The road continued. It never stopped. But, for the first time, it didn't feel like an escape — it felt like a path chosen with clarity, as if each step was less about destiny and more about intention.
The morning sun shone softly through the treetops, casting long shadows that danced to the rhythm of our steps. No portal opened. No new debt reached us. Even the birds sang with a lightness that seemed to say: You're close.
"You're different today," said Vespera, without looking at me, adjusting a strap on her bow with rare care.
"It's just because I slept without dreaming about bills."
She laughed, but her gaze was alert — the kind of alertness that only appears when you feel something is about to change.
Elara was right behind us, her fingers brushing the pages of the grimoire not out of nervousness, but familiarity. "The magic here is… calm. Not as if it's absent, but as if it stopped taking deep breaths. As if it's waiting for us."
Liriel floated a few inches above the ground, her feet almost touching the moss but leaving no trace. The necklace that once bound her to this world — now around her neck — glowed with a constant grayish-blue light, like the first sign of dawn after a starless night.
Then we saw it.
In the middle of the road, there was a small wooden table. Nothing extraordinary — just a worn tabletop, four crooked legs, and on it, a single object: a transparent glass vial sealed with a cork stopper. Inside, a luminous drop of water floated, spinning slowly, as if it had its own rhythm.
"This is… strange," murmured Vespera, stopping a few steps away. "No obvious trap. No sign of poison. Just… this."
"It's not a vial," said Liriel, frowning. "It's a deposit."
I approached slowly. The necklace on her neck pulsed — not with urgency, but with recognition. I touched the table. It was cold, but not hostile. And for an instant, I heard a whisper — not in words, but emotions: gratitude, choice, farewell.
"There's a note," said Elara, pointing to a folded piece of paper beside the vial.
I unfolded it carefully.
"You do not need more power.
Nor more weapons. You only need to remember what brought you this far. This is the last gift from someone who believed in you before you knew how to believe in yourselves.
Use it wisely."
"Celine," I whispered.
Liriel stepped closer, her eyes fixed on the vial. "She left part of her essence here. Not to strengthen us. To remind us."
"Remind us of what?" I asked.
"That even goddesses fall… and rise again with help."
Vespera extended her hand but stopped before touching it. "What if we mess up again?"
"Mistakes don't kill the truth," Elara replied softly. "They only hide it for a while."
We fell silent. Even the wind seemed to respect the moment.
It was Liriel who took the vial. When she touched it, the luminous drop pulsed, and a scene appeared in the air — not as an illusion, but as a shared memory:
We saw Celine, alone in the empty throne room, holding the same vial. Her eyes were wet, but firm. She whispered: "You are what I never had the courage to be. Human enough to be imperfect. Perfect enough to be unforgettable." Then she threw the vial into the wind — and it traveled here, as if guided by a thread of hope.
The vision faded.
"She's saying goodbye?" Vespera asked, her voice softer than usual.
"No," Liriel replied, placing the vial inside my backpack. "She's saying she trusts."
We continued walking. The forest opened into a clearing where moss grew in perfect spirals, as if drawn by invisible hands. In the center, there was a dry fountain — not of stone, but of dark crystal, opaque, as if it had swallowed the light over the centuries.
"This isn't natural," murmured Elara, approaching cautiously.
"Nothing here is," said Liriel. "But this… is ancient. Before the gods. Before the mirrors."
Vespera touched one of the stones around it. "There are runes. But not in any language I know."
"Because they're not meant to be read," explained Liriel. "They're meant to be felt."
I knelt before the fountain. Liriel's necklace pulsed lightly — not with urgency, but with recognition. I touched the edge of the crystal. Cold, but not hostile. And for an instant, I heard a name:
— Aelthara.
"What was that?" asked Elara, 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 like moonlight filtered through clouds. The light spiraled upward, forming a feminine figure — tall, long-haired, eyes closed, dressed in fabric that looked like mist and memory.
"Who are you?" I asked, my sword still sheathed.
She opened her eyes. They weren't white, nor golden. They were empty — not of emotion, but of time. As if she had lived so long she had forgotten even her own name.
— I am the guardian of what was erased. You have come seeking the truth. But are you ready to carry what was forgotten?
Liriel took a step forward. "What was erased?"
"The name of the first mirror.
The face of the first liar.
The day when 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… truth will become as cruel as the lie that replaced it.
We fell silent. Even the wind stopped.
"Show us," Liriel said, her voice firm.
The figure extended her hand.
— Only one may 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 replied. "Even when you don't understand."
"Because you doubt… but you don't quit," said Vespera.
Liriel didn't speak. She only squeezed my hand for an instant — brief, warm, human.
I approached the figure. She touched my forehead.
The world vanished.
I saw a city of golden light, built upon pillars of crystal. There was no war, no hunger. But there was no choice either. Everyone spoke the same truth. Everyone thought the same way. Difference was punished not with prison, but with erasure.
I saw the first mirror — not made to reflect, but to question. A craftsman created it after losing his child. 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 rescued 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 fade. Before disappearing, she left something on the ground: a small crystal blade, the size of a feather, with 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 stored the crystal in my backpack, beside Celine's vial.
That night, we camped beneath a clear sky. Vespera prepared a soup with roots that, miraculously, weren't 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 real. "Maybe."
Later, while the others slept, I stayed awake, watching the stars. Liriel's necklace — now around her neck — glowed with a soft, constant 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, with 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 set out 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 between us.
And as we walked, the wind carried the sound of something rare: the song of a bird that no longer existed.