Page 46 of She Who Was Severed

“It never is,” I whisper.

Just a promise I’ll feel long after he’s gone.

Then he goes.

No words.

No promises.

Just the soft click of the door as it seals behind him.

I close my eyes.

The cell doesn’t feel smaller. The cuffs don’t fade. The chain doesn’t stir.

But I breathe easier anyway.

I don’t believe in mercy.

But I believe in him.

And right now, that’s enough.

Chapter 6

I stop pretending I know what day it is. There’s no sun down here. No moons. Just a slit of unnatural light outside the bars, constant and low, like the world above forgot this place existed and left one breath of magic behind to rot in its absence. The food doesn’t change. The air doesn’t move. I sleep when I can. I stop counting after the third time I wake up without remembering if I dreamed.

Kellen hasn’t come back. I don’t make excuses for him. That’s not bitterness. That’s survival. He made his move. This part’s mine.

The cuffs never come off. They pulse once every few hours, like a reminder. Not painful—just steady. Enough to make sure I don’t forget who’s in control. But the chain doesn’t fight anymore. That’s what rattles me most. It’s not thrashing. Not pushing. It’s waiting. Testing. I think that’s worse. I think it wants to know what I’ll do without it. So I give it something.

I start pacing. Six steps to the far wall. Five if I stretch. The room’s not quite square. There’s a tilt in the stone under my left foot—old subsidence, maybe. I adjust. Try to use the uneven floor to sharpen my balance. No form, no flare, just pressure. Controlled. Deliberate.

The voice comes back sometime between meals. I only notice because I’ve started eating slower, to measure time by the cooling of broth.

“You’re quieter,” he says.

I sit again, elbows on knees, spine tucked forward like I’m sheltering something beneath my ribs. “You said the Chain stirred before I came.”

“It did.” His voice has that grind again—like it’s being pulled out of stone, not air. “It’s never really quiet. Just learns to listen better than most.”

I turn that over. The phrasing scratches at something behind my eyes. “It’s not a beast, is it?”

“No. It’s a memory.”

That makes my shoulders tense. “I don’t understand.”

He chuckles—dry and close now, like he’s near the same wall I’m leaning on. “You don’t summon it. You resonate with it. Like a note you’re still learning how to hum.”

“That’s useless.”

“No. That’s dangerous. Big difference.”

My hand curls around the edge of the cot. The cloth Kellen brought is still draped over my shoulders. I haven’t washed it. Haven’t shaken it out. Still smells like fire-wind and iron. Still reminds me I’m not alone, even when I am.

I reach beneath the mattress. The manual’s wrapped where I stashed it. Edges soft from overhandling, corners creased from rereads. I know what page I need. I don’t open it—not fully. The cuffs would catch it. And I’m not in the mood to be punished for curiosity. Not today.

I ease to the floor. Cross-legged. Ankles flexed wide. My back finds the wall again. I plant my palms flat, thumbs slightly lifted. Just like the page instructs. Rootform spiral. A beginner’s alignment technique. Breathwork to find pressure before power. It’s not supposed to do anything extraordinary. It’s just meant to remind the body where it begins and ends. Right now, that’s all I want.