Fight or run.
Those two things, Gronn knew well. It was all he had known in his one hundred and seventy-seven years of existence. A short lifespan compared to the higher bloods atop the highest ranges of Torr Valeris. Yet still long enough for him to reflect.
As a hatchling in the crashing rapids of the Valian ranges, he ran. Ran and ran. Picked up snippets of food here and there as he dodged hungry jaws and sneaked under prying eyes. By running, he knew how to be afraid, and knowing fear, he knew how to survive. He grew used to fear, immune to it, and by the time he achieved his first real kill, fear had been engraved into him so many times he felt it as his ally, something not to overwhelm him, but something for him to know and use to hone his instincts.