Her name was Meha.
Seven years old. Eyes too wide for someone who had never seen the stars. In Shraddhalok, children weren't taught to ask—they were taught to repeat.
Every morning: mantras.Every meal: chants.Every thought: screened through scripture.
But Meha had stopped.
One day, she simply stopped praying.
No one noticed at first. She moved her lips. She mimicked the rhythm. But her breath no longer belonged to the gods.
It belonged to her.
That's why she saw Aarav in the square, while others looked past him.
That's why she heard the stillness beneath his silence, why she sat beside him, why she cried—not for punishment, but for clarity.
"I don't want to chant," she said. "It makes me feel small."
Aarav didn't offer comfort.
He offered practice.
He taught her one posture. One breath. One moment of full, spine-aligned presence.
Not prayer.
Not rebellion.
Just sovereignty.
The next day, Meha didn't kneel during morning ritual.
Not in defiance.
In stillness.
And the elder priest stumbled mid-chant.
Across the city, minor tremors shook the foundation stones of temples.
By dusk, three more children sat like Meha.
By the end of the week, a dozen.
Not rioting.
Not screaming.
Just not kneeling.
Aarav left before anyone could credit him.
He didn't want followers.
He wanted fire.
And in Meha, it had caught.