The road inland was lined with fields of ripening grain and quiet villages that still slept, unaware of the sea's whisper. The procession of Manu moved steadily, soldiers alert, sages murmuring prayers, while the king himself walked at its center.
Ganesh, Aneet, and Keral kept pace beside him.
For a time, no one spoke.
Then Manu turned to Ganesh.
"You spoke of my dream as if you stood within it," he said. "Tell me — what do you truly know?"
Ganesh chose his words carefully.
"I know that when the world begins to remember something ancient," he said, "it speaks first to those who listen. You are one of them."
Manu studied him.
"And the fish?" he asked.
Aneet answered softly, "It is not just a creature. It carries purpose."
Manu exhaled slowly.
"Then I will show you," he said.
He gestured, and two guards parted to reveal a crystal vessel carried upon a silk-draped frame. Within it swam a tiny golden fish, no larger than a finger, glowing faintly even in daylight.
The moment Ganesh's eyes fell upon it, the fire within him tightened.
Vastness.
Endless.
Held within a form too small to contain it.
Keral's breath caught.
"That…" he murmured, "is no ordinary being."
The fish turned in the water.
For an instant, its gaze met Ganesh's.
The world seemed to still.
Aneet felt it too — a gentle pressure, not demanding, but acknowledging.
Manu lifted the vessel carefully.
"It appeared at dawn," he said. "In my hands, while I prayed. It asked me — in a voice I heard not with ears — to protect it from harm."
Ganesh nodded slowly.
"Did it tell you why?" he asked.
Manu shook his head.
"No," he replied. "Only that danger was coming. And that I must trust it."
Keral crossed his arms.
"You would trust a fish with your kingdom's fate?" he asked bluntly.
Manu looked at him calmly.
"I have ruled long enough to know," he said, "that when a message comes with no demand for power, it is wiser to listen than to laugh."
Aneet smiled faintly.
"Well said," she murmured.
By midday, they reached Manu's capital — a city of wide streets, white stone halls, and flowing canals that carried water from nearby hills. Life here was orderly, peaceful, untouched by the fear gripping the coast.
Yet as the procession entered, Ganesh felt it:
A tension beneath the calm.
Manu led them straight to his palace, into a quiet inner courtyard shaded by flowering trees.
He placed the crystal vessel on a stone table.
The fish circled slowly.
Ganesh stepped closer.
The fire within him stirred — not to burn, but to bow.
He inclined his head slightly.
"You have already chosen your bearer," he said softly.
The fish flicked its tail.
A voice touched Ganesh's mind:
"He listens."
Ganesh looked up, startled.
Aneet saw his expression.
"It spoke to you," she said.
He nodded.
"It says you listen," he told Manu.
Manu's eyes widened.
"Then I am not mad," he whispered.
The fish turned toward Manu and, for the first time, spoke clearly enough that even Aneet felt its presence:
"The waters will rise.
The world will be washed.
Build what will carry the seed of what must remain."
Manu staggered slightly.
"How long do we have?" he asked.
"Seven days," the fish replied.
Silence fell over the courtyard.
Keral clenched his fists.
"Seven days to save a world?" he muttered.
Ganesh closed his eyes briefly.
"It will not be saved," he said. "It will be… remembered."
Aneet met his gaze.
"And rebuilt," she added.
Manu straightened, resolve replacing fear.
"Then I will build," he said. "Tell me what must be done."
They gathered sages that very hour.
Ganesh and Aneet stood among them as Manu explained the warning.
Some doubted.
Some feared.
Some believed at once.
Ganesh spoke when the murmurs grew loud.
"This is not a call to save everything," he said. "It is a call to carry what will let the world live again."
Aneet added, "You cannot take kingdoms. But you can take seeds. Beings. Knowledge. The heart of what we are."
Slowly, understanding spread.
Manu ordered the construction of a great vessel to begin at once, calling craftsmen from across the land.
Keral offered his strength to the work.
"I have torn enough down in my life," he said. "Let me help build something that lasts."
Manu clasped his arm gratefully.
That evening, as the sun dipped behind distant hills, Ganesh and Aneet stood alone near the palace garden, watching workers already shaping timber.
"You could tell him who the fish truly is," Aneet said softly.
Ganesh shook his head.
"He doesn't need the name," he said. "Only the trust."
She studied him.
"And you?" she asked. "What will you do when the waters rise?"
Ganesh looked toward the horizon.
"I will not board the vessel," he said. "Nor will you."
Aneet nodded.
"We walk with those who stay," she said.
Keral approached them.
"So it's decided," he said. "You'll stand on drowning ground while a god carries the chosen away."
Ganesh met his gaze.
"Yes," he said. "Because someone must walk where gods cannot."
Keral was silent for a moment.
Then he said, "Then I walk with you."
Aneet smiled faintly.
"I hoped you would."
That night, Ganesh returned to the courtyard alone.
The fish glowed softly in its vessel.
He stood before it.
"You said you wanted nothing from me," Ganesh said. "But you still called me here."
The fish's voice touched him again:
"Not to command.
To witness."
Ganesh inclined his head.
"I will," he said.
"And when the waters fall," the fish added,
"remember this: preservation is not mercy.
It is responsibility."
Ganesh felt the weight of those words settle deep within him.
"I won't forget," he promised.
The fish flicked its tail once, sending ripples of light through the water.
Ganesh turned and left the courtyard, the sounds of building echoing behind him.
Seven days remained.
And beyond them…
A world reborn.