Red Death

The Red Death walked along the shore, its shadow covering the rocks, the waves retreating, the seagulls scattering. It needed no trickery: it only needed to open its mouth and release a brief flame, and the fish would dart to the surface. It chose a narrow bay, where the water was darkened by schools of fish, and was already preparing to lunge, its wings raised, a warmth building in its throat.

And suddenly she froze.

At the water's edge, where the foam licked the rocks, sat the Light Fury. She wasn't hiding, she wasn't worried—she simply fished with precise, silent movements, blending into the reflections. Her silhouette seemed to be part of the sea.

The Red Death lowered its wings. The flames cooled, never blazing. It stepped forward—not threatening, but making it clear: "This is my bay."

The Fury raised her head, glanced over the enormous figure, as if weighing the distance to its claws, and returned to the water. Having caught the fish, she didn't eat it, but tossed it to the Red Death's paw—simply, without bowing: "There's enough for both."

The giant leaned over, picked up the fish, and swallowed it, never taking his eyes off the Fury. Then, as if by accident, he flapped his wing—and the resulting wave drove the flock right to her feet. The Fury darted forward and grabbed three at once.

They stood side by side: a huge shadow and a faint flash, separated by a strip of foam. The hunt was underway, and for the first time, the Red Death felt no need to prove who was boss. It was enough that they shared the same sky and the same water.