The days passed slowly, yet life in the village flowed like a quiet river, steady and unbroken.
Padmasari was beginning to grow accustomed to the rhythm of village life. Each morning, she rose early to prepare a simple meal, swept the bamboo floor, and soothed Nagantara, who had begun waking more frequently at night.
Outside, the village was always alive.
The men set off for the fields, carrying woven baskets and hoes over their shoulders.
The women pounded rice in the courtyards of their homes, their lurik garments fluttering as the morning breeze stirred the air.
Children ran across the open fields, their laughter echoing beneath the clear sky.
But Padmasari was not yet fully one of them.
She tried to help in the village kitchen, but her delicate hands were unaccustomed to handling the heavy knives needed to chop tubers and roots.
She once attempted to pound rice, but her arms lacked the strength to match the practiced rhythm of the village women.
Still, she did not give up.
Every time she made a mistake, she quietly observed how others worked, learning from their movements and trying to correct herself.
Some of the women began to notice her efforts.
Laksmi, who had been the closest to her, often smiled and whispered, "Take your time—you'll get used to it."
Slowly, Padmasari's presence was becoming accepted—though there were still those who watched her with lingering curiosity.
Meanwhile, Nagantara was growing rapidly.
The infant was lifting his head more often, stretching his small limbs with greater strength, and beginning to form soft, babbling sounds—his first attempts at speech.
At night, Padmasari often sat awake, gently stroking his tiny back whenever he whimpered in his sleep.
There were moments when she gazed at her child with a heart full of mixed emotions—joy at seeing him grow strong, but fear of what the future might bring.
"I cannot hide here forever…" she whispered to herself.
But for now, the village was the safest place for them both.
Banujati, as always, spoke little.
Yet whenever Padmasari was troubled, she would often find his watchful gaze resting upon her, his hand ever steady on his wooden staff.
Banujati never voiced his thoughts, but it was as though he knew something he chose not to reveal.
Whenever Padmasari doubted her place in the village, she would hear his calm voice say:
"Time will answer all things."
Padmasari remained silent, wondering just how much time they had left in this place.
~~~
Day by day, life in the village began to feel lighter for Padmasari.
Though there were still curious glances from some of the villagers, she slowly realized that many no longer saw her as an outsider.
The women who had once observed her from a distance now started speaking to her.
Some even asked for her help with simple tasks—holding the loom, grinding spices, or sorting harvested crops.
One afternoon, Padmasari was pounding rice in the courtyard alongside a group of village women.
The midday heat caused some of them to wipe their brows, but their hands remained swift in their work.
An elderly woman, Bu Rami, glanced at her and gave a small smile.
"You're getting used to it, Padmasari."
Padmasari turned, slightly surprised to hear her name spoken so casually. But she only returned a faint smile.
"I still have much to learn, Bu Rami."
"Take it slow," Laksmi added from beside her. "But I must admit, you're learning faster than I expected."
Padmasari nodded, though she knew that adapting to this life was not just about mastering the tasks of the village.
It was about accepting that her life was no longer what it once was.
~~~
Meanwhile, Nagantara was becoming more active.
The infant had begun attempting to crawl, though his tiny body was still too small to move far.
Each morning, before Padmasari set out to help the villagers, she always took a moment to let Nagantara lie on a soft cloth in the courtyard.
Sometimes, she couldn't help but chuckle at the way he tried to push himself up with his tiny hands, only to tumble back down.
Laksmi, who often visited, once watched him and smiled.
"That child has a strong spirit—just like his mother."
Padmasari glanced at her, unsure how to respond.
She was not Nagantara's birth mother, yet her heart had long since embraced him as part of herself.
And with each passing day, she realized that sooner or later, Nagantara would begin to ask about the world beyond.
~~~
Though life in the village felt lighter, there were moments when Padmasari remained on guard.
There were times she noticed some villagers speaking of her in hushed voices, as if trying to piece together where she had come from.
They never asked her directly, but she could sense that their curiosity had not yet faded entirely.
One afternoon, as she was hanging clothes to dry in the courtyard, an elderly man known as Ki Ranu stopped near the bamboo fence and observed her for a moment.
"You've been in this village for quite some time," he said slowly.
Padmasari paused for a moment before turning to him with a polite nod. "Yes."
"Banujati rarely brings outsiders into this village," Ki Ranu continued. "But I suppose if you are still here, it means you were meant to be."
Padmasari did not know whether to feel relieved or even more uneasy.
"Thank you, Ki Ranu."
It was the only answer she could give.
And that night, she lay awake, her thoughts filled with questions about how much longer she could remain in this village without disturbing the fragile balance that held it together.
~~~
In the stillness of the night, rain fell gently, soaking the earth and bringing a cool hush over the village air.
Padmasari sat inside the house, cradling Nagantara, who seemed more restless than usual. His small body felt warm in her arms—too warm.
She placed her hand against his forehead, and at once, her chest tightened with worry.
He was feverish.
At first, she thought it was nothing more than exhaustion.
But as the night deepened, his fever did not break.
His tiny body trembled slightly, his breaths heavier than usual, and he whimpered softly, his voice weak.
Padmasari tried to soothe him, whispering gentle words, but fear had already taken root in her heart.
"I am here, my love… I will not let you suffer."
She held him closer, as if trying to share her own warmth with him.
But in the back of her mind, dark thoughts loomed—
What if she lost him?
Soft footsteps approached.
Banujati entered the room, observing them in silence before lowering himself to sit.
Without a word, he reached for a wooden bowl filled with herbal medicine, prepared in quiet anticipation of the night's events.
"Give him this," he said, passing the remedy to Padmasari.
Her hands trembled as she accepted it. "Will this lower his fever?"
Banujati's voice was unreadable. "His body is adjusting," he replied. "He is no ordinary child, Padmasari. Sooner or later, you must be ready to face his fate."
Padmasari stiffened. His words felt colder than the night air.
She looked down at Nagantara, his tiny face flushed with heat.
He seemed so fragile—yet there was something within him that she could not explain. "What do you mean?" she whispered.
Banujati did not answer immediately.
Instead, he stared into the flickering firelight, as if seeing something beyond the realm of mortal understanding.
"There are things you cannot yet comprehend," he said at last.
"But know this—this child will bring great change, whether you are ready or not."
Padmasari clutched the shawl wrapped around Nagantara's body. "I only want to protect him," she murmured, her voice unsteady.
"And that is exactly what you will do," Banujati replied. "But do not forget, Padmasari—true protection is not merely about hiding something away. It is also about allowing it to grow in the light."
She did not fully understand his meaning.
But that night, the fear within her deepened, alongside the unanswered questions that lingered in her heart.
The night stretched on.
The gentle rain had become a downpour, its rhythmic patter echoing against the bamboo roof.
Padmasari did not sleep. She remained awake, holding Nagantara close, waiting for his fever to break.
Banujati, too, remained seated in the corner of the room—
As if he was guarding something far greater than a sick child.
At last, as dawn neared, the heat in Nagantara's body began to fade.
Padmasari let out a quiet sigh of relief. But deep inside, she knew—this would not be the last time she would face something beyond her understanding.
Nagantara had endured a long night. Yet something about him felt… changed. As though he had crossed an invisible threshold unseen by ordinary eyes.
And for the first time, Padmasari felt a fear greater than loss. She feared the future.
~~~
Time moved on.
Days turned into months, months into years.
The village remained as it always had—filled with the simple rhythms of life, the bustle of fieldwork, the laughter of children, and the warm glow of lanterns at night.
But for Padmasari, time seemed to pass far more quickly than she had realized.
Nagantara was no longer the tiny infant she had once cradled so carefully.
Now, he had grown.
On a bright morning, in the courtyard of Banujati's home, Padmasari sat upon a woven mat, weaving coconut leaves into small baskets for storing rice.
Nearby, Nagantara—now nearly two years old—sat on the ground, his tiny hands reaching toward a wooden stick lying just beyond his grasp.
Padmasari glanced at him briefly, smiling at how active he had become.
But then—
Something made her hands stop weaving.
Nagantara slowly pushed himself up, balancing his small body upon his feet. For a moment, he hesitated, as if considering his next move.
Then, carefully…
He stepped forward.
One step. Then another.
Padmasari held her breath, her eyes widening.
Nagantara beamed, as if proud of himself, then took more wobbly steps toward her.
Just before reaching her, his legs lost their balance, and he tumbled—falling straight into her waiting arms.
"Nagantara…" Padmasari whispered, her voice trembling between surprise and wonder.
The child only giggled, unaware of how much this moment meant to her. But there was something different about him.
His eyes—once dark like those of any other infant—had begun to change. A faint glimmer of blue had started to appear in them, like the fleeting light of the sky veiled by thin clouds.
Padmasari had noticed it days ago, but she had convinced herself it was merely a trick of the sunlight.
Yet now, as the morning rays touched his face, the blue shimmered even more distinctly. And that was not the only change.
Since birth, Nagantara had borne a faint marking upon his back—scales, like those of a dragon, visible only when caught in certain light. But now, the marking was no longer faint.
Days ago, when Padmasari had dressed him, she had seen it—
The pattern had become clearer, as though rising to the surface of his skin.
For a moment, she recalled the night of his birth—when his cries had shaken the world. The marking had been there even then. But now, something within him was awakening.
Compared to other children his age, Nagantara's frame was sturdier, his shoulders beginning to form a hint of strength.
And his skin, once soft and untouched, now carried a faint sheen when caught in the sunlight—something almost imperceptible, yet undeniably there.
Padmasari had noticed these changes for months. But she had never spoken of them.
At the doorway of the house, Banujati stood in silence, his wooden staff resting firmly in his hand.
He had seen everything.
And Padmasari knew—
Banujati had noticed it, too.
~~~
As Nagantara grew, the villagers took greater notice of him.
What had once been idle curiosity was now turning into hushed discussions.
"That boy is growing so fast, isn't he?" a village woman remarked, watching as Nagantara toddled across the courtyard.
"He seems bright," another agreed. "But… doesn't he look nothing like Padmasari?"
Yet it was not only his face that drew attention.
More and more, people began to notice the subtle shift in his eyes.
"I could swear I saw his eyes glimmer blue," an old man murmured to his companion. "Or… perhaps it was just the sunlight?"
Padmasari, who happened to overhear the conversation, stiffened.
They were starting to notice. And that was dangerous.
Since the night of Nagantara's fever, Banujati had spoken even less than usual.
He still watched over them, but there was something different about him—
As if he was waiting for something.
Sometimes, when Padmasari turned toward him, she would catch the old man's gaze resting on Nagantara—an expression unreadable, yet knowing.
Banujati had seen the mark. He had seen the shift in the boy's eyes. But he had said nothing.
He was simply waiting. Until one night, he finally spoke.
His voice was quiet, yet heavy with meaning. "The child is walking now. The world around him will only grow larger."
Padmasari looked at him, sensing a deeper meaning in his words. "What do you mean?"
Banujati did not answer at once. His gaze fell upon Nagantara, who lay asleep, peaceful and unaware.
"The more he grows, the harder it will be for you to keep him hidden."
Padmasari bit her lip. She knew it was true.
But if not here, then where could they go?