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. Fourth Wing
Xaden Riorson stood directly above me, his hand extended. Not in mercy. In curiosity. I stepped onto the stone
As he walked away, the rain began to fall harder. I looked down at my hands. The knuckles were split open. The skin was raw. No rail
A crack spiderwebbed beneath my left foot. The ancient mortar, dissolved by a century of autumn rains, gave way. A chunk the size of my fist tumbled into the abyss. I didn’t hear it land.
“And if you survive the Threshing,” he added, turning his back on me, “try not to die during the War Games. It’s a waste of a good uniform.”