Page 430 - Fourth Wing

Fourth Wing. “Deigh thinks we’re on offense. He won’t stop going on about

getting to kick Gleann’s ass—” He pauses, as if listening to his dragon.
“Guess dragons hold grudges,” he finally whispers.

Leadership is gathered ahead of us, getting their assignments from

Xaden.
“We’re definitely on offense,” Rhiannon answers from my left.

“Otherwise, we’d already be in the field. I haven’t seen a single rider from

First Wing since lunch.”
My stomach bottoms out. First Wing. Go figure they’d be our first

opponent. Anything goes out there during War Games, and Jack Barlowe

hasn’t forgotten that I put him in the infirmary for four days. He gave me a
wider berth for weeks after Xaden executed Oren and the other kids who

had attacked me—and of course everyone stopped fucking with me after
Amber Mavis. But still, I’d catch a look from him as we passed in the halls

or in the cafeteria, pure hatred burning in the glacial blue depths of his eyes.

“I think she’s right,” I tell Liam, struggling not to fidget as the sun bakes
through my flight leathers. It’s been a while since I’ve envied the scribes

and their cream uniforms, but this weather has me feeling like we got the
shorter end of the uniform stick. It also doesn’t help that I must have slept

wrong, because my knee is killing me, and the stabilizing wrap feels like it’s

a million degrees. “Why do you think riders wear black anyway?”
“Because it’s badass,” Ridoc answers from behind me.

“So it’s harder to see when we bleed,” Imogen chimes in.

“Forget I asked,” I mumble, watching for any signs that the leadership
meeting will be over soon. Bleeding is the last thing I want to do today.

“Are we on offense or defense?” I ask Xaden.

“Little busy right now.”
“Oh no, am I distracting you?” A smile curves my mouth.

Shit, am I flirting? Maybe.
Do I care? Oddly enough…no.