Page 136 of She Who Was Severed

And if I’m going to die—and let’s be honest, odds are high—it sure as shit won’t be for nothing.

Which means I’ve got something to settle. Something Freya can’t fix for me.

Mother of Chains or not—this one’s mine.

I don’t tell her I’m going.

She’d try to stop me. Or worse—she wouldn’t. And I’m not ready to find out which would hurt more.

I find him crouched on the edge of a half-collapsed prayer altar, three blocks from the old execution square. No one comes here. City says it’s haunted. Which, of course, makes it Owen’s favorite kind of place.

He’s flicking a match across his knuckles like it’s keeping score. Doesn’t look up when I approach. Doesn’t need to.

“Ah,” he says, like I’m right on time for a performance he’s been rehearsing for years. “The one with all the knives and none of the impulse control. Didn’t think you’d come.”

“Didn’t think I’d want to,” I admit.

He rolls the match between two fingers. “Yet here you are. Bleeding on purpose.”

I shrug. “Figured if I’m gonna go out, might as well make it interesting.”

That earns a glint—almost approval. Almost amusement. Hard to tell with him.

“Good,” he says, standing with the kind of ease that makes weapons nervous. “Then come on, my stabby friend. Let’s see what the Chain thinks of suicidal honesty.”

We walk in silence, mainly because there’s nothing worth saying yet. The tunnel is old, narrow, stinks like wet rock and worse decisions. I step over what might’ve been a ribcage. Oddly, it’s not the strangest thing I’ve done this week.

Magic hums through the stone—like a warning light that never shuts off. Glyphs crawl under the grime, flickering like they’re trying not to be noticed.

I notice.

We reach the end. The stone gives way to a hollow chamber, wide and raw. The floor is carved with a spiral that sinks deep into the rock, each groove scored with precision, like it was cut by someone who knew exactly where the blood would fall. The walls sweat old heat. The air hums with pressure that isn’t moving—but waiting.

Owen shrugs off his coat like it personally offended him. Underneath, he’s still dressed like a noble who lost a bet to a drunk tailor—robes stitched from too many lives and a purple velvet waistcoat that might’ve once belonged to royalty. Blood stains crust at the cuffs. Probably not his.

He pulls out a match. Doesn’t light it. Then he points it at the spiral cut into the floor.

“Well?” he says, grinning like a game show host and a cult leader had a baby. “Center stage is all yours.”

“You sure this won’t kill me?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Absolutely not,” Owen says cheerfully. “It might kill you. Might strip your memory. Might bind a piece of you to the Chain permanently, even if it hates you. Could also awaken a fragment of forgotten god-logic and implode your sanity in five to seven business seconds.”

I stare at him.

He beams. “Or nothing happens and we both feel awkward about it.”

“Right,” I mutter. “That clears things up.”

“I’m helpful like that.”

I glance down at the spiral glyph. The lines are too clean. Too deliberate. Like someone wanted pain to be a precise experience.

“So what am I actually doing here?” I ask. “Step by step. Pretend I’m stupid.”

“Oh, I always do,” he says. “But yes. Step one: you stand in the center. Step two: I mark you with a bit of old Chain script and let your blood hit the spiral. Step three: the room decides if you’re worth listening to.”

“And if it decides I’m not?”