Page 154 of She Who Was Severed

At the center, Vale is still on her feet.

She’s got the kid tucked under one arm, face buried in her chest. Her other hand stays raised. Held there, trembling, like if she lowers it, something worse will break free.

The Chain under my skin presses up against my spine. The child’s mother rushes in from the side, grabs the boy, thanks Vale with a voice that barely holds shape. She doesn’t look her in the eye. Doesn’t speak again. Just backs away, like proximity itself is risky now.

All eyes shift to me.

Because I haven’t moved.

Because I’m still looking at Vale like she didn’t scare me.

I walk over. Vale’s still facing forward, jaw locked. Her hand curls tight at her side like she doesn’t trust herself to open it.

I stop beside her. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough that she knows I’m here.

“You saved him,” I say, low.

Her jaw clicks, but she doesn’t speak.

“That’s the kind of power people remember.”

The Chain hums again. Once. Short and grounded. Like agreement.

The fire gutted three stalls. Maybe four. One still burns, low and mean, smoke curling into the rafters like it’s trying to crawl free. Bits of tarp drift through the air—half-melted, half-burning, not quite ash.

Around us, the market resets—but not like before. It shifts. Quiet. Mechanical. Like a crowd that’s learned how to move when something breaks that isn’t theirs. The closest hawkers ease back into motion, slow and silent, collecting their things without glancing too long.

No one checks on the child. No one checks on Vale.

They saw what mattered.

They don’t speak to me either. Just flick their eyes past mine. Quick. Cautious. Like even looking too long might cost something.

We walk in silence. Three blocks, maybe more. Long enough for my boots to soak through. Long enough for the quiet to start building weight.

We stop beneath a rusted awning near the old copperworks. It doesn’t keep the rain out. But it’s enough.

Vale leans back against the wall. Doesn’t speak. Her shoulders stay tight. She tries to cross her arms, then winces. She’s burned herself and doesn’t want me to notice.

“You gonna say it?” she mutters.

I glance sideways. “Say what?”

“That I lost control. That it scared them. That it scared you.”

I let the question hang between us.

Then I say, “No.”

She waits.

I give it space.

“Because none of that’s what happened.”

Her weight shifts, just slightly. I keep going.

“You moved first. You acted on instinct. You saw danger, and you stepped in before the rest of us even realized what was happening.”