Before dawn, a lone figure strides toward the king’s residence. His steps are firm, unwavering.

  The soft rustling of richly woven fabric follows him, the golden hues of his intricately wrapped cloth gleaming under the dim torchlight.

  Rangkabhumi—a noble warrior, a trusted knight, and the man Prabu Jayantaka holds closest.

  His sharp eyes scan the palace grounds until they land on the king.

  Jayantaka sits alone in a wooden pavilion, open on all sides, near the roaring waterfall. Moonlight reflects off the polished floor, casting shadows across his solemn face.

  Rangkabhumi doesn’t bow. Doesn’t kneel. Instead, he steps forward, voice sharp as a blade.

  “Jayantaka! What the hell is this? Why did you cast away your own child? Don’t tell me you’re blaming the baby for Gayatri’s death!”

  His tone is direct, disrespectful even.

  Any other man would be executed for speaking this way to a king.

  But Jayantaka doesn’t flinch.

  Instead—

  He exhales heavily, his hands tightening around a kris with a dragon-head motif carved into its hilt.

  “It’s not the child,” he murmurs. “It’s me. Gayatri died because of the curse I brought. Because of this kris.”

  Rangkabhumi frowns. He knows how the queen died.

  “What nonsense are you speaking?” he snaps. “Women die in childbirth all the time. That kris had nothing to do with it!”

  Jayantaka’s grip trembles. “I don’t know anymore! Maybe it’s the kris… maybe it’s just me. The whispers, the temptation—they’re getting stronger.”

  Rangkabhumi stiffens.

  “The devil’s temptation?” His voice lowers, wary. “Then ignore it. You’re the Great Jayantaka. A mere demon can’t break you.”

  Jayantaka shakes his head.

  “It’s not that simple.”

  For a long moment, he says nothing.

  Then—

  In one sudden motion, he lifts the kris… and hurls it into the waterfall.

  The moment that dagger vanishes into the roaring cascade, Jayantaka stumbles.

  His body sways. His breathing hitches. It’s as if he has just torn away a piece of himself.

  Rangkabhumi watches in stunned silence.

  Then—

  A small smile creeps onto his lips.

  “There,” he says, clapping Jayantaka on the shoulder. “It’s done. You’ve thrown it away. You don’t need to abandon your son anymore.”

  Jayantaka shakes his head. “There’s no guarantee I won’t try to retrieve it. The devil’s temptation is strong. Stronger than you think. Tomorrow, I could order my men to search for it again.”

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  He clenches his fists.

  “This is the only way. Take the child, Rangkabhumi. Take him away from me. Away from this cursed palace.”

  Rangkabhumi falls silent.

  He has heard the rumors about the kris and its role in Jayantaka’s rise to power. How it aided him in forging the Chakradwipa Kingdom.

  Now, standing before his old friend, he realizes—

  The rumors may have been true.

  After a long pause, Rangkabhumi exhales.

  “…Alright. I’ll take him, and raise him as my own child.”

  The next morning, Prabu Jayantaka elevates Rangkabhumi to the rank of Senapati—military general overseeing large armies, entrusting him with command over Talang Asri Fortress—the kingdom’s southeasternmost stronghold.

  But before Rangkabhumi departs—

  “Don’t you want to name him?” he asks.

  Jayantaka’s gaze softens. “Gayatri chose his name,” he says.

  “Adanu Raksa.”

  He then hardens his voice.

  “Never tell him where he came from. Let him be free. Let him live without my curse.”

  ***

  Under the cover of night, Rangkabhumi and Arkadevi leave the palace. Bramasti, a palace servant, takes the reins as the carriage driver.

  The journey is long, and Bramasti urges them to rest. Rangkabhumi sleeps soundly, unbothered.

  But Arkadevi cannot. The baby cries endlessly, forcing her to cradle and nurse him.

  In the dim glow of the resin lamp, Bramasti catches glimpses of her soft, delicate features—her graceful hands, the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

  Heat rises to his face.

  “The king assigned you to be his mother now?” Bramasti asks, his voice laced with something unreadable.

  “Stop speaking as if this child is the king’s,” Arkadevi replies coldly, not sparing him a glance. “Prabu Jayantaka’s decree is clear—no one must know his true identity.”

  Her dismissive tone stings. To Bramasti, she is only a palace maid, a woman of low birth. And yet, she speaks to him with such arrogance.

  And still—he cannot stop looking at her.

  The flickering lamplight catches in her dark eyes, in the gentle curve of her lips. His gaze lingers lower, tracing the soft arch of her body.

  But Arkadevi is oblivious. Or perhaps, she simply does not care.

  Bramasti clenches his jaw.

  He has known Rangkabhumi for years, but he never realized Arkadevi belonged to him. And so, his admiration persists.

  For now.

  ***

  By morning, the carriage stops near a river to rest the horses.

  Bramasti watches from afar as Rangkabhumi sits beside Arkadevi, teasing the baby in her lap. The way she smiles at him—the way her fingers brush over his arm—sends something bitter curling in Bramasti’s gut.

  “That bastard,” he mutters under his breath. “Why waste his affection on a mere maid? With his status, he could have any noblewoman he wanted.”

  He turns away, marching toward the river to fetch water.

  That’s when he sees it.

  A dagger—half-buried beneath the clear water, resting among the river stones. Its wavy blade gleams under the morning light.

  Bramasti’s breath catches.

  “No way…”

  His hands tremble as he picks it up, his heart pounding in his chest.

  It’s Prabu Jayantaka’s royal kris.

  For a moment, he forgets everything—his jealousy, his resentment. His first instinct is to rush back and tell Rangkabhumi.

  But then—

  He stops.

  From a distance, he sees Rangkabhumi laughing softly, Arkadevi gazing at him with warmth in her eyes.

  Bramasti’s grip tightens. His pulse quickens, his stomach twists.

  Something ugly—something dark—festers inside him.

  Why him?

  Why does Rangkabhumi get everything? The king’s favor. Honor. And now, Arkadevi.

  His fingers curl around the kris. His breathing grows uneven.

  And then—

  << You want her, don’t you? Just admit it. >>

  Bramasti freezes.

  The voice—deep, insidious—seeps directly into his mind. It sounds like him. But darker.

  He whirls around, searching the trees.

  Nothing.

  Only silence.

  “What… was that?” he whispers.

  His eyes drift back to the dagger, his reflection twisted in its polished steel.

  His fingers tighten around the hilt.

  Slowly—deliberately—he tucks the kris beneath his robe.

  And without another thought—

  He says nothing to Rangkabhumi.

  ***

  Nine years have passed, and peace flourishes across Chakradwipa. Even the poorest villages feel the blessings of their great king.

  Yet, among the children playing in the dusty fields of Talang Asri, none realize that one of them—Adanu Raksa—is the son of royalty.

  “I don’t care if your father is a general in the fort!”

  “A weakling like you isn’t welcome here!”

  “But I just want to play!” young Adanu Raksa protests. “Why do we have to fight?”

  “We are children of Talang Asri! Future warriors who will guard Chakradwipa’s borders!”

  “We don’t want a crybaby on our team!”

  “If you want to join us, prove your worth!”

  And so, the bullying begins.

  Eight boys, all older than him, surround Adanu Raksa. Four younger ones watch from the sidelines, grinning in amusement.

  They are only peasant children, but they’ve been trained in basic martial arts. With playful aggression, they swing twigs and hurl rotten fruit, each move exaggerated as if imitating warriors in battle.

  “The Art of Monkey Throwing Fruits!”

  “Langur Dance!”

  “Elephant’s Rampage!”

  Their attacks may be childish, but when executed properly, even twigs and rotten fruit can leave bruises.

  Adanu Raksa winces as another strike lands on his arm.

  “Please! I don’t want to hurt anyone!” he begs.

  “Hurt us?” One boy scoffs. “As if you could!”

  “If you can make just one of us cry, we’ll let you join The Band of the Great Protectors of Talang Asri!”

  Adanu Raksa grips his own twig but refuses to use it. He hesitates, unwilling to fight back.

  His silence earns their contempt. The boys stop using their twigs and begin kicking him instead.

  “There’s no way you can be one of us!”

  “You’re a coward!”

  “I am NOT a coward!” Adanu Raksa shouts. “I’m the son of Rangkabhumi, the Great Protector of Talang Asri!”

  “No! You’re a disgrace to Talang Asri!”

  “Coward!”

  Nearby, a few men sip their drinks in a small coffee tavern, watching the scene unfold with mild amusement.

  “I bet three gold coins the kid cries for his father first,” one smirks.

  “Nah. He knows his father won’t come. I’ll bet three coins he calls for his mother.”

  Back in the dirt, Adanu Raksa curls into himself, shielding his body from the kicks. But even as the blows land, he does not cry out for help.

  “Please, stop! I don’t want to fight you!”

  “Rangkabhumi must be ashamed to have a son like you!”

  “You’ll never protect this border if you’re too afraid to hit someone!”

  The taunts sting deeper than the bruises.

  Until—

  “I AM NOT A COWARD!!!”

  A powerful roar erupts from Adanu Raksa, shaking the air.

  The boys freeze. A primal fear creeps into their bones.

  Even the men in the tavern rise from their seats, their easy amusement turning into concern.

  “What was that?”

  “That kid… Rangkabhumi’s son…”

  Adanu Raksa stands, his tear-streaked cheeks flushed with fury. His twig trembles in his grip.

  His lips curl into a snarl. His voice drops into a low hiss.

  “Kill…”

  That wraps up the first 7 chapters of Tempest in the Land of Seven Estuaries! ??

  a Southeast Asian-inspired dark fantasy. Set in the era of ancient Javanese kingdoms, it blends mysticism, war, and survival against supernatural forces. If you’re looking for something different from typical medieval Western fantasy, I hope this story delivers!

  New chapters will be released every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday! ??

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