Indra's patrol returned on the fourth day, dust covered and grim from whatever they'd found at the raided settlement to the northeast, and word of Tirtayasa's own attack reached him within minutes of dismounting.
He came to the family's door himself that evening rather than sending Wayan ahead of him, and something in his weathered face carried a weight Rama hadn't seen from him before, not suspicion this time. Something closer to reckoning. He stood in the doorway a long moment before speaking, as though choosing which of several sentences he'd rehearsed on the ride back actually deserved to be the first one out of his mouth.
"I have questions," Indra said, through Wayan's careful translation, "but I do not think I am the right person to ask them anymore."
He didn't elaborate. He simply inclined his head, once, the gesture of a soldier acknowledging a rank he hadn't previously known he was standing in front of, and left them to whatever came next.
