She was almost beautiful, in a morbid way like the battlefield was her true home, moving with beyond pony speed, her horn was like a shooting star, it went through our people like the dragon scale armor they wore was silk. The front line was crumbling, we tried to support them but I have never seen sorcery like she wields. There were always rumors, rumors that she and the queen argued about what kind of books she was always reading, ancient and dark spells, but I suppose that argument is over now, with the queen dead by her own daughters horn. Eventually she grew board of goring the infantry, she did…something…I don’t know what, and balls of fire began to fall from the sky, bigger than some of the houses, our temporary HQ was incinerated, thousands died. Of the original six thousand of us, not three hundred remain. My own squadron was killed to a pony, it was just a cruel twist of luck that I am not among the ashes that were once my sisters in arms, as I was running the order to retreat when the fireball hit, ponies I had known, served with for years, vanished forever, it does not feel real to me.