The marshes began as a breath — damp, rising from the ground with no warning. Then, like fog from the mouths of sleeping giants, the breath thickened into mist. Trees thinned. Soil softened. The crunch of twigs beneath their feet gave way to the squelch of water-logged earth.
The Forest That Watches was behind them.
The Grey Fens stretched ahead, a kingdom of stillness. Pools of stagnant water gleamed like broken mirrors, reflecting sky and sorrow. Dead trees rose like spears from the bog. Birds were silent. Even the wind here seemed reluctant to stir.
Frido walked at the front, his eyes distant.
Behind him, Mirea kept pace with careful steps, the hem of her robe soaked in marsh water. Teren followed last, his hand tight around the grip of his weapon. He didn't trust silence when it wasn't Frido's.
"This place is wrong," Teren muttered.
Frido said nothing.
But he agreed.
---
It took half a day to find footing through the Fens. Their destination was marked on no map — only remembered by those who had once fought here. A place known by deserters and old seers as The Pool of the Sworn.
According to legend, warriors who had broken oaths or abandoned causes came here in secret, to lay down their names. Not as cowards, but as mourners. To swear a new kind of vow: silence.
The closer they got, the heavier the air became. Not just thick with moisture, but with memory.
Frido slowed.
His foot met stone — smooth, round, unnatural.
They had arrived.
---
The Pool of the Sworn was not a pool at all. It was a perfect circle of black water, rimmed by runestones and half-sunken shields. Spears jutted from the ground like graves. In the center stood a single pillar, rising above the water, upon which perched a rusted helm.
Time itself seemed to pause.
Frido stepped toward the edge. The air around the pool grew colder.
Teren stopped short. "Something's wrong."
Mirea didn't speak. She clutched the locket beneath her cloak, heart beating fast. She had read of this place once, in her mother's old scrolls. It was said that the Pool listened. And if it judged you worthy, it would answer.
Frido stepped closer.
Whispers drifted from the water.
Not voices — not truly. But fragments of thought, soaked in guilt, loss, resolve.
> "I left them behind."
"I chose to live when they fell."
"I swore peace. They called it betrayal."
Frido dropped to one knee at the water's edge. His reflection stared back — hollow eyes, cracked lips, a face aged by purpose.
Then the voice came.
This time, not a whisper.
A presence. Ancient. Calm. Not human.
"Who breaks silence to enter here?"
The pool rippled. The pillar groaned.
Frido lowered his head.
"I am Frido of Iles," he said. "I seek peace through sacrifice."
The voice answered, without judgment. Only curiosity.
"What would you give?"
Frido looked down at his hands. "Everything."
The water darkened. Clouds gathered above.
"Would you give your name?"
He hesitated.
Behind him, Mirea stepped forward, face pale. "Don't."
Frido turned.
But the presence asked again:
"Would you give your face, your story, your memory… to become only silence?"
Teren drew his sword. "Frido—this isn't just legend. This is oath-binding. If you answer, it will take it from you."
Mirea's voice cracked. "If you do this, we'll lose you."
Frido stood.
He looked at them both — the only two companions left from a path that had begun in fields and barns and laughter. Now, they stood at the edge of something more than war. More than peace.
"I don't want to be remembered for killing," Frido said. "Only for ending what should never have begun."
Mirea's eyes brimmed with tears. "But if you give your name, who will carry your story?"
He turned to the water.
"I trust them to."
He did not look back when he stepped into the pool.
---
The water did not wet him.
It accepted him.
Step by step, he walked toward the pillar, where the helm rested — once worn by the first man to swear the Vow of Silence. The water rose no higher than his ankles. The whispers grew louder. A storm stirred above.
At the base of the pillar, he stopped.
"I am Frido," he said, for the last time.
Then he touched the stone.
---
Lightning cracked.
Teren ran forward, stopped at the edge. "FRIDO!"
But the boy had vanished.
No ripples.
No splash.
Only silence.
And then — a wind.
From nowhere. From everywhere.
It swirled around the pool, lifting dust and memories. The water turned still again. The clouds broke.
On the pillar, the helm remained.
Beside it — a new engraving, not carved by hand.
A symbol: a closed eye. Beneath it, one word.
> "Peace."
---
Frido stood alone.
But not dead.
He was somewhere else now.
A place beyond sound.
The Hall of the Sworn.
He could not speak, for his tongue was bound by promise. Yet his thoughts rang clear.
Before him, figures stood — warriors in armor old as myth, eyes like fading stars. None spoke. They only nodded.
One stepped forward, placed a hand upon his shoulder.
"You have joined the Unnamed. You carry the weight."
Frido bowed.
And when he opened his eyes again—
He was standing back on the marsh's edge.
Mirea gasped. "Frido?"
But he did not answer.
His eyes were the same.
His body was the same.
But the silence he now bore — it was deeper than before. Deeper than breath.
Teren looked shaken. "You… you disappeared."
Frido looked at them both. He smiled faintly.
Then, with fingers, he wrote in the wet soil:
> "I gave my name to buy silence."
---
That night, Mirea sat by him again.
She wanted to say so much. Wanted to tell him she loved him, had loved him all along. That even if he never spoke another word, she would carry his story.
But all she managed to say was:
"I miss your voice."
He took her hand.
Held it.
Did not let go.
And somehow, that was enough.
---
End of Chapter 40