It happened at dawn.
Before the city stirred.
Before the breath drills began.
Before Aarav opened his eyes.
A shape appeared in the square.
Not with lightning. Not with trumpets. Just... being there.
It shimmered faintly, cloaked in old light. Its form was fluid—man, woman, flame, wind. And when it stepped forward, the earth did not shake.
It sighed.
And knelt.
The first to see it was Meha.
She rose slowly from her seat beneath the banyan tree, eyes wide but steady.
"Are you… a god?"
The being looked up, voice soft like old riverbeds:
"Once. Before we asked for too much."
Aarav arrived moments later.
He didn't prepare to fight. He didn't reach for power.
He just stood.
The god spoke:
"I came to rule. I stayed to feed. I now kneel to return what we took."
"Why now?" Aarav asked.
"Because you didn't resist us with war. You starved us with truth."
The god offered nothing but words.
And for the first time in a thousand years, that was enough.
Because it wasn't a trick.
It was a turning.
Later that night, the people gathered—not to chant, but to witness.
A god, seated cross-legged beside mortals, breathing in rhythm.
Not leading.
Learning.
The others wouldn't accept this.
But it had begun.