Page 89 of House of the Iron Reaper

“The beautiful bastard had gone out of his way to find someone selling snowberries and then took the time to make one of my favourite things. All because one time, I told him I missed snowberry tarts. I told him my boy and I would make them together for his birthday.” Ronan blows out a breath through pursed lips, his amber eye wet. “Because that’s who Deimos was. He was kind.”

Beside me, Deyanara scrubs at her eyes. My throat aches with the effort of holding back my own tears. Ronan takes a sip of the amber drink and passes it over to Deyanara.

We sit quietly for a moment. Deyanara’s hand grips the glass tightly.

“My favourite story about Deimos is when we went to the baths,” she says, voice wobbling. “He… he told me a scar is no terrible thing.” She reaches up to run her fingers across the puckered skin of her jaw. “He was kind. But… he was strong, too. And he was right—scars are not a terrible thing, they’re simply proof of life. I would rather he be here, scarred, than not here at all.” Deyanara’s voice breaks, her face wet. “I miss him.”

She takes a sip of the drink and coughs before passing it to me.

My mind churns. I stare down at the drink, the smell of it stinging my eyes. I think of standing in the kitchens with him, listening to him hum as we kneaded bread together. I think of sparring with him and the satisfaction of landing a hit after he danced out of my way so many times with an infuriating grin that only made me want to work harder.

I think of him dropping in the sand, dead.

My tears hit the amber drink.

“I’m sorry,” I say and the words scrape my throat. “I can’t think of my favourite stories. I keep thinking about the worst part, when he…”

Deyanara’s arm curls around my shoulders and she pulls me to her side. Ronan leans forward to grasp my hand.

“It’s on my mind, too,” he says quietly. “It feels… senseless. But it always does. It always hurts. But we keep talking about him, even the hard parts. Especially the hard parts.”

I open my mouth but there’s a fist around my heart and I cannot find the words. Deyanara squeezes me.

“After my fight, I think we should cook,” she says and her voice is thick with tears. “For each other. I would like to know how to make snowberry tarts, please, Ronan. And whatever your favourite dish is, Novalie, I want to know it. And learn it. Because if we do that, it means he’s still here.”

After her fight. The three of us never discussed what we would do after the Rites ended. If the glue keeping us as a group would hold, once it was over. Ronan does not even live in Coalsburgh.

But, I realise, it was never really in question. What started as glue has hardened into iron. Even with Deimos gone, physically, we will work to ensure he lives on, our bonds unbroken.

Something eases in my chest, just slightly. I breathe in.

Ronan takes his drink back and swirls it around.

“Have I told you about the first time Deimos tried whiskey?” he asks with a grin.

Mother eventually seeks us out, slightly tipsy from the horrendous werewolf drink that nearly punched a hole in my chest, and orders me to mingle with the guests. Deyanara and Ronan disappear as mother pushes me in front of some Obsidian dragons. I recognise one as the man I kicked outside of his House—he quickly turns and walks the other way.

“Bravo on your fight, Shu Novalie,” one of them says, tipping their drink at me. “And on your engagement. Quite a display. An Iron dragon, is she?”

“That’s right.” I stick my chin out, ready for a fight, but the group of them only lean in eagerly.

“Does she know who the Iron Reaper might be, then?” someone else asks, eyes alight.

“No,” I say slowly. “She works often and doesn’t have time to socialise, usually.”

They draw back, disappointed.

“A pity,” one of them clucks. “They are a rather exciting fighter, and them being the first from House Iron since the Grief. The mystery of it all is scintillating.”

“My favourite is the werewolf,” someone else pipes up. “I have never seen anything like it in my life.”

“Oh, yes, he is quite good. A little rough around the edges, perhaps.”

“Ah, but that is his charm.” They turn to me. “What say you, Shu Novalie? Apart from yourself, of course, who do you consider the best?”

“Deimos,” I say without hesitation. “Deimos was the best of us.”

The Obsidian dragons fall silent. I could leave it here, let them stew in the silence, but the awful whiskey has emboldened me—more so than usual.