Chapter 167 Ladies First
Daisy landed hard, shoulder-first, in the narrow alley behind the tent. Cornelius followed, bracing her with one hand while the other searched for threats. Rain had gotten inside her shirt, turning the fabric into a second skin. It clung to the veins that ran just below the flesh, veins mapped with faint, daisy-shaped patterns that pulsed with sullen magic. Each petal along her arms and collarbone stood out like a bruise under the cotton, a reminder that the magic wound through her body as much as blood or bone. She blinked, trying to get the afterimage of the warlord out of her eyes. But his calm, his certainty, stuck with her.
She was the end, he said. The last link. The words rang in her ears, heavier than the rain. The last link in what? Whatever bound her family, whatever burden each generation had carried, it all funneled down to her. She felt the weight of it—a chain of names and fates, and at the end of it, just Daisy, expected to break or hold. The way he’d spoken made it sound like a kindness, like the final step in some grand cycle she’d never signed up for.
Oliver was already ahead, boots splashing through runoff choked with trash. He knelt by a rusted sewer grate and jimmied ancient bolts with a thin wedge of bone. The grate lifted and exhaled a stench so ripe Daisy could taste it at the back of her mouth. She didn’t complain. If they wanted to lose the Ironclaw, this was the only way.
Cornelius nudged her. “Ladies first.”
She shot him a look. He shrugged, then dropped in feet-first, landing with a grunt. Daisy followed, letting herself fall the last meter. Her boots hit the ground softly, but her knees buckled. She only barely caught herself on the wall. The tunnel was so tight she couldn’t stand straight. The bricks pressed in, slick with generations of moss, and the stink of rot and old magic filled her lungs.
Oliver grinned at her from a few paces ahead. “Remind you of home?” he whispered.
She snorted. “Your home, maybe.”
He took the lead, moving through the dark with a confidence she envied. She forced herself to follow and ignored the way the daisy chain in her arms vibrated each time she brushed the wall. Cornelius brought up the rear—a silent shadow. His eyes never left the tunnel’s mouth behind them.
The passage wound under the old city, doubling back, then burrowing deeper. Soon, the only sounds were the drip of water and the soft shuffle of their movement. Daisy couldn’t tell if it was day or night, if they’d been down here an hour or a year. She let her hand trail along the wall. Sometimes the bricks gave way to smooth bone, or the cold touch of old roots. The city was alive, even down here.
They came to a split: one tunnel wide enough for three across, the other so narrow that Daisy doubted she could squeeze through without scraping the skin from her ribs.
Oliver murmured, “Left. It’s longer, but safer.”
Cornelius grunted. “Unless they’re waiting.”
“Right, then,” Oliver said, and gave Daisy a look that said: " Your call.
She stared at the narrow tunnel, the darkness inside so complete it looked like a wall. Her veins ached. The magic in her blood wanted out, wanted the open air, but she resisted its pull. The chain's magic tugged at her will, testing her resolve with a constant urge to act without thought or release powers she could not control. This internal conflict, the struggle to maintain autonomy against the overwhelming force woven through her, was powerful enough to make her question her own identity. At times, she could not distinguish where the chain’s influence ended and her true self began. Still, she refused to relinquish control, determined not to let the chain dictate her next move.
“Right,” she said. “We go right.”
Daisy crouched, forcing her way into the narrow opening. The bricks rasped her shoulders, and she had to shuffle sideways after the first ten meters. Her breaths grew shallow, uneven, echoing in the tight tunnel. Behind her, Oliver squeezed in next, boots scraping the wet stone, followed by Cornelius, who grunted and cursed as he struggled to wedge himself inside.
The tunnel sloped sharply upward before dropping into a slippery stone chute. Daisy slid uncontrollably, landing with a splash in a cold, black pool. The shock of the water stole her breath, and she panicked, convinced for a moment that the chain around her arm would seize her heart and drag her under.
But she kicked toward the surface, spluttering. Oliver’s hands gripped her upper arms as soon as she surfaced, steadying her and pulling her to the edge of the pool.
She lay there, panting. The veins in her neck burned. The daisy locket at her throat throbbed with a fever pulse. She pressed a hand to it, then opened her eyes.
The chamber they’d landed in was a crypt—not the kind adorned with marble and angels, but an ossuary carved into the city’s foundations. The walls were constructed from human remains: skulls grinned from between the mortar, and tightly packed femurs rose in uneven columns, their surfaces chipped and dusted from centuries underground. The air was thick and cold, carrying the scent of damp stone and ancient decay. Beneath their feet, the floor itself was layered with fragmented bones that shifted and crunched softly with each step. Though grim, there was an aesthetic to the arrangement—the bones arrayed in careful patterns, shadows falling in stark lines across the ossified masonry. The daisy symbol recurred everywhere, but here it took its most archaic form, incised directly into the old bones with uneven strokes, petals lopsided and the centers wobbling with the shaky hand of someone long gone.
Cornelius hauled himself out of the water, scowling. “You could have warned us.”
Daisy ignored him, staring at the nearest wall. “This is Brightwater,” she whispered. “The real Brightwater.”
Oliver squeezed water from his shirt and crouched beside her. “I used to hide here. Before the chain.”
She looked at him, saw the old shadows in his face, the bruises from years he never talked about.
He reached out, his hand finding hers. The skin at the contact sizzled, the magic sparking between them, but he didn’t let go.
She waited for him to flinch. He didn’t. Instead, he twined his fingers into hers, the pain as much a comfort as a wound.
Cornelius rolled his eyes. “If you two are done?”
She squeezed Oliver’s hand once, then let go and pushed herself upright. The veins in her arms twisted beneath her skin, but she felt a renewed strength.
She asked, “Which way?”
Oliver indicated a stone archway, voice low. “That leads to the old manse. Used to be Ravensworth’s before the war. Now it’s the Veilseeker’s nest.”
Daisy set her jaw. “Then that’s where we go.”
They moved as a unit, the fear between them shared and diffused. Every few steps, the tunnel narrowed, forcing them into a single file, the bones on either side growing denser. Sometimes Daisy thought she heard whispers—real ones, not just the chain’s usual chorus—voices that pressed at the edges of her thoughts and threatened to unravel her composure. A chill tightened her grip on Oliver’s sleeve, but she refused to let hesitation take hold. Instead, she focused on each step, steadying her breath and forcing herself not to falter.
Halfway up a spiral stair, they heard boots above.
Daisy pressed herself flat, Oliver behind her, Cornelius last. The echo of Ironclaw voices trickled down the stairs, harsh and urgent.
Cornelius drew his blade, the metal catching a sliver of Daisy’s blue light.
She mouthed, “Wait.”
The boots passed, fading into the distance. She breathed again.
At the top of the stairs, a hatch. Oliver picked the lock in silence, then eased it open.
Brightwater’s old manse had changed. The grand hall was stripped of tapestries. The marble floor was scored with claw marks. There was a smell of incense and rot. The air shimmered with old magic. Daisy looked at her hands. The veins had stopped moving, as if the magic here was thick enough to gum up even the chain’s hunger.
Oliver leaned close. “You ready?”
She nodded.
Cornelius flanked the door, knife ready.
They slipped inside, leaving the crypt and the old city behind.
For the first time, Daisy wasn’t afraid of the chain.
She was afraid of what would come next.