Page 114 of She Who Was Severed

Kellen nods. “He does.”

The grizzled man leans forward, lip curling. “You think they’ll protect us?”

Kellen’s eyes lift—sharp, steady. He doesn’t look at the man. He addresses the room.

“Solenn doesn’t answer to the Virelle. We never have. And we won’t kneel to the lies of their fallen Council, either. We are Flameborn,” he says, the words firm without heat. “We do not yield to threats. We burn them.”

Something shifts.

The silence tightens again—less like hesitation now, more like held breath. A chair scrapes. Another man mutters under his breath. The scent of old magic thickens with unease. No one challenges the claim aloud. But the resentment builds like pressure behind stone.

The Chain stirs at my back. Not alarmed. Ready.

The woman finally turns to me. “You get three days,” she says flatly. “No protection. No promises. Bring war through our gates, and you’ll die with it.”

I don’t flinch.

I also don’t thank her.

Gratitude would make it sound like I owe them. I don’t.

Vale leans into the candlelight just enough for her grin to flash. “Three days?” she says. “That’s generous. Usually I get fifteen minutes before someone tries to stab me in the ribs.”

There’s a half-snort from one corner. Might be amusement. Might be threat.

Owen clasps his hands behind his back, mock-solemn. “Three days,” he echoes. “Two and a half more than I expected. You’re in a rare mood, Grelta. Almost festive.”

Then he turns to me.

The match still flickers in his hand, casting warped shadows across the planes of his face. The grin is still there—but something behind it drops. Not false. Just stripped. Real in a way he rarely allows.

“Judgment used to be a feeling,” he murmurs, voice quiet, only for me. “Now it’s going to be a choice. And Freya—” He dips closer. “It will break you.”

We leave without ceremony. The doors stay open behind us, like the room hasn’t decided whether it’s done with us—or just waiting to see what we become.

Vale mutters something under her breath. I don’t catch it. But when I glance back, her eyes are on Owen.

Not distrustful.

Curious.

Like she’s weighing whether he’s what he says… or something worse.

Kellen brushes my arm as we step into the corridor. A light touch, anchoring. No words needed.

I breathe in smoke, sweat, and the bitter tang of wax melting too close to flame.

This wasn’t a victory.

Just the start of a countdown.

- x -

Vale

I wait until they’re gone.

Freya’s the first to vanish—shoulders tight, jaw set, the kind of quiet that starts wars. Kellen stays close, silent and fire-lit, a shadow shaped like a man who’d kill for her and pretend he didn’t mean to. Owen follows last, slow as always, humming something half a hymn, half a dare. There’s a match tucked behind his ear, catching candlelight like it’s planning to burn just for the hell of it.