The path did not end. It never ended. But for the first time, it wasn't a burden — it was a silent invitation, spoken not in words but in the way the moss breathed beneath our feet and the wind bowed as if it recognized our steps.
"You're walking differently," Vespera said, not looking at me, adjusting the bow on her back with an almost reverent gesture.
"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 understood you don't have to prove anything to anyone."
I didn't deny it. It was true. Ever since the encounter with Aelthara, the eyes empty of time, and the vision of the golden city where truth was law and doubt a crime, something had settled inside me. It wasn't courage. It was clarity.
Elara walked just behind us, her fingers brushing the stems of wild herbs with a newfound attentiveness. "The magic here is… different. It's no longer chaotic. It's like it stopped fighting itself."
"Or maybe it's waiting for someone who understands its silence," Liriel added, floating a few handspans above the ground, her feet almost touching the leaves without leaving a trace. The necklace that had once bound her to the mortal plane — now around her neck — glowed with a gentle, steady 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 cabin. Not made of rotten wood or cracked stone, but woven from branches intertwined with flowering vines, as if it had grown there instead of being built. The door was ajar, and from inside came the faint smell of warm bread and chamomile.
"This is… strange," Vespera muttered, stopping a few steps away.
"It's not a trap," Liriel said, narrowing her eyes. "It's a shelter."
I approached slowly. The necklace on her neck pulsed — not with urgency, but with recognition. I touched the doorframe. It was warm, not from the sun, but from recent use.
Inside, everything was simple: a smooth wooden table, two chairs, a stone stove, and on the sideboard, a single object — a glass vial with a blue flame floating inside it, without fuel, without smoke.
"It's a memory beacon," Liriel said, entering behind me. "Someone left this here as a sign."
"A sign of what?" I asked.
"That someone still believes the path is worth it."
Elara approached the vial. "This flame… it looks like Lyra's."
"It is hers," Liriel confirmed, her voice softer than usual. "She spread these beacons before she left. To guide anyone seeking the truth without getting lost in perfection."
Vespera looked around, eyes sharp. "So someone was here recently."
"Malrik," I whispered.
"No," Liriel corrected. "Someone who understands him… but doesn't follow him."
Then we found the letter.
It was on the table, folded carefully, sealed with silver wax. There was no name, only a symbol: a spider weaving a web in the shape of a broken heart.
I opened it carefully.
"You don't need to destroy me.
You only need to remind me of what I protected before I became what I am. The next step is not a battle. It is a meeting.
Come to the Tower of Whispers.
And do not bring weapons. Bring honest doubts."
We fell silent. Even the wind stopped.
"He's inviting us?" Vespera asked, incredulous.
"No," Liriel replied. "He's asking for help."
We placed the letter in my backpack, next to Celine's vial, the black feather, and the child's mirror. Not as evidence. As a promise.
We kept walking. The forest opened into a clearing where moss grew in perfect spirals, as if drawn by invisible hands. In the center, there was an ancient stone bridge covered in ivy. On the other side, the mist moved as if it breathed.
"This isn't on the maps," Vespera said, peering over the abyss below.
"Because it's not a place," Liriel explained. "It's a threshold."
We stopped at the entrance to the bridge. The air was colder there, denser. Liriel's necklace pulsed — not with fear, but with recognition.
"Anyone want to turn back?" I asked, looking at them.
"After all this?" Vespera snorted. "Only if it's to grab wine."
Elara smiled. "I've lost too much to give up now."
Liriel didn't say anything. She just stepped forward, crossing the first arch of the bridge.
Nothing happened. No thunder. No portal. Only the sound of our footsteps echoing on the stone.
But in the middle of the crossing, the world changed.
Not violently. Gently. As if we had entered a dream we all shared.
The mountains vanished. The mist dissolved.
We were in a garden.
Not a common garden. It was made of light and memory. Crystal flowers bloomed at our touch. Glass trees whispered ancient stories. And at the center, there was a simple wooden bench, where someone — or something — was waiting for us.
It was a woman. Young, with silver hair and eyes that seemed to hold the entire sky. She wore a white dress, simple but radiant, as if it had been woven from starlight.
"You came," she said, without surprise.
"Who are you?" I asked, sword still in the sheath, but ready.
"I am what remains when all lies are gone." She smiled. "You may call me Veridiana. Or simply… the Path."
Liriel frowned. "You're not a goddess. Not a spirit. You're… something older."
"I am the balance between what was and what could be," Veridiana replied. "And you… you are the first in millennia to reach me without seeking power, vengeance, or redemption."
"We just wanted to continue," Elara said simply.
Veridiana nodded. "And that is why you are here."
She stood and walked toward a tree at the center of the garden. Its fruits were not apples or pears — they were luminous spheres, each containing a scene: a kiss never given, a word never spoken, a step never taken.
"Choose one," she said. "Not to change the past. To accept it."
Vespera went first. She chose a sphere where she saw herself, alone, in an empty tavern, telling stories to empty chairs. She touched the sphere. It dissolved into light. "I don't need them to listen to me," she said firmly. "I just need to keep telling my stories."
Elara chose one where she saw herself failing a spell, falling, being ridiculed. She touched it. The light enveloped her. "My weakness doesn't define me," she murmured. "My persistence does."
Liriel hesitated. Then she chose one where she saw Azeron, not as an enemy, but as someone who once loved her — and whom she also loved, before power corrupted everything. She touched the sphere. Silent tears fell. "Forgiveness is not forgetting," she said. "It's choosing to move forward."
Finally, it was my turn.
I chose a sphere where I was back in my old world, alone, invisible. I touched it. The light surrounded me, warm, welcoming. "I wasn't brought here by accident," I said. "I was brought because someone believed I could belong."
Veridiana smiled. "You no longer need to prove anything. The path has already chosen you back."
The garden began to fade, not like a dream ending, but like a promise fulfilled.
When we returned to the bridge, the valley was different. The mist had cleared. The sun, now visible, painted the ground in gold.
"What happened?" I asked.
"You remembered who you are," Liriel replied, looking toward the horizon. "And that was enough."
We moved on. 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 necklace on Liriel's chest glowed softly against her skin — not as a warning, but as a reminder.
That even in a world full of lies, it was still possible to choose what was real.
And for the first time, that was not just enough.
It was everything.