Chapter 113 Visions of What Might Come
This vision was different. It wasn’t a memory or a dream, but a hallway lined with ceramic daisies, each with a black spiral in the center. The hallway seemed endless, with mirrored walls showing different versions of herself. Some looked hurt, some proud, some empty and lifeless.
She walked barefoot and shivering past hundreds of versions of herself. Each one watched her. Some smiled, some screamed, and most just waited. At the end of the hallway was a door covered in symbols she recognized: runes from Greta’s book, the Veilseeker chain, and in the center, her own name written in a child’s hand.
She touched the door, and it opened. Beyond lay Brightwater, transformed beyond recognition. The city was utterly silent, its cobblestone roads veiled beneath a dense carpet of daisies whose petals glistened with an unearthly whiteness. Buildings that once bustled with life appeared empty and abandoned, their windows opaque or shattered, creating an oppressive atmosphere of desolation. Pale, twisting vines crept up walls, their blossoms following her every movement as if the city itself observed her passage. In the center of the deserted plaza stood a throne fashioned from welded metal fragments and sun-bleached bones, both human and animal, intricately arranged in ominous patterns. On the throne sat a masked figure with its face concealed, but its hands—her own, marked by familiar scars and black veins—rested visibly, linking Daisy inextricably to this haunting vision of Brightwater.
She tried to speak, but her voice was gone.
The masked figure stood and motioned for her to come closer. Daisy’s feet moved on their own. When she stood in front of the figure, she saw that under the mask was nothing—just a slow-spinning void pulling her in.
A voice—not hers, not the figure’s—spoke from everywhere.
“The chain must be completed.”
She woke, coughing, the taste of blood in her mouth.
She lay in a narrow bed, her left arm wrapped in bandages, her head heavy with pain and regret. The infirmary was crowded, but the curtains around her cot gave her some privacy. Lying there, she could not escape the relentless loop of doubt and expectation: the council’s pressure weighed on her, and fear gnawed at the edges of her thoughts, whispering that her grip on the magic was slipping. The prospect of failure—of letting down not only herself but those who had risked so much on her behalf—tightened around her chest, making each breath shallow. The ache in her body was inseparable from the turmoil in her mind, and she wondered, not for the first time, if she would ever recognize herself again.
Xeris sat on her right, quiet and watchful. Oliver crouched on the other side, his shirt unbuttoned and his hands stained with dried blood—probably hers. First, Daisy tried to sit up, but the pain in her head threatened to split her skull. She managed a weak smile.
“Did I pass the test?” she rasped.
Oliver let out a noise—half laugh, half sob. “You nearly killed yourself, idiot.”
Xeris smiled, showing his teeth. “You held the shield for eight seconds. Longer than any record test.”
“Could have held longer,” Daisy said, though she doubted it.
Oliver reached for her hand, careful not to jostle the IV line. “You scared us,” he said. “Not just the city. Us.”
Daisy felt the warmth and steadiness of his hand. She squeezed back, needing the support. Oliver leaned forward, the gold in his eyes softer now. "The link is stronger than before. But so are the Veilseekers. They're inside the city already." No longer just ominous folk tales, these entities had demonstrated their ability to distort reality itself—bending stone, twisting light, and making entire patrols vanish without trace in the northern quarters. Recent sightings described unexplainable phenomena: wounds that would not heal, whispers that eroded reason, and the disappearance of several sentries despite reinforced security. Their formidable powers, unchecked, posed a threat unlike any the city had faced. Xeris, standing to the side, inclined his head thoughtfully. "It is as expected, then," he intoned, his voice calm and deliberate, each word carefully measured. "Preparations must continue, lest our defenses fail." Oliver's voice sharpened, cutting between pauses. "Forget the nightmares for now. Focus on getting better."
Daisy smiled. “This is me well.” She managed to sit up, ignoring the pain in her head.
There was a commotion outside the curtain. Samuel argued with a nurse, and Delia’s voice was sharp and firm. Daisy heard the words “infection” and “containment,” but she didn’t care. She needed to see something.
She pulled the blanket aside, shifting her legs to the floor. Xeris tried to steady her, but she shrugged him off.
“Where’s my stuff?” she asked.
Oliver produced her satchel from under the bed, looking sheepish.
She dug through it, pulling out her battered notebook, a spare knife, and the totem Delia had given her. But there was something else—a white ceramic shard painted with a black spiral.
Daisy’s hand shook as she turned it over. On the underside, a message, scratched in the same childish hand from her vision:
“The Veilseekers are closer than you think.”
She showed it to Xeris and Oliver. Both went very still.
Delia pushed through the curtain, her apron streaked with blood. “The northern wall is breached,” she said. “The council wants you.”
Daisy stood up, swaying a little. She felt the chain in her blood, alive and pulsing, ready to break or hold or burn.
She looked at Xeris, then at Oliver. Both watched her, waiting.
“Time to finish what we started,” Daisy said.
And whether she was alone or with others, when the storm finally came, she would decide which world was worth saving.