Fourth Wing (The Empyrean, #1)

by Rebecca Yarros

Professor Devera isn’t the joking kind.

“Third-years have only been sent to midland posts as reinforcements, never the front.” I’d kept my ears open around my mother enough to know that much.

is the duty of the scribes not only to study and master the past but to relay and record the present,”

“The Eastern Wing experienced an attack last night near the village of Chakir by a drift of Braevi gryphons and riders.”

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.

The Esben Mountain Range is the highest along our eastern border with Braevick, making it the least likely place for an attack, especially since 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 at higher altitudes.

So why attack in that mountain range? What caused the wards to falter there?

My heart jolts into my throat and the room falls pin-drop quiet. It’s not the first time.

“How many casualties did the wing suffer?” a first-year down the row to my right asks. “One injured dragon. One dead rider.”

little less than ten thousand feet,” he answers. “Why?” Rhiannon darts a dose of side-eye at me and clears her throat. “Just seems a little high for a planned attack with gryphons.”

“Why don’t you tell me why that’s bothersome, Cadet Sorrengail? And maybe you’d like to ask your own questions from here on out.”

“Because there’s no logical way they get there within an hour of the attack unless they were already on their way,” I argue,

“It would take at least half that long to light the beacons in the range and call for help, and no full squad is sitting around just waiting to be needed. More than half those riders would have been asleep, which means they were already on their way.”

“Because they somehow knew the wards were breaking.” I lift my chin, simultaneously hoping I’m right and praying to Dunne—the goddess of war—that I’m wrong. “That’s the most—” Jack starts. “She’s right,”

How many riders were deployed to the site? What killed the lone fatality? How long did it take to clear the village of the gryphons? Were any left alive for questioning? I write down every question and answer, my mind organizing the facts into what kind of report I would have filed if I’d been in the Scribe Quadrant,

“The village,” Xaden restates. “Professor Devera said the damage would have been worse, but what was the actual condition? Was it burned? Destroyed? They wouldn’t demolish it if they were trying to establish a foothold, so the condition of the village matters when trying to determine a motive for the attack.” Professor Devera smiles in approval. “The buildings they’d already gone through were burned, and the rest were being looted when the wing arrived.”

Which begs the question, what do we have that they want so badly?”

Thank God Dain’s shirt is on, because I don’t need another distraction when it’s time for my turn.

Rhiannon says, locking her brown eyes with mine. “Let’s help each other out. We’ll help you with hand-to-hand if you help us with history. Sound like a deal, Sawyer?” “Absolutely.”

You’re dead, Sorrengail, and I’m going to be the one to kill you. His promise from yesterday slithers through my memory.

You’re the only silver-haired freak in the quadrant.”

“You do mean something to me.” He kicks again. And now everyone knows.

My brother, Brennan, was a mender—and would have become one of the greatest had he lived.

Dain pulls a wooden chair closer to my bed, and it scrapes the floor with a god-awful sound. “Violet, I know you’re hurting, but maybe…”

He smiles at his wife, his bright white teeth contrasting his brown skin.

“Imogen—she’s a second-year—dislocated Violet’s shoulder and broke her arm.”

“Mendme.” “I will always mend you,” Nolon promises.

“I’ll help you get ready,” she promises. “You’re the only friend I have in here, so I’d rather you didn’t die when it gets real.” A corner of her mouth lifts in a wry smile.

with a folded note on top that says Violet in Mira’s handwriting. One-handed, I open the note.

Violet, I stayed long enough to read the rolls this morning, and you aren’t on them, thank gods. I can’t stay. I’m needed back with my wing, and even if I could stay, they wouldn’t let me see you anyway. I bribed a scribe to sneak this into your bunk. I hope you know how proud I am to be your sister. Brennan wrote this for me the summer before I entered the quadrant. It saved me, and it can save you, too. I added my own bits of hard-earned wisdom here and there, but mostly it’s his, and I know he’d want you to have it. He’d want you to live. Love, Mira.

Mira, You’re a Sorrengail, so you will survive. Perhaps not as spectacularly as I have, but we all can’t live up to my standards, can we? All kidding aside, this is everything I’ve learned. Keep it safe. Keep it hidden. You have to live, because Violet is watching. You can’t let her see you fall. Brennan.

The matches might seem random, but they’re not. What the instructors don’t tell you is that they decide challenges the week before, Mira. Any cadet can request a challenge, yes, but instructors will assign your matches based on weeding out the weakest. That means once the real hand-to-hand starts, the instructors already know who you’ll be up against that day. Here’s the secret—if you know where to look and can get out without being seen, you’ll know who you’re fighting so you can prepare.

This was exactly the reason I brought the book of poisons with me.

“There you are.” The purple berries are a gorgeous, unripe lavender.

Two figures in black cloaks—apparently tonight’s disguise of choice—walk under the protection of the tree. The smaller one leans back against the lowest limb, removing her hood to reveal a half-shaved head of pink hair I know all too well. Imogen, the squadmate who nearly ripped off my arm ten days ago. My stomach tightens, then knots as the second rider slips off his own hood. Xaden Riorson. Oh shit.

Xaden turns away from the river, as though he’s looking for someone, and sure enough, more riders arrive, gathering under the tree.

And they all have rebellion relics.

I know the rules. Marked ones can’t gather in groups larger than three.

Telling Dain is the right thing to do, but I can’t even hear what they’re saying.

Their voices are still muffled by the river, but I can hear the loudest of them, a tall, dark-haired man with pale skin, whose shoulders take up twice the space of any first-year, standing opposite Xaden’s position and wearing the rank of a third-year.

“Like it or not, we’re going to have to stick together if you want to survive until graduation,” Imogen says.

“And if they find out we’re meeting?” a first-year girl with an olive complexion asks, her eyes darting around the circle. “We’ve done this for two years and they’ve never found out,” Xaden responds, folding his arms and leaning back against the limb below my right. “They’re not going to unless one of you tells. And if you tell, I’ll know.”

The odds are always stacked against us, and trust me, every other Navarrian in the quadrant will look for reasons to call you a traitor or force you to fail.”

Damn it, I don’t want to find a single thing about Xaden Riorson admirable, and yet here he is, being all annoyingly admirable. Asshole. Have to admit, it would be nice if a high-ranking rider from my province gave a shit if the rest of us from the province lived or died.

Four hands shoot into the air, none of which belong to the spiky-blond-haired first-year standing with his arms crossed, a head taller than most others. Liam Mairi. He’s in Second Squad, Tail Section of our wing and already the top cadet in our year. He practically ran across the parapet and destroyed every opponent on assessment day.

“I can’t do this,” a gangly first-year says, rolling his shoulders inward and lifting his slim fingers to his face. “What do you mean?” Xaden asks, his voice taking on a hard edge. “I can’t do this!” The smaller one shakes his head. “The death. The fighting. Any of it!” The pitch of his voice rises with every statement. “A guy had his neck snapped right in front of me on assessment day! I want to go home! Can you help me with that?”

“That was a little harsh, cousin,” the second-year who looks a little like Xaden says, lifting his eyebrows. “What do you want me to say, Bodhi?” Xaden cocks his head to the side, his voice calm and even. “I can’t save everyone, especially not someone who isn’t willing to work to save themselves.”

“In war, people die. It’s not glorious like the bards sing about, either. It’s snapped necks and two-hundred-foot falls. There’s nothing romantic about scorched earth or the scent of sulfur. This”—he gestures back toward the citadel—“isn’t some fable where everyone makes it out alive. It’s hard, cold, uncaring reality. Not everyone here is going to make it home…to whatever’s left of our homes. And make no mistake, we are at war every time we step foot in the quadrant.” He leans forward slightly. “So if you won’t get your shit together and fight to live, then no. You’re not going to make it.”

“When do we get to kill Violet Sorrengail?” a guy toward the back asks. My blood turns to ice.

“When do we get to finally have our revenge?”