Page 185 of She Who Was Severed

But I don’t get the chance.

Because Vale is about to die.

She’s pinned at the edge of the western wall—two soldiers closing in fast. Her blades are out, but her left arm’s hanging wrong. Dislocated, maybe worse. She’s smiling—of course she’s smiling—but there’s blood on her teeth and no good way out.

I drop without a thought.

The dragon folds hard. We descend too fast. I brace my knees, hand to harness, breath locked.

The timing is stupid. Reckless.

I do it anyway.

We hit low, scraping the edge of a broken archway. My shoulder tears sideways in the harness. The dragon flares her wings just in time to slow us, but not enough. I slide free mid-air and hit the cobblestones like a thrown weapon—rolled, not broken, but it’s close.

I see Vale’s eyes flick up just as one soldier swings.

I don’t call flame.

I am flame.

It erupts from my chest like a command too old for words. Not wide. Not wild. A blade of heat that cuts clean between Vale and her attacker. The soldier screams—drops his weapon, arm scorched and useless.

The other one charges. I intercept.

Steel meets my shoulder before I can deflect. The edge bites deep.

Pain doesn’t register. Not yet.

I drop him anyway.

Vale curses behind me. “He was mine.”

“You’re welcome,” I mutter.

Then I fall.

Not from impact. From blood loss. From momentum. From trying to be faster than the world again and losing.

My legs give. My knees hit stone.

The dragon lands hard behind me—rattled but whole.

I press one palm to the ground. Keep myself upright by force of will. “Burn them.” I say, and she launches with a roar in her throat.

Then I look up.

Freya is collapsing.

Not in pain. In transformation.

Her hands curl against the dirt. The Chain wraps her chest, her spine, her ribs. Sigils burn under her skin like memory made visible.

She doesn’t cry out.

She just breaks.

And the world lets her.