Page 212 - Fourth Wing

never supplicate for anyone, and yet here he is, bowing to make it easier for

me to climb on. It’s steep but manageable.
I don’t hesitate, crawling up his front leg on my hands and knees to

balance my weight and spare my ankle, but the strain on my arm has me

gasping by the time I climb over his shoulder and reach his back, dodging
the pointed spikes that ripple down most of his neck like a mane.

Holy shit. I’m on the back of a dragon.

“Sit.”
I see the seat—the smooth, scaly divot, just in front of his wings—and sit,

bending my knees like Professor Kaori taught us. Then I grab ahold of the

thick ridges of scales we call the pommel, where his neck meets his
shoulders. Everything about him is bigger than any model we practiced on.

My body isn’t built to stay on any dragon, let alone one of his size. There’s
no way I’ll be able to stay seated. This is about to be the first and last ride

of my life.

“My name is Tairneanach, son of Murtcuideam and Fiaclanfuil,
descended from the cunning Dubhmadinn line.” He stands to his full height,

bringing me eye level with the canopy of trees around the clearing, and I
squeeze a little tighter with my thighs. “But I’m not going to assume that

you’ll be able to remember that once we reach the field, so Tairn will do

until I inevitably have to remind you.”
I inhale swiftly, but there’s no time to process his name—his history—

before he bends slightly and launches us into the sky.

It feels like I imagine a stone does after being flung from a catapult,
except it takes every ounce of strength I have to stay on this particular

stone.

“Holy shit!” The ground falls away as we soar, Tairn’s enormous wings
beating the air into submission and pitching upward.

My body lifts off his back, and I dig in with my hands, trying to keep
anchored, but the wind, the angle, it’s all too much, and my grip falters.