Gotcha.

Unfurling from my lips and into his, my smoke had done it's job. I couldn't help but smirk as I watched the stallion inhale my magic, his nightmare. Despite his eyes being blacker than any I had ever known, I still recognized the fear that subsequently gripped his gaze. But the terror that began to spread through his body was different than my previous experimental subjects. What had happened to my magic? Was it stronger now? Had it grown as I had?

I watched it consume him, drown him, make him struggle to even stand, and I wondered if it was truly I who had caused this. How could I be capable of this? Wasn't I supposed to be a little princess, not some barbaric Amazonian? A twinge of guilt flickered within me, and something else, something so heinous it made me sick. Until then, I was scared of nothing. I wasn't scared of hellhounds, or bloodthirsty men twice my size. I wasn't scared of the dark, or fire, hell, I wasn't even scared of losing my family again.

But I was scared of myself.

I trembled as I watched him, horrified by what I had done. I watched him rear and let myself slide into his shoulder and part of his upper leg, too stunned to do much about it. My momentum was difficult to overcome, so I didn't even try to. It stole what little air was left in my lungs away, a sensation I doubted I would ever get used to. I squeezed my eyes shut, turning my head away from the stallion. Maybe if I make myself smaller I'll shrink till I'm nothing, till I don't have to see what I've done anymore. Are there souls in the world who find pleasure in others' pain? I thought perhaps it was a story, a nightmare, they don't exist, they can't exist. But when I had felt that guilt, I felt pleasure, too. It was then that I realized my nightmares do exist, and they exist within myself.

I was careless, I was selfish, and focused little on the stallion before me until I noticed his hoof grazing my left wing. I inhaled sharply, opening my eyes and giving him an accusatory glare. The top of my wing now bared a wound, blood beginning to pour from the gash. The crimson blazed against the black hues of my wing, filling me with dread. My mother would not be happy to see that. Volterra had left me with only bruises and a few teeth marks I could cover up with my mane, but this lined the top of my wing. I could only hope it wouldn't leave a scar. I tucked my wings close to my body, trying to back away from him as much as I could, but I found the ground was still slippery. Finding my footing was not easy, the matters being made worse by the stinging on my wing, floundering of the stallion, and —

Sparks?!

I struggled more to put space between us, but it was of no use. The stallion, whom I had decided to call Sparky, was falling towards me. My hooves couldn't find an adequate hold on any ground further away, it was too slippery, too slimy and at this point, almost engulfing my fetlocks. I couldn't run away, so I was going to have to deal with Sparky. I was getting pretty damn tired of having horses fall into me all the time (fucking Volterra — why must you cross my mind so often? What would he do in this situation? Did it even matter? No, it didn't, for this was my problem, not his). I tucked my head, aiming my split horns for the stallion's shoulder. I thrusted my head toward him, hoping to offset his tumble with my horns. But his cream colored armor looked thick. I decided it didn't matter, though, my main goal was to get him away from me, even if only for a moment. But I wouldn't mind making him pay for the stinging gash I had on my wing.

Fall into me all you want, Sparky, but I'm not about to let you get away without a bruise.

There it was again, a sickening sense of pleasure stemming from what I could only describe as bloodlust. The idea of my horns, drawing blood, merely the idea, made me unimaginably giddy. And nauseous. I was a bit sad Sparky wasn't my father in that moment, though. I wouldn't have felt nauseous making him bleed.

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