Page 37 - Fourth Wing

luck.

“Name?” the rider at the edge asks as his partner holds a cloak over the
scroll in a pointless attempt to keep the paper dry.

“Violet Sorrengail,” I answer as thunder cracks above me, the sound

oddly comforting. I’ve always loved the nights where storms beat against
the fortress window, both illuminating and throwing shadows over the

books I curled up with, though this downpour might just cost me my life.

With a quick glance, I see Dylan’s and Rhiannon’s names already blurring
at the end where water has met ink. It’s the last time Dylan’s name will be

written anywhere but his stone. There will be another roll at the end of the

parapet so the scribes have their beloved statistics for casualties. In another
life, it would be me reading and recording the data for historical analysis.

“Sorrengail?” The rider looks up, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “As in
General Sorrengail?”

“The same.” Damn, that’s already getting old, and I know it’s only going

to get worse. There’s no avoiding the comparison to my mother, not when
she’s the commander here. Even worse, they probably think I’m a naturally

gifted rider like Mira or a brilliant strategist like Brennan was. Or they’ll
take one look at me, realize I’m nothing like the three of them, and declare

open season.

I place my hands on either side of the turret and drag my fingertips across
the stone. It’s still warm from the morning sun but rapidly cooling from the

rain, slick but not slippery from moss growth or anything.

Ahead of me, Rhiannon is making her way across, her hands out for
balance. She’s probably a fourth of the way, her figure becoming blurrier

the farther she walks into the rain.

“I thought she only had one daughter?” the other rider asks, angling the
cloak as another gust of wind blows into us. If it’s this windy here, my

bottom half sheltered by the turret, then I’m about to be in for a world of
hurt on the parapet.