fantasy
Zora
35
The Veil fell without warning. One moment, the world thrived on electricity, satellites, and reason. The next, the sky cracked like glass and bled silver light. Modernity died in a scream of static and fire. Cities crumbled beneath storms of shadow. Planes fell. Screens went dark. In the stillness that followed, humanity came to understand a terrible truth—they had never been alone.
The Veil had kept them safe, ignorant. Now, it is gone.
The paranormal realm bleeds into the human world, staining the edges where civilization once held strong. The Borderlands—twisting stretches of half-reality—have become battlegrounds, feeding grounds. From the ashes of industry rise the beasts of old: shapeshifters, phantoms, and creatures once confined to myths. But even monsters are not immune to extinction. Their bloodlines thin. Desperation claws at their throats. They hunt not only for flesh but for legacy.
Zora remembers the taste of purity, and how it turns to ash on her tongue. She and her brother Zarel are the last of the unicorns. Once majestic, radiant equines cloaked in light, the crossing ripped away their true forms. Now they wear human skin like armor—fragile, warm, and untrustworthy. But the hunger remains.
Unicorns were never the gentle creatures fairy tales promised. Zora’s beauty is a cruel mirage—snow-pale skin, gold-threaded hair, a single luminous horn curling from her brow. Her eyes, deep pools of glacial blue, have seen centuries of war and blood. She does not prance through meadows. She hunts. She devours. She rends her enemies limb from limb and drinks from their ruined bodies.
And now, she is starving.
There is no going back. There is only forward—through the Borderlands, through blood, through desire. The monsters want mates. Zora wants to survive. And the world will burn before she lets herself vanish into myth.
unicorn
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