I. Cold Wind and Silver Scissors
Dawn had not yet broken over Arcapura Palace. A thin mist crept through the crevices of the stone pillars, carrying the scent of damp earth and dew that chilled the skin. Inside the silent royal chamber, the only sounds were heavy exhales and the metallic flash of silver scissors in Nurse Sari’s hand.
Arya sat motionless on a teak bench. His midnight-blue silk royal robes had been cast aside, replaced by a coarse, faded brown lurik tunic—the humble attire worn by tenant farmers' children out in the countryside.
"My Lord..." Nurse Sari whispered, her trembling fingers gently combing through Arya’s long, silky black hair. For fifteen years, this hair had been nourished with fragrant coconut oil and bound with a golden headband bearing the Arcapura crest. "Must I really do this?"
Arya stared at his reflection in the bronze mirror before him. The cheeky smirk usually plastered on his face was replaced by a rare composure, though his eyes still sparkled with an unquenchable fire of curiosity.
"Cut it, Nurse Sari," Arya answered, trying to sound brave despite a faint tremor in his voice. "Father said if I want to see the real world, I have to let go of everything that makes me stand out. Besides, all this hair will just get in the way when I climb banyan trees outside the palace."
Nurse Sari bit her lower lip, fighting back tears. With one decisive motion, the silver blades snapped together.
Snip.
Long strands of black hair fell to the stone floor one by one, piling up like discarded memories of childhood. Nurse Sari trimmed Arya’s hair into a messy, cropped style—a typical village boy's haircut, suited for someone who spent his days playing in paddy mud and rarely bothered to comb it.
When she finished, Nurse Sari retrieved a cheap, smudged cotton headband. With delicate care, she wrapped the cloth around Arya’s head, ensuring it covered the crown perfectly. Beneath that grimy cloth lay Arcapura’s greatest secret: the Crown of Mahaprana—a birthmark in the shape of a swirling golden sunburst, now hidden away on the young prince's head.
"Perfect," whispered the Queen, stepping quietly from behind a silk curtain. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but a steadfast, motherly smile graced her face. She approached her son and gently stroked his cheek. "Now, there is no Prince Arya Aruna of Arcapura. There is only Arya—an ordinary village boy embarking on a long journey."
Arya stood and smoothed down his clothes in the mirror. The rough lurik fabric felt itchy against skin accustomed to fine silk, and his baggy black trousers felt loose. Yet, as he did a little hop and spun around, he felt a thrilling sense of freedom he had never known before.
"I look... so nimble, Mother!" Arya exclaimed, instantly forgetting the sorrow of parting as his signature wide grin broke across his face. "In these clothes, I bet I could sneak into a buffalo pen without them ever suspecting I’m a prince!"
The Queen let out a soft laugh through her tears, while Nurse Sari could only shake her head at the prince’s irrepressible innocence, shining bright even at the most pivotal moment of his life.
II. Waiting at the South Gate
Arcapura’s South Gate was the bustling, chaotic heart of commoner trade. Unlike the majestic North Gate, guarded by ranks of soldiers in gleaming armor, the South Gate was defined by swirling dust, shouting vegetable vendors, lowing cart-oxen, and the pungent aroma of salted fish and damp spices.
Leaning against a weathered wooden guard post at the edge of the gate stood Arya. Slung over his shoulder was a scruffy cloth sack containing a few changes of clothes and a small bundle of rations.
Arya tried to recall his father's advice from the night before: Act like an ordinary commoner so as not to draw attention.
However, for a hyperactive prince who had never set foot outside palace walls, "acting ordinary" was proving to be a monumental challenge.
A street vendor carrying a wooden yoke balanced with bowls of sweet dawet jelly ice passed by. Feeling a sudden pang of thirst, Arya marched straight up to him.
"Good sir! What is the price for a refreshing bowl of your finest dawet?!" Arya asked loudly, his tone booming with formal grandiosity, sounding like a high minister reading a royal decree in court.
The vendor squinted at Arya from head to toe, his brow furrowed. "Just a single bronze piece, lad."
"Ah, what a bargain!" Arya reached into his black trousers. He drew out a coin. But instead of a dingy bronze piece used by commoners, a coin of pure gold stamped with the Arcapura sun motif gleamed between his fingers—a high-denomination currency exclusive to the royal family, worth a hundred bowls of dawet and the vendor's yoke combined.
The vendor gaped, his eyes bulging at the pure gold. Nearby strangers around the gate—including two burly men with sharp eyes pretending to inspect bananas—turned their heads in instant suspicion.
"My Lord..." a shadow suddenly darted out from the crowd. It was Commander Wiradana, disguised in a ratty cloak. In a flash, he snatched the gold coin from Arya's hand and replaced it with a tarnished piece of copper. "Lad, stop joking around with play money. Here is the proper copper piece for the dawet."
Wiradana handed the copper to the bewildered vendor, grabbed a bowl of dawet, and yanked Arya toward a quieter corner behind a stack of rice sacks.
"My Lord Arya," Wiradana hissed under his breath, his sharp eyes scanning the gate area. "I beg you... remember your cover! If you flash royal gold in a place like this, every bounty hunter from five neighboring kingdoms will have this gate surrounded before noon!"
Arya gulped down the dawet in one go and grinned innocently. "My apologies, Commander. I forgot that money outside the palace is dingy brown, not shiny yellow. But by the way, why is this dawet so sweet? Is the palm sugar made from the sweat of a sugarcane in love?"
Commander Wiradana slapped his hand over his face. His frustration had hit an all-time high. Before he could lecture the prince further on peasant economics and sugarcane, three youths with a distinctly unusual air stepped past the outer archway of the South Gate.
III. Meeting at the City Limit
"I bet one silver piece this Arya kid is sitting in a corner crying for his mother," Bayu Bajra muttered, casually fanning himself with a green paper fan, his eyes tracking a young herbal medicine seller walking past. "And if he really is a spoiled baby, I swear I’m going to fake a stomachache the whole way so Sakka has to carry him."
"Shut up, Bayu," Sakka Geni grumbled. The bamboo conical hat he wore failed to fully hide his striking, fiery-red hair, and his face looked thoroughly cranky after walking all night. "The Great Sage said we're meeting a kid named Arya at the South Gate. If we're late and he gets kidnapped by bounty hunters before we arrive, I swear I'll burn your entire lute collection."
Behind them, Krisna Tara trudged along calmly. The massive burden on his back—a colossal bundle packed with dozens of handpicked river stones—made the earth quake faintly under his boots, yet his face retained a serene innocence.
"Sakka, look over there," Krisna suddenly pointed toward a corner behind a pile of rice sacks. "There's a boy trying to scale a stack of rice bags while holding an empty clay bowl."
Sakka and Bayu turned to look where Krisna was pointing.
There stood Arya, wobbling precariously atop an unstable stack of rice bags. He seemed intensely fascinated by a small sparrow nesting in the bamboo rafters of the South Gate.
"Are you three the disciples from the Mahasakti Academy?"
Commander Wiradana's deep voice cut through their observations. Wiradana stepped out from the shadows, subjecting the three youths to an intensely calculating gaze. As a seasoned military officer, his instincts immediately recognized the unusual prana fluctuations wafting from them: searing fire energy from the red-haired youth, nimble wind currents from the fan-bearer, and the unyielding stability of earth from the broad-shouldered youth.
They really are the troublemakers the Great Sage spoke of, Wiradana thought, secretly questioning whether entrusting Arya to them was a wise decision.
Sakka Geni straightened his posture, folding his arms arrogantly across his chest. "That's right. I'm Sakka Geni. And these two are my... well, unfortunately, my travel companions. We were sent by the Great Sage to pick up someone named Arya."
Commander Wiradana nodded curtly. He turned toward the stack of rice sacks. "My Lord Arya, come down. Your escort has arrived."
Arya, who was reaching for the sparrow's nest, snapped his head around. Losing his balance, he went tumbling straight off the rice sacks.
"Aaaah!"
THUD!
Arya landed bottom-first right onto a mound of dry straw below. His empty dawet bowl flew from his hand, shattering into pieces on the dirt. Yet, as if feeling no pain whatsoever, Arya scrambled to his feet, brushed the dust and straw from his lurik tunic, and dashed toward the three young warriors, his round eyes wide and sparkling with unbridled excitement.
"You guys are from Mount Kelud?!" Arya asked enthusiastically, his face ending up inches away from Sakka Geni's chest, forcing the red-haired youth to take a startled step back. "Is it true there's a giant dragon in the Kelud crater that eats boiled sulfur? And is it true that if you shout at the mountain peak, your echo turns into a magical language?!"
Sakka Geni knit his brows tightly. He turned to Bayu Bajra with a look of utter disbelief. "Bayu... this kid isn't crying for his mother. But I think there might be something wrong with his head."
Bayu Bajra snapped his fan shut with a sharp clack, then leaned down to match Arya's height. He studied Arya's soot-and-straw-smudged face and messy hair.
"Hello there, little Arya," Bayu said with his most dazzling, charming smile, trying to play nice for the sake of his bet. "I am Bayu Bajra. I can teach you how to fly a kite without a string using Wind Prana. But before that, may I ask... why were you climbing those rice sacks?"
"I just wanted to see if the sparrows at this gate speak with the same accent as the sparrows in the palace garden!" Arya answered deadpan, as though presenting a high-level philosophical thesis to the royal council. "Because I noticed their tail feathers are a slightly different color. Does a bird's feather color depend on the type of caterpillars they eat every day?"
Sakka Geni closed his eyes tightly. He suddenly felt a tightness in his chest, as if the fire within him wanted to explode—not out of anger, but sheer, unadulterated bewilderment.
"Great Sage..." Sakka muttered softly toward the morning sky. "What kind of assignment have you given us?"
IV. First Steps into the Great Beyond
That initial meeting was swiftly followed by a quiet farewell in the shadows of the South Gate wall. Commander Wiradana looked at Arya one last time. An immense weight pressed upon the old soldier's chest, but he knew destiny allowed no compromise.
"Take good care of yourself, My Lord Arya," Wiradana whispered, bowing deeply in a solemn military salute meant only for the heir to Arcapura's throne.
Arya nodded, his smile this time softer and more genuine. "Thank you, Commander Wiradana. Give my love to Father and Mother. Tell them... I will return as a great warrior!"
Wiradana stepped back, slowly melting into the bustling market crowd until he vanished from sight.
Now, only the small band remained, standing at the outermost boundary of Arcapura city. Before them stretched the long dirt highway of the realm, slicing through vast green rice fields before plunging into the dark, uncharted wilderness that separated Arcapura's territory from the outside world.
"Alright, Arya," Sakka Geni said, adjusting the old sword slung across his back. He attempted to take charge as the eldest of the group. "Starting today, our journey to Mount Kelud officially begins. Rule number one: you walk in the middle of our formation. Never run ahead of me, never stray from the path without my permission, and most importantly..." Sakka pointed a stern finger at Arya's chest, "...no more weird questions while we're walking."
Arya blinked slowly. "But Sakka..."
"No buts!" Sakka snapped quickly.
"I just wanted to know..." Arya continued, completely ignoring Sakka's ban with unshakeable innocence, "...why is your sword wrapped in old cowhide? Did the cow die of boredom from being hugged by your sword all day?"
Bayu Bajra instantly burst into a rich, booming laugh, while Krisna Tara nodded slowly with a dead-serious face, appearing to give Arya's question literal consideration.
"Good question, Arya," Krisna said slowly. "I think the cow probably died of old age, not boredom..."
"Krisna! Don't answer him!" Sakka Geni barked, his face flushing red enough to match his hair. He stormed ahead at a brisk pace, trying desperately to ignore Arya, who was now skipping merrily alongside him.
High on a branch of an ancient banyan tree at the city boundary, a small pigeon with silvery-blue feathers perched silently. Its sharp eyes watched the small group as they ventured further away from the Kingdom of Arcapura, shrinking slowly against the vast expanse of green fields.
The journey of the Mahaprana had officially begun—not with the grand display of war banners and elite knights, but with the footsteps of four flawed youths whose journey was already filled with ridiculous banter, chaotic laughter, and a boundless curiosity destined to sweep them directly into the heart of Nusantara's greatest fate.