Page 72 of House of the Iron Reaper

“Soppy bastard,” Ronan says through tears.

We draw in together, arms around each other's shoulders and foreheads pressed together. We stay that way until sand trickles from above under the stomps of the crowd.

Deimos pulls back, his jaw set. Nothing more needs to be said. We watch his back as he strides through the tunnel and into the arena.

Chapter 28

Deimos

I am seven when I first feel the soft fingers of the waters edge lapping at my mind. I’m helping my mother in the kitchen, kneading warm dough. Flour dusts the counter. The food hall bubbles with Copper dragons.

We’re making extra food for a group of sirens found lost in the Dry Sea, blistered and parched. They rest in our spare chambers, in the cool shade with all the pale wine we had to spare. I ask to help.

We work in quiet concentration. The kitchens are busy in an organised sort of way, like a school of fish flitting around. The sun pours through the open ceiling, turning the whole room into a pot of honey. When my mother glances down at me, she smiles, and I feel it.

Teal scales ripple up my forearms like gentle waves. I push my palms into the dough before drawing it back again. Push, pull. Faeth trickles down my spine and I push out two small wings. Push, pull.

My mother places a hand on the crown of my head, pride glowing.

“Shivanya bless us,” she whispers and presses a kiss to my forehead. “You are a good boy, Deimos.”

I am seven when I first realise what it is to be a dragon.

Chapter 29

Novalie

The crowd roars.

Ronan, Deyanara, and I scurry forward, stopping short of the tunnel exit. We wait in the shadows, peering out. The early morning sun crests over an unseen horizon and the sky bleeds red. The first of the days heat prickles my skin.

In the crowd, House Copper is on their feet, arms around each other’s shoulders as they bounce in tandem, singing gaily. Instead of their House colours, they wear sea blue and spin matching fabric banners above their heads.

Deimos comes to a stop in the middle of the sandy arena, back straight and hands curled into fists at his sides. His blue hair is tied back and devoid of his usual jewellery and he has forgone his shirt, standing bare-chested instead. The jagged strip of scarred tissue is on full display, both on his front and back. He dons long, loose trousers, tied at the ankles, with slits down both legs. The flash of his tattoo is easily visible, hidden no longer.

The wardens take their places. The archers notch their arrows.

“Here it comes…” Ronan murmurs.

Before we can even see it, the smell hits us. Smoke and ash with an undercurrent of something fouler. I wrinkle my nose. Ronan rears back, covering his nose with the back of his hand. Deyanara only frowns, watching closely.

Two dragons pull a tall, wide cage into the arena. The doomkin sits inside, a creature of fire held loosely together with smoky limbs. It hisses and spits at its cage, only the witch magic keeping it from slipping between the bars.

Beside me, Deyanara loosens a breath. I find myself doing the same. For a water dragon, a fiery doomkin is the best possible match-up for his survival, although the lack of a challenge would usually mean Ascension is out of reach. For someone like Deimos, with no goals for Ascension, this may be the best we could have hoped for.

If he can find his faeth.

Chapter 30

Deimos

I am seventeen when I first break my nose.

I fall to the ground, clutching my face as blood spills between my fingers. The pain is blinding, tears streaming involuntarily from my eyes. I swallow blood. The training dummy goes limp. My trainer hurries over to me.

“Saints, are you alright?”

I look up, pain lancing through my face.