Page 133 of She Who Was Severed

No more than ten.

He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak.

Just flinches.

It’s not the kind of fear that screams.

It’s the kind that learned early what screaming gets you.

I crouch slowly.

Not close. Just enough that the Chain doesn’t start to hum.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I say softly.

He doesn’t answer.

But his fingers tighten on something in his lap—a rusted piece of chain-link. Dead, inert. Probably stolen. Maybe sacred.

His eyes flick up once.

Sees the Chain curled around my collarbone.

And he panics.

Scrambles back. Hits the wall. Tries to make himself smaller than his body allows.

“Hey,” I say, voice sharper now. Not unkind. Just cutting through.

I sit down.

All the way. Knees to stone. Palms open.

No Chain. No posture. Just presence.

“Do you know what this is?” I ask, tapping my chest gently.

He shakes his head. Then nods. Then stops.

Vale steps out of the shadows, silent as dust.

The boy sees her and freezes again.

“Too many knives for this one,” she mutters. “Poor thing looks like he’d cry if I blink wrong.”

“Don’t blink,” I say.

She scoffs. But stays quiet.

I study the boy.

And suddenly it hits me—the same thing I saw in the mirror back in the forge. Not judgment. Not fear.

Recognition.

He’s not afraid of the Chain.

He’s afraid of what it reminds him of.