The Priest looks at the General with cold eyes. He is no longer afraid.
"You and the King are to be blamed," the Priest says. "By trying to kill Chandra and Surya, you insulted the Gods. You threw away their selection. Because of that, Indra is no longer tied to our prophecy. He is living a life that was never meant to be."
The Priest looks down at the charts. He tells the General what should have happened if the triplets had stayed together:
Indra would still have become King.
But he would be infertile. Any children he had would die young from disease. His only successful son would die in battle at age 19.
Indra himself would die at age 36. He would be killed in war by the 72-year-old Emperor of Gamma, Hikumbus.
Chandra and Surya, left untrained and weak, would die early in the war. They would be killed by minor kings and eventually betrayed by you—the General.
The General stands in silence
The General does not feel guilt. He only feels a cold, new ambition.
He looks at the Priest and speaks slowly. "So, you are telling me he would have died in twenty years anyway? Even if I did nothing? Tsk. I made a mistake killing the others. But it doesn't matter now."
The General's eyes turn dark. "I will not serve a limped king or his useless bloodline. A weak vessel cannot be bent into a strong wire. I will murder the ministers. I will kill this 'revenant' Indra. I will rule this empire myself and bring it back to its past glory."
The Priest stares at him in pure terror. He realizes he has said too much to a man who no longer fears the gods.
Before the Priest can scream, the General kills him.
The General does not stop there. To make sure the secret stays buried, he hunts down the Priest's entire family. He murders them all and buries their bodies where they will never be found.
The General returns to the palace. To the world, he is the loyal protector of the young Indra. In reality, he is a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
The General wiped the blood from his blade with a piece of the Priest's silk robe. He stood alone in the dark room, listening to the distant sounds of the palace.
He thought about the "revenant" Indra. The boy was a masterpiece of war, but he was a masterpiece the General had helped build. If the stars said the boy should be dead, then the General would simply finish what fate had failed to do.
"Ohm does not need a god," the General whispered to the empty air. "It needs a hand that can grip the throat of its enemies. My hand."
He spent the rest of the night moving through the shadows. He visited the homes of the head ministers—the men who had served the old King Arya Varma for decades. One by one, he silenced them. Some were strangled in their sleep. Others were forced to drink the same poison used on the princes.
By sunrise, the political heart of Ohm was dead.
The General walked toward the training grounds. There stood Indra. The 16-year-old was already swinging a heavy practice blade, his movements perfect and mechanical. He didn't look tired. He didn't look sad about his father's death. He looked like a machine waiting for a command.
The General watched him and felt a flicker of doubt. To kill Indra, he couldn't use a simple blade or a common poison. He would have to be smarter than the prophecy.