Prologue: S A P R

Creation. Destruction. Knowledge. The aspects of magic left to us by the gods, our gift from those who have condemned us both to torment. Each is, in its own way, formidable; each is, in its own way, necessary. There is always a certain beauty in the act of creation, provided that the creation itself serve some worthy purpose, just as there is equal beauty to be found in the destruction of the unworthy. The latter, I confess, is more pleasurable to observe, at least when the creations being destroyed belong to you. And as for Knowledge, well…without knowledge, what great enterprise can ever hope to succeed? Why do you think your pawns and puppets, blindfolded by your lies and half-truths, fumbling in a morass of ignorance, fail so often as they do?

But of course, before you feel the need to remind me, there is another kind of magic. These things always come in fours, after all. Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall; Creation, Knowledge, Destruction…and the greatest of these is Choice. Because we all, even those who never knew the touch of godhead, never received their poisoned gifts, though they have no other magic they all possess the power of Choice. It was the choice of the God of Light to deny me my petition for your life; it was the choice of both the brothers to lay our race and all our mighty kingdoms to waste and ruin; it was their choice to condemn us both – and the four kings likewise – to this wretched, endless, stale existence. It was your choice to raise your hand against me and murder our sweet daughters. And it is my choice to strive with might and main against you and all your works forever while the world shall turn, for I choose not to cease my raging until I have given back to you your fill and more of bloodshed.

But all men, though they be so much less than I, and less even than you, possess the power of choice. These are not gods, but when the gods themselves created us they did so in the name of choice. It was their intent, and in their absence that intent has thrived amongst the successors to our kind, that mankind should be free to choose. Of the four relics which the gods left behind them one even embodies that power of choice which all men possess.

How ironic, then, that they seem so eager to reject the power of choice that is their birthright. They cling to the so-called wisdom of ancient wizards, they look to virtuous maidens to lead and inspire them, they raise up kings and generals and enter into voluntary servitude beneath their banners. Do they do this because they are afraid? Do they wish to avoid taking the blame for the consequences of their own poor decisions? Do they simply want the heavy burden to pass from their shoulders and onto another? Are they, perhaps, so blinded by power that they feel they have no…no choice but to abase themselves before it.

In truth, what I find even stranger is that they do not only give away their choices but seek to deny that they ever had choices to begin with. Consider destiny, this grand notion that they have created: a force of great power overseeing the world, spinning out the threads of fate, determining the inexorable futures of kings and empires. Well, I do my best, but I'm afraid they give me too much credit. Although I make my plans and send my agents, I am not responsible for the majority of the failures that they experience. Frankly, they cause their own travails well enough on their own through their folly, their hubris, and, yes, their belief that all was pre-ordained. There are no lessons to be learned from their mistakes for they were inevitable from the moment of creation. How much more they could be if they were willing to take off the blindfold and see the truth but no, they cling to the lie that is destiny like an old friend or a child's comfort blanket. Some people run and run, chasing a destiny that is always just out of reach, turning their backs on everything they have and all who love them in pursuit of…what? A restless emptiness, a feeling they can't explain, a refusal to admit that, in the end, life cannot measure up to their expectations.

This is not my choice, Sunset.

Not your choice? You're Princess Celestia! All Equestria lies beneath your hoof! Nothing happens here that is not by your choice!

I hope you do not truly believe that, Sunset, for if you do it merely shows that you never understood what it means to be a princess. And I fear you never will.

Sunset Shimmer stood in the courtyard of Canterlot Combat School, just outside the main building. She stood in the courtyard, all alone, the mottled light of the shattered moon shining down upon her, looking at a mirror set into the base of the Wondercolt Statue.

No one knew that it was a mirror but her. Everyone else just looked at it and – when they bothered to look at the base at all, and not the noble stallion on top of it – they saw only a marble plinth, perhaps with some particularly reflective surfaces.

Sunset saw a way home. A way that, although dormant, might one day open up and carry her back to Equestria.

Back to a home that she had left behind.

A home that had nothing to offer her any more.

It was your choice to make me love you, but it was my choice to believe that you loved me in return.

A home that called to her nonetheless.

The night was cold; although Canterlot lay in the surprisingly temperate and fertile west of Atlas, it was still a part of the north kingdom, and that meant it grew chilly of the nights. Sunset shivered as the breeze bit through her leather jacket. She flinched as it nipped at her face. She could go back. Not right now, but when the portal opened again she could go back. She could wait, and watch, and when the time was right she could step right through and she would be in Equestria again.

Equestria, where nopony would break up with her because of the race she had been born, and nopony would encourage her boyfriend to dump her for that reason. Equestria, where no one would be blinded to her greatness by the fact that she was 'only a faunus'. Equestria, where it was not an insult to be called a pony but a name that she could wear with, if not pride, then equanimity.

Equestria, where she would be equal…and, in being equal, then be nothing.

Sunset scowled. As if she was more than nothing in this place. It was no great life being a faunus in the Kingdom of Atlas. In fact it was a pretty terrible life all things considered. She had more detentions and demerits than any other student in the school; kids who ought to have been old enough to know better pulled her tail on the street; people felt free to tell her to her face that she belonged in a zoo or worse. Sunset had come through the mirror chasing dreams of glory, but what she'd found was a world where she had to walk small and keep her head down if she wanted to stay alive.

I have a great destiny, and if you deny me what is rightfully mine then I'll just take it for myself!

Sunset cringed at the memory of her youthful arrogance. She hated it here. She hated this place, she hated these people, she hated that she had come through the mirror looking like this. She hated her stupid tail and her stupid pony ears; why couldn't she have come through the mirror looking human? If she had, then she had no doubt that with her self-evident qualities of intellect and leadership she'd have been on top by now.

She hated the other faunus who just seemed to accept this as their lot in life. Even worse, she hated the ones who didn't seem to let it hold them back at all; the ones who seemed to see themselves as human; the ones who everybody else seemed to see as human.

Sunset reached out, and brushed her fingertips against the cold, smooth base of the statue. She could go home, if she wanted to. She could wait for the mirror to open up again and go back to Equestria, where no one suffered discrimination for the circumstances of their birth.

She could go back, and crawl to the base of Celestia's throne and confess that she had failed – in her destiny and at everything else – and could she please have a room and a place at school to finish her education?

No.

No, she would not do that. Even the thought of doing that made her shudder. She would not humiliate herself in that fashion. Her pride would not allow it. Her back would not bend so far, nor would her knees descend so low as to permit it.

The humans of this world might mock her, insult her, arrest her, threaten her, degrade her on a daily basis but in so doing they only revealed their own smallness of character. They could do all those things and worse, but they could not take away her knowledge of her own worth, they could not strip her of her self-respect nor her awareness of who she was and what she deserved. She had a destiny, a great and tremendous destiny; that knowledge had sustained her through her years at Canterlot and it sustained her now against the temptation to admit defeat and leave it all behind.

She had a destiny, and though it was nowhere to be found in Atlas yet it still existed in this world of Remnant. She just had to hold her nerve and remember that she was Sunset Shimmer, born and raised and groomed for greatness. Vale would be different. Beacon would be different. There, she would find what she was looking for.

"I will not go back," she whispered to the mirror, and to the Wondercolt statue and the shattered moon above. "I won't fail. My destiny is here. And I'm going to grab it with both hands."

Then you'll see how wrong you were.

I wish that that was not the answer that you gave me, and yet as you are Sunset Shimmer I suppose it was the only answer you could give.

Sunset picked up Sol Invictus from where she'd rested it against the statue base, and slung it over her shoulder. Across the other shoulder she slung her backpack.

"Saying one last goodbye?"

Sunset froze for a moment, before a glance over her shoulder confirmed that it was only Principal Celestia, the headmistress of Canterlot Combat School and an uncanny doppelganger – once one got past the surface differences – to Sunset's princess and old teacher. It had confused her immensely, at first, when she had come through the mirror to escape Princess Celestia and found a Principal Celestia waiting for her. It had been enough to make her wonder if, instead of crossing into another world, she had entered into some kind of dreamland populated by fragments of memory. She no longer believed that to be the case – this world was too vast and too detailed to be a hallucination of Sunset Shimmer – yet still the presence of this other Celestia baffled her. It confounded all her efforts to explain it.

Not that it mattered much any more. She was leaving Canterlot behind; she doubted that she would ever see the Principal again.

Nor did she wish to.

"In a manner of speaking," Sunset replied.

Principal Celestia nodded. "I think you will do very well at Beacon Academy," she said. "Professor Ozpin…has a habit of bringing the very best out of his students."

"I'm sure that I'll do well there, too," Sunset declared. Though out of my own merits, and through no nurturing skill of Professor Ozpin's.

Principal Celestia said, "I'm glad that we agree. For whatever it may be worth, I think you made the right decision, choosing Beacon. I fear you would have been a poor fit at Atlas Academy."

"I agree," Sunset replied. "That's why I chose Beacon."

Principal Celestia was silent for a moment. "I know that you have not always been happy here, Sunset," she said, after a brief pause. "And I am sorry for that. I hope that – at Beacon, or wherever your road takes you – you can find your place to belong in the world. A place where you can be happy." She paused again. "Goodbye, Sunset Shimmer."

Sunset nodded, curtly and a little coldly. "Goodbye, Principal Celestia." She looked away, and only the sound of Principal Celestia's footsteps on the courtyard told her that the principal was leaving.

I will find my place in the world, Sunset thought, staring at the statue and the mirror. Just as I will find my destiny.

With one last lingering look, at the door to home that she would be leaving behind a continent away from where she was going, Sunset turned away and began to walk towards the docks.

Destiny is a crutch, you see. A crutch that, since it cannot be seen, allows them to pretend if only for a moment that their feeble legs can sustain their weight. Even when it ought to be obvious that that is not so, they refuse to face the reality of their situation. They refuse to choose more wisely, or to take any kind of responsibility for their predicament. Instead, they put their faith in destiny and dreams. Arrogance. There is nothing extraordinary about any of their lives or their existences. There is no special providence guiding any of them on an elevated path towards power or wealth or glory. None is marked out to be set higher than the others. To be a man in these times, is to be nothing more than a grain of sand amongst multitudes.

Jaune Arc crept through his house with only a torch to light his way, passing down the upstairs corridor like a burglar in his own home.

It might not stay his home for much longer, not once Dad found the note and realised that Crocea Mors was missing from its place on the mantelpiece.

He told himself that it wasn't really stealing. It was a family blade, it didn't belong to any specific member of the family but to all of them, and he was as much a member of the family as anyone else so he had a right to take the sword.

Yeah, that didn't sound terribly convincing, even to him. But he needed a weapon and it wasn't as though anyone else was using it, right? The sword had just been gathering dust since his great-great-grandfather's time.

Jaune stopped as one of the floorboards creaked beneath his feet. He froze. He was right outside of Kendal's room, and she was a really light sleeper. If she woke up, and caught him like this about to sneak out then…

Why couldn't she have been away when I did this?

He waited, as still as could be, as still as the statue of his great-great-grandfather in the middle of town. Neither Kendal, nor River whose room lay on the other side of the corridor, stirred from sleep.

Jaune tried to stifle the sigh of relief that sought to escape his mouth, and kept on walking.

Aoko's bedroom door was open, and his sister was still awake. Fortunately she had her back to the open doorway and to him; she was engrossed in the screen of her computer, where words appeared on the off-white screen. Her pale blonde hair was long and untidy, hanging down behind her almost to her waist. She never seemed to remember to have it cut.

Jaune tried to move as quietly as he could, but without turning around Aoko said, "Hey, Jaune; what are you doing up?"

Jaune halted. He kept his voice down to a very low whisper. "How did you-"

"I can see your reflection in my screen," Aoko said, also speaking very softly. Jaune had to strain his ears to hear her.

"Oh, right," Jaune murmured. "I…I'm just getting a snack out of the refrigerator."

"Cool. Can you bring me up a bag of cheese puffs?"

Jaune couldn't help but smile. "Sure," he said. It was a lie – he wasn't going to risk coming back up the stairs – but compared to what else he was going to be doing tonight a lie about getting his sister a snack hardly registered. Besides, Aoko would probably forget she'd asked in about five minutes. "What are you doing up?"

"I'm chatting to this girl in Atlas," Aoko said. "Well, I think she's in a place called Canterlot right now, but that's a part of Atlas. I think. Anyway, she has some interesting ideas about robotics."

"Ah," Jaune replied, without any comprehension, as Aoko began to type. "Hey, Aoko…I love you."

"Mm-hmm," Aoko murmured, as she kept on typing.

Jaune shook his head and left her to it. He crept downstairs, thanking God that there were no more creaking floorboards that threatened to give him away, and he was able to make his way into the living room, where Crocea Mors waited right where it always was: on the mantle above the fireplace, sheathed and sitting upon an ornate cast iron stand.

His hand trembled just a little at the idea of – he could lie to everyone else, but it was harder to lie to himself – stealing it, but he didn't have a choice. He couldn't train to be a Huntsman at Beacon without some kind of weapon, and he didn't have the money to buy one or the skill to make one so Crocea Mors it was. Sure, it was kind of old and a little out of date but a sword was a sword, right? It wasn't as if it wouldn't work any more.

He had to do this. He'd come too far to turn back now. He'd forged the transcripts and the exam results, he'd hidden his acceptance letter from Professor Ozpin, he'd kept his plans a secret from a smothering mom and five nosy sisters. He wouldn't get another shot at this. If he didn't go now he'd never go.

And he needed to go. If he didn't get out of here then he was going to…this was his only dream, since he'd been six years old and had torn through every issue of My Huntsman Academia that he could get his hands on. To be the hero just like in the stories, to be the knight who saved everyone, that was what he'd always wanted to be. Just like Dad, just like Grandpa, just like all the Arc men as far back as his great-great-grandfather. They had all been heroes, and it was time for him to take his place amongst them. It didn't matter that his mom didn't want her baby boy to risk his life in some field somewhere; it didn't matter that Dad and Kendal thought he was too soft to make it through a huntsman academy, let alone as a pro huntsman. It didn't even matter that Sky and Rouge thought that huntsmen were ridiculous, and that they weren't needed here in this peaceful town. He knew what he wanted.

This was his life, it didn't belong to his mom or his dad; it didn't belong to Sky or Rouge or Kendal or Violet.

This was his life, and this was what he'd always wanted to be. He could do this, no matter what they thought.

After all, the heroes in the comics made it look easy.

Gently, quietly, Jaune lifted Crocea Mors off the mantelpiece and strapped it to his belt. He might be stealing it but at least he was going to put it to good use.

He could do this. He would do this. This was his dream; this was what he'd always wanted to be.

This was his destiny.

As he stole out of the house, Jaune vowed to himself that he was going to make his dreams come true and become one of the most famous huntsmen to ever live.

He had left a note explaining everything to his folks. He wasn't sure what would be worse: that they came to drag him back home…or that they didn't, because they just didn't care enough to bother.

Some of them run from their so-called destiny, telling themselves how much they hate it, how much they want to escape from it and its baleful influence upon their lives, not realising that their very belief in destiny holds them captive. For of course, they cannot escape something that does not exist, and so long as they can blame a conveniently external force for all their troubles and misfortunes they will never have to confront the fact that they have nothing to blame but their own weakness.

Pyrrha Nikos wandered towards her room; her footsteps were slow, as if her steps were weighted down with stones bound around her ankles. Her head was bowed, and she looked down at nothing but the varnished floor beneath her and her slowly-moving feet. She ignored – she did not even look at – the death masks of her ancestors that hung on the wall, the antique vases on their marble plinths, the antique tapestries hanging between the doors.

From below, the sounds of the guests in the Dining Hall echoed up to her. Pyrrha ignored them. She had no desire to go back down there. She had come up here to get away from them.

All those people gathered down below: lords and ladies of Mistralian families old and proud, prosperous merchants and attorneys on the rise, the Lord Steward and his daughters, the Councillors of Mistral. All of those people, gathered below to celebrate an idea with neither knowledge of nor desire to know the person upon whom that idea sat like all-concealing armour. Or, worse, they were pretending to celebrate both it and her whilst all the while holding her in contempt.

It was best to come away. Loneliness was preferable to the way that she felt down there, the object of every eye and tongue but the subject of no one's attentions.

She had some hope that Beacon would be different; in Vale, the mystique of the Invincible Girl might not be spread so wide, and the name of Nikos and the idea of the Princess Without a Crown would mean nothing there. In Vale, in Beacon, she would be no champion but only Pyrrha Nikos, a first year student.

So she could hope, at least.

So she could try to be.

Pyrrha walked into her room, to find one of the maids, Iris by name, fastening a suitcase on the bed. Iris looked up in surprise as she heard Pyrrha's footsteps on the floor.

"Oh. Begging your pardon, young mistress, I wasn't aware the party was over."

"It, um," Pyrrha said hesitantly, wondering what exactly she ought to say. "Well, you see..."

Iris smiled. "I understand, Lady Pyrrha."

Pyrrha blinked. "You do?"

Iris nodded. "Young mistress, everything has been packed for your journey to Vale."

"Thank you." Pyrrha murmured, although she could have done her own packing. In many ways, she would rather have done so. It would have meant that the final decision on what to take with her to Beacon rested with her and not her mother.

Still, that was not Iris' fault, and so Pyrrha smiled at her and hoped that it reached her eyes as she stood aside to let Iris leave.

Iris reached the doorway and paused. Now it was the turn of the maid to look a little uncertain. "I…I know it's not my place, Lady Pyrrha, but on behalf of all of us I should like to say…good luck, at Beacon."

Pyrrha felt her smile broaden, just a little. "Thank you, Iris," she said. "Thank you all."

Iris nodded, and curtsied to Pyrrha. "Goodnight, young mistress."

"Goodnight," Pyrrha replied. She slid the door to her bedroom closed behind her, and sighed softly as she leaned across the wall. She was the young mistress to the servants; she was the Invincible Girl to the crowds who flocked to see her tournament fights; to her mother she was a sword, an instrument for the fulfilling of dreams from a generation ago. In a sense Pyrrha Nikos did not exist, not as a person. Nobody knew her. Nobody cared to know. They wanted their Invincible Girl; what the girl wanted was of no importance by comparison.

Pyrrha crossed the room, ignoring the suitcase neatly packed on top of her bed for a moment as she walked lightly and gracefully across the wooden floor to the trophy cabinet on the far wall. The major trophies, her regional tournament cups and the like, were not here: they were on display in the hall where her mother could show them off to visitors and talk about what a prodigious talent her daughter was. But the lesser trophies, the ones from when she was younger, or simply from the less prestigious events, were up here. Her mother wanted them present to remind her of how far she'd come, and to not falter in her determination.

Too late for that, mother.

Pyrrha's eyes passed over most of the trophies, lingering on a very small statuette near the bottom corner of the cabinet. It was a brass statuette of a ballerina, feet crossed, hands in the air; she had won it when she was five years old, and come third in a junior ballet competition. The next year her mother had told her that she was no longer learning ballet; Pyrrha wasn't talented enough to make it worthwhile, better to devote all her efforts to combat training where she showed so much more aptitude. Third place, for a Nikos, was most definitely not good enough.

She had cried when that decision had been made, because she had loved ballet. She remembered loving it more than she had ever loved the fight.

She could, she thought, have been perfectly happy as a third rate dancer; and maybe, just maybe, Pyrrha Nikos wouldn't have gotten lost amidst everything else if she had taken that path instead.

Of course, it was not to be. Fate had decreed it otherwise. Her destiny lay elsewhere.

And besides, she could not have justified the privileges of the House of Nikos, and all the luxury into which she had been born, as a dancer of average ability. She was a Nikos, a victor of the people, and even had she not been born a prodigal in the field of arms it would still have been her duty to venture upon the hazards of that field for Mistral and for mankind.

Pyrrha closed her eyes and bowed her head in prayer that she might achieve the destiny that she had vowed for herself when two things had become inescapably clear to her: first, that she might be one of the greatest warriors of her generation, perhaps more; second, that she would never be allowed to be anything but a warrior.

That being the case, she would be the greatest warrior, and she would protect the world from all the terrors of the dark. That was the destiny to which she had dedicated herself with…she could not quite say that she had dedicated herself to it with all her heart, but at least with most of it.

That last, uncommitted part of her heart still hoped for other and more selfish things.

Pyrrha heard the door slide open behind her. It was her mother, it had to be. No one else would have entered without knocking first.

"You are missing your own going away party."

"I suppose I am," Pyrrha replied. "But the party seems to be going perfectly well without its subject." People can talk about me perfectly well without me needing to be in the room while they do it.

For a moment she thought that her mother would demand that she return to the dining hall, but in the end Lady Nikos simply asked, "Are you ready?"

"Almost," Pyrrha said. "Thank you for having my things packed for me, mother, it was very helpful."

"I still question the need for this. Professor Lionheart is an incompetent buffoon, I will grant, and the reputation of Haven Academy has sunk under his stewardship, but you are so skilled that you hardly require first rate schooling. You will shine just as brightly at a second-rate school. If it were not for the Vytal Festival I would say that you would shine with no school at all. I question what you will gain from this move across the world. What can Vale teach the pride and glory of Mistral reborn?"

I'm hoping that my reputation won't follow me halfway across the world. "With respect, mother, the fact that you don't understand my reasons does not invalidate them."

"Look at me, child."

Pyrrha turned around to face her mother, who stood in the doorway as if it was her intent to block the way in or out.

"You think that I don't see through you?" Lady Nikos demanded. "All that I have done I have done for your own good."

"I'm not ungrateful."

"You do not show much gratitude," Lady Nikos said. "I will be monitoring your grades; if you don't keep up the performance of which I know that you're capable I will bring you straight back here."

"Straight As, I suppose."

"Do you expect me to settle for anything less?"

They're not your grades. "No, mother."

Lady Nikos shook her head disdainfully. "What do you hope to achieve by this? What do you think is waiting for you there?"

"I just want…" Pyrrha hesitated for a moment. "I want four years with friends, four years of fun and laughter and being a normal person-"

"You are not normal," Lady Nikos snapped. "You are a Nikos of the old blood of Mistral, descended from Odysseus the Third and Juno the Reclaimer and Pyrrha the Second and all the emperors in direct line to Theseus himself. All the honour of our august house rests upon your shoulders and all the history of our most ancient kingdom flows through your veins. You are the Invincible Girl, a prodigy such as has not been seen since the Great War, if not longer! I will not have you dim your light for the sake of others, for the sake of friends. To burn brightly, for however brief a moment, that is where glory lies."

"For it is in passing that we achieve immortality," Pyrrha murmured.

"Indeed," Mother said. "Pyrrha Nikos may be forgotten, but the Invincible Girl will live forever in the hearts of men."

But I don't want to be the Invincible Girl. I want to be Pyrrha.

But that was a battle the Invincible Girl had lost a long time ago.

And then there are the simpler ones, the smaller and more honest souls, those whom you trust to light the way for all the rest to follow. True, they are less burdened by self-hatred than some, less plagued by doubt, less gnawed upon by the emptiness within themselves that no amount of accomplishment can assuage. But in the end they are no less lost, no less alone, no less touched by melancholy. And, as you have spun so many lies before their eyes that they are quite blinded by them, they are no less incapable of seeing the truth about the world around them, or of making any choice to affect that world…for good.

The rose is no less touched by frost than any other flower in this garden of yours.

Ruby Rose stood before her mother's gravestone.

It was not where Summer Rose was buried; nobody knew where that was or if there was even…Ruby didn't finish that unpleasant thought. She focussed on the marker, the white stone with the rose engraved upon it.

Summer Rose

Thus Kindly I Scatter

"Hey, Mom," Ruby whispered to the wintry air. It was snowing all around her, and she had the hood of her red cloak pulled up to keep it off her face and out of her hair. If anyone had been watching they wouldn't have been able to see her face at all.

Ruby hesitated for a moment, clutching her combat skirt with her hands. "I…I just wanted to come and see you, because…because it feels like it's been a while, and because it feels as though things are going to change this year.

"Yang's graduated from Signal, and she'll be going to Beacon soon. She's said that she'll come home for the holidays – assuming that she doesn't end up on a team with a bunch of super cool people from Atlas or Mistral who end up inviting her to come and spend break with them. Either way, we won't see as much of her any more. I'm not sure how Dad's going to cope. He says that everything's going to be okay, and I get that it's not as if she's going away forever, it's not like we're losing her, but all the same…Dad relies on her for a lot.

"We both do. I…I'm really happy for her, but at the same time…I don't know what I'm going to do without her."

Ruby trailed off. Her memories of Summer Rose were few and vague. Mom had died when she was just a toddler. Yang remembered more, and had told her that Mom had been a supermom 'baking cookies and killing monsters'. But for herself, leaving aside Yang's stories, Ruby couldn't remember much more than fragments and echoes: a gentle voice, a pair of arms holding her, a flash of silver.

"She does so much for both of us. I mean, there was this time a couple of days ago, just before the snow fell, when I…I kind of knocked myself out running into a tree." Ruby laughed nervously. "Anyway, then this ursa showed up and Yang just took it out. Wham! Bam! Yeah! She's absolutely amazing. She's brave and strong and she's not afraid of anything. And she's kind, too; she always has time for me even though she could just tell me to get lost.

"I don't remember much of you, Mom, but I think…I think that Yang is trying to be just like you, and if she's doing it then…then you must have been pretty awesome. I know that you must be really proud of her, and I hope that you can be proud of me too, because when I'm seventeen I'm going to Beacon too and I'm going to be a fearless huntress just like the both of you. I want to help people, I want to keep them safe, I want to make the world better for everyone!

"Just like Yang. Just like you.

"I love you, Mom."

Ruby turned away and began to walk home. Rose petals trailed behind her, mingling with the falling snow.

So these are your guardians: lost and lonely creatures broken by their own poor choices which, too proud to admit to their mistakes, they ascribe instead to the malevolence of destiny. Neither of us are strangers to such as they, we both of us have made use of the lost and the lonely in the past. Pathetic as they are they make excellent pawns; and, if their eyes can be opened up to the truth about the world in which they live, then it is always possible that they can become so much more.

Which is where we differ, you and I. You use such poor creatures as they as your instruments, and yet because you seek to keep them in the confinement in which they languish those that do not perish in your war inevitably betray and abandon you. Either they seek to quit the struggle altogether and eke out their days in a state of miserable existence, or else they come to me, and in my warm embrace they find the home and purpose that you could never give.

You may call me wicked. You may even call me evil. You may say that I'm a monster, but even if that were true at least I am an honest monster. Is it any less monstrous to manipulate all those around you, to twist their minds and fill them with lies, to use and abuse and cast them aside when they are of no more use to you? At least I offer even my worst enemies an honest choice: join me, or die.

We have both known the likes of these before, but the difference between us is that I can offer them respite from all their struggles. Love, home, power, respect, companionship, answers, I can offer all these things, and what can you offer them but the illusion of a free will that you have never respected, and lies about destiny that will only bring them tears.

So you may train your guardians, you may move your pawns upon the board, you may even seek to make a Maiden to raise up against me; you may put your hopes in a lost girl far from home, in a boy with a head full of dreams, in a princess who thinks herself chosen by fate, even in a simple soul.

But in the end they all shall fall, to darkness…and to me.