For three days, the hut was silent except for the sound of slow, labored breathing.
Outside, the forest whispered in low tones — leaves brushing against the wind, as if murmuring prayers for the one who slept within. The fire at the hut's center had long died out, leaving behind a faint scent of ash and camphor.
When Shiva finally stirred, his body ached with a deep, bone-heavy exhaustion. Every muscle screamed as if he had been crushed under the mountains themselves. His right hand throbbed faintly — the tattoos of flame and wind pulsing weakly, their light dimmer than he remembered.
He blinked, eyes adjusting to the faint glow of the oil lamp.
He was back in Baba's hut.
His gaze shifted to the low wooden table beside him.
A plate of food — still warm. Lentils, flatbread, and water in an earthen cup.
Someone had placed it there carefully, as though expecting him to wake.
He turned his head slowly.
At the far corner, Shyam Baba sat cross-legged in deep meditation. His body was still, his face calm, a faint shimmer of light hovering above his brow like the halo of a flame that refused to die.
For a long moment, Shiva just stared at him.
The memories came flooding back all at once — the infected, the beasts, the broken hammer, the blood. The fire. The running.
And the sound of his own voice shouting ,I will not listen.
A hollow ache bloomed in his chest.
He reached toward his side instinctively — searching for the familiar weight of his weapon.
It wasn't there.
His hand froze midair.
The hammer was gone.
He stared at the empty space beside him, a tremor running through his fingers. That weapon had been more than forged metal — it had been his companion since the awakening, his strength when the world turned against him. And now, it was dust on some forgotten battlefield.
A lump formed in his throat. He tried to swallow it down, but the silence around him made it worse.
His stomach growled softly — a reminder of the living. He tore a piece of bread, dipping it in the lentils, and began to eat in small bites. His body felt like it might collapse under its own weight, but the food brought back a flicker of warmth to his veins.
"Good," a voice said quietly.
Shiva looked up. Shyam Baba was watching him now, his eyes open and serene, as if he had been aware the entire time.
"Eat first," Baba said. "Your body must heal before your spirit can."
Shiva looked away, his jaw trembling. "Baba…"
He swallowed hard. "I failed."
The old man's expression didn't change. "Tell me."
Shiva's hands clenched into fists. "I went to Deoghar — just like you said. But there were too many. The infected, the beasts… they were everywhere. I fought them, but…" He stopped, his voice cracking. "My hammer broke. The scroll — I never even saw it."
He looked up then, eyes glistening. "I thought I could save her. I thought if I just kept moving — if I didn't stop to meditate or waste time — maybe Aparna would still…" He couldn't finish. The words twisted inside him, too sharp to speak.
Baba's gaze softened.
"And now," Shiva whispered, "I have nothing. I disobeyed you, failed the task, lost my weapon — and I don't even know if she's alive."
The silence stretched between them like the space between two storms.
Then Baba sighed — not in anger, but in quiet weariness. "You are too harsh on yourself, my child."
Shiva looked up, surprised.
"Failure," Baba continued, "is not the end of the path. It is the path. No one ascends by obedience alone — they ascend by falling, and learning where the ground gives way."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes glowing faintly with that strange divine fire that never dimmed. "You lost your hammer. Good. Now you will learn that power never came from the weapon, but from the will that wielded it."
Shiva's throat tightened. He wanted to protest, to explain that it wasn't just a weapon — it was his last piece of hope. But Baba's voice was steady, like the river cutting through stone.
"As for Aparna," Baba said, "the pain you saw is real. But rushing toward her in blind devotion will only lead you to greater loss. She does not need a savior who burns himself out in guilt — she needs the one who understands his fire."
Shiva's vision blurred. He lowered his head, tears slipping silently down his cheeks.
"I'm sorry, Baba," he whispered. "I thought I knew what I was doing."
Shyam Baba rose from his seat and walked toward him. His steps were slow, deliberate — each one echoing softly against the wooden floor. He placed a hand on Shiva's shoulder.
"You acted from love," he said gently. "That is not sin — only immaturity. Love must be tempered with wisdom, or it devours itself."
Shiva nodded weakly, unable to meet his gaze.
"Eat," Baba said again. "Then rest a while. We will go somewhere after."
Shiva blinked. "Go? Where?"
"You'll see soon enough," Baba replied, a faint smile returning to his weathered face. "The forest remembers those who fall within it. It has something to show you."
He turned away, reaching for his staff. "Finish your meal. When the sun is above the trees, we leave."
Shiva looked down at the food again — the simple meal that now felt like an anchor keeping him tethered to life.
He took another bite, slower this time, the warmth spreading through him like mercy.
Outside, the wind rustled softly — and for a fleeting moment, he thought he heard faint voices again.
The deep, grounded tone of the Ram.
The light, fleeting whisper of the Deer.
"Rest now," said one.
"You will rise again," said the other.
Shiva closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him.
And for the first time in days, he felt the faint stir of peace beneath the ruin of guilt.
End of Chapter 19 — "The Weight of Defiance"