Fourth Wing 【2026】

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

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.

“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.”

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. Fourth Wing

A crack spiderwebbed beneath my left foot. The ancient mortar, dissolved by a century of autumn rains, gave way. A chunk the size of my fist tumbled into the abyss. I didn’t hear it land.

His mouth twitched—not a smile, never a smile—and he grabbed my forearm. His grip was iron. He hauled me over the edge and onto the muddy, blood-stained soil of the Riders’ courtyard.

“It’s cold,” I lied.

“Next!” the Wingleader barked. His name was Xaden Riorson, and the shadows beneath his eyes looked sharp enough to cut glass. A scar bisected his left brow—a gift from a rebellion he’d led at seventeen. He didn’t look at me like he looked at the others. He looked at me like I was a sentence already carried out.

I pulled.

My body betrayed me. I looked.

I was standing in it.

Halfway across, the stone groaned.

This is where you die, whispered a voice that sounded like every healer who’d ever looked at my chart. Because for the first time in my life,

I collapsed to my knees, heaving.

I placed my palm against the cold stone of the Riders’ Quadrant gate. The bas-relief of a wyvern, wings pinned in eternal agony, seemed to sneer at me.