The *Vale ni Loka* stood on the narrow neck of the peninsula —a low, heavy bure crouched on a raised earth platform, encircling twice by barricades.
Thick walls of dark ironwood, lashed with black sennit, pressing inward like ribs around a heart. The outer palisade was a ring of sun-bleached bamboo stakes, their points angled outward and crusted with some black, dry substance that caught no light.
Inside the hall, Two Bati stood as rigid verticals of copper-dark skin and cold discipline. Their hair, stiffened with burnt lime, rose in bone-white, frizzy halos that crackled like static.
Their oiled mahogany skin, were wash-dusted and grey, looking like leathery silt dried under a harsh sun.
They remained perfectly still,
the only movement the slow rise and fall of their corded chests.
The air between them was a thick, humid vacuum, smelling of bitter candlenut oil and the dry, alkaline scent of the lime in their hair.
The second guard: The second guard was a mountain of unthinking meat.
His eyes vacant amber pits, cloudy and slow. They lacked the Soldier's-Void, looking instead like sun-bleached glass.
His brow was flat and unlined, a broad expanse of skin that seemed incapable of worry or shock.
His jaw was the anchor of his face—a heavy, slackened hinge that hung perpetually open. It gave him a look of dull confusion, his lower lip a thick, damp shelf that caught the orange glow of the torches.
The lead guard: The lead guard stood like a pillar of ancient ironwood.
His brow was a heavy shelf of bone, casting a permanent, ink-black shadow over his eyes. Beneath that ridge, his irises were flat, lightless stones—obsidian spheres that didn't reflect the torchlight, but swallowed it whole.
A thin, silvered lightning-bolt of a scar ripped across the bridge of his flat nose. The tissue there was hard and white, puckered against his dark skin, disappearing into a stiff, wire-brush beard that smelled of old hearth-ash.
His jaw, the muscles at the hinges were corded knots, bulging with a constant, silent pressure.
Slung across their massive shoulders were the Totokia.
The lead Bati raised two fingers toward the other, tapping his own forehead, then pivot to his post.
As they moved, their feet performed a slow-rolled gait—the outer edge of the foot touching down first before the weight transitioned to the ball in a controlled, rhythmic compression.
The earth beneath them responded with a muffled —fshhh-shuh—
The only other sound was the dry, papery-hiss of their lime-stiffened hair brushing against the thatch walls as they pivoted.
In the middle of the hall a woman's voice cracked through the cell. "let me out, you pigs!"—The air was dim and dense.
She sat pinned within the ironwood cage, her form a static shadow against the center of the hall.
The air around her was a thick, stagnant cocktail of damp, packed earth, old hearth ash, and the sharp-steel-astringent of her own nervous sweat.
Her rough leaf-bodice and woven skirt were frayed. Her face was a landscape of exhaustion, but her eyes remained vibrant—two wide, dark spheres that glistened with unshed salt in the flickering torchlight.
The only sound aside from Tolu's yell and slamming hands against the wood was the slow, steady drip of water from a small leak in the deep thatch roof—drip… drip… drip.
"I did nothing wrong! I wasn't stealing anything. I was at my house. You gotta believe me, please!"
A club struck the wall, a bone deep— THOCK —a heavy, airless crack of ironwood meeting the seasoned support pillar.
The sound didn't just vibrate through the bars, it performed a concussive-stop, silencing her.
She didn't scream, her jaw simply performed a tight, involuntary-clinch, and her breath hitched in a tiny, jagged hnn-ssst.
pulling her head up toward the sound, the movement produced a faint, dry-scrape of her hair against the wooden bars.
Her shoulders were slumped, and she leaned against the opposite wall, defeated. Her elbow rested on one knee, her hand covering her face. "Pl—please. I want to get outta here." Her voice broke, her nose dripping.
At the edge of the headland, beneath a crooked tree, two shadows waited.
Tambo and Kanka crouched low, hidden among the roots, scanning the bure from afar. The path to the prison glowed faintly with torches thrust into the ground.
Tambo's head didn't move — only his eyes turned toward Kanka beside him. He whispered,
"Hey… go on then."
Kanka shot him a look, fear flashing beneath it. "You are kidding? I thought you would go first."
Tambo's expression tightened, voice low and edged. "I already told you I will place the traps, since I'm the only one good at it." He pointed toward the bure. "Your job is to go over there and make sure they are asleep — so I can work my magic. Did I make myself clear this time?"
Kanka turned his head toward the prison in annoyance, then back at Tambo, brow tight. "If they see me, I'm dead. Have you seen their frames?" he hissed.
Tambo leaned closer, voice rough but steady. "They won't see you. Now stop being a crybaby and get your butt over there."
Kanka's next words caught in his throat. His jaw clenched, his eyes darted between the path and Tambo's expectant stare. Then—in one sharp breath—
A hand touched Kanka from behind, a Cold-Compression of a mountain stone.
"Don't sweat it,"
Passing Kanka, Tantei's torso seemed to lengthen. His ribs were "black sennit lashing" holding a steel-alloy heart. He slid through the atmosphere, displacing the air with a nearly imperceptible shush that sounded like sand moving through an hourglass.
"I'll go. You guys just take care of the torches, and the traps quickly."
He leapt forward, shoulders tense, steps quick but quiet. The night was still, save for the faint hiss of the sea breeze.
Tambo's jaws became stiff at Tantei's disappearing form.
Kanka's Expression softened for a fraction of a second, as he looked toward Tambo with a Shared-Vulnerability.
When he turned his head back toward the path, he let out a sigh carrying a vocal-shiver—a faint, Nearly-Imperceptible Shush.
It's the look of a man who was standing at the edge of a Volcanic-Detonation and was pulled back at the last second.
Tantei shifted his weight, pulling his spine long and low. His torso moved first, followed by his legs. He set his bare foot down with agonizing slowness, testing the short, damp grass with the ball of his foot, rolling the weight forward to the arch.
The only sound was a faint, nearly imperceptible shush—the quiet slide of skin over the grass and damp earth. He walked along the path until it narrowed, torches flickered in the wind.
He glanced back once, meeting Tambo's gaze—that faint ghost of a smile, a nod, a thumbs-up. Then he turned ahead again.
Cold crept through his body as the bure loomed larger, its shadow devoured the path. He reached the foot of the outermost defense.
An old wooden ladder groaned beneath his hand. —huh. Why would the guards just leave a ladder out here? Strange for a first line of defense—
He took a breath and climbed. He slid forward, palms pressing to dry sticks, and peered over the barricade.
The outer Bati sat cross-legged atop the Raised Platform in the inner section of the second palisade, his frame a High-Density silhouette against the thatch of the Main prison, his Buldgeon—a heavy, knotted length of ironwood—rested across his lap.
His chest didn't just move, it expanded with the Agonizing Slowness of a deep-sea tide, each breath a Mechanical-Calibration of his readiness.
The torch was thrust into a bronze bracket bolted to the Left-Hand Pillar of the Main prison, roughly three feet in front of his platform, keeping the Bati's own face in a Bled-Shadow.
Tantei didn't speak. He simply cupped a palm and sent a Flat-Wave toward the others, a gesture of that signaled the area was Sealed and secure.
Tambo and Kanka saw his stretched-out arm reaching into the sky.
They took a few glances around them and leaped halfway down the path. They moved like shadows, their gazes always sweeping the perimeter.
Tambo immediately dropped to one knee, ignoring the short blades of grass pressing into his skin.
Using only his hands, he silently scooped a shallow pit into the damp earth, moving the soft soil with the edge of his palms.
Kanka reached the first torch—a bright flame flickering in its bracket. The heat hit his face in a sudden, dry wave, the scent of burning Dilo oil instantly masking the cloying frangipani of the village.
He used a hook-grip—his fingers, corded like the sennit rope itself, snagging the bamboo base with a clinically silent precision. As he pulled the torch from its coral-stone socket, the fire let out a sharp, violent whistle, the flame stretching backward into a jagged orange blade that mirrored the intensity in his eyes.
The First Turn: The initial contact was a damp, suffocating crunch as the heavy, soaked fibers of the cloth swallowed the orange light.
The Steam: A sharp, hissing whistle of steam escaped from the cloth, a sound that mimicked the natural rustle of the wind through the thatched roofs.
The Squeeze: He twisted the cloth with a firm grip, crushing the main flames without putting them out entirely. The sound was a wet, gritty grind of charcoal against the soaked fabric.
The Second Turn: Spunning on one heel and gliding toward the second torch on the other side of the path, he repeated the move, his hands moving in a fast, practiced blur to dim the second flame.
The Result: As he pulled the cloth away, the torch gave off a low, bubbling crackle as the wood struggled to stay lit under the moisture.
The Shadows, the light didn't disappear, it faded. The sharp, bright glow was replaced by a thin haze of grey smoke and long, stretching shadows that lay across the grass like dark fingers.
Kanka stood in the new darkness, his heart thumping hard against his ribs. The path was now a blurry mess of grey and black.
Tambo skidded a hollowed coconut into the hole—feigned animal scratch—then tamped the sand and laid two thin reed trip-snaps running out of the pit and distant away to the two torches.
He stepped between them, a match held low beneath cupped palms.
The ember
hissed,
then died, swallowing in his fists,
he shook his head, a silent acknowledgment of his mistake.
Kanka quickly stood from his crouch beside him, moving toward a torch, his hand almost yanking the wet tapa cloth off a smoldering torch head.
Tambo looked up, his face a mask of shocked concentration. He waved a hand in a sharp, dismissive gesture, his mouth formed an inaudible, desperate "No!"
Kanka nodded once in grim acknowledgement, leaving the smoking cloth on the torch,
and ran low toward Tantei, his knees were slightly bent in a Sinuous-Vertical posture. The Splat of mud was replaced by the
—Suction-Pop—of grass blades separating, a sound so low it's buried under the Natural-Static of the wind.
As he accelerated, the intervals between the sounds shortened. It became a Staccato-Hiss—shht-shht-shht.
He tapered his speed as he arrived, his voice was a razor-sharp, urgent whisper: "Time to wake them up."
Tantei nodded, eyes closed for a fleeting second, but then his eyes snapped open. With a quick exhale, he pressed his moto'i against the thick wood of the ironwood wall, making a flat, dead thud-thud.
Tantei and Kanka vanished into the black sennit shadows, two grains of sand waiting for the landslide, knowing that once the mountain begins to move, it does not care who it buries.