His hand snaps forward, grabbing a boy’s neck. His twig raises high, ready to strike.

  The boy’s breath catches. His body locks in terror.

  And then—

  Plak!

  The twig stops mid-air, caught by a firm hand.

  Bramasti stands there, his face twisted with a mixture of rage and something deeper.

  “Did I ever teach you to use my techniques against the weak?” he asks, his voice dangerously low.

  Adanu Raksa’s fury wavers. “But I—”

  “Go back to your mother. Now.”

  The coldness in Bramasti’s voice snuffs out the last embers of Adanu Raksa’s anger. His twig falls from his fingers. He turns and walks away, head low.

  Bramasti watches him go. Then, slowly, he looks down at his own hand—the hand that caught the twig.

  It’s tingling. A dull, stinging pain lingers in his palm.

  He flexes his fingers.

  His thoughts darken.

  So… this is what the boy is capable of.

  ***

  For years, Bramasti has acted as Adanu Raksa’s mentor. He teaches him swordplay, guides his training. But his loyalty does not belong to the boy.

  It belongs to Arkadevi.

  Even after all these years, after she has made a life with Rangkabhumi, Bramasti’s desire for her remains unchanged.

  Whenever Rangkabhumi is away at the fortress, Bramasti lingers. Always playing the role of the trusted friend.

  “Good work, Adanu Raksa!” he praises, watching the boy’s form in practice. “You truly have the makings of a warrior.”

  “One day, I’ll be just like my father,” Adanu Raksa beams. “A hero! The great general of Talang Asri!”

  Bramasti falls silent.

  For a moment, a new thought takes root in his mind.

  If this boy ever claims his true birthright…

  His lips curl into a knowing smile.

  He leans in slightly. “You know, about your father—actually…”

  Before he can finish, Arkadevi steps outside, carrying a basket of laundry. Her beauty hasn’t faded in the slightest.

  Bramasti’s attention shifts immediately. And just like that, whatever he intended to say to the boy is forgotten.

  “Well, keep training,” he says dismissively, before turning on his heel and following Arkadevi toward the river.

  The moment Arkadevi reaches the water’s edge, kneeling to wash the clothes, Bramasti stops.

  He watches, peeking from behind the bushes.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  His breath grows heavier. A twisted smile forms on his lips.

  The way Arkadevi’s wet garments cling to her. The glistening beads of water on her skin.

  When was the last time you touched her, Rangkabhumi?

  How could you leave such a beautiful woman all alone?

  Bramasti’s thoughts spiral, his vision blurring.

  And then—

  A strange sensation washes over him.

  The world shifts.

  Suddenly, he is not watching Arkadevi. He is with her. Holding her. Touching her.

  Her lips part in pleasure. Her skin is warm beneath his hands.

  It’s so real. So vivid. He can feel her. Taste her.

  But suddenly—

  His breath hitches.

  “Ouw shit!”

  The illusion shatters.

  He blinks rapidly, his body trembling. His pulse racing.

  His gaze drops in horror.

  His pants are damp.

  “…What was that?” he breathes. “Was I… dreaming?”

  A voice slithers into his mind.

  << What are you waiting for? Isn’t that what you truly desire? >>

  Bramasti stiffens.

  Beneath his robe, the cursed kris trembles—its energy coiling, whispering, feeding on his lust.

  Once again, the hunger stirs.

  And this time—

  He doesn’t resist.

  The illusion wasn’t enough. The pleasure was fleeting. Bramasti craves real warmth.

  Real flesh.

  ***

  Finishing with the laundry, Arkadevi gathers the damp clothes into a wooden basket, preparing to leave—only to turn and gasp.

  Bramasti stands right in front of her.

  Her grip falters. The basket drops, spilling wet fabric onto the grassy ground.

  “What are you doing here?” Her voice is cold, eyes sharp with unease.

  Bramasti forces a sheepish smile and crouches to retrieve the fallen clothes. “I was looking for you. Adanu Raksa was alone—I got worried something happened.”

  He hands her the basket, his tone light, his gestures polite. He follows her back to the house, pretending to ease the tension.

  But Arkadevi remains distant. Cold.

  Later, even as Bramasti helps hanging the clothes in the backyard, Arkadevi never lets her guard down.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Bramasti tilts his head. “Why? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Arkadevi meets his gaze, unyielding. “This house is far from the village. My husband isn’t home. If anyone sees us alone together, people will start talking.”

  Bramasti steps closer, lowering his voice. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”

  She stiffens.

  “You?!” Her tone sharpens, suspicion flaring.

  Bramasti exhales, his voice smooth. “I know Rangkabhumi. He cares more about his fortress than his wife. What kind of husband leaves his woman alone for so long?”

  Arkadevi turns away. She rushes to finish hanging the clothes, refusing to engage.

  But Bramasti persists. “You deserve better than him.”

  Arkadevi spins to face him. “Don’t even think about it.” Her eyes blaze with disgust. “Even if I weren’t Rangkabhumi’s wife, I still wouldn’t accept a man like you.”

  Bramasti’s pride snaps.

  His hand shoots out, gripping her wrist before she can hang the last piece of clothing.

  “A man like me?” His smile twists. “What’s wrong with me? You act so high and mighty, Arkadevi. Just because you were a palace maid, you think you’re noble?”

  Arkadevi spits in his face.

  “Rangkabhumi has treated you like a brother,” she hisses. “And this is how you repay him?”

  Bramasti slowly licks the saliva from his lips. His eyes darken.

  “So what?”

  His grip tightens. His other hand snakes around her waist.

  Arkadevi thrashes. “Let me go!”

  Bramasti chuckles, pressing closer. “When was the last time Rangkabhumi kissed you? Touched you? Made you feel wanted?”

  “You filth!” Arkadevi struggles, shoving at his chest. “I am close to Prabu Jayantaka—I will report you to the king!”

  A serious threat. A deadly one.

  But Bramasti doesn’t care anymore.

  Lust. Temptation. The cursed Kris pulsing beneath his robe.

  They drown out reason.

  With a sudden lunge, he crushes his lips against hers.

  Arkadevi screams, twisting violently.

  They collapse onto the ground, tangled in the cloth from the clothesline.

  “HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!”

  And then—

  TUNG!

  A dull thud cracks against Bramasti’s skull.

  He jerks, momentarily stunned. His head snaps up—just in time for—

  TUNG!!!

  Another hit.

  Bramasti staggers, blinking rapidly. His vision clears—

  And he freezes.

  Standing before him—

  Adanu Raksa.

  The boy grips a wooden stick, his tiny hands trembling. His face is a mix of confusion and guilt.

  “U-Uncle Bramasti?” He stares, puzzled. “What… what are you doing?”

  Bramasti scrambles away from Arkadevi, plastering on an innocent smile.

  “Oh, no! I was just helping your mother with the clothes!” He forces a laugh. “She slipped—I was just catching her before she fell!”

  Arkadevi says nothing. She dusts herself off and silently gathers the scattered clothes.

  Adanu frowns, uncertain.

  Then, Arkadevi speaks. “Your father will be home tomorrow.”

  Adanu’s face brightens instantly. “Really?! Father is coming home?!”

  Arkadevi turns to Bramasti, her gaze icy.

  “Yes. He’s coming home.”

  But Bramasti knows it’s a lie. He knows Rangkabhumi isn’t returning anytime soon. The Galuguh armies are advancing from the east, and Rangkabhumi is tied to the fortress.

  Bramasti, as his messenger, is privy to this knowledge.

  Even so—

  Arkadevi’s words carry a warning.

  And Bramasti understands.

  For now, he must pretend nothing happened.

  ***

  Even after all that happened, Bramasti dares to show his face at the fortress.

  The air is thick with the scent of sweat and metal. Soldiers move about, sharpening spears and reinforcing barricades.

  Horses stomp restlessly, snorting in the cool morning air.

  The clang of steel rings from the training yard. Banners bearing Chakradwipa’s emblem flutter under the golden sunrise.

  Amid the bustling camp, Rangkabhumi stands tall, scanning the fortress with quiet authority.

  His focus shifts as Bramasti approaches, rubbing his swollen head.

  “Bramasti! You’re back?” Rangkabhumi greets warmly. “How’s my son? Has he managed to hit you yet?”

  Bramasti forces a laugh. “Hah! That kid? It’s too early for him. He can’t even hold a stick properly.”

  Yet—

  As he turns away, his hand instinctively rubs his bruised head.

  “Damn… why does it still hurt?” he mutters under his breath.

  Rangkabhumi catches the words.

  But, unaware of what transpired back home, he only smirks before turning back to his men, supervising their training.

  These soldiers aren’t veterans. Just eager young men of Talang Asri, determined to prove themselves.

  Near the fortress gate, seasoned officers share a hearty meal, sharpening blades, trading boasts of past battles.

  The air hums with warmth, alive with joy and laughter, at least, until the thunder of galloping hooves shatters the moment.

  A scout arrives—breathless. Panicked.

  “SENAPATI! SENAPATI RANGKABHUMI!!!”

  The officers fall silent.

  The scout leaps from his horse, face pale with urgency.

  “The Galuguh army has moved.” He gasps. “They’ll reach us before sundown tomorrow.”

  Tension thickens.

  Some soldiers grip their spears tighter. Others exchange nervous glances.

  Rangkabhumi steps forward, calm. “How many?”

  The scout swallows hard. “One hundred horsemen. Seven hundred infantry. And from their border—”

  He hesitates.

  Then, his voice trembles.

  “They are preparing three thousand more.”