The stone was raised at dawn.
Four men dragged it into the center of the village and set it upright beneath the banyan tree. Its surface was smooth, freshly cut, untouched by moss or worship. The letters carved into it were sharp and confident, as if they already knew they would be obeyed.
Land granted to the gods.
Land taken from men.
Kariyan stood among the cultivators, barefoot in the wet soil. He was twelve years old. Old enough to understand hunger. Old enough to understand silence.
The priest arrived late, robed in white, followed by armed guards. He did not look at the people. He looked at the stone. That was where power lived now.
He read aloud.
"By sacred grant, this land becomes devadana. From this season onward, the harvest shall be divided. Two shares to the shrine. One share to those who work."
No one argued. Not yet.
Kariyan's father stepped forward.
"This land was never given," he said. "My father ploughed it. His father before him. There is no grant."
The priest smiled faintly.
"The stone remembers better than men."
A guard moved.
The spear entered Kariyan's father without anger, without haste. Blood fell onto the soil and soaked in quickly, as if the land had been waiting.
The priest turned away.
"Let this be known," he said, voice calm. "The gods take what they are owed."
By sunset, lamps burned at the base of the stone. Flowers were placed. Women prayed for mercy. Men bowed their heads.
Kariyan did not.
He sat beside his father's body until night swallowed the village. When the flies came, he rose and walked to the stone.
He touched the letters.
They were deep. Permanent.
That night, he dreamed of the earth splitting open—not to reveal fire, but blood. The land breathed. Drums echoed from beneath the soil. Something old watched him without eyes.
When he woke, a man was sitting nearby.
Thin. Grey-haired. One eye clouded white. He leaned on a staff carved with marks older than writing.
"You saw her," the man said.
Kariyan did not ask who.
"She does not speak to the faithful," the man continued. "Only to those who have lost everything."
Kariyan looked back at the stone.
"How do I make it lie?" he asked.
The man smiled for the first time.
"You don't," he said. "You replace it."
He stood, pressing his palm into the dirt. Blood seeped from an old wound and stained the soil dark.
"Stone obeys the hand that carves it," he whispered.
"Gods obey the one who wins."
Far away, thunder rolled.
The man turned and walked into the trees.
Kariyan stayed.
He placed his hand where his father's blood had dried and pressed it into the earth.
"If the land listens to blood," he said softly,
"then I will teach it my name."
The stone stood silent.
For now.