Ganesh drifted in and out of fevered sleep.
Sometimes he heard the crackle of the fire. Sometimes the low murmur of voices. Sometimes nothing at all.
In his dreams, he walked through endless dust while shadows with blades chased him. Every time he tried to run, his legs sank into the ground. When he tried to fight, his staff turned to ash in his hands.
He woke with a gasp, sweat soaking his cloth.
The woman who had tended him the night before was there again, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead.
"Easy," she said. "Your fever hasn't broken yet."
Ganesh swallowed. His throat felt like dry stone. "How long… have I been here?"
"Most of the day," she replied. "You were found at dusk yesterday. You nearly collapsed again this morning."
Ganesh tried to sit up and winced sharply as pain flared through his ribs.
"Don't," she warned. "Lie still. You've lost blood, and the bruising is deep."
He clenched his teeth and sank back.
Lying still, he thought bitterly. Is that what I've come to?
The camp belonged to wandering traders heading south. They had little, but they shared what they could—water, thin broth, and herbs that eased the pain.
Ganesh thanked them quietly, but shame burned in his chest.
Only days ago, he had left the hermitage to walk the world.
Now he could barely walk at all.
That afternoon, when the fever eased enough for him to think clearly, he stared up at the pale sky beyond the wagons.
I thought leaving meant choosing a harder path, he thought. I didn't know it meant becoming helpless.
The memory of the raiders returned—the boot on his chest, the laughter as they walked away.
His fists tightened under the blanket.
If they had wanted me dead, I would be.
The truth settled heavily in him.
He was alive not because he had won.
But because his enemies had spared him.
That evening, one of the traders—a broad man with tired eyes—sat beside him.
"You fight like someone who's trained," the man said. "But you walk like someone who's never been beaten before."
Ganesh looked at him. "Is it that obvious?"
The man chuckled softly. "We all walk that way until the road teaches us otherwise."
Ganesh was silent for a moment, then asked, "How do you keep walking… after it does?"
The trader shrugged. "Some don't. Some turn back. Some harden. A few learn."
"Learn what?" Ganesh asked.
"That strength isn't only in your arms," the man replied. "It's in knowing when to wait, when to hide, when to ask for help. Pride kills more travelers than blades ever will."
The words struck deep.
Pride.
He had thought he had left that behind at the hermitage.
Yet here he was, wounded because he had believed will alone would carry him.
Night came again.
The fire burned low, shadows dancing across the wagons. The traders spoke softly among themselves, careful not to wake him.
But Ganesh could not sleep.
Pain pulsed through his ribs with every breath. His head throbbed dully. Worse than the pain was the storm in his mind.
What if this road breaks me before I become anything?
What if I am not meant to walk it at all?
The thought crept in, unwelcome but persistent.
I could go back.
The hermitage was far, but not unreachable.
Agnivrat would not turn him away.
There would be warmth. Food. Guidance.
Safety.
The thought tempted him.
Then another rose beside it:
And if I go back… what will I become?
A man who had tasted the road and fled.
A man who would forever wonder what he had refused to face.
Ganesh closed his eyes tightly.
"I chose this," he whispered to himself. "So I won't run from it."
But the words felt thin against the weight of doubt.
Sleep finally claimed him, but it brought little peace.
He dreamed of standing at the crossroads again. The three paths stretched before him, but now all were cracked and broken.
From behind him, he heard Agnivrat's voice:
"Why do you walk, Ganesh?"
He tried to answer, but his mouth would not move.
Then he heard another voice—deep, steady, carrying the echo of mountains:
"Walk until even the question falls away."
He turned, but saw no one.
Only endless shadow.
He woke with his heart pounding.
The dream left him shaken.
By morning, the fever had lessened, though weakness still clung to him like chains.
The woman brought him more broth and helped him sit upright.
"You're stubborn," she said, not unkindly. "Most would still be groaning."
Ganesh smiled faintly. "I've been told that before."
She studied him. "Where are you going, once you can walk again?"
Ganesh hesitated.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I only know I can't stay still."
She nodded slowly. "That's how it starts for many. Just… don't forget that staying alive is also a kind of victory."
Her words stayed with him.
Later that day, the traders prepared to move on.
"We're heading south," the broad man said. "If you can walk, you're welcome to come with us for a while. The road is safer in numbers."
Ganesh looked at the path stretching away.
Part of him wanted to accept.
Safety.
Company.
Less danger.
But he felt it again—the quiet pull that had guided him since he left.
"No," he said gently. "Thank you. But I have to walk alone."
The man studied him, then nodded. "Then may the road be kinder to you than it was before."
They left him some food and water before departing.
Ganesh watched their wagons disappear into the distance.
Alone again.
By evening, he forced himself to stand.
His legs trembled, but they held.
He took a few steps, wincing as pain shot through his ribs. He rested, then took a few more.
Each step felt like lifting a mountain.
Yet with every small movement, something else grew inside him.
Not confidence.
Not pride.
Determination.
Not to be strong.
But to endure.
When the sun dipped low, he had managed only a short distance from the camp, but it was enough.
He collapsed beneath a low tree, breath ragged, chest burning.
I'm still walking, he thought. That has to mean something.
As night settled, Ganesh stared up at the stars.
For the first time since leaving the hermitage, he felt truly close to giving up.
Not because he lacked strength.
But because he lacked certainty.
"I don't even know what I'm walking toward anymore," he whispered into the dark. "Only that I can't stop."
There was no answer.
Yet deep within, beneath the pain and doubt, something stirred—a faint warmth, like a distant fire.
Not enough to guide him.
But enough to keep him from falling into darkness.
Far beyond mortal sight, Shiva watched the boy struggle beneath the open sky.
"Let him reach the edge of himself," the Lord murmured.
"Only then will he seek what lies beyond."
Ganesh closed his eyes, exhaustion finally pulling him into sleep.
The road had not broken him.
But it had begun to strip away everything he thought he needed.
And in that emptiness, something new was slowly being born.