Then another voice—louder, raw, and utterly insane—answered: No. This is where you start.
He stood, brushing the mud from his hands.
“It’s cold,” I lied.
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.
I placed my palm against the cold stone of the Riders’ Quadrant gate. The bas-relief of a wyvern, wings pinned in eternal agony, seemed to sneer at me. Fourth Wing
I pulled.
Around me, forty other first-years watched. Some had already failed. One boy was vomiting behind a pillar. A girl with cropped silver hair was counting her fingers to make sure they were all still there. “It’s cold,” I lied
Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t reading about the storm.
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. A chunk the size of my fist tumbled into the abyss