Page 66 - Fourth Wing

The sparring ring is where riders are made or broken. After all, no

respectable dragon would choose a rider who cannot defend
themselves, and no respectable cadet would allow such a threat to
the wing to continue training.

—MAJOR AFENDRA’S GUIDE TO THE RIDERS QUADRANT
(UNAUTHORIZED EDITION)

CHAPTER

FOUR

“Elena Sosa, Brayden Blackburn.” Captain Fitzgibbons reads from the
death roll, flanked by two other scribes on the dais as we stand in silent

formation in the courtyard, squinting into the early sun.

This morning, we’re all in rider black, and there’s a single silver four-
pointed star on my collarbone, the mark of a first-year, and a Fourth Wing

patch on my shoulder. We were issued standard uniforms yesterday,

summer-weight tight-fitted tunics, pants, and accessories after Parapet was
over, but not flight leathers. There’s no point handing out the thicker, more

protective combat uniforms when half of us won’t be around come

Threshing in October. The armored corset Mira made me isn’t regulation,
but I fit right in among the hundreds of modified uniforms around me.

After the last twenty-four hours and one night in the first-floor barracks,
I’m starting to realize that this quadrant is a strange mix of we-might-die-

tomorrow hedonism and brutal efficiency in the name of the same reason.

“Jace Sutherland.” Captain Fitzgibbons continues to read, and the scribes
next to him shift their weight. “Dougal Luperco.”

I think we’re somewhere in the fifties, but I lost count when he read
Dylan’s name a few minutes ago. This is the only memorial the names will