The Thaumaturgical Exclusion Zone was established in 1087 A.C. It is bounded on the north by the circum-arctic mountains. To the south, it extends across the bay of Harmony, reaching deep into the boreal forests of the former Yak-Yakistan. The eastern perimeter extends nearly two hundred miles offshore. On the west though, the border is less well defined. There, the wastelands of tragedy fade almost imperceptibly into the wastelands of natural cause.

A traveler, approaching the Zone from that western side, might be forgiven for her trepidation and uncertainty. Only the most experienced guides can safely skirt the boundaries of the Zone. Only they know the subtle signs to watch for if a pony strays too far east: the way the lizards—or even the same lizard—seem to have a variable number of limbs, or how the plants move just a little too quickly to be explained by wind alone.

The Zone is forbidden. And for good reason. A great tragedy unfolded here. You can see it in the faces of the plains statues. They litter the cold desert for miles, a great herd of stone ponies, ten thousand or more in number, galloping east for eternity. The ones furthest west, they have a fear in their lifeless eyes, the promise of death for anypony that dares slow in the slightest. The ones further east, near the back of the permanent migration, well... they hardly look like ponies at all now.

There is a story, told sometimes by those that scrape out their existence on the edges of the Zone. It tells of a time when Sun and Moon cooperated. When the two Lifegivers took equal turns high in the heavens, casting their gaze upon the world. It is said that in those ancient times, Sun would burn so hot and so high that a pony could lift her head, and feel Sun's warmth as strongly as that of a fire. So warm, they say, was Sun in those days, that ponies welcomed the rise of Moon, and the cool breeze her darkness brought. And that Moon too, enjoyed the fullness of the sky. That she rose so high, so bright, and so pure that a pony could gallop safely by her light alone, even in the deepest forest. But the fairy tales of Day and Darkness, of Noon and Night seem impossible now. Rather, the Lifegivers hug the horizon, sluggishly bobbing up and down though the years as they circle like sparring wolves, ceaselessly hunting each other through the ever-dim sky.

Deeper into the Zone, if a pony dares it, there can be found villages, towns, and even larger things the old ones called "cities." All long abandoned, of course. In one of these, just beyond the rim of a crater called Canterlot, there is found a statue. This one a true statue, carved and cast by hooves, not congealed from flesh like the herd of the plains. It is a pony, but unlike anything we know today. She stands regal, on a plinth of marble. Her horn is raised to the heavens, and her wings—yes, wings too, for she had both—her wings are spread wide, seeming to encompass the world. The worn script etched into the plinth names her a princess, a friend, and an element of Harmony. But later, cruder markings declare her Destroyer, Bastard, World-Ender, and worse.

It was her, they say, who turned the world on its ear. It was her, they shout, that destroyed the balance of Sun and Moon. It was her, who damned us all to this crepuscular existence, this unending grayness of never-dawn. So it is only fitting that we know her by her damage, and with its own name, we damn her in return. "Twilight," the forest of headstones declare. "Twilight," the sea of standing corpses cry out. "Twilight!!!" we all howl into the grey abyss. For, stuck between listless Sun and Moon, we know only this dim and morbid light she left us when she reached too far.