The road they followed now was one rarely walked.
No village nearby. No caravans, no merchants. Only silence, pressing in like snow.
The trees had grown tall and bare. Their bones reached skyward in a frozen stretch, and the wind that weaved through them carried a chill sharp enough to draw tears.
Frido walked ahead, slower than usual, his footsteps careful. He had changed since the pillar had revealed his name. Mirea saw it in the way he glanced at things he once ignored—the way he listened not just to words, but to silences between them.
He was hearing the world in a new way.
And Mirea feared what it meant.
---
The Silent Mile
They traveled nearly a mile without speaking.
Teren, ever attuned to tension, finally broke the hush with a tired sigh. "This is the part of the land that forgets names," he said. "Old soldiers came through here once. None came back."
Frido looked up. "How do you know?"
Teren shrugged. "My grandfather was one of them. Only survivor. He said it was the quiet that drove men mad—not swords."
"Then why didn't he go mad?" Mirea asked softly.
Teren's expression darkened. "He did."
The silence that followed wasn't natural. It was the kind that people built when they didn't want to know the answers.
---
Campfire of No Comfort
That night, the three of them set camp near a shallow stream that gurgled faintly in the dark.
Frido offered to gather wood. Mirea followed after him a few minutes later, using the excuse of helping. But in truth, she couldn't be alone with her thoughts anymore.
She found him by a broken tree, gathering thin branches.
"Are you… alright?" she asked.
Frido paused. Then gave a small smile. "I don't know."
Mirea knelt beside him. "The stone—it glowed again at the pillar. I saw it."
He nodded. "It's like… it's trying to remember me. But I don't know why I was forgotten."
She hesitated. "Do you ever think… maybe forgetting was the only way to protect you?"
Frido turned to her, puzzled.
But she looked away. "Never mind."
He reached out, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder.
"Mirea. You've been quiet since the tree. Since the pillar. Are you afraid of what I am becoming?"
She almost said yes.
Not because he was dangerous.
But because he was slipping further into something inevitable.
And she couldn't stop it.
Instead, she said, "I'm not afraid. I'm just not ready."
---
The Lantern Bearer's Tale
Later that night, as they sat by the fire with their makeshift stew, Teren told a story.
"Back when I was a child," he began, "there was a man in our village who carried a lantern. Always. Even during the day. Said it helped him see things others didn't."
"What did he see?" Frido asked.
Teren took a deep sip from his bowl. "Regret. He said he could see it hanging off people's backs like smoke."
Mirea looked up, eyes wide.
"He said those with the most regret often didn't even know it. They just walked a little slower. Looked a little longer at empty chairs."
Frido stirred the fire quietly. "What happened to him?"
"One day he stopped carrying the lantern," Teren said. "Said he didn't need it anymore."
"Why?" Mirea asked.
"Because," Teren said, setting his bowl down, "he finally saw the regret on his own shoulders."
---
A Short Dream
That night, Frido dreamt he was a child again.
But everything was quiet. No birds. No wind. No parents.
He stood in a meadow of white flowers.
One of them began to speak.
> "You'll give everything," it said.
Frido asked, "Will it be worth it?"
The flower wilted.
> "Only to those who remember."
---
Mirea's Decision
She woke up before dawn, as the sky shifted from black to gray.
Frido still slept. Teren too.
Mirea rose and walked alone to the stream. The chill air stung her skin, but she welcomed it. It kept her from getting lost in memory.
She took out the blank letter again.
Opened it.
Then, finally, she began to write.
> Frido,
You once asked why I never talk about my past. I think… I was waiting for someone who wouldn't use it against me. And maybe I'm still waiting.
But if this letter ever reaches you, then it means I waited too long.
Her hand trembled. She wiped a tear away before it stained the parchment.
> I should have told you when I had the chance. I should have told you that you changed me.
Not because of your kindness. But because of your silence.
She paused.
Then, with a heavy breath, she wrote the words she never said aloud.
> I love you.
---
The Whispering Trail
They resumed their journey after sunrise.
The air felt thicker.
Every step they took led them toward the mountains in the east, where rumors of old battles and darker forces still haunted even the bravest maps.
As they walked, Mirea walked beside Frido instead of behind.
He noticed.
Said nothing.
But when their hands brushed once, she didn't pull away.
He didn't either.
And in that moment, no words were needed.
The silence between them had changed.
No longer heavy.
Now sacred.
---
The Next Mark
They stopped that evening near an ancient poststone—an old marker carved with sigils long faded.
Frido touched it.
The stone flared with light, burning blue.
Another name carved itself into the surface.
This time, it wasn't his.
It was Mirea's.
She stepped back in shock.
The light pulsed. Then vanished.
Frido turned to her, wide-eyed.
"Mirea…"
She opened her mouth.
No words came.
Just breath.
Then, quietly, she whispered:
> "It was always going to be both of us, wasn't it?"
---
End of Chapter 28