Page 39 of Fourth Wing

“I’ll be all right,” I assure him, but he moves in front of me, halting my steps.

“I know you’ve been practicing with Rhiannon, but…” Worry lines his forehead.

“I’ve got it,” I promise, looking into his eyes so he knows I mean it. “You don’t have to worry about me.” Last night, Oren Seifert’s name was posted next to mine right where Brennan said it would be. He’s a tall blond in First Wing with tolerable knife skills but one hell of a punch.

“I always worry about you.” Dain’s hands curl into fists.

“Don’t.” I shake my head. “I can handle myself.”

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

My ribs squeeze my heart like a vise.

“Then don’t watch.” I take his calloused hand in mine. “You can’t save me from this, Dain. I’m going to be challenged once a week just like every other cadet. And it’s not going to stop there. You can’t protect me from Threshing, or the Gauntlet, or Jack Barlowe—”

“You need to lay low with that one.” Dain grimaces. “Avoid that pompous ass whenever you can, Vi. Don’t give him an excuse to come after you. He’s already responsible for too many names on the death roll.”

“Then the dragons are going to love him.” They always go for the vicious ones.

Dain squeezes my hand gently. “Just steer clear of him.”

I blink. The advice is so different from Xaden’s throw-a-few-daggers-at-his-head approach.

Xaden. The knot of guilt that’s been lodged in my stomach since last week grows a fraction bigger. By code, I should tell Dain about seeing marked ones under the oak tree, but I won’t, not because I told Xaden that I wouldn’t but because keeping the secret feels like the right thing to do.

I’ve never kept a secret from Dain in my life.

“Violet? Did you hear me?” Dain asks, lifting a hand to cradle my face.

Jerking my gaze to his, I nod and repeat, “Steer clear of Barlowe.”

He drops his hand and shoves it into a pocket of his pants. “Hopefully he’ll forget all about his little vendetta against you.”

“Do most men forget when a woman holds a knife to their balls?” I cock an eyebrow at him.

“No.” He sighs. “You know, it’s not too late to sneak you down to the scribes. Fitzgibbons will take you—”

The bells ring, marking quarter past five and saving me from another session of Dain begging me to run away to the Scribe Quadrant.

“I’ll be all right. I’ll see you at formation.” I give his hand a squeeze, then walk away, leaving him as I make my way to the kitchen. I’m always the first here, and today is no exception.

I pocket the vial of dried, powdered fonilee berries from my satchel and get started as the other workers come in, sleepy-eyed and grumbly. The powder is nearly white, nearly invisible as I take my place in the serving line an hour later, and completely undetectable as I sprinkle it over Oren Seifert’s scrambled eggs when he approaches.

…

“Keep the temperaments of each specific breed in mind when you decide which dragons to approach and which to run from at Threshing,” Professor Kaori says, his serious, dark eyes slashing toward his nose as he studies the new recruits for a beat, then he changes the projection he’s conjured from a Green Daggertail to a Red Scorpiontail. He’s an illusionist and the only professor in the quadrant with the signet ability to project what he sees in his mind, which makes this class one of my favorites. He’s also the reason I knew exactly what Oren Seifert looked like.

Do I feel guilty about blatantly misleading a professor about why I needed to find another cadet? No. Do I think it’s cheating? Also no. I was doing exactly what Mira suggested and using my brain.

The Red Scorpiontail in the center of our circled tables is a fraction of its actual size, six feet tall at most, but it’s an exact replica of the actual firebreather waiting in the Vale for Threshing.

“Red Scorpiontails, like Ghrian here, are the quickest to temper,” Professor Kaori continues, his perfectly trimmed mustache curving as he smiles at the illusion like he’s the dragon himself. We all take notes. “So if you offend him, you’re—”

“Lunch,” Ridoc says from my left, and the class laughs. Even Jack Barlowe, who hasn’t quit glaring at me since his squad took over their quarter of the room a half hour ago, snorts.

“Precisely,” Professor Kaori responds. “So what’s the best way to approach a Red Scorpiontail?” He glances around the room.

I know the answer, but I keep my hand to myself, heeding Dain’s advice to lay low.

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