Page 37 of She Who Was Severed (The Ashen Chain Trilogy #1)

I step through the warped door frame and the whole room shifts—like the air recognizes the tension I carry and wants no part of it.

“Table,” Vale mutters, spotting a group near the back. “Middle one. Broken knuckles, decent scars. The woman with the gold eye runs this district’s blade caches.”

I nod once.

There are six of them. All armed. None bothered to hide it. A relic-glow hums low from under one of their cloaks—a brute with a shattered jawbone necklace and a cross-hatched tattoo up his forearm that marks him as a former Council enforcer. Good. Someone who knows exactly what I’ve been marked as.

We don’t wait to be invited.

Vale kicks a chair aside and leans on the splintered table. I stay standing. Every movement’s calculated—not stiff, not defensive, just measured. The Chain doesn’t stir. I don’t need it to.

“You’re the Chain girl,” the woman says. Her gold eye doesn’t blink. “Or the pretender. Depending on who you ask.”

“I’m not here for stories,” I reply.

“No,” she says. “You’re here to conscript.”

A knife glints. Not thrown—yet. Just shown. Vale watches it like a dog watches thunder. Interested, but already bored of waiting.

“You think you can walk into our ground, our den, and what? Ask for blades?” the woman asks.

“No,” I say, calm. “I came to offer something better.”

The brute scoffs. “What, judgment ?”

Vale moves before I can blink.

One heartbeat, and she’s slammed the edge of her boot into his kneecap.

The sound it makes is wet and decisive. He collapses with a grunt, already reaching for a weapon, but she’s crouched on the table now, grinning like a war criminal, one hand behind her back and the other flicking a smoke vial under his nose.

She doesn’t throw it .

She just lets him see.

“Ask a better question,” she murmurs. “Or I start fixing bones that don’t need fixing.”

The table erupts in noise. Chairs screech. Hands twitch toward hilts. And I…

I don’t move.

I wait until the storm almost breaks, then say—quietly, evenly—

“Enough.”

And it stops.

Not because I shouted.

Because I didn’t.

The brute breathes like he’s swallowing knives. His knee’s already swelling. Vale jumps down, casual as ever, shaking her hand out like that somehow hurt her more than him.

“I’m not saying I’m better than you,” I tell them. “But I’ve survived worse.”

That lands. Not deeply. But enough to fracture the posturing.

“You want something from us,” the woman says. “Start talking. Fast.”

“You were right. I want blades,” I say. “I want relic-runners who know how to move without being seen. I want fighters who don’t wear banners and don’t pray before a kill. I want survivors .”

“And what do we get?”

“Not judgment. Not titles. Not chains.”

I let that sit a moment.

“Land.”

That word draws a silence sharp enough to feel.

“You offering us a throne now, Chains?”

Did she really just call me Chains?

I let it slide. I’ve been called worse by better .

“No,” I say, voice steady. “I’m offering you a future. One where you’re still standing when this war ends.”

Vale leans back against the bar. “Could’ve just said not dead in a gutter, but sure. She means well.”

“You think we’re dumb enough to join someone just because she says the right words? Whispers and promises don’t pay bills,” the brute growls.

“I think you’re smart enough not to wait until Kier’s priests drag you out of your skin,” I say. “He’s coming. You know it. I’m offering a chance to stand on the right side of history before it turns to ash.”

The gold-eyed woman studies me for a long moment.

Then, slowly, she leans back.

“What’s the catch?”

“You fight when called,” I say. “You follow my lead. And you protect what we build.”

“And what is that, exactly?”

I smile. Just a flicker.

“Something that scares the people who built this mess in the first place.”

A beat.

Then she lifts her glass and tosses it back.

“Fine,” she says. “One district. For now.”

A clink of her cup on wood. The first acceptance.

Vale exhales. “Well, that was easy.”

“Because you broke his leg,” I murmur.

“Don’t say I never give you anything.”

We turn to go.

Another group watches from a corner booth. Uninvited. Not unfriendly. Just… deciding.

Good.

Let them.

Let them watch.

Let them see a Chain that walks without dragging.

- x -

The pit isn’t a circle.

It’s a hole.

Dug into the rotted floor of an old relic-runner vault. Cracked edges, rust-stained stones, and blood dried so thick in the seams it smells like copper and time. The walls slope inward like they’re daring someone to climb out.

I hop down without flinching.

The Chain doesn’t stir. It knows better. This isn’t its fight.

“This is your idea of diplomacy?” I ask Vale without looking up.

She grins from the rim of the pit. “They wanted proof.”

“What, your word isn’t enough?”

“Please,” she says, stretching. “My word gets people un-invited.”

Around the edges of the pit, the crowd gathers—mercenaries, smugglers, relic-fighters, and too many sharp eyes trying to decide if I’m worth betting on.

The gang calling the match is one of Ashmere’s worst: the Black Fangs.

No loyalty, no rules, no relic restrictions.

Just steel, coin, and whatever the blood wants.

They didn’t believe in speeches.

So I gave them this instead.

Across the pit, my opponent drops in.

He’s taller. Wider. Shirtless. Scarred across the ribs like he’s fought with something that had claws for hands. A metal cuff gleams faintly on his wrist—a worn relic band. Still active. Probably bonded once. Maybe still is.

They said no magic.

They didn’t say anything about cheating.

“Name?” I ask, shaking out my arms.

He grins, teeth yellowed. “Don’t matter. You’ll forget it when you’re choking.”

I roll my neck, joints cracking.

“Let’s find out.”

There’s no bell. No horn. Just a sharp whistle and a low mutter from someone above—

“Begin.”

He charges like a wall with knees.

No finesse. Just mass and momentum.

I pivot sideways, let his shoulder graze past, and drive my elbow into his lower back. He grunts, whips around faster than I expect. I duck the hook, drop low, sweep his leg. He stumbles. Doesn’t fall.

His foot comes up toward my jaw.

I catch it—barely—and roll back, letting his weight carry him forward as I twist.

He lands heavy, dust exploding around his shoulders.

But he laughs.

“I like you,” he snarls, wiping blood from his lip. “Gonna keep your teeth.”

He lunges again. This time, more controlled.

He’s learning.

Shit .

I feint left, but his fist still clips my shoulder. I grunt, spin with it, use the momentum to bring my knee up into his ribs. Something pops. He winces. Grabs me by the throat .

He lifts me like I weigh nothing.

For a breath, the pit blurs around the edges.

Pressure. Heat. Vertigo.

The Chain stirs, but I force it down.

Then I do what I was taught not to.

I bite.

He howls, drops me. I land hard, twist out of reach. My vision swims. My throat burns. I cough and spit blood into the sand.

He circles now.

More wary.

Good.

Let him think I’m tired.

Let him come close.

I fake a stumble. He closes the gap. Reaches for my arm.

And I slam my head forward.

Right into his nose.

Cartilage crunches.

He screams.

I don’t give him time to recover.

My elbow drives into his chest. I hook his leg. Slam him down. My knee pins his arm. I grab his relic wrist and twist.

The metal hums.

Then it snaps.

A scream splits the air. His back arches. The pit goes silent except for the ragged breath of someone realizing they just lost.

I stand slowly.

My hands tremble.

I don’t hide it.

I raise them anyway.

Around the edge of the pit, no one cheers .

They watch.

Quiet.

Calculating.

And then, a voice—low, disbelieving—from the back.

“She fights like the Chain chose her.”

Someone snorts. “She is the Chain.”

Then laughter. The wrong kind.

“She mothers it.”

That gets a few more. Mostly sarcastic.

But I catch the flicker. The way one relic-runner doesn’t laugh. Just watches me. And nods.

Not mockery.

Recognition.

Vale slides down the pit wall, landing with a grunt and a clap.

“Well, Mother of Chains,” she says dryly, “if that didn’t earn us at least a few hundred murderers, I’ll eat my boot.”

“You’d eat it anyway,” I mutter, brushing dirt off my ribs.

“Fair. But not while it’s cursed.”

We climb out together.

And behind us—slowly, quietly—some of the fighters begin to follow.

Not just physically.

With their eyes.

With their choice.

- x -

Ashmere doesn’t sleep.

It slinks.

Even the air has teeth after sundown—greased with coal smoke and gutter-blood, twitchy with magic that won’t die right. Somewhere behind us, music fights a losing battle against fists. A dog howls. Or maybe it’s a person. Hard to tell, in this part of the district.

Vale walks beside me, one knife already out.

Just in case.

“You should’ve let me slit that guy’s throat,” she mutters. “Would’ve been faster.”

“He yielded.”

“He spat blood. That’s not a yield, that’s a donation.”

We’re halfway through a crumbling alley—cutting west toward the tunnels Owen commandeered for training—when I hear it.

A breath.

Sharp. Wet.

I raise a hand.

Vale vanishes. Not physically—just in that ghost way of hers. Knife gone. Sound gone. Just… gone.

I step forward alone.

The noise comes again. Softer. Like someone trying not to be noticed and failing at it .

I round the edge of a rust-eaten crate.

And find him.

Small. Too small. Wrapped in a threadbare priest’s robe three sizes too large, knees tucked to his chest like he’s trying to fold out of existence. His hair’s caked in ash. His forearms—raw. Path-burned. Blue-purple sigils cracked and rotting along the bone.

A Severed.

Gods.

No more than ten.

He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak.

Just flinches.

It’s not the kind of fear that screams.

It’s the kind that learned early what screaming gets you.

I crouch slowly.

Not close. Just enough that the Chain doesn’t start to hum.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I say softly.

He doesn’t answer.

But his fingers tighten on something in his lap—a rusted piece of chain-link. Dead, inert. Probably stolen. Maybe sacred.

His eyes flick up once.

Sees the Chain curled around my collarbone.

And he panics.

Scrambles back. Hits the wall. Tries to make himself smaller than his body allows.

“Hey,” I say, voice sharper now. Not unkind. Just cutting through.

I sit down.

All the way. Knees to stone. Palms open.

No Chain. No posture. Just presence.

“Do you know what this is?” I ask, tapping my chest gently.

He shakes his head. Then nods. Then stops .

Vale steps out of the shadows, silent as dust.

The boy sees her and freezes again.

“Too many knives for this one,” she mutters. “Poor thing looks like he’d cry if I blink wrong.”

“Don’t blink,” I say.

She scoffs. But stays quiet.

I study the boy.

And suddenly it hits me—the same thing I saw in the mirror back in the forge. Not judgment. Not fear.

Recognition.

He’s not afraid of the Chain.

He’s afraid of what it reminds him of.

“You were Severed,” I say. “Weren’t you?”

Poor kid was probably cut five years early, maybe more. I’m surprised he’s still breathing.

His chin dips. Just once.

“And it didn’t end well.”

This time, no nod. Just a breath. Sharp. Like swallowing glass.

He presses the dead chain-link closer to his chest.

“Me too,” I whisper. “But I didn’t die from it. And neither did you.”

He looks up. This time, really looks.

And the moment stretches.

Not holy. Not quiet.

Just… seen.

Something in the Chain shifts.

I feel it curl low behind my spine.

Protective.

Like it recognizes this boy’s damage.

Not as weakness.

As kin .

I reach out—slow, open-handed—and gently touch the edge of the rusted link in his lap.

It doesn’t react.

But the Chain hums once.

Just enough to warm the air.

And the boy doesn’t flinch this time.

Vale mutters something obscene under her breath and crouches next to me.

“We’re not adopting him,” she says. “I draw the line at orphans.”

“You are an orphan.”

“Yes, and look how well that turned out.”

I ignore her.

“Hey,” I say to the boy. “I’m Freya. This is Vale. You want food?”

He stares.

Then nods.

Once.

Slowly.

“Good,” I say. “Come on. We’ll get you something warm. And maybe a bed that doesn’t smell like rot.”

He hesitates. Looks at the chain-link again.

Then—like it matters—he offers it to me.

I take it.

Not as payment.

As a promise.

Something brittle and rusted, passed from one survivor to another.

Vale groans. “Great. Now you’re collecting war children. You know what this makes you, right?”

I rise slowly, the boy’s hand in mine.

“What?”

She sheathes her knife .

“Mother of Chains.”

Gods.

I flinch. Not visibly—but enough. Owen’s voice ghosts through my skull, smug as sin.

He was bloody right.