The night was heavy with rhythm.
Aryasa stood within the temple hall, the kris pressed against his chest, the mark upon his skin glowing faintly. Around him, villagers lit lanterns, their flames flickering in unison, as though guided by a hidden pulse. At the center of the hall stood the drum massive, carved from wood older than the village itself, its surface etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the firelight.
Mangku Gede raised his staff. "Tonight, the veil trembles. Tonight, the guardian must hear the drum. Tonight, the hours must speak."
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 drum must sound."
The drum was not struck by hands.
it pulsed on its own, each beat heavy, sharp, filled with something that preesed against Aryasa's chest. The sound was not merely rhythm. it was memory. it was silence. it was the veil itself.
"You are wound. You are memory. You are silence reborn."
Aryasa raised the kris. Light pulsed from its blade. The drum surged. The hours 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 drum screamed. The world pulsed. The hours faltered.
But the rhythm 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 drum, glowing gold, and settled into his mark.
He gasped. "The hours."
Mangku's voice echoed faintly in his mind. "You carried it. You remembered. But the hours are endless. And you cannot carry them 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 hall, the kris glowing faintly, the mark pulsing, the whisper echoing. He realized that this was not merely a trial. It was time itself.
The villagers bowed, their faces pale, their voices trembling. Mangku Gede raised his staff. "The guardian has heard the hours," he said.
Aryasa looked at the sky. It was no longer dawn. It was ash.
And tonight, the veil trembled.