My fingers caught the far lip of the next stone segment. The wet granite tried to reject my grip, but I held. My shoulders screamed. The muscles in my arms, built only from carrying books and sweeping infirmary floors, tore against my skeleton.
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. Fourth Wing
“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. My fingers caught the far lip of the next stone segment
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. The muscles in my arms, built only from
Then another voice—louder, raw, and utterly insane—answered: No. This is where you start.
He stood, brushing the mud from his hands.