Page 40 of She Who Was Severed

But I don’t.

I stand where I’m meant to stand—outer ring, cloak drawn tight over my shoulders, face cut into something noble. I hold my posture the way I was taught. Chin set. Shoulders squared. No tremor in the breath. Flameborn don’t grieve in public.

We endure.

But my eyes never leave her.

Not when the cuffs light up with Council spell-ink, magic biting blue into her skin. Not when her shoulders tighten from the sting. Not even when the stairwell door swallows her whole and the silence collapses in behind her like a tomb sealing shut.

She’s gone.

And I let them take her.

Kier moves to my side like he’s been there the whole time.

“She’s stronger than I thought,” he says. His tone isn’t cold. It’s worse. Interested.

I keep my gaze on the door. “She’s still just a girl.”

“No,” he says, voice calm as a blade being drawn. “Not anymore.”

I taste blood on the back of my tongue. Not from violence. From restraint. The urge to ignite something—to speak, to act, to burn—is sharp under my ribs. But I swallow it. I’ve already said enough.

“You believed she could be reasoned with,” Kier says, like he’s reciting minutes from a meeting. “Do you still?”

I shouldn’t have to think about it. But I do. That hesitation costs me.

“She’s not a threat,” I lie.

“She’s a symbol,” Kier replies. “That’s worse.”

I glance sideways. Not a challenge. Just enough to read the curve of his mouth. Still. Controlled. Amused, maybe.

“She didn’t ask to become one.”

“Neither did you.”

He leaves me with that.

The chamber empties like it always does—robes whispering, firelight dying, authority slipping back behind masks of diplomacy. The Council’s ceremonial torches burn low and gutter out, casting the marble in long, lifeless gray. No one speaks to me. No one dares.

I wait.

Until I’m sure no one’s watching.

Then I walk.

Fast. Measured. Quiet.

Through the inner halls. Past the mirrored corridor where they like to see themselves reflected in gold. Past the archive where they locked the records they didn’t want read.

My chambers sit high above the western cloister, set apart from the acolyte quarters and the lower council dormitories. Not because I asked for distance. Because they expected it. Ravelle doesn’t send sons like me to mingle. They send us to watch.

The guards posted at the end of the hall straighten when I approach. One opens the door without a word.

Inside, everything is as I left it—quiet, spare, clean. No incense. No illusions. Just a single fire kept low in the brazier and the faint scent of ash worked into the stone from generations of Flameborn who came before me.

I shut the door. Bolt it.