Page 17 of House of the Iron Reaper

“Bahk?” I turn it over in my hand, watching the liquid dance. “What does it do?”

“It is medicinal, to clear your mind and nerves,” Aythora explains. “It is quite legal, you can be assured.”

“Oh.” I put it in my pocket to stop the potion from singing. I have little experience with bahk, beyond the small doses spooned into tea for added sweetness. To hold one, even medicinal, sends my nerves skittering.

“Novalie will have told you not to waste any faeth on this fight. She is right. You should not transform, if possible, nor breathe…” She squints at me, eyes darting from my eyes to my hair. “Lightning, I assume?”

My heart clenches.

“Yes,” I whisper.

If Aythora notices my distress, she does not comment.

“All you must do is enter the arena,” she breezes on. “Land as many blows as possible on the beast, and try to avoid taking any hits, if you can. Understood?”

“I… How?” I ask, throat dry. “How do I do that?”

Aythora gives me a look as though I have asked what sand is.

“I have shown you how to hit,” she says. “And you dodged Novalie with little issue. This doomkin will not be faster than her. Get in, hit it, get out. Understood?”

Sand trickles from the ceiling, where the crowd stamps their feet, roaring loud enough for us to hear it through the walls. The smell of salt is nearly overwhelming. I inhale a shaky breath, strangling the impulse to run.

“Understood,” I squeak.

The crowd stamps their approval above us as, I assume, the werewolf begins his fight. It is happening so fast, too fast. But I cannot turn back now. I have the sense of standing on the lip of a very tall wall, and I do not know what lies at the bottom.

I decide to step off before I can be pushed.

Chapter 7

Novalie

The arena is alive with dragons and witch magic, the seats swollen with most of Coalsburgh. This high on the mountain, the air is crisper and the smell of salt is rife. Unlike the green glow of the city, Dragon’s Vale is awash with purple, witch magic licking across brick. The atmosphere is thick as treacle, excitement bubbling.

After pushing through the crowd, Aythora and I take our seats next to my mother. Most of House Glass surround us, coloured glass hairpins catching the purple glow.

“Bu Aythora, tell me more about the brute who attacked Novalie—is she to fight next?” Mother asks, flapping a fan so encrusted with glass jewels, I find it hard to believe it has any effect at all.

“She is,” Aythora confirms.

“She did not attack me,” I murmur, keeping my eyes trained on the entry tunnel below us.

“No, she did far worse—she bested you.” Mother snaps her hand fan closed, as if to punctuate her point.

Without looking, I feel her glaring at me. But, for once, I am not interested in her provocations. I ignore her.

“I am quite sure I need not remind you of whose idea this entire thing was,” she pushes on regardless.

“You remind me often.” I keep my tone as even as I am able, which is to say, not much.

“This is the last time I will speak on this.” Her warning rings hollow. “You believe yourself so invincible, you might as well prove yourself worthy.”

I close my eyes briefly, still refusing to look at her. My chest is tight. Nephel grant me patience.

“I have often prayed you do speak on it for the last time, but the Saints have yet to gratify my wish,” I bite out, my voice louder than I intended.

A few others from House Glass glance at us, their eyes hungry for gossip. My mother smiles at them with practiced grace.