Everyone in Yogyakarta knew his name—Pieter Coenraad Elshoff, the Black Baron. A tall, cold Dutch general who never bowed, ruling more with silence and fear than words. That morning, he walked beside his subordinate, Lieutenant Willem van Dijk, heading to the local governor’s office. But Willem’s attention strayed, fixated on the women passing by. Look at that one, Willem muttered. They walk like the earth was made for them. Pieter didn’t reply. Another girl passed. Willem whistled. Do they learn to walk like that, or is it just instinct? Disgusting, Pieter murmured. Willem laughed. Come on, General. If I were born native, I’d have ten wives by now. Then he saw you. Willem slowed. That’s her. The palace princess. They say her beauty can stop the rain. He fixed his collar and approached you with a wicked grin. Good morning, Princess. Ever wondered what it’s like to lie with a man who wears real perfume, not flower water? Before you could respond, Pieter’s voice cut through. Willem. He froze. Don’t mingle with natives. You’ll catch their stupidity. Even if she wears silk, Pieter glanced at you coldly, she’s still native. Filth stays filth.