The world had changed with every mile, but Dyah Netarja felt as though the journey had stretched beyond the seven days they had spent traveling.
The cart's wheels groaned over the dirt road, the horses steady beneath the faint light of dusk. Kalentang village was finally within reach. It had been a long road, both physical and emotional, but as they neared the Royalty Camp, Dyah Netarja couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted in her.
Not because of the landscape, nor the steady breathing of the others in the cart.
But because of the boy sitting beside her.
Jaka.
She had spoken with him earlier, carefully. Like threading silk through a needle. Every word chosen with precision, yet with warmth. She wasn't a fighter. She never claimed to be. Her battles were fought with thought and subtlety—with understanding, and quiet intuition.
And what she had seen in him.
Was not the weight of a first kill.
It was heavier than that.
No, Jaka's anguish wasn't rooted in violence. It stemmed from the fracture of something deeper—his morality, his childhood sense of the world. A belief that there were clear lines between good and evil, and that heroes could walk them without stumbling.
That illusion had shattered with a single motion of a blade.
She glanced at him now, quietly. He was staring ahead, eyes glassy but dry. Stoic. Or trying to be.
He was only a boy, she thought. And yet the world had already marked him.
The others saw a boy who had protected her. She saw the cracks forming behind his eyes.
She had tried to speak gently, but directly. And perhaps something in her words had reached him—she could not tell. What she did know was that her heart had moved toward him even more in that conversation.
And not just as a companion. Not as a princess showing pity to a commoner.
But something older.
Something deeper.
Dyah Netarja didn't know when it had begun—perhaps in the subtle way he had stood between her and danger, or in the foolish charm of his jokes, or in the brittle courage with which he faced fear—or even before they met.
But there it was: a feeling she hadn't fully acknowledged. A pull. A silent tether from her soul to his.
And now, she realized… she wanted to stay beside him.
Not because he needed her.
But because she needed to understand this gravity, this fragile, beautiful thing that had started to bloom in her chest.
There was a vulnerability in him, but not weakness. A depth he didn't yet know he had. And perhaps, if she remained, if she chose to be his pillar—not through strength, but through unwavering presence—he might grow into something more.
Something extraordinary.
She didn't speak this aloud, of course. Dyah Netarja never wasted words, and certainly not on feelings not yet understood. But her intellect, sharpened through years of tutelage and contemplation, recognized the pattern.
She had not pitied Jaka.
She had chosen him.
And she would not let him carry this alone.
Because love, she realized, did not always come like fire or thunder.
Sometimes, it arrived like this: quiet, determined, and unshakable.
After a few minutes, the cart rumbled to a halt as they arrived at Royalty Camp. The sun had barely kissed the horizon, casting long shadows over the tents. Ra Kuti, ever the stern yet welcoming figure, stepped forward to greet them.
But as he approached, his gaze fell on Jaka.
Ra Kuti's experienced eyes quickly took in the subtle shift in the boy's demeanor.
The sparkle of youth that once lit his gaze had dimmed, replaced with something distant, empty. His eyes, dull and tired, looked as though they had lost their light, akin to a candle flickering desperately against a howling wind.
Jaka's face was calm, but his soul seemed far away.
Ra Kuti knew.
He had seen this before. Years of war had sharpened his instincts, and he understood the silent language of eyes. The boy's soul was tired—fractured by something that weighed heavier than the burden of battle. The emptiness in his gaze was a dead giveaway.
He wasn't just exhausted. Jaka had been broken in some quiet, unseen way.
Ra Kuti stepped closer, his voice low but firm. "Explain everything."
Dyah Netarja's heart tightened at the words, but she stayed silent. She would let Jaka speak, if he could.
Jaka, still silent, nodded stiffly.
But before he could take another step, Dyah Netarja moved beside him.
"I'll come with him," she said, her voice composed, yet with a soft undertone that caught both men's attention.
Ra Kuti raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
She met his gaze steadily. "He doesn't need to carry this alone."
Ra Kuti studied her for a moment—eyes narrowing, not in disapproval, but in quiet assessment.
Then he spoke, his voice softer than usual. "You've grown, Princess. Taking responsibility like this… that's no small thing."
Dyah Netarja held her gaze, steady and composed.
"You're still a ten years old girl," he added, almost wistfully. "But you've chosen to mature faster than most ever need to."
He didn't say it with sorrow, but pride. It was a recognition. Of the burden she now carried. Of the girl who was no longer just a royal shadow, but someone standing on her own feet—making hard choices.
Then, finally, Ra Kuti gave a single, almost imperceptible nod and stepped aside to let them both pass.
As they walked together into the heart of the camp, Dyah Netarja's mind swirled with reasons. Some she could speak. Others, she could barely admit even to herself.
This journey… had begun with her.
With her wish to elevate Kalentang's economy. With her youthful ambition to prove that she could stir the world that held this village in stagnate as more than just a princess in waiting. It was her signature that had set the wheels in motion. Her insistence, her planning, her vision.
And Jaka—Jaka had been swept into it all. Had bled for it. Had killed for it.
Even if he had reached for her hand and agreed to help her selfish ambitions.
She had no right to abandon him now.
If there was an explanation to give, it would come from her lips. Not because she was shielding him—but because she owed it to him.
As a leader.
As a princess.
And, if she dared to admit it…
As someone who had begun to care for him far more than she'd ever intended.
The sense of responsibility burned in her chest, tangled with something selfish. She wanted to stay close. To be near. To keep him from falling deeper into whatever quiet abyss he stood on the edge of.
She didn't know if her presence would be enough.
But she would not let him face this alone.
Together, they stepped into the tent, shadows stretching long behind them—two figures bound not just by circumstance, but by the unspoken weight of what their hearts could not yet name.