My head-cannon wants to say this is a sort of continuation of this

As Brassica lay flat under this behemoth, the life being crushed out of her, her rage boiled over. Why should he have? Why should she have not? This pony has the nerve, the GALL to defy her? To dare imply that when it was her turn to thrive it was wrong? The pony clung onto life, death was a coward's way out. The way to again have not. Death is not an escape.

When the 'hero' stood once more there was no body. Only a wisp of glowing embers that scattered into the wind with… no it must be in his head… but it sounded like just briefly an otherworldly whispering.

Whispering that spoke to Brassica. Her eyes opened to the fog, and her mouth… grinned.