Page 22 of She Who Was Severed (The Ashen Chain Trilogy #1)

I’m not fighting. I’m being used. And if this is what power feels like, then it’s borrowed. Temporary. One mistake away from breaking something I can’t afford to lose.

I won’t survive this path by following.

The next time the Chain moves, it has to be with me—not for me.

The bodies don’t bleed. They collapse into dust, or maybe they were never solid to begin with. Doesn’t matter. The Chain doesn’t celebrate. It waits.

I raise my voice. “What are they?”

No reply. No hum. Just the glyph below me flaring faintly, then dimming again, like it’s deciding how much to show.

A memory hits me—not mine. Someone else, kneeling in this same chamber. Arms bound. Head bowed. Waiting to be judged. The Chain doesn’t show me more. Doesn’t explain.

This isn’t defense.

It’s ritual.

I’m not being attacked.

I’m being measured.

The scaled creature lunges from the edge of the room. Maybe it’s new. Maybe I just missed it. Doesn’t matter. I meet it halfway. Chain coiled tight around my forearm, breath compressed into my spine.

I swing.

The lash doesn’t arc. It drives. Power threads down through me, not fluid but structured—like it’s using my body to remember how to strike. The moment the chain lands, everything inside me tightens. It burns, but it’s clean. No roar. No blast. Just a blow that finishes what it started.

The creature falls.

No others rise .

The glyph below fades. The platform shifts under my feet and begins to rise again.

The corpse collapses into a pile of dust and vanishes into the floor.

The Chain pulses once at my wrist.

Not praise. Not relief.

Just… acknowledgment.

When I step out into open air again, I nearly fall. My knees aren’t working right. Sweat stings my eyes. Every muscle hums like I’ve just come out of a full cycle and forgot to release.

Vale’s waiting, leaning on a tree like I haven’t just almost been killed in a chamber built to decide if I’m worth the air I’m breathing. Arms crossed, expression unreadable.

She doesn’t ask what happened. Doesn’t need to.

“Still breathing?” she says, casual like it’s a greeting. She tosses me a waterskin without looking.

I catch it with fingers that don’t feel like mine. “Barely.”

She doesn’t push. Doesn’t press. Just nods and turns away.

Whatever I just survived, it’s not the end of something.

It’s the beginning.

The Chain hasn’t spoken since.

But I can feel it waiting.

And it’s not done.

- x -

We take the long route back from the ruins. Not because we’re being careful—because neither of us wants to talk.

Vale walks two paces ahead, jaw tight, hands shoved deep into her coat like that’ll hold something in. I don’t press. The Chain’s quiet now, almost eerily so, like it’s folded in on itself to give us space. Or maybe it’s just waiting. Same as me.

We slip into the shell of a building near the market’s edge. There’s a note tucked into the side of the broken doorframe. Vale grabs it, drops her pack without a glance and shrugs out of her coat like it offends her. It hits a pile of rags. Her weapons follow, one by one—too fast, too precise.

I lean against a cracked beam. “You alright?”

She doesn’t answer until the second blade’s down. Then she sinks to the floor, scrubbing a hand over her face.

“You want to know why I’m really here.”

My mouth opens, then shuts.

She nods, unsurprised. “You remember Bram?”

“How could I forget.”

“I stole from him.” Her voice is low now, but not soft. “Took a map. And coin. Enough to get here.”

“To Ashmere,” I echo.

Vale meets my eyes. “There’s a priest here. One of the black-market ones. A Severed. They say he can… fix it. Graft a new bond.”

I stare at her. “You want your bond back.”

She nods, the movement tight. “Not just want. I need it. This—” she gestures at her chest, her limbs, herself “—this isn’t living. It’s limping. I can’t do it anymore, Freya.”

“And you think this priest can do what the City priests can’t?”

“I think it’s a risk,” she admits. “But it’s the only one I’ve got left.”

I don’t say anything at first. I just feel the Chain stir faintly beneath my ribs, like it’s listening too. Quiet. Curious .

Vale glances at me. “You think it’s stupid.”

“I think it’s desperate.”

“Same thing, isn’t it?”

She scrubs a hand over her face and stands. Unfolds the paper she pulled from the doorframe earlier. “I’ve been asking around,” she says, already heading for the door. “Got a solid lead. You in?”

I push off the wall. “I said I’d help you.”

We don’t speak much after that.

The market’s louder now, more bodies packed into fewer spaces.

Smoke curls from barrel fires. Deals are murmured in corners or shouted over broken stalls.

Every path we follow gets us nowhere fast. One contact’s already dead.

Another wants coin we don’t have. A third says he’ll help if Vale agrees to “other terms,” and gets a dagger pressed to his throat for the trouble.

At one point, Vale slipped off toward the stepwell, said she spotted something carved near the base.

I stayed in the alley, watching the street.

She was gone longer than she should’ve been.

When she came back up, soaked to the knees and scowling, she just said, “Old glyph under the waterline. Still warm.” I didn’t ask more. Her hands were shaking.

It’s late by the time someone tells us about the basement. “Old cellar off the northern quarter. You’ll know it by the smell. If he’s seeing anyone, it’ll be there.”

We follow the directions. Half-lit alleys. Cracked signs. Doors with no hinges, only rusted chains and warped wood.

We find it. Eventually.

The place reeks of mildew and dried blood and old fire. Like someone tried to cleanse it and didn’t finish the job. There’s no guard. Just a slanted staircase and a flickering orb nailed into the ceiling like a dying star.

We go down .

At the bottom, there’s a room. Small. Cramped. Lit by one orange lantern guttering on a hook.

A figure stands at the far end, turned away. Robes torn. Hands busy with something on the table—runes, maybe. Burned cloth. His posture is casual. Too casual.

“Are you the one who performs grafts?” Vale calls out.

The figure doesn’t turn right away. Just chuckles—low, warm, maddeningly familiar.

Then he straightens, slow and theatrical, like he’s been waiting for this cue all day.

He turns.

And grins.

“Gods,” Vale mutters.

My jaw drops.

Owen Serevan spreads his arms wide, like we’ve just arrived at his birthday party. “Well, look at that. The prodigals return. And here I was beginning to think I’d have to send an invitation.”

“You?” Vale says, stunned. “You’re the priest?”

He gestures around the cramped space like it’s a palace. “Technically, I’m many things. But yes. The rumors are true. I’m the Severed back-alley miracle-maker. Welcome to my sanctum. Do mind the mold.”

I close my mouth. Open it again. “You knew we’d find you.”

“I hoped,” Owen says brightly. “Though I admit, I thought you’d take longer. That rune in the stepwell was supposed to keep you busy at least another day.”

Vale just stares at him. “I nearly died down there.”

He claps his hands once. “Which means you’re taking this seriously. Excellent.”

“You’re insane.”

“Unquestionably. ”

I look around. The table’s a mess of notes, tools, and carved bone. There’s a matchstick tucked behind his ear.

The Chain hums once. Not warning. Recognition.

Owen meets my eyes. “Right,” he says, turning back to the table. “One illegal graft, one cursed path. Who’s first?”