Known as the Tangga Naga (Dragon's Staircase), it was a winding, steep ascent carved directly into the limestone cliffs. Three thousand steps of moss-slicked stone rose through the jungle canopy, disappearing into the mist above. The air here was heavy, suffocatingly humid, smelling of damp earth and the rotting sweetness of jungle fruit.
Dara's breath came in short, sharp gasps. Her legs burned. She had been climbing for the better part of an hour, the straps of her heavy satchel digging into her shoulder like a wire.
Around her, other new students were faltering. A boy in fine silk robes had collapsed on a milestone, fanning himself with a peacock feather, while his servant offered him a silver flask of water. Another girl was weeping quietly, looking at the blister on her heel.
Dara did not stop. She could not afford to stop.
One step. Just stone and dirt. It is the same earth as the village.
She focused on the rhythm of her feet. Tap. Breath. Tap. Breath.
Suddenly, the rhythm of the jungle changed.
The cicadas, which had been screaming their high-pitched song, fell silent. The monkeys that swung in the canopy above froze.
Then came the tremor.
Thump.
A vibration traveled through the stone steps, shaking the dust loose.
Thump.
It was rhythmic, heavy, and getting louder. The sound of something massive crushing the earth.
"Make way!" a voice boomed from below, echoing off the canyon walls. "Clear the path! The Royal Procession approaches!"
Panic rippled through the climbers. The students scrambled, pressing themselves flat against the mossy rock walls or diving into the thorny ferns that lined the narrow staircase. To block a Royal Procession was not just rude; it was a crime.
Dara looked around. The path here was treacherously narrow—a bottleneck with a sheer cliff face on one side and a steep, muddy drop-off on the other. There was nowhere to go.
If she moved to the right, she would be pressed against the wet, jagged limestone. If she moved to the left, she would have to step into a deep trench of thick, ochre mud that served as the drainage ditch.
She looked at her shoes—simple canvas slippers, already worn thin. She looked at her baju kurung, her only clean set of clothes. If she stepped into that mud, she would arrive at the Great Hall looking like a swamp rat. In this place, appearance was armor. To arrive dirty was to arrive defeated.
Thump.
The beast rounded the corner.
It was a magnificent nightmare. A white elephant (Gajah Putih), standing three men tall, its skin scrubbed until it glowed like pale marble. Its tusks were capped with gold, and draped over its massive back was a howdah (seat) of carved teak and crimson velvet, shielded by a golden parasol.
Surrounding the beast were twelve Hulubalang (Royal Guards), bare-chested and rippling with muscle, wearing red sashes and holding long spears.
And sitting atop the elephant, looking bored, was Tengku Amir.
He was terrifyingly beautiful. That was the first thing Dara noticed. He had the sharp, high cheekbones of the old aristocracy and eyes the color of dark coffee. He wore a tunic of midnight-blue songket woven with silver threads that shimmered like starlight. On his head sat a Tanjak folded in the "Fighting Cock" style, signifying aggression.
He did not look at the students pressing themselves into the rock. He looked straight ahead, as if they were merely part of the scenery, like the moss or the ferns.
The procession moved relentlessly up the stairs. The guards shoved students aside with the shafts of their spears.
"Move! Into the ditch! Now!" a guard barked at Dara.
Dara gripped her satchel. She calculated the distance. The elephant was wide. The path was narrow. But there was a sliver of stone—perhaps two hand-spans wide—between the elephant's path and the mud ditch.
She did not jump into the mud.
She stepped to the very edge of the stone, her heels hovering over the ditch, standing straight and still like a statue. She bowed her head slightly in respect, but she did not cower.
The guard's eyes widened. "Are you deaf, peasant? Into the mud!"
He raised his spear to shove her.
But the elephant was faster. The great beast, sensing an obstacle that refused to scatter, stopped. It let out a low rumble, swinging its trunk toward Dara, sniffing the air around her.
The sudden halt jerked the howdah. Above, Tengku Amir frowned. He looked down, his gaze traveling past the guard, past the trunk, landing on the small figure in grey cotton who refused to ruin her shoes.
He raised a hand. The guard froze.
The jungle went silent again. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Amir leaned over the side of the howdah. He stared at her. It was not a look of anger, but of mild confusion—like a man finding a pebble in his rice bowl.
"You stand when you should scatter," Amir said. His voice was smooth, low, and dangerous. It carried the effortless authority of someone who had never been told 'no' in his life. "Are your legs broken, or is it your mind?"
Dara lifted her head. She met his gaze. It was a violation of protocol—one did not look a Prince in the eye—but she held it.
"My legs are strong, Tuanku," Dara replied, her voice steady despite the thundering of her heart. "And my mind tells me that the path is made of stone, not mud. I have left room for the Bahtera to pass. Why should the small boat sink itself when the river is wide enough for both?"
The crowd of students gasped. Someone whimpered in terror. She was arguing logic with royalty.
Amir's eyes narrowed. A flicker of amusement—or perhaps irritation—danced in them.
"The river belongs to the King," Amir said softly. "And the stone belongs to the elephant. When a pebble blocks the mountain, little girl, it is not the mountain that cracks. It is the pebble that turns to dust."
He gestured vaguely with his hand, a signal for the mahout (elephant driver) to move forward. The massive beast lifted a foot, ready to crush the space where Dara stood.
She did not flinch. She did not close her eyes.
"The mountain stands tall because it rests upon the pebbles, Tuanku," Dara said, her voice projecting clearly over the sound of the shifting beast. "If the pebbles scatter, the mountain has nowhere to sit but the mud. And mud..." She glanced pointedly at the dirty ditch. "...is beneath the dignity of a King."
Amir's hand froze in mid-air.
The mahout paused, the elephant's foot hovering inches from the ground.
For a long, agonizing moment, silence stretched between them. Dara felt the sweat trickling down her back. She had just insulted the foundation of the monarchy—implying that without commoners like her, he was nothing.
Amir stared at her. His face was unreadable, a mask of cold porcelain.
Then, the corner of his mouth twitched.
It wasn't a smile. It was a smirk. Sharp, predatory, and acknowledging.
He tapped the side of the howdah twice.
"The mud is indeed dirty," Amir murmured, more to himself than to her. He looked at the guard. "Tighten the formation. We pass."
The guard looked stunned but obeyed. "Tighten up!"
The procession shifted. The elephant squeezed to the right, its massive flank brushing against the cliff wall, scraping the limestone. It moved forward, passing Dara with mere inches to spare. The wind from its movement whipped her shawl around her face.
As the howdah passed her eye level, Amir did not look back. But she heard his voice, drifting down like a dropped dagger.
"Pray you remain a pebble, girl. For if you try to become a boulder, I will have you quarried."
And then he was gone.
The procession rumbled up the stairs, leaving a cloud of dust and the scent of expensive sandalwood oil in its wake.
Dara let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding. Her knees felt like water. She leaned against the damp rock wall to steady herself.
"Are you insane?"
A hand grabbed her shoulder. Dara turned to see a girl with round, terrified eyes and cheeks flushed pink from the heat. She was clutching a bag of dried mangoes as if it were a shield.
"That was Tengku Amir! The Crown Prince!" the girl squeaked. "He could have had you beheaded right here! He could have had the elephant sit on you!"
Dara straightened her baju kurung, brushing a speck of dust from her sleeve. She looked up the stairs, watching the golden parasol disappear into the mist.
"He could have," Dara admitted quietly. "But he didn't."
"Why?" the girl demanded, offering Dara a piece of dried mango with shaking hands.
Dara took the mango. She looked at the muddy ditch she had avoided.
"Because he is arrogant," Dara said, biting into the fruit. "He thinks I am insignificant. He thinks a pebble can be kicked aside whenever he chooses."
She started walking again, her step lighter now.
"He is wrong."