Page 31 of House of the Iron Reaper

Within seconds, I know my appetite for leftover root stew has shrivelled into nothing. A waterfall erupts in my mouth, the flavour almost overwhelming. Tears well in my eyes. I swallow the flatbread and have to catch my breath afterwards.

“We have a new fan,” Deimos chuckles, clapping me lightly on the shoulder. He brushes his long blue hair over a shoulder and delicately takes his own bite.

I dive in for a second, larger bite. Without my mouth full, I can only nod with vigour.

“And I, also,” Ronan pipes up, voice muffled. He finds no issue speaking with a full mouth. “Long-ear stew does not hold a candle to this.”

“What is a candle?” Deimos asks, sending Ronan’s eyebrows to his hairline.

“What is a long-ear?” Novalie asks, regret immediately flushing her face as Ronan launches into an enthusiastic tirade about candles and hunting in Swordstead.

Meris beams, watching us eat with a satisfaction only a cook can appreciate. Deimos throws me a sidelong smile as I finish the flatbreads and start heaping grain into my stew instead.

“Good food is the cornerstone of a warrior,” he says, before eating a hearty mouthful himself. “One cannot fight if they are starved.”

Novalie jerks as if pushed.

I think of my House and that of House Coal. I think of the root stew we must eat, rationed out between us. I think of the threads of red veins in Lysandra’s eyes, the gauntness of her cheeks.

A wave of guilt overwhelms me. The stew roils in my stomach. I put down my spoon, the weight in my stomach so pleasant before, now turned to lead. Deimos must notice because he frowns at me, concerned.

“Bu Deyanara? Are you quite well?”

I give a weak smile, and nod. Novalie watches me but I cannot bring myself to meet her eyes.

“I… I am curious what you will do once you Ascend?” I ask Deimos, shifting the conversation, but unable to keep the tremor from my voice.

Deimos does me the kindness of humouring me.

“Ah.” He smiles, but there is sorrow behind it. “I do not aim to Ascend, in fact.”

I blink at him, the surprise distracting me from my prior nausea.

“You do not?”

“I…” Deimos’s eyes flick to his mother, humming happily behind the counter as she cleans. “I have no such noble goal.”

“You have fought in the Rites before though, no?” Ronan asks, his lengthy explanation about long-ears over. His bowls scraped clean, he sits back and chews on leftover flatbread.

“Yes,” Deimos replies with a wince.

“You do not need to explain your reasons,” I assure him. “If you would rather-”

He cuts me off with a shake of his head.

“It is…” Deimos pauses, sucking in a breath. “It is my greatest shame. But, as my mother says, shame can only fester in the darkness.”

We wait for him to continue. Ronan has the grace to put down his bread, and even Novalie’s face softens, waiting patiently.

With a deep breath, Deimos stands. He reaches down to tug up the hem of his braies, exposing the tattoo stretched across his thigh.

Novalie and I raise our brows. Deimos has been hiding a tattoo, a gift from the Saints, this whole time. Ronan leans across the table to get a better look.

The tattoo is a symphony of sapphire swirls against the gentle bronze of his skin. It shows a doomkin, large and screaming, as it pierces Deimos on its blade-like limb. I inhale sharply. The blade cuts clean through his chest as the doomkin raises his limp body high above him. Not a victory—a defeat.

The room is silent. I look up at Deimos, shame writ into every line of his face.

“It should have killed me,” he says, voice choked.