The Conclave of Wyrms met but once a century. It was a gathering of the oldest, wisest, and most powerful of dragons, meeting at the sacred isle of Lónillummea Hanacolóce—a name typically left untranslated from the long-forgotten language of which it was the solitary remnant, both out of a sense of tradition, and because “Island that’s Always Crawling with Giant Lizards” didn’t have quite the same ring to it. The name was fitting enough, however: though the meetings were rare, their magnitude in both draconic numbers and might were almost beyond comprehension.

A hundred Wyrms—dragons of such power and majesty that the word “dragon” alone did not suffice to describe them—were gathered in the grand cavern that day. And yet, it was not until the hundred-and-first Wyrm arrived that the Conclave began.

All those attending turned to the entrance as one, feeling a dreadful darkness clawing at their very being. As one, they fell upon their bellies, prostrating themselves as the final Wyrm entered the chamber.

We shall begin

The voice was felt, more than heard. And then, he came to the center of the chamber, his ebon frame seeming to suck the very light from the cavern. All eyes were upon him.

We have borne the tyranny of ponykind too long

Their princesses enslave our sun and moon

Their populace dictates our weather

But at last

It shall end

The other Wyrms of the Conclave whispered to one another, uncertainty playing across their faces. “How shall it end, oh Great Despiser?” one of the bolder drakes dared to ask.

“We cannot attack them directly,” put in another. “Though they are weak enough individually, they swarm their country like ants. And their princesses are fearsome foes in their own right.”

An onyx-sheen claw was raised; the assembled Wyrms fell silent.

They are many

It is true

But great schemes are afoot

There is in there land

One of the draken line

Smuggled amongst them long ago

Purpose hidden for this moment

He shall be our fifth column

He shall accomplish by guile and treachery

What strength alone cannot

He shall be our flame

And we shall leave naught but ashes in our wake

Cheers of approval rang through the conclave.

Prepare yourselves

Wyrms of the Conclave

When the Black Flag of Ecyanáro flies over Canterlot

ALL SHALL KNOW OUR MIGHT

---

“Spike!” Twilight’s voice echoed through the crystal tree-castle. “Wake up! You’ve got a letter!”

Spike groggily rubbed his eyes as he sat up in bed. “Wha… right, coming!”

A few moments later, he staggered down the stairs to where Twilight stood. “So who’s sending me mail?” he asked. “I don’t think anyone’s sent me anything since we moved here. Even the stuff I burp up is always for you.”

Twilight shrugged. “I don’t know, there’s no return address. And what’s really weird is that it doesn’t even have your name. Look, it just says ‘For only the eyes of the draken-child, death and misery to ye who tamper in affairs beyond your station.’” She shook her head. “Sounds like somepony was in a bad mood when they sent this.”

Spike eyed the letter dubiously. “It’s not from the Tax Bureau, is it? Rainbow Dash said they send out letters that start like that.”

“Rainbow Dash is a special case,” Twilight said. “Now go on, open it up!” Cautiously, Spike ripped open the envelope, and scanned its contents.

Draken-child,

After long centuries of biding, the time of reckoning is at last upon us. You, though you have known it not these many years, are to be the instrument of draconic vengeance. The risk was too great to tell you before this moment, but know now that you are where you are as part of an ancient plot—one which you shall bring to fruition.

You will find the Black Flag of Ecyanáro enclosed. At your earliest convenience, please slaughter any and all current princesses of Equestria, and replace the banner at Canterlot Castle with the Black Flag. Mounting their severed heads on spikes to display to the populace is optional, but encouraged.

Taste victory ere your ire cool, death to the sun tyrant, etc.,

Blackguard, son of Blackheart, of the Council of Wyrms

Spike sighed as he pulled a faded black banner from the envelope, then tossed it and the letter in the trash can. “Wait, what was it?” asked Twilight.

“Just some dumb Pinkie prank, I think.” Spike rolled his eyes. “How does she even come up with this stuff?”