Page 14 of House of the Iron Reaper

Doomkin spawn anywhere in the world, wherever violence has taken place so, as a people, we would often move from place to place to find them. We stayed for some hundreds of years before moving on.

We settled in Coalsburgh when a witch-dragon enchanted Dragon’s Vale, turning it indestructible and solidifying it as the crowning jewel of our city. Now, settled here, we send scouting dragons out into the world to find doomkin and bring them back.

Doomkin. The thought of them chills me.

A sharp knock on the brickwork rouses me from my thoughts. Opening my eyes, I half-turn to see Aythora in the doorway, pushing the tapestry draped over the doorway to one side. Respectfully, she does not enter the shrine while I kneel.

“Are you using faeth for the fight?” she asks, one brow raised.

“No,” I reply, dropping my clasped hands and rising to my feet. “Just having a moment of peace.”

“Ah. Then I apologise for the interruption.”

“No need. I was about to join you anyway.” I brush past Aythora, careful not to touch her poker-hot skin, and enter the communal room.

The only other two contenders—the werewolf, Ronan, and the water dragon from House Copper, Deimos—sit on a bench against the wall with flasks of cool water. The werewolf talks animatedly, pausing to wipe the sweat from his bearded face every few seconds. His pomander sits to the side but scents the air with something dark and spiced. Deimos, for his part, appears to be listening intently, the many jewels in his ears and blue hair tinkling with each nod.

They wave over to me but I ignore them and sit against the opposite wall. Aythora hovers at the tunnel leading into the arena, her back to us. The roar of the crowd grows, even dulled by the walls between us. I tip my head back against the wall and close my eyes.

The ache in my face lingers, the bruises faded but still present. My mother has barely looked at me recently. But I cannot stop looking at myself, at every looking glass and every shiny surface. A surreal fascination with my bruised and broken skin as I watch it slowly start to knit back together over time. All I can think is—I was caught. I was crushed. I was broken.

And still, I am whole. The fear of getting caught loosens its grip on me.

“Only contenders are allowed here, Fa Iron,” a guard at the entrance says.

My eyes snap open.

I have not heard from Deyanara in the weeks since I gave her the mask. She did not come to training, nor could I find her in the streets when I tried to catch her at work.

I spring from my seat and hurry over to the entrance. A familiar frame stands on the other side of the guards, garbed in sand-stained clothes and a very distinctive mask covering the top half of her face.

“Please, return to your seat,” the guard tells her. A pause. “And perhaps remove the mask, it is unsettling.”

Deyanara says nothing, standing silent and imposing as a marble column. The mask, with its bony hands covering her eyes, only serves to make her more intimidating. The guards exchange nervous glances.

But I recognise the slight tremble in her hands, and I know she is silent because she is too diffident to argue back. I clear my throat loudly and all three turn to look at me.

“She is a contender,” I tell the guards. “She fights in the Rites with us. Let her pass.”

The guards look at me quizzically.

“But the mask,” one says. “How can you know who she is?”

What little patience I have dwindles into nothing. I tilt my chin up and look at him with blistering disdain.

“There are only four contenders, you half-wit, do you think a mask stops me from knowing who she is?” I snap. “I have told you once to let her pass, I will not repeat myself.”

The guards bristle but step to the side. I give an exaggerated bow, a sarcastic smile on my face.

“A thousand thanks,” I say before beckoning to Deyanara. “Come.”

Deyanara hesitates before moving slowly past the guards, squeezing herself between them. She bows her head.

“Apologies and thanks,” she mumbles to them. “Apologies and thanks.”

“Stop that.” I grab her arm and pull her into the communal room. “Since we did not make formal introductions before, allow me.”

Ronan and Deimos stand from their bench as we arrive. Deimos taps his chin in greeting, albeit with a bewildered double-take at Deyanara’s mask. Ronan repeats the gesture a half-second later, unused to the greeting.