Page 50 of She Who Was Severed (The Ashen Chain Trilogy #1)

The Chain knows before I do.

Pressure builds low in my chest—dense and certain, like air pressed too tight behind ribs that haven’t moved in hours. I don’t wait for scouts or signals. I already know.

By the time I reach the crumbling watchtower, the sky is bleeding light across the ridge, and I see it.

Steel.

They march in rows drawn tight to the spine. Helmets reflect the sun in hard, blinding bursts. Every step lands in rhythm, precise and unbroken. Discipline moves with them like a second skin.

At the center of the line, one figure leads by the angle of his jaw and the steadiness of his gait. A hand rests on the curve of a blade. His eyes scan the horizon without slowing, calculating the space between us with practiced calm.

From the ridge, I watch their approach. The ground holds steady beneath my boots, but the Chain presses tighter along my spine. Heat builds link by link. The tension sits just below breath .

This isn’t a charge. It’s a message carried on foot. Sent with purpose. Delivered without doubt.

Behind me, Ashmere wakes. Slow. Grudging. Gang cutthroats, street thieves, mercs with cracked teeth. The unbonded. The Severed. Every exile Aetherra ever spat out stands ready—or close enough. Some grip weapons. Some just their rage. But they’re here. Gathered like smoke.

But they don’t look up. Not until I climb the bones of the broken tower and let the stone bite into my boots. Not until I stand above them, breath caught in my throat like the wind’s waiting for me to fail.

Still, they don’t speak.

And neither do I.

I scan the faces below. Vale’s at the front, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

There’s a kid behind her—trembling, holding a blade too heavy for his wrist. A woman near the edge wears cracked suppression cuffs like bracelets, even though they’re dead.

I register the fighters. The risks. The gaps in our line.

One gap in particular makes my heart pulls tight.

Kellen should be here.

He should be circling above, fire threading through his dragon’s wings, steady and sure in all the ways I can’t be right now. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him—not on my skin, but inside it. The kind of heat that says, I’m here. That says, you’re not alone.

Instead, there’s only the wind.

And the Chain tightening like it knows what I won’t say out loud.

He’s not here.

But I lead anyway.

I step to the edge of the tower platform. Let them see me. Let them feel the silence before I break it.

“They left us to die.”

My voice doesn’t echo. It lands.

“Every one of you. They called you cursed. Weak. Said you failed. ”

I turn slowly, letting them see it’s cost me to speak this aloud.

“They said being unbonded meant we weren’t worth saving.”

A few heads dip. No one dares nod. Good. They know the truth already.

“But look at you.” I sweep my gaze over them. “Look at us. Still here. Still breathing. Still standing.”

The Chain pulses. Not a flare. A confirmation. Like it’s listening too.

“They thought Severing us would be enough.”

“But I’ve learned something in the ruins they buried us in. And so have you.”

“You learned to bleed without dying. To break without disappearing. To build from what they tried to erase.”

“I learned the truth.”

The Chain slides across my spine like breath made of barbed wire.

“I’ve seen what they buried.”

My voice stays level. Truth doesn’t need volume.

“Every unbonded across Aetherra—they weren’t broken. They were left behind. Left waiting.”

The Chain shifts—tight, steady, like it knows what comes next.

“Not for rescue. For a path. For this path.”

I lift my gaze to the faces watching me now. Some wide-eyed. Some hardened. All listening.

“They Severed us. Cast us out because they feared what we were.”

I let the silence hold just long enough to build pressure—then let it snap.

“Good. Let them be afraid.”

“They didn’t want us?” I take a step forward.

“Good. Because we’re building something they can’t touch. Can’t unmake. Can’t kill—no matter how many soldiers they send.”

I feel the wind shift. Feel every gaze rise to meet mine.

“I don’t care what they called you before this. Mercenary. Criminal. Priest. Monster. ”

“If you stand with me now—you’re not lost. You’re not unbonded. You’re Chainbound. And together, we’re not waiting to be saved.”

“We’re the reckoning they tried to erase.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, movement.

A man in the back throws down a tattered tribunal sash like it’s burning his hands. A girl lifts a sigil-scorched arm and doesn’t hide the tears. Another Severed drops to one knee, not in surrender—in readiness.

Still no cheering.

Only pressure. Only breath held tight across a city trying to remember it deserves to exist.

“When they come down that ridge thinking we’re broken—”

I let the moment hold.

“We show them what it looks like when the broken fight back.”

The Chain rises with purpose, each link locking into place like it’s claiming ground.

Heat spreads along my shoulders, steady and rooted, as if the metal remembers every name they tried to erase.

It grips with the weight of survival—spine to throat, defiance shaped into iron.

This isn’t armor. It’s declaration. Every inch forged from what they couldn’t break.

I step down from the tower. The wind shifts, the crowd moves, but the ache stays sharp in my chest. He should be here. Beside me. Shoulder to shoulder, where the fire always steadied. This was meant to be ours.

The Chain settles.

Ashmere doesn’t roar.

It readies.

And I don’t look back.

Because they’re not following out of fear.

They’re following because I said something none of them ever believed they’d hear again.

The truth .

And this time?

It fought its way out like it meant to live.

- x -

Kellen

The wind cuts harder the lower we fly.

It isn’t the speed—we’ve flown faster. It’s something in the air. Heavy. Laced with heat and pressure, like a storm that hasn’t chosen where to break yet.

I lean into Kiroth’s neck, gloved fingers pressing into the seam where scale meets leather harness. She feels it too. Her wings don’t ripple like they usually do, don’t drift for the pleasure of the wind. She’s silent. Coiled. Focused.

Just like me.

The army comes into view as we clear the ridge.

Rows of soldiers—thousands, maybe more—march across the broken earth toward Ashmere. Spears upright. Shields flashing dull light from the rising sun.

They advance in tight formation, each step falling with practiced weight.

Armor gleams under the sun, catching on the ridgelines.

The wind carries no sound from their ranks—only the rhythm of movement, deliberate and fixed.

Their line stretches far across the rise, shaped for pressure, not speed.

A force trained for siege, not pursuit. Every stride claims ground with the confidence of something sent to finish, not to threaten .

Ashmere’s outer ring folds inward. Chimneys burn low. Doors hang loose on cracked hinges. Figures duck between buildings, drawn toward thicker walls and tighter corridors. Somewhere ahead, she’s out there. Holding her ground the way only she does—square-shouldered, chin high, eyes unflinching.

I scan the rooftops. The alleys. The ledges.

She’s not there.

But the Chain inside me shifts—tightens once, like it recognizes something the air hasn’t spoken yet.

I feel her.

The dragon pulses under me, low and deep. Her wings beat faster. I don’t need to tell her why.

I don’t care about the formation below. I don’t care about the numbers, the weapons, the strategy.

Only one thing matters.

She’s not safe.

And I’m not there.

My breath sticks in my chest for a moment, thick and sharp, before I force it down. Control. I was raised on it. Trained in it. Bled for it.

But control doesn’t work when you’re not close enough to stop what’s coming.

I press my hand to the dragon’s flank. She adjusts angle instantly—cutting sharper across the ridge, wind screaming in my ears, cold and slicing against my jaw.

Every second counts.

Every breath I waste, every wingbeat we don’t take at full force is another second where Freya’s alone.

I see her in my head. Not afraid. Never afraid. But standing there in front of them anyway. Speaking, probably. Holding the city together by force of will. By fury .

I know that look. I’ve seen it before.

The day of her Severing—when the world turned its back and she didn’t flinch. When she gave me her path manual like it wasn’t half a death sentence to carry. When she walked into the council chamber with nothing but scars and truth, and somehow made it feel like they were the ones on trial.

She doesn’t need me.

But gods help me, I still have to reach her.

Below, the front lines slow. I don’t know why. I don’t care. All I know is we’re closing the distance.

Kiroth thrums again. Her nostrils flare. Her neck arches. She wants to burn.

Not yet.

Not until I see her.

Not until I know she’s still—

There.

A shimmer catches my eye. A shape, just visible, standing on a broken tower. She’s high above the others. A silhouette in fractured daylight.

Freya.

Even from this far, I know it’s her. The way she holds her spine. The way the wind moves like it’s been waiting for her permission.

The Chain is out. I see it too—black and silver, curled like a sigil that’s already passed judgment. It doesn’t strike. It doesn’t lash. It watches.

She raises her arm.

She’s speaking.

And the city listens.

A breath lodges behind my ribs and doesn’t leave.

I’ve seen battlefields. I’ve seen what it looks like when cities fall and men pretend they’re gods. I’ve watched my father break a kingdom by strategy alone .

But I’ve never seen what it looks like when someone like her rises.

Not until now.

And I’m not close enough.

She’s alone at the center of it. No shield. No reinforcements. No safety net.

Just truth in her mouth and the weight of the unwanted behind her.

I push the dragon harder.