Page 77 of House of the Iron Reaper

A week passes.

Chapter 38

Deyanara

Two weeks pass.

Chapter 39

Deyanara

“A message from Meris of House Copper,” the Baidu informs me.

I stand in the doorway, blinking blearily. My eyes burn under the sunlight.

“Deimos of House Copper has his entry in the House of History,” he continues. “She thought you should know.”

I have heard viewing a dragon’s entry has brought comfort to the grieving, knowing their place has been solidified in our people’s history. That a piece of them sits amongst others, never alone.

It does not bring me comfort. It only reminds me the last time I entered the House of History, Deimos was alive.

A piece of him may remain for us to visit but when I think of Deimos, I think of his easy smile and warm eyes, I think of his kindness and his strength. I think of the countless parts of him that made him whole. The parts I knew and the parts I did not. His entry in the House of History is hollow in comparison and only makes the hole he left behind feel wider, his absence all the more clear. All the more painful.

Even so, I know I must visit. Without any Deimos at all, even a small piece of who he was is enough for me to eventually leave my chambers.

I do not see Lysandra on my way out, as I have not seen her since Deimos’s final rites. Words of comfort or a soothing presence were not things I expected, regardless. The other members of Coal and Iron give me sympathetic looks, albeit tinged with something careless. Their thoughts are clear—Deimos abused bahk, after all. His death was his own doing.

I do not look back at them, less my grief curdle into anger. They do not know him. They never knew him. Their greedy hands accepted his food easy enough but they spare no sympathy for the struggles he faces.

The struggles he faced.

The House of History is cool as I step inside. I follow the halls, climbing the tight, curved staircases higher and higher until I reach our current century. My footsteps echo, the sound of my heart consistent in my ears. Tears fall freely from my eyes, so different from the great, heaving sobs of the last few weeks, but relieving nonetheless. I do not bother to wipe them away.

My eyes blurry, I do not realise there is someone already in front of Deimos’s entry until they speak.

“Oh.” A soft voice. “Hello.”

Hello. Not a dragon. I rub my knuckles against my eyes, clearing my vision.

“Good morrow,” I say, blinking.

A woman with pale orange skin, bordering on translucent, gazes up at me from where she sits on the floor. Her hair is short and pink, the strands reaching upward like coral. She blinks slowly, with large fully black eyes.

I have never met her before but it clicks into place as soon as I see her.

“Deimos’s lady love,” I say.

Her eyebrows raise and neither of us say anything. For a moment, I fear I’ve made an embarrassing mistake. But then she laughs, high and sweet, and my shoulders sag in relief.

“I take it he never referred to me by name,” she says. “But yes. That’s me. My name is Nerissa.”

“Deyanara of House Iron,” I reply and, because it seems awkward to remain standing, I sit down next to her.

“I know,” she says. “Deimos wrote about you.”

I blink at her.

“He did?” I did not even know he could write. Few dragons can.