Page 2 of She Who Was Severed
I move. Slowly. Not because I’m afraid, but because I want them to watch me do it without flinching. The crowd murmurs behind their veils. My boots crunch over the path, every step precise. I’m wearing my father’s bonding sash. It cuts into the side of my neck where it’s been hastily refitted for a daughter instead of a son. The silk itches. The red dye is already fading, but I kept it anyway. He was bonded Stonecalled before he fell in the mines. The sash is the only thing they ever gave back.
I reach the altar and it rises like a challenge—Selvarran moonstone carved with prayers I no longer believe in, wrapped with offerings of bloodfruit and carved feathers, ringed with the same illusion-light they say was a gift from the first phoenix.
This is my home. Selvarra. Land of illusions and forgetting. And they still couldn’t pretend I belonged.
It’s meant to make you feel chosen before the beast even arrives. All I feel is the heat of eyes on my back and the weight of everything I’ve already lost.
Kellen is standing beside the head priest.
He’s Ravellan. Solenne-born. The Flameborn capital sits half a continent away, but of course they sent someone golden to watch our rites. Ceremony liaison, they said. Tradition. Politics. He shouldn’t be here. Not in Virelle. Not today.
He’s in full Flameborn regalia—draped in the red-gold sigils of Ravelle, his collar lined with ash-stained dragonhide, the faint glow of his firebond pulsing beneath his skin like he swallowed a sun and forgot to exhale. He’s taller than I remember. Sharper, somehow. And watching me with a look I can’t name. Not pity. Not interest. Something worse.
We used to talk about our Bondings. Years ago.
We were both prodigies once. The girl with the perfect stillness. The boy with fire in his throat. Always paired for rites, called up together at every festival like we were already chosen. I used to think it meant something—that we were being shaped for the same storm. Turns out I was just standing too close to the sun when it started to rise.
Back when he still looked at me like I was someone who could survive a storm. Back when I believed him. Now he just watches. And I hate how much I want him to look away.
I don’t let myself pause. Not for him. Not for anything.
“Step forward,” the priest says, voice wrapped in silk and disinterest.
I do. I place my hand on the altar. Palm flat. Chin high.
I wait.
The Bonding is not supposed to take long. If you’re worthy, the beast reaches through the veil almost instantly. You feel it before you see it. A pull. A heat. A sound that doesn’t come from outside you but from within. I’ve watched it happen a dozen times. I’ve memorized the signs. The trembling. The glow. The scream. The silence.
None of it comes.
I feel the stone.
Just the stone.
Cold. Pitted. Real in the wrong way.
But for half a breath, the altar wasn’t cold. It pulsed. Just once. Like it exhaled something into my palm and changed its mind. I tell myself it didn’t. Just nerves. Just shame. Just a trick my body played to make the silence hurt less.
Seconds pass. Then minutes. I keep my hand there, because I don’t know what to do if I move it.
A rustle behind me. Whispers. A nervous cough from someone in the priesthood.
The head priest shifts. Not in concern—just impatience. My presence is delaying the ceremony. I’m supposed to shine or shatter, not drag it out. Eventually, he speaks.
“Next.”
That’s it. No explanation. No comfort. No verdict. Just a dismissal.
Something breaks under my ribs, but I don’t let it show. I remove my hand. I turn. I do not bow.
The other girls are watching. Some with pity. Some with relief that it wasn’t them. Some with wide, empty eyes that haven’t learned how to look away from ruin yet.
And Kellen—he’s stepped forward. Just slightly. His fingers twitch like he might reach for me. He doesn’t.
“You don’t have to—” he starts, but I slice the air between us with one word.
“Don’t.” My voice isn’t loud. It’s not even angry. It’s just final. And that’s worse. He hears it. He backs off.
