Chapter 4: Echoes of Maldir
Mark, Frank, and John sat cross-legged on the damp earth, the sack of rice beside them, surrounded by the tall, whispering trees of the Madi forest. They had just left Walton City. Mark had only been there once, years ago; his childhood had passed in Maldir—a place far from this silence, far from this road.
Frank opened his bag, rummaging for food. John sat beside them, his hands still chained.
Mark watched him for a moment, then turned to Frank. “Where are we going, Frankie? Does this path even lead to the IFA?”
Frank looked up briefly. “We’re heading for the Marin River.” He pulled out two pieces of bread and tossed one to Mark. “They’ll reach for us there.”
Mark frowned. Only one piece of bread? “Not for him?”
“Not for him,” Frank said flatly.
“But why not? He’s hungry. Don’t you know what hunger means?”
“No,” Frank said. “I never got hungry.”
Frank, you're being rude now, Mark thought. “Don’t you care for anyone?”
“Actually, we’re out of food.”
Mark grinned. “Good thing I brought the sack of food then.”
Mark expected Frank to smile, but he remained unexpressed. “Don’t be so proud, Mark. It doesn’t add up to anything. The IFA’s agents will join us at the Marin River tomorrow, anyway.”
Frank stood and stepped away.
Mark didn’t argue. He knew how Frank got when his mood soured: quiet, cold, and unreachable. And John? He wasn’t just a stranger anymore. To Frank, he was now an enemy.
John stared at Frank’s back, disappointed. “Frankie…” he whispered.
Mark turned back to John, tore his bread in half, and handed a piece to him. His voice softened. “How long has it been since you last ate?”
John chewed slowly before answering. “Four days.”
Mark’s eyes widened. “Damn.” He offered the rest of his bread to John without hesitation.
John whispered, “No.”
“I can hold my hunger until tonight,” Mark said. And John accepted.
But then Frank’s shadow fell over them. “What are you doing?” Frank snapped.
“I gave him food.”
“Did I tell you to do that?”
“No. But I thought I could.”
Frank leaned in. “Don’t get personal with him, Mark.”
“What’s your problem with him?” Mark asked. “He doesn’t seem dangerous to me.”
Frank’s gaze shifted to John. “Problem? You don’t know him. He’s a manipulator, a traitor, and worst of all—a killer.”
Mark frowned. “I don’t see that in him.”
“You will.” Frank stepped away. “Time to move.”
Mark sighed. “Can’t we rest a bit longer?”
“We’ll have enough time to rest once we reach the Marin.”
Frank took the lead, with John in the middle, and Mark behind him- hanging the sack. The three of them moved through the thinning light of the forest, their footsteps soft over dead leaves.
After a while, John spoke up. “Who are you?”
Mark blinked. “I’m Mark Wilson. I was born in Maldir and lived until I was fifteen.”
“I was born in Maldir and lived there until I was thirteen.”
“Maldir?” John’s eyes lit up slightly. “I served in that region during the war.”
Mark’s eyes widened. “You were in the Battle of Maldir?”
John nodded.
Something clicked in Mark’s expression. “My father died in that battle.”
John looked up. “I’m… I’m sorry. What was his name?”
“Nick Wilson.”
John froze. His feet halted mid-step. His eyes darkened, and his jaw clenched. For a few seconds, he didn’t say anything—just stared ahead, as if something from long ago had struck him in the chest.
Mark kept walking a few steps, then turned around. “You alright?”
John didn’t respond right away.
Mark repeated, “You knew him?”
John looked at the ground. His voice was low, almost lifeless. “Yeah… I did.”
Mark smiled faintly. “Then you know what kind of man he was. Brave. Honest. He fought against the Armendis. The Armendis weren’t men; they were monsters. He took down more of them than anyone and saved lives, even if it cost his own.”
John looked away, breathing deeply, his fingers tightening slightly around the chains.
“Everyone said he was a hero,” Mark added.
John’s voice was strained. “Maybe he was…”
Mark frowned. “What do you mean?”
But John didn’t answer. He kept walking in silence, his expression haunted. Mark studied his face, sensing something unspoken, something heavy. He opened his mouth to ask again—but didn’t.
The silence between them was louder than any words.
They continued walking through the trees, with Frank leading and the forest whispering all around them.
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