Page 23 of She Who Was Severed (The Ashen Chain Trilogy #1)

Kellen

The door closes behind me with a sound I don’t like—soft, deliberate, final. Like someone took care to make it feel like it wasn’t a cell, while still making damn sure I couldn’t walk back out.

Stone walls. No chains. No window. No sigils humming under the floor. Just a room stripped of distraction. Meant for waiting. For quiet unraveling.

I sit.

Not because I want to, but because the longer I stand, the more it feels like I’m bracing for a fight I’m not going to give them. They’d like that—something to write down. Dragonblood unstable. Emotional. Threat level increased.

I lean forward, elbows on knees, and keep my breath slow. My bond doesn’t like it. He’s pacing already. Coiled just behind my thoughts, heat simmering at the base of my spine like it’s waiting for a signal I refuse to send .

Stay down.

I don’t say it aloud. Don’t need to. He hears it anyway. Doesn’t like it.

Neither do I.

The guards hadn’t said much. A polite request. A quiet escort.

Council business, they said. Nothing to worry about.

The sort of tone that only gets used when something is very much worth worrying about.

They hadn’t even brought cuffs. Didn’t need to.

The walls here do the work. This room is warded—too subtle to see, too old to feel until you try to push. Which I won’t.

Not yet.

The dragon growls low. Not rage. Not yet. More like… disapproval. Like I’m wasting time sitting still. He thinks I should burn the door down, force answers, leave ash behind and call it strategy.

I think I’ll wait.

Let them talk first.

Let them reveal what they think they know.

The lock ticks. Not loudly. Enough to send a shift through the air.

A woman enters. Robes like ink. Clean hands. Eyes tired. She doesn’t introduce herself, which means she expects me to already know who she is. I don’t. Which means she’s from my father’s circle. Or someone he’s hoping I’ll underestimate.

She sits across from me. No preamble.

“We need to talk about Freya Thorne.”

The dragon stirs so fast I flinch.

She notices. Of course she does. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t lean in, doesn’t soften the blow. Just places a thin folder on the table and slides it forward an inch.

“We know she’s alive. We know she escaped. And we know you helped her.”

I say nothing .

She doesn’t expect me to. Not really. This isn’t the real interrogation. This is the pressure phase. The soft edge.

She opens the folder.

The first page is a priest’s written testimony, marked with temple seal and dated two weeks ago. He describes a girl seen near the eastern gate, her wrist flickering with a glow “like chain-forged iron catching fire.” Said she didn’t run. Just stared.

The next is from a merchant caravan leader—scratched out in hurried ink on trade parchment. “Thin girl. Limped. Stole a blade off my stand. Left coin behind. Chain shimmered at the wrist when she moved. I didn’t ask questions.”

The last one’s worse. Old, smudged, unsigned. “Saw it in the ruins. Not the Chain that frightened us. It was how still she stood while it burned.”

She places the page flat between us and taps it with her index finger. “You’re protecting a threat.”

I almost laugh.

She tilts her head. “The Council has labeled her rogue. Pathless turned bonded. Illegally. That makes her dangerous. And you’re Flameborn. You’re a weapon on two legs.”

I shrug. “Then I suppose you’d better be careful with me.”

She smiles. Thin and unpleasant. “We are.”

I let the silence stretch. Let her wonder what I’m waiting for.

Eventually, she sighs. Closes the folder. Stands. “We’ll speak again.”

I nod once. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment.

She leaves.

This time, the lock clicks harder.

The dragon breathes hot, pushing against my chest like it wants out.

I let him press. Let him remind me that I could leave. I could scorch the stone black, melt the hinges, fly. But I won’t.

Not yet .

Because if they’re watching me this closely, it means they’re scared. It means they think she’s worth fearing. And that’s leverage.

A second knock. Lighter.

Then a man steps in—older, face lined, clothes too fine for a place like this. No guards at his back. He closes the door behind him gently, like we’re just two men having tea.

He looks like my father, but he isn’t. Too soft around the eyes. Too fast to sigh.

“Kellen,” he says, hands folding in front of him. “I come on behalf of House Tor.”

Finally.

He doesn’t sit. Just stands there, letting the silence say the things he won’t.

“I want to be clear. I’m not here to punish you.”

I arch a brow.

He gives a small smile—polite, unreadable. “As you know, your father values appearances above all else. And he is… insistent that we avoid another scandal. Particularly one involving his only heir.”

He opens his coat. Pulls out a single page, handwritten, sealed. “This is a formal release order. If you state her location and sign it, we’ll file your cooperation with the Council under ‘assisting an active investigation.’”

I nod. “And the condition?”

He sighs. “There’s concern. Your connection to Freya. Your… feelings. We need to know she’s safe.”

“Or controlled,” I say flatly.

He doesn’t deny it. “We’ll send a team. Bring her in. Discreetly. No harm.”

The dragon rumbles in protest. I ignore it.

“We’ll house her in Solenn,” the man adds. “Neutral territory. Protective oversight. Until you return. ”

“Return?”

He hesitates. “Your father wants you home. Temporarily. For counsel.”

That word again. It always means control.

I take the page when he offers it. Skim the lines. There’s a blank space for her location. All looks very legitimate.

But this man—he’s too smooth. Too eager. He hasn’t said his name, says he speaks for my father, but I’ve never seen him before.

Feels wrong.

Too convenient.

So I write something else. A real place, but far from Ashmere. A quiet crossing near the southern breakwaters—half-drowned, half-forgotten.

Let them search ruins for ghosts.

I sign it.

He looks relieved. “You’ve done the right thing.”

I stand.

“I’ll go there myself,” I say.

The man doesn’t quite flinch, but something shifts behind his eyes. “Not required. The Council’s already authorized a retrieval. Quiet. Official. No delays.”

“She won’t come with strangers.”

“She won’t have to,” he says smoothly. “They’ll say the order came from you. Your seal’s already on the release form. Her safety is our priority, Kellen. You have my word.”

The dragon snarls low. Not at him. At the lie.

But I nod. Just once. “Then make sure they find her fast.”

“We will,” he says. “And when she arrives, we’ll keep her safe at Solenn. Until you’re cleared to join her.”

I hesitate. Just long enough to make him wonder. “Fine.”

He gathers the papers, tucks them into his coat. “You’ve done your part. Carefully.”

I don’t answer.

The door closes behind him.

I stand still. Listening.

The dragon presses against my ribs. Not warning now. Approval.

I glance once at the pen I used, still on the table. Good luck finding her, I think. Hope they enjoy the arse end of nowhere.

I don’t move.

Not yet.

- x -

Freya

The dream doesn’t come like the others.

It doesn’t pull. Doesn’t press. It just appears—like it’s always been here, and I’m the one who arrived late.

Virelle is burning.

But not with the rage of battle or the chaos of revolt.

No screams. No clash of steel. Just… surrender.

A quiet, deliberate undoing. Fire slips through silk-canopied sanctuaries, cracks lanterns like overripe fruit, and melts incense coils mid-air.

Statues of the Five don’t topple—they erode.

Their faces collapse inward, eyes turning to ash before their mouths ever open.

And I’m at the center.

Bare feet against scorched stone. Blood streaked up my thighs—some mine, most not. The Ashen Chain curls around my wrist like it’s resting beside the fire, not born from it. It doesn’t protect me. Doesn’t move. Just hums. Waiting. Listening. Hungry in a way I can’t name.

Then the air folds.

I feel him before I see him.

The Manticore steps through the flame like it’s only memory. His shape flickers around the edges—too tall, too wide, too something. A mane of smoke. Eyes like cracked glass pulled from a furnace. His presence isn’t heavy. It’s sharp. Like standing too close to something that used to be a god.

“You were never meant to be a mirror,” he says.

His voice lands like pressure in my spine. Thought nailed directly through my chest.

I can’t speak. Can’t move.

“The chain doesn’t reflect,” he continues. “It recalls.”

Around us, the city folds inward. Buildings slump like they’re ashamed to still be standing. Fire eats slowly. Not hungry—methodical. The Manticore doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look back.

He steps toward me until the air fogs between us.

“The second link is not a gift,” he says. “It is a consequence.”

I try to ask what it wants. My mouth shapes something, but the fire eats the sound.

He tilts his head, smoke trailing off his shoulders. Chainmarks glow across his back like brands still hot.

“Want? No. The Chain does not want. It waits. Until you stop lying to it.”

“To myself?” I manage. It’s barely a whisper.

He smiles. It’s wrong. Too wide. Too full. His mouth opens like a wound—and something ancient howls from it. A scream made of memory and pressure and everything I’ve buried just to survive.

I shoot upright. Choking .

I wake half-wrong. Air sharp in my throat. The cot pressing against my back like it’s trying to keep me here. My whole chest is threaded with heat, not flame but pressure. The Chain isn’t asleep. It’s not even pretending.

I’m still halfway in the dream.

“Well,” Vale says flatly. “That sounded healthy.”

She’s upside down on a stool, boots propped against the wall, braid nearly touching the floor. She has a spoon in one hand and a throwing knife in the other. One’s stirring a cup. The other’s carving a curse word into the leg of the chair.