FINTAIL

𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

⋯•● 5 YEARS EARLIER ●•⋯

SPECK COULD kill it... if he wanted to.

Instinct was a powerful thing to a youngster. It is impossible to explain as a living creature, I, myself, can hardly account for it. But the potent sensation was there, alive, wriggling underneath the longsnout's spotted scales just as the fish's hide did to his underclaw. Intense, but satisfying — like the aroma of excitement or the rich flavors of warm, saurian meat. Something about trapping prey beneath the confines of two malevolent claws made a predator's heart sing. Spiteful, surely; the word did toil enough to renounce his greedy intentions.

But he couldn't help himself. It was in his nature to be spiteful. To be lustful. His kind were bred-killers, after all.

Yet, beneath all that wealth and hunger storming beyond the boom of his dear heart, came dread. Sorrow. Fear.

That maybe this feeling wasn't as promising as he had hoped.

Speck kept staring at the fish in thought, watching its gills raise and fall, tail thwapping against the wrist bone, eyes wide open as it drowned in a sea without water. Catching it was not to motivate his hunger — he had eaten a fair share of meat earlier on in the day.

It was anger. Dreadful, helpless anger. The kind you feel when you learn you've lost. And you lie there in shame, hearing the rumble of your enemies laughing their tails off at your weakness. That feeling when you know you are not good enough... like a dumb fish caught in a predator's clutches.

That kind of anger.

Just a few minutes earlier, Speck was forced into a sparring challenge. There wasn't anything wrong with fighting — this was customary for their kind. But had this been a duel between two idle strangers, Speck would have felt better. He had seen enough herbivores and carnivores rip into each other over the years, courtship being the most common reason of all. And his interests sparked from the promise of brutality — two eyes would glint when the sweet stench of blood slithered into the ancient air. Speck figured that was his primal side talking.

But sparring? Sparring only made life a living hell. It became a learning experience for the weak. And there were no benefits — you either lost your dignity or you lost a pound of flesh.

So it was difficult to remain positive when Riptide, his eldest brother put his two most hateful brothers at each other's throats: him and his older brother, Fossil.

He could reimagine the battle from start to finish: Fossil was enjoying the fight for a reason completely opposite of Riptide. The pale longsnout's maw frothed with the juice of his kin, jaws curled upward to mock every futile attack his adversary made. And there was no more fear in his posture — in just a few brief minutes, everyone and everything had turned into a joke. He danced. He hopped. He spun on his heels like a frog in the rain.

That alone made Riptide growl.

On the other end staggered Speck, the spotted black-and-white longsnout charging in like a headless fish. And no matter hard he tried, Fossil would reward the youngster with a bite to the shoulder or a tail whip to the chest, throwing him to the ground like a rag-doll.

Fossil would laugh.

And Riptide sighed.

The brothers were aware age played a factor. A minute long difference between hatching was like a year-long span between mammal relatives. And, to Speck, he feared this was the only reason everything looked so bleak. He'd always look to his older brother, Riptide, for help.