The Second Flight limped forward, a stretch of cotton bound around his torn calf. He wouldn’t meet his High Feather’s eyes and shame burnt in his face, hotter than the hidden sun.

‘They had archers in the trees, softened us up before we knew they were there, High Feather. Must have taken out at least half of us with one flight of arrows. Then they swung down from the trees and came in to finish us with spears. I fought my way clear, injured two, but I could see they weren’t taking prisoners, so I ran. No one else was getting out; they were mired in too deep. I would’ve given my life gladly if the cause wasn’t already lost.’

‘As Second Flight, you should’ve been at the front. You should’ve been the first to die,’ Pilos snarled and spat into the dirt. ‘And yet here you are, the only survivor.’ He poked the man hard in the chest; Sarn flushed anew but didn’t respond. ‘I gave you this task to allow you to prove yourself after you led my scouts into an ambush. And here we are, and you … led my scouts into an ambush. Once can be forgiven, Sarn. But only once. I had thought you a Whisper; I had thought you a leader. Instead you are but a half-blood macaw, and you will march with the rest of your kind and fight with the rest of your kind. Give me your arm.’

‘High Feather, please,’ Sarn began.

‘Feather Calan,’ Pilos said softly and she caught Sarn in a chokehold and put a sharp sliver of obsidian beneath his eye. The Whisper stilled.

‘Your arm,’ he repeated and Sarn extended it. He was wheezing and his face was red, but his eyes pleaded. Pilos ignored them. The tattoo was just above the inside of his elbow – the little chulul. The mark of the Whisper.

‘Please,’ Sarn begged again, one last time. Pilos took the obsidian from Calan and slashed it through the tattoo, cutting the cat’s head free, and then its tail. Sarn yelled and writhed, but Calan tightened her grip and choked off his protests. The blood was hot and fresh and pattered into the leaf-litter.

‘Do you know where Flight Ilandeh’s chulul is, Sarn?’ Pilos demanded. The man was gasping at the pain, but he managed to shake his head in Calan’s grip.

‘The inside of her wrist. She told me when she made Flight the reason – so that if she ever dishonoured herself or displeased her High Feather, the destruction of the tattoo would kill her. That’s how much it means. That’s what a Flight is. Now get that seen to and make your way to the regular macaws. No stitches,’ he warned, for he wouldn’t be the first disgraced Whisper to try and save the tattoo. ‘Cleaned and bound, no more.’