Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros Free Chapter 1

CHAPTER
ONE
Conscription Day is always the deadliest. Maybe that’s why the sunrise is
especially beautiful this morning—because I know it might be my last.
I tighten the straps of my heavy canvas rucksack and trudge up the wide
staircase of the stone fortress I call home. My chest heaves with exertion,
my lungs burning by the time I reach the stone corridor leading to General
Sorrengail’s office. This is what six months of intense physical training has
given me—the ability to barely climb six flights of stairs with a thirtypound pack.
I’m so fucked.
The thousands of twenty-year-olds waiting outside the gate to enter their
chosen quadrant for service are the smartest and strongest in Navarre.
Hundreds of them have been preparing for the Riders Quadrant, the chance
to become one of the elite, since birth. I’ve had exactly six months.
The expressionless guards lining the wide hallway at the top of the
landing avoid my eyes as I pass, but that’s nothing new. Besides, being
ignored is the best possible scenario for me.
Basgiath War College isn’t known for being kind to…well, anyone, even
those of us whose mothers are in command.
Every Navarrian officer, whether they choose to be schooled as healers,
scribes, infantry, or riders, is molded within these cruel walls over three
years, honed into weapons to secure our mountainous borders from the
violent invasion attempts of the kingdom of Poromiel and their gryphon
riders. The weak don’t survive here, especially not in the Riders Quadrant.
The dragons make sure of that.
“You’re sending her to die!” a familiar voice thunders through the
general’s thick wooden door, and I gasp. There’s only one woman on the
Continent foolish enough to raise her voice to the general, but she’s
supposed to be on the border with the Eastern Wing. Mira.
There’s a muffled response from the office, and I reach for the door
handle.
“She doesn’t stand a chance,” Mira shouts as I force the heavy door open
and the weight of my pack shifts forward, nearly taking me down. Shit.
The general curses from behind her desk, and I grab onto the back of the
crimson-upholstered couch to catch my balance.
“Damn it, Mom, she can’t even handle her rucksack,” Mira snaps,
rushing to my side.
“I’m fine!” My cheeks heat with mortification, and I force myself
upright. She’s been back for five minutes and is already trying to save me.
Because you need saving, you fool.
I don’t want this. I don’t want any part of this Riders Quadrant shit. It’s
not like I have a death wish. I would have been better off failing the
admission test to Basgiath and going straight to the army with the majority
of conscripts. But I can handle my rucksack, and I will handle myself.
“Oh, Violet.” Worried brown eyes look down at me as strong hands brace
my shoulders.
“Hi, Mira.” A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. She might be here
to say her goodbyes, but I’m just glad to see my sister for the first time in
years.
Her eyes soften, and her fingers flex on my shoulders like she might pull
me into a hug, but she steps back and turns to stand at my side, facing our
mother. “You can’t do this.”
“It’s already done.” Mom shrugs, the lines of her fitted black uniform
rising and falling with the motion.
I scoff. So much for the hope of a reprieve. Not that I ever should have
expected, or even hoped for, an ounce of mercy from a woman who’s been
made famous for her lack of it.
“Then undo it,” Mira seethes. “She’s spent her whole life training to
become a scribe. She wasn’t raised to be a rider.”
“Well, she certainly isn’t you, is she, Lieutenant Sorrengail?” Mom
braces her hands on the immaculate surface of her desk and leans in slightly
as she stands, looking us over with narrowed, appraising eyes that mirror
the dragons’ carved into the furniture’s massive legs. I don’t need the
prohibited power of mind reading to know exactly what she sees.
At twenty-six years old, Mira’s a younger version of our mother. She’s
tall, with strong, powerful muscles toned from years of sparring and
hundreds of hours spent on the back of her dragon. Her skin practically
glows with health, and her golden-brown hair is sheared short for combat in
the same style as Mom’s. But more than looks, she carries the same
arrogance, the unwavering conviction that she belongs in the sky. She’s a
rider through and through.
She’s everything I’m not, and the disapproving shake of Mom’s head says
she agrees. I’m too short. Too frail. What curves I do have should be
muscle, and my traitorous body makes me embarrassingly vulnerable.
Mom walks toward us, her polished black boots gleaming in the mage
lights that flicker from the sconces. She picks up the end of my long braid,
scoffs at the section just above my shoulders where the brown strands start
to lose their warmth of color and slowly fade to a steely, metallic silver by
the ends, and then drops it. “Pale skin, pale eyes, pale hair.” Her gaze
siphons every ounce of my confidence down to the marrow in my bones.
“It’s like that fever stole all your coloring along with your strength.” Grief
flashes through her eyes and her brows furrow. “I told him not to keep you
in that library.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard her curse the sickness that nearly killed
her while she was pregnant with me or the library Dad made my second
home once she’d been stationed here at Basgiath as an instructor and he as a
scribe.
“I love that library,” I counter. It’s been more than a year since his heart
finally failed, and the Archives are still the only place that feels like home
in this giant fortress, the only place where I still feel my father’s presence.
“Spoken like the daughter of a scribe,” Mom says quietly, and I see it—
the woman she was while Dad was alive. Softer. Kinder…at least for her
family.
“I am the daughter of a scribe.” My back screams at me, so I let my pack
slip from my shoulders, guiding it to the floor, and take my first full breath
since leaving my room.
Mom blinks, and that softer woman is gone, leaving only the general.
“You’re the daughter of a rider, you are twenty years old, and today is
Conscription Day. I let you finish your tutoring, but like I told you last
spring, I will not watch one of my children enter the Scribe Quadrant,
Violet.”
“Because scribes are so far beneath riders?” I grumble, knowing perfectly
well that riders are the top of the social and military hierarchy. It helps that
their bonded dragons roast people for fun.
“Yes!” Her customary composure slips. “And if you dare walk into the
tunnel toward the Scribe Quadrant today, I will rip you out by that
ridiculous braid and put you on the parapet myself.”
My stomach turns over.
“Dad wouldn’t want this!” Mira argues, color flushing up her neck.
“I loved your father, but he’s dead,” Mom says, as if giving the weather
report. “I doubt he wants much these days.”
I suck in a breath but keep my mouth shut. Arguing will get me nowhere.
She’s never listened to a damned thing I’ve had to say before, and today is
no different.
“Sending Violet into the Riders Quadrant is tantamount to a death
sentence.” Guess Mira isn’t done arguing. Mira’s never done arguing with
Mom, and the frustrating thing about it is that Mom has always respected
her for it. Double standard for the win. “She’s not strong enough, Mom!
She’s already broken her arm this year, she sprains some joint every other
week, and she’s not tall enough to mount any dragon big enough to keep her
alive in a battle.”
“Seriously, Mira?” What. The. Hell. My fingernails bite into my palms as
I curl my hands into fists. Knowing my chances of survival are minimal is
one thing. Having my sister throw my inadequacies in my face is another.
“Are you calling me weak?”
“No.” Mira squeezes my hand. “Just…fragile.”
“That’s not any better.” Dragons don’t bond fragile women. They
incinerate them.
“So she’s small.” Mom scans me up and down, taking in the generous fit
of the cream belted tunic and pants I selected this morning for my potential
execution.
I snort. “Are we just listing my faults now?”
“I never said it was a fault.” Mom turns to my sister. “Mira, Violet deals
with more pain before lunch than you do in an entire week. If any of my
children is capable of surviving the Riders Quadrant, it’s her.”
My eyebrows rise. That sounded an awful lot like a compliment, but with
Mom, I’m never quite sure.
“How many rider candidates die on Conscription Day, Mom? Forty?
Fifty? Are you that eager to bury another child?” Mira seethes.
I cringe as the temperature in the room plummets, courtesy of Mom’s
storm-wielding signet power she channels through her dragon, Aimsir.
My chest tightens at the memory of my brother. No one has dared to
mention Brennan or his dragon in the five years since they died fighting the
Tyrrish rebellion in the south. Mom tolerates me and respects Mira, but she
loved Brennan.
Dad did, too. His chest pains started right after Brennan’s death.
Mom’s jaw tightens and her eyes threaten retribution as she glares at
Mira.
My sister swallows but holds her own in the staring competition.
“Mom,” I start. “She didn’t mean—”
“Get. Out. Lieutenant.” Mom’s words are soft puffs of steam in the frigid
office. “Before I report you absent from your unit without leave.”
Mira straightens her posture, nods once, and pivots with military
precision, then strides for the door without another word, grabbing a small
rucksack on the way out.
It’s the first time Mom and I have been alone in months.
Her eyes meet mine, and the temperature rises as she takes a deep breath.
“You scored in the top quarter for speed and agility during the entrance
exam. You’ll do just fine. All Sorrengails do just fine.” She skims the backs
of her fingers down my cheek, barely grazing my skin. “So much like your
father,” she whispers before clearing her throat and backing up a few steps.
Guess there are no meritorious service awards for emotional availability.
“I won’t be able to acknowledge you for the next three years,” she says,
sitting back on the edge of her desk. “Since, as commanding general of
Basgiath, I’ll be your far superior officer.”
“I know.” It’s the least of my concerns, considering she barely
acknowledges me now.
“You won’t get any special treatment just because you’re my daughter,
either. If anything, they’ll come after you harder to make you prove
yourself.” She arches an eyebrow.
“Well aware.” Good thing I’ve been training with Major Gillstead for the
last several months since Mom made her decree.
She sighs and forces a smile. “Then I guess I’ll see you in the valley at
Threshing, candidate. Though you’ll be a cadet by sunset, I suppose.”
Or dead.
Neither of us says it.
“Good luck, Candidate Sorrengail.” She moves back behind her desk,
effectively dismissing me.
“Thank you, General.” I heft my pack onto my shoulders and walk out of
her office. A guard closes the door behind me.
“She’s batshit crazy,” Mira says from the center of the hallway, right
between where two guards are positioned.
“They’ll tell her you said that.”
“Like they don’t already know,” she grinds out through clenched teeth.
“Let’s go. We only have an hour before all candidates have to report, and I
saw thousands waiting outside the gates when I flew over.” She starts
walking, leading me down the stone staircase and through the hallways to
my room.
Well…it was my room.
In the thirty minutes I’ve been gone, all my personal items have been
packed into crates that now sit stacked in the corner. My stomach sinks to
the hardwood floor. She had my entire life boxed.
“She’s fucking efficient, I’ll give you that,” Mira mutters before turning
my way, her gaze passing over me in open assessment. “I was hoping I’d be
able to talk her out of it. You were never meant for the Riders Quadrant.”
“So you’ve mentioned.” I lift an eyebrow at her. “Repeatedly.”
“Sorry.” She winces, dropping to the ground and emptying her pack.
“What are you doing?”
“What Brennan did for me,” she says softly, and grief lodges in my
throat. “Can you use a sword?”
I shake my head. “Too heavy. I’m pretty quick with daggers, though.”
Really damned quick. Lightning quick. What I lack in strength, I make up
for in speed.
“I figured. Good. Now, drop your pack and take off those horrible boots.”
She sorts through the items she’s brought, handing me new boots and a
black uniform. “Put these on.”
“What’s wrong with my pack?” I ask but drop my rucksack anyway. She
immediately opens it, ripping out everything I’d carefully packed. “Mira!
That took me all night!”
“You’re carrying way too much, and your boots are a death trap. You’ll
slip right off the parapet with those smooth soles. I had a set of rubberbottomed rider boots made for you just in case, and this, my dear Violet, is
the worst case.” Books start flying, landing in the vicinity of the crate.
“Hey, I can only take what I can carry, and I want those!” I lunge for the
next book before she has a chance to toss it, barely managing to save my
favorite collection of dark fables.
“Are you willing to die for it?” she asks, her eyes turning hard.
“I can carry it!” This is all wrong. I’m supposed to be dedicating my life
to books, not throwing them in the corner to lighten my rucksack.
“No. You can’t. You’re barely thrice the weight of the pack, the parapet is
roughly eighteen inches wide, two hundred feet aboveground, and last time
I looked, those were rain clouds moving in. They’re not going to give you a
rain delay just because the bridge might get a little slick, sis. You’ll fall.
You’ll die. Now, are you going to listen to me? Or are you going to join the
other dead candidates at tomorrow morning’s roll call?” There’s no trace of
my older sister in the rider before me. This woman is shrewd, cunning, and
a touch cruel. This is the woman who survived all three years with only one
scar, the one her own dragon gave her during Threshing. “Because that’s all
you’ll be. Another tombstone. Another name scorched in stone. Ditch the
books.”
“Dad gave this one to me,” I murmur, pressing the book against my chest.
Maybe it’s childish, just a collection of stories that warn us against the lure
of magic, and even demonize dragons, but it’s all I have left.
She sighs. “Is it that old book of folklore about dark-wielding vermin and
their wyvern? Haven’t you read it a thousand times already?”
“Probably more,” I admit. “And they’re venin, not vermin.”
“Dad and his allegories,” she says. “Just don’t try to channel power
without being a bonded rider and red-eyed monsters won’t hide under your
bed, waiting to snatch you away on their two-legged dragons to join their
dark army.” She retrieves the last book I packed from the rucksack and
hands it to me. “Ditch the books. Dad can’t save you. He tried. I tried.
Decide, Violet. Are you going to die a scribe? Or live as a rider?”
I glance down at the books in my arms and make my choice. “You’re a
pain in the ass.” I put the fables in the corner but keep the other tome in my
hands as I face my sister.
“A pain in the ass who is going to keep you alive. What’s that one for?”
she challenges.
“Killing people.” I hand it back to her.
A slow smile spreads across her face. “Good. You can keep that one.
Now, get changed while I sort out the rest of this mess.” The bell rings high
above us. We have forty-five minutes.
I dress quickly, but everything feels like it belongs to someone else,
though it’s obviously tailored to my size. My tunic is replaced by a tightfitting black shirt that covers my arms, and my breezy pants are exchanged
for leather ones that hug every curve. Then she laces me into a vest-style
corset over the shirt.
“Keeps it from rubbing,” she explains.
“Like the gear riders wear into battle.” Have to admit, the clothes are
pretty badass, even if I feel like an imposter. Gods, this is really happening.
“Exactly, because that’s what you’re doing. Going into battle.”
The combination of leather and a fabric I don’t recognize covers me from
collarbone to just below my waist, wrapping over my breasts and crossing
up and over my shoulders. I finger the hidden sheaths sewn diagonally
along the rib cage.
“For your daggers.”
“I only have four.” I grab them from the pile on the floor.
“You’ll earn more.”
I slide my weapons into the sheaths, as though my ribs themselves have
become weapons. The design is ingenious. Between my ribs and the sheaths
at my thighs, the blades are easily accessible.
I barely recognize myself in the mirror. I look like a rider. I still feel like a
scribe.
Minutes later, half of what I packed is piled onto the crates. She’s
repacked my rucksack, discarding anything deemed unnecessary and almost
everything sentimental while word-vomiting advice about how to survive in
the quadrant. Then she surprises me by doing the most sentimental thing
ever—telling me to sit between her knees so she can braid my hair into a
crown.
It’s like I’m a kid again instead of a full-grown woman, but I do it.
“What is this?” I test the material just above my heart, scratching it with
my fingernail.
“Something I designed,” she explains, tugging my braid painfully tight
against my scalp. “I had it specially made for you with Teine’s scales sewn
in, so be careful with it.”
“Dragon scales?” I jerk my head back to look at her. “How? Teine is
huge.”
“I happen to know a rider whose powers can make big things very small.”
A devious smile plays across her lips. “And smaller things…much, much
bigger.”
I roll my eyes. Mira’s always been more vocal about her men than I have
been…about all two of them. “I mean, how much bigger?”
She laughs, then tugs on my braid. “Head forward. You should have cut
your hair.” She pulls the strands tight against my head and resumes
weaving. “It’s a liability in sparring and in battle, not to mention being a
giant target. No one else has hair that fades out to silver like this, and they’ll
already be aiming for you.”
“You know very well the natural pigment seems to gradually abandon it
no matter the length.” My eyes are just as indecisive, a light hazel of
varying blues and ambers that never seems to favor either actual color.
“Besides, other than everyone else’s concern for the shade, my hair is the
only thing about me that’s perfectly healthy. Cutting it would feel like I’m
punishing my body for finally doing something well, and it’s not like I feel
the need to hide who I am.”
“You’re not.” Mira yanks on my braid, pulling my head back, and our
eyes lock. “You’re the smartest woman I know. Don’t forget that. Your
brain is your best weapon. Outsmart them, Violet. Do you hear me?”
I nod, and she loosens her grip, then finishes the braid and pulls me to my
feet as she continues to summarize years of knowledge into fifteen harried
minutes, barely pausing to breathe.
“Be observant. Quiet is fine, but make sure you notice everything and
everyone around you to your advantage. You’ve read the Codex?”
“A few times.” The rule book for the Riders Quadrant is a fraction of the
length of the other divisions’. Probably because riders have trouble obeying
rules.
“Good. Then you know that the other riders can kill you at any time, and
the cutthroat cadets will try. Fewer cadets means better odds at Threshing.
There are never enough dragons willing to bond, and anyone reckless
enough to get themselves killed isn’t worthy of a dragon anyway.”
“Except when sleeping. It’s an executable offense to attack any cadet
while sleeping. Article Three—”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you’re safe at night. Sleep in this if you can.”
She taps the stomach of my corset.
“Rider black is supposed to be earned. You sure I shouldn’t wear my
tunic today?” I skim my hands over the leather.
“The wind up on the parapet will catch any spare cloth like a sail.” She
hands me my now-much-lighter pack. “The tighter your clothes, the better
off you are up there, and in the ring once you start sparring. Wear the armor
at all times. Keep your daggers on you at all times.” She points to the
sheaths down her thighs.
“Someone’s going to say I didn’t earn them.”
“You’re a Sorrengail,” she responds, as if that’s answer enough. “Fuck
what they say.”
“And you don’t think the dragon scales are cheating?”
“There’s no such thing as cheating once you climb the turret. There’s only
survival and death.” The bell chimes—only thirty minutes left. She
swallows. “It’s almost time. Ready?”
“No.”
“Neither was I.” A wry smile lifts a corner of her mouth. “And I’d spent
my life training for it.”
“I’m not going to die today.” I sling my pack over my shoulders and
breathe a little easier than this morning. It’s infinitely more manageable.
The halls of the central, administrative part of the fortress are eerily quiet
as we wind our way down through various staircases, but the noise from
outside grows louder the lower we descend. Through the windows, I see
thousands of candidates hugging their loved ones and saying their goodbyes
on the grassy fields just beneath the main gate. From what I’ve witnessed
every year, most families hold on to their candidates right up to the very last
bell. The four roads leading to the fortress are clogged with horses and
wagons, especially where they converge in front of the college, but it’s the
empty ones at the edge of the fields that make me nauseous.
They’re for the bodies.
Right before we round the last corner that will lead to the courtyard, Mira
stops.
“What is— Oof.” She yanks me against her chest, hugging me tight in the
relative privacy of the corridor.
“I love you, Violet. Remember everything I’ve told you. Don’t become
another name on the death roll.” Her voice shakes, and I wrap my arms
around her, squeezing tight.
“I’ll be all right,” I promise.
She nods, her chin bumping against the top of my head. “I know. Let’s
go.”
That’s all she says before pulling away and walking into the crowded
courtyard just inside the main gate to the fortress. Instructors, commanders,
and even our mother are gathered informally, waiting for the madness
outside the walls to become the order within. Out of all the doors in the war
college, the main gate is the only one no cadet will enter today, since each
quadrant has its own entrance and facilities. Hell, the riders have their own
citadel. Pretentious, egotistical fucks.
I follow Mira, catching her with a few quick strides.
“Find Dain Aetos,” Mira tells me as we cross through the courtyard,
heading for the open gate.
“Dain?” I can’t help but smile at the thought of seeing Dain again, and
my heart rate jumps. It’s been a year, and I’ve missed his soft brown eyes
and the way he laughs, the way every part of his body joins in. I’ve missed
our friendship, and the moments I thought it might turn into more under the
right circumstances. I’ve missed the way he looks at me, like I’m someone
worth noticing. I’ve just missed…him.
“I’ve only been out of the quadrant for three years, but from what I hear,
he’s doing well, and he’ll keep you safe. Don’t smile like that,” Mira
chides. “He’ll be a second-year.” She shakes her finger at me. “Don’t mess
around with second-years. If you want to get laid, and you should”—she
lifts her brows—“often, considering you never know what the day brings,
then screw around in your own year. Nothing is worse than cadets gossiping
that you’ve slept your way to safety.”
“So I’m free to take any of the first-years I want to bed,” I say with a
little grin. “Just not the second- or third-years.”
“Exactly.” She winks.
We cross through the gates, leaving the fortress, and join the organized
chaos beyond.
Each of Navarre’s six provinces has sent this year’s share of candidates
for military service. Some volunteer. Some are sentenced as punishment.
Most are conscripted. The only thing we have in common here at Basgiath
is that we passed the entrance exam—both written and an agility test I still
cannot believe I passed—which means at least we won’t end up as fodder
for the infantry on the front line.
The atmosphere is tense with anticipation as Mira leads me along the
worn cobblestone path toward the southern turret. The main college is built
into the side of Basgiath Mountain, as if it was cleaved from a ridgeline of
the peak itself. The sprawling, formidable structure towers over the crowd
of anxious, waiting candidates and their tearful families, with its stories-tall
stone battlements—built to protect the high rise of the keep within—and
defensive turrets at each of its corners, one of which houses the bells.
The majority of the crowd moves to line up at the base of the northern
turret—the entrance to the Infantry Quadrant. Some of the mass heads
toward the gate behind us—the Healer Quadrant that consumes the southern
end of the college. Envy clenches my chest when I spot a few taking the
central tunnel into the archives below the fortress to join the Scribe
Quadrant.
The entrance to the Riders Quadrant is nothing more than a fortified door
at the base of the tower, just like the infantry entrance to the north. But
while the infantry candidates can walk straight into their ground-level
quadrant, we rider candidates will climb.
Mira and I join the riders’ line, waiting to sign in, and I make the mistake
of glancing up.
High above us, crossing the river-bottomed valley that divides the main
college from the even higher, looming citadel of the Riders Quadrant on the
southern ridgeline, is the parapet, the stone bridge that’s about to separate
rider candidates from the cadets over the next few hours.
I can’t believe I’m about to cross that thing.
“And to think, I’ve been preparing for the scribe’s written exam all these
years.” My voice drips with sarcasm. “I should have been playing on a
balance beam.”
Mira ignores me as the line moves forward and candidates disappear
through the door. “Don’t let the wind sway your steps.”
Two candidates ahead of us, a woman sobs as her partner rips her away
from a young man, the couple breaking from the line, retreating in tears
down the hillside toward the crowd of loved ones lining the roads. There
are no other parents ahead of us, only a few dozen candidates moving
toward the roll-keepers.
“Keep your eyes on the stones ahead of you and don’t look down,” Mira
says, the lines of her face tightening. “Arms out for balance. If the pack
slips, drop it. Better it falls than you.”
I look behind us, where it seems hundreds have filed in within the span of
minutes. “Maybe I should let them go first,” I whisper as panic fists my
heart. What the hell am I doing?
“No,” Mira answers. “The longer you wait on those steps”—she motions
toward the tower—“the greater your fear has a chance to grow. Cross the
parapet before the terror owns you.”
The line moves, and the bell chimes again. It’s eight o’clock.
Sure enough, the crowd of thousands behind us has separated fully into
their chosen quadrants, all lined up to sign the roll and begin their service.
“Focus,” Mira snaps, and I whip my head forward. “This might sound
harsh, but don’t seek friendships in there, Violet. Forge alliances.”
There are only two ahead of us now—a woman with a full pack, whose
high cheekbones and oval face remind me of renderings of Amari, the
queen of the gods. Her dark brown hair is worn in several rows of short
braids that just touch the equally dark skin of her neck. The second is the
muscular blond man with the woman crying over him. He’s carrying an
even bigger rucksack.
I look around the pair toward the roll-keeping desk, and my eyes widen.
“Is he…?” I whisper.
Mira glances and mutters a curse. “A separatist’s kid? Yep. See that
shimmering mark that starts on the top of his wrist? It’s a relic from the
rebellion.”
I lift my eyebrows in surprise. The only relics I’ve ever heard of are when
a dragon uses magic to mark the skin of their bonded rider. But those relics
are a symbol of honor and power and generally in the shape of the dragon
who gifted them. These marks are swirls and slashes that feel more like a
warning than a claiming.
“A dragon did that?” I whisper.
She nods. “Mom says General Melgren’s dragon did it to all of them
when he executed their parents, but she wasn’t exactly open to further
discussion on the topic. Nothing like punishing the kids to deter more
parents from committing treason.”
It seems…cruel, but the first rule of living at Basgiath is never question a
dragon. They tend to cremate anyone they find rude.
“Most of the marked kids who carry rebellion relics are from Tyrrendor,
of course, but there are a few whose parents turned traitor from the other
provinces—” The blood drains from her face, and she grips the straps of my
pack, turning me to face her. “I just remembered.” Her voice drops, and I
lean in, my heart jumping at the urgency in her tone. “Stay the hell away
from Xaden Riorson.”
The air rushes from my lungs. That name…
“That Xaden Riorson,” she confirms, fear lacing her gaze. “He’s a thirdyear, and he will kill you the second he finds out who you are.”
“His father was the Great Betrayer. He led the rebellion,” I say quietly.
“What is Xaden doing here?”
“All the children of the leaders were conscripted as punishment for their
parents’ crimes,” Mira whispers as we shuffle sideways, moving with the
line. “Mom told me they never expected Riorson to make it past the
parapet. Then they figured a cadet would kill him, but once his dragon
chose him…” She shakes her head. “Well, there’s nothing much that can be
done then. He’s risen to the rank of wingleader.”
“That’s bullshit,” I seethe.
“He’s sworn allegiance to Navarre, but I don’t think that will stop him
where you’re concerned. Once you get across the parapet—because you
will make it across—find Dain. He’ll put you in his squad, and we’ll just
hope it’s far from Riorson.” She grips my straps tighter. “Stay. Away. From.
Him.”
“Noted.” I nod.
“Next,” a voice calls from behind the wooden table that bears the rolls of
the Riders Quadrant. The marked rider I don’t know is seated next to a
scribe I do, and Captain Fitzgibbons’s silver eyebrows rise over his
weathered face. “Violet Sorrengail?”
I nod, picking up the quill and signing my name on the next empty line
on the roll.
“But I thought you were meant for the Scribe Quadrant,” Captain
Fitzgibbons says softly.
I envy his cream-colored tunic, unable to find the words.
“General Sorrengail chose otherwise,” Mira supplies.
Sadness fills the older man’s eyes. “Pity. You had so much promise.”
“By the gods,” the rider next to Captain Fitzgibbons says. “You’re Mira
Sorrengail?” His jaw drops, and I can smell his hero worship from here.
“I am.” She nods. “This is my sister, Violet. She’ll be a first-year.”
“If she survives the parapet.” Someone behind me snickers. “Wind just
might blow her right off.”
“You fought at Strythmore,” the rider behind the desk says with awe.
“They gave you the Order of the Talon for taking out that battery behind
enemy lines.”
The snickering stops.
“As I was saying.” Mira puts a hand at the small of my back. “This is my
sister, Violet.”
“You know the way.” The Captain nods and points to the open door into
the turret. It looks ominously dark in there, and I fight the urge to run like
hell.
“I know the way,” she assures him, leading me past the table so the
snickering asshole behind me can sign the roll.
We pause at the doorway and turn toward each other.
“Don’t die, Violet. I’d hate to be an only child.” She grins and walks
away, sauntering past the line of gawking candidates as word spreads of
exactly who she is and what she’s done.
“Tough to live up to that,” the woman ahead of me says from just inside
the tower.
“It is,” I agree, gripping the straps of my rucksack and heading into the
darkness. My eyes adjust quickly to the dim light coming in through the
equidistant windows along the curved staircase.
“Sorrengail as in…?” the woman asks, looking over her shoulder as we
begin to climb the hundreds of stairs that lead to our possible deaths.
“Yep.” There’s no railing, so I keep my hand on the stone wall as we rise
higher and higher.
“The general?” the blond guy ahead of us asks.
“The same one,” I answer, offering him a quick smile. Anyone whose
mother holds on that tight can’t be that bad, right?
“Wow. Nice leathers, too.” He smiles back.
“Thanks. They’re courtesy of my sister.”
“I wonder how many candidates have fallen off the edge of the steps and
died before they even reach the parapet,” the woman says, glancing down
the center of the staircase as we climb higher.
“Two last year.” I tilt my head when she glances back. “Well, three if you
count the girl one of the guys landed on.”
The woman’s brown eyes flare, but she turns back around and keeps
climbing. “How many steps are there?” she asks.
“Two hundred and fifty,” I answer, and we climb in silence for another
five minutes.
“Not too bad,” she says with a bright smile as we near the top and the line
comes to a halt. “I’m Rhiannon Matthias, by the way.”
“Dylan,” the blond guy responds with an enthusiastic wave.
“Violet.” I give them a tense smile of my own, blatantly ignoring Mira’s
earlier suggestion that I avoid friendships and only forge alliances.
“I feel like I’ve been waiting my entire life for this day.” Dylan shifts his
pack on his back. “Can you believe we actually get to do this? It’s a dream
come true.”
Right. Naturally, every other candidate but me is excited to be here. This
is the only quadrant at Basgiath that doesn’t accept conscripts—only
volunteers.
“I can’t fucking wait.” Rhiannon’s smile widens. “I mean, who wouldn’t
want to ride a dragon?”
Me. Not that it doesn’t sound fun in theory. It does. It’s just the abhorrent
odds of surviving to graduation that sour my stomach.
“Do your parents approve?” Dylan asks. “Because my mom’s been
begging me to change my mind for months. I keep telling her that I’ll have
better chances for advancement as a rider, but she wanted me to enter the
Healer Quadrant.”
“Mine always knew I wanted this, so they’ve been pretty supportive.
Besides, they have my twin to dote on. Raegan’s already living her dream,
married and expecting a baby.” Rhiannon glances back at me. “What about
you? Let me guess. With a name like Sorrengail, I bet you were the first to
volunteer this year.”
“I was more like volun-told.” My answer is far less enthusiastic than hers.
“Gotcha.”
“And riders do get way better perks than other officers,” I say to Dylan as
the line moves upward again. The snickering candidate behind me catches
up, sweating and red. Look who isn’t snickering now. “Better pay, more
leniency with the uniform policy,” I continue. No one gives a shit what
riders wear as long as it’s black. The only rules that apply to riders are the
ones I’ve memorized from the Codex.
“And the right to call yourself a supreme badass,” Rhiannon adds.
“That too,” I agree. “Pretty sure they issue you an ego with your flight
leathers.”
“Plus, I’ve heard that riders are allowed to marry sooner than the other
quadrants,” Dylan adds.
“True. Right after graduation.” If we survive. “I think it has something to
do with wanting to continue bloodlines.” Most successful riders are
legacies.
“Or because we tend to die sooner than the other quadrants,” Rhiannon
muses.
“I’m not dying,” Dylan says with way more confidence than I feel as he
tugs a necklace from under his tunic to reveal a ring dangling from the
chain. “She said it would be bad luck to propose before I left, so we’re
waiting until graduation.” He kisses the ring and tucks the chain back under
his collar. “The next three years are going to be long ones, but they’ll be
worth it.”
I keep my sigh to myself, though that might be the most romantic thing
I’ve ever heard.
“You might make it across the parapet,” the guy behind us sneers. “This
one here is a breeze away from the bottom of the ravine.”
I roll my eyes.
“Shut up and focus on yourself,” Rhiannon snaps, her feet clicking
against the stone as we climb.
The top comes into sight, the doorway full of muddled light. Mira was
right. Those clouds are going to wreak havoc on us, and we have to be on
the other side of the parapet before they do.
Another step, another tap of Rhiannon’s feet.
“Let me see your boots,” I say quietly so the jerk behind me can’t hear.
Her brow puckers, and confusion fills her brown eyes, but she shows me
the soles. They’re smooth, just like the ones I was wearing earlier. My
stomach sinks like a rock.
The line starts moving again, pausing when we’re only a few feet from
the opening. “What size are your feet?” I ask.
“What?” Rhiannon blinks at me.
“Your feet. What size are they?”
“Eight,” she answers, two lines forming between her brows.
“I’m a seven,” I say quickly. “It will hurt like hell, but I want you to take
my left boot. Trade with me.” I have a dagger in the right one.
“I’m sorry?” She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, and maybe I have.
“These are rider boots. They’ll grip the stone better. Your toes will be
scrunched and generally miserable, but at least you’ll have a shot at not
falling off if that rain hits.”
Rhiannon glances toward the open door—and the darkening sky—then
back to me. “You’re willing to trade a boot?”
“Just until we get on the other side.” I look through the open door. Three
candidates are already walking across the parapet, their arms stretched out
wide. “But we have to be quick. It’s almost our turn.”
Rhiannon purses her lips in debate for a second, then agrees, and we swap
left boots. I barely finish lacing up before the line moves again, and the guy
behind me shoves my lower back, sending me staggering onto the platform
and into the open air.
“Let’s go. Some of us have things to do on the other side.” His voice
grates on my last freaking nerve.
“You are not worth the effort right now,” I mutter, gaining my balance as
the wind whips at my skin, the midsummer morning thick with humidity.
Good call on the braid, Mira.
The top of the turret is bare, the crenelations of stone rising and falling
along the circular structure at the height of my chest and doing nothing to
obscure the view. The ravine and its river below suddenly feel very, very
far. How many wagons do they have waiting down there? Five? Six? I
know the stats. The parapet claims roughly fifteen percent of the rider
candidates. Every trial in the quadrant—including this one—is designed to
test a cadet’s ability to ride. If someone can’t manage to walk the windy
length of the slim stone bridge, then they sure as hell can’t keep their
balance and fight on the back of a dragon.
And as for the death rate? I guess every other rider thinks the risk is
worth the glory—or has the arrogance to think they won’t fall.
I’m not in either camp.
Nausea has me holding my stomach, and I breathe in through my nose
and out through my mouth as I walk the edge behind Rhiannon and Dylan,
my fingers skimming the stonework as we wind our way toward the
parapet.
Three riders wait at the entrance, which is nothing more than a gaping
hole in the wall of the turret. One with ripped-off sleeves records names as
candidates step out onto the treacherous crossing. Another, who’s shaved all
his hair with the exception of a strip down the top center, instructs Dylan as
he moves into position, patting his chest like the ring hidden there will
bring him luck. I hope it does.
The third turns in my direction and my heart simply…stops.
He’s tall, with windblown black hair and dark brows. The line of his jaw
is strong and covered by warm tawny skin and dark stubble, and when he
folds his arms across his torso, the muscles in his chest and arms ripple,
moving in a way that makes me swallow. And his eyes… His eyes are the
shade of gold-flecked onyx. The contrast is startling, jaw-dropping even—
everything about him is. His features are so harsh that they look carved, and
yet they’re astonishingly perfect, like an artist worked a lifetime sculpting
him, and at least a year of that was spent on his mouth.
He’s the most exquisite man I’ve ever seen.
And living in the war college means I’ve seen a lot of men.
Even the diagonal scar that bisects his left eyebrow and marks the top
corner of his cheek only makes him hotter. Flaming hot. Scorching hot.
Gets-you-into-trouble-and-you-like-it level of hot. Suddenly, I can’t
remember exactly why Mira told me not to fuck around outside my year
group.
“See you two on the other side!” Dylan says over his shoulder with an
excited grin before stepping onto the parapet, his arms spread wide.
“Ready for the next one, Riorson?” the rider with the ripped sleeves says.
Xaden Riorson?
“You ready for this, Sorrengail?” Rhiannon asks, moving forward.
The black-haired rider snaps his gaze to mine, turning fully toward me,
and my heart thunders for all the wrong reasons. A rebellion relic, curving
in dips and swirls, starts at his bare left wrist, then disappears under his
black uniform to appear again at his collar, where it stretches and swirls up
his neck, stopping at his jawline.
“Oh shit,” I whisper, and his eyes narrow, as if he can hear me over the
howl of wind that rips at my secured braid.
“Sorrengail?” He steps toward me, and I look up…and up.
Good gods, I don’t even reach his collarbone. He’s massive. He has to be
more than four inches over six feet tall.
I feel exactly what Mira called me—fragile—but I nod once, and the
shining onyx of his eyes transforms to cold, unadulterated hatred. I can
almost taste the loathing wafting off him like a bitter cologne.
“Violet?” Rhiannon asks, moving forward.
“You’re General Sorrengail’s youngest.” His voice is deep and
accusatory.
“You’re Fen Riorson’s son,” I counter, the certainty of this revelation
settling in my bones. I lift my chin and do my best to lock every muscle in
my body so I don’t start trembling.
He will kill you the second he finds out who you are. Mira’s words
bounce around my skull, and fear knots in my throat. He’s going to throw
me over the edge. He’s going to pick me up and drop me right off this
turret. I’m never going to get the chance to even walk the parapet. I’ll die
being exactly what my mother’s always danced around calling me—weak.
Xaden sucks in a deep breath, and the muscle in his jaw flexes once.
Twice. “Your mother captured my father and oversaw his execution.”
Wait. Like he has the only right to hatred here? Rage races through my
veins. “Your father killed my older brother. Seems like we’re even.”
“Hardly.” His glaring gaze strokes over me like he’s memorizing every
detail or looking for any weakness. “Your sister is a rider. Guess that
explains the leathers.”
“Guess so.” I hold his glare, as if winning this staring competition will
gain me entrance to the quadrant instead of crossing the parapet behind him.
Either way, I’m getting across. Mira isn’t going to lose both her siblings.
His hands clench into fists, and he tenses.
I prepare for the strike. He might throw me off this tower, but I won’t
make it easy for him.
“You all right?” Rhiannon asks, her gaze jumping between Xaden and
me.
He glances at her. “You’re friends?”
“We met on the stairs,” she says, squaring her shoulders.
He looks down, noting our mismatched shoes, and arches a brow. His
hands relax. “Interesting.”
“Are you going to kill me?” I lift my chin another inch.
His gaze clashes with mine as the sky opens and rain falls in a deluge,
soaking my hair, my leathers, and the stones around us in seconds.
A scream rends the air, and Rhiannon and I both jerk our attention to the
parapet just in time to see Dylan slip.
I gasp, my heart jolting into my throat.
He catches himself, hooking his arms over the stone bridge as his feet
kick beneath him, scrambling for a purchase that isn’t there.
“Pull yourself up, Dylan!” Rhiannon shouts.
“Oh gods!” My hand flies to cover my mouth, but he loses his grip on the
water-slick stone and falls, disappearing from view. The wind and rain steal
any sound his body might make in the valley below. They steal the sound of
my muffled cry, too.
Xaden never takes his eyes from me, watching silently with a look I can’t
interpret as I bring my horrified gaze back to his.
“Why would I waste my energy killing you when the parapet will do it
for me?” A wicked smile curves his lips. “Your turn.”