Page 42 of She Who Was Severed (The Ashen Chain Trilogy #1)

The hole I’m standing in stinks. Rust, sweat, smoke, and that sharp gutter-liquor they pass around when they can’t afford anything legal. It’s soaked into everything—into the ash, the ropes, the floor. Into the back of my throat when I breathe too deep.

I’m at the bottom of the pit, boots sinking into blackened dirt that shifts a little with each step.

The place looks like someone tried to dig a grave and just kept going.

Fire barrels line the edges, coughing smoke more than heat.

They’re jammed into whatever’s left of the stone—cracked corners, rusted brackets, old scaffolding half-collapsed under its own weight.

The walls rise sharp around me, too steep to climb unless you’ve got help.

Feels like the whole thing could collapse in if the ground so much as flinched.

Ashmere leans over us. From the lip of the pit, I can see the edge of a walkway slick with rain, hear a bottle shatter two levels up. The city doesn’t look down because it cares. It looks down because it always does, like it’s waiting to see who bleeds first.

Vale’s parked just above the edge of the pit, leaned against a cracked column like she’s got nowhere else to be. Arms crossed. Head tilted. She hasn’t said a word since we got here, and I don’t expect her to. That’s the deal—we agreed I’d lead this alone. She only steps in if I go down.

The people in the tiers aren’t here to cheer.

Or to back me. They came to see if I’ll fall apart before I even start.

They’re worse than strangers. Gang scouts.

Freelancers. Black-market runners with sharp eyes and sharper smiles.

People who’ve clawed their way up from nothing and don’t trust anyone who didn’t have to bleed for it.

I spot a bladepriest with half his face burned off.

A Siltborn girl chewing dried meat like she’s bored already.

These people aren’t known for picking the losing side. They don’t wear colors. They wear blood under their nails and steel under their sleeves. Not soldiers. Not loyal. Just dangerous.

But if I hold the pit—if I make it count—some of them might follow. Not because they believe in me. Because they’ll see what I’m building, and decide it’s safer to be on my side.

That’s what this is.

Not a fight. A demonstration. A test.

And I don’t get a second shot.

The Chain rests against my back. Cool. Still. No glow, no hum. That’s deliberate. I want them thinking I walked in here with nothing but my name and a spine stiff enough to carry it.

Someone steps forward. Young, too quick to be this loud. Face thin. Elbows sharp. Tries to make his grin look casual, but it’s wired too tight.

“You don’t get to lead unless you bleed like the rest of us,” he says.

He tosses a knife at my feet.

I crouch. Pick it up. Nod once. That’s all.

He comes in fast. Not precise—fast. The kind of speed you learn from ten back-alley fights and three lucky wins.

His elbow skims my ribs, not deep enough to matter.

The second strike aims for my neck, overcommitted and way too open.

I shift left, plant a foot, catch his wrist, and guide his momentum straight into the dirt. One motion. No effort wasted .

As he drops, I drag the blade across his palm. Not deep. Not cruel. Just enough to mark that it happened.

He lands on both knees. Doesn’t cry out. Just looks up like something in him finally clicked into place.

I let the knife fall beside him and step back.

“I’m still here,” I say. “You?”

He stays kneeling. That’s answer enough.

No one cheers. No one claps. But I hear the silence change. Weight settles into it. Less contempt. More calculation.

Then another one steps in.

Older. Scar along the jawline. Eyes sharp and gray, like gravel packed tight. His voice grinds low.

“That Chain’s dead weight. Just for show.”

A flick at my ribs draws my focus. Subtle. Intentional. The Chain doesn’t need more than that.

I don’t speak. Just square my stance and wait.

He steps into the ring. No hurry. Like someone who’s commanded before and isn’t sure yet if I deserve the same room.

“You want us behind you?” he says. “Show us the Chain’s not empty.”

I don’t lift the Chain. Don’t draw on it. Just take a step forward and hold the space between us.

Something shifts. Not Link Three, the one I’ve already passed, the one that watches and weighs. This comes from deeper. Heavier. Link Four, maybe. Not active. But… stirring. Like it’s testing the air for something it recognizes.

And then I know. Not from memory. Not because anyone told me. It’s just there.

“Three winters ago,” I say. “Virelle’s smuggler gate collapsed. Exit tunnel blew early. Your partner bled out before the others made it through.”

His jaw sets. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move .

“You didn’t go back for him.”

The Chain tightens across my back. Not to threaten. To agree. It hums like it’s heard this before—like it’s been holding the moment, waiting for someone to name it.

He drops the blade.

Walks off without a word.

Not ashamed. Not angry. Just like he’s accepted something he didn’t want to carry anymore.

I stay quiet. Let the Chain settle. This wasn’t a trick. It wasn’t magic. It was Link Four, pressing through. I haven’t claimed it yet, but it’s close enough now that it listens.

Owen said this would happen—once you’re deep in, past Link Three. That sometimes the Chain offers a truth it already knows. Not a gift. Not a power. Just… consequence rising to the surface. Not because I asked.

Because it was time.

The silence doesn’t last.

A voice cuts through the smoke near the pit wall. Low. Rough. Someone who’s smoked too long or screamed too often.

“Why the fuck would we follow you?” the man asks.

He’s broad in the shoulders, older than the rest. Face lined, knuckles broken more than once.

The kind who survived not by kneeling, but by making others do it.

“You wear a Chain like it’s sacred. You talk like you’re here to pass sentence.

We’re not soldiers. We’re not priests. We’re criminals. ”

The others shift. Some nod. Some cross their arms. The moment doesn’t turn, but it leans.

I step forward, boots grinding soot into stone.

“You think I care who you were before this?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t flinch, either.

I stop close enough to feel the heat from one of the barrels. The smoke threads past his face. His eyes never leave mine .

“You call yourself a criminal. Fine. But don’t pretend that word means anything down here. We’re all carrying something that someone else tried to bury us for. I was meant to die in a chamber under Virelle because I didn’t bond when I was told to. That’s their justice. Not mine.”

I glance at the others. Not all of them are nodding now, but none of them interrupt.

“You want to know what kind of judge I am?” I say, voice low. “I don’t care where you came from. I care what you do when the fight comes to your door.”

The Chain shifts.

“I don’t need obedience. I need people who won’t run when the fire starts. You can follow me or not. But if you stay, you fight. And if you don’t—walk now. No shame in it. Just clarity.”

The man stares a beat longer. Then spits sideways, rubs his hand across his jaw, and gives a short nod.

“Guess we’ll see if your kind of judgment holds up.”

“Guess we will,” I say.

I look around and see the change in the atmosphere.

No one speaks, but they shift their weight. Eyes recalibrate. One or two take half a step back.

Then the girl steps in.

She’s thin, wrapped in rivercloth that still smells like salt. Siltborn. Face unreadable. Hands steady. She doesn’t make a speech. Doesn’t posture.

She holds out a blade. Hilt-first.

“Chains don’t bind the willing,” she says. “They arm them.”

I take it.

The Chain presses higher up my spine, slow and solid. Like it’s listening. Waiting.

I don’t perform. I don’t pose. I lower the blade so the tip points toward the earth and close my eyes .

“Truth,” I whisper.

The Chain answers.

It doesn’t snap or lash. It drives a single link into the dirt at my feet—enough to blacken the soil and circle the space I’m standing in. A perfect ring burned into the ash. One breath long. That’s all.

No one claps.

They don’t need to.

The quiet is enough

The dust settles in the ring. The last of it clings to the seams of my sleeves, to the edges of the blade in my hand. I stay still. The Chain stays low. It doesn’t pull or flare. Just rests against my spine like it’s waiting to see who moves first.

Someone does.

Not the crowd. Just one man. The same one who started this—thin, voice like broken stone, the one who fought.

He steps into the ring slow. Doesn’t raise his hands.

Doesn’t bow. Just drops to one knee. Like he’s reading terrain he hasn’t seen in years.

Like he finally sees something he can follow without flinching.

The fire barrels crack louder behind him. The smoke cuts through the space between us, thin now, easy to see through.

Then another kneels. Far side. A woman with bandaged knuckles and too many scars to be impressed by performance. Then another. It’s not a wave. Not in sync. It doesn’t look like surrender. More like alignment. A quiet, physical yes.

The Chain shifts—barely. A hum along the inside of my ribs. A weight pressing down like it’s anchoring something here.

I stay quiet. No speeches. No gestures. It doesn’t need anything else.

Vale moves last.

She pushes off the cracked pillar she’s been leaning on like she’s finally decided she’s done letting this unfold without her. Her boots scuff a broken line through the ash as she walks into the ring—slow, arms still folded, expression unreadable.

Her eyes find mine. They don’t soften. They narrow. There’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth. Could be amusement. Could be something else. She claps once—loud. Sharp enough to bounce off stone.

Then again.

Then a third.

She lets it hang. Doesn’t say a thing. Just walks forward through the smoke like it’s no more threatening than mist. Stops short—ten feet out. Looks at me like I’ve just tripped into something dangerous and finally stopped pretending I couldn’t feel it.

Then, slow as anything, she sinks to one knee.

Not with reverence. Not with submission.

With teeth.

With choice.

Her hand rests on her thigh. Her head stays high. Eyes locked on mine like she’s daring anyone else not to follow.

“That’s my girl,” she says.

And gods help me—I believe her.

I let the breath out. Long. Even. It doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like something heavier than adrenaline draining out of my limbs. I’m still standing. Still holding. But I’m not bracing anymore.

It’s not over. I know that. But something changed. The air feels different now. Not clean. Not safe. Just more open. Like the pressure’s shifted and landed where it’s supposed to.

I walk. No show in it. Just movement. The blade still in my hand. The Chain still wound against my spine, calm now. Rooted.

The crowd doesn’t cheer. Doesn’t shout. But they move. They step aside—not fast, not afraid. Chosen. That’s what it feels like. As if this was the first real decision they’ve made in years .

A shape moves near the edge of the pit. Small. Still. A boy.

The one from the alley.

Severed too young. Bones too sharp, voice never raised. He’s thinner than I remember. Clothes looser. But his eyes find mine like they never stopped watching.

He steps past the others—past the older men who tested me and the Siltborn girl who still holds her blade low. His feet are bare. His shoulders twitch, like he’s bracing for someone to shove him back.

Then he kneels.

Both knees to ash. Palms pressed flat to the dirt. Forehead lowered.

His voice barely carries.

“Mother of Chains.”

That’s all.

But it hits like a spark dropped in kindling.

One by one, the others follow.

Like gravity pulling them toward something real. Some kneel fully. Some drop one knee. Some bow their heads without moving otherwise. But the shift is there. The air feels different. Heavier. Aligned.

I don’t speak.

I don’t raise the Chain.

I just breathe, steady and deep, with my wrists loose at my sides and the Chain curled quiet across my spine.

Then I see him.

Owen. High above, near the edge of the third tier scaffold, half-hidden in mist. Leaning against the railing like he’s been watching the whole time.

He grins wide.

Claps once. Tips an invisible hat like a man who always knew how this would end.

I don’t acknowledge him.

I turn .

Climb out of the pit, boots scraping ash, shoulders square. No triumph in the motion. Just weight. Direction.

I don’t look back.

There’s no need.

Whatever we’re building from this place—whatever begins here—it doesn’t start with command.

It starts with silence.

With choice.

And it ends with me, still standing.