Chapter 8 - The Scribe Who Never Asked

The Silk of Fate

Chapter 8 – The Scribe Who Never Asked

The palace archive had no windows, and perhaps that was why Idran liked it.

It was always dim, always hushed, and always smelled faintly of dried ink and old wood. Most nobles sent their assistants to fetch scrolls and records. Idran preferred to come himself. There was a kind of clarity here. The laws of kings, the letters of traders, the prayers of priests—all filed side by side, equal under dust.

The scribe who managed the records was a man named Hasan.

He was not old, but not young. His beard was thin, and he wore glasses made from polished crystal. He spoke softly, as though the air itself might crumple if disturbed. Most courtiers forgot he existed. But Idran had noticed him years ago—always precise, always listening, never speaking more than necessary.

That morning, Idran returned a scroll on maritime trade laws.

Hasan took it without comment, as always. But as he turned to shelve it, he paused.

“You translated this one yourself,” he said.

Idran blinked. “You remember?”

“I remember every scroll that’s been copied by hand,” Hasan replied, adjusting his glasses. “But yours… has less ornamentation. It keeps only what is necessary.”

There was no accusation in his tone. Only observation.

Later, as Idran lingered by the index shelves, Hasan spoke again.

“I’ve noticed your visits have grown more… frequent.”

Idran met his gaze. “Do you mind?”

“No.” A pause. Then, quietly: “I wonder what you’re looking for.”

Idran didn’t answer right away. He ran a finger down a brittle parchment edge.

“Peace,” he said at last. “And a way to keep it.”

Hasan nodded, slowly.

Then he reached under the desk and pulled out a scroll wrapped in cloth—unlabeled, unfiled.

He handed it to Idran.

“What is it?” Idran asked.

“A record of philosophical arguments during the reign of Raden Wijaya. Banned from citation a generation ago. Too much foreign influence. Too many questions.”

Idran took it, careful with the frayed ribbon.

“Why show me this?”

“Because,” Hasan said, “you’re the only prince I’ve seen reading what others would burn.”

That marked the beginning of something unspoken.

Idran never asked Hasan what he believed. Hasan never asked Idran what he prayed. But sometimes, they read together in silence. Other times, they shared tea in the back room—talking not of faith or power, but of ideas. Of integrity. Of how history only remembers kings when someone else bothers to write it down.

One night, as thunder rolled again through the hills, Idran asked:

“Do you think a man can change an empire?”

Hasan sipped his tea.

“I think a man can plant a seed,” he said. “And if he writes carefully enough, even stone might someday bend toward it.”

In the quiet that followed, Idran realized something.

He was no longer alone.

Not in belief.

Not in purpose.

There were others who saw the cracks.

Others who waited for someone to name them.