The sweet syllables of my insult hit the filly, the impact bringing her ears flat against her skull and her eyes darkening into storms. Her skittish tail flicks along her ankles, twitching compulsively in an obvious act of annoyance. Her inability to give me a good comeback, simply responding with a bitter fuck you, it makes me smile because I won. "Babies shouldn't swear," I chide, looking down on her with subtle distaste in my gaze as my chest heaves forward and my ego inflates ever larger.

I look her over at her next question, eyes settling on her sickly little nubs that signify her inequality to me, that mark her as no more than the dirt beneath my hooves or flies buzzing about my head. And she had the audacity to question my loyalties to Mother, to demand to know why I did not defend her the way she did her own— I want to laugh at her for thinking she deserved to know my personal affairs. It was my business to keep, my secrets and thoughts to hold dearest— nothing that could be shared with someone so pointless (no pun intended). "Why would I tell you?" I stare her down, lip twitching with displeasure for her poking and prodding. She doesn't deserve to know anything about me, and if she thinks she does, she is very wrong.

Shit does not get recognition or compensation.

Shit shouldn't even talk (why am I even bothering with her?) I watch her carefully, stepping closer and arching her neck like she has a thing to prove, like that will intimidate me. She's very wrong (it seems to be a trend with her), because all I can do is seal my lips from letting free a mocking laugh. How stupid can she get?

Even the baby bird is trying to look frightening, but much like it's bonded it fails. If I so wanted, I could probably smash it under my hoof and watch the girl's face sour as she loses something she never should've gotten in the first place. But the chick is safe, perched on her withers after a struggle of clawing and climbing over thick grey skin. Its crimson battered fuzz makes it no more threatening, my own blood spattered chest puffing out as a challenge.

Her next sentence strikes a cord, stomach clenching as the venom drips from her young lips. My lungs burn as I inhale for a moment, taking in the fumes of her insult and wanting scream at her. How dare she! I make no motion that I was affected by her words other than the flick back of an ear— a sign of annoyance more than of hurt. Because she was right, her wild guess was correct. But I wouldn't admit to it, wouldn't tell her that Mother didn't want a god-sent child who was so small and weak. I grit my teeth, looking at her with slightly narrowed brows. "Look who's talking, I bet your mother didn't even want to save you. What if she wanted you dead?" Burn bitch.

"Talk."

kid