Page 76 of She Who Was Severed

I push off the wall. “I said I’d help you.”

We don’t speak much after that.

The market’s louder now, more bodies packed into fewer spaces. Smoke curls from barrel fires. Deals are murmured in corners or shouted over broken stalls. Every path we follow gets us nowhere fast. One contact’s already dead. Another wants coin we don’t have. A third says he’ll help if Vale agrees to “other terms,” and gets a dagger pressed to his throat for the trouble.

At one point, Vale slipped off toward the stepwell, said she spotted something carved near the base. I stayed in the alley, watching the street. She was gone longer than she should’ve been. When she came back up, soaked to the knees and scowling, she just said, “Old glyph under the waterline. Still warm.” I didn’t ask more. Her hands were shaking.

It’s late by the time someone tells us about the basement. “Old cellar off the northern quarter. You’ll know it by the smell. If he’s seeing anyone, it’ll be there.”

We follow the directions. Half-lit alleys. Cracked signs. Doors with no hinges, only rusted chains and warped wood.

We find it. Eventually.

The place reeks of mildew and dried blood and old fire. Like someone tried to cleanse it and didn’t finish the job. There’s no guard. Just a slanted staircase and a flickering orb nailed into the ceiling like a dying star.

We go down.

At the bottom, there’s a room. Small. Cramped. Lit by one orange lantern guttering on a hook.

A figure stands at the far end, turned away. Robes torn. Hands busy with something on the table—runes, maybe. Burned cloth. His posture is casual. Too casual.

“Are you the one who performs grafts?” Vale calls out.

The figure doesn’t turn right away. Just chuckles—low, warm, maddeningly familiar.

Then he straightens, slow and theatrical, like he’s been waiting for this cue all day.

He turns.

And grins.

“Gods,” Vale mutters.

My jaw drops.

Owen Serevan spreads his arms wide, like we’ve just arrived at his birthday party. “Well, look at that. The prodigals return. And here I was beginning to think I’d have to send an invitation.”

“You?” Vale says, stunned. “You’re the priest?”

He gestures around the cramped space like it’s a palace. “Technically, I’m many things. But yes. The rumors are true. I’m the Severed back-alley miracle-maker. Welcome to my sanctum. Do mind the mold.”

I close my mouth. Open it again. “You knew we’d find you.”

“I hoped,” Owen says brightly. “Though I admit, I thought you’d take longer. That rune in the stepwell was supposed to keep you busy at least another day.”

Vale just stares at him. “I nearly died down there.”

He claps his hands once. “Which means you’re taking this seriously. Excellent.”

“You’re insane.”

“Unquestionably.”

I look around. The table’s a mess of notes, tools, and carved bone. There’s a matchstick tucked behind his ear.

The Chain hums once. Not warning. Recognition.

Owen meets my eyes. “Right,” he says, turning back to the table. “One illegal graft, one cursed path. Who’s first?”