The plain of dark stone lay behind them.
Ganesh, Aneet, and Keral walked eastward beneath a sky slowly paling toward dawn. The air grew heavier with each step, carrying a faint sharpness that did not belong to stone or grass.
Salt.
Keral lifted his head first.
"The land ends ahead," he said. "I can taste it."
Aneet nodded.
"The sea," she said. "And something restless within it."
Ganesh felt it too — the fire inside him tightening, not flaring, as if responding to a vast presence below the world.
They crested a low ridge, and the land fell away.
Before them stretched the ocean.
Endless blue, broken only by dark rocks and the pale curve of the horizon.
Yet it did not move as it should.
The waves pulled back far from the shore, exposing wet stone and tangled weeds, as if the sea were drawing a deep breath.
Then it surged forward again, crashing higher than normal.
Again and again.
Aneet stopped.
"It's not just tides," she said. "It's… waiting."
Ganesh's eyes narrowed.
"No," he replied. "It's remembering."
They descended toward a small fishing village clinging to the shore. Huts of wood and rope stood in uneasy rows, and boats had been dragged far inland, their hulls scraping against stone.
Villagers moved with quiet fear — tying ropes, gathering nets, whispering prayers toward the water.
As the three approached, an old fisherman sat upon a rock near the surf, mending a torn net with trembling hands.
He looked up.
"You shouldn't stand so close," he warned. "The sea has found its voice."
Ganesh knelt before him.
"What did it say?" he asked.
The fisherman swallowed.
"In my dreams," he said, eyes fixed on the waves, "it whispered only one word: Prepare."
Keral shifted uneasily.
"Prepare for what?" he asked.
The old man shook his head.
"That, it did not tell," he replied. "But fish leap onto the sand like they're fleeing something below. Birds refuse to fly over the water. Even the tides move like they're afraid."
Aneet felt a chill pass through her.
"When did this begin?" she asked.
"Three nights ago," the fisherman said. "And it grows louder each night."
Ganesh rose slowly.
"This is no storm," he said softly. "Something ancient is stirring."
The fisherman studied him.
"You speak like one who has heard the sea before," he said.
Ganesh gave a faint smile.
"Not the sea," he replied. "But the will that moves it."
They thanked the old man and walked deeper into the village.
They spent the day helping where they could — calming frightened children, helping pull boats further inland, listening to murmurs of strange dreams and restless waters.
Keral watched it all with a thoughtful frown.
"In my people's lands," he said quietly to Ganesh, "such signs mean war or invasion."
Ganesh shook his head.
"This feels different," he said. "This feels like… preservation."
Aneet joined them.
"The kind that looks like destruction from the ground," she added.
As evening fell, the wind rose, carrying the roar of the waves closer with each hour.
They took shelter near the edge of the village.
Night came heavy.
Sleep did not.
Ganesh sat with eyes closed, breathing slowly, listening inward.
The fire within him did not burn.
It pulsed.
Then the world slipped.
He stood upon endless water, the surface glowing faintly beneath his feet. There was no sky — only a vast dark above and below.
From the depths rose a small golden fish, shining like a fragment of the sun. Its eyes held galaxies.
It spoke without sound:
"The world will drown to remember how to live."
Ganesh reached out.
"What do you want of me?" he asked.
The fish circled him slowly.
"Nothing," it replied.
"You will walk where I cannot."
The waters surged.
Light vanished.
Ganesh gasped awake.
The wind howled outside.
Aneet was already awake, watching him.
"You saw something," she said.
He nodded.
"A golden fish," he said. "Vast… yet small. It spoke of drowning and remembering."
Aneet inhaled sharply.
"I dreamed of endless waters too," she said. "And a light guiding something through them."
Keral looked between them.
"I did not dream," he said. "But I felt something watching from the deep."
Ganesh's voice was quiet.
"Vishnu is moving," he said. "In one of his primal forms."
Aneet nodded.
"Matsya," she whispered.
They did not sleep again.
At dawn, horns sounded from inland.
A procession approached — soldiers, sages, and at their center a tall man in simple royal robes, walking on foot rather than riding.
His face was calm, but his eyes carried worry.
Ganesh felt recognition strike deep.
"Manu," he murmured.
Aneet turned to him.
"The same one?" she asked.
Ganesh nodded. "Yes. A new life… but the same soul."
They stepped forward as the procession halted.
The king studied them.
"Travelers," he said. "State your purpose. These are troubled times."
Ganesh bowed lightly.
"Not to hinder," he said, "but to walk beside you, if you allow."
Manu's gaze sharpened.
"And why would I allow strangers to walk my road?"
Ganesh met his eyes.
"Because you carry a dream of rising waters," he said, "and a small fish that asks for your protection."
Manu's breath caught.
"How do you know this?" he demanded.
Aneet spoke gently.
"Because the sea has begun to whisper to many," she said. "But it is speaking loudest to you."
Manu looked at them long and hard.
"All night," he said slowly, "I dreamed of my kingdom swallowed by waves. And when I prayed at dawn, a tiny glowing fish appeared in my hands, asking me to keep it safe."
Keral shifted.
"Then your fate is already tied to this," he said.
Manu exhaled, torn between fear and resolve.
"Who are you people?" he asked quietly.
Ganesh smiled faintly.
"Just walkers," he said. "But sometimes walkers hear storms before kings do."
Manu considered.
Then he gestured for them to follow.
"Come," he said. "If the sea is rising, I would rather face it with those who do not fear its voice."
They turned inland with the procession.
Behind them, the ocean roared — louder now, deeper.
Aneet glanced back once.
For a heartbeat, she thought she saw a ripple of gold beneath the waves.
Like an eye opening.
Then it was gone.