Humming
I was sitting behind Celestia's throne, sheltered in that corner of shadow and golden velvet that so few noticed. For me, it was perfect—discreet enough that no one asked questions, close enough to feel the warm light radiating from her presence through her magic.
I was reading. Just a few books between my hooves—not common ones. I had checked them out from the agency… and though that sounded more serious than it was, they weren't forbidden. Not explicitly, but they contained reserved knowledge—misuse could be... unwise. At last, I had in my hooves a book on mental runes.
To anyone peeking over, the texts would seem like pure chaos: letters shifting in unrecognizable patterns, symbols rewriting themselves, sections twisting as if the parchment were alive. Illegible to everyone—except me.
Celestia, meanwhile, continued with her routine.
She hummed cheerfully as she reviewed documents, stamping a few forms with certainty and rejecting others with a brief motion. Her humming had no precise melody. It was simply a reflection of her good mood.
Some requests made her raise an eyebrow. Others, a smile. And one in particular—a soft, genuine laugh.
"Astro Cake… six-tier structure, golden glaze with pearlescent highlights, solar vanilla core infused with orange blossom nectar, decorated with edible petals that glow with magical light. Inspired by Your Radiance. Suggested name: Soleria," she read aloud with clear amusement in her tone.
I couldn't hold back a chuckle.
"That cake sounds like a diplomatic hazard," I said without looking up from the book.
"You're only saying that because you haven't tasted it," she replied, playfully.
The moment was simple. Pleasant. One of those that felt valuable precisely because it wasn't weighed down by anything else.
Until I heard hoofsteps in the hallway.
The doors opened with elegance. Not forcefully, not dramatically. Just… with presence.
Pureblood.
He entered as he always did: tall, composed, polite. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on me. His brow arched—not in contempt, but in what he would probably call discernment.
He walked over with steady steps, stopping before me with the confidence of someone who didn't need permission to speak.
"Wizbell," he said formally, though not coldly. "You're behind the throne. That's not an appropriate place. My aunt may say nothing… but that doesn't mean it's right."
His voice had that reasonable tone he always used. No harshness or disdain, just a well-crafted correction, full of logic. That was his way: if he saw something out of place, he pointed it out without hesitation. He didn't do it to hurt, or to assert dominance… simply because he believed it ought to be said.
Celestia, without losing the gentleness in her expression, lifted her eyes from the documents and paused her work with a small smile.
"Wizbell, darling, would you give us a moment? It seems Pureblood wishes to discuss something in private."
I nodded without a word, naturally—as someone who had already lived through this kind of moment before.
It wasn't the first time. Pureblood often used moments like this—discreet comments, well-intentioned corrections—as a polite way to create space for a private conversation with Celestia. He had done the same before, even with Twilight.
If the situation required it, he behaved with courtesy, never raising his voice or resorting to sarcasm. But if he spotted an error, no matter how small, he wouldn't let it pass.
And although that attitude might irritate anyone, I never sensed malice in him.
Magic doesn't lie.
And the emotions radiating from his magical aura were stable, neutral, without deceit or venom.
So I said nothing. As long as he didn't cross into rudeness or arrogance, I could tolerate his remarks. In the end, he was almost always right.
I took my time gathering my things. There was no rush.
I left the royal hall quietly, the books floating beside me in a pale aura that shielded them from dust and curious eyes. I paused in the corridor, just in front of the grand closed doors. The silence was comforting. The air had that gentle warmth that only the inner halls of the castle could offer.
I stood there, wondering what to do next.
The day demanded nothing.
There were no threats.
No urgent schedules.
My research was right where I had left it—in that unsettling state between progress and stagnation.
There was progress, yes… but no satisfying results.
Nothing that made me say, I did it.
What I was trying to do was complex. Recreating a magic circle—or rather, another magic circle—was like writing with fire on paper and hoping it wouldn't burn. How many could my body sustain at once? How could I stabilize the energy without upsetting the core that already pulsed near my heart? That original circle was stable, yes, but I didn't fully understand why.
And then there was the detail that had haunted me for years: the true properties of my magical trait.
So far, I knew it had a calming effect. A sort of natural magical sedation—something that softened energy around me. But also, if pushed, it could burn. Not like classic fire—scorching and wild—but something more ethereal. Like a sacred flame that only burned if I willed it.
But it was weak.
Not destructive power.
Just a trace of something deeper I still couldn't grasp.
I had considered the possibility that emotions played a larger role than I thought. Magic is volatile, yes… but emotion shapes it. Enhances it, or sabotages it. Some spells could be amplified under certain emotional conditions; others would completely fall apart.
Too many variables.
Too many questions.
I shook my head with a sigh.
Not today.
I didn't want to sink again into endless magical equations or baseless theories.
So instead, I chose to focus on something simpler. More tangible. More mine.
The plans for my house.
The idea had been circling in my head for days.
I remembered drawing it once—maybe on some random scroll, perhaps while traveling or after a long training session. But the memory was foggy. Vague. Blurry, like a dream you swear you had but can't quite describe.
All I knew was that I wanted to build it.
A place that would be completely mine.
Something more than a borrowed room in an eternal castle.
I arrived at the private hall unhurried and went straight to my desk. At this hour, the place was completely empty—silent, as if the world had paused just to give me this moment.
On the table, everything I needed was waiting: rulers, compasses, fine drafting pencils, angle-perfect set squares. I picked up the first tool with quiet familiarity and began to mark the edges of the parchment with care, setting the proper scale. Then I sketched a faint grid with soft lines—subtle enough not to dominate the blueprint, but present enough to provide structure.
I could've used magic to project the image straight from my mind, sure.
But that was boring.
Sometimes the old ways are better.
As I drew, my mind wandered forward—like it was one step ahead of my pencil.
I could already see the house clearly.
Two stories.
The ground floor would have a spacious living room, a well-connected kitchen, a simple bathroom, and a study with good lighting. On the second floor—though my mind instinctively called it the "third floor"—there'd be my bedroom, a guest room, another bathroom… and, of course, a basement.
Not just any basement.
A space reinforced with magic-insulating mineral, enough to avoid bothering any neighbors if I ever practiced unstable spells. A small personal lab where I could experiment in peace—no supervision, no permits, no agency notifications.
As the pencil slid over the parchment, I started jotting down magical camouflage formulas, sound-dampening enchantments, even little rune activation scripts to seal the basement in case of a magical overflow.
For a second, an image of a traditional wizard's tower came to mind.
The classic cliché.
Pointy domes, arched windows, a spiral library.
But that idea vanished as quickly as it had come.
That wasn't what I wanted.
I wanted a home. Not a monument.
I went back to the blueprint with renewed focus and began outlining the integrated magical channels: the enchanted water circulation system, the energy filter for the kitchen, even a small arcane vapor collector to prevent utensils from accidentally absorbing ambient magic.
I was so focused I didn't notice I wasn't alone anymore.
It wasn't until a small, discreet cough broke the silence that I realized someone else was there.
Twilight.
She stood at the back of the room, half-bent as she picked up her bag. Her eyes were fixed on my blueprint, and she wore that expression—equal parts fascinated and concerned—that only she could make when someone did magic without her supervision.
"W-What is this?" Twilight asked.
Her voice trembled just slightly.
I couldn't say if it was from curiosity, surprise… or something else.
I glanced at her sideways as I lowered the pencil.
"My house, when I move out!" I said, the genuine excitement spilling out before I could filter it. "Look! It'll have two floors and a basement only I'll have access to."
The excitement took over. I showed her the full layout, pointing with the ruler where each room would go, every magical channel, every defensive circuit.
Twilight could barely respond with an "oh," a "hmm," or the occasional slow blink that didn't say much. Maybe I wasn't giving her space to process what she was seeing, or maybe she just didn't know how to react to the verbal avalanche I had just unleashed.
I leaned over the parchment, more animated than before.
"And the basement will be reinforced with insulating minerals—no magical vibrations running wild. It'll also have active runic systems to seal it off in case of an overflow. I was thinking of making it self-sufficient, like a mini private lab. That way I won't bother anyone if—"
"Are you leaving already?!" she blurted out.
Her voice came out louder than she probably intended, like an involuntary crack that betrayed her halfway through the sentence.
I blinked.
Raised an eyebrow.
"Nope," I replied calmly, with a faint smile at her reaction. "This is for the future. When we finish our university studies under Celestia. I don't plan to stay much longer after that."
The moment I said no, her whole body seemed to relax visibly. Her shoulders dropped, her pupils softened, and even her breathing grew slower.
But something in that smile she gave me… tensed at the very end.
"Three years…" she murmured.
I nodded, naturally.
"Yeah, in three years we'll finish the university courses. Though Auntie said we could stay under her care and keep learning… I'm not planning on staying. Well, I mean, that's for the future… and there's still a long way to go."
Twilight stayed silent.
She didn't say anything for a few seconds.
She stared at the blueprint with quiet intensity, as if each stroke revealed some deeper secret. Her eyes followed the lines, the proportions, the spells written in slanted script, and for a moment… I saw a spark in her gaze.
An idea.
An analysis.
An emotion.
Then she looked at me and smiled.
"Have you shown this blueprint to anyone else?"
Her voice was soft, but the question carried a weight I couldn't quite measure.
While she scanned every inch of the parchment, I was thinking about something far more mundane: what color I'd use for the walls, whether I wanted light or dark wood for the furniture, if the carpets would be enchantment-proof or if I'd just change the fabric every year.
"Nope," I said, drawing out the p on purpose.
I hadn't shown it to anyone else.
My plan was to only submit the filtered version of the blueprint—cleaned of the personal enchantments and runes I'd add myself once the house was delivered.
Bless the peaceful magical medieval fantasy world… and its surprisingly low rural land prices.
Of course, only in small towns.
In Canterlot… well, in Canterlot you could forget it unless you sold your soul or mortgaged your lineage.
Ah, I'm getting distracted again!
Twilight smiled with approval as she rolled up her bag with magic.
"Well, that's a very good design you've got there. Haven't you thought about what you'll put in your garden? Or how you'd like the sunlight to hit your house during the day?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but she was already taking a step toward the door.
"Well, I'm off. I left Spike waiting."
And just like that, she gave me a small nod and left the room.
I kept drawing, refocused on the lines.
Twilight's words still echoed in my mind, so I began jotting down ideas in the margins: the angle of sunlight during the seasons, the type of vegetation that could survive near a stable magical core, the possibilities of perpetual blooming enchantments that wouldn't disrupt the garden's ecological balance.
Each line of the blueprint was now paired with a note, a little possibility, an idea I might later discard… or not.
I was already planning to make a more detailed draft, one just for exterior spaces.
Another for natural lighting schemes.
Maybe one more for architectural style depending on the region.
Yeah. I'd need several.
I was so absorbed in my own world that I didn't notice the familiar feline magic quietly settling into the room.
It wasn't until a faint golden flicker slid across the edge of the scroll that I realized—
Stella had been there the whole time.
Watching.
Silent.
She gave me a smile only she could make.
A mix of quiet complicity and gentle teasing, like she knew exactly what had happened… and still chose not to say anything. Just looked at me with those bright eyes, content to be there.
And so my day continued.
Small interactions with the few in my close circle.
Moments of calm between duties.
Personal projects that gave purpose to my pauses.
I attended Celestia's classes, where the lessons were deep and subtle, more philosophical than practical.
And then Rogue's training, where words were rare and the blows direct.
That was my routine in the castle.
A balance between learning, introspection… and waiting.
My physical condition and pain tolerance had improved considerably.
It wasn't fast, but it was steady.
Each session with Rogue left its mark, and though I wouldn't say it out loud, I had started to feel less fragile.
Mastering the basic spells came almost automatically. But I didn't stop there.
The real interest—and perhaps the most valuable part of my time in WARDS—was being able to develop variations, adjust details, transform what I learned into something of my own.
That's where I felt my magic breathe.
With Celestia, though, it was different.
Not less challenging, but more... introspective.
Her exercises rarely involved casting spells.
It was more about solving moral dilemmas, taking a stance on uncomfortable decisions, speaking from the soul—not the theory.
And sometimes, that was harder than any fight.
Lately, Twilight wasn't giving the answers Celestia expected.
Her arguments were solid, yes.
Backed by hundreds of books and treatises, so logical they could silence anyone.
But it wasn't what Celestia was looking for.
So we spent some afternoons talking about philosophy, just the two of us.
I don't know if I was really helping.
Because the Twilight that answered tests and the Twilight that spoke with me… weren't the same pony.
One analyzed, calculated, compared.
The other… doubted, felt, hesitated.
And then, after all that time, Celestia finally revealed the place where I could build my house.
A site that, in her words, "you'll really like."
And she was right.
Two old friends I hadn't seen in a while—one had already moved to a magical town, and the other was planning to. It was one of those places that blend vibrant nature with urban customs and a history still alive in its streets.
Ponyville.
A town beside the Everfree Forest, with a rather simple name.
The jungle-like, untamed climate of the Everfree naturally caught Flash's attention… He probably saw it as an excellent obstacle course for his training.
Uneven terrain, unpredictable environments… just his thing.
Meanwhile, the picturesque vibe, full of music and rhythm, ended up charming Lyra and convincing her it'd be a good place to live—far from nobility and its faster, more ruthless pace.
I had seen her a few times back at Canterlot University, but our interactions were brief.
Our schedules were completely different.
She was focused on the artistic field—always carrying some sheet music, instrument, or stage project.
And I… well, I lived on a different wavelength.
I already knew from her letters.
I had considered moving there before… but it was that final conversation with Celestia that sealed my decision.
"The construction project has already begun," she told me with a warm smile. "I hope you enjoy it, Wizbell. It was an honor to say I guided you in your magical path. I hope you keep growing."
It was an emotional moment.
Maybe too much.
Joy took over, and I hugged her without thinking.
At last, I had a place of my own.
A real home.
But the joy quickly turned into something else.
Insecurity.
Discomfort.
A sense of unworthiness.
When Celestia mentioned it was a gift, I didn't know what to do.
I didn't know where to place all those conflicting emotions.
"Just say thank you, silly," she said with a soft laugh, tapping me lightly with her wing. "Money's the one thing I have in excess… just don't let a noble hear that."
That joke lightened the mood. As it always did.
And now, after all this time, I'm finally getting ready to move into my new home.
It should be fully furnished by now.
But first…
I have to visit my parents.
The trip home felt light.
But the emotions… not so much.
A mix of happiness and nerves tangled in my stomach like a warm knot that wouldn't quite loosen. It wasn't fear, exactly. More like the good kind of anxiety—the one that shows up when something important is about to happen.
Stella, nestled on my back, sensed the change immediately.
She gave me a soft pat with her paw—more gesture than hit—and let out a barely audible meow. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to.
We weren't alone.
Other ponies walked along the road: entire families, vendors with carts, students carrying books. Too many ears, too many eyes.
Stella still preferred to speak only when we were alone… or with Flash, and Bonny being a special case—my sister who had chased Stella until she caught her talking to me under the bed.
Stella particularly enjoyed teasing Flash with an old joke that he was crazy for hearing a cat talk.
It worked at first.
Flash completely fell for it the first time.
But then Bonny—proud of her discovery—shared it with the whole family.
She told them the truth about Stella. About her origin.
The joke ended there.
Well… mostly.
Because even though the surprise was gone, Stella never stopped having fun.
Every time we visited Clear Day, Flash's mother, she found some way to mess with him: a casual phrase, a dramatic whisper, or a comment made just as someone else walked by.
Flash always growled.
Stella always won.
.
..
...
Saying goodbye to my parents wasn't easy.
But it wasn't hard either.
They already knew my plans, and while there was some nostalgia in the air, there was also pride. They understood. They always had.
But Bonny…
"WAAH!!"
She clung to me like her life depended on it, burying her face in my chest and sobbing hard. No words came out. Just tears, snot, and broken breaths.
Her emotions were a raw storm.
There was no consoling her with logic or explanations—that wasn't what she needed.
All I could do was hug her tight and gently stroke her messy mane.
I had expected this reaction.
It was the same as back then, when I started staying at the castle.
Back then, she cried endlessly too.
As if every little goodbye felt like the world tearing something from her.
Knowing this could happen, I had prepared.
Over the past year, I decided to learn a bit of magecraft, taking advantage of all the magical knowledge I already had. It wasn't too difficult—just a matter of adapting what I knew to a more delicate, emotional purpose.
"Look, Bonny! This necklace I got you… it's magical!"
Her sobs quieted just enough for her to open one teary eye and glance at what I was holding.
"With it, you'll be able to talk to me—and you'll know which direction I'm in, so you can find me… or I can find you."
Then I pulled out the second gift.
"And there's also this plushie. Look! If you push it right here with your magic…"
I pressed the bunny's chest gently, and it shouted, with clear and energetic tone—my voice exactly:
"You're strong! We're powerful!"
It was one of those phrases we used when pretending to be adventurers.
Bonny always had a vivid imagination.
To her, any corner could become an ancient cavern, a lost temple, or the lair of invisible dragons.
And it worked.
Her eyes widened instantly. She took the plush carefully, as if holding a precious artifact.
And to make sure everything would be okay, I had stored a good amount of my sacred magical energy inside the bunny. Not too much, but just enough to be released slowly, like a warm wave wrapping around her small magical field.
The effect was immediate.
Calm washed over her.
She stopped crying.
But she didn't let go of the plushie.
She held it tightly—not out of desperation, but with resignation.
"Don't forget me! And I want lots of letters!"
At last, her demands came out.
Clearly a condition for letting me go.
I felt a deep tenderness seeing her like that—so determined and dramatic at the same time.
"Yes," I replied with a warm smile, brushing her mane lovingly. "You can be sure it'll be impossible to forget you, Bonny."
My parents watched the scene without interrupting.
They chose to enjoy the moment in silence.
They knew, at this point, words weren't necessary.
I said goodbye to them too, with a firm, calm hug.
Then I made my way to the station, where my belongings were already waiting. The castle maids had sent them hours earlier as part of the relocation protocol.
All day long, I didn't see Twilight. I couldn't find her to say goodbye.
Maybe she was buried in some scroll, forgetting what day it was.
So typical of her.
I let out a small laugh at the thought, just as the train appeared in the distance, signaling it was time.
Time to leave.
Time to begin… for real... again.
I felt excited to have that sense of independence again—the kind you only really get once you're an adult. Even if I was only eighteen, the future felt vast, full of unthinkable possibilities…
Well, except for alcohol. I had no idea where that might take me if I ever drank too much.
Last time I did, I ended up in another world.
I thought that as a joke, of course, while climbing onto the train and settling into my seat by the window.
A few foals ran laughing down the aisle, hooves clattering across the wooden floor. Other ponies sat calmly, chatting in low voices. No one turned to look at me.
There were no analyzing stares.
None of those calculating glances I had grown so tired of.
Just peace.
Until the carriage door slammed open, making Stella jump in alarm.
It was Lyra, accompanied by a mare I didn't recognize—cream-colored with a two-toned mane. They were both laughing loudly about something when we locked eyes.
"WIZZY!!" Lyra shouted with joy the moment she recognized me.