Page 40 of House of the Iron Reaper

A fortnight passes in a haze of long shifts and training hard enough to bring me to my knees. Most evenings, Deimos brings food for us all and though I can feel a new strength in my limbs, it’s almost immediately wiped out by the intense training Aythora dishes out. I spar with the others—Novalie most of all—and Aythora has us run laps of Dragon’s Vale, taking turns carrying each other on our backs.

Novalie and Deimos are heavy enough for me to break a sweat, but Ronan is considerably bulkier, with the added hindrance of him whooping and slapping my back whenever I pass the others.

“Your body carries your faeth, not the other way around,” Aythora calls as we run. “Strong body, strong faeth. Dune beetle crawls next!”

We scurry across the sand on all fours, cores and thighs burning. Ronan is best at it, boasting it is not much different from his wolf form, and even he nearly collapses in the sand by the end of it. Aythora claps her hands sharply.

“Box jumps!” she commands.

With a groan, we climb wearily to our feet. Only Novalie springs up, fire in her eyes, but the shake in her legs betrays her.

We jump in unison onto sand bricks set at hip height. I suck in deep breaths, my heart slamming against my ribs, and my legs heavy as lead. The long days of work coupled with the intense training pushes me to the brink of what I can accomplish.

By the time Aythora orders us to stop, spots explode in my vision. Chest heaving, I lay back against the ground. I hear the scuffle of the others as they join me, our ragged breathing the only sound in the Vale.

“Good work tonight,” Aythora commends us. “Get some rest and eat your fill of breakfast come dawn.”

I am last to rise, limbs too stiff and heavy to move. I struggle to keep my eyes open, and briefly wonder how much trouble I would really be in if I simply slept here.

“On your feet, friend.”

On your feet, Dey.

Father.

My heart stutters, eyes snapping open. But it is only Ronan, hand outstretched. He hauls me up and, though I wobble, I miraculously remain on my feet. Ronan claps me on the shoulder.

“You have a good meal awaiting you tonight?” he asks, thick brows low against his amber eye.

“Yes,” I lie, thinking of the cold root stew. The meals from Deimos did not last long, split between Iron and Coal, but the boost in spirits continues at least.

Ronan gives me a disbelieving look, but does not push any further.

“Good,” he says. “You heard Aythora—get some rest. You look in dire need of it.”

I give a weary nod, and shuffle off. Although my stomach rumbles and my muscles ache, I do not even make it to the kitchens. Instead, I find my bed and fall asleep before my head hits the pillow.

As soon as my eyes close, dawn arrives. My breakfast is a hasty mix of salted cactus fruit and stale flatbread, swallowed in three bites before my morning shift. I load fresh rock from the mines onto a sled and begin my trip to the remains of House Iron. But I only make it past the gates of House Coal before I am interrupted by a familiar—albeit sleepy—voice.

“It’s been some time since I was awake this early.”

Ronan stands outside the gates, yawning and scratching his beard. I realise I have never seen him outside of training. Instead of loose culottes and a bare chest, he dons scarlet fabric draped over one shoulder and tied at the hip, with matching desert britches.

“Shu Ronan,” I exclaim, tapping my chin.

He taps his chin in return.

“Now I’ll have no hierarchies between us, Deyanara,” Ronan replies, hands on hips. “Besides, I forget what they all mean anyway.” He nods at my sled. “I take it you’re always awake this early, unlike myself? Working away?”

I glance at the rocks, and nod. Ronan makes a thoughtful noise.

“Deimos explained what happened way back when. Why you’re always working. You have my condolences.”

Ronan splays a large hand across his chest, before scrunching it into a fist. I blink at him, the gesture foreign to me, and he grins.

“Ah, forgive me. It’s a gesture to… emphasise your point, as it were. Werewolves—we tend to be hot-headed by nature, and we say a lot of shite we don’t mean in the heat of the moment. When you want someone to know you’re being sincere…”

Ronan trails off with a shrug.