The atmosphere in the town had been a constant celebration over the past few days. Every corner buzzed with excitement over Princess Celestia's upcoming visit for the solstice. For many, it was an almost unimaginable honor: to witness the raising of the sun not from Canterlot, but right here, in Ponyville. But for me, all that commotion felt distant.
In the basement, surrounded by open books, scattered crystals, and small runic circles barely sketched in chalk, I was focused on something entirely different. Equestrian electronic music pulsed softly through the crystals, filling the room with a steady rhythm that helped me concentrate. Meanwhile, my magic slowly rotated around a set of runes placed with millimetric precision.
I wasn't trying to summon anything dangerous—at least not yet. The goal was ambitious, yes, but theoretically possible: access the Akashic records. Not completely, of course—that would be madness. I knew it. I had confirmed it. Every attempt ended the same: distorted perception, nausea, short-term memory loss. Once, I even forgot my own name for twenty minutes.
The mind—whether human or pony—simply wasn't designed to withstand even a fraction of the knowledge contained in those planes. It was like asking a drop of water to hold an ocean. But I had no intention of giving up.
My new approach was different. If I couldn't access it directly, maybe I could do it sideways. Transmute the spell's intent. Redirect the query. Instead of forcing my mind to interpret the knowledge… let the spell do it for me. Let it ask. Let it understand. And let it give me only what mattered. A clear answer. Small. Digestible.
It was a dangerous idea. But maybe, just maybe, it was the only way.
I just needed to find the right configuration. A clear path for the spell to establish a controlled exchange of information with the Akashic records. This wasn't just about retrieving a fact or a vision of the past. This time, the goal was to transmute magic itself. To turn pure knowledge into physical form. In essence... a miracle.
Though really, it wasn't one. It was just energy, reorganizing itself into something solid. Comprehensible. Real. Magic, while rebellious by nature, had a property that made it unique: its mysticism. That quality that allowed it to bend rules. Not all of them. Just enough to make the impossible... possible.
If there were no limits, the possibilities became infinite. Ancient alchemists were labeled frauds for trying to turn lead into gold. But the flaw was never in the theory—it was in the caster. A spell could only go as far as the imagination of its creator. And that was always the weak point: the limited concept of a grounded mind.
But this time, it wouldn't be that way. This time, the concept wouldn't come from me.
It would come from the Akashic records themselves. The shape. The idea. The exact design. There would be no room for error, because I wouldn't be the one deciding what was possible. I'd simply channel. Let it flow.
The transmutation would be real. And more importantly: permanent.
Not a temporary illusion. Not a fragile construct held together by brute magical force, oversaturated to compensate for design flaws. But a true object, born from pure understanding of what it was meant to be.
I just needed to make the spell listen.
The runes floated around me, spinning in irregular patterns, shifting in real time in sync with my thoughts. It was a mesmerizing display—chaotic to an outsider, but to me, it followed a precise logic.
Maybe it was the result of what this world had done to me. Of how its magic—and the way it intertwined with everyday life—had reshaped my habits, my abilities. Here, in this place so cartoonish and yet extraordinary, I had learned to dream of impossible structures… and build them.
Before me, four magical circles formed simultaneously. None were complete on their own. Each one represented a part of the whole—fragments of a larger formula that could only function if precisely overlapped. Like delicate gears in an arcane machine.
But I couldn't cast it yet. I shouldn't.
The theory was promising, yes, but casting a spell of this magnitude without anchoring it to a supporting scroll would be magical suicide. What I was doing now was the safe part. Visualizing. Simulating. Refining. Polishing each rune, each command, each feedback loop until it felt… right.
Beside me, Stella plopped down onto a cushion, wearing her now inseparable gray wizard hat, tilted in that charmingly careless way she always wore it. It had once been mine. A gift from my parents on my thirteenth birthday. It held no special enchantment, but back then, it made me feel like a real wizard.
Of course, now it belonged to Stella.
She had claimed it without asking, using that irrefutable childish logic: "Clothes make the pony, and I am a magical apprentice." Since then, she only wore it when practicing spells. It was her way of getting into character. Of taking it seriously.
She pulled out a small book and began her own exercises. Small-scale magic, but far better executed than when she had started. Focused, tongue slightly out, tracing a floating circle with her aura.
A few stray sparks from her spell leapt toward my runes, but I didn't say anything.
After all, she too was learning to dream of the impossible.
Like a well-calibrated clock, the four circles began spinning in place, each in a different orientation. Slowly, they reached their desired position, locking into an ethereal structure greater than the sum of its parts. Once they aligned—not perfectly, but functionally—I fixed them in place with a pulse of magic and burned them into common scrolls. They weren't enchanted yet, just reinforced paper, but they served well to record my progress.
I knew there was still much to improve. Internal lines crossed clumsily in places, and some nodes didn't channel energy the way they should. But I needed to document what worked before the concept faded. So I summoned the four circles again, letting them float before me, ready to be revised.
With a simple movement of my hoof, I erased entire runes or incomplete formulas. Some vanished in a small spark of light, others dissolved like smoke. I didn't need to overthink it; when something didn't fit, my magical sense told me immediately. It was almost like my body reacted before my mind.
That's how magic worked in me lately: a constant balance between intuition and precision.
Maybe I was getting overconfident. I knew it. But it was hard not to be.
If I could physically manifest every scroll and parchment I've read on magic since I arrived in this world, there wouldn't be enough space in my entire house—even using expansion magic. Literally, they wouldn't fit. Many of those books were a waste of time, yes, but even in the most useless texts, there was sometimes a spark. An idea. A detail out of place that made me see a spell differently or notice a side effect no one had bothered to record.
And don't even get me started on what I found in WARDS.
The best magical library I've ever had access to in my entire life. Its archives are impeccably organized, with detailed annotations, field reports, and—most valuable of all—the personal journals of agents. Not just what they achieved, but what they attempted and failed. Their thoughts, their warnings, their doubts.
By the gods... it's a mithril mine!
Every visit to that archive was like unearthing ancient secrets the world had forgotten. And me... I had no intention of wasting them.
Among all the texts I'd studied, there was one that always stayed with me. I found it during my first days at Celestia's school, buried on a dusty shelf. It stood alone, ignored by everyone, probably because it was the only book on Space-Time magic in the entire library.
I remember it well.
It was thin, with yellowed pages and barely a single functional spell. Its structure was clumsy, the explanations vague, almost chaotic. But something about it caught my attention. I learned the spell—not because it was useful, but out of curiosity. Because of how strange its approach was. At the time, I didn't think much of it. I just stored it in my memory as another oddity in the sea of magic.
Everything changed the day I found one of Turner Flow's journals in the WARDS archives.
The name shook me.
And not just because of its historical weight. It was the connection. Direct. Undeniable. The book I had read in my youth was hers. And it wasn't a one-off. There were more texts, more journals, more theories—all signed, or what remained of her signature, scattered throughout classified archives.
And then I understood.
Even now, many of the formulas we use, many of the runes we summon almost automatically, come from her. Developed, refined, or discovered by Turner Flow, then silently inherited by WARDS and SMILE.
Her work became foundational.
No name. No credit. But always present. In tracking spells, in defensive matrices, even in anomaly containment protocols. Her ideas are embedded in the very structure of the modern magic we use to survive.
And to think it all began with a forgotten little book, on a dusty shelf in school.
Star Swirl created… or awakened a monster.
The exact truth is lost among the distorted layers of time. But one thing is clear: it all began with a youthful experiment. An impulsive act, like many that mark the beginning of great discoveries.
Driven by curiosity, Star Swirl had read an old diary. Written by a mare forgotten by formal history, but with a chillingly deep understanding of temporal lines. Her theories were messy, incomplete... but fascinating. After reading that, the young wizard decided to replicate one of her riskiest ideas.
The result wasn't what he expected.
The spell didn't take him to the past or the future. It transported him somewhere else: a cave, hidden and outside the normal flow of the world. And there, against all odds, he met the diary's author. Not a ghost. Not a memory. A living unicorn. The one who had sketched the first magical blueprint for time travel.
That encounter changed everything.
Star Swirl tried to return and leave things as they were. He corrected what he could. Rewrote what he remembered. But the damage—or the miracle—was already done. The alterations started appearing slowly. Small at first: names of unknown authors with spells that hadn't existed before. Then, more complex arcane structures, perfectly documented… but with impossible origins.
In his journal, Star Swirl didn't deny it. He was surprised. Perhaps even amazed. He admitted he had tried to repair the timeline, but destiny—or something deeper—seemed to indicate otherwise.
It could no longer be undone. Because it had never been a mistake. It had been the beginning.
I'm almost certain Twilight would love to know this. Just imagining her expression if she had Star Swirl's personal journal between her hooves… it would be like gifting her a piece of living history. Not one distorted by legends, but a real, direct testimony from the strangest and most formative moments of Equestria's most iconic unicorn.
But I can't tell her.
The journal belongs to WARDS. It's classified. And even though part of me wants to share it with her—not just because of what it would mean for her research, but for what it would mean to her personally—I can't do it without opening a door I don't want to cross.
Because then the inevitable question would come:
"How did you get to read it?"
And I don't want to lie to her. But I don't want to tell her the truth, either. Not yet.
Not while everything I represent to her is still covered in a layer of assumptions and half-truths I've carefully avoided confirming… or denying.
So I keep the secret. The journal. The encounter. The story.
And I let Twilight keep believing that Star Swirl was everything the books say he was. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Even though I know there's more. Much more.
While I was lost in one of my internal monologues—something that's become fairly common for me—the spell had finished taking shape before my eyes. I didn't even notice until I felt the change in the air, the way the energy rearranged itself naturally.
There it was. I had done it. The magical structure was clear, solid… alive.
I could feel it—not just as a network of runes or formulas floating before me, but as a tangible idea. A complete vision of what that spell was capable of. And without meaning to, I let out a low, unexpected laugh.
"Hahaha!" it escaped me, filled with awe and satisfaction.
The circles' stability was mesmerizing. They floated with the confidence of something that already understood its purpose. And the most unsettling part was that they had begun synchronizing on their own. If I didn't keep control, they would activate. I knew it instantly.
The magic wanted it to happen. Or maybe it wasn't just the magic... Maybe it was the Akashic records themselves, whispering from the other side. Urging it forward. I couldn't be sure. Not yet.
That's when Stella approached, drawn by my sudden excitement. Her wide, bright eyes reflected pure curiosity as she peeked over the edge of the circle, her crooked hat barely hanging on.
"Wizzy...? Was that a "nailed it" laugh or a "I'm about to disintegrate" laugh?" she asked, with the perfect mix of sarcasm and genuine concern.
I didn't answer right away. I just kept staring at the spell. And smiled.
"Just get ready to be amazed." I told Stella, grinning like a foal who'd just pulled off his first levitation, rather than a spellcaster tangled in a dangerous theory.
My excitement bordered on childish.
I summoned four magical scrolls and, wasting no time, began inscribing the circles onto them. The ink shimmered with a faint golden glow: a special blend made with finely crushed magical conductor crystals, suspended in sap from a tree deep within the Everfree. A rare, unstable resource… but perfect for this kind of spell.
Each stroke vibrated beneath my hoof, as if the energy itself was eager to leap out. By the time I finished the last symbol, I didn't even pause to admire the work.
"Come on! We have to go to the test chamber!"
I grabbed the still-fresh scrolls and ran to the reinforced room at the back of the basement. It wasn't big, but every inch was reinforced with magical anchors and containment runes. A safe zone for when things might go... less than elegant.
Carefully, I placed the scrolls inside the containment formation: a double circle carved into the floor, with secondary lines branching out like magical veins. The moment the scrolls touched the structure, the latent energy within them flared to life.
And then it happened.
Without any input from me, they began to move. Slowly at first, then with an almost organic grace. They aligned with one another, drawn by an invisible force, rotating gently until they clicked into perfect orientation.
As if they already knew exactly where they belonged.
I held my breath. This wasn't just magic. It was will. Pure and defined.
The scrolls weren't moving because of my magic, but because of something deeper. Something that recognized its purpose without needing instructions.
Stella noticed it before I did.
"Wizzy… you're not moving them, right?"
Her voice carried a rare note of concern, something she usually didn't show when I worked with magic. And she was right. I wasn't doing anything. The scrolls had aligned themselves, like they'd been waiting for this moment since I etched them. Like the spell already knew what it had to be.
Just as I was preparing to activate them, a familiar magical pulse cut through the basement's barrier. Faint, but unmistakable. It came from my office.
A correspondence spell.
I frowned. At this hour… that was unusual.
"A letter from Celestia?" I murmured, puzzled.
The timing threw me off. Celestia never sent messages without reason—especially not outside the usual hours she, even informally, liked to keep.
I looked back at the scrolls still floating inside the containment circle. They pulsed with patient energy, as if they knew their purpose was near... but also that it could wait.
"They can wait." I said, almost resigned.
I turned and headed for the stairs. Behind me, Stella let out a sharp whine—almost a meowing protest—and trotted after me, her hat wobbling with every step. Her hooves clacked noisily on purpose, and the frown on her face said everything.
"Are you seriously leaving it now?" she huffed.
I didn't reply. I was used to her little tantrums. While she grumbled behind me, I crossed the hallway on the first floor and entered my office.
There, on the table, sat a letter sealed with the sun emblem. Celestia's seal shimmered gently, as if it had been waiting for me with more urgency than its appearance suggested.
I opened the letter while ignoring Stella, who now meowed shamelessly behind me—not out of concern, but pure irritation, clearly upset that I hadn't activated the magic at the most exciting moment.
The letter unfolded on its own with a soft golden glow. I expected a refined note, as always. Maybe a neatly written paragraph in her impeccable calligraphy, signed with a miniature sun. But it wasn't that.
It was short. Direct. Almost blunt.
"Wizbell: come today. There's something urgent I need to discuss with you. Don't put it off. —C."
I read the note twice.
No flourishes. No wordplay. Not even a formal greeting. Just a request. An order, disguised as urgency.
That wasn't like her. Celestia could be many things, but she never abandoned her formality—even in her most serious messages.
Something was happening. Something that required me to be there. Today.
My gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the sky was clear, and the sun blazed directly overhead. It was barely noon.
The solstice was tomorrow.
If I had taken the train, I would've arrived late. Probably too late for whatever Celestia needed from me.
And for some reason, she needed to speak with me right before it.
"...Great." I muttered, letting out a resigned sigh.
"Mrow!" Stella complained, swatting one of the books on the table with her tail like she was demanding my attention.
I ignored her. She was set on annoying me, but I didn't have time to argue with a moody mini-apprentice.
I didn't take anything. No cloak, no bags, no preparation. Only Celestia's message echoed in my mind.
I was ready as I was.
The only part I wasn't thrilled about was what came next: using the fixed jump rune. A rarely used but highly efficient method. It would transport me straight to the organization… though it always made me feel like my entire body compressed for a fraction of a second. It didn't hurt. But it was, in a word, unpleasant.
With a sigh, I headed back to the lab. On one of the seemingly ordinary walls was a hidden access to the jump point—something I'd had to modify after the house was built, connecting it to one of the emergency routes authorized by WARDS.
I touched the rune sequence precisely, and the portal activated.
The compression hit like an internal jolt, followed by a sudden void. And then, solid ground beneath my hooves.
The organization's hallways were just as I remembered: cold, immaculate, and too quiet. Several agents turned as I appeared at the jump point.
Most only used it in critical situations. Even I rarely touched it.
Their curious stares came quickly.
"Summoned by Celestia?" one asked casually, but with a spark of alertness in his eyes.
I nodded briefly.
That was enough to shift the mood. I could feel it. A spark of understanding, of shared knowledge, rippled through those who heard. And I... I couldn't help but worry.
Without wasting time, I activated Flash. The spell surged through me in a wave of magic, and I darted through the halls like a golden blur. My magical sense was slightly off inside the facility, warped by the containment barriers and internal wards, but I knew this place like the back of my hoof.
I chained several more Flash spells until I reached the door I knew without question: Celestia's private office.
Inside, I found her pacing, frown tight, her mind clearly preoccupied. But the moment she saw me, her expression changed completely.
"Wizbell!" she exclaimed, eyes lighting up in a way I hadn't seen in a long time.
And before I could speak, she stepped forward quickly and wrapped me in a warm, tight hug, full of restrained emotion.
She hugged me like a mother welcoming her son—even though it had only been three days since we last saw each other. Almost four, if you counted today.
I stood still for a moment, surprised by the intensity. It wasn't like her. Celestia always maintained a composed, regal demeanor, even in personal moments.
But now... This was different. And that only left me with more questions.
"You got here just in time" Celestia murmured, with a mix of relief and something harder to define. Anxiety, maybe.
She took a deep breath and slowly let go. She tried to compose herself, but her movements betrayed her. Before I could say anything, she summoned a slice of cake with a soft flick of magic and began eating it quickly—almost like a grounding ritual to ease her nerves.
It was her thing. One I knew well.
Without a word, I sent a magical pulse to the assistance rune on the wall. I requested coffee. And more cake, just in case this went long.
She said nothing yet. She walked slowly toward her desk, nibbling at her cake with mechanical familiarity, her eyes shifting back and forth as if sorting through her thoughts.
I waited in silence. I already knew—when Celestia got this quiet... What came next was never simple.
———
Back in Ponyville, the mood was anything but festive for Twilight Sparkle.
She walked briskly down the main street, ears twitching in frustration. Talking to strangers had never been her strong suit, and today it seemed like every other pony wanted to stop her and ask pointless questions. To make things worse, Lyra was busy with a recital, and Flash was off doing... whatever it was he did when he vanished without a trace.
No help. No backup. Just her and her spiraling thoughts.
"I'm telling you, this isn't paranoia!" she snapped.
Spike, trotting beside her with a nervous smile, tried to calm her down. "I didn't say it was paranoia. I just thought... maybe visiting Wizbell could help. Y'know, talk things out, clear your head a bit."
Twilight groaned. "It's not about clearing my head. The book says clearly that tomorrow is the day she returns! The dates match up. The signs are all there. We have to speak with Wizbell. He might be the only one who can help convince Princess Celestia."
Spike sighed. He'd been down this road before. When Twilight had that look in her eyes, logic became a passenger.
As they approached Wizbell's house, Spike expected her to knock politely—just like the orderly, rule-following mare she usually was.
Instead, Twilight narrowed her eyes and glanced to the side of the house. Her horn lit up.
"Hey! What are you doing?" Spike blurted out, his tone rising in concern.
"Nothing," Twilight said calmly, her eyes still focused on the spell matrix hidden in the walls. "Just a small adjustment to the authorization system."
With a flick of her magic, she reconfigured the access parameters Wizbell had shown her once—back when he had walked her through the structure of the house's defenses and proudly explained how customizable his magical locks were.
Now, as if nothing had happened, she walked up to the door and knocked, entirely at ease.
They waited.
One second.
Five.
Ten.
No response.
"Maybe he's in his lab," Spike offered, glancing around uneasily.
Twilight was already preparing to scan the house's systems to see if Wizbell was home when a small creak interrupted her.
The flap of the pet door opened, and a head poked through.
It was Stella.
Still wearing her gray wizard hat—slightly crooked as always—she blinked up at them, her expression unreadable, curious but not particularly impressed.
Twilight straightened up immediately, and Spike gave a hopeful wave.
Stella held a moment of silence as she looked at the two standing outside the door. It was obvious why they had come. She paused, caught between continuing to pretend or just speaking up. Her eyes flicked past them, scanning the area behind for any other ponies.
None.
No townsfolk.
No pink puffball.
Satisfied, she spoke.
"Wizbell went out. Didn't say where," she said, her tone even.
She left out the real reason, of course—that Wizbell had gone to see Celestia, likely for some WARDS-related mission. And that sort of thing was supposed to be a secret.
Twilight twitched. A tiny spasm in her left eye. She forced a smile and thanked Stella for the update.
Spike gave a little wave. "Thanks, Stella."
She gave a short nod and retreated back through the pet door without another word—returning to whatever mysterious feline arcane research she'd been conducting.
"Well... this is going downhill fast," Spike muttered under his breath as Twilight rummaged through her bag and then stomped her hoof in frustration.
No chocolate cupcake.
She'd eaten it earlier.
Right after meeting the pink mare who rattled her nerves by casually mentioning her thing for blondes, invading her personal space, and unleashing a thousand questions in the span of a single breath.