Page 18 of House of the Iron Reaper

“An unseasonably hot evening, is it not?” she says to them, flapping her useless fan once more.

It is far from unseasonable to have a hot evening in the fucking desert and, in fact, the air is cooler here than anywhere else in this city. But the inane chat is enough for the others to smile and nod politely, turning away. Mother waits until their backs are to us before leaning in close to me. Her smile warps.

“How many more times must I tell you,” she whispers through clenched teeth, more snarling than smiling. “You are the pride of this House so act accordingly.”

The urge to do the exactly opposite, to stand and scream and make a fucking fool of myself, almost overpowers me. A retort sits at the back of my throat, stinging like acid, but a hand on my shoulder gives me pause. I half-turn to look back and see Aythora shaking her head, almost imperceptibly.

Forcing the anger down, I suck in a lungful of air and breathe it out slowly. I think of my Nephel shrine, my knees pressing into the cushion and the quiet around me. My mother, only half-appeased, appears to do the same. We do not talk further.

Archers take their places around the edge of the arena, bows at the ready and quivers of arrows slung across their backs. Three wardens stand at even points between the archers, eyes sharp and ready to signal if needed.

I straighten in my seat—it is almost time. Deyanara will enter soon. Anticipation courses through my veins in a way I have not felt in a long time. I force the corners of my mouth down, a smile threatening. This will be the making of my first true rival.

Of the breaking of her.

A Baidu steps up to their platform, a raised section near the bottom of the stands. Unlike their usual blue uniforms, this one is garbed in muted gold and purple so as to blend in with the enchanted brickwork, similar to the archers and wardens. All dragon arenas are built in such a way that the voice of the Baidu can be heard from anywhere.

“The Ascension Rites continue!” they call, their voice as clear as oasis water.

The stands erupt. The thunderous applause is at odds with the polite, delicate claps of House Glass. Even House Obsidian, our closest friends, cheer and whoop with the rest of Coalsburgh. Aythora shuffles in the seat beside me, clearly resisting joining in with her House.

“You may cheer, if you please,” I whisper to her. “You do not need mother’s permission.”

“And damage my reputation as the most polite, reserved dragon here? I think not,” Aythora whispers back with a grin.

“Our final brave contender is mysteriously anonymous,” the Baidu continues, to a chorus of oohs from the crowd.

I try not to roll my eyes at the theatrics.

“Please welcome the first Iron contender in forty years!”

I catch a glimpse of black and gold as Deyanara steps out of the tunnel—although wobbles out of the tunnel may be a more apt description. The moonlight glances off her golden hair, enough for it to glow, and I wonder if the rest of the crowd are looking at a waterfall of dark hair instead. She stands tall but with her hands clenched stiffly at her sides. The ornate mask is at odds with the grey and beige of her worn clothes.

The crowd cheers but a grumble of baffled laughter ripples through the stands.

“Celestial above, what is that?” my mother exclaims, peering over the rim of her fan. “Is that a Reaper mask?”

“Perhaps this is a lower-tier joke we have not been made aware of,” Aythora suggests, smirking, and sending a pointed look my way.

My mother titters. I ignore them both, watching Deyanara with a knitted brow. As the crowd claps, she turns on the spot, touching her chin in greeting to everyone. I find myself fighting a grin. How very Deyanara.

“What is she doing now?” Mother leans forward with a frown. “What utterly odd behaviour.”

“Yes,” I agree, but the disdain in my mother’s voice fails to carry its way over to mine.

The buzz of the crowd fizzles into a rhythmic stomping. House Glass rarely takes part—obviously—but the rest of the arena soon quakes with the force of ten thousand boots hitting the ground in tandem. The hair on the back of my neck pricks. If not for the witch magic, the arena would crumble within seconds.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, as the first doomkin is brought out.

Two dragons, half-transformed with wings at their backs and muscles bulging with faeth, drag a cage into the arena. The purple glow is evident, enchanted to withstand the rage of the doomkin trapped inside.

The crowd jeers. The doomkin is a vile thing—twice the height of the dragons next to it, a man’s torso melting into a grotesque scorpion with a head to match. Its tail curls up, stinger hanging high above it, taut and ready to strike.

With a shriek, the doomkin’s scorpion-like face splits open to reveal hundreds of tiny, pointed teeth. The crowd rears back in disgust before cheering back all the harder. But I can only frown.

This is not the small, weak doomkin I had told Deyanara it would be.

My eyes flick over to where she waits on the opposite side of the arena. To my surprise, her shoulders are drawn back, not pulled forward like she carries the weight of her House on her back. She does not move. There is not even a tremble in her hands.