Page 62 of She Who Was Severed

“Oh, this’ll be good,” she says, arms folding. “Let me guess. You’re dying. Again.”

“I need to train,” I say.

“No. You need sleep. Food. A different obsession that doesn’t kill you every third breath.” She jerks her chin at the fog. “Also, we’re in the Wanehold. In case you forgot. The cursed bit of map that screams ‘not here’ for every dumbass who wants to light up their magic and die loudly.”

I drop my pack anyway. “Five minutes.”

“That’s what you said before the last time you passed out and tried to bite me when I woke you up.”

“I don’t remember that.”

She smirks. “Exactly.”

I lower myself to the ground. The soil’s cold and uneven and laced with sharp stone. It stings through my knees, but that’s the point. No distractions. No lies. Just pressure.

I brace. Rootform Spiral. Knees wide. Spine stacked. Palms grounded. The Chain has been quiet most of the day—just a low hum along the ribs—but it stirs now. Like it recognizes the posture before I finish settling into it. My breath catches once, then resets.

I start with the basics. Cycle One. First breath—simple. In through the nose, hold it at the top of my chest, let it fall low. Nothing dramatic. Just getting my rhythm.

Cycle Two. Second breath—tighter. I pull it deeper this time, locking my core, feeling the pressure shift higher.

Then I go for Cycle Seven.

This isn’t in the Path Manual. There’s no diagram, no priest whispering the correct breath into my ear. I built it myself—out of bruised ribs, blackout drills, and one too many close calls where the Chain almost ate me alive. It’s brutal. Full-body pressure, breath compressed so low it starts to shake my spine.

I don’t do this to show off.

I’m doing it because the Chain’s gone quiet—and that terrifies me more than anything Virelle’s council might send after me.

They’ll hunt me. I already know that. You don’t escape a city like Virelle with a banned path carved into your chest and expect forgiveness. They won’t let me live, not if I stay weak. Not if the Chain keeps acting on instinct instead of purpose.

The manual says Link Two changes that. It’s the shift—when the Chain starts reading the world instead of reacting to it. When it stops waiting for fear and starts responding to intent. I could sense lies. Feel what people mean before they say it. Maybe even stop second-guessing every breath I take when it hums against my ribs.

But it also says something else. Quiet, almost buried.

If I don’t keep moving forward, the Chain might leave me behind. Not abandon me. Just… stop pulling me back when I start to slip.

That’s what this is. Not a breakthrough. A warning shot. Because if I don’t get this right—if I don’t earn its attention now—

I don’t just lose power.

I lose the only part of me that’s still fighting to survive.

The first few rounds go smoothly. I’m in control. Until the third breath. That one drags.

By the fourth, I slip. Just a tiny mistake—my hand curls too tight, too soon. I lose the hold.

And the Chain answers.

It doesn’t lash. Doesn’t strike. It coils—tight and slow, like it’s winding itself around my ribs, waiting to see what I’ll do next.

Like it knows I messed up—and it wants to see how badly.

Pressure slams into my chest—not external. Internal. Like breath trying to escape the wrong way. My wrists burn. My balance breaks. I fall sideways, shoulder slamming into rock, mouth full of dirt and moss that tastes like mold and old blood.

There’s a flicker behind my eyes. Not memory. Not mine, anyway.

A hallway. Carved stone. Someone else’s voice speaking a word I almost understand.