FOURTH WING { JJK FF}

~Chapter 4 ~

"Elena Sosa, Brayden Blackburn." Captain Fitzgibbons reads from thedeath roll, flanked by two other scribes on the dais as we stand in silentformation in the courtyard, squinting into the early sun. 

This morning, we're all in rider black, and there's a single silver fourpointed star on my collarbone, the mark of a first-year, and a Fourth Wingpatch on my shoulder. We were issued standard uniforms yesterday,
summer-weight tight-fitted tunics, pants, and accessories after Parapet wasover, 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 isn't regulation,but I 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-dietomorrow hedonism and brutal efficiency in the name of the same reason.

 "Jace Sutherland." Captain Fitzgibbons continues to read, and the scribesnext to him shift their weight. "Dougal Luperco."

 I think we're somewhere in the fifties, but I lost count when he read Dylan's name a few minutes ago. This is the only memorial the names willget, 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. 

My skin is agitated from wearing the armor all night like Mira suggested,and my knee aches, but I resist the urge to bend down and adjust the wrap Imanaged to put on in the nonexistent privacy of my bunk in the first-yearbarracks before anyone else woke up.

 There are a hundred and fifty-six of us in the first floor of the dormitorybuilding, our beds positioned in four neat rows in the open space. Eventhough Jack Barlowe was put in the third-floor dorms, I'm not about to letany 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. "Wecommend 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 mine for the span of a heartbeat before he glances away, feigning indifference.

"He's good at pretending he doesn't know you," Rhiannon whispers at my side.

"He is," I reply just as softly. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth,but I keep my expression as bland as possible as I soak in the sight of him.The sun plays in his sandy-brown hair, and when he turns his head, I see ascar peeking from his beard along his chin I'd somehow missed yesterday.

"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. I ignore the tiny voice inside me protesting that it was supposed to be my quadrant. Lingering on what could have been isn't going to help me survive to see tomorrow's sunrise.

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.