I. Banter in the Middle of Statecraft Lessons
"Your Highness, I beg of you... sit up straight. A future king must project authority, right down to the way he rests his fingers on his knees."
Sage Mandala, the oldest tutor in the Arcapura Palace, let out a long sigh for what felt like the hundredth time that day. His frail body, wrapped in a pristine white robe, exhaled a subtle scent of incense. Seated across from him on the polished teak floor—gleaming from fresh coconut oil—was a fifteen-year-old boy.
That boy was Prince Arya Aruna.
Instead of sitting in a dutiful, cross-legged posture as commanded, Arya rested his chin on one palm while his other hand spun an intricately carved wooden top. His feet kicked rhythmically without pause, creating a tapping sound that tested Sage Mandala’s legendary patience to its breaking point.
"I’m listening, Sage," Arya replied without taking his eyes off the fast-spinning top. "Earlier, you said a leader should be like a banyan tree—its roots driving deep into the earth and its branches sheltering everyone. But I’ve got a question."
Sage Mandala closed his eyes briefly, reciting a mantra of patience in his heart before answering. "And what might that be, Your Highness?"
Arya slammed his palm down to stop the top mid-spin, then met the sage's gaze with round eyes gleaming with unbridled curiosity. "If a banyan tree is hundreds of years old, won't its roots eventually wreck the foundations of the palace pavilion? Does that mean a king who stays in power too long can ruin the foundation of his own kingdom? Also, why don't chickens have arms? If they had arms, would they use a kris or chopsticks to eat worms?"
Sage Mandala gaped. His mouth hung open slightly as he tried to process the wild leap from ancient leadership philosophy to absurd avian anatomy. This wasn't the first time Arya had thrown out questions that gave the palace tutors throbbing headaches.
"Your Highness... your query regarding poultry has absolutely nothing to do with the statecraft scriptures we are studying," Sage Mandala managed, his voice trembling slightly with suppressed frustration.
"Of course it does!" Arya countered cheerfully, leaning forward a few inches toward the sage’s low desk. "A chicken with arms could scratch the dirt much more efficiently to find food, meaning it would be self-reliant. If the people of Arcapura were self-reliant like those armed chickens, wouldn't the King's job be so much easier? Oh, one more thing! If a legendary dragon catches a cold, when it sneezes, does it blow fire or boiling snot?"
Before Sage Mandala could formulate a response—or rather, before he decided to fake a faint just to end class early—the heavy timber doors of the academy hall burst open.
II. The Rooftop Chase
"Your Highness! Prince Arya!"
The shrill voice belonged to Nurse Sari. The plump, middle-aged woman jogged into the room, gasping for air, her usually serene face slick with cold sweat. Her ceremonial sash hung lopsided over her shoulder—a clear sign she had just engaged in an exhausting physical pursuit.
Arya bounded to his feet, eyes lighting up at the sight of his caretaker. To Arya, Nurse Sari’s sudden appearance always signaled one of two things: a new adventure, or an escape route from a boring lecture.
"Nurse Sari! Perfect timing! Help me convince Sage Mandala about my theory on armed chickens—"
"There's no time for chickens, my Prince!" Nurse Sari interrupted, clutching her trembling knees. "His Majesty the King... His Majesty and the Queen are on their way here with Commander Wiradana! And... and what did you do to the cage holding the prana bird sent from Majapahit this morning?!"
Arya tapped his chin with his index finger, feigning deep thought before an innocent grin broke across his handsome face. "Oh, the prana bird with the silvery-blue feathers? I just wanted to see how fast it could fly compared to the sparrows in the paddy fields behind the palace. So, I unlocked the intricate wooden latch on its cage. Turns out it was just a simple sliding puzzle—super easy to solve!"
"Where is the bird now?!" Nurse Sari demanded, her voice jumping an octave. That prana bird was a high-value diplomatic gift sent by envoys from Majapahit as a pledge of alliance.
"It flew toward the western watchtower," Arya replied casually, pointing out the window. "But don't worry! I tried to catch it. I climbed the tower wall and crawled across the outer pavilion roof."
"Y-You climbed the wall?! Crawled on the roof?!" Nurse Sari squeaked, nearly swooning. She stared at Arya's palms, which were indeed smudged with roof dust and lightly scratched.
"The tiles were nice and warm from the afternoon sun, Nurse Sari. It was actually great lying up there, watching clouds that looked like a giant Buto ogre eating rice cakes," Arya added with terrifying innocence.
Sage Mandala could only slap his forehead with the ancient palm-leaf manuscript in his hand. The prince possessed extraordinary physical agility, yet he never directed it toward serious swordplay or martial arts training. Arya used his nimble body solely to feed his boundless curiosity: scaling the sacred banyan tree just to see if owls actually snored in their sleep, sneaking into the relic vault to count the giant spiders inside, or slipping out of the palace at midnight to chase rare prana fireflies.
He was a prince who simply could not sit still—a blessing and a curse for anyone tasked with keeping him safe.
III. The Decision Behind Teak Doors
In a hidden chamber tucked deep within the palace maze, the atmosphere was a stark contrast. There were no giggles or silly antics here. The King’s private council room was illuminated only by a single beam of sunlight cutting through a high ventilation slot, catching dust motes drifting lazily in the heavy air.
The King of Arcapura sat in his high-backed wooden chair, looking far older than his years. The deep furrows on his brow reflected the crushing weight he had carried for the past fifteen years. Beside him, the Queen clutched a silk scarf tightly, her swollen eyes revealing a long spell of weeping.
Standing tall before them was Commander Wiradana, supreme head of Arcapura's royal guard. His thick leather armor creaked faintly whenever he shifted his stance.
"I still cannot agree to this, Your Majesty," Commander Wiradana declared, his deep voice firm. "Sending the Prince beyond Arcapura's borders at such a young age, without an escort from our elite guard, is tantamount to walking him straight into the tiger's jaws. My men are ready to lay down their lives. We can reinforce the fortress walls, double the guard posts, and screen every stranger entering the capital!"
The King slowly shook his head. "Wiradana, you are the finest warrior this realm possesses. I have never doubted your loyalty for a single second. But you are viewing this world solely through the lens of human warfare."
The King stood up, walking toward the window that faced the eastern mountain range. "The enemies hunting Arya will not arrive with war drums and thousands of flagged soldiers. They creep through the night fog. They are sorcerers who slaughter lives for a drop of sacred blood, primeval beasts who smell the sweet prana inside him, and..." The King paused, his voice faltering slightly, "...the Kala Ring."
At the mention of that shadow organization, Commander Wiradana’s jaw tightened. He knew the terrifying reputation of the Kala Ring—an invisible black network capable of bringing down great empires from within through intrigue, silent assassinations, and dark magic.
"Could our humble Arcapura survive if the Kala Ring mobilizes all its dark allies to besiege us?" the King asked softly, turning to face his commander directly.
Wiradana fell silent. He wanted to argue, to claim his defenses were impenetrable, but he was a military realist. Arcapura was a peaceful agricultural kingdom; it was never built to fight a large-scale mystical war.
The Queen finally spoke, her voice trembling with the heartbreak of a mother facing separation from her only child. "Wiradana... this is about more than just keeping Arya alive. It’s about what lies dormant within him. The Mahaprana energy sleeping in my son’s body grows more volatile by the day. His wild curiosity, his unformed emotions... if he remains here, coddled by the comforts of the palace, he will never learn to master it."
She looked at her husband with a sorrowful gaze. "If that prana seal shatters out of anger or despair before he is ready, Arya won't be the savior foretold in the prophecy. He... he will become the catastrophe that drowns all of Nusantara."
"And the Mahasakti Academy on Mount Kelud is the only place with the knowledge to train him," the King added, his tone final and unyielding. "The Great Sage sent a confidential message via prana pigeon. He agrees with this plan. This journey will be his first true trial in life."
"Then who will guard him, Your Majesty?" Wiradana asked, his heart still heavy with the decision. "If our troops cannot accompany him lest we draw the enemy's eye, is the Prince to travel entirely alone?"
A faint smile, laden with mystery and resignation, touched the King's lips. "The Great Sage has selected three of his finest disciples... or rather, the three most troublesome students in his academy to act as Arya's vanguard. They are young, unpolished warriors, but their talent is extraordinary."
Wiradana frowned. "The most troublesome students? Why not the realm's elders or proven high-ranking warriors?"
"Because," the King replied gently, recalling the message written on the scroll hidden beneath his robes, "a future king does not need warriors who blindly obey his every command. He needs companions with the courage to call him out when he strays onto the wrong path."
IV. The Scent of Farewell
That night, Arcapura Palace rested peacefully under a blanket of silvery moonlight. A gentle night breeze blew through the grounds, carrying the scent of blooming jasmine from the inner courtyard.
Arya sat on the edge of his wooden bed, staring down at a miniature wooden sword his father had carved for him when he was little. Outside his door, he could hear faint hustling and bustling—a sharp contrast to the usual quiet. Nurse Sari was busy packing coarse cotton clothes typical of common farm kids outside the palace walls.
Arya let out a quiet sigh. Hyperactive and cheerful as he was, he wasn't stupid. He had felt the shift in the air over the past few days. The way his mother’s eyes lingered on his face a little too long, the tighter-than-usual hugs from his father, and the anxious whispers among the kitchen maids.
His bedroom door slid open quietly. The King stepped inside without his royal crown, dressed in a simple daily robe. Tucked into his sash was a seven-curved ancestral kris with a hilt carved in the shape of a dragon head.
"Not asleep yet, Arya?" the King asked softly.
"Just thinking, Father," Arya replied, keeping his eyes on the wooden sword in his hands.
The King offered a soft smile, stepping closer to sit beside his son on the edge of the bed. "Since when does Prince Arya Aruna spend his nights thinking? Normally, on nights like this, you'd be sneaking out to the lotus pond to catch giant bullfrogs."
Arya let out a small chuckle, though it quickly faded. He turned to face his father. "Father... am I being exiled?"
The direct, honest question struck the King’s chest like an iron mace. Yet, he maintained his composure as a ruler. Reaching out a large, warm hand, he gently stroked Arya's head, parting the soft hair that concealed the golden sunburst birthmark on his crown.
"Not exiled, my son," the King said, his voice carrying a slight quiver of emotion. "The world is vast, Arya. Far grander than the red-brick walls of this palace. Out there, mountains pierce the clouds, swamps hold ancient secrets, rivers flow with the waters of life, and the people... the people live through sweat and tears you will never see from inside these luxurious walls."
The King looked deep into his son's eyes. "A future king can never rule with justice if he has never felt the chill of a thatched hut floor, if he has never known true hunger, and if he has never walked the same muddy roads as his people. Go to Mount Kelud, Arya. Learn from the open road, from the wilderness, and from the people you meet along the way."
Arya went silent, processing his father's words. Fear and curiosity tangled inside his young chest. "Will I be going alone, Father? I... I don't even know how to wield a sword properly like Commander Wiradana."
The King chuckled, a soft sound that disguised his overwhelming anxiety. "You won't be alone. Tomorrow morning, three young warriors from the Mahasakti Academy will arrive at the South Gate. They will keep you safe... and perhaps, they will teach you the true meaning of friendship."
The King stood up and turned toward the door. Before stepping out, he paused and glanced back at Arya.
"Arya... remember my words," the King whispered, his tone resonant with conviction. "Return to Arcapura one day... not merely as a prince entitled by royal blood, but as a warrior worthy of leading all of Nusantara."
The door slid shut, leaving Arya in the long silence of the night. Beneath his warm blanket, for the very first time in his fifteen years of life, Arya felt that his greatest adventure was about to begin at dawn—an adventure that would test far more than his boundless curiosity; it would decide the fate of all Nusantara, lurking just beyond the shadows of the night.