Chapter 7

+ CHAPTER 7 +

Flames on the Sea and Ash in the Wind

 

Dawn broke over the turquoise coast of Tanah Kering, a loyal kingdom of the crown. Fishermen cast their nets, and the scent of salt and sago filled the air. Children played barefoot along the wharf, their laughter ringing above the creak of moored ships.

 

Then the ships appeared—seven sails on the horizon.

 

“Merchant fleet inbound!” shouted a lookout from the stone watchtower.

 

The harbormaster squinted toward the horizon. “Too early for the Campa vessels.”

 

As the ships approached, their banners fluttered—first blue, then black-and-white, hoisted mid-turn by hidden rigging. It was a deception.

 

“Raise the alarm!” roared Admiral Wibawa Langit. “Form defensive ranks!”

 

Cannonballs struck the dockside. The eastern warehouse exploded into flame. Cultist soldiers, clad in black with red trim, rowed ashore in longboats, leaping into the chaos.

 

Wibawa Langit led the defense with his twin parangs drawn. “Hold the tide! Protect the townsfolk!”

 

Fishermen, sailors, and even local guards rallied beside him, fighting with spears, net hooks, and bare fists. But the cultists fought with eerie precision, as if driven by a single will.

 

On the cliffs above, robed figures chanted in a tongue twisted from sacred verse, their voices rhythmic and unnerving. Flaming arrows arced through the sky, striking thatch roofs and grain stores.

 

Children screamed. Mothers wailed. And amidst the chaos, a red-robed figure raised a black flag adorned with a blazing sun.

 

By nightfall, the sea itself reflected the blaze—molten orange against a darkening sky. The air reeked of smoke and betrayal. And among the burning ruins, the crescent sigil of the royal house was trampled in the dirt.

 

In the royal court of Kota Singgahsana, Admiral Wibawa Langit arrived three days later—his clothes singed, his face lined with ash and grief.

 

“My king,” he said, kneeling. “We were betrayed. They bore the colors of Campa at first… then changed sail mid-course. They knew our weaknesses. They knew our names.”

 

Gasps filled the hall. Deramang rose slowly from the throne.

 

“They were once ours,” he murmured. “Men who broke bread with us. And now they burn our shores.”

 

Perak stepped forward. “I will lead a counteroffensive by sea. Let us take the fight back to them.”

 

Bustari Budiman held up a palm. “And what of the towns falling from within? Word has reached us—in Tanah Kelarai, grain silos were burned by locals. In Kota Rantau, temple priests refused to recite the royal prayer.”

 

A messenger stepped forward. “My lord… there is more. We have captured a courier who carried sermons written in Ki Bagus Mantra’s own hand. He travels by different names now—among them, Wali Hitam and Kyai Surya Langit.”

 

Deramang’s face darkened. “He is no wali. He is a poisoner of minds.”

 

In the bustling port of Tanjung Lerek, whispers carried in shadow.

 

At dusk, a preacher in white robes ascended a stone platform beneath the great banyan tree. His sash was laced with black thread, and a veil partly concealed his face.

 

He raised his arms as the crowd gathered.

 

“There is no king but truth,” he declared. “And truth lives not in golden halls. It lives in fire, in flesh, in the breaking of chains. Who among you still kneels to men?”

 

The crowd murmured. Some crossed their arms. Others wept.

 

Behind him, a silent boy held a scroll inked with Mantra’s script. Beside the platform, women handed out small tokens—blessed stones, stamped with strange glyphs.

 

“You are more than peasants,” the preacher cried. “You are the Flame’s chosen. The court’s days are numbered.”

 

A fisherman's daughter, Awanis, stood at the edge, eyes wide with fear and awe. She backed away slowly, then ran barefoot through alleys and alleys until she reached the outer guardpost.

 

“There’s a man under the banyan,” she gasped. “Saying the king is false. That we must rise.”

 

That night, the banyan tree was found split in two by lightning.

—

Back in Kota Singgahsana, Deramang sat alone in the sacred solarium, where golden rays filtered through narrow latticework, casting angular shadows across the chamber. Before him, atop a pedestal of polished stone, lay the Keris Matahari—its blade glimmering with a pale inner light.

 

He knelt in silence. The air was still, save for the faint chime of a wind bell outside.

 

“My father,” he murmured, “if you watch from beyond the veil… guide my hand.”

 

He placed both palms on the cool stone.

 

“O Creator of Light,” he whispered, “give me wisdom beyond steel. Let me not become what I fight.”

 

The blade pulsed faintly, a shimmer dancing across its surface.

 

Images flickered in his mind—visions of burning mosques where the faithful once prayed, some overtaken by those who swore allegiance to Kyai Surya Langit, their prayers replaced by cries of zealotry and conquest. He saw temples of the hillfolk, keepers of the old faiths, razed in blind fury—their carved idols smashed to rubble, their priests exiled or slaughtered. Shrines that once held fragrant incense and ancestral offerings were reduced to scorched earth under the banner of twisted purity. What was once diverse and sacred had become battlegrounds of fear and hatred. He saw Kelana’s smiling face bathed in warm sunlight, a symbol of innocence and hope—and then Musang’s cold eyes, burning with madness and fire. The war had begun not only to claim thrones, but to desecrate the soul of a land woven from many devotions.

 

Then, he felt a presence. Not of fear, but purpose. The Keris, ancient and sentient in ways no one fully understood, seemed to answer.

 

A shadow crossed the threshold—Kenyalang the hornbill landed beside him, ruffling its feathers softly.

 

Deramang opened his eyes. “Even the skies send their witness.”

 

Kenyalang, the great hornbill, landed silently beside him, tilting its head as if listening.

 

Moments later, Perak entered with quiet steps.

 

“They’re not just fighting for land,” Perak said. “They’re reshaping belief itself.”

 

Deramang nodded. “We fight not only with armies. We must now defend the soul of Benua Tenggara.”

 

Outside, the palace guards began preparing for war. Messengers rode in every direction. In Kampung Menanti, Kelana continued his training, watched closely by Perak’s kin. Across the hills, Terang stared at the sky from behind fortress walls.

 

Neither boy knew that their destinies would soon collide.

 

The War of Kin and Flame had begun in earnest.

 

But the war of hearts had only just begun.

 

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Copyright © Omar Onn. The Keris Matahari