Page 190 of She Who Was Severed

Another footstep. Then another.

The Chain brushes against my side—a silent pulse of awareness—and I know: they’re Severed.

They saw the Chain ignite. Watched the battlefield freeze. And they’re still here. Not because I told them to be. Because they’re choosing to be.

I keep moving.

Rain cuts down harder. It slips under my collar, drips into my wounds. My blood runs thinner now—pink, almost clean. I don’t stop to wrap it. I let it mark the ground behind me.

A soldier blocks my path. His grip shakes.

He drops his sword.

Another one doesn’t.

He charges. I meet him head-on. The blade slices across my thigh—shallow, but it bites. I take the pain. Spin. Drive my knee into his gut. He folds. I shove him aside and keep walking.

The Chain coils tighter, that’s all. It lets me fight. Lets me prove I still can.

Behind me, the sound shifts. Footsteps echo across uneven stone, measured and steady. The Severed move as one—unarmored, exposed, marked by old scars and newer decisions. They don’t speak. They don’t raise weapons. But their rhythm matches mine. They’ve made their choice, and it carries weight with every step.

The battlefield tilts forward.

I climb the slope.

Each step pulls something deeper out of me. Muscle shakes. Bones grind. The cut at my shoulder’s opened again. I feel it leaking under the rain. The Chain doesn’t brace me. Doesn’t offer relief.

It lets me carry it.

Ash sticks to the blood at my heel. My teeth clench to hold in the sound crawling up my throat.

He’s ahead.

Kellen.

I feel that empty space inside me, that crack where his presence should’ve been steady. The place in my chest where fire usually sits is hollow. I don’t know if he’s alive. But I know I’ll find him. Or whatever’s left.

The ridge gets steeper. I grip a ruined support beam, drag myself up. Pain burns along my ribs. The Chain tightens with the motion, pressure blooming low in my back, but it doesn’t stop me.

A woman at my side presses a strip of cloth into my hand. She doesn’t speak. I wrap it around my arm and push on.

Rain hits harder now—heavier, sharper. There’s nothing to break it up here. The rooftops are gone. The air’s cleaner and crueler at the same time. Everything stings.

I crest the ridge and the battlefield splits beneath my feet. Smoke drags low, curling through bodies and broken formations. Glyphs pulse faintly in the stone, scorched into place with the kind of heat that lingers in the bones. Ash kicks up with every step. My boots slide through blood and grit. Ahead, fighters charge through fractured lines, their blades flashing, their movements raw with purpose.

Overhead, Kiroth wheels into view. Her wings spread wide. Fire builds in her chest, a slow swell behind the ribs. Then she breathes. A column of flame tears through Kier’s rear guard, clean and final. Shields melt. Soldiers scream. The edge of the army buckles as the dragon cuts through them like the battlefield belongs to her.

I press forward.

Vale waits beside a crumbling arch. Her blade drips. Her jacket’s torn. Her gaze finds me fast.

Then she steps aside.

Kellen’s lying in the dirt.

I run.

My knees slam the ground. Water splashes up past my wrists as I drop beside him. Vale stays close but silent. She knows better than to speak.