Chapter 141 Nothing is Harmless Part 1
Daisy rarely slept in the valley. Night after night, she found herself a stranger here, unrested, uneasy, always feeling out of place. Each evening, the taste of damp moss lingered on her tongue. The raw, resinous scent of sap seeped through the shuttered windows. It mingled with the restless smoke of the fire. Homesickness swept over her in waves, carrying flickers of the city: the murmur of distant traffic, the scent of rain on stone. These memories slipped away, replaced by the unease that had driven her here. Cold mist crept between her toes. It numbed her ankles wherever the blanket slipped. The fire’s crackle chased sleep from her dreams. Whenever her eyes shut, she saw daisies, the patterns, the chain.
She heard the older woman before seeing her. Elder Fern’s gait tapped like a cane striking stone. The rhythm jerked Daisy into pre-dawn wakefulness. The air bit, fiercer than in the city, laced with something sweeter and less forgiving than smoke.
Daisy sat up, pulling her blanket tight around her shoulders as she looked toward the open door where Fern stood. Xeris slept by the threshold, curled but tense, with one arm tucked under his head and the other at his side. He kept his gaze on Daisy without moving. Delia lay motionless, while Maribel’s chest rose and fell with each shallow, even breath.
Elder Fern beckoned Daisy with a sharp motion. She then turned and strode away from the cottage, her steps sure and deliberate. Daisy rose, movements slow and measured, as though each shift of weight might send a ripple through the room. Her breath was kept tight and shallow, careful not to disturb Oliver. His limbs sprawled across the blanket, as if claiming space in sleep that eluded him awake. Fingers curled white-knuckled around the hilt of his boot knife, grip fierce even in unconsciousness. His open mouth released a restless, uneven snore. Daisy hesitated for a heartbeat, watching his grip tighten at her quiet movement. She wondered if he dreamed of running or fighting. Then she slipped past him, silent, carrying her own tension closed inside her chest.
Outside, the village was empty, the sky whitening with morning. The central tree loomed, its trunk a wall, roots crawling over the ground like petrified serpents.
Fern waited by the boundary stones, fingers steepled, eyes on Daisy’s wrists. Daisy rolled up her sleeves. The black veins shimmered like tattooed curses in dawn light. Most nights, she tried to ignore them, but their slow reach plagued her. Sometimes she imagined them crawling under her skin, tightening with every choice she made, branding her as the valley’s property.
Fern gripped Daisy’s left wrist, iron-fingered. Her fingers pressed into the deepest ache. Daisy stifled any wince; the pain felt intimate, a warning rather than an injury.
Fern leaned close, her breath mossy and wet. “Your blood remembers what your mind cannot,” she whispered. “It’s why you were chosen. They say in the valley, ‘The river bears only those who carry stone,’ and you’re heavy with old stones, child. It’s why you’ll either die here or break the world.” Fern’s eyes glinted in the half-light. “Breaking the world means releasing the chain’s power unchecked. Every life it ever claimed, every sorrow carved into its links, would spill out, turning the valley to ash and letting its curse flow outward—there would be nothing left to hold back what waits beneath the roots.”
She held the arm up to the weak light. The veins seemed to pulse faster, as if the chain was listening.
“Does it ache?” Fern asked, her voice barely above a whisper, meant only for Daisy.
“Only when I resist it,” Daisy replied.
Fern nodded, satisfied, and released her. “Follow.”
Fern led Daisy toward the central tree but veered before reaching the trunk. Without a word, Fern ducked under a low root, vanishing into the shadows beneath. Daisy stopped, unsure, then felt Xeris step closely behind her, his presence warm and reassuring, before she followed Fern.
Xeris didn’t speak or move to follow just yet; instead, he watched Daisy intently as she stepped after Fern into the darkness.
The tunnel under the tree resembled a fracture in the earth, an old wound lined with mats of fungus that emitted a sharp, blue light. As Daisy advanced, the glow stung her eyes, and the cool, damp air thickened. The tunnel sloped downward, and the walls began to drip steadily, collecting in small, uneven rivulets along the uneven stone. Overhead, roots hung in looping patterns, each carved with symbols Daisy recognized from Brightwater. Here, however, the signs appeared much older and more malevolent, intent on possession rather than offering protection. As Daisy moved further, the passage narrowed and the ceiling descended, forcing her to bow her head. The air became increasingly stifling and wet, pressing close around her. With every step, she sensed the tunnel constricting, the path tightening with a cloying intimacy. The blue light pulsed against her senses, intensifying the claustrophobic atmosphere.
They walked what felt like an hour, but Daisy knew it was at most a hundred paces. The path twisted and narrowed until she bent almost double. Then it widened into small caverns filled with luminous fungus.
At the end, the tunnel opened into a roughly circular chamber, the ceiling strung with roots so thick they appeared woven. Shelves gouged from the dirt held a few cruel objects: a child’s shoe, stitched with black hair, crammed with broken teeth; a silver amulet, pitted and scarred as if eaten by acid; and, at the center, a cluster of wilted daisies fused with a dark, tacky substance. Daisy’s skin crawled even to glimpse them.
Fern moved to a stone table in the center, swept aside detritus, and gestured Daisy to stand across from her.
Xeris hung back, eyes sweeping the shelves, the ceiling, the door.
Fern moved to the stone table in the center and motioned Daisy to stand opposite her.
“Every chain started as a story,” Fern said. “Every chain ends as a root.”
She pinned Daisy with a gaze weighted by centuries. “You want to know what you are? You must witness what came before.”
Daisy nodded, not trusting her voice. The older woman took the knife and passed it to her. “A drop. Nothing more.”
Daisy nicked her thumb with a quick, practiced motion. She held it over the pattern, letting her own blood mix with Fern’s.
At once, the pattern on the table jerked. The daisy at its center glowed, then throbbed. The light faded from blue to a bloody orange. Heat shot up Daisy’s arms, her veins hammering so hard she feared they’d burst. Xeris tensed beside her. The air around him warped with his own tremor of panic.
Fern crouched down and reached underneath the table, pulling out a stone chest about the size of a loaf of bread. Its top was set with a daisy crafted from bone, and the clasp was formed from a human molar. With an audible grunt, she opened the chest and drew out a book.