Krishna did not announce the night they left.
There were no farewells. No lamps carried ahead of them. Dvārakā slept as it always did—confident, guarded, unaware that something essential was stepping beyond its walls.
Aniruddha followed his father without question.
They passed through the gates and into land that refused names. The road thinned, then vanished. Trees leaned inward as though listening. The air smelled of damp earth and something older—ash, perhaps, or memory.
"This place doesn't like to be crossed," Aniruddha said.
Krishna nodded. "It prefers to be respected."
They walked until time loosened. The moon did not move. Sounds arrived late, or not at all. When they stopped, it was not because a destination had appeared, but because the world had decided it was enough.
The clearing was bare.
Stone blackened by fire. No grass. No birds. At its center, a single rock split cleanly in two.
A trident stood embedded there—not bright, not ceremonial. Worn. Scarred. Present.
Aniruddha stopped.
Something inside him aligned, as if a question he had never voiced had found its answer.
Krishna stepped forward first—not as king, not as god, but as one who knew where he stood.
Mahadev was already there.
He did not arrive.He did not descend.
He was.
His presence bent nothing, announced nothing. It simply made all other things secondary. The forest waited.
Mahadev's gaze fell on Aniruddha.
"This child does not look away," Shiva said.
Aniruddha met his eyes. He did not bow. He did not speak.
"Why have you brought him here?" Mahadev asked.
Krishna's answer was quiet. "Because he is already standing where I cannot."
Shiva studied the boy for a long moment.
"Children fear what they do not understand," he said.
Aniruddha shook his head. "I fear what pretends not to exist."
The forest tightened around them.
Mahadev's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in assessment.
"You will not be trained as warriors are trained," Shiva said. "You will not learn victory."
Aniruddha nodded. "I want to learn refusal."
Shiva raised one hand.
The air parted—not torn, not broken, but allowed.
From the opening stepped something unfinished. Its form shifted between intentions, its hunger raw and directionless. It did not roar. It reached.
"A Preta," Shiva said calmly. "It will not strike your body."
The thing lunged.
The forest fell away.
Aniruddha felt memories surge—crowded cities, ignored suffering, moments when knowing had not become action. The Preta fed on weight, not fear.
His knees buckled.
Krishna did not move.
Mahadev did not intervene.
Aniruddha inhaled slowly.
"No," he said.
The word was not shouted. It did not threaten.
It closed a door.
The Preta recoiled, unraveling like smoke denied air, until nothing remained but a thin ache in the silence.
Aniruddha stood unsteadily.
Mahadev lowered his hand.
"This path will not return you unchanged," Shiva said. "You will be alone more often than you will be praised."
Aniruddha did not look at Krishna.
"I know," he said.
Mahadev drove the trident deeper into the stone. The ground hummed once, low and deliberate.
"Then remain," Shiva said. "And learn."
Krishna placed his hand briefly on Aniruddha's shoulder.
"You are still my son," he said.
Aniruddha nodded.
The forest closed behind them.
Paths vanished.
And somewhere beyond sight, the dark adjusted its attention—
because the child had stepped into a placewhere watching was no longer enough.