Chapter 6: Cracks in the Obsidian

The temple’s maw seemed to swallow the mountain air, but Arung didn't step inside. Instead, he whirled around, his grip on Rangga’s arm turning into a frantic, hurried pull.

"Move. Now, Rangga. We aren’t finishing this tonight," Arung barked, his face paler than the moon rising behind the peaks.

"Wait, what? You just said we had to finish it before the moon rose! What happened to the 'final bill'?" Rangga stumbled, his boots sliding on the moss-slicked stone.

"The plan changed. My patience for your survival has hit its limit."

"My survival? That’s rich coming from the guy who shoved me into a knife fight ten minutes ago."

Arung didn't answer. He shoved Rangga toward the idling SUV, his movements erratic, shedding his usual, razor-sharp composure.

Inside the mansion’s foyer, the silence was heavy, broken only by the distant, rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock. Arung pushed Rangga toward a velvet armchair in the parlor, grabbing a first-aid kit from a side table.

"Sit. Don't move," Arung commanded, his hands shaking slightly as he opened a vial of antiseptic.

"You’re vibrating, Arung. Is this part of the curse, or are you just having a mid-life crisis?" Rangga smirked, though he winced as Arung dabbed the stinging liquid onto the graze on his shoulder.

"Shut up, Rangga. You’re bleeding on the upholstery."

"It’s just a scratch. I’ve had worse from papercuts in Jakarta. You act like I’ve been gutted."

"You were inches away from a Datu spear. Do you have any idea how fast that would have ended you?"

"Maybe I’d finally get some sleep without your glowing tattoos keeping me awake."

Arung dropped the cotton ball, his gaze snapping to Rangga’s eyes. "I’m not in the mood for your sarcasm."

"Then stop acting like a frantic Victorian father. It’s weird. It’s really, really weird."

"I’m not a father. I’m the man responsible for your pulse. And right now, it’s beating too fast."

"Maybe because you’re hovering like a vulture. Give me some air."

"I’ll give you air when I’m sure you’re not going to collapse from shock."

Rangga let out a dry, sharp laugh, leaning his head back against the chair. "Shock? I fought off three guys with a glowing arm and a death wish. I’m starting to think this whole 'anchor' thing is just an excuse for you to keep a pet."

"A pet?" Arung’s voice dropped, dangerously smooth. "Pets don't fight back, Rangga. Pets don't make me want to burn the entire valley down just to keep them safe."

"Whoa. Okay. Too much intensity. Dial it back."

"I can't. The bond is reacting to the adrenaline. You’re everywhere in my head right now."

"That sounds like a 'you' problem, Arung."

"It’s a 'us' problem. The Datu don't want to kill me anymore. They want you. They want to tear the bond out of my chest by destroying you."

"Well, tell them to get in line. You’ve been trying to destroy my life since the day we met."

Arung knelt in front of the chair, his hands coming up to grip the arms, boxing Rangga in. "I’m not trying to destroy you. I’m trying to keep you from becoming a ghost in this house."

"Then let me go. If I’m a liability, leave me at the train station. I’ll take my chances with the Datu."

"No."

"Why? Because of the contract? Because of some stupid ancestral debt?"

"Because," Arung whispered, leaning closer, "I don't want you anywhere else."

Rangga’s heart skipped a beat. He tried to maintain his cocky smirk, but his throat felt tight. "You’re terrifying when you’re being honest. You should go back to being a prick."

"I’m finding it difficult to be a prick when you’re the only thing keeping my heart beating."

"That’s a line, Arung. A really bad, cliché line."

"It’s the truth."

Rangga looked down at the crimson lines pulsing on Arung’s exposed neck, then back to his eyes. The room felt like it was shrinking. The scent of ozone and jasmine was suffocatingly sweet.

"You’re really going to make this difficult, aren't you?" Rangga muttered.

"I have no intention of making it easy."

Rangga reached out, his hand hovering over Arung’s chest. The glowing mark beneath the shirt felt like a heater. "If I kiss you, does it break the curse? Or does it just make us even more screwed?"

"It makes us inevitable," Arung replied, his voice barely a breath.

Rangga didn't wait for a better answer. He leaned forward, closing the final inch of space. The kiss wasn't gentle; it was a collision of two worlds. It tasted of metallic iron and the cold, damp earth of the highlands. Rangga’s fingers tangled in Arung’s hair, pulling him closer, while Arung’s hand went to the back of Rangga’s neck, his grip firm, possessive, and desperate.

The crimson light flared, washing over the room until the furniture seemed to dissolve into shadow. It was chaotic, terrifying, and entirely consuming. For a moment, there was no Datu, no temple, and no debt, just the frantic, uneven rhythm of their breathing.

Arung pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark, dilated, and searching. "You taste like defiance."

"And you taste like... well, like you’ve been brooding for a century," Rangga whispered, his pulse racing against Arung’s skin.

"Is that a complaint?"

"It’s a suggestion. Maybe lighten up a little."

"I’ll try. If you stop trying to jump off my property."

"No promises."

"Rangga... "

Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the parlor creaked open.

GASPS.*

Ambe' Pong stood there, his tuxedo perfectly pressed, clutching a silver tray so hard his knuckles had turned white. He looked at the two of them, Arung half-kneeling, Rangga flushed and breathless, and his jaw dropped.

"Master! Mr. Langi! I... I apologize! I didn't realize... the house... the intimacy... oh, the ancestors!"

Arung stood up, his mask of composure snapping back into place instantly. "Ambe', what is it?"

"The valley, sir! The curse! It’s not just the temple. The fog! It’s turning black! The entire Buntu valley is beginning to bleed!"

Rangga scrambled up, his heart hammering against his ribs as he looked toward the window. Beyond the glass, the emerald hills were being swallowed by a thick, swirling, ink-black mist that looked like it was alive.

"Bleeding?" Arung whispered, his hand reaching for the hilt of his blade. "That’s not the Datu."

"Then what is it?" Rangga shouted, grabbing Arung’s arm.

"It’s the bill, Rangga," Arung said, his voice cold as ice. "And it seems the mountain has finally decided it’s time to collect."