Page 43 of House of the Iron Reaper

“Exactly.”

We wander from display to display, browsing the tattoos of dragons before my time. Ronan looks in awe at a series of dragons who fought in a war long ago, known now only as the Sorrow. Their tattoos depict the battle, both for those who won and lost, their pain and grief manifested against their skin.

We linger in front of a collection of four tattoos, the kinship between them so strong, their images match one another. A mix of fluid swirls and clasped hands, gifted by the Saints.

I point out a display of an Ascended dragon. Their tattoo shows them raising the head of a doomkin high above them. The ink is faded purple—a rare poison dragon.

“That’ll be our Novalie, soon enough,” Ronan says. “And you? Are you hoping to Ascend?”

“I…” Blinking at the display, I try to imagine an Ascended tattoo against my skin. “I do not know. I did not enter the Rites with the intention of Ascending.”

“That makes you and Deimos both,” Ronan replies, browsing another display. “Why did you enter, out of curiosity? Besides the satisfaction of knocking Novalie on her arse.”

I smother a smile and shake my head.

“I am not quite sure myself.” I take a deep breath, remembering my fight with the doomkin. “It was an accident at first. And then after… I just know it felt good. And I suppose I… I would not mind if I were to…”

I feel Ronan’s eyes on me.

“Go on,” he says softly.

I lower my eyes.

“I would not mind if I were to fall,” I finish quietly.

Silence presses down on us. I have never admitted it out loud, but it has always been present. A shadow in my mind I cannot rid myself of.

“You know what happened to my House,” I whisper. “You know it was my fault. M-My father…” My voice shakes, and I struggle to steady it. “My father… my family…”

Ronan places a solid hand on my shoulder, but the sorrow runs too deep for him to help.

“I should not be here,” I finish through tears. “I should not have survived. My life is an unearned one, my very existence is a weight I must bear each day.”

Ronan sighs heavily and draws me into a hug. His arms are strong and unrelenting, squeezing me tight. I have no fight in me to resist.

“No wonder you work yourself ragged,” he says with another sigh.

Drawing back, Ronan holds me by my shoulders, looking me hard in the eye.

“Death should not be atonement for a mistake, Deyanara. And it was a mistake. You understand me?”

I avert my eyes, and nod.

“Listen to me,” Ronan presses. “I’m a father. I know if my child was working themselves to the bone out of guilt, trying to get themselves killed in the Rites, it wouldn’t matter what magnificent afterlife I was in, their misery would make me miserable.” Ronan shakes me gently. “Any father worth his salt would want you to be happy. Was he a good father?”

Tears roll freely down my cheeks, and I am helpless to stop them. I nod again, too choked to speak.

“Then don’t keep punishing yourself, y’hear? I won’t have it.”

Ronan draws me back into another hug as I cry, a hard lump in my throat from trying to stop it.

“The blood on my hands can never be washed, Ronan,” I sob. “The only thing I can do is hope they will let me join them. My life is worth nothing… my death can mean something. Penance. Atonement. Something.” I take a deep breath and whisper, “I am so tired.”

“Deyanara, your death will make no one happy. Not the dead, nor the living,” he says, and his voice catches as he does. “No one.”

As hard as I try, I do not believe him. But when my cries die down, and Ronan hugs me still, the shadow in my mind feels smaller.

Chapter 16