Page 121 of She Who Was Severed

I let out a slow breath. It almost turns into a laugh, but doesn’t quite make it.

He pushes off the column, already moving toward the stairwell. His stride is loose, coat swinging behind him like it has its own personality. Just before he disappears into the shadows, he tosses a final glance over his shoulder.

“Oh, and Freya?”

I blink. “What.”

“If Kellen ever figures out that the Chain likes him almost as much as you do, you’re doomed. That boy’s got judgment coiled in his ribs and no idea where to aim it. Dangerous combination.”

Then he’s gone. Just footsteps and coat swish. No dramatic exit. No match flare.

I exhale through my teeth. Push to standing, slow, knees still stiff, ribs still tight.

That’s when I feel it.

Eyes on me.

Not the Chain.

Not judgment.

Kellen.

He’s in the corner—half-shadow, half-light—watching. Not saying anything. Not moving toward me. Just… there. Shoulders braced. Hands still. Eyes dark with something I don’t know how to name.

I don’t speak. I don’t need to.

He saw.

And for once, I don’t flinch from being seen.

- x -

Ashmere breathes beneath me, but it doesn’t feel like mine.

The rooftop’s slick with soot from a burn that looks like it happened years ago, but the stone still smells faintly scorched. I shift my stance, boots grinding against grit, the weight of the city pressing up through my knees. Cold bites through the leather at my calves. Wind finds its way into the seams of my coat. Below, the streets rattle with half-life—shouted orders, iron latches, someone dragging a crate.

I roll my shoulders back. My ribs feel tight—pressure where the Chain wraps low and quiet, not pulling, not flaring. Just there. Like it’s waiting to see if I’ll flinch before it does.

The breath I take doesn’t settle right. The air is clean but thin, and my chest doesn’t quite trust it. I feel stretched. Like my bones haven’t caught up to what I became in that room. I passed. I survived.

Bootsteps behind me. Slow. Even. Not hiding.

Kellen.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t clear his throat. Just stops beside me, close enough to shift the air between us. I don’t look at him. He knows I know he’s here. He sets a canteen between us on the roofstone like we’re sitting down to watch stars instead of planning for war.

“I brought water.”

“No food?” I ask, raising one eyebrow, deadpan.

He snorts—short, quiet—and nudges the canteen closer.

Neither of us moves to touch it.

His armor’s quiet—worn leather, not plated—and when he leans forward, elbows to knees, I can see the tension in the way his hands settle. Controlled. Everything about him is trained restraint. The dragon inside him doesn’t speak, but I feel the heat on the edges of my senses. Kellen’s bond doesn’t snarl. It studies.

“You saw the trial,” I say.