Wing | Fourth

Halfway across, the stone groaned.

I placed my palm against the cold stone of the Riders’ Quadrant gate. The bas-relief of a wyvern, wings pinned in eternal agony, seemed to sneer at me. Fourth Wing

The wind hit first—a living thing that tried to shove me sideways. I leaned into it, letting my hips find the rhythm of the sway. No rail. No rope. Just the slick hiss of my boots on wet rock. Halfway across, the stone groaned

My fingers caught the far lip of the next stone segment. The wet granite tried to reject my grip, but I held. My shoulders screamed. The muscles in my arms, built only from carrying books and sweeping infirmary floors, tore against my skeleton. The wind hit first—a living thing that tried

This is where you die, whispered a voice that sounded like every healer who’d ever looked at my chart.

He stood, brushing the mud from his hands.