Page 107 - Fourth Wing

each other.

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

dressed in black cloaks as they shake hands. And they all have rebellion

relics.
My eyes widen as I count. There are almost two dozen of them, a few

third-years and a couple of seconds, but the rest are all firsts. I know the

rules. Marked ones can’t gather in groups larger than three. They’re
committing a capital offense simply by being together. It’s obviously a

meeting of some sort, and I feel like a cat clinging to the leaf-tipped limbs

of this tree while the wolves circle below.
Their gathering could be completely harmless, right? Maybe they’re

homesick, like when the cadets from the Morraine province all spend a
Saturday at the nearby lake just because it reminds them of the ocean they

miss so much.

Or maybe marked ones are plotting to burn Basgiath to the ground and
finish what their parents started.

I can sit up here and ignore them, but my complacency—my fear—could
get people killed if they’re down there scheming. Telling Dain is the right

thing to do, but I can’t even hear what they’re saying.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Nausea churns in my stomach. I have to get closer.
Keeping myself on the opposite side of the trunk and sticking to the

shadows that wrap around me, I climb down another branch with sloth-like

speed, holding my breath as I test each branch with a fraction of my weight
before lowering myself. 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.

“We’ve already lost Sutherland and Luperco,” he says, but I can’t make
out the response.