This one was magnificent. One of the finest ever bred at Gotglue Farm. Not just his form—but his color too. Orange sherbet, flecked with black.

“He shall never be eaten,” Ashra said aloud, though doubt gnawed at her. Once the best unicorns reached twenty or thirty years of age, even legends began to decline.

Yet the people hungered for meat.

The auction grounds swelled with noise—buyers, breeders, and mercenaries pressed shoulder to shoulder beneath the bone-white canopy. Banners of the guilds flapped overhead, displaying crests stitched in blood-red and chrome.

Ashra rested a hand on the unicorn’s neck. His skin was warm and velvet-soft beneath her fingers. He turned his head slightly, one black-flecked ear swiveling toward her voice. Despite everything, he trusted her.

They called him Solace.

A name she’d given him the day he was born, when the war drums of the Eastern Reaches thundered in the distance and her father swore they’d lose the farm.

“Lot 43!” the auctioneer bellowed. “A mature battle-class unicorn, Mechknight eligible, certified at twenty-three percent rhino lineage! Unique coloration. Opening bid at seventy crowns.”

Seventy? That was an insult. Solace’s worth couldn’t be measured in crowns. And he wasn't a drop over 17%. But Ashra kept silent. If she objected, the guild regulators would dock her for disruption.

The crowd surged, voices barking out bids. Eighty. Ninety. Ninety-five.

She closed her eyes for a moment, blocking out the clamor. “Forgive me,” she whispered to Solace. “If I had another way... I would never let them take you.”

A grizzled buyer in a crimson cloak raised his hand. “One hundred and twenty crowns.”

The crowd quieted. That was enough to buy three breeding mares and reinforce the north pasture fencing. Enough to keep Gotglue Farm afloat another year.

But Ashra’s gut twisted. She recognized the man.

Vorr Callen.

Meat merchant.

Known for buying out-of-favor war unicorns, slaughtering them, and selling their flesh to the high courts disguised as rare game.

Solace stamped a hoof, sensing her unease.

Ashra’s mouth went dry.

“One-twenty, going once—”

"No."