“Who are you, really?” Rimba’s voice was a rough whisper, stark against the incessant drum of rain on the jungle canopy. The damp indigo silk, clinging to his fingers, felt like a confession. Citra’s gut twisted. Her mind raced, a frantic animal trapped in a snare. Explain? Admit she was a woman, a fraud, wearing her dead brother’s face? That would mean the ‘grinder,’ the ‘execution’ Kancil had shrieked about. It meant the shame, the death of her clan. Never. Not for this. Tension locked her jaw, a tremor she fought down. Her training as a weaver, a skill demanding infinite patience and meticulous precision, gave her a stubborn resilience no one ever suspected beneath her quiet exterior.
“Give it back,” she said, her voice a low rasp. Her hand shot out, snatching the sodden scrap from his fingers with a suddenness that startled even herself. The movement was a blur of defiance, fueled by pure, unadulterated terror. She shoved the silk deep into her tunic pocket, pressing it against her chest like a vital organ. The flare of heat that had flustered him moments earlier vanished behind rigid suspicion.
“You wear Jatayu Cakra’s face, you carry his token, and you possess the weaving of the Indraloka clan. The same silk clutched by the dead noble, Jatayu Cakra, himself. Explain it, boy.” Rimba’s voice was dangerously quiet. His eyes, dark as river stones, bored into her. He took a step closer, the heavy scent of rain and sweat and something else, something uniquely Rimba, filling her senses. The other novices, who had watched the grappling in silence, exchanged uneasy glances. Kancil, perched on a fallen log, looked like he wanted to shrink into the wood itself.
Citra pressed her boot soles hard into the mud to stop from trembling. She couldn’t explain. She wouldn’t. The words would choke her. Her brother’s killer lurked in this camp, and this impossibly imposing squad leader was about to ruin everything. She had to shut him down. Now. Her gaze swept past Rimba, settling on the training blades racked against a water-logged tree. A wild, desperate thought flared. Blade-dance. That was how honor was settled here, how power was asserted. It was the only language she had left.
She faced Rimba, thrusting her chin forward as defiance set her features. “You want answers, Commander? Then earn them.” Her voice, though still rough, carried a new edge of steel. “I challenge you. Blade-dance. Now.”
A collective gasp hissed through the scattered onlookers. Then, a slow rumble began, growing into a cheer. “Blade-dance! Blade-dance!” The spectacle of an initiate, smeared in mud from brutal silat drills, baiting their squad leader into a blade-dance stunned them all. It was audacious. It was insane. Kancil actually fell off his log in surprise, then scrambled upright, his mouth hanging slack with fright and awe.
Rimba’s expression flickered, from suspicion to a sort of bewildered fury. “Are you mad? You barely know the basic postures.”
“Then it should be an easy victory for the famed squad leader,” Citra retorted, forcing an arrogant ring into her flat delivery. She walked past him, her mud-caked boots squelching, and hauled two sparring blades from the rack. They were heavy, unsharpened wood, but felt like extensions of her trembling arms. She tossed one to Rimba, who caught it out of instinct, his gaze still fixed on her with an unreadable intensity.
The onlookers backed away to widen the ring, their shouts rising. Rimba, still dripping from the rain, finally moved, taking a stance opposite her in the center of the muddy training ground. His grip on the blade tightened. He had seen the way she moved, feral and unpredictable. He knew she was no ordinary conscript. And the silk… The silk was a lie.
Before they could begin, a deep, resonant voice cut through the cheers, like a gong struck in a silent temple. “What is this farce?”
The crowd quieted instantly. Every head turned. Instructor Bayu strode into the circle, his movements fluid and precise, utterly unburdened by the rain. Unlike the mud-splattered novices, his viridian uniform remained pristine, his silver hair pinned in a severe knot. He was an aristocrat, born to privilege and the refined techniques of the Lung-Padi clan. His eyes, the color of jade, swept over the scene, disdain evident on his sharp features.
He stopped before Citra, his gaze lingering on her mud-streaked face, her awkward grip on the blade. “An initiate demanding a blade-dance from a squad leader? And you,” he addressed Rimba, a sneer twisting his lips, “you entertain this untamed jungle cat?”
Citra felt a prickle of cold awareness. This man… He radiated an icy stillness, a contained power that felt disturbingly familiar. The hair rose along her forearms in sharp, sudden dread. It was the same chilling absence of warmth she had felt in her brother’s pavilion, just moments after his death.
“The boy is… spirited, Instructor,” Rimba offered, stepping forward to intervene.
Bayu cut him off with a dismissive flick of his hand. “Spirited, or simply lacking discipline? Look at this stance. Like a common street brawler, not a Vanguard fighter. No elegance, no control.” He turned fully to Citra, a predatory glint in his jade eyes. “Tell me, pup, what makes you think you can challenge your betters with such crude form?”
Citra, her stubbornness flaring, said nothing. She simply tightened her grip on the wooden blade, ready for anything. Bayu smirked. “Perhaps a demonstration is in order. To remind us all of true mastery.”
He moved, a blur of viridian and silver. His sparring sword darted forward with terrifying agility. He didn't just move; he flowed. His ribs flared on a sharp inhalation, venting a pale plume of frost across his lips. His blade, now edged with a faint, ethereal frost, weaved a complex pattern, each stroke whistling through the humid air with a chilling precision. It was the technique of the Lung-Padi clan, the exhalation of mountain frost. But the cold… that deep, soul-freezing cold, was what amplified Citra’s fear. This was it. This was the aura. The same icy tendrils that had clung to the air in her brother’s death chamber. This was the murderer's gale.
Bayu’s demonstration was a whirlwind of controlled violence, a symphony of cuts and thrusts. He was showing off, humiliating her. Then, his eyes met hers. For a fraction of a second, the mocking amusement vanished, replaced by something dark and utterly lethal. His blade, still wreathed in that chilling frost, arced in a sudden, unexpected trajectory, not a demonstration, but a strike. It was aimed directly at Citra’s throat, a silent, deadly thrust that would have splintered her windpipe.
Time seemed to stretch. Citra saw it coming, felt the freezing bite of the lung-art against her throat, but she was frozen, unable to react. It was too fast, too precise. She was going to die. But then, a flash of brown and crimson. Rimba lunged across the churned dirt, teeth bared. He threw himself between Citra and the lethal wooden blade, his own arm rising instinctively to parry. The frost-edged pine struck with a blunt snap, slicing a jagged gash across his bicep. Infused with Bayu's lung-cold, the timber chilled the dark crimson welling from the cut. Rimba stumbled back, a gasp tearing from his lips, shock blanching his sun-darkened skin.
He collapsed to one knee, clutching his bleeding arm, the sparring weapon clattering from his numb fingers. Bayu, his face now a mask of feigned concern, stepped forward. “My apologies, Commander. A regrettable accident. This boy's wild stance distracted my focus.” His voice was smooth, but his eyes, when they flickered to Citra, were pure venom. He bent, ostensibly to check on Rimba, but his gaze remained fixed on Citra’s face. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper, cold and dry like the rustle of dead leaves. “You have your brother’s eyes; I look forward to closing them.”