The streets of Akasa lay cloaked in a silence so deep it seemed the city itself mourned. In the days that followed the Festival of Sorority, laughter and revelry would usually spill from every corner, the air still warm with song and lingering garlands. But this cycle, the joy had fled. What transpired during the play had turned the city's heart to stone, and in its place lingered only dread and whispers.
No voices rose from the open windows. No music drifted on the breeze. The cobbled roads echoed only with footsteps—slow, steady, and heavy.
Along one such road, the one that wound its way toward the Guild Inn of Akasa, a small procession made its way forward. There were no banners raised for them, no crowd to part with reverent hushes. Only the fading light of day followed their march, casting long shadows before them. A handful of alicorns moved in tight formation, their postures betraying the weight they bore. Among them, walking at the center, was a young Luxian—her gait faltering, her wings tucked close, and her head bowed as if the heavens themselves pressed down upon her shoulders.
The others moved with solemn purpose, their eyes vigilant, protective. She was the one most wounded—not in body, but in soul—and so they matched her pace, shielding her with wings and quiet loyalty. Around her walked figures of different origins, yet bound now by shared grief.
At the front strode two figures of renown: the High-Priest of Flame, voice of Queen Ardenu, robed in crimson trimmed with gold, and beside him, the Third Paladin of Equestera, an emblem of the realm gleaming faintly upon her official outfit. The two of them reached the heavy doors of the Guild Inn first and entered without ceremony.
Inside, the air was warmer, thick with the scent of roasted roots and spiced broth. A few Protectors sat at scattered tables, weary from patrol, murmuring low over their meals. But even here, the usual cheer of the Guild was tempered, as if the very walls knew too much.
Leyla stepped forward, her disguise shed like old skin. Her presence turned heads, but no voices rose. The receptionist, an older Ardenian with fading red in her mane and shrewd eyes, looked up—and recognition dawned in a heartbeat. She dipped her head, not in ceremony, but out of a sorrowful understanding. The pain etched into Leyla's face did not invite small talk.
"I'll require the Guild's largest suite," Leyla said, her voice calm, though it bore the chill of duty unmet. "And our meals to be brought there. We have matters to speak on—matters not for the hall."
The receptionist's gaze flicked to the others—then to Aren, and her lips pressed into a thin line. She nodded, without question, and turned swiftly to her work. Whatever this was, it was beyond her station to probe.
She scribbled notes in practiced strokes, prepared the key, and summoned a junior staffer to pass along orders to the kitchens. As she worked, her eyes strayed more than once to the young Luxian standing between a Fulmenian and a Ventian—each with a wing drawn about her, forming a living shroud of protection. The girl did not speak. Her eyes remained fixed on the floor. Even her long twin ponytails dragged behind her like the train of a mourner's gown, brushing against the stones.
The receptionist knew her, had seen her before—young, capable, full of light. She had assigned her missions once, spoken to her without formality. But now, she saw no words in the world that could bridge the chasm of what had come to pass.
So instead, she gave what little she could: comfort in the form of quiet service, the warmest suite, the best provisions. A kindness, however small.
Leyla took the key with a brief nod of thanks and offered a soft word of gratitude. Then she returned to the group, and together, without fanfare, they ascended the stairs—vanishing like shadows into the quiet hall above.
***
A knock echoed through the chamber, firm and measured—three strikes upon the carved wood of the suite's door. "Room service," came the voice beyond, muffled but clear.
Their belongings had arrived earlier, borne by a silent Protector from Ayzat's division—an unspoken courtesy. Leyla lifted her gaze from the shadows where her thoughts had been wandering, rose from her seat, and crossed the room without a word. She opened the door and found an Ardenian mare bearing a tray of steaming dishes, their scents only faintly stirring the heavy air. Leyla thanked her with quiet grace, took the tray herself, and bore it to the table that stood like a sentinel at the room's heart.
The table was long, hewn from deep-red wood, its legs shaped with curling flames—elegant, proud, and unmistakably Ardenian in design. The entire suite mirrored that style: walls painted in warm hues of crimson and gold, the light filtering through lattice windows to fall across silk draperies and high-backed chairs. Fire danced gently in the hearth, but its warmth did little to cut the cold that had settled in the hearts of those within.
No one paid the decor any mind.
To these Protectors—veterans of Ayzat's mansion and all its excess, companions of a sister now lost—finery meant little. The night before, they had kept vigil not in feathered beds but within the gray stone of a prison cell, choosing companionship over comfort. What use was luxury now, when their hearts were still tangled in grief?
Aren moved before Leyla could even speak, his understanding forged from years of silent service. He beckoned the younger alicorns to the table, and with slow, uncertain steps, they obeyed. None reached for the food. Plates were filled with stewed roots and seasoned grains from Luxian fields, roasted vegetables glistening with oil extracted from Ardenian spirits—but no hooves or paws stirred. The young ones sat in stillness, their gazes low, their thoughts far from the table, far from this room, lost in places only they could see.
Leyla stood behind them, her wings resting lightly on the back of a chair, her voice soft but firm.
"You must eat, kids," she said, not unkindly.
She had seen such silence before—after battlefields, after executions, after good friends buried beneath cold stone. But what Yua carried was not something Leyla could claim to understand. It was different. Deeper. There were losses, and then there were wounds that refused to scab over.
A small sound broke the hush—a low rumble from Masha's belly. The Fulmenian glanced around, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and reached for her fork. She took a bite, slowly, as if unsure of the act, but hunger had its own quiet insistence. She had grown used to not wasting what was given. In time, Kolibry followed her example, his movements shy, almost apologetic.
But Yua sat unmoving.
Her eyes were fixed on her plate, yet not truly seeing it. Her gaze passed through it, through the table, through the walls—cast far back into the past, into memories none of them could touch. Her food remained untouched, steam curling into the air and vanishing like ghosts.
Leyla watched her carefully, noting the tightness in her shoulders, the hollow stillness in her face. She recognized the way pain was being swallowed whole, buried deep in a place no one else could reach.
She knew the answer before she asked, but ask she did—for the young Protector's sake, not her own.
"Yua…are you alright?" Leyla's voice broke through the stillness, soft as falling snow and no less cold with sorrow. There was no command in her tone, no sharpness—only a quiet, earnest concern meant for the young Luxian whose head now lifted from her chest.
Yua's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and behind them burned something darker—rage tangled in grief. Her voice cracked like ice beneath a boot. "How can I be alright?" she snapped, the words trembling from her throat. "My sister—my sister was executed by the queen I've devoted my whole heart to. The one I've looked up to since I could walk! And my mother—" her voice faltered as tears spilled freely, "—my mother hates me so much she wished I had died instead of Mei!"
The weight of her anguish broke loose then. Her chest heaved, and she pressed on through the sobs that threatened to drown her. "And the worst part? If trading my life could've saved her…I would've done it without hesitation!"
But her voice was cut short.
Masha's plate clattered on the table, scattering half-eaten food as she rose with sudden fury. The Fulmenian stormed across the room and struck Yua across the cheek—not out of cruelty, but desperation. Her own tears had begun to fall, furious and hot. "Don't you ever say that again!" she cried, trembling. "Your life matters! You think I'd ever let my friends throw themselves away? Never! Not for anything…"
Yua reeled, stunned. Her breath caught in her throat, eyes wide, burning with sorrow and confusion. "Then why—why didn't you save Mei?!" she cried, voice splintering like dry wood beneath a blade.
The words struck harder than the slap. Masha froze, mouth parted, no sound escaping. Her limbs refused to move. Her eyes met Yua's, and in that shared silence, shame and pain bled into the stillness like ink into water.
Realization dawned in Yua's gaze, and the horror of what she had said crashed over her.
"Masha…I…I didn't mean—" she stammered, her voice breaking anew as she rushed forward, wings pulling her friend close.
Masha crumbled into the embrace, her own sobs wracking her body now. "It's alright…I know," she whispered through trembling lips. "I'm sorry too. Let it out. Let it all out." Her voice was hoarse, but her front legs remained strong around her friend. She hadn't offered what Yua needed at first—but now, at least, she could hold her as she wept.
They stayed that way for some time, two broken souls finding shelter in each other's warmth.
When the embrace loosened and Yua finally sat back, wiping her eyes with the edge of her hoof, Masha spoke again. Her voice was gentler now, pleading. "Please, Yua…just eat something. Even a little."
Yua hesitated, her throat too raw for words. But when her stomach grumbled again, louder this time, she gave a quiet nod and reached for her plate. She chewed slowly, without appetite, but it was something.
As she ate, her eyes wandered—drawn to the quiet figure sitting to her side. Kolibry hadn't spoken a word. His expression bore the same pain she had once worn herself: grief hidden behind a mask, practiced, fragile. She recognized it too well.
She turned to him, her voice softer now. "Kolibry…are you alright?"
He gave a weak smile, the corners of his lips twitching as if they might betray him. It did not touch his eyes. He nodded—but the lie sat heavy in the air.
Without a word, Yua leaned into him, wrapping him in a quiet embrace. "You don't have to pretend," she whispered. "I know how much you liked Mei…"
His composure shattered like glass. He buried his face in her shoulder as tears slid down his cheeks and into her fur. "I…I'm sorry…" he whispered, each word choked with unspoken sorrow.
Aren and Leyla stood nearby, watching in silence. There were no orders to give, no wisdom to share that would dull the pain. The wounds these young ones bore were not ones that healed with time alone—but with closeness, with the love of those who still remained.
And so they stood vigil, letting the grief burn through the room like a slow, steady flame. In time, one by one, the young alicorns returned to their meals. They ate in silence—chewing not for pleasure, but for the living.
It was a small step forward. But it was a step, nonetheless.
Finally, Aren broke the silence. His voice was quiet, almost reverent, as though speaking over the grave of something precious lost. "I grieve with you," he said, head bowed low, a wick of red and gold falling across his brow. "I had hoped for a different end…but all my hopes have turned to ash. You have my deepest condolences."
Masha looked up at him, the weight of the day still pressing heavily on her shoulders. "And Aqasha?" she asked, voice low but firm. "Is she alright?" The question had haunted her, gnawed at her from the inside—especially after what her mother had told her. Her ribs still ached with the echo of that blow, though the bruise upon her heart ached far more.
Aren gave a solemn nod. "She's with Ayzat. It was…agreed that her presence here would stir more pain than peace. After all that's happened, it's best she remain away, at least for now. The part she played—however unintentional—has made her position difficult."
Yua's voice followed, gentle yet sure. "I just hope she's safe…" Her words were not coated in bitterness, only quiet sympathy. She saw Aqasha for what she was—not a traitor, not a villain, but another victim caught in the web.
Leyla stepped forward then, her voice carrying a new weight. "I'll admit something I never thought I would," she said, and the moment the name passed her lips, all eyes were on her. "I've chosen to heed Ayzat's counsel."
Masha looked at her, wide-eyed. Even Aren raised a brow.
Leyla drew in a breath. "In light of all that has come to pass, I've made a decision—one that I should have made long ago. I intend to form my own division of Protectors."
She turned toward the younger alicorns, her gaze steady and sharp. "Masha, I don't need to ask. I already know where you stand." A grin crept across her daughter's face, surprise mingling with pride.
Then Leyla shifted her gaze to the others. "But Yua…Kolibry…would you join me? I can offer you training—true training. You'll serve under the Third Paladin herself. You'll learn to stand firm, wield strength with wisdom, and carry burdens without breaking."
Yua's ears twitched in surprise. Kolibry's eyes lit up faintly, a glimmer of purpose stirring in the shadow of sorrow. A small smile formed on both their faces, hesitant but real. Amidst all their pain, something flickered back to life.
Leyla added, more to herself than anyone else, "Even if I've never had the stomach to command troops…" Her voice dropped to a mutter. Masha, sitting nearest to her, let out a soft laugh, amused by her mother's reluctance despite the pride so clear in her eyes.
When the young alicorns gave their consent, Leyla's stern features softened into a smile—small but true. "Then we must mark the moment," she said, eyes gleaming just a little. "Let us feast, for even in sorrow, we may find cause to smile."
She winked, a gesture that struck like sunlight through clouded skies.
Aren chuckled, a sound that rumbled deep in his chest. For a moment, the gloom lifted. Laughter—quiet, warm, and fragile—filled the room, and for a single heartbeat in time, they remembered what it meant to feel alive.
The remainder of the meal passed more swiftly than expected, though no one at the table could truly call it a feast. Plates were emptied and words were shared, but the shadow of grief still hung heavy, a ghost neither food nor fire could chase away. There were faint smiles, half-hearted laughter—but each one held the tremble of unspoken memories.
When the final dish was cleared, Leyla stood, her voice calm and steady. "We'll journey to Luxia next," she said, looking to Yua with a gaze full of resolve. "Your sister must be honored properly. We will see her laid to rest as she deserves. From there, we'll resume our duties, take missions, and begin again."
Yua gave a faint nod. Her chest tightened at the thought of the funeral—of standing before a pyre or a stone and speaking a sister's name in past tense—but she did not falter. There was pain in her heart, yes, but beneath it, there was also love. To say goodbye would hurt—but to say nothing would be worse.
Before another word could pass between them, a shimmer of light bloomed in the air. Two communication crystals appeared, casting a faint glow like dying embers—one before Leyla, the other before Aren.
Their message came in unison, voices like iron bells ringing across a battlefield: "Xuefeng the Weaver has perished."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Not a breath stirred. The air itself seemed to freeze. Grief landed like a sword-point through the chest, sharp and sudden.
Leyla blinked, then turned sharply toward Yua. The young Luxian trembled, her small frame quaking beneath the fresh weight of another loss. Tears threatened her eyes, welled up with disbelief and sorrow. "D-don't worry…I'm…I'm okay…" she said, though her voice cracked like thin ice underfoot.
Masha pulled her close without a word. "Yua…I'm so sorry…" she whispered, holding her friend like one might hold a child lost in a storm.
But it was Aren who drew every eye next. His body tensed, and from his wings burst flames—not wild, but fierce, controlled only by habit, not calm. The blaze that surrounded him was unlike his usual composed warmth—it was fury made visible.
"Xuefeng was with Ayzat…and Aqasha," he said, his voice hoarse, trembling with a panic hardly contained. "I have to find them. Now."
He didn't wait for permission or words of caution. Without another glance, Aren turned and fled the room, fire in his stride, the door swinging shut behind him like the end of a chapter.
Leyla reached out too late, her paw grasping only empty air. She stood in place, motionless, her eyes narrowed, thoughts racing. She understood Aren's fear. She felt it, too.
Masha looked up, seeing the shift in her mother's face. "Mom?" she asked, gentle but afraid.
"There will be a gathering," Leyla muttered, her voice low and sharp, like the edge of a blade unsheathed. "The Paladins will convene…and the Pantheon. Ayzat will have questions to answer, whether he wills it or not." She looked down at the still-glowing crystal as if it might yield some hidden truth. "I only pray Aqasha remains safe."
No one replied. Words had run dry.
Only the soft sound of Yua's weeping remained—quiet, aching sobs pressed into the shoulder of a friend—while the crystal's light dimmed, and the fire in the hearth seemed to burn just a touch colder.