The forest was behind them, but its silence followed.
Frido could still feel the names carved into the stone tree—not just on his skin, but in his mind. Some had been whispered into the earth with love. Some, with terror. And some with the kind of surrender that only came from accepting you would never be remembered.
That last one was what haunted him most.
They camped on a wind-swept hill that night. No village, no shelter. Just a wide sky above and the crackling of fire that finally agreed to burn.
Mirea sat across from him, watching the flames like they might speak.
Frido glanced at her, then back down at the stone in his palm.
He had been waiting for her to say something.
But she never did.
---
Letters Never Sent
Long after Teren had gone to sleep, Mirea opened a small, folded piece of parchment from her bag. It was old, creased a dozen times, and blank.
She held her pen but didn't write.
Instead, she whispered to the night.
"If I tell you the truth, Frido, you'll change."
She watched him, still seated at the edge of the fire, tracing patterns in the dirt with a stick.
"You'll stop being the fool," she continued softly. "You'll start thinking. Start doubting. And that's when you'll lose what makes you different."
She looked up at the stars.
"I've already lost too much. I can't lose that too."
---
When the World Grew Smaller
The next morning brought fog.
A thick, rolling curtain that made the world small.
They moved through it like ghosts, each only able to see a few steps ahead.
But Mirea stayed close to Frido.
Not for warmth.
For safety—not from the world, but from her own mind.
She kept thinking of the name etched into the tree: Frido.
She had traced it later, when he wasn't looking.
And the moment her fingers touched it, a voice whispered into her heart:
"He won't grow old."
---
Teren's Warning
They stopped near a river to refill water.
Teren crouched beside Mirea and, without looking at her, said, "You care about him."
She froze.
He continued, "It's obvious. But you haven't told him."
She didn't answer.
Teren finally looked up. "You think silence is kindness."
Still, she said nothing.
"I did the same thing once," he said. "With my sister. We fought before she left to join the rebels. I thought I was being strong by letting her go without fixing things."
He stood.
"She died thinking I hated her."
---
The Bridge of Echoes
By midday, they reached a crumbling bridge.
It spanned a black chasm too deep to see the bottom.
No ropes.
Just stone. Old. Fragile.
Teren tested it. "One at a time."
He crossed first. Then Mirea.
Frido stood alone on the other side for a moment, the wind tugging at his cloak.
He looked down.
And in the depths, he heard his own voice whispering back to him.
"I will stop the war."
He looked up—shaken.
The stone he carried pulsed once in warning.
---
The Memory Song
That night, Mirea played her flute for the first time since Stillwater.
The melody was soft.
A lullaby her mother used to sing. One she hadn't remembered until she touched the tree.
Frido listened with wide, gentle eyes.
When she stopped, he said, "That was beautiful. It made me feel like… like everything was safe for a moment."
She nodded.
And almost said it.
Almost told him.
But she didn't.
---
What Frido Can't See
Frido didn't know what he meant to her.
He saw her as clever, talented, kind.
But he didn't see the depth of her silence.
Didn't hear the way her breath caught when he spoke about the future.
Didn't notice the way she memorized the sound of his footsteps when she feared forgetting.
He was too humble.
Too caught in the weight of everyone else's pain to recognize the quiet love beside him.
And she wouldn't force him to see it.
Because in her heart, she believed:
If he saw her… he might stop walking toward his fate.
And she needed him to keep walking.
Even if it meant walking away from her.
---
A Voice from the Past
That night, as they slept under the stars, Frido dreamt again.
He stood in a ruined field.
Soldiers lay scattered.
He was older. His hair grayer. His back bent.
And a child—only ten, maybe less—stood before him and asked:
"Why did you stop the war?"
Frido answered with a voice that didn't sound like his own:
"Because I was the only one left who couldn't stay silent."
The child nodded. "Were you alone?"
Frido said nothing.
But in the dream, the child became Mirea.
Older. Crying.
And he couldn't reach her.
---
Mirea's Promise
The next morning, as Frido walked ahead with Teren, Mirea stayed back for a moment.
She looked at the rising sun and whispered,
"When you're gone, I'll tell them everything."
Then she added, her voice cracking,
"Even if it breaks me."
She folded the blank letter and placed it deep in her pack.
Not yet.
But someday.
When it mattered most.
---
[End of Chapter 18]