Page 43 of She Who Was Severed (The Ashen Chain Trilogy #1)

Ashmere’s food market doesn’t smell like food. It smells like salt, old fish, rusted nails, and that sharp, bitter sting of piss-liquor that clings to the back of your throat.

Most of the stalls are barely holding together—tarp roofs stitched with wire and sheer refusal, tables warped from rot and too many seasons of bad trade.

The others lean like they’ve already given up, their wares slumped in crates lined with mildew and quiet resignation.

Every alley has a watcher. Every stare lingers just long enough to make sure you know it saw.

Vale walks beside me, hood pulled low. Her hands stay shoved deep in her coat, but her fingers never stop twitching.

She’s been quiet all morning. Not calm—just focused in that tight, pre-violence way I’ve started to recognize.

No muttered threats. No casual jokes. Just a hum behind her ribs like something coiled too long.

We pass a barricade of scavenged steel—a mess of broken swords and melted tools welded into a kind of statement. Someone whispers Chainborn behind us. Vale doesn’t flinch. Just rolls her shoulders like she’s itching to fight but hasn’t been given permission yet .

We’re halfway down the sloped side of the market when it hits.

A shriek rips through the noise. Not pain—panic. One of the old fabric stalls buckles in the wind. A snapped brace. Rotten pole. The tarp yanks sideways, pulling a whole crate of ceramics with it—and a half-shattered beam gives way overhead, falling too fast.

A child’s in the path. Small. Frozen. Doesn’t even turn to look.

I take one step. But Vale moves faster. She throws her weight forward, shoulder-first, and catches the edge of the collapse with her back curved around the kid like a human shield. It’s clean. Brutal. Immediate.

And then her graft answers.

Not visually. Not at first. But I feel it—pressure snapping tight across the air. My ears pop. The market flexes like something bigger just took notice.

Then—

Fire.

Released like something ripped loose from her bones. The air warps before it sounds—heat first, flash second, then the blast hits like a throat-punch. A roar without warning. Raw combustion from the space between will and instinct.

The beam vaporizes mid-air. Turns to ash in less than a breath.

Crates burst apart in a circle. Planks split, nails fly.

A fruit stand explodes behind them, liquefying on impact.

The canvas canopy flashes red, then blue, then peels upward in a column of fire so hot it strips the bark from the beams still standing.

And when the smoke punches outward, it throws bodies back. A half-dozen people hit the ground—too stunned to scream. A barrel ignites. A second flares. The third doesn’t catch, but sags sideways, glowing from the heat.

At the center, Vale is still on her feet .

She’s got the kid tucked under one arm, face buried in her chest. Her other hand stays raised. Held there, trembling, like if she lowers it, something worse will break free.

The Chain under my skin presses up against my spine. The child’s mother rushes in from the side, grabs the boy, thanks Vale with a voice that barely holds shape. She doesn’t look her in the eye. Doesn’t speak again. Just backs away, like proximity itself is risky now.

All eyes shift to me.

Because I haven’t moved.

Because I’m still looking at Vale like she didn’t scare me.

I walk over. Vale’s still facing forward, jaw locked. Her hand curls tight at her side like she doesn’t trust herself to open it.

I stop beside her. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough that she knows I’m here.

“You saved him,” I say, low.

Her jaw clicks, but she doesn’t speak.

“That’s the kind of power people remember.”

The Chain hums again. Once. Short and grounded. Like agreement.

The fire gutted three stalls. Maybe four. One still burns, low and mean, smoke curling into the rafters like it’s trying to crawl free. Bits of tarp drift through the air—half-melted, half-burning, not quite ash.

Around us, the market resets—but not like before. It shifts. Quiet. Mechanical. Like a crowd that’s learned how to move when something breaks that isn’t theirs. The closest hawkers ease back into motion, slow and silent, collecting their things without glancing too long.

No one checks on the child. No one checks on Vale.

They saw what mattered.

They don’t speak to me either. Just flick their eyes past mine. Quick. Cautious. Like even looking too long might cost something.

We walk in silence. Three blocks, maybe more. Long enough for my boots to soak through. Long enough for the quiet to start building weight.

We stop beneath a rusted awning near the old copperworks. It doesn’t keep the rain out. But it’s enough.

Vale leans back against the wall. Doesn’t speak. Her shoulders stay tight. She tries to cross her arms, then winces. She’s burned herself and doesn’t want me to notice.

“You gonna say it?” she mutters.

I glance sideways. “Say what?”

“That I lost control. That it scared them. That it scared you.”

I let the question hang between us.

Then I say, “No.”

She waits.

I give it space.

“Because none of that’s what happened.”

Her weight shifts, just slightly. I keep going.

“You moved first. You acted on instinct. You saw danger, and you stepped in before the rest of us even realized what was happening.”

“Because I’m reckless,” she mutters.

“Because you’re brave.”

That lands. She hides it. But I know the shape of her silence now.

I take a breath. Keep it steady.

“They saw you.”

Vale doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. Just keeps her eyes on the street like it might bite her if she blinks.

“They saw you survive it,” I say. “And they saw me walk beside you after.”

Still nothing. But her shoulders ease—just a fraction. Not enough for most people to notice. But I do.

Because I’ve learned to read Vale in inches, not words .

I don’t tell her it’ll get easier. I don’t say the graft’s stabilizing, or that the crowd already moved on, or that this made her stronger.

None of that would land right now.

And she doesn’t need comfort.

She needs truth.

And the space to stand in it.

- x -

Rain coats the court in a thin layer of mud and grit. It pools in the low spots, slides between broken tiles, and clings to my boots until every step pulls a little heavier. The air’s stale—metallic, like water left standing in a rusted basin.

Ashmere’s ruins stretch open around me—cracked stone, sagging arches, the scorched remains of banners long stripped away. The Chain hums low at my spine. A steady weight, coiled tight. Listening. Ready.

I move slow, boots dragging just enough to hear the weight of them echo.

No reason to rush. No one here to impress.

This place empties the second I step in, like the city knows better than to watch.

No vendors leaning on cracked stalls. No runners flashing signals behind the pillars.

Not even beggars left hunched in the rain hoping for someone else’s mercy.

I glance once toward the old stone ledge—where blades usually change hands. It’s empty now. Not a coincidence.

I feel him before I see him. Not in the wind, not in the air—but in the way my ribs go tight, like something inside me just braced. I freeze, hand low, weight shifting automatically like my body knows what’s coming even if I don’t.

He steps out from the ruined arch like he owns it. Blade already drawn. Rain slicking down his cloak, darkening it to near-black, dripping from the edge of his jaw. His stance is loose. Too loose. Like he’s not here to fight—he’s here to finish something.

My breath catches. The Chain doesn’t surge, but it’s watching. Ready. His build’s all clean lines and calculation—nothing wasted. That’s not speed I’m looking at. It’s precision.

The wind curls around his blade like it’s under orders. Stormbound. Definitely Council-tier. Maybe higher.

“Freya Thorne,” he says, calm as anything. Like he’s correcting a mistake I don’t remember making.

My hands stay loose at my sides. Ankles align under me. I settle into a slow coil, not low enough to strike, but steady enough to receive.

He doesn’t pause.

“Chainborn. False heir.”

That lands somewhere in my chest. Not because it’s wrong—but because he believes it. He’s not angry. That makes it worse. Anger can be worked around. Doctrine can’t.

“You walk in judgment’s shadow and think it won’t find you.”

I don’t answer. Don’t give him anything to twist.

His second blade slides free—a shorter edge, mirrored hilt for closework. That grip setup isn’t for flourish. It’s meant to dismantle fast. Disable joints. Ruin someone without killing them clean.

“There’s no warning,” he says, voice steady like a prayer. “Only judgment. And I am its hand.”

I see it in his eyes—he believes it. Not a shred of hesitation. I don’t flinch. I hold his gaze, let the quiet stretch .

“Judgment doesn’t come from men like you,” I say, steady and quiet, already shifting my stance.

The only sign he gives is the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Then he moves.

He doesn’t pause. Just lunges forward—fast and clean, all momentum.

His blades cut in opposite arcs—one high, one low—meant to split instinct. Go left, I lose an arm. Go right, I bleed out.

I drop low and twist hard, one boot sliding on the wet tile as I shift my weight just far enough to dodge the blades. Wind slams into the court behind him, ripping water from the stone and sending it flying.

I keep breathing. The Chain wants out. I feel it rise behind my ribs like pressure before a scream.

I don’t let it. Not yet.

He cuts closer this time—just enough to drag a line down the curve of my arm. Not deep. A test. His eyes flick lower, tracking my foot placement. Evaluating form.

I shift sideways, take a short step to get some space. My heel catches on a loose tile. He’s already closing the gap.