Page 35 of She Who Was Severed (The Ashen Chain Trilogy #1)

Owen is near the boundary now, no showmanship left. No grin. He flicks a match between two fingers like a priest fingering prayer beads, but doesn’t light it. Just watches me with a face that finally—mercifully—holds no joke.

“Was it the same for you?” I ask. My voice cracks. I don’t care. “Did you see them too?”

His eyes narrow slightly, but the rest of him stays loose. The match slows in his fingers.

“No,” he says, and the word lands soft. “Worse.”

I sit up straighter, spine protesting.

He leans back against one of the cracked stone columns. Doesn’t look at me now. Just somewhere past me. Through me.

“You saw possibilities,” he says. “The paths you might’ve taken if no one interrupted you. If nothing ever broke your certainty.”

“And you?”

He meets my gaze now. For once, the gleam in his eyes is gone. Nothing hiding behind it. No curve of mouth to soften the weight.

“I saw memories,” he says, low. “Not choices I didn’t make. Ones I did.”

For a breath—two—he looks truly haunted. Not just pretending at distance. Not playing the charming madman. Just a man. Alone with what he can’t forget.

Then, as fast as a snapped thread, it’s gone. He shrugs off whatever pain curled behind his ribs and rolls his shoulders like he’s shedding it.

“Screamed like a goat for six hours, apparently,” he says, voice bright again. “Went catatonic for three days after. Still don’t remember it right. You did better. ”

I let out a slow breath. It almost turns into a laugh, but doesn’t quite make it.

He pushes off the column, already moving toward the stairwell. His stride is loose, coat swinging behind him like it has its own personality. Just before he disappears into the shadows, he tosses a final glance over his shoulder.

“Oh, and Freya?”

I blink. “What.”

“If Kellen ever figures out that the Chain likes him almost as much as you do, you’re doomed. That boy’s got judgment coiled in his ribs and no idea where to aim it. Dangerous combination.”

Then he’s gone. Just footsteps and coat swish. No dramatic exit. No match flare.

I exhale through my teeth. Push to standing, slow, knees still stiff, ribs still tight.

That’s when I feel it.

Eyes on me.

Not the Chain.

Not judgment.

Kellen.

He’s in the corner—half-shadow, half-light—watching. Not saying anything. Not moving toward me. Just… there. Shoulders braced. Hands still. Eyes dark with something I don’t know how to name.

I don’t speak. I don’t need to.

He saw.

And for once, I don’t flinch from being seen.

- x -

Ashmere breathes beneath me, but it doesn’t feel like mine.

The rooftop’s slick with soot from a burn that looks like it happened years ago, but the stone still smells faintly scorched.

I shift my stance, boots grinding against grit, the weight of the city pressing up through my knees.

Cold bites through the leather at my calves.

Wind finds its way into the seams of my coat.

Below, the streets rattle with half-life—shouted orders, iron latches, someone dragging a crate.

I roll my shoulders back. My ribs feel tight—pressure where the Chain wraps low and quiet, not pulling, not flaring. Just there. Like it’s waiting to see if I’ll flinch before it does.

The breath I take doesn’t settle right. The air is clean but thin, and my chest doesn’t quite trust it. I feel stretched. Like my bones haven’t caught up to what I became in that room. I passed. I survived.

Bootsteps behind me. Slow. Even. Not hiding.

Kellen.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t clear his throat. Just stops beside me, close enough to shift the air between us. I don’t look at him. He knows I know he’s here. He sets a canteen between us on the roofstone like we’re sitting down to watch stars instead of planning for war.

“I brought water.”

“No food?” I ask, raising one eyebrow, deadpan.

He snorts—short, quiet—and nudges the canteen closer.

Neither of us moves to touch it.

His armor’s quiet—worn leather, not plated—and when he leans forward, elbows to knees, I can see the tension in the way his hands settle.

Controlled. Everything about him is trained restraint.

The dragon inside him doesn’t speak, but I feel the heat on the edges of my senses.

Kellen’s bond doesn’t snarl. It studies.

“You saw the trial,” I say.

“I saw.”

“And you stayed.”

“I needed to make sure.”

“I didn’t need to.”

That gets a slight nod. He doesn’t offer comfort. Doesn’t expect any, either.

The Chain shifts across my spine. Not alarmed. Just active. Like it’s reading him the same way I am.

“It listens to you now,” he says.

I drag in a breath through my nose. My ribs don’t like it. “No. It watches. Trying to decide if I’m worth what I cost it.”

He thinks about that longer than I expect him to. “And are you?”

I don’t answer right away. My hand finds the path manual inside my cloak, thumb resting against the edge where the leather’s worn smooth. The Chain doesn’t move.

“Not yet.”

He exhales slow. Always through his nose first. Controlled even in disappointment. Kellen was raised to be a weapon for a system he burned to the ground. He hasn’t quite figured out what that makes him now.

“You didn’t just survive in there,” he says. “You looked… reforged.”

I glance over, one brow arched. “Lucky Owen chose a forge then.”

Kellen doesn’t bite. Doesn’t even crack a smile. “I’m serious, Freya.”

His voice shifts—quieter now, but not softer.

“I can’t lose you.”

That pulls me up. Not because I doubt him. Because he doesn’t say things like that unless something in him is already bracing for it .

He turns, just enough to meet my eyes. The Chain stays still, but my ribs tighten like something underneath heard it too. Kellen doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Just holds my gaze like he’s already started counting the cost.

“What are you thinking?” I ask.

“That war’s already started.”

I nod once. “Then we prepare Ashmere.”

“It won’t stop what’s coming.”

“No,” I say. “But we’ve stopped worse.”

His jaw clenches. “I’m not sure we have.”

That lands harder than anything before it. Not loud. Just real.

He shifts, bracing his palms against the edge of the roof. His fingers flex once against the stone. The tension isn’t from fear. It’s choice. Something in him wants to move. Something else doesn’t let it.

“I’ve been thinking about Solenn,” he says.

My spine straightens. He sees it, doesn’t comment.

“The name still opens doors,” he says. “I just don’t know if I’d like what walks through them.”

“You mean your father’s name.”

He doesn’t flinch. But he doesn’t agree either.

“You could use it.”

“I know.”

He says it like it tastes wrong in his mouth. Like it’s ash he’s held behind his teeth for too long.

I wait. Let the silence build around the truth he’s trying not to name.

“It’s not pride,” he says finally. “I know the weight it carries. I just—”

He stops. Exhales. Starts again.

“Using it means walking into his game. On his terms. And I don’t know if I can do that without becoming something I already had to crawl my way out of. ”

“You think it’ll change you?”

“No.” His voice drops low. “I’m afraid it’ll turn me back into who I was when he still had control over me.”

That lands. I don’t press right away.

“Then use it differently,” I say. “Use it for something he’d never see coming.”

“Like you?”

I nod. “Exactly like me.”

He looks away. Not angry. Just quiet in that way people get when something hits too close.

“I know it would help,” he says. “But every time I even think about pulling his name into this, it feels like I’m letting him back in. Like I’m putting on a mask I spent years trying to rip off.”

“You’re not him, Kellen.”

“I know. But when I use his name, people don’t see me. They see him. And I can’t carry that right now. Not yet.”

“Kier didn’t just come for me,” I say. “Or Ashmere. He made Solenn a target too. You think your father’s fortress matters when the Council decides the heir is a traitor?”

Kellen doesn’t respond. But his hands shift—off the ledge, into his lap. Small motion. Tells me more than a speech.

“If Solenn falls,” I continue, “it won’t be your father who burns first. It’ll be the unbonded. The apprentices. The kids still waiting to be seen. The ones like I used to be.”

His jaw tightens, but he stays quiet. I don’t let up.

“You’ll let them fall,” I say, flat. “Just to keep from using the name that raised you.”

He turns to me. Slow. Controlled. “You think it’s that simple?”

“No,” I snap. “I think it’s that cowardly.”

That cracks something. Not big. Just a shift behind his eyes. But I press .

“You’re not him. But you’re still giving him power. Every time you hesitate. Every time you pretend walking away is the same as breaking the chain.”

We lock eyes. My voice drops, sharp and low.

“I’m not asking you to forgive the man. I’m telling you to weaponize him.”

Silence. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe for a second.

Then: “I’ll think about it.”

I step forward, fast.

“No,” I say. “Think less. Act more.”

He blinks once. Doesn’t flinch. But he hears me. I make damn sure of that.

I turn. The Chain moves with me. No flare, no lash. Just readiness. Weight coiled behind bone.

Kellen stays seated. Watching.

The wind cuts sharp as I reach the stairwell. I don’t look back.