Chapter 164 New Dawn Part 1
From the storm drain's mouth, Daisy saw Brightwater’s main avenue. Every flagstone was painted red or violet by the sunrise. The old silhouettes remained—the market arch, the needle spire, the blunted towers on the horizon—but everything else was changed. Ironclaw patrols marched in sixes, boots drumming like a pulse. Now and then, a runner sprinted ahead, carrying orders or news, always glancing over his shoulder as if chased by something invisible.
They’d slept in desperate shifts, crammed into the concrete pipe, every breath heavy with the stench of mildew and rat piss. Cornelius watched the approach, blade already unsheathed, radiating tension, while Oliver clung to Daisy’s side, his hand steadying her each time she shuddered from fever or stumbled. Dark veins spread down her chest, forming a black lattice beneath her skin, moving with the rapid, panicked beat of her heart. The chain magic inside her was unyielding, burning through her blood and nerves, draining her energy, and tying her physically and magically to the city. With each jagged breath, Daisy was certain something more merciless than illness gripped her, and every heartbeat made her feel further trapped, as if the Emperor’s remote power grew stronger inside her.
They waited for an hour, watching the city come to life.
At first, it seemed like the citizens had all been killed or run off. Then, as the light deepened, Daisy saw the shapes moving: women in gray, children with shorn hair, old men in patched jackets. All filed in lines under the direction of Ironclaw handlers. Some were forced into ruined shops; others into the churches or old baths. Most were set to work at the intersections, assembling wooden platforms and spindly iron tripods.
“Execution stages,” whispered Cornelius. “Or ritual anchors.”
Oliver grimaced, watching a group of kids stack bundles of firewood at the base of the old clocktower. “I recognize some of them. That’s the baker—used to give me the crusts, back when the guards would let her.”
Daisy pressed her cheek against the storm grate, the metal’s chill biting deep, making her jaw throb. Outside moved with a monstrous inevitability. The city’s soul was gone, hollowed out and forced to mimic the cruel will of another. Everywhere the daisy emblem blazed—smeared across windows, stamped vengefully into dust, dangling from dead necks, the corpses parading the main street in a cruel, mocking display. Every symbol clawed at her with hateful familiarity.
Cornelius signaled. The three of them slithered back through the drain, crawling on elbows and knees. The space was tight. Daisy’s ribs screamed at each bump. Being seen meant no time for screaming at all. They took two lefts and a right, following the old scavenger’s route. Oliver swore it would let them out near the city’s undercroft. In the dark, the only light came from the chain in Daisy’s veins. It glowed faint, sickly blue wherever her skin was thinnest.
A hundred yards in, Daisy stopped, agony pinning her in place. The pain was no longer a dull throb but built into an intense, unrelenting pressure, as if an invisible hand was squeezing the strength from her bones. Her legs trembled, cold sweat dripped down her spine, and each panicked breath scraped her throat. Every inhale tasted like metal and despair. Her chest locked up, making her heart beat unevenly and painfully.
Cornelius noticed first. “You good?”
Daisy nodded, though it was a lie. “Just need a minute.”
Oliver crouched next to her, fingers brushing the back of her neck. “We’re almost there, Pest. If you need—”
She jerked her head, nearly pitching forward. Her voice fractured, brittle as ice struck by iron. “No. I need to see. I need to know why.” The words barely held together, her soul stripped raw as fear surged and scraped her insides bloody.
He looked away, jaw tight. “You know why.”
She closed her eyes and let the chain talk to her.
It was a city of ghosts.
Every corner, old hiding spot, fountain, and archway—she remembered them from childhood. The city streets had been mapped by her footsteps and childhood mischief. Now, as the trio crawled through the drainage and emerged beneath the ruined floor of the old public baths, it felt as if all those memories were submerged, overwhelmed by darkness and loss.
The ceramic daisies were everywhere. Set in mortar in brick. Hanging on cords between streetlamps. Embedded in the baths’ walls. When the morning sun hit, the light refracted and bounced in impossible patterns. Once, her mother had told her that daisies marked the boundary between the living and the dead. The first founders of Brightwater had planted them for protection. Later, the city’s spellbinders had woven their magic into these flowers, connecting their enchantments beneath the stones. Daisy remembered weaving daisy chains as a girl, not knowing why the petals trembled when she touched them. Now, she understood these were more than decorations. They were magic webs throughout the city, binding lives together. She was now caught in the middle of it all.
Above, a scream split the air—the first wailing of the day—someone, somewhere, finally breaking beneath the truth of what the stages meant. The sound echoed through Daisy, jangling through her nerves, a raw plea no one would answer.
Cornelius slid a hand through the cracked tile and opened a way up. He signaled Oliver, who hoisted Daisy through, then followed.
They found themselves in a side room of the baths, half-collapsed, dust so thick it choked. Daisy pressed her hand to the wall and steadied herself. She could feel the chain vibrate—not just in her, but in the city itself. It was a living thing, all roots and nerves and intent.
Cornelius peered through a break in the brick. “Clear, for now. But they’re patrolling in circles, never the same pattern twice.”
Daisy thought about the Emperor—the one at the tangled center of everything. Echoes of the officer’s warning and glimpses from the scrying pool merged with older fears. Her mother’s whispered secrets, nights thick with dread, all converged now. Those same rumors had traced the Smithsons’ fate to the Emperor’s cause for generations, binding their bloodline inexorably to his. Before the magic changed her, Daisy had searched the strange patterns in her veins. She had hoped for proof of the claim that the Emperor was family in some bent, ancestral fashion—or perhaps the true source of all their misfortunes. Now, as pain pulsed through her, the connection was undeniable. She could only picture a man held together by rage and determination, sustained by the same magical chain that ran through her own blood.
Oliver leaned close, whispering. “If you can’t do this, we don’t go. Not for them, not for him. We find a way out, like before.”
She wanted so badly to believe him; it hurt. Longing ripped through her, shrill and feral, pleading for escape, for a sliver of hope, for anything but that doomed, crawling push toward the dais. But the chain inside pulsed, implacable and cold as death: there was no running, only surrender or ruin. Finishing what fate demanded was the only path—even if it broke and consumed her, piece by piece.
She touched his hand. The pain hit her with shocking force, like an electrical jolt through her body, but she didn’t let go. “We do this for us,” she whispered, her voice trembling with both resolve and fear.
He nodded, tried to smile, but his lips barely moved, the fear raw behind his eyes.
Cornelius checked his blade and nodded at the door. “We’ll head for the center. If he’s anywhere, it’s there.”
They made their way through the baths, moving from shadow to shadow. At the court’s edge, Daisy saw the first stage up close. The wood was rough, stained with old blood, the daisies fixed at each corner. A man in white robes—one of the Emperor’s priests, maybe—inspected the setup, then moved on. They waited for him to vanish, then darted across the square.
The city was worse than Daisy remembered. Magic thrummed along every surface, pulsing beneath her fingertips. It was unsettling in its intensity. Streetlamps stretched upward. Each one, in her mind, transformed into a tangled root. Intersections gathered energy—nodes anchoring some unseen network. As they pressed deeper into the city, the oppressive presence intensified, wrapping tighter with every step. When they finally reached the main avenue, Daisy’s hands trembled so severely that she could barely use them.
Oliver caught her as she stumbled. “We can turn back,” he said, voice low.
She shook her head, eyes burning. “I have to see it.”
Cornelius kept to the alleys, never more than a few feet ahead, always checking for eyes. At one point, he flattened them against a wall. A troop of Veilseekers passed—faces hidden by mirrored masks, each painted with a single daisy.
They reached the base of the old clock tower just as the sun cleared the far ridge. Daisy looked up and saw daisies embedded in every clock face. Each petal was angled to catch the morning light. It was beautiful—in a way that made her sick.
Cornelius pointed. “There. He’ll be up top. That’s where they always make the speech.”
They climbed the inside stairs—spiral, tight, each step cracked and dangerous. Daisy almost fell twice, but Oliver’s grip kept her upright. At the top, there was a small landing. The door to the balcony stood ajar.
From inside, they could hear the Emperor.