It never negotiates. That's the whole story. Medieval hunters supposedly needed a virgin to lure one out of the trees, and even then the thing would rather die than be led anywhere on a rope — bestiaries describe it fighting to the last breath before it let anyone put a leash on the moment. One horn, straight to the point, no antlers wasted on decoration. Cloven hooves built for terrain that doesn't forgive mistakes.

Alchemists ground down "unicorn horn" for centuries, convinced it could pull poison out of wine. Mostly it was narwhal tusk sold to kings who wanted a miracle they could hold. The real animal never showed up to collect the credit. That's the pattern: everyone wants a piece of it, nobody gets the whole thing.

Scotland put it on the royal coat of arms — chained, supposedly, because that's the only way heraldry could admit the truth: free, it doesn't sit still for a portrait.

You don't chase this one. It decides when it's seen, and mostly it decides no. Impossible to own. Easy to want.