Zecora opens the terracotta oven behind her home and, using a blackened iron hook, pulls out a stone slate. On it lie a dozen small, red chilies, their skin blistering, a few black spots here and there. She sniffs at them, nods smiling, and carefully picks them up with wooden thongs, placing them in a small ceramic vase. She takes a cover made from weaved together leaves and puts it on the steaming container.

The sun shines through the high windows, a soft wind moving the thin curtains, illuminating in the long and richly decorated room a small zebra filly sitting with and older one in the middle of it. There are a few books and scrolls around them. At one end of the hall there is a risen platform with an engraved stone throne, sculpted like it’s made of leaves and flowers, only the ocher color of the rock betraying the illusion. On the other end there’s a big gate, closed with wooden doors ten zebras tall, red tapestries hanging on each side of it. The filly is intently scouring the texts, as the great portal opens. Two zebras wearing crimson capes over chain-mail armor enter, followed by a mare clad in jewels and silk. She walks with her head high, calm, deliberate steps. She wears a golden and black pectoral and a crown of crystal feathers, the light refracting in them to surround the carrier with a burning aura. Following her come six solid shadows with equine forms, they seem entirely composed of darkness, the only break in the silhouette being a small golden ring around their necks. The guards fan out to the side of the doors, the mare turns around and waves her hoof. The shadows disperse like mist on a sunny day, dissolving in thin air, the golden rings clattering on the floor. The two armored zebras bow, gather the fallen rings, and then leave, closing the doors behind them. The mare turns to the filly and smiles as the foal runs to her and nuzzles.

Zecora walks into the large hollow tree she calls home carrying the vase. Beside the eternal burning fire-pit, where the big iron cauldron stands, on smaller holes full of embers there are a few pots, one of them filled with boiling water. She trots to the back of her house, along shelves filled with jars, cans and little sacks of all colors, sizes and forms. She stops in front of a long string hanging from the ceiling, full with grapes of dried, long, thin, chilies, their colors ranging from purple to orange. She stares at them for a few seconds, before picking six of them from different points. She breaks the tip of one, puts it in her mouth and chews pensively. She turns around and goes back to the cauldrons, briefly stopping to get a hoofful of fresh mint leaves hanging from one of the wooden shelves. She lets the dried chilies fall in the boiling water, and begins to murmur a rhythmic sounding chant, tapping the floor with her hoof every few words.

A young Zecora stands in a pool of sand, twenty lengths wide, at the center of a gigantic court, two golden rings around her neck, a carved staff sticking beside her. All around, on the tiled floor of the court, ranks upon ranks of guards, chain-mail under cloaks in various shades of red stand immobile under the glaring sun. Her eyes are closed, silence reigns. The sound of hooves echoes distant, then becomes nearer, moving to the pool with slow steps. When it stops Zecora opens her eyes, looking at the ancient zebra standing on the border of the sand-pit. Zecora bows her head, the old mare smiles and begins to chant. Zecora grabs the staff in her mouth, lowers her stance and stares directly in front of her, where the sands begins to flow and move. A thundering sound washes over her, as the guards begin to stomp, all together, in perfect unison, a few heartbeats pass and they stomp again, and agin, a steady and powerful rhythm. The sand rises, a shape is starting to emerge, clumps of silica falling to reveal the hidden form. Before here stands a gigantic scorpion, each of it's movements accompanied by a grinding sound. It clicks it’s claws a few times, and charges the zebra. Zecora jumps to her left, plants the staff in the sand and vaults over the striking claw. The scorpion hits the the weapon, sending the mare tumbling. She rolls and is back on her hooves in a single fluid movement, briefly looking at the staff now laying under her adversary, before she sprints to it's back.

Zecora opens the ceramic vase, no steam coming out anymore, fishes out the cooked chilies and puts them on a chopping board. She takes a small knife, the dark wooden handle showing signs of age and use, the blade shimmering. With practiced ease she makes small incisions in the fruits, before peeling them, the skin simply coming away with a few measured gestures. After she finishes, she repeats the whole operation with the boiled ones, the water having given them a meaty look, jutting down a few notes every once in a while.

Zecora laughs, tears running down her cheeks, as she holds a small zebra foal in her hooves. The little one is enveloped in soft, crimson towels, and looks around curious. Around her and the low divan where she lies, servants are keeping their heads down. Six zebras, one at each corner of the richly decorated room, chant in front of small burners while looking up to the glass windows that show the blue sky, the aromatic smoke of frankincense rising in lazy curls. The doors open, and an older, regal mare comes marching through, followed by two solid shades, a thin golden ring around their neck. The mare goes walks directly to the center of the room, her expression stoic. She looks down on Zecora and the foal, and then a smile creeps on her muzzle.

Zecora hits the garlic cloves with her hoof, a fast, decisive gesture, and puts them then in a vase. After she had done this for all four of them, she covers the opening, takes the container and begins to shake. A few seconds later she stops, turns the vase over and picks the clean cloves, free from the peelings, out. She throws them in a mortar, adds the skinned chilies, a few mint leaves, a bit of lemon juice and a small cup of earthly colored spices. She picks up the pestle, and with calm, circular moves, grinds the ingredients.

Zecora, wearing four golden rings around her neck, stands beside the bed, looking intently at the old mare under the covers. Servants huddle around the room, in each of the six corners a blindfolded zebra is chanting in front of a small frankincense burner. The old mare wheezes, her breathing ragged, opens her eyes, a milky layer covering them, and looks up. She raises her hoof and gestures to Zecora, the younger zebra comes near and lowers her head. The old mare whispers something, Zecora nods and stands back. A servant comes to the bed, carrying a tablet with three mahogany disks. Zecora takes the first and places it on the mouth of the old mare, the second on her barrel and the third at the foot of the bed. She then takes a few steps back, and the chanting stops. The smoke from the burners begins to coagulate on the ceiling of the room, descends and envelopes the old zebra on the bed, then begins to take form, rises again, and now in the room stands a royal looking figure, proud, with a pectoral and a crown, looking down on the other occupants. She smiles, takes the crown from her head and passes it to Zecora. The young zebra bows, letting the smoke construct be placed on her head before it disperses. The ephemeral figure nods, and then begins to evaporate, threads of smoke like snakes slithering down and going down into the floor tiles.

Zecora picks up a small amphora, sniffs at it and smiles. She walks to the mortar, and carefully pours a thin trickle of golden green oil. She takes a wooden spoon, and stirs the red paste. As she works, she hums an otherworldly melody.

Zecora, clad in regalia and wearing a crown, stands before the stone throne, looking down on a raging zebra stallion. He wears a richly embroidered blue cape, thin golden chains loaded with small charms enveloping him in loose loops from head to rump, clinking at his every step. He Marches to the platform, screaming, before two guards stop his advance. Behind the stallion stand a few other zebras, similar clad but in different colors, green, purple, yellow and black.The stallion screams some more, then turns around and spits on the floor. The guards tense, and take a step forward before a gesture from Zecora stops them. The stallion laughs and marches out of the hall, the others following him. The room is now almost empty, only Zecora and her guards remain.

Zecora pours the lentils in the pot where some garlic, tomatoes, olives and paprika cut in slices are simmering. She adds a few cups of water, and stirs. As the legumes absorb the liquid, she follows up with a bit more, throwing in a bit of salt.

A young zebra sits in the center of a small circle of older mares, three rings around her neck, the room dark, braziers in the corners that burn aromatic herbs. In front of her sits Zecora, five golden rings forming a solid collar, a scroll unrolled in her front hooves. She murmurs a few words, and the smoke begins to solidify in forms, a row of marching zebras, a flying vulture, a mouse running through the grass. She stops her whispering, and the images decay, rising back in the formless grey air. She passes the scroll to the younger zebra, who accepts it with a slight nod. The young mare begins to whisper, the smoke trembles. Then, a small strand moves down, and briefly becomes a snake, before dispersing again. Zecora smiles and nods, her posture becoming a bit more upright.

Zecora fills the big bowl with flour, adds salt and a few cups of oil. She then stirs the whole thing till it becomes a dense mass. She picks up a jug of water, and spills it slowly on the dough while she continues mixing. A couple of minutes later, she pours the now almost solid glob on a table sprinkled with flour, and begins to work it with her hooves.

A long line of zebras plods through the gates of the small city. They are thin, dusty, some carry sacks, some pull wagons filled with barrels, a few pieces of furniture, older zebras, foals and the wounded. As they pass in front of Zecora, they briefly look up to the mare wearing a finely carved armor and a crimson cape, their expressions demure and tired. Zecora grinds her teeth, turns and stomps to the tents built around the small palace in the center of the town, six guards and six shadows with golden collars in tow. She barks a few orders as she reaches the camp, soldiers bowing and then trotting away. She enters one of the bigger tents, a large structure with banners covered in geometric motives on the outside. Inside there’s a low table, where a map made of sand displays small figures slowly moving across it. She looks at the map, one of the little cities is burning.

Zecora uses the wooden spoon to put a bit of the cooked lentils on two hoof wide dough disks, a few dozen of them laying on the table. She folds them, enclosing the stew in small triangles. She puts another cauldron beside the fire-pit, and fills it with oil.

Zecora cries out, tears running down her cheeks. In her hooves she holds a young zebra, a flank covered in blood, a long gash running for half her length. Two guards hold down a mare, a knife lays on the side of the corridor. Some zebras in tunic run in their direction, carrying pouches and small sacks. They gently push Zecora away as they surround the wounded young. Zecora takes a few steps back, then freezes. She slowly turns, then walks towards the struggling prisoner. With each step more and more shadows flow from each corner and gather around her. When she reaches the guards a gargantuan, writhing mass of darkness rises behind her, towering on everyzebra, prisoner and guards alike trembling.

Zecora cuts the white cabbage in thin stripes. She fills a bowl with it and sprinkles in oil, salt and orange juice. She tosses it a bit, then adds some rose flowers. She cuts a pomegranate in half, scopes it out and adds the tiny red pellets to the salad.

A small hill covered in dry, yellow grass oversees the city, fields all around the settlement. On the white walls hundreds of soldiers stand guard, the great gates closing, a heavy silence weighing down on everything. Zecora advances until she stands on the top of the hill, clad in chain-mail, a red cape with black and white markings, an iron mask showing only her eyes, covered with spirals made of carved glyphs. The symbols on the mask begin to glow, beside her two shades appear, then dozens more, then hundreds, then thousands. Soon the whole hill is awash in black figures, not one sound coming from the spectral army. Zecora looks down on the fortified city below, and the shadows begin to charge across the wide fields, flowing like a black sea. The defenders rain javelins and arrows on the enclosing mass, the weapons clattering to ground without effect. The darkness impacts the walls, there are only screams.

Zecora walks around the clearing behind her home, setting up here and there masks, torches and intricately carved staffs. After putting against a tree a piece of bark painted with white and green patterns, a spectral murmur rolls around the forest for a few seconds. Zecora moves back to the center of the clearing, looks around and nods. She closes her eyes and begins to sing a dirge. As the last note leaves her lips, a gust of wind washes over the area, rustling leaves for a few instants, then calming down again. Smiling the zebra goes back into her home, coming out again shortly after, pulling a large table.

The great doors of the room fly out of the hinges and crash on the floor a few lengths down the hall, the mosaics decorating the ground cracking. Zecora comes slowly through the open gate, shadows beside her, crimson clad guards behind, her iron mask flickering with spectral light in the penumbra. Zebras press against the wall, trembling and hiding, shielding foals behind them. Zecora ignores them as she walks on to the throne at the end of the room. As she reaches it, she stops briefly. The throne is engraved with gold, a few tastefully sculpt crystals giving off a soft light, blue banners framing it. She rises a hoof, and brings it down with a a thunderous sound. The throne cracks, and then shatters completely, crumbling to pieces. She turns around and glares at the zebras in the room, before leaving without a second glance to spare.

Zecora drops a few of the triangular dough bags in the hot oil, carefully avoiding the drops of sizzling liquid that shot up from the cauldron. As the dumplings get a beautiful brown color, she fishes them out with a skimmer and puts them in a wicker basket, the excess fat dropping on the floor. As she begins to fry the last batch, somepony knocks at the door.

Zecora stands before the carved throne, her pectoral almost gleaming with light, her crown giving off an fiery aura. Along the walls stand alternating guards and shadows, in the center of the hall there are zebras in ragged capes of various colors, kneeling down, eyes on the floor. Only one is still standing, glaring at the mare. It’s a stallion in a blue cape full of holes and covered in dust and grime. Thin golden chains hang broken from him. One of the guards takes a step toward him, when Zecora interrupts with a gesture. She comes down from the platform, and slowly walks to the blue clad zebra. As she stands before him, she rises a hoof, shadows condensing behind her, he flinches but never lowers his head. She stays in this position for a few moments, then looks around. The other zebras stand still, no one looking up, a few are shivering. She slowly puts her hoof down again, the darkness dispels. She sighs, takes a step forward, and whispers something in the stallion’s ear. His eyes widen, Zecora takes a step back, he nods, and bows down.

Laughter rolls over the clearing, the light from the torches illuminate a table filled with food, six ponies and a zebra sitting around it, eating, chatting and drinking. Rainbow Dash and Applejack stare one at another, while eating a spoon of red paste each, sweat running down on their muzzles, hoofs trembling. Rarity observes the scene snorting, Fluttershy prepares cups of milk, Pinkie eats dumplings covered in hot sauce smiling somehow during the whole process, Twilight talks with Zecora.

A young zebra, four rings around her neck, a long scar on her flank, is screaming at Zecora. In the small room, Arcadian frescoes on the walls, a few pieces of furniture here and there, a bed, a small table, a chest, her voice reverberates. Zecora shakes her head, then tries to hug the younger one. The zebra steps back, tears forming at the corner of her eyes, she shakes her head, then runs to the door, shoving the older mare aside. Zecora looks after her, then lets her head hang and she sits down.

Zecora waves as the mares trot down the path. Back in the clearing she stomps down once and the torches blow out. She slowly walks back to her home. Inside the warm light of the candles illuminate the mess of cups, knives, pots and spoons. The zebra looks briefly around, and whistling begins to clean.

The dawning sun illuminates the colorful city wall and the the small, desolate side gate. Zecora is slipping into the harness of a small cart, loaded with scrolls, masks and supplies, she wears only the golden rings around her neck and a few other jewels. Six mares stand at the gate, while a veritable army of floating smoke figures observes the scene. Zecora looks back, over her shoulders, at the beautiful painted scenes from legends and fables that adorn the city walls, at the white roofs that can be seen behind, at the elegant towers rising from the center of it all. She sighs, lowers her head, and walks off along the narrow road, the smoke figures dispersing, the last one rising a hoof and waving before dissolving.

Zecora sits in front of an open book, a pile of loose sheets of paper covered in mouth-writing on a side, a small plate with still steaming food on the other. She begins to read a bit from a sheet, and then writes in the book, slowly and methodically. She continues for a while, the candles flickering, brief glimpses of moonlight coming through the windows now and then. She arrives at the end of the last page, closes the book and looks up. She takes one of the dumplings from the plate, breaks it in half and throws it in the air. At the apex of it’s flight, a shadow comes out of the nothingness and catches it. A vortex of darkness consumes the piece of food, before the shade coagulates in a vaguely winged figure that glides down to Zecora. The zebra stands up and whispers a few words. The shadow becomes again an amorphous mass of black, engulfs the book and the plate, and disappears. Zecora smiles, walks up to the candles, and extinguishes them.

---

A zebra with a long scar on her flank stands still in the large sandstone chamber, the walls intricately engraved, a small artificial river flowing in geometrical patterns around her while servants free her of heavy regalia, jewels and, at last, the crown. When they finish, they leave the room walking backward, their heads low. The zebra, now only clad with five golden rings around her neck, turns and steps through a small door on the opposite side. She enters in a smaller room, the walls painted with scenes of Arcadian life, a large bed in the center, a small table, a chest. She closes her eyes and sighs, her shoulders slopping, her posture less rigid. There is a clattering sound, she opens her eyes again, and on a table there is a book and a plate filled with steaming food.