The journey back to the Palace of the Loom was a race against a clock made of rot. As Mira, Rhea, and Sarah sprinted through the Iron Forest, the landscape was changing. The silver silk was no longer just threads; it was liquefying, turning into a grey, corrosive slime that hissed as it touched the ground. The Master's rage was melting the world he had built.
In Mira's hand, the rusted iron chisel felt impossibly heavy. It didn't pulse with magic like the mahogany leaf or glow like the silver heart. It was just cold, honest iron. It felt like a burden, yet it was the only thing that gave her hope. Beside her, Rhea moved with a new grace, her human heart beating a rhythm that seemed to stabilize the turbulent air around them.
"The Palace," Sarah gasped, pointing toward the horizon.
The Cathedral of Mahogany was under siege. The Termite-Puppets—millions of them—were a grey, undulating carpet of ash and mandibles. They weren't just attacking the tree; they were eating the very air around it, siphoning the "Life-Force" that Aryan was projecting to keep the roof from collapsing. The beautiful mahogany bark was turning grey and brittle wherever they touched it.
"We have to get to the heart mark," Mira said, her eyes fixed on the center of the Great Hall. "Rhea, Sarah, I need a path!"
Rhea didn't hesitate. She stepped forward and began to sing. This wasn't the song of memory she had used in the Barrens; it was a song of Presence. She sang of the smell of rain, the taste of salt, and the warmth of a brother's hand. The melody was so vibrant that it created a physical shockwave of amber light. The Termite-Puppets, creatures of emptiness and ash, shriveled and blew away like burnt paper wherever the sound touched them.
Mira lunged through the opening. She reached the base of the great mahogany tree—the statue of Aryan.
The wood was cold. The face, once peaceful, was now a mask of absolute strain. The bark was cracking, and through the fissures, Mira could see a faint, flickering light. The man was dying inside the armor.
She placed the rusted chisel against the star-shaped mark on Aryan's chest. But as she raised her hand to strike, the world around her vanished.
The Mind-Scape: The Eternal Shimla
Mira wasn't in the Palace anymore. She was standing in front of the Shimla cottage. The sun was setting, painting the mountains in hues of gold and violet. The air smelled of cedar shavings and fresh tea.
Sitting on the porch was Aryan. He wasn't made of wood. He was wearing his old checked shirt, his hair messy, a pen tucked behind his ear. He was writing in a notebook, looking completely at peace.
"Aryan?" Mira called out, her voice trembling.
He looked up, a bright, boyish smile breaking across his face. "Mira! You're just in time. I've finished the final chapter of the book. It has a happy ending. We all stay here. The rain never stops, and the Master never finds us."
Mira walked toward him, but her heart was breaking. This was a "Perfect Armor" for his mind. A sanctuary built of his own memories to protect him from the agony of being a living statue.
"Aryan, this isn't real," she said softly, sitting on the step beside him.
"Does it matter?" Aryan asked, looking at the beautiful, unmoving mountains. "Out there, I'm a block of wood. I'm cold. I'm lonely. I'm a monument to a war I never wanted to fight. Here... I'm just a writer. I'm just your Aryan."
He reached out and took her hand. His hand was warm, soft, and human.
"Stay with me," he whispered. "We can grow old in this sunset. We don't have to be heroes anymore."
Mira looked at him, and for a second, she wanted to say yes. She wanted to let the rusted chisel fall and disappear into this golden lie. But then she felt the weight of the "Chisel of Truth" in her pocket. It was a cold reminder of the world they had left behind—of Rhea's bravery, of Sarah's songs, and of the Master's shadow.
"Aryan," she said, her hazel eyes locking onto his. "A story with no ending isn't a story. It's a prison. You told me once that a carpenter respects the grain because the knots tell the truth of the tree's struggle. This place... it has no knots. It has no truth."
"It's safe," Aryan argued, his voice growing desperate.
"It's a grave," Mira replied. She pulled the rusted chisel out. It looked ugly and out of place in the perfect Shimla sunset. "The people who love you are fighting an army of ash right now. Rhea is losing her voice. Sarah is exhausted. And I... I didn't become human just to live in a dream."
She stood up and held the chisel toward his heart. "I love the man who chose to become wood to save his sister. I don't love the ghost who hides in a sunset. Come back to us, Aryan. Even if it hurts. Even if you're broken. We will carve the rest of the path together."
Aryan looked at the chisel, then at the fading mountains. The Shimla cottage began to flicker. The smell of cedar was replaced by the smell of ozone and decay.
"If you strike the wood, Mira... the armor breaks. The Master will see my heart. I'll be vulnerable."
"You'll be alive," she promised.
Aryan stood up. He took a deep breath, and for the first time in the mind-scape, he looked at his own hands. They began to turn back into mahogany. He wasn't fighting it anymore. He was accepting the "knot" in his own grain.
"Do it," he whispered. "Wake me up."
The Great Hall: The Breaking of the Shell
In the real world, Mira's eyes snapped open. She saw the Termite-Puppets crawling up her legs, their ash-teeth biting into her human skin. She didn't flinch.
She raised the iron chisel and struck the mahogany heart-mark with all the strength of her soul.
CRACK.
It wasn't a sound of breaking wood. It was a sound of a bell ringing across the world. The mahogany statue didn't shatter; it exfoliated. Large plates of dark, rich bark fell away like the skin of a ripening fruit.
A blinding amber light exploded from the fissures. The Termite-Puppets were incinerated instantly, turned into steam. The Palace of the Loom groaned and began to settle into the earth.
From the center of the falling timber, a figure collapsed onto the floor.
It was Aryan.
He was human. But he wasn't "fixed." His right arm was still mahogany from the shoulder down, a permanent reminder of his sacrifice. His chest bore the scar of the star-shaped mark. He was pale, gasping for air, his muscles twitching from the sudden influx of blood and oxygen.
Mira fell beside him, pulling his head into her lap. "Aryan! Aryan, stay with me!"
He opened his eyes. They were no longer amber; they were a deep, dark brown, swirling with a thousand new memories. He looked at Mira, then at Rhea, who had fallen silent, her voice gone but her smile radiant.
"I... I can feel the floor," Aryan whispered, his voice hoarse and human. "It's cold. It's wonderful."
But the victory was short-lived. The silver slime of the palace was beginning to coalesce at the far end of the hall. It wasn't the Weaver, and it wasn't the Master. It was something new. A liquid, metallic mass that was forming into a giant, faceless head.
"THE ARCHITECT IS DISPLEASED," a voice boomed, sounding like a thousand grinding gears. "THE SEED HAS BROKEN THE MOLD. THE RECLAMATION BEGINS NOW."
"He's coming," Sarah whispered, clutching her throat. "The Master... he's coming himself."
Aryan sat up, leaning on his mahogany arm. He looked at the rusted chisel in Mira's hand, then at the "Seed of Restoration" (the fruit) that Sarah still held.
"He's not coming for the wood," Aryan said, his eyes sharpening with a new understanding. "He's coming for the family. He's coming to take back the 'Knots' we've created."
He looked at Rhea and Mira. They were a broken, battered group. A girl without a voice, a woman reborn from sap, and a man who was half-tree. They were a family of flaws.
"Let him come," Aryan said, standing up on shaky legs. "We've got 965 more chapters to write. And I've finally found my voice."