"Elena Sosa, Brayden Blackburn." Captain Fitzgibbons reads from the death roll, flanked by two other scribes on the dais as we stand in silent formation in the courtyard, squinting into the early sun.

This morning, we're all in rider black, and there's a single silver fourpointed star on my collarbone, the mark of a first-year, and a Fourth Wing patch on my shoulder.

We were issued standard uniforms yesterday, summer-weight tight-fitted tunics, pants, and accessories after Parapet was over, but not flight leathers.

There's no point handing out the thicker, more protective combat uniforms when half of us won't be around for Threshing in October, not me though, I will survive.

After the last twenty-four hours and one night in the first-floor barracks, I'm starting to realize how much I miss Liam, what I wouldn't give to be with him right now, curled up reading by the fire while he whittles, or even sparring with him.

"Jace Sutherland." Captain Fitzgibbons continues to read, and the scribes next to him shift their weight. "Dougal Luperco." I think they were marked ones

There are a hundred and fifty-six of us in the first floor of the dormitory building, our beds positioned in four neat rows in the open space, I can't wait till we get our private rooms.

"Simone Casteneda." Captain Fitzgibbons closes the scroll. "We commend their souls to Malek." The god of death.

It all sounds too familiar.

"Hopefully you all ate breakfast, because you're not going to get another chance before lunch," Dain says, glancing at Violet, I am so confused about their relationship.

"He's good at pretending he doesn't know you," the girl from yesterday, I think her name was Rhiannon, whispers from beside Violet, no he's not.

"He is," she replies, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, I keep quiet, keep your inside thoughts inside Anastasia.

"Second- and third-years, I'm assuming you know where to go," Dain continues, gods he is boring.

There's a mutter of agreement from the senior cadets ahead of us. As first-years, we're in the back two rows of the little square that makes up Second Squad.

"First-years, at least one of you should have memorized your academic schedule when it was handed out yesterday." Dain's voice booms over us. "Stick together. I expect you all to be alive when we meet this afternoon in the sparring gym." Yay.

Sadly we only have the gym twice a week.

"And if we're not?" the smart-ass first-year behind me asks, I think his name's Ridoc, so far he's my favourite.

"Then I won't have to be concerned with learning your name, since it will be read off tomorrow morning," Dain answers with a shrug.

A second-year ahead of me, I think Imogen said her name was Quinn, snorts a laugh, the movement jangling two small hoop earrings in her left lobe, but Imogen stays silent.

"Sawyer?" Dain looks at the first-year to my left.

"I'll get them there." The tall, wiry cadet whose light complexion is covered with a smattering of freckles answers with a tight nod. He's one of the repeats-a cadet who didn't bond during Threshing and now has to start the entire year over.

"We have about twenty minutes to get to class," Sawyer shouts at the eight of us first-years. "Fourth floor, second room on the left in the academic wing. Get your shit and don't be late." He doesn't bother waiting to confirm we've heard him before he heads off toward the dormitory.

"That has to be hard," Rhiannon says as we follow the crowd toward the dorms. "Being set back and having to do this all over again."

"Better than being dead," the Ridoc says as he passes us on the right, I nod in agreement.

"That's true," Violet replys as we head into the bottleneck that's formed at the door.

"I overheard a third-year say when a first-year survives Threshing unbonded, the quadrant lets them repeat the year and try again if they want," Rhiannon adds.

Violet turns her head as someone whistles from the left, probably Dain the Dumbass.

Ridoc throws his arm around my shoulders as we walk away towards Battle Brief, guess we're friends now?

"Welcome to your first Battle Brief," Professor Devera says from the recessed floor of the enormous lecture hall, as we take out seats.

Every creaky wooden seat is full, and the senior third-years are standing against the walls behind us, but we all fit.

Ridoc flops down next to me, Rhiannon on my other side, Violet arrives a little later, looking flustered.

"In the past, riders have seldom been called into service before graduation," Professor Devera continues, her mouth tensing as she paces slowly in front of a twenty-foot-high map of the Continent.

Dozens of mage lights illuminate the space, more than making up for the lack of windows and reflecting off the longsword she keeps strapped to her back.

"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, making eye contact with every first-year she sees. "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." She arches a black brow a few shades darker than her deep-brown skin.

"No pressure," Rhiannon mutters at my side, furiously taking notes.

"We'll be fine," Violet whispers. "Third-years have only been sent to midland posts as reinforcements, never the front."

"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 from left to right.

"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."

"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 massive nose, "Without accurate depictions of our front lines, reliable information with which to make strategic decisions, and-most importantly-veracious details to document our history for the good of future generations, we're doomed, not only as a kingdom but as a society."

Which is exactly why I wanted to be a scribe. Not that it mattered.

"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." Bullshit.

"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 and the light expands, illuminating the mountains that form our border with Braevick. "Allowing the drift not only to enter Navarrian territory but for their riders to channel and wield sometime around midnight."

"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. It's getting worse

"Based on that information, what questions would you ask?" She holds up a finger. "I only want answers from first-years to start."

"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."

"Is this the first time the wards have faltered?" a first-year a couple of rows ahead asks.

Professors Devera and Markham share a look before she turns toward the cadet. "No."

The girl clears her throat. "And how...often are they faltering?"

Professor Markham's shrewd eyes narrow on her. "That's above your pay grade, cadet." He turns his attention to our section. "Next relevant question to the attack we're discussing?"

"How many casualties did the wing suffer?" a first-year down the row to my right asks.

"One injured dragon. One dead rider."

Another murmur rises from the hall. Surviving graduation doesn't mean we'll survive service. Especially with what's out there.

"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 Pryor, the meekest first-year in our squad, who cannot make up his mind to save his life. "Did you want to ask a question?"

"Yes." He nods, sending a few locks of black hair into his eyes, then shakes his head. "No. Never mind."

"So decisive," Luca-the bitch first-year in our squad, a corner of her mouth tilts up into a smirk, and she flips her long brown hair over her shoulder, I would love to wipe the floor with her during sparring. Like me, she's one of the few women in the quadrant who didn't cut her hair.

"He's in our squad," Aurelie-at least I think that's her name-chastises, her no-nonsense black eyes narrowing on Luca. "Show some loyalty."

"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." Luca rolls her kohl-rimmed eyes. Please shut up.

"If Fourth Wing is done picking at one another?" Professor Devera asks, lifting a brow.

"What altitude is the village at?" Rhiannon asks.

Professor Devera's eyebrows rise as she turns to Rhiannon. "Markham?"

"A little less than ten thousand feet," he answers. "Why?"

"Just seems a little high for a planned attack with gryphons."

"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." Oh shit

Ridoc coughs loudly from beside me.

"Gryphons aren't as strong at that altitude, and neither is their ability to channel," Violet says "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?"

"That is Chakir right there, isn't it?"

"It is." A corner of Professor Devera's mouth lifts into a smirk. "Keep going with that line of thought."

"Didn't you say it took an hour for the squad of riders to arrive?"

"I did."

"Then they were already on their way," she blurts, I level a glare at anyone who decided to laugh at her, earning a few scared looks.

"Yeah, because that makes sense." Jack turns around in his seat from 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."

More chuckling, more death stares.

"Fuck off, Barlowe," I snap.

"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 has my anger bubbling.

"Why do you think that, Violet-" 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," she argues, shooting a glare at Jack, she might be weaker than he is, but she's a hell of a lot smarter.

"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 those riders would have been asleep, which means they were already on their way."

"And why would they already be on their way?" Professor Devera prods, and the light in her eyes tells me I'm right, giving me the confidence to take my train of thought a step further.

"Because they somehow knew the wards were breaking."

"That's the most-" Jack starts.

"She's right," Professor Devera interrupts, and a hush falls over the room, I let out a laugh.

"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."

"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 Jack as questions begin to fire off from the riders behind us, already bored out of my mind, I let my mind wander.

"What was the condition of the village?" Xaden asks from the back of the lecture hall.

"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."

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 to the left asks.

"We don't know," Professor Devera answers with a shrug. "It's just another piece in the puzzle of why our constant bids for peace are rejected by the kingdom of Poromiel."

"What were they looking for? Why that village? Were they responsible for the collapse of the ward, or was it already faltering? 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." Honestly, it would make everyones lives easier if leadership were honest with everyone.







A/N

Sorry this chapter is kinda boring.