Quiet's Rider- a Fourth Wing fanfic

Chapter 11

The next practice sessions of the Gauntlet are no more successful than our first, but at least we don't lose another squadmate. Tynan has quit running his mouth, since he can't seem to make it up fully, either.

The buoy balls are his downfall.

The chimney is Sorrengail's.

The death, the emotions caused by them all, is mine.

At least I'm able to make it up the chimney, since I've had so much practice mounting dragons. I roll my eyes. This gauntlet is meant to simulate what skills you need to be a rider but I don't really see how they correlate.

"Maybe you can climb up onto my shoulders and then..." Rhiannon shakes her head as we study the chimney.

"Then I'm still stuck halfway up," Sorrengail answers, wiping the sweat from her forehead.

"Doesn't matter. You can't touch another cadet on the route." Sawyer folds his arms beside me, the tip of his nose now bright red from the high sun.

"Are you here to squash hopes and dreams, or do you have a suggestion?" Rhiannon retorts. "Because Presentation is tomorrow, so if you've got any bright ideas, now is the time."

As we walk away from the gauntlet I sign to Sorrengail. "Find your own way. Learn how you think, and find the method that works best for you. The right way isn't always the best way."

...

"Doria Merrill," Captain Fitzgibbons says from the dais. Every one of his features is crystal clear, not only because the sun is behind the shade of the clouds but because I'm closer. Our formation gets tighter with every cadet who falls.

It's Presentation Day, and in order to get to the flight field, we'll have to climb the Gauntlet first. Everything about the Riders Quadrant is designed to weed out the weak, and today is no exception.

"Kamryn Dyre." Captain Fitzgibbons continues to read from the roll.

I flinch. His seat was across from mine in Dragonkind.

"Arvel Pelipa."

Imogen and Quinn—both second-years—suck in a breath ahead of me.

First-years aren't the only ones at risk; we're just the most likely to die. "Michel Iverem." Captain Fitzgibbons closes the roll. "We commend

their souls to Malek." And with that final word, formation breaks.

"Second- and third-years, unless you're on Gauntlet duty, head to class. First-years, it's time to show us what you've got." Aetos forces a smile and

skips right over me as he looks at our squad.

"Good luck today." Imogen tucks an errant strand of pink hair behind her ear and aims a sickly-sweet smile right at Sorrengail. "Hopefully you won't fall... short."

"See you later," Sorrengail replies, lifting her chin.

I watch Imi's hand move quickly by her side and I smile as she tells me she knows I'll do amazing.

She stares at Sorrengail with complete loathing for a second, then walks off with Quinn and Cianna, our executive officer, her shoulder-length blond curls bouncing.

"Best of luck." Heaton—the thickest third-year in our squad, with red flames cut and dyed into their hair—taps their heart, right over two of their patches, and offers us all a genuine but flat-lipped smile before heading to class.

As I stare at their retreating back, I wonder what the circular patch on their upper right arm with water and floating spheres means. I know the triangular patch to the left of that one, with the longsword, means they're not to be messed with on the mat. I've been paying close attention to the patches other cadets have sewn into their uniforms since Aetos mentioned them to Sorrengail. Most wear them like badges of honor, but I recognize them for what they really are—intelligence that I might one day need to defeat them.