The night was alive with lanterns.
Aryasa stood at the edge of the temple courtyard, the kris pressed against his chest, the mark upon his skin glowing faintly. Hundreds of lanterns floated above the ground, their flames flickering in rhythm, their light bending as though guided by unseen hands. 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 walk among the dead. Tonight, the lanterns 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 lanterns must burn."
The lanterns were not mere light.
They pulsed with memory, each flame carrying the face of someone forgotten. Aryasa walked among them, the kris pressed against his chest, the mark upon his skin glowing faintly. The flames whispered, 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 lanterns surged. The dead 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 lanterns screamed. The world pulsed. The dead faltered.
But the flames did not vanish. They remained. Waiting. Watching
Aryasa fell to his knees, breath ragged, chest burning. The ground shimmered faintly. A single ember rose from the lanterns, glowing gold, and settled into his mark.
He gasped. "The dead."
Mangku's voice echoed faintly in his mind. "You carried them. You remembered. But the dead 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 courtyard, the kris glowing faintly, the mark pulsing, the whisper echoing. He realized that this was not merely a trial. It was remembrance.
The villagers bowed, their faces pale, their voices trembling. Mangku Gede raised his staff. "The guardian has carried the dead," he said.
Aryasa looked at the sky. It was no longer dawn. It was ash.
And tonight, the veil trembled.