Fourth Wing (The Empyrean, #1)

by Rebecca Yarros

“I’m too short for the ramp,” I whisper to Rhi.

“Rhi!” I shout up. “The rope is between the first and second!”

Rhiannon gets the rope into Tynan’s hand, but instead of using it to swing to the next ball, he climbs…down.

The immediate strain on my shoulders makes me tense every muscle to keep the joints from dislocating.

This is because feathertails reportedly abhor violence and are not suitable for bonding.

Though this scholar cannot be certain, as one has never left the Vale within my lifetime.

I’ve survived seven weeks in this damned quadrant, and this course isn’t going to beat me today.

How can this be all there is? We say their names once and then go on as if they never existed?

“What are you doing out after curfew, first-year?” “Debating running away,” I retort. “How about you? Feel like sharing?” I ask mockingly, knowing he’s not about to answer me. “The same.”

“Look, are you going to kill me or not? The anticipation is starting to annoy the fuck out of me.”

“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—”

“Killing you wouldn’t be any trouble, Violence. It’s leaving you alive that seems to cause the majority of my trouble.”

Shadows wrap around me, and I swear I feel a caress along the side of my wounded cheek.

“Maybe if you stopped sulking in your self-pity, you’d see that you have everything you need to scale the Gauntlet,”

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.

“The right way isn’t the only way. Figure it out.”

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

And while I might not survive if I stay, I’m not sure I can live with myself if I leave.

their

their

but I recognize them for what they really are—intelligence that I might one day need to defeat them.

“Hundred and seventy-one,”

the agreement between Navarre and Krovla for mutually shared airspace for both dragons and gryphons over a narrow strip of the Esben Mountains, between Sumerton and Draithus,”

Does such a vast power come with any sort of checks or balances?

but now I have a choice. And I choose to stay.

“What changed between Parapet and now?” Dain asks again, a wealth of emotions in his eyes that I can’t begin to interpret. Well, except the fear. That doesn’t need any interpretation. “Me.”

“For once carried across the parapet, they are considered part of their person.

“I don’t need you to protect me.” “I know. But it’s just what friends do, Rhi.”

Promise me that if you need help, you’ll let me give it to you.”

“I promise that if I need help you’re capable of giving, I’ll ask, but only”—I hold up my forefinger—“if you promise the same.”

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.

“There’s no way the other dragons allow a baby to bond. No human alive has ever seen a baby.”

“You should totally bond it, Sorrengail. You’re both freakishly weak. It’s a match made in heaven.”

“Don’t ever say that about a squadmate, especially not in front of unbonded dragons.”

“Someone should kill it before it bonds,” Tynan sputters,

“It’s just going to get its rider killed, and it’s not like we get a choice if it wants to bond us.”

“They’re honestly a little underwhelming after seeing that blue at Parapet.” Luca’s voice carries all the way to Rhiannon, who turns around with an incredulous look. “Like this isn’t stressful enough without you insulting them?” Rhi asks.

I need to defuse this quickly. “I mean, it could be worse. We could be walking past a line of wyvern, right?”

“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.”

venin

“Did he tell you people supposedly only turn into venin if they channel directly from the source?”

“Venin? Wyvern? Anyone with a modicum of education knows that our wards stop all magic that isn’t channeled directly from dragons.”

A red steps out of line, putting one claw forward toward us, and my stomach drops to the ground from the weight of the dread filling my entire body. “No, no, no,” I whisper, freezing in place, but it’s too late.

Pryor’s dead.

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.

The one on the right sets its nose right at my breasts and chuffs again.

Realization hits and I choke out a tight, surreal laugh. “You smell Teine, don’t you?” I ask quietly.

“She collected Teine’s scales after he shed them last year and had them shrunk down so she could sew them into the vest to help keep me safe.” The one on the right blinks. The one on the left sticks its nose in again, sniffing loudly. “The scales have saved me a few times,” I whisper. “But no one else knows they’re in there. Just Mira and Teine.”

It’s going to die just because it’s smaller, weaker than the other dragons…just like me. My throat closes.

“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.