The courtyard was filled with light
Aryasa stood at its center, the kris pressed against his chest, the mark upon his skin glowing faintly. Above him floated a single lantern, larger than any he had ever seen, its flame bending in rhythm, its glow shimmering faintly with light that was not of this world. 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 carry the hours. Tonight, the lantern must burn."
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 lantern shimmered. The hours screamed.
The lantern was not mere light.
It pulsed with rhythm, each flicker carrying the weight of centuries. Aryasa walked toward it, the kris pressed against his chest, the mark upon his skin glowing faintly. The flame whispered, its voice sharp, mocking
"You cannot carry us. You cannot silence us. You cannot remember us."
Aryasa raised the kris. Light pulsed from its blade. The lantern 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 lantern screamed. The world pulsed. The hours faltered.
But the flame 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 lantern, glowing gold, and settled into his mark.
He gasped. "The hours."
Mangku's voice echoed faintly in his mind. "You carried them. 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 courtyard, 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 carried the hours," he said.
Aryasa looked at the sky. It was no longer dawn. It was ash.
And tonight, the veil trembled.