The sky was no longer blue.
Aryasa stood upon the ridge, the kris pressed against his chest, the mark upon his skin glowing faintly. Above him stretched a vast expanse of ash, shimmering faintly with light that was not of this world. The stars were gone. The moon was gone. Only silence remained.
Mangku Gede's words lingered in his mind: "The sky does not speak. 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 chsen."
Aryasa gasped. He opened eyes. The sky shimmered. The silence screamed.
The silence was not empty.
Figures rose from the air, cloaked in darkness, their eyes glowing faintly. They circle 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 silence surged. The sky 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 silence screamed. The world pulsed. The sky faltered.
But the void 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 silence, glowing gold, and settled into his mark.
He gasped. "The sky."
Mangku's voice echoed faintly in his mind. "You carried it. You remembered. But the sky 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 ridge, the kris glowing faintly, the mark pulsing, the whisper echoing. He realized that this was not merely a trial. It was the cosmos itself.
The villagers bowed, their faces pale, their voices trembling. Mangku Gede raised his staff. "The guardian has carried the sky," he said.
Aryasa looked at the heavens. They were no longer dawn. They were ash.
And tonight, the veil trembled.