Reference Maps
Equestria: https://derpicdn.net/img/view/2017/10/6/1553160.png
Ponyville: https://cdn.twibooru.org/img/2020/7/12/247566/full.png

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Part I: Ponyville 

Chapter 1
>Your story begins on the banks of the River Ponyville.
>Its roots trace far earlier than that, to be sure, but in the years to come, none would ever dare to claim it began anywhere other than where your feet lay firmly planted now.
>The soft mud sinking beneath your weight, you raise your binoculars and peer out at the edge of the town.
>Straw roofs of the residents' homes poke out from behind the towering wall of fortifications.
>Though "fortifications" would be putting it kindly — it was scarcely more than a loose conglomerate of cobblestones, reclaimed wood, and sheet metal.
>You smile at the thought of the villagers laying out kindling for you to raze.
>Yet despite the ramshackle appearance, the wall was still a more sizeable defense than you'd anticipated.
>It seems the town came together swiftly to prepare for your arrival, going so far as to break down their wagons and market stalls to forge the ramparts, symbolically sacrificing their livelihoods in defense of their homeland.
>The entire southwest border of the city is fully blockaded.
>To your east is the Everfree forest, marked by treacherous and flat-out impassable terrain.
>To the west are rolling hills, which, though easily navigable on foot, leave you alarmingly visible and vulnerable to a pincer movement from both Ponyville and Cloudsdale.
>No. The road to Canterlot lies through Ponyville.
>Just in front of the blockade, their militia had set up camp.
>A large central campfire blazed, surrounded by tents, casting light on their troops in the otherwise dark of night.
>The ponies wore plain cloaks, presumably to conceal their figures and the true extent of their numbers, but their faces were just barely visible through the lenses of your binoculars.
>One face in particular.
"Hmmm."
>A voice, silent up till now, speaks up at your side.
>"What is it, sir?"
>You watch the figure direct troops with lofty authority, directing the efforts to forge makeshift weapons and bolster defenses.
"Their commander."
>"It's not the Princess, is it?"
"No. She's holed up in the castle, no doubt."
>"Sir."
>You finally lower your binoculars and look down at your valet, his yellow coat and bright orange mane glimmering in the starlight.
>"I don't mean to question you..." he begins uneasily.
"Speak your mind."
>"I can tell when something's wrong."
"And why do you say that?"
>"The fact that we're standing here. The legates warned you to send out scouts, but you chose to go yourself?"
>You crouch down on the riverbank and stare out at the city pensively.
"I can't trust scouts with this job."
>"You had no problem trusting them in Appleloosa."
"I trust you, Tax, which is why I'll say this. This is more than a crusade for me. It's a vendetta."
>He frowns. "I don't understand."
>Rising back your feet, you ascend up the bank, minding your footing on the rocks and slippery mud.
"That commander. We have a history, she and I, and I've waited thirteen years for this moment."
>Tax follows you without another word.
>You return to the castrum, the encampment which will be your legionaries' home for the foreseeable future.
>You observe each contubernium, a squad comprising ten legionaries and two laborers, pitching their tent as you make your way through.
>You pulled from the Roman model in structuring your army; it made the most sense for Equestria's stage in civilization.
>Eight contubernia formed a century, led by a centurion officer. Six centuries made up a cohort, headed by the most senior centurion.
>The legion, your largest divisible formation, had ten cohorts and was commanded by a legate, the highest rank you could honor a soldier with.
>Your centurions were battle-hardened, stately creatures. The standard legionary, on the other hand...
>Though you've never said it aloud, they're an ugly lot. Anthropomorphized beasts of every animal imaginable. Fish, rat, pig, lizard, bird, zebra — every race under the Equestrian sun, save for pony. Tax stands unique in that regard.
>Detestable as they are, they understand fealty. Each one kneels as you pass, venerating the ground upon which you walk.
>Tax trots close behind, as if anxious to stray too far from your sphere of influence.
>You don't blame him, being what he is. Your troops are prejudiced.
>After all, you're the one who instilled it in them.
>You reach the imperial tent, your mobile base of operations, just as the final stake is driven into the ground.
>The tent is split into two sections. The war room, where your business is conducted, sits towards the front. A curtain door leads to your private chambers in the back.
>A praetorian pulls the flap aside for you, and you duck your head to enter. Your legate Harald stands, arms crossed, beside the war table.
>Whereas your legionaries were beasts in the derogatory sense, with Harald, you mean it as a term of deep respect.
>A meager chieftain when you found him, his race was in disarray after the deposition of their king. They were little more than an assortment of tribes in what used to be the Storm King's Realm.
>It was only when your army of Klugetowners, just a thousand strong at the time, sailed over and extended an offer that he found his true purpose. With your aid, he brutalized the rival chieftains and unified the storm creatures for the first time in years.
>In a show of allegiance to you, he cast aside his former name and accepted the title of Legatus Harald.
>Being nine feet tall and hairier than a gorilla, you named him after the viking Harald, once-conqueror of Scandinavia.
>He wasn't your most skilled legate, but he was by far the most fearsome, and for that reason you enjoyed having him around. He enhanced your image in ways no other could.
>Approaching the table, you lay your palms upon the massive, intricately-carved topographical map of Equestria. The table was jointly sculpted by a master craftsman and a cartographer, from a single massive sequoia that your troops cut down while harvesting timber for the war effort in the Pine Needle Barrens.
>Harald raises a fist to his behemoth chest in acknowledgment of your arrival.
"Have we taken inventory?"
>"Runners are tallying up the counts now," he booms. "The ponies carted off what they could, but we took Appleloosa quickly. It wasn't much."
"And the fire?"
>"Swallowed most of the West Orchard. Extinguished now, but we got here too late to save any more than half."
>You dig your nails into the table. That they would rather burn their ancestral trees to the ground than see the fruits of their labor fall into your hands is not the sort of pragmatic behavior you expected from ponies.
>They're prouder than that. It's a weakness you were keen on exploiting.
>You know instantly that this was her doing. The Princess would never go for it. The commander, on the other hand... this cold, calculated move has her name written all over it.
>"Permission to enter," a voice squeaks from outside. "I have the final count."
"Granted," you announce, not taking your eyes off the table.
>A small storm creature enters the tent and scampers up to Harald, handing him a piece of paper before seeing himself out.
>Harald raises the parchment to his face and squints.
"What's the tally?"
>"3,600 bushels. Roughly."
>Tax scribbles some quick arithmetic into his notebook. "With proper rationing, it's enough to last us..."
>He pauses.
>"Fifteen days."
>You slam your fist on the table. Sweet Apple Acres was meant to feed your troops comfortably for over a month. You timed the attack perfectly to coincide with harvest season.
>Now, because of the ponies' bull-headedness, your lifeline's been severed. You'll need to create a new one if you want to have any hopes of pressing on.
"Get me Zenobia."
>Tax hurries out of the tent just as another legate enters.
>Ramses approaches you, clad in his trademark breastplate, plastered with pages torn from old Earth paperbacks.
>You never, not for a moment, saw the minotaur without his armor. In his mind, it made him a better tactician.
>Seemingly, it worked. Never have you met a more brilliant military strategist. As far as you were concerned, he could wear a clown suit all day long, so long as he kept steering your centurions right.
>Ramses bows his head in respect upon reaching your side. "What did you see?"
>It was against his advice that you personally scouted out Ponyville's defenses.
"They've blockaded the city and blown two of the footbridges..."
>Taking your knife to the table, you carve out the two smaller rectangles along the Ponyville River.
"...leaving a single choke point on the main bridge where they've deployed a regiment."
>"Did you probe for weaknesses in the fortifications?"
"Too dark to tell. Send out the scouts and have them report back after dawn."
>"We secured the farmhouse. No one—"
"Burn it," you interrupt him.
>Ramses frowns. "Pardon?"
>You point the tip of your knife at the tiny model of Sweet Apple Acres.
"Burn this farmhouse. Raze this barn. Bury the ashes. Let there be no indication there was ever a home on this accursed plot of land to begin with."
>"Sir..." Harald protests.
>He, himself, was a brute, but even he recognized needless violence. The pre-existing structures would serve good use to the castrum.
>You didn't care.
"Do it. I'd burn the trees, too, just to send a message, if we didn't need them in the coming months."
>Tax returns with your third legate.
>Of the three, Zenobia is your least favored. Like most felines, she thinks too highly of herself, and you suspect her oath to you was born mostly of personal convenience.
>But her cunning far exceeds your own, and you're not one to put pride above recognition of skill. War is won just as much by words as it is by swords, and she has a way with both.
>As she saunters in, you waste no time issuing orders.
"Send a message to Klugetown. Get the governor to expedite the fall harvest. I want the entire first yield on a convoy here within a week."
>She inspects her claws nonchalantly. "Capper's not gonna go for that."
"I appointed him specifically to heed my will. You can tell him if he wants to start thinking for himself, he can go back to peddling street grifts. Practically every male citizen he represents is in my legion, and it's his job to keep them fed."
>Her lip curls. "What do you mean 'I' can tell him? Send a messenger."
"A messenger can't enforce orders, and Capper won't follow through unless we make him. Ponyville plans to win this siege by starving us out."
>"This is absurd!" she yells. "You're sending a Legate to play envoy?"
"I am. Because on your journey back, you're stationing at Appleloosa."
>"Absolutely not."
"You will. Ponyville is trying to buy themselves time to mobilize the rest of Equestria, and I will not lose our first major foothold in the region to a counterattack. It's too important to leave in the hands of centurions. I need a Legate holding the city. Take a cohort with you and be gone."
>Knowing it a pointless endeavor to resist further, she turns and leaves the tent, her tail flicking out from beneath her coat as if to express her disdain for your unilateral decision.
>"The game has changed now," Ramses says.
>Harald taps at the bridge you etched away. "I knew this was coming. If we split off from Appleloosa like I suggested, my legion could've circled around the Everfree and cut off the city entirely."
>"No, we did the right thing. It would have taken you east through Dodge Junction—"
>"A village of less than a hundred, no bigger than Appleloosa."
>"Numbers are not the issue. It brings you too near the coast. If Baltimare and Fillydelphia had moved to intercept, you would've been decimated."
>"Baltimare and Fillydelphia have no standing armies!" Harald bellows. "The whole strategy relied on moving too fast to give them time to assemble. Now we're sitting ducks."
>You stare down at the table while your legates argue over tactics. They were both right, in their respective ways. The commander of Ponyville's response simply caught you off guard.
>You underestimated her. You didn't expect her to roll over and take it, but nor did you think her capable of mobilizing troops, fortifying the city, strangling your entry into the city, and ravaging your bounty — all in the span of a day's march from Appleloosa.
>But now every second spent recouping your losses is a second gained for her to raise an army, something it took you years to accomplish.
"It's time for Plan B."
>You were hoping it wouldn't come to this, but she's left you no choice.
>As both your legates fall silent, you turn your gaze to the vast region to the southeast.
"Let's make some allies."

>After a long deliberation with Harald and Ramses, you exit the imperial tent to check on the status of the castrum.
>The surviving orchard provides excellent cover, but makes navigating between tents rather difficult.
>Yet this is the price you must pay if you seek to conceal your numbers. They will undoubtedly send out pegasi scouts tonight, if they haven't already.
>A tall, thick plume of black smoke extends upward, blocking out the stars of night.
>As you make your way to it, you feel the intense light and heat of the fire impress upon your skin.
>What poor family that once made this site their home will have it no more.
>Watching the farmhouse buckle and collapse as its charred beams give out, you walk over to a pair of creatures also observing the scene.
>Kyra, a zebra, serves as your quartermaster. She's respectful toward you, and knows her place. In another life, she was quite skilled at smithing. You had no issue entrusting her with your munitions.
>Your ancillary, Laurel Leaves, however, is another story. She's a rogue Kirin who travelled to the mainland as a young girl, wanting to see the world. She has lofty aspirations, but lacks the mettle to achieve them. There's no place for a lady like that in your army.
>She and you go further back than almost anyone else in your legion. You met back in your civilian life in Klugetown. She was the only Kirin; you were the only human. From that isolation, an ironic kinship was born.
>You're not sure why you ultimately decided to keep her around. Maybe she represents what ponies ought to be. Maybe it's something less profound than that.
>Whatever the case may be, she makes a decent ancillary. Combat may not be her forte, but logistics are just as important, and she's proven capable thus far.
>The only thing that ever gave you pause was her penchant for snark.
>The two of them bow their heads as you come up.
"I want you two to oversee the construction of an arsenal and depot here after the debris is cleared."
>"Oh?" Kyra indicates. "We have the wagons cordoned off."
"It's looking like the castrum is going to be more than temporary."
>Laurel smirks. "Told you."
"You weren't the only one," you reply dismissively. "We all knew this was a possibility. Until we can take Ponyville to establish a fortress, we'll need to raise structures here. Starting with the arsenal."
>Kyra wears an unsteady expression. "We'll need materials, sir. We might be able to reclaim some from the fire, but—"
"No wood. All stone."
>You're not taking the chance. If you're putting all your eggs in one basket, it at least ought to be built from sturdier stuff than wicker.
>"We passed a quarry on the road here," Laurel says. "Two, three miles back."
"Use the legionaries. Laborers will be busy with their support duties. The centurions can rotate their troops between labor and drills."
>You look about the orchard, the stench of soot filling your nostrils. Most trees in this section have been torched beyond saving. With the leaves burnt up, they'll hardly provide any aerial cover.
"And have them get started on clear-cutting these snags."
>Laurel kicks her rear hoof at the dead tree behind her, cracking the brittle bark. "They're no good for timber."
"It's eating away at our footprint. The contubernia are pitching tents haphazardly wherever they can squeeze in. The blueprint is there to keep us organized. I want them following it."
>As she nods affirmatively, you turn your attention to Kyra.
"Go unload the stockpile. I want the arsenal operational by dusk tomorrow."
>She bows once more and trots off to do your bidding.
"Walk with me," you command Laurel.
>She follows after you as you return to the imperial tent.
"Plans are changing. The legates and I each have a role to play in the coming days. We can't be bogged down with upkeep."
>"That's why you have me," she beams, self-assuredly.
"It means I'm entrusting you with more responsibility than originally planned. You'll have run of the castrum while we're gone."
>She stops in her tracks, her coy demeanor evaporating. "What? What if we're attacked?"
"Harald will be nearby, but he'll be occupied with something far more important than overseeing the troops."
>You open the flap to your tent, motioning for her to enter. After a brief pause, she obliges.
>"What scheme are you cooking up?" she asks.
"You're on a need-to-know basis. I'm already reluctant to give you this much authority so soon, but we're stretched thin."
>You look over at Tax, standing by to assist you.
"Parchment and the stamp."
>He fetches both items for you.
>Taking out a quill, you dip it in an ink vial begin scrawling at your desk.
"You'll be conferred the title of 'Praefectus Castrorum'."
>She raises an eyebrow. "Am I supposed to know what that means?"
>You internally wince at the disdain she shows for the honor you're bestowing her. Any one of your officers would kill for an opportunity like this.
>She's a typical civilian.
"It means I'm giving you de facto command over the centurions for all non-militant operations."
>She stares at the page, watching in disbelief as you scribble away. "That would put me at the same level as the legates."
"'Non-militant' being the operating word. The slightest skirmish breaks out, and all your authority is deferred to Harald."
>You tenderly pour a circle of wax upon the bottom of the page, then slam down the imperial stamp upon it.
>With that, you offer it up to Laurel, who only smiles.
>"You trust me."
"I trust you as far as I can throw you. Establishing the arsenal is essential to holding this position."
>"You asked me to serve under you," she asserts. "Everyone else in Klugetown was clamoring to organize beneath you, but I was the only one you had to ask to join the campaign."
>That's not remotely true. You had to work far harder to earn Ramses' respect than he had to earn yours.
>But you better than to contend with her. The two of you will be at it all night. It's happened before.
>Gesturing toward the parchment, you offer it once more.
>Her horn glows as she levitates it out from your grasp, wearing a sly grin. "You know I'd do anything for you."
>What she lacks in decorum, she makes up for in ability. Much as you hate to admit it, she's capable of things your centurions aren't.
>Besides, with this new development, you need each unit battle-ready.
"Prove yourself worthy of the title Ancilla, then."
>She folds the parchment delicately and places it in her satchel. "Of course, my liege."
>Before you have time to react, she brings her lips to your hand and gives it a peck.
>She gives you one final glance before turning and exiting the tent.
>There's a fine line between cheeky and serious, and that Kirin plays jump-rope with it.

>It's a restless night. You can't well sleep, knowing what lies on the other side of that river. The fate that awaits you.
>Just before dawn, Tax bursts into your tent without warning — the only non-legate privileged to do so.
>"Sir, you're going to want to see this!"
>In less than a minute, you're leaving your tent, whispered commotion from the troops surrounding you as you pursue Tax, darting and weaving through the mob.
>The crowd parts as you walk up to a small object on the ground. Kneeling down, you inspect it.
>An arrow, plunged into the earth, a scrap of parchment tied to it with a ribbon.
>Ramses pushes through to join your side, speaking up. "We have a wide perimeter, sir, there's no way an archer could have breached it."
>Noting the steep entry angle of the projectile, you glance up at the sky above.
"You're right about that."
>As you reach to undo the ribbon, several voices warn you against it.
>"It could be poisoned," Kyra warns.
>Harald squints. "Or cursed."
>You ignore their warnings, knowing the ponies to be above such petty tactics.
>Unrolling the parchment, you hold it up to the light of the torch, reading off three simple lines:
>Parley.
>One hour.
>T.S.

Chapter 2
>Oh, this is just like her.
>And yet, it also is characteristically unlike her.
>See, this isn't a shot at diplomacy. She doesn't want to talk. She's never wanted to talk. This is a show of force.
>You knew the pegasi scouts would be overhead tonight. Any fool would expect that much. You have no means of countering it completely — only mitigating their ability to gauge your strength by taking cover in the orchards.
>But for them to broadcast their presence in such a manner, on the very night of your arrival?
>It was bold.
>It symbolically puts her on the offensive. You held the proof right there in the palm of your hand: she's fired the first shot, even if it was only a warning.
>As you rise back to your feet, Ramses reads the note over your shoulder.
>"I'd say we send Zenobia," he says, "but she's already departed for Klugetown. I can go in her stead."
"No."
>You crumple the note and let it fall.
"She wants me."
>Harald looks around, uneased by the crowd of troops still surrounding you. "What are you louts standing around for? Take your posts!"
>As the legionaries disperse, Ramses leans in, lays a hand on your shoulder, and whispers, "maybe we ought to discuss this in the war room."
>Minutes later, you're seated upon your ornately carved wooden throne, behind the war table. Your legates stand opposite you, beseeching what you already know to be a lost cause.
>"I'm telling you, it's a trap," Harald grumbles. "A plot to get you out in the open and take you prisoner. They want to end this thing as quick as it's started."
>Ramses shakes his head. "Ponies are not so Machiavellian. They're above leveraging people as political capital. But I agree that it's just not worth the risk. With the fate of the war resting on your shoulders, you shouldn't set foot anywhere in enemy territory without a legion at your back."
>"I say we show up to their little chat with the entire army in formation. Give them an ultimatum. Either they lay down their arms and give us the city, or we reduce it to rubble."
"We still have Plan B."
>Harald snorts. "Only Zenobia is gone, with a single cohort. Bulwark can step up and lead her legion."
>Bulwark, your Primus Pilus — first centurion of the first cohort in Harald's legion. Your most senior officer, fighting under your flag before even the first legate joined your ranks.
>He's more than capable of leading a legion to battle himself, but that's besides the point. You have a different solution.
"We're taking Ponyville peacefully."
>"What's the point?" he gripes. "We outnumber them more than ten-to-one! You're wasting time when we could be rolling through the city right now!"
"No!"
>You rise suddenly from your seat, pushing your throne back. Harald falls silent.
>Ramses turns to Harald. "You know the Imperator's decree. Not a drop of blood may be spilled before we enter Canterlot."
>Harald lays his massive hands on the war table, leaning in towards you. "Waiting doesn't make a lick of sense."
>You stare down at the capital city carved into the table, seated upon the mountain that towers over the rest of the terrain.
"We need the leverage. We have a chance of winning this altogether without a single death. With their first casualty, any chance at negotiating their surrender dies with it."
>You turn your attention back to Harald, circling around the table.
"Your former king failed because he was a tyrant, hungry to empower only himself. Do you think it's by random chance that I've assembled the largest army in Equestrian history?"
>"Of course not," he retorts.
"It's because I am the Vox Populi. So listen when I speak: those creatures out there, they're not fighting for me. They're fighting for themselves. They will have their deliverance, and I will be the one to pry it from the Princess' grasp."
>"It's exactly because of what you represent to them that you shouldn't be put in harm's way," Ramses cautions.
"The opposite. They need a fearless leader who meets the enemy head-on, not a coward who sends an emissary."
>"It's your call," he replies, "but know that you're going against your legates' counsel."
"Duly noted."
>You wave your hand to dismiss them.
"I need to gear up before heading out. When I return, we proceed with the plan as discussed."
>Once you're finally alone, you approach your suit of armor resting on the mannequin, the dim flames of candlelight dancing, casting reflections off the brass and gold.
>She wants you?
>She's got you.

>The sun has just barely risen over the Everfree when you head out. The troops shout out honorifics and words of ardor as you walk through the castrum.
>Tax walks in line with you, making no effort to hide his nervousness on your behalf.
>At the camp's edge, the two legates stand to meet you.
>"Scouts are deployed in pairs along the riverbanks and at various positions around the city," Ramses says. "Given their preliminary reports, it's safe to say we beat any reinforcements here."
>"That won't last long," Harald grumbles.
>"The scouts are ready to give a call to arms at the first sign of trouble."
>Harald points to the direction behind you. "I put four cohorts in the West Orchard, ready to come charging over the hill."
"Gentlemen," you start, "I appreciate the concern, but it's going to be just fine."
>Ramses frowns. "I'd be remiss if I didn't advise you against this course of action one last time."
>"It's a fool's errand to go alone. They make one move and you're dead. You have a squadron of praetorians, and you expect that puny runt to keep you safe?" Harald glares at your valet, who shrinks behind your legs.
"My mind is made up. Come on, Tax."
>You don your helmet, feeling the cool metal slip over your face, and step past the legates, setting down the road into Ponyville.
>Finally out of earshot of the castrum, you find yourself breathing easier, the pressures of posturing as fearless commander melting away.
>As you round the corner, the city coming into view, you hear Tax speak up.
>"Is there a reason you're bringing me, sir?"
"Same reason I always do. To observe."
>As you march onward, the main bridge into town grows. In the faint light of dawn, a sole cloaked figure can be seen standing upon it. Waiting.
>Just as you reach the outskirts of town, you stop Tax.
"Wait here."
>"You don't want me going with you?"
"I want you watching, not listening. With deaf ears, the eyes see more."
>That's only a pretext, of course.
>Your gaze shifts back to the figure on the bridge, and you confess the real reason.
"Besides, it was only ever meant to be me and her."
>Leaving him behind at the side of the road, you approach the bridge, the low mist of early morning shrouding the scene.
>Though you don't see anyone but her, you can sense eyes from both sides of the river fixated on you.
>The first step onto the bridge yields a faint creak from the plank shifting beneath the weight of your armor.
>Your eyes are locked onto her as you gain the first real look you've had of her in thirteen long, arduous years.
>Ten feet from her, you stop, the two of you staring each other down.
>"Anon," she says, the curtest form of greeting that could only be surmised as a terse acknowledgment that you do, indeed, exist.
>So, in kind, you return the same, her name leaving your lips for the first time in as long as you can remember.
"Tempest."
>And then, silence.
>A long silence.
>The kind of silence that comes from neither of you having anything material to say to one another in spite of finding yourselves face-to-face after all this time.
>Because nothing's changed.
>But it's not much a parley if no one speaks, so, after a painstakingly long pause, one of you does.
>"Are you proud of yourself?" she asks.
>It was a fair question. Unwavering, you answer plainly.
"I was never one for pride."
>She glowers at you. "You're doing a terrible thing. I hope you know that."
"I see it differently."
>"I can't believe this is what you've come to. If I never saw you again, it'd be too soon."
"Why ask me here, then?"
>"Because I refuse to let either of us die before I say what I have to say to your face."
"Go ahead, then."
>She pauses a moment, then launches right into it, spilling thoughts that have clearly been brewing for a while.
>"You're despicable. There's not a single redeemable thing about you. You'd rather destroy the world than sacrifice an ounce of your happiness. You want to ruin paradise, why? Because you resent me? The princesses? Yourself? Instead of accepting that you got dealt a bad hand, you have to flip the table and spoil the game for everyone else?"
>Her breathing becomes labored with bitter acrimony.
>After a second, you reply.
"Are you done?"
>"No, I'm not," she spits back without hesitation. "I'll never be done. This is unforgiveable. You could have left well enough alone. But this is the path you chose. So now, so long as you breathe, I will never rest. I'll be the one who ends this petty rampage of yours. I will *bury* you."
>Slowly, you raise a hand and place it on your hilt. Drawing your sword out of the sheath, you bridge the gap between you.
>Though she doesn't move a muscle, you can feel both armies' collectively hold their breath from a thousand yards.
>Stopping in front of her, you stare her down, her steel green eyes locked with yours.
>Then, without warning, you kneel down, laying the weapon upon the bridge, at her hooves.
>As you rise back up, you address her.
"Go ahead, then."
>She chuckles grimly.
>"No. You're not getting off that easy."
"If you really want this to end..."
>"Do you really think I'm that stupid?" she cuts you off. "This crusade you've cooked up doesn't just die with you! No, you made damn sure of that. Believe me, I could cut your head from a mile out, but two more would just take your place, spouting the same bullshit. No. I won't give you the satisfaction. You want to be a martyr? Then fucking earn it."
>You find it hard to maintain your normally immutable demeanor when being cursed out.
>Most ponies avoid using language like that. It's seen as a crass behavior, pulled from Earth.
>Then again, she's not most ponies.
"I'm not doing this for myself. I'm doing it because I believe it's right. Don't act like you haven't seen the writing on the wall. We were stuck in the same boat. We wanted the same thing. Right up until you abandoned me."
>As soon as those words leave your mouth, an uncomfortable silence falls between you.
>"You told me to go," she says lowly. "You don't get to put that on me."
"I think I do. Because you're the reason I ended up here."
>She glances back at the town behind her, almost unrecognizable from the one that existed two days prior.
>"Don't you care?" she questions you. "If you let this go on, people are going to die."
"I don't take that lightly."
>"I'm sure you don't," she scoffs, vexed by your conviction. "Whatever it takes to get your way, right?"
>You don't answer. Nothing you say could change her perception of you at this point. Nor do you care enough to invest the effort it would take to accomplish such a feat.
>"You know, I knew it was you all along. Ever since I first heard about the so-called 'King of Klugetown', there was never any doubt in my mind. It was you, plotting revenge."
"You knew I was coming."
>"I did. Even if certain others didn't believe me."
>It all makes sense now. Why she was as prepared as she was for your arrival.
>Your one saving grace was that the princesses didn't think you capable of something like this.
>A mistake they'll come to lament. You'll make sure of it.
"I take it you got Twilight out of the city safely, then."
>"Oh, the contrary," Tempest replies. "She wouldn't sign off on my plan to pre-empt you weeks ago, but after Appleloosa, she's changed her tune. Within a matter of hours, the full might of Equestria will be bearing down on Ponyville."
>You clench your fists, sharply anticipating the reveal.
>"And you see, she's our insurance policy to buy us time before they get here."
>Tempest whips around and delivers a nod to the city, signaling some unknown entity.
>Almost immediately, a pillar of violet light shoots upward into the sky.
>From the top of the spire, a translucent dome materializes, taking shape as it slowly reaches down to touch the ground behind the barricades, enveloping Ponyville.
>Tempest turns back to you and smiles deviously. "Your move, Your Highness."
>Reaching down, you grab your sword off the bridge.
"You think that will stop me? Surely your scouts have gotten a glimpse of the extent of my forces by now. Twilight's one mare. No amount of magic can withstand an onslaught. She'll perish before the cavalry comes."
>"I guess we'll find out," she answers confidently.
"I'm giving you an out. Stand down now, and we'll leave the city untouched."
>Tempest maintains her poise, almost entertained by your offer. "We both know that's not happening."
"Then I'll see you on the battlefield."
>Sword in hand, you storm off, returning to Tax.
>He shifts anxiously when you reach him, put off by your body language and the scene that unfolded in front of him.
>"She's not surrendering, is she?" he asks.
"No," you answer. "Even better."

>Back at the castrum, you scale the still-smoking debris of the farmhouse.
>Buccinators sound their horns, summoning the legions for an audience at your direction.
>Your feet kick up ash, the charred beams cracking beneath your weight.
>As you reach the top of the pile, thousands upon thousands of troops have amassed around you to hear the results of your parley with the enemy.
>Harald and Ramses stand tall above the crowd, having heard the news for themselves just minutes earlier.
>You can see the disdain on their faces, clear as day, from a hundred yards.
>But it's not their call. It's yours.
"Boys!" you call out.
>The troops roar and cheer, stamping the ground and clanging their shields. You're certain the commotion can be heard from Ponyville; all the better.
>After a minute of clamoring, their bellows simmer down, and you speak once again.
"Too long have you suffered injustice and tyranny at the hands of Equestria. Millenia ago, the two princesses gazed out over this land and claimed it for their kind. Holding the source of all life hostage, they seized this world in the name of ponies. The lush forests and fertile fields were theirs and theirs alone. They took everything from you. It was their Manifest Destiny. Equestria was their birthright."
"They couldn't simply kill you. You were too tough, too prolific, and their morality too haughty to attempt a genocide. So what did they do? They exiled you. From sea to sea, far beyond anything their numbers could reasonably settle, they took the best lands all for themselves. They relegated you to the desert, the barren wasteland, hoping that, in time, the harsh elements would do what they didn't have the stomach for."
"But you didn't die. All of you creatures, your ancestors clung to life and scraped together something inconceivable. You survived — no, you thrived — where they expected you to simply keel over and perish. You built a city, a metropolis, upon the dunes, rivaling anything Equestria had ever seen. You created technology ponies couldn't dream of, all because you worked together instead of clashing over resources like they expected."
"Ponies don't understand cooperation. Not like us. Everything they have was handed to them by their precious princesses. They think themselves superior because they're afraid of what it would mean if they weren't. If you pull the wool from their eyes, and show them they're not any more special than you or I, they crumble. That's their weakness."
"That's what we're doing here. They tried to pit us against one another, because only in chaos can they truly remain safe. For centuries, it worked. Alone, no faction could dare take them head-on. Many of you were there. You, yourselves tried."
>Harald frowns as the storm creatures of his legion howl and pound their chests.
"Even the one who led that charge on Canterlot now stands across the river, against us, back with her kind. Because mares have no convictions. They mold the world solely to keep themselves on top." 
"Their system worked precisely as intended. Eventually, most bought into their propaganda. That ponies were unique amongst all. That they alone were fit to preside over Equestria, and all others who tried would be doomed to the same fate as those who tried before them. If, after thousands of years, no other civilization had ever settled Equestria, then ponies must have an unequivocal divine right."
>You pause for effect.
"Then came my kind."
>The crowd falls silent, hanging onto your every word. They know what's coming. You've given variations on this speech dozens of times. This rhetoric was the only way you were able to raise an army to begin with.
"As you all know, humanity is not native to this world. Over the past twenty-six years, we have been dragged here, one by one, without our knowledge, without our consent. All in the name of love. Now what could be more noble than that?"
>Boos and jeers emanate from the mob.
>You wear a soft smile.
"Now come on, ponies have a right to be happy too, don't they?"
>The crowd erupts in defiant declarations in the negative.
>You leap from the top of the pile, sliding down the rubble until you reach the ground. Raising an arm, you circle the gathered audience.
"For centuries, you were fed the narrative that Equestria is fit for ponies and only ponies. That any other people who tried to make it their home would plunge the world into chaos. Many of you believed the lies they fed you, through no fault of your own. Changelings, storm creatures, buffalo, zebra — every single attempt at rebellion had been quashed underfoot."
"Now they bring men here by the droves, and they expect you to believe that, coming from another world, we are the exemption."
>Fervidly, you roll up your sleeve and thrust your forearm out at the crowd.
"Look upon me! I am not divine. I am flesh and blood, just as you. The ground I stand upon is not my birthright. It was stolen from you and forced upon me."
>Dropping your arm, you pace back and forth before the front line.
"All other men accepted this gift. They were brought to a paradise and told they were special. They took their soul mate without question. In exchange for everything they ever dreamed of, they allowed themselves to be made pawns in the princess' game of control. But not I. I would not be tempted by the illusion of true love. I challenged the princess' authority. Knowing they could never send me back, they ostracized me to the place where they dump all their other problems."
"That was their biggest mistake. Because there, I found all of you. I discovered the truth. The men that we captured in Appleloosa, the men in Ponyville that cower behind their walls, they don't think of you. You're a footnote in the annals of Equestria. Nothing more. But now? Now, you're all they think about. You haunt their every waking moment. You've risen up. You've made your voices heard."
"Look at this face," you instruct them, removing your helmet. "It is the face of your enemy, and it is the face of your savior."
>The crowd bursts into raucous cheers once more.
"The princesses have time and time again proven themselves unfit to rule," you roar. "Clawing power away from one another in their squabbles, plunging the world into darkness over petty feuds. I've faced the commander of the Equestrian army. Ponyville's princess is determined to fight us, here and now."
>Troops bang their weapons against their shields, expressing their readiness for battle.
"We'll bring her the carnage she so desperately seeks."
>Harald, towering over the creatures around him, locks eyes with you. His disapproval is clear as day. He knows the truth.
>You're vamping for a battle you know will never come.
>In his eyes, your words are empty. He wants nothing more for them to be genuine, for you to lead the charge over the river and cut Twilight down.
>But that's how battles are won, not wars. The game you're playing is much larger than your legates can ever know.
>You'll win your way. It's not enough to chase fleeting victories. You have loftier goals than sheer brutalization.
>And in time, you'll enact them.
>You will defeat Tempest Shadow.
>You will have this land.
>You are Imperator Anonymous, first Emperor of Equestria.

Chapter 3
>The carriage rattles as it navigates the rocky terrain.
>Peering out the window, you call for a stop. The Aquilifer cries out a piercing order to halt.
>Stepping out of the carriage, you're met by the dry desert air and a blazing sun.
>You wander off the main road toward the barrens, in search of relief from the repugnant smell of the pack oxen. Tax remains in the carriage, watching you from the window.
>Gazing out at the massive bluffs before you, you lament what awaits on the other side.
>A figure breaks off from the main formation to meet you on the ridge: a parrot by the name of Ferro, serving as Praefectus Praetorio, commander of the praetorians, your personal guard.
>You hand-picked the best soldiers between the three legions to make up the praetorian guard. Some parrots, some griffons, and a mix of other races. 
>Only the best fighters could serve as your personal escort. Especially now, when you were traveling without so much as a single century to back you up.
>Normally, you'd travel with a cohort at minimum — five-hundred battle-ready troops.
>But your legionaries could not know that you were departing immediately following the speech in which you declared that battle was imminent.
>You and Ramses joined Laurel to scout the quarry as a pretext for leaving the castrum. Once sufficiently far out, you and he set out on your respective missions, taking only a small complement as protection: your Praetoriae, and his Frumentarii.
>Which meant leaving behind Harald to command all three legions.
>You trust he won't make a move without your approval. He's occupied with his own task, for starters. He'll keep up appearances around the castrum and maintain the illusion that you and Ramses are still around, but you gave him specific instructions.
>Without his charade, Tempest would learn of you and your legates' absence and switch to the offensive.
>Harald can be trusted to carry out your will. He may be a great leader, yet no creature is capable of directing three legions by himself. He knows subverting you would doom him to guaranteed defeat.
>So you set off southeast with Ramses, backtracking within view of Appleloosa, but opting not to make an appearance in the town, knowing it would raise questions among the legionaries stationed there.
>Eventually, your path diverged from Ramses', and you bid him farewell. His road takes him further east, to the sea.
>But yours leads right here.
>Looking over your shoulder, you notice Ferro standing at your back.
"Where's the pass?"
>"Nestled between those buttes."
>You raise a hand to block out the sun, just barely making out the shape of an eagle circling in front of the tall formation.
"Have we scouted the other side?"
>"Not yet."
"Bring me the Aquilifer."
>Ferro yells out, and the eagle-bearer comes scampering over.
>"Yes, my liege?"
>You frown, watching the bird gliding in the distance.
"Explain to me why it's just circling up there."
>"The pass is barely navigable on foot," he explains. "She's nimble, but she can't get through tight squeezes like that."
"She has wings, doesn't she? Send her up and over."
>He hesitates. "She's a seabird, sir. She can't fly that high. The mountain air's too thin."
>Raising your binoculars, you get a better view of the pass ahead, your eagle patiently coasting through the air.
"I don't like not knowing what I'm walking into."
>Ferro glances back at the convoy. "We're still an hour's march out. I'll send a forward unit."
"No. My praetorians are not bait."
>You lower the binoculars.
"She knows we're here."
>"How can you tell?" he asks.
"I can feel her eyes."
>Handing him the binoculars, you set off back to the carriage.
"Let's move!"

>The journey into the pass is an arduous one. You had to leave behind the carriage and any provisions you couldn't carry on your backs.
>In certain stretches, it's only wide enough for you to march single file. Six praetorians to your front, and six at your back, with Tax directly behind you.
>The sandy cliffs tower hundreds of feet above you, the tight crevice warning of impending rockfalls.
>This is the only route forward, however. At any moment, a landslide could seal up the pass forever.
>Who knows? Up ahead, it may already have, forcing you to turn back and abandon your mission.
>After another twenty minutes, the crevice opens up a bit, enough for you to spread out and take a break.
>Sweat soaking through their brass armor, the praetorians set down their packs, and Tax offers you a canteen.
>Taking a swig, you see a shadow dart across the ground, blocking out the sun for only a split-second.
>In unison, you all look up to the narrow patch of sky visible above you, but see only empty blue.
>Then, the faint sound of a flitter.
>"Ready, boys," Ferro squawks, instantly sensing something amiss.
>The praetorians draw their weapons and take formation around you, shielding you and Tax.
>Silently, you wait, the masked guard standing in defense of their Imperator.
>But no threat comes.
>After several minutes, Ferro gives the order to stand down. Whatever it was, it's gone.
>You say that as if there's any doubt to what it could've been. But there isn't. There's only one creature that makes these inhospitable crags their home.
>Wasting no time, everyone quickly dons their gear.
>You hand the canteen back to Tax, and the squadron moves out once again.
>But, with your keen eye, you notice something slightly off.
>You count seven praetorians to your front. Someone's out of position.
>Turning back, your eyes go wide with panic upon seeing not five, but the standard six behind you.
>Just as you open your mouth to warn the guard, the world goes black.
>Black and deafening.
>The sky is blotted out by chittering black creatures that dive into the crevice en masse, the buzz of their wings causing a thunderous droning.
>The swarm descends upon you before the praetorians have time to react.
>Losing all sensation as the creatures envelop you, depriving you of oxygen, the world slips away as you slowly drift out of consciousness.

>You awake hacking and sputtering, laboredly drawing air into your lungs.
>But immediately, you find no trouble breathing again. Whatever took you out has long since cleared out.
>More importantly, however, you're not where you remember being.
>It's dark and damp in here. You look around, surrounded by cave walls illuminated by the faint green flames of torches.
>Picking yourself up off the ground, you back up against the wall.
"Ferro? Tax?"
>"Your friends are gone," a matronly voice calls out to you.
>Squinting in the direction of the voice, your eyes adjust to just barely make out her statuesque black frame, one of the few creatures in this world taller than yourself.
>You've heard plenty about her, but when it came to her appearance, your mind had to fill in some blanks.
>You draw your sword from its sheath only to have it disintegrate into coal ash before your eyes.
>Smearing the soot on your fingers, you marvel at her powers in disbelief.
>"It's awfully bold of you to come here with such a pathetic little platoon. I expected more from the mighty Anonymous."
>Standing tall, you face the shadowy figure.
"You know about me, then."
>Her changelings have traveled further than you expected, if the stories have made their way to her. For better or worse.
>"Of course I do," she says, entering the light cast by the torches. Your first real look at her reveals more than you expected.
>Her ratty blue hair, her eerily slender frame, and that jagged black horn...
>She is a monster unlike any you'd ever encountered.
"Queen Chrysalis," you address her, "it's good to finally meet you."
>She reaches out, raising your chin with her forehoof, and elicits a dark smile, with two curled fangs poking out over her bottom lip.
>"A human..." she whispers, admiring your form. "So this is what has the ponies up in a tizzy. Now I see why they take your kind as mates."
>Recoiling from her touch, you pull away from her.
>She pouts at your apparent revulsion. "Something I said?"
"I'm not into ponies, I'm sure as shit not trying to make it with a changeling."
>"That's fine," she says, unbothered by your comment. A shimmering light washes over her. "I can be anyone you want."
>Shielding your eyes, you lower your hand once the light fades... and stare in disbelief.
>It's a woman. A real, live, human woman, beautiful as can be.
>The first one you've seen in thirteen years.
>Regaining your sanity, you shake off the awe.
"How did you do that?"
>"I can take any form." She walks up to you. "Don't be afraid."
"That's not what I'm talking about."
>"Oh?"
"There are no women in Equestria. You can't possibly know what they look like."
>But the look is exactly right. Down to the finest detail. Soft, supple skin. Wavy red locks that cascade down to her breasts. You find yourself getting lost in those mesmerizing green irises.
>She presses her hand to your heart, leaning her naked body into yours. "But you know exactly what they look like, don't you? You couldn't possibly forget, no matter how long you've been here. This is your idea of beauty."
>She's unbelievably gorgeous. You can't deny it.
>"Wait, there's something more," she says, shutting her eyes. "More than lust for beauty." 
>You watch her, floored, as she concentrates hard, sliding her hand beneath your breastplate and shirt, running her fingertips across your bare chest.
>"Love... Buried deep," she sings with excitement, her eyes fluttering open. "Show me her form. I can be her."
>Suddenly, you snap out of it, pushing her away.
"Don't touch me."
>She shifts back into her natural form. "You're hiding something in there," she smiles coyly. "Who is she? Someone from your homeworld? Do you miss her? Do you long to see her again?"
"Enough."
>"Is that why you're doing this? The ponies took everything from you, and now you want revenge?"
>You grow sick of her incessant questions. She has no right to pry into your past like that. She doesn't even know what she's talking about.
>There's no woman back home. There never was.
>You've never been in love. You don't know what this world's obsession with it is, but you don't fit into that picture.
>Whatever emotion she thinks she senses in you is the result of her own delusions.
>She's wrong.
>She has to be.
"Drop it."
>"Fine," she scoffs. "Then you may as well get to the point. Tell me what you came for before I get bored and throw you to my drones."
>Far off in the darkness, you can just barely see dozens of blue eyes, watching you, waiting.
"First, tell me where my praetorians are."
>"They're perfectly safe," she jeers. "I haven't harmed a feather on their heads. Yet."
>Her threats don't waver you. She's rooting around your psyche for a weakness. You won't give her one.
"You don't want to make an enemy out of me."
>"And why is that?"
"I'm your ticket out of here."
>She expresses doubt. "You think rather highly of yourself." 
"My army's already in Ponyville," you tell her flat-out, cutting right to the chase.
>Suspicious, she raises a hoof up to your shoulder. You allow her to touch you, and her eyes glaze over with bewilderment.
>"Over ten thousand strong!" she exclaims, practically bouncing with glee. "I had heard you were making waves, but to already be so close to Canterlot!"
>Suddenly, she falters. "There's a reason you're only coming to me now."
"I want to play this smart. If Ponyville was all I needed, I'd have it by now. I've studied all the past plays. Your folly was charging headfirst into Canterlot."
>She flicks her tail dismissively. "And you think you can do better?"
"I know my limits. The princesses can take on any army in the world."
>"So what exactly is your plan?"
"They can't take on *every* army in the world."
>She understands what you're getting at now. A coalition, the likes of which Equestria has never seen. 
>Giddy, she asks, "Have you spoken to them already? They're vain creatures, you know. They'd never work with me."
"They don't need to. I've got my legate working on it. He's dealt with their kind before."
>Turning your back to her, you examine the looming cavern that the Queen's chamber opens up into. It's so vast, it must occupy the entirety of the hollow mountain.
>Changeling dens are built into the cavern walls, and the flittering of their wings echo throughout the cavern.
"But enough about them. I'm here for you. I need your army if I want to make this play."
>Chrysalis comes up beside you. "Let's discuss terms, then. If my subjects are so important to you, I expect a sizeable reward for their participation."
>Having come prepared, you answer plain as day.
"Canterlot is yours."
>"Just like that?" she chuckles. "You're willing to give up the capital?"
"I have bigger plans in mind."
>"Fill me in, then."
"You don't need to know."
>She pauses, a shrewd smile creeping across her face. "And if I want more? If I decide one measly city isn't reward enough for helping fulfill your grand conquest?"
"That's all you get."
>Slowly, she coils her tail around you, creeping up your leg. "Whatever that secret you're hiding is, it's powerful. I could feed off of it for a hundred years."
>You tilt your head to the city before you.
"Or you could let your subjects feast till the end of time."
>Intrigued, she relents on her threat, waiting for you to elaborate.
"Canterlot has the biggest human population in Equestria. The Equestrian Matchmaker Initiative has brought together more couples there than anywhere else."
>Her eyes light up.
"I've seen it myself, Chrysalis. You've spent a long time holed up in the Badlands. The world out there is different from the one you used to know. It's brimming with love, ripe for the taking."
>Leaning forward, you whisper up into her ear, painting the image in her mind.
"Picture it. You, on the throne, governor of a whole city of soul mates, enough pairs for your changelings to clone three times over. Your brood will never go hungry again."
>A loud chittering emanates from the darkness — the changelings are getting riled up by the prospect you're offering.
>Embracing the situation, you address them directly, projecting your booming voice to the ears of every creature who'll listen.
"You won't just subsist. There's so much variety, you'll indulge. You can have a baker for breakfast, a librarian for lunch, and a debutante for dinner."
>The chittering grows almost deafening, coupled with screeches of excitement.
>A sultry expression crossing her face, Chrysalis licks at her fangs, enamored with the spectacle you've presented to her. "Canterlot is mine to rule however I see fit? No strings attached?"
"None," you answer. "It's all yours."
>She flashes you a devilish grin. "Oh, dear Anonymous... I'm going to make you a very powerful man."

>You were a normal man, once.
>A normal man with an ordinary job.
>There was never anything exceptional about you.
>You were destined for mediocrity.
>You had imaginative hopes and dreams, but they were just dreams.
>And that was... okay.
>You didn't have a problem with that.
>At least, you don't think you did.
>The problem is, nothing ever challenged you.
>It's not like there was any catalyst that would have molded you into a warmonger back on Earth.
>You had no convictions because you didn't need any.
>Life was good.
>Or maybe...
>Maybe it was just good in retrospect.
>Maybe you resented your sad, shitty life, and prayed for an escape. Any escape.
>You can't even remember. That's the sad part.
>Every year spent here is another year further from the life you once led.
>Every memory you make here pushes out one from there.
>Soon it'll all be gone. And you'll have nothing left to cling to.
>What drives a man to take up arms?
>Personal pride? Defense of the motherland?
>No. It's memories.
>Memories are what she took from you.
>Memories of waiting in line at the post office. Memories of cheap mall food courts. Of being stuck in traffic.
>The stupidest fucking memories — memories that no human being should ever miss — is what hurts most about leaving Earth behind.
>The things you don't appreciate until they're taken from you.
>Until you're told that you can never get them back.
>"You okay, sir?"
>Jolted back to reality, you lift your head to see Tax watching you with a concerned look.
>He motions to your lap, and you glance down to realize your mindless fidgeting has undone a stitch on the canteen you've been picking at.
>Tiny drops of water leak out, going pat-pat-pat upon the carriage floorboards.
>Staring down, you watch as the pool of water jostles with the carriage, gradually seeping between the planks, presumably dripping upon the arid ground below.
>You toss the canteen aside.
>But as your mind wanders, you find yourself fidgeting again.
>This time, your aimless grasp has found its way to the hilt of your sword, resting in its scabbard.
>The sword that the changeling queen reduced to soot. Soot that stained your palm, leaving a texture you can remember so clearly.
>But now the stain is gone, and your sword is material once more.
>Your mind recoils at the extent of her power. Did she physically reduce it to dust and back, or did she just make you think she did?
>Either way, knowing what she's capable of... how can you possibly trust your senses around her again?
>No matter how desperately you need her power, is it a mistake bringing her into the fold?
>You kept a great deal of your plans from her. She can't be trusted to know what you're doing.
>If she knew you were using her as a means to an end, she'd never agree to join forces.
>Then again, it's just as likely she's using you. After that encounter, you're having a hard time discerning what's real.
>Her deceit would come at great cost. It's possible you made a grave mistake.
>But there's no undoing what's been done. The coalition has begun. You can only hope to rein her in by tempting her with the one thing she needs.
>Equestria has a surplus of manufactured love, and she's counting on you to get it.
"If we never return there, it'll be too soon," you tell Tax.
>"Yeah," he mumbles.
>Head in hand, you pity the colt. The ambush left him on edge.
>Though Chrysalis released him and the others without so much as a scratch, there was a definitive shift in the mood amongst your party.
>Each one of you had your confidence shaken, though you all did your best to obscure it.
>Poor Tax, though, hardly had any confidence to begin with.
>And why would he? Only seventeen, and already a traitor to his species.
>This was his first real engagement, and it was clear the experience had rattled him.
>You wonder if it's worth keeping him around. It's bound to only get worse from here.
>Being young as he is, he could be a liability. How can you expect to be an effective strategist if you're constantly looking out for him?
>But then you realize what it'd mean if you sent him off.
>He's got no one left.
"Hey."
>Tax looks back at you.
"I ever tell you what your name means?"
>He shakes his head. It's evident he's always wondered, but never had the nerve to inquire.
"I gave the legates their names as a token. Those three were once leaders in their own right, but they forsake their identities to become part of something greater. And so did you."
>His eyes grow with anticipation.
"You're not a legate, but you made an arguably greater sacrifice than any of those three. You knew what Equestria was doing was wrong. You left your old life behind to join me, to stand against injustice. You're an example of what ponies should be. So I made an exception, and like the others, named you for a figure from Earth's history."
>"I didn't know that," he whispers.
"Let me tell you the story of a human named Taxiles."
>Sitting back in your seat, you begin.
"Thousands of years ago, there was a man — Alexander the Great. He forged the greatest empire that Earth had ever seen. Its expansion was so rapid, rumors spread to neighboring states of how unstoppable his army was. After trouncing the Persians, he set his sights on India. Most governors dreaded the news of his approach. But Taxiles was different. He didn't fear for his city's fate. He wasn't intimidated by Alexander's reputation. Instead, he saw an opportunity. See, he had been in a conflict with Poros, ruler of a neighboring state. So before Alexander had even reached his borders, Taxiles sent his army, laden with gifts, to meet him."
"Alexander was dumbstruck. Certainly, other rulers had surrendered without a fight before, but for one to pre-emptively hand him the keys to the kingdom before his troops arrived? His reputation had literally preceded him. He was so impressed by this display that he refused Taxiles' gifts, responding in turn by offering up even more riches. Poros, however, was a different story. He thought himself special. He met Alexander head-on, refusing all demands to surrender. So Alexander took the combined armies of his and Taxiles', and annihilated Poros' kingdom."
>Leaning forward, you pat Tax on the knee.
"That's why, in our story, you're Taxiles. Before the war had even begun, you saw the writing on the wall. You didn't cling to a false sense of superiority like other ponies. You chose the right side. Maybe that's hard to see right now, but it's true. Just stick with me and see this through. You'll be happy with how it turns out. I promise."
>He lets out a faint smile, eased by your affirmation. "Thanks, sir. I—"
>Before he can finish his thought, he's suddenly interrupted by the carriage grinding to a stop, accompanied by yelling outside.
>Hand on your hilt, you burst from the carriage, leaping down onto the road, prepared for an attack.
>Two praetorians lay their hands on your chest, signaling you to stay back, but you push through them, marching forward, trying to get a glimpse at what the others are charging toward.
>Running up to the scene, you discover a morbid sight. A pastel mare, no older than 20, lying on the ground in a crimson pool, blood seeping from a slash in her abdomen.
>And standing before you, red-soaked dagger in hand, wide-eyed as can be...
>One of your scouts.

Chapter 4
>"Stay back, Imperator!"
>One of your praetorians places his hand on your shoulder, but you throw him off.
>"She's alive," another one says, kneeling by the earth pony and checking her pulse. "But just barely."
>A third one glances around, scanning the tree line. "I don't like this. It stinks of an ambush."
>Ferro marches up and yanks the one by the mare up to his feet. "Form up!" he orders them.
>While your men take formation about you, you charge at the scout and grab him by the collar.
"What happened? Speak!"
>His pupils shrink as he stares up at you, frightened to death. "S-She was following me, I swear!"
"What were you doing this far out?"
>"By order of Laurel Leaves, sir! I'm supposed to be keeping the perimeter for the troops at the quarry!"
>"We should move," Ferro advises you. "We're over a mile out from the castrum. It's not safe to sit."
>Staring down at the bloodied pony, you panic. This incident could bring the entire plan to ruin.
>There's no time to ruminate. You make a snap decision and immediately begin shedding your armor.
"Tax!"
>Your valet comes running up to you.
"Get back to the camp. Have the medical tent prepped the second I get there."
>The colt nods and sprints off down the road, galloping as fast as his hooves will take him.
>"Sir?" Ferro asks.
>Ignoring him, you thrust your breastplate into his talons and shrug off your cloak.
>The clock is ticking. You approach the mare and tie the garment around her abdomen as tightly as possible.
>"Sir!" he repeats, beseeching your attention.
>You scoop her up into your arms and chase after Tax, albeit at a slower pace, watching the distance between you two grow with each stride.
>Ferro looks back at the praetorians and squawks, "Let's move!" 

>A laborer holds open the flap to the medical tent as you run up.
>Inside, Tax stands beside your best surgeon, out of breath.
>You set her down on the operating table as the surgeon leans forward to examine her.
"Save her."
>"She's lost too much," he says. "She needs blood."
"Then give her some!" you exclaim.
>He recoils at your outburst. "Pony blood," he sputters.
>"Take mine," Tax offers up without hesitation.
>Raising a hand to your head, you stumble back out of the tent to get some fresh air.
>You don't even notice the legionaries staring at you, keeping their distance, wondering what display of mania they just witnessed of you.
>They leer at you as if you're naked without your armor or regal cloak, wearing only a blood-soaked tunic.
>But you don't notice their gawking at all. Your head is swimming as the adrenaline rush dumps all at once, sapping your body of energy.
>You don't remember how, but you manage your way back to the imperial tent, slumping into a chair.
>It's a long while before you're able to think clearly. You don't track the passage of time. Your head is simply pounding far too hard for you to concentrate on anything.
>Harald enters the tent after a bit. He's clearly been brought up to speed by someone else, because he says nothing. He just sits across from you, waiting for you to regain your senses.
>And eventually, you do.
"This could cost us the whole thing."
>"It changes nothing," he replies, calmly.
>You sit up in your chair.
"If that girl dies, it's over for us. You can't unring that bell."
>"You're a fool for thinking we can win this without spilling blood."
>You shoot a disapproving look at your legate for his unprompted disregard for decorum.
>He appears unbothered by it. "I respect you, but let's drop the act and talk straight for once."
"Fine."
>"I did what you asked. It was a day's journey, there and back. The beast will stand with us."
>You breathe deeply. Piece by piece, the coalition is coming together.
"How much did he want?"
>"A fifth of the royal treasury."
>Fine. You'll abide by that. Those monsters are driven by greed. But enlisting even a single one can shift the tide of battle. In due time, you'll call upon him to take Ponyville on.
"And the tethers?"
>Harald's lip curls. "Yes."
>You pre-empt his objection.
"It doesn't make sense to retreat to Appleloosa."
>"It's not a retreat," he rumbles. "We stay here. The ships don't. Simple as that."
>You say nothing.
>"Face it. It doesn't make sense to stick to the plan."
>You disagree.
"The hills make for the perfect docking station."
>"It's too close to Cloudsdale. They control the friggin' weather."
>Oh, you're well aware.
>You've studied the ponies' technomagical abilities thoroughly. You know everything they're capable of, but more importantly, you know their limitations.
"It takes them time and favorable conditions to manufacture a thunderstorm. It's not something they can whip up in a day. We'd see it coming."
>Harald shakes his head. "This is Equestria we're talking about. You just gave them every reason they needed to pour every bit they have into the war effort."
>He's not wrong there. Tempest said as much.
>Feeling strained, you press your palm against your temple as he continues.
>"Fourteen airships," he says. "You don't dock an armada like that on the front lines."
"It'll send a message."
>"The only message it sends is that we're an easy target."
"No. It'll force them to reconsider surrendering. They think our legions are purely land units, too slow to mobilize effectively. They're holding out till the cavalry comes. When they see the zeppelins, they'll realize we can take off and bombard Canterlot inside of three hours."
>"We could," he grumbles. "But we won't." 
"It didn't work for your old despot; it won't work now."
>Rapping your knuckles against wood grain, you digress.
"Besides, I timed their delivery to coincide with the capture of Ponyville."
>"And we haven't captured Ponyville. If we brought them from the start, maybe we would have."
"The campaign couldn't wait three weeks."
>Raising an army is not a quiet affair. It would have gotten out and given Equestria too much time to intercept.
>You're already behind, locked in a stalemate on the outskirts of a town you could've taken with ease. But Tempest saw you coming.
>Those ships have the potential to invert this power imbalance. Your chief engineer, Bracer, promised to finish construction of the fleet expediently, and meet your army at Ponyville.
>His messages since your departure from Klugetown, of course, have delivered nothing but excuses for the delays.
>Rising from your throne, you step over to the war table, leaning your palms on the edge.
"It's a moot point," you murmur. "I'm not going to debate what ought to have happened. An Imperator's duty is not to lament over what once was, but rather dictate what's to come."
>You gaze out at the topographic map of Equestria, the towering mountain of Canterlot sitting idle in the center, almost staring back at you mockingly.
"It's too late to redirect the fleet anyway. Bracer already sent word— they're scheduled to take off day after tomorrow, after the sandstorm passes. By the time a messenger gets there, they'll already be skyside."
>"Send the eagle," Harald suggests.
>Your Aquilifer's voice rings out in your head. 'She can't fly that high.'
>You're taken back to that scene in the Badlands pass, and you shudder at the memory of the world slipping into darkness, hundreds of changelings descending upon you.
>An ambush you were ill-prepared for. One you could have foreseen if those working for you were just a smidge more capable.
>If you had legates who didn't impugn your every move. If you had engineers who delivered on their timelines. If you had birds who could scale mountains.
>Your only boon is your strength in numbers.
>Hell, Chrysalis had that, and she still failed. But now you have her. Things could be different.
>If you make them different.
>Turning around, you abruptly change topics, shedding your bloodied tunic and reaching for a fresh one from the wardrobe.
"You hear anything from Zenobia?"
>You can sense Harald's quiet indignation, but he answers duly. "The supply line is set up. She's coordinating the first convoy now."
>Pulling your arms through the sleeves, you return to the table.
"Capper give her any trouble?"
>"Don't know," he answers, "but who cares? Put a thumb on that bastard's neck and he folds. I'll bet she threatened to neuter him."
>What a charmer she is. She'd probably make good on the threat, too.
"Send a reply with instructions."
>"Saying what?"
"To take Dodge Junction."
>Harald looks up, intrigued.
"We're going to be here longer than we expected. If we're not rolling through Ponyville, we need to establish a stronger grasp on the territory we have."
>"Agreed," he grins, finally satisfied with a decision of yours.
"And Ramses?"
>"That's the other thing," Harald says. "Something's off. He should be back."
>You stare down at the war table and estimate the journey in your head.
>"Another reason we better move now," he presses.
"No."
>If he spent a day there, he'd have been back yesterday at the earliest. As late as tomorrow if the journey gave him trouble. But he would have sent a messenger...
>If he's not back by tomorrow, what then?
>Forget it. You can panic when the time comes. For now, you have to operate under the assumption that all went as planned. Otherwise there's nothing you can do to stop this campaign from crumbling before your eyes.
>Before you have much time to contemplate however, your train of thought is interrupted by a commotion outside the tent.
>"Let me through!" a sharp voice exclaims. "I have business with Anonymous!"
>Suddenly, a figure bursts through the tent flap, chased by two of your praetorians. They leap to grab her, stopping her in her tracks.
"Laurel," you address her calmly, hardly surprised by her actions.
>Harald snorts and steps forward, hand on his mighty club. "Do you have a death wish? You ask permission before entering the imperial tent."
>Undeterred by his towering physique and the praetorians restraining her, she stares up at the beast ten times her size, aloof as can be. "That's funny, I thought I already showed you the decree. I'm a legate now."
>Leaning over to look past him, she locks eyes with you. "Praefectus Castrorum, right?"
>She might be a handful, but you have to give her points for remembering the title. There's more to her than you give credit for.
>Looking back to him, she raises a hoof to her saddlebag. "Do you need to see it again?"
>Incredulous, Harald glances over at you. You just wave him off.
>He bitterly steps aside, and the guards release her, returning to their posts outside.
>The Kirin approaches you at the table. "The arsenal is operational."
"And the munitions?"
>"All prepped and accounted for. Except..." she hesitates.
>You raise an eyebrow.
>"The explosives," she confesses.
"The depot should've been stockpiled days ago. We need those bombs ready."
>"Tell him," Harald instructs her.
>Laurel gives him the side eye, but continues. "Kyra's cooking them up herself."
>"She won't let anyone touch the damn stuff," Harald claims.
>"To be fair," she quips, "we went through a good portion of our gunpowder blasting at the quarry. Almost as fast as she could refine it."
"So we've got nothing."
>You're reminded of the emphasis Ramses placed on those explosives when he first advised you to commission them.
>'If we're forced into a counter-offensive, it's the only weapon that supersedes their magic. The only tool at our disposal for regaining ground.'
>When outgunned, numbers only give you the edge if you make use of them before the enemy can organize.
>Laurel holds steadfast. "We still have the high explosives. The arsenal took a little longer to build up, but I figured you wouldn't want to waste them on quarrying." 
>You tap anxiously upon the table.
"Not good enough. We need mines ready now. Hell, we needed them ready the night we got here."
>Grabbing a cloak, you start to leave the tent, intent on reaming Kyra out, but Laurel calls out after you.
>"Wait!"
>Stopping a moment, you turn to hear her plea.
>"I would listen to her if I were you."
"Why?"
>"She's not just making the explosives herself. She won't let anyone touch the stuff once it's refined." She laughs, almost exasperated at herself for defending Kyra. "I had to argue with her for an hour just to let me set foot in the depot."
"And why exactly should I let her go on?"
>"Because," Laurel insists, "she's right. If you want anyone to handle the stuff, it should be her. Nobody's more capable of doing chemistry at that level than a zebra."
>You glance at Harald a moment before looking back to her. Neither of them says a thing more, both awaiting your verdict.
"I want to see this for myself."
>With that, you leave the tent.
>As you exit, the surgeon runs up to you, having waited patiently outside for your conclave to end.
>"Imperator," he acknowledges you, bowing his head with deference. "The pony..."
>You halt, painfully reminded once more of the mess you're in.
"Is she...?"
>"Stable. For now."
>Thank goodness. If you had to hand-deliver her corpse to the gates of Ponyville...
>"But there's something else," he pipes up. "It's Taxiles."
>The color drains from your face.
"What is it?"
>Seeing your unease, the surgeon clams up, too afraid to elaborate.
"Speak, boy!" you bark.
>"He lost too much blood!" he admits. "She needed so much, and I told him he couldn't give more than two pints, I swear to you I did— but he demanded that we draw as much as she needed, and y-your orders were to save her..."
>You raise a hand to your forehead, appalled by the news.
"Tax is dead. My valet is dead."
>"Not dead," he clarifies, "but it's not looking good. His heartbeat is getting fainter and fainter."
"You can't pull him out of it?"
>"Not without more blood. I have them both on an intravenous solution, but between the only two ponies in the castrum, there's barely enough blood to keep even one of them alive."
>Your eyes linger on the medical tent in the distance. You can scarcely picture Tax's cold, near-lifeless body inside.
"Kirin blood wouldn't work?" you ask him.
>"I wouldn't risk it," he cautions.
>You want to go to his side. You want to champion that boy for what he is: the only one so far to sacrifice himself in the campaign to reshape this world.
>But it'll do no one any good for you to sit and mourn. You alone dictate the fate of millions.
>Your eyes drift back to the depot.
"Prep the mare for transport. We take her back tonight."
>"Sir," he begins.
>You look back down at him ruthlessly.
>"She's in no condition to be moved. I can't say if she'll pull through or not, but if you disturb her, her chances drop dramatically."
"God damn it," you mutter.
>Thinking quickly, you draw up an alternate plan. 
"Get a message to Harald. Put a hold on all our scouts. When the current shift returns, no others go out to take their places."
>"Yes, sir."
>We're going blind.
>You make your way around the hill, to the depot. Atop that hill, where the farmhouse and barn once stood at the highest point in the orchard, is the arsenal. Two centurions stand outside, acting as gatekeepers to your bastion of strength.
>Your eyes trace up the attached watchtower, where a scout sits, keeping watch over the castrum.
>Flying high above him is your army's flag, emblazoned in all its maroon and gold glory. One sun, representing one unified people, against a backdrop of crimson red. An unending reminder to your subjects that peace is earned through blood.
>It's magnificent how quickly the sight has transformed since you last saw it.
>You almost wish you could show Tempest what's become of her friend's home. Tell her that this is what her kind has sown, show her the inevitability of eons of ponies segregating and oppressing everyone beneath them.
>Now she gets to reap the consequences.
>Reaching the depot on the far side of the hill, you peer into the entrance. No one stands guard here. In fact, there isn't a single soul between the arsenal and here.
>You can see the patches of flattened grass where tents once stood, but have clearly since been moved.
>But most notably, you can't see a thing inside. It's pitch black.
>Grabbing a torch from the sconce on the exterior, you hold it out as you enter the depot.
>As you round the entrance, you spot a soft glow from deep inside the structure.
>Resting upon a table, a luminous orb illuminates Kyra face.
>At least, you assume it's Kyra's face. It's covered by a black rubber mask, with green-tinted goggles.
>Her voice comes out muffled. "If you plan to keep breathing, sir, you should stop right there."
"Is that a threat?" you question her, but complying.
>"It's a recommendation. There's enough firepower in here to blow us both back to Klugetown."
"If I leave the torch, will you let me in?"
>"I can't stop you from doing anything," she states plainly.
>Leaving briefly, you fit the torch back into the sconce and re-enter.
>You navigate clumsily around stacks of crates by the dim glow of Kyra's orb, careful not to bump into anything. As you get closer, you discover the orb is actually a large vial of phosphorescent liquid. Ingenious.
>Chemistry equipment is arranged neatly upon her table. She continues working as you approach, fully intent on sustaining whatever reaction she's processing.
"Can you really see through that thing?" you ask, trying to catch a glimpse of her pupils through the mask.
>"Enough to know what I'm doing."
"And what are you doing?"
>"Watch for yourself. This batch is almost done."
>She lights a burner and slides it under a big flask, rapidly bringing the clear liquid inside to a boil. As the vapor exits, it leaves behind a powdery gray precipitate.
>She pours the powder onto a tray lined with wax paper and slides it over to you.
"This is one batch?"
>"This," she emphasizes, "is the highest-grade metastable gunpowder Equestria has ever known."
"How big's the blast?"
>She shakes her head. "You misunderstand. The yield is comparable to ordinary black powder. The composition difference improves the sensitivity and stability, not the brisance."
>You stare back at her, dumbfounded.
>"Easier handling and longer shelf-life. Not a bigger blast."
>Cautiously, you pick up the tray, and examine the powder.
"This won't make more than five mines, and that's stretching it thin. We need to ramp up production if we're going to be anywhere close to ready for an attack."
>She shakes her head firmly. "No one handles this stuff but me."
"I can't have that."
>Finally, she pulls off her mask and looks you in the eye. "Then you can't have me."
"Is that so?"
>You're awestruck by her brashness. It's not disrespect. It's sheer confidence, and it's not unearned.
>"Your boys out there are warriors," she explains, "not chemists. I won't have them in here, meddling with forces beyond their understanding."
"You can supervise them. I know for a fact we can do this more efficiently. That's what I brought you along for. You're still thinking like a smith. I need you to be my quartermaster."
>"To be frank with you, sir, I *am* thinking like a quartermaster. I have two eyes, just enough to watch my own two hooves. You make me oversee two-hundred, and there will be a lot of cut corners."
>You open your mouth to interject, only to have her continue.
>"Cut corners kill campaigns," she enunciates. "There's the efficient way of doing things, and there's the effective way. Do you want a factory, or do you want an empire?"
>You pause.
"How much is your stipend?"
>"250 frags," she answers, placing her mask back on.
>You turn to leave the depot.
"Let's make it 300."
>At the entrance, you turn back to address her.
"You better be right about this. The war rides on it."
>Seems like the war rides on a lot of factors these days. A lot of factors constantly on the precipice of oblivion.
>"Your Legion is going places," she says. "If Ponyville was the endgame, we'd do it your way. You want munitions that can survive the journey to Canterlot? I can make them."
"Then get to it," you tell her, before departing.
>As you cross past the hill, the moon begins to rise over the orchard. Night has befallen the castrum, and everyone has taken to their uneasy rest.
>But not you. You march through the array of tents, feeling as if every prospect to the campaign has been thrown up in the air, leaving you scrambling to catch what you can.
>When you get back to the imperial tent, you find Harald fuming behind the war table.
>"Pulling every scout?" he roars, pounding the table. "Have you lost your mind?"
"Settle down," you instruct him. "Did you do it?"
>"Oh, I did it," he replies, "but you've got about ten seconds to tell me why I shouldn't take over this entire operation right now!"
"I only need two: because you'd lose."
>Though still huffing, he ceases his griping. You don't leave him the opportunity to come up with an articulate response, however, continuing before he can summon the words.
"You think you can command these creatures?" you challenge him, approaching the table. "You think you can sway hearts and minds the way I have? You don't have what it takes to seize the reins. You'll end up suffering the same fate as your megalomaniac of a king. You made it as a chieftain because you waved around the biggest stick. But the world's a lot bigger than your shoestring realm, and there's a lot more out here than just sticks."
>Rounding the table, you step toe-to-toe with the beast, standing tall, despite him having three feet and five-hundred pounds on you.
"Each of you legates have a purpose. Ramses is my strategist. Zenobia my diplomat. But me? I'm a goddamn leader. I'm the one who leads them into battle. I'm the one who keeps them fighting even if they lose. You're nothing without me. You WERE nothing without me. Just a petty chieftain clanging rocks together until I gave you purpose. Maybe you've forgotten that — let this be your one and only reminder. There is no war without me. But more importantly? There is no you."
>He stares you down for a full six seconds before reacting.
>Suddenly, he kneels before you. At his stature, that puts you face-to-face.
>Bowing his head, he beseeches you. "Forgive me, Imperator."
>You release the tension in your chest. You knew this could have gone one of two ways.
>But you're no fool. You picked Harald for a reason. He was brazen, but he could be controlled. 
>He's smarter than most storm creatures. He just needs a tight leash.
>Putting a hand on his shoulder, you pat him.
"Get up."
>He complies.
"I have a plan."
>"Tell me," he says.
"In time. We're in the dark, but not for long. Bring me the imbecile that attacked the pony."
>Nodding obediently, he sets off to do your bidding.
>Yet before he gets far, a voice interrupts him.
>"Not so fast."
>The both of you look over to see an unfamiliar legionary standing in the entrance.
>This time, Harald makes no hesitation grabbing his club, marching over to chastise him. "Puny grunt, who do you think you—"
>Before he can the last word out, however, his entire body seizes up, paralyzed mid-step.
>The legionary drops the flap as he enters the tent, a shimmering light slowly encompassing him.
>By the time he reaches you, the light has faded, and the soldier is no longer a soldier.
>Chrysalis flashes you a sultry smile. "We have so much to discuss."

Chapter 6
>Your heart pounds in your chest.
>Your jaw is clenched, fists balled up, your mind in a flurry.
>Because the last four hours never happened.
>The attack, the injury, the *deaths*...
>It was all a ruse, insidiously concocted by Chrysalis.
>Now here she sits, on the woven rug adorning your tent, smug as can be.
>Because she got to you.
>It doesn't matter that you caught on before giving her everything. The mere fact that she was able to exploit a weakness in you is vexing enough.
"How long has it been?"
>Chrysalis snorts. "Does it matter?"
"How long?" you repeat, growing increasingly distressed.
>"I don't know," she admits. "A few hours."
>You breathe a sigh. At least it happened in real time. If she could have kept you trapped in there, living out entire lifetimes in an instant...
>You don't want to imagine the horror of enduring such a nightmare.
>"I'm surprised nobody came to check on you," she adds. "You're an awfully important man to be left alone, wouldn't you say? Or is it that no one here has any idea what they're doing, and you're stumbling in the dark?"
>You hardly process her words. Piece by piece, you remove your armor, setting it upon the mannequin. The fatigue of being under her spell has sapped your energy and put your mind in a haze.
>Once you've been stripped down to your tunic, you slump back in your throne, staring at her from across the tent.
"Hours?" you echo, as if finding it hard to believe.
>"Don't get me wrong," she starts, getting up off the floor, leaping at the opportunity to boast. "For a weak-willed creature, I can make a week fly by in a matter of seconds."
>She approaches you. "But you're a tough nut to crack. It's not that you're particularly resolute, I realized. Why, Shiny had more fortitude in his left hoof than you carry in that spindly little frame of yours. It's just that... you like to poke holes in everything, don't you, Anonymous? Never quite satisfied with the way things are? Can't be content letting sleeping horses lie?"
>You don't dignify her with a response.
>"I thought I had you," she continues. "I really did. It took a lot of elbow grease putting together an illusion of that scale. And not just the size, but getting down the finer points, too. Honestly, I outdid myself with the attention to detail in that one. I don't think you appreciate how good it was."
>You scoff.
"Appreciate? You expect me to thank you after putting me into that sick trance of yours?"
>"Why not?" she questions. "We both know there's little else I can do to entice you. Ordinary temptations of mortal lust don't sway you. But everyone's motivated by something. When I first heard of you, I thought it was ego. But much as you like to pretend, that's not what you're about, otherwise I'd just have filled your head with delusions of grandeur."
>She continues as she paces about the tent. "I had to dig to find it. I spent the first hour or so sans illusion — only hiding my presence — observing your thoughts. Who you really were, when you thought you were alone. But you didn't give me anything specific. Whatever it is, you don't like thinking about it. Which, if you ask me, is a very peculiar way to feel about the thing you want most in the world."
>She's psychoanalyzing you. She's blathering on like a goddamn shrink.
>But you let her continue her rambling, because she might let more slip than she intends to. After the ruse she just put you through, it'd be deserved. 
>"I had no choice but to back you into a corner. Dial it up to ten. Really get your blood pumping. When the cracks start to show, that's when you embrace your true self. So I turned up the heat a bit."
>You raise an eyebrow at that last part.
>"Alright, maybe more than just a bit," she concedes, noting your reaction. "But still, take it as a compliment. Your heart is the heaviest guarded. Of all my prey, you took the most before breaking."
>You express some disdain at being referred to as prey.
>You hold even more disdain for the idea that she somehow broke you, considering the position you had her in just minutes ago. You're still debating whether you should've slit her throat, so you wouldn't have to be sitting through this right now.
>"You're homesick," she says, with a cadence that sounds of genuine pity. "Poor thing, I can understand that. You just want to go back to your world."
>She gets closer to you. You eye her warily, but don't react.
>"I don't know much about Earth, I admit. But I imagine it's beautiful."
>As she reaches you, she suddenly transforms into the shape of the red-haired maiden she took when you first met.
>Gradually, she kneels down before you, resting her head on your leg.
>"Tell me about Earth, Anon."
>You grip the arms of your throne, digging your nails into the wood grain.
"Stop it."
>She tilts her head to meet your gaze, her green eyes so lifelike, her lithe fingers resting delicately on your thigh.
>"Please?" she pleads, her soft voice inflecting with desperation.
>How long has it been since you were needed? Since someone clung to your side so hard they'd rather die than be torn from you?
>How long is too long to go without being loved?
"I said stop."
>She doesn't relent. She clutches your leg and whimpers, with the most believe sincerity, one simple sentence.
>"You don't have to be alone anymore."
>Without warning, you kick her away, sending her tumbling onto the rug.
>She isn't love. She's addiction. She's grief. She's wickedness incarnate. And she will be your downfall if you let her.
>For a moment — just a moment — the thought slips into your head: 'But oh, what a way to go.'
>You push it from your mind just as quick as it popped in. Surrender is weak. And you can't afford to be any weaker than you've already been.
>The redhead lies there on her side, staring back at you, expressionless.
>You don't move from your throne, intent on staying unshakable.
>"And that brings us to my conclusion," she states, picking herself off the ground, all too unbothered by your provocation. "It's not just about getting home. If what you wanted was that simple, I'd be able to exploit it. Something's keeping you here. *Someone*."
>All you can do is glare at her while she dusts herself off and transforms back into her natural form.
>"If you just wanted to go home, I could tempt you. If you just wanted to stay for her, whoever she is, I could tempt you. But you're torn inside. You want both, and you want neither. You don't know *what* you want, and well, I simply can't work with that."
"You're kidding me."
>"I'm sorry the answer wasn't more exciting," she replies. "The truth is, there's nothing extraordinary about you. You're not special. You're just a mixed-up man who stumbled his way into center stage."
"You really think you have me pegged."
>"Oh, dear, I know I do," she teases. "The only thing I'm missing is her name."
"Not two minutes ago, you were championing me for having more resilience than anyone you've crossed paths with."
>"And that's true," she answers forthright. "But don't mistake indecision for fortitude. If anything, it's rather easy to gnaw away at you. I've been doing it since we met. Yet how could I offer you your wildest dreams when you can't even say what they are?"
>You stare down at the ground in front of you, paralyzed by revelation.
>"Oh, sweetheart," she sighs. "If anything, it makes me like you more! Everyone else is so predictable. 'Wah wah, I want to be rich. Boo hoo, I want my parents to respect me.' And here you come, soaring above the petty tripe, actually giving me a challenge for once!"
>You pause.
>You don't want to agree with her, because her being right would obliterate any sense of self-assurance you've maintained thus far.
"You're missing one thing."
>"I promise you I'm not. But go ahead."
"I wrecked your little mind game. I pulled myself out."
>She smirks. "Did you?"
>You hesitate just long enough for her to latch onto that nerve.
>"Relax. I don't mean it that way. You caught on to my play, I'll give you that. I'm not debating you're a clever one. But let's be clear: I let you out of the snare. I could have just as easily turned your blade into ash, just like I did in the Badlands. I freed you out of respect, nothing more. There's no sport in tormenting a soul just for the sake of it. I might be evil, but I'm not cruel."
>You get up from your throne and walk over to your wardrobe, trying not to let her get the better of you. Pulling its door open, you rifle through your apparel until you find the robe you're looking for.
"And what's your motivation?" you ask, changing the subject.
>Chrysalis lets out a charmed huff. "Mine?"
"Is it the ego? Or is it just the hunger?"
>She tilts her head up, watching you intently as you don your robe. "I live as any queen does. For her subjects."
>You adjust the cuffs and shut the wardrobe.
"Then you understand what I'm doing for mine."
>"Come now," she answers, playing coy. "We both saw you back there. You had no love lost for those foul beasts marching like pigs to the slaughter. Except for that doe-eyed damsel. What's her name again?"
>She knows. She wants you to say it.
"Laurel."
>"Ah, yes. I know she's not the one; the web you've woven would be much simpler if she was. But it's obvious that she's the only soul out here your heart bleeds for."
>You watched her die in your arms. Felt the weight of her frame, the labor in her breaths. It was real.
>And though she's probably safe and sound asleep in her tent right now, that grief still lingers within you like a bad taste in your mouth.
>Chrysalis motions towards the tent's entrance. "The rest of them? Pawns. You'd sooner lose them all than give up your aspirations."
"I'm doing something for them."
>"Not because you care," she gibes. "Because 'quid pro quo' is the only thing carrying you to the Crystal Empire. You've got them all riled up over a pipe dream, and the kicker— you're not even sure you want to leave."
>You pick up the piece representing your encampment off the war table, examining it carefully.
>She comes up to you. "I'm on your side, Anonymous. I don't care whether you stay or leave, whether you give those creatures a paradise or wasteland. As long as I know your game, and you get my changelings what you promised, then I can trust you."
>You smile.

>The pre-dawn air sends a chill down your spine.
>The frigid breeze nipping at your skin is the only thing keeping your senses sharp right now.
>You slept for just an hour after Chrysalis finally departed. That was all you could afford.
>Now you're back on the road again, a hay cart towed by pack oxen trailing behind you.
>In that cart lies one of God's gentlest, most noble, proud, self-absorbed, egotistical creatures: a mare.
>Her eyes shut, slumbering away peacefully, unaware of the world falling apart around her, ignorant of the role she plays in it all.
>Seated beside her is your surgeon, conspicuously on edge.
>He grasps an IV bag in his left hand, holding it high enough for the solution to flow down into the mare's veins. With his other hand, he periodically checks her bandages, ensuring the wound isn't disturbed by the bumpy road.
>Your praetorians march at your side, heads held high, ready for the first sign of trouble. Ferro expects there to be some.
>You're not so sure, yourself.
>As you round the corner, the woods thin just enough to bring Ponyville into view. Twilight's radiant dome shimmers, a glistening sign of Equestria's apparent indomitability.
>As it pulses with energy, shielding the town from the outside world, you ponder on its nature.
>It's there day and night. It can't be an active spell. She's got to sleep sometime.
>But does she have to maintain it? Feed her energy into it each evening for it to persist through the night?
>Or is it one of her technomagical inventions, driven by an external power source?
>Is it eating away at her? Does she grow more and more fatigued the longer you draw this stalemate out?
>Do the Elements of Harmony play a role in it? Are Twilight's friends there, ready to collectively do untold damage to your army?
>And perhaps most importantly, how much of an offense can that barrier withstand?
>The sun creeps over the horizon to the east, casting the light of day over the fortified town as you advance. The world around you is silent, save for the shuffling of armor and creaking of wagon wheels.
>How Tempest responds today sets the stage for what's to come.
>You have a very important part to play. Cooperate with her. Offer deference. Show her you just want to make this right.
>Maybe then she'll buy it.
>You come up to the schoolhouse in the outskirts of town. A tin can lies in the grass a few feet from the steps.
>You make a note to discipline your Speculatores on your return. The scouts they command should know better than to leave traces of their presence at their posts. Any half-wit could identify the metal as Klugetown scrap.
>You lean in toward the praetorian on your left and whisper an order. He dutifully strays off the path and collects the can as you pass the schoolhouse, stowing it in his pack.
>At the end of the day, the animals that comprise your legion are exactly that: animals.
>The typical Klugetowner has rudimentary intelligence, significantly below that of the average pony (though you'd never be caught admitting it).
>You did what you could to ensure only the exceptional ones were promoted past the standard rank of legionary. But for an army that spans over ten thousand troops, all you can do is delegate. Even your delegates have to delegate.
>Which ultimately means putting Klugetowners in charge of Klugetowners.
>There are weak points in your army. There are dozens, perhaps hundreds.
>Your job is to smooth them out. Make every unit so uniform as to be indistinguishable from the next.
>Because how can the enemy break the chain if they can't pick out the weak links?
>...
>By pulling hard enough.
>Okay, maybe that's not the best metaphor. 
>But still, the principle stands. So long as you have the numbers, Klugetown's inferiority can be excused.
>No Equestrian city even comes close to the population of the desert metropolis. It'd take every able-bodied stallion from Manehattan to Vanhoover to equal your might. You can be damn sure they're mobilizing them at this very moment.
>In the meantime, though, they don't seem to be above conscripting mares, as evidenced by the one you have in your possession.
>She's a delicate thing, just barely clinging to life. Hardly the type of creature that should be fighting a war.
>All the more reason Tempest is a fool for standing against you. Equestria's strength is derived from divine right.
>On their own, ponies are scarcely more intimidating than a stray cat. But as a collective, they wield enough magic to make them the strongest force in Equestria.
>And in their eyes, that gives them the mandate to occupy more than nine-tenths of the world's habitable land, leaving all the other creatures to claw at the scraps.
>Well, they're not the strongest force anymore.
>Your convoy reaches the Ponyville river crossing. Having seen your approach, a small military attaché awaits you just before the bridge.
>At the front is none other than Tempest Shadow, awaiting you in the same place where you last spoke, days ago.
>This time, though, it's more than just the two of you. Word travels fast; appearances matter more than ever.
>You lead your company out to meet hers. At thirty paces away, you give the order to halt. The praetorians form up in a row behind you.
>Tempest says nothing, watching you silently, offering you the first word. A dozen or so ponies (all but two of them female) stand behind her, equipped with light weapons.
>You elect to wait a few seconds before speaking. With everyone still as a mouse, the only sound comes from the river, ebbing slowly beneath the cool autumn air.
"Where's your army?" you ask Tempest.
>She stares back at you with contempt, saying nothing.
"Last time we spoke, it was just a matter of hours. It's been a few days since then."
>Your jabs fail to incite her to respond. You don't get so much as a flinch out of her.
"I'm just curious," you continue. "Something holding them up?"
>Finally, she speaks. "Enough games."
>Granting her wish, you pause and turn back to the hay cart.
"She's alive, you know."
>"She better be a whole lot more than that," Tempest replies. "For your sake."
>You face her once more.
"You know, she attacked my scout. He defended himself."
>"Bullshit," she spits out.
"It's true. I collected her myself. Came across her on the side of the road, bleeding out."
>"You didn't see the attack, then."
>You hesitate a smidge too long.
"I trust my boys. They were far out from camp, and she was following him."
>One of the mares behind Tempest, towards the back of the group, catches your eye. She's having a hard time staying as collected as the others. Her lip quivers an almost imperceptible amount when you speak.
>Tempest takes two steps forward. "I don't care what she was doing. She's one of ours, and you have no right to hold her."
"On that we agree. I would have brought her sooner, but she was in no condition to be moved."
>She eyes you distrustfully, suspicious that this is more than a simple gesture of good will.
>"How is she?" she asks.
"Badly hurt."
>She reaches her hoof out and beckons hastily. "Stop wasting time and hand her over, then."
"I will."
>You glance back at the injured mare.
"I just have one request."
>Tempest raises an eyebrow, expectantly awaiting your appeal.
"The pony who gave her blood is in rough shape. He needs a donor, or he might not make it."
>She scoffs. "Seriously? You expect me to give you another hostage in exchange for this one?"
"She's not a hostage. You can have her. I'm just asking that you help the colt who saved her life."
>"He can rot, for all I care. Any pony who sides with you is not worth saving."
>With her having taken the bait, you immediately latch on.
"He's not the first pony to stand with a foreign army against Equestria."
>Insulted, she lashes out at you. "Don't you dare compare my situation to yours! I was manipulated, taken advantage of, and abused! I was supposed to be made whole, but instead I was chewed up and spat out by a tyrant like you!" She stamps her hoof, causing her horn to shoot off electric blue sparks.
"All the more reason to have sympathy for him."
>Her eyes narrow. "Did Equestria cast him out because he was different? Or did he throw in with you because he's an entitled brat who's jealous of humans?"
>You pause.
>The truth is closer to the latter, but admitting so defeats the narrative.
"Tax is standing up for what he believes in," you answer calmly. "Equity among all lives in this world. He made a sacrifice to save a life, and all I'm asking is for one of you to have the courage to do the same. Whatever you think of me, he's blameless."
>Tempest marches over to you to look you in the eye up close.
>"You've drawn enough blood from us. You're not getting another drop."
>You meet Tempest's gaze, her face mere inches away from yours. You came here for something, and by God you're going to get it.
>Before you can summon a response, however, a voice pipes up from the group ahead.
>"Wait!"
>You and Tempest both look over as the mare you noticed earlier pushes her way to the front of the party and runs up to you.
>"I volunteer," she states, more self-assured now than she appeared earlier.
>Tempest inserts herself between you two. "Ivy, no."
>Yet she persists, looking past Tempest to address you directly. "I'll go with you."
>Tempest pushes her back, prompting the mare to dig her hooves into the ground. "That's not happening. We just got Daisy back, I'm not letting her wake up to you gone."
>"She wouldn't be waking up at all if it wasn't for that colt!" she argues.
"Sounds like she wants to help."
>"Stay out of this!" Tempest snaps at you. She turns back to Ivy. "It's creatures like that colt that put your sister in harm's way to begin with. This is a war. Look at what they've done to your home. We're not helping them."
>Ivy snakes around Tempest to get back to you. "You can't stop me."
>Exasperated, Tempest shakes her head. "Fine," she concedes, facing you. "You can have the blood. But you're not taking her."
>You glance back at the surgeon with an inquisitive look.
>"We could do it, I think," he says half-confidently. He rummages around the cart before pulling out spare IV bags and tubes. "We just have to be extremely careful."
>While the surgeon brings out the supplies, you instruct Ferro's men to detach the cart from the oxen and tow it to Tempest's party.
>With the utmost attention, the praetorians hand off the wagon before returning to their posts at your side.
>Half of the ponies begin the process of pulling the wagon across the bridge, while the other half stay behind to guard Tempest.
>The surgeon fastens the first IV bag to the tube. "Four pints would be ideal," he says. "If we had another volunteer..."
>"This is all you get," Tempest says curtly.
>The surgeon looks at you, disquieted by the tension. You give him a simple nod, indicating for him to proceed.
>Ivy extends her forehoof, and the surgeon punctures her flesh with the needle. Almost instantly, the tube begins drawing out the crimson fluid from her veins.
>Drip, drip, drip, as the bag begins to fill.

>On the trip home, you collect your thoughts on the parley that just unfolded.
>It was executed near-flawlessly.
>Soldiers on both sides saw you as the level-headed one in that interchange, while Tempest came off petty and heartless.
>It's why you brought along some lowly legionaries, and you're glad Tempest brought her foot soldiers.
>You can count on them to start spreading rumors of the magnanimous Imperator negotiating to save the life of a hero, while she fought and clawed, but ultimately failed, to stop it.
>It'll bolster morale among the Legion in this time of uncertainty, and sow friction amongst an already-strained Ponyville.
>It's important to recognize one thing. The individual pony is not a narcissistic creature.
>They're capable of deep empathy for all living things, especially other sentient creatures.
>They'll enable stereotypes, they'll embrace misconceptions, and they'll willfully segregate themselves from other races.
>All that is out of anxiety more than anything. They're not far off from horses in that regard.
>At the end of the day, though, they're sympathetic to genuine suffering. 
>It's the duality of pony. They'll force lesser races into abhorrent conditions, then push the notion from their mind to evade their guilt.
>When forced to confront reality, it brings out the bleeding heart in them.
>They don't want actual change. They want the appearance of compassion, without any of the labor associated with actually being an agent of social change.
>That's why ponies like Ivy wouldn't be caught dead advocating for equality, yet leap at the opportunity to present an empty gesture.
>Empty's not the right word. The blood you carry back has a very tangible impact. It very well may be what saves Tax's life, and for that, you are grateful.
>Performative is what it is. Virtue signaling. All presentation, no substance.
>What did it really cost her? She'll have those two pints back in a week's time. But she's going to carry that self-righteousness with her for the rest of her life.
>And that, at its crux, is your problem with ponies. Tempest especially.
>They poise themselves as the good guys. Forces of light against forces of darkness.
>Do even a little bit of critical thinking, though. Go back to the start of Equestria's story, and ask yourself. Why were the bad guys cast in the darkness to begin with?
>Upon reaching the castrum, you're met by a refreshing sight.
>Ramses stands ahead, towering over the troops walking about the camp, awaiting your return.
>The minotaur kneels before you, bowing his head as you approach him.
>With no time for formalities, you extend a hand to him.
"You're late. You had me worried." 
>"Patience is the strength of the weak, impatience is the weakness of the strong." He grabs your hand, pulling himself up.
>Always with the proverbs, this guy.
"Who said that one?"
>"Kant." He taps at one of the pages plastered on his signature armor.
>In Klugetown, there was an entire black market for Earth relics, which you swiftly commandeered when you rose to power.
>Equestria was always more concerned with bringing men than artifacts, making books from your world a rarity.
>They liked their way of life, and expected humans to assimilate. Most men gladly did. 
>You were a different case.
>Ramses was always obsessed with those Earth books you acquired for him. He consumed everything from philosophy to romance, reading every book over and over again to the point where he had them practically memorized.
>At which point he started tearing out his favorite pages and soaking them in a gypsum solution to adhere them to his breastplate.
>Though destructive of some of the few remaining relics you had to remind you of home, you made no attempt to stop him.
>You liked the look. Dozens of pages, layered over each other at odd angles, symbolizing the chaotic strength that comes with knowledge.
>As an icon, it served the campaign better than it ever could from a shelf back in Klugetown.
"Did it go well?" you ask him.
>"We can debrief in the war room," Ramses says, looking about the bustling castrum. "Too many prying eyes about."
>You pat him on the shoulder.
"I'll be there in a minute. Get Harald, and Laurel, too. We have a lot to strategize."
>He raises a fist to his breast. "As you command."
>You dismiss your praetorians and legionaries, accompanying the surgeon back to the medical tent.
>Blood bags in hand, he leads you to private section in the back, guarded by two officers under strict orders to not let a soul discover what lies behind the curtain.
>They lift the flap for you to enter, and you follow the surgeon into a small room with two cots.
>Two cots, for two ponies: Tax, and the mare that Tempest thinks she has back under her care.
>You drop into a chair by Tax's side as the surgeon gets to work preparing the blood.
"Is it enough?"
>"Between the two of them?" he sighs apprehensively. "We needed at least four pints to be safe."
"We're lucky we got two. If I pushed for more, it might've tipped her off."
>"You have a choice to make, then," he says, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I can give one of them a fighting chance, or split it and roll the dice."
>You look between Tax and the mare. They're both deeply important in their own respects.
>The mare needs to live. You just foisted a changeling spy onto Tempest and narrowly got away with it, but it's just a gambit to buy you time.
>Soon enough you'll have to hand over the real pony, and she needs to recover well enough to be moved if you want to have any hope of that.
>You can't just forsake Tax, though. He might have been willing to give up his life, but you're not so eager to let him go.
>As the only pony disillusioned enough to join your ranks, he means something to you.
>You sit forward in your seat, torn between two dilemmas.
>There's no viable solution here. Losing either of them is not an option. You've got to come up with a way to get more blood.
"Give them both a pint," you tell him.
>The surgeon nods and begins the process of administering the blood.
"How much time does this buy them?"
>"Hard to say," he answers, hanging up the first bag. "With this small of a transfusion, a few days at most. Their bodies are working overtime to make up for the loss and there's no guarantee either of them can recover on their own. Unless they get some more soon, they're risking organ failure."
>You stare at the near-lifeless mare, contemplating.
>Daisy, Tempest said her name was. And that blood is her sister's.
>She got mixed up in something she shouldn't have. And it's your fault.
>She doesn't deserve to die. You know that. Right now, she is everything.
>Tempest would never have believed the truth. She would have thought you were covering up her death.
>You can hardly blame her. This looks bad, and it’s only getting worse.
>So until you can get her home safe, the changeling will have to play her part.
>You'll figure something out. You will save her. And you'll set everything right again.
>You still believe this can be won peacefully.
>But for now, you've got a strategic meeting to attend.