Chapter 88 An Ambassador
Evening fell with all the subtlety of a prison lock, the castle’s battered masonry glimmering blue in the torchlight as if the stones themselves had started to bruise. In the Great Hall, where the new regime had promised a future of openness and communal feasts, the tables overflowed with borrowed cutlery, wilted bread, and meat dry enough to spark a fire if you dropped it. None of it mattered: tonight, the air vibrated with the tension of a city that knew every meal might be its last as a free state.
Enchanted chandeliers floated high above the tables, the old glass replaced with mage-lights that shimmered silver and blue in Brightwater’s new colors. The light didn’t so much illuminate the hall as highlight the cracks in the facade, pooling in the gaps between warping planks and exposing the places where old banners had been ripped down and replaced by whatever the artisans could cobble together. People gathered in their best imitation of finery, some in patched uniforms, others in castoff noble attire stolen during the sack. They watched one another with equal parts hunger and suspicion.
Daisy sat at the head table beside Xeris, the weight of every gaze on her like sand poured into her clothes. She wore the daisy pendant, but tonight it felt less like armor and more like a shackle. She blinked hard to keep her focus sharp, the exhaustion of the day pooling behind her eyes like tar. Her fingers itched from the magical residue of the obsidian gift, which Mira had locked away in the council’s strongbox but which Daisy could still feel, as if it had left a splinter in her skin.
Thorne entered with his entourage as if nothing in the world could hurt him, not even the sight of so many well-fed enemies in one room. He exchanged a few low words with his nearest aide, who promptly began to shadow the castle staff, eyes peeled for any misstep. As the guests found their places, the aide produced a folded piece of parchment and, between courses, sketched rapid notations under the cover of a napkin. Oliver, slipping in and out of the servant flow, saw this at least twice. He took mental notes and pocketed a half-eaten heel of bread, whether for food or evidence, Daisy wasn’t sure.
She kept one eye on Oliver as he wove between tables. He never once looked at her directly, but she read his intent in the angle of his head, the way he slowed near anyone who might be worth stealing from or, tonight, worth spying on. When he reached the sideboard, he brushed a finger across the edge of the wine flagon, an old code from their street days meaning, “We’re watched.”
Daisy didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as move her neck to signal receipt. She’d learned long ago that the real danger came after the warning. She looked to her left, where Xeris sipped water with mock piety. His hand wrapped the goblet so delicately she almost missed the tension in his knuckles, the way he rotated the stem as if grinding something to dust. She knew he’d caught Oliver’s message too, and was already cataloguing threats.
The meal rolled forward. Thorne smiled for the crowd, recited empty pleasantries about trade and mutual respect, and toasted the memory of those who’d “perished in service to order.” Daisy replied in kind, toasting the future of Brightwater and the freedom of its people. There was applause, and somewhere down the table, Mira Stone barked a laugh so sharp it turned a dozen heads. In the low moment afterward, Daisy glanced toward the back of the room, where Delia hovered over Maribel, who’d insisted on attending despite her fever.
Maribel’s lips barely moved, but Daisy caught the words—“Wanted to see these people for myself”—before Delia pressed a cup to her mouth and the old woman drank, never breaking eye contact with Thorne.
Desert came. The city’s only remaining patissier had conjured up some abomination of stale honey and turnip, but Thorne ate his portion with relish, perhaps delighted at the display of resilience. He set his spoon down, dabbed his lips, and turned to Daisy.
“There are rumors,” he said, voice casual but pitched just loud enough to hush nearby tables, “that you command blood magic.”
Daisy felt every spine in the room stiffen. Even Xeris’s face lost its mask of indifference; his nostrils flared, eyes narrowing just enough to warn a careful observer.
She let the silence hang, then replied, “I command only the will to survive.”
Thorne laughed. “And yet survival leaves its mark. Our emperor finds your unique talents most fascinating. He wonders if you would demonstrate.”
His eyes pinned her, and for the first time, Daisy saw the hunger behind the man’s detachment. It wasn’t curiosity, not really. It was the need to see what made the threat real.
She smiled, small and sharp. “You first,” she said. “Show me what passes for magic in Ironclaw these days.”
A ripple of laughter from Brightwater’s side, but Thorne just leaned in, both arms on the table, closing the distance between them. “We prefer not to cheapen our gifts,” he said. “But for you, perhaps an exception could be made.”
He reached across the table. His hand moved toward Daisy’s wrist, but with the kind of inevitability that made her skin crawl.
Before his fingers made contact, Xeris was there, wine pitcher in hand. He leaned in, eclipsing Thorne’s reach and forcing the ambassador to withdraw or risk a collision. The move was perfectly polite, almost servile, as if Xeris merely wanted to refill Daisy’s cup, but his body blocked the line of sight, his presence crowding out everything else.
“Another?” Xeris murmured, eyes never leaving Thorne’s.
Thorne retracted his hand, a tremor of irritation flickering over his features. “Of course,” he said. “Thank you.”
For a moment, the air around them thickened, the temperature rising enough that the nearest candles guttered and flared. Xeris’s eyes flashed, but Daisy saw the slit pupils, the molten gold iris, and knew that the mask was slipping.
Thorne caught it too, and smiled, not in triumph, but as if he’d just confirmed a private hypothesis. He sat back, made a show of relaxing, and rejoined his own people.
Daisy released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She glanced at Xeris, who poured her wine with a steady hand but kept his gaze trained on the ambassador.
“You’re not subtle,” she whispered, behind the rim of her goblet.
“I’m not here to be subtle,” he replied, so soft she felt the words more than heard them. “You asked what made monsters. Now you know.”
The conversation at the tables resumed, but the tone had shifted. People were less eager to toast, less prone to jokes. Even the staff moved more quietly, aware that the night had soured in ways no one would name.
Oliver sidled up with a tray, voice low. “Found three of them sketching the wall layout. Sent a note back with the kitchen girls. Mira’s on it.”
Daisy nodded, grateful, and let Oliver linger a moment longer than necessary as he refilled her plate. Xeris pretended not to notice, but the warmth at Daisy’s back told her otherwise.
At the far end of the hall, Delia wheeled Maribel’s chair closer to the wall, out of the main flow of servants. Daisy watched her mother’s profile: thin, beautiful in its way, every angle more pronounced than the last time she’d looked. Maribel caught Daisy’s eye and winked, then mouthed, “Don’t let them see you sweat.”
The rest of the evening was a blur of faces, noise, and ceremonial nonsense. When the last toast was called, and the Ironclaw delegation swept out in a flurry of starched robes and predatory smiles, Daisy rose on legs that threatened to betray her. She met Mira Stone at the exit, who murmured, “I’ll follow their shadows. Sleep with a knife under your pillow.”
Daisy smiled. “I always do.”
She found Oliver waiting for her in the corridor, hands buried in his pockets, eyes wary. “You all right?”
She nodded, too tired for words, and let him walk her back to her rooms. The walk was short but felt like crossing a continent.
“Thorne’s got a taste for blood,” Oliver said, after an almost companionable silence. “If he can’t get yours, he’ll settle for anyone who stands with you.”
“Let him try,” Daisy said. “We’ll be ready.”
At her door, Oliver touched her hand, then drew back, the hesitation clear in the movement.
“Get some sleep,” he said.
She watched him go, then closed the door and leaned against it, the wood cool and solid against her spine.
In the quiet, she remembered the look in Thorne’s eyes, the certainty that she was a thing to be acquired, dissected, understood—someone who wanted to make her a trophy had hunted before Daisy but never.
She turned the obsidian daisy over in her hands, felt the thrum of its embedded spell, and wondered just how many eyes watched from the darkness.
In the morning, she would meet them head-on. But for now, she let herself feel the fear. Just enough to keep her sharp.
She slept with the pendant clutched in her fist, and dreamed of dragons circling the city, wings black as midnight.