Ashra watched as Vorr Callen led Solace away, the unicorn’s silver-tipped mane catching the last of the afternoon light. She cradled the pouch of crowns in her hand—heavy, real, final.
A hundred and twenty crowns. Enough to keep Gotglue Farm afloat another season. Enough to pay the creditors clawing at their door.
But it felt like a betrayal all the same.
As she made her way back across the dusty plain, the horizon burned crimson and violet. Above, a silver moon phoenix streaked across the sky, wings glowing against the darkening clouds.
Ashra paused, heart clenched.
"A good omen," she thought. "Solace’s soul is safe. Vorr’s son will love him."
By the time she reached Gotglue Farm, the dogs had already scented her return. They tore across the yard in a blur of wagging tails and joyful yelps. Her younger siblings burst from the house behind them, cheering and clinging to her legs.
Ashra smiled faintly, ruffling the nearest tangle of hair.
"They don’t understand what I gave up. Not yet."
She pushed open the stable door. The familiar scent of straw and sun-warmed wood met her.
“It’s done, Father,” she said quietly.
Mr. Abe Gotglue turned from the grain bins, eyes shadowed with worry—but softening as he looked at her. He knew what the task had cost her.
“What price did he fetch?” he asked.
“One hundred twenty.”
Mr. Abe stared. Then—without warning—he burst into wild laughter. He seized Ashra’s hands and swung her into a dizzying spin all the way outside the stable.
“We’re saved!” he roared, his voice cracking with relief.
He let go and shook his fist at the twilight sky. “I’m not done yet!”
Ashra smiled, breathless from the dance. But as the laughter faded and the stars blinked awake overhead, a weight settled back into her chest.
Solace was safe... for now. But in Cintar, nothing stayed safe for long.
_____
Track’s Tacos — Backlot, after sunset
The rush had faded. Only a few stragglers lingered at the counter, nursing bone broth and talking guild gossip under the dim lights.
Track Zarn wiped his hands on a towel, already thinking of tomorrow’s supply orders, when a shadow crossed the backlot gate.
A man stood there—stooped, wrapped in a patched cloak, hair like steel wire. His boots were worn through at the soles. From a distance, he could’ve been just another beggar drifting in from the outskirts.
But as he stepped closer, his eyes burned with sharp clarity.
“I’m seeking work,” the man said, voice low but steady.
Track frowned. “All we’ve got is a bus boy spot. Scraping plates, hauling waste bins. I’m sure you don’t want that.”
The old man hesitated only a second. “I’ll take it.”
Track raised an eyebrow. “Before I say yes... name?”
“Clyne. Master Chef Clyne of the Heaven’s World.”
Silence rippled through the lot. Even the grill tech paused, spatula midair.
Heaven’s World—the once-legendary restaurant situated at the heart of the Froststep Cities. Twelve years ago, it had burned to the ground under mysterious circumstances. Clyne had been famous not just for his cooking but for feeding the war orphans, the dispossessed, the outcasts.
Track swallowed. “That Clyne?”
The old man simply nodded.
Track studied him for a long moment, then slapped the towel over his shoulder. “Alright. You’re hired.”
He extended a hand.
Clyne clasped it firmly.
“And bus boy or not,” Track added, “I’m guessing this ain’t the last surprise you’ve got in you.”
As Clyne followed the staff inside, the silver moon phoenix passed overhead once more—its wings casting fleeting light across the lot.
Old legends never stayed buried for long in Cintar. Especially not when unicorns and chefs were involved.
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