Page 73 of House of the Iron Reaper

“Never better,” I lie. My trainer scowls.

“Let me see.”

I shake him off with my free hand, desperately trying to stop the stem of blood with my other.

“No need, no need,” I say, twisting away. “It is a mere nosebleed. Where is the cleric’s bag?”

“That is no mere nosebleed, Ni Deimos, I can see the break from here.” He crosses his arms. “Go to the cleric immediately. Your training is over for today.”

“But-”

“Now.”

The cleric confirms my nose is, indeed, broken. He presses a vial of lavender tonic into my palm for the pain and carefully measures out a tincture of moss-green bahk to speed up the healing. I slink off, pouting.

The streets outside are an explosion of colour. Saint’s Day is only one part of the festivals this season, but it is when the siren and werewolf merchants often arrive. The lower and middle tiers burst with new stalls and fresh produce.

On any other day, I would enjoy taking part. Now, with the pain in my face and the irritation of training ending early, it is only an annoyance. Visitors stop dead in front of me, gawking at a shrine or at Dragon’s Vale towering above the city. Fire dragons put on performances, mixing flame and dance and taking up entire sections of the street. Artists and merchants squawk about their wares.

I push through the crowd, intending on finding a quiet spot where I may nurse my broken nose and bruised ego in peace.

“Excuse me? Do you know the way to the House of History?”

The voice is barely audible over the din of the streets but I hear it nonetheless. Something akin to faeth, as soft as lapping water. When I turn, I see her.

I am seventeen when I fall in love.

Chapter 31

Novalie

The dragons soar upward, pulling their ropes and releasing the doomkin from its cage. The stadium rumbles with cheers.

Without hesitation, the doomkin screams and sprints across the sand towards Deimos, leaving molten glass in its wake. My heart lurches.

A moment before impact, Deimos shifts to the side, as light on his feet as if dancing instead of fighting. The doomkin stumbles but recovers quickly, a tangle of flames and smoke tumbling across the space between them. Deimos leaps over it, landing in a neat roll. The doomkin screeches, flames climbing in frustration.

“Quite a dim creature, aren’t you?” Deimos calls.

Ronan barks out a laugh.

The doomkin only roars in response. Smoke and flames pull inward, wavering dangerously as the fire crawls higher. As it does, its form thins out, until the smoke clears and its charred skeleton is exposed. At once, I understand what Deimos means to do.

“He can strike it,” Deyanara murmurs, almost to herself. Her eyes are wide, attention rapt.

Ronan glances sideways at her.

“With his hands, you mean? Without water?” he asks. “Without his faeth?”

Deyanara nods grimly.

“Yes. If that’s what he wants,” she says.

I slide my gaze back to Deimos. Is this it? I wonder. Have you given up on your faeth?

Chapter 32

Deimos