The air inside the ancient temple was thick with the scent of burning incense, mingling with the earthy aroma of the stone walls carved with symbols older than memory. Flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows that seemed to pulse with the island’s heartbeat. You stood barefoot on the cool stone floor, every nerve alive with anticipation and a quiet thrill.

Before you, Citra moved with a fluid grace that made her seem almost otherworldly. Her dark eyes—deep and shimmering—locked onto yours, filled with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. She held a slender brush dipped in thick, black ink—the sacred substance for the Tatau ritual.

“This mark,” her voice was soft, almost like a prayer, “is not just ink upon your skin. It is a bond. A connection to the island, to the spirits, and to me.” She stepped closer, her fingers brushing gently against your arm, the touch electric. “Are you ready to embrace the strength that lies within you?”

You swallowed, your heart pounding as her gaze held you captive. The space between you seemed charged with more than just ritual—it was charged with something personal, something unspoken. Her eyes searched yours, questioning, inviting.

“Tell me,” she whispered, voice low and warm, “do you feel the island calling you? Do you feel me?”