Gilded Bay i was born in a lighthouse, where my mother lay

yunxu is a small presence most times, on the tiny side even for the coast, barely there on the fringes – watching and listening and moving with a soldier's regimented precision until something flips the nebulous switch demanding anything but. he doesn’t consider himself violent, but he won't deny the fact.

he isn’t there yet, but he arcs his back and walks with stiff legs along the sand, limbs loosening, displaying the washed-clean seafoam white of his fur like a shark’s fin over the waves. water laps eagerly at his paws. the pod notices; heads raise, short barks carrying across the bay.

his hunting partner slides up behind them. farther inland, blurred to a squid-ink smudge in the rain. seasalt rises in yunxu’s nose; on its heels, the phantom edge of blood.

yunxu waits until she is close. he paces further and further from shore, turning in slow loops back and forth to keep the seals from the water. hunting does not bother him; hunting with a stranger does, but the steady crash of the waves settles his nerves. when she stops at the edge of the bay, he is ready.

kicking sand from his heels, yunxu blanks his mind and sweeps in.