Fourth Wing (The Empyrean, #1)

by Rebecca Yarros

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

“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.”

“I’m not going to die today.”

“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 risen to the rank of wingleader.”

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.

Yes

He’s the most exquisite man I’ve ever seen.

100%

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.

Good gods, I don’t even reach his collarbone. He’s massive. He has to be more than four inches over six feet tall.

“Why would I waste my energy killing you when the parapet will do it for me?” A wicked smile curves his lips. “Your turn.”

I will not die today.

“Violet Sorrengail,” I answer as thunder cracks above me, the sound oddly comforting. I’ve always loved the nights where storms beat against the fortress window, both illuminating and throwing shadows over the books I curled up with, though this downpour might just cost me my life.

“The Continent is home to two kingdoms—and we’ve been at war for four hundred years,”

“Navarre, my home, is the larger kingdom, with six unique provinces. Tyrrendor, our southernmost and largest province, shares its border with the province of Krovla within the Poromiel kingdom.”

“To our east lie the remaining two Poromiel provinces of Braevick and Cygnisen, with the Esben Mountains providing a natural border.”

“Within Navarre, Tyrrendor was the last of the bordering provinces to join the alliance and swear fealty to King Reginald,”

“It was also the only province to attempt secession six hundred and twenty-seven years later, which would have eventually left our kingdom defenseless had they been successful.”

I will not die today.

Blue dragons descend from the extraordinary Gormfaileas line.

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.

Sometime in the last year, Dain Aetos went from attractive and cute to gorgeous.

Ew

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

Boo tomato tomato tomato

“Three hundred and one of you have survived the parapet to become cadets today,”

“Good job. Sixty-seven did not.”

“Three squads in each section and three sections in each of the four wings.”

Rhiannon and I are both called to Second Squad, Flame Section, Second Wing.

Xaden watches me with a cold, calculating look that feels like he’s plotting my death from where he stands as the wingleader for Fourth Wing.

We’re moving to Fourth Wing. Xaden’s wing.

“Take a look at your squad. These are the only people guaranteed by Codex not to kill you. But just because they can’t end your life doesn’t mean others won’t. You want a dragon? Earn one.”

But they like protecting the Vale—the valley behind Basgiath the dragons call home—from merciless gryphons and we like living, so here we are in the most unlikely of partnerships.

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

Once bonded, riders can’t live without their dragons, but most dragons can live just fine after us.

He’s a pile of ash on the gravel before he can even make it to the shadow of the keep. Sixty-eight dead.

There are two more gusts of heat, one to my left and then another to my right. Make that seventy.

I will not die today.

There are a hundred and fifty-six of us in the first floor of the dormitory building, our beds positioned in four neat rows in the open space.

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

Dain steps forward and cups my face, his thumb stroking over my cheekbone in a soothing motion.

“Sgaeyl is a Blue Daggertail, and she’s…vicious.”

My mother can wield the power of storms. Melgren can see the outcome of battles.

Gryphons from Poromiel also share the ability, but dragons are the only ones capable of powering the wards that make all other magic but their own impossible within our borders.

They’re the reason Navarre’s borders are somewhat circular—their power radiates from the Vale and can only extend so far, even with squads stationed at every outpost.

gryphons don’t tolerate altitude nearly as well as dragons, probably due to the fact that they’re half-lion, half-eagle and can’t handle the thinner air

Statistically, most riders die before retirement age, especially at the rate riders have been falling over the last two years.

The signet of mending is exceptionally rare among riders.

“The book of Brennan,”

no more than three cadets carrying rebellion relics may be assigned to any squad of any quadrant.

marked ones assembling in groups of three or more will now be considered an act of seditious conspiracy and is hereby a capital offense.

I don’t want to find a single thing about Xaden Riorson admirable, and yet here he is, being all annoyingly admirable. Asshole.