Fourth Wing (The Empyrean #1) Read Online Rebecca Yarros

Categories Genre: Dragons, Fantasy/Sci-fi, Paranormal Tags Authors: Series: The Empyrean Series by Rebecca Yarros
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Total pages in book: 215
Estimated words: 206625 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 827(@250wpm)___ 689(@300wpm)
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“I was more like volun-told.” My answer is far less enthusiastic than hers.

“Gotcha.”

“And riders do get way better perks than other officers,” I say to Dylan as the line moves upward again. The snickering candidate behind me catches up, sweating and red. Look who isn’t snickering now. “Better pay, more leniency with the uniform policy,” I continue. No one gives a shit what riders wear as long as it’s black. The only rules that apply to riders are the ones I’ve memorized from the Codex.

“And the right to call yourself a supreme badass,” Rhiannon adds.

“That too,” I agree. “Pretty sure they issue you an ego with your flight leathers.”

“Plus, I’ve heard that riders are allowed to marry sooner than the other quadrants,” Dylan adds.

“True. Right after graduation.” If we survive. “I think it has something to do with wanting to continue bloodlines.” Most successful riders are legacies.

“Or because we tend to die sooner than the other quadrants,” Rhiannon muses.

“I’m not dying,” Dylan says with way more confidence than I feel as he tugs a necklace from under his tunic to reveal a ring dangling from the chain. “She said it would be bad luck to propose before I left, so we’re waiting until graduation.” He kisses the ring and tucks the chain back under his collar. “The next three years are going to be long ones, but they’ll be worth it.”

I keep my sigh to myself, though that might be the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.

“You might make it across the parapet,” the guy behind us sneers. “This one here is a breeze away from the bottom of the ravine.”

I roll my eyes.

“Shut up and focus on yourself,” Rhiannon snaps, her feet clicking against the stone as we climb.

The top comes into sight, the doorway full of muddled light. Mira was right. Those clouds are going to wreak havoc on us, and we have to be on the other side of the parapet before they do.

Another step, another tap of Rhiannon’s feet.

“Let me see your boots,” I say quietly so the jerk behind me can’t hear.

Her brow puckers, and confusion fills her brown eyes, but she shows me the soles. They’re smooth, just like the ones I was wearing earlier. My stomach sinks like a rock.

The line starts moving again, pausing when we’re only a few feet from the opening. “What size are your feet?” I ask.

“What?” Rhiannon blinks at me.

“Your feet. What size are they?”

“Eight,” she answers, two lines forming between her brows.

“I’m a seven,” I say quickly. “It will hurt like hell, but I want you to take my left boot. Trade with me.” I have a dagger in the right one.

“I’m sorry?” She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, and maybe I have.

“These are rider boots. They’ll grip the stone better. Your toes will be scrunched and generally miserable, but at least you’ll have a shot at not falling off if that rain hits.”

Rhiannon glances toward the open door—and the darkening sky—then back to me. “You’re willing to trade a boot?”

“Just until we get on the other side.” I look through the open door. Three candidates are already walking across the parapet, their arms stretched out wide. “But we have to be quick. It’s almost our turn.”

Rhiannon purses her lips in debate for a second, then agrees, and we swap left boots. I barely finish lacing up before the line moves again, and the guy behind me shoves my lower back, sending me staggering onto the platform and into the open air.

“Let’s go. Some of us have things to do on the other side.” His voice grates on my last freaking nerve.

“You are not worth the effort right now,” I mutter, gaining my balance as the wind whips at my skin, the midsummer morning thick with humidity. Good call on the braid, Mira.

The top of the turret is bare, the crenelations of stone rising and falling along the circular structure at the height of my chest and doing nothing to obscure the view. The ravine and its river below suddenly feel very, very far. How many wagons do they have waiting down there? Five? Six? I know the stats. The parapet claims roughly fifteen percent of the rider candidates. Every trial in the quadrant—including this one—is designed to test a cadet’s ability to ride. If someone can’t manage to walk the windy length of the slim stone bridge, then they sure as hell can’t keep their balance and fight on the back of a dragon.

And as for the death rate? I guess every other rider thinks the risk is worth the glory—or has the arrogance to think they won’t fall.

I’m not in either camp.

Nausea has me holding my stomach, and I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth as I walk the edge behind Rhiannon and Dylan, my fingers skimming the stonework as we wind our way toward the parapet.


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