Miss. A jack’s flank slid off his mandible.
Then came the boom.
Kael’s stomach clenched. The rapid rush was a drug. It was a sound—a wet, percussive slap-slap-slap of thousands of tails—and a smell, sharp with blood and brine. His own long legs began to tremble. Not with fear. With the urge. feeding frenzy rapid rush
The moment the first chunk of bait hit the water, the surface shattered.
But the frenzy was turning. The water was beginning to glow pink with blood. The smaller mackerel, gorged and stupid, started to flee upward , breaching into the air where the gulls snatched them. Kael felt a sudden, cold pressure against his leg. A shadow. Not a fish. A shark. A blacktip, no longer than his wing, but built of pure gristle and bad intent. It didn't want Kael. It wanted the fish in Kael’s shadow. Kael’s stomach clenched
From the mangrove shoreline, a young heron named Kael watched with an eye that could count fish. He was lean, grey-feathered, and patient by nature. But patience was a luxury that evaporated the moment the tuna scraps hit the current.
It started with a single swirl—a dark shape coiling beneath the glassy skin of the lagoon. Then another. Then ten. Within seconds, the placid blue erupted into a churning, white-water apocalypse. This was the feeding frenzy: nature’s chaos engine switched to “overdrive.” His own long legs began to tremble
He launched.