Fourth Wing Book Quotes

There is nothing more sacred than the Archives. Even temples can be rebuilt, but books cannot be rewritten.

No one stays friends forever, Mira. Eventually those closest to us become our enemies in some way, even if it’s through well-intentioned love or apathy, or if we live long enough to become their villains.

Ditch the books. Dad can’t save you. He tried. I tried. Decide, Violet. Are you going to die a scribe? Or live as a rider?

Let me guess, you could smell my perfume. Isn't that what always gives the heroine away in books?' He scoffs. 'I command shadows, but sure, it was your perfume that gave you away.

Argue with you about Books? I only pick fights I can win...

You wanted a quiet life full of books and facts. You wanted to record the battles, not be in them.

Tell me what you're thinking.' I wind my arms around his neck. 'I was thinking you are exactly as I predicted the first time you took me in my room.' 'Oh yeah?' He draws back, curiosity sparking in his eyes. 'And what exactly was that?' 'A very dangerous addiction.' My gaze skims over the silver line of his scar, the thick lashes so many women would kill for, and over the bump in his nose to that perfectly sculped mouth. I've already told him that I love him, so it's not like I'm keeping secrets over here. Hell, compared to him, I'm an open book. 'Impossible to sate.' His eyes darken. 'I'm going to keep you,' he promises, just like he did last night. Or was it this morning? 'You're mine, Violet.' I lift my chin. 'Only if you're mine.' 'I've been yours for longer than you could ever imagine.

I will not die today. —Violet Sorrengail’s personal addendum to the Book of Brennan

Los mejores líderes son aquellos que no desean serlo.

It's not the same for you. You wanted a quiet life full of books and facts. You wanted to record the battles, not be in them. There is nothing wrong with you. You get to be angry that you killed a man today. You get to be angry that man tried to kill your friend. You get to feel however you want within these walls.' He's close enough now that I can feel his body heat through the thin cotton of my dressing gown. 'But not outside them.' It's not a question. 'We're riders,' he says, as if that's explanation enough. He takes hold of my hands and brings them to his chest. 'So do whatever you need to get it out. You want to yell? Yell at me. You want to hit something? Hit me. I can take it.' Hitting him is the last thing I want to do, and suddenly, I'm done fighting it. 'Come on,' he whispers. 'Show me what you've got.' I surge up on my toes and kiss him.

I never said I don't think you can cut it, Violet.' 'You say it every day!' I snap. 'You say it when you walk me from formation to class, which I know makes you late for flight line. You say it when you yell at your wingleader when he takes me to the mat-' 'He had no right to-' 'He's my wingleader!' I shrug my tunic over my head. 'He has the right to do whatever he wants- including execute me.' 'And that's why you need to get the hell out of here!' Dain laces his fingers behind his neck, and begins to pace. 'I've been watching, Vi. He's just toying with you, like a cat plays with a mouse before the kill.' 'I've held my own so far!' My satchel is heavy with books as I settle it on my shoulder. 'I've won every challenge-' 'Except today when he wiped the floor with you time and again.' He grasps my shoulders. 'Or did you miss the part when he took every weapon so you knew exactly how easy it is to defeat you?' I raise my chin and glare at him. 'I was there, and I've survived almost two months in this place, which is more than I can say for a fourth of my year!

No toda la fuerza es fisica, Violet

Violet Sorrengail,” I answer as thunder cracks above me, the sound oddly comforting. I’ve always loved the nights where storms beat against the fortress window, both illuminating and throwing shadows over the books I curled up with, though this downpour might just cost me my life.

will not die today. —Violet Sorrengail’s personal addendum to the Book of Brennan

even temples can be rebuilt, but books cannot be rewritten

The first rush of power is unmistakable. The first time it forms to you, surrounds you with a seemingly endless supply of energy, you’ll be addicted to the high, to the possibilities of all you can do with it, to the control you hold in the palm of your hand.But here’s the thing, that power can quickly turn and control you. —Page sixty-four, the Book of Brennan

My jaw unhinges. “Venin are the stuff of fables. Like the book my father—” I blink. The letter. What had he written? Folklore is passed from one generation to the next to teach us about our past. Was he trying to say… No. That’s impossible. “They’re real,” Xaden says softly, like he’s trying to lessen a blow. “You’re saying people who can somehow tap into the source of magic without a dragon or gryphon to channel, corrupting their power beyond all salvation, actually exist.” I say the words slowly just so we’re crystal clear. “They’re not just part of the creation fable.

I’ve always loved the nights where storms beat against the fortress window, both illuminating and throwing shadows over the books I curled up with, though this downpour might just cost me my life.

Let me guess, you could smell my perfume. Isn’t that what always gives the heroine away in books?

I will not die today. —VIOLET SORRENGAIL’S PERSONAL ADDENDUM TO THE BOOK OF BRENNAN

answer as thunder cracks above me, the sound oddly comforting. I’ve always loved the nights where storms beat against the fortress window, both illuminating and throwing shadows over the books I curled up

Don’t underestimate the challenge of the Gauntlet, Mira. It’s designed to test your balance, strength, and agility. The times don’t matter for shit, only that you make it to the top. Reach for the ropes when you have to. Coming in last is better than coming in dead. —PAGE FORTY-SIX, THE BOOK OF BRENNAN

She retrieves the last book I packed from the rucksack and hands it to me. “Ditch the books. Dad can’t save you. He tried. I tried. Decide, Violet. Are you going to die a scribe? Or live as a rider?

Sharia law uses the sacred texts of Islam as the basis for moral behavior, the way Jews are supposed to use the Talmud and Christians the Bible—and, in Muslim countries, it uses the Quran explicitly as the basis for legal codes. Just before we elected our forty-fourth non-Muslim president in a row, people on the right began fantasizing that American Muslims were scheming to supplant U.S. jurisprudence with Islamic jurisprudence. The definitive text is a 2010 book called Shariah: The Threat to America. Its nineteen authors included respectable hard-right conservatives and national security wonks. We’re “infiltrated and deeply influenced,” the book says, “by an enemy within that is openly determined to replace the U.S. Constitution with shariah.” The movement took off, and in short order the specter of sharia became a right-wing catchphrase encompassing suspicion of almost any Islamic involvement in the U.S. civic sphere. The word gave Islamophobia a patina of legitimacy. It was a specific fantasy—not I hate Muslims or I hate Arabs but rather I don’t want to live under Taliban law, and therefore it could pass as not racist but anti-tyranny. It was also a shiny new exotic term, a word nobody in America but a few intellectuals knew.

Who giveth us richly all things to enjoy." 1 Timothy 6:17 Our Lord Jesus is ever giving, and does not for a solitary instant withdraw his hand. As long as there is a vessel of grace not yet full to the brim, the oil shall not be stayed. He is a sun ever-shining; he is manna always falling round the camp; he is a rock in the desert, ever sending out streams of life from his smitten side; the rain of his grace is always dropping; the river of his bounty is ever-flowing, and the well-spring of his love is constantly overflowing. As the King can never die, so his grace can never fail. Daily we pluck his fruit, and daily his branches bend down to our hand with a fresh store of mercy. There are seven feast-days in his weeks, and as many as are the days, so many are the banquets in his years. Who has ever returned from his door unblessed? Who has ever risen from his table unsatisfied, or from his bosom un-emparadised? His mercies are new every morning and fresh every evening. Who can know the number of his benefits, or recount the list of his bounties? Every sand which drops from the glass of time is but the tardy follower of a myriad of mercies. The wings of our hours are covered with the silver of his kindness, and with the yellow gold of his affection. The river of time bears from the mountains of eternity the golden sands of his favour. The countless stars are but as the standard bearers of a more innumerable host of blessings. Who can count the dust of the benefits which he bestows on Jacob, or tell the number of the fourth part of his mercies towards Israel? How shall my soul extol him who daily loadeth us with benefits, and who crowneth us with loving-kindness? O that my praise could be as ceaseless as his bounty! O miserable tongue, how canst thou be silent? Wake up, I pray thee, lest I call thee no more my glory, but my shame. "Awake, psaltery and harp: I myself will awake right early.

Eventually those closest to us become our enemies in some way, even if it’s through well-intentioned love or apathy, or if we live long enough to become their villains. —Page eighty, the Book of Brennan

I’ve always loved the nights where storms beat against the fortress window, both illuminating and throwing shadows over the books I curled up with,

Because that’s all you’ll be. Another tombstone. Another name scorched in stone. Ditch the books.

Yeah?” I pivot to face her. “Do go on.” “All right.” She takes a deep breath. “I’ve only done it three times. Twice last night and once this morning, so be patient for a second.” “Of course.” I nod. “Watch the book on my desk.” “Got it.” My gaze locks on the history textbook on the left-hand side of the desk. A minute passes, but I don’t look away. Then the thing vanishes. “What the hell, Rhi?” I fly to my feet and whip my head toward her. “What just—” My mouth drops. She’s holding the book, looking up at me with a wide grin. “Is that the same book?” I lean in just to see. Yep, it’s the same. “I guess I can summon.

Dad gave this one to me,” I murmur, pressing the book against my chest. Maybe it’s childish, just a collection of stories that warn us against the lure of magic, and even demonize dragons, but it’s all I have left.

Dad gave this one to me,” I murmur, pressing the book against my chest. Maybe it’s childish, just a collection of stories that warn us against the lure of magic, and even demonize dragons, but it’s all I have left. She sighs. “Is it that old book of folklore about dark-wielding vermin and their wyvern? Haven’t you read it a thousand times already?” “Probably more,” I admit. “And they’re venin, not vermin.

We made a choice to protect you—without your consent. It was an error, and one that I won’t make again.” The guilt he feels overwhelms my own emotions, melting the hottest of my anger, and I begin to think. Really, truly think. If venin exist, we’d have record. And yet there weren’t any copies of The Fables of the Barren in the Archives—the one location Navarre should have a copy of every book written or transcribed in the last four hundred years, which means Dad didn’t just give me a rare book…but a forbidden one. Four hundred years of tomes and not a single one— Four hundred years. But our history spans over six. Everything is a copy of an earlier work. The only original text in the Archives older than four hundred years—around the time we fell into war with Poromiel—are the original scrolls from the Unification over six hundred years ago.

I was trained as a scribe, remember? All we’ve done is defend our borders for six hundred years. They’re the ones who won’t accept peace as a solution. What shipments have you been giving them?” “Weapons.” My stomach hits the ground. “That they use to kill dragon riders?” “No.” He shakes his head emphatically. “These weapons are only to fight venin.” My jaw unhinges. “Venin are the stuff of fables. Like the book my father—” I blink. The letter. What had he written? Folklore is passed from one generation to the next to teach us about our past. Was he trying to say… No. That’s impossible. “They’re real,” Xaden says softly, like he’s trying to lessen a blow. “You’re saying people who can somehow tap into the source of magic without a dragon or gryphon to channel, corrupting their power beyond all salvation, actually exist.” I say the words slowly just so we’re crystal clear. “They’re not just part of the creation fable.” “Yes.” His forehead creases. “They drained all the magic out of the Barrens and then spread like an infestation.” “Well, at least that’s in keeping with folklore.” I fold my arms across my chest. “What was the fable again? One brother bonded to gryphon, one to dragon, and when the third grew jealous, he drew directly from the source, losing his soul and waging war on the other two.” “Yes.” He sighs. “This was not how I wanted to tell you.” “Assuming you were ever going to tell me!” I glance to where Tairn watches, his head low as though he might have to incinerate Xaden at any moment. “Care to add to the discussion?” “Not yet. I’d prefer you come to your own conclusion. I chose you for your intelligence and courage, Silver One. Don’t let me down.

I answer as thunder cracks above me, the sound oddly comforting. I’ve always loved the nights where storms beat against the fortress window, both illuminating and throwing shadows over the books I curled up with, though this downpour might just cost me my life.

Let me guess, you could smell my perfume. Isn’t that what always gives the heroine away in books?” He scoffs. “I command shadows, but sure, it was your perfume that gave you away.” He lowers the knife and steps away.

Fear is just another weapon, and weapons can be used against your enemies.

Fucking Sorrengail.” His hand yanks back the hood of my cloak. “How did you know?” My tone is outright indignant, but whatever. If he’s going to kill me, I’m not going down as some simpering little beggar. “Let me guess, you could smell my perfume. Isn’t that what always gives the heroine away in books?” He scoffs. “I command shadows, but sure, it was your perfume that gave you away.” He lowers the knife and steps away. I gasp. “Your signet is a shadow wielder?” No wonder he’s risen so high in rank. Shadow wielders are incredibly rare and highly coveted in battle, able to disorient entire drifts of gryphons, if not take them down, depending upon the signet’s strength.

There’s nothing personal about it other than a few books on his desk. I note with a tiny burst of satisfaction that one is the tome on the Krovlan language that I gave him before he left last summer. He’s always had a gift for languages.

At least there aren’t any wyvern.” I scan the skies just to be sure. “Uh. What?” Bodhi’s eyebrows rise. “Wyvern. Fables say venin created them to compete with dragons and, instead of channeling from them, channel power into them.” Let’s hope there’s something in that book that isn’t true.

Now, there is only one other black dragon, which is in service—” “General Melgren’s,” Sawyer says. His book is closed in front of him, but I can’t blame him. I’d hardly be taking notes, either, if this was the second time I’d gone through this class. “Codagh, right?” “Yes.” Professor Kaori nods. “The eldest of their den and a swordtail.

You don’t know what a wyvern is?” Rhi asks, then begins walking again. “Didn’t your parents tell you bedtime stories, Luca?” “Do enlighten me,” Luca drawls. I roll my eyes, continuing along the path. “They’re folklore,” I say over my shoulder. “Kind of like dragons but bigger, with two feet instead of four, a mane of razor-sharp feathers streaking down their necks, and a taste for humans. Unlike dragons, who think we’re a little gamey.” “My mom used to love telling my sister Raegan and me that we’d be plucked right off the front porch by one if we talked back, and their eerie-eyed venin riders would take us prisoner if we took treats we weren’t allowed to have,” Rhi says, flashing a grin at me, and I can’t help but notice that her step is lighter. Mine is, too. I notice each dragon as we pass, but my heartbeat steadies. “My dad used to read to me those fables every night,” I tell her. “And I seriously asked him one time if Mom was going to turn into a venin because she could channel.” Rhiannon chuckles as we walk by a set of glaring reds. “Did he tell you people supposedly only turn into venin if they channel directly from the source?” “He did, but it was after my mom had a really long night while we were stationed near the eastern border, and her eyes were bloodshot red, so I freaked out and started shrieking.” I can’t help but smile at the memory. “She took my book of fables away for a month because the outpost guards all came running, and I was hiding behind my brother, who couldn’t stop laughing, and, well…it was a mess.” I keep my eyes front and center as a large orange sniffs the air when I pass.

What did the Ginians keep in the hearts of their mazes if not gold and jewels?" Terlu, the former Fourth Librarian of the Second Floor, East Wing, smiled at the little rose. "Books, of course, the ultimate treasure. All their stories. And their knowledge.