There is only one way to describe Diana Riorson's story; complicated. Her family is a wreck. Her father- dead. Her brother-disappeared. But if there's one thing she's learned in her many years at Basgiath Orphanage, it's that to survive she needs to...
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"Elena Sosa, Brayden Blackburn." Captain Fitzgibbons reads from the death roll, flanked by two other scribes on the dais as we stand in silent formation in the courtyard, squinting into the early sun.
This morning, we're all in rider black, and there's a single silver four-pointed star on my collarbone, the mark of a first-year, and a Fourth Wing patch on my shoulder. We were issued standard uniforms yesterday, summer-weight tight-fitted tunics, pants, and accessories after Parapet was over, but not flight leathers.
There's no point handing out the thicker, more protective combat uniforms when half of us won't be around come Threshing in October.
After the last twenty-four hours and one night in the first-floor barracks, I'm starting to realize that this quadrant is a strange mix of we-might-die-tomorrow hedonism and brutal efficiency in the name of the same reason.
"Jace Sutherland." Captain Fitzgibbons continues to read, and the scribes next to him shift their weight. "Dougal Luperco."
I think we're somewhere in the fifties. It feels almost cruel that I'm standing here and others are just...not. This is the only memorial the names will get, the only time they'll be spoken of in the citadel, so I try to concentrate, to commit each name to memory, but there's just too many.
There are a hundred and fifty-six of us on the first floor of the dormitory building, our beds positioned in four neat rows in the open space.
"Simone Casteneda." Captain Fitzgibbons closes the scroll. "We commend their souls to Malek." The god of death.
I blink. Guess we were closer to the end than I thought.
There's no formal conclusion to the formation, no last moment of silence. The names on the scroll leave the dais with the scribes, and the quiet is broken as the squad leaders all turn and begin to address their squads.
"Hopefully you all ate breakfast because you're not going to get another chance before lunch," Dain says.
I notice the way he skirts around Violet before faking indifference.
"He's good at pretending he doesn't know you," Rhiannon whispers at Violet's side.
"He is," she replies just as softly. A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.
I don't understand why. From what I've seen, he seems like kind of a dick. He underestimates and coddles the life out of her.
"Second- and third-years, I'm assuming you know where to go," Dain continues as the scribes wind their way around the edge of the courtyard to my right, headed back to their quadrant. There's a mutter of agreement from the senior cadets ahead of us. As first-years, we're in the back two rows of the little square that makes up Second Squad.
"First-years, at least one of you should have memorized your academic schedule when it was handed out yesterday." Dain's voice booms over us, and it's hard to reconcile this stern-faced, serious leader with the funny, grinning guy I've always known. "Stick together. I expect you all to be alive when we meet this afternoon in the sparring gym."
