Chapter 17: The Edge of the Unknown
Leaving Silverwood Settlement felt like stepping out of a vivid dream and back into a cold, complicated reality. The friendly banter, the scent of fresh bread, the unguarded trust in the ponies' eyes—it all clung to Nox's mind, a persistent, unsettling warmth against the cold purpose of his mission. The persona of "Aether Wing" no longer felt like just a disguise; it had become a skin he could slip into with surprising ease, a comfortable mask that allowed the ghost of Alex Drake, with his sarcastic asides and friendly curiosity, to breathe. But beneath it, Nox Aeterna was wide awake, and his calculations had grown colder and more intricate.
He made camp that night in a small, hidden cave a few miles from the town, far enough to be safe, close enough to watch the road. As he chewed his bland glow-moss ration, he mentally replayed every conversation from the tavern.
"A leftover from the Storm King's mess."
The sheer, catastrophic inaccuracy of it was staggering. Sombra-Shard was no leftover; he was a primordial threat, a cancer that had been festering for a millennium, now empowered by the very heart of Nox's people. And the Equestrians, in their hard-won peace, were about to send a patrol of guards—likely brave, ordinary ponies like the ones he'd seen—to investigate a magical anomaly they believed was a simple clean-up operation. They would be annihilated, or worse, corrupted.
A sarcastic thought, pure Alex Drake, surfaced in his mind: Well, this is a fine mess. Go in for a simple revenge mission, end up playing secret guardian angel to the ponies of the tyrant you're supposed to be overthrowing. The irony is so thick you could spread it on toast.
But the humor was thin, a brittle shield over a core of grim resolve. The wise king within him saw the strategic nightmare. If Sombra-Shard eliminated the patrol, it would trigger a massive, full-scale military response from Canterlot. Celestia's full attention would be drawn to the borderlands, and his own mission to quietly reclaim the Heartstone would become impossible. He would be trapped between the anvil of the Equestrian army and the hammer of a fully empowered Sombra-Shard.
He had to get to the Heartstone first. But he also couldn't let those guards walk into a slaughter.
The following day, he began his approach to the Whispering Woods, but his method had changed. He was no longer just a hunter tracking prey; he was a strategist surveying a battlefield. He used the detailed map from Measure Tape, correlating the "strange lights" gossip with the topography. He flew high, cautious circuits, his eyes—keener than any Pegasus's—scanning the forest canopy for signs of corruption. He wasn't looking for the Heartstone's pull yet; he was looking for the edges of Sombra-Shard's influence.
It took another day of patient, silent observation from the air and from the high ridges overlooking the forest before he found it. On the eastern edge, where the map showed the deepest, most untraveled part of the woods, the green of the canopy was tainted. A faint, sickly purple hue stained the leaves, visible only from a specific angle in the afternoon light. It was a massive area, far larger than he had imagined. Sombra-Shard hadn't just hidden in the woods; he had begun claiming a significant portion of it.
That evening, as he watched the first Equestrian patrol—a different squad from the one he'd seen before—begin a cautious probe along the western trail Barley Brew had mentioned, his plan solidified. It was reckless. It was arrogant. But it was the only path he could see.
He would not stop the patrol. Instead, he would use them.
He would let them advance, let them be the distraction. While Sombra-Shard's attention was drawn to the noisy, obvious approach of the guards, he, the shadow, would infiltrate from the corrupted eastern edge. He would be the scalpel, cutting deep while the hammer pounded at the front door.
It was a dangerous gambit. Ponies could get hurt. They might even die. The cold, calculating part of him accepted this as a necessary cost of war. But the ordinary, friendly part of him, the part that had shared a drink with Barley Brew, recoiled. He shoved the feeling down. Sentiment had no place on the edge of a blade.
As night fell, he looked from the campfires of the Equestrian patrol to the faint, malevolent purple glow emanating from the depths of the woods. He stood on the precipice, not just of a forest, but of a choice that would define his kingship. He was no longer just the Prince in the Dark. He was the shadow between two worlds, about to step into the unknown.