Page 19 of House of the Iron Reaper

Interesting. I cock my head—perhaps she has found her courage after all, in the face of this doomkin.

But still…

“A rather large doomkin, is it not?” I mutter to Aythora.

“Indeed,” she says and nothing more.

Dragon glass is not forged in plush beds, Aythora had told me once. Maybe Deyanara is the same—not dragon glass but a diamond, found in the sand after the pressure has made her all the harder. Standing under the moonlight, muscles cutting sharp edges and mask glinting black and gold, she certainly looks like it. Even I can admit that.

The dragons at the cage extend their wings, beating down hard. Raising from the sand, they grasp a rope at the corners of the cage and wait. Once all three wardens give the signal, they soar upwards, pulling the rope and the roof off the cage with them.

The bars fall outward with a heavy thud.

The doomkin is free. The crowd goes quiet. The last fight begins.

The beast screeches, once and loud, before scuttling on its many legs towards Deyanara. It weaves through the sand, kicking up a cloud as it goes, stinger dangling dangerously. The crowd cheers. My heart stutters.

Deyanara does not move. She does not even raise her hands.

In horror, I watch the doomkin slam into her. Deyanara soars, landing hard on her back. My hand flies up to my mouth.

Oh, no. Oh, no no no.

What I had mistaken for courage had been frozen fear, enough to root her to the spot even as the doomkin ran at her.

“Saints curse me…” I mutter behind my hand.

I cannot look away, cannot even blink, as I watch Deyanara shakily roll onto all fours in the sand. The familiar tremble in her limbs has found her once more. She struggles to find her feet but the doomkin does not do her the kindness of waiting. Instead, it circles back, teeth bared in a shriek terrible enough for the crowd to wince.

It rips through the sand towards Deyanara.

I look at her, willing her to stand, praying to Nephel. She stays on her hands and knees, one arm wrapped around her stomach, back curved in pain and teeth gritted. The doomkin does not slow.

“Get up,” I whisper. “Get the fuck up, Deyanara.”

“Well, this shall be a short fight indeed,” Mother chirps. My fists clench.

You speak so confidently about fighting while you hide behind your heinous fan. The comment sizzles at the back of my throat like bile but I swallow it down. Aythora must see the look on my face because she pats me on the shoulder again. When I turn to her, she gives me a warning look. I glare back.

“Is she not supposed to be my challenger? My rival? The one who will elevate me to Ascension?” I say lowly.

Without taking my eyes off Aythora, I hear the crowd gasp and the dull thud of Deyanara being thrown across the sand. I kill the urge to wince.

“If she cannot even defeat this doomkin,” Aythora says slowly. “Then I was mistaken.”

She turns back to the fight. For inexplicable reasons, this stokes an anger within me. I fix my eyes back on Deyanara, teeth grinding.

Deyanara sits with her back against the arena wall, a shock of fresh blood smeared across her nose and lips. Her shawl has dropped to reveal a heavily scarred jaw. Her chest rises and falls rapidly. When the doomkin charges her again, she grabs a handful of sand to throw in its face. The doomkin screeches as she rolls to the side, narrowly avoiding it as it crashes against the wall. The enchanted sandbrick holds firm but the doomkin stumbles back, shaking its head in a daze.

I clench my fist. A small victory.

Still, Deyanara cannot stand. She grasps her ribcage, shoulders hunched in pain. Her breathing has turned uneven and even with half of her face covered, I can see her teeth squeezed together in pain.

I throw a nervous glance at the archers lining the arena. Their arrows are notched, the strings drawn back.

Deyanara is going to lose.

Fuck.