The roar of the falls thrummed against Sati’s ribs, drowning the iron clang behind her. Jaya’s shout lingered in the damp air, demanding she keep running. Every muscle urged her to vanish into the ferns, but the image of him facing bronze-clad temple guards and the village elder's grim mouth lodged like an iron fishhook in her throat. Run? What kind of Sati ran when someone she truly cared for was spilling his life’s blood for her? Not the Sati who lived beneath the cheerful mask. She didn’t slow, but she didn’t run away either. Instead, she arced wide, her bare feet silent on the damp earth, pushing through ferns and grasping vines, circling back toward the cacophony. The huts of the forgotten village appeared through the gaps in the leaves, then the central clearing. Jaya circled three zealots, his shortsword parrying the heavy sweep of their polearms. He moved with a brutal elegance, each parry and thrust a prayer. The gray-haired village woman barked orders from beside a granary post, never dirtying her own hands. And there, a little apart from the fray, stood Dianti. Her crimson and gold uniform seemed impossibly bright against the muted greens of the jungle, a banner of righteous fury. Her gaze bypassed Jaya entirely, drilling into the thicket where Sati had ducked away. Her former friend looked weary, lines of frustration etched around her eyes, but her stance held the rigid certainty of a predator. Sati stepped out from behind a particularly gnarled mangosteen tree, her voice cutting through the sounds of combat like a sharp-edged stone. “Well, well, Dianti. Looking a little… haggard, aren’t we? All that virtue-signaling must be quite the workout.” Dianti’s head snapped sideways, brows jerking up before her lids pinched into slits. “Sati! What are you doing? I told you to surrender! You’re making this harder than it needs to be.” “Oh, I assure you, you’re the one making things harder,” Sati said, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across her face. It was not her usual ditzy grin, but something cold and sharp, a blade disguised as an invitation. “Harder for your conscience, perhaps. If you still have one.” Distracted, Jaya took a bossed rim across the ribs and stumbled. “Sati! Clear out!” he shouted, breath ragged. “No, Jaya. Not yet,” Sati called back, her eyes never leaving Dianti’s. “Dianti, my dear. Tell me, how exactly does ‘restoring balance’ work for you these days? Because the last I checked, that little ‘Purification’ ritual isn’t about cleansing my soul. It’s about siphoning my life force, isn’t it? Every breath I have, every year I’m supposed to live, all for you. To extend *your* life. Your ambition. Your legacy.” Dianti recoiled as if struck, her face paling. The spearmen hesitated, halberd tips dipping as glances darted between the two women. The village matriarch’s smirk hardened into a scowl. The air crackled with a sudden, dreadful stillness, broken only by the panting breaths of the combatants and the distant falls. “Silence! You lie!” Dianti shrieked, her composed facade crumbling. Her voice was thin, reedy, betraying her sudden panic. “She twists the truth! She’s a blasphemer, a defiler of the cycle! She would corrupt your minds!” She turned to her followers, her voice rising, trying to regain control. “She will drain the Arus from this world! I am saving us all!” “Saving *yourself*, you mean,” Sati countered, her voice calm, clear, unyielding. “Saving your precious, fragile existence. Tell me, Dianti, was it Grandmother Rukmi who first whispered the ‘truth’ of the Purification to you? The part about the Life-Giver’s remaining years transferring to the performing Sentinel? How convenient that the ‘healer’ should be sacrificed for the ‘holy’ arbiter.” Sati took a step closer, her gaze unwavering. “You’ve always been so obsessed with not being overshadowed, haven’t you? So afraid of fading. And now you’ve found a way to steal the light you always coveted.” A murmur rippled along the skirmish line. The village matriarch spat on the red dirt and barked, “Gag her! Seize the girl!” Dianti, her face contorted with rage and humiliation, lunged forward, not with a ceremonial blade, but with a crackling burst of pure Arus, a concentrated blast of spiritual energy meant to stun and bind. Sati, surprising herself, dodged with a fluid grace she rarely displayed, the golden light grazing her cheek. She didn’t have Jaya’s training, but her years of avoiding servants, tutors, and overly enthusiastic suitors had honed a different kind of agility. “Still clumsy, Sati!” Dianti spat, following up with a swift, open-palmed strike aimed at Sati’s chest. This time, Sati caught her wrist, holding it firm. The familiar golden light of her power flared around their joined hands, a silent, internal scream of power trying to escape. Dianti gasped, blood draining from her lips. Suddenly, a shadow fell over Sati. A soldier flanked the struggle, bronze glaive scything downward toward Sati’s neck. There was no time to react, no space to dodge. Sati froze, pinned beneath Dianti’s pale glare as an unhinged calculation took shape. Then, a flash of Kirana black linen and a harsh grunt. Jaya, bleeding from a gash on his temple, his face stark with effort, threw himself between Sati and the glaive. The heavy bronze connected with a sickening thud, not on his back, but his chest, just above his heart. He gasped, a ragged, choking sound, and crumpled to the ground, his sword clattering away. His eyes, fixed on Sati, held a single, devastating plea. “Jaya!” Sati screamed, a guttural sound torn from her very being. The world narrowed to that single, devastating image: Jaya, still, broken, dying. The golden light around her hand pulsed violently, uncontrollably. Dianti, still held fast, cried out, a tremor running through her as the energy surged. Sati’s eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, now burned with a cold, terrifying resolve. This was it. The price of a smile. The cost of a life. She looked into Dianti’s horrified face, then at Jaya’s inert form, and made her impossible choice. With a furious, raw cry that tore her throat, she pressed their hands together, a deliberate, terrifying transfer of power unleashing a torrent of Pemulihan Jiwa directly into her former friend.

The Price of a Smile