Fourth Wing -

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.

But I wasn’t lying about this: I would rather fall to my death on the rocks below than live another day as a silent, ink-stained ghost in the Archives. Fourth Wing

Then another voice—louder, raw, and utterly insane—answered: No. This is where you start. Around me, forty other first-years watched

Don't look down. Looking down is a confession of fear. A girl with cropped silver hair was counting

The wind hit first—a living thing that tried to shove me sideways. I leaned into it, letting my hips find the rhythm of the sway. No rail. No rope. Just the slick hiss of my boots on wet rock.