Fourth Wing (The Empyrean, #1)

by Rebecca Yarros

“You broke his damned neck!”

“You don’t have to get used to it,” he tells us. “But you do have to function through it.

“You really should dye your hair if you don’t want everyone to know who your mother is. You’re the only silver-haired freak in the quadrant.”

“Never said I cared if everyone knows who my mother is.” I circle the second-year on the mat. “I am proud of her service to protect our kingdom—from enemies both without and within.”

“You bitch,” she seethes. “Your mother murdered my family.”

“You can’t use your powers in here, Imogen!”

and I feel the quick slide of something hard against my ribs as she smiles at me. But her smile fades as we both look down, and I can’t help but notice a dagger being re-sheathed. The armor just saved my life. Thank you, Mira.

My hand screams with pain even though I’m sure I formed the fist right, but I block it out as we both gain our feet.

She pulls my arm farther, and pain consumes every thought, blackening the edges of my vision. I cry out as the ligaments stretch, shred, then pop.

I hear it again—the macabre sound of snapping bone—but this time it’s mine.

It is my opinion that of all the signet powers riders provide, mending is the most precious, but we cannot allow ourselves to become complacent when in the company of such a signet. For menders are rare, and the wounded are not.

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

“Helen, go get Nolon,” Winifred orders a healer in her forties walking by. “No!” Dain barks, panic lacing his tone. Excuse me?

Regardless, you certainly shouldn’t have to suffer for the honor of your mother.

He’d want you to live.

In the best interest of preserving peace within Navarre, no more than three cadets carrying rebellion relics may be assigned to any squad of any quadrant.

In addition to last year’s changes, marked ones assembling in groups of three or more will now be considered an act of seditious conspiracy and is hereby a capital offense.

One little hop to the right and I could repay that callous shoulder maneuver she pulled on me with a quick kick to her head.

being all annoyingly admirable.

“You learn what they teach you,” Xaden says to the first-year, his voice taking a hard edge. “Keep what you know but recite whatever they tell you to.”

ask now. We don’t have all night.” It hits me then—other than being gathered in a group of more than three, there’s nothing wrong with what they’re doing here. There’s no plot, no coup, no danger. It’s just a group of older riders counseling first-years from their province. But if Dain knew, he’d be honor bound to—

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

“I told you already, the youngest Sorrengail is mine, and I’ll handle her when the time is right.”

“Not her daughter. Punishing children for the sins of their parents is the Navarrian way, not the Tyrrish.”

“In case you didn’t notice, she’s in the same death sentence of a college,” Garrick retorts. “Seems like she’s already suffering the same fate.”

“Don’t forget her brother was Brennan Sorrengail,” Xaden adds. “She has just as much reason to hate us as we do her.”

“I command shadows, but sure, it was your perfume that gave you away.”

“Now I might actually have to kill you.”

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

He reaches under my own cloak and slides one blade into the sheath at my thigh, then pulls back the side of my cloak and pauses.

“You were helping them. I don’t see why that should be punished.”

“Interesting,” he says softly. “We’ll see if you keep your word, and if you do, then unfortunately, it looks like I owe you a favor.”

“Now, get back to bed before your wingleader realizes you’re out after curfew.” “What?” I gawk after him. “You’re my wingleader!”

Dain squeezes my hand gently. “Just steer clear of him.” I blink. The advice is so different from Xaden’s throw-a-few-daggers-at-his-head approach.

I take my place in the serving line an hour later, and completely undetectable as I sprinkle it over Oren Seifert’s scrambled eggs when he approaches.

“How many dragons are there in total?” Rhiannon asks. “A hundred for this year,”

“Will they tell you why they won’t bond?” another first-year asks.

“Dragons only talk to their bonded riders, just like they only give their full name to their bonded rider. You should know that by now.”

but you should be able to recognize Sgaeyl if you see her,” Professor Kaori says. “So you can fucking run,” Ridoc drawls.

Ruthless does not begin to describe her, nor does she abide by what we assume to be what the dragons consider law.

She even bonded the relative of one of her previous riders, which you all know is typically forbidden, but Sgaeyl does whatever she wants, whenever she wants.

They’re all intimidating, but Sgaeyl is the most powerful of them all.”

And yet…he let me live. I shove the kernel of warmth that thought gives me far, far away.

since this is the only time you’ll ever see him, here is the only other black besides General Melgren’s.”

“And honestly, I haven’t seen him in the last five years, so this image is more than a little outdated.

“They’re the rarest,” I add in. “There hasn’t been one born in the last…century.”

“He hasn’t agreed to bond since his previous and only rider was killed during the uprising, and the only way you’d ever be near him is if you’re in the Vale, which you won’t be, because you’d be incinerated before you ever got through the gorge.”

“Codagh,

“There’s no telling. Signets are the result of the unique chemistry between rider and dragon and usually say more about the rider than the dragon. The stronger the bond and the more powerful the dragon, the stronger the signet.”

“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.”