Aarav's legs wouldn't hold him. The man in saffron robes pulled him up with surprising strength, guiding him away from the alley and deeper into the city's winding lanes.
"Where are we going?" Aarav muttered, half-stumbling, clutching his sketchbook like a lifeline.
"Somewhere quieter," the man said. "Where shadows won't find us so easily."
They walked for what felt like hours, the traffic and neon signs giving way to older streets — narrow gullies with crumbling stone walls, laundry strung overhead like banners. The city noise dulled until all Aarav could hear was the shuffle of their footsteps.
Finally, the man stopped at a small, weather-worn temple wedged between two apartment blocks. The deity inside was almost forgotten: the paint on the idol chipped, offerings dry and dusty, the courtyard empty.
Inside, the man lit a lamp. The glow caught the sharp lines of his face, making his eyes look even older than before.
"Sit," he said simply.
Aarav sank onto the cool stone floor, still shaky. He stared at the faint burn marks on his hands where the spear had dissolved. "Okay. Start talking. Who are you? What was that? And why me?"
The man placed his staff beside him and folded his hands. "My name is Rishi Agnivesh. I serve the devas still loyal to the cause. That creature you fought was a rakshasa — one of many who walk among mortals, feeding, corrupting, spreading chaos. Their war with the gods never ended. It only went underground."
Aarav gave a hollow laugh. "Underground wars. Invisible demons. Gods needing servants. This is insane."
Agnivesh's gaze sharpened. "Is it insane, Aarav? Or is it insane that you drew its face years before you met it?"
Aarav fell silent. The image of his sketches haunted him — the grin, the mace, the battlefield. Things he could never explain, not even to himself.
"Why me?" he whispered.
"Because you are not just Aarav," Agnivesh said softly. "You are Arindya. A warrior-artist chosen in another life. You fought in the great war, centuries ago. When you died, your spirit carried fragments forward — memory, instinct, gift. Until now, they lay dormant. But the rakshasas sensed your awakening. That is why they hunt you."
Aarav shook his head, clutching his hair. "No. No, listen—I can barely pay rent. I'm not—whatever you think I am, I'm not it anymore."
Agnivesh leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "And yet, when death leapt at you, you did not run. You drew."
Aarav's stomach knotted. He remembered the wall, the spear, the burn in his bones. It hadn't felt like bravery. It had felt like survival. Like instinct.
"I can't do this," he said. "I'm not a hero. I'm not even—" His throat tightened. "I'm not even successful in this life."
Agnivesh stood, picking up his staff. "You don't need to be successful. You need to be ready. The war is here, whether you fight or not."
He turned toward the idol, bowing once before looking back.
"Go home tonight. But remember this: the more you resist, the more the shadows will come. The only safety lies in reclaiming who you were."
Before Aarav could argue, the lamp flickered. Agnivesh was gone.
The temple was empty. Only the faint smell of smoke lingered.
Aarav sat alone in the half-light, heart pounding. He wanted to believe it was madness. A breakdown. Stress.
But his hands still bore faint ash marks. His sketchbook still pulsed with something alive.
And when he closed his eyes, he swore he could still hear that ancient name echoing in the dark:
Arindya.