Page 172 - Fourth Wing

“Good luck today.” Imogen tucks an errant strand of pink hair behind her

ear and aims a sickly-sweet smile right at me. “Hopefully you won’t fall…
short.”

“See you later,” I reply, lifting my chin.

She stares at me with complete loathing for a second, then walks off with
Quinn and Cianna, our executive officer, her shoulder-length blond curls

bouncing.

“Best of luck.” Heaton—the thickest third-year in our squad, with red
flames cut and dyed into their hair—taps their heart, right over two of their

patches, and offers us all a genuine but flat-lipped smile before heading to

class.
As I stare at their retreating back, I wonder what the circular patch on

their upper right arm with water and floating spheres means. I know the
triangular patch to the left of that one, with the longsword, means they’re

not to be messed with on the mat. Since Dain told me about the patch

denoting his top secret signet, I’ve been paying close attention to the
patches other cadets have sewn into their uniforms. Most wear them like

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

“I didn’t realize Heaton actually knew how to speak.” Two lines appear

between Ridoc’s brows.
“Maybe they figure they should at least say hi before we’re potentially

roasted today,” Rhiannon says.

“Back into formation,” Dain orders.
“Are you going with us?” I ask.

He nods, still not looking at me.

The eight of us fall into two lines of four, the same as the other squads
around us.

“Awkward,” Rhiannon whispers from my side. “He seems kind of pissed
at you.”