Page 30 of She Who Was Severed

Something in me stretches.

The chain hums.

And I feel it—like a knock on the inside of my ribs.

Not a voice.

Not yet.

But an intent.

The second link is close.

I don’t know if I’m ready.

But I will be.

I have to be.

- x -

I don’t hear him at first.

I’m too focused on the manual spread across my knees, the quiet pulse of the chain under my skin, and the gnawing ache in my gut that makes it impossible to concentrate. The sun’s dying outside the Ash Tower—long streaks of rust-orange filtering through the shattered arch, catching on the dust in the air like it’s trying to make something beautiful out of the ruin.

I shift against the stone wall. My spine protests. My stomach growls loud enough to echo. I glare at the page.

“Technique One: Rootform Grip,” I mutter. “Anchor at the collarbone. Exhale to engage.”

It’s supposed to feel like grounding. Right now, it just feels like starvation.

The chain stirs lightly beneath the cloth wrap. Not flaring. Just reminding me it’s there. Like it knows I’m trying to be patient. Like it finds that funny.

The manual rests warm in my lap. It always is—never cold, never neutral. It hums faintly if I hold still long enough, like a heartbeat syncing to mine. I run my fingers along the etched diagrams. Spirals. Hooks. Symbols that don’t belong to any Path I had ever heard of.

And then—I smell it.

Smoke. Bread. Meat.

My head jerks up.

Kellen stands in the doorway, one hand braced against the half-burnt frame, the other holding a wrapped bundle. His hair’s loose again. His shoulders are dusted with ash, like he walked through the ghost of a fire to get here.

I blink.

He lifts the bundle slightly. “I brought food. Don’t throw anything.”

I don’t move. The growl in my stomach does.

He steps inside slowly, careful not to look too long at the manual, or the place, or me. Just enough attention to feel present. Not enough to scare me off.

“You look like you haven’t eaten in two days,” he says.

“Three,” I mutter.

He crouches a few feet away. Sets the food between us. Then sits. Not close. Not far. Like he’s letting me decide.

I reach for the bundle without thinking. Warm. Heavy. Gods, it smells good. I unwrap the cloth—flatbread, thick slices of roast fruit, something that might be spiced venison or might be temple mystery meat. I don’t care. I devour it like it offended me.