Page 72 of Fourth Wing

“Been waiting a long time for this, Sorrengail.” He walks forward slowly.

“If you can fly, now would be a good time,” I shout over my shoulder at the small dragon, drawing two daggers from the sheaths at my ribs.

The dragon chuffs. So helpful.

“You can’t kill a dragon,” I try reasoning, shaking my head at the trio, fear lacing my veins with adrenaline.

“Sure we can.” Jack shrugs, but Oren looks a little uncertain, so I pin my gaze on him as they spread out slightly about a dozen feet away, setting up the perfect formation for an attack.

“You can’t,” I say directly to Oren. “It goes against everything we believe in!”

He flinches. Jack doesn’t.

“Letting something soweak, so incapable of fighting, live is against our beliefs!” Jack shouts, and I know he’s not just talking about the dragon.

“You’re going to have to get through me, then.” My heart thunders against my ribs as I raise my daggers, flipping one to pinch the tip so I’m ready to throw and measuring the twenty or so feet separating me from my attackers.

“I don’t really consider that a problem,” Jack snarls.

They all lift their swords, and I draw a deep breath, readying myself to fight. This isn’t the mat. There are no instructors. No yielding. Nothing to stop them slaughtering me…slaughteringus.

“I would strongly recommend you rethink your actions,” a voice—hisvoice—demands from across the field to my right.

My scalp prickles as each of our heads swivel in his direction.

Xaden is leaning against the tree, his arms folded across his chest, and behind him, watching with narrowed golden eyes, her fangs exposed, is Sgaeyl, his terrifying navy-blue daggertail.

In the six centuries of recorded history of dragon and rider, there have been hundreds of known cases where a dragon simply cannot emotionally recover from the loss of their bonded rider. This happens when the bond is particularly strong and, in three documented cases, has even caused the untimely death of the dragon.

—Navarre, an Unedited History by Colonel Lewis Markham

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

Xaden.For the first time, the sight of him fills my chest with hope. He won’t let this happen. He might hate me, but he’s a wingleader. He can’t just watch them kill a dragon.

But I know the rules probably better than anyone else in this quadrant.

He has to.Bile rises in my throat, and I tilt my chin to quell the burning. What Xaden wants, which is always debatable, doesn’t matter here. He can only observe, not interfere.

I’m going to have an audience for my death. Fantastic.

So much for hope.

“And if we don’t want torethink our actions?” Jack shouts.

Xaden looks toward me, and I swear I can see his jaw clench, even from this far away.

Hope is a fickle, dangerous thing. It steals your focus and aims it toward the possibilities instead of keeping it where it belongs—on the probabilities. Xaden’s words come back to me with alarming clarity, and I rip my gaze from his and concentrate on the threeprobabilitiesin front of me.

“There’s nothing you can do, right?Wingleader?” Jack bellows.

Guess he knows the rules, too.

“It’s not me you should worry about today,” Xaden responds and Sgaeyl tilts her head, nothing but menace in her eyes when I glance over.

“You really going to do this?” I ask Tynan. “Attack a squadmate?”

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