The night train to Karnataka was a rhythmic beast of steel and steam, cutting through the dark heart of the Indian countryside. Inside the cramped confines of a second-class sleeper carriage, the air was a stale cocktail of iron rust, spicy tea, and the heavy, humid breath of dozens of sleeping travelers. For Aryan, however, the world was dominated by a single, overwhelming scent: the smell of ancient, weeping mahogany.
He sat by the window, his wooden arm throbbing in time with the tracks—clack-clack, clack-clack. The golden sap had slowed to a thick, honey-like ooze, but the leaves on his wrist were vibrant, turning their tiny faces toward the moonlight that filtered through the dusty glass. Opposite him, Sarah was curled in a restless sleep, her head resting on a tattered backpack. Mira sat perfectly still, her eyes open but glazed, as if she were listening to a conversation happening miles away.
Aryan reached into his bag and pulled out the Lexicon of Timber, the book Ishaan had died to protect. Its cover was made of bark that felt warm to the touch, and the pages weren't paper; they were thin, translucent shavings of white pine. As his mahogany fingers brushed the surface, the "ink"—which looked like dark moss—began to shift and rearrange itself into words he could understand.
"The wood does not forget the forest," the book whispered into his mind. "To hear the world, one must first become a part of the silence."
Aryan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He didn't just listen with his ears; he listened with his arm. Slowly, the mechanical roar of the train began to peel away. He felt the wooden slats of the berths around him. They were old teak, harvested from the Western Ghats decades ago. He could feel their memories—the ghost of rain, the vibration of insects that had long since died.
But then, a new sensation pierced through the "wooden silence." It was a sharp, cold dissonance. It felt like a jagged piece of glass being dragged across a violin string.
Aryan's eyes snapped open. He looked down the narrow corridor of the carriage. Most passengers were shrouded in shadows, their faces hidden by blue wool blankets. But at the very end of the car, a man sat alone. He was dressed in a charcoal suit that looked too expensive for a sleeper train. Beside him rested a long, slender case made of polished, ivory-white bone.
"Mira," Aryan whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind. "Something is wrong. The wood is screaming."
Mira's eyes snapped into focus. She didn't look at the man; she looked at the reflection in the windowpane. "Don't move," she breathed. "That's the Buryat. He's the Weaver's primary tuner. He doesn't kill with blades; he kills with frequencies."
"He has a violin," Aryan said, his mahogany arm tightening instinctively. "Made of bone."
"Not just any bone," Mira whispered, her hand slowly moving toward the hidden dagger in her boot. "It's carved from the ribs of failed Keepers. He plays the 'Song of Unmaking.' He can turn a man's skeleton into splinters without touching him."
The man in the charcoal suit slowly opened the bone case. He pulled out a bow and a violin that seemed to shimmer with an unnatural, silvery light. He didn't look at them, but he began to tune the instrument. The sound was a high-pitched whine that made Aryan's teeth ache.
Around them, the other passengers didn't wake up. In fact, their breathing seemed to slow, their bodies becoming unnaturally still.
"He's putting them into a 'Stasis'," Mira hissed. "Aryan, the Lexicon! Find the counter-resonance! If he starts playing the first movement, our hearts will stop."
Aryan frantically flipped through the pine-shaving pages of the Lexicon. His wooden fingers moved with desperate speed. He found a section titled 'The Shield of the Living Grove.' "To deflect the Weaver's song, the Seed must root itself. The wood is the anchor; the blood is the sap."
The Buryat stood up. He tucked the bone violin under his chin and raised the bow. The first note he struck wasn't a sound—it was a shockwave. The glass in the windows of the carriage shattered instantly, showering the sleeping passengers in diamonds of light. The air in the car suddenly felt like it was being sucked out.
Aryan felt a searing pain in his chest. It felt as if his very ribs were trying to vibrate out of his skin. Mira slumped against the wall, blood trickling from her ears.
"Aryan..." she gasped. "The... song..."
Aryan stood up, his mahogany legs feeling heavy, like the trunks of ancient trees. He grabbed the iron ladder of the upper berth to steady himself. He didn't know a counter-song, but he remembered his mother's lullaby from the music box. He remembered the feeling of the Shimla sun on his face.
He didn't sing with his voice. He slammed his mahogany fist into the wooden floor of the train.
BOOM.
He poured his energy—his "humanity"—into the teak floorboards. He commanded the wood of the train to wake up.
"LISTEN TO ME!" Aryan roared.
Suddenly, the wooden seats and walls of the carriage began to warp. Vines of teak and pine erupted from the floor, weaving together to form a dense, protective cocoon around Sarah and Mira. The Buryat's next note hit the wooden shield and dissipated, the sound absorbed by the thirsty timber.
The Buryat paused, his pale face showing a flicker of genuine surprise. He spoke, his voice like the snapping of dry twigs. "The Seed has grown teeth. Impressive. But wood is just fuel for the fire I am about to play."
He began a frantic, jagged staccato. The vibration was so intense that the metal walls of the train began to glow red. The Buryat was trying to melt the train itself.
Aryan knew he couldn't win a battle of vibrations inside a metal box. He looked at the shattered window. The wind was howling at ninety miles per hour.
"Mira! Stay in the cocoon!" Aryan shouted.
He lunged through the broken window, using his mahogany claws to grip the side of the moving train. He swung himself up onto the roof. The night air was freezing, and the stars above Karnataka looked like cold, uncaring eyes.
A second later, the Buryat emerged from the carriage door, standing on the coupling between the cars. He climbed onto the roof with a fluid, terrifying grace, his bone violin still tucked under his chin.
They stood thirty feet apart on top of the speeding Midnight Express.
"Why do you fight the inevitable, Aryan?" the Buryat asked, his charcoal coat flapping like a crow's wings. "The Weaver only wants to make you eternal. She wants to take your pain and turn it into art."
"I like my pain," Aryan said, rooting his wooden feet into the metal roof of the train. "It reminds me that I'm still alive."
The Buryat smiled and drew his bow across the strings. This time, the music was a physical force—a swarm of silver needles that flew through the air toward Aryan.
Aryan didn't dodge. He opened the Lexicon of Timber one last time and placed his mahogany hand on the page. The moss-ink glowed bright green.
"I am the Seed," Aryan whispered, a phrase he had seen in the book. "And the forest is my shield."
As the silver needles hit him, they didn't pierce his skin. They were absorbed into his mahogany arm, turning into harmless blossoms of white jasmine. Aryan charged forward. Every step he took left a dent in the steel roof.
The Buryat tried to play a final, killing chord, but Aryan was too fast. He grabbed the bone violin with his wooden hand and crushed it. The sound of the instrument breaking was like the scream of a dying ghost.
The Buryat recoiled, his charcoal suit suddenly tattered. Without his instrument, he looked small, fragile. "This... this is not the end," he hissed. "The Weaver has already woven your thread into the shroud."
He stepped back, falling away from the train and into the dark abyss of the night.
Aryan stood alone on the roof, his mahogany arm glowing with a fading light. He looked down at his hands. He had won, but at a cost. The wood had now climbed past his elbow, reaching toward his shoulder. He could feel his heart—his human heart—beating against a ribcage that was slowly turning to ironwood.
He looked ahead at the horizon. The ruins of Hampi were drawing near. The shadows of the past were waiting.