Chapter Text

Sergeant Major Catra is by many metrics an excellent soldier. Canny, a capable strategist, and adept at playing the games of clout and status that all corridors of power are built upon; the Horde’s state-of-the-art military, being no exception.

She would have been on a fast track for commission and at least the rank of Captain, were it not for Specialist Adora. Not that either of them knows that yet.

Specialist Sergeant Adora is a better soldier. Loyal to a fault, technically adept, and a tactical savant. Where Catra is a capable hand-to-hand fighter, Adora can go toe to toe with Rogelio despite being built like Kyle. Where Catra runs four miles as part of unit exercise, Adora always goes for an extra two in the evenings.

Adora shoots on average ten points better than Catra; she scores double-S’s in squad exercises where Catra gets straight A’s; and most of all she has twin gifts that endears her to the officer staff: she understands logistics, and how to fix broken things in the heat of (mock) battle. Vehicles, rifles, and the occasional radio telegraph.

That is why Adora supervises the unit armory, while Catra supervises privates Kyle, and Rogelio, Corporal Lonnie, and technically, Adora.

Adora also gets to spend time with, in an official capacity, Shadow Weaver. Once a week, as a technical assistant. Really it is more like mentoring.

Catra never did. There are no mentoring sessions. There is only the occasional reprimand when Catra ‘gets Adora into trouble.’

Sibling rivalry, of a sort. Shadow Weaver, out of the ambition of her black, black heart, took in both of them. Adora first, and then when Adora, all of seven, made friends with a feliform street urchin, begged and kicked and screamed, Catra as well.

Shadow Weaver found it easy to keep Adora — who was no less prone to mischief than the petulant catgirl — out of trouble by using Catra as a convenient scapegoat, and keep her in line by threatening corporal punishment on Catra; because Hordak knows, Adora was not afraid of beatings.

Of course, someone as important as Shadow Weaver, did not actually have time to do the day-to-day parenting, so the two went into first the army orphanage, then the Youth Recruitment programme.

All they have is each other. All Catra has, is Adora.

And so Catra sleeps in the foot-end of Adora’s bed.

“Specialist Adora, you’re on as assistant armorer in the sixth battery. You’re being promoted to Technical Warrant Officer.”

Adora looks around the room, at the rest of the platoon attending morning brief. Commandant Cobalt who is giving the brief has just given them orders: they are reserve troops, to mobilize only in case of unexpected resistance in the siege of Thaymor.

Adora, as the only one of their little band of thirty-five, will see battle. As an artillerist, so not actual front-line stuff, but still. An honor. An adventure.

An adventure denied to everyone else; and in particular her squad; and in particular Catra.

There is a round of applause, but all Adora can think is: She wanted to go, too. Now I get to, without her.

“Sir?” Adora says.

“Yes, Warrant Officer?”

“Permission to request the assistance of Sergeant Catra; as my Adjutant.”

“You don’t need permission to make requests, but the request is denied, Technician. You’re not required in an administrative capacity, but due to your experience with howitzer repair — minimal paperwork if that is a consolation.”

Adora looks at Catra, who looks back, with a hint of a scowl. I tried, Adora mouths.

During afternoon leisure, Catra finds Adora in the hall, approaching in her usual fashion: true to her nature as an ambush predator.

“Hey, what’s this?” She deftly — and Catra’s hands are always deft — nicks Adora’s new emblem.

“Give that back!” Adora protests.

Catra sniffs it. “Did Shadow Weaver give you this? What’d she say?”

“She came by for the occasion. It’s not every day you get promoted to junior officer. Sorry she couldn’t stay to—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Catra says, and holds the little brass thing up to the light.

Adora swipes at the emblem, and Catra twirls away. “Look at you, Warrant Officer!” she teases, and mockingly stands at parade rest, saluting. “Ma’am!” She breaks down laughing.

Adora can’t help but snicker.

“Who’re we sectioning with?”

“I— We’ve been assigned squads nine and fifteen. You know Lonnie’s two friends? The green-hair guy with the—”

“Think fast,” Catra interrupts and tosses the insignia back to Adora.

Adora almost — almost — fumbles it.

“Catra?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry you can’t come.”

Catra scowls. “It’s unfair! My scores are just as good as yours!”

They really are. Catra is nothing if not ambitious, and has actually been working her furry butt off for the last few months, trying to catch up to Adora’s raw talent, and insane work-ethic. It’s almost unbecoming of a cat.

“I wanted to blow something up.” She pouts.

Adora puts a hand on her shoulder. “Hey. When I come back, I really am going to give you a chip on your shoulder, OK?” She tugs on the shoulder strap on Catra’s jacket — where she’d put her adjutant’s pepaulette.

“Yeah. Thanks. It means a lot.”

“And besides, I’m gonna be sitting on my butt and twiddling my thumbs unless one of the big guns break down. I’m not even going to pull a single lanyard.”

Catra turns with a smirk. “Yeah. There’s killing time…”

“And then there’s killing time,” Adora finishes the proverb.

They laugh.

Catra is less fine than she lets on, and Adora might be oblivious, but she knows when her friend is upset.

She finds her after dinner, moping on the roof of the assembly building south of the barracks. It’s off limits, but Catra doesn’t care. Adora shimmies a drainpipe.

“Hey.”

“Hey Adora.”

“I thought you didn’t care about rank.”

“I don’t.”

“Come on, Catra. This is what I’ve been working towards. I was hoping you could be… Happy for me?”

Catra groans. “Whatever. I’m gonna tag along, obviously. Maybe I can get out of this dump and kill someone before I die of boredom.”

She looks towards the soft, eerie glow of the forest-covered mountains. “I wonder what it’s even like, outside the Hordelands. It’s like we never left the Fright Zone.” She pats the lip of the roof. Both to indicate that this is like every other box of brick containing factory floors, and to ask Adora to sit.

Adora sits. And nonchalantly pulls out the keys for one of the landskiffs. A recent innovation, a shiny new vehicle design, straight from Chancellor Hordak’s R&D departments; rolled off the production lines not five years ago. “Why don’t we find out what’s out there?”

Catra gasps.

And drive they do. The landskiff sails like its naval namesake, powered by artificial winds filling the metal-mesh sail. Adora has never sailed, and neither has Catra. Their jackets billow playfully in the warm autumn wind.

“I take it all back, you’re officially awesome!” Catra yells, over the wind and in excitement. “I can’t believe you stole a skiff! We’re going to be in so much trouble.”

“I’m an Officer: I’m authorized to test-drive vehicles now!” Adora yells back. “This is just a little recon mission.”

“I’ve always wanted to drive one of these,” Catra says. She takes the till. Adora lets her.

“Don’t crash. And save us enough fuel to get back, yeah?”

“That is a problem for future Catra and Adora!”

“If I get demoted, it’s your fault! Then you’re never going to blow anything up.”

Catra sets the course for the woods.

“Really?”

“Reconnaissance, yeah? We need to actually go look at something!”

They reach the edge of the woods without issue — apart from Catra testing out the handling with some wild maneuvers that toss them about a bit, but Adora is smart enough to jam a foot under the thwarts and steady herself against the stubby mast.

Catra lays a course along the treeline. “Hey Adora,” she yells.

“Yeah?”

“This thing hovers over the ground, right? Do you think treetops count as ground?”

“No, Catra, wait!”

But Catra yanks the till and stomps on the booster pedal and the skiff jumps off the ground, ascending into the sky until the lack of ground-effect brings them coasting down a little too fast to be a controlled descent.

“Catraa~” Adora yells in terror, gripping the edge of the hull for dear life.

Catra pulls up, and jets of air and fields of force scrabble for purchase in the foliage — and it almost works, too.

Adora comes to her senses, face down in the dew-wet foliage. By the pain in her side, she probably hit a branch on the way down. She rolls over, trying to avoid the pain, only to find she hit two branches on the way down. Both her sides hurt when she breathes. Broken ribs seem likely.

She gets to her feet, and orients herself. It’s a small clearing; filled with strange plants. Her helmet got ripped off by the fall, landing in the middle distance, and it’s a wonder she’s without a serious head injury.

Worst of all, she doesn’t know where North is. An unprecedented situation in wilderness navigation to be sure, but Catra is going to come back.

If she hasn’t crashed, too.

“Catra!?” Adora calls. “Catraa~?!” She winces from the exertion of yelling agitating her injury.

Then she spots it. A golden knob, sticking out of the undergrowth. Strangely alluring.

She picks her helmet off the ground and lumbers over to it, and performs the principal scientific investigation: she grabs a nearby stick and pokes it. When the stick doesn’t explode, she ups the ante and uses her fingers. It’s motile, but seemingly a longer object, stuck deep.

Tearing at the growths, she unveils a… Hilt?

Grasping it, and pulling does almost nothing. She’ll need to put her back into it, which means straining bruised muscles.

She grits her teeth, grabs hold with both hands, and lifts with her legs. It hurts enough to leave her winded.

The sword comes out.

Adora catches her breath, and turns over the fine weapon. Gold-plated hilt and cross guard. A big gem inlaid at the base of the blade. Narrow, arms-length.

“Cool.”

There is a blinding flash of light.

Adora.

“Adora!”

“Adora!”

Adora jack-knifes awake, and hits her forehead on Catra’s. Hard. Catra tumbles off her, and they both writhe in pain.

“Sorry,” she says.

“You’re such a dumb-ass!”

Adora sits, looking about. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“A sword? About yea long? —” Adora indicates with her hands “— gold hilt, big cyan gem?”

Catra shakes her head. “Did you hit your head or something? Quick, what’s my name? How many fingers am I holding up.”

“Catra. Three. I think my ribs took the brunt of it.”

Catra is on her in a second, she puts a hand on her sides. “Does this hurt?”

“A little?”

Catra walks her knuckles up Adora’s ribs and a sudden spike of pain leads to a sharp intake of breath.

“Yeah, you busted a rib. We need to get you back,” Catra says. She grabs Adora’s helmet and her own.

The skiff is moored in the center of the clearing, and the trip home is much less eventful.

Bed-rest and painkillers. Not a lot to be done for a fractured rib. The good thing about being a platoon commander is that nobody asks her pointed questions about how she got hurt. The nurse simply notes “fell off a skiff” as cause of injury. Later Adora files a report that is nary a single word longer.

Adora wakes in the middle of the night, both to a nightmare, and to the painkillers wearing off. Catra is curled up at the foot-end of the bed, in a way a human baseline spine definitely doesn’t allow, ergonomically.

The nightmare is… Weird. Places that feel familiar, yet Adora has never seen.

That damned sword. It must be some kind of… Ancient magical artifact.

Adora gently extricates her feet from under Catra, causing the catgirl to stir a little. Adora simply strokes her cheek to put her back to deep sleep. She puts on her boots and leaves a note. She has already insisted several times that the fall isn’t what knocked her out. Catra will know. But still.

Gone to Wispering Wuds again
To find that sord
Cover for me.

— Ad.

PS. If im not back by dawn send someone to look for me.

On a separate note, she writes.

Shadow Weaver: Catra culd hav ben sleeping in my lap and I culd stil slip away and you now it.

— Adora.

She tucks the notes under Catra’s claws, and tip-toes away.

Wearing the insignia of a warrant officer is carte blanche to access a lot of areas off-limits to mere sergeants. In particular, the garages, and the armory.

This time, Adora doesn’t take a skiff; that would probably arouse suspicion and inquiry. She just takes a motorcycle.

She also doesn’t go unarmed, because only an idiot would. The woods are dangerous. On her hip she brings the artillerist’s pistol she was issued upon assignment to the battery set to march on Thaymor, and in her wrist holster, a nice little knife Catra brought for her on leave back when they were fresh-faced privates. There’s also a folding spade and machete-pattern bayonet in her kit.

The bike has a mount along the frame for an infantry rifle, which neatly fits a survival triple-barrel gun. The satchel mounts holds her kit pack, and a spare jerry can of gas.

She straps on the helmet, buttons her cold-weather jacket, puts on her gloves — the nights are getting colder now — and sets out down the road to the gates. The gate guard salutes and opens for her.

It’s a long way to the Whispering Woods, a great stretch of hilly terrain; easy to patrol, but hard to drive. Adora heads off the roads and goes slow, so as to not bust the suspension — that might actually get her in trouble.

The three moons are bright overhead.

The rebels patrol the forest, but the Horde patrols the open spaces. The Whispering Woods are dangerous — barely passable by vehicle, and full of natural dangers. The landskiffs are actually part of an effort to increase terrain-viability of vehicles. There’s a shipment of supposedly terrain-going tanks being prepared for the attack on Thaymor, but their efficacy in cutting through the woods remains to be seen.

She reaches the treeline some hours later, chains the bike to a tree and continues on foot with a battery torch in hand. It’s a diffult trek, but the small machete serves nicely to cut the undergrowth. And a sip of water from her canteen makes a short stop to catch her breath much more enjoyable.

More difficult is finding the way back to the clearing. And while it logically seems like Adora might just get lost in the woods — but not entirely since she brought a magnetic compass! — but…

There’s an inexplicable feeling that she knows which way to go.

Adora cuts the last branches, and the clearing comes into veiw. The very same one. The same gnarly old trees, the same incline, the same boulder at the edge, the same plants — aside from the glowing. There’s even a broken branch up one of the trees, no; two. She really shouldn’t be out here with broken ribs.

And paradoxically, there, in the middle, the sword just sticks up, blade driven into the dirt.

That was not there earlier.

She takes a step into the clearing, and then another. The sword is admittedly alluring.

She reaches out to touch it, and at the moment of contact, there’s a flash of light. Gentler, this time.

Adora comes to her senses. The torch is lying in the dirt, illuminating underbrush. Her machete has fallen point first into the soft ground. Adora rubs her eyes with the back of one hand and feels a lumpy thing through her glove.

She pulls the glove hem up and sees the cyan gem, seated in a gold bracelet. The sword is gone.

Panicked, Adora throws off her glove and tries to remove the bracelet, only to find that it doesn’t fit over her hand. “Shit,” she hisses.

Then she notices the eerie quiet. The whole forest has stilled around her. She lunges for the torch, turning it off, and while momentarily blind in the dark, shrugs off her kit pack and the rifle on her shoulder, unholsters her pistol, unbelts the holster and mounts it as a shoulder stock to the grip of the gun.

Someone is there, beyond the treeline.

An owl hoots.

Then out of nowhere there’s a blade to her throat.

Chapter Text

“Commandant Glimmer,” the announcer calls.

Glimmer steps into the throne hall, and approaches the free-floating podium, overhanging the enormous glass canopy that admits a view of the Moonstone. The court is assembled in part, mostly at the front of the throne room; petty nobles and military officers.

The Queen looks sternly upon her, wings artfully framing her on the ornate seat.

Glimmer kneels. “Your Majesty.”

“I’m told you disobeyed orders; the colonel ordered a retreat, yet you chose to remain in the fortifications with your company. Would you care to explain?”

Glimmer groans internally. “I was trying to delay the Horde forces, to allow the civilians to evacuate. Which I might say, we succeed in. In fact, we delayed them long enough for reinforcements to arrive, and we successfully repelled the attack in the end, saving the city, and captured parts of the Horde’s landing fleet!”

“You were reckless, and put yourself and your men in danger of death, or worse, capture—”

“Isn’t that the whole purpose of— of fighting?! It’s not supposed to be safe! It’s war! How are we supposed to hold fast against the Horde if we keep just giving up on our fortresses?”

The Queen shoots her a glare. “I wasn’t finished. Your actions also resulted in the destruction of parts of the city walls and damage to the fortress itself. The repairs are unlikely to complete in time for the next attack; at which time the city might fall. The retreat was supposed to be strategic — the battalion that reinforced you were the very one supposed to head the planned counter-attack and re-capture…”

The Queen takes a deep breath, calming herself. “I am growing tired of your attitude towards these reprimands. If you had spoken to the colonel, at any point from the moment the attack began, she could have explained all of this to you.”

“Why did you make me a Commandant if you do not want me to command?!” Glimmer says, almost yelling.

The Queen loses her poise and stands. “Because you are supposed to take orders and learn from your betters, and that is the last I will hear. You’re on leave until further notice; and you will not leave this palace.”

“Moo~m!” Glimmer yells in protest.

“You are grounded and that is final.”

“You never let me do anything!”

“We are not having this conversation in court. You are embarrassing my house!” Angella says, putting volume into her voice.

“Oh, I am embarrassing you?!”

“Go to your room!”

Glimmer growls inarticulate with rage, and defying all rules of decorum, teleports — blinks — away.

Her ‘room’ is a spacious suite, with all the accommodations — and more — befitting of a princess. Rather than going through the process of unbuckling her spaulders and brigandine, wiggling out of her chain coat, unbuttoning her gambeson, and all the other steps necessary to doff a suit of armor; Glimmer simply blinks two steps to the side, letting the person-shaped collection of protective gear to collapse on the floor with a tremendous noise.

Ordinarily she would do that in steps, leaving each part separate, instead of tangled up like the layers of an onion.

Underneath, her battle dress is sweaty and clammy from the exertions of the battle, and so that goes as well. Another blink, another pile.

After a quick wash, she throws on a robe, grabs her diary, to diarize the events of the day, and vent about her mother; the usual. She rings a bell to summon a waiter, and not one paragraph into detailing the initial phase of the Horde’s attack on Elberon, an unassuming young chambermaid knocks, and Glimmer bids her to enter.

“Send to the kitchen for fruit, nuts, and bread,” Glimmer says. “Beer and wine, too. And some salted meats. After I’ve eaten, I want a bath.”

Meat is not something she would have liked before going into the military; but her Mother insisted on her breaking bread with the common troops, and wouldn’t you know, the salted-dried meat is a good snack, especially after hard work.

Glimmer is just getting into the opening engagements after the Horde breaches the city gates, when there’s a knock on her window. Which is situated twenty fathoms above ground.

She looks out, and down below stands a familiar cloaked figure with a slingshot in his hand.

Bow, her childhood friend turned Ranger Cadet — not his actual name, but a nickname so commonly used even his parents call him by it — is standing down there with a slingshot and a handful of nuts.

Glimmer grins. A welcome diversion. (Many, many, of her diary pages have been hurriedly scribbled in over breakfast the next day, due to various distractions. A lot of them caused by Bow throwing pebbles or shooting seeds at her window.)

Rather than opening the window and yelling, she simply blinks down to the courtyard garden, puts a hand on his shoulder, and blinks them both back to her room.

“Keep your voice down,” she murmurs, “and when the servants come, hide. I’m grounded.”

“I’ll be like a shadow in the night,” he says quietly. He grabs a dressing screen to hide his boots and cloak behind. “Hey again. How come you are grounded? Did it not go well with your mom?”

Glimmer groans.

“Is it about the siege on Elberon?”

Glimmer paces. “I saw an opportunity to actually defend one of our cities, rather than just letting it fall into the Horde’s clutches. Think of the morale! We won! We celebrated! We captured two — count them — two Horde troop landers!”

“Well, you only managed to hold the fort because of your teleportation powers, right?” Bow says. “And they don’t always work. It could have gone a lot worse.”

Glimmer groans louder. “It was my one chance to show I am worth a damn. She stationed me all the way over there so I’d never see battle, and what do you know? The Horde goes the long way around by sea, probably to try and take a run at the defensive line from behind…” She slumps.

There’s a knock on the door and Bow leaps behind the screen.

Glimmer blinks to the other side of the door, then back again with the food cart. (Half the wait-staff hates this; the other half finds it amusing.)

She takes the Poison Sniffer out of the warmed jar, and lets the little hairy snake coil around her arm. She lets the little creature sniff each dish in turn; and by the end of it, feeds it a strawberry before putting it back.

“Hungry?” she asks, parting an apple with a knife. “There’s enough for both of us.”

“Got any beer?”

She gestures to the pitcher.

“Why are you out at this time of night?” Glimmer asks.

“Actually, have a nighttime excursion. I’ve managed to track a signature of a First-Ones’ artifact to a remote part of the Whispering Woods. It is more active at night, which explains the hour. We’re hoping to recover it, since it is closer to Horde territory.”

“With the Ranger corps?”

“Yeah, with Scout Captain Wolfclaw’s unit.”

Glimmer smiles. “Look at you, moving up in the ranks.”

Bow smiles, sheepishly. “I’m just there as the magic tracker.”

Glimmer groans and lets herself fall back onto the bed. “I wish I could come along. But I’m stuck here.”

“Yeah. I’ll bring something gross from the woods?”

“Oh, for sure.”

Two shelves in her closet are dedicated entirely to jars of gross things Bow finds in the woods. Snails and slugs and dead things. Some might think it is unbecoming of a princess to be fascinated by the morbid, but those people can suck it, according to Glimmer.

There’s another knock on the door. “Oh, I asked for a bath to be drawn.”

Bow blushes furiously. “Uh, should I be going?” His voice breaks, and he hides behind the screen.

“Glimmer!” calls Queen Angella from the other side of the door. “Glimmer, open up!”

Panicked, Glimmer blinks behind the screen. “Oh crap it’s my mom!” she hisses and grabs Bow’s boots and cloak, shoving them into his arms, and blinks him to the courtyard, then herself back.

In the yard below, Bow puts on his boots and hears the muffled, loud mother-daughter disagreements.

The argument concludes with the slamming of a door, and then a few minutes of undoubtedly angry silence.

There’s a flash of light beside Bow, and Glimmer is standing there in her gambeson, cloak, a satchel, and a pair of light boots. If not for the colors, she’d look like a ranger recruit.

“Do you think Wolfclaw will complain if I tag along?” Glimmer asks.

“The hero of Elberon? If you’re quiet, he’ll have no problem — except we might be running a bit late,” Bow says, consulting his pocket watch.

“I’ll blink us.”

“And you’re not worn out from battle?”

“I’ll be fine, Bow.” She grabs his arm and they disappear in a puff of light…

Reappearing by the palisade wall — more ornate than utilitarian — circling the the eastern Ranger Compound situated outside the massive city walls.

They enter through the gateway hewn from timbers, intricately carved. By the stables inside, Wolfclaw and his men are saddling up as twilight falls.

“Cadet Bow, ye’re late!” Wolfclaw says. He’s a beast of a man, with an unruly red beard and entirely too many freckles.

“You’re pulling my leg, Scout Captain,” Bow replies, still holding his watch.

“Who is our guest, Cadet?”

Glimmer lowers her hood. “Scout Captain, if it is not too much trouble, might the Princess join you on this excursion?”

Wolfclaw pauses. “Why not to disrespect, Yer Highness, but it is an absolute requirement that Rangers can move silently in the wilderness; can ye do that?”

“Don’t worry,” Bow says. “We used to go into the woods together when we were kids. She’s every bit as good as I was when I first joined.”

Wolfclaw shrugs. “If I were her, I’d take that as a grave insult.”

The men laugh. Glimmer too. Bow wants to go bury himself under a tree.

“I’ll be happy ta bring along the hero of Elberon. We’re short on horses, though, Yer Highness. Ye’re riding with yer boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend—” Glimmer protests; “She’s not my girlfriend—” Bow squeaks out.

Wolfclaw barks out a laugh. Someone whistles.

“I’m kidding; pardon an old Ranger his japes. Killigan — fetch a horse for the Highness.”

Blushing furiously, Bow hurries to saddle his horse and fumbles stringing his bow, while Glimmer just fidgets by his side.

Killigan, a powerfully built mothfolk woman, heads into the stables and brings out a rouncey mare for her to ride. “Be advised, your Highness,” she says as she hands the reins to Glimmer, “we’ll be in the saddle for several hours.”

“I’m a Commandant in the Dragoons,” Glimmer says. “I know how to ride.”

After a three hour trot to the edge of the forest where the local Ranger stable provided them with fresh horses, and then another four hours in the saddle, heading into the forest by lanternlight, it is well past midnight that Bow calls for them to hold.

Wolfclaw orders them to dismount; three of the ten rangers stay to guard the horses and set up camp, while the rest and Glimmer continue.

Bow walks in front — followed closely by Wolfclaw — holding his lodestone and phosphor screen, tracking the signal given off by the artifact. Glimmer follows Killigan, a tall, powerfully built mothfolk woman.

They make their way through the wilderness by the light of the moons, leaving nary a trail.

Bow stops, and he and Wolfclaw huddle together.

“I lost the bearing on the signal,” Bow whispers.

“Can ye find it again, boy?”

“No; I mean I lost it because it’s everywhere now. The artifact must be close.”

Glimmer tip-toes over to the two of them. “Hi, um, I can definitely feel the presence of something powerful. It reminds me of the Moonstone.”

“Wolfclaw!” Killigan mutters. “Look!”

They all look in the direction Killigan indicates, and see an eerie blue light illuminating the canopies.

“That’ll do it,” Glimmer mutters.

Wolfclaw stads and hand-signals the others to spread out and move in the direction of the light. Glimmer sticks with Bow as the other rangers disappear into the undergrowth.

They come upon a clearing, and in the center of it, lies an unconscious figure next to a lit, enviously bright oxeye lantern.

Even in the dim moonlight the color of their jacket is plain to see: blood red.

Horde.

Wolfclaw appears by Glimmer and Bow, moving completely silent. Glimmer has to put a hand over her own mouth to not gasp in surprise.

“It’s a single soldier, could be more around. Stay alert.”

Bow and Glimmer both nod.

They sit for several more minutes, while the Horde soldier remains uncoscious. Then the hoot of a Crimson Owl sounds twice.

“That was the all clear. There’s no sight of other Horde soldiers,” Bow whispers.

“Yeah, but what’s a lone Horde soldier doing unconscious in the Whispering Woods?” Glimmer replies.

He shrugs.

The soldier stirs. Sits up. Pulls of their glove, and seemingly panics because of something on their wrist. Then looks about, throws off their backpack, extinguishes her — as her face comes into the light it becomes apparent that the solder is female and human — lantern and draws her musket.

“Bow, tell the others arrows at the ready,” Glimmer whispers to him.

Bow nods and blows into his hands, imitating the hoot of a Church Owl.

Glimmer blinks directly behind the Horde soldier, putting her knife at the woman’s throat.

“Don’t move, Horde scum. We have you surrounded,” Glimmer says loudly.

To her credit, the soldier doesn’t move.

Around them, the seven rangers emerge into the clearing, bows out and arrows nocked.

“Okay, I surrender,” the soldier says and drops her pistol.

“Wolfclaw, get me some manacles,” Glimmer says.

Wolfclaw waves at one of the rangers who produces a heavy set of iron cuffs and tosses it to him. He comes over and kicks the firearm away, before roughly grabbing the captive by her wrists, for Glimmer to cuff her arms-forward — walking a prisoner through uneven terrain with arms cuffed behind their back is just cruel.

“Take care,” the prisoner says. “I have fractured ribs on both sides.”

“What, lass, are we s’pposed to feel sorry for ye?” Wolfclaw says.

“No,” she replies. “But if you handle me too rougly, they might snap and puncture my lungs, and then I will die. Just, you know, if you want to keep me alive.”

“Bow, search her, make sure she has no more weapons. Everyone else, perimeter.”

Bow pats her down, finding a knife on her wrist. Nothing in her boots, nothing strapped to the thigh “Do all rebel soldiers take liberties with female captives?” the prisoner says as Bow runs a hand over her chest.

Bow blushes but continues. “If the alternative is one of us ending up with a knife-wound,” he mutters, “indecency is a small price to pay.”

“So,” Glimmer says. “Horde scum; you picked the wrong night to go for a moonlight stroll. The Whispering Woods is under Brightmoon rule and patrol.”

“Wolfclaw,” Bow says, looking at his pendulum lodestone. It hangs out from his hand at an angle, towards the prisoner.

“What is it, Bow?”

Bow walks a full turn around the prisoner, the lodestone continuing to point towards her. “She has the artifact.”

Wolfclaw grabs her by the collar. “All right, poppet, tell us where it is.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Wolf— Wolf-butt.”

Glimmer snickers. “Insults isn’t your strong suit either, huh, Horde scum?”

Wolfcalw scowls. “Yer Highness, still have that knife out? I need ta give this smart-mouth a new haircut.”

The prisoner squirms. “All right, damn! Don’t scalp me you barbarian, I’ll talk! I came here looking for some kind of sword. I found it, but it turned into a bracelet that I can’t get off. Be my guest to take it, provided you can find a way to take it off.”

“Ah,” Wolfclaw says and dumps her down on her behind. “Well is that it? Yer highness, the knife if I may. We’ll simply cut off this lass’ hand and be on our merry way.”

Bow steps forward. “I wouldn’t, Captain. Magic artifacts that bond to people like that; it doesn’t go well when they are removed by force — at least not in the stories. I don’t think we should risk it. We should get her back to Brightmoon for the sorcerers look at, then maybe even to Mystacor for removal.”

“Very well; better a cautious fool alive than a reckless fool dead,” Wolfclaw says. He whistles, calling the other rangers back.

They make their way back to the horses, Wolfclaw holding the lead tied to the prisoner’s cuffs. The three rangers left behind have made ‘camp’ consisting of a ready-built unlit campfire and sharing some nuts and dried venizon.

“Jeff, Mike, you two are going back on foot; we need a horse for the prisoner,” Wolfclaw orders.

Jeff and Mike, a pair of satyrs with obvious family resemblance, salute. No complaints will you hear from a ranger about walking through the woods.

They don’t get further than that, because the horses start acting nervous, which prompts the hairs of any experienced ranger of the Whispering Woods to stand on end. A flock of birds scatter, admid warbling warning calls.

“Something is coming, cut the horses!” Wolfcalw calls out. Jeff, Mike, and the third camp-maker — a woman named Ivy — jump to their feet, steel flashing in their hands.

Wolfclaw, Killigan, and the four others nock their bows, with a fistful of spare arrows held alongside their bows. Bow keeps his draw hand on his belt quiver, fingers lacing between the shafts.

A gigantic form emerges between the trees, with faceted eyes scanning for prey, and a grotesque maw large enough to swallow a horse — or at least in two bites.

Seven arrows strike its carapace, bouncing off. The monster barrels ahead unfazed.

“Dire ambush beetle! Scatter!” Wolfclaw bellows.

Bow grabs the prisoner and pulls her aside, out of the way of the charging beast. Glimmer blinks directly into the fray, landing atop the beast’s carapace and digging a knife in between the chitin plates for grip; while she draws a hatchet to try and make a hole.

The ambush beetle just flicks its wing covers, throwing Glimmer off with great force; she blinks to safety moments before hitting a tree trunk at lethal speed.

Despite the save, she has made herself a target. With the horses gallopping away, the giant beast turns its face towards Glimmer and yowls a bone-chilling battle cry.

“Glimmer!” Bow screams.

Glimmer blinks to his side, “What Wolfclaw said!” she barks and the three of them run with all the speed they can muster.

“We need cover!” Bow yells to Glimmer. “A cave if you can find it!”

Glimmer blinks away, leaving Bow and the prisoner to run for their lives, under trees and over logs. Within seconds, she returns, blinking in mid-stride without stumbling. “Follow me!”

They veer left, and beyond the next tree find a pair of boulders leaning on each other; the space between just large enough to stand, but too narrow to walk through.

The prisoner stumbles with a yelp.

Glimmer blinks to her side, pulls her roughly to her feet and blinks them ahead to the stones.

The girl collapses again. “Twisted ankle!” she yells. Glimmer simply shoves her into the crevice; Bow arrives running and she lets him pass inside, then finally shimmies in herself.

The dire ambush beetle arrives two hearbeats later, stopping before the crack hiding its quarry, and peering inside with one big faceted eye. Fortunately for them, dire ambush beeltes are as dumb as they are gigantic, and so the beast doesn’t even attempt to pry the rocks aside with its enormous strength.

Instead it yowls into the crevice between the stones, exhaling a truly gut-turning could of stench.

None of them dares move for the two minutes it takes for the beast to loose interest and wander off in search of horses.

“By all things holy, that was too close,” Bow says.

“Yeah,” Glimmer says. “We can’t stay here. What’s the nearest settlement?”

Bow thinks for a moment. “North.”

Glimmer peeks out, spotting the movement in the tree branches where the dire ambush beetle is brushing against the foliage. “The monster is going south.”

“Good,” Bow says, and turns to the horde soldier. “Hey, you. Are you hurt?”

“I have a name, you know,” she replies. “Adora.”

Bow turns to look at Glimmer, who shrugs.

“Okay, Adora,” Glimmer says. “How badly did you twist that ankle?”

The groan of pain is answer enough.

Chapter Text

“We’re not leaving her here to die,” Bow says.

“Of course not, we’ll regroup with the rangers and go back for her,” Glimmer responds.

“What if a pit snake makes designs on her? Glimmer, you can’t leave people
behind in the woods; that’s like ranger rule number one!”

Glimmer sighs. “Okay, but if she can’t walk, you’re carrying her.”

“I can walk,” Adora says, having emerged from the crevice. “Sort of. Hey, Ranger guy, why don’t you find me a walking stick?”

“Because you’ll use it to club one of us down?” Bow replies. “Do you think we’re complete morons?”

Adora frowns. “Yes, I think so. I club one of you down and then what? I die in the wilderness? The crazy girl slashes my throat?”

Glimmer blinks directly in front of Adora. “I am Princess Glimmer, Heiress Apparent of Brightmoon, and you will address me as such or I will feed you to the wildlife!”

“And I’m not ‘ranger guy,’ my name is Bow,” he says.

Were Catra here she might remark on how breathtakingly stupid those names are, but Adora can hold back from such backchat. Shadow Weaver made sure.

“All right. Bow, Princess Glimmer,” Adora says. “I don’t think I can walk unaided.”

They end up taking turns supporting Adora.

Adora is in dire straits, but she remembers her training: swallow your ego, stay alive, resist as long as possible. Every bit of intel you give them, they will turn on your friends.

No helmet, no kit, no gun. Fractured ribs, twisted ankle. Now how are you going to get out of this one, you idiot?

Hopefully Catra will swoop in with a dozen skiffs full of soldiers…

But that doesn’t happen.

Instead they walk for all of ten minutes, before trouble rears its ugly head again; ‘trouble’ being the nickname Glimmer ends up giving the dire ambush beetle in her diary the following evening.

The bone-chilling yowl of the monster comes first.

This time there is no running.

Glimmer grabs Bow by the arm and they both vanish in a puff of light, leaving Adora behind.

This is it, I guess, she thinks. If only I could fight it. Her thoughts drift to the bracelet on her wrist. In a brilliant moment of word association, ‘fight’ becomes ‘fight for the honor of Grayskull’ which leads to that poem from the dream.

“For the honor of Grayskull, Starlight is mine to command.”

Light fills the forest.

When the blinding haze subsides, Adora notes that her foot no longer hurts; nor does her ribs. Gone is the feel of cheap and sturdy army uniform clothes against her skin, replaced by smooth, tight fitting clothing. A white suit of tights and a blouse with no apparent seams. A sphere of gold and unlimited potential rests heavy in her hand.

The monster appears between the trees, and Adora acts on instinct, falling into a combat stance. The golden apple unfurls like liquid, becoming a fifteen foot pike which she effortlessly levels at charging beast.

Perhaps ‘trouble’ is smarter than the average dire ambush beetle, because it actually doesn’t impale itself. It stops a pace of its long legs short. Scuttles to the side, and Adora follows it with the tip of the spear.

It yowls again, then backs up, before turning away and slinking into the woods, once more denied its morning snack.

The sphere-turned-spear becomes a bracelet once more, and Adora looks around, getting her bearings. She’s barefoot. What happened to my clothes?

Glimmer and Bow blink back.

“Holy crap,” Bow mutters.

“What is going on?” Glimmer echoes.

Adora turns to them. “Wait, did you guys shrink? Wait, no; I grew. What—” her gaze falls on the bracelet. “What’s happening to me?!” she squeaks, anguished.

“Are you secretly a Runestone Wielder or something?” Glimmer asks, skeptically.

“What? No-no-no-no,” Adora says, scrambling backwards. Her heel catches on a root and she stumbles — there’s a flash of light, and she tries to catch herself on the sprained ankle. She yelps in pain and falls flat on her back.

“Are you okay?” Bow asks.

Adora sits up. “You,” she says with venom in her voice, pointing at Glimmer which causes the manacles jangle, attached to only one of her wrists now. “You didn’t tell me being a— whatever freak of nature you princesses are; that it was contagious! What did you do to me?!”

“We’re not freaks! And it’s not contagious! It’s an honor and a gift!” Glimmer protests.

There’s a yowl in the distance.

“Hey, uh,” Bow says, his voice cracking. “Don’t suppose you could make that giant lady with the spear come back?”

“Uu~h,” Adora scrambles to her feet — as fast as one can when favoring one of them. “For the honor of grayskull, starlight is mine to command!?” she tries.

Nothing happens.

“Okay, we’re going!” Glimmer says.

Adora hobbles along, as fast as she can, an arm over Glimmer’s shoulder. Bow trots along, weapon in hand, his attention on the trees; given that the carapace of a dire ambush beetle is virtually bullet-proof, he is hoping to perhaps shoot the beast in its open mouth.

They come upon a great rock interrupting the hilly forest, jutting out of the ground. It’s a well-known landmark, but there’s not much reason to actually go to it. Bow has directed them to it, in the hopes of finding another crevice.

It is also well-known that there’s First-Ones’ ruins here. Bow leads them past the courtyard carved into the stone itself, with the broken colonnade framing a red gate.

“Why don’t we go in there?” Adora asks.

“Because those doors don’t open. Ever,” Bow says curtly.

Adora looks towards the door and almost stumbles, as her attention is not on the uneven forest floor. “There’s something written on it!”

“Yeah, First-Ones’ writing, nobody can read it; it’s a dead language.”

Adora stops. Because she can. It’s in a language she doesn’t speak, yet the pronunciation forms like honey in her mouth. The strange line-based writing arranges itself with perfect clarity, where every other text she has ever read seems to let its glyphs crawl all over the page like unruly insects.

She tears away from Glimmer, and hobbles towards the door, to read it better.

“I think it will open if we speak a password.”

Glimmer and Bow catch up to her.

“Listen,” Bow says, “if you want to be bug food, it’ll help that you run into a dead end, but me and Glimmer, we’ll blink away if that thing shows up.”

“Wait, Bow,” Glimmer says. “What did you say? A password?”

“Well,” Adora says, “The translation is a little difficult —” she points “— this here is the declarative form of ‘longing’ but one you express in words; then there’s ‘home’ but it’s declined in the timeless case; and then a conditional clause that means ‘to enter through a gate’.”

Glimmer ponders this. “It’s a riddle. What’s the word for ‘home’ there, how is it pronounced?”

“Eternia,” Adora says.

There’s a rumble, and a hum. The great hexagon gate slides open quietly.

“Glimmer, I am not sure about this,” Bow says.

There’s another yowl behind them, and the dire ambush beetle comes into view around the corner of the carved rock face, at the open end of the courtyard.

“It beats getting eaten,” Glimmer plainly states. “Let’s GO!”

They head in. The door slides closed behind them, and they are left in total darkness.

Glimmer makes a light, and sweeps the room. It seems safe, so they take a long-deserved rest.

“So tell me, how is a Horde Soldier able to read First-Ones’ glyphs, when the best scholars in all the world can’t?” Bow asks.

“Yeah, do you want to tell us exactly who you are and what is going on?”

Adora sits against the wall. Her lack of sleep is beginning to manifest as a headache. “I don’t know. I can’t actually read like, books and stuff. Those glyphs just made sense, OK? I can’t explain it.”

Adora slumps. “As for who I am? I’m Warrant Officer Adora, of the ninety-second battalion of the Fight Zone’s Domestic Land Army.”

“Land army? As opposed to what?” Bow asks.

Adora looks at him like he’s stupid. “Military Navy? Excursion Forces? Air Corps? Don’t you know anything about military organization?”

“The Alliance doesn’t use your hegemonic military administration,” Glimmer says.

“That explains why we keep kicking your butts,” Adora mutters.

“So, let me get this straight,” Glimmer says, voice dripping in sarcasm. “You just can’t explain how you can read a dead language nobody has been able to read for a thousand years, and the door just so happened to open for you revealing an mysterious ancient ruin; but you’re definitely just a normal run-of-the-mill horde soldier. Pull the other one, it has bells on.”

Adora hammers the wall with a fist. “Do you I did this on purpose?! Y’think I wanted this?! To get turned into some magic giant in white underwear, or something? Why would I want to be like you monsters?!”

“Monsters?!” Glimmer shouts. “You’re the monsters.”

"Yeah, right, because we’re the ones that can spew fire from our fingertips, or summon swarms of locusts that’ll eat a man’s face off, or call down storms so harsh they can pick up a tank and fling it like a leaf!

“But no, we’re the monsters, for wanting to create some peace and justice. Yeah, yeah, I see it now! Go screw yourself, you glittering idiot,” Adora hisses.

Glimmer picks Adora up by the collar, effortlessly lifting her off her feet.

“Hey!” Bow says. “Glimmer, don’t punch the prisoner. She’s not worth it right now.”

“You people burn the land, boil the seas; if you could I bet you’d take away the sky just for kicks,” Glimmer says. “You spirit away entire villages to work in your factories until they die of exhaustion. You have zero regard for nature and life; that big bug we were nearly eaten by is a hungry animal. You? You know full well you’re causing pain.”

Glimmer lets go and Adora collapses back down, wincing in pain.

“Get up. We need to get going,” she says.

Bow fills the silence with some light historical exposition, and Adora can’t help but pay attention. None of this was covered either by the military academy classes, or Shadow Weaver’s lessons.

The First-Ones, a mysterious forerunner civilization, disappeared without a trace a millennium ago, leaving wonders that no modern sorcerer — or Horde technician, by Adora’s reckoning — can replicate. “What happened to them?”

“Nobody knows,” Bow notes.

They arrive in a larger chamber, and Glimmer focuses her light into a cone, to try and get a bearing of the room.

There’s a stained-glass mural, central to the room’s construction.

“Oh hey, it’s you,” Bow notes.

The figure depicted is dressed in white, with flowing golden hair, and wielding a formless shard of gold in one hand, and in the other… Above the figure, is a dark sky, filled with pinpricks of light; rays from which shine into the figure’s other hand.

“Is that what I looked like?” Adora asks.

“I’ll call it family resemblance at best,” Glimmer notes sardonically. “What does that there mean?” She points to another inscription, below the mural.

“It’s a name. ‘She-Ra’,” Adora says.

Everything lights up, every crystal panel glowing under its own light.

Suddenly a tranclucent figure appears in front of them.

“Aa~h, ghost!” Adora yelps, jumping behind Glimmer.

“No, I think it’s some kind of ancient hologram,” Bow notes.

It’s a female figure, heavily stylized, with purple skin, and dressed in blue robes.

“What is your query?” it asks.

“Wait a second,” Adora says. “This seems familiar. I think I dreamt about it!”

“Oh, that’s reassuring,” Glimmer snarks.

“We’d like to find the exit, please,” Bow says to the hologram.

“Administrator not recognized. Initiating lockdown.”

Behind them, a large gate slides over the door they came in from. The lighting switches to red.

“Awaiting security personell. Please stay put.”

“What ‘sercurity personell,’ as in First-Ones’ security personnel?” Glimmer asks. “We’re going to be stuck here for a while if that thing doesn’t let us out.”

The hologram is emotionless and unreacting.

“I don’t suppose you could get that big scary lady back? Maybe this thing will listen to you?” Bow says.

Adora shakes her head. “I don’t think it’s going to work. But here goes: For the honor of Greyskull, Starlight is mine to command. Nope, nothing.”

“Okay,” Glimmer says. “Ill get us out.”

“Gimmer, you haven’t recharged since Elberon, are you sure it’s a good idea to blink that far?” Bow asks.

“Bow, can we not discuss this in front of a prisoner of war?!”

“Right, sorry.”

Glimmer winks out.

“So, what now?” Adora asks.

“She’ll blink up into the sky, then down to a safe dropoff spot, hopefully nearby, then back here, and then blink each of us to there one at a time.”

“Why not both of us?” Adora asks.

“She’s… The more she has to bring, the harder it is for her.”

Adora ponders this for a moment. “What’s to prevent her from landing inside the solid rock somewhere?”

“She can feel if she’ll hit anything. Don’t worry, she’s gotten me out of binds worse than this, this way.”

And sure enough, Glimmer blinks back.

She stumbles against Bow, panting. “All right, you two, here’s the bad news. That thing is still around, and I don’t have enough juice to put either of you far enough away to be safe and come back for the other.”

“I’ll stay,” Adora says. “If we leave Bow behind and you faint or something dumb after porting me out, I can’t exactly carry you to safety. Besides, it takes two days to die of thirst, so if you can go recharge your sparkles and be back before that, then that is what we’ll do.”

Bow looks at her in stunned silence.

“No. I am not leaving anybody behind,” Glimmer says.

“Glimmer,” Bow says, “We might have to —”

“The Rangers are still out there. I’ll blink you both, and probably pass out. Then you’ll hide me and Adora away somewhere while you go fetch Wolfclaw.”

Bow grits his teeth. “O— Okay, then!”

Glimmer holds out a hand to him, and he takes it. Then to Adora, and hesitating for a beat, she takes it too.

Then there’s a flash of light.

The first time Glimmer blinked Adora, she was running for her life. Now, she is not, and there is no adrenaline to keep her from losing her lunch. Which she promptly does

Glimmer has chosen a good spot — a patch of level moss in the canopy of a tree, so Adora is free to puke off the side. Glimmer herself collapses in a pile, completely unconscious, and Bow only barely manages to catch her.

“Okay. We’re gonna be okay,” Bow says, laying Glimmer back to rest. “Look, Adora. I don’t know if I can trust you. I’m going to leave Glimmer in your care… If anyting happens to her, I will hunt you down and kill you.”

Adora nods, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “She needs to lie on her side; if she throws up she’ll choke on her vomit. It’s an ugly way to go. Help me out…”

They put Glimmer in recovery position, and Bow feels a little better about leaving them behind.

“Sit tight, be quiet, I’ll be back as fast as I can,” Bow says.

And Adora does. Because there is nothing else to do. She hears the owl hoots the Rangers favor for communication.

“Hey.”

Adora jolts awake, pain shooting up her sides at the sudden excertion of her core.

It’s Bow, and she breathes a sigh of relief. “Sorry,” she mutters, “I was supposed to keep watch.”

Bow smiles. It’s the first genuine smile Adora has seen from him. “That’s okay. I’m tired too.”

“Did you—”

He nods. “I found Wolfclaw. And Killigan, Jeff, and Mike. The others are out finding the horses, and baiting the Dire Ambush Beetle away.”

Adora looks at glimmer, still lying where they put her. “No horses. So we’re on foot, still.”

“Yeah, but we’re close to one of the woodland villages.”

They get Adora and Glimmer down with an improvised hoist, and a strecher made of a cloak and lashed-together branches. Killigan, master bushcrafter, even finds a set of oddly curled branches from which she fashions a set of crutches for Adora.

Jeff and Mike — whom Adora for the first time now notices are Satyrs, and brothers — get to carry the stretcher with Glimmer’s unconscious form.

It’s a trek that takes most of the morning, owing to the lack of an established wilderness trail anywhere in the vincinity of the straight-line route.

They arrive in Thaymor a little before noon. Today, as it happens, is the harvest festival.

Chapter Text

Thaymor is a mid-sized village, sat in an enclave of farmland in the middle of the Whispering Woods. It hosts a permanent garrison of rangers, a palisade wall of sharpened timbers, and a fort.

News of their arrival quickly reaches the village elder, a graying male satyr, who comes to meet them at the gates. “Welcome to Thaymor, Rangers,” he says. “Goodness; you lot seem to have seen better days.”

“Elder, if ye would please send a runner to the fort and fetch Corps Captain Nightshade, I need to speak to her,” Wolfclaw says.

“Right away, Scout Captain —,” the elder says

“Woflclaw, forgive me lack of manners.”

“Come in, come in,” he says, turning away for a moment, “Bob! Aerith! Go get the Corps Captain!” A boy and a girl playing knucklebones nearby pack up the game and run off.

Adora steps over to Bow, and speaks in a hushed tone. “This is Thaymor?”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“I—”

A dilemma. This is Adora’s chance to escape. There will be an attack, today. From the size of the city, she’s certain that the advancing army — even if the hover-tanks prove to be ineffectual at navigating the woods — will take the city.

They’ll probably put her in a cell in the fort, so she’ll just have to wait for a raiding party, and then she’ll be free. (Even though the fort is wood, the standard doctrine is pillage, then burn.) That is of course assuming she doesn’t get shelled first.

On the other hand; Bow and Princess Glimmer, these people who are by all accounts her sworn enemies, have shown her nothing but decency, mercy, and even trust. Trust which she could have exploited in a plethora of ways were she less honorable.

There’s a lot of things Adora was told that don’t match up to the reality she is seeing before her eyes.

Including Thaymor’s fortifications being made of wood. This is no stronghold. There can’t be half the population the briefing stated. Even from here, at the edge of town, Adora counts a substantial number of green-cloaked rangers among the celebrants in the town square down the road, but those are rangers, light specialist infantry at best.

All details a soldier in the heat of battle might gloss over. Even her. But here and now? It’s plain to see.

“What is it, Adora?”

“Bow, I think there’s going to be a Horde attack soon.”

He pales. “What— why? This is a farming village!”

“I don’t know!” Adora hisses. “I was supposed to be part of it. I was told a lot of things that aren’t true — that there’d be stone fortifications, an army garrison, things like that. Everybody needs to evacuate. There’s going to be a bombardment before the land troops advance.”

“We need to tell Wolfclaw,” Bow says.

“Ye need te tell me what, Bow?”

Wolfclaw turns to them. The village elder has left.

“There’s going to be an attack, on Thaymor” Adora states. “Today.”

Wolfclaw scows. “Ye realise, lass, by telling me this, ye’re defecting, right?”

Adora looks down and to the side. “We were fed false intel during the briefing. There will be a bombardment. A lot of innocent people are going to die.”

The scout captain rubs his beard. “I’ll alert the corps captain; we’ll organize evacuation. Ye better not be lying, or else…”

Soon, a feliform woman in ranger garb comes to meet them. It’s the first feliform Adora has ever seen besides Catra, and she is striking to look at, with completely black fur and bright yellow eyes.

“Wolfclaw!” she bellows. “Didn’t I tell you never to set foot in my garrison again?!”

Woflclaw squares his shoulders. “By all that’s good, Nightshade, yer mismanagement of this place never ceases to amaze.”

Nightshade’s scowl becomes a grin, and Wolfclaw grins too. They share a warriors handshake.

Formalities aside, Wolfclaw quickly brings Nightshade up to speed: “We have a prisoner, and an unconscious combatant in need of care.”

Nightshade waves a hand. “Bramblepelt, take the stretcher-bearers to the fort. I see the prisoner is unrestrained.” Another feliform, this one looking a lot more like Catra.

“The lass has been mightily cooperative, and she’s injured; it was either that or one of us supporting her the whole way here.”

“She’ll need to be manacled when we get to the fort.”

“You should also ring the city bells and evacuate,” Woflclaw says. “We have good intel that a Horde attack is coming. And that it’ll be ugly.”

Nightshade turns to look at Adora. “I assume from this one?”

“Aye.”

“Bring her to the fort. I’ll grill her for details myself.”

Adora is sat down, manacled, by a rough-hewn table. Nigthshade takes a seat across from her.

“So. Horde Soldier. Do you have anything to tell me?”

Adora leans forward, putting her hands on the table. "I am Adora, Warrant Officer, ninety-second battalion. I was supposed to participate in an attack on Thaymor today, with the artillery. We were briefed that Thaymor would have extensive fortifications and a garrison of about a thousand men.

“If the attack commences, there will be mass civilian deaths. I won’t presume to tell you what to do, but you should evacuate the town.”

Nighshade leans back. “And why not just take the opportunity to slip away in the chaos and re-join your comrades?”

“First, if you put me in a cell, I might get shelled and die. Second, it isn’t right. We’re supposed to bring peace and justice, not massacres.”

Nightshade laughs. “You’re a fresh faced cadet is what you are; I’d recognize that naïvité any day. You do realize you’re defecting, right?”

Adora nods. “I— It turns out a lot of the things I thought I knew was wrong. I just want to get to the bottom of it.”

Nightshade leans forward. “How much does a Warrant Officer know?”

They ring the city bell. They send a rider out in full gallop to the actual army garrison — he’ll never make it in time, but they have to try.

The rangers dig foxholes all over town. There’s only about a hundred men fighting.

Getting the villagers out is going to take time they don’t have. It is an unwritten law of evacuations that civilians cannot follow directions. When told to bring only food and water for the trip to the next town over, everyone thinks special exceptions apply to them, and bring valuables, cattle, or pets.

And Adora is stuck in a cell. Bow is ‘standing guard.’ Glimmer is lying on the bed in the cell next to Adora’s. Outside two rangers are preparing a pair of horses for them. It is imperative that the Princess doesn’t get captured.

“You’re doing the right thing, you know,” Bow says.

“Yeah, then why am I stuck in a cell, in irons?”

He doesn’t have an answer to that.

Glimmer stirs. She sits up. “Urgh, where are we?”

“Thaymor,” Bow says. “We’ll be leaving in a few minutes, there’s a Horde attack incoming.”

Glimmer looks at Adora.

“Hey, it’s not some rescue mission for me,” Adora says. “I was supposed to be part of it, that’s how I know.”

“You defected,” Glimmer says.

“I guess.”

“Why?”

Adora looks at her hands — at the bracelet. “You asked me who I was, before. Truth is? I don’t know. I’m an orphan. I’ve been told what to do my whole life. I’ve apparently been lied to, by the superiors who were supposed to look out for me. And now I got this thing —” she shakes her wrist, with the bracelet “— I feel that if I go back to the Horde, I’ll never find out. I think you guys are my best chance at getting some answers. And I don’t think I could ever trust the word of—”

There’s a faint, distant whistle.

“Get down on the floor!” Adora yells, throwing herself down. “Cover your heads!”

Bow and Glimmer are quick to follow.

There’s an ear-shattering boom; the ground shakes, dust falls from the ceiling; the door over yonder is blown open by the blast wave.

Bow is about to get up, to see what’s happened. “Stay down! There’ll be more!” Adora yells.

True enough, another whistle, another shell, another explosion. And another. And another.

One of them impacts the fort itself, and the far end of the room collapses, blocking the door.

The bombardment continues for what feels like hours, but — counting the shells — Adora estimates is only three minutes. There should be eight of the backpack-portable guns in the battery supporting the main attack force. All the shells and charges would have to be carried as well.

There’s a minute long pause.

“Don’t get up!” Adora yells.

That’s the fake-out. Prompting the enemy to get out of cover and then hitting them with one last barrage.

True enough, another sixteen shells in total impact shortly after. And then, silence. Or rather, ringing in the ears.

“That should be it,” Adora says, and struggles to her feet. Bow helps Glimmer up — she’s still unsteady.

“Now what?” he asks. The door isn’t blocked, but its a near thing. They’ll have to climb over some debris to get out.

“I have to get out there, I have to find Nightshade. If they send out just a small force, they can take out the artillery, and use it against the attacking force.”

“Adora, nobody in the Ranger corps knows how to operate Horde artillery,” Bow says.

Right.

“Well, I can at least delay them,” Adora says. “If I can get out there and talk to them, tell them the intel is wrong.”

“Adora—”

She looks at Bow. “I have to try. I can’t turn back now.”

Bow and Glimmer set out to get Glimmer to safety, and to find Nightshade. Adora heads east, as fast as her crutches can bear. She’s told Bow where to look for the gun batteries; he’ll tell Nightshade.

The town is razed. Virtually every building — all of them wood — is damaged, and many of them are burning. There’s fortunately few dead in the streets, mostly rangers, but a few civilians who didn’t make it out in time.

A few children.

“Halt!”

A squad of rangers emerge from fox-holes, arrows nocked.

“I’m on your side! I’m the prisoner Wolfclaw brought in earlier today!”

The leader lowers his bow. “You’re the defector.”

Adora nods. “I— I’m going to go buy you some time, if I can. Tell them it’s a civilian town. They are expecting a heavily fortified military base.”

“Jeremy!” the leader calls. “Get her a white flag. She’ll need it.”

A young satyr throws her a white linen.

“Thanks to you, we got the villagers out,” he continues. “Godspeed.”

Adora hobbles onwards, reaching the eastern city-gate, which has been blown apart.

She stops to tie the white cloth to one of her crutches, and to catch her breath. The mid-day sun is hammering down from above, and her heavy jacket is way too warm; but it’s the only uniform she has.

From there it’s a dirt road, out to the treeline, where it becomes a forest trail just wide enough for a cart.

Adora gets halfway there before the first hover-tank comes into view.

It rolls down the road, blowing a plume of dust. It’s sleeker than the ones on caterpillar treads, and its main gun is a paltry one-inch bore — or the recoil would quite literally send it sliding. But it has two machine guns.

Adora waves her flag. The tank coasts closer, and the gunner behind the starboard machine gun comes into view.

Catra.

She sees Adora, and hammers on the outer armor.

The tank coasts to a halt a few dozen yards from Adora. Catra leaps out, hops down from the machine, and runs to her. She sweeps Adora into a hug, and Adora suppresses her wincing at the pain.

The entire tank column comes to a stop behind them.

“Adora! They let me drive in a tank!” Catra purrs.

“Catra, what are you doing here?”

“Uh, duh, I came to find you! What did you get captured right after you went out or what?”

“Something like that; how did you find me?”

“Shadow Weaver’s tracking spells, again, duh.”

Oh right. Those.

“I even got promoted, see?” She points to the patch on her jacket. Warrant Officer, same as Adora.

“Catra, you have to get them to call off the attack, the intel is wrong. Thaymor isn’t a heavily fortified rebel emplacement — look at it! Wood palisades!”

Catra looks past Adora. “Yeah, I know.”

“Catra! The artillery just bombarded a civlian settlement. You’re lucky they managed to evacuate before hand, or there would have been hundreds of dead.”

Catra looks at Adora. "Yeah. I know. That was the point. Thaymor is going to be a Horde outpost; they’re cutting through the forest to make a real road, behind us. From here it’ll be easy to get the rest of the way through, to Brightmoon. They only told the artillery that so the recruits wouldn’t feel bad.

“And besides, there is a fort. And the soldiers in that fort captured a Horde officer. We’re going to send raiders in skiffs after the fleeing civilians and make sure they get taught a lesson.”

Adora doesn’t know how to respond to this.

“Now come on, we need to get you back to the base, and patched up. Shadow Weaver is freaking out, —” she giggles “— it’d be funny if she wasn’t such a terrible person.”

Adora pulls away. “Catra I’m not going. Not until we call off this attack. You have to help me.”

“What are you saying? I don’t have the rank to pull that.”

“I’m saying this is wrong. It’s dishonorable. They’ve been lying to us, manipulating us, Captain Octavia, Commander Cobalt, Shadow Weaver, all of them.”

“Wow. You’re even more naïve than I thought. Of course they are manipulating us. We’re soldiers! That’s what the army is! And Shadow Weaver? She’s been messing with our heads since we were kids.”

It’s like a blow to the face. “How— How could you possibly be okay with that, Cat?”

“Because, Ad, it doesn’t matter,” Catra says softly and steps closer to Adora. “The two of us look out for each other. Some day soon, we’ll be the ones calling the shots, doing the manipulation. And then nobody can tell us what to do.”

“Catra. Is everything all right?” a soldier calls from the tank. She gives him a thumbs up. The tank column begins moving again.

“Now come on, Ad. Let’s go home.”

Adora turns to look at the vehicles driving past them, towards the inevitable destruction of Thaymor, and the deaths of the hundred rangers down there.

“I’m not coming home, Catra. You may be able to accept it, but I can’t. Not after everything I’ve seen.” She steps forwards, and takes Catra’s hand. “Cat… You don’t have to go back there. We can fix this!”

Catra’s face turns to disgust, and she pulls her hand back. “Are you taking the piss? You’ve known these people for, what, a day? And now you’re going to throw in with them, and abandon the Horde? Abandon me? What happened to you?!”

“I found the sword, I told you about. And then they took me prisoner, and treated me with respect, and risked their lives to save me, save my life, multiple times. We’re wrong, Catra. We’re wrong about everything. And now I have to make up for that. I’m sorry, Cat.”

Adora turns, and begins hobbling back to the village. Then the stock of Catra’s carbine strikes her between shoulder and neck, and Adora goes down.

“Are you okay? You clocked out there for a moment.”

Adora comes to. With all the injuries and stress and lack of sleep, to think she’d loose consciousness from getting hit in the neck.

Adora gets a hand under herself, and gets up to sitting.

A landskiff glides by at speed, carrying four soldiers. There’s the report of machine gun fire in the distance.

“Urgh! Catra!” Adora yells and lashes out.

Catra swings her carbine again, hitting Adora in the face, and immediately cringes. “Sorry, reflex!”

Adora spits blood, and runs her tongue over her molars to see if any of them got knocked loose. “Why— why are you doing this?!”

“Because you left me! And if I don’t bring you back, Shadow Weaver is going to have my head,” Catra replies with real fear and concern in her voice. “So get over your dumb little identity crisis and let’s go home already. Or do I need to hit you again?”

Adora looks towards the village. The landskiff is going around.

Then she grabs one of her crutches, and sweeps Catra’s legs away under her. Catra hits the ground hard.

There’s only one thing left to try. “For the honor of Grayskull, starlight is mine to command.”

There’s a bloom of light, and her pain disappears. She rolls to her feet effortlessly, and the gold sphere sits in her palm.

Another landskiff goes by. I need a gun. No. I need a machine gun.

And then she has one. A sleek thing, two yards long, impossibly fitted with a shoulder stock. A full belt hangs from it, curling into a box on her belt. She shoulders it, takes aim at the skiff and fires a salvo. The gun sings in her hands, remaining steady on target; recoiling into her shoulder with enough force to shatter bone.

The skiff swerves, then crashes.

“Don’t move. Drop the weapon,” Catra says. “I don’t know who you are, or what you did to Adora.”

Adora — no — She-Ra turns to her. “It’s me, Cat. And you’re not going to shoot me. I know you.”

Catra shoots. Adora sees the tensing of her trigger finger, and moves, twisting her torso sideways and dodging the shot by a hair. Catra runs the bolt to chamber another round, but Adora is faster. She closes the distance in one step, wrenches the gun from Catra’s hands, bending the barrel in the process, and then punches Catra in the stomach.

The cat girl curls up on the ground, retching.

“Sorry, Cat. I really am.”

Then she turns and runs towards the battle.

Chapter Text

The horse is dead; Bow and Glimmer are in it with the other villages: on foot through the forest, except the villagers have a head-start of a few minutes — the ones that didn’t get caught in the bombardment anyway.

Glimmer is in bad shape — magical exhaustion, physical exhaustion, and she hasn’t had anything to eat since yesterday evening. But she’s not going to buckle just because she’s out of magic, and she has to run a few leagues in armor. The hero of Elberon isn’t going to get captured at the battle of Thaymor!

Bow is in much the same position, but he’s a trained ranger, and a ranger fears neither deprivation nor pain. Well, maybe just a little.

They reach the treeline, where the road again becomes a forest trail, and Bow waves Glimmer behind a tree. A few hundred yards down the forest trail, the last of the refugees can be seen.

“Why are we hiding?” Glimmer asks.

“Because there’s nobody guarding the rear. If the Horde sends cavalry after them, we’re all that’s standing between them and the villagers.”

Bow crosses the trail to hide behind a tree on the other side. They both peek out, and sit tight for many minutes.

A league away, up the slight incline of the fields, the other treeline is visible, and Bow spots the column of tanks appear.

“Oh no,” he says.

“What?”

“They’ve brought war machines. Big ones, that hover.”

They watch, tensely and keenly for signs of activity — Bow’s eyesight is much better than Glimmer’s.

The tanks stop, not even halfway to the village.

“Do you think that’s Adora’s doing?” Glimmer asks.

“Maybe, but look —” he points. A landskiff emerges behind the tanks, and rushes past them, heading straight for the town. They watch as it veers around the palisades, and then onto the road straight for them.

“A raiding party,” Glimmer notes.

“And look at the war machines,” Bow says. They’re moving again, coasting down the road at steady speed.

“Adora didn’t make it.”

“And look up there, there’s more coming; this is going to be a hard—” Bow says. He’s interrupted by a distant flash of light. Seconds later, the second landskiff crashes in the fields.

“That’s Adora!” Glimmer says with some excitement. “She made it!”

“Get ready,” Bow says.

He takes a fistful of arrows between his fingers, nocks one, and visualizes the shot he needs to make. He’ll have less than a split second to draw, aim and loose. If he misses, the raiders are going to reach the refugees. He’s far an away the fastest shot in Wolfclaw’s unit, and the only one who has taken the time to learn to hold his arrows in the draw-hand, the mounted archer’s grip. The others use the hunter’s grip, holding arrows in the bow hand.

The skiff comes within fifty yards, going faster than a galloping horse. Bow steps out of cover, draws, exhales, aims for the fast vehicle, generously leading the shot. He looses, and an arrow embeds itself in the neck of the horde soldier by the till. The skiff veers hard to port, and the three other soldiers in it jump for their lives, and their conveyance wrecks itself on a tree. All three tumble and roll, emerging with scrapes and bruises.

Of course the Horde would train their soldiers for that.

Bow takes the opportunity to loose two more shots in quick succession. He nails another in the thigh. The soldier falls over, screaming. Immediately he takes cover behind the tree, as a handful of gunshots tear through the foliage where he just stood.

Glimmer sees the skiff crash, and takes the opportunity to duck low and get into a flanking position. Bow takes out one of the three, but the two others open fire in his direction. Glimmer creeps closer. One of the soldiers checks on his injured comrade, who waves him away and yells: “get that fucker who shot me!”

The two uninjured soldiers begin advancing on Bow’s position, guns forward.

Glimmer crouches and picks up two handfuls of dirt. She’d prefer to have sand, but this will do.

Even though she is too drained to blink herself, she has enough juice to port single pebble. Just four days ago, she had opportunity to test some theories about her teleportation ability on live targets, at the battle of Elberon, to grisly effect.

She concentrates her power, visualizing the space, and disappears a handful of dirt.

The front-most soldier collapses in a violent coughing fit, with a handful of dirt in his lungs.

His mate rushes to his aid, and glimmer disappears the other handful of dirt. A spiking headache tells her she’s overdone it now.

The injured soldier, takes out his pistol, and fires it in bow’s direction, yelling obscenities in a language Glimmer doesn’t know. Then his gun clicks, and Bow peeks out of cover, putting an arrow in the man’s eye socket with a wet ‘thunk.’

Glimmer emerges from cover, and comes up to the two sods coughing their lungs out, foaming at the mouth. She takes a run-on and kicks one of them in the head as hard as she can, steel toe crushing bone. “That’s for what you did to Thaymor.”

The other one has enough sense to try to crawl away, coughing, shaking his head with pleading eyes, holding a hand out towards Glimmer as if to ward her off.

She puts a boot on his chest, and lays her weight into it, until the man’s coughs are reduced to raspy wheezes. She takes out her knife and slashes his throat — a mercy, at this point.

“That’s new,” Bow notes, “both how, and how gruesome.”

“I’ll tell you how it works later.”

The tanks are already in the city, and Adora hears the staccato of machine gun fire and low booms of cannon fire at regular intervals.

She has to stop on the way, as another skiff comes out of the forest. A quick salvo from her machine gun puts a stop to that; and she lays some covering fire at the mouth of the forest trail they come from — perhaps they’ll notice the bullet holes.

Adora runs up to the smashed gate, and peeks around it. There’s a lot of rubble, but a lot of open sightlines too.

I need a really, really big gun, something that can damage a tank.

In her hands, a ten-foot long rifle appears, bored in three-quarter inch caliber. A stripper-clip of four obscenely large and long cartridges appear in her other hand, and she immediately loads it like an infantryman’s rifle.

She braces the bipod against the broken woodwork, and takes aim at the first tank’s rear.

She fires, sending a heavy high-explosive anti-armor round rocketing through the weak plating at four times the speed of sound. The recoil is severe enough to send splinters of wood flying from the bipod, the firing report is ear-splitting, and the blast from the muzzle brake is six feet to either side.

Despite the hit, the tank coasts along, and Adora runs the bolt, and fires again, hitting in a different spot, a little higher. The whole tank immediately explodes, as the bullet hits the munitions cache inside.

Now they know I’m here, Adora muses. They’ll want to re-group and locate the threat.

She darts inside the palisades, the anti-tank rifle melting into a hovering ball of gold once more. She moves fast and stays low, using the scrap-wood debris and remains of buildings, and the occasional smoke columns from spreading fires, for concealment.

She finds another tank, down a side-street. The machine gunner is laying covering fire on a few targets further down the street; probably dug-in rangers. I need a quiet rifle, if such a thing exists.

In her hands, a carbine materializes with a strangely fat barrel. She shoulders it and aims at the gunner, pulling the trigger. The report is muffled and the muzzle blast is almost nonexistent.

The gunner jerks sideways, and slumps. Adora breaks cover and accelerates into a dead sprint towards the tank, reaching it in seconds. Grenade. A stick with a bomb on the end appears in her hand, and she leaps her own height into the air, onto the vehicle, lading withe enough force to push the whole thing sideways into the adjacent building.

Unceremoniously, Adora drops the grenade into the cupola, and leaps off with the same force with which she landed, rocking the tank on its hover field, sending it careening backwards up the street.

She lands in the dust, next to a shallow trench dug across the street, and rolls into it, lying low.

Nobody makes it out of the tank before the bomb inside goes off, and flying metal fragments reduce everyone inside to mince meat. Thankfully the munitions cache inside doesn’t detonate.

Three very surprised rangers are huddling in the trench with her.

“Hi,” Adora says. “All clear?”

One of them peeks over the trench, seeing the capsized tank down the street — the grenade damaged some part of the hover system inside, causing it to settle onto one side. “Yeah. Thanks for the save,” she says.

“Stay low, there’s three more,” Adora says, and stands back up.

By the sound of it, the other three are on the other side of town, and the most direct way there is to cross the central plaza. Thaymor is built with no regards for city planning — not even to allow better sightlines from the fort — but the central plaza has roads going in each cardinal direction.

It would make good sense to regroup there, even just with three tanks. The cannons could cover three streets with support from one machine gun, and three machine guns could cover the last street. Their peril right now is that they’ve charged ahead without infantry support.

Adora ducks into one of the intact houses, and through it — past the remains of a decked lunch table, and a kettle boiled dry over smoldering cinders in the fireplace. The hunger and thirst she felt before transforming has been erased, just like her injuries, but is bound to return once she reverts. Still, it is tempting to grab a drink of whatever is in the pitcher on the table, in the hopes it’ll slake her thirst by then.

She continues, ducking out the back door into the back yard, and from there in the back door of another house. Through the ruined blinds, she spots the eastern main street on the front side of this house, and heads to the upper floor, kicking open the blinds to the back yard, and climbing out, onto the roof.

From here, crouching behind the ridge of the roof, she has a clear view of the plaza a hundred and fifty yards away. She hunkers down, considering her weapon options, waiting for the three remaining tanks to convene.

Sure enough they do; Horde tank commanders aren’t stupid, they are just predictable when one, like Adora, knows the doctrines of tank tactics taught to them. Doctrines founded on the idea that tanks are accompanying infantry, not charging ahead for glory.

I need something indirect that can be directed from afar.

Obligingly, a golden device manifests next to her; a big box. In her hands, what looks like a pistol, but without a barrel, and on it, a scope. A wire connects the aiming device to the box, and the box opens in one end, revealing two warheads.

Adjusting the legs on the box, Adora orients it facing towards the plaza, on the end of the roof towards the same; then moves as far away as the control wire will allow, which turns out to be enough to put virtually the entire roof between her and the plaza.

“Come to mama,” she mutters.

And true enough, the three tanks arrive within minutes. Coasting quietly into the plaza; the commanders in their machine gun cupolas curtly discussing the fact that two of their number have been lost in very short order.

They take up defensive positions, each tank turns, facing a different street — the main cannon turrets don’t have full traverse, since the whole vehicle can turn on a dime.

Adora takes aim at the one that has an actual chance of landing a cannon shot at her, and pulls the trigger. With a belch of smokeless flame, one of the two missiles in the box launch, blowing the back panel into the back yard, and scream into the sky, turning sharply, and heading directly for the painted target. It is over in a second, with a powerful shock wave, and the tank smashing into the ground, its upper half torn to shreds.

Next, she takes aim at the tank facing directly away from her. Already it is beginning to accelerate down the western street, but the missile with catch it just as well.

There’s a reason why snipers have spotters, and Adora learns this the hard way. The tank she’s not targeting hasn’t fled, but instead in a brilliant moment of coordination between commander, driver, loader, and gunner, it turns on her position, and unloads three shells into the roof. Repeating cannons, Adora notes dryly. The missile launcher is not hit directly, but it does go tumbling down into the back yard below.

She re-forms the anti-tank rifle, and takes aim from the safety of her current cover, at the receding tank, but it turns a corner, and the tank in the plaza has re-loaded its cannon, and unloads three more shells into the roof, walking the shots closer to Adora’s position. The commander begins laying covering fire with the machine gun also.

Not to be deterred, Adora hops off the roof, two storeys, into the back-yard, landing in an effortless roll.

Mortar.

The gold forms into a tube, steeply angled on a bipod, and she kneels net to it, to manipulate the elevation and traverse, estimating the range and direction by feel alone; but a good feeling at that.

Just as she’s about to drop the shell in, another salvo of canon fire rips through the ground floor of the building in front of her, one round hitting a support beam only a few yards away, pelting her with splinters. Thank all good things it’s high-explosive, not fragmentation.

Adora suddenly gets very busy not getting shelled into oblivion. Seven foot superwoman or not, a one-inch canon shell will most definitely kill her.

She runs into the side-street from the back yard, and circles around. Behind, she hears the next triple of shells rip into the building she was hiding behind, followed by the din of a building collapse.

Coming up to the south main street, Adora stops by the corner. Can I make just a hand mirror? Turns out, yes. It’s not even gold. She holds it out to see, and true enough, there is her quarry.

She stops to ponder, turning the gold sphere over in her hand. Time to get creative. “Okay,” she mutters to it, “can you give me a cannon big enough to shoot through this —” she pats the building remnants behind her “— with some kind of mirrors that’ll let me aim it?”

Obliging, a ten foot long two-inch recoilless gun forms on a tripod. Off the side of it, is mounted some arcane contraption of clear prisms — difficult to see poking out from the side of some junk even in the afternoon sun.

Adora kneels next to it, opening the breech away from herself, loading the enormously long perforated cartridge, tipped in a sabot-clad penetrator, into the chamber. Closing the breech, Adora aims the device using the prisms — an easy task — then covers her ears and kicks the trigger lever.

The black-blast blows a hole in the still-standing wall opposite Adora’s cover, and one of the sabots bounce off the cover, and hits her on the back of the head.

She risks both a violation of cannon safety by moving in front of the muzzle, and her real safety, but peeking out to see if she hit anything. True enough, the tank down the street is drifting sideways and down, its hover-field failing.

Rifle. A rifle forms in her hand, utilitarian and chambered for big game, semi-automatic and little bit sexy. With brisk steps she sets out for the tank.

A satyr man pops up in the machine gun cupola on the side facing her, and he immediately brings the gun to bear.

Adora fires a shot, blowing a hole through the barrel jacket, spraying him with water, then as he lets go of the damaged but still functional weapon, she puts another bullet through the belt box, spraying loose ammo and fragments thereof everywhere.

“Out of the tank!” Adora yells.

Instead, he draws his pistol. Adora shoots his left horn off, causing his head to jerk back.

Another of the tank crew opens fire with a pistol, using the tank itself as cover. Adora immediately pivots her aim to him and shoots his trigger finger off. He drops his gun, screaming.

“All right! Fuck, I surrender!” the satyr says.

“Get out of the tank, and get your buddy to the center of the plaza,” Adora says. “Stay in my view.”

He climbs out, and from the insignia on his shoulder, he’s the commander. He clambers down the angled surfaces of the tank, trying to keep his hands above his head as much as possible.

Adora comes up to the tank, and passes around it allowing the tank commander to get to his mate, who is sitting, leaning against the inert tank, clutching his right hand trembling with his left. There’s a grisly amount of blood, and the finger nail of his trigger finger is stuck in his hair.

“Oh fuck, sarge, help me,” he whimpers.

“Calm down, son, you’re gonna live.”

Adora looms for but a moment before walking into the center of the plaza. The west street is clear; no sign of the last tank there.

Then it comes into view in her peripheral vision, drifting sideways into a clear line of fire. She turns and runs to the two soldiers by the tank, sitting almost directly behind her.

Shield?

Her rifle vanishes in favor of a door-sized inch-thick shield, and a post in the center to rest it at a 45-degree angle. Adora sets the post against the tank.

The impact of the shell comes before the sound of firing. The shield rings like an out-of-tune gong, but holds. Another round impacts it, much to the same effect.

Then, the machine gun opens fire in a long salvo to pin them in place.

The next shell hits three feet to the left of them, against the tank armor, and the shock wave is deafening. Shrapnel from the armor cuts Adora across the face.

She blinks, the world ringing like a bell around her.

The injured guy slumps against the tank, the side of his face torn to shreds. The commander falls backwards, screaming silently, holding his eyes.

I need to protect myself.

The shield flows in around her, becoming a suit of armor, growing and extending itself into a powered exoskeleton. Still without her sense of hearing, and her balance out to lunch, Adora turns and sets into a run.

Machine gun fire pelts her, to no effect. She’s halfway to the last tank when they manage to reload the cannon, and as the turret swivels to track her she zig-zags. The gunner makes an honest attempt and misses the three shots he has.

Adora finishes her sprint with a slide, ending up under the belly of the tank. The hover fields push down on her suit with the full weight of the tank — spread out though the pressure is, still a few tons of force. Against this she coils up, plating her feet in the dirt and her hands on the underbelly, and lifts effortlessly against it, straightening explosively and accelerating so fiercely that not only does she flip the tank, but she ends up going a few feet in the air.

The tank goes belly up, landing askew on one of its slanted profiles, crashed into the remains of a building. One of the machine gun cupolas is unobstructed, though the machine gun mount itself is scrap. Adora tears it off with actuated hands.

She peeks her helmet inside to take a look and sees the commander trying to pick himself off the ceiling of the tank. Just within reach, and reach in Adora does, with the golden armored glove, roughly taking hold of the man’s shoulder and pulling him none-too-kindly out of the upturned cupola and throwing him in the dirt.

“Come out you two,” she calls into the tank. “Don’t bother bringing your pistols.”

The commander meanwhile, does actually shoot at her with his pistol which is about as ineffectual as throwing pebbles. Half turning towards him, Adora plucks the gun from his hand and crushes it in her servo-powered fist, tossing the lump of scrap back to its owner.

As nobody seems to be in a hurry to get out of the tank, Adora strikes it hard enough to rock the whole thing. “If you don’t come out, I’m gonna start putting grenades in.”

That gets them going. Out comes a lizardfolk woman, and another human man.

Adora dismisses her armor, in favor of a pistol, which forms already pointing at the three.

“Get up,” she barks at the commander. “And get moving.”

She leads them back to the other tank, in silence.

The dead guy is still dead. The satyr is sitting up, so for now, alive. His eyes are a bloody mess.

“Let’s just note what you did wrong,” Adora says. She grabs the commander by the collar and leads him to the satyr. She kicks him in the knee to bring him to kneel. “Just take a look at what your decision to try to kill me, has done to your fellow soldier!” she yells, and crouches down, lowering her voice to a growl “I should shoot you right now, you honorless piece of shit, but unfortunately I need someone get all the bodies back to the horde, so nobody’s unit has to bury an empty coffin.”

She stands back up. “Somebody find me Nightshade!” she bellows.

Chapter Text

There’s a moment of dead silence, before the first Rangers come out to see. As is only proper, they are cautious.

Someone sends for Nightshade.

The smoke is getting dense; the whole town is heating up as the fires gradually consume the destruction, rendering it complete.

“Oi!” Nightshade arrives at a jog to the central plaza. “Ho there, big girl, friend or foe?”

Adora pauses for a moment. “Uh, friend? I’m the prisoner — the defector. We talked earlier?”

Nightshade comes close enough for polite conversation. “Look at you, tall drink of water; a Princess and all.” She grins, and the grin evaporates as soon as it came. She turns to the captive tank crew, lined up against the disabled tank.

“Is this all that’s left?”

“Yeah. This man,” Adora gestures to the commander, “shot at me and hit his comrade,” she points to the blinded satyr, who is sitting, shivering, possibly going into shock. “He doesn’t deserve death.”

“Hm. The fort is burning down — the whole town is, we can’t imprison them, and I can’t spare the manpower to send them anywhere else,” Nightshade says.

“Captain, I propose we get them to transport their fallen comrades back home, for proper burials,” Adora says.

Nigthshade looks at her. “That’s very honorable of you —” she turns to the rangers filing in behind her “— go see if there’s a carriage left in this ash pile of a town, will you?”

“How many did you loose?” Adora asks.

“No idea, but we sent half our number out to the artillery as Bow directed. If anyone is left, they should be coming back soon.”

It’s grim, the wait to find out if your comrades are alive. Adora remembers well when the specialist officers at boot camp would sometimes be called away to service machinery in the field. One of them didn’t return.

“You’re in rough shape,” Nightshade notes.

Adora runs a hand over her face; it comes away bloody. She traces the blood to her ear. Come to think of it, she has had trouble hearing on one ear since she took that shell.

Bow and Glimmer have watched — as much as one can given the angle, distance, and smoke cover — the battle unfold. They have at the very least heard several unusually large explosions.

“We should go back, check up on things,” Glimmer says. “Either Adora needs our help, or she’s already won.”

The trek back to the town is one of steadily declining air quality. Bow has a light coughing fit as he adjusts.

The first thing they are greeted by when entering the east gate, is a view of the plaza dominated by a scrap heap that used to be a tank. A single ranger is standing guard by the gate.

“I guess she did manage after all,” Bow says.

They make their way down the street, and around a debris field left by an obliterated temple of Forest God. Statue of said god, lying shattered against the buildings on the other side of the street.

At the plaza, they find a gigantic warrior clad in golden armor, pushing along one of the tanks.

Adora flips her visor up, and waves. “Bow! Glimmer!”

“Holy shit, Adora did you take out all of them? Alone?” Glimmer ask, and runs up to her.

“Yeah; one second.” Adora dismisses the armor, and in two graceful jumps, scales the battered tank, and disappears inside through the main hatch. There’s a loud crunch and a shriek of tearing metal and the receiver of the main cannon comes sailing out in a high arc, landing in the dirt, followed by a small arsenal of various compact weapons for personal defense, all bent out of shape. Adora emerges again, and rips the two machine guns off, wrecking them in the process. “There,” she says, wiping her dirty hands in the increasingly grimy white body suit.

“Whats that for?” Bow asks.

Adora points. “Those guys. They are going to transport the bodies of the dead Horde soldiers back home.”

“Why?” Glimmer asks.

Adora pauses. “Because, Princess Glimmer, believe it or not, Horde soldiers have families and friends who might want to bury them.”

“Oh, yeah. Right,” Glimmer says. “Sorry, I forgot you were a…”

“Yeah,” Adora says. “Thought you might have; what do you normally just throw them in a mass grave or—?”

“At Elberon, we collected the dead the next day, covered them in lime, and loaded them on one of the troop landers we captured,” Glimmer explains. “They got to sail that one home.”

Adora groans.

“What?”

“I heard about the battle of Elberon; but I was told the rebels piled the carcasses on the beach and burned them for the retreating fleet to see. I’m starting to tire of finding out I’ve been lied to by my former allies.”

Glimmer doesn’t have anything to say to that.

Adora walks around the back of the tank. “Hm. No attachment points,” she mutters, and forms a big cartridge-driven piston driver, loads it with a clip of blank rifle cartridge, and begins punching thumb-sized holes in the half-inch-thick rear armor.

The heat gets unbearable, as the town is consumed in flames; they relocate outside the southern city-gate, and teams of rangers make quick trips in and out to fetch the dead. But only those in the streets; corpses in the burning buildings aren’t worth the risk.

Twenty thee dead Horde soldiers. Traded one-for-one, with the rangers in the city.

The raiding party returns, worse for wear.

Everyone uninjured is dragging a stretcher behind them, carrying either dead or wounded. The merely injured walk in pairs, supporting each other.

“Status?” Nighshade asks.

Killigan comes up to her, arm in sling. “Corps Captain,” she greets her.

“Where is your scout captain?”

“We routed them, killed half their number. They turned the guns on us in desperation… Wolfclaw was among the casualties.”

Bow covers his mouth.

“Sorry, Cadet,” Killigan says. “I know you were close. We brought him back, for a proper funeral.”

“And the guns?” Adora asks.

“We broke them,” Killigan says, and pre-empts the next question: “You hammer a post into the barrel, load it with one of those big brass thingies, close the lid, tie a longer string to the pull string, take cover, and it tears itself apart.”

“You’ve done that before,” Adora notes, inwardly wincing at the number of wrong words in the sentence. “Good work.”

“Are you going to suggest we collect the corpses there too?” Nightshade asks curtly.

Adora shakes her head. “They got the guns there; they’ll want them back. Whomever they send can retrieve the dead.”

The afternoon grows late by the time they have all the corpses collected in a carriage — damaged by the shelling, canopy burnt to cinders, hastily patched; but still with intact wheels.

“Listen, commander,” she says to the staff sergeant. “When you get back to the Hordelands, you’re going to report for court martial, confess, and lose your rank and job.”

He grimaces.

“And before you think of killing the satyr you so dishonorably blinded, and avoiding this fate, know that it’ll mean you get redeployed, which means you might run into me again. And if I do, I’ll make sure to remove your eyes myself.”

“Fine,” he spits.

And with that, she sends them off, watching their trip to the treeline, tracking them with the recoil-less gun as they go.

“We’re retreating,” Nightshade says. “This fort; this town, is a total loss.”

“The Horde will be back. They’ll establish an outpost here,” Adora notes, regarding the charred remains of what was this morning a vibrant little farming community.

“No, they will not,” Nightshade says.

She starts giving orders: The fields are to be burned. A ranger squad will travel the southernmost reaches of the Whispering Woods, to Plumeria, and entreat Princess Perfuma to come to Thaymor and coax the forest into reclaiming the farming enclave.

Graves are to be dug for the fallen rangers, because rangers are buried where they fall.

They hold a short memorial for the dead; a few minutes of silence. Killigan sings a song in a language Adora doesn’t know; a beautiful, sad song.

Twilight is falling by the time they reach the refugee camp — and a paltry one it is, a few hundred yards beyond the western edge of the Whispering Woods. The rangers who led the evacuation thought to bring literally every tent in the fort, but it is not enough. Some are going to sleep under the open autumn sky.

Campfires are plentiful though, as the Whispering Woods’ forest floor is always covered in dead branches.

Glimmer is dead on her feet, and even Bow is beginning to feel tired. Adora, while injured, dreads charging back.

“Adora, I found us a tent,” Bow says.

“Why?” Adora asks. “I don’t need a tent.”

“Yes you do. You’re going to have to change back at some point, right? And when you do, you’re going to be wearing a Horde uniform. Glimmer is getting you a change of clothes.”

On the way there, they run into the village elder. “What have we here?” he asks. “I just spoke to Captain Nightshade; I hear you are to thank for the early warning, and for soundly defeating the evil Horde today. Well done, Princess.”

Adora blushes. “Well, I’m not a—” she stops. “Yes. Thank you, but the rangers lost a lot of people today, and you have all lost your home. I don’t think jubilations are appropriate.”

“Ah,” the elder says. “But a village is not the palisades which surrounds it, or the houses within. A village is its people. And thanks to you, we almost all made it. In my view, that is worthy of much praise. When we have rebuilt, and we have something to offer, please come visit.”

He shakes Adora’s hand enthusiastically. “Thank you, Miss—”

Adora ponders for a moment whether to give her real name. “She-Ra.”

He gasps. “Why, like in the legends! Are you that She-Ra?!”

“Yeah, she is,” Bow says. “We really need to get going. Nice meeting you elder.”

In the tent, they meet Glimmer, who has scrounged up a mismatched outfit: sandals, leggings, a chemise, a petticoat, a bodice, and a frock.

“I— I’ve never worn a dress before,” Adora says.

“It’s easy,” Glimmer says, “now change back.”

Adora does, and promptly loses consciousness.

“Curses,” Glimmer mutters. “All right, Bow, go stand guard outside. I need to get this idiot undressed before someone sees her.”

“I’ll see if I can flag down a ranger and get us some rations and a waterskin or two.”

“Yeah.”

Adora wakes up, to a clamor outside the tent. She sits up, her sides and ankle protesting, and takes stock of her surroundings. She’s sitting on the field bed, covered by a cloak for a blanket. She’s not wearing her uniform, which is a little unsettling; thoug she is still wearing her standard-issue underwear, under the chemise. Hopefully it was Glimmer who undressed her…

She’s not really sure how to feel about that.

Glimmer and Bow are sleeping curled up together, wrapped in their cloaks. Their armor and weapons are colected in a neat little pile.

The rush of adrenaline subsides, and the pain returns in force; she groans. She’s parched, and ravenously hungry; to the side of the bed sits a pitcher, and balanced on it, half a loaf of bread.

The pitcher is full of sour beer with an objectionable smell, but her thirst is far greater than her disgust. The bread is hard and bland, with a distinctly smoky aftertaste. It’s the best bread she’s ever had.

There’s even a set of crutches — actual craftsmanship, not a pair of fortunately-shaped sticks.

Adora swings her legs over the side, and starts getting dressed, which is difficult, given her condition. She entirely forgoes putting on the bodice.

Emerging from the tent, she finds a lot more tents than there was last night. And there’s soldiers clad in brigandine armor, wearing the colors of Brightmoon. The army has arrived.

Four plate-armor clad women, with purple plumage on their helmets, stand guard around the tent, brandishing halberds. One of them grabs Adora’s arm. “Halt. You are not to wander freely in this camp.”

“Okay, can one of you get me an escort to the latrines, then?” Adora asks. “I mean, I’ll happily piss myself right here, but I suspect Glimmer might take issue.”

“You are not to refer to the Princess with such familiarity!” the guard protests. “I shall accompany you to the latrines.”

They head out through camp; gravel has been strewn on the earth to prevent it all from becoming one big mudpit. There, wood planks have been hammered into the ground to form cubicles, and deep pits have been dug in the ground, with only a single board prevents one from falling in.

Drowning in a latrine is an ugly way to go. Not in the least because of the revolting smell.

Adora does her business, and laments the lack of toilet paper. Some helpful soul has collected broad leaves in the forest, and left a pile in the cubicle.

This is going to be rough.

Coming back to the tent, all she has the energy to do is collapse back into bed.

A cavalcade arrives around noon, with horses decked in plumes of dyed feathers, ridden by a column of royal guards; escorting an opulently decorated carriage, and several more utilitarian ones.

“By decree of the Queen, Princess Glimmer is ordered immediately to return to castle Brightmoon with retinue.”

Glimmer, Bow, and Adora then get to take a day-long ride in cushy seats, with a variety of expensive trail-foods, and wine to drink. Glimmer appoints Killigan as a key witness, but the newly promoted Scout Captain opts to ride a horse of her own.

They spend most of the first day’s journey sleeping.

They stop in Erelandia on the way southwest to Brightmoon, and the royal guard buys out an entire floor of an inn just for Glimmer, who insists to room with Adora, much to the guards’ obvious annoyance. The preferable option would be to rent the estate of the local Baron, but he is unfortunately hosting foreign diplomats.

Bow goes to the local ranger chapter with Killigan; it is after all, not really at all appropriate for the Princess to entertain a strapping young ranger, even if they really are just friends.

The small staff of servants the cavalcade has brought along makes certain to see to Glimmer and Adora’s every need.

Which includes bathing, and laundry; both sorely needed. Gambeson tends to accumulate revolting odor after a few days in the field, and Glimmer’s has seen several more than that.

Adora is no stranger to having her laundry done by someone else — indeed every platon has rotating laundry duty. She’s also no stranger to communal bathing.

But she is a stranger to Glimmer, and feels suddenly bashful about her nudity, even if they have separate tubs. Especially since two young chambermaids — satyrs, both — fill their tubs with kettles from the fire, and buckets.

Finally, Glimmer bids the chambermaids to leave them, and they get some time to soak sore muscles, and talk business.

“So. She-Ra of legend.” Glimmer says. “The Princess of Power, if memory serves. I’m sure Bow is going to dig up everything he can when we get to Brightmoon. He’s a scholar.”

“A man of many talents,” Adora notes. “Are you two… Together?”

“What?! No. No-no-no. I mean, we’re close, but not in that way. I’m a princess; I can’t just go falling in love with commoners.”

Adora ponders this. “Why not?”

“Because I need to be available for marriages, to secure alliances if need be. I’m an only child, so…”

This concept is unfamiliar to Adora. The official Horde army policy is don’t ask, don’t tell, and fraternization is strictly forbidden. Dalliances are open secrets, and everyone keeps their emotions in check and confined to private spaces. Intellectually, Adora knows that people fall in love and get married, but hasn’t given it much thought.

“But do you like him?” Adora asks.

“As a brother.”

“Oh. I know what you mean.”

“Pray tell, got any friends in the Horde?”

Adora looks away. “Not— not anymore.”

Glimmer sits up. “Shit. Sorry. That must be raw for you.”

Adora hugs herself. “She was there, at Thaymor. Her name is Catra, and we came up together in the military. I… I punched her in the stomach and ran off to kill her comrades.”

Glimmer frowns. “Oh goodness. That’s— I don’t know what to say.”

“She doesn’t see things the same way I do. She was excited to get to massacre the innocent. I can’t— I can’t associate with— with.” The words die in her throat, and quiet sobs take their place.

“Here,” Glimmer says.

She’s holding out a bottle of wine.

“It doesn’t help with the pain, but it can delay it until you’re ready to deal with it.”

Adora takes it and drinks.

The next day’s travel, Adora relates to Bow and Glimmer, in the privacy of the carriage cabin, her life story, more or less. Taken in by Shadow Weaver, raised mostly in army orphanages, Catra, basic school with Catra, military academy with Catra, military service with Catra.

“Wait, so— you said a sorceress, named Shadow Weaver, is your adoptive mother?” Glimmer asks. “How old is she, and what race?”

“I don’t actually know. Middle-aged, and I don’t know what race either, but she has pointed ears. And she’s more like a superior officer. She never had the time to raise kids. She wears this mask to hide some disfigurements of her face.”

“Does she do dark magic?”

“Yeah, I think? I don’t know anything about magic,” Adora says.

Bow looks at Glimmer. “What is it?”

“My father-sister Castaspella of the Mystacor Guild of Sorcerers, had a colleague when my father was a student there. Her name was Light Spinner which is very similar. She fell into dark magic due to a failed ritual, and left to join the Horde.”

“You’re thinking that’s Shadow Weaver,” Bow states.

“Yeah, which means they have one of the most gifted sorcerers to ever come out of Mystacor. What does Shadow Weaver do, in the Horde?”

“Well, she lives all the way in Capital, in the Fright Zone. She’s chief of Chancellor Hordak’s sorcery division,” Adora explains plainly. “After Catra and I went into service on the Brightmoon front, the mentoring has been through writing letters.”

“What does she mentor you in?” Bow asks.

Adora shrugs. “Catra thinks she’s grooming me to be her replacement, but I’m rubbish at magic.”

Glimmer and Bow look at each other. “You’re a Princess,” Bow says. “I don’t know that there’s a single Princess who can’t do magic. And by magic I mean sorcery. Glimmers blinking ability is magic in nature, but its derived from the Runestone she’s bonded to.”

Adora frowns. “No. She can’t possibly have known that I one day randomly go into the forest and find a magic sword that would turn me into a Princess. That’s like, twenty once-in-a-lifetime coincidences at once.”

“But you don’t know who your parents are,” Bow points out. “I’m not saying it’s what happened, I’m just saying, stay open to the possibility.”

The carriage comes to a stop, and there’s a knock on the door.

“We’re here,” Glimmer says.

“Well. You know my story, now,” Adora says.

Bow puts a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve had it rough. But you’re among friends now.”

It takes Adora a few seconds to catch up to that. “But— Friends? I barely know you; you barely know me!”

“You just told us your life story,” Glimmer snarks. "Besides, when we get the chance, I’m totally going to tell you all about my exciting and dangerous childhood as a princess living in an entire palace full of guards and servants. By which of course I mean boring. Bow at least had a falling out with his parents, but they are all better now.

“Look, Adora. We’ll get to know each other soon enough. But for now, all we need to know is each other’s character; you’re brave, and selfless, and trustworthy. I’ll be honored to be your friend in any life.”

Adora has to wipe a tear away.

Chapter Text

“Commandant Glimmer, Princess of Brightmoon. Mister Bow, Field Ranger. Miss Adora.”

Glimmer, Bow, and Adora make their way up the floor of the throne room. On the throne sits Queen Angella, looking mighty displeased with her daughter. Around them in the galleries are a plethora of diplomats, state officials, military personnel, and servant staff.

“Is this you mother?” Adora whispers.

“Yeah,” Glimmer replies, “Bow, you didn’t tell me you got promoted.”

“It wasn’t really pertinent,” Bow says.

The Queen stands, and the room goes dead quiet.

“Before you say anything, daughter mine, we are taking this conversation in private.”

She descends from the throne and heads to the side, under the galleries, where two royal guards are holding open a set of double doors.

Glimmer and the others follow obediently.

Inside is a spacious study — almost a library. The doors close behind them, and Angella turns to face them, wings extended and vibrating with anger. “Glimmer, there are no words to express just how disappointed I am in your behavior.”

“Mom, the decision to sneak out was entirely my own; Bow had no hand in it.”

Angella rubs her temple. “Of course I am not going to punish Bow for your transgression, all in all he has had a greater positive influence on your attitude than any single other factor in your upbringing— Who is this?” she gestures to Adora.

Adora steps forward on her crutches, and kneels down. “Your Majesty,” she says, as Glimmer has instructed her. “I am Adora, formerly Warrant Officer in the Horde; now defector to the Alliance.”

(Glimmer was very specific about the misnomer of ‘rebellion’ that the Horde uses. A rebellion is an intra-national conflict between insurgents and their king; in any case a form of civil war. The Alliance is fighting a defensive war, against a foreign belligerent party.)

Angella turns that over in her head for a second. “Glimmer, did you bring a prisoner of war into my court?”

“Your Majesty,” Bow breaks in. “Adora appears to be the new incarnation of She-Ra, the figure of legend if you perhaps recall.”

Angella rubs her eyes. “Butler!” she yells. A door in the back of the room opens, and a primly dressed man peers inside. “Your Majesty?” he asks.

“Wine. Bring me wine.”

Catra makes her way back to the support column, working at the slow task of making a road through the Whispering Woods. Even using every advantage — using a forest trail as a base, and using flame throwers to ignite forest fires, the woods themselves are a formidable obstacle; sporting trees with fire-retardant sap, and undergrowth that grows so rapidly it has to be cleared daily.

She gets tended to by a paramedic who inspects the spectacular bruise on her abdomen, and asks her to be on the lookout for blood in the stool, before giving her some painkillers.

A few hours later, the news arrive of the outcome of the battle, in the form of a battered hover-tank pulling a cart full of corpses. The remains of the artillery battery also makes it back, having lost a third of their numbers and all guns to an ambush.

Commander Cobalt calls Catra to his tent.

“Warrant Officer Catra, I’m trying to reconstruct the events of the battle of Thaymor. The tank crew who came in have given their report, but I’m very interested to hear yours.”

Catra stands at parade rest, despite the pain. “Commander, Warrant Officer Adora defected to the rebellion, and informed the rebels in Thaymor of our impending assault, giving the local militia time to prepare fortifications, evacuate the civilian populace, and lay an ambush for the artillery battery. Furthermore a hitherto unseen Runestone Wielder appeared and summarily destroyed three skiffs, and defeated five hover tanks.”

“Yes. It’s this princess I’m trying to get a bearing on. Can you describe her?”

“I didn’t witness the battle directly, sir. Adora came to meet me, under the guise of still being loyal. We fought in hand-to-hand and she managed to overpower me and render me unconscious. When I woke, the battle was already in progress.”

“What did you see?”

“That this new princess has access to advanced firepower, comparable to the best weapons the Horde can field. I’m not certain how but I suspect it might be her Runestone ability. She also seemingly has some form of advanced tactical ability to be able to outmaneuver and dispatch such an overwhelming force.”

Cobalt nods, taking notes. “Very good; thank you. Anything else?”

“Permission to take a days’ leave to recover from injury.”

Cobalt looks at her over his reading glasses. “Granted.”

Catra packs her kit and takes a motor bike, taking the eastern supply road, and then the motor ways, the headlight illuminating the road as evening falls.

She drives overnight, stopping only to replenish gas, water and rations at military depots along the way, and by dawn, she’s in the outskirts of the Fright Zone. By noon she’s in Capital, with a sore behind.

Smog hangs heavy in the air, and the buildings are behemoths of concrete, glass, and steel. The broken mountain looms in the distance. Catra navigates the heavy morning traffic. This is the city where the inner working of the Horde war machine are directed. Bureaucrats, mathematicians, economists, researchers, and the high military command.

Catra stops at a particularly ominous, windowless building, wrought from unadorned concrete, and parks the bike.

She grabs her bags and heads inside, passing under the sign saying ‘Sorcery Division.’ There’s a bust of Chancellor Hordak in the lobby, with the caption ‘our benefactor.’

Catra heads to the reception desk, where a young man sits. His arms are covered in barbed exoskeleton, and his hands are covered by a pair of dark velvet gloves — a ubiquitous bit of magic employed by scorpioni for generations immemorial; pincers are so clumsy compared to opposable thumbs.

Catra considers for a moment to look into getting something similar done. Her bulging fingertips, holding her retractable claws; and the fact that she has one less finger joint because of said claws, occasionally gets in the way. A pair of magical gloves to have human-baseline hands would be useful for paperwork, for instance. Or field stripping a rifle. Or…

“Hey, I’m Warrant Officer Catra,” Catra says. “Tell Director Shadow Weaver I’m here to see her, tell her Adora is… Dead.”

The man looks at her, then picks up the telephone. “Hello. Director’s office, please.”

“Director, a Warrant Officer Catra is here to see you. She says to tell you that someone named ‘Adora’ is dead. Oh. Right away Ma’am.”

He hangs up. “She’s in the basement. She says you know where.”

Catra nods. “Thanks, pal.” She pockets the voice recorder she swiped from his desk while he was distracted by the telephone, and sets it to record.

The elevator goes down a ways underground. It opens into a hallway, sized for industry rather than administration. Next to the personnel elevator, is the doors for the cargo elevator.

Catra traipses down the hallway, until she reaches a door labeled ‘Administration, Director — Shadow Weaver.’

The door opens by itself, before she can even knocks. “Adora’s not dead, but I couldn’t exactly tell your receptionist,” she says before Shadow Weaver has a chance to even get started.

“Really now. Then tell me what has come of Adora, and why it is your fault.”

Shadow Weaver’s red, strange, billowing robes are hilariously out of place in the mid-sized, plainly furnished office. They are considerably more appropriate for the chamber with the Runestone down the hall.

“She’s defected. To the rebellion. And she’s somehow managed to become a princess. And I get the feeling you know more about that than you’re letting on,” Catra says.

Shadow Weaver steeples her hands. “That is a regrettable course of events. Tell me everything you know. And don’t bother lying; I’ll know if you do.”

Catra digs out the note from Adora, the one for Shadow Weaver. “It started when she got promoted to Warrant Officer, and assigned to the attack on Thaymor…”

Shadow Weaver paces. “You seem amused by this predicament,” she says. “Yes, I knew Adora was special. I hadn’t predicted this, though. I thought she would be less prone to weakness.”

“I’m not. Adora is— was my friend. That she would just leave me for some strangers just tells me how wrong I was to ever trust her. What amuses me is how screwed you would be if say, Chancellor Hordak found out. You two are close, right?”

Shadow weaver’s strange eyes narrow, under her mask. “What do you want? And what makes you think that it is wise to blackmail me?”

“Blackmail? No. I’m proposing a conspiracy here. I was there Shadow Weaver. I lied in my report, about the fact that Adora is a princess. We’re complicit in this cock-up, so I’m going to keep quiet, and you’re going to send some letters, and get me a commission and a nice fat promotion so I can fix it discretely and at my discretion, and I’m going to see what I can do from the front.”

“Hm.”

Catra stands up. “I’m not a little girl you can just torture into compliance anymore. I’m the only asset you have left in this little scheme of yours.”

Shadow Weaver considers this for a spell, weighting pros and cons.

“There’s a new line of permanent enhancements, going through the final stages of testing. They have proven effective, and safe. I have no doubt you’ll get into some zany scheme and end up in direct combat with Adora, and if she is as powerful as I think she is, you will stand no chance.”

Catra raises an eyebrow. “And that is of interest to me because…”

“I could get you a letter of introduction. I have dirt on one of the lead enchanters. He’ll enhance you; in secret of course.”

Catra weighs the two against each other. The recording she’s currently making in her pocket, versus the possibility of getting her hands on a set of magical tattoos normally reserved for tightly-vetted members of the Secret Service.

She laughs. “You crazy old witch, I’m in.”

If she really wanted to built trust, she would have shown the recording device now, and destroyed the recording. But no. The way things are playing out, she might be able to eat her cake, and have it too.

Shadow Weaver mentally traces out the boundaries of the anti-espionage wards on her office; the radio jammer, the tape-recording scrambler, the invisibility detector, and the sound-proofing on all four walls, ceiling and floor. A tape-recording was scrambled during her talk with Catra.

She smiles, which pains her old scars. Perhaps that idiot child has potential still. But she needs to have caution impressed on her.

Adora was never so bold. A better soldier, to be sure, but never the knack for subterfuge, or the initiative to subvert her superiors. Well, until now.

Picking up the phone, she says to the operator: “Give me the Chancellor on the secure line.”

The other phone rings. “Hello, Chancellor… Yes, thank you, I’m quite well… There has been a development I thought you should hear from me directly… No, it is not good news… Do you recall those girls I used to mentor?… Yes, the one from the portal anomaly… You may recall — of course you do, yes, Adora… She is She-Ra… Yes, that one… I am aware… I will keep you appraised of any further developments… No, no, it is well in hand… Thank you, and to you as well.”

Catra enters the locker-rooms in the barracks; crowded.

“Did you hear about the new Runestone Wielder?” Lonnie says to one of those floozies Catra hasn’t bothered to remember the name of. The green-haired one.

“Yeah, they says she’s twelve feet tall and uses a cannon ripped from a tank as a club,” she replies. “You think any of it is true?”

“She defeated an entire tank platoon at Thaymor,” Catra says, going to her locker. “And it’s eight feet, not twelve.”

“Oh yeah, you were there, Catra,” Lonnie says in a teasing tone, “and Traitor-Adora kicked your butt so you missed all the action. And then I hear you got a day’s leave to go cry about it.”

“Shut up, dumbass,” Catra says.

“Make me,” Lonnie says and walks up to Catra, looming over her. “Adora isn’t here to protect your smart mouth anymore.”

Catra looks at Lonnie with disinterest. “Corporal, giving me lip was a bad idea when I was a Sergeant Major.” She opens her locker, takes out a canvas sack, and shoves everything into it. “But, seeing as I just got promoted to Captain…” she pointedly opens her jacket lapel to show off the insignia. “You there” — she says to Lonnie’s friend — “Sergeant? Please arrest the Corporal and escort her to the brig for threatening a superior officer; ask that the paperwork be sent to my office.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

“Sergeant, that was an order.”

“Fuck, she’s serious,” Lonnie says. “You know what, fine, if that’s the game you wanna play, Catra!”

“That’s Captain to you, Corporal,” Catra corrects.

Later that day, she fills out the incident report, in her new office, wearing her new set of supple leather gloves, purchased (on credit, for the moment) with her new officer’s salary. Having the extra finger joints really makes a difference; and there will be a lot of paperwork going forward.

Filing the report away in her outbox, she turns her attention to the sack of her old things. Much of that is going to her new condo — no more communal sleeping halls, public baths, or changing rooms — but there’s a few little trinkets she wants to put up in her office. A petrified shell, the skull of a beast that wandered into camp, bullet casings torn apart by weapon malfunctions, a mummified finger she once found in the sand at the range.

She finds the paper target that let her graduate boot camp: 47 points out of fifty, at a hundred and fifty yards. It’s considered a good luck charm by most recruits; better yet if you sign each other’s.

In the corner, scribbled in red marker it says: “Cat&Ad Best Friends 4ever.”

Catra pulls over a metal pan, and puts the thick card stock in it, then strikes a match and sets it alight.

Queen Angella looks out the window in the library. “That is a harrowing tale,” she notes dryly.

She turns to the three. "Adora, I am thankful to have you on our side. The appearance of a new She-Ra will be an important instrument in motivating continued support for the war effort against the Horde. I cannot begin to imagine the courage it took to betray the people you once called friends out of principle alone. Such conviction and commitment to good is a singular talent in my experience.

"Bow, I am sorry for the loss of your commander. I know full well that no soldier in reality fights for his country; when the blades clash it is for the camaraderie with one’s brothers-in-arms.

“Glimmer, I am disappointed in your behavior, but I cannot say I am displeased with the outcome. However, it cannot go on like this.” Angella walks up to glimmer and caresses her daughter’s cheek. “You are so much like your father. Bold, brash, and never, ever, willing to sit on your hands.”

“Mom, I—” Glimmer begins, but Angella smiles and holds up a finger.

“Your punishment for disobeying me is that you shall be the official diplomatic delegate in unifying the Free Kingdoms against the Horde. Your first assignment shall be to travel to the Thalassocracy of Salineas, and negotiate an alliance that will see them using their vast naval power to blockade Horde incursions into the Middle Sea.”

Glimmer blinks. “That sounds fun?”

Angella laughs. “Oh it is going to be arduous, tedious, and incredibly important. I’m hoping it will keep you occupied for the next few weeks.” She claps her hands. “Sounds good?”

Glimmer doesn’t know how to respond.

“Let’s go announce it to the court.”

“What about She-Ra?” Glimmer asks.

Angella looks at Adora, who looks not at all confident about the prospect of transforming in front of an attentive audience. “We’ll put that on hold for now.”

They do. Glimmer’s appointment to the diplomatic mission is met with standing applause.

They are in Glimmer’s room, to pack. Adora is sitting on the bed — which stands firmly on the floor. She has her own room, of course; being a guest of honor; but there’s nothing to pack there.

(Glimmer had once pitched the idea of suspending her bed from the high ceiling, but the captain of her retinue of royal guards had noted that a fall from such a height could very well prove fatal.)

Two chambermaids — Adora is trying hard to keep track of the servant staff, despite being reassured by Glimmer that it’s no matter — are helping Glimmer stow her extensive wardrobe into chests.

“So, do you have a ship or…” Adora asks.

“What? No,” Glimmer says. “Well, actually, yes; there’s the royal yacht, but where we’re going we won’t need it.”

“I don’t— I don’t understand, isn’t Salineas an archipelago?”

“Yes, and as a Free Kingdom with a Runestone, they have a waygate,” Glimmer says with a smile.

Adora doesn’t know what that is, and such is plainly written on her face.

“A waygate… It’s a big stone arch that can create a portal connecting to another waygate? Powered by a Runestone?”

“Oh. That sounds useful.”

“Well, it is inconvenient to use in many small ways. We use them for emergency troop movements in case of attack, for evacuation of the court, and for —” she gestures non-specifically “— urgent diplomatic missions.”

Adora chews on this information. “The Horde has a Runestone.” She has seen it. Shadow Weaver has it.

“Yes. The Black Garnet, situated in the Fight Zone since time immemorial; they also have a waygate. But it is no matter, because connecting two waygates requires the consent of a Runestone Wielder at both ends.”

Well, that explains that. The Black Garnet has no living wielder, and even if it did, the Queen could just deny the connection.

“I’ve never been on a ship,” Adora says wistfully.

“And there will be plenty of time for a pleasure cruise once we get to Salineas,” Glimmer says, humming a little tune. “Are you going to pack?”

Adora looks at her dress. “I don’t really have anything—”

There’s a knock on the door.

“We’re decent!” Glimmer yells.

Bow comes in. “Adora! I was looking for you!” He’s not in ranger uniform, which is a first for Adora.

“And what am I, boiled oats?” Glimmer says.

Bow sticks out his tongue at her. Then he holds out what he’s carrying for Adora to see.

It’s her kit. “I got your things! Well, without your muskets; those I had to check into the armory. But you can go claim them when we leave!”

Adora smiles. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” she says. “Are— are you going to Salineas dressed like that?”

What is is wearing, is a white canvas jacket cropped to above the waist, with a black, sheer button-down underneath, unbuttoned to his sternum; his blue trousers are belted solidly above the hips, and his boots are polished to a high shine.

Bow grins. “What, you don’t like fashion?” He spins. There’s a big red heart painted on the back of his jacket. “We’re going to Salineas, Adora. That means the three B’s! Beaches, Babes, and Boating!”

Glimmer rolls her eyes, but she is bringing half her wardrobe. It’s not like she can legitimately complain.

Adora opens her pack and finds on top, neatly, her knife. And there, on the bone handle, burnt, it says “A + C” and on the other side, “∞”

She holds it close to her chest, and tears well up in her eyes.

In the end Adora avails herself of the textile rooms of the castle, picking out a few things she thinks looks nice. A fetching red dinner dress, a poached Brightmoon soldier’s uniform sans insignias, a morning dress, a nightgown, a tan pantsuit for those ‘pleasure cruises,’ and spare undergarments and socks. Lots of spare undergarments and socks.

It is profoundly strange to hand her pickings off to a waiting servant, to be laundered.

She spends the night, alone in her guestroom with her thoughts, for the first time in days not exhausted to the point of instantly falling asleep. The guestroom is a spacious one with a bed that is so soft she has thrown the blankets and comforters on the floor, and elected to sleep there instead.

The bracelet is what her thoughts keep circling back to. Why a bracelet?

It’s as if the thing responds to her query, and the gold slips away from her wrist, becoming the levitating sphere that follows her around as She-Ra. The blue-green gem faces her like an eye.

Diadem? The thing obliges and forms into a circlet. And what about colour; can it do silver? The surface shimmers and changes color. And that turquoise is really not my color, how about deep indigo? That change takes longer, but comes through as well. Silver band, gem like the deep night sky.

Pistol, she commands, and the silver flows into a sleeker version of the service pistol shes familiar with — with the gem inlaid on the grip. It retains the silver coloration. Adora pulls the magazine and finds the cartridges to be silver, but the bullets to be some kind of crystal, containing a faint light inside. She breaks the bullet away with some effort, and finds that the powder inside is little glowing granules.

Come to think of it, she never did leave any steel behind at Thaymor.

She converts the gun into a necklace, and wonders what else is changeable. What about my ear injury?

The gem springs to light in response, projecting a little hologram of She-Ra. A green indicator springs from her left ear, and some First-One’s writing appears. Long healed. The little hologram is clad in that plain white body suit. That has to go.

It isn’t long before tiredness overtakes her.

Chapter Text

The waygate itself is a freestanding three-legged stone arch built from pitted stone blocks, large enough to drive three carts between the legs of it side by side. Inside the legs of gate lie a man-deep pit. The structure is situated such that one thinks the palace side-chamber it sits in was constructed around the gate, not the other way around.

Glimmer steps up to it, and lays her hand on is. “Salineas,” she speaks to the stone. There’s a shift in the air-currents of the room, with a light breeze starting to flow towards the center of the arch; and there is a slight optical disturbance in the air, like a heat distortion. From the near edge of the pit, a platform slides out, taking up the whole width of the hole, coming to a stop as a semicircle, giving access to the small portal.

Glimmer takes a rolled-up letter on red cardstock — as is traditional — and feels the edges of the spatial anomaly with her power, then blinks the letter through. This is not strictly necessary, as the window is large enough that even a full scroll of parchment can be tossed through with some precision; but it is very flashy and indicative.

The letter reads:

Dear Mermista

My mother has requested that I travel to you post-haste, that we may discuss recent developments in the ongoing belligerence.

Your cousin, Glimmer

Bow wakes, well rested, in the bed he hasn’t slept in for almost two months. He rises, stretches, throws open the blinds, washes his face in the washbasin, and wipes off, admiring the Whispering Woods outside.

The Hidden Library is just that. Upon it lies an enchantment not unlike the one that protects the floating college of Mystacor; as well as the blessing of the Princess of the Forest, that it may lie there unmothered by the appetite of the growing threes.

It is a strategic reserve of knowledge established long ago as a secret order in Brightmoon, then moved to the woods during the previous Queen’s reign a lifetime ago.

Nowadays it is served by George and Lance, esquire; master historians, and serves as an orphanage of sorts in addition, childhood home to thirteen strong boys, many of whom are taking after their adoptive fathers.

Bow never saw the horrors that drove them here; he was but an infant. He has never known anything but a loving home in the woods — woods that he always loved more than books, albeit by a slim margin — but he has seen the way it has hurt his family.

He comes down into the large kitchen, dressed in a simple tunic and pants; the fancy outfit from yesterday is unfit for travel through the woods, and ranger garb has no place at the breakfast table.

“Bow!” Lance calls out, from the stove. “What a surprise; you’re home! George! Come quick!”

“Hey dad,” Bow says.a

George comes in from the open garden door, hands full of vegetables from their bountiful herb garden. He is quick to unload on the table — to Lance’s quiet protest that he just wiped that clean — and rushes to embrace Bow.

“Goodness, son;” George says. “When did you come in, I could have sworn I locked up?”

“Last night, late. I didn’t want to wake you, so I climbed,” Bow smiles.

He stands back a little. “You look good. How are the rangers treating you?”

Bow frowns.

“That bad, huh?”

“No, no; it’s been great,” he says, and there’s a lump in his throat.

Lance is there in an instant. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“Captain Wolfclaw has roved out for the last time,” Bow says, reciting the ranger’s memorial.

George and Lance may have experienced the horrors of war themselves; and have forsworn the world, but they support the heroism of their son in spite of their own wounds. Because that is what good parents do.

Adora sits, suppressing the urge to fidget, as a primly-dressed waiter serves breakfast. Across from her sits the Queen, sipping a cup of tea.

The third seat is unoccupied for the moment, as Glimmer tends to the waygate.

“Oh fret not, dear,” Angella says. “I know quite well you are not trained in decorum. Besides this is not a formal occasion. Hence —” she gestures. The Queen is taking breakfast on one of the many terraces in Castle Brightmoon. It overlooks the city, and glimmering waters of the bay beyond the harbor.

The breakfast served is highly questionable. For one, the bread is sweetened and light, almost cake. For another there is no coffee — which Adora, while not an avid drinker of, is beginning to miss. It’s all fruits and nuts, fresh vegetables, and the odd sausage.

(Adora asked for fried crickets in Erelandia and the horror on the faces of everyone told her that insects are not food in the Free Kingdoms. Which is really their loss, and now because of them, Adora’s loss. Insects are cheap, nutritious, and tasty, and if there is a hill she’d die on, it’s that.)

“I’ve invited you to breakfast with a purpose, though,” Angella continues. “You are She-Ra, and owing to this high status, I find it prudent to come to learn the content of your character. All I want is a friendly chat.”

“Oh,” Adora laughs nervously. “Well, it’s not like I’ve ever had breakfast with Chancellor Hordak or anything.” She pales a little when she realizes what she has just said. “It’s just— you’re the commander of all of Brightmoon’s military, and Hordak is— and I’m just a soldier; well, I’m She-Ra now, but all I’ve done with it is just fighting. And I never even fought in the Horde; I defected before my first deployment.” She bites her lip. “I should stop talking, shouldn’t I?”

Angella smiles. “We can wait until Glimmer returns, if her presence calms you. I understand you two are good friends.”

“Yeah, Glimmer is great,” Adora says, a little over-enthusiastically.

And so they wait, and it takes a little longer than mailing a letter through an ancient network of wormholes should take.

Then there’s a flash of light. “Sorry for the delay, I had to use the garderobe.”

The entire retinue of servants, royal guards, and a small group of domain experts, along with several handcarts of luggage and supplies, line up in the antechamber, with room to spare, and Adora passes the time doing a little arithmetic on how many people could actually walk through the gate per hour.

Glimmer steps forward to activate the waygate, laying hand on the stone, and after a few moments, says “Salineas.”

Inside the confinement of the arches, light warps, and space opens up in a spherical distortion of spacetime. The platform slides forward, matching an oncoming one emerging from below rough-hewn stone of a different shade than the neat tiles Glimmer is standing on. A strong breeze begins blowing outwards from the portal.

The platforms meet, forming a bridge crossing a vast gulf of space. Two standing stones inside the portal mirror the arching legs confining it on the Brightmoon side.

On the other side of the portal, stands an honor guard of foreign soldiers. By standing stone opposite Glimmer, stands a dark-skinned, black-haired woman, dressed in blues, greens, and wine-reds that billow in the wind, wearing a diadem fashioned from mother-of-pearl.

Glimmer darts into the portal, to greet Empress Mermista. “Cousin! It has been too long,” Glimmer calls out.

“Hey~ Glimmer!”

They hug lightly, and exchange cheek kisses.

“Like, come on through and let us get rid of this awful draft. Good weather, you’ve grown! Last I saw you, you were like at least six inches shorter than me.”

Glimmer gestures, and the servants and guards begin filing into the waygate chamber in Salineas. Adora takes a moment to walk aside to peer around the pillar Glimmer was standing by. Here, she sees another platform, having formed a bridge with a matching one on the other side as well. Three bridges. She revises her estimates by a factor of three.

“How is Sea Hawk?”

“Oh, much better these days. He ran off to prepare the yacht; short notice you gave me! What has suddenly turned you to diplomacy?”

Last time Glimmer, then significantly younger, had gone to Salineas, Prince Consort Sea Hawk, was ill with a terrible pneumonia.

The last of Glimmer’s guard retinue makes it through, and Mermista gestures with one hand; causing the gate to close. The other hand, she conspicuously keeps on her belly. Her dress is loose and utterly impractical for swimming.

“No,” Glimmer says. “Mermista!”

“What?”

“Are you pregnant?”

Mermista smiles wide, a face full of genuine joy.

Glimmer pulls her into a jubilant hug. “Congratulations!”

“Yeah, gotta get an heir before my beautiful idiot husband goes down with his ship or something equally dumb.”

They spend a full day getting settled in a wing of the Ocean Palace. Salineas is built in a natural harbor on the largest island of the Salinedaic archipelago lying centrally in the Middle Sea. The Thalassocracy lays claim to virtually every island from the coasts of the continent of Erulia, to its sister continent across from it.

The wait is prolonged by the core of Salineas’ diplomatic corps being abroad, and having to be called home. It is also that much sweetened when Sea Hawk pulls into harbor on the Royal Yacht, and invites Glimmer and ‘anyone she might wish to bring’ on a circumnavigation of the island.

The main Horde naval base in the Middle Seas is called the ‘Main Middle Seas Naval Base’ because of course it is. And Catra goes there, because she’s as of yesterday head of a Task Force of one, with a generous discretionary budget, tasked broadly with finding non-technical counter-stratagems to the threat of the Runestone Princesses, and in particular, the ‘Princess, Unidentified, Thaymor-incident,’ the official designation for Adora.

“Oh; nice gloves.”

Catra looks up from the intelligence dossier on Salineas, having been reading while idly spooning in grub-fortified whole-grain gruel. She looks up to behold a mountain of a woman, with fair short hair, and an exceptionally spiky exoskeleton for a Scorpioni. The badge on her chest says Marine Lieutenant, comparative in rank to Catra’s rank of Army Captain.

She places down her tray, with a hand clad in midnight-black leather. “Mind if I sit?”

Catra gestures in assent.

“I didn’t know feliforms also got gloves?”

“Not usually.”

“You’re not much of a conversationalist are you? That’s okay. I’m here to meet an Army Captain, name of Catra.”

Catra looks up, and closes her dossier, not entirely sure if this woman is serious. “That’s me.”

“Oh. Oh. What a coincidence! And what a name, I get it now, Catra. Cool name. I’m Lieutenant Scorpia,” she says, holding out a hand. “I’m with the Amranth, corvette.”

And this woman is excited that Catra’s name contains the word ‘cat.’ Or maybe that is exactly why. She puts on a fake smile.

“So, Scorpia. Tell me about the Amaranth.”

“Oh, we’re a great crew. Loyal all around. We do a lot of covert operations, got some crack boarding teams, including myself. The captain is really great, too; her name is Octavia.”

Catra snickers. This is not why she requested the Amaranth, rather than one of the other five covert-operation trained corvette crews, but it is a nice bonus. Octavia, who in military academy, saw fit to take retribution on Catra alone for a prank that had been Adora’s idea, and earned an eye-patch for her troubles. Well; and Catra got to spend a month with her arm in a cast. Bones heal, eyeballs, not so much.

The Amaranth saw brief combat against a Brightmoon ironclad during the attack on Elberon; serving as a diversion for the landing crafts, so the crew is battle tested.

“You sound like exactly the kind of crew my task force needs.”

“That sounds exciting. What kind of task force?”

Catra smirks. “That, Lieutenant, is a briefing for myself, yours, and your captain’s ears only.”

Diplomatic negotiation are indeed, incredibly tedious, and arduous.

And the reason is plain and simple to express. Mermista might be the empress, but her decision-making is not unilateral. So while Mermista might be inclined to throw in with Brightmoon, because of personal connection alone the unfortunate reality is that executive power exists, because the powers that be allow it to. And to impose martial law and declare war requires their consent.

She needs the support of the military: the two admirals of the fleet, and the council of captains; then the logistics behind it: the shipwrights’ guild, and the fleet admiral of the merchant fleet; then the church of the Ocean Goddess, because nobody sails without blessing; and then the Mayor of Salineas, who will oversee Salineas when the Empress sails out; and lastly the four noble houses of the other four major islands in the Salinedaic Isles, which occupy a significant number of the aforementioned positions of power. There’s also a civilian delegate from Candila, an iron-monger — not for decision-making, but for business. Ironclad warships need a lot of iron.

Glimmer sends multiple letters per day, through the waygate. Because of course a Runestone wielder is authorized to open a partial portal to their own waygate.

This is not to ask permission from anyone back home in Brightmoon. There martial law is already imposed, and Angella has discretion to give Glimmer full negotiation power. What she needs is information about what exactly Brightmoon can provide in compensation; information that the five experts she has brought along cannot answer. Those counting three guild accountants, a naval commissioner, and a delegate from Plumeria knowledgable about the lumber-operations in the Whispering Woods which supply the Brightmoon navy, and at least a third of Salineas’.

Adora sits in on as much of the negotiations as she is allowed — raptly attentive to any and all discussions of wartime logistics and finances, completely disinterested in the political posturing.

Sea Hawk and Bow get along swimmingly. Occasionally even swimming; although the weather is quickly becoming too cold for that. Bow is as always interested in history, technical devices, tales of adventure, and the craft of survival.

Sea Hawk, while not overly knowledgable about naval history (unlike his Lieutenant) has, before becoming a Prince Consort to the ruler of the most powerful naval power in the world, been employed at every conceivable naval rank, from deck-boy to a literal Pirate King.

He’s also instantly very fond of Bow; it does not take much wine before he starts calling him ‘little brother.’ Bow is slightly more hesitant.

It’s late, and Adora has today been excluded from negotiations, as they are discussing military secrets. Instead she has enjoyed a bone-chilling dip in the ocean from the Yacht’s floating back-porch, and a day of tentatively walking aided only by a cane. For lack of anything to do, she has taken to helping where she can, to pass the time — in the kitchen, and on deck maintenance.

The cooks and deckhands are initially suspicious, but it is easy to allay their fears and gain their approval in the same way as every other working crew: offer to do the worst job. That includes the menial food prep, cleaning duties, and waste disposal. She politely excuses herself from shovelling coal, owing to the injured ankle.

They have gathered on the aft deck, under the moon and lantern light.

Sea Hawk popping the cork on a bottle of wine. “Say, Miss Adora, I hear you’re interested in a position among my crew,” he says in jest.

Adora grabs an earthenware cup — no fine glass aboard ships — and holds it out to him. “Not at all. I just can’t bear to sit around and be waited on hand and foot.”

Sea Hawk nods. “Idleness is strenuous in its own way. Tell me, what kind of work did you do before coming to lounge around on my ship? You don’t have the demeanor of a servant, nor a noblewoman.”

“I was a soldier,” Adora says. “So if you can, try to imagine med digging latrines…”

Sea Hawk guffaws. “Oh, it is refreshing; all these folk my dear wife brings aboard for political visits — she hates it as much as me — they’ve never done a hard day’s work in their life.”

“Your wife has?” Adora asks.

“Oh, she ran away when she was just a little girl. Lived off fish on a rock in the ocean for a week or two. Came back looking like a feral child. So I’m told. When we met, she helped me de-foul my ship without having to dry-dock, as we couldn’t outrun a crew of outlaws on my tail otherwise.” He twirls his moustache. “Say, Bow, my boy,” he says.

Bow is lying on the railing, one leg under a rigging rope. “What,” he mutters.

Sea Hawk turns to look at Bow. After a pause he says. “My condolences for whom you’re thinking of.”

Bow sits up. “What?”

“I know that look, boy. You’re grieving someone. Who, if I might ask?”

Bow takes a seat next to Sea Haw. “My commander. Scout Captain Wolfclaw.”

Sea Hawk stands, and grabs a pair of cups, pouring wine in both. He hands both to Bow. “Stand up Ranger. We don’t drink to the dead sitting down. You too, Adora.”

Bow stands, and Sea Hawk hands him a cup: “For you —” then the other “— for him.” Then he takes the bottle, and raises it. “To the memory of a most pre-eminent Ranger, commander to our friend Bow, Scout Captain Wolfclaw; a toast.”

“He has roved out for the last time, may he rest where he fell,” Bow recites. They drink. Bow pours out Wolfclaw’s onto the deck.

Sea Hawk lowers his bottle and hangs his head. “A moment of silence for good men lost.”

And then they stand in silence for a spell. Bow wipes his eyes. And when the moment passes, he says to Sea Hawk: “Thanks.”

“Anytime, little brother. There is no shame in shedding tears for the dead.”

And Bow hugs him, for the first time.

“Are we interrupting something?” Mermista says.

Sea Hawk turns, one arm around Bow’s shoulders. “Yes! A night of drunken revelry!”

Glimmer blinks next to Adora and grabs a bottle of wine, setting it to her lips, and drinking a long swig. Adora looks on.

“Bad day?” Adora asks.

“My mother is devious with her punishments. And I’m not even the one they argue with. Mermista is moderating this whole thing! How does she do it?”

“I heard my name,” Mermista calls. She’s standing by Bow and Sea Hawk, with her husband’s arm around her waist. From what Adora has caught so far, Sea Hawk is trying to rope Bow into agreeing to teach his unborn child something or other to do with rangers.

“I was wondering how you keep your cool in there?” Glimmer asks.

“Practice, girl. Nothing comes easy.”

The semi-submersible silently glides up against the side of the Royal Yacht.

Catra puts aside the periscope, with its crudely-mounted light intensification device.

With her, in the cramped cabin, Scorpia sits, dressed up in the purple-pastel-blues and replica armor of a Brightmoon Royal Guard. One of Scorpia’s specialist ensigns, a human man dressed as one of the ship servants, in black, sits by the hatch, and Catra wears a green-blue Salinean shipman’s uniform, over a disguise spell that renders her fur grey and her eyes uniformly yellow. Their helmsman at the wheel is a sea-elf of the Cutlass Fish bloodline, The stench of motor-oil and diesel fuel overpowers the cold sweat.

They exit onto the water-covered deck of the small craft, and step onto the pontoon raft at the aft end of the yacht. The crew has removed the gangplank connecting the two, and there’s three yards of water and two of elevation between them and the railing

Moving silently in the dark, Catra takes a stand on the edge of the raft, an braces, folding her hands for a boost. Scorpia takes two steps of run-up, puts a boot in Catra’s hands, and with Catra’s newly enhanced strength, makes the distance and height necessary to land by vaulting the railing.

Next, the ensign takes a run-up, and jumps off Catra’s boost; but lacking the strength of a Scorpioni, he makes it almost far enough. As planned, Scorpia is there to catch him, and his soft shoes make only a light sound against the side of the yacht.

Catra makes the jump unaided.

The first leg of the operation is over; now begins the second part.

Chapter Text

There’s a knock on the door of Adora’s cabin. It repeats.

Adora is hung-over, and half asleep. She slinks out of bed, throwing a robe over her nightgown, and hobbles halfway over to the door, before remembering — Cane — and then opens the door.

It’s a servant, holding a letter.

“For Miss Adora,” he explains, and hands her the letter. She takes it. Letter opener. She opens it with the silver knife, while leaning on the jamb. Helpfully the man offers his lantern for her to read.

Adora struggles. The low light, and the cursive, are the two worst things. “I’m not good at reading, what does it say?”

“The Empress Mermista wishes to converse with you in private, at the aft deck. You can see her signature, there—” he indicates.

Adora doesn’t know anything about signatures.

Maybe she wants to judge my character, like the Queen?

Adora yawns. “Can’t you tell her to please wait until tomorrow?”

The man shakes his head. “She insists.”

“Let me get my boots,” Adora mutters.

Something strange is going on. She’ll get to the bottom of this; no doubt.

Stepping out of her cabin, onto the promenade deck, she notes two other figures there: a feliform Salinean soldier, and a Brightmoon royal guard.

Weirder still.

“Let’s go,” Adora says.

They reach the aft. The walkway to the pontoon platform is down. Don’t they take it up at night so the seals don’t climb up?

Adora looks around, and the Empress is nowhere to be found. She turns to look at the trio following her. “Where’s the Empress?”

“She will be but a moment,” the servant says.

His accent is strange — unlike both Brightmooners, and Salineans. More like… Her own.

She turns to walk over to the starboard side, looking down the other promenade. Nobody. Unease builds in her mind. The royal guard is wrong as well; she lacks the… Something’s off. Aren’t there only six here?

Adora turns, and casts a brief glance on the three odd-balls. The royal guard woman is missing. And. That feliform looks a lot like Catra.

It is Catra. Of course it is. The servant guy is a Horde soldier. Adora walks back to them. Keep up the pretense. “Where did the royal guard woman go?”

“She went away, Miss,” the servant says, looking nervously towards the pontoon raft. And that’s where their ship is.

Catra — because that can only be Catra — rolls her eyes.

“By the honor of Grayskull, starlight is mine to command.”

The light subsides, and She-Ra grimaces, goes limp, and falls over, face first.

“Took you long enough,” Catra mutters says.

“Sorry,” Scorpia mutters, out of breath. “Climbing is not my strong suit.”

“Scorpia, pick her up, get her to the sub, Ensign, keep watch starboard; I’ll take backboard.”

Scorpia bends down and picks She-Ra up in a fireman’s carry, with considerable strain. “Oof what does this girl eat?”

“She’s eight feet tall,” Catra says. “Get a move on!”

Scorpia jogs down the gangplank which wobbles perilously under their combined weight.

Catra waves the Ensign to follow. He does at a run.

Catra goes and starts hoisting up the gangplank.

“There was a light.”

“A light? You’ve been drinking again?”

“Hey, it might be a fire.”

Catra takes that as her notice to leg it. She vaults the guardrail, and grabs her distraction, lying on the pontoon bridge: an fat incendiary grenade. She pulls the priming string, and throws the canister onto the aft deck.

She hops onto the sub, where Scorpia is struggling to get She-Ra into the sub.

“Go!” Catra hisses, and slaps the conning tower twice. The helmsman kicks the ship to full power ahead.

“Catra, she doesn’t fit!” Scorpia says panicked. The hatch is quite literally smaller than She-Ra’s hips

The grenade explodes behind them, dousing the aft deck in gelled gasoline and igniting it with pellets of white phosphorous.

“Fire!” someone yells. Not seconds later the ship bell rings.

Catra grabs hold of She-Ra and pulls the limp princess out of the hatch, and drops her on the deck. “Black blanket and bungee ropes! Now!”

The Ensign pops up with the already unfolded black blanket, and two bungee ropes with hooked ends. Catra grabs it, and spreads it over She-Ra. Scorpia jumps inside, and Catra secures their quarry with the two bungees.

They speed away in the night, unseen.

Glimmer is woken by the fire bell, and jumps out of bed, heart immediately racing.

She tears open her cabin door, just in time to see a seaman with no shirt on rush past. Glimmer leans out in time for two more sailors to almost run into her on the narrow promenade deck.

“Where’s the fire?!” She yells.

“Aft deck!” one of them yells back to her.

Glimmer bends down to girdle her loins, and then runs after them. A few steps from the aft deck, the shirtless man has stopped holding out his arm. “Fill the buckets; we can’t get past here!” he bellows.

The fire is fierce and smoky, burning in puddles on the ground. That’s not wood burning; that’s oil.

“Don’t pour water on it!” Glimmer yells. “That’s burning oil!”

She leans over the guard rail, gets a clear view of the pontoon raft, and blinks there.

The fire is covering the entire aft deck. At this rate, the super-structure will catch fire, and the damage will be massive; perhaps even total.

“Everybody stand back!” she yells with all the volume her voice can muster.

Glimmer kneels down by the edge of the raft and sticks a hand in the cold sea, holding on between the planks with the other.

“Stand back!” she yells again.

Then she reaches out with her power, engulfing a huge volume of water below the raft and blinks it directly above the fire.

The raft descends a full foot, and the water slams in against it, flooding over it and around Glimmer, who almost loses hold. The raft itself creaks and cracks, protesting the rough handling.

Above, the mass of water falls, flooding the aft entirely. Far too much water, far too quickly to cause oil explosions. A wave of it runs up the promenades, and the cascade out through the railing in all directions is again, almost enough to throw Glimmer into the sea.

But it works. Enough water always works.

Glimmer blinks onto the aft deck, drenched from head to toe, teeth clattering.

There’s a moment of silence.

“Fire’s out!” someone yells. “Princess Glimmer extinguished it!”

Another seaman chimes in. “A hurrah for Princess Glimmer!”

The whole crowd of seamen, who just moments ago dreaded a long hard night of fighting a losing battle against the flames, erupt in cheers.

A living wave rises out of the sea on the starboard side, and splashes onto the deck, neatly depositing Mermista in an evening-robe. The water runs off her form like droplets of mercury. She waves a hand at Glimmer, and the same effect dries her, nightgown and all, but does nothing for the cold.

“Good work,” Mermista says. “Although next time, you are allowed to leave the fire-fighting to me.”

Sea Hawk comes running over the top deck, wearing only pants and boots. “Oi!” he yells. “Double the fire-watch! Everyone not involved in cleaning goes back to sleep!” He muscles past some sailors, and descends the stairs.

“What happened to my ship?” Sea Hawk asks, sees Glimmer shivering and turns to the sailors: “Someone get the Princess a blanket!”

“There was a big fire,” Glimmer explains. “Sorry, Mermista; I didn’t think, I just acted. I’ve seen Horde firebombs before.”

“This was the Horde?” Mermista asks.

“Bastards,” Sea Hawk says. “Nobody sets my ship on fire!”

“Except yourself,” Mermista jabs.

“That was only once,” Sea Hawk counters. “And I became a Pirate King as a result! But this is no time for jest.” He gestures for Glimmer to continue.

“Yes,” Glimmer says. “Or at least it was one of their firebombs; I recognize the smell.”

Bow — fully dressed — comes jogging and throws Glimmer’s own cloak over her shoulders. “I thought you might need that after fighting fires,” he says. “You always end up drenched.”

“Good man,” Sea Haw notes.

“Well,” Mermista says. “I don’t know what the Horde was planning, but they just handed me causus belli.”

“Where’s Adora?” Bow asks. “Shouldn’t she have come running as well?”

“Catra, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep stinging her,” Scorpia complains, looking down through the hatch. “I’m running low on venom!”

“Can’t you make this go any faster?!” Catra says to the helmsman.

“Sorry, Ma’am, this is as fast as she’ll go. I’ve got no more ballast to throw.”

Catra briefly considers throwing the Ensign overboard, but decides against it. His weight would be negligible, compared to the hundred gallon tanks in the keel.

“But we’re here,” the helmsman says, pointing through the small window in the conning tower.

There on the horizon is the silhouette of the Amaranth.

They make it there, and Catra starts barking orders. She-Ra begins stirring again, and Scorpia stings her again. “That’s it, I’m out!”

They hoist the giant heroine aboard, and three men carry her to the brig, where Catra’s equipment is sitting.

Manacles, collar, girdle, and hobble, all from Shadow-Weaver’s lab, designed to counter the flow of Runestone energy, and contain someone with super-strength.

They lock She-Ra in, and Scorpia takes first watch, while Catra runs to the bridge to radio-in.

She grins. Got you now, Adora.

Adora comes to, and orients herself. She’s lying down on a hard bench, in the brig of a Horde warship. Her suit is cut away at the midriff, and her abdomen is bandaged; feels like several small stab-wounds.

She tries to sit, and in the process strains against her restraints. “Oh, Catra,” she mutters, “you idiot.”

Diamond saw.

Her diadem does nothing. She takes it off, and turns the silver thing over.

“I need a diamond saw.”

Still nothing. Okay, this is going to prove to be a problem.

“You can’t use your princess powers,” someone says.

Adora looks up and sees the large woman who was disguised as a royal guard. A scorpioni. She’s spinning a knife in her hands — large, strong hands in stylish black leather gloves — with a cocky smile on her face.

“Courtesy of the Sorcery Division, those restraints. They’ll hold against all your strength, too.”

She fumbles the knife and almost drops it. “Oop—” she catches it after fumbling twice “— hah, got it!” She points it at Adora. “And if you try anything, I’ll stab you with my sting, and then give you another dose of sedative. Are you aware we had to give you four times the standard dose to sedate you? I don’t know what you’re made of Princess.”

“My name is Adora; I used to be a Warrant Officer.”

“Yeah, I know. And you defected, and killed like, twenty-five of your own unit, and sent rebels to decimate an artillery battery. Fifty good men are dead because of you.”

Adora sputters. “Good men? Tank commanders are officers! They made light of distinction and proportionality both, and fabricated necessity from thin air. You’re an officer, you’ve read the Handbook of Honorable Engagement! You know this!”

“Hah, as if the rebellion is honorable. They deserved it,” Scorpia says. “And besides, Catra told me not to talk to you.”

“We’re talking right now,” Adora notes dryly.

Scorpia’s about to object, then frowns, and narrows her eyes.

“You’re not very bright, are you? How the hell did you make Naval Lieutenant?”

“Hey, I’m brave, and strong, and loyal, and I give great hugs!”

Great. My warden is an idiot, Adora thinks. While that might be a boon, it seems in this case that the Lieutenant is too focused on following directions.

Adora looks at the locks on her manacles. The key-way looks like a scribble in a particularly onerous cursive; no way to pick that with an improvised tool. Her diadem could probably make a key in a second.

“I need to go to the latrine,” Adora says.

“Catra said to say: feel free to piss yourself, traitor.”

So much for an easy way to gain some privacy.

“What’s your name?” Adora asks.

“Scorpia.”

There’s a phenomenon Adora has observed regarding her transformation intro She-Ra. Notably, while it is obvious that Adora and She-Ra are separate bodies; injuries to She-Ra don’t persist to Adora and vice-versa, what’s less obvious is that Adora’s stuff goes away somehow, and then comes back.

Her manacles came undone the first time she transformed. The question then is: where does She-Ra’s clothes go when she transforms?

Adora isn’t entirely sure if it is the same way, that She-Ra’s snazzy body-suit goes away; and then if the manacles would go the same way.

With the lieutenant there, she might have to act fast.

Adora takes a deep breath, and reverts to her normal form. There’s a shimmer of light, and then she’s back in her nightgown, robe, and slippers; free. Scorpia sees it, and to her credit reacts; lunging for the bars.

Gun.

And then there’s a silver pistol in Adora’s hand, pointed straight Scorpia; who’s stinger is halfway to reaching Adora. A Scorpioni’s tail telescopes to make the length deceptive.

“I don’t want to kill you Scorpia. I didn’t want to kill the men in those tanks, either. They gave me no choice. Stand back aside, hands up, and don’t alert the other guards unless you want me to kill them too. Now toss me the keys.”

“They’re down the hall. Along with six marines sitting on their carbines.”

Adora nods. A reasonable precaution.

“Then why don’t you go get them?” Adora says.

Scorpia tilts her head in confusion. “What?”

“Go. Get. The. Guards. Or. I. Will. Shoot. You.”

Scorpia goes wide-eyed, and then runs.

This gives Adora a brief window to leap to the door. Can I have a key for that lock? Or do I have to pick it? A silver key appears in her hand. She reaches through the bars and jams it in the lock, and lo — it turns.

Stepping out into the hallway, Adora turns towards where Scorpia ran — smoke grenade launcher — and brandishes a revolver-style grenade launcher in brushed silver, full of smoke canisters. She puts three of them down the hall with a satisfying ‘flump-flump-flump’, bouncing them off the walls to land at different distances.

She starts making it down the hallway in the other direction, and behind her hears someone yell alarm: “Fire!” “No, this is aritificial smoke! Breach! Battle stations!”

Now she’s in the belly of a metal ship full of marines who will probably shoot on sight, and they have home field advantage; Adora’s braving it not knowing what’s around the next corner.

Her eyes fall on a sign on the wall.

In case of fire:

Below it is a map, showing which bulkhead to head to to get to the stairs to the aft deck.

Adora kicks off her slippers and sets into a run. Can I get some bullet-proof full-body armor?

Obligingly her tool forms a suit of a thick silvery substance that isn’t armor panels, engulfing her in an instant. Bolstered, she makes it halfway to the stairs before a squad of soldiers get in her way.

They raise their pistols, and the leader manages “Halt!” followed by two pistol shots that both hit like getting poked hard with a stick on Adora. Then she puts her armor-clad fist into his face, grabbing his gun with her other hand, and twisting it out of his grip, breaking his finger.

The next guy shoots her point blank in the head, which is uncomfortable. She shoots him in the knee in retaliation, before pointing the stolen pistol at the third guy, who backs up, hands raised, dropping his gun.

Adora runs on, reaching the stairs and climbing them into the cold night air. There’s commotion midship, and she ducks behind a mounted machine gun.

“Secure the ship, close the hatches, make sure she’s not above deck and keep her there.”

Adora huddles down. Give me a smoke launcher that can cover the entire deck. Rather than a hand-held device, it’s more of a small mortar, already aimed.

There’s a crackle over the ship intercom: “Captain Octavia here; the prisoner is to be considered an excessive threat. Track the target and avoid engagement.”

She holds her ears and kicks the trigger, and with a resounding ‘pop’ the payload sails up into the sky the ship, and at the apex of its arc breaks up into two-dozen smoke grenades, that rain onto the deck and into the surrounding waters.

As the smoke beings enveloping the ship, Adora darts to a different cover, and hunkers between a pair of crates.

Without She-Ra, taking on a whole ship is hopeless. All they have to do is get in one lucky shot. Her best bet is to make a break for it, but she will have to force them to retreat first.

What Adora knows of Mermista is that she can cut ships in half; the mere threat of her showing up will be enough to drive them off. However, a corvette is fast, and if she were to jump overboard, the could just fish her out of the waves with enough time left to make a safe getaway.

If only I could see through this smoke— is all Adora manages before a pair of bulky spectacles appear on her face, and a black-and-white smoke-free image is presented to her. Oh.

Adora looks towards the aft end of the ship, just two dozen yards away. Below that is the rudder. A big bomb on a chain, perhaps? She looks towards the stern, and sees the bridge. Or a rocket launcher.

Rocket launcher, high-ex payload.

She levels the tube towards the left side of the bridge, using the bulky reticle with a smoke-penetrating vision device as well, and checks behind that the back blast isn’t going to be stopped by a solid surface, then lets loose. The rocket flies straight and true, and the left side of the bridge takes a major hit. Not enough to disable anything vital, but it shatters all the glass.

“It came from starboard aft, canvas that area!” someone yells.

Having revealed herself, she dismisses the rocket launcher in favor of the goggles, and darts to another cover; this time directly against the aft railing. Bomb on a chain, long enough to reach the rudder from here, small enough charge that it won’t kill me. Receiving a fat explosive charge tethered to a chain, Adora lobs it aft with all her might, and it sails over the rail. She grabs hold of the chain with both hands and leans into resisting the jerk that comes as the chain goes taut.

She fumbles with the detonation button, but gets it on her second try. There’s a resounding boom, with vibrations felt in the deck itself, and a huge column of water rises into the air.

And now, the coup-de-grace, Adora thinks. Mortar-launched flare. A two-inch vertical tube manifests, and Adora puts her foot on the trigger.

“Hey Adora.”

Chapter Text

Catra is sitting on the aft railing, not two feet from Adora.

Adora is split for a fraction of a second, between stepping down on the trigger and launching the mortar flare, and creating a weapon witch which to shoot Catra.

That split second indecision is all Catra needs to punch her in the stomach, with all the force of a lunging leap off the railing behind it.

Adora lands in a heap, retching.

“You have really done a number on this ship, you know,” Catra says, striding over to pick Adora up by the collar, and slamming her against the wall of the aft house, one-handed.

“Fuck you, Catra,” Adora sputters.

Catra punches her in the face. Warm liquid starts flowing from Adora’s nose.

“Oh. Sorry. Did I break your nose there? I was hoping to avoid that.” Catra runs a gloved hand — a very anatomically human hand — over Adora’s cheek. “Such a pretty face, I’d hate to ruin it, you know?”

Knife. Adora swipes at Catra’s abdomen, or at least intends to. Lightning-quick, Catra dodges away, and her hand closes around Adora’s wrist to hammer her hand into the wall, causing her to drop the weapon.

“What’s the matter, can’t She-Ra come out to play?”

Varmint-caliber palmable derringer. In Adora’s other hand, a tiny gun forms, with her ring finger already on the trigger. She aims and fires. The tiny bullet embeds itself in Catra’s lower arm.

“Did— did you just shoot me?!”

Catra pulls Adora down and knees her in the stomach, causing Adora to vomit a puddle of wine and half-digested snacks. Dropping her, Catra inspects the wound; blood runs down her arm to her elbow.

“Fuck! Fuck! And with such a tiny wimpy caliber! Come on!” She removes her glove with her teeth, revealing her feliform hand; extends her claws, and nonchalantly digs out the small translucent, glowing bullet. It’s not even an inch deep.

She crouches over Adora, who is lying curled up in a puddle of her own vomit. She’s going to kill me now, isn’t she?

“Army Captain, do you require assistance?” a soldier yells. “We don’t have a visual!”

“No! I’m fine!” Catra yells back. “I have the situation well in hand. Stand by.”

“All right, Stand by!” the reply comes.

Catra grabs Adora’s wrist and hols up her arm, then calmly grabs around her forearm with her un-gloved hand, places her thumb claw’s tip against the bare flesh, and pushes.

Adora screams in pain, as Catra gouges out a small puncture wound.

“That’s for shooting me.”

Adora whispers something, in between her sobs. “What?” Catra says, bending down. “Speak up!”

“Starlight is mine to command.”

There’s a flash of light, and Catra is almost fast enough to leap away.

She-Ra, even manacled, collared, girdled, hobbled, and chained; all in enchanted bonds designed to curb the power of a princess, is still as strong as any six men put together. She gets a hold of Catra’s thigh with her hands — still bound together — and slams her on the ground; in the vomit puddle to add insult to injury. Catra’s head impacts the steel deck with an uncomfortable sound.

Adora rolls over and in the process gains the leverage to bodily toss Catra directly into the railing, hitting the hand guard with the small of her back at a bad angle. She-Ra having served her purpose, Adora reverts to her human form and summons that damn mortar-launced flare, kicking the trigger lever, and sends a gigantic ball of fire into the sky, visible for a dozen nautical miles around.

Then she takes a run-up and steps on a coil of rope for a boost, jumping over the railing and into the chilling sea below.

They are already miles from the Yacht, but it is virtually impossible to find anything, even with the Candilan quicklime searchlight; which costs a fortune to operate in Candilan-made water-gas and acid-gas.

“There,” Glimmer says, pointing at the horizon. A glowing white light, like a strange star in front of the clouds, appears in the sky.

“You think that’s Adora?” Mermista asks.

“I don’t know what else it would be,” Glimmer says.

Mermista gestures, and the waves below push their longboat in the direction of the flare. “Why would the Horde kidnap your friend?”

“Your majesty; Adora is the reincarnation of She-Ra, the Princess of Power,” Bow says. “And she’s a defecting Horde officer, too.”

Mermista takes a moment to process this. “Holy shit. I’m going to school those Horde scumbags.”

The red light in the sky grows closer, and higher overhead. They arrive, bathed in faint red light from above, at an empty patch of ocean.

Glimmer scans the waves, anxiously, with the orange searchlight.

“There!” This time it is Bow’s turn. He’s pointing at a little blinking white light in the distance. Glimmer turns her light on it, and the see Adora lying face-up in the water, her head resting on something reflective.

Mermista steers the boat there with a hand motion, and as they come closer it becomes apparent that Adora’s tethered to the flotation device she’s resting on.

“Oh goodness, she’s unconscious, Mermista, get me close!” Glimmer says.

Mermista brings the boat up beside Adora’s form in the water, and Glimmer reaches down to touch her. Rather than attempt to pull her aboard, she simply blinks Adora into the boat.

The harness securing Adora to the flotation device undoes itself.

Mermista moves to her side, and takes her temperature with a practiced hand. Adora is ice cold to the touch, but thankfully still breathing. “She’s been in the water too long; she’s gotten too cold.”

“What do we do?” Glimmer asks.

“Get her warm again,” Bow says. “Mermista do you have blankets? Glimmer, get her out of that wet robe.”

Mermista throws Bow a thick woollen blanket. It is filthy, smells like rotten seaweed, but it will serve.

Glimmer opens Adora’s robe, and sees that her nightgown is soaked through, and transparent. “Bow, she’s—”

“Yeah, take off your coat. We’re going to cuddle her back to warmth.”

“Uh—” Glimmer says.

“Glimmer,” he says, reaching over to take her hand. “Indecency is a small price to pay for survival.”

It’s an old ranger proverb, known for saving lives. Many a ranger with a groin injury has let himself be bandaged by a female colleague in its name. Many a pat-down by conducted cadets has successfully found weapons. And many a frost-bitten ranger lost in a blizzard, has been warmed back to life by close physical contact.

Mermista guides them home; Bow and Glimmer cuddle up to Adora under the disgusting blanket.

By the time they reach the Yacht, Adora is no longer shivering. They carry her aboard, and to her room. The royal surgeon on-board tends to Adora’s waterlogged puncture wound with vinegar, strong spirits, and distilled water. Even a small puncture like that could go septic if left untreated. He also sets her nose and splits it — which is made much easier by Adora’s unconsciousness.

Mermista brings the night’s events to court the next day. She has martial law declared by the end of the day, and a diplomatic delegation headed to the Hordelands with a formal declaration of war.

Glimmer and Mermista together sign a declaration of alliance in co-belligerence, to much applause, then sit model for painting to commemorate the occasion.

Adora sleeps through all of this, feverish. Bow stays by her side while Glimmer — burdened by guilt at having to be away — performs her duties.

They stay for another day in Salineas, on dry land, before heading back through the waygate.

In the week that follows, Adora stays in Castle Brightmoon living as a hermit. She stops walking with a cane, but has to contend with wearing the metal contraption of the nasal splint on her face. She talks little, eats less, and wakes screaming in the night.

Catra wakes in a bed in the ship infirmary. Her head throbs, her legs tingle, and her neck is immobilized. Lieutenant Scorpia is sitting next to her bed, resting her head on one hand, elbow on the armrest — Catra has slept like that, and it is not at all comfortable.

“How long was I out?” Catra says. It hurts to speak.

Scorpia wakes with a start. “Oh. Hey there. Sorry, I dozed off. What was that?”

“How long?” Catra repeats, quietly.

“A day.”

“And the ship?”

“The rudder took a beating; we can only turn ‘using the gearbox’ which I don’t know what that means, but that’s what the engineers say. We’ll need to dry-dock for repairs back at base. But we got away”

“Shit,” Catra mutters.

The infirmarist — Senior Corpsman Greg — comes in. A satyr, with most of his face obscured by a bushy grey beard. “Ah. The Captain’s savior is awake!”

In the heat of Adora’s escape, Catra saw the rocket launch, and reacted fast enough to pull Octavia away from the wing of the bridge that was hit. The head navigation officer and second helmsman were not so lucky.

“Yeah, go team,” Catra says weakly.

Greg comes up to her bed and begins an examination. First neurological: pupillary light reflex test, asking her to follow his finger with her eyes, responding to simple questions, pinching her to test pain response, testing her hearing, and picking out smells.

Then comes the worrying part: he moves to her legs and begins poking her toes. “Do you feel this?”

“Yeah.”

He takes hold of her tail. “This?”

Catra freezes. “… No.” Her tail isn’t swishing, and doesn’t move.

Greg takes out a needle and pokes her tail-tip. Nothing.

“I can’t even move it. What does that mean?”

“Do you feel any pain or discomfort in your lower extremities?”

“My legs tingle, like I’ve been sitting wrong.”

“Can you move your toes?”

Catra wiggles them.

“Hm. You have a spinal injury to the lumbar spine. Not a full break —” he goes through her journal, and takes out a set of film sheets. “This is an X-Ray photograph; it’s a recent innovation that allows creating photographs of the bones inside the body. This here is your spinal column —” he indicates “— that there is your pelvis. As you can see that hair-thin line there; on the fourth lumbar vertebrae; and see how it misaligns slightly with the others too?”

“Yeah.”

“That is the locus of your injury, a spinal dislocation. It seems to have reduced itself, although I am not sure how. That your legs are merely tingling gives hope that your condition will improve. The tail might be a loss.”

Catra lies back, staring at the ceiling.

“You have also hit your head quite hard. There is not much I can do, except pain relief.”

Catra waves him away.

“Sorry about your tail,” Scorpia mutters after a while.

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“Can I ask you something?” Scorpia says. “Just out of curiosity?”

“Can I stop you?” Catra replies.

“What’s with those tattoos?”

Visible under her fur, patterns adorn her skin. Those are the rune-magic diagrams that constitute her enhancements. Granting her greater speed, strength, resilience, and even flexibility and protection from injury. The spinal-reinforcement diagram and her enhanced flexibility — in addition to her naturally flexible spine — is likely what protected her from getting snapped in half when She-Ra threw her into the railing like a rag doll.

She was stupid. Incautious. And now she’ll have to come to Shadow Weaver on her knees, begging for another favor.

She switches mental tracks, ignoring the headache. Was it worth it? They failed to capture She-Ra, but a thorough retrospective might reveal limitations to her power set. The Runestone sealing restraints also worked as intended, but Adora was to be able to utilize She-Ra’s weapon-summoning ability as well, while the restraints — it makes good sense in retrospect actually.

It’s not like She-Ra wears or even could wear the clothes Adora wears. And vice-versa. If restraints are ‘clothes’ then it makes perfect sense that restraining She-Ra leaves Adora free to wreak havoc, though less brazenly than the almost eight-foot-tall tank of a woman.

Why was she stupid, though. In the moment she was so caught up in hurting Adora. Catra might be mean, but she was never a sadist.

There’s a knock on Adora’s door.

“Come in,” Adora says. She’s sitting in the window-sill, looking over the castle courtyard, idly rubbing the bandage on her arm wound.

The door doesn’t open. Glimmer blinks in, wearing her usual indigo knee-length dress, and knee-high white leather boots.

“All right, that’s it, you’re not going to sit here in your nightgown and mope anymore. We’re going on a Girls’ relaxation trip!”

She starts digging through Adora’s drawers, finding the tan pantsuit, and tossing it to Adora, then accessorizing it with a red neckerchief.

“Where?”

“To Mystacor. My aunt is the head honcho at the Hidden University, and they have hot springs, beautiful gardens, and the best medical sorcerers in all the land.”

“It’s not like I’m injured.” Today actually marked the first day of Adora walking without any sort of limp.

“Yeah, but your nose might grow back crooked. Can’t have that, can we?”

It’s not like there’s any arguing with Glimmer, and Bow is away on a mission to the southern Whispering Woods.

And so they go, by waygate. Normally this would require the Runestone wielder of Mystacor to authenticate, but Glimmer can — uniquely — bypass such paltry barriers. And when one’s Aunt is the rector of the magical university in which the gate is situated, it does confer some benefits.

And so they go. The Mystacor waygate is ornate, quite unlike the raw standing stones of Salineas, or the weathered stone arches in Brightmoon. It is fashioned from blue stone, cut precisely, inlaid with gold patterns and First-One’s writing: a phrase repeated over and over, which according to Adora’s shaky translation is roughly ‘Waygate, provided by the grace of Grayskull.’

They walk through ornate halls, decorated in murals and statues of every motif from great battles, to former masters of the university.

Castaspella is, as any aunt would be, delighted to see her niece, and curious, though not overly so, about Glimmer’s new friend.

They are sent to the medical wing, where a kind elderly woman sees Adora, and handily corrects her nose. No magic can remove injury, but healing can be gently encouraged.

Glimmer takes Adora to a walk of the gardens — which are indeed beautiful — and a gardener there plucks her a flower, which she puts behind Adora’s ear.

“It’s very beautiful here,” Adora says.

“Yeah,” Glimmer concurs. She is, however, not looking at the gardens.

They eat a light lunch, and head to the hot spring baths; with wine, of course. It’s not the first time they bathe together; but Glimmer suddenly feels more self-conscious about it. Adora, on the other hand, seems more at ease.

They slip under the warm cloud waters, and all these consideration go away in favor of pure relaxation, and good wine.

“So,” Glimmer says.

“So.”

“You haven’t talked about what happened, at all.”

Adora looks away.

Glimmer glides over to her, and takes her hand. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“No, no. It’s—” she takes a deep breath. “I was stupid. Incautious. I should have known something was wrong from the get-go.”

She recounts the tale of how Catra and her goons had dressed up, how the scorpioni had kept her paralyzed as She-Ra for the entire boat-ride on the semi-submersible craft — which she did in fact explain about to Sea Hawk, when asked how they got on the ship — and how she had been conscious the whole time.

She tells Glimmer about the restraints that sapped her power — which she has told both Mermista and Queen Angella about the existence of, as a matter of strategic importance. How she had to fight her way out as squishy little Adora.

She tells Glimmer about Catra. About her strength. About her malice. About how she escaped.

“I think I might have killed her,” Adora mutters.

Glimmer shakes her head. “No. Knowing a villain like her? She’ll be back.”

Adora looks down. Glimmer reaches out and lifts her chin, turning Adora’s head to look at her.

“Listen. Whatever that girl does? That’s her choice. You’re here with us, now. On the side of good. You’re here, with me.”

Glimmer leans in, and kisses Adora on the lips.

Adora sits stunned for a moment, then turns away. Then the turning away becomes a move away, and the move away becomes stepping out of the pool, and then she’s running for the changing rooms.

Well, way to screw that up, Glimmer thinks.

“It’s regrettable that you were injured, of course,” Shadow Weaver notes dryly. “But the damage however, was rather small, compared to the projections of a clash with a princess. Adequate work. I might even be able to justify the continued existence of your task force to Chancellor Hordak.”

Catra is a little unsteady on her feet due in part to the tingling of her legs, but more so due to her lack of a tail with which to balance.

She is, however, much calmer. Earlier in the day, she went back to see the enhancement specialist Shadow Weaver first referred her to, and by introducing her claws to his family jewels, she was able to get him to spill that one of the rune patterns indeed was intended to alter her behavior towards aggression and sadism, and that Shadow Weaver specifically told him to put it there.

He was more than happy to remove it as well.

She’s sitting in a wheel-chair, which is more or less purely for show. She lets a tear roll down her cheek — crying on command is such a useful skill. “I… I can’t do it anymore — how am I supposed to fight She-Ra if I can’t walk?”

Shadow Weaver looks at her, tilting her head.

“Please, you have to do something. You’re the only one I have left, mom,” she says with as much raw emotion as she can muster.

It’s the first time Catra has ever called Shadow Weaver that. From the duration of the pause before she answers, Catra knows she’s struck something there. Even though Shadow Weaver has never, ever, cared for her.

“Well…” Shadow Weaver says. “I’ll try to contact some people I know. I can’t make any promises.”

“How did it go?” Scorpia asks.

“Played her like a fiddle,” Catra says.

“Lunch?”

“Sure.”

Scorpia’s tail swings a little more than usual, as she wheels Catra through downtown, in search of a cafe.

Catra rubs the bandaged wound on her arm.

Chapter Text

“You’re going with Perfuma?!” Glimmer almost screams.

“She’s a friend! And she had no-one to go with; and she doesn’t know proper decorum, so I’m also teaching her that.”

“But we always go together to things like this! Who else am I supposed to bring?!”

Bow crosses his arms. “What about Adora; I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

“I can’t go with her!” Glimmer shrieks, blushing.

“Why not?!”

“Because we went to Mystacor, and I kissed her, and she ran away and didn’t speak to me all day, and it was super awkward, and then she requested a room in the city, rather than the palace! We haven’t spoken since. She hates me!”

Bow pauses. “Oh. Shit, do you want to talk about it.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Glimmer says in resignation. “I’m a terrible at romance. I thought I could help her get over that psycho ex of hers from the Horde, but I read it all wrong.”

“Have— have you actually talked to her?”

“No…”

Bow puts his hands on his hips. “You know what, you have to go with Adora now. You owe me a favor anyway, and it is for your own good — either you get with Adora, or you get this infatuation out of your system.”

Glimmer snickers. “As if you’re any better. I know how you fawn over Prince Sea Hawk.”

Bow frowns, blushing. “I admire him, okay? Besides, he is happily married. Adora is single… Ish.”

Adora feels better, these days. Winter has come over Brightmoon, and it’s significantly colder than in Brightmoon. She lives off an allowance from the Royal treasury, officially employed as a ‘strategical reserve asset,’ and today she is giving her first lecture to an assembly of military commanders. From memory, no less. There are no Horde military academy textbooks to be found in Brightmoon.

On the way through town on foot — would you believe there are no traffic regulations? People just walk wherever — she runs into an old acquaintance.

“Hey, it’s the Savior of Thaymor!” Nightshade says.

Adora stops. “Ranger Captain,” she greets.

“Please, I’m on extended leave. Have you met Bramblepelt?”

Bramblepelt is tall, muscular, and despite the soft features, very much a man. He’s brown-furred, blue-eyed, and striped, like Catra.

“Pleasure,” Bramblepelt says, shaking Adora’s hand.

“Yeah, you’re from Thaymor too, I remember,” Adora says.

“Well, Thaymor is no more — Princess Perfuma has seen to that. I’ll love to see the Horde’s faces when they get to that bit of forest.” Nightshade says. “Anyway, since we’re now enclaveless rangers, we decided to take leave and elope to Brightmoon.”

Nightshade hugs Bramblepelt’s arm tightly.

“Oh. Congratulations?” Adora says. Somehow merely conversing about romance is causing her discomfort.

“What are you up to?”

“I’m— I live here; in Brightmoon, I mean. I’m going to go give a lecture— Sorry.”

Nightshade grins. “Atta girl!” she calls after Adora, walking briskly away.

Soon enough, Adora arrives. It’s an open-air amphitheater, and the seating is filled with middle-aged men and women in fancy cloaks and hats. A large stone wall behind the stage serves as a blackboard; Adora’s brought her own chalk.

She takes the stage, and a deep breath, steadying her nerves. Come on, you’ve been in combat. Once. This is no different from giving orders. Though you’ve never held a command.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for— for coming. I’ll apologize in advance; this may meander a little, since I don’t have the reference texts with me. This is all from memory.

“I am Adora, former Warrant Officer of the Horde, educated in the finest military academies of the Fright Zone. Today, we are going to discuss the military philosophy that all Horde officers are educated in; the lens through which they view the theater of war.”

She takes a piece of chalk and draws an oval as big as she can on the wall. "For simplicity’s sake we will start with land war.

“There are nine aspects of warfare; three which are outside of our control, and six of which are the functions of warfighting.”

She writes in, at the top of the oval: ‘Ledership,’ at the 4 o’clock ‘Informasion,’ and at the 8 o’clock ‘Demografiks.’

“The three factors outside our control are the character of leadership, the information available on which we make decisions, and the support of the public. All of these must be managed with means outside military might: for instance through education —” she points at leadership “— espionage —” information “— and propaganda.”

There’s some murmuring and snickering.

“Did you never learn to spell, lass?” someone yells.

Adora looks directly at him. “Sir?”

“Captain Raymore, of her Majesty’s armed forces,” he responds. He is dressed in the indigo gala uniform of Brightmoon soldiers. “How are we supposed to take your word on any of this if you cannot even spell? Are you simple?”

Adora stares at him, her face betraying no emotion. “I’m not known for my spelling, no. I am known as the Savior of Thaymor. What city populations have you single-handedly saved from Horde capture and enslavement, Sir Raymore?”

It’s a meaningless power-play. Her heroism at the Battle of Thaymor has no bearing on her skills at teaching the doctrine of war. But it is a damn good brag.

“Does anyone else think that correct spelling — which children can learn — is more important than what I was taught in the Horde military academies?” She calls out. “No? Then we continue.”

Inside the big oval, she draws a smaller one, and in it writes ‘Mision Comand.’ “The first function of warfighting is mission command. Apart from the moment to moment of a direct engagement, every soldier must at some point be told what to do, where to go, and who to fight. Should command fail, every other function is impaired.”

Next she draws five boxes around Mission Command, and labels them ‘Movement & Manover,’ ‘Proteksion,’ ‘Inteligens,’ ‘Fires,’ ‘Sustainmend.’

“To be an effective for mission command, an army element must be free to move to more favorable positions on the battlefield —” movement & maneuver “— it must have a way to defend against enemy attack and thus maintain its combat power in terms of equipment and numbers —” protection “— it must have the necessary supplies and supply lines to effectively engage the enemy —” sustainment “— it must have the capability to locate the enemy and learn of their activities —” intelligence “— and it must have the capability to attack —” fires.

“One renders an enemy army element ineffective by removing any one, but preferably two of these elements. Any questions before we continue?”

Glimmer is waiting at the exit of the Auditorium. All in all, it went well.

“Hey,” Glimmer says.

“Hey,” Adora says.

“It was a nice lecture, some interesting subjects to think about.”

“Thanks.”

“Look,” Glimmer says. “I’m sorry. I was too forward. I know you haven’t been wanting to see me.”

“What?” Adora says. “No— I thought you didn’t want to see me?”

Glimmer sputters. “I was giving you space! And then you went and rented an apartment in the city, and I thought you couldn’t bear being in the castle, since I was there and—”

“I’m just used to a simpler life. It felt weird to be constantly served; doing chores gives you something to fill the time, you know?”

Glimmer slumps. “So. You’re not mad?”

“No, why would I be?”

“So why did you run away?”

Adora freezes. “I just— I didn’t expect it; didn’t know what to think, or even how to think about it. I— I still don’t really.” She takes a step forward and takes Glimmer’s hand. “Glimmer, you’ve been kind to me and you’ve saved my life. And I really do like you! But…”

“You’re hesitant to enter into something so soon after Catra?”

“After Catra?”

“Yeah, you were together, right, in the Horde?”

“What do you mean?”

Glimmer rubs her temple. A realization dawns on her. “Adora, have you ever been in love?”

“No?”

“Do you know what it is?”

“Uh—”

Glimmer throws her arms up. “Okay. You were on your way home?”

Adora nods, and Glimmer grabs her by the arm. In a puff of light, they are in front of the door to the apartment building Adora lives in. It is three tiny storeys tall, built from timer framing, with the brick limewashed white, and the wood tarred black.

“How do you know where I live?”

“I asked the accountant who pays your rent.”

Adora pauses. It’s actually a fairly reasonable explanation. “Do you want to come inside? I have tea.”

They ascend the stairs together, and Adora unlocks the door. The entryway is tiny and has a step up. “Shoes off,” Adora notes. Glimmer dutifully takes off her white boots.

There’s only one room. In one corner, the stove, next to a counter top with one corner full of neatly stacked plates and cups and a jar of cutlery. In the other corner of the room sits a bed made from rough timbers, with a mattress filled with hay. There’s a washbasin, and a chamber pot — thankfully lidded, a commode, and a chest. The floor is swept clean, and the dustbin is empty.

Adora lights a fire in the stove. She fills the kettle from a pail of water sets it over to boil.

Glimmer sits on the chest. “Is… Is this how people live?”

“In Brightmoon? Yeah,” Adora says, sitting down on the bed.

“Actually I came here to ask you about something. Do you want to go to the Runestone Royalty Gala with me?” Glimmer asks. “I don’t have a date.”

“Oh. Sorry, I’m going with the Queen, you mother.”

“You’re what?!”

“As She-Ra, I mean. We’ve discussed the plan for introducing She-Ra to the wider world, and it would probably be best to do it there.”

Glimmer disappears in a puff of light.

Adora is left wondering if she said something wrong.

Then Glimmer re-appears. “Sorry,” she says. “That was childish. You’re going to the ball with my mother. Okay, fine.” She ruffles her already messy, purple, supernaturally glittery hair. Adora wonders for a brief moment what it might be like to run her hands through that hair.

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to go with you. I just already accepted. It’s purely a diplomatic/political/presentation thing. I know there’s dancing, and it is custom to dance with whomever you attend the ball with, but the Queen assures me she hasn’t danced with anyone since your father.”

Glimmer inwardly breathes a sigh of relief.

“So,” Glimmer says.

“So,” Adora echoes.

“You don’t know what love is.”

Adora tilts her head. “No?”

Glimmer blushes, hiding her face. “Oh, you’re like an innocent little puppy!”

Adora giggles.

Glimmer steadies herself. “I’m going to tell you what I was once told. Love is like friendship, but more. At first, you want to spend time around someone, and it almost hurts when you aren’t. After a while like that, you settle into a deep, lasting affection.”

Adora thinks about this for a while. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“You feel this way about me.”

“Yeah, a little —” Glimmer blushes and brushes her hair behind her ear. “I think you’re pretty great.”

The kettle boils. Adora goes to add the tea. “You know, I have never given this much thought. In the Horde army, that kind of attachment is… I’d say frowned upon. It’s grounds for disciplinary action to have sex — if you caught — and you have to give written notice of maternity leave a two years in advance of when you intend to give birth.”

Glimmer counts backwards for a moment. “You have to give written notice over a year before you… What?”

“Pregnant women are not combat effective,” Adora plainly states.

Adora grabs two cups, and pours the tea. The stove is heating the room rapidly, and so she takes off her heavy coat, and the red scarf. Glimmer is a little more fascinated by Adora in shirtsleeves than what is appropriate.

Adora hands her the cup. It is piping hot and very strong.

Adora giggles.

“What?”

“No, it’s silly.”

“Please,” Glimmer says.

Adora pauses. “I just though, since you’re going to the Gala without a companion, and I’m not dancing with my companion — maybe we could dance?” Warmth spreads to her face. “That would be nice.”

“Adora, do you ever think about kissing people?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you ever think about kissing… Me?”

“Sometimes.”

Glimmer blinks from the chest, to the bed, landing next to Adora

“Do you want to kiss me right now?”

That, Adora does.

“What’s this?” Catra asks, picking up the heavy scroll.

“Oh, that’s an invitation to the triennial Runestone Royalty Gala. It’s like a big ball that rotates between the kingdoms, and the invite list is like, royalty and dignitaries and such. It’s mostly for the younger generation of the Runestone kingdoms and their satellite princedoms to mingle,” Scorpia says, rolling over on her side in the silk sheets, and putting an arm around Catra’s waist.

Catra’s undivided attention is on the text. “And why do you have an invite?”

“I’m a princess.”

“A princess?”

“Yeah; what, did you think I can afford to live in a mansion on an officer’s pay?j The Fright Zone; It wasn’t always the Hordelands. During the reign of my Grandfather, the Horde crash-landed into what is now the Broken Mountain, and my family handed over control of the whole country to Hordak, including our Runestone.”

“The Black Garnet.” There’s a lot of elements of that story that aren’t written anywhere Catra has read it.

“Yeah.”

Catra stands, leaving Scorpia hanging.

“Come back to bed, Wildcat,” she says in a sultry voice.

“I don’t cuddle. It says here you get to bring a plus-one?”

The Gala is held in the northernmost kingdom, affectionately called Snows, but formally something much longer in their own language, which is considered so difficult to learn, that most northerners don’t bother trying to teach it and instead just learn the Brightmoon-Salinean-Candilan trader dialects.

This year’s theme is, appropriately, ‘winter wonderland’ and despite Princess Frosta having conjured the whole ballroom structure from ice, whole cloth, it is comfortably warm inside owing to the Runestone magic bestowed by the Fractal Flake. To her family name, Princess Frosta has not only a Runestone but also the invention of the hot-cold engine, and the steam engine.

(At least they are the inventors of it outside of the Horde, who has a stranglehold on technological progress and are fiercely secretive with their technical innovations.)

The ballroom is lavishly decorated, and the buffets are extravagantly laden with foodstuffs from all the region: a dozen kinds of cheeses, frozen cream desserts, caramel of tree-sap, the smoked meats of a dozen different kinds of wild game, bread so rich in nuts every bit is crunchy, and so on. The booze too, is regional: strong ales, and wine from honey, and from berries.

Glimmer, not wanting the indignity of arriving without a date, has broken off from the Brightmoon procession, earlier in the afternoon; as soon as she could after their arrival by waygate early in the morning. She kindly asks the announcer not to announce her arrival, and simply blinks inside.

Her ballgown is styled after the dark blue gala uniform of her military rank as commandant, keeping the jacket but with a poofier skirt, accessorized with a silk scarf, knee length white boots decorated with a magical effect making them glitter, and of course, her formal tiara.

This draws some stares from the northern dignitaries, but Glimmer confidently heads to the podium where Frosta sits her throne, to introduce herself.

“Well met, cousin. I am Glimmer of Brightmoon.”

Frosta is at least three, perhaps four years, her junior. Angella has chided her about mentoring the young heir apparent if the opportunity presents itself. She is wearing an elaborate fur coat, and heavy boots, polished to a high shine. Her tiara is apparently made of ice.

Frosta bows her head. “And to you, cousin. I see you were not announced?”

Glimmer bends a little forward, and in a confidential tone, says: “I didn’t manage to get a date, didn’t want everyone to know. Yeah?”

Frosta too has leaned forward, and nods, comprehending. “I see, that… That would be embarrassing. Wanna know a secret?”

Glimmer steps closer.

“I don’t have a date either,” Frosta whispers.

Glimmer mock gasps. “You’re the host. You don’t have to have a guy yell that to everyone!” she whispers back.

They giggle conspiratorially.

“Now, by your leave, my gracious host,” Glimmer says, curtseying, “I will avail myself of the refreshments.”

Frosta gives a broad wave.

The first dignitaries begin arriving. Generals, admirals, archduchesses, and earls.

“Princess Perfuma of Plumeria in the Whispering Woods, accompanied by Leading Ranger Beauregard”

Glimmer winces at Bow’s full name. He hates it. But of course this formally impeded idiot of an announcer would dig it out.

Bow is wearing a coat in the dark blue-green of the ranger corps. His pants are poofy, and his polished boots knee-high; his waistcoat is pastel purple and his neckerchief an cravat are classic white. His hair is newly trimmed. Glimmer lets her gaze rest on her friend, until her takes his date by the hand and leads her down the stairs.

Perfuma is wearing living greenery. Her hair is braided with flowering vines, her skirt is the petals of an enormous flower, and her top its leaves. She’s barefoot, and while it aids in the ethereal look, her soles are dirty and calloused from a life on the earth. Bow says something, she laughs heartily, and for a moment Glimmer curses that woman and all her freckles.

Perfuma, with Bow, goes to introduce herself to the hostess; Bow spots Glimmer, and they head to her, by the buffet.

“Oh, you’re Princess Glimmer!” Perfuma says. “Bow has told me so much about you.”

“I’m sure he has,” Glimmer says, putting on her nice face. “Hello Bow.”

“Hello Princess,” Bow says.

Perfuma looks from Glimmer to Bow. “I’m sensing a lot of negativity between the two of you. Glimmer, are you by any chance jealous of me?”

Glimmer laughs, a bit forced. “Jealous? No. No-no. In fact, I have a dance partner for tonight. So I’m just peachy.”

Perfuma frowns.

“Who?” Bow asks.

“Oh, a-that would be Adora. We’re kinda together now.”

Bow lights up. “That’s great! See? I told you talking to her would work!”

Glimmer holds up a hand. Now the arrivals begin. And as her mother taught, Glimmer pays rapt attention to the VIPs.

“Queen Peftasteri of Candila, with King Asterion. Princesses Meteora and Cometa of Candila.”

Glimmer looks up to see the Star Sisters, and perhaps the most controversial marriage in recent years. Peftasteri, a human queen, marrying the king of the southern minotaurs. And not solely for political gain if the rumors are true. Meteora and Cometa are rumored to be on the hunt for husbands, to secure additional alliances.

“Princess Spinerella of Alwyn, together with Princess Netossa of Mystacor.”

The pair arrives, as always to such events, dressed somewhere on the border between formal evening wear and battle dress.

“Empress Mermista of Salineas, with Prince Consort Sea Hawk, Former Pirate King.”

Glimmer shakes her head. Of course that man would bully the announcer into adding that silly epithet. Mermista, now very apparently pregnant, supports herself on his arm, more so than usual.

“Prince Peekablue, together with Princess Sweet Bee.”

Prince Peekablue is a sea-elf of indeterminable bloodline, famed for the foresight his Runestone bestows him with; and for being the only Runestone Prince in living memory. His coat is fashioned from nothing less than peacock feathers. With his angular features and sly smile, Glimmer can’t help but imagine him as a blue fox masquerading as a man. His attention is almost solely on his wife, whom he adores with earnest fondness.

Princess Sweet Bee is human, and the most diabolical strategist of any military on Etheria, and earned that reputation before she married Peekablue, adding his considerable ability to her own. She is, like Perfuma, dressed in accordance with her ability: in a dress fashioned from the shimmering carapaces of colorful beetles, woven into spider-silk. Her long dark curls are full of living dragonflies, and a gigantic spider nestles in her cleavage in lieu of a pendant.

The arrivals cease — well, they continue, but with lesser nobles and dignitaries — and Glimmer tunes it out.

Now, there is only one left that matters. Peekablue and Sweet Bee introduce themselves to the hostess, and the party begins the mingling-phase. The orchestra starts playing some mood music.

“Queen Angella of Brightmoon, Leader of the Alliance, accompanied by She-Ra, Defender of Etheria.”

Chapter Text

The room falls silent, and the music falters.

Queen Angella’s tasteful ballgown and angelic beauty is completely overshadowed.

By her side stands Adora as She-Ra, astral and resplendent. Dressed in a matte-white ceremonial breastplate, bare arms, a short skirt, platinum-blond hair bound in an elaborate topknot, and heeled boots, and cresting on her brow, a silver diadem with a midnight-dark gem that seems as if a window to a basalt cave with glittering diamonds studding the walls.

They descend the stairs, Angella holding one hand on Adora’s shoulder in a most motherly way; and ascend the throne podium.

Adora bows deeply. “Princess Frosta, it is an honor to attend this Gala, and I must apologize if it inconveniences you that I have chosen this splendid venue to announce my return to this world.”

Frosta is out of her seat in a moment. “Please, She-Ra, you are among peers, there is no need to bow yourself before for me. Welcome, and thank you for coming.”

Queen Angella curtseys. “Might I make an announcement?” she asks quietly.

Frosta nods.

Angella turns to the crowd, and takes She-Ra’s hand. "Those of you who have heard the rumors, you have heard correctly. This year is a beneficent one, and I am proud to have hosted and to introduce to the world, the living legend.

“Many ages have passed since the last surviving records of She-Ra, and she is for many today but a myth. However, you can believe your eyes today. She-Ra is real, and she is an ally of the Free Kingdoms. If you have questions, as I am sure many of you have, feel free to approach myself or if you are not intimidated, She-Ra.”

This last comment begets a susurrance of conversation.

Angella once more curtseys to Frosta, and then takes to the floor with She-Ra.

Adora seeks out Glimmer, Bow, and Perfuma by the buffet.

“By the will of the trees!” Perfuma exclaims. “Lady She-Ra!”

Adora smiles, takes Perfuma’s hand and kisses it, bowing. “Princess Perfuma, I have heard much about you from Bow. And please, call me Adora. I am not a noble.”

Perfuma leans close. “Neither am I,” she stage whispers, “I’m just the wielder of the Heartblossom!”

Adora puts a finger to her lips and winks. Perfuma giggles.

“Hello Glimmer, Hello Bow,” Adora says.

“Hey you,” Glimmer says. “You’re smaller than usual?”

“Yeah, I figured it wasn’t so appropriate to come lumbering in here as an eight-foot colossus,” Adora says. She’s still six inches taller than usual.

“Are you going to be She-Ra the whole night?” Bow asks.

“No; I’m actually wearing a nice ballgown this getup, and I’m planning to revert once everybody stops staring at—” Adora says, and is interrupted by the announcer.

“Now announcing the arrival of:”

“But that’s supposed to be everybody!” Glimmer says, and they all turn to look at the entrance gates.

“Princess Scorpia of the Fright Zone, accompanied by Major Catra, of the Horde Land Forces.”

Everybody freezes.

In comes Scorpia dressed in the wine-dark naval gala uniform, the cropped jacket decked in medals across her breast, with an extra long skirt slit at one side almost to her hip.

Catra is wearing a backless dark-red dress, with a brown sash thrown playfully on her narrow hips, and her hair done up in a tight queue wrapped in red silk. Two big silver bracelets sit on her wrists, and below the hem of her skirt, she is wearing another matching pair of anklets and no shoes. And while Scorpia wearing her usual thick-fingered black gloves, Catra’s hands are bare, and her claws gold plated.

Glimmer, Bow, and Adora can only look on, stunned, as the pair go to introduce themselves to Frosta.

Catra spots Adora and waves, mouthing ‘Hey Adora.’ As her back turns, Adora gets a view of a grisly line of surgical scarring going up the sides of her spine, and between them, a bare-laid metal snake-like artificial spinal column, in a fascinating-yet-revolting display of cybernetic augmentation. And in the right angle under the light, Adora catches glimpse of the runic tattoos.

However, the shock and horror doesn’t stop there; indeed the unexpected chili pepper arrives just then:

“Princess Entrapta of Dryl, with Chancellor Hordak of the Hordelands.”

Everyone in the entire hall whips around to see.

Princess Entrapta has not been seen in years. It’s been a decade since Dryl was annexed into the Hordelands following the death of its then-rulers — the precipitating even that led to the dissolution of the previous Alliance — and even before that the Princess of Dryl was a hermit.

She is emphatically not in evening wear, but seems to be dressed entirely for comfort, in a voluminous poncho, over baggy, stained overalls. Her hair is separated into enormous pigtails that are animated and while this seems impossible, asking her to explain would result in a lengthy lecture explaining how she extruded these strands of magic polymer, how the cybernetic interface works, how she anchors it to her head, how she has reinforced her spine to support it, and a million other details that lets her use this ‘hair’ as essentially a number of extra limbs.

Chancellor Hordak is more formally dressed, in an unadorned gala uniform of the Horde army. He is, however, not even remotely of any of the known races. His head is topped in slick black hair, his skin is pale, his eyes are faceted and solidly red, his ears are pointed, his face is oddly angular, and his smile reveals fangs.

They descend the stairs, in whispered conversation, and cross the floor, with the crowd giving wide berth, ascend the podium to Princess Frosta.

“Hi Princess!” Entrapta says. “Thank you for the invitation! I brought my husband!”

Hordak whispers something to her, and she nods, then curtseys; and Hordak bows. “It is an honor to attend this ball,” he says in a smooth, deep voice.

They turn, then, to the crowd.

“For too long, I have eschewed these diplomatic gatherings,” Hordak says. “And for that, I apologize. Many of you may have heard rumors of my misdeeds and dark actions, and while I shall not readily dismiss them out of hand, know that many of them have come from my enemies. I look forward to an evening of enjoyment in the house of our most gracious hostess, Princess Frosta.”

“Very well said, dear,” Entrapta says.

Hordak and Entrapta take to the floor, and a dignitary approaches them, talking quickly and quietly.

Queen Angella, approaching them, manages to catch Hordak say “Did she now? How interesting.”

Glimmer, Adora, Perfuma, and Bow all move closer, to hear.

“Chancellor Hordak,” Angella says coolly, “Well met.”

Hordak turns to her. “And to you, Your Majesty.”

“No living person has ever seen you outside the Hordelands; why do you make an appearance this evening?”

Hordak smiles. “Why I am glad that you ask. The reason is in fact an absence, not a presence of circumstance. In the past, my health has quite simply prevented me from travel. In recent years, my wife and I have worked tirelessly at creating the means necessary for me to receive the treatment I was so badly in need of; and this year we celebrate my total recovery by allowing some time off for travel and events like this.”

Angella is taken slightly aback by this reply. “I suppose I should congratulate you on your good health, but seeing as we are enemies, I cannot do so genuinely.”

“I appreciate your candor, your Majesty; but might I offer a slight correction. I am not in fact neither the ruler of the Hordelands, nor the commander in chief of her armed forces. I am the Chancellor, and therefore I counsel the ministry who rules, and the commanders who wage war. The only organ I am in direct control over is the Scientific Divisions.”

“Then in my eyes you are still complicit; do the ministers and commanders not heed your advice?”

“Less often than you might think.”

“And does your ‘Scientific Division’ not produce the very arms that your soldiers use to kill my citizens?”

“That they do; but the very process of weapons development is but one facet of the technological process that allows every citizen of the Hordelands to enjoy gainful employment, plentiful and cheap base necessities, the lowest child mortality rates in the world, the opportunity to educate oneself regardless of wealth or class, unprecedented personal freedoms, and many, many other benefits. I, unlike others, do not live in a palace while my subjects worry if they have enough food for winter.”

Glimmer has never seen her mother so angry.

“I wish you an enjoyable night,” Angella says.

“And to you, your Majesty,” Hordak replies.

Adora spends a significant amount of time answering questions from curious party goers. Is she in fact a goddess? No, she is a young woman bestowed with a magical destiny. Did she in fact fight off a Horde invasion of the Whispering Woods? No, it was a mechanized raiding party, but still an impressive feat. Who was she before she became She-Ra? Just a common soldier. Would she like to dance? No, she already has a dance partner. Is she in fact betrothed to the Princess of Brightmoon? No, Brightmoon does not betrothe its heiresses.

Glimmer stays by her side, offering support and corrections whenever needed.

The music rises to a rhythmic dance tune, and the guests clear dance floor as pairs form, and the dance begins.

Adora, still She-Ra, and Glimmer take to the floor.

“You’re handling this very well,” Glimmer says.

“I have you by my side,” Adora says, and as the music flourishes, she spins and dips Glimmer, causing her to blush furiously.

“Don’t overdo it,” Glimmer chides.

“I wonder what Catra is planning,” Adora says. Across the hall, on the other side of the dance floor, Catra and Scorpia are dancing. “And why that Princess is.”

Glimmer catches a glimpse of them as well. “I don’t like it either, but this is neutral grounds. If they attempt anything, it’ll have dire diplomatic consequences. Same if we attempt to pre-empt them.”

“That’s stupid. It’s the Horde, they have designs on conquering all of the Free Kingdoms,” Adora says.

It’s not even the first time they’ve done so, Adora knows. The continent of Erulia alone, have been conquered in several cycles of conquest of neighboring nations, integration into the Hordelands, modernization of production in the conquered zones, and then projection of power from the new border.

Now that border lies on the other side of the Whispering Woods, and if they break through they aim to annex Mystacor, Alwyn, Erelandia, and finally Brightmoon and Elberon on the coast. If the Whispering Woods proves insurmountable, they will take the naval route and the order will merely be reversed — exactly what Salineas naval might and terrifying Empress is there to prevent.

What Adora doesn’t know is that pretty soon, a third alternative will present itself: the destruction of Salineas by air-raids, to negate the trump-card that is Empress Mermista’s famed ability snap ships clean in half.

The Alliance makes an emergency meeting right there, by the buffet table, after the first dance ends.

Queen Angella, Glimmer, She-Ra, Perfuma, Spinnerella, Netossa, and Mermista; as far as Runestone Wielders go, it’s more than half of the known world. There’s also Sea Hawk, Bow, one of the Admirals of Salineas’ navy, and the General of Brightmoon’s armies.

(The unusual concentration of Runestones on the Brightmoon Peninsula, is in fact due to the place having been the First-Ones’ planetary capital in ages past. Runestones are in theory mobile, but it requires great sorcery and has not been attempted since Mystacor launched itself into the skies, Runestone and all, some five-hundred years ago. All of this is of course irrelevant on the scale of realpolitik.)

“She-Ra,” Angella says, “you’re making your play now, rather than later. We need to bring one of the major players into the alliance tonight. Snows, Candila, or Apieria.”

“I just danced with Sweet Bee,” Perfuma chimes in. “She seems nice.”

“Yes, but she and Frosta has personal disagreements which would turn our host against us,” Adora says.

“I say we get the Star Sisters on our side,” Spinnerella says. “They represent the most significant logistical player in the Narrow Sea. If the Horde allies with them, we’re basically out of iron.” Netossa nods along with her wife.

“I’ve made some headway with Frosta,” Glimmer says. “I could work on that.”

“Good. Do that.” Angella says.

“Uh, which one?” Adora says.

“All of them. While they have people to answer to, the symbol of a Runestone princess is often enough to sway a nation; look at Salineas,” Angella explains, gesturing to Mermista and Sea Hawk.

“Bow? Keep an eye on Catra for me,” Adora says. “Time for my big reveal.”

“Will do,” Bow says.

“And the Fright Zone princess?” Netossa asks.

“She’s an idiot,” Adora says, “I’ve met her. But if you can spare the time, you’re welcome.”

Netossa nods, and Spinnerella claps her bottom. “Atta girl.”

She-Ra takes the stage, glass in hand, and gently taps it with a fork: pling-pling-pling.

“Excuse me, please, if I may have a moment of your time to address the latent tension in the room.”

And latent tension it is. The Hordelands have fielded a substantial number of dignitaries, and those not explicitly diplomats, have drifted to the left of the hall; while those of the Allies have drifted to the right.

In the center is left the Star Sister, Peekablue and Sweet Bee, and technically since the throne is in the center, Frosta.

“I have a confession to make. Many of you have asked about my identity, and I have been giving half-answers. The truth is…”

Adora reverts, and the flash of light reveals her true form: a young woman of middling height, slight but strong build, dirty-blonde hair in a ponytail and pompadour, wearing a plain ballgown in reds, with a Brightmoon-purple sash.

"I am just one woman. I was never a noble, or even of high birth. I was an orphan. And then I was a soldier. Because that is what happens to orphans in the Hordelands.

"There I was fed a steady diet of propaganda and half-truths about the greatness of the Horde, and the infallibility of the Chancellor. As a soldier, I was directed to take part in an artillery bombardment of a civilian settlement, which would have cost the lives of hundreds.

“Destiny would have it that I stumbled into the Whispering Woods and found this:” she takes off her diadem for show, "and the role I the fates have assigned me.

"No sooner than I had done so, I was captured by an honorable band of Rangers, who not only treated me with a respect I had been told I would never be shown, but also saved my life several times.

"I was led to a settlement named Thaymor, and was astonished to see that it was not in fact a heavily entrenched fortified Alliance base, but that it was a farming village with a wooden ranger fort.

"Then and there I decided to follow the very laws of decency and honor that all people know in their hearts, and defect from the horde, informing the resident ranger corps that their city was in immanent danger of attack, and allowing them time to evacuate the civilians.

"The battle that ensued was won by my hand, as She-Ra. Many good men on both sides lost their lives; but as soldiers and rangers they were far more prepared to lay down their lives than the children, elderly, and common farmers that would have died had it not been for me.

"This is my message yo all of you who do not know whom to trust; Queen Angella, or Chancellor Hordak. When — and from my education in the Horde military academies, I know it is a matter of when, not if — the Horde turns its campaign, hungry for conquest, on your lands, this is what they will do.

"They will take honorable soldiers like myself, and have them bloody their hands with the lives of your civilians. Those that are not killed will be captured and deported if defending their homes proves too onerous, and they will go to work in labor camps, producing the very weapons that will kill their countrymen, or clothes and food for the soldiers that will do the killing.

“And in their industry, they will destroy the hereditary homelands of your people to enrich their war machine and the populace of their heartland.”

Adora pauses for effect.

“For the honor of Grayskull, starlight is mine to command,” she says, and turns back into She-Ra.

“From where I stand; as the legendary defender of Etheria, I can safely say that the greatest threat to Etheria is the Horde. So if you have faith at all, join us in the Alliance. This is my plea to you,” she turns to Frosta, “to our gracious host.”

She bows. “Thank you for your time.”

The room erupts in conversations, and it continues until the second dance.

“Good work Adora,” Angella says.

“Thank you, your Majesty.”

Glimmer pecks a kiss on her cheek.

Spinnerella approaches them. “Oh, young love.”

“Pardon?” Adora asks.

“I remember when Netossa and myself were your age. You two promise to be good for each other, yes?”

Glimmer blushes furiously.

Adora merely smiles. “Of course.”

“Speaking of, the next dance is coming up, and my wife is off doing her ‘commando-thing’ as the fabled ‘Defender of Mystacor’ —” she giggles “— might I ask the Queen for this dance?”

Angella smiles. “Of course. But beware, it’s been a good few years since I danced.”

“Oh, don’t worry; I have a bum ankle. We can be terrible together.”

They laugh, and Angella takes Spinnerella’s hand.

“My mother is Princess Spinnerella’s god-mother,” Glimmer notes.

Then, another approaches.

“Hey Adora.”

Chancellor Hordak steps into the conversation circle where Catra is talking shop with a couple of Generals. The air is one of excitement, after She-Ra’s speech. While their diplomats are out there trying furiously to dissuade allegiances from forming, they are already beginning to consider the prospect of opening up additional fronts. Catra in particular, with her burgeoning expertise in countering the wild-card element of the Runestone Princesses is listened to with rapt attention.

“Gentlemen, might I have a word with the Major in private?” Hordak asks.

“Chancellor,” Catra says. “Of course.”

They step away, and Hordak leads her to a spot behind a pillar. Scorpia and Entrapta is waiting there. “I will give a speech, and you will enact your plan,” he says. “I know you have one, Major. Your dossier is impressive, and this opportunity is far too tantalizing. Yes?”

“You have me dead to rights, Chancellor,” Catra says. She looks at Scorpia, and nods. Scorpia nods back.

“Oh, by the way, the second dance is coming up. Shall we, Wildcat?”

“Find someone else to dance with, Scorpia,” Catra says and promptly leaves.

Scorpia looks after her as she leaves, hand partially outstretched, wanting to say something.

“Ah,” Hordak says. “I suppose if you are for want of a dance partner, I could offer myself. My wife never dances, you see. But I sense this is something deeper.”

Scorpia retracts her hand, making a fist. “Sure. Why not,” she mutters. She puts her hand on Hordak’s offered arm.

“Might I say, you look radiant, Princess. You remind me of your mothers.”

“You knew them?”

“I not only knew them, I knew them well. They were my allies in resolving some domestic political entanglements I was in at the time.”

Glimmer and Adora both freeze.

Catra stands there, smirking. “It was quite the speech,” she says. “I was almost moved to tears. Of laughter.”

Adora reverts to her normal self, and steps forward, hand outstretched.

“No She-Ra?”

“There’s eleven Runestone wielders in the room, Catra. Even you are not stupid enough to try something. I don’t need She-Ra to foil your plans.”

They take to the dance floor, and Glimmer is left behind alone. This is where Bow would offer his hand in a heartbeat, were he not out keeping an eye on things.

The music starts, and Adora and Catra fall into the steps which they have both practiced furiously in the last few days, just to catch up to their intended dance partners.

“I don’t know about you, but I am having a blast.”

“The only time you have a blast, is when you’re up to mischief,” Adora says.

“You know me too well. Although, I don’t know what you would accuse me of. This is neutral grounds; and the Chancellor is here. If I were to touch a hair on any of the Princesses, he would skin me before any of you had the chance.”

“Whatever it is you’re planning, it won’t work,” Adora replies.

This time, when the music swells, Catra spins Adora, and dips her. Adora can’t help but blush.

“Maybe it wont. But then again, maybe it already has.”

Pling-pling-pling.

Hordak clears his throat. "Good evening, ladies, gentlemen, distinguished guests.

"Earlier this evening, She-Ra, or should I say, former Warrant Officer Adora of the ninety-second battalion of the Horde land forces, leveled a series of rather scathing accusations towards the great nation I have come to call home.

"And for the most part, she is right. It is absolutely my design for the Horde to conquer the world. And the means through which the Horde is doing this are of course regrettable.

"Yes, we relocate the people we cannot protect, lest they be put in jeopardy by their homes becoming a battlefield more than once. Yes, our industry does pollute. Yes, we do deceive our soldiers — but I suspect there is not a military commander in this room who speaks the whole truth to their men.

"But this year we are waging war with better more precise weapons, quicker logistics, and better educated officers. This year, we produce our goods in cleaner, more efficient factories, and with more knowledge of how to conserve the natural environments we all depend on.

"It was the same yesteryear, and it will be the same next year. And once we have conquered the Brightmoon peninsula, we shall rest for a while, and integrate its people. We shall bring health, wealth, and liberty to its people, who now live under the yoke of its unjust rulership.

"A controversial statement, to speak to a room full of royalty. But here is what I know to be true: power derives from the consent of the governed. The ways to keep ones subjects in check are twin: the threat of violence, or hope of improvement. In the Horde, the ministry are elected by the citizens casting ballots. If the citizenship is displeased with its government they do not rise in revolution, they simply vote in a different government.

"What I offer you is this: surrender to the Horde, and you will keep your titles, and your palaces, and we shall work to turn your unjust advantage of power, into a just advantage of wealth. Your citizens will love you for it, as you will be the figurehead of a change for the better in each of their lives.

“Resist? And we will take your lands by force, and liberate your citizens from your tyranny the old fashioned way. Your choice.”

This time the room erupts in animated discussion.

“Have you seen Bow?” Glimmer asks.

“No?” Adora says.

“Hey,” Netossa says. “The big scorpioni princess gave me the slip.”

“Look,” Adora says, pointing to the entrance. There, Hordak and Entrapta are making their exit.

“Something is up,” Netossa says.

“For the honor of Grayskull, starlight is mine to command,” Adora says.

Chapter Text

As soon as Catra knew the venue and date, she began working on compromising security. This involved sending her operatives — of which she now had a substantial number — to the Kingdom of Snows, to determine who in the royal guard could be compromised, either by threats, bribery, or both.

She also set her crack team of tailors and seamstresses to duplicating uniforms of both servants and security. After the admittedly incredibly successful operation on the Salinean royal yacht, establishing this was a given.

She was barely out of surgical rehab, and already pulling all-nighters; a few of them with Scorpia and a dance instructor.

Shadow Weaver’s department had refined their way of harnessing the power signature of the Black Garnet to impede the flow of energy from Runestones, enabling it to fit in smaller packages, and even be projected over an area. Catra drew up designs for the necessary devices in one caffeine-fueled haze, to give the machinists and enchanters as much time as possible to work on it.

She drilled dozens of scenarios with Scorpia and the rest of the team — among which were Rogelio, Kyle, and Lonnie. All recruitment to Catra’s special operations force had come from an aptitude test Catra had written herself three weeks prior. Commander Cobalt had thought to apply it to Catra’s old unit, and sent recommendations accordingly.

Catra was, by all accounts, a perfectionist, expecting only the best from her people, but at the same time the work was absolutely exhilarating — none of the usual sitting around on one’s hands waiting for orders. Catra expected initiative, guile, and dedication.

(Lonnie wasn’t entirely sure why Adora had ever been in charge of anything, considering Catra’s operation.)

The only sure thing is that no plan survives contact with the enemy. Catra is sitting in the plane — brand new model, built for long-haul passenger flights — next to Scorpia, and surprisingly Chancellor Hordak and the very cyberneticist who performed her spinal replacement; and she does not have a plan with her. She has a hundred little fragments in place that can be assembled into the path to victory, as the circumstances change.

Catra slips away, and Bow follows her. She heads up the side stairs to the balconies, and from there to the roof. Suspicious.

Catra goes to the edge of the roof, to look out at the snowy landscape by the edge, leaning against the balustrade. Bow takes to standing off to the side. He’s not hiding that he’s following Catra, because of course she’d know he’s doing it. Weapons aren’t allowed, but of course there are ways to smuggle a good karambit past any security. For example under a second fake sole in your boot. Bow of course has two such with him right at this moment, and he even had the wherewithal to slip away to the restroom to move them to his ankle holsters.

Wolfclaw taught him that, and how to knife-fight. “One day, boy, ye’re going to have ta sneak weapons somewhere, so this is what ye’ll do.”

What is she doing up here? Bow wonders. He’s not much of a strategist, but he does have the cunning of a true ranger. The roof is a good spot for a clandestine meeting at the moment, seeing as everyone is downstairs listening to the Chancellor speak.

Perhaps she is waiting for someone to arrive and slip her an item of contraband? No, too convoluted, and there’s guards surrounding the building on all sides. You would have to come in by air which seems impossible but then Adora has impressed the importance on not underestimating the technological progress of the Horde.

Catra turns away from the view, and walks directly up to Bow, and it is then he realises his mistake.

The only thing Catra came up here for is him.

He turns and sees the scorpioni princess ascend the stairs, cutting off his escape.

The building is made from ice. Conceivably he could jump it and use a karambit to slide to safety below.

He bends down, pretending to tie his bootlaces. And when he stands, he’s casually palming both knives.

“You’re that ranger, right?” Catra asks him. “The one the glitter girl hangs around?”

“And you’re Adora’s ex. Beaten out by glitter girl,” Bow counters.

“Well, I beat Adora,” a voice sounds behind him.

Bow turns to look at Scorpia. “I can see why; you’re almost as tall as She-Ra.”

“Okay, you talk good smack,” Catra snaps. “Drop the knives.”

“What knives?” Bow hooks his thumbs through the eyes and swivels both behind his hands. They have a matte finish, making the blades and handles difficult to see in the low light, and the rings are painted to his skin color. He shows her his empty palms. It’s a little magic trick.

A very strong hand grabs him by the collar. Scorpia reaches past him and grabs one of the knives. Bow tried his best to hide it from her as well, but she is viewing from just about the worst angle. “That knife,” she says.

“Okay, you got me,” Bow admits.

Catra reaches out and plucks the other one from his hand as well. So much for that plan. “I think I’m just going to scream for help now.”

“No you’re not.”

Bow wisely decides not to test the crazy cat lady’s evaluation of the situation.

Two guards come up the stairs. “Hey, a little help here?” Bow calls to them.

“Oh, those guys are my guys, actually,” Catra says.

Scorpia’s stinger embeds itself in his ass cheek, ruining his good pants, and that’s the last thing Bow remembers before waking up in chains on an airplane.

Catra saunters up to Cometa, the youngest of the Star Siblings, and according to Catra’s own observations this evening, the most likely to be into women.

“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

Meteora is purple-haired and lither of build than her sisters. She’s pretty, too. If only there wasn’t more important things to do.

“Oh, you’re forward. Miss?”

“Major Catra,” Catra says, curtseying. “I’m one of the ah-so-called Bad Girls.”

Cometa giggles. “It’s a very… Interesting party, don’t you think?”

“I think it could do with some more pranks. You know, I used to be friends with that dork She-Ra?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, we came up together in the military— say do you ever play pranks on people?”

“All the time.”

Catra has to constrain herself from not jubilantly pumping her fist. There’s to correctly reading people.

“I wanna prank She-Ra. Wanna help?”

“I shouldn’t.”

“And who’s gonna tell you off? Princess Glimmer’s mom?”

The prank is simple. After confirming that Cometa can indeed affect She-Ra’s tiara telekinetically, Catra receives a lock box from a compromised busboy, and they go to the balcony.

There, Cometa unceremoniously yanks the tiara off She-Ra, and directly into the lock box before She-Ra even yells “Hey!” Below.

Before Cometa realizes what she just became complicit in, Catra is already sprinting for the roof access with explosive speed, claws digging gouges in the ice floor.

There’s a puff of light, and Glimmer appears next to her. “What the fuck did you just do?!”

Cometa just points at Catra.

Glimmer leans over the railing and yells “Roof!” then disappears in another puff of light.

Two translucent, glowing tethers wrap themselves around the handrail, and in less than second, Netossa’s boot lands on the outside of it, her holding one tether in each hand. “You just helped a Horde operative steal She-Ra’s weapon,” she says while vaulting the balustrade, and runs after Catra.

A single hand grasps the lip of the balcony, and with a heave, Adora pulls herself up and over it, muscles bulging.

“Sorry,” Cometa mutters weakly, under the heroine’s glare, as she too vaults the balustrade and runs for the roof, effortlessly catching up to Netossa.

In the hall a faint and very deep rhythmic sound begins to make itself known.

Glimmer arrives on the roof, amidst an unexpected din. She looks above her for the source and sees a flying machine kept aloft by rotating wings descending towards the roof.

Because of that, she misses Scorpia pointing a curious device at her a dozen yards to her left, and turning it on.

Catra arrives up on the roof, and immediately throws the lock box to Scorpia, who almost fumbles the catch. Glimmer attempts to blink to catch it, but nothing happens.

Catra lunges at her at a dead spring, and she blinks to dodge only for the machine over by Scorpia to begin smoking. Catra reaches her, and in one smooth motion takes painful hold of her upper arm, and both removes her segmented silver collar piece and slaps it around Glimmer’s neck, where it attaches itself magnetically. Glimmer counters with a cross to Catra’s cheek, which does little to prevent Catra from doing anything.

One last time, Glimmer attempts to blink, this time feeling as if the collar constricts around her neck; Catra overpowers her and shoves her prone, and holding on to one wrist takes off a bracelet and places it on Glimmer’s.

Glimmer panics, clawing at the bracelet. She yells some expletive but it is lost to the noise.

The helicopter comes to a stop, hovering just off the edge of the roof, and Scorpia is already there with the lock box and the busted suppressor device. She jumps the gap, lands in the open door, and turns to catch.

Catra punches Glimmer in the stomach to get her to stop struggling, then bodily picks her up and with a running start, throws her across to Scorpia, then jumps herself. She slams her hand twice on the body of the vehicle, and Rogelio pulls away hard.

On the roof below, Netossa and She-Ra appear. Netossa sends her unbreakable magical lash at the helicopter, and that is when Catra realizes they might be in trouble.

The tether connects, wrapping itself around the tail of the aircraft; however, in a miraculous moment of luck, Scorpia tries the suppression projector, and it works one last time, dematerializing the tip of Netossa’s last-ditch attempt to stop them. Then it explodes with a puff of smoke and soot.

Even above the din of the helicopter blades, Catra hears the anguished cry of rage from below.

A minute later another figure appears in the distance; flying. Another princess — the windy one, according to Catra’s intelligence.

However by then, Kyle has had time to replace the busted power-regulator of the projector, and Catra grabs the half-assembled thing from him, against wordless protests that the thing isn’t safe to use without it’s protective chassis, she points it at the princess and she drops from the sky.

Adora comes stomping down the stairs from the roof, Netossa on her heels with lighter steps but a no-less stern expression.

Cometa is standing virtually where they left her.

“Do you realise what you just did?!” Adora yells at her, fully bellowing with She-Ra’s mighty voice.

“I’m sorry,” Cometa squeaks.

“Now they’ve gotten away with my weapon and not only that, they captured my friend and my girlfriend too.”

“But I thought this was—” Cometa protests.

“Neutral grounds? After Hordak just declared war on everyone here? They couldn’t care less.”

Netossa grabs She-Ra by the shoulder. “Hey, Adora. Catra played that girl. Don’t be so hard on her.”

Instead, Adora turns to the floor below and singles out Frosta. “And you, that is some great security you have there. They just stood by and let Catra violate the neutral grounds.”

Below, it is apparent to everyone that Frosta is furious. “Oh yeah?” she yells, “and what am I supposed to do about that?”

“Oh I don’t know?! Find the people she compromised and have them executed for high treason? It’s your kingdom, you idiot.”

Frosta actually deflates somewhat, having acted more on instinct than reason.

“Okay, sweetheart, blame has been dealt. You need to calm down before you cause a diplomatic incident,” Netossa says.

Adora relinquishes her grasp on She-Ra. Then the tears come.

They end the ball right then and there. This means war, if anything ever did: the Horde kidnapped the heiress apparent of a sovereign state under the flag of truce. There will be no mercy.

Netossa, Spinnerella, and Perfuma console a crying Adora in one corner; Meteora, her sister in another.

“Angella,” Peftasteri says, stepping forward to her. “I am so sorry for all that has happened, and I cannot imagine the horror you’re going through. Know this: Candila will enter into co-belligerence with Brightmoon as soon as mobilizing our armed forces will allow.”

There’s a round of applause.

“I too sympathize with your plight,” Sweet Bee speaks up. “I shall muster my nation to war as well, and I throw my lot in with your Alliance.”

There’s another, bigger round of applause.

Frosta comes down from her throne podium, and stops before Angella. She drops to one knee. “Your daughter called me cousin, earlier tonight. I shall avenge her capture as one does family. This I vow, with the support of the Northern Realms behind me.”

And this time, the whole room erupts into whistling and whooping.

This is what Evil begets, Angella thinks. The entire world in allegiance.

“Thank you ever so much for your noble support,” she says.

The Brightmoon procession passes back through the portal to its home, the next day.

Adora ends up in her old room in the castle, which now feels empty without Glimmer and Bow. She failed. Catra won. She’s cut off from her weapon.

“Hello,” Angella says.

Adora looks up from her hands, sitting on the floor. “Your Majesty.”

“Please. Call me Angella.” She comes in and takes a seat in front of Adora. “Don’t blame yourself for this,” she says.

“But I—” Adora protests.

Angella holds up a finger. “Hush. This was an act of malice, committed by our enemy. That we failed to stop it is not our fault. We must simply learn from it.”

Adora looks down.

“So, what have you learned?”

“I don’t know,” Adora mutters. “Maybe nothing.”

Angella shrugs. “Sometimes there is nothing to learn from a bad situation, but that is itself a form of learning. Then there’s the next question: what are you going to do about it?”

Adora thinks on that. “What am I going to do about it?”

“Yes. You see, I am going to coordinate the single largest joint military action ever undertaken; which will be daunting.”

Adora nods. “Then— then I am going to get everyone together and go rescue Glimmer.”

“Good girl.”

Fortunately, she can still transform into She-Ra. More fortunately she can still access the costume-changing utility if she meditates deeply enough, so she can change out of that awful ceremonial breastplate. She also changes herself back to seven feet and a handful of inches.

By some coincidence, or perhaps divine perseverance, Adora manages to get everyone in the same room together, less than two days later.

Perfuma, Spinnerella, and Netossa as a matter of course, and then Mermista, Frosta, and surprisingly Cometa, and Peekablue of all people.

“I’ve called you here today to discuss the matter of saving Glimmer, Bow, and recovering my tiara.”

Cometa’s hand shoots up.

“Yes?”

“How is your tiara a weapon?”

“It is not a weapon,” Adora explains, “it is every weapon. By my thoughts alone, it becomes. Guns, blades, even keys to open locks. Without it I am just tall, strong, fast, and have great hair.” Adora runs a hand through She-Ra’s platinum locks.

Cometa blushes.

“All right. The good news: I know almost certainly where they are, and I took a brief sortie to the Hordelands yesterday to raid a map room.”

“How?” Perfuma asks.

“By wearing my old uniform, a disguise spell to change my hair color, and pretending like I belonged. Nobody even questioned my walking around, so long as I avoided checkpoints which is easy. A trick Catra inadvertently taught me,” Adora explains. She lays out the maps on the large round tables.

One is of the inner-city Capital in the Fright Zone, others are of the coastal areas to the south of it.

“Whatever it is Catra used to disable Glimmer’s teleportation, it likely came from the Sorcery Division, and if they are keeping her anywhere for experimentation it will be at their main laboratories located in the city center.” She marks the spot on the street map.

“Bow is more troublesome. The might be keeping him there as well, to pressure Glimmer into cooperation, or they might be keeping him at any of a number of prisons—”

Peekablue leans forward. “No, they are definitely keeping him with her. I’d wager she is kept in the basement, while he is kept somewhere above, probably not even in a dedicated holding cell. Which is a good thing, it will simplify things tremendously.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. “And how do you know that?” Adora asks.

Peekablue leans back. “It’s what I do. I’m a seer. It’s not as flashy as plant monsters or infinite unbreakable magic string, I know.” He smiles confidently.

Adora frowns. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re right, it will simplify things immensely.”

“All right, so we know where they are,” Netossa chimes in. “Might I point out that they are in fact half a continent away, and beyond who know how many military perimeters, up to and including the entire strength of the Horde’s armies. Are we just supposed to somehow… Sneak past all of that?”

“That was the plan,” Adora says. “Although I was hoping to do it by sea.” She looks to Mermista.

“Oh, I see,” Netossa continues sardonically, “so rather than face the army, you would tussle with the second largest naval force in the world, with the most advanced warships to boot.”

“That’s the plan,” Adora says and looks to Mermista.

“Oh, I am not up for a lot of adventuring,” she says, and gestures to her pronounced belly.

“I wouldn’t suggest that. But you can drive a ship faster than wind and most engines. Especially if we pick the right ship. We could make the trip in days rather than weeks if Spinnerella also fills the sails,” Adora says. “The only problem will be the choice of ship, but we can workshop that later.”

“I must admit,” Spinnerella says, “that I still harbor the same concerns my wife raised. Even if we manage to land on one of these shores, how are we supposed to gain access to the city?”

“Actually I was hoping you could help with that,” Adora says. “Or someone could. We all saw the flying machine at the Gala, I hope. And I’ve known for some time about the development of a so called ‘air force’ to supplement and support the land army, and the navy.”

“So how is that going to help us?” Frosta says.

Adora smiles a knowing smile. “Frosta, who else has military capability in the air?”

“Spinnerella?” Frosta asks.

“Mystacor,” Netossa adds.

“But neither of them are going to travel across a continent and assault the Capital. Ergo, nobody will even know to look for an infiltration by air. And adding to that Capital is far from any theatre of war, and is a civilian city. There is hardly even a perimeter defence,” Adora says.

“I’m not very knowledgable about military matters, but this seems more doable by the minute,” Perfuma says.

“A viable alternative,” Adora continues, “is the sewer system. Capital has an extensive system of underground tunnels meant to carry waste and excess runoff. So long as we don’t arrive during a storm flood, there should be plenty of room. Though, I’ll admit the prospect of going through the sewers is revolting.”

Mermista gags.

“So, that leaves extraction. We’re going to need a way to get out again, and that will be difficult, because we will be without the element of surprise.”

“I know how we do that,” Peekablue says. “We use the waygate.” He reaches over and draws another mark on the city map, a few streets over from the Sorcery Division. “They’ve moved it away from the original location, but it is our best bet.”

“But the Red Garnet has no Runestone wielder,” Spinnerella objects. “How are we supposed to activate the waygate without it?”

“Ah, easy. She-Ra can stand in for any wielder. And since we have like, eight Runestone wielders with us when we leave, we can go anywhere in the world in very short order.”

“Oh.” Adora says. “Well, that settles that. Now, with an outline of a plan, let’s get to problem solving. We need transportation by sea, transportation by air, some way to make the sewers more palatable. The rest we can improvise along the way.”

Chapter Text

They take another three days to gather supplies and try to crack how they are going to solve the outstanding problem of transport.

Adora is very keen on finding as many avenues of defense against firearms as possible, to which Netossa, Spinnerella, Frosta, Cometa, and Perfuma have ready counters; Mermista has a partial defence, and Peekablue is adamant he knows how to avoid getting into a firefight in the first place.

This ironically leaves She-Ra as the most bullet-susceptible member of the team.

Frosta spends a day mulling over the problem of transport before approaching Mermista to do some trials.

They gather by a small pond in the palace gardens, for the demonstration.

“A few years ago, I visited a lumber mill in the thawing season, and I remember the had a big bin of sawdust, which had been wetted to prevent fires, but then had been left to freeze. What I noted then was that this mass of sawdust was solid, hard, and cold to the touch, like ice, but at a time where everything else was already melt water,” Frosta explains.

She lifts a burlap sack, and pours its content into the pond. Mermista makes a gesture, keeping coherent the slurry of sawdust, and shaping it with intent. Then Frosta snaps her fingers at Mermista’s cue, and the mass of sawdust turns instantly solid.

“This mixture of ice and sawdust has an interesting property,” Frosta explains. “In that it floats like much ice or wood, but that it is very slow to melt, and sturdy enough for construction of ships.”

Adora pays rapt attention.

“Further,” Frosta says. “Suppose we’re sailing along in our good sawdust ship, and a Horde naval patrol comes looking.” She snaps her fingers again, and against all physics, the little cube of sawdust-ice melts instantly. “I can simply melt it again. We’ll get wet, but we will evade detection, and once the danger passes…” Mermista forms the sawdust slurry up once more, and Frosta freezes it.

“Marvelous,” Adora says, and starts clapping. The others soon follow, and the two receive a little ovation.

Frosta and Mermista both take a bow.

Netossa goes to Mystacor for a spell, and returns with an old manuscript written by a fanciful polymath of some fame in academic circles, particularly for his insights on the construction of kites.

Together with her wife, she pours over it for hours, constructing mock-models out of staves of bamboo and her own tethers, nets, and weaves.

Together with Perfuma they construct a scale-model large enough to carry a person.

It’s another daring demonstration in the castle courtyard. The kite appears as if clad in translucent blue mist, instead of canvas.

“The basic principle of flight,” Netossa explains, “is that a wing has a profile that is conducive to flight; it is a common misconception that the flapping of a bird’s wings is necessary. Indeed, observation of the humble seagull gliding disproves this.”

She picks up the small demonstration model, and throws it into the air. Under its momentum it glides gracefully, and under the guidance of a tether in Netossa’s hand, it describes a languid circle around the courtyard.

Now, Spinnerella picks up a tether that holds the large kite. Netossa takes a seat in the rickety contraption, taking hold of tethers connected to the wings, and then the two take off: a blast of air from Spinnerella lifts the kite, and she takes to the skies herself, dragging along the flying machine behind her. They trace a broad figure-eight in the air, before coming back for a gentle landing.

“This designed will allow us to travel quickly over a great distance, and it can be constructed on-the-spot by myself and Perfuma working in concert.”

They receive another round of applause.

Perfuma spends a full day working on something, riding to and fro on a strange five-legged plant monster that looks like a nightmarish interpretation of a dog, and using the waygate — with She-Ra standing in for Queen Angella — to travel back to Plumeria for a short visit.

“I have something to show,” Perfuma says. “As you might recall, I wore a home-made dress to Frosta’s ball, and I’ve been experimenting with it since. In short, I think I’ve found a way to make it it much more palatable to wade through the muck in a sewer.”

She kicks off her boots and girds up her loins. She grabs a seed from her satchel, holding it between her palms, then bends down and lays on the ground a pair of strange slimy growths, before stepping on the two with her bare feet. Immediately, the off-colored plants begin engulfing her legs, becoming first a pair of boots, then trousers in one piece with that, crawling up her waist, and down her arms. She gently pushes the advancing plant matter downwards when it tries crawling up her neck.

In the end she has on a strange whole-body garment made of living plant, and the surface of it gradually darkens from a slimy green to yellow-brown.

“This is water tight, it is quite resilient, and I sat with my feet in a bucket of cow dung for about an hour, without the smell getting to my feet. To get it off you can cut it with a sharp knife so long as you cut from the inside. If you want to protect from drippings from above, I suggest a disposable hat to complete the outfit —” she produces a handful of rapidly growing grass, which weaves itself and then withers into a conical straw hat.

Perfuma gets a standing ovation from the others — nobody had looked forward to sewer-travel, but now it looks like it might not be so bad.

Cometa is the last to come with something to contribute. And it is a modest, personal thing.

“I have something for She-Ra,” she says, and produces a large circular bundle of cloth. Unwrapping it, she unveils a large, fully metal shield, round, and four feet in diameter.

“I know it is a paltry replacement for the weapon I lost you,” she says. “But this all I can conjure as solace.”

Adora steps forward, and admires the work. “Cometa this is wonderful; thank you so much.” She picks up the shield by the straps. It is a hefty thing; she will need She-Ra’s strength to wield it with ease. “What is it made of?”

“Steel,” she answers with pride. “The front is hardened, and the layer below is softer to absorb blows. The wooden core was made by Perfuma, to provide a stiff core. The grips are fine leather, reinforced with Netossa’s strongest tethers — permanent ones. I’ve inlaid it with runes to further strengthen it, and help it return to your hand.”

By Adora’s reckoning, it is probably bullet proof.

Adora gives Cometa a hug. “Don’t you want to hear about the other things I made too?” she squeaks.

“This is a pistol,” Adora says, holding it up. On her little excursion to steal maps, she also swiped a crate of standard-issue service pistols, and a crate of bullets. “Since we’re going up against people we know can nullify Runestone abilities, I thought we’d come in packing a little extra.”

The standard issue Horde army sidearm is an ugly piece of equipment, firing an underpowered cartridge so that the barrels can be bored in the same diameter as the rifles, and despite that sports only an eight-round magazine, making it little better than the revolvers it replaced. The hammer is fiddly to both cock and drop, and there is no double action trigger. They are cheap, ubiquitous, easy on the wrist, and just reliable enough to meet military requirements.

“Now, there’s a few things you need to know about firearms. The first and most important thing is this: firearms kill people. They are dangerous in ways that even a razor-sharp sword is not, and must be respected at all times.”

Adora walks them through the basic lessons: what a self-loading firearm is, what cartridges are, how to clear a pistol to make it safe, always assume a firearm is loaded especially if it isn’t, never keep your finger on the trigger unless you intend to shoot, never point the muzzle at something you don’t intend to kill or destroy.

Only after they have all sworn on their houses to uphold these rules, does she teach them to load and shoot, and arrange for what little target shooting their ammunition supply allows. Perfuma flatly refuses, but does agree to bring a machete instead.

They pack provisions, weapons, and navigational equipment in Perfuma’s waterproof containers.

“Hey, I’ve been thinking,” Frosta says. “If She-Ra can use any waygate… And we can activate our waygates from the other side… Why don’t we gate directly to the Fright Zone and then back?”

Everyone kind of stop what they’re doing and looks from Frosta to Adora. Everyone except Peekablue, of course.

Adora looks up from giving the pile of pistols a good field-strip and clean. “Good question, Frosta,” Adora says. "The problem is, that our point of egress becomes a known variable. We will have to go from the waygate in Capital, to Glimmer and Bow, and then back. This gives the enemy time to set up fortifications surrounding the waygate. It guarantees that we will have at least one tough fight on our hands.

“Alternatively if we decide to gate there and go back by other means, we run into the problem that we solved by using the waygate to escape in the first place.”

Frosta nods, satisfied with the explanation. “Okay.”

Adora continues cleaning guns, and everyone else ponders if they just witnessed something profound.

The last leg of their journey is waygating to the port of Alwyn, which lies further south than Brightmoon, cutting about a half day off their sea journey. Plumeria is technically closer to the Fright Zone, but impeded by being in the middle of the woods. Their packed equipment is given over to a beast of burden courtesy of Perfuma’s motile plant abominations.

Alwyn looks much the same as Brightmoon, to Adora; with a less opulent castle, and the Runestone sat in the town square; the Squallstone. A giant glass-like globe of placidly revolving tornado hovering above an obsidian pillar. The source of Spinnerella’s power.

They set sail on a deck of frozen sawdust under Mermista’s power, cruising at a level forty knots. Netossa weaves a kite sail, and Spinnerella fills it with wind for an extra eight knots of speed.

Standing at the stern looking into the wind is painful, and Adora is thankful Frosta reminded them to bring winter clothes. The ocean is always colder than land.

Adora and Cometa take turns scouting the open sea for signs of Horde vessels. Everyone else huddle up in shelter for the wind, sharing rations and what little conversation can be hand.

By the end of daylight, Adora goes to Mermista. “We need to change the design!” she yells.

“I agree,” Mermista yells back. “Let’s beach her, and Frosta and I will redesign it!”

They run the mass of sawdust and ice ashore and Frosta and Mermista go to work adding additional shelter, and lowering the profile of the craft and adding an extra head — one lavatory for a gent and seven ladies is not enough. By nightfall the second iteration takes to the sea and they anchor by one of Netossa’s tethers, in the shelter of a nasty stone reef.

It gets biting cold, but Frosta keeps them all toasty warm. They sleep in shifts, with three on watch at all times.

The second day has them dodge their first Horde vessel. The flotation device Perfuma has made for them to hide by renders them indistinguishable from a chunk of driftwood. The cold of the ocean is handily negated by Frosta, and the sawdust slurry is not even visible from a moderate distance.

The Horde frigate gets within half a quarter of their position, and notices nothing out of the ordinary.

Rebuilding the ship after slushing it at sea proves more difficult, but they manage. Getting dry is a simple matter with Mermista and Frosta on board; and Adora recognizes just how much synergy they have in the manipulation of water and temperature together.

Adora is quick to suggest they collaborate with Spinnerella to put a great big fog bank on their repertoire of deceptive strategies.

By the end of the second day, they do just that. Anchor by a hard-to access region of shore, and over the course of the first night watch taken by Spinnerella, Frosta, and Mermista, whip up a huge fog bank.

The third day opens with the night watch — Adora, Cometa, and Peekablue — sitting with bated breath and waiting for a littoral reconnaissance boat to pass within less than a hundred yards of their ship.

For the remainder of the day, until early dusk, they dodge the coast guard through the archipelagic coast line of the southern Fright Zone, under the cover of both fog banks and occasionally dissolving the ship and hiding in rocky crevices.

By dusk they reach their intended landing site, and take the ship ashore. Frosta melts the ship, and Mermista churns the sand bottom in the surf to mix in the sawdust, out of sight.

No turning back.

They take shelter in the pine forest immediately in-shore, and wait for nightfall.

Mermista in particular is beyond exhausted, and Spinnerella is not her best either. For fear of being noticed, they elect not to light a fire, but Frosta locates a mid-sized bounder of metamorphic rock, and heats it to a dull glow, for them to huddle about, and share their antepenultimate rations. Water is fortunately not scarce, seeing as both Mermista and Perfuma can desalinate sea water; although it means the others have to choose between slightly salty water, or slightly sweet plant sap, to slake their thirst.

When darkness falls, they lay out a fog bank, and Perfuma, Netossa, and Cometa get to work building a large kite flier out of speed-grown bamboo, Netossa’s weaving’s, and thin rods of hardened steel for reinforcements where needed.

Working by dark and in the fog is difficult, and it is almost midnight by the time they take flight. They unpack the rest of their equipment, equip themselves with what is necessary and discard what isn’t.

Spinnerella pushes the whole thing aloft in a mighty squall. She spent almost the whole final day in Brightmoon learning how to both levitate and propel a kite like this at the same time, from inside the gondola.

Peekablue takes the helm, and guides them through the darkness and faint moonlight.

Soon, the city resolves itself in the distance; a haze of light. They fly high enough for the streets to look like a spiderweb of glowing threads, and Peekablue smartly guides the kite down towards the city center.

He picks out the correct building even without asking Adora, and they land on the flat roof of the windowless monument to concrete, the Sorcery Division’s headquarters.

Here, Netossa dismisses the woven airfoils, Cometa extracts the steel, Perfuma conjures a monstrosity the size of a boar with a maw full of glistening teeth made of heartwood, and feeds it the bamboo.

And so, nine figures in dark clothing and a quadruped monster, begin preparing to storm the castle below them.

“All right.” Adora says quietly. “Is everybody ready?”

She gets a round of nods.

The manual roof access is a single door. There’s also a cargo elevator, which would be spectacularly unwise to brave.

She waves Cometa over. “There’s a mechanism here, see if you can unlock it without destroying it.”

Cometa puts her hand over the keyway, concentrates for a moment, and then there’s a quiet click.

“Good work,” Adora whispers. “Everyone, behind me.”

She opens the door, revealing a landing, and a staircase.

“Bow is somewhere on the middle floors,” Peekablue says. “Glimmer is in the basement.”

They file into the stairwell, and the door closes behind them. “For the honor of Grayskull, starlight is mine to command,” she says, and transforms into She-Ra, already dressed in dark clothing as well — actual gambeson, pants and boots, made by a mortal hands — and the shield slung on her back.

Using a small mirror on a stick, Netossa checks the hallway outside the stairwell on each floor; all of them seemingly empty. “It’s a low-occupancy building, according to code,” Adora says after the third floor being deserted gets the others jittery.

“And what does that mean?” Perfuma whispers.

“It means people aren’t intended to be here at night. In case of fire, and stuff,” Adora adds. “It’s good that it’s empty. Means things are the way they are supposed to be.”

They descend another few floors, and Peekablue perks up. “Bow is on this floor.”

The layout of the floors in the building is one of a central hallway describing a square circuit, off which the rooms are either towards the outside or towards the center. The elevator shaft and stairwell are towards the outside. In a building with actual windows, the outer offices would be prime floorspace, but without them, it is all just so-so.

Creeping into the empty hallway, they split, and Adora checks around one bend, while Netossa and the rest check the other. Nothing. Just straight empty hallways, painted white, and carpeted in synthetics. The overhead electrical lighting is uncomfortably bright, and neatly cared-for houseplants sit in the corners.

Adora joins up with the others, and they advance down to the next bend.

Here, they come upon something. Two men in unadorned uniforms, like a civilian imitation of military battledress, with handguns in holsters on their hips, sitting in office chairs, with a file cabinet between them, playing cards.

Adora taps Netossa on the shoulder, and signals her intent to circle around.

On quick, noiseless steps, Adora sneaks the long way around to the other side, and comes upon the two guards opposite her friends.

She draws her shield and steps out into their line of sight.

Immediately, the one facing her stands up, hand on his holster; the other is quick to join him. “Hey, this is a restricted area—”

He doesn’t get much further, as a pair of tethers wrap around their necks from behind, and yanks them both off their feet.

Adora and Netossa are upon them before they can regain their bearings, and in short order they are both bound and gagged. Adora searches both of them with methodical efficiency, finding nothing except their side-arms and a spare magazine. Same make and model as the ones Adora stole before they left, so she liberates them of both, because it’s faster to literally switch out your sidearm than reload it.

Satisfied, Adora waves Cometa over and points at the hefty lock on the door. She puts a hand on it, and a click sounds.

Adora turns the handle, opens the door, and there he is.

Bow.

It’s two thoughtless steps in, and then there is nothing in Adora’s world except hugging her friend. No, she’s not crying; she’s a soldier on a mission. It has been a week of frenzied activity and not a moment of sound sleep; this is the first relief she’s had.

But it isn’t over, and she lets the moment pass.

“Hey,” he says. “I knew you’d come.”

The room is a medical examination room, with an adjoining bathroom. The only furniture is the examination table which he’s been sleeping on. His clothes are standard-issue military fare, notably absent a belt and any footwear.

“Dear,” Spinnerella says, “could you get Bow some boots, a belt, and a jacket?”

“I could also use a weapon,” he says. “I don’t know exactly where they are keeping Glimmer, but she’s had a lot worse done to her than me.”

“What did they do to you?” Adora asks him. “And what did you tell them?”

“Just some beatings. They haven’t broken me; I haven’t told them anything.”

Adora pulls him into another hug.

“Here,” Perfuma says. She hands him a fine wooden bow, grown in one piece; along with a quiver of arrow shafts. “I don’t have any arrow-heads, so they might not be as effective.”

“Oh!” Cometa chimes in. She brushes past Perfuma and with an cupped hand scoops away a portion of the steel frame of the examination table, as if it was clay. With a flourish she produces two dozen razor-sharp bodkin-tips. “It’s not hardened, but I hope it’ll do.”

Perfuma coats each of the shafts in adhesive resin, and soon Bow is properly equipped.

“We’ve spent enough time here,” Peekablue chimes in. “Let’s go.”

They head back to the stairwell, leaving behind one guard in a state of undress, and both of them questioning their employment choices, their sanity, and whether or not their spouses are unfaithful; all behind the locked door of the examination room.

“Remind me never, ever to try to keep a secret from you,” Spinnerella notes to Peekablue as they leave.

Another two floors down, Peekablue holds them up. They are about to reach the lobby, where a big pair of glass doors make a sight-line with street level.

“Two at a time, on my cue,” he says. Then he starts sending them off, in between the passing traffic and pedestrians outside.

Frosta manages to stumble, but doesn’t lose any momentum. Mermista almost isn’t fast enough — stairs are starting to be a real pain for her, and tonight have had far too many for her taste.

They descend another level, into the basement. Peekablue stops them again. “When we continue on from here, they will know we’re in the building. From here it is a race against time before it turns really ugly.”

“Okay. We have two objectives. Glimmer and my weapon,” Adora says. “Where’s Glimmer?”

“She’s in the second sub-basement. There’s… Staff, perhaps security officers there. We’re going to meet resistance.”

“And my weapon?”

Peekablue frowns. “Director’s office, would be my guess.”

“They have a weapon that can negate Runestone abilities at a distance. If you must shoot anything, shoot those first. They have kept Glimmer alive so far —” she looks up at bow “— for purposes other and more than just her ransom…” Bow nods grimly. “So assume they will aim to capture, not kill. Try not to cause a massacre, follow Netossa and Peekablue’s lead.”

“What are you going to do?” Netossa asks.

“I’m going to… Uh—,” Adora says, trying her darnedest to come up with a good one-liner.

“You’re going to have a tête-à-tête with your adoptive mother, and let your fists do the talking?” Peekablue suggests.

“That,” Adora agrees.

Chapter Text

The second sub-basement is different, from the first sub-basement. The layout is larger, the ceiling is higher, the floors aren’t carpeted. It smells like a strange distilled spirit.

They are also, not alone, nor do they come unexpected. A faint ringing is sounding, and it seems a lot of things have been left behind in a hurry — doors are open, beverages are spilt.

They move ahead, Netossa, Cometa, Bow, Frosta, Peekablue, Spinnerella, Mermista, and Perfuma up the rear guard — the bulk of the plant monster providing improvised cover, should they be attacked from behind.

They make it halfway down the initial stretch of hallway, before encountering resistance.

Six soldiers in proper military uniforms, carrying carbines, turn the corner in the junction ahead and immediately take aim. “Freeze. Get on the ground, now!”

Cometa extends a hand, and their guns all tear themselves apart. Netossa flicks her wrists, and the five she has a clear shot on suddenly have problems breathing, as tether strands form literal chokers around their necks. The last one collapses on himself mid stride. “You missed one,” Frosta notes.

Netossa and Cometa, Bow and Spinnerella, Mermista and Frosta, each take a nearby door, while Perfuma conjures another hulking abomination to provide cover.

“We also can’t afford holdups,” Peekablue says. “I can already tell you that all of these rooms are empty.” He points to a sign on the wall. An evacuation plan. “These people don’t hide under their desks.”

“All right, then. Where to?” Netossa asks.

Peekablue looks at the junction. “More will come in a minute from where those guys came; all additional reinforcement will come from behind us. Our target, is ahead, and the safe-room and emergency exit is to the left. And I’m starting to get a migraine, so we need to wrap this up.”

They move together to the junction and Perfuma takes the initiative. She pats one of the two plant monsters on the… Head… Or whatever passes for one in its anatomy, and says “hurt,” while pointing in the direction of the guard station down the hall. The lumbering creature sets into a placid canter until it reaches the door, where someone inside fires a shot at it. It does not take kindly to being shot, and immediately rips through door and frame. There is a lot of panicked screaming, then a lot of pained screaming.

The creature emerges, returns to Perfuma, who points to the stairwell they came from. “Guard.”

“What about She-Ra?” Spinnerella asks.

“They know friend from foe,” Perfuma says. She’s already growing a third monster, this one smaller and more nimble, like an attack-lapdog made of vines, only with more legs and teeth.

There’s a distant rapport of automatic gunfire, which gives all of them a start. “All right, let’s go!” Peekablue says, and they file down the hall towards where Glimmer is kept.

They reach the wide door, which has a round glass window lined with wire mesh.

Bow pushes the door open, and there, lying unconscious in a hospital bed, lies Glimmer, looking worse for wear: pale, shivering. Bow is by her side immediately, taking her hand.

“She’s alive,” Peekablue says, coming in as well, while the others stand guard outside.

“We need to get her out of here,” Bow says. Peekablue comes to his side, and kicks the brake pedal on the bed, letting it roll freely. “I’ll do it. You’re better with that bow than I am with a gun anyway.”

Adora reaches the lowest level, and steps onto bare concrete.

The lighting is dimmer, and the utilities are laid bare into the ceiling; pipes and wires, and chains carrying magic power.

The square hallway plan above ground is gone, in favor of a single long hallway.

Adora knows exactly where to go.

Drawing one of her guns, she kicks the door, the sturdy lock giving way to her gargantuan strength with loud protest.

“Adora—” Shadow Weaver says.

She doesn’t get to utter another word, because Adora opens fire. Methodically laying into Shadow Weaver at the prescribed one shot per heartbeat, accepted as the most ammo-conserving covering fire still effective at suppressing the enemy.

Shadow Weaver has a bullet-deflecting ward, of course, but can’t actually get a word in edge-wise over the earsplitting noise of gunfire in the small office.

Adora meanwhile, advances with steady paces, around the desk, and just as the pistol slide locks open on an empty magazine, she simply tosses the useless gun over her shoulder and uses her free hand to grab Shadow Weaver by the neck and slam her into the wall.

“Hello, Shadow Weaver. You abducted my friends, and let them be treated with less than the dignity and respect a prisoner of war deserves. I’m here for my weapon, and I’m in a hurry.”

“It’s good to see you too, Adora. I was hoping—”

Adora lets go of Shadow Weaver’s throat, and grabs her wrist instead, putting it against the wall, and drawing back her shield, before bringing the edge of it down on Shadow Weaver’s hand. The blow pulverizes bone.

Shadow Weaver tenses, but doesn’t actually make any noise. Adora releases her wrist, and Shadow Weaver cradles her ruined hand.

“Where. Is. It?”

“In the safe.” Shadow Weaver points at a safe in the wall.

“Open it.”

She rises, slowly.

“Quickly.”

And gets moving. She dials the combination with her good hand, and the door swings open.

Adora calls the diadem to her, and it comes. Like a missing tooth returning to its gap, all is well and right now.

“Don’t ever, ever, hurt my friends again,” Adora says, towering over Shadow Weaver, who has slumped to the floor.

Coming up to the junction, She-Ra comes to meet them, cautiously passing between the two plant monsters.

Adora spots Glimmer and almost collapses in relief.

Peekablue stops and looks in the direction of the stairwell and elevator. “Perfuma, love, you need to start working on those sewer suits now. She-Ra, our rear if you would.”

“On it,” She-Ra says and conjures a machine gun with a fat water jacket and an enormous ammo box slung underneath. “Get moving!”

They hurry down the last hallway, passing a bend a half hundred yards down, and onto an unsettling scene. At the end of the hall, is a vault door, ajar, and behind it, an unassuming door at the dead end, marked clearly as emergency egress.

Bow is the first to put the pieces together, and runs to the vault, looking inside and turning away. “Shit!” he hisses.

“What is it?” Adora calls out.

Netossa joins Bow. “A massacre,” she calls out. “They’ve shot up the safe-room, where all the people were hiding. There’s a lot of dead here.”

“They’re going to frame us,” Adora answers. “Two birds: keep us from interrogating anyone, blame us for the killing.”

“So what do we do?” Perfuma asks.

“We catch the people responsible,” Bow says. “I have a pretty good idea of who it is and where they went.”

Cometa goes up to the vault door, and runs a hand over the front of it. A message etches itself in the thick steel:

This was not done by us. We came upon this scene of death, same as you. Condolences from the Free Kingdoms and the Alliance.

They spend precious minutes dressing up in Perfuma’s protection suits — and matching hats — and load Glimmer onto a plant monster.

In the distance, gunfire sounds. Then the roar of the guarding plant abominations by the stairwell, then silence.

“All right, we have to go now,” She-Ra calls out. “Peekablue, take us through the sewers.”

They open the emergency exit, and a pungent stench rolls out to meet them. Mermista throws up.

They file through one by one, and as the last one, She-Ra closes the door, leaving them in complete darkness. Frosta creates light by heating to incandescence a small piece of quicklime at the end of a stick of graphite — a tool she brought from home.

Cometa steps up to the heavy steel emergency exit door, and with a wave of her hands, deforms the door frame so the door cannot open.

“This way,” Peekablue says, leading them off the small platform, and into and against the trickling stream of water, shit, piss, and refuse.

They reach branching side-tunnel, and Bow stops, looking down it. In the distance, he sees a light being carried by someone. “Just a moment,” he says, and runs down the hall towards them. The last of him they see is that he takes a fistful of arrows and runs the tips through the water by his feet. Then he passes out of the radius of Frosta’s light.

Down the tunnel, the light disappears. There’s an echoing gunshot, followed by two succinct staccato sounds of arrows being loosened. There’s a man’s pleading voice, followed by another arrow, and a scream of pain. Then there is a scraping noise for some time, followed by splashing and shuffling, interspersed with the slow sobbing of the injured man.

A few seconds later, Bow re-emerges from the darkness.

“What was that?” She-Ra asks.

“Revenge,” Peekablue states.

“I’ve left a message,” Bow says and starts wading in the direction they were going before. “They’ll find them and hopefully make the connection with the safe-room.”

The others start walking as well, and Adora catches up to Bow. “Hey, are you okay?”

The sobs of pain fade away behind them.

“No… But that helped.” Bow takes a deep breath. “They experimented on Glimmer. And when she wouldn’t cooperate, those two two strongmen —” he gestures over his shoulder “— beat me while she watched until she did. Not a shred of compassion in those two; worst is one of them had a red beard and freckles. Looked like Captain Wolfclaw.”

“And the one you left alive?”

“The one I left to die of a shit-covered arrow in the gut, you mean. He gave the all the orders. He deserves worse.”

He grits his teeth and walks on, wading through the muck. And now they are dead. Maybe there is some justice in the world, after all.

“There is no access to the waygate building from the sewers,” Peekablue notes, and points them to an offshoot from the pipe they’ve been following. They arrive at a landing beside the small river of sewage, where a ladder leads up to a manhole cover. “But this is right outside the main entrance.”

“I’ll go first,” Adora says. “You guys figure out how to get us up quicker than us climbing a ladder one-at-a-time.”

She hops onto the ladder and ascends it two rungs at a time, reaching the manhole in short order.

Gently lifting it, she surveys the landscape. The street is empty, and there is an alarm siren going off somewhere in the city. The next street over, she sees an armored vehicle drive by. She lets the cover back down to rest and calls to the others. “The army is here, this might get ugly if we’re spotted.”

There’s a murmur below, as they quietly discuss their options.

Adora slides down, and joins the conversation.

“No, that might make the tunnel collapse,” Spinnerella cautions. “This is just brickwork holding up all the earth above us.”

“What might?” Adora asks.

“We’re discussing whether we could tunnel through to the waygate building,” Netossa says. “Bow suggested using your weapon.”

Shovel. Adora twirls a silver shovel. “Not sure how much good that would do.”

Cometa claps her hands. “Brickwork! Do you know why furnaces are difficult to build?”

“Why?” Mermista asks.

“Because of the heat. Regular bricks and mortar crumble if it gets too hot!”

“Oo~h,” Frosta says. “And if the earth is too loose, we can freeze it! Up in Snows it’s really common to just build on the frozen earth; if you dig deep enough it never thaws, not even in summer!”

“The heat might be a problem,” Perfuma says, “dung can release bad airs that burn; I’ve seen dung pits catch fire on hot days.”

“A gas-fire down here would be deadly,” Mermista concurs. “I’ve seen accidents with Candilan water-gas.”

“How far to the point where we need to dig?” Spinnerella asks.

“Over yonder, about a hundred yards,” Peekablue says.

“If we leave this manhole cover open, I can just draw fresh air; Mermista can push the sewage away and Frosta can help make ice walls to dam it.”

Cometa slow folds the manhole in half to avoid making noise, and then folds the ladder into a grate, blocking access to the sewers. This gives Spinnerella space to draw down fresh air, and they all take a second to breathe without the stench.

They trek back to the spot Peekablue found that will give them direct access to the waygate building, and Mermista pushes the sewage away from them, two-dozen yards in either direction. Frosta freezes it in place; then starts work on the brick.

With her hand outstretched, nothing happens at first, then the heat given off by the stones start to make itself felt. The bricks start glowing in a cherry red glow, and the mortar starts crumbling.

She-Ra takes a pick-axe to the wall, and effortlessly removes the stones, revealing clay-rich earth.

Frosta reaches out to touch the wall of earth, and it turns a bit whiter. “All right, it is frozen in place.”

“Thaw the middle part and allow me,” Mermista says. She reaches out and draws clean water from the sewage pool in the distance, collecting a spherical mass of water. She extrudes a tentacle from it, and pushes the water into the dirt. The particulates wash away at an incredible rate, flow through the body of the water mass and down the tentacle, being deposited dryer than they were extracted.

Within minutes, it’s a proper tunnel, and within minutes more they reach a concrete wall. Frosta comes on again and heats the concrete until it crumbles, then Cometa grabs the reinforcement steel inside and tears them a neat hole.

Into a utility closet.

“The waygate is below us,” Peekablue says. He starts running for the stairs, which only he knows where is, and they all follow.

As they reach the bottom floor, he stops, holding them up. “It’s a trap.”

“How can it be a trap?” Adora asks. “The army hasn’t even mobilized up above.”

“It’s not the army. It’s a single person. There’s a Runestone suppression field inside, and I don’t think we can shut it off.”

Adora closes her eyes. “I know who it is.” She takes point. “Guns out, everyone. Safeties off,” then she opens the door.

“Hey Adora.”

Sure enough, it’s Catra.

She’s dressed, but in a civilian outfit: tight burgundy pants and a smart jacket, barefoot. She’s also holding a device in her hand, with a cord running off it, back to the waygate.

The room is spacious; more of a storage floor, than a vestibule for waygate travel. The waygate itself is rigged with packs of explosive, taped to it.

“Catra, if you blow that up, we all die,” Adora says.

“Oh, don’t worry; it’s nothing so crude as dynamite. This is demolition-grade shaped-charges. We might get dusty, but we’ll live.”

They file into the room.

“Did you steal a cache of guns?” Catra says, almost giggling.

Adora points the gun at Catra.

“Drop the detonator, Catra,” Adora insists.

Catra holds up the detonator. She’s holding in the dead-man’s switch trigger. “No. You are going to stay here, and I am going to capture —” she counts “— nine princesses. And She-Ra. I’ll get a medal. Well, another one.”

“If you blow that waygate, we’ll just fight our way out,” Adora says. “Hundreds will die. And I’ll shoot you first.”

“No you won’t,” Catra says. “You don’t have the nerve.”

Peekablue steps up to Adora and whispers. “She doesn’t have the nerve to shoot you either. Use it against her.”

Adora and Catra stare each other down.

And then Adora realizes what she must do. She lowers her gun. “No. I don’t.”

She drops back to her human form, in a flash of white light.

Then she raises the pistol and places it against her own temple.

“Adora?”

“Disarm it, Cat,” Adora says. “You either let us go, or… Or you lose me.”

“You don’t dare,” Catra hisses.

Adora cocks the hammer, takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes.

“Okay!” Catra screams “Okay! You win! You fucking idiot, you’re serious!” She locks the key on the detonator, disarming it, and tosses it to Adora.

Cometa and Frosta step forward, pointing their pistols at Catra.

The others move to the waygate.

“For the honor of Grayskull, starlight is mine to command,” Adora says, and She-Ra lays a hand on the ornately carved sandstone that comprises the waygate’s three pillars.

Netossa lays a hand on the other. “Mystacor,” they say in unison, and the portal opens with a rush of wind, which subsides to a draft once the pressures equalize. The bridge slides into place, and they make their exit. Catra hasn’t moved from the spot, but looks after them with a scowl.

The portal closes, and Catra is left alone. She falls to her knees and punches the floor hard enough to draw blood and chip the concrete.

The waygate vestibule at Mystacor is suddenly filled with nine sewage-covered people, and a single sewage-covered giant plant monster.

“All right, I know we’re all tired, but we really need to get out of these suits,” Adora says. “Sewage is dangerous stuff. Try not to get it on you.”

And so they discard the stained straw hats and start working on cutting open the suits with sharp knives.

“Help me out, big girl,” Netossa says. “I’ll run off and get help.”

Adora makes a long, thin razor with a rounded tip, and cuts Netossa free before the others have even begun.

“Urgh, I’m gonna need to bathe for days after this,” Mermista says. “And then sleep for weeks,”

“All in all, I say that went very well,” Perfuma says. “Nobody got hurt! And we got everything we came for!”

“Go team!” Frosta says with what excitement she can muster on top of a sleepless night of tense action.

“Speak for yourself,” Peekablue says. He’s lying on his back, rubbing his eyes. “Gracious depths, this is going to lay me out for days.”

Perfuma kneels by his side, drawing a small utility knife, and starts to cut him free of his suit. “I can get you some willow bark, if that helps.”

“Thanks. You’re a sweetheart.”

“Yeah,” Adora says. “Thank you, everyone. Good work.” She cuts off her own suit, then removes the dark gear she’s been wearing over her white body-suit before reverting to normal.

Bow is nearly finished getting out of his suit, sitting by the plant monster which still carries Glimmer on its back inside something not unlike an oversized legume pod. She’s still unconscious.

“It’s over,” Adora says. “You’re safe.”

“Yeah,” Bow says. “But I’m not going to be relieved before Glimmer is back.”

Netossa returns with two-dozen people: Castaspella, sorcerers, servants, guards, infirmarists.

Everyone gets to wash down in vinegar and distilled spirit, their clothes are spirited away to the laundries, and everyone gets examined by the head physician, the same kindly old lady that set Adora’s nose.

Nobody is injured, but she has some choice words for Mermista about going on adventures when six months pregnant.

Netossa calls them together for a debriefing, which Adora doesn’t attend. She stays in the infirmary, sitting with Bow beside Glimmer.

Dusk falls, and Netossa comes to see them. "They’re going home now, the others; Cometa, Mermista, Frosta, and Peekablue. I told them you probably weren’t up for saying goodbye. Spinny and I are going to stick around for a day or two…

Adora nods.

“Someone is here to see you.”

Queen Angella comes in. She almost glides across the room, on silent steps, and sits down on Glimmer’s bed. She reaches out and brushes a stray lock of hair behind her daughter’s ear.

“Thank you, Adora,” she says. “For getting my daughter back.”

“I could never have done it without the Alliance,” Adora says. “Thank them.”

“Oh, I have. And Bow, it is good to see you as well,” she says.

“Your Majesty,” Bow replies.

“I can safely say that things are now looking better than ever. The reckless actions of the Horde at the Gala, have united us against them. The known world is mobilizing their armies and marching on their borders. And although they have superior weapons, we have magic, and the Runestones. They will no longer be able to pick their battles and bring us to heel one kingdom at a time.”

“Snows to the north, Salineas by sea to the south, us to the west, and Candila and Apieria to the east?” Adora lists their allies.

Glimmer stirs. “Mom?” she says weakly, almost a breathy whisper.

“Glimmer,” Angella replies.

“You’re safe,” Adora says, standing up so Glimmer doesn’t have to turn her head. “We’re in Mystacor’s infirmary.”

She looks to the other side. “Oh, Bow.” Tears well up in her eyes. “You’re safe too.”

Bow takes her hand.

She turns her head back to look at Adora, which takes effort. “How did you—?” Glimmer she manages.

“I had help. It was a whole adventure which I’ll tell you about when you’re better.”

Glimmer nods, and the tears begin rolling. “Mom,” she sobs.

“What is it, dear?”

“I— I, I can’t feel the Moonstone anymore.”

Chapter Text

Out of Love and Desperation

...

Scorpia follows Catra out of the hearing. “Hey Wildcat.”

Catra is not in much of a mood for conversation, and it shows. Laid back ears, slumped posture, tail curled around one leg. It’s never been easy for her to admit to her mistakes, but self-preservation won out. Lying under oath is career-ending.

“That could have gone a lot worse, huh?”

“Could have gone a lot better too,” Catra grumbles.

Scorpia puts an arm over Catra’s shoulders. “Look; you were honest, and willing to admit your own mistakes. That has to count for something, right?”

Catra shakes her head.

“Hey, I know a bar in the neighborhood. They have fried fii~sh?!”

It is the seediest place Catra has ever been to, and she’s been out drinking on enlistment pay.

The barkeep is as ugly as he is of few words, the bottles behind the bar are half-empty and all cheap, the cloth he is polishing glass with looks like it hasn’t been washed in a week.

“Scorpia, how does a sweet girl like you, ever, ever go to a place like this?”

Scorpia giggles. “You know; shore leave!”

...