The city of Dorthvale was nothing like the villages Frido had passed.
Its walls rose sharp and angular, cut from gray stone that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Towers punctured the skyline, each topped not with banners but with quills carved from iron, pointing skyward like spears aimed at heaven.
This was not a city of war. It was a city of words.
The gates opened not to horns or guards in armor, but to rows of clerks, scribes, and officials holding scrolls. They whispered to one another in quick, clipped tones, ink-stained fingers twitching as though each gesture might become part of a transcript.
Frido walked at the front of the small procession, his cloak brushing the dust.
Beside him, Mirea clutched her satchel, her knuckles pale from holding too tight. Behind them, Loras's armor creaked with every cautious step, while Queen Yllara walked with head high, crown gleaming like defiance.
The people of Dorthvale did not cheer.
They did not throw flowers.
They only watched.
Some curious.
Some doubtful.
Some afraid.
---
The Square of Echoes
The procession was led into a massive square, paved with black stone. The locals called it the Square of Echoes, for every word spoken within its bounds was carried and magnified by the acoustics of the surrounding walls. A place designed not for armies, but for speeches.
At the center stood the Hall of Judgment, a monolithic building of marble, its facade carved with countless inscriptions of law. From a distance it looked like scripture; up close, the words overlapped, tangled, and contradicted each other. No one living could read them all. Perhaps no one was meant to.
Two enormous doors, engraved with chains and scales, opened with a groan that shook the air.
A herald stepped forward.
His voice rang sharp through the square:
"By order of the High Tribunal of the Eastern Accord, the one known as Frido, son of no house, bearer of no crest, is called to stand trial for disruption of state peace, unlawful gathering, and the violation of sanctioned silence."
The words fell heavy.
Not because of their meaning—half the crowd didn't even understand the last charge—
but because they were recorded.
Dozens of scribes hunched over slates, already carving Frido's name into history.
---
Entering the Hall
Inside, the hall stretched like a cathedral, but its altars were desks, its priests were judges, and its hymn was the scratching of quills.
Three figures sat at the far dais: the Triarchs, robed in black, faces half-covered by thin masks of silver. Their titles were carved above them:
– Justice of the Word
– Justice of the Crown
– Justice of the Silence
The last seat, "Silence," was empty.
Only a single folded cloak rested there.
Mirea's breath hitched at the sight.
"They mean to decide what silence is," she whispered. "Without ever holding it."
Frido's gaze lingered. His eyes did not waver.
---
The First Movements
The Justice of the Word, a tall woman with eyes like knives, raised her hand.
"This proceeding is convened. The charges are threefold. The first: that you have disrupted the balance of peace by drawing masses to your person without sanction. The second: that you have gathered armed men and women in defiance of sovereign borders. And the third…"
Her voice paused, sharpened.
"…that you have spoken without words, in ways not permitted under the Codes of Accord. You have practiced unsanctioned silence."
A murmur ran through the audience.
The phrase was foreign to them, yet the tribunal spoke it as if it had always existed.
Mirea clenched her fists. "They invented the law because of you."
Frido lowered his eyes briefly.
Then raised them again, steady.
---
The Accusation
The Justice of the Crown spoke next, his voice heavy as stone.
"You do not speak. Yet nations tremble. Armies falter. Bells ring that should remain still. What you have done is more dangerous than rebellion—it is persuasion without words, allegiance without oath. Such power must be accounted for."
He gestured to the scribes.
"Record it thus: The silence of one boy threatens the voices of kingdoms."
Frido raised his hand.
The chamber stilled.
He stepped forward, knelt on the polished stone floor, and drew with his finger.
Not words.
A circle.
Inside it, he marked a small flame.
---
The Triarchs leaned forward.
The Justice of the Word scoffed. "A child's drawing? You come before the tribunal and answer with symbols?"
But the Justice of the Crown frowned. "What does it mean?"
Before Frido could respond, Mirea rose from her seat.
Her voice trembled, but she forced strength into it.
"It means that silence is not emptiness. It is a vessel. It holds memory. It holds fire. You call it rebellion—he calls it remembrance."
A ripple of voices echoed through the chamber.
The Justice of the Word struck her staff against the dais. "You will not interpret for him!"
But Frido shook his head at Mirea.
Not in rejection.
In reassurance.
He traced another mark.
A line breaking the circle—yet the flame still burned within.
---
The Witnesses
The tribunal called witnesses.
First, a merchant who had traveled from Trillien. He testified that since Frido's bell had rung, trade caravans refused to carry weapons. "Profit bleeds when soldiers won't buy steel," he complained. "Your silence costs us gold."
Second, a farmer from the border. His voice cracked as he said, "My son threw down his spear after seeing him. Said he couldn't kill another man. He left his post. Now our village stands unguarded."
Third, a soldier. One of Kirin Vane's deserters. His testimony was different.
"I was ordered to burn them alive. But when the boy looked at me—without a word—I remembered who I was before I held a sword. I left because I was free for the first time in years. If that is treason, then I accept it."
The chamber split. Half the crowd muttered curses. Half nodded in solemn agreement.
---
The Turning
At last, the Justice of Silence's empty chair stirred.
A figure entered from the side hall.
Kirin Vane.
Gasps rang out.
His face was calm, unreadable. He wore neither cloak nor weapon, only plain robes. But his presence alone bent the room like a storm pressing against windows.
He sat in the empty chair.
The Triarchs did not object.
The Justice of the Word announced: "The tribunal recognizes Kirin Vane, once High Commander of the Temple Guard, as Voice of Silence."
Mirea's heart sank.
"They gave him the seat."
---
Kirin's Words
Kirin studied Frido for a long moment.
"When I wore the cloak of silence," he said slowly, "I learned it is heavier than iron. It does not lift men—it buries them. I carried that weight until I realized silence can be sharpened. It can cut deeper than any sword. I turned it into a weapon. And now this boy…"
He gestured at Frido.
"…has turned it into a crown."
Gasps.
"He kneels, and nations bend. He breathes, and men disobey kings. He is no innocent. He is more dangerous than I ever was—because he does not even know his own power."
The Triarchs nodded gravely.
The Justice of the Word declared, "Let the record show: silence is not absence, but influence. And influence without sanction is heresy."
---
Frido's Answer
All eyes turned to him.
Frido rose.
Slowly, he stepped into the center of the hall. His footsteps echoed like drums.
He did not bow.
He did not tremble.
He reached into his cloak and drew out the cracked mask he had once placed in the snow before Kirin.
Gasps again filled the hall.
He laid it gently on the tribunal floor.
Then he raised his hands and traced words in the air, so large the crowd could see:
"I carry what you dropped.
I remember what you forgot.
Silence is not yours to own."
The hall erupted in shouts.
The Triarchs slammed their staffs.
Kirin's eyes flared, but deep within, a flicker of something—recognition, pain, even fear—passed across his face.
---
The Verdict Stalled
The tribunal withdrew for counsel, leaving the hall in restless noise.
Mirea hurried to Frido's side. She grabbed his hands.
"They won't forgive this. They'll call it blasphemy."
Frido smiled faintly.
And wrote on her palm:
"Then let them write it.
Paper burns.
Fire remains."
---
Closing Scene
Outside, snow began to fall over Dorthvale.
Children in the square caught flakes on their tongues, laughing—unaware of the storm raging inside the hall.
But high above, in a balcony shadow, a scribe whispered to another:
"The boy's silence carries further than our quills."
And for the first time, even in this city of ink and law, someone wondered if silence might outlast every word ever written.
---
End of Chapter 56