The steam train, known as the Himalayan Queen, chugged along the winding tracks toward the misty peaks of Shimla. It was an old-fashioned beauty, its brass fittings gleaming under the pale morning sun and its coal-black engine breathing rhythmic clouds of white smoke. Inside the mahogany-paneled dining car, the atmosphere was a strange mixture of Victorian elegance and supernatural tension.
Aryan sat by the window, his mahogany arm tucked into a long-sleeved coat. He watched the pine forests blur past, the green of the trees a sharp contrast to the blue sky. In front of him lay his notebook, but his human hand stayed frozen over the page. The "Wood-Mind" within him was quiet, resting after the battle with Valerius, but the weight of the "Mango-Wood Box" in his pocket felt like a heavy anchor.
"You've been staring at that same sentence for thirty miles, Aryan," Mira said, sitting across from him.
Mira looked radiant. She was wearing a simple, high-collared blue dress that Rhea had found for her. Her hazel eyes were constantly moving, taking in every detail of the car—the silver spoons, the velvet curtains, the way the sunlight danced on the tea in her cup. For a woman who had spent fifty years as a puppet of shadow, the "normalcy" of a train ride was the most exotic adventure she had ever known.
"I'm trying to find the right word for 'home'," Aryan said, finally setting the pen down. "Is it a place we left, or a place we're building?"
Mira reached out and covered his hand with hers. Her skin was warm, a constant reminder of the miracle that had brought her back to life. "Maybe it's just the person sitting across from you."
Aryan smiled, his dark brown eyes softening. "Spoken like a true human."
The Comedy of the Dining Car
The romantic moment was abruptly shattered by a high-pitched, indignant bubble.
"I say! Waiter! This water is positively scandalous! It tastes as though a coal-miner took a bath in it!"
Barnaby the fish was perched in his ornate crystal bowl in the center of the table. He was wearing a tiny, waterproof top hat that Sarah had fashioned from a piece of discarded silk.
The waiter, a thin man with a very stiff mustache, looked down at the talking fish with an expression of utter disbelief. "Sir... or... fish... we do not usually serve guests of the... aquatic variety."
"Nonsense!" Barnaby splashed, flicking a drop of water onto the waiter's sleeve. "I am a Muse of the First Order! I have inspired sonnets that would make your mustache curl in envy! Now, bring me a slice of lemon and a sprig of mint. And make sure the water is chilled—not frozen, I'm not an ice-cube, but brisk!"
"Barnaby, be quiet," Rhea whispered, her face red with embarrassment as she sat next to the fish. "People are staring."
"Let them stare, my dear Rhea! Fame is a heavy burden, but I carry it with grace," Barnaby replied, before blowing a bubble that looked remarkably like a heart toward a woman at the next table.
Sarah, sitting across from Rhea, giggled. Her voice was much stronger now, though it still carried a melodic, airy quality. "He's just excited to be out of the gears, Rhea. We all are."
The Mirror of Identity
As the waiter scurried away, Mira stood up. "I'll be back. I want to see the... the looking glass in the hallway."
Aryan watched her go, a slight frown of concern on his face. He knew that for Mira, mirrors were difficult. For decades, her reflection was a violet-eyed shadow. Now, she was a stranger to herself.
Mira walked into the narrow corridor of the train. The walls were lined with polished mirrors. She stopped in front of one.
She saw a young woman with soft, sun-kissed skin and messy chestnut hair. She saw a small scar on her chin—a human flaw she had gained during the climb up the Wall of Tears. She touched her face, her fingers tracing the curve of her lips.
"Is this me?" she whispered to the glass.
Suddenly, the reflection didn't move with her.
The Mira in the mirror stayed still while the real Mira tilted her head. The reflection's hazel eyes began to darken, turning into a deep, liquid black—the color of ink.
"You are a debt unpaid, Mira," the reflection spoke, its voice sounding like the scratching of a pen on dry paper. "The Master is gone, but the Architect does not forgive a stolen soul."
Mira backed away, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked at her hands, expecting them to turn to wood or shadow, but they remained flesh.
"Aryan!" she gasped.
Before she could run back to the dining car, the window pane of the train began to frost over. But it wasn't ice. It was Ink-Ghosts—smears of black liquid that moved like centipedes across the glass, forming the shape of a tall man in a long, flowing coat.
The Thrill on the Tracks
Aryan was already out of his seat. He had felt the shift in the air—a cold, clinical pressure that reminded him of the Carver's presence, but more refined, more ancient.
He found Mira in the corridor, her back against the wall. The Ink-Ghosts were now dripping from the ceiling, forming a puddle of black liquid that began to rise like a sculpture.
"Aryan, stay back!" Mira cried.
Aryan's mahogany arm reacted instantly. He didn't wait for the transformation; he commanded it. The bark erupted from his sleeve, glowing with a fierce, protective amber light. He stepped between Mira and the rising ink.
"Who are you?" Aryan growled, his voice vibrating with the power of the Seed.
The Ink-Ghost didn't have a face, only a blank, white space where a face should be. It reached out a hand, and as it moved, the mahogany paneling of the train began to rot and turn to grey ash.
"I am the Proofreader," the entity spoke, the voice echoing through the entire train. "Your story has too many errors, Aryan Khanna. The Architect has decided to delete the characters that do not belong in the final draft."
The Ink-Ghost lunged. It didn't strike with force; it tried to "smear" its black liquid onto Aryan's mahogany arm. Where the ink touched the wood, the bark didn't just break—it lost its meaning. The wood turned into a flat, 2D sketch of itself.
"Sarah! Rhea!" Aryan shouted.
Rhea ran into the corridor, her eyes wide. She saw the Ink-Ghost and immediately understood the danger. This wasn't a battle of wood versus metal. This was a battle of Reality versus Fiction.
"It's the Architect's guard!" Rhea cried. "Aryan, don't let it touch your skin! It will turn you into a drawing!"
Sarah began to sing, a sharp, dissonant note designed to break the concentration of the entity. The Ink-Ghost flickered, its body wavering like a reflection in a disturbed pond.
Aryan used the "Chisel of Truth" from his pocket. He didn't use the blade. He used the rusted iron handle to strike the window pane.
"We are not characters in your book!" Aryan roared.
The glass shattered, and the wind of the mountains rushed into the train, carrying with it the scent of real pine and real earth. The Ink-Ghost shrieked—a sound like paper tearing—and was sucked out of the window by the pressure, its liquid body dissolving into the mountain mist.
Aryan collapsed against the wall, breathing hard. His mahogany arm was flickering, the sketch-marks slowly turning back into three-dimensional bark.
"The Proofreader," Aryan whispered, looking at the empty window. "The Architect thinks we're just ink on a page."
"He's watching us," Mira said, her hand trembling as she gripped Aryan's shoulder. "He's been watching us since we left the Sea."
Barnaby flopped his way into the corridor, his bowl held steady by Sarah. "I say! That was a most distressing development! I've always said that critics are the death of art, but this is a bit literal, don't you think?"
Aryan looked at the rusted key in his hand. They were only an hour away from Shimla.
"We need to find that heart," Aryan said, his eyes turning toward the distant, snowy peaks. "Because if the Architect wants to delete us, we're going to have to write a story he can't control."
As the Himalayan Queen pulled into the Shimla station, the group stepped onto the platform. They were home, but the mountains felt different. The shadows were longer, and the ink of the night was waiting to be written.