Page 118 of She Who Was Severed

Her wrists are tied. There’s blood at the corner of her mouth. She looks straight at me—really looks—and for a second, I think she might speak. But she doesn’t. And neither do I.

The priest asks if anyone objects.

Nobody answers.

The quiet drags on too long. I notice it now. They weren’t just following routine—they were waiting. Hoping someone would say something.

I didn’t move.

That was the lie I let myself believe—that doing nothing wasn’t a choice.

The Chain shifts against my back. It doesn’t hurt, but it presses hard. Like it’s telling me: Keep watching. Don’t look away. Don’t pretend you didn’t know.

They drag her back. The scream lands harder this time. Not because I’d forgotten it. Because I never let myself really hear it.

And I don’t move.

The memory fractures—not like a scene change, but like water freezing over. I’m in the antechamber. Cold stone. That silver basin full of rust and washed blood. The place they cleaned the blades after. Eris is there, crumpled, not gone but… unraveled. Her limbs are whole. Her mind is ash. They didn’t kill her. They ended her.

And I’m watching.

Older. Calmer. Dressed for judgment.

I don’t step forward.

I don’t ask why.

I just agree.

It’s not spoken. It doesn’t need to be. The Chain draws it out of me like breath. I see my face, neutral and passive. I see the priest’s hand close around her ankle and drag her across the floor like discarded cloth. And I let it happen.

Because I thought she was wrong for not surviving.

Because I thought if the Chain didn’t choose you, maybe you were already broken.

The weight sinks deeper.

Not judgment yet.

But the knowing.

This is what I did.

The reflection doesn’t let go.

Not even when I try to breathe through it. The forge slips into view—but not the real one. A mirror placed on top of the old floor. I’m kneeling again, my own face staring back, washed in sweat, eyes too wide.

Then I hear it.

My voice.

Only it isn’t mine.

“You were always good at silence. Until it served no one.”

The Chain pulses. One throb, deep enough to steal the air from my lungs. Not magic. Memory. It threads through the moment and binds it to me. I feel it settle deep in my spine.

Not a verdict.