Ruthless: A Fourth Wing Fanfiction

Chapter 4

"Welcome to your first Battle Brief," Professor Devera says from the floor of the enormous lecture hall later in the morning, a bright purple Flame Section patch on her shoulder. 

Every creaky wooden seat is full, and the senior third-years are standing against the walls behind us, but we all fit. I spit Violet and Rhiannon a few rows ahead of me.

Its a stark difference from history last hour, where there were only three squads of first-years, but at least the first-years in my squad are all seated together. Now only if I could remember their names.

Of course, I know Arkea. There's also a blonde boy with a swirling rebellion relic that's been staring me down for the past two hours like I killed his parents. I don't think he realises that deed belongs to my father.

Professor Devera continues on with her talk. I don't really pay attention. Let me correct that. Her words go inside my head and stay there, but I don't stare at her in awe like almost everyone else in the room. I do watch as she points to a huge map of the Continent though.

I dip my quill into the inkpot in front of me so I can take notes. I'm not as smart as Violet, but I'm not a far cry from it.

Professor Devera continues.

I take notes on what I deem is most important. I don't pay attention to the rest of the first years questions.

Soon, they start picking at each other. I look up and see some girl- Luca, I think, from a talk I had with Violet in history earlier- picking on a shy looking boy. Another girl sticks up for him.

"He's in our squad," she says. "Show some loyalty."

"Please. No dragon is bonding to a guy who can't even decide if he wants to ask a question. Did you see him at breakfast this morning? He held up the entire line because he couldn't choose between bacon or sausage." Luca rolls her kohl-rimmed eyes,

"No dragon is bonding to a girl who has no morals or loyalty whatsoever and picks on someone who is clearly nervous at being here and you picking on him does not help!"  I yell, standing up from my desk, my chair scraping the floor.

Luca's eyes narrow at me.

"If Fourth Wing is done picking at one another?" Professor Devera asks, lifting a brow.

I sit back down, my arms crossed. I'll be damned if I let someone pick on another person without provocation.

"What altitude is the village at?" I hear Rhiannon ask.

"A little less than ten thousand feet. Why?" Markham answers.

"Just seemed a little high for a planned attack with gryphons." Nice one, Rhi.

"It is a little high for a planned attack," Devera says. "Why don't you tell me why that's so bothersome, Cadet Sorrengail? And maybe you'd like to ask your own questions from here on out."

I look over at Violet, who looks extremely uncomfortable. I'm not getting her out of this one.

"Gryphons aren't as strong at that altitude, and neither is their ability to channel. It's an illogical place for them to attack unless they knew the wards would fail, especially since the village looks to be about what... an hour's flight from the nearest outpost? That is Chakir right there, isn't it?" Violet says. 

"It is," Professor Devera replies, her mouth lifting into a smirk. "Keep going with that line of thought."

I watch as Violet's mind ticks away. "Didn't you say it took an hour for the squad of riders to arrive?"

"I did."

"Then they were already on their way," Violet blurts. In my head and hers, it makes sense. But the confused faces around me think otherwise.

"Yeah, because that makes sense." A blonde guy with piercing ice blue eyes turns around to Violet, openly laughing at her.

"General Melgren knows the outcome of a battle before it happens, but even he doesn't know when it will happen, dumbass."

The chuckles of our classmates makes me angry. Not angry enough to intervene, though. This is Violet's time.

"Fuck off, Barlowe." Rhiannon snaps. Thank Zihnal that Rhiannon got to stay with Violet in her squad.

"I'm not the one who thinks precognition is a thing," he retorts with a sneer. "Gods help us if that one ever gets on the back of a dragon." 

Another round of laughter and I can see that Violet is getting pissed, too.

"Why do you think that, Cadet Sorrengail?" Markham says.

"Because there's no logical way they get there within an hour of attack unless they were already on their way," Violet argues. "It would take at least half that long to light the beacons in the range and call for help, and no full squad is sitting around waiting to be needed. More than half of those riders would have been asleep, which means they were already on their way."

"And why would they already be on their way?" Professor Devera prods.

"Because they somehow knew the wards were breaking," Violet says determinedly, lifting her chin.

"Thats the most-" Barlowe starts.

"She's right," Devera interrupts. "One of the dragons in the wing sensed the faltering ward, and the wing flew. Had they not, the casualties would have been far higher and the destruction of the village much greater."

Barlowe glares at Violet.

"Second and third years, take over," Professor Devera orders. "Lets see if you can be a little more respectful to your fellow cadets." She arches a brow at Barlowe.

I don't pay attention after that, the second and third years having their turn. I doodle on my page. I find myself drawing wings. Thin membrane with a talon at the end. Sharp, twisted horns. gaping mouth with fangs. 

The dragon I have drawn stares back at me as I admire it. It looks kind of similar to Codagh, my father's dragon, but a bit smaller, narrower shaped eyes and longer horns. Maybe its just my memories of dragons and Codagh blurring together. Anyhow, I like it.

"Drawing won't help you make it to Threshing," a deep voice says from behind me.

"No, but it sure is better than this class," I reply, not turning to face them.

"Can't argue with that."

I turn around. The boy with sandy blonde, wavy hair that stared me down the past two hours is peering over my shoulder at my drawing.

"Nice one, but my carvings are better, Melgren." He says.

I scoff. "Sure."

"I should be trying to kill you, not fraternising about sketching and carving with you," he tuts. I turn around again and spot his rebellion relic.

"What's stopping you? You seemed to have fun death glaring me earlier."

"When you stood up for Pryor, I had this sudden thought that maybe, just maybe, you are a decent person."

"You are making it sound as if its very hard to believe," I comment, turning back to my drawing.

"It is."