The peace Ganesh had helped forge by the river did not last as long as he hoped.
For a few days, the flow was shared. The asuras moved their camp farther upstream, and the devas watched the groves below. The villagers dared to breathe easier.
But peace built on wounded pride is always fragile.
On the fourth day, Ganesh was sent again by Agnivrat to deliver herbs to the same hamlet. As he walked the muddy path, a heaviness sat in his chest, though he could not say why.
He felt it before he saw it.
Smoke rose where no fire should be.
When he reached the riverbank, he found the sacred grove downstream scorched. Several trees were blackened, their leaves curled and dead. Devas stood in a tight group, faces hard with anger, while villagers whispered fearfully nearby.
One of the devas turned sharply when he saw Ganesh.
"You," he said, his voice cold. "So you have returned."
Ganesh's heart tightened. "What happened?"
"The grove burned in the night," the deva replied. "And your 'compromise' gave them the chance."
Ganesh looked around. "Where are the asuras?"
"They fled before dawn," another deva said. "Like all of their kind."
Ganesh felt a surge of unease. "Did you see them do this?"
"No," the first deva snapped. "But who else would it be? You made us lower our guard. You gave them access."
Ganesh stared at the blackened ground.
He had believed they would watch each other.
He had believed dharma would hold.
Now the smell of ash filled his lungs.
"I need to speak to them," he said quietly. "We cannot judge without hearing."
The deva's eyes flashed. "You still defend them? After this?"
"I defend truth," Ganesh replied, his voice firm though his heart raced. "If they did this, they must answer. But if they did not, then we wrong them by silence."
The devas exchanged dark looks.
"Your words already wrong us," one said. "Because of you, sacred ground lies in ruin."
Ganesh felt their anger settle upon him like weight.
Yet he did not turn away.
He followed the trail upstream, ignoring the ache in his legs and the mud clinging to his feet. After a long search, he found the asura camp abandoned—fires cold, shelters half-dismantled.
Then he saw tracks leading deeper into the forest.
He followed them until he reached a small ravine where the asuras had taken shelter.
They tensed when they saw him.
"You came," the asura woman said, her eyes wary. "We feared you would."
Ganesh stepped forward. "The grove burned. The devas blame you."
A ripple of shock ran through the group.
"We did not do this," the asura man said sharply. "We left before dawn because one of your villagers came warning us the devas planned to drive us away by force."
Ganesh's heart sank. "A villager warned you?"
"Yes," the woman said. "We feared our children would be harmed. So we fled."
Ganesh closed his eyes briefly.
Then who burned the grove?
"Will you come back with me?" he asked. "We must speak together. This will only grow worse."
The asura man shook his head. "They will not listen. And if we return, they may strike first."
Keral—the asura boy—stepped out from behind one of the shelters. His leg was still bound, but he stood straighter now.
"You said we could trust them," he said quietly to Ganesh. "Did we trust wrongly?"
The words cut deep.
Ganesh knelt before him. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I won't stop trying to find the truth."
Keral looked at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly.
"We will go farther into the forest," the boy said. "If the devas truly want peace, they will look for us without weapons."
Ganesh rose, a heaviness settling into his bones.
"I will speak for you," he promised.
When Ganesh returned to the hamlet, he found the devas preparing to leave, weapons in hand.
"They are gone," one said. "Just as I told you."
Ganesh stood before them. "They fled because they feared you would strike first. They say a villager warned them."
The devas scoffed.
"So now humans lie for asuras too?" the leader said. "Enough, child. You have already done enough harm."
"Harm?" Ganesh repeated softly. "I tried to stop it."
"And in trying, you made it worse," the deva replied. "Good intentions do not cleanse ruin."
Ganesh felt heat rise in his chest—not anger, but pain.
"If you go after them now," he said, "you will only prove their fear right. And if they are innocent, you will stain yourselves with their blood."
The deva's eyes narrowed. "Do not lecture us on dharma. You are a child who meddled beyond his place."
The words struck like a blow.
Ganesh stood still as the devas marched past him toward the forest.
The villagers watched in silence, none stepping forward.
Ganesh remained alone by the river, the smell of ash and wet earth filling his senses.
For the first time since he had begun walking this path, he felt something new:
Not doubt about what was right.
But doubt about whether he had the strength to bear what followed.
He returned to the hermitage late that night, soaked and exhausted.
Agnivrat was waiting.
"You look like one who has carried more than his years," the sage said quietly.
Ganesh told him everything—the burned grove, the accusations, the asuras' flight, the devas' march.
When he finished, he sat with his head bowed.
"I tried to walk dharma, Gurudev," he said. "But now both sides look at me as if I betrayed them. Did I choose wrong?"
Agnivrat studied him for a long moment before speaking.
"You chose to stand where others would not," the sage said. "That is never without cost."
"But what if my standing only brings more harm?" Ganesh asked, his voice tight.
"Then you will learn the hardest lesson of all," Agnivrat replied. "That dharma does not promise clean hands. It only promises that you do not turn away."
Ganesh clenched his fists. "But I am so small, Gurudev. What right do I have to stand between devas and asuras?"
Agnivrat placed a hand on his shoulder.
"None," he said gently. "And yet you did. That is why this path will burn you more than most."
The words offered no comfort.
Only truth.
That night, Ganesh could not sleep.
He lay staring into the darkness, replaying every word, every face.
They trusted me… and now they hate me.
What if I only bring suffering wherever I walk?
He rose and walked to the river.
Moonlight shimmered on the water, hiding the scars of the burned grove downstream.
"I wanted to protect," he whispered. "But now I feel like I only break things."
The water flowed on, indifferent.
For the first time, a thought crept into his mind:
What if I am not meant for this path at all?
The thought frightened him more than any beast.
He closed his eyes and breathed, but the familiar calm did not come.
Instead, a restless ache filled him.
Far beyond sight, Shiva watched.
"Now he tastes the true weight," the Lord murmured.
"Not of battle… but of choice."
Ganesh stood by the river until dawn, feeling smaller than he ever had before.
The world had not crushed him yet.
But it had begun to teach him how heavy dharma could be.
And that weight would only grow.