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Prophecies could not be changed. But if they were shown to be false, then there was still some wiggle room.
It was just like what had happened in Alkhemia. A fabricated prophecy had convinced everyone that the sewers concealed the secret to godhood. Adventurers flocked there to die, becoming nourishment for the Chairman's ascension.
In the end, Ambrose had exposed the false prophecy and claimed the true fate for himself.
A fabricated prophecy would not possess the immutable quality of fate. In theory, if what Harvey saw was a future forged by someone else, then he might yet survive.
This time, Catherine followed the logic, but she couldn't help but ask, "How do you prove that? What if no one fabricated anything?"
Who would bother framing a diviner they had never met? No one even knew when he might attempt to glimpse the future.
Ambrose laced his fingers together beneath his chin, deep in thought. "The only person who can fabricate that prophecy… is me. That's...
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