Clang… clang… clang.
The steady ring of metal echoed through the trees.
Behind his humble hut, Gantari crouched before a stone forge, half-hidden beneath woven leaves and thick vines. Smoke coiled lazily into the morning air as sparks leapt from the blade he was shaping. His movements were deliberate—silent, almost ritualistic.
In one hand, he held a half-formed saber, faintly glowing green. Beside him, a tray of moonpetal blossoms rested in a carved wooden bowl, their soft blue shimmer casting a gentle light across the forge's stone face.
The iron he worked was no ordinary steel. Infused with the sap of the Heart Root and folded with powdered crystal bark, it pulsed faintly like a living thing—warmed not just by fire, but by spirit.
He paused.
The forest stirred.
From beyond the tree line, two figures emerged—staggering, weary, and coated in soot and blood.
Raikha walked with a visible limp, one arm wrapped around his bruised ribs, the other cradling the wrapped moonpetal herbs.
Lara leaned lightly on him, her braid disheveled, clothes torn, and hands scraped. But her eyes were sharp.
"Oiii… Sir Gantari! Are you there?" Raikha called from a distance.
Gantari recognized the voice instantly and stood to meet them.
"You smell like a burned jungle," he said calmly.
Raikha chuckled weakly. "Close enough."
Lara exhaled and dropped to her knees in front of him. "A lot happened. But we made it through."
Gantari's gaze lingered on Raikha. "You carry more than burns."
Raikha nodded, then held out the bundle of moonpetals with both hands. "We brought these. Just like you asked."
Gantari accepted them gently. "Then the mission is complete." He looked over their injuries, his voice quiet. "Let's take care of the rest."
****
By midday, they sat inside Gantari's hut, the air thick with the scent of healing oils and boiled bark. Raikha winced as a hot cloth touched his side but said nothing. Lara exhaled slowly, her bandaged fingers trembling slightly as she sipped cool water.
Raikha and Lara recounted everything—how they were ambushed by Kalderan soldiers, the battle in the glade, and the terrifying power of their commander. Gantari's eyes narrowed, a rare flicker of alarm crossing his face.
"If I had known Kalderan troops were that deep in Halimun, I would have gone with you," he muttered.
Raikha lowered his gaze. "He said… he wanted peace."
Gantari paused mid-motion, herbs half-ground beneath the stone pestle. "Sangkara?"
Raikha nodded. "He called it a necessary illness. Said war had to be mastered before it could end. That the clans were like broken bones—needing to be reset with fire."
The mortar stilled. Gantari looked up, his expression unreadable. "The tragic lie of every tyrant," he said quietly. "They think peace must be taken. But peace… is grown."
Lara's brow furrowed. "But he believed it. Deeply."
Gantari nodded slowly. "Belief," he said, "can be more dangerous than hate. It lets monsters look into a mirror and see heroes."
Raikha leaned forward. "But I don't understand something." He touched the dim talisman hanging around his neck. "This… it burned when I needed it most. It spoke with my breath. What is it, really?"
Gantari didn't answer right away. He poured the powdered moonpetal into a kettle already simmering over a flame. As the scent filled the room—cool, floral, and deep—he finally spoke.
"In the Age Before Trees," he said, voice low, "when spirits still walked freely beside men, there were gifts given to the guardians of balance. That talisman is one such gift. It contains a fragment of what we call the Gentle Will. It does not act out of command, only resonance."
Raikha frowned. "Then why did it awaken?"
"Because your breath found harmony with the forest's," Gantari replied. "Because, in that moment, you didn't seek destruction—you sought return. You didn't fight the fire. You redirected it."
Raikha sat back, the weight of the moment settling in. "So it was never a weapon."
"No," Gantari said with a small smile. "But it gave birth to one."
He paused, then studied Raikha more closely—the bruises, the burns, the calm behind his eyes.
"You've changed," Gantari said. "When I first trained you in the forest, you were a spark drowning in ash. You had rage, yes, and pain—but no center. Your silat was strength without direction. Movement without breath."
He stirred the tea slowly, deliberately. "Now you move with intention. You listen. You breathe as the trees breathe. The Crane form—it humbled you. And you let it. That is rare. You've begun to understand that silat is not just battle—it is memory, balance, and return."
Raikha was quiet for a long moment. Then: "But I still want vengeance."
"I know," Gantari replied. "That's why your training isn't finished. You're standing at the edge between power and purpose. If you cross without care, you'll become exactly what the Empire fears—and secretly needs."
Raikha looked at the talisman again. "Then what now?"
Gantari offered him a small, steaming cup. "Now, we drink. We heal. What you've done so far… that was only the beginning."
****
As the moon climbed above the treetops, soft silver light spilled into the clearing outside Gantari's hut. The cicadas had stilled. Only the gentle rustle of wind through leaves remained—like breath.
Gantari stepped out from the shadows behind his hut, his arms full.
He walked slowly, carefully, as though carrying living things.
"Stand," he said simply.
Raikha and Lara rose, still bandaged, still sore, but steadier now. The fire behind them crackled quietly.
Gantari set the weapons down on a clean woven mat—two gifts, born of blood, breath, and spirit.
"This," he said, lifting the green-glinting saber, "is Verdant Fang. Forged with Heart Root iron, cooled in moonpetal bloom, and shaped by your own journey, Raikha. It is not a silat blade—it is a memory made sharp."
Raikha stepped forward, breath catching slightly. The weapon pulsed faintly in response, as if recognizing him.
"One slash can fell a tree," Gantari continued. "But with a single breath, it can call life back into what was wounded. That is its nature. Destruction and renewal, held in balance."
Raikha bowed deeply. "I'll carry it with honor."
"I'll hold you to that," Gantari said, eyes narrowed in faint amusement. "Because if you don't… the blade will remember."
Then he turned to Lara, uncovering a long cloth bundle.
"And for you," he said, "the Moonpetal Blades. Twelve knives, folded from spirit-copper and tethered by return-threads spun from silkworms that feed only on ghostleaf. Once thrown, they will always find their way back to your hands."
Lara's eyes lit up, her fingers brushing the hilts. "They're beautiful."
"They're loyal," Gantari said. "But only to the one whose intent stays true. They will not return to someone who strays."
She smiled, a rare softness breaking her usual thorny expression. "Then I better never lie to them."
Gantari stepped back, watching them both as moonlight kissed the edges of steel.
"You completed the mission not with power alone, but with purpose. These are not just weapons—they are the forest's answer to your courage."
He folded his arms. "Rest tonight. Tomorrow, the path deepens. And the forest… begins to test you for real."
Raikha looked to Lara.
Lara looked to Raikha.
And between them, beneath the stars, the air trembled with something unspoken—resolve, perhaps. Or something older.
The wind stirred again.
And somewhere deep within the forest, the spirits listened.