Flames ate into the oiled hemp, the medical pavilion’s thin walls already shimmering with heat. Outside, Bayu’s amplified voice cut through the roaring fire and the frantic blasts of the warning horn. “Surrender the traitor, Rimba, or the flames will be the least of your worries!”
“He’s not waiting,” Rimba growled, already moving. He shoved a heavy wooden chest across the tent’s rear flap, then snatched up the two curved, unadorned training blades from the shaman’s rack. One he thrust into Citra’s hand. “Remember our blade-dance. The third pivot, after the interlocking block. Don’t hesitate.”
Citra gripped the hilt, knuckles pale. It felt light, familiar, a weaver’s needle in a warrior’s hand. Cold clarity drove out the last traces of her fever. “I won’t.”
“Good.” Rimba braced himself. The stench of singed hemp filled the air. “On my mark.”
The tent’s front flap, already weakened by the blaze, tore open. Three figures, cloaked in the Rimau-Baja’s black training gear, charged in, obsidian karambits gleaming in the firelight. Their faces were hidden beneath low hoods.
“Now!” Rimba roared.
He met the first attacker head-on, his blade a blur. Citra slipped into line beside him. Rimba’s blade parried a downward strike, forcing his opponent’s arm wide. Citra’s blade, a silver flash, followed the arc, striking the attacker’s wrist. A sharp cry of pain, and the karambit clattered to the floor.
They pivoted, a seamless, interlocking block deflecting a strike from the second assailant. Citra spun under Rimba’s arm, her body a coiled spring, and slammed her elbow into the guard’s solar plexus. As he gasped, doubled over, Rimba’s foot swept his legs out from under him. The third attacker hesitated, seeing his comrades fall with bewildering speed.
“Third pivot!” Rimba barked.
Citra lunged forward. Her blade arced in a wide, sweeping motion, not to cut, but to disarm. The guard’s weapon flew from his grasp, embedding itself in the blazing wall. Rimba, already stepping past him, delivered a blunt, precise strike to the back of his head. The man crumpled. Dense smoke stung her throat.
“Out!” Rimba yelled, grabbing Citra’s arm. They tore through the rear partition, bursting through the blackened hemp. The night air, thick with monsoon humidity, still felt cool against Citra’s flushed skin.
They tumbled onto the main drill yard, a wide expanse of packed silt swarming with disoriented trainees and senior drillmasters. The medical tent behind them was a roaring pyre, casting flickering, demonic shadows. Bayu stood center stage, flanked by a dozen of his own men, his face lit by the inferno, a chilling sneer twisting his lips.
“There he is!” Bayu barked, pointing toward Commander Aris, who stood by his field desk with furrowed brows. “The imposter, the false noble, ‘Cakra’ of the Indraloka clan! And with him, our squad leader, Rimba, complicit in treason!”
Rimba ignored the muttering across the perimeter. He strode forward, Citra at his side, her head held high despite the public accusation. Her ribs ached against the tight bindings, but she planted her bare feet into the mud. Bayu wanted a fight? She would give him one.
“Treason?” Rimba’s voice, usually a low growl, resonated with cold fury. “You speak of treason, Bayu? When you plot to incinerate every officer and post in this fort?” He gestured at the smoking ruin, then swept his arm across the open dirt. “Look around you! Your men set fire to our camp! This is not justice, this is madness!”
Bayu laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “An act of desperation to flush out a traitor, Captain. And a necessary demonstration. You see, Commander,” he turned to Aris, a cruel glint in his eyes, “your precious vanguard stands on unstable ground. Quite literally.”
He raised his hand. In his palm, nestled between his knuckles, was a small, ornate wooden trigger. A thin wire ran from the latch, disappearing into the churned clay. A murmur ran through the assembled ranks. The beast-glands. They weren’t just in the armory. They were under their feet.
“I buried volatile beast-glands beneath this drill square,” Bayu announced. “One pulse of my gale breath, Aris, and this whole fortress turns to ash. Listen closely.” He leveled a gaze of pure venom at Citra. “This… creature… claiming to be Cakra of Indraloka, is a fraud. A weaver’s son, perhaps. A common street rat, at best. He has infiltrated our ranks to destabilize the Vanguard for some petty clan vendetta. And as for his accomplice…”
Bayu’s gaze flicked to Kancil, who shoved past the onlookers with pale lips. “Kancil, the fast-talking scout,” Bayu sneered, “who, I might add, owes a substantial sum to the gambling dens of the Whispering Isles. A man whose word is as worthless as the coin in his empty purse. Tell us, Kancil, how much did the imposter pay you to steal the ledger?”
Kancil flinched, a flicker of his characteristic cowardice crossing his face. Restless shuffling broke out among the trainees. Whispers of his debts were an open secret, but Bayu’s public humiliation was designed to shatter his credibility entirely. For a moment, Kancil seemed to shrink.
Then, Kancil squared his shoulders. He met Bayu’s gaze, not with fear, but with a surprising defiance. “My debts are my own, Bayu,” Kancil snapped, “and they have nothing to do with this.” He held up a thick, leather-bound book, its pages dog-eared and stained. “But this… this has everything to do with it.” With a sudden, forceful movement, Kancil slammed the ledger down on Commander Aris’s war table. It landed with a heavy thud, scattering maps and quills. “This ledger logs your shipments. Every single cache of beast-glands, dated and signed by your seal. You called it ‘monsoon supplies’ to the quartermaster, but the crates could level a mountain.”
The muster ground went dead silent. All eyes, from the commander to the newest trainee, turned toward Bayu. The sneer on his face vanished, replaced by a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. He was cornered, his grand scheme exposed by a cowardly scout.
Bayu’s lips pulled back in a feral snarl. He met Citra’s gaze, bile in his sneer. “You… you will not escape this,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Your line ends here.”
He activated his elemental breath, a dark, churning aura surrounding his body, and the wooden detonator in his hand began to glow with a faint, ominous red light. The ground beneath their feet trembled. Then, with a furious roar, Bayu lunged.