The man who called himself a merchant walked with a limp and carried a satchel full of cracked scrolls and dried herbs. His beard was streaked with ash, and his robes hung loose, as if he'd traded comfort for anonymity. His eyes—though dim—missed nothing.
He had arrived in the clearing like a misplaced shadow, veiled by devik shakti, his true form hidden beneath the guise of a weary wanderer.
Shakthi didn't trust him.
Dhira did.
"He's got the vibe," Dhira whispered, chewing on roasted tamarind. "You know, the mysterious-wanderer-who-turns-out-to-be-a-demigod vibe."
"Or he's just a merchant," Shakthi muttered, eyes narrowing. "Who walks like a warrior and listens like a sage."
The old man said nothing. He simply nodded, as if the wind had spoken for him.
The First Test
He never asked questions. Instead, he offered riddles.
"If a river flows west, does it defy dharma or reveal it?"
"If Bhumi balances on two sticks, what breaks first—the earth or the hands that hold her?"
Shakthi answered with precision, her tone clipped and analytical.
"The sticks break first. Earth adapts. Dharma bends before it snaps."
Dhira answered with jokes.
"Depends. Are the sticks made of mango wood? Because I'm keeping those."
The old man smiled, but said nothing.
Later, he asked Dhira to lift a fallen tree blocking the trail.
Dhira grinned.
"You want it moved or thrown?"
He lifted it with one arm, spun it once for flair, and dropped it gently beside the path.
The old man nodded once. No praise. No surprise. Just quiet confirmation.
The Journey South
They traveled southward, through ridgelands and salt trails, the terrain shifting from dry stone to lush underbrush. The merchant walked behind them, never leading, never lagging. He watched how Shakthi mapped the stars at dusk, how Dhira made the children laugh with impressions of angry bulls and confused goats.
At one village, they stopped to rest. A group of children recognized Dhira instantly.
"Bull boy!" one shouted.
"He fought the mad one with his bare hands!"
"He tied it with vines and gave it a mango!"
Dhira bowed dramatically.
"I also accept roasted peanuts as tribute."
Shakthi rolled her eyes.
"He screamed when the goat sneezed."
"It was a tactical retreat," Dhira muttered.
The old man watched them with quiet amusement. He saw the way Shakthi's eyes scanned every horizon, how Dhira's strength was matched only by his need to make others smile.
The Merchant's Silence
At night, the merchant sat by the fire, grinding herbs and humming old river chants. He never spoke of his past. Never revealed his name. When asked where he came from, he simply said:
"From where the rivers forget their direction."
Shakthi didn't press. But she watched him.
"He's not just a merchant," she told Dhira one night. "He's testing us."
"Good," Dhira said. "I love tests. Especially the ones with mangoes at the end."
Arrival at Varha
After five days of travel, the Varha settlement came into view—a crescent of stone huts, grain towers, and fire pits nestled between two rivers. The air smelled of roasted millet and sandalwood. The guards at the gate recognized Shakthi instantly.
"The flame returns," one whispered.
Children ran to Dhira, shouting about bulls and mangoes. One even tried to climb him like a tree.
"You've grown taller!" a boy shouted.
"No," Dhira said. "You've shrunk. It's a side effect of eating too many jackfruits."
The old man said nothing. He followed them in, his disguise still intact.
The Elders' Welcome
Bhaira was away at the war chamber, but the elders welcomed Shakthi and Dhira with quiet reverence. The merchant was given a hut near the river.
"He's a merchant," Shakthi said. "Harmless."
"He's got good riddles," Dhira added. "And terrible cooking."
The tribe accepted him. He helped grind herbs, mend scrolls, and teach the children how to read river maps. He never interfered. Never instructed. But he watched.
He watched how Shakthi debated with the grain keepers about storage efficiency.
He watched how Dhira carried water barrels for the elders, cracking jokes the whole way.
He watched how the two of them—young, flawed, brilliant—moved through the tribe like wind and stone.
The Merchant's Hut
His hut was simple—clay walls, a reed mat, and a small fire pit. He kept no weapons, no scrolls of power. Only a single wooden plate, carved with the symbol of Bhumi balanced on two hooked sticks.
At night, he stared at it.
And then at the stars.