Page 197 of She Who Was Severed

We know what that means.

No one says it out loud.

When I step back into the tower, the light’s sharper. Orange-gold, stretched long across the floor. The air smells like stone, bandages, and blood that’s dried.

Kellen’s awake.

Not fully upright. Not moving much. But present.

His head turns when he hears me. His eyes catch mine.

I cross to the cot. Sit without a word. One hand braced against the edge.

He exhales. Shoulders loosen. Like he’d been holding something tight under the surface and that pressure finally let go.

“You came back,” he says.

“I never left.”

His hand finds mine. Shaky. Slow. But it holds.

“You’re bleeding,” he murmurs.

I glance down. Small tear near the wrist. Reopened sometime earlier—maybe when I pushed through the outer door. The blood’s dry now. Not dangerous. Just there.

“It’s nothing.”

He doesn’t argue. Just keeps our hands locked like it might stop something else from unraveling.

We sit there. Still. Breathing.

Then he says, “I remember fire.”

I nod. “It followed you.”

“I remember you shouting.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” he says. “Not out loud.”

It lands heavier than I expect. Like he heard something I didn’t mean to send. Like part of me cracked and poured straight into him without permission.

“I couldn’t find you,” he says, quiet now.

“I found you.”

His eyes shut. “Good.”

I reach up. Thumb to his jaw. The scar just under his ear still raised and warm. I lean in. Press my forehead to his.

He breathes in deep.

“If I fall again—” he starts.

“I’ll catch you,” I say.

That’s it. That’s all he needed.