The silence after Mirea's name appeared on the stone lasted longer than any spoken explanation could have.
She stood frozen, staring at the poststone as though it had betrayed her.
Frido hadn't looked away. His eyes weren't wide with fear—but with understanding. It was the kind of look someone gives a sky just before it rains.
Teren approached slowly, seeing the residual light still clinging to the stone like an afterimage.
"It's marked her," he muttered. "Just like you."
Frido nodded. "But I don't understand why."
Mirea finally spoke, her voice quiet but firm. "I do."
They turned to her.
She looked up, her eyes shining—not with tears, but clarity.
"Because I chose this path the moment I followed you."
---
Burden of Names
They camped near the stone that night, though none of them slept soundly.
Teren took the first watch, pacing quietly. Mirea sat by the fire, her legs drawn to her chest, eyes fixed on the flames.
Frido sat across from her, his hands wrapped around the familiar, pulsing stone.
"You're angry," he said.
"No," she replied, "I'm afraid."
"Of what?"
She met his eyes.
"Of what I'll have to become if I keep walking beside you."
He didn't respond. But after a long pause, he said, "You don't have to."
Her gaze sharpened. "That's not the point."
He looked down.
"I'm not asking you to follow me," he said.
"I know," she replied. "That's why I am."
---
A Story from Before
Teren shared a tale as the fire cracked lower.
"Before I joined the Crown Guard, I was nothing," he said. "No father. No real name. Just one among the streets."
He pulled something from his coat—a silver pendant, scratched and dented. "This belonged to someone I cared about. She used to say the gods only speak in whispers."
Frido listened closely.
"One day she vanished. Left nothing but this."
Teren turned the pendant in his fingers. "I spent years trying to hear those whispers. But they don't come easy. You have to be quiet enough to deserve them."
He looked at Frido.
"You, kid… you've been listening your whole life. You just didn't know what for."
---
Dreamfire
That night, Frido dreamt again—but this dream was different.
He stood in a ruined temple.
All around him, names blazed in fire. Not written—spoken. But not aloud. Just… known.
He walked past a broken altar, and there, standing in the light, was a woman with ash-colored hair.
She was weeping.
"Mirea?"
But the woman turned and said, "No. I am what remains when names are forgotten."
He reached for her, but she vanished like smoke.
And then, from behind him, another voice echoed.
"When two carry the same burden, only one will finish the road."
Frido woke with a cry in his throat.
---
The Waking
Mirea rushed to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.
His breath was shallow. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cold.
"I saw her," he whispered. "But not you. Not yet."
She helped him sit upright. "Frido… whatever this path is becoming, we don't have to fear it."
He met her gaze, searching for doubt.
Found none.
Just grief wrapped in courage.
Teren stirred from his corner, watching silently.
"We have to move at dawn," he said, rising. "The mist's getting thicker. Something's following."
---
Shifting Ground
They walked through the rising mist, now aware that their journey had changed.
The terrain grew more uneven, littered with roots like bones pushing through the soil.
At midday, they came upon a fork in the trail. One path led upward—toward the crags and ridgelines that promised storms. The other sloped into a narrow forest valley, swallowed in shadow.
No sign. No direction.
Just choice.
Frido turned to Teren.
But Teren pointed to Mirea.
"She's marked too. She gets a voice now."
Mirea studied both paths. Then looked to Frido.
He didn't speak.
She closed her eyes and let her hand fall toward the valley path.
"The shadow knows us already," she said. "We should return the favor."
---
The Valley of Hollow Songs
The forest was eerily still. The deeper they went, the more the air carried a sound—not quite music, not quite whisper.
A humming.
Frido paused. "Do you hear that?"
Mirea nodded. "It's like a lullaby."
Teren grunted. "It's a trap."
But they kept walking.
Soon, they came upon stone figures—dozens of them—shaped like people kneeling with heads bowed.
Mirea knelt beside one. Its features had eroded, but its hands still clutched a stone flute.
"They were singers," she whispered. "They tried to silence war with music."
Frido touched the flute gently. "Did it work?"
Mirea looked around.
"No."
---
The Song She Didn't Know She Knew
That night, beside one of the statues, Mirea played again.
Her flute, soft and trembling, carried the weight of silence long held.
Frido listened, head bowed. Not because he was tired, but because the melody demanded reverence.
Even Teren seemed stiller than usual.
When she finished, Frido opened his mouth—then closed it.
But Mirea turned to him and said:
"I wrote that for you."
He blinked.
"I just didn't know it until now."
---
Names Shared, Paths Merged
In the early morning, before the sun broke the ridge, Frido stood watching the statue of the flutist.
Mirea joined him, wrapping her cloak tighter.
"I think we're not supposed to survive this," she said.
Frido didn't flinch. "I know."
"But I still want to walk it with you."
He looked at her.
"Even if it ends with silence?"
She nodded.
"Especially then."
They didn't kiss.
They didn't embrace.
But their silence said more than either would ever admit.
The road ahead was still long.
And they would walk it side by side.
---
End of Chapter 29