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  Dayang, princess of Damasca, stepped through her portal into the Latari Forest, the air thick with the earthy scent of moss and damp leaves. This secluded grove was her sanctuary, a place she often visited to gather flowers for her ailing mother. She was not part of the royal lineage, as her mother was a concubine, so the King would not care if she went missing for a few hours a day. The forest, with its quiet beauty, offered a respite from the stifling politics of the palace.

  She wandered among the trees, her fingers brushing against the delicate petals of her favourites, lilacs and tulips. The soft rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds filled the air, a soothing symphony that eased her mind. But as she bent to pluck a particularly vibrant tulip, her nose wrinkled. A foul odour wafted through the air, sharp and acrid, like rotting meat. It was out of place in this serene setting, and her curiosity was piqued.

  Following the stench, she pushed through a thicket of underbrush and stopped short, her breath catching in her throat. Before her was a massive flower, its crimson petals sprawling wider than her armspan. The centre was a gaping void of darkness, and the stench emanating from it was almost overwhelming.

  "A Rafflesia," she murmured, her voice tinged with awe. She had only read about this rare bloom in books, its grotesque beauty and putrid smell described in vivid detail. But seeing it in person was something else entirely. It was both fascinating and repulsive, a paradox of nature.

  As she stared at the flower, a faint movement caught her eye. She crouched down, peering beneath the broad petals, and her heart leapt. There, huddled in the shadow of the Rafflesia, was a large black dog. Its fur was matted with blood, and fresh claw marks marred its side. The poor creature was panting heavily, its dark eyes glazed with pain.

  Without hesitation, Dayang knelt beside the dog, her hands moving instinctively to assess its injuries. She had learned the basics of traditional medicine from her mother, and though her knowledge was limited, she was determined to help. She gathered broad leaves and sturdy vines, fashioning makeshift bandages to staunch the bleeding. The dog yelped softly as she worked, but it didn't struggle. It seemed to understand that she meant no harm.

  As she tended to the dog, she noticed the scars that crisscrossed its body—old wounds, long healed but telling a story of countless battles. Her fingers traced the ridges of one particularly deep scar, and a shiver ran down her spine. What kind of beasts had this dog faced? How many times had it fought for its life in this very forest? The thought made her uneasy, and she realised how careless she had been, wandering these woods alone. Luck, it seemed, had been her only shield.

  By the time she finished, the sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and gold. The forest grew quieter, the shadows lengthening as night approached. Dayang sat back on her heels, wiping her hands on her dress. "There you go, buddy," she said softly, stroking the dog's head. "You should be all right now."

  The dog looked up at her, its dark eyes filled with something she couldn't quite place— gratitude, perhaps , or a quiet intelligence. It let out a single, low bark as if to thank her.

  Dayang smiled, though her heart ached at the thought of leaving it behind. "I have to go now," she said, glancing at the darkening sky. "But maybe I'll see you tomorrow."

  The dog watched her as she stood and stepped back through her portal, its gaze lingering even as the shimmering gateway closed behind her. For a moment, the forest felt emptier, as if the bond they had forged in those brief moments had left an indelible mark on both of them.

  The next morning , Dayang stepped through the swirling light of her portal and into the forest, inhaling deeply. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers, the remnants of last night's rain still clinging to the leaves. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in golden shafts, painting the forest floor in a mosaic of light and shadow. Birds sang in the distance, their songs blending with the rustling of the wind through the trees.

  She moved with purpose, her sandals pressing softly into the damp ground as she walked toward the place she had found yesterday—the clearing where the great Rafflesia flower bloomed. Its crimson petals, massive and veined like living parchment, had been an incredible sight , one she had intended to sketch today.

  But as she approached, she stopped abruptly.

  A man sat beside the flower, his bare body catching the dappled morning light.

  Dayang's breath hitched as she took him in. His skin was pale— too pale, like the untouched side of a river stone. His black hair was woven into a long, intricate braid that trailed down his back, and his sharp, black eyes gleamed with something unreadable. He was lean but strong, his body sculpted like someone who had spent a lifetime running, fighting, surviving .

  But what truly held her gaze were the scars.

  Thin, jagged lines stretched across his chest and arms, some old and silvered with time, others fresh and red. She recognized those wounds immediately—marks from claws or blades, the same kind she had seen on the injured dog she had treated the day before. Her eyes drifted downward. There, scattered in the grass, were the very leaves she had used as makeshift bandages. But the wounds they had covered were gone, leaving only scars in their wake.

  She swallowed.

  The man watched her with a soft, knowing smile. "Hello, traveller," he said, his voice smooth, almost musical.

  Dayang blinked. "...He... hello," she stammered.

  "Thank you for saving me yesterday."

  Her body stiffened. The words took a moment to sink in.

  "You..." Her eyes widened slightly. "You were the dog."

  The man nodded, his black eyes glittering. "I was."

  Dayang's heart pounded. Her mind raced to process what she had just heard, searching for logic where there was none. Shape-shifting ? Was that possible? Had she somehow missed an ancient myth about creatures like this?

  She stared at him, searching for an explanation, before finally blurting out the only thing she could think of:

  "How?"

  The man laughed, a rich, easy sound that curled around the space between them like mist over a river.

  "That's a long story," he said.

  "I have time."

  The smile he gave her was impossibly gentle, almost mischievous. For some reason, the warmth of it made her cheeks flush.

  "Well then," he said, patting the ground beside him, "have a seat."

  Dayang hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, keeping a careful distance as she lowered herself onto the grass.

  "My name is Mang," the man said. He gestured to the towering trees and whispering leaves around them. "And welcome to my forest."

  Dayang hesitated, unsure how to respond. She had never read about anything like this. No books spoke of a shapeshifting man living in the depths of the woods.

  Still, she found herself answering. "My name is Dayang," she said slowly. Then, awkwardly, she raised both hands and gave him two thumbs up. "And... nice."

  The man—Mang—tilted his head, then let out a laugh , a genuine, delighted sound that rang through the clearing.

  Dayang couldn't help but laugh as well.

  "What's wrong?" Mang asked, his voice softer than usual.

  Dayang had never looked this sad before, not in all her countless visits over the years. She was always a burst of energy, her presence as natural and bright as the morning sun filtering through the trees. But now, she sat curled in on herself, her eyes red-rimmed and glistening with unshed tears.

  "My mother passed," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Mang felt a pang in his chest. He had never met her mother, but he knew how often Dayang spoke of her—how she admired her wisdom , her strength, how she carried her words like a shield against the world.

  "I'm sorry," he said, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. His touch was light , unsure .

  She leaned into him.

  They sat together under the shade of a towering tree, its gnarled roots twisting around them like ancient arms. The sun was high, but the thick canopy above softened its light, casting the world in hues of gold and green. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant rain.

  They spoke little. There was nothing that needed to be said.

  Dayang eventually shifted, resting against Mang's chest, and he let his arms wrap around her. He could feel the weight of her grief in the way she breathed, the way her fingers clutched lightly at the fabric of his tunic. She felt small like this—so different from the stubborn, headstrong girl who had once walked into his clearing without fear.

  For a long while, they just stayed like that.

  Then, her voice broke the silence.

  "My father," she said hesitantly, as if forcing the words past a lump in her throat. "He's planning to marry me off."

  Mang's arms stiffened slightly before he forced himself to relax. "...I see," he replied slowly. "And how do you feel about it?"

  "I hate it," Dayang admitted. Her voice shook with quiet anger. "I don't want it. I'm not a bargaining chip. That's what my Mama always said."

  Mang hesitated, but then, before he could think better of it, the words left his mouth.

  "You could stay here."

  Dayang lifted her head, looking up at him.

  Mang cleared his throat, suddenly flustered. "I mean—if you're willing, of course." He glanced away, rubbing the back of his neck.

  Dayang stared at him for a moment , then let out a small, tired laugh. A real laugh, despite everything.

  "I am," she said, smiling.

  Mang met her gaze, and for the first time since she had arrived that day, she looked like herself again.

  "Sangkuriang," Dayang whispered, gazing down at the tiny bundle in her arms. The name rolled off her tongue like a quiet prayer as if speaking it aloud would anchor her son to the world.

  Mang sat beside her, his eyes soft with wonder as he reached out and ran his fingers through the baby's downy hair. "That's a lovely name," he murmured.

  The fire in their modest home crackled gently, casting long shadows against the wooden walls. Outside, the night was alive with the distant hum of insects, the rustling leaves whispering in the wind. But within these walls, there was only warmth, only the quiet sanctuary of their love and the life they had created.

  Dayang lifted her gaze to Mang. "Will he inherit your powers?" she asked.

  Mang's smile faded slightly. His fingers stilled against Sangkuriang's hair. "I don't know," he admitted. "But we must be careful. If the Chained finds out he is my son, they will hunt him, too."

  Dayang's grip tightened around the baby. "We could protect him," she said, her voice firm. "Together."

  Mang shook his head. "No. They must not know you exist." His voice was heavy, laced with an unspoken pain. "If they do, they'll hunt you to get to me."

  Dayang frowned, searching his face. "Then what do we do?"

  Mang exhaled slowly, his eyes distant, as if already resigning himself to what must be done. "I'll have to hide in my dog form," he said. "Sangkuriang must not know I exist. But I'll always be here, watching over him."

  Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken sorrow.

  Dayang finally nodded, but there was defiance in her eyes. "Then at least... you need to change back to your human form occasionally." She tilted her head, a small smirk playing on her lips. "At least when Sangkuriang is asleep."

  For the first time that night , Mang laughed —a real, full-bodied laugh that filled the space between them. Dayang joined in, their laughter mingling with the crackling fire, momentarily pushing back the weight of the future.

  No matter what lay ahead, they had this moment. And for now, that was enough.

  "Remember, Sangkuriang," Dayang said, kneeling to his level and gripping his small shoulders, "you must not go past the border." Her voice was gentle but firm, layered with the same warning she'd given countless times before. "And follow Mang. He'll guide you."

  Beside them, the large black dog let out a short bark, his dark eyes gleaming with understanding.

  Sangkuriang, however, let out an exaggerated sigh, crossing his arms. "I'm six, Mama! I can handle myself." He puffed out his chest as if his small frame could prove his words.

  Dayang's lips twitched, torn between exasperation and amusement. "Being six does not make you invincible," she reminded him. "You must still be careful."

  The morning sun filtered through the trees, bathing the forest clearing in golden light. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, the hum of cicadas blending with the rustling leaves. It was a beautiful day, perfect for adventur e—b ut danger lurked in places unseen .

  Dayang and Mang had spent the last few years combing the forest, ensuring no sign of the Chained remained. The woods had been peaceful, quiet. Still, she could not shake the feeling that danger could return at any time .

  She took a deep breath. "And be back before sunset."

  "Yes, Mama!" Sangkuriang's excitement bubbled over as he bounced on his feet. He turned and took a step toward the trees, but Dayang pulled him into a quick hug before he could rush off.

  "Alright, just be careful," she whispered against his hair.

  Then, she bent down and placed a hand on Mang's broad head. The dog's fur was thick beneath her palm, his presence a comfort . "Keep him safe," she murmured, her voice laced with trust and quiet desperation.

  Mang gave a solemn bark, as if promising her that no harm would come to the boy.

  With a final grin, Sangkuriang turned and sprinted into the woods, Mang trotting beside him, a silent shadow.

  Dayang stood at the edge of the clearing, watching until they disappeared into the trees. Only when the last rustle of leaves faded did she let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

  The forest was safe.

  At least, for now.

  "This way, Mang!" Sangkuriang called as he ran through the dense foliage, his small feet kicking up fallen leaves. "The flower should be near here. I know Mama will love it!"

  He had seen a cluster of deep purple blossoms on his last venture into the woods with his mother. Their delicate petals had shimmered in the morning light, and he had committed the path to memory. It was to be a surprise—a gift for her.

  Mang loped beside him, his dark fur blending into the shifting shadows cast by the towering trees. The scent of damp earth and moss filled the air, the songs of birds ringing above.

  "There!" Sangkuriang pointed, excitement bursting from his voice. Underneath a massive, gnarled tree, a bed of purple flowers swayed gently in the wind.

  But before he could take another step, a sharp tug yanked at his leg. He stumbled, looking down to see Mang's powerful jaws clamped around his trousers, pulling him back with unyielding force.

  "We're not even over the border," Sangkuriang grumbled, tugging his leg free.

  Mang's ears flattened, his golden eyes scanning the forest with an intensity that sent a chill down the boy's spine. The dog sniffed the air, muscles coiled like a spring .

  Seeing his companion distracted, Sangkuriang seized the opportunity. Without another thought, he dashed toward the flowers.

  Mang's bark was loud and urgent.

  Then, suddenly—

  His breath caught.

  His feet left the ground.

  A cold, iron grip clamped around his throat, lifting him into the air as if he weighed nothing. His fingers clawed at the hand choking him, his wide eyes locking onto the figure before him.

  "Who do we have here?" a raspy, vile voice sneered.

  The man wore black, his face half-hidden beneath a dark hood. A massive sword was strapped to his back, its hilt worn from use. His fingers dug into Sangkuriang's throat, cutting off any chance to scream.

  Sangkuriang gasped, his vision blurring at the edges—

  A black blur shot through the air.

  The man howled in pain.

  The next thing Sangkuriang knew, he was falling. He hit the ground with a thud, coughing as he sucked in deep, desperate breaths.

  Above him, Mang had latched onto the attacker's wrist, his fangs buried deep. Blood dripped onto the forest floor.

  "You—" the man snarled, shaking violently. "You're back, I see."

  Mang growled low and deep, his golden eyes gleaming with fury.

  With a vicious twist, Mang flung the man through the air, sending him crashing through a thick tree trunk. Bark exploded on impact, and the man groaned as he forced himself upright.

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  Then—steel rang.

  The man unsheathed his blade.

  It was enormous, almost as tall as he was, jagged like teeth along its edge. A weapon made for brutal, merciless strikes.

  Sangkuriang trembled, his heart pounding against his ribs.

  Then—shadow.

  Darkness swelled around Mang, rippling like ink spilling into water . It engulfed him, swirling, stretching—

  And when it faded, the dog was gone.

  In its place stood a tall man, his long, black hair flowing past his shoulders. His sharp, angular face bore the same golden eyes. Though dressed simply, his presence carried a quiet, lethal power.

  The man in black grinned, rolling his wounded wrist with a sickening crack.

  "I hope you remember me," he taunted, leveling his massive sword. "This is for my master."

  Then—he struck.

  The blade came down like a falling star.

  "Run!" Mang roared. "Go now!"

  Sangkuriang didn’t hesitate.

  Terror fueled his legs as he bolted, weaving through the trees. The sounds of battle erupted behind him—steel clashing, trees snapping, the ground trembling with every blow.

  But as he ran, something caught his eye.

  Dangling from the man in black's hip had been a small, eerie doll.

  Its face was blank, its button eyes staring at him with empty, soulless intent.

  Then—its head turned.

  Sangkuriang's breath hitched.

  He ran faster.

  Dayang stood on the worn wooden steps of her tiny house, wringing her hands together. The early evening wind carried the scent of damp earth and rustling leaves, but she barely noticed. Her stomach churned with unease.

  Where were they?

  She had sent them off with firm instructions—Mang would keep Sangkuriang safe. He always had. But as the minutes stretched into an hour past sunset, her nerves burned hotter. She was about to start making dinner, and the grip she held on her wooden spoon tightened.

  Then, through the thinning mist of twilight, she saw movement.

  A small, frantic figure, running.

  "Sangkuriang?"

  The moment he came into view, her breath caught. His clothes were torn, his small hands scraped and bloody. His hair, usually tied neatly, had come loose, wild strands whipping in the wind. Tears streaked his dirt-smeared face.

  Without thinking, she ran to meet him, falling to her knees as he crashed into her arms. His little body trembled violently, his hands clinging to her as if he feared she'd vanish.

  "Sangkuriang, are you hurt?" she asked, her hands roaming over him, checking for wounds.

  He shook his head against her chest, his cries muffled in her tunic.

  "What happened?"

  "A… man." His voice was small, broken between gasps for air. "He was wearing all black. Mang tried to stop me from going further, but I didn't listen. Then the man attacked me."

  Dayang's heart pounded so hard she thought it might shatter. Cold fear seized her limbs, but she forced herself to stay still, to stay strong. Her fingers curled tightly around his shoulders.

  "Sangkuriang," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I need you to take me there."

  Her son only sobbed harder.

  Her pulse drummed faster. Something had happened. Something terrible. Mang… where was Mang?

  Her breath hitched.

  "Sangkuriang!" she barked, shaking his shoulders just enough to snap him out of his sobs. His wet eyes met hers, wide and scared.

  "Take me there," she ordered, her voice trembling with barely restrained panic. "Now!"

  Sangkuriang flinched but nodded, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

  Without another word, Dayang gritted her teeth as she followed her son into the darkening forest.

  Dayang's knees buckled as she stumbled upon the scene, her breath catching in her throat. The sight before her was a nightmare made real. Her husband's body lay broken and brutalized , a grotesque mockery of the man she had loved. His right hand was severed, lying several meters away, fingers curled as if still reaching for something. His head was impaled on a jagged tree branch, the wood jutting grotesquely from his open mouth. His right foot had been placed atop his head, a cruel and deliberate insult to his memory.

  The forest around them was a wasteland. Trees had been uprooted, their massive trunks tossed aside like twigs. Others were sliced cleanly in half, their splintered remains scattered across the blood-soaked ground. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid smell of torn earth. It was as if a storm of violence had swept through, leaving only devastation in its wake.

  Sangkuriang, her son, doubled over and retched, his small frame trembling as he emptied his stomach onto the ground. The sight was too much for him, too much for anyone.

  "Why?" Dayang whispered, her voice breaking. She fell to her knees, her hands clutching at the dirt as if it could anchor her to reality. Her tears fell freely, mingling with the blood staining the earth. "Why didn't you listen to him?" Her voice rose, raw and trembling with grief and anger.

  Sangkuriang looked up at her, his face pale and streaked with tears. "Mama?" he asked, his voice small and fearful. He had never seen her like this—her fists clenched, her eyes blazing with a fury that terrified him.

  "Why didn't you listen?" Dayang repeated, her voice shaking as her grief morphed into frustration, anger, and helplessness. "He told you to stay back. He told you to be safe, and you... you didn't listen! You—"

  Her heart was heavy with so many emotions, none of which she could process. In a burst of pure, overwhelming grief and rage , Dayang reached out without thinking . Her hand collided with Sangkuriang's head with a sharp crack.

  Her palm didn't meet his skin directly. It was the wooden spoon she had been holding, still gripped in her hand from when she had been preparing food earlier, that struck him. The spoon hit his forehead with enough force to knock him backwards, reeling.

  Sangkuriang stumbled back, his hands flying to his head, wide-eyed and terrified. His breath hitched as blood flowed from the wound, and he looked up at his mother in shock, her face a mask of anguish. His expression twisted into one of hurt, disbelief, and confusion.

  "Mama…" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

  Dayang's heart shattered at the sight. Her son, her sweet child, was looking at her as though he didn't recognize her. As though she were someone else entirely. The impact of what she had just done hit her like a storm.

  Dayang's chest heaved as she stared at her son, her anger giving way to a crushing wave of guilt. "Sangkuriang…" she whispered, her voice trembling. She reached out to him, but he scrambled backward , his small hands slipping in the bloodied dirt.

  "Mama, I'm sorry!" he cried, his voice breaking. "I didn't mean to! I didn't know!"

  But Dayang's heart was too heavy with grief to hear his pleas. She took a step toward him, her hand still outstretched, but he turned and ran. His small figure disappeared into the shattered remnants of the forest, his sobs fading into the distance.

  "Sangkuriang!" she shouted, her voice raw and desperate. She chased after him, her feet slipping on the torn earth, but the forest seemed to swallow him whole. She called his name again and again , her voice cracking with despair, but there was no answer. Only the eerie silence of the ruined forest remained, a haunting reminder of all she had lost.

  Valiar moved quietly through the dense forest, the soft crunch of leaves under his boots blending with the distant chirping of birds. The air was thick with the earthy scent of moss and damp soil, and shafts of golden sunlight pierced through the canopy above, casting dappled patterns on the forest floor. Strapped securely to his side was Cornelia, the doll whose sharp tongue and sage advice had been his constant companions since childhood. Her porcelain face was serene, but her tone was as cutting as ever.

  He paused, his attention caught by a butterfly struggling to emerge from its chrysalis. Its delicate wings fluttered weakly against the confines of the cocoon, and Valiar's hand instinctively went to the knife at his belt.

  "Don't," Cornelia said sharply, her voice cutting through the quiet of the forest . "You'll kill it if you cut it open."

  Valiar hesitated, his hand hovering over the hilt of his blade. "What do you mean? It's struggling."

  Cornelia let out a long-suffering sigh. "Valin really should've paid more attention to your studies."

  "Hey, Master tried his best," Valiar retorted, though there was no real heat in his words .

  "Whatever," Cornelia muttered. "Remind me why we're here again?"

  Valiar shrugged, his eyes still fixed on the struggling butterfly. "Master thinks it'll do me some good to go out alone. Said it'll make me better."

  "And why did you have to bring me along?" Cornelia asked, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

  "You're my favourite," Valiar joked, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "And I heard from Master that you're the reason he took me in."

  "You have an interesting way of showing it," Cornelia replied dryly.

  Valiar chuckled softly and continued walking, the forest growing denser around him. The air was alive with the sounds of rustling leaves and distant bird calls, but there was something else—a faint, melodic hum that seemed to weave through the trees.

  "Do you hear that?" Cornelia asked, her voice low and cautious.

  "Yes," Valiar replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "Is that… humming?" He began to tiptoe toward the source of the sound, his movements careful and deliberate.

  "Be careful," Cornelia warned, her tone serious.

  Valiar nodded and crept closer, eventually hiding behind a thick bush. Peering through the foliage, he saw a woman—stunningly beautiful— kneeling among a patch of wildflowers. She was humming softly as she picked the blooms, her movements graceful and unhurried.

  "Blimey," Valiar muttered under his breath, his heart skipping a beat .

  He felt Cornelia sigh, a sound that was becoming all too familiar. Before he could react, the woman's head snapped up, her sharp eyes locking onto his hiding spot. In an instant, she was on her feet, her secateurs held like a knife, her stance defensive.

  Valiar raised both hands, showing them empty. "I come in peace," he said, his voice steady despite the sudden tension.

  Cornelia sighed again, louder this time. "She's scared of your chains, you idiot. Might as well announce you're a traveller."

  "Oh," Valiar said, realisation dawning on him. "Erm, hi?" he offered lamely, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

  The woman's grip on her secateurs tightened, her eyes narrowing as she studied him.

  "My name's Valiar," he introduced himself, hoping to ease her suspicion.

  The woman didn't respond. Instead, she pointed behind him, her expression unreadable.

  Valiar turned, scanning the area, but saw nothing out of the ordinary . "Idiot," Cornelia muttered under her breath.

  When he turned back, the woman was gone, as if she had vanished into thin air.

  "You know, I don't think Valin meant this when he sent you out here alone," Cornelia complained, her voice dripping with sarcasm. The enchanted doll's porcelain face remained expressionless, but her tone was as sharp as ever.

  Valiar shrugged, his boots crunching softly on the forest floor as he walked. "He didn't give me any explicit orders."

  Cornelia sighed—a sound that had become all too familiar these days. "Besides," Valiar continued, trying to justify himself, "I'm just returning her flowers."

  "Sure you are," Cornelia shot back, her tone dry. "And it has absolutely nothing to do with how beautiful she is."

  Valiar's cheeks flushed, and he looked away, hoping to hide his embarrassment. "She's not that beautiful," he muttered, though the heat in his face betrayed him.

  "That's a lie," Cornelia said flatly. "You talk in your sleep."

  Valiar groaned, trying to ignore the comment. He glanced around, his eyes scanning the dense undergrowth. "The trail ends here," he said, abruptly changing the subject. He was sure Cornelia knew what he was doing, but she let it slide —for now .

  As he crouched low to examine the ground, a blade whizzed past his head, embedding itself into the trunk of a nearby tree with a dull thunk. Valiar froze, his heart pounding as he unsheathed his knife, his instincts kicking in.

  "Who are you?" a woman's voice called out, sharp and commanding.

  Valiar turned slowly, his eyes widening as he saw her. She stood a few paces away, her stance poised and ready, a throwing knife balanced expertly in her hand. Her beauty was striking—her piercing eyes, her flowing hair, the way the dappled sunlight seemed to dance around her. For a moment, Valiar was utterly tongue-tied.

  He looked away sheepishly, his cheeks burning. "I won't ask again," the woman said, her voice cold. Another knife flew past him, landing dangerously close to his head.

  Panicking, Valiar quickly hid the hand holding his knife behind his back and extended the other, the one clutching the bouquet of flowers. "Hold on, I'm just returning your flowers," he said quickly, his voice tinged with desperation. "I mean no harm."

  "You and your kind always mean harm," the woman growled, her eyes narrowing.

  "My kind?" Valiar asked, genuinely confused.

  "Chained," she said, her gaze flicking to the markings on his forearm.

  Valiar glanced down at the intricate chains etched into his skin. "This?" he asked, pointing to his forearm.

  The woman's eyes narrowed further, and she stared at him intently. Valiar looked away, his blush deepening. Something in his expression must have given him away, because the woman's stern demeanour faltered for a moment .

  "Are you blushing?" she asked, her voice tinged with surprise.

  Valiar turned back to meet her gaze, his mouth opening to deny it, but no words came out. He looked away again, his face burning with embarrassment.

  "I can't believe this is happening," the woman muttered, her tone a mix of disbelief and exasperation. She sighed, shaking her head.

  "Leave," she said, her voice firm.

  Valiar looked up, his heart sinking. "Wait, I just—"

  "Leave," she repeated, more sternly this time.

  "Come on," Cornelia's voice chimed in, softer now. "Imagine if you were her."

  Valiar sighed, his shoulders slumping. He could understand that. Without another word, and with his head hung low, he turned and walked away, the forest swallowing him as he disappeared into the shadows.

  Dayang stepped out of her house, the morning sun casting a warm, golden glow over the small clearing where her home stood. The air was crisp and fresh, carrying the faint scent of dew-kissed grass and wildflowers. She adjusted the woven basket on her arm, ready to head into the forest to forage for herbs. But as she closed the door behind her, she froze, her eyes narrowing at the sight of the boy in black standing awkwardly by the edge of the clearing.

  "Oh, not again," she groaned, her voice tinged with exasperation. "Are you going to come here every day? You've been here every morning for the past month."

  The boy—Valiar—laughed sheepishly, his cheeks flushing a deep red. He clutched a bundle of flowers in his hands, their vibrant colours a stark contrast to his dark attire. "Has it really been that long?" he asked, scratching the back of his neck.

  "Are you going to stalk me every day now?" Dayang retorted, her tone sharp but not unkind.

  Valiar's eyes widened, and he began shaking his head and hands furiously. "What? No! No, I just—I wanted to bring you some flowers because you liked them. I'll leave you alone if you ask me to," he stammered, his voice earnest.

  Dayang sighed, her expression softening slightly. She extended a hand toward him, her gaze steady.

  Valiar blinked, looking confused.

  "The flowers," Dayang said, her tone matter-of-fact.

  "Oh!" Valiar exclaimed, his face lighting up with surprise. He handed her the bouquet, his fingers brushing against hers for the briefest moment .

  "Thank you, Valiar," she said coolly, tucking the flowers into a small vase by the entrance of her home . The vibrant blooms added a splash of colour to the otherwise simple decor.

  Valiar smiled, a hint of pride in his expression. "I didn't know you remembered my name."

  "Dayang," she said, introducing herself properly, though her tone remained distant.

  "You're welcome, Dayang," Valiar replied, his voice warm.

  Without another word, Dayang turned and began walking toward the forest path, her basket swinging gently at her side. After a few steps, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. "I'm going to forage some herbs. Would you care to join me?" she asked, her invitation casual, almost offhand.

  For a moment, there was silence. Then, Valiar's voice broke through, filled with surprise and delight. "Yes!" he said, his enthusiasm unmistakable. The sound of him clapping his hands together in quiet celebration followed, making Dayang roll her eyes—though a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

  Years later

  "I want to marry you," Valiar said to Dayang one day, his words breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them. They were walking back from foraging herbs and spices for dinner, the forest around them alive with the soft rustle of leaves and the distant calls of birds. Valiar had left Cornelia behind in Valinhall that day, not wanting to endure her inevitable commentary on his proposal. Over time, Cornelia's disapproval of his interest towards Dayang had grown, and he'd taken to leaving the doll behind whenever he visited.

  Dayang didn't seem surprised. "I know," she said, a small smile playing on her lips. But then her expression shifted, a faint frown creasing her brow. "I'm just worried about how the rest of Valinhall would react. They won't take kindly to a wielder of one of their swords abandoning them."

  Valiar shook his head dismissively. "I doubt anyone would care. I've been gone for, what, four years now? Nobody's seemed to miss me."

  Dayang grimaced. "I know you're kind. But the others? I've seen the lengths they'll go to for those who disagree with them ."

  It was Valiar's turn to grimace. "I know," he admitted, his voice heavy. "But truth be told, my Master never bothered to train me properly. Cornelia's been my real teacher all along."

  "At least talk to the other Travellers first," Dayang suggested, her tone softening.

  "Will that put you at ease?" Valiar teased, a playful glint in his eye.

  "I'll be more inclined to say yes," Dayang replied, matching his tone with a sly smile. "But first, dinner."

  After dinner, Valiar helped with the dishes, the two of them moving in comfortable synchrony. As he prepared to leave, he turned to Dayang. "Could you help me with my headband?" he asked, sitting on the steps outside her home.

  Dayang extended her hand, and Valiar handed her the black headband. "You should cut your hair; it's getting too long," she commented as she began to braid it.

  Valiar chuckled. "I thought you liked my long hair. Besides, if I cut it, I'll look too much like my Master."

  Dayang fell silent, and Valiar noticed her hands had stilled. "Everything alright?" he asked, turning his head slightly to look at her. She looked pale, her eyes fixed on the back of his head. "Dayang?"

  "How did you get this scar?" she asked, her fingers tracing a faint line on the back of his skull.

  "Oh, that," Valiar said, surprised by her reaction. He had far more noticeable scars on his arms and legs , and she'd never seemed bothered by them. "It's from a training accident a long time ago."

  Dayang's shoulders relaxed slightly. "I see. It healed well," she said quietly, resuming her braiding. "Valiar?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Could you bring Cornelia with you next time?" she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

  It was an odd request, but an easy one to fulfil. "Sure," he replied, though he couldn't help but wonder what had prompted it.

  Dayang sat across from the enchanted doll that Valiar had always brought with him during his early visits. The doll, Cornelia, was perched on a chair, her porcelain face as serene as ever, though her silence felt heavy and deliberate. Valiar had been sent on a foraging trip, leaving the two of them alone in the quiet of Dayang's home. The air was thick with tension, the kind that made the room feel smaller, the walls closer.

  "How did he get that scar?" Dayang asked for the third time, her voice trembling with a mix of desperation and frustration. She leaned forward, her hands gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white.

  Cornelia remained silent, her glassy eyes staring blankly ahead.

  "Answer me," Dayang demanded, her voice rising. "I know that scar isn't from some training accident. It was made by a Traveller."

  Still, the doll said nothing.

  "Cornelia," Dayang pleaded, her voice breaking. "I need to know."

  For the first time, the doll stirred, her voice soft but firm. "Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to."

  "I need to know," Dayang insisted, her fists clenching the fabric of her skirt. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing the dread that had been building inside her. "Did he kill the Hound of Latari?"

  "The Hound was a monster," Cornelia replied impassively. "Both figuratively and literally."

  So, the doll did know who Mang was. Dayang's eyes narrowed, her glare piercing. "Did he do it? Did Valiar kill my husband?"

  "No," Cornelia answered simply, and Dayang exhaled sharply, the breath she'd been holding escaping in a rush. But the doll wasn't finished. "His Master did. Valiar was far too young when we found him."

  Dayang's face paled, her hands trembling as they gripped her skirt tighter. "Found him?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

  "Yes," Cornelia confirmed, her tone matter-of-fact. "A boy around eight years old, with a fresh head wound. He would have died if we hadn't found him. He lost all of his memories. Even then, I had to convince his Master that Valiar was innocent—that the sins of the father should not be passed onto the son."

  Dayang's breath caught in her throat, the weight of the revelation pressing down on her chest. She felt as though the room was spinning, the walls closing in. Her lips parted, but only one word escaped, a name she had carried in her heart for years, a name she thought she'd never speak again.

  "Sangkuriang."

  "If you don't want to marry me, just say so," Valiar growled, his voice low and strained. His fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles white with tension. The warmth that usually filled his eyes was gone, replaced by a storm of hurt and frustration.

  "Sangkuriang, I'm telling you the truth," Dayang pleaded, her voice trembling. She took a step toward him, her hands outstretched as if to bridge the gap between them. But Valiar stepped back, his expression hardening.

  "Stop making up these stupid lies," he snapped. "Did Cornelia put you up to this?" He had returned that evening after speaking to the other members of Valinhall. They had been happy for him , supportive even , and Valiar had been ready to relinquish his sword—his very identity as a Traveller— to marry Dayang. But now, whatever lies Cornelia had fed her seemed to have taken root, and Dayang had bought into them completely.

  "No, she didn't," Dayang insisted, her voice breaking. "She just confirmed my suspicions about your scar."

  "Whatever," Valiar said, his tone dismissive. He turned on his heel, his cloak swirling behind him as he made for the door. "I won't bother you again."

  Dayang's heart clenched, her chest tightening with panic. She couldn't lose him—not again. Not after she had just found him. "How about this?" she blurted out, her voice desperate. "Build me a thousand temples before the rooster crows. If you can do it, I'll marry you. But if you can't, you'll accept the truth."

  Valiar stopped in his tracks, his shoulders stiffening. He turned slowly to face her, his expression a mix of conflict and determination. For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of her challenge hanging heavy in the air.

  "Done," he said, the single word sharp and final. And then, in a flash, he was gone, leaving Dayang alone in the dimly lit room, her heart pounding in her chest.

  Dayang sat on the porch of her home, the one Mang had built with his own hands. She couldn't eat. She couldn't drink. All she could do was watch. The sun had long since set, leaving the world bathed in the pale silver glow of the moon. Its light was enough to illuminate the scene before her, and yet it felt like a cruel spotlight, exposing her trembling hands and chattering teeth. Despite the warm night air, she felt cold—a deep, bone-chilling cold that no fire could dispel.

  One by one, she watched. A shimmering blur of steel sliced through the air, and trees fell like matchsticks. Patches of land were cleared in the forest, each space wide enough to hold a small temple. She had tried to count at first , but she lost track after the four hundredth. By her reckoning, her son still had hours left. Hours to complete the impossible task she had set before him.

  She couldn't do it. Perhaps she was cursed. Cursed to be born as the daughter of a concubine, traded like cattle by her father. Cursed to lose the man she had loved. Cursed to cling to the fragile hope that she might not be alone forever. And now, cursed to find comfort in the arms of her own son, twisted into something unrecognisable .

  She looked up, her breath catching as she noticed something was amiss. The trees had stopped falling, and now the rocks themselves seemed to scream. The sound of stone breaking echoed in the distance, like thunder rolling across a stormy sky. Her fists clenched the fabric of her skirt tighter, her knuckles white.

  "He'll succeed," the doll said, her voice calm and measured as she sat beside Dayang. "You know he will."

  Did she? Maybe she did. Or maybe she was clinging to the last shred of hope, desperate to believe that this nightmare could still have a happy ending.

  "He might not," Dayang whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant cracking of stone .

  Cornelia sighed audibly, the sound heavy with unspoken words. More stones were being carved from the earth, the sharp , rhythmic cracks a testament to Valiar's relentless determination.

  "It wouldn't be the worst thing for you to do," the doll continued, her tone almost casual. "You've married a monster before. At least your son is kind."

  Dayang wanted to ignore the insult, but it stung too deeply . "Mang was not a monster," she retorted, her voice sharp.

  "So that was his name," Cornelia replied. "Mang."

  Dayang didn't respond , her eyes fixed on the shimmering steel that danced in the moonlight, raising shattered stones from the ground with each precise movement.

  "You know nothing of the Hound," Cornelia said, her voice cold. "Just be grateful your son did not grow to be his father." And with that, she fell silent, leaving Dayang alone with her thoughts and the distant echoes of breaking stone.

  Valiar slammed his blade into the massive stone he had unearthed, the force of the impact sending a sharp crack echoing through the night. His muscles burned, his breath came in ragged gasps, and sweat dripped from his brow, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Every swing of his blade was fuelled by a storm of emotions—anger, spite, and a sliver of love that refused to be extinguished.

  His Master had rejected him, treating him with cruelty more often than kindness . The others in Valinhall had barely tolerated him, their eagerness to see him gone thinly veiled behind polite smiles. Even the dolls, who were supposed to be companions, had always refused to speak to him —all except Cornelia. But even she had grown distant, her silence a heavy weight on his shoulders.

  Valiar's blade moved with precision , carving the stone into rectangular blocks of varying sizes. Efficiency was key. By his count, he still had enough time, but there was no room for error. He had to be perfect. And perfect he would be. The pace he was working at was gruelling, each movement a test of his endurance. His body screamed for rest, his mind teetered on the edge of collapse, but he pushed on. The chains of Valinhall crept further up his forearm, their cold, unyielding presence a constant reminder of the power he wielded—and the price he paid for it.

  All he could do was hold on . Just a little longer . Just a little more. The thought became a mantra, a lifeline that kept him moving , kept him fighting. The night stretched on , the moon casting its pale light over the clearing as Valiar worked, his blade flashing like a silver streak against the dark stone. Each strike was a testament to his determination, each block a step closer to the impossible task he had been set.

  Dayang watched in silent panic, her heart pounding as one by one, hundreds of temples rose from the earth. Just a few hours ago, the landscape had been nothing but dense forest. Now, it was a sprawling sea of temples, each one unique in design, with intricate roofs, patterns, and carvings that gleamed faintly in the moonlight. The sight was both awe-inspiring and terrifying.

  Was he mocking her? she wondered, her stomach churning with dread.

  "Eight hundred and seventy-three," Cornelia said, her voice calm but carrying an edge of urgency. "He will succeed."

  Dayang glanced up at the dark sky, where the stars were beginning to fade . Dawn was still two hours away, and the roosters would not crow until then. Her hands trembled as she clutched the edge of her skirt, her mind racing.

  "How is he doing this?" Dayang asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Are Travellers of Valinhall this powerful?"

  "No," Cornelia replied simply.

  "Then how? Is someone helping him?" Dayang's voice shook, her fear spilling into her words.

  "Maybe," Cornelia answered, her tone cryptic. "No Traveller of Valinhall could achieve this so quickly. An Incarnate, however..."

  Dayang's breath hitched. "Is he?"

  "No," Cornelia said, and Dayang felt a flicker of relief . "But he will be."

  Dayang turned to face the doll, her eyes wide with alarm. "You need to stop him. He might not even know what's about to happen."

  "He does," Cornelia said emotionlessly. "Even if I tried to stop him, he wouldn't listen to me . Not anymore."

  Dayang's thoughts spiralled, her mind a whirlwind of fear and desperation. Would he listen to her? No, she knew he wouldn't. She had to do something—anything. Her son was on the brink of becoming an Incarnate, and she was about to lose him all over again.

  "I can feel the chains of Valinhall spreading every second," Cornelia said, her voice low. "They're on his neck now. He doesn't have much time left." The doll, who had been staring into the distance, turned to face Dayang. For the first time, Dayang heard genuine worry in Cornelia's voice. "If you're going to act, I implore you to do it now."

  Dayang didn't hesitate. She raced into the forest, her feet pounding against the uneven ground as she sprinted towards the temple currently being built. "Please," she begged, her voice breaking as she prayed to no one in particular. "I'll do anything. Just don't take him away again."

  The forest was a blur of shadows and sharp branches that tore at her clothes and skin. Her skirt ripped, her arms and legs stinging with fresh cuts, but she didn't stop. She couldn't. As she drew closer to the temple, she noticed the intricate patterns carved into its walls—lilacs and tulips, her favourite flowers. The sight made her chest ache.

  "Sangkuriang!" she screamed, her voice raw and desperate. She was still far away, but she prayed he could hear her. "I'll marry you! Please, just stop!" She would swallow her pride, bury her disgust, and dive into the deepest depths of immorality if it meant saving him. She would endure it all, but she couldn't lose her son again . Not like this.

  Valiar's hands moved with meticulous precision as he carved the delicate floral patterns into the stone. Each stroke of his blade was deliberate, each curve and line a testament to his focus and skill. This temple was different from the others. It wasn't just another structure to fulfil the impossible task Dayang had set before him. This one was special. He had designed it specifically for her, a masterpiece that would stand as his magnum opus. The patterns of lilacs and tulips—her favourite flowers—were etched into every surface, a silent tribute to the woman who had captured his heart.

  His body moved with a strength he had never before unleashed, every muscle working in perfect harmony. The chains of Valinhall coiled further up his body, their cold weight a constant reminder of the power he wielded—and the price he paid for it. But he didn't stop. He couldn't. He had more temples to build, but he had calculated his time carefully, ensuring he had enough to spare for this one. It had to be perfect.

  In the distance, he heard Dayang's voice, faint but desperate, calling his name. He ignored her, his focus unwavering. There would be time for words later. For now, he needed to concentrate. Least said, soonest mended, he thought, the old adage echoing in his mind. He would finish this temple, and then he would face her. But not yet. Not until it was done

  Dayang's voice echoed through the forest, raw and desperate, as she called out to Sangkuriang. But her pleas went unanswered, lost in the night or ignored. She could see him now , perched on the temple's roof, his figure a dark silhouette against the moonlit sky. He was carving something into the stone, his movements swift and precise. As she drew closer, she realised it was her face—her youthful, unblemished visage, smooth and ageless, framed by intricate patterns of lilacs and tulips. The sight took her breath away, even as her heart ached with fear.

  She reached the clearing surrounding the temple, her chest heaving as she stared up at the shadowy figure of her son. For a fleeting moment, she wondered how he could carve such delicate details with a greatsword. But before she could dwell on it, the night sky was suddenly bathed in a brilliant golden light. It was blinding, overwhelming, and just as quickly as it appeared, a wave of blue light crashed into it, the two forces colliding in a silent, dazzling explosion. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the light vanished, leaving the night sky dark and still once more. It wasn't dawn—the light had been too golden, too otherworldly.

  Dayang froze, her legs rooted to the ground. The image of her son under that golden light was seared into her mind. Chains had enveloped him from head to toe, their cold, unyielding grip binding him completely . His eyes had been blacker than the night, empty and endless. She was too late.

  In the distance, the roosters began to crow, their cries piercing the stillness of the night.

  "Dayang," Sangkuriang's voice broke through the silence , rough and filled with pain . It was a voice she barely recognised , gravelly and heavy with sorrow.

  She looked up, the moonlight illuminating his face. The chains that had once been creeping up his arm now covered him entirely, their metallic glint stark against his pale skin.

  "I was so close," he muttered, his voice trembling. "It's impossible."

  Dayang couldn't find the words to reply. She could only stare, her heart breaking as she took in the sight of what her son had become.

  The ground beneath them began to tremble, the vibrations growing stronger until Dayang was forced to her knees. The temple, her son's magnum opus, started to crumble, its intricate carvings splintering as the earth beneath it opened up into a yawning chasm. She looked up in horror as Sangkuriang clung to the stone petals on the roof, his sword rattling as he struggled to hold on. But the stone gave way, and he fell.

  Without thinking, Dayang lunged forward, her arms outstretched. She slid across the broken ground, her torso scraping against the rough surface as she reached for him. Using her powers, she anchored herself to the earth, her arms straining as she caught him. He was heavy—far heavier than he should have been, as if the chains that bound him were dragging him down.

  "Let go, my love," he said, his voice soft and resigned. "The chains are heavy."

  But Dayang shook her head vehemently, her grip tightening. Tears streamed down her face, mingling with the blood from her cuts, leaving red streaks on her cheeks. Her son stared at her in awe, his blackened eyes filled with a strange, sorrowful wonder.

  "You're so beautiful," Valiar whispered, his voice barely audible.

  And then the weight of his body pulled them both into the darkness below, their hands clasped tightly together as they fell.

  Cornelia finally reached the clearing where the temple had once stood. If she could sweat, she would have been drenched by now. Her small, porcelain legs could only carry her so fast, and the journey through the dark forest had been arduous. The sight before her was one of devastation: the temple was gone, swallowed by the earth, leaving only a gaping hole in the ground. She sighed, a sound heavy with resignation, as she realised what had happened.

  She shuffled closer to the edge of the hole, her glassy eyes peering into the abyss below. "How unlucky," she muttered to herself. An earthquake at such a time—it was almost poetic in its cruelty. Nature always has its way, she thought, recalling the words the Master of Valinhall had often said. It was a phrase that carried both wisdom and a quiet acceptance of the inevitable.

  Leaning over the edge, Cornelia stared into the darkness. 'Yep,' she thought. 'Long gone.' She sighed again, a sound that seemed to echo in the stillness of the night. She had been sighing far too often lately, but this time, it felt justified. Valiar was lost, and with him, the potential of what he could have become. The weight of that loss settled heavily on her, even if she couldn't fully express it.

  Turning away from the hole, Cornelia prepared to make her way back through the dark forest. She would need to find somewhere to wait until someone from Valinhall came to retrieve her. The thought was tedious, but it was all she could do now.

  But as she took her first step, her foot caught on a loose pebble. She wobbled, her small arms flailing uselessly, and then she tipped backward . For a moment, time seemed to slow as she teetered on the edge. And then, with a faint clink of porcelain, she tumbled into the hole, disappearing into the darkness below.

  Brilliant.