Page 162 of She Who Was Severed

I pull the door open, hard enough to make it rattle in the frame.

She doesn’t follow. Just lifts her glass, lets it tilt in quiet acknowledgment.

I leave her standing there. The last of my father’s cheap tricks, fading behind me.

The corridor outside is silent. No guards. No torches lit this high up—just glowstone veins running through the black stone, pulsing faintly with residual heat. I walk barefoot, the soles of my feet slapping softly against the warm floor.

The Ember Hall looms ahead, double doors sealed but never locked. I shove them open without ceremony. He’s not there. But someone is.

She turns from the far wall slowly, her robe trailing along the stone as she moves.

My mother.

Twilight-blue silk, long sleeves, tea cooling on the table beside her. Her hair’s plaited in the old Solenn way, simple and crownless. She looks older tonight. Not weak. Just worn thin in the places no one sees unless they know where to look.

I stop halfway across the room.

“I expected him.”

She nods. “He left.”

I glance at the chair beside her, then choose to stand. She waits, giving me space I don’t deserve and still get anyway.

“You’ve made a decision,” she says, not asking.

I nod once.

Her gaze drops to the clasp of my cloak. Her mouth softens.

“I thought so.”

I pace. Not fast. Just enough to keep the heat from building again.

“He sent someone,” I say. “To my room.”

Her eyebrows lift, but she doesn’t look surprised.

“Did you expect anything less?”

“No,” I admit. “But I thought he’d at least wait for me to fail before offering consolation.”

She smiles. Small. Not amused. Resigned.

“You’re not the first son to be tested that way. And you won’t be the last.” She sits, rests both hands around the still-warm teacup. “But you might be the first who didn’t take the comfort.”

“I wasn’t tempted.”

“I know.”

She studies me for a long moment. “Do you remember when she used to visit? Freya.”

I blink. “I remember.”

Her smile lifts, real this time. “You never knew what to do with her.”

“She was loud. Fierce.”

“She was a wildfire,” she says, almost fond. “And you were already trying to become a sword.”