Page 11 of House of the Iron Reaper

I startle at the sudden voice, whipping around and pulling my shawl up on instinct. Novalie and Aythora stand in the street, staring. My skin prickles at the thought of being watched without realising, and I lower my eyes.

“Surely you are not the only one who works in this House?” Aythora continues. “Where are the others?”

My eyes stay fixed on the ground.

“Malady, Shu Aythora,” I answer quietly. “There is more work than workers, and sickness is common here.”

“But you are not sick?”

In my surprise, I look up to blink at her.

“Elder Lysandra says I am not permitted to be sick.”

Aythora cocks a brow. Novalie frowns. I say nothing more, unsure how I caused an awkward silence.

“Well, regardless,” Aythora says, clapping her hands. “We have not travelled all this way to discuss such woeful topics. We have a proposition for you, Ni Deyanara.”

As she speaks, I become more aware of passing eyes glancing at us. The upper Houses rarely come so low in the city and their clothes—lightweight, pale silks and jewelled belts—stand out. Their House emblems, displayed proudly on the front and backs of their flowing robes, are almost redundant. I tug at the hem of my sun shirt, conscious of the holes worn away in the fabric. The House Iron emblem stitched to the front of my chest is stained with sand and dirt.

“I have much work to do,” I reply, nerves fraying like the hem of my shawl. “Elder Lysandra does not abide idle chat whilst I work.”

“Just one moment of your time,” Aythora insists, voice stubborn. “You do not even want to hear our proposition?”

Caught between displeasing the superior in front of me or the superior of my House, I dither in a light panic, ever aware of drawing attention. I try again to rebuff her.

“I really cannot-”

“Train with me,” Novalie cuts in, speaking for the first time. The lower half of her face had been covered by a cream shawl but now she tugs it down to her neck and says, “Enter the Rites and fight for your Ascension.”

My eyes meet hers for the first time since she arrived. She wears the same determined set to her jaw, purple hair swept high and pinned with glittering jewels. My breath catches at how much more vibrant she appears under the sun, like polished glass.

“I…”

My gaze lands on her nose. It has been straightened but a deep gash cuts across her skin and bruises bloom like flowers beneath both eyes. Shame burns my cheeks.

“Apol-” I start.

“If you apologise one more damn time.” Novalie sighs, raising a hand to stop me. “Enter the Rites. Train with me.”

It is not a request. I almost say yes, bending under her will, but the ghost of a hand sits on my shoulder, hot as fresh ash, and pulls me back.

“Elder Lysandra would not allow it. I… I am needed here. My House needs me, there are so few of us left.” Because of me. “If my Elder saw me…”

The thought sends a shiver running through me. I give a firm shake of my head.

“I truly am sorry but, please, I must return to my work.”

I pull the sled straps over my shoulders and tap my forehead in polite farewell. Aythora and Novalie, surprisingly, step aside to let me pass. But I feel their eyes on my back even as I walk away.

The gibbous moon hangs high by the time I finish my final delivery. Nights are short in Coalsburgh, squeezed between long hours of relentless heat and a blazing sun. Evenings are hailed by the hazy green glow of the algae lamps and the cool sanctuary of lengthening shadows.

I rest the empty sled against the wall of House Iron, relishing the whisper of a breeze across my skin. A weariness soaks into my bones and makes my limbs heavy as lead. With effort, I raise my hands to wrap my shawl around my mouth and nose—sandstorms are more common at night and can appear without warning. Through the fabric, I smell the markets in the tier above me, the air ripe with cooked food.

Coalsburgh comes alive at night. The day is too hot for most people to venture outside, so evenings are when the city thrives. Muscles groaning, I labour through the streets and up the steps to the markets.

Morning markets are covered by high walls and domed, brick ceilings to protect them from the sun. The night markets, however, are open-air, made up of a jumble of stalls lining the sides of the street. Windspinners sit behind most merchants, glowing purple as the witch magic turns the blades and blows cool air. Glass chimes dangle from the stall canopies, a different colour and size depending on what they sell.

My stomach leads me to the smell of grilled fennec and sand-peppers, mouth watering. At a stall manned by a tall, beefy dragon, skewers of spiced meat sit atop hot metal. I inhale the fragrant smoke, standing clear of the angry spit of hot oil.