The banyan tree stood at the edge of Tenganan village, its roots sprawling like veins across the soil, its branches heavy with centuries of memory. The villagers called it pohon ingatan—the tree of remembrance—because every generation had prayed beneath its shade, leaving offerings of flowers, rice, and incense. To Aryasa, it was more than a tree. It was a place where silence spoke louder than words.
He had come here countless times, usually at dusk, when the sky bled into orange and purple, and the cicadas began their endless chorus. At seventeen, Aryasa was restless, caught between the innocence of youth and the weight of something he could not name. The villagers often whispered that his eyes carried shadows older than his years. He ignored them, but deep down he knew they were right.
That evening, the air was different. The wind carried not the familiar scent of rice fields or smoke from cooking fires, but something colder, heavier. It pressed against his chest, making his breath shallow. He placed his hand upon the bark of the banyan, rough and ancient, and for the first time, he heard it.
A whisper.
It was not language. It was not song. It was vibration, crawling beneath his skin, threading itself into his veins.
"You are chosen."
Aryasa staggered back, his heart pounding. He looked around, but the village was quiet. Children played near the temple, elders prepared offerings, Mangku Gede recited prayers. None seemed to notice.
He pressed his hand again to the tree. The whisper grew louder.
"You are wound. You are memory. You are silence reborn."
His chest burned. He pulled away, but the mark upon his skin an old scar shaped like a crescent glowed faintly. He had carried it since birth, though no healer could explain it. Tonight, it pulsed as though alive.
Mangku Gede appeared, his steps slow, his eyes heavy. The village priest was old, his hair silver, his face lined with years of devotion. He looked at Aryasa with sorrow. "You heard it," he said.
Aryasa froze. "What is it?"
Mangku's voice trembled. "The veil. It speaks when it chooses. And tonight, it chose you."
The night deepened. Aryasa sat before the temple, the kris placed upon his lap. It was not his weapon—it had belonged to his father, who had vanished years ago in the forest. The villagers said he was taken by shadows. Aryasa never believed them. Until now.
The whisper returned, threading itself through the air, weaving into the flame of the oil lamp.
"The veil is breaking. You must carry it."
Aryasa gripped the kris. His chest burned. His breath faltered. He realized that this was not a choice. It was a command.
And tonight, his journey began.
But the journey did not begin with triumph. It began with fear.
The temple bells rang, sharp and sudden. Villagers gathered, their faces pale. Mangku Gede raised his hands. "The veil trembles," he said. "The guardians are silent. The realms are shifting."
Aryasa felt the mark on his chest pulse. He looked at the kris, its blade shimmering faintly in the lamplight. He remembered his father's voice, though faint, like a dream: "The kris is not a weapon. It is a memory. It carries silence. It carries you."
The villagers whispered among themselves. Some looked at Aryasa with awe, others with fear. He was no longer just a boy. He was something else. Something chosen.
Mangku placed a hand on his shoulder. "You must go to the river," he said. "The veil speaks there. It will show you the first path."
Aryasa nodded, though his chest trembled. He rose, the kris at his side, the mark burning, the whisper echoing.
The river was dark, its waters thick with ash. Aryasa knelt at the edge, the kris pressed against the soil. The whisper surged, louder now, threading itself into the current.
"The veil is wound. The wound is memory. The memory is silence. You must carry it."
Aryasa closed his eyes. He saw visions—faces of guardians long gone, their voices fading, their bodies collapsing. He saw Rangda, her laughter sharp, her hands tearing silence from the air. He saw his father, standing at the edge of the forest, his eyes heavy, his voice trembling.
"You are chosen."
Aryasa gasped. He opened his eyes. The river shimmered faintly, glowing gold. He realized that this was not merely water. It was memory. It was silence. It was the veil itself.
He dipped the kris into the current. Light surged. The mark on his chest burned. The whisper screamed.
And the journey began.
Aryasa rose from the river, the kris glowing faintly, the mark pulsing, the whisper echoing. He realized that he was no longer just a boy with a blade. He was the wound. He was the memory. He was silence reborn.
The villagers watched from the temple, their faces pale, their voices trembling. Mangku Gede bowed his head. "The guardian has awakened," he said.
Aryasa looked at the sky. It was no longer dawn. It was ash.
And tonight, the veil trembled.