As a rider candidate on the spectrum, Adelaide Finch knew Basgiath War College wouldn't cater to her. The dragons are loud, the flying leathers are itchy, and the social politics are... complicated. Between the rebellion relic that paints a target on her back and the curriculum designed to kill her, surviving Basgiath might take more than logic, loyalty, or luck - it might take fire.
A/N: I wanted to read a story about a neurodivergent woman, like me, riding a dragon. So here I am, writing that! I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I have writing it. âĄ
Synopsis: Addie attends her first Battle Brief, a daily strategy class meant to prepare cadets for the front lines. But as tensions rise and facts are questioned, it becomes clear that survival here isnât just about strengthâitâs about knowing what questions to ask... and whoâs telling only half the story.
Warnings: War themes, propaganda, sensory discomfort (overstimulation), allusions to grief, familial loss, emotional suppression, bullying, death mention(s), execution mention, internalized trauma.
A/N: Writing these scenes from another perspective has been so fun!! Really enjoyed this one :)
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"Welcome to your first Battle Brief," Professor Devera greets the entire Quadrant from the concave floor of an enormous lecture hall later that morning.Â
Battle Brief is the only class held in the circular, tiered room that curves the end of the academic building. It's one of only two rooms in the citadel capable of fitting every riding cadet, but stillâit's a little snug with every creaky wooden seat full and the senior third-years standing against the walls behind us. A crowd this big is so much worse indoors, making me feel slightly claustrophobic. At least my squad's first-years are all sitting together, even if we couldn't find Ritty's squad in the crowd.
"In the past, riders have seldom been called into service before graduation," Professor Devera resumes, her lips tightening as she paces slowly in front of a twenty-foot-high map of the Continent that's mounted to the back wall, intricately labelled with Navarrian defensive outposts along the borders.Â
A plethora of mage lights brighten the space, more than making up for the lack of windows and reflecting off the longsword Devera keeps strapped to her back. Even the damn professors are armed in this place.
I dip my quill into the inkpot in front of me to try to look engaged in the class, but really, I already know I'm about to be fed a bunch of bullshit.
"And if they were, they were always third-years who'd spent time shadowing forward wings, but we expect you to graduate with the full knowledge of what we're up against. It's not about just knowing where every wing is stationed, either." She takes her time as she continues, making eye contact with every first-year she sees, but I avert my eyes.Â
Graduating with full knowledge of what we're up against... does she really believe that's what they do here?
The medals pinned to her chest would lead you to believe she's aware of what's going on outside the border... but you never know with these people. So is she truly ignorant, or is she leading all these cadets astray?
I don't know which is worse.
"You need to understand the politics of our enemies, the strategies of defending our outposts from constant attack, and have a thorough knowledge of both recent and current battles. If you cannot grasp these basic topics, then you have no business on the back of a dragon." The professor raises a black brow a few shades darker than her deep-brown skin.
"Well, shit," Digby mutters to my right as he scratches away with a quill.
"We'll be fine," Ryker assures from our left, looking bored as he stares at the giant map. "Cadets are never sent to the front anyway."
"I'm not so sure about that," I mumble under my breath.Â
Ryker's head snaps my direction. Even Caswell turns from where he sits in front of us, his heart-stopping gaze pinning me in place, and I feel my cheeks flush red as I awkwardly hide behind my hand.
"This is the only class you will have every day, because it's the only class that will matter if you're called into service early." Professor Devera's gaze sweeps across the crowd. "Because this class is taught every day and relies on the most current information, you will also answer to Professor Markham, who deserves nothing but your utmost respect."
She waves the scribe forward, and he moves to stand next to her, the cream colour of his uniform a sharp contrast to the black of hers.He's a Colonel, based on the pin adorning his chest. Now that's a man who knows what's whatânot that I imagine he'd be willing to share.Â
"It is the duty of the scribes not only to study and master the past but to relay and record the present," he says, rubbing the bridge of his bulbous nose. "Without accurate depictions of our front lines, reliable information with which to make strategic decisions, andâmost importantlyâveracious details to document our history for the good of future generations, we're doomed, not only as a kingdom but as a society."
It takes an incredible amount of restraint not to laugh, so I hide behind my hands again.
"First topic of the day." Professor Devera moves toward the map and flicks her hand, bringing a mage light directly over the eastern border with the Poromiel province of Braevick. "The Eastern Wing experienced an attack last night near the village of Chakir by a drift of Braevi gryphons and riders."
Whispers rip across the classroom. I knew I'd be taking everything with a bit of skepticism here, but I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever truly believe a thing these people say. My quill has left a large blot of ink where I've left it resting... and when I finally notice, it's bled through multiple pages in my notebook.
"Crap," I murmur. Damn quills.Â
Digby and another first-year in our squad, Nico, stifle their laughs as they watch me panic about it. In this moment, if I had to choose one thing to look forward to when it comes to becoming a rider, it would be the magical pens.
"Naturally, some information is redacted for security purposes, but what we can tell you is that the wards faltered along the top of the Esben Mountains." Professor Devera pulls her hands apart as she speaks, expanding the light across the mountains that form the border with Braevick. "Allowing the drift not only to enter Navarrian territory but for their riders to channel and wield sometime around midnight."
I look up from my desk. Faltering wards?Â
Now that's interesting.
Narvarre's infamously secure borders are largely due to the kingdom being protected by Wards, invisible protective shields powered by the magic of dragons. They're the reason the borders are somewhat circularâtheir power radiates from the Vale and can only extend so far.
The thing is, dragons aren't the only animals able to channel powers to their riders; gryphons also share the ability, although they're only capable of lesser magic. Dragons are the only creatures that can power the wards that make all magic impossible except for their ownâit's what has allowed Navarre to sit in sweet, blissful ignorance for hundreds of years.
Well, that and propaganda.
"Thirty-seven civilians were killed in the attack in the hour before a squad from the Eastern Wing could arrive, but the riders and dragons managed to repel the drift," Professor Devera finishes, folding her arms over her chest. "Based on that information, what questions would you ask?" She holds up a finger. "I only want answers from first-years to start."
Well, my first question would be, what in Dunne'sâthe goddess of strength and war'sâname is a drift of gryphons doing in the mountains?Â
Naturally, when planning an attack like this one, they would take into account the fact that dragons can channel more power than gryphons, especially at such an altitude, because going up against a squad of Navarrian Riders is always a risk within our borders. So why would they take the chance of crossing the border just to attack a random mountain village?Â
"Come on, first-years, show me you have more than just good balance. Show me you have the critical-thinking skills to be here," Professor Devera demands. "It's more important than ever that you're ready for what's beyond our borders."
Based on what I've seen so far, they will most definitely not be ready, Professor.Â
"Is this the first time the wards have faltered?" a first-year from our squad with thin chestnut braids, Sunniva, asks.Â
Honestly, I can't imagine what possesses a person to volunteer to be the first to speak in front of the whole quadrant like that. It wasn't a half-bad question, either.
Professors Devera and Markham share a look before turning toward Sunniva. "No."
The buzz of voices cuts off abruptly.
Fuck. It's worse than I thought.
Sunniva clears her throat. "And how...often are they faltering?"Â
Professor Markham's shrewd eyes narrow on her. "That's above your pay grade, cadet."
Typical.
He turns his attention to another group of first-years. "Next relevant question to the attack we're discussing?"
The mountain part continues to bother me... Gryphons are naturally lower fliers than dragons. Why would they plan an attack where they'd be at such a disadvantage?
It leads me to wonder how truthful the report is. Navarre could legitimately blame anything on Braevick and their gryphons, and nobody would ever bother to question it.
"How many casualties did the wing suffer?" a young man asks.Â
"One injured dragon. One dead rider."
A ripple of unease spreads through the hall.
"Surviving graduation doesn't mean we'll survive service," Blythe grumbles from a few seats over.
"Most riders die before retirement," I mutter back, disturbingly aware of the odds.Â
"Wow, really staying positive, guys." The blue-haired girl from yesterday, whom I now know as Fiora, turns in her chair to look at us. There's no way that wasn't sarcasm.
Blythe motions with her pointer finger for Fiora to turn back around, which results in mutual rolled eyes. Digby chuckles softly as he shakes his head, but the rest of the squad keeps their eyes trained on the professor.
"Why would you ask that particular question?" Professor Devera asks the cadet.
"To know how many reinforcements they'll need," he answers.
Professor Devera nods, turning toward a first-year cadet with his hand up, but then he lowers it quickly, scrunching his dark eyebrows. "Did you want to ask a question?"
 "Yes." The cadet nods, then unexpectedly shakes his head. "No. Never mind."
It's the most relatable thing I've witnessed all day.
"So decisive," a smirking first-year mocks from next to him, practically dripping with superiority. She confidently flips her long hair over her shoulderâsomething not many women in the quadrant are daring enough to keep, as it can be detrimental on the mat.Â
Even I've chopped my copper hair into a short, jaw-length bob, and it had been long enough for me to sit on before.Â
I miss my hair... just another thing to add to the list of what this place has already taken from me, I suppose.
"He's in our squad,"Â A young woman beside them scolds. "Show some loyalty."Â
"Please. No dragon is bonding to a guy who can't even decide if he wants to ask a question. And did you see him at breakfast this morning? He held the entire line up because he couldn't choose between bacon or sausage." The arrogant first-year holds the attention of the entire hall.Â
"If Fourth Wing is done picking at one another?" Professor Devera asks, lifting a brow as everyone turns back to her.
"What altitude is the village at?" Another first-year from the same squad asks.
Finally, we're getting somewhere.
Professor Devera's eyebrows rise. "Markham?"
"A little less than ten thousand feet," he answers. "Why?"
The cadet clears her throat. "Just seems a little high for a planned attack with gryphons."
Exactly.
"It is a little high for a planned attack," Devera says. "Why don't you tell me why that's bothersome, Cadet Sorrengail? And maybe you'd like to ask your own questions from here on out?"
Wait. There's a Sorrengail in my year?  I turn around in my seat to catch a glimpse of her.
The Commanding General of Basgiath is a Sorrengailâthe same general who struck a deal with Xaden, giving the marked ones a chance to fight for their lives in the Riders Quadrant... and now I'm learning she made the parapet more dangerous with her own damn family in attendance. This place is worse than I ever imagined.
"Gryphons aren't as strong at that altitude, and neither is their ability to channel," The young Sorrengail starts. "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." She glances at the map. "That is Chakir right there, isn't it?"
It's as if she took the words right out of my mouth.
"It is." Professor Devera's mouth lifts into a smirk. "Keep going with that line of thought."Â
"Didn't you say it took an hour for the squad of riders to arrive?"Â
"I did." She looks at Cadet Sorrengail with expectation.Â
"Then they were already on their way," She blurts, and a mumble of laughter sounds throughout the class.
"Yeah, because that makes sense." Some jerk from my wing turns around in the front row and openly laughs at her. "General Melgren knows the outcome of a battle before it happens, but even he doesn't know when it will happen, dumbass."
He's talking about the General of the entire Navarrian Military... the same man who commanded the largest black dragon in Navarre, Codagh, to kill my parents along with all the other Tyrrish Rebellion leaders at the Calldyr Executions. Codagh is also the dragon that branded all 107 of the leaders' children with shimmering relics, thus dubbing us the marked ones.
The growing laughter makes me uncomfortable. Maybe my parents were rightâriders are a bunch of arrogant pricksÂ
"Fuck off, Barlowe," A cadet sitting beside Sorrengail snaps.
"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. It doesn't take a keen eye to spot how small she is in comparison to most of us. It figures, the quadrant picking on the weak. Do they seriously think picking the easiest prey makes them look strong?
"Why do you think that, Violetâ" Professor Markham winces. "Cadet Sorrengail?"
"Because there's no logical way they get there within an hour of the attack unless they were already on their way," Sorrengail argues, glaring at Barlowe. "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 just waiting to be needed. More than half of those riders would have been asleep, which means they were already on their way."
An excellent point.
If only she weren't a Sorrengail, perhaps I'd like her, but I already have enough Navarrian Loyalists around.
"And why would they already be on their way?" Professor Devera prods.Â
"Because they somehow knew the wards were breaking." She proclaims, lifting her chin.Â
Well, that's bold.
"That's the mostâ" Barlowe starts.Â
"She's right," Professor Devera interrupts, and a hush falls over the room. "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 worse."
As I mark down facts in my notebook, I can't help but wonder how much of the death and destruction occurred before versus after the dragons arrived. It would let me know if the last part of what she just said was actually true. I mean, dragon riders aren't exactly known for de-escalation.
"Second- and third-years, take over," Professor Devera orders. "Let's see if you can be a little more respectful to your fellow cadets." She arches a brow at Barlowe as questions begin to fire off from the riders behind us.
They ask anything and everything, but as IÂ write down every question and answer, I can't help but feel like we're missing something important.
"What was the condition of the village?" a deep voice asks from the back of the lecture hall.
Blythe and I make eye contact as Xaden speaks, and I tug my right sleeve further down my wrist to cover the shimmering mark that stops at the base of my thumb. I'm honestly not sure how many people in our squad have noticed my relic yet, but I'm not going to push my luck.
"Riorson?" Markham asks, shielding his eyes from the mage lights as he looks toward the top of the hall.
"The village," Xaden restates. "Professor Devera said the damage would have been worse, but what was the actual condition? Was it burned? Destroyed? They wouldn't demolish it if they were trying to establish a foothold, so the condition of the village matters when trying to determine a motive for the attack."Â
Professor Devera smiles in approval. "The buildings they'd already gone through were burned, and the rest were being looted when the wing arrived."
"They were looking for something," Xaden says with complete conviction. "And it wasn't riches. That's not a gem mining district. Which begs the question, what do we have that they want so badly?"
"Exactly. That's the question." Professor Devera glances around the room. "And that right there is why Riorson is a wingleader. You need more than strength and courage to be a good rider."
"So what's the answer?" a first-year behind us asks.Â
"We don't know," Professor Devera answers with a shrug. "It's just another piece in the puzzle of why the kingdom of Poromiel rejects our constant bids for peace. What were they looking for? Why that village? Were they responsible for the collapse of the ward, or was it already faltering?"
I doubt they'd tell us even if they knew.
"Tomorrow, next week, next month, there will be another attack, and maybe we'll get another clue. Go to history if you're looking for answers. Those wars have already been dissected and examined. Battle Brief is for fluid situations. In this class, we want you to learn which questions to ask so all of you have a chance at coming home alive." Her tone is stone-cold serious, and something about it makes me queasy.
War is coming... and I'm going to be right in the middle of it by the time it arrives.
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Seccy being the most relatable character I've seen in ages, especially as an autistic person who learned how to socialize from my fixation on TV shows đ
Synopsis: After barely surviving Conscription Day, Addie wakes in the infirmary to a world that refuses to slow down. As she reunites with her squadmates and faces the chilling toll of death, she struggles with the violent future that awaits herâand the values she refuses to abandon.
Warnings: Sensory-heavy descriptions (overstimulation), implied/systemic ableism, implied grief and familial loss, emotional dysregulation, normalized death, moral confusion, weapons and implied violence, internalized trauma, moderate injury.
A/N: I love these characters so much already. Hope y'all do too. Chapter 5 is practically finished and will be out real soon!
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Mending is more painful than I expected. The searing pain as my body gets forced back to its original state is indescribable. My skull feels like it might explode as Nolon Colbersy grasps me by the shoulder, but eventually the pressure fades into a deep ache. The wave of exhaustion that hits as he lets go is palpable.Â
Now I understand why he had me lie down.
"You should rest for now," Nolon insists before looking to Verity, who stands at the end of the infirmary bed. "Your friends can come to see you before breakfast if they'd like."
"Absolutely," Ritty nods as she approaches my bedside, then lowers her voice as she crouches beside me so only I can hear. "On the parapet, I know I told you to leave Sable to die, but..." She sighs as she takes my hand in hers, but I'm struggling to keep my eyes open. "You did the honourable thing, and don't let anyone tell you differently." The soft smile on her face makes the ache lessen, but sleep is calling my name. "I'm proud of you, Addie." Her voice echoes in my ears.
I fight to stay awake, but my eyelids are too heavy and the world fades to black.
I wake up slightly panicked, having forgotten where I was while I slept. But then it comes rushing back to meâthe parapet, the death, the dragons... Verity. Where is she?
The scratchy sheets make my face twist with discomfort. I'd been in too much pain to notice it last night, but now that it's mostly subsided, the sensation has become overwhelming. I quickly shuffle out of bed, my feet hitting the cold infirmary floor. At least there's a curtain around me for privacy. I won't be able to say the same sleeping in the first-year dormitory, since cadets don't get private rooms until we survive Threshing.
The sun hasn't risen yet, but I can see the glint of my knives sitting on a chair in the corner thanks to the soft blue glow of mage lights. They lay on top of a standard-issue uniform, with my boots and rucksack on the ground beside it. I rush to open my pack, hating the idea of someone touching my things while I was unconscious, and hold my breath as I sift through my belongings.
I eventually let out a sigh of relief. Everything is in its place.
I retrieve a velvet bag tied closed with a gold ribbon and feel my heartbeat settle as its familiar weight rests in my palm. My smile only grows as I pull the bow free and remove the small gold box inside. After opening the gold lid embellished with geometric symbols, I run a finger along the constellations painted on the inside, where golden stars sparkle everywhere except for the silver tube in the middle. I crank a small knob on the back twice, and a gentle melody plays as the dotted tube spins.
"I see you're back on your feet."
My expression shifts as I turn to see my foster sister, who's now dressed in a black uniform under a tactical leather corset that resembles my own. There's a single silver four-pointed star on her collarbone, the mark of a first-year, along with a Claw-shaped patch on her shoulder that's embroidered with the First Wing insignia and a small number three.Â
Behind her, Blythe, Sable and Digby peek into the curtained-off bay in uniform as well. I try to smile at them, but the tension I tend to feel around new friends makes it difficult not to look awkward. So I merely nod in agreement as the melody ends, then slip the music box back into its bag and tie it closed.
"Breakfast is soon. Will you be joining us?" Digby's cheery energy feels a little too loud for this early in the morning, but I appreciate the sentiment.
"Sure." I pause, looking at the chair with my new uniform. "Just give me a minute."
Verity steps out, closing the curtain behind her, but I can still hear their hushed conversation on the other side. It seems they've all bonded while I was busy sleeping off last night's mending session.
I change into the summer-weight tight-fitted tunic and pants that I've been issued, and to my surprise, they aren't awful. The fabric is smooth, breathable and doesn't chafe under my leather corset in the same agonizing way. Flight leathersâthicker protective uniforms designed for ridingâhaven't been issued yet because they don't see the point in giving them to first-years when at least half of us won't be around in three months. At least Ritty and I have some heavier accessories like our tactical vests and bracers, thanks to Lady Edith. Not every first-year is so lucky.
I slip my knuckled blades into the sheaths strapped to my upper thighs, a smaller blade into one at my ankle, and the last at my lower back in one of the sewn-in sheaths along either side of my corset's lacing. I've never been constantly armed like this before, and it's a little unnerving knowing everyone around you is also significantly armedâand not just with blades, either, but with magic.
 I'll get used to it, I suppose.Â
I need to, considering that this is a war college.
I've never been one for violence, I guess; not as a kid during the rebellion, nor while sparring with Verity back at the manor. Ritty tells me it's a necessary evil, but I've always loathed it... It's not as if I have much choice in the matter, though. At Basgiath, you fightâor you die.
The five of us make our way to breakfast, and I follow Verity's lead since she appears to know where she's going. Navigation is not one of my strong suits. The group laughs at something Digby said, but I'm not paying attention because I'm distracted by how unnervingly quickly the world moves on in this place.Â
Yesterday, I was one slip away from being a name on a gravestone, and now we're walking the corridors like it never happened... as if thousands didn't stand there and watch people fall to their deaths here not even 24 hours ago.
After winding through the halls for a few minutes, we pass through an arched doorway that leads into the Rotunda, which connects the four-story academic building that's carved into the mountain with the dormitories that tower over the ravine. I can't help but gawk as I look up at the domed glass ceiling that towers three stories above us, filtering in the warm rays of the sun as it wakes.Â
I hear Ritty say my name, but I don't bother tuning into the conversation to know why, because sculpted from equidistant marble pillars as if crashing down from the ceiling are six shimmering dragons of different colours, each representing one of the six dens: blue, red, orange, green, black and brown. There's enough room between each snarling mouth to fit at least four squads in the center, but right now, there are only a few small groups of cadets passing through as they scurry off to breakfast.
The grandeur is almost overwhelming. I've seen captivating architecture before, but nothing quite like this. I can't help but drag my fingers along one of the dragon's necks as we pass by. It feels cool under my fingertips as I admire the marbled swirls of green. How could a beast so horrifying be so... beautiful?
The bells chime for six as we walk up a small flight of stairs to enter the gathering hall for breakfast. It takes a while to get to the front of the line and fill our plates, and my jaw shifts when I look over the crowdâit seems like a lot more people when I can see straight. But ultimately, we find some open seats among the other first-years, and Verity manages to squeeze us in so we can all sit together.Â
I hungrily scarf down my breakfast, having been too nauseous to eat after the parapet. Then, finally, I start paying attention to the endless conversation.
"Well, I always knew I wanted to be a rider." Digby is waving around his fork while he speaks, then takes a bite of the sausage he's got speared on the end. "Ever since I first saw a dragon pass over my village as a kid, I knew I was destined to fly."
"That sounds nice." Blythe's voice is exaggerated as she leans into the table, and it takes me a beat to register it as sarcasm. Ritty's sideways stare is a pretty good tell.
"If I had a choice, I would've chosen to be a healer," I say quietly to nobody in particular, staring down at my plate. "Wouldn't have to hurt anyone thenâin fact, it'd be the opposite."
I can feel their eyes on me in the lingering silence among us, making me suddenly feel as if I've said something wrong... but I look up to see Sable sitting across from me, and her gaze has softened in a way I didn't expect it could. Her shoulder-length blonde hair now falls in gentle waves, framing her round face in a way that makes her seem much more approachable.
"I could see that." She flashes a crooked smile, soothing my anxious mind. At least I didn't rescue an asshole.
"Me too!" Digby voices loudly between bites. "I mean, it hasn't even been 24 hours, and you've already saved a life when you had no obligation to do so."
"I'd quiet down about our squadmate's more... ethical qualities, Keene." Ryker catches me off guard from behind as he walks by. "A reputation like that won't do her any good here."
Squadmate.Â
I'd almost forgottenâI've been a little preoccupied keeping my shit together. Digby and Ryker are my squadmates, but Verity isn't... and neither is Sable.
"He's not wrong, you know." Blythe sighs, already pushing her empty plate away.
Yet somehow, she is. What a squad we're shaping up to be.
I grit my teeth as I spot Verity shaking her head. I know this place is brutal, but what kind of person sees morality as a bad thing?Â
Instead of overthinking it, I look back to catch a glimpse of Rykerâbut he's already halfway across the gathering hall, breakfast in hand. Odd, that one.
An hour or so later, the entire quadrant is in the courtyard again, and I'm standing in formation with my squad as the silver-haired scribe we met before the parapet, whom I now know as Captain Fitzgibbons, reads the death roll. He stands on the dais with two other scribes flanking him, shifting their weight as the list goes on and on.
"Oscar Rookwood,  Aurelia Virelle," Captain Fitzgibbons reads from the dais.
It's too many. An agonizing number. More than any person should have to read.
I've never seen death so... normalized.
"Elena Sosa, Brayden Blackburn." He continues, his weathered brow drawn together as he squints through the sun.
 I can't even guess how many more there are to go; I almost wish I had the forethought to count. However, maybe that would have just made it worse.Â
I flinch whenever there's a name that starts with C, but I know my brother Conrad can't be here... not yet. He's only 19.
"Jace Sutherland," Captain Fitzgibbons' voice drifts as my attention does. "Dougal Luperco,"Â
He's barely a whisper in the wind as I stare at my feet, lost in the abyss of my mind. What would my parents think of me being here, of me becoming a rider?Â
Riders are known for being the strongest warriors in all of Navarre, but they're also known for being the most cruel... especially when it comes to life here in the Quadrant.Â
I know Mom and Dad believed Dragon Riders were arrogant pricks, but I won't be like the rest... right?
My parents wouldn't treat others' lives so carelessly. Neither will I.
"We commend their souls to Malek." Fitzgibbons invokes the god of death, bringing my attention back to the stone dais at the front.
 There's no conclusion, no moment of silence or transition, the scroll bearing the names of the dead merely leaves the dais with the scribes as the squad leaders all turn to begin addressing their squads.
"Second Squad!" Our pierced squad leader, Harlow Ashlan, calls out." Second- and third-years, you know what to do." The brunette effectively dismisses them, turning her attention to us.Â
The way she examines the squad for weaknesses makes my spine stiffen. I wonder what she sees in me.
"First-yearsâwelcome to your new normal." A stud glints above Harlow's cupid's bow as she speaks. "Stick together, stay alive. Give me a reason to remember your name in the sparring gym this afternoon."
Fighting already?
I suppose I knew it was coming, but I had hoped it wouldn't be so... immediate. I try not to let my thoughts spiral, but surviving this place means stepping into the very world I was raised to hate. How am I supposed to cope with that?
I swallow hard and glance at my squadmatesâBlythe adjusting the blade over her shoulder, Ryker stone-faced as always, Digby trying too hard to look casual. I wonder if they're all as terrified as I am, or if I'm the only one who's still shaking under the surface.
My fists clench. You don't have to like it, Adelaide. You only have to survive.
"Caswell?" Harlow looks over at a first-year cadet with short, ashy brown hair and an athletic build.
"I've got it." His gravelly voice is blunt as his heterochromatic eyes flicker over us.Â
The group stirs as Harlow leaves us with the striking young man at the end of my row. I try not to stare, but it's almost mesmerizing. While one of his eyes is a deep, dark brown, the other is so pale a blue that it's nearly grey, as if the colouring has been sapped away.
"Twenty minutes until class." He states with an expression I can't read. "Top floor of the academic building, first classroom on the right."Â
It's only as he motions to the fortress carved into the mountain that it clicks. The confidence, the authority. Shit. He's a repeat.Â
Doing this once is brutal enoughâbut twice? No wonder he looks like that. It's a stark reminder that even if I survive Threshing, it doesn't guarantee a dragon will choose me. But what would happen then?  Do marked ones even get second chances? Probably not.
"Don't be late." Caswell sighs before pivoting on his heels towards the dormitory.
A sudden arm around my shoulder makes me recoil instinctively.
"It's just me, good gods!" Verity lets out a stifled laugh as I settle under her touch. "Try not to worry so much, Adelaide. The first-years in Claw Section have quite a few classes together. Plus, we'll have Battle Brief together every day."Â
Of course, Ritty's in my ear, steady as ever as she pulls me out of the deep, dark hole that is my mind... just like she always does.
"You aren't alone."Â Â Verity's voice is scarcely a whisper as she rests her head on my shoulder, watching as cadets squeeze through the bottleneck that occurs while everyone leaves the courtyard.
At least Ritty's here with me.
As long as she's here, I know I can keep going.
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Wingbound Taglist: @theseinfernalangels
Feel free to ask if youâd like to join the taglist!
Synopsis: Addie's officially a cadet, but surviving the parapet is only the beginning. While cadets are assigned to squads and stories begin to unravel, the dragons arriveâand make it clear that weakness has no place here.
A/N: Put some extra effort into this one so it accurately mirrors what's happening in Fourth Wing. Hope y'all enjoy :)
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My head is spinning.
I don't know how I manage it, but I spell my name correctly for the roll-keeper. At least I think I do.Â
My knees start to buckle, but someone yanks my arm over their shoulder, taking the weight off my aching legs.Â
"For fuck's sake," a familiar voice grumbles through the ringing in my ears. "You need to sit."
Ritty.
She must've been right behind us with how slow we'd gotten near the end.
"Name?" the roll-keeper still sounds uninterested.
"Verity Duvall," she replies, tugging my arm further over her to get a better grip before sharing the spelling.
My free hand is covered in blood from the gash under my chin... I'm going to need stitchesâif not a mender with the way my head is reeling.Â
Mending is an extremely rare form of magicâsome say it may only manifest once in a generation... and word is, there's a mender stationed at Basgiath. They can heal anythingâshattered bones, collapsed bridges, even torn fabric. The only thing they can't fix is themselves.
"Holy shit, Adelaide. Did you really pull Sable back up?" Digby appears next to her, cussing further when he spots her ankle.
It's disturbingly swollen, and her short hiking boots barely conceal the extent of the bruising. Digby follows Ritty's lead, taking her by the armâbut Sable fights him off, wincing as she accidentally puts weight on her bad foot.
"What, is it so hard to believe she'd be capable of such?" Verity scoffs, and suddenly I'm wondering why he's so surprisedâSable had a similar reaction now that I'm thinking back on it.
"Noâ" Digby looks slightly distraught about whatever it is she's insinuating. "It's just... I haven't heard about many cadets who put their lives on the line for someone like that. Especially during the Parapet."
"That would be because pulling shit like that usually gets you killed." Ryker jumps the twelve inches off the parapet down into the courtyard. "Ryker Danton."
It might just be the way the world is blurring around me, but he doesn't even look winded. It's like the man just went for a measly stroll down the street. His dark, windswept curls look messy in exactly the right way, and his vibrant green eyes are like an oasis of colour in this grim, grey environment.Â
The flutter in my stomach? Definitely just nausea from the concussion. Obviously.
"Danton?" the roll-keeper raises an eyebrow. "As in, the Dantons?"
He groans, and that's when it clicks. That's why he didn't give his last name earlier.
He's a Navarrian aristocratâit's how he knew about our foster placement.Â
But what's he doing in the Riders Quadrant? Aristocrats usually choose the Infantry.
He doesn't bother responding to the third-year, even with her eyes narrowing on his back as he disappears into the crowd. Verity takes that as our cue to take leave, with Digby and Sable following close behind. We enter the sea of customized black leather, and I can already tell there are fewer first-year cadets than there were candidates who crossed. Most of the crowd are second- and third-years, presumably here to see the newest additions to the Quadrant. I try my best to mask the pain as we pass by onlookers, but my head won't stop throbbing.Â
Luckily, Ritty spots an alcove in the wall beside a nearby turret with a wooden bench inside. It's a spot I can finally be tucked away, even if only for a moment. She quickly escorts me over, and our two newâcan I call them friends?âtag along. I'm unsure exactly when it happened, but the clouds have broken and the wet gravel glistens in the sun. I only notice how sharp the light was behind my eyes as the relief of shade washes over me in the alcove.
"Gods..." I mumble, looking at my bloodied hands. "My jaw fucking hurts."
"You're going to need to head to the infirmary later." Ritty sighs, pulling a black cloth from her pack to wipe the blood I've inadvertently smeared across my face. "You're probably concussed." She lifts my face with a finger on my jaw before gently wiping at my cheeks.
"Make that... definitely." My words slur slightly as Sable falls into the open seat beside me.
"I can't believe we all made it," Digby muses with a smile, blocking what little of the crowd I can still see with his broad frame as he looks down at us. "Well, I guess you almost didn't." His voice lowers.
"Don't remind me." Sable bites out, nursing her ankle behind the cover Digby gives her. "It's gonna be impossible to live that shit down."
"I wouldn't worry too much about that," Ritty glances her way while pouring her waterskin over the bloody cloth and then wrings it out. "You'll have plenty of opportunities to prove people wrongâif you're up to the task." She gives Sable a cheeky grin, wagging the cloth in her direction before crouching to wipe the crimson stains from my palms.
"Here," a hand adorned with chunky silver rings extends, holding what looks to be a homemade first aid kit.Â
Ryker?
"We've got a couple of hours until we're assigned to our squads. Afterwards, you'll be able to see Nolon Colbersy, the mender. I've been told he's usually working after Parapet." His voice is soothing to my ringing earsâI could listen to him talk all day.
Gods, how hard did I hit my head?
Verity looks up at him with her mouth slightly agape in what I recognize as shock. Appropriate, I suppose. He's an aristocrat from the very kingdom our parents tried to claim independence from, after all. We can't exactly trust him.
None of that matters right now, though, because I can't wipe the dumb grin off my freckled face... and I swear I see the corner of his mouth lift as we make eye contact, even if only momentarily.
"Thanks..." Ritty reluctantly accepts his aid as he moves his hand closer to her. She passes a compression wrap to Sable and turns back to me with some gauze and medical tape. "Where did you even get this stuff?"
"Just need to know the right people," he says, shrugging off the question. He takes the moment to look me over in a way that makes my skin heat before turning and disappearing once more.
"Wait, so, who is he again?" Digby looks to the three of us with wide eyes once Ryker's out of earshot.
"The Duke of Luceras is a Danton." Ritty lets out a sigh as she delicately covers the gash under my chin.
"Waitâlike, the province Luceras?" he questions, clearly ignorant of the Aristocracy... like too many Navarrians are. "Damn."
"Gods, Keene," Sable says, tossing him a tired look. "Please pick up a book." She lets out a pained laugh as she wraps her ankle for extra support. She needs to stand in formation somehow.
"Yes, the province," Ritty assures him as she finishes patching me up. "He didn't seem too eager for people to know. So maybe don't ask him about it, huh?" She holds my gaze, unmistakably directing that last part towards me.
It's been over an hour, according to Basgiath's bells, and the crowd has only grown. To the right of the Parapet, two men wearing black stand atop a stone dais in full military dress, their medals twinkling in the sun. I assume they're the commandant and executive commandant, but I've never seen them in person before.
The four of us have slowly migrated back into the crowd. Verity, Digby, and Sable are having a great time mingling with the other first-years. I, on the other hand, have been awkwardly sticking to Ritty's side, already sick and tired of meeting new people.
I'm not interested in meeting anyone elseâI already have enough people to worry about.
"Ritty?" a voice calls out over the buzz of the courtyard.
I turn to see a pair of familiar icy-blue eyes staring back at us, and there's no doubt about who the cadet is. Her face is slightly more angular, and her raven-black hair is spikier... but she's the spitting image of Ritty.
"Bly?" Verity's voice cracks in a way I haven't heard in years.
"Holy crap, there are two of them?" Digby looks back and forth as though he's trying to convince himself he isn't seeing double.
Ritty runs into her twin sister's arms. "You made it." She lets out a heavy exhale like she'd been holding her breath for the 5 years they've been apart.
"You had doubts?" Blythe's voice is slightly sharper than her sisters, just like the rest of her.
"Of course not!" Ritty shoves her sister's shoulder affectionately. "If anyone's going to survive the Parapet, it's you."
I've never seen them together before. I only met Verity after the rebellion, when we were both sent to live with Earl Artis Soros and his wife, Lady Edith. I always knew she'd been a twin, but it's strange to witness someone who's so Ritty and yet so... not.Â
"I was a little late, is all." Blythe huffs as her sister throws an arm around her, fighting to be free of her grasp. "Ended up at the back of the line."
"Come meet Addie!" Verity is smiling ear-to-ear as she pulls her in our direction. "We were fostered together; she's good people."
I awkwardly look away as they approach, missing the rest of the introduction as I get distracted by the last of the cadets trickling into the courtyard. Xaden is among them, returning from his post atop the south turret. I can't say I'm shocked as I watch the way people avoid getting too close as he moves through the crowd, but I do start to wonder how powerful he's truly gotten here. There's no doubt he's bonded a powerful dragon based on everything we heard back at Soros Manor, but if there had been any doubt, it would've vanished the second I saw the way third-years are scurrying out of his way as he approaches the dais.
"I think we're starting, you guys," Sable points out.
Everybody turns to the stone dais, where ten people now stand. The man I correctly guessed as the Commandant has stepped forward, and now he looks over the crowd with a politician's smile.
"Three hundred and one of you have survived the parapet to become cadets today," Commandant Panchek gestures towards us. "Good job. Sixty-seven did not."
What?  I gulp. Sixty-seven? That's... that's more than I thought.
Those were people... with lives they could have lived, with families who will mourn them.
"That's worse than usual," I mutter to Ritty, who looks at me with a furrowed brow.
"Well, it did rain." Sable sighs, and for a second I can see her pink nails again, clawing at the damp parapet.
I try to shake off the hum of the crowd's hushed conversations, looking to Panchek as he continues.
"As the Codex says, now you begin the true crucible!" He shouts, his voice carrying over the hundreds of cadets that fill the courtyard. "You will be tested by your superiors, hunted by your peers, and guided by your instincts. If you survive to Threshing, and if you are chosen, you will be riders. Then we'll see how many of you make it to graduation."
With the well-known statistic that 3/4 of us will die in the next three years, I'll never understand how this quadrant gets so many volunteers. Arrogance, possibly?Â
"Your instructors will teach you," Panchek promises, his hand sweeping to the line of professors standing at the doors to the building that's carved into the mountain. "It's up to you how well you learn." He swings his pointer finger at us. "Discipline falls to your units, and your wingleader is the last word. If I have to get involved..." A slow, menacing smile spreads across his face. "You don't want me involved."
Seriously, who would volunteer for this hell?
"With that said, I'll leave you to your wingleaders. My best advice? Don't die." He walks off the dais with the executive commandant, leaving eight riders on the stone stage.
An imposing woman with brown hair and a scarred sneer stalks forward, the silver spikes on the shoulders of her uniform glinting in the sun. "I'm Nyra, the senior wingleader of the quadrant and the head of the First Wing. Section leaders and squad leaders, take your positions now."
People force their way through the crowd, and about 50 of them assemble in formation at the front.
I was taught about this. There are four wings in the quadrant. In each wing, three sections. In each section, three squads. Easy enough...
"First Squad! Claw Section! First Wing!" Nyra calls out.
A man close to the dais raises his hand.Â
"Cadets, when your name is called, take up formation behind your squad leader," Nyra instructs.
I look to Verity beside me, suddenly realizing we're likely to be separated, and she reaches for my hand when she spots my worried expression. I grab on tight, perhaps squeezing a little too hard as the roll-keeper from the end of the parapet steps forward. It's only as she begins to call out names that I notice the crossbow she's wearing. Everyone is wearing their weaponsâI guess it just didn't exactly click until now. Thinking about it makes me fiddle with the brass knuckle handles of the two blades I have strapped to my thighs.
I don't recognize any of the first names or faces called for the first squad.
"Second Squad! Claw Section!" Nyra's voice carries over the crowd with ease. Perhaps lesser magic?
"Adelaide Finch," the roll-keeper continues.
My breath hitches. Well, better sooner rather than later, I suppose.
"Digby Keene," she adds a couple of names later, and I feel a pang of relief as he follows me into formation.Â
At least I'll know someone, right?
"Blythe Duvall,"Â
It feels like a punch in the gut. Not the Duvall I was hoping for, but I'll take it.
"-and Ryker Danton."
Wait, what? Holy shit.
Nyra continues, but I'm no longer listening, because here he comes again. Distracting me. Seems I'm not the only one eitherâother Cadets are also watching over as he takes his place in formation with ease, like it's already a practiced move, so much for keeping a low profile.
The long sleeves he once wore have been ripped off, revealing his toned armsâgods, as if he weren't already gorgeous enough. Honestly, though, it's understandable. The summer sun is beating down on us now, burning into the dark colours most of us are wearing. Sweat beads on my skin, but I can almost forget how disgustingly humid it is while in his presence. His long, curved sword is sheathed on his back in a black leather scabbard that wraps over one of his shoulders for easy access, and a second scabbard on the opposite hip holds a smaller blade for close combat. I don't realize how long I've been staring over my shoulder until he glances my way, and I get all flustered.
The first thing I can think of is to pretend I'd been taking note of who we have on the squad, so that's what I do. From the looks of it, our squad leader is a young woman with a plethora of piercings, and our executive squad leader has an entire sleeve of dragonscale tattooed up his left arm. They both wear three four-point stars, indicating they're third-years. At the front of the formation stand five more cadets who are in second- or third-year, and by my count, we have nine first-years.Â
Great. A bunch more people to get attached to and watch get killed.
I completely zoned out during the rest of First Wing, so it's only when I glance over my shoulder again that I spot Ritty and Sable in Third Squad. Welpâat least we're all in the same section.
I keep my eyes to myself as the rest of the cadets get assigned. Eventually, I hear Twain Lennox get sorted into Flame Section, Third Wing, and make sure to keep note. His disdain for me is most definitely not over... not when he thinks I'm not fit to ride. Something weird happens near the end of assignments, though. Xaden whispers something to Second Wing's wingleader, and then all of a sudden, the wingleaders start squabbling. What is Xaden doing?
"What do you think they're arguing about?" Digby whispers what I imagine we're all thinking, but is quickly shushed by our pierced squad leader, who glares in our direction.
Eventually, the wingleaders turn to Second Wing, and Nyra steps forward.
"Dain Aetos, you and your squad will switch with Aura Beinhaven's," she declares.
Xaden has an arrogant smirk plastered across his face as the squads move to their new designations... and I can't help but wonder if he's up to something. What am I getting myself into here?
Nyra looks to Xaden as she finishes assignments, and he nods, stepping forward on the dais.
"You're all cadets now." Xaden's powerful voice carries over the courtyard. "Take a look at your squad. These are the only people guaranteed by the Codex not to kill you. But just because they can't end your life doesn't mean others won't. You want a dragon? Earn one."
A bunch of the new cadets cheer... but it only makes my stomach wrench. Have they genuinely already forgotten about the sixty-seven people who've died trying to get here, the countless number of us yet to die before graduation?
Xaden looks over the crowd. "And I bet you feel pretty badass right now, don't you, first-years?"
The cheering grows, and so does the anger I feel for the souls nobody here seems to be mourning.
"You feel invincible after the parapet, don't you?" Xaden shouts. "You think you're untouchable! You're on the way to becoming the elite! The few! The chosen!" I struggle not to cover my ears as the cheers grow with each statement.
But then I hear something else, something... powerful. The overlapping beats of dragon wingsâa whole riot of them.
"Holy shit," Digby's mouth hangs open as he stares into the sky.
They're heading straight for us, flying faster than I ever could've imagined such massive beasts could. Just before they fly overhead, the riot tips upwards near the edge of the courtyard. Their large, semi-translucent wings whip the air into a barrage of wind that makes my feet stagger slightly as they land along the wall behind the dais.Â
A few cadets have begun to scream. Maybe they aren't as cut out for this place as they so naively thought.
Meanwhile, I'm letting out a scoff of disbelief as I realize the walls aren't battlements... It's a dragon perch.
There are eight of them, by my count. Their scales ripple in mesmerizing waves as they settle into place, digging their enormous claws into the edges of the 10-foot-thick structure. They're both beautiful, and terrifying... and the way their scales shine in the sun is giving me a headache. In front of First Wing, a large, crimson-red dragon bares its massive teeth in our direction. The low grumbling sound it's making vibrates in my chest as I look away.
Rule number one with red dragons: do NOT make eye contact.Â
I force myself to take even breaths, feeling myself on the verge of hyperventilation. This is the first time I've seen this many dragons. The last time I saw a dragon was the day my parents were executed. However, General Melgren's dragon was black and much bigger than even the largest dragon here today. Not that it makes them any less terrifying.
The rock crumbles under their grip, reminding me of the way the parapet felt beneath my feet, though the stones they send falling to the ground aren't pebbles... They're big enough to kill someone.
There are three red dragons of various shades, two green dragons, a brown, an orange and a navy-blue one, too. The creatures are more immense than one could ever comprehend without seeing them for themselves. Their heads swivel in a snake-like motion as they overshadow the fortress, judging us with their all-knowing eyes.
If the dragons didn't need us to develop signet abilities from bonding to weave the protective wards around Navarre, we would likely be burned to a crisp by now. But they need to bond with us to help protect the Vale, their home in the valley behind Basgiath. So here we all are, trying to bond with mystical beasts.
"They're captivating," a soft voice escapes from the blue-haired first-year in our squad.
That's one word for it, I suppose.Â
It takes everything in me to keep my feet planted while a cadet bolts out of Third Wing, screaming as he makes a run for the stone keep behind us. Everyone turns to watch as he races for the giant arched door at the center. There's something carved into the arch, and if I squint, I can just makeout what it says: A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without their dragon is dead.Â
Makes sense. While a rider can't continue living without their dragon, most dragons live just fine after losing one of us. It's why dragons are so particular about who they choose to bond with, to avoid the humiliation of selecting a weak rider. Not that a dragon would ever admit to such a thing.
To our right, one of the other red dragons shifts. It opens its immense mouth, revealing teeth that drip with saliva. I shudder, silently praying to the gods my dragon isn't destined to be red. Its tongue bursts with flames that flare outwards towards the fleeing cadet.
It doesn't feel real, but the heat tells me it is, the sensation making me grit my teeth. He's no more than a pile of ash, long before he made it anywhere close to safety. My hands fly up over my ears as screaming ensues around us. If I run... I'll be burnt to a crisp.Â
I don't move, but not because I'm brave... because my body refuses.
The next two puffs of heat bring tears to my eyes.Â
Seventy dead.
My hands drop from my ears as the screams eventually fade into sobs.
"Anyone else feel like changing their mind?" Xaden shouts, scanning the crowd with the same cunning gaze of the massive navy-blue dragon behind him. "No? Excellent. Roughly half of you will be dead by this time next summer. A third of you again the year after that, and the same in your last year. No one cares who your mommy or daddy is here. Even King Tauri's second son died during his Threshing."
I can't fight the urge to glance back at Ryker, who's stoically facing forward when I spot him.
"So tell me again: Do you feel invincible now that you've made it into the Riders Quadrant? Untouchable? Elite?" Xaden quips.
I can see his father in him, but Xaden... Xaden has a dragon.
The crowd doesn't cheer. Then, a burst of heat rushes directly at my face. I brace for a pain that never comes; instead, a rush of steam almost blows me over as the dragons finish a simultaneous exhale. The following wail of someone in Tail Section makes my heart ache. They want us terrified... and it's working.
"Because you're not untouchable or special to them," Xaden gestures toward the navy dragon and leans toward the crowd. "To them, you're just the prey."
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Taglist:
Feel free to ask if youâd like to join the taglist :)
Iâve never shared something like this before: the art that comes from the felt sense in my being when I listen to music I deeply feel.
This is what I do when I experience another humanâs soul deeply. Their art to my art- their right hemisphere to my right hemisphere. Or as Bonnie Badenoch says âthe sacred space between.â This is how I process that exchange of energy. I wanted to authentically transmute whatever felt sense was in my body into a visual form- in maybe a different way of a âreactionâ video. I never understood the point of reaction videos until I found Ren. And then I got it. To so deeply feel something, you need to find others who âget it.â So hereâs my âart reaction.â
Seven Sins is probably my favorite song out of everything. There are several deeply felt lines in there that I have already started attempting to draw.
But this line especially: âTell me how it feels to be buried while you breathe?â Just hit me. Because truly. To me, when youâre drowning with the overwhelm of existing, it feels like youâre being buried alive. and yet Iâm breathing. and yet Iâm being actively buried. and yet Iâm attempting to just take a fucking breath.
Itâs quite a paradoxical phenomenon. and this is the human experience.
Synopsis: Cross, or dieâthat's the rule. Candidate Adelaide Finch takes her first steps toward becoming a dragon rider with the wind howling in her ears, the stone crumbling beneath her feet, and her life hanging in the balance. But Addie isn't just crossing for herselfâshe's crossing for the people she loves.
A/N: So glad to see y'all enjoyed the first chapter! I've already got quite a bit planned, so stay tuned for more Wingbound :)
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We've got this.Â
I repeat Ritty's words like a prayer, fighting to gain control over the fear that pulses through me as Sable approaches the Parapet.Â
Her outrageously pink nails grip the walls of the entrance so tightly her knuckles flush white. "We'll be waiting for you!" The blonde calls over her shoulder, her smile faltering for a moment before she steps onto the parapet.
I find myself unable to offer any reassurance; my voice feels stuck in my throat.
"Good luck," Verity calls out, her powerful voice carrying over the sound of rain and wind.
Sable's arms waver as she takes the first few steps into the open air, and I take note. I hadn't considered how much windier it'll feel without the lower half of my body protected by the turret.Â
"Name?" The roll-keeper in black leathers queries from the edge.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. How typical.
"She's Adelaide Finch." Ritty steps in, and while I appreciate her help, I can't help but feel inadequate.
"Mm, alright." He mumbles as he scribbles my name onto a parchment scroll, his voice barely audible as it gets blown away by the wind.
Another rider stands beside him, holding a cloak over the roll in a sad attempt to keep it dry. It's failing miserably, as evidenced by the way the ink is smudging as he writes.Â
"Seriously, Ryker. The girl can't even speak when spoken to." Twain's voice makes me grit my teeth. "She'll be a liability to her wing."
A spark of self-doubt threatens to burn me alive as I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. He doesn't even know me, and yet somehow, he's already decided I'm unworthy. What kind of person treats another's life as if it's disposable?
"And you then?" The roll-keeper lifts his eyes, unbothered.
"Verity Duvall." She bites out the name, her gaze locked with Twain's.
"What are you then, her handler?" Twain raises an eyebrow as he looks her up and down, sizing her like a predator would with prey.
Ryker rolls his eyes in response, but then he just stands there silently looking into the distance with his hands in his pockets. He seems almost... bored, maybe?
"You better get going, Finch." Xaden motions towards the Parapet, where Sable's approaching the line of paint that marks the quarter point.
He can't do anything to help without making us look weakâRitty has told me about thisâit's one of the reasons I feel so shitty about needing her help right now. But he's right, best to get it over with.Â
I touch Ritty's shoulder for a moment, as if I could absorb some of her bravery.
"I'll see you after." She gently removes my hand, offering me a soft smile.
"Ha! I doubt it." Twain punches Ryker in the arm as he laughs, trying to strongarm him into his shitty joke.
I wouldn't wish the glare Ryker levels him with on anyone, and I can tell by the way Twain moves away that he feels the same way. With an unsure nod, I turn to face the Parapet.
I yank the shoulder straps of my pack tightâtwice, just to be sure. The pressure helps. Then I check the chest strap, making sure it's secure as well. Everything I've brought with me is in my rucksack... I'd rather fall to my death than lose some of the items I'm carrying right now.Â
Gripping the walls like I saw Digby and Sable do before me, I ready myself at the opening in the turret wall. It's a strange experience to have every fibre of your being tell you not to do something, then to decide to go and do it anyway. It feels as though I'm not myself, like I'm a puppeteer forcing myself along.
"Just one step at a time, Addie." Verity's familiar voice is in my ear, and I feel her reassuring hand on my back. "You've faced things more difficult than this."
I step out, and the sky consumes me.
With each stride, I strain against every instinct that screams for me to stop.
Don't look down... don't look down.
But it's impossible to ignore the ravine below, the river surging from the rain. If I fell, how far would the river take me? Would there even be anything left to find?Â
Somehow, the ground feels farther away the more I think about it.
The wind is aggressive, and each gust threatens to be the death of me. So I bend my knees, lowering my center of gravity just like I practiced with Ritty in the forest behind the manor... but the homemade obstacle course we made when we were 15 doesn't come close to the Parapet. Everything is different when in the air. Is this what it's like to be a rider?
My heartbeat echoes in my ears as I take each stride mindfully, giving myself a moment to determine each step before I proceed. I can see Sable up ahead, her figure slightly blurred by the drizzling rain, and over her head, I can only just spot Digby passing the highest point around the middle line. It was foolish to let myself care for these people... now I have to watch them die.
With my next step, I feel something crumble beneath my foot.
I freeze, horrified as fragments of mortar and stone disappear into the valley below.Â
You've got to be fucking kidding me.
If I die here, like this, I'll be nobody.
No wings.Â
No legacy.
Just another name etched in stone who'll be forgotten like the rest.
As if on cue, a large gust of wind blows through the valley and shoves me with surprising force, pushing my body to the left.Â
"Fuck! Shit!" The words slip out with ease as I try to force myself to the right.
It's no use, I'm falling.Â
At least I'm falling forward.
I yelp as my chin smacks the stone with a dizzying jolt.
My skull feels like a rung bell, stars bursting behind my eyes.
I've caught the Parapet, though, thank the gods. My arms and legs are securely wrapped around the damp stone, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to brush off the mild concussion. At least pain means I'm still alive.
I stay in that position until the squall dies down. Then, as I regain my footing, I notice the way the mortar isn't flush with the stone, which makes tripping a liability. I'll be sure to keep that in mind... Don't need that shit happening again.
Ahead of me, Sable is crossing the middle line. I can't believe I'm not even halfway yet. Minutes feel like hours right now.
But I'm shocked to realize that even after falling like that, I'm gaining on her. I look back to see that I've already crossed the quarter mark by quite a margin... and Verity has begun her crossing too.Â
But I can't focus on that right now.Â
I think back to what Xaden said about worrying about ourselves. I can't help anyone else survive this placeâ help my little brother, Conrad, survive this placeâif I don't survive the Parapet first.
Conrad is what fuels my next steps. His laugh, his dimples. His unwavering loyalty.
My arms stay extended as I move with a bit more confidence across the slick, narrow path.Â
His copper hair. Well, we've got our mother's hair, really.
Blood drips down my neck, where it mixes with the rain and disappears into the dark collar of my undershirt.
Our mother...
My foot wavers, if for only a moment, as I shove those thoughts from my mind. This is not the time.
I just need to keep putting one foot in front of the other... but there's one problem. As I broach the highest point, I can spot something off about a dozen feet ahead of me.Â
Are those... hands?
Shit.
I don't even think. My pace quickens, my rubber soles slipping a little with each step as the path starts to dip towards the courtyard.Â
"Fuck!" Pink nails claw at the stone, struggling to keep hold as Sable grasps for the parapet.
Her eyes widen when she sees me drop to my knees over her. I take her by the hand, but she's like a deer in headlights. A strained sound escapes my mouth as I pull with everything I've got. I will not sit idly by while another person dies.
"Addie, no!" Verity's voice shouts over the rain from behind us, but I don't stop. "Just go! It isn't worth it!"
Sable is a lot taller than I, so the burn in my limbs as I try to lift her doesn't come as much of a surprise. Somehow, though, I manage to get her elbows over the parapet, and she grabs onto the other side while shouting expletives.Once she has a hold, I scurry out of the way on all fours, then reach for her leg as she swings it over the Parapet to help her up the rest of the way.Â
So much for only worrying about myself.
Sable gasps for air, facedown on the wet stone. "Holy fuck," She curses between breaths. "You actually saved me?"Â She questions, like she can't believe what she's saying.
I look back to see Ritty closing in on us, with Ryker now behind her.
"We need to keep going..." I point onwards, gulping for breath. Sable looks slightly startled by the certainty in my voice.
My legs are trembling, my head pounding. How can the finish line be so close while feeling so impossibly far?
Sable only takes a moment to collect herself, then we're moving again. We're going slower this time, Sable's limping slightly like she's twisted an ankle, while I'm behind her, fighting against the hazy edges of my vision. Maybe it's more than a mild concussion. I can't see Digby on the Parapet anymore, so either he's made it to the other side... or he fell while we weren't looking.
The fortress that is the riders' quadrant rises above the thick battlements as we approach, half of which is carved into the side of the mountain. The rest of the stronghold is built at a 90-degree angle to the mountainside, and at the end of that stretch, a group of connected stone buildings extends eastward along the ridge, creating an L-shape. Where the buildings end, the walls surrounding the courtyard begin. They're ten feet thick and eight feet tall, with a single openingâand we're almost there.
The ground gets closer and closer as we approach the ridge, but the fear doesn't begin to subside until after the walls rise around me and the howl of the wind ceases in my ears. The last ten feet seem like miles, but I finally feel like I can stop holding my breath as my feet touch the ground.
I've made it. I'm officially a cadet.
It takes everything I have not to fall to my knees.
"Name?" A female rider adorned with three silver four-point stars on her cloak questions us blandly.Â
"Sable Radley," She inhales sharply through her teeth as she looks down at her ankle, which is turning an unsightly shade of purple. "and Adelaide Finch," She adds, making me raise my eyebrows.
"What, Cadet Finch can't answer for herself?" The third year doesn't even look up from her scroll, busy scratching away with a quill.
This is going to be a thing, isn't it?
"Cadet Finch can answer just fine," I muster with newfound confidence as I finally lift a hand to my bloodied chin. "Ah, shit."
"She saved my ass out there." Sable sputters, and it's only now I realize her pack is goneâlost to the wind, or the fall, maybe.
"Well, you'd better hope she's around to save your ass for the next 3 years if that's how you're planning to survive." The rider finally looks up at us through strands of her fire-red hair. "Not many riders are so reckless as to put their ass on the line for you like that. Now then, you said Adelaide? Could you spell it for me?"
I guess they only care about the spelling when we're worthy of it.
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