Page 134 - Fourth Wing

boot print on my ribs. I almost broke down and went to see Nolon after that

one, but I gritted my teeth and wrapped my ribs, determined not to give the
others a reason to weed me out like Jack or any marked ones wanted.

I earn my fifth dagger, this one with a pretty ruby in the hilt, the last

challenge in August when I take a particularly sweaty guy with a gap
between his front teeth to the mat. The bark of the carmine tree that finds its

way into his waterskin makes him sluggish and ill. The effects are a little

too similar to the fonilee berries, and it’s just a shame that the entire Third
Squad, Claw Section of Third Wing is suffering the same stomach upset.

Must be something viral, at least that’s what I say when he finally yields to

my headlock after dislocating my thumb and nearly breaking my nose.
Come early September, there’s a spring in my step as I walk onto the mat.

I’ve taken down five opponents without killing any of them, something a
quarter of our year can’t say after almost twenty more names have been

added to the death roll the last month for the first-years alone.

I roll my sore shoulders and wait for my opponent.
But Rayma Corrie from Third Wing doesn’t step forward this week like

she’s supposed to.
“Sorry, Violet,” Professor Emetterio says, scratching his short black

beard. “You were supposed to challenge Rayma, but she’s been taken to the

healers because she can’t seem to walk in a straight line.”
Peels of the walwyn fruit will do that when ingested raw…say, like when

they’re mixed into the icing of your morning pastry.

“That’s”—shit—“too bad.” I wince. You served it to her too early.
“Should I just…” I start, already backing up to get off the mat.

“I’m happy to step in.” That voice. That tone. That prickle of ice along

my scalp…
Oh no. Hell no. No. No. No.

“You sure?” Professor Emetterio asks, glancing over his shoulder.
“Absolutely.”