Fourth Wing (The Empyrean, #1)

by Rebecca Yarros

“Naolin’s signet was siphoning.” Professor Kaori’s shoulders fall. “He could absorb power from various sources, other dragons, other riders, and then use it or redistribute it.” “Badass.” Ridoc’s tone has more than a little hero worship. “He was,” Professor Kaori agrees. “What kills someone with that kind of signet?” Jack asks, crossing his arms over his thick chest. Professor Kaori glances at me for a heartbeat before looking away. “He attempted to use that power to revive a fallen rider—which didn’t work, because there’s no signet capable of resurrection—and depleted himself in the process. To use a phrase you’ll become accustomed to after Threshing, he burned out and died next to that rider.”

“Violet,” Professor Kaori calls out, and I pivot to look back. “I taught both your siblings. A signet like mine is too useful here in the classroom to let me deploy with a wing for long. Brennan was a spectacular rider and a good man. Mira is shrewd and gifted in the seat when it comes to riding.” I nod. “But you’re smarter than both of them.” I blink. It’s not often I get compared to my brother and sister and somehow come out on top. “From what I’ve seen of you helping your friend study in commons every night, it seems you might be more compassionate, too. Don’t forget that.”

I unsheathe both daggers from my ribs and flick them in his direction in one smooth movement. They land right where I intended—one nearly nicking his ear and the other an inch beneath his balls.

I will not die today. —Violet Sorrengail’s personal addendum to the Book of Brennan

“Going for blood today, are we, Violence?” he whispers. Metal hits the mat again and he kicks it past my head and out of my reach. He’s not taking my daggers to use against me; he’s disarming me just to prove he can. My blood boils. “My name is Violet,” I seethe. “I think my version fits you better.” He releases my wrist and stands, offering me a hand. “We’re not done yet.”

“Taking out your enemy before the battle is really smart; I’ll give that to you,” he whispers, his warm breath brushing the shell of my ear. Oh gods. He knows what I’ve been doing. The pain in my arm is nothing compared to the nausea churning in my stomach at the thought of what he might do with that knowledge. “Problem is, if you aren’t testing yourself in here”—he scrapes the dagger down my neck, but there’s no warm trickle of blood, so I know he hasn’t cut me—“then you’re not going to get any better.” “You’d rather I die, no doubt,” I fire back, the side of my face pressed into the mat. This isn’t just painful, it’s humiliating. “And be denied the pleasure of your company?” he mocks. “I fucking hate you.” The words are past my lips before I can shut my mouth. “That doesn’t make you special.”

Heat rushes up my neck and flames lick my cheeks as he lowers his face so his lips are only inches away from mine. I can make out every speck of gold in his onyx eyes, every bump and ridge of his scar. 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.

Toxic. Dangerous. Wants to kill you. Nope, doesn’t matter. My pulse still skitters like a teenager.

“How did you know?” I finally ask. My muscles lock, including my thighs, which just happen to still be bracketing his hips. His eyes darken. “Oh, Violence, you’re good, but I’ve known better poison masters.

“You’re not going to disarm me?” I challenge as he releases his grip and pushes up more, removing his weight from my body. My ribs expand as I take my first full breath. “Nope. Defenseless women have never been my type.

“I’m not a damned liability.” My chest tightens again, because deep down I know, on the physical level, that I am. “Not to me,” he whispers, a hand rising to cradle my cheek.

He lifts his other hand so he’s holding my face between both palms, tipping it up toward his.

“Am I affecting your schedule, Violence?” There’s a definite smirk on those lips. “I just need to know what my chances are here.” My hands curl into fists. The ass has the nerve to smile. “That’s the oddest way I’ve ever been hit on—” “Not my chances with you, you conceited prick!”

You’re probably celebrating because I’ll fall to my death and you won’t have to go to the trouble of killing me.” “Killing you wouldn’t be any trouble, Violence. It’s leaving you alive that seems to cause the majority of my trouble.”

“Maybe if you stopped sulking in your self-pity, you’d see that you have everything you need to scale the Gauntlet,” he calls after me, his voice echoing down the hallway. “My self-what?” I turn around, my jaw dropping. “People die,” he says slowly, his jaw ticking before he drags in a deep breath. “It’s going to happen over and over again. It’s the nature of what happens here. What makes you a rider is what you do after people die. You want to know why you’re still alive? Because you’re the scale I currently judge myself against every night. Every day I let you live, I get to convince myself that there’s still a part of me that’s a decent person. So if you want to quit, then please, spare me the temptation and fucking quit. But if you want to do something, then do it.” “I’m too short to span the distance!” I hiss, uncaring that anyone could hear us. “The right way isn’t the only way. Figure it out.” Then he turns and walks away. Fuck. Him.

He who does not burn for Malek will be burned by Malek.

“You think like a scribe,” she barks at me. It’s intended as an insult, but I just nod. “I know.”

Standing at the end of the line is a small golden dragon. Sunlight reflects off its scales and horns as it stands to its full height, flicking a feathered tail around the side of its body. The feathertail.

“They’re folklore,” I say over my shoulder. “Kind of like dragons but bigger, with two feet instead of four, a mane of razor-sharp feathers streaking down their necks, and a taste for humans. Unlike dragons, who think we’re a little gamey.”

“Did he tell you people supposedly only turn into venin if they channel directly from the source?” “He did, but it was after my mom had a really long night while we were stationed near the eastern border, and her eyes were bloodshot red, so I freaked out and started shrieking.”

!!!!!!!!!!!

October first is always Threshing.

I will not die today.

“Dain lost his vote when he tried talking you into leaving,” she counters.

“I would strongly recommend you rethink your actions,” a voice—his voice—demands from across the field to my right. My scalp prickles as each of our heads swivel in his direction. Xaden is leaning against the tree, his arms folded across his chest, and behind him, watching with narrowed golden eyes, her fangs exposed, is Sgaeyl, his terrifying navy-blue daggertail.

Standing with the golden one tucked under an enormous, scarred black wing is the biggest dragon I’ve ever seen in my life—the

“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.” He stands to his full height, bringing me eye level with the canopy of trees around the clearing, and I squeeze a little tighter with my thighs. “But I’m not going to assume that you’ll be able to remember that once we reach the field, so Tairn will do until I inevitably have to remind you.”

“You’re making us look bad. Stop it.”

“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’m just…not as strong as other riders.” “I know exactly who and what you are, Violet Sorrengail.”

“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.”

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

Two dragons. I have…two dragons.

“Stay close to the wingleader until we return,” Tairn orders. Surely he meant to say squad leader. “You heard what I said.”

I’m snatched off my feet by Ridoc, who spins me around, my feet flying out in front of me. “Look who rode in on the baddest motherfucker around!”

“They’re a mated pair, Tairn and Sgaeyl. The strongest bonded pair in centuries.”

“Did I see her outnumbered and already wounded? Did I think her bravery was as admirable as it was fucking reckless?” He turns that stare on me, and I feel the impact all the way to my toes. “And I would do it again.” I raise my chin. “Well-the-fuck-aware,” Xaden roars, losing his temper for the first time since I met him on Parapet.

“Each time a dragon chooses a rider, that bond is stronger than the last, which means that if you die, Violence, it sets off a chain of events that potentially ends with me dying, too.” His expression is immovable marble, but the anger in his eyes leaves me breathless. It’s pure…rage. “So yeah, unfortunately for everyone involved, there’s now an us if the Empyrean lets Tairn’s choice stand.”

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.

Xaden Riorson is now in the business of keeping his mortal enemy alive.

A sigh rips from Dain’s lips, and he palms my face gently,

“This grumpy ass just caught you a dozen times, Silver One.” “Eventually you could call me Violet, you know.” I take the time to examine every row of his scales. One of the biggest dangers to dragons are the smallest things they can’t remove that penetrate between the scales, causing infection. “I know,” he repeats. “And I could call you Violence like the wingleader.” “You wouldn’t dare.” I narrow my eyes as I move forward, checking where his chest begins to rise. “And you know how much that ass annoys me.” “Annoys you?” Tairn chuckles above me, the sound like a chuffing cat. “Is that what you call it when your heart rate—” “Don’t even start with me.”

So forgive me, but you’re about to be some of the bullshit that this place cuts away from me

“You’re all fucking dead

“She should have killed you in the field, but she’s merciful. That’s not a flaw I possess.”

I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive. I repeat the mantra in my head as Xaden wipes the blood from my dagger on the back of Oren’s tunic. “Yes. You’re alive.”

“I know how to handle a corset.”

“You let a juvenile bond? A juvenile train for war?” “We mature at a much faster rate than humans,” he argues, having the nerve to look affronted. “And I’m not sure anyone lets Andarna do anything

“Give me the memory,” he orders. Indignation lifts my chin. “Touch me without permission, and you’ll spend the rest of your life regretting it.”

fumble my quill and it falls to the ground, but before I can lean over, the shadows beneath the arm of my desk lift the instrument like an offering. I pluck it out of the shadows and look back at Xaden. He’s locked in conversation with Garrick, not paying me a speck of attention. Except, apparently, he is.