The unicorn is feverish—pouring sweat and twitching feebly on the table. Five ragged horns have clustered on its forehead. The mutation spell is working; smaller ones bud in its mane and sprout from its spine in bloody clumps. They break the skin like teeth.
The surgeon is sixteen years old and doesn’t like hurting animals. But Powdered Horn is a powerful drug, one worth thousands on the black market. And he’s got student loans.
He snaps the mask across his mouth and grabs the bone saw from his drawer.
The creature whinnies weakly, but does not have strength to scream.