The veil was thinner than ever.
Aryasa could feel it in the wind in the way the leaves trembled without touch, in the way shadows lingered longer than they should. The jungle no longer felt like home. It felt like a threshold.
Mangku Gede had grown quiet in recent days. He spent hours in prayer, his chants deeper, older, as if calling to something buried beneath the soil.
Aryasa watched him from the steps of the shrine, the mask and river stone resting beside him. The kris pulsed faintly at his side, as if sensing what was coming.
Then Mangku spoke.
"There is someone trapped between realms. A child. Not born. Not dead. Not remembered."
Aryasa frowned. "What does that mean?"
Mangku looked up, his eyes tired. "It means the veil has begun to fracture. And something innocent is caught in the tear."
That night, Aryasa returned to the banyan grove.
The fireflies were gone.
The wind was still.
He knelt beneath the tree and placed the mask on the ground.
"I'm ready," he whispered.
The air shifted.
The roots of the banyan stirred.
And from the earth, a glow emerged—soft, pale, trembling.
A figure rose.
Small.
A child.
Eyes closed.
Skin translucent, like mist given form.
Aryasa gasped. The child hovered above the ground, wrapped in threads of light and shadow. It did not speak. It did not breathe. But it was alive.
And it was crying.
Aryasa stepped forward. "Who are you?"
The child opened its eyes.
They were mirrors.
Aryasa saw himself.
He saw his father.
He saw Rangda.
He saw Barong.
He saw the veil.
And then, the child spoke—not with voice, but with memory.
"I am the wound. I am the bridge. I am what was forgotten."
Aryasa's heart pounded. "Why are you here?"
"Because you remembered me."
Suddenly, the jungle trembled.
From the trees, shadows surged—twisted spirits, broken guardians, echoes of Rangda's cult.
They surrounded the grove.
The child floated higher.
Aryasa drew the kris.
Light met darkness.
The spirits lunged.
Aryasa moved—not with fear, but with rhythm. The rhythm of the mask. The rhythm of the river. The rhythm of the flame.
He struck.
The spirits screamed.
The child pulsed.
And the veil held.
When the battle ended, the grove was silent.
The child hovered before Aryasa, eyes glowing faintly.
"I cannot stay," it said. "But I will remember."
Aryasa reached out.
The child placed a hand on his chest.
A mark appeared—golden, shaped like a mask, pulsing with breath.
"You are the guardian now. Not of light. Not of shadow. But of memory."
The child vanished.
The grove dimmed.
But Aryasa remained.
Marked.
Awake.
And no longer alone.