Daisy Chain

“Bloodlines have been kept pure through the nobles’ lines through marriage, keeping high magic in the upper class. That is what the upper nobles wish those in the lower classes to believe, but if one of their pure-blooded shows low magic, they can be tossed aside just as easily as an ill-spotted dog. Picking up magical orphans to train as a noble works to take place, keeps the magic pure.” - Excerpt of the Ruby Queen Biography, 24th year of her reign.

A good morning in the slums was measured by the things you didn’t step in, and by that yardstick, Daisy‘s day had already peaked before dawn. The fog hung low, curling around the splintered eaves and half-collapsed stoops, smothering the usual stink with wet, gray mist. Daisy moved through the alleys like a cautious stray cat, always with one wary eye on the upper windows for chamber pots and the occasional magic-tinged projectile. Her beaten leather satchel, patched more times than her mother’s lungs had seized this week, banged softly against her hip with every step.

The baker’s back door was blocked with a cinder block and a threatening sign, scrawled in the proprietor’s best imitation of noble script, but the flour-fine dust was dulling every letter. Daisy bent, dragged the satchel over, and rapped the code against the wood. Two slow, one fast. After a beat, the cinder block scraped, the door opened just enough for a doughy hand to beckon her inside.

“Don’t let out the cold,” the baker hissed, voice thick with yesterday’s grease.

She slipped in and let her eyes adjust. The storeroom was a cluttered graveyard of rotting bread and flour sacks slumped against the wall like drunken sentries. The rats here were city legends, big as terriers, with blunted teeth and a mean streak. Daisy’s tools were simple: spring wire, sticky resin, and a nail-studded baton. She set the first trap by the sagging shelf and waited, kneeling in a shadow behind a crate labeled “Yeast, Premium.”

A whisker’s flick, a flicker of movement. Daisy counted heartbeats, one, two, three, then snapped the baton forward. The rat didn’t even squeal, just shuddered once and went limp. Daisy checked the floor for blood, wiped the baton clean on a rag, and reset. In the next twenty minutes, she cleared four nests, sacked six rats, and only once had to stomp one that tried to climb her boot. The flour dust clung to her hair and sweat-slicked arms, turning her hands as pale as a corpse.

The baker paid in copper. Daisy eyed the coins in her palm, a third short, and looked up. He’d already turned his back, slicing dough, humming some noble’s anthem off-key. She rolled the coins in her fist until they left hot circles on her skin.

Outside, the fog had thinned to a sticky drizzle. The street was alive now, carts rattling, kids shrieking, the grocer two doors down cursing out a teenage thief. Daisy’s breath steamed in front of her. She started toward the main avenue, mind on what the coppers might buy, half a loaf, maybe a swig of cough tonic for her mother, when a commotion snared her attention.

A noble’s carriage, gleaming black lacquered wood, rolled through the mud as if it had never heard of such a thing. Its wheels glowed with a faint blue sigil, each turn repelling the slop and trash with an unseen force. The carriage was flanked by two guards in crisp uniforms, tunics shot through with silver thread. Both wore open disgust, as if the slum were an infectious rash.

An old man with a matted beard and no shoes hobbled into the carriage’s path, hands outstretched. The red-headed guard with icy eyes didn’t hesitate. He flicked his wrist, and a ripple of greenish light tossed the beggar backwards. The old man thudded to the gutter, scraping his face on the cobbles. Daisy slowed, knuckles whitening around the strap of her bag.

The guard’s gaze swept the street, counting threats. It landed on Daisy. She could feel him taste her meager magic, probably not even enough for a candle trick, and dismiss her in the same heartbeat. But she didn’t look away.

The carriage passed, its window uncurtained just long enough for Daisy to glimpse a child in silks, face pinched, eyes glazed from sleeplessness or too much sweet wine. She wondered what it must feel like to move through the city without ever having to see it.

The guards marched on. The beggar crawled to his knees and spat blood. Daisy watched until the noble’s tail lamps vanished around the corner. Then she stepped past the old man, dropped a rat corpse beside his elbow, and walked on.

The next stop was the market. The coppers in her palm burned like hot coals, each one bought with rat blood and desperation. She clenched them until her knuckles whitened, knowing a flash of metal could mean a knife between her ribs before she'd even feel the hand in her pocket. Daisy hunched lower, a predator's crouch, and cut through the rain-slick alley where even the rats knew better than to linger after dawn.