Page 27 of House of the Iron Reaper

“All dragons have faeth. It allows us to control our bodies, to shapeshift. But if a dragon fights a great battle, one they give every inch of their soul to, it does not matter if they win or lose. The Saints smile upon them and gift them Ascension.”

She turns her back to us. The cut of her dress opens to display her full back, the fabric draping over her shoulders before rejoining at the hips. Her tattoo is the colour of dark wine laced with orange and yellow, and ripples with the movement of her muscles. Ronan bends down to peer at it and, curiosity getting the better of me, I join him. Deimos stands off to the side, silent.

Aythora’s tattoo shows her in the centre, hands curled into fists and head thrown back in a victory roar. She stands on the body of a doomkin, sprawled under her feet. It is many times her size, with vicious claws. Looking at it, it is as though I were there the day she Ascended. I can picture her, bruised and bloody, but victorious all the same. A battle hard fought and won.

Ronan gives a low whistle.

“Now isn’t that something,” he says, straightening.

Aythora turns back around to face us.

“The fire within me grew tenfold that day. A hand of deepest onyx, so black it absorbed all light around it, reached from the sky and touched me.” Aythora puffs out her chest. “My fire can burn the unburnable, melt the unmeltable, and kill the unkillable.”

She looks Ronan in the eyes. The height difference between them has never looked shorter.

“That is Ascension,” she says.

Aythora’s gaze flicks behind Ronan, to where Novalie continues her training without us. It is so quick I nearly do not catch it.

“Can any dragon Ascend?” Ronan’s voice is as hushed as I have ever heard him, awe-struck.

Aythora’s lips twist and something flickers across her face before she eeks out a short, “Yes.”

It is only later, when training has ended and my mind has slowed, I realise what I saw writ in her features for that half-moment—disgust.

I trudge down the steps from Dragon’s Vale, sticky with sweat, when I hear my name.

“Bu Deyanara.”

I startle, nearly tripping down the steps, and turn to see Ronan and Deimos. They jog down after me.

“Mind if we walk you to the lower tiers?” Ronan asks, jerking a thumb at Deimos. “This fella informs me he has better whiskey in his kitchen than you’ll find in Swordstead, which is a very bold claim. Anyway, we’re heading down to your neck of the woods so thought we might accompany you.”

I do not understand half the words he used but nod my head regardless.

“Neck of the woods?” Deimos prompts, to my relief, as we continue walking.

“Aye,” Ronan says before glancing around, as though just realising where he is. “I suppose you don’t have woods around here. Your neighbourhood, then. Your tier… hood.”

“Just tier is fine,” Deimos tells him with a laugh.

“Tier, then.” Ronan nods. “Besides, I wanted to ask you about that shiny new tattoo of yours.”

I’m enjoying the lull of their conversation next to me and it takes a moment for me to realise Ronan is talking to me.

“Oh.” I say and bring up my gloved hand. “What… what about it?”

“Well, go on and show it off,” he says with a grin. “I’m sure you’ve been eager to.”

I give a shy smile. I have been eager to display it—covering it with a glove feels disrespectful to the Saints—but I have no other choice. I throw a glance around us, checking the street is clear. This time of night, not even a Baidu can be seen around.

I tug the glove off and hold out my hand.

The tattoo shimmers under the moonlight and my stomach bubbles pleasantly at the sight of it. Ronan and Deimos lean in to inspect it, making little ooh noises. Only Deimos can read what it says.

“How wonderful,” he breathes with a gentle smile. “A beautiful piece, Bu Deyanara, truly. The Saints were pleased with you.”

My cheeks burn but a returning smile finds its way onto my face.