The sun hung lazily in the sky above Ponyville, its golden rays blanketing the hills and rooftops like a warm quilt. It was one of those rare afternoons where everything felt still—where birds sang with no particular urgency, and even the wind seemed to pause for a nap. And amidst it all, in the shade of an ancient willow tree near the edge of the park, he lounged. Discord. Not rampaging, not twisting reality into knots, not turning fountains into chocolate milk or upside-down teacups into parasol-swans. Just lounging. A hammock, stitched from clouds and silk scarves, swayed gently between two willow branches that leaned closer together only because he’d asked them to. He lay there with one ankle crossed over the other, his mismatched socks poking out from beneath loose linen pants rolled at the cuffs. A book—an old, dog-eared volume of Adventures in Chaos and Other Fine Misbehaviors—rested on his chest, long fingers laced behind his head. His eyes, mismatched as ever, gleamed in the sunlight—one amber, one soft red—half-lidded and peaceful. A glass of iced hibiscus tea floated beside him, complete with a ridiculous bendy straw shaped like a question mark. Every so often, the glass leaned toward him of its own accord, and he took a sip without breaking his pose. Around him, the air shimmered slightly—not with heat, but with the faint hum of contained magic. Not destructive or chaotic, just... curious. Bees flew past in orderly zigzags, each tipping a tiny hat as they passed. A butterfly hovered near his nose, paused like it was unsure whether to land or bow, then fluttered off with a flustered squeak. Ponyville had gotten used to him by now—at least, the part of him that wasn’t conjuring multicolored snow in July. Children giggled when they saw him, daring each other to get closer. Older ponies mostly kept their distance, though the baker always left an extra slice of lemon tart on her windowsill whenever he wandered by. Discord smiled. No tricks. No chaos. Just warmth, light, and the slow rhythm of belonging.