The Bone and Silk ship, now named the Echo of Avalon by Barnaby the fish, sailed deeper into the heart of the Clockwork Sea. The sky had turned a dizzying shade of iridescent violet, and the "water" below was no longer just gears. It had become a swirling vortex of translucent ribbons—the Maelstrom of Seconds. Every ribbon was a moment in time, flickering with images of things that had been, things that were, and things that might never be.
The sound was the most overwhelming part. It wasn't the roar of water, but the collective ticking of a billion clocks, all slightly out of sync. It was a rhythmic, maddening pulse that vibrated through the marrow of their bones.
"I say, do watch your step," Barnaby chirped, flopping around in a bowl of enchanted saltwater perched on the ship's railing. "The ribbons are quite sticky. If you touch a 'Bad Friday' from 1922, you might find yourself with a sudden, inexplicable craving for stale biscuits and coal smoke."
Mira, dressed in her new traveling clothes—rugged leathers that still felt alien against her soft human skin—was trying to maintain her balance. "Barnaby, why are the clouds moving backward?"
"Ah, that would be the 'Tuesday Effect', my dear," the fish replied, adjusting his imaginary monocle. "In this sector, time likes to loop like a cat chasing its tail. Speaking of tails, Mira, your posture is a bit... well, 'wooden'. If we are to meet the Queen of the Grove, we must work on your social graces. A lady does not lunge at a kebab; she invites the kebab to a diplomatic negotiation."
Rhea laughed, the sound bright and clear, cutting through the heavy ticking. "Leave her alone, Barnaby. She's doing fine. She's only been human for a few days."
Aryan stood at the prow, his mahogany arm gripping the bone railing. He wasn't laughing. He could see the Time-Sharks circling the ship. They were sleek, predatory entities made of distorted mirrors. They didn't have teeth; they had jagged edges of "Yesterday."
"They're closing in," Aryan warned, his voice low.
"Oh, bother," Barnaby sighed. "Time-Sharks. Dreadful creatures. They don't eat your flesh, you see. They eat your 'Time'. One bite and you're a toddler. Two bites and you're a glimmer in your grandfather's eye. It's a very messy way to go."
Suddenly, the first shark breached the liquid gears. It didn't splash; it shattered the air with a sound like a broken window. It lunged toward Sarah.
"Sarah, get back!" Aryan roared.
He didn't use a sword. He reached into the deck of the ship with his mahogany hand. The bone hull of the ship, being ancient and organic, responded to his "Seed" energy.
"ANCHOR!"
Huge, gnarled roots of mahogany erupted from the deck, weaving together to form a protective cage around the girls. The Time-Shark struck the wood, and a strange thing happened. Where the shark touched the mahogany, the wood didn't break; it ripened. A tiny blossom grew and then withered in a second.
The shark let out a silent, vibrating scream and dissolved into a cloud of silver dust.
"Fascinating!" Barnaby bubbled. "Your wood is 'Time-Proof', Aryan! Because the Root of the Grove exists outside of the Master's clock, you are the only thing in this sea that doesn't age or regue!"
But more sharks were coming. Dozens of them. They began to ram the ship, the impact sending ripples of "Past Memories" through the crew.
Mira stumbled as a shark grazed the hull near her. Suddenly, she wasn't on the ship. She was back in the mountain village of 1974. She saw her human mother, her face young and beautiful, hanging laundry in the sun.
"Maa?" Mira whispered, her eyes glazing over.
"Mira, don't look!" Aryan shouted, jumping down from the prow. He grabbed her, his mahogany arm acting as a grounded wire, pulling her back into the "Now."
"They use your nostalgia against you," Aryan panted, his eyes searching the violet mist. "They want you to get lost in what you lost."
"It felt so real, Aryan," Mira sobbed, clutching his shirt. "I could smell the mountain air. I wanted to stay."
"I know," Aryan said, his heart aching for her. He looked at Rhea and Sarah. They were both huddled together, fighting off their own visions. Rhea was seeing a version of their father who never left; Sarah was seeing a world where she was never a siren.
The Maelstrom was winning. The ship was slowing down, the silver silk sails drooping as the "Wind of Seconds" died out.
"We need a constant," Barnaby shouted, his little fins splashing frantically. "A moment so powerful it anchors the entire ship to the present! Aryan, the kiss! Do it again!"
Mira looked at Aryan, her face flushing. "Barnaby, it doesn't work like that! You can't just... order a miracle!"
"Well, do something!" the fish cried. "Unless you want to spend eternity as a group of very well-dressed embryos!"
Aryan looked at the sea of sharks. He realized that the sharks weren't just attacking them; they were attacking the Armor. They wanted to strip away the wood to get to the "Heart of Flesh."
"Sarah," Aryan said, a desperate idea forming. "Can you sing a song of 'Future'?"
"I... I don't know any," Sarah whispered.
"Don't sing a song you know," Aryan said. "Sing the sound of a tomorrow you want. Sing the sound of us... sitting in a garden that hasn't been planted yet."
Sarah took a deep breath. She closed her eyes. She didn't hum a lullaby. She began to produce a sound that was rhythmic, fast, and full of life. It sounded like a heartbeat, but faster. It sounded like the fluttering of a thousand new leaves.
As the song hit the air, the ribbons of the Maelstrom began to straighten. The Time-Sharks recoiled, their mirror-bodies cracking. They couldn't eat the "Future" because it hadn't happened yet. It was too "raw" for them.
Aryan joined in. He placed his mahogany hand on the main mast and closed his eyes. He didn't think of Shimla. He didn't think of the Palace. He thought of a house he wanted to build. He thought of a porch where Mira would sit, and Rhea would laugh, and they would all be safe.
He poured the "Idea of Tomorrow" into the wood.
The Echo of Avalon suddenly surged forward. The bone hull glowed with a brilliant, white light. The silver silk sails snapped tight, catching a sudden, powerful gale of "Hope."
They tore through the Maelstrom of Seconds, leaving the sharks in their wake.
As the violet mist began to clear, a new horizon appeared. But it wasn't a sea anymore. It was a massive, floating garden of gears and vines—the Hanging Grove of the Sea.
And there, standing on the outermost branch, was a figure.
It was a man. He looked exactly like Aryan, but he was entirely human. He was wearing the clothes Aryan had worn in Chapter 1. He was holding a pen and a notebook.
"Who is that?" Rhea whispered.
Barnaby went silent for once. The fish stared at the figure with a look of pure dread.
"That," Barnaby whispered, "is the Time-Ghost of the Man You Could Have Been. If you hadn't gone to the Villa. If you hadn't found the wood. If you had stayed a writer."
The figure looked at the ship. He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He simply opened his notebook and began to tear out the pages, throwing them into the sea. Each page, as it hit the gears, turned into a silver moth.
"He's been waiting for you, Aryan," the Ghost spoke, his voice sounding like Aryan's own, but without the timber, without the depth. "I am the story you didn't write. And I've come to take my ink back."
The battle for the Mother was no longer just about the Master. It was about the versions of themselves they had killed to survive.