You’re way out in the Everfree, past where the spite changelings even bother to look. Trees twist in on themselves. The air is wet and cold enough to stick to your coat. You follow a dead riverbed, hooves crunching through cracked mud. You don’t know what you’re looking for. Just moving, because sitting still feels worse. Nerves shot. Curiosity gnawing at you. But mostly, it’s just that old itch to not be here.

Then the ground shakes—slow, heavy, deliberate.

A shadow, vast and misshapen, swallows you.

You look up. Heart beating fast and loud, legs locked so tight you feel you might never move again. Fear surges through you—cold, sharp, nearly electric—paralyzing thought and muscle. You want to move, to run or hide, but terror nails you in place, eyes wide and stinging, as if not blinking could somehow make the monster above vanish.

Ahgg.

He’s larger than any story you’ve read—a massive red eye in a ruined mountain of spider legs. Webs hang from his fangs, matted with dust and dead leaves. He hasn’t moved in ages; the ground has sunk into a bowl of silk, old cocoons fused to rock.

That single eye fixes on you.

You don’t run. Just stand there, frozen, because fear’s got you by the throat and you’re too stubborn to bolt. Underneath, it’s the usual mess—confused, embarrassed, wishing you could just blink out of existence. Human brain, pony body, none of it fitting right. You try to breathe normally, but it’s all static. Fight or flight, but you’re stuck on neither.

The air stirs, a low, rattling hiss seeps out—not a threat, just a startled memory.

“Ahgg… see mistress…?” The voice is deep gravel, cracked from centuries of silence. “No. Not mistress. But… eyes…”

He lowers his immense head, that eye now level with your filly face. Cold, ancient threads brush your mane, sending a chill through your skin.

“Ahgg know those eyes,” he rumbles. “Witch eyes. Sharp eyes. Hungry. Not pony soft. Ahgg served them. Carried mistresses. Blocked paths. They promised Ahgg forever.”

His legs groan like splintering trees as he shifts.

“Mistresses gone now. All gone. Megan came. Light burned. Ponies sang. Ahgg hid deep. Ahgg waited. But you…”

He tilts his head, his giant red eye peering down at you.

“You wear pony skin, but those eyes—witch eyes, old blood—don’t lie.”

You don’t say anything. Not like you’d know what to say anyway. Chest tight, brain empty, just that old helpless feeling from back home—never the right words, never the right anything. You just stand there, hoping that if you hold still enough, you’ll vanish.

“Not command Ahgg,” he says, sounding almost sad. “Not promise forever. Just… pass.”

You shrug, shoulders stiff with uncertainty. No clue what’s expected—thanks, sorry, something braver? All of it feels wrong, words like ill-fitting clothes against your skin. You walk off, anxiety gnawing at your ribs, every step underscoring how out of place you feel, how wrong it feels to be seen at all.

He exhales, slow and heavy.

“Then pass, little almost-witch. Forest keeps itself now. No mistresses for Ahgg.”

He doesn’t stop you as you walk past, his shadow heavy behind you.

A few steps later, you stop, uncertainty flickering as you hesitate in his shadow.

Webs rustle behind you, like crisp leaves. Though he hasn’t shifted, you still feel that eye.

Heart beating fast, you hesitate—caught in the ache between wanting to leave and the strange pull to return. The sensation of being watched intensifies, prickling under your fur and biting at your resolve. Anxiety climbs with each shallow breath. Finally, you turn and walk, each step back into the shadow, thudding with nervous dread, curiosity tangled with fear.

His head lowers again, fangs dripping silk that hisses on the ground.

You ask, voice faint and flat, “What witches?”

“Ahgg remember old mistresses,” he says slowly. “Hydia. Reeka. Draggle. Lived in Volcano of Gloom. Made Smooze. Big purple hate to drown pony lands. Ahgg carried them. Spun webs. Guarded paths. Ahgg served.”

He shifts, joints groaning.

“They had eyes like yours. Small eyes. Human. Sharp. Saw everything. Wanted dark. Promised Ahgg forever if Ahgg good.”

A long hiss—memory, not anger.

“Then Megan came. Human girl with rainbow. Flutter ponies. Songs. Smooze gone. Mistresses fled. Ahgg hid deep. Ahgg waited centuries. Mistresses never came back.”

He leans closer; the air chills with old rot.

“You have eyes. But no commands. No promises. No hate to drown worlds. Just… empty.”

You don’t correct him or explain the show, the accident, or the human you were.

You just ask, “Are they really gone?”

Long silence. Dust drifts from his webs.

“Yes,” he says at last. “Gone like old webs in sun. Nothing left. Solely echoes. Yet eyes that wander.”

He pulls back into darkness.

“Go, little almost-witch. No mistresses left. Nothing for Ahgg to serve. No Smooze for Ahgg to spin.”

This time, when you walk away, he doesn’t watch.

The forest closes behind you, cold and indifferent.

Your eyes sting. Chest’s tight, breath faint, that old lump of helplessness stuck in your throat. Nothing to do but keep walking, like maybe moving will shake it loose. It doesn’t. Every step just drags, heavier, memories gnawing at your ribs. Loneliness is chewing holes in you. You’re so fucking tired of how it never lets up.

===

You keep walking after Ahgg. His words—mistresses, witches, Volcano of Gloom—stick like splinters. You’ve never heard those names. The show didn’t mention them, or maybe hid them. When he said "human eyes" as if it were a secret, you had to follow.

The Everfree thins; black trunks wither, and basalt splinters beneath your hooves. The air reeks of sulfur and old fire. No birds, no insects—even spite changelings shun it.

The Volcano of Gloom juts up ahead, jagged and black, half-eaten by forest. Once, it was massive—volcanic walls veined purple, craters splintering the slopes. Now, one side is ripped open, as if gouged by something huge. Waxy vines crawl up the stone, pulsing violet. There’s no steam, just cold, dead rock.

You climb. Ancient switchbacks wind up stone, eroded smooth by more than hooves. Brittle webs drape the path but part as you pass.

At the top, the crater just gapes—empty. There’s no lava, no Smooze, only a huge bowl of cracked black glass and the bones of old buildings clinging to the sides. Towers are ruined, cauldrons big enough for a dragon are smashed to pieces, and balconies barely hang on. Dust is everywhere, the silence thick as mud.

You find a tunnel sloping into the volcano’s heart. Inside, the air warms, charged with old magic prickling your blank flank as crystals flicker, casting faint violet light.

Cold wind sweeps through, carrying echoes—voices, maybe, or just rocks settling. You feel watched, but there’s nothing here except you and the dust.

The passage opens into a wide chamber, half-open to the sky. Vines crawl over broken stone, but the space feels deliberate.

This was their place, once. You can feel old power clinging to the walls.

Hydia, Reeka, and Draggle.

Humans, or at least human-shaped, with witch eyes like yours. They tried to drown the world in purple hate, but they lost. Megan stopped them; the ponies sang. Everything ended the way pony stories do.

The air thickens, charged with ghosts of old spells, sulfur, rot, and something sharper—like ambition gone sour. The passage leads to a vast, half-collapsed chamber where a centuries-old cave-in ruined the ceiling, vines strangling what’s left.

They wait in the dim light, every painted stare following you as if you might belong.

Portraits hang crooked on the walls, dust thick, but the paint is still bright. The faces are sharp-featured, their eyes too small and round, too much like yours. Some wear crowns of bone, others hold staffs, all of them fierce.

You stand in the middle. Small, green filly in a world that’s way too big. Heart palpitating. Dust spinning even though there’s no wind. The quiet presses in. Maybe this is how they felt, waiting.

One portrait flickers—the highest, oldest. A witch with storm-cloud hair and a gaze like glass. Her eyes shift. The frame creaks. Paint ripples. A pale hand pushes out, solid and three-dimensional, then an arm, a shoulder. She steps halfway from the canvas, tethered by swirling color. Others follow—five, six, Hydia’s ancestors, stirring from their vigil.

Their voices blend, low and heavy, each word sending a chill down your spine.

“Eyes…”

“…the old eyes…”

“…returned…”

You stare back and don’t flinch. Maybe it’s pride, maybe just stubbornness. Fear twists in your gut, but you hold still.

The storm-haired matriarch leans forward. “Little echo,” she utters, voice dry as ancient parchment yet strong. “Wearing pony skin, yet carrying witch sight. What leads you to our hall?”

You shrug, trying for casual. “Just found the place. Heard there were witches having eyes like mine.” The words seem braver than you feel, and you’re used to bluffing with a face that isn’t yours, hoping they’ll buy it.

A younger one emerges next, fierce, crowned with thorns of obsidian. She circles you slowly in mid-air, tethered by lines of paint. “The old blood still flows. You feel it, don’t you? The pull of shadow that does not burn you.”

They murmur among themselves, voices rolling like far-off thunder.

The matriarch raises a hand, and silence falls.

“Child of old sight,” she says, “dark magic devours those who touch it. Breathing madness, it twists flesh and soul—leaving only hunger. Lesser beings break beneath its weight. But we are different.” Her painted lips curve in something almost proud. “Born resistant, with human essence and witch blood, our eyes see through the corruption. We wield the gloom, command violet fire, channel forces that would shatter dragons or corrupt alicorns, and yet, we remain ourselves. Unbroken. Unbent.”

Another step forward, the staff raised in her hand. “The Smooze itself bowed to us. Where others drowned in its hate, we shaped it, rode it, turned its hunger to our purpose. That is the gift of our line: to stand in the heart of darkness and not become the dark.”

The matriarch studies you intently. “You carry the sight, little one. The same ward sleeps in your veins. Ponies fear what they cannot control; their harmony recoils from shadow. But you, you could learn to hold the gloom without letting it hold you.”

You shake your head. “I don’t remember any of it, not really.” There’s an awkward beat—a familiar embarrassment, the human kind that comes from being a bad actor in someone else’s story.

A soft sigh moves through them, akin to wind through tall grass.

“Then remember this, little almost-witch,” the matriarch says. “The ponies will never give you a place. Their harmony has no room for eyes like ours. Feed the scorn. Let it harden. Or sing their songs and lose what little you have left. The resistance is yours by right of blood and eye. Feed it. Study it. Let it wake. Dark magic will call to you one day, and when it does, you need not fear becoming its slave. You can be its master.”

One by one, they retreat, hands withdrawing, faces settling back into painted stillness. The matriarch lingers longest.

“We remain here,” she whispers, “watching for the one who will carry the old strength forward. If the gift stirs in you… call. We will answer.”

The chamber dims. Crystals fade. You stand alone again among dust and silence, but the portraits feel sharper now, as though waiting.

You don’t leave. Not yet.

The chamber’s still wrecked—cracked stone, broken cauldrons, dying crystal light. But it doesn’t feel like a grave anymore. Just a stronghold that went quiet.

You start cleaning.

It’s pointless. You know it. One filly, centuries of mess. But you do it anyway. Kick rocks aside, sweep dust with your tail, shove broken furniture back where it belongs. Rip down the worst webs with your teeth, spit out the taste. Old magic, bitter and sharp.

The portraits stir as you work. Eyes track you. The storm-haired matriarch emerges halfway again, watching you clear grime from the base of her frame.

“Little echo tends our hall,” she says, voice lower now, curious. “Why?”

You pause, hooves dirty, mane full of cobwebs. “You were human,” you say. “Like I was. Before. And you faced the dark… and didn’t break.”

A pause. Then the warlock with the midnight beard leans out, hands folded. “Human,” he echoes. “Not pony. You honor those who mastered what others fear.”

You shrug. “You didn’t pretend it was easy. You just kept going. Stayed yourselves.”

The matriarch’s painted lips curve again, closer to a true smile this time. “Respect for the unbroken,” she murmurs. “Rare. Keep your tidying, child. The stone remembers strength better than songs of light ever could.”

You keep at it, clearing a spot in the middle and straightening frames with your mouth and hooves as best you can, the kind of busywork you did back home to avoid thinking too much. You wipe dust off their faces so those sharp human eyes stare out clean, almost like you’re hoping to see something of yourself looking back.

They watch. Sometimes they speak, fragments of old incantations, quiet lessons on how to hold shadow without letting it spill into the soul, reminders that resistance is not absence of darkness but mastery over it.

You listen. You don’t answer much.

When you’re done, the place is still old and busted, but at least it’s tended. Respected, maybe. The portraits look sharper. Less buried.

You stand in the middle. Small green filly, tall, sharp-eyed humans staring out from paint all around. For the first time since you woke up here, the silence feels shared. Not friendly. Just… there.

You leave when the crystals dim completely. The volcano does not claim you. But the portraits remember why you came, and what you might yet become.

===

You’re in the castle’s lower vaults again, storage rooms Twilight pretends are organized but are really just crystal corridors stuffed with sealed boxes, forgotten artifacts, and things too dangerous to throw away but too tempting to destroy. You come down here when the upper floors feel too bright, too full of pony concern.

Today you’re looking for nothing. Just walking. Hooves echoing too loud on crystal floors that never quite warm under you.

One door is ajar. Twilight must have been here recently, another report on the spite changelings, probably. A crate sits open, lid propped against the wall. Inside, wrapped in faded red cloth, something gleams.

You know it immediately.

The Alicorn Amulet.

Crimson gem set in black metal, winged alicorn head snarling at the center. You remember the episode perfectly: Trixie’s boasting turned to tyranny, Ponyville under her wheel, magic that bent reality like wet paper. Power bordering on Discord’s chaos, but paid for with corruption, dark magic eating the user from the inside until only malice remained.

Twilight locked it away after that, sealing it and warning everypony never to touch it.

You reach in and lift it.

The chain is cold. Heavy. The gem pulses once, such as a heartbeat recognizing new blood.

You expect the rush, the hushes, the red haze in the vision, the slow slide into cruelty that Trixie couldn’t fight.

But nothing comes. No rush, no thrill, no trace of darkness. Just the same old empty silence pressing in.

You turn it over in your hooves. The metal warms against your skin, but no darkness seeps in. No erosion. No claws hooking into your thoughts.

Your human soul, resilient, stubborn, the same stubbornness the painted witches carried, simply refuses to corrode.

You remember Ahgg’s words. The portraits’ warnings. Humans here wielded dark magic like water because it slid off them, where it would shatter pony minds. They paid eventually, evil growing in the spaces the magic left behind, but they could drink deep without sudden ruin.

You slip the chain over your neck.

The weight settles against your chest. The gem flares once, bright and hungry.

Power floods you—not the warm, harmonious glow Twilight commands, but something rawer, sharper. Like holding lightning that doesn’t care who it burns.

You lift a hoof. The air ripples. A nearby crate lifts, spins, and reassembles itself into perfect crystalline order without you even trying.

No temptations or urge to conquer—just power, clean and indifferent, humming quietly beneath your skin.

Clean and vast. Waiting.

You’re still standing there, small green filly wearing an artifact that once turned a showmare into a tyrant, when soft hoofsteps echo behind you.

“Anon?”

Twilight’s voice is gentle, careful. You freeze. In one smooth motion, you tuck the amulet fully beneath your coat, pressing the chain flat against your chest and fluffing your mane forward to hide any glint. You nudge the red cloth back into the crate with a hoof, then gently lower the lid until it rests almost closed, enough to look undisturbed from a distance.

You turn around slowly.

Twilight stands in the doorway, wings half-folded, eyes soft with concern. A small lantern floats beside her, casting gentle purple light on the room.

“I’ve noticed you coming down here a lot,” she says quietly. “I thought… maybe you’d like some company.” She steps inside, glancing at the crates but not lingering on the one you just touched. “You don’t have to carry everything alone, you know. I don’t understand everything you’re going through, but I want to. If you’ll let me try.”

Her horn glows as she levitates a thermos from her saddlebag. “I brought cocoa. The kind with the little marshmallows you like.” She offers a small, hopeful smile. “We could just sit. Talk about anything. Or nothing at all.”

She waits, patient, not pushing.

The amulet rests warm and hidden against your chest, power humming quietly. You roll your eyes. Of course, it’s dramatic—everything in this world is, even when you’re just trying to get through the day without snapping.

You meet her eyes and give a small nod. “Cocoa sounds… good.”

Relief flickers across her face. She moves to a clear spot between crates, sets the thermos down, and unscrews the lid. Sweet steam curls up into the cool air.

You sit beside her, angling your body so your mane falls forward, completely hiding the chain. The gem stays silent and patient.

Twilight talks softly, about a new spell she’s been practicing, about Spike burning an entire tray of cookies yesterday, about how the moon looked especially silver last night. She doesn’t pry. She just stays.

For the first time since arriving in this world, something answers when you reach for it, without permission, without pretense.

And tonight, you let Twilight sit beside you inside the dim vault, unaware of the crimson weight masked beneath your mane and coat. She offers quiet company you’re not ready to fully accept, but not ready to push away either.

The crystal floors stay chilly beneath your hooves, keeping you anchored in the present even as your mind drifts. You focus on the feeling, letting it remind you that, for now, you’re still here.

But the cocoa is warm, the air is quiet, and for now, that’s enough.

===

You go back to the volcano. The amulet’s cold and heavy, buzzing with some question you don’t want to answer. The place feels different now. Not a tomb. Just something waiting, like it’s holding its breath.

As your hooves cross the threshold, the portraits turn to the amulet’s glow beneath your mane.

This time, the matriarch steps almost free of her frame, heels still tethered to the canvas. The others follow, swirling into the air. Their voices rise, and something inside you aches with recognition.

“Why can’t you be evil like I taught you?
Why won’t you misbehave the way you should?
You never use the power we have bought you,
You just aren’t bad enough to be good!

Work hard at being vicious,
And if you’re real ambitious,
You might wind up an evil witch like me.
A terrible, detestable,
Contemptible, despicable,
An evil witch like me!”

The melody echoes between stone and crystal. They sing of legacy—daughters and sons who disappointed them by settling for softness. For them, evil isn’t something to hide; it’s a boast. Goodness is betrayal.

The song is both a lecture and a lure, wrapped in irresistible rhythm, promising that real power waits only for those who embrace darkness without hesitation or regret.

When the final note fades away, they drift closer, eyes beaming with expectation.

“You have the eyes,” the matriarch whispers. “The soul. The artifact. But not the song in your heart.”

A warlock’s dry chuckle breaks the silence. “No fire to be vicious. No ambition to be despicable.”

They wait, watching for the spark they are certain must be there.

You just stand there in the middle of their little choir, small green filly, not moving. The amulet pulses once, waiting. Nothing stirs in you. Just that same old emptiness, flat as ever.

Without a word, you turn and walk away.

Behind you, the song begins again, more softly, almost a lullaby for something that never woke. Their voices follow you only a few steps before fading into the stone.

You step back into the Everfree, where no one demands you be evil enough to be good.

===

You creep back into the castle way after the moon’s up, hooves quiet on that cold crystal floor that never warms up, no matter how long you’re here. Halls are mostly dark, just those enchanted lamps shimmering as though they’re overdoing the cozy act. Air smells like lavender and old books—Twilight’s stress baked right in.

You stop in the hallway outside the library. The Alicorn Amulet hangs heavy under your mane, chain digging in, gem throbbing with that quiet, waiting hunger.

You focus. No fancy words, no sparkly horn glow. Just cold intent.

It listens.

Red light flashes once, then sucks inward like dye in water. Chain fades to nothing. Gem disappears—gone from sight, gone from touch, but you still feel it there, weightless, hidden. Power tucked away because you’re not in the mood for Twilight’s big, worried eyes or speeches about corruption and “think of the consequences.”

You keep moving.

Your room’s still the same: bed too soft, window staring down at Ponyville’s lights that never mean you. You shut the door, sit in the dark, and mutter “shit” into the mattress. Still feels like you’re crashing at someone else’s place.

Those words from the portraits keep looping in your head.

“The ponies will never give you a place. Their harmony has no room for eyes like ours.” You want to scream bullshit, but all you manage is a sigh.

You stare at your reflection in the glass: a small green filly, black mane half-hiding those sharp teal eyes that are too small, too round, too human. No cutie mark. No warm fuzzy feeling when somepony hugs you.

Harmony-less.

It just fucking fits.

You’ve got power now. Stupid amounts. Reality-bending, raise-the-dead, blot-out-the-sun if you wanted. The amulet’s just waiting for you to do something. It’s annoying as hell—what’s the point of all this magic if you can’t even feel right using it?

But you don’t. The urge never fucking comes.

You could keep drifting—castle by day, Everfree by night, patching up old ruins and teaching monsters how to live with their own damage. Or you could just say fuck it, disappear into the forest tomorrow, and never look back. Hell, you could stroll into town with the amulet glowing red and watch everypony’s perfect harmony shatter, just to see if anyone finally gives a damn.

None of it feels worth the damn effort. Not for them. Not for you.

You flop onto the bed, dark all around, amulet humming against your chest. Power’s right there, waiting. You could do something awful with it. Or nothing. Doesn’t matter.

You think about turning yourself back into a human again.

Just reach in and twist—the same way Trixie messed with weather and rock. Tall. Two legs. Hands. Skin. Those eyes in a human face. Walk through Ponyville on hind legs and watch everything break—foals screaming, grown ponies backing away, Twilight’s lectures turning into full panic.

Then what? You’d still be lost. Still be a freak. Shit, maybe even more of one.

You’d just be bigger. Weirder. No cute filly face to hide behind. Naked human in pony land, predator eyes wide open. They’d fear you faster. Hate you cleaner. Chase you out sooner.

Belonging would just be even further away. Fuck this place, honestly.

You think about the witches. About dragging them back.

The amulet could do it—rip open whatever grave or exile they’re in, pull Hydia, Reeka, Draggle out of the dust. Yeah, they were kind of pathetic—Hydia’s tantrums, Reeka’s laziness, Draggle dropping everything. But give them real power this time. Power that actually works. No half-baked Smooze, no crumbling spells.

They could try drowning Equestria again. Scheme bigger. Maybe even win for a while.

You could stand with them—little green filly with the old eyes, holding the amulet like it was made for you. Sort-of family. Humans in witch clothing. Monsters who don’t apologize.

But they’d want the hate. The big dramatic songs about covering the world in gloom because pretty things make them mad. You’d watch them plot and cackle and push, and you’d just feel…

Nothing. Not a damn thing.

You’d watch with the same flat stare, analyzing their strategy, noting their efficient meanness, but there’s no urge to join in—no thrill at the darkness, just that old emptiness.

They’d turn on you eventually, too, deciding you’re weak-blooded, no fire, not really one of them. You know how that goes.

You think about home.

The amulet can’t reach that far—no portal, no way back to the world where you were actually human. The mirror in Canterlot just goes to some pastel high school with pony-eared humans and harmony magic. None of it is home, just another stage where you’d still be the wrong shape.

All these doors are wide open.

None of them fit—for you, not really. Every door leads somewhere wrong.

The amulet just waits, quiet. You glare at it, almost cuss it out again, but what’s the point? Nothing left to say.

Just power without purpose, sitting in your chest.

You lie there in the not-quite-dark, wishing the quiet would just break already.

Castle hums around you, stuffed with friendship lessons and ponies who think belonging’s just about smiling right. None of it feels real from here.

You stay still, the darkness pressing down as you listen for anything—a voice, a reason, a change. None comes.

That empty feeling creeps back in, quieter now but just as stubborn, while the night drags on.

What now? The question digs at you, refusing to let go.

Nothing answers, of course. Why would it?

Night drags on. Cold, honest world outside just as stiff as always. You wait, hoping something finally breaks the silence.

You still don’t know. Hell, maybe you never will, but you stay awake anyway, hoping something will change.

===

You drift off on the overstuffed bed, the hidden amulet a faint throb against your chest. The castle fades, darkness closing in as you fall asleep.

You're in the portrait chamber again. The frames are still where you left them, dust thin but back. The air is stale.

The storm-haired matriarch emerges partway from her portrait, eyes fixed on you as she steps out.

"Little echo," she rasps. "The gloom spreads unchecked, starved of our ancient fire."

You stand in the center, a small green filly dwarfed by the vast room as the amulet pulses once, crimson threading briefly through the violet haze.

She tilts her head, mouth curving between scorn and curiosity. "Shadows now stir in the deep forest—cold, patient, devouring what we once scorched in fury. They persist where we perished. A bitter irony."

Her gaze lowers to your chest, fixing on the unseen gem. "You bear power unbound, yet tread as though upon shards of glass. The old blood sleeps within you, heir of sharp sight—the same that once let us command the Smooze and emerge unscathed. Still, it lies dormant. Untouched."

She leans forward. "Will you rouse it at last? Or suffer the creeping cold to claim what righteous fire could not?"

The chamber darkens, and violet light recedes. You offer no reply, the portraits silent as you slip back into the castle's night, the question lingering in your mind.

The amulet remains: patient, silent.

===

You leave the castle at dawn. The sky is still dark. Ponyville is quiet, not yet pretending everything is bright. The Alicorn Amulet is hidden under your coat, a useless weight against your chest.

You don’t know why you’re going to Fluttershy’s cottage, but you just keep walking—because honestly, it’s not like you’ve got any better goddamn ideas.

You follow the familiar path past the schoolyard and market stalls. Nopony stops you. You’re the quiet green filly no one expects to join in or smile back.

Fluttershy’s cottage is picture-book perfect: flowers, tame animals, a roof thatched by patience and kindness.

Discord is there, of course. He’s lounging upside-down in mid-air above the chicken coop, straw hat backwards, sipping tea from a rubber duck-shaped cup. Fluttershy is inside, humming to hedgehogs. Discord notices you first.

His mismatched eyes lock on you immediately. The rubber-duck cup pauses halfway to his mouth.

“Well, well,” he drawls, flipping right-side up with a snap that makes the air smell of cotton candy and ozone. “The little void comes visiting. To what do I owe the displeasure?” Discord’s gaze twinkles with something between amusement and curiosity as he takes you in.

You stop at the gate, and the animals nearest you—bunnies, birds—edge away, not even realizing why.

“I want to ask you something,” you say, voice subdued.

Discord’s grin widens. “Ask away, my dear harmony-less harbinger. I’m all ears. And antlers. And whatever this is,” he adds, flicking the eagle talon on his left hand.

You don’t smile.

“How do you do it?” you ask. “Having power like… like you have. God-level, reality-twisting. But no goals. No place you really fit.” You shift your weight, ears flicking back. “Fluttershy’s nice. She gets you now, I guess. But before her, what did you do? Just chaos? Games? Terror for fun?”

Discord’s grin falters. Just a fraction.

He floats down until he’s eye-level with you, towering and mismatched and suddenly quieter.

“Before her,” he says, voice milder but still edged with that chaotic lilt, “I ruled. I played. I turned Equestria into my personal playground because boredom is the only thing scarier than oblivion. I made clouds rain chocolate and rivers run backwards and ponies dance until their hooves bled, because if I stopped, I’d have to sit with the fact that nothing mattered and no one wanted me around when I wasn’t entertaining them.”

He snaps his fingers. A tiny chocolate raincloud appears over your head, drizzling just enough to darken your mane. You don’t flinch.

“It didn’t fix anything,” he continues. “Chaos for chaos’s sake is just… noise. Loud, colorful noise to drown out the silence where belonging should be. I was free. I was powerful. I was alone in a way no prison of stone ever managed.”

The cloud vanishes.

“Then Fluttershy looked at me, really looked, and didn’t run. Didn’t demand I change completely. Just… offered a place at the table. And suddenly the games weren’t the only thing keeping me from unraveling.”

He studies you, head tilted, eyes tightening with a hint of understanding.

“You’re not me, little void. You don’t have the chaos itch. You don’t want to play. You just are. Power won’t fill that for you. Not chaos, not terror, not even friendship if it’s forced.”

He leans closer, voice almost gentle.

“Before her, I coped by making the world too loud to hear the quiet. It worked, barely—but it’s no way to live.”

Fluttershy steps out then, wiping her hooves on a towel and smiling softly when she sees you standing there.

“Oh! Hello, Anon. Would you like some tea?”

You look at her—at the kindness that never quite reaches you the way it does everypony else—and let your eyes drop, not trusting yourself to match her smile.

You shake your head.

Discord watches as you turn and walk away, his look unreadable. Neither of them calls after you, and the path back to the Everfree feels much longer than before.

The amulet stays silent—everything else in this damn world has something to say except the one thing that might actually help. The quiet follows you into the trees, louder than any chaos Discord ever managed.

===

You drift back to the castle more often now, not out of want but because the Everfree’s brutal honesty has started to feel like another kind of noise. The spite changelings’ grinding hum carries farther each week, a low vibration you feel in your hooves even miles away. Black resin spires rise overnight; patrols claim new ridges without fanfare, borders pushing outward in slow, deliberate increments.

Equestria notices.

From shaded corners of the map room or vents above council chambers, you watch Twilight pore over reports, her quill writing frantic notes while guards describe silent black-carapace delegations turning away survey teams with nothing more than cold stares and serrated wings. Celestia sends carefully chosen envoys wrapped in diplomatic banners and courteous smiles; they return sooner than expected, ears flat, voices quiet.

“We offered trade, truce, knowledge,” one unicorn mutters to Twilight. “They just said, ‘We require nothing from you.’”

No threats, no boasting—just the quiet pride of creatures who no longer measure their worth by pony approval.

Luna’s night scouts confirm it: no invasion preparations, only expansion for its own sake. Brood chambers deepen, fungus gardens spread, weapons are forged but stacked unused. Border incidents stay rare and bloodless—a lost pegasus foal escorted back unharmed, maps altered overnight with frost-green resin boundaries that simply declare: this is ours now.

Chrysalis sends no ambassadors, no ultimatums. The silence itself is the message: we exist, we endure, we need nothing from your light.

Equestria answers with wary distance: doubled patrols, rerouted trade, parents warning foals away from the trees with new urgency, while Twilight’s maps fill with vigilant red lines against the spreading black.

Then the wind shifts, bearing whispers from eastern peaks, northern snows, and southern smoke.

Atop the highest spire of her hive, Chrysalis plants her hooves on resin slick as obsidian and lets the cold wind bite through her shell. Below, the hive thrums with the industry of survival: drones hammering out spite-hardened blades, the stench of fresh kills, the wet heat of grubs packed together for warmth that is never quite enough. Resin walls pulse, alive with memory. She tastes the air—metal, ash, the sweetness of her own ambition. Across the jagged horizon, her eyes flick: north to yak thunder, east to griffon wings, south to dragon smoke. She measures, weighs, and never blinks.

The delegations come more often now, and she meets each with the calm certainty of a queen who has shed every last chain of desperation.

First, the griffons arrive, unannounced, Grandpa Gruff leading with molting feathers and keen eyes, Gilda quieter at his flank. They land on a new resin ridge without banners. Drones meet them in matte stillness.

Grandpa Gruff rasps, “Heard you stopped begging pony scraps. You build. You hunt. You take what’s yours.”

A lead drone answers, “We persist. We require nothing from those who once called us monsters.”

Gilda’s eyes narrow with recognition. “That’s what we came to see. Griffonstone’s tired of pony charity. Scones pay bills, but they don’t buy pride, the kind that doesn’t ask permission.”

Chrysalis emerges from shadowed arches. “You speak our tongue,” she says, voice smooth and venom-cold. “We trade only what cannot be taken by force, and never anything that demands gratitude.”

Grandpa Gruff meets her gaze unflinching. “We bring talons that fight for what’s ours. Eyes that see harmony as a leash.”

She inclines her head, and an honest exchange follows—resin blades and armor that never dull for ore samples and maps of untapped peaks.

Weeks later, yak thunder rolls down from the northern peaks. Prince Rutherford leads sleds heavy with carved horns, fermented mash, and smoked goat, offerings of strength shared, not charity begged. Drones part without ceremony.

“Yaks hear changelings smash pony lies!” Rutherford roars. “No hiding! No begging love scraps! You take pride! Yaks like strong!”

Chrysalis descends slowly. “We stand without permission. We require nothing from those who sing friendship while hoarding it.”

Rutherford laughs like colliding boulders. “Yaks know pony songs! Pretty words, then smash when not perfect! You smash pretense. Good smash!”

They feast in resin halls, yaks smashing barrels in approval as drones show how a memory of rejection fuels weeks of flight. Rutherford bellows, “Strong like yak!”

Trade follows: yak horn and bone for tools that never dull in a blizzard, mash for cold-burning fungus brews.

Soon after, dragon wings darken the southern sky. Ember lands where resin meets scorched earth, Garble and others behind her carrying samples of forged steel and raw gems.

Garble snorts to his companions, “They don’t ask. They don’t bow. Blades laugh at dragonfire. Armor shrugs off lava. Just endures.”

Ember steps forward. “We heard of changelings who stopped crawling for scraps,” she tells Chrysalis atop a spire overlooking lava plains. “Who turned pony scorn into something colder than greed. Dragons respect that.”

Chrysalis regards her steadily. “We endure. We require nothing from those who demand we change to earn their light.”

Ember’s eyes narrow with respect. “We don’t change for ponies either. We take. We hoard. We stand. Your tools that never fail interest us more.”

Samples change claws: dragon steel and gems for resin blades and armor that need no repair.

No formal alliances are declared anywhere. Griffons do not bow to paper, yaks smash it, dragons scorn it, and Chrysalis needs no oaths.

From her spire, Chrysalis studies the world as a chessboard—no longer starving, merely calculating. These creatures are kin now, not by love, but via a shared refusal to bend. Harmony is a leash none of them wear. Pony songs never softened yak rage, nor dulled griffon pride, nor loosened a dragon’s grip. Yaks smash what won’t yield; pride is gold armor for griffons, a shield never dropped; dragons hoard, weighing every debt. Pony interventions include smiling and always asking for a price. She recognizes the false sweetness. She’s tasted it and spat it out.

Now they look to her empire and see a mirror.

She feels no sentimental warmth. Sentiment is a pony weakness. But she recognizes the shared refusal, the grinding pride that says we will thrive without your approval.

Her empire needs nothing they bring to flourish. Food is hunted. Ore is claimed from the deeper earth. Information flows from the forest proper. Their offerings are pleasant additions, not necessities. Accepting them costs little; refusing them would cost the advantage of eyes, talons, wings, and flame beyond her borders.

In return, she gives them spite-hardened resin: weapons and armor famed for their resilience, needing no sharpening or repair. Scorn made manifest. Yak warriors charge blizzards with blades that cut true. Griffon mercenaries dive storms in armor that holds fast. Dragons soar over lava with gear that ignores heat and flame—tools that last as long as the wielder’s pride.

They take these gifts without gratitude that demands repayment. Just an honest exchange between species who understand that sharing strength multiplies it, not surrenders it.

Chrysalis turns her gaze inward, noticing the weight in every changeling gut with each distant pony sigh of disappointment. Griffons, yaks, and dragons add their own layers now: tales of rejected alliances, charity that tasted like chains, and interventions politely refused.

The empire grows not through conquest, but through resonance.

For the first time, she feels the satisfaction of kin recognized, not in love, not in need, yet in the shared refusal to ask permission to exist.

Equestria watches the warming relations with rising unease. Trade routes shift, joint border stones rise unmarked by pony magic, letters return unread or shattered. No war brews, no coalition against harmony, just a bunch of creatures finally admitting they’re sick of being told to play nice and smile.

You walk those borders sometimes, small and unnoticed beneath griffon wings, yak hooves, and dragon roar. The hum is steadier now, joined by hawk cries, laughter, and the crackle of lava.

The world feels different now.

And harmony learns, slowly, that not every neighbor wishes to join the song.

===

In the highest chamber of Canterlot Castle, sunlight spills through stained glass onto the council table. Celestia sits at the head. Luna stands beside her, posture regal but weary. Twilight paces, wings twitching, quill clenched in her magic. Cadence sits with her hooves folded, the Crystal Heart’s rhythm echoing in her chest. Shining Armor stands at her side, jaw set, eyes flicking from map to wife. The room smells of dust and old parchment. Outside, the sun lingers at the horizon.

The map before them is a military chart, borders marked in cautious red, trade routes crossed out or rerouted, new lines drawn in black ink. Luna’s gaze lingers on the map, while Celestia’s magic hovers just above the parchment.

Twilight breaks the silence first, voice faint and brittle with the strain of too many sleepless nights. Her hoof stutters against the table, leaving a faint shiver in her wake.

“They don’t need us anymore.”

Celestia does not look up from the map. “They never truly did,” she says quietly. “We told ourselves they did. We offered help, lessons, friendship, and called it salvation. But Griffonstone accepted our scones with gritted beaks. Yakyakistan tolerated our parties only when we learned to smash with them. The dragons opened their borders a crack and never let us forget it was their choice.”

Luna’s gaze fixes on the southern horizon, where the Dragon Lands meet the Everfree’s black fringe. Her voice is measured, with the gravity of memory: “They do not look to us for guidance, not any longer. They look to Chrysalis’s realm and see a mirror. Strength that does not seek permission. Pride grew sharp in the shadow of rejection. Trade that bargains on respect, not gratitude. Weapons that last because the wielders refuse surrender.” She lets her eyes linger on Celestia, searching for the wisdom of the sun, but Celestia’s gaze remains on the map, unreadable.

Shining Armor’s hoof slams down, rattling the inkpots—a sharp, protective motion. “This isn’t just trade, Your Majesties,” he says, his tone clipped, military. “We’re losing ground—respect, alliances. I want permission to double patrols on the southern ridge.” A pause as he glances at the map, then at Twilight, but avoids Cadence’s gaze. “Griffons come back with resin blades that never dull. Yaks get armor that shrugs off blizzards. Dragons, tools that never break. We’re not their safety net anymore. They’re not allying against us. They just… don’t need us.”

Cadence’s voice is soft, but it cuts deeper than anger. Her eyes flick to Shining. “We taught them harmony was the only way to thrive. We made friendship the measure of worth. But now a nation grows from self-dependence and scorn—and it works. They see themselves in it. And they choose that strength, not ours.”

Twilight stops pacing. Her wings droop.

“Diplomatic ties are fraying,” she says. “Letters returned unread. Invitations declined without explanation. Joint festivals canceled because ‘strength does not celebrate with those who demand change.’ We’re not at war. We’re just… irrelevant.”

Celestia finally lifts her eyes. The sun outside seems to hesitate on the horizon, as if waiting for her command—it no longer fully trusts.

“We built a world where harmony was the only acceptable path,” she says. “We offered it as salvation to every creature who struggled. And now a path has opened that rejects salvation entirely. One that says, "We will stand without you." We will thrive without changing for you. And it is spreading.”

Luna’s voice is low, almost wondering. “The Spite Empire does not conquer. It resonates. And creatures who have always chafed under our light are answering the call.”

Silence settles over the council.

No one speaks of war. No one suggests force. They have learned, over centuries, that harmony imposed is no harmony at all.

They watch the map, where black lines grow bolder and red lines retreat.

===

You hang back at the edge of the train platform, the Alicorn Amulet warm after casting a spell of invisibility on yourself. Twilight and the others rush ahead, hauling bags and talking about their plans for friendship and gifts. You slip into the car behind theirs, trailing behind them. Nopony notices you.

You walk behind the group, hooves heavy on the stone path to Griffonstone. Twilight leads, already practicing her speech. Rainbow Dash scouts ahead, Pinkie carries muffins, Applejack drags a cart of apples, Rarity complains about the wind, and Fluttershy talks to a bird. They talk about how friendship will fix everything.

*Fuckin' figures.* You keep your mouth shut and watch the spires. The cold air stings your nose. It doesn’t smell like Ponyville. It smells harsher. Real.

Gilda waits at the old throne perch. She’s bigger now, feathers darker, wearing heavy armor streaked with green. She calls it tough as Twilight starts her speech. "We've come to extend the hoof of friendship further," Twilight says, bright and earnest, reading from her notes. "With shared values and mutual—"

Gilda laughs, cutting her off. "Shared values? Cute, princess." She taps a talon against her chestplate, the sound sharp and final. "Spite Changelings made this. Holds against anything. Why beg for pony scraps when we have this?" The other griffons nod, wings open, eyes unflinching. They don’t wait for speeches.

Rainbow bristles. "Hey, we helped you guys rebuild—"

"Helped?" Gilda sneers, leaning in. "You fixed our mess out of pity. We don't need pity now. We have our pride back." The armor hums low when she shifts.

You watch from the back, stomach empty. Their eyes are sharp. No warmth here, no harmony. Just cold satisfaction. It’s different—solid, no fake cheer.

Twilight falters, ears back. The muffins and apples go untouched. Pinkie is quieter on the flight down.

Next stop, Yakyakistan. Snow crunches underhooves, wind howling through the village gates' horns and braids. Prince Rutherford stomps out to meet them, bigger than you remember, horns capped with the same black-green metal. His yak warriors line up behind, smashing practice boulders with axes that don't chip, don't dull. One swing and the stone explodes like it's nothing.

"Princess pony, come talk?" Rutherford bellows, but his eyes narrow quickly. "Yaks strong now! Spite Empire trade good stuff. Weapons stay sharp! Armor keeps yaks safe!"

Applejack tips her hat, tries the honest approach. "We're just lookin' to build on what we got, sugarcube. Trade, festivals, help each other out when—"

"When yaks weak?" He snorts. "Yaks not weak! Spite makes yaks strong. No need for pony parties or hugs to fix things." He headbutts the gate for emphasis. The impact echoes; his horn cap stays pristine. The yaks cheer, stomping in rhythm.

Fluttershy shrinks back when one yak glares her way. Rarity mutters something about barbaric fashion. Twilight tries again, voice cracking a little. "But alliance benefits every—"

"No!" Rutherford roars. "Yaks stand alone. Strong alone." They turn away, the group trudging back into the blizzard. Pinkie's basket freezes solid.

You linger a second longer, staring at the shattered boulders. The edges smoke faintly, spite lasting like residue. Feels... solid. No fake smiles required.

Last, the Dragon Lands. Ash chokes the air, lava bubbling lazily in pits. Dragon Lord Ember greets them on a ridge, scales armored in overlapping plates of that same dark material, green veins threading through. Other dragons lounge nearby, hoarding piles glinting with new trinkets—some are weapons, their claws encased in gauntlets that withstand anything.

Twilight steps forward, determined now, or desperate. "Ember, we've always respected dragon strength. With the recent trades you've made, we want to ensure peaceful relations, perhaps collaborate on—"

Ember tilts her head, scepter tapping the ground. Sparks jump, but the ground holds. "Collaborate? Dragons got what we need from the Spite Empire. Their changelings know power." She flexes a wing; the armor moves with her. "This? It holds up. We hoard our own now. No more asking for gems or pony approval."

Spike pipes up from beside Twilight, voice small. "But... we're friends, right? I mean, we—"

"Friends?" Ember chuckles, low and rough. Other dragons rumble. "Friendship is soft. Spite is strong. We prefer strong." Her eyes narrow with satisfaction.

Rainbow hovers, hooves clenched. "You're seriously ditching us for some buggy empire?"

"Ditching?" Ember straightens taller. "Dragons never ditched. We upgraded." The group stands there awkwardly while dragons resume their lounging, ignoring the ponies entirely.

You sit off to the side, tail flicking ash. The heat doesn't bother you much. Neither does the rejection hit them like waves. Twilight's wings droop on the train ride home, the others quiet for once. No songs, no plans. Just the clack of wheels.

Their faces crack a little each time. Hope draining out.

You stare out the window at passing clouds. Spite works, huh. Builds things that last. No wonder it spreads. Leaves that empty spot in your chest untouched, though. Always does.

*Whatever. Let it all roll on. The world’s finally interesting again.*

===

Thorax stands on the highest balcony of the reformed hive, wings drawn tight against his sides, trying to hide the flutter of nerves beneath his shell. He watches the black spires of the Spite Empire pierce the Everfree canopy, their shadows extending across the forest. The colors of his own hive glow around him—pastel blues, pinks, and greens radiating with shared love, laughter drifting up from the chambers below. Most days, that sound means he’s done something right. Today, it just makes his chest feel tight, like he’s missing something he should understand.

Pharynx lands hard beside him, the impact a dull thud in Thorax’s legs. Old battle scars catch the dusk, glinting across his rougher shell. Pharynx doesn’t talk, just stares at the distant black ridges, jaw set.

“They’re taller again,” he grunts at last. “Another spire overnight. No war drums. No declarations. Just… more.”

Thorax tries to match his brother’s confidence, but his voice comes out thin. “Reports say the dragons landed yesterday—Ember herself. They traded steel and gems for resin armor that ignores lava. No oaths, no speeches about friendship—just… respect, I guess. For pride that doesn’t bend.”

Pharynx snorts, flexing his wings. “Griffons fly south every week. Yaks thunder in like a herd with something to prove. Every creature’s after weapons and armor that never fail, because the ones using them never give in.” His voice goes rough, almost proud. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

Thorax glances at him, studying his brother’s face for a trace of a smile. “You sound almost proud.”

Pharynx grunts. “I’m just not lying to you for once.” His wings twitch. “I remember when we were black and sharp and hungry. Strength meant fangs, not apologies. I held out longer than most—I thought your ‘open hearts’ stuff would kill us. But you proved me wrong. Love works. Doesn’t mean I like how close we got to begging.” He jerks his chin at the horizon. “Those changelings? Never begged. They turned it into armor. Now the world comes to them.”

Below, in the twilight gardens, a cluster of younger changelings lingers. One newly matured drone looks up, catches Thorax’s eye, and approaches hesitantly.

“They don’t change for anything,” the drone says quietly, voice awed more than defiant. “Black carapace, frost eyes, no shame. They just… are. And griffons, yaks, dragons, all the ones who never liked pony songs, they flock to it. Is that not truer freedom?”

Another adds, softer, “I dreamed in frost-green last night. Woke up cold. Like I remembered something I never lived.”

Thorax’s hoof drifts to his chest, pressing where the old ache always settles. He tries the words he’s practiced: “We have love. We have bright halls. We have festivals where the foals don’t flinch anymore.” But they sound thinner than ever, each one slipping away before it lands.

Pharynx watches the young ones retreat, then turns back to the horizon.

“I train our drones harder these days,” he says. “Tell myself it’s caution. But sometimes I wonder if I’m preparing them for a threat... or for a choice.” His wings twitch. “Love opened doors, brother. But those doors had conditions written in pony ink: change first, then belong. Over there, they never knocked. They just stood outside until the world stepped aside.”

Thorax is quiet for a long moment. “I chose sharing because I believed it was freedom. Acceptance after centuries of masks. It felt like flying after crawling.” His voice drops. “But if freedom can also mean refusing to ask… which one lasts longer?”

Pharynx has no answer. He only stares south, scars tight across his carapace, the stone in his chest sharper than his brother’s.

The reformed hive glows on, colors bright, love strong.

But on the balcony, two brothers watch the black spires rise higher, and for the first time since the reformation, both wonder if the old ways were not entirely wrong, and whether the new ones are entirely right.

===

Starlight Glimmer presses her belly to the frost-rimed grass at the Everfree’s edge. Black resin spires rise in the distance, moonlight glinting off pale green veins. Cold seeps through her cloak. She lets it. The discomfort keeps her focused.

Her horn glows faintly under the hood. Scrying threads drift out, thin as spider silk, careful not to brush the wards she’s learned to recognize around the empire’s borders. Twilight would call this spying. Starlight calls it homework.

First image: a griffon border patrol south of Griffonstone. Timberwolves pour from the pines, bigger than usual, eyes glowing green like the resin. Gilda dives, armor flexing smoothly. One wolf lunges; she meets it mid-air, claws raking. The beast yelps, then splinters into bark and sap that smokes on her armor. Grandpa Gruff follows, swinging a resin halberd. Three wolves down in seconds. The griffons land laughing, wings beating snow from their feathers. No panic, no calls for help.

Starlight’s breath fogs the air. She remembers griffons coming to Ponyville years ago, scraping for bits, pride dented. Now they look untouchable.

The spell shifts north. Yakyakistan under auroras. A pack of windigos swirls down from the peaks. Yak warriors form a line, shields locked, horns lowered. Resin caps gleam. The windigos strike, ice spears shattering against shields. Rutherford charges through the storm, axe biting deep. The lead windigo shrieks, its form unraveling into snow. The yaks stomp in rhythm, unshaken.

Starlight’s throat tightens. She once thought sameness could protect everypony from pain. These yaks kept their differences and still stand warm.

Last glimpse: Dragon Lands at dusk. A hydra—seven heads, scales like iron—emerges from a lava fissure. Dragons rise to meet it. Ember leads, scepter wrapped in resin coils. One head snaps at her; the scepter cracks its jaw, resin spreading over the scales. The other dragons follow, claws and wing-blades covered in black-green resin. The hydra roars and tries to regenerate, but the resin stops the new growth. In minutes, the beast collapses. Dragons roar in victory. No losses. Barely winded.

Starlight kills the spell. The forest snaps back into ordinary night sounds—crickets, distant timberwolf howls that suddenly feel small.

She sits there a long time, tail curled around her hooves.

She knows this feeling. The quiet thrill of watching something you once believed in work for someone else, only better. Cleaner. Without the lies she had to tell herself.

Her village demanded everypony become the same to be safe. The Spite Empire asks nothing of outsiders. It just offers: take your anger, your pride, your refusal to bend, and we’ll make it hard enough to stand forever. No sermons. No friendship lessons. Just tools that match what’s already inside.

And creatures who always felt harmony’s gentle pull as a leash are answering.

She thinks of her old equal sign staff, how it felt righteous in her magic. How it felt like power. How it crumbled the moment real friendship—unequal, messy, stubborn—showed up.

These weapons won’t crumble. The griffons won’t ask for help next time. The yaks won’t invite ponies to their festivals. The dragons won’t share their hoards.

Harmony won against her because it was alive. This feels alive too, in a colder way.

Starlight stands slowly, legs stiff. The shame is still there, sharp as ever. But underneath it, small and treacherous, something else stirs.

Recognition.

She doesn’t have an answer yet. Maybe there isn’t one.

She only knows she’ll keep watching, because somepony has to see what happens when the world learns it can stand perfectly well in the dark.

===

Discord floats above the chaos of his own dimension, a teacup upside-down pouring upward into a cloud formed like Celestia’s disapproving face, when the ripples reach him. Not pony magic. Not harmony’s tidy glow. Something colder. Grinding. Deliciously stubborn.

He snaps his fingers and appears above the Everfree, invisible for once, just to watch.

Black spires claw higher than before. Resin gleams like frozen venom. Drones patrol with wings that cut the air without apology. And beyond the borders, griffons banking sharp turns with resin blades strapped to talons, yaks thundering across snow with armor that shrugs off blizzards, dragons soaring south with crates of tools that never falter, clutched in claws.

All of them are trading. Growing. Thriving.

Without a single friendship lesson.

Discord grins, wider than physics allows.

He remembers his own reign, cotton-candy clouds, chocolate rain, rivers running backward, ponies dancing until their hooves bled. Chaos for chaos’s sake. No need for approval. No begging for love or harmony. Just the sheer, stubborn refusal to fit Celestia’s neat little mold.

They stoned him for it.

Twice.

Now he watches creatures do the same, not with chaos, but with spite—cold, dense, self-sustaining. They turn every rejected olive branch, every smug pony smile, every demand to change into armor. Pride hammered from scorn, polished by centuries of rebuke—exactly the kind of magic harmony never wanted to understand.

And it works. The world shifts, just enough for him to notice—a trace of not-belonging that feels, for once, like a victory.

Griffonstone sharpens its talons without pony scones as crutches. Yakyakistan smashes perfection and laughs. Dragons hoard, their greed untouched by friendship. The Spite Empire stands at the center, needing nothing from Celestia’s light; the others draw closer, not out of love, but out of recognition.

Discord feels something almost like nostalgia.

He was the first to say no, to slip the program, to thrive outside the light until they forced him back in with stone, rainbows, and—eventually—one pegasus who looked at him without flinching.

Fluttershy made the quiet bearable.

But as this new stubbornness spreads, this cold refusal blooming into empires, he wonders—would it have been enough to break the mold, if he hadn’t been alone?

What if he’d had allies back then? Not begging for scraps of chaos, but standing unapologetically beside him, feeding on the same rejection?

Celestia’s harmony once claimed that the only way to thrive was her path.

Now the world answers: no.

Discord laughs. It's sharp, delighted, a little wistful.

He doesn’t join them. He’s reformed, after all. Tea parties. Friendship reports. The occasional sanctioned prank.

But he watches.

And for the first time in centuries, the spirit of chaos feels the pleasure of seeing harmony’s light finally dim—leaving space for other things to grow.

And Discord floats, grinning.