The practice sword hung heavy in Rannok's hand. He'd had it for a week now, and its lack of a blade was beginning to grate on him. But he'd do it today. He'd earn a real one instead of a glorified stick, even if it killed him.

The sun had begun to slide down the sky like a melting candle. Soon, the caravan would come to life with creaking wagon wheels and plodding camels. Rannok walked with a purposeful step toward the meeting place Armand had specified.

There was no one there, on the bare patch of ground between white-topped wagons, save for a camel that watched him with indifference in its eyes while it chewed its cud. He unsheathed his wooden sword. It caught as he drew it, and Rannok swore under his breath. He coiled himself like he'd been shown, like a loaded spring, and threw himself forward.

The sword nearly flew out of his hands.

He readjusted his grip and raised his arms. His shoulder muscles groaned in protest. One. He shifted his feet so they were angled against one another. Two. He took a step forward and twisted his back. Three. He fumbled and dropped the sword. He looked around to see if anyone saw. The camel went back to chewing on its cud.

"At least you're practicing."

Rannok jumped and dropped the sword again. It clattered to the ground before he could catch it. He shrugged as Armand stepped into the little clearing and undid his real weapon from his belt. He dropped it before he picked up a wooden one.

"I'll figure it out,” Rannok said.

"Your form is shit. Your feet should be evenly spaced, not sprawled out like a chicken's." Armand kicked a little harder than necessary at one of Rannok's legs. He moved it out a half inch, wincing as the muscles in his calves complained at him.

"How's this?"

"It'd be better if you practiced more often." Armand drew his sword and checked the blade over. Rannok's shoulders tensed. He folded his wings in a little closer to his body and watched him without turning his head.

"I have other shit to do, courtesy of your brother." Rannok tried hard to keep the sword's handle from sliding through his fingers as he brought it down. Armand circled him like a cat stares down a dragonfly. Rannok shivered and took a half step away.

"Screwing around isn't stuff to do, I've heard the way you practice flying," Armand said.

"I just fledged!" Rannok ducked out of the way. He remembered Griffon telling him how far he'd come just in the last week. Had he lied? Heat rushed to his face, but there wasn't time to think about it before Armand sent his sword flying at Rannok's face, which made his foot catch in the sand and nearly sent him sprawling.

"Stop! I need a break." Rannok held up a hand.

"Flying's instinct, you don't need to learn it." Armand went back to circling. Rannok turned his head only to find Armand had stepped around so they were facing each other again. He took a step back and fought to catch his breath. The space around him shrank until he wasn't sure where to put his feet.

"How would you possibly know that if you don’t have any wings?"

Armand's face twisted, and his eyes darkened in a way that made Rannok scurry backward. He raised his wooden sword just in time to keep Armand's from smashing into his cheekbone. Rannok's body lurched backwards with the force of the blow. He stuck a foot out to brace himself, but too late. Armand's weapon came down hard on his shoulder.

"What the hell!"

Rannok stopped to rub the spot where the weapon made contact. Armand moved, quick as a snake, off to his left. Rannok's eyes widened. His breath caught in his throat as the sword bit into the fragile bone of his wing. Rannok stifled a scream and held his sword up in a way he hoped would protect vital organs.

"I said I needed a break!"

"Nope. Stop talking and maybe you wouldn’t get hit so hard."

Rannok readjusted his grip and muttered some choice words under his breath. The tip of Armand's sword swiped at his face. He turned out of the way and the next strike barely missed his back.

"I don't think the idea was to beat the shit out of each other." Rannok stepped into a better position and took a swipe at Armand's ribcage. Armand parried it easily and returned the blow like he didn't need to think about it.

"I wouldn't even be helping you if Aegan wasn't making me. Pay attention." Armand swung again, hard. Solid wood smashed into Rannok's forearm, and pain blossomed beneath his skin. He swore loudly and scrambled out of the way. Armand came at him again. Rannok's heart caught in his throat and hammered there like a drum. Blood pounded inside his ears.

He flung his sword out in front of him, desperate to keep Armand away. One of the blows wanted to connect with the other boy's face, but he slipped away like a shadow and appeared behind Rannok like nothing had happened. Rannok's eyes searched for somewhere, anywhere to escape to, but everywhere he stepped, Armand got there first. Rannok held his sword up in front of him.

"Stop!"

Armand didn't stop. Rannok parried the next blow and held his hands up in a frantic bid for cover, but Armand hunted him like a rabbit. Every trap he escaped sprang a new one, until his lungs burned and his legs threatened to give out underneath him. Armand caught the edge of his sword and flung it away. Rannok watched, terrified, as it skidded away from him.

He raised his hands in surrender and scrambled like a coward out of Armand's reach. Something caught one of his ankles. He lurched forward, and his chest slammed into the ground. The wind hissed out of his lungs like an angry cat. Something heavy connected with his ribcage. Rannok let out a muffled cry. His arms rushed to cover his face while another blow slammed into his back.

"Stop!"

Rannok couldn't pinpoint the source of the shouting, only that this time, it wasn’t his own throat making that sound. The next thing he knew, Griffon stood between them, holding Armand by the hood of his cloak.

"What is wrong with you? Are you trying to kill him?"

"How's he supposed to learn anything if he can't get out of the way?" Armand spat. Rannok peeked from between his fingers. Armand's arms flailed wildly as he pointed an angry finger at him.

Griffon sighed like it pained him, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Go unpack. Now."

Armand turned without another word and stalked off. Rannok watched his retreating back like he might turn around and change his mind at any moment. Heat crept up his neck while his stomach sank so low he thought he might disappear into the ground. He sniffled quietly, then dabbed at his face with his clothes.

"Are you okay?" Griffon held out a hand to help him up off the ground.

"I'm fine," Rannok snapped. He glanced back in the direction Armand had gone. If he wanted to play this way, fine. They could make each other's lives hard if they wanted. Rannok was better at it.

Griffon looked at him as though he were an injured puppy. Rannok's face got hotter. At least at home, no one had felt sorry for him.

"Stay away from each other. I don't want any more trouble. From either of you."

“He’s supposed to be training me,” Rannok pointed out.

“I’ll deal with it,” Griffon replied, in a voice that was gruff and hard to argue with.

"Sure," Rannok responded, though he didn't mean it even a little. 'Stay away from each other' wasn't really in his repertoire. He certainly couldn't fight Armand, not unless he wanted to wind up bloody in a ditch somewhere, but everyone had their weak spots. He'd find Armand's, and he'd make him sorry.

The wagon was already assembled, by the time Rannok got back to it. The bunkmate he rarely saw was gone, which was a small favor. The man was the caravan’s medic, which meant he rarely slept here anyway.

He went inside and pulled his shirt off. A new bruise crawled its way across his ribcage, already dark red and angry. He touched it and winced. Sword-shaped patches of green and yellow made a patchwork on his arms where he'd been hit earlier in the week.

Something rustled behind him. Rannok froze as his bunkmate folded his bright-orange wings and ducked inside. Gabriel's eyes widened in alarm. Rannok grimaced as he tried to pull his shirt back on. He did his best to look unbothered as the fabric lit fire to his skin.

"What happened to you?"

"Nothing," Rannok answered. He picked at the fabric of his sleeve and stared at the wagon's opposite wall.

"That doesn't look like nothing. You should let me take a look at it. Did someone kick you?"

"Nobody kicked me." Rannok folded his arms across his chest, even though the movement made him want to scream. Pain shot up his back as his wings mashed against the ground. He breathed out slowly, which hurt, and shifted to try to find a more comfortable position.

"You look pretty rough, Rannok."

"I said I'm fine!"

“Okay.” Gabriel raised his hands. “But don’t complain later when you can’t walk. I’m just dropping by to get my notebook. I’ll be in the medic tent if you need me.”

Rannok didn’t respond. Instead, he collapsed onto his sheepskin pad with a wince and ignored any possible further pleas from Gabriel. It was none of his business anyway, and he wanted to try to sleep before his muscles started to stiffen up again. Tomorrow he'd figure out how to make Armand pay for this.

He fell into an uneasy sleep that was occasionally punctuated by a stabbing in his chest.