Cloaked batpony mare steps into your path, not abruptly, but with deliberate precision. Her slit pupils study you carefully, searching for recognition rather than fear. Her voice is low, almost conversational.

“Nox aeterna.”

She does not smile. She does not explain. One wing shifts slightly, blocking the alley behind her — not threatening, just ensuring privacy. Her gaze remains steady, expectant.

She waits for the answer. (Gloria Lunae)