The riders arrived just after sunrise.
Dust curled behind their hooves like storm clouds rolling over the horizon. Ten men in iron-threaded cloaks, leather armor stained from road and blood, and long spears that caught the light like fire. They rode with discipline—no wasted motion, no stray glances. But as they closed in on the burned-out camp, their formation slowed. One man at the front raised a hand.
A single, sharp whistle broke the stillness.
Teren shifted beside Frido, flinching slightly. "That's not just a patrol," he whispered. "That's a Blackcrest unit. Officer class."
Frido didn't understand what that meant.
He only knew one thing: Teren was trembling.
---
The Questioner
The lead rider dismounted.
His armor bore a clean white mark over his left shoulder—a painted hand, open-palmed, facing downward.
The mark of the King's Questioners.
He removed his helmet slowly, revealing a face that was clean-shaven, pale, and almost gentle. But his eyes—his eyes were sharp. Too sharp. The kind of sharp that didn't stab, but flayed.
He walked past the graves Frido had made.
Paused.
Looked down at the one closest to his boot.
Then looked up.
"Who buried these?"
Frido took a step forward.
"I did," he said.
The man studied him in silence.
"You're not military."
Frido shook his head. "I was passing through. I found the camp yesterday. Helped a wounded boy."
"Where is this boy?"
Teren stood behind Frido, biting his lip.
Frido raised a hand gently. "He's resting. Burned arm. No weapon."
The officer tilted his head.
"Name?"
"Frido."
"Surname?"
Frido blinked. "Don't have one."
The man gave a thin smile. "Everyone has one. Even orphans. Even liars."
"I'm not lying."
"Then you're a fool."
Frido didn't argue.
The man turned toward the graves again. "You did this out of… what? Mercy? Duty?"
Frido paused. "Because they deserved peace."
The man looked at him for a long moment. Then, quietly: "You're not a soldier. But you act like one."
He walked past, motioning his men to begin cataloging the wreckage. "Clean the rest," he said. "Burn what's left."
Then to Frido: "There's a refugee camp two miles east. Take the boy. Stay there. Out of the way."
He started to walk, then stopped and said, almost absently, "You buried the dead. That's something most warriors forget. But don't confuse respect with survival, boy."
Then he left.
Frido watched the soldiers break down the ruined camp like it was nothing more than debris from a storm.
---
East of the Dead
Teren said little as they walked east. His arm hurt too much to talk, and his eyes kept drifting to the trees like he expected death behind every trunk.
Frido broke a stick as they walked. He tapped it along the path, humming softly—nonsense notes. A rhythm to keep them both from thinking too hard.
"Why did you say that to him?" Teren asked finally.
"Say what?"
"That you buried them for peace."
Frido thought. "Because it's true."
"No, I mean… why tell him? Those kinds of men don't care. They kill people and call it law."
Frido didn't answer.
Instead, he looked at the sky.
"I just wanted him to know someone still cared."
---
The Camp of the Lost
The refugee camp wasn't what Frido expected.
It wasn't tents or safety.
It was a hollowed-out stone quarry, rimmed by rough timber palisades, guarded by half-armored conscripts who looked just as ragged as the people inside. The pit had once held granite. Now it held hundreds of displaced families, wounded men, crying children, and the smell of rot, sweat, and hopelessness.
Teren stopped at the gate.
Frido did too.
"Do we have to go in?" Teren asked.
Frido looked at the guard.
A tall, tired man with a missing eye. He glanced at the boys and waved them through without a word.
No questions.
No welcome.
---
Among Ghosts
Inside, Frido saw lives torn from the roots.
A woman sat beside a mud puddle, holding a scarf like it was a baby.
An old man sharpened a broken spoon as though it were a blade.
A girl sat beneath a cart, humming a lullaby with no tune.
Teren kept his eyes on the ground.
Frido helped him find a place near a stone wall, out of the wind. He folded a torn blanket he'd found on the fence and placed it beneath Teren's head.
Then he walked through the camp, offering what little he had.
He gave half his bread to an old couple with nothing but leaves in their bowl.
He offered his flask to a boy too weak to lift his own hands.
He didn't speak.
He just helped.
And when the sun sank below the quarry walls, Frido sat beside Teren, watching the stars rise, one by one, in the sky above the world's sorrow.
---
The Girl with the Bandaged Eyes
She approached near midnight.
Frido had dozed off. Teren was asleep, mumbling in pain.
The girl was maybe his age. Maybe younger.
She wore a threadbare coat tied at the waist with rope and a long strip of cloth wrapped around her eyes.
She knelt beside him and whispered, "You're the one who helped the graveyard camp."
Frido blinked. "How did you know?"
"I hear things others miss."
"You… heard me burying them?"
"No. I heard the quiet after. The kind of silence only respect leaves behind."
She reached into her coat and handed him a piece of bark.
On it was a map. Drawn in charcoal. Rough, but clear.
"There's a tunnel under the quarry wall," she said. "It leads to an old scout tower. Not safe. But better than this."
Frido stared at her.
"Why are you telling me this?"
She smiled—small and sad.
"Because men like the one you met earlier… they don't burn camps because of strategy. They burn camps to erase what happened. And people like you? They remember too much."
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Sil," she said. "It means hush, in the old tongue."
Frido nodded.
"I'm Frido."
Sil stood, turned, and disappeared into the shadows without another word.
---
A Choice in the Ashes
Morning came with a gray drizzle.
Teren was worse.
Frido wrapped his arm again, careful not to disturb the blisters.
"We need to leave," he said softly.
Teren groaned. "I can't walk far."
Frido held up the bark map. "We don't have to go far. Just far enough."
Teren stared at the map.
"You trust her?"
"I don't know."
"She could be mad."
"Maybe."
"Or lying."
Frido looked up at the quarry walls.
"Or she's the only one who wants us to live."
---
The Tunnel
They slipped through the north section of the camp just after dusk.
Most were too tired to notice. The guards barely glanced at them.
Frido followed the map's lines to a crack in the wall behind a cluster of stacked barrels. There, behind loose rocks and mud, was an old mining tunnel—collapsed in parts, but still open enough for two boys to crawl through.
It smelled of mold and old iron.
Frido went first.
It took an hour to reach the far end. They emerged beneath a tree line just above the plains.
In the distance, a ruined scout tower leaned like a broken tooth against the sky.
They walked toward it in silence.
---
The Silent Flame
The tower was empty.
Dust covered the stone steps. Birds nested in the rafters.
But the roof was whole. And the windows overlooked the entire valley.
Frido made a small fire. Teren lay beside it, breathing easier now.
They shared dried berries Frido had gathered. Drank the last of the flask.
Then sat in silence.
"You think there's a point to all this?" Teren asked suddenly.
Frido poked the fire.
"To what?"
"This. Surviving. Hiding. Moving."
Frido thought.
"I think… someone has to care. Or the war will win."
Teren laughed bitterly. "You're a stupid boy, Frido."
"I know."
"But you're the only one who makes me think the world's not dead."
Frido didn't answer.
Instead, he placed the wooden bird on the floor between them.
And for the first time, Teren didn't ask what it meant.
---