Fourth Wing -

I was standing in it.

“It’s cold,” I lied.

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. 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. I was standing in it

Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t reading about the storm. Fourth Wing

I collapsed to my knees, heaving.