Page 6 of House of the Iron Reaper

I give a shaky nod.

“Understood,” I lie.

And then I have nowhere else to go but forward. Swallowing hard, hands trembling, I step into the ring.

As soon as I cross over the chalk line, the atmosphere shifts. The air grows thick and hot, as though the outside world is blanketed. I clench my shaking hands into fists at my side. Novalie, with steady hands, raises her sword and points it at me.

“Where is your weapon?”

I unclench my hands long enough to look at them, empty, as though half-expecting a sword to materialise from thin air.

“I… do not have one?” It comes out inexplicably like a question. “Apologies.”

Novalie curls her lip and throws her sword outside of the ring, before unstrapping her helmet and tossing it. Through it all, she fixes her gaze on me. I avert my eyes, as though staring into the sun.

“If you insist on losing to me bare-handed, I am more than happy to gratify you,” she says, voice dripping with enough disdain to make me wince.

The others turn to look at me and I realise they are waiting for me to respond with a jab in kind. My mind turns into a vast, empty desert, devoid of all thoughts.

“Thank you,” I say, one of the few default phrases buried in my brain.

Someone chuckles from outside the ring. Novalie’s lips twist into a sneer.

“Enough chit-chat.” Aythora claps her hands once and loudly. “Begin the fight.”

Novalie raises her fists, position changing. My brow furrows as I watch her feet, wondering if I should copy her. Before I can decide, pain explodes across my cheek. Stars pop behind my eyes and I stumble back, blinking rapidly.

Novalie is quicker than my mind can work. I have only the briefest moment to remember the way she moved before, like silk in the wind, before she strikes a second time. Her shin hits the back of my knee while my mind is still reeling. My leg buckles beneath me and I sink to the ground with a cry.

“Reapers take me now,” Aythora mutters from the sidelines. “Have you no experience at all, girl? What use are all those damn muscles?”

Deliveries, I think. Sandbrick and iron, not fights. Never fights. Saints, how did I get myself into this?

“A-Apologies,” I gasp, pushing off the ground to find my feet.

The leg Novalie struck feels like stacked pebbles, threatening to topple at any moment, and my face throbs with pain. I tug my cowl up, making sure it still covers my jaw but my hands shake, ears shrieking. Aythora tuts loudly. She grips my arm, pulling me to the side of the chalk circle.

“Listen to me,” she says and I nearly choke on the heat from her body. Fire dragons are marginally warmer than most others but Aythora feels like a moving furnace. “Widen your stance. No, not like that. Put your feet here. Yes, good. Bend your knees slightly… slightly… Right, now put your fists up next to your head and for Saint’s sake, keep your thumbs on the outside.”

Aythora kicks the inside of my ankles to adjust my stance before nodding to herself.

“Now, when you swing, you must put your whole body into it,” she says and then sighs when she sees the vacuous look on my face. “That means turning your hips, bending your knee, throwing your shoulder.”

Aythora pushes herself up to her tiptoes and I bend down until her mouth is at my ear.

“Novalie is quick as a whip but fragile as sea glass,” she whispers. “Like a snake fleeing the hawk, she is fast because she needs to be fast. If she is caught, she will be crushed. So catch her.”

Mouth dry and face still aching, I only nod.

“Good.” Aythora drops back onto her feet. “I shall transform you into a fighter yet. And one last thing—her feet are too fast for you to watch, so keep your eyes high.”

Aythora pushes me roughly back into the ring, where Novalie waits, arms crossed and tapping a foot impatiently off the ground. I ready myself, heart pounding like a fist against my chest. The fact I should not even be here, that I am here only to drop off a delivery and not as a contender, seems to have fallen away from my mind. Instead, I think only of Aythora’s words.

I shall transform you into a fighter yet.

With difficulty, I drag my eyes up to meet my opponents.

Novalie holds my gaze, taking her stance. I fight the urge to look back down, her green eyes as hard as emeralds, threatening to cut me with just a look. Her jaw is set, determined, her lips a thin line.