Chapter 8: Beneath the Black Moon

The Flame in the Water

Mili sat by the edge of Plimplam Abi, the sacred pond that glimmered like a secret beneath the shadow of the Sojong Hills. Something had drawn her there—not with sound or sign, but with a pull that wrapped around her chest like an invisible thread.

She reached out slowly, her fingers grazing the still surface of the water. It was unexpectedly warm. Not like sun-warmed stone, but something deeper—alive, almost pulsing, like a heartbeat beneath the surface.

The elders of Sojong spoke of this place in half-whispers. They said the waters of Plimplam Abi never dried, not even in the cruellest winters. Because something sacred lived beneath it.

A python, ancient and unseen, its body coiled deep in the mud, its breath keeping the pond full and forbidden. No one had ever seen it, but they all believed. Some claimed to hear its hiss at dusk. Others swore they had seen ripples when no wind stirred the trees.

Folks said:

“If any creature dares to disturb its waters without permission, the pond will open its mouth… and swallow them whole. No bones. No feathers. No trace.”

Plimplam meant Elephant’s Apple in the old tongue. And Abi—a pond. It was named so because of the gnarled Ou tree—the elephant apple—that leaned over the water like an old storyteller, its roots half-submerged, its shadow tangled in memory.

Mili looked up at the tree now, the leaves rustling in a voice only the hill spirits understood. A single elephant apple bobbed gently in the shallows, untouched.

She wasn’t sure why she was here. Only that her feet had led her. And now, the water seemed to hum against her fingertips—like it remembered something she had yet to learn.

The night arrived with no stars.

The moon had vanished—not behind clouds, but from the sky entirely. The Black Moon, they called it. A silence deeper than nightfall settled across the hillock. Not a dog barked. Not a leaf stirred. Even the owls forgot to sing.

Mili sat by the sacred pond, Plimplam Abi, drawn there by something she didn’t understand. Her fingers grazed the water’s still surface. It felt warm, pulsing, alive.

A voice called to her—not aloud, but inside her bones.

Not words, but memory.

Not memory, but recognition.

The pond shimmered.

A ripple spread across it, and from the center, light rose. Not harsh, not blinding, but soft and golden—like old sunlight filtered through lace. The light formed a shape.

A girl with hair like rain and eyes like dusk. Clothed not in silk but in elements—mist, moss, and the shimmer of stars long dead.

Sintu.

Mili didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her chest ached with something that wasn’t fear.

The spirit stepped across the water, not breaking the surface.

She knelt before Mili.

“You are not me,” she said gently, “but you carry what I left behind. And soon, he will try to take it.”

“Why?” Mili whispered. “Why now?”

Sintu’s voice was like wind through reeds.

“Because he has found my sorrow. And sorrow is the most powerful door.”

She touched Mili’s forehead. The warmth sank into her skin like dawn.

“You must not let him unmake what love once protected. You are not alone. The Circle holds the key. Mindar holds the flame. And you—child of now—hold the seed.”

The light faded. Sintu stepped backward, dissolving into mist.

And the water went still once more.

  

The Ritual Begins 

Above, at the shrine, Dongka Chingthu stood within a ring of salt and blood.

The braid—Sintu’s last earthly relic—was coiled before him like a serpent. The ash flake pulsed in his palm. Around him, symbols glowed faintly, drawn in ink that hissed when touched by air.

He spoke the Old Tongue, each syllable slicing the silence:

“Longle Achete. Pirthe Achete. Bhomkuru—Sintu Mir Vansan!”

(“At the centre of the World, Centre of the Earth, on Sunday—Sintu has exposed!”)

The wind howled suddenly. The salt circle cracked. The braid lifted into the air like a snake rising to strike.

Then came the scream—not human, not spirit, but earth-born. Trees shuddered. The shrine’s stones wept red.

Dongka Chingthu laughed.

“Come to me, ghost-girl. I’ll free you from your prison.”

But the wind shifted.

And then—she stood before him.

Not a girl.

Not a princess.

Something immense, veiled in every moment she’d ever been forgotten, feared, or loved. Her eyes held centuries. Her mouth didn’t open, but her voice filled the shrine.

“You do not call me. You awaken me. And I do not belong to you.”

Dongka Chingthu raised the ash, but it disintegrated in his hand.

“You were meant to die!” he snarled. “You were only a vessel!”

Sintu stepped forward.

“Then you should not have disturbed the sea that held my bones.”

The wind screamed again—this time not in pain, but wrath.

And from the hill below, Mili ran toward the shrine, the Circle following, flames in hand, chants rising, the old lullaby echoing like thunder:

“Sintu-pai so, child of dawn… wake, but do not fall…”