Fourth Wing (The Empyrean, #1)

by Rebecca Yarros

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.

“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 third-year, 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,”

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.

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.”

Zihnal, the god of luck.

There’s nowhere as calming as the archives, so that’s what I think of. Facts. Logic. History.

Your mind already knows the answer, so just calm down and let it remember.

Blue dragons descend from the extraordinary Gormfaileas line. Known for their formidable size, they are the most ruthless, especially in the case of the rare Blue Daggertail, whose knifelike spikes at the tip of their tail can disembowel an enemy with one flick.

“Conformity is for the infantry,”

“I’m Dain Aetos, and I’m the leader for Second Squad, Flame Section, Second Wing.”

A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without their dragon is dead.

“We commend their souls to Malek.” The god of death.

Some riders have the same signets. Fire wielding, ice wielding, and water wielding are just a few of the most common signet powers, all useful in battle. Then there are the signets that make a rider extraordinary.

“Without accurate depictions of our front lines, reliable information with which to make strategic decisions, and—most importantly—veracious details to document our history for the good of future generations, we’re doomed, not only as a kingdom but as a society.” Which is exactly why I’ve always wanted to be a scribe. Not that it matters now.

Mom often says the minute you let emotion enter a fight, you’ve already lost.

I flip the daggers in my hand, pinching them at the tips, then flick my wrists and fire them past his head, one on each side. They land solidly in the trunk of the tree behind him. “You missed.” He doesn’t even flinch. “Did I?” I reach for my last two blades. “Why don’t you back up a couple of steps and test that theory?” Curiosity flares in his eyes, but it’s gone in the next second, masked by cold, mocking indifference. Every one of my senses is on high alert, but the shadows around me don’t slide in as he moves backward, his eyes locked with mine. His back hits the tree, and the hilts of my daggers brush his ears. “Tell me again that I missed,” I threaten, taking the dagger in my right hand by the tip.

“Fascinating. You look all frail and breakable, but you’re really a violent little thing, aren’t you?”

Beautiful. Fucking. Asshole. My breath catches and my body warms, the traitorous bitch. You are not attracted to toxic men, I remind myself, and yet, here I am, getting all attracted. I have been since the first second I saw him, if I feel like being honest.

“She could use a little less protection and a little more instruction.” Xaden stares Dain down until he nods.

“Are you…studying?” Aurelie calls up from where she leaps onto the first ball below. “Calms me down,” I shoot back in quick explanation. There’s no time to be embarrassed here—that can wait for later.

“Here’s the thing, Sorrengail. Hope is a fickle, dangerous thing. It steals your focus and aims it toward the possibilities instead of keeping it where it belongs—on the probabilities.”

“You’re supposed to focus on the things that can kill you so you find ways to not die.”

I lift my head and suck in a sharp breath. They’re even closer. The one on the left nudges my hands with its giant nose, but I somehow stand my ground, rocking back on my heels to keep from falling over. Greens are the most reasonable. “I cut my hands climbing the obstacle course.” I lift my palms, like they can see through the black fabric binding my wounds. The one on the right sets its nose right at my breasts and chuffs again. What. The. Hell. It inhales, making that noise in its throat, and the other shoves its nose into my ribs, making me raise my arms just in case they feel like taking a little nibble.

In the six centuries of recorded history of dragon and rider, there have been hundreds of known cases where a dragon simply cannot emotionally recover from the loss of their bonded rider. This happens when the bond is particularly strong and, in three documented cases, has even caused the untimely death of the dragon.

Hope is a fickle, dangerous thing. It steals your focus and aims it toward the possibilities instead of keeping it where it belongs—on the probabilities.

“And to think, I’d almost forgotten just how loquacious humans are.” He sighs, the gust of his breath rattling the trees. “Get on my back.” Oh. Shit. He’s choosing…me. “Get on your back?” I repeat like a fucking parrot. “Have you seen you? Do you have any idea how huge you are?”

“One does not live a century without being well aware of the space one takes up. Now get on.”

“My name is Tairneanach, son of Murtcuideam and Fiaclanfuil, descended from the cunning Dubhmadinn line.”

Tairn swings me upward and then releases me, sending me flying high above him, and I flail. My stomach drops at the height of his toss, and then I fall for two heartbeats before Tairn rushes up, catching me on his back between his wings. “Now get in the seat and actually hold on this time, or no one is going to believe that I’ve actually chosen you,” he growls.

“I still can’t believe you’ve chosen me!”

“I know exactly who and what you are, Violet Sorrengail.”

“I’m sorry. I just didn’t think I’d make it this far.” A loud sigh resonates through my mind. “I didn’t think I would, either, so we have that in common.”

“You are the smartest of your year. The most cunning.” I gulp at the compliment, brushing it off. I was trained as a scribe, not a rider. “You defended the smallest with ferocity. And strength of courage is more important than physical strength. Since you apparently need to know before we land.”

She blinks. “Maybe I was saving you.” Her voice is higher, sweeter in my mind.

“Andarnaurram.” The sweet, high voice of the golden fills my mind. “Andarna for short.”

“Tell her,” the golden insists. “Tairn. What am I supposed to—” I think at him. “Tell the roll-keeper her name,” Tairn echoes. “Violet?” the roll-keeper repeats. “Do you need a mender?” I turn back to the woman and clear my throat. “And Andarnaurram,” I whisper. Her eyes fly wide. “Both dragons?” she squawks. I nod. And all hell breaks loose.

“Did I see her outnumbered and already wounded? Did I think her bravery was as admirable as it was fucking reckless?”

“Tairn’s bonds are so powerful, both to mate and rider, because he’s so powerful. Losing his last rider nearly killed him, which, in turn, nearly killed Sgaeyl. Mated pairs’ lives are—”

“As it should be,” Tairn grumbles. “Humans have no say in the laws of dragons.”

I belong to Tairn and Andarna…and, in some really fucked-up way…Xaden.

A back that has a glistening black relic of a dragon mid-flight stretching from shoulder to shoulder and, in the center, the silhouette of a shimmering golden one.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper. I’m marked by their magic as a rider now, as their rider.

His lips are soft, but the kiss is firm, and delight races up my spine. After years, Dain is finally kissing me. The thrill is gone in less than a heartbeat. There’s no heat. No energy. No sharp slice of lust. Disappointment sours the moment, but not for Dain. He’s all smiles as he pulls away. It was over in an instant. It was everything I’ve ever wanted…except… Shit. I don’t want it anymore.

“Nature likes all things in balance,”

“Well, not the first thing.” Andarna sits, flicking her feathertail along the frost-laden grass. “The first thing is we shouldn’t bond until we’re full-grown.” She cocks her head to the side. “Or maybe the first is where the sheep are? I like goats better, though.” “This is why feathertails don’t bond.” Tairn sighs with a hefty dose of exasperation. “Let her explain,” Sgaeyl urges, clicking her talons like nails on the ground. “Feathertails shouldn’t bond because they can accidentally gift their powers to humans,”

“Dragons can’t channel—not really—until we’re big, but we’re all born with something special.”

Rare abilities, when kept secret, are the most valuable form of currency we possess.”

“Dragon relationships are absolutely incomprehensible,” I murmur. “Yeah? You should try a human one sometime. Just as vicious, but less fire.”

What had Sgaeyl said about signets? It reflects who you are at the core of your being.