Chapter 38 Vengeance or Mercy
The hours bled together. Daisy lost track of time; the only measure was the throb of her wrist and the shrill tick of the battered clock Samuel used to pace lessons. After the third round of cuts, her head buzzed with a pleasant dizziness, a drinker's float, but cleaner. Easier to control.
She sat at the work table, a dish towel wrapped around her bicep, watching as the last of the blood-magic healed a shallow gash in her forearm. The skin puckered, then stitched itself with a faint, shining thread that faded as she exhaled. It didn't even scar. Not anymore.
Oliver sat on a low stool across from her, a chipped glass flask in hand. He tossed it to her, and she caught it left-handed, twisted off the cap, and gulped. The water was clean, sweeter than any from the slum taps.
"Looks like you're getting better at hurting yourself," he said, aiming for dry but missing. His knee bounced under the table, a nervous tell he'd never bothered to hide.
Daisy wiped her mouth, shrugged. "I'm a quick study."
Samuel hovered by the stacks, sorting through ancient tomes, his back to the pair. Now and then, he'd glance over, the lines on his face deepening. Daisy had started to see him as a kind of clockwork: always ticking, constantly resetting, always a fraction of a second away from the next emergency.
She watched the new scales on her arm, tracing their pattern: a spiral at the elbow, then fanning out like a bird's wing. She felt the itch of more to come, a slow, particular spread. She wasn't scared. Not exactly.
She just wanted to know how far it would go.
"Can I ask you something?" she said, eyes on Samuel.
He didn't turn, but his shoulders stiffened. "Anything."
"Other blood mages. Did you know any? Like, before all this?"
This time, he faced her, eyes flat. He wiped his hands on his coat, leaving faint red smears on the wool. "There were a few. Before the city purged them, before the Council made it a death sentence even to try. Most died. Some disappeared. One…” He hesitated, a rough edge in his voice.
"Go on," Daisy said.
He leaned on the table, closer now. "I wasn't always a rebel. I worked for the city once, as a researcher. My job was to identify threats. I helped track down blood magic, the real kind, not the street tricks. One time, they brought in a man from the outer rings. He had scales, just like yours, except his ran from his neck to his collarbone. Spiral, same pattern."
Daisy felt her mouth go dry. "What happened to him?"
Samuel closed his eyes. "He went by many names. None of them is real. The last thing he said was, 'Tell the city it cannot kill what it doesn't understand.' Then he vanished. No trace, no body, nothing. Some thought he burned himself out, took the secrets with him. Others… said he had a daughter."
Daisy stared at the table, at her hand, the line of scales. "My mother never talked about him."
"Would you, if you were her?" Samuel's voice was gentle, too gentle. "The city made sure nobody wanted that legacy."
Oliver reached across and squeezed Daisy's hand. His grip was too tight, and he didn't let go even after she tried to pull away.
"So, what? You feel guilty?" she said, not quite a question.
Samuel shook his head, a small, bitter smile. "No. Guilt's for people who think it matters. I want you to live long enough to piss off everyone who ever tried to erase you."
Daisy laughed. Not because it was funny. Just because there was nothing else.
She picked at the edges of the new scales. They didn't hurt, but she could feel them, hard, cool, almost separate from her. It was like becoming two people at once. The part that remembered hunger and loss, and the part that wanted to crack the world open to see what was inside.
Oliver let go of her hand. He looked away, then back, then away again. "If you want to talk about it, or, I don't know, punch something…"
Daisy shook her head. "I'm fine."
They sat in silence, the only sound the turning of pages as Samuel pored through the next book. Daisy was just about to make a joke, something to break the tension, when a bolt of pain shot through her skull.
She gasped, clapped a hand to her head. It was like a hot wire run straight into her brain, a voice made of razors and thunder.
They have your family.
Daisy's vision swam. She saw, not with her eyes, but with something more profound: a room of stone, a woman curled on a cot, two kids huddled together, her mother's face pale and drawn, a fresh spiral bruised onto her neck. Then the scene widened, showing the city, the castle, and the banners of House Ravensworth flying in the wind.
Daisy doubled over, breath shallow. The pain faded as quickly as it came, leaving her ears ringing.
Oliver steadied her, panic in his voice. "What is it? Daisy, what's wrong?"
She sat up, wiped sweat from her brow. The scales on her arms stood out, sharp and angry.
"They've got my family," she said. "At the Ravensworth estate. They're alive, but…" She swallowed, tried to keep her hands from shaking. "He wants to use them. As bait, maybe. Or leverage."
Samuel dropped the book, face gone gray. "We need a plan."
Oliver's hand hovered at her back, not touching but close enough to feel the heat. "We go tonight," he said, already making it true.
Daisy watched her blood bead on her skin, the way it moved: restless, searching, hungry. She felt the dragon now, not just in her head but everywhere, a pressure behind every thought. Xeris wanted to burn. She tried to run.
But she knew, in the marrow of her bones, that she would go. That she would tear the city apart, if that's what it took.
Daisy reached for Oliver's arm, pulled him close, and met his eyes. "If you're coming, you do what I say. No heroics. No deals. No running."
He nodded, jaw set.
She looked at Samuel. "You too, old man."
He gave her a look she'd never seen before, respect, maybe. Or fear.
"We go together," Samuel said. "No matter what happens."
Daisy flexed her hand, scales catching the light. For the first time, she didn't feel like a monster.
She felt ready.