The great oak doors of the Tribunal groaned as they opened. Their iron hinges sang like rusted chains, a dirge announcing the weight of centuries of judgments rendered within.
Frido stepped across the threshold first. Not with defiance, not with hesitation. Simply… with presence.
The hall stretched long and cavernous, its vaulted ceiling painted with faded frescos of kings, judges, and faceless angels wielding scrolls instead of swords. At the far end, beneath a canopy of carved black stone, the Tribunal sat in tiers of twelve. They were not dressed as warriors, nor priests. They were clothed in parchment-colored robes, thin as old vellum, faces shadowed by cowls.
Between them and the accused, a long aisle divided by rows of scribes hunched at wooden desks, their quills scratching before a word had even been spoken.
Every gesture. Every silence. Every breath would be recorded, twisted into testimony.
---
The Summons of Names
A herald's voice cut across the hall.
"Frido of the Eastern Bell, peasant-born, accused of unlawful disruption of sanctioned silence, unsanctioned gatherings of armed citizens, and instigation of rebellious hope."
The words echoed. Instigation of hope. To call it rebellion showed how deeply the Tribunal feared it.
"Queen Yllara of Torthen, summoned as witness and potential co-conspirator."
Gasps fluttered from the onlookers. To summon a crowned ruler as though she were a mere attendant—unthinkable. Yet Yllara stood proud, her crown gleaming defiantly.
"Loras of the Steel Order, knight and commander, summoned as witness to armed congregation."
Loras pressed a fist to his heart but remained silent. His very posture was testimony enough.
"And lastly—" the herald paused, as though the final name carried unusual weight— "Mirea, scholar of the archives, accused of supplying forbidden texts, facilitating gatherings, and concealing knowledge from the Tribunal."
Mirea swallowed. Her hands trembled, though she tried to still them against her robes. For a moment, her eyes sought Frido's. He did not look away.
---
The Chamber of Questions
The Tribunal's highest judge raised a thin hand. His fingers looked like sharpened quills.
"The accused will stand."
Frido stood. He did not bow. He did not kneel.
"Do you admit to breaking the accord of silence?"
Frido's lips did not move.
The scribes leaned forward, quills eager.
A second judge hissed. "We require your voice."
Still, Frido said nothing.
Instead, he reached within his cloak, withdrew a piece of charcoal, and wrote on a fragment of parchment he had carried for weeks. Slowly, deliberately, he held it up.
"Silence is not a crime. It is my life."
A ripple moved through the chamber. Some scoffed. Others shifted uncomfortably. The chief judge's mouth thinned.
"You mistake us," the judge said. "It is not your silence that offends. It is the silence you break in others."
The words hung heavy.
"By gathering crowds, by ringing bells, by standing when you should kneel, you awaken voices long kept still. The peace of kingdoms rests upon obedience to silence. Without it, there is chaos."
Frido dipped the charcoal again. He wrote slowly.
"Peace built on chains is not peace. It is waiting for war."
---
The Web of Accusations
The Tribunal turned their gaze to Yllara.
"You—crowned in Torthen by ancient law—stood beside this… man. You gave him protection. Do you confess your role in his seditious influence?"
Yllara lifted her chin. Her voice, sharp as steel, rang across the chamber.
"I stood beside him, yes. Because while you clutched your scrolls, he saved lives with his hands. While you sealed mouths, he fed the hungry. Call it sedition if you dare. I call it sovereignty—the sovereignty of human dignity."
Gasps again. The scribes' quills stuttered, unsure how to transcribe defiance spoken with such fire.
The judges whispered among themselves.
They shifted next to Loras.
"And you, knight—why did you draw your sword for him? Was it loyalty? Or rebellion against your oaths?"
Loras stood straight. His voice was steady, a soldier's tone honed on the field.
"I drew not for rebellion. I drew for honor. If defending the innocent is rebellion, then the fault is yours, not mine."
The Tribunal hissed like a nest of serpents disturbed.
At last, they turned to Mirea.
"And you, archivist. Scholar. Keeper of books not meant for common eyes. Did you not deliver texts to him? Did you not copy words forbidden? Do you deny you are the ink behind the fire?"
Mirea's heart pounded. Her hands clutched the hem of her robe.
For a moment, she thought of denying it. Of protecting herself.
But then—Frido's gaze met hers again. Steady. Unwavering.
She found courage in that silence.
Her voice, soft but unbroken, answered:
"Yes. I gave him words. Words you hid. Truths you buried. I gave him the pages of forgotten bells, the stories of voices you swore to erase. I do not deny it. I affirm it."
The hall erupted in whispers. The scribes' quills scratched so fiercely the sound was like rain upon the earth.
The Tribunal's chief judge slammed a staff upon the floor.
"Enough. You all confess, though you cloak it in pride. This court will render judgment."
---
Frido's Silent Testimony
Before the staff fell again, Frido lifted a hand.
The hall froze.
Every eye turned to him.
He walked forward, each step echoing across stone. He stopped before the judges' dais. The guards moved to halt him—but the chief judge raised a hand. Curious.
Frido knelt—not in surrender, but in clarity. He set his parchment on the cold stone floor.
And he began to write.
Line by line. Word by word. The scribes strained to copy his script, but the letters were strange—shaped not as formal glyphs, but as the bell-symbols Mirea had taught him from forbidden texts. Ancient runes of sound and silence.
When he finished, he stood and held it high.
The words, translated, read:
"I do not beg.
I do not yield.
I do not curse you.
I only show that silence cannot be chained.
If you punish me, I endure.
If you kill me, I echo.
If you erase me, I return in every tongue you tried to still.
Judge me as you will.
My silence is not yours to command."
For a heartbeat, there was nothing.
Only the faint scratching of quills.
Then—someone in the gallery stood.
A farmer, clothes torn, hands calloused.
"I hear him," the man said.
Another rose.
"I hear him too."
And another.
And another.
Until dozens stood, voices rising—not shouting, but speaking in unison, as though silence itself had found its chorus.
"I hear him."
"I hear him."
"I hear him."
The Tribunal's faces darkened. The chief judge struck his staff again.
"Silence them!"
But the words kept coming. Not as a roar, but as steady waves. Calm. Unbreakable.
The scribes faltered. Their quills could not keep pace with truth flowing freely.
---
The Unfinished Verdict
The judges leaned together, whispering fiercely. Their robes rustled like dry leaves.
At last, the chief judge stood.
"This trial cannot be concluded today. The accused shall be confined. Judgment reserved until the council of kingdoms convenes. Take him."
Guards moved forward.
Frido did not resist. He placed the parchment on the dais as though leaving a gift.
Mirea reached for him, but Yllara held her back.
"Not yet," the queen whispered. "Not here."
The people in the gallery did not move. They watched, eyes burning, voices still repeating:
"I hear him."
The guards bound Frido's wrists with cords of silk—no chains, no iron. As though acknowledging that true chains could not hold him.
He was led from the hall, step by step, into the shadowed corridors beyond.
But even as the doors closed, the voices lingered.
"I hear him."
Whispered. Repeated. Passed along.
Like the toll of a bell no decree could unring.
---
In the Cell
The cell was not dark. That surprised him.
A single shaft of light fell through a narrow window, striking the stone floor like a line of ink across parchment.
Frido sat beneath it, wrists bound, back straight.
He closed his eyes.
And breathed.
Not broken.
Not yet.
In the silence, he heard it again—faint, carried through the very stones of the Tribunal.
The people.
"I hear him."
The trial was unfinished. The verdict unwritten. But something greater had begun.
A silence stronger than any chain.
---
End of Chapter 58