Page 27 of Fourth Wing

“They were looking for something,” Xaden says with complete conviction. “And it wasn’t riches. That’s not a gem mining district. Which begs the question, what do we have that they want so badly?”

“Exactly. That’s the question.” Professor Devera glances around the room. “And that right there is why Riorson is a wingleader. You need more than strength and courage to be a good rider.”

“So what’s the answer?” a first-year to the left asks.

“We don’t know,” Professor Devera answers with a shrug. “It’s just another piece in the puzzle of why our constant bids for peace are rejected by the kingdom of Poromiel. What were they looking for? Whythatvillage? Were they responsible for the collapse of the ward, or was it already faltering? Tomorrow, next week, next month, there will be another attack, and maybe we’ll get another clue. Go to history if you’re looking for answers. Those wars have already been dissected and examined. Battle Brief is for fluid situations. In this class, we want you to learn which questions to ask soallof you have a chance at coming home alive.”

Something in her tone tells me it’s not just third-years who might be called into service this year, and a chill settles in my bones.

…

“You seriously knew every answer in history and apparently every right question to ask in Battle Brief,” Rhiannon says, shaking her head as we stand on the sidelines of the sparring mat after lunch, watching Ridoc and Aurelie circle each other in their fighting leathers. They’re evenly matched in size. Ridoc is on the smaller side, and Aurelie is built just like Mira, which doesn’t surprise me because she’s a legacy on her father’s side. “You’re not even going to have to study for tests, are you?”

The rest of the first-years stand on our side, but the second- and third-years line the others. They’re definitely at an advantage here, considering they’ve already had at least a year of combat training.

“I was trained to be a scribe.” I shrug, and the vest Mira made me shimmers slightly with the movement. Other than the times the scales catch the light under the camouflaging mesh, it fits right in with the tops we’d been given from central issue yesterday. All the women are dressed similarly now, though the cuts of their leathers are chosen by preference.

The guys are mostly shirtless because they think shirts give their opponent something to grab onto. Personally, I’m not arguing with their logic, just enjoying the view…respectfully, of course, which means keeping my eyes on my own squad’s mat and off the other twenty mats in the massive gym that consumes the first floor of the academic wing. One wall is made entirely of windows and doors, all left open to let in the breeze, but it’s still stiflingly hot. Sweat trickles down my spine under my vest.

There are three squads from each wing here this afternoon, and lucky me, First Wing has sent their third squads, which include Jack Barlowe, who’s been glaring at me from two mats over since I walked in.

“Guess that means you’re not worried about academics,” Rhiannon says, her brows rising at me. She’s chosen a leather vest, too, but hers cuts in above the collarbone and secures at her neck, leaving her shoulders bare for movement.

“Stop circling each other like you’re dance partners and attack!” Professor Emetterio orders from across the mat, where Dain watches Aurelie and Ridoc’s match with our squad executive leader, Cianna. Thank God Dain’s shirt is on, because I don’t need another distraction when it’s time for my turn.

“I’m worried about this,” I tell Rhiannon, tilting my chin toward the mat.

“Really?” She shoots me a skeptical look. Her braids are twisted into a small bun at the nape of her neck. “I figured as a Sorrengail, you’d be a hand-to-hand threat.”

“Not exactly.” At my age, Mira had been training in hand-to-hand for twelve years. I have a whopping six months under my belt, which wouldn’t matter as much if I wasn’t as breakable as a porcelain teacup, but here we are.

Ridoc launches toward Aurelie, but she ducks, sweeping out her leg and tripping him. He staggers but doesn’t go down. He pivots quickly, palming a dagger in his hand.

“No blades today!” Professor Emetterio bellows from beside the mat. He’s only the fourth professor I’ve met, but he’s definitely the one who intimidates me most. Or maybe it’s just the subject he teaches that has me envisioning his compact frame as giant. “We’re just assessing!”

Ridoc grumbles and sheathes his knife just in time to deflect a right hook from Aurelie.

“The brunette packs a punch,” Rhiannon says with an appreciative smile before glancing my way.

“What about you?” I ask as Ridoc lands a jab to Aurelie’s ribs.

“Shit!” He shakes his head and backs up a step. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Aurelie holds her ribs but lifts her chin. “Who said you hurt me?”

“Pulling your punches does her a disservice,” Dain says, folding his arms. “The Cygnis on the northeast border aren’t going to give her any quarter because she’s a woman if she falls from her dragon behind enemy lines, Ridoc. They’ll kill her just the same.”

“Let’s go!” Aurelie shouts, beckoning Ridoc by curling her fingers. It’s obvious that most cadets have trained their whole lives to enter the quadrant, especially Aurelie, who slips a jab from Ridoc and twists to land a quick tap to his kidneys.

Ouch.

“I mean…damn,” Rhiannon mutters, giving Aurelie another look before turning back to me. “I’m pretty good on the mat. My village is on the Cygnisen border, so we all learned to defend ourselves fairly young. Physics and math aren’t problems, either. But history?” She shakes her head. “That class might be the death of me.”

“They don’t kill you for failing history,” I say as Ridoc charges Aurelie, taking her to the mat with enough force to make me wince. “I’m probably going to die on these mats.”

She hooks her legs around his and somehow leverages him over until she’s the one on top, landing punch after punch to the side of his face. Blood spatters the mat.

“I could probably offer some tips to survive combat training,” Sawyer says from Rhiannon’s other side, running his hand over a day’s growth of brown stubble that doesn’t quite cover his freckles. “History isn’t my strongest subject, though.”

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