The man did not come back for three days.
Kariyan stayed near the burnt-out cooking fire, sleeping in short, broken stretches. Every sound made his muscles tense. Every shadow looked like a guard.
On the fourth night, someone sat across from him without waking the fire.
"You haven't eaten," the man said.
Kariyan opened his eyes slowly. The stranger was thin, wrapped in a torn cloth, one eye pale and useless. The other watched him the way adults usually didn't — without pretending.
"I'm not hungry," Kariyan lied.
The man nodded, as if lies were expected. He placed a small bundle on the ground and unwrapped it. Dried grain. A little salt.
They ate in silence.
After a while, the man asked, "Do you know why they killed your father?"
Kariyan swallowed. His throat hurt. "Because we were poor."
The man shook his head. "Because he spoke when he should have knelt."
That answer sat heavier.
"My name is Azhagan," the man said. "I won't tell you who I was. It won't help you."
He stood and waited.
Kariyan followed. He didn't know why. Maybe because staying meant remembering.
They walked for days — through scrubland, forest paths, places where the sound of bells never reached. Kariyan's feet blistered. Once, he cried quietly at night, face turned into the dirt so Azhagan wouldn't hear.
Azhagan heard anyway. He said nothing.
On the seventh night, they stopped near a river.
A man was tied to a tree. Older. Smelled of fear and sweat.
"I know him," Kariyan whispered. "He— he was there."
"Yes," Azhagan said. "He laughed."
Kariyan's hands began to shake.
Azhagan placed a knife in them. The handle was warm from his palm.
"You don't have to do this," he said. "But if you don't, someone else will. And tomorrow, it might be you."
The man at the tree begged. Promised offerings. Promised prayers.
Kariyan stepped closer. His stomach twisted. He thought of his father's hands — cracked, gentle, always smelling of soil.
"I'm sorry," Kariyan whispered. He didn't know to whom.
He closed his eyes and cut.
It wasn't clean. He had to do it twice.
When it was over, Kariyan vomited into the river.
He expected to feel powerful.
He felt empty.
Azhagan knelt beside him. "That emptiness," he said softly, "is good. It means you haven't turned into them yet."
That night, Kariyan dreamed of the land — not angry, not kind. Just waiting. A woman-shaped shadow stood in the distance, watching without judgment.
When he woke, his hands still smelled of blood.
"What happens now?" he asked.
Azhagan looked at him for a long time.
"Now," he said, "you learn how to make sure no child has to choose between kneeling and killing."
Kariyan stared at the river until the sun rose.
For the first time, the future frightened him more than hunger.