The sky above Bhumi Mataram that night was not merely gloomy, it felt as though it were physically pressing down on anyone beneath it.
Heavy clouds hung low, carrying the scent of wet soil and the lingering ozone of burnt magic.
Inside the keraton, the atmosphere was no less suffocating.
The light from oil lamps lined along the corridors cast long shadows of massive pillars, looking like black hands reaching upward to grasp the ceiling.
In the vast throne room, the footsteps of servants sounded faint and hurried.
Mere echoes of people fleeing from something terrible.
And that something was named Ki Yatna, the royal advisor.
Ki Yatna stood beside the King's vacant throne.
His body was thin, draped in a jarik cloth that was folded with elegance, yet he held himself with the stiff, cold formality of a high-ranking official.
His wrinkled face was currently flushed a deep, angry red.
The veins at his temples bulged like squirming worms atop a cracked wooden mask.
BRAKK!
His thin, dry hand slammed onto the carved teak table in front of him.
A vase atop it shuddered violently before falling and shattering into a thousand pieces against the stone floor.
Ki Yatna did not stop at merely striking the table.
He knelt among the shards, his trembling fingers picking up a single sharp fragment.
He did not care as the jagged edge sliced into his palm.
Fresh blood seeped out, dripping onto the cold stone, and Yatna stared at it with a look of pure adoration.
"A single failure... a single irregularity... has begun to surface," he muttered.
His voice was hoarse and raspy, laced with a thick layer of hatred.
"This design was supposed to be symmetrical. Blood here, screams there. But him... that little boy..."
He reached for his chest, touching the place where a black amulet lay hidden.
He could feel the presence of "Him," growing restless and demanding answers from behind the veil of the keraton shadows.
"He" was questioning the failure of the power He had lent.
An unnatural chill began to creep from the corners of the room, freezing the air around Yatna.
It made him feel as though thousands of needles were poised, waiting for the command to pierce his heart.
He knew that if he did not provide a greater "offering" by the promised time, the entire plan would crumble and his own life would be the one to close this symphony.
"How... how could Rangda lose?!"
He drew a sharp, hissing breath.
To him, Rangda was not merely a secret and forbidden military tool.
Rangda was a masterpiece he had composed over many years.
A bloody tribute that should have ended with piles of corpses in the arena, consisting of both participants and spectators alike.
"No one should have escaped! This plan... this design should have been perfect! NO ONE!"
His breathing grew more rapid.
His sunken eyes darted wildly in every direction.
Ki Yatna cared nothing for politics, for he could obtain anything he desired as easily as turning his palm.
At this moment, he only cared for the beauty of destruction.
To him, watching that youth and the entire audience die slowly beneath Rangda's claws was meant to be a "flaw in the performance," as well as the most artistic offering for the power he worshipped in the darkness.
And now, his "masterpiece" had been ruined by a beam of light that was never invited.
Silence swallowed the room for a few moments until the faint creak of a side door was heard.
Footsteps entered the room without haste, yet without hesitation.
They were remarkably calm, as if the owner of those steps knew that every inch of this stone floor belonged to her.
Ki Yatna turned slowly, his neck cranking stiffly.
His eyes narrowed with a gaze full of suspicion.
"From where..." he barked involuntarily, his voice pitching high in half-panic.
However, he quickly cleared his throat, reclaiming his authority upon realizing who had just entered.
"Where have you been? How many days has it been since you last showed your face?"
The figure did not immediately answer the question.
Only the fine silk of her dress swayed, following her graceful stride.
She continued to walk, composed, as if all of Ki Yatna's fury was nothing more than a passing breeze to be ignored.
Only when she drew closer did a soft, clear voice ring out, carrying a cold authority.
"Just playing for a while... looking at fabrics in the city. Don't be so panicked, Ki. It is not good for your heart."
She walked right past Ki Yatna without a single glance.
Her shadow stretched across the floor, the silhouette of a young woman with hair that swayed elegantly.
She held no fear for Yatna, though she harbored suspicions and noticed a strange darkness in the old man that she had yet to fully uncover.
The woman now stopped in front of the large doors to her father's chambers.
She leaned her back against the cold wall and closed her eyes for a moment.
Her shoulders felt increasingly heavy from everything she carried.
Heavy with the secrets she still guarded, heavy with the lives that had nearly perished in the arena earlier that day.
She remembered the gaze of the youth who fought death in the arena.
For the first time, she had seen the eyes of someone who refused to surrender.
A gaze so honest and full of struggle, standing in sharp contrast to the hypocrisy she inhaled every day within these keraton walls.
"A little longer, Father," she whispered to herself.
"Only until I manage to cast this wolf out of our home."
She took a long breath, shifting her sharp expression back into one that was soft and full of affection.
She cast away everything she had seen that afternoon, throwing far the images of blood from the arena, replacing them with the face of a princess, innocent and spoiled.
To her, lying was the only way to protect everything precious to her within this keraton.
***
The inner chambers of the keraton felt far more silent, filled only with the scent of medicines and incense that hung bitter in the air.
Upon a large bed draped with thin curtains, the King of Mataram lay weak.
His breath was shallow, his skin pale from an illness that refused to heal.
The woman approached and stepped to the side of the bed.
Her delicate hand carried something, which she then placed on the small table next to the mattress.
A white Srikandi mask.
The light from the oil lamp struck the mask, making it appear as if it were alive, staring at the King with a cold smile that held so many secrets.
Only then did the true face of the princess become clear.
Her smile remained soft, but her eyes held a depth that was difficult for anyone to reach.
She leaned down, her voice faint like a whisper in the night.
"Father... how are you today? Have you eaten yet?"
The King's eyelids moved slowly, then opened.
His weary gaze turned warm instantly. A small smile flickered on his parched lips.
"My child... Roro Jonggrang..." he whispered hoarsely.
"You have returned at last."
His frail hand trembled, trying to reach for his daughter's fingers.
Roro Jonggrang drew closer, allowing the grasp.
"Rest easy, Father," she said softly.
"I was only gone for a moment, just to get some air in the city. Keraton rules do not permit me to go beyond the city gates anyway. I promised to always be here. For your sake, do not worry."
Roro began busying herself with tidying her father's blankets.
Suddenly, her tone shifted into that of a young princess grumbling.
It was a role she played with absolute perfection.
"You really are quite stubborn, Father," her voice was smooth yet flowed quickly, filled with small scoldings.
"I told you not to overthink things, you need to rest more often. Instead, you keep insisting on hearing long reports from Ki Yatna. What for? The physician warned you, and I did too, but you still won't listen."
The King only chuckled softly, though he coughed occasionally between his laughter.
"Yes, yes... your voice now is exactly like your mother's once was. Sharp, yet beautiful. I feel as though I am accompanied by her again, my child."
Roro huffed, pretending to be annoyed.
However, her face softened when she saw the exhaustion in the King's features.
She knew these small jests were the only reason her father still survived within the schemes of the traitors in this kingdom.
She knew the keraton was slowly rotting from the inside, and she had to remain here to ensure her father did not die before his time.
The King of Mataram looked at his daughter with eyes that began to glisten.
"You know, Jonggrang... when your mother passed, I promised the heavens and all the gods that I would not let the darkness of Mataram touch you. But look at me now... just an old man waiting for his time."
Roro stopped as she straightened the blanket.
Her heart throbbed with a sharp pain.
She remembered the night her mother died.
It was the same night Ki Yatna was appointed as the royal advisor, replacing the previous advisor who had perished in the middle of the night along with his entire family in a house fire.
She remembered how her father began to fall ill shortly after that, as if his life were being slowly siphoned away by an invisible parasite.
"Do not speak like that, Father," Roro's voice trembled slightly.
"Mataram will not grow dark as long as you and I are still here. Don't worry anymore."
She grasped her father's thin, withered hand, secretly and as neatly as possible channeling healing magic into him.
She realized just how fragile power could be.
A great kingdom could crumble not from an external attack, but because of someone who preferred to serve a demon.
Someone who chose to kill anyone in their path rather than serve their own land.
A faint knock was heard at the door.
A physician entered with careful steps, carrying a tray of medicinal herbs.
"It is time for your medicine, Your Majesty," he said politely.
Roro turned, then rose gracefully and gave a small bow to the King.
"All right. I am going to my chambers now. Please do not make the physician's head ache again, Father. It is for your recovery. I might come back angry if you are stubborn again."
The King smiled and simply nodded obediently, watching his daughter as she gradually left the room.
As Roro stepped out, the long keraton corridor greeted her once more with the dance of torches casting shadows on the walls.
Not far from there, Ki Yatna still stood tall, his arms folded across his chest with a calculating gaze.
Roro slowed her pace as they drew level.
She stopped for a moment, not turning fully, only glancing from the corner of her eye.
A thin smile, a smirk sharper than any dagger, formed on her lips.
"Next time, if anyone dares to register for the military official selection again... feel free to cheat if you must," Roro said quietly.
She tilted her head slightly, her voice now sounding like a whisper that pierced directly into Yatna's ear.
"But at the very least..." she paused for a second, her breath exhaling along with a taunt that felt ice cold, "do not let the monster get caught being helped."
Ki Yatna tensed instantly.
His eyes narrowed, staring at Roro's back as she had already turned and walked away with a light step.
Her silk dress rustled against the stone floor, leaving Ki Yatna alone with the remnants of his fury.
Yatna took a deep breath and smirked, the scent of it as foul as old blood.
"A clever little girl," he thought to himself.
"You think you can stop the symphony I have meticulously written for Him? Rangda was merely the opening note. This keraton will burn to the ground, and I will make sure that you... you... are the final instrument I force to witness the ruin and death in the midst of those flames."