Chapter 87 Negotiations
The Council Hall had once hosted masquerades and weddings, the kind where blue-bloods drank each other’s coin and plotted which second cousins to sacrifice on the altar of dynastic ambition. Now, sunlight slanted through cracked windows and pooled on mismatched tables scavenged from half the city, their legs sawed short to make the council sit in a circle, eye to eye. The only thing grand left was the ceiling: a riot of peeling gold leaf and faded cherubs, all staring down at the new order as if awaiting judgment.
Daisy arrived last, as was the custom for anyone who wanted to see who’d survived the night before. She scanned the room: Mira Stone kept to the shadows, eyes fixed on the visitors; Samuel Thompson sat ramrod-straight and glowered at the Ironclaw guards, daring them to make the first mistake; Delia lingered near the doors with a basket of bandages in case anyone tried a dramatic exit. Xeris took the seat to Daisy’s left, looking for all the world as if he’d never heard of the word “guest” and would like to keep it that way.
The Ironclaw delegation lined up on the opposite side, six men and women in matching midnight livery. They stood, refusing to sit in the egalitarian circle, which Daisy found both funny and exhausting. At their center, Thorne loomed: taller than he had seemed from the tower, but with the kind of build that suggested he’d never lifted anything heavier than a ceremonial blade. His robe was so black it made the rest of the room look dirty by comparison, the threads catching light only to choke it out. On his head perched a circlet, jet and silver, but the real offense was the man’s skin: white as unfinished wax, veins writhing beneath the surface, his lips a bruised purple.
Daisy met his eyes and found them violet, not the soft blue of a child, but the bruised, necrotic purple of a dead noble’s eye sockets. She kept her face smooth.
“On behalf of the Emperor, I am charged to bring the blessings of Ironclaw to your remarkable city.” Thorne’s voice was oil poured onto a razor: slick, but never safe to touch. “We celebrate your triumph over the old tyrants. In fact, our master finds inspiration in your courage.” He let the word hang, letting everyone parse out just how much “inspiration” an empire built on broken backs could muster.
Daisy inclined her head, the bare minimum of respect. “We appreciate your message. Brightwater stands for its people now. No tyrants, foreign or local.”
A smile crept across Thorne’s mouth, the kind that left teeth exposed a fraction too long. “Yet your walls bristle with steel and magic. You must have anticipated a less diplomatic reception?”
She shrugged. “Experience teaches.”
Xeris’s hand rested on the table, fingers spread as if testing the grain for weak points. He didn’t look at Thorne, but the delegation leader’s gaze kept returning to him, the way crows circle a bone they haven’t yet figured out how to crack.
Thorne shifted, and for the first time deigned to sit. It was a calculated insult: he lowered himself with slow, contemptuous elegance, waiting for his guards to follow suit. The wood creaked, and the sound carried through the hall like a challenge.
“Your new governance structure is innovative,” Thorne observed. He nodded at the round table, its symbolism dripping from every scratch. “But I am told you possess something even more unique.” His eyes moved to Daisy, then to Xeris, then back again. “The people sing songs, you know. About a girl with a dragon’s blood.”
Daisy braced herself for the sting, but found only amusement. “City’s always loved a story.”
“Does it?” Thorne asked, chin tilting down. “Or do the people simply hunger for something greater than themselves?”
He produced a thin parcel from the folds of his sleeve. It was bound in black silk, so fine it nearly floated in his hand. “A token of esteem. A small courtesy, from one house of survivors to another.”
He unwrapped it on the table. Inside lay three figurines, each carved from obsidian and polished until they glowed like water in the moonlight. One was a wolf, another a snake, and the third, a daisy, petals sharp and spread wide, every edge perfect as a blade. Each sat on a pedestal of red stone, veins running through it like ancient blood.
Daisy reached for hers. The obsidian was cold, but the daisy’s center pulsed with a faint heat, almost a heartbeat. She turned it over and found, embedded in the base, a web of pale ceramic threads, packed so tight they hummed under her thumb.
Magic. Old, subtle, and nothing like the firework curses used by the city’s enforcers.
She looked to Xeris; his lips barely moved, but she caught the word anyway: “Trap.”
Thorne leaned forward, hands folded like a cleric’s. “The Emperor would have you display these tokens in your hall, to remind all of your ascension. To remind the city that great things begin small, but are always watched by those who matter.”
The implied threat left a sourness in the air. Daisy set the figurine back on the table, careful not to let her revulsion show.
“We will display them,” she said, “where everyone can see.”
Thorne inclined his head. “Excellent. Perhaps, in time, Brightwater will see the wisdom of partnership. The Empire rewards loyalty.”
A flick of his eyes toward the others: Mira Stone, who smiled without moving a muscle; Delia, who hugged her basket a little tighter; and Samuel, who pressed his lips so thin they nearly disappeared.
Daisy picked up the figurine again and stared at the lines in the stone, the careful artistry of the petals. Underneath, she heard the council’s nervous breath, the muttered half-prayers, the creak of ancient furniture, and the unseen gears of politics grinding on.
“We’re done here,” Daisy said, not to Thorne but to her own people. She stood, and the motion made a few of the Ironclaw guards reach for their weapons before remembering themselves. “Brightwater welcomes honest trade. But we kneel to no one.”
For a moment, she thought Thorne might explode, or turn to mist, or just evaporate out of sheer irritation. Instead, he stood and bowed, a gesture so theatrical it made the rest of his performance look genuine by comparison.
“As you wish, Lady Smithson.”
He left the obsidian figurines behind, and Daisy watched as the delegation filed out, a parade of pride, paranoia, and veiled threats. The sunlight caught the dust in the air, and for a moment the room looked almost holy, until Xeris crushed that notion with a single, scathing glance.
Mira Stone approached the table and picked up the wolf. She sniffed it, then set it down and wiped her fingers on her cloak. “I’ll see what I can do with these. Maybe they’re just listening, but I suspect there’s poison in the bite.”
Samuel grunted. “They’ll be back.”
Daisy nodded. “Let them come. We’ll have a better answer next time.”
She pocketed the obsidian daisy, pulse thudding in her throat. Around her, the council murmured approval, relief, and plans for dinner. Xeris remained still as a statue, but when Daisy stood close to him, she felt the heat rolling off him in waves.
“They won’t stop,” he said, so quietly only she could hear.
Daisy smiled, bitter and real. “Neither will we.”
She left the room first, this time not to see who survived, but to decide who would.