The Opening Chapters of When Auroras Touch Bali

Thank you for taking the time to discover the beginning of my novel.

Chapter 1 – Extinction Protocol

Three centuries ago, on a distant tropical planet, two lovers huddled on a frozen hill.

Their sun had disappeared behind the mountains a day earlier. The long night had only begun.

Sitting on a lone bench, they waited for the moon to rise.

Their hair had retreated to a dark crest at the crown, and the sensitive aural-rings circling their heads—from brow to nape—were already whitening under a layer of frost.

In less than a day, their lush paradise had turned into an ice field.

They had survived the firestorms that scorched the jungles and the sudden freeze that followed only because of oxygen tanks left over from Joruun’s welding work.

Now, only one tank remained.

They clung to one another beneath a survival blanket, watching the frost invade a blackened garden that had once been bright with color.

Veyra pressed the oxygen mask to her lips and breathed.

A weak hiss answered.

She took two breaths, then passed the mask to Joruun.

While he breathed, she opened her mouth and tried to draw air into her lungs.

There was still an atmosphere.

But far too little to breathe.

Joruun took one breath and returned the mask.

“Again,” she whispered.

He shook his head and pushed it back toward her.

Veyra breathed once more.

She rubbed the ice from the softest part of Joruun’s aural-ring, leaned close, and pressed her mouth almost against it.

“Why is the air gone? Why us?”

Her voice sounded small and strange in what remained of their atmosphere.

Joruun only shook his head.

He moved his mouth close to her ring.

“We should go inside. It will keep getting colder.”

But she begged him to stay.

Tonight was the first moonrise of the long night.

They had watched it together every cycle since their wedding.

Veyra ran her pinky finger against his ring to make it resonate, an auditory kiss that sent an intimate hum through her own ring.

She managed a small, fading smile.

Then the moon appeared.

Its pale edge rose slowly above the mountains.

Veyra leaned forward.

Red points glowed on its dark surface.

One became three. Then dozens.

They spread in branching chains across the darkness.

“What are those?”

Joruun stared at the moon.

He didn’t answer.

The ground trembled beneath the bench.

The mountain before them cracked open.

Golden light appeared inside the fracture.

Lava spilled down the mountainside—something impossible on a planet without volcanoes.

Veyra pressed her mouth against Joruun’s ring.

“What is this now?”

For a heartbeat, it looked as if warmth were returning to their world.

Then the sky filled with a massive ship.

Its metallic hull reflected the light of the rising moon. A long tube plunged into the burning fracture, drawing molten rock from somewhere deep beneath the crust.

Tanks along the vessel began to glow with an eerie, cold blue, as though the fire itself were being emptied of its life.

More ships arrived, driving their drills into distant peaks.

Veyra looked back at the moon.

The red points were still spreading.

She understood.

They had done the same thing there first.

Joruun pushed the oxygen mask against her mouth.

She shook her head.

He insisted.

Veyra breathed.

The tank gave an uneven hiss, barely audible.

She pushed the mask back to him.

Joruun took one breath and returned it.

Veyra pushed the mask away.

“No.” His voice was barely a sound against Veyra’s ring. He pressed the mask to her face. She took another breath.

Then she pulled it away.

She leaned against him until her mouth touched his aural-ring.

“I love you.”

Joruun lifted his trembling hands between them. Despite the spasms in his fingers, he formed a shaky heart in front of her pectoral eye.

Veyra pressed the oxygen mask to his mouth.

He tried to breathe.

The tank hissed.

Nothing came.

He tried again.

Empty.

Joruun let the mask fall.

Veyra pulled him closer.

She pressed her forehead against his.

Instinct forced her to breathe.

She opened her mouth wide and dragged at the thin atmosphere.

Again.

Again.

Her chest heaved, but the air gave her nothing.

Joruun’s hands began to shake.

His movements lost their purpose.

Veyra gasped again.

Once.

Twice.

Then she stopped trying.

She pressed her lips to his.

His aural-ring was turning a bruised blue-black.

She saw the eyes of his face lose their focus.

Then his pectoral eye.

His weight settled against her.

The world narrowed. The moon disappeared. The garden disappeared. There was only Joruun.

She closed her eyes.

They sat motionless on the bench as the aliens drained the magma beneath their feet. A single, long night was all it took. As the last warmth escaped their world, the starships plunged into the depths of space. Slowly, the frost covered the lovers. The cold locked them in an eternal embrace.

Chapter 2 – Marked Before Breakfast

In 2035, an interstellar asteroid loops unseen around the sun and skims low across Bali. Far below, in her garden, Ni Wayan Balik -who goes by Wayan- steps barefoot onto the grass for her daily karate practice.

A sharp sting bites her arm. “Damn bugs,” she mutters, swatting at the sting. The skin smarts more than it should, but she shakes it off. The rising sun dazzles through frangipani branches as she squares her stance.

The garden used to be her sanctuary. Today the flowers look smug, their colors too cheerful for her mood. She dips her head into the fountain jet, cold water streaming down her face and chest. She closes her eyes, letting the cold soak into her. Channel it. Use it. Droplets scatter like sparks as she snaps her head back. Rage makes her legs coil, her fists clench.

He’s cheating on me. That lying bastard is actually cheating on me.

Her foot slams into the grass, the kick tearing up a clump of dirt and sending birds shrieking from the frangipani tree. 

Years of karate training carved her body into a weapon, lean muscle wrapped around raw nerve. But today it’s not training. It’s fury. She doesn’t warm up. Doesn’t need to. 

That double-crossing piece of trash! – WHAM. Her roundhouse splits the air.
Played me for a fool? – Crack! Her shin slices invisible ribs.
How’s it feel now? — Bam! Another blow. Her body runs on instinct, fists raining down like a storm, each strike carrying a curse. Her muscles scream, but she pushes harder, faster. Her final sequence is brutal, precise. Take that, you worthless scum! – a devastating combo that would’ve dropped anyone unfortunate enough to be in her way.

Breathless, drenched in sweat, she stumbles inside. Steam fogs the mirror as the shower pours over her shoulders, softening the hard edges. In the glass, her reflection fragments into pieces: dark eyes flashing, sharp jawline, but beneath the fighter’s power, there’s still a dancer’s grace. Feline. Feminine. Not just muscle.

Her foster mother’s voice echoes in memory: Still my little teddy bear, no matter how tough you get. The thought catches her off guard, her throat tightening. She presses her palms flat to the tile, breathing through the knot.

With a bar of soap in hand, she starts to wash her arm, and the stings flare again.. She glances down. What the…Not a bug bite. The skin isn’t swollen. She lifts her phone, snaps a photo, zooms in. The lines are too straight, too precise. It’s not nature, almost like art – a target etched into her skin.

Wrapped in a towel, she makes chamomile tea. The scent is grounding, warm. She settles cross-legged on the patio, hands joined at her chest. The breeze drifts frangipani petals across her lap. “Hey Shiva,” she whispers, voice softer now. “Sorry about the rage-fest back there. I know it ain’t your style. But I’m kinda lost here. Could use some help. Not just the cheating thing—though yeah, that too. Everything feels messed up right now.” 

She closes her eyes. I know you preach forgiveness, but… I ain’t there yet. Just…gimme time, yeah?

Pulling out her phone, her ex’s profile stares back at her—photos, memories, lies. Her thumb hovers for a beat – click. Deleted. 

She inhales, the frangipani scent filling her lungs like the first clean breath of the day.

Behind her, unnoticed, the grass sears into pattern—a circle, lines radiating outward like wings charred into the lawn. Beneath the soil, something hums once—low, mechanical, almost like a sigh—then falls silent, waiting.

The news crackles from the kitchen. “Small earthquake reported at Mount Agung. No evacuation yet, but visitors advised to avoid Pura Besakih temple.”

Wayan’s jaw tightens. Mother Temple, huh? No way I’m skipping it. Not this Sunday.

Her phone buzzes. His face lights up the screen. Great. Just great. She answers anyway.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, all casual. “Heard about the quake at Pura Besakih? Maybe we should skip this weekend?”

Wayan’s grip tightens. “What? No way. It’s just a tiny shake. If it was dangerous, they’d shut it down. Ya know this is my thing. I go there every Sunday.” Her jaw sets. “Got other plans or somethin’? Whatever. Do what you want, but I’m goin’. And drop the ‘gorgeous’ crap, alright?”

“Okay, babe, why are you shouting? Fine, I’ll go with you. But—”

She hangs up.

Chapter 3 – Prayers, Quakes, and Exes

Pura Besakih, Bali’s mother temple, looms quiet in the early light. The air is still cool, but damp with the promise of heat. Wayan and her boyfriend climb the stone stairs to the candi bentar, the split gateway marking the temple entrance. The arches frame Mount Agung, looming like a god who might wake any second.

She cradles her canang sari—woven palm leaves filled with red, yellow, and purple flowers, incense smoke curling thin. Lifting it high, she whispers, “Hey, Shiva. Volcano’s rumblin’, the planet’s heatin’ up. We need some backup down here. And keep my mamy safe, yeah?”

Beside her, he yawns, rubbing his eyes. “Why are we praying at the arches? Usually you go inside. Least there I can sit.”

“Not today. Too pissed off. My demons are screamin’.” She glares at Agung, but the words cut sideways: “Protect us from devils that whisper betrayal.”

He fidgets with his sarong, the fabric slips down around his legs; he nearly trips. “This thing’s a damn death trap.”

“You shoulda tied it right,” she snaps.

The ground trembles. Pebbles skitter down the steps. He grabs her shoulder. “We gotta go.”

Wayan shrugs him off. “Chill—it’s safe. This temple’s stood through worse.”

“Faith won’t save you from lava.”

She spins, thrusts her phone in his face. A photo: him kissing another girl in Kuta. “Explain this.”

Another tremor shudders through the stone. He stumbles, flails, then steadies. Shrugs. “Doesn’t mean anything. Just fun.”

Her stomach knots. “Fun? Lying, sneakin’, trashin’ what we had?”

“Don’t be so dramatic. Everybody messes up. Still means I love you.” Then, sly: “Wait—what, you spying on me now?”

Something snaps. Crack—her palm smacks his cheek.

“Shit!” He clutches his jaw. “You almost broke it!”

She steps closer, eyes blazing. “Ya lucky that’s all. I’m a Kumite champ, dumbass. I can stop a strike this close.” Her elbow darts up and halts an inch from his nose. He freezes.
“See? Coulda caved your face in. Didn’t.”

He backs down the stairs, muttering. “You’re crazy.”

She exhales, fists unclenching. “Nah. Just done.”

He rips his sarong free and bolts down toward the kiosks.

Wayan turns back to Agung, canang sari steady in her grip, incense smoke curling against her wrist. “Couldn’t climb a few steps without whining, couldn’t face a quake, couldn’t face the truth.” A crooked smile tugs her lips. “Yeah…he wasn’t built for heat.”

Chapter 4 – Permata’s Table

It’s 10:30 a.m. when Wayan rolls into the kitchen, hair still wild from the temple ride. She dumps her helmet on the counter and shakes off the ache in her chest. Breakup, cheating, volcano warning—whatever. Lunch first. Mamy will be hungry.

A low hum creeps in from the hall. Not the fridge. Not the fan. Wayan spins around as her foster mother glides into view with a shiny blue electric wheelchair.

“Holy guacamole, Mamy! Look at you, all high-tech!” Wayan circles it like it’s a sports car. “How fast does it go? Got turbo mode? When did you score this beauty?” She catches herself, laughs. “Here I was planning to surprise you with epic Sunday lunch. Almost ready, by the way.”

Permata grins. “At least now I won’t be bugging you every two seconds. You’ve got better things to do than push me around.”

“Are you kidding, Mamy? I love taking care of you! But now that you’re zipping around on your own, I guess I’ll have to find other ways to help. Don’t sweat it, I’ll figure something out.” She plants a noisy kiss on her mom’s forehead.

“You’re such a sweetheart.” Permata’s smile fades. “But what were you thinking, going up to the temple today? The volcano alert is still active!”

Wayan shrugs,”C’mon, Mamy. Ten years max, anyway. Might as well live while I can.” She forces a grin. “Besides, I needed to pray after what happened with that jerk.””

“Your boyfriend? Was he with you?” Though her voice is calm, it carries the weight of someone who already knows the answer.

“Ex-boyfriend,” Wayan mutters, chopping vegetables a little too hard. “Caught him with someone else. But don’t worry—I remembered what you said last time. I didn’t hit him… much. Just one slap. ‘Kay, maybe a hard one.”

Permata raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

Wayan smirks. “Relax Mamy. His jaw’s still attached. Mostly.”

Permata looks down and sighs, shaking her head.

Wayan stirs the wok, and the kitchen fills with the scent of garlic and Balinese spices. Ginger sizzles, rice pops, and for a moment it’s just them—the rhythm of knives and pans, the music of home. 

She kills the flame – “Epic veggie nasi goreng (fried rice), ready!” 

Wayan plants her shoulders and shoves the chair toward the table. Nothing. The thing plays dead, heavy as a damn buffalo. Her shoes screech on the tile. Seriously—this stupid thing weighs a ton. And she keeps pushing, like going harder is going to renegotiate the laws of physics.

Then—click. Permata turns on the motor.

The wheelchair takes off. Too fast, too slick. Wayan lurches forward, hands still locked on the handles—dragged along by a machine that clearly doesn’t need her. One floaty second and she’s about to wipe out, right there, like a total newbie. She catches herself at the last second, heart slamming. And now she’s half-jogging behind the damn thing, getting towed like a trailer. It’s smooth. It’s easy. Almost rude.

And then Permata starts humming.

This time the hit isn’t physical. It lands somewhere else. That tune… Wayan knows it by heart Azebam, my sweet darling…

It’s the song Permata used to sing when she was little and on the edge of losing it—part lullaby, part anchor. Wayan freezes a second, then joins in, their voices weaving together:

Azebam, my sweet darling,
don’t you cry, don’t you cry.
The world may seem so frightening,
but I’m here, right by your side.

By the last line, Wayan’s throat burns. She sets down the food and presses her hand to her chest. “Yaya, The Azebam’s still in here, Mamy. Don’t worry.”

Permata studies her face. “Something’s eating you. Talk to me.”

“What’s the point of being sweet?” Wayan mutters. “I’m dying, that’s the point.”

Permata grips her hand before she can pull away. “Don’t give up. I called a specialist in Sydney. Checked his credentials. Real one this time. He says there’s hope.”

Wayan blinks. “Mamy…”

“Let me try,” she says simply.

Silence stretches. Finally Wayan nods. “Okay. We can call.”

Relieved, Permata brightens. “See? Always a patch of blue in the sky, if you look. But you know that, right? I get it. You’re just having a rough day. What a jerk, cheating on you like that!”

That earns a crooked smile. Wayan leans over, giving her a bear hug. “Love you to the moon and back.”

They eat together, each bite soaked in memory. The nasi goreng tastes of garden garlic and street-market vegetables, tempeh smoky at the edges. Permata closes her eyes in bliss. “Oh, Wayan, this is wonderful. You spoil me.”

The radio crackles on cue, midday news tumbling into the room like an old friend.

Permata leans toward the sound, ritual settling her. Wayan leans back in her chair, watching her foster mother smile through the broadcast.

For the first time since the temple, Wayan’s shoulders ease. The day’s still broken, the world’s still on fire—but right here, with Mamy holdin’ it down, it almost feels whole.

Chapter 5 – Pegasus-1, Wayan’s Case File

“…and now breaking news, folks!” the radio host’s voice fizzes through the humid Balinese air. “Astronomers worldwide are buzzing — a mysterious interstellar object, dubbed Pegasus 1, has just been detected. And, like ʻOumuamua — the strange cigar-shaped object that zipped through our solar system back in 2017 — Pegasus 1 is behaving in ways scientists can’t explain.”

Wayan’s spoon clatters against her plate. What the—? She freezes mid-chew, eyes gone wide like a kid who’s just heard about free ice cream. “Mamy! Did you hear that?” “Pegasus 1 — it’s like ʻOumuamua!”

Permata raises her brows. “An interstellar rock, darling. That’s all.”

“Rock?” Wayan laughs, sharp and disbelieving. “No way. Not this.” She flips open her laptop, fingers flying. This is insane — don’t screw it up. Images pop onto the screen, Pegasus next to Oumuamua. She shoves it toward her mother. “Look, look! Same shape, same rusty color. Remember that Harvard guy, Loeb? He said Oumuamua might be an alien probe. What if he was right? What if Pegasus 1 is round two?”

Permata frowns, skeptical but listening.

“And the way they move,” Wayan barrels on, jabbing the air with her finger. “Not normal orbits — like something invisible is pulling them along. That doesn’t just happen! This is huge.” Her voice trembles with the rush of it. 

Her foster mother’s gaze softens with worry. “You’ve had a lot today, honey. The breakup—”

“Ugh, Mamy, this isn’t about some idiot.” Wayan rolls her eyes, then freezes as a sting flickers along her arm — that weird bite she’s tried to forget. For one strange heartbeat, the news and that mark feel like threads of the same knot. She shakes it off, forcing a grin. “This is cosmic. Aliens, climate change, the whole deal — and everyone’s just snoozing through it!”

Permata reaches across the table, brushing a damp strand of hair from Wayan’s temple the way she used to when Wayan scraped a knee. “You always did like big questions. Just… don’t forget your lunch while you solve the cosmos.”

Wayan grins. “Never. Epic veggie nasi goreng fuels cosmic theories.” She serves herself and slides the plate toward Permata, then leans her head against the chair back for a second, letting the radio feed sink in. She imagines the curves of the object, the hidden mechanics. The bulletin winds down, replaced by a cheery traffic update as if nothing monumental just happened. 

Outside, the street shimmers in afternoon light; inside, Wayan feels the kitchen shrink around her. She closes the laptop but not her mind. The bite itches faintly under her sleeve. She listens to the radio jingle fade. The air smells of garlic and spice, of heat and possibility. The world suddenly feels a fraction stranger — and infinitely more alive.

Chapter 6 – Hypothesis: Pegasus-1

“…and now, breaking news, folks,” the afternoon radio hums through Rizky’s open window as he battles a sagging, handmade curtain. “Astronomers worldwide are buzzing — a mysterious interstellar object, dubbed Pegasus 1, has just been detected…”

The Balinese sun pours mercilessly into the classroom, bleaching the chalkboard and washing out the image from an ancient projector. Ceiling fans churn the heavy air without cooling it, just pushing heat from row to row.

Rizky balances on tiptoe and wrestles with the curtain—a mismatched patchwork he stitched together himself because the school budget wouldn’t stretch that far. The rod nearly gives. His lean frame wobbles. A few students giggle. He snatches the fabric back just in time and flicks a stray lock of black hair off his brow.

His hands tell another story. Scars ladder across his fingers—old lab mishaps. And on his middle and ring fingers, two phalanges are missing: a clean, permanent absence that’s become part of his science, and part of him.

“Sir, did you hear about Pegasus 1?” Joko bounces in his seat, phone already glowing. “And check this — that Chinese lab near Surabaya that vanished last week? Poof! All their gear gone. And now an elephant disappeared from the sanctuary too — no tracks, nothing! What if Pegasus 1 is an alien ship and it’s all connected?”

“Right,” Arti says dryly, twirling a pen. “Because aliens are out here stealing elephants and microscopes. Maybe they’re building a space zoo, complete with a full veterinary lab. Next, you’ll blame them for your missing Instagram followers.”

Laughter ripples through the room. Even Rizky can’t help smiling.

 “Let’s approach this scientifically,” he begins—then promptly bumps his paper cup coffee, which tips over and splashes across the floor. The class laughs even harder while he mops up the mess with the sleeve of his lab coat, unfazed. “What evidence would we need,” he continues, “to prove or disprove any theory about Pegasus 1?”

Groups form instantly, excited chatter filling the room as they dig into astronomical data. Rizky watches them with quiet pride, dark eyes twinkling. This — curiosity sparking learning — is what he loves most about teaching. The principal may frown at his “wild theories” and improvised gear, but his students are thinking for themselves.

The next day, at the school festival, their findings stand beside a solar system model cobbled from painted styrofoam balls. The principal lurks at the back, arms folded, but even he can’t deny their enthusiasm as they explain orbital mechanics with bright, confident hands.

When Nature Astronomy publishes a paper debunking the alien theory, Rizky’s students have already reached the same conclusion. Yet that day, late at night, he still wonders. Lying on his bed beneath a navy-blue ceiling spattered with glow-in-the-dark stars, surrounded by space posters, a single thought lingers:

If you were an advanced civilization studying Earth, wouldn’t you want your probe detected late? The poorer the data, the easier it is to dismiss propulsion anomalies as observational error.

The perfect cover story — just another oddly shaped rock passing through.

Chapter 7 –  Officially Tagged by the Cosmos

The midday  sun pours through the kitchen as Wayan sets lunch on the table. Permata reaches for the sambal, then pauses. “Sayang—darling, what’s that red mark on your arm? New tattoo?”

Wayan blinks, then laughs. “Oh—right. I almost forgot.” She turns her forearm. “I thought it was a bug bite from karate, but… it’s too perfect. Like someone stamped me.”

Permata leans closer. The skin isn’t raised. No swelling. Still—something in the clean geometry makes her stomach dip. She smiles anyway. “Put a little antiseptic later. And this peanut sauce is dangerous—in a good way.”

Wayan wolfs her lunch, then brightens. “Let’s finish outside. I brought custard buns—promise you’ll love them, they’re amazing.”

They wheel into the garden, and Wayan stops short. “Mamy—look.”

On the lawn, the grass is scorched in thin, precise strokes—half-circles, lines, fragments of pattern.

“Maybe the sun burned it. Or lightning?” Permata offers, but even as she says it, she knows neither sun nor storm draws with a ruler.

“Not like this—and the storm was three days ago.” Wayan crouches, tracing the air above the lines. “It’s… deliberate.”

Permata rolls nearer, tea sloshing in her lap beneath the tree’s shade. Sweat beads along her temple; Bali’s heat presses like a hand. She glances from the grass to the mark on Wayan’s arm—and goes still. “Wayan… the shapes. Your arm.”

Wayan zooms her phone camera on her mark, then back to the lawn, squinting. “Holy Bali—you’re right. Circle here. Cross-lines there. The lawn looks like the same pattern, but broken.”

“I need the big picture,” she says, disappearing inside. She reappears with her little drone and sends it humming upward. On her screen, the garden resolves from above: blackened arcs in the grass; the missing arcs… completed by shadowed curves in the tree’s canopy.

“No way,” she breathes. “The leaves are finishing the drawing. It’s one pattern—some parts on the lawn, some in the tree.”

She checks her arm again, side by side with the drone feed. The geometry matches.

“This wasn’t a bite,” she says quietly. “It hit my skin and the lawn at the same time. From above.”

A memory clicks: the radio, yesterday’s headline. An interstellar object—Pegasus 1—over Bali. She pulls a sky-track map on her phone, fingers flying.

“It passed overhead exactly when I first noticed the mark,” she says, pulse quickening. “Mamy, that timing is too perfect.”

---

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A thought stirs unbidden in Permata’s mind: marked fruit gets plucked. What if… my darling gets abducted? Permata’s throat tightens. Lunch turns to lead, and the grass beneath her wheels might as well be ice. She swallows hard, forcing the rising panic back down. Don’t drown her in fear, she tells herself. She’s endured enough already.

“Could be coincidence,” she says gently. “But… this is strange.”

Wayan nods, but she’s already moving. “I’ll email the Pegasus team. Someone will know something.” She types fast—short, clear, photos attached: the skin mark, the lawn, the drone shot from above. Just what happened.

She hits send, then paces the veranda, eyes on her inbox. The heat hums. A kite line sings faintly over the neighborhood. Permata watches her, loving the way energy has lit her from within—and fearing it too.

Ding.

Wayan pounces on her screen. “They answered!”

She reads aloud: “Dear Wayan, thanks for your message. We have no evidence Pegasus 1 is anything other than a natural object. Your lawn pattern and arm mark are outside our scope. We recommend consulting a local physician for the skin issue (hope it heals up soon). Best regards, Dr. Johnson.”

Silence stretches. A gecko chirps from the wall. The box of brioches is still there. Nobody touches it.

In the background, the radio drifts into a soft gamelan melody, its steady, cyclical rhythm hypnotic — like a cosmic clock ticking toward a future they don’t yet understand.

“So… that’s it?” Wayan says quietly. “No questions, no ‘send more data’—just ‘see a doctor’? I wasn’t looking for a get-well card!” Her jaw sets. “Okay. Then we investigate ourselves.”

She begins sketching on scrap paper—circles, angles, alignments—trying to understand how a single “something” could mark lawn, leaves, and skin in one pattern.

Permata watches the neat lines gather on the page, the same deliberate geometry that set her nerves humming. She lifts her tea and finds her hand trembling, so she sets it down again. Marked fruit gets plucked. Not always. Not if the tree hides it well. She breathes.

“Do you really want to keep working at Real Dragon Studio? Being a receptionist… it’s not exactly your dream.”

Wayan groans. “Aw, Mamy, I can’t bail on the climate group. They need me. All these big shots come through—that’s a gold mine for our contacts. Gotta play the long game, you know?”

“Be careful, sayang,” she says softly. “Please. You scared me going to the temple while Agung might be waking up. That mark… it’s real. Let’s move step by step. We can look for answers—but we keep you safe here while we do.”

Wayan looks up, and the fierceness in her eyes softens. “I know, Mamy. I’ll be smart. But if this is what I think it is… it picked me! I’ve gotta figure out why. This is ginormous.”

Permata recognizes that determined look in Wayan’s eyes, the same one she’d seen in the mirror years ago when fighting her own battles—her daughter is about to spring into action. She squeezes her hand, the way she did when Wayan was small and storms rattled the windows. “We’ll figure it out together,” she says, making her voice as steady as she can. “We always do.”

Wayan nods, and the pen begins to move again—curves and lines resolving into something like a map. Above them, the leaves shift in a small breeze, and for a second the pattern on the ground looks almost complete. Wayan leans closer, drawn as if by gravity itself. Permata watches too—and feels a chill.

Chapter 8 – The Shape in the Gate

Ratih jolts awake at 4 a.m. to the shrill pulse of an alarm. Temperature spike. She stumbles to the monitor, still half-dreaming, and freezes.

Surface readings across Mount Agung blaze far hotter than baseline — a signal of rising magma. But the seismographs are flat. No tremors. No ground tilt. No gas spikes. Only the heat map is screaming — a sudden, intense flare with none of the usual seismic chorus to explain it.

“That’s wrong,” she mutters. “With this much heat, we should see movement. Something is building, but it’s hiding.”

Her pulse quickens. She’s already barking orders, rousing her team, phone in hand as she calls for the chopper.

They lift into a bruised pre-dawn sky, the volcano’s black silhouette etched against the stars. Ratih’s chest tightens with a scientist’s dread — that sinking certainty that something fundamental is off. She remembers 2019, when Agung rumbled for weeks before its eruption. This… this is silent. Too silent.

At the summit, the wind howls thin and cold. “Deploy drones,” she orders. Tiny rotors hum as they rise into the sulfur-stained air, beaming back gas readings and thermal maps. Everything looks textbook — too textbook. The magma column is hot but dormant. Pressure stable.

And yet…

“Boss,” a technician calls. “Look at Drone 3 — that crevice near the rim. Do you see that glow?”

A faint azure shimmer pulses deep within the rock. Ratih frowns. Magma never burns that shade. “Take us closer,” she says.

The helicopter kisses down on a flat shelf. Boots crunch over ash as they approach. The glow sharpens — eerie, unblinking, wrong.

“Careful,” Ratih murmurs. “I’ve never seen volcanic light like this.”

The ground trembles.

A roar like tearing fabric splits the morning as a jet of lava erupts — not from the main vent, but from the fissure directly beneath the hovering drone. The blast swallows it whole, then seals the crevice shut as if it had never existed.

“What the— It aimed for it!” someone shouts.

Ratih wants to deny it — lava doesn’t aim. But the word “coincidence” feels brittle in her mouth.

Another tremor buckles the ground. Jets burst from two more cracks, then three, hemming them in a tightening ring of molten arcs. Sulfur stings her eyes, and the mountain’s heartbeat deepens into a growl.

“Back to the helicopter!” she yells.

They scramble aboard as more vents split open, the air rippling with heat. The pilot wrestles the craft free, and the volcano shrinks beneath them, a beast stirring from decades of sleep.

Ratih grips the seatback, pulse racing. “We notify the authorities now. Evacuations must begin immediately.”

Her second-in-command nods, still staring out the window. “It’s not just the eruption, boss. That jet targeted the drone. And that blue light… magma doesn’t do that.”

“Coincidence,” she says again, forcing authority into her tone. “A localized burst — nothing more. And keep the speculation out of the press. Panic helps no one.”

But as the helicopter banks toward Denpasar and the rising sun bleeds across the sky, Ratih can’t shake the image: a column of lava bending toward the drone like a striking serpent. It defies everything she knows — and that, more than the eruption, chills her most.

■■

Wayan’s up at the crack of dawn, whipping up breakfast for Permata. She sets her spread on the table — kopi luwak (that fancy civet cat coffee), bubur injin (black rice porridge that’s basically dessert), fresh fruit, and freshly squeezed OJ.

Permata’s face lights up and she slides a small, polished key fob across the table.

“For you,” she says. “Electric scooter. You’ll like it.”

Wayan blinks, then grins. “Wow, Mamy! Eco-warrior wheels? You angel.”

“Hold up…we’re both electric now? Okay—electric squad. I love this.”

The radio cuts through: “Breaking from PVMBG: imminent magmatic eruption at Mount Agung. Lava jets observed. Mandatory evacuations now in effect—”

Wayan’s chair scrapes back. She grabs her phone, pulling up a live feed. “Holy Bali! Look at that — lava’s shooting out of the ground like some messed-up water show. This volcano’s ready to party, and not in a good way.” A beat. “Gotta go before this mountain decides to redecorate the landscape.” She squeezes Permata’s hand. “Climate crew, evac center, then up to the villages.”

“Step by step,” Permata says, voice tight. “No heroics.”

“Copy,” Wayan says — and means I’ll try.

She’s so pumped up she practically bounces off the wall and bursts into the garage. The new scooter hums alive — clean, quick. Wind in her face, she pings the group chat: Meet evac center. Now.

Ratna, Astrid, and Nia are already there when she rolls in. Ratna, her most devoted teammate, greets her with fierce focus, while Astrid, the blond Norwegian intern, surveys the scene with cool precision. Nia looks like she’d rather be hugging trees than facing a volcanic crisis.

“Uh, Wayan?” Nia pipes up. “We signed up to clean beaches, not star in Volcano: The Disaster Squad.”

“Listen up,” Wayan snaps back. “What’s the point of picking up trash if there’s no one left to hit the beach? C’mon, let’s go kick some ‘ash’ and save lives.”

Next stop, the coordination tent. Clipboards, maps, a loudspeaker — the air sharp with gasoline and fear. A coordinator points them uphill.
“Village near Pura Besakih. Holdouts. Apparently didn’t get the memo about ‘run for your lives.’ Get them moving.”

They gun it. Ten minutes of switchbacks and sirens later, they coast into a courtyard where four families huddle with bundles and blank eyes. The village chief, Pak Sukarma, meets them, jaw set.

“Pak, we need to evacuate now,” Wayan says.

“The sacred holes connect us to the volcano and the gods,” he replies, steady. “The temple protects. It did in ’63. It will again.”

Wayan swallows her retort. “Then we walk together. Offer, pray, and go.”

They climb toward Besakih. The mother temple sits deserted in clear mountain light, stone cool beneath bare feet, incense still threading the air. For a beat, even Wayan — pulse racing — goes quiet. The place just… towers over her. Near the first altar, a bas-relief catches the light: Shiva’s trident, stark and commanding. Wayan stares at it for a second, and on her forearm, the mark prickles like static.

The chief lays small offerings; lips murmur. Wayan edges toward a sacred vent, peers into the black. No sound. No heat — just a breath of cold air from the mountain’s throat.

They turn to leave.

Something wavers beyond the candi bentar — the split gate. Not air, not glass. A body the size of a small plane, almost transparent, heat-haze rippling under it. Geometry more felt than seen. It hangs for the span of a blink, then thins to nothing.

Wayan’s skin lifts. Not a trick of light. Not now. You’re real. The knowing lands hard and clean in her chest.

Beside her, Pak Sukarma falters, color draining. He says nothing on the walk down. Back at the village, he changes course. “Uh, you take the women and children. We men… will follow later.”

Wayan’s eyebrow shoots up. What’s this? One second, they’re all staying. Next, he’s shipping out the ladies and kiddos. Did he see the ship too? She doesn’t press — no time.

“‘Kay. Bikes in rotation,” she calls to her team. “Two rides per family. Helmets on. Hold tight.”

Urgency takes the wheel. Ratna balances a toddler at her waist, the mother pressed behind. Astrid loads bundles like an engineer solving for center of mass. Nia cracks a shaky joke and earns a brief laugh that loosens shoulders.

The road fills with motion: engines, sandals, prayers. Wayan rides point, circles back, rides point again. Each drop-off to the main road is a thread pulled from the knot on the mountain.

Half an hour later, Wayan’s group and their passengers are clustered by the roadside, waiting for transport to the designated shelter. Small hands clutch hers, seeking safety; she squeezes back, steady and warm.

She glances back toward Besakih. The gate stands innocent in noon light. But the shape she saw sits in her mind like a fixed star.

Aliens — and Agung. Connected. Not a dream.

Her certainty burns steady.

They were there.

Chapter 9 – The Road Where They Meet

Twilight sinks over Agung, the road an empty vein down the mountain. Rizky’s ride-share app still flashes surge x4 on his cracked screen. Most drivers cancel any fare near the evacuation zone. He didn’t. One fat fare, then out. The scientists said they had hours.

Now the peak glows wrong—too early, too bright.

“Faster,” the man in the back snaps, waving a fan of hundred-dollar bills. “You get me down, you get all of it.”

Rizky grips the wheel. His missing finger joints ache the way they do in stress weather. He’s already said yes;  the only way out is forward — downhill, away from the fire building above. Lava light washes the windshield as if someone has set the sky on simmer. Above, lahars drool from the crater’s lip — the first saliva of a beast about to roar.

A knot of figures bursts from the roadside, waving both arms. He pretends not to see them — the businessman in the back is already barking at him to keep going — but they sprint alongside, pounding the doors, all women and children. “Stop!” someone yells.

He brakes.

Eight bodies spill in — four crammed across the back, two kids squeezed between knees, a woman with a toddler folding herself into the front beside him. The backseat groans. Someone is praying. Someone is sobbing. Everyone is breathing too loud except the woman in front, whose face startlingly radiates focus. Her presence calms the crush of chaos around them.

Rizky catches himself staring at her. He gapes for a second before clearing his throat. Don’t stare, idiot. Just drive.
She meets his glance, unruffled. “Go,” she says.

“Driver!” the client barks, crushed against the door. “You are not a bus. I’m the paying customer!”

Rizky pulls away anyway.

A small boy appears at his window, running, crying “Mama!” A hand snatches for the rear handle; he brakes again, and the boy is hauled in through a window by sheer force of mother.

The car smells of sweat, petrol, and incense caught in clothing. Rizky’s hands are slick on the wheel. He keeps stealing glances at the woman beside him, and each time he looks away harder. There’s something about her that makes his chest tight — hair like wet ink, eyes that take in the road, the children, him, everything.

“Eyes forward,” she murmurs, not unkind.

He flushes and fixes on the asphalt, heart hammering far too fast for someone just driving a car.

Behind them, Agung brightens. Lava lifts at the rim like an upside-down crown.
He shouldn’t look at her again. He looks — athlete’s shoulders, the steadiness in her face, the way she carries herself, as if she’s already decided they’re going to survive and the world had better get in line.

The tires hum; the kids kick the back of his seat in staccato bursts. His client tugs free a silk tie a toddler has latched onto. “This is a tie,” he says icily, “not a handrail.”

They hit a bend and the world moves sideways—an elephant stumbles from the dark, wild-eyed, trunk tasting air. Rizky yanks the wheel; rubber shrieks. The car slews, corrects, fishtails. The elephant freezes, then pivots to charge—

Rizky goes blank — muscles lock, thoughts scatter, hands useless on the wheel.

A hand clamps the wheel—hers—another foot stamps the accelerator—hers—the car knifes past gray hide and thunder. They run clean by a whisper. She keeps them straight for a long breath, another, a full minute, driving from her seat without seeming to think about it. Then she eases off, lets him reclaim the pedals. “Only then does he drag in the breath he’s been holding.

“T-thank you,” he manages. “That was—t-thank you,” his slight stutter surging as he glances in Wayan’s direction.

She nods once, as if they merely avoided a pothole.

The road unwinds. They pass small shrines strung with marigold, empty courtyards, a lone rooster screaming at the wrong dusk. The traffic thins. The glow behind them fattens but does not pursue.

“Where to?” Rizky asks the packed backseat, voice scraping.

In the back, no one answers. Every eye is fixed on the woman in the front seat. Except for the businessman, who is already drawing a breath to protest.

“Natya Resort, Ubud,” Wayan says.

And the businessman’s argument — the money, the destination, his status — dies in his throat. Wayan’s tone isn’t sharp; it is decisive. Rizky turns the wheel.

He chances another glance. She doesn’t see it—she’s busy unknotting a plastic strap so a small girl can breathe easier between ribs and elbows. The child sags into her side. The shift brings her knee against Rizky’s thigh for half a second. Heat spikes through him, stupid and involuntary. He grips harder, feels the flat scar where his middle phalanx ends, hides his hand lower on the wheel.

“Driver,” the client says again, clipped as a metronome, “once you drop these people you will take me where I asked.”

“Of course,” Rizky says, without the slightest idea of what the evening has in store for him

Natya’s lights at last. The resort rises out of dark like a promise—lanterns, palms, a guard who understands instantly and swings the gate wide. Rizky stops under the portico. Doors open; bodies peel away. The woman is already counting kids and bags. She moves like water around panic.

He gets out, because it seems the right thing to do, and because his legs are buzzing. He helps someone down. He looks for her again and finds only the faint scent of rain in heat where she stood. She’s shepherding the last family through sliding glass, then gone—absorbed by light and lobby music and safety that isn’t his.

He remains a beat too long, staring at space.

“Are we going?” his client snaps through the window, knuckles on the horn.

Rizky slides back in, puts the car in gear. Everything in him feels both heavier and hollow. He eases out to the road, snail pacing, the volcano a bruise on the horizon. The app pings new surge; the fuel light winks meanly.

Movement in the mirror—she’s jogging back, hair lifted by her own speed. She taps the window. He brakes.

“Hey, we gotta go back!” she says, bent to his level, flashing a bright cheeky grin that melts him like a marshmallow.  “More people at the roadside. C’mon, Pak—one more run.”

It lands like a thrown rope. He can see, in that future, what a braver version of himself might do: pivot hard, punch throttle, climb back. He can also feel his hands—the tremor in them, the way the joints won’t settle. He thinks of the elephant, the mountain, the heat that lives in the throat when fear gets real. He thinks of getting it wrong with a car full of lives. He’s not the hero type. 

His mouth opens. Closes.

Another car rolls up to the security gate. She waves at the driver, he stops, a few words exchanged. She’s whisked away. A window opens, she.looks at him one last time. “We’re headed back. Stay safe.”

She’s gone before he can shape a word — any word —  that isn’t apology.

The horn sounds again behind his head, twice, impatient. He signals, drifts forward, feels the small give of gravel under tires as the resort falls away. Guilt blooms like a bruise he can’t rub out. He tells himself he did one good thing; he tells himself he’ll do more later; he doesn’t believe either sentence.

Beside the road, a line of evacuees passes—women with bundles, a boy clutching a plastic dinosaur, a man carrying a birdcage with the sheet still on. The mountain wears its crown, steady and distant. The car is quiet except for the client’s clipped breathing and the children’s absent kicks echoing in phantom against his seat.

Rizky keeps his eyes on the lane because if he looks up, he will imagine her there again, hand on wheel, fixing the line – the course – he couldn’t keep.. The seat beside him still holds the faint warmth where she sat. He tightens his grip until the scars bite.

He drives.

Chapter 10 – What She Saw

Still fuming at that coward of a driver for choking back at the resort, Wayan settles into her seat. She glances at Rizky, a brief flicker of softness in her eyes. Then, she hits the switch. The tinted glass slides up like a guillotine, cutting him out of her life as she turns her focus back to the road ahead.

“At least this one’s got guts,” she mutters, jerking her chin toward the road. “C’mon, step on it. There are kids up there!”

Headlights slice through smoke and darkness until they reveal families clustered like frightened birds at the roadside, clutching bundles and each other. Wayan’s out of the car before it fully stops, voice cutting through the noise—warm, firm, commanding.
“Everyone, listen up! We’re getting you out. Stay close, breathe slow. Nobody gets left behind, got it?”

Hands reach out. She guides, lifts, reassures. Fear loosens one face at a time. When the last group climbs aboard another van, she wipes her brow with the back of her wrist. Her pulse is still drumming—but her mind is already elsewhere.

The ship.
The thing she saw above the candi bentar—too precise to be a mirage, too strange to forget.

Despite the official evacuation order, Wayan heads back up the mountain, ignoring the tiny voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Mamy saying step by step, no heroics. She grins. Sorry, Mamy. Science calls.

The road empties into silence.

By the time Wayan reaches the Great Temple, the night has turned glassy and strange. No voices. No dogs. No wind, even. Only the low crackle of distant lava and the chorus of crickets threading through the dark.

She cuts the engine. The mountain hums quietly, as if breathing in its sleep.

No sign of the ship.
No shimmer. No distortion. Just moonlight on black stone.

“Great,” she mutters. “Whole mountain about to blow and I’m ghost-hunting.”
Still, her gut insists—something was here.

She climbs the steps, her sandals whispering against the ancient stone. The temple feels deserted but not abandoned; mountains of flowers are piled high, and candles still flicker against the dark, their flames standing perfectly still in the heavy air. The statues gleam with a thick dampness. Everything is in suspense, as if time itself had frozen under the weight of the mountain.

She kneels at the sacred vent, the one the priests said connected to the volcano’s throat. Only a few hours ago, it breathed cold air; now it’s still as glass. Her mark tingles faintly, heat against her skin.

“Yo, Shiva,” she murmurs, cobbling together a makeshift offering—flower scraps, a cookie wrapper, a few grains of rice—sincerity over ceremony. “I know I’m not your A+ devotee material, but… something mega weird is happening here. A little guidance would be great, yeah?”

Then, catching herself, she bows lower. “Om Namah Shivaya.” I bow to the Lord of Destruction
The words echo off the walls. The silence after feels too deep.

A shadow crosses the moonlit floor.

Wayan springs up, heart thudding, fists half raised—
then exhales.

Pak Sukarma, the village chief. Moving slow, deliberate. His eyes flick toward the vent before meeting hers.

“Didn’t think anyone else was crazy enough to climb back,” she says softly.

He doesn’t smile; his hands are clasped too tight. “I came to pray,” he says. “To guard.”

Guard what? she almost asks, but his expression stops her. He looks… spooked. And alone.

They sit beside the vent. The air feels thick now, almost electric.

Wayan leans in. “Pak,” she whispers, “you saw it too, didn’t you?”

“See what?”

“The ship.” She keeps her voice steady. “Above the gate.”

He doesn’t answer. His gaze flickers beyond her shoulder, scanning the shadows as if something might be listening. The muscles in his jaw tighten.

“Things aren’t always as they seem,” he says finally, voice low. “We shouldn’t attract attention.”

“Attention from who?” she presses. “From what?”

He hesitates. Then suddenly he straightens, eyes wide as if catching something unseen.

“Wayan,” he says sharply. “We need to leave. Now.”

Thank You for Reading

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