Then Abraham arrives, and then he slaughters.

"No!" erupts from the colt's jaws as he lunges forwards, but the heat of the dragon's flame is too intense for him to get close enough to save the mare, not that he could do a great deal anyway. Even at this young age, Volterra is not against killing, but he is against the killing of the helpless, of the injured and the feeble. There is no glory in this murder; no glory in the way the older male revels in the mare's agony, like the way a child may torture a defenceless insect. He did not defeat her himself - he has proven nothing about his strength, except perhaps that he is only capable of finishing off somebody else's dirty work. It is nothing to be proud of, to slaughter something that cannot fight back. It is akin to killing a foal, something helpless, something that can do nothing but whimper as it is tortured, and a far cry from the glory of battle that Volterra had thought Abraham and his dragon capable of. How he had admired them, thinking how beautiful they would look upon war-torn fields, going blow for blow with healthy opponents that test them to their limits. But this - this is nothing more than the most primal form of bullying, worlds away from the battlefield and the victory surge of felling an equal.

It is not the work of a Leviathan.

It is the work of a coward.

The colt's crimson eyes flash with something akin to danger, albeit it is only the first fragment of what will blossom into cold red fury as he ages. "She was helpless," he hisses. Despite the situation, he cannot tear his eyes away from the smoking ruin of the mare, cannot stop his nostrils flaring to absorb the stench of burning flesh. Had Abraham felled the unicorn himself, in the heat of battle with naught but the strength of his body, then Volterra would have admired him, revered him. But instead, he acted as an opportunist; a vulture, a blot on the world in the form of a scavenger. The young titan cannot respect that. He had damn near hero-worshipped Abraham when he first met him, but that has burnt away along with the unicorn mare's flesh. "She couldn't fight back. Where's the glory in that?" Eyes narrow, ears flickering backwards as he looks down at the singed corpse. If only she had been healthy! If Abraham had slaughtered her when she was fully functional, Volterra would have idolised him even more, the way he would idolise an older brother. They are similar; their fur, white on black, their natures, warmongering and arrogant, yet the young behemoth would never slay something that could not fight back, unless he himself had weakened it first.