Once upon a time (which is how these things usually begin, unless you’re cursed or involved in a tax dispute), there lived a unicorn named Buttercup.

Now, Buttercup would like to make it abundantly clear that he did not choose the name Buttercup. It was given to him by an overly enthusiastic seven-year-old fairy named Twinkle Spanglestorm, who believed unicorns should be named after things you could put on cupcakes.

Buttercup had many typical unicorn traits. He had a horn. He could heal minor abrasions and one very specific type of eczema. He pooped sparkles (which was less glamorous than it sounds and more of a public sanitation issue). And he lived in the Enchanted Glade of Mildly Impressive Wonders, which was somewhere between the Forest of Doom and a surprisingly competent cicadas-led utopia.

But Buttercup had a problem.

A terrible problem.

Buttercup was afraid of glitter.

Now, this would be manageable if he had been, say, a goat, or an auditor, or even a particularly anxious porcupine. But he was a unicorn. In a magical land. Where the fairy economy ran entirely on glitter-backed currency.

Buttercup had tried everything. He had gone to therapy (his therapist was a sarcastic badger with a Ph.D. in Woodland Neuroses). He had tried exposure therapy, but after being doused in sparklebombs by a herd of giggling pixies, he spent three weeks hiding in a cave muttering, “It’s in my mane… it never comes out…”

You see, the glitter reminded him of The Incident.

No one really knew what The Incident was. Buttercup refused to speak of it, except to occasionally glare at a passing rainbow and mutter, “They knew what they were doing.”

It was whispered among the woodland creatures that it involved an experimental glitter cannon, a sentient disco ball, and a rogue elf named Shane. But the records had been sealed by the Council of Magical Mishaps (and also covered in jam, for reasons never explained).

Buttercup lived a quiet life, keeping to the less fabulous corners of the forest. He wore a hoodie (magically enchanted to be “anti-glam”) and avoided fairy gatherings, children’s birthday parties, and anything labeled “festive.”

But trouble, as trouble is wont to do, arrived anyway.

It came in the form of Princess Juniper Puddlepot, age nine and three-quarters, bearer of the Sacred Scroll of Sparkly Destiny, and wielder of the Bedazzled Wand of Slight Inconvenience.

“I need a unicorn!” she announced, bursting into the glade with all the subtlety of a trebuchet launching vuvuzelas.

Buttercup immediately attempted to flee behind a tree, but the tree was actually an extremely shy dryad named Marvin, who politely asked him to stop squishing his sap.

“Go away,” Buttercup said, attempting to camouflage himself by rolling in mud and muttering “I’m a large sad horse” repeatedly.

“You’re Buttercup the Brave!” said Juniper, brandishing a scroll that sparkled ominously.

“No, I’m Not Buttercup the Brave. I’m Buttercup the Emotionally Complicated. Now shoo.”

But Juniper would not be deterred. She explained, in that fast, breathless way that only small children and chipmunks on Molly can, that the Kingdom of Glitterlandia was under threat. An evil warlock named Sir Shinyboots had stolen the Glitterheart Gem and was using it to turn everyone into rhinestone statues. The only way to stop him was to summon a unicorn pure of heart and weird of hoof.

Buttercup, unfortunately, met those criteria.

Also, he was the only unicorn left in the phonebook.

“But I can’t!” Buttercup whinnied. “There’s glitter. I mean, you literally just said the word ‘Glitterheart’ and I think my eye twitched.”

Juniper frowned. “But you’re our only hope!”

“That sounds like your problem.”

There might have been a heartfelt moment of reflection here, if not for the sudden arrival of Sir Shinyboots himself, riding a giant hamster named Giorgio and wearing a sequined cape that violated at least three laws of physics and one decent taste.

“I HAVE COME TO BEDAZZLE YOU ALL!” he bellowed, as Giorgio squeaked menacingly.

Buttercup screamed. Juniper screamed. Marvin the dryad made a sound like a dying accordion and fainted.

And then something… strange happened.

Buttercup, in his terror, did something no unicorn had done in centuries.

He unicorned.

His horn glowed. His mane defrizzed. His hooves tapped out a rhythmic beat that summoned ancient and confusing magic.

A beam of pure, unfiltered sass shot from his horn and struck Sir Shinyboots square in the glitter. There was a blinding flash, a suspicious sound not unlike a wet sponge in a trombone, and when the light faded, Sir Shinyboots was gone.

In his place stood a confused mallard duck wearing a tiny top hat.

Juniper gaped. “You did it! You faced your fear!”

“No,” said Buttercup, trembling. “I blacked out from terror and shot chaos energy everywhere. Also, I think I peed a little.”

Still, a victory was a victory. Buttercup was hailed as a hero. Juniper named him “Sir Sparklebanisher,” which he hated even more than Buttercup, but he endured it because she gave him a sandwich and a glitter-free medal, and he hoped it would convince the bank to finally granting him that mortgage he needed.

Eventually, Buttercup came to terms with his fears. He still didn’t like glitter. But he no longer ran from it screaming. He just quietly scowled at it and kept a lint roller on hand.

And somewhere, deep in the woods, the sentient disco ball winked and spun slowly, waiting.

Because glitter… always returns.