The mist that clung to the Valley of Scholars was not like the morning fog in the villages. It was heavy, ancient, and smelled of old paper and rain.
Dara sat at the edge of the small wooden sampan, her fingers trailing in the dark water. The river was the only way in, and if the stories were true, for many, it would be the only way out—floating lifelessly downstream, defeated by the weight of what lay ahead.
"Keep your head down, girl," the boatman grunted, pushing his long pole against the riverbed. "The Bahtera approaches."
Dara did not bow. She merely pulled her faded shawl closer around her shoulders.
From the fog emerged a ship of terrifying beauty. It was a royal Bahtera, carved from teak and gilded with gold that caught the faint light of the dawn. The sails were crimson silk, emblazoned with the crest of the Iron Faction. On the deck, young men and women stood laughing, their laughter sharp and brittle like glass. They wore songket so stiff with gold thread it looked like armor.
The wake of their great ship rocked Dara's tiny boat violently. Water splashed over the sides, soaking her simple cotton skirt.
The boatman cursed under his breath, struggling to keep them steady. "Arrogant blood," he spat. "They think the river flows only for them."
Dara wiped the river water from her cheek. She did not look angry. Anger was a waste of energy. She looked calculating.
"Let them pass, Uncle," she said softly, her voice barely rising above the sound of the water. "Heavy ships run aground in shallow waters. The sampan glides where the galleon cannot."
The boatman paused, looking at the young girl with a strange expression. She was no older than seventeen, with hands stained black from cheap ink and eyes that held the stillness of a deep well. She carried no trunk of clothes, no servants, no gold. Only a satchel filled with empty scrolls and a set of bamboo brushes that had seen better days.
"You speak bold words for one with empty hands," the old man muttered. "Do you know where you are going? The Lembah Cendekia eats the weak. The sons of Kings come here to learn how to rule. The daughters of Generals come here to learn how to conquer. What does a village girl come to learn?"
The mist parted. Ahead of them, the Great Gates of the Academy rose from the water like the jaws of a sleeping giant. Stone towers pierced the clouds, and the sound of a thousand chanting voices echoed from the valley walls—the sound of scholars reciting the ancient laws.
Dara stared at the towering gates. She touched the worn strap of her satchel, feeling the hard outline of the object hidden at the bottom. It was not a weapon of steel, but something far more dangerous in the right hands.
"I am not here to learn, Uncle," she whispered, the words meant only for the wind.
The boat bumped gently against the mossy wood of the arrival pier.
"I am here to rewrite."