Chapter 116 The Wall Holds
She woke up sprawled on the bare floor, the stone rough and hot against her cheek, every muscle in her body drawn tight as if they had all locked up at once. Daisy tasted iron in her mouth. She took three slow breaths before she could lift her head.
The wall still stood. Above it, the air fizzed with fading wards—protective spells spun into the stonework, meant to repel both steel and magic. Daisy watched the red and gold afterimages drift down like embers, knowing those sigils served as the wall’s last shield. For most, the flickering runes were only a lightshow, but Daisy alone saw how the shapes bent and curled for her—how, for a heartbeat, the sigils formed patterns that matched the scars across her own wrists, signs of her own bond with the ward-magic. As a child, she used to imagine the wards were fireflies trying to spell her name, drawn to her blood. Now the colors looked like spilled blood, catching sunlight. The Ironclaw assault had pulled back for now. She heard the thunder of retreating boots and drill sergeants calling to gather the wounded.
Her fingers stayed clenched. Daisy forced them open and winced. The lines of her palm were stained black with magic residue, each crease filled with something like coal dust. Sharp pain shot through as she flexed her hand, but she could still move it.
The edge of the parapet was slick with blood, most of it not hers. Not far off, two Brightwater defenders lay unnaturally still. Somewhere nearby, a battered canteen rolled against the stone with a soft metallic clink, the only sound left of the chaos. For a moment, Daisy caught a faint whiff of pipe smoke, imagined sharing a night watch and trading jokes with the fallen, but now she couldn’t make the memory fit their faces. The names stubbornly hovered out of reach, lost in the hush that followed the fight.
A pair of boots stopped beside her, the toes polished to a shine. Cornelius Blackwood leaned down, his face as unreadable as ever.
“You’re not dead,” he said. “That’s an improvement.”
Daisy coughed, spat blood, and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. She took a shaky breath. “Is it... over?”
“For now. You bought us a few hours. The chain held.”
He motioned for her to stand, but Daisy waved him away and pushed herself upright. The world spun. She leaned against the stone and waited for her stomach to settle.
Cornelius spoke in a clipped monotone: “Seventeen dead, thirty-eight more wounded. Enemy casualties unknown. Xeris is…” He hesitated, then finished: “…resting.” At the report, Daisy felt the numbers strike with an immediate, cold precision; her chest constricted, and her jaw locked before she could hide the reaction. She pressed her fingers hard against the stone, struggling to steady her breath. The news of Xeris suffering in solitude overwhelmed her, the ache more acute than any loss measured by numbers. The memory of his scales supporting her hand, his fierce gaze searching for reassurance amidst devastation, returned sharply. In that instant, she relived the solace of his wing around her: steel, heat, and the silent vow that no matter what trials came, they would endure them side by side.
She looked up, expecting to see the dragon circling, but the sky was empty save for a tangle of burnt smoke. “Where?”
“He landed just outside the inner wall,” Cornelius said. “Took a volley from the Veilseekers at close range. He’s… healing.”
Daisy nodded. “And the enemy?”
“Regrouping. The Veilseekers left with the main force. The wall is secure, but the wards are only half as strong.” Cornelius tilted his head, studying her. “You look positively ruinous, Smithson.”
Daisy snorted, which hurt more than it should have. “I’ll live.”
“You have to.” He pressed something into her palm: a folded cloth, damp with liquor. “The council wants you in the war room. Ten minutes.”
She wiped her face and noticed for the first time how much of her own blood stained her shirt, sleeves, and hair. She cleaned up as best she could, then staggered to her feet, her legs nearly giving out with each step. Delia’s apron was smeared with blood and other fluids, her eyes bruised with exhaustion, but she squeezed Daisy’s wrist with urgent tenderness.
“You did well,” Delia whispered. “We held.”
Daisy hugged her with one arm, careful not to share too much of her blood. “Get some sleep,” she said. It sounded like a joke, but they both knew it wasn’t.
The walk to the war room felt like a dream Daisy had lived too many times. The halls were full of limping defenders and the air carried the mingled scents of battle, but underneath it all lingered the sharp tang of burnt copper and ozone—a trace of the chain magic. Daisy wondered if anyone else sensed how the magic left its mark. The chain bound her spirit to the city’s wards, threading her life through each protective spell. Each use seared fresh pathways beneath her skin and left black residue that crept up her neck where the magic had anchored itself. At the council doors, Mira Stone waited, robes immaculate but hands raw and bandaged. She looked Daisy over, eyes narrowing at the new veins spreading up her neck.
“They’ll keep spreading,” Mira said, voice low. “The bond’s burning you out.”
“Don’t care,” Daisy said. “Not until it’s done.”
Mira shrugged, then led the way in.
The war room was crowded with city leaders and military officers, all showing different levels of panic. Samuel Thompson stood at the front, his old teacher’s face hard and determined. Eleanora Ravensworth had traded her usual black for a bright white dress, as if she meant to outshine the war.
When Daisy entered, the room went still.
Samuel gestured her forward. “Miss Smithson. Report.”
She took a breath, though it was shallow, and spoke anyway. “The Veilseekers have new tactics. They can cancel the chain magic, maybe not for long, but long enough to make a breach. They tried to ground Xeris with a binding, using chains of light and a bit of resonance. It’s like they disrupt the flow of magic by humming a pattern that matches and cancels the spellwork—almost the way two notes can shatter glass if they hit exactly right. When those chains wrapped around him, the wards flickered as if they were being unraveled from the inside. It almost worked. I had to…” She stopped, remembering the pain and the burning at her wrists.
“They’re focusing on the wall,” Eleanora said, “but for what purpose? The city’s defenses are strongest here. Unless…”
“Unless it’s a feint,” Daisy finished, voice hoarse.
Mira crossed her arms. “They’re redirecting our strength to the north, making us chase shadows, leaving the river and the old quarter exposed. It’s a classic Ironclaw maneuver—they hammer where we’re strongest, trying to batter through, but that’s not their only aim. The Ironclaw wants to force us to overextend, hoping we’ll weaken our defenses elsewhere and make a critical mistake. As for the Veilseekers, they usually rely on stealth and disruption, exploiting weaknesses in our lines. However, their sudden coordination suggests a shared objective: not merely to breach the wall, but to destabilize the city’s center and break our ability to unify the wards. Now they’re threading their magic right alongside Ironclaw’s assault, working in concert to exploit any lapse in our defense.”
Samuel nodded, thoughtful. “What do you recommend?”
“Split our reserves,” Daisy said. “Keep the chain going at the wall, but get ready for another attack at the river. The Veilseekers might be able to make a breach, even if most of their force is here.”
Eleanora’s lips twitched. “You sound like a commander, Miss Smithson.”
Daisy looked around the table at the battered, bickering council. “Someone has to.”
The meeting broke into arguments and rushed plans. Daisy moved to the edge of the room, her body starting to give out even with the adrenaline. Oliver found her there, limping in with a makeshift sling on his shoulder.
“Alive, then,” he said.
Daisy managed a weak smile. “You too.”
He moved in close, shielding her from the rest of the room. “You see Xeris?”
“He’s… healing. Took a lot.” She looked at Oliver, studied the blood spatter on his neck, the shake in his good hand. “You need help?”
He grinned, crooked. “You’re the one falling apart, Pest.”
Daisy wanted to laugh, but the urge faded before it reached her lips. “If this goes sideways, you get out. Promise.”
He ignored it. “You know I can’t leave you.”
She closed her eyes for a moment and let herself lean into his warmth. He squeezed her hand and stayed quiet, which was rare. Daisy wondered if he could feel the chain humming under her skin.
When she opened her eyes again, the city waited. The next fight would be worse. Daisy felt it—a pressure at the base of her skull, the blood magic already searching for weak spots.
She looked at Oliver, at Delia’s hunched figure in the hallway, and at the council gathered around their battered table. All of them were waiting for her to make it work. For a heartbeat, Daisy let herself feel the weight of what she could lose—the city, the friends who had become her family, the sense that she still had something worth fighting for. The thought of failing them, of seeing the city fall and these faces erased, pressed a cold knot into her chest. She could not let that happen. “Back to the wall,” she said, and limped out, ready to break or to burn.
Whatever the world needed, she would be the chain, even if it killed her.