The road continued, but not like before. Now, each step felt less like a flight and more like a return — as if we walked not to find Malrik, but to rediscover something he himself had hidden: the memory of what it means to be human.
The morning air carried the smell of wet earth and dry leaves, that silent perfume that exists only when the world takes a deep breath. No bird sang, but not out of fear — out of respect. Even the forest seemed to understand that we were close to something that could not be rushed.
"You're walking differently," said Vespera, without taking her eyes off the path. Her bow rested on her back, but her hands were calm — a rare, almost intimate sign.
"It's just because I stopped expecting the ground to open a portal with every step."
She laughed, softly. "Liar. You're calmer. As if you finally accepted that you don't need to prove anything to anyone."
I didn't deny it. It was true. Since the well of truths and Malrik's letter, something had settled inside me. It wasn't courage. It was trust — not in myself, but in those who walked beside me.
Elara came right behind, her fingers brushing against the low leaves with a new curiosity. "The magic here is… quiet. Not as if it's asleep, but as if it's listening to us."
"Or waiting for us," completed Liriel, floating a few inches above the ground, her feet almost touching the moss without leaving a trace. The necklace that once bound her to the mortal plane — now around her neck — glowed with a soft, steady light, like the first sign of dawn.
Then we saw it.
In the middle of the road, there was a fallen tree. Not from storm or age, but as if it had lain down on purpose. On its trunk, someone had left a book. Not bound in leather, nor sealed with wax — just pages tied with thick twine, the edges stained by rain.
"This is… strange," murmured Vespera, stopping a few steps away. "No place like this leaves a book lying around for nothing."
"It's not a book," said Liriel, her eyes narrowing. "It's a testimony."
I approached carefully. The necklace on her neck pulsed — not with urgency, but with recognition. I touched the cover. It was damp, but intact. I opened it.
The pages were written in a familiar handwriting — firm, elegant, slightly slanted. It was Malrik's script.
"If you are reading this, it is because you didn't run when you could. That already makes you stronger than I was.
I built lies to protect freedom. But, over time, I forgot that truth can protect as well.
The path ahead doesn't lead to a battle. It leads to a choice.
And, for the first time, I won't be the one to decide."
We fell silent. Even the wind stopped.
"He's asking us for help?" Elara asked, incredulous.
"No," Liriel replied. "He's inviting us to judge him."
We placed the book in my backpack, next to the wooden key, the black feather, the child's mirror, and the sphere of light from the well. Not as evidence. As promise.
We kept walking. The forest opened into a circular clearing, surrounded by ancient stones, covered in moss and worn-down inscriptions. In the center, there was a dry fountain — not of marble or common stone, but made of a dark crystal, opaque, as if it had swallowed light over the centuries.
"This isn't natural," murmured Elara, approaching carefully.
"Nothing here is," replied Liriel. "But this… is old. Older than the gods. Older than the mirrors."
Vespera touched one of the stones. "There are runes. But they're not in any language I know."
"Because they're not meant to be read," said Liriel. "They're meant to be felt."
I knelt before the fountain. Liriel's necklace pulsed faintly — not with urgency, but with recognition. I touched the edge of the crystal. Cold, but not hostile. And, for a moment, I heard a name:
"Aelthara."
"What was that?" Elara asked, seeing my expression change.
"Nothing. Just… an echo."
Then the fountain trembled.
Not with force. With sadness.
The dark crystal cracked, and from it emerged a silver light, soft as moonlight filtered through clouds. The light spiraled upward, forming a feminine figure — tall, with long hair and closed eyes, dressed in fabric that looked made of mist and memory.
"Who are you?" I asked, my sword still sheathed, but ready.
She opened her eyes. They were not white, nor golden. They were empty — not of emotion, but of time. As if she had lived so long she'd forgotten even her own name.
"I am the guardian of what was erased. You have come to seek the truth. But are you prepared to carry what was forgotten?"
Liriel stepped forward. "What was erased?"
"The name of the first mirror. The face of the first liar. The day truth stopped being a choice and became a threat."
Vespera frowned. "And why does that matter now?"
"Because Malrik is not the creator of the lie. He is its last defender. And if you destroy him without understanding why he exists… the truth will become just as cruel as the lie that replaced it."
We fell silent. Even the wind stopped.
"Show us," said Liriel, her voice firm.
The figure extended her hand.
"Only one can look. Because only one can carry what was lost without breaking."
Everyone looked at me.
"Why me?" I asked.
"Because you choose to stay," Elara answered. "Even when you don't understand."
"Because you doubt… but you don't give up," said Vespera.
Liriel didn't speak. She just squeezed my hand for an instant — brief, warm, human.
I approached the figure. She touched my forehead.
The world disappeared.
I saw a city of golden light, built on pillars of crystal. There was no war, no hunger. But there was also no choice. Everyone spoke the same truth. Everyone thought the same way. Difference was punished not with imprisonment, but with erasure.
I saw the first mirror — not made to reflect, but to question. A craftsman created it after losing his son. He asked the glass: "Why him? Why not me?" And the mirror answered… with a question.
It was the first lie. Not of words, but of possibility.
And with it, free will was born.
The rulers of the golden city shattered the mirror. But the shards spread. And with them came chaos… and freedom.
I saw Malrik — not as a general, but as one of those who saved the shards. He didn't want to destroy truth. He wanted to protect the right to doubt it.
I returned to the clearing breathless, kneeling on the damp grass.
"Takumi?" Elara called, kneeling beside me.
"I… understood," I whispered.
The silver figure began to disappear. Before fading, she left something on the ground: a small crystal blade, the size of a feather, bearing the symbol of an open eye.
— Use it wisely. The most dangerous truth is not the one that hides… but the one that imposes itself.
We placed the crystal in my backpack, next to Malrik's book.
That night, we camped under a clear sky. Vespera prepared a soup with roots that, miraculously, were not poisonous. Elara lit a fire with a snap of her fingers — without fainting. Liriel sat beside me, watching the flames.
"You're different," she said.
"It's just because now I know Malrik isn't the villain."
"He's still dangerous."
"But maybe… we don't need to destroy him. Just remind him of what he protects."
She smiled, small but genuine. "Maybe."
Later, while the others slept, I stayed awake, watching the stars. Liriel's necklace — now around her neck — glowed with a steady, gentle light. Malrik's medallion, in my backpack, was silent. But the child's mirror reflected the moonlight, as if it knew we were getting close to the end.
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 fire, laughing at something silly, wearing worn-out clothes and tired eyes, but at peace.
And despite everything — the debts, the disasters, the transparent clothes — there was something there that no mirror could corrupt: belonging.
The next morning, we left early. The sun rose behind the trees, tinting the path in gold. 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 among us.
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.
And for the first time, I didn't feel like we were walking toward an ending.
It felt like we were walking toward a choice — and perhaps toward a forgiveness we didn't even know we needed to give.