The road continued, but not like before. Now, each step felt less like an escape and more like a conscious choice — as if the path itself had begun to listen to us.
"You're walking differently," Vespera said, without taking her eyes off the horizon. Her bow rested on her back, but her fingers no longer played with her arrows. They were quiet. Careful.
"It's just because I stopped tripping on roots on purpose to buy time."
She laughed, but it was a soft sound — almost intimate. "That's not it. You're… less hurried."
I didn't deny it. It was true. Ever since we discovered that Malrik wasn't the classic villain, but a guardian deformed by the weight of his own mission, something had changed in me. It wasn't fear. It was respect. For what he tried to protect… and for what we had to face to go beyond it.
Elara walked ahead, eyes fixed on the treetops, as if reading invisible signs in the interwoven branches. "The magic here is different," she murmured. "It's not just silence. It's… expectation. As if the world is holding its breath before something important."
Liriel floated a few handspans above the ground, her feet almost touching the leaves but leaving no trace. The spider medallion was still wrapped in thick cloth inside my backpack, but the necklace that once bound her to the mortal plane — now kept by her — glowed with a constant, bluish-gray light, like the first sign of dawn.
It was at dusk that we found it.
In the middle of the road, there was a bench. Not made of rotten wood or cracked stone, but of carefully forged iron, covered in flowering vines. Beside it, a small iron table as well, with a single crystal glass upon it — empty, but clean.
"This is… strange," Vespera said, stopping a few meters away. "No place this isolated keeps a bench in perfect condition."
"It's not a bench," Liriel corrected, eyes narrowed. "It's an invitation."
I approached slowly. The necklace on her neck pulsed — not with urgency, but with recognition. I touched the bench's backrest. It was cold, but not hostile. And for an instant, I heard a whisper — not in words, but in emotions: sorrow, hope, choice.
"Someone sat here recently," Elara said, kneeling to examine the ground. "There are footprints, but only from one person. And… fresh flowers around. Someone tends to this place."
"Or waits for someone," Liriel added.
That was when the crystal glass trembled.
Not violently. Delicately. The setting sun's light passed through the glass and cast on the ground a shadow — not mine, nor any of ours. It was the silhouette of a man wearing black armor, with silver details resembling spiderwebs.
"Malrik," I whispered.
The name hung in the air like a promise.
"He's not here," Liriel said, though her voice trembled slightly. "He left only this. An echo. A warning."
I sat on the bench. Not impulsively. Instinctively. Because, somehow, I knew that was what he wanted.
As soon as I settled, the world changed.
Not with portals or visions. With memory.
I saw a young man — not a warrior, not a general — sitting exactly where I sat, holding an open book in his hands. Beside him, a child played with wooden blocks. The setting sun bathed everything in gold. There was no armor. No weapons. Only silence… and peace.
"He was someone before becoming what he is," Elara said, as if she had seen the same scene.
"We all were," Liriel replied softly.
The crystal glass glowed. From within it, a silver light emerged and became a letter, floating before me.
I took it carefully.
"You've come farther than I expected. Not with strength. With loyalty. So I'm giving you something no one else has:
a choice. Find me where mirrors do not reflect. And decide:
to destroy the lie… or forgive the one who created it."
Vespera whistled softly. "He's challenging us to be better than he was."
"Or to see beyond what he became," Liriel added.
We stored the letter in my backpack, beside the wooden key, the black feather, and the child's mirror. Not as proof. As a promise.
We camped right there, around the bench — as if it were a sacred landmark. 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 on the bench, her eyes fixed on the empty glass.
"Are you okay?" I asked, sitting beside her.
"I'm… thinking," she replied. "About what happens if we forgive Malrik, but he doesn't know how to accept it."
"Then we teach him."
She smiled, almost imperceptibly. "You're learning."
Later, while the others slept, I stayed awake, watching the stars. Liriel's necklace — now around her neck — glowed with a steady light. Malrik's medallion, in my backpack, remained 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 with 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, 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.
And for the first time, I didn't feel like we were walking toward an end.
We felt like we were walking toward a reconciliation — with the world, with our fears… and perhaps, with the villain himself.