The morning heat had begun to bake the plantation, but as Plumeria led Mayang and Carmelia down the hidden trail behind the manor, the air grew noticeably cooler, smelling of crushed ferns and ancient, weeping moss. This was the heart of the estate that no surveyor’s map had ever truly captured.
Plumeria walked at the front, her bronze skin dappled by the sunlight filtering through the dense canopy. She moved with a silent, predatory grace, her wide hips swaying with a rhythm that seemed to echo the pulse of the forest itself. Behind her, Mayangkara followed with the lithe ease of someone returning to a familiar dream.
At the rear, Carmelia van der Pijl struggled slightly. The path was narrow, and her monumental frame—so suited for the high ceilings of the manor—felt out of place among t
