The deeper they walked, the fewer trees remained. The forest turned skeletal—twisted trunks like broken instruments, as if the valley itself had once tried to sing and failed.
The humming had faded.
Now there was only quiet.
Too quiet.
Even the wind held its breath.
Frido tightened the grip on his stone. Mirea walked beside him, eyes scanning every path. Teren stayed a few steps behind, sword sheathed, but his fingers never left the hilt.
They came upon a clearing.
In its center stood a figure—tall, robed, unmoving.
Not stone.
Not flesh.
Something else entirely.
"Do not speak," Mirea whispered. "I've heard stories of this."
---
The God Without Voice
The figure had no face.
Just smooth skin where eyes, nose, and mouth should be. Its robes were covered in symbols Frido didn't recognize—circles woven into spirals, spirals into eyes, eyes into mouths.
But none could speak.
A low vibration pulsed from the earth beneath their feet.
Frido stepped forward.
The ground rippled.
"Mirea—" Teren hissed. "Stop him."
But Mirea didn't.
Frido was already walking toward the figure, drawn not by curiosity, but something else:
Recognition.
He raised the stone in his hand.
And the figure raised its own.
An identical one.
---
The Choice of Silence
Suddenly, Frido's vision blurred.
He wasn't in the clearing anymore.
He was standing in a hall made of mirrors. Each showed a different version of himself—older, broken, cruel, gentle, dead.
In one, he wore a crown.
In another, he lay among bodies.
In the third, he walked beside Mirea—but she was the one leading.
"Every silence has a consequence," a voice echoed—not heard, but felt.
"You may not speak the future. But you can choose whose silence it becomes."
The mirrors shattered.
And he was back.
---
Mirea's Cry
Frido stumbled, falling to his knees.
The faceless figure remained still.
Mirea ran to him. "Frido!"
He looked at her with dazed eyes.
"I saw… myself. But not me. All the versions of what I could become."
Teren stood over him. "We need to go. This place isn't for the living."
But Mirea didn't move. Her hand was over Frido's chest. She could feel it—the faint echo of something inside him… changing.
"Frido," she said. "Did you see me?"
He nodded, but his voice cracked.
"You were always the same."
---
The Long Echo
They left the clearing in silence, the faceless god never moving, never turning.
But as they stepped past its edge, the humming returned.
Only now, it was different.
It carried no notes, no melody.
Just sorrow.
Teren looked back. "That thing… was never meant to be worshipped."
Frido walked without answering.
Mirea stayed close, her flute clutched tight in both hands.
"I think I understand now," she whispered. "Why the singers turned to stone."
Frido glanced at her.
"They gave up their songs," she said. "But never their purpose."
---
Nightfall of the Names
That evening, they found shelter in the remains of a sunken shrine.
The walls were covered in writing—names carved by shaking hands, layered over each other like a final plea to be remembered.
Frido lit a lantern and traced the edge of the wall with his fingers.
One name jumped out at him.
It was his.
Again.
But older.
Weathered.
Written deeper than the others.
He turned to Mirea.
"Someone wrote my name here. Long ago."
She approached. "Or… maybe you haven't written it yet."
---
Teren's Reflection
While the others rested, Teren stayed outside, staring into the dark trees.
He thought of the girl with the silver pendant.
Of the things he hadn't said.
Of how he'd tried to protect Frido, but found himself pulled into something larger.
"If this boy is who I think he is," he murmured, "then none of us are walking out untouched."
He looked at the blade on his hip.
And for the first time, it felt heavy with regret.
---
The Song of the Dying Tree
Before sleep, Mirea played her flute again.
The notes trembled—not because she was cold, but because something inside her was breaking.
Frido sat beside her.
"You don't have to play," he said.
"I do," she replied. "Because if I don't… I'll start speaking. And if I speak—"
He looked at her gently. "You think I'll walk away."
She didn't answer.
Just played.
But Frido, quietly, whispered four words into the space between notes:
"I heard you, Mirea."
She stopped playing.
Tears filled her eyes.
But she smiled.
---
Tomorrow's Storm
The wind shifted in the early morning hours.
Teren sat up.
"Something's coming."
The trees whispered. The fog twisted into spirals. Distant hooves echoed across the valley—many. Too many.
Frido opened his eyes.
And without hesitation, said:
"They're hunting the stone."
Mirea looked at the stone in his palm, now pulsing faster than ever.
Teren unsheathed his blade.
"Then let them come."
Frido stood, the first light of dawn hitting his face.
"No," he said.
"We go to them."
---
End of Chapter 30