Page 215 - Fourth Wing

died in the Tyrrish rebellion.

Tairn swings me upward and then releases me, sending me flying high
above him, and I flail. My stomach drops at the height of his toss, and then I

fall for two heartbeats before Tairn rushes up, catching me on his back

between his wings.
“Now get in the seat and actually hold on this time, or no one is going to

believe that I’ve actually chosen you,” he growls.

“I still can’t believe you’ve chosen me!” I have half a mind to tell him
that getting back to the seat isn’t as easy as he’s implying, but he levels out

and his wings catch the air in a gentle glide, cutting the wind resistance.

Inch by inch, I crawl up his back until I reach the seat and settle in again. I
hold on to his ridges so hard, my hands cramp.

“You’re going to have to strengthen your legs. Didn’t you practice?”
Indignation ripples up my spine. “Of course I practiced!”

“There’s no need to shout. I can hear you just fine. The entire mountain

can probably hear you.”
Was everyone’s dragon a curmudgeon? Or just mine?

My eyes widen. I have…a dragon. And not just any dragon. I have
Tairneanach.

“Grip harder with your knees. I can barely feel you back there.”

“I’m trying.” I push my knees in and the muscles of my thighs tremble as
he banks left, softer this time than last, his angle not quite as steep as he

changes course in a wide arc, taking us back toward Basgiath. “I’m just…

not as strong as other riders.”
“I know exactly who and what you are, Violet Sorrengail.”

My legs shake until they lock, the muscles freezing in place as though

bands have been wrapped around them, but there’s no pain. I glance over
my shoulder and see his morningstar tail, what feels like miles behind us.

He’s doing this. He’s holding me in place.
Guilt settles in my stomach. I should have focused more on strength