The Mate I Never Chose
His skin, usually pale and guarded, flushed with a jagged, violet hue—the color of the deep, forbidden pulse of the Buntu legacy.
Rangga watched, paralyzed, as Arung’s knuckles turned bone-white against his own ribs. "Arung, stop! You’ll—you’ll burn out! You aren't a descendant, you don't have the shielding—"
"Shut up!" Arung hissed, his voice strained, vibrating with a frequency that didn't sound human. "I’m not a shield, kid. I’m an anchor. If I don't hold the line, the mountain collapses on the entire valley. Do you want to kill everyone for a hundred miles?"