Page 25 of She Who Was Severed

Not yet.

As I walk from the ring, heads turn. Not with respect. Not yet. But they’re watching. Trying to figure out what they just saw.

Kellen stands by the far gate.

He doesn’t speak.

But his eyes don’t leave me.

And for once, I don’t look away.

The priests converge again, and this time I know—they mean to take me.

Hands twitch toward cuffs. One lifts a coil of threadburn rope.

I brace.

But Kellen steps in, voice sharper than fire:

“You lay a hand on her and I will ensure that Ravelle starts asking why Virelle skipped due process for a Severed girl they already failed.”

They hesitate. Not because he’s wrong. Because he’s right. Because someone’s watching. Because they always are.

The lead priest lowers his hand. “Then she’ll appear before the Council. One week. At dusk.”

A pause.

“We’ll see if she walks away then.”

I don’t thank Kellen.

But I don’t look away, either.

The crowd begins to scatter.

And for the first time since the chain took hold, I don’t feel spared.

I feel postponed.

- x -

They didn’t kill me. Not yet. But they left their mark in fire and silence—and I’m supposed to be grateful for that.

I sit in the old healing chamber beneath the east transept, tucked between the empty apothecary shelves and the prayer-bed no one uses anymore. A cracked basin sits in the corner, its glaze flaking like old paint. The room smells like bitterroot and faded antiseptic, but at least it’s quiet. No priest-healers came. They don’t treat the Severed. Wouldn’t want to catch whatever I am.

So I bandage my own ribs.

The bruises are blooming deep violet, tracing where Daxira’s flame hit hardest. My knuckles are split. My palm still glows faintly where the chain hummed too loud, too long. I soak a strip of linen in water that smells faintly of iron and dab around the edge of a burn. I don’t flinch. It’s not the pain that bothers me. It’s how easily I let them see I could still bleed.

They didn’t break me.

But they’ve scheduled it.

The chain lies dormant now, curled like a silver-black vine beneath the wrap at my wrist. I haven’t unwrapped it yet. Not since the fight. Not since it flared against Daxira like it knew what she was before I did. It didn’t protect me. It warned her.

The door doesn’t creak when it opens. It exhales. I know the shape in the doorway before he speaks.

Kellen steps inside, eyes darker than I’ve seen them. No ceremonial wrap this time. No Ravellan silks. Just a black shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, his hair loose and damp like he just washed off the fire. He looks at me like he doesn’t know where to begin.