The road did not wait. It never waited. As soon as we left Veridiana's garden behind, the world resumed its usual rhythm: imperfect, unpredictable, and slightly inclined to make us trip at the worst possible moment.
But something had changed. Not in the trees, nor in the sky — in us. We were not the same ones who had entered that valley of broken mirrors. We had carried our truths to the threshold of the impossible… and discovered that they still held.
"You're walking differently," said Vespera, without taking her eyes off the path.
"It's just because I stopped looking at the ground to check if there were hidden bills."
She laughed, but her smile was lighter, less forced. "That's not it. You're… more present."
I didn't know what to say. I just felt Liriel's necklace pulse against my chest, as if agreeing.
Elara walked ahead, her fingers brushing the low leaves with a newfound curiosity. "The magic here has changed," she murmured. "It's not chaotic. It's… attentive."
"As if the world itself were listening to us," added Liriel, floating just above the ground, her feet almost touching the earth but leaving no trace.
We stopped at dusk in a clearing where moss grew in perfect spirals, as if drawn by a patient hand. Vespera improvised a trap with silver wires and branches — not to hunt, just to feel like she still had control over something. Elara prepared a tea with wild herbs that, miraculously, didn't make her dizzy. Liriel sat under a leaning tree, looking at the horizon as if waiting for an answer.
"You think Malrik already knows we passed through the garden?" I asked, sitting beside her.
"He doesn't know," Liriel replied, without taking her eyes off the sunset. "But he'll feel it. Pure truth leaves a mark on the fabric of lies. It's like blood on a white sheet."
We fell silent. Even the wind seemed to respect the moment.
Then we heard it.
Not a sound. An absence of sound. A void where the crickets' song should have been.
Vespera jumped to her feet, bow already in hand. Elara tightened her staff. Liriel stood, eyes narrowing.
From the middle of the forest, a figure emerged.
It had no face. No fixed form. It was made of thin shadows, like shattered glass held together by invisible threads. And in its hands, it carried a mirror — but not one of the ones we knew. This one was entirely black, without reflection, as if it had swallowed all the light around it.
"It's an echo," whispered Liriel. "A fragment of Malrik's mind. He's testing our reaction."
The figure stopped a few meters from us. It didn't speak. It just extended the mirror.
"Don't look," warned Elara. "Black mirrors don't show what you are. They show what you failed to be."
Vespera stepped forward. "And if we refuse?"
The echo tilted its head, as if considering the question. Then, slowly, it turned the mirror… toward itself.
For an instant, its form dissolved — and in its place appeared Malrik. Not the dark general from legends, but an ordinary man, with tired eyes and trembling hands. He was sitting on a simple chair in a small house, holding a cup of tea that slowly cooled. In the corner of the room, a child played with wooden blocks. No armor. No weapons. Just silence… and loneliness.
"What is that?" I asked, confused.
"It's what he lost," said Liriel softly. "Or what he pretended to lose to become what he is."
The echo pulled the mirror back. The image vanished. The shadow form returned.
"Why show us this?" asked Elara.
"Because he wants us to doubt," replied Liriel. "Not the truth… but the necessity of destroying him."
We were silent. Even Vespera seemed shaken.
"What if he's not the villain?" she murmured.
"He is," said Liriel firmly. "But like every villain, he thinks he's right. And that… makes everything more dangerous."
The echo retreated slowly. Before disappearing into the trees, it dropped something on the ground: a black feather, soft, almost unreal.
Vespera picked it up carefully. "Is it from a raven?"
"No," said Liriel. "It's from a bird that no longer exists. Extinct for trying to sing two truths at the same time."
We placed the feather in my backpack, beside the child's mirror and the wooden key. We didn't know why. We just felt we should.
That night, we slept under a clear sky, dotted with stars that seemed to watch quietly. No one spoke much. But before falling asleep, Elara approached.
"Takumi… do you still think we're the heroes of this story?"
"No," I replied. "But maybe we don't need to be. Maybe we just need to keep going."
She smiled — small, but genuine — and rested her head on my shoulder for an instant, just long enough to remind me that, even in silence, we understood each other.
The next morning, we set out early. The sun rose behind the trees, painting the path in gold. The spider medallion remained stored away, but Liriel's necklace glowed with a steady, gentle light.
It was at noon that we found it.
In the middle of the road stood a statue. Not ancient, not carved by masters. It was made of broken mirrors glued together, as if someone had tried to rebuild a face from shattered fragments. And in the center of the statue's chest rested a letter.
I opened it carefully.
"You will not defeat me with weapons.
You will not overcome me with magic.
My only fear… is that you see beyond the lie… and still choose the truth."
"It's a challenge," said Elara.
"It's a plea," corrected Liriel.
Vespera laughed softly. "Then let's accept it."
We continued. The road did not end. But, for the first time, it wasn't a nightmare. It was a path. Our path.
And as we walked, the wind carried the sound of something rare: the song of a bird that no longer existed.
Maybe, I thought, some truths weren't lost. Just waiting for someone brave enough to hear them again.