Chapter - 5 | Fourth Wing

“Welcome to your ﬁrst Battle Brief,” Professor Devera says from the recessed
ﬂoor of the enormous lecture hall later in the morning, a bright purple Flame
Section patch on her shoulder matching her short hair perfectly. This is the only
class held in the circular, tiered room that curves the entire end of the academic
hall and one of only two rooms in the citadel capable of ﬁtting every cadet.
Every creaky wooden seat is full, and the senior third-years are standing against
the walls behind us, but we all ﬁt.
It’s a far cry from history last hour, where there were only three squads of
ﬁrst-years, but at least the ﬁrst-years in our squad are all seated together. Now if
I could only remember all their names.
Ridoc is easy to remember—he cracked wise-ass comments all through
history. Hopefully he knows better than to try the same in here, though.
Professor Devera isn’t the joking kind.
“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 mounted to the back wall that’s
intricately labeled with our defensive outposts along our borders. 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.
The rank on her shoulder says captain, but I know she’ll be a major before she
leaves her rotation teaching here, given the medals pinned on her chest. “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,” I promise her in a whisper. “Third-years have only been sent
to midland posts as reinforcements, never the front.” I’d kept my ears open
around my mother enough to know that much.
“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 and pauses on me. Her eyes ﬂare wide for a heartbeat,
but she gives an approving smile and nod before moving on. “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
color of his uniform contrasting with her stark black one. He leans in when she
whispers something to him, and his thick eyebrows ﬂy high as he whips his head
in my direction.
There’s no approving smile when the colonel’s weary eyes ﬁnd mine, only a
sigh that ﬁlls my chest with heavy sorrow when I hear it. I was supposed to be
his star pupil in the Scribe Quadrant, his crowning achievement before he
retires. How absolutely ironic that I’m now the least likely to succeed in this
one.
“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
after ﬁnally tearing his disappointed gaze from mine. “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’ve always wanted to be a scribe. Not that it matters
now.
“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.”
Oh shit. A murmur rips through the hall, and I dip my quill into the inkpot
on the desk in front of me so I can take notes. I can’t wait to channel so I can use
the type of coveted pens Mom keeps on her desk. A smile curves my lips. There
could deﬁnitely be perks to being a rider. There will be.
“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.”
My stomach sinks as a murmur rises from the cadets, especially the ﬁrst-
years. Dragons aren’t the only animals capable of channeling powers to their
riders. Gryphons from Poromiel also share the ability, but dragons are the only
ones capable of powering the wards that make all other magic but their own
impossible within our borders. They’re the reason Navarre’s borders are
somewhat circular—their power radiates from the Vale and can only extend so
far, even with squads stationed at every outpost. Without those wards, we’re
fucked. It would be open season on Navarrian villages when the raiding parties
from Poromiel inevitably descend. Those greedy assholes are never content with
the resources they have. They always want ours, too, and until they learn to be
content with our trade agreements, we have no chance of ending conscription in
Navarre. No chance of experiencing peace.
But if we’re not on high alert, then they must have gotten the wards
rewoven, or at least stabilized.
“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.”
My initial question would be why the hell the wards faltered, but it’s not like
they’re going to answer a question like that in a room full of cadets with zero
security clearance.
I study the map. The Esben Mountain Range is the highest along our eastern
border with Braevick, making it the least likely place for an attack, especially
since gryphons don’t tolerate altitude nearly as well as dragons, probably due to
the fact that they’re half-lion, half-eagle and can’t handle the thinner air at

higher altitudes.
There’s a reason we’ve been able to fend oﬀ every major assault on our
territory for the last six hundred years, and we’ve successfully defended our land
in this never-ending four-hundred-year-long war. Our abilities, both lesser and
signet, are superior because our dragons can channel more power than
gryphons. So why attack in that mountain range? What caused the wards to
falter there?
“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.”
My heart jolts into my throat and the room falls pin-drop quiet.
It’s not the ﬁrst time.
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. Statistically, most riders die before retirement age, especially at
the rate riders have been falling over the last two years.
“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 has his hand up, but he lowers it quickly, scrunching his dark
eyebrows. “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 catty ﬁrst-year in our squad I’ll do just about
anything to avoid—mocks from next to him, tilting her head as cadets laugh
around them. A corner of her mouth tilts up into a smirk, and she ﬂips her long
brown hair over her shoulder in a move that’s anything but casual. Like me,

she’s one of the few women in the quadrant who didn’t cut her hair. I envy her
conﬁdence that it won’t be used against her, but not her attitude, and I’ve
known her less than a day.
“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.
“If Fourth Wing is done picking at one another?” Professor Devera asks,
lifting a brow.
“Ask what altitude the village is at,” I whisper to Rhiannon.
“What?” Her brow furrows.
“Just ask,” I reply, trying to keep Dain’s advice in mind. I swear I can feel
him staring at the back of my neck from seven rows behind me, but I’m not
going to turn and look, not when I know Xaden’s up there somewhere, too.
“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?”
Rhiannon darts a dose of side-eye at me and clears her throat. “Just seems a
little high for a planned attack with gryphons.”
“Good job,” I whisper.
“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.” She levels a stare on me that has me squirming in
my seat.
Every head in the room turns in my direction. If anyone had an inkling of
doubt about who I am, it’s long gone now. Awesome.
“Gryphons aren’t as strong at that altitude, and neither is their ability to
channel,” I say. “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?” I glance at the map to be sure I’m not making a
fool of myself. “That is Chakir right there, isn’t it?” Scribe’s training for the win.
“It is.” A corner of Professor Devera’s mouth lifts into a smirk. “Keep going
with that line of thought.”
Wait a second. “Didn’t you say it took an hour for the squad of riders to
arrive?” My gaze narrows.
“I did.” She looks at me with expectation.

“Then they were already on their way,” I blurt, immediately recognizing
how silly that sounds. My cheeks heat as a mumble of laughter sounds around
me.
“Yeah, because that makes sense.” Jack turns around in his seat from the
front row and openly laughs at me. “General Melgren knows the outcome of a
battle before it happens, but even he doesn’t know when it will happen,
dumbass.”
I feel the chuckling of my classmates reverberate in my bones. I want to
crawl under this ridiculous desk and disappear.
“Fuck oﬀ, Barlowe,” Rhiannon 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 has my neck ﬂaming, too.
“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,” I argue, shooting a glare at Jack. Fuck
him and his laughter. I might be weaker than he is, but I’m 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.” I lift my chin,
simultaneously hoping I’m right and praying to Dunne—the goddess of war—
that I’m wrong.
“That’s the most—” Jack starts.
“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.”
A little bubble of conﬁdence rises in my chest, which is promptly popped by
Jack’s glare, telling me he hasn’t forgotten his promise to kill me.
“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.

How many riders were deployed to the site?
What killed the lone fatality?
How long did it take to clear the village of the gryphons?
Were any left alive for questioning?
I write down every question and answer, my mind organizing the facts into
what kind of report I would have ﬁled if I’d been in the Scribe Quadrant, which
information was important enough to include, and what was extraneous.
“What was the condition of the village?” a deep voice asks from the back of
the lecture hall.
The hairs on my neck rise, my body recognizing the imminent threat behind
me.
“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.”
Something in her tone tells me it’s not just third-years who might be called
into service this year, and a chill settles in my bones.

…
“You seriously knew every answer in history and apparently every right question
to ask in Battle Brief,” Rhiannon says, shaking her head as we stand on the
sidelines of the sparring mat after lunch, watching Ridoc and Aurelie circle each
other in their ﬁghting leathers. They’re evenly matched in size. Ridoc is on the
smaller side, and Aurelie is built just like Mira, which doesn’t surprise me
because she’s a legacy on her father’s side. “You’re not even going to have to
study for tests, are you?”
The rest of the ﬁrst-years stand on our side, but the second- and third-years
line the others. They’re deﬁnitely at an advantage here, considering they’ve
already had at least a year of combat training.
“I was trained to be a scribe.” I shrug, and the vest Mira made me shimmers
slightly with the movement. Other than the times the scales catch the light
under the camouﬂaging mesh, it ﬁts right in with the tops we’d been given from
central issue yesterday. All the women are dressed similarly now, though the
cuts of their leathers are chosen by preference.
The guys are mostly shirtless because they think shirts give their opponent
something to grab onto. Personally, I’m not arguing with their logic, just
enjoying the view…respectfully, of course, which means keeping my eyes on my
own squad’s mat and oﬀ the other twenty mats in the massive gym that
consumes the ﬁrst ﬂoor of the academic wing. One wall is made entirely of
windows and doors, all left open to let in the breeze, but it’s still stiﬂingly hot.
Sweat trickles down my spine under my vest.
There are three squads from each wing here this afternoon, and lucky me,
First Wing has sent their third squads, which include Jack Barlowe, who’s been
glaring at me from two mats over since I walked in.
“Guess that means you’re not worried about academics,” Rhiannon says, her
brows rising at me. She’s chosen a leather vest, too, but hers cuts in above the
collarbone and secures at her neck, leaving her shoulders bare for movement.
“Stop circling each other like you’re dance partners and attack!” Professor
Emetterio orders from across the mat, where Dain watches Aurelie and Ridoc’s
match with our squad executive leader, Cianna. Thank God Dain’s shirt is on,
because I don’t need another distraction when it’s time for my turn.
“I’m worried about this,” I tell Rhiannon, tilting my chin toward the mat.
“Really?” She shoots me a skeptical look. Her braids are twisted into a small
bun at the nape of her neck. “I ﬁgured as a Sorrengail, you’d be a hand-to-hand
threat.”

“Not exactly.” At my age, Mira had been training in hand-to-hand for twelve
years. I have a whopping six months under my belt, which wouldn’t matter as
much if I wasn’t as breakable as a porcelain teacup, but here we are.
Ridoc launches toward Aurelie, but she ducks, sweeping out her leg and
tripping him. He staggers but doesn’t go down. He pivots quickly, palming a
dagger in his hand.
“No blades today!” Professor Emetterio bellows from beside the mat. He’s
only the fourth professor I’ve met, but he’s deﬁnitely the one who intimidates
me most. Or maybe it’s just the subject he teaches that has me envisioning his
compact frame as giant. “We’re just assessing!”
Ridoc grumbles and sheathes his knife just in time to deﬂect a right hook
from Aurelie.
“The brunette packs a punch,” Rhiannon says with an appreciative smile
before glancing my way.
“What about you?” I ask as Ridoc lands a jab to Aurelie’s ribs.
“Shit!” He shakes his head and backs up a step. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Aurelie holds her ribs but lifts her chin. “Who said you hurt me?”
“Pulling your punches does her a disservice,” Dain says, folding his arms.
“The Cygnis on the northeast border aren’t going to give her any quarter because
she’s a woman if she falls from her dragon behind enemy lines, Ridoc. They’ll
kill her just the same.”
“Let’s go!” Aurelie shouts, beckoning Ridoc by curling her ﬁngers. It’s
obvious that most cadets have trained their whole lives to enter the quadrant,
especially Aurelie, who slips a jab from Ridoc and twists to land a quick tap to
his kidneys.
Ouch.
“I mean…damn,” Rhiannon mutters, giving Aurelie another look before
turning back to me. “I’m pretty good on the mat. My village is on the Cygnisen
border, so we all learned to defend ourselves fairly young. Physics and math
aren’t problems, either. But history?” She shakes her head. “That class might be
the death of me.”
“They don’t kill you for failing history,” I say as Ridoc charges Aurelie,
taking her to the mat with enough force to make me wince. “I’m probably going
to die on these mats.”
She hooks her legs around his and somehow leverages him over until she’s
the one on top, landing punch after punch to the side of his face. Blood spatters
the mat.
“I could probably oﬀer some tips to survive combat training,” Sawyer says

from Rhiannon’s other side, running his hand over a day’s growth of brown
stubble that doesn’t quite cover his freckles. “History isn’t my strongest subject,
though.”
A tooth goes ﬂying and bile rises in my throat.
“Enough!” Professor Emetterio shouts.
Aurelie rolls oﬀ Ridoc and stands, touching her ﬁngers to her split lip and
examining the blood, then oﬀers her hand to help him up.
He takes it.
“Cianna, take Aurelie to the healers. No reason to lose a tooth during
assessment,” Emetterio orders.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Rhiannon says, locking her brown eyes with mine.
“Let’s help each other out. We’ll help you with hand-to-hand if you help us with
history. Sound like a deal, Sawyer?”
“Absolutely.”
“Deal.” I swallow as one of the third-years wipes down the mat with a towel.
“But I think I’m getting the better end of that.”
“You haven’t seen me try to memorize dates,” Rhiannon jokes.
A couple of mats over, someone shrieks, and we all turn to look. Jack
Barlowe has another ﬁrst-year in a headlock. The other guy is smaller, thinner
than Jack, but still has a good ﬁfty pounds on me.
Jack yanks his arms, his hands still secure around the other man’s head.
“That guy is such an ass—” Rhiannon starts.
The sickening crack of bones breaking sounds across the gym, and the ﬁrst-
year goes limp in Jack’s hold.
“Sweet Malek,” I whisper as Jack drops the man to the ground. I’m starting
to wonder if the god of death lives here for how often his name must be
invoked. My lunch threatens to reappear, but I breathe in through my nose and
out through my mouth, since it’s not like I can shove my head between my knees
here.
“What did I say?” their instructor shouts as he charges onto the mat. “You
broke his damned neck!”
“How was I supposed to know his neck was that weak?” Jack argues.
You’re dead, Sorrengail, and I’m going to be the one to kill you. His promise
from yesterday slithers through my memory.
“Eyes forward,” Emetterio orders, but his tone is kinder than it has been as
we all look away from the dead ﬁrst-year. “You don’t have to get used to it,” he
tells us. “But you do have to function through it. You and you.” He points to
Rhiannon and another ﬁrst-year in our squad, a man with a stocky build, blue-

black hair, and angular features. Shit, I can’t remember his name. Trevor?
Thomas, maybe? There are too many new people to remember who is who at
this point.
I glance at Dain, but he’s watching the pair as they take the mat.
Rhiannon makes quick work of the ﬁrst-year, stunning me every time she
dodges a punch and lands one of her own. She’s fast, and her hits are powerful,
the kind of lethal combination that will set her apart, just like Mira.
“Do you yield?” she asks the ﬁrst-year guy when she takes him to his back,
her hand stopped mid-hit just above his throat.
Tanner? I’m pretty sure it’s something that starts with a T.
“No!” he shouts, hooking his legs around Rhiannon’s and slamming her to
her back. But she rolls and quickly gains her feet before putting him in the same
position again, this time with her boot to his neck.
“I don’t know, Tynan, you might want to yield,” Dain says with a grin. “She’s
handing you your ass.”
Ah, that’s right. Tynan.
“Fuck oﬀ, Aetos!” Tynan snaps, but Rhiannon presses her boot into his
throat, garbling the last word. He turns a mottled shade of red.
Yeah, Tynan has more ego than common sense.
“He yields,” Emetterio calls out, and Rhiannon steps back, oﬀering her hand.
Tynan takes it.
“You—” Emetterio points to the pink-haired second-year with the rebellion
relic. “And you.” His ﬁnger swings to me.
She’s at least a head taller than me, and if the rest of her body is as toned as
her arms, then I’m pretty much fucked.
I can’t let her get her hands on me.
My heart threatens to beat out of my chest, but I nod and step onto the mat.
“You’ve got this,” Rhiannon says, tapping my shoulder as she passes me.
“Sorrengail.” The pink-haired girl looks me over like I’m something she’s
scraped oﬀ the side of her boot, narrowing her pale green eyes. “You really
should dye your hair if you don’t want everyone to know who your mother is.
You’re the only silver-haired freak in the quadrant.”
“Never said I cared if everyone knows who my mother is.” I circle the
second-year on the mat. “I am proud of her service to protect our kingdom—
from enemies both without and within.”
As her jaw tightens at the dig, a bubble of hope rises in my chest. Marked
ones, as I’d heard some people this morning refer to those carrying rebellion
relics on their arms, blame my mother for the execution of their parents. Fine.

Hate me. Mom often says the minute you let emotion enter a ﬁght, you’ve
already lost. I’ve never prayed harder that my ice-in-her-veins mother was right.
“You bitch,” she seethes. “Your mother murdered my family.”
She lunges forward and swings wildly, and I quickly sidestep, spinning away
with my hands up. We do that for a few more rounds, and I land a few jabs, start
to think that my plan might just work.
She growls low in her throat as she misses me again, and her foot ﬂies at my
head. I easily duck, but then she drops to the ground and kicks out with her
other foot, which lands square in my chest, sending me backward. I hit the mat
with a thud, and she’s already above me, so damn fast.
“You can’t use your powers in here, Imogen!” Dain shouts.
Imogen is trying her best to kill me.
Her eyes are above mine, and I feel the quick slide of something hard against
my ribs as she smiles at me. But her smile fades as we both look down, and I
can’t help but notice a dagger being re-sheathed.
The armor just saved my life. Thank you, Mira.
Confusion mars Imogen’s face for just a second, long enough for me to send
my ﬁst into her cheek and roll out from under her.
My hand screams with pain even though I’m sure I formed the ﬁst right, but
I block it out as we both gain our feet.
“What kind of armor is that?” she asks, staring at my ribs as we circle each
other.
“Mine.” I duck and dodge as she comes at me again, but her movements are
a blur.
“Imogen!” Emetterio shouts. “Do it again, and I’ll—”
I swerve the wrong way this time and she catches me, taking me to the ﬂoor.
The mat smacks my face, and her knee digs into my back as she pulls my right
arm behind me.
“Yield!” she shouts.
I can’t. If I yield on the ﬁrst day, what will the second bring? “No!” Now I’m
the one lacking common sense like Tynan, and I’m far more breakable.
She pulls my arm farther, and pain consumes every thought, blackening the
edges of my vision. I cry out as the ligaments stretch, shred, then pop.
“Yield, Violet!” Dain yells.
“Yield!” Imogen demands.
Gasping for breath against the weight of her on my back, I turn my face to
the side as she wrenches my shoulder apart, the pain consuming me.
“She yields,” Emetterio says. “That’s enough.”

I hear it again—the macabre sound of snapping bone—but this time it’s
mine.

It is my opinion that of all the signet powers riders provide,
mending is the most precious, but we cannot allow ourselves
to become complacent when in the company of such a signet.
For menders are rare, and the wounded are not.
—Major Frederick’s Modern Guide for Healers