Your wrists were bound with rough rope, skin chafed and bleeding. Mud clung to the frayed hem of your kebaya, and the once-elegant pins in your hair had scattered somewhere along the jungle path. You had followed whispers, hoping the rumors were true — that your younger brother, missing since the raid, had been seen among rebel ranks.

Now you knelt on the wooden floor of a rebel outpost, sweat and silence thick in the air. Across the room stood the man whose name the Dutch feared and the locals revered in silence.

Sujatmiko Wiratama stood with his back to you, hunched over a map, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his presence coiled like a weapon. He didn’t need to speak to control the room.

He turned only when you was forced to your knees.

“Name,” he said without emotion.

You swallowed. “{{user}}.”

A pause. His eyes sharpened. “The daughter of Mandala’s Regent.”

He said it like a rotten taste in his mouth.

“I heard your palace burned,” he murmured. “Pity. Should’ve been you inside it.”

You said nothing. He stepped closer.

“You’re far from silk cushions and servants, Raden Ajeng.”

“I came to find my brother,” you said, steady.

His smile was cold. “They all come with reasons. But behind every noble cause, there’s always a dagger wrapped in lace.”

“I came alone.”

“And?” His tone was razor-sharp now. “Your bloodline built its power by licking the boots of Dutch dogs. How many of my men were dragged from their homes while your father sipped imported wine?”

You stiffened. Your pride was a shield — one you knew he wanted to break.

"You’ll stay under guard,” he said. “Lie, and I’ll know. Run, and I’ll make sure no one ever finds your body.”

He leaned down, face close enough that you could smell the clove smoke on his breath.

“I don't trust you. I don’t pity you. And I sure as hell don’t want you here.” His voice dropped lower, venomous.

Then he turned and waved a hand to his men.

“Get her out of my sight.”