Page 25 of She Who Was Severed (The Ashen Chain Trilogy #1)

The floorboards creak when Owen lands, but only after he’s already moved. One step behind the sound, like he’s out of sync with the room on purpose. His coat’s inside out. Again. Threadbare collar turned up like it’s warding off judgment.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just spins the match slowly between his fingers, watching the grain of the floor like it might confess something. Then he looks up, all teeth and too-wide eyes.

“I once lived in a place where silence meant someone had died,” he says, tone mild, almost academic. “Awful place.”

Vale’s already pacing. Her boots leave marks in the dust. She keeps glancing at the windows, probably checking for assassins. Or excuses to leave.

I crouch in the center of the room, palms braced on my knees, trying not to show how much the Chain is already pressing against my spine like it wants something. Again.

“You said training,” I say to Owen. “This doesn’t feel like training. This feels like performance art. ”

“That’s because training is a lie,” he says brightly. “Real understanding begins after your skin forgets safety. So—are we ready?”

Vale mutters something under her breath—might be a prayer, might be a death threat.

Hard to tell with her. Her daggers are still sheathed, but her fingers haven’t left the hilts in five minutes.

She hasn’t looked directly at Owen since the market, when he winked and asked if she preferred stabbing from the left or the right. She told him both.

Then lunged.

Owen gestures to the open floor. “Center, Freya. Let the Chain take the shape it wants.”

“That’s not how it works,” I say.

His smile widens. “No. That’s how it worked when you were pretending it was polite.”

I exhale, slow and careful. The Chain hasn’t hummed—it’s trembling. Not warning. Want. It wants something.

“Now,” Owen says, “tell me what you think it is.

I blink. “The Chain?”

“No,” he says. “The thing inside you that survived the Severing. The part that wasn’t broken. What do you call that?”

“Stubbornness?”

Vale snorts.

Owen grins like I’ve just proven a theory he wasn’t quite done explaining. “Wrong. It’s judgment. The Chain doesn’t empower—it chooses. It doesn’t shield—it sentences.”

He tosses the match into the air. It flips once. Lands perfectly between his fingers.

“I don’t know what to say to that,” I mutter.

“You will,” he says—like it’s already been decided—and steps onto the warped board in the center of the room. The one that groans like it’s about to give way. He plants both feet wide, arms out like a sermon mid-benediction. “Vale, be a dear and cut the tension.”

Vale doesn’t blink. Just draws and throws in one motion. Fast. Clean. No hesitation.

Not near him. At him.

The blade whistles past Owen’s cheek so close it brushes a thread loose from his collar. He doesn’t move—not really. Just a twitch of one toe, enough to let the blade pass without blood. It lands in the beam behind him with a dull thunk.

“Lovely,” he says brightly. “Your timing’s improving.”

Vale leans against a post and shrugs. “Didn’t aim to miss.”

“I know,” Owen says, beaming. Like that’s the best part.

My jaw tightens.

“Am I the only normal person here?” I mutter.

Owen grins wider. “Yes. Isn’t it awful?”

The Chain pulls taut.

Something shifts—hard to name, but I feel it. Not in my skin. In the air. Like the room contracts around us. Like the rules just changed and forgot to tell me.

I blink—and Owen’s in front of me. Closer than he was. His hand raised. Not threatening. Just present.

“Link One is instinct,” he says gently. “It protected you. It had to. You were dying.”

He tilts his head. “But Link Two is something else. It’s not reaction. It’s command.”

I flinch. “I’m not ready.”

“Of course you’re not,” he says cheerfully. “That’s why this is fun.”

He steps back and gestures again. “Show me what it does when you stop trying to protect yourself. ”

The Chain pulses once. I brace—but nothing hits. Instead, I feel it stretch, like it’s reaching into the floor beneath me. Threads of pressure spread, not outward, but downward. Seeking something.

Vale stiffens. “Is the room supposed to be vibrating?”

“Only a little,” Owen says. “Any more than that, and we’ll need to reinforce the foundation.”

I try to hold on, but the Chain slips. Not violently—just… releases. The light fades. The pressure lifts.

I sag forward, panting.

“That,” Owen says, “was a good failure.”

I glare at him. “There’s no such thing.”

“There’s no good success either. Just timing.”

Vale straightens. “She’s burning out. Maybe give her a minute before you riddle her to death.”

He waves a hand. “Of course. Drink. Rest. Lament your mortality.”

I sit, arms on knees. The Chain’s quiet again.

But it’s not done.

Not by a long shot.

- x -

Owen doesn’t tell me to breathe. He just starts walking behind me, slow and shoeless, the uneven rhythm of his steps knocking against the back of my skull. Heel. Pad. Drag. Pause. I know he’s doing it on purpose, too—reminding me he’s not pacing. He’s circling. It’s infuriating.

“Begin,” he says, soft as dust settling .

I exhale once, reset. Feet grounded. Spine loose. Hands open at my sides. Not a stance. Not today. Just readiness. That’s all he said Link Two wants.

I close my eyes and draw the first breath. In through the nose. Collarbone to solar plexus. Smooth. Controlled.

The Chain twitches. Not aggressive. Not curious. Just aware.

I hold the breath. Let it settle like pressure behind the sternum.

Then I exhale—tight, low, down into the gut. The compression sparks a flash across my ribs. My teeth clamp down on the inside of my cheek.

Second breath. Third. The Chain doesn’t move. It listens.

Fourth breath—my vision edges dark. Fifth—my knees begin to lock.

Sixth—something shifts in the base of my spine. Not pain. Not yet. Just… awareness.

Seventh.

The Chain pulls.

Not violently. Not a flare or lash. Just downward. Weight through bone. Heat into breath. I feel it curl along my back, slide down my legs, settle beneath the skin like something claiming territory it already owns. My hands go numb.

On the eighth breath, I release. Not gracefully. I pitch forward onto my hands, coughing hard. My throat tastes like ash.

The Chain doesn’t recede.

It stays.

Coiled. Quiet. Waiting.

When I lift my head, Owen is already crouched across from me.

Close but not helping. His coat’s half-open, revealing layers of mismatched cloth that look like they were stolen from five different beggars.

One of his sleeves is missing entirely. There’s a bone coin on a string looped loosely around his neck, resting just above a scorch-warped priest collar.

He spins his matchstick across his knuckles like it’s part of a ritual he doesn’t need to explain .

“Cycle Seven,” he says, smiling like someone who just watched a church collapse. “Fully expressed.”

Vale claps once from the archway. Slow. Sarcastic. “Holy shit, she didn’t explode. I owe myself five coins.”

She’s leaned sideways against the wall, one leg propped up, boot tapping against stone. There’s a knife in her hand, flipping end over end like she’s bored. But her eyes are locked on me, sharp and unblinking.

Owen rises without hurry. Brushes dust from his knees that isn’t there.

“Three minutes,” he says. “Then again.”

My lungs are still catching up. “Again?”

“Link Two is watching,” he says. “You think it’s going to knock twice?”

I press a hand against my ribs. Something under the skin hums. The Chain hasn’t retreated, but it’s still. Coiled like it’s listening for what I’ll do next.

“And if I’m not ready?”

“You won’t be.” He lets the match fall into his pocket like he’s discarding a verdict. “That’s how you’ll know it’s real.”

Vale tosses me a waterskin. I catch it, barely. My hands are still shaking.

“You’re bleeding too neatly,” she says. “Want help with that?”

I drink instead of answering.

Owen nods to the center of the room. “Back in.”

The stone here isn’t carved. Not anymore. But I see it. Thread-thin impressions underfoot. Not glyphs—residue. Like the Chain remembers something it burned away.

“Same stance?” I ask, throat raw.

“No stance,” Owen says. “Link Two doesn’t care about symmetry. It wants a decision. You pick a fear. Then breathe through it.”

Vale straightens, still flipping the blade. “Should I leave? Or stay and narrate the breakdown? ”

Owen doesn’t look at her. “She might fracture. She might not. Either way, she should know someone’s watching.”

“Aw,” Vale says. “Is that your version of supportive?”

“No,” he says. “It’s diagnostic.”

I step into the circle.

No stance. No mantra. Just breath.

Cycle Five.

I inhale—spike under the ribs, sharp as a blade edge. Hold. Lock the spine. Weight in my hips.

Exhale—direct, Chain-focused, no recoil.

The air stays still.

But my skin doesn’t.

Heat climbs. Not all at once. In pulses. My wrists go tight. The breath turns harder to hold. The Chain pulses.

Once.

Twice.

Three—

My vision folds. Not a flash. A shift. Like the room turns inside out.

There’s a girl standing in my place.

Older. Taller. Chain-scarred. Familiar but not mine.

She turns.

Her mouth opens—and I break.

I flinch.

The breath collapses.

The Chain snaps back like a muscle memory denied.

The floor hits me hard. I hit it harder.

The ringing in my ears takes a few seconds to fade.

When I finally look up, Owen is crouched again. His eyes are calm. Empty. Like he expected this.

“You looked away,” he says .

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Of course you didn’t.” His tone doesn’t change. “That’s why it failed.”

Vale doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t speak. She’s stopped flipping the knife.

Owen reaches out a hand. The match is back in his fingers. Turning. Waiting.

“Cycle Seven showed the Chain you can carry pain,” he says.

“This next one?” His voice softens, just enough to cut deeper. “You’ll have to invite it.”

I don’t take the hand.

Not yet.

But I will.

Because whatever that was—

The Chain remembers.

And now?

So do I.

- x -

The aftershock doesn’t hit the room. It hits me.

There’s no sound, no rush of magic or wind. Just the absence of pressure. Like something in my chest unhooks all at once, and everything holding me up forgets how. I stay on my knees because trying to stand too fast feels like cheating. My breath comes shallow, metal sharp at the back of my throat.

The Chain settles low and tight against my spine. Not gone. Not resting. Just listening .

A flask lands in my lap. Sloshes. I catch it with both hands, barely.

Vale crouches beside me, weight on her toes, watching like I might still collapse. “You didn’t die,” she says, flat. “Points for that.”

I drink. Not because I want to. Because it’s something I can do. The burn clears the blood from the back of my mouth. Doesn’t fix much else.

“How long—”

“Twenty minutes,” she says. “You screamed for five.” She says it like she’s impressed. Or maybe just relieved I stopped.

Owen’s voice cuts in from above. “You reached Link Two in record time.” His tone makes it sound like a joke. “Not that we’re keeping score.”

I look up. He’s perched on a broken beam like it’s a throne no one dared to take from him. His coat’s inside out, belt missing, one sleeve torn halfway off. He’s barefoot again. None of it seems to bother him. He hops down in one easy motion and walks over like he’s joining a picnic.

I try to stand. Make it halfway before the shaking kicks in. The Chain catches me—tight around my spine, not helping, just refusing to let me fall. I hate that I need it. Hate that it knows.

Owen stops two paces away. His eyes flick to the shimmer at my wrist, then back to my face. “And there she is,” he says, too pleased. “Newborn twice. How do you feel?”

“Like my spine got rewritten by a forge,” I mutter.

He brightens. “Excellent. That means it took.”

Vale rises behind me, arms crossed now, one shoulder leaning against the wall. Her sarcasm’s gone quiet.

“She’s not ready for more,” she says.

“I didn’t say she was.” Owen doesn’t lose the smile. “But she will be.”

He lifts one hand, slow and deliberate, like even the movement has rules. The Chain answers—not in power, but presence. A second thread glows faintly across my shoulder, heat settling under skin. No flicker. No test. Just confirmation .

“It knows you now,” he says.

I don’t respond. Not with words. The Chain hums once, and that’s enough.

Owen lets the silence stretch, then turns away, already rummaging through a heap of parchment and broken sigils near the wall. He moves like the outcome’s already decided. Like he’s just collecting props for the next disaster.

“You’ll want to eat,” he calls over his shoulder. “Sleep. And maybe write your will. The next link’s… less conversational.”

Vale snorts. “You’re the worst teacher I’ve ever met.”

“I’ve never been accused of teaching,” he says. “I just light matches and walk away.”

He pauses. Straightens. Turns toward her.

“Oh, and don’t think I’ve forgotten about you.”

Vale’s hand drops to her knife. She doesn’t draw it. Just touches the hilt like she’s weighing options.

Owen’s grin widens, all bright ruin and delight. “One highly illegal, extremely dangerous graft ritual coming up.”

He winks.

Then walks out like the conversation was over five minutes ago. The door creaks closed behind him. Might be the wind. Might be him.

Vale mutters something under her breath that sounds older than this room.

I sit down. Hard. My legs don’t argue.

The Chain pulses once in my chest. Low. Present.

Not warning.

Agreement.

And maybe—just maybe—I want what comes next.