Unicorn meat was enjoyed by all walks of life—young and old, wealthy and poor—but it was mostly a staple of the working class. The reason was simple: it was everywhere. Nearly everyone seemed to dream of running their own unicorn breeding lab.

"I can't stand when they try to pass off straight rhino meat as unicorn," Track muttered. "Sure, it'll do in a pinch, but it’s nothing like the melt-in-your-mouth texture of a good 12% rhino hybrid."

"You’re still green in years, Track Zarn, but you’ve got the palate of an old gourmand," said Clyne. "Me, I like anything in the 9 to 14 percent range... though I’ll admit, 12% hits a sweet spot."

Track began bussing tables to spare the old man's back. “Sit a spell. Have some tea. Let your bones breathe.”

But Clyne wouldn’t have it. With a grunt of defiance, he grabbed a broom and started sweeping. Before long, he had his sleeves rolled up and was elbow-deep in dishwater.

Track found it a bit unsettling—but he let him continue.

The dishes weren’t exactly piling up—it was a slow day. Just two regulars: Nona and Darnell, seated at opposite ends of the restaurant like always. They couldn’t stand each other, and everyone knew it.

Darnell had been a regular since the day Track’s opened seventeen years ago. “This place is magic,” he said. “It’s the only spot I trust to serve me unicorn. Nothing—and I mean nothing—beats a classic Uni Supreme with that cascading hot meat and those big dollops of purple-cado guac."

    Lips pursed, Nona stabbed at her shuckskins—crispy fried unicorn ears. (Best served hot with hornet mustard.)

   “You say that every week, Darnell. Like it’s some kind of sermon. If this place is so magic, how come the meat’s been tasting faintly... metallic lately?”

Darnell didn’t look up. “That’s not the meat, that’s your bitterness leeching onto your tongue.”

“Bitterness is what happens when your neighbor’s unicorn lab explodes and no one offers to help rebuild,” she snapped.

Track cleared his throat loudly from the back. “No politics in the dining area, folks.”

Nona muttered something under her breath about nosey frycooks, but the room settled into a tight silence. Clyne arched an eyebrow at Track, as if to say see what happens when you open the door for the riffraff?

Track just rolled his eyes and refilled the purple-cado bin.

Ashra went about her chores more slowly than usual. The bitter chill of depression was seeping into her bones, curling around her ribs like frost, dulling every motion. Even the goats seemed to sense her mood—they kept their distance.

She had been there the day Solace was born. She remembered the way he nuzzled her hand, the shimmer of his damp coat in the barn light. For months, she’d clung to the hope that Father had chosen him for her—that her sixteenth birthday would come with something more than stale bread and a quick pat on the shoulder.

But sixteen had come and gone. Three months ago. And still no unicorn. No grand gesture. No Solace. He was gone... forever. 

That night, she sat alone under a silver-pierced sky, arms wrapped around her knees. The wind teased her hair, carrying the scent of loam and dry leaves. Somewhere out there, Solace was looking up at the same stars.

“Are you thinking of me?” she whispered. “Or have you already forgotten?”