Page 195 of She Who Was Severed

“Saves him the drama when he wakes,” she said. “Let the sun explain it.”

She left before morning hit his face. I haven’t seen her since.

It’s been just us.

I don’t sit much. But I don’t go far, either. I change his dressings. Refill the basin. Pace six steps, limp, turn, repeat. My leg keeps locking up. The pain from the fight’s settled in now. Deep. The kind that doesn’t fade. Just waits.

My knife’s on the stool beside me. Chain’s wrapped loose at my waist, one link still dried with blood. I haven’t cleaned it yet. I’ve been here for hours.

Because if he woke up alone, he might think no one stayed.

He stirs when the light shifts again—just enough to cut across the floor. His breath catches. Then his hand moves. Slow. Deliberate.

I don’t speak. Don’t move.

His eyelids twitch. Then lift. And his eyes find mine like they’d been looking for something to land on.

Everything else drops away.

“Freya,” he croaks.

It hits like an anchor. Like he knew who I was, but had to say it to make sure it was real.

I nod. Can’t get a word past my throat.

He doesn’t ask if I’m real. Doesn’t blink like he’s lost. Just pulls another breath. Stronger this time. Like air finally means something again.

“You’re here.”

I take his hand.

“Told you I would be.”

His fingers shake when they close over mine. Pressure’s weak, but it’s there.

“Did we win?” he asks.

Not with hope. Not fear either. Just trying to take the shape of what’s left.

I let the quiet hold a minute. Then I nod. “We’re alive.”

He lets the breath go like he’d been waiting for someone to say that before he let go of the fight. Doesn’t ask about Kier. Or the Chain. Or who didn’t make it. Just keeps his eyes on me.

Like I’m the one thing he remembers making sense before the world cracked open.

I lean in. Rest my forehead against his. My ribs burn, but I don’t pull back.

We stay like that.

No questions. No plans.

Just breath.

The city’s quiet beyond the stone. But not dead.

Ashmere doesn’t recover all at once. It limps. It rebuilds in patches. We move bodies. Stamp out fires. Count who’s still breathing. Some streets look like tombs. Others like half-set camps. We’ll make something out of it. Or we won’t.

The dragons came down after the last soldier fell.