The road did not wait. It never waited. But for the first time, we weren't walking to survive — we were walking to understand.
Ever since we received Malrik's letter on the wrought-iron bench, something had changed in the way the world responded to us. Not with portals or supernatural whispers, but with silences that seemed to choose when to hear us. Even the leaves seemed to fall more carefully, as if they didn't want to interrupt what we were learning.
"You're different," said Vespera, without taking her eyes off the path. Her bow rested on her back, but her hands were calm — rare for her, who lived in constant motion.
"It's just because I stopped trying to prove I deserve to be here."
She laughed softly. "So you finally realized you don't have to prove anything?"
I didn't answer. I only felt Liriel's necklace — now kept by her — glow gently, as if it agreed.
Elara walked ahead, her fingers brushing the low leaves with a new curiosity. "The magic here is… quiet. Not as if it's sleeping, but as if it's listening."
"Or waiting for someone to arrive," Liriel added, floating just above the ground, her feet almost touching the moss without leaving a trace.
We stopped at dusk in a clearing surrounded by ancient oaks whose branches intertwined as if they had made a silent pact. In the center, there was a well. Not of ordinary stone, nor worn wood. It was made of dark glass, polished like a mirror, with runes carved in silver that glowed under the twilight.
"This is… dangerous," murmured Vespera, stopping a few steps away.
"Or sacred," corrected Liriel, her eyes fixed on the well. "Depends on who's looking."
I approached carefully. The necklace on her neck pulsed — not with urgency, but with recognition. I touched the rim of the well. It was cold, but not hostile. And for an instant, I heard a name:
— Aelthara.
"What was that?" asked Elara, seeing my expression change.
"Nothing," I replied. "Just an echo."
Then the well glowed.
Not with light, but with sound. A soft melody, almost forgotten — the same one we had heard in the Garden of Worlds. The leaves around us trembled, and the air grew lighter, as if something had been released.
"It's a well of truths," said Liriel, recognizing it. "It doesn't show what you are. It shows what you chose to become."
Vespera frowned. "And what if I don't want to see?"
"Then don't look," Liriel replied. "But if you do look… don't lie to yourself."
We fell silent. Even the wind stopped.
Elara was the first to step forward. She knelt before the well and looked into the water. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then the surface rippled, and she saw — not her face, but a scene: herself before a broken mirror, holding the shards with bleeding hands. But instead of crying, she smiled. "Even broken," she told herself, "I can still reflect light."
She looked up, eyes wet but steady. "I don't need to be perfect to be useful."
Vespera took a deep breath and knelt beside her. She looked. The water showed an empty tavern, her telling a story to empty chairs. But little by little, the chairs filled — not with strangers, but with familiar faces: Elara laughing, Liriel rolling her eyes, me trying not to look embarrassed. "I don't need applause," she murmured. "Only the ones who listen."
At last, it was my turn.
I knelt. The water was calm. Then it trembled. I saw myself back in the world before — alone, invisible, nameless. But instead of staying there, I reached out my hand. And on the other side, three figures pulled me: Elara with her grimoire, Vespera with her bow, Liriel with her wine cup. "You're not alone anymore," they said, without words, only presence.
I stood up, my heart tight. "I don't deserve this."
"No one deserves to be saved," Liriel said softly. "But everyone deserves the chance to choose to save others."
The well shone brighter. From its depths emerged a small sphere of light, the size of a walnut, with the symbol of an open eye.
— Take it, whispered the well, not with voice, but with feeling. — This is the seed of choice. Plant it where the lie is strongest.
We stored the sphere in my backpack, beside the wooden key, the black feather, and the child's mirror.
We camped right there, around the well. 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 edge of the water, her feet almost touching the surface.
"Are you okay?" I asked, sitting beside her.
"I'm… light," she answered. "As if I had let go of something I'd been carrying for a long time."
"And what was it?"
"The fear that, deep down, I didn't deserve to be here."
"You do," I said, simply.
She didn't reply. She only rested her head lightly on my shoulder — a gesture so human, so fragile, that I almost forgot she had once been a goddess.
Later, while the others slept, I stayed awake, watching the stars. Liriel's necklace — now on her neck — glowed with a constant 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, with worn 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 with 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 we were walking toward an end.
We felt we were walking toward a choice — and perhaps toward a forgiveness we didn't even know we needed to give.