Mahadev did not call them.
"That," he said, standing at the edge of the clearing, "is the lesson."
The forest felt thinner that night—not darker, not hostile, but hollow, as though something essential had stepped away and left a shape behind. Sound hesitated before arriving. Shadows clung where they fell.
Krishna stood farther back than before.
Radha was not there at all.
Aniruddha noticed immediately. "Why am I alone?"
Mahadev did not answer.
The first Preta did not arrive with form.
It arrived with weight.
A pressure behind the eyes. A tightening in the chest. The sensation of something unfinished pressing close, seeking relevance.
Then it gathered itself.
Faces surfaced and dissolved across it—men who had fled, women who had waited too long, voices that had spoken too late. None lasted long enough to be known.
"You recognize us," the Preta whispered. Its voice layered, overlapping. "You come from where we are born."
Aniruddha's breath caught.
It was true.
Memory surged—not as images, but as responsibility. Things he had known and not changed. Suffering witnessed and survived. Endings that had not been prevented.
The Preta swelled.
"You remember," it murmured. "That makes you ours."
Aniruddha sank to one knee.
This was not fear.This was accounting.
Krishna shifted forward.
Mahadev lifted one finger.
Krishna stopped.
"Do you know why Pretas linger?" Mahadev asked calmly.
The Preta hissed, tightening its presence around Aniruddha.
"They mistake regret for duty," Shiva continued. "And guilt for purpose."
The words cut through the weight.
Aniruddha inhaled slowly.
"You don't belong to me," he said—not harshly, not defensively. "And I do not belong to you."
The Preta recoiled, confused.
"If you were stronger," it whispered urgently, "they would not suffer."
Aniruddha closed his eyes.
He did not deny the thought.
He accepted it—and set it down.
"I am not here to erase suffering," he said. "I am here to stand after it."
The Preta lunged, pouring guilt like poison.
Aniruddha did not resist.
He held it without letting it define him.
The ash beneath his skin burned—not painfully, but clearly.
The Preta unraveled, screaming soundlessly as it lost the only thing it could feed on: self-condemnation.
When it vanished, the hollow lifted.
Sound returned.
Aniruddha sagged forward, palms pressed to the earth, breath uneven.
Krishna was beside him instantly, steadying him, holding him without distance.
"You did not break," Krishna said softly.
"I almost did," Aniruddha replied.
Mahadev stepped closer.
"That," Shiva said, "is why you won't."
Aniruddha looked up. "Will there be more?"
Mahadev nodded. "Worse."
Aniruddha closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again.
"Good," he said.
The forest stirred—not threatening, not approving.
Attentive.
Somewhere deep in the unseen, the Pretas learned something they would not forget:
This sentinel did not deny guilt.
He carried it—and remained standing.