Chapter 124 Brightwater Scars Part 2
Daisy tried to trace the lines, but the vision from the dying Eldergrove soldier came back to her—the circles, the daisies, the pulse of white fire. It made her stomach lurch.
She looked at Xeris, really looked: the way his jaw clenched as he talked, the blackened veins threading his wrists, the faint scent of sulfur that clung to him when his guard dropped. Daisy recalled the elders’ whispers about the decade he had sacrificed to bind a dying ley line—no one ever named the full cost, but she could see its mark on him now, etched in the haunted shadows beneath his eyes and the scars magic had carved into his skin. Those veins pricked something sharp inside her—a warning that even he could fail, that magic could rot the strongest. Part of her recoiled at the thought of depending on him, yet another part, buried and desperate, wanted to believe someone could survive the cost. He was holding himself together by willpower and whatever raw power dragons hoarded in their bones.
"I don’t know how to break it," she said. The words tasted like ash. For a moment, the memory pressed in: the last time she doubted herself, magic slipping away, and the cry of a friend she couldn’t save in time. That failure still haunted her, deep inside. Hesitating now felt almost like giving up.
He turned to face her, and for once, the arrogance was gone. “You do. You’ve already done it, three times over. That’s why they’re scared of you.”
“Doesn’t matter if I burn out before sunrise,” she shot back, harsher than intended.
He leaned in, close enough that her next breath shivered. “You’ll last as long as you have to. I’ll make sure of it.”
Daisy swallowed and pointed at the map. "The only way to break a chain is from the inside. We go to the heart of the pattern. We rip it out." Her voice was rough with determination, her focus unwavering on the plan: infiltrate the central plaza where the daisies converged, disrupt the runes channeling magical energy, and sever the network binding the city's power. The vision of the plaza—daisies encircling the cobbles, the charged air, and power waiting beneath—remained vivid, compelling her forward.
Xeris grinned, feral. “There’s my Chainbearer.”
The sun crested the city walls, bathing the room in sudden, savage light. It burned every scar and vein into sharp relief.
They stood like that, hands braced on the table, the heat between them nearly as strong as the magic. Daisy leaned in, drawn by the tension, but Xeris stayed stiff, jaw tight, not meeting her eyes. For a moment, it felt like one of them might break or step away, but neither did. Something stubborn and silent hung between them, full of challenge and invitation. He held a sheaf of paper in one hand and a glass vial in the other.
“Bad news,” Delia said, not bothering to greet either of them. She held out the vial; inside, blood floated in suspension, thick and luminous as ruby, a faint shimmer running through it.
“They’re pulling samples,” she said, voice brittle. “From every major blood mage who worked the wall last night. Eldergrove healers are collecting it, saying it’s for testing, but I know the vials. They’re enchanted. You can’t analyze blood with these. They’re for extraction.”
For a moment, Delia's hand gripped the vial so tightly her knuckles blanched, an act revealing the desperation that simmered beneath her composure. Daisy, witnessing this, saw Delia’s mask slip at last: every carefully maintained measure of calm fell away, replaced by raw apprehension and pain. The blood suspended in glass was more than a sample—it was an intimate part of Delia’s identity, her very lifeblood of magic and meaning. The thought of Willow or Ironclaw wielding this power was almost unendurable; Delia’s magic, so integral to who she was, could be stripped away, rendering her not merely powerless but fundamentally diminished. To lose one’s blood in this way was to begin an insidious unraveling—not a brief loss, but an erasure of self that would persist. Once harnessed in the chain ritual, the mage’s bond to magic would be irreparably severed. The process resembled not just the hollowing of a person, but the extinguishing of everything that made them whole, leaving only an empty shell. Daisy imagined Delia enduring the siege only to be left devoid of what defined her, her power irretrievably lost. The realization struck with renewed ferocity: they’re stockpiling enough to run the chain without us, and at a devastating personal cost.
Delia nodded. “Or with us, as fuel. Either way, it’s bad.”
Xeris took the vial, turning it in his fingers. “It’s almost elegant. Turn the defenders into batteries. Use the city’s last stand to power your enemy.”
Daisy made herself look at Delia. “How many did they get?”
“Too many,” Delia said. “Including me. I didn’t realize until it was done.”
Daisy felt the air go heavy. Delia wasn’t a fighter, but her magic had held the city together when nothing else could. The thought of that power being twisted and drained by Willow or Ironclaw made Daisy want to smash something. Instead, she gripped the table, nails digging into the wood, and then, before she knew it, grabbed a chipped cup and threw it at the stone floor. Porcelain shattered, sharp and sudden. The sound was too loud, the pieces scattering at their feet. Daisy’s breath came fast. For a moment, everyone froze; her anger was out in the open, brighter and more fragile than she’d ever shown. She stared at the shards, trying to steady herself.
“We have to warn the others,” Daisy said.
Xeris shook his head. “Too late. The pattern is set. All we can do is break it. Fast, and loud, before they close the net.”
Delia sat, all the fight wrung from her. She looked at Daisy, then at Xeris, a question in her eyes. “You can still break a chain?”
Daisy shrugged, not trusting herself to answer.
The door banged open, and Oliver stumbled in, chest heaving, a bloody envelope clutched in his hand. He didn’t stop for breath, just slapped the envelope on the map between Daisy and Xeris.
“Got it from Willow’s room,” he said. “She wasn’t even hiding it. Letterhead’s Ironclaw, signature’s the Emperor’s own.”
He bent double, hands on his knees. Daisy saw the scratch on his cheek, the way his shirt was torn at the collar. She felt the prickle of heat behind her eyes, but forced it down.
Xeris snatched the envelope, tore it open, and scanned. “They’re coming tonight. Willow sold out the city for a seat at the table.”
Delia made a sound, halfway between a sob and a laugh. “Of course she did.”
Daisy turned to Oliver, meeting his eyes. He looked tired, older, but the grin hadn’t left his lips.
“Glad you’re not dead,” he said, reaching out to steady her. His hand found the small of her back, hot through the fabric.
Xeris’s eyes narrowed, golden irises slitting to vertical for a heartbeat. Daisy felt the heat rise again—not just magic, but the pulse of something far more primal.
She pulled away from both of them, hands shaking.
“We go to the city’s center,” she said. “We take out the daisies. We end it, or we die trying.”
She looked at each of them, her voice steady and fierce. "We stay alive. All of us. Together." No one argued. Around them, the first rays of sunlight filtered through the broken glass, shadows and colors tensing on ash and stone. Together, they turned to face the battered city—bound not just by magic but by the promises they made. Whatever waited at the heart of Brightwater, they would face it side by side.