The next morning, the Melaka River teemed with life, its surface a chaotic dance of sampans, junks, and merchant vessels. Aishah, running an errand for Master Aris, navigated the crowded docks with practiced ease, her eyes scanning the horizon. The memory of the previous day's fleeting vision — the roaring tiger — still clung to her, a persistent shimmer at the edge of her thoughts. She'd tried to dismiss it as exhaustion or imagination, but the lingering warmth in her fingers felt too real to ignore.
Her errand took her past the Balai Penghulu, the community hall, where a small crowd had gathered. A grizzled old man, his face a roadmap of wrinkles, was gesturing wildly, captivating his audience with a story. Aishah slowed, curiosity piqued.
"...and when the swordfish attacked," the old man boomed, his voice raspy, "it was the five brave champions, the Panglima, who rose to defend Temasek! But even their valor could not stop the curse that followed, the treachery that brought the great city to its knees!"
Aishah knew the tale. Everyone in Melaka did. It was the story of Singapura, the once-mighty city from which their own Sultan Parameswara had fled, seeking refuge and ultimately founding Melaka. Legends spoke of the city's fall, not just to invaders, but to a deeper, more insidious magic, a curse woven from betrayal. The swordfish attack, the five champions, the subsequent abandonment – they were the bedrock of Melaka's origins, whispered around campfires and told to wide-eyed children.
As the old man dramatically described the fall of Singapura, the forgotten city of Temasek, Aishah felt that familiar warmth return, emanating from the inner pocket of her tunic where she'd tucked the diagram with the wooden fish. It pulsed faintly, a soft throb against her skin, almost as if it were listening. She instinctively pressed her hand over it, a sudden chill replacing the warmth as she wondered if anyone else had noticed. No one seemed to.
Later, back in the workshop, with the scent of ink and aged paper filling the air, Aishah found herself sketching, not from the day's work, but from an irresistible urge. Her hand moved with a will of its own, lines flowing onto the parchment with an eerie precision. She was drawing a map, not of Melaka, but of Singapura. Not the common, rudimentary sketches found in historical texts, but something far more detailed, as if she were seeing it with her own eyes. She drew crumbling walls, ancient pathways overgrown with vines, and then, startling herself, she drew a hidden chamber beneath a forgotten temple, its entrance concealed by a cascading waterfall.
The moment her quill touched the parchment to complete the chamber, the wooden fish diagram, which she'd laid out on her table for closer inspection, began to glow. A soft, ethereal light pulsed from the faded ink, mirroring the throb against her chest. The carved fish seemed to almost ripple, as if made of water.
Aishah stared, transfixed. This was no trick of the light, no fatigue-induced hallucination. The drawing on the parchment was impossible. She'd never seen such a detailed map of Singapura, let alone imagined a hidden chamber within it. And the glow… the glowing diagram was undeniable.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum against the pulsating warmth of the unseen pendant. She felt a magnetic pull towards the hidden chamber in her drawing, a profound sense that it wasn't just an image, but a real place, waiting to be discovered. The whispers of ancient magic, long dismissed as old wives' tales, were no longer distant echoes. They were a direct summons, a silent invitation from a past that refused to remain buried. Singapura was calling, and something inside Aishah knew, with a certainty that both thrilled and terrified her, that she was meant to answer.