Aniruddha healed without ceremony.
Mahadev allowed no comforts beyond what the body demanded. Pain was acknowledged, not indulged. Rest came when exhaustion made movement meaningless, and ended the moment clarity returned.
"You will not always recover," Mahadev said once, watching Aniruddha bind his own bruised arm. "Learn what you can carry forward."
When Aniruddha's breath no longer caught on movement, when his stance settled back into balance, Mahadev spoke again.
"Today," he said, "you will meet one who remembers."
The forest did not darken.
It thinned.
Sound arrived late. Shadows lingered too long where they fell. When the Rakshasa stepped into the clearing, it did so as though it had been invited.
He wore the shape of a man—tall, spare, composed. No excess. No grotesque flourish. Only eyes that had seen gods retreat and learned from it.
"Well," the Rakshasa said mildly, folding his arms, "you are smaller than expected."
Aniruddha felt the attention settle on him—not as threat, but as examination.
"This one prefers words," Mahadev said from behind him. "Listen carefully."
The Rakshasa smiled. "Of course. Words last longer."
He circled Aniruddha slowly, footsteps soundless.
"You smell of Narayana," he said. "But you carry Shiva's ash. A divided inheritance."
Aniruddha remained still.
The Rakshasa stopped in front of him. "Do you know what I remember, child?"
"No," Aniruddha said.
"I remember when gods were less careful," the Rakshasa replied softly. "When they loved openly. When they bled."
Mahadev's presence sharpened, but he did not intervene.
The Rakshasa leaned closer. "I remember Radha."
Aniruddha's breath stilled.
"That," Mahadev said quietly, "is enough."
The Rakshasa vanished.
Not fled—repositioned.
Aniruddha turned just as claws tore across his shoulder. Pain flared, sharp and immediate. He staggered, caught himself, and pivoted.
The Rakshasa reappeared atop a fallen trunk, smiling.
"Strength announces itself," he said. "Memory whispers."
Aniruddha did not rush him.
He listened.
Not for sound—but for absence. The places where shadow bent too deliberately. Where air is displaced without cause.
The Rakshasa struck again.
Aniruddha moved through it this time, letting the attack pass, denying it purchase. He closed the distance without aggression, shrinking the space where deception thrived.
Rakshasas needed disorder.
Aniruddha brought stillness.
The Rakshasa snarled and lashed out, frustrated now. Aniruddha caught the wrist—not with force, but timing—and turned. Bone protested. The Rakshasa hissed.
"You dare treat me like a man?" it spat.
"No," Aniruddha replied. "Like a pattern."
He placed his palm against the Rakshasa's chest.
No strike followed.
No explosion.
Only certainty.
The Rakshasa screamed—not in pain, but recognition—as its form fractured, shadows peeling away like old lies burned off truth.
It did not vanish entirely. It recoiled, wounded but aware.
"You will be alone," it said, retreating. "Sentinels always are."
Aniruddha did not answer.
The Rakshasa withdrew into deeper dark, laughter thinning into memory.
Silence returned.
Mahadev stepped forward.
"You did not pursue," Shiva said.
"It wasn't required," Aniruddha replied. "It learned."
Mahadev nodded once. "Good. Destruction teaches nothing to those who remember."
Krishna appeared then, as quietly as thought, placing a hand on Aniruddha's shoulder.
"You held your ground," he said.
Aniruddha looked toward where the Rakshasa had gone.
"He will return."
"Yes," Krishna agreed. "But differently."
The forest settled.
Somewhere beyond it, the darker things adjusted their understanding—
because the child was no longer merely surviving.
He was becoming the line they would have to consider.