Page 131 of She Who Was Severed

Good.

Let him think I’m tired.

Let him come close.

I fake a stumble. He closes the gap. Reaches for my arm.

And I slam my head forward.

Right into his nose.

Cartilage crunches.

He screams.

I don’t give him time to recover.

My elbow drives into his chest. I hook his leg. Slam him down. My knee pins his arm. I grab his relic wrist and twist.

The metal hums.

Then it snaps.

A scream splits the air. His back arches. The pit goes silent except for the ragged breath of someone realizing they just lost.

I stand slowly.

My hands tremble.

I don’t hide it.

I raise them anyway.

Around the edge of the pit, no one cheers.

They watch.

Quiet.

Calculating.

And then, a voice—low, disbelieving—from the back.

“She fights like the Chain chose her.”

Someone snorts. “She is the Chain.”

Then laughter. The wrong kind.

“She mothers it.”

That gets a few more. Mostly sarcastic.

But I catch the flicker. The way one relic-runner doesn’t laugh. Just watches me. And nods.

Not mockery.

Recognition.