The clearing was filled with ash.
Aryasa stepped into the circle, the kris pressed against his chest, the mark upon his skin glowing faintly. At its center stood the throne—not carved from stone, not built from wood, but formed from ash itself, rising like smoke, shimmering faintly with light that was not of this world. Its surface rippled, reflecting faces that were not his own—guardians long gone, villagers forgotten, ancestors lost.
Mangku Gede's words lingered in his mind: "The throne does not rule. It remembers. And memory is heavier than silence."
Aryasa pressed forward. The ground pulsed beneath his feet, each step resonating with rhythm that was not his own. 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 throne shimmered. The ash screamed.
The throne was not empty.
Figures rose from its surface, cloaked in darkness, 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 ash surged. The throne 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 ash screamed. The world pulsed. The throne faltered.
But the shadow 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 throne, glowing gold, and settled into his mark.
He gasped. "The throne."
Mangku's voice echoed faintly in his mind. "You carried it. You remembered. But the throne 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 clearing, the kris glowing faintly, the mark pulsing, the whisper echoing. He realized that this was not merely a trial. It was dominion.
The villagers bowed, their faces pale, their voices trembling. Mangku Gede raised his staff. "The guardian has carried the throne," he said.
Aryasa looked at the sky. It was no longer dawn. It was ash.
And tonight, the veil trembled.