Page 48 of She Who Was Severed (The Ashen Chain Trilogy #1)

The chamber stinks of steel and sleepless breath.

There’s no map that isn’t torn, no table that isn’t scarred.

This place used to be a distillery. The copper pipes still snake across the ceiling, blackened with old fire and dust. Now it holds a dozen gang leaders yelling at each other like any of them know what the hell to do.

No one talks about winning. Just rationing out what pieces of us we’re willing to burn.

I’m leaning over the chalkboard wall, tracing lines that might have been roads twenty years ago, when Ashmere was less rumor and rot. The names are guesses. The arrows are desperate. Every mark says the same thing: we don’t have enough. Of anything.

Vale perches on the corner of the table like she belongs to no one. She flicks a coin up, catches nothing, lets it fall again. The rhythm helps her think, maybe. Or it doesn’t. She just likes the sound it makes when hope hits stone.

Then the doors slam open hard enough to jar the dust from the rafters .

Two boys skid to a stop, breathing like they ran through hell barefoot. One’s too small to be here. Ten, maybe. Red-cheeked and raw-throated. The other’s older, but not by much. They’ve got sand in their hair and fear under their fingernails.

“They’re coming,” the smaller one chokes out.

The room stills. Even the air feels tight—like it knows what’s coming next. The only sound left is the slow creak of someone’s chair settling under weight that suddenly feels too heavy.

“Whose banner?” I ask, turning from the chalkboard wall.

The older boy shakes his head too fast. “No banner. Just—people. Too many to count.”

A gruff man with a half-scorched beard and more scars than teeth snorts under his breath. “Lad, that could mean five… or five thousand.”

The boy doesn’t blink. Doesn’t answer him. He looks straight at me.

“Mother,” he starts.

I don’t flinch at the title. I can’t—not here. Not now.

“There’s a lot,” he says, quieter this time. “Can’t see much else past the rise. Just… people. Everywhere.”

He points west, hand trembling just enough to notice. “They’re not all marching. Some are limping. Some are carrying stretchers.”

The silence that follows holds for three heartbeats. Then he says the part that fractures it clean through.

“Some are wearing Council robes.”

The chamber erupts.

One of the gang leaders grabs for his knife. Another shouts for the gates to be sealed. Someone curses, something crashes, and Vale’s coin hits the stone floor and spins. She doesn’t reach for it.

I don’t raise my voice. I raise a hand. Just once. That’s enough. They don’t go quiet, but they don’t get louder either. That’s what passes for control now .

“If they have stretchers, they’re not attacking,” I say. “They’re running.”

Vale doesn’t look up. “Or pretending to.”

A woman near the back grunts. “Kier’s smart enough to send decoys. Wounded in front, blades behind.”

Another voice cuts in—rough, uncertain. “Could be prisoners. Could be bait.”

“They could’ve broken ranks,” someone else offers. “Fled his army. But if it’s real, why wear the robes?”

“Because they’re desperate,” I say. “Or because they want us to panic.”

Vale shifts beside me, voice low. “Solenn could’ve broken them. If they fought Kier’s flank and lost—this could be what’s left.”

“If that’s true,” I answer, “they’ll carry scars. But until I speak to Kellen, I’m not assuming mercy from Solenn any more than I would from Kier.”

A beat of silence follows.

“Either way, there’s only one answer.”

I glance back at the map, the chalk paths that lead nowhere clean.

“Prepare Ashmere.”

Several heads lift at once.

“Double the ridge watch,” I continue. “Post scouts. Keep the inner gate closed.”

No one argues.

“We don’t leave ourselves exposed,” I say. “But we don’t make the mistake of treating survival like suspicion.”

There’s a moment of stillness.

Then motion.

They move.

- x -

The walk to the barricade takes longer than it should.

Every street in Ashmere twists the wrong way — like it was laid out by someone trying to confuse a mapmaker.

Maybe it was built for defense once, back when it had walls and purpose.

But now? Now it’s a shelter. A maze made to hold the people no one else would.

The outer threshold groans as we pry it open. The hinges weren’t made for this much tension. They sound like bone grinding.

Wind hits sideways off the cliffs, dry and full of ash.

The rise beyond the barricade swells with motion—not a column, not even a mob.

Just a slow-moving spill of bodies. Dirty robes.

Torn insignias. Blood soaking sleeves. They’re dragging carts.

Some are using stretchers fashioned from doors or banners.

There’s no formation. No discipline. Just movement.

Not dozens.

Hundreds. And still coming.

They’ve stripped the Tribunal colors. Some robes are turned inside out. Some burned. The old symbols are scratched through or painted over with ash. They move like people who’ve stopped believing in orders. Like whatever was behind them was worse than anything we might do next.

And then I see her.

At the front. Just behind the crest of the hill.

She’s not one of the ones who spoke loudest. Not a priest with gold cuffs, not a Council voice. But I remember her. Dusk-colored robes. No insignia. The one who pressed something into my hand when no one else would meet my eyes.

She told me about the Ash Tower. Told me where to go .

And now she’s here—bloodied, older, still standing. Still not looking away.

I walk forward. Step by step. The Chain shifts under my skin, like it wants to hear her answer before I ask the question.

She stops just outside the broken threshold. Dirt on her boots. Eyes open. Shoulders squared like someone expecting a sentence, not a welcome.

“Kier is coming,” she says.

Her voice is rough, scraped like it’s been used too hard too many days in a row.

“Faster than your scouts probably think. Two days, maybe less.”

“He’s conscripting the Severed. Burned the ones who refused. Started capturing the unbonded who hesitated. Says what the dragon did—burning the Council—is proof of what the Chain really is.”

I don’t respond. Not yet.

She gestures behind her, and someone hands over a weather-worn satchel. Scrolls. Maps. Ciphered troop estimates. Not fake leverage—real intelligence. Stolen from from Virelle.

“We ran,” she says. “Some fought. Most didn’t. We’re here because of the rumor—the Mother of Chains can protect the unbonded—you want to put an end to the Severing ritual.”

Behind me, Vale exhales like she’s holding a knife behind her tongue. She steps forward, but not too far. She’s not posturing. Just anchoring.

“You didn’t just come for me,” I say.

Lara tilts her head. “No. Not all of us did.”

Behind me— snick —the sound of a match flaring.

Owen’s here.

Not an entrance. A confirmation. Like the scene’s been waiting for him to arrive so the real play can begin .

He steps out of the crowd like he’s surfacing from memory—slow, loose-limbed, and terribly amused. His grin lands before he does, sharp and indulgent.

“Lara,” he beams, arms open as if greeting a long-lost drinking partner. “So good to see you again. What’s it been—three years? Four? Gods, time flies when your messengers are running for their lives.”

He strolls forward, letting the match burn down to his fingertips before flicking it onto the stone. It lands clean. Upright.

“Now, I’d say you look well,” he drawls, giving her an up-and-down sweep, “but it appears Virelle’s skincare culture has taken a bit of a fascist turn.”

Lara doesn’t flinch. She stands like a woman caught in a lie she doesn’t regret.

“I did what you asked,” she says. “I watched. I waited. I sent word when the Chain moved.”

“And you did it,” Owen says brightly, “with only a minimum amount of vainglorious posturing. I’m impressed. Honestly, I ought to promote you. You want a ruin? Crypt or collapsed sanctum? I’m feeling generous.”

“I prefer cities,” Lara says coolly. “Ones where no one remembers me.”

“Ashmere it is, then,” Owen says, clapping once like a man sealing a bargain with a ghost.

Vale squints between them, one brow already raised like a weapon.

“Wait. Wait wait wait,” she says, spinning a lazy finger between them. “You two know each other? Are we talking awkward ex, forgotten twin, or cult-flavored orgy I now regret not being invited to?”

Owen raises an eyebrow. “She was one of my more promising disciples. Back in my organized religion phase, before I discovered the liberating thrill of heresy and chaos.”

Vale exhales, muttering, “Of course you ran a cult. What kind of man doesn’t? ”

“A lazy one,” Owen offers.

“I’m not interested in your history,” I cut in, letting the silence crash flat across their banter. “I care why she’s here. Why they followed her. And what happens next.”

Owen’s grin shifts—still wide, but not quite mocking anymore. He inclines his head, not to yield to authority, but to recognize it.

“That,” he says softly, “is why you have the city.”

Lara turns back to me. She meets my gaze. She takes a breath like someone about to say something that might cost her everything.

“You don’t just have momentum,” she says. “You have gravity. You pulled a thousand people out of hiding—out of fear—and they followed.”

Her voice doesn’t shake. It’s not defiant. Just honest.

“Not because they believe in chains. Because they believe in the Mother of Chains. You were one of them. Now you have a path. That’s not blind loyalty. That’s a movement.”

The Chain hums behind me. Once. Deep. Certain.

I nod. The air folds in like held breath. No one moves. Not Owen. Not Vale. Not Lara.

It’s not fear. It’s recognition. And this time, the weight doesn’t land on me. It moves through me. Like the Chain’s not just ready.

It’s waiting.

For me to decide who rises next.

Owen lets the pause stretch. Then, as if he’s just remembered something mildly interesting, he turns to Vale.