The night was heavy with silence.
Aryasa walked through the jungle, the kris at his side, the mask and river stone bound together in cloth. The mark on his chest glowed faintly, guiding him toward a place Mangku Gede had never spoken of. He did not know why his steps carried him there. Only that the veil was pulling.
The trees parted.
And he saw them.
A circle of statues, half-buried in moss and vines. Each statue wore a mask—different shapes, different expressions. Some serene, some furious, some broken. Their mouths were open, as if singing. But no sound came.
Aryasa stepped into the circle.
The air shifted.
The statues trembled.
And then, the silence spoke.
"We are the choir. We are the forgotten. We are the voices that held the veil."
Aryasa froze. The sound was not heard with ears, but felt in bone.
He knelt. "What do you want from me?"
"Not want. Need. The veil is bleeding. The wound grows. And the guardians sleep."
The masks glowed faintly. Aryasa saw visions—guardians chanting, their voices weaving light into the veil. He saw their mouths open, their throats raw, their bodies collapsing. He saw silence take them.
And he understood.
The choir had sung themselves into death.
Aryasa placed the mask from the grove in the center of the circle.
The statues pulsed.
"You carry the memory. You carry the flame. But do you carry the song?"
Aryasa's chest tightened. He remembered the rhythm—the pulse of the mask, the breath of the river, the fire of the ashes. He closed his eyes.
And he sang.
Not with words.
With breath.
With memory.
With pain.
The statues trembled. The masks glowed. The silence cracked.
And the veil held.
But the song was not his alone.
From the shadows, voices rose—twisted, broken, mocking. Spirits surged into the circle, wearing masks of bone and shadow. Their mouths opened, their voices sharp, tearing at the veil.
Aryasa staggered.
The choir faltered.
The wound widened.
He gripped the kris. He sang louder. His voice broke. His chest burned. But he did not stop.
The spirits screamed.
The statues glowed.
The veil pulsed.
And the wound closed.
When it was over, Aryasa collapsed to his knees, breath ragged, throat raw. The statues were silent again. But one mask had fallen from its face, landing at his feet.
He picked it up.
It was plain.
Unbroken.
Waiting.
The choir whispered:
"You are not alone. You are the song."
Aryasa returned to Mangku Gede at dawn, his voice hoarse, his eyes changed.
Mangku looked at him. "You heard them."
Aryasa nodded. "The choir. The guardians. They sang themselves into silence."
Mangku's face darkened. "Then you must carry their song. Or the veil will fall."
Aryasa looked at the mask in his hand.
He was no longer just a guardian.
He was a voice.
A song.
A memory reborn.