The sun rose like a blade over Murigar.
Its light sliced through the torn banners of the city, revealing the bruises war had left on the stones. The ruins seemed to hold their breath, as if even they were uncertain whether this would be the day battle began — or ended.
Within the old palace ruins, beneath a vaulted dome that once echoed with songs of kings, the war council gathered.
Twelve men and women, draped in crimson, bronze, and midnight steel. Generals, high lords, battle-seers, and bloodletters. The table they sat at was circular, scorched in places, marked with the burn of old decisions.
Commander Aerthas stood at its head.
And beside him — the boy.
Frido.
No weapon. No banner. No voice.
Only the mark of silence etched into his presence like an invisible halo.
The council murmured.
"Who is he?"
"A monk?"
"A prophet?"
"No. Just a child."
"A fool."
Aerthas raised a hand. "Enough."
The murmurs faded.
"This is Frido. He comes not with rank, nor with sword, but with purpose. He has taken the Vow of Silence, at the Pool of the Sworn."
That silenced them more than Aerthas' command.
Even the old warseer, Lady Rhun, lifted her head from her hood and whispered, "That oath was forbidden after the Sundering."
Frido stood still. The light from above fell on him like judgment.
Aerthas turned to him. "They will not make this easy. But you may speak — in your way."
Frido stepped forward.
He met every pair of eyes. Slowly. Deliberately. Not with defiance, but with the calm of someone who had already let go of the need to be understood.
Then he unrolled a parchment.
On it, he had written only three sentences.
He held it up high.
Teren, standing behind him in the shadows, read it aloud:
"I have no sword, but I've bled.
I have no name, but I've stood where names fall.
I offer you not silence, but peace."
There was quiet.
Then laughter — cold and bitter — erupted from Lord Kaiven, a man whose family crest was a flaming pike. "Pretty words, child. Do you think peace is carved from poetry?"
Frido didn't react.
Lady Rhun spoke next. Her voice was older than war. "And what would you trade for this peace, boy?"
Frido took up the charcoal. He wrote upon the table itself, as dust settled on the wood.
"I have traded my voice. My name. My future."
Kaiven scoffed. "Then you've nothing left to offer."
But Aerthas narrowed his eyes.
"Not true. He has one thing."
He turned to Frido.
"Show them."
Frido nodded.
Slowly, he pulled back the cloth over his shoulder.
There — upon his bare skin — glowed the mark.
It had not been there the day before.
A sigil, burned into him by the Pool itself. The Eye Closed. Beneath it, three lines — symbols ancient, known only to those who had studied the First Tongue.
Lady Rhun stood. "That is… the Sigil of Yielding."
Her voice trembled. "It has not been seen since the First Silence."
Gasps echoed through the room.
The Sigil of Yielding was not a blessing. It was a burden. A pact that bound the bearer to silence — not just of voice, but of violence. Those who bore it could never draw blood again, even in self-defense. But in exchange, the land itself would answer them. The wind would carry their will. The earth would know them. Animals would not fear them. The broken-hearted would feel them.
Frido stood, a boy bound by oath, marked by a force older than any throne.
Lady Rhun bowed her head.
Others remained uncertain.
Kaiven sneered. "So we are to be ruled by children and symbols? By ghosts and guilt?"
Frido stepped forward — closer to the table.
He picked up a red apple from the bowl of offerings on the war table.
Then, slowly, he crushed it in his hand.
Juice dripped. Fragments fell to the stone.
Then he raised the fragments high — not as threat, but as symbol.
And he wrote again:
"This is the cost of every word spoken in hatred.
Every call to arms.
Every child turned soldier."
Teren's voice broke as he read it aloud.
"Every time we speak of honor while digging graves, this is the fruit."
Lady Rhun placed her hands on the table.
"I would hear no more."
She turned to the others. "I vote to stay the war. Let us hear the boy's path."
A younger commander stood. "And if the other kingdoms do not respond?"
Frido wrote again.
"Let me walk to them."
Kaiven laughed bitterly. "You will die before you reach the border."
Frido looked at him.
Then did something no one expected.
He stepped around the table — walked up to Kaiven.
And knelt.
Lowered his head.
Completely vulnerable.
The room froze.
The message was clear: I trust even you, my enemy, not to strike me. Because I refuse to raise my hand first.
Kaiven said nothing.
He looked at the boy.
And for one long breath, he saw his own son — dead in a war born of pride.
His fingers tightened.
Then relaxed.
He stepped back.
"This is madness," he said.
But he did not strike.
Aerthas watched it all, unreadable.
Then, finally, he rose.
"This council was called to decide the fate of ten thousand men, and the path of four kingdoms."
He looked at Frido.
"One boy has said more with silence than we ever could with swords."
He turned to the others.
"I say we let him walk. Let him carry our message to the East. If he fails, we have not lost more than time. If he succeeds… perhaps there is still something left to save."
The council voted.
Seven to five.
The motion passed.
---
Outside the ruins, the city's people gathered.
They saw no trumpets.
No banners.
Only a boy, wrapped in a worn cloak, setting out alone.
At his back, Teren stood silently.
Mirea approached Frido.
She pressed something into his hand.
A ribbon. Once her mother's. Now hers.
"For luck," she whispered. "And for memory."
Frido looked into her eyes.
He kissed her hand.
Then turned eastward.
And walked.
Into the lands of flame and fury.
Alone.
But not without purpose.
---
In the sky above, a single hawk circled once, then flew ahead of him — a silent herald.
The thunder of silence had begun.
---
End of Chapter 42