Wing: Fourth

The parapet was weeping.

“And if you survive the Threshing,” he added, turning his back on me, “try not to die during the War Games. It’s a waste of a good uniform.” Fourth Wing

I threw myself forward.

Around me, forty other first-years watched. Some had already failed. One boy was vomiting behind a pillar. A girl with cropped silver hair was counting her fingers to make sure they were all still there. The parapet was weeping

Down. Down into the maw where broken bodies of failed cadets lay like offerings to the dragons nesting in the cliffs above. I saw a glint of bone. A scrap of maroon cloak. Around me, forty other first-years watched

The Unweathered

I knew that. Everyone knew that. My bones were too light, my frame too slender for the weight of dragon-scale armor. My eyes, a shade of hazel too soft for the killing fields, had been deemed “insufficient” by the Scribe Quadrant’s entrance exam. Too imaginative. Too prone to lying.