Page 18 of She Who Was Severed (The Ashen Chain Trilogy #1)

The fog in the Wanehold doesn’t roll in like weather.

It settles. Thick, low, wet as breath, and just clingy enough to make walking feel like pulling yourself through someone else’s lungs.

My boots haven’t been dry in an hour, and I’m pretty sure one of them isn’t entirely attached to the sole anymore. Doesn’t matter. We keep moving.

Vale’s ahead, barely visible. Her coat’s unfastened again, hanging open like we’re out for a casual stroll and not crossing a strip of broken territory where even the wind doesn’t go straight.

Her blades are strapped loose on her back, swaying with every step.

She hasn’t spoken in miles. She only stops when I do.

Which is now.

She turns slowly, fog curling around her like it doesn’t know whether to leave her alone or apologize.

“Oh, this’ll be good,” she says, arms folding. “Let me guess. You’re dying. Again.”

“I need to train,” I say .

“No. You need sleep. Food. A different obsession that doesn’t kill you every third breath.” She jerks her chin at the fog. “Also, we’re in the Wanehold. In case you forgot. The cursed bit of map that screams ‘not here’ for every dumbass who wants to light up their magic and die loudly.”

I drop my pack anyway. “Five minutes.”

“That’s what you said before the last time you passed out and tried to bite me when I woke you up.”

“I don’t remember that.”

She smirks. “Exactly.”

I lower myself to the ground. The soil’s cold and uneven and laced with sharp stone. It stings through my knees, but that’s the point. No distractions. No lies. Just pressure.

I brace. Rootform Spiral. Knees wide. Spine stacked. Palms grounded. The Chain has been quiet most of the day—just a low hum along the ribs—but it stirs now. Like it recognizes the posture before I finish settling into it. My breath catches once, then resets.

I start with the basics. Cycle One. First breath—simple. In through the nose, hold it at the top of my chest, let it fall low. Nothing dramatic. Just getting my rhythm.

Cycle Two. Second breath—tighter. I pull it deeper this time, locking my core, feeling the pressure shift higher.

Then I go for Cycle Seven.

This isn’t in the Path Manual. There’s no diagram, no priest whispering the correct breath into my ear.

I built it myself—out of bruised ribs, blackout drills, and one too many close calls where the Chain almost ate me alive.

It’s brutal. Full-body pressure, breath compressed so low it starts to shake my spine.

I don’t do this to show off.

I’m doing it because the Chain’s gone quiet—and that terrifies me more than anything Virelle’s council might send after me .

They’ll hunt me. I already know that. You don’t escape a city like Virelle with a banned path carved into your chest and expect forgiveness. They won’t let me live, not if I stay weak. Not if the Chain keeps acting on instinct instead of purpose.

The manual says Link Two changes that. It’s the shift—when the Chain starts reading the world instead of reacting to it.

When it stops waiting for fear and starts responding to intent.

I could sense lies. Feel what people mean before they say it.

Maybe even stop second-guessing every breath I take when it hums against my ribs.

But it also says something else. Quiet, almost buried.

If I don’t keep moving forward, the Chain might leave me behind. Not abandon me. Just… stop pulling me back when I start to slip.

That’s what this is. Not a breakthrough. A warning shot. Because if I don’t get this right—if I don’t earn its attention now—

I don’t just lose power.

I lose the only part of me that’s still fighting to survive.

The first few rounds go smoothly. I’m in control. Until the third breath. That one drags.

By the fourth, I slip. Just a tiny mistake—my hand curls too tight, too soon. I lose the hold.

And the Chain answers.

It doesn’t lash. Doesn’t strike. It coils—tight and slow, like it’s winding itself around my ribs, waiting to see what I’ll do next.

Like it knows I messed up—and it wants to see how badly.

Pressure slams into my chest—not external. Internal. Like breath trying to escape the wrong way. My wrists burn. My balance breaks. I fall sideways, shoulder slamming into rock, mouth full of dirt and moss that tastes like mold and old blood.

There’s a flicker behind my eyes. Not memory. Not mine, anyway .

A hallway. Carved stone. Someone else’s voice speaking a word I almost understand.

Then it’s gone.

I try to sit up.

That’s when the scream hits.

It doesn’t sound human. But it’s not just in my head either—Vale hears it too. She’s already moving, blades drawn, dropping low like her body remembers this before her mind has to. I don’t get up. I can’t. My legs won’t hold. The fog shifts ahead, just enough to reveal the shape.

Wings spread wide—too wide. Feathers broken at the edges, scorched like they’ve flown through lightning too many times and never fully healed. Electricity skates across its back in sharp, stuttering bursts, like the storm inside it is barely contained.

A bird. But more than that. And wrong. No tether. No sigil. No bond. Just raw, fractured magic and a predator’s focus.

Thunderhawk.

Not trained. Not summoned. Wild. Unbonded. Impossible.

And it’s staring straight at me like it remembers something I haven’t lived yet.

It flinches.

Not in fear. Not exactly.

In recognition.

Vale doesn’t hesitate. She charges, blades crossing as she sweeps for the wing joint. The beast vanishes before she makes contact—flickers back into the Veil with a sound like glass cracking underwater.

She doesn’t stop moving until the air settles.

I sit up, gasping, wrists still glowing faint silver. The Chain isn’t dormant. It’s pulsing against the bones like it wanted the thing to come closer.

Vale stomps over and drops a waterskin next to my foot. “You’re welcome,” she says. “Also, what the hell was that? ”

“Stormbound Thunderhawk,” I say.

“No kidding. Wild. Half-in the Veil. Which means unstable. Which also means… I should not have had to stab at it because someone couldn’t resist messing with their scary chain magic in the middle of a cursed, fog-choked death forest full of emotional trauma and lightning birds.”

I pick up the waterskin. Don’t drink. Just hold it. “It wasn’t reacting to me,” I say slowly.

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t say it.”

“I honestly don’t think it was—”

“Freya… say what you’re about to say and I’ll stab you and leave you here.”

I let out a dry laugh. “Okay, okay—fine. It was definitely responding to the Chain. The thing looked right at me. ”

She mutters something that definitely isn’t a prayer. Could be a curse. Could be my name, mangled into something sharp and spiteful. Hard to tell with Vale.

She doesn’t ask. Just grabs my wrist and starts wrapping it with linen from some hidden pocket—too tight, definitely on purpose. Her version of nurturing always feels like punishment.

“You don’t poke storm-touched sky monsters with magic that smells like a war crime, Freya.”

I wince as she yanks the knot. “You’re really bad at the whole bedside thing.”

“You’re really bad at the whole not summoning death creatures in the middle of cursed territory thing,” she shoots back, tugging the wrap just hard enough to make my fingers twitch.

“I didn’t summon it.”

“No? You just lit up like an arc flare, vibrated like a possessed tuning fork, and figured the forest would politely mind its business?”

I roll my eyes. “It was training. ”

Vale stares at me, expression unreadable. Like she’s trying to decide whether to laugh or stab me. “Next time you want to train, pick a place that doesn’t smell like something died screaming.”

The Chain twitches once—just a flicker. Enough to make her hands still for half a second.

“I’ve seen what happens when power starts answering on its own,” she says finally.

“So have I.”

She says nothing to that. Just ties off the wrap with a sharp pull and gets to her feet.

“Next time you try this stunt,” she says, turning, “make sure I’m in a better mood. Or at least better fed.”

I watch her disappear into the fog again.

The Chain hums against my spine.

And I don’t stop it.

- x -

We’re close to the edge of the Wanehold. I can feel it in the ground—the way the dirt stops humming underfoot, the way the trees space out wider, more natural. The fog thins just enough to see twenty paces ahead. That should feel like relief. It doesn’t.

Vale’s pace has changed. She’s stopped scanning the terrain like a survivalist and started walking like someone who knows what she’s about to step into. Her hand keeps brushing her blade, not drawing it, just checking it’s there .

I catch up, but she stops without warning. One step from the bend in the path, weight shifting, body tense. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.

I see them as the wind breaks.

Four, maybe five shapes, half-shadowed and still. One perched on a stone ledge, one higher on the ridge, the rest on the path ahead. Loose stances. Blades half-out, not nervous. Confident. Like they’ve done this before.

Vale exhales slow. “Fucking Bram.”

The lead one steps into view. Tall. Axe balanced across his shoulder like it weighs nothing. Patchy armor. Too clean hands. He walks like a man who always brings the bigger threat.

“Didn’t think you’d come through the Wanehold, Vale,” he says, grinning. “Thought we burned that bridge.”

His eyes drift to me, linger longer than I like. “New girlfriend? Bit young for you, isn’t she?”

Vale doesn’t blink. “I don’t fuck every pretty girl who crosses my path, Bram. That’s how you ended up with three bastards, one bounty, and half a knife stuck in your arse.”

His grin wavers. “Still charming, princess.”

She rolls her neck like she’s shaking off a cramp, not a warning.

“Call me princess again, Bram, and I’ll rip off your cock, jam it up your ass sideways, and let you finally understand what it’s like to get fucked by your own mistakes.”