Page 13 of House of the Iron Reaper

“Yes. I know.” Novalie drains the last of the wine and stands. “I am not here to be another person telling you what you can and cannot do. I get the sense you have quite enough of that.”

Novalie turns to me and my heart stops. Even with the wounds on her face, even at half my weight and a full head shorter, something in her eyes grabs me by the jaw and forces me to look back at her.

“I am only here to offer you a choice,” she says.

After a pause, she reaches inside her robes and pulls something large and metallic free.

“This…” Novalie sucks in a breath. “This was a gift to me, and now I gift it to you.”

It is a mask, forged from inky black metal and adorned with golden, skeleton-like hands covering the eyes, leaving the bottom half open. Atop sits something akin to a crown, made of ominous spikes tipped with red. It smells of salt.

“I am told the dragons of old would wear it during funerals so as not to look upon the Reapers when they arrived,” Novalie explains quietly.

Recognition pangs. Reapers themselves are said to wear something similar—anything that covers their eyes—although, obviously, very few dragons are around to confirm. Lysandra had worn a head covering the colour of bleached pearls during the funeral for the House of Iron, a silk shawl draped over her head and neck entirely.

I gingerly take the mask and hold it up, inspecting it under the moonlight. I realise, with curiosity, the metal is not black but a deep, dark purple. I sniff it again—salt.

“Enchanted?” I ask.

Novalie nods.

“When you wear it, you will be able to see without obstruction,” she says. “And it will not fall off, not unless you choose to take it off.”

I hold the mask in both hands. It is lighter than it seems and the metal looks like it has been carved from shadow—where I expected moonlight to glimmer off its surface, it is only a flat darkness.

“Witch magic is truly unusual,” I murmur.

“Deyanara.”

I look up, the lack of honorific catching me by surprise. Her brow furrows with renewed solemnity.

“You know what this gift means?” she asks.

I do, but I cannot say it out loud. It feels too treacherous.

“No one will see your face,” Novalie speaks it for me. “No one will know it is you. This choice is yours, and you do have a choice.”

Something tugs in my chest. I think of our fight, of stepping over the boundaries of the chalk ring. No weapons, no obstacles, no tricks or deception. Not even our Houses. Simply us, facing each other.

As equals.

I stay on the bench, staring at the enchanted mask long after Novalie has left.

Chapter 5

Novalie

I clasp my hands together and close my eyes.

The contender’s area consists of a large communal room, branching off into a smattering of training rooms and a private shrine for each Saint. My knees press through the soft cushion before Nephel’s shrine.

The Saint’s marble statuette sits atop a slab of sandbrick, surrounded by flower petals. Unlike other Saints, Nephel has many forms they can take. A shapeshifter, with only their distinct eyes—one purple and the other gold—to show who they are. For this statuette, they have taken the form of a dragon-like creature, their wings spread wide and maw open. The one my mother gifted me, now sitting in my own shrine at House Glass, is one of Nephel as a fennec. They stand on their back feet, nose in the air in quiet contemplation.

A state with which I am struggling to match.

Above me and around me, the rumble of the crowd sends sand dust trickling down. The city has emptied, pouring itself into the arena for the first introductory fights. Brick slides over brick, the arena arranging itself to accommodate everyone. The witch-dragon who enchanted the arena has likely been dragged from his library and made to stand high in the crowd to ensure the magic stays intact.

The Rites date back for as long as dragons have existed. When a battle is hard fought, regardless of whether it’s won, the Saints recognise our efforts and reward us with Ascension. The magic we hold becomes something far, far greater. Thus, the Ascension Rites were created—a series of battles against monsters, known as doomkin, in the hopes of gaining the Saints favour.