Page 36 of House of the Iron Reaper

“We are courting!”

The words are out before I realise I said them. We are rivals. It was at the back of my throat, bubbling like acid, ready to spit. But to have told the truth would have been to damn Deyanara. Her identity would have been found, her entry to the Rites withdrawn. I could not bear the thought of extinguishing her smile. The smile I, selfishly, hoard for myself.

Courting.

It slipped out so easily. Oh, fuck.

Lysandra and I both freeze. Her grip on my shoulder tightens.

“You lie,” she bites out.

A surge of anger and something like offence rears up.

“You think so little of her?” I snap back, patience worn thin. “You believe her incapable of attracting a suitor?”

The shock on Lysandra’s face is far more satisfying than I expected. She releases her grip on me, stepping back with a frown that could cut glass.

“I…” A muscle flutters in her jaw. “I have not permitted a courtship.”

“Rather old-fashioned of you,” I scoff. “You cannot stop me.”

“Deyanara is needed here,” Lysandra says with a shake of her head. “No, this will not do. She has no time for your frivolous fancies, fleeting as they will be.”

“Fleeting?” Spite roils in my stomach. “There is nothing fleeting about my fancy, and I resent your assumption, to be frank.”

It is Lysandra’s turn to scoff. She folds her arms across her chest, and tilts her chin up, looking at me through half-lids.

“An upper-tier noble, the pride of her House, taking an interest in an Iron dragon, of all people?” Lysandra’s tone drips with mocking. “Your interest will wane as soon as the work becomes hard, and you will flit onto the next thing that catches your eye.”

Spite flows into fury. For a moment, I am unsure why I am quite so offended. It is hardly the worst thing I have been told in my life and, frankly, Lysandra’s opinion of me holds as much weight as a feather. No, it is not that which offends me. It is how she speaks of Deyanara.

I draw myself up to my full height, teeth gritted and fists clenched.

“You have no idea of the greatness lying inside her,” I say, voice low. “You look upon her and see only what she can do for you. No more than a damn sandstrider. You do not see her determination, her joy. How deep her kindness runs. You do not see it, and so you think no one else does either. But I do.” I take a steadying breath, my heart thumping in my temples. “Do not get in my way.”

Even with fury clouding my thoughts, I know the others have stopped to watch us. I snatch one of the packed meals away, and storm off, Lysandra’s eyes burning into my back.

Chapter 14

Deyanara

The streets of the middle tiers are quiet, the midday sun hanging high in the sky. Most people have withdrawn inside to the safety of the shade, with only a few Baidus flitting about to deliver messages, and some merchants packing away until they reopen later in the evening.

A shawl covers my head and shoulders to protect them from the heat as I work. My hair is tied into thick braids and pinned up to keep them off my neck. I tied a strip of fabric across my forehead to stop the sweat from reaching my eyes, but it has long since been soaked through. At the end of the street, before I reach the slope to the next tier, I am forced to stop and wipe the sweat from my face.

My lungs burn, but it is a good burn. I tip my face towards the sun and let it soak my skin. Gone are the days where the only thing awaiting me at the end of my long shifts were a cold bowl of root stew and an empty kitchen. The work is unchanged and as strenuous as ever, but now, at least, I have something to look forward to afterwards.

Opening my eyes, I look up at Dragon’s Vale above me. I think about the echo of grunts and yelps, the taste of faeth in the air, the satisfaction of landing a hit. I breathe deep, filling my lungs, and prepare to keep going.

A flash of violet in the corner of my vision catches my attention. Novalie stands in the street, watching me. She startles when I see her. I nearly call out her name before thinking better of it.

“Fa Glass,” I say, deliberately using a stranger’s honorific. Novalie winces.

“No, we need not…” She trails off, nibbling her lower lip. “I have made a mistake.”

I cock my head at her. The notch between her brows is not new, but it is usually due to scowling and not this look of concern.

“A mistake?”