The road did not end. It never ended. But, for the first time, it didn't feel like a punishment — it felt like a silent invitation, made not with words, but with the way the moss grew in perfect spirals and the wind curved around us as if it recognized our steps.
"You're walking differently," said Vespera, without taking her eyes off the path. Her bow rested on her back, but her hands were relaxed — rare for her, who lived in constant movement.
"It's just because I stopped expecting the ground to open a portal with every step."
"Liar," she replied, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "You're quieter. Less scared."
I didn't deny it. It was true. Ever since we crossed the bridge of shattered mirrors and left behind the silent echo of Malrik, something had settled inside me. It wasn't courage, exactly. It was the certainty that, no matter what came next, I wouldn't be alone.
Elara walked ahead, her fingers brushing the low leaves with a new kind of curiosity. "The magic here is… quiet. Not like it's sleeping, but like it's listening."
"Or waiting for someone to arrive," added Liriel, floating just above the ground, her feet almost touching the moss without leaving a trace.
She no longer wore the spider medallion. I had wrapped it in thick cloth and stored it in my backpack, as if she feared it might awaken. The necklace that once bound her to the mortal plane — now around her neck — shone with a soft, steady light, as though responding to something ahead.
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 at her neck pulsed — not with urgency, but with recognition. I touched the statue. It was cold, but not hostile. And, for an instant, 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 get things 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 continued 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 camped beside a calm stream. 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 at 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 soft, steady 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 showed neither the past nor 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 transparent 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 wasn't 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 weren't 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.