Page 62 of House of the Iron Reaper

Ronan being a werewolf is a novelty that draws a new layer of anticipation. He has taken to joining me on my morning shift most days, and several times we have been stopped by passing dragons—especially since our portraits were hung and replicated in temporary murals around the city. Ronan is more than pleased, flexing his muscles and telling them of hunting tales from Swordstead, which Novalie tells me are likely exaggerated.

Now, the stands are full of people wearing dark brown fabric tied around the bottom half of their face, in the likeness to Ronan’s facial hair and cone-shaped pins in their hair. I am not sure what that’s supposed to be until Ronan roars with laughter and informs me they are werewolf ears.

Novalie hangs near the back of the room, speaking quietly with Aythora. We awaited the doubled training regime threatened by Novalie’s mother, but it never came. Novalie tells me her mother has taken to leaving her largely alone, which, she assures me, is her preference.

“Are you nervous?” I ask Ronan.

He grins, but it is weaker than usual.

“Yes,” he says, turning his gaze onto the tunnel sitting on the opposite side of the arena. “But not for death or injury.”

Ronan scratches his beard, eye fixed on where the doomkin will eventually emerge.

“I’m worried I won’t kill it,” he says quietly. “I’m worried everything I’ve done up ‘til now won’t be enough. I’m worried I won’t avenge him.”

Ronan’s lips purse, and I know he will not speak on it any further. I clap a hand on his shoulder, the way he does for me.

“A doomkin is born from evil acts. Its greatest enemy is a good man,” I tell him.

Ronan smiles, truly smiles, the scar around his eye wrinkling.

“Thank you, my friend,” he says, his shoulders an inch straighter.

A distressed noise erupts from behind us. We whip around to see Cahir of House Obsidian standing in the doorway.

“Well, this is just utterly delightful,” Cahir says, and it does not sound sincere.

“Shu Cahir,” Aythora turns from Novalie to tap her chin. “What brings you here?”

Cahir ignores her, stepping forward to eye Ronan.

“Werewolf,” he says.

“Ronan,” Ronan corrects him.

“Ronan. When did you arrive here? When did you enter the Rites?”

Ronan quirks a bushy eyebrow.

“About four moons past. I rode with your Scouts, and the fymian.”

“The doomkin,” Cahir says without needing to be told. I wonder how much knowledge he carries after reading so many books.

Ronan nods, but crosses his arms defensively.

“The Scouts said I could enter the Rites if I wished, there was no rule against it.” Ronan regards him. “So why do you ask?”

Cahir does not answer. Instead, he whirls on Aythora. After knowing his bright smile and eager conversation, this fury surprises me.

“Four moons,” he bites out. “Four. Damn. Moons. You did not think to inform me, in all that time?”

Aythora does all but roll her eyes. Novalie, Ronan, and I exchange glances, the tension rising.

“I could not find you in that cavern of yours,” she says with a shrug. “I did try, several times, but it is not my fault you avoid me.”

Cahir says something in another language I do not understand, but the way he spits it at Aythora, the meaning is clearly conveyed.

“I don’t think he was calling her sweetheart,” Ronan says to me under his breath, and I press my lips together to stop from laughing.