Pandawa / Chapter 1(2) - Dream -

The warmth of the morning sun brushed against my face, gentle as if it wished to rouse me with tender care. My eyes parted slowly, heavy and reluctant, as rays of light filtered through the thick canopy above. My fingers moved languidly, rubbing away the remnants of slumber.

Had I fallen asleep?

With a soft press of my index and middle finger against the bridge of my nose, I drew a deeper breath. The sunlight, the calm embrace of morning, seeped into me with quiet reverence.

So it is morning, then . . .

I stretched my arms skyward, letting the golden glow sink into my skin. My body followed, loosening the stiffness left by the chill of Java’s night air. The rains had begun their cycle again—this was the season of renewal, and yet the cold clung to my muscles. Small, playful leaps steadied my limbs, readying me for the day. Then, with a final bound, I landed on the soft cradle of grass.

A quiver of arrows, a small food box, and my bow rested against my back. The time for practice had come.

Yet as I began my steps, the faint murmur of voices drifted from the royal square. Louder, livelier with each breath of wind. Not the rhythm of trade, not the hum of market stalls.

No—today, the kingdom stirred for another reason. A grand contest awaited.

.

.

.


I stood still, letting silence settle upon me. Only the faint chorus of birdsong lingered in the air.

Once I had absorbed it—the stillness, the weight of the moment—I drew my hand swiftly, loosing an arrow toward a target set by the royal guards. The sharp thrum of impact rang clear.

I turned, spinning with precision, and released another arrow into the unseen distance. My body moved on instinct: running forward, leaping upon the thick branch of a tree, twisting midair to release yet another shot.

The targets stood unmoving in the distance, yet each arrow struck true—driven not by sight alone, but by something deeper, a force etched into muscle, spirit, and breath.

The wind whispered through the leaves, carrying with it the damp fragrance of soil, the ancient pulse of the forest. It felt as though the world itself spoke to me—guiding my hands, steadying my breath, synchronizing me with the heartbeat of the earth.

I gathered the fragments of my own flaws and bound them together into focus. I willed these hands, this bow, these arrows—each one shall find its mark.

A long breath in, then a slow release.
And then—fingers trembling with the echo of stillness—I lifted the blindfold from my eyes.

Every target I marked… struck without fail. None were left untouched.

But a whisper lingered in my chest—
Would peace be as simple as striking a mark?
The thought lingered like mist on still water, fragile and unyielding.

No. Such musings are a luxury I cannot afford.
Not now. Not when the path ahead demands resolve, not hesitation.

So I let the question fade, burying it beneath the rhythm of my breath.
And once more, I tightened my grip on the bow.