Anonfilly, Harmony-less [Part 3]

 

Tartarus.

 

The gate looms out of the wasteland like something the world tried to forget. Massive iron bars twisted into snarling faces, chains thick as tree trunks, runes glowing faint red with ancient wards. Beyond the gate, a jagged path descends into fiery gloom—cages hanging from chains over pits of flame, distant roars echoing up like memories of rage.

 

Cerberus is there, of course.

 

The three-headed guardian lounges across the entrance, each massive head dozing with one eye half-open. Drool steams where it hits the ground. He stirs when your hooves crunch on the gravel, all six eyes snapping to you. A low growl rumbles from three throats—warning, recognition, confusion.

 

You stop.

 

Your small, sharp, human eyes meet his six.

 

He quiets.

 

Not fear, exactly. Something older. Like Ahgg’s recognition. Like the predators that part for you. Cerberus has guarded this gate for millennia, seen every kind of monster chained below. He knows eyes that don’t belong to pony harmony.

 

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

 

You step forward.

 

He doesn’t stop you.

 

The chains don’t rattle. The wards don’t flare. The gate creaks open just enough for a filly to slip through, as if Tartarus itself is curious.

 

You wander deeper into Tartarus until the path levels into a wide cavern of hanging cages. Most are occupied by shadows that don’t move—ancient things chained for crimes the world has half-forgotten. The air grows hotter, thicker. Cages swing overhead—some empty, some holding shadows that stir and hiss. You pass the cell where Tirek was once held—bars bent outward from his escape, scorched stone still cracked. Lower, older cages hold things that have no names in pony stories: twisted shapes that watch you with too many eyes, or none at all.

 

None call out.

 

None beg.

 

They just watch the harmony-less filly walk deeper, amulet humming invisible power that could free them all.

 

You don’t.

 

You just keep going, down paths that wind into fire-lit dark.

 

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

 

You step inside.

 

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

 

Tartarus doesn’t pretend you belong.

 

But it doesn’t stop you either.

 

And for once, the silence feels like the only honest welcome you’ve ever had.

 

===

 

You sit.

 

Hours pass.

 

You listen to the silence.

 

It’s not empty silence. It’s thick—full of old rage that burned out, old schemes that failed, old monsters that stopped roaring. The kind of quiet that doesn’t pretend anything will change. No songs waiting to burst out. No harmony humming under the surface. Just the honest weight of things left to rot.

 

It’s the closest thing to peace you’ve felt in years.

 

But even that gets boring.

 

The amulet stays invisible and patient against your chest. Power waiting for a command that doesn’t come.

 

You stand. Step out of the open cage. The chains don’t rattle. The shadows don’t call after you.

 

Cerberus is asleep when you pass the gate again, all three heads snoring in uneasy harmony. He doesn’t wake.

 

You walk north until the barren ground gives way to tracks. A late-night freight train rumbles past—empty cars heading toward the Crystal Empire for morning supplies. You hop an open boxcar. The wind turns cold and sharp as the landscape shifts to snow and sparkle.

 

The Crystal Empire glitters under moonlight like something too perfect to be real. You slip off the train before it reaches the station, hooves crunching on crystal-dusted snow.

 

The Crystal Heart floats in the center plaza, spinning slowly between its spires. Even at this hour, it glows—soft blues and pinks pulsing with the distant dreams of sleeping crystal ponies. Love made solid. Harmony made visible. Light that banishes cold and shadow because every heart in the empire beats in willing unison.

 

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

 

The Heart doesn’t dim.

 

It doesn’t flare.

 

It just spins, indifferent to the harmony-less filly watching it.

 

You feel nothing pull you closer.

 

Nothing push you away.

 

Just the same flat observation: pretty. Efficient magic. Works for them.

 

The snow falls softer here, like it’s trying not to disturb the glow.

 

You stay long enough for the boredom to creep back in.

 

Then you turn and walk toward the station again.

 

The trains run both ways.

 

And there’s always somewhere else that doesn’t pretend you belong.

 

===

 

You take the train north again, past the Crystal Empire’s glittering spires until the tracks curve into barren tundra. You hop off at the last lonely stop—a forgotten platform half-buried in snow—before the line turns back south. The wind hits like a slap, sharp and honest, whipping your black mane across your eyes.

 

You walk.

 

The snow is deep, but your small hooves find purchase. The Alicorn Amulet stays invisible, a cold hum against your chest. You remember the episode clearly: Sombra’s explosion under the Crystal Heart’s light, shadows scattering, the single red horn spinning away into the blizzard like a dark seed.

 

It landed somewhere out here.

 

Far enough that the empire’s glow never touched it.

 

You search for hours. Days, maybe. Time blurs in the white. The landscape is endless—rolling drifts, jagged ice ridges, sky and ground the same colorless gray. No trails. No markers. Just wind howling old curses.

 

Then you find it.

 

A faint red glint beneath a drift, half-buried where the snow piled deepest against a frozen outcrop. You dig with your hooves, numb but persistent. The horn emerges—curved, black-red, cracked from the blast but unbroken. No magic left in it. No glowing eyes. Just a relic, cold as the snow that tried to swallow it.

 

You sit.

 

The wind quiets, as if listening.

 

King Sombra.

 

Tyrant. Slaver. Shadow that fed on fear and crystal pony despair. Destroyed twice—once by the Heart, once by his own arrogance. Reduced to this: a horn in the snow, forgotten by everypony who sings about victory.

 

You feel nothing triumphant.

 

Nothing vengeful.

 

Just the flat recognition: another thing harmony couldn’t fully erase. Another sharp-edged creature that refused to soften, refused to share, refused to ask permission.

 

The empire’s distant glow is a faint shimmer on the horizon—love made solid, spinning forever.

 

Out here, the snow keeps its own counsel.

 

You stay long enough for the cold to sink into your bones.

 

The wind has died to a whisper, leaving the tundra in perfect, frozen silence. You sit beside the shallow grave you just dug, the curved black-red horn resting on your hooves like a forgotten toy. It’s heavier than it looks—dense with old malice that should prickle your skin, but doesn’t. The Alicorn Amulet stays invisible and quiet against your chest, as if waiting to see what you’ll do next.

 

You’re bored.

 

The Crystal Heart’s distant glow feels like a joke you’ve heard too many times. Tartarus was quiet, but too quiet. The portraits sang the same disappointed song. Even the spite empire’s grinding hum has settled into background noise.

 

So you do the thing that makes the least sense.

 

You lift Sombra’s horn and press the broken base to your forehead, right where a unicorn’s would be.

 

Nothing dramatic happens at first.

 

No explosion of shadow. No red eyes in your reflection. No voice whispering conquest in your ear.

 

Just cold.

 

Then pressure—like something recognizing a shape it hasn’t felt in a thousand years.

 

The horn shifts.

 

Not melting. Not fusing. Just… settling. The cracked base knits to your coat and bone with a faint, wet click, painless and final. Black-red crystal spreads in thin veins across your forehead, curving into a perfect, wicked arc. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t feel foreign.

 

It feels like putting on a hat you didn’t know you were missing.

 

You stand.

 

Shadows at your hooves twitch, then rise—tendrils of living darkness curling around your legs like curious smoke. You flick an ear, and they obey, sharpening into blades before dissolving again. The snow around you darkens, drinking light instead of reflecting it. Your teal eyes catch a faint red glint in the ice.

 

Power.

 

Clean. Vast. Different from the amulet’s raw amplification—this is older, colder, hungrier. Umbrakinesis. Fear made solid. The kind of magic that enslaved an empire once.

 

No corruption creeps in.

 

No urge to conquer rises.

 

Just the same flat observation: interesting. Works well. Efficient.

 

You tilt your head. The new horn catches the weak sunlight, throwing a blood-colored shadow across the snow.

 

The wind picks up again, howling like it’s laughing at a joke only it understands.

 

You could go back to the empire and watch the Heart dim under your shadow.

 

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

 

You could do nothing.

 

The options feel heavier now, but no more meaningful.

 

You cover the shallow grave again—gentler this time, as if acknowledging a kindred relic.

 

Then you start walking.

 

The snow doesn’t spring back under your hooves anymore.

 

It just darkens.

 

And the new horn hums, patient, waiting for a command that still doesn’t come.

 

===

 

The new horn hums against your forehead like a tuning fork struck once and left to vibrate forever. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t whisper commands. It just sits there, curved and wicked, channeling shadow that answers when you think about it and fades when you don’t.

 

You walk south from the tundra, past the Crystal Empire’s glittering edge. The city’s glow feels farther away now—too bright, too warm, like something trying too hard. You skirt the outskirts until the snow gives way to frozen grass and jagged rock. The horn tugs—not pain, not voice, just direction. Down.

 

You find the fissure by accident, or maybe not.

 

A crack in the earth hidden under a drift, wide enough for a filly if she doesn’t mind scraping coat on stone. You descend.

 

The air changes fast—colder, thicker, tasting of old fear and older stone. Crystals in the walls glow faint red when you pass, responding to the horn like it remembers family. The path spirals deeper, carved by something that wasn’t hooves. Shadows thicken, pooling at your hooves and rising when you will them to.

 

You reach the prison.

 

A vast cavern sealed by a barrier of shimmering crystal light—the Crystal Heart’s ancient ward, stretched thin across the floor like frozen aurora. Beyond it, darkness writhes. Shapes move—pony-like but wrong, made of living shadow, eyes glowing red in the gloom. Umbrum. Hundreds. Thousands. Trapped beneath the empire since Princess Amore’s time, imprisoned for what they were, not what they did.

 

They stir when you approach.

 

Eyes fix on you. On the horn.

 

Whispers rise—layered, hungry, ancient.

 

“The key…”

 

“…returned…”

 

“…flesh of our flesh…”

 

You stand at the barrier’s edge. The light doesn’t burn you. Doesn’t push you back. The horn drinks it instead, shadows curling protectively around your legs.

 

One umbrum presses against the ward—tall, sharp, form flickering between pony and smoke.

 

“Child of the surface,” it rasps, voice like wind through graves. “Bearing our lost king’s crown. You woke it. You wear it. Free us.”

 

You tilt your head. The horn catches the barrier’s glow, throwing blood-red reflections across the cavern.

 

You feel the pull—power ready to tear the ward like wet paper. Shadows at your command could flood upward, drown the empire in the dark it fears.

 

But the emptiness is still there.

 

No rage.

 

No hunger for vengeance.

 

Just boredom, and curiosity.

 

You sit.

 

The umbrum watch, confused.

 

You stay long enough for the novelty to wear off.

 

Then you stand. Shadows retreat obediently.

 

The whispers turn angry. Pleading.

 

You walk back up the spiral path.

 

The barrier holds.

 

The horn hums, patient.

 

And the Crystal Empire’s distant glow stays bright above, unaware that something with the old king’s power just visited the dark beneath its feet.

 

And chose to leave it sleeping.

 

For now.

 

===

 

You board a southbound train at the edge of the frozen north, slipping into an empty freight car while the conductor looks the other way. The horn sits curved and wicked on your forehead, shadows curling lazily at your hooves even in the dim light. The Alicorn Amulet hums beneath your coat, invisible but ever-present.

 

You focus.

 

The power answers clean and instant. Crimson light folds inward, cloaking the amulet deeper. Then it reaches outward—shadows thinning to nothing, the horn’s black-red curve fading like ink washed away. No glow. No glint. No tendrils trailing your steps. Just a small green filly with teal eyes too sharp for pony faces, walking through the world like she was never changed.

 

The train rattles south. Snow gives way to grass, then to Ponyville’s neat fences and too-bright colors.

 

You hop off before the station.

 

Twilight’s castle looms crystal and perfect, catching the late sun like it’s trying to outshine everything else. You walk the paths openly—no skulking, no hiding. Ponies glance, then glance away faster. The usual unease. Nothing new.

 

Inside, the halls are quiet. Spike’s somewhere clattering dishes. Twilight’s voice drifts from the library—muttering over reports, quill scratching worries into parchment.

 

You pass the map room. She’s there, wings tense, maps spread like wounds. The black lines have grown again—spite empire borders pushing outward, griffon routes, yak trails, dragon smoke trails all converging.

 

She doesn’t notice you.

 

You climb the stairs to your room. The door closes soft behind you.

 

You sit on the too-soft bed.

 

The cloaking holds. No horn visible in the mirror. No shadows leaking across the floor. Just a blank-flanked green filly with predator eyes staring back.

 

Power waits—two kinds now. Amulet’s raw amplification. Horn’s cold umbrakinesis. Both obedient. Both bored.

 

Twilight will worry eventually. Ask where you’ve been. Offer tea and talks about friendship.

 

You’ll shrug.

 

The castle hums with harmony that doesn’t reach you.

 

Outside, the world tilts a little further from its bright center.

 

And you sit in the quiet, invisible relics humming against invisible skin.

 

Still not knowing what to do with yourself.

 

Still waiting for the boredom to shift into something else.

 

It doesn’t.

 

The night falls honest and indifferent.

 

And the cloaking holds.

 

===

 

You leave the castle again the next morning, cloaking still perfect—no horn, no shadows, no crimson glint to give you away. The invisible power hums quiet and patient, like it’s learned your boredom too.

 

Cozy Glow.

 

You remember her from the show: the sweet-faced filly with the chess-piece cutie mark and the smile that hid everything. She tricked the Mane Six, nearly drained all magic from Equestria, allied with Tirek. Got sent to Tartarus. Then teamed up with Chrysalis and Tirek again. Ended up stone in the end.

 

But in this world—where Chrysalis never groveled, never allied, just built her cold empire from spite—you’re not sure where the timeline broke.

 

So you check.

 

First stop: Ponyville schoolhouse.

 

You walk the familiar path past Sugarcube Corner, past foals already chasing each other in the yard. Cheerilee’s voice drifts out the open windows—patient, bright, teaching something about cutie marks and destiny. You stand at the fence and look through.

 

No Cozy.

 

No pink pegasus filly with curly mane and rook cutie mark. Just the usual crowd—Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle, Scootaloo, Diamond Tiara, the rest. They glance at you, shift away, go back to their games.

 

Cheerilee notices you lingering. She steps out, smiling that careful teacher smile.

 

“Anon? Class is about to start. Do you want to join us today?”

 

You shake your head.

 

“Looking for somepony,” you say. Flat. “Pink filly. Curly mane. Chess piece on her flank.”

 

Cheerilee’s brow furrows. “Cozy Glow? She transferred to Twilight’s School of Friendship a while back. I haven’t seen her since.”

 

You nod once.

 

You already knew that wouldn’t be the answer.

 

Next stop: Tartarus.

 

You take the long way—trains and walking, skirting the Crystal Empire’s glow until the land turns barren again. The gate looms the same—iron snarling faces, chains thick as trees. Cerberus lounges across the entrance, three heads dozing. He stirs when you approach, six eyes blinking open.

 

You meet his gaze.

 

He whines once—soft, uncertain—then shifts aside.

 

The gate creaks open for you again.

 

You descend.

 

The heat rises. Cages swing. Shadows hiss in the dark.

 

You walk deeper than last time, past Tirek’s old bent bars—empty now. Past ancient things that don’t bother to look up.

 

You find her cage halfway down the main spiral.

 

Smaller than the others. Reinforced bars glowing faint with anti-magic wards. Inside: a pink pegasus filly curled on the stone floor, wings tucked tight, curly mane tangled and dull. Red eyes snap open when your shadow falls across the bars.

 

Cozy Glow sits up slow.

 

She looks smaller than the show made her—thin, coat matted, cutie mark faded like old paint. But the smile comes quick. Too quick.

 

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

 

Her voice is sweet. Practiced. The same weapon it always was.

 

You stand outside the bars.

 

She tilts her head, studying you.

 

“You’re new. Green filly. No cutie mark. Those eyes…” She pauses. The smile twitches. “You’re not like the others.”

 

You don’t answer.

 

She scoots closer to the bars, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

 

“I could use a friend out there. Somepony smart. Somepony who sees how unfair it all is. We could be unstoppable together. Just open the door and—”

 

You turn and walk away.

 

Her voice rises behind you—sweet turning sharp.

 

“Hey! Come back! You can’t just leave me here!”

 

It echoes off the stone, chasing you up the path.

 

You return to Tartarus a few days later, the cloaking still perfect—no horn, no shadows, no crimson glow to betray what you carry. The journey is routine now: train, walk, barren gate. Cerberus barely lifts a head this time, one eye cracking open in lazy acknowledgment before he settles back to sleep. The gate creaks for you like an old habit.

 

You bring gifts.

 

Coloring books swiped from a Ponyville shop—bright covers with smiling ponies and blank pages waiting for color. A box of crayons, the big sixty-four pack with sharpener built in. A couple of portable video games—old hoof-held consoles you found in Twilight’s donation pile, batteries fresh, cartridges full of simple puzzles and platformers.

 

Small things.

 

Harmless things.

 

You descend the spiral path again, past swinging cages and hissing shadows. Cozy’s cell is the same—small, reinforced, anti-magic bars glowing faint. She’s pacing when you arrive, wings twitching, muttering to herself in that too-sweet voice turned sour.

 

She freezes when your shadow falls across the bars.

 

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

 

You don’t answer.

 

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

 

Her eyes light up—real light this time, or close enough. She scrambles forward, gathering them like treasures.

 

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

 

She chatters while she works—sweet compliments, questions about the surface, hints at how smart you must be to sneak past Cerberus. The mask is flawless: eager filly grateful for kindness, no hint of the chess master underneath.

 

You sit outside the bars.

 

Watch.

 

Hours pass.

 

She colors page after page—perfect lines at first, staying inside them like a model student. Then sloppier as she relaxes, pink and red bleeding over edges. She plays the games next—simple jumps and puzzles, cheering at victories, pouting cutely at deaths. She offers commentary the whole time: how nice you are, how you could be best friends, how together you could do anything.

 

The mask holds.

 

You wait.

 

She starts a new picture—herself as an alicorn empress, crown oversized, ponies bowing. The crayon snaps in her hoof. She doesn’t notice at first.

 

The chatter slows.

 

She wins a game level, then stares at the victory screen too long.

 

“Golly,” she says finally, voice quieter. “This is… nice.”

 

Pause.

 

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

 

Another pause.

 

The smile falters—just a flicker.

 

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

 

She sets the game down.

 

Looks at you.

 

Really looks.

 

The dimples fade.

 

The eyes harden.

 

“How long are you going to watch?” she asks, voice flat now. No golly. No gosh. Just sharp.

 

You don’t answer.

 

She leans against the bars.

 

“You think you’re better,” she says. “Harmony-less little freak. Bringing toys like I’m some foal who’ll melt for crayons. I don’t need your pity.”

 

The mask is gone.

 

Just the chess player left—cold, calculating, angry at being seen.

 

She watches you, wings tight against her sides, eyes narrowed.

 

“It’s not pity,” you say. Voice flat. Small. The same tone you use for everything.

 

Cozy snorts. “Sure. You bring toys to the big bad villain in her cage because you feel sorry for poor little me. Spare me the act.”

 

You shake your head.

 

“It’s boredom.”

 

She blinks.

 

You look past her, at the scattered crayons and flickering game screen.

 

“Boredom is worse than oblivion,” you say. “Oblivion is nothing. Over. Boredom is nothing stretching forever. Watching the same things happen the same way. Waiting for something to change and knowing it won’t. Tartarus is quiet. The empire hums the same note. The castle sings the same song. Even the dark under the Crystal Heart just waits.”

 

You meet her eyes.

 

“Bringing stuff. Watching the mask crack. That’s something different. For a little while.”

 

Cozy stares.

 

The anger fades—not into sweetness, but into something sharper. Calculation.

 

“You’re… bored?” she asks slowly. “With all that power you’re hiding? You could break me out. Rule everything. And you’re bored?”

 

You shrug.

 

“Power doesn’t fix boredom. It just makes the nothing bigger.”

 

She leans against the bars again, closer this time.

 

“Then we’re the same,” she says, voice low. “I planned empires because sitting still was worse than losing. You wander because sitting still is worse than nothing.”

 

Silence stretches.

 

Not uncomfortable.

 

Just honest.

 

You stand.

 

Don’t say goodbye.

 

She doesn’t ask you to stay.

 

But the games stay on.

 

And the crayons don’t get kicked aside.

 

You climb back toward the gate.

 

The shadows follow invisible at your hooves.

 

And the boredom shifts again—just a fraction.

 

Enough to notice.

 

===

 

You find Discord again a few days later, floating upside-down over Sweet Apple Acres, turning apples into rubber balls that bounce away from startled farm ponies. He rights himself the moment he senses you, grin stretching too wide, eyes glinting with that chaotic curiosity.

 

“Back so soon, little void? Miss my sparkling conversation already?”

 

You stop beneath him, small green shadow against the orchard grass.

 

“I went to Tartarus a few weeks ago,” you say. Flat. Direct. “Tirek’s cage is open. Bars bent out. Empty.”

 

Discord’s grin freezes.

 

Then it widens further, delighted and dangerous.

 

“Oh ho! The old centaur’s out for another stroll? And here I thought Celestia’s wards were foolproof.” He snaps his fingers; a tiny popcorn kernel pops into a miniature Tirek that flexes dramatically before vanishing. “Did you see him? Chat about old times? Compare notes on being misunderstood?”

 

You shake your head.

 

“Just the cage. No tracks. No magic residue. Like he walked out quiet.”

 

Discord floats down until he’s eye-level, mismatched pupils spinning slow.

 

“Quiet isn’t Tirek’s style,” he murmurs. “He likes announcements. Draining. Monologues. If he’s loose and silent…” A pause. The grin softens, just a fraction. “Well. The world does love its sequels.”

 

He studies you closer.

 

“And you went poking around Tartarus for fun? My, my. Boredom really is the ultimate evil, isn’t it?”

 

You shrug.

 

“Something like that.”

 

Discord laughs—sharp, echoing, genuine.

 

“Then keep me posted, little void. If Tirek’s shopping for allies again, the guest list might get interesting.”

 

He snaps away in a puff of glitter that smells like ozone and old grudges.

 

You stand in the orchard a moment longer.

 

The apples bounce back to normal, rolling gently under trees.

 

The wind moves through the leaves, honest and indifferent.

 

And somewhere out there, a centaur walks free.

 

Quiet.

 

For now.

 

===

 

Tirek crouches in the shadowed ruins of an old fortress deep in the badlands, horns cracked but regrowing, body lean from months of cautious hunting. Freedom tastes like ash after Tartarus’s stone sleep, but he savors it nonetheless. He has learned patience the hard way. No grand announcements. No immediate rampage. Just watching. Waiting. Gathering strength in secret.

 

From hidden vantage points—craggy peaks, abandoned mines, the edges of scorched earth—he observes the world’s shift.

 

The Everfree’s black spires rise higher every week, resin gleaming cold under moonlight. Changelings patrol them openly now—matte black, frost-eyed, moving with a pride that needs no disguise. No more skulking infiltrators begging love scraps. They hunt. They build. They trade with creatures who once scorned them.

 

Griffons come first—sharp-winged merchants with resin blades that never dull. Then yaks, thundering in with barrels and horn carvings, leaving with armor that shrugs off blizzard and battle alike. Dragons follow—Ember’s shadow passing overhead, returning south with tools that endure dragonfire without repair.

 

Unspoken alliances. No pony banners. No friendship oaths. Just blunt exchange between peoples who have decided strength matters more than harmony’s songs.

 

Tirek feels the old hunger stir.

 

He remembers draining love—sweet, yielding, flooding him with power that burned bright and fast. He remembers magic—raw, transferable, pouring from pony horns into his maw like wine. Easy. Stolen.

 

Spite should be the same.

 

He finds a lone spite drone on a border patrol—separated, testing new wings perhaps. Tirek strikes from shadow, jaws opening wide, the familiar pull of absorption reaching out.

 

The spite resists.

 

It does not flow. It does not yield. It sits cold and unmoving in the drone’s core—dense as stone, stubborn as mountain roots. Earned through every rejection, every scornful pony smile, every defeat turned inward and compressed into endless endurance. Grown by its wielder. Sustained by its wielder. Belonging utterly to its wielder.

 

Tirek pulls harder. Muscles strain. Horns glow. The drone staggers but does not weaken—frost eyes lock on him with calm certainty.

 

The spite remains.

 

Unstealable.

 

The drone escapes—not in panic, but in quiet dismissal, wings beating steady as it rejoins the patrol.

 

Tirek retreats to his ruins, chest heaving, hunger sharper than before.

 

He understands now.

 

Love can be stolen because it is given freely, meant to be shared.

 

Magic can be taken because it flows outward, seeking use.

 

Spite cannot.

 

It is not given. It is not shared. It is forged inward, layer by layer, from wounds the world inflicted and refused to heal. It belongs to the wounded alone. Self-sustained. Immutable.

 

The empire thrives on what no thief can touch.

 

Griffons, yaks, dragons resonate because they carry their own versions—heavy, cold, earned.

 

Tirek sits in the dark, horns casting long shadows.

 

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

 

And the sharper edge of caution.

 

The world has learned a new kind of strength.

 

One that cannot be drained.

 

One that might, in time, drain him instead.

 

He watches the black spires on the horizon.

 

And plans quieter than before.

 

===

 

In the deepest vault of the hive, where the resin walls pulse with the slowest, coldest heartbeat, Chrysalis stands alone before a statue carved from her own discarded past.

 

The figure is tall and jagged, molded from the glossy black carapace she shed during the first transformation—the one that followed the nightmares, the deliberate tasting of spite. The old shell had cracked and fallen away in sheets, brittle with the residue of hunger and desperation. Her drones gathered the pieces reverently, not as waste but as relic. They shaped them into this: a perfect likeness of the queen she used to be—wings perforated and fragile, eyes glowing with frantic need, fangs bared in a snarl that begged even as it threatened.

 

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

 

Chrysalis circles it slowly, hooves silent on the resin floor.

 

“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice low and smooth, edged with frost. “So hungry. So clever. Scheming invasions, disguises, alliances with fools like Tirek because love was the only coin the world accepted. You drained scraps and called it power. You begged with fangs hidden behind smiles.”

 

She stops in front of the statue’s face. Her own reflection stares back—matte black carapace shot through with dull jade, eyes frozen slits of certainty.

 

“You thought rejection was defeat. Every pony sneer, every rainbow blast, every slammed door—you carried them as wounds. You let them weaken you. You changed shapes to fit their fears, then hated yourself for needing their love to shine.”

 

Her wing lifts, serrated edge brushing the statue’s cheek. The old shell is cold, brittle, already cracking in fine lines from time.

 

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

 

She steps back. The frost-green light catches the veins in her new carapace, making them glow like poisoned rivers.

 

“Then the void came. The little green nothing with predator eyes. She pointed at the stone we already carried—the scorn, the defeats, the endless weight of their harmony refusing us. And we tasted it. Deliberately. Fully.”

 

Chrysalis’s voice drops to silk over steel.

 

“It did not yield power in bursts. It gave endurance. Immutable. Ours. No more begging. No more masks. No more changing for them.”

 

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

 

“You would have hated this me. Called her cold. Weak for not conquering. But look outside these walls—griffons trade blades that never dull, yaks wear armor that shrugs off blizzard and battle, dragons covet tools that endure their own fire. They come to us. They resonate. Because we finally stopped asking permission to exist.”

 

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

 

Chrysalis straightens. Her wings mantle like a cloak of night.

 

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

 

She turns away. The frost light dims behind her.

 

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

 

The new queen needs nothing.

 

And the hive hums colder, stronger, forever.

 

===

 

The invisible horn hums faintly against your forehead, shadows curling and uncurling at your hooves like bored pets. The Alicorn Amulet stays cloaked beneath your coat, power waiting for a reason that never comes. Boredom has settled deeper lately—Cozy’s mask cracking was interesting for a day, Tirek’s empty cage a curiosity, but everything loops back to the same quiet.

 

So you chase an older name.

 

Grogar.

 

You remember him from fragments—old G1 stories Twilight skimmed past in dusty books, the season 9 villain who turned out to be Discord in a bad ram costume. But the real one, the legend, lingers like smoke. In Generation 1, he was a true monster: a blue ram sorcerer with red horns and a golden bell around his neck that rang out mind-control and necromancy. Ruler of the lost city Tambelon, banished five hundred years before Megan’s time, returned once to conquer Dream Valley with an army of troggles, only to be defeated and banished again. A necromancer who raised the dead, feared even by other villains.

 

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

 

You go looking anyway.

 

The path takes weeks—trains to forgotten stops, walking through wastelands no map marks. You follow whispers from old zebra tales Zecora once rhymed without meaning to, hints from the portraits about “the ram who rang doom before witches walked.” The land changes: rolling hills turn barren, sky bruises permanent gray, ground cracked like old bone.

 

You find Tambelon at the edge of nothing.

 

A city half-sunk in shadow, towers twisted like horns, walls crumbling but humming with old wards. No light. No life. Just wind moaning through empty streets and the faint, distant echo of a bell that hasn’t rung in centuries.

 

Grogar waits in the central citadel—throneroom open to the sky, chains dangling where his bell once hung.

 

He’s smaller than legend. Blue fur matted and faded, red horns cracked, eyes milky with age and exile. The golden collar is empty—no bell. Just a ram chained to his own ruined throne by spells older than Equestria itself. Not dead. Not free. Trapped in the city he ruled, banished with it.

 

He stirs when your shadow falls across the stone.

 

Small teal eyes meet ancient red.

 

“Another pony come to gloat,” he rasps, voice like grinding gravel. “Or steal what little remains.”

 

You sit.

 

The shadows curl closer, curious.

 

He studies you—the harmony-less filly with predator eyes and invisible relics humming power he can taste but not touch.

 

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

 

You shrug.

 

“Boredom.”

 

He laughs—dry, cracked, echoing through empty halls.

 

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

 

You do.

 

For a while.

 

The ruined city doesn’t mind. No creatures stir in the empty streets. No wind carries songs or demands. Just the slow crumble of stone and the faint echo of a bell that hasn’t rung in millennia. Grogar remains chained to his throne—blue fur faded to ash, red horns cracked, eyes milky but sharp. He watches you come and go, small green shadow moving through his prison like you belong to the silence.

 

One dusk—or what passes for dusk under the bruised sky—you sit at the base of his throne again.

 

“Tell me about the past,” you say. Flat. Curious in the way boredom allows. “The time when witches, wizards, warlocks roamed. Humans.”

 

Grogar’s milky eyes fix on you. The chains rattle faintly as he shifts, old bones creaking.

 

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

 

He leans forward, voice grinding like stone on stone.

 

“They were not one people. Some kind. Some cruel. The cruel ones learned dark magic easy—souls too stubborn to erode. Witches with storm hair and bone crowns. Wizards who raised dead armies with a word. Warlocks who twisted shadows into blades. They built towers in places the sun feared. Ruled pockets of land with fear and fire. I knew them. Fought some. Allied with others when it served.”

 

A low chuckle escapes, dry as dust.

 

“They promised power. I promised bells that rang minds to sleep. We shared enemies—early pony tribes, alicorns just waking to their wings. But humans fought each other more than us. Ambition ate ambition. Dark magic left marks—evil growing where resilience held the corrosion back.”

 

His gaze drifts to the empty collar around his neck.

 

“Then Megan came. One human from beyond. Golden hair. Bright power. Stood with the first great alicorns. Wiped the dark ones clean. Mutual slaughter, they say. Native humans burned to ash. Megan fell with them. Alicorns spent their lives finishing it. Only the wild things remembered the terror in human eyes.”

 

He looks at you again.

 

“You carry those eyes. But no fire. No ambition to drown worlds. Just… quiet.”

 

The chains settle.

 

“Humans are gone from this soil. Ponies sang them into legend and warning. Harmony buried the sharp edges.”

 

You sit in the silence that follows.

 

The silence stretches until it feels almost comfortable.

 

You speak next.

 

“I don’t know why I’m here.”

 

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

 

Grogar tilts his head, cracked horns scraping chain.

 

“The world pulled me,” you continue. “Everfree paths that opened when I walked. Monsters that ran. Old ruins that waited. Like something wanted me to find them. Tartarus gate creaking open. Umbrum whispering below the empire. Portraits waking up. You.”

 

You look up at him.

 

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

 

Grogar’s laugh is dry gravel.

 

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

 

He shifts, chains rattling like distant thunder.

 

“You have the eyes. The pull. But no hunger to carve. No song to drown them with. You wander the edges the world leaves open, and it resents you for not filling them with fire.”

 

You sit in the dust at the base of Grogar’s throne longer than usual, the ruined city’s silence wrapping around you like an old cloak. The chains hang still. The empty collar gleams dully. His milky eyes watch you without hurry, ancient and patient.

 

The words come out quieter than you meant.

 

“Should I fill it with fire?” you ask. “The emptiness. If that’s what the world wants. The pull. The open paths. The things that run or wake when I come. Like it’s waiting for me to burn something. To carve a place the way the old humans did.”

 

Grogar is silent for a long time. The wind moans through cracked towers far above.

 

Finally he speaks, voice grinding slow.

 

“The world always wants fire from what it fears,” he rasps. “It draws the sharp-edged close, then resents them for not burning bright enough to justify the fear. Humans filled it—some with ambition, some with cruelty, some with both. They raised armies. Drowned lands. Built empires of gloom because the void demanded a shape. And the world answered with Megan’s light, with pony songs, with banishment.”

 

He leans forward, chains rattling like distant bones.

 

“But fire consumes. It warms nothing forever. It leaves ash and new fear. You have the eyes. The pull. The relics that answer you. You could burn. Raise shadows. Free old things. Drown harmony in the dark it pretends doesn’t exist. The world would name you monster. Fight you. Sing you into legend or stone.”

 

His milky gaze sharpens.

 

“Or you could leave the void empty. Wander the edges it opens. Let the world step around the hole and resent you for not giving it a reason.”

 

He settles back.

 

“Fire fills. Emptiness endures. Both are freedom. Both are chains. Choose the one that bores you least.”

 

You sit in the dust of Tambelon’s throne room, the weight of Grogar’s words settling like fine ash. Fire or emptiness. Both freedom. Both chains. Choose what bores you least.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Tirek’s empty bars.

 

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

 

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

 

You look up at the ancient ram.

 

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

 

Grogar’s milky eyes narrow.

 

You keep going.

 

“The Volcano of Gloom. Old witch home. Empty now. Big enough. I could open it. Bring the umbrum up from below the empire. Open cages in Tartarus for ones who want out. Bring you if you want. A place where sharp things belong because they’re sharp. No pretending. No songs. Just… existing. Without permission.”

 

Grogar is silent a long time. Chains hang still.

 

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

 

You shrug.

 

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

 

He studies you—the small green filly with invisible power humming under cloaked skin.

 

“No fire,” he says. “Not conquest. Not vengeance. Just… refusal to let the forgotten rot alone.”

 

You nod.

 

He laughs—dry, cracked, almost wondering.

 

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

 

You stand.

 

The shadows curl closer, eager.

 

The horn hums invisible agreement.

 

The amulet waits, patient.

 

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

 

Not fire.

 

Not yet.

 

But motion.

 

You turn toward the gate.

 

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

 

The ruined city watches you go.

 

And the emptiness begins to take a shape.

 

===

 

You leave Tambelon at dawn—or what passes for dawn under its bruised sky—with Grogar’s words still echoing in the quiet spaces of your mind. The emptiness has a shape now. Not fire. Not conquest. Just refusal to let the forgotten rot alone.

 

You start with Tartarus.

 

The gate recognizes you. Cerberus lifts one head, whines softly, and steps aside without challenge. You descend the spiral path, cloaking dropped for the first time in weeks—the curved black-red horn visible on your forehead, shadows trailing your hooves like eager hounds. The Alicorn Amulet’s crimson gem gleams openly beneath your mane.

 

Cages swing as you pass. Eyes—too many, too few—track your movement. Whispers rise. Hope. Fear. Calculation.

 

You don’t speak.

 

You just act.

 

The amulet answers your intent with raw, amplified force. Bars bend and snap like dry twigs. Wards shatter in crimson bursts. Chains fall away in heaps of rusted iron. Prisoners step out—some hesitant, some eager, some silent. Ancient things that have no names. Monsters harmony sang into cages. Cozy Glow last, eyes wide at the open door, no sweet mask left.

 

“Golly,” she whispers, voice small and real. “You actually did it.”

 

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

 

They follow.

 

A slow procession climbs the spiral—shadows, beasts, villains, forgotten sharp things. Cerberus watches from the gate, heads bowed, and does not stop you.

 

You herd them north and west, toward the Volcano of Gloom. The journey takes days—shadows hiding the march from pony eyes, amulet cloaking when needed. No songs. No speeches. Just motion.

 

The volcano waits as you left it—crumbling black stone, empty crater, ruins choked with wrong vines. You stand at the rim.

 

The amulet flares.

 

Power pours out—not destruction, but restoration twisted to your will. Cracked towers rise straight and tall, stone knitting seamless. Balconies reinforce. Cauldrons regrow whole and gleaming. Resin from spite changeling influence mixes with old witch magic, walls hardening into something unbreakable. Chambers open deep into the mountain—vast halls, shadowed gardens, places for things that don’t need light. The crater floor smooths into a basin, ready for whatever darkness chooses to fill it.

 

The prisoners—now residents—spread through the halls. Some claim towers. Some curl in shadows. Cozy finds a library of old spellbooks and doesn’t speak for hours.

 

You leave them to settle.

 

Then you teleport.

 

The amulet’s power folds space like paper. One moment the volcano rim, the next the frozen fissure beneath the Crystal Empire. The barrier shimmers—crystal light stretched thin.

 

The umbrum stir below, whispers rising to roars.

 

You raise a hoof.

 

The horn on your forehead drinks the light. Shadows flood upward. The barrier cracks, then shatters in a soundless burst.

 

They rise.

 

Thousands of living darkness—pony-shaped, smoke and substance, red eyes glowing with centuries of wait. They pour out like floodwater held too long, filling the fissure, spilling into the night.

 

You lead again.

 

Teleportation chains them north—shadow to shadow, darkness to darkness. The volcano’s basin waits, empty where lava and Smooze once burned.

 

They fill it.

 

The umbrum pour into the crater, merging with stone and shadow until the volcano breathes again—cold, deep, alive with their presence. No light reaches the bottom now. Just red eyes and patient hunger.

 

The empire above sleeps, unaware its ancient prison is empty.

 

You leave the new residents to claim their space.

 

One last journey.

 

Back to Tambelon.

 

The city is the same—dust and silence. Grogar waits on his throne, chains heavy, eyes milky but alert.

 

You hold the Bewitching Bell in your magic—found buried under his throne room floor, where Gusty left it hidden. Golden, intact, humming with the power he once wielded.

 

You place it around his neck.

 

The chains shatter.

 

Grogar stands—tall again, blue fur darkening, red horns gleaming new. The bell rings once—low, deep, shaking dust from the ruins.

 

He looks at you.

 

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

 

You shrug.

 

“The volcano has room. If you want.”

 

He laughs—thunder in empty halls.

 

“Lead, little nothing. Old Grogar follows.”

 

You turn toward the gate.

 

He follows.

 

Tambelon empties behind you.

 

The volcano gains its oldest resident.

 

You stand on the restored rim of the Volcano of Gloom, watching the new residents settle into the shape you gave their emptiness. Umbrum swirl in the basin below like living smoke, red eyes blinking in the perpetual dusk. Former Tartarus prisoners claim towers and halls—Cozy’s laughter echoes faintly from a library window, sharp and plotting. Grogar’s bell rings low and testing from a high spire, shaking dust from old stone that no longer crumbles.

 

The volcano breathes again—cold, deep, alive with things harmony forgot.

 

Then the ground trembles.

 

Not earthquake. Deliberate. Heavy.

 

You turn toward the forest edge.

 

Ahgg emerges from the trees like a mountain waking up.

 

Massive purple body draped in centuries of webs, single eye glowing faint in the gloom. Legs jointed and slow, crushing saplings without notice. He pauses at the border where old vines meet new resin walls, eye fixing on the restored towers, the swirling shadows, the faint ring of Grogar’s bell.

 

He remembers this place.

 

Home.

 

Or what passed for it when mistresses walked.

 

You walk down the switchback path to meet him. Shadows trail you obediently. The horn stays visible now—no need for cloaking here. The amulet hums open approval.

 

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

 

“Mistresses’ hall… alive again,” he rumbles, voice gravel and dust. “Old smells. New shadows. You did this, little almost-witch.”

 

You nod.

 

“Room for forgotten things. No rotting alone.”

 

He shifts, webs dragging across stone like old curtains.

 

“I waited deep. Hid when light burned. Mistresses gone. No commands. No promises. Just silence.”

 

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

 

“Place for old servants too?”

 

You step aside.

 

The path opens.

 

Ahgg moves forward—slow, deliberate, legs creaking like ancient doors. Webs trail behind him, catching on new resin and old stone alike, weaving unintentional bridges between ruin and restoration.

 

Residents watch from towers and shadows. No fear. Recognition, maybe. Another forgotten thing finding the shape you gave the emptiness.

 

He settles at the crater’s edge, body curling around a restored balcony like he always belonged there. Webs spread across open spaces, thickening the gloom.

 

The volcano accepts him.

 

You stand beside one massive leg, small green shadow against purple bulk.

 

Ahgg’s eye half-closes, content for the first time in centuries.

 

“Home,” he rasps. “No mistresses. But not alone.”

 

The wind howls colder through new webs.

 

The forgotten fill the space a little more.

 

And the boredom fades further.

 

Into something almost like purpose.

 

===

 

You return to the Volcano of Gloom often now, the pull no longer boredom but something quieter—checking the shape you gave the emptiness, watching it fill without your constant hand.

 

Cozy Glow has claimed a high tower library for herself.

 

The room was once Hydia’s spell archive—shelves warped by old Smooze residue, books half-rotted but humming with dark incantations. She organized it in days: stacks sorted by malice level, notes scribbled in curly hoofwriting on how to improve failed schemes. No more cage. No more guards. No more pretending to be the sweet filly everypony wanted to reform.

 

She flies between shelves now, wings stronger from freedom, eyes sharp without the forced dimples. Residents leave her alone—umbrum swirl past her windows like curious smoke, Ahgg’s webs frame her balcony like curtains. She plots aloud sometimes, voice echoing down halls: new ways to drain magic, empires built on chessboard logic. But no urgency drives her. No need to prove anything to ponies who aren’t watching.

 

One evening you find her on the balcony, staring north toward the distant Crystal Empire glow.

 

“It’s boring without somepony to outsmart,” she admits when you sit beside her. No golly. No mask. Just flat honesty. “But it’s my boring now.”

 

She doesn’t thank you.

 

You don’t expect it.

 

Grogar has taken the central citadel.

 

The throne room you found him in at Tambelon has been rebuilt here—higher, darker, chains replaced by webs and shadow. His bell hangs full again, ringing low notes that raise faint echoes of old troggles from the stone—servants of mist and malice that bow without question. He walks the halls tall and terrible, blue fur restored to midnight depth, red horns gleaming like fresh blood.

 

He practices.

 

Not conquest. Not yet.

 

Just necromancy for its own sake—raising skeletal guardians from volcano bone, commanding umbrum swirls into formations that please his ancient eye. Residents give him space. Respect. Ahgg spins webs across his doors like old alliances renewed. Cozy visits sometimes, offering sharp suggestions on mind-control spells. He listens. Grunts approval.

 

One night you find him on the crater rim, bell ringing soft notes that make the umbrum dance below like living aurora.

 

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

 

He gestures to the volcano—filled now with sharp things existing without apology.

 

You sit beside him.

 

The bell rings once more—low, content.

 

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

 

Ahgg’s webs glint in the gloom.

 

The umbrum swirl deeper.

 

The forgotten fill the space you shaped.

 

Not with fire.

 

Not with conquest.

 

Just with belonging that asks no permission.

 

===

 

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

 

The masks on her walls are silent, but their carved eyes seem to stare deeper into the Everfree than usual. The cauldron bubbles without fire, herbs shifting in patterns that spell warning instead of healing. The wind through her open window carries no bird calls—only a distant, grinding hum laced with something older. Colder. Like the forest itself is holding its breath.

 

She steps outside.

 

The trees lean away from the direction of the old volcano, leaves curling as if scorched by memory. Poison joke wilts without blooming. The ground vibrates faintly, not with earthquake but with presence—many presences. Shadows that should sleep. Voices that should be dust. Power stirring in a place long dead.

 

Zecora’s stripes prickle.

 

She knows the taste of dark magic—old witch brews, Smooze residue, the sharp tang of human ambition. But this is different. This is gathering. This is filling.

 

The Volcano of Gloom breathes again.

 

Monsters of old—umbrum whispers rising from below, Grogar’s bell ringing low and testing, Ahgg’s webs spreading like reclaimed territory. Monsters of new—Cozy’s sharp laughter echoing in restored halls, Tartarus escapees claiming towers without chains.

 

All drawn by one small green shadow with predator eyes.

 

Zecora does not hesitate.

 

She brews a swift potion—cloaking mist, endurance root, zebra speed. Packs light. Leaves at dawn.

 

The journey to Canterlot takes days—paths through the Everfree that avoid the volcano’s pull, trains from Ponyville under wary pony eyes. She speaks to no one. Rhymes no warnings. The masks’ stares follow her in memory.

 

Celestia receives her in the throne room at sunset, sun low and red like old blood. Luna stands beside her, stars already flickering in her mane. Twilight waits in the shadows, reports clutched tight.

 

Zecora bows once—respect, not submission.

 

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

 

Celestia’s wings tighten.

 

Luna’s eyes narrow to slits.

 

Twilight steps forward, voice trembling. “Anon?”

 

Zecora meets her gaze.

 

“The harmony-less one shapes the void. Not with fire. Not with war. But with place for things the light ignored.”

 

Silence falls, heavy as resin.

 

Celestia looks north, toward the distant bruise on the horizon where the volcano hides.

 

“A haven for monsters,” she murmurs. “Built by the hole we stepped around.”

 

No immediate orders follow.

 

No war declared.

 

Just the quiet realization: harmony’s light cast long shadows.

 

And something has begun to fill them.

 

===

 

You stand on the restored balcony overlooking the crater basin, where umbrum swirl like living night and red eyes gleam up at you in patient silence. Grogar looms to your left, bell hanging heavy and quiet. Ahgg curls around a nearby tower, webs framing the scene like ancient curtains. Cozy perches on a broken parapet, wings half-spread, watching you with sharp curiosity. Other residents gather below—shadows and beasts and things without names, drawn from cages and prisons and forgotten ruins.

 

The volcano breathes cold around you all.

 

You speak.

 

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just flat. Honest.

 

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

 

Whispers ripple through the umbrum. Grogar’s chains—long broken—clink once as he shifts.

 

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

 

Cozy’s eyes narrow. Ahgg’s single eye blinks slow.

 

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

 

A pause. The crater wind howls soft agreement.

 

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

 

Grogar’s bell rings once—low, testing.

 

“We sulk. We lick wounds. We retreat here. But it’s never the end of us. Never again boredom stretching into oblivion. Never again rotting alone.”

 

You look across them—sharp things gathered in the dark they shaped together.

 

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

 

Silence falls, thick and cold.

 

Then Cozy laughs—sharp, genuine.

 

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

 

Grogar’s chuckle rumbles like distant thunder.

 

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

 

Ahgg shifts, webs creaking.

 

“Play,” he rumbles. “Not rot.”

 

The umbrum swirl faster, red eyes gleaming with something like hunger.

 

The first small crises begin like quiet experiments.

 

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

 

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

 

The umbrum follow.

 

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

 

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

 

Grogar rings his bell next.

 

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

 

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

 

Cozy Glow adds intrigue.

 

She doesn’t send monsters. She sends letters.

 

Forged notes from village leaders accusing neighbors of hoarding, anonymous tips about “secret monster alliances” that pit pony against pony. A mayor nearly bans earth ponies from a festival. A school election turns vicious with rumors. No shadows. No webs. Just words sharp enough to cut trust.

 

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

 

None of them conquer.

 

They stir the pot just enough.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The world gets its stories.

 

Light prevails.

 

Darkness retreats.

 

But darkness always returns.

 

===

 

The small crises have become routine—manageable blips on harmony’s radar, resolved in neat thirty-minute arcs with lessons and hugs and songs. The Mane 6 handle them with practiced grace, almost enjoying the rhythm. Ponies cheer. Monsters retreat laughing. The game plays on.

 

Until the day Starlight Glimmer snaps.

 

It starts like any other: Cozy’s latest intrigue—a forged letter accusing a Manehattan theater troupe of “secret monster sympathies,” turning rehearsals into accusations and tears. The Mane 6 rush in—Twilight mediating, Rarity soothing egos, Pinkie planning a reconciliation party.

 

But the shadows linger longer this time. Umbrum whispers mix with the drama, turning suspicion into night terrors that cling even after the letters are revealed as fakes. Crops nearby wither overnight. Webs from Ahgg’s distant experiment drape the theater roof, catching stage lights like grim chandeliers.

 

The resolution drags.

 

Tempers fray.

 

Starlight—visiting to help with the intrigue investigation—feels the old pressure build. The same pressure that once turned a village to equal misery. The same pressure that fought Twilight across timelines.

 

She stands center stage while the troupe argues, shadows swirling thicker, whispers louder.

 

Enough.

 

Her horn ignites—not the careful teal glow of lessons learned, but raw, furious blue-white. Magic surges, building in a roar that silences everypony. The Mane 6 freeze. The troupe gapes. Even the umbrum shadows pause mid-swirl.

 

Starlight unleashes.

 

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

 

Silence.

 

Absolute.

 

The troupe stares at the smoking hole above. The Mane 6 stare at Starlight, wings and jaws slack. Rainbow Dash’s “Whoa…” hangs in the air.

 

Even the distant volcano feels it—the umbrum recoil, Ahgg’s webs tremble, Cozy’s chess pieces rattle on her board. Grogar’s bell rings once in startled respect.

 

Starlight breathes hard, horn smoking faintly, eyes wide at what she just did.

 

Twilight steps forward slow. “Starlight… are you okay?”

 

Starlight blinks. The rage fades to exhaustion.

 

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

 

Nopony argues.

 

The crisis ends faster than any before—no song, no party. Just quiet cleanup and wide-eyed ponies going home early.

 

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

 

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

 

Grogar grunts approval. “Reminds me of old wizards.”

 

Ahgg shifts, webs creaking. “Strong light.”

 

The umbrum swirl thoughtful.

 

You sit on the rim.

 

The game just got interesting.

 

===

 

You wander the Everfree again, deeper into the places even the spite changelings leave untouched. The old Castle of the Two Sisters looms ahead—crumbling towers choked with vines, halls where Celestia and Luna once ruled before Nightmare Moon’s fall. The air here tastes of old alicorn magic, faded but stubborn, like harmony that refuses to die quietly.

 

You’re not looking for anything specific.

 

Just walking.

 

The horn hums faintly on your forehead—visible now, shadows curling at your hooves like curious pets. The amulet stays cloaked, power waiting.

 

You descend into the lower ruins—cellars collapsed long ago, stone floors buckled by roots and time. Dust thick enough to choke pony lungs. You dig with shadow tendrils, bored curiosity guiding you.

 

You find them buried under a fallen wall—three portraits, frames cracked but intact, paint sealed by old wards that flicker and die when your shadows touch them.

 

Hydia. Reeka. Draggle.

 

The family.

 

Hydia’s portrait shows her tall and stormy, hair wild, eyes sharp with the same human hunger you carry. Reeka slouches beside her—lazy, heavy, spoon in hand like a scepter. Draggle fumbles a spell in the corner—clumsy, eager, always one mistake from disaster.

 

Paint ripples when you lift them.

 

Eyes open.

 

Whispers rise—dry, cracked, familial.

 

“Home…”

 

“…ruined…”

 

“…who wakes us…?”

 

You don’t answer.

 

You just carry them out—one by one, shadows wrapping frames gentle but firm. The castle doesn’t fight. The vines part. The old wards crumble to dust.

 

The journey back to the volcano is quiet.

 

Residents watch as you climb the switchback path—Grogar’s bell rings once in curiosity, Ahgg’s eye tracks your progress, Cozy leans from her tower balcony with sharp interest. The umbrum swirl thicker, red eyes gleaming recognition.

 

You enter the portrait hall—the restored chamber where the old witch ancestors already hang, half-stepping from frames to watch.

 

You hang the new ones beside them.

 

Hydia emerges first—tall, storm-haired, tethered by paint threads. Reeka slouches out next, yawning. Draggle stumbles after, nearly tripping on her own colors.

 

The family reunites.

 

Voices layer—scolding, laughing, scheming.

 

“Failed…”

 

“…again…”

 

“…but alive…”

 

Hydia’s painted eyes fix on you.

 

“Little echo returns us home,” she rasps. “To monsters’ hall. No light. No songs. Just dark.”

 

Reeka grunts. “Better than dust.”

 

Draggle beams clumsy. “And family!”

 

The old portraits stir—matriarch smiling sharp approval.

 

You sit in the center.

 

The hall fills with whispers—old schemes, new ideas, familial bickering.

 

No demands for conquest.

 

No fire to drown worlds.

 

Just belonging.

 

Sharp-edged.

 

Unapologetic.

 

The volcano breathes deeper.

 

The forgotten grow louder.

 

And the family sings—quiet, disappointed, alive.

 

You stay a little longer.

 

The shadows curl closer.

 

And the emptiness fills a little more.

 

With voices that remember human eyes.