Page 96 of She Who Was Severed

They don’t pause. Glyphs bloom in their palms, blades primed. Coordination sharp. Fast.

But they’re not faster than me now.

I move. The second charges. I drop low and step into him, not around. He expects resistance—sword-to-blade, ward-to-ward. I give him my hand.

The Chain wraps from rib to elbow and drives into his chest through the heel of my palm. Not a strike. A sentence. He crumples. Spine gone slack.

The third tries to flank.

He gets close enough to think he might succeed.

The Chain flicks once—off my hip, through the air—and catches his wrist mid-swing. It yanks sideways, dragging his blade off-course and his weight with it. The snap isn’t loud. Just final.

He hits the ground holding a wrist that’s no longer holding anything.

I step past him.

Not out of pity.

He’s done.

The last one hesitates. I see it in his stance. In the way his weapon lowers just enough to be noticed. Enough for the Chain to notice.

It uncoils from my spine with deliberate speed. Silver light, no heat, threading along my arms. I don’t aim. I just let it go.

I blur forward. No sound but breath. Then weight.

He falls. Doesn’t get back up.

I look down and realize I’ve stepped on something soft.

Paper.

I lift my boot. The scroll lies crushed beneath it. Edges torn, seal dirtied but intact.

I pick it up with shaking fingers.

My fingers always shake after using the chain.

The words are clear.

“This order confirms the retrieval and containment of Freya Thorne, by authority of the Torvannen heir…”

I know his signature.

He signed it.

Not a mistake.

Not a proxy.

He did this.

The Chain hums once behind my ribs. Quiet. Like it’s reading it too.

I fold the page. Put it in my coat. Not out of sentiment.

Because I’m not done deciding what to do with it.