The escape from the sinking Palace of the Loom had been a frantic blur of collapsing silver and rising roots. Now, two days later, the group found themselves in the hidden hamlet of Vriksh-Gram (The Village of Trees). Tucked into a deep, emerald valley far from the Iron Forest, this was a place where the air felt like silk and the water tasted of melted starlight. The villagers were simple people—descendants of ancient forest-guardians who had long forgotten the war, but still remembered the songs that made the crops grow.
Aryan sat on a low wooden bench outside a small stone hut. His human hand was busy trying to navigate a fountain pen over a tattered journal, but his right arm—the permanent mahogany graft—felt heavy and stubborn. He was a writer again, but the ink felt different. Every word he wrote seemed to vibrate through the wood of his shoulder.
"It's not supposed to be this hard to write 'The end of the palace'," Aryan muttered, scratching out a line.
"Maybe it's because it's not the end, Aryan," Sarah said, sitting nearby as she mended a torn cloak. Her voice was returning, though it was still a soft, gravelly whisper.
Just then, a commotion erupted from the village square. Rhea was leading Mira by the hand, and both of them looked like they were participating in a chaotic ritual. Mira was walking as if she were learning to navigate a planet with double the gravity. Her new human legs were long and strong, but her mind still expected the rigid, clicking precision of gears.
"She's hungry, Aryan!" Rhea shouted, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "A real, human hunger. Not the 'recharge' kind!"
Mira looked at Aryan, her hazel eyes wide with a mixture of terror and curiosity. "My stomach... it is making a sound like a distant thunderstorm. Is there a loose bolt? Am I... malfunctioning?"
Aryan couldn't help it. A short, genuine laugh escaped his lips—the first in years. "No, Mira. That's called a 'growl'. It means your body wants fuel. Real fuel."
They walked toward a small street stall where an old man was grilling Seekh Kebabs over an open flame of aromatic mango-wood. The scent—a heady mix of toasted cumin, smoked meat, and spicy chilies—hit them like a physical wave.
Mira stopped dead in her tracks. She sniffed the air, her nostrils flaring. For fifty years, she had "sensed" chemicals and heat signatures. Now, she was smelling.
"It smells... orange," Mira said, struggling to find the words. "And brown. And... like a hug from a fire."
"That's the spices, Mira," Rhea explained, buying a plate and handing a skewer to her. "Try it. Carefully. It's hot."
Mira took the skewer as if it were a dangerous artifact. She looked at the glistening, charred meat. She took a small bite.
For a moment, she stood perfectly still. Then, her eyes went wide. Her toes curled into the dust. A flush of deep pink spread across her cheeks, and she let out a sound that was half-moan, half-gasp.
"Oh," she whispered. "Oh, my. It is... it is a riot in my mouth. Everything is moving. It's salty, then it's sharp, then it's warm." She took a larger bite, juice dripping down her chin. "I want to eat the entire world if it tastes like this!"
"Slow down!" Aryan laughed, reaching out with a napkin to wipe her chin. As his hand touched her face, the mahogany on his arm pulsed with a soft, warm amber light. The wood was reacting to her joy. "If you eat too fast, you'll get a 'stomach ache'. That's the human version of a system crash."
"A stomach ache?" Mira asked, her mouth half-full. "Is it fatal?"
"No," Sarah chimed in, grinning. "But it makes you wish you were a puppet again for about an hour."
As the sun began to set over Vriksh-Gram, painting the emerald leaves in shades of honey, the group sat by the communal fire. For a few hours, the Master felt like a distant nightmare. They were just four friends sharing a meal.
However, the peace was interrupted by the arrival of a stranger.
He was a short, stout man with a monocle that seemed to be made of a thousand tiny lenses. He pushed a cart filled with shimmering trinkets—brass birds that sang, silver spoons that stirred themselves, and pocket watches that told the weather. He called himself The Merchant of Ticks.
"Exquisite," the Merchant whispered, his monocle clicking as he focused on Aryan's mahogany arm. "The grain is unparalleled. It's not just wood; it's a lived history. I have collectors in the North who would trade entire provinces for a sliver of that bark."
Aryan tucked his arm behind his back, his eyes narrowing. "It's not for sale, Merchant."
"Everything is for sale, King of the Wood," the Merchant smiled, revealing teeth made of polished copper. "Even secrets. I know you seek the 'Mother's Grave'. Everyone thinks she's a tree in the center of the Grove. But they are wrong."
Rhea stood up, her hand over her heart. "What do you know about our mother?"
The Merchant pulled out a small, crystal vial containing a single drop of emerald-green liquid. "She isn't buried in the earth. She is buried in the 'Clockwork Sea'. To reach her, you need a map that isn't written on paper, but on a heartbeat."
He looked at Mira. "The girl reborn. You have the 'Anchor-Pulse'. If you allow me to 'tune' your new heart to my compass, I can show you the way. But the price is high."
"What is the price?" Mira asked, her voice turning cold and protective.
"A memory," the Merchant said. "I want the memory of your first human kiss. It's a rare vintage. Pure, untainted, and full of the 'Sap of Life'."
Aryan stepped forward, his mahogany hand clenching into a fist. "Leave. Now. Before I show you how 'exquisite' this wood can be when it strikes copper."
The Merchant chuckled, bowing low. He began to wheel his cart away into the shadows. "The offer stands. But remember, Aryan Khanna... the Master is already at the Clockwork Sea. He is trying to 're-wind' your mother's soul. If he succeeds, she won't be a Queen anymore. She'll be his greatest puppet."
The Merchant disappeared into the mist, leaving a lingering scent of oil and old coins.
The humor of the evening vanished. Mira looked at Aryan, her hand finding his mahogany one. "He's trying to divide us again. He wants me to trade my feelings for your mother's location."
"We won't trade anything," Aryan said, his voice firm. "We'll find her our way. With our own heartbeats."
But as he spoke, he felt a strange, cold sensation in his wooden arm. He looked down and saw a tiny silver tick—no larger than a grain of sand—burrowing into his mahogany bark. The Merchant hadn't just come to trade; he had come to plant a parasite.
The journey to the Clockwork Sea had begun, and the treasure they sought was a mother who was being turned into a machine.