Page 42 of House of the Iron Reaper

I shake my head.

“We have no such things here. Stories and messages are spoken and remembered. Our great feats are written only by the Saints upon our skin.” An idea sparks in my mind. “We do have a House of History, which you might enjoy?”

Ronan brightens.

“Please!”

We arrive at House Iron, and Ronan helps me deposit the ore-rich rock into a sturdy iron box, ready to be processed.

“Shall we go to the House of History now?” Ronan suggests as we haul the last rock into place.

I hesitate, glancing back down the street to where House Coal sits out of view.

“Listen, I’ll help you with your shift today, and twice the people means half the load.” He winks at me with one amber eye. “You can spare an hour or two, surely?”

“I…” Dithering, I gnaw on my bottom lip. “You will truly help today? Even though you have training later?”

“I swear it.” Ronan splays then scrunches his hand against his chest. He means it.

It feels… wrong. But with Ronan helping, I will be more than capable of finishing all my work on time.

“Very well,” I relent with a smile.

The prospect of leaving the growing heat for the cool of the shade, with no loaded sled on my back, makes me nearly sag with relief.

“Wonderful!” Ronan claps me on the back. “Onwards!”

The House of History is a tall, broad building sitting amongst the middle tiers, wrapping around the mountain like a shawl. Ronan and I step inside, the alleviation from the sun immediate. It is quiet, the ceiling low to accommodate the hundreds of floors stacked on top of each other, forcing both of us to lower our heads. A lone clerk sits on a plump cushion, fan in hand.

“Welcome to the House of History,” they say lazily, sweeping their hand at the open door leading further in. “Please enjoy your visit, and we ask you do not touch the displays.”

Ronan and I nod, as much as we can against the ceiling, and hurry through the door.

The next room is long, like a corridor, with algae lamps sitting in high alcoves. Glass displays run along the walls, and I know without checking, it will be the glass Novalie’s House produces. The hardest glass in the realm, strong as steel.

Ronan cocks a brow and steps up to one of the displays curiously. I join him, peering through the glass.

“Deyanara,” Ronan says, and his tone is serious enough I turn to look at him. “Is that skin?”

I huff a small laugh.

“Well, yes, of course it is,” I say

The look of mild horror on Ronan’s face takes me by surprise.

“By the Five…” he murmurs.

“I told you earlier,” I say, gesturing to the display. “The Saints gift us our tattoos, and that is our history. Is it not wonderful?”

Behind the glass, skin stretches like a canvas between several pegs, leathered with age. A tattoo peppers the surface, following dapples and crevices. It depicts a union—two dragons with their foreheads pressed together, a circle of flowers surrounding them. The dragon word svellenta dances in the swirls.

“To have loved strongly enough even the Saints acknowledge your devotion…” I whisper. “If we did not preserve tattoos, this story would have been lost to time.”

Ronan’s throat bobs, and he looks hesitantly back at the display.

“Well…” he says, coughing awkwardly. “It may not be the done thing where I’m from but…” He scratches the back of his neck, considering the display. “You’re quite right. It’s beautiful to know that kind of love existed once and likely exists even now.”

I smile at him.