The sky was burning.
Raikha sprinted—barefoot, breath coming in ragged gasps, his heart pounding against his ribs.
Orange light poured through the cracks in the bamboo walls like blood seeping through silk. Smoke curled down the hallway, alive and ravenous. The polished gelam wood floors shook beneath his feet with every distant explosion.
The air was thick with the scent of gaharu incense, scorched oil, and something more—blood and terror.
"Mom! Saka!" His voice cracked, desperation lacing his words.
Silence. Only the sound of timber splintering.
Neighbors wailing. And high above it all, the gong at the Langkasuri temple continued to toll—slow, rhythmic, and ultimately pointless. A warning that had come far too late.
Raikha turned the corner—past a charred screen displaying the Langkasuri Clan's crimson lotus sigil, now tattered and blackened—and burst into the family's inner quarters. And stopped dead in his tracks.
His mother lay crumpled on a reed mat adorned with ancestral patterns. Her kebaya—once a soft orchid pink—was torn, its delicate embroidery singed away by soot and flames. Her selendang, a ceremonial shawl passed down through three generations, lay crushed beneath her lifeless hand.
Her breathing was shallow. Her eyes met his for a fleeting moment before drifting away. Next to her, little Saka clung to her side, coughing violently. His thin Melayu shirt was covered in ash, and his wooden toy dagger dangled uselessly from his sash.
Raikha fell to his knees, his voice breaking. "Mom—" She lifted a trembling hand, palm facing him. "You have to go."
"No."
"Take Saka. Run. The Empire's here. You can't—"
"I'm not leaving you," Raikha choked out.
"I'll carry you. I can—" She grimaced, her leg twisted at an unnatural angle. Bone jutted through the skin just above her ankle. Raikha reached for her, but Saka clutched his sleeve.
The boy's eyes were wide and frantic. He hadn't cried yet—but he was on the brink. Raikha recognized that look.
He wrapped an arm around both of them, his heart racing. "We need to get out. Stay low—"
Then— he heard loud footsteps nearby.
Slow. Intentional. Heavy. Raikha tensed up.
They were getting closer. The soldiers. The unmistakable scent of the Kalderan Empire wafted in before they did—sandalwood oil mixed with sulfur, a harbinger of death.
Every instinct in him screamed to flee. But he wouldn't leave them behind. His mind was a whirlwind. Old training surged back in fragments—Langkasuri Silat, the revered art of Holy Shadow. The silat of his ancestors. Of spirits and silence.
Kuda-kuda Langit. Breathe deep. Find balance between the sky and the earth. Let the shadow guide your movements.
He took a sharp breath and adjusted his stance. His right foot slid back. Weight low. Langit Rendah. The Low Sky. But he wasn't truly ready. Not yet. His hands shook. He had never fought with the scent of blood in the air.
Then the door burst open. Two soldiers. They bore the Crimson Emblem—a jagged eye flanked by two black swords, emblazoned on their lamellar armor of hardened red leather. Their helmets looked like horned beetles, glinting in the flickering firelight. One wielded a kerambit, curved and menacing. The other… summoned fire from his palm as if it were a natural extension of himself. Their eyes were empty. Instruments of the Empire. Time seemed to shatter.
Raikha sprang into action. He charged forward. The first step blurred. Palm to wrist. Twist. The kerambit came in too slowly. Raikha's forearm deflected it, redirecting the blade downward. Siku Bayang—his elbow slammed into the soldier's throat. Crack. The man stumbled back, choking and gasping. The kerambit dropped. Raikha caught it mid-air, flipping the grip just like they had practiced under the kapok trees in training. The fire-wielder raised his hand— But it was too late. Raikha lunged, the blade slicing across the soldier's thigh. A scream pierced the air. The flames erupted wildly—but missed. Panic disrupted the magic.
Raikha spun around, low, driving his elbow hard into the man's solar plexus. Impact. Breath gone. Collapse. Both soldiers crumpled to the floor. Raikha loomed over them, panting heavily. His bare arms were smeared with soot, sweat, and blood—not all of it his own.
His body screamed for rest, but his mind was relentless—Move.
***
"Abang…" Saka's voice broke through, small and fragile.
Raikha turned—just as the ceiling began to crack. Above them, bamboo beams splintered like brittle bones. The far wall crumbled inward, and the flames roared to life as if they had just been awakened. A burning support finally gave way.
"No!" Raikha lunged forward, throwing himself over his family. Please. Not them. Take me instead. Just not them.
Then— Collapse.
***
Darkness. But it wasn't silent. A low hum filled the air. Deep. Steady. Not the sound of fire. Something older. Raikha found himself unable to move. His chest was pinned down. His breath came in shallow gasps. His limbs felt unresponsive. But the warmth… it wasn't burning. It was something different.
Light. Golden. Pulsing gently. Not flame—spirit-light. Shapes shifted beyond the dust and ash. A tall figure emerged from the ruins, robes untouched by the flames.
Sir Gantari. The quiet elder of their clan. He wore the robes of the Keeper, dyed in indigo and green, with a belt adorned with tiger and moon runes of the Langkasuri elders.
His beard, woven with silver thread, glimmered softly in the mystical light. In his hand: the Staff of Remembrance.
Raikha recalled the old tales: how the staff was carved from the heart of the First Banyan, soaked in moonwater, etched with runes that held the memories of bloodlines.
Soldiers shouted in chaos. Sir Gantari remained unflinching. He raised the staff. The air warped around it. Even the fire seemed to pause. Then—he struck the ground. The world inhaled. A ring of symbols unfurled across the floor—ancient script glowing in burning gold. The air throbbed with ancestral power. A shockwave erupted, sending the invading soldiers flying like leaves in a storm. The flames vanished.
***
Like a timid tide retreating from the coast, the smoke floated away. However, Sir Gantari faltered. His once-clear robes turned hazy, like mist. His body lost its shape and appeared to melt. He was dying, merging with the dim, bright light that had saved them.
He struggled to turn to Raikha. His face was filled with memories and deep pain. His eyes lost their sage expression and took on a silent sadness.
"Pardon me, kid," he said in a low, nearly inaudible voice that pierced the atmosphere. "You're not yet ready to pass away."
Still restrained but experiencing a surge of strength, Raikha extended a trembling hand. He attempted to touch the vanishing shape. He gasped, "Sir—"
Still restrained but experiencing a surge of strength, Raikha extended a trembling hand. He attempted to touch the vanishing shape. He let out a desperate cry and gasped, "Sir—"
However, it was too late. The world seemed to drag him down before his fingers could even touch the dying light. The old hum, the warmth, the gentle golden glow—all of it vanished, leaving only a void in the silence.