The road did not end. It never ended. But, for the first time, it didn't feel like it was dragging us — it felt like it was waiting for us.
Ever since we crossed the bridge of shattered mirrors and left behind Malrik's silent echo, something had changed in the way the world responded. Not with whispers or opening portals, but with an attentive quiet — as if the path itself had begun to listen to us.
"You're walking differently," said Vespera, without taking her eyes off the horizon. 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. Like 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 confidence — not in myself, but in the ones walking beside me.
Elara came right behind, her fingers brushing 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," added Liriel, floating a few feet 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 — gleamed with a soft, steady light, like the first sign of dawn.
That was when we saw it.
In the middle of the road, there was a small statue. Not made of stone or metal, but carved from intertwined roots, with soft, almost human features. It was kneeling, hands joined before its chest, as if in prayer. Around it, wildflowers grew in perfect circles, as though planted by invisible hands.
"This is… weird," murmured Vespera, stopping a few steps away.
"It's not a trap," said Liriel, her eyes narrowing. "It's a memorial."
I approached carefully. The necklace around her neck pulsed — not with urgency, but with recognition. I touched the statue. It was cold, but not hostile. And, for a moment, I heard a whisper — not in words, but in emotions: regret, hope, choice.
"At the bottom of the statue," said Elara, kneeling, "there's an inscription."
I read it softly:
"Here rests what could not be reflected.
Neither lie.
Nor truth.
Only a heart that tried."
We fell silent. Even the wind seemed to stop.
"Who made this?" I asked.
"Someone who knew Malrik before he became what he is," answered Liriel quietly. "Maybe even… someone who loved him."
No one spoke for a while. The idea that the Weaver of Lies had once been nothing more than a heart trying to do right… was almost more frightening than any monster.
"Does this change anything?" Vespera finally asked.
"No," said Liriel. "But it reminds us that even villains start as people."
We kept walking. The statue stayed behind, but its weight remained with us — not as a doubt, but as a warning: the line between truth and lie is thinner than we imagine.
By dusk, we set up camp near a stream of calm water. Vespera made a stew with roots that were, miraculously, not 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.
"You okay?" I asked, sitting beside her.
"I'm… thinking," she replied. "About what happens if Malrik doesn't want to be defeated. If he only wants to be understood."
"Then we understand him," I said. "But we don't let him destroy everything."
She smiled, almost imperceptibly. "You're learning."
That night, 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, remained silent. But the child's mirror… it 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, with worn-out clothes and tired eyes, but at peace.
And, despite everything — the debts, the disasters, the see-through clothes — there was something there no mirror could corrupt: belonging.
The next morning, we set out early. The sun rose behind the trees, tinting the path in gold. The road continued, but it no longer scared us.
Because we knew that, no matter what Malrik showed us, no matter how many mirrors tried to divide us… the most important truth was not out there.
It was between 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 were not lost. Just waiting for someone with the courage to hear them again.
And, for the first time, I didn't feel like we were walking toward an end.
We felt like we were walking toward a choice — and perhaps toward a forgiveness we didn't even know we needed to give.