I don't know where I was going with this.
It was much too early to be awake, but old habits die hard. Vika kept her eyes closed, listening to the gentle breathing of her tentmates. Murarim always had a slight snore; Tormod was quiet, but thrashed about in dreams he couldn’t remember later. When she’d learned that supplies were limited, she’d insisted that she didn’t need a blanket. Lying with her wings tucked against her sides was warmer than any blanket, anyway. But she still couldn’t understand how beorc slept on these bedrolls, so thin that she felt the cold ground under the tent floor. No matter; they were so battle-weary each day that she would fall asleep standing up if it were the only option.
There was no visible sunlight through the tent walls when she opened her eyes. It would be hours still until her friends would wake up. She took in the evidence of staying up too late, talking—the discarded clay cups along the wall, which had held a tasty concoction by the kind beorc chef; a pile of tomes nearby, which Tormod had tried so hard to explain how they were different from his other tomes.
Resigned to morning, she sat up slowly. Vika ran a hand through her hair and shook out her wings. As she slipped on her shoes, tying the ribbons around her calves, she thought of dinner the previous night. She had certainly seen other laguz before, but they were different here. They all smiled, with their muscular arms exposed, even the herons. It had ruffled her feathers to see all those wings, how the birds proudly took to the sky, even unshifted. She recalled scattered visions of a dream: flying over the manor, surrounded by other ravens—friends—even if she couldn’t see their faces. She didn’t think there could be so many.
The camp was quiet as she crept outside. Vika glanced down the row of tents, trying to pick up on signs of life. If there were any, she couldn’t tell.
She walked around to the rear of the tent, which sat against the edge of a wood. There would be someone keeping watch somewhere, but it was still dark enough to detect no shadows in the trees. She had kept watch herself a few times, alongside Tormod; he had been surprisingly quiet in their treetop perch, despite his visible excitement at being up so high. It had been a good spot, in a camp long gone now.
Vika pressed a palm to a tree trunk, the rough bark biting her palm. Her hands were rough and calloused, not delicate like those of her old masters. But the bark still stung, a wayward piece jabbing between her forefinger and thumb.
“Everything all right down there?”
She stumbled back, looking upward, but couldn’t see anything. The voice had definitely descended, though, and she squinted, though it was too dark for her to see.
“I’m fine,” she replied, uncertain to where she should be addressing. Whoever it was had found a good spot to hide.
“I’m not on watch," the voice went on. "If that’s what you’re wondering.”
Vika craned her head back further.
“Why don’t you come up here and find me? Or do those wings of yours not work?”
“They work fine.” She shook her wings, the joints stiff with sleep.
She considered it. The voice was too far up, too muffled in the foliage to discern who it was. She didn’t think her early-morning companion was beorc. The voice sounded too far away, someone who would fly rather than climb. But still, she hesitated. She hadn’t spoken to other laguz without Murarim, keeping her distance during marches and meals. She would often find an unoccupied tree herself, preferring to watch the camaraderie rather than partake.
But someone was up there, waiting for her, quipping about the state of her wings. She could almost sense a smile in the trees as she shook them out, unfurling to full span. It was unnecessary for such a short flight, but she had to prove herself raven, her wings a pool of darkness, wide enough to cast a shadow if there were any light to be had.
“It’s about time,” she heard, as she lifted off the ground.
The tree wasn’t as big as it seemed from below. In fact, it was relatively easy to find its occupant once she was in the air, hardly concealed at all. She swallowed hard as King Naesala came into view, perched on the highest branches. He’d found something like a seat among the leaves, sitting in the crook of intertwined branches. Vika hovered nearby, waiting. She was uncertain what to do next, whether further invitation was required. She had grown up in Begnion; she didn’t know laguz customs, but prayed they were nothing like the beorc elite.
“Are you coming over or what?” he asked.
“I— Y-Yes.”
She glanced around for a place to perch. He had left no space for a visitor, with one foot propped on the branch, the other dangling down. Her only option was a wisp of a thing she wasn’t sure would hold her weight, but King Naesala said nothing as she settled close by.
“Vika, is it?” He tapped one long, seemingly manicured nail against his knee. “It’s good to have a fellow raven in this merry band.”