The air in the Valley of the Uncarved was not thin like the mountains, nor was it metallic like the Iron Forest. It was heavy—saturated with the scent of wet earth, raw cedar, and something else, something deeply human: the salt of ancient tears. As Mira, Rhea, and Sarah descended the jagged cliffside, the lavender sky of the Barrens was replaced by a canopy of "Raw Soul" trees. These trees did not have bark; their trunks were translucent, showing a glowing, golden sap that pulsed like a heartbeat. Inside the trunks, one could see the vague, undeveloped shapes of limbs and faces, as if the forest itself were a nursery for lives that were never meant to be born.
Aryan's mahogany leaf, tucked into Mira's palm, began to turn a sickly, bruised black. It wasn't dying, but it was reacting to a powerful, familiar resonance. The "Armor" was recognizing its "Architect."
"He's here," Rhea whispered, her hand trembling as she touched one of the pulsing trees. "I can feel his rhythm. It's jagged. It's the rhythm of a man who has forgotten how to sleep."
They reached the valley floor, which was littered with "Half-Borns"—beings of wood and clay that had been abandoned in the middle of their creation. Some had only a torso and a head; others were just a pair of elegantly carved wooden hands trying to knit a phantom sweater. They didn't attack. They didn't even look up. They simply existed in a state of permanent, uncarved longing.
In the center of this graveyard of potential stood a workshop. It was a massive structure made of living vines and ancient oak, its chimney belching out a thick, white smoke that smelled of pine resin.
Inside, the sound of a chisel hitting wood was rhythmic—tuck, tuck, tuck.
They entered quietly. The workshop was a cathedral of obsession. Thousands of sketches were pinned to the walls—sketches of a woman with a gentle smile and green eyes. Sunita.
Standing at a central workbench was a man. His back was turned to them. He was hunched, his hair a wild mane of silver and white, his clothes stained with various oils and saps. In his hand, he held a chisel made of pure, white bone. He was working on a life-sized statue made of rare Pearl-Wood. The statue was nearly finished. It was Sunita.
"Papa?" Rhea's voice was a fragile thread in the silent workshop.
The man froze. The chisel hovered over the statue's cheek. Slowly, he turned around.
Vikram Khanna did not look like the hero of Aryan's memories, nor did he look like the monster Valerius had described. He looked like a man who had been hollowed out. His eyes were wide and glazed, reflecting a mind that had retreated into a world where wood was safer than flesh.
"I'm almost done," Vikram whispered, not acknowledging Rhea or Mira. He looked back at the Pearl-Wood statue. "Just a little more detail around the eyes. She used to have these tiny lines when she laughed. If I get the lines right, she'll breathe. I know she will."
"Papa, it's me. It's Rhea," she stepped forward, tears streaming down her face. "And this is Mira. And Aryan... Aryan is a tree now, Papa. He sacrificed himself to save me."
Vikram blinked, looking at Rhea as if she were a ghost. "Rhea? No, Rhea is a song. Songs don't walk. They vibrate." He turned back to his work. "I have to finish her. If I finish her, the Master can't hurt us anymore. A family of wood cannot bleed. A family of wood cannot die."
Mira felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. The Mirror of True Origins had been right. Vikram hadn't become a villain of malice, but a villain of grief. He was trying to "re-carve" his family into a form that was indestructible, unaware that in doing so, he was erasing their humanity.
"Vikram, look at me," Mira said, her voice commanding and full of the heat Aryan had given her. She held out the mahogany leaf. "Aryan is still alive. He is holding the Grove together. But he is trapped in the armor you built for him. We need the Chisel of Truth. We need to bring him back."
Vikram's eyes snapped to the mahogany leaf. For a second, a spark of the old Vikram returned—the master carpenter, the protector. "The Seed... it's black. He's reaching the limit. The armor is becoming a tomb."
He looked at his bone chisel, then at the Pearl-Wood statue of his wife. "The Master said if I built her perfectly, he would give me the Chisel of Truth. He said the Chisel is the only thing that can separate the man from the wood."
"The Master lied to you, Vikram!" Mira shouted. "He's using your grief to build his 'Grand Masterpiece'. He wants you to carve Aryan into a weapon!"
Suddenly, the white smoke from the chimney turned a dark, oily violet. The silver threads began to weave through the rafters of the workshop.
"He's here," Sarah warned, pointing upward.
From the shadows emerged Valerius—The Master. He looked exactly like Vikram, but his skin was a polished, metallic silver, and his heart was a visible, rotating gear of obsidian.
"Brother," Valerius purred, descending on a web of silk. "You are so close. Just one more cut. Give the woman her eyes, and the Chisel is yours."
Vikram picked up the bone chisel, his hand shaking. He looked at Rhea, then at the statue. "I can have her back? Truly?"
"Papa, no!" Rhea cried. "That's not Maa! It's just wood!"
"It's better than wood," Valerius whispered in Vikram's ear. "It's memory made eternal."
Mira realized that the Chisel of Truth wasn't a physical tool hidden in a box. It was a state of being. To "carve" Aryan back to life, Vikram had to accept the truth of his loss. He had to stop trying to make them perfect and start loving them as they were—flawed, mortal, and breaking.
"Vikram!" Mira screamed, lunging forward. "If you finish that statue, you kill the Aryan that's still fighting! You trade your son's soul for a doll's smile!"
Valerius waved his hand, and a wall of silver silk erupted between Mira and the workbench. "The Architect is working, little shadow. Do not interrupt the birth of a goddess."
In that moment, the black mahogany leaf in Mira's hand began to glow with a blinding, desperate light. Aryan's voice, no longer a whisper, boomed through the workshop, vibrating the very tools on the walls.
"PAPA! LOOK AT THE GRAIN!"
Vikram stopped. He looked at the Pearl-Wood statue. Under the supernatural light of the leaf, he saw the grain of the wood. It was straight. It was perfect. It was... dead. There were no knots. No lightning scars. No history.
He looked at Rhea. He saw her messy hair, her tear-stained cheeks, and the way her hands trembled. She was full of "knots." She was beautiful because she was broken.
Vikram let out a long, shuddering sob. He dropped the bone chisel. It shattered on the floor like glass.
"She's not here," Vikram whispered, looking at the Pearl-Wood. "I spent ten years carving a grave."
"NO!" Valerius roared, his silver skin crackling. "You were the Architect! You were the one meant to perfect the Seed!"
Vikram stood tall, his wild hair catching the amber light. He looked at Valerius—his own brother, his own reflection of shadow. "A gardener doesn't perfect the flower, Valerius. He just gives it the sun."
Vikram reached into his chest—not into a mechanical heart, but into the space where his grief lived. He pulled out a small, unassuming tool. It was a simple, rusted iron chisel with a handle made of gnarled applewood.
"This is the Chisel of Truth," Vikram said, his voice finally steady. "It doesn't carve wood. It carves away the lies we tell ourselves."
He handed the rusted chisel to Mira. "Take it to the Palace. Strike the mahogany at the place where the heart mark is. But be warned... the Master will not let the Armor go without a fight."
Valerius let out a scream of pure, mechanical rage. The silver silk began to tighten around the workshop, intending to crush them all.
"Go!" Vikram commanded, picking up a heavy wooden mallet. "I'll deal with my brother. It's time the Khannas had a final word."
As Mira, Rhea, and Sarah fled the collapsing workshop, they saw the two brothers—the Carver and the Weaver—locked in a battle of wood and silk. It was a family feud that had lasted a thousand years, finally coming to its climax.
Mira clutched the rusted iron chisel. It was heavy, but it felt right. It felt human.
"We're coming, Aryan," she whispered. "The truth is on its way."