Page 5 of House of the Iron Reaper

The Obsidian dragon has turned towards me, pointing a finger. Her tunic is cut open at the back to reveal a large tattoo—an Ascended tattoo. She frowns at me. I glance at the ground on instinct, clearing my throat.

“Evening’s grace,” I greet her, tapping my chin. “May I-”

“Tardy,” she says, eyes narrowed, and something in her voice makes my knees turn to sand.

The others swivel to look at me, the sparring paused. The Obsidian dragon walks over to me, more weight in each step than I would have suspected for a woman her size. I shrink back.

“The others have long since begun their training for the evening. And you have missed the introductions,” she says. She does not smile nor does she frown, but I am unsettled nevertheless.

“Uh…” My throat is dry as a bone. “M-My apologies.”

She waves a hand dismissively.

“Let us waste no more time. I am Aythora of House Obsidian, the trainer of this cohort of contenders.” Aythora’s eyes linger on my House emblem and she gives the slightest curl of her lips. She jabs a finger at the purple-haired dragon, now scowling. “Since you were late, you can start by sparring with Novalie.”

Novalie drags her gaze from my scuffed boots up to my burning face. I pray my cowl still covers the scar on my jaw. She puffs air from her nose, unimpressed.

“Very well,” she says as her partner steps out of the chalk ring.

“Whoa, whoa,” the tall, hairy man interjects.

He is the only one taller than I, and I try not to peer at him curiously. He has almost as much hair on his face as he does on his head, and one of his eyes is white as milk, swallowed by a large scar running from forehead to cheek. His skin is alabaster, except for the patches of scarlet across his cheekbones and nose. A pomace hangs around his neck, smelling of sweetlemon and mint. A werewolf, I realise with a start.

“She just arrived,” he continues. His accent is rolling and lyrical, his voice a deep baritone. “Shouldn’t she start with the dummies, like we did?”

As if to emphasise his point, he knocks the flat of his palm against a nearby training dummy, standing limply. Purple witch magic radiates from the wood. I shuffle away from it, nervous it might spring to life at any moment.

“Um…” I try to interrupt but they must not hear me.

“She may use the dummies when she arrives on time,” Aythora replies, her voice leaving no room for negotiation.

“It’s rather rude to talk about her as if she is invisible,” the blue-haired dragon adds, rubbing the back of his thigh where he was struck. “Your name, Fa Iron?”

All eyes turn to me. My throat closes.

“Dey-” My voice squeaks and I try again. “D-Deyanara. But I-”

“Deyanara may use the dummies when she arrives on time,” Aythora says before turning to the blue-haired dragon. “Satisfied?”

He and the werewolf both shrug and flash me apologetic looks. The silence yawns and I sense my moment, opening my mouth to clear up whatever situation I have gotten tangled up in.

“Make haste, then,” Novalie calls irritably from the chalk ring, and my chance withers.

She has since strapped a worn, snake leather helmet over her head and picked up a blunt sword. She gestures over dramatically to the space opposite her, eyebrows raised expectantly.

With the argument over, everyone looks at me once more. I try to swallow past the lump in my throat, but find it stuck. I default to doing what is usually easier—what I am told.

I shuffle over to the chalk ring.

“Poor girl,” someone mutters behind me, and my palms start to sweat.

The werewolf claps me on the back as I pass.

“Novalie doesn’t hold back for anyone, even rookies,” he tells me. “I should know—she nearly punched my kidney straight out through my back.”

He laughs mightily, as if he has not just told me the most terrifying thing I have ever heard. I look at him with wide eyes. He clears his throat and squeezes my shoulder.

“Anyway. Just don’t let her get the best of you, y’hear?” he finishes with a smile that crinkles his scar.