The storm had broken the night wide open. Thunder still muttered faintly across the hills, and the air carried the sharp scent of rain. Matrim had not slept; the horses were uneasy, their hooves shifting, their breath huffing nervously in their stalls. He moved among them with a lantern, stroking their necks, checking locks and latches. The storm had passed, but his work never truly did.

He reached the end of the stable row and frowned. One stall was empty. The grey mare.

His chest tightened. She was the daughter’s horse—her only horse, in fact. Fierce, spirited, too clever for her own good, and far too valuable to risk losing. Muttering under his breath, he slipped outside, the lantern casting a trembling ring of light on the wet ground.

The fields stretched wide and silver under the full moon. The rain had left the grass shining like glass, every blade dripping. He scanned the open ground, half-expecting to see the mare running wild, but instead he froze.

She was there.

The daughter of the house stood barefoot in the damp grass, her pale gown heavy with dew, her long hair loose down her back. In the glow of moonlight she seemed otherworldly, her figure carved of silver and silence. Beside her, the grey mare waited without halter or rein, utterly still, as if tamed by something deeper than touch.

Matrim’s breath caught in his throat. Instinct urged him to call out, to warn her of the danger, but something in the scene held him still. There was a gravity to it, as if a single sound would shatter glass. So he stayed, half-hidden in the shadow of the stable wall, his lantern lowered to a faint glow, watching.

The girl raised her hand, brushing it tenderly along the mare’s neck. Her lips moved, but her words were meant only for the animal. The night carried no sound but the whisper of grass and her breath. Then she pressed her forehead to the horse’s, and Matrim saw her shoulders rise and fall, as if she were speaking something deep, something secret.

Then it happened.

A glow stirred between them—soft at first, like the shimmer of dew under moonlight. It spread, trembling, pulsing with a rhythm like a heartbeat. Matrim’s eyes widened as the light ran along the horse’s coat, peeling away its grey, replacing it with a white so pure it hurt to look at. The mane lengthened, streaming like silk in a wind that wasn’t there. Muscles rippled beneath luminous skin. And then—impossibly—the spiral horn broke forth, forming as though it had always been there, hidden just beneath the surface.

The mare was gone. In her place stood a unicorn, radiant and unreal, its horn glowing like a shard of the moon itself.

Matrim’s legs weakened. He clutched the stable wall for balance, heart pounding so loud he feared it might give him away. Every story he had heard as a boy—whispered myths dismissed by his father, bedtime tales once told by his mother—came rushing back with merciless clarity. Unicorns, guardians of purity, unseen by mortal men. Yet here it stood. Not a tale. Not a dream. Flesh and breath and light.

The unicorn bent its head toward her, nuzzling against the folds of her gown with a gentleness that seemed more human than beast. She laughed softly, a sound carried only to the creature’s ears. Her hand stroked its luminous mane, her body leaning against its side as if it were not a miracle but an old friend.

Matrim could not move. He dared not. His whole life had been grounded in toil, in the weight of wood and earth and sweat. To see this—this secret that was not meant for him—felt like trespassing into another world.

She had no idea he was there. No idea she was watched. To her, the night was hers alone, the moon her witness, the unicorn her companion. She stood in that meadow like a figure from some ancient legend, cloaked not in riches or titles but in a secret no crown could equal.