The sun didn't rise that day.
It tried—its golden hand reaching past the ridge—but the sky stayed iron-gray, thick with clouds that moved like smoke. Somewhere, the wind whispered like a voice remembering something it shouldn't.
Frido walked in silence.
Not because he had nothing to say, but because every word he might've spoken was heavier than his breath could carry.
They were halfway across the Dune Plains now—an open stretch of golden dust and shattered stone, once a battlefield, now a graveyard of forgotten banners. Bones lay underfoot, invisible but present. Mirea avoided looking down. Teren didn't.
But Frido looked at the sky.
He always did when the earth felt too loud.
---
Ash Beneath the Soil
The plains were supposed to be lifeless, but life, like regret, lingered in the strangest places.
Small shrubs twisted through cracks in the scorched rock. A single bird circled high overhead, the only watcher in a world long emptied of its audience.
As they walked, Frido asked quietly, "Do you think they knew?"
Mirea looked up. "Who?"
"The men who died here. Do you think they knew what they were dying for?"
Teren answered instead. "Some thought they did. Some hoped they didn't."
Frido nodded, and then stopped.
He knelt down, brushing away dust from something half-buried.
A coin. Bent. Burned. And etched with the sigil of the Eastern Command—the very army they now fled from.
He turned it over once, then tucked it into his pocket.
"Someone's last wish," he muttered. "Left in a place no one would remember."
---
The Half-Shelter
By late afternoon, a storm rolled in—not of rain, but of wind and silence.
They found a half-collapsed stone arch to rest beneath. It might once have been a gate to a forgotten village. Now, it was just two leaning columns and a broken lintel, cracked like a spine.
Teren sat sharpening his blade.
Frido sat cross-legged, staring at the coin.
Mirea sat a few feet away, her flute untouched in her pack.
"You never play anymore," Frido said gently.
Mirea's fingers twitched. "I only play when I feel safe."
"Did you feel safe the last time?"
She hesitated. "Yes."
He smiled faintly. "Then that was a gift."
She looked at him then, eyes searching his face. "Frido… why are you really doing this?"
He tilted his head.
"Walking into the war. Carrying… that." She nodded toward the stone still wrapped in cloth at his side. "You say it's to stop things. But it's more than that."
He was quiet.
Then he said, "Because I can't live with myself if I don't."
And she knew that was the truth.
But not the whole of it.
---
A Blade Without a Name
That night, as the fire sputtered low and the wind screamed through the broken stones, Frido had another dream.
He stood in the middle of the battlefield—this very plain, but whole again. Soldiers marched in silence. The sky burned red.
A figure approached him.
Tall. Cloaked in black. Face hidden. Sword in hand.
The sword had no name.
Frido drew his own—though in the dream, it was not his father's blade but a dull, broken dagger.
The figure pointed.
"You carry the stone."
Frido nodded.
"You would sacrifice yourself to stop the war?"
Frido hesitated. "Yes."
"Then why do you hesitate?"
Frido opened his mouth, but no words came.
The figure stepped forward, sword raised.
And behind him, just barely audible, Mirea's voice called out:
> "Not yet."
He woke in a cold sweat, his hand clenched around the coin.
---
The Wounded Rider
The next day brought something different.
A shape on the horizon. Slumped. Moving slowly.
A horse. Riderless—until they got closer and saw the body slung across it.
Teren reached the horse first, bringing it to a stop with a quiet command.
The rider groaned. Alive.
They pulled him down, laid him gently on the ground. His clothes bore the insignia of the Border Scouts—neutral forces meant to observe and report, not fight.
Blood soaked his side.
Frido pressed cloth to the wound. Mirea poured water into his mouth.
The man coughed, then rasped, "They're moving south. Fast. Burning as they go."
"Who?" Teren asked.
"Both sides," the man gasped. "They've lost the middle ground. No more talks. Just fire."
He grabbed Frido's cloak.
"You have to stop it. You… have to…"
He passed out.
Frido stood slowly.
Mirea watched him.
The sky seemed to press lower.
---
A Choice Unspoken
That night, they made camp earlier than usual.
Mirea sat close to the fire, watching Frido again.
"You'll go," she said.
He nodded.
"They'll kill you," she said.
He didn't argue.
"Why does it have to be you?"
He looked at her.
"Because I can still feel the weight of what's right."
She didn't reply.
Instead, she reached into her pack, pulled out the blank parchment.
And this time—finally—she began to write.
Not a letter to him.
A letter about him.
Because she was starting to understand:
> If she couldn't stop him from dying, she could make sure the world remembered why he did.
---
The Unseen Goodbye
Later, as the fire burned low and the stars emerged like shy witnesses, Mirea stood watch.
She looked at Frido, sleeping beside the stone.
Then she whispered, "I love you."
The wind carried it nowhere.
And that, perhaps, was mercy.
Because if he had heard it, he might have turned back.
And she wasn't ready to live in a world where Frido chose her over peace.
Not yet.
Not ever.
---
[End of Chapter 19]