The room had changed again.
There were no more medical panels, no more cold silence of the field hospital, no more soft flickers of stabilization spells floating in the corners. Now it was an open field, smooth, with well-kept grass and the scent of old leaves drifting through the air.
And in the center, the apple tree.
Old, thick, with branches so heavy they seemed made of braided stone. It was full of leaves—some still green, others falling slowly, as if the room itself had agreed to replicate that natural detail out of sheer whim.
My whim.
It was my reward, I suppose. Or so the doctors said when they discharged me, after inspecting me with surgical, almost clinical precision. Their magic wasn't invasive, but it was exact. They repaired only what was necessary: the damage from the impact, the microtears caused by forcing magic through non-traditional paths. They didn't touch anything else.
They knew the effort had to remain—the body needed to remember what had been done to it, and what it had been forced to endure.
And it did. Every time I moved even the slightest trace of magic through my system, something deep inside responded with a dull sting—a lingering signal, sharp enough to remind me that those new paths I had carved, those efficient but unnatural routes, were still foreign to me.
I could suppress the reaction, of course... but only if I refrained from using magic entirely, which was, in itself, the real challenge: resisting the urge to do anything—no casting, no experimentation, no subtle probes with my magical senses, not even the instinctive flicker of energy that came from curiosity. Just... stillness. Just breathing.
And waiting.
And staring at the books stacked beside me.
There were five in total, tossed at me earlier by Rogue with that familiar blend of calculated carelessness and unspoken expectation. "So you don't say I never give you anything," she had said before vanishing, leaving me alone with the weight of her chosen lesson.
Until just a moment ago, I had barely made progress with the first one—the one bound in deep violet.
Pure Ward.
A simple name, for what was technically a simple spell: a basic shield, generic and stable. But the content of the book was anything but simple.
What I found inside was a detailed, almost obsessive chronicle of how that one spell—the most elementary of magical protections—had been interpreted, reshaped, and refined by generations of mages. They took the original incantation and turned it into something personal, bending it around their elemental affinities, their philosophies, even their temperaments. Some made it invisible, others structured it into domes, membranes, or complex reflective surfaces; a few had even figured out how to channel counterspells from within its frame.
It was like reading the evolutionary tree of an idea—a single trunk branching into a hundred variations, each one alive in its own way.
I closed the book slowly. The sting in my body hadn't faded; it pulsed quietly beneath the skin, a reminder that using magic was still off-limits, and that breaking that rule too soon would undo the healing process.
I could hold off.
At least, that's what I told myself.
But the books...
The books were right there.
AGH.
It was agony. A constant, tantalizing hum in the back of my mind—like the sweet, hypnotic whisper of the devil himself, promising knowledge too rich to resist.
They were there. So close. So ready to be read. So full of knowledge, of promises, of ideas... And I—still. Forced to be still.
I bit my lip hard, gathering all my will not to do something stupid.
"Begone, foolish impulse!" I almost said it out loud... Almost, but I knew saying it would only tempt me further.
The place did bring me peace, though, even if false, even if fabricated... It brought memories.
That tree... Or this simulation of that tree. I had spent so many recesses under its shade. So many breaks between classes, so many times letting the wind mess up my mane while pretending to study. This wasn't the same tree. But it almost fooled me. I sighed... deeply.
As if with the air I could also let go of all that pent-up nostalgia.
The room shifted in tone with me—the colors of dusk dyed the environment, warm and soft, mirroring my emotions without a single spell. A calm melancholy, almost comforting.
But it wasn't time for that, not anymore.
Time was running out.
My body still hurt, and my magic… well, I wasn't supposed to move it, but I couldn't stay here any longer, either.
The morning meeting with Celestia and Twilight wasn't something I could miss, especially not in this state.
Sore, I forced myself to stand, the weight of my body reminded me of every second of the battle.
I slung my hoodie over my shoulder, I didn't have the energy to put it on—and honestly, not the patience either.
With an automatic—almost ritual—gesture, I stored the books inside the hoodie's magical compartment.
I felt the fabric shift slightly to contain them, as if the pouch spell itself was groaning at the weight of the knowledge it had just swallowed, but at least I wouldn't have to look at them anymore, for now.
With a thought, the door appeared at my side.
It wasn't loud or flashy. It simply… was. Obedient, as if it had been waiting all this time for me to make up my mind.
I stepped through.
Each step was slow... Painful, but steady.
I walked the same hallway I had crossed just a couple of hours ago, when everything had felt new and curious, only now… I had no energy left.
Finding the exit wasn't hard.
My mind, now clearer, remembered the route with ease, and then I left the facility, the change was immediate.
The castle air was lighter, cooler… and more uncomfortable.
As I moved through the main corridors, stares began to stick to me, not just anyone's... The maids', the guards'.
They didn't say anything. They didn't approach. They just stared—not with fear, not with respect.
Just that kind of sustained attention you give something that doesn't quite fit, and honestly… I didn't understand why they were looking at me so much.
That's when I felt it... a breeze, cold and Direct.
It hit my back—right where I was usually covered.
My hoodie was still slung over my shoulder. I didn't have the strength to put it on.
And for the first time… I was walking without it.
'Maybe that was it, maybe that was what felt strange. I always wore the hoodie.'
'Always.'
And now, without it… it felt like I was more exposed than I should be, as if not wearing it revealed something I hadn't realized I was showing, I shivered.
The hallway felt cooler than usual, like someone had left a magical window open and that was enough, I picked up the pace. I didn't run, but I stopped dragging my hooves.
Maybe it was the air, maybe the exhaustion, or maybe I just wanted to reach my room and pretend the day hadn't started yet.
Outside, the light was dim. The sky, still caught between violet and deep blue.
Had all that really happened in just two hours?
That left me with less than an hour before the morning meeting, less than an hour to pull myself together, calm down, and pretend I hadn't just used a spell that shouldn't even exist, and as I walked, my thoughts kept spinning.
Now more comfortable, with my hoodie finally on—clean, warm, and carrying that subtle scent it only gets after a good magical wash—I let myself sink into the magically comfortable lounge chair. The bath had helped too; my muscles, though still heavy, felt looser, and the sting had faded to a dull echo. For the first time since I'd woken up that morning, I didn't feel like the air itself was judging me.
I shifted slightly, and the chair's enchantment adjusted to support my back without needing a single spell. The room was quiet—controlled, formal, but relaxed.
Then the door opened.
And there was Celestia.
Not the radiant and serene figure I had expected, but rather, wearing a look of such tightly restrained resignation that I almost coughed trying not to laugh.
But not because of her...Because of him.
A stallion.
Clinging—literally—to her front left leg.
He held his hoof against her royal limb with reverent delicacy, like he was afraid of breaking something sacred.
And on his face was an expression of pure adoration.
Romantic fanaticism, elevated to an art form.
"Princess Celestia!" the stallion declared with fervor, still clinging to her leg. "I am Amoriel Candelsol, and with honor I proclaim myself the twenty-second in my lineage to fall before your celestial figure… the living incarnation of beauty… the sun made flesh…"
He said it with such pride that I couldn't help but frown, and the guards… well. They couldn't even look him in the eye without choking on laughter.
One looked away. Another faked a cough.
But out of respect—and clearly because this wasn't the first time this had happened—no one stopped him, not Celestia or the guards, and me… I just watched him a little longer.
It took me a few seconds to remember.
Amoriel.
That colt who, years ago, had only dared to look at Celestia from a distance, frozen by her presence… Now, apparently with a second spine (or no shame at all), had decided the time had come to act.
And Celestia… simply looked at him, with ancient patience. With that expression that doesn't judge, but also never falters, She gazed at him with serenity. No forced smile. No shifting glance, Just that tempered presence that seemed to span centuries.
"Amoriel…" she said gently, without losing composure. "I understand what you feel. And I don't reject your affection… but you must know something."
Her tone didn't change. It wasn't harsh.
Just honest.
"I love all ponies equally... It's part of who I am, but the kind of love your heart yearns for… that passionate and singular love… I cannot return it. Not because I don't value it, but because I'm simply not a good match for it."
She paused briefly, not out of doubt, but to let the words breathe.
"Perhaps, in time, you'll understand. As your ancestors once did. And when that day comes, maybe you'll find someone who can truly answer that pure desire you've chosen to share today."
It seemed her words would close the scene with gentle finality… until Amoriel, with sudden drama, raised his voice once more:
"Forgive me, my beloved! I've read the journals of my ancestors—of those who came before me! And not a single one ever managed to forget your majestic, radiant light! My very name proclaims it! The colors of our family crest are but echoes of that immortal glow—just like their desires. Desires that now live on in me!"
His voice trembled with contained passion.
"I will not give up! I shall return! Today… was merely my confession."
And with the dignity of a noble, Amoriel rose, brushed the imaginary dust from his cape, and, with the pride of an entire generation of hopeless romantics, left the room.
Celestia watched him go with a serene smile. A smile that wasn't mocking. Nor annoyed. Just the smile of someone who has lived through this before. Many times.
If a Candelsol has shown up, she thought calmly, then his rivals won't be far behind.
She recalled another noble family—one with similar tendencies… though, thankfully, not nearly as persistent.
I enjoyed the drama in silence. It felt like watching an improvised play—one starring a single actor and an audience too polite to leave. And just when I thought the show was over… a wild Twilight appeared.
"Who does he think he is!?" she muttered to herself, her voice laced with restrained indignation as she watched Amoriel's back disappear down the hallway, now escorted by two royal guards.
I blinked. Not because of the complaint—that was pretty standard for her—but because I hadn't sensed her approaching. I hadn't sensed her at all. My magical sense, which usually picked up even a magical beetle crawling ten meters away, hadn't reacted in the slightest.
Right. Still fried from this morning. Fantastic.
And to top it off, when I tilted my head slightly, there she was—sitting right next to me. Not across the table, not even on the opposite end of the couch. Literally in the same chair.
Okay, sure. It was a big chair. Magically comfortable. Spacious. But… why here?
I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. She was still staring at the door Amoriel had exited through, one brow slightly raised and her lips pressed into that flat line she always wore when something bothered her, but she hadn't yet decided if it was worth voicing out loud.
I didn't ask. At this point, asking would only open the door to explanations—and honestly, my day already had enough mysteries. So I just greeted her with a faint smile, one that felt almost automatic… almost resigned.
"Twilight."
Celestia brightened at the simple idea of sharing a quiet moment with her two favorite pupils—a pause, a breath, a well-served cup of tea, pleasant conversation, and maybe one or two questions about recent spells. That's what she hoped for. What she found, however, was something else entirely.
Wizbell, half-slouched, appeared to be in the midst of a spiritual fusion with the couch. That ultra-soft, enchanted piece of furniture—designed specifically to mold itself to anypony who sat on it—was now locked in a battle to see who would absorb whom.
Twilight, pressed up against his side, was eyeing him with a furrowed brow, as if observing a lab specimen that stubbornly refused to obey the laws of magic. And it wasn't just exhaustion—Celestia saw it instantly. What worried Twilight wasn't physical fatigue, but the absence of that spark, that glow... Wizbell's essence. That uncontainable love for magic, for the unknown, for wild ideas that always ran half a step ahead of his magical ability.
Now, what sat before her was a melted version of Wizbell, seemingly adapting to the shape of the space around him. A unicorn in jelly mode.
Concerned, Twilight reached out and gently touched him. Not forcefully, but with that genuine unease that often made her act before fully thinking things through. She leaned in a little closer, her eyes silently asking, "What's going on with you?" as they searched his face for answers.
Wizbell... responded. Sort of. He cracked one eye open, let out a long sigh, and simply allowed himself to exist. Nothing more.
And that was already too much for Celestia. She let out a soft, sincere chuckle.
"Twilight… let him be, please," she said, stepping closer with an amused smile. "He's in the middle of a deep fusion with the couch. Don't interrupt his metamorphosis."
Twilight backed off immediately, a little surprised by the gentle scolding. Without a word, she stood and returned to her usual seat, adjusting her posture almost automatically, as if her body had suddenly remembered what kind of meeting this was supposed to be.
Celestia watched the scene unfold with quiet affection, then turned to Wizbell—still sunken into the couch, barely registering that the dynamic in the room had shifted.
"I hope you didn't push yourself too hard," she said softly, using that particular tone she reserved for moments of genuine concern when she didn't want to sound alarmed. "You know how you get when something really grabs your attention…"
At her words, Twilight's expression—until then quietly unsettled—shifted. First into confusion, then into something much more intimate. This wasn't academic judgment. Not this time.
It was the look she wore when something touched her more deeply than she liked to admit. The one that surfaced when emotion crept in before logic could take over. The same look she had after staying up for the fifth night in a row, even though Wizbell and Spike had warned her not to. The one she always wore just before launching into a full-blown lecture—not to be right, but because she cared too much to stay quiet.
She knew what Wizbell was capable of. And she also knew how easily he could hurt himself in the process.
He, of course, had a completely different energy. Half-melted into the cushions, fresh from a bath, hoodie clean and warm, and not a single self-critical thought in sight, he lazily raised a hoof and responded with the drowsy enthusiasm of a unicorn seconds away from dozing off in class.
"Got a little excited…" he said with a faint smile. "But give me some time, and I'll be good as new."
Since his hoof was already up, he tilted it just slightly and grabbed his mug of hot chocolate—perfectly placed on the table thanks to the attentive magic of a maid just minutes earlier. He took a sip, guiltlessly, as if nothing in the world mattered more than that first taste.
Wizbell drank without guilt. As if that first sip truly was the most important thing in the universe.
The conversation carried on, flowing between Celestia's gentle questions and Twilight's sharp, occasionally narrowed observations. She clearly wanted to launch into a full lecture—but for now, she held back. At least for now.
The longer they talked, the deeper Wizbell sank into the chair. Not in any dramatic way, but more like someone slowly becoming part of the furniture, until only his horn, his cup, and the top of his mane remained visible above the edge of the table.
At some point, he could no longer reach his plate. And without saying a word, the same maid from earlier—displaying the precision of someone thoroughly familiar with royal meetings involving half-fainted ponies—slid the plate closer with her magic, placing it just within reach without interrupting the conversation.
Wizbell, barely moving his neck, gave her a small, grateful smile. And just like that, without protest, he kept listening while eating in a semi-horizontal position, as if his very soul had decided that this couch was now his natural habitat.
I was enjoying myself. Really.
Peace, quiet… and good snacks.
Celestia and Twilight were deep in one of their usual conversations—history on one end, obscure references on the other. Twilight rattled off names, dates, and theories, while Celestia, with her ever-patient smile, gently corrected the inaccuracies brought on by poorly edited books or overly imaginative authors.
"No, dear, that revolt didn't happen in spring—it was in autumn. And it wasn't about taxes, it was about apples," she said in that voice of someone who's seen so much that indignation simply isn't worth the effort anymore.
I just nodded from time to time. Or chewed. Or both.
I was in my zone. No tension. No pressure. Just soaking in the atmosphere, letting the chair cradle me, the hot chocolate warm me, and the hum of wise voices drift around like music.
Everything was calm.
When Celestia finally stood—radiant as ever, her natural grace making even the simplest gesture look like art—she offered a gentle farewell. I just lifted a lazy hoof in response.
Now this was the moment.
Mentally, I was already preparing for the final step: let the cup rest on my lap, close my eyes… and maybe drift off for a bit. Completely deserved.
But of course... Someone had other plans.
A cough—soft at first, then more pointed—cut through the air.
"Ahem… ahem."
Someone called my name, using a tone far too deliberate to ignore.
I opened one eye. Then the other, and with an effort that deserved some kind of medal, I slowly peeled myself away from the loving grip of the enchanted chair.
Twilight was standing there, staring at me with that look—the kind that promised absolutely nothing good. No rest, no peace, and definitely no mercy.
Her eyes weren't exactly stern, but they weren't friendly either. It was the kind of look that came right before a long, emotionally-charged conversation—possibly including magical charts and visual aids.
I guess my nap's going to have to wait.