Page 9 of House of the Iron Reaper

Inhaling deeply, I pull my shoulders back, not realising how hunched over I had been over my dinner plate. Each breath sets my nose on fire. I blink through the pain, fixing my eyes on my mother. Her smile is small and tight, a fracture in the flawless veneer of her face. Colourful, jewel-toned paints melt into the bronze of her skin, almost matching the blue and purple bruises adorning my own face. We both look colourful, in a way.

I turn to Aythora and offer the edge of a smile.

“My apologies, Shu Aythora. What were you saying?”

“Fret not, young one.” Aythora waves me off. “It was nothing of note. Elder Nyrah wanted to know what manner of beast did this to your face. I was simply explaining.”

Aythora had abandoned her training clothes for more formal attire. Red and gold dusts her dark skin, matching her hair, and her tattoos are on display in a dress that hooks around her neck. I glance at the hint of her Ascension tattoo creeping over her shoulder with a tinge of envy.

“Mmm. House Iron, you said?” Mother’s lip curls in disdain. “Who even knew they were contending? Nothing but brutes in the lower tiers.”

“She only did what she was told,” I reply, taking a large swig of berry wine. It is stronger than the pale wine dragons make for ourselves, and it sands down the sharp edge of my pain. “She fought.”

I smack my lips loudly, enjoying the irritation writ into mother’s face.

“And what did you do? Sit there and take it, I suppose?” she scoffs, throwing her napkin down on the table. “And here I thought you were too quick to be caught. Untouchable, I believe you said.”

“I said doomkin would not be able to touch me, if you recall,” I say through my teeth. “Not other dragons. Although listening has never been your greatest strength so I’m impressed you even managed the gist.”

Mother gives a bark of humourless laughter.

“I do not listen? Your hypocrisy is astounding.” She reaches for her own wine glass but finds it empty. Aythora quickly signals to the servant for another.

“Perhaps we should-” Aythora starts.

“You were the one who refused to listen when I told you this was a foolish endeavour,” mother pushes on. “When I said you would get hurt.”

Embarrassment flushes my neck. Each throb of my broken nose is a reminder—my mother was right. I squeeze my swollen eyes closed.

No.

I have worked and trained and fought for this opportunity. I will not let it fall away because of one silly injury.

“What if it had been a doomkin?” Mother continues, her tirade never-ending. “If this lower-tier brute can land such a blow, why can a doomkin not?”

“I am fine,” I grind out, planting both palms on the table.

“You have the best trainer in the city to guide you, and yet you have the gall to return home looking like-”

“Like what?” The pain whittles down my patience and I slam a hand down against the table so hard, the cutlery jumps. “Like what exactly? Every dragon in Coalsburgh would look at me and know what I am, who I am, without the Saints ever gifting me their marks. But you.” I jab a finger at her. “All you see is broken glass.”

She falls silent. Her nostrils flare, a strand of her perfectly curled onyx hair falling out of place.

“Now, now, let us keep our tempers,” Aythora manages to interject, hands spread in mediation. She turns to my mother. “Elder Nyrah, I understand and appreciate the full weight of the responsibility you bestow on me for guiding your daughter. I assure you, Novalie is getting the best training she possibly can. Today was an… oversight. That is all.”

Mother breaks her gaze away from me, sitting back with a sigh and an eye roll.

“Ni Novalie.” Aythora turns to me next. “You are clearly in pain and it affects your judgement. The cleric told me you refused lavender tonic—I suggest you take some now and find your rest.”

I stand abruptly, annoyance twisting in my chest. But she is right—she is giving me the chance to leave this argument and still remain a contender for the Rites. I open my mouth, unsure what I even want to say, and Aythora looks at me pointedly. Her crimson eyes are infuriatingly reasonable.

“Fine,” I relent, holding up my hands.

Unable to stop myself, I give a sarcastic tap to my forehead and turn on my heel, meal abandoned.

Throwing the doors open, I stalk down the halls. My shoes clack loudly across the hard floor and pinch my already weary toes. Huffing, I pause and pull them off my feet. In a moment of insanity, I consider throwing them against the stained-glass windows. I picture both the shoes and the window shattering like ice.

The urge is fleeting. Dragon glass does not break so easily, and neither do I.