Fourth Wing Page

The wind hit first—a living thing that tried to shove me sideways. I leaned into it, letting my hips find the rhythm of the sway. No rail. No rope. Just the slick hiss of my boots on wet rock.

Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t reading about the storm.

Xaden crouched down until his face was level with mine. Up close, his eyes weren't black—they were the deep, violent violet of a brewing storm.

“And if you survive the Threshing,” he added, turning his back on me, “try not to die during the War Games. It’s a waste of a good uniform.”