The Secret of the Violet Mark

The smell of stale arak and teak sawdust hung heavy in the air of Angkringan Ndalem. Bayu Dirgantara kicked a heavy mahogany table aside, the wood splintering against the weathered limestone wall. Across the room, Galang Wicaksono stood perched on a woven teak stool, his signature smirk dancing on his lips even as he wiped a smear of blood from his lip.

“You’re really going to ruin this nice batik jacket over a bounty, Bayu? It’s imported silk, man,” Galang said, nonchalantly flicking a speck of dust off his shoulder.

Bayu didn’t blink. He drew his keris, the ancient steel hissing in the dim oil-lamp light. “Enough, Galang. You’ve got nowhere left to run. My blade is quicker than your tongue today.”

Galang sighed, stepping down from the stool with practiced grace. “Is that what they told you? That I’m the villain? You really are a puppet with no strings attached.”

“I don’t care about your stories. I care about the gold. Drop the rencong.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll cut it from your hand.”

Galang laughed, a sharp, melodic sound. “You know, I’ve always admired your dedication. It’s almost adorable. But look behind you. Those heavy boots? Those aren't local village guards coming to help you collect.”

Bayu stiffened. The front door of the angkringan burst open, not with the lazy swing of a drowsy patron, but with the explosive force of a battering ram. Six men in the polished, obsidian armor of the Kraton’s elite guard flooded the room. They weren't holding rattan cuffs. They held heavy cross-bows, their bolts tipped with glowing, violet runes.

“Wait,” Bayu muttered, his grip on his keris tightening. “That’s the Sultan’s Royal Vanguard. Why are they here?”

Galang stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, urgent whisper. “Because, genius, you and I are both liabilities. They don’t want to catch me. They want to bury us both.”

Bayu glanced at the Vanguard. The lead guard raised a hand, pointing his glowing bolt directly at Bayu’s chest.

“Dirgantara! Wicaksono!” the lead guard shouted, his voice metallic and cold. “By royal decree of Yogyakarta, both of you are marked for immediate termination. No trial. No witnesses.”

Bayu spun back to Galang, his eyes wide. “Termination? What did you do?”

“Me? I was just minding my own business, stealing a royal heirloom or two from the Kepatihan grounds. You’re the one who’s been hunting me for three weeks through Malioboro. Maybe you poked a hornet’s nest you didn’t understand?”

“Shut up and move!” Bayu shoved Galang aside as a violet bolt slammed into the spot where he’d been standing, vaporizing the bamboo floorboards.

“Back-to-back, then?” Galang asked, drawing his twin baju blades. “I hate to say it, but I think I’m going to need your help to stay pretty.”

“If we live, I’m still taking you in,” Bayu growled, shifting into a defensive Pencak Silat stance.

“Yeah, yeah. Save the tough-guy talk for the afterlife, Bay.”

They locked shoulders. The Vanguard swarmed, their movements synchronized and lethal. Bayu parried a heavy polearm, his blade screaming against the enchanted metal.

“They’re using suppressors!” Bayu yelled, ducking a sweep. “Don’t let them hit the floor near you!”

“I noticed!” Galang retorted, ducking under a guard’s reach and sliding his dagger into the man’s exposed thigh. “Any ideas for an exit, or are we just going to dance until we drop?”

“The kitchen exit,” Bayu said, parrying a downward strike that jarred his teeth. “On my mark, we move.”

“I’ve been waiting for a signal for five minutes!”

“Now!”

Bayu lunged forward, using his shoulder to knock the lead guard off balance while Galang threw a smoke pellet at their feet. The room exploded in a thick, sulfurous haze. They didn't run; they fought, moving in a blur of iron and steel toward the rear door.

Bayu smashed through the kitchen shutter, tumbling into the muddy alleyway of Prawirotaman. Galang followed, landing gracefully on his feet despite the debris clinging to his clothes. They didn't stop, sprinting through the labyrinthine streets of the Southern Districts as whistles and shouts echoed behind them.

“Left at the spice market near Pasar Beringharjo!” Galang gasped, pointing toward the high stone walls of the old city.

“How do we get over?” Bayu asked, his chest heaving.

“You jump, I climb. Or we could try the drainpipes. Pick your poison.”

They scrambled up the slick, mossy stone of the city’s outer perimeter. As they reached the crenelations, Bayu gripped the stone, hauling himself up just as a volley of crossbow bolts whistled through the air, clattering against the wall beneath them.

They flopped onto the grass outside the city walls, gasping for breath under the pale moonlight of Alun-Alun Kidul.

“Well,” Galang wheezed, sitting up and wiping sweat from his forehead. “That was certainly a change of pace for a Tuesday night.”

Bayu sat up, staring at the distant lights of the Kraton. “Why didn't they take me in? I’m a licensed tracker. I work for the crown.”

Galang pulled his sleeve up, revealing a small, jagged scar on his forearm. It was glowing with a faint, pulsing violet light, rhythmically matching the heartbeat of a trapped animal. “They didn't just want us dead, Bayu. They wanted us linked.”

Bayu frowned, instinctively clutching his own forearm. He pulled back his sleeve. There, embedded beneath his skin, was an identical, glowing violet mark. It burned with a cold, unnatural heat.

“What is that?” Bayu whispered, his hand shaking.

Galang’s playful mask finally dropped, replaced by a look of genuine, chilling realization. “It’s a tether. They’ve tied our lifespans together, Bay. If one of us dies, the other follows shortly after. We aren't just hunted anymore.”

Bayu looked at his own mark, the pulse of the light syncing perfectly with Galang’s. “We’re a package deal.”

Galang leaned back against the grass, a grim, humorless grin forming on his face. “Exactly. And looking at you, I think I’m going to have a very long, very painful night.”

Bayu looked at the horizon, the city guards regrouping in the distance. The realization settled in his gut like lead. He wasn't just a hunter anymore; he was chained to the very man he was supposed to kill.

“How do we get it off?” Bayu asked, his voice low.

Galang looked at him, his eyes dark. “We don’t. We just have to make sure the people who put it there die before we do.”