Fields of Influence (MLP) (Sequel to Applied Mathemagics)

[Riddlest]

We sit for a while.

Twilight's ear flicks against my cheek, and I realize how close she's gotten—her side pressed warmly into mine, her mane brushing against my shoulder. I don't move away.

She notices.

She immediately leans further into me. She's gentle, careful, pretending to be innocent—but I see the little smile creeping onto her face.

For once, I don't pull back. I don't even tense up.

I just let her have this moment.

But she doesn't stop there. Within seconds she's practically burrowed into my side, and I almost roll my eyes.

She's quiet.

I know what she wants to ask—about what I saw behind that cursed door, what left me... like this. It's practically burning off her tongue. But she's biting it back, afraid I'll pull away.

And I'm not about to offer any solutions.

I stare ahead, watching the fireworks burst across the shield, the sky glowing softly through layers of magic.

But my mind is elsewhere.

With that other Twilight—pale, trembling, blood soaking into my coat. Her desperate, delirious words still echo in my ears.

The memory claws at my chest, tightening around my heart.

I promised her.

Twilight tilts her head, sensing my sudden stillness.

"Twilight," I say quietly.

She blinks, startled, then looks up at me. "Hmm?"

I hesitate.

It physically hurts to ask—but I push through it anyway.

"Do you…" My voice falters, just slightly. I steady myself. "Would you want to go to Canterlot with me sometime?"

Her eyes brighten immediately. "Oh! Of course! The girls and I have been planning to visit again for ages, actually. Rarity wants to do some shopping, and Pinkie's been bugging us about a bakery there that—"

"No," I interrupt gently.

Twilight pauses, mouth slightly open, ears perked forward.

I exhale slowly, forcing the words out.

"I mean... Just us."

Her eyes widen. I can practically see the gears spinning in her head. She stares blankly into the distance for several long, silent seconds—calculating, processing, running through every possible outcome.

"Just… you and me?" Her voice is high-pitched, nearly cracking.

I nod once, barely.

"Oh," she repeats, even quieter this time. Her cheeks flush red, her eyes darting nervously around. "Oh, that's… a—"

She cuts herself off sharply, swallowing the word before it can escape. She seems afraid that naming it might shatter whatever delicate thread is holding this together.

I don't interrupt. I barely even breathe.

She stays still for another moment, visibly restraining herself from blurting out questions or clarifications. Her hoof scuffs the crystal street awkwardly.

Finally, after what feels like hours, she exhales slowly, eyes flicking shyly up at me.

"I'd really like that," she murmurs softly.

The words leave her carefully, as if she's still afraid that speaking too loudly might spook me. Her gaze lingers, nervous yet hopeful.

A tightness I hadn't even realized was there loosens slightly in my chest.

"Good," I whisper back.

Twilight smiles—soft, bright, real. Her eyes shine like the fireworks overhead, and she leans into me again.

This time, I let myself lean into her, too.

---

The party drags on well into the night. Ponies laugh, dance, and celebrate beneath the shimmering shield, the city sparkling under the lights of magic and joy. Twilight never strays far from my side, gently steering me around the festivities as she sees fit, always careful not to push too hard, though she clearly revels in her newfound freedom to do so.

Eventually, the time to depart arrives. A large crowd of crystal ponies gathers at the station, their shimmering coats reflecting moonlight, waving and calling out farewells. Cadance and Shining Armor wait at the front, smiling warmly, ready to see us off.

"Well," Cadance says gently, stepping forward to face me directly. "Thank you again, Kinetic. Truly. I promise, once things stabilize here, Shining and I will come to visit. I'd really like the chance to—"

I interrupt with an exaggerated sigh. "You don't need to threaten me, Princess."

She falters for a second, before recovering gracefully. Her smile returns, warmer this time, undeterred. "I'm serious. I'd like to make things right."

"Good for you," I reply flatly.

Twilight gently elbows my side, scolding me under her breath. "Be nice."

"I am being nice," I grumble.

Cadance just chuckles softly, shaking her head in amusement. "I'm glad you made it through this safely, at least. Thank you—all of you."

Rainbow Dash hovers above, smirking. "Hey, it's what we do. But seriously, you guys better have less trouble next time."

Pinkie leaps enthusiastically. "Thanks for the party! I'll bring more cupcakes next visit—oh, and pies! You have to taste my pies!"

Rarity smiles graciously. "If you ever need fashion advice for your crystalline looks, just let me know, darling."

Applejack tips her hat. "Take care of yourselves up here. Y'all deserve a rest after what happened."

Fluttershy softly wades in the background.

Spike gives an awkward wave. "Yeah, see you guys soon! Hopefully without evil shadow kings next time."

Cadance and Shining Armor laugh softly, and Twilight steps forward to hug them both. "Take care, you two. And thank you."

"You too, Twily," Shining Armor says warmly, nuzzling her gently. "Keep an eye on your friend here. I'm rooting for ya."

He glances meaningfully at me. I pointedly look away.

The train whistle sounds sharply, signaling our departure. Everypony climbs aboard, waving enthusiastically from the windows.

I step onto the platform, gently cradling the Crystal Sword in my magic, its blade shimmering gently beneath the shield's glow.

Twilight stands beside me, watching with an affectionate smile. "Ready to go home?"

I nod silently.

"Good." She bumps gently against my side as we enter the train together.

The doors slide shut, and with a gentle lurch, the train begins to roll away from the Crystal Empire. Twilight and the others wave from the windows, and I quietly settle in my seat, sword at my side, glancing back at the shining city receding into the distance.

The rhythmic clatter of the train on the tracks fills the air, a soft lull behind the chatter of the others.

Twilight and the girls are gathered near the window, talking quietly, their reflections dancing in the glass as the snowy landscape scrolls by.

I glance at Rachel's runes as they talk.

I could probably add the crystal heart's runes to Rachel, get her a shield and stuff.

Or does it have to be crystal?

"I'm going to miss it," Fluttershy says softly. "The city was so pretty once the sun came back."

"And the ponies were so sparkly," Pinkie adds. "Like disco balls with feelings!"

Rainbow chuckles. "It did have a cool vibe. Could've done without all the evil smoke and broken buildings, though."

Rarity sighs wistfully, resting her chin on her hoof. "I'll miss the Crystal Heart most of all. It was just so… radiant. So elegant. So perfectly symmetrical." Her eyes flutter dreamily. "If I could bottle that shimmer…"

I glance up from Rachel's runes. "You want one?"

She blinks. "Darling?"

I shrug, lighting my horn.

A soft glow flickers as I unbuckle one of my saddlebags and lift a few small, floating objects out of it.

Glittering, multifaceted crystal hearts—each one suspended beside its paired 'tower' fragment, dull and (mostly) inert with the faintest trace of mostly crossed-out rune marks etched into their base.

"I've got, like, ten," I say casually.

Everypony stares.

Twilight's mouth falls open. "Wait—you kept those?!"

"Yeah."

"You didn't give them to Cadance?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Why would I?"

"Because they're Crystal Hearts?! You made them for the Empire!"

"No," I say simply. "I made them to stop Sombra. Mission complete."

Twilight sits up straighter, indignant. "Kinetic, those are artifacts capable of projecting city-wide shields powered by emotional energy!"

"Only if paired with a big 'tower'." I glance at one. "And I crossed out most of the rune paths. They're inert. Basically floating paperweights."

"You could remove the cross-lines in ten seconds!"

"Yeah," I admit, inspecting one lazily. "They're useful."

Twilight groans. "You can't just hoard magical national treasures!"

"They're mine. I made them."

"Yes, but—"

"No but." I hold up a heart and tap it with my hoof. "This was carved, etched, and calibrated by me. Not Cadance. Not the Empire. Me."

Twilight falters.

Rarity, still entranced by the gleam of the crystals, quietly asks, "May I… have one?"

"Sure," I say, passing one over. "Just don't try to power it up without me."

Twilight splutters. "You're enabling her!"

Rarity squeals softly. "Oh hush, Twilight, he's being generous."

Applejack leans over. "Ain't this like giving a live firework to a foal?"

"No," I say flatly. "It's safer than any of the spells she already knows. It's like giving a firework to a unicorn who already owns several bigger fireworks."

Twilight glares. "That's not comforting."

I go back to flipping through my notes.

She huffs and crosses her forelegs, settling back in her seat.

The train hums steadily beneath us, the chatter dying down into a comfortable rhythm. Rachel sits beside me, legs tucked neatly under her stone frame, watching the snow blur past with passive interest. Occasionally, her gaze flicks to me—to the sword still resting by my side, or to the scribbled pages I'm working through. She says nothing. Just there.

I glance down at one of the inert crystal hearts hovering beside me and absentmindedly adjust the scratched-out rune lines, trying to figure out what exactly each rune means, instead of the whole.

Twilight's been quiet for a while.

Too quiet.

I glance up—and jump slightly when I realize she's suddenly next to me. Like, very next to me. At some point between scolding and sulking, she relocated across the cabin without a word.

Sneaky.

She's pretending to read a book. Something about stars. Except the pages haven't turned in a while.

Then she gives the fakest yawn I've ever seen. A whole-body stretch that arches her back and extends her forelegs just enough to swing one over my shoulders.

It settles there.

Light. Barely touching.

I stare straight ahead.

She shifts slightly, adjusting her posture to lean just a little into my side. Not too much. Not enough to make it obvious.

Not yet.

After a moment, she sighs contentedly and leans in more. Her shoulder presses into mine. Then her head rests gently against my neck. Then—

A soft scoot. Her thigh slides closer to mine.

She's testing. Pushing inch by inch, like I won't notice if it's gradual.

I glance at her, deadpan.

She's suddenly very interested in her book again.

Her foreleg moves again—slow, lazy, like she's just stretching—and then it dips too far. Her hoof brushes my flank.

I tense.

She freezes.

"Twilight."

She stiffens like I caught her stealing from a royal vault.

Her hoof retreats—quick but not panicked—and she smiles up at me like she's looking at a sunset.

"Yes?" she asks, all innocence.

I narrow my eyes. "That was your warning."

She pouts. "I was just adjusting."

"You adjusted directly onto my ass-er-flank."

She clears her throat, ears flicking. "An honest miscalculation in spatial awareness."

I raise an eyebrow. "Uh huh."

She pulls her hoof back fully and rests it neatly around my shoulder again, her expression so perfectly composed I almost believe she's regretful.

Almost.

But then—out of the corner of my eye—I catch her grinning.

A smug, subtle little curve of her lips.

I scoff quietly. "You really like to push your limits."

She hums, resting her chin lightly on my shoulder like she's claiming it. "I just like knowing where they are."

The train slows, the brakes screeching softly as Ponyville Station comes into view.

By the time we step off, Twilight is practically glued to my side.

She sticks close—mane brushing my shoulder, steps matching mine exactly, head tilted ever so slightly toward me.

The girls start saying their goodbyes, tiredly heading off in the direction of their respective homes.

Rachel steps beside Twilight and me, silent and watchful, her stone joints clicking faintly with each measured stride. She glances at me, then at Twilight, and her mouth opens slightly.

"…Claimed," she murmurs, her stone tongue shifting slowly.

I groan. "Don't start."

Rachel's eyes flick with something dry and amused. She glides just behind us as we walk, silent except for the occasional creak of her joints.

Twilight, for her part, is clearly feeling victorious. Her tail flicks in time with her steps, brushing against mine just a little too frequently to be accidental. I give her a side-eye. She pretends not to notice.

The sun is dipping low over Ponyville as we walk the winding path toward the edge of town. The air smells like grass and old wood and something faintly familiar. Safe.

Home.

I stop in front of the wooden door of the H.A.R.D.I.S.—my glorified shed of an interdimensional labyrinth-slash-home. I unlock the door. The hinges creak when I touch the handle.

Rachel stops behind me.

Twilight just waits.

Expectant.

I blink at her.

She smiles.

I blink again.

"…Aren't you going home?"

Twilight tilts her head slightly, ears perked, like I just asked her if water was wet.

"Oh, well, I just figured," she starts, her voice soft, a little breathy, "after everything, maybe I could come in. You know, just… hang out? Rest a bit? We could talk. Maybe… cuddle."

I narrow my eyes.

"Twilight."

Her smile doesn't fade.

"You know," she continues, tilting her head slightly, her voice sweet and suggestive in the most dangerous way, "after a long day, sometimes it's just really hard to say goodbye. You get all warm, and cozy, and… connected."

She even dares to bat her lashes.

Rachel's head turns—mechanical, deliberate—to face me. Her jaw opens slightly again.

"…Losing," she comments, dry as chalk.

"I'm not losing," I mutter.

Rachel doesn't reply. But her half-lidded eyes are positively smug.

Twilight leans just a bit more into my side, eyes wide with innocence. "So…?"

I sigh, staring at the door, then back at her.

"You can visit."

Her eyes light up.

"But not stay over."

Her expression falters—just briefly.

Then, miraculously, she manages to soften it into something disappointed but understanding. "Of course. Just a visit."

She's already halfway through the door before I even get it open all the way.

I glance at Rachel.

Rachel's jaw hinges open again—too wide, too slow.

"…Soft."

I groan.

"Shut up."

The moment I step into the H.A.R.D.I.S., I pull off my surprisingly intact white and pale blue striped socks.

And I notice two things:

One: it smells faintly of ozone and old coffee.

Two: Twilight is already in my pantry.

She's halfway buried in the shelves, levitating cans and jars in her magic, her brow furrowed in intense scrutiny. A growing pile of food floats nearby, separated from the rest like it's contagious.

"…What are you doing?"

She doesn't look back. "Sorting."

I blink. "I bought that stuff this week. With you."

"It's gone bad."

"It looks fine."

"It's not fine," she says firmly, holding up a jar. "This one's seal is compromised. That one's got sugar crystalizing in a way that means it was stored too warm. This one smells like metal."

She sniffs again, nodding decisively. "Metal."

I just… stare.

She hums softly as she works, setting another can aside, her nose wrinkling in thought.

And then—

She turns just right.

The light hits her face.

Alive. Focused. Calm.

But in my mind, she's still lying on that cold stone floor. Bleeding. Breath shallow. Smiling through the pain.

The memory hits like a gut punch.

I swallow hard.

My throat's tight before I even realize it.

Twilight turns her head a little, glancing at me over her shoulder. "What?"

I shake it off. "Nothing."

She narrows her eyes, clearly not buying it. But she lets it go, returning to her inspection of an unopened bag of rice.

I stare at her for another long second. Then—

"Do you wanna read?" I ask.

She freezes.

Her magic stutters around the jar she's holding—it bobs once, caught midair. Slowly, she turns to face me.

"…What?"

I clear my throat, not meeting her eyes. "Read. You and me. For a bit."

Twilight stares.

Like I've offered her the moon and a hoof massage.

"You want to read?" she echoes. "With me?"

"I literally just said that."

She blinks hard, then practically glows. "Yes! Yes, of course! What should we read? Fiction? Non-fiction? Magic theory? History? Oh! I have a few books that match your whole grumpy-academic aesthetic, or maybe—wait—how long are we reading? Do I need tea? Is this like a chapter or a full volume kind of thing?"

I raise a hoof to stop the verbal landslide. "As long as you want."

Twilight goes still.

Like completely still.

Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out—just a squeaky little inhale like her lungs forgot how to function. She stares at me like I've sprouted wings and proposed to her in the same breath.

I look away.

I don't explain any of it.

Because I can't.

Instead, I just say, "Go get your books."

That snaps her out of it.

She lights her horn in a burst of lavender magic, her eyes already mentally locked on the shelves of her library.

Then—nothing.

The magic fizzles mid-cast with a faint crack, like a spell slapping against glass.

Twilight blinks. "Huh?"

She tries again.

Same result.

Her ears shoot straight up, eyes wide. "Wait—I can't teleport out?"

I frown. "What?"

She tries again. Harder. Desperate to get to her books and back.

Magic builds, swirls, sparks—and fizzles again like someone yanked the plug.

She lets out a frustrated noise. "Ugh! Your house is so weird! I didn't think it'd block me!"

I shrug.

Twilight doesn't wait. She sprints to the door, practically throws it open, bolts out—and disappears in a flash of teleportation.

Less than four seconds later—

Pop!

She's back inside, huffing slightly, eyes blazing with purpose and triumph.

Levitating beside her?

An absolutely massive stack of novels, and a blanket.

I stare.

She beams. "Okay! I picked a few that might be fun."

The top three titles are Sparks in the Stacks, Taming the Scholar, and The Silent Type: A Love Story.

Each cover has some variation of a very serious-looking stallion being seduced, cajoled, or otherwise harassed by a bright-eyed, determined unicorn mare.

I squint. "These all look weirdly familiar."

Twilight sets the stack down reverently, like she's just smuggled contraband across a national border. Her magic flutters around the books, reorganizing them, coding by some unknown metric.

I keep staring.

Twilight clears her throat and tries to sound casual. "They're, um… genre studies."

"Genre studies," I repeat flatly.

She nods far too fast. "Sociocultural significance through narrative tropes."

I glance down at Taming the Scholar, where a very soft-looking, dark-maned unicorn is being pushed backward onto a velvet chaise by a unicorn mare. He's also wearing brightly colored socks.

I raise an eyebrow.

Twilight doesn't flinch. "Literary analysis."

I don't buy it. But I sit anyway.

She levitates one over—The Silent Type—and flips to the first chapter. Then pauses.

She side-eyes me.

"…Could you read it?" she asks, too carefully.

I blink. "What?"

Twilight shifts awkwardly, rubbing one foreleg with the other. "Well… we can't both read it, or we won't know when to turn the page. I mean, we could alternate, but that's inefficient, and also you read faster than me and then I'd be behind and—"

I tilt my head.

She swallows, ears folding back slightly.

"I just…" Her voice lowers. "I just wanna hear you read it. In your voice."

Her eyes flick up.

Quiet.

Hopeful.

A little too honest.

I hesitate. It suddenly feels… intimate.

But I nod.

"Fine."

She lights up—almost literally.

I levitate the book toward me, adjusting my posture as I open it to the first page. My voice is steady as I begin.

"He never spoke unless spoken to—never stayed where the light touched him. She saw him first in the archives, the lone stallion who turned pages like they held the secrets to everything. He had a reputation: brilliant, cold, unreachable. She wanted to see if any of that changed when he blushed."

Twilight immediately squeaks and pulls a blanket over herself like she's hiding.

But the way she peeks out lets me know she wouldn't miss a second of it.

I ignore her and keep reading.

The book is dramatic. Melodramatic. But the characters are... familiar.

A gruff, emotionally stunted unicorn stallion who studies too much and hates public spaces. A bright-eyed mare with a thousand questions and zero boundaries, determined to make him open up.

It's not subtle.

I keep reading, and she keeps inching closer.

"She leaned in. 'If you keep running away from everything, you'll never know what it feels like to be wanted,' she said."

Half an hour in, she starts chiming in.

Twilight hums, nudging me with her elbow. "This is how a stallion should actually respond when a mare says something heartfelt." She points to the next paragraph.

I glance at it.

He didn't answer with words. Just leaned closer. Let her rest against him. Let her speak into the quiet.

I roll my eyes and flip the page.

She hides a smile behind her hoof.

Then—

Softly—

"Can you read my favorite part?"

I look at her. She's suddenly sheepish. Her hoof is hovering over a dog-eared page of Taming the Scholar. "It's silly," she says quickly. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

I take the book.

There's a highlight phrase.

"Even if I don't say it right, even if I never say it at all, just know—I wanted you. All this time. Even when I pushed you away."

She holds very still.

Her cheeks are red.

I stop.

That was... too much.

Twilight's breath is shallow. Her eyes flick to mine, then drop again.

My ears burn, embarrassment creeping in like heat under my coat.

I close the book abruptly, the clap echoing through the quiet room. Twilight jumps slightly, blinking rapidly as if breaking free from some hypnotic trance.

I clear my throat, smirking to cover the heat in my face. "You know, it's actually impressive."

She blinks. "What?"

I gesture at the books scattered around us. "Finding so many books that are exactly us. Really subtle, Twilight."

She sputters, flustered immediately. "They're—they're not about us specifically! They're just... common relationship dynamics in fiction, and—"

"Uh-huh," I interrupt dryly. "Gruff, emotionally-stunted stallion meets cheerful, overbearing unicorn mare obsessed with him. How original."

She puffs out her cheeks, indignant. "I'm not overbearing! And I'm definitely not obsessed!"

I raise an eyebrow.

Her ears flick back, cheeks redder than ever. "…Okay, maybe I like you a little more than most ponies. But still!"

I chuckle lightly, relieved she's finally as embarrassed as I am. Then I push the book toward her. "Your turn."

She jolts upright, eyes wide. "Wait, no—I like hearing you read!"

My smile grows. "Oh? So you get to hear me say embarrassingly romantic things, but you're depriving me of hearing you do the same?"

Her blush intensifies, and she ducks her head with a nervous laugh. "I... I don't sound nearly as good reading these parts as you do."

"Come on," I tease softly, nudging her. "It's only fair."

Twilight lets out a small, flustered huff and flips the book back open to our page. "Okay, but don't make fun of me."

I grin. "I make no promises."

She glares—but it's weak, thin, and melting fast under the pressure of her blush.

Then she starts to read.

Her voice is shaky at first, barely above a whisper. "'He was the kind of stallion who didn't notice when he was loved—not until it broke through his walls, slowly, like sunrise. And when he finally saw it, really saw it… he was terrified.'"

Her ears twitch, her eyes flick nervously toward me, gauging my reaction. I stay quiet, smug but composed.

She swallows and keeps going.

"'She wasn't gentle with his heart because she thought it was fragile—she was gentle because it was hers, and she wanted to hold it right.'"

She pauses.

I say nothing.

She glares at the page, face pink.

"…This was a bad idea," she mutters.

"Oh no," I say, very dry, "you're doing great."

Her eyes flick up again, narrowing. "You're enjoying this."

"A little," I admit. "It's nice seeing you sweat for once."

Twilight groans and sinks lower into the couch. "Can we switch again?"

I smirk. "Embarrassed?"

"Yes," she snaps, flinging the book at me with magic. "Here. You read."

I catch it midair, flipping to the next chapter with an exaggerated sigh. "Fine, but don't interrupt."

She pulls the blanket up over her muzzle, muffling something I think was either "thank you" or "shut up."

I read on.

The room quiets again, the only sounds the rustle of pages and the soft cadence of my voice.

Twilight doesn't interrupt this time. She just listens.

Her head rests on the pillow she dragged beside me, her body curled under the blanket in a way that's clearly optimized for maximum coziness. Occasionally she hums or giggles at a particularly cheesy line, but otherwise—she's still.

It's peaceful.

Soft.

Too soft for me, maybe.

I wasn't built for this.

The vulnerability. The warmth. The little smiles she hides in the pages. The way she watches me like I'm the story. Like I'm not still trying to figure out how to be a pony who can do this.

But I made a promise.

To the Twilight I held as she died. To the words she whispered while I pressed my hooves to a wound I couldn't stop.

"I wanna read with you. Just… for hours… and you have to stay this time…"

So I stay.

And I read.

Her eyes start to droop. First slowly, then more often. She shifts, pulling the blanket up under her chin, snuggling deeper like she can soak into the couch. She murmurs something under her breath—something about wanting to keep reading—but it's faint, barely more than a sigh.

I glance over.

She's out.

A faint smile still tugs at her lips.

I exhale through my nose, a small, fond sound.

Carefully—quietly—I close the book and float it back onto the pile. Then I grab the other half of the blanket and drape it over her. She shifts just slightly, curling up tighter. Her foreleg slides a little toward where I was sitting, as if to keep hold of something that's already gone.

I hesitate a moment longer, then push to my hooves.

Rachel is waiting at the top of the stairs.

Silent.

Her arms crossed, her stance casual, stone expression unmoving—but the second I make eye contact, her mouth clicks open on its hinge.

"…Cute."

I sigh, dragging a hoof down my face. "Don't start."

Her segmented tongue pokes out slightly, curling with mechanical sass. "She—own—you."

I groan. "She's sleeping. It's not like I invited her to move in."

Rachel leans just slightly to one side, eyelids half-lidding. The golem equivalent of a raised brow.

I glance up the stairs at her, letting the silence hang.

Oh yeah?

Then I slowly speak—offhanded, casual.

"She might, y'know. Take up a lot of my time."

Rachel doesn't move.

I continue, softer now. "If this… thing with Twilight keeps going. If she gets her way. Might not be around as much."

Rachel's fingers twitch—just once. Small. Subtle.

I force a chuckle, like it doesn't matter. "Who knows, she could end up stealing me from you."

Rachel doesn't blink.

But the way her head tilts—slow and uneven, like her internal alignment shifted a gear too far—sends something cold crawling down my spine.

"…Twilight," she echoes, voice a low click of syllables. "Steal…?"

Her mouth opens slightly, but this time there's no tongue, no sass. Just empty space.

Something hollow.

I shift my weight heading into my room. "It was a joke."

Rachel doesn't laugh.

Her mouth shuts again with a dry clack, and she straightens.

Steps forward.

And follows me in.

I glance back once, but she says nothing. Doesn't ask. Doesn't explain.

She just enters with me, her steps soft, soundless against the floor.

I power off my rune-powered leg, crawl into bed, and collapse sideways with a groan.

She settles beside me.

Not touching. Not far.

Then, in a voice barely there, I hear her murmur, "No take."

Her stone limbs curl with mechanical grace into a rest position. Her eyes remain half-lidded. Watching.

She does not sleep.

She never does.

She just lies there beside me.

Still.

Unmoving.

Present.

I close my eyes.

 

[Riddlest]

The smell hits me first.

Eggs. And something… vaguely hay-like.

I crack an eye open, groaning at the way morning light spears through the gaps in the curtains. My side still aches—phantom pain where a leg used to be, even though the new one is technically perfect.

Beside me, Rachel shifts.

Her movements are smooth, practiced. She rises as one, like a machine waking from standby. She doesn't stretch. Doesn't yawn. She just moves, angular and precise, like she's been waiting for me to stir before bothering to animate.

I sniff again. "What is that?"

Rachel shrugs, shoulders grinding faintly. "Don't know," she mutters.

"…And you didn't check?"

Her expression doesn't change, but the silence that follows is very pointed. Then: "Didn't care."

Of course.

I rub the sleep from my eyes and groan, dragging myself upright. The scent's stronger near the door.

I stagger downstairs, Rachel following with the quiet scrape of stone on wood. She doesn't speak again, just shadows me like a gargoyle on patrol.

The kitchen is… offensively cheerful.

Twilight stands over the stove humming to herself, her mane pulled back into a messy bun and her tail twitching like it's dancing to its own song. There are plates stacked high on the counter—some with suspiciously blackened edges, others surprisingly edible-looking.

She turns the moment she hears me, beaming. "Good morning! I didn't know how you liked your eggs, so I made them six different ways. Also haycakes. And hay hash. And hay muffins!"

I stare.

There's so much hay.

"…Why are you still here?"

She blinks innocently, tilting her head like she's shocked I even need to ask. "Because," she says sweetly, "I happened to notice there's almost exactly the same amount of hay in your pantry as there was when we bought it."

I squint at her.

She smiles wider, jabbing a spatula in my direction. "You said you'd eat it."

"I did try," I mutter, already retreating toward the coffee cabinet. "It's like chewing sadness."

"It's healthy for you."

"It tastes like dry betrayal."

"You mix it with jam."

"I ran out of jam."

She gasps, horrified. "You didn't tell me!"

I grunt something noncommittal and lean half my body onto the counter with more force than necessary. Rachel leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching both of us like we're a live play.

Twilight doesn't seem to notice. She turns back to the stove, humming once in satisfaction. "Well, lucky for you, I made extras. And this time, I added syrup to the batter."

"…Thanks," I say flatly, unsure what else to offer.

Twilight hums like she's just solved a friendship problem, then gestures to the table with a flourish. "Sit! Eat! There's plenty."

I mumble something indistinct, dragging myself to the nearest chair. The sheer volume of hay-based… things… on display makes my stomach tighten with existential dread. Rachel, however, doesn't follow me. Instead, she pushes off the doorframe with a kind of stubborn purpose and glides straight past Twilight to the stove.

Twilight blinks at her, spatula halfway to a plate. "Um… Rachel?"

Rachel doesn't answer. She shoulders Twilight aside—gently, but with the unmistakable solidity of a boulder—and starts rummaging through the cupboards. Her stone fingers fumble with a bag of flour, measuring cups, the egg carton. She does everything with a stiff, exaggerated patience.

Twilight shoots me a pleading look, like I can somehow explain Rachel's behavior. I just shrug and start picking at a hay muffin. Twilight tries to intervene—"Oh, I already made pancakes!"—but Rachel ignores her, hunching over the mixing bowl with silent, single-minded focus.

Ah...

I hide my smirk behind a cup of coffee. There's something unreasonably cute about Rachel being jealous.

She sits beside me, piling eggs and hay hash on my plate. "So, Kinetic, I was thinking! If you want, we can stop by the bookstore. Then maybe the new weather exhibit at the museum, and if we have time—there's a lecture at the university this afternoon. I have our route mapped out and I even packed us a lunch, if you promise to behave during the lecture."

I stare at her, blearily chewing haycake, and try to remember what it was like to have mornings that didn't start with a social agenda.

It does sound fine, I suppose. I would have been bored today anyway.

"I promise, " I finally mutter, fully planning on breaking it.

She nods once, plowing forward with the list, voice way too perky for the hour.

Meanwhile, Rachel is still at the stove, methodically pouring thick batter onto the griddle. Every movement is measured, mechanical. The pancake she turns over is—well. Lumpy. Misshapen. Slightly gray, from too much flour and not enough mixing.

Twilight eyes it nervously, but Rachel doesn't even look up. She finishes, slides the sorry thing onto a plate, and marches over to me with a slow, deliberate step. She sets the plate down, her hinged jaw not quite aligned—a subtle, smug angle to her face as she meets Twilight's eyes, as if daring her to comment.

I stare at the pancake. It looks… sad. Like someone tried to reassemble breakfast from memory and got distracted halfway through.

I prod it with a fork. "What's in this?"

Rachel's eyelids drop to half-mast. "Egg. Flour. Milk. Oil. Sugar." A pause. "Vanilla."

I glance at Twilight, who shrugs, half-concerned, half-baffled.

I sniff the pancake. It smells like pain.

"Is it going to kill me?"

Rachel tilts her head, blank and smug. "No. Eat."

She's insistent—more than usual. The look in her eyes dares me to refuse.

I sigh, and, with all the dignity I can muster, take a bite.

It's… edible. Heavy. Tastes faintly of vanilla and pride.

Rachel stares at me, eyelids rising just a millimeter—her version of a triumphant grin.

I chew, swallow, and nod. "Not bad."

Rachel turns her head just slightly, meeting Twilight's gaze with what I can only call a smug silence.

Twilight blinks, completely lost. "Um… Should I… make more?"

Rachel's jaw hinges open, tongue curling in satisfaction.

"Mine. Better," she says, voice almost a whisper, and glides to sit on the floor beside my chair.

Twilight looks at me, baffled. "Did… she just—?"

I shrug, mouth full of pancake. "Rachel's having a morning, too."

Rachel doesn't look away from Twilight.

How silly.

After breakfast, I'm still chewing the last of Rachel's pancake—trying not to dwell on the density—when Twilight hops up, brushing crumbs off her chest.

She beams at me, almost vibrating with plans. "Okay! You ready?" She floats my saddlebags over, already buckled and packed. "Let's go! First stop, the bookstore. We'll have time if we leave now—"

I don't move. I just raise an eyebrow, making a show of glancing between her, the door, and the table.

"Why would I go?" I deadpan.

Twilight freezes, one hoof halfway through the shoulder strap of her bag. "Wha—What? Did I do it again? But… you said… I… I thought—" Her ears wilt. For a second, she looks genuinely wounded.

I let the silence stretch just long enough for her to get worried. Then, despite myself, my mouth quirks at the corners. The world's smallest smile.

She squints, realization dawning. "You're messing with me!" She points an accusing hoof. "You—you jerk!"

I shrug, trying for innocent. "I would never."

Twilight narrows her eyes, but there's a flush in her cheeks. Then, without warning, she grabs my tail in her aura and starts dragging me toward the door, hooves skittering. "Out. Now. You promised!"

"Promises are mutable," I say, digging my heels in, mostly for show. "Like states of matter—"

She just yanks harder, not even breaking stride.

Rachel rises as soon as we move. She glides silently after us, looming just close enough to make Twilight nervous.

Twilight glances back, hesitating at the door. "Oh! Um. Rachel, maybe today should just be, you know… the two of us?"

Rachel stops in the doorway, eyelids dropping into a heavy-lidded, unimpressed stare. Her jaw clicks open, tongue working as she shapes her reply. "No."

She glances at Twilight, then at me. "Need me. He gets… overwhelmed." Her tone is so dry it might crumble.

Twilight offers a smile so strained it might snap in half. "O-of course! The more the merrier, right?"

Rachel's eyes narrow, just a sliver. Satisfied.

Twilight spins back to me, determined to reclaim her cheerful momentum. "Come on! Daylight's wasting! And if we miss the lecture, you know you'll regret it."

She sounds almost giddy again.

I let myself be dragged, not even pretending to resist this time.

Rachel follows at my heels. Twilight throws me a sideways grin—triumph, exasperation, and hope all bundled together.

The bookstore is a wedge of morning sun and dust motes, the smell of old paper thick in the air. Twilight leads the charge, immediately diving for the "Science & Curiosities" shelf. I follow, if only because she's still loosely got my tail, and Rachel ghosts in after us, drifting between aisles with arms folded and that statuesque, slightly predatory way she has when she's bored.

Twilight holds up a stack of books for my inspection, each cover a riot of color and enthusiastic fonts:

"A Beginner's Guide to Alchemy"

"Natural Science"

"Stargazing for Smart Ponies"

"The History of Unicorn Teleportation"

"Weather-Making: Theory and Practice"

"Equestrian Mechanics"

She cycles through them one by one, thrusting each into my field of view. "What about this? Or this? Oh, this one's illustrated!"

I eye the "Natural Science" volume, which looks like it was written by candlelight and illustrated by a pony with three hooves. "This is your science book?" I flip it open, scanning the first few pages. The table of contents lists things like What Clouds Are Made Of and Why the Moon Likes the Night.

Twilight beams. "I thought we could compare it to your world's science! Isn't that fascinating?"

I keep flipping. reading the chapter headings out loud:

'The Great Gravity Debate: Is It Magic?'

'If the World Is Flat, Where Do Rainbows Go?'

'Celestial Orbs: Solid or Jelly?'

I can't help myself—I snort. "That's the debate?"

Twilight's ears flick back, defensive. "It's a serious theory! Some unicorns say the sun is constantly moving due to the solar currents. The movement is observable to the eye with an image enhancement spell, provided you use a spell to protect your eyes. There's a whole movement about it."

I try not to laugh. I really do. Plasma vs jelly rolling around in my head. I manage a straight face as I flip to the next section: Gravity: The Push or the Pull? There's an adorable hoof-drawn diagram of an apple hovering above a pony's head, surrounded by question marks.

I read a bit. Apparently, in Equestria, gravity is the world's gentle nudge, possibly caused by "magical earth currents," or, in one bold hoofnote, "the will of Harmony herself."

Twilight sidles closer, clearly waiting for my commentary.

I raise an eyebrow. "So, the leading theory is that gravity is magic?"

She nods. "Well, yes. Or currents. Or—well, there are lots of ideas! Nopony's proven it. It's not like we have… equations for this stuff. Not yet. Unless you do?"

She's looking at me like she expects me to pull an answer from thin air.

I mean, I do have the formulas. But I feel like if I indulge her, she's won.

So I go for something simpler.

I set the book down and lean on the shelf. "Gravity is… spacetime curvature."

She blinks. "What?"

I try to keep it simple. "Everything with mass bends space and time around it. The bigger it is, the more it curves space, and that's what pulls things toward it. The planets, the sun—anything heavy enough. It isn't magic, just… the way the universe works. Even light follows those curves. You don't need magic—just mass."

She stares, eyes wide and sparkling, brain firing off in a dozen directions. "Space and time… bend?"

"Yup, picture a giant rubber sheet. Put something heavy on it, it makes a dip. Smaller things roll toward the dip. That's gravity. The bigger the thing, the bigger the dip. The sun, for example, keeps all the planets in orbit that way. And the moon around the world, too."

Twilight chews her lip, frowning so hard her whole brow crinkles. "But… Celestia moves the sun."

I don't even sigh anymore. This argument is older than dirt. "Sure, sure," I say, voice flat with practiced indifference. "Celestia moves the sun. Of course."

She notices the sarcasm. "Hey, don't just shut down! She does! I've seen her do it! Every Summer Sun Celebration since I was little. I can show you—there are records, and witnesses, and—"

I wave a hoof, flipping a page for the show of it. "If you say so."

Twilight puffs her cheeks out, looking one wrong word away from a lecture. Then she seems to realize I'm not looking to debate, and all the wind goes out of her sails. She huffs, muttering under her breath, and grabs a few more books off the display. "Honestly. You're so stubborn," she grumbles.

I grin, satisfied.

Rachel drifts up beside me, silent and deliberate, and plucks a picture book from the lowest shelf—a ridiculous thing, all bright colors and hearts. She holds it up to my muzzle, waggling it for emphasis. "Buy."

I arch an eyebrow. "Why?"

She gives the most exaggerated shrug I've ever seen from a statue, tucks the book, then flashes her stone fingers in a mock heart shape. "Because you love me."

I sigh and snatch the book from under her arm. "You know that a little too well."

Rachel glides away, arms folded, triumphant.

I catch a flicker of green in my peripheral vision—Twilight, eyeing us with the briefest flash of something ugly before she straightens her posture and beams at me, sunny as ever. She adds her books to my stack and nudges me gently toward the counter, innocent as anything.

I shake my head, but let myself be herded. She presses close as we check out, already babbling about which book to read first and what she'll ask Celestia next time she visits.

Rachel's new book ends up on top of the pile, and she looks insufferably pleased.

Before I can even reach for my bits, Twilight's already paid. The books vanish into her saddlebag with practiced speed. She beams at me, satisfied, then sweeps us toward the door, herding me and Rachel into the sunlight before I can protest.

She keeps chattering as she leads us down the street, through a ripple of crowds and into the wide, marble-pillared front of the museum. The air inside is cool, smelling faintly of stone and old parchment. Rachel keeps just close enough to brush against my side, always perfectly between me and Twilight.

We move through the first hall, lined with ancient, glass-eyed portraits and dusty displays. Twilight practically bounces ahead, her voice bright.

She gestures to the first exhibit, an old cloak and a battered spellbook under glass. "This was the cloak of the greatest apprentice of the age—Clover the Clever. He was Starswirl's protégé and helped unite the tribes during the first Hearth's Warming."

I study the cloak, poking at the glass with a hoof. "Clover. Right. And you're sure about that?"

Twilight nods, already getting ready to launch into another lecture.

I tilt my head, deadpan. "Are you sure he didn't prefer the nickname 'Minty' in his early years?"

She falters, ears flicking. "I… no? I don't think so. I've never seen that in any record."

I give her an innocent look. "Strange. Must've read that somewhere."

Twilight looks faintly alarmed, but I'm already moving on, grinning to myself.

Next, we reach a grand statue: a bearded unicorn, stars embroidered on his robes, standing tall and imposing. Twilight's voice softens in reverence. "Starswirl the Bearded. He basically invented modern magic theory—spells, time travel, portal magic—"

I nod thoughtfully, circling the statue. "Sure, sure. What was his second cousin's name again?"

She freezes, mouth open. "What? He didn't—why would I—nopony knows that! Did he even have a cousin?"

I shrug, noncommittal. "Seems like the kind of thing you should know."

She shakes her head, cheeks puffed, but keeps leading us forward.

We stop at a display dedicated to a well-built earth pony, surrounded by ancient farm tools and thick tomes. Twilight straightens up, pride radiating from her. "Here we have Marble Drive, the pioneer of mechanical engineering in Equestria—she designed the first windmill, and her journals laid the groundwork for earth pony science."

I eye the tools, then smirk at Twilight. "But really, do you remember what her favorite breakfast was?"

Twilight's jaw drops. "I—How would anypony know that?!"

I nod, serious as stone. "It's important to the science."

Twilight's eye twitches. She grabs my shoulder and steers me—firmly—toward the next section before I can keep going.

We reach a wide mural of two regal alicorns—one painted with an ancient, hasty brush, the other's edges still fresh and gleaming, like she was added in a rush. Twilight stops, letting her voice get soft again. "Of course, you know Princess Celestia, ruler of Equestria for a thousand years. And after Luna's return, her story was restored—now, they rule together, side by side."

I look thoughtful. "Sure, sure. But wasn't Celestia originally named 'Sunshine Stardust' before the coronation?"

Twilight narrows her eyes, and I catch the exact moment she realizes what I'm doing. "Okay, now you're just making things up!"

I grin, victorious. "Whatever do you mean, dearest?"

She immediately reddens in anger, she tries to stutter out a response, but she can't seem to get the words out.

Rachel edges in close, planting herself squarely between me and Twilight. She reaches up with her stone fingers and, without a word, starts gently scratching behind my ear.

I melt. It's not fair—she knows exactly where to find the spot. I lean into it, a shiver of contentment running down my neck.

Twilight clears her throat, loudly.

I stiffen, ears burning. "Rachel, don't do that in public."

She doesn't even pause, tilting her head with stone-faced sass. "Will, if feel like."

Twilight huffs, cheeks flushed with irritation. "We, um—if we want to make it to the university lecture, we should leave now."

Rachel drops her hand, but only after one last smug scratch. I drag myself upright, still tingling, and give Twilight a look that says lead the way.

She does. Rachel stays right between us all the way out.

As soon as we leave the museum, she's marching straight for the edge of town, practically radiating nervous energy. Rachel stalks at my side, arms folded, blocking Twilight whenever she tries to drift too close.

After a block, Twilight glances at me with a sheepish little smile. "Sooo… Kinetic, you know that lecture starts in around an hour, right?"

I grunt. "Yeah."

She nods, a bit too quickly, ears flicking back. "And you know there's no train to Canterlot for another three hours."

I stop, fixing her with a look. "Twilight. Are you about to admit you're banking on me using my magic slab to get you there on time?"

She looks guilty, but stands her ground. "I just thought it would be the most efficient method! Besides, you love flying it. And it's so much faster than—"

I raise an eyebrow, letting my lips twist into a smirk. "Twilight, I knew you only wanted me for my magic."

She deadpans. "Just go get it."

I snort and fish the key out of my pocket as we approach my house. The H.A.R.D.I.S. sits where it always does. I unlock the door, stepping inside.

In the far corner of the main room, I spot the battered box. I reach out with my magic, hauling it over and dropping it with a thud outside the house. Rachel and Twilight watch as I open it and begin slotting the stone fragments together. Each piece clicks into place—edges fusing, grains rearranging as I coax the atoms into alignment. A flat, broad slab with three seats takes shape. The only spots of color are two deep-set rubies, each one pulsing softly with stored energy.

I step back, wiping imaginary sweat from my brow, and give the stone a once-over. Then, with my best "serious wizard" voice, I say, "On."

The runes etched into the surface flare, humming as the slab lifts a few inches from the floor.

Rachel is the first to climb on, movements perfectly balanced. I go next. My artificial right hoof twitches, adjusting automatically as the height changes. For a second, I stumble—old muscle memory clashing with newish hardware—but I settle into my seat with a grunt.

Twilight hops up last, giddy despite herself. "You know, I still think you could patent this. Revolutionize travel."

I snort. "That sounds suspiciously like work."

She squints, "Everything sounds like work to you."

Once everyone's in place, I lean back and mutter, "Up. Northeast."

The slab rises smoothly, angling toward the windows as I guide it out the open door and into the sky, leaving the odd little shack and the rest of Ponyville behind. Rachel folds her arms and sits stoically at my side, while Twilight leans forward, mane whipping in the wind, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

---

The world falls away beneath us as Canterlot comes into view, the city gleaming in the distance.

We arc over the mountain's edge, skimming the cloud line. The slab hums beneath us, smooth as glass, runes flickering along its edge. Canterlot is brilliant in the morning—ivory towers and golden domes rising out of the cliffs like something half-remembered from a storybook.

Twilight practically vibrates beside me, eyes locked on the approaching university. She points, jabbing her hoof toward a sprawl of old stone buildings clustered just below the castle itself. "There! Land by the north lawn—the one with the big sun dial!"

I nudge the slab down, adjusting the angle with a nudge of my aura. The runes respond instantly, and we glide in for a landing, barely stirring the grass as we settle. Rachel hops off first, landing with that heavy thud only stone can make.

Twilight's already halfway to the doors, not even waiting to see if we're following. Rachel and I share a glance—hers unreadable as always—and we trail after her through columns and wide, echoing hallways.

I finally catch up, falling in at Twilight's side as she starts prattling about the day's schedule.

"So, what's this lecture actually about?" I ask, more to distract myself from the glaring, judging statues in the entryway than out of genuine curiosity.

Twilight bounces on her hooves, unable to hide her giddiness. "You'll love it! There's a new rune mage professor this year—he's unveiling a brand new creation. Nopony knows what it is yet, it's all very hush hush." She lowers her voice, conspiratorial. "Rumor is, it's something that'll change everything for the university. Some ponies even think he's breaking tradition."

I snort, eyebrow rising. "A rune mage showing off? Be still my heart. I can't wait to see what passes for 'groundbreaking' these days."

Twilight laughs. "I mean it! Even I couldn't get any details from the faculty. It's all top secret. The last time I was this excited was… well, when you showed me Rachel."

Rachel puffs up, clearly proud. "Am Great. Know."

I try to hide my intrigue, but I'm sure she sees right through me. It's my field, after all. I'm curious—how far along are the other rune mages? At the archmage exam, most of the so-called "advanced" runes were pretty basic, even if the effects were flashy enough for a crowd. Sure, the elemental turrets were impressive—lots of sparks and noise—but the logic was… primitive. They seem farther along with spells. I still haven't forgiven the invincible door trick. Not a rune at all, just the professors holding it together with active magic. All to teach me about "asking for help." Or "trust." Or some other group-bonding bullshit.

Rachel lingers just behind us, stone feet echoing as we pass under the stained-glass windows. She makes a point of inserting herself between me and Twilight every time the hallway narrows. I can't tell if she's being protective or just petty.

The lecture hall doors swing open before us, spilling out the noise of dozens of students already buzzing about the professor's "revelation." Twilight all but drags me to the front, Rachel shadowing me like a gargoyle.

I settle into my seat and let myself wonder what I might actually see today.

 

[Riddlest]

The hall dims. Murmurs fade under the hush of stage-lamps blossoming to life. A Brown, short haired unicorn in a sharp charcoal robe strides onto the dais, chin high, voice already filling the rafters.

"Colleagues. Students. Patrons of the future. I am Dr. Octneighvius" He projects, each word polished. "Today, theory ceases to be timid. Today, we build the world we deserve."

Twilight practically levitates in her seat. Rachel plants a hand on my withers like a paperweight.

The curtain draws back. On a wheeled plinth sits a stone cradle etched in dense, interlocking rune-lines, two thick conduits snaking out to a steel collar around a crystal-smooth sphere of… nothing. An absence held in a lattice of glyphs. Along the rim I spot old, angular sigils—the same pattern-language I've been working with.

The professor sweeps a hoof. "Behold: a continuous aspect-harvester and containment lattice. Where once we relied on crude storage rubies, we now weave a vessel that is its own engine—an artificial sun, bound and gentle, seated directly upon the device it feeds. No gems. No scarcity. Only will, form, and law."

I feel my eyebrow climb on its own. I am, against my better judgment, curious.

His horn lets out a light that looks suspiciously like a laser pointer against a schematic, runes magnified across the wall. "We will draw the stellar aspect through ANNU and ZHAL, braid it with SIG for coherence, then confine the resultant luminant in a toroidal lumen using BIND and CAGE. Regulation is achieved by a negative feedback mesh—MODER—attuned to temperature and stress. Elegant. Deterministic."

Somepony that actually knows what runes mean? I thought that position was reserved for madmen and myself.

He gestures, almost tenderly, to the sphere. "The power of the sun… in the pads of my hoof."

I frown.

The students gasp. Twilight claps once giddily and then glances at me and remembers to be dignified. I just squint at the code panel he unveils on a slate to his side. It's commented, to his credit.

I read:

INITIALIZE
core_energy = 0
containment_strength = 0
harvesting = false
deliver_power = false
runtime_seconds = 0
MAX_TEMP = 1200 // assumed safe for stone lattice
MAX_STRESS = 850 // mapped via STRESS_RUNE
MAX_RUNTIME = 180 // seconds (safety window)
DETECT & DEMAND
demand = sense(downstream_load) // range 0..1 (unitless)
ambient_aspect = sample(ANNU, ZHAL) // stellar aspect influx proxy
STARTUP RUNE
if heard("ignite"):
→ harvesting = true
→ deliver_power = true
→ weave(BIND, CAGE) // initialize torus
→ set(containment_strength, 100) // baseline field %
HARVEST LOOP (tick = 1s)
if harvesting:
→ inflow = tap_aspect(ambient_aspect) * 1.25
→ core_energy += inflow
→ // Containment scales with stored energy (!!!)
→ containment_strength = clamp(containment_strength + (core_energy * 0.02), 0, 1000)
→ // Compression raises temperature; use simple proportional form
→ temp = sense_temp() + (containment_strength * 0.4)
→ stress = sense_stress() + (containment_strength * 0.3)
→ // Deliver power proportional to demand (but minimum trickle 5%)
→ outflow = max(core_energy * demand, core_energy * 0.05)
→ route_power(outflow)
→ core_energy -= outflow
→ // "Stabilizer" uses moving average
→ stability = avg(last_120_samples(temp, stress)) // 2 minutes window
→ // Feedback: reinforce if "stable enough"
→ if stability < (MAX_TEMP * 0.9) and stability < (MAX_STRESS * 0.9):
→ reinforce(BIND, CAGE, factor = 1.15) // multiplies containment
→ containment_strength *= 1.15
→ // Bleed only when over nominal
→ if stability > (MAX_TEMP * 0.95) or stability > (MAX_STRESS * 0.95):
→ bleed_to_ground(core_energy * 0.01) // 1% per tick
→ runtime_seconds += 1
FAILSAFES
if temp > MAX_TEMP or stress > MAX_STRESS:
→ say("Thermal excursion detected; initiating gentle cool-down.")
→ harvesting = false
→ // keep containment active "to protect structure"
→ schedule(bleed_to_ground(core_energy * 0.02), delay=180) // waits 3 minutes (!)
→ // deliver_power remains true to avoid "brownout"
→ // no immediate vent / quench
AUTO-SHUT TIMER
if runtime_seconds > MAX_RUNTIME:
→ say("Safety timer reached; maintaining containment for cool-down.")
→ harvesting = false
→ // containment stays as-is; no reduction routine

Click to shrink...

I don't even get through the second pass before my skin crawls.

Problems stack in my head like falling tiles:

He scales containment with core_energy directly, not with measured stress—so the stronger the store gets, the harder he squeezes it, which heats it, which raises stress, which his moving average will smooth until it's too late. Positive feedback disguised as "stability."

The "stability" metric averages 120 seconds, so any rapid excursion in the last few seconds is invisible to the logic that decides whether to reinforce or bleed. He's literally teaching it to ignore spikes.

Outflow is pegged to demand with a 5% minimum, but if demand is low, energy accumulates relentlessly. No adaptive throttling of inflow; harvesting is a fixed gain on ambient aspect every tick.

The failsafe stops harvesting but leaves the vise clamped—and delays the bleed for three minutes. Three minutes of hot, over-compressed lumen with nowhere to go.

The safety timer cuts harvest but never unwinds containment. No quench path. No cold sink. No shunt to a dumping lattice. Just a glowing bomb politely waiting to be a glowing crater.

I stand up.

Rachel stands when I do, hand already on my shoulder. Twilight jerks to look at me. Onstage, the professor notices the movement, and something brittle slides into his smile.

"Ah," he says, voice sharpening, "we have dissent before demonstration. You there—stallion—are you lost? This is not remedial theory."

"I'm leaving," I say. Calm. "You're about to make a very bright mistake."

Laughter ripples. He bristles. "My lattice was audited by three committees. It replaces gems with a bound luminant—an orderly torus of collected aspect, a sunseed, contained in perfect isophase. We harvest from the heavens by law, not by chance. Sit. Learn."

I tilt my head at the slate. "Your containment strengthens proportional to stored energy instead of measured stress. Your stability window is two minutes long, so you'll never see the last ten seconds until they've already happened. Your bleed is delayed. Your 'gentle' cool-down is a kiln."

He flushes, then forces composure. "The negative feedback mesh ensures moderation. The MODER rune does not fail. Aspect inflow is tame. You insult craft with superstition."

"Show me the quench."

Silence.

Twilight's hoof touches my fetlock under the bench. Worried. Rachel's other hand settles between my shoulders, anchoring.

The professor lifts his chin. "We proceed. You'll forgive me if I trust mathematics over… anxiety."

On the dais, he places both hooves on the braid-stone. The room holds its breath.

"Ignite," he commands.

Runes answer. ANNU and ZHAL wake like dawn, thin auroral threads siphoning through the lattice. The empty sphere blooms—first a pearl, then a soft, caged orb. Numbers scroll on his slate. Students lean forward. Twilight does too, eyes wide, terrified and thrilled.

I back toward the aisle.

I murmur to Twilight, "We're going."

The professor's voice fattens with triumph. "Observe: a luminant torus of perfect obedience. No gem. No loss. Clean, inexhaustible aspect, woven and kept."

Rachel is already guiding me toward the doors. Twilight hesitates, torn, then scrambles after us with an apologetic look over her shoulder.

Behind us, his voice rises, hot with vindication. "The power of the sun... In the pads of my hoof!"

The sphere brightens. The numbers jump again. The average smiles its stupid, smoothed smile. The bleed timer, somewhere in that code, starts its pointless countdown.

The little sun blooms.

It starts as a pearl. Then the surface crawls—granules, convection cells, a skinned-knee shimmer turning to white-hot velvet. Filaments unfurl, arcing to kiss the inside of the ring where BIND and CAGE glow a stern blue. For a heartbeat, the lattice holds. The runes along the plinth answer, lighting in time with the sphere's pulse.

It's… pretty.

The glow thickens. The numbers on his slate jump and jump again. The average line smiles its slow, stupid smile while the last few samples climb like a cliff.

The air tilts.

Quills skitter across desks toward the dais. Trinkets tug. A bracelet lifts off a mare's hoof and scrapes along the floor. The front row leans forward against their will, eyes huge. The professor slides a half-hoof toward his machine and pretends it's on purpose.

"Keep calm," he announces, jaw tight, tone ironed flat. "A harmless spike. The feedback will equalize momentarily."

A flare breaks containment.

It licks through the ring—just a hair—then blooms outside, a smaller braid of white that shouldn't be there. It hangs for a breath like a question mark, then fattens.

I light my horn.

Grain Displacement, pressure riding the boundaries where the lattice lines run. I pick the nearest feed—one of the conduits carrying coherence from SIG into the torus—and step into the aisle.

"What are you doing?" the professor snarls, voice finally cracking. His aura spikes; the air smells like hot copper.

"Pulling the plug."

He rips a desk out of the floor and flings it at my head.

Rachel is motion and angles; she snaps forward, palms up, catches the desk with a grunt of grinding stone, pivots, and hurls it aside. It shatters against the far wall in a spray of splinters.

Twilight's shield blossoms over the crowd. "Everypony out!" she shouts, voice steady, chin up. "Orderly! Single file! Keep to the walls!" She doesn't so much ask as command, her magic sweeping benches aside, her shield flaring as a stray spark pops against it. The students move, stumbling, coughing, but they move. Doors slam open, sunlight knifes into the dim.

The sun swells again. The pull grows. The professor's robe hems drag across the floor toward the plinth.

I reach the dais. I follow the runes, trying not to cause an issue by deleting the wrong rune. Stone flows like sand under pressure; the groove bites into the SIG feed—

"Stop!" he barks, horn blazing. "It's my life's work!"

"It's about to be everyone's last lecture."

He stomps a hoof. Runes wake under the stage—warding sigils packed into the floor like landmines. Pillars along the walls irise open with a grind and cough fire into life—elemental turrets, clumsy but effective, swiveling toward me and Twilight both.

"Evacuate!" Twilight barks again, throwing a second shield at the back doors, splitting her focus without flinching. The last of the students spill into the corridor. The room empties down to four: me, Twilight, Rachel—and the professor.

He slams a hoof into a hidden panel. A blanket of runes flashes across the ceiling and drops like rain—DAMP, NULL, QUIET—a suppression net.

Rachel's eyes go dim mid-stride. She folds like a marionette with cut strings, hitting the floor in a heavy kneel that rattles the seats. "Rachel!" I lunge—but my horn goes cold, my telekinesis vanishes like a bridge knocked out from under me. Numbness. Empty.

The little sun doesn't care.

The sphere grows brighter—too bright. The flickering edges of the torus shudder, the hum shifting pitch into a whine like boiling metal. The professor, still clinging to his plinth, lifts a hoof and raises his voice again.

"You see! All of you! The radiance is controlled! A new dawn for magical engineering! No more gems! No more dependency on mineral harvests! No—"

A filament lashes outward like a whip.

It slams into his horn with a hiss of white heat.

The sound he makes is a wet, tearing screech—cut off mid-breath as he collapses, spasming as the severed horn glows bright red, then dulls. The smell is nauseating: scorched bone and cauterized nerve.

He doesn't move after that.

Just lies twitching at the base of his "life's work."

The torus pulses once. Twice.

Too bright. Too unstable.

I brace for the worst.

Then—fwump.

A containment field blooms around the entire construct—an elegant, silent compression of gold-white energy that seals the machine like a lid on a boiling pot. I feel it instantly—my magic returns in a flood, rushing back into my horn like air after drowning.

Rachel's stone fingers twitch on the floor. Her head lifts slowly, eyes relighting one segment at a time.

"That's quite enough of that," says a calm, velvet voice behind me.

The room cools.

Princess Celestia walks in. Her golden regalia barely makes a sound as she approaches the flickering containment dome, studying it as if it were a roach on the floor.

"What a shame," she says, eyes still on the flickering artifact. "Brilliant, perhaps. But lacking in the kind of sense we call common—a deficit not unheard of among our more gifted minds."

Her horn glows, and with the gentle grace of a sculptor, she begins crossing out the active runes inside the shield—careful and efficient, never touching the core directly. The sun, robbed of its form, gutters like a candle and fizzles out, dissipating into a soft hiss and motes of harmless light.

I glance at the ceiling, where the suppressive DAMP, NULL, and QUIET runes still sat. Now they're crossed out. In perfect, razor-thin slashes.

My ears flick. "You projected magic through the suppression field?"

Celestia gives me the faintest smile. "A common oversight of that particular design: rune-based suppression only applies to magic projected from within. Not outside. A subtle difference often exploited."

When I turn back to the device, Luna is there—like she teleported in when I blinked. She pokes at the deactivated plinth with her silver-shod hoof, then snorts.

"I know not why he sought to replace rubies in the first place," she declares, as though the idea is inherently absurd. "They do just fine. And they are far prettier."

I smirk despite myself.

Then I sway.

My balance slips for just a moment—between the magic crash, the field suppression, and the mental strain of calculating how close that thing came to cracking, I'm more drained than I thought.

Luna sees it.

Before I can recover, she's already lifting me with her forelegs. She pulls me close. Publicly.

"Ah, thou art weakened!" she declares dramatically, nuzzling the top of my head like I'm a cold puppy. "Thy bravery nearly cost thee thy life! A valiant stallion, overburdened by his own brilliance!"

Not again.

"Luna—Luna no—"

"Shhh, hush now," she says, rubbing her cheek against mine. "We shall carry thee to safety. It is thine earned rest."

"I have legs," I mutter into her chest. "They work. I checked. Hell, I made one of them. "

Twilight stares, open-mouthed. A sort of fire is in her eyes. Bright, just barely hidden behind a wobbly smile. Rachel looks even less amused—arms crossed, stone face unreadable, but her foot taps the floor like a clock wound too tight.

I try to pry Luna's forelegs off, but she simply tightens her grip, a smug glint in her eyes.

Celestia glances toward the unconscious professor, now being moved gently onto a stretcher by a medical team.

"The damage was… severe." she says quietly, mostly to me. "He will not be jailed."

I glance back. Where his horn was is black at the base. Scorched.

"Horns can grow back," I murmur.

Celestia nods. "Yes. But not his. Not after that. Magic, for him, is gone. I suspect… that is punishment enough."

I don't argue. I'm too tired.

Luna cradles me like some kind of wounded war prize, and I'm too tired to push her off without making a scene. I let my head fall back against her shoulder with a sigh.

"Thou art safe now, noble Kinetic," Luna coos, entirely too pleased with herself. "And valor is best rewarded with immediate praise," Luna finishes, still hugging me like a trophy.

Twilight clears her throat, gaze flicking from the inert lattice to the stretcher. "The runes themselves… would have been a wonderful invention," she says softly. "It's sad he failed."

I rub my face against Luna's peytral, mostly to free my mouth. "It'd work, in theory." I say, too offhand for my own good. "With some adjustments."

Celestia's attention snaps to me like a compass to north. "Which adjustments?"

My ears flatten. "Ah. Hypothetical adjustments."

A patient look from her that says she can wait all day.

I fumble. "I'm… not faculty."

"We can fix that," she says lightly. "Adjunct, if you prefer freedom."

"I don't have a lab."

"You may use mine."

"I'm very busy."

"With what?" A tilt of her head that somehow removes the ground from under excuses.

"I promised myself no more containment experiments this week."

"We can begin next week."

"I'd need a safety team that isn't… committee-blind."

"I will assign one. Personally."

I open my mouth, realize I'm out of runway, close it again—and look for rescue.

Twilight's face has gone from soft concern to something hard-edged. Her smile dies in stages. The set of her jaw changes. I've never seen her look at Celestia like that. It's anger. A precise, surgical kind that makes my skin prickle.

Celestia draws breath, ready to peel apart my next flimsy objection—

—and Luna cuts in. "Sister. Thou wouldst not press him into needless peril anew… wouldst thou? Pray, look upon the scholar."

Celestia follows Luna's chin.

Twilight's eyes are steady. All that tidy fury points straight up the chain of command.

Celestia's gaze shifts. Her posture falters. Her ears flatten, and she flinches like a foal caught reaching in a cookie jar.

"I…" Celestia exhales, then gives me a small, careful look. "Kinetic. Forgive me."

The apology lands heavily.

"When you offer those… flimsy little defenses," she continues, quieter, "it is strangely—" her mouth twitches, almost embarrassed by herself, "—fun to dismantle them. I fall into it. Instinct, perhaps."

Twilight's expression doesn't soften yet. It stays sharp, protective.

Celestia lowers her head a fraction. "That was unkind. You have done enough."

Luna seems satisfied with that. She pivots, and the tension in the room shifts with her, as if she grabbed it by the scruff and moved it elsewhere.

"And now," Luna declares, bright again, "since there is no longer a sun attempting to devour the university, I would like to… as the foals say… 'hang out' with thee."

I blink. "...W-What?"

Luna adjusts her grip lightly. I try, weakly, to wriggle free, but it's like being cradled by velvet-wrapped iron.

"I merely desire to 'hang'," she repeats, pleased with her own phrasing. "We have not done so properly since before thy unfortunate encounter with Cadance..."

I wince.

Twilight steps forward, carefully upbeat. "We were actually here to—well, I was going to take him to—"

Luna has already turned and started walking, guiding me forward. "Wonderful. Then thou shalt accompany us. We go now to partake in sugar and conversation."

Twilight follows, fretting at the edges. "I just thought we were going to spend time—"

"Indeed! And now we shall," Luna says over her shoulder.

Rachel brings up the rear, silent as usual, though the scrape of her stone fingers drumming against her own arm doesn't sound especially friendly.

Luna sets me down and closely guides me straight into Canterlot's lower quarter. A few ponies glance our way. Apparently, seeing me snug against a princess is a spectacle.

We arrive at a familiar storefront tucked between an apothecary and a weathered mapmaker's guild. The faded sign swings lazily overhead.

Donut Joe's.

Luna beams. "I have heard tale of this establishment. Twilight Sparkle doth swear by its honey twists."

"I said they were ok," Twilight mutters, but she opens the door anyway.

The inside smells like warm flour and oil, sharp-sweet glaze, and cinnamon. The stallion at the counter looks up from behind the counter and freezes a moment too long at the sight of two mares and a golem girl walking in around one stallion, one of whom is continually nudging him forward. To his credit, he says nothing.

Luna finally stops us at a booth near the back. Rachel slides in next to me like a closing vault door. Twilight sits on the other side.

Luna perches at the head of the table like she's holding court, staring down the worker. "I desire one full set of each."

Joe blinks. "One dozen of everything?"

"Aye."

Twilight orders a jelly filled chocolate covered doughnut. Rachel points at a chocolate-glazed ring. Joe hesitates, looking at me. I nod, and he takes the order for two of them.

I go for a lemon-filled.

It's a bit lopsided, and the filling's not clear like the processed stuff we have on Earth. More golden. I bite in—and it's soft, bright. The flavor spreads, simple and a bit more tart than I'm used to.

It's not bad.

I pause longer than I mean to. Then I hum around the second bite, which is a mistake because Luna immediately catches it.

"Thou enjoyest it."

I nod.

She looks downright pleased.

Twilight eyes me over her cup. "I didn't know you liked lemon."

I wipe a bit of filling from my lip. Then I raise my chin, put on my most obnoxious pout, "There's a lot you don't know about me."

Rachel makes a noise like stone grinding. Luna chuckles heartily.

Twilight doesn't smile back. She studies me for a moment too long before finally sipping her tea and looking away.

Rachel, across from me, picks up her donut, turns it over in her fingers, squishes it slightly, then sets it down again, staring. She's not built to eat. But she seems content just to be involved.

Spoiler: Rachel with her doughnuts

Luna settles into her seat now that everyone has their selections—or in Rachel's case, a donut being tenderly disassembled like a research specimen.

The royal's gaze drifts toward the window, the playfulness in her tone dimming. "The castle is… quiet these days," she says, mostly to the table. "Tis peaceful, but dull. Many servants do not speak to us beyond 'Yes, Princess,' or 'As you wish.' Some shiver. Others bow so low we wonder if they might fall and stay there."

Twilight stirs her tea. Her lips twitch, but she doesn't interrupt.

Luna sighs. "Night Court remains open. But it is hollow. Sparse. Though there are participants, we suspect our dear sister sends some of the petitioners herself, to spare us the indignity of an empty hall."

I glance up. "I'd think Night Court would be packed, considering how long the wait must be for Celestia."

"Exactly!" Luna slaps the table—not hard, just loud enough to jostle the tray. "We know! And yet, they wait days—days—to speak with our sister when we sit with an open docket, idle and prepared!"

Twilight sets her cup down. "Maybe they don't realize how much faster yours is," she offers gently. "It might be worth mentioning in the Canterlot Chronicle? A small poster? Something like… 'skip the line—Night Court answers tonight'?"

Luna blinks.

Then her eyes narrow. "This may be… a very good idea."

Twilight preens slightly, clearly pleased to have contributed.

Rachel, meanwhile, has used a chocolate glaze to draw something like a small runic diagram on her napkin with the side of her donut. Her creation is abstract, but there's a pattern to it—circles inside squares inside circles, a kind of recursive structure that makes my hindbrain itch.

She looks up, meets my eyes, then pushes the napkin toward me.

I nod, as solemnly as I can manage. "It's excellent. Perfect. I'm keeping this. It's going right on the fridge... Do I have a fridge?"

Rachel straightens. Her shoulders square proudly, even if her expression doesn't change.

Luna's levity returns a bit. "We are pleased thou enjoyest thine pastry. And thy company." She looks at me pointedly. "Even if the company must sometimes wrest thee from thine labors."

Twilight tries again, lightly this time: "Well, we were planning to spend some time together. Just the two of us."

Luna tilts her head, as if confused by the implication. "And now we are four. An auspicious number! The perfect size for a late brunch and political strategy session, is it not?"

Twilight presses her lips into a line. "Sure."

I finish the last bite of my donut and lean back, satisfied.

Luna watches me closely. Her mood's brighter now, even if something still lingers behind her eyes—a quiet shape, lonely and sharp.

The wind picks up a bit as we step outside Donut Joe's, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows down the polished stone streets. Luna walks a half-step ahead, clearly pleased with herself, her tone still lofty but softer now as she glances between buildings.

"I have found much to admire in this city," she says, half to herself. "Tis new to me, this Canterlot. We knew only forest and fortress before, in the age of Everfree. This place… it shines, even at night."

Twilight raises a brow. "You mean you've been wandering Canterlot?"

Luna lifts her chin. "We explore. Night walks are a balm, and we have learned the rhythm of this city from shadow, not summit." She turns slightly, looking back at me. "And now we shall show thee."

We trail her through narrow alleys that open into hidden gardens, ivy-covered arches, weather-worn statuary of ponies I don't recognize but she greets by name. She shows us a glassblower's workshop that glows with pink and amber light even from the street, and a little footbridge painted entirely in blues—wood, rails, and even the cobbled path across it—all done by hoof in a moonlit palette.

Rachel, in her usual quiet, seems more animated now—head turning, fingers occasionally brushing against textured walls or rusted gates. She stares at a display outside a toy shop for a full minute, watching clockwork figurines of star ponies dance in a tiny revolving dome.

At one plaza, Luna pauses before a stone circle where street performers are gathering.

A mare in a sapphire vest steps forward with a flourish, her horn glowing as she tosses a small cluster of beads into the air. They burst gently, and the fragments fall into an orbiting ring of shimmering lights. After a moment, she conjures tiny illusions that rotate between them: a fish, then a winged dog, then a pony doing backflips. The crowd claps. She bows.

Then she begins the "egg trick." A conjured egg levitates. She asks a foal in the front to name a fruit. "Banana!" the colt yells. She smirks. The egg hovers higher… cracks. And from it spills a tiny, steaming, perfect banana muffin that lands in the conjured paper bag already waiting below. The colt squeals.

Twilight's shoulders relax. She watches the routine with a faint smile. "That's classic Canterlot flair magic," she murmurs. "I used to try stuff like that after school."

I glance sideways. "Any muffin conjuring?"

She lifts her chin. "One. It didn't end well. Sprayed cinnamon into the curtains. Mom was so mad."

We watch a little longer. The magician makes a phoenix out of scarves. It bursts into flame and leaves behind a folded napkin in the shape of a bird. Rachel claps. It's slow and oddly timed, but sincere.

Eventually, the sky darkens into navy.

Luna's eyes shift upward—less distracted now, more… formal. "Night approaches. Duty calls." She pauses, looking toward me briefly. "We are… glad, Kinetic, that thou came. Truly."

Twilight doesn't reply. She exhales instead—sharply. As Luna vanishes in a curl of midnight vapor, Twilight turns on her heel.

"Come on."

I blink. "What, now?"

"We're not done," she says. Then her horn lights, and there's a subtle shimmer of air around her.

A black dress summons onto her in a blink—clean lines, a high collar, a little constellation embroidery that catches the streetlight when she moves. She lifts her chin proudly.

I raise an eyebrow. "I should've brought my suit."

"You did," she says, too quick.

The air flashes again.

My crappy suit snaps onto me with all the dignity of a wet towel. Black. Slightly ill-fitted.

I look down at myself, then up at her. "This is criminal."

Twilight smiles like she's proud of the crime. "It's your suit."

I reach back by habit for my saddlebag.

They aren't there.

I stop walking. "Twilight."

She keeps moving and tugs me along with a light pull of her magic. "It's fine."

"Where are my bags."

"You'll have them back later."

"That's not an answer."

"It's an answer you're getting," she says, and her ears flick in that stubborn way.

I huff, outraged that she would use one of my own catchphrases on me. But I follow, mostly because she's already at the restaurant doors.

The place is all gold trim and soft lanterns behind frosted glass. A host in a crisp vest opens the door before Twilight even reaches for it, eyes flicking over her like he's counting invisible points.

"Miss Sparkle. Your table is prepared."

Twilight nods as if this is normal.

The host's gaze slides to me, then Rachel, then back to Twilight. His smile stays steady. "Right this way."

Rachel pauses at the threshold, looking down at herself as if only now remembering she exists in public. "I… no dress."

I glance at Twilight, then back to Rachel. "I'll get you something later."

Rachel's eyelids lower. Slow. Deliberate. "Later," she repeats, like she's filing it in a ledger.

We pass into a dining room that's too quiet, all clinking glasses and murmured laughter. The host leads us to a corner table near a tall window. A candle sits in the middle, already lit.

Then the host does something that makes me pause—he pulls out an extra chair and sets it neatly for Rachel without being asked.

I stare at it. "They're… usually not so accommodating where I'm from."

Twilight's mouth twitches. "I paid enough. They better be accommodating." She leans closer, voice dropping, suddenly a little shy. "Besides… being Celestia's star pupil has some benefits."

I glance at her.

She clears her throat. "Even if I don't usually like flexing them."

Rachel sits very carefully. Her stone fingers tap the edge of the table once, then stop. She looks at the candle flame for a long moment, head tilted.

Now that we're seated, Twilight changes.

It's something subtle. The tight energy from earlier smooths out. She's suddenly in a room with rules she knows.

The waiter returns with menus, and Twilight doesn't even open hers. She takes mine with her magic too, glances at it for a heartbeat, then hands it back.

"We'll do the river fish," she says brightly. "With roasted potatoes. And a fruit plate—strawberries and kiwi." Her eyes flick to me, quick as a measurement. "And Tart de Bry for him."

I blink. "For—"

"And for me," she continues, "the herb pasta, the saffron broth, and the honey custard." She adds a drink order, crisp and practiced.

The waiter nods like this is normal, and disappears.

I sit there a moment, mildly offended on principle. "You didn't ask."

Twilight tilts her head, innocent. "No, I didn't"

"That's… unsettling."

"It's efficient," she corrects.

Rachel watches the candle. Then she reaches out and pinches the flame between two stone fingers. It goes out instantly. She blinks at the wick, then lets go.

Twilight's ears twitch. "Rachel—"

Rachel slowly turns her head. "Too bright."

I exhale through my nose, shaking my head. "Alright."

Twilight's smile returns, and she leans forward slightly, forelegs folded on the table. Her eyes go half-lidded. She holds my gaze too long and too steadily.

My spine tightens. I suddenly remember the door, the hall, the candle—anything else I could be staring at.

Twilight keeps her forelegs folded, chin tipped just so. Her voice drops a register. "You clean up nicely."

My spine tightens. I don't look away, but I suddenly remember the door, the hall, anything else I could be staring at.

Twilight leans on the edge of the table just a little more. Her mane shifts as she angles her head again, letting the candlelight (from a different table, as ours has been snuffed) catch in the constellation embroidery stitched into her dress.

She waits patiently.

I grunt and half-shrug. "You knew what I looked like in this suit."

"Yes," she says, not blinking. "But you know how I love reverifying."

I suddenly find the butter knife incredibly interesting.

The food arrives shortly after. The fish is warm, flaky, clearly expensive. Twilight waits until I've taken a bite—just one—and softened, then starts.

Her questions come with the exact cadence of a thesis defense.

"Do you prefer dense city environments or sparsely populated settlements?" she asks lightly.

I blink, mouth still half-full. "Depends. Are we talking about living or working?"

Twilight smiles faintly. "Living."

"Rural, then. I like not hearing anyone for miles."

She nods, tucking that away. "And do you form emotional bonds more readily with sapient constructs, organic beings, or abstract magical principles?"

I pause. "That's not a normal question."

She arches a brow.

I chew, then answer, "Depends on the construct."

Twilight hums like that's acceptable. She leans in just enough that the edge of her hoof brushes mine. "When you develop a spell, do you lean toward empiricism or iterative abstraction?"

I squint and pull back my hoof.

"I... usually just think about what I want to happen, then use physics as a bridge to get there."

She narrows her eyes. "Can you be more specific?"

"No."

Rachel looks up from where she's trying to line up the silverware in perfect symmetry with the table's edge. "He's good at... Thinking."

Twilight presses her lips together in amusement. Then, her tone softens again—just enough to signal that this next question matters more.

"What kind of relationship would you ideally maintain, given your current psychological and logistical constraints?"

My fork slows mid-bite.

"That one's a little direct."

"I find it efficient."

I sit back. "I don't know. Haven't thought about it."

She watches me. Quiet. Calculating. There's no accusation, no hurt—just… curiosity, mixed with something else she probably thinks she's hiding well.

I take another bite. "Next question."

She adjusts her posture again.

"Do you believe in the concept of 'meant to be,' or do you consider relationships purely emergent from compatible personality types and situational exposure?"

I snort. "You know dates aren't supposed be an interrogation, right?"

Twilight's smile curls, self-satisfied. She reclines just slightly, enough to imply she's already won whatever game we're playing.

"So you do know it's a date," she says.

I flinch.

She tilts her head. "Which means we're dating, right?"

I don't answer. Mostly because my brain is too busy short-circuiting. There's heat in my ears, my fork is suddenly heavier, and I feel stupid—like I've walked into a trap labeled in bold letters and still managed to spring it.

I figured I could skate by. A few walks, some shared meals, minor catastrophes. I thought I could coast on plausible deniability and awkward charm until it all felt normal. But now she's named it. Out loud.

I glance at the door. It's not far.

Twilight clearly sees it too.

Before I can make a move, she speaks again—faster now, voice still gentle but focused like a scalpel. "We can work around your... eccentricities."

My unease clears in a moment of defensiveness as my brow furrows. "My what now?"

She waves a hoof loosely. "You don't find ponies attractive. That's fine. You're emotionally avoidant, slightly dissociative, undernourished—"

"Okay—"

"—and you act like feelings are a foreign language someone handed you without a translation guide."

"I get it."

She nods, unfazed. "But I like you. And I think I can help. Positive reinforcement. Classical conditioning. Pairing my presence and affection with food, stability, helpful dopamine cues…"

My eyes narrow. "You're not seriously suggesting—"

"I'm confident that within three weeks of intermittent reinforcement cycles, I can at least get you to tolerate hoof-holding."

I set down my fork.

"That's too far."

She raises both hooves, like she's calming a spooked animal. "I'm trying to make this accessible. I know you don't do feelings, so I'm giving you metrics."

"Metrics." I push my chair back.

"You hate direct confrontation with your emotions—" Twilight starts, but I'm already getting up.

"Gee, what gave you that idea?" I squeeze out, voice tight.

I step away from the table. Rachel starts to rise beside me, but Twilight—still seated—speaks softly behind me.

"You don't like this," she says. "I know. You don't like when things are said outright, especially not feelings. But I love you, and if I don't say anything, nothing will ever happen."

I freeze.

Love?

Then I make a sound—an awkward, strangled noise that might've been "Right" or "Nope" or "Please no"—and walk faster. My hooves hit the marble tile too hard. I almost trip on the threshold.

Behind me, Twilight hums. Just a tiny note, flat and not even a little surprised.