Chapter 37 Learning
Daisy crouched in the shadow of the stacks, the back of her throat tasting of old dust and older secrets. The library beneath the ruined university was colder than the streets above, more frigid than any stone cell she’d ever slept in, but the light was good, and the air held none of the usual stink. Someone had spent weeks hauling out the charred and crumbling, leaving only the leatherbound survivors. Even here, even in hiding, the city’s memory clung to everything.
Oliver slipped in behind her, silent as breath, and leaned against a shelf with the practiced indifference of someone who’d spent a lifetime in other people’s spaces. He watched her, eyes flickering with something sharp and unspoken. He’d claimed lookout duty, but so far all he’d done was scan the perimeter, then drift closer, drawn by the show.
Samuel, the old mage, stood at the far end of the table, his hands folded tight, every inch the patient teacher. He’d gone gray at the temples and walked with a hitch, wounded in the riots, some said, but there was nothing weak in the way he commanded the room. His voice, when it came, was soft but dense, like a brick wrapped in velvet.
“Focus on the shape, not the motion,” Samuel said. “Let the intent settle before you cut. Otherwise, you’ll lose the blood and the spell.”
Daisy pressed the knife to her palm. It was sharp, bone-handled, the kind she trusted. She’d sliced herself a hundred times for lesser reasons. Still, the moment before the pain was always the longest. She drew the blade, hissed, then squeezed her hand over the battered stone cup.
The blood pooled, thick and almost black in the lantern glow. Daisy watched it, waiting for the old rush—the call, the hunger, the whisper of Xeris in her head. But the cave-dragon’s presence was faint today. Maybe he was sleeping. Perhaps he was sulking. Maybe, for once, she was just alone in her skin.
Samuel moved closer, careful not to spook her. “Now, think small. Bird-sized, as we discussed.”
Daisy bit her lip, then pictured the sparrows from the tenement eaves. The color of them, the way their wings looked like ragged paper. She whispered the word, let it shape the air.
The blood shimmered, then twitched. It rose in a lazy spiral, coiling upward, almost elegant. Daisy felt it in her veins—a tingle, then a sharp, cold spark. The blood wobbled, stretched into something almost avian, then collapsed in a fat, wet slap on the table.
Oliver flinched. “Well, that’s something,” he muttered.
Samuel ignored him. “You lost the focus halfway through,” he said, picking up a rag to mop the mess. “But your control’s improving. Again.”
Daisy shook out her hand, wincing. “It’s like it doesn’t want to listen anymore. Like there’s a part of me that’s gone feral.”
Samuel snorted. “You’re part dragon, part street rat, and part wild card. Of course, you’re feral. But that’s what makes you dangerous.”
Oliver smirked, but there was worry in it. He watched as Daisy cleaned the knife on her sleeve. “You’re bleeding again,” he said, voice low.
She glanced at her palm. The cut was already closing, scales gleaming at the edge of the wound. They’d started as pinpricks of red along her wrist, but now they’d spread to her knuckles, her thumb. Last night, she’d found one on her cheekbone, sharp as a coin.
“It’s getting faster,” she said quietly.
Samuel nodded. “The bond accelerates under pressure. The more you use it, the more it uses you.”
Daisy looked up, meeting his gaze. “And when it’s done?”
He didn’t answer, just looked away and gestured at the next book. This one was a monster, four inches thick, the title stamped in gold leaf. Samuel flipped it open, careful with the brittle paper, and pointed to an illustration: a woman with arms like a serpent’s, her eyes just slits of gold, her mouth wide with teeth.
“The blood mages of the old city were wiped out for a reason,” he said. “Not because their magic was evil, but because the councils couldn’t control it. Too wild, too... democratic. Anyone with enough pain and enough blood could change the world.”
Daisy traced the picture with a finger. “So why do you trust me?”
Samuel shrugged. “I don’t. But I trust that you hate the city more than you want power.”
Oliver made a noise, almost a laugh. “That’s not saying much.”
Daisy braced her arm on the table, reset her mind. The city outside was a mess, patrols doubled, the wards at every bridge set to hair-trigger, but here, in the old stone, the rules felt different. She whispered the word again, pictured the bird, and sliced her palm a second time.
This time, the blood leapt up, shaped itself into a flinch, wings twitching. It hovered for a moment, red and bright, then fluttered across the table before dissolving in midair.
Oliver whooped, loud enough to echo. “Look at you! Little spirals’ got bite after all.”
Daisy glared at him, but the moment was ruined by a new pain, deeper than the cut. The scales along her arm thickened, spread up toward the elbow in a rush. She gasped, clutching her wrist.
Samuel grabbed her hand and inspected the transformation. His fingers pressed hard, almost cruel, but Daisy didn’t pull away.
“It’s happening faster than I thought,” he murmured. “We need to slow it down, or you’ll lose yourself before we finish the plan.”
Oliver edged closer, brushing a strand of hair off Daisy’s forehead. “Is she going to be okay?”
Samuel ignored him, rifling through the book with frantic precision. “There’s a binding in here, old, risky, but it might buy us a day or two.” He turned to Daisy. “You up for another lesson?”
She bared her teeth, scales glinting. “Always.”
Oliver lingered at her side, not quite touching but close enough to feel the heat of her skin. Daisy felt his pulse, fast and sharp, and knew he was scared, not just for her, but of her.
It made her want to win, to prove she could.
She leaned into the next cut, let the blood pool in her palm, and focused on the lesson.