Page 129 of She Who Was Severed

“And what is that, exactly?”

I smile. Just a flicker.

“Something that scares the people who built this mess in the first place.”

A beat.

Then she lifts her glass and tosses it back.

“Fine,” she says. “One district. For now.”

A clink of her cup on wood. The first acceptance.

Vale exhales. “Well, that was easy.”

“Because you broke his leg,” I murmur.

“Don’t say I never give you anything.”

We turn to go.

Another group watches from a corner booth. Uninvited. Not unfriendly. Just… deciding.

Good.

Let them.

Let them watch.

Let them see a Chain that walks without dragging.

- x -

The pit isn’t a circle.

It’s a hole.

Dug into the rotted floor of an old relic-runner vault. Cracked edges, rust-stained stones, and blood dried so thick in the seams it smells like copper and time. The walls slope inward like they’re daring someone to climb out.

I hop down without flinching.

The Chain doesn’t stir. It knows better. This isn’t its fight.

“This is your idea of diplomacy?” I ask Vale without looking up.

She grins from the rim of the pit. “They wanted proof.”

“What, your word isn’t enough?”

“Please,” she says, stretching. “My word gets people un-invited.”

Around the edges of the pit, the crowd gathers—mercenaries, smugglers, relic-fighters, and too many sharp eyes trying to decide if I’m worth betting on. The gang calling the match is one of Ashmere’s worst: the Black Fangs. No loyalty, no rules, no relic restrictions. Just steel, coin, and whatever the blood wants.

They didn’t believe in speeches.

So I gave them this instead.

Across the pit, my opponent drops in.