Chapter 43 There is no Pity
They found the alcove behind a wall of living greenery, ivy and red-blossomed vine, all threaded through with invisible wards and the faint copper reek of old magic. Eleanora didn’t speak at first. She waited until the music was a distant pulse and the laughter was someone else’s, then turned to Daisy, eyes hollowed out by something worse than exhaustion.
She produced the scrolls with a thief’s hands, all trembling grace. “I stole these from my father’s office,” she whispered, voice so small it didn’t seem to belong in the Ravensworth line. “They’re older than the castle. Older than my family, even.”
The parchment was stiff, the color of old bone. Eleanora unrolled it, careful not to tear the edge, and Daisy saw rows of spirals, black-red and perfect, drawn by someone who had spent their life thinking in circles. At the center: a tree, its roots tangled with the same spiral, its branches topped with names. Most of what she didn’t recognize. Some she did. All were dead.
At the bottom, a new set of diagrams. The spiral, but tighter, layered in three, like it wanted to squeeze the life out of something. A circle of names, and in the center, in neat, nervous ink: Eleanora Ravensworth.
Daisy touched the spot with her nail. “He’s going to sacrifice you.”
Eleanora flinched, but didn’t deny it. “He doesn’t want an heir. He wants a key.” She swallowed, and for the first time, Daisy saw her as human, not just a walking sword. “The ritual is designed to bind whatever power you bring. The city will eat you, and use me as the anchor.”
Daisy exhaled, her breath fogging the air. “So why help me?”
Eleanora’s laugh was dry as powder. “Because if I let him win, I’m already dead.”
She rolled the scroll tight, tucking it back into the hidden seam in her dress. “My father is not the only monster here. If you can’t break the chain, at least ruin the next link.”
Daisy felt the urge to say something comforting, but the words withered before they made it out. “That’s a lot of hope to put on a street rat.”
Eleanora met her gaze, the old fire burning there again. “I’ve bet on worse.”
They stood, the moment raw, until a cough shattered it.
Cornelius Blackwood stood at the entry, suit immaculate, scar glinting in the wardlight. “Ladies,” he said, voice neutral, eyes anywhere but the scroll. “You’re missing the show.”
Eleanora snapped to, mask sliding back into place. “We were just freshening up. Unless you intend to arrest us for being unfashionably late?”
Cornelius’s mouth flickered with something like pity. “Not tonight.” He looked at Daisy, and for a moment she wondered if he recognized her through the glamour. His gaze lingered, and she saw the moment he pieced it together. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded, the smallest gesture, as if to say: I see you. Then, loud enough for any spies in earshot: “Lord Ravensworth requests all guests in the ballroom for the grand unveiling.”
Eleanora linked arms with Daisy, and together they swept back into the carnage.
The ballroom had changed. The dancing had stopped; now every guest was pressed tight to the edge of the floor, eyes fixed on a raised dais in the center. There, beneath the chandelier, stood a machine, no, a sculpture of crystal and steel, its core pulsing with a red so deep it hurt to look at. Chains of glass snaked out from the base, ending in silver collars, and around the edge, mirrors reflected the device into infinity.
Lord Ravensworth took the stage, hands folded behind his back. His voice filled the room without a single amplifier spell. “For centuries, this city has survived on borrowed power, beasts, bloodlines, luck. We have been at the mercy of the unpredictable.” He gestured to the machine. “Now, at last, we harness it. No more risk. No more accidents. All magic, pure and controlled, fed directly to the Council. For the prosperity of all.”
A ripple of applause. Daisy scanned the crowd, saw Mira Stone watching with cold calculation, the twins from the slum block eyeing the machine with open terror, and her own family, still perched at the rear, Maribel looking gray and barely upright.
Next to her, Eleanora’s grip was iron. “He’ll start with a demonstration,” she whispered. “A volunteer, maybe a beast, or a dissident. Something to frighten the others into compliance.”
On cue, two guards dragged a prisoner to the dais, a woman in ragged gray, her arms inked with failed tattoos, blood caked to one side of her head. Daisy recognized her. She’d run with the canals, a runner for Samuel’s group. Now she looked barely alive.
Ravensworth stroked her hair as if she were a pet. “This is what happens to power that refuses to be tamed.” He snapped his fingers, and the guards snapped the collar around her neck.
The machine hummed, then screamed. The runner’s eyes went wide, and a red haze rose from her skin, drifting into the machine. She gasped, once, then fell limp. The machine’s crystal heart flared, casting blood-light over the whole room.
The applause was louder this time. Some of the nobles laughed, genuinely delighted.
Daisy bit her tongue, hard enough to taste iron.
“Stay sharp,” Eleanora hissed. “We’re not done.”
As the crowd pressed forward, Daisy’s family was swept to the front. Rose clung to Maribel, who looked right at Daisy, through every layer of glamour and pretense. She mouthed something. Daisy couldn’t hear, but she saw the word.
Daisy.
She almost lost it. The glamour slipped; her skin crawled, the scales itching to rise. Maribel’s eyes widened, and for a heartbeat, Daisy thought she’d scream, expose them all.
But then, a crash: glass and silver, a tray of drinks upended, liquor spraying across the floor. Cornelius, all calm precision, had let it fly. The crowd’s attention swung to the mess, and in the confusion, Eleanora grabbed Daisy’s hand and yanked her out a side door.
They ran, shoes scraping marble, Eleanora’s breath coming hard and fast. “We have to move,” she gasped. “He’ll try the ritual tonight.”
Daisy followed, blood boiling, thoughts a blur.
They reached a side corridor, lit only by the pulse of the machine in the ballroom. Eleanora doubled over, catching her breath. “You saw it. He’s past caring. If you don’t stop him, there’ll be nothing left for anyone. Not even the Council.”
Daisy knelt, trying not to shake. The glamour was gone now, the scales shining through, the spiral on her wrist black and hot. She looked at Eleanora, who was crying, silent tears tracking her perfect face.
For a second, Daisy hated her. For another, she pitied her.
Then she reached out, touched Eleanora’s wrist. “We’ll do it together.”
Eleanora nodded, wiped her face. “You’re sure?”
Daisy bared her new teeth, felt the dragon laughing in her blood. “I’m sure.”
They stood, side by side, facing the darkness, and started down the hall.
Somewhere behind them, the machine roared to life, and the city’s oldest hunger woke up for good.