Page 4 of House of the Iron Reaper

“Tomorrow’s eve, there is an order of sandbrick you must deliver to Dragon’s Vale,” Lysandra continues as if I had not spoken. “The arena is being prepared for the upcoming Rites and they require sandbrick, with haste.”

The soles of my feet throb. My shoulders ache. My skin is sticky with sweat.

Still, I only nod once and say, “Of course.”

Lysandra turns away, eyes catching on the stew, and she says over her shoulder, “There’s salted fennec in the stores for you.”

She swiftly walks away.

“Um… Elder?” I say but she does not break stride. I clear my throat and try again, slightly louder. “Elder Lysandra?”

This time she pauses, half-turning towards me. The profile of her face is backlit with green, more a shadow than a dragon.

“I…” I swallow hard, my tongue suddenly thick. “I mean to say.. W-Will our Houses be…”

“Yes?” Impatience lines her voice.

“I w-was curious…”

“Out with it, Deyanara.” Lysandra snaps her fingers at me, the sound cracking like a whip. My cheeks grow warm.

“The Rites,” I blurt out in a fluster.

Lysandra narrows her eyes at me, a glint of hard stone in the darkness.

“No one will be contending in the Rites from either House,” Lysandra says slowly. “Do not be ridiculous.”

“Yes.” I find my voice is hoarse and I clear it, awkwardly. “Of course. Apologies.”

Lysandra hovers for a moment but I keep my eyes fixed on my root stew, unable to meet her glower. After a moment, she sighs with an exasperation that makes me feel like a child again, before leaving me alone.

Chapter 2

Deyanara

My thighs scream, my back throbs, my arms ache. I haul the sandbrick up the slope to the upper tier, the cool night air battling against the furnace of my skin, slick with sweat. The ground flattens and I allow myself a moment to breathe. Hands on hips, I tip my face towards the starry sky and drag air into my lungs.

Below me lies the west side of Coalsburgh, tumbling down the side of the mountain. Above me towers Dragon’s Vale, with the arena taking up the entirety of the top tier. In a smaller building to the side sits the training grounds—my destination.

The arena looms, dark and silent, but the door to the training grounds is open. Light spills out into the street, with a distant clunk of wooden swords and fierce cries. With a fortifying breath, I grip the straps of my cargo and pull the sandbrick the last few steps.

When the sled is tucked safely against the outside wall, I dither around the open door, hopping from foot to foot. Deliveries during the day usually mean the recipient is present and available to give a Mark—a small token stamped with the House emblem as proof of receipt. Evening deliveries are less common, but there is always a representative present—someone hired to receive deliveries when the recipient cannot. Tonight, there is neither.

I take a tentative step into Dragon’s Vale.

The inside of the training grounds is cavernous, the noise ricocheting off the walls and spinning up through the open ceiling. Rough-hewn benches line the walls, with a large cleric bag sitting to one side. A freshwater fountain, sculpted like a siren pouring water from a jug, is carved into one wall. In the middle of the room, a chalk circle marks the sand and people spar inside in. Around them stands a short woman with hair the colour of fire and ash, wearing a black and emerald tunic— a fire dragon from House Obsidian. Beside her is a large, hairy man who looks like no dragon I have ever met. He bears no House emblem. Rather, he is bare-chested—with more hair—and wears odd, cropped shorts.

Their attention is turned away from me and towards the sparring dragons. I think about clearing my throat or knocking on the wall, but my eye catches the practice fight.

A tall, lithe woman with amethyst hair dodges a punch before avoiding the following sweep kick, hopping lightly to the side. She moves as though dancing rather than fighting, not quite like liquid but something close—like silk rippling in the wind, slipping out of grasp.

Her partner, a blue-haired man with eyes like chips of ice and House Copper emblazoned on his tunic, stumbles to catch her. She slides around him, feet barely touching the ground, to drive her knee into the back of his leg. He yelps and falls, rolling to the side and narrowly avoiding the heel she drops into the ground.

I do not realise how entranced I am until a sharp voice cuts through the haze.

“You.”

I jump.