Chapter 3 - The Distance Between Two Thrones

The Silk of Fate

Chapter 3 – The Distance Between Two Thrones

The throne room of Tumapel was a place of echoes.
Even when filled with men, it felt hollow—carved pillars of teak and sandalwood holding up a ceiling that reached toward nothing. Incense lingered like old ghosts, coiling around the flickering oil lamps and the lotus-shaped motifs that lined the floor.

Idran stood at the edge of it, where sons were meant to wait.

His father sat on the raised dais, draped in ceremonial red and gold. Beside him, a priest read aloud a list of regional tributes: barrels of cloves from Gresik, bolts of silk from Bali, copperware from Sunda. Behind the priest, Wirabumi stood tall, holding a ceremonial kris as part of his coming-of-power rite.

Idran had not been asked to stand beside him.
He had not been asked to speak.
He was simply… there. Present, like a statue in the corner of a temple.

The king’s face was carved from stone.
Not cruel. Not warm. Simply there—fixed in regal patience, his eyes half-lidded as if he saw past what was in front of him.

It had been years since they last spoke alone.

The last time, Idran had asked a question.

“Why must we always follow what the priests say, Father?”

The answer had been short.

“Because the people need order. And order does not ask questions.”

Now, standing under the shadow of his brother’s glory, Idran could feel the weight of it. Not jealousy—something deeper. A kind of mourning for a bond that had never existed. A hunger he had long stopped trying to feed.

When the ceremony ended, the hall slowly emptied. Officials bowed, guards returned to their posts. Idran remained.

And finally, when the last sandal-footed step had faded, his father turned to him.

“You’ve been seen visiting the docks,” Jayanegara said, without greeting.

Idran bowed slightly. “Yes, Bapa.”

“Mixing with traders and vagabonds. Drinking foreign words like they are sacred.”

“They are sacred to someone,” Idran replied, calm but deliberate.

A flicker of something passed across the king’s face—annoyance, perhaps. Or was it disappointment?

“You were born of a queen, not a merchant’s wife. Do not let your thoughts wander so far that you forget where your blood lies.”

Idran stepped closer, barely two paces now. “Is blood meant to cage a man’s spirit, or guide it?”

A silence fell.

One of those silences that weighed more than any reprimand.

“You are not the heir,” the king said at last. “You do not bear the burden of the crown. You have the luxury of rebellion. Do not mistake that for purpose.”

The words stung more than Idran expected. Not because they were cruel—his father never raised his voice—but because they confirmed what he had long feared:

That in his father’s eyes, he was not necessary.

Only tolerated.

That night, Idran returned to his chambers and lit a single candle.

He unrolled a sheet of parchment and began to write—not in Old Javanese, but in Arabic.

The ink moved slowly, carefully.

A line from the Qur’an Karim had once whispered beneath his breath:

“Say: My Lord has guided me to a straight path—a right religion, the way of Abraham, inclining toward truth.”

Idran copied it twice. Then again.

And beneath it, in his native script, he wrote his own words:

“If the crown has no space for truth, then let me build a kingdom where truth wears no crown.”