In the northern passes of Thragar the wind struck not the stones but a man’s bones. The narrow gorge between the mountains waited for a prayer no one had named for a thousand years. There, kneeling among broken rocks, was Redna Vaeldryn.

A rust-stained seal-stone stood before him, and with his fingertips he traced the old grooves cut into it. Time had worn down the marks, yet the stone seemed to breathe, faintly. Redna drew his blade from its sheath and opened his own palm. Blood filled the fissures of the stone; and in that moment the wind fell silent.

The sound of the drops was so clear it felt as if the whole world were listening. When blood met stone, a dim tremor rose from within—like a forgotten heartbeat far away.

A voice came from behind him. “I told you this was forbidden.”

Redna answered without turning. “Tell the stones, not me. They called.”

The man arriving was Rhidan Drakar. Each ring of his mail glinted like glass shattering upon a glacier. As he emerged from the dark his face had hardened with severity.

“There was no call,” Rhidan said. “These stones are the gods’ grave. To toy with them is to disturb the dead.”

Redna kept his eyes on the stone. “If the gods are dead, who has the standing to disturb them?”

Rhidan came a few steps closer. “Not you.”

Redna laid the blade gently upon the stone. “Stone doesn’t lie, Rhidan. It only listens—the one thing we refuse to do.”

The stone shuddered again. Before Redna pulled his hand away, a soft light seeped from the grooves. Rhidan stepped back by reflex. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Redna said. “I only reminded it.”

A sound rose from deep within the stone. Like a heart—two beats, then hush. Two beats, silence. Two beats again. As if someone waited for two hearts to find the same rhythm.

Rhidan broke the hush. “That sound… whose heart is it?”

Redna pressed his ear to the face of the stone, then lifted his head. “I don’t know yet. But I’m not alone.”

Worry flickered over Rhidan’s face. “When you talk like this, I hate you.”

Redna smiled faintly. “Sometimes I hate myself as well.”

That night the camp was quiet. The fire had burned down; the soldiers slept. While Redna bound his hands, Rhidan bent over a map whose edges were stained with fresh ink—random drops fallen on patiently drawn roads.

“The rear of the pass is gone,” Rhidan said. “A patrol vanished at the Dorthenmar border. No tracks, no screams.”

“The earth is alive,” Redna said, eyes on the fire’s ash. “It swallows some, and spits out others.”

Rhidan scowled. “Every word from you is a riddle or a prophecy. Decide—soldier or priest?”

Redna’s smile was quiet. “Neither. I’m only one who listens.”

The tent flap stirred, and a woman entered—cloaked, her face veiled with gauze. Rhidan’s hand went to his sword, but the woman bowed with measured grace.

“I am a student of Priestess Myrae,” she said. “I come from Aerylia. I bring the greetings of Symera Windwhisper.”

Redna straightened at once. “Symera? Is she well?”

Without raising her eyes the woman answered, “She is. But she is not at peace. Tonight she dreamed the northern stones had woken—to the sound of two hearts.” She stepped closer and looked at Redna’s hands. “Your blood spoke as well, my lord.”

Redna’s throat tightened. “How does she know?”

“In the wind’s third breath,” the woman said. “In that breath that passes between stone and heart.”

Rhidan cut in. “What is the price of your greeting, priestess?”

She smiled. “A promise. No blood will be spilled on the stones tonight. Before dawn you will return to camp.”

Then she looked to Redna. “And you… you were not alone in her dream.”

“Who was there?” Redna asked.

She closed her eyes. “A woman. She did not give her name, but she spoke yours. ‘Redna,’ she said. ‘Every stone his blood kisses hears me a little more.’”

Bending as if to pray, she whispered, “Listen for the wind’s third breath—for it does not speak with blood.”

Redna said nothing. When the woman left the tent, the wind came in again and made the fire tremble twice. Two beats, silence. Two beats again.

Redna could not sleep. When he closed his eyes, a ring of light formed in the dark and a face rose within it: Symera’s.

“This is not me,” she said. “It is my echo.”

Redna held his breath. “The stones woke,” Symera said, “with your blood. But their tongue is not our tongue.”

“What tongue, then?”

“The tongue of the forgotten.”

Symera’s voice came not from the wind but from Redna’s chest. “I heard something,” Redna said. “Inside the stone, two beats, then silence. Like two hearts.”

“I heard it too,” said Symera. “But one is not you, and one is not me. There is a third voice now. Its echo found us before it was born.”

“Is it a warning?”

“No. It is a beginning.”

As her face dissolved in a wavering light, she spoke once more: “Do not spill blood on the stones. For now—listen.”

“How long?”

“Until the wind’s third breath.”

The echo faded. Redna remained, alone—but for the first time, his solitude was not silent.

By morning the air shone like metal. Rhidan found Redna at the stone’s hollow. “Don’t even open your hand,” he said. “You gave your word.”

“No blood,” Redna answered. “This time the heart will speak.”

He touched the stone and closed his eyes. He drew a deep breath. One, two… and on the third the stone glowed, softly.

As the wind skimmed the mountain’s skirt it braided with the breath of two people. From within the stone rose a whisper, a sound almost like a word.

“Yes.”

The light sank back and the stone returned to its quiet. Yet in that instant both Rhidan and Redna felt the same thing: The world had grown too small, and the heart too large.

Redna lifted his head. “It isn’t over.”

Rhidan’s gaze sharpened. “What?”

“It never began.”

Then from the northern walls a horn sounded. One, two… then a third—the rhythm of alarm. Rhidan’s hand flew to his sword. Redna turned to the pass where mist was pooling.

In the waterless valley to the north a fog was rising. It flowed like water, and a shadow walked inside it—human-shaped, but eyeless. Redna whispered:

“The Drowned…”

Rhidan clenched his teeth. “They would never come this far north.”

Redna did not draw his blade. “They’re not attacking. They’re listening.”

“What did you say?”

“Today the sword won’t speak. The echo will.”

The wind rose once more. One, two… the third breath. The fog withdrew, but on the stone remained three short lines and two long.

Redna traced the marks with his finger. “I am alive,” he said.

Rhidan stared in silence. Redna lifted his face to the hush of the north and smiled. “The world heard us.”

No battle was fought that day. But from that day forward the stones were never silent again.