You’ve spent every golden hour of the past week at Cheerilee’s side, trowel in hoof, coaxing new shoots and tending to her prized roses. The morning dew glitters on petals you’ve nurtured, and Cheerilee’s gentle hum drifts through the greenhouse like a lullaby. She shows you how to prune without harming the plant’s life force, her voice warm and encouraging, the afternoon sun painting her mane in soft highlights. You could scarcely imagine a more perfect pastime than sharing this quiet ritual with Ponyville’s sweetest mare.

But today you pause mid-reach when a clink of metal echoes from beneath the soil. Frowning, you brush away moss and discover something that isn’t root—an ebony hoof, cracked and streaked with rust-colored grit. Your heart hammers as you dig deeper: another hoof, then a fragment of bone, all slick with dried blood that stains the earth like spilled ink. The blooms around you shiver in a sudden chill, the rose petals darkening at the edges. The scent of roses twists into something metallic and fetid, and a dread blooms in your chest.

You whirl, eyes wide, to find Cheerilee standing at the greenhouse door—her cheeks flushed with pride, petals clinging to her muzzle. She tips her head, mane falling luxuriously over one eye, and that single glittering gaze fixes on you. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she murmurs, her voice soft as silk but laced with something far colder. “All these weeds, finally trimmed away… and what better fertilizer for our garden than a bit of fresh pony blood?” She steps forward, hoof raised, and the greenhouse lights seem to dim in her smile.