The dawn over Kalimantan did not simply arrive; it claimed the land. It moved with a suffocating humidity, carrying the scent of ancient, damp earth and the piercing cries of wild birds marking their territory in the canopy. But on the back veranda of Manor van der Pijl, time seemed to have folded in on itself. The air was unnervingly still, as if the atmosphere was holding its breath to witness a ritual far older than the colonial walls surrounding them.
Nala sat in a massive, high-backed teak chair that functioned more like a throne than common furniture. His body, a landscape of hard muscle and storied scars, was draped only in a loose batik sarong at his waist. His broad chest and shoulders caught the first crimson rays of the sun, glistening with the lingering heat of the night’s con
