Fourth Wing Page

As he walked away, the rain began to fall harder. I looked down at my hands. The knuckles were split open. The skin was raw.

Halfway across, the stone groaned.

I knew that. Everyone knew that. My bones were too light, my frame too slender for the weight of dragon-scale armor. My eyes, a shade of hazel too soft for the killing fields, had been deemed “insufficient” by the Scribe Quadrant’s entrance exam. Too imaginative. Too prone to lying. Fourth Wing

I pulled.

Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t reading about the storm. As he walked away, the rain began to fall harder

This is where you die, whispered a voice that sounded like every healer who’d ever looked at my chart.

Xaden crouched down until his face was level with mine. Up close, his eyes weren't black—they were the deep, violent violet of a brewing storm. The skin was raw

Down. Down into the maw where broken bodies of failed cadets lay like offerings to the dragons nesting in the cliffs above. I saw a glint of bone. A scrap of maroon cloak.

I collapsed to my knees, heaving.

The Unweathered