Page 171 of She Who Was Severed

“Prepare Ashmere.”

Several heads lift at once.

“Double the ridge watch,” I continue. “Post scouts. Keep the inner gate closed.”

No one argues.

“We don’t leave ourselves exposed,” I say. “But we don’t make the mistake of treating survival like suspicion.”

There’s a moment of stillness.

Then motion.

They move.

- x -

The walk to the barricade takes longer than it should. Every street in Ashmere twists the wrong way — like it was laid out by someone trying to confuse a mapmaker. Maybe it was built for defense once, back when it had walls and purpose. But now? Now it’s a shelter. A maze made to hold the people no one else would.

The outer threshold groans as we pry it open. The hinges weren’t made for this much tension. They sound like bone grinding.

Wind hits sideways off the cliffs, dry and full of ash. The rise beyond the barricade swells with motion—not a column, not even a mob. Just a slow-moving spill of bodies. Dirty robes. Torn insignias. Blood soaking sleeves. They’re dragging carts. Some are using stretchers fashioned from doors or banners. There’s no formation. No discipline. Just movement.

Not dozens.

Hundreds. And still coming.

They’ve stripped the Tribunal colors. Some robes are turned inside out. Some burned. The old symbols are scratched through or painted over with ash. They move like people who’ve stopped believing in orders. Like whatever was behind them was worse than anything we might do next.

And then I see her.

At the front. Just behind the crest of the hill.

She’s not one of the ones who spoke loudest. Not a priest with gold cuffs, not a Council voice. But I remember her. Dusk-colored robes. No insignia. The one who pressed something into my hand when no one else would meet my eyes.

She told me about the Ash Tower. Told me where to go.

And now she’s here—bloodied, older, still standing. Still not looking away.

I walk forward. Step by step. The Chain shifts under my skin, like it wants to hear her answer before I ask the question.

She stops just outside the broken threshold. Dirt on her boots. Eyes open. Shoulders squared like someone expecting a sentence, not a welcome.

“Kier is coming,” she says.

Her voice is rough, scraped like it’s been used too hard too many days in a row.

“Faster than your scouts probably think. Two days, maybe less.”

“He’s conscripting the Severed. Burned the ones who refused. Started capturing the unbonded who hesitated. Says what the dragon did—burning the Council—is proof of what the Chain really is.”

I don’t respond. Not yet.

She gestures behind her, and someone hands over a weather-worn satchel. Scrolls. Maps. Ciphered troop estimates. Not fake leverage—real intelligence. Stolen from from Virelle.

“We ran,” she says. “Some fought. Most didn’t. We’re here because of the rumor—the Mother of Chains can protect the unbonded—you want to put an end to the Severing ritual.”

Behind me, Vale exhales like she’s holding a knife behind her tongue. She steps forward, but not too far. She’s not posturing. Just anchoring.