Page 370 - Fourth Wing

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February flies by in a blur of exhaustion. Xaden takes every unscheduled

moment of my day, and Dain’s gritted his teeth more than once when the
wingleader has pulled me out of squad training because he has something

infinitely more important for me to do.

Which usually ends with me getting my ass handed to me repeatedly on
the mat.

But I have to say, he doesn’t baby me like Dain, and he doesn’t take it

easy on me like Rhiannon does. He pushes me to my physical limit every
session but never further, usually leaving me a boneless, sweaty heap on the

sparring gym floor, gasping for breath.

That’s usually when Imogen reminds me that I’m needed in the weight
room.

I hate them both.
Kind of.

It’s hard to argue with the results when I’m learning to take down the

strongest fighter in the quadrant. I have yet to beat him, but I’m all right
with that. It means he doesn’t let me win.

He also doesn’t kiss me again, even when I push.
March arrives with uncountable feet of snow that have to be shoveled

before morning formation every day. And the moments the relic burns in

my back and I feel like I might crawl out of my own skin if the power
building within me doesn’t release reminds me that I still don’t have a

signet. It’s already almost been three months.

Every morning I wake up wondering if today is the day I’ll spontaneously
combust.

“Sharla Gunter,” Captain Fitzgibbons reads from the death roll, his

gloved hands slipping on the frozen parchment. It’s warmer this week, but
not by much. “And Mushin Vedie. We commend their souls to Malek.”

“Vedie?” I ask Rhiannon, my eyebrows shooting up as formation ends. I