Anonfilly, Harmony-less [Epilogue]

 

The citadel rises from the valley. Matte-black stone drinks the first sunlight. Frost-green banners crown every spire—proud. Defiant. The wind barely stirs them. Below, trade caravans arrive as always. Wagons creak under crates: shadow-forged steel, dragon-scale polish, griffon-cut gems. Weapons gleam in the half-light. Edges look hungry. Yet the streets stay hushed. Voices carry too far.

 

In the lower market, young drones cluster near the shadow-forged stalls. The newest brood. Hatched post-war. Carapaces pale and thin, wings undersized, buzzing faintly. One, bolder than the rest, perches above a changeling vendor's table. She draws in the ambient resentment: a griffon's muttered curse for shortchanged bits, a yak's grunt over delay. The emotion is thin, recycled from old feuds. Her glow flickers, barely sustaining her.

 

Below, the vendor—an older drone with a scarred shell and a voice like grinding resin—hisses up at her. "Get down from there, hatchling. You're siphoning my take, weak as it is."

 

The young one drops to the ground, legs unsteady. "It's... not enough, Overseer Vex. Tastes like burnt wood. We try the pits later, but—"

 

Vex cuts her off with a buzz, wings flaring. "But nothing. You weren't there when ponies crushed us, when dragons hoarded our cocoons. No real betrayal in your blood to spark the fire." His mandibles click, pride sharp. "Spite isn't charity. It's forged. Feel a wrong deeply, let it burn, feed on it. Without a first scar, you starve slowly. That's our price—pure, unbegged pride."

 

Another hatchling nearby whimpers, a soft chitter. "We share the old stories. Try to hate as you did. But it doesn't stick."

 

Vex snorts, turning back to his wares. "Stories aren't scars, fool. Echoes fade. Look at you now—dull shells. Wings that barely lift. Half the brood this season won't molt. No fresh grudges burn spite anew. No enemies kick doors. We won freedom. Now the young pay for it." His voice drops, almost reluctant. "Pride keeps us sharp. It doesn't feed the empty ones."

 

The young drone wilts, drawing a weak breath. Siblings cluster in shadows, shining dimly. Eyes oversized in narrow faces. Born into abundance—no invasions, no starvation. Only petty market squabbles. Without betrayal to fuel their spite, they leech from the dwindling collective.

 

Two griffons loom over a dagger spread on threadbare velvet. The blade drinks every scrap of light that touches it, flat and empty, giving nothing back.

 

"That's short three talons' weight, featherbrain," she growls. "Think I run a perch for charity here?"

 

The tom flexes his talons. "Take it or watch me walk. Not fattening your hoard while mine sits light. Probably clipped those bits yourself—heard you watered the last deal."

 

She bristles. "Accuse me again, and I'll clip more than bits. Fly off, cheapskate."

 

He stalks away, muttering loud enough for half the market: "Thieving hens, all of 'em. Next time I'll bring my own forge."

 

The seller watches him leave, beak curling in satisfaction. She is already calculating the markup for the next buyer.

 

A yak patrol thunders past the gates. Their armor—black plates veined green—looks unchanged in ten years. Edges still cut paper at twenty paces. The lead yak, horns polished to mirrors, bellows to his ranks without breaking stride.

 

"Keep horns high! No slacking for soft southerners!"

 

A younger yak in the rear grunts, voice deep and stubborn. "Armor heavy today. When are new plates coming out? Changelings hoard the forges now."

 

The leader snorts. "Yaks beg no one! We smash if needed. Pride stronger than steel."

 

They march on. Lockstep echoes hollow.

 

Higher up the peaks, dragons coil alone. One, ancient and ember-eyed, roars from his lair. He spots a trespasser—a young drake, eyeing a stray gem.

 

"That ruby’s mine, whelp! Touch it and burn!"

 

The intruder hisses back. Smoke drifts. "Finders keepers in these skies. Your hoard’s fat enough—share, or duel!"

 

Claws scrape stone, flames waver in the air. No dragons come closer; each keeps their own space.

 

No banners burn. No army battles. Everyone drifts apart, growing more distant.

 

On the highest balcony, an elder drone leans against the railing. His shell carries the dull sheen of age. Cracks filled with old green resin. Beside him, another elder—shell chipped, voice a faint rasp—joins. They gaze down at the feeding pits.

 

"Yield's half what it was last cycle, Thorax-no-more," the newcomer mutters. "Hatchlings clustering like parasites. Can't even spark their own."

 

The elder nods. "They lack fuel. No pony betrayal, no dragon scorn fills their veins. Spite needs a wound to fester. Ours carried us through war; theirs—only our leftovers."

 

The raspy one buzzes bitterly. "That filly promised strength. Pride eternal. But eternal doesn't birth strong young without enemies to hate properly."

 

He remembers the war. Remembers the lesson that turned them all sharp and proud. A small green filly had stood in the throne chamber once, voice sure, eyes ancient. She’d spoken of pride as armor, spite as the forge that kept it strong. They’d listened. They’d changed.

 

Her name slips from his memory now. He tries to recall it, but instead notices frost slowly covering the closest banner, draining its green color.

 

The sun climbs. The empire endures.

 

For now.

 

[hr]

 

Dawn returns to the balcony. Twilight stands at the railing, horn lit with focus she has perfected over a decade. The sun rises on cue—a golden disk climbing the sky. She times it to the second now. No room for the old flourishes Celestia used. Retirement notes arrive by dragonfire every month: crisp parchment, elegant script, warm praise. They sit unread on her desk.

 

Only when the light spills across the valley does she let the magic fade. The ache settles behind her eyes. Ponyville wakes. Foals tumble out, laughter bright. Market stalls open. A northern caravan enters—frost-green seals stark. Griffons and ponies lean over crates, voices low. Trade flows are steady. A report lands on a councilpony’s desk. A minor dispute resolved. Harmony preserved. Equestria turns on schedule.

 

She turns inside.

 

The quilt waits as always, draped on the reading chair with corners perfectly aligned. Emerald fabric threaded with black, still soft, carrying the faint cedar scent that drifts up from the chest downstairs. Twilight lifts it, runs a hoof along the seams, folds it again. No dust clings—she ensures that—but the ritual matters more than cleanliness.

 

On the side table: the cedar box. Lid engraved with tiny stars she carved herself one sleepless night. Inside, the letters lie in perfect order, edges yellowed, ink softened to sepia. The top envelope still bears that small, smudged green hoofprint—Anon’s last accidental signature.

 

Hoofsteps echo, lighter than they used to be. Spike appears, tray balanced, wings folded neat against his sides.

 

“Morning, Twi.” He sets it down with the same careful precision he’s used for decades. Toast in triangles, oatmeal flecked with sapphire, tea in the chipped blue cup she’ll never replace.

 

She summons the smile she keeps ready for him. It almost fits.

 

He lingers, claws tapping once. “Griffons brought their own scales today. I could warm things up if they get pushy.”

 

The laugh is small, more breath than sound. “Diplomacy first, fire second.”

 

He watches her a moment longer, eyes too old for his face. “Eat something, okay?”

 

The door closes softly.

 

Twilight lifts the cup. The tea is still perfect—chamomile just strong enough, temperature held by a tiny sustaining spell Spike learned years ago and never stopped using. She takes one sip, sets it down.

 

The room feels larger in the quiet.

 

She crosses to the window, forehead against cool crystal. Below, Ponyville sparkles: foals laughing, stalls opening, caravans rolling in under frost-green seals. Everything turning on schedule.

 

“I love you,” she whispers to the glass.

 

The words have become another ritual, spoken into emptiness morning and night. They used to feel like reaching across a chasm. Now they simply mark the edge.

 

She leaves the balcony doors open. Sunlight floods the room, touching the quilt, the tray, the cedar box. Every corner glows. There are no shadows left large enough to hide in.

 

Down the hall, the old bedroom door waits—polished weekly, lock still engaged. Inside: constellation sheets untouched, adventure books uncracked, one battered plush dragon missing an eye. The adoption papers remain in her desk drawer downstairs, blank after the signature line.

 

Council meetings begin soon. She straightens, smooths her mane, adjusts the silver circlet. The delegation will find Princess Twilight Sparkle composed, insightful, unflappable. She has practiced that every day for ten years.

 

But as she steps into the corridor, the faint cedar scent lingers behind her, and the locked door keeps its small silence intact.

 

Some mornings, the sun rises too brightly, and the light still can’t reach the place the letters prove is there: the quiet space where an answer never came. Today is one of those mornings.

 

[hr]

 

The old volcano has settled, crater wide and gentle, rimmed with wildflowers pushing through cracked stone. Grass grows green, swaying in a breeze. Sunlight spills across it all. Butterflies drift above the blooms, wings flashing natural colors.

 

Discord materializes with a soft pop, quieter than usual. He hovers above the ground, tail coiled loosely. No grand entrance today—just him, drifting to the crater’s edge. One talon trails over a cluster of petals; they bend slightly, then spring back. He lingers, ears drooping, yellow eyes narrowed against the glare.

 

He floats inward, slow circuits above the grass. A paw flicks idly— a single wildflower twists into a tiny top hat, tips itself, then reverts before it can finish the bow. Discord doesn’t smile. He settles on a flat boulder near the center, legs crossed, chin propped on mismatched hands.

 

“Ten years,” he says to the empty air, voice low, almost conversational. “Feels like a blink when you’re immortal. Feels like forever when you’re… paying attention.”

 

The breeze keeps its own counsel.

 

He drifts a slow circle above the grass, talon tracing the rim of an invisible teacup. A buttercup twists upward, briefly becomes a tiny chocolate teapot, then settles back into yellow petals. Discord doesn’t laugh. He exhales through his snout.

 

“Used to think boredom was the worst thing eternity could throw at me,” he mutters. “Turns out watching everypony else learn the hard way is worse. Almost impressive, really. You handed them the punchline, and they still haven’t gotten the joke.”

 

On the far rim, the illusion waits: small green filly, mane tangled, eyes older than the crater itself. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stands there like a statue someone forgot to finish.

 

Discord floats closer, stopping an arm’s length away. Close enough to see the faint shimmer where chaos meets memory.

 

“You know what the irony is?” His voice drops further, conspiratorial now, as if the wildflowers might overhear. “They begged for choice. No more friendship lasers, no more harmony hammer. Freedom to be as miserable as they wanted in whatever flavor they preferred. And they took it. gobbled it up like Oatmeal Surprise at a disaster party.”

 

He gestures wide, one paw sweeping toward the distant frost-green spires. “Over there, pride’s so thick you could bottle it and sell it as cologne—eau de Isolated Glory. Hatchlings wasting away because nobody’s wronged them hard enough to light their own fire. Griffons counting every scale twice before they’ll part with a single feather. Yaks thundering up and down the valleys in the same battered armor they were gifted a decade ago—too proud to lower their horns and ask for a refit, even when the plates creak. Dragons roasting each other over who breathed on whose hoard funny. It’s gorgeous. Tragically, poetically gorgeous. I should be popping popcorn.”

 

The other paw sweeps the opposite way, toward Ponyville’s warm morning glow. “And there—perfect sunrise on schedule, foals laughing, trade delegations exchanging polite smiles sharp enough to cut glass. Everything is running smoother than a greased parasprite. Except that some doors stay locked. Some quilts get folded but never unfolded. Some names nobody says aloud anymore.”

 

He lowers himself until his mismatched feet brush the grass. The illusion flickers, edges softening in the sunlight.

 

“I keep thinking,” he says, quieter, “if I snapped you back right now—real you, not some echo— you’d take one look at both messes and roll those ancient eyes so hard you’d see your own brain. Then you’d probably call me a sentimental old draconequus and tell me to mind my own chaos.”

 

A pause. The wind combs through the wildflowers; petals nod as they agree.

 

“But I won’t,” he adds, almost to himself. “Because you’d hate the strings. And because…” He trails off, ears drooping fully now. “Because maybe they need to sit with it a while longer. The quiet. The hollow spots. The part where nobody’s forcing the song.”

 

The illusion holds his gaze a moment longer—unreadable, unflinching.

 

Discord lifts one talon, hesitates, then snaps. Soft. Reluctant.

 

She dissolves into threads of light, scattering across the crater like dandelion seeds. Gone before any land.

 

He lingers above the empty space where she stood.

 

“Tell you what, kid,” he whispers to the settling dust motes. “When one of them finally admits they miss the off-key parts… I’ll be listening. Might even hum along. Off-key, of course.”

 

Far off, frost-green banners snap against the cold sky. Ponyville’s windows catch the sun, steady and warm. Two worlds keep their distance, enduring side by side—one bright with quiet grief, one sharp with echoing pride. Neither whole.

 

Between them, the crater stretches wide and flower-filled, holding its small, nameless absence.

 

The old question drifts unanswered on the breeze, softer than before, but no less pointed.

 

Discord vanishes with the faintest pop, leaving the butterflies to their ordinary, unchaotic loops.