Neither say anything as the chariot silently arcs towards the Canterhorn. The moon shines down on farmland and brooks, shimmering stars painting the sky. A slight breeze comes in from the east, and the faint smell of ozone clings to the nippy winter air. They slowly approach the castle, marble and gold towers piercing the sky. Streetlights stand vigil in empty streets, pointing out hoofprints in the freshly fallen snow. Canterlot is asleep, at peace under the protective veil of the night.