The sun bled gold across the frost.
The battle beneath the bell had ended hours ago, but the echoes still hung like smoke in the cold morning. Snow bore stains now — not just red with blood, but dark with memory. Every footprint, every sword scratch, was a story. A choice.
Frido sat once more at the foot of the bell.
His hand was bandaged.
But not by Teren.
Not by Loras.
By the girl with the broken doll.
Her small fingers had wrapped the cloth gently, the way someone mends not just flesh, but something more fragile.
"You didn't even scream," she said.
Frido looked at her. Then reached into his pouch, pulled out the scrap of ribbon Mirea had given him — now stained faintly — and tied it around the doll's tiny neck like a scarf.
The girl smiled. "Now he's brave too."
---
Teren stood nearby, sharpening his blade more out of habit than need.
He glanced at Frido, then muttered, "You keep doing this… making people feel again."
He didn't say it like praise.
He said it like confession.
Because in his own chest, feelings had returned he didn't want.
Fear.
Hope.
Both dangerous things.
And both things Frido had stirred in him.
---
At noon, the wind changed.
Trumpets.
But not from the Eastern army.
From the west.
Mirea's carriage, pulled by gray steeds, burst over the final ridge. Snow flared behind the wheels. Riders flanked her — not guards, but volunteers, healers, monks. People who had left their lives behind to follow the one called The Silent Flame.
When she saw Frido, her breath caught.
He was thinner.
Paler.
But whole.
He stood as the carriage stopped.
Their eyes met.
Neither moved for a long moment.
Then Mirea stepped forward — slowly, like if she rushed, he might vanish.
In her hand was the letter.
She held it out.
He took it gently.
But didn't open it.
Instead, he touched her hand.
And waited.
Because if she had something to say, it would matter more than anything ever written.
Mirea's voice shook.
"I was a coward," she said. "When you left, I thought I'd never forgive myself for not telling you what I should have said the moment we met again."
Frido tilted his head, curious but calm.
She looked up.
Eyes full.
"I love you."
The crowd around them stilled.
But Frido didn't break his vow.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Because he took her hand in both of his, closed his eyes…
…and for the first time in days, the wind stopped.
As if the world itself held its breath.
Mirea cried softly.
"But I know you can't say it. And I'm not asking you to."
She reached up, touched his cheek.
"You've already said it more loudly than any man ever has."
---
Loras watched from a distance.
Beside him stood Queen Yllara, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
"He's shifted the war," she said.
"Shifted?" Loras muttered. "He broke it. Bent it around silence."
Yllara sighed. "And yet… the enemy still prepares. The East waits for our next move. They do not yet know that the battlefield has changed."
Loras nodded.
"And if we wait too long," he added, "they'll bring the war to this hill, and crush everything the boy stood for."
The queen turned to him.
"What would you have me do?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he looked to Frido.
Still silent.
Still standing.
"Maybe it's not what we should do. Maybe it's what we should not do."
---
That night, the stars came early.
And from the east — beyond the reach of bells — a dark mass crept across the ridgelines.
Not soldiers.
Scouts.
Not diplomats.
Killers.
The failed assassination had not broken the will of Frido's enemies.
It had hardened it.
Because now, they saw him not as a boy.
But as a symbol.
And symbols must be burned.
---
Kirin Vane sharpened his blades under a hanging lantern.
His spies had returned. They gave him maps. Positions. Names.
But he already knew the target.
Frido.
And this time, he would not send shadows.
He would come himself.
Because he remembered the boy crying at a ruined farm.
And he remembered choosing not to kill him then.
"I will not make the same mistake twice," he whispered.
---
But as the storm gathered…
So did the crowd.
By morning, there would be hundreds at the bell.
Some carried flowers.
Some weapons.
Some just hope.
All of them watched the mute boy who never fled, never screamed, never gave in.
And beneath the bell, Frido sat beside Mirea.
Still silent.
But never alone again.
---
End of Chapter 49