The road didn't end. It never ended. But for the first time, it didn't feel like punishment. It felt like a choice — and not just ours.
Since we had left the sanctuary of the shattered mirrors, something had changed in how 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 without looking at me, tightening 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 the easy kind of happiness that comes from clear victories or shining rewards. It was something quieter, more lasting — the feeling that, even with everything we had lost — and everything we might still lose — we were exactly where we were meant to be.
Elara walked a few steps ahead, her staff resting on her shoulder, her eyes alert 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 almost touching the earth but leaving no trace.
She no longer wore the spider medallion. She had stored it in her pack, wrapped in thick cloth, as if afraid it might awaken. But the necklace I wore — the one that bound her to this plane — shone 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 large, not ancient. Just an ordinary stone, covered in moss. But around it, the ground was clean — as if no one had stepped there for years. And on top of the stone rested a letter.
Vespera started toward it, but Liriel caught her arm. "Don't touch it. It could be a trap."
"Or it could just be a letter," Vespera retorted, but she 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 carved 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 isn't a test. It's an invitation.
Come. The path recognizes you."
There was no signature. But the handwriting… it was familiar. Light, flowing, almost musical. As if it had been written by someone who knew us before we even existed.
"It's from her," said Elara, reading over my shoulder.
"From who?" I asked.
"From the road," answered Liriel with a faint smile. "Or from what guides it."
We moved on. The letter vanished as soon as I let go — not in smoke, but in dry leaves carried away by the wind.
By sunset, we reached a narrow valley, surrounded by mountains so tall the sun barely touched the ground below. At the center stood an old stone bridge, arched and covered in ivy. On the other side, the mist moved as if it breathed.
"This isn't on any map," said Vespera, peering over the edge into the abyss. "Not on the stolen ones, not on the fake ones."
"Because it's not a place," explained Liriel. "It's a threshold."
We stopped at the entrance to the bridge. 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 scoffed. "Only if it's to fetch more 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 the stone.
But halfway across, the world changed.
Not violently. Gently. As if we had stepped into a dream we all shared.
The mountains vanished. The mist lifted. We stood in a garden.
Not an ordinary one. It was made of light and memory. Crystal flowers bloomed at our touch. Glass trees whispered ancient stories. And at the center stood a simple wooden bench — where someone, or something, was waiting for us.
She 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 though woven from starlight.
"You came," she said, without surprise.
"Who are you?" I asked, my sword still sheathed but ready.
"I am 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. Nor a spirit. You're… something older."
"I am the balance between what was and what can be," replied Veridiana. "And you… you are the first in millennia to reach me without seeking power, vengeance, or redemption."
"We just wanted to keep going," said Elara simply.
Veridiana nodded. "And that's why you're here."
She stood and walked toward a tree in 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 my stories."
Elara chose one where she saw herself failing a spell, falling, being ridiculed. She touched it. The light embraced 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 surrounded me — warm, welcoming. "I wasn't brought here by accident," I said. "I was brought 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," said Liriel, gazing at the horizon. "And that was enough."
We kept walking. The road stretched ahead, 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.