Page 61 of She Who Was Severed

The chain brushes the back of my neck. Not defensive. Something else. Like recognition in slow motion.

Vale doesn’t flinch. Just watches the motion with interest, like she’s checking to see which way the current runs.

“What are you?” I ask.

“Severed,” she says. “Stonebound, originally. Didn’t like where the bond was headed. Cut it loose before it could take anything important.”

She taps her temple, then her gut. “Mind and will, mostly. Kept both.”

I glance at the scarring above her collar—sigil burn, half-healed.

“You’re unregistered.”

“No shit,” she mutters. “Don’t do paperwork. Don’t do collars. Don’t do temples unless they’re burning and there’s something worth stealing.”

“You’re dangerous.”

She grins. “We’re just saying facts now? Great. You’re bleeding. I’m funny. The forest smells like wet dead things. Want to keep going?”

I don’t answer. But the chain shifts across my back. Not warning. Just closer. Like it’s bracing again. Or maybe listening.

Vale steps nearer, slow but sure. She doesn’t draw her weapons. Doesn’t ask. Just stands there in the firelight like she belongs here whether I like it or not.

“I don’t want to fight you,” she says. “Waste of breath. Waste of knives. And honestly? You have nothing I need.” She pauses, tilts her head. “Plus, you look like the kind of person who fights best when she doesn’t have time to think. I respect that.”

“Then, what do you want?”

“Told you. Same road. Ashmere. I have one page. You’ve got the rest. I figured it’d be more fun if we didn’t try to kill each other before sunrise.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll leave,” she says. “Come back. Follow you anyway. Or maybe just take your map and leave you with a nice hole somewhere unhelpful.”

I blink once. “So… what you’re really saying is, you’re bad at asking questions.”

She grins. Sharp. Unapologetic.

“I’m worse at waiting.”

She turns without waiting. Walks past the edge of the firelight. Doesn’t disappear. Just stops—far enough to give space. Close enough to still count as company.

“You coming?” she calls over her shoulder. “Or should I start narrating my own heroic inner monologue until you catch up?”

I don’t move. Not yet. The chain curls tight at the base of my ribs. Not alarm. Not consent. Just… tension. Like it remembers her. Or wants to.

Vale glances back once. “By the way, I talk in my sleep,” she says. “I steal if I’m bored. And I bite if you try to hug me.”

Then, quieter: “But I don’t betray first. Not unless I’m given a reason.”

Chapter 8

The fog in the Wanehold doesn’t roll in like weather. It settles. Thick, low, wet as breath, and just clingy enough to make walking feel like pulling yourself through someone else’s lungs. My boots haven’t been dry in an hour, and I’m pretty sure one of them isn’t entirely attached to the sole anymore. Doesn’t matter. We keep moving.

Vale’s ahead, barely visible. Her coat’s unfastened again, hanging open like we’re out for a casual stroll and not crossing a strip of broken territory where even the wind doesn’t go straight. Her blades are strapped loose on her back, swaying with every step. She hasn’t spoken in miles. She only stops when I do.

Which is now.

She turns slowly, fog curling around her like it doesn’t know whether to leave her alone or apologize.