Page 593 - Fourth Wing

forever and I’ve been sentenced to an eternity of torture by Malek for my

sheer recklessness, but I can’t bring myself to regret saving them.
Maybe it’s better if I die. But then Xaden might die.

Whatever is wedged between us right now, I don’t want him dead. I’ll

never want that.
A steady rush of wind at my face and the rhythmic beat of wings tells me

we’re flying, and it takes all the energy I have to lift a single eyelid as we

pass over the Cliffs of Dralor. The thousand-foot drop is unmistakable. It’s
what made the Tyrrish rebellion not only possible but nearly successful.

The poison scorches every vein, every nerve ending in my body as it runs

through me unchecked, slowing my heartbeat. Even the irony that I’m
going to die by poison, something I have unparalleled knowledge of, can’t

make me muster the energy to speak, to offer any thoughts on an antidote.
How can I when I don’t even know what’s been used on me? Until a few

hours ago, I didn’t even know venin existed outside fables, and now there’s

nothing but pain and death.
It’s only a matter of time, and mine is short.

…

Death would be preferable to existing for another second in this pyre of a

body, but it’s apparently a mercy I’m not allowed as I’m jostled awake.
Air. There’s not enough air. My lungs struggle to inhale.

“You’re sure about this?” Imogen asks.
Each step Xaden takes brings a new wave of agony that starts in my side

and ripples through my whole body.

“Stop fucking asking him that,” Garrick snaps. “He made his decision.
Support him or get the fuck out, Imogen.”

“And it’s a bad one,” another man retorts.
“When you have a hundred and seven scars on your back, then you get to

make the fucking decisions, Ciaran,” Bodhi snarls.