Chapter 170 Everything Goes to Hell Part 2
There was no solace in the city’s emptiness, not for Daisy and not for Oliver. They limped through the outer wards, huddled beneath the decaying awnings of deserted houses, always alert for the scrape of armored boots or the hiss of chain magic in the gutters. The storm had passed, but in its wake lingered a darkness deeper than any night Daisy had ever known. Brightwater, once the beating heart of the kingdom, now felt hollow, its traditions washed out in fear. The sky pressed down, a bruise over Brightwater, and the old daisy marks glimmered along every wall, tracking them wherever they went. The daisy marks, ancient symbols said to bind the city’s fate and its people, seemed to watch Daisy with every step—both a warning and a reminder that the Emperor's grip was everywhere.
They moved in silence, mouths dry, the only sound the soft crunch of broken glass underfoot.
At the edge of the weaver’s district, Oliver stopped and braced himself on a wall, fingers trembling. Daisy reached for him, but he shook her off, jaw set. “Just a stitch,” he managed. “Just need a second.”
She placed her hand on his shoulder anyway. He flinched, but didn’t pull away. The veins on her arm had crept to her cheek, veining the side of her face, narrow black lines that pulsed with faint light, their darkness an unmistakable sign of the Emperor’s magic at work. Daisy knew what it meant: each branch threading deeper was a risk. If the marks reached her eyes, there would be no going back. Some called it the chain’s blessing, others a curse—most kept their distance, fearing a burst of raw power or a sudden, deadly turn. It should have terrified him, but if anything, he looked fierce with pride.
They slipped down back alleys, avoiding the main roads. Every block revealed fresh evidence of the Emperor’s purge: people clustered indoors, windows barricaded and painted over; patrols of Veilseeker acolytes, each one pulsing with cold, dead magic; the air thick with impending violence.
Daisy kept her head low, but the chain in her blood pulsed at every daisy ward. Each step demanded focus, battling the urge to turn back, to surrender. She ground her teeth and pushed on.
A few streets from the east wall, Oliver paused, leaning against a door. “We’re almost there,” he said, voice ragged. “Just have to—”
He jerked, eyes wide as a dart struck the side of his neck. Daisy saw the silver sliver embedded, then registered the faint whistle—she’d seen the dart before she’d heard it. Oliver’s hand twitched upward, but he could not make his arm obey.
Daisy spun, saw Vex Mordain emerge from the shadows. He glided, not walked, his mask gleaming in the gloom. Two Ironclaw guards flanked him, their armor streaked with fresh daisy blood.
“Found you,” Vex said. His voice was the sound of a knife sliding through silk.
Oliver tried to speak, but his jaw locked, paralyzed by the dart. Daisy lunged for her knife. Vex moved quicker—he seized her wrist with one gloved hand and squeezed. Daisy felt the sharp crack as bones broke beneath his grip.
“None of that,” he whispered, pressing her arm behind her back.
Daisy screamed, pain lancing through her in cold waves. The chain in her veins erupted, jet flowers blossoming across her face and neck, her vision collapsing to a tunnel of agony.
Vex released her, letting her collapse to her knees. He lingered, expression caught between disappointment and something far sharper—a kind of hunger sharpened by personal ambition. “You were supposed to be smarter than this,” he said, his tone carrying not only disappointment but a subtle frustration, as if Daisy’s capture complicated his own designs. His gloved fingers brushed the chain marks searing along Daisy’s arm, as if assessing the Emperor’s magic with both expertise and longing, searching for evidence that her power might further his goals. “The Emperor’s chain is patient. You could have run to the end of the world, and it would have followed.” For a brief moment, his gaze flickered, betraying deliberate calculation—a recognition that Daisy’s resistance and the magic she carried might be harnessed, not just suppressed, to achieve aims of his own within the Emperor’s regime.
The guards hoisted Oliver, limp but frantic-eyed. Daisy reached for him, but Vex blocked her path.
“Goodbye, little flower,” he said.
Oliver met her gaze, his fogged eyes begging her: Run.
Daisy felt the chain in her blood snap. Not break, not free—just snap, as a leash yanked to its limit.
The world exploded.
Magic surged from her, black and raw, fracturing the alley’s mortar and sending fragments flying. The veins on her face split open, releasing daisy-blue fire in a thick haze that seeped into the cracks and walls. The first guard, nearest her, was hit by the force; his body convulsed violently before collapsing to the ground, limbs askew and unmoving. The second guard drew his blade, but chain magic shot out, wrapping around his throat and constricting until his struggles ceased and he fell, lifeless. The sudden eruption of power left deep scorch marks along the walls and shook the very ground, signaling to any nearby that something catastrophic had occurred.
Vex Mordain staggered back, taken aback for the first time. He raised his hand to strike, but Daisy’s rage lashed out in a force that shattered the glass in every window along the street. The mask cracked, revealing one wild, yellow eye.
He grinned, blood in his teeth. “There it is.”
But he didn't strike back. He let the guards drag Oliver away.
Daisy lurched after the guards dragging Oliver, but her legs buckled. She clawed at the pavement, nails splitting as she pulled herself forward. Every attempt to stand sent new waves of pain through her body, doubling each time.
At the end of the alley, Oliver managed one last look back. Even paralyzed, his face was alive with stubbornness.
She heard his voice, not in her ears, but in the chain: “Find me.”
Then the world went dark.
When Daisy woke, she was alone.
The veins covered her face, her arms, her chest—a suit of black armor pulsing with every heartbeat. Her skin felt tight, brittle, poised to break. She was in a wrecked shop, the shelves broken and the floor strewn with old papers.
She sat up, every joint screaming. The daisy locket burned hot against her skin, and for a moment, its pulse flooded her with dread and shame, as if the Emperor's words—You are the one. The last petal—were seared directly into her nerves. Forged long ago by the Emperor himself, the locket was more than a relic; its presence elicited both terror and resentment, for it was the source of his hold over her blood and power, binding them together as surely as any chain.
She thought of Cornelius, gone forever.
She thought of Oliver, caged, hurt.
She thought of her mother, Delia, and of every chain—literal and metaphorical—that had ever encircled their family. A sudden memory surfaced: Delia’s callused hands wrapping Daisy’s own in the kitchen, softly explaining that some chains are inherited at birth, while others are taken on by choice. Even then, Daisy noticed the way her mother’s eyes flickered with longstanding pain whenever the Emperor's symbol appeared on their doorstep, each appearance reinforcing the inescapable bond between their lineage and the chains of imperial control. The weight of this understanding pressed heavily in Daisy’s chest—these chains were not only tools of oppression but had become a central thread in her family’s legacy, each link forged and reinforced through both suffering and the determination to endure.
Daisy stood, shaky but alive.
She limped to the door, cracked it open, and looked out.
The city was dead quiet, every street empty, every window watching. In the sky above, a new daisy mark burned—a ring of black smoke, petals curling outward, its heart a flare of red.
It was calling her.
Daisy grinned, the skin of her face tearing at the motion.
She was done running.
She was going to break the chain, or die trying.