The Shadow's Prey

The Dutch Woman's Arrival

Morning in Desa Bayang did not bring clarity; it brought a suffocating, silver mist that tasted of iron and damp earth. Mayang woke to a silence so profound it felt like a physical weight pressing against her ribs. She opened her eyes slowly, feeling an unfamiliar heaviness in her limbs—the lingering echo of a night where her body had been treated as both a temple and a sacrifice.

Nala was gone.

The bamboo platform where they had shared a dark, ancestral hunger was cold now, yet the scent of him remained everywhere. It was woven into the fibers of the pandan mat, hanging in the humid air of the hut, and most terrifyingly, branded into the very marrow of Mayang’s bones. She tried to shift her position, but a soft whimper escaped her lips. Every muscle, from her inner thighs to the nape of her neck, reminded her of her total surrender—of the way Nala had manipulated her like a piece of parchment leather against the Kelir screen.

Mayang reached for a discarded batik cloth on the floor, wrapping it around her bruised, marked body with slow, aching movements. She walked toward the small window, pushing aside the heavy timber shutter to find the village square transformed.

A sleek, black vintage car—entirely out of place in this primitive jungle—sat idling near the puppet stage. Its chrome grilles caught the weak morning light, looking like the silver teeth of a mechanical beast. Standing beside it was a woman who seemed to have stepped out of a different century.

Carmelia van der Pijl.

She was a vision of colonial ice. Her pale, polished blonde hair was pinned back with a clinical, rigid perfection. She wore a tailored white riding suit that accentuated her sharp, aristocratic curves with a cold elegance. Even from the distance of the hut, Mayang could feel the authority radiating from her. She looked like an owner inspecting a prized but troublesome property.

The door to the hut was suddenly kicked open with a brutal force. Nala entered, his broad chest still bare, his skin glistening with the dew of the jungle. He didn't look at Mayang. His expression was a mask of stone, his jaw set so tightly it looked as if he were suppressing a volcanic eruption. He went straight to the corner of the room, grabbing a ceremonial keris dagger with a yellowed ivory hilt, tucking it firmly into the knot of his sarong.

"Stay inside," Nala commanded. His voice was as sharp as the steel he carried.

"Who is she, Nala?" Mayang’s voice was hoarse, still carrying the echoes of the screams he had drawn from her throat hours before.

Nala paused, his amber eyes flicking toward her for a split second. A dark, possessive spark ignited in his gaze—a silent acknowledgment of the claim he had laid upon her—but he suppressed it instantly. "She is the ghost of the past. And she thinks she still owns the land you are standing on."

Before Mayang could respond, the sharp click of high heels echoed on the wooden stairs. Carmelia did not wait for an invitation. She stepped into the cramped, sandalwood-scented hut, her ice-blue eyes scanning the room with a mixture of disgust and a terrifying, practiced familiarity. Her gaze landed on Mayang, lingering on the disheveled batik cloth and the fresh, red marks blooming across Mayang’s collarbone.

"So," Carmelia spoke, her voice a low, cultured purr that carried the sharp edge of a Dutch blade. "The Shadow King has found a new doll to play with. I heard the gamelan was particularly loud last night, Nalagareng. Loud enough to wake my ambitions."

Nala stood his ground, his muscular frame looming over the blonde woman, creating a brutal contrast between his sun-darkened skin and her porcelain pallor. "You have no business here, Carmelia. Your plantation deed does not extend to my bed."

Carmelia laughed—a cold, brittle sound that made Mayang’s skin crawl. She walked toward Nala, her movements bold and territorial. To Mayang’s horror, Carmelia reached out with a silk-gloved hand and ran a finger down the center of Nala’s chest, stopping just above the belt of his sarong.

"Doesn't it?" Carmelia whispered, loud enough for Mayang to hear every syllable. "Have you forgotten the nights we spent in the manor house, Nala? Have you forgotten the taste of my skin compared to this... common city dirt you’ve dragged into your hut?"

Mayang felt a surge of white-hot jealousy that burned through her shame. She watched as Carmelia leaned in closer to Nala, her lips almost brushing his ear. There was a history here—a raw, erotic history of power-play and colonial obsession. Carmelia wasn't just a landlord; she was a woman who had tasted Nala’s fire and refused to let go.

"She is a researcher, Carmelia," Nala growled, though he did not pull away from her touch. He seemed caught in a web of his own making, a debt of flesh that Mayang did not yet understand.

"She is a toy," Carmelia spat, turning her icy gaze toward Mayang. "Listen to me, little girl. You think because he claimed you in the dark, you are special? Nala has a hunger that has lasted a century. I have fed that hunger with gold and silk. You are just a temporary distraction—a snack before the main course begins again."

Carmelia stepped toward Mayang, her presence intimidating despite her smaller stature. She leaned in, the scent of expensive French perfume clashing violently with the hut's scent of incense and sweat.

"I know why you're here," Carmelia hissed into Mayang's ear, her voice like a serpent’s. "You want to find what destroyed your father. But if you stay in this house, you won't find the mantra. You'll only find a grave. Nala does not love; he possesses. And once he is bored with your screams, he will hand you over to the shadows of the trees."

Carmelia turned back to Nala, her expression shifting to one of chilling, predatory desire. "The manor is waiting, Nala. The documents are ready. Come tonight. Remind me why the Van der Pijls never truly left this jungle."

With a final, lingering look at Nala’s body, Carmelia turned and swept out of the hut, the click of her heels sounding like a countdown to an explosion.

Nala remained silent, his back turned to Mayang. The tension in the room was suffocating, as if the oxygen had been stolen by Carmelia’s departure. Mayang felt like she was drowning in a sea of murky secrets.

"Did you... did you ever belong to her?" Mayang asked, her voice trembling with a mix of rage and an unexpected heartbreak.

Nala turned, his amber eyes burning with a sudden, violent intensity. He crossed the room in two strides, grabbing Mayang by the waist and hoisting her up against the timber wall. The batik cloth slipped, revealing her nakedness to the harsh, unforgiving morning light.

"Nobody owns me, Mayang," Nala hissed, his face inches from hers. "Not her. Not you. But you... you are the one in my house now. You are the one carrying my marks on your skin."

He kissed her then—a kiss fueled by anger and a desperate need to reassert his dominance. It tasted of bitterness and the cold mist outside. As Mayang felt Nala’s hands tighten around her hips, she realized that the war for the Shadow King had only just begun. Carmelia had the gold and the history, but Mayang had the Dalang’s current, unbridled obsession.

Outside, in the shadows of the thick bamboo, a third pair of eyes watched the hut. Plumeria stood there with a basket of crushed frangipani, her lips curling into a dark, vengeful smile. The city girl and the Dutchwoman could fight all they wanted. In the end, the forest would take them both.