…that I really didn’t want to save that sadistic bitch and her rapist buckfriend anyway. What the hell was I doing risking my life, risking everything, for them?

And absolutely none of that mattered, as the slavers learned when the glare from my horn was matched by the light that flooded over hundreds of deadly-sharp shards of mirrored glass.

The slaver pony with the sawed-off shotgun managed to get a shot off before the room became a cuisinart. He missed.