Chapter 120 A Warning
The east gatehouse ruins reeked of burnt hair. Moonlight sliced through the broken roof, harsh and cold. Daisy crouched in a hollow behind the old ballista mount, hugging her knees and shivering, even though the stones still gave off heat. She watched the city burn. Down below, tiny lights flickered in the darkness, each one a life that might not last until morning.
Her hands trembled in her lap. The black lines, once as faint as spiderwebs, had spread over her wrists and were creeping toward her elbows. They traced the tether of her chain magic—a curse for some, a weapon for others. Each line marked where the magic was burning itself deeper beneath her skin, feeding with every ounce of power she used. If it climbed to her shoulders, the lore said the chain would start claiming her memories, her voice, and eventually her life. She kept her sleeves rolled up, not for comfort, but to remind herself what she stood to lose: her name, her will, maybe even her soul. If it spread further, she’d need a new plan. Maybe she’d tell Delia more lies, or maybe she’d just reach for a knife and make a quick decision.
A shadow moved across the gap, silent as a hawk. Daisy tensed, ready to fight, but the figure that landed next to her was too graceful to be an assassin.
Xeris landed in a crouch, barely disturbing the mortar. He wore his borrowed look again: a smoke-gray coat, bare hands instead of gloves, and eyes that glowed gold even in the dim light. His hair was wet and slicked back, and steam rose from his collar. Daisy found herself watching it, wary but also drawn in by how it curled from his skin, as if he was too alive for this ruined place. She wanted to blame her shiver on the cold night, not on the sharp flicker of attraction mixed with fear.
They sat together in silence. At night, the city sounded different with so many dead: water dripping from broken pipes, a distant roof caving in, and the quiet sobs of someone discovering what heroism demands. The steady drip mirrored the pulse in Daisy’s arms, each splash heightening her awareness of the magic in her veins. She tried to slow her breathing, but the ruined city pressed in, relentless and unforgiving.
“You’re not healing,” he said at last, gesturing at her arms.
She shrugged. “Too much blood, not enough rest.” It was mostly true.
He scooted closer, close enough for the heat of his body to make her skin itch. “Let me see.”
Daisy paused, then showed him her forearms, palms up. The veins throbbed, not with her own pulse, but with the city's. The chain magic worked on its own, ribbons of power binding her to Brightwater’s streets and stone, so each wound the city suffered echoed beneath her skin. She felt the pain and fear moving through the alleyways, the despair lodged in the air, feeding the chain as it hungrily drew from both her strength and the city’s agony. The more the city suffered, the deeper the magic burned in her blood.
Xeris’s touch caught her off guard. He traced the black line with his finger, as if reading a secret book. When he reached her wrist, the touch sent a jolt up her arm. It wasn’t pain, but it wasn’t comfort either. The magic seemed to know him.
He didn’t let go.
“Still think you can handle it?” he whispered. For the first time, his confidence sounded forced. She could hear the fear underneath.
A chill slid down her spine. What if I can't? The thought flared, quick and shameful, before she forced her jaw tight and let nothing show.
She looked at their hands, then at the ruined city below. “Have you ever seen someone lose themselves to the chain?” she asked, trying not to sound desperate.
He nodded slowly. “There was an old emperor, Varian. He thought he could rule the world with borrowed power. In the end, he became a warning—he never closed his eyes, even after death.”
Daisy snorted. “Yeah, I read that story. They tell it in the orphanage so kids don’t play with sigils in the dorms.”
“It’s true,” Xeris said. “I was there.”
She barked a laugh. “You’re full of shit.”
He smiled, but it was hard to look at him. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change what you’re risking.”
Daisy flexed her fingers, letting the moonlight show how bad the veins looked. “If I don’t take the risk, the city falls. The wards on the outer walls won’t last till dawn; Brightwater burns by sunrise unless someone intervenes. If I do, maybe I get to choose how it ends for me.”
He placed his other hand on her knee, gentle and careful. “You’re not alone in this.”
A lump crawled up Daisy’s throat. She tried to swallow it, but it stuck.
“Why are you here?” she said, voice thin. “Really?”
Xeris looked away, pretending to study the ruined city, but she noticed his jaw clench. "I'm a dragon," he said, almost apologizing. "We don't feel empathy. We don't get attached. Attachment is considered a weakness where I come from—a dragon who cares too much loses the edge that keeps him powerful. I thought I could use you, fix my reputation, maybe get my wings back for a while." He hesitated, gaze flickering. "Wings are taken as punishment, you know. When you break the old laws, you lose flight, and only by proving you're above mortal ties can you earn them back."
“And now?” Daisy prompted, surprised at her own need to know.
He ran his thumb along her arm, warming the black veins, and she shivered.
“Now I don’t want to lose you,” he said, his words nearly lost in the wind. “It feels wrong. I hate it.”
Daisy blinked, confused by the sudden urge to hit him and to hold him at the same time. “You said attachment was for humans.”
He nodded, his gaze never leaving hers. "And you insisted you weren't one yourself," he replied, letting the tension between them settle in the silence that followed.
She tried to smile, but the pain in her forearms turned it into a grimace.
They sat in silence while the newest dead in Brightwater cooled in the streets. For once, the city’s bells were quiet, as if the world was waiting for Daisy to decide. She reached for his face, hesitated, then finished the motion. Xeris allowed it, let her thumb rest against the corner of his jaw, the stubble there odd and soft. He was always so solid, so impossible, but in this moment, he felt as fragile as she did.
He leaned in, his intent obvious but not rushed. Their foreheads touched, and their noses didn’t quite line up.
Daisy waited for a kiss, a confession, or maybe the end of everything.
What she got was a scream, raw and so close it vibrated through the bones of the gatehouse.
They broke apart, both on their feet in an instant.
The sound came from a pile of broken crates near the gap. Daisy searched for movement, her magic searing through her veins, hot and ready. Xeris stayed close, prepared to fight or defend, his eyes narrow and wild.
A man pulled himself out from under the rubble, his leg twisted the wrong way. He wore Brightwater’s uniform, but the patch on his chest showed a leaf instead of a daisy—Eldergrove’s symbol.
He gurgled, then spat blood. “Help,” he croaked. “Please.”
Daisy moved first, crawling over the rubble to reach him. His face was pale, and the veins under his skin were already dark from shock. Xeris stayed close, watching carefully.
She tore a strip from her undershirt, wrapped it tight around the worst of his wounds, then pressed her hand to his chest.
“Don’t,” Xeris warned, but Daisy ignored him.
She let a drop of blood fall from her finger to the man’s lips, then pushed the magic into him. It was a risk; she had only ever healed herself and once a stray dog.
The effect was immediate. The man convulsed, then steadied. His eyes rolled back, then focused on Daisy.
But she wasn’t seeing him anymore.
Instead, a flood of images hit her. One vision stood out, brighter and colder than the rest: Lady Willow, face hidden, kneeling before Ambassador Thorne in a room covered with Ironclaw banners, her hand outstretched, pressing a single ceramic daisy into his palm. Around them, maps and secret sigils faded to shadow, but that flower—Brightwater’s symbol, now in the enemy’s grip—burned Daisy with the certainty of betrayal. Beneath this, Daisy sensed Willow’s intent: despair weighty as iron, but also a hope that the city would endure, though survival demanded a grave cost. The ritual was not merely sabotage; it was a binding designed to transfer Brightwater’s allegiance and life force, effectively surrendering the city's autonomy. At its core, this act allowed Ironclaw to dictate who would survive once the fires had passed, positioning the city’s fate and very identity as the price of its continued existence.
She pulled her hand away, gasping.
The soldier’s breathing had stopped.
“Shit,” Daisy said. “He’s dead.”
Xeris knelt and inspected the corpse, face unreadable.
“You saw something,” he said.
Daisy nodded, still catching her breath. Her hand fumbled at her belt pouch and found a small ceramic daisy, cold and sharp-edged. Without a word, she snapped it between her fingers. The pieces fell to the stone at her feet.
"Willow's working with Ironclaw," she said, voice low and final. "She's setting up a ritual, or maybe a trap. The daisies everywhere—they're not sabotage. They're a signal."
Xeris considered this, then stood, brushing dust from his coat. “You’re sure?”
Daisy glared. “I was inside his head. I saw it.”
He nodded, then looked at her with regret. “You can’t keep sacrificing yourself for everyone in this city.”
For a brief moment, Daisy was tempted to agree with him—imagining herself slipping away and abandoning Brightwater to its fate in order to save her own life. The honesty of that impulse left a lingering ache, the black markings on her arms pulsing with unspoken desire for self-preservation. However, the memory of the city’s lights stirred within her recollections of Mrs. Tarn’s bakery, its warm lamplight persisting through ruin and a simple kindness offered on a difficult morning. She recalled helping a frightened girl and the gratitude in her eyes, reminders that hope persisted in even the smallest acts. These reflections revealed that Brightwater was defined as much by everyday moments of compassion and community as by its suffering. In these memories, Daisy recognized a loyalty rooted in shared experience and resilience, one she could not abandon. The city’s people still depended on her, and she fully understood the personal cost she was prepared to bear.
“Don’t care,” Daisy said, voice steady for once. “It’s my city.”
He laughed, low and bitter. “Then let’s save it, Chainbearer.”
Daisy looked at the dead man, then at the night outside, and at the pale moon above the haze. She flexed her fingers and rolled her sleeves down to cover the worst of the veins.
She and Xeris moved out. Together, they slipped back through the broken gate, the city’s charred air hanging heavy on their skin. Brightwater burned, the scent of salt and scorched hair curling through the ruins. Daisy held the memory close—of flame, grit, and her own heartbeat echoing in the blackened stones. Tonight, she would give them what was left of her and let the city remember the shape of smoke.