The horizon was not sunrise.
aryasa stood upon the bridge, the kris pressed against his cheast, the mark upon his skin glowing faintly. Before him shimmered the gate not carved from stone, not build from wood, but formed from dawn itself. rising like flame, shimmering faintly with light that was not of this world. its surface rippled, reflecting faces that were not his own guardians long gone, villagers forgottenm ancestors lost.
Mangku Gede's words lingered in his mind: "The gate does not open It awakens. And dawn 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 gate shimmered. The dawn screamed.
The dawn was not gentle.
Figures rose from its surface, cloaked in flame, 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 dawn surged. The gate 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 dawn screamed. The world pulsed. The gate faltered.
But the light 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 dawn, glowing gold, and settled into his mark.
He gasped. "The dawn."
Mangku's voice echoed faintly in his mind. "You carried it. You remembered. But dawn 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 awakening.
The villagers bowed, their faces pale, their voices trembling. Mangku Gede raised his staff. "The guardian has carried the dawn," he said.
Aryasa looked at the sky. It was no longer night. It was ash.
And tonight, the veil trembled.