The path did not end. It never ended. But, for the first time, it didn't feel like an escape — it felt like a return. As if each step brought us closer not to an enemy, but to something we had lost without knowing it existed: the memory of what it means to choose, even when everything around whispers for you to give up.
The morning air was gentle, carrying the scent of wet earth and decaying leaves — that silent perfume that only appears 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 approaching something that could not be rushed.
"You're walking different," 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 you don't have to prove anything to anyone."
I didn't deny it. It was true. Ever 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 the low leaves with a new curiosity. "The magic here is… quiet. Not as if it's sleeping, but as if it's listening to us."
"Or waiting for us," Liriel added, 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 — shone with a soft, constant light, like the first sign of dawn.
Then we saw it.
In the middle of the road stood a small statue. Not of stone or metal, but carved from intertwined root, with soft, almost human features. It was kneeling, hands together before its chest, as if in prayer. Around it, wildflowers grew in perfect circles, as if planted by invisible hands.
"This is… strange," murmured Vespera, stopping a few steps away.
"It's not a trap," said Liriel, narrowing her eyes. "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 a moment, I heard a whisper — not in words, but in emotions: regret, hope, choice.
"At the base of the statue," said Elara, kneeling, "there's an inscription."
I read it softly:
> "Here lies what could not be reflected.
Neither lie. Nor truth.
Only a heart that tried."
We fell silent. Even the wind seemed to pause.
"Who made this?" I asked.
"Someone who knew Malrik before he became what he is," answered Liriel, her voice low. "Maybe even… someone who loved him."
No one spoke for a while. The idea that the Weaver of Lies had once been just a heart trying to do what was right… was almost more frightening than any monster.
"Does that change anything?" Vespera finally asked.
"No," Liriel replied. "But it reminds us that even villains start as people."
We continued walking. The statue was left 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 made camp beside a calm stream. Vespera prepared a stew with roots that, miraculously, weren't 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, barely noticeable. "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 constant, gentle light. Malrik's medallion, in my backpack, was 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, wearing worn-out clothes and carrying 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, painting 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 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.