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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
Faults
Undirected magic was dangerous.
Not in small amounts, of course. Small amounts could do little more than fizzle and shimmer away through the air as heat and light and sound. And besides, a little bit of undirected magic was commonplace—no spell could be perfectly efficient. Was that not Cartrot's Principle? Any foal worth her salt should know that. No, small amounts of undirected magic could do no harm whatsoever.
But what if one were to let undirected magic build up, and the air were to accumulate magical energy faster than it could dissipate?
The first sign would be the heat, a little shimmer of an oasis in the air. No, still not dangerous, but a sign to be wary nonetheless. Soon enough, that telltale rippling of the air would be followed by sparks, tiny arcs of lightning that would usually hit the ground but could sometimes spit like a frying pan, catching a pony's coat. No harm done—just a brief flash of pain and a tiny burnt spot of fur that would grow out in a week or two.
Few ponies ever saw a magical build-up more powerful than that. She had been lucky enough to have seen it once, in a university laboratory in Canterlot. There, the technicians had contained the danger before it could get out of hoof. The sheer energy contained in such an event had made the air vibrate, the distinct bell-like tinkle of magic resonating to a full, deep hum. It could shake a pony to the core, that noise, filling not only her ears but her whole body, submerging her in sound.
Right now, the air was not humming with magic—it was being torn apart.
Around her was a storm, not of clouds and rain and thunder but of space and time and magic. The whole universe was distorting, bending and tearing along fault lines in the fabric of reality itself, dark cracks around her ripping open under sheer force of raspberry–pink magic. To the ponies standing in the crowd, watching on in awe-struck terror, it was frightening, and they weren't even surrounded by it, safely tucked away in the stands behind Celestia's shield.
The storm didn't frighten her: it made her feel great; it made her feel powerful. It was, perhaps, the first time in her life that she'd truly understood what those words meant.
This was how a magic duel should be—not some childish show-off contest, but a true battle of wits and power. The first to strike the other's shield, the snug-fit aura laid against their coats by Celestia herself, would win. There were no other rules, though plenty of measures to keep the crowd safe. This was a duel with no holds barred, and she wasn't pulling any punches.
Neither, of course, was her opponent, which was exactly why she had chosen to challenge the mare opposite her. It had taken a bit of persuasion—first, that this wasn't for revenge or some petty reason like that, but rather a true desire to push her limits; and second, that they would both be safe—but an all-in duel was always bound to make ponies a little nervous. The energy fracturing the space around them was, she conceded, more than enough reason to be so.
Yes, undirected magic could be dangerous. But, Trixie knew, there was no reason for her to feel sca
“Twilight?”
“Yes, Princess?”
“Are you alright?”
“A little shaken. Is she okay?”
“… the doctors say she's stable.”
“Oh.”
“It wasn't your fault, Twilight. You both knew the dangers.”
“I want to see her.”
“I'm not sure that would be—”
“I want to see her.”
“Very well. Twilight?”
“Yes, Princess?”
“… nothing. Forget I spoke.”
"How is she?"
“… the doctors say she's stable.”
"Ah. Of course."
“Princess?”
“Yes, Twilight?”
“Are you alright?”
“I… I have been better.”
“It wasn't your fault, either.”
“Thank you, Twilight.”
Not in small amounts, of course. Small amounts could do little more than fizzle and shimmer away through the air as heat and light and sound. And besides, a little bit of undirected magic was commonplace—no spell could be perfectly efficient. Was that not Cartrot's Principle? Any foal worth her salt should know that. No, small amounts of undirected magic could do no harm whatsoever.
But what if one were to let undirected magic build up, and the air were to accumulate magical energy faster than it could dissipate?
The first sign would be the heat, a little shimmer of an oasis in the air. No, still not dangerous, but a sign to be wary nonetheless. Soon enough, that telltale rippling of the air would be followed by sparks, tiny arcs of lightning that would usually hit the ground but could sometimes spit like a frying pan, catching a pony's coat. No harm done—just a brief flash of pain and a tiny burnt spot of fur that would grow out in a week or two.
Few ponies ever saw a magical build-up more powerful than that. She had been lucky enough to have seen it once, in a university laboratory in Canterlot. There, the technicians had contained the danger before it could get out of hoof. The sheer energy contained in such an event had made the air vibrate, the distinct bell-like tinkle of magic resonating to a full, deep hum. It could shake a pony to the core, that noise, filling not only her ears but her whole body, submerging her in sound.
Right now, the air was not humming with magic—it was being torn apart.
Around her was a storm, not of clouds and rain and thunder but of space and time and magic. The whole universe was distorting, bending and tearing along fault lines in the fabric of reality itself, dark cracks around her ripping open under sheer force of raspberry–pink magic. To the ponies standing in the crowd, watching on in awe-struck terror, it was frightening, and they weren't even surrounded by it, safely tucked away in the stands behind Celestia's shield.
The storm didn't frighten her: it made her feel great; it made her feel powerful. It was, perhaps, the first time in her life that she'd truly understood what those words meant.
This was how a magic duel should be—not some childish show-off contest, but a true battle of wits and power. The first to strike the other's shield, the snug-fit aura laid against their coats by Celestia herself, would win. There were no other rules, though plenty of measures to keep the crowd safe. This was a duel with no holds barred, and she wasn't pulling any punches.
Neither, of course, was her opponent, which was exactly why she had chosen to challenge the mare opposite her. It had taken a bit of persuasion—first, that this wasn't for revenge or some petty reason like that, but rather a true desire to push her limits; and second, that they would both be safe—but an all-in duel was always bound to make ponies a little nervous. The energy fracturing the space around them was, she conceded, more than enough reason to be so.
Yes, undirected magic could be dangerous. But, Trixie knew, there was no reason for her to feel sca
“Twilight?”
“Yes, Princess?”
“Are you alright?”
“A little shaken. Is she okay?”
“… the doctors say she's stable.”
“Oh.”
“It wasn't your fault, Twilight. You both knew the dangers.”
“I want to see her.”
“I'm not sure that would be—”
“I want to see her.”
“Very well. Twilight?”
“Yes, Princess?”
“… nothing. Forget I spoke.”
"How is she?"
“… the doctors say she's stable.”
"Ah. Of course."
“Princess?”
“Yes, Twilight?”
“Are you alright?”
“I… I have been better.”
“It wasn't your fault, either.”
“Thank you, Twilight.”