The road to the east continued, but something had changed. It was no longer just a path. It was an invitation — silent, persistent, almost intimate. As if the world itself were watching us, not with judgment, but with curiosity.
We had been walking in silence for hours. Not even Vespera was making jokes about lost arrows or stolen wine. There was a stillness among us — not of tension, but of understanding. We had passed through the mirrors, faced the shadows of our fears, and yet we still walked together. That, in itself, was already a victory.
It was Elara who broke the silence first.
"Do you feel that?" she asked, stopping suddenly.
"Feel what?" I asked. "Besides hunger, thirst, and the feeling that my boots are falling apart?"
She ignored my tone and pointed at the air. "The silence. It's… different."
Liriel, floating a few feet above the ground, frowned. "It's not silence. It's absence. Someone erased something."
Vespera spun an arrow between her fingers, eyes sharp. "Like a concealment spell?"
"Worse," Liriel replied. "It's as if this stretch of the road has been… forgotten. Even the birds avoid flying here."
We stopped in the middle of the path. The sun still shone, the trees still had leaves, but everything seemed faded — as if color had been slowly drained away, without hurry. Even the wind seemed to hesitate before blowing.
"Malrik," I murmured.
"Not exactly," corrected Liriel. "He wouldn't erase a place. He would turn it into a lie. This… is something else."
Then we heard it.
Not a sound. An echo.
A distant melody, almost familiar. Soft, sad, as if someone were singing a song only we knew.
"It's the melody of the fragments," said Elara, surprised. "But… different."
"Older," Liriel completed, her eyes fixed on the horizon. "Much older."
We followed the sound. It guided us like an invisible thread, pulling us into a clearing where time seemed to have stopped. In the center stood a fountain — not of water, but of light. A golden column, pulsing, wrapped in silvery mist. Around it, mirrors were buried in the ground, turned face down, as if they had been forced not to reflect anything.
"This is a sanctuary," said Liriel, with a rare reverence in her voice. "One of the last places where truth was kept before the mirrors began to lie."
"Why doesn't anyone speak of it?" I asked.
"Because those who came here… never returned the same," she answered. "Or didn't return at all."
Vespera approached the fountain cautiously. "And what if we just take a quick look? Like… a spiritual pit stop?"
"This isn't a place to visit," said Elara, gripping her staff tightly. "It's a place to confront."
We fell silent. The melody grew, wrapping around us like an ancient embrace. And without anyone deciding, we began walking toward the light.
The world disappeared.
Not violently. Gently. As if it had been wrapped in silk and carefully stored away.
We were in an endless corridor made of doors. Each one had a symbol: a bow, a staff, a necklace, a sword. Our stories. Our choices.
"Each door leads to a truth you haven't yet accepted," said a voice — not from outside, but from within ourselves.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"I am what remains after the lie is gone."
Vespera touched the door with the bow. "Can I open it?"
"If you're ready."
She hesitated. Then pushed it open.
The scene revealed Vespera alone, in an empty tavern, telling stories to empty chairs. No one laughed. No one listened. She still smiled, but her eyes were dry.
"Oh," she murmured. "So that's it."
"You fear being just entertainment," said the voice. "Not remembered for who you are, but for what you made others feel."
Vespera closed the door. Not in anger. In sadness.
Elara opened hers without hesitation.
Inside, she faced a mirror, repeating spells that never worked. Each attempt left her weaker, more desperate. Until one day, she stopped. And said: "Maybe I don't need to be strong. Maybe I just need to be here."
"You think your weakness makes you useless," said the voice.
"I know it's not true," Elara replied, closing the door firmly. "But sometimes… I forget."
Liriel didn't open any door. She just stood before hers, eyes filled with something I had never seen before: vulnerability.
"You don't need to," said the voice. "You already know."
She nodded, saying nothing.
At last, it was my turn.
My door had no symbol. Only my name, written in simple letters.
I opened it.
Inside, I was back in my old world. Sitting in a dark room, staring at a screen, alone. No one called me. No one waited for me. I existed, but it didn't matter.
"You think you were brought here by chance," said the voice. "That you don't deserve to be with them."
"I know that's not true," I replied, my voice trembling. "But… what if one day they realize I'm just a mistake that happened to work out?"
"Then they'll choose you again," said the voice. "Because truth isn't about perfection. It's about choice."
I closed the door.
We returned to the clearing as if we had just woken from a dream. The fountain still shone, but the melody had stopped.
"What was that?" I asked, breathless.
"A test," said Liriel. "Not from Malrik. From the path itself. It wants to know if we still have the courage to carry the truth… even when it hurts."
Vespera sat down on the grass, her eyes distant. "I don't want to be just a joke."
"You never were," said Elara, sitting beside her. "You're the courage that laughs to keep from crying."
Liriel looked at me. "And you?"
"I'm… learning that I don't have to be a hero to matter."
She smiled — small, but genuine. "Good answer."
We stayed there for a while, letting the silence heal us. When we set off again, the road seemed clearer. The colors had returned. Even the birds were singing once more.
By dusk, we camped beside a stream. Vespera prepared a soup 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.
"Are you okay?" I asked, sitting beside her.
"I feel… light," she replied. "As if I've let go of something I'd been carrying for a long time."
"What was it?"
"The fear that, deep down, I didn't deserve to be here."
"You do," I said simply.
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, inside my pack, was silent. But the child's mirror… it glowed.
I picked it up carefully. This time, it didn't show the past or the future. It showed the present: the four of us around the campfire, laughing at something silly, our clothes worn, our eyes tired — but at peace.
And despite everything — the debts, the disasters, the tattered clothes — there was something there no mirror could ever corrupt: belonging.
The next morning, we left early. The sun rose behind the trees, painting the road gold. The path continued, 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 among us.
And as we walked, the mirror in my pack 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.