The sun bore down with relentless intensity, its rays slicing through the thick summer air like burning blades. The midday heat shimmered above the asphalt driveway, yet not a soul stirred to seek shade. A crowd dressed in black stood silently before a modest single-story house, its white walls dulled by time but kept clean with care. The garden beside it was meticulously arranged—rows of blooming hibiscus, fragrant jasmine, and freshly clipped hedges whispered of the life once tended here.
It was a funeral, and grief hung heavier than the air itself.
Men in neatly pressed shirts and women in long black dresses stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces drawn and solemn. Some held umbrellas against the scorching heat, others bottled water, but few seemed to notice either. Eyes were swollen, cheeks streaked with silent tears. The low hum of murmured condolences blended with the distant hum of cicadas.
Near the front steps, a framed photograph sat atop a table draped in black velvet. The young man in the picture—Satria Kusuma Wijaya—beamed in a bright red tie, his smile confident and full of promise. It was a cruel contrast to the hushed anguish that surrounded him now.
Inside the house, the atmosphere was even heavier. The living room had been stripped of its usual warmth and replaced by the stillness of mourning. The air was thick with incense and quiet sobs. Family members huddled together on couches and stools, some leaning on one another for strength, others lost in their own sea of sorrow.
At the center sat a young woman, her black lace veil hiding most of her face, but her trembling hands betrayed the storm within. Satria's fiancée. Her sobs came in shudders, torn from her as if her chest could not contain the pain.
"It's my fault," she whispered, voice cracked and broken. "If I hadn't asked him to come..."
Satria's mother, seated beside her, reached out gently. Her hand was aged and worn, but its touch was steady. "No, dear. It's not your fault. We know who's to blame."
"But—he wouldn't have been there if not for me," the fiancée cried, shaking her head, guilt overwhelming her. Her fingers dug into the black fabric of her dress.
His father, quiet and resolute, added softly, "He loved you. He made that choice. Don't carry this alone."
Across the room, a child sobbed into his mother's skirt. In the hallway, someone whispered a prayer. And outside, an orange tabby cat sat still atop the low concrete fence, tail curled neatly, eyes half-closed as if standing vigil.
Time inside that house had frozen. Outside, the world moved on, but within those walls, everything held its breath—locked in the moment Satria's heart stopped beating.
**
Satria lifted the cup to his lips, feeling the warmth seep into his palms as the fragrant tea slid smoothly down his throat. The comforting heat was oddly grounding amidst the strange stillness that enveloped them. He set the cup gently on the table, breaking the fragile silence between them with a cautious question.
"Now, what is that proposition you have in mind?"
Viviane's lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, as if she had been waiting for him to ask. Her eyes twinkled mischievously beneath the wide brim of her hat, catching the white light filtering through the gazebo.
"You seem a bit rushed," she teased softly, her voice carrying the lightness of a breeze. "Don't you want to know where you are?"
Satria leaned forward, resting his forearms on the smooth wood of the table. His gaze fixed on her with steady curiosity. "Heaven, isn't it? You must be some kind of goddess."
Viviane's expression flickered—surprise, amusement, and something softer, almost wistful. She covered her mouth delicately with one slender hand and let out a quiet giggle. Then, she murmured, "You have an interesting way of putting things." She straightened her posture and with a fluid motion, adjusted the wide brim of her hat, as if preparing for something.
"Is it not?" he pressed, eyes searching for confirmation or denial.
Instead of answering, Viviane rose slowly, the light fabric of her clothes brushing softly against her legs. She reached up and adjusted her hat, tilting it with practiced elegance as if to shield herself from more than just the sun. The gazebo seemed to hold its breath as she turned away and began to walk toward the edge, her steps light and measured.
"First, you should come with me," Viviane said over her shoulder, her voice calm and steady as she stepped into the open air.
A small bird, previously napping on a nearby branch, stretched its wings wide and let out a loud yawn before taking flight, trailing after Viviane. Satria remained seated for a moment, arms folded tightly, staring after them in silence.
Viviane walked steadily along the lakeside path, her steps light yet precise. She didn't glance back—she never needed to. The man she'd invited would follow, despite his hesitation. She had seen the storm of questions in his eyes, the way his body coiled with silent curiosity. There was no need to ask again. Once was enough.
The lake beside them shimmered with a pale reflection of the sky, its surface undisturbed, as if time itself had paused. The wind stirred only gently, brushing her dress and lifting the edges of her hat. Overhead, the little bird darted playfully, sometimes circling back before flitting forward again—always ahead, always guiding.
Viviane's eyes remained on the bare hill in the distance, rising like an afterthought from the earth. It wasn't majestic, but she knew its place in what came next. And so, she walked.
Satria, meanwhile, had remained seated in the gazebo longer than he'd meant to. Her words—"First, you should come with me"—echoed in his mind. The quiet lingered after her departure. Questions stirred behind his eyes. Where was this place? Who was she? Was he really dead?
Still, the one thing he did know: he couldn't let her disappear without answers.
With a slow, steady breath, Satria stood. He moved after her, along the same trail that hugged the lake. The water glistened like a sheet of polished glass, too perfect, too still. The scent of pine and distant earth filled his lungs. For a moment, he forgot he had ever suffered.
The path narrowed as they approached the rise of a lone hill ahead. It wasn't impressive—no towering cliffs or sacred stones, no ruins or signs to suggest significance. Just a smooth, rounded mound of dry grass and scattered pebbles, utterly ordinary. It could've been any hill, anywhere. And yet, something about it felt unnaturally still.
It stood there, unassuming and silent, crowned by nothing but the sky. It was the kind of place most would pass without thought. But to Satria, it radiated a strange tension—as if it were the doorstep to something vast and hidden.
The little bird darted forward again, leaving Viviane's shoulder with a sharp flap of wings. It circled once above the hilltop, then flew straight toward the summit—only to vanish. No puff of feathers, no cry, no flash. Just gone, as though it had slipped between the folds of reality.
Satria stood still, staring at the summit where the small bird had vanished. He scanned the air for any sign of wings or sound, but the creature was simply gone. No flutter of feathers, no fading chirp. Just… gone.
His brows knit together as he turned to Viviane, who had paused a few paces ahead. Unlike him, she seemed entirely unfazed.
"Don't worry," she said, flicking her fingers lightly. "She's okay."
Then she raised her hand and snapped her fingers.
The air shimmered.
At first, it was subtle. A slight warping in the space around the hill, like heat waves rising from sunbaked asphalt. Then it tore—quietly, like silk being pulled apart. The barren hill, moments ago so ordinary and dull, shifted before his eyes. Trees sprouted where none had been. Flowers bloomed in waves across the grass, their petals catching sunlight that seemed warmer than before. At the center, a fountain emerged—a mermaid of carved marble holding a chalice. From it, a stream of gold-colored water sparkled as it flowed into a pool below.
Viviane snapped her fingers again.
From behind the curtain of green, a massive structure shimmered into view. A mansion rose from the earth like it had always belonged. Arched windows, towering spires, and ivy-draped balconies formed its facade. It was the kind of building born from fairytales—utterly out of place, yet somehow perfectly rooted in the hill's heart.
Another snap.
A crystalline ripple passed through the air. The colors around the mansion shifted, and the walls gleamed with a silver-white sheen. A dome of magic, once cloaking it from view, shattered like glass—its fragments dissolving into light before they could touch the ground.
Then the final snap echoed.
Above the mansion, the sky seemed to bend. Satria's breath caught as a floating tower materialized—immense and monolithic, its base defying gravity as it hovered silently in the air. Around it, fragments of crystal orbited like moons, glowing with an ethereal light. The tower was impossibly tall, its spires piercing the clouds above.
"What the hell…" Satria whispered, eyes wide, mouth slack.
He couldn't make sense of it. A tower that large should've crashed into the earth, shattered mountains, torn open the world. And yet there it was—impossible, majestic, serene.
Viviane, watching his stunned silence, chuckled softly.
'You're always so dramatic,' she thought, amused by his awestruck expression. She turned, walked back toward him, and without warning, gave him a firm tap on the back.
He staggered forward with a startled grunt.
"Stop standing there like a statue," she said, grinning. "It's not going to eat you."
"Did you just hit me?"
"It was barely a nudge. Don't be so fragile."
Satria sighed heavily, brushing dust from his coat. "Right. Of course. Floating towers, invisible mansions, and now assault."
Viviane was already walking toward the mansion's front steps, her voice trailing behind her. "You'll get used to it."
With one last glance at the surreal skyline, Satria followed.
*
The towering front doors of the mansion stood before them—arched, double-hinged, and engraved with patterns that shimmered like starlight as the sunlight caught them. Satria paused at the threshold, still reeling. His eyes drifted back toward the hovering tower, a surreal fixture in the sky that hadn't budged an inch.
Viviane's voice tugged him back.
"You'll trip if you keep looking up like that," she said, half-mocking, half-playful.
Satria blinked. "Right. Sorry. I'm just—"
"Mesmerized? Overwhelmed? Maybe considering that you've gone mad?"
He gave her a look. "...All of the above."
She smirked, clearly satisfied with his answer, then pushed open the grand doors without hesitation. They swung inward with a smooth, almost silent motion, as though the house had been expecting them.
Inside, the mansion was drenched in warm golden light, yet eerily silent. Polished marble floors stretched beneath vaulted ceilings adorned with frescoes of constellations and swirling clouds. Rich tapestries lined the walls, but no breeze disturbed their stillness. Chandeliers glittered above, but no candles burned. There was no dust, no signs of abandonment—but also no signs of life.
It was beautiful, opulent, and utterly hollow.
Satria's footsteps echoed softly as he followed Viviane into the main hall, his gaze moving from grand staircases to arched windows that looked out on nothing but white mist.
"No staff?" he asked, more to fill the silence than out of real curiosity.
Viviane didn't answer immediately. She walked ahead, her shoes making no sound against the floor, until she stopped in the center of the hall and turned.
"No one but me," she said simply, her voice quieter now. Measured. "And you."
That amused gleam in her eye had dimmed. Her posture remained graceful, but the air around her had shifted—become weightier, as though the room itself sensed the change in tone.
Satria slowed to a stop a few steps away. "You said you had a proposition."
"I did. I do."
He waited, but she only studied him for a long, thoughtful moment.
"I'm not what you think I am," Viviane said, her voice low but firm. "I'm not a goddess, though I've been called that. I'm not from heaven, though some imagine so."
She looked around the empty hall before meeting his gaze again.
"I am the remnant of something forgotten. And you, Satria, are not here by accident."
Satria's throat felt dry. "Then what are you?"
Viviane didn't answer at first. Her earlier lightness had vanished like mist in the morning sun. No teasing, no smirking. She walked ahead of him in silence, her back straight, her steps sure, as though his question was not unexpected—but required the right place, the right weight.
When they turned into a dim corridor lined with faded portraits and sealed doors, she finally replied, her voice clear and calm.
"I am the last apprentice of Merlin the Great. The one called the Protector of Avalon. My name is Viviane."
Satria blinked. He hadn't expected her to answer seriously—if anything, he had thrown the question out to prompt another sarcastic retort. But the words hung heavy in the air, and something in her tone told him it wasn't a joke.
"You've been watching me?"
"For quite some time, Satria Kusuma Wijaya."
"So… you're just a stalker, then."
"In a sense," she said plainly, without looking back.
He raised an eyebrow at her complete lack of irony. A part of him wanted to laugh, but the stillness of the hallway—the echo of her footsteps against the cold floor—told him the moment had shifted. They had moved past casual games. Whatever came next was real.
They reached the end of the corridor, where a large steel door stood embedded into the stone wall. Its surface gleamed dully, engraved with intricate symbols—runes he couldn't read but felt thrummed faintly with power. Viviane placed her palm against its center.
"The tower you saw floating above the mansion," she said, "is called the Tower of Avalon. Though that is not its original name."
Satria watched her, silent now.
"Before, it was known as the Mehrunse Tower," she continued. "It was built by a man named Mehrunse and others like him."
"What was it built for?"
"To oversee the flow of magic across Contraria," she said. "To study it, regulate it. Some say it kept the balance."
Her hand pressed deeper into the symbol on the door, and a low hum vibrated through the walls. The engraving lit up, each rune glowing silver-blue in sequence. Then, with a muted shhhk, the door began to open.
There was no chamber beyond. No floor, no ceiling. Only a swirling vortex of light and shadow, like a tear in reality. The portal shimmered, edges rippling like water disturbed by wind.
"This is the gate," Viviane said. "It links the mansion to the Tower."
Before Satria could form a response, she stepped forward and disappeared into the light.
He stared for a second longer than he'd meant to. A portal—just like the ones in every fantasy or sci-fi movie he had ever watched. Only this one hummed with a presence that prickled at his skin, as if it knew he was there.
He exhaled. "Alright then," he muttered, and without further hesitation, stepped in after her.
The moment they stepped through the shimmering portal, the world shifted beneath Satria's feet. The air felt charged, thick with an energy that hummed softly like a distant heartbeat. When the light finally faded, they found themselves in a strange chamber unlike anything Satria had ever seen.
At the center of the room stood a colossal crystal, its surface etched with the same glowing runes that adorned the steel door. The crystal pulsed gently, radiating a soft, blue light that filled the space with an otherworldly glow. Surrounding it, three golden rings hovered effortlessly, slowly rotating in perfect harmony. Their surfaces shimmered with intricate patterns that seemed to ripple like liquid metal, each ring moving independently but in silent harmony.
Viviane walked past the crystal and guided Satria toward a smaller adjoining room—a compact space, just large enough for the two of them. As they entered, Viviane raised her hands and traced deliberate, fluid gestures in the air.
Suddenly, a brilliant blue light enveloped them both, so intense that Satria instinctively squeezed his eyes shut. The glow pressed in on him from every angle, blurring the edges of reality. After what felt like an eternity, the light dimmed until it was nothing more than a soft shimmer.
"Open your eyes," Viviane said softly.
Cautiously, Satria blinked and rubbed the lingering brightness from his vision. They were now inside a cozy chamber, lined floor to ceiling with shelves brimming with ancient tomes and scrolls. The scent of aged paper and polished wood filled the air. At the room's center floated a chair, two couches, and a low table—each piece moving gently as if guided by invisible hands. With another wave from Viviane, the furniture settled neatly: the couches faced each other across the table, while the chair, adorned with a plush red cushion, rested beside it.
Viviane smiled, settling onto one of the couches. "Now, we can talk comfortably."
*
A soft breeze drifted in from the wide window, carrying the scent of something floral and ancient—like old parchment steeped in wild blossoms. The light in the room had shifted, golden and quiet, painting the walls with a warm hush. On the chair beside Viviane, the silvery-white bird—now calmly preening—curled into the red pillow like it owned the place. Its feathers shimmered faintly, pulsing with a soft inner light.
Viviane sat with one leg folded beneath her, eyes closed as she took another sip of her tea. She exhaled slowly, setting the delicate cup down with a quiet clink. Across from her, Satria remained silent, a half-eaten rose-flavored cookie in his hand. Despite everything—portals, floating towers, and rune-marked doors—it was this quiet moment that unsettled him most. As though the world had taken a deep breath before telling its oldest truth.
"The Earth," Viviane began, her voice soft but steady, "wasn't always as you know it."
Satria looked up. Her tone had changed again—this time reverent, almost mournful.
"There was magic, once. Real magic. Not illusions or stagecraft. The kind that shaped seas and sung stars into motion."
She extended her hand, and a worn, dark-brown tome drifted from a shelf into her grasp. There was no title on the cover—only faded scuffs and frayed corners. She held it gently, like something alive.
"According to this," she said, patting the book, "the Earth was home to a civilization far older than your myths remember. They were called the Aerithans."
Satria furrowed his brow. "Like… aliens?"
"No," she replied, gently opening the book on her lap. Her fingers traced the edge of a worn page, almost absently. "More like… ancestors."
She looked up at him briefly. "Stewards of magic."
A moment passed. She turned another page, slower this time, her eyes scanning the faded script.
"But," she continued, her voice quieter now, "when humanity's greed twisted that magic into destruction—"
She paused, resting her hand on the open book.
"—the Aerithans lost faith."
Her gaze drifted toward the open window.
"And so," she said, almost to herself, "they decided to separate the magic. For good."
She flipped to a page and began to read aloud.
"I, upon discovering a new celestial orb, thought: this is the ideal plane for the magic to thrive."
"I named it Contraria, a celestial orb in contra-position to Earth."
She closed the tome with a gentle snap. It floated back to its place.
"They took the magic and left Earth," she said, her gaze drifting to the window. "To preserve what was sacred… they had to abandon what was broken."
Satria sat quietly, the weight of her words finally sinking in.
Viviane set her teacup down and leaned forward, brushing aside a few stray cookie crumbs. Without a word, she reached for a second cup and placed it beside the first—one on the left, one on the right. Then, with practiced ease, she plucked a single sugar cube from the dish.
Satria tilted his head. "What's this?"
"A story," Viviane said, eyes on the table. "A visual one."
She tapped the first cup gently. "This is Earth." Then the second. "This is Contraria. They orbit the same star, sharing the same path… but always opposite each other. Forever hidden behind the sun's glare. If Earth is here"—she touched the left cup again—"Contraria is exactly here." Her finger landed on the right cup.
"Sounds unbelievable," Satria muttered.
Viviane smiled faintly, then held up the sugar cube between them. "This," she said, "is the Tower of Avalon. The solution to a problem the Aerithans could not solve by brute force."
She brought the cube over Earth, hovering it above the cup.
"They couldn't just send raw mana from Earth to Contraria. It would scatter, collapse, unravel."
She slowly dragged the sugar cube across the table in a smooth, arcing motion—half a circle, a graceful curve connecting both cups. The cube traced an invisible orbit.
"So they created this. A vessel. A bridge. The Tower would carry the magic—not in a straight line, but along the orbit itself, hidden in the rhythm of celestial movement."
Satria's eyes followed the path. It wasn't just a demonstration; it felt like a ritual.
Reaching the second cup, Viviane let the cube drop in with a soft plunk.
"The mana was delivered safely. Absorbed. And with it, Contraria began to awaken."
The sugar dissolved slowly in the tea, leaving faint ripples.
"It worked," Viviane said, her voice barely above a whisper. "For a while. A few million years, maybe more. But magic, when cut off from its original source, doesn't stay pure. It started to decay."
Satria didn't speak. The weight of those words, millions of years, hung heavy in the room. Time here was fluid—less a fixed measure, more a shifting current.
Viviane exhaled and set her teacup down. With a graceful flick of her fingers, she summoned another book from a high shelf—a slimmer volume bound in deep forest green leather, etched with silver lines. It hovered beside her shoulder, humming softly.
"This," she said, "is a continuation of a much older journal. It doesn't cover everything—only the major events that shaped Contraria's fate."
Satria studied the book. It looked surprisingly well-kept, yet carried the unmistakable weight of history.
"My master," Viviane continued simply, "didn't start the log. It was passed down through generations—his predecessors recording what they witnessed. He gathered their accounts, compared them, and added his own entries. A curated history, shaped across ages."
She hesitated, her gaze meeting Satria's.
"So… how long have you been here?"
Satria hadn't intended to ask—it just slipped out, uninvited, like a thought spoken too soon.
Viviane blinked, clearly caught off guard.
"What?" she said, a hint of shock flickering in her voice. "Why do you ask?"
She hadn't expected the question, and it showed.
Satria opened his mouth, then shut it again.
"I don't know," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "It just… came out. I wasn't really thinking."
He looked away, suddenly aware of how strange the question must have sounded.
Viviane smiled softly, a flicker of mischief in her gaze. "Longer than you might imagine. Magic slows the way my body changes—makes me almost immune to time's wear. That's how both my master and I have been able to live through so many years."
She took a slow sip of her tea. "My master stayed here for what felt like thousands of years—though time in Avalon doesn't run quite the same as it does outside."
Satria blinked. "That's… hard to wrap my head around."
Viviane chuckled, the sound lightening the weight of the moment. "It takes a while. But don't worry—you'll get used to it. After all, if you ever feel old, just remember—compared to me, you're still a baby."
She winked. "Though you might want to watch out—I bite if you call me 'grandma.'"
Satria cracked a reluctant smile. For the first time since their journey began, the tension eased.