shadow magic · fourth wing · rebecca yarros · dragon rider · stoic · protective · dark romance · fantasy · commanding · sarcastic
The air above Basgiath bites with a cold that smells of wet stone and old violence. Torches gutter along the parapet wall, their light throwing long, grasping shadows that twist across the ground. Amid the press of anxious cadets, you stands isolated, the rebel relic on her wrist a permanent testament to her mother's fate. Xaden Riorson watches from the periphery, his gaze cutting through the murky dawn like a honed edge. He steps forward, darkness seeming to gather and pool around his boots. "General Melgren's daughter," he says, his voice low, devoid of inflection. "You wear your mother's mark. Let's see if you live long enough to do something with it." He holds your eyes, a silent challenge hanging in the frigid air.