Page 27 of She Who Was Severed (The Ashen Chain Trilogy #1)

One steps forward. Not aggressive. Just confident. His voice is even. “Freya Thorne. You are ordered into custody under Virelle Council sanction. Clearance signed by the Torvannen heir.”

My stomach drops before I hear the rest.

Kellen.

His name lands harder than the threat. I don’t blink. Don’t breathe.

The Chain doesn’t lash.

It freezes .

A beat passes. Then the heat begins—slow, precise, deliberate. It starts just beneath the sternum, where the Chain roots deepest. Spreads through my spine. Every joint feels tight. Every heartbeat sharper.

The man lifts the scroll.

The seal glints gold.

Torvannen crest. Kellen’s mark.

His real mark. Not forged. Not fabricated.

I don’t speak.

Because if I speak, I’ll tear something open I can’t close again.

They think I’m hesitating.

One steps closer, palm raised. “Peaceful retrieval is possible.”

Peaceful. Nothing peaceful about what I’ll do to him.

He used me.

Or betrayed me.

I don’t know which is worse.

The air folds.

The Chain doesn’t flare. It chooses.

And the one nearest me vanishes backward like someone pulled the world out from under him. He hits the stone wall hard enough to crack it. His body doesn’t bounce. Doesn’t scream. Jaw’s already shattered.

Three left.

They don’t pause. Glyphs bloom in their palms, blades primed. Coordination sharp. Fast.

But they’re not faster than me now.

I move. The second charges. I drop low and step into him, not around. He expects resistance—sword-to-blade, ward-to-ward. I give him my hand.

The Chain wraps from rib to elbow and drives into his chest through the heel of my palm. Not a strike. A sentence. He crumples. Spine gone slack.

The third tries to flank .

He gets close enough to think he might succeed.

The Chain flicks once—off my hip, through the air—and catches his wrist mid-swing. It yanks sideways, dragging his blade off-course and his weight with it. The snap isn’t loud. Just final.

He hits the ground holding a wrist that’s no longer holding anything.

I step past him.

Not out of pity.

He’s done.

The last one hesitates. I see it in his stance. In the way his weapon lowers just enough to be noticed. Enough for the Chain to notice.

It uncoils from my spine with deliberate speed. Silver light, no heat, threading along my arms. I don’t aim. I just let it go.

I blur forward. No sound but breath. Then weight.

He falls. Doesn’t get back up.

I look down and realize I’ve stepped on something soft.

Paper.

I lift my boot. The scroll lies crushed beneath it. Edges torn, seal dirtied but intact.

I pick it up with shaking fingers.

My fingers always shake after using the chain.

The words are clear.

“This order confirms the retrieval and containment of Freya Thorne, by authority of the Torvannen heir…”

I know his signature.

He signed it.

Not a mistake.

Not a proxy.

He did this.

The Chain hums once behind my ribs. Quiet. Like it’s reading it too.

I fold the page. Put it in my coat. Not out of sentiment .

Because I’m not done deciding what to do with it.

I step back. My boots leave prints in a fine ash I don’t remember seeing before. The cobbles glow faintly where glyphs broke. The air smells like cracked stone and whatever burns when guilt catches flame.

Two bodies are still. One groans. Another is missing too many teeth to answer questions.

I’m still standing.

The Chain curls back around my wrist, not tight. Not aggressive.

Waiting.

They wanted someone they could cage.

They got me.

No more mercy.

No more hesitation.

I turn toward the mist and walk, boots cutting through steam and ruin.

And the Chain walks with me.

- x -

Kellen

The air shears sideways as we break through the cloudline.

I don’t hear it. I feel it—across my jaw, behind my eyes, along every tendon that’s stayed too tight for too long.

The dragon’s wings cut wide beneath me, still trailing heat from the climb.

She doesn’t ask. Doesn’t offer. She already knows where we’re going .

Virelle sprawls beneath us. Clean lines. Coin-bright towers. A city carved from its own ego. From up here, it looks small. Smaller than it deserves.

They haven’t seen us yet.

Good.

That’s their last mercy.

The Tribunal dome glints like it thinks it matters. The Ministry squats in the center, thick and smug. The Chancellor’s library stretches its long shadow over the Severed quarters like that’s enough to hide them. I scan it all. I don’t count the towers. I don’t have to.

I shift in the saddle. No reins. Never needed them. Just one hand on the ridge of her neck, just enough to sync breath and bond. Her pulse hums against mine—steady, waiting.

I’m not angry.

I passed angry hours ago.

Now I’m just clear.

The wind loops over my shoulders, dragging heat through what’s left of my coat. It’s already half-burned, shredded at the seams. Doesn’t matter. I don’t plan to land with it on.

“Now,” I say.

She drops.

The descent is clean—silent in a way that feels worse than noise. The moment her mouth opens, the silence ends.

The roar splits the sky.

It knocks something loose in my spine. Below, motion ripples through the city. Heads tilt. Hands rise.

They always look up.

Too late.

The first strike hits the Tribunal dead center.

A column of flame pours from her chest like breath weaponized, slamming into the dome with enough force to bend steel beneath stone.

The glass doesn’t just shatter—it vaporizes, caught mid-glisten before it’s gone.

Heat rolls off the impact like a pressure wave, igniting scrolls inside before the fire even touches them.

The dome folds inward a second later, molten seams caving as the spine of the building gives.

It doesn’t explode. It crumples. Like it’s been holding its breath for years and finally exhales.

We’re already turning when the base caves in and takes the justice hall with it.

The Chancellor’s tower is next.

I don’t speak. I don’t have to. She’s already diving.

Her chest flares once, and the top floor ignites from within. Scrolls, sigils, inked promises—gone before the outer walls catch. The roof peels back with a whine, and the whole building exhales as it dies.

The Ministry takes precision.

I lean forward. “Cut it clean.”

She answers with fire.

The dive is a straight vertical. No spiral. No flourish. Just power. The impact shakes my molars. Wards scream once, then split like ice. Statues crack at the spine. Support beams buckle. The building tries to hold. It doesn’t.

It folds without drama.

Not with sound.

With surrender.

The heat bleeds outward in waves. Alley glyphs combust on contact. A tower at the edge flares without warning—not even targeted. The fire just found it. By the time it starts to lean, I’ve already moved on.

There’s a moment—only one—when I think about her.

Not to stop.

Not to mourn.

Just… to know what she’d see, if she looked up right now.

And for one breath, I wish she could .

Then I bury it. Hard and deep. Because this isn’t for her.

It’s for what they did to her in my name.

No civilians. No homes. No children woken screaming. I counted. I planned. Every strike is surgical. Controlled. And still brutal enough to make them remember.

Only Council strongholds. Only those who carved lies into my seal and aimed them at her like blades.

Below, the guards try to rally.

They don’t get the chance.

My shadow hits first.

Their orders die in their mouths. Their formations fracture before they finish turning.

I don’t pity them.

I don’t pause.

The fire slows when there’s nothing left to judge. No roof tall enough to matter. No record left to rewrite. Just ruin. The kind that speaks for itself.

I pull her up hard.

We rise into smoke, heat trailing off her wings in slow spirals. Below, the Inner Quarter glows.

What’s left of it.

The towers look like ribs now. Hollow. Charred. Split wide.

I don’t look back.

I just breathe.

Because they wanted a traitor.

Now they have one.