The Iron Forest began to thin as they approached the base of the Wall of Tears, but the air did not become kinder. It turned heavy and wet, saturated with a metallic mist that tasted of salt and mercury. They had found a small hollow beneath a cluster of rusted, skeletal pines. The distant roar of the First Son's battle still echoed—a mournful, metallic thunder that told Aryan his "brother" was still standing, still holding the line.
Aryan sat with his back against a cold, iron trunk. His mahogany arm felt like lead, the wood now a deep, bruised purple near his shoulder. In his human hand, he clutched the metal time capsule his brother had given him. It was cold, etched with the fine, swirling roots of the Khanna family crest.
Mira sat beside him, her breathing quiet but ragged. Without the silver rot, her body was struggling to remember how to be human. Her skin was flushed, and her eyes—once cold violet—were now a deep, vulnerable hazel. Sarah sat a few feet away, her head resting on her knees, the exhaustion of her "Siren Song" finally claiming her.
"Open it, Aryan," Mira whispered, her hand moving to cover his. Her touch was warm, a startling contrast to the freezing iron of the forest. "Whatever is inside, it was meant for this moment. For the end of the forest."
Aryan pressed the seal. The capsule hissed, a release of pressurized air that smelled of mountain pine and sandalwood—a smell from a life he had almost forgotten. Inside, he found two things: a small, shriveled piece of fruit that looked like a dried pomegranate, and a copper recording disc.
He placed his mahogany thumb on the disc. The wood-energy acted as a battery, and the copper began to spin. A soft, crackling hum filled the hollow, and then, a voice drifted out—clear, sweet, and trembling with a mother's love.
"Aryan... my little Seed. If you are listening to this, then the world has become a labyrinth of silver and shadows. Vikram and I have done everything we could to delay this day, but the Weaver's threads are patient."
Aryan closed his eyes, leaning his head back. "Maa," he breathed.
"You must know the truth of your beginning, Aryan. You were not born of my flesh, but of my spirit. When the Master burned the Great Grove, the last living Root sought a vessel to survive. Vikram and I found that Root, and through a ritual of the Old Keepers, I carried you. You are the first True Hybrid—born of a human womb but nourished by the sap of the world. That is why the wood does not just grow on you; it grows from you."
Aryan's heart skipped a beat. A "True Hybrid." Not a puppet, not a man, but the forest itself given human form.
"But there is a tragedy you must bear, my son," the voice continued, now thick with tears. "Rhea... she was born of my flesh. She is fully human. And that is why the Weaver needs her. Rhea is the 'Life'—the battery. She is currently held at the center of the Great Loom. Her heartbeat is what powers the silver threads that track you. Every time the Weaver creates a new puppet, a piece of Rhea's vitality is stolen to jumpstart it. To save Rhea, you cannot just fight the Weaver. You must destroy the Loom itself. But be warned: the Loom and Rhea's heart are now one. If the Loom stops, her heart might stop too."
The recording ended with a soft, lingering sigh: "Be the gardener, Aryan. Not the axe."
The silence that followed was deafening. Aryan looked at the shriveled fruit in the capsule. It was the "Seed of Restoration"—the only thing that could restart a heart once it had been turned to wood or silver. But there was only one.
"A choice," Aryan whispered, his voice cracking. "I can use this to save Mira from her aging... or I can use it to save Rhea if the Loom is destroyed. One life for another. Again."
Mira looked at the fruit, then at Aryan. She saw the turmoil in his eyes, the impossible weight of a thousand-year war resting on a man who just wanted to write stories. She reached out and took his wooden hand, interlacing her fingers with his mahogany ones.
"You save Rhea," Mira said firmly. "I have lived fifty years too long already, Aryan. I was built to be a shield. Shields are meant to be dented. They are meant to be broken."
"No," Aryan said, looking at her. "I've lost too much already. I won't lose you too."
"You aren't losing me," she smiled, leaning her head on his wooden shoulder. "You're just finishing the story Vikram started."
Suddenly, the ground beneath them shook. A high-pitched, agonizing scream tore through the forest. It was the First Son. The roar of battle had stopped. The Weaver had won.
"They're here," Sarah cried, leaping to her feet.
From the metallic mist, a new horror emerged. These weren't moths or spiders. These were "Mirror-Men"—tall, slender beings made entirely of polished silver. They didn't have faces; they reflected the faces of their enemies.
Aryan stood up, clutching the time capsule. He looked at the Mirror-Men. He saw his own face reflected in a dozen silver bodies—but in the reflection, he was already a full puppet, a statue of mahogany with no eyes.
"The Wall of Tears is just ahead," Mira said, drawing her daggers. "Sarah, take the fruit. Aryan, you need both hands for the climb."
"Mira, don't—"
"Go!" she roared, her eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce humanity. "Protect the Seed!"
As the Mirror-Men lunged, Mira threw herself into the fray, her movements a blur of desperate grace. Aryan grabbed Sarah's hand and ran toward the sound of falling liquid.
They reached the Wall of Tears. It was a cliff of black basalt, three hundred feet high, over which a massive waterfall of liquid mercury cascaded. The mercury didn't splash; it fell with a heavy, rhythmic thump, like a giant's footsteps.
"How do we climb that?" Sarah asked, her voice trembling.
Aryan looked at his mahogany arm. The wood was pulsing. He remembered his mother's voice: "The wood grows from you."
"We don't climb it," Aryan said. "We grow through it."
He slammed his wooden arm into the black basalt. For the first time, he didn't wait for the wood to spread. He commanded it. "GROW!"
Huge, gnarled roots of mahogany erupted from his shoulder, anchoring themselves into the rock. He used his body as a ladder, pulling Sarah onto his back as the wooden vines climbed higher and higher, defying gravity, pushing through the heavy curtains of falling mercury.
Below them, the Iron Forest was a sea of silver as the Mirror-Men closed in on Mira's lone, brave shadow.
Aryan climbed, his heart a hammer of flesh inside a cage of wood. He was the Armor. He was the Shield. And somewhere at the top of this wall, in a palace of silver threads, his sister was waiting for her heartbeat to be returned.