The map had warned them.
A faded note at the edge of its corner:
"Do not linger in Halver's Hollow. It remembers."
But the storm forced their hand.
By midday, the skies above Keldran's Mouth split wide, raining jagged streaks of lightning and wind sharp enough to strip bark from trees. The trail was lost beneath their feet, and the path ahead turned to mud.
Teren found the archway hidden beneath a ridge of stone—half-swallowed by moss and shadow. The entrance yawned like a wound carved into the mountainside, choked with creeping ivy and memories too old for men.
"This is Halver's Hollow," he said grimly.
Mirea felt it before she saw it.
A pressure.
Like a thousand unseen eyes watching from nowhere.
Frido said nothing, but his hand reached instinctively for the stone in his pouch. It pulsed. Faint. Cold.
They entered.
---
Echoes Beneath the Stone
The Hollow was not natural.
Not quite ruin, not quite cave—its walls curved like the inside of a forgotten temple. Carvings stretched across the stone: spirals, open eyes, and symbols none of them could read. But each step deeper made the air heavier, like memory pressed against their lungs.
Teren lit a torch. The light flickered oddly. Shadows twisted too fast, stretching toward them.
"Let's not speak," he said.
Frido nodded.
But Mirea whispered anyway.
"Why does it feel like the stones are breathing?"
Frido looked at her. "Maybe they are."
They continued until they reached a circular chamber.
At the center, a single chair carved of bone-white marble. And etched above it, written in the Old Tongue:
"To speak is to awaken. To remember is to be judged."
Frido stepped toward it.
Teren's voice was sharp. "Don't."
But Frido knelt.
And placed the stone on the chair.
---
The Trial of Silence
The chamber went dark.
Not black.
Gone.
Even the torchlight vanished.
Frido opened his eyes—but the world had been stripped away. He stood alone, barefoot, in a space made of nothing but mist and voices.
Familiar voices.
His mother's. His father's. Children he'd played with. Elders who had shouted warnings. Soldiers he'd never met.
And then:
His own voice.
Speaking the words he hadn't yet said.
"You're going to die."
"You'll never be enough."
"She loves you, but you're too blind to see it."
"She'll weep for you. You'll never hear it."
Frido clutched his ears—but the voices came from within.
And then came the final voice.
Not cruel.
Gentle. Male. Like a god grown tired.
> "Do you still wish to carry the silence, even if it breaks you?"
Frido whispered, "Yes."
The world returned.
---
She Waited
Outside the circle, only a breath had passed.
But to Mirea, it felt like an hour.
She had gripped her cloak so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Her heart thundered—not out of fear for ghosts or shadows.
But fear for him.
When Frido opened his eyes and stood slowly, his face was changed.
Older. Not by age—but by weight.
He looked at her.
"I saw things," he said.
"What kind of things?"
"The kind you don't speak of."
She wanted to hold him.
But she didn't.
---
The Inscription's Warning
Teren studied the carvings as they prepared to leave the Hollow. He read the words in silence, then turned to Frido.
"There's a second line," he said. "I missed it before."
He cleared his throat, then spoke the rough translation:
"Only those without self survive the burden."
Frido stared at the inscription.
Mirea stepped beside him. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Teren said, "you have to let go of who you are if you want to carry what the world needs."
Mirea looked at Frido, alarmed.
But he only nodded.
---
The Words She Couldn't Swallow
That night, they camped far from the Hollow.
The fire flickered, the storm now a distant whisper on the horizon.
Frido sat alone, polishing the stone. Its once-smooth surface now bore the faint outline of a handprint—his own, burned into the material.
Mirea sat beside him.
"I don't like this place," she said. "This whole journey is starting to feel... wrong."
He glanced at her. "You think I should stop?"
"No."
"Then what?"
She hesitated.
"You don't have to do it alone," she finally whispered.
"I'm not alone."
"Yes, you are," she said, her voice cracking. "You just don't know it yet."
He looked at her.
And for a second—just a second—he reached for her hand.
But stopped.
Let it hover.
Then dropped it back to his lap.
She turned her face away and cursed herself.
---
In Her Dreams, He Stayed
That night, Mirea dreamed a dream she'd never had before.
She and Frido stood at the edge of a quiet lake, barefoot, their reflections soft in the water.
He was older—but alive.
And he was holding her hand.
They said nothing.
And in the dream, that silence was everything she ever wanted.
Then the lake rippled.
And he turned into mist.
And she woke up sobbing into her cloak.
---
The Stranger Who Waited
As dawn painted the sky, they packed their things.
Teren scouted ahead.
Frido took the lead.
Mirea tied her boots with shaking fingers.
And from the distant ridge behind them, a cloaked figure watched—face hidden, holding a staff carved with the spiral sigil of the old world.
He whispered into the wind:
"The boy walks the path. The girl bleeds behind him. And soon, the truth will ask its price."
The wind carried the words forward.
But none of them heard it.
Yet.
---
[End of Chapter 21]