Page 3 of House of the Iron Reaper

My krata loosened from the grip of lightning and I sobbed into the scaly crook of my father’s neck. There were no more screams, except mine.

When I first breathed lightning, I brought down the whole world.

Chapter 1

30 Years Later

Deyanara

I tie the straps of the sled across my shoulders and pull.

A stack of iron ingots taller than I am is piled on top of the sled, a full week’s order ready for delivery to Dragon’s Vale. For anyone else, a shipment this size would take two days to reach the upper tiers of Coalsburgh. For me, it will only take a day.

I secure the straps and take a moment to wrap a beige cowl around my face. This early, the air is bearably warm but the Coalsburgh sun is brutally hot come midday. Besides, it’s an easy cover for the pale puckered flesh of my jaw.

Ahead of me, House Stone’s marble home gleams brightly against the rest of the street. A merciful breeze washes over me and I look up to see a dragon soaring overhead, an empty carrier slung across their back as they leave for the marble quarry near Swordstead.

I tug the cowl up to cover my mouth and nose, casting one look back at the remains of House Iron.

For thirty years, it has consisted of a simple forge and smithy. The rest of the building, once tall and broad and slate grey, sat as rubble for only three days before being cannibalised by the rest of the city. Dragons are nothing without our hoards and every resource is precious.

The survivors of House Iron were moved to House Coal, one tier up, where their Elder, Lysandra, took control. Out of hundreds of Iron dragons, now only forty remain. I turn away from the House with renewed resolve—I leave with a week’s worth of iron on my back because my House depends on me.

The early morning sun crests over the sand dunes, casting a puce haze across the lower tier streets. The half-broken wheels beneath the sled wobble under the weight of the iron. Nevertheless, I haul it towards the upper slopes with steady steps. Mornings are quiet in Coalsburgh, a soft heat promising the day ahead.

I cross sandy paths, passing House Coal in the lower residential tier. The beige sandbrick of the building is punctuated with black-inked stone, the mark of the House sitting high above the gates. One of the oldest Houses, it sprawls across a third of its tier. An estate brimming with mining dragons, their forms squat and muscular, even though they sit upon enough coal to last five generations. A stable of sandstriders—long-legged creatures with round bodies and nipping beaks—sits near the gates. They eye me beadily.

A few members of House Coal are awake, filling the sandstriders trough with seed. I tap my chin in greeting as I pass and they do the same, although their eyes quickly slide off me. It has been thirty years now, after all, since what remains of House Iron moved into their home.

“When we are no longer concerned with survival, we will rebuild,” Elder Lysandra told me when I first asked when I could go home. “So work hard.”

I press onward down the street until I catch a glimpse of a cerulean kaftan. A Baidu—a messenger named after the small blue bird said to carry messages between Saints—stands in the middle of a small crowd. He steps up onto a block of blue brick, specifically built for Baidus to give their announcements.

I cannot afford undue delay, but my curiosity piques. Quietly, I pause at the back of the crowd, my height affording me a clear view over everyone’s heads.

“Good morrow,” he greets the crowd with a tap to his chin. The emblem for House Copper sits in the centre of his chest, glistening. The Baidu straightens and locks his hands behind his back.

“The Ascension Rites will take place four weeks from today, starting on the first day of the Sunwake season.”

Sunwake marks the beginning of the hottest season, six months before Sunfade when we are afforded some relief. Coalsburgh is granted only a few days of rain from the Saints, mostly during Sunfade, but a single day of warm rain appears each Sunwake, marked by a particularly bright star overhead. The star is said to be the Saint of Endurance, giving their blessing.

An excited murmur ripples through the crowd at the impending Rites. I glance up at the top of Coalsburgh, where the Dragon’s Vale arena sits atop our city like a crown. With the way the city is built, looping around the mountain, you can see Dragon’s Vale from anywhere in Coalsburgh.

“All those who wish to attend must contact Aythora of House Obsidian tomorrow after sunset,” the Baidu continues. “She will be at Dragon’s Vale for the full evening. This message will be repeated when the sun is highest and when it has set. That is all.” The Baidu taps his forehead in farewell before climbing off the platform.

The crowd disperses in a flurry of hushed titters. Curiosity satisfied and my interest in the Rites absent, I readjust my shoulder straps and press on.

By the time I return for the night, slick with sweat and coated in a fine layer of sand, the food hall is empty. House Coal is quiet, everyone retired to their chambers, so I creep through the hall as silently as possible and find my way to the kitchens.

The back half of House Coal is built into the side of the mountain the city was founded on, carved out of black rock. The rooms here are less like the uniform, carefully-built rooms at the front and more like caverns, shaped out of the rock already present. Very little sunlight reaches this far back, with only the green glow of algae lamps hanging from the ceiling. I overheard someone once remark how unsettling the kitchens are at night with no one else around, but I found myself silently disagreeing. Alone is the only time I feel halfway at ease.

One of the kitchens is starkly empty but in the other, a large, lone pot sits on the counter. I open the lid and my stomach coils at the smell of root stew. I grab a clean bowl and scoop a portion free, scraping the bottom of the pot. Root stew is tolerable when fresh and warm, but cold will have to do—my stomach is in no position to argue. I take a seat at the counter and eat, trying not to grimace at the cool, slimy texture.

“Ah, you have returned.”

I nearly choke on a root, my head snapping up at the sound of Elder Lysandra’s voice. Lysandra seems not to notice, sweeping into the kitchens with a flick of her oil-black kaftan. She places two small sunstones on the counter next to me—my payment for the day.

“My thanks, Elder,” I say quietly, pocketing them.