Page 192 of She Who Was Severed

They form a loose ring. No one speaks. No one kneels. They just… wait.

I don’t rise. My knees are stiff. My arm’s still bleeding. The cut’s long, shallow, pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat. I could bind it, but I’d have to let go of him. I’m not doing that yet.

A voice echoes out over the ridge—sharp, close. It breaks the rhythm. People are still fighting. A final clutch of diehards, probably. Trained not to stop until someone orders them to. Or until they can’t move their hands anymore.

It won’t last. The Chain already did what it was meant to do. What’s left is cleanup. Pain. Breath.

Then I hear the scream.

High, thin. Sharp enough to feel in my teeth.

I turn fast. My hand slips from Kellen’s shoulder, my fingers wet and cold.

Eastern side. The flank we thought was closed. It’s not.

A knot of soldiers has broken through. Six. Maybe eight. Moving fast, formation tight. They’re burned. One’s missing half his pauldron. Another’s limping, but their focus is locked forward. They’re charging.

And the girl—the one hiding behind the broken shrine—is already up and running.

Too late.

She’s maybe eleven. Bare arms. Cut cheek. No armor, no weapon. Just a kid trying to stay low and stay small, and now she’s caught in open ground. Her foot catches on rubble and she goes down. Her palms slap stone and her elbows don’t lock in time. She rolls, half-crawls, turns to get up again.

No one’s close enough to reach her.

So I go.

I don’t yell. Don’t wait. Just run.

The ground’s slick, boots dragging in the slurry. My legs scream the second I push off. The gash across my thigh tears wider. The skin at my shoulder splits again.

I keep moving.

Blade’s in my hand before I remember drawing it. The Chain snaps once across my back—not flaring, just bracing.

The nearest soldier closes the distance fast. Sword raised.

I reach them as the first soldier lifts his sword to strike. He sees me just as I hit full stride—adjusts, brings the blade down fast.

Too late.

The edge carves into my forearm, deep and sharp, and for a second my whole right side goes cold. Doesn’t matter. I get inside his stance, twist, and drive my blade up through his ribs. He jerks once and drops.

Another swings wide behind him. I pivot—blade raised, elbow locked, barely deflect the hit. It glances off. My shoulder takes the shock. I stumble, catch myself, drive forward again.

Third comes in slower. Hesitates when I don’t fall. Our blades meet once. Twice. He backs off. I don’t follow.

The fourth breaks formation and runs.

The others stop cold.

They saw enough.

I turn toward the girl. She hasn’t moved. Still curled in the mud, face streaked with rain and grit, arms braced in front of her like shields no one gave her permission to use.

“You’re alright,” I say.

My voice scrapes out low and shredded.