# CHAPTER 5: Lessons in Wards and War
Hello everyone, it's me again! How are you all doing? Today I will continue to walk with you and review CHAPTER 5 of "Fourth Wing" — a chapter that takes us deep into the academic rigors of Basgiath War College, where the true dangers of this world begin to reveal themselves, and where Violet Sorrengail must prove that her mind is her most deadly weapon.
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The morning sun had barely crested the ancient stone walls of Basgiath when Violet Sorrengail found herself seated in the hallowed halls of the Battle Brief classroom, her heart hammering against her ribs like a caged bird. The room buzzed with the nervous energy of nearly a hundred first-years, all of them acutely aware that this class would be the one constant in their brutal training — and the one that might just determine whether they lived to see graduation.
Professor Devera stood before them, a commanding presence in her stark black uniform, her deep-brown skin gleaming under the mage lights as she surveyed the sea of young faces before her. The medals pinned across her chest told a story of bravery and sacrifice that few in the room could yet comprehend. She was a captain now, but everyone with any sense knew she'd be a major before her teaching rotation ended.
"This is the only class you will have every day," she announced, her voice carrying the weight of absolute authority, "because it's the only class that will matter if you're called into service early."
Violet felt Rhiannon's nervous energy radiating from beside her, the other woman's quill already flying across the parchment as she attempted to capture every word. "No pressure," Rhiannon muttered, her voice tight with barely concealed anxiety.
"We'll be fine," Violet whispered back, though she wasn't entirely certain she believed her own words. "Third-years have only been sent to midland posts as reinforcements, never the front." She'd kept her ears open around her mother long enough to know that much, at least.
Professor Devera's gaze swept across the room with the precision of a hunting hawk, and when her eyes landed on Violet, they flared wide for just a heartbeat. Recognition flickered there — the silver hair made secrecy impossible — but instead of judgment, Violet received an approving smile and a nod before the captain moved on.
"You need to understand the politics of our enemies," Devera continued, "the strategies of defending our outposts from constant attack, and have a thorough knowledge of both recent and current battles. If you cannot grasp these basic topics, then you have no business on the back of a dragon."
She waved forward the scribe who had been waiting patiently in the shadows, and Professor Markham moved to stand beside her, his cream-colored uniform a stark contrast to her black one. When she whispered something to him, his thick eyebrows shot upward, and his weary eyes found Violet with an intensity that made her chest tighten.
There was no approval in that gaze. Only disappointment — a heavy, suffthing weight that pressed down on Violet's shoulders like a physical burden. She was supposed to have been his star pupil in the Scribe Quadrant, his crowning achievement before retirement. Now she was the least likely to succeed in an entirely different world.
"It is the duty of the scribes not only to study and master the past but to relay and record the present," Markham said, rubbing the bridge of his bulbous nose. "Without accurate depictions of our front lines, reliable information with which to make strategic decisions, and — most importantly — veracious details to document our history for the good of future generations, we're doomed, not only as a kingdom but as a society."
Which was exactly why Violet had always wanted to be a scribe. Not that it mattered now.
The first topic of the day made Violet's stomach drop like a stone into the Chasm.
"First topic of the day," Professor Devera announced, moving toward the massive map that dominated the front wall. She flicked her hand, and a mage light materialized directly over the eastern border with the Poromiel province of Braevick. "The Eastern Wing experienced an attack last night near the village of Chakir by a drift of Braevi gryphons and riders."
Oh shit. A murmur rippled through the hall like wind through wheat, and Violet dipped her quill into the inkpot, desperate for something to anchor her racing thoughts.
"Naturally, some information is redacted for security purposes," Devera continued, pulling her hands apart to expand the light over the Esben Mountains, "but what we can tell you is that the wards faltered along the top of the Esben Mountains. Allowing the drift not only to enter Navarrian territory but for their riders to channel and wield sometime around midnight."
Violet's blood ran cold. Dragons weren't the only animals capable of channeling powers to their riders — gryphons from Poromiel shared that ability. But dragons were the only ones capable of powering the wards that made all other magic impossible within Navarre's borders. Without those wards, Navarrian villages would be open season for the raiding parties from Poromiel.
Those greedy bastards were never content with what they had. They always wanted more.
"Thirty-seven civilians were killed in the attack in the hour before a squad from the Eastern Wing could arrive," Devera finished, folding her arms over her chest. "But the riders and dragons managed to repel the drift. Based on that information, what questions would you ask?"
Violet's mind raced through possibilities, cataloging information like a scribe filing ancient texts. Why the hell had the wards faltered? That was the obvious question, but one that would never be answered in a room full of cadets with zero security clearance. She studied the map instead, her eyes tracing the Esben Mountain Range — the highest along their eastern border with Braevick, making it the least likely place for an attack.
Gryphons didn't tolerate altitude nearly as well as dragons. They were half-lion, half-eagle, and the thinner air at higher altitudes affected both their flying and their ability to channel.
So why attack there? What had caused the wards to falter?
"Come on, first-years," Professor Devera demanded, "show me you have more than just good balance. Show me you have the critical-thinking skills to be here."
"Is this the first time the wards have faltered?" a first-year a couple of rows ahead asked.
Professors Devera and Markham shared a loaded look before Devera turned back to the cadet. "No."
The word slammed into Violet like a physical blow. Her heart jolted into her throat, and the room fell pin-drop quiet.
It wasn't the first time.
"And how... often are they faltering?" the girl pressed.
"That's above your pay grade, cadet," Markham said, his shrewd eyes narrowing. "Next relevant question."
"How many casualties did the wing suffer?" another first-year asked.
"One injured dragon. One dead rider."
Another murmur rose from the hall. Surviving graduation didn't mean surviving service. Statistically, most riders died before retirement age, especially at the rate riders had been falling over the last two years.
Pryor, the meekest first-year in their squad, raised his hand but quickly lowered it, scrunching his dark eyebrows as if he'd thought better of speaking. Professor Devera noticed.
"Did you want to ask a question?"
"Yes." He nodded, sending a few locks of black hair into his eyes, then shook his head. "No. Never mind."
"So decisive," Luca — the catty first-year in their squad whom Violet would do just about anything to avoid — mocked from beside him, tilting her head as cadets laughed around them. The smirk on her face was anything but casual as she flipped her long brown hair over her shoulder.
"He's in our squad," Aurelie chastised, her no-nonsense black eyes narrowing on Luca. "Show some loyalty."
"Please. No dragon is bonding to a guy who can't even decide if he wants to ask a question." Luca rolled her kohl-rimmed eyes. "And did you see him at breakfast this morning? He held the entire line up because he couldn't choose between bacon or sausage."
"If Fourth Wing is done picking at one another?" Professor Devera asked, lifting a brow.
Violet leaned toward Rhiannon, keeping her voice barely above a whisper. "Ask what altitude the village is at."
"What?" Rhiannon's brow furrowed in confusion.
"Just ask." Violet could feel Dain's stare burning into the back of her neck from seven rows behind her, but she refused to turn around. Not when she knew Xaden was up there somewhere, too.
"What altitude is the village at?" Rhiannon asked, her voice steady despite her uncertainty.
Professor Devera's eyebrows rose with interest. "Markham?"
"A little less than ten thousand feet," he answered. "Why?"
"Dart a dose of side-eye at me and clear her throat." Rhiannon's eyes flickered toward Violet before she spoke. "Just seems a little high for a planned attack with gryphons."
"Good job," Violet whispered, a small surge of triumph warming her chest.
"It *is* a little high for a planned attack," Devera said, and Violet's heart stuttered as the professor's gaze landed on her with laser precision. "Why don't you tell me why that's bothersome, Cadet Sorrengail? And maybe you'd like to ask your own questions from here on out."
Every head in the room turned in Violet's direction, and any hope of anonymity she'd harbored crumbled to dust. Her cheeks burned as she forced herself to speak.
"Gryphons aren't as strong at that altitude, and neither is their ability to channel," she said, her voice steady despite the pounding in her chest. "It's an illogical place for them to attack unless they *knew* the wards would fail, especially since the village looks to be about... what, an hour's flight from the nearest outpost?" She glanced at the map to ensure she wasn't making a fool of herself. "That is Chakir right there, isn't it?"
Scribe's training for the win.
"It is." A corner of Professor Devera's mouth lifted into a smirk. "Keep going with that line of thought."
Wait a second. "Didn't you say it took an hour for the *squad* of riders to arrive?" Violet's gaze narrowed as the pieces began to click together.
"I did." Expectation gleamed in the professor's eyes.
"Then they were already on their way," Violet blurted out, immediately recognizing how ridiculous that sounded. Laughter rippled around her as her cheeks flushed crimson.
"Yeah, because that makes sense." Jack Barlowe turned around in his seat from the front row, open contempt dripping from his voice. "General Melgren knows the outcome of a battle before it happens, but even he doesn't know *when* it will happen, dumbass."
Violet wanted to crawl under her desk and disappear as the chuckling of her classmates reverberated in her bones.
"Fuck off, Barlowe," Rhiannon snapped.
"I'm not the one who thinks precognition is a thing," he retorted with a sneer. "Gods help us if that one ever gets on the back of a dragon."
"Why do you think that, Violet—" Professor Markham winced, catching himself. "Cadet Sorrengail?"
"Because there's no logical way they get there within an hour of the attack unless they were already on their way," Violet argued, shooting a glare at Jack. Fuck him and his laughter. She might be physically weaker than he was, but she was a hell of a lot smarter. "It would take at least half that long to light the beacons in the range and call for help, and no full squad is sitting around just waiting to be needed. More than half those riders would have been asleep, which means they were already on their way."
"And why would they already be on their way?" Professor Devera prodded, and the light in her eyes told Violet she was on the right track.
"Because they somehow knew the wards were breaking." Violet lifted her chin, simultaneously hoping she was right and praying to Dunne, the goddess of war, that she was wrong.
"That's the most—" Jack started.
"She's right," Professor Devera interrupted, and a hush fell over the room like a blanket of snow. "One of the dragons in the wing sensed the faltering ward, and the wing flew. Had they not, the casualties would have been far higher and the destruction of the village much worse."
A bubble of confidence rose in Violet's chest, immediately popped by the murderous glare Jack shot her. His promise from yesterday echoed in her mind: *You're dead, Sorrengail, and I'm going to be the one to kill you.*
As the second- and third-years took over the questioning, Violet scribbled down every word, archiving facts in her mind the way she'd been trained to do. What was the condition of the village? Was it burned? Destroyed? How many riders were deployed? What killed the lone casualty?
Then a deep voice cut through the chatter from the back of the lecture hall, and the hairs on Violet's neck rose in immediate warning.
"What was the condition of the village?"
Xaden Riorson. Of course.
"Riorson?" Markham asked, shielding his eyes as he looked toward the top of the hall.
"The village," Xaden restated, his voice carrying absolute authority despite not being raised. "Professor Devera said the damage would have been worse, but what was the actual condition? Was it burned? Destroyed? They wouldn't demolish it if they were trying to establish a foothold, so the condition of the village matters when trying to determine a motive for the attack."
Professor Devera smiled in approval. "The buildings they'd already gone through were burned, and the rest were being looted when the wing arrived."
"They were looking for something," Xaden said with complete conviction. "And it wasn't riches. That's not a gem mining district. Which begs the question, what do we have that they want so badly?"
"Exactly. That's the question." Devera glanced around the room. "And that right there is why Riorson is a wingleader. You need more than strength and courage to be a good rider."
"So what's the answer?" a first-year to the left asked.
"We don't know," Devera answered with a shrug. "It's just another piece in the puzzle of why our constant bids for peace are rejected by the kingdom of Poromiel. What were they looking for? Why *that* village? Were they responsible for the collapse of the ward, or was it already faltering? Tomorrow, next week, next month, there will be another attack, and maybe we'll get another clue."
Something in her tone suggested it wasn't just third-years who might be called into service this year, and a chill settled deep in Violet's bones.
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By afternoon, Violet found herself standing on the sidelines of the sparring mat, the oppressive heat of the massive gym making sweat trickle down her spine beneath the vest Mira had given her. The armor had seemed like a thoughtful gift when she'd received it; now, watching blood spatter across the mats, she understood it was a lifeline.
"Gryphons aren't the only threat," Rhiannon said as they watched Ridoc and Aurelie circle each other in their fighting leathers. "Marked ones are everywhere."
Violet watched the fight unfold, cataloging movements and strategies with the same analytical eye she'd used in Battle Brief. Ridoc charged, but Aurelie ducked, sweeping out her leg to trip him. He staggered but didn't fall, pivoting quickly to palm a dagger.
"No blades today!" Professor Emetterio bellowed from beside the mat. He was only the fourth professor Violet had met, but he was definitely the most intimidating. "We're just assessing!"
Ridoc sheathed his knife just in time to deflect a right hook from Aurelie. Violet winced as he landed a jab to Aurelie's ribs.
"Shit!" Ridoc shook his head and backed up a step. "I don't want to hurt you."
Aurelie held her ribs but lifted her chin defiantly. "Who said you hurt me?"
"Pulling your punches does her a disservice," Dain said, folding his arms. "The Cygnis on the northeast border aren't going to give her any quarter because she's a woman if she falls from her dragon behind enemy lines, Ridoc. They'll kill her just the same."
"Let's go!" Aurelie shouted, beckoning Ridoc forward.
Violet watched as Aurelie slipped a jab from Ridoc and twisted to land a quick tap to his kidneys. The woman was a force of nature — built just like Mira, a legacy on her father's side.
"I mean... damn," Rhiannon muttered, giving Aurelie another look before turning back to Violet. "I'm pretty good on the mat. My village is on the Cygnis border, so we all learned to defend ourselves fairly young. Physics and math aren't problems, either. But history?" She shook her head. "That class might be the death of me."
"They don't kill you for failing history," Violet said as Ridoc charged Aurelie, taking her to the mat with enough force to make Violet wince. "I'm probably going to die on these mats."
Aurelie hooked her legs around Ridoc and somehow leveraged him over until she was on top, landing punch after punch to the side of his face. Blood spattered the mat, and a tooth went flying. Violet's stomach heaved, and bile rose in her throat.
"Enough!" Professor Emetterio shouted, and Aurelie rolled off Ridoc, touching her fingers to her split lip before extending her hand to help him up.
"I'll make you a deal," Rhiannon said, locking eyes with Violet. "Let's help each other out. We'll help you with hand-to-hand if you help us with history. Sound like a deal, Sawyer?"
"Absolutely," the freckled man on Rhiannon's other side agreed.
"Deal." Violet swallowed hard as one of the third-years wiped down the mat with a towel. "But I think I'm getting the better end of that."
"You haven't seen me try to memorize dates," Rhiannon joked.
Then a couple of mats over, someone shrieked, and all heads turned. Jack Barlowe had another first-year in a headlock — a smaller, thinner guy who still had a good fifty pounds on Violet. Jack yanked his arms, his hands still secured around the other man's head.
"That guy is such an ass—" Rhiannon started.
A sickening crack echoed across the gym, and the first-year went limp in Jack's hold.
"Sweet Malek," Violet whispered as Jack dropped the man to the ground. The god of death must have a permanent residence here for how often his name was invoked. Her lunch threatened to reappear, and she had to breathe in through her nose and out through her mouth to keep from vomiting.
"What did I say?" Jack's instructor shouted as he charged onto the mat. "You broke his damned neck!"
"How was I supposed to know his neck was that weak?" Jack argued, his voice dripping with false innocence.
*You're dead, Sorrengail, and I'm going to be the one to kill you.* The promise slithered through Violet's memory like poison.
"Eyes forward," Emetterio ordered, his tone kind as the cadets all looked away from the dead first-year. "You don't have to get used to it, but you do have to function through it. You and you." He pointed to Rhiannon and Tynan, a stocky first-year with blue-black hair.
Rhiannon made quick work of Tynan, her hits powerful and precise. She was fast, with the kind of lethal combination that would set her apart, just like Mira. But when the instructor's finger swung to Violet, her heart threatened to beat out of her chest.
"You—" Emetterio pointed to the pink-haired second-year with the rebellion relic. "And you."
The woman was at least a head taller than Violet, and if the rest of her body was as toned as her arms, Violet was well and truly screwed. She couldn't let those hands get on her.
"You've got this," Rhiannon said, tapping her shoulder as she passed.
"Sorrengail." The pink-haired girl looked Violet over like she was something scraped off the bottom of a boot, narrowing her pale green eyes. "You really should dye your hair if you don't want everyone to know who your mother is. You're the only silver-haired freak in the quadrant."
"Never said I cared if everyone knows who my mother is," Violet said, circling the second-year on the mat. "I am proud of her service to protect our kingdom—from enemies both *without* and *within*."
As the girl's jaw tightened at the dig, a bubble of hope rose in Violet's chest. Marked ones blamed her mother for the execution of their parents. Fine. Let them hate her. Her mother often said the minute you let emotion enter a fight, you've already lost. Violet had never prayed harder that her ice-veined mother was right.
"You bitch," the girl seethed. "Your mother *murdered* my family."
She lunged forward and swung wildly, and Violet quickly sidestepped, spinning away with her hands up. They went through several rounds like this, with Violet landing a few jabs, starting to think her plan might actually work.
Then the girl growled low in her throat as she missed again, her foot flying at Violet's head. Violet easily ducked, but the girl dropped to the ground and kicked out with her other foot, landing square in Violet's chest and sending her backward. She hit the mat with a *thud*, and the girl was above her in an instant, impossibly fast.
"You can't use your powers in here, Imogen!" Dain shouted.
Imogen was trying her best to kill Violet. Her eyes were above Violet's, and she felt the quick slide of something hard against her ribs as she smiled. But her smile faded as they both looked down, and Violet couldn't help but notice a dagger being re-sheathed. The armor just saved her life. Thank you, Mira.
Confusion marred Imogen's face for just a second — long enough for Violet to send her fist into the girl's cheek and roll out from under her. Pain screamed through her hand, but she blocked it out as they both gained their feet.
"What kind of armor is that?" Imogen asked, staring at Violet's ribs as they circled each other.
"Mine." Violet ducked and dodged as Imogen came at her again, but the girl's movements were a blur.
"Imogen!" Emetterio shouted. "Do it again, and I'll—"
Violet swerved the wrong way, and Imogen caught her, taking her to the floor. The mat smacked Violet's face as Imogen's knee dug into her back and pulled her right arm behind her.
"Yield!" Imogen shouted.
Violet couldn't. If she yielded on the first day, what would the second bring? "No!" Probably a lack of common sense, but she needed to survive that long first.
Imogen pulled her arm farther, and pain consumed every thought, blackening the edges of Violet's vision. She cried out as the ligaments stretched, shredded, then popped.
"Yield, Violet!" Dain yelled.
"Yield!" Imogen demanded.
Gasping for breath against the weight of the girl on her back, Violet turned her face to the side as Imogen wrenched her shoulder apart. The pain was all-consuming, a fire that licked at every nerve ending in her body.
"She yields," Emetterio said. "That's enough."
And Violet heard it again — the macabre sound of snapping bone — but this time, it was hers.
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Flames of agony engulfed Violet's upper arm and chest as Dain carried her through the lower, covered passage out of the Riders Quadrant, over the ravine, and into the Healer Quadrant. It was basically a stone bridge, covered and sided with more stone, which made it a suspended tunnel with a few windows — but Violet wasn't thinking clearly enough to take it in as they rushed through, his strides eating up the distance.
"Almost there," Dain reassured her, his grip firm but careful on her rib cage and beneath her knees as her useless arm rested on her chest.
"Everyone saw you lose it," Violet whispered, doing her best to mentally block the pain like she had countless times before. It was usually as easy as building a mental wall around the pulsing torment in her body, then telling herself the pain only existed in that box so she couldn't feel it. But it wasn't working so well this time.
"I didn't lose it." He kicked the door three times when they reached it.
"You shouted and carried me out of there like I mean something to you." Violet focused on the scar on his jaw, the stubble on his tan skin — anything to keep from feeling the utter destruction in her shoulder.
"You do mean something to me." He kicked again.
And now everyone knew.
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## Reader's Impressions & Star Rating
This chapter is an absolute masterclass in world-building and tension. Watching Violet navigate the intellectual battlefield of Battle Brief was thrilling — her moment of insight about the wards and the attack showcased exactly why she's more than just a fragile body trying to survive. The sparring scene, however, was brutal and heart-wrenching. The contrast between her sharp mind and her breakable body is agonizing to witness, especially as she refuses to yield against Imogen. And that final moment with Dain — "You do mean something to me" — had my heart racing. This chapter perfectly balances political intrigue, academic competition, and visceral physical danger, all while deepening Violet's relationships with allies and enemies alike.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 4.8 / 5 Stars
## Next Chapter Prediction
Violet is now in the Healer Quadrant with a completely destroyed shoulder, and I predict this injury will be far more significant than just physical. With Xaden apparently shadowing her, Jack vowing to kill her, and marked ones like Imogen out for blood, Violet is surrounded by enemies on all sides. I suspect the next chapter will reveal the extent of her injury — possibly a permanent weakness that makes her question if she can truly survive the Riders Quadrant. But more importantly, Dain's protective outburst may have just painted an even larger target on Violet's back, and I predict we'll see Xaden make a move — whether to protect her, use her, or something far more complicated.
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