Page 60 of She Who Was Severed

“I don’t know what you are,” I mutter. “But you know me.”

The stone doesn’t glow. Nothing stirs. But the ground under my knees… settles. Just a shift. Like pressure releasing under the surface. I can feel it more than I hear it.

I push up too fast.

My vision sways hard to the left. Hands go cold. I stumble sideways and catch myself on the edge of the tarp, breath coming sharp and shallow.

I don’t remember pulling the fire ring together. But there it is—half-built, rocks too wide apart. I drop the last one and sit. Hard. No grace. Just weight and legs that won’t hold right.

Then the voice lands.

Flat. Dry. Unbothered.

Like she’s been here longer than I have—and just got bored waiting for me to pass out so she could loot my boots.

“You bleed nice and loud,” she says, boots crunching moss. “Would’ve found you even without the glyph.”

- x -

I turn slow. Not fear—calculation. The chain shifts across my back like it’s rolling its weight toward my spine. Not defending. Not attacking. Just… watching her.

She’s standing ten paces out, left boot planted on a moss-covered root, arms folded like she’s judging the view. Leather armor, patched and scorched. Old priest robes hanging like trophies beneath it. One of her knives is visible. The other three are not well hidden.

Her head tilts. “You’re slower than I figured.”

Not a threat. A joke. Maybe.

But her eyes don’t blink. And I don’t look away.

She’s older than me. Calm, not bored. Like she’s sizing up the mess and deciding whether to step in or step over it.

I don’t move right away. I shift back, steady, weight low over my knees. My hand brushes the hilt at my boot. The chain rises an inch up my spine—tight, but not warning. Not yet.

Her hair’s black and uneven, shaved clean on one side and ragged at the ends like it’s been cut with a blade too dull or too fast. Her eyes catch the firelight—hazel-gold, sharp and watchful. Nothing soft in them.

She smiles without warmth. “Was gonna wait until you passed out. But where’s the fun in that?”

I stay quiet. Let her fill the air. It’s something people like her can’t help doing.

The chain hums low—not reactive. Present. Watching her the way it watches memories I haven’t earned.

She takes a step closer, boot sinking just slightly into the wet earth. “Vale,” she says. “Like funeral cloth. Or awkward silence. Take your pick. Full name’s Vale Maraquinn. If you’re the formal type.”

“What do you want?” My voice comes out steady, rough. Not invitation. Not challenge. Just weight.

“Company,” she says, without blinking. “Or conversation. Or maybe a look at whatever ancient chain magic you’re leaking all over the place.”

“Back off.”

Vale tilts her head, amused. “That tone. You Severed types always go flat when you’re trying to keep your insides from showing. It’s charming.”

She flicks her fingers. Something arcs through the air. I catch it without thinking.

Scrap of parchment. Fragile. Burned through one side. I know the script before I even read it—Ashen Chain, but not mine. The pattern’s wrong. The binding sigil is distorted. There’s blood in one corner, dried into the fibers.

My grip tightens. “Where did you get this?”

“Killed a priest who tried to burn it,” she says. “In my defense, he was doing a really crap job.”