The Iron Forest was a landscape of frozen, vertical nightmares. Here, the trees did not sway with the wind; they clattered. Their trunks were made of oxidized steel, and their leaves were razor-sharp shards of aluminum that shimmered with a dull, grey lethargy. The ground was not earth, but a carpet of iron filings and rusted scrap that clung to Aryan's mahogany feet like tiny, desperate magnets.
Every step Aryan took felt heavier than the last. The "Seed" within him, which resonated so beautifully with the living timber of the south, found this place repulsive. To the mahogany in his veins, this forest was a cemetery of things that had been denied a soul.
Mira was fading. Sarah had to support her on one side, while Aryan used his human hand to steady her on the other. The silver thread in Mira's neck was no longer just vibrating; it was singing—a high-pitched, ultrasonic frequency that signaled their exact location to the Weaver's Palace.
"We have to stop," Mira gasped, her knees buckling. Her synthetic skin was peeling away at the collarbone, revealing the intricate clockwork beneath, now choked with silver dust. "Aryan... leave me. The thread... it's a beacon. As long as I am with you, Rhea is... she is unreachable."
Aryan tightened his grip on her. "I didn't lead us through the Bridge of Sighs just to leave my shadow behind, Mira. My father trusted you. I trust you."
"Your father trusted me to keep you alive," she whispered, a tear of oil and salt tracing a path down her cheek. "Not to lead you into a trap."
"Look," Sarah interrupted, pointing toward a massive, hollowed-out dome of rusted copper. "The Magnetic Hermit's workshop."
The dome was surrounded by a swirling cloud of scrap metal—screws, bolts, and broken gears that orbited the structure like the rings of a dead planet. As they approached, the metal cloud parted, as if recognizing the mahogany energy radiating from Aryan.
Inside, the air was surprisingly warm and smelled of ozone. Standing in the center of the dome was a creature that looked like a man made of liquid mercury. He had no fixed shape; his "skin" flowed and shifted, occasionally forming a face with deep, hollow eyes. This was the Magnetic Hermit.
"The Mahogany King and his rusting retinue," the Hermit's voice resonated through the metal walls, sounding like a choir of tuning forks. "You bring a beacon into my silence. The Weaver's song is quite loud today."
"Can you remove it?" Aryan asked, stepping forward. "The silver rot. The tracking thread. I was told you were the only one who could strip the metal without breaking the soul."
The Hermit glided closer, his mercury-like hand hovering over Mira's neck. The silver thread reacted violently, lashing out like a snake. "I can pull the silver from her heart," the Hermit said. "But silver is a selfish metal. It does not leave without taking something of equal value. To save her, I must use a grounding force—something that contains the pure history of the Great Grove."
The Hermit's hollow eyes settled on the bag hanging at Aryan's side. "The Lexicon of Timber. Give it to me, and the girl lives."
Aryan's hand instinctively clutched the bag. The Lexicon was his only guide, his only link to the ancient language of his ancestors. It was the book Ishaan had died for. "There must be another way. That book... it's the memory of my people."
"And she," the Hermit said, pointing to Mira, "is the memory of your father. Which memory do you value more, Seed? The one written on dead bark, or the one pulsing in a living heart?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. Aryan looked at the Lexicon. He thought of the hours he had spent deciphering its moss-ink, learning how to command the roots and heal the grain. Without it, he would be a King without a map, a gardener without a sun.
Then he looked at Mira. He remembered her standing on the bridge, willing to let the bone claim her so he could cross. He remembered his father's voice from the soul-anchor: "The treasure is the life you choose to protect."
"Take it," Aryan said, his voice thick with emotion. He pulled the Lexicon from his bag and held it out.
As the Hermit took the book, the mercury-like substance of his hands flowed over the bark cover. "A heavy price for a heavy heart," the Hermit whispered.
The procedure began. The Hermit placed his liquid hands on Mira's chest and neck. The room began to vibrate. The scrap metal orbiting the dome accelerated, creating a terrifying roar. Aryan watched as thin, violet strands of silver were literally pulled through Mira's pores, coiling around the Hermit's arms like glowing worms.
Mira screamed—a sound of metal tearing—and then went limp.
The violet glow vanished. The silver tracking thread was gone, absorbed into the Hermit's mercury body. Mira's breathing—usually a mechanical whirr—became silent, deep, and steady.
"She is clean," the Hermit said, his shape stabilizing into that of an old man. He clutched the Lexicon to his chest. "But you are now blind, Aryan Khanna. The Weaver will still come, and you will no longer have the words to stop her."
"I still have my hands," Aryan said, looking at his mahogany arm. "And I have her."
"Before you go," the Hermit said, his voice softening. "I helped your mother once. When she chose to become the Queen of the Grove, she didn't just do it to protect the trees. She did it to hide the 'Final Seed'—the part of the 'Heart of Flesh' that isn't in you, but in your sister, Rhea."
Aryan's heart stopped. "What do you mean? My mother's diary said the Heart of Flesh was in me."
"A mother's lie to protect her children," the Hermit smiled sadly. "You are the Armor, Aryan. You are the Shield. But Rhea... Rhea is the Life. The Master wants to combine the two. If he puts the 'Life' of Rhea into the 'Armor' of Aryan, he becomes a god. That is the 'Grand Masterpiece' he has been building for a thousand years."
The revelation hit Aryan like a physical blow. He wasn't the prize. He was half of a pair. Rhea wasn't just a prisoner; she was the other half of his own soul.
"Wait," Aryan said, reaching out. "If I'm the armor, and the wood is growing... what happens when it reaches my heart?"
"Then the shield becomes a tomb," the Hermit said, fading back into the shadows of the dome. "Go North, Seed. The Iron Forest ends at the Wall of Tears. Beyond that lies the Loom. But be warned: the Weaver isn't your only enemy. The Master has finally finished his 'First Son'—the one who was built before you."
As they stepped out of the dome and back into the clattering metallic woods, Mira opened her eyes. They were no longer violet; they were a clear, human brown. She looked at her hands, then at Aryan.
"I can't hear the song anymore," she whispered, her voice full of wonder. "I... I can feel my own pulse."
She reached out and touched Aryan's mahogany arm. For the first time, Aryan didn't feel the coldness of wood or the heat of the curse. He felt the warmth of her touch.
"We lost the book," Aryan said, looking back at the dome.
"We found each other," Mira replied, her hand slipping into his.
But in the distance, a new sound began to echo through the Iron Forest. It wasn't the clattering of metal leaves or the hum of silver moths. It was the sound of a heavy, rhythmic breathing—monstrous and mechanical.
The First Son had arrived.