The road didn't end. It never did. But, for the first time, it didn't feel like a punishment. It felt like a choice — and not just ours.
Since we left the sanctuary of shattered mirrors, something had changed in the way the world responded to us. The trees no longer whispered warnings; the streams no longer rushed as if trying to escape. Even the wind seemed to walk beside us, as if it too wanted to see how far we would go.
"You're smiling," said Vespera, not looking at me as she adjusted a strap on her bow.
"It's just because my boots haven't fallen apart yet."
"Liar." She laughed softly. "You're happy."
I didn't deny it. Because, in truth, I was. It wasn't easy joy — the kind that comes with clear victories or shining rewards. It was something quieter, more lasting: the feeling that, even with all we had lost — and all we could still lose — we were exactly where we were meant to be.
Elara walked a few steps ahead, staff resting on her shoulder, eyes attentive to the falling leaves. "Something's changed in the air," she murmured. "The magic… it's calmer. As if it's waiting."
"Or as if it knows we're coming," added Liriel, floating just above the ground, her feet nearly touching the earth but leaving no trace.
She no longer wore the spider medallion. She had wrapped it in thick cloth and kept it in her backpack, as if afraid it might wake. But the necklace I wore — the one that kept her tied to this plane — glowed brighter with every step, as if responding to something ahead.
That's when we saw it.
In the middle of the road, there was a stone. Not big, not ancient. Just an ordinary stone, covered in moss. But around it, the ground was clean — as if no one had stepped there in years. And on top of the stone rested a letter.
Vespera stepped forward, but Liriel grabbed her arm. "Don't touch it. It could be a trap."
"Or it could just be a letter," Vespera retorted, but stepped back.
I approached carefully. The letter had no seal, no name. Only a simple symbol drawn in silver ink: an open flower, identical to the one on the wooden key we still carried.
I opened it.
If you've come this far, it's because you've chosen the truth more than once.
Not out of courage. Not out of duty.
Out of loyalty.
The next step is not a trial. It is an invitation.
Come. The path recognizes you.
There was no signature. But the handwriting… it was familiar. Light, fluid, almost musical. As if written by someone who had known us before we even existed.
"It's hers," said Elara, reading over my shoulder.
"Whose?" I asked.
"The road's," answered Liriel with a half-smile. "Or the one who guides it."
We went on. The letter vanished as soon as I let it go — not in smoke, but in dry leaves carried away by the wind.
By dusk, we reached a narrow valley, surrounded by mountains so tall the sun barely touched the ground. At its center was an ancient stone bridge, arched and covered in ivy. On the other side, the mist moved as if it were breathing.
"This place isn't on any maps," said Vespera, peering into the abyss below. "Not the stolen ones, not the fake ones."
"Because it's not a place," explained Liriel. "It's a threshold."
We stopped at the bridge's entrance. The air there was colder, denser. The necklace around my neck pulsed — not with fear, but with recognition.
"Anyone want to turn back?" I asked, looking at them.
"After all this?" Vespera snorted. "Only if it's to fetch wine."
Elara smiled. "I've lost too much to give up now."
Liriel said nothing. She simply took a step forward, crossing the first arch of the bridge.
Nothing happened. No thunder. No portal. Only the sound of our footsteps echoing on stone.
Halfway across, though, the world changed.
Not violently. Gently. As if we had entered a dream we were all sharing.
The mountains disappeared. The mist faded. We were in a garden.
Not an ordinary garden. It was made of light and memory. Crystal flowers bloomed at our touch. Glass trees whispered ancient stories. And in the center stood a simple wooden bench, where someone — or something — awaited us.
It was a woman. Young, with silver hair and eyes that seemed to hold the entire sky. She wore a white dress, simple but radiant, as if woven from starlight.
"You came," she said, without surprise.
"Who are you?" I asked, my sword still sheathed, but ready.
"I'm what remains when all lies are gone." She smiled. "You may call me Veridiana. Or simply… the Path."
Liriel frowned. "You're not a goddess. Not a spirit. You're… something older."
"I am the balance between what was and what can be," Veridiana replied. "And you… you are the first in millennia to reach me without seeking power, revenge, or redemption."
"We just wanted to keep going," said Elara simply.
Veridiana nodded. "And that is why you are here."
She stood and walked to a tree at the center of the garden. Its fruits were not apples or pears — they were luminous spheres, each containing a scene: a kiss never given, a word never spoken, a step never taken.
"Choose one," she said. "Not to change the past. To accept it."
Vespera was the first. She chose a sphere where she saw herself alone in an empty tavern, telling stories to vacant chairs. She touched the sphere. It dissolved into light. "I don't need to be heard," she said firmly. "I just need to keep telling."
Elara chose one where she saw herself failing a spell, falling, being ridiculed. She touched it. The light surrounded her. "My weakness doesn't define me," she murmured. "My persistence does."
Liriel hesitated. Then she chose one where she saw Azeron — not as an enemy, but as someone who once loved her, and whom she had loved too, before power corrupted everything. She touched the sphere. Silent tears fell. "Forgiveness isn't forgetting," she said. "It's choosing to move on."
Finally, it was my turn.
I chose a sphere where I was back in my old world, alone, invisible. I touched it. The light enveloped me — warm, welcoming. "I wasn't brought here by accident," I said. "I was brought here because someone believed I could belong."
Veridiana smiled. "You no longer need to prove anything. The path has already chosen you back."
The garden began to fade — not like a dream ending, but like a promise fulfilled.
When we returned to the bridge, the valley was different. The mist had cleared. The sun, now visible, painted the ground in gold.
"What happened?" I asked.
"You remembered who you are," Liriel answered, gazing at the horizon. "And that was enough."
We moved on. The road continued, but it no longer frightened us. Because we knew that, no matter what Malrik showed us, no matter how many mirrors tried to divide us… the most important truth wasn't out there.
It was between us.
And as we walked, Liriel's necklace 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, for the first time, that wasn't just enough.
It was everything.