Page 23 of House of the Iron Reaper

“Unless it is a confession, then be silent,” she hisses.

I accidentally kick a loose pebble and it skitters across the floor. My stomach drops.

“Deyanara.” Without looking, I can hear the frown in her voice. “You finished the delivery?”

“Y-Yes, Elder,” I croak.

“Good. Rest up, I have another order for you to complete this evening.”

With that, she turns away to stalk back down the aisles again. I chance a glance up—no one is even looking at me. No one suspects me, not even Lysandra. Something tight loosens in my chest. I slip out of the hall and make my way to my chambers. Behind me, I hear Lysandra begin her interrogation once more.

Once I am safely ensconced in my chambers, back against the door, I risk pulling off my glove. Inked across the back of my hand, looping over my knuckles and up to my wrist, is my tattoo.

My first tattoo.

It is selfish of me to want this, to be pleased by this, when I know I do not deserve it. And still…

I press the back of my right hand against my mouth to suppress a laugh. Silently, I send a thousand thanks to the Saints for their gift and stretch my hand out in front of me to gaze at it.

Golden swirls dance across my umber skin, encasing a single word in dragon text—kypiro.

I stifle a sob and clutch my hand to my chest. I do not stop crying until long after the sun sinks below the dunes.

Chapter 10

Novalie

My mother squints at me with the disapproving glare of a jailor, and I realise I have spent the last several minutes daydreaming. I snap to attention, smoothing my features out and straightening my shoulders, adding to the performance with a nonchalant sip of my drink. I scan the room, as though thinking about nothing in particular, and not at all like my thoughts are consumed by… her.

Other dragons hum around me, locked in quiet discussion and subdued laughter. Musicians stand in the corner, playing a gentle tune no one dances to. The long tables edging the glass walls are overladen with barely touched food. House Glass is renowned for our grand social balls, but I have yet to attend one that did not suck the very life out of me.

I cannot help but wonder what Deyanara is doing at this moment. I catch my lower lip between my teeth—was she able to hide her tattoo? Did Elder Lysandra catch her sneaking back? Did someone recognise her, despite the enchanted mask?

Is she alright?

My mother catches my eye again and strides across the room.

“You have applied too much rouge,” she says, inspecting my face with an uncomfortable closeness.

I frown at her and say, “I have applied no rouge at all.”

“Well, then you must have a fever.” She places the back of her hand against my forehead. “You feel warm. Saints, if you have caught an illness.”

My cheeks do feel hot but I swipe her hand away.

“I am quite well, mother, leave me be.” I am definitely not thinking about Deyanara.

For days, I have felt like a fly caught in a web, trapped in the memory of her. The way she made falling from the sky look so graceful, golden wings tucked in tight behind her. The utter strength in her frame as she stood on the back of her kill.

The way she sought me in the crowd.

My throat goes dry at the memory of it. The mask only showed the bottom of her face, but it was enough for me to see the smile she wore. The same one I glimpsed when we fought.

Not the sharp smile my mother dons when I have displeased her in public, akin to a knife at my throat. Not the feral smile of Aythora when she dishes out a particularly punishing training. Not the false, mocking smiles of my House as I pass them in the halls. Not the smiles of the crowd in their almost morbid entertainment.

I picture her again. With faeth in her blood, her eyes turn from stormy grey to molten gold. The corners crinkle, her nose scrunches. Deyanara smiles with her entire being. I did not know how deprived I had been of someone’s smile until I saw hers and now, no one else’s will do.

When she pointed to me, something caught in my breath I have been chasing ever since.