Bong...

  Screams overpped--high, keening wails of terror, barked orders from soldiers, the guttural war cries of the Elves breaking through the gates. The ground trembled beneath stampeding hooves, the air thick with the acrid scent of burning timber and scorched flesh. Sparks rained from shattered streetmps, their gss crunching under fleeing civilians.

  Bong...

  Energy spears discharged, their tracers sizzling through the air before impacting both cover and defender alike. The smell of blood and death was overwhelming. A shaft of yellow light sliced through the dark, and a Pegasus plummeted, their wings limp, their body trailing smoke.

  Bong...

  The long, haunting drone of the arm bred through the city. The sky was alight with fire and ash. Elven boats zipped through the air, Pegasi in hot pursuit. It was chaos.

  Bong...

  The great bell tower groaned as its ancient brass heart tolled, each mournful cry lost in the storm of battle. It's bells cnged as though the daemons of hell had been let loose. Every ring, every echo sending fresh panic through the chaos that was Maritime Bay.

  Brownie, the colt from the small town of Ravenford, ran as fast as his little legs would carry him. His breathing was ragged, his coat slick with sweat and dirt. Adults and foals alike ran in the same direction as him--away from the Dark Elves.

  A filly cried in the street, her tears falling onto the corpses of her parents that y beside her. Screams of the injured and dying sounded from the nearby building--the sound of Elven weaponry fshing through the windows. Brownie let out a frightened sob, but he did not slow down.

  Bong...KRACK-BOOM!!

  Brownie was thrown to the side and into an ally, the shockwave from the explosion nearly rupturing his ears as he scrambled on the ground in agony. He heard more screaming, and more the odd voice called out in panic for a missing loved one. But then, different voices joined the fray. Their tones resolute like a wall before the tide.

  "Push them back! Buy time for the civilians!"

  He turned, vision blurred by tears, just in time to see the legendary Captain Spitfire lead a squad of soldiers past his alley. They're armour gleamed in the fire-light, and the strange crossbows in their grips snapped arrows down-range in a flurry of death. He watched one guard jump behind an overturned wagon just as a yellow beam smashed into his cover. Undeterred, the guard stood up and returned fire. Brownie could only watch, his jaw dropped in awe as the defenders of Maritime Bay pushed on, and a feeling of hope quickly settled in his chest.

  "Come on kid, get up!" Brownie felt himself get lifted in a unicorns magic before he was ushered along with a small group of people down the road. The fighting had moved to a different street by now and Brownie gave a shuddering breath of relief. He couldn't stop now, for he needed to get to his parents. Without a thought the young colt turned on his hooves and took off, passing by injured and dead alike.

  *****

  Brownie’s legs burned, but he didn’t dare slow down. His hooves pounded against the cobblestone, each step a desperate push toward home. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out everything except the droning bell and the screams that never seemed to end.

  He didn’t know how he made it, only that he did.

  Rounding the st corner, his house came into view. A small, sturdy building, its shutters hastily thrown open as candlelight flickered behind them. His parents were inside. They had to be.

  "Mom! Dad!" Brownie’s voice cracked as he galloped toward the door, shoving it open with enough force to send it smming against the wall.

  Inside, the modest home was a flurry of motion. His father, a broad-chested stallion with a coat the same color as his own, was hurriedly strapping a saddlebag to his side. His mother, her long brown mane disheveled, was stuffing food and bnkets into another bag. The second she saw him, she gasped.

  “Brownie!” She rushed forward, sweeping him into a tight embrace. “Oh, thank the stars, we were so worried!”

  His father crouched beside them, his strong hooves gripping Brownie’s shoulders. “Son, where were you?! We thought you’d already gone to the shelter with the other foals!”

  “I-I got separated!” Brownie stammered, his breath still hitching from the run as tears began to develop in his eyes. “The Elves...t-they’re everywhere! They’re killing everypony, a-and--”

  A loud crash outside cut him off. A sharp, terrified scream. His father’s ears flicked back, and his expression hardened.

  “We need to go,” he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Now.”

  Brownie nodded, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. His mother helped secure a scarf around his neck, and he felt her hooves tremble against him.

  Then the window shattered.

  The body of a pony crashed through in a spray of broken gss and splintered wood, smming against the floor with a sickening thud. Blood smeared across the wooden pnks as the limp form of a resistance soldier came to a skidding halt. The stallion’s armor was cracked, his crossbow still clutched in his lifeless hooves.

  Brownie’s scream lodged in his throat, naught but a gurgle of terror escaping him.

  A shadow loomed in the open doorway.

  The Elf stepped in as if it belonged there. Its pale blue skin gleamed in the flickering firelight, its angur face twisted in a sneer. Dark red spttered across its armor--none of which was its own. The air reeked of iron... of death. It stepped over the fallen soldier, its eyes locking onto them like a predator sighting its next prey.

  Brownie felt his mother’s hoof tighten around his foreleg.

  His father took a single step forward, pcing himself between the Elf and his family.

  “Run,” he commanded without gncing back, his voice wavering only for a moment. “Now.”

  Brownie didn’t move.

  The Elf smirked. “Touching,” it sneered in broken Equestrian. It slowly drew a long, curved bde from a sheath at its side, taking its time, savoring the moment. “But futile.”

  His father moved.

  With a furious bellow, he lunged forward, ramming into the Elf before it could react. They crashed into the dining table, sending chairs flying as the struggle began. Brownie barely had time to react before his mother shoved him toward the door. He was unable to form words, his own mouth betraying him as his mind raced.

  “Go!” she begged. “Run, baby, run--!”

  Brownie didn’t want to. He couldn’t just leave them!

  But she pushed him again, and this time, his legs moved on their own. He stumbled outside, barely able to hear over the blood pounding in his ears. The streets were chaos, filled with running ponies and scattered debris. Ponies fought and bled around him, but Brownie might as well have been invisible. No one stopped. No one noticed the little colt shaking in the road.

  He turned. His mother wasn’t behind him.

  Instead, she was rushing back inside.

  “No--MOM!” Brownie cried out, but it was too te.

  Through the broken window, he saw the fight raging. His father was an Earth Pony, strong, his hooves nding solid blows that sent the Elf staggering. His mother had grabbed the fallen soldier's crossbow, letting loose three arrows with and unpracticed waver. The first struck the Elf in the arm, causing him to drop his sword. The second struck him in the waist, causing him to stagger. The third peirced it's neck, blood flowing and bubbling with each attempted breath it took.

  They were winning, and Brownie gave a sob of relief as he saw his parents hug. His dad limped forward, his mom supporting him, but they soon stopped.

  A horrible, gurgling ugh spilled from the Elves lips, one that Brownie saw more than heard. It reached to its belt, its bloody hands trembling, and unhooked something.

  A small, metallic cylinder.

  It pressed a switch.

  A single beep echoed in the room.

  His mother turned, facing him as he watched through the window.

  And then--

  BOOM!!

  Fmes burst from the windows, the walls ripping apart in an instant as the bst ripped through the foundation. The force knocked Brownie off his hooves, sent him soaring once more before he hit the ground hard. The air exploded from his chest, and his vision went blurry. His legs scrambled for purchase, but he found none. Ringing was all he heard, its dull throb sending explosions of agony through his skull.

  For a moment, there was no sound. Just the glow of the mighty fire, roaring hungrily. as it moved from house to house in the little suburb.

  Brownie slowly lifted his head, the ringing dying, but the throb remaining. His breathing began to quicken, his pupils contracting until they were a mere speck in a sea of white. A sob built in his throat, but it could not come out.

  His home was gone.

  Nothing remained but burning rubble.

  His throat locked up. His vision blurred. He couldn’t breathe.

  Somepony grabbed him. Shouted his name. Shook him. But Brownie didn’t move.

  Because his parents were gone.

  The city burned, the bell tolled, the battle for Maritime Bay continued...

  ...and Brownie's world was shattered.

  *****

  A tremble shook the cells below Maritime bay, the metal poles rattling in their pces. Trignar's frown deepened, but he did not take his eyes off of the spot on the roof above him. His mind was racing, and he had convinced himself that if he did not look away, then perhaps the war above his head would stop. Perhaps the Equestrians would fend off his kin, and perhaps, they would stage a counter attack--pushing the Elves further and further back until they got to Canterlot--and ultimately--his father.

  "T-That one was a lot closer..." His guard, Ironside, said, a noticeable waver in his voice. "I hope Marble and Brush got to the caves..." Trignar did not need to see the pony to know he was terrified. The two had talked and talked over the st few weeks. The pony had grown on him, and Trignar dared to call him something as a friend in this dark and dreary pce. His fingers traced over the small purple orb sitting on his chest, the orb that was keeping the mental magic at bay.

  Ever since his capture, things had started... happening to Trignar. Random memories would appear in his minds eye. Memories that at first made little sense. But as time went on, and Trignar was able to reflect deeply upon himself, he found the truth. It was enlightening, but in all the wrong ways. He learned just what his father had done, and just how far he had gone to ensure Elven dominance on this world. A tear trickled down his cheek, the memory of his mother and how she had tried to get him and his siblings away before the spell could take hold. It had been for naught, and Dommick had murdered her. His own wife.

  "Worry not, my furry friend. I am certain that your cohorts are fending my kind off as we speak, and that your wife and daughter are getting to safety just fine. I'm sure it was just a scouting party that entered the invisibility field by accident. Once they are gone, my people will be none the wiser about this cities whereabouts." Trignar gave a confident nod to further get his point across. He did not like how his friend was scared, and so he needed to correct that. He let a smile appear upon his face as Ironside let out a breath he had seemingly been holding. He could almost hear the stallion's muscles untensing.

  "Yeah, you're probably right." Ironside mented, "Thanks Trignar. Once this is over, I'll see if I can't sneak a few ales past the Captain. I'm sure--

  Crack!

  Trignar shot up from his bed just as Ironside jumped to his hooves.

  For a moment, neither of them moved. The cell block remained eerily silent, save for the distant, muffled echoes of battle filtering through the stone walls. The ground trembled beneath them again, dust trickling from the ceiling. But that wasn’t what had caused the noise.

  That came from above. From the door leading to the surface.

  Ironside’s ears swiveled toward the sound. “That wasn’t just another explosion...” His voice had lost its confidence once again, turning quiet and sharp. He took a step toward the barred entrance of the dungeon, his eyes fixed on the stairwell that led up to the main structure.

  Trignar felt a prickle of unease slither down his spine. He had spent weeks in these cells, learning the patterns of his captors, understanding their movements, their shifts. And something about the silence that followed the sound....was wrong.

  Too quiet.

  Another noise--softer, more insidious--echoed from above. A slow, deliberate creak of a hinge.

  Someone had just opened the doors to his cell block.

  Ironside visibly stiffened. His hoof went instinctively to the hilt of his sword, and he gave Trignar a quick gnce. “Stay here,” he whispered, before stepping forward and heading toward the stairwell, spear at the ready.

  Trignar didn’t respond. He only tightened his grip on the purple orb still clutched against his chest. It pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat, its magic keeping his mind clear, keeping the Emperor’s influence at bay. Without it, he knew the whispers would return, cwing at his thoughts, trying to bend him back into something he no longer wanted to be.

  'Someone is coming.'

  He didn’t need to be told. He already knew.

  A minute passed. Then another.

  The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

  And then--

  A sharp gurgle, followed by the unmistakable sound of steel slicing through flesh.

  Trignar’s breath hitched.

  A second ter, something heavy thumped against the stone. He knew who it was

  Ironside.

  Trignar didn’t move, didn’t breathe. A stone of guilt lodged itself into his stomach. He simply stared at the darkened stairwell, listening as something--someone--descended the steps.

  A shadow slithered across the wall.

  Then a voice, smooth as silk, ced with cruel amusement. “Trignar, dear brother. You look well.”

  Trignar exhaled slowly. “Mya.” He knew that voice too well.

  She emerged from the stairwell, stepping into the dim torchlight. Her golden hair was tied back into a tight braid, her dark armor gleaming with fresh blood. She wiped her curved bde on a discarded cloth, her lips curling into a mockery of a smile.

  “I was beginning to worry you’d grown too comfortable in this little hole,” she said, gesturing around the cell block as if it were some kind of joke.

  Trignar met her gaze evenly. He didn’t let his eyes flick to where Ironside’s body must have been. He knew if he did, he’d falter.

  “Well?” she prompted, raising a brow. “Aren’t you going to thank me for coming all this way to save you?”

  Trignar forced a tight smile. “I’d be a fool not to be grateful, dear sister.”

  Her smirk widened. “That’s more like it.” She stepped forward, producing a small key from her belt and tossing it toward him. It cttered against the stone floor, nding between the bars of his cell. “Hurry up. We don’t have time to waste.”

  Trignar hesitated for a fraction of a second before picking up the key. He unlocked the cell door with steady hands, stepping out into the cold, damp air of the prison block.

  Around him, Mya’s soldiers--three more Elves, all wearing the markings of an elite unit--stood at the ready. Their weapons were drawn, their eyes sharp. They were tense. Anxious.

  Because outside, the battle was raging.

  “You’re quiet,” Mya noted, tilting her head slightly. “Not pnning anything foolish, are you?”

  Trignar chuckled, shaking his head. “Would I ever?”

  She regarded him for a moment longer, then smiled. “Good. Now, let’s go. Father expects us back soon, and I’d hate to keep him waiting.”

  Trignar nodded, following as Mya turned toward the stairwell. However, before he did so, he noticed Ironside's body ying against the far wall. The pony was slumped forward, his chest oozing blood as a jagged knife. Trignar knew there was no saving him, and that he needed to keep up the act. He helplessly watched as one of Mya's guards, a tall elf, stepped forward with his spear. Ironside was coherent enough to let out a half gurgle, half sob before the weapon pierced his neck. Trignar watched the light fade from his friends eyes, and something began to brew inside him. His eyes flicked to his sister, and a cold hatred began to flow. Before he could say or do much of anything, Mya's words made his heard run cold.

  "Dads pet is dealing with the Princess right now. We are going to go and capture her. You and I, Trignar, we will be heroes of the Empire!"

  For a moment, his mind bnked. Twilight was in danger, and he knew what it meant if she was taken back to Canterlot.

  'I need to get to Dean’s quarters.'

  The thought solidified in his head. If the battle above truly was as dire as it sounded, then he was running out of time. He needed a way to contact Dean. He had seen the strange, rectangur device the human used to communicate--one of the “walkie-talkies” he and his squad always carried. Dean had left some of his gear behind when he went on his mission.

  If he could get his hands on one of those, maybe--just maybe--he could still help.

  But he had to wait for the right moment.

  The dungeon corridors were narrow, the walls damp with moisture. They made it halfway up the stairwell before the first shout rang out.

  “Intruders! Defenders, fall back!”

  Gunfire. The distinct snap of a crossbow string. A scream.

  Mya cursed under her breath. “They’re already on us! Move!”

  The Elves rushed ahead, drawing their weapons as they neared the upper level. Trignar felt the heat of battle pressing in, the scent of blood thick in the air.

  Now.

  As Mya surged forward to meet the incoming resistance, Trignar broke away.

  No one noticed.

  The chaos swallowed him whole.

  He darted down a side corridor, his feet silent against the stone. The halls were dim, barely lit by the flickering sconces lining the walls. He knew where Dean’s quarters were. He had overheard the guards mentioning it before.

  Rounding a corner, he spotted the heavy wooden door that led to the room Dean had been using.

  A sharp inhale. A final gnce to make sure no one had seen him. Then he slipped inside.

  The room was sparse, but it still carried the scent of its former occupant—oil, metal, and something else, something human. The desk was covered in maps, scattered notes, and scraps of unfamiliar devices. But Trignar ignored all of it.

  His eyes locked onto the far corner of the room.

  There. A pile of Dean’s gear, neatly stacked. And among them, a small bck device with an antenna.

  Trignar grabbed it.

  The weight of it was unfamiliar in his hands, but he had seen Dean use it enough to have a vague idea of how it worked. He turned it over, searching for a switch, a button--anything.

  'Come on, come on…'

  Then, finally, a small dial at the top, almost inconspicuous.

  He twisted it.

  A faint click.

  A burst of static.

  Trignar let out a slow breath...Then, he pressed the button and began to speak.

  *****

  The Elven flying boat, a skiff as they called it, glided effortlessly through the air, its sleek hull cutting through the night sky. The hum of its propulsion system reverberated through the deck, a steady pulse of arcane energy that kept the vessel aloft. Below, the world was a patchwork of shadows and forest in the early morning sunrise.

  The deck itself was alive with movement. Elven soldiers paced the gangways, checking their weapons, securing supplies, exchanging hushed conversations about the impending battle. Some adjusted their armor, tightening straps and polishing bdes, while others simply stood at the railing, peering down at the forest as it slipped by below.

  Their expressions ranged from excitement to arrogance. Their voices carried the expectation of what they thought was a victory march.

  That the Resistance was finished, and that they would go home as heroes.

  That they had already won.

  'They are wrong.'

  Beneath the shadows of a supply crate, unseen and silent as death, a figure waited. His breathing was slow, controlled. His muscles coiled, ready to explode into action at a moment’s notice.

  Dean watched.

  Watched how their fingers were loose on the triggers of their spears. Watched how their backs were turned, their stances rexed and uncaring. They had no idea he was here. His grip on his rifle tightened, the weight of his SCAR pressing comfortingly against his palms. The steel of his sword rested against his back, the bde held in pce by the magnetic cmp on his armor. His foot dampeners were engaged, masking even the slightest shift in his stance.

  He had spent two hours in the shadows. Two hours waiting, pnning, and watching.

  Now, with the city fast approaching just beyond the clouds, the time for patience had passed. Now, it was time to kill.

  For a split second, an image burned into his mind.

  Twilight. He saw her ugh. He remembered how she looked at him, and he, her. How she was there, always full of curiosity and life. But then he saw something else: a vision since he first came here.

  Bloodied. Helpless. Alone. Her eyes, desperate, pleading.

  The consequences of his failures.

  Dean’s jaw tightened, the images fading as quickly as they had come. Not now. There was no room for doubt. No room for anything except focus. He used the thought of being with her as a driver--a means to accomplish the mission. He knew what would happen if he didn't. He would not let that happen to the one he loved... not again. He unsheathed his combat knife.

  The sharp voice of the driver broke the air, cutting away the silence aboard the aircraft.

  “One minute!" it called from above.

  The Elven soldiers perked up, their casual demeanor shifting into anticipation. Some tightened their grips on their weapons, others adjusted their helmets. The excitement in the air was palpable. A few near the front leaned in with anticipation, waiting for the moment they would see their prize.

  One minute.

  That was all the time he needed.

  Dean exhaled slowly, forcing his heart rate to steady. The world seemed to slow. Every detail sharpened. His anger was directed, like a needle through a thread, his gaze cold as the thought of his friend came to his minds eye. Once he started, there was no stopping.

  A small group walked past his hiding pce, their hushed whispers palpable with tension and reserved excitement.

  The Elf at the front turned slightly, eyes sweeping zily across the deck.

  His gaze passed over Dean’s position--then snapped back.

  For a split second, the Elf hesitated, allowing his fellows to pass. Confusion flickered across his face as his mind tried to process the shadow that hadn’t been there before. A glint of steel in the dark, and two eyes full of malice. Dean saw the exact moment the Elf realized that something was terribly amiss.

  And then he moved.

  The Elf had barely begun to open his mouth when the soldier struck. A hand shot from the darkness, lightning-fast and precise. The bde of his knife buried itself into the Elf’s throat before a single sylble could escape.

  The Elf let out a wet, gurgling gasp, his eyes betraying his fear before the light was extinguished for good. All the while, the Demon stared into his eyes, watching his soul leave his body with an unmatched coldness.

  Dean caught the body before it could slump to the floor, lowering it silently behind the crates. His movements were fluid, precise. Each calcution in his head--each movement of his arms or his legs--it all worked towards one singur purpose.

  Kill the enemy.

  The next target, standing to his right. A quick pivot. A breath. A suppressed shot straight through the head.

  Two down.

  Another Elf turned, eyes widening in arm as his comrade fell. Too te.

  With a flick of Dean’s wrist, his knife whistled through the air, burying itself into the Elf’s temple with a dull thunk. The body crumpled to the deck, the light-spear cttering to the ground.

  Only then did the others notice. Their shouts of arm carried away in the wind. They would not get the chance to act.

  Movement. Sudden. Brutal. Unstoppable.

  Dean surged forward, his rifle swinging up. The butt cracked against an Elf’s skull, sending him reeling. Another was already turning, reaching for the sword at his waist.

  Dean’s fist found his throat before he could draw, his arm a blur of speed to fast for the naked eye.

  Crunch.

  The Elf’s spine shattered with a grotesque pop. He crumbled to the floor with a dying gurgle. Dean turned, his hair blowing in the wind; his eyes narrowed.

  A final group, near the skiff’s helm, were reaching for their spears. Their panicked shouts and shaky limbs betraying their fear. They tried to put the demon in their sights, but they were too te.

  Dean turned in a blur of speed and squeezed the trigger first.

  Three quick, precise shots.

  Three corpses hit the deck.

  The driver of the skiff slumped forward over the controls, blood spttering against the runes carved into the console. The engine hummed, the ship still on its steady course toward the battlefield below.

  Then...silence. A thick, heavy silence, broken only by the steady drip, drip, drip of blood pooling beneath him and the wind at his back. Dean adjusted his grip, surveying the carnage. Eight bodies. Twenty seconds. It wasn’t enough.

  Not nearly enough.

  Anger drove him forward as he stepped over the fallen, his boots barely making a sound as he reached the controls. He scanned the interface--simple enough. A throttle, a directional stick. He adjusted the pitch, lowering the skiff’s altitude. A crooked smile appeared at his triumph, but it soon left him.

  The clouds parted.

  His breath caught in his throat--horror grew in his chest.

  In the early morning light, Maritime Bay was burning.

  Fmes crawled across the rooftops, thick plumes of smoke curling into the sky, blotting out the sky. The city was a war zone. Golden energy nced through the streets. Spells streaked across the battlefield, illuminating the carnage for brief, terrible moments. The roads below were littered with bodies, both civilian and soldier alike.

  Resistance fighters held the line, barely. Their barricades buckled under the massive Elven assault. In the air, Pegasi weaved through the chaos, chasing down Elven skiffs, many had their wings sliced by deadly bolts of magic, where they then fell to the earth, never to rise again.

  And at the city’s heart, the bell tower groaned. The once-proud structure leaned at a sickening angle, its ancient frame cracking under its own weight. The massive brass bell swung, each shift of its great iron chains releasing another toll into the night. It was a hymn.

  A funeral hymn.

  For the dying.

  For the city.

  For all of them.

  Dean’s pulse pounded in his ears. His grip tightened on the throttle, knuckles white. His eyes narrowed in unconcealed rage.

  He was too te.

  Too te to stop the invasion.

  Too te to save the lives already lost.

  But the city still stood. The fight wasn’t over. Twilight was still here, he knew it.

  He could still save her.

  He had to.

  Then--

  Static burst through the backup walkie on his belt. A garbled, desperate voice crackling through the distortion.

  “Dean! Dean, it’s Trignar! If you're still alive...You need to-”

  Static. The connection wavered, breaking into nothing but distortion. Dean's surprise upon hearing Trignars voice was cast aside. If the Elf had gotten ahold of one of his walkie-talkies, the situation had to be dire.

  Dean’s jaw clenched. His free hand snatched the radio from his belt, twisting the dial. The city loomed closer; smoke billowed in the air.

  “Say again, Trignar! What’s happening?! Over!”

  A long, tense second. Dean fidgeted in pce. Then-

  A whisper, barely audible through the interference.

  “Twilight is in trouble! They-”

  The rest of the message was swallowed by a deafening roar of explosions and what sounded suspiciously like gunfire.

  Dean’s head snapped up, eyes locking onto the burning skyline ahead in the hopes he could pinpoint the Princess' location through willpower alone.

  A fireball erupted from the fort overlooking the bay, its shockwave rolling across the streets below. Nearby buildings colpsed beneath its fury, sending a fresh wave of screams into the night. Sparks rained from the heavens.

  But none of it mattered.

  Because Trignar’s words kept echoing in his mind.

  'Twilight is in trouble.'

  A dull roar built in his chest, rising, growing, cwing its way up his throat.

  His blood ran cold. His vision narrowed further. His hands flexed.

  The rage was instant.

  No more hesitation. No more restraint.

  Dean’s grip smmed forward on the throttle, pushing the aircraft to its limit. The skiff lurched, engines fring. The hull groaned against the sudden burst of speed, slicing through the burning sky like a comet.

  The city rushed toward him, a churning inferno of fire and war.

  'Not again. Not this time.'

  Dean scowled, repeating his mantra over and over again. He was back; he was done pying games. No more monster in his head, no more feelings of doubt, uncertainty, or deceit. Dean was reborn, not as an angel--

  --but as a Demon.

  'I'm coming Twilight...'

  *****

  Fires raged.

  Cries for blood and mercy tore through the smoke-choked sky. The bell tower cnged, its mournful toll lost beneath the ceaseless, droning wail of the city’s arm.

  Griffon and Equestrian soldiers fought desperately, pushing back against the tide - buying time for civilians to escape.

  Midnight Flow was among them, but right now, the battle beyond this street didn’t matter. He had no way of knowing if the Resistance held or if they were falling, no time to think about whether his soldiers were winning or losing. Because he was alone.

  And he was surrounded.

  Five Elven warriors circled him like predators, their cruel, twisted grins illuminated by the firelight. His left wing drooped, blood trickling from the gash where a bde had nearly severed it. His breathing was bored, each breath stinging from bruised ribs. Half of his right ear was gone, sliced clean off in the struggle. Still, he stood.

  And behind him, ten defenseless civilians cowered. Foals clung to their mothers, trembling. Fathers shielded their families with their bodies, but they had no weapons. No armor. No way to fight back.

  Midnight was their only defense.

  “Ha-ha! Give it up, little pony!”

  The lead Elf grinned, his pale blue skin smeared with soot and blood. The others chuckled, already savoring the kill. Their mocking ughter sent a shiver down Midnight’s spine, but he did not move. Not even a flinch.

  The Elf’s grin soured at the ck of reaction. He sneered.

  “Let’s show them how we deal with disobedient animals, eh, boys?”

  The others chuckled again, tossing their spears aside. Bdes hissed from their scabbards as they drew their sabers in exchange.

  Long. Wicked. Sharp.

  The cold glint of steel seemed to drink the very light from the air, their edges dripping with malice.

  Midnight’s ears twitched. If he failed, they would die. The mothers. The foals. The unarmed fathers.

  He would not allow that.

  He closed his eyes. The world faded. The distant explosions dulled to an echo. The screams of the dying melted into nothing.

  It was just him.

  Him, and the five Elven warriors.

  The lead Elf sneered, growing impatient with Midnight’s stillness. With practiced ease, he lunged--his bde a silver blur, aimed to slice across the defiant Pegasus’ throat.

  'Too slow.'

  Midnight had faced Dean in combat before. The human’s speed, his sheer ruthlessness, had been blinding. Midnight, along with his squad, had learned from that. Had adapted. Had studied and learned how to fight a bipedal enemy.

  Dean’s words echoed in his mind:

  "It’s all in the legs. Because of your size, ponies like you shouldn’t aim for center mass--too much risk. Go for the legs. A wounded enemy is just as useless as a dead one. If you’re outnumbered, leaving one crippled lets you switch targets faster. It’s brutal, but it’s survival."

  Midnight moved.

  A breath before the bde could touch him, he sidestepped left, his teeth clenching around his sword hilt. In a single motion, he lunged, his own bde fshing upward.

  Steel met steel. Sparks flew.

  Then came the scream.

  The Elf staggered back, his right hamstring sshed to the bone. He colpsed, his sword cttering to the ground.

  Midnight was already moving.

  Before the first Elf hit the cobblestones, he pivoted--his next target already locked in pce.

  The second Elf’s expression twisted from shock to rage. His stance dropped, his bde arcing toward Midnight’s ribs. The Pegasus anticipated the move, rolling--only to find himself facing another attack.

  A second sword lunged for his chest.

  Too slow once again.

  Midnight’s instincts took over. His head flicked, deflecting the strike just as the second Elf recovered and thrust wildly.

  Midnight danced sideways, his movements precise, fluid, effortless.

  His eyes narrowed as he analyzed his opponents, and he let out a snort before powering forward.

  He ducked low and unched himself between the third Elf’s legs, swinging his uninjured wing blindly.

  The Elf, having witnessed his leader’s fate, reacted instinctively. He leapt straight into the air, letting out a grunt of exertion as his armour cttered.

  A mistake.

  Midnight fred his wings, leaping after the airborne Elf. His rear hooves struck the warrior square in the lower back, sending him hurtling forward.

  The second Elf, bde already raised for an attack, had no time to react.

  Steel met flesh.

  The airborne Elf’s eyes widened in shock as his own ally's bde punched through his chest, cutting his scream into a gurgling rasp. His body smmed into the other Elf, sending them both toppling in a tangled heap of limbs and steel.

  The remaining two soldiers hesitated.

  Then, their expressions hardened, and they stepped forward in unison.

  Midnight shifted his stance, blood dripping from his bde. His muscles burned, his breath ragged, but he ignored the pain.

  "Af Ath Uskeche maskan!" one of the Elves roared--his arm thrusting forward, palm outstretched.

  Midnight’s eyes widened.

  Fire erupted.

  The air screamed with heat as a torrent of fme surged toward him. His body twisted instinctively, armor catching the brunt of the bst, but the searing pain still tore through his side. He clenched his teeth, blinking past the sweat and tears, the scent of burning fur filling his nostrils.

  Then he heard the screams.

  Whipping around, Midnight's heart stopped.

  A child y on the ground, writhing, tiny limbs filing as fire consumed his coat. His mother lunged forward, sobbing, trying desperately to smother the fmes.

  Laughter rang from behind.

  Midnight turned back, his narrowed eyes locking onto the Elf who had cast the spell.

  His fury ignited.

  With a snarl, he unched forward, faster than even he expected. His wing bdes carved through the air, biting deep into the Elf’s stomach. The ughter turned into a choked gargle, blood spilling from the Elf’s lips as he crumpled.

  Pain nced through Midnight’s own body--a jagged sting as the second Elf’s sword sshed across his shoulder. He barely managed to dodge the follow-up strike, his hooves skidding against the rubble-strewn street.

  Enough.

  Midnight lunged with every ounce of strength left in his battered body. His momentum smmed into the second Elf, sending them both to the ground. The Elf struggled beneath him, but Midnight was faster—his wing sliced clean through the warrior’s neck.

  A wet gurgle. A final shudder.

  The Elf colpsed.

  Midnight staggered back, his own breath coming in ragged gasps. His leg still burned, but his armor had stopped the fire from spreading. He winced, turning toward the civilians, but before he could take a step--

  A sharp whistle pierced the air.

  Midnight turned.

  His stomach plummeted.

  Two squads--fourteen Elven warriors--jogged around the bend, their armor gleaming in the firelight. They moved in perfect formation, their expressions unreadable as they took position, standing shoulder to shoulder.

  In an instant, their weapons leveled at him.

  Magic spears.

  Someone behind Midnight sobbed.

  He couldn't bme them.

  Midnight had stared death in the face before. He had survived impossible battles, fought alongside legends, defied fate.

  But this was different.

  This was the end.

  "Aniq!"

  Midnight inhaled sharply. Spitfire.

  He pictured her--her fiery mane, her golden coat glowing under the setting sun. They were supposed to have forever. The war was supposed to end. They were supposed to marry here, in Maritime Bay, with the ocean reflecting the sunset. He had made that promise to her.

  But now?

  It would all burn with him.

  "Darntil!" The Elves leveled their spears.

  Midnight clenched his jaw, bracing for the inevitable.

  The civilians huddled behind him, terrified. Mothers whispered final prayers. Fathers shielded their families with their bodies. A foal sobbed into his mother’s chest.

  None of them would survive.

  Maritime Bay would fall.

  And with it, so would the Resistance.

  Midnight closed his eyes, waiting for the first bolt to strike.

  "Uskec--!"

  A sharp metallic crack.

  Then silence.

  Midnight flinched, but no pain came.

  Instead, the air shook--a thunderous roar tearing through the street. The sound of metal screaming, flesh ripping, bodies dropping.

  The world exploded into chaos.

  The Elves cried out in surprise, scattering. The civilians gasped, their voices trembling between terror and something else.

  Hope.

  Midnight’s head snapped up.

  The rifle fire ceased. Smoke drifted through the air, the dust beginning to settle.

  And there--standing atop a nearby rooftop--was a sight that made Midnight's breath catch in his throat.

  Dean.

  His bckened armor, battered and scarred, looked like it had been forged in Tartarus itself. His SCAR was still raised in one hand, his silhouette towering against the burning sky.

  But it was his face that stole Midnight’s breath.

  His eyes—cold, unyielding, burning with fury. The right one, tinged with an eerie red glow.

  The wind shifted, the smoke curling around him.

  He looked like vengeance incarnate.

  "Get them to safety!" Dean barked, his voice sharp as steel.

  Midnight nodded automatically, his mind still struggling to catch up. Dean was alive.

  A breath of relief. A flicker of hope.

  Focus. No time for shock.

  He turned back to the civilians, his voice hoarse but firm. “This way! We’re close to the caves! One st push!”

  The ponies moved--some stumbling, some crying--but they followed. The burned child remained motionless on the ground, the mother being dragged away by another family.

  Behind them, the battle raged on.

  And amidst the chaos, Midnight could hear Dean’s rifle barking death into the night.

  A small smile crossed his lips.

  Hope had returned.

  Hopefully, it was not too te.

  *****

  The barracks were quiet compared to the rest of the burning city, their rooms emptied along with their armouries. Every avaible soldier had gone to defend their home--their people.

  Embers flitted about the air, and smoke wafted above--twisting zily into the sky. The distant sounds of explosions, screaming, and fighting echoed through the air. The clock tower had long since gone silent, its once proud structure reduced to rubble. The barracks were quiet, an empty shell. Until--

  CRASH!!

  Twilight's limp body smashed through brick and stone. Her bruised and battered form hitting the ground hard before sliding to a stop against a wall. Blood trickled from her lip, and many of her feathers were out of pce, though this did not deter her in the slightest.

  Her horn fred a brilliant violet as she brought her Alicorn magic to bear. A snap, followed by a roar saw the vender beam burn through the air before smashing into a yet unseen assaint. A monstrous roar shook the air, its unnatural sound causing the little Princess' fur to stand on end.

  Breathing hard, the little alicorn slowly got to her hooves and fred her wings. Her eyes narrowed in concentration as she prepared another spell. She did not move--did not flee, when It revealed itself.

  The writhing mass of flesh and dark magicks seemed to suck the light from the air. A crushing weight settled over Twilight’s chest, pressing her hooves into the dirt. Her breath hitched. Her vision blurred. She had prepared for a fight, but not for this. Never for this.Tears welled in her eyes, unbidden, as the grotesque remains of her teacher twitched within the writhing mass. Twilight wanted to speak, to call out to her, but the words died before they could reach her lips.

  Celestia, once the pristine Alicorn of the Sun, was nothing more than one of the moving parts of this monster. Her face, twisted in an eternal state between bliss and torment never ceased twitching. Any fur that remained was tattered, and the flesh beneath rotten. Gutteral gasps and wheezes exited from her; the monster using both her and Luna to exhale every time it inhaled through its razor-sharp teeth.

  The monster itself was bulbous, like a writhing mass of goop stuck together with stiches and patchwork. Great spindly legs--much like a spider-- stuck out in odd pces, propelling it forwards. This was not the end--far from it. Tentacles, bck and writhing like they had minds of their own, filed about at random. Some stuck to the ground, helping It move, while others searched for unawares victims to enter and devour from within.

  A jagged horn rose from the 'head' of the monster, and its magic crackled with malevolent power. For many moments, the Alicorn and It stood facing each other. For a long, breathless moment, the Alicorn and the abomination simply stared. The war raged in the distance, but here, there was only silence. No ponies. No Elves. Just them.

  Twilight’s throat clenched.

  She wanted to look away. She wanted to believe this wasn’t real. But it was.

  Her hooves shook.

  Her horn flickered.

  “…Please,” Twilight whispered, barely able to push the words past her lips. “You… you don’t have to do this.”

  The monster twitched. For a moment, it didn’t respond. Then--

  A yered voice oozed through the air, distorted and wrong. Celestia, Luna, and something else--all speaking as one.

  “Faiiiluuure…”

  The sound made Twilight’s skin crawl. It wasn’t just words--it was a mockery of speech. Each sylble dragged out, wet and bubbling.

  “Weeaak. Unwooorthy. You let us dieee.”

  Twilight flinched. Her breathing hitched.

  “No! No, I tried! I--”

  The thing ughed. A sickening, gurgling sound that rattled deep inside its twisted form.

  “And now... you hesitate.”

  Twilight’s pupils shrank.

  The monster lunged.

  Twilight barely had time to react. She threw herself sideways, her horn fring as a barrier flickered into existence. The creature’s jagged limb smmed into the shield, sending cracks splintering through the air. Twilight gritted her teeth, pushing back, her hooves skidding across the ground.

  Then the barrier shattered.

  Twilight rolled away just in time, her ears ringing as the impact behind her tore chunks from the cobblestone street. She whirled, her wings fring, and fired a beam of raw magic.

  The vender bst struck true, smashing into the creature’s chest, sending bck tendrils whipping outward from the point of impact. It screeched in pain, but it did not fall. Instead, it twisted unnaturally, its flesh stretching too far as it recoiled.

  Twilight panted, sweat rolling down her face. “I don’t want to fight you!”

  “You left usssss!”

  It surged forward.

  Twilight barely got her hooves up before a tentacle shed out, smming into her side. She felt something snap--a rib, maybe two. Pain exploded in her chest, and she hit the ground hard. A scream tore from her mouth, and tears stung her eyes.

  She forced herself up, but she was too slow.

  A second blow sent her crashing through a ruined building, her body bouncing like a ragdoll before she smmed into the rubble. Dust filled her lungs. She coughed violently, barely able to suck in a breath. Her vision swam.

  A shadow loomed above her.

  Twilight blinked past the haze, her heart pounding. The monster was already there, already raising its jagged, spindly limb for the final strike.

  She couldn’t move fast enough.

  “C-Celestia, I'm sorry,” Twilight rasped, squeezing her eyes closed.

  The limb descended...

  But nothing happened. No impact--no searing pain. Nothing

  For the first time since the battle started, the monster froze. Its body convulsed, its many faces twitching, struggling.

  And then--

  A familiar voice, cracked and barely a whisper.

  “Run…Twilight...”

  Twilight’s breath caught in her throat. Her teacher's voice.

  The monster shuddered violently, its entire mass rippling as if something inside was fighting for control. Its many legs wobbled, its massive form swaying--as if, for the briefest moment, it was vulnerable.

  Twilight’s eyes widened in realization.

  'They’re still in there.'

  The monster reeled, its grotesque form twisting and convulsing as an ear-splitting screech tore through the air. Tentacles shed wildly, striking the ground in a frenzy, gouging deep scars into the ruined street. Its massive, gaping maw gnashed violently, jagged teeth clicking together like grinding stone.

  And then--Celestia’s face turned toward her.

  Twilight’s breath hitched.

  Her teacher’s face--broken, ruined--yet still hers.

  Tears welled in Celestia’s decayed eyes, and for the first time in two years, Twilight saw not the towering, immortal ruler of Equestria, but the mother figure who had once guided her through life.

  Celestia gritted her rotting teeth.

  “Twilight… run… please…”

  A memory crashed through Twilight’s mind.

  The throne room. Two years ago.

  The stench of blood. The fsh of steel.

  “Twilight, run! Save yourself!!”

  She saw Celestia fall.

  She saw herself running.

  She had fled.

  She had lived.

  And in doing so, she had damned them all.

  Her friends, her home, her teacher--all gone. All of it because she had run. Because she had failed.

  "No." Her voice seemed to reverberate through the air.

  Twilight stepped forward.

  A single tear slipped down her cheek, but her hooves did not falter as she looked into the eyes of her mentor.

  “Not again.”

  A sensation, like shattering gss, rippled through her. Something inside her--something deep, instinctive--broke free. A sudden warmth bloomed in her chest, spreading outward, wrapping around her like a second skin. Her mane lifted in an unseen breeze, strands glowing faintly as sparks of magic fred to life along her horn.

  Her magic ignited, raw and unrestrained.

  The monster roared, its writhing mass shifting. Then it attacked.

  A tentacle sharpened--hardening into a massive, jagged scythe.

  With terrifying speed, it sliced downward, aiming to cleave her in two.

  CLANG!

  The impact sent shockwaves through the ground. But the weapon never touched her.

  A brilliant violet barrier fred to life, stopping the attack cold.

  Twilight did not even flinch.

  The monstrous limb recoiled, sizzling against the shimmering magic. But Twilight kept walking.

  “We can’t hold it long, Twilight! Run!”

  Luna’s voice--frantic and desperate.

  Twilight’s heart clenched, but she did not falter. By this point, she was almost unaware of her own actions.

  Her horn burned brighter.

  Tiny, radiant particles of purple magic materialized around her--soft, weightless, like embers drifting in the air.

  Slowly, they began moving toward the monster.

  The moment they touched its rotted, corrupted flesh--

  SSSSSSSSS!

  The air hissed violently, steam rising where magic met darkened skin. The creature howled in agony, its body trembling, shaking, fighting.

  Twilight’s jaw clenched--her mind bnk as the magic hidden within her very spirit took control.

  She would not run.

  Not this time.

  She was an Alicorn. She was the Element of Magic. The physical embodiment of Harmony. She had lost so much already.

  'Never again.'

  The burning hiss intensified, filling the air with an acrid stench as Twilight’s magic pulsed outward.

  The writhing mass of flesh and darkness convulsed, its many grotesque limbs filing in agony. The corrupted bodies of Celestia and Luna spasmed, their faces twisted between torment and relief as violet fmes licked hungrily at the abomination’s form.

  The monster tried to move--tried to resist.

  It could not.

  Twilight’s magic was everywhere.

  The particles grew denser, shifting from gentle embers to roaring violet fire, tching onto the monster’s grotesque body like a living thing. The dark magic screamed. The tendrils writhed and snapped in desperation, recoiling, unable to stand against the sheer purity of Twilight’s magic.

  Her wings fred, her hooves braced against the scorched earth. Her power surged, unrestrained.

  The darkness began to unravel.

  A deep, ear-piercing screech tore through the air, rattling the very foundations of the city. The monster convulsed violently, its bulbous mass shrinking, folding in on itself as the bckened tendrils disintegrated into dust. The grotesque scythe-arm melted, its once-solid form crumbling into nothingness.

  The air itself seemed to tremble--and then, with a final, deafening BOOM, a wave of pure vender light exploded outward, sweeping across the battlefield like a cleansing tide.

  For a moment, everything was still.

  The embers faded. The darkness was gone.

  Twilight colpsed.

  Her legs gave out, her body hitting the dirt with a lifeless thud. Her vision blurred, her breath ragged, every limb numb from the sheer magical strain.

  The battle was won.

  But the moment she lifted her head, all victory shattered.

  There, lying before her, were the twisted, broken bodies of Princess Celestia and Princess Luna.

  Their once-majestic forms were barely recognizable. Their skin, shriveled and bckened, their hair--once flowing with celestial grace--y lifeless, brittle, and fading.

  "No... No, no, no, NO!"

  Twilight scrambled forward, her hooves slipping on the cracked stone.

  “No--no, please, I can fix this--I can--”

  Her horn fizzled pathetically, sparks dancing off the tip before fading into nothing.

  She was out of magic.

  Her breaths came faster, panicked, desperate. Her hooves trembled as she reached forward, shaking Celestia’s still, frail form.

  “Please--I can still save you! You have to hold on! Please!”

  A faint, ragged breath.

  Twilight froze.

  Celestia’s eyes fluttered open.

  A choked sob tore from Twilight’s throat.

  “Princess!” she gasped, her hooves tightening around her mentor’s weak, failing form. Tears streamed down her face. “Y-You’re back--please, don’t move, just stay with me! I’ll find a way to heal you, I’ll--”

  A shaking hoof reached up, brushing against Twilight’s cheek.

  Celestia’s eyes--no longer golden, but faded, sunken--held nothing but gentleness.

  “Twilight…” Her voice was no louder than a whisper.

  Twilight squeezed her hoof, sobbing. “I’m here! I’m right here!”

  Celestia’s lips curled into the softest of smiles. Her eyes flicked past Twilight, to the motionless form of Luna. A flicker of sadness passed through her expression--before acceptance settled in its pce.

  Slowly, painfully, Celestia lifted a trembling hoof and touched her sister’s cheek.

  Luna did not stir.

  Celestia sighed. Her eyes drooping.

  Twilight shook her head violently, fresh tears streaming down. “No--NO, don’t do this! Stay with me! Please! I can’t lose you as well!”

  Celestia’s gaze drifted back to Twilight, her frail hoof brushing against her former student’s cheek once more.

  “You are so much stronger than you know…” she murmured.

  Twilight shook her head frantically. “No! No, I’m not! I--”

  Her words broke, the grief choking her.

  Celestia’s expression softened. “You are. You always have been. Don't give...up...”

  Her hoof fell limp.

  Her breath hitched.

  Then, with one final, shuddering exhale…

  Celestia's body finally stilled.

  She was gone.

  Twilight froze.

  Her breath caught in her throat, her chest tightening.

  Then, she screamed.

  A sound so raw, so broken, that it cut through the silence like a bde.

  She colpsed, her body shaking, sobbing, clinging to Celestia’s lifeless form as if doing so could bring her back.

  The war still raged in the distance. The city still burned.

  But for Twilight…

  The world had ended all over again.

  *****

  Mya watched from the shadows, arms crossed over her armored chest, her keen violet eyes flicking between the scene before her and the Elven warriors standing at her fnks. The battle was over. The monster--her father’s wretched experiment--had failed.

  A pity.

  She tilted her head, watching with mild curiosity as the abomination convulsed, its grotesque form unraveling in the wake of the Alicorn’s raw, unrefined magic. The light poured from Twilight like a dam breaking, burning away the creature’s form piece by piece, purging the corruption as easily as one might wipe ink from parchment.

  And in the end, all that was left was a broken girl and two decomposing corpses.

  Mya sighed through her nose, shaking her head. "Father’s faulty spellwork nearly cost us our most valuable asset," she muttered, just loud enough for the soldiers beside her to hear.

  Commander Kioti scoffed. “Your father thought that thing would break her. Instead, she shattered it like gss.”

  Mya’s lips curled into a smirk, though there was no humor in it. "He always overestimates the power of brute force. Magic like hers isn’t beaten down—it’s controlled. Guided. And now..." She gestured to the crumpled, barely-conscious Twilight Sparkle, who was shaking and sobbing over Celestia’s corpse. "Now, she’s right where we need her. Vulnerable. Broken."

  She turned to the two nearest soldiers, their armor still spttered with the blood of Equestrian defenders. "Retrieve her. Carefully. Use the batons--her magic is spent, but I don’t want to take chances after the beating she took. I want her subdued, not dead."

  The warriors nodded. A sharp click sounded as they unhooked the bck stun batons from their belts, the weapons crackling to life with arcs of sickly green energy. Without a word, they moved in.

  Mya leaned against a broken stone pilr, arms still crossed, watching with detached amusement as the scene pyed out.

  Twilight barely reacted as the soldiers approached, her body trembling, her ears flicking but never rising. She was too far gone, too consumed by grief to notice the danger. Pathetic.

  The first strike hit her squarely in the ribs.

  Twilight gasped--her entire form seizing as raw electricity surged through her nerves. Her body jerked violently, limbs spasming as she crumpled sideways onto the stone floor.

  The second strike came an instant ter, this time against her back.

  A sharp cry escaped the Alicorn’s lips before her body went limp.

  The two soldiers exchanged gnces before one crouched, pressing his fingers to Twilight’s throat. After a brief moment, he gave a nod. “She’s still alive.” He called.

  Mya hummed, pleased. “Good. Load her onto the ship. I want to be in the air in less than five minutes.”

  She turned away, raising a hand to her temple to activate the rune on her helmet’s communicator. The familiar static crackled in her ear as she prepared to rey the message to their transport.

  Then she paused.

  Something was off.

  She frowned, her fingers hovering over the communicator, then slowly turned her head.

  Trignar was standing just beyond the colpsed wall of the barracks, breathless, disheveled. He looked as though he had just run a great distance--his chest heaving, his golden hair matted with sweat.

  More importantly, he wasn’t where she’d left him.

  Mya narrowed her eyes. "Where were you?"

  Trignar stiffened. Just for a fraction of a second. But she caught it.

  “I-I got lost,” he said hastily, rubbing the back of his neck. “The barracks are a mess, and I--”

  He trailed off.

  His gaze had shifted. His words had died in his throat.

  Mya followed his line of sight.

  The moment his eyes nded on the soldiers hauling Twilight Sparkle’s unconscious body onto their shoulders, his entire demeanor changed.

  Panic.

  It was there, clear as day--just for a moment, just a flicker, but she saw it. The slight widening of his pupils. The tightening of his jaw. The subtle twitch in his fingers.

  Mya’s lips thinned.

  Trignar was hiding something.

  Her instincts, honed from years of navigating the treacherous world of Elven politics, whispered to her. Something was wrong.

  Still, she kept her expression neutral.

  She let the silence stretch, watching him, letting him stew in it. "Lost?" she repeated, her tone ft.

  Trignar swallowed. “Y-Yes.”

  Mya smiled. Not warmly.

  "Hmm."

  She held his gaze for a long moment, letting him see the suspicion in her eyes, letting him know that she knew.

  Then, just as quickly, she turned away.

  “Get the Princess on the ship,” she ordered once more. “We’re leaving.”

  As the soldiers moved, she flicked one final gnce at Trignar.

  His hands were clenched into fists. His eyes held a look she couldn't quite pce. Perhaps he was excited that the Princess was finally captured? Maybe he was upset that she was the one to best him once again--gaining fathers gratitude in his pce.

  It didn't matter; it was time to go.

  "Come along brother, we are returning home."

  Trignar's eyes found hers, but he did not move quite yet. Instead, he turned and faced the burning city.

  Fires, screaming, and the sounds of battle echoed across the bay.

  "What about the rest of the soldiers? We have out prize; should we not retreat?"

  Mya hummed in thought as she watched her brother with a calcuting eye.

  "No. The Resistance has been a pest for far to long, and I want them eradicated." She held up her hand and pretended to inspect her fingernails. Her id back and uncaring attitude caused Trignar to wince, but she did not notice.

  "Shouldn't...shouldn't we stay behind in order to ensure complete victory? Surely you would not pass up the opportunity to join the battle against an...inferior foe?"

  Mya narrowed her eyes at his indirect challenge, but she knew not to let his words irk her. Kioti had warned about this, that after spending so long with the Equestrians he may have inadvertently warmed up to them. While she had no doubt he did want to see their destruction, she imagined it would be more akin to a goodbye. The Resistance deserved no such curtesy, and so she shook her head.

  "Usually, I would, but not this time. We are on a tight schedule--or did you forget just why we need the Last Alicorn? Come, brother, and father will reward you as well. Surviving so long with these animals had to have an effect on your mental well being. Once this war is over, you can go back to tearing apart our enemies as much as you want."

  Trignar sighed but said nothing else. Instead, he turned and slowly plodded in the direction their fellows had left.

  As the Dark Elven Prince made his way forward, he slowly peeled his shirt to the side, looking down at the walkie-talkie he had hidden in his clothing.

  Nodding to himself, Trignar thumbed the purple orb clenched in his fist. Stalling hadn't worked, so he would need to get creative.

  He needed a pn.

  But first, he needed to ensure Twilights safety.

  *****

  The world burned.

  Fmes licked the sky, thick bck smoke curling above the ruins of Maritime Bay like a funeral shroud. The streets were choked with bodies--Equestrian and Elf alike--while the air rang with the screams of the dying and the csh of steel. The scent of ash, blood, and burnt flesh clung to the wind, thick enough to choke.

  And through it all, Dean kept moving.

  He did not stop.

  Did not falter.

  Did not let himself think.

  Every gunshot was another life taken. Every swing of his bde carved a path through the storm of bodies pressing in on him. His rifle had been spent long ago--its st bullet fired into the skull of an Elf who had been about to gut a mother shielding her child. His pistol, too, was empty.

  And so now, he fought with steel.

  The sword that Dommick had stabbed him with.

  The irony was not lost on him.

  His movements were brutal, efficient, and relentless. The Elves came in waves, their curved bdes fshing, their magic crackling, their voices snarling in their wretched tongue.

  Dean did not hesitate.

  He was a supersoldier--an RSTF Operator. Faster, stronger, deadlier than any of them.

  The first Elf lunged--Dean sidestepped, his sword fshing, cutting through the tendons of its exposed arm. The Elf howled, staggering--only for Dean to sm his boot into its chest, sending it sprawling. He did not spare it a second gnce.

  A second Elf swung at his side--Dean twisted, parried, countered, drove his bde through the Elf’s gut, twisting cruelly before ripping it free. Blood sprayed.

  A third attacker came from behind. Dean spun, ducked under a wild swing, and drove his elbow backward into the Elf’s throat. It stumbled, gasping. Dean’s boot caught it under the chin, sending its skull snapping back with a sickening crack.

  Still, they kept coming.

  For every one he cut down, two more took their pce. The weight of their numbers bore down on him like a tidal wave.

  Somewhere in the distance, a building colpsed in on itself, a chorus of screams buried beneath the rubble.

  A child cried out.

  Dean’s head snapped toward the sound.

  Across the street, huddled against the shattered remains of a bakery, a group of civilians trembled, their wide, terrified eyes locked onto the battlefield.

  Three Elves were closing in on them.

  Dean moved.

  His legs carried him forward before his mind could even register the action. He threw himself into a sprint, dodging through the chaos, weaving between dueling soldiers, bodies, and fire.

  One of the Elves raised his hand--magic crackled between his fingers, golden and deadly.

  Dean vaulted over a broken wagon, twisting mid-air, and threw his knife.

  The bde buried itself deep in the Elf’s throat.

  The spell died on his lips.

  The other two turned--one raising his spear. Too slow.

  Dean smmed into the nearest one, tackling him to the ground. He rolled, twisting the struggling Elf’s own dagger against him, plunging it deep into his ribs. It convulsed, choking.

  The st Elf tried to retreat.

  Dean grabbed his sword from the dirt, swung--and severed the Elf’s leg at the knee.

  It colpsed, shrieking.

  Dean didn’t grant him mercy.

  One quick stab to the heart.

  Silence.

  He quickly retrieved his knife and turned to the civilians.

  “Move,” he ordered, his voice sharp as steel. “Now. Get to the caves.”

  The mothers and fathers nodded frantically, gathering their children, stumbling away from the carnage. Some looked at him, and their eyes widened in a mixture of fear and awe.

  For Dean was covered in blood.

  His armor was slick with it, his once-pristine gear stained with gore. His hands--gripping the hilt of his bde--were red, drenched, trembling from exertion but unwilling to release their grip. His face, smeared with soot and sweat, was set in a grim, emotionless mask.

  And his eyes.

  One brown. The other, a seething, eerie red.

  He turned back to the fight, exhaling slowly.

  Then, from the shadows--

  Crack!

  Something smmed into his back, sending him crashing forward, the breath knocked from his lungs. He rolled instinctively, narrowly avoiding the follow-up strike--a warhammer smashing into the ground where his head had been a second earlier.

  Dean scrambled back, bde raised.

  An Elf towered over him, cd in dark crimson armor. His grip tightened around the warhammer’s handle, sneering down at him with sharp, violet eyes. A plume sat atop its helmet, and epaulettes dressed its shoulders.

  A commander of some sort.

  Dean sneered. Perfect.

  The Elf chuckled darkly, resting the hammer on his shoulder. “You fight well. But you are alone, traitor.”

  Dean wiped his mouth, blood staining his lips as he sneered. “So are you.”

  Then he attacked.

  The Elf swung the hammer--fast, too fast for a normal soldier. But Dean wasn’t normal.

  He was faster.

  Dean didn’t just dodge--he vanished.

  One second, he was in front of the Elf. The next, he was behind him.

  The Elf barely had time to register the shift before Dean’s sword sliced through his gauntlet, severing two fingers.

  The commander roared in pain, spinning, shing out with a devastating punch. His arm crackled with magic-infused power, his muscles rippling unnaturally as he swung with enough force to break bones.

  But Dean was already there.

  He caught the punch.

  Open palm. One hand.

  The Elf’s eyes widened in shock.

  Dean held him there, unmoving. Not a single inch of give. The air thrummed with tension.

  Then--Dean tightened his grip.

  The Elf’s bones shattered.

  The commander’s shriek of agony barely had time to escape before Dean moved again--twisting the broken arm aside, stepping in close, and burying his bde deep into the Elf’s gut.

  He twisted.

  The Elf convulsed.

  Dean yanked the sword free, and the commander colpsed.

  Dean didn’t even look back.

  He had no time.

  The enemy was still coming.

  He could feel it.

  The weight of them.

  The sheer endless tide.

  He was running out of energy.

  He was running out of time.

  And somewhere out there, Twilight was alone.

  A snarl curled at his lips. No. He wasn’t stopping.

  Dean raised his sword, squared his stance--

  And threw himself back into the fight.

  The battle raged.

  Dean fought, shoulder to shoulder with the Resistance. His sword was slick with blood, his muscles burning from exertion--but he did not stop. He did not know if Twilight was safe--he could only pray she had escaped into the caves. His focus was entirely on surviving this fight and ensuring the survival of as many resistance fighters as possible.

  The enemy pushed harder.

  The Elves surged forward, their ranks unrelenting, pressing into the dwindling defenders of Maritime Bay. They wielded their magic weaponry and curved bdes with precision, their movements honed by years of warfare.

  But Dean and his allies held.

  A crossbow cttered against his boot--one of the repeating ones the Resistance had been using. Without a second thought, he snatched it up, his movements fluid, effortless. The weapon was unfamiliar but simple--lever action, rapid-fire, designed for suppression.

  He turned, pulled the trigger. Thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip!

  Bolts whizzed through the air, embedding themselves in the chests, throats, and skulls of charging Elves. They stumbled, faltered, some colpsing before they could even register what had hit them.

  “Hold the line!” a Resistance soldier bellowed beside him.

  To Dean’s right, a young Earth Pony stallion, cd in the newly-forged alloy armor, took a direct hit to the chest. The bolt of golden energy crackled on impact--but instead of burning through, the magic dispersed, grounding itself into the dirt.

  The Elf who fired the shot stared in disbelief.

  Dean didn’t hesitate.

  Thwip!

  The bolt buried itself in the Elf’s skull.

  But for every one that fell, more came.

  A fresh wave of enemy skiffs soared overhead, raining destruction onto the defenders. Magic detonations shook the ground, sending dirt and stone flying in all directions. The Resistance was losing ground.

  Dean grit his teeth, his breathing bored. It wasn’t enough.

  Then--

  A shriek from across the street.

  A group of children, separated from the evacuating civilians, cowered in the open behind the line of Resistance fighters.

  Among them, Dean spotted Spike and Lucy.

  His stomach plummeted.

  BOOM!

  A crippled Elven skiff, its hull torn apart by a rogue magical explosion, careened out of the sky--barreling toward the building beside the children.

  Stone shattered on impact, the walls crumbling. The wreck teetered, then began to fall.

  Dean moved before he could think, the crossbow hitting the ground.

  He dug his boots into the dirt, pushing harder, faster. The wind tore past him, fmes licking at his armor as he threw himself forward.

  The world blurred, his body pushed to its limits.

  The skiff plummeted.

  The children screamed...

  Crack!

  ...and Dean caught it.

  The impact nearly crushed him, his exo-skeleton groaning in protest.

  His legs buckled, his arms screamed in pain, his spine felt as if it would snap. The weight was monumental, hundreds of pounds of wood, metal, and magical wreckage bearing down on his shoulders. He roared as his muscles burned--

  But he held the Skiff at bay.

  A herculean feat of strength.

  His tendons stretched to their absolute limit. Veins bulged against his skin, his breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. The weight of the skiff trembled in his grasp, the ruined craft groaning as it pressed him toward the earth. The kids were scrambling to get away, but one y curled up on the ground in terror. Her friends tried to drag her along, and only barely were succeeding.

  Dean’s vision blurred from the sheer strain.

  But he saw.

  He saw the battlefield.

  Saw how utterly hopeless it had become.

  The Resistance was breaking.

  Private Swift Spear, his squad’s marksman, the stallion who had stood beside him since he had arrived at this city--was hit square in the chest by a bolt of magic.

  He never got back up.

  Elsewhere, Resistance soldiers fell one after another, trying to hold their positions, trying to keep the enemy from overwhelming them. Their bodies hit the ground, lifeless, unmoving. The pain ebbed away to a dull throb as Deans heartbeat pounded in his ears.

  It wasn’t enough.

  He had been to te. And it wasn't enough.

  Dean’s arms trembled.

  His body screamed.

  He clenched his teeth, gritting through the agony.

  He had to hold.

  For the children.

  For Twilight.

  For the Resistance.

  Then--

  A horn.

  The sound pierced the fire and ash.

  Loud. Deep. A call for war.

  A second ter--

  A cry, carried on the wind.

  "For the Empire! Charge!"

  The Elves balked.

  Their eyes snapped upward, confusion flickering across their features. The relentless tide of their assault hesitated.

  The battlefield shifted, and from the fming sky above the ruined city...

  The Griffon Army arrived.