The sky was burning.
Raikha ran—barefoot, breath ragged, heart battering his ribs.
Orange light spilled through the cracks of the bamboo walls like blood through silk. Smoke slithered down the hallway, alive and hungry. The polished gelam wood floors trembled beneath his feet with each distant explosion. The air reeked of gaharu incense, charred oil, and something else—blood and fear.
"Ami! Saka!" his voice cracked.
No answer.
Only the shriek of timber splitting. Neighbors howling. And high above it all, the gong at the Langkasuri temple still rang—slow, rhythmic, futile. A signal that had come too late.
Raikha rounded the corner—past a scorched screen bearing the Langkasuri Clan's crimson lotus sigil, now torn and blackened—and burst into the inner family quarters.
And froze.
His mother lay crumpled on a reed mat woven with ancestral patterns. Her kebaya—once a gentle orchid pink—was ripped, its embroidery burned away by soot and flame. Her selendang, a ceremonial shawl passed down three generations, lay crushed beneath her limp hand.
Her breathing was shallow. Her eyes found him, then drifted.
Beside her, little Saka clung to her side, coughing uncontrollably. His thin Melayu shirt was black with ash, and his wooden toy dagger hung uselessly from his sash.
Raikha dropped to his knees, voice breaking. "Ami—"
She raised 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. "I'll carry you. I can—"
She grimaced. Her leg was bent at an angle no body should endure. Bone pierced skin just above the ankle.
Raikha reached for her, but Saka grabbed his sleeve.
The boy's eyes were shining, wild. He hadn't cried—but he was close. Raikha recognized that look. The one warriors wore before they broke.
He wrapped an arm around them both, heart pounding. "We're getting out. Stay low—"
Then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate. Heavy. Raikha stiffened. They were close now.
The soldiers. The scent of the Kalderan Empire arrived before they did—sandalwood oil and sulfur, the markings of death.
His instincts screamed to run. But he stayed. Not without them.
His mind raced. The old drills returned in fragments—Langkasuri Silat, the sacred art of Bayang Suci, Holy Shadow. The silat of ancestors. Of spirits and silence.
Kuda-kuda Langit. Breathe through your belly. Balance between sky and root. Let the shadow move before the body.
He inhaled sharply and shifted.
Right foot slid behind. Weight low. Langit Rendah. The Low Sky.
But he wasn't ready. Not really. His hands trembled. He had never fought with blood in the air.
The door exploded inward.
Two soldiers.
They wore the Crimson Emblem—a jagged eye flanked by two black swords, painted across lamellar armor of hardened red leather. Their helmets resembled horned beetles, glinting in the firelight. One brandished a kerambit, curved and cruel. The other… conjured fire from his palm like a weapon born to him.
Their eyes were hollow.
Tools of the Empire.
Time broke.
Raikha moved.
He dashed forward. The first step blurred.
Palm to wrist. Twist.
The kerambit slashed too slow. Raikha's forearm deflected, redirecting the arc downward.
Siku Bayang—his elbow crashed into the soldier's throat.
Crack.
The man fell backward, choking, gasping.
The kerambit fell.
Raikha snatched it mid-air, reversed the grip just like they'd practiced in the training court beneath the kapok trees.
The fire-wielder raised his hand—
Too late.
Raikha lunged, blade across the thigh.
A scream.
The flames surged wildly—but missed. Panic ruined the magic.
Raikha turned and spun, low, driving his elbow again into the man's solar plexus.
Impact. Breath lost. Collapse. Both soldiers hit the floor. Raikha stood over them, heaving. His bare arms were streaked with soot, sweat, and blood—not all his. His body wanted to collapse. But his mind screamed—Move.
***
"Abang…" Saka's voice. Small. Fragile.
Raikha turned—just as the ceiling cracked.
Above them, bamboo beams splintered like bones. The far wall crumbled inward, and the flames roared as if awakened. A burning support gave way.
"No!"
Raikha leapt forward and threw his body over his family. Please. Not them. Take me. Not them.
Then—
Collapse.
***
Darkness.
But not silence.
A low hum. Deep. Steady. Not fire. Older.
Raikha couldn't move.
His chest was pinned. Breath shallow. His limbs didn't respond.
But the warmth… it wasn't burning.
It was something else.
Light.
Golden. Pulsing gently. Not flame—spirit-light.
Shapes moved beyond the dust and ash.
A tall figure stepped into the ruin, robes untouched by fire.
Sir Gantari.
The quiet ghost of their clan.
He wore the robes of the Keeper, hemp-dyed indigo and green, with a belt etched with tiger and moon runes of the Langkasuri elders. His beard, bound in silver thread, glowed faintly in the mystic light.
In his hand: the Staff of Remembrance.
Raikha remembered the old stories: how the staff was carved from the heart of the First Banyan, soaked in moonwater, etched with runes that remembered bloodlines.
Soldiers shouted.
Sir Gantari did not flinch.
He lifted the staff. The air bent around it. Even the fire seemed to hesitate.
Then—he struck the ground.
The world breathed.
A ring of symbols unfurled across the floor—ancient script in burning gold. The air pulsed with ancestral force. A shockwave erupted, tossing the invading soldiers like husks in a storm.
The flames disappeared.
The smoke receded.
But Sir Gantari… flickered.
His robes drifted like mist. His body blurred. He was fading.
He turned to Raikha—face drawn with pain and memory.
"Forgive me, child," he whispered. "You are not ready to die yet."
Raikha reached for him.
"Sir—"
But the world pulled him under.
Silence.
***
Cold.
Dark.
Raikha was alone.