Page 12 of House of the Iron Reaper

“One quartz a piece, Fa Iron,” the merchant says.

I dig through my pockets and pull free two small gems—the dull sandstones Lysandra paid me. The merchant eyes them and gives a small shake of his head.

My stomach pangs but I give a miserable nod. It has been so long since I last ate in the markets—since I last ate anything but root stew—I feel a fool for not realising the prices. If I am lucky, there will be enough supper leftover at House Coal.

A flash of white catches my eye before I can leave.

“Every piece you have, please,” Novalie says, holding up an opal between her index and forefinger. It glimmers a thousand colours under the moonlight. She flicks it in the air before catching it and handing it over. “And two flasks of pale wine, if you could.”

The merchant blinks at her, eyes fixed on the opal. For a quartz a piece, it is a vast overpayment and he falls over himself to take it.

“Y-Yes, of course. Right away, Fa Glass.”

He hurries to the back of his stall, pouring a decanter of cooled pale wine into two flasks. Novalie casts me a sidelong look, eyes hard despite the swelling around them. I wince at the sight of it and hastily tap my chin in greeting. Novalie repeats the gesture, regarding me with a flat look I cannot quite decipher.

“You are free for idle chat outside of work, are you not?” she asks, although she makes it sound less like a question and more like a demand.

I glance over my shoulder, the hair on the back of my neck rising as though Elder Lysandra is watching me, even now.

“I… suppose,” I mumble. ‘Outside of work’ is not a concept I have ever considered before. There is only work, meals, and sleep.

The market grows busier the longer we tarry, so I grab the skewers as soon as they’re ready and turn into the crowd. Novalie follows me, two flasks of pale wine in hand.

Dragons come in many forms, the nature of our magic allowing us some control over our appearance and gender. At least, those of us who have learned to do so. But I am always aware of my size and lack the faeth to change it. Instead, I squeeze my shoulders inward in an attempt not to knock over the people around me.

By the time we reach the lower tier, my shoulders ache from hunching. The streets are quieter here, save for a few children playing cards to the side, but I can still smell the night market above me.

Novalie lets me lead her to a secluded spot—a seat built for two carved into the sandbrick walls, a sweetlemon tree rustling overhead. I sit with my back stiff, fennec skewers still in hand. Novalie sits next to me with a grace only the upper Houses wear.

“Eat,” she orders, placing my flask on the seat between us. “I did not spend an opal for you to stay hungry.”

I clench the skewers tighter.

“This is a bribe,” I say. The spiced smell makes my stomach twist with hunger.

“No, just dinner,” she replies easily.

She says nothing more and my resolve wavers the longer the silence stretches. After a particularly loud stomach gurgle, I give in. I pull a skewer free and sink my teeth into the meat. As soon as the flavour bursts in my mouth, I tear through it with something like madness. I finish every piece before Novalie has said another word.

Food gone, the taste still on my lips, embarrassment starts to creep in. I take the flask between us, not looking at Novalie, and fix my eyes on a sweetlemon leaf dangling from above. The pale wine is still cool, washing sweetly down my throat.

After a long moment, I brave a sideways glance at Novalie. She catches me, turning to lock eyes faster than I move. I startle but try not to look away.

“M-My thanks, Shu Novalie,” I stammer out, limply holding the empty flask.

“I told you to drop the ‘shu’,” she replies, sipping delicately from her own flask.

“My apol-”

“And to stop apologising. You have other words in your vocabulary, do you not?”

I fall silent, gaze dropping. Novalie sighs, her flask entering my vision. I look back up to see her offering it to me.

“It is my turn to apologise,” she says. “That was unnecessary.” And then, quieter, “I do not know why I said it.”

I offer a small smile, accepting her flask. We pass it between us, unspeaking but listening to the lull of chatter above us. My stomach full for the first time in a long time, the pale wine fuzzing the edges of my mind, and the quiet buzz of the night market combines into something that eases a knot in my chest. My shoulders drop an inch. Tilting my head up to look through the sweetlemon leaves at the moon above, my vision blurs. I blink several times to rid myself of it. Too much pale wine. Or the exhaustion of the day seeping in. Perhaps both.

“You have my sincere gratitude for the food, Shu-” I pause at her sharp look and clear my throat. “Novalie. But I cannot enter the Rites. My Elder would not allow-”