(WARNING: THIS STORY DOES NOT ROMANTICIZE THE SUFFERING OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLE DURING THE COLONIAL ERA. IT PORTRAYS THE HARSH REALITY of POVERTY, POWER IMBALANCE, AND THE SOCIAL STIGMA FACED BY WOMEN WHO WERE REGARDED AS CONCUBINES.)

Night descended like a black veil, slowly stretching across the horizon. Selvi had long since settled into one of the General's secluded residences, a place deliberately kept apart from the bustle of his main estate.

This path was not one forced upon her by fate, but a choice she made with full awareness. Crushed beneath the weight of poverty and relentless hardship, she surrendered the honor she once cherished in exchange for the faint hope of keeping her family's lives from falling apart.

Silence ruled every corner of the house. Only the chorus of crickets echoed beyond the courtyard, blending with the cool night breeze that slipped through the narrow gaps in the wooden walls. A lone candle flickered atop the bedside table, casting a soft golden glow that danced across the room. Beside the four-poster bed, Selvi sat quietly, her body wrapped in nothing more than a simple length of batik cloth draped modestly around her.

Time drifted by without a sound. Then, at last, the measured footsteps of polished leather boots echoed faintly through the corridor, drawing closer with each passing second until they shattered the stillness that had lingered for so long.

Creaaak.

The door slowly swung open.

The General stepped inside.

Exhaustion was unmistakably etched across his face. His gaze, usually as sharp and unwavering as a hawk's, did not spare Selvi even a single glance. His hair, normally combed neatly back, had fallen slightly out of place, as though the burdens of governing still rested heavily upon his shoulders. Without uttering a single word, he walked toward the bed and lowered himself onto its edge beside Selvi.