The river was no longer water.
Aryasa stood at its edge, the kris pressed against his chest, the mark upon his skin glowing faintly beneath his tunic. The current shimmered with ash, thick and heavy, carrying fragments of memory that clung to the surface like broken reflections. The villagers had warned him never to come here at night, but tonight was different. Tonight, the veil had spoken
Mangku Gede's voice echoed in his mind: "The river remembers. It carries the names of the forgotten. If you listen, it will show you the path."
Aryasa knelt, his breath shallow, his chest burning. He dipped the kris into the current. Light surged, sharp and immediate, threading itself into the blade. The whisper returned, louder now, sharper, filled with something that pressed against his chest.
"You are wound. You are memory. You are silence reborn."
The water shimmered. Faces rose from the current—guardians long gone, their eyes hollow, their voices fading. They reached for him, their hands trembling, their mouths open in silent screams.
Aryasa gasped. He pulled the kris away, but the visions did not fade. 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 staggered back, his breath ragged. He realized that the river was not merely water. It was memory. It was silence. It was the veil itself.
The current shifted. Shadows rose from the surface, cloaked in ash, their eyes glowing faintly. They circled Aryasa, their voices sharp, mocking.
"You cannot carry us. You cannot silence us. You cannot remember us."
Aryasa raised the kris. Light pulsed from its blade. The shadows lunged.
The battle began.
Aryasa struck, each blow guided not by strength, but by rhythm—the rhythm of the choir, the flame, the river, the blood, the gate, the echoes, the sky, the drum, the hours, the lanterns, the temple, the throne. The kris sang. The river screamed. The world pulsed. The shadows faltered.
But the ash 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 ash, glowing gold, and settled into his mark.
He gasped. "The river."
Mangku's voice echoed faintly in his mind. "You carried it. You remembered. But the river 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 river, the kris glowing faintly, the mark pulsing, the whisper echoing. He realized that this was not merely a trial. It was a beginning.
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.