Page 20 of She Who Was Severed

The last rise falls away beneath my boots, a slope of root-choked soil and brittle stone that spills into the kind of hollow even the wind hesitates to cross. Trees lean too close here, like they’ve grown used to guarding secrets. Virelle is a memory behind me—its gold-tipped spires too far to judge and too proud to look back. No temple bells reach this far. No beast calls. Just the dry hush of dead leaves and a silence that waits.

I step down slowly, testing the earth. No trail marks. No polished stones. No sign of anyone who belongs. Which makes it exactly the place I need.

The glade unfolds at the base, dappled in shadow and old light. One boulder, half-swallowed by moss, juts near the streambed. I brush the surface with my sleeve and sit. It groans faintly beneath me, as if annoyed by the weight.

I draw the manual out. Its edges catch on the threads of my cloak. Still rough. Still wrong. It feels heavier today—not because of mass, but meaning.

It isn’t meant to be beautiful. It’s meant to survive the fire.

The first page opens without resistance. The ink smells faintly of ash and dried blood. I don’t know if it’s imagination or memory, but I breathe it in anyway. I need to.

Breathwork Protocol One. Link Stabilization. A figure, genderless and hunched, sits cross-legged with hands cupped near the stomach. Four motion lines rise from the chest, but only three reach the edge. The fourth ends jagged—unfinished or deliberately cut.

Inhale four. Anchor high. Exhale six. Let the pulse find you.

Simple, except it’s not.

I shut my eyes. Focus. My first breath catches, sharp through my nose. The exhale stutters too short. Useless. I try again. Slower. The third breath finds a shape that almost fits.

That’s when the chain stirs.

A shift—soft, like cloth pulled taut—but no tighter. Not yet. Not a threat. A note struck beneath the skin.

My eyes snap open. My pulse hasn’t calmed, but the chain has. For now.

I turn the page.

The next block is written in a firmer hand: Link One cannot be silenced. It must be harmonized. Suppression triggers feedback.

Under that, Technique A: Rootform Grip. A sketched hand twisted into a posture no prayer would claim. It looks broken. Wrong.

Which means it’s probably right.

I curl my fingers into the shape. It hurts. Not pain. Strain—like asking muscles to speak a language they never learned.

The chain reacts instantly. Not flaring. Resonating. A line of pressure drives up my spine like someone striking metal behind bone. My chest tightens. I gasp, half-choked.

But I don’t drop the form.

The pressure builds. It doesn’t spread. It concentrates. Just under my ribs. Like something preparing to be born or buried. I hold. The grip cramps. Sweat pools under my arms. Still, I hold.

Then it fades.

Steam rises off my palms. Skin red. Not burned. Marked.

The manual flips pages without wind. No breeze. No movement. But the page turns.

Interruption Warning: Do not channel directly. Link Two cannot be stumbled into.

I blink once. My throat is dry.

The next page is worse. A manticore, half-finished and furious, stares back in black strokes. Chains wrap its limbs and spiral from its heart. Not drawn—scratched. The kind of image that gets made in the dark.

A handwritten line in the margin: Link Two: The threshold tests. If it answers, it cannot be unasked.

I close the manual.

Not from fear.