Ruthless ??/ Fourth Wing

After training relentlessly with Arrax, my body felt like it was falling apart—bruised, sore, every muscle screaming in protest. The hours of sparring, pushing myself beyond the breaking point, had taken their toll. But that was the point. Weakness was a target, and being strong, at least outwardly, was a liability in the eyes of our enemies.

Sparring at our weakest, that's what they wanted. The rebellion knew how to control the most dangerous threats—by making us think we were all expendable, by forcing us to break down, so they could weed out the weak. They didn't want the strongest. They wanted to see who would fold under pressure, who would fall apart. They wanted to test how far we could push before we snapped, how much pain we could endure before we buckled. And the more we endured, the more dangerous we became.

Arrax stood beside me, his massive, black form a looming presence. His eyes glowed a deep amber, steady and unwavering, watching me closely. There was an understanding in the way he stared at me, a quiet strength in his gaze as if he knew exactly what we were up against—and what we were capable of. Despite the exhaustion dragging at me, despite every fiber of my being wanting to collapse, I could feel his power, his steady pulse, and it pushed me to stand a little straighter, to keep going.

After a few moments, with the weight of the day's training starting to catch up to me, I reluctantly pulled away from Arrax. The soreness in my limbs was becoming unbearable, and my mind screamed for a break. But there was no rest for us. Not here. Not now.

I took one last look at Arrax, his golden eyes fixed on me with an understanding that didn't need words. His strength was always there, a constant. I could feel the bond between us, like a tether pulling me forward, a reminder that I wasn't alone in this.

But before I could take another step, the sharp crackle of the intercom broke the stillness of the field.

"All Fourth Wing candidates meet to spar in 10 minutes."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Just as I thought I could rest, just as my body was pleading for a break, they were calling us to spar again. Training never stopped. They were pushing us harder each day—testing our limits, forcing us to break. To become something more than what we thought we could be.

I made my way to the sparring grounds, the clatter of boots against the stone path echoing behind me. The others were already gathering, stretching, adjusting their weapons.

Bodhi flashed me a grin, though I could tell from his eyes that even he wasn't looking forward to this.

Garrick, ever the stoic one, stood a little ways off, his posture rigid. He was a machine—always in control, always calculating. But I could feel it, that tension in the air, the subtle shift in the mood that always accompanied sparring.

This wasn't going to be just another training session. No, this time felt different. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach—the pressure building, the stakes higher than ever.

—-

The blood on the sparring mat is slick, a grim reminder of the rules of this twisted game. It's not just about survival anymore—it's about killing or being killed. There's no room for hesitation. No room for weakness.

Everyone here wants a dragon. They'll do anything to earn it. And if that means spilling blood, so be it.

I try to ignore the unease gnawing at my stomach. The thought of someone trying to unbond me doesn't make me feel warm and fuzzy. It makes my pulse race and my fingers tighten around my dagger.

I shift on my feet, trying to calm the restless energy within me. I can't afford to show fear. I can't let anyone see me hesitate, or I'll become their next target.