The silver mist still surrounded our steps as we left the bridge behind, but something had changed. It was no longer a threat. It was almost… respect. As if the very path itself recognized that we had chosen to move forward not out of obligation, but by will.
We walked in silence for hours. None of us spoke, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. It was the kind that comes when words have already said everything they needed to.
It was Vespera who broke it first.
"Takumi."
"Hmm?"
"If we die tomorrow… will you bury me with my bow?"
"Of course. But only if you stop shooting it to 'test the string's resistance.'"
She laughed softly. "Fair."
Elara walked beside me, eyes fixed on the ground as if reading something in the exposed roots. "Do you think Malrik really wants to recruit us?"
"No," I replied. "He wants to prove to us that the truth isn't worth it. That it's easier to live in a lie."
"And what if he's right?" she asked, almost whispering.
I stopped. Turned to her. "Then why are we still here?"
She lifted her gaze. There was weariness in her eyes, yes — but also a stubborn flame. "Because… even when I doubt, I'd still rather have you all than perfection."
Liriel, floating behind us, gave a half-smile. "At last, someone speaking like a real mage."
We reached the base of a hill by sunset. At the top stood ruins — not of stone, but of mirrors. Hundreds of them, shattered, tilted, some still intact, reflecting the sky in distorted tones. It looked as if an entire palace had been made of glass and, instead of collapsing, had splintered into a thousand fragmented truths.
"The Sanctuary of Reflections," Liriel said, recognizing the place. "They say that here, mirrors don't show your face… they show your intent."
"Great," I muttered. "Just when I was starting to like my face."
We climbed slowly. The ground creaked beneath our feet — not with wood or stone, but with the sound of thin glass about to break. Each step echoed like a sigh.
At the center of the ruins stood a throne. Not of gold, nor of bone. It was made of fused mirrors, as if someone had melted hundreds of reflections and shaped something new. And upon it rested a simple crown of darkened silver, engraved with the symbol of the spider.
"It's a trap," said Vespera, arrow already nocked.
"Or an invitation," Liriel corrected.
The medallion in my pack pulsed, warm. Liriel's pendant responded too, glowing a soft blue.
"He knows we're here," I murmured.
Then a voice emerged — not from the throne, nor from the air, but from within ourselves.
"You came here to prove that truth is strong. But is it enough?"
Malrik didn't appear. He didn't need to. His presence was in every shard of glass, in every stretched shadow, in every breath we held without realizing.
"Show yourself," I challenged.
"I already have. I am in the doubt Elara feels when her magic fails. I am in the fear Vespera hides behind every laugh. I am in the guilt Liriel carries for having loved too much… and for having let go."
Liriel clenched her fists. "Shut up."
"And you, Takumi… I am in the question you ask every night: 'Why me?'"
I didn't answer. Because, for the first time, I had no ready answer.
Elara stepped forward. "Enough. The truth doesn't have to be perfect to be real."
She raised her staff and, with a steady voice, began to chant the melody of the fragments. Not the battle version, nor the healing one. It was the melody of acceptance — the one we learned in the Catacombs, when the Weaver showed us that reality isn't what is, but what we choose to make of it.
The mirrors around us trembled.
One by one, they began to glow — not with silver light, but with soft colors: the blue of Elara's determination, the gold of Vespera's courage, the violet of Liriel's humility… and the red, faint but constant, of my stubbornness.
Malrik laughed — a sad, almost weary sound.
"You think this changes anything? That a pretty song will stop the collapse of what's to come?"
"Maybe not," I said, walking toward the throne. "But it'll remind us why it's worth fighting."
I touched the crown. It didn't burn. It didn't consume me. It just sat there — cold and heavy.
"Why leave this here?" I asked the wind.
"Because one day, someone will have to choose between ruling with lies… or serving with truth. And this crown will be the test."
"Then we won't take it," I decided.
Vespera raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? Leaving a powerful magical artifact behind?"
"Precisely because it's powerful," I replied. "Malrik doesn't want us to destroy it. He wants us to use it. And, in the end, become like him."
Liriel nodded. "The greatest victory isn't defeating the enemy. It's refusing to play his game."
We left the ruins at nightfall. The sky was clear, dotted with stars that seemed to watch quietly, as if they too were learning something.
We camped at the foot of the hill. Vespera made a soup with roots that, miraculously, weren't poisonous. Elara lit a small fire with a snap of her fingers—without fainting. Liriel, meanwhile, sat beside me, watching the flames.
"You've changed," she said after a while.
"How so?"
"Before, you used to run from responsibility. Now… you carry it as if it's part of you."
"Maybe because it is."
She smiled, barely perceptibly. "Malrik underestimated you."
"He underestimated all of us."
We fell silent for a while. The fire crackled. Crickets sang again.
Later, while the others slept, I stayed awake, watching the spider medallion. It no longer pulsed. It was quiet, as if resting too.
That's when I heard it.
Not a voice. A whisper of memory.
"Promise you won't give up."
It was Celine. Or her echo. I don't know. But the question was real.
"I promise," I whispered back.
And, for the first time since it all began, the promise didn't feel like a burden.
It felt like a beacon.
The next morning, we set out early. The road ahead was still uncertain, but it no longer frightened us. Because we knew that no matter what the mirrors showed, no matter what Malrik whispered… the most important truth wasn't out there.
It was between us.
And as we walked, Liriel's pendant glowed softly against my chest — not as a warning, but as a reminder.
That even in a world full of lies, it was still possible to choose what was real.
And sometimes, that was enough.