Page 193 of She Who Was Severed

I drop into a crouch beside her. The blade lowers, but I don’t sheath it. She watches the blood still dripping from my arm—my sleeve torn wide open now, red running over mud.

She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t ask why.

I reach out. Not fast.

My hand brushes her cheek—light, steady, careful.

“You’re safe now.”

Skin to skin.

She doesn’t look away.

That’s it.

I turn.

The others haven’t moved.

I start back up the ridge. My arm won’t stop leaking. Each heartbeat pushes more heat down into the sleeve, and the rain doesn’t help. It stings now. Every drop finds raw skin.

The girl stays behind me. I don’t look back.

The soldiers that remain don’t charge. They hold formation, then shift back, uncertain. They saw what happened. They understand enough.

When I reach the ridge again, Kellen’s where I left him. Vale’s crouched nearby, watching. She hasn’t moved to help. Doesn’t need to. She saw it, too.

I lower myself beside him. My knees hit the ground hard. Too fast. I grit my teeth through the pain and press my palm back to his shoulder. Still breathing. Barely.

The rain soaks us both. His hair sticks to his cheek. There’s mud along his jawline now, streaked with blood. He doesn’t stir, but his breathing hasn’t stopped.

That’s the only thing that matters.

People shift around me. I feel them draw tighter—slow, quiet. It’s not a crowd. It’s a presence. They’re watching like they’ve been holding their breath since I stood up.

Some of them are still bleeding. One has a dislocated arm, wrapped in torn cloth. Another’s missing three fingers. No one sits down. No one asks anything.

They just wait.

A voice breaks the silence. Male, rough-edged. Might’ve been a priest once, or a thief. Maybe both.

“What now?”

It’s not a challenge. It’s not reverent either. Just tired.

The Chain doesn’t flare. Doesn’t lift. It stays low, settled around my ribs like it’s waiting to hear what I say before it decides what to do next.

I answer without thinking.

“We hold.”

The words come out flat. My throat burns from smoke. My chest aches with every breath.

“We rebuild.”

I don’t look at any of them directly. I’m not giving a speech. I’m naming what’s next.

“We don’t ask permission.”