The path to the river was dirt and stones, but I knew it better than the lines on my hand. Each rock had a mood. That one tilted. This one was slick. I kept my eyes down. Easier than looking up and catching their stares.
The empty pot bumped my hip. Too heavy for something hollow. Like it remembered water.
"Pick up the pace, Scroll-brain." Vikram's voice snapped behind me. I didn't turn. If I turned, he'd see the headache behind my eyes, the hollow in my chest from another night of failed meditation. Let him think I was slow. It was safer than him knowing I was breaking.
The riverbank was cool under my knees. The water slid past, dark and steady. Dip, fill, lift. My arms shook, muscles buzzing. Upstream, the others splashed and laughed. I tuned them out. This part of the morning was mine. Just me and the river.
Then the gurgle stopped.
All at once. Silence, thick and heavy.
I looked up.
The river was climbing. Pulling itself into a pillar, swirling, alive. Not a serpent. No eyes. But intent. Malice. The air pressed on my skin, humming against my teeth.
My lungs locked. The boys upstream went quiet.
The water leaned toward me. I was going to die here—kneeling in mud, with a pot, on a stupid morning.
My mind went white. No thoughts. Just panic.
And then the words were there. Not mine. Old. They ripped out of my throat:
"Apāṁ napāt niyutvā…"
The pillar stuttered.
"…raṣmibhiś caturbhih."
The river froze, sculpture of water—then collapsed. Not a crash, but a sigh. It soaked me in icy spray, then carried on like nothing had happened.
I stayed kneeling, drenched, heart punching hard. What had I said?
I looked up.
Vikram's face was drained. No smirk. Just fear, raw and sharp. He snapped at the others: "Go. Back to the gurukul."
They bolted. He followed, stiff, never looking back.
I was alone. Muddy. Shaking. The words echoing like ghosts in my skull.
I grabbed the pot—still full, somehow—and dragged it up. Each step twigs snapped too loud, shadows shifted too close.
The courtyard waited, quiet. Dev stood by the herbs, saw me dripping, then turned away, pretending the basil needed all his attention. I didn't blame him. I wouldn't talk to me either.
I dropped the pot in the storehouse. Done, but not finished. My hands trembled. I clenched them, useless.
I had to get to prayers. Pretend. Keep moving.
But Vikram's look clung to me. Not fear of the river. Fear of me. The kind of fear that makes you want to break something before it breaks you.
Morning had barely started, and already I was in trouble too deep to name.