For the next few days, Dharmapura didn't feel like one village anymore.
It felt like a pot that had been dropped.
Not shattered.
Not yet.
Just cracked.
You could still use it, still pour water into it.
But if you listened closely, you could hear the hairline fractures complaining.
š Coins and Empty Hands
The cracks weren't in the houses.
They were in conversations.
At the well:
"You, with those eight coins, you can buy extra oil now, no?"
"Yes, but I also took the risk. You could have too."
"ā¦easy to say when your granary was already fuller."
At the fields:
"Next time I'll give more sacks. Raghav-ji says the road will be better once certain repairs are done."
"Next time? You still trust him?"
"Trust or not, staying small won't feed my children."
Even children felt it.
Tapan's little sister reached out to touch one of the metal toys Raghav had brought.
The boy who owned itāa coin-childāpulled it away sharply.
"You'll drop it," he snapped. "Anyway, your father didn't join the grain deal. These are for people who did."
Tapan's sister shrank back, cheeks burning.
Tapan's hands curled into fists.
Aarav saw it from across the square.
He softened his gaze.
The toy-boy's light flickered with a new kind of glowāhalf pride, half fear of losing what little he had gained.
Tapan's light, usually small but steady, now had a reddish-grey smoke curling around it.
It was not like the soft, thin smoke of everyday selfishness.
This was thicker.
Hotter.
Like tiny sparks from an angry fire.
Aarav's chest flame shivered.
Hatred, he thought, remembering Vardaan's list of Shadow Kings.
The King of Hatred loved whispers like:
"They are not like you."
"They think they're better."
"They don't deserve kindness."
He watched Tapan's jaw clench.
Watched the boy take a step forward, eyes hard.
Then he moved.
"Hey," Aarav called, forcing cheer into his voice. "Tapan! Come help me with this."
Tapan hesitated.
The toy-boy smirked.
Aarav walked right between them, balancing an imaginary weight in his hands.
"This is heavy," he grunted. "I can't carry my bad mood and this at the same time. You want to take one?"
Tapan blinked.
"What bad mood?" he muttered.
"The one making your fists tight," Aarav said under his breath. "If you punch his nose, your sister doesn't get a toy. She gets a brother with a swollen hand."
Tapan glared past Aarav at the other boy.
The angry smoke around his chest thickened for a momentā¦ then wavered.
His shoulders dropped just a little.
"Toya aren't that nice anyway," he muttered.
He took the imaginary weight from Aarav's hands and pretended to carry it.
"Where are we taking this?" he asked, playing along.
"Far away from stupid fights," Aarav replied.
As they walked off, he glanced back.
The toy-boy's light dimmed a fraction, his pride flickering.
The angry smoke around him weakened too.
The sparks of hatred didn't die.
But they didn't catch.
Not yet.
š§± A Wall by the River
A week after the silver returned, Raghav and a few hired workers began building the new storage house near the river.
Bricks piled up.
Mud mortar splashed.
The sound of tools echoed down the bank.
The structure rose quickly.
Too quickly, some thought.
"Where did all this brick come from?" an old woman asked, watching.
"Raghav-ji brought them," the headman said proudly. "He had them sent from a nearby town. This is how progress looks."
The old woman spat into the dust.
"Progress always seems to arrive where the rich live first," she said.
At first, the storage house was just a building.
Then someone decided to build a small wall around it.
"Not to keep people out," the headman explained. "Just to mark the place. To keep animals from rubbing against it."
The wall wasn't very high.
Only reaching to Aarav's waist.
But it was enough to make the area feelā¦ separate.
Inside the wall: those who had coin, grain, and a share.
Outside: those who did not.
When the wall reached halfway around, Aarav stood looking at it with Kiran.
"It looks like a mouth," Kiran said.
"A mouth?" Aarav asked.
"Yes," Kiran said. "Open on one side for now, but you can already see where the teeth will go."
He pushed a stone with his foot.
Aarav swallowed.
He softened his gaze.
The foundation stones glowed faintlyānot with human light, but with the energy of work done, sweat spent.
But between some gaps, he saw tiny dark threads weaving.
Not a full crack.
Not even a seed like near the cart.
More like roots.
Hatred's roots.
They grew fastest wherever someone thought:
"They are stealing what should be mine."
"They think they are above me."
"They don't deserve what they have."
Both sides of the wall were thinking these things.
In different words.
The roots didn't care.
They drank from both.
š«ļø Hatred's Colour
That evening, in the clearing, Aarav told Vardaan what he had seen.
"The smoke around people is changing," he said. "It's thicker. It's not only greed now. It'sā¦ angrier."
He tried to describe the colour.
"Likeā¦ grey mixed with red."
Vardaan nodded slowly.
"The flavour of the King of Hatred," he said. "He has been awake longer than Greed in this age. He is always watching for walls."
"Walls?" Aarav repeated.
"Lines," Vardaan said. "Anytime one group starts thinking of another group as less human, less deserving, less 'us'āHatred sends its roots under the line."
He closed his eyes for a moment.
"In old stories," he said, "villages drew lines between clans. Castes. Faiths. Languages. In this age, lines appear wherever fear and greed meet. 'We' who have, 'they' who do not. 'We' who took risk, 'they' who were lazy. 'We' who are smart, 'they' who are fools."
He looked at Aarav.
"The wall by the river is not the most dangerous one," he said. "The ones in the chest are."
Aarav thought of Tapan.
Of the toy-boy.
Of Suresh with his four coins and bitter eyes.
"Can I burn the roots?" he asked.
"Not all at once," Vardaan said. "If you tried, you'd burn people with them. Hatred grows fast, but it is also tangled with pain, memory, real hurt. You must beā¦ careful."
He tapped his staff on the ground.
"Tomorrow," he said, "watch the storage house. Watch the people who go near it. When Hatred shows its sharpest teeth, that will be your lesson."
Aarav did not like the sound of that.
But he nodded.
š§ Water, Then Words
The lesson came sooner than he thought.
The next afternoon was very hot.
The river, already weak, seemed to sink another finger-width.
People came earlier than usual to fill pots.
Space near the water was tight.
Near the half-built storage wall, a group of "coin-families" filled larger containers.
They joked about how once the house was ready, they would have a proper place to keep their grain.
Further along, those who had not joined the deal waited, restless.
Tapan's father held two small pots.
He had positioned himself in line, just like everyone.
But as he stepped forward, Devanāone of the eight-coin menāmoved in front without looking.
Tapan's father stopped.
"Brother," he said evenly. "I was here first."
Devan barely glanced back.
"Yes, but I have more pots," he said. "Just let me fill quickly."
"You always have more," Tapan's father replied. "That doesn't give you more right to the river."
Devan turned fully now.
"My grain helps pay for the storage house," he said. "This part of the bank will be more ours than yours soon. Don't talk to me about rights."
The words fell like stones into already-tense water.
People nearby stiffened.
Aarav, standing on the slope above, saw it all.
He softened his gaze.
Devan's light, once fairly straightforward, now burned brighter but crooked.
Lines of Greed-colour wrapped it.
Today, swirls of hatred-smoke rose tooādark grey with sharp edges.
Tapan's father's light flickered.
Hurt.
Tiredness.
Long years of being "less."
Hatred-smoke began to curl up from his chest too.
"I may not have your coins," he said, voice tight, "but my back bent in the same sun as yours. The river doesn't flow only for those who gambled grain."
Devan laughed sharply.
"Gambled?" he said. "You stayed afraid in your mud hut. Now don't complain if those with courage drink a little first."
That did it.
The smoke around Tapan's father ignited.
Aarav saw it clearly now:
threads of red-grey energy shooting between the two men, like tiny spears.
More threads began to grow between their families.
Someone muttered, "He always thought he was better than us."
Someone else snarled, "Let them have their fancy house and see if it protects them when thieves come."
The air grew sharp.
The roots Aarav had seen by the wall pulsed.
Further back, Raghav watched, expression calm, eyes calculating.
He didn't need to say anything.
He had already said enough days ago.
Now the village was doing the rest.
Aarav felt his flame burn hotter.
His instinct was to run down and shout, "Stop!"
But Vardaan's voice from last night echoed in his mind.
"Watch. When Hatred shows its sharpest teeth, that will be your lesson."
He took a breath instead.
š„ Seeing the Threads
He closed his eyes briefly.
Inner room.
Two-coloured flame.
Door closed.
He opened his inner sight wider than before.
When he looked back at the riverbank, he didn't focus on faces first.
He focused on the threads.
They were everywhere.
Between people, between groups, between words said yesterday and anger felt today.
Some were lightāsmall, bright lines of friendship, shared work, family.
Some were darkālines of resentment, old debts, jealousies.
The worst were the new ones:
red-grey threads between "coin-families" and "cautious families," forming a web.
Hatred's early net.
Aarav's heart thudded.
If this net tightens, he thought, we won't be fighting merchants or beasts. We'll be fighting ourselves.
Down by the water, Devan took another step forward.
"So," he said loudly, "move, brother. Or are you planning to block those of us who are trying to lift this village higher?"
Tapan's father stepped up too.
His hands were shaking now.
"I think you are trying to lift yourself," he said. "And use 'village' as a long shirt to hide your greed."
Gasps.
Lines of red-grey thickened.
Hatred was smiling now.
Aarav could almost feel itāfar away, a great presence tasting the beginnings of "us vs them."
š Aarav Steps In (Again)
Aarav realised he didn't have time to ask Vardaan's advice.
The threads were tightening fast.
He ran down the slope.
Right to the spot between the two men.
It was becoming a habit, this standing in the middle.
His body didn't like it.
His knees shook.
But his flame rose.
"Wait," he said.
His voice cracked on the word.
No one listened.
"Move, boy," someone snapped.
"Not this time," Aarav said.
He grabbed the warmth in his chest and pulled.
Not to make a big shield.
Not to blast anything.
He did something new:
he let a thin trickle of gold light rise into his voice.
"STOP!" he shouted.
The word hummed.
It wasn't loud like thunder.
But it was heavy.
For a moment, everyone flinched, as if a drum had been hit inside their ears.
Devan's hand froze over the water pot.
Tapan's father's foot halted mid-step.
The red-grey threads quivered.
They didn't snap.
But they paused.
Aarav took that breath of space and spoke fast.
š£ļø Naming the Fire
"You're about to give the King of Hatred exactly what it wants," he said, chest heaving.
Some people frowned.
"What king?" someone scoffed.
"The one that eats villages from the inside," Aarav said. "The one that doesn't need cracks in the sky or monsters from shadows. It just needs us to start saying 'we' and 'they' and forget 'all of us.'"
He pointed at the water.
"The river is already smaller than it should be," he said. "If we let hatred shrink our hearts too, there won't be enough room in this village for anything but fights."
Tapan's father opened his mouth to argue, then hesitated.
Devan snorted.
"Big words for a boy," he said. "You talk like the rishi."
"Maybe because I listen," Aarav shot back. "Listen now: your lightā" he pointed at Devan's chestā "used to be steady when you argued about seeds and cows. Now it twists when you talk about yourself as above others."
Devan stiffened.
"You see my 'light' now?" he said. "Are you some kind of god?"
"No," Aarav said. "Just someone who sees how your words make the smoke around you grow darker."
He turned to Tapan's father.
"And you," he said. "You've swallowed more unfairness than half this village. I know that. I've seen your little girl cry. I've heard how your back hurts at night. Your anger is real. But if you let it turn into hatred, it's your light that will dim, not his."
Tapan's father's shoulders shook.
"I'mā¦ tired," he said, voice rough. "Tired of being told I chose to stay poor. I didn't choose dry fields and sick children."
"I know," Aarav said softly. "And I'll stand with you when we demand fairness. But if you start seeing every person with coins as your enemy, then Greed wins twice. It took their hearts first. Then it will take yours."
He took a breath.
"The Shadow King of Greed wants this fight," he said. "The Shadow King of Hatred wants this fight. They don't care who wins. They only care that you stab each other while they eat."
People shifted uneasily.
Aarav knew some of this sounded strange.
But he also knew fear and greed had already shown themselves. Many had felt the dream-web. Most had seen the unfair silver.
He used that.
"You felt that dream," he reminded them. "You saw the shadow in the sky. You know there are things beyond us that feed on despair. Do you really want to be the ones feeding them now with your anger?"
Silence.
Only the river, whispering.
And the pounding of many hearts.
š¤² Sharing the Pain, Not the Blame
Aarav's chest burned.
He could feel his inner flame straining to stay golden at the front.
He didn't want to humiliate anyone.
He didn't want to protect Raghav's trick, either.
He wanted truth.
Truth, without hatred.
He turned back to Devan.
"You risked your grain," he said. "You have a right to be proud of your courage. But that doesn't give you extra rights at the river. You're not more thirsty than he is. Your children aren't more hungry than his."
He faced Tapan's father.
"You protected your last sacks," he said. "You had to. That doesn't make you a coward. It makes you a father. But that doesn't mean everyone who joined is your enemy. Some of them didn't see the trap. They saw only hope."
He spread his hands, feeling the faint hum of his flame in his palms.
"We are in the same pot," he said. "If one side cracks, the water leaks out for everyone. Rich. Poor. Brave. Cautious. The Shadow Kings don't care what names you give yourselves. They only care that the whole pot breaks."
The red-grey threads between hearts wavered.
Some thinned.
A few snapped quietly.
Devan looked at the water, then at Tapan's father.
"For the river," he said grudgingly, "we're equal."
He stepped back half a pace.
"Fill one pot," he said. "Then I will fill one. Then you. Then me. Fair?"
It wasn't a big gesture.
But it was something.
Tapan's father stared at him.
His fists slowly uncurled.
"Fair," he said at last.
He stepped up, filled one pot, stepped aside.
The smoke around his chest loosened.
People let out breaths they hadn't realised they were holding.
Some laughed nervously.
The river went on whispering.
š± A Different Wall
Later, as the line settled into a new, slower rhythm, Vardaan appeared at Aarav's elbow like a shadow made of cotton.
"You are getting used to standing in the middle," he observed.
"I'd like a day off," Aarav panted.
"You'll have a lifetime to rest when this one ends," Vardaan said. "For now, Dharma has its hands full."
They walked away from the water's edge.
Aarav's legs felt wobbly.
"Did Iā¦ break Hatred?" he asked.
"No," Vardaan said. "But you made it stumble. That is good work."
He nodded toward the half-built wall around the storage house.
"You see that?" he asked.
"Hard to miss," Aarav said.
"A wall can separate," Vardaan said. "Or it can protect. Its nature depends on the hearts that build it."
He looked at Aarav.
"You cannot knock down every physical wall in the world," he said. "But you can work on the ones people put in their minds."
Aarav remembered the threads.
The lines of "us" and "them."
"Is that what I did?" he asked. "Pulled at those walls?"
"Yes," Vardaan said. "For a moment. They will start to rise again. Hatred never gives up after one failed meal. But each time you cut a thread before it thickens, you make its work harder."
He smiled faintly.
"And you give Sanatan Dharma another stitch to strengthen the cloth."
š The Third Gaze
That night, while Dharmapura sleptāsome lightly, some with bitter dreams, some with softer onesāthe world beyond sleep stayed very much awake.
In the region where great Adharmic forces moved like storms, the Shadow King of Hatred turned its attention toward the same small speck the Kings of Fear and Greed were already watching.
It did not appear as a face.
It appeared as a sensation:
the heat of old grudges,
the sharp taste of "they started it,"
the satisfaction of seeing someone "like them" suffer.
It had felt a new net begin to form around Dharmapura.
Then it had felt the net loosen.
Not torn entirely.
But pushed back.
It did not roar.
It did not rage.
Itā¦ noticed.
"Three times,"
the feeling of its awareness seemed to say.
"Three times they have refused the easy path to hatred."
Once by the river argument.
Once at the cart.
Now at the wall.
Between the tall, cold presences of Fear, Greed, and Hatred,
there was a strange kind ofā¦ agreement.
This boy,
with his two-coloured flame,
his stubborn promise,
his inner room with a locked door,
would not be left alone.
He had chosen Dharma several times when Adharma's offers would have helped him in simple, obvious ways.
For creatures made from darkness,
this was both an irritationā
and an invitation.
An invitation to try harder.
To push deeper.
To see whether his gold would hold
when the black in his own flame
was finally strong enough
to want the throne.
Back in his small room, Aarav slept with one hand over his chest.
The inner flame burned on.
Gold at the front.
Black at the back.
Learning.
Waiting.
Choosing.
He did not know it,
but with every choice,
he was drawing a new kind of lineā
not between "us" and "them,"
not between "rich" and "poor,"
but between the part of the universe that still remembered Sanatan Dharma,
and the part that wanted
to tear the cloth
completely.
ā¦ END OF CHAPTERā¦