Page 63 of House of the Iron Reaper

“Let us all calm down,” Novalie interjects, surprisingly diplomatic. “Cahir, what is the problem?”

Cahir throws a blistering look at Aythora, before turning his back to her. His wings tuck in tight to his back, shuddering dismissively.

“The arena will be destroyed,” he declares.

We all straighten.

“What?” Novalie and Ronan exclaim in tandem.

Aythora scoffs.

“You do have such a flair for the excessive,” she says. “Spare the dramatics, please.”

“It is fact,” Cahir snaps back over his shoulder, before turning back to us. “The arena is enchanted to protect it and the people in it against the fights, we all know this.”

“Witch magic,” I add.

“My magic,” Cahir corrects.

I stare at him dumbly, before remembering. His mother is a witch.

“Shu Cahir is half dragon, half witch,” Aythora says from behind him.

“I am half of nothing, Ni Aythora, and I suggest you hold your tongue before it outruns your sense,” he calls over his shoulder without looking at her. “I am both dragon and witch. Au’mana, also known to you as witch magic, only affects inanimate objects, but there is a trick to enchant much larger things, like buildings. Many years ago, I enchanted a single brick buried within the foundation of the arena, so the entirety falls under the spell. However, it is only protected against dragons, their Ascensions, and doomkin.”

At this, Cahir turns his eyes onto Ronan.

“Not werewolves.”

The three of us glance through the glass to the arena, now nearly full to the brim with dragons. I think of my fight against the scorpion doomkin, and the way it threw me against the wall. I shudder to think of the damage it would have caused without the protection spell.

“And nobody,” he directs his jab over his shoulder at Aythora. “Thought to inform me.”

“What does this mean for the fight?” Novalie asks, frowning.

Cahir gives a long, exasperated sigh, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Ronan,” he says. “I can only kindly ask you do your best to minimise damage to the arena. Please.”

“Well…” Ronan scratches the back of his neck, blowing out air through his lips. “My first priority is survival. But I’ll do my best, if I’ve breath left in me.”

Cahir rubs his temple and gives a weak smile.

“I suppose I cannot ask for more.” Cahir takes a seat at the glass front. “In turn, I will try to stop any debris from hitting the crowd. Really, we should forgo this whole event…”

“Shu Cahir.” Aythora’s tone is warning, but Cahir only waves her off without turning around.

The room lapses into tense silence. I exchange a questioning glance with Novalie, wondering what this animosity is between the Obsidian dragons, but she only gives a tiny shake of her head.

Deimos returns from the shrine below us and pauses in the doorway. Within seconds, the tension is clear.

“What scandal have I missed?” he asks.

Ronan steps into the arena to the cheers of the crowd, hungry to see how a werewolf fights. The moon hangs above the arena, swollen and plump and tinged with red. Ronan had requested for his fight to land on a full moon, so he may transform easier. Myself and most of Coalsburgh have never seen a fully transformed werewolf with our own eyes, so his request was eagerly accepted.

Two dragons drag a doomkin out in its cage. Unlike the others I have seen, this one does not rattle and bang on the bars, screaming. Instead, it remains quiet and composed, folded inside. My brow furrows. The placidness feels more concerning than shrieking.

Ronan readies himself. The dragons charged with the doomkin beat their wings, hovering in the air with the rope in their hands. They await his transformation. In the viewing area, Novalie, Deimos, and I lean forward. Even the crowd falls into a hush, all eyes on the werewolf.