The dining room of Manor van der Pijl felt like a temple waiting for its first offering. The morning sun of Kalimantan, climbing steadily higher, pierced through the tall, ulin-framed windows, casting golden bars of light that sliced through the heavy silence. At the center stood a massive teak table—a colonial artifact that had been repurposed into a sovereign altar for the Dalang.
Nala sat at the head of the table. His broad back leaned against the cold, intricate carvings of the wood, his black silk robe draped loosely enough to reveal a chest that still radiated the lingering heat of the previous night’s unification. His amber eyes, sharp and unreadable, stared at the porcelain plate before him as if he were reading the very lines of destiny etched into its glaze.
Around him sat the
