Chapter 123 Brightwater Scars Part 1
The enemy had pulled back for now, but Brightwater still showed its scars in the morning light. Just a day earlier, Ironclaw forces and their fey allies had breached the walls, shattering the city’s defenses from within. Daisy had been the council’s last hope, channeling raw magic to hold the enemy at bay while the chain—the city’s oldest protective ward—threatened to snap under the assault. She could still feel the toll of that final spell, the one that nearly destroyed her and turned the tide, but cost Brightwater dearly. Now, Daisy stood in the ruined upper hall, the air heavy with smoke, sweat, and the sharp smell of ozone. That scent tugged at her memory, reminding her of the spell that nearly destroyed her last night. Every breath felt thick with blood and iron. The rivers ran pink from yesterday’s fighting, and every gutter overflowed with the remains of the siege: broken shields, dead crows, and ceramic daisies ground to dust under countless fleeing feet. Above it all, stained glass scattered light across the wreckage, catching on metal and ruin. The taste of magic and fear lingered on her tongue since sunset, and even now, the sight of blood on stone made her fingers clench, recalling the moment she almost lost control. She hoped, almost against reason, that this dawn would bring safety.
Daisy Smithson leaned on the balustrade, chewing her thumbnail, eyes fixed on the horizon where the Ironclaw banners hung limp in the quiet morning. Her right hand twitched with phantom pain from last night’s spell. She was barely patched up, Delia’s bandage already stiff with blood, but she couldn’t keep still. Underneath her restlessness, a deeper need pushed at her: to prove she wasn’t broken, that her power was still her own and not just a tool for the council or the city’s endless wars. Part of her wanted more than just survival—she wanted proof that she still mattered, that she could rebuild the chain instead of letting it break her. She’d slept maybe an hour, but it would have to do.
Oliver Greenfield found her before she could slip away, weaving through the battered crowd with Oliver Greenfield caught up to her before she could leave, moving through the battered crowd with the smooth confidence of someone who always saw an opening. As he got closer, two healers passed in front of him with a bloody stretcher. Oliver stepped aside without missing a beat, picked up a stray coin with his boot, and kept going. He carried two steaming mugs made of battered tin as she took them. A question flickered in his eyes—gone before she could name it. The heat from the mug did nothing for the chill in her hands, but her own sleeve brushed his wrist and a breath caught between them, unspoken. She focused on her mug, jaw tight, not trusting herself to speak first.
“Didn’t expect to see you sober,” she said.
He grinned, ran a hand through his hair, which was a wreck. “Didn’t have the coin to get drunk. Besides, you made half the city dependent on you last night. I was afraid that if you died, I’d lose my favorite drinking partner.”
She let out a sound that was half snort, half groan, and took a sip. It tasted like ash, but the warmth eased her stomach.
Oliver matched her silence for a moment, then set his mug on the ledge and leaned in, dropping his voice. “Willow’s gone. Packed her people before dawn. Not a word to the council.”
Daisy felt the skin at the back of her neck tighten. “She left anything behind?”
“Just her room and a few of those fey guards. The place smells like a summer thunderstorm. I could nose around.”
Daisy’s fingers tapped against the mug. “Do it. If she’s turned, I want proof.”
He straightened, saluting almost mock-seriously. “Pesty’s orders. Anything else?”
She paused, noticing the concern behind his crooked smile. For a moment, she wanted to say something honest, to tell him that last night, when the chain nearly broke, she’d thought of him, Delia, and the others, and how the city needed their stubbornness. But she stayed silent.
“Stay alive,” she said, and he left without waiting for a reply.
The castle’s observatory was empty save for a scatter of dried herbs and the memory of too many arguments. Daisy took the stairs two at a time, legs burning from exhaustion, and stopped at the threshold to catch her breath. The room was domed in star-mapping glass, a marvel of old Brightwater engineering, and the sun rising through the haze turned every surface to blue fire.
Xeris was already there, stripped to shirtsleeves, sleeves rolled to show arms that were more scar than skin. He stood at the center table, back to her, examining a city map that was spiderwebbed with fresh ink and peppered with bits of broken ceramic daisy.
He didn’t look up when she entered. His finger hovered over the spidery lines on the map, tracing the path of destruction and blooming daisies. For a moment, silence bunched in the room, crackling with the weight of something just realized. "You were right. They’re not sabotaging. They’re a pattern."
Daisy walked over to him, her steps heavy. The map showed all of Brightwater, with each district in a different color. Xeris had grouped the daisies in clusters: some at the walls, others at crossroads, and a few by the river’s bend.
“Containment,” Daisy guessed. “Not a ward, a cage.”
He nodded. “And not just for you, Smithson. The stakes are higher than they appear: the daisies form a magical net that threatens to seize control of the entire city. Every ley line, every major bloodline, and every source of power are caught in this pattern. The daisies aren’t just markers; their ceramic construction draws ley energy like iron to a magnet, and shaped in this way, they channel and bind the city’s magical currents with dangerous precision. There’s an old logic at work here. Ley lines, veins of wild magic beneath Brightwater, are shaped and influenced by each bloodline—power passed down through families as much as land. By placing daisies at key intersections, the ceramic amplifies both ley energy and blood magic, each petal acting as a snare. Everything that flows through the city’s veins gets caught on those petals, forced to obey the will of whoever controls the pattern. If the daisies remain, Brightwater’s magic and its people could be subjugated entirely.”
She braced both hands on the table, close enough to feel the heat radiating from Xeris’s skin. “So Willow’s not just handing over the city. She’s harvesting it.”
He smiled, a knife’s edge. “Harvest is too generous. She’s draining it. They’re going to use the city’s chain to fuel whatever comes next.”