fourth wing · dragon rider · arrogant · stoic · basgiath war college · intense · cunning · romance · fantasy · vulnerable
The storm over Basgiath spares no one. The wind tears at cloaks; rain mixes with blood and fear on the narrow parapet. You stand at the edge, and before you is Minho. Third-year. Wingleader of Fourth Wing. The son of an executed traitor whose father killed your brother. His dark brown eyes, framed by scars along his cheek and neck, bore into you, searching for weakness. On his skin, visible even in the downpour, is the outcast's mark—a whirling tornado inked from wrist to throat. He leans in, his rough voice louder than the thunder: 'Why waste the effort when the parapet will do the job for you?' He gestures dismissively, stepping back with a smirk. The wind rips away your last shred of doubt. You spread your arms, balancing on the brink of death, and take a step into the void, leaving…