Fire Can Not Kill || Fourth Wing

Chapter Three~

Chapter Four~

Dani POV~

The sparring ring is where riders are made or broken. After all, no respectable dragon would choose a rider who cannot defend themselves, and no respectable cadet would allow such a threat to the wing to continue training.

-Major Afendra's Guide to the Riders Quadrant
(Unauthorized Edition)

"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. The armored corset Mira made me and Vi isn't regulation, but we fit right in among the hundreds of modified uniforms around me.

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."

We're somewhere in the fifties. But I stopped paying attention early on. No offence to those who died, but unless I know them I don't want to dwell, dwelling gets you killed. And I don't want to die just yet.

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 hear them, if even once. Because all names should be heard once before they're never said again, but I can't bring myself to, maybe I don't want to, or I just don't want to think of myself dying this early in the game.

My skin is agitated from wearing the armor all night like Mira suggested, and my elbow aches, but I resist the urge to rub the throbbing skin, though I did have to wrap it as it was bleeding this morning, I think I reopened the scrap over night. I did this in the morning when no one was awake, even Vi.

There are a hundred and fifty-six of us in the first floor of the dormitory building, our beds positioned in four neat rows in the open space. Even though Jack Barlowe was put in the third-floor dorms, I'm not about to let any of them see my weaknesses. Not until I know who I can trust. Private rooms are like flight leathers-you don't get one until you survive Threshing.

"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, his eyes meeting Violets for the span of a heartbeat before he glances away, feigning indifference, amd I resist the urge to roll my eyes, wondering if they're are going to play this game again.

"He's good at pretending he doesn't know you," Rhiannon whispers at my side to Violet who is beside her, Dylan just behind us.

"He is," Vi replies wy just as softly. A smile tugs at the corners her my mouth, but I keep my expression as bland as possible asglance between the two, just glad I won't be left alone when they leave me for each other again.