Page 37 of House of the Iron Reaper

Novalie looks at everything but me. She thrusts a covered clay bowl at me.

“House Copper has brought you a meal,” she says.

I glance down at it before looking back up at her.

“I do not understand,” I tell her truthfully. “What mistake? What meal?”

Novalie twists her lips in annoyance, her violet locks falling forward to cover half of her face.

“Just take the damn thing,” she huffs. But when I reach out to do so, she snatches it back. “No, actually. You are busy. I should not interrupt your work.”

My hand is still outstretched, my brow furrowed.

“What is happening?” I ask.

“The dish can be eaten cold, Deimos told me,” she says, pivoting the conversation yet again.

I stare at her.

“Why are you speaking in riddles?”

“I will keep it safe for you,” she says, ignoring me. “Until after your shift ends. Perhaps this evening, after sundown?”

“Uh…”

Novalie still does not look straight at me. She shifts from foot to foot, an erratic energy I have never seen her wear before.

“Copper Heart, after sundown,” she says when I do not respond.

Before I can agree, she stomps away, leaving me bewildered in her wake.

Copper Heart is as it sounds. Built long ago, when the Copper dragons first delved into their hoarded stores to build a statue, it sits on one of the lower tiers at the end of a dead-end street. It is said to have been built by a love-sick dragon as a gift to his beloved. Others say it is an ode to copper itself—dragons hoard by nature, and those in House Copper covet the metal deeply.

I sit on a bench, waiting for Novalie. The street has long since been abandoned. It was once a hub of trade between Copper and Iron, but now sits quiet and forgotten. Even the algae lamps have dimmed with age, casting a low, green glow across the sandy path. The homes and shops that used to be here line the street like empty shells, the signs worn from sandstorms until they are no longer legible.

I glance up at the sound of sand crunching underfoot. Novalie approaches, a shawl wrapped around her mouth and nose. She sits next to me without saying a word. My stomach is empty after the day’s work, but I do not want to ask her for the meal in her hands just yet.

“It is yours,” Novalie says, as though she can see my thoughts. “You can ask for it.”

I clear my throat.

“I… May I have…” I falter and try again. “You have my gratitude for the meal. I-If I can… If you would allow me…”

“Deyanara,” Novalie says firmly. “You have impaled a doomkin’s head with its own stinger. You can ask me to give you the food that already belongs to you.”

Heat rushes up to my neck and cheeks.

“It… It feels rude to ask so directly,” I confess.

“I am telling you it is not.”

I blow out a breath through pursed lips, steeling myself. This should not be more terrifying than facing a doomkin and yet, somehow, it is.

“I… would like my meal. Please.”

Victory.

Novalie’s eyes crinkle at the corners.