Page 7 of She Who Was Severed (The Ashen Chain Trilogy #1)

The last rise falls away beneath my boots, a slope of root-choked soil and brittle stone that spills into the kind of hollow even the wind hesitates to cross.

Trees lean too close here, like they’ve grown used to guarding secrets.

Virelle is a memory behind me—its gold-tipped spires too far to judge and too proud to look back.

No temple bells reach this far. No beast calls.

Just the dry hush of dead leaves and a silence that waits.

I step down slowly, testing the earth. No trail marks. No polished stones. No sign of anyone who belongs. Which makes it exactly the place I need.

The glade unfolds at the base, dappled in shadow and old light. One boulder, half-swallowed by moss, juts near the streambed. I brush the surface with my sleeve and sit. It groans faintly beneath me, as if annoyed by the weight.

I draw the manual out. Its edges catch on the threads of my cloak. Still rough. Still wrong. It feels heavier today—not because of mass, but meaning.

It isn’t meant to be beautiful. It’s meant to survive the fire .

The first page opens without resistance. The ink smells faintly of ash and dried blood. I don’t know if it’s imagination or memory, but I breathe it in anyway. I need to.

Breathwork Protocol One. Link Stabilization. A figure, genderless and hunched, sits cross-legged with hands cupped near the stomach. Four motion lines rise from the chest, but only three reach the edge. The fourth ends jagged—unfinished or deliberately cut.

Inhale four. Anchor high. Exhale six. Let the pulse find you.

Simple, except it’s not.

I shut my eyes. Focus. My first breath catches, sharp through my nose. The exhale stutters too short. Useless. I try again. Slower. The third breath finds a shape that almost fits.

That’s when the chain stirs.

A shift—soft, like cloth pulled taut—but no tighter. Not yet. Not a threat. A note struck beneath the skin.

My eyes snap open. My pulse hasn’t calmed, but the chain has. For now.

I turn the page.

The next block is written in a firmer hand: Link One cannot be silenced. It must be harmonized. Suppression triggers feedback.

Under that, Technique A: Rootform Grip. A sketched hand twisted into a posture no prayer would claim. It looks broken. Wrong.

Which means it’s probably right.

I curl my fingers into the shape. It hurts. Not pain. Strain—like asking muscles to speak a language they never learned.

The chain reacts instantly. Not flaring. Resonating. A line of pressure drives up my spine like someone striking metal behind bone. My chest tightens. I gasp, half-choked.

But I don’t drop the form .

The pressure builds. It doesn’t spread. It concentrates. Just under my ribs. Like something preparing to be born or buried. I hold. The grip cramps. Sweat pools under my arms. Still, I hold.

Then it fades.

Steam rises off my palms. Skin red. Not burned. Marked.

The manual flips pages without wind. No breeze. No movement. But the page turns.

Interruption Warning: Do not channel directly. Link Two cannot be stumbled into.

I blink once. My throat is dry.

The next page is worse. A manticore, half-finished and furious, stares back in black strokes. Chains wrap its limbs and spiral from its heart. Not drawn—scratched. The kind of image that gets made in the dark.

A handwritten line in the margin: Link Two: The threshold tests. If it answers, it cannot be unasked.

I close the manual.

Not from fear.

From restraint.

I press it against my chest. My fingers ache. My breath is ragged.

But I need more.

I open again. Just one page.

Technique C. No title. No image. Just this:

When the pulse climbs, do not deny it. Breathe. Ground with pressure. Mark with intent. Speak nothing.

It’s a warning pretending to be instruction. Or maybe both.

The chain shifts again. Not like before. This time, the movement is slower—rhythmic. Like a second heartbeat trying to find mine.

I drop to the dirt. Hands braced to the cold soil. The forest stares back with no sound. My breath catches rhythm.

Inhale. Anchor .

Exhale.

The pulse rises with it.

Something flares beneath my left hand. Not light. Not heat. Pressure, deep and exact, like being pressed back into shape from the inside out.

My skin itches. My bones want to move. I grit my jaw and hold.

Then—nothing.

No burst. No vision.

But there’s a presence. Behind me. Just over my left shoulder. Not heavy. But undeniable.

I don’t move.

It watches.

Then it doesn’t.

That’s when the twig snaps.

I roll to my feet before thought. Manual under my arm. Wrist hidden.

A priest stands in the trees, ten paces out. His robes are stained. Not gold-lined. Not ceremonial. Just fabric that’s been used too long without care.

He stares.

His eyes drop to my wrist.

And then his beast slides into being beside him—a panther with translucent wings that don’t flap, just shimmer. Smoke and compound eyes. It watches.

I wait. He waits longer.

Then, without a word, he turns and walks away. Beast dissolving with him.

He saw.

He’ll report.

The chain pulses once more. Not eager. Not afraid.

Ready .

I sit again. My breath still hasn’t steadied. My palms are red. My spine hurts.

But the manual rests in my lap.

And the next page waits.

Let them come.

Let them try to stop me.

- x -

The gate behind me shuts with a clank I feel in my teeth.

Virelle presses close again, all smoke-laced stone and mirrored glass meant to catch your reflection off-guard.

The air smells like damp silk and something sweeter rotting underneath.

Even this early, incense curls from the temple gutters. No one talks. Not at first.

Bootsteps echo across the inner courtyard. Too many. Too even. I don’t turn until they call me.

“Freya Thorne.”

There are five of them. Robes white with ash-smudged hems, stiff with sun and travel. One I recognize—the priest from the glade, the one who left without speaking. The others are older, broader, and worse—they’re not confused. They’re certain.

“You were seen beyond the Severed boundary,” the lead says. “Engaged in unsanctioned formwork.”

His voice carries too well across the stone. Two passersby glance and hurry on. I keep my hands low and still. The chain presses tight under its wrap, not reacting, just aware .

“I was alone,” I say. “Meditating.”

The one on his left lets out a sharp breath, too loud to be a laugh. “You were invoking.”

I shift my weight back. Not retreat—just bracing. The air feels closer now. Narrower. My calves itch. The kind of nerves that don’t come from guilt—just memory. Dirt beneath my knees. The pulse of the chain responding like a second breath. I swallow once and square my stance.

Before the nearest priest can step closer, someone cuts between us.

Kellen doesn’t make a sound when he moves, but the way the priests stiffen makes it clear they feel him. His cloak’s twisted around one shoulder, eyes too sharp for the hour. He plants himself between me and them without looking my way.

“You don’t have to do this here,” he says. Calm. Flat. Every word pulled taught from restraint. “If there’s a claim to investigate, you can submit a writ. Not surround her on a street.”

The lead priest doesn’t blink. “Your concern is noted, Flameborn. But Selvarra doesn’t answer to Ravelle.”

Kellen doesn’t move. “No. But I imagine Lord Tor will want to know why his son witnessed an unsanctioned detainment two lengths from the temple gates—especially if the Council was involved.”

The silence after that isn’t long, but it has weight. Not fear—just calculation. One of the priests shifts, glancing toward the others. The man in front doesn’t. He’s not rattled. He’s decided.

“She is Severed,” he says, louder now. “And yet a pathform was witnessed manifesting in her presence. That demands a test.”

Kellen’s shoulder tenses beneath his wrap. “A conversation, not a trial. That’s all I’m asking.”

“You mistake your name for authority. ”

The priests step in unison, not attacking, but close enough I can smell the oil on their belts. Kellen holds his ground. His left hand drops a fraction—not enough to draw, but enough to signal that he knows how.

And I realize—if one of them pulled a blade right now and drove it through my heart, no one would stop them.

I’m Severed. Stripped of sanctity. They could leave me bleeding on the stones and the only outrage would be over who had to clean it up.

I’m not a girl anymore. I’m a consequence.

The kind they use to keep their daughters in line and their sons afraid of failure.

The air around us shifts. Hotter. Denser.

A sound rolls from behind him—not a roar exactly, but a kind of groan, deep and old. It vibrates through the stone, through my boots. I see it in the shadows at his back—heat shimmer rising from his spine, the scent of scorched marrow and char. Not a full summon. Just a warning.

One priest flinches. Another doesn’t. Their eyes are on me now.

“Kellen,” I say quietly.

He turns his head just enough to hear me. His face isn’t angry. Not now. It’s tired. Set. The kind of tired that means he thought he could stop this. That maybe stepping between me and the city could still count for something.

It won’t.

The lead priest shifts his sash higher on his shoulder. “If she is truly Severed, she will demonstrate as much. A sparring trial will be arranged.”

I’ve seen trials like this before. Not executions, not officially. But no one questions a Severed who doesn’t get back up.

They want a spectacle. An answer they can measure in blood or silence.

Kellen doesn’t argue. Doesn’t threaten. He looks at me one last time, then steps aside.

And I walk past him without a word .

He didn’t fight harder. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he knew I needed to win this without him.

Let them circle. Let them test. Let them call it confirmation. I’ve already survived worse than proof.