The path ended on a hill. Not an imposing mountain, nor a threatening peak — just a gentle rise, covered in short grass and wildflowers trembling in the morning wind. On the other side, there were no armies, no flaming portals, no thrones of bones. There was only a small wooden cabin, with a chimney from which calm white smoke rose.
"Is this it?" asked Vespera, suspicious, holding her bow as if she expected the flowers to attack.
"Yes," answered Liriel, her eyes fixed on the cabin. "Malrik doesn't need fortresses. His weapons are quieter."
Elara walked to the edge of the slope, observing the valley below. "The magic here is… quiet. As if all the mirrors in the world had finally stopped whispering."
"Because he doesn't want to fight us," I said, suddenly understanding. "He wants to listen to us."
We descended the hill slowly. The necklace on my chest — not Liriel's, but another we received in the well of truths — pulsed softly, like a heart finding its rhythm.
No one stopped us. No mirror appeared out of nowhere, no mist surrounded us. Only the song of an off-key bird and the creak of a wooden door opening.
On the cabin's porch, a man awaited us.
He wore no armor. He had no empty eyes or sharp smile. He was just a middle-aged man, gray-haired, wearing simple clothes and an apron stained with soot. In his hands, he held a cup of tea steaming hot.
"Malrik," said Liriel, her voice softer than I had ever heard.
"Liriel," he replied, with the politeness of someone receiving unexpected guests. "And your friends. Come in. The tea is still warm."
We hesitated. Even Vespera, always the first to run toward danger, paused at the doorway.
"It's safe," said Elara, looking at his hands. "There's no magic in him. Just… humanity."
We entered.
The cabin was simple but welcoming. A worn wooden table, two chairs, a bookshelf full of books, a stone stove. On the walls, there were no maps or weapons — only paintings of landscapes and portraits of smiling people.
"Who are they?" I asked, pointing to the portraits.
"My family," Malrik replied, pouring tea into rustic ceramic cups. "My wife. My children. All lost when I chose to protect the mirrors."
"You didn't kill them," said Liriel, sitting down. "You left them behind."
"That is a form of killing," he answered, looking out the window.
We fell silent. The tea was good — warm, slightly sweet, tasting of something familiar I couldn't identify.
"Why did you call us here?" I finally asked. "After everything?"
Malrik placed the cup on the table. "Because you are the first in centuries to reach me without wanting to destroy me. You saw me as something beyond the monster history describes."
"We didn't come to judge," said Vespera, unexpectedly serious. "We came to understand."
He smiled — a sad gesture. "Then listen to this truth: I never wanted to corrupt reality. I only wanted to protect the right to doubt it. When the golden city erased all differences in the name of perfect truth, I saved the shards of the first mirror. Not for power. For hope."
"And the city?" I asked.
"It still exists," he replied. "But now, its inhabitants choose their truths every day. Some change them like clothes. Others carry them like stones. But no one is erased for doubting."
Liriel watched him closely. "And the people you deceived? The villages where the mirrors caused suffering?"
Malrik lowered his eyes. "They were mistakes. My fear made me use the same weapons I hated so much. That's why I stopped. That's why I hid here, where only tea and memories find me."
"So that's it?" I asked. "The great battle for the mirrors' fate… ends with a conversation?"
"It was not a battle," he corrected. "It was an invitation. And you accepted."
From the pocket of his apron, he took something small and placed it on the table. It was a pocket mirror, like the ones we had been given many times — but without any symbol. Just clear glass and a frame worn by time.
"This was the last shard of the first mirror," he said. "And it is the most important one. Because it doesn't show what you are. It shows what you could be… if you weren't afraid."
"And what should we do with it?" asked Elara.
"Whatever you wish," Malrik answered, standing up. "Destroy it. Keep it. Use it. The choice is yours. As it should be for everyone."
He walked to the door and pointed toward the way back. "My time as guardian has ended. But yours is just beginning. The world needs people who understand that truth has many faces… and that none of them should be imposed."
"And you?" asked Vespera.
"I will stay here," he said, looking at the portraits on the walls. "Maybe one day, my grandchildren will visit me. Tell different stories than the ones history tells about me."
On the porch, as the sun began to set, I turned to look one last time. Malrik was sitting in the rocking chair, cup in hand, his face lit by the golden light of dusk. He looked… at peace.
"Will he be alright?" I asked Liriel.
"I don't know," she replied. "But he deserves the chance to try."
We walked back up the hill in silence. When we reached the top, we looked back one last time. The cabin was small, almost invisible — just a column of white smoke rising into the sky.
"And now?" asked Vespera.
"Now," said Elara, tucking the small mirror into her backpack, "we go home."
On the road back, the wind carried the smell of wet earth and wildflowers. No portal opened. No new debt appeared. Even the birds sang with a lightness that seemed to say: You chose well.
When we spotted the first houses of Vaelor, Vespera broke the silence.
"You know… I still don't understand why he let us live."
"Because we're not his victims," Liriel replied. "We're his mirror."
I laughed, surprising even myself.
"What is it?" Elara asked.
"Nothing. I just realized that, in this whole story, it was never about defeating a villain. It was about finding someone who had lost himself… and reminding him of who he was."
"Too deep for your brain," Vespera teased, tapping my shoulder.
"Yeah," I agreed, smiling. "But maybe that's what mirrors do best."
At Torin's tavern, the same place where it all began, we found a letter waiting for us. It had no seal or sender. Just a single sentence written in firm, elegant handwriting:
The world needs truths that are not afraid of doubt.
Torin served beer for everyone, refusing to take payment. "This time, it's on the house. Seems like you finally solved a problem without destroying half the kingdom."
"It's a record," said Vespera, raising her mug.
"Temporary," Liriel added with a smile.
That night, before sleeping, I touched the necklace on my chest. It no longer glowed with urgency or fear. It glowed with a soft, steady light, like the first sign of dawn.
"Was this what we were looking for?" I asked myself.
The answer didn't come in words. It came in the silence between the stars, in the scent of the wind, in the weight of the mirror inside Elara's backpack.
We hadn't defeated a villain. We had found someone who, like us, was just trying to do what he believed was right.
And sometimes, that's enough.
The next morning, we set out again. There were no maps or directions. Just the open road and the knowledge that, wherever we went, we carried one simple truth:
The best lie is not the most convincing one, but the one that makes us believe we are better than we are.
And the best truth is not the most perfect one, but the one that allows us to be imperfect… and still keep going.