Haunting Memories [Chapter 1]

Born to the ancient and secretive race of Changelings, Queen Chrysalis—though she bore no title then—was the runt of her clutch. Her siblings emerged from their glistening chrysalises within days, strong and hungry. She, in contrast, lingered inside hers for nearly a week longer than any recorded hatchling. Weak—undersized and slow to manifest the emerald glow of changeling magic—she became a source of quiet shame to her hive. The others mocked her frailty. Even her queen-mother regarded her with cool disappointment. Unable to endure the constant reminders of her inadequacy, the young changeling fled the hive, vowing to forge her own path.

After weeks of solitary travel across barren badlands and shadowed forests, she crested a mountain ridge and beheld Canterlot for the first time: a gleaming city of white marble spires and golden domes, cascading down the mountainside like a frozen waterfall. It was home to the ponies—elegant, colorful creatures who walked with effortless grace, wielded powerful magic, or displayed astonishing athletic prowess. Their society was rich with art, music, festivals, and an abundance of love that hung thick in the air like perfume. To the lonely changeling, it seemed a paradise of belonging.

Yet she knew she could never enter as herself. Her crooked horn, perforated wings, glossy black carapace, and stringy, lifeless mane marked her as a monster in pony eyes. Fear of rejection—of being chased away with screams and stones—drove her to seclusion in the wilderness outside the city walls. There, she devoted every waking hour to mastering her race’s most infamous gift: shapeshifting.

Through grueling trial and error, burning through what little magic she possessed until she collapsed in exhaustion, she finally succeeded. One bright morning, she spotted a beautiful young unicorn filly playing in a meadow below the city—a pristine white coat, flowing violet mane, and eyes like polished emeralds. Focusing every ounce of will, the changeling poured herself into the form. When the transformation stabilized, she gazed into a still pool and saw not a monster, but a vision of pony beauty staring back.

She entered Canterlot as “Crystal Charm,” a transfer student from a distant academy. The warmth she received astonished her. Ponies smiled at her in the streets, invited her to tea, and complimented her elegance. For the first time, she tasted friendship—and the sweet, nourishing love that came with it. She laughed at garden parties, attended concerts, and felt the hollow ache in her heart begin to fill.

But one pony steadfastly refused her overtures. This was a small green earth pony filly who lived on the fringes of Canterlot’s splendor. She had no fine home, no magic, no wings—just a scruffy black mane, a coat the color of oxidized copper, and eyes that burned with perpetual resentment. Scavenging in alleys for discarded food, she slept beneath market stalls. Crystal Charm had seen her several times while secretly foraging in her true form. Both of them were wary shadows, always avoiding notice.

When the disguised changeling finally approached her in pony guise, offering friendship and even food, the green filly responded with a torrent of profanity that shocked even the rougher dockworkers. She spat venomous insults, bared her teeth, and warned the “fancy unicorn” to stay away. There was no accusation of deception—just raw, inexplicable hatred. Confused and stung, Chrysalis withdrew, unable to understand why this street filly despised her so fiercely.

She turned her attention instead to the elite circles she had always admired. Among them was a handsome young unicorn colt with a silver coat and a mane like midnight. He was captivated by her emerald eyes, which seemed borrowed, and her gentle demeanor. Soon they were inseparable—sharing secrets beneath starlit balconies, exchanging shy first kisses, dreaming aloud of futures together. The love he gave her was richer and more sustaining than anything she had ever fed upon. For a fleeting season, Chrysalis almost believed she could live this lie forever.

But her magic was still underdeveloped. One evening, during an intimate moment, her concentration slipped. The illusion flickered. Her white coat darkened to chitin black; her silky mane became limp, teal strands; her smooth horn twisted into its true jagged shape. The colt recoiled in horror. Word spread like wildfire through their circle. Betrayal replaced affection; disgust replaced admiration.

They cornered her in a narrow alley behind a prestigious café—a dead end lined with overflowing trash bins and shadowed by towering walls. Her former friends surrounded her, eyes blazing with righteous fury. They hurled insults that cut deeper than any physical blow: parasite, deceiver, monster. Hooves struck her sides; magic flared to pin her wings. They accused her of feeding on their kindness, of tainting their pure love with her hunger.

Through the haze of pain and humiliation, Chrysalis caught sight of a small figure at the mouth of the alley: the green earth pony filly. She looked even worse than before—ribs showing beneath her dull coat, mane matted with dirt, a fresh bruise blooming across one cheek. Yet she did not flee or avert her gaze like the few passersby who glanced in and hurried away.

Instead, she charged.

The profanity that erupted from her throat was inventive and vicious, words Chrysalis had never imagined could exist. The unicorns, stunned by the sudden intrusion of this filthy street rat, hesitated—then turned their rage on the new target. But the green filly fought like something wild and cornered. She bit throats, kicked knees with bone-cracking force, headbutted groins, and scratched faces. Blood—unicorn blood—stained her muzzle crimson. Every snarl carried a lifetime of pent-up hatred for the privileged, the beautiful, the cruel.

She fought not strategically, but with pure, ferocious passion. And somehow, Chrysalis knew, she fought for her—the changeling she had never truly met.

Outnumbered and outsized, the filly could not win. Hooves and magic battered her down. She crumpled to the cobblestones, coat torn, limbs bent at wrong angles, blood pooling beneath her head. The unicorns, now sporting bites and bruises of their own, delivered a final contemptuous kick to her barrel and fled, muttering about infections and disgrace. They never even glanced back at the trembling changeling huddled against the wall.

Silence fell, broken only by distant city music and Chrysalis’s own ragged breathing. She crawled forward on shaking legs and collapsed beside the broken body.

The filly’s sides rose and fell in shallow, wet gasps. Chrysalis nudged her gently with her muzzle. A faint groan answered—pain, but life. Relief flooded her, followed immediately by a storm of questions. Why? Why risk everything for a stranger? Why fight with such fury on behalf of a creature she had only ever snarled at?

She nudged again, whispering broken pleas. “Please… get up. Tell me why.”

The filly’s eyes fluttered but did not open. Her breathing grew slower, more labored. One foreleg lay twisted beneath her; blood trickled steadily from her mouth. Chrysalis had no healing spells, no herbs, no knowledge of pony anatomy beyond what she needed to impersonate it. She could only watch as the light dimmed.

Tears—real tears, hot and stinging—welled in the changeling’s eyes. She had never cried before; changelings did not cry. Yet now they spilled freely down her carapace. She pressed her forehead to the filly’s bloodied cheek.

“Why did you help me?” she whispered, voice cracking. “You hated me… You didn’t even know me…”

No answer came. The shallow breaths ceased. The small body grew still.

Something inside Chrysalis shattered. A wail tore from her throat—raw, primal, echoing off the alley walls. She wrapped her forelegs around the cooling form and pulled it close, burying her face in the scruffy black mane that smelled of dirt and blood and defiance. She screamed her grief into the night, rocking the lifeless filly as though sheer will could bring her back.

In that moment, cradling the first creature who had ever truly fought for her—without demand, without expectation, without even knowing her true name—Chrysalis felt something new and terrible take root in her heart. Not just loss, but a burning, insatiable hunger for something stronger than the fleeting love she had stolen.

She had tasted rage given freely in her defense. And it was more intoxicating than any love she had ever fed upon.

As the moon rose cold and indifferent over Canterlot, the young changeling held her first friend—the one she had never spoken to while both were whole—and vowed silently that no pony would ever make her feel small again.