Page 51 of House of the Iron Reaper

“Really?” I ask, turning to him. Without any experience in these matters, Deimos’s knowledge is vital.

“Oh, yes,” he says, nodding and gestures for me to follow him inside. “Besides, I also wanted to treat myself. Training with Aythora can be… tough.”

We enter a wide vestibule, the walls painted with siren murals. I can feel the chill of the water before we’ve even passed through, the atmosphere salubrious. Wooden benches run across the edges of each wall—Deimos and I slip our shoes off and place them neatly side-by-side.

The vestibule opens into a wide, open-ceiling hall. A circular pool takes up the majority with several wooden stools spaced around. The cool air makes goosebumps spring up along my arms but it’s pleasant compared to the warmth outside. The scent of various soaps tinges the air, a mixture of floral and salty.

“Witch magic?” I ask as we step towards the pool.

Deimos strips off his shirt and says, “No, that’s the water. It’s straight from the sea. According to the old stories, a siren and a witch fell in love. The siren dragged herself from the sea to find her when the witch fell ill, and that’s why their magic smells of salt.”

I’m only half-listening. Deimos throws his shirt to the side and my eyes are fixed on his torso. A jagged scar, an angry red as if he was wounded only yesterday, runs from the middle of his chest to a point just above his krata. The skin around it is taught and puckered, as though roughly pinched together. I suck in a breath at the sight of it. I snap my head up to find Deimos watching me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, heat flushing my cheeks. “That was so rude of me. I… I shouldn’t have stared.”

“It would be stranger if you pretended it was not there.” Deimos shrugs.

He looks at me and cocks his head. His eyes land on my own scar at my jaw and I have to squeeze my hands into fists to stop from covering it.

“Scars are no terrible thing, Deyanara,” he says softly. “They’re simply proof of life.”

I take a shuddering breath, tears squeezing the back of my eyes.

“That is exactly the problem,” I say quietly.

Deimos regards me with eyes so soft, I’m forced to look away. He stretches out a hand.

“Come,” he says. “Water always helps.”

I let him lead me to the edge of the baths. We sit side-by-side and dip our feet in the water. I bite back a hiss as the chill hits my toes but Deimos slips his legs in easily, laughing at the look on my face.

“You get used to it,” he says, sinking in up to his knees.

I make an unconvinced noise but let the water crawl up nonetheless, shivering. We sit in silence for a few moments. The dull ache in my feet starts to ease and I wiggle my toes, feeling the cool water slip over them. It does feel nice.

“I would not claim to know the weight you carry, Deyanara,” Deimos says softly.

When I turn to look at him, his face is tipped towards the sky, blue hair rippling down his back and the moonlight glinting off his earrings. I do the same, looking up through the open ceiling at the stars above us.

“But I do know a little about guilt,” he continues and my stomach clenches. “We are complicated creatures, I think. Dragons, I mean. Our magic is gifted by the Saints and so, by our very nature, we contain incredible power.”

Deimos’s chest rises and falls, and he closes his eyes.

“The ocean does not apologise for its depths, nor its power.” His eyes snap open and he turns to me so suddenly I startle. “Neither should you. Do you curse the lightning that splits the tree?”

“That lightning does not know any better,” I give a hoarse protest.

“And you did?” Deimos counters. His voice is gentle but I flinch regardless. “A child, Deyanara. You were a child. We all know how important it is to be taught about your faeth by someone who knows.”

“It was not my father’s fault,” I say hotly and Deimos puts a hand over mine.

“I know,” he says. “Because it was no one’s fault.”

I want to look away, the instinct to lower my gaze buried deep, but Deimos’s eyes are not unkind. He looks at me like someone gently tipping my chin up, so I do. I hold level with him.

Deimos smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Good,” he says and lets his head fall onto my shoulder. “Can I confess something?”