Page 156 of She Who Was Severed

“There’s no warning,” he says, voice steady like a prayer. “Only judgment. And I am its hand.”

I see it in his eyes—he believes it. Not a shred of hesitation. I don’t flinch. I hold his gaze, let the quiet stretch.

“Judgment doesn’t come from men like you,” I say, steady and quiet, already shifting my stance.

The only sign he gives is the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Then he moves.

He doesn’t pause. Just lunges forward—fast and clean, all momentum.

His blades cut in opposite arcs—one high, one low—meant to split instinct. Go left, I lose an arm. Go right, I bleed out.

I drop low and twist hard, one boot sliding on the wet tile as I shift my weight just far enough to dodge the blades. Wind slams into the court behind him, ripping water from the stone and sending it flying.

I keep breathing. The Chain wants out. I feel it rise behind my ribs like pressure before a scream.

I don’t let it. Not yet.

He cuts closer this time—just enough to drag a line down the curve of my arm. Not deep. A test. His eyes flick lower, tracking my foot placement. Evaluating form.

I shift sideways, take a short step to get some space. My heel catches on a loose tile. He’s already closing the gap.

His hand jerks, and a burst of compressed wind slams into my ribs—fast and hard, like getting punched by something I didn’t see coming. Not enough to drop me. Just enough to knock me off balance.

I stumble a step. Catch myself.

Lightning flickers across both blades—thin white lines snapping between the hilts. That’s when I see the marks on his wrist. Faint, etched into the skin like they’ve been there for years.

The kind of scars the Council burns into those they trust to kill without question. Nothing about them says mercy.

In Virelle, they’re called execution marks.

The Chain pulls tight.

I lock my breath, centering fast.

A scream splits the sky above. A griffon drops through the clouds, wings stretched wide over the basin. It slams into the court, talons cracking stone, ice spraying from its feathers.

The assassin doesn’t even glance at it.

The beast watches him. Then me.

Then waits.

I’ve seen bonded beasts surge forward without command. None hold still like this. Not unless taught. Or warned.

The Chain draws cold now. Steel across the base of my spine. No fear in it—only certainty.

I let it rise.

My stance drops to Anchor. Breath locks in rhythm. Inhale. Hold. Compress.

Cycle Four.

The Chain strikes. Not at him—at the court.

Stone splits in a perfect ring around me, a sharp crack that sends tiles flying and ash flaring into the air. Not enough to break bone—but enough to blind, distract, throw the rhythm off. His griffon startles a half-step back, wings twitching.