Chapter 147 Empire
Daisy tasted grit on her tongue. The dust was dry and metallic as old blood. Her heart thudded, slow and heavy, keeping time with the endless afternoon. The defenders gathered in the square, choosing their own patch of shade as the hours dragged. Each kept eyes fixed, unblinking, on the line where mist met sky. Fingers drummed hilts. Boots scraped dust. Xeris paced the row, pausing to sniff the air, posture tense, as his gaze darted to every shadow. Cornelius planted his feet, spear angled forward, jaw clenched, white knuckles wrapped tight. Mira moved quickly, pressing blue charms onto foreheads. Oliver crouched with the two youngest, flicking his wrist in practiced arcs to demonstrate clean knife throws, eyes flashing to the horizon between lessons.
Daisy returned to the willow’s trunk. She slipped to the low burrow that hid the heart of the valley. The root hollow was empty. Only the echo of her footsteps lingered. The faint, sweet scent of fungus hung in the air. She ran her hands along the wood’s veins and felt them pulse. When she was a child, she had crept here with her grandmother. They hid from summer storms, learned the old songs that spoke of the willow’s gift. Every child in the village knew: the tree was the heart’s shelter, its sentinel. It had guarded the valley before stories had names. The willow bound the valley together. Magic in its roots flowed through the land—and through Daisy herself. It tied her life and power to the fate of everyone who called this place home. The living current wove through her veins. It now thrummed in the hollow. The magic here was raw, ancient. It welcomed her like a blood relative.
She pressed her palm to the heart-root and closed her eyes. The chain in her blood pulsed back, triggering a vision: first, she saw the city’s walls engulfed in flames, daisies blooming through the ruin, and within the destruction, the Emperor’s face—her own, twisted and monstrous—appeared. A surge of fear went through her as she realized this could be her future, the path she feared becoming real. Yet the vision shifted: the images grew less certain, more fluid, as if warning her they need never come to pass. The chain’s wild magic and the power in the roots offered glimpses of two possible outcomes: one filled with horror and loss, but another shining through beneath it—an intact city, her friends alive and laughing, spring blossoming across the valley. The chain tugged at both futures, leaving Daisy trembling between dread and hope, acutely aware of what she could lose and what she still might save.
When she pulled back, black veins had crept up to her cheekbones, almost meeting at the bridge of her nose.
When she returned to the surface, she found Xeris waiting near the willow’s shade. He didn’t touch her, just watched, the golden slits of his eyes rimmed with something like concern.
“You’re changing,” he said, and for once, she heard the need behind it.
“So are you,” she replied, and he smiled—real, cruel, beautiful, and sad.
They stood together, the two of them apart from the world, nerves strung tighter with each passing second, until the first horn sounded from the ridge above, sharp as a blade across silence.
The Emperor’s army arrived in silence. No banners. No drums. Only a line of pale figures moving through the mist—patient as a tide. The Veilseekers wore no armor. Their faces were etched with runes. Even from a distance, Daisy could feel their power. It pulled at her nerves like a muscle about to tear. Some called them the Emperor’s foundlings: children taken from vanished villages, reshaped by old magics, turned into weapons. Whatever remained of their old selves hid behind bone-pale skin and haunted eyes.
Behind them came the others—the warlocks, the hounds, the chain-walkers. Some moved like men, others on all fours, or in twitching bursts that defied sense. At the rear, a massive figure, cloaked in gray, moved with impossible slowness. Around him, the air seemed to tighten and cool, as if the world itself recoiled from his presence. Even the steady thrum of distant insects faltered when he passed. Daisy tasted cold metal at the back of her throat and recognized the figure from her nightmares.
Oliver whistled low. “I think we found the Emperor’s champion.”
Cornelius spat. “Doesn’t matter. Nothing gets past the circle.”
Elder Fern marched to the center of the square, staff braced, and daisies encircling the firepit. She lifted her arms, signaling the villagers, who matched her stance and let loose a resonant chant that vibrated with collective hope and fear. Humming deepened into song. Was it a lullaby or a dirge? Daisy could not tell. Bram gripped a battered charm, knuckles white, murmuring his lost daughter’s name. Lila the baker pressed trembling hands to her heart, lips moving in prayer for her child. The villagers shifted, voices and actions threading hope and dread into the growing night.
The enemy reached the edge of the meadow and stopped.
The two sides watched each other, the air thick as syrup.
Daisy felt the chain in her arms coil, ready to strike. She rolled her shoulders, took a steadying breath, and strode to the front line, Oliver tightening his grip at her left, Xeris flexing his claws at her right.
The Emperor’s champion raised an arm, and the Veilseekers rushed.
The battle was a blur: bodies in motion, magic in the air, the smell of blood and burning. As the first wave crashed over the defenders, lines shattered beneath the onslaught. At the front, Cornelius braced himself, feet planted wide, and swung his axe in a brutal arc, splitting a Veilseeker from neck to navel. For a heartbeat, space opened around him. However, the chaos quickly reasserted itself as three more enemies surged forward, flanking him on either side and from behind, their jaws set and runes glowing. They dragged him down, boots scuffing furrows in the dirt as they struggled. A short distance away, Mira responded by unleashing a spray of blue fire, reducing two attackers to ash and leaving her silhouette sharp against the roiling smoke. Just as she steadied herself, the chain-walkers burst through the flames, their teeth flashing as they tackled her to the ground.
Daisy lost track of Delia, Elder Fern, everything except the white-hot tunnel of the fight. She swung the chain. Magic guided it. She felt the bite—flesh, bone, and something more. Every kill jolted her arms, sent power rushing in a wave that threatened to flatten her. The exhilaration was terrible. Each time the chain struck, it sang its hunger. Something inside answered the call. But with each surge, she grew acutely aware of vulnerability. Flashes of her grandmother’s hand—warm, worn—surfaced against chaos. They grounded her in memory, reminding her who she was before the magic’s call. Guilt pricked as faces flickered. Not enemy nor friend—just human, each loss a cost borne by both sides. Fear spread as the chain’s magic raged, scraping at what made her Daisy. It tempted her with visions of unchecked strength. She recognized the danger. Surrender fully, and she would lose more than the battle—she’d lose herself. The city afire, the growing darkness inside—visions haunting her as she fought to defend all she loved. Each pulse from the chain drew a needle of fear. She questioned what would be left when it was over. Momentum swept her, but under the intoxication of strength, worry gnawed, and she fought fiercely for her sense of self.
Oliver fought back to back with her, knife in one hand, a jagged stick in the other. He bled from a dozen cuts, but didn’t slow, not even when a Veilseeker’s blade caught him in the side and drove deep.
“Don’t you dare die,” Daisy shouted, slamming her attacker to the ground.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Oliver gasped, but his knees buckled.
Xeris moved fast, lunging and slashing, claws raking enemies open. In the chaos, scales glimmered as he spun, dodged blows, and landed each hit with precision. A snarl twisted from his throat as he barreled into Veilseekers—but blue chains shot out, coiling his arms and yanking him to the ground. He thrashed, smoke streaming from his mouth, sparks flickering on his jaw, forcing Veilseekers to stumble back. In Daisy’s memory, her grandmother’s warning about the southern wilds echoed as she watched Xeris twist against the bonds, fury blazing in his eyes.
Daisy tried to get to him, but the champion blocked her path.
He was massive, head and shoulders above the others, face hidden behind a veil of silver wire. He carried a sword as long as Daisy was tall, and when he swung, the air cracked.
She ducked the first blow, swung her own chain, wrapped it around his wrist, and pulled. He didn’t budge.
The champion spoke, his voice flat and cold. “You are the root. Surrender, and you may live.”
Daisy spat blood. “Go to hell.”
She whipped the chain around his neck, yanked with everything she had. The champion stumbled, but then gripped the chain in one hand and dragged her close. Up close, Daisy saw the runes carved into his face, the way the black veins crawled up his own skin.
He’s like me, she realized.
He leaned in, whispered: “You don’t have to die for them.”
Daisy saw the future in his eyes—herself, enthroned, every friend and enemy bowed at her feet, a world united but dead inside. She saw the Emperor’s chain, wrapping around her, and she almost wanted it.
But not enough.
She slammed her head into the champion’s face, bone crunching beneath her brow, then yanked the chain with a fierce twist of her arm. Black fire burst out as she spun, striking again and again. The champion reeled, staggering with each blow, and Daisy drove him back, chain snapping and fists pounding. For a breathless moment, she pressed the advantage, forcing him to retreat.
Then the champion drew his sword, and the world shrank to pain.