Chapter 92 Mage Quarter Part 2
Samuel left, closing the door behind him with an authority that suggested he’d be listening anyway.
Daisy was acutely aware of the stained glass shadows on her face, the blood still drying on her hands, the way her pulse kicked up just from being alone with Oliver. He didn’t come closer right away; instead, he leaned on the desk, turning the hunk of blackboard over in his hands.
“You really like blowing things up,” he said. “Always did.”
She let the sarcasm hang between them, but he gave her a look, just a flicker, a quick up-and-down that made her skin feel suddenly too tight.
“You’re early,” Daisy said. “Thought you were casing the market district today.”
He shrugged. “Was, but then I heard the bells. Figured if the city got set on fire, it’d be from this end.” He tossed the blackboard chunk in the air and caught it. “Didn’t expect to find you being schooled by the old man.”
“Someone has to teach me,” Daisy said. She realized too late how close the words skirted to bitterness.
Oliver heard it, of course. “You don’t need a teacher,” he said softly. “You never did.”
He pushed off the desk and closed the distance in three steps. He brushed a strand of hair from her brow, fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary, then flicked away a fleck of burnt chalk from her jawline. His hand lingered at her cheek, his thumb grazing the edge of her ear.
“Little soot,” he said. “Makes you look dangerous.”
Daisy’s cheeks heated, and she swallowed the urge to lean in or say something stupid. Instead, she took a step back and wiped her hands on her trousers.
“You’re getting sentimental,” she accused, but the words came out soft, not sharp.
Oliver just smiled, all edges. “Someone has to be. Cities are full of brutes and ghosts now. Someone’s gotta keep it interesting.”
For a moment, the world shrank to just them, the sun pouring through red glass, the faint tang of iron and burned air, the knowledge that at any second, someone or something would crash through the door and ruin it all.
A second later, something did.
The first explosion rattled the glass, sending a halo of colored light shuddering down the wall. The second blast was louder, a deep percussion that rolled up from the river. The force of it rattled the panes, and several cracked, sending a rain of rainbow shards onto the tile.
Daisy and Oliver looked at each other, the old street logic kicking in instantly. He was already at the door, peering out, while she scooped up the sigil she’d just stabilized, letting it hover like a coin between her palms.
“What is it?” she asked.
Oliver scanned the corridor. “Eastern wall, by the old customs house.” He was already moving, herding her with a hand at her lower back, urgency crackling in the space between them. “Best if you stay behind me.”
She didn’t bother arguing. They hit the stairs at a dead run, Oliver taking them three at a time, Daisy right behind, the magic humming at her fingertips. She barely noticed the students and apprentices cowering in doorways, or the sudden stampede of militia headed the opposite direction. She only saw the way the world seemed to lean, all its intent focused on the smoke pillar rising over the city’s rooftops.
They burst out onto the street. Daisy’s eyes watered from the sharp tang of burning wood and the chemical stink of aetheric fire. Crowds gathered at the edge of the main thoroughfare, held back by nervous guards. Even from blocks away, she could see the breach, an ugly black scar ripped through the city wall, stone still glowing red at the edges.
Oliver kept his hand on her, guiding her through side alleys and across the crowded square. His grip was firm, but not possessive; it was the touch of someone who’d pulled her out of enough fires to know she could handle herself, but still refused to let go.
They rounded a corner and ran straight into a human barricade, six guards in mismatched armor, faces grim and set.
“She’s needed at the breach,” Oliver barked, and though his tone was pure bravado, the guards parted after a single look at Daisy’s blood-stained hands.
They made it to the front line in under a minute. The street here was chaos: bodies everywhere, some moving, some not. A cluster of city militia braced behind upturned wagons, their crossbows aimed at something she couldn’t see yet. Beyond the wagons, a handful of black-clad figures moved with deliberate purpose, setting up tripod devices that glimmered with unstable light.
Daisy recognized the sigils etched into their sleeves, Ironclaw, but different. She’d seen them in old books, never in person: the Veilseekers, rumored to be the Empire’s last-resort saboteurs, men and women who’d cut their own tongues to silence the secrets they carried.
She let the blood magic rise, feeling the spell tingle at the edge of her skin. Beside her, Oliver grabbed a crossbow off a fallen guard and loaded it, his hands steady even as the air around them vibrated with panic.
“Showtime,” he said, and winked.
Before Daisy could reply, a Veilseeker spotted her and shouted a command, a sound like glass shattering. The black-clad figures redirected all their efforts toward her, two of them leveling hexrods that spat a stream of blue energy directly at the barricade.
Daisy braced for the impact, but the first bolt fizzled as it hit the edge of her sigil, which hovered in front of her like a spinning shield. The second struck true, burning a hole through the wagon, but missed her by a handbreadth.
She didn’t wait for a third. Daisy slashed her palm open with a practiced move, shaping the blood in midair. She didn’t bother with subtlety; she summoned a snarl of binding, then lobbed it at the nearest enemy. The spell struck, wrapping the Veilseeker in a net of glowing gold that solidified into razor-thin wire. He convulsed once and fell.
Another raised his hexrod, but Oliver was faster. He fired the crossbow point-blank into the man’s chest, then ducked back behind the barricade.
Two left. Daisy reached deep, pushing past the ache in her bones, and threw a sigil at the third, who tried to shield himself with an iron-braced arm. The spell caught his shield, melted it like butter, and sent the man flying backward into the street.
The last Veilseeker hesitated. He dropped his weapon and fled, vaulting the wreckage of the customs house.
The whole fight had taken less than a minute.
Daisy turned, ready to check on Oliver, but found Xeris already at her side, in full human shape but with a look that bordered on inhuman: his eyes glowed molten, and his hands were twisted just enough to suggest claws.
“If you two are quite finished,” he said, voice cold as river ice, “the city is under attack.”
Daisy, catching her breath, tried to think of something clever to say, but the weight of his gaze, and the way Oliver’s hand remained at her hip, made her feel suddenly off-balance.
She looked up at the ruined wall, the line of smoke curling into the sky. The people of Brightwater stared at her, some with awe, some with terror, most just desperate for someone to tell them what to do next.
Daisy wiped her hand on her shirt, then pointed at the breach.
“Let’s finish it,” she said.
And together. Xeris glowering, Oliver grinning, Daisy feeling the pull of two entirely different futures. They plunged into the wreckage, ready to hold the city or burn with it.