The screaming woke Armand up. 

He bolted upright, looked around, then relaxed again with a sigh. Across the room, Griffon's sheepskin blanket rustled. His wings fluttered as he turned over. He was awake, even if he pretended like he wasn't. Probably just another nightmare, the kind that happened all the time. The kind that Armand was used to waking up to, because they'd happened as far back as he could remember.

The tent was dark inside, save for a finger of dawn that oozed in through the partially opened tent flap. Armand shifted around in his covers for a few moments. He grumbled and ran his hands through his hair, then wrapped them around his chest. The chill morning air made him want to hide underneath his pile of blankets.

But it was too late now, to go back to sleep. He waited for Griffon to settle before he crawled out of his cocoon. The cold zapped at him as soon as he emerged. He rubbed his hands together to try to chase it away. Soon, the thin layer of frost on the ground outside would burn away, and the air would get so hot that breathing it burned. But now was the perfect time of day to get some practice in.

He pulled on a shirt and grabbed his sword from where it leaned against one of the support posts. It was old, and it had seen better days, but Armand took care of it anyway. Kept the blade sharp and oiled, and wrapped the handle in new strips of leather when they became worn. It was the only thing he had that was his.

Griffon turned again as he crept out of the tent. He let the flap go as softly as he could, then stepped into the quiet outside. Most of the packing had already finished. Wagons were stacked high with boxes, in towers that looked like they might tip at any moment. Tonight, the night guard would take over and the caravan would groan into motion like an old dog stretching its bones. He'd have to find a place to sleep among them.

He wandered between them until he came to a bare patch toward the edge of the caravan, where no one would bother him. He unsheathed his sword and began a daily ritual, one he'd undertaken since he was too young to remember why or how. His muscles uncoiled like a cat getting up from a nap.

His breath came in easy waves, and his movement found rhythm with his heartbeat. His feet flowed over the dry earth like a snake slips through water. He ducked and parried with his invisible partner until nothing else mattered but the sound of his breath and the sword in his hand.

Something approached from behind one of the wagons, their movement caught in the edge of Armand's vision. The current drained from Armand's arms. He froze in place, but did not sheath his weapon. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge as his hands wrapped more tightly around the sword.

"Do you know where the guard tent is?"

The voice may as well have been the screech of a screaming child. Rannok's face appeared from around the bend, wings fluttering slightly, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. There was no way his back was healed yet. Armand could see the tattered strips of bandages poking from beneath his shirt. Armand let his sword fall into one hand before resuming his practice.

"Did you hear me?"

"Nope," Armand responded, even though he knew where the guard tent was. He readjusted his grip, then changed his form like Rannok hadn't said anything at all. "It's better not to sneak up on people when they're practicing with a live blade."

Rannok stared at him, slack-jawed, and Armand continued to pay him no mind. He wasn't used to spectators, but it didn't bother him one bit if Rannok watched. It wasn't like he'd learn anything anyway.

"I know you know where it is. What are you even doing?"

Armand rolled his eyes. "Eating breakfast."

"It doesn't look like it to me," Rannok replied. He folded his arms and stared openly, like Armand was some kind of strange animal in a cage.

"I'm practicing. What does it look like I'm doing?"

Rannok pondered this for a moment. "Oh, because you don't have wings yet?"

Armand's arms stiffened, like someone had filled his joints with lead. He swung the weapon again. It landed in the dirt with a small 'thwack'.

"That's none of your business. If you could find someone else to bother, that would be great."

"Fine, whatever, I just wanted some help. Guess that's too much to ask." Rannok stalked off, muttering something underneath his breath that sounded vaguely like a curse word. Armand went back to pretending he didn't exist.

By the time he finished, the sun had come up, and the ground had stopped crunching when he stepped on it. Armand wiped his brow with his sleeve of his shirt, then sheathed his weapon. If he got really lucky, Rannok would have given up before he even found the guard tent.

When he got back, he found Griffon rolling a bedroll and tying it into place with linen string. They exchanged a nod in greeting as Armand picked up his own.

"You coming to breakfast?"

"No, I'll get something later, I have to finish packing," Griffon replied. Armand watched him for a moment, silent, the question he'd been meaning to ask itching in the back of his mind.

"Has Aegan said anything about--"

"—The answer was no yesterday, and it's still no. You can't go on scouting trips, you'll get in the way. There's plenty of stuff to do here, so stop bothering me about it."

Armand did his best to iron any signs of annoyance out of his expression, but it didn't seem to be working. He laughed a little, then dragged the tip of the sheathed weapon across the dirt.

"Not really. There's only so many hours in a day that I can practice."

Griffon let out a heavy sigh, then rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. Armand winced and picked the sword back up again.

"Look, I'll be careful not to get in the way. Can't you just ask him?"

"You're lucky you're in the guard at all, Armand," Griffon replied, his voice so heavy it made Armand flinch. "You don't have wings. That's not my fault. Learn to deal with it. Go ask Aegan yourself if you're so concerned about stuff you can do. I'm sure he has tons of ideas."

Armand's eyebrows creased into a frown. He'd gotten the sneaking suspicion, ever since he was little, that Aegan really didn't want him around anyway. He'd only taken him in because of Griffon. They both knew there was no way Armand would ever approach him for anything.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Go eat breakfast. I'll think about it," Griffon said.

Armand softened, even though 'I'll think about it' almost always meant 'no'. He'd let Griffon do all the packing, then, if that was the way he was going to be.

The scent of porridge greeted him like an old friend as he entered the tent where they took their meals. Today, it smelled like someone had added some cinnamon to the pot. The scouting parties must have come back successful for once. He didn't begrudge a less-terrible-tasting breakfast, even if he had no part in it, and lined up with the others.

A sea of wings dotted the room, awash with different shades and hues, and Armand knew almost everyone from theirs. A young boy that had recently joined them sported sparrow's wings. An older gentleman who Armand had known since he was a boy had ones that were butter yellow.

But one stood out among the rest. They were bright red, and below them trailed the ends of bandages. Armand resolved to find who told him where the guard tent was, then pour that person's flask out while they slept.

He grabbed the ladle and spooned himself some of the gluey-looking mixture boiling in a copper pot above the fire. A string of it stayed attached as he lifted the ladle back out of his bowl. Armand resisted the urge to make a face, then took a seat on the floor. His eyelids felt heavy. If only he hadn't been woken up so early again.

Armand's name carried across the sea of chattering voices. His blood turned to ice as he turned toward it and looked up across the room. Aegan stood, beckoning to him, with Rannok by his side. The back of Armand's neck prickled. He sighed and set the bowl down again before walking across the room.

"Yes?"

Armand forced himself to meet Aegan's eyes. The man had a way of looming ominously, like a ghost you found hovering over your dinner, though he wasn't that much taller than Armand. His short-cropped and mostly brown hair had begun to grey around the edges. A massive pair of downy, white wings jutted from his shoulder blades.

"Rannok has asked to join the guard. Unfortunately, everyone is tied up since we lost four last week."

"What does that have to do with me," Armand asked.

"Rannok has had no formal training. Someone needs to teach him to use a sword."

Armand suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, because Aegan commanded more respect than that. He shifted his gaze toward Rannok instead. Rannok stared at the floor, mouth pressed into a fearful line. Armand wanted to punch him. He didn't need this. Not this early in the morning. Not now.

"I can't teach him to do anything else," Armand replied. And by anything else, he meant flying. It took hours and hours of practice. Of exercising the muscles in your shoulders and back until you got it right. Almost no one was good at it, and it was something he couldn't teach.

"I know, your brother will teach him when he has the time. If anyone else was available I wouldn't even be asking, so you can rest easy that this will not happen again. For once, be useful and do what I ask of you."

Armand flinched a bit, but tried not to show it. Rannok's mouth curved upwards into a smirk. It was very tempting to grab his throat and squeeze until he stopped smiling.

"Okay," Armand said.

"It's only until we can find someone else, Gods know you're only good for making sure no one steals our supplies," Aegan said. He patted Rannok on the shoulder and walked away without so much as a goodbye.

Armand didn't wait to see what Rannok would say. He returned to his bowl of porridge and tried not to sulk. This was going to be a very, very long trip indeed.  

---

Armand has kind of a tough life, huh? Do you feel sorry for him? What do you think of how Aegan and his brother treat him?