Page 44 of She Who Was Severed

The key turns slowly.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just deliberate metal, teeth against lock, like whoever’s on the other side knows exactly how long they’ve got and refuses to be rushed. I’m already upright by the time the door opens—back straight, hands braced against the edge of the cot, pulse steady by force. I expect another guard. Another bowl of grey heatless food. Maybe a priest with a question that’s not really a question.

It’s Kellen.

He steps in without fanfare. No escort. No ceremonial firelight. Just a shadow-framed figure in a rain-dark cloak, boots tracked with mud and ash. His hair’s wind-tangled, like he moved fast but didn’t want anyone to know. There’s no part of him that looks rested. But he’s here.

And somehow, that still counts.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t wait for permission. He crosses the room in three strides, leans his back against the opposite wall, and slides down until he’s seated beside me on the stone. Elbows on knees. Shoulder brushing mine. Like he’s always been allowed.

Like the chains on my wrists don’t matter.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say.

He doesn’t answer that. Just exhales. A breath full of too many words he’s not letting out yet. When he finally does speak, it’s low. Measured.

“I sent word to my father. Filed a writ with the council. Petitioned for review. Legally. Formally. I signed it in blood if that helps.”

“It doesn’t.”

He huffs something close to a laugh. “Didn’t think it would.”

There’s something wrapped in cloth resting in his hands. It takes me half a second to recognize the shape, but when I do, my throat tightens. He offers it out.

“I brought it back.”

My path manual.

Wrapped just as I gave it to him—edges aligned, cloth still knotted twice, like a tether I didn’t want to fray. He didn’t open it. I can tell by the way the corners haven’t shifted. The way he still holds it like it doesn’t belong to him.

“I said keep it safe,” I murmur.

“And I did,” he says. “But it’s safer with you.”

I take it. Not fast. Not gently. Just… carefully. Our fingers brush in the pass. It shouldn’t mean anything. But it does. Enough to remind me that I’m not just scars and speculation. I’m still flesh. Still here.

I crouch low and slide the bundle beneath the cot—under the cracked mattress, angled into the shadows. Not hidden well. Just well enough that someone would have to want to find it.

Kellen doesn’t offer help. Doesn’t comment.

He watches. Quiet. Intent.

Not like he’s memorizing what I’m doing.

Like he knows it’s not his to interrupt.

I sit again, back where I was. Our knees bump. Neither of us moves.

“You shouldn’t have come,” I say softly.

He shrugs once. “Doesn’t mean I won’t.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“I know.”

The silence between us tightens. Not with tension. With familiarity. Like neither of us trusts it, but neither of us wants to be the first to leave it behind.