Chapter 107 A Ceremony
That evening, under a sky choked with storm clouds and the constant flicker of distant battle, the city’s central plaza filled with people. The air vibrated with the tension of a crowd that knew it might be their last night alive: old soldiers in ill-fitting armor, merchants who had traded coin for crossbows, children whose faces were painted not for a festival but for the war that would reach them soon.
Mira and Samuel had set up a ring of mage-lights on the plaza’s edge, each tuned to a frequency that distorted sound and sight, creating an amphitheater of unbreakable privacy. At the center of the ring, Daisy stood with Lady Willow, surrounded by an honor guard of both Brightwater militia and Eldergrove’s more exotic warriors. The antlered man had replaced his armor with a robe made entirely of woven grass, and the effect was both ridiculous and terrifying.
The ritual was simple but brutal: Daisy and Willow clasped hands, and the assembled witnesses formed a circle around them. Willow spoke first, her words a blend of old tongue and new, carrying over the crowd and echoing back from the stone walls in waves. Her invocation referenced the ancient pact between the Treecarvers and the River Sentinels, whose oath once brought prosperity and peace to the realm, only to end in betrayal when ambition overrode their unity. The legend weighed heavily in the air, reminding everyone of the thin line between triumph and downfall.
“By root and branch, by blood and bone, we make common cause. Brightwater and Eldergrove, united for one purpose: the breaking of Ironclaw.”
Daisy echoed the vow, her voice steadier than she’d expected: “By the chain that binds me, by the will of this city, I accept.”
Willow brought out a second blade, identical to the first but pulsing in time with Daisy’s heartbeat. Together, they cut shallow lines in their palms and pressed their hands together, letting their blood mix. The ritual’s magic worked instantly: vines shot up from the plaza’s cracks, entwining their wrists and coiling up Daisy’s arm. The sensation, both ticklish and raw, reminded Daisy of the pain and vulnerability inherent in alliance. The vines, however, could only reach just above her elbow—a limit set by Daisy’s will and innate resistance to outside magic. This resistance was not merely defensive, but symbolic: Daisy’s capacity to restrict the magic’s influence represented Brightwater’s struggle to accept help without surrendering autonomy. The ritual underscored the alliance’s potential and danger, capturing in a single act the intricate balance between shared strength and self-governance.
Daisy felt the chain inside her react, a low hum moving through her veins. She held on, even as the magic in Willow’s blood tried to map her, searching for the seams and weak spots in her pattern. For a split second, a tremor of doubt flickered through her mind—what if she miscalculated, what if Willow’s magic was stronger than she anticipated? The thought chilled her resolve, but Daisy remembered Xeris’s lesson: a shared load and a mutual bond, but only if both sides allowed it.
She focused and shifted the chain’s resonance to a frequency just beyond Willow’s reach, then let the spell settle. The vines stopped moving, their tips opening into pale flowers that dripped with something that could have been dew or maybe the last of her own blood.
Willow’s eyes widened, just a touch, and Daisy knew the move had been noticed. But Willow smiled, and in the crowd, Mira Stone nodded approval.
It was finished. The alliance was sealed, and the city now faced a new set of problems.
After the ceremony, Daisy drifted through the plaza, people parting before her as if afraid to touch the living vines still wrapped around her arm. Delia intercepted her near the edge of the crowd, pressing a cloth to Daisy’s bleeding hand.
“Don’t let it scar,” Delia warned, voice thick with relief and pride and something else Daisy couldn’t name.
Daisy managed a laugh. “Scars are free advertising.”
She searched for Oliver, but he was gone. Instead, she found Xeris near the north gate, his face half in shadow and his presence so intense that others stayed ten paces away.
He joined her without saying anything. They walked together for a while, listening to the city’s murmur, the crackle of mage-lights, and the distant, hungry chanting from the Ironclaw camps.
“You saw what Willow tried,” Xeris said at last, eyes gleaming like knives, echoing that predatory look Daisy had seen in Willow’s eyes earlier. “She wants the chain.”
“She’s welcome to try,” Daisy replied, showing him her arm. “I can twist it as hard as anyone.”
Xeris’s mouth curled in approval. “Good. The fey only respect power. Kindness is lost on them.”
Daisy felt the weight of the ritual settling onto her bones. “Doesn’t matter if the council survives the week. Eldergrove’s magic is stronger than I thought.”
Xeris looked at her, and for the first time, Daisy saw a real glint of pride in his eyes, not the sarcastic kind she was used to.
“You’re becoming what you need to be,” he said. “Not what you want.”
She nodded, feeling the ache in her hand, the pull in her chest, and the steady hum of the city’s chain growing tighter.
“Let’s just hope it’s enough,” Daisy said, her voice quiet and tense in the cool night air. The cheers behind them faded, barely covering the steady hum of the chain, which matched her growing dread and made it feel like the whole city was holding its breath. She remembered why Ironclaw was feared: their armies moved in shadows, driven by old cruelty and a hunger for conquest that never ended. Ironclaw wanted more than victory; they aimed to wipe out all resistance with ruthless efficiency. The crowd’s cheers faded behind her, replaced by the low music of the fey. The city shimmered, ready for war, and Daisy kept walking, unsure who would break her first: the Ironclaw, the fey, or her own heart.