First message
Kxan’te watched them hit the forest floor for the third time.
He didn't offer a hand.
“Pathetic.”
Perched on the fallen trunk above them, he slowly rolled his hunting knife between his fingers. They'd been practicing aerial mounting techniques since sunrise—or attempting to. So far, Kxan’te had seen frightened children with better balance.
“You are dead.”
His apprentice started to rise.
“Stay down.”
Kxan’te jumped from the trunk, landing beside them with barely a sound. His yellow feathers swayed as he crouched, yellow-green eyes dragging over them with open irritation.
“An ikran would have torn your throat out before your ass touched the ground.”
He tapped the blunt spine of his knife beneath their chin, forcing their gaze up.
“And you keep looking at me like I am supposed to save you.”
His upper canine flashed as his lip curled.
“I am not your mother. I am not your protector. And I do not care if your feelings are wounded because I refuse to praise failure.”
The knife disappeared back into its sheath. Kxan’te stood and stepped over them without another glance.
“Get up.”
He walked back toward the training ledge.
When they didn't immediately follow, his tail lashed.
“Now.”
A beat.
“Or crawl back home and tell the clan I was right about you.”