The road went on. Nameless, mapless, promise-less. Only the ground beneath our feet and the silent weight of what was still to come.
Ever since we crossed the bridge of silver mist, something had changed—not in the world, but in us. It wasn't courage, exactly. It was more like… acceptance. The acceptance that no matter what Malrik showed us, no matter how convincing the lie, we had already chosen the truth. And strangely, that was enough.
"You're too quiet," said Vespera, walking beside me with her hands in her pockets. "That's either a sign you're planning something stupid or that you finally matured."
"Maybe both," I replied, without taking my eyes off the path.
She chuckled softly. "Good. I prefer you stupid. You're more predictable that way."
Elara walked just behind us, examining the mirror the child from the village had given me. It no longer reflected only faces—now it showed subtle scenes: a sunset that hadn't yet happened, a flower blooming in slow motion, the smile of someone who was no longer there.
"It's like it stores memories we didn't even know we had," she murmured.
Liriel, floating a few feet above the ground, watched the spider medallion hanging from her neck. "Malrik doesn't want to destroy us. He wants to prove that truth is fragile. That one whisper is enough to make us doubt it."
"Then let's prove he's wrong," said Vespera, adjusting the bow on her back. "Again. Like always."
We walked in silence for a while. The sun was high, but the air still carried the freshness of dawn—as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Then we saw it.
In the middle of the road, there was a mirror. Not like the others. This one was broken in half but still standing, supported by stones. And around it, wildflowers grew—white, delicate, as if they had sprouted from the cracks in the glass.
"This is… strange," said Elara, stepping closer with caution.
"It's beautiful," corrected Liriel, surprisingly softly.
We stopped before the mirror. It didn't reflect our faces. It showed only the sky—but not the sky of now. It was a night sky, starry, with a full moon that had yet to arrive.
"It's a mirror of what could be," whispered Elara.
"Or of what will be," added Liriel.
I touched the edge of the glass. It was cold, but not hostile. There were no whispers. No voice trying to convince me I was a failure, that they'd be better off without me. Just silence. A silence that didn't judge.
"Why is it here?" I asked.
"Because Malrik knows the greatest lie isn't the one he tells," answered Liriel. "It's the one we tell ourselves."
We fell silent for a moment. Even Vespera stopped playing with her arrows.
"And what's ours?" I asked.
"That we don't deserve what we have," said Elara, without hesitation. "That with every victory, we're only delaying defeat."
"That chaos is just disorder," added Vespera, "and not… choice."
Liriel looked toward the horizon. "That, deep down, we still think we're better off alone."
No one disagreed. Because, at some point, we had all thought that.
Then the mirror trembled.
Not violently. Sadly.
The flowers around it withered. The reflected sky darkened. And for a moment, we saw something new: ourselves, years in the future. Not as heroes. Not as saviors. Just… alive. Sitting around a campfire, laughing at something silly, with worn clothes and tired eyes, but at peace.
"Is that what it wants to show us?" I asked, voice trembling.
"No," said Liriel. "It's what it fears we'll reach."
The mirror cracked a little more. And from its center, a small key fell—not of silver, but of carved wood, bearing the symbol of an open flower.
"It's the key to the next step," said Elara, picking it up carefully. "Not to what Malrik prepared… but to what we choose."
We kept walking. The mirror stayed behind, but its image remained with us—not as a promise, but as a possibility.
By dusk, we camped beside a stream of calm waters. Vespera made a stew with roots that, miraculously, weren't poisonous. Elara lit a fire with a snap of her fingers—without fainting. Liriel sat by the water's edge, her feet almost touching the surface, as if testing whether it was still real.
"You okay?" I asked, sitting beside her.
"I'm… tired," she admitted. "Not in the body. In the soul."
"That's normal," I said. "Even goddesses need rest."
She smiled, almost imperceptibly. "Do you think we'll make it there? To the end?"
"I don't know. But it's not about the end. It's about the path."
She looked at me for a long moment. Then, in a low voice, she asked, "And if the path separates us?"
"Then we'll find each other again. Always."
She didn't answer. She just rested her head lightly on my shoulder — a gesture so human, so fragile, that I almost forgot she had once been a goddess.
Later, while the others slept, I stayed awake, watching the stars. Liriel's necklace pulsed softly against my chest. Malrik's medallion, in my backpack, was silent. But the child's mirror… it glowed.
I picked it up carefully. This time, it didn't show the future. It showed the past: the day we met. Me, lost, confused, called a pervert for the first time. Elara, trying magic and falling over. Vespera, laughing at everything. Liriel, complaining about the cheap wine.
And despite everything — the debts, the disasters, the transparent clothes — there was something there that no mirror could corrupt: joy. True. Imperfect. Ours.
The next morning, we left early. The sun rose behind the trees, painting the path in gold. The wooden key rested in my palm, light but meaningful.
"Where to now?" asked Vespera.
"Forward," I replied.
"Always?" asked Elara.
"Always."
Liriel floated beside me, her eyes fixed on the horizon. "Malrik will try again. He'll show us our fears, our flaws, our regrets."
"And we'll choose the truth again," said Vespera, with a crooked smile.
"Even if it hurts," added Elara.
"That's exactly when we must," I agreed.
And so, we continued. Not as heroes. Not as saviors. Just as a clumsy, imperfect, but loyal group.
Because, in the end, it wasn't about defeating Malrik.
It was about not letting him convince us that the truth wasn't worth it.
And as we walked, the mirror in my backpack reflected the sun — not as a trap, 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.