Page 53 of She Who Was Severed (The Ashen Chain Trilogy #1)

The rain quit before dawn. I didn’t see it go. Just heard the difference. A quieter kind of silence—like something had split and spilled out and didn’t have anything left to bleed.

Ashmere holds that quiet like a bruise. Smoke still clings to the stone edges. Thin, stubborn. The air tastes like wet brick and old fire. Nobody’s yelling. No more flames, either. Just the scrape of metal and the low drag of feet. Cleanup. Not control.

Kellen’s breathing again.

He’s stretched out on a salvaged cot, back propped against a wedge of cloth and broken brick. Bandages knot across his ribs. One arm’s braced. Lips cracked and dry. He looks wrecked. But his skin’s warm now. That’s all I need to know.

Vale found the cot. Dragged it in herself while I hauled water. She kicked out a hole in the wall, let the light in.

“Saves him the drama when he wakes,” she said. “Let the sun explain it.”

She left before morning hit his face. I haven’t seen her since.

It’s been just us .

I don’t sit much. But I don’t go far, either. I change his dressings. Refill the basin. Pace six steps, limp, turn, repeat. My leg keeps locking up. The pain from the fight’s settled in now. Deep. The kind that doesn’t fade. Just waits.

My knife’s on the stool beside me. Chain’s wrapped loose at my waist, one link still dried with blood. I haven’t cleaned it yet. I’ve been here for hours.

Because if he woke up alone, he might think no one stayed.

He stirs when the light shifts again—just enough to cut across the floor. His breath catches. Then his hand moves. Slow. Deliberate.

I don’t speak. Don’t move.

His eyelids twitch. Then lift. And his eyes find mine like they’d been looking for something to land on.

Everything else drops away.

“Freya,” he croaks.

It hits like an anchor. Like he knew who I was, but had to say it to make sure it was real.

I nod. Can’t get a word past my throat.

He doesn’t ask if I’m real. Doesn’t blink like he’s lost. Just pulls another breath. Stronger this time. Like air finally means something again.

“You’re here.”

I take his hand.

“Told you I would be.”

His fingers shake when they close over mine. Pressure’s weak, but it’s there.

“Did we win?” he asks.

Not with hope. Not fear either. Just trying to take the shape of what’s left.

I let the quiet hold a minute. Then I nod. “We’re alive. ”

He lets the breath go like he’d been waiting for someone to say that before he let go of the fight. Doesn’t ask about Kier. Or the Chain. Or who didn’t make it. Just keeps his eyes on me.

Like I’m the one thing he remembers making sense before the world cracked open.

I lean in. Rest my forehead against his. My ribs burn, but I don’t pull back.

We stay like that.

No questions. No plans.

Just breath.

The city’s quiet beyond the stone. But not dead.

Ashmere doesn’t recover all at once. It limps. It rebuilds in patches. We move bodies. Stamp out fires. Count who’s still breathing. Some streets look like tombs. Others like half-set camps. We’ll make something out of it. Or we won’t.

The dragons came down after the last soldier fell.

Six of them. Wings wide. Bellies streaked with soot. Their eyes looked like someone had turned the fire down, but left it burning. They didn’t roar. Didn’t speak. Just landed and held.

They haven’t left.

They haven’t been challenged.

I’ve seen them track birds. Seen their heads snap toward sudden movement. Like they’re still deciding if this peace is real or just a pause.

Vale kept things moving.

Took over a half-collapsed barracks. Turned it into a makeshift ration post. Screamed at three medics until they learned how to boil cloth. She hasn’t tried to lead. She just does. One of the Severed asked what title she wanted.

She said, “I’m the loud one. That usually sticks.”

Nobody argued .

I left Kellen once.

Midday. Air thick with heat and ash. One of the dragons was waiting down near the slope. Not all of them came. Just one. Dull red. Ridges silvered with age. Scar carved deep across one claw.

He landed hard.

The man who stepped forward wore black leather over scorched plate. No insignia. No smile. Just the posture of someone who knew what war cost and didn’t flinch anymore.

“I’m Commander Solen Tor,” he said. “High General of Solenn’s aerial wardens.”

He paused. Let the title settle.

“And father to one very difficult young man.”

I nodded. Only thing I trusted my voice to do.

He looked me over like he was checking for something deeper than injuries. Not rank. Not scars. Just what was left behind the eyes.

“You’re Freya Thorne.”

Not a question.

I nodded again.

He didn’t ask if I’d saved his son. Didn’t want a casualty count. Just glanced at the cot through the breach in the wall.

“He chose you,” he said.

I should’ve answered with something clean. Something diplomatic.

All I had was: “He’s alive.”

The man dropped his head—not quite a bow, not quite a nod. Just a moment. Then he stepped back and joined the others on the eastern ridge, where the dragons were already holding position.

They haven’t moved since. Just stand watch. Quiet. Unblinking. Their silence has turned back two scout bands already. I didn’t need to see it. I felt the Chain thrum once, then go still again.

That’s the kind of power they carry. Not loud. Just final .

Kier’s gone.

No body.

Just scorch marks, torn standards, and a trail west.

We know what that means.

No one says it out loud.

When I step back into the tower, the light’s sharper. Orange-gold, stretched long across the floor. The air smells like stone, bandages, and blood that’s dried.

Kellen’s awake.

Not fully upright. Not moving much. But present.

His head turns when he hears me. His eyes catch mine.

I cross to the cot. Sit without a word. One hand braced against the edge.

He exhales. Shoulders loosen. Like he’d been holding something tight under the surface and that pressure finally let go.

“You came back,” he says.

“I never left.”

His hand finds mine. Shaky. Slow. But it holds.

“You’re bleeding,” he murmurs.

I glance down. Small tear near the wrist. Reopened sometime earlier—maybe when I pushed through the outer door. The blood’s dry now. Not dangerous. Just there.

“It’s nothing.”

He doesn’t argue. Just keeps our hands locked like it might stop something else from unraveling.

We sit there. Still. Breathing.

Then he says, “I remember fire.”

I nod. “It followed you.”

“I remember you shouting.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” he says. “Not out loud. ”

It lands heavier than I expect. Like he heard something I didn’t mean to send. Like part of me cracked and poured straight into him without permission.

“I couldn’t find you,” he says, quiet now.

“I found you.”

His eyes shut. “Good.”

I reach up. Thumb to his jaw. The scar just under his ear still raised and warm. I lean in. Press my forehead to his.

He breathes in deep.

“If I fall again—” he starts.

“I’ll catch you,” I say.

That’s it. That’s all he needed.

And he doesn’t finish the sentence.

- x -

Kellen is asleep now, so I wait at the rooftop.

Not watching the dragons. Not the smoke. Just the sky above it all—wide and streaked with ash. My body aches, but I can’t seem to leave. Not yet.

Behind me, footsteps. Quiet. Annoyingly quiet.

I don’t turn.

“Owen,” I say.

“Took you long enough to notice. Thought I’d have to throw a shoe.”

I glance over my shoulder. He’s leaning against what’s left of the old tribunal arch, one sleeve torn, boots dry, apple in hand like he’s just returned from a holiday instead of a battle for the city. The Chain flinches slightly at his presence—not afraid. Just aware.

“You disappeared,” I say. “During the battle.”

“Please. I left the door open, carved judgment into bedrock, and built you a prophecy so clean you didn’t even trip on it. Figured that earned me a nap.”

He takes a bite. Chews. Tilts his head at the horizon, where the dragons still hold their silence.

“Besides,” he adds, “you didn’t need me.”

I don’t answer.

“You were always going to stand there,” he says, softer now. “In the ash. In the light. With your hand over a dying boy and your spine straight. All I did was make sure the world was watching when you did it.”

Another bite. Another grin.

“You’ve got two links left, you know. The Chain’s not finished with you.”

I nod. Slowly.

“There’s a path you’ve never walked. Older than any temple, deeper than the cities they buried under sand. It remembers you.”

I say nothing. Let him keep going. Because I know he will.

“You’ve got thousands of unbonded children behind every burned border. You’ve got entire factions sharpening knives because they think they saw a miracle when all you did was survive.”

He tosses the apple core into the dirt.

“You’ve got a myth to live up to. People to protect. And an ancient Chain-built city at the bottom of Virelle’s blood-soaked mountains waiting to be found or forgotten, depending on how brave you feel.”

I meet his eyes. They’re not mocking.

They’re waiting.

“Busy woman,” he says. “ Our Mother of Chains.”

Then he pushes off the wall, walks three paces toward the rising smoke of Ashmere’s kitchens, and adds—without looking back:

“Better get some rest.”

A pause. Then:

“Book two’s going to be a bitch.”