The dust of the battle with the Carver had barely settled when the lavender sky of the Grey Barrens began to shimmer with a crystalline brilliance. Pintu and the other Discarded Toys stood as a ragged but resolute vanguard, their wooden hearts beating with the stolen memories Rhea had sung back into existence. But the path forward was no longer a trail of ash. It was a corridor of glass.
In the center of the Barrens rose the Temple of Shattered Reflections. It was an architectural impossibility—a structure built entirely from the shards of broken mirrors, held together by the same silver silk the Weaver once used. As Mira, Rhea, and Sarah approached, the temple didn't reflect the barren wasteland around it. Instead, its surface showed glimpses of lush green forests, snowy mountain peaks, and bustling marketplaces that had long since crumbled to dust.
"The leaf is burning," Mira whispered, her hand tightening around the Mahogany Scythe. The dark wood was vibrating with such intensity that it felt as if Aryan's own pulse was thumping against her palm. "He wants us to go inside. He says the truth isn't in the wood anymore... it's in the glass."
They entered the temple. The interior was a kaleidoscope of light and shadow. Thousands of mirrors hung from the ceiling, swaying in a wind that smelled of old books and mountain rain. At the far end of the hall sat a single, massive mirror framed in Ironwood and Gold. This was the Mirror of True Origins.
"They say this mirror doesn't show your face," Sarah said, her voice small and trembling. "It shows the moment your story began. The 'First Echo' that made you who you are."
Rhea stepped forward first. She was the "Life," the heartbeat of the family. As she stood before the glass, the reflection of the temple vanished.
In its place, she saw a small cottage in Shimla. The air was thick with the scent of cedar. A younger Vikram Khanna was sitting by a fireplace, his face etched with a worry that seemed to age him by decades. Beside him stood Sunita, her eyes glowing with a supernatural green light. She was holding two infants—Aryan and Rhea.
"They are beautiful, Vikram," the reflection-Sunita whispered.
"They are a target," Vikram replied, his voice cracking. "The Architect is coming. He found the resonance of the Seed. He knows we took the Root."
Suddenly, a third figure emerged from the shadows of the reflection. He was a man of tall, elegant stature, dressed in robes of silver and charcoal. His face was identical to Vikram's, but where Vikram's eyes were full of love, this man's eyes were cold, calculating pits of obsidian.
"The Master," Rhea gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "He looks... he looks like Papa."
"Not just like him," Mira said, stepping closer to the glass. "He is him. Or a part of him."
The mirror shifted. It showed a younger version of the two men—Vikram and the man who would become the Master—working together in a grand laboratory of wood and steam. They were brothers. Vikram was the Carver of Form, the one who gave the puppets their beauty. The other, Valerius, was the Weaver of Wills, the one who wanted to give them life.
The reflection showed the moment of the Great Schism. They had found the Last Root of the Great Grove. Vikram wanted to use it to heal the world; Valerius wanted to use it to create a race of immortal servants. In the struggle, Valerius was consumed by the silver silk he had created, turning his heart into a mechanical engine of hate.
But the mirror had one more secret to reveal. It turned its focus toward Mira.
"My turn," Mira whispered, her breath hitching.
As she stood before the glass, the image changed. She didn't see a puppet being built in a workshop. She saw a village in the year 1974. She saw a young woman with a camera, laughing as she took photos of the Shimla hills. This woman was purely human. She had a life, a name, and a family.
Then, she saw Vikram Khanna approaching the woman. He looked desperate. "I need a shadow," the reflection-Vikram said, his hands glowing with mahogany light. "The Master is coming for my son. I need someone to watch over him when I am gone. Someone the silver cannot track."
Mira watched in horror as her younger, human self agreed to a bargain. She hadn't been stolen; she had volunteered. She had allowed Vikram to "suspend" her humanity, turning her into a living shadow—a protector who would age only when the Seed was safe.
"I chose this," Mira sobbed, falling to her knees. "I wasn't a victim. I was a vow."
The mahogany leaf in her hand flared with a brilliant, comforting gold. Aryan's voice echoed through the temple, no longer a whisper, but a clear, resonant chime:
"And I chose to give it back to you, Mira. Because a protector deserves a life of her own."
Suddenly, the Mirror of True Origins began to crack. The obsidian eyes of Valerius—The Master—within the reflection began to glow with a terrifying violet light. He reached out from the glass, his silver-silk fingers clawing at the frame.
"The truth is a poison, little Seed!" the Master's voice boomed from the shards. "You think your father was a hero? He turned a girl into a ghost and a son into a tree! He is the Architect of your suffering as much as I am!"
The temple began to collapse. The shards of glass turned into thousands of razor-sharp projectiles, swirling around them in a lethal vortex.
"We have to go!" Sarah shouted, grabbing Rhea.
But Mira stood her ground, the Mahogany Scythe glowing with the power of her reclaimed history. She realized that the Master wasn't just a villain in a tower; he was a ghost in their blood. The only way to defeat him was to finish the "Masterpiece" that Vikram had started—not a puppet of wood, but a family of flesh.
"Rhea! The Song!" Mira commanded. "Sing for the brothers! Sing for the split heart of the Khannas!"
Rhea began to sing, her voice channeling the grief of the two brothers—one who loved too much, and one who hated too much. The melody acted as a sonic anchor, slowing the glass vortex.
As they fled the collapsing temple, Mira looked back. She saw the reflection of the Master fading, but he left behind a final, chilling message etched in the falling glass:
"The Valley of the Uncarved is a Grave. Your father is not waiting for you. He is the one holding the Chisel."
They emerged back into the Grey Barrens just as the temple dissolved into a pile of harmless sand. The path to the North was now clear, but the foundation of their world had been shaken. Vikram Khanna, the man they were risking everything to find, might be their greatest enemy.