Page 16 of House of the Iron Reaper

Even with half her face covered, nerves radiate from her like heatwaves on the horizon.

“You will be fine,” I say firmly, injecting as much warmth as I can muster. Which is not a lot. “Archers wait in the stands to put down any doomkin, should it look like… well, if the fight should take a turn for the worse.”

I do my best attempt at a reassuring smile but Deyanara nearly withers on the spot, so I retract it quickly. I decide to move on instead.

“Regardless, we have not much time before the fights begin. Aythora will show you some of the basics, briefly, to prepare you as best we can.”

Deyanara’s hands clench and her shoulders are nearly up to her ears. I feel like I am standing next to a sandstrider ready to bolt from its stable. I blow out a breath between pursed lips, annoyance bubbling in my stomach. How much more reassurance does she need? Does she not know her own strength?

“Listen,” I bite out, dropping the falsetto from my voice and grabbing her hand. I squeeze it tight to stop the trembling. “You have nothing to fear. I am the pride of House Glass, the best fighter in the upper tiers, and you knocked me down.”

Deyanara says nothing but her shoulders relax an inch. Encouraged, I press on.

“The opening ceremony is merely pomp and spectacle. The doomkin are pathetic, meant to be easily overpowered. It is a chance for the contenders to show off, to introduce themselves to the crowd, and nothing more.”

Deyanara gives a tiny nod, and breathes out a quiet, “Okay.”

“Good.” Finally. “And besides, I make you this promise.” I use the grip I have on her hand to pull her down, closing the height difference between us. “The doomkin will be nothing compared to me if you dare lose.”

I train my gaze on where I think her eyes are, hidden behind golden bones, and hold it there. Her jaw clenches and the tremble in her hand ceases. I take my victory and release her. At the tunnel, a warden beckons me. I nod to him.

“Go with Aythora,” I say to Deyanara. “I must leave for my own fight.”

Deyanara nods once and I watch them both leave, heading for one of the small training rooms. The hunch of her shoulders makes me grind my teeth. I finally meet an opponent who can lay a finger on me and she chooses to hold herself like a cowed servant.

“You are the pride of House Iron now,” I call after her, unable to stop the anger in my voice. “Act like it.”

Chapter 6

Deyanara

My stomach roils with nausea as Novalie’s words stick to the back of my neck like slime.

Aythora leads me into a private training room with a closed door, unlike the tapestries hanging over the shrine doorways. I join her in the centre of the room, straightening my shoulders in a way I hope makes me look braver than I feel.

You are the pride of House Iron now.

A dragon like her could never understand. She fights for her House, demands the kind of prestige and pride to swell the heart of any parent. She has not brought ruin to her home, to her family. She is not a murderer.

I am the shame of my House and, even now, I sneak around behind my Elder’s back.

Lysandra had left for the coal mines when I left the House through my window, and I know she will not return until long after the opening ceremony has ended. Still, guilt sits like sandbrick on my shoulders, dragging them down again.

If this fight, small as Novalie says it to be, were to bring me harm, I could not work tomorrow. If I could not work, the House would not get paid. My people, what remains of them, and the Coal dragons who house me, would not be fed. To come here was a decision so overladen with selfishness, I feel it like a physical weight on my heart.

And yet, I still stand here. Because I hope what Novalie said was true—I hope I smiled when we fought.

And I want to smile again.

The muted roar of the crowd swells as Novalie’s fight concludes. It was much faster than I thought and I do not know if that should worry me.

“We have little time,” Aythora says, hands on her hips as she sizes me up. “But no matter. Your build will serve you well and should carry you through the fight, so long as you land a hit. And…”

Aythora slides her hand inside a pocket and pulls free a small vial. She holds it up to the light—the liquid inside gleams a deep green under the algae lamps.

“This is enough for one dose,” she says. “Take it before the fight.”

I slowly accept it. As soon as it’s in my grasp, the potion sings softly, like a distant hum.