Frido remembered the road to Lorne's Hill not by the way it bent, but by the way it sang.
Even when war had chased color from the trees and worn stone smooth from soldier boots, that hill hummed. Not with words, but with something older: a rhythm that pulsed through roots and clouds and breath. It was the kind of music you only heard when walking alone, without fear or destination.
He was not alone today.
Beside him walked Teren, silent as always when the air got this quiet.
And ahead—by the edge of the path where the grass turned silver with dew—stood a girl in a faded violet cloak.
She held a wooden flute in one hand and a hawk feather in the other.
She didn't look up.
But she knew they were there.
---
The Sound That Drew Them
They had heard her playing long before they saw her—just a soft string of notes floating through the fog, neither hopeful nor mournful. Just present.
Alive.
Teren had slowed his stride. "That song," he said quietly, "was played at my brother's funeral."
Frido hadn't said anything.
Because he knew it too.
That melody was from his village—used in harvests, in weddings, and in the quiet moments after the storm. His mother had hummed it in the kitchen, brushing flour off her sleeves.
But the girl—no, the woman—in the violet cloak played it like she was bleeding it.
---
The Meeting
She looked up at last.
And Frido forgot how to speak.
Her eyes were dark, but not empty. They were full of quiet flame, like someone who had waited far too long to say something but still chose silence.
He recognized her before he knew her name.
"Frido," she said. Not as a greeting. As a fact.
"You remember me?"
Mirea smiled faintly, brushing a strand of wind-blown hair behind her ear.
"Not as much as I should have," she said. "But more than you might expect."
---
Childhood, Recalled
They had met once, years ago, under very different skies. Her village had hosted his father's during a summer grain exchange. She had been a quiet girl then, drawing maps in the dirt while others played.
He had thrown a stick into her drawing by accident.
She had not yelled.
She had simply drawn the river again.
"You were always loud," she said now, with a slight smile. "Even when silent."
Frido's ears burned. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything."
---
The Letter That Was Never Sent
Mirea had been writing letters since the war began. Letters never sent. Letters with no address.
All to Frido.
She had heard his name in whispers—"the boy who stood before soldiers and didn't flinch," "the fool who told a captain peace was stronger than swords." Some cursed him for it. Others wore his legend like a lucky charm.
But she remembered him as the boy who apologized to ants after stepping on their hill.
---
Why She Waited
"I thought I'd find you before the world did," she said.
"And now that you have?"
"I don't know."
They sat beneath the old oak of Lorne's Hill, the one that bore the names of lost sons carved into its trunk.
Frido touched a recent name.
Mirea watched him and said nothing.
It was the best thing she could have said.
---
Teren's Watchful Silence
Teren stayed back, watching the wind roll across the valley. He didn't intrude.
Later, he would say: "That girl. She knows how to carry silence the way you do, Frido."
But for now, he gave them space.
Space to remember, and forget, and maybe rebuild.
---
A Small Fire in the Dark
As night fell, they lit a small fire. Mirea took out a worn leather pouch filled with dried leaves and steeped them into tea. The scent reminded Frido of home—whatever that meant now.
She passed him a cup.
And he asked, "Why me?"
Her answer came slowly, like rain filling a dry well.
"Because you chose to stand when others knelt. You chose kindness when you had no reason. And even though you're stupid, you're brave. Brave in a way that terrifies me."
He blinked. "You think I'm stupid?"
She nodded. "Dangerously."
And for the first time in what felt like years, Frido laughed.
---
Regret, Held Like a Secret
That night, while Frido slept beneath the stars, Mirea watched the flame burn low.
She almost spoke the words out loud.
"I love you."
But the words caught in her throat like birds not yet strong enough to fly.
So she just whispered:
"Please don't die."
And hoped the stars could hear.
---
Morning and March
At dawn, she joined them.
No questions asked.
Teren offered her a nod.
Frido offered her his silence.
And Mirea offered the world her steps.
The three of them began walking toward the valley the mapmaker had warned them of. The place where peace had once lived—and might still be buried beneath the ruins.
As they walked, Frido reached into his pouch and touched the stone Ada had given him.
And Mirea, behind him, hummed a tune so soft even the birds paused to listen.
It was the song of peace.
A song no war could silence forever.
---
[End of Chapter 15]