Ganesh kept his head low in the days after the forest hunt.
He followed Agnivrat's instruction to serve in silence, moving through the hermitage like a shadow—fetching water, cleaning the grounds, tending fires, helping the wounded—never once speaking of the beast or his own wound.
Yet the cut on his arm healed faster than the ache in his heart.
What troubled him was not the pain.
It was the memory of stepping forward when he should have waited.
One afternoon, as Ganesh carried bundles of herbs from the forest edge, he heard faint crying beyond the trees.
He stopped.
The sound came again—soft, frightened.
Leaving the herbs, he followed it through the undergrowth until he reached a small clearing. There, crouched beside a fallen log, was a boy about his age.
But this was no human child.
Small curved horns rose from his temples, and faint dark patterns marked his skin. His clothes were torn, and blood trickled from a wound on his leg.
An asura child.
Ganesh froze for a moment.
Not from fear.
From the weight of what others would think if they saw him.
The boy looked up, eyes wide with terror.
"Don't come closer," he said weakly. "I won't hurt you."
Ganesh slowly knelt a few steps away.
"I don't think you will," he replied. "You're injured."
The boy hesitated. "If the sages find me… they'll drive me away. Or worse."
Ganesh remembered the whispers he had heard since childhood.
Asuras are dangerous. Do not trust them.
He also remembered his own vow.
"I won't call anyone," he said. "But you have to let me see your wound."
After a long moment, the boy nodded.
Ganesh moved closer and examined the leg. A sharp stone had cut deep into the flesh.
"This will get worse if you walk on it," Ganesh said. "What's your name?"
"Keral," the boy replied.
Ganesh tore a strip from his cloth, cleaned the wound with water from his flask, and bound it carefully with herbs he had learned to use.
Keral watched him in silence.
"Why are you helping me?" he finally asked. "You don't even know me."
Ganesh tied the cloth firmly.
"Because you're hurt. That's enough."
Ganesh helped Keral to his feet and guided him to a rock to sit.
"My family was passing through the forest," Keral said quietly. "Some humans saw my horns and threw stones. I ran… and fell."
Ganesh felt a tightness in his chest.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Keral studied him. "You don't look at me like they did."
Ganesh met his eyes.
"I only see someone who needs help."
They sat in silence for a moment, the forest breathing around them.
Then Keral said softly, "They say asuras are born cruel. But my mother tells me cruelty is learned. Do you think that's true?"
Ganesh thought of the beast in the forest.
Of his own rush to fight.
Of pride.
"Yes," he said. "I think anyone can learn to be cruel. And anyone can learn not to be."
Keral smiled faintly.
When Keral was strong enough to stand, Ganesh guided him to a hidden path that led away from the hermitage.
"You should go this way," Ganesh said. "It will keep you away from the main trails."
Keral hesitated. "Will I see you again?"
Ganesh smiled. "If our paths cross."
Keral bowed awkwardly, then limped into the trees.
Ganesh watched until he was gone.
Only then did he realize he had left the herb bundles behind.
When he returned to fetch them, one of the older disciples saw him.
"Where were you?" the disciple asked.
Ganesh lowered his eyes. "Helping someone who was hurt."
The disciple frowned. "Who?"
Ganesh paused, then answered, "Someone walking the forest."
The disciple studied him but said nothing more.
That night, Ganesh sat by the fire, uneasy.
Had he done right?
Or had he broken the trust of his hermitage?
Later, Agnivrat called him aside.
"I saw the herbs left near the forest edge," the sage said calmly. "You went after something else."
Ganesh bowed deeply. "Yes, Gurudev. I found an injured child. An asura. I helped him."
Agnivrat's eyes searched his face. "Why?"
Ganesh answered without hesitation.
"Because he was hurt. And because I would want the same if it were me."
The sage was silent for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
"You chose compassion over fear. That is dharma."
He paused. "But remember—compassion will one day place you between many fires. Be ready to stand there alone."
Ganesh felt both relief and a strange heaviness.
"I will try, Gurudev."
That night, as Ganesh lay beneath the stars, he thought of Keral limping through the forest, of his own failure days before, and of the path he was walking.
I am not here to be the strongest, he realized.
I am here to choose, again and again.
Closing his eyes, he whispered, "Guide me… whoever watches this path."
Far beyond sight, Shiva heard.
"He begins to see," the Lord murmured.
"Soon, he will begin to question."
And with questioning would come the road to being lost.