He stood, brushing the mud from his hands.
My body betrayed me. I looked.
I knew that. Everyone knew that. My bones were too light, my frame too slender for the weight of dragon-scale armor. My eyes, a shade of hazel too soft for the killing fields, had been deemed “insufficient” by the Scribe Quadrant’s entrance exam. Too imaginative. Too prone to lying. Fourth Wing
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. He stood, brushing the mud from his hands