The sun was setting behind the hills as if it were afraid to look at what was happening in the square of that forgotten village. The place had no name on any map — just a crooked sign with faded letters, buried in the mud of the road. But the mirrors knew where it was. And apparently, so did Malrik.
We stopped at the entrance, hidden behind a cracked stone wall. The air was still, without even the faintest whisper of wind. Even the crickets had gone silent.
"Anyone else think this is… strange?" asked Vespera, lowering her bow for a moment.
"Besides the fact that everyone's smiling like they've just won the lottery… and died inside?" replied Liriel, floating slightly above the ground, her eyes fixed on the mirror in the center of the square.
The people — about thirty, maybe more — stood motionless, facing their own reflections. They didn't blink. They didn't breathe loudly. They just smiled. The same smile, too perfect, that never reached the eyes.
"It's a fixation spell," murmured Elara, gripping her staff tightly. "It's not possession… it's something worse. He's replacing their reality with a lie so convincing they don't even realize they're trapped."
"And the mirror?" I asked.
"It's the anchor. As long as it's active, they won't come back."
"Then we break it," said Vespera, already preparing an enchanted silver-tipped arrow.
"It's not that simple," interrupted Liriel. "If we destroy the mirror without freeing their minds first, they'll be empty. Like shells. Permanently."
We went silent for a few seconds. The only sound was the faint clinking of the spider medallion in my backpack — still pulsing, as if talking to the mirror.
"We need to enter their lies," concluded Elara in a low voice. "And show them the truth before the mirror is destroyed."
"Great," I muttered. "Once again, we're diving into someone else's nightmare. Only this time with an audience."
Liriel glared at me. "You got a better idea?"
"Sleep. Eat. Pay off a single debt. Anything but this."
She rolled her eyes. "Then let's go."
We approached carefully. No one turned. No one reacted. It was as if we were invisible — or irrelevant.
Vespera touched the shoulder of a woman in a blue dress. "Hey… are you okay?"
The woman kept smiling, but her eyes slowly moved until they met Vespera's. Then, in a soft, almost musical voice, she said:
— You'll smile too. Once you see the truth.
Vespera stepped back. "That was… disturbing."
"It's Malrik's echo," explained Liriel. "He doesn't lie directly. He twists what's real until it looks fake… and makes the fake seem inevitable."
Elara knelt in front of the mirror. "Takumi, hold my hand. If I go in alone, I might get lost."
"And if I go with you?" I asked.
"You're the link. The fragments respond to you. Your presence might anchor the truth inside."
I took a deep breath. "Alright. But if I see my mother calling me a failure again, I swear I'm coming back and smashing this mirror with my face."
She smiled, squeezing my hand. "I won't let that happen."
I closed my eyes. Elara began to chant the melody of the fragments — the one we'd learned in the Catacombs, the same one that had healed the Weaver. The medallion in my backpack grew warm. The mirror emitted a low sound, almost like a sigh.
And then, the world vanished.
We were in a city of golden light. Cloudless sky, clean streets, laughing children. Everything perfect. Everything fake.
"It's their ideal version," said Elara, looking around. "Malrik shows them what each one desires most… and convinces them that's all there is."
"And where are the real people?" I asked.
"There." She pointed toward the center of the square — where, instead of a mirror, there was a crystal tree. Hanging from its branches were small glowing spheres. Inside each one, a face could be seen. The face of every villager.
"They're their souls," whispered Elara. "Trapped in dream bubbles."
We walked up to the tree. When I touched one of the spheres, I saw a flash: a man holding the hand of a son he never had. A woman dancing with a husband who had died years ago. A young man being applauded by a crowd that never existed.
"He didn't corrupt them," I realized, feeling a tightness in my chest. "He just… gave them what they wanted."
"And that's what makes it crueler," said Elara. "Because they don't want to leave."
"So how do we free them?"
She hesitated. "By showing them that pain is also part of the truth. That real life — with losses, failures, debts, and see-through clothes — is still worth it."
"That's way too poetic to work."
"Maybe. But it's all we've got."
She raised her staff and touched the nearest sphere. The light trembled. The scene inside distorted — the child vanished. The husband turned to ashes. The audience disappeared. Only emptiness remained.
The villager screamed — a silent scream, trapped inside the bubble.
"No!" he murmured. "Come back! Please!"
"Sorry," said Elara, tears in her eyes. "But this isn't real."
The bubble burst.
Back in the village, the man fell to his knees, gasping for air. He looked around, confused, terrified. Then, he cried.
One by one, we freed the souls. Each release was a small tragedy. Each truth, an open wound. But slowly, the smiles faded. The people began to breathe again. To tremble. To live.
When the last bubble broke, the mirror in the center of the square cracked.
A soft laugh echoed — not from the mirror, but from the wind.
— You think this changes anything? The lie is already planted. And it grows faster than the truth.
"Shut up, Malrik," I shouted, stepping forward.
But the mirror was already dissolving into silver dust. Before disappearing, it dropped something to the ground: a small pocket mirror, marked with the same spider symbol.
Liriel picked it up carefully. "He's guiding us."
"Or testing us," Elara corrected.
Vespera was helping the villagers stand. One of them, an old man with a white beard, gripped my hand tightly.
"Thank you," he said, his voice hoarse. "I… had forgotten my granddaughter's face. But now I remember. And she's worth more than any dream."
I nodded, unsure what to say.
At the guild, hours later, we received the reward: one hundred gold coins. But of course, it wasn't that simple.
"Collateral damage to the square: twenty coins," said the scribe without looking up.
"Unauthorized use of magic in a residential area: fifteen."
"Destruction of an old mirror (possibly cursed, but still property): thirty."
"Twenty-five left," I muttered, counting the coins. "Enough for this week's wine. Maybe."
Liriel drank from her usual cup, her eyes distant. "Malrik doesn't want to kill us. He wants us to doubt ourselves. To prefer the lie."
"Then we'll prove him wrong," said Vespera, stealing a coin from my hand and tossing it in the air.
"How?" I asked.
"By going on. Even when it hurts. Even when it doesn't make sense." She winked. "Especially then."
Elara approached, placing her hand on my arm. "Takumi… what did you see in there? In their lie?"
"I saw a world where I didn't have to choose. Where the three of you were happy… without me."
She frowned. "And that scared you?"
"It destroyed me."
She smiled sadly. "Then it's good that we're here. Imperfect, confused… but together."
Liriel scoffed, but said nothing. She just squeezed my shoulder — for a second.
That night, we slept at the inn. No one said much. But before extinguishing the candle, Liriel whispered:
"Malrik will show up again. And next time, it'll be personal."
"Then let him come," I answered, tired but steady. "Because our truth… it's messier, more painful, more ridiculous… but it's ours."
And for the first time, that felt like enough.