Page 164 of She Who Was Severed

Not for war, not for unity. Certainly not for me.

The chamber sits buried beneath the western cliffs of Ashmere, carved into old stone and memory. Once a council chamber, maybe. Now it’s a war room. Cracked benches rise in tiers along the walls, scorched from old fires. Rusted sconces gutter against the damp, and a slab of collapsed reliquary stone has been dragged into the center to serve as a war table. It still bears a half-engraved name—something sanctified long ago, now blackened and meaningless.

They’re already here when I arrive.

The Ash-Banners gang to the left. Scarred, broad-shouldered, thick-knuckled. They sit like they never stopped guarding something, even if they can’t agree on what. Their eyes flick over me without judgment, without welcome. Just readiness.

The Bone Line gang opposite—their coats are bloodstained and patched with too many repairs. The way they lean back in their seats tells me they want us to think they’re calm. But their hands rest on blade hilts or hidden pockets. Soldiers turned mercenaries. Mercenaries turned survivors.

And at the back, barely illuminated by the low, pulsing glow of the sconces: the Siltborn.

They don’t speak. They don’t move. They’re watching. Like they’ve always been watching.

I don’t say anything when I enter.

Vale walks beside me, silent, loose-limbed, but I can feel the tension in her gait — not fear. Violence on a leash. Her gaze skips across the benches like she’s checking for ghosts. Or debts.

No one stands. No one welcomes.

That’s fine.

“I won’t waste your time,” I say, stepping toward the slab in the center. “We don’t have long.”

No one challenges. That, at least, is different.

I unroll a scroll across the surface of the stone — hand-drawn maps of Ashmere and the surrounding areas, chokepoints, breach lines. They’re smudged from heat, stained with blood in the top corner. No one reaches in. But they do look.

“We’ve had reports that Virelle’s forces are three days out. Two if they push,” I say. “We’re not going to match them blade for blade.”

A grunt from the Ash-Banners. Not disagreement—recognition.

Vale steps to the side, arms folded, hovering near the Bone Line with deliberate carelessness. One of them—tall, narrow-faced, jaw stitched from a healing break—mutters something I don’t catch. Vale does. She tilts her head, just enough.

“Say it louder, Vark,” she says. “So everyone can hear how you begged me for rations last winter.”

It shuts him up.

I press my fingers against the map.

“We’re holding three outer chokepoints. Here, here, and here.” I mark them with broken shards of polished bone. “They’ll come hard on the western front first. The Ash-Banners will lead resistance at that gate.”

The Banner captain—broad, jaw square, head shaved—grunts. “We’ve held worse.”

One of the Bone Line snorts. “Not beside us, you haven’t.”

A chair screeches. The Banner closest to him rises halfway to his feet.

Vale doesn’t blink. She steps between them, palm flat on the table, eyes bright and empty.

“Do it,” she says softly. “I’d love to explain to Kier that you gutted each other before the siege started.”

The silence drags for just a breath too long.

Then the Ash-Banner captain nods, sharp, to his man—a silent sit down. The Bone Line fighter shifts back, arms crossed, scowling into the flame.

I don’t thank them.

“There are three fallback points built into the old smugglers tunnels,” I continue. “One beneath the old forge district, one behind the aquifer vaults, and one leading into the abandoned priest tunnels. Bone Line scouts will rotate through all three.”