Chapter 145 Ice Veins Part 1
A thin vein of frost traced the windowsill, catching the moonlight in a trembling line. Night in the valley could have been silence itself. But the chain in Daisy’s blood sang a war dirge against her bones. The chain, older than the settlement itself, was rooted in the first pact sealed beneath the ancient willow tree. Long ago, darkness threatened to devour these lands. The founders gathered under the willow’s sweeping branches. There, they wove blood and vow together, binding one protector from each generation to the land. Each was sworn to hold back the shadow in exchange for peace and an unfailing harvest. The willow became both witness and prison. Its roots grew deep and wide, cradling the pact and nourishing the chain with ancient magic. Even after the fever of magic cooled, the black marks on Daisy’s arms refused to fade. They crept higher, branching across her neck and spine. They reached the fine bones of her jaw. She drifted on the edge of sleep. Each muscle twitch pulled the invisible web binding the settlement, the ancient willow at its heart, and her sleeping friends in the next room. Outside, death waited for the door to open. Yet in Daisy’s veins, everything was burning, alive, and hungry.
When she slipped under, the dream was simple: a single white daisy petal spinning in an endless spiral. It symbolized Daisy herself as the core of the settlement’s fate. The Emperor’s voice curled around it: You are the root now. Every life, every death, feeds you. Let them try to starve you. The petal darkened, turning red, then black. It bled color like a wound. The transformation and sacrifice required of Daisy are shown in the imagery. The petal spun faster until it blurred. This mirrored the escalating tension and the impending dissolution of her world. There was no memory of meeting the Emperor, but Daisy always sensed his presence intruding on her dreams. The chain linking them made her feel subordinate to him. In sleep, faint images flickered: old roots torn from earth, a shining crown twisted with willow branches, and the implicit threat that surrendering her role as the root would draw forth a bounty hoarded from the land by force. The bond between them—her body to the land, the Emperor to the center—felt real and inescapable, as did the curse in her blood. In the dream’s motion, Daisy glimpsed the world breaking apart. Chained pieces spun outward, signifying the consequences of her choice. She awoke, choking on the taste of blood in memory, the red still pulsing behind her eyes. The spiral of the petal echoed relentlessly in the hollow of her chest, underscoring the weight of her responsibility.
The settlement woke as one body: Delia’s cough, sharp and anxious; the scrape of Cornelius’s boot, impatient; a rattle of stones from the oven house as Mira broke the first loaf, focused on routine to distract herself from fear. For a breath, Daisy felt the vulnerability and anxiety of everyone—heart hammering in her chest in sync with theirs. Fear twisted inside her—if they fell, she would blame herself. Anxiety and dread pressed on Daisy, guilt settling into her bones with every breath. The chain in her blood linked each life to her trembling hands. Daisy sat up slowly, blinking nightmares away, heart thudding with the dread and guilt she could not shake, her breath catching with each worrying thought. She hugged herself, trying to hold back the rising panic.
The willow’s roots had burrowed under every wall. They snaked through floors and curled around stone foundations. The entire village shivered in time with Daisy’s heart. She opened the door. Xeris perched on the threshold, shoulders bare in the cold, hair wet from dew. He turned. With gold eyes, he raked her over in a glance. Daisy felt his heat even across the space.
“Didn’t sleep,” he said, accusation flat in his voice. She shrugged. “You?”
He bared his teeth, eyes unblinking. “Don’t need to.” Jaw clenched—he almost wished otherwise. Daisy rolled her sleeves down. The marks curled, perfect, cruel. Cold gnawed at her arms. Sun pressed weakly through tangled branches. Even daylight cut sharply, as if the world held its breath.
Delia stumbled into the yard. Tangled hair framed her swollen face, evidence of a night’s worth of tears. She ignored the others. With single-minded urgency, she bee-lined straight for the water barrel and drank like she’d been wandering a desert. The sound of each swallow seemed desperate, catching on old hunger: river mouth, winter drought, empty cups. After, she slumped to the steps and pressed her forehead to the wood, shaking.
Daisy joined her, feeling Delia’s exhaustion and despair seep into her own bones. Daisy’s chest ached with helplessness and overwhelming sorrow, a tightness that brought tears to her own eyes and made her question her ability to comfort. She placed a tentative, comforting hand on Delia’s shoulder, silently wishing she could do more and doubting if her comfort was enough; frustration and longing filled her touch.
Delia’s voice broke. “She’s worse. I don’t know if she’ll make it.”
For a heartbeat, Daisy saw Maribel clearly: her laughter, the songs she played for the children, the shape of Daisy’s childhood dreams. Jagged fear slammed into Daisy’s chest; grief scraped something raw within her, anxiety curling around every memory. The thought of losing Maribel made Daisy feel hollow and small, stripped of warmth and confidence. The possibility of failure crushed her with guilt and dread, shame and desperation knotting in her stomach. If she failed, it wouldn’t just be the village she lost, but the last piece of herself she still recognized. Hopelessness mingled with determination, leaving Daisy’s hands tightly clenched in her lap, her knuckles white as she tried to steady herself.