The monsoon downpour, a rhythmic drum on the silk pavilion roof, almost swallowed the choked gasp. Citra’s fingers, still smelling of the fragrant dye from her loom, trembled as they brushed against the slick warmth on her brother’s neck. Cakra lay sprawled amongst the scattered jasmine petals and overturned fruit platters, his ceremonial sarong soaked crimson. His eyes, usually dancing with boisterous mirth, stared, vacant, at the shimmering lantern high above. A shadow, impossibly quick, detached itself from the lattice screen separating the honored guests from the service entrance. It moved with the fluid grace of a hunter, a whisper of damp air, then vanished into the churning rain. Citra’s gaze snagged on a glint of polished darkness near Cakra’s limp hand. An obsidian karambit, its wicked curve catching the lantern light. Not the ceremonial blades of the Surya Clan. This was a war-knife, a predator’s tooth. Her clan, the Pesut, had staked their future on Cakra’s betrothal to the Surya. A broken engagement, especially one ending in murder, meant total annihilation. The Pesut would be declared oath-breakers, their lands forfeit, their lives a commodity for any petty lord with a blade and a grudge. Her brother, her protector, was gone. And she, Citra, the reclusive weaver who shrank from the market square, was the only one left. A sudden, cold resolve, as sharp as the karambit, settled in her gut. No one would save them. No one would even listen. Asking for help was admitting weakness. Admitting weakness was death. Within the hour, the heavy, mud-caked boots Cakra had so proudly worn were on her feet. His padded chest guard, still smelling faintly of his sweat and the jungle, pressed against her tightly bound ribs. The thick, woven-reed helmet, meant to conceal a man’s identity during transit, now hid her own face. Cakra’s draft token for the Rimau-Baja Vanguard, a polished river stone etched with a leaping tiger, felt heavy in her palm. The assassin had left behind a clue, a dark promise. She would follow it. *** The Rimau-Baja Vanguard Camp was less a fortress and more a raw wound carved into the jungle. Torrential rain lashed the timber walls, turning the ground to a viscous, sucking mud. Torches sputtered in the wind, casting frenetic shadows that danced like hungry spirits. The air thrummed with the shouts of men, the clang of steel, and the guttural roars of some unseen, caged beast. Citra clutched the draft token, the slick mud squelching under her borrowed boots. A burly gate guard, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed rattan hat, waved her through with a grunt. There were no instructions, no welcome. Just a chaotic, mud-slicked thoroughfare stretching into the gloom. “Welcome to the Rimau-Baja, fresh meat!” a cheerful voice boomed from a nearby hovel. “Orientation is for soft-bellies! Real warriors get straight to it!” Citra didn’t pause. Asking for directions would reveal her ignorance, her desperate sham. It would expose her for the imposter she was. Stubbornness, her oldest companion, dug in its heels. She would figure it out. She always did. She plunged deeper into the camp, the cacophony growing. A short, wiry scout scampered past her, yelling at a group of novices wrestling in the mud. “You call that a grip, Tuan? The millstones take less time to pulp you! Losers get sent to the meat-mill!” His voice was high-pitched, laced with a mix of fear and manic energy. The meat-mill. A death-cult, then. Just as she suspected. An icy prickle seized the nape of her neck. The thought of Cakra’s throat, the obsidian karambit, sharpened her focus. This wasn’t just a camp; it was a lethal sect where failure was met with a gruesome end. Her stomach twisted, but the cold resolve remained. A sudden hush fell over the main training yard. The shouts died, replaced by the persistent hiss of the rain. A figure emerged from the shadowy archway of the main barracks, striding with the effortless power of a jungle cat. He was immense, built like a boulder honed by a monsoon river, his chest a canvas of old scars. His gaze, murky as churned river silt, swept across the yard, fixing on Citra. Squad Leader Rimba. She’d heard the whispers even in her secluded weaving room. A legend. A prodigy. And now, he was walking straight towards her. “Fresh arrival,” Rimba’s voice was a low growl, barely audible over the rain, yet it resonated through her bones. “No orientation. No introduction. I like it. Saves time.” He stopped barely a pace from her, his sheer presence suffocating. “Your name, boy?” “Citra,” she blurted, then caught herself. *Cakra.* “Cakra, Tuan.” Rimba’s lips quirked, a brief, dangerous flash. “Good. Cakra. Let’s see what kind of mettle you brought to Rimau-Baja. A quick spar. Initiation.” Before Citra could even process the words, Rimba moved. Not a punch, not a kick, but a fluid, deceptive step that brought him within her guard. He flowed like water, then struck like lightning, his hand aiming for her shoulder, a standard disarming technique. But Citra, her mind still replaying the word ‘grinder,’ saw only death. She twisted, a raw, untrained instinct, throwing her weight into his motion. The world blurred into a kaleidoscope of mud, rain, and sheer terror. She didn’t fight with technique; she fought with the desperation of a cornered animal. Every fear, every memory of Cakra’s cooling body, fueled her. She ducked under his powerful arm, driving her shoulder into his midsection, grunting as her bound ribs protested. He stumbled, surprised. Citra seized the opening, grappling onto his arm, using her entire body weight, a wild, unrefined silat move. She leveraged her foot against his hip, twisting, pulling, throwing him off balance. Rimba, the camp prodigy, the unyielding force, hit the mud with a wet slap. Citra, fueled by a primal need to survive, scrabbled over him, pinning his arms, her knee pressing hard into his hip bone. Her chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, her face inches from his, rain plastering strands of her hair to her forehead. Her breath mingled with his, hot and raw. His dark pupils flared wide in shock, locking onto hers. The ground was cold mud, the rain relentless, and Citra, the shy weaver, had just wrestled the fearsome Rimba to the earth, pinning him in a breathless, utterly compromising hold.

The Obsidian Karambit