Page 38 of She Who Was Severed (The Ashen Chain Trilogy #1)

Vale

She didn’t ask for the name. But she didn’t flinch when they said it, either. Just stood there, barehanded, bruised, steady—as if she’d already heard it whispered in another life. As if the rest of us were only now catching up.

Mother of Chains.

No crown. No speech. No spell. Just a rusted chain-link placed in her palm by a trembling boy, and the way she took it like it mattered. Like she’d carry its weight whether we followed or not.

I’ve seen people bend the knee for less. I’ve seen them die for less.

So yeah, I flinched. Not from fear. From the truth of it—that if she keeps standing like that, half the world will kneel, and the rest will come with blades. And she won’t bend for either. Not once.

She’s not asking for a crown.

She is one.

And gods help whoever forgets that .

Let the nobles scoff and the Council spit. Let the gangs posture and the priests pray. None of it matters. She’s walking straight into the fire wrapped in chains, and the fire’s backing up.

And when she says rise—you rise. Because if you don’t, I will. And I don’t wait twice.

That’s the thing about following someone like her. You start watching the world the way she does—like it can still be changed, like it’s still worth fighting for, like every choice matters and every silence costs.

And if I’m going to die—and let’s be honest, odds are high—it sure as shit won’t be for nothing.

Which means I’ve got something to settle. Something Freya can’t fix for me.

Mother of Chains or not—this one’s mine.

I don’t tell her I’m going.

She’d try to stop me. Or worse—she wouldn’t. And I’m not ready to find out which would hurt more.

I find him crouched on the edge of a half-collapsed prayer altar, three blocks from the old execution square. No one comes here. City says it’s haunted. Which, of course, makes it Owen’s favorite kind of place.

He’s flicking a match across his knuckles like it’s keeping score. Doesn’t look up when I approach. Doesn’t need to.

“Ah,” he says, like I’m right on time for a performance he’s been rehearsing for years. “The one with all the knives and none of the impulse control. Didn’t think you’d come.”

“Didn’t think I’d want to,” I admit.

He rolls the match between two fingers. “Yet here you are. Bleeding on purpose.”

I shrug. “Figured if I’m gonna go out, might as well make it interesting.”

That earns a glint—almost approval. Almost amusement. Hard to tell with him .

“Good,” he says, standing with the kind of ease that makes weapons nervous. “Then come on, my stabby friend. Let’s see what the Chain thinks of suicidal honesty.”

We walk in silence, mainly because there’s nothing worth saying yet. The tunnel is old, narrow, stinks like wet rock and worse decisions. I step over what might’ve been a ribcage. Oddly, it’s not the strangest thing I’ve done this week.

Magic hums through the stone—like a warning light that never shuts off. Glyphs crawl under the grime, flickering like they’re trying not to be noticed.

I notice.

We reach the end. The stone gives way to a hollow chamber, wide and raw.

The floor is carved with a spiral that sinks deep into the rock, each groove scored with precision, like it was cut by someone who knew exactly where the blood would fall.

The walls sweat old heat. The air hums with pressure that isn’t moving—but waiting.

Owen shrugs off his coat like it personally offended him. Underneath, he’s still dressed like a noble who lost a bet to a drunk tailor—robes stitched from too many lives and a purple velvet waistcoat that might’ve once belonged to royalty. Blood stains crust at the cuffs. Probably not his.

He pulls out a match. Doesn’t light it. Then he points it at the spiral cut into the floor.

“Well?” he says, grinning like a game show host and a cult leader had a baby. “Center stage is all yours.”

“You sure this won’t kill me?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Absolutely not,” Owen says cheerfully. “It might kill you. Might strip your memory. Might bind a piece of you to the Chain permanently, even if it hates you. Could also awaken a fragment of forgotten god-logic and implode your sanity in five to seven business seconds.”

I stare at him .

He beams. “Or nothing happens and we both feel awkward about it.”

“Right,” I mutter. “That clears things up.”

“I’m helpful like that.”

I glance down at the spiral glyph. The lines are too clean. Too deliberate. Like someone wanted pain to be a precise experience.

“So what am I actually doing here?” I ask. “Step by step. Pretend I’m stupid.”

“Oh, I always do,” he says. “But yes. Step one: you stand in the center. Step two: I mark you with a bit of old Chain script and let your blood hit the spiral. Step three: the room decides if you’re worth listening to.”

“And if it decides I’m not?”

He shrugs. “Well. Your organs will stay in roughly the same order. Probably.”

“Reassuring.”

“Think of it like knocking on the door of a very old, very judgy house,” he says. “If it opens? Congrats, you get to be heard. If it doesn’t? No one’s home, or worse—someone is, and they think you’re boring.”

“And what’s the goal?”

“To get the Chain to look at you,” he says, suddenly quieter. “Not as an extension of her, or me. As you. Just you. If it recognizes you, you might get a fragment. A hum. A spark. If it doesn’t—well. That’s why I brought the match.”

I raise an eyebrow. “To light my funeral pyre?”

“To distract you while you scream. Obviously.”

I blow out a breath and start pulling off my gear. The air’s cold as sin down here, but I don’t flinch. I toss my shirt beside my boots and step barefoot toward the spiral.

This isn’t about armor.

It’s about being seen.

When I step into the spiral, the Chain doesn’t react—not at first .

But I feel it watching.

Owen crouches. No showmanship now. Just function. His fingers move fast—precise lines, old sigils. Not for flair. For consequence.

“This won’t bond you,” he says. “Won’t make you special. Won’t make you the Mother of Chains. Won’t even make you the Daughter of Chains, understand?”

I nod. “Good.”

“It might open a door, that’s all.”

I meet his eyes. “If she’s really going to tear this gods-damned system down—the bonds that lie, the Council that culls, the Paths that chew you up and spit you out hollow—then yeah. I’d rather be close enough to help her do it… or close enough to burn when it comes crashing down.”

Owen whistles, soft and low. “Reckless. I respect that.”

He draws a blade—short, curved, ugly—and slices a line across my palm. Blood hits the spiral. It doesn’t glow.

It sinks.

I hold my breath. Cycle Five. Root-spine breathwork. Just like Freya showed me, when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.

She’ll never know I memorized every word.

“She didn’t ask you to do this,” Owen says, quiet now.

“I know,” I say. “That’s the point.”

He presses two fingers to my collarbone. The sigil he draws burns for half a second, then cools into something that feels permanent.

The floor pulses beneath me—once, twice—and everything tilts.

Owen steps back. Places the unlit match beside the spiral, gentle like he’s setting down a fuse.

“The Chain won’t take all of you,” he warns.

“That’s fine,” I murmur. “I’m not much for giving it everything anyway. ”

He laughs, just once. No teeth. Then steps into the dark, leaving me there—bleeding, marked, ready.

And something hums.

Not in approval.

Not in warning.

Just… listening.

- x -

Vale

I hit breath cycle five on the third exhale.

Doesn’t sound like much until you realize cycle five is the one that breaks people.

Mis-time the release, and your ribs snap like dry sticks.

No recoil, no softness. Just spine locked, core twisted tight, and a gut full of pressure like something down there wants out and hasn’t decided if it’ll crawl or explode.

The glyph spiral doesn’t light up. It vibrates. Barely noticeable at first—like the stone’s holding its breath, hoping I flinch first. Too late. My blood’s already in it, soaking deep. And blood remembers who bled it.

Owen lounges at the edge of the ring, legs crossed, sleeves rolled to the elbow, like he’s watching a funeral and wondering what the catering will be like. He’s flipping that same match between his fingers.

Twelve seconds ago, I let the cut in my palm bleed into the spiral. I counted. Nothing glowed. Nothing flared. It just drank. Like it’s done this before. Like it’s been waiting for someone dumb or angry enough to show up with something to prove .

I tell myself I’m not here for her. Not really. This isn’t about Freya.

I’m here because—

The hum spikes, sharp and sudden.

“Right,” I mutter. “No lies. Got it.”

My ribs compress tighter. The glyphs under my knees pulse, once, dim and deep, like the stone’s waking up and it’s not thrilled about it. Air goes hot. Every inhale scrapes like metal. My lungs don’t want it.

Owen finally speaks, voice flat as dead water. “You’ll know when it starts.”

“Because I’ll die screaming?”

“Unfortunately… the screaming’s not the worst part.”

I brace. Try to keep my breath even. Doesn’t work. My pulse is in my throat, punching the back of my eyes.

The Chain moves.

It doesn’t greet.

It judges.

The first pull isn’t physical. Not entirely. It’s memory, yanked like a fishhook straight from the base of my skull.

I blink—and the chamber’s gone. The spiral’s vanished.

Stone replaced with ash, knee-deep and dry, choking the seams of my boots.

Heat punches up through the air, thick and close, coating the inside of my mouth like something that died screaming.

Smoke drags across my skin—too thick for wind, too heavy to drift.

It clings like it’s been here longer than the bones buried underneath.

And beneath that weight, something lingers.

Not a sound exactly. More like a scream that never stopped—just ran out of breath and sank into the dirt, waiting.