The ruins of the Labyrinth of the Loom were no longer a place of terror. In the weeks following the fall of the Silver Weaver, the silver silk had hardened into a dull, harmless metal, but the mahogany—Aryan's sacrifice—had flourished. The dark, rich wood had spread through the silver walls like a healing balm, turning the cold palace into a sprawling, subterranean cathedral of amber light and rustling leaves.
In the center of the Great Hall stood a monument that was both beautiful and heartbreaking. It was a massive tree of mahogany, its bark smooth and warm to the touch. But if one looked closely, the trunk had the unmistakable shape of a man. A man with a hand outstretched toward the center of the room, his face frozen in a look of stoic peace. This was Aryan. He was no longer a writer, a wanderer, or even a hybrid. He was the Sentinel of the Grove.
Rhea sat at the base of the tree, her back against the mahogany that was once her brother's chest. She looked different now—older, her eyes carrying the wisdom of a woman who had powered a nightmare and survived. Beside her sat Sarah, who spent her days polishing the mahogany bark with the same oil Vikram Khanna had once used in his workshop.
"He's still there, Sarah," Rhea whispered, her hand tracing the grain of the wood. "I can feel the heat. It's not the heat of the sun. It's the heat of a heart that refuses to stop beating."
"He saved us both," Sarah said, her voice soft. "But a heart without a voice is a lonely thing. We need to find the 'Chisel of Truth'. The Stone-Singer in Hampi mentioned it. Only a tool made of humanity can carve through the 'Armor' and let the man breathe again."
Suddenly, the heavy silver doors of the hall creaked open. The sound was like a groan of rusted metal. Rhea and Sarah stood up, Sarah instinctively reaching for the Seed of Restoration, though it was now just an empty husk—the magic used to wake Rhea.
A figure stood in the doorway. The silhouette was slender, framed by the pale light of the Iron Forest outside. As the figure stepped into the amber glow of the mahogany hall, both girls let out a collective gasp.
It was a woman. She looked no older than twenty-five. She was dressed in a simple white linen dress that looked out of place in this world of machines and monsters. Her hair was a rich, chestnut brown, and her eyes—clear and bright—were the color of hazelnut.
She looked exactly like Mira.
But there was no mechanical clicking. No silver rot. No violet glow. This woman breathed with a depth and rhythm that was purely, vibrantly human.
"Mira?" Rhea asked, her voice trembling.
The woman stopped, looking at her hands as if she were seeing them for the first time. She looked at the mahogany tree—at Aryan—and a look of profound, agonizing love crossed her face.
"I don't know," she whispered. Her voice was like music, devoid of the sandpaper rasp she once had. "I remember the Wall. I remember the cold of the mercury. And then... I remember a golden light. I felt a drop of sap touch my heart—a drop of his life. And then I woke up in the mud, but I was... I was soft. I was warm."
"The Rebirth of the Shadow," Rhea murmured, remembering a passage from the Lexicon. "Aryan didn't just share his armor with me. When he poured his soul into the Loom, he sent a ripple back through the threads. He found everyone he had ever loved and gave them a piece of his 'Flesh'."
The woman—let us call her Mira, for her soul was the same—approached the mahogany tree. She placed her warm, human palm against the bark.
As she touched the wood, a low, deep vibration hummed through the hall. The leaves on the mahogany branches began to glow.
"Mira..."
The voice didn't come from the air. it came from the wood. It was Aryan's voice, but it sounded like the wind through a thousand leaves.
"I'm here, Aryan," Mira sobbed, pressing her forehead against the trunk. "You gave me back my life. You gave me back my years. Please... come back to me. I don't want to be human in a world where you are a tree."
"The Master is not finished," the wood-voice whispered, the vibration so strong it made the dust on the floor dance in geometric patterns. "He has sent the 'Termite Kings'. They do not want the Seed. They want to consume the memory of the Grove. You must take the 'Compass of the Heart' from Rhea's music box. It will lead you to the 'Valley of the Uncarved'—where my father is still waiting."
"Papa?" Rhea cried, leaning into the tree. "Papa is alive?"
"He is the 'Architect of the Silence' now," Aryan's voice was fading, the effort of speaking through the timber exhausting him. "Go... before the silver turns to rust. Mira... your heart is my anchor. Do not let the cold take you again."
The light in the leaves died down. The hall returned to its amber stillness.
Mira stood up, her face transformed by a new, fierce purpose. She was no longer the silent protector. She was the woman who had been loved back into existence by a King.
"We leave for the Valley at dawn," Mira said, looking at Rhea and Sarah. "We find Vikram Khanna. We find the Chisel. And then..." She looked at the mahogany statue of the man she loved. "...we bring the Gardener home."
But as they began to pack their meager belongings, a shadow fell over the entrance of the Palace. It wasn't the Weaver, and it wasn't the First Son. It was a man carrying a leather case. He was dressed like a gentleman from the nineteenth century, but his eyes were black pits of obsidian.
"I heard there was a masterpiece here," the man said, his voice a chillingly polite baritone. "A man who turned himself into a forest. How... wasteful. Wood is meant to be shaped. Wood is meant to be hurt."
He opened his case, revealing a set of chisels made of black, volcanic glass—Obsidian Hate.
"My name is The Carver," the man smiled, showing teeth made of shark bone. "The Master sent me to prune the family tree."