Chapter 253 Ready, Steady

Chapter 253 Ready, Steady
The garrison’s workshop saw more life in those last three days than it had since the siege. Sunlight cut across the rough-planked floor in perfect lines, the room’s hundred scars and chemical stains picked out in high contrast. Daisy came in each morning to the smell of ironwort drying on the racks, the thud of the old press as Delia ran her poultice batches, and the steady scrape of Cornelius sharpening blades against the block.
She found Cornelius already at the workbench, sleeves rolled, running a square of black cloth over the length of a dagger. The tool wasn’t new; Daisy recognized it as the one his sister had carried, the one that had survived every shift of fortune in the old city. Cornelius held it out, handle first, with a gravity that made Daisy pause.
She accepted it. The balance was perfect—no show, no filigree, just a blade that knew what it was meant for.
He said, “Keep it at your back. If you need it, you won’t have time to think.”
Daisy nodded, already tucking the knife into the sheath she’d rigged at her belt. “Thank you.”
He wiped his hands and sorted his own kit: nothing ceremonial, just what he would need if the trip to the capital took a turn for the worse. Daisy liked the way he worked: never a wasted motion, never a hint of nerves.
Delia swept in a moment later, two canvas packs slung over one shoulder and a thick binder of symptom logs under her arm. She set the packs down, unzipped both, and laid out her supplies—dried ironwort, fresh-wrapped poultices, bandages cut for speed. Each move was efficient, but Daisy caught the way Delia’s hands lingered at the straps, the way she double-checked the contents before moving on.
“These are for you and Oliver,” Delia said, voice clipped. “Logs are up to date, and there’s a duplicate copy in the pack. I want you both to read the entries every day. Out loud, if possible.”
Daisy opened the log and flipped to the first fresh entry. Delia’s handwriting was as tight as ever—symptom, date, observed progression. But there were fewer black ink corrections now, more blue underlines. The language was less about failure, more about what to watch for.
Delia said, “Since the ritual, the silver overlay has stabilized. But if you feel a spike in the black lines—pressure, not color—I want you to stop whatever you’re doing and pulse the bandage. Don’t try to power through.”
Daisy closed the log and pocketed it. “Understood.”
Oliver strolled in then, his hair still damp from the field, jacket slung over one shoulder. “Do I get a dagger?” he asked.
Cornelius snorted. “You can borrow one when you prove you can keep your shoes on for a full day.”
Daisy caught the look that passed between them—an old joke, but with more trust behind it now than there used to be.
Delia read aloud from the binder, her voice steady as she moved through the most recent logs. “Day seventy-one: Daisy’s pulse normal. No black vein spread. Silver overlay is clear. Day seventy-two: Oliver experienced mild dizziness, which resolved with water and rest. No new symptoms.” She paused, then looked up. “You’re both doing better than the control cases. Just don’t assume it’ll stay that way.”
Oliver mock-saluted. “You’re in charge of keeping me alive, Delia. I have every confidence.”
“Good,” Delia said, but her smile was real.
Daisy set her own pack on the bench, the wood rough beneath her palms, and checked the contents. She’d packed light: the blood-language text, two changes of clothes, and the knife Cornelius had given her. The faint scent of ironwort and oil lingered in the air as she watched the way the others moved, the unspoken rhythm of people who had already survived one crisis and knew the next departure could decide more than a day’s work.
At noon, Daisy excused herself, crossed to the workroom’s east end, and knocked once on the old radiator pipe—a signal Mira had told her would work if Daisy ever needed to reach her.
Within two minutes, the air near the east wall folded inward. Mira stepped through, a cold static in her wake. She wore gloves and a travel coat, the color so dark it seemed to eat the light. She didn’t speak until she’d scanned the room and seen who was present.
“Ready?” she asked, eyes on Daisy.
“Ready,” Daisy said.
Mira produced a small compass from her pocket, set it on the workbench beside the blood-language text. The brass face was inlaid with red glass, and the needle spun in a slow, deliberate arc until it locked onto a direction Daisy could not place.
“What is it?” Delia asked.
Mira said, “It’s a resonance tracker. Designed to point to the nearest active relay—or fracture—that needs fixing.”
Cornelius said, “Why not just use the city’s old records?”
Mira’s smile was thin. “Because the records lag. And some breaks don’t appear until they’re about to rupture.”
Daisy picked up the compass and turned it in her hand. The needle didn’t waver, even when she rotated it. “How sensitive is it?”
“Enough to save a day’s march, if you trust it,” Mira said.
Daisy set the compass back on the bench, its weight heavier than its size. “We’ll bring it.”
They finished the day’s work as the sun edged down, the workshop glowing gold and then blue in succession. Delia handed out the dried poultices, double-checked the labels, sealed the packs, and lined them up by the door. Cornelius checked the perimeter map, his finger tracing the route they would take to the rendezvous. Oliver read through the latest council directive, lips moving as he summarized each line.
Daisy watched them all, the way they orbited each other, never quite touching but always in sync. The familiar tension in her jaw remained, but for once it felt like readiness instead of dread.
She left the workshop first, pack on her shoulder, the new knife warm against her back. She heard Cornelius and Delia bickering in low voices as they tidied up, heard Mira’s measured steps as she folded herself out of the room.
Outside, the sky was clear. Daisy breathed in the sharp air and let herself look forward to the work ahead, carrying the quiet certainty that tomorrow would ask more of them.
Tomorrow, they would leave for the capital, and the waiting would be over.
Tonight, Daisy allowed herself to rest, aware that each hour counted down to an uncertain future. As she lay awake, she felt the weight of anticipation and responsibility settle over her, knowing that the quiet of the evening was both a reprieve and a prelude to all that awaited them.