Fourth Wing

Violet Sorrengail’s life was planned with the precision of an archivist. She was to study, to read, to live safely in the halls of the Scribe Quadrant. Her body was frail, bones light and easily broken—a trait that, in a world of warriors and dragon riders, condemned her to the margins of power. Yet when her mother, the formidable General Sorrengail, decreed that she must join the Riders Quadrant instead, Violet was thrust into a new universe, one that would sooner throw her to the ground than let her find her footing.

When I wrote Violet’s first steps onto the parapet—the narrow stone bridge all cadets must cross under gale and lightning—I wanted every heartbeat to feel real. The crossing was not simply a test of balance but of will. Below, the abyss promises freedom in death; ahead lies a future painted in blood. It was there, against that roaring wind, that Violet began her transformation. Her intellect, once considered a weakness, became her weapon. She memorized patterns, observed the fear in others, and used knowledge as her armor.

Basgiath War College is merciless by design. Cadets are not merely trained—they are culled. Those who falter fall, those who hesitate burn. In that chaos, Violet confronts the sneers and scorn of her peers, all convinced she will perish within days. Among them stands Xaden Riorson, the son of a rebel her mother executed. His gaze is both challenge and accusation, and through him, Violet comes face-to-face with the legacy of her family’s ruthlessness. Yet where animosity reigns, unexpected respect begins to flicker.

What I wanted to show through these early chapters is that fragility is not failure—it can be the seed of cunning. Violet must learn that survival does not belong solely to the strong of arm, but to those who see patterns others overlook, who adapt when all certainty shatters. Basgiath teaches nothing kindly, and every moment tests whether her mind can carry her body one step further toward the sky.

For those who survive the initiation, the real trial awaits: the dragons’ choosing. In this world, dragons do not suffer weakness, nor do they bend to human desire. They incinerate those they find unworthy without hesitation. I shaped this moment of bonding to parallel the forging of identity. You cannot fake your essence before a dragon. They see into the marrow of who you are.

Violet expects rejection, maybe death. Instead, she forms two bonds, unprecedented in the history of Basgiath—first with Tairn, a massive black dragon as ancient as thunder, and then with Andarna, a young golden hatchling whose innocence holds untapped power. This dual bond changes everything. It brands Violet as both miracle and threat. She now carries two sets of magic—signets—each linked to her bonded dragons, making her a target in a world where strength invites envy.

Tairn embodies dominance and discipline, a creature who accepts no compromise. His bond with Violet is tempestuous, filled with growls and reluctant respect, but through him she learns command. Andarna, by contrast, reflects the gentleness Violet thought she had lost—the ability to nurture, to hope. Together, the dragons manifest her inner duality: intellect and instinct, compassion and ferocity, vulnerability and power. They also bind her to Xaden in ways she could never have anticipated, for Tairn is bonded with Xaden’s dragon, Sgaeyl. Their fates are now irrevocably intertwined.

Through their shared link, Violet begins to see Xaden beyond the reputation of his father’s rebellion. His leadership among the marked cadets—those branded for their parents’ treason—reveals layers of loyalty, pain, and purpose. The walls between them, built of years of inherited hatred, begin to crack. Where there was once arrogance and anger, Violet discovers understanding. Through fire and shared danger, their connection becomes a slow burn that neither can ignore.

But love at Basgiath is never safe. Every stolen glance is shadowed by threat, every confession weighed against survival. This romance of enemies turned allies grows not from convenience but from trust earned in the crucible of death. In it, Violet learns one of her most enduring lessons: strength means little without connection. To fly, even dragons need a rider who believes.

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