Page 28 of She Who Was Severed (The Ashen Chain Trilogy #1)

Ash clings to the rafters like it’s still deciding whether to settle.

Every breath tastes of soot and splintered wood.

The beams above us are half-collapsed, bowed in the middle like they lost the argument with something bigger than time.

The stone walls hold, barely, but the corners flake when the wind pushes too hard.

I don’t think this place was meant to last. I’m not sure I was either.

Vale found it. Dragged us here after. Didn’t speak, just pushed the door open and waited while I stumbled inside.

Now she’s against the far wall, one leg stretched, other bent, knife balanced loose across her thigh like she forgot it’s still in her hand.

She watches the door like there’s something left to guard.

Like it still matters if we survive the night.

I sit in the corner. Not because it’s strategic. Because I couldn’t keep my legs under me long enough to argue. My muscles twitch like they’ve forgotten how to follow orders. Every signal has a lag. Like I’m shouting down a tunnel and hoping something answers back.

The Chain isn’t gone.

But it’s not here, either .

It’s quiet in the way a wound goes numb.

No hum. No pulse. Just that ache at the base of the spine where something used to be, and the silence it leaves behind when it waits too long to return.

I press my fingers to the inside of my wrist anyway, just to be sure.

Right where the link usually pulses. I dig in.

Nothing.

So I press harder. Past skin. Past bruise. Until I hit bone. Still nothing.

He signed it.

The thought drips in again, same as before. Familiar now. Not dulled—just worn. Like a shard I keep rotating in my palm to see if the edge still cuts.

He signed it.

I don’t know how many times I’ve thought it. Enough to lose count. Not enough to stop it from hitting like new.

They used him.

I say it this time. Not loud. Just enough to push the pain into a different shape. Like if I say it enough, maybe it won’t feel like a betrayal. Maybe it’ll feel like strategy.

He used me.

That one doesn’t come easy. It lodges halfway. It’s not a truth yet. Just a bruise. A fear I’m not ready to measure.

My hands start shaking. That’s what makes me angry—not the fear. The proof that I’m still hoping. That some part of me is still stupid enough to flinch toward the idea that this was anything but what it was.

I clench my fists. Hard. Harder than I mean to.

Don’t cry.

Crying means I still believe he didn’t mean it.

Crying means I loved someone who —

“Freya.”

Vale’s voice cuts across the silence. Just my name. Nothing else. Not gentle. Not sharp. Like she’s throwing a rope and letting me decide if I grab it.

I don’t look at her. Can’t. My throat locks. Like my body’s trying to hold something down that isn’t ready to be released. Not grief. Not rage.

The scream behind it.

“He signed it,” I whisper.

“I know.”

That’s it. No softening. No excuses. No lies. Just weight. A stone placed next to mine.

She’s been here. I can hear it in her voice. That place where the pain gets heavy enough you’d rather be furious than broken. Where silence is safer than someone telling you it wasn’t personal.

Something inside me slips.

Or maybe it cracks.

I shift before I realize I’ve moved. My knee slides through ash, slow and dragging. My palm scrapes stone. There’s nothing graceful about it—nothing planned. Just motion that starts somewhere deeper than thought. Somewhere cracked.

Vale doesn’t stop me. She watches. Tracks every inch like she’s waiting for the shape of it to make sense. Like she’s giving me the space to find out what this really is.

My fingers find her wrist. Then her shoulder. Her body’s warm beneath the grit. Solid. Real. I shouldn’t want anything more. I know that.

But I do.

I lean in. Not for comfort. Not for a lie. For a kiss.

Not lust. Not romance. Not a neat label I can pin down later. Just the desperate kind of pull that comes when everything else is broken, and the only thing that makes sense is the heat between two people who survived.

I don’t close the distance all the way .

But I want to.

And that’s enough to crack something inside me.

Her hand rises.

Not sharp. Not unsure.

She places it flat against my chest. Right over the chain.

And for a second, she just holds it there. No pressure. No retreat. Just presence.

“This isn’t reaching,” she says, voice low. “It’s bleeding.”

The words land harder than if she’d pushed me away. Harder than a slap.

I stop.

All of me.

The breath I didn’t know I was holding shudders out. My ribs ache. My face goes hot, then cold, and all I can do is pull back before something gives. My hand trembles where it brushes her sleeve, then slips off entirely.

“I’m sorry,” I say, raw.

She doesn’t look away. “Don’t be.”

No judgment. Just honesty. And space.

The kind that hurts more than rejection ever could.

I slide back to the wall, knees pulled up like a shield. I feel fourteen. I feel flayed.

“I thought I was stronger than this.”

“You are,” she says. Immediate. Certain. “You’re just tired.”

We sit like that for a while. Nothing else said.

But the silence doesn’t crush.

It holds.

I let my body slump. Not into hers. Just into stillness. My shoulder drops. My breath evens. The weight doesn’t lift—but it stops pressing.

The Chain stirs.

Not in warning.

Not in power .

Just… recognition.

Like it heard the part of me that couldn’t speak.

We’re not okay.

But we’re not alone, either.

- x -

The sun’s higher now, but the light feels like an insult. Thin and sharp where it hits the stone. Too clean for Ashmere.

I sit on the broken steps of what used to be a watch post. Now it’s ribs and splinters and a ceiling that leans like it’s waiting for an excuse to fall.

I haven’t moved in a while. Not really. My arms are looped over my knees like they might keep me from spilling out.

The Chain hasn’t spoken. Just that low, hollow presence curling between my lungs, humming against bone like it’s checking to see what’s left.

Vale’s off to my right, sharpening a blade she’s already cleaned twice. She hasn’t said much since I came apart last night. She doesn’t look at me. Just listens, like she always does, without pretending she knows how to fix it.

I thought that would be the end of it.

But then Owen arrives—like he’s been here the whole time and got bored waiting for us to notice.

His robes are mismatched again—one side velvet, the other aggressively floral.

A half-burned priest collar rides askew beneath a layered scarf that might be hiding a wine stain.

There’s a dried apple in one hand and a matchstick tucked behind his ear like it belongs there .

He surveys the ruin like he’s critiquing a gallery piece. Nods once. “Not bad,” he says. “I’d have left the beam cracked another six degrees for dramatic effect, but… points for authenticity.”

Vale doesn’t look up. “If you’re building to a punchline, skip it. I’m not in the mood.”

“Oh, I’m never building,” he replies, sinking into a crouch. “Just revealing.”

He bites the apple. It crunches too loud in the quiet. I don’t move. Not because I don’t want to. Because I can’t decide if hearing him means I’m better or worse.

He walks a slow arc around the shattered post. The way his eyes scan the space—it’s not casual. It’s practiced. Like he’s reading runes only he can see.

“Virelle’s in mourning this morning,” he says. “Three buildings gone. Tribunal dome folded like a decree that finally got tired of lying. The Chancellor’s archives? Lit from the inside. Poetic, really. Ministry’s still technically standing. You know. In the way a corpse technically has bones.”

I blink once. “What?”

He tosses the apple core into the dust. Doesn’t break stride. “They’re calling it a resonance cascade. Magical anomaly. Sounds like someone trying not to admit they pissed off a dragon.”

The wind shifts. There’s smoke in it.

Not old.

New.

Owen’s gaze flicks to mine. Something sharp waits behind the grin. “Funny thing about magic that binds,” he says. “It’s never just the bond that burns. It’s the blood behind it. The intent. The name .”

He stops walking. Drops into a seat beside the steps like we’re old friends on break .

“Your boyfriend didn’t hesitate,” he says softly. “Didn’t roar for show. Didn’t wait for permission. Just picked a target and pulled the thread.”

I shake my head. “He wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t what?” Owen asks, voice light. “Break rules? Burn power structures? Betray the people who used his name like a leash and wrapped it around your throat?”

I open my mouth. No sound comes out.

Owen gives me the mercy of not filling the silence. He just rolls the match between his fingers, lets it strike against a flint charm stitched into his coat’s sleeve. Flame flares to life. Small. Focused.

“I’d gamble my last bottle of sanctified widow’s wine and Vale’s stabbing arm that he didn’t sign a thing,” he murmurs. “They probably lifted the stroke from an old military decree. Twisted it. Weaponized it.”

The match burns brighter.

“Still,” Owen adds, almost to himself, “the Chain doesn’t care about what people mean. Only what they choose.”

He drops the match into the ash beside me. Lets it hiss. No drama. No smirk.

Vale shifts against the column. “You sure it was him?”

“I’m sure he made it personal,” Owen replies. “And the city learned what happens when someone raised in obedience finally chooses loyalty instead.”

The match dies.

The Chain hums.

Not loud. Not invasive. Just… aware.

“He burned it,” I whisper. “For me.”

Owen stands, brushing his hands on his robes. “He burned it because he finally understood who the real traitors were.”

“And now what?” I ask. “They’ll come for him.”

“They already are,” he says. “Which means you have a choice. ”

I look up.

He meets my eyes. “Do you wait for someone else to fight your war, or do you become the reason it was worth starting?”