Chapter 146 Icy Veins Part 2
Daisy set her jaw. “She will.”
“You don’t know that.”
Daisy stared ahead. “If she dies, I’ll drag her back.”
Delia snorted, then cried. Daisy let her. In Daisy’s blood, the chain seized that grief and twisted it sharp and bright.
Xeris watched, silent as a statue.
When the breakfast bell sounded—a thing fashioned from a hollowed gourd and iron scavenged from the woods—the village assembled in the square. Each face carried the resigned calm of people with nowhere left to run. Elder Fern stood atop the firepit: staff in one hand, a bundle of smoldering herbs in the other. Her eyes skipped past everyone, found Daisy, and did not let go. She lifted her voice so all could hear. “Remember this: if the chain breaks carelessly, the willow’s roots will rot. The earth beneath us will sicken. Nothing here will survive another winter. Your choice holds all our fates.” Fern’s message was clear: the fate of the settlement depended on Daisy’s decision. Breaking the chain would destroy their protection and doom the land, while finishing it would secure salvation for the village, but at great personal cost to Daisy.
“Today is the last day,” Fern said, and the hush was so complete Daisy thought she’d misheard.
Cornelius grunted. “That’s optimistic.”
Fern’s tone cut. “The Emperor wants the root. Chain’s done today, one way or another.” She jabbed her staff at Daisy. “Pick: break it, or finish it.”
The crowd’s gaze settled on Daisy. For the first time, she realized none of them expected to live through the day. Fern’s words should have pressed hope into her veins. Instead, something cold and fatal crept under her skin. It was a single, damning certainty. Every face held the look of someone keeping a secret or preparing a final wish.
Oliver slid up close. “Plan to go down in flames? Give me your boots first.”
Daisy elbowed him. “You couldn’t fill them.”
“Fair.” The word trembled, betraying the tension beneath Oliver’s banter. His fingers brushed hers—a fleeting, electric contact. He hesitated, revealing not just nervousness but a longing for assurance. His eyes darted away, lingering for just a moment on Daisy’s face before lowering. Uncertainty etched the set of his jaw. Anxiety contended with bravado, exposing his vulnerability. Finally, he withdrew, disappearing into the crowd.
Fern called the defenders: Cornelius, Mira, three of the bigger villagers, and, to Daisy’s surprise, Oliver. “The rest will shelter in the root hollow. If the circle breaks, follow the fallback trail to the caves.”
Daisy’s mind raced. “If we run, the chain yanks them after us. No hiding.”
The moment the words left her mouth, the chain inked along her arm pulsed, tightening against her skin as if in warning. It seared with a dull ache, magic twisting through her veins, and for a brief second, she couldn’t catch her breath—the chain making its own argument, binding her to the fate she spoke aloud.
Fern bared her teeth. “Then fight. Win—break the world; your choice.”
No one spoke after that. The defenders armed themselves with what little the village had: old bows, hunting spears, and tools reforged into blades. Daisy found a length of chain in the Elder’s hut, wrapped it around her arm, and felt the magic thrum against her skin. Xeris strapped on a pair of iron knuckle-guards, his eyes never leaving the horizon.
Oliver stuck close, tossing his knife from hand to hand. His eyes darted with barely controlled panic. The confident mask he had worn earlier was gone. A stiff silence replaced it, his posture tense, every movement taut with anxiety and suppressed fear. Fear and resolve wrestled on his face, a silent plea for assurance lurking in his expression. Daisy longed to promise him safety. Words curdled on her tongue, choked by her anxiety and guilt for bringing him into danger, leaving her feeling isolated in her responsibility.
Maribel had not woken. Delia stayed at her side, hands pressed to her chest, lips moving in a constant prayer. Daisy checked in once. She found Delia’s nails bloody, skin torn from holding on too tight. Daisy reached out quietly and brushed Delia’s hand, but as she did, something twisted in her ribs—a tightness that felt like the chain inside her blood flaring in protest. At first, Daisy longed only to comfort Delia, sorrow softening her touch. Yet as she lingered, that tenderness gradually gave way to resentment, the conflicting emotions tightening within her. She knew the promise Delia would soon ask for might cost more than Daisy could give. A memory interrupted her resolve: the summer Delia turned away from Daisy when the village whispered, leaving her isolated in the face of superstition. Now, the old sense of abandonment resurfaced, layered with the new burden Delia pressed into her hands. Daisy’s internal struggle—her urge to provide solace battling the bitterness of this heavy expectation—hardened her expression, her jaw clenched as a flicker of darkness seemed to pulse below Delia’s gaze, under her skin.
Delia grabbed her sleeve. “Promise you’ll keep her alive.” Her eyes said: liar.
“I promise,” Daisy answered, voice iron flat.
The word snapped in the hush between them, thin and brittle, echoing deep inside her like a chain stretched too tight—then fracturing, a silent crack that shivered through her bones. Outside, the frost on the window caught a thin line of sun, refracting light across the glass in a jagged, sudden gleam. For a heartbeat, all Daisy heard was the piercing, crystalline sound of fracture, as if the morning itself broke open, propelling them into whatever waited next.