Page 66 of House of the Iron Reaper

“Papa!” the doomkin cries.

Ronan clamps his jaw around its neck.

“Pap-!”

In a burst of blood, he tears its throat out before it can finish, never to use Deine’s voice again.

The arena trembles under the roar of the crowd. Novalie, Deimos, and I stand staring, watching. Cahir slowly claps from behind us, but my palms are pressed against the glass, my nose only an inch away. I cannot look away from Ronan.

Moonlight catches his fur, silhouetting him in silver and turning his form almost black, only his amber eye aglow. Relief and sorrow and rage and catharsis are writ into his every feature, even as he spits the doomkin’s throat into the sand. Blood dripping from his maw and coated in his fur, still standing on the chest of the one who killed his son, Ronan throws his head up to the moon, and howls.

It is a sound born from the bottom of his soul. A shiver runs through my body, and I am moved in a way I cannot explain. I reach up to touch my cheek, and realise my face is wet with tears. When I turn to Novalie and Deimos, I find them crying too.

Chapter 24

Deyanara

Sandstriders leisurely pull our caravan along the sandy track as the midday sun beats down. Fabric is pulled tight across the ceiling, shielding us from the worst of the heat, but sweat still stubbornly trickles down my back. The air is so thick with humidity, it feels like I could chew it. Coalsburgh is hot enough but outside of its walls, the desert heart grows to sweltering levels. I crane my head out of the window to look back at the city, slowly shrinking in the distance.

Dragon’s Vale is still visible from this distance, especially with the cloud of purple witch magic surrounding it. Cahir is a winged silhouette, circling the air. He pulls brick back together and fixes the damage Ronan inflicted. Even the way he flies betrays his irritation somehow.

I duck my head back inside. Fortunately for us, the repairs to Dragon’s Vale mean we have an extended break between fights. It had been Deimos’s idea for us to take a day trip out of the city. Ronan had been sceptical until Novalie informed him the caravanserai was noticeably cooler than Coalsburgh, and then he had enthusiastically agreed.

Diagonal from me in the caravan, Ronan sits with his entire head encased in a shawl, only his mismatched eyes showing. He and Deimos lazily play cards, as Novalie rests opposite me with her head tilted back and eyes closed. What looks like greasy sweat on others looks like a bronze sheen on her. I steal glances, pretending to look out of the window at the vast sands, but my eyes flick askance to look at her.

And then her eyes open, and she looks back at me.

I jerk in fright and gaze out of the window nonchalantly, squinting in the sun as if fascinated by the outside world. Her eyes bore into me but I resist looking back.

The caravanserai wavers into view, hazy in the heat. The walls tower high, built from golden sandbrick, and carved into the likeness of fish scales. The edges glitter blue and green in the sun, painted by the sirens. Sand-buffed statues loom on either side of the entrance, showing a dragon and a siren reaching out to each other but not quite touching. Above them, a sign is carved into the sandbrick—Lovers’ Rest.

I have known of the statues all my life, and visited before, but my eyes catch on them nonetheless. I look at their hands, only inches from each other, and my heart clenches.

“You alright, Dey?” Ronan asks, voice muffled.

I give him a brisk nod. Novalie is watching me, so I attempt a graceful exit from the caravan. Instead, I knock my head off the top of the door hard enough to rock the entire caravan.

“Ouch,” Ronan comments.

“Are you well?” Deimos asks. “That looked painful.”

“Not at all,” I say, eyes watering.

I burst from the caravan and stumble onto the sand track outside. The others follow, thankfully saying nothing more.

As soon as we pass through the entrance of Lovers’ Rest, the cool air hits us. I first visited when I was young and I had expected the smell of salt or the tell-tale purple haze, but was surprised to find none. Instead, sirens affix contraptions full of ice around the caravanserai, letting the cold air plume out like clouds.

“Thank the Five,” Ronan moans with relief, tugging his shawl down from his face.

“It is the sirens you must thank,” Novalie tells him, sliding her own shawl back from her head. A pause. “Ronan, what the fuck have you done to your face?”

At this, I turn around. Novalie stares at Ronan, looking horrified, while Deimos smothers a laugh with his hand. Ronan stands before us, frowning.

His beard has vanished.

“What?” he says, rubbing his jaw. Dark stubble coats his cheeks like ash. “What’s wrong with my face?”

Novalie’s nose wrinkles.