The air in the Hall of Failed Sisters was a humming, electric static that made the mahogany leaves on Aryan's skin shiver in an agonizing dance. The Silver Weaver hovered above the pulsating heart of the Loom, her diamond needle glinting like a cold, uncaring star. Below, Sarah huddled near a pedestal, clutching the Seed of Restoration to her chest, her eyes wide with a terror that no song could soothe.
Aryan stood in the center of the hall, his body a battlefield. The mahogany had reached his jaw, and he could feel the phantom sensation of bark pressing against his throat. But the pain in his body was nothing compared to the void in his soul where Mira's light had once flickered. She had fallen at the Wall, and her absence was a cold wind blowing through the cracks in his wooden armor.
"You speak of choices, Weaver," Aryan rumbled, his voice sounding like two mountains grinding together. "But you only offer cages. You took my sister's life to power your silk. You took my father's peace to build your monsters. You are not an artist. You are a parasite."
The Weaver laughed, a sound like a flute played in a tomb. "Parasite? I am the one who gives meaning to the rot! Without me, Rhea would be a pile of mountain dust by now. Look at her, Aryan. Is she not magnificent?"
Aryan looked at the figure suspended in the silver wires. Rhea. She looked so much like their mother. Even in her forced stasis, there was a stubborn grace in the curve of her brow—the same stubbornness that had once made her refuse to come inside for dinner until she had counted every star in the Shimla sky.
"Sarah," Aryan whispered, not taking his eyes off the Weaver. "When the battle begins, you must reach the Loom. Don't wait for me. Just get the Seed into her."
"But Aryan, the Weaver said—if the Loom stops, her heart stops!" Sarah cried.
"I know," Aryan said. He closed his eyes. He didn't reach for his anger; he reached for his memory. He remembered the Shimla cottage. He remembered the day Vikram taught him that wood doesn't just hold weight; it shares it.
"I'm going in," Aryan muttered.
He didn't charge the Weaver with his fists. Instead, he reached out his mahogany hand and grabbed the silver threads that connected to the Loom. He didn't try to break them. He merged with them.
The shock was a white-hot scream. The silver threads were a direct conduit to Rhea's consciousness. As the Weaver shrieked in outrage and dove toward him with her diamond needle, Aryan's mind was yanked out of the hall and plunged into a world of white mist.
He was standing in a field of grey grass under a sunless sky. In the distance, he saw a small, wooden swing set—the one Vikram had built in their backyard. Sitting on the swing was a woman. She wasn't ten anymore. She was the woman from the Loom, but here, she was dressed in her old school uniform, her hair tied in the messy pigtails she used to love.
"Rhea?" Aryan called out. His voice here was human. His arm was flesh and bone. He was just a boy again.
The woman turned. Her eyes were full of a thousand years of weariness. "Aryan? Is it really you? Or is this another one of her dances?"
"It's me, Rhea. It's really me." He ran to her, his heart bursting with a decade of grief. He reached out to hug her, but his hands passed through her like smoke.
"I'm disappearing, Aryan," she said, her voice a soft echo. "The Weaver has used so much of me. I'm not a person anymore. I'm just the rhythm for her machines. Every time a puppet moves in the world, a piece of my breath is taken."
"I'm here to take you home," Aryan promised. "But I have to stop the Loom. And the Weaver says... if I stop it, you might not come back."
Rhea looked at the grey horizon. "The Loom is my cage, but it's also my life-support. If the silver snaps, the silence will take me. But Aryan... the silence is better than this. I'm so tired of dancing."
"No," Aryan said, his eyes burning with a gardener's resolve. "There is a third way. Papa taught me that a graft can save a dying tree. I am the Armor, Rhea. I was built to hold the weight. If I share my 'Seed' with you, if I wrap my mahogany around your heart, I can hold you together when the silver fails."
Rhea looked at him, her eyes widening. "But if you do that... the wood will claim you entirely. You'll never be human again. You'll be a statue, Aryan. A living tomb."
"I'd rather be a tomb that protects you," Aryan smiled, "than a man who lets you go."
In the real world, the Weaver's diamond needle struck Aryan's mahogany shoulder, shattering against the dense wood. Aryan didn't flinch. His body was standing still, but his spirit was weaving.
"SARAH! NOW!" Aryan's voice boomed through the hall, a physical force that knocked the Weaver back.
Sarah lunged for the Silver Heart. She smashed the glass casing with a heavy book and pressed the Seed of Restoration against Rhea's chest.
At the same moment, in the spirit world, Aryan grabbed Rhea's hands. "Don't be afraid of the dark, little sister. The forest is coming to fetch you."
Aryan let go of his own ego. He commanded the mahogany on his body to flow through the silver threads. In the Hall of Failed Sisters, the transformation was terrifying and beautiful. The dark, rich wood erupted from Aryan's arm and traveled up the silver wires, turning the cold metal into living, warm timber.
The wood encased the Silver Heart. It wrapped around Rhea's body like a protective cocoon. Aryan was literally pouring his life force into the Loom to replace the Weaver's power.
The Weaver screamed as her palace began to grow leaves. The silver silk was being overwritten by mahogany bark. The Loom groaned, the mechanical rhythm dying, replaced by the slow, deep thrum of a forest.
"NO!" the Weaver shrieked, her body beginning to unravel as her source of power was stolen. "YOU CANNOT BE BOTH THE AXE AND THE GARDENER!"
"I am the son of Vikram Khanna," Aryan roared, his eyes glowing like suns. "And the story ends here!"
The Loom shattered. The silver threads snapped.
Aryan felt his consciousness being slammed back into his body. He fell to his knees. He couldn't move his right arm. He couldn't move his legs. The wood had reached his chest, encasing him in a thick, immovable trunk of mahogany. He was a statue, rooted to the floor of the palace.
But in front of him, the wooden cocoon cracked open.
Rhea fell out, her skin pink and warm, her breath a sweet, human sigh. She was alive. She was whole.
Sarah caught her, tears streaming down her face. "She's breathing! Aryan, she's breathing!"
Aryan tried to smile, but his face was now partially bark. He could only watch as Rhea opened her eyes—real, brown eyes—and looked at him.
"Aryan?" she whispered, reaching out to touch the wooden face of the statue that was once her brother.
He couldn't speak. But as her finger touched the mahogany, a single, golden flower bloomed on his wooden cheek.
The Palace of the Loom was now a Palace of Trees. The Weaver was gone, turned into a pile of dull silver dust. They were safe. But the price had been paid. The Hero was now the Monument.