Page 105 of House of the Iron Reaper

If she is caught, she will be crushed. So catch her.

A grin spreads across my face, teeth bared at my opponent. Aythora snarls at me.

“You can always back down now,” she rumbles, voice like spitting lava. “Take a quick death, as I have kindly offered you.”

Her words give me a surge of confidence. No one bargains this way unless they’re worried. I do what Deimos would do, and bark with laughter.

“I offer you no such kindness,” I say. “Your death will not be quick.”

Aythora’s lip curls. She lowers herself and I know I have only a second to think.

Aythora is large and powerful, but not fast. She is a dragon of fire, although in her Ascended state she is more akin to a moving active volcano. I think of Deimos’s fight with the fiery doomkin and wonder.

“Poison is a cowardly weapon,” I call out to Aythora. “You are an Ascended warrior—who knew you were so afraid, you’d stoop to cowardice?”

Unused to taunting, it is a clumsy attempt but it lands spectacularly. Aythora careens towards me but lava erupts from her maw in outrage, spilling over her face and eyes. It may not hurt her, but it certainly does something to her vision—when she swipes at me, her fist sails clean past my head.

Seizing my chance, I swing my own fist directly up, catching her chin against the knuckles of my claw. I twist my hips, throwing my entire body into it, as she taught me. The heat of her rips the scales from my knuckles but her jaw gives a sickening crunch on impact. Aythora stumbles back, saved from falling only by the balance of her tail.

I take a step forward, not prepared to give her a chance to recover, when something hard hits me in the side of the head. It is not enough to hurt but stuns me lightly. I look down to see crumbled sandbrick.

It is only then I realise what I’ve done.

Chapter 62

Ronan

I tear through the streets, Cahir clinging onto my back with a death grip on my fur. The wind has raised to a scream, tearing entire chunks of sandbrick from the walls and throwing it across the city. The sky is mottled grey, the rumble of thunder growing. Everywhere, dragons take cover from the storm.

“There!” Cahir yells above the wind, pointing up.

I bound over to a stall canopy flapping wildly and push off the wall, soaring up another tier. Loose sand streams around me, stinging my one good eye, but I can’t stop. I can’t stop. Deyanara is causing this storm. She’s going to tear the city apart.

I bound towards the House of History. A chunk of sandbrick soars overhead, the wind carrying it like it’s made of fucking feathers. It crashes into the walls of a nearby building. Sand and rock spray into the wind as the city rumbles.

“Are you sure about this?” I yell, hoping my voice carries to Cahir still clinging onto the fur of my back.

“Yes!” he screams back although it comes to me like a whisper, half of the volume snatched away by the wind. “Get me to the—watch out!”

A loose stall, torn away by the wind, comes tumbling low. I twist mid-air, flipping over the stall as it tumbles away. I land neatly on all four paws, Cahir shrieking in my ear.

We reach the House of History where it joins the upper tiers and clamber onto the flat roof. Cahir nearly gets whipped away by the wind and I quickly place myself behind him, pushing him back. I dig my claws in, head down as the top of my skull presses against his soft body.

And then he feels not-so soft. His body pulses and warps against my head. From my limited view of his bottom half, his legs lengthen and thicken into his dragon form. Shiny black claws sink into the roof, anchoring him. I risk pulling away slightly, looking up. My eyes widen.

Cahir is far taller a dragon than I expected, even knowing he’s Ascended. The spines running down his back are purple, his scales a polished black, and amethyst tattoos cover both wings. But when he sinks his front claws into the House of History, and grits his sharp teeth, I remember he’s not just a dragon.

The spikes on his spine glow purple, flowing over his shoulders and down the back of his scaly arms. It seeps from his claws into the brick of the House of History, spreading like lavender fire.

Witch magic.

I’ve rarely seen witch magic before. It seemed more like a gimmick, placed on jewels or as party tricks—make the table get up and dance, that sort of thing. I quickly realise how fucking stupid that was.

Cahir never said he’s an Ascended dragon. He just said he’s Ascended. As purple light floods the city, I start to think maybe it’s the witch side that got a boost.

At once, the cracks forming in the House of History stop, pulling itself back together with a slam. I watch, mouth open, as purple light spreads from the House of History to the neighbouring buildings, to the ground beneath us, pushing up and spilling down the tiers of the city.

The wind screams around us, trying to get fingers into every corner and nook, but the witch magic refuses. Flying market stalls get sucked back to the ground, loose bricks draw back into place. As the storm tries to tear the city apart, Cahir throws his head back in a roar and holds Coalsburgh together.