Page 9 of She Who Was Severed (The Ashen Chain Trilogy #1)

The Ash Tower doesn’t creak when I return. It exhales.

Wind slips through the broken slats in the roof, coiling through burned rafters like it remembers the fire that hollowed them.

I step through the warped threshold, pulse already loud in my ears, and pull the door closed behind me with both hands.

Not to lock it. There’s nothing to lock it with. Just habit. Just nerves.

The tower’s colder than I remember—but not in the skin-deep way. The kind that settles between bone and breath. That listens.

Good. Let it.

The chain at my wrist pulses once. Not tight. Not warning. Just aware.

I cross the hollowed chamber slowly, boots crunching over ash-caked tile.

Light leaks through the open roof above, cutting the dust in gold angles.

The scent here isn’t just smoke and rot anymore.

It’s memory. The kind I didn’t live but somehow still know.

Like this place held too much once and some of it got stuck.

The roots part beneath my boots like they recognize me now. I find the same corner of the Ash Tower where the stone splits near the foundation— half-collapsed, choked with dust and old vines. It’s not a sanctuary. But it’s hidden. And it’s mine.

I sink to the floor, back against the scorched wall, and pull the manual from beneath my cloak.

It’s never left me. I don’t trust it out of arm’s reach.

The cloth-wrapped weight settles in my lap like something alive. The chain pulses once as I unwrap it—soft heat, not warning. Recognition. The way it hums when I get too close to truth.

So do I.

I unwrap it slowly. Reverently. It deserves that. The cover is warm in my hands. Alive, almost.

I kneel in the clearing at the tower’s center, where soot has long since merged with soil. The sky above is bare and too bright, but here on the ground it’s quiet. Private. The wind doesn’t come in unless I let it.

I open the manual.

The first page I land on shows a sigil. Not one I know. A spiral wrapped in thorns, inked in three shades—black, silver, and a copper-red that looks too much like blood. Beneath it, a heading written in sharp strokes.

The Chain is Not a Bond. It is a Command.

My fingers drift to the next line.

Link One binds to essence. Link Two tests the claim. Link Three devours the mask. Link Four becomes.

I exhale slowly. That’s… not comforting.

The next page shifts tone. Instructional. Clean. It outlines four stances—each named after a state, not an animal or an element like the other paths. Anchor. Sever. Coil. Strike.

Each stance has a purpose. Each aligns with a threshold of control.

I read them twice. Then a third time .

Anchor begins at the collarbone. A stance not of tension, but alignment. I settle into it, back straight, knees grounded. The chain warms—not sharply, just present. I press two fingers to my sternum and breathe.

The first technique is listed beneath Anchor:

Tether Reach.

Shape the chain to your boundary. Let it reach only where you will it. Visualize the tether. Reinforce with intent, not emotion. Do not feed it what it hasn’t earned.

“Easy,” I mutter. “Just will it into existence.”

Still—I try.

I lift my wrist. Unwrap the linen slowly. The chain gleams in the light, metal-dark and alive. I extend my hand toward a fallen branch ten feet away. Focus. Imagine the line. The path. The reach.

Nothing.

I try again.

A flicker. The chain trembles—then a segment shoots forward, whiplike.

It misses.

Clatters against stone, retracts with a hiss.

I laugh—soft and breathless. “Okay,” I whisper. “That’s new.”

I try again. Then again. The chain answers—awkwardly at first, but then with small precision. It doesn’t strike. Not yet. But it learns. And so do I.

My palms are raw after twenty minutes. My body sore from bracing, falling, realigning. But I don’t stop. I’ve never had something that listened before. Not like this.

By the time I shift into the second stance—Sever—my heartbeat has slowed into something rhythmic. Present. Real.

This stance is meant to disconnect—not from the chain, but from distraction. It’s how the user pulls their will inward. Protects the mind.

The Severed cannot anchor in the old ways. You must build your root in loss. Let it hold you. Then cut it free.

The words punch harder than they should.

But I follow the instruction. I close my eyes. Picture my fear—of the priests, of the council, of being dragged into light I didn’t choose—and then I slice the vision clean in half.

The chain flares. Once.

Then it calms.

I’m not crying. Not really.

But the dirt beneath me is wet.

I shift forward into Coil. It’s harder. More physical. A stance meant for mobility, reaction. The manual says:

Coil is anticipation. Movement not yet made. Attack not yet chosen. Train the body to curl. To compress. To wait until the break.

My muscles ache. My back protests. But I hold it.

Then I strike.

The chain lashes forward again. Not in a full arc—just a pulse. It grazes the target this time. The branch tumbles sideways.

My grin is real now.

I keep going.

Hours pass.

The sun shifts.

Somewhere in the distance, a prayer bell rings. I think of Kellen. Of the trial. Of the way his voice cut through the priests’ silence.

But that’s outside.

In here—it’s just me.

And the chain.

I collapse back onto the ground, breath ragged. The manual rests beside me, open to the final passage of the first chapter. A warning .

The second link awakens in response to challenge. Do not seek it before the chain is ready. Most fail. Few survive. The Ashen Path does not care for potential. Only obedience.

I stare at the words.

Then up at the sky.

Something in me stretches.

The chain hums.

And I feel it—like a knock on the inside of my ribs.

Not a voice.

Not yet.

But an intent.

The second link is close.

I don’t know if I’m ready.

But I will be.

I have to be.

- x -

I don’t hear him at first.

I’m too focused on the manual spread across my knees, the quiet pulse of the chain under my skin, and the gnawing ache in my gut that makes it impossible to concentrate.

The sun’s dying outside the Ash Tower—long streaks of rust-orange filtering through the shattered arch, catching on the dust in the air like it’s trying to make something beautiful out of the ruin.

I shift against the stone wall. My spine protests. My stomach growls loud enough to echo. I glare at the page .

“Technique One: Rootform Grip,” I mutter. “Anchor at the collarbone. Exhale to engage.”

It’s supposed to feel like grounding. Right now, it just feels like starvation.

The chain stirs lightly beneath the cloth wrap. Not flaring. Just reminding me it’s there. Like it knows I’m trying to be patient. Like it finds that funny.

The manual rests warm in my lap. It always is—never cold, never neutral. It hums faintly if I hold still long enough, like a heartbeat syncing to mine. I run my fingers along the etched diagrams. Spirals. Hooks. Symbols that don’t belong to any Path I had ever heard of.

And then—I smell it.

Smoke. Bread. Meat.

My head jerks up.

Kellen stands in the doorway, one hand braced against the half-burnt frame, the other holding a wrapped bundle. His hair’s loose again. His shoulders are dusted with ash, like he walked through the ghost of a fire to get here.

I blink.

He lifts the bundle slightly. “I brought food. Don’t throw anything.”

I don’t move. The growl in my stomach does.

He steps inside slowly, careful not to look too long at the manual, or the place, or me. Just enough attention to feel present. Not enough to scare me off.

“You look like you haven’t eaten in two days,” he says.

“Three,” I mutter.

He crouches a few feet away. Sets the food between us. Then sits. Not close. Not far. Like he’s letting me decide.

I reach for the bundle without thinking. Warm. Heavy. Gods, it smells good. I unwrap the cloth—flatbread, thick slices of roast fruit, something that might be spiced venison or might be temple mystery meat. I don’t care. I devour it like it offended me.

Kellen says nothing until I’ve finished half the parcel.

Then, quiet: “Not going to lie. That was a little terrifying.”

I pause, chew, then give him a flat look. “You’re lucky I didn’t bite your hand.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. But not not a smile.

“Mental note,” he says. “Feed Freya first. Then talk.”

Something loosens in my chest.

The food settles. The tower feels less like a tomb and more like a cave. Still ruined. Still forgotten. But not hostile.

I lean back against the wall. Wipe my fingers on the edge of my cloak. Let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Kellen watches me. Not like he’s waiting for something. Just like he’s here.

“So,” he says. “Training?”

“Trying.”

I tap the page. The diagram of the Rootform spiral glows faintly under my touch. The chain shifts along my wrist in agreement. Kellen’s eyes follow the movement. He doesn’t comment.

“Are you getting better?” he asks.

I snort. “I didn’t knock myself unconscious this time. That’s progress.”

“That’s impressive. I’ve seen initiates light their eyebrows off doing less.”

I grin despite myself. “Did you?”

“Stormbound twins. Year above me. One of them thought he could call lightning from a cup of rainwater. Didn’t go well.”

I laugh. Real. Small. But it’s mine.

Kellen’s watching me like he’s memorizing the sound.

And suddenly, I can’t meet his eyes.

“Why did you really come?” I ask .

He looks down. Then up. “Because you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

My chest tightens.

“I’m not exactly popular right now.”

“I’m not here because you’re popular.”

I swallow. Hard.

The chain hums again. Not warning. Not flaring. Just there.

Kellen leans back on his hands. Lets his head tilt toward the fading sky.

“You’re not what they say you are.”

“I might be.”

“You’re not.”

The silence that follows isn’t sharp. It’s soft. Settling.

I close the manual. Not to hide it. Just to rest.