Page 138 of She Who Was Severed

And something hums.

Not in approval.

Not in warning.

Just… listening.

- x -

Vale

I hit breath cycle five on the third exhale. Doesn’t sound like much until you realize cycle five is the one that breaks people. Mis-time the release, and your ribs snap like dry sticks. No recoil, no softness. Just spine locked, core twisted tight, and a gut full of pressure like something down there wants out and hasn’t decided if it’ll crawl or explode.

The glyph spiral doesn’t light up. It vibrates. Barely noticeable at first—like the stone’s holding its breath, hoping I flinch first. Too late. My blood’s already in it, soaking deep. And blood remembers who bled it.

Owen lounges at the edge of the ring, legs crossed, sleeves rolled to the elbow, like he’s watching a funeral and wondering what the catering will be like. He’s flipping that same match between his fingers.

Twelve seconds ago, I let the cut in my palm bleed into the spiral. I counted. Nothing glowed. Nothing flared. It just drank. Like it’s done this before. Like it’s been waiting for someone dumb or angry enough to show up with something to prove.

I tell myself I’m not here for her. Not really. This isn’t about Freya.

I’m here because—

The hum spikes, sharp and sudden.

“Right,” I mutter. “No lies. Got it.”

My ribs compress tighter. The glyphs under my knees pulse, once, dim and deep, like the stone’s waking up and it’s not thrilled about it. Air goes hot. Every inhale scrapes like metal. My lungs don’t want it.

Owen finally speaks, voice flat as dead water. “You’ll know when it starts.”

“Because I’ll die screaming?”

“Unfortunately… the screaming’s not the worst part.”

I brace. Try to keep my breath even. Doesn’t work. My pulse is in my throat, punching the back of my eyes.

The Chain moves.

It doesn’t greet.

It judges.

The first pull isn’t physical. Not entirely. It’s memory, yanked like a fishhook straight from the base of my skull.

I blink—and the chamber’s gone. The spiral’s vanished. Stone replaced with ash, knee-deep and dry, choking the seams of my boots. Heat punches up through the air, thick and close, coating the inside of my mouth like something that died screaming. Smoke drags across my skin—too thick for wind, too heavy to drift. It clings like it’s been here longer than the bones buried underneath. And beneath that weight, something lingers. Not a sound exactly. More like a scream that never stopped—just ran out of breath and sank into the dirt, waiting.

Rubble edges the space. A courtyard, or what’s left of one—cracked tiles spidered with soot, chunks of wall still standing like they don’t know they’re ruins yet. Every breath scrapes raw.

Something’s at the center. At first, it’s just shape—wood, metal, scorched stone. Then it sharpens. A stake. Upright. Old iron clamps warped black from heat.

And then I see her.

Bound there. Small. Too still. Her head droops, hair charred back in places, skin cracked where the flames bit deepest. Her chest shudders once—barely a breath—but enough to know it’s not over.

She’s still burning.

Still breathing it in.