In the dining room, the earlier cacophony had vanished, replaced by a silence punctuated only by the hiss of the rain outside.
The quiet hung in the air like a thin shroud, creeping into every corner.
The old man stood for a moment before the now-pristine dining table, staring toward Arka's bedroom, the door firmly shut.
He let out a long sigh.
His shoulders dropped slowly, as if his entire burden was escaping through that single exhalation. The breath sounded heavy, releasing a weight far greater than merely dealing with his insolent grandson.
He turned, his steady steps carrying him to his own room in the older part of the house, a wing Arka rarely entered. The room was dim, scented with sandalwood.
The fragrance wafted gently, aging alongside wooden walls that had absorbed decades of whispered rituals.
He did not turn on the electric light. He began to change his clothes.
He peeled off his shabby singlet. His movements were slow but deliberate, flowing like an old habit laden with meaning.
Layer by layer, he draped cloth over his thin but taut frame. The garb of the Temple Guardian. Pristine white undergarments, contrasting sharply with the pitch-black outer robe.
The dim light made the fabric seem to devour the shadows, emphasizing the sacredness clinging to the uniform.
Finally, he took a headpiece from atop the wooden wardrobe. It was made of stiff black velvet, tall and distinct in shape. With a motion practiced thousands of times, he donned it, then tied the strings tightly beneath his chin.
Every knot seemed to lock away a memory, a responsibility, and an old oath that had never truly faded.
He now looked like a completely different person. No longer just the grandfather who made steamed chicken.
He stood before an old, clouded mirror, staring at the faint reflection of his uniformed figure.
The reflection trembled slightly as the rain-light filtered through the window slats, adding to the impression that he was staring at a ghost of his past.
"Arka... my grandson..." he murmured softly, his voice hoarse.
"I hope the days ahead are not too heavy for you."
He thought of the money in the thick envelope.
"Enjoy this happiness. Spend freely in these coming days."
His eyes gazed past his own reflection in the mirror. His stare was empty, yet calculating, like someone who had long ago made peace with a painful decision.
"From here on out," he continued, his voice barely a whisper.
"Peace may be hard to find."
A slow blink, and his usually hard face looked somewhat weary. There was a trace of ancient sorrow there.
A sorrow possessed only by those who have watched similar storms roll in, time and time again.
It was done. He turned, leaving his room.
In full uniform, he walked through the back of the house toward a small, detached structure nestled in a corner of the lush yard: an ancient temple built of stone and wood, which had stood there long before modern housing besieged them.
The surrounding foliage swayed in the storm winds, as if bowing in deference to his presence.
He pushed open the heavy wooden temple door.
Inside, the air was cold and still. He lit an ancient oil lamp atop the altar. Its yellowish light danced, revealing silent stone statues.
The small flame fought against the darkness, a speck of hope amidst the thunder that ceased to shake the world.
He took three sticks of incense, lighting them in the flame of the oil lamp.
Thin smoke began to curl upward, and its distinct, calming scent immediately filled the small, cold room. The smoke spiraled slowly, as if tracing the path of destiny in the air.
He placed the incense in its holder.
Then, in the silence of the temple, under the gaze of the stone statues, the Temple Guardian sat cross-legged on a thin meditation cushion. His back was perfectly straight.
His posture was rigid yet graceful, like an old pillar refusing to crumble.
He closed his eyes.
He did not move, whether deep in prayer... or waiting for someone amidst the storm.
The small temple was silent, filled only with the scent of incense and the soft hiss of the oil lamp. Outside, the world seemed to drown.
KRA-DOOOM!
A bolt of lightning struck terrifyingly close, illuminating the shadow-filled walls of the temple.
The flash broke the darkness for a split second, carving the shapes of the statues like the faces of ancestors staring down through the generations.
Just as the following thunder roared, the heavy wooden temple door slid open. Heavy rain and cold wind immediately slipped inside, making the oil lamp's flame dance wildly.
A man, drenched to the bone, stepped quickly across the threshold. He wore traditional dark blue attire, now soaked and clinging to his body. He removed a wide woven hat that dripped water onto the stone floor.
The drops fell rhythmically, joining the small puddles forming on the floor, reinforcing the impression that the storm wanted to force its way in.
The old man sitting cross-legged before the altar was unsurprised. He merely sighed, as if the guest's arrival was a scheduled disturbance.
His eyelids fluttered slightly, the only sign that he sensed a shift in the energy of the sacred space.
He turned around.
"You're going to get my temple floor wet," he said, his voice flat.
The newcomer-the guest-was an old man whose face was etched with the wrinkles of wisdom, yet whose eyes still betrayed a sharp energy. He was the Temple Guardian's childhood best friend. A man who now held the official title of Royal Ritual and Spiritual Advisor.
His expression radiated the exhaustion of a long journey, but his authority had not faded in the slightest.
The guest snorted, shaking the water from his robes.
"I just came from the palace, then to the Sanjaya Mansion, and now to your shack. I pierced through this storm, and your only complaint is about a wet floor?" retorted the Spiritual Minister, his voice just as blunt.
"Come in and close the door. You smell of the storm," the grandfather said, turning back to face the altar.
The Minister closed the door, muffling the roar of the gale outside. He walked-his steps wet-and stood behind his friend.
Every step created a soft, dampened sound, like a small echo realizing it was entering a space that did not belong to it.
"So," the Minister said, his tone turning serious.
"The ritual at the Sanjaya estate was successful."
"I know," the grandfather replied, his eyes still closed.
"I felt it an hour ago. The vibration reached even here. A new 'Aksesa' has been born."
"Correct," the Minister nodded.
"Noel Sanjaya. Nineteen years old. Exactly mirroring the year the Dark Star Calendar began."
Silence for a moment. Only the sound of rain drumming on the roof.
The silence was long, a pause reluctant to break because it knew what would be spoken next.
"Then," the Minister said, his eyes now fixed on the grandfather's straight back.
"How about him?"
The grandfather did not answer immediately.
"He is sleeping," he said.
"Sleeping?"
"Full. After eating a lot... Steamed chicken..."
His tone softened, harboring a faint affection that surfaced through the cracks of his cold demeanor.
The Spiritual Minister looked at his friend with disbelief before letting out a soft laugh.
"Steamed chicken. On this momentous night. You really haven't changed."
"Today is his nineteenth birthday," the grandfather said, his tone relaxing slightly, though still stiff.
"The Year of Calamity has begun. The 'Aksesa' in Sanjaya has awakened."
He finally opened his eyes, staring at the oil lamp flame.
The fire flickered in his pupils, reflecting the worry he kept tightly hidden.
"And the 'Guardian' here..." the grandfather continued.
"...has officially awakened tonight. Though he does not yet know it."
The Minister nodded.
"Two pillars of the Kingdom of Carta. One in the palace, one in the shadows. As it should be. Balanced."
"He is not ready," Grandfather said.
"He must be ready," the Minister replied firmly.
"You are the one who must prepare him. We are out of time."
The Spiritual Minister stared at his friend, his sharp eyes narrowing.
There was a tension rarely seen in his gaze, a sign that even a man as powerful as he trembled before the future.
Silence. He was still digesting the news.
"Your grandson... Arka... has succeeded," he stated again, in his blunt voice.
"Tonight. Simultaneously with the Young Master Sanjaya."
The grandfather did not answer with words. He simply nodded once. Slow, heavy, and final.
The small movement felt like the door of destiny slamming shut forever.
The Minister's eyes closed for a moment. He took a long breath, as if a precarious cosmic decision had just been ratified.
"As I suspected," he sighed.
He reached into his still-damp robes. He pulled out two identical scrolls, both sealed tight with the red wax stamp of the Kingdom of Carta.
The red wax glistened under the oil lamp, looking like drops of frozen blood.
He stared at the two letters in his hand. One for the scenario of failure, one for success.
With a decisive movement, he chose one scroll. The other one-the letter that would never be read-he tore in half roughly.
The Minister walked to a small brazier in the corner of the temple. Without hesitation, he tossed the scraps into the embers where the incense remnants burned. The paper curled instantly, burning at the edges, the flames twisting, turning the alternative scenario into black ash that floated away.
The black smoke rose slowly to the ceiling, like an unanswered prayer.
He returned to the center of the room, holding the only remaining letter. He cracked the wax seal.
Crack.
The moment the seal broke, the grandfather's demeanor changed completely.
The man who had grumbled about steamed chicken vanished. He shifted from his cross-legged position, kneeling upright on his meditation cushion, then bowed his head deeply, his back straight as a sword. He no longer faced his friend; he faced the bearer of the King's decree. This was a stance of ancestral tradition-absolute reverence when a royal letter was read.
Rigid, solemn, and full of veneration. Completely different from the household grandfather Arka met every day.
The Minister unrolled the parchment under the light of the oil lamp. He cleared his throat, his voice now formal, echoing in the small room.
"Decree from His Majesty the King-"
GRRRRAAAAA-BOOOOOOM!
Thunder roared so violently right above the temple roof, as if the sky itself was placing an exclamation point on the name. The sound was deafening, obscuring the King's name as it was spoken within the roar.
The temple walls trembled, and the oil lamp flame leaped as if about to be extinguished.
The grandfather flinched slightly at the vibration but did not lift his head an inch.
The Minister waited for the echo to subside, his breathing calm. He continued.
"Congratulations are offered to the Family-"
KRA-KAAAAA!
Lightning struck again, a second bolt just as loud, tearing through the silence and swallowing the name of that ancient clan. The Grandfather's surname. Arka's Father's surname. Arka's surname. Lost in the rage of the storm.
As if nature itself refused to let the name be spoken-or was trying to hide it from the world.
The Minister continued, his voice louder now, fighting the storm:
"-an Aksesa, the hidden and secret pillar of the Kingdom of Carta. His Majesty the King greatly awaits your assistance in facing this Dark Period."
"The King personally pledges full support to your family in the utmost secrecy."
The Minister finished reading. He carefully rolled the scroll back up.
His face was tense, knowing full well that even the slightest mistake in reading the decree could mean a curse for them all.
The silence inside the temple now felt heavy and sacred.
To conclude the reading of the decree, the Grandfather-the Temple Guardian-performed a final movement. He bowed his uniformed body forward from his kneeling position until his forehead touched the cold stone floor.
He prostrated himself.
The grandfather bowed deep on the cold stone, his forehead and stiff robes merging with the shadows of the temple.
His entire body went rigid, like someone bearing both a punishment and an honor.
The Spiritual Minister stared at the parchment scroll in his hand. The King's Decree. A congratulation that felt like a death sentence.
With a heavy motion, he turned around. He walked to the brazier, where the scraps of the first letter were nearly ash. Without hesitation, he tossed the scroll of the official decree into the fire.
The parchment curled instantly. The King's red wax seal melted like weeping blood, before the entire letter was devoured by flames and turned into black smoke. The message had been delivered. No evidence could remain.
The flames ate the parchment ravenously, as if swallowing the certainty of a future that could not be changed.
He returned to his friend, who was still frozen in the prostrated position. His official duty was done.
The façade of formality crumbled. He was just a tired old man, staring at his oldest friend.
"It is done," he whispered, his voice now hoarse with emotion. He leaned forward, placing a trembling hand on his uniformed friend's shoulder.
"Stand up, my friend."
The old man on the floor took a long, shuddering breath, as if he had just inhaled all the sorrow of the world. Slowly, with stiff movements, he began to rise. The Minister helped him up, pulling his friend's arm with the remnants of his strength.
Their movements looked like two old trees leaning on each other, afraid to collapse alone.
When they both stood tall, facing each other under the oil lamp's glow, no words were spoken.
The Minister did not let go of his friend. Instead, he pulled the old man into a tight embrace.
And there, inside the small temple besieged by the storm, the two oldest and strongest men in the tradition of the Kingdom of Carta finally broke.
Their shoulders slumped, their breathing became irregular, as if the burden they had kept for decades was forcing its way out.
Their shoulders, which had supported the weight of secrets and rituals for decades, now shook violently.
Both drowned in a desolate silence.
Not a silence of happiness over the awakening of an Aksesa. Not relief that the prophecy had been fulfilled.
They breathed deeply and forcefully. The air held in their chests was painful because they had seen this cycle before in the ancient archives.
The air between them felt thick, as if holding a dark history that refused to be named.
They, these two old friends, held each other tighter because they knew exactly what the "Period of the Dark Star Calendar" meant.
They hoped to strengthen one another for the horrific days that had just begun. Days full of fear, sacrifice, and impossible decisions they would have to make in the future.
They grieved for their King, who would now sleep even less than they did.
They began to shed tears for this Kingdom of Carta, and for the whole world sleeping soundly out there, unaware that their foundations were about to be shaken.
The tears fell without sound, yet every drop contained the grief of generations before them.
And most painfully, the grandfather, the Temple Guardian, wept for Arka. A boy who, hours ago, was laughing over steamed chicken, whose fate was now sealed-to become a pillar of the world at the age of nineteen.
The image of Arka's face flashed in his mind, innocent and pure, making his chest feel as though it were being crushed by destiny.
Outside, thunder roared once more, as if the heavens were joining in to mourn their fate.
Lightning split the sky, resembling nature's unrestrained scream.
_______ ✧ _______ ☾⚜☽ _______ ✧ _______