Wing | Fourth

I knew that. Everyone knew that. My bones were too light, my frame too slender for the weight of dragon-scale armor. My eyes, a shade of hazel too soft for the killing fields, had been deemed “insufficient” by the Scribe Quadrant’s entrance exam. Too imaginative. Too prone to lying.

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.

The Unweathered

“It’s cold,” I lied.

You don’t belong here.

“You’re shaking,” he observed, his voice a low rumble that competed with the storm.

I stepped onto the stone.

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.