The truth did not arrive as revelation.
It came the way all difficult truths did, slowly, carried by voices that did not seek attention.
Devavrata was seven when the sages returned.
This time, they did not wait in the outer hall. They were admitted directly, their presence announced quietly, as though even the palace recognized the weight they carried. Shantanu received them alone at first, seated beneath the carved pillars of the audience chamber.
The eldest sage spoke without preamble.
"The debt is paid."
Shantanu stiffened. "I do not know what you mean."
"You will," the sage replied. "But not yet."
He gestured toward the inner chambers. "The child should hear this."
Shantanu hesitated. Then nodded.
Devavrata entered and stood before them, hands folded, posture straight. He did not fidget. He did not ask why he had been summoned. He waited.
The sages studied him in silence.
"He remembers," one of them said softly.
"Not consciously," another replied. "But memory is not limited to the mind."
Shantanu felt a flicker of unease. "Speak plainly."
The eldest sage inclined his head.
"Your queen was not bound to this world as others are," he said. "She came to you bearing a burden older than your kingdom."
Shantanu's jaw tightened. He did not interrupt.
"Eight beings were condemned to be born among mortals," the sage continued. "Their sentence was not uniform. Seven were meant to pass quickly, freed by death before attachment could form."
Devavrata listened without expression.
"And the eighth?" Shantanu asked.
"The eighth bore the greater offense," the sage replied. "He was to live. To learn restraint. To endure."
Shantanu felt the weight of the words settle into him.
"She took them," he said quietly. "One by one."
"Yes," the sage said. "And when you broke your silence, the sentence was complete."
Shantanu closed his eyes.
"The child remains because he must," the sage continued. "He was preserved to balance what was lost."
Devavrata finally spoke.
"Preserved for what?"
The sages exchanged glances.
"For duty," the eldest said. "For continuity. For sacrifice that will not be chosen lightly."
Shantanu turned to his son.
Devavrata met his gaze steadily.
"You knew," the boy said. Not accusing. Simply observing.
"I knew there was truth," Shantanu replied. "I did not know its shape."
Devavrata nodded once.
The sages rose.
"You will train him," the eldest said. "Not as a prince alone, but as a guardian. He will not rule. He will uphold."
"And what of his end?" Shantanu asked.
The sage paused.
"That will be his choice," he said. "No one else's."
They left as quietly as they had come.
That night, Shantanu sat beside his son's bed, watching him sleep.
The boy breathed evenly, one hand resting on the blanket, the other curled loosely at his side. There was nothing divine in the sight. Nothing marked him as different.
And yet, everything had already been decided.
"You will not be spared," Shantanu whispered. "I see that now."
Devavrata stirred but did not wake.
Shantanu straightened slowly.
Outside, the river moved on, its work complete.
Seven had been released.
One had been preserved.
And preservation, Shantanu understood at last, was not mercy.
It was responsibility extended across a lifetime.
Arc I: The Oath of the River Complete