Page 12 of She Who Was Severed

“Heard you walked out of the Severing. Is that what we’re calling it now? Walking?”

I say nothing. That always makes them press harder.

“You should be careful.” She pushes off the statue. Walks slow. Measured. “People might think you’re still hoping."

“Better than kneeling for fire that isn’t yours,” I murmur.

Her eyes narrow. She smiles.

“Say that again.”

“You heard me.”

For a moment, nothing. Then her beast flares—emberlight blooming off its wings, air bending with heat. A sigil arcs from its throat to her palm, drawn in fire. The ground cracks.

I don’t move.

But the chain does. It pulses under my sleeve. Tightens like a muscle flexing. Heat radiates up my arm—not burning. Warning. Daxira notices. Her gaze flicks to my wrist.

“Pretty bracelet,” she says, laughing. “Shame it’s the only thing left that wants to touch you.”

She turns. Starts to walk away—then glances back. “I’ll tell Kellen you said hello.”

Her grin makes me want to rip her throat out.

Her beast follows. Fire trailing. Let her laugh. I’ve seen what fire looks like when it loses control.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. The chain relaxes. I don’t.

I move on.

Past the wall, past the outer sanctum, through a garden of stonecalled offerings where the air feels heavier. Like it’s holding its breath. Someone once told me the Stonecalled can speak to mountains—call the earth to armor them or crack open beneath their feet. I wonder if they ever ask to be left alone.

The wind shifts.

I smell him before I see him.

Smoke. Salt. Iron.

Kellen walks across the upper terrace with another Flameborn—a girl I don’t recognize, wrapped in Ravellan crimson. They move like diplomats. Like fire doesn’t touch them unless asked.

He looks up.

Sees me.

Our eyes lock for the briefest moment.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t frown.

But something in his posture stutters.

I look away first. Not because I want to. Because if I don’t, I’ll burn.

He used to walk me home from rites like that. Back when I still believed the world had a place for both of us. Back when I thought fire could warm instead of wound.

The chain hums.

I duck into a side alley—stone damp, half-forgotten, older than the rest of the city. A shrine to no one. Just a sigil half-scrubbed from the floor and a broken offering bowl.