The Gaze of a Stranger
Chapter 12: The Gaze of a Stranger
The silk canopy above her rustled softly in the breeze, but Dyah Netarja barely noticed. She sat on a low cushioned seat, one hand resting near a scroll she hadn't opened, her gaze unfocused but intense—fixed on the space where he had disappeared minutes ago.
The stranger.
Dust still hung faintly in the air where the villagers had dispersed. Where the tall, silent young man had turned his back and walked away from the assembly. People had been murmuring about Ra Kuti's announcement—that the princess of Majapahit would remain in this remote village for three months. But Dyah Netarja had stopped listening the moment her eyes met his.
Only a glimpse.
But enough.
He wasn't a noble. His tunic was plain. His hair bound with a scrap of cloth. Dust covered his sandals, and the scent of earth still clung to where he had stood. Yet… she couldn't look away.
He was, by all appearances, around her age, but his eyes—those didn't belong to someone young.
They were deep, still, and impossibly deep. A silence lived in them, one not born from inexperience, but from witnessing too much.
She had seen old men with eyes like that—veterans, monks, ruined generals.
Never someone with a youthful face.
Never someone who vanished so easily into a crowd.
"My Lady," came the gentle voice of her lady-in-waiting, Marini, "shall I prepare your afternoon refreshment?"
"No," Dyah Netarja murmured. "Thank you for the offer, Marini."
"Would you like—"
"Leave me a moment."
Marini bowed and backed out of the tent. The air inside settled again, warm with incense and thick with curiosity.
Dyah Netarja rose and moved to the front flap of the pavilion, brushing the curtain aside with silent fingers. The road was nearly empty now. A few children played near the rice fields. A pair of chickens darted past a passing cart. But he was gone.
Who was he?
She didn't know his name.
And yet, when Ra Kuti had announced her extended stay, he had not looked confused.
He had simply nodded—the barest tilt of his head, like he had expected it all along. Almost expected, perhaps more accurate.
She hadn't told anyone her intent to stay—not her siblings, not Ra Kuti, not even Marini—because she hadn't known herself until the moment arrived.
Only her mother knew.
Her mother, who had held her hand the night before and said softly, "Trust your instincts, Iswari. Even when they frighten you."
And yet—this boy, this stranger—he had known. Somehow.
How?
She stepped away from the curtain, back into the shade. Her fingers found the scroll she had left on the cushion—notes about regional trade, crop cycles, water management. She had made them in secret, preparing for the day she might be allowed to leave the palace and observe local economies firsthand.
But this place—Kalentang—felt balanced. Not rich, not especially advanced, not efficient in any remarkable way, but calm. Harmonious.
The houses were modest but well-kept. The fields were narrow but evenly distributed. The irrigation worked, but without grand engineering. People labored, but without resentment. There was a rhythm here—one that pulsed just beneath the surface.
She couldn't explain it.
It was as if the entire village breathed in unison—yet held its breath in time. And perhaps… perhaps he was part of that rhythm, unknowingly woven into its pulse.
Kalentang, she realized, had the seeds of something greater. Its resources, its order, its people—they could carry it beyond the limits of a mere village. With guidance, it could become a town. A city. Maybe more.
But the kingdom, with its eyes fixed on conquest and glory, had overlooked this rough gem.
To her, that was the true waste.
Her brows furrowed. No, she told herself, it couldn't be that simple. There was no sign of sudden innovation here. No technologies or practices that would draw Majapahit's attention.
And yet, her instincts prickled.
He had watched her. Not rudely. Not with interest. But with certainty, as if he already knew she would stay, as if her decision had been made long before she made it.
That was what unsettled her most.
She hadn't told Ra Kuti until that very morning. She had come with the royal entourage fully expecting to inspect the outer lands and move on. But something about Kalentang had spoken to her.
The air. The silence. The way the village resisted explanation. And now, that boy.
Who was he?
He had walked like someone without fear or ambition—not a servant, nor a peasant, nor even a noble.
He had the posture of someone who had never bowed in his life—and yet didn't expect anyone to bow to him either.
She hated the tremble in her own certainty.
Hated how his gaze followed her even in absence.
Their eyes had only met for a second, but she remembered it with the clarity of a blade's edge.
It was not attraction.
Not even recognition.
It was the gaze of someone who saw her. And for a fleeting moment, she saw him too—not as a man, but as a question. A quiet challenge to everything she thought she understood.
She hadn't spoken to him. Didn't even know his name. But the certainty in his eyes lingered in her thoughts long after he disappeared.
It unsettled her… and yet, it called to her.
Perhaps he was just a villager. Perhaps he had no idea who she was. Perhaps that gaze had meant nothing.
She didn't believe in omens. Omens were for dreamers and priests.
She believed in signs—patterns, logic, subtle clues hidden in the margins of a scroll… or in the folds of the world.
And something about that moment felt like a sign.
If he truly lived in this village… then there were only a few hundred souls between them. A small place. Narrow roads. Repeating paths.
There would be chances.
And if there weren't any answers, then she would create them. Because if there was even a fragment of meaning behind that gaze, she needed to know—to prove her instincts right or prove them wrong.
Either way, she couldn't let the question linger forever.