Page 110 - Fourth Wing

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?”

Every head swings toward Xaden.

“No.” Xaden shrugs. “You’re not going to make it. Best accept it now and
not take up more of my time.”

It’s all I can do to smother my gasp, and some of the others in the group

don’t bother trying. What. A. Dick.
The smaller guy looks stricken, and I can’t help but feel bad for him.

“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.”

“Damn, Xaden.” Garrick rubs the bridge of his nose. “Way to give a pep

talk.”
“If they need a fucking pep talk, then we both know they’re not flying out

of the quadrant on graduation day. Let’s get real. I can hold their hands and
make them a bunch of bullshit empty promises about everyone making it

through if that helps them sleep, but in my experience, the truth is far more

valuable.” He turns his head, and I can only assume he’s looking at the
panicked first-year. “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.”