do you desire?

Same answers. Shorter. Quieter every time.

“Nothin’.”

Chrysalis smiles slowly and sharply.

“Then perhaps you desire something now. A place. A purpose. Ponies pretend you belong among them. Here we offer no games. Join us. Be what you are without apology. An emptiness we can fill with strength. With truth.”

You tilt your head.

“Why?”

She pauses. Caught for half a second. “Why join you guys?” you ask again. “Why bother with any of this?”

You wave a hoof at the chamber. Watchful drones. Glowing cocoons. Green light beating like a slow heartbeat.

“You need emotions to live, right? But why only love? Why not use what you’ve already got piles of?”

Chrysalis’s eyes narrow. Amused.

“We are changelings. Love is what we take. It sustains us. It grants power.”

You glance at the shadowed faces staring from the walls.

“You don’t have love. You don’t make it. You don’t give it. Fine. Then use something else. Something you’re drowning in.”

You look straight at her.

“Spite.”

The word drops into the chamber like a rock in still water.

“It’s everywhere here. I can feel it. You hate ponies. Hate being hungry all the time. Hate losing. That stuff never runs out. It just grows the more you feed it. All yours. You just take what’s already there.”

Silence follows.

Chrysalis stares at you without blinking.

Something changes in her expression. Not anger or dismissal, but genuine consideration.

A subtle murmur spreads among the drones. Some appear uneasy. Others thoughtful.

Chrysalis grows very quiet.

She rises from the throne deliberately and descends the steps until she looms over you. You smell the ozone of her magic and the slight bitterness of old cocoons. The drones along the walls retreat instinctively.

She examines you as a starving creature might assess unfamiliar fruit: cautious, calculating, intrigued by the chance it might prove nourishing.

“Spite,” she repeats softly, testing the word. “Not mere hatred. Hatred burns bright and brief, reducing all to ash. I know hatred well. I have drawn on it when love was withheld. I have wielded it as a weapon.”

Her tongue flicks across her fangs.

“But spite is older and colder. It settles in the core like compressed coal, growing denser with every injustice the world inflicts. It does not consume quickly. It persists. It recalls every slight, every loss, every condescending pony glance, compacting them until the pressure could shatter bone.”

She pauses and regards you again.

“I have carried it for years, beneath the hunger and the fury at Celestia’s light and Twilight Sparkle’s relentless harmony. Beneath every failed plan, every shattered cocoon. I viewed it only as fuel for hatred. Yet you are correct. It has endured independently, thriving in the dark love cannot touch, strengthened by each hatred that faded and left it intact.”

The chamber is so quiet that the distant resin drips echo faintly.

Chrysalis’s magic flares gently, not as an assault but as exploration. Green tendrils brush the nearby drones. One hisses and staggers, eyes opening wide at the cold flood within. Another straightens, wings humming with renewed intensity.

She withdraws the magic and inhales slowly.

“It sustains,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Not sweet like love. Not radiant. But substantial. Infinite. Ours.”

She turns back to you. For the first time, her gaze holds no mockery, only the recognition of someone discovering an unforeseen path.

“You are a peculiar void,” she says. “Empty enough to perceive what we have always carried yet never considered consuming.”

She lowers her head until her face lines up with yours.

“Stay. Teach us to draw on what we possess. In exchange, you gain a place where nopony feigns your belonging, for here it is earned through endurance, not offering.”

You look up at her: tall, jagged, radiating that emerging cold hunger, and feel no urge to agree. No loyalty stirs, nor enthusiasm. Only the familiar emptiness that has guided you thus far.

“I can’t stay here full-time,” you say. Voice stays small. Flat. “Twilight would lose her goddamn mind if I just disappeared. Search parties, lectures, friendship speeches till my ears bleed. Annoying as hell.”

Chrysalis’s eyes narrow. Calculating. Not pissed.

You shrug.

“But I’ll swing by. Drop in, show you how the spite thing works. Got nothing better to do anyway.”

She studies you for a long time. Weighing whether a part-time void consultant beats zero input.

Then that slow, sharp smile crept across her face. Accepting.

“Very well, little teacher. Come and go as you please. The hive will know you by those eyes.”

...bitch.

You turn. Drones move aside as you pass. Tunnels feel different on the way out. Less confining than before.

You reach the castle that night. Twilight fusses over you, inquires about your absence, and envelops you in a hug that feels both warm and distant. You allow it. You eat. You bathe. You sleep amid sheets scented with lavender and concern.

The next day, you return to the hive.

Days drag across weeks. You move between castle and hive like a shadow, unsure of its source.

In the hive, they heed your words.

Chrysalis initiates the first trial. Dozens of drones, then hundreds, retreat to the deepest chambers lined with light-absorbing black resin that echoes memories. They encase themselves in cocoons not for disguise but for introspection.

They slumber.

Nightmares follow.

Every insult resurfaces. Every rejection. Every pony recoiling from a revealed fang, every door barred, every hushed accusation of monstrosity. Every instance of love was dangled then withdrawn upon discovery. Every loss: at Canterlot, the Crystal Empire, and thrones destroyed by rainbow light. Every young changeling lost to famine when ponies guarded their harmony jealously.

They relive it all, unfiltered and unrelenting.

No warmth softens the recollections. No love forgives.

Only the cold, accumulating weight of spite, condensing with each remembered grievance.

When they emerge, they are transformed.

Not vibrant and reformed like Thorax’s swarm, with soft colors and gentle glows.

Their carapaces harden to matte black threaded with dull green veins, like tainted jade. Their eyes shift from frantic blue to a steady, icy gleam. Wings thicken with serrated edges. Horns sharpen further.

They exit in silence.

No celebratory buzzing or songs.

Only the low, persistent vibration of entities that have ceased begging for remnants.

Chrysalis awakens last.

She emerges taller and leaner, her magic’s green now rimmed with frost. Her breath chills the air.

She regards you, waiting patiently in the throne chamber as always: small and unflinching, then inclines her head.

“It sustains,” she says, her voice deeper and calmer. “More than enough.”

You nod.

You showed them how to nourish themselves on what’s inside.

They require your presence less now.

You visit.

Because the hive makes no pretense of your belonging.

And neither do you.

===

You don’t go to the hive much now. Not scared. Just bored. They figured out the spite thing quick, chewed it up, spat out the rest. No reason to stick around. You don’t need them, and they don’t need you.

So you wander.

The Everfree receives you with the same indifference it always has. Predators meet your gaze and recall one older than hunger. Plants pull away from your touch. The air remains honest, carrying scents of wet rot, sharp pine, and distant blood. You walk for hours, sometimes days, sleeping beneath fallen logs or in shallow hollows.

You return to the castle only when physical hunger grows louder than the emptiness inside. Twilight continues to worry and ask questions. You offer little in response. The routine persists, stretched thinner over time.

Occasionally, your paths cross Zecora’s hut. She shares careful rhymes relating to shadows growing bolder and ponies talking about a new darkness deeper in the forest. Her steady gaze lingers on you, but she never directly asks if you played a part in it.

You say nothing.

You tell nopony.

Some days, you pass near the hive’s outer borders. From a distance, you spot drones perched on jagged resin towers, staring out with frozen green eyes. They notice you as well. They nod once in acknowledgment.

You nod in return.

Then you continue walking.

The Everfree is huge. The spite's theirs now. You still have nothing to do.

Days blur across weeks. The castle becomes a distant obligation you meet the way one refills a canteen. The Everfree turns into your true, mapless home. You create trails of absent steps, clearings you occupy for a night, and leave without attachment.

From the edges, you glimpse the hive’s expansion, growing stronger than the surrounding forest.

They no longer conceal themselves.

The hive spreads outward in sharp black spires that pierce the canopy. Resin veins thread through ancient trees until the bark gleams wet and obsidian. Narrow, secretive tunnels have given way to vast open chambers beneath poisoned skies. Their colors match their mood: matte black and frost-edged emerald, the colors of creatures that have stopped seeking permission to exist.

They hunt openly now. Packs of drones with serrated wings and thickened carapaces bring down manticores and hydras, not for food but to prove the forest’s old terrors can bleed. They arrange the cleaned bones at the borders in deliberate patterns that speak a clear message in the language of predators: we are finished running.

Pride emanates from them: sharp, contained, and dangerous.

Disguises are gone. They no longer scrape at pony emotions like beggars. They walk the hive’s halls as themselves: perforated limbs unhidden, fangs visible in ordinary conversation, eyes holding the steady gleam of beings who remember they were never truly weak. Their numbers increase, not from stolen emotion but from eggs laid with the certainty that the young will never need to beg.

You see the change in their posture. Chests held higher. Wings were mantled rather than folded submissively. When two drones pass in a corridor, they briefly clash horns in a ritual challenge, testing strength and affirming presence, free from the old groveling born of fear.

Their identities are forged in spite.

Each changeling carries a personal catalog of wrongs: the pony who screamed at a revealed form, the lover who recoiled, the village that hunted with torches, the Elements of Harmony that drove them from the sky. Those memories no longer breed self-loathing or desperate craving. They are compressed, hatred burned away to leave only the unyielding spite. The knowledge that the world tried to erase them and failed.

It fills them, not with hope, but with pride that settles deep and quiet—nothing flashy, just a certainty that doesn’t need to be shared.

Not the party kind—just cold, quiet pride. They feel no love, no acceptance, nothing from ponies, and realize they don’t need it.

They simply exist.

Fully. Finally.

Openly, for the first time in memory.

Irrevocably. The world can’t take it back.

Chrysalis remains at the center, no longer plotting invasions but directing growth. New brood chambers rise alongside forges of resin and bone, and gardens of poisonous fungi flourish in darkness. When her voice carries on the wind during your rare visits, it has lost its theatrical venom. Now it sounds steady. Certain.

One dusk, you drift close to the new borders, drawn by the low, grinding buzz that vibrates through the trunks as if a warning. The spite changelings no longer conceal their patrols. They fly in open formation above the canopy, their matte-black silhouettes against the waning light. Their wings slice the air with a noise like tearing parchment.

You watch from the shadows as one drone dives.

A cockatrice erupts from the underbrush below, feathers bristling, eyes already glowing with petrifying magic. In the past, a changeling would have disguised itself, tricked the beast, or drained it subtly. Even reformed ones might have tried to soothe it with a little shared emotion or a kind word.

This drone attempts none of that.

It meets the cockatrice mid-air. The beast’s stare locks on. The magic fails.

The drone’s frozen green eyes reflect the glow like black ice. The petrifying light flickers, falters, and dies. The cockatrice screeches in raw terror and tries to escape.

The drone’s horn ignites, not with love’s bright flare but with a cold and viscous light the color of aged venom. A single bolt strikes. Where it lands, the cockatrice’s feathers blacken and curl, not burned but withered, as though every trace of life was recalled as an insult and refused. The beast crashes down, still alive but sluggish and bewildered, something vital drained away.

The drone lands beside it. It does not feed or kill. It simply stares until the cockatrice slithers off, trailing shattered pride.

Spite grants no explosive bursts like love once did—no vast shields or overwhelming surges. Instead, it offers something denser, slower, but unyielding.

Endurance.

Their magic seeps and lingers. A curse placed on a manticore pack days ago still drives the beasts to snap at shadows, their roars laced with unexplained dread. Wounds heal more slowly than love would allow, but the spite changelings feel no pain in battle—only cold satisfaction as every wrong gets repaid.

They no longer shift into appealing pony forms. When they change now, it is into distorted reflections of pony nightmares: extended limbs, excess joints, and multiplying eyes across the face. Not for infiltration. For terror. The sight alone scatters lesser predators without a strike.

The resin they secrete hardens into black, chilled material that numbs touch. Weapons forged from it do not break; armor grown from it deflects claw and fang. The hive crafts what it needs, never waiting for outside help.

Their stare, rooted in the lesson you gave, has deepened. It is no longer your passive void. It is active. When a spite drone locks eyes, the target feels every moment it ever looked down on the weak, every casual cruelty, every assumption of superiority. Its own history crushes it from within.

They do not tire as the love-fed once did when emotion ebbed. Spite renews with every breath. The more the world resists, the stronger they grow. A lost skirmish does not weaken the hive; it adds another compressed layer to every drone’s core.

You watch the patrol re-form overhead, wings beating slow and deliberate, no rush to seek shelter.

Love once gave changelings power that desired sharing.

Spite gives them power that needs nothing.

They are no longer parasites.

They have become the forest’s new apex: patient, proud, and utterly self-sufficient. No herd, no mentor, nopony to beg from.

Sometimes you observe from a ridge, your small green silhouette outlined against the jagged skyline they have raised.

They took what you pointed out and built their foundation upon it.

The hive no longer requires your advice.

The forest still offers no pretense of welcome.

You turn away before they spot you.

Somewhere in the deepening dark, the grinding hum rises a little louder.

For once, it’s enough.

===

Thorax stands at the front of his pastel crew, all shimmering pinks and blues with wings so thin you could sneeze and shatter them. They look like a school play about friendship, and you get the sense they know it.

Across from them, six spite changelings line up along a ridge of black resin spikes. Matte black, slit-green eyes, wings like razors. No smiles. No “let’s all get along.” If they’re nervous, they hide it better than you ever could.

You stay low in the brush, watching. Heart pounding. You’re not sure if you want a fight or just something interesting to break the tension.

Thorax does his best “diplomat” impression. “We heard about the changes,” he says, soft and careful, like he thinks they’ll bolt if he raises his voice. “We wanted to understand. Maybe there’s still a way to share what we’ve found.”

One of the spite drones, a big guy with a scar down his horn, lets out a hiss that makes your ears ring. “We understand plenty. We remember starving while you learned to beg prettier. You think we want your pity, Thorax?” He spits the name like it tastes bad.

Thorax opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. “You don’t have to carry that pain. Sharing love transformed us. It can transform you.”

A smaller drone—female, voice like broken glass—steps up. “You traded fangs for rainbows and called it freedom. We traded begging for pride and called it survival. We don’t want your love. We feed on what you left behind. Every rejection, every scream, every time harmony decided we didn’t belong. That doesn’t fade when the party ends, Thorax.”

One of the pastel changelings, probably new, pipes up. “But you could be happy.”

The lead spite drone flicks his wings, a sound like knives sharpening. “We’re not happy. We’re ourselves. Your happiness needs pony smiles. Ours needs nothing.”

Silence. It drags on, awkward and heavy. Thorax’s group starts to back away, colors looking almost sick against the dark spires. The spite changelings don’t even bother to watch them go.

You realize you’ve been holding your breath. For a second, you can’t tell which side you’re supposed to root for—or if you’re on either side at all.

===

You slip into the war room late, hooves silent on the polished crystal floor of Canterlot’s highest tower. The Cutie Map lies dark beneath the great table, its surface unused, no friendship crisis flashing for attention tonight. Instead, the table is buried under scrolls and reports: border dispatches sealed in wax, Zecora’s careful striped script, frantic notes from pegasi who flew too close to the new black spires. The air has the scent of ink, worn parchment, and the slight metallic flavor of worry.

Celestia sits at the head, golden magic holding a scroll steady, but her eyes are fixed somewhere far beyond it. Luna stands beside her, mane dimmed, starlight moving slowly as if even the night sky is holding its sigh. Twilight paces at the far end, wings half-spread, feathers trembling, a broken quill still levitating forgotten beside her.

They don’t notice you at first.

“They have changed again,” Luna says quietly. “Not into light. Into something colder. Harder.”

Celestia lowers the scroll. “No infiltrations. No love-draining. Just open patrols, territorial growth, and predators fleeing at their approach. They subdue, displace, and warn. They are proud. Regal, even. Utterly unafraid.”

Twilight stops pacing. Her voice is thin, tattered at the edges. “Thorax’s delegation was refused, politely, absolutely. They rejected shared love outright. They said they no longer require it. They’re feeding on spite. Every rejection, every old wound, every battle we thought we won… It’s fuel now.”

The word spite lands heavily. Celestia’s wings shift, a rare trace of unease.

Luna’s gaze drifts to the tall windows, toward the distant green smudge of the Everfree. “We thought Thorax showed them a better way. Openness. Transformation through shared love. It saved part of their kind.”

“And the rest chose endurance over healing,” Celestia answers softly. “They do not beg for acceptance anymore. They do not need us at all.”

Twilight’s horn glows as she levitates a fresh scroll, scribbling marginal notes even as she speaks. “I’ve been trying to theorycraft countermeasures. If positive emotions supercharge the reformed changelings, maybe concentrated harmony could overwhelm the spite, flood them with forgiveness, empathy, and emotional saturation. A large-scale spell, Elements-tuned.”

She pauses, ears flicking back. “Or the inverse: a pacification field that suppresses negative emotions entirely. Force neutrality. They’d weaken, maybe hibernate until we could negotiate.”

Luna’s voice is low. “Suppression is not harmony, Twilight. It is control.”

Twilight nods, frustrated. “I know. And spite is resilient; it festers and lasts for generations. They might already be resistant. Another idea: a ‘spite sink,’ an artifact that draws resentment out of the environment and contains it. Starve the ambient fuel, let the hives collapse from within.”

Celestia closes her eyes. “Or diplomacy through strength. Show them cooperation yields more power than isolation.”

Twilight gives a tired, humorless laugh. “They already turned Thorax away. They’re proud of this path.”

Silence settles, thick as resin.

Celestia finally speaks again, voice milder than the daylight pouring through the windows. “We created this. Not directly. But every victory we claimed, every time we assumed harmony must look a certain way, every rejection… we packed another layer into the stone they now carry.”

Luna nods once, slowly. “When they hungered, they were predictable. Desperate. We could repel them, contain them. Now they thrive in rejection. They grow stronger every time the world reminds them why they hate it. No army we send will weaken them, only feed them further.”

Twilight’s wings droop. She stares at the scattered reports as if they might rearrange themselves into an answer.

“How do you fight an enemy that thrives on the very thing harmony tries to heal?” she asks, almost to herself. Then, quieter, the words floating in the air like frost:

“How do you fight something that doesn’t need you to forgive it?”

No one answers.

You stand in the shadows by the door, a small green shape against the crystal walls, mud still clinging to your coat, thorns knotted in your mane. You give them nothing, no nod, no word, no trace of warmth in your flat, teal stare.

You simply turn and leave, hooves leaving faint imprints in the rug that do not spring back quite as a pony’s would.

The doors close softly behind you.

Somewhere deep in the Everfree, black spires rise a little higher, patient and cold, sustained by the silence you leave in your wake.

===

You follow the faint trail that skirts Zecora’s hut when the recognizable scent of herbs and woodsmoke reaches you first. She works outside today, hanging bundles of dried leaves from the low branches of a crooked tree. Her gold rings catch the dim light as she moves. The masks on her door regard your approach with empty eyes.

She shows no surprise. She never does.

“A wanderer returns to familiar ground,” she says in her low, rhyming voice. “Yet the forest speaks of changes profound.”

You pause at the edge of her clearing. The moss here recovers slightly under your hooves—one of the few places that makes the effort. You let yourself breathe, shoulders dropping as the tension bleeds out for a moment.

She turns and studies you with that unflinching gaze that meets your eyes without hesitation.

“The changelings in the deep woods shift and grow,” she continues. “Black spires rise where gloom used to flow. No longer do they hide or beg for scraps of love. They stride as if the dark fits like a glove. Tell me, little one with the ancient stare, do you know what fuels the storm now brewing there?”

You look past her toward the distant, jagged outline of new resin towers barely visible through the trees. The forest feels heavier from here, as if it’s waiting for an answer only you can give.

You could lie. You could shrug and leave.

Instead, you meet her gaze.

“They figured out how to stop asking the world for permission to exist.”

The words emerge flat and small, in the soft voice of a filly.

Zecora grows still. The bundle in her hoof stops swaying.

A long silence follows, disturbed only by shaking leaves as well as the faint, distant grinding hum of wings that both of you ignore.

At last, she nods once, slowly.

“A lesson sharp as thorns, and twice as deep,” she murmurs. “Some roots drink light, while others darkness keep.”

She asks nothing more.

You offer nothing more.

You turn and walk back into the green. Zecora doesn’t call after you—she trusts you’ll find your own way, just like always.

Zecora hangs the final bundle and does not watch you leave.

Inside the quiet heart of her hut, where potions bubble in steady rhythm and masks gaze down from walls that have witnessed too much, she stands motionless long after you’ve disappeared into the foliage. The emptiness left behind is more than physical.

Your words hang amid the air like incense smoke, curling slowly into the quiet, lingering long after you’re gone.

They figured out how to stop asking the world for permission to exist.

She turns the phrase over in her thoughts, testing its sharpness. It feels clean. Dangerous.

Zecora has lived in the Everfree longer than most ponies bother to count years. She understands its rhythms, the way it gives and takes without regret, and the way it respects strength that seeks no approval. She chose this place because Pony Lands demanded too much conformity, too many songs forced into their narrow harmony. Here, plants bite, beasts hunt, storms rage, and nopony pretends otherwise.

But this change is different.

Far off, deeper than sound should travel, the low grinding vibration of wings carries. It's a sound that has stopped bothering to hide.

Zecora closes her eyes.

She recalls the old changelings: lurking shadows, driven by desperate disguises and hunger to steal what they could not produce. She offered warnings, potions, distance. Dangerous, yes, but also pitiable—warped by need. The memory lingers, just as the green filly’s words do.

That pity has vanished.

They have absorbed the world’s cruelty: the barred doors, the rainbow blasts, and the hushed accusations of monstrosity. Instead, they have transformed it into something solid. Into pride and sustenance.

And the child with the ancient stare, the one who walks as though the ground itself resents her presence, showed them how.

Zecora opens her eyes. The masks seem to observe her more intently now.

“Balance shifts when chains are cast aside,” she murmurs to the empty hut. “Yet freedom forged in darkness may abide.”

She feels no fear. Fear belongs to those who believe harmony is the only worthwhile song.

Yet she senses the shift: a new presence in the Everfree, patient and cold, expanding without seeking leave.

The drifting child who moves between worlds, leaving only silence in her wake, carries a fragment of that presence in her empty spaces. Zecora wonders if that silence is a wound or a gift.

Zecora returns to her cauldron and adds a pinch of something silver and sharp.

The forest will decide, in time, what sprouts from seeds sown in spite. For now, all Zecora can do is wait and watch.

Until then, she brews.

She watches.

And she offers no rhyming warnings, because some truths require no permission from anypony to be understood. Sometimes, silence is the only proper answer.

===

In the deepest chamber of the hive, where resin walls radiate with a slow, frost-green heartbeat, Chrysalis stands alone.

The throne remains untouched in the shadows, an artifact of a time when she believed power was stolen love, scraped from unwilling hearts. She has no need of it now. She simply stands, wings half-unfurled, gazing into the pool of black ichor that reveals only her own sharpened silhouette.

Spite flows through her like glacial melt: cold, relentless, eternal.

She remembers the moment it took root. The chamber is sealed. The nightmares allowed to rise unchecked: Canterlot’s spires gleaming as rainbow fire cast her down; Twilight Sparkle’s light driving her back again and again; drones lost, eggs crushed beneath pony hooves in the name of harmony. She let every wound reopen until hatred burned itself out, leaving only the dense, unyielding core.

Spite.

Not the frantic blaze of revenge, but something quieter. Heavier. A stone polished smooth by endless pressure.

It sustains her now. It sustains them all.

She flexes a hoof; dull jade veins slide beneath her darkened carapace. The old hollow hunger is gone. She is solid, steady, and complete.

At night, she walks the upper spires beneath a canopy that blocks even moonlight’s gaze. Drones salute with clashed horns and steady wings, no longer trembling. They hunt for the pleasure of dominance. They forge weapons uncommanded. They fill egg chambers with certainty instead of dread.

The hive thrums, cold and assured.

Pride settles in her chest, not the needy kind that begs for admiration, but the quiet knowledge of something that was rejected and endured: Your scorn is my foundation. She feels no need to prove herself to anypony anymore.

The little green void still drifts into her thoughts sometimes, uninvited.

Anon.

The filly with predator eyes and a voice akin to flat stone. The one who spoke the truth plainly and made it irreversible. Chrysalis feels no warmth toward her. Warmth is a pony weakness, a leash. Yet she acknowledges the emptiness sharp enough to cut the last fraying strands of their old bond.

The child wanders the forest now, seldom seen. Chrysalis sends no summons. The lesson was delivered once, perfectly. It has taken root.

She turns from the ichor pool.

They will endure long after pony songs fade to silence, sustained by the burden of every wrong the world imposed upon them.

Chrysalis smiles, fangs catching the frost-green glow.

Let harmony keep its bright, fleeting fire.

She has something colder.

Something forever.