In the distant, wild world of Cintar, unicorns were not gentle beings of purity and fluff. They were war beasts, genetic marvels, and sometimes, lunch. Here, the search for the Perfect Unicorn had become a planet-spanning obsession—an eternal competition between guilds, ranchers, hornsmiths, and bio-chimeric priests. The stakes were high. The meat was higher.

The Ideal Unicorn

A true unicorn, the kind deemed worthy of legend, had to be 25% or less rhino—just enough for bulk and bone density, but not enough to spoil the aesthetic. It had to be cool-looking. Sleek. Dangerous. Single-horned. Clean silhouette. If chosen, it would be claimed by the Mechknights—the towering armored champions who rode these noble beasts into psychic battle. A unicorn selected as a mount was spared the fryer. It became legend. 

The Experiments

Not every attempt yielded glory. Experimental unicorns were bred in artificial womb-pits from exotic fusions: eel-horned jumpers, feathered tuskmares, mushroom-infused Sporeshanks, and crystalline sprinters. Most were unstable. Many were edible. Few lived past infancy. Those too odd, too malformed, or simply not pretty enough were funneled quietly into Track’s Tacos, their bones powdered for glitter broth and horns sold as spice.

The Leathernecks

Some unicorns were simply too big, too leathery, or had horns growing from inappropriate places—cheekbone spikes, chin fangs, or tail blades. These were dubbed Leathernecks. They were herded into massive desert ranches and raised for meat. Tough, smoky, with a hint of ozone and vanilla bean, Leatherneck meat became a prized commodity. Jerky made from flank slices was traded like currency in outlaw regions.

Track’s Tacos

Founded by the fugitive hornsmith Track Zarn, Track’s Tacos rose to power by serving unicorn in all its edible forms. The most popular order: the Unicorn Asada on glowing blue corn tortillas, topped with cactus rind slaw and horn-dust lime crema. Rumors said the walls of Track’s original stand were made of unicorn femurs. The motto? 'Hunt. Sear. Serve.'

In Cintar, you either made a unicorn into a war beast—or into a taco. And if you were lucky, you got to taste both.

Ashra tightened the harness around her colt’s neck, fingers trembling. Only 17% rhino. Bone density scans looked good. If the Mechknights rejected him, she’d be ruined.