"You’re a man now," everyone had said to Jale, Vorr Callen's mute son. As if words alone could make it true.

In Ironseed, manhood came with a battle steed, a sword, and preferably a few scars to show off at the taverns. Jale had none of those. He had a silent voice and too much patience.

"But a mechknight warrior I cannot be," he had written once in the margins of his history ledger. "And that’s all I’ve ever wanted."

His cousins had already begun their Iron Cavalcade training. They galloped across the fields at dawn, armor shining, shouting commands to beasts bred for war.

Jale watched from the fence. No armor. No shouting. Just quiet observation.

"Observe long enough," he thought dryly, "and eventually someone will suggest you take up farming."

He was about to leave when he spotted a lantern swaying in the distance. Vorr Callen’s lantern.

A second shape moved beside him. Hooves. Steady. Confident.

"Probably another disappointment," Jale thought grimly. "Maybe a mule this time."

Then the unicorn emerged.

---

His coat wasn’t the somber gray or deep black of a war steed. He was a living blaze of pumpkin orange, his flanks catching the last light of dusk. His mane shimmered silver, though it looked more like tempered steel than silk.

The beast moved like he knew exactly how impressive he was and didn’t particularly care if anyone noticed.

"Seventeen percent rhino blood," Vorr Callen said, as if he was negotiating a trade deal. "Enough for endurance. Not enough to break down the paddock gate in a mood."

"This is the greatest day of my life," Jale thought.

Which, honestly, wasn’t a competitive category. But still.

---

Solace paused as they approached the fence. His ears swiveled forward, and he locked eyes with Jale.

The unicorn was young—three years—but carried himself like a creature twice his age. He didn’t sniff nervously or prance like the Cavalcade colts. He simply assessed.

"This boy does not shout," Solace noted. "That is promising."

He caught the scent of the pasture. Rich grass. Clean water. Better than the dust and worry he’d left behind.

He missed Ashra. But the boy before him smelled of honesty, iron, and quiet resolve.

---

Vorr cleared his throat. "Touch him, son. Let him know you’re the rider now."

Jale climbed down from the rail. His boots thudded in the dirt. He approached with his usual blend of determination and cautious optimism—the same combination that had seen him through years of healers, speech tutors, and a regrettable therapy involving boiled onions.

He raised his hand. Solace didn’t flinch. He dipped his head and allowed the contact.

The fur was warm. The moment heavier than Jale expected.

"You won’t carry me into war," Jale thought. "But you’ll carry me where I need to go."

Solace snorted softly. Agreement. Or possibly a complaint. Hard to tell.

---

Vorr watched them in silence. His usual sternness softened. "Your mother would have approved."

Jale nodded. Words weren’t needed.

"Let’s see if I can ride."