The morning Frido left Eldhollow, he didn't look back.
Not because he didn't care.
But because if he had, he might not have had the strength to go forward.
The village was still asleep. Mist clung to the thatched rooftops, the fields glistened with dew, and the great hills beyond the stream seemed to shimmer like soft green giants. Frido carried a satchel with half a loaf of bread, a flask of water, and a small wooden figure his mother had carved for him when he was very small—a bird with one wing.
It didn't fly, but it looked like it wanted to.
He tucked it into his shirt.
And began walking.
---
The World Outside
The first day was kind.
The sun stayed low. The birds sang. And Frido met no beasts, no men, and no storms.
He followed the old river path, worn by traders and wanderers for centuries. Now it was almost empty, save for the occasional wheel mark or boot print. He traced them with his eyes, imagining where they led—merchants, soldiers, farmers fleeing fire, or heroes chasing a cause.
He didn't think he was any of those things.
He was just walking. Just helping.
By nightfall, he reached an abandoned cottage near a broken bridge and made a small fire with dry twigs. He roasted a few wild mushrooms, hummed tunelessly to himself, and stared at the stars like they were old friends.
---
The Wolf and the Fool
The second day, he met trouble.
It came in the form of a low growl and two yellow eyes from the bushes as Frido stopped to drink at the river's bend. A wolf—not lean with hunger, but scarred, limping, and old. Its ear was half-missing. Its ribs bore the marks of metal.
Frido froze.
He knew what a smart boy would do—run, climb, yell.
But Frido wasn't smart.
He sat down.
The wolf stepped out, snarling, its breath ragged, its tail low.
Frido looked at it. Not into its eyes, but around them. At the scars. At the weariness. And slowly—so slowly—he reached into his bag and pulled out the last piece of bread.
He didn't toss it. He placed it on the grass, just between them, and backed away.
The wolf didn't eat immediately.
It watched him for a long, tense minute.
Then it limped forward, snatched the bread, and disappeared without a sound.
Frido waited an hour before he moved again.
That night, he slept under a pine tree, and dreamed of a world where wolves didn't need to be afraid.
---
The River Watch
By the third day, the wilderness changed.
The trees thinned. The rocks sharpened. The scent of smoke hung in the wind.
Frido found a checkpoint—half-burned, unmanned, but with fresh bootprints and broken arrows scattered in the dirt. The flag of the southern kingdom hung in tatters on a pole. He recognized the emblem only because the village elders once taught it in festival songs.
Frido stepped carefully, moving around splintered crates and scorched wagons. He found a helmet—too large for him—and carried it for no reason he understood.
Then he heard it.
Crying.
Soft. Broken. Human.
He followed the sound and found a boy no older than himself, covered in ash, curled behind a barrel with a bleeding arm. His uniform was ripped, and he had the look of someone who had seen something that didn't belong in a child's memory.
Frido knelt beside him.
The boy flinched. "I'm not… I'm not one of them… I didn't run… I just… I didn't know where to go—"
Frido didn't say a word.
He pulled out his flask and held it to the boy's lips.
The boy drank. Coughed. Then looked at him. "Who… who are you?"
Frido thought for a long time.
Then, in a small voice, he said, "Frido."
"Are you a soldier?"
Frido shook his head.
"Then… what are you doing here?"
Frido hesitated, looked around at the wreckage, then back at the boy.
"I… I'm going to help."
The boy stared at him like he was mad.
Then, after a pause, he whispered, "You really are stupid."
Frido smiled.
---
The Road Splits
The boy's name was Teren. His arm was bad—burned, twisted. Frido made a sling from his own shirt, tied it with vines, and helped him walk.
Together, they followed the road east, where the cliffs rose like teeth against the sky.
The map said the camp was just beyond.
But by dusk, they found only smoke and silence. The camp was gone. Burned. Torn apart by forces Frido couldn't begin to imagine.
Bodies lay beneath tarps. Others still smoldered.
Frido vomited.
Teren gripped his good hand and squeezed it so hard it hurt. "This was my brother's camp…"
"I'm sorry," Frido whispered.
They stood there, boys in a world carved by men with swords and crowns, and understood that help didn't always arrive in time.
But sometimes, help kept walking.
---
The Silent Banner
That night, Frido buried five bodies with his hands.
He didn't know their names.
He only knew they were sons. Maybe fathers. Maybe kind. Maybe not.
But they were people.
And the dead deserved peace.
Teren didn't understand it at first. "Why do this?"
Frido said nothing.
He just kept digging.
By dawn, the camp had a small pile of stones marked with a line of twigs across the top—a sign that someone remembered.
Teren knelt beside one. "I think you're braver than all of them."
Frido shook his head.
"I'm just… walking."
---
A New Path
In the distance, horns blew.
Not battle cries. Not charges.
But a call—short, rhythmic, steady.
Frido and Teren turned their heads. Riders were coming.
A new division. Reinforcements.
Frido stood up.
He brushed dust from his hands, took the wooden bird from his shirt, looked at it for a moment, then tucked it back.
He didn't know where the road would take him next.
But he knew the war hadn't ended.
And he wasn't done helping.
---