Chapter 143 The Real Mira?
The scent of scorched moss slammed into Daisy, sharp and bitter, as if the earth itself had been wounded. Her skin prickled. Oliver burst from the treeline, pale and bleeding, chest heaving as he clutched his blade tight, scanning for threats only he could sense.
Behind Daisy, Xeris loomed, hot and angry. Something was unsettling about him—she could never decide if he was a guardian or a shadow. The ghostly handprint from the root chamber still lingered, half-warning, half-comfort, a bond deeper than she cared to name. She told herself it meant nothing, but Oliver’s eyes found the mark, and silence widened between them. Daisy wondered if he suspected her loyalty to Xeris was more than protection.
“You won’t like this,” Oliver said. “Scouts at the valley’s mouth. Eldergrove’s sent at least three. Waiting for a signal or a mistake.” Daisy’s pulse skipped at the name; Oliver’s knuckles whitened on his blade. No one had to say what Eldergrove scouts meant.
Daisy almost laughed. “Isn’t it always a mistake?”
Oliver held her gaze. “We can’t hide forever, Pest. Others are looking too.”
A crash split the air: metal clanged against stone, the warning bell ringing out—three urgent, grim notes. Response was instant. The ritual call summoned everyone to shelter. But this time, its frantic edge sent Daisy bristling; shouts exploded, a tense ripple moving through the valley, almost a scream.
Oliver’s grip tightened as he spoke. “And I found something in Mira’s pack.” He shakily produced a ceramic daisy, its petals oily and shiny. “Wrapped like a secret.”
Daisy stared at it. “She’s one of them?”
“Maybe.” Oliver’s voice cracked. “Or someone’s setting her up to look like it.”
Xeris exhaled, a sound like a furnace. “We find her now. Before the scouts do.”
Daisy and Oliver sprinted through the village, Xeris silent behind them. Fog burned off in the high light, leaving everything exposed. Villagers peeked from doorways, eyes wide, watching the strangers pass with the detached doom reserved for wildfires.
They found Mira at the communal fire, speaking in low tones with the older men who managed the ovens. Her hood shadowed her features but didn’t hide them. She appeared calm and self-possessed, but her composure seemed practiced—a deliberate show of being untroubled.
Daisy stepped forward quickly, seized Mira’s wrist, and yanked her upright. The sudden motion knocked bread from Mira’s lap into the embers; the older men around the fire watched the clash without flinching or turning away.
Daisy jabbed the daisy near Mira’s face. “Where’d this come from?”
Mira blinked, her composure faltering as uncertainty clouded her face. For a moment, fear and confusion flickered in her eyes, exposing her vulnerability. “That’s not mine,” she said, strained.
Daisy bared her teeth. “Show me your hands.”
Mira’s fingers were bare, unbandaged. As Daisy twisted her arm, she saw a faint blue stain at the cuticle—the same color as the daisy’s glaze. With sunlight, the blue shimmered, sending fine threads of silvery heat through Mira’s skin, stinging the air between them. Daisy smelled something bitter and metallic, as if the air shifted around the color. For a heartbeat, the silvery heat twisted into a half-formed symbol tugging at Daisy’s memory. Was the glaze binding or tracking? Either way, danger threatened the whole village, not just her. Xeris stepped closer, eyes narrowed, wary of any threat to Daisy or the group.
Mira yanked her hand back. “What are you accusing me of?”
Oliver faltered, blade wavering. “Are you?” he asked, voice rough.
There was a scuffle behind them. Delia burst into the square, hair wild, her own arms flecked with blood—Maribel’s or her own, Daisy couldn’t tell. “It’s Maribel,” she said, “she’s—” but she caught sight of the tableau and stopped cold.
Elder Fern was there, too, drifting in on her crooked staff. She didn’t say a word, just watched, lips pursed.
Daisy narrowed her eyes. “Where were you, Mira, just now?”
“Here since dawn,” Mira replied, too flat.
Oliver shook his head. “No. I saw you by the east ridge, minutes ago.”
Mira met Oliver’s gaze, then looked away. Daisy felt each moment sharpen: her own pulse thudded in her ear, villagers’ breath filled the hush, footsteps pounded gravel too close. Each heartbeat carved out dread, stretching the silence—Mira was stalling, every second tightening the noose.
“We hunt the real one,” Xeris said, voice like iron.
Daisy and Oliver hurried after Xeris, who led them as he moved with purpose through the village. They pushed open doors and looked inside every hut and shelter, searching among the frightened, the sick, and the old who watched them pass.
Daisy’s mind snagged on a memory: the root cellar under Elder Fern’s home, where cold breath lingered and a hush pressed against the earth. Even as a child, that damp stillness had unsettled her, whispering secrets beneath the floorboards. Now, unease twisting in her gut, she thought of the cellar again.
She reached Elder Fern’s root cellar, grabbed the hatch, flung it open, and climbed down. The air below was thick with the smell of mold and rotting vegetables. Daisy’s eyes adjusted, and she saw a bound figure shift at the far end of the cellar; she blinked, recognition dawning slowly as she moved closer.
Mira. The real one.
Her eyes fluttered open at Daisy’s approach. “Took you long enough,” she said, her voice hoarse.
Daisy cut the ropes. Mira’s hands, raw and broken, trembled as she stood and steadied herself on Daisy’s shoulder.
“Who—?”
“Not sure,” Daisy said. “But we’re about to find out.”
They stormed out into the sunlight. The square was chaos: flames danced high at the fire pit, smoke streaming. Villagers massed around the fire, pushing the action to the edge of the flames. The false Mira stood poised at the brink, arms out, wild-eyed. Xeris pinned her in a half-chokehold against stacked wood, blocking her path to the gate. She tensed, fighting not to escape, but for the crowd’s attention.
“Listen to me!” the impostor screamed. “You don’t know what’s coming for you!”
Daisy saw the impostor’s skin shimmer—more like light warping than magic. As she tore free from Xeris and turned, silver tattoos showed under her skin. The pattern matched the daisies, the chain, the curse. A jolt shot through Daisy’s arms and spine—prickling cold, as if those lines resonated with her own hidden marks. The chain’s humming quickened, electric dread echoing in her bones. The chain was more than a curse; it was an inheritance—a promise made and broken. It was both prison and key, connecting her to the power just beneath her skin. Now she felt its weight and memory pressing close. The echo of old vows threatened to break her, or let her rise.
“Too late, Chainbreaker,” the impostor spat. “The Emperor knows. He sees you—everything.”
Pain flared up in Daisy’s arms and spine like fire.
Daisy called out, “Who the hell are you?”
The impostor smiled; her skin split at the mouth, as if it had forgotten how to be human. “I am every failed chain, every echo. I’m here to make sure you don’t break the cycle.” Daisy flinched, the words dragging up something cold and ancient from her memory. As a child, she’d called herself a failed chain, a weak link. Stories of the Binding—the blood oath under a bleeding moon, the power bound by bloodline, and the suffering it brought—filled her childhood. The Binding meant that each generation produced one marked by the chain, tasked with upholding or betraying its legacy—a struggle doomed to repeat itself. The impostor’s words invoked this myth, driving home Daisy’s inherited duty and inevitable conflict as old wounds reopened inside her.
She hurled herself into the fire. Flame erupted—and for a flash, Daisy braced for an inferno. But the flame ripped through the impostor; she burst into a thousand silver motes, scattering and crawling into the air, seeking new ground.
Xeris caught Daisy’s arm as she staggered. “She wasn’t real,” he said, the words more for himself than her. “Just a shadow.”
“She found us,” Daisy said, voice shaking.
They turned to see the villagers staring, not at them, but at the sky. Above, the mist roiled, and in its depths, Daisy saw a single red light burning, a flare or a beacon. The valley’s protection was breached. It was the same searing color she remembered from her dreams, that impossible red always pulsing just beyond her reach, promising ruin the moment she allowed herself to hesitate. For a split second, Daisy understood: the Emperor himself desired the valley, not just as a conquest but as the key to ancient power, the chain that ran through Daisy’s blood and the earth below. He hunted her, not only to end the Chainbreaker line, but to seize the valley’s secret—the force that had held him at bay for generations. If he succeeded, there would be no shield left between his hunger and the world. She remembered, with a cold clarity, the promise she had made beneath the roots: never to let fear hold her still, never to be the weak link her enemies wanted her to believe she was. Now, watching that beacon cut through the sky and the valley’s old defenses, Daisy could feel the chain in her blood answer the call, hunger waking in every cell. What was coming for them was more than an enemy; it was the fulfillment of the fear she had been trying to outrun.
Delia knelt by Maribel, who had collapsed in the doorway of the cottage. The older woman’s lips moved, whispering a name—Daisy’s, over and over, the word slurred by fever and pain.
The real Mira, hands still bleeding, staggered to Daisy’s side. “They know where we are,” she said. “We have hours, maybe less.”
Daisy watched as the silver motes sank into the earth, each one leaving a faint glimmer on the roots and stones. The daisies in the valley turned, ever so slightly, petals facing her.
She looked at Xeris, at Oliver, at Delia, at what was left of her mother. She squared her shoulders, refusing to let the fear settle in.
“Then we don’t give them the fight they want,” Daisy said. “We write our own ending.”
Xeris bared his teeth. “We break the chain.”
“Or die trying,” Oliver added, but the words were proud.
Daisy watched the last of the silver vanish into the soil. She touched the veins on her arms, felt the chain’s hum, and found in it a music that belonged to no one but her.