The road east cut through the forest like an old scar — narrow, uneven, but stubborn. No one had used it in years, except perhaps desperate travelers or things that preferred not to be seen. We, of course, were a bit of both.
The spider medallion rested in the palm of my hand, cold to the touch, but pulsing with an almost irritating insistence. It wasn't a call. It was an invitation. And, like all invitations made by demonic generals, it reeked of a trap.
"You've got the face of someone thinking about running away," said Vespera, walking beside me with her hands in her pockets.
"Just imagining what my life would be like if I'd become a baker," I replied, keeping my eyes on the path. "Hot bread, predictable debts, no goddess calling me an idiot before breakfast."
Liriel, floating a few feet above the ground, snorted. "You'd last a day. By the second, you'd have burned the bakery trying to impress a customer with 'enchanted bread.'"
"She's right," added Elara, adjusting the staff on her shoulder. "You'd add too much cinnamon, mess up the fermentation spell, and suddenly the bread would start singing."
"It'd be a hit," I shot back. "Singing bread is innovative."
Vespera laughed, but her gaze was sharp — as it always was when something was approaching. "Speaking of singing… did you hear that?"
We fell silent.
At first, I thought it was the wind. But there was no wind. The forest was still, as if holding its breath. And behind the unmoving leaves came a low, melodic sound — a woman's voice, soft, singing a song without words.
"It's beautiful," murmured Elara.
"It's dangerous," corrected Liriel.
We followed the sound for about twenty minutes until we reached a small clearing, surrounded by trees so tall the sun barely touched the ground. In the center was a lake. Not large, but its surface was perfectly smooth — like polished glass. And around it, mirrors.
Not the ones we had seen before. These were smaller, older, some broken, others covered in moss. They were tilted toward the water, as if worshiping it.
"Mirrors praying?" I asked.
"No," said Liriel, approaching cautiously. "They're feeding."
The voice stopped.
The lake trembled.
And slowly, a figure emerged from the water. It wasn't a monster. It was a woman — young, with silver hair and eyes so pale they looked like mist. She wore a white dress, soaked but weightless. She looked at us without surprise, as if she had been expecting us.
"You came sooner than I foresaw," she said, her voice echoing as if it came from within ourselves.
"Who are you?" I asked, keeping my hand near my sword.
"They call me Eira. The Guardian of Reflections." She smiled, but there was no joy in it. "I am the last who still resists."
"Resists what?" asked Elara.
"The Weaver. Malrik doesn't just corrupt minds. He corrupts memories. And when a memory is lost, the mirror that held it… becomes his."
Liriel frowned. "You're a gap spirit. A soul fused with a sacred place to protect forgotten truths."
Eira nodded. "There was a time when every village had a mirror of truth. A place where people could see themselves as they truly were — not as they wished to be. But fear grew. People began breaking the mirrors. Running from themselves. And Malrik… he took advantage."
She pointed to the mirrors around the lake. "These are the last ones. And if they fall, there will be nothing left to remember what is real."
"Why tell us this?" I asked.
"Because you are different." Her eyes fixed on the necklace around my neck — the one that held Liriel. "You carry imperfect truths. And yet, you do not abandon them."
We fell silent for a moment. Even Vespera looked serious.
"What do you want from us?" asked Elara.
"Protect the lake. For one night. Malrik knows I'm weak. He will come before dawn."
"And if we refuse?" I asked.
Eira looked toward the horizon, where the sun was already gone. "Then tomorrow, you will wake in a world where you never met. Where each of you went your separate way. And worse… you will believe it was the best choice."
No one replied. We didn't need to.
We set up camp by the lakeshore. Vespera prepared invisible traps with silver threads. Elara drew containment runes around the clearing. Liriel, meanwhile, sat by the edge of the water, eyes closed, as if listening to something beyond mortal reach.
"Are you okay?" I asked, sitting beside her.
"I'm remembering," she replied, eyes still closed. "When I was nothing but power. When I thought emotions were weakness. And how wrong I was."
"You changed."
"You made me change."
I said nothing. I just sat there, listening to the silence of the forest — a silence that, for the first time, didn't feel empty.
When the moon rose, Eira called us.
"He's coming."
The air grew heavier. The lake, once calm, began to ripple without reason. The mirrors vibrated, emitting a high, almost imperceptible hum.
"Stay together," said Liriel. "He'll try to separate us with illusions."
Then the mist appeared — thick, silver, crawling along the ground as if alive. Inside it, shapes moved. Voices whispered our names.
"Takumi…" called a voice that sounded like Elara's. "Come. I need you."
I looked to the side. Elara was right there, eyes wide. "It's not me," she whispered.
Another voice, now Vespera's: "Takumi, hurry! Liriel is disappearing!"
But Liriel was there too, arms crossed, unfazed. "It's just shadow," she said. "Don't look."
The mist parted, and Malrik appeared.
Not as a warrior. Not as a monster. He sat in a simple wooden chair, as if at home. He wore plain clothes, his hair slightly messy, his eyes tired. He looked… human.
"Good evening," he said, with a gentle smile. "Sorry for the intrusion."
"Where's the army?" I asked, sword in hand. "Where are the creatures, the screams, the drama?"
"Oh, that." He shrugged. "So… inefficient. True victory isn't won through force. It's offered. Accepted. Embraced."
His eyes met mine. "You've won so many battles. But have you ever asked yourselves… why you keep losing yourselves?"
"Shut up," said Liriel, though her voice trembled.
Malrik stood slowly. "Liriel… you still feel guilty about Azeron, don't you? For loving someone who wanted to destroy everything?"
She didn't answer.
"Elara… you still think you're weak. That without magic, you're nothing."
Elara tightened her grip on the staff but didn't look away.
"Vespera… you laugh to hide that you're afraid of being forgotten. Of being just a fleeting moment of pleasure, without weight, without memory."
Vespera swallowed hard, but smiled. "Good guess."
Finally, he looked at me. "And you, Takumi… you still think you don't deserve to be here. That you're just an accident. A mistake the universe hasn't corrected yet."
My chest tightened. But this time, I didn't look away.
"Maybe," I replied. "But I'm the mistake they chose to keep."
Malrik tilted his head, as if intrigued. "Interesting. You still believe that."
"We don't believe it," said Elara, raising her staff. "We know it."
She began to hum the melody of the fragments. Vespera, without hesitation, joined in — her voice rough, but steady. Liriel closed her eyes and reached out — not to attack, but to anchor.
The lake glowed.
The mirrors around us reflected not our images, but our memories: Elara falling and rising again. Vespera missing her shots but laughing. Liriel crying in silence. And me, lost so many times, but always coming back.
Malrik stepped back. "This… shouldn't work."
"Because you never understood," said Liriel, opening her eyes. "Truth isn't perfect. It's made of flaws. And that's why it's strong."
The mist retreated. The whispers ceased.
Malrik smiled, but this time there was something new in his eyes: doubt.
"You've won tonight," he said. "But the game isn't over."
And with that, he vanished — taking the mist with him.
The lake returned to stillness. The mirrors stopped trembling.
Eira emerged from the water again, her eyes filled with gratitude. "You've given them a breath. Maybe… enough time for others to remember who they are."
"What happens now?" I asked.
"You go on. And he waits. Because Malrik doesn't want to destroy you. He wants you to doubt until nothing is left."
"Then we'll prove him wrong," said Vespera, sheathing her bow.
The next morning, we left. The spider medallion still pulsed, but more faintly — as if it, too, were tired.
As we walked, Elara pulled me aside. "Takumi… what he said about you… it isn't true."
"I know," I replied. "But sometimes… it's hard to remember."
She smiled, small but sincere. "That's why we're here. To remind each other."
Liriel floated ahead but glanced back over her shoulder. "If anyone says I cried last night, I'll deny it."
"Already wrote it in the diary," said Vespera, laughing.
And despite everything — the debts, the mirrors, the generals, and the fear — for the first time in a long while, I felt we were exactly where we were meant to be.
Together. Imperfect. Real.