The wind whipped and then settled around them, the cold of the new terrain sinking into the fur of the already massive colt. The wintry place was welcoming him then, alongside his brother and opposing this young mare, as if it were the very meadow in which he was introduced to this world. It was not, however, but it was teaching him more than the meadow had in days. In this place Abraham felt fear, for the first time, and also desire above that which his body already knew. Slinking behind Reginald and snaking between the colts, Loretta stood nearly as tall as the Basin mare. The bitch recognized the scent, and a single phrase flashed behind her eyelids: defeat this. She could feel the tension rising between the young horses, and her tail rose and her lips peeled back to reveal ivories fashioned to rip flesh from bone. Her silent snarl would hopefully send her message to the filly: Retreat or submit, I care not, but touch the young princes, and death will meet you.

Reggie hissed from his spot near Abraham, and the onyx colt quickly set his eyes back on the blue filly before him. He watched as fear shifted through her core as briefly as it had for them, and a resolute coldness stick to her face. The fear behind her eyes was a momentary whisper, but a thick, bright flame burned behind Abraham's broad chest. The fear, though fleeting, spoke wonders to him. He thrived off of that look, he desired it more than his body desired the milk held by his mother for his strength. Taking a step forward, and then another, towards the filly, Abraham scoffed with a puff of steam from his nostrils. He wanted to see fear behind those superfluous lashes once more.

Reaper. Hmph, reaper. The word meant nothing to him. Her sense of strength and dignity was lost on him. He pressed forward again slightly with a tan left forehoof, holding it off the tundra briefly before speaking. "We are the sons of the Dauntless," There was a dark hiss behind his words as he once again tilted his twisted horns towards her delicate face. "Your blood runs no more prestigious than our's, princess." He nearly spat at her hooves, his mismatched eyes ablaze with dark flames. He wanted to envelope her with his superious strength, sink his dark horn into her shoulder muscles and render her useless. What was this rage, this passionate desire for her demise? Was it a seed in his heart birthed by his father? By his mother? By his brother?

Beside him he felt a brush, and the presence of the red and white bitch was brought back to him. Loretta was promised to protect them, and the growl that emanated from her core proved so. The hair along the malamute's spine started to lift up, and all the while she flashed images of the pretentious filly to her bondmate. Though Archibald was far in steps he was always with her, always in his mind, keeping an eye on his sons. Abraham took no comfort in her presence, but her growl fueled him just as much as the fear that he remembered in the filly's amethyst eyes. "You are fragile like the flowers that rise from your hooves. I will break you."