The temple courtyard was no longer silent.
Aryasa stood at its center, the kris pressed against his chest, the mark upon his skin glowing faintly. Torches lined the walls, their flames bending in the wind as though bowing to something unseen. The villagers gathered in silence, their faces pale, their eyes fixed upon him.
Mangku Gede raised his staff. "Tonight, the veil trembles. Tonight, the guardian must step forward. Tonight, the choir must sing."
The words carried weight. They were not ritual alone. They were command.
Aryasa felt the whisper surge within him, threading itself into his veins, crawling beneath his skin. He closed his eyes, and the world shifted. 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 villagers watched, their faces pale, their voices trembling. Mangku Gede bowed his head. "The veil has spoken," he said. "The choir must sing."
The choir was not human.
Flames rose from the altar, twisting into shapes that resembled faces, mouths, and eyes. They sang not with words, but with vibration, with rhythm, with silence. Their voices crawled beneath Aryasa's skin, threading themselves into his veins.
"You are wound. You are memory. You are silence reborn."
Aryasa raised the kris. Light pulsed from its blade. The flames surged. The choir screamed.
The battle began.
Aryasa struck, each blow guided not by strength, but by rhythm—the rhythm of memory, the rhythm of silence, the rhythm of the veil itself. The kris sang. The flames screamed. The world pulsed. The choir faltered.
But the fire did not vanish. It remained. Waiting. Watching.
Aryasa fell to his knees, breath ragged, chest burning. The ground shimmered faintly. A single ember rose from the choir, glowing gold, and settled into his mark.
He gasped. "The flame.
Mangku's voice echoed faintly in his mind. "You carried it. You remembered. But the flame is endless. And you cannot carry it alone."
Aryasa looked at the kris. He was no longer just a boy with a blade. He was the wound. He was the memory. He was silence reborn.
And tonight, the veil trembled.
Aryasa rose from the altar, the kris glowing faintly, the mark pulsing, the whisper echoing. He realized that this was not merely a trial. It was a song.
The villagers bowed, their faces pale, their voices trembling. Mangku Gede raised his staff. "The guardian has sung," he said.
Aryasa looked at the sky. It was no longer dawn. It was ash.
And tonight, the veil trembled.