Page 21 of She Who Was Severed

From restraint.

I press it against my chest. My fingers ache. My breath is ragged.

But I need more.

I open again. Just one page.

Technique C. No title. No image. Just this:

When the pulse climbs, do not deny it. Breathe. Ground with pressure. Mark with intent. Speak nothing.

It’s a warning pretending to be instruction. Or maybe both.

The chain shifts again. Not like before. This time, the movement is slower—rhythmic. Like a second heartbeat trying to find mine.

I drop to the dirt. Hands braced to the cold soil. The forest stares back with no sound. My breath catches rhythm.

Inhale. Anchor.

Exhale.

The pulse rises with it.

Something flares beneath my left hand. Not light. Not heat. Pressure, deep and exact, like being pressed back into shape from the inside out.

My skin itches. My bones want to move. I grit my jaw and hold.

Then—nothing.

No burst. No vision.

But there’s a presence. Behind me. Just over my left shoulder. Not heavy. But undeniable.

I don’t move.

It watches.

Then it doesn’t.

That’s when the twig snaps.

I roll to my feet before thought. Manual under my arm. Wrist hidden.

A priest stands in the trees, ten paces out. His robes are stained. Not gold-lined. Not ceremonial. Just fabric that’s been used too long without care.

He stares.

His eyes drop to my wrist.

And then his beast slides into being beside him—a panther with translucent wings that don’t flap, just shimmer. Smoke and compound eyes. It watches.

I wait. He waits longer.

Then, without a word, he turns and walks away. Beast dissolving with him.

He saw.

He’ll report.