Page 112 of She Who Was Severed

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Freya

The first thing I notice is that no one here bows. Not out of defiance. Just disinterest.

The second is that every weapon is visible. Blades tucked into belts, flint-guns resting on thighs, bone-etched relics hung openly around necks like blessings no one trusts enough to keep hidden. This isn’t a throne room. It’s a den, dressed in rot and gold and barely restrained history. Ashmere’s leaders—if you can call them that—sit in a warped ring of mismatched chairs, half relic-lounge, half war tribunal. A cracked throne leans sideways in the back, ignored. No one sits in it anymore.

I take one step forward. The Chain tightens across my back—not warning, not flexing. Just… noting. Like it’s seen this before.

The floor here is uneven, patched with old tiles and newer stone. The light’s worse—flickering candles, dim oil-lamps, a glow-crystal that pulses sickly near the center table. The air smells like wet parchment, old silk, and dried blood. No one cleans thoroughly in Ashmere. It would be disrespectful to the struggle.

Vale lounges beside me, dagger sheathed but ready. Kellen doesn’t hover—he never hovers—but his presence behind my left shoulder is deliberate. Measured. He hasn’t spoken once since the doors opened. Neither have I.

An older woman—bones sharp under tattooed skin, seven rings woven into her left hand like a story told backwards—taps a bone token against her seat’s armrest. It echoes. Not loud. Just enough to matter.

“She’s a problem,” the woman says without looking at me.

A man two seats over grunts. Grizzled. Scar across his nose. He’s missing part of a hand. “Not a problem,” he says. “A price. Kier’s marked her. Solenn’s next.”

“She brings fire.”

“She brings that thing.”

The “thing” is the Chain.

It hums like it hears its name. Not aggressive. Not awake. Just… aware. Like it’s waiting for someone to lie.

Vale crosses one ankle over her knee and tilts her head just enough to seem amused. Her grin’s all teeth. “Try it,” she says. She doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t need to. “Hand her over. I’ll peel your skin off slow and make a scarf.”

The room goes still. Not one laugh. Not even a chuckle. Vale winks. “Too far? Okay. Just the eyeballs.”

I lift my chin slightly. Not defiant. Not open. Just present. “I didn’t come to lead you,” I say. “But I’m not going back. If you think I’m a piece to be traded, test the theory.”

The Chain pulses. Not like a threat. More like gravity shifting. One of the men shifts in his seat. Sweat beads across his lip and he dabs it away with a sleeve he thought would hide the shake in his fingers.

The woman taps her token again. The rings clack like teeth. “And if we don’t touch you? If we move the ones you came with instead?”

Vale stretches, slow and obnoxiously theatrical. Her spine cracks once. Her fingers splay wide, tattoos along her knuckles catching the lamplight like old wounds re-opening. “Then I touch you. With a knife. Or three. I’m flexible. Depends what mood I’m in.”

“You’re unhinged.”

She shrugs. “That’s the rumor.”

The Chain flickers. I feel it turn—not toward me. Toward Vale. Not like it’s readying anything. More like… recognition. I step forward again. Let the movement claim silence.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I say. “But I’m not begging for a place here. You want to hand me over? Do it now. Because I swear to every dead god—Ashmere won’t survive the return trip.”

The door behind me creaks. Just once. Just enough.

A man in the back flinches. “Shit,” he mutters. “Of course.”

Owen enters like he owns the hour and the dirt it was born in. He’s wearing something that might’ve once passed for priest’s robes, layered and torn, patched with thread so bright it looks defiant. A torn collar pokes above his neck like a joke that refuses to die. His hair’s damp. A match sticks out behind one ear. He twirls a square of parchment in one hand—creases it, flips it, creases again.

“Apologies,” Owen says. “I was waylaid by a philosophical disagreement with a drunken merchant. He won, but I made my point.”

No one responds.

He glances at Vale. “Did you throw the knife or did reality finally give up on you?”