Nagantara was now over three years old.
His stance had grown steadier, his steps firmer, and his once-dark eyes now gleamed ever more distinctly with a tint of blue.
He was no longer a baby to be carried—he had begun exploring the world on his own small feet.
Each morning, after Padmasari had finished preparing a simple meal, Nagantara would dash outside with boundless energy.
He would chase the chickens that scurried across the village courtyard, try to catch butterflies, or simply gaze at the sky in wonder.
And at times, he would ask questions that were not so easily answered.
"Mother, why do the clouds always move?"
Padmasari turned and smiled, looking up at the vast blue sky.
"Because the wind carries them, my dear. Just like when you blow a leaf, it moves in the direction of your breath. That is how the wind moves the clouds."
Nagantara pondered this for a moment.
"So… if there is no wind, the clouds will stay still?"
"Yes, but the world is always moving. The wind is always there, even if we cannot see it."
Nagantara gave a small nod, seeming to accept the answer, then asked another question.
"Mother, why can birds fly, but I can't?"
Padmasari chuckled softly, brushing a hand over his head.
"Because birds have strong wings and light bodies. They were made to fly in the sky. But you, my dear, you were made to walk and run upon the earth."
Nagantara frowned slightly. "But what if I want to fly too?"
Padmasari laughed. "There are other ways to fly, even without wings."
"How, Mother?"
"With your dreams, my child," she said, gazing at him with warmth.
"If you wish to reach something high, you must strive for it—just like a bird flapping its wings. And one day, you will fly in your own way."
Nagantara was silent for a moment, then his face brightened into a wide grin.
"One day, I will fly high, Mother!"
Padmasari smiled, but deep inside, she held a fear that she could not share.
Then came a question that made her pause.
"Mother, why aren't my eyes like the other children's?"
For a moment, Padmasari could not answer. Nagantara looked up at her innocently, his faintly blue eyes shimmering under the sunlight.
Padmasari swallowed, then forced a gentle smile. "Everyone's eyes are different, my dear."
"But their eyes aren't like mine," Nagantara said again. "Why?"
Padmasari took a slow breath. "Because you are special."
Nagantara still seemed to be thinking, but after a moment, he smiled. "So, I'm special?"
Padmasari cupped his cheek gently. "Of course, my dear. You are special to me."
But even as she spoke those words, she knew—
Her answer was not enough.
~~~
Under the bright midday sun, the village was bathed in golden light.
Sunbeams filtered through the tall trees, casting dappled patterns upon the earth, making the leaves shimmer in shades of fresh green.
In the open field near the village hall, children played with carefree joy.
They ran, laughing as they chased one another in a game of tag. And among them, Nagantara ran the fastest.
Some of the older children were bigger than him, but none could catch him.
"Nagantara! Slow down!" one of the boys panted, struggling to keep up.
But Nagantara only laughed, his movements swift, his small body leaping effortlessly over the roots that crisscrossed the ground.
Then, a little girl named Sutih tried to stop him—grabbing the edge of his tunic as he sped past.
Nagantara stumbled, tumbling forward onto the ground.
The other children burst into laughter—
But then, their laughter slowly faded.
Sutih, standing closest, stared wide-eyed at Nagantara's back.
"Nagantara…" she whispered. "What… is that?"
Padmasari had just arrived near the field, a basket of herbs balanced in her arms.
When she noticed the sudden hush among the children, her heartbeat quickened.
Then her eyes fell on Nagantara's back.
His tunic had shifted slightly—just enough to reveal the faint outline of the dragon's mark on his skin.
Though still subtle, the sunlight caught the fine scales upon his back, making them shimmer ever so faintly.
A boy stepped closer, curiosity filling his gaze. "Nagantara, your back looks… strange."
Nagantara turned to them, puzzled. He did not understand why they were looking at him that way.
Without hesitation, Padmasari rushed forward. She reached for Nagantara quickly, pulling his tunic back into place.
"Nagantara, we're going home."
The child obeyed without question, confused by his mother's sudden urgency.
But before they could leave, a village woman—one of the children's mothers—approached Padmasari.
"Padmasari… I saw something on your son's back. What was that?"
Padmasari forced a smile, though panic stirred within her. "Just an old birthmark," she said lightly. "Nothing to worry about."
The woman hesitated, doubt flickering in her eyes. "I've never seen a birthmark like that before…"
Padmasari wasted no more time. She led Nagantara away before more questions could follow.
But deep in her heart, she knew—
This was a warning. They had to be more careful.
~~~
That night, after making sure Nagantara was asleep, Padmasari sat by the hearth in Banujati's home.
The old man remained silent, his gaze fixed upon the flickering flames—
As if he already knew what was about to be said.
"Banujati," Padmasari's voice was quiet, weary. "Someone has seen it."
Banujati did not answer at once.
He merely lifted his wooden cup, filled with a warm herbal brew, and took a slow sip.
"You should have known this day would come."
Padmasari bit her lip. "I have tried to hide it," she murmured, "but I cannot keep it hidden forever."
At last, Banujati met her eyes. His gaze was sharp in the dim glow of the firelight. His fingers slowly shifted upon his wooden staff, as though weighing his words carefully before speaking.
"It is not you who must hide, Padmasari," he said, his voice deeper than usual. "It is the world that must be prepared—when he is finally found."
From that day onward, something within Nagantara began to change.
He noticed the odd stares from the other children. He noticed the way his mother had taken him away so suddenly. He heard the hushed whispers of the villagers, words he could not quite understand. He knew there was something different about him.
And for the first time—
He wanted to know. Who was he, truly?
~~~
In the stillness of the night, inside their small home, Nagantara sat cross-legged upon a woven mat, his gaze filled with unspoken questions.
Padmasari was folding his clothes, but she could feel the weight of his stare.
"Mother…" His small voice wavered with uncertainty.
Padmasari turned to him with a gentle smile. "What is it, my dear?"
Nagantara bit his lip, then spoke slowly. "I'm different, aren't I?"
Padmasari's hands stilled. "What makes you think that?" she asked carefully.
Nagantara lowered his head, fiddling with his fingers. "The other children look at me strangely."
He glanced up, his eyes filled with the innocent sincerity of a child searching for answers. "Their eyes… aren't like mine."
Padmasari took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Everyone's eyes are different, my dear."
But Nagantara shook his head. "My eyes change," he said. "Sometimes they're blue, sometimes they're not. I saw my own reflection in the river."
His small hands clenched slightly, as if bracing himself. "And… I can run faster than them."
Padmasari had no words. Her child was too perceptive.
~~~
Nagantara's questions were not only about his eyes. He had also begun to dream. Dreams that felt too real.
Night after night, he dreamt of vast skies, of voices calling him in a tongue he did not understand, of something stirring deep within his blood.
But tonight—
Tonight, the dream was clearer than ever.
Nagantara stood upon a vast expanse of water. Yet, he did not sink.
Above him, the sky was unlike any sky he had ever seen—woven with golden threads of shifting light.
In the distance, something immense moved across the heavens.
A dragon.
Its body shimmered like the stars, glowing blue against the endless sky. Its tail coiled within the flowing light, its eyes burning like twin flames of azure fire.
Nagantara stood frozen. He could not move.
Then, the dragon spoke.
"Rise."
Its voice was unlike any voice he had ever heard.
He did not hear it with his ears—he heard it in his mind. Nagantara tried to speak, but no sound came from his lips.
The dragon drew closer, its gaze piercing.
"Your blood is not ordinary blood. You are no ordinary child."
Nagantara gasped, his heart pounding.
"I…"
But before he could say another word—
The sky shifted.
From the opposite direction, a shadow emerged.
A darkness deeper than anything he had ever imagined.
And within that darkness—
Two burning red eyes.
"You will not escape me…"
The voice rumbled within his mind, heavy and suffocating.
Nagantara fell into the void—
Screaming without sound.
Then—he awoke.
Nagantara jolted upright, his breath ragged, sweat dampening his brow. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his eyes still clouded with fear.
He turned toward his mother, who remained peacefully asleep on the other side of the room. But in the dim glow of the night, he noticed something.
In the corner of the house—
Banujati sat there. Watching. His eyes were open, calm, unreadable.
His fingers slowly rested upon the staff in his lap—
A habit of his whenever he was deep in thought.
But tonight, something was different. There was no surprise on Banujati's face.
As if…
He had known all along that this would come to pass.
~~~
On a quiet night, the moon shone pale and cold, casting a silver glow over the village.
The wind drifted softly through the trees—yet something felt different.
The air was heavier, quieter, as if it held a presence unseen by mortal eyes.
Inside their small home, Padmasari slept soundly, her body weary from a long day of watching over Nagantara.
But the child—
He did not sleep peacefully.
Without a sound, Nagantara rose from his bedding. His eyes were not fully open, yet a faint blue shimmer glowed within them. Step by step, he moved toward the door, his feet light as if carried by something unseen.
When he stepped onto the earth outside—
The wind stopped.
Silence.
Only his breath could be heard, steady and deep—
As if he were caught between a dream and wakefulness.
Before him, the night sky stretched wider than it ever had before.
And deep within his mind, the whisper returned.
"Come… Your time has come."
Nagantara lifted his gaze to the heavens, his blue-lit eyes reflecting the glow of the moon.
And at that moment—
Something else began to stir.
In the forest beyond the village, a black mist curled through the trees. It moved slowly, winding through the undergrowth like a silent hunter. It was searching.
It was following a scent—
One that had been hidden for too long.
Then—
The mist halted.
Between the trees, two red eyes gleamed from the darkness. It had found him. It had been waiting.
And now—
It knew where the child was.
Inside the house, Padmasari woke with a sudden unease.
She turned toward Nagantara's bedding—
Empty.
"Nagantara?" Her heart pounded.
Without hesitation, she rushed outside.
And when she saw her child standing motionless in the courtyard—
Her breath caught.
Nagantara stood stiffly, his glowing blue eyes fixed upon the sky.
Around him, the wind swirled softly, as if dancing in his presence.
"Nagantara!" Padmasari ran to him, grasping his small shoulders.
She shook him gently—
Nagantara blinked.
His consciousness returned. The glow in his eyes faded, retreating into the depths of his being.
He turned toward her, his voice uncertain.
"Mother…?"
Padmasari pulled him into a tight embrace, holding his small body close.
"I'm here, my love… I'm here…" she whispered, her voice trembling.
But deep within, she knew—
Something was wrong.
Nagantara had not left the house of his own will.
Someone—
Or something—
Had called him.
Inside the same house, Banujati opened his eyes. He had been awake since the first shift in the wind, sensing the ripple in the unseen threads of fate. He closed his eyes again, reaching out for the presence he had long known was waiting.
When he opened them once more—
His gaze was sharp.
"So… you have found him at last."
His voice was barely more than a whisper. But he knew.
Someone—or something—had realized Nagantara's existence.
And they could not remain hidden for much longer.