Page 36 of She Who Was Severed

Kellen’s voice behind me is quiet. Rough. “You’re up early.”

He sits slowly, eyes still heavy with sleep. His shirt’s halfway twisted, and there’s a smear of soot along his jaw where he must’ve rubbed it last night. He doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t ask questions.

“You’re leaving?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No. Not yet.”

He nods, slow. Like he knows there’s more I’m not saying. I turn and hold up the cloth-wrapped manual.

“I need you to take this.”

Kellen’s gaze sharpens. He shifts onto his knees. “Freya…”

“Don’t argue.” My grip tightens. “If they—if I don’t come back—I need it out of reach. I need this out of reach.”

There’s a pause. He stands. Steps forward barefoot, slow like I might vanish if he gets too close. His voice stays low, but it’s not calm. Not anymore.

“They’re not going to kill you.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No,” I say, quieter now. “You really can’t.”

The silence stretches. Not awkward. Not cold. Just heavy with everything we haven’t said since the chain took root.

He reaches out—slowly, deliberately—and I let him take it.

The weight in his hands seems to register all at once. His fingers flex around it. Not tightly. Just enough to tell me he knows what this means.

I watch him cross to his cloak and wrap it again—layer over layer, reinforced like it’s something sacred. He tucks it into his satchel. Fastens it. Not once looking at me.

“You trust me with this?” he asks, back still turned.

“No.” I pause. “But I trust you more than I trust anyone else.”

When he turns, I see it in his eyes. Not pride. Not fear. Just awareness. That this—this right here—is the closest I’ve come to a goodbye.

We don’t speak for a while. The tower creaks above us. Wind hums low through a broken windowpane. Somewhere below, the floor groans under its own memory.

Kellen’s voice comes from a place I don’t see.

“You know I’d burn the whole damn Council down before I let them kill you.”

I believe him.

And maybe that’s the part that scares me most.

Because if he fights for me—and still fails—

It won’t feel like strangers who let me die.

It’ll feel like him.

And I know that isn’t fair.

But fear isn’t fair.