Page 180 of She Who Was Severed

The wind cuts harder the lower we fly.

It isn’t the speed—we’ve flown faster. It’s something in the air. Heavy. Laced with heat and pressure, like a storm that hasn’t chosen where to break yet.

I lean into Kiroth’s neck, gloved fingers pressing into the seam where scale meets leather harness. She feels it too. Her wings don’t ripple like they usually do, don’t drift for the pleasure of the wind. She’s silent. Coiled. Focused.

Just like me.

The army comes into view as we clear the ridge.

Rows of soldiers—thousands, maybe more—march across the broken earth toward Ashmere. Spears upright. Shields flashing dull light from the rising sun.

They advance in tight formation, each step falling with practiced weight. Armor gleams under the sun, catching on the ridgelines. The wind carries no sound from their ranks—only the rhythm of movement, deliberate and fixed. Their line stretches far across the rise, shaped for pressure, not speed. A force trained for siege, not pursuit. Every stride claims ground with the confidence of something sent to finish, not to threaten.

Ashmere’s outer ring folds inward. Chimneys burn low. Doors hang loose on cracked hinges. Figures duck between buildings, drawn toward thicker walls and tighter corridors. Somewhere ahead, she’s out there. Holding her ground the way only she does—square-shouldered, chin high, eyes unflinching.

I scan the rooftops. The alleys. The ledges.

She’s not there.

But the Chain inside me shifts—tightens once, like it recognizes something the air hasn’t spoken yet.

I feel her.

The dragon pulses under me, low and deep. Her wings beat faster. I don’t need to tell her why.

I don’t care about the formation below. I don’t care about the numbers, the weapons, the strategy.

Only one thing matters.

She’s not safe.

And I’m not there.

My breath sticks in my chest for a moment, thick and sharp, before I force it down. Control. I was raised on it. Trained in it. Bled for it.

But control doesn’t work when you’re not close enough to stop what’s coming.

I press my hand to the dragon’s flank. She adjusts angle instantly—cutting sharper across the ridge, wind screaming in my ears, cold and slicing against my jaw.

Every second counts.

Every breath I waste, every wingbeat we don’t take at full force is another second where Freya’s alone.

I see her in my head. Not afraid. Never afraid. But standing there in front of them anyway. Speaking, probably. Holding the city together by force of will. By fury.

I know that look. I’ve seen it before.

The day of her Severing—when the world turned its back and she didn’t flinch. When she gave me her path manual like it wasn’t half a death sentence to carry. When she walked into the council chamber with nothing but scars and truth, and somehow made it feel like they were the ones on trial.

She doesn’t need me.

But gods help me, I still have to reach her.

Below, the front lines slow. I don’t know why. I don’t care. All I know is we’re closing the distance.

Kiroth thrums again. Her nostrils flare. Her neck arches. She wants to burn.

Not yet.