The road did not end. 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.
"It's just because I stopped expecting the ground to open a portal with every step."
"Liar," she replied, a half-smile tugging at her lips. "You're quieter. Less scared."
I didn't deny it. It was true. Since the Garden of Worlds and the encounter with Veridiana, something had settled inside me. It wasn't courage, exactly. It was the certainty that no matter what came, I wouldn't face it alone.
Elara walked ahead, her fingers brushing the low leaves with a new curiosity. "The magic here has changed," she murmured. "It's not chaotic. It's… attentive."
"As if the world itself were listening to us," completed Liriel, floating just above the ground, her feet almost touching the earth but leaving no trace.
She no longer wore the spider medallion. She had stored it in her backpack, wrapped in thick cloth, as if she feared it might awaken. The necklace I wore — the one that kept her tied to this plane — glowed with a soft, steady light, as if responding to something ahead.
Then we saw it.
In the middle of the road, there was a statue. Small, carved from polished black stone, faceless, nameless. It was kneeling, hands extended forward as if offering something invisible. Around it, the ground was clean — as if no one had stepped there in years.
"This is… weird," said Vespera, stopping a few steps away.
"It's not a trap," said Liriel, frowning. "It's a memorial."
I approached carefully. When I touched the statue, I felt a soft cold — not threatening, but solemn. 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 quietly:
"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 softly. "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 get things right… was almost more frightening than any monster.
"Does that change anything?" Vespera finally asked.
"No," said Liriel. "But it reminds us that even villains start as people."
We kept walking. The statue stayed behind us, but its weight remained — not as doubt, but as a warning: the line between truth and lie is thinner than we imagine.
At dusk, we camped by 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 at the water's edge, her feet almost touching the surface.
"Are you okay?" I asked, sitting beside her.
"I'm… thinking," she replied. "About what happens if Malrik doesn't want to be defeated. If all he wants is 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 pulsed softly against my chest. Malrik's medallion, in my backpack, was silent. But the child's mirror… it glowed.
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 left 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.
Maybe, I thought, some truths weren't lost. Just waiting for someone brave enough to hear them again.
And for the first time, I didn't feel like we were walking toward an end.
We felt like we were walking home.