The air in the Mahogany Cathedral, once warm with the scent of sandalwood and sacrifice, suddenly turned frigid. It was a cold that didn't bite the skin but gnawed at the mind—a clinical, sterile chill. The man standing at the entrance, the one who called himself The Carver, did not belong in this forest of emotions. He moved with a terrifying, rhythmic precision, his black frock coat swaying like the wings of a crow.
In his hand, he held a chisel. It was not made of steel or silver, but of Obsidian Hate—a volcanic glass forged from the extinguished embers of a thousand broken hearts. It didn't reflect the amber light of the hall; it seemed to drink it, leaving a trail of darkness in the air.
"A masterpiece," The Carver whispered, his obsidian eyes fixed on the statue of Aryan. "But a masterpiece is never finished until it has been properly pruned. Wood, you see, is lazy. It grows where it is comfortable. But art... art requires suffering."
Mira stepped forward, her new human heart thundering in her chest. For fifty years, she had been a creature of gears and silver, but now, the heat of her blood was her greatest weapon. She felt a strange, magnetic pull toward the mahogany tree—a tether of sap and soul.
"You will not touch him," Mira said, her voice steady and clear. She had no daggers now, no crossbow. She had only her humanity.
The Carver smiled, a jagged line of shark-bone teeth. "The Reborn Shadow. A miracle of the Seed. You are a fascinating byproduct, my dear, but you are not the prize. The prize is the memory locked inside this timber."
He lunged.
The Carver didn't move like a warrior; he moved like a surgeon. He bypassed Mira with a fluid, liquid grace and struck the mahogany trunk of Aryan.
Chink.
The sound of the obsidian hitting the mahogany was not a dull thud. It was a high-pitched scream that echoed through the minds of everyone in the hall. As the black glass bit into the rich, dark bark, a jagged crack formed, and a puff of grey smoke—not sap—escaped the wound.
Suddenly, Aryan's voice exploded through the room, but it was distorted, flickering like a dying candle.
"I... I am seven years old. The rain is hitting the roof... Mother is singing... I... I can't remember the song! The words are turning to ash!"
Rhea fell to her knees, clutching her head. "Aryan! No!"
"You see?" The Carver laughed, his eyes wide with a sick delight. "Every cut I make into this 'Armor' is a cut into his past. I am not killing his body; I am unmaking his history. When I am done, he will be a hollow trunk of wood with no name and no home."
Mira felt a surge of agony in her own chest. Every time the Carver's chisel struck, she felt a piece of her own shared memory with Aryan being torn away. She realized then that when Aryan had "healed" her at the Wall, he hadn't just given her his sap—he had shared his soul.
"He is not wood!" Mira roared.
She reached out and pressed her palms against the mahogany trunk. As she did, she felt the "Wood-Mind" surging through her. She didn't have the Lexicon, but she had the "Magnetic Pulse" the Hermit had mentioned.
"Aryan, hear me!" Mira cried. "Don't fight the chisel! Fight for the memory! Give me the branches!"
In a spectacular display of fantasy and action, the mahogany tree didn't just stand there. The branches high above began to lash down like whips. The gnarled roots under the floorboards erupted, turning the marble floor into a whirlpool of stone and timber.
The Carver danced between the lashing branches, his obsidian chisel flashing. Chink. Chink. Chink. "The Shimla cottage... the smell of the music box... it's gone! I don't know who Rhea is! Who is the girl in the yellow frock?" Aryan's voice was a desperate, hollow wind.
"Rhea, sing!" Mira screamed. "Sing the song Mother used to sing! Anchor him!"
Rhea, tears streaming down her face, stood up. She closed her eyes and began the lullaby—the melody from the music box, the one that powered her heart when it was a silver battery.
"The mountain wind is soft and deep... the forest guards while the children sleep..."
As the melody hit the air, the grey smoke escaping Aryan's wounds turned back into golden sap. The cracks in the bark began to seal themselves. The mahogany energy intensified, glowing with a fierce, protective amber light.
Mira felt the power. She directed it. She moved her arms, and the massive mahogany branches followed her movements as if they were her own limbs. She swung a heavy, thorn-covered branch, catching the Carver in the chest.
The Carver was sent flying across the hall, his obsidian chisel skittering across the floor. He hit the silver doors with a sickening thud, but he stood up, wiping a black fluid from his mouth.
"The girl sings the past, and the woman moves the present," the Carver hissed. "A beautiful ensemble. But memory is a fragile thing, little puppets. I have only scratched the surface."
He picked up his chisel, but his eyes were now fixed on Rhea. "The Architect was right. The 'Life' and the 'Armor' are stronger together. But what happens when the 'Life' is silenced?"
Suddenly, the floor beneath Rhea began to crack. Thousands of tiny, grey insects—The Termite-Puppets—began to pour out of the marble. They weren't made of wood or silver; they were made of a corrosive, living ash.
"They don't want to kill you, Rhea," the Carver smiled. "They want to eat the 'Song' out of your throat."
Aryan's voice returned, stronger now, vibrating with a father's protective rage.
"NOT. HER."
The entire Palace of the Loom began to tilt. The mahogany roots didn't just defend; they began to consume. The wood grew at a terrifying speed, encasing the Termite-Puppets in solid timber before they could reach Rhea.
But the effort was too much. Aryan's wooden face, which had been peaceful, was now twisted in a grimace of absolute agony. The bark was cracking under the internal pressure of his own power.
"We have to go," Mira said, grabbing Rhea. "The Carver is a distraction. The Master is trying to force Aryan to burn out his soul to protect us."
She looked at the mahogany tree. "Aryan, we're going to the Valley. We're going to find Vikram. We'll find the Chisel of Truth. Stay strong. Don't let the obsidian take the Shimla rain away from you."
Aryan's branches lowered, creating a safe path toward the exit. A single, dark mahogany leaf fell and landed in Mira's hand. It was warm, and in the center of the leaf, a small, star-shaped mark appeared—the mark of his heart.
"I will carry you with me," Mira whispered.
As they ran out of the palace and into the metallic mists of the North, the Carver's laughter followed them, a jagged sound that promised a long and painful hunt.
The first cut had been made. The story was no longer about saving a sister; it was about saving the very idea of a family from being erased by the black glass of hate.