Page 40 of She Who Was Severed (The Ashen Chain Trilogy #1)

Freya

Ashmere doesn’t feel like a city tonight. It feels like pressure—like the whole street’s holding its breath and waiting for something to crack.

I wait on the highstone ledge above an old chapel’s west roofline, where the stone juts out past the guard tower. It’s narrow, worn smooth by wind and grit… and it’s cold. Cold enough to cut through my coat and settle in my bones like it’s got a right to be there.

The rooftops down below hang onto scraps of firelight, like the city’s still trying to look alive. Someone’s yelling somewhere, but the wind pulls most of it apart before it gets to me.

Kellen moves up the slope without a word.

No armor. No dragon in sight. Just boots on wet stone and the long black fall of his coat swinging low around his knees.

His hair’s damp, flattened slightly at the crown, like he ran a hand through it too many times.

But his eyes—gods, those eyes—black, threaded through with a gold that seems to glow when my chain stirs, lock on to mine like the rest of the world stopped being real .

He stops three paces away and looks at me like showing up was never a choice—just something his body did on its own.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to. I already know why he’s here.

He’s leaving. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not until the sun comes back.

But soon. Back to Solenn. Back to the fires and fathers and war councils that want him whole and obedient.

And he’ll go—because even though he doesn’t want to, he’s Kellen.

And he always does what has to be done. And maybe this…

whatever we are right now… maybe this is him trying to say goodbye in a way that won’t tear something open.

The Chain settles across my shoulder, warm metal resting against fabric, not moving. But aware. Always aware.

He moves first. Like he’s not closing distance—but stepping into something that already belonged. His hands finds my hip, steady and sure. His palms curves around my waist like he’s done it a thousand times in his head and now finally gets to make it real.

My breath catches—not from shock, but from how good it feels to be touched like this. Like I’m wanted, known, and already chosen.

I don’t lean. I give in. Fully. Easily.

Because there’s no doubt in me left to fight. Not with him.

His touch is quiet. Grounded. The kind of contact that doesn’t ask permission but honors it anyway. His fingers trace up my back, a slow line to where the Chain begins. It doesn’t flare. Doesn’t recoil. But it tightens—just once—like it knows who this is.

He leans in close. Voice just breath. “You tremble when you’re holding back.”

I feel it when he says it—low and private, spoken against the shell of my ear like a truth meant for no one else.

My body stutters. Not because of fear. Because I’m already unraveling .

His mouth finds the spot only he ever noticed—just under my jaw, where the heat always rushes when he gets this close. He kisses there, slow and sure, and the Chain reacts. Not to me.

To him.

I feel it shift—like the pressure flips directions. Like something in it just locked onto him, not as a threat, but as a truth.

He doesn’t stop. Just keeps going, tracing his mouth lower, past my throat to the dip at the base of my neck. The spot the Chain marked, the first time it ever chose consequence.

He doesn’t kiss it. Doesn’t touch.

Just breathes there.

Like he knows exactly what that scar means. And he’s not afraid of it.

“You think I came here to say goodbye.”

The words land sharp. Not cruel. Just honest. And too close to the truth.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

His hand rises. Fingers curl against my jaw, thumb brushing along my cheek like he’s feeling the shape of everything I haven’t said.

“I know,” he murmurs. “You told me to go. But I needed to see if you’d change your mind.”

The Chain flickers. Not visually. Not with power. Just pressure. A single tightening through the links resting on my back. Like it heard something it’s been waiting for.

A spark jumps free. Tiny. Bright. It arcs between us like static—lands at our feet—then vanishes.

He doesn’t ask again.

He kisses me.

Mouth warm, breath rough, held like a vow made in silence. And I kiss him back. Fierce. Certain. Because what we’ve survived, what we’ve become—none of it ever left room for doubt.

The Chain responds in recognition to his fire .

Kellen draws back an inch, lips still brushing mine.

“Say the word,” he says. “And I stay. No politics. No command. Just me and you against the world. But, say go—and I’ll carry this with me. Every mile. Every fire. Until the war’s done.”

I find his wrist. Guide his hand to the spot just beneath my ear. The skin there hums, faint but real, when he’s near. When he touches it now, I feel everything.

His breath catches.

And I whisper the only thing that matters.

“You have to go, Kellen. We both know that. But not before this.”

His eyes flare gold.

He moves again—guiding me toward the chapel’s upper threshold. His grip doesn’t tighten. It steadies. Grounded. Ready.

As we step through the stone arch, the Chain stirs. Not between us. With us.

Link by link, it extends down my spine—and brushes his. Not in warning.

In welcome.

- x -

The chapel smells of old ash and older memory. Not holy. Not haunted. Just used up.

Kellen pushes the door open, slow. It groans like it hasn’t been touched in years.

Cold air slips under my coat and grazes up my neck.

Then everything goes still. Not peaceful—just quiet in that way that makes you feel watched.

Like the room knows what’s about to happen and isn’t planning to look away.

Light spills through the fractured glass, cutting wine-colored gashes across the stone. The floor’s warped. The altar collapsed like it finally gave up hoping anyone would kneel.

He steps in front of me and leans against a cracked pillar, all calm like he’s not carrying the world on his shoulders.

The cuffs of his coat are still singed. But his eyes—gods, those eyes.

Still locked on me like I’m the only thing in the room worth looking at.

Still lit up like I’m something he’d come back for, no matter what it costs.

He lifts a hand.

Snaps his fingers.

The ruin inhales. Candles along the chapel ribs flare to life—slow, deliberate. Their flames lean toward us like they’ve been waiting to bear witness.

Heat crawls over my skin. The Chain doesn’t react. It doesn’t stir. It loosens down my back, uncoiling like it understands: this isn’t its moment.

It’s mine.

Kellen doesn’t speak. Just crosses the chapel with that brutal grace he never tries to hide. Every step dares me to move. I don’t.

He brushes his knuckles across the hinge of my jaw—right where he always finds me. A touch like reverence, not possession.

“Kellen—” I start.

“Let me,” he says.

That’s it. Two words. And they land like a vow.

He leads me—past broken pews and dying light—toward what’s left of the altar. Stone cold beneath our feet. Wax drips from the ledges like it’s mourning something. Maybe it is.

From his coat, he pulls a strip of black cloth.

My breath catches.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, voice low.

“I’ ve never trusted anyone else.”

His brow lifts. “Then let me show you what worship looks like.”

He steps in close and lifts the cloth. I don’t move. Just let him. He ties it over my eyes, slow and careful, like he’s done it before in his head. The fabric brushes my lashes. His fingers graze my cheek. Then darkness settles in—warm at first, then total.

His breath touches my temple.

I hear the shift of his boots on stone. Then—nothing.

Except him.

His hands at the hem of my shirt. Up, over, gone. His touch is measured, not hesitant. Reverent, not soft. He maps my skin like a prayer he’s repeated in silence a thousand times.

Then his fingers slide down my arms. He gathers my wrists, brings them together above my head. The cloth wraps around them next—firm, slow, deliberate. No tension. Just the kind of hold that says: you chose this.

And gods, I did.

Then—

A drop.

Wax. Hot. Clean.

It lands just below my collarbone, and everything inside me jumps. My breath stutters. My knees almost give. The heat doesn’t burn—it blooms. A slow ache that spreads outward, until I’m arching into it without meaning to.

Not pain.

Not exactly.

More like a claim. Like his fire remembered something mine tried to bury.

Another drop. Lower. It hits the peak of my breast—sharp, perfect, just enough to send a pulse through me that tightens everything low in my belly. My nipple hardens instantly, and I feel the rush between my legs like my body just opened.

His hand finds my hip, steadying me.

“You still with me?” he murmurs.

“More than ever,” I breathe—because gods, I am. Every inch of me is awake now, heat curling deep and low, my need bleeding into reverence.

He paints a trail of wax down my stomach. Slow. Sacred. Each breath I take is a surrender. The heat hardens as it cools, but the feeling stays—a memory carved into skin.

His hands follow. Then his mouth.

Gods. His mouth.

He kisses over wax and flesh with a kind of hunger that doesn’t rush. Like he wants to remember this in every life that comes after.

My hands try to lower without thought. He catches them. Laces our fingers. Presses them back above my head.

He’s not restraining me.

He’s holding me steady.

The blindfold’s still on. Every breath sharpens. Every shift becomes a question I can’t see the answer to. Then his fingers touch the waist of my trousers.

Not fast. Not greedy.

He unbuttons them like it’s sacred.

One at a time. Slow. Intentional. Like he wants me to feel it—not just on my body, but in my chest, in my pulse, in the space between who we were and what we’re about to become.

He peels it down my hips, over my thighs. I feel the air hit my skin. Cool. Electric. His hands follow—palms to the outsides of my thighs, sliding down like he’s memorizing the shape of surrender.