Page 84 of She Who Was Severed

I rise. Wipe the spike clean.

“Thank you,” I say. And I mean it.

Then I break both of his legs.

Not out of rage. Not for the information. That part’s already done.

No, this is preparation. Mercy, in its purest, most clinical form.

The body cannot hold the kind of pain I’m about to introduce. Not without an anchor. Something sharp. Immediate. Localized. A fracture the brain can fixate on—so the rest of it doesn’t collapse under the weight.

One femur. Then the other. Clean. Controlled.

He screams, of course. They always do. But it’s a scream with purpose now. A scream that will ground him while I begin the real work.

Because what comes next doesn’t bleed.

It unravels.

When it’s done, I return to my office.

I always need a drink after work like this. Not to forget. I forget nothing. But blood dulls the palate, and I like to rinse it clean.

The brandy’s waiting. I pour it from the crystal decanter—dark amber, syrup-thick. The smell hits first: dried fruit, charred oak, and that sharp burn that lives just behind the eyes. Old. Expensive. Banned.

Virelle’s laws prohibit anything stronger than wine or ale. But laws, like men, bend if you apply enough heat. Especially when you’re the one writing them.

I settle into the chair behind my desk, glass in hand, and take the first slow swallow. It burns exactly as it should—low, deliberate, clean.

Then I reach for the folder.

The wax is untouched. His seal. His signature. Kellen Tor, first son of House Torvannen, heir apparent to a rotting throne of lies. His pen stroke carries conviction—steady, clean, noble in the way young men still think nobility matters.

He signed the release order without hesitation. Because he thought it was a trick of his own making.

Because he thought love could outmaneuver machinery.

The boy is sincere. It’s always the sincere ones that bleed easiest.

He thought giving us a false location would buy her time. Thought clever hands and desperate hearts could reshape systems that were built to crush them. That’s the tragedy of sons—they still believe their fathers are bound by the same rules they were raised on.

He wanted to protect her. I expected as much. The only variable was his method.

So I asked Ash-Rag.

Once.

Twice.

Then properly.

He screamed less than I predicted. It’s remarkable what collapses when you take the time to listen past a body’s protests.

Now I have everything I need.

I lay the release form across the desk. The ink hasn’t even begun to fade. His signature gleams like a child’s offering—authentic, hopeful, doomed.

I don’t touch it.