Page 26 of House of the Iron Reaper

“Stand to the side, allow me to demonstrate,” Aythora says with a shoo motion.

I shuffle off as she takes her stance opposite the training dummy.

“There are certain tells you must be on the lookout for,” she says, raising her fists. “You have noticed subconsciously before—it is how you dodged the doomkin—but you must make this a more active observation.”

I raise my eyebrows and say, “I have?”

“You have.”

Aythora turns to face the dummy, the sprawl of tattoos on her back glowing crimson as she taps into her faeth.

The dummy lunges at her. Aythora does not move straight away, not until it is inches from her, and then fires her fist up, hips turning to throw her weight into it. Her knuckles connect with the dummy’s chin and tears its head clean off. I watch it whistle across the training grounds, landing with a thud in the sand. Aythora turns back to me, with a gesture as if to say, “See?”

But my eyes are fixed on her tattoos.

“Girl.” Her tone drips with warning, like lava streaming towards me. “If you were not paying attention…”

“A-Apologies, Shu Aythora,” I stutter, snapping back to focus. “It was… I have never seen Ascended tattoos before.”

Aythora arches a brow but Ronan interrupts before she can reply.

“I’m also a mite curious about that, if it’s not too impolite of me to ask,” he calls, leaving his training dummy crumpled on the floor.

Aythora looks between us before sighing and sinking her weight on one leg, hand on hip.

“Very well, we may as well take a small break,” she says, twirling her hand. “What is it you wish to ask?”

I open my mouth but Ronan is faster.

“I’ve been wondering,” he says, sauntering over. “There’s a fair few folk with tattoos—even Deyanara has one now.” He casts his good eye over me. “And I’ll get to that next. But they can’t all be Ascended tattoos, can they?”

Ronan’s pomander sits to the side in a pile of his clothes, but the smell still clings to him. Something earthy and spiced. Sweat glistens on his forehead and his chest is bare, exposing thick, dark hair. I wonder absently if all werewolves are so hairy.

Aythora regards him.

“No, they are not all Ascended,” she answers. “We dragons gain our tattoos from many things—victories, great feats, battles. Losses, sometimes too.”

Deimos shifts uncomfortably, watching from afar, but Ronan’s eyes are wide with fascination.

“And they just… appear?” he asks. “Just like that?”

“Just like that indeed.” Aythora nods.

“You saw Deyanara’s appear at the opening ceremony,” Deimos reminds him.

Ronan turns to me with a grin.

“Oh yes, I remember—you fell to your knees,” he says and Deimos strides over to slap him on the shoulder.

“It was painful,” I mumble.

“They are gifts from the Saints,” Aythora continues. “It is a sign of respect to wear them openly.”

Ronan nods eagerly, drinking it in.

“And these Ascended tattoos, how are they different?” he probes.

Aythora glances up through the open ceiling, judging the time by the height of the moon. She sighs, but answers.