The Songbird’s Cry

Bali’s Coastline – A Picture of Contradiction. The waves rolled in, rhythmic and unbothered, caressing the golden sands before retreating into the vast expanse of turquoise. Seagulls called from above, their cries piercing the humid air, while the scent of salt and frangipani mingled on the breeze. Yet, the landscape changed just beyond the pristine shoreline—a stark contradiction. Towering cranes reached for the sky, metal skeletons of future luxury resorts stretching across what was once untouched coastline.

Putri stood barefoot, the sand warm beneath her feet. She curled her toes into the grains, a small act of defiance, as if grounding herself in a place that was slipping away. She had played here as a child, under the shade of banyan trees that no longer existed. Now, their roots had been ripped from the earth, replaced by concrete and ambition.

A familiar voice broke her trance.

“They’re moving faster than expected,” Thalia murmured, stepping beside her. Dressed in loose linen, her dark eyes scanned the distant construction site with unease. “We were supposed to have more time.”

Putri exhaled sharply. “Time? Time is a luxury we can’t afford anymore.”

A few meters away, Bintang sat on a large driftwood log, scribbling in a small notebook. His ever-present fedora was tipped forward, shielding his face from the afternoon sun. He glanced up briefly. “If we push back too soon, we risk showing our hand. We need more leverage.”

“And how do we get that?” Mayang’s voice carried over, frustration lacing her words as she approached from the tree line. The faint scent of clove cigarettes followed her. “Negotiating with the Nine Dragons is like making a deal with the ocean—you’ll drown before they bend.”

Clarissa, arms crossed over her chest, nodded. “She’s right. These people don’t negotiate; they devour. Every deal ends with them taking more.”

Sebastian, silent until now, crouched near the water’s edge, tracing a finger through the wet sand. The waves erased his marks almost instantly. “Then we change the game.”

Putri turned to him. “How?”

“We stop fighting like conservationists and start thinking like strategists.” Sebastian stood, brushing the sand from his hands. His gaze flickered to Clarissa. “You’ve dealt with syndicates before. What’s their weakest link?”

Clarissa considered before answering. “Greed. They overextend themselves. If we can expose them publicly—financially—pressure might come from places they can’t control.”

Bintang smirked. “And if that doesn’t work, we still have other options.”

Mayang shot him a look. “No violence.”

Bintang raised his hands in mock innocence. “Who said anything about violence?”

A tense silence settled between them, punctuated only by the distant hum of machinery. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the sand.

Putri inhaled deeply. “How much more will they take before nothing’s left? Before my people’s stories are buried under steel and glass?”

No one answered, but the determination in their eyes was enough. The fight had begun.

—

The air buzzed with energy, lanterns swayed above the crowd, casting golden hues over the festival square. Traditional Balinese decorations adorned the open-air stage, while the scent of roasted peanuts and sizzling satay drifted through the air. The sound of gamelan music hummed in the background, blending seamlessly with the excited chatter of locals and tourists alike.

Putri stood in the wings, adjusting the gold-threaded sash around her waist. Her heart pounded, not from stage fright—she had performed countless times before—but from the weight of the message she was about to deliver. The moment the announcer called her name, the crowd erupted into cheers, their hands raised in anticipation.

She stepped onto the stage, bathed in soft amber light. Silence fell as the first notes of her song played. Her voice rose, clear and haunting, weaving a tale of lost lands and forgotten spirits. She sang of ancestors watching helplessly as their sacred grounds turned to dust, their whispers drowned beneath the roar of machines. The elders in the audience clutched their chests, their eyes glistening.

As the final note lingered, a wave of applause washed over her. But amidst the claps and cheers, she spotted them—stern men in black suits, standing rigid at the edges of the crowd. Their eyes didn’t waver.

An elder approached, voice trembling with emotion. “Your voice carries the spirit of our ancestors, Putri. Never let it be silenced.”

Putri took his wrinkled hands in hers, her resolve solidifying. “I won’t. Not as long as our land cries for justice.”

In a sleek, glass-walled office overlooking the festival, multiple screens flickered with live footage of Putri’s performance. Tessa, draped in crimson silk, leaned back in her chair, her manicured fingers tapping rhythmically against the desk.

“She’s good,” she murmured to no one in particular, eyes locked on the screen. “Too good.”

Her phone buzzed. A message from Wei Long: Neutralize her influence. Quietly.

A smirk curled at her lips. She turned to her assistant, who hesitated at her side. “Draft the headlines. ‘Pop Star Turned Radical – Is Putri Inciting Unrest?’ Make sure every major network runs it.”

The assistant hesitated. “But... she’s singing about nature and heritage.”

Tessa’s smile remained, but her voice turned to ice. “Truth is what we make it. Now do your job.”

—

The festival’s vibrant energy faded as Putri stepped off stage. The cheers were still echoing in her ears when her manager, Arman, stormed toward her, tablet in hand.

He thrust it at her. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

She frowned, scanning the screen. Headlines screamed at her in bold letters: ‘Pop Star Turned Radical’, ‘Is Putri Inciting Unrest?’

Arman’s voice dropped, laced with barely contained frustration. “Sponsors are already pulling out. This could end your career.”

Putri met his gaze, fire in her eyes. “They’re destroying our land, Arman. Should I just sing about love and sunsets while they bury our heritage?”

Arman ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “You’re an artist, not a revolutionary. If you keep this up, they’ll ruin you. Is this fight worth losing everything?”

Her jaw clenched, hesitation flickering across her face. But then she remembered the elder’s words, the tears in the eyes of those who had lost everything.

“If I lose my voice, I lose who I am.” She exhaled, steadying herself. “I won’t be silenced.”

—

The festival lights dimmed, leaving only the glow of the moon and the distant flicker of torches. Alone on the empty stage, Putri let out a slow breath, the adrenaline finally fading.

She knelt, scooping a handful of sand, letting it slip through her fingers. Each grain a memory, a story, a piece of history that could never be reclaimed once lost.

“They can twist my words,” she murmured to herself, “but they can’t take away my truth.”

She straightened, lifting her chin. The choice had been made.

Her voice would not just be for music. It would be for her people, for the land. No matter the cost.

—

Deep within Thailand’s lush, ancient jungles, towering trees whispered with the wind, their roots intertwined like the spirits of the past guarding the sacred land. Yet, the sound of chainsaws and roaring trucks shattered the tranquility.

Somchai watched from the shadows, his body poised and alert. His village lay just beyond the hill, but the once-thriving forest that protected it was now a barren scar on the earth. He saw the logo on the trucks—the mark of Alia’s corporation.

“The Desert Viper,” he muttered under his breath, fists clenching.

His father had walked these lands before him. His ancestors had lived and died beneath this canopy, their spirits forever entwined with the jungle. And now, they were being erased.

A low growl rumbled in his throat. This was more than deforestation. This was war.