Page 41 of She Who Was Severed

Then I unwrap the manual she gave me.

The cloth peels back slow, catching on the corners like the thing inside doesn’t want to be seen. The cover is plain—old, weather-warped, untouched by path sigils or flame inlay. Just the word etched across it in Oldscript:

Ashen Chain.

I don’t open it.

Not yet.

I just look.

Because this—this is what she handed me when she could’ve run. When she should’ve run. This is what she trusted me with, even after everything I failed to say.

Even after everything I didn’t stop.

And now she’s underground, behind magic-forged gates, surrounded by priests who would rather watch her disappear than admit what she survived.

I press my palm flat against the cover. No heat. No reaction.

But the weight of it settles through my bones like the start of a storm.

She gave this to me without asking for anything back.

Not a promise. Not a fight.

Just one silent truth placed into my hands.

I won’t waste it.

I won’t let them write her out of this city like she was never here.

And if I have to burn the Council’s lies down to do it—

So be it.

- x -

Freya

They don’t tell me how long I’ll be kept down here.

No warning. No sentence. No rules of engagement. Just the click of suppression cuffs locking around my wrists and the priest’s blank expression as he gestures for the guards to move me.

They don’t touch me, not directly. But they guide me like they’ve done this before—slow, impersonal, precise. Two in front, two behind. Boots echo against the stone as we descend into the temple’s understructure, the steps narrowing the deeper we go. There are no torches. Just coldlight threaded into the walls in thin lines that pulse once when we pass. Some old Veilmarked design. Unseen. Unnamed.

When we cross under an arch engraved in unfamiliar sigils, the air changes. Tighter. Dryer. Like breath that’s already been used.

I feel the chain recoil—then go silent. A deadweight down my spine.

The cuffs don’t just suppress it. They suffocate it.

The hallway narrows further until the guards don’t have to walk around me anymore. They can just stop. Turn. Slide the cell door open with a groan of metal softened by enchantment. I step inside.

The door shuts. No ceremony. Just the sound of finality.

No one speaks.

The cell’s barely larger than a prayer alcove. Walls stained with moisture. Floor uneven. A cot bolted to the stone with legs corroded from old blood or something worse. A bowl of steaming gray sits in the corner. I don’t check if it’s food.