They reached the Ridge of Sighs at dusk.
The map had no name for it, but the wind did. It wept through the jagged crags, like breath lost in sorrow. The ground here was red, not from blood—but from iron, rusting in the earth itself.
They followed the slope downward until the rocks gave way to a flat basin where something stood:
A house.
Or what used to be one.
No roof. No doors. Just four standing corners of white stone—walls that didn't meet, and no rooms between them.
But in the center, there was a table.
And on the table: bread, untouched. A flask of clean water. And a single feather, dark blue.
Teren stepped forward and muttered, "A Skywatcher shrine…"
Frido asked, "Is it safe?"
Teren looked back, his face unreadable. "If your heart is clear, yes."
They stepped inside.
---
What the Wind Remembers
That night, they slept inside the House with No Walls.
Frido couldn't. He lay on his back, staring up at a sky that blinked with ancient stars. Mirea lay beside him—though not close. She kept her eyes closed and her breathing even, but she wasn't asleep either.
The place had an energy. Not magic, but memory.
Frido whispered, "Do you believe in fate?"
Mirea opened her eyes.
"I believe in choices," she said. "And I believe most people are too afraid to make them."
He nodded slowly. "Do you think I'm making the wrong one?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then softly, she said, "I think… if it were wrong, it wouldn't feel this right to you."
He looked at her—and for a second, she thought he'd ask her something more. Something dangerous.
But he didn't.
Instead, he reached for the feather and tucked it into his pack.
---
The Broken Circle
In the morning, they were not alone.
A woman stood outside the House.
Old. Eyes closed. Skin like leather. Her robes shimmered faintly with blue thread, and her necklace held seven stones shaped like teardrops.
Teren stiffened.
"A Skywatcher priestess," he said under his breath.
Frido stepped forward. "We didn't know this was—"
"You were meant to come," she said, opening her eyes.
They were white.
Blind. Or something else.
"You carry the stone," she said to Frido.
"I do."
She nodded. "You carry silence too."
He said nothing.
She stepped closer, then reached up—and without asking, placed a hand over his chest.
"You're beginning to fracture," she whispered. "The world is asking too much of you."
Mirea stepped forward. "He's strong enough."
The old woman turned to her, smiling faintly. "You're louder in your silence than he is."
Mirea didn't reply.
The woman looked between them.
"You love him."
Still, Mirea was silent.
"Good," the woman said. "He'll need that love soon, whether he knows it or not."
Then she turned to Teren.
"And you… still carry guilt."
Teren looked away.
The priestess backed up a step.
"When the time comes, remember: even a broken circle can be made whole again."
Then she vanished.
No flash. No light.
Just… gone.
---
The Mark of the Veil
That night, Mirea awoke to find Frido standing just beyond the stone walls, staring out into the dark.
She joined him.
He didn't speak.
He held the stone in one hand, the feather in the other.
"I dreamed of a war that wasn't mine," he said. "A future one. I was there. But no one remembered why they fought."
She swallowed. "You were the only one who remembered?"
He shook his head.
"No. I had forgotten too. All I remembered was you."
Her breath caught.
"I called your name," he continued. "But you didn't answer."
Mirea's voice trembled. "I'm right here."
He turned.
And for a heartbeat, the look in his eyes was something more than the usual quiet.
It was longing.
But then it was gone.
"I should rest," he said softly.
And he walked back inside.
Mirea stood alone under the stars, cursing the stone, the feather, the silence, and the world that demanded he walk away from her.
---
Ghosts of the Unseen
Three days later, they crossed into the outer shadow of Keldran's Mouth—a canyon where many scouts had vanished, and no birds ever flew.
The air was different here. Thinner. As if the earth itself held its breath.
Teren's voice was tight. "No fires tonight."
Frido asked, "Are we being watched?"
"Yes," Teren replied. "But not by anything living."
They camped in a hollow, close together.
That night, the dreams were not Frido's alone.
Mirea dreamed of a funeral without a body.
Of herself, older, speaking Frido's name before a crowd that didn't understand it.
And Teren dreamed of fire—and his sister, walking away from him, her back full of arrows he hadn't seen.
Frido dreamed of silence.
Not peace—just silence.
The kind that came after the last voice had died.
He woke with tears in his eyes.
---
The Bridge That Waits
At dawn, they came to the Whisper Span—a bridge of black glass stretching over the Mouth of Keldran. Legend said it wasn't built, but born.
As they stepped onto it, the wind carried back their own words, moments after they spoke them.
Frido whispered, "I will stop the war."
The wind whispered back, "You will become the war."
Mirea whispered nothing.
And the wind still spoke.
"You love him."
Teren said, "We should move quickly."
But Frido didn't move.
He stared into the black chasm below—and saw not his reflection, but a thousand versions of himself. Each one making a different choice.
One turned back.
One jumped.
One walked forward with Mirea's hand in his.
One walked alone.
And only one—just one—stood at the edge and waited.
Not moving. Not deciding.
Just waiting.
Frido stepped back.
Mirea caught him.
And for a moment, in that unstable breath between decisions, she wanted to scream, Stay.
But she didn't.
She held him steady.
And let him keep walking.
---
[End of Chapter 20]